#timeline: enjoy the silence
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Watching the Husbands of River Song with my parents
Dad: I don't get it, why does River not have Capaldi's picture?
Me: Well, Time Lords generally only have a set number of regenerations, so she thought Eleven was the last one. But then some... some...
My brain: *Speedruns the Time of the Doctor and the crack*
My brain: *Speedruns the Timeless Child*
My brain: *Speedruns the forced regeneration into the Master and back into Thirteen*
My brain: *Speedruns Fourteen and Fifteen's bi-generation*
Dad: ...Some?...
Me: Some... stuff... happened... Point is, he has more regenerations than she knows about.
Dad: Ok.
My brain: * Still stuck on "Kidneys! I don't like the color." *
#i really went through 10 years of doctor who in a second and my head HURT#doctor who#the husbands of river song#river song#twelfth doctor#honestly in that moment i mostly forgot about the bi-generation. i've blocked fourteen's existence from my memory.#and i had NO way of trying to articulate it to my dad who just casually watches random episodes with me and mom#SOMEHOW. HE'D NEVER SEEN ANY RIVER EPISODES. i don't know how that happened.#my mom after the episode wanted to immediately go back to Silence in the Library and i'm like mom no it's 11pm#maybe some other time we'll make him watch it. very funny for him to literally see river's last episode and then her first#but timeline wise he'd be in the correct order and the show itself was not#i tried to explain this to him. and my mom was like 'she was in the astronaut episodes' and i say 'he didn't watch those.'#and mom was like 'WHAT? he had to have!' and i say 'nope. shh. so basically River meets the Doctor out of order...'#basically my dad really loved River herself and was confused but overall enjoyed the episode#and i had to be like 'look those of us who lived through the 7 years of backstory were DEVASTATED but also happy'
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introduced my brother apollo to vaporwave last night (the general first results stuff and then the pools because the pools are so important to me) and he's been zoned in on recreating one of the pool rooms in roblox for about. i think 10ish hours including last night lol :)
#just me hi#before that we all sat and watched like 2 and a half hours worth of abandoned building exploration videos and then some of that endless#pool game. which is really really good i wanna be there so bad. and we sat in near silence for all of it hfsbhvf#/anyway we also watched him recreate a small version of the pools which took maybe 40 minutes because he was tryna figure out#how to fix the water rendering lol - actual hell dude fbsh#cuz on lower graphics the water becomes completely opaque and you can't do shizz about it ! thoughts and prayers with him hfshg#//anyway before that he was also showing me how to use blender because i'd asked and i had a hand in creating probably one of the worst#renditions of jack in the box to ever be realized in this timeline lmaoo#/i gotta download blender again so i'll prolly do that later if i remember#//and anyway it's cool cuz the vibes we enjoy are not related At All lmao :)#//man i've been sitting in silence for too long i think my neurons started reorganizing themselves Hbfshbv#//anyway i'm gonna go see how it's goin :3#he's Really good at 3d stuff it's cool :D#/so Ciao toodles pow ~+!
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Keep Up!
Pairings: Wolverine/Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader
Summary: Logan knew moving in with Wade was going to be a bad idea….his next door neighbor doesn’t help with that either
Warnings: 18+ fic, fem!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, age gap (reader is in her 20s), mentions of alcohol, male masturbation, Logan listens to reader getting fucked, daddy kink, Logan fingers reader, p in v penetration, creampie, making out, nipple play.
An: No one make fun of me for not being able to do Wade’s witty remarks justice, I am just a girl.
Logan knew this wasn’t a good idea.
There was virtually no timeline that existed currently where living with Wade fucking Wilson was a good idea for Logan. He could barely handle speaking to him for thirty minutes, let alone sharing a living space with him.
However, behind the man’s rapid fire tongue that had a copious amount of shit talking to go with it, he was genuine, and as much as Logan hated to admit it…
He didn’t really have anyone in this timeline but Wade.
So, after quite a bit of groaning and grumbling under his own breath, he finally agreed to moving in with Wade, which didn’t take long at all, seeing as he came to this timeline against his will with nothing but his bright yellow hero suit on his body.
To Logan’s surprise, things weren’t terrible his first week there. Wade was annoying, that much was true and inevitable, however he had his own shit to do, which had him out of Logan’s hair most of the time, leaving him all on his own in the tiny two bedroom apartment.
Logan was starting to realize that maybe all of this wasn’t as bad as he cut it out to be. Things started to feel particularly good on the Friday night following the end of his first week there. Wade was nowhere to be found, he had the living room to himself and a nice bottle of whiskey to grant him the sweetest dreams (or lack there of) meaning he could simply enjoy his own company in the comfort of silence that was rare living with Wade. He sighed softly as he sat back, legs spread wide as he took a sip of his drink, sinking down into the couch in a pool of pure bliss-
A knock at the door ripped him away from all of that almost immediately.
He groaned softly, lifting his head as he turned to look at the door, brows furrowed for a moment as he silently threatened whoever it was behind it to knock it again. When they did, he turned his head in the opposite direction to face the clock on the wall, noticing that it was already going into the later hours of the night.
No one should be knocking their door this late.
By the third round of knocks to the door, Logan was fixing his posture, annoyance coursing through his veins at the disruption of his night. Whoever it was that was choosing to knock this many times on their door was in for it at this point.
However, Wade was beating him to it. The man swiftly slipped past Logan, pushing the older man back down into the couch, forcing Logan to fall back with a low groan, the gesture not helping with his growing annoyance.
“She’s here! She’s here!” Wade squealed out like an excited child, skipping and clapping his hands together as he made his way to the door.
“Who the fuck is that-“ Logan’s words were cut off but Wade practically hissing at the man as he whipped his head around to face him.
“Keep your fucking voice down! This is one of the only things I look forward to and I will not let Arthur Morgan ruin this for me. So shut your mouth, and drink your go-go juice, alright angel?” Wade seethed out as he gestured towards Logan’s bottle of whiskey before he turned around, tucking a strand of invisible hair behind his ear before he sighed softly, reaching forward and opening the door.
That’s when you walk in.
Behind the door is you. You’re pretty, young, bright smile plastered on your face, cheeks beaming with happiness as you bounce on your heels, snacks and drinks practically spilling from your arms as you struggle to hold them. Logan doesn’t stop himself from craning his neck forward to get a look at you, watching as you stare up at Wade like he’s your favorite person in the entire world.
Both you and Wade squeal in a way that sounds way too similar, and if Logan wasn’t so fucking confused right now he’d most definitely comment on it.
“There she is! Come to Daddy my little buttercup!” Wade groans as he lifts you up into his arms. A noise that’s a cross between a groan and a giggle leaves your lips as he squishes you to his chest, your eyes fluttering shut as you let him squeeze you tight.
“Wade! You’re…crushing me..” you wheeze out, all while having a bright smile on your face.
“Crushing ensues when you don’t visit me for two weeks. I was planning on shimmying my tight little ass down the air ducts to land straight into your bedroom so we can finish these last two episodes” Wade hummed our matter of factly, casually keeping you pressed against his chest as he kicked the door shut and carried you into the house before setting you down.
Logan’s watching the entire thing play out from the couch, eyebrows raised as he watches someone finally match the man’s hyperactive energy levels.
