#this is so long sorry not sorry I had a lot to discuss

[netherfeildren]

FABLE OF THE DOG : 4. Figs

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Explicit Sexual Content; DD/lg Dynamics; Daddy Kink; Spanking; Sub Space; Breath Play; Intense Daddy Issues; Size Kink; Size Difference; Squirting; Brat Taming; Past Child Abuse/Neglect; Mentions of Drug and Alcohol Abuse/Addiction; Mentions of Suicide Attempt; Discussions of Grief; Jealousy; Self Esteem Issues;

A/N: Sorry for the ten month long wait, I’m a lazy, procrastinating cad. It’s really freaking long, I know. I wanted to make it up to you, I really missed them, I had a lot to say.

The tags really, really mean what they say, heed them carefully, please. 

Word Count: 20.5K

Read on AO3

4. Figs

The child sits outside her father’s office, waiting. 

Long curls drip frigid down her shivering back, white nightgown buttoned to the tip of her mother’s own chin—that likeness which will one day be the cause of all her troubles, though she does not yet know it—and the pink furry slippers which are her most favorite. They’re soft and they sparkle, and when she wears them, it’s like she’s a bunny. 

“He’ll be out soon, darling, and then we can put you to bed,” Nanny says from the seat beside her. She nods, pressing her small shoulders tightly to the back of the hard bench, wishing the woman silent so that she might better focus on the sound of the deep voice coming from behind the closed door. 

It is her father’s voice, and it is most familiar to her like this. 

From afar. 

The fingers she stares down at are still pink from the bath, and she twists them tightly in her lap, sitting very straight and very still, pressing her mouth together to keep all the sound and all the movement inside of herself silent and motionless so as to trick time into moving faster. She is young, only six years old, but she has learnt the strength of her own will already. How she might exert it with the right people to get what she wants—how with others, it means very little, if anything at all. 

Beside her, Nanny sighs a sound full of impatience, and this the child recognizes quite well. She doesn’t like it either, that they must always wait for him, that her whole life seems to be filled with waiting waiting waiting. She thinks that she hates waiting. She thinks that if she were a wild rabbit out in the purple mountains she wouldn’t ever have to wait for anyone or anything. And she knows that she would like to let it all out, the impatience, the yawn that trembles at her jaw as she clenches her teeth together until it hurts, the cry for him to hurry up because she doesn’t want to wait for him anymore. 

The door opens suddenly, and a man she doesn’t know strides out, papers tucked beneath his arm. The girl’s father is a businessman, and this is why he is so busy. He is also a rancher, this is why she does not come first.

 She is young, only six years old, but she has learnt the truth of this already.

Nanny has slid to the edge of the bench, her ankles crossed over one another, long fingered hands folded stiffly in her lap. She is breathing very slowly, her shoulders moving in up and down waves, and the girl knows she’s forcing herself to do this to stay calm. When the girl doesn’t do as she’s told, this is how Nanny breathes, too. 

Finally, her father’s heavy tread approaches the door, muffled by the thick rug in his office, the hard satin underside of the beautiful boots he wears. And then he’s there, after more than an hour of waiting past her bedtime, he moves past his daughter and the woman he pays to raise her as if they hardly exist—their wait inconsequential.

“Sir?” Nanny shoots up off the bench, voice soft but stern, like when she is ordering the child about in the school room. 

He is very frightening, her father. And the girl doesn’t think that she looks like him at all, which is why he doesn’t like her. If she was more like him, he would like her better. But she knows that if she is very quiet and very still that he can be nice, and so she waits without moving, until he looks at her. 

“We’ve come to say goodnight, Mr. Kelly.”

He sighs a long drawn out moment, a big breath as he’s a very big man with big nostrils that flare widely when he’s found the girl particularly annoying. 

Once, she’d tried to put her finger in his nose, to measure how much bigger it felt compared to when she put her finger in her own nostril. There was a great fuss after that, and a mighty spanking. She never tried to touch him like that ever again after.

She is a child who learns her lessons very well. 

“Yes, alright,” he says in his deep voice, and she does love the sound of it, even if it never sounds happy or laughing, even if it scares her, too, for she can always recognize when he’s come back home just by the sound of it rolling through the house. And when he comes to crouch before her, folding all the way down to look her right in the eyes, the little girl has to work hard as ever to make sure she remains very still and very quiet so as not to cry. 

“Have you been good for Nanny?”

“Yes, sir,” she nods. He never calls her Miss Maria as the girl is required to when they are in the school room, learning. Always simply, Nanny. 

“Bill tells me you’ve been doing well in your lessons. Soon you’ll be riding on your own. That will make me very pleased.”

“Yes, sir,” again. She wishes she could make her voice louder so that he might hear her better, but it will just not come. 

He sighs and his big nostrils flare again, and she knows he is displeased. She can never make herself sound in a way that will make him happy even though she tries as hard as she can. “I’m going away for a few weeks, but when I’m back, I’ll come watch you. How does that sound?”

And at this oh so terrible news, as hard as she tries to stifle the movement or the sound or the yawn or the cries or anything that might make him bothered in any way…well, she is still very young, only six years old, and she has not yet learnt how to control all the things he so intensely dislikes about her. 

“But you just came back, sir, and now you’re leaving again.” It comes out of her small child’s mouth a whine that grates, and yet, despite this, he is still kind for a moment longer.

“It’ll go by like that,” he snaps his big fingers, makes a big sound she has tried to replicate and cannot. 

“Please, don’t leave, daddy.” 

Now she will cry, now the kindness will start to go. 

“It won’t be that long, salamander.” 

A large hand wraps around her small shoulder, squeezing gently, she flinches and a fat tear rolls over her apple flushed cheek. It’s hard work, after all, holding yourself so still and so quiet when you are so little, and so finally, the stillness breaks, and she tucks her thumb into her warm mouth, sucking. 

He looks at her for another long moment, his hand falls away. She watches it carefully, steeling her small body for something bad. “That’s a filthy and disgusting habit. How many times do I have to tell you to knock it off?” He looks at Nanny with blame, and she says something low that the girl can no longer hear, she’s watching her slippers like a bunny again, thinking again how a bunny must surely never have to wait or cry over their fathers out there in the purple mountains. 

“Always with the goddamn sniveling, girl. Go to bed.” 

His voice is angry now. She sucks harder. She can no longer be still. He does not say goodbye.

-

You don’t see Joel for three whole days following your afternoon together.

It’s terrible.

On the lingering rays of the setting sun, a storm rolls in off the Tetons, and with it, trouble and interruptions. As the two of you help peel each other off the living room rug, damp and trembling and laughing like children, you stumble up the stairs together, the rain starting out soft and humid outside. A curtain of warm water falls from the skies as you step into the large, marbled shower stall in your bathroom, the rainfall spout pouring over your closely bent heads. 

You feel fragile and vulnerable in his hands, a turtle dove on a precarious ledge; like a girl again, watching him ramble about your father’s ranch, strong and far away and wholly untouchable, all while he washes soap from your hair. 

But now, the urgency of adulthood, of being a woman in his hands, not only a dove, rushes in, too. He touches you everywhere, fingers dragging through the soaked locks of your hair, braille mapped over the planes of your shoulders, down your sternum to palm the swell of your belly. So now, you’re woman and girl and dove, something fragile grown into its own strength, anchored here, yet still with the muscle memory of flight ready to take you away. If only because that’s what you’d always been used to before. The back of your eyes pinch with emotion, overwhelmed by the smolder of your heart, and you can’t believe it’s him, Joel, here, lifting your breast into his mouth to suckle at the peak, licking at the seam of your mouth and demanding entrance and the flavor of your tongue. 

His cock hangs heavy between his thick thighs, half hard, and if you weren’t fighting the silly knot of tears in your throat, you’d poke fun at the myth of middle aged men and unbelievable stamina. 

His wet lips slide across your burning cheek, your own moan trailing after him, chasing another kiss with the turn of your neck, all desperation, and his fingers catch over your bottom teeth, hooked Rainbow, pulling you open, pressing down on your tongue until you gag.  

“Gotta see if I’ll fit here too, baby,” he says against your ear, pressing you back to sit on the icy tiled bench. The steam of the water off his skin, the frigid hard beath your bottom and against your swollen cunt, you shiver all over until it hurts in your spine. His hand threads through the back of your hair, cupping and pulling, stretching you out so you’re wide open with his fingers still too thick and too deep in your mouth. You gag again, harder, thinking of before, when he forced his fingers far enough to make you vomit, eyes smarting at the memory of his rough helping. “Think it’ll do.” He’s teasing you with that half-cocked smirk like a boy’s. 

You’re sharing youth here, experience too. So much of one another being poured into the moment and so quickly that if you hadn’t known him for as long as you have, if you hadn’t been making your way to him with the hope of this for so long, it’d be entirely petrifying. 

He starts to stroke his length into full hardness, pulling your head forward, mouth open to take him onto your tongue. He’s heavy like he was in your cunt, but somehow even bigger, your jaw immediately prepares to ache with the stretch. Swiping it side to side on the flat and then sliding in, guiding you by your hair, showing you how he wants you to suck him. Close, he murmurs soft, good baby girl, when you purse your lips around his girth, holding at the back of your throat, instructing you to breathe long and slow through your nose, getting you used to him. 

He pulls back slowly, until you’ve only got the head to suckle on, your tongue sliding over it, the salty taste of his skin as his thumb brushes slowly along the edge of your jaw and then presses hard against the soft and giving underside of your chin, forcing you to open again, throat spasming convulsively. With his grip in your hair he tugs your head back again, and the two of you watch each other, his hazel bright eyes so intense it’s almost unbelievable that they hadn’t always looked at you like this. That you’d started all of this only a few nights ago with nothing but a half mad kiss you’d wished on for nearly half a life. 

You stick your tongue out flat and wide and begging, and he slides back in, holding you still as he pushes deep until his balls are pressed against your chin, rewarding himself with that first full bodied choking jerk from you, little tongue pressing against the base, throat cinching like a fist around the head.

He holds you there, letting you choke around him, and it’s still all so slow, so measured despite your racing heart and tears and spasming throat, wide wet eyes looking up at him—frightening, possessive want staring back down at you. Pulling back and pushing in again and again until you can’t take it anymore, jaw hinged too wide, little tits trembling with the puff of your breath until every other one is a gag and all you are is a wet, open throat. 

When he finally pulls back, and you’re still missing a belly full of come, you suck in a shaky breath, gagging frog sound in your throat, spit dripping off your chin that he smears down your throat, over your chest and nipples, pinching hard and stinging. You fall against his hip, swollen lips mouthing down to the fat head of his cock, still hungry for your treat, his fist slides down the spit slicked length, following you; a string of drool and pre-come keeping the two of you connected when you yank against the commanding grip in your hair, nuzzling like a puppy, whine at the back of your throat as he pushes it hot and heavy against your sticky cheek, smacks you with it a little. 

“Good girl. My good baby girl,” he laughs tenderly, and he’s so endeared by you, you can feel it in his eyes and hear it in his smile, that something hot and agonizing pulses through your heart.

When you step out of your shower cocoon together, the rain is a violent gust now, shaking the house on its foundation, windows rattling in their frames. He wraps you in a large fluffy white towel, twisting a second one in your hair, flushed sensitive skin trembling under his touch. His kiss is slow and lazy, all tongue and care as you fall together against the silk duvet, pulling you into himself as his heavy weight settles over you, drawing your thigh over his hip, nothing but cotton and damp dew separating the two of you. You need to make him come again, his fingers sneaking between your thighs to play in his leaking spend—when someone bangs urgently on the door downstairs. 

On his drive in from Jackson, Jesse had come across a large chunk of the northernmost fence that had been taken out by the strong winds and lashing rain. Cattle were already spilling out onto the highway when he’d passed, meandering into the adjoining land owned by the park. 

Ellie and Dina had been called back in from town, and they’d all had to ride up and over the mountain to herd the escaped cattle and make repairs to the fence—and had left you all alone and without him and all the rest of them, too.

It had been a long and quiet three days, just you and Dina, which had made you very worried in a very concerning way, this sudden and immediate melancholy that had fallen over you and the whole house without him. The reality that the ranch is wrong, the house is wrong, you are wrong in it, without Joel Miller here to roam and tend the land. That you may have traveled far and wide, tasted all the flavors and touched all the colors of the rainbow, done all the things your imagination might’ve conjured, but outside of this place there existed not even a fraction of what these people had built here together—a family born at the center of a green valley. 

And so there’s a part of you now, like a coward, trying to twist away from the reality that you’re still just that girl, in some ways so young, so unsure, sitting outside your father’s office with the desperate need to be paid attention to, to be remembered. 

Still that desperate child turned woman, asking yourself why you’d felt you needed Joel here that morning you’d arrived to meet your last dead parent. Asking yourself why you’d sent yourself into an anger fueled bender when you’d arrived to find him missing. 

He isn’t your kin. Never your confidant. In the past, there was not even that closeness of previously shared intimacy or comfort between the two of you. He’d been, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to you as a child in all the ways that counted save for those you’d conjured up in your imagination. 

But perhaps that’s the thing. In your own imaginary way, Joel is familiar, as part of the ranch as the rock of the mountain, the house in which your mother had birthed you, or even your father, who’d loved this place more than he’d ever loved anything except his wife, he who’d also died here; all of them a history of monuments that make up the miasma of what this place really is. The annals of their lives, so closely knit with the land itself that there can be no separating one from the other, and Joel is a part of it all.

Maybe it’s that, in some ways, you feel he has more of a right to be here than you do. That you need him here to remind you that you belong, too. 

That you’d needed the reassurance of his approval here when you’d come to claim the place as your own once and for all. 

And you need him now, now that he’d so made you a part of himself in much the same way, in nothing but a single afternoon. 

But most obvious of all, during their days away protecting and caring for your birthright, what becomes clear to you is that after all these years, they had all very much become your family, too: Ellie, Dina, Jesse, Frank and Bill and Tommy. 

Joel. 

It is almost a terrible moment of enlightenment, that realization of how much you truly have to lose now. 

On the third day of his absence, the sky blooms a clear and startling blue, and in the early afternoon, you hear the commotion of the team making their valiant return. The slamming of truck doors and trailer gates, shouted orders and horses sputtering at the indignation of being kept from home and at work for so many days. 

There’s a single bated-breath-moment of shy hesitancy, a will-he-won’t-he sort of doubt (want to see me want to do it again want me) and then you’re chasing down the stairs and after more of that lightning in a bottle feeling, out the front door in search of him. 

Chaos bubbles in the yard, hands lifting and hauling supplies and tools from the beds of trucks and the backs of trailers, horses being led to and fro, Dina and Ellie having a shameless snog in the shadow of her open truck door. Your eyes flit from person to person, searching the mess of homesick excitement for his height and breadth. 

It’s only been two and a half days, really, after so many years dreaming of him, but anyways—you missed him. Really, truly missed him.

From the corner of your eye you finally catch sight of him stepping out of the dark shade of the barn, towering above everyone around him. He’s got that sweat stained brown hat pulled low over his brow, edges curled with overuse. His hair is long enough it curls slightly over the back of his collar, and his eyes are hidden from you in the hat’s protective shade, but by the swirl of your belly and the shiver across your skin, you think he finds you at the same time as you do him. Something magnetic. You don’t think you can even feel your foot still connected to your body when you take a step down off the front steps, stumbling over the gravel of the drive that digs uncomfortably into the soles of your feet through the house slippers you’d forgotten to change out of —when suddenly, you recognize the person standing next to him, smiling up at him as she glows bright and lovely. 

The veterinarian, Tess. 

You’re thankful for the absentminded hand trailing behind you, still anchoring you to the stability of the step’s railing, when you register the swollen round of her heavily pregnant belly, a careful hand cupped protectively around the underside, as she rests her other palm against Joel’s arm. 

Suddenly the gravel digging into your slippers becomes too painful to ignore, almost overwhelming, you take a frightened step back. 

He would never. But—

At one time, they were together, and her hand on his arm has now moved to his chest, a show of comfort and intimacy between them, and she’s laughing, her long hair woven back into a neat braid, swinging with the movement of her mirth. She looks really beautiful, and you’re again nothing more than the little girl in her slippers waiting for a man that will not come to you. 

He would never. Right?

Ellie calls your name—you take another retreating step up the stairs, indecision and insecurity sloshing in your belly—bull sprinting towards you, her lithe, strong body knocking your ribs painfully into the railing, her hands yanking on your hair, babbling excitedly and Dina’s voice from behind, telling her she’s worse than the wrangled cattle. Over Ellie’s shoulder and past Dina’s kind gaze, Joel bends low towards Tess, arm around her shoulders as he steers her towards the three of you congregated on the steps. You feel as you did on that bench outside his office for all those years, waiting for a man to find time to dole out your verdict: kindness or cruelty, a goodbye or worse. 

He’s saying something to her still, speaking close into her ear and guiding her buoyant form carefully through the busy yard full of cowboys and animals and danger, and you can see his eyes now as they flit to you, looking so cold and guarded. 

There’s no Nanny here to shield you from the worst of it now. 

When they finally reach you, Tess embraces both Dina and Ellie with all the warmth of people who’ve worked and laughed and grown together for years. You stand as still and as quiet as you can possibly make yourself. You have all the practice in the world waiting for your turn to be acknowledged, and this is a terrible and small feeling which no grown woman should have to subject herself to. And yet, still, you can’t seem to escape the child. 

He’s watching you, you can feel him, hungry or angry maybe—something else. But you can’t tell now—can’t focus on anything but your stillness and waiting your turn until Ellie finally turns to reintroduce Tess to the adult version of you. 

“The new Kelly,” Tess says with easy warmth and an even easier smile, offering you her palm for a strong handshake. Everything about her is so natural, earthen or real. Nothing at all put upon. This is a woman who, whatever the truth of it may actually be, gives every appearance of having always known herself, never had doubts, never had to claw in the grime and gutter for her truth or whatever scraps of self best fit her at the time. 

“Tess. It’s nice to see you again,” you say as cool and magnanimous as you can muster yourself to be. Ignoring the lurch of nausea being referred to as the Kelly brings on. 

“I was sorry to hear about your father. He gave me work for a long time, and I was always grateful for it.” Something you’d never understood about your father, how he collected gratitude easy as pennies. It was perhaps his greatest talent—getting all of them to eat out of the palm of his hand. 

“Thank you. I appreciate it, and I hope we’ll continue that work going forward. I wouldn’t like anything integral to change for the ranch now. Anything else, that is.” Your voice comes out robotic, businesslike, and she pauses, her head cocking to the side, that easy smile still plastered on her smooth, beautiful face. In your peripheral, you see Ellie move closer to Joel, whispering something in his ear, the click click of Dina chewing on her fingernails. 

“Actually,” Tess says, “If you have a minute, I’d like for us to talk.”

Your toes flex in your slippers, the three of them hold their breath, Tess oblivious to their doubt of you, and the imaginary ticking time bomb sound chips away at your mind, demeaning you further. What do they expect? For you to throw a fit? The lover (—ex lover?) of the man you’ve had sex with once, come here to test you with some potentially incriminating evidence smuggled beneath her t-shirt. And here they are, suddenly orbiting you as if you’ve ever been like him —that explosive anger, that rage, that ability to humiliate and cause fear and insult. 

You’ve never had a temper like that. It’s insulting they’d act otherwise. 

“Give us a second.” You turn to Dina, it isn’t a question. 

One moment to the next, you’re still in your slippers, but you’re not that waiting child any longer. You remember yourself, and you’re the head of the ranch and all that comes with it now. This is yours. And you aren’t your father. And they’ll pretend at respect, whether they feel it or not because it’s your due after the pound of flesh you’d offered up to this place in your childhood. 

How does one stay ambitious and brave and wild and still become a grown woman? 

How does a girl stand on her own two feet and become an adult when she’s never felt any of those things to begin with?

How does one grapple with the terror of their childhood and succeed at a normal and full life?

The girls go and you ponder your existential dread in the face of a woman who seems to have it all figured out. 

Joel clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “You know, I can—”

“We just gotta talk some shop, Texas. We’ll be okay—just a minute,” Tess tells him. Assertive, but with a wink, and she never loses that grin which, if she wasn’t so damn likable, would be annoying as hell. 

You struggle to swallow your cringe. It’s easy to picture the two of them together, how they’d look, how they’d be. Good looking and capable, strong, confident personalities. 

You finally meet his eyes, they offer you nothing, of course, and with a dip of your chin, you give him his leave. He only goes a few paces away from the bottom step of the deck, unwilling to stray too far from the two of you. 

“Oz was a difficult man. You’re not really anything like him, are you?”

Oz. It’s funny to hear the terror of your father referred to so casually. 

“The opposite has never been insinuated. But I can be pretty difficult when I want to be, too,” you say, still watching Joel watch you. 

If you were anything like your father, you’d take her assessment as an insult. 

Instead, you meet her appraising gaze as steady as you can.

“Ah—” she hums,“Sure, yeah,” then laughs. “Can see it in the way you carry yourself. If anything, he was… a force.” 

“He was that.”

You don’t feel now that you can give her too much. Like if you open your mouth, give her more words than necessary, she’ll know everything there is to know about you and what has gone on here. She’s got that sort of look about her, those sort of eyes. Already measured you against your father and found you lacking. 

Even if she didn’t mean it badly, the comparison stings.

“I’d like things to continue on as they’ve been so far, also,” she continues. “Anything you need around here, you call our team. We’ll be here. I’d like to say nothing will change,” and at this she looks down at her bulging belly, sweeping a loving hand over it, “But…” she clicks her tongue ruefully, smile changing to something softer, sincere in a more intimate way. “Things are about to get a little different for me here now pretty soon.” She looks back to you, “My husband’ll be taking over things, just for a few months. He trained at Davis, and I’ll send over his CV so you can take a look at it yourself. Talk to the boys and Joel, they know him well now. If you’d like, my assistant can get with Dina—the three of us can meet and talk over the next few months and what the ranch’ll need from us for the rest of the year up into calving season. I’d rather we have a solid plan before everything gets too crazy for us.”

There’s something like vertigo swooping between your ears, ship at sea sort of unmoored. You are so silly. It’s humiliating. So insecure in ways you have no business being. Husband, of course.

“Does that sound okay to you?” She presses.

“Sure— I mean… yes. Yes, that sounds great. I look forward to it. Just give Dina a call.”

“I hope the ranch won’t forget about me while I’m out of commission. The Kelly has always been a special place to me.” There’s so much genuine sincerity in her voice. You wonder if Joel is part of that sentiment. 

“We’ll be waiting for you, Tess. Don’t worry about that.” 

She flushes slightly, looking down at the hand on her stomach again. “Thank you. I appreciate that. This is difficult for me, as happy as I am about it all. Giving myself over to something that’s so out of my control.”

You nod in understanding. “I didn’t know you’d gotten married. Congratulations to you and your husband.” You flush deep and embarrassed in return, at your initial assumption, but she makes nothing of whatever fucked up expression you know you’ve got your face screwed into. You don’t want her to know how you feel about Joel, to suspect—this woman who’d had him in her own unique and mysterious way for such a long time. Who shares history and a friendship with him now, admiration and respect and laughter. 

“Yeah, well…” She chuckles ruefully at this, turning now to glance surreptitiously at the still brooding Joel pacing between Frank and Tommy as they talk at him.  “It happened quick. I wanted things I wasn’t going to find other places. Had to go out and get them for myself—you know?”

“Sure,” you blink once, “Of course.” But her words fill you with more of that nauseating vertigo. Afraid again, that you’re still that child waiting for something that will never come. That you too, are now looking for something in the same wrong place.

-

He watches your profile closely through your exchange with Tess. Since Ellie had approached you, really—always rough housing when she shouldn’t be, knocking you in the ribs. The way you grip the deck’s bannister, your knuckles white with strain and the flush in your throat and cheeks, the lift of your brow. You smile often, but not easily. He can tell they cost you something or that you have to remind yourself to respond the way you’re expected to. 

He’d seen it on your face, what you’d assumed about Tess. 

The sun is strong against the back of his neck, and there’s a line of sweat pouring down his spine, and he wants to go to you, make sure you’re okay and apologize for the three days and the doubt and not being here when he knows you need him. 

When it seems Tess is finally saying her goodbye’s, he’s unable to extricate himself from Tommy and Frank’s bitching about the work yet to be done for the rest of the afternoon without having to tell them outright to fuck off. Tess makes her slow way down the steps of the house, her swollen gait bobbing unsteadily from side to side, and he watches as you head around the opposite end of the house, gunning for the back door and avoiding him, he knows. He knows. 

“How’s it goin’, Texas?” Tess chirps brightly, He reaches beneath her elbow to lead her back to her truck, Frank there already, pulling the door open for her. 

“It’s goin’ well, Tess. You look good, honey. You feel good?”

“Great. Never better.”

“That’s good. I’m glad.” And he means it. He’d never been able to give her what she wanted, as hard as he’d tried, and he’d been damn happy for her when she’d found it anyways. “Remind me when she’s joinin’ us?” 

“Ah, end of August.” She’s happier now than she ever looked when she’d been fooling around with him, and it makes Joel glad to know it’d all ended up as it was meant to. He looks back up at the big house, second to last window on the far left end where he knows your room is. 

“Real soon now.”

“Not soon enough. Her daddy’s just as restless as she is for it to be time.”

“I’ll bet. I’m glad,” he says again, helping her up into the truck as she huffs and puffs. Frank says his goodbyes and Joel shuts her door for her, leaning against the open window. “Happy?” He asks his friend. 

The smile on her face tells him all he needs to know. “I am.”

“That’s good.” A look passes between them, that of two people who know too much about each other, but perhaps, not the most important things they should’ve known after it was all said and done. And yet there’s nothing bittersweet about what lives between them. It’s all as it should be.

“What about you? You happy?”

He has to force himself not to look at that window again. 

“Yeah, I’m happy.” She reaches for his cheek, clucking at him like she might not believe him. But how to tell her that this time it really is true, without giving away his too precious secret? 

“Good. You deserve it, Joel.” 

The curious part is, he thinks he might really believe her.

As Tess’s truck pulls slowly down the long drive, he looks back at that window, thinking of the other afternoon in the sun drenched family room. The wet stretched lycra tight across your sun burnished skin, all reds and pinks and a grotesque splatter of girl shaped desire that had him clawing at the brink of madness. Afraid he’d hurt you, lose his mind so entirely he’d forget how delicate you can be made in his hands—that scared look in your eyes, that step back when you’d seen Tess—but then he remembers the tilt of your hips taking him inside your body and the strength in your thighs grounding him, the steady look in your gaze telling him that you’re okay and reminding him of all your fire inside—that you have always been stronger and more resilient than he could ever even think to be. 