“I had a cold! I didn’t want to get you sick” you giggle out softly as you turn to face him as you walk into the apartment, still completely oblivious to the other man sitting on the couch.
“Princess have you taken a look at this mug? Influenza sees me and it runs” he grins at you whilst pointing at his face, which only earns a gentle nudge to his side with your elbow.
You finally turn towards the man on the couch, a look of surprise on your face as you take in his face, his form. It doesn’t take very long for you to come to the realization that whoever it is that’s been sitting here this entire time, is one of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen.
You never thought in your entire life that you’d see the Wolverine in person.
“Oh! How rude of me…I didn’t know you were busy Wade” Your voice is soft as you apologize, eyes wide and worried that you’d interrupted something you had no business stepping into. Logan can already see the way your sneaker clad feet are turning to leave, giving both him and Wade an apologetic smile.
“Oh no you don’t. You aren’t using that sweet little understanding bit with me. If Wolvie wants to join in on our weekly Vanderpump Rules watch party, then he can. If he doesn’t, then the honey badger can kick rocks” Wade bends down a bit, giving you an assuring nod as he places his hand on the small of your back.
Logan rolls his eyes as he throws back the rest of his whiskey. “I’m way ahead of you asshole” Logan grumbles out, annoyed with many things already.
“Hold on there beautiful, don’t be rude. Everything that is good and pure in the world is standing in the middle of our apartment and you aren’t going to introduce yourself?” Wade scoffs out in disbelief, his words making you roll your eyes as you give him another nudge.
“Wade it’s fine, he doesn’t have to-“ you try, seeing just how little patience the man had from the few words he’d given you since you walked in.
“My name is Logan, I live here now” he nodded, his words short and brief.
You hate yourself because him acting this way is only making you want him more.
You inhale deeply before you give him a soft smile, the snacks you’d brought still clutched close to your chest, fingers pressing against the crinkly material of the various packages as you nod.
“It’s nice to meet you Logan. My names (y/n). I hope to see you around the building more often” you beam, your response a bit too bubbly and excited for someone who’d been hit with the driest, most bland introduction from a man probably ever.
Logan watches you closely for a bit, eyes taking in your bright expression, your excited eyes that are practically shining with stars in them. You’re young, and eager and Logan knows exactly what kind of girl you are just by the way you’re smiling at him. He’d run into a million different versions of you at bars and clubs, out on the streets when he was on missions, anywhere that he was able to be perceived, he ran into someone like you.
That in and of itself lets Logan know that he needs to stay far away from you.
He gives you a nod before pushes himself off of the couch, lazily grabbing the bottle of whiskey as he begins walking out of the living room towards his bedroom.
He can already hear your feet stepping forward on the wooden floor, so he braces himself for what he knows what’s coming next.
“You’re more than welcome to stay! I know it’s corny but the show is actually very entertaining” you giggle out softly as you offer yours and Wade’s tradition to Logan as well.
“I’m good sweetheart” he mumbles out without even turning around, raising his hand up as he gives you a back handed wave, rounding the corner to his bedroom. “Was nice meeting you” he makes out before slamming his door shut, the noise making you flinch.
You frown softly as you turn to face Wade. “Was it something I said?” You whisper out, worried you might have offended the man
Wade rolls his eyes at his roommates reaction, turning towards you as he extends his hand out, his palm going nearly rigid as he gives you a stiff pat to the head. “We can’t all be as excited about life as you are, angel. Life sucked the fun out of that one before you probably learned how to drive” he sighed out before he pulled you over to the couch.
“Now! If I don’t have Lisa Vanderpump meddling in the love lives of her alcoholic lounge employees in the next five seconds I am going to blow this entire complex up. Let’s get to it sugar plum” he nodded to himself as he forces you down into the couch, grabbing his remote and getting right down to the festivities of that fine Friday night.
You however, had a particularly harder time than usual paying attention to the shitty reality tv show that you and Wade bonded over, and there was only one person to blame.
Logan.
Logan is shocked to be the only one awake the next morning.
His head is pounding from all the whiskey he drank, and he knew he’d be nursing quite the hangover from it all. What he didn’t know however, was that Wade would be slumped in his bed much longer from a night with you than he was.
He’s alone in the kitchen for maybe two hours when Wade finally emerges from his bedroom, a long drawn out groan following as he massages his temples, eyes screwed tight due to the bright sun spilling in.
“Jesus fucking Christ….can’t anyone afford some fucking curtains here? I feel like I’m staring into Satan’s asshole” He groans out, eyes finally opening to watch the mountain of a man standing over a bowl of cereal in the kitchen.
“Why hello there sunshine, did the whiskey bottle tug you out of bed early this morning? You’re almost never conscious while the sun is still up” Logan rolls his eyes at his roommates words, bringing the bowl to his lips and slurping up the rest of the milk before he put the empty bowl into the sink behind him, large hand going down to wrap around his coffee mug.
“Look who’s talkin’….you and your friend seemed to have just as much fun as I did” he sighs out, voice gravely and rough.
Wade smiles brightly as he nods, making his way into the kitchen as he lets out a happy sigh. “A (y/n) hangover would bring you to your knees grandpa….although I have the feeling you might not be too opposed to that with how your filthy eyes were eating her up….shes cute isn’t she? Single too. If Vanessa hadn’t swept me off my feet and stolen my heart I would have been ten toes deep into her by now” Wade rambles out as he searches the pantry for something to fill his stomach with.
Logan isn’t shocked to hear that you’re single, and in the best way possible of course. You were very very attractive, however the way that you looked at him let him know everything he needed to know about you.
“I don’t think I asked. She’s not my type” Logan sighs out softly before taking a sip of his coffee.
That wasn’t true at all, not entirely at least. Logan found you attractive from the moment he laid eyes on you. Only an idiot could look at you and try to convince themselves that you weren’t a beautiful girl. However, Logan knew what kind of girl you were. You were a young girl who probably had some sort of fantasy to fuck a ‘dilf’ (as Wade called them) and you’d bat your pretty lashes and pout your lips to get Logan to melt for you, but that was only the half of it. You only wanted to fuck him, to have someone experienced work on your body just to leave and venture out on your own once you were done with him.
Logan was old and miserable and hard to deal with, all things that he was very aware of. Being with him was not a fucking cake walk, and he knew that those twinkles in your eyes when you saw him were all driven by raging hormones that would dissipate once you realized how much of a piece of shit he was.
Logan was too old for this, and he was too old for you.
“Not your type? Of course she’s your type! She’s everyone’s type. That’s like saying Beyoncé isn’t your type and I will not allow you to disrespect the queen…the bee hive is fucking scaring” Wade practically whimpered out before he let out a groan.
“Is it the age gap? Because if it is, they sell pills for that sweetie. It’s a normal part of life that we all go through! There’s nothing to be ashamed of and I’m sure she would understand-“ Wade’s words are cut off by Logan lifting up his hand, the sharp sound of his claws shooting through his knuckles filling the air, making Wade yelp and flinch.
“Keep talking and I swear to god I will cut your dick off every single day so that you don’t even get the chance to use those pills” Logan practically growls out.
“Relax! Jesus Christ you are violent. I’m starting to rethink giving you my spare room asshole” Wade breaths out before he sighs, lifting his hands up in defense before he speaks again.