A woman full of strength.

You are a thing to be loved. 

He follows you, slipping through the unlocked back door, hunting through the cool, quiet shadows of the sun speared halls of your home. 

When he finds your sounds of movement at the back of the house, in your father’s study, he waits silent and still by the door, heart beating a thunder drum in his chest as he listens to your steps approach and pulling you blindly into himself when you cross the threshold. Banding his arms around your back, knees bent to get at your level and seal his mouth over yours. 

Three days is too long a time, and Joel is a starving man. 

You give one appalled squeak before your head is falling back on your neck, opening so sweetly for him, letting him lap at your tongue and sip at your flavor. 

“You were thinkin’ strange thoughts out there,” he says against your mouth, and you huff against him, opening to protest, but he kisses you again. Kisses you stupid, knees straightening to pull you up with him, leaving your feet dangling between his spread cowboy boots, the soft thump of a slipper sliding off your foot. 

“Don’t lie, little liar.” He licks at your jaw, reaches down to squeeze the full of your sweet ass. “Did you miss me?” A kiss to your pulse point now and you moan so pretty for him, all soft and breathy, like you want him to fuck you right here, take you into your father’s study and have you slick and full of come as quick as he can get you. 

“Yes,” you moan, tilting your head further back to give him more territory to kiss. 

He pulls back to look at your eyes, cheeks flushed and mouth swollen. He drags his hand gently over the spot of your Ellie-battered-ribs. There is nothing about you that Joel wouldn’t notice. Gorgeous fucking thing, he wants to ruin you. He’s going to ruin you for every other man ever. Squeezing your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a pout, say it, he orders—feral, desperate, missing you, too. 

“I missed you, Joel.”

Joel. He groans at the sound of it, kisses you again—more, harder, so you know that he really means it.

Hours later, when the sun has set, he finally makes his way into the quiet of his cabin, wondering if it’s logistically more polite to bring his toothbrush over with him so that he can have fresh breath in the morning or simply pray on the effectiveness of toothpaste and a finger, worrying whether you’ll be asleep already, if you’ve had dinner or if he should plan for that, too. He’s pulled from his fretting by the sight of your coat—the worn brown suede one you love that hits just below your knees, light enough for the cool summer evenings—hung over the hook by his door. He knows it’s lined on the inside with cheetah printed silk, so like you, and that the label says Dolce & Gabbana. He’d peeked at it the other morning, draped over the breakfast bar in the big house, tested the weight of it. Made in Italy, it says on the label. A fancy thing. Details he has no business searching for or obsessing over, but that he searches for and obsesses over nonetheless. 

He blinks at the well worn coat, unable—only for a second—to understand what it is it’s doing here in his house. 

But in the kitchen, there’s a cupboard left slightly ajar, his books on the coffee table misaligned and out of the order in which he’d left them, his mail rifled through, a lone envelope spilled onto the rug beneath. His second set of boots kicked over to make space for a much smaller pair. He’s sure if he were to open his fridge, he’d find the contents of it picked over, as well. 

It would seem that a little intruder has come to make herself at home in his space. And when he peeks through the open door of his bedroom, the proof of it is in the shape of a small lump curled in on itself at the head of his bed. 

He clears his throat and two too large eyes peek out over the edge of his dark comforter, challenging, daring him to question your presence here.

There’s also something softly vulnerable there, which he takes careful note of. 

Crossing his arms over his still sweaty chest, he leans against the door appreciating the sight of you snuggled up in his bed. Something like giddiness eats away at his heart, and he chews on his cheek to keep a shit-eating grin from spreading across his face. The two of you stare each other down, waiting to see who breaks first. 

It’s him. 

Of course.

At the soft sound you let out, some croon that beckons him forward, he pushes away from the doorframe, crossing the room to loom over you as you wiggle deeper into his bed. Your scent fucks with his head. Makes him feel just this close to unhinged. His sheets will smell like you for days now. Sweet, sultry. God-like. He’s about to become a pious man. 

Bending over you, he holds himself anchored with one hand gripped around the wooden slat of his headboard and slowly pulls the edge of the blanket covering you, down. Revealing for himself the sweet little morsel of a gift that’s come to plant itself in his bed so nicely. You’ve wrapped yourself in something lacy and pale for him, some sort of spaghetti-strapped confection seemingly made out of sugar—his gut goes hot and heavy. 

And from below, you take him in, gaze roving over his face and arms while he holds himself up and on display. Your hand comes up to ghost soft as petal fingertips over the bulge of his bicep, and he growls some hungry sound that he scares himself with. 

You turn him into something he’s never been before. 

A flush creeps down your throat to flood your chest, and he wants to follow it to your breasts. See if he can make you go as red and hot all over as he’s learned your sweet little nipples can go. 

“Hi.”

He shakes his head down at such temptation. No man is this strong. “I gotta wash up before I touch you, darlin’. I’m filthy.”

You shake your head back at him, whining softly in your throat, writhing in his sheets, knee hitching higher to push the covers down and reveal more of yourself to him—matching panties and soft, bare thighs, Jesus—fucking siren girl all for him. His mouth waters. Your fingertips ghost down his chest, catching lightly at the hem of his t-shirt, tugging gently, making his stomach swoop. 

“No. Come,” you order. It’s all a seduction.

But he’s been hauling and riding and sweating all day. He needs to scrub the two inch layer of filth from his skin before he can touch something this perfect. Clutching at the headboard he lets himself lean further over you, stretching the tense muscles of his back, sucking at your mouth once, long and hard, dragging his tongue wet and lewd across your cheek before he’s groaning, heaving himself up and pulling his shirt up over the back of his head to jump in the shower, strict about not turning back to look at you lest he lose himself to your call. 

In the steamed mirror once he’s done, he takes in the color of his eyes and doesn’t recognize the way they stare back at him. Like a boy discovering a woman for the first time in his life, he’s never felt like this before. It’s frightening, intoxicating.

When he steps back out into the bedroom, dragging a towel through his wet hair, over his chest and sensitive groin, you’ve flopped over, covers kicked down to the foot of the bed so he can see the sheer lace of your panties disappear between your cheeks. Scrolling on your phone with your feet kicked up in the air, swinging in a slow motion that hypnotizes. He’s going to wrap both fists around your ankles and hold you forcibly open, watch you get wetter and wetter and more swollen until neither one of you can take the waiting any longer. He’s going to drag it out until it’s mean. He’s going to make it count. 

His cock is so hard that a delicious heat has begun to pool in his abdomen, seeping down into his pelvis. He’s heavy between his legs. 

Dropping the towel to the floor, he catches a swinging ankle, tugging roughly to flip you over and yank you down towards himself. Bracing one knee to the edge of the bed, he leans over, reaching for your phone and tosses it over his shoulder carelessly. The frown you give him is mighty, and he laughs at you. He feels—he can’t say exactly. A little unhinged, perhaps. Out of control. Like he needs to exert some sort of force here. Expel that jittering energy he’s been filled with the past three days which distracted him from his ride and his work, from wrangling cattle  and leading his men. That feeling that made him desperate to run back here into your arms. 

You give him a peevish, suspicious look, tapping one perfectly manicured finger against the tip of your chin, and ask, “Are you JoelMiller81?” 

“Don’t know what that means,” he gruffs, running his hands over the silk and lace of the little scrap you’ve got on, feeling the hard peaks of your nipples against his palms. His callouses catch and snag, and he has the passing thought that he might be too rough, too nasty, to handle something so fine, but then settles on the reality that he doesn’t really give a fuck if he is. 

You want him.

You want him. And that’s all that matters, really, you getting what you want. The thought of being the one that gives it to you fills him with a feral sort of satisfaction.

“Liar. Liar liar pants on fire.”

“Don’t know what that means neither.” He bends to bite your pretty little tit through the lace. Hard. 

“Ow!” You try to shove him away. “Why’d you like my picture a bunch of times, huh?”

“Didn’t.” 

He pushes your knees up around his waist, taking your wrist and pinning it to the mattress by your hip, trapping it with his knee. His heavily hanging cock brushes wetly against the soft inside of your thigh, sending a shiver down his spine, unable to help the soft moan he lets out. He’s so fucking turned on for you. So hard. The head, red and swollen and throbbing a leak of precum with every beat of his heart. 

“Yes, you did. One of my ass. Like a hundred times.” 

He pulls back to glare at you, and you laugh in his face, lovely and bright as a firefly. 

“Got no idea what you’re talkin’ ‘bout. But if I did, I’d say you got no business showin’ what’s mine to the whole internet.” Thirty-seven thousand fuckin’ people, he grumbles under his breath, fuckin’ ridiculous. 

You gasp, affronted, “Yours?” Glaring back just as hotly. 

You push yourself up on your elbows, catching him by the mouth with your palm to shove his big head away. He nips at the soft flesh, grunting an affirmative. 

“Excuse me!” You drag the vowels out all sassy, all provoking. It makes him leak. Makes him want to pick a hundred fights just to enjoy the making up afterwards. 

“You heard me.” He kneels back between your legs and pulls your little panties down your long legs. 

“I do what I want.”

“Sure, baby.” 

He listens to the click of your teeth, a whine in the back of your throat. Upset ‘cause he’s not taking your bait. “Are you gonna be mean?” You pout. 

Joel pauses, as if to consider. “Yeah,” he says eventually with mock regret and a sigh.

You heave a big, long breath. “Oh, alright,” and let yourself flop back onto the mattress, arms stretching back up over your head. 

He can’t help his chuckle. You really do charm his socks off. 

“How was the rest of your day?” You ask as he settles between your thighs. 

“Bad.”

First, he presses a soft kiss to the fleshy uppermost part of your mons, dipping his tongue out just a tiny bit to taste the salty sweet skin there, but not far out enough to taste you where you really want him. 

“Oh?” —A little moan— “Why’s that?”

“Because.”

“Because what?” Your tone dips into a whine. 

He leans up on his elbows to get a good look at your face. “Because I can’t seem to stop thinking about this,” he hisses, “And it’s damn difficult to tend horses and wrangle cowboys when you’ve got half an erection. That’s why. Any more questions?”

“No. That’s it. You can continue.” Voice all fucking prim and proper. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you sass back, digging your heel into his shoulder. 

“Fucking brat.” Now, he kisses you full on, tongue dipping shallowly between your slit for a better taste. He takes a drop of your dew into his mouth and rubs it against his palate, savoring the taste.

“Yes. And?” It’s all a moaning, fluttery sigh now. 

His hands splay wide, sliding up the underside of your thighs to push you open by the back of the knees, listening to the sticky pop of your lips spreading. 

“Oh my God,” you moan. “So embarrassing.” Covering your hot face with your arms. 

“Fucking hot,” he groans, going in again, licking into your soft, wet cunt. He comes to the crest of your sex, your clit hot and slippery, suckling at it in quick pulses. Keeping the force of it light enough to not overwhelm you too quickly. He turns his head to deepen his angle, his tongue pulsing against your opening, lapping and lapping, coaxing the little hole to soften for him. Prepping it to take him. He spends a long time there, ignoring your clit, licking around the soft folds, everywhere but where you really need him.

His stomach is hot, his cock full, and he lets himself settle more heavily against the bed, pressing his aching length roughly into the edge of the mattress to relieve the pressure, rutting there slowly. You let out a twisting sob when he finally goes back to focus on your clit, circling his tongue lightly, round and round, and then opening his mouth wide to drag his bottom teeth ever so gently over the swollen nub, watching your reaction intently the entire time. Your face scrunches, a sheen of sweat blooming, all the fine muscles spasming frantically, and all at once, he can feel your cunt pulsing, readying for orgasm against his tongue, as you try to twist away, back of your knee sliding over his face. 

He holds you down more firmly, pressing a large palm low to your belly, his fingers on your clit, and spears his tongue into your sex, giving you something to bear down on. This is agony, watching you come for him. He needs to fuck you.  

God. “Thought about this all fuckin’ day, baby.” He slurps loudly, lewdly. “Your sweet little pussy, it’s fucking perfect. Made for me.”

You sob into the bunched sheets, hiding your face while you grind against his face. 

Pressing kisses along the slick curve of your soaked sex once you’ve finished, you hiccup above his head, carding your fingers through his hair compulsively, scratching at his scalp, tugging him upwards. 

“You’re too good at that,” you sniffle. “It’s annoying.”

He grunts, kissing his way over your belly, scraping his teeth along easily torn skin, tasting your smeared come there. He settles at your breasts, and takes his sweet time giving them both his teeth and attention until they’re swollen and painful. Rubbing the grey scruff of his beard against the small mounds, abrading your sensitive skin. Flushed little nipples like dark, overripe raspberries for him to suck on even harder, chafed and raw from his rough handling. He pinches and tugs at them, letting his weight go heavy and melting over your frame, suffocated into the bed, his cock wedged between your swollen sex, letting you feel his solid heft there. Every so often it slides against you with his movements, when his mouth moves from breast to breast, but you’re so dripping wet that there’s hardly any friction, and it makes you cry. Which in turn, makes him pleased, and even harder. 

Curiously, you don’t beg him to fuck you while he tortures your poor tits. He thinks that you know that eventually, he’ll give you exactly what you need. That he has a certainty of the steps the two of you need to take here tonight, that he knows entirely what it is he needs to do to get you there, and how that stops you from rushing him. This thing, it’s a little something like trust. 

That unsettled feeling from before, the jittering energy, eventually it melts away. And Joel is left feeling so steady, so sure of what the two of you are doing here, how he has to handle you. It just feels so right. 

When he eventually lets your breasts rest, he kisses your mouth, slow and intimate and patient. Wet lips sliding against wet lips, sucking on the top one that’s just a little fuller than the bottom, licking the tears from your face, mouthing at your cheekbones, nipping at your chin.

“Why you cryin’, baby?”

“Don’t know,” you mumble. “I’m emotional. M’sorry.”

“Nothin’ to apologize for.” He brackets your skull between his palms, gently tracing the sensitive shells of your small ears with his thumbs and then smoothing over the soft skin of your under-jaw to tilt your chin up to get a good look at you. “You gorgeous thing, you don’t have anything to apologize to me for. Never. You cry if you need to.” 

You nod, turning your face into his palm to nuzzle there.

“You feel good, though? I’m makin’ you feel good?”

“Yes, Joel. Yes, I feel so good.” Your voice is soft, wispy. He imagines he can see the words leaving your parted lips like smoke, and your eyelids sit low and heavy, like you’re drunk on him. 

When he finally pulls back, you look at him with such deep and moving trust, kneeling between your thighs. He feels a little shaken by it. There’s a slight vacancy in your gaze, a haziness, like you’ve gone deep inside your mind with what he’s done to you, but it’s a comfortable, secure sort of thing. You trust him enough to let him make all the decisions here in this bed while you lay limp and boneless beneath him. 

“You’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful,” he says, low. 

His hands smooth over your breasts, your sticky belly, gripping your hips to tug you closer. 

“Not as beautiful as you,” you say to him, and you’re like a heartbreak. The way you look, the way you speak to him. If it were possible, Joel thinks he’d be able to physically feel the motion of his heart splitting in two for you right now. 

He stops moving, hands resting on your spread knees, your body open and vulnerable to him. 

“It’s true,” you say again at the look on his face. His heart throbs in his chest like agony. 

“Stop.” His face goes hot with embarrassment.

“You are.” Your fingers smooth up your thighs, coming to rest on top of his own hands. “You're so beautiful to me. You always have been.”

His gaze falls, unable, for a moment, to bear the look of honest love in your eyes. It’s so much. He doesn’t know if he could ever deserve a thing like this. A man could work for a hundred years and never live up to a woman like you. Between your bodies, your sexes are flushed against each other. Your cunt, wet and puffy with his erection resting against it. It’s the most erotic sight Joel’s ever seen. 

And you’re telling him these things, being so honest, so vulnerable, while he sits between your thighs with this violent lust he wants to use against your body, and it makes him feel guilty and starved and maybe even a little bit in love with you, too. Maybe he’s losing his mind. How could you ever look at him and not see the broken thing? How will he ever be able to keep you when he wants to do so much to you? How will he ever convince you to let him? What could a thing like him ever give to the girl who already has everything?

“I’m old,” he says and feels it. 

“I like you like that.” 

“You’re crazy.”

“You like me like that, too.”

Your fingers flex over his own, and when he feels brave enough to look at you again, you’re still laughing, still looking at him with all that trust. Still choosing him. 

“I’m gonna fuck you now.”

You only nod, eyes fluttering shut, soft smile across your mouth. A tear slides back over your temple into your hairline, and he can almost see it turn to steam against your burning face. There’s a weighted hunger in Joel’s belly. Something that’s curious to see how far he can take the both of you. He wants that trust to strain, and then he wants to know both you and himself well enough to pull back before it snaps. 

When he turns you over this time, his movements are gentle, careful. He presses you down on your belly, keeping your elbows braced beneath you and kisses down your back, across the wings of your shoulders. He’s even more careful when he pulls your tank top away, his fingers brushing the softness of your raw breasts. 

Settling on widened knees, he pushes your thighs open, tugs your hips up, up, so that your spine is a curve, pressing your head down to rest your cheek against the sheets.

“Ready?” He asks low. 

You hum, that smile still spread across your mouth, and he can’t help but lean forward to kiss at it. When you arch deeper, chasing his lips to deepen the kiss, he can feel your slick cunt hot on his stomach, smearing there. His cock hangs long and heavy between your spread thighs, brushing your knee. 

“Easy. Easy,” he murmurs. “Don’t get too excited. Let me—” 

Petting the crown of your head, he leans backward, slowly dragging his palm from your head down your spine to grip your ass, spreading you apart. Taking himself in hand, he slicks his head against the little leaking hole, continuing his slow caress against the base of your spine, intermittently pressing his thumb against your tailbone to keep you present and aware. 

With an even greater care than he had the first time he fucked you three days ago, he works his cock into you. It’s slow, the wide head of his shaft easing inside little by little, deeper and deeper, with nothing but assurances from him, you can take it, you’re so pretty like this, while you gasp and fuss. At a certain point, his wait for you to adjust to the too large fit makes you forget yourself and you try to shove back onto him, trying to impale yourself forcefully, and he’s forced to spank you hard and stinging. 

He clicks his tongue at you, “Nuh-uh, no whining.”

Tucking his hand under your belly, soft and giving, he pulls you up a little, knees sliding wider, making room until he’s fully seated inside of you. He goes still then, holding himself deep and pulsing, feeling the walls of your cunt shiver and contract around him. 

He wonders how long it’d take for you to come around him, stuffed full of his unmoving cock like this. Reckons it’d be pretty quick by the way your desperate pussy’s already trying to milk the spend right out of him. 

“You feel me in your belly right here?” He coos gently, caressing your stomach. 

The sound you respond with then is more of a loud yowl when he presses down firmly to feel his cock tucked deep in there. 

Eventually, the wait gets to be too much for him, too. Getting you there in short shoves and grinds, he fucks you through it when you come for the first time, chasing the milking grip of your cunt with those same controlled shoves. But it’s so good, so wet and hot that his tightly leashed control slips. He spanks you again for that, several times, actually. Until your ass is pink and burning. 

His breathing’s gone rough, hot and bullish, and he can feel himself pouring sweat, his skin burning, too. 

“Gonna give it to you harder now.”

And you’re so good, his pretty little mess, that you do say, “Please, m’ready for it,” so confidently, if a little slurred. 

You’re deep down in there, he’s gotten you there, and he feels a sick burst of pride and pleasure to see how well you’re doing for him, how well you give over this perfect cunt for fucking. 

Through gritted teeth, he orders, “Say thank you, daddy.”

And again, because you’re perfect, “Thank you, daddy,” you obey.

He doesn’t even really know where it comes from, has never been a place he’s gone to before. But it’s perversely right in this moment with you. 

His hips gain momentum, nudging against your cervix again, again. He needs to move, to go hard and rough, but this is only the second time you’ve taken him, you’re not ready yet. He knows you won’t be able to take this much of him for long, can tell by the tensing of your stomach beneath his palm, the way you grip two of his fingers where he grips your hip, and the breathless whining gasp on every thrust inside. Your little cunt is just too tight to accommodate so much cock, your body simply doesn’t have room for it. 

Bracketing his hand around his impaling cock, his thumb and index finger make a warning point between your ass and his hip to keep himself from bottoming out. But anyways, he’s just on the edge of too rough, can see that warning line where your little body won’t be able to take much more, the slightly pained hiccupping sounds you’re making, but God, God…the way you’re milking at the cock buried deep inside, tightening around him while he watches himself part you, your walls clinging, the sticky shine of your come and the filmy white trail you leave behind every time he pulls out. His balls slap wetly against your clit he knows must be so swollen by now. The sounds the two of you make together. His big cock fucking in and out of your wet cunt, so soaked and open for him.

It’s all so fucking intoxicating.

He keeps shoving and shoving against that spot, and it’s so deep, your inner thighs are shaking from the strain of how widely he’s got you spread. And he doesn’t give you an inch or a second, just presses harder and harder until he feels a hot wash of wet heat gushing from your cunt, dripping down his thighs and wetting the sheets beneath. 

“Oh—fuck yes. Fuck yes. My good, pretty girl, that’s so good, yeah. I’m gonna come inside of you.”

When he does, it’s long and dizzying, throbbing through his whole body so that even his scalp pulses and his vision goes a little dark at the edges in a head rush. Your cunt around him is nothing more than a fluttering muscle. 

He shoves into you and pulls you back onto his cock by the wrists one last time, grinding deep. And when he pulls out, there’s a little white gurgle of semen that bubbles out as your cunt gapes. 

Your arched form sags, knees sliding, unable to hold your weight any longer. But he pinches the inside of your thigh, still wanting more. 

“Lemme see. Show me—” He can’t tell anymore, if he sounds like he’s ordering or begging or who has control of who here. He thinks he might really be that liar you said he is if he pretends it’s him. 

Presenting your cunt, clit a shiny red cherry, sensitive and dripping his come, you ask, “Did I do good?”

He can’t help the whining groan that pulls from him, slumping over your wrung out form.

“You’re only ever good, sweetheart. I told you before. Didn’t I? You were perfect.”

He kisses the tip of your snotty nose. 

Your eyes are closed and you nod, humming happy and soft. Blindly, you press forward, looking for his kiss which he gives gladly, gripping the back of your neck, pressing his fingers into the trembling muscles there. 

“I want you to look at me and think I’m good, too,” he admits, then. Your eyes open, that gorgeous and unique color he’s never seen in anyone else, and he realizes he feels like a boy again, full of the strength and potential of freshly minted youth. Like you’re giving him new life. “And then I want to actually be good for you.”

“You are. You are good for me.”

Something like doubt flashes through Joel then. Memories of things you don’t know and he’s afraid to share. Terrible and painful memories Oswald Kelly saved him from once long ago and collected interest on until the day he died. Joel wonders if he might owe that debt to you now. Is a life debt a hereditary sort of thing?

“You couldn’t ever be bad, Joel.”

He laughs at the irony of that, disgusted by it, but pulls you closer, burying his face in your sweaty neck, dragging your scent into his lungs, certain he can feel the magic of it swirl through his body. 

You come out of that deep space in your mind he’d lead you into, slowly. Petting at his skin and twisting his chest hair around your fingers, poking at his belly button and ears. You ask him ridiculous questions he has no answers for, letting the strange rolodex of your mind shuffle and settle until your voice sounds steady and your own once more.

“How long were you with Tess?” You ask then, and not out-of-nowhere because he’d known, he’d been waiting for it. 

“Knew it.”

“You don’t know shit.” You dig your little claws into his chest, yanking meanly on the hair around his nipples. 

“That hurts, you little shit. Knew you were jealous,” he says smugly, squeezing a handful of your bottom. 

Ugh. “I am not jealous. What do I have to be jealous of?”

“Absolutely nothin’, sweetheart.” His tone sobers, trying to inflect the weight of that into his words. Trying to make you see that after this, there couldn’t possibly be any other woman for him but you. You roll your eyes, trying to turn your blushing face away from him, that softly vulnerable look in your eyes again. “You fuckin’ me just to get all my secrets out of me, or what?” 

“Yes.” You try to turn your face away further, your chin wobbles just a smidge and Joel’s heart twists in his chest.

“Baby. What’m I gonna do with you? Huh?” He says softly, threading his fingers through your tangled hair, trying to get you to look at him again. You’ve got the softest hair he’s ever felt, like the finery you wrap yourself in, but heavy and thick. Perfectly spun crown. 

Your eyes go all bashful, and you tuck your face up under his chin, hiding. “Dunno. Can’t play bridge, don’t play tennis well. Barely useful at all, I think.”

“I’m sure we can find somethin’,” he teases. 

Your head shoots up, clocking him in the chin carelessly, “Well, let’s see…” you hum, tapping your chin in a three fingered rhythm. He rubs the crown of your head, soothing the bump away, and you duck your head again, trying to bury your face in his stomach, glossy hair sliding over his chest. You’re trying to deflect, trying to be silly, but he can still see that wet, insecure glaze in your eyes. He won’t ignore it. 

“Look at me. You have nothing to worry about. Believe me when I tell you this.” He tugs on your chin, being as honest as he can. “Me and Tess…we were—no, no darn it, don’t pull away, look at me.” He holds you tight and steady. 

“I shouldn’t’ve asked,” you mumble between your squished cheeks, gaze slanted away from him. “I don’t want to know.”

“No matter what else there was between us, she wanted to be loved in a way I could never give her. Okay? You think I want you to know that about me? Fuck no. But if you need to know anything about how it was between us, that’s the most important thing. I…I couldn’t give her all she needed and maybe it was because I wasn’t able to or maybe it was simply ‘cause I didn’t want to. But we were friends and then we were physical, but all that’s done now. Alright? That’s it. Has been for a long while and neither one of us has ever looked back. And you have nothing to fret over.”

Your body goes tense and shivering for a moment, he can feel your muscles struggling to keep still before you're pushing away, wrenching your face from his grip. You sit back on your knees and he forces himself to lay still, giving you a moment of space. All the while, he watches you process what he’s said. You need reassurance, you need patience, this is fine with Joel. He’s got an abundance of both to give you. 