“Look…all I’m saying, is that a bit of a crush is starting to brew, and she’s a sweet girl! I know for a fact that baby making factory is filled with dust and fucking cobwebs, don’t you think it’s time to get those gears runnin’ again?” Wade rolls his arm like a train as he puts on his best southern accent, which only further annoys Logan.
“She doesn’t even know me. She’ll get over it” Logan nods confidently, ignoring every word that leaves Wade’s mouth as he finishes his coffee, putting it in the sink where he put his cereal bowl earlier.
Wade groans in annoyance. “I am being such a good wing man right now, hooking you up with her? Most people’s friends hook them up with Freddy fucking Krueger and they still end up getting married. I’m giving you a real life fairy from a fucking Barbie movie and you’re turning her down??” Wade practically pleads with the man as he watches him starting to leave the kitchen.
“Hook her up with someone else. I’ll be back later” Logan groans out, not at all wanting to continue this conversation with his roommate any longer.
“Yeah fuck you too grandpa. I hope you get hit by a fucking bus on your way out” Wade groans out as he shovels a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, the man clearly taking offense to Logan not wanting to get to know you better.
“We’ll see if she lets you off this easy…” Wade mumbled under his breath, a soft smirk on his face.
Wade knew you better than anyone, and he knew that you were a whole different ball field of sweetness that Logan was most definitely not ready to handle.
And sweet you were.
By the end of the week, Logan was honestly starting to forget about you and the small cyclone you’d set off in his head ever since he’d seen you that night. He was busy with things around the neighborhood and trying his best to get used to the new world that he was living in. His plate was full and he had no time to think about the silly girl that lived next door to him.
However you didn’t let him forget for much longer.
Because come Friday night, your knuckle is rapping against the door like clock work, interrupting Logan’s alone time in the same way you had the week prior. It’s a silent gesture that it is his cue to leave and give you and Wade the living room for the night.
Logan just about catches a glimpse of you when Wade opens the door, and he notices very quickly how different you look from last time.
Last time, you’d opted for a pretty casual look. Wade had mentioned that you worked at a bar in the city, so he could only assume you came straight from there. Your denim shorts were cute, fit your ass well and he was sure you got many tips from those alone, and your purple halter top went well with your skin tone, but it was nothing fancy or out of the ordinary, just simply a girl in some clothes.
Now? Now you were putting in some effort.
The linen white dress you wore fit you snug at your middle, pushing out your tits a bit, hugging you in all the right places before falling down and flowing out right above your knees. You even went as far as to wear a bit of makeup, your eyelids sparkling a bit, lips glossy.
You’d put in all that effort, just for him.
“Jesus Christ…” Logan mumbled under his breath in disbelief, hating that you’d gone this far for him.
“Are you kidding me! I get your sweaty work clothes and he gets this?? You know he takes the animal thing seriously right? Pees to mark his territory and everything. I am much more pleasant, I promise” Wade complains as he leads you into the apartment, eyes falling down to the small container of cookies in your arms.
“Are these….fuck off. I have been begging you for weeks, and suddenly Jacob from twilight moves in and you’re making them??” Wade gasps out, face slowly turning up to look over at Logan as you giggle softly.
“I made them when you first moved in so I wanted to do the same for Logan…I hope you have a sweet tooth?” You questioned carefully, giving Logan a shy smile as you outstretch your arms to hand the cookies to him.
Wade is watching Logan like he’s your fucking guard dog, ready to pounce on the man the second he even tries to say something mean to an angelic soul like you.
It makes Logan sigh softly, eyes drifting down to the cookies before looking back up at you. “My doctor said I’m not allowed” he lies before bringing his glass of whiskey to his lips, acting as the biggest contradiction as he finishes the remnants of it before he picks up the bottle and turns around to leave.
“Don’t make any noise. I’m going to bed” he mumbles out once more before he slams his bedroom door much like he did the first time you arrived.
Wade groaned as he brought his hands up to pinch the bridge of his nose, quickly reaching out and placing a hand on your soft, exposed shoulder.
“Thank god. I was getting worried I wouldn’t have all of these to myself. Come on, Tom Sandoval doesn’t wait for anybody” he nods his head towards the tv, urging you to sit with him and distract you from how utterly stupid that lie was that Logan spit at you without a second thought.
Wade sighs as he notices the soft pout on your face, your fingers nervously toying with the ends of your dress as you struggle to relax, your head probably overflowing with every reason why Logan would hate you. He reaches out, tugging you closer to rest your head against his shoulder.
“Hey, he’s just a tough one to crack. He’ll come around soon peanut, I promise” he assured you before he shoved his hand into the bowl of cookies, pressing one to your lips.
“Now, say ahh. You deserve to eat one after all the hard work you did, little Betty Crocker” he teases you, making you giggle softly as you shoo his hand away before taking the cookie to eat yourself, finally relaxing into the couch as you let out a gentle sigh.
Logan really hoped that it would stop there, but it doesn’t.
He knows you aren’t stupid, everyone on the entire planet knows that the Wolverine doesn’t go to the fucking doctor. He could drink battery acid if he wanted to and he’d be fine, so him using the excuse of his doctor telling him he couldn’t eat sugar to not eat your food was a crock of shit, but he did it for two reasons.
One, because he didn’t want to have to accept anything from you, it would only had fuel to a fire that Logan knew he couldn’t put out once burnt too brightly. Two, was to kill any glamorizations you had for being with someone of his age. He was an old man, despite being a fucking killing machine, he was an old man. All he wanted to do was drink, smoke, fight a bit when the time called for it, and sleep, and he really could not fit a little girlfriend into that schedule, nor could he rob you of what you wanted and deserved with someone your own age instead of him.
Logan was starting to come to the conclusion that you probably weren’t as smart as he thought you were.
Because unfortunately, you don’t stop there.
For about an entire month, the weeks are filled with you constantly knocking on the door. It slowly goes from you bringing treats on your Friday nights with Logan, to you popping up on various days thought out the week instead.
Logan quickly learns that your love language is food, and you show that by constantly trying to feed him.
First it was the cookies, then you were knocking on his door way too early in the morning, beaming with a bright smile as you shoved a container of breakfast sandwiches into his naked chest.
“These are for you! I made enough for both you and Wade” you smile brightly, plump bottom lip tugged beneath your teeth as you give him a wave before he can deny the food or give it back.
After that, you were dropping off lunch for him. He wasn’t entirely sure how you were doing it, but you managed to always knock whenever Wade wasn’t around, most likely because the two of you were so close you had Wade’s schedule practically memorized, which meant that you were forcing Logan to interact with you whether he liked it or not.
“I’m off to work and I made too much! I hope you like spaghetti” you giggle softly before giving him another one of your signature waves, skipping off down the hallway to leave for work, once again leaving Logan dumbfounded as he stares down at the Tupperware of warm food in his hands.
It was getting to the point where you were practically keeping both him and Wade fed almost completely, rarely failing to share the food you’d made for yourself with them, and always sprinkling in some of your freshly baked pastries and desserts throughout all of that.
The worst part about it? Logan isn’t sure he’s ever had anything so tasty in his entire life.
You seriously knew what the hell you were doing behind a stove or at the oven, and it almost pissed Logan off to admit how much he appreciated the literal meal plan you’d set up for him.
As much as he likes it though, Logan could see exactly what accepting all of this was doing.
He saw it in the way that you’d linger longer and longer every time you dropped something off. What was once a shy little smile and a quick goodbye had now turned into you going into lengthy rants about work or the latest recipe you were stuck on, which Logan found himself always sticking around and listening to despite the fact that he rarely spoke.
That alone made your eyes twinkle, and he could hear how quickly it made your heart beat every time he leaned against the opposite side of the door from you, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he prepared himself for the words that would come out of your mouth on that day.
Logan gave an inch, and you took a mile, and that was the problem. Any attention he gave, he knew you’d take to the extreme, looking far too deep into the details of him being slightly less of an asshole that he usually was.
And on a night where Logan was laying in his bed, his mind replaying the countless times you’d stood at his door to give him food, using it all as an excuse to talk to him for a few minutes and get his attention on you, he knew it was time to cut you down from the root, and stop any dreams you had of the two of them ever amounting to anything more than next door neighbors.
He knew you’d be back eventually, it was only a matter of time until you were back with your latest meal for him. He found himself reciting what he’d say to you over and over again, cementing it into his brain as he pressed his palms against the island top one morning, eyes staring off into space as he mindlessly grabbed his coffee and took a sip.
knock knock knock!
The sound is familiar and it practically haunts Logan in his fucking dreams, the soft sound of your fists rapping against the door. He sighs softly because he knows you’re behind it, big bright smile on your face as you hold god knows what in your hands to gift to him.
“Morning Logan!” You beam, bright eyed and bushy tailed as you give him a small wave before you look down at the container before stretching your arms out to hand to him.
“You seemed interested last time I mentioned that breakfast quesadilla recipe I was working on…and I think I got it!” You’re so excited, and Logan lets out a soft sigh as he eyes you carefully before he pushes his hand gently against the container so that it’s back against your chest.
“I…look kid….I don’t…” his words trail off, feeling bad as you simply stare up at him with those big eyes and that happy smile, looking at him as if he’s the only person you want to see right now, waiting for him to say whatever it is he can’t do.
“You’ve gotta stop this” he tries to reason with you, his forearm pressed against the top of the door as he stares down at you.
You furrow your eyebrows as you watch him, shaking your head a bit as your voice goes low. “I….what?” Your voice trembles a bit, because you know what’s happening, you’ve been here before. You’ve gotten yourself into this same fucked up mess of liking someone so much that you couldn’t even see that they didn’t like you back, going on a power trip of showering them with so much affection that you didn’t even realize they’d been trying to stop you from the very beginning.
It was happening again.
Logan knows that he can’t let you down easy. You’re too sweet, too understanding, and he knows that if he isn’t blunt with you, giving you the harsh truth, that you’ll just feed into the nice things that he says rather than looking at the bigger picture.
So he sighs, looking over your head for a moment before he finally looks back down at you.
“You’re just…you’re not my kind of girl, alright? Someone like you, could never be with someone like me and that just is the way it is….so quit it with the food deliveries, alright?” He’s stern, speaking to you like a child who refuses to listen, voice growing louder and rougher as he towers over you.
“There’s nothing you can make for me or do for me that will make me want you” He adds salt to the wound with that one, wanting his words to get through to you loud and clear
Logan knows it’s already coming, those big eyes filling with tears that make your eyes shimmer like swimming pools, mouth opening and closing as you struggle to find the words to respond with before you give a slight nod, quickly looking away once the tears spill out into your cheeks, your hands coming up to wipe them away roughly.
“I…fuck…I’m sorry..” is all you say before you quickly rush away from the door, mortified as you open your own apartment door and slam it behind you, the sound making Logan groan softly before he closes his own door.
Of course you apologized. Here he was, crushing your dreams for his own sake and you fucking apologized. It only further cemented how wrong you and him were if he were to ever give you a chance, you were too good, too nice, and Logan could only hope that you found someone else who could give you what you wanted and what you deserved.
As for him? He wanted to focus on the relief he’d soon feel settle in now that he didn’t have to face you every other day anymore. He could only hope that you little stunts would come to a halt after all of this.
Logan doesn’t really have to hope for you to not come around, because he doesn’t see you for a long time after that.
At first he assumed it would just be a day or two until you were back for Wade, the two of you never going long without at least chatting in the hallway for a quick recap of your day or your week, however it’s the end of the week and neither Logan nor Wade have heard from you at all.
There are no knocks at the door, no more pastries or yummy meals with your name written all over them, it’s almost as if you don’t even live in the same complex anymore.
And when that Friday rolls around and you never show up either? Logan knows he’s fucked up.
Logan is thankful that Wade isn’t too freaked out over you being absent that week, seeing as he’d explain that this wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary for you. Although Logan knew what it was that pushed you away from the apartment, he was more than willing to let Wade believe work had drained you a bit more than usual that week, pulling you away from him.
By the third week though? Wade is pissed.
It’s Friday night, and he’s pacing the living room in front of Logan, his arms crossed as he shakes his head.
“I don’t get it! She’s only ever gone two weeks without coming by and that’s because she had a cold, and she told me! I haven’t heard from her in so long, I feel like I’m a fucking military wife waiting for her husband to write her back!” Wade whined out, desperate for an answer behind your disappearance.
Logan couldn’t even look at Wade, guilt eating away at him as his fingers wrapped around the ice beer bottle in his hand, simply letting the man walk around searching for answers when the reason behind his friends absence was sitting right in front of him.
“Fuck this. If she wants to stop being my friend she’s going to have to man the fuck up and tell me herself. Im going over there myself” he huffs out in annoyance, moving towards the front door.
Logan is on his feet before Wade can make it any further, stepping between him and the door as he shakes his head.
He knew that what happened needed to come from him, not you.
“Slow down…I…I know why she’s not coming around anymore” Logan makes out slowly, his words makes Wade raise his eyebrows.
“Anymore? What the fuck did you do, kill her or something??” Wade’s eyes are wide, and it makes Logan roll his eyes at the dramatics before he shoves him over towards the couch.
“Go sit down” he orders before he follows behind, singing softly as he sits next to Wade, avoiding his eyes as he speaks.
“She was coming around a lot and I…I didn’t want her getting the wrong idea so…I just…I told her she needed to stop” Logan shrugged nonchalantly as he gave a horrible retelling of what happened between the two of you.
Wade on the other hand, knew you very well, and he knew that you were probably the most understanding person on the entire fucking planet, so Logan had to probably say some fucked up shit to make you avoid them like the fucking plague, so bad that he probably made you-
“You fucking idiot. You made her cry, didn’t you” Wade visibly gets angry when he comes to this conclusion, making Logan snap his head in his direction quickly because how the fuck did he come to that conclusion so quickly?
“I…so you did talk to her?” Logan questions carefully, his words making Wade groan loudly as he stands up, pressing his face in his hands.
“You are….oh my god you are probably the dumbest person I have ever fucking met. Charles Xavier would be very ashamed of this behavior Logan!” Wade practically sobbed before he shook his head once again.
“You do realize she’s just a girl, right? She’s not some villainous asshole trying to do experiments on you or something. A simple ‘I’m not interested’ would have sufficed” Wade groans out in annoyance before he walks back towards the door.