“What?” He says, “What’re you thinking?”

Your eyes flit around his face and then jump to the wall behind him, going unfocused. 

“So then that's how it’ll be with us, too.”

“No,” he says, without understanding entirely, but whatever it is you’re thinking, he can tell it’s wrong just by the look on your face. “What do you mean?”

He sits up slowly, his sticky, wet cock settling soft and heavy in the crease of his thigh. Your eyes flit to the sight of it briefly, face warming and then looking away again just as quickly. 

“It’ll be like that with us too. You won’t be able to give me what I want because you won’t want to, and then I’ll have to leave. I won’t be able to stay here and want you and only get half of you. I’ve wanted you for too long, I’ve waited for too long. I don’t care how it sounds, I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks.”

Joel takes hold of your face, tugging you in to kneel between his spread thighs, he wipes his thumbs against the wet skin of your cheeks. 

“No, baby. I don’t think it’ll be like anything else, this here thing between you and I. I think this between us…I think it’s going to be its own special sort of thing,” he says slow and smooth, like he’s talking to one of the spooked mares, trying to calm her need to flee, her racing heart. “I know you know it, too.”

“How? How can you know?”

“Just do—there’s no explaining it. S’just a feeling, is all.” You frown at him, huffing out a frustrated breath, still trying to pull away and he clicks his tongue at you, a spike of annoyance zipping through him. “Knock that off, be good. You trust me here, don’t you?” He asks, referring to his bed. “Then trust me a little bit out there too,” and he tips his chin at the door. 

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking you to. Because I’d rather die than ever hurt you.”

“Don't say that.”

“Then don’t you go around saying you’re leavin’ anywhere.”

“Would you miss me if I did?”

“Naw.”

“Fucking asshole. Let me g—” You try and yank yourself away again and he wrestles you to the bed, slotting himself between your thighs to pin you with his weight. 

“Want your belly stuffed full’a me again, little baby? Huh? That’s what all this fightin’ is, isn’t it?” He begins to rut his quickly hardening cock against you, one hand circling your throat, the other taking your wrists in hand to pin immobilized above your head. “Wouldn't miss ya ‘cause I wouldn’t give you the chance to go anywhere. I’d follow you, drag you back here and keep you just like this.” He pulls his hips back, prodding at your hole with his tip, wedging it there just so and then pushing inside. You hiss at the tender stretch, and he can’t help but chuff a low laugh. “That sting? Did I use that poor little pussy too rough?”

You tip your chin back, lashes fluttering and he smooths his hand up and down the sleek column of your stretched throat, feeling the thin muscles beneath fine skin, the fluttering pulse against the heart of his palm. 

“Tell me you’re mine,” you demand. 

“I’m yours.” It’s very much the truth. 

You shiver beneath him, cunt shivering, too. Moaning softly, saying his name in such a lovely way. He’s sure you’ve never been handled with such certainty in all your life. That it’s only a matter of a little getting used to, of him showing you he’s here for you to depend on in whatever way you need. 

It seems a little unbelievable that a few days ago he could’ve never even imagined this, having you like this—he works himself deeper, watches the way your face moves and changes in fascination—and that now he’s here, getting to do this with you. Feeling, sure, a little unprepared, but also, so certain that this is the right thing.

Bracing his knee against the mattress he flips the two of you suddenly, in a dizzying rush of muscles and limbs and movement. Your bodies sliding perfectly together, never losing that precious, intimate contact. Settling you across his lap he pulls you forward and close by the hips, grinding his cock as deep as he can inside of you with your clit trapped against the pressure of his pelvis. 

Ah— ah— ah— too much.

Giving you a moment to rest, he lets you slump against his chest and then pulls you taut again. One hand at your hip to pull your pelvis forward, the other at your shoulder to press you backwards. Palm dragging over your skin, squeezing each breast, feeling the pulse in your throat again. He spreads his hand over your stomach, drippy little girl splayed wide over his thighs, feeling the tense stretch of you, the way he fucks deep, maps the shape of himself beneath the fragile membrane of skin, forcing himself into a place there’s barely any room in. 

Joel grits his teeth, breath whistling, and starts to thrust up into you. Taking hold of one knee, he sets your foot flat on the mattress, opening your slick, flushed cunt wide for his viewing, taking no care this time for the way your little fingers press against his hip trying to keep him from going too deep. But you wanted him to be yours, didn’t you? Mine, you’d said. 

“I’m yours, baby. Gotta take all’a me now,” he hisses through his still clenched teeth. “There you go. That’a girl. Take your fucking.” Gripping your hair, he angles your head down, “Look how wide your little cunt stretches for me, nearly splitting it in half. Guess that means you’re mine, too, huh?”

Trying to push yourself away with the foot braced against the bed you try to slide back, away from where he’s fucking you, wailing. “Why—why. Don’t take it away from me, it’s mine,” he grunts. “Remember?” Head lolling back on your neck, slurring, s’too much, daddy, but then rolling your hips forward anyway, meeting him on the upthrust. 

Lifting you off of himself slightly so he can control the pace and strength of his thrusts, he leaves you helpless. Your cunt’s so wet and stretched the glide is smooth and unhindered. He fucks up into you, tip against the mouth of your womb until you’re coming with a cry, him, following you immediately after that first maddening clench of overwrought muscles. He watches the thick white of his spend seep out, dripping onto his stomach until he finishes spilling inside of you. And then letting you melt against his chest, finally tapped out. He cradles you against his heart, enjoying the feeling of your soft breaths against his throat as you fall immediately into sleep. 

He hadn’t needed to set an alarm in years. Waking with the dawn well before he needed to be out of the house, in the barn and ready to work, tending horses. Nature keeping him punctual. It’s the same this morning, even though everything else in the world seems to have changed. He’s awake in a second, eyes blinking open to find your soft, warm weight cuddled against his side. The sight of your small head tucked against his armpit is so tender, that for a moment, his eyes sting, overwhelmed with a feeling he hadn’t experienced in decades. 

The mountains watch the morning open above them, the dawn barely blueing the air, and he lays in bed for an unusually long time, enjoying the way it feels to wake up with you in his arms. He won’t fuck this up. He’ll keep you here anyway he can. 

When it’s been long enough he knows he’ll be late, that the boys’ll be up and out by now, wondering where he is, he starts to stir, trying to be careful not to wake you and failing anyway. 

“Noooo,” you whine, disturbed. He tries to shush you back to sleep, cooing gentle and soothing. “Don’t leave,” you mumble, a lock of hair caught in your mouth that he smooths back behind your ear. 

“Go back to sleep, darlin’,” he presses into your hair, soft kiss to the crown of your head. When you look up at him, the happy, sleep creased eyes, all deep and baleful, there are butterflies thrumming in his belly. And he feels a little bit ridiculous with how wrapped around your little finger you’ve already got him. 

Nuh-uh. “No, no,” you whine again. 

He can feel your little toes stretching in a splay against his shins, then clenching tightly, trying to grip and tug on his leg hair. “You can’t go yet. No.”

“The boys’ll be waitin’ already, baby. We got shit to do. And I gotta keep an eye on the new kid, make sure he’s learnin’ the ropes as he should. Don’t trust Tommy not to turn him into as big of’a dumbass as he is.” 

You snicker into his throat, your warm, sleepy scent enveloping him. This just won’t do. This is too good a way to wake up every morning. He’ll never be able to get anything done ever again. 

“No. You have to do what I say. I’m the boss. ‘Nd I say I need you here with me. You’re so warm,” you mumble against his pec, arm snaking over his shoulder to hug him more tightly to yourself.

His heart beats so hard in his chest he’s sure you can feel it knocking against your own. The soft brush of your mouth against his nipple makes him shiver and harden even more than his morning wood’s already got him. 

Little fucking witch is what you are. Casting spells over weak and malleable creatures that can’t defend themselves. 

He groans helplessly. “What’dya want, huh?” Running his palm down your back he palms your rump, squeezing the soft, supple flesh. 

You only hum and pout, laughing a little, soft ridiculous noises in the back of your throat that shouldn’t make him as wild and out of control as they do. Mouth practically salivating as you grind and pant against him, opening your knee over his hip so he can feel where you’re still wet from him last night. As the two of you push and pull against each other, soft groans and thready whines, he thinks that you’re a spoiled little brat that won’t be satisfied with anything less than exactly what she wants. Thinks that he’ll need to show you some discipline eventually. Give you the gentle but firm hand your father never took the time to. Thinks that it’ll be one of the most enjoyable things he’s ever had the pleasure of getting to do, teaching you some manners. 

“Does the princess need her fucking before she can start her day?” He rolls you over, taking himself in hand to press against your soft, damp hole. 

“Mhmm. Yes, please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please, daddy. I need it.” You pout so pretty. 

“You're fuckin’ spoiled. You know that?” He really does try to sound put out as he gives into what you want. The boys can wait, the ranch can wait. The whole world can wait. You are the boss, after all. 

“Don’t care,” you sigh, when he finally pushes inside. 

To be honest, Joel doesn’t think he cares all that much either. 

-

That evening, he comes home to find you in his restroom, perched on the counter with your toes pressed up against the porcelain rounded edge of the sink, painting them a deep purple color you’d stolen from Dina.

He walks with that cowboy swagger, hips swinging in a slow roll, like when he rides a horse. Everything about him is natural, confident, well practiced because he’s been the same sort of man all his life so he’s had decades to grow into himself and settle. It might be one of your favorite things about him, how himself Joel is.

In a way, you can recognize it’s the same thing you’d seen in Tess. That organic earthenness which told you they were fully themselves and comfortable in it. You can’t help the comparison, or the little pulse of savage insecure jealousy it inspires in you. 

“Hi’ya, cowboy.”

“Princess.” 

On his way to the shower, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, cranking the water up to sweltering so that soon, the room in filled with hot steam, fogging the glass and curling the hair around your face, supplying an excuse for the heat in your face when he starts to take his clothes off. 

His body is so wonderful. 

You watch him through lowered lashes as he lathers soap between his thick palms once he’s stepped behind the glass door, tipping his head back to wet his hair, soaping his chest, under his arms, between his legs, the cock that’s still thick and long, even soft as it is, makes you burn all over. He catches your eyes as he takes himself in hand, his gaze dark and teasing, knowing, running his fist up and down the length, stretching it. You flush even hotter looking back down at your purple toes. 

This morning when he’d gotten out of bed after ceding to your demands, the sight of that cock as he’d lifted his arms high above his head, muscles stretching, his sweaty armpit hair, joints popping a hollow, tired sound, it’d hung long and sated between his legs, glistening with your come. And it’d left you shocked enough at the sight of it, wondering how something that big could fit between your legs, but also wet and hungry for more of the same thing all day long. 

It’d been all you’d been able to think about as you’d lazed around his house. Picking through more of his things like you’d done last night, trying on his clothes and smelling his shampoo, reading the titles of all his DVDs, rearranging the magnets on his fridge just to put him out of sorts, just to leave your mark. You’d felt like a girl again, rifling through his things to glean whatever piece of him you might be able to steal for yourself. 

And going through his little house—the woodworking projects, the old, faded picture of him and Sarah and Tommy, reading glasses on his nightstand, and a book on deep space that reminds you how much of a fucking nerd Ellie really is— you’d seen that there were little details of all the people he cares about in his home. Even you. Picking up the text on art history tucked beneath the one on space, your eyes had smarted. Even you were here.

When he shuts the water off, you look up at him again, and it’s obvious but not sudden because it’s been building for years and years: you love him. You love everything about him. You’d loved him as a girl, looking up at a man who was steady and dependable, even when he’d never looked at you. You love him now as a woman, while he looks back at you and finally sees you for who you are. 

It feels like such an ordinary moment for how life altering the thought is—to realize that this is a real deal sort of thing, what you feel for him. 

But you think that maybe that’s what you’d always been looking for, something lovely in its ordinariness, something to depend on. 

“You have a nice day?” He asks as he runs the towel over his wet hair. 

“Mhmm,” you hum. “Productive.”

“Oh, yeah? What’d you get up to all day, shut in my house?”

“Snooped through all your shit.”

“Find anything good?”

“No, you’re boring.”

“I did warn you about that.”

“Did you?”

“Sure did.”

Dropping the towel into the hamper, he pulls on a fresh pair of jeans from the closet, no underwear. This guy…

And comes over to you, skin all hot and damp, that big barrel chest, taking you by the jaw to press his mouth, all forceful and demanding, against yours. His possessiveness makes your toes curl. 

“Too bad you’re stuck with me now,” he says. 

Against his kiss, you say, “Will you do ‘em for me?” Holding up the little nail polish brush, if only to stop yourself from spilling all of your romance-addled-brained secrets. You watch him as he sits on the toilet lid and holds each of your toes in his big fingers, slowly and carefully finishing the purple paint job. Humming and hawing while trying to get it just right. 

When he’s done, his smile is so proudly pleased, admiring his work. “Damn, I’m good.”

“You wearin’ my underwear?” He says, taking in the sight of his blue plaid boxers sitting low on your hips when you finally hop off the counter, stretching up on your tiptoes to ease your cramped knees. 

“Doesn’t seem like you get much use out of them. Thought I’d break them in,” you tell him, looking down at his crotch. 

“Little shit,” he laughs, cocking his head to the side to give you a good once over.

“How do I look?” 

“Let’s see…gimme a twirl, gorgeous.”

You spin around, so silly you’re almost drunk with it, and his laugh is smooth and throaty and dark. When he gets up, the look in his eyes is so deliciously threatening, “Yeah, you look fuckin’ good.”

You spin away from his grasping hands, moving across the restroom while he circles you, reaching for the toothbrush you’ve moved in next to his and pointing it at him like a weapon. 

“Get away from me with that look. I’m sore and don’t have anything for you right now.”

You turn to face the sink, reaching for the toothpaste and running your brush under the water as he comes up behind you. 

“Poor little cunt got stretched out last night, didn’t she?” He rumbles into your neck, pressing a tiny kiss to the hinge of your jaw. You shiver against him, sticking your toothbrush in your mouth to keep from moaning at the feel of all that hot skin and hard muscle crowding up behind you. 

You think he’d be scared to know how much you want him. You think you’re a little scared yourself, knowing how much want can fit inside just one girl. 

His touch smoothes up your outer thighs, circling your waist and squeezing, slipping his fingers under the lacy edge of the bandeau bra you’ve got on. He softly grazes the undersides of your breasts with his calloused fingertips, and the sound he makes, like a softly chuffing horse, is so intensely erotic, like he can’t even help his reactions to you, that your pussy, which really is so sore and tender, clenches with a soft sting. 

He kisses your shoulder, turning you by the hips to face him. “Let me,” he says, voice deep and raspy. “Lemme do it.” 

He takes your toothbrush from you, trapping you between his thighs against the counter, and takes hold of your jaw, forcing you to open. 

You flush, embarrassed at your sudsy mouth full of toothpaste, growling, trying to get away from him. 

“Yeah, c’mere. I wanna do it,” he demands. 

He brushes your teeth as slowly and precisely as he’d painted your now drying toenails. Pressing your jaw as wide open as it can go and gently scrubbing each and every tooth in your mouth. It is, undoubtedly, one of the most strangely intimate and erotic things you’ve ever done with a man.

 He touches you with such certainty it’s almost disorienting for how foreign it is. 

When he’s finished brushing, he holds the glass kept by the sink to your mouth, making you rinse and repeat twice before he’s satisfied. And when he’s done with that, he forces your jaw open again, appreciating his job well done. You can feel his erection hard and throbbing against your belly when he sticks his fingers deep into your mouth, feeling the smooth insides of your cheeks with his thumbs. Pressing his pointer and index fingers flat against your tongue, so far back he makes you gag. His other palm holds your head immobile so you can’t escape, can’t do anything but take his training. Your heart beats between your legs. A slow, stinging throb that tries to convince you you’re not really as sore as you’d thought you were, that you can definitely take him again right here and now. 

As he presses down on your tongue again with more pressure, your throat spasms, gagging violently, your abdomen clenching, then lurching. He pulls back, relieves the pressure for a moment, but still doesn’t pull out of your mouth. 

“No, no. Hold your breath. Good. Now breathe through your nose,” he orders. “Slow and deep. Good, yeah. Yeah, just like that.” He presses down on your tongue again, making you gag again, pulls back, gives you a second, and then does it again and again. Training your throat and your reflexes to do what he wants. 

When he finally decides you’ve had enough, you’re left panting and shaking. Your cunt leaking into the seat of his boxers. You cling to him weakly, and he pets your hair, soothing you with soft sounds in his throat. 

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs between kisses to your hair. 

Clawing at him, you press up on your toes, desperate for his kiss, licking at his mouth and then reaching for his hard cock, trying to tug his jeans open. 

Ah, ah. “Thought you said you were sore.”

“No, no. I—I lied.” 

You reach for his mouth again, pressing up on your toes, pulling his face towards yours as he laughs at your struggle, getting only a brief taste of his mouth, the tickle of his mustache against your lips, before he’s pulling out of your reach again. 

“Did you? Let’s see. Little fuckin’ liar.” 

He spins you around by the hips, fast and dizzy, bending you over the sink at the hips so your face is pressed right up against the mirror. Your hot breaths form little clouds of condensation against the glass, and you can’t help the ragged, humiliating moan you let out when he pulls his own boxers down over your ass, letting the cool air soothe the sting against your hot pussy as he crouches down behind you. 

He tuts and coos, clicking his tongue as he spreads your cheeks wide enough it worsens the already deep sting. Saying things like look how soaked she is, so fuckin’ red and pretty. “Naw, baby. Don’t think we can,” he tells you, peering around your hip to look at your face. 

“Oh, Joel, please. I swear—it’s…” He kisses you right over the tender ring of your hole, losing your train of thought as you moan at the feel of his mouth there. Then moves to smatter kisses over your thighs and ass, down your legs to the sensitive backs of your knees. 

While he’s distracted, you try to snake your hand between the counter’s edge and your hips, attempting to press your fingers against your needy clit. 

He smacks you, hard, right against your poor and tender sex. A mean hiss follows. 

“That’s mine. No touching.”

You do wail at that, trying to stomp your feet and kick back at him when he does nothing more than continue to kiss down the back of your legs and the cheeks of your bottom. What a horrible, nasty old man you’ve caught for yourself. 

“Not gonna hurt you worse when you’re already hurtin’. Sorry, baby, but that’s not how this works.”

He pulls his boxers back up your legs, giving your hip a condescending little pat and pulling you back by the hair to kiss your mouth while you pout and spit curses at him. 

“‘Sides we got somewhere to be. Don’t got time to fuck you proper right now.”

“You’re absolutely horrible,” you tell him, trying to stomp on his bare foot and missing. “Where are we going?”

“Thinkin’ we should go up to see Miss Leigh. How ‘bout it?”

The drive down the 89 towards Leigh Lake is dark and peaceful. Windows down, he goes way too fast, playing Bob Dylan off an old cassette player he’s got rigged into the 12-volt plug because he refuses to modernize his music collection. Every so often, you’re rewarded with the lovely sound of his voice humming along to Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door. 

It’s a real strange thing, feeling like you’re getting everything you’ve ever wanted, like you’re finally in the right place at the right time. You feel so happy. 

You switch spots once you enter the park, taking the driver's side so that he can get out at the roadblocks to lift the bar gates for you to sneak the truck through, making your slow way up the mountain through the service roads until you make it to the lake. Your last name won’t stop you from getting arrested if you’re caught trespassing on federal property, and the idea of it is sort of thrilling. 

The two of you hike the short way left from where you park the truck, and the dark wilderness would be terrifying if not for the solid wall of muscled man you have showing you the way through. You love that he’s so dependable, so capable. That you can do something wild like this and remain carefree because you know he’s here to watch over you. 

The last name won’t stop you from getting eaten by a bear either, but you’ve got Joel for that. 

In the bright moonlight, the surface of the lake is like a silver quarter, shining so brightly it blinds. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky—all stars. The water’s glass face ripples intermittently, the movement of fish beneath the surface gives it life in the dark. And the butterfly flutter of the aspen trees sounds in the night time’s wind, while the mountains loom pitch black and menacing, rising up towards the sky.

“I love it here so much,” you tell him. “Maria used to bring me all the time when I was a girl. She was so young when she taught me, took care of me—all those years raising me. You never realize, when you’re a kid, how young the adults around you actually are. It was nice to hear she’d gotten with Tommy.”

“Saint of a woman. Puttin’ up with that idiot.”

You laugh softly, wrapping your arms around yourself at the chill coming off the water. “Don’t be mean to him.”

“Were you bad? When you were real little… misbehavin’ sort?”

“God, no. He would’ve killed me.”

The joke lands stilted and ugly. No one laughs. 

“No, I wouldn’t think you would’ve been. Not in your nature, I don’t suppose.”

“At least not then. But I promise, I can be real bad now.” You turn to give him a hot look over your shoulder, and his lopsided smirk is so, so sexy. Hands in his pockets and chin tipped back so you can see his face just right in the moonlight. 

“I remember you used to come up here with him sometimes, too.”

You scoff a bitter noise, turning back towards the water. “How could you possibly remember that? You weren’t here yet. And it hardly ever happened. Certainly not once I got older.”

“He told me.”

You have nothing to say to that. Nothing nice, at least. There’s something that bothers you about knowing your father shared things like that with Joel. Things that you’d always seen as sacredly intimate, infinitely painful. 

“Oh.”

“Oh?” He mimes back. 

“Let’s not talk about that. You’ll ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“This. I don’t know… Everything.”

You pace away from him, chewing on your fingernails. You catch the lifting edge of the gel manicure on your thumbnail, biting down and ripping off a huge chunk of it. It hurts. Your fingernail smarts from the vicious peel. Pointer finger next, catch and rip, spitting out the little flakes of polish into your other palm. It’s a filthy and disgusting habit. 

“I didn’t bring you here to fight, but we can if you’d like to,” he says provokingly. 

Rolling your eyes— “I don’t want to fight.”

“Alright… if you don’t wanna talk about it we don’t gotta. Think we should anyway, though.” 

You’ve drifted towards the water’s shore, and you hear his heavily booted footsteps come up slowly behind you. 

“I want us to be honest with each other.” He doesn’t reach for you and it makes your anger even hotter, that you can sense the intimation of his warmth but not actually enjoy it. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he whispers. 

“Nothing. I don’t know…” Finally, his palms come to your hips, the touch is so comforting, too comforting. He tucks his thumbs beneath the hem of your t-shirt, rubbing slow circles against your skin, resting his forehead against the top of your head. 

“Thought we decided you were trusting me.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. You want to hear that I’m angry? I’m angry. There.” You take a deep breath, closing your eyes to really savor the feel of his hands on your skin, the taste of the clean, sweet air. You can smell the leaf rot and the chill of the water and that achingly specific mineral scent that comes off the mountain rock. A scent you could recall anytime, anywhere in the world when you were far away and especially missing home. “I’m sorry, too,” you tell him. “I should also say that.”

“For what?”

“That I’m angry at you, too. Or that I was.”

“Were you?”

You try to keep the broken crack out of your voice but it comes anyway. “He cared about you. And I was so jealous.”

He sighs, “I think you’ve got the wrong sort of idea about how we were or what he thought of me. At the end of the day, I was still just someone who worked for him.”

“I know there was more. I know he did something for you that no one’s ever talked about. I know there’s more here that you’re not saying, Joel. And it’s not fair that there are things you know about my own father that I don’t get to know, too. It’s not fair that you were with him in his last days and I wasn’t. It’s not fair that you got all that time with him and now I’m the one that’s left to miss him when I didn’t even really know him. When he didn’t even like me.”

“Darlin’...” You step away from him, away from his comfort. The water of the lake laps at your boots. 

“You know it’s true. How can I miss him when I didn’t even know him? When you, who knew him so much better than I did, won’t. You said that, remember? That you won’t miss him.”

“I did, yes.”

“Why not? I don’t understand.”

“‘Cause I didn’t give a fuck about him.” He laughs. “I don’t know what else to tell you. Oswald Kelly thought the earth began and ended with him, and ten years is too long a time to be the right hand of a man like that. Is that what you want to hear? Does that make you feel better?”

“I don’t— I feel like I need to understand what it was that was between you two. Why he left you the money. Can you…Do you even know how fucking despicable I felt, being angry that he’d left you something? Because it wasn’t about the money. I want you to have that. I want you to have everything. If you let me, I’ll share every single thing I have with you, but I can’t understand what it is, or what—what there was… I can’t understand why. If you say he didn’t see you as a son, then why?”

He runs a palm flat over his mouth, hand on his hip, thinking, then the backs of his fingers against the edge of his jaw. 

“We were similar, in certain ways. We understood each other.”

“You are nothing like my father, Joel. Don’t ever say that again. He was cruel—he was terrible. A terrible father. He ran me off from this place. And it’s horrible, feeling like you can’t ever go home.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Better than you’d believe.”

He goes to sit against a log low on the ground, and you wander towards him as if led by a tether. 

“It’s complicated, ain’t it?” He says. “Business of bein’ a good man. No one’s all the same of a single thing forever. There are parts of us that aren’t so good, others that are better. There were pieces of your daddy that I think tried to make up for the rotten parts. He helped a man he knew jack shit about, backed by nothing but the grace of my brother’s good word. Gave me a place, saw something in me worth a damn. He saved my life. But… the way he was with you? That overshadowed any sort of good he might’ve ever tried to do. You get me? No one is perfect, and that’s fine. But I reckon it’s important where a man chooses to place that finite goodness afforded to him. That’s what you gotta remember.”

“It should’ve been me,” you tell him. “He should’ve given that little goodness he had, to me.”

“It should’ve been you,” he agrees.

“But you’re wrong. You’re nothing like him, Joel. You’re so full of goodness.” You go to him then, kneeling between his parted knees, and he takes your face in his palms, smoothing back your hair so lovingly. “I know it. I recognized it from the first moment I laid eyes on you. Trust me. You can tell, when you’ve seen a lot of bad, who’s good and who’s not.”

He shakes his head at you, still stroking your hair, your face, and the look in his eyes is unfathomable, heartbroken. 

“There’s something I never told you about Sarah. About how she died.”

You jolt at that. “What?”