“I am going to try and save one of the only friendships I have, and leave you here to think about how you are going to save ours, because after this stunt I am not sure I will ever let you touch me again” he huffs out softly before whipping his head away from him in disgust before he swings the door open, slams it shut and leaves to your apartment, leaving Logan there by himself.
Wade’s words echo in his head, making him realize that you really are just a girl, a girl who had an innocent crush that he brutally stepped on and smashed into a thousand little pieces when he could have easily told you he wasn’t interested in you.
Logan hated it, but he felt guilty.
He’s happy to hear that you and Wade were able to mend things together, the two of you opting to spend weekends in your home rather than his from now on, leaving Logan to the peace and quiet that he’d always wanted.
Although, it isn’t what he wanted, it isn’t what he wanted at all because he finds that he’s missing something. He’s missing the smell of your cookies or cinnamon rolls or whatever the fuck it is that you bring over, he’s missing the sound of yours and Wade’s laugh across the way as he tries to sleep, and he especially misses the little front door chats you and him would share whenever you stopped by for him.
Because over the course of the time that he’d lived there, he’d see you at least once every week, your bright smile filling his days and making him feel warm inside.
But now the last memory he had of you was you crying in front of him before running away.
Logan tries to drown out those annoying thoughts as he usually does, with alcohol. He comes home drunk on a Saturday night, stumbling in through the front door as he tugs off his leather jacket, kicks off his boots and stumbles into his bedroom to fall face first into his bed.
He’s able to forget about you for a bit, annoyed that your pretty face had been plaguing him for days on end. Right now he just wants to sleep and enjoy the warm floaty feeling that comes with a good cup of-
“Oh my god” Logan makes out the faint sound of your voice through the thin walls of the apartment.
He realized the first night he’d moved in that his bedroom was adjacent to yours when he was going to sleep and he could hear you shuffling about your bedroom.
Every night he’d hear little things, sometimes he’d hear the small sound of your music while you got ready, or he’d hear you giggling softly to someone as you spoke to them on the phone, he’d even heard a loud thud followed by an annoyed groan from you, which he could only assume was you stubbing your toe or running into something.
Logan had heard you a lot, and while most times he was too drunk or tired to ignore it, the sounds he was hearing now were….they were foreign for you. He’d never heard your voice pitched that way, high and whiny…he wondered if you were okay, were you crying?
“Fuck…fuck!”
There it was again.
It had Logan frowning as he turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as he squinted a bit, straining to hear more of what was going on.
“That’s it baby…so good for me…” another voice groaned out, muffled and lower, too deep to have been your own. That, paired with a slow rhythmic thumping, and Logan wasn’t confused anymore.
You were getting fucked.
Logan tried very hard not to think about you this way, splayed out on a bed in front of him, eyes red and glossy as you beg for him to give you more, needy for any sort of attention that he'd give you. He knew that you were something he couldn't feed into...
Because he knew he'd like it too much.
Yet here you were, moaning so pretty for another fucking man with a bit of dry wall separating the two of you, and it was making Logan's head spin.
His chest swelled with different emotions, anger, annoyance, jealousy, envy.....
Lust
You sounded so fucking pretty, and as much as he hated that it was someone else making you feel that way, subjecting him to a fucking audio porno, he couldn't deny the tent that was growing in his jeans.
Logan groaned softly as he propped himself up, eyes low as he stared down at his throbbing cock through his jeans, begging to be touched, begging to take the place of the idiot that was in your bed making you moan like that.
Another loud moan rumbled through the walls, making Logan's eyes flutter shut and roll to the back of his head as he took in your noises.
He wondered how you'd sound for him, what you would say, if you would beg for him. God, you probably sounded so fucking good when you begged, so pretty, so fucking sweet for him. You were so eager for him, so eager to please, there was no doubt in Logan's mind that you would be the perfect girl for him.
You were practically begging him for it the weeks prior.
His hand made its way to his jeans, undoing his belt and popping them open before tugging his cock out, hissing softly as he laid back, head resting against the pillow as his fist wrapped around his length, slowly working on his sensitive skin as he let his mind travel to more thoughts of you as your moans sang him the symphony that matched perfectly with it.
His fist moved up and down over his length, spreading his precum as he thought about what you'd taste like, how you'd feel pressed against his tongue while he did just this. He imagined you'd taste perfect, the best pussy he's ever had if you'd ever let him.
Another string of moans makes its way into his bedroom, and it has him bucking his hands up into his fists, growing closer as he chases his orgasm to the sound of your voice.
Logan felt like a fucking pervert, stroking his cock while you were getting fucked by someone else right next door. That could have easily been him had he not fucked things up with you royally, he thought.
"Im gonna cum..." you mewl out, Logan can practically hear the pathetic little pout on your lips as you announce it, and he can't stop himself from groaning out softly as he bites back a moan in fears that you'll hear him too.
"Me too baby..." He growls out between gritted teeth.
He's fucking his hand at this point, the sounds of your moans and visions of you under him driving him closer to where he needed to go, he finally cums when he hears you moan loudly, knowing that was it. Thick ribbons of his pearly cum fly out of him, making the man sigh softly as he slowly rides out his orgasm with a few strong strokes from his hand.
Logan is old and gross and truly can't be bothered with the clean up, so he opts to grab a nearby t shirt and clean himself off before he tugs his jeans off, tosses them into the corner with the rest of his clothes and turns onto his side, pulling his pillow over his ears in fears of you and that jackass going another round while he sleeps.
He wants to sleep before embarrassment can take over, because he knows what he's done is beneath pathetic. He would much rather deal with it all in the morning.
Because despite how embarrassed he feels, he needs to orchestrate some sort of plan to speak to you.
Logan knew that getting you to talk to him was not going to be an easy feat. You ran from him any time you two ended up in the hallway together, and you made it a point to never be in the same place with him for two long.
So he had to be smart with this, and he needed a full proof way to get you to speak for him for more than a few seconds.
He figured trying to convince you as himself was a lost cause, there was no way you would even give him the time of day to ask for a bottle of water let alone talk to you about his feelings.
However, you would most definitely listen to him if he were Wade.
Now, Wade most definitely would not do this for Logan. There was no way in hell Wade would risk your feelings for that, he was way too protective over you for that. He was weary of Logan when it came to you now, and rarely brought you up unless Logan asked....
Which he did quite a bit now.
He was able to snag Wade's phone while he was taking a shower, getting ready for one of his little dates with Vanessa (they were going to meet up at a bar and then fuck the entire weekend).
Logan had limited time, because Wade was already on Rewrite the Stars off The Greatest Showman soundtrack, so he had to work fast.
He stood outside of the bathroom with the door cracked to swiftly put the phone back when he was done, the man groaning in annoyance as he clicked through Wade's endless screens of stupid games with clickbait-y ads that are designed to lure children in to find his messages.
When he finally finds them, he's quick to click the icon with a picture of you and Wade and the contact name angel baby.