“I was too young when I had her, only twenty-two. And it was hard for Tommy and I, harder than anything. He helped me, you see, Tommy’s always been there. God, we were basically kids, trying to take care of this tiny, defenseless thing, just the two of us. And what do you know at twenty-two about how to live? Basically nothin’. It was so fucking hard, but she was like a miracle anyway. Gummy smiles and milk breath and she didn’t like formula, had a hell of a time feeding her ‘cause she wanted a mother and I had none to give her. She struggled to put on weight, was constantly at the doctor which meant constant bills. It was the single most terrifying, most stressful thing I’ve ever lived through,” he says. 

“For a few years it was fine, or not so fine, but we managed. She was small, though, skinny and sickly. And things got progressively worse, harder. There was so much I wanted to give her, the whole world, and I just couldn’t. And I wanted Tommy to have a life too, I didn’t want to have to depend on him forever. My brother got involved with some real rough sorts—Sarah was three…maybe four at the time—they called themselves The Fireflies. At first it was muscle work on the weekends and such. Watch a door, drive ‘em here or there, fuck up some guy who owed money for God knows what, but it sure as shit wasn’t my business, right? I kept my head down, tried to look the other way. They were sellin’ shit. On the streets in Austin, college kids in bars with too much of daddy’s money.” You flush deep and ashamed. “Pills, oxys, that sorta crap. The muscle work turned into stuff I never, ever should’ve gotten involved in. It started small: a favor, an errand, drop this off, pick this up. And then I woke up one day, and I was so deep in filth I couldn’t see the way out.” He looks at you then, and his eyes are so wide and dry, so clear, you can see all of him right there in that moment. “But Sarah was fed, she was at a good school, new clothes and a dance class. I wanted to give her even more than just that. It felt easy, even when it was terrifying. Or it felt worth it. And I did it for longer than I should’ve. That’s the thing about doing what you shouldn’t. It’s hard to quit once you’ve started, it’s hard to get yourself out.”

“Tommy'd weaseled his way out a couple years before, smarter than I had the foresight to be. It’d gotten seedier the more time passed, and he’d spooked. He wasn’t good at dealing with the violence the way I was, couldn’t stomach it as easy as I did. They’d been fine with letting him go ‘cause they still had me doing their dirty work, hurting people when they needed me to, trained dog.”

When he leans down to press a small kiss against your mouth, your heart beats in adrenalized panic. 

“I knew it’d end badly eventually. So I said to myself, destroy the dog and be the man, but it’s hard putting the animal down.” He breathes one long chuff of rough air before he continues. “They came to our home one night, she was supposed to be asleep, safe in her room. The guy pulled a gun and I panicked, seeing a weapon in her house like that. She was supposed to be in bed, safe in her room. She was supposed to be safe.” His voice breaks, and you can see the silver line of old grief at his waterline. “If I’d died, it wouldn’t’ve mattered. Tommy would’ve taken her, been a better father than I ever could’ve been. She would’ve survived without me, but I was never going to survive without her.”

He takes your hand in his, pressing your fingers to his scarred-over temple. A violent, horrible little thing you’d always been suspicious of.

“Joel. Oh, Joel.”

“I was never going to survive without her. They were going to get me for involuntary manslaughter, possession and trafficking. Lock me up and throw away the key. But Tommy had come here when he’d gotten out of Austin. He told your father about me and Kelly came down to see me. I’ll never know why he chose to do that—we never discussed it after—what he might’ve seen in my brother’s face, in my own, that convinced him to save me. I’ll never forget that feeling, sittin’ in that orange jumpsuit in front of that man that didn’t even seem real. A little bit like a thing out of a nightmare. Coldest eyes I’d ever seen in a man, like there was a shadow around the edges, something not right. Reckon that was your mother in there, haunting him. And I think he must’ve seen the same shadow in my own eyes ‘cause he made some calls right then and there. I was out the next morning and on Kelly property that evening. Your father, he gave me my life back. He brought me here and he saved me. This place saved me.”

You’re crying uncontrollably, tears spilling down your face in a hot, sick rush. 

“So you think he was good to you. You’re saying it was your fault—Sarah. That’s what you think. And he saved you from it.” 

“I’m saying that there’s bad and good in all of us and that life is complicated and strange and people even worse. Look at what I did to my own child. I’m sayin’ sometimes you’re grateful to the monster, I’m saying sometimes you’re sad he’s dead. It’s okay, baby.”

“But you would never hurt me. I know that as well as I know my own name. And he hurt me.”

“Never intentionally, I wouldn’t, no. But—”

“I met this woman,” you cut him off. “Uh… last year? Two years ago, maybe. I can’t remember anymore. In Sedona. It was a—well… they called it a spa,” you laugh humorlessly. “Wellness thing, that sort of bullshit, but really if you’re there, you know it’s just rehab. I was drinking too much, snorting all sorts of junk I shouldn’t have been. She recognized me.” 

You’re looking for some sort of recognition in his face, too.

“She said—from the photograph on my father’s desk. She knew all about me, she showed me pictures of the two of them. She’d been with him for twelve years, and I never even knew she existed. She knew all about me. She knew my mother, her name. She even mentioned you. You knew her.”

“I did.”

“You know who I’m talking about?”

“I do.”

“Twelve years, Joel. His partner or his—his—”

“Wouldn’t really call that mess a partnership,” he says with a small, ironic scoff.

“Don’t be annoying. Don’t joke.”

“I know, honey. I’m sorry,” he says with a sigh. “I know what you’re try’na say, I get it.”

“I didn’t even know him. He was a complete stranger to me. And this woman…she was nice to me. She told me she’d always wanted to meet me and that he’d never let her, and then he just sent her away. Cut her off from one day to the next once he’d decided he was sick of her, a pile of cash and Dina’s well wishes. You know she tried to kill herself? She was in that place for a mental break.”

Joel’s face looks shaken. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“That’s what he did to the women in his life. He had a vision that stretched halfway across the world. And nothing ever stopped him. Especially not something as insignificant as a daughter or a woman that loved him. My mom died on him and he punished us for it for the rest of his miserable fucking life, and I hate him. I hate him, and I’m glad he’s dead.”

You really do sob then, after those spit words. A broken wail like an animal lost in the wilderness and left to die. Or like a child, forgotten and abandoned by her father. Joel holds you very tenderly while you finally let that old grief settle inside you.

“You can’t ever say you’re like him again. You can’t. It hurts me to even think about.”

“It’s alright. It’s okay, baby girl. Let it out. I’m sorry,” he soothes. “I think… I think that your father mistreated you because there was something fundamentally broken in him, and I think he thought he saw that same broken thing in me, and that maybe that comforted him somehow. That what he gave me wasn’t goodness, much as you might want to see it as such.”

“But he saved you. He never, ever saved me. He hurt me so much. He threw me to the dogs. He cared about you, Joel.”

“You’re not understanding me, sweetheart. I’m saying that I did bad before, that I was broken, and Kelly saw that. But you never stay the same way forever. I was able to let it go, to move on. We always change eventually. Growin’ or regressin’ or whatever direction it might be you choose to move in, but we always inevitably make another move. He saved my life, and I was grateful to him, and yet, when I watched him die, I felt nothing but relief for you. I’m sayin’ that I know you feel defined by this, by him, but eventually you’ll move past this moment of struggle, eventually you'll let him go and then it’ll be different, that next place you step into will be different.”

You surge up on your knees to hug him fiercely and you sob and sob onto his wide shoulder, giving him all of your grief because you know he’s strong enough to bear the weight of it.

“Maybe every man is destined to fail his daughter at some point. But you won’t be defined by his failure of you forever. I know that you’ll let it go eventually. You’re so strong, so resilient, my girl.”

“I don’t want to step into any other place. I want to stay here with you and the ranch forever,” you cry. 

“We’ll always be here, darlin’,” he says with a kiss to your temple, a soothing hand on your back. “I was a roamin’ dog, and I found my place to roost, here. Wyoming and the ranch will always be your home. I will always be here for you. You’ve never gotta worry about that changin’. What I’m saying is this, love is complicated and if you miss him or you’re glad he’s dead, it’s okay. It’s okay to be wrong and to change or to be right and go bad for a little bit. Tell me, what’s the point of livin’ and feelin’ so loveless? There ain’t none. Nothing is the same forever except for this, here, your home and the care you’ll always find here. You understand me?”

“I think so.”

“I can’t promise you that this’ll be a normal sort of life, you and I together, but I promise it’ll be a good one. I’m going to try my damndest, anyway.”

“My mother was buried under a holly bush the day I was born, this has never been a normal life.”

He presses another kiss against your mouth. “I don’t want you to carry this sadness around with you forever. If you let it, this land will heal you. It’ll fix whatever’s broken in your heart. It did mine. I need you to be happy here.” He presses a tiny kiss to your jaw, tucking his face into your shoulder. “Can’t you try to give me that?”

The water laps gently at the shore at your backs, and the presence of the mountains is so strong they feel almost sentient—watching the two of you bear your hearts at their feet. You’d felt, for so long, like you’d loved him. And even if it’d been only the idea of him, it’d served as such a comfort for you when you’d been young and lost and growing into yourself. And in some curious yet kismet touched way, it felt right, fated, that the two of you had been so changed by the man that was your father. 

You ask him the same question as before, hungry for the sound of it: “If I left, would you miss me?”

“I’d follow you. There’d be no missin’.”

“But you love this place.” Your heart throbs with the idea of that word, the potential.

“But I need you now.”

“Maybe I’ll run away, come back when you least expect it just to keep you on your toes.”

“You’d be a wild horse if you could, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe.” You muse his hair, tugging his face to yours, kissing him slow and deep and full of love.

“You’re a good girl. You be wild if you need to, I’ll be here for you when you’re ready. There’s always gonna be someone in the world that loves you, you know. Even when it feels like there isn’t, or you’re all by your lonesome. There’ll always be someone out there who thinks of you with love in their heart no matter how far you go. You just gotta remember that.”

“It’s hard.”

“Most good things are, sweetheart.”

The two of you hold each other for a long time, listening to the mountains grow, the water and the aspens.

“You know, I knew this was going to happen when I came back.”

“Oh, did you now?”

“Yes.”

“And how’s that?”

“I’d been seeing eleven-eleven every single day for weeks. So I knew something big was happening soon.”

“Darlin’, I don’t got a clue what the hell that means.”

“It’s a sign. It means something good is on its way, Joel. Something really, really worth it.”

-

The Tipsy Bison is loud and hot, and Ellie watches the girl she loves dance and laugh with her best friend, in the middle of the packed crowd. She prefers it here to The Mushroom, too many stupid Jackson tourists over there. The sight of them blinks in and out between the sweaty bodies, hands grasping each other close and then spinning out to twirl wildly in opposite directions. Their heads thrown back in loud laughter. 

“She really is something,” Joel comes up beside her to lean against the high top.

“Yeah,” Ellie says, “She really is.” Though she doesn’t think they’re talking about the same girl. 

“Ff-hat’re we talk’n ‘bout?” Jesse says, mouthful of pizza bulging his cheeks while he tries to chug his can of Natural Light at the same time. “What’re we lookin’ at?”

“Hey, chucklefuck.”

He swallows his too large bite, wincing, beer dribbling out the corner of his mouth. “I do have a name you know.”

“Sure, buddy,” she pats his head, slaps his cheek a little. “Whatever you say.”

Beside them, Joel is silent. A little hypnotized. The look on his face is so intense he looks like he’s about to pounce. Probably ready to get violent if anyone gets too close for his liking. 

Jesse looks between his face and the two girls dancing in the crowd. “Miss Kelly’s lookin’ mighty fine tonight, Joel. You old fuckin’ dog—good job, man.”

He tries to slap him chummy on the shoulder, but the glare Joel throws his way looks like it could quite literally kill. “Don’t look at her, dumbass. Who the fuck do you think you’re talkin’ to?” 

He pushes away from the table, sauntering towards the dance floor. Ellie sees the moment when your eyes catch sight of him, the way they brighten. Fucking heart-eyed love-sick look, ugh. And they say her and Dina are gross about it. Ellie still hasn’t recovered from what she’d seen in the barn the other day. Electroshock therapy or fucking church is what she’ll need to forget that shit. 

“He’s so mean to me,” Jesse whines, peeved, kicked-puppy look following Joel’s retreating form. 

“Oh, Jesse, Jesse, Jesse.”

“What? What now? Haven’t even done anything wrong today.” He’s so sulky, it makes Ellie laugh. 

“You have so much to learn,” she says absentmindedly, watching Joel meet you on the dance floor.

“That’s still so fuckin’ crazy to me,” Jesse says when Joel bends to kiss you. It’s passionate, too intimate, and Ellie has to look away. 

“It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else besides them.”

“I guess so.”

“Curiosity is a constant happiness. Go out and find something worthwhile, Jesse.” 

On the dance floor, Dina has separated from the horde, and she weaves in and out of the pack of crowded bodies making her way over to their table. Her cheeks are flushed, her curls wild and frizzy from dancing. Ellie feels her heart beat in her throat, this is what love is. She knows that now, is able to recognize it easy as day. 

This is what Wyoming, what this land had given her. A family, a home. Dina. 

“Don’t know what that means. Doesn’t even make any fuckin’ sense,” he mutters. “You’re so fucking weird sometimes.”

Ellie reaches over, yanking on his ear, hard, before walking away to meet her girl. 

“Nothing is cooler than being yourself, weatherboy. Remember that.”

Dina meets her at the edge of the dance floor, falling into her. Her arms are strong and lithe, her kiss tastes like cherries. She whispers that she loves her in her ear—I love you, Ellie, she says.  Over her shoulder, Joel looks like he’s happier than she’s ever seen him in all the years she’s known him, and she thinks that this is it, the real deal, what all those lonely people that’d grown up on the ranch together had been looking for all their lives. 

No lonely dogs left. 

-

Having Joel Miller fall in love with you turns out to be the easiest thing in the world. 

You watch as it happens day by day. Easy to read on his face, obvious as the man is—despite what he might think about himself. You watch the story of it play out on his face as the days turn to weeks turn to months. In the things he does, the ways he takes care of you, tending to the land and your legacy and your heart. The way he makes you the beating soul of the ranch in a way you’d always dreamt of being, but had never really thought possible. He makes the place a real home for you.

One evening, waiting for him to come to bed, he brings you a bowl of split figs. Dark purple skin, brilliant red center. Beautifully shaped. There are three of them he’s cut perfectly in half to make a circle of six pieces precisely arranged in the center of the bowl. Each one is perfectly formed, perfectly chosen and set for you.

He puts it in your outstretched hands and goes to his side of the bed, tucking his glasses tight against the bridge of his nose, lamp on with the shade turned towards his open book because he says his eyes are going bad. He’s reading Flannery O’Connor’s book of short stories again, and you know he’s missing home, hungering for a reminder of life in the South and memories of his daughter. You know he only picks this one up when he’s missing it all something desperate. 

You know so many things about him now, the way he knows them about you, too.

And looking down at the bowl of perfectly split figs, that’s when you know for sure, this isn’t your wishful heart, not a fable—only something normal, lovely in how ordinary it is. This is love. 

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[quin-ns]

Cherry (Joel Miller x Reader)

Word count: 3K

Summary: you didn’t except that the first time joel said he loved you that he would mean he was in love with you. you did love him. like a friend. even a father. but you always wanted to hear those words, and you couldn’t break his heart, could you?

Tags: (18+), age gap, biting, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, couch sex, complicated/unhealthy relationship, mutual desperation, not dubcon but heed the adjacent warning (joel doesn’t know how yn really feels), sorry I don’t know what came over me guys I wanted something with some insane desire, angst, and smut

A/N: guys… I haven’t written for joel in almost 2 years that’s actually crazy… how?? he’s literally my fave dilf ever?? what a fic for me to come back to joel with tho wow enjoy fellow freaks I’ll write fluff for him soon too

tlou masterlist + main masterlist

It didn’t matter how long Joel had tried to convince you that he had just done the right thing, you still believed you owed him your life. Because he saved your life.

And after a period of Joel insisting you stay away from him for your own good, back when you lived in the QZ, he eventually took you under his wing. Now, he was intent on keeping you there.

It was his responsibility to protect you. It was his responsibility to make sure you had everything you needed. It was his responsibility to make sure you never got consumed by the darkness of this world like he had. It was his job to keep you safe. And you? You loved it.

More like you loved Joel, but you never bothered to separate the man from his actions. Why would you? You loved him. You really did. And he did the same for you.

The love you had for him was all consuming ever since he had told you, “I want you by my side, no matter what.”

Being in Jackson brought peace and security, and you were assured that your connection wasn’t merely out of necessity. You continued to choose each other. You would always choose him over everything else. It was just what you did.

You loved him because he saved you, but it was more than that. So, so much more.

You loved him like a friend, who you could talk to about anything. Your age difference hindered your ability to relate to one another on a lot of things, like the way you looked at the world, or how you solved problems, but even when you weren’t agreeing, you at least understood one another in a way no one else could.

In Jackson, it had been suggested that you could live with some other girls closer to your age, but Joel ended that discussion. Instead of a two bedroom house, he took up residence in one with three. You never would’ve wanted to live apart from him and Ellie, but you were relieved he had been the one to decide. It reaffirmed that you were just as important to him as he was to you. You needed that reassurance more often than you’d ever let him know.

When you first arrived, before you found your place in the community, you would hide out in the house. It was hard for you to grow accustomed to the way of life here, and even harder to trust people. Joel made sure you never stayed alone too long. When Ellie was out, which was more often than you but less than Joel, he would end up returning. Some days you found yourselves talking nearly every waking hour, and laughing together more than either of you could’ve expected.

He knew you loved him like a friend, but you loved him like a father as well. You never told him that flat out. You could just hear the grumbly comments about making him feel old, and even though it would be light hearted jokes, you wanted to keep the relationship as it was.

Joel was a toughened person, but he treated you delicately when he could. It would get to a point where you thought the label ‘fragile: handle with care’ was printed on you, but he never talked down to you. You liked that he protected you and made you feel safe without controlling you like he would a daughter. Not like how he was with Ellie. You were fine seeing him as a father without him seeing you as a daughter. It was best this way.

Needless to say, you loved him simply as the person he was. It overwhelmed you sometimes.

No, not sometimes. Often.

Everything he did made you okay with the fact that he had never said the exact words. He’d come close, had said them in many other ways, had proved to you that he did, but you never got the real thing. That was something you had thought you could live with as long as you could feel it. And as long as you could continue to love him as well.

So with Joel, now, sitting on the couch by your side, facing you and saying, “I love you. I have for a while,” your heart jumped from your chest. It changed everything in an instant.

You were smiling before you registered that he wouldn’t meet your eye. And was that… shame, maybe, in his voice? The way he kept it low, like he wasn’t sure he should be speaking.

Joel, in the distant past, would get frustrated with your naivety before it became a thing that endeared you to him.

It took you a long moment to get it. Then, all at once, you did. You wondered if he could read the shift in your face. From the moment your awe became tainted with understanding.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Joel continued. “But you know I hate lying to you, and not telling you… it felt like lying and I couldn’t do it anymore.” He swallowed. “I love you,” he repeated, to both you and himself.

Deep brown eyes that held years of life you couldn’t even begin to understand met yours, and you couldn’t seem to speak. Those words felt forbidden from him. You had spent so much time wanting to hear them, longing to hear them, before you made peace with the fact you wouldn’t. You had become okay with never hearing them from Joel because he consistently proved it to you in every other way.

And now, here he was, telling you he loved you, and you hadn’t leapt at the chance to say it back.

You knew why, and so did he. You could see him searching your face and with every second that passed, you watched his confidence crumble.

Joel was hurting. Your silence made him ache.

He took a long breath, bowed his head and shook it a little to himself. Experiencing regret in its entirety.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered finally. It felt like a knife to hear the defeat in his voice. He turned to face forward. “I- I should’ve known better.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m so much older than you, and I’ve done things that I can’t come back from, and you…” Joel stole a lingering glance. “You’re so perfect.”

You were the furthest thing from perfect, but you believed that Joel believed you were. It was the way he said it. He was so sure and you loved him for it. For seeing you in ways you couldn’t even see yourself.

You watched him, knowing that the man you loved was hurting. It didn’t seem fair to let him continue when you knew you were the only one that could make it stop.

It was almost an out of body experience, the way you moved. First closer to him, so close your legs were touching. Then your hand reached for his, your smaller fingers wrapping around it to squeeze. When he met your eyes, you saw the moment hope replaced pain, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“I love you, too,” you said, because it was true.

It was both a surprise and not when he kissed you. It was soft at first, and it reminded you of the way he often was with you. When you didn’t pull away, it ignited something in him. Suddenly his hands were on your face, deepening the kiss.

You kissed him back because he needed you to.

When Joel felt your lips moving against his, it told him two things. One, it told him what he needed to know, which was that you loved him. And two, it told him what you wanted him to believe, which was that you wanted this.

Joel grew a little more sure, pulling you closer to him. He couldn’t get enough and was struggling to hold back. You could feel it. Both his want and his restraint.

You weren’t sure what to do with your hands, so you put them over his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck, letting your fingers card in the longer ends of his grown out hair. You always wondered what his hair felt like.

Joel liked your curiosity and let his own get the better of him. His lips trailed from yours down to the side of your neck. You sucked in air, your face hot as you tried to catch your breath, when all of the sudden his kisses were replaced with a small, suckling bite. You gasped. You couldn’t help it. His hands moved, one resting on your back when the other held the back of your neck. Not hard, just keeping your close. You buried your face into his shoulder as he grew more confident with the use of his teeth.

The moan that escaped your lips when he soothed the harder bite with his tongue made his grip tighten. His breath hitched. You swallowed, flustered, unsure of yourself as your body shivered on its own. Joel pulled back to look at you, just long enough for you to see the desire clouding his eyes, and then he was crushing his lips against yours.

The weight of Joel’s body pushed you down onto the couch. You kissed him back, trying to keep up with his rough, hungry mouth, but your inexperience was catching up to you. You’d only ever kissed boys before, and now you had a man on top of you, his body pressed firmly to yours, his hands running down your frame as he devoured your lips and nipped at your skin. Muttering about how beautiful you were and that he was trying to be gentle but that you could tell him to stop if you wanted. He didn’t know you wouldn’t because as wrong as it felt, you wanted to give him everything he wanted. In turn, all you wanted was to hear him say he loved you again.

You didn’t need it before but now you couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t enough when Joel peppered kisses to your lips and neck. It wasn’t enough when he pressed himself between your legs and caused you to dig your nails into his back. You needed more. You needed him to say it again.

You let him take off your clothes when he asked so, so sweetly. You knew Joel was going to admire you, and he did, and that look on his face was worth the uncertainty you felt. He wouldn’t let you cover yourself, and it felt kind of nice when he kept your arms from crossing over your chest. It reminded you how strong he was, but how even with all that strength, and even when using it on you, he was careful. He didn’t want to truly hurt you, and you loved him for it.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he promised, lips against your ear as his fingers settled between your legs.

“I know,” you managed, breathless.

It made him smile, which made you smile. You couldn’t stop staring at him when he lifted his head to look at you. That is, until he pushed a finger into you. Your eyes fluttered shut and he was immediately in your ear again, and you understood for the first time the term ‘sweet nothings’. His low, soothing voice against your ear helped you relax as he pushed in another finger, and after a few minutes, another.

You were wet, you couldn’t help it. You found yourself apologizing, but he encouraged it. He liked you squirming beneath him, liked that your body was responding.

“It’s okay, baby, you’re doing good,” he groaned. “I want you to be ready for me

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it, but the words, “I am,” slipped from your lips. It was all he needed to hear.

His fingers slid from your body. A little voice in the back of your head told you to get them back, but it was silenced when he pulled the rest of his clothes from his body. You felt the tip of his cock nudging at your entrance. You couldn’t look down, and you were too embarrassed to look him in the eye, so you shut yours.

A hand touched your face.

“Look at me,” Joel urged. “Don’t be shy. I wanna see you.”

You obliged, forcing your eyes open, watching him above you. You found it hard to believe you never fully saw how handsome Joel was.

When he began to push into you, the stretch was much more than his fingers. You had to open your legs wider. Joel ran his hands up and down your hips and waist, soothing you as he eased himself inside, telling you, “It’s okay, you’re doing great. Just relax. You’re taking me so well,” and you couldn’t help but bask in the praise. It hurt a little, but you were practically purring by the time he was fully seated inside. You didn’t mean to, but your body squeezed him, and his cock throbbed inside you.

Joel made a noise of pure bliss as he let his weight rest on you. You were so overheated, sweat slick between your bodies. When he started kissing you again you almost forgot about it. He was a good kisser, which made sense given he had more experience than you. A twinge of jealousy ran through you at the thought of him with anyone else and you pulled him closer. It wasn’t quite a laugh he let out, most just a sound of amusement at your actions.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

One of his hands found the back of your head, holding you so your mouth was his and he could have his way. The other hand ran over your ass and down your thigh, encouraging you to wrap your legs around him. You did.

He started to move, then. Pulling back a little and pushing in. It was such a foreign feeling. You couldn’t keep your noises to yourself, but Joel savored them. When he started to move a little faster, his methodical motions turning into thrusts, he seemed to be seeking those reactions from you.

It was a cycle. The rougher he moved, the more whimpers and moans he pulled from you, and then in turn the sounds spurred him on. You were holding onto him for dear life by the time he was pounding you into the couch, groaning your name, telling you how good you were.

“It’s like you’re made for me,” he grunted into your ear, and you hoped he meant it, because you believed it.

“I’m yours,” you told him.

“Tell me again,” Joel started in a grunt, thrusting forward. He held himself completely inside you for a moment, shuddering as your nails dragged down his back. It took your breath away, feeling so full. He pressed his forehead to yours as he said, “Do you mean it? You love me?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. It was true. It was the only thing you’d known to be true and maybe this wasn’t the way, wasn’t something you imagined, but it didn’t make that simple fact any less true.

“Say it.”

“I love you.”

Joel groaned, shoving his hips forward. You whimpered. He was already in you to the hilt.

“Again,” he groaned.

He needed it just as bad as you did.

“I love you, Joel. I love you.”

He pulled out before thrusting back in. Again and again you told him, and he moved, building back up to an even harder pace than before. You could hardly stand it but you told him over and over again like a chant;

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” and even breathless you never faltered. Even when Joel kissed you rough and needy, like he was starved, you still got out the words, “I love you.”

Your legs were barely holding on despite your effort. Your hands began to slide from his back but you continued to grasp onto him. One of his hands found your wrist. You would let him if he wanted to, but you didn’t want him to hold it down. You needed to touch him. Needed to feel him. Needed the security that he proved.