Logan knew he had to put on his best Wade impression for this, so he inhales deeply before his fingers slowly tap across the screen.
me: Hey baby cakes! Wolvie's gone for the night, vanderpump at mine? Like old times?
angel baby: Hi! You sure? I don't mind doing it here!
me: I have wayyyy better drinks here. See you soon!
angel baby: fineee I'll be there after work
Logan lets out a breath he was holding for what felt like forever before he quickly slips Wade's phone back into the bathroom on the sink counter, closing the door slowly before rushing out of there to make himself seem as casual as possible.
Wade is out about twenty minutes later, a clear pep in his step. It makes Logan chuckle softly, bringing his beer to his lips as he nods towards his roommate. "Hot date tonight huh?" Logan hums out.
Wade hums softly as he nods, biting his bottom lip as he gives Logan an excited smile. "You bet I do. I am getting laid tonight buddy, I refuse to be the roommates that everyone thinks fuck...unless" his words trail off as he gives Logan a look, wiggling his eyebrows (or lack there of) as he opens his hands and gives him a little spin, shaking his ass at the end.
Logan chuckles as he puts a hand up. "Im good" He refuses before taking another sip of his beer, watching as Wade reaches down to grab a shot glass and a bottle of tequila, pouring some out for himself as he throws it back. "Liquid courage how I love you...its your loss man. I'll go give myself to a woman who actually knows how to fuck" He nods to himself before pouring out another shot, throwing it back and giving Logan a wave as he makes his way to the front door.
"See ya Monday Wolvie!" He chirps out as he leaves with a peace sign, his antics making Logan chuckle softly as his eyes drift over to the bottle off tequila.
He could use some of that with having to face you.
Logan sighs as he gets up, pouring himself a shot and throwing it back before he pours one more and throws that back before he tosses the bottle back into its reserved cupboard, moving to the couch to wait for your inevitable arrival.
knock knock knock!
It comes almost an hour later, the sound making Logans heart seize up, recognizing the familiar knock as if it were his own fucking heartbeat. He inhales deeply, stopping by a nearby mirror and checking himself out before he exhales deeply, moving to open the door.
"I'm a little late! I had to stop at the store to get the proper necessities-" Your words are cut off when you finally look up to see Logan instead of Wade, your face dropping as your mouth hangs open for a moment.
Logan want's to die just from that look in your eyes because you look fucking terrified, you even go as far as taking a step back as you give a nervous laugh.
"Oh...sorry Logan..is umm...is Wade around? He told me to come over..." You quickly explain, quickly fearing that the man will have more mean words for you for knocking on his door again.
It breaks Logan's heart because you don't have that twinkle in your eye anymore, nor do you have that excited smile on your pretty face when you see him and it makes him feel sick to his stomach.
"No he actually just left, you just missed him" He explains with a shrug and a soft apologetic smile.
You clear your throat awkwardly as you nod slowly. "Uhh...No worries! He probably had something to do....could you maybe tell him I was here when you see him? Sorry for bothering you" You mumble out before giving him a tightlipped smile and an awkward wave before you sigh, turning to leave at that.
Bothering him? God, he had really fucked up, hadn't he?
"Wait!" Logan calls out, stepping out into the hallway to catch you before you've made it into your own apartment.
You turn to face him, raising your eyebrows at the man. He groans softly as he stares at you for a moment before he looks back into the apartment, inhaling deeply as he remembered Wade's words
She's just a girl.
"I don't uh...know much about that Vanderpump thing but...I'm not busy, if you wanted someone to watch with tonight?" He sighs out sheepishly, giving you a small smile.
You stare at him for a moment, a soft frown on your lips as you clutch your snacks closer to your chest, using them as somewhat of a shield for your poor heart. You couldn't trust Logan, and you weren't sure if your heart could take anymore of the mean things that he said to you.
"You don't have to pity me or anything....I'm not a child, Logan" You explain to him, voice small and quiet as your frown deepens, your hand coming down to grip your door knob as you let out another sigh.
"Have a goodnight..." You try your best to end it, and it makes Logan groan softly as he quickly rushes towards you, putting his large hand over yours on the doorknob, stopping you from opening it further.
The sudden closeness makes your eyes widen, staring up at the man as his large hand squeezes over yours, the feeling making your heart flutter with excitement.
“I….please….let me makeup for being such a dick the last time we spoke…you deserve it” he nodded, eyes staring deeply into yours as he gives your hand one more squeeze.
You swallow nervously as you stare up at him, hating how warm you feel with him being so close, especially after he was so fucking mean to you all those weeks ago.
You sigh softly before your hand slowly falls from your doorknob, giving Logan a small nod.
“Yeah….okay” you agree with him before you look over to the opened door of his apartment, giving the man a small smile.
“Lead the way Wolvie” you tease him gently, the sound of your playful voice making Logan chuckle softly with you as he sighs in relief, leading you back to his apartment.
Logan can kiss his lucky stars over the fact that you actually agreed to coming back to the apartment with him. Wade was right when he said you’re the must understanding person on the planet.
He finds it hard to focus on the show when you’re this close to him, head resting against the back of the couch as you babysit a bag of sour patch, giggling softly whenever one of the insufferable Los Angeles characters complain about their boyfriend of their girlfriend cheating on them with someone else in their friend group.
It’s hard to focus when you’re this close to him, because he’s never been with you this way before.
You had been on Logan’s mind almost 24/7 since he first met you, and now that he had you with him alone, he didn’t know how to talk to you or how to interact with you. He felt nervous that he would open his mouth and say something stupid.
To sum it up, he was almost 200 years old yet a 20 something year old girl knew how to communicate her feelings better than he did.
You hum softly as you finally look up at him, pouting softly at how stiff the man looked in your presence. "You alright Logan? We can watch something else if you want" You hum out softly as you move to sit criss crossed on the couch, turning your body to face his.
Logan shakes his head as he reaches for the remote, knowing that he would not be able to focus with the sound of three Californian girls fighting over a man named Todd. "Let's talk for a bit....I wanna get to know you more" Logan sighed out softly as he turned to face you a bit more as well, watching as your face beams with excitement over his interest in you.
"Im an open book....what do you wanna know?" You open up as you take a sip of your beer, giving Logan a soft smile.
That was all it really took for you and Logan to actually hit it off, the mans anxiety melting away at the thought of talking to you once he realized how easy going you were. He was able to learn so much about you within the hours that you and him spoke, and before he knew it, it was almost 2 in the morning and you two had been talking since around 9.
"College sucks...Im literally either there or at the bar....its why I find nights with Wade so important" You sighed softly as you explained, your face falling as you pouted a bit.
Logan smiled fondly at you, the many easily seeing how you wore your feelings on your face, you were so expressive, so clear with how you were feeling and open with your emotions.
You truly were an open book.
Logan licked his lips as he brought his beer to his lips, taking a sip as he watched you carefully. Something burned inside of him. something that desperately wanted to grill you about what it was he heard that night through the wall, who it was you were with, if you were still seeing him or not.
"Yeah? Any time for dating then?" He hums out, pink tongue darting out of his mouth to lick his lips as he settles back into the couch. One of his legs were trapped along the couch, caging you in as the other rested on the floor, knee bent as his hand rested on it, legs spread right in front of you.
His question catches you off guard, eyes widening a bit as you try to register if he's asked the question that you think he asked, and if he is, does he mean it in a friendly way?
He has to, right? A man doesn't tell you that he doesn't want you just to grill you about your love life.
You inhale deeply as you try to find the right words to say, wondering how deep you should get into the current state of your love life.
You give Logan a shrug as you take a sip of your beer. "I try....my love life is in shambles though....I truly can't remember the last time I had a decent date" You frown, your words honest as you scrunch your nose in disgust as you think back to the horrible men you've dated.
Logan raises his eyebrows in disbelief at your words before he nods slowly, taking a sip of his drink before he sighs. "Mm...the things I heard through the walls would beg to differ Princess" Logan shoots back without a second thought.
Your eyes widen as you think back to a few nights ago, throwing your head back as you find yourself cringing in embarrassment over the fact that Logan had fucking heard you.
"You heard that? Logan oh my god that is....that is so disgusting on my end I am so sorry, I promise it won't happen again" You ramble, making a mental note to never fuck in your bedroom again as long as Logan was living across from you.
You were going to be having shower sex only.
Logan chuckles softly as he shakes his head, holding his hands up in defense before he speaks. "Oh no need, you sounded like you were having quite the time....don't stop on my account" He smirks at you.
Knowing that you had not the slightest inkling that he was stroking his cock to the very sound of you getting fucked.
You groan softly as you take a healthy swig of your drink, Logan watching closely before he hums out once more.
"New boyfriend?" he questions again, eyes growing darker as he uses the conversation as a gateway into more important things.
You scoff softly as you shake your head. "God no....he's just a guy from my psych class....we met at a party and he took me home and...im sure I can spare you the gory details" You giggle softly before you sigh, moving to rest your head against the back of the couch as you watch the man across from you.
Logan nods slowly, bottom lip tugged beneath his teeth as he listens to you before he speaks.
"Just a guy hum....interesting" Logan nods slowly as he tosses back the rest of his beer before he sets the empty bottle down on the coffee table in front of the both of you, strong hands resting along his denim clad thighs, eyes never leaving yours.
"Forgot about me already baby?" he drawls out, voice low and gruff, dripping with lust as he watches you closely for your reaction.
His tone and words make you perk up, breath hitching in your throat as you face the man completely. His words shoot straight down to your core, making you swallow back a whine as you stare at him with a dumfounded expression.
"I....Logan..." You sigh out softly, your hands resting on your knees and balling into fists as you physically try to stop yourself from doing something you knew you couldn't do.
Logan chuckles softly as he shrugs. "It's true....you forgot all about me princess....it's okay though, I deserve it don't I?" he questions, watching as you silently watch him from across the couch.
When you don't answer, he's quick to pull it out of you. "Answer me baby" His demand makes you flinch softly and you quickly nod before you respond.
"Yeah...you did deserve it..." You agree with him.
Logan nods with you, a soft hum leaving his lips as he watches you. "I did...was so mean to you and you were just being the sweetest thing to me..." He hums softly, watching as you slowly grow softer for him with every word he spoke.
"It's alright baby....did he at least make you cum? I heard you, you know....when you said you were there? sounded so pretty...." He groans softly, a prominent tent forming in his jeans at the mere thought of your moans.
He's shocked when he hears a tiny one leave your lips, your eyes shooting down to his growing cock. It makes him smirk softly, pride filling his chest as he moves his hand down to palm himself before he nods at you.
"Eyes up here baby...thats it..." He nods slowly when he finally has his eyes back on yours.
"Now...answer my question" He urges you once more, his voice deliciously low and gravely, the sound making you squirm in your spot on the couch.
You inhale deeply before you shake your head. "I faked it..." You mumble under your breath, fighting the embarrassment that threatened to creep up your spine.
Logan felt like he had died and gone to heaven.
Because not only were you here with him, but that idiot that got the chance to be with you couldn't even make you cum properly...which only left more room for him to come in and do the job properly.
"You poor thing....I was afraid of that..." He groaned softly before he pat his hand along his lap, calling you over to him.
"C'mere peach...let daddy show you how a real man is supposed to make you feel..." He hummed out softly.
It was all you needed to come crawling over to him like a bitch in heat.
You moaned softly once you were settled down in his lap, either one of your plush thighs straddling his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as you stared down at him with needy eyes, bottom lip tugged between your teeth.
Logan groaned softly, strong hands coming down to grip your waist, tugging you closer as he leaned in, pressing his nose against your collar bone and growling at how fucking good you smelled.
"Atta girl....go on then baby, give daddy a kiss..." He ordered once more.
You wasted no time in pressing your lips to his, moaning softly into his mouth as you tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck.
You're so...fucking sweet, and sugary, and the dulcet sounds of your moans drives Logan absolutely insane, the older man gripping your waist tightly as he pushes his tongue into your mouth, tainting you for anyone who ever dares to kiss you after he has.
Logan groans into the kiss when he feels you rocking your hips back and forth, grinding your pussy against his bulge.
"Needy huh? Want daddy to help you baby? Yeah?" He groans out, your forehead resting against his as you nod, breathing heavily as you continue grinding down onto his bulge.
Logan chuckles softly as he nods, his hand going around your middle before he flips you around, tugging you down so that your back is pressed against his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder as he hums softly.
His hands trail down your body slowly, the little top you have on has a tie at the front, one that if Logan so much as flicks, will come undone. It makes him smirk softly as he takes one of the strings between his thumb and pointer finger, tugging at it slowly until your boobs bounce free, making him hiss softly.
"Fuck, look at that....such a pretty girl...." His hands look so rough along your soft skin, calloused fingers running along either one of your tits, cupping and massaging them delicately before he brings your nipples into his finger, twisting them slightly before he goes back to cupping them all over again.
You're so sensitive, so responsive to his touch. Your hand goes up to cup your hand over his thats working on your boobs, your hips bucking up into nothing as your other hand goes up and around Logan to hold onto his head.
"Logan...please..." You moan softly, your words making Logan smirk softly as he nods, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.
"Im here baby....just enjoying all of you first" He explains before his hands go down your body.
Soon enough, he's unbuttoning your denim jeans, one of his hands coming up to raise your hips as he tugs them off your legs with your panties in one swift move before tossing them somewhere else in the living room.
Logan lets out a low gasp when his neck cranes down against your shoulder to look down at the mess between your legs, his strong hands creeping down to where you need him the most, your own hands pressing against his thigh.
"Fuck princess....so wet already....all this for me?" He hums out softly.
Either of his hands go down between your legs, pressing right against either one of your lips as he massages you softly, the feeling making your eyes roll back as your head falls against Logan's shoulder.
He smirks softly, his head coming down to attach his lips to your neck as one of his hands comes up to hold your hips down, pressing you flush against his body whilst the other starts rubbing your clit slowly.
"Such a good girl...letting daddy apologize for being so mean...thats it baby...fuck...thats it...." He urges you on further as his skilled fingers slowly works on your clit, your moans like music to his ears as he gives you exactly what you needed.
"Daddy...im....fuck....don't stop" You whine softly, gripping his wrist as he continues playing with your pussy, the feeling making your eyes roll. You're damn near drooling and all the man is doing is rubbing your clit for you.
It makes Logan chuckle softly, his fingers speeding up as his lips unlatch from your neck so he's able to look down at you, not wanting to miss the fucked out state of bliss written all over your face that's coming to you all because of him.