As if he could read your mind, he turned his face to kiss your palm, then let your wrist go. He gave you free range. You chose to run that hand fully through his hair. Every part of you needed to be touching every part of him. He invaded your mind and soul, the last step was your body, and he was accomplishing that this very second. You belonged entirely to him. Even as tears pricked in your eyes at how overwhelming it all was, to love and be loved by Joel was all you’d ever wanted and known for years.

He huffed out a half grunt half laugh when your body started to tense. He was pleased. Could read your body better than even you. You were so lost in the sensation that you let out a yelp when a hand moved between your legs, rubbing at you in tandem with his cock slamming into you.

“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Just let go.”

And you did. It didn’t even feel like a choice. It just happened. The pleasure became too much to handle. It rippled through your whole body as the knot in your belly snapped. You tensed and shuddered around Joel, holding onto him as your cunt clenched down around him, trying to keep him inside to allow you ride out the wave without feeling empty. Joel wasn’t keen on denying you. His thrusts became shallow but hard, sending jolts through you until you felt it. With a groan he stilled inside you, and then warmth flooded your insides. He rocked his hips forward a little as he spilled inside you, and you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

As the haze started to fade and awareness returned, something akin to dread settled over you. Everything became all too real all at once.

Joel kissed life back into you. His hand between your legs moved to run across your belly and thighs, while the other held your face so he had as much access to your lips as he wanted.

You started to move, feeling crushed, but Joel took care of that. He managed to turn your bodies so you were lying on top of him, but he was careful to not withdraw from you. He bucked his hips up a little and you whined. Joel chuckled as he wrapped his arms around you, hugging you to him. You turned your head to the side, your cheek resting against his chest. You listened to his heart rate come back down, unfocused eyes trailing around the living room. Joel kissed the top of your head and ran his calloused hands over your back.

“How did I get so lucky?” he asked, not really looking for an answer. You didn’t have one, anyway.

You wanted to crawl off of him. It was all becoming too much again. As good as it had all felt, it confused you, and you thought maybe you wanted to cry, but then came the words that had you subdued.

“I love you, Y/N,” Joel breathed.

You didn’t think he understood the power he had in his words. As far as he knew, you loved him the same way as he loved you. You would continue to let him think that if it meant you could protect him from the heartache, and if you could keep hearing him say the words you craved. You knew, eventually, you could learn to love him this way, too. If he was happy, you knew you could be too. Being loved by him was all you ever wanted. It didn’t matter how else you felt because that need would take priority over everything. You would always choose him over everything else. It was just what you did.

joel taglist: @the-ice-frozen-ground-red-rose @dontphunkwithmylove @cilliansangel @amethystwonders11 @frogsmuahh037 @andy-rocks @melllinaa @alitaar @melanie451 @b00kw0rmsworld @reverieisaway @avengersfan25 @aheadfullofsteverogers @strangeh0rizons @spideysimpossiblegirl @shannonmariebee @str84pedro @koukatsuki @darleneslane @larascorneroftheworld

I wasn’t sure whether to use the taglist for smut since I’d only written fluff for him before, so if you’re on the taglist and only want to be tagged in fluff not smut just lmk

if you would like to be added to the joel taglist just send me an ask or a message!

[howi99]

The Grimmwalkers

Chapter 5

_ Day of initiation _

Weiss: *biting her thumb, nervous* (Where the hell is he!? He's going to get himself killed by a huntsman if he transforms in front of them! I need to warn him!)

_ meanwhile _

Jaune: (I feel like i've forgotten something important... Didn't that girl want to see me or something? She was cute, but she also called me an imbecile multiple times... Maybe she's a tsundere?)

Yang: Oi, what's wrong VB?

Jaune: Uh? Oh, nothing much, i was just thinking about that girl who wanted to see me.

Yang: *chuckle* Did you use that "Arc charm" you told me about? My oh my, and here i thought we had something going on~!

Jaune: ... *Smirk* Already forgot i have seven sisters? That kind of tease is completely ineffective.

Yang: *laugh* Fair! But seriously, why aren't you meeting with her? Is she THAT ugly?

Jaune: No? She's kinda cute actually, but she didn't give me a rendez-vous spot. *shrug* I have no idea where she could-

Weiss: *from the other side of the room, pointing her finger in an accusative manner* YOU!

Jaune: *turning around, seeing her approaching* Oh! *Wave* Hey Weiss!

Yang: *looking behind him with a wince* She looks royally pissed, dude.

Jaune: Yeah, i can see- *her finger poke his head* -ow!

Weiss: *angrily* I've been looking for you for the past hour! And i find you here!? Talking with- *look at Yang* -whoever she is *turn her eyes back to him*, instead of coming to me!?

Yang: *recoiling* Woah there, i'm just his friend! If you want him, he's free-

Weiss: *Blushing madely from embarrassment* THAT'S NOT- *calm herself down, taking deep breath* I simply want to talk to him. I don't care about him in that way. *Looking back at Jaune* No offence.

Jaune: Oh, none taken. And sorry to not have been searching for you, you forgot to give me a location.

Weiss: I did? *Sigh, hitting her forehead with her hand* That's just like me, sorry again.

Jaune: It's fine. *Smile* So, what did you want to talk about?

Weiss: It's... *glancing at Yang* It's a private discussion, if you don't mind?

Yang: ... *Grin* And you're sure you don't like-

Weiss: *Her eyes flashing red for a split second* Don't push your luck.

Yang: *holding up her arm in the hair, giggling* Alright, alright. I'll leave you two alone~ *leave while laughing to herself*

Jaune: *scratch his head* Sooo... What's good-

Weiss: *serious, without flinching* Remove your shirt.

Jaune: ... No?

Weiss: *Rolling her eyes* I meant like that, idiot. *exasperated, turning around and showing him the back of her shoulder, a little mark imprinted on her skin* I need to see if you have something like that.

Jaune: *Sigh* Please don't panic. *Start removing his shirt*

Weiss: What do you mean "don't- *seeing no mark of clan. Instead, she was faced with multiple scars covering his entire back* What the-

Jaune: *wince* Yeah... It's not really good looking, is it?

Weiss: *horrified by the amount of damage* What happened to you!? Who's the monster-

Jaune: *quickly putting back his shirt with a long sigh* I had bone plaques growing on my back. My father thought it might have been a weird sickness and took me to multiple doctors. But the more they tried removing them, the more they would grow. *Sigh* It took a while before he found someone who wouldn't butcher and try to heal me. *Chuckle* I probably spent more time in the operation room than outside that year-

Weiss: *vomit inside the trashcan*

Jaune: *wince* I knew it was unsightly but that bad?

Weiss: *shaken to her core, shakily wiping off her mouth* (They butchered him! That's horrible! What were they thinking!? They could have crippled him!)

Jaune: *scratch the back of his head* If it can reassure you, it's actually healing by itself. *Smiling* It's a lot better than it was a couple years ago!

Weiss: IT WAS WORSE!?

Jaune: Oh yeah, my entire body was covered in scars! *Clapping his hands together* Anyway, was that all?

Weiss: Uh?

Jaune: What you wanted to ask, was that all?

Weiss: *taking a deep breath* I did confirm my suspicions about you, yes.

Jaune: *confused* Suspicions? What do you-

Weiss: Jaune, you are a Gri-

Yang: *coming back* Hey guys-

Weiss: *turning around towards her, trying to not die from a heart-attack* CAN'T YOU SEE WE WERE STILL TALKING!?

Yang: *shrug* Yeah, but initiation is like, right now.

Jaune: Oh shit, already? *Getting up, walking towards Yang* Let's go!

Weiss: But Jaune-

Jaune: *smiling* We'll talk after initiation! See you later-

Yang: -alligator!

Jaune: ... Yang, that was lame.

Yang: *awkward laugh* Yeah, even i cringed the second i said it.

Both: *leaving*

Weiss: ...! I have to help him! *Run after them*

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Uno and chill- H.HJ (part 2)

After promising posting part 2 the whole week, it's finally official hehe sorry it took so long, I was very tired. And I don't remember if Hyunjin has short or long hair in the other part so pretend that his hair just grew.

I also want to share with you that Sunday we will have an Easter special fic AND a new prompt list coming out, so stick around 😊

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: smut, dom!reader

Part 1

Alexa, play Red Lights by Hyunjin & Bang Chan

You weren’t ready.

Months had passed since that night. That game. That kiss. Since Hyunjin flipped a hidden card with a smug grin and wrecked your life in the most delicious way possible.

But now you were in his city— Seoul.

And your job had decided to partner with his group.

Of course, the universe had a questionable sense of humor.

You fidgeted with your badge, trying to act professional as you walked into the studio with your team. Stray Kids was already there, cameras flashing, makeup artists touching up, stylists fluttering around like anxious butterflies. It was chaos.

And then you felt it— eyes on you.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him standing up so suddenly his chair almost overturned.

“UNO GIRL?!”, he said way too loud.

You froze. Literally froze in place. Several heads turned. One of your coworkers blinked in confusion. Your boss narrowed her eyes.

You stormed across the room, grabbed Hyunjin’s sleeve, and yanked him down the hall, ignoring his laughing protests.

The second the bathroom door closed behind you, you turned on him. “Are you trying to get me fired?”

He leaned against the counter like he wasn’t the problem, “I missed you too”

“Hyunjin”, you hissed “Shut up”.

Of course he didn’t. Instead, he stepped closer. “Come on. Months without a single text? That’s cold, even for you”

“You were the one who didn't text me! I left my number on that damn Uno card! But since you didn't say anything, I figured you were busy, you know. Being famous, body rolling on stages, choking random fans in hotel rooms”

His grin turned dark at that, “Oh? You remember that part?”

And before you could answer, he dipped his head, brushing his lips against your neck. His voice dropped low and wicked.

“Right here, wasn’t it?”

You inhaled sharply.

He kissed the same spot again. Slower. Then let his fingers rest lightly at your throat, the memory of his grip making your breath hitch.

Then, his voice tone shifted to lower, rougher. “Did anyone else touch you, these last few months?”

The question wasn’t fair. Not with the way his body crowded yours. Not with his hand on your skin and his mouth so close.

You shook your head, “N-No…”

He smiled. Not sweet, not soft— satisfied

“Good”

Then he pulled back, just enough to meet your eyes. The heat in his gaze didn’t fade.

“Wait for me when this ends”, he said simply, “Don’t run again”

And with that, he turned and walked out of the bathroom like he hadn’t just unraveled you in under five minutes.

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

You were useless for the rest of the photoshoot.

Every time you tried to focus, your thoughts spun back to that damn bathroom. His fingers ghosting over your neck. The way he said ‘good’. The way he looked at you like you were still his— like you never stopped being.

Your coworkers were reviewing lists and discussing lighting setups, and all you could do was stare.

Because Hyunjin was performing for the camera like it was foreplay.

Eyes half-lidded, tongue peeking out, unnecessary body rolls paired with smirks aimed directly at you.

And he knew it.

He’d glance your way after every shot, lips twitching like he could hear your pulse from across the room. The worst part? You were pretty sure he could.

By the time the shoot ended, you felt like you had survived a silent war.

So when your phone buzzed, you didn’t even hesitate.

Unknown number: ‘Meet me at the back lot. I’m taking you home. Changbin will be out. We’ll be alone’

The text alone did unspeakable things to your already chaotic mind.

You slipped away from the team, heart hammering in your chest like you were sixteen sneaking out to meet a boy who already ruined you once and was definitely about to do it again.

He was waiting by a black van, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, mask tugged down just enough to show the smirk he wore like an armor.

“Took you long enough”, he murmured.

“I had to make sure no one saw me”

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear again, whispering the way he did hours earlier, voice dripping heat and memory.

“Don’t worry, baby. You’ll be screaming loud enough later that someone will”

And then he opened the door for you, like a gentleman.

A very, very troublemaker one.

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

Hyunjin’s dorm was unexpectedly cozy. You hadn’t known what to expect— maybe something cold, minimalist, like the carefully crafted parts of his idol imagine. But it was the opposite. It was soft, warm with books stacked in the corners, half burned incense on a small ceramic dish, and blankets draped over the back of his couch like he had tried, but failed, to fold them neatly.

You barely stepped inside before he pulled you close and leaned down, his breath warm against your mouth. 

“I missed these lips”, he whispered, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip before leaning in to kiss you.

But you stopped him, palm to his chest, grinning, “Wait… what about the rematch?”

He blinked, then narrowed his eyes playfully, “You’re serious?”

You crossed your arms, “A bet’s a bet. You cheated at Uno, remember?”

He groaned, “I don’t even have Uno!”

“Okay, then what do you have?”

Hyunjin sighed dramatically and walked over to a cabinet, “Let’s see… Monopoly, Jenga… ”. He turned around slowly, raising a brow, “Twister”.

You bit your lip, holding back a laugh, “Perfect”

A few minutes later, the colored mat was rolled out on his living room floor, and Hyunjin was stretching like he was preparing for the olympics.

“You’re way too excited for this”, you said, standing opposite him.

He grinned, “You have no idea”

From the very first spin, the game was doomed— not because either of you lacked skill, but because you both had absolutely no intention of keeping it innocent. Every move was a flirt, every stretch, an excuse. His arm brushed against your chest “accidentally”. You moved your hip back into his crotch on purpose, biting back a smug smile when you heard him suck in a breath.

“Left foot red”, you announced, glancing up just as he struggled to reach over you. His shirt rode up. His hips brushed yours. And when you arched just slightly against him— just for teasing— he slipped.

With a dramatic gasp, Hyunjin’s balance gave out and he tumbled forward right on top of you.

The two of you collapsed into a messy heap , him hovering above you, chest to chest, lips a whisper away from yours. A sharp breath caught in your throat as he braced himself above you, palms on either side of your head, your bodies perfectly aligned, his thighs caging yours. His chest heaved. So did yours.

“Oops. Guess I lost”, he said, not even pretending.

You blinked up at him, trying to keep your voice steady, “So… wanna know what’s the prize this time?”

His eyes darkened instantly, already leaning in, “Kiss for a kiss?”

You smirked “No”

He blinked, “No?”

“I wanna tie you on the bed”

That shut him up.

His lips parted, and for a second, he looked like he might combust on the spot. But then a delicious, dangerous smile curved his lips.

“A bet is a bet, right?”

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ ㅤ

All the warmth of the dorm extended to Hyunjin's bedroom. The lights were low, dark wooden shelves held a variety of things. His bed wasn’t particularly big, but the sheets were soft and there were too many pillows. A small vinyl record player sat on his desk, with a stack of albums in the corner.

But what changed everything— what shifted the mood— was when he pressed a small button near his nightstand and the entire room bloomed red.

Not bright. Not harsh. Just deep, ambient red light that gave the walls a velvet tone.

He watched you from the middle of the room, already shirtless, his skin flushed in the glow like something out of a dream. 

“Just helping set the mood”, he murmured, trying to act cool but the flicker in his gaze gave him away. He was nervous but still excited for whatever was coming.

You walked slowly toward him, holding the soft tie in your hand—  the silk scarf you were wearing earlier that day.

“Strip and lie down”, you said softly, “Face up”

Hyunjin swallowed, nodded and obeyed.

He looked stunning under the red lights— flushed cheeks, tousled hair, chest rising and falling a little too quickly. You took your time tying his wrists to the headboard, fingers grazing his skin a little longer than necessary, enjoying how he shivered beneath you.

“You good?” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes fluttering closed for a second before opening again. “What’s the safe word?”

You smirked, “Let’s keep it classic. Uno” 

He groaned, “You’re mean, cold as ice”

Something he said flipped a switch in your head. “Ice”, you murmured, then leaned in, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth, “That’s a great idea”.

You stood slowly, walking toward the dorm fridge, ignoring his protests. “Where… where are you going?”, he asked, voice raw.

You didn’t answer, just pulled open the freezer, grabbed a single ice cube, and held it up between two fingers like it was something precious.

When you entered the bedroom again, his eyes widened slightly, flicking from your hand to your smirk, “Wh– what are you gonna do with that?”

You settled back on him, straddling his hips, dragging the ice slowly along your own collarbone. “Just thought we could play with some… temperature control”, you whispered, letting a single cold drop fall on his chest.

He shivered violently, a helpless sound slipping from his throat.

The next trail of melting water you traced along his stomach, circling his navel before heading lower. His muscles tightened beneath your touch. He tried to close his legs, but your body pinned him in place.

“you don’t get to squirm”, you said, licking a drop off his skin before it fell.

Then you hovered just over his cock, the ice cube now resting against the fabric of his boxers, soaking a dark patch into the thin material. He gasped, hips jerked, and you responded immediately, “Didn’t I say no moving?”

“Fuck, baby… please”, he moaned, nearly breathless, “You’re driving me insane”.

You smiled, dragging the ice up his chest again, this time letting it melt fully between your fingers and drip across his nipples. His head tipped back against the pill and Hyunjin sank his teeth on his bottom lip.

“Say the safe word if it’s too much”, you whispered, watching him twitch.

“Uno…”, he gasped, eyes wild.

You raised a brow, “Already?! Do you really want me to stop?”

He swallowed hard, lips parting but no answer came.

You leaned down, licking the water from his neck, voice sultry against his skin, “That’s what I thought”

You finally got rid of both your underwear. Then you moved, lowering yourself onto him inch by inch, cruelly slow. His entire body arched off the bed, a choked sound slipped from his throat— something between a gasp and a growl.

“F-fuck, you feel… so damn warm, baby, please…”

“Ah- ah”, you said, your hand sliding back to his throat, not pressing, just resting there, “You don’t get to move yet”.

He moaned, eyes wide and pleading, hips twitching involuntarily as you rolled your own in slow, merciless circles. “I…  I couldn’t help it”, he panted, “You’re torturing me”

You leaned down until your lips brushed his ear, “That’s the idea”

Then you rocked forward again, achingly slow, dragging your nails down his chest just enough to make him shiver. His hands strained uselessly against the scarf, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying not to completely lose it.

You kept the rhythm slow, steady, sensual. Grinding down hard one moment, then lifting off just enough to make him whimper. Every time he begged, you clenched, pulsing around him until he twitched and throbbed beneath you.

“You’re not very obedient tonight”, you said sweetly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Should we come up with the safe word?”

Hyunjin gave a breathless laugh. “God, yes. Please.”

He moaned loudly as you bounced once,  hard enough to take his breath away, before going right back to a slow grind.

 “Then, say it”

A few more moments passed in pure torture. Every movement from him, every twitch, every sound was met with delicious punishment— either a clench, a tease, or you pulling off him entirely just to make him beg.

And he did.

Over and over.

Until, finally, he cracked. “Uno. Uno, Uno. Fuck… please"

You slowed, eyes locked on his, but didn’t stop.

“Humm. That didn’t sound very convincing”

“I said the safe word”,  he groaned, hips jerking.

“And I heard you”, you smiled, devilish, “But I thought you liked someone cheating”

His mouth fell open in disbelief then you clenched again, and his head dropped back with a curse.

“Oh my god, I’m gonna die”

”I’ll stop if you want me to”

“No”, he groaned, helpless, “Please don’t stop. Please don't”

“So desperate”, you whispered, “Such a good toy”

He whimpered, fingers curling as you rode him harder now, driving him insane.

You felt it when he started to fall apart, the way he trembled under you, the way his moans turned breathless and broken.

“I’m close… I’m so close… please let me come”, he cried out.

He was trembling beneath you, wrists flexing against the silk you’d tied them with. His eyes followed your every move— hungry, desperate, and glassy with need.

“Yn…” he whined, voice wrecked.

You tilted your head playfully, “Hum?”

“I c–can’t take it anymore, please… I have to… .”

He let out a needy whimper, the kind that only made you feel more powerful. Your hips rolled forward before stopping completely, just to make him lose his sanity, still not giving him what he wanted. His eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenched hard.

“You’re being so good for me, Hyunjin”, you murmured, your fingers trailing back up to his face, brushing over his cheek and lips. He leaned into it, greedy for your touch, chasing your hand like it was oxygen.

His legs shifted restlessly under you, thighs trembling from holding back.

His eyes snapped open, blown wide with lust and submission. “Please… I want to come inside of you. I need to release everything inside you. Please, Yn… I can’t hold it anymore, just let me”

A grin curled on your lips. You leaned in, slowly dragging your hips forward, “Did I break you, baby?”, you whispered.

His hips jerked beneath you, entirely involuntary. “Yes”, he choked out, “You broke me. You fucking ruined me”.

Satisfied, you untied one of his wrists slowly. Then the other.

And then, you finally moved again, lips meeting his swallowing desperate moan with a kiss as he clutched your waist like a man drowning.

His whole body shuddered underneath yours, forehead pressed to your shoulder.

“I missed this”, he groaned, “I missed you”

You established a torturously slow pace, your hand tangled in his hair, the other pressing gently into his chest to keep him down and still.

“I’m not done playing”,  you whispered.

“God, I’ll play forever if you ride me like this…”

And when he finally came undone, it was with your name on his lips like a surrender. His body trembled as he spilled into you, but you didn’t stop. You rocked through it, pulling another whimper from him, dragging out every last wave of pleasure until he was completely spent, blinking up at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

 You followed just moments later, collapsing against his chest, both of you panting and tangled and wrecked.

The two of you stood there— breathless, dazed, ruined.

And when he finally caught his breath, he looked up with a cocky grin.

“This time”, he said, voice hoarse, “you cheated. I said the safe word. Multiple times”

You leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth, “I learned from the best”

The silence stretched until a voice from the other side of the dorm wall broke it—  Changbin’s voice

“Are you done torturing him now or should I grab my noise canceling headphones again?!”

You both froze before bursting into laughter.

He looked at you and smirked, “Round 2, just to piss him off?”

You smirked back, just as mischievously, "I'm in”.

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[sxmthingwicked]

Clarice hated that she was enjoying this little back and forth they were having. She was in the same position, standing in a similar hallway when she first started working for James. Clarice both hated and loved that version of her. She was just as hardworking then as she was now...but she was lonely. Smarts could only keep her company for so long, she supposed. James was probably the first relationship she thought would go somewhere and when he turned out to not see it that way...it hurt.

It made Clarice prioritize other things than her happiness. A successful business would keep her comfortable and she could learn to be happy with that. "Of course, please follow me." Clarice smiled, maybe taking a small detour to the office just to show James the wonder she had helped built. Mr. Decker had seen her potential and he made something great out of it. Clarice made something great out of herself.

The two of them entered Clarice's office, the room being spacious and cozy. "Sorry about the mess, busy season is giving us all a run for our money." Clarice said. "Please, have a seat. I think we will need quite a lot of time to discuss." She said. The truth of the matter was that Mr. Decker was dying. He was in a business meeting when a fatal heart attack rendered him bed ridden. The doctors said that his heart would fail regardless and there was nothing more they could do. Clarice cleared her throat. "Mr. Decker will join us soon. I don't suppose the grandeur of this place is convincing you to the thrown in the towel?" Clarice teased.

"You know, since your company is seemingly caring more for appearances these days."

Jimmy's brows rose slightly, though his smirk stayed present as he took her hand in his and shook it firmly. "I'm nothing if not punctual Clarice. You should know that." he spoke, his tone surprisingly light for how difficult it felt to see her again, especially now that he was in her new place of work; a place he'd forced her to with his own actions, though he wasn't about to dwell on that thought. The brunette's head shook slightly at her offer. Truth be told, he was only here because she'd asked, he had every intention of turning this request down, and he wasn't interested in the unnecessary pleasantries. "No, I'm fine, thank you." he assured.

He could tell she was enjoying herself, subtly rubbing it in his face that she'd been able to excel here and he imagined she'd done so without having to sleep with the ailing Mr. Decker. Not that Jim had ever thought she was just someone to sleep with. He'd known she was bright and resilient, and that's why he'd wanted her to stay working for him, even if he hadn't been able to give her the more in the relationship department that she'd asked him for in his office that night.

Jimmy's head shook again as his free hand found his pants pocket. "I'm good. I'm sure it's a nice place." He couldn't help as the next words followed and his smirk returned: "Wouldn't be number two if it wasn't." Sure, she could have her fun, but he wasn't about to take it just lying down, that wasn't who he was. "How about we skip all the hosting niceties and get to business, shall we?" he suggested.

[crow-caller]

I read a lot of YouTube comments, and I respond to a lot of them too. I don't know if this is... uncouth or whatever, but I do.

Sometimes, I get comments which are wrong. Sometimes they're abrasive. People who think trigger warnings are excessive, or that something I've called racist/ableist/antisemitic, Isn't. I do talk back to comments like this. And you know?

A Lot of the time, it works.

Most people who reply back consider what I say, and I've changed their minds. It's not that I'm some great writer, it's often that they are genuinely... confused.

A lot of people simply do not know Why trigger warnings matter, because their only context is mockery and extreme examples.

A lot of people don't know what institutional racism is. If you talk to people about things they don't understand, you won't have a scholarly debate— you'll have an argument where both sides thinks the other is an idiot. I had this recently.

I come at people with sympathy and then, gently, advise them. Do not talk to them like they're idiots or scum if you want to change anything. The above comment is saying "ableism isn't real", but what they unintentionally mean is "I don't know what ableism is so I don't think it's real." This is the case a lot of the time, because people's only context for what these terms mean is increasingly mockery, memes, and political ploys.

I was once a mod on the discord of a large gaming youtuber, a phenomenally half-toxic place— most regulars chill, most random lurkers posting the most atrocious memes and not getting why it was a problem. The head mod understood protecting lgbt+ people in the rules, but didn't Get nonbinary people — he was under the interpretation they were real, but the majority were attention seekers. He cited an account on tiktok, whose schtick was gathering and reacting to "blue hair pronouns" cringe. This was his only context beyond the moral instruction "our rules should protect lgbt+ people". He would have put that rule up either way, but only through discussing it did mods realize this was his opinion, and could explain why it was wrong.

I'm not advising everyone has to talk to everyone this way, I'm saying if you're going to engage, consider trying rather than venting.

[thefishywizard]

I'm so curious about your MCD rewrite/AU so sorry if this is long-

How old is everyone before the timeskip? Who gave Zane the amulet if Kawaii~chan didn't want to help him with that? What's the in-lore reason that Laurence is Shad's.. decendent..thingy...? Can all of the Divine Warriors reincarnations(Garroth,Aph,Laurence,etc) talk to the people who turned into relics? Or is that just an Alina thing?

again sorry for the long ask :(

Haha! Oh boy you think that ask was long? Buddy, I basically wrote you an essay. Buckle up.

(Linking to a separate post on my alt that has all ages for s1 on it since otherwise it'll make this post far too long)

First off! KC is taking Brian's place as traitor, not Garroths. So KC is the one leaking info to Zane, not the one stealing the amulet from Laurance. (Also unlike Brian she's not kidnapping nicole or opening the gate.)

On that note, Garroth doesn't betray everyone because of jealousy, he would be early into his relationship with laurance and aphmau by this point so seeing them kissing in the woods wouldn't phase him, even if it wasn't out of character. Garroth DOES work with Zane. However, it's out of a misguided attempt to defend the village and his lovers. "Lord Aphmau's optimism is encouraging, sure, but she doesn't know what O'Khasis will do. She's an untrained nobody who's had a lucky streak, and she's naively leading the village to the slaughter. Just help me with this one ensy wensy favor, dear brother. I just need a little trinket your fellow guard his holding for safe keeping. Give me that, and I'll leave your little village and your... ugh, "partners" alone." Garroth importantly doesn't sequester himself away in his quarters. He's acting necrotic, jumpy. He's not sleeping, and he's checking and rechecking defenses in preparation. He's visibly running himself ragged in an attempt to justify phonix drop being able to defend against an O'Khasis invasion, but he just can't. Because in Malachi's castle, this was his greatest fear. that by entrusting aphmau as lord he doomed the village, that her optimism and helpful nature would not be enough and she would lead to the villages destruction. That him running away from his fate would eventually catch up to him and O'Khasis would destroy anything in its path to apprehend him. Aphmau and Laurace will not agree to allow Garroth to sacrifice himself, and Truthfully, Garroth doesn't want to. But O'Khasis will eat them alive. Surly, this is the answer? One favor for his brother, and everyone he loves can live in peace. Fear of losing everything can lead people to doing things they regret.

Laurance is actually NOT Shads decendent. Because... Shad doesn't have any. Alina was his only child, and after she died, he was too wracked with grief to think about having more children. But what Laurance IS is Shads vessel. Laurance spent MONTHS in the nether being tortured. There's no way the process of turning into a shadow knight took that long. He was being prepped as a host. Shad can only do so much with corpses, and Laurace not only entered the nether as an alive, able bodied skilled guard. But also a companion of the woman who is really similar to his ex-wife (irene). Laurance is functionally the PERFECT host, BUT... ungrth rescued him before the process could be completed. A massive loss after coming SO CLOSE. But the calling always brings them back, it's only a matter of time before laurance crumbles to the urge ans returns to the nether and into Shads waiting clutches. (I'm thinkin laurance has these like, intricate brands on his back to allow shad entry and control. He and aphmau might work with emmalyn, Vylad and Zenix to try and figure out what they are. (Irene probably already knows) but even if they do figure it out the calling is too strong and he enters the nether to protect aphmau and garroth at the cost of his free will.)

Yes, everyone with a relic can speak with the person the relic was made from. (Irene's relic is a little different because it wasn't made at the cost of her life, so if someone else held the relic they would not be able to speak to her but because aphmau IS her, she can. And she talks to her even before picking up irenes relic.) But here's who they would get to talk to based on the relic

Shads relic: Alina (basically Liliths sister now.)

Esmunds relic: his younger brother (reminds Garroth of Zane)

Menphias relic: her good friend (reminds Katelyn of Jeffory)

Enkis relic: his mother (reminds Travis of his mom)

Kul'zaks relic: his father (reminds Vylad of Garte)

Were these specifically designed to cause the most psychic damage to the new relic holders? Yes.

Also never apologize for a long ask again i love to yap.

[telesodalite]

Been thinking about idw1's outliers lately, and how sort of wild the whole concept is from a worldbuilding standpoint, and it struck me that most confirmed outlier abilities tend to be really useful, or flashy, or powerfully dangerous, and few to none tend to be like, really boring, or totally impractical, or even entirely useless? Which, doesn't really make sense when considering the fact that outlier abilities are seemingly random.

Surely not everyone who's born an outlier gets something useful?

And I don't mean like, "good" useful, but any sort of useful, even if that means you can kill people with your voice, or give a power boost by exploding yourself, those are still "useful".

But surely there had to be some with abilities that were totally impractical, or nonbeneficial, or at the very least just insignificant or purely aesthetic and pointless?

[spacebubblehomebase]

What app and what pencil do you use :3?

(I send u big hugs and hav a nice day :D♡)

Hehe. (Hugs back. I like hugs. XD) I believe someone else had a similar question before! I made this art then too to demonstrate how I use, Ibis Paint. The free beginner friendly drawing app! (No I'm not sponsored-) And as for the "pens", I usually go for the default brushes. As in the first basic ones you find on the app! ^v^ I've been promoting this idea for years and I'll never get tired of saying it! While fancier equipment IS nice, skills can ultimately outclass tools any day! =D In fact, sometimes limiting yourself can hone your creativity as it forces you to work with what you have and invent new ways of experimenting with materials that are often overlooked! That's how I learned. ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ -Bubbly💙

[deepseawave]

obsessed w the tags on ur last reblog

Omgg, thank you haha, it was a quality post so I just had to appreciate it in full force 😂❤️

Can‘t believe someone would actually enjoy my yapping :,D

[frogshipping]

🍎 🍇 🧅

Hi, Rebecca my beautiful mutual. Thank you for the ask as always <3

I'm answering for just one f/o today I think (feelin lazy lol)

🍎 - How easily does your f/o get sick? How stubborn are they about getting themself treated, or having their wounds taken care of?

Goku rarely gets sick, but when he does he can be quite stubborn! It's not that he doesn't want to be treated; it's that he doesn't like medicine, or having to lay in bed all day for multiple days. He will try to exercise or train while sick, and it can sometimes end up in an argument. Because he shouldn't be doing that! He needs rest! He's gonna make himself feel worse! But Goku doesn't care, 'cause he doesn't like being idle for more than a day. Goku also isn't the biggest fan of doctors, especially when sick. He's terrified that he might be given a shot instead of oral medicine, especially when he resists taking them. He's fine with getting wounds/injuries treated though, whether by a medical professional or Viti, as long as no one points a syringe his way (same tbh)

🍇 - Is your f/o more generous or more selfish?

I feel like Goku leans more towards selfish, though not terribly so. He doesn't always consider others feelings, however that's more out of ignorance than anything else. He wants what he wants, and it's not easy to change his mind when he's locked onto something. Even if it gets in the way of others or anyone's plans beyond his own. But he does care about others, and is around when it matters the most. He gives people the benefit of the doubt, even when they don't deserve it.

🧅 - What are people’s initial reactions to your f/o, and what have you learned about them now that you’re close to each other?

A lot of people think that Goku is dumb, or way too naïve, but that certainly isn't the case. He can be an airhead, sure, even ignorant at times, but he's definitely not stupid. He's very knowledgeable about his interests, strategic, observant when he wants to be, and aware of himself and his surroundings.

Viti discovers that he's also more emotionally aware than others believe. He doesn't always show it, because he doesn't think it's any of his business when people are upset or bothered. He'll offer an open ear or a shoulder to lean on, but won't press. He comes off as more nonchalant as a result. But he can tell when something's not right, or when somebody is excited but hiding it, or when the mood switches because of poorly spoken words. He knows, he just doesn't show that he does. Though with Viti, he will. With her, he makes the effort to.

[doubleedgemode]

There's a post that explains it way better than I do but. I'm currently thimking about A.B.As frankenstein influence

Aside from the obvious "concept art refs frankenstein by name, so one could assume the head key worked as her electrodes/bolts" I don't see many people mention how her strive boots are black platforms a la creature's movie depiction's (roadworker if I'm not mistaken?? I probably am) boots. Also yknow they have lil bolts

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

it's so interesting for me to hear that houses localization changed the script to vilify(?word?) the church bc when i played the game (i recently finished my first and so far only playthrough in lions route) for the first half of the game i was waiting for the shoe to drop to reveal the church is the big bad guys but it never came and the revealed was actually ed. idk if it should have been obvious but i was too focused on suspecting the church to see it or if it was actually subtle as i tend to be oblivious to hints(¿word again?) given in media lol.

idk where im going with this but i hope it makes at least some sense bc i am so sleep deprived rn

and the thing tou said about Henry being changed i am so curious of that too

hope you have a nice day and better sleep than me!

I'll answer the last part first since the rest is more descriptive.

Basically Henry went to Wizard School (tee em) and it was a cool and great experience. In JP, it was... iirc basically close to torture/hellish? It was a more mature situation/topic, but the loc changed it to be silly and fun sounding. For some reason Treehouse in particular seems deeply if not fatally allergic to mature topics and/or properly handling them.

Thank for about the sleep comment and I assure you, I sleep too often!! I wish I could send you some of my sleep and make it extra quality for you. :(

As for Three Houses, yeah, in AM it doesn't really happen that way. Nobody is really vilified (not even the imperialist warmonger invading neutral lands!) in AM (same with AG in Hopes).

What you saw/understood was the whole point! It was made it look at first like the Church was suspicious, but then the reveal was meant to be no, it was a fellow house leader all along. That was what the red herring part about the Church was all about. You were supposed to suspect the Church at first, hence Jeralt's warnings, and if you're playing GD, Claude's suspicions.

Unfortunately what happens in the other routes, especially in CF, is that Rhea's trauma is never explored, no characters stop to understand her motivation, etc. She's just used as the resident bad guy because she's Edelgard's enemy. Basically, you're seeing it from the point of view that Rhea is bad because you see it from Edelgard's perspective... but it fails to work because the game, in particular the localization, amps Edelgard up as a huge progressive hero. AM is the only route that really confronts her about her "views", and even then, it's a mess because all the things she argues with Dimitri about aren't her end goal (i.e. they don't ever end up actually happening in the vast capacity she claims she's going to do).

About Edelgard:

The localization avoids any particularly negative comments about her and changes or outright removes them (true of Hopes as well). In Dimitri's case it would make sense because of their connection, but when it ends up just being another route in the pile of feeling sorry for Edelgard (and... not Rhea, who had her family massacred and their bones turned into weapons), it just feels stale.

They basically tell you Edelgard is very cute and easily embarrassed, and she's just this headstrong progressive woman fighting For The People (tee em). The truth is (as per the game itself, i.e. content they can't change/localized because it's the contents of the game itself) that she's invading innocent lands, conscripting her own citizens, turning her citizens into demonic beasts to add to her military strength (lelz when u can't even rely on ur nation's own military strength without demonic beasts), and victim blaming anyone who fights back (if you have yet to see the extremely infamous "no u" line from Edegard to Dimitri in CF, you've been blessed) among other things.

They basically shove it down your throat, characters and narrative both (in the loc in particular), that Edelgard is good and just, while the story itself is looking at all that like ???. The JP script still tries to take good care of her and her image, but they're a lot more blunt about her/her goals (i.e. they don't dance around them nearly as much).

The localization showers what she does with love and attention, and even when they have to say she's the problem/aggressor, they still pretty it up as much as possible (such as Dimitri wondering if maybe her vision of society could possibly be just and righteous, instead of outright admitting what she's done is absolutely atrocious when it's way worse than anything he ever did, all of which he admits to doing and takes responsibility for).

The JP version is more clear on her being the villain. There's definitely bias toward her (as the writers were, confirmed by an interview), but it doesn't slap you in the face with it nearly as badly. Also, Dimitri has won a character popularity poll every year since the game's inception in Japan. In the west, Edelgard is much more popular than she is in the east. That, of course, is because of the way the loc pushed the writing for her/about her.

Edelgard's "progressive" stuff is supposed to be just propaganda (which is ultimately, even as per the western endings because there's only so much they can change). The way the loc frames it is that it's actually what she's aiming for. It's what she uses to inspire people to fight for her though, not what she's actually doing.

About Rhea:

This one's the real doozy because it's a victim of the above. Since they wanted to pretty up Edelgard's dialogue and make her A Hero (tee em), they needed whoever her main enemy was to be the "villain". Since Edelgard, now popular because of the tweaks in her dialogue, hated and wanted to kill Rhea, so too did her raging fans who gave no fucks whatsoever about any character who opposed her... even if it was just to save their own life!

They changed the tone of Rhea's voice in the loc to make her more angry and villainous sounding, rather than sad or kind. She was basically altered in the loc to make Edelgard look better. Like, of course, in the perspective of playing a villain in CF, she's the bad guy and the enemy. The problem comes when they have Rhea say things that are more aggressive than in the original script, and change her tone to sound demeaning and vicious (when she was otherwise not or not as much).

But like, why? The only reason any of us can think of is because they wanted to market Edelgard more. This is likely a result of the west's views and especially political views, since Edelgard's pretty words would sound good to a westerner's political beliefs... until you dig into them/the actual story content more.

Rhea also being the head of a Church probably got tweaked because of the west's recent irl views on religion. Religion in the west has been looked poorly upon in recent years. Instead of accepting this is just a fictional game though, the loc team just... pushed that they're Really Bad.

Rhea is more of a victim of them needing someone to be worse than Edelgard to make Edelgard look like less of a villain (which again, this isn't the case in the original script nearly as much), and they couldn't use Thales/the Agarthans because you were allied with them in that route.

The other characters vs Rhea as a villain choice:

The goal wasn't to make a playable lord a villain in the loc's case. It was the intention of the original script with Edelgard, but the loc tried to make her actions sound more justified because ??? like idk, I can't wrap my head around them justifying what she does.

Dimitri isn't handled too badly by the narrative itself and he's overall seen as a good person (even the loc didn't alter that or Edelgard's ablest mentality toward a mentally unwell person), so he wasn't really a good candidate for all that. Also, Dimitri's story is one of recovery, and because they ventured into mental illness, he wasn't a good candidate. He was treated well and pretty fairly (Edelgard not treating him particularly well makes sense with her character, but the narrative itself doesn't push him as being a monstrous person. Even in the time he considers that he was, there's depth, logic and complexity to the situation).

Claude being the main bipoc character would have just been an all around disaster if the loc or even original script tried to make him the top villain, yadda yadda (understandably). There was no chance that was going to go over well, especially in the west (have you seen the shitstorm GW caused? And that was with the writing not considering him a villain!!). He was basically safe from the get go as far as villainy if they writers/localizers didn't want serious backlash (there are discussions about the overall treatment of poc characters in Houses/Hopes, but I can guarantee it would've been legit backlash if he was made to be a genuinely and intentionally horrible person, so that wasn't really an option if they wanted this game to actually sell and be enjoyed).

So since Rhea isn't playable and is the head of a Church, that kind of makes her the only candidate. Players will get attached to the other lords and not like killing them, so it won't feel like a badass victory to kill them. I guess for some reason the loc team just... hated Rhea or something?

Dimitri's death in CF is either extremely sad and garners audience sympathy, or in the other version of his death in CF it's clear his mentally stability is starting to break right before he's killed, which in and of itself is another topic. Claude is either free to go by choice of the player or can be killed, and his death is sad and he's not villainized. Aside from how some characters treat Claude's death (in contrast to Dimitri's which is never outright villainized even by Edelgard), the scene meant for the player at the time it happens is supposed to leave a bad taste in your mouth.

So again, it really just leaves the loc team with the option of Rhea if they want to make the final battle seem like a big victory for the player. VW also has its big happy victory, and surprise surprise, Rhea dies in that route (offscreen no less!).

SS kills off Rhea but actually makes it sad, and it's, you know, actually the route that focuses on her/the Church most. AM doesn't kill her off and doesn't treat any character death as a badass victory, and instead gives a bittersweet ending (which again would be in line with Dimitri's connection to Edelgard, and it only feels botched down because of all routes obsessing over her).

So while, technically, the writing in the JP script wasn't trying to make Rhea as bad as the western version of the game, if the loc wanted to go for that, she was the best option. It just... came at the expense of butchering her character to make Edelgard shine, which shouldn't have been done but it was.

[kindahoping4forever]

I miss your fics. I hope you’re doing well tho

I appreciate this, thank you 🥹

For the record, I miss my fics too! This unofficial hiatus has been out of necessity rather than choice, and I can honestly say there hasn't been a day where I don't fantasize about A Grand Return. 💙

[star-anise]

Disclaimer: I like Anita Sarkeesian.

But also, I just saw a writeup of a Youtuber whose content has come a long way from his Gamergate days, and to explain that, the wiki says, "Anita Sarkeesian is a radical feminist who created a webseries about sexist tropes in video games"

AHAHAHAHAHA ANITA SARKEESIAN, RADICAL FEMINIST

HOO HEE EXCUSE ME THAT'S A GOOD ONE

Radical feminist. Feminist extremist. Anita Sarkeesian.

Anita Sarkeesian did her Master's Thesis in Social and Political Thought in 2010 on the trope of the "Strong Woman" in fantasy and science fiction TV shows, and produced Tropes vs Women, a series of online videos breaking down her work in a way that was accessible to a lay audience. She found a ready audience in geek feminist circles, since this was exactly the kind of thing we wanted and needed right then.

Tropes vs Women was extremely bog-standard cultural critique, what you'd find expressed in discussion between scholars of literary theory or media analysis anywhere, and exactly what 99% of feminists were saying at the time. It certainly talked about patriarchy as the complex system of sexism fused into our cultural matrix, so it's not like it wasn't radical feminism from that viewpoint, but it wasn't "radical" by way of being especially militant. Sarkeesian frequently pointed out how individual occurrences of a trope weren't harmful in themselves, but that a media landscape completely saturated with only that trope and nothing but that trope is, in the aggregate, a big feminist issue.

And the internet

HAAAAAAAATED

her for it.

Like, geek feminists got flak a lot anyway, especially when we wanted things like properly enforced policies against sexual harassment at science fiction conventions. And yeah, there totally were toxic keyboard warriors who said stuff about all men being scum - but Sarkeesian wasn't one of them.

It's probably because of her succinct, matter-of-fact, "this is not a debated issue, feminists have decades of theory and research to back this point up, sources abound if you google for thirty seconds so I won't stop to baby you through all the fundamental concepts" approach that she got such a big reach. She was calm, concise, coherent, and rational, everything feminists are told we need to be.

Unfortunately that just made her seem... attackable, I think. A good target, not actually scary or impassioned, unlikely to respond to violence with violence. The perfect kind of person to play five seconds of, and then spend the next five minutes yelling into your mic because IF ANITA IS RIGHT ABOUT VIDEO GAME SEXIST YOU MIGHT AS WELL SAY THAT EVERYTHING IS SEXIST AND SEXISM IS SYSTEMIC AND ENDEMIC TO ALL OF WESTERN CULTURE AND OTHER CULTURES TOO, WHICH IS CLEARLY RIDICULOUS, ANITA LADY BAD.

She literally spent five solid years as Enemy #1 in online geek spaces. It was completely insane. I am so sorry she had to take the brunt of it, and yet grateful that she did. She held the line and took the shit and kept doing good decent feminist work for years after, though she did admit to burnout and closed up shop on her nonprofit org Feminist Frequency in 2023. I hope to hell she's having a good day.

But even now, more than a decade later, dudes talk about her as though she were Geek Feminist Godzilla, the biggest baddest woman in the universe, off to lay waste to downtown Video Games and cut everybody's balls off.

When people (mostly dudes, but not all) talk like this, it's just very funny and unintentionally revealing because of the absolute averageness of her third-wave, trans-inclusive, western-centric, intersectional feminism. It makes them look absolutely pathetic.

Because it just makes it clear that she is probably the first and last self-described feminist the speaker has ever paid attention to.

[d1stalker]

All of You, All of Me [Logan Howlett]

Summary: In a world of black and white, the only person who could bring colour to your life is the last one who'd want to.

Warnings: au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate, fem!reader, slow burn, angst, running away from feelings, pining, grovelinggg WC: 14.2k - MASTERLIST - A/N: help i'm sorry i didn't mean for it to get this long, but this fic is my baby

----

You've always cherished the idea of having a soulmate—someone who would love you unconditionally, waiting just for you as you them. The thought of finding that perfect match, the one who complements you in every way, is something you’ve always dreamed of. 

But as you get older, the hope you carry seems to dwindle more and more each year. Everyone around you has found their other half, reveling in the newfound ability to see colours in all their glory, and soaking up every moment of shared affection.

Everyone, except for you.

Your world remains a stark, colourless void, as if the universe is deliberately withholding the one thing you desire most.

And to make matters worse, despite not finding your soulmate, you are unequivocally, irrevocably in love with someone who has.

Logan Howlett.

You can’t remember a time where you didn’t feel anything toward him. His rugged, lone-wolf demeanor snuck its way deep into the crevices of your heart, and made itself a home there.

You and him formed an unlikely friendship, formed through the desire to fight back against all the people who’ve wronged mutants. Over the years, you had accepted the fact that while he wasn’t yours, at least you were alone together. Well, until she came.

Jean Grey.

She was strong, charming, and everything you felt you weren’t. It was no wonder her and Logan were meant to be together—the stoic, brooding mutant and his graceful, strong-willed counterpart. 

You remember the day it happened so vividly, it’s almost like you were the one who found their life partner. You and him had been walking around the mansion, when Charles had called you into his office to meet someone new. One look at their faces when they made eye contact and you knew you’d lost him.

It pained you to see them all over each other, all the time. Your once-regular walks in the garden became rare, then vanished entirely. On missions, he no longer looked out for you; his attention was consumed by protecting her. And as much as it hurt, you couldn’t deny they seemed perfect for each other—just as soulmates should be. You had no right to feel jealous.

Then, just as quickly as she had entered his life, she left it. 

The Pheonix was too strong, ripping her apart from the inside out. The pained scream he let out as not only his heart died, but as the world around him faded back into black and white, was forever ingrained into your memory. 

Logan was never the same after that.

 —

You trudge down the familiar halls of the mansion, your feet heavy with the weight of the day. It’s been long, filled with training sessions, team meetings, and a lot of paperwork. All you want to do is retreat to your room, lose yourself in a book, or maybe just sleep until the ache in your chest dulls.

As you walk, you hear faint commotion down the hallway—a low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of something being moved. But you pay it no mind, too lost in your thoughts to care. Another mission, another discussion, another moment where you aren’t needed. It’s all so routine now.

Lost in your reverie, you don’t notice the figure walking toward you until it’s too late. You collide with a solid chest, the impact jolting you back to reality.

“Oh, sorry—” you begin, stepping back, but the words die on your lips as you look up.

It’s Logan.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, shock rippling through your body as you process his presence. And for a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, taking him in—the man who was once your closest friend, the man who was torn apart by grief and loss. His clothes are rumpled, his skin rougher than you remember, like he’s been through hell and back. 

You hadn’t seem him in a long time. After the devastation, he stopped talking to everyone. He holed himself up in his room for days at a time, only coming out in the dead of night to eat. Either that, or he was away on a mission–anything to stay distracted. 

But now, looking at him, there’s something different off. Something you can’t quite place your finger on. Did he always look like that? Maybe it’s the way the light above is reflecting off of him. Or maybe it’s—oh.

Looking around in surprise, you watch as the usually dark, stoic walls explode into a deep, rich shade. The carpet below you—no longer a mural of grey—radiates colors you can’t name. Your hands, his eyes, his hair-

You want to open your mouth and say something, anything, to the man who has caused your world to shift on its axis, but he’s already turned, walking away from you.

“Give me a fuckin’ break.”

----

Brown. Logan’s hair is brown.

After Logan leaves you paralyzed in the hallway, you run to your room, find the book on colors you had stashed in your bedside table, and throw open the cover. In it is a diagram that displays every known colour and their names. You learn that your favorite pair of pants are maroon, your bedsheets are navy green, and the X-Men suits are bright yellow and blue.

You stare at the page, each word blurring as your mind tries to process the impossible. Logan’s hair is brown. The thought keeps repeating in your head like a mantra, over and over again, until it becomes a steady thrum, drowning out everything else.

Brown.

You sit back on your bed, letting the book slip from your hands, the pages crumpling as it hits the floor.

Why him? Why me? Why now?

You begin to fidget, the adrenaline of the prior moment causing your heart to flail in your chest like crazy. You can’t stay here, you think to yourself. The idea of locked in your room with only your thoughts for company does not sound appealing. You need air, something to ground you, something to clear the haze clouding your head. Without thinking, you jump out of bed and find yourself heading up to the roof, the one place where you can breathe without feeling like the walls of the mansion closing in on you.

The trip up the stairs feels longer than ever before, each step heavy under the weight of your mind. It’s like every thought adds ten pounds. When you open the door, the cool night air hits you like a welcomed slap to the face, and you exhale deeply.

Walking to the edge, you lean against the railing. You’re in a daze - wondering if you made up the entire thing in your head. The only proof that you haven't, and that Logan being your soulmate is real, is the colours that coat the mansion’s grounds. The moonlight bathes everything in what you now know as a soft, silver glow, and for a moment, you just stand there, looking out into the distance.

It doesn’t make sense, and the more you try to wrap your head around it, the more tangled your thoughts become. You don’t want to face the possibility of what it could mean, but you can’t just brush it aside either. It has quite literally changed your entire life. 

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to quiet your racing mind. But when you open them again, you freeze.

Logan is standing at the other end of the roof, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the sky. He hasn’t noticed you yet, and for a split second, you consider turning back, retreating before he sees you. It would be a wise idea - he didn’t want to talk to you then, and he probably doesn’t want to talk to you now. But, it an act that can only be seen as your own body betraying you, you take a step forward. 

The sudden movement catches his attention, and his head snaps in your direction, his eyes locking onto yours. 

“Why are you here?” he asks accusingly.

You hesitate, unsure of how to answer. Seeing him out here was the last thing you had expected, and now that he’s in front of you, you are at a loss of words.

Logan’s eyes narrow, and he pushes off the wall, walking toward you. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I needed air,” you manage to say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I just needed to clear my head.”

“Well, find somewhere else to do it,” he snaps, “I don’t want company.”

“Logan, I—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, not even bothering to hear you out. “Don’t start. I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t want to hear it.”

You blink, taken aback, and hurt at his coldness. “What are you talking about?”

He lets out a low, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? God, I… this is all so fucking stupid.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel a flush of embarrassment rise to your cheeks. “I wasn’t—”

“Enough!” he barks, his voice echoing in the night. “I’m not interested, alright? Whatever it is you think is happening between us, it’s not real. It’s just some stupid trick of the universe, and I’m not playing along.”

His words hit you like a physical blow - like you’ve just been shot at right in the heart - and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. “I don’t understand. I didn’t mean for any of this—”

“Yeah, well, neither did I,” he snaps at you, “And I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like there’s something here,” he gestures between you two, “when there isn’t. You’re not mine, and I’m sure as hell not yours.”

The finality in his tone leaves you breathless, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. You have nothing to say back, he’s not giving you any slack. The reality of his rejection sinks in with a brutal, crushing weight, you have to put in effort to not stumble over. 

After a long moment, you finally collect yourself. Then, “Okay,” you whisper. “I understand.”

Logan’s expression doesn’t soften; if anything, it grows colder, more distant.

“Good. Then stay away from me.”

You nod, eyes filling with tears. You quickly turn your face away, not wanting him to see just how much he’s hurt you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge your apology. He just turns away, his back to you, effectively shutting you out.

You stand there for a long moment, watching him walk away for the second time that night. The colours that seemed so vibrant, so full of life just a moment ago, now feel like a cruel reminder of everything you could never have.

—

When you eventually return to your room, all you can do is lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling as your encounter with Logan on the roof replays in your mind on an endless loop, each harsh word he’d thrown at you cutting deeper than the last. It’s causes pain unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, pain that seems to have no end, no respite.

If he doesn’t want you in his life, you’ll accept that. You have to - it’s not like you have a choice. Soulmates are a two-way street.  

You can’t force him to feel something he doesn’t, can’t make him see you in a way he clearly never will. And you understand, don’t you? You can’t even imagine how difficult this would be for him. Losing your soulmate, and then the universe saying Fuck You and giving you another? 

You’ll never ever forget how wrecked he was when Jean died. How her death shattered him into pieces so small you weren’t–no–you’re still not sure he’ll ever be whole again. 

And you—where do you stand in the grand scheme of things? Just as the unfortunate recipient of a bond that neither of you asked for? Are you even allowed to be upset about this?

—

Waking up the next morning, you honestly wish you hadn’t. You knew you weren’t on good terms with Logan after his little rooftop showcase of emotions, but nothing could have prepared you for the way he starts to treat you.

His face is stuck in a perpetual scowl when you’re in his vicinity. He’s leaving every room the moment you enter, refusing to look at you, speak to you, or acknowledge your presence in any way. It’s as if you’ve become invisible, a ghost haunting the same halls you once shared with him. There’s only one thing you two seem to wordlessly agree on: don’t tell anyone. 

Each day following becomes a struggle, an unbearable test of your strength as you try to make it through without breaking. You begin to avoid Logan as much as he avoids you, but the mansion is only so big, and there are always moments when you catch sight of him in the distance, his broad shoulders hunched, his brooding face glaring daggers in your direction. 

It hurts you every time, an unending torture that leaves you stumbling. Still, you bite your tongue and keep moving, pretending you don’t care.

But you do care. You care more than you want to admit, more than you think is possible. Because despite everything—despite the rejection, the coldness, the anger—you still love him. 

And that’s the cruelest twist of all.

So you endure it, day after day, week after week, month after month. Letting it tear you apart piece by piece, because what else can you do? You carry this burden alone, just as you’ve carried your feelings for him all these years. And maybe one day, the pain will fade, the bond will weaken, and you’ll be able to move on.

—

The only person you tell is Charles.

“What’s on your mind, my child?” he asks one day, while you’re sweeping the dust in his office. 

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to your hands as you focus on cleaning. You know he’s just asking out of courtesy, and that he could easily crawl into your mind and figure it out himself. He probably wouldn’t even need to put in that much effort, given how loud your thoughts are. But still, you don’t yield to his probing.

“Nothing, really,” you mutter, forcing a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just… tired, I guess.”

Charles watches you carefully, his eyes full of the warmth and compassion he always has, but this time, it makes you feel uncomfortable. Like he can see right through the facade you’re trying so hard to maintain, which you have no doubt, he does. 

“I’m here to help, whatever the burden.”

You want to groan. It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose but damn does it feel like he’s trying to guilt you into confessing that you just recently had your heart shattered. 

“I know, Professor. But… it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“You forget, I worry about all of you,” he replies gently. “It’s in my nature.”

The chuckle that crawls out your throat is nothing short of bitter. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Complicated doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep the emotions at bay. Do you really want to explain to him the insurmountable suffering you’re in, the rejection you faced from the one person who is supposed to be your soulmate? How can you tell him that the bond the universe forged is the very thing tearing you apart?

“It’s just… I don’t know how to make sense of it, Professor,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s so… wrong.”

He leans forward slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Wrong how?”

Knowing that you’re teetering into confession territory, you hesitate, needing time to collect your thoughts. 

“Logan… he… we… It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?” you eventually get out. Not your best work, but you know he’d get the gist. 

Understanding dawns in Charles’s eyes, and you can see the sympathy there, the quiet acceptance of the truth you’re struggling to voice. “The bond you share… it’s more than you expected, isn’t it?”

You nod, feeling the tears well up again. “But he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want me.”

The professor sighs softly, and he looks at you like you’re a lost puppy. “Logan has been through so much, more than most could bear. His heart has been wounded in ways that are difficult to heal, and it’s not surprising that he would resist this new connection.”

“So why me?” you ask. “Why bind me to someone who will never love me?”

Leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully, he says, “I wish I had an answer for you, my dear. The universe works in mysterious ways, ways that often defy our understanding. But I do know this: the bond you share is there for a reason. Whether it’s meant to bring you closer or to teach you something important… that remains to be seen.”

“It feels like a punishment,” you whisper, the tears finally spilling over. As much as you hate being put on the hot seat, you can admit that it feels good talking to someone about it.  “Every day, it hurts more. And he won’t even look at me. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“The heartache you’re feeling is profound, but you must understand that it’s not your fault. Logan’s reaction isn’t a reflection of your worth, but of his own pain and fear.”

He reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your own before continuing.

“To love, even when it’s not returned, takes incredible courage. But you must also take care of yourself. Give Logan the space he needs, and in the meantime, allow yourself the grace to heal.”

So you do. In the days that follow your conversation with Charles, you make a promise to yourself—to try, really try, to focus on your own life, to reclaim the parts of yourself that have been overshadowed by the pain of this unrequited love.

The colours are still there, vivid and vibrant, and though they sometimes feel like a bittersweet reminder of what could never be, you find moments where they bring you joy. You marvel at the deep blue of the sky, the rich greens of the trees, the way the sunlight filters through the leaves and paints the world in golden hues. It’s like seeing the world anew, and in those moments, you allow yourself to feel happiness.

Moreover, you busy yourself, volunteering for every assignment that comes your way. The adrenaline, the focus, the purpose—they all help to drown out the pain, even if only temporarily. And when you return from each mission, tired but satisfied, you feel a little more like yourself again.

The mansion, too, becomes less of a prison and more of a home once more. You start spending more time with the others, rejoining them for meals, for training sessions, for movie nights. 

You laugh with Rogue, spar with Scott, and even find yourself engaging in playful banter with Remy. It’s not perfect, and there are still moments where you catch yourself faltering, when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under, but those moments are becoming fewer and farther between.

You’re healing, slowly but surely, and with each passing day, you feel a little stronger, a little more in control of your life—of your emotions. 

But then there are the times when you cross paths with Logan, and those moments are the hardest.

One evening, after returning from a particularly grueling mission, you find yourself heading toward the kitchen, your mind on the sandwich you plan to make. The place is quiet, most of the team out on various assignments, or finishing up on some work, and you relish the peace as you walk down the corridor.

However, just as you reach the kitchen door and push it open, you find Logan standing there, preparing to exit the room at the exact same moment. Your heart lurches, and you stop dead in your tracks, almost like a deer caught in headlights. 

His gaze meets yours, and all you can see is his impassive, stoic expression. He steps back, giving you space to enter, but the tension between you is palpable.

“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping to the side, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Logan doesn’t say anything, barely nodding—if you could even it that— before brushing past you, his shoulder grazing yours. The brief contact sends a jolt through your system, and you have to force yourself to stay still and not physically react. 

Once he leaves, you let out a shaky breath, your heart still racing from the encounter. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him—so long since you’ve seen the deep brown of his hair that you love so much. You hate this. 

Why does he have no reaction to at all? Why is it only you who seems to care? 

Because you are the only one who does care.

You move into the kitchen, still intent on eating, but it’s a challenge. Your hands are trembling.

—

It all comes to a head one night during dinner. In this rare occasion, both you and Logan are in the same room. You’re supposed to be celebrating Rogue and Gambit’s anniversary, and even though you insisted that they share this special moment together alone, they didn’t take no for an answer. 

That’s how you find yourself, sitting at the grand dining table with all your friends, and Logan. 

He’s across from you. Just your luck.

He refuses to spare you a single glance, his eyes staying busy the whole night. And while it’s been months and months of this, you have never gotten used to it. Still, you can’t help but sneak a few looks at that chocolate-coloured hair. Brown. 

Everything seems to be going smoothly, the food is delicious and the dessert even better, but when Gambit presents Rogue with a giant painting, that’s when you slip up. 

“I love how you blended the red with the blue!” You compliment, loving the way he managed to create the perfect contrast between shades. You’re too caught up in staring at the artwork to realize the table as gone deathly quiet, all eyes on you.

Rogue's expression is one of gentle confusion, her head tilted slightly as she tries to make sense of your words. “Darling, I thought you couldn’t see colour?”

In any other situation, you’re sure the team would have laughed at how comically large your eyes got, and how all the blood draining from your face makes you look like a gaping fish, but in this moment, nothing is funny. You can feel Logan’s eyes on you, and when you finally muster the courage to glance at him, you see that his all-too familiar glare you’ve been subject to for the last half-year. It makes your heart thud painfully in your chest

“I…” you begin, but you falter. Your mind is going through a thousand thoughts per minute, searching for an excuse you can use to deflect, to pretend it was just a mistake, but the silence is too heavy, too demanding.

Rogue’s confusion deepens, her gaze flickering between you and Logan, who is now staring at you with an expression that’s impossible to read. She starts to say something, but Remy gently places a hand on her arm, shaking his head slightly as if to tell her to let you speak. 

Logan’s gaze stays locked on you for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he pushes his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. The sound echoes in the silence, and before you can react, he stands up and walks out of the room, his movements stiff, almost mechanical.

The door closes behind him with a quiet click, and the tension in the room thickens. You feel a rush of embarrassment flood through you, your heart sinking as the reality of what just happened crashes over you. 

You lower your head, your eyes stinging with tears that you fight desperately to hold back. But it’s no use. The emotions you’ve been trying to keep buried for so long bubble to the surface, and before you can stop yourself, the tears start to fall. 

“I think I need a moment,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling as you stand up from the table. Without waiting for a response, you hastily excuse yourself and head for the door, not before mumbling a quick apology to the couple in which you were there for.

Soon you find yourself outside in the gardens, the nightly breeze hitting your face as you make your way to a secluded bench. You can’t even appreciate the beauty in what you see, because all you feel is the overwhelming sense of failure and sadness that threatens to swallow you whole.

Sitting down heavily on the bench, you bury your face in your hands and let go. The sobs come hard and fast, each one ripping through you with a force that leaves you breathless. You’re heartbroken and angry and absolutely over it, but at the same time you feel like a massive asshole because who are you to be upset with a man who’s mourning the loss of a soulmate? 

It’s not fair.

You don’t know how long you sit there, lost in your grief, but eventually, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You look up, wiping at your eyes, and see Scott walking toward you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks gently.

You shake your head, unable to find your voice, and Scott sits down beside you on the bench. 

“I’m sorry,” you croak, “I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”

Scott clicks his tongue in disagreement, his gaze focused on the gardens ahead. “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s clear you’ve been carrying this burden for a long time. It’s no wonder it slipped out tonight.”

“So everyone knows now?” you ask. He nods.

“It wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” he concludes, and you groan, bringing your hands to your face.

“I just… I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to be pitied.”

“Pity isn’t what anyone feels right now,” Scott says softly. “We’re worried about you. You’ve been hurting, and we didn’t see it. That’s on us.”

“It’s not your fault,” you bring your hands down from your face. “I’ve been trying to deal with it on my own. I thought I could handle it, but… clearly I was wrong”

With a serious expression, Scott turns to look at you. “I know what you’re going through, more than you might realize.”

You glance at him, surprised by his words. “You do?”

He nods, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was in love with Jean, remember? When her and Logan found out they were soulmates… it tore me apart. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, and for a long time, I couldn’t.”

The mention of Jean’s name brings a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you, but there’s also a strange comfort in knowing that Scott understands your pain. “How did you… how did you get through it?”

He sighs, “It wasn’t easy. It took a long time, and I had to accept it.”

You wipe at your eyes again, sniffling as you try to compose yourself. “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Taking a longer mission, just to get away for a bit. Maybe then I can figure out how to move on.”

He is quiet for a moment, considering your words. “If that’s what you need to do, I understand,” he says, “sometimes, a change of scenery can help. Though I think you should try to talk to Logan again.”

Letting out a bitter laugh, you shake your head. “I don’t know if he’ll even listen to me. He’s made it pretty clear how he feels.”

“He’s hurting too,” He decides, “He’s not handling it well, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. You both need closure, and running away won’t give you that.”

“What if it just makes things worse?”

“It might.” Scott places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “But it might also give you both the chance to start healing. You deserve that chance.”

You nod slowly, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Take the time you need,” he says. “We’re all here for you.”

“Thanks, Scott. That means a lot.” You offer him a small, grateful smile.

With a final nod, he turns and walks back toward the mansion, leaving you once again alone in the quiet of the gardens. You take a deep breath, the idea of leaving still tugs at you, but now, there’s also the thought of confronting Logan—of finding some kind of closure, whatever that might mean.

You really don’t want to do it, and you’re pretty sure it’s just going to end the same way it did last time - with him shutting you out. But Scott’s words echo in your mind, reminding you that healing often requires confrontation, not avoidance.

Goddamn it.

You huff as you stand up from where you’re seated. You can’t keep running from this, can’t keep letting him run from this. You need to talk to Logan, to lay everything out on the table, even if it tears you apart in the process.

Your anxiety builds with each step as you approach his room, and you pause outside his door, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he could hear it if he was listening. This is it. There’s no turning back now. With a shaky breath, you finally raise your hand and knock. 

There’s a long, agonizing pause, making you strain to hear any movement on the other side. For a second, the silence causes you think he might not answer, that he might just ignore you like he’s done so many times before. But then, you hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching the door. Your heart catches in your throat as it slowly opens, revealing Logan standing there, his expression hard and unreadable.

The moment he realizes it’s you, his eyes darken, and he immediately moves to close the door, shutting you out yet again. However, you’re not letting him get away that easily. Before the door can fully close, you stick your foot out, blocking it with more force than you intended.

“C’mon, Logan,” you press. “You know we need to talk.”

He freezes, his grip on the door tightening until his knuckles turn white. His jaw clenches and unclenches, nostrils flaring. He still doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if he can will you away if he tries hard enough. But he doesn’t push the door shut either. The room is thick with suspense, both of you standing there in a silent standoff.

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, Logan steps back, opening the door just a smidge wider, barely enough for you to squeeze through. It’s a reluctant invitation, but it’s all you need.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice rough, edged with irritation. “Talk.”

You step into the room, and he closes the door behind you, lingering close to it, as if he’s ready to bolt at any second. You feel vulnerable and exposed. It’s suddenly hard to gather your thoughts when he’s standing so close, when the heat of his presence and the distance he’s placed between is right in your face.

“Why did you come?” Logan questions. He still refuses to look directly at you, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“Because we can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening,” you reply, “We need to talk about what’s going on between us.”

His jaw tightens further, and his teeth grind with barely contained frustration. He finally looks at you, his eyes hard and defensive. “There’s nothing to say,” he says bitterly. “I told you how I feel. I thought that was enough.”

“It’s not enough!” you shoot back, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. “You think you can just push me away, pretend like this bond doesn’t exist, and that’s supposed to solve everything? It doesn’t work like that, Logan.”

He flinches slightly at your words, but his keeps his expression hard. “Well what do you want me to say?” he demands, his voice rising. “That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean to hurt you? Because I am, and I didn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t be what you want me to be.”

His words hurt. 

“I know you told me how you feel,” you start, “but you’ve never let me tell you how I feel. You’ve never given me the chance to say that it’s been tearing me apart.”

A flash of guilt. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you needed to say it. I already knew.”

“That isn’t fair,” you argue.

“You don’t understand,” he counters, “I lost Jean. I loved her, and when she died, it broke something in me. And now… now I’m supposed to just… move on? With you? It’s not that simple.”

“I never asked you to love me, Logan,” you say, your voice trembling with the intensity of your emotions. “I never pushed for anything more than friendship—it’s not like you gave me the chance! You’ve been shutting me out, ignoring me, making me feel like I’m nothing more than a burden, like I don’t even matter!”

You can see that the pain in your voice hitting him hard, but he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he looks away, his expression conflicted. “I’m trying to protect you,” he mutters, the words sounding hollow even to him

“Protect me?” you echo incredulously. “All you’re doing is make me feel like shit. Like I’m worthless. I can’t even be your friend, to help you through this.”

You pause. “You expect us all to know how you’re feeling, but you can’t even communicate it.”

Logan winces, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, filled with a torment you’ve never seen before. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words seem to get caught in his throat. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I can’t be what you want me to be,” he admits, his tone filled with a deep, aching sadness. “I don’t know how to let you in. Without her, I feel like… I can’t let anyone in.”

Your eyes soften a fraction his confession, but there’s also a deep frustration that burns inside you, a frustration born of months of pain and rejection. 

“You haven’t even tried,” you say softly with a quiet resignation, “You haven’t even tried to let me in, to see what we could have been, even if it was just as friends.”

What follows is a long, nagging silence. You let it linger, giving Logan the chance he needs to think of something to say. But there’s no answer, no promise that things will change, and then you realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s not going to take that step, too broken to try.

That’s when it really hits you. 

Whatever you were fighting for, was a losing battle from the start. 

You give up.

This time, it is you who turns your back on him. 

“Goodbye, Logan. Take care of yourself.”

You don’t wait for a response. You don’t glance back. You walk out of the room, the door closing softly behind you, and with it, the last remnants of hope you had for something more.

— 

You decide to go on the mission.

It’s nothing complicated. Your task is to survey different regions of Europe, ensuring that there are no burgeoning anti-mutant operations threatening the safety of anyone. The primary goal is gathering information, and quiet observation. No violence, Charles told you in the debrief. 

The lack of immediate danger doesn’t make leaving any easier, though. This is as much about finding yourself as it is about fulfilling your duty.

Rogue and Kitty are with you during your final preparations, helping you pack the essentials and offering support in their own ways. They don’t ask many questions, probably sensing that this decision was not just made on a whim. And for that, you’re grateful.

“I still think you’re crazy for going solo,” Rogue says with a half-smile as she zips up your bag. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”

You manage a small smile in return. “Thanks, Rogue. I just need some time…”

Kitty, who’s been quietly folding clothes and tucking them into your bag, looks up, seriousness clouding her gaze.  “We get it. Just promise you’ll keep in touch, okay? And don’t hesitate to call if you need backup.”

“I promise,” you assure.

She hesitates for a moment before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small device—the X-Men communicator gadget. She holds it out to you, and you reach your hand out. 

“Here,” she says softly, pressing the device into your hand. “This is so you can update us on your whereabouts, your status, or any important mission details. Even if you don’t need anything, just… let us know you’re okay, alright?”

You look down at the communicator in your hand, and close your fingers around it, nodding as you meet Kitty’s gaze. 

“Alright, I’ll check in regularly. I won’t leave you guys in the dark.”

Rogue finishes the last bit of organization. “You’ve got this,” she says, “And we’ve got your back, even from a distance.” You nod, appreciating their support more than you can express. 

It almost feels like a walk of shame—leaving the mansion. Everyone knows why too, and that makes it a thousand times worse. But you won’t let it get to you. With one last look, you get in your car and begin on the windy path to the airport. 

—

When you arrive in Europe, the first thing that strikes you is the sheer beauty of the landscape. Each city, each town, has its own unique charm, its own story to tell. The bustling uphill streets of Porto, the serene canals of Venice, the ancient ruins of Athens—they all offer a distraction from the turmoil inside you.

The only good part about this whole mess is that you can see colour, and truly appreciate the sights before you.

You move from one place to the next, blending in with the crowds, quietly observing, gathering information, and sending brief updates to the team through the communicator Kitty gave you. Every message is short, to the point, just enough to let them know you’re safe and on track. You don’t share much beyond the essentials, not wanting to burden them with your personal struggles.

Then, in a small café in Rome, you meet a man named Marco. He’s a traveler like you, exploring Europe with a curiosity that matches your own. He’s warm, easygoing, and before long, the two of you strike up a conversation over coffee.

He is charming in a way that makes you feel at ease, his laughter infectious as he shares stories of his travels. You don’t tell him much about yourself, keeping the details of your mission and your mutant abilities hidden. To him, you’re just another traveler, searching for something—though he doesn’t pry into what that something is.

As the days pass, you and Marco continue to cross paths, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to, someone who doesn’t know about your past, about the things you’re running from. With him, you can be anyone, and for the first time in a long while, you start to feel a little lighter. You find yourself laughing more, the weight on your chest lifting a little each day. You don’t talk about the mission, and you certainly don’t talk about Logan.

One evening, as you’re both sitting on the steps of the Spanish Steps in Rome, watching the sunset, he turns to you with a grin. “So, where are you off to next?”

You hesitate, not wanting to reveal too much, but then you smile. “I’m heading to Florence. There are some places I need to check out.”

His eyes light up. “Florence? I’ve been meaning to re-visit. Mind if I tag along?”

A part of you wants to say no, to keep the distance you’ve carefully maintained, but another part—the part that’s been lonely for so long—nods in agreement. “Sure, why not?”

—

Back at the mansion, things haven’t been as positive. The once lively atmosphere has dimmed, replaced by an uneasy tension that lingers in the halls. The X-Men carry on with their duties, but there’s a noticeable shift—a missing piece that everyone feels but no one talks about. Logan, in particular, has become even more withdrawn, if that’s possible. The man who was once brooding and distant now seems even more so, his mood volatile and unpredictable.

His behavior has become a source of concern for the team. He’s always been rough around the edges, but now, it’s like the slightest thing can set him off. He snaps at everyone, his temper flaring at the smallest provocation. On missions, he’s reckless, throwing himself into danger without a second thought, as if he’s trying to outrun something—or someone. 

In many evenings, Logan finds himself in the mansion’s gym, trying to work off the restless energy that’s been plaguing him for months. The room is always empty, save for him, the steady rhythm of his fists pounding against the punching bag being the only sound. Sweat drips down his face, his muscles straining as he channels all his frustration and anger into each punch. Yet, no matter how hard he hits, he can’t seem to shake the thoughts of you that have been haunting him.

This night, door to the gym creaks open, and Logan doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. He can sense the other man’s presence, feel the weight of his gaze as he steps inside. He doesn’t slow his punches, doesn’t acknowledge Scott’s presence, but he knows why he’s here. They’ve had this conversation before—or something like it—but nothing’s changed. Nothing’s gotten better.

Scott watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable. He’s been watching Logan spiral for weeks now, but he’s kept his distance, knowing that he’d only be pushed away. But this can’t go on—Logan can’t keep doing this, can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he refuses to confront.

“She wouldn’t want this,” he finally says, voice cutting through the steady thud of Logan’s fists against the bag.

Logan’s movements falter for just a second before he resumes, his jaw tightening. “Who?” he growls, not bothering to turn around. “Her or Jean?”

Scott doesn’t flinch at the harshness in the other man’s tone. He steps closer, his eyes steady on their target as he answers, “Both.”

Finally, Logan stops. His fists still as he leans against the bag, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His shoulders are tense, the weight of Scott’s words pressing down on him like a physical burden. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to be reminded of what he’s lost—of who he’s lost. 

Taking a step closer, Scott’s voice is firm. “Look, I’m not a spiritual person. But I also don’t think the universe messed up with this.”

Clenching, his fists, Logan knows what the other man is getting at, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Doesn’t want to think about what could have been, what he’s been too scared to even consider.

“I know you know how I felt about Jean,” Scott says quietly, knowing he’s breaching a sensitive subject. “Losing her… it killed me too. And if I had been given a chance—a real chance to be with her, to make things right—I would have taken it. No hesitation.”

Logan’s breath hitches at that. The truth is, he’s been running—running from you, from the bond you share, from the possibility of something real. 

“I’m not saying you should chase after her,” he continues. “But I am saying that you need to stop running from her. The universe doesn’t just throw things like this at us for no reason. And you know that.”

The weight of Scott’s words settle over Logan like a shroud. He knows the other man is right—deep down, he’s always known. But that doesn’t make it any easier. The fear, the guilt, the pain of losing Jean—it’s all still there, gnawing at him, holding him back. 

There’s something else too, something he’s been trying to ignore but can’t any longer: the way he feels about you, the way he’s always felt, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. One of the first thought’s that ran through his head when his world re-erupted into colour was that, had this happened before Jean, maybe it could have worked. Maybe he could have been what you wanted, felt something real.

Scott takes a step back, giving Logan the space he needs. “Just think about it,” he says softly. “Think about what you really want. And don’t wait until it’s too late to figure it out.”

Logan doesn’t respond, but Scott doesn’t need him to. He’s said what he needed to say, and now it’s up to him to decide what comes next. With a final look, Scott turns and leaves the gym, the door closing softly behind him.

The clawed mutant stands there for a long time, his fists still clenched, his mind racing. He knows he can’t keep doing this—can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he can’t change, something he’s too afraid to confront.

But change is terrifying, especially when it means facing the truth. The truth that maybe, just maybe, the bond he shares with you is something worth fighting for. Something that Jean wouldn’t want him to throw away.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Logan finally lets his fists unclench, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. He doesn’t have all the answers—hell, he barely knows where to start—but he knows one thing for sure: he's can’t run away anymore. Not from this, not from you.

—

You’ve now spent days in Florence, wandering through the Uffizi Gallery, marveling at the works of the Renaissance masters, and evenings enjoying the quiet serenity of the Arno River. With you, Marco. You’ve grown to trust him. He’s never made you uncomfortable, never had any intentions to take advantage of you, and knows all the best restaurants. 

But there’s always been a small, nagging doubt that you’ve pushed aside—a feeling that something isn’t quite right. You’ve ignored it, convincing yourself that you’re just being paranoid after everything you’ve been through. After all, he has been nothing but kind, always knowing the right thing to say, always showing up just when you need someone.

It isn’t until the two of you are exploring a quieter part of Florence, that the doubt flares into something more. You’re walking through an old, narrow alleyway, the kind that tourists rarely venture into, when Marco suggests you take a shortcut through a small, unmarked door in the side of a building.

“I found this place the last time I was here,” Marco says, his smile as easy as ever. “It’s a hidden gem, leads right to a beautiful courtyard. You’ll love it.”

You hesitate, something in his tone—or maybe it’s the way his eyes gleam just a little too brightly—sets off alarm bells in your mind. You’ve come to trust him though, haven’t you? You’ve traveled together for weeks, shared countless stories and laughs. Surely, he wouldn’t lead you into danger.

Still, as you step through the door, the darkened space beyond immediately feels wrong. The air is colder, damp, and the walls are lined with strange, unidentifiable equipment. You glance back at Marco, and that’s when you see it—the change in his expression. The warmth is gone, replaced by something cold and calculating.

Before you can react, you feel a sharp prick in your arm. Your vision blurs, and your body goes numb almost instantly. You stumble back, trying to push away, but your legs give out, and you collapse to the floor.

Marco looms over you, the smile gone from his face, replaced by a look of triumph. “Did you really think I didn’t know?” he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re a mutant, and you thought you could hide it from me?”

The world around you spins as the drug takes full effect, but you force your mind to stay focused. “What… why?” you manage to whisper, the betrayal cutting deep.

“Why?” He laughs, the sound harsh and devoid of any warmth. “Because mutants like you are worth a fortune. My clients pay top dollar for… research subjects. And you, my dear, are about to make me very, very rich.”

You try to move, to fight back, but your body refuses to respond. Panic rises in your chest as he kneels beside you, pulling out a small device that looks like a portable scanner. He runs it over you, and it emits a low hum as it registers your vital signs, confirming what he already knows. You’re weak. 

“You won’t get away with this,” you say.

“Oh, but I already have,” he replies with cruel satisfaction. “No one knows where you are. And even if they did, it’ll be too late by the time they find you.”

With the last bit of strength you can muster, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you fumble with the X-Men communicator that Kitty gave you. His attention is momentarily distracted as he prepares a syringe filled with a clear liquid, and you seize the opportunity. You manage to pull out the communicator, your fingers barely able to grip it. Then, with a deep breath, you press the SOS button, the screen flashing to life.

You type in the message as quickly as you can, your vision blurring even more as the drug takes hold. 

Location: Florence. 

Message: Help.

Just as you hit send, Marco notices what you’re doing. His eyes widen in anger, and he grabs your wrist, yanking the communicator out of your hand. “You little—!” he snarls, but it’s too late. The message has already been sent.

His face contorts in rage as he slams the gadget against the ground, smashing it to pieces. He glares down at you, his hand tightening painfully around your wrist. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But it doesn’t matter. They’ll never get here in time.”

Your strength is nearly gone, the drug pulling you into unconsciousness, but you manage one last defiant look. “You won’t win,” you whisper with the last of your energy.

Marco releases your wrist with a sneer, standing up and looking down at you with contempt again. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters before turning away, leaving you on the cold, hard floor as darkness overtakes you. 

You can only hope they—that Logan—will reach you in time.

—

The signal comes through during a meeting. A sudden, loud beep cuts through the room,  and everyone freezes, their attention immediately drawn to the source of the sound. To Kitty’s pocket. It’s the X-Men communicator, the one linked to your device. 

Logan’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as he recognizes the tone. He’s on his feet before anyone else can react, his heart pounding in his chest. “What the hell was that?” he demands, his voice tense with urgency.

Kitty quickly pulls it out of her pocket, her eyes widening as she reads the message that’s flashed across the screen. Her face pales, and she looks up at the others, her voice trembling as she speaks. “It’s from her… Florence… Help.”

There’s a brief pause, maybe a second long in length, and then the room erupts into a flurry of movement. 

Chairs scrape against the floor as the team rises to their feet, already preparing for action. But Logan is the first to react, his face a mask of fury and determination. “I’m going,” he growls, already heading for the door.

“Logan, wait!” Scott steps forward, blocking Logan’s path with a firm hand on his chest. 

“Get out of my way, Summers,” He snarls, his voice filled with barely controlled rage. “I’m not waiting around while she’s in danger.”

“We can’t just rush in without a plan,” Scott insists, trying to keep his own emotions in check. “We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Logan shoves the other mutant’s hand away, his eyes blazing with anger. “She sent an SOS, Scott! She needs help, and we’re wasting time standing here talking about it!”

The rest of the team watches the confrontation with anxious eyes, knowing that things could easily escalate. Logan’s been on edge for weeks, and the urgency of the situation—of you— has pushed him to the brink. 

“Logan,” Ororo interjects, “We understand how you feel, but we need to think this through. If this is a trap—”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s a trap!” He snaps, his voice rising. “She’s part of our team! We can’t just leave her there!”

“That’s not what we’re saying,” Scott tries to reason, but Logan isn’t having it.

“Then what the hell are you sayin’?” He demands, his frustration boiling over. “Why are we wasting time when we should be getting her out of there?”

There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then it’s Rogue who steps forward, conflicted. “Logan… what if… what if she doesn’t want to see you?”

He freezes, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow could. He stares at Rogue, disbelief and anger warring in his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he growls.

Rogue swallows, her eyes filled with worry. “She left because she needed time, Logan. Because things between you two… they weren’t good. Maybe she—maybe she doesn’t want you to be the one to save her.”

Clenching his hands into fists, his body is taut with tension. “Fuck that!” he roars with a fierce, protective rage. “She’s part of our team! She sent that message to us, to the X-Men, because she needs our help. I don’t care what’s happened between us, I’m not leavin’ her there!”

The room falls silent, the weight of Logan’s words settling over everyone. They know Logan is right—she’s part of the team, and they can’t leave her behind. But they also know that the situation is more complicated than that.

Scott takes a deep breath, his gaze steady as he looks at Logan. “We’re not saying we shouldn’t go after her, Logan. We’re saying that you need to be prepared for whatever we might find when we get there. She might be in a bad place, and she might not be ready to face you.”

“I don’t care,” he says after a brief pause, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “I’m going to get her out of there. Whether she wants to see me or not, I’m not lettin’ her go through this alone.”

Scott studies Logan for a long moment, then finally nods. “Alright. But we do this together, as a team.”

Logan nods, his jaw set in a grim line. “Fine. Let’s go.”

—

Your eyes snap open, the dim light of the room piercing your vision. You’re in a large, abandoned warehouse. Your head feels heavy, like it’s filled with cotton, and there’s a dull, throbbing pain at the base of your skull. As you try to move, you realize with a jolt of fear that you’re restrained, your arms and legs strapped tightly to a chair. Panic flares in your chest, and you struggle against the bonds, but they don’t budge.

And then you see him—Marco, standing a few feet away, watching you with a smirk that sends a chill down your spine. His eyes gleam with satisfaction, and you realize with horror that you’ve been caught, trapped in whatever twisted game he’s been playing.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, voice dripping with mock concern. “I was starting to wonder if I’d given you too much of the sedative. But it seems you’re tougher than I thought.”

You try to respond, but a gag in your mouth muffles your words, turning them into incoherent sounds. You glare at him your eyes burning with fury.

He only chuckles, clearly amused by your resistance. “Oh, don’t bother trying to speak. We wouldn’t want you calling for help, now would we? Though, I must say, I’m impressed you managed to send that little SOS before I caught on. Clever, but ultimately futile.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he looks you over, his expression turning cold. “You know, I’ve dealt with a lot of mutants in my time, but there’s something special about you. Something… unique.” He reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Too bad your powers won’t do you any good here. The drug I gave you should keep you nice and powerless for the foreseeable future.”

Straining against the bonds, you continue to try to break free, but he drug in your system dulls your abilities, leaving you feeling weak and vulnerable. All you can do is stare at him with hatred as he continues to taunt you.

“Such fire in your eyes,” Marco murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s a shame you’ll never see the light of day again. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure your abilities are put to good use.”

He lets go of your chin, his hand trailing down to your shoulder in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Now, let’s see what we can do to make you a little more… compliant.”

Just as he reaches into his coat pocket, presumably for another syringe, a sudden, loud crash echoes through the warehouse. The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass fills the air, followed by the unmistakable hum of energy blasts and the heavy thud of boots on the concrete floor.

The X-Men have arrived.

Marco’s eyes widen in surprise and then narrow in anger. He spins around, barking orders at the security guards scattered throughout the warehouse. “Stop them! Don’t let them get near her!”

The guards rush forward, weapons drawn, but they’re no match for your friends. The familiar sounds of battle flood your ears—Rogue’s powerful punches, Scott’s optic blasts, and Storm’s lightning crackling through the air. You struggle against your restraints again, desperate to free yourself, but it’s no use. 

Then, you catch a glimpse of Logan. He’s fighting his way toward you, his claws out, slicing through anyone who gets in his way. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, your eyes meet his, and you can see the raw determination in his gaze. He’s coming for you.

But just as he takes a step forward, something changes. He hesitates. You can’t hear what he’s thinking, but you can see the conflict on his face—the way he seems to second-guess himself, the way his steps falter. Your heart sinks as you realize he’s unsure, almost as if he's torn between wanting to save you and fearing that you don’t want him to.

In that split second of hesitation, Rogue swoops in, landing beside you with a determined look on her face. She doesn’t waste any time, using her strength to tear through the restraints that bind you. “We’ve got you, sugah,” she says, her voice steady and reassuring as she pulls the gag from your mouth. “You’re safe now.”

You nod, your throat too dry and your body too weak to speak. Your muscles scream in protest as you try to stand, but she quickly wraps an arm around you, helping you to your feet. You’re shaky, your body still reeling from the effects of the drug, but you’re free. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Logan still standing there, his eyes locked on you, his expression unreadable. He wanted to save you. He wanted to be the one to pull you out of that nightmare, but something held him back.

Rogue helps you toward the exit as the rest of the team continues to subdue the guards and Marco. You lean heavily on her, your legs barely able to support your weight, but you force yourself to keep moving. 

And when everyone else has back in the jet, hugging you and comforting you, you look over to Logan, who sits far away, on the opposite side, refusing to meet your gaze. 

—

Returning to the mansion feels like stepping back into a familiar, comforting embrace. You missed the soft, warm bed in your room, the quiet serenity of the gardens, and the comforting presence of your friends. It's been a few days since the whole ordeal in Florence, and the drug has finally worked its way out of your system. Your strength has returned, and physically, you feel like yourself again. The mansion, too, seems unchanged—still the safe haven you’ve always known.

But as the days pass, you begin to notice that while many things have returned to normal, some things have not. You’ve seen most of your friends, their faces lighting up when they see you, their hugs tight and full of relief. There have been quiet conversations and laughter, shared meals in the kitchen, and moments that remind you why this place is home.

Except, there’s one person you haven’t seen. Logan.

His absence is like a shadow that follows you wherever you go. You’ve felt his presence in the mansion—heard his voice in the halls, the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards—but he’s kept his distance. He hasn’t sought you out, hasn’t tried to talk to you, and that stings more than you want to admit.

You’ve tried to stay strong, to remind yourself of the resilience you found during your time away. You’ve reminded yourself over and over that you don’t need anyone else to validate your worth, that you can stand on your own. Yet the longer Logan avoids you, the harder it is to hold on to that strength. The old wounds, the ones you thought had begun to heal, start to ache again, and you can’t help but wonder if anything has really changed at all.

More often than not, you find yourself retreating to the front lawn. The sun is warm on your skin as you lie down in the grass, a book in hand. The soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of life inside the mansion create a peaceful background, and for a moment, you manage to lose yourself in the pages of your book.

Still, even here, in the sanctuary of the garden, the thoughts you’ve been trying to push aside keep creeping back in. The memory of Florence, of Logan’s hesitation, lingers like a bitter aftertaste. You replay the moment over and over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand why he stopped, why he didn’t come for you.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shadow that falls across your page until a deep, familiar voice breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

The voice startles you, and you jerk slightly, looking up to see Logan standing above you. His expression is guarded, as if he’s not sure how you’ll react to his presence. There’s a tautness to his posture, a stiffness that you recognize all too well. 

For a moment, you just stare at him, caught off guard by the suddenness of his appearance. He’s as rugged and intimidating as ever, but there’s something different in his eyes—something a tad bit softer. You close your book, sitting up slowly as you meet his gaze. The question that’s been gnawing at you since Florence rises to the surface, and you know you can’t keep it inside any longer.

“What happened?” you ask, your voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “In Florence?”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a moment, his gaze shifting to the trees in the distance. He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches out between you, thick with unspoken words. 

You just watch him, waiting for an explanation, but there’s a part of you that’s already bracing for disappointment. You’ve been here before, waiting for Logan to decide what happens next, to take the lead. And you’re tired of it. You’re tired of being the one left in the dark, of being the one who has to wait for him to be ready.

Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him. “I… I hesitated,” he admits huskily, almost in a growl. “I wanted to save you. Hell, I was going to. But then… I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

His confession hangs in the air, and you feel a mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, and sadness. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t realized that his hesitation was rooted in something so painfully human.

“Why wouldn’t I want you to?” you ask softly, searching his face for answers.

Logan finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. “Because of everything that’s happened between us. Because I pushed you away. I hurt you, and I thought… maybe you’d be better off if it wasn’t me.”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of his reasoning. “Logan, this can’t keep being about what you think is best,” you begin. “And it’s not about who saves who. It’s about being there when it counts. You were there. You came for me.”

He doesn’t have a response to that, at least not right away. He looks down at the ground, his fists unclenching, his shoulders slumping even further. It’s like he’s carrying the weight of everything he’s done, everything he’s failed to do, and it’s crushing him. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to get out. “For everything.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I know I’ve messed up,” he continues. “I know I haven’t been there for you like I should’ve. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me… I want to try to make things right.”

You know you should be happy—this is everything you’ve wanted to hear from him for so long. But it’s also too much, too late. The doubt, the pain, it can’t just disappear with a snap of your fingers.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” you admit. 

There’s pain on his face. “I get it,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. And I know it’s not going to happen overnight. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes, if it means I can earn your trust back.”

“I need time. I need time to figure out where I stand, and where you stand with me.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the ground again. “Take all the time you need,” he says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I appreciate that,” With a small nod, you stand up, brushing the grass off your clothes. “I need time,” you repeat, more for your own benefit than his.

“And you’ve got it,” Logan replies. “As much as you need.”

—

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. You focus on yourself, on healing the wounds that were reopened during your conversation with Logan. It feels strange, being the one who needs space, but you know it’s necessary. You find things to take your mind off him: you train more, read more, spend more time with Rogue, Kitty, or Remy. It’s nice.

But Logan… Logan doesn’t give up. He knows you need time, and he respects that. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pressure you to make a decision, but he makes it clear through his actions that he hasn’t forgotten about you, and more importantly, that he isn’t going anywhere.

It starts with the small things—things so subtle that you almost don’t notice at first. You probably wouldn’t have suspected anything if you hadn’t known the kind of person he is. He’s nothing if not persistent. He knows you better than you realize—the rift he created after Jean’s death muddling with your memory—and he uses that knowledge to quietly, almost imperceptibly, work his way back into your life.

In the mornings, you wake up to find your favorite snacks waiting for you in the kitchen, carefully placed where you’d be sure to see them. He never mentions it, never takes credit, but you know it’s him. It’s in the way he glances at you from the corner of his eye as you take a bite, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He never makes a big deal out of it—just a quiet, unspoken gesture that says, I’m thinking of you.

Then there are the late-night training sessions. You go down to the Danger Room or the gym, hoping to clear your mind with a bit of solitary exercise, only to find Logan already there. At first, you’re tempted to leave, to find somewhere else to work out, but something in his demeanor stops you. He doesn’t approach you, doesn’t speak unless you initiate it. Instead, he just… exists beside you, his presence steady and reassuring, like a rock in the storm.

It’s in these moments that you begin to see a different side of Logan—one that’s patient, understanding, and perhaps a little unsure of himself. He follows your lead, mirroring your exercises or silently spotting you during weightlifting, always attentive to your needs without ever making you feel pressured or overwhelmed. He’s just there, offering his support in the quietest, most understated way possible.

And then there are the little surprises in your room—small, thoughtful gestures that you can’t help but notice. A favorite book you’d mentioned in passing suddenly appears on your nightstand, its pages pristine and waiting for you to dive into. The time-worn leather straps on your gear are suddenly replaced with new ones that fit perfectly, the stitching unmistakably done by Logan’s hand. Even your plants, the ones you’d worried would wither away while you were on a mission, seem to thrive in your absence, the soil freshly watered and the leaves turned toward the sun.

He never asks for thanks, never draws attention to what he’s doing. It’s all done quietly, behind the scenes, as if he’s afraid that if you notice too much, you might push him away. But you do notice. How could you not?

At first, you try to ignore it, telling yourself that these gestures don’t change anything, that they’re just a way for Logan to assuage his guilt. You tell yourself that he’s just doing this because he feels bad, because he wants to make up for the past, not because he actually cares. You’ve built walls around your heart for a reason, and you’re not ready to let them down just because he’s being nice.

But over time, those small gestures begin to chip away at those walls, brick by brick. You start to realize that Logan isn’t just going through the motions—he’s really paying attention, noticing the little things that make you who you are. It isn’t just about the snacks or the books or the plants—it’s about the way he remembers the details of your life, the things that matter to you, the things that make you feel seen and understood.

After a particularly long and stressful day, you return to your room exhausted, and all you want is to collapse into bed and forget the world for a while. But when you walk in, you find a small bouquet of wildflowers sitting on your nightstand, the beautiful colors a stark contrast to the dark thoughts that have been swirling in your mind all day. There’s no note, no explanation—there never is—but you know who left them.

You just stand there, staring at the flowers, your heart squeezing in your chest. It’s such a simple gesture, and yet it means so much. You’d forgotten that Logan knew how much you love wildflowers—you’d mentioned it once, years ago. The way they’re resilient, thriving even in the harshest conditions, blooming where others wouldn’t. It’s as if he’s telling you that he sees that strength in you, that he admires it.

And it’s then, in the quiet of your room, surrounded by the small, thoughtful gestures that Logan has left behind, that you realize something. This isn’t just about making up for the past. Logan is showing you, in the only way he knows how, that he wants this. Wants you.

He's finally picked up the pieces of him that fell apart after Jean’s death, and he is willing to pick up the pieces of you that fell apart after his rejection.

So, one evening, months after that fateful conversation on the lawn, you find yourself standing in the common room, staring at the fireplace, lost in thought. The mansion is quiet, the rest of the team either out on a mission or asleep. It’s just you and the flickering flames, the soft crackling of the fire the only sound in the room.

But when you hear footsteps behind you, heavy and deliberate, you know instantly who it is. Without turning, you can sense his presence, the way he moves with that quiet confidence, the way the air seems to shift when he is near. Logan has always had a way of grounding you, even when you don’t want him to.

He walks up beside you, stopping just short of touching you, his warmth radiating in the small space between your bodies. He doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t ask why you’re here or try to force a conversation. He just stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets, waiting patiently, giving you the time you need. It’s something you’ve come to appreciate about him in recent months—his newfound ability to just be, without pushing or demanding more than you’re ready to give.

"I’ve been thinking," you say finally, your voice soft, as you continue to gaze into the flames.

"Yeah?" Logan asks, his tone careful, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing.

You turn to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "You’ve been… different. Doing all these little things… I see them, you know."

Logan’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long time, you see hope there. "I just wanted you to know that I care. That I’m sorry," he says, with so much emotion. “You were never a burden to me.”

You swallow hard. "It’s hard for me, Logan," you admit, "I’ve been hurt before, and I’m scared. Scared that if I let myself love you again, you’ll just… break me."

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "I’d never hurt you again," he says, "I’d rather cut off my own damn hand than hurt you. The past is the past, and you are my future."

That’s enough to make your walls crumble completely. You know, deep down, that Logan is telling the truth. That he’s willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.

And in that moment, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to let him.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you let your actions speak for you. You close the distance between you, standing on your toes as you press your lips to his in a gentle, tentative kiss. Logan freezes for a split second, as if he can’t believe this is really happening, but then he kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, holding you as if he never wants to let go.

The kiss is slow, tender, full of everything that has been building between you for so long. It isn’t just a kiss—it’s a promise, a commitment to try again, to rebuild what has been broken. When you finally pull back, your breath mingling with his, you rest your head on his shoulder. "I’m still scared," you whisper.

"I know," Logan replies, his arms tightening around you. "But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll take this slow, darlin’. Whatever you need."

You nod. "Okay."

Logan smiles then, a real, genuine smile that makes your heart flutter in a way it hasn’t in years. It’s a smile full of relief, of gratitude, of love—a smile that tells you that he understands just how much this moment means, just how much you’re giving him by letting him back into your heart.

—

The time that follows is a slow, steady journey of rebuilding trust. Logan is true to his word—he is patient, understanding, and surprisingly tender in ways you hadn’t expected. The small gestures continue—coffee waiting for you in the morning, a gentle hand on your back during missions, quiet moments of companionship where no words are needed.

You can feel the doubts you’ve been holding onto slowly begin to fade. Each time Logan shows up for you, each time he puts your needs above his own, it chips away at the fear that has kept you guarded for so long. It’s in the way he listens when you talk, truly listens, as if every word you say matters. It’s in the way he looks at you—not with the same fury he once had, but with a steady, enduring affection that speaks of something deeper.

With Jean, he loved her because she was his soulmate, she was who the universe destined him to be with. He loved her because that’s what he thought he had to do.

With you, he has a choice. He doesn’t need to acknowledge the bond, but he chooses to. He chooses to everyday and he’ll never stop. He loves you because he wants to, not because he has to.

One evening, you find yourself sitting on the mansion’s porch watching the sunset. Logan joins you without a word, sitting close enough that your shoulders brush. 

“You’ve been quiet today,” he says softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“I’ve just been thinking,” you reply, leaning your head on his shoulder. It’s a simple gesture, but one that speaks volumes about how far you’ve come in trusting him again.

“’Bout what?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“About us,” you say, your voice steady. “About how things have changed. How… how good they’ve been.”

Logan’s hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that feels so natural, so right. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you echo, squeezing his hand. “I’m not scared anymore, Logan. Not like I was.”

He turns to face you, his eyes searching yours. “You sure?”

You nod, smiling softly. “I’m sure. You’ve shown me that this bond means something to you, that you’re not going to hurt me. And… I want this. I want us.”

Logan’s face lights up with so much love, that it takes your breath away. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad, darlin’. Because I want us too. More than anything.”

—

It isn’t long before the rest of the X-Men begin to notice the change in Logan as well. At first, it’s subtle—small things like the way he looks at you during briefings, or the way he seems to be more patient, more relaxed when you’re around. But over time, it becomes impossible to ignore.

During a training session in the Danger Room, you’re paired with Logan for a simulated mission. The others watch as Logan moves with you in perfect sync, his focus not just on the mission but on you—making sure you’re safe, supporting you when needed, and trusting you completely. It’s a far cry from the Logan they had seen when he was in mourning, where his moves were rash and careless.

After the session, as you and Logan leave the Danger Room, you catch sight of Ororo and Scott exchanging a look, the kind of look that speaks volumes, full of surprise and a touch of amusement.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you approach them.

Ororo smiles warmly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Nothing, just… noticing how good you two are together.”

Scott nods in agreement, his expression softening as he glances at Logan. “Yeah, it’s… different, finally seeing him like this. In a good way.”

Logan shrugs, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“Just that it’s nice to see you happy, Logan,” Ororo says gently. “Really happy.”

Logan looks at you then, his smile growing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah. It is.”

More members of the team begin to notice the change in Logan as time goes on. Rogue, who has always had a soft spot for him, comments on how he seems more at ease, less burdened by the weight of his past. Hank, ever the observer, points out how Logan’s demeanor has shifted—less brooding, more open. Even Charles, who has seen Logan through his darkest times, pulls you aside one day to express his approval.

“I must say,” Charles says, his tone warm and approving, “I haven’t seen Logan like this in a very long time. Whatever you two have managed to sort out, it’s working.”

And it is. Slowly but surely, the wounds that had once held you back have healed. The doubts that had kept you from fully embracing your relationship with Logan have faded, replaced by a deep, abiding love. It isn’t just the little gestures anymore—it’s the way Logan makes you feel seen, heard, and cherished in a way that no one else ever has.

—

“I never thought we’d get here,” you admit one night whilst looking up at the stars.

Logan looks at you, his expression tender. “Neither did I,” he says, his voice full of sincerity. “But I’m damn glad we did.”

You smile, leaning into him as he wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I love you, Logan. And I trust you. Completely.”

His grip tightens slightly, as if to hold onto the moment, to hold onto you. “I love you too, darlin’. I never thought I’d feel this way about someone.”

You know what he’s trying to say. So without thinking, you reach up and cup his face, drawing him closer until your lips are just a breath away from his. “Show me,” you whisper, your voice low and filled with desire.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He closes the small gap between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that is soft at first, almost tentative, as if he’s savoring the feel of you. 

You can feel the heat between you building, the kiss growing more fervent as your hands roam over his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, then into his hair. Brown. 

His hands slide up your back, one hand tangling in your hair as he angles your head, deepening the kiss further until you’re both breathless.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads resting against each other’s, you’re both panting, your hearts racing in sync. His eyes are dark with desire, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he holds you close.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs. “I never thought I’d get my happy ending, but here you are… and I’m never lettin’ you go.”

You smile, feeling the last remnants of pain melt away, replaced by a certainty that this is where you’re meant to be. “And I’m never leaving,” you whisper back, sealing your words with another kiss that quickly reignites the fire between you.

This kiss is hungrier, more urgent, as if you both need to make up for lost time. Logan’s hands roam your body with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine, his touch igniting a fire in your core.

That night, you lose yourself in him, in the way he tastes, in the way he makes love to you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because this time, you’re not just in love—you’re in love with a man who loves you back, fully and completely. 

And that makes all the difference.

----

a/n: i love you if you made it this far. please check out my new series The Feeling's Mutual