"Come on baby....cum all over your daddy's fingers, give it to me princess" He growls, picking up the pace as he begins grinding his hard on into your ass from behind, matching the way your hips roll to chase the rhythm of his fingers.
You're squirming so much at this point, a moaning mess as Logan holds you down by your hip, forcing you to take what he gives you, not giving you the chance to run away from the pleasure he so desperately wants to give to you.
"Oh my god! Im gonna fu-ahhh!" You moan loudly, back arching off of Logans chest as you cum hard all over his fingers.
Logan moans with you, watching in awe as you become a puddle of nothing but moans and gasps as you come down from your high, his fingers working slowly on your swollen pussy as your arousal drools out onto his fingers, forcing them to slip around and lose their place as he works on you.
"That's a good girl...thats daddy's good fucking girl....thats it....im right here baby...daddys gotchu" He praises you, soft whines and moans leaving your lips as his rough hands move from your pussy to instead run along your body, holding you, massaging you, making it known that he was indeed there with you.
It takes a few minutes for you to catch your breath properly, when you do, you finally feel Logans very large bulge pressing into your ass.
He's too busy pressing kisses along your throat and jaw, working his way up to your cheek and the corner of your lips to make sure you were there with him and comfortable.
"Logan..." You mumble softly before you roll your hips down against his cock, your eyes locking with his as you stare up at him with a needy glint in yours.
Logan raises his eyebrows at your actions, holding onto your hips as he guides you to grind down onto his lap.
"You want daddy's cock baby? Is that it?" He questions, his words alone making you moan softly as you nod, your hand coming up and tugging his head down to press against your lips.
"Please fuck me daddy..." You moan against him, pushing your tongue into his mouth as you swallow his groans.
He nods against you, silently reaching between the two of you to undo the button to his jeans and pulling his cock out, tongue playing with yours as he sits you both up a bit before he grabs both of your thighs, lifting you up and making you gasp softly.
"Don't worry princess...Daddy's got you..." he assures you before he slowly sinks you down onto his cock.
Both of you moan softly in unison, his length filling you up completely, making your eye roll back as as he settles you down onto his lap.
"Logan...L-Lo...you're so big...fuck" You gasp out, struggling to even form words properly as Logan's arms wraps around your waist, holding you close against his chest as he slowly starts to fuck up into you.
"You can take it baby...fuck...such a tight little pussy...so fuckin' good for me...takin' me so well angel" Logan growled against you, lips pressed against your back as he found a steady rhythm in fucking you.
You're a moaning mess. Logan is so big, and he fills you up so well, better than anyone ever has, and it makes you feel like you'll fucking cry because of how good it feels.
Logan growls every time your pussy tightens around him, wrapping him up and keeping him so warm. He’s forgotten how fucking good it feels to be this close to someone, hearing such pretty moans….
Logan thinks he could get used to this….
Logan thinks he could get used to you.
“Come on baby….give it to me…cum all over my fuckin cock” He urges you, wanting nothing more than to feel your pretty pussy spasm on his length.
You gasp softly, struggling to hold your head up as he defiles you from down below, making a mess of your pussy as he pounds into you like a wild fucking animal, the feeling foreign to anything you’ve ever experienced for. He’s like a machine, and his skilled cock as your head spinning.
“Daddy…daddy I…I can’t…you’re gonna make me cum-“ your words are cut off by just that, a loud shriek ripping through your lungs as you cum hard all over Logan’s cock just like he asked of you.
“That’s my fuckin’ girl, fuck yeah…you want Daddy to cum inside you baby? Yeah? Want Daddy to fill up this pretty pussy?” He growls out, his own eyes fluttering shut at the mere thought of cumming inside your pussy, filling you up and making him as your own.
You’re nodding like an idiot, all dumb and cock drunk as the pleasure fades and the overstimulation takes place, making your mind fuzzy and the world around you dull, the only thing you’re able to focus on being Logan.
“Please…want you to cum inside Daddy….wanna be yours” you moan out softly, your eyes rolling back as you allow Logan to continue fucking up into you mercilessly, turning your brain into mush with every thrust.
“All mine baby…all Daddy’s…fuck…that’s it baby…let daddy fill up this little pussy….fuckfuckfuck” Logan growls out, his moans strangled as he pulls you down roughly onto his lap, his cock twitching with every spurt of cum, painting your insides with his seed as his large hands press your sweaty body flush against his.
You both sit there like that for quite a while, his hands massaging your skin, thumbs rubbing small circles into your abdomen as you both try to catch your breath, the come down sucking all of the energy out of both of you while you enjoy the warmth of being connected to one another.
After a moment passes, you’re finally the one to break the silence, a gentle smirk on your face as you turn around a bit to face Logan.
“So….I guess it’s safe to say I am your type of girl after all?” You tease the man as you recall the words he’d said to you all those weeks ago.
It makes Logan groan softly as he cringes at himself, finally giving in and resting his chin against your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as he nods.
“Yeah….I guess you are princess…”
#wolverine#wolverine smut#logan howlett#logan howlett smut#wolverine x reader#wolverine x you#wolverine x y/n#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett x you#deadpool wolverine#wolverine angst#logan howlett angst
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Post tenebras lux
Summary: You are gifted to Lucius as a reward for his prowess in the arena. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 5.9 K Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Heavy angst with a HEA, dubious consent (reader and Lucius are coerced into having sex), public sex (PIV and f receiving), mentions of spousal death, and brief descriptions of blood/injuries from combat in the arena. A/N: I futzed with the timeline in this fic. Instead of coming home after conquering Numidia General Acacius is sent out on another campaign for the emperors. Also, fun fact — the Romans considered oral sex taboo. A HUGE thanks to @aliensupastar, my beloved B, @clairewritesandrambles, @ryebecca, and @faebirdie for their help with the fic. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.
Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist
The warm steam of the bath clings to the air, thick and heavy, as you move past the large pools where gladiators soak and laugh. Their rough voices fill the humid air and the afternoon sun filters through the open atrium, casting a muted, golden glow across the water. None of the men bother you as you make your way to the quiet alcove at the far end of the room. If Lucius's reputation in the arena hadn’t been enough to keep them away, the man whose hand he took for daring to touch you certainly was.
You’d learned quickly that in this place violence was power, and your gladiator wielded it well. It was a far cry from your life as a fisherman‘s wife, and then as a slave in Macrinus’s household. When you were gifted to Lucius, you braced yourself for the brutal ways of his world, where strength ruled above all else, and men like him took what they wanted without hesitation. But he never did. Instead, Lucius treated you with something you hadn’t expected: respect and kindness. His touch only ever lingered long enough to offer reassurance, never to claim.
In time you both learned to play your parts to survive. By day, Lucius was the victorious gladiator, and you, his spoil of war. They were roles neither of you had chosen, but ones you took on to survive. The night became your refuge, a time where the weight of your reality could be put aside, if only for a while. Curled around one another on the thin cot the ghosts of your past weren’t silenced but shared through whispered admissions. You could speak of the people you had once been – before Rome twisted you both into something unrecognizable.
Trust came with time. And now, as you approach the alcove where he waits, you can feel some of the tension leave your body. You are safe with Lucius, a thought that would have been absurd to you just months ago.
You shift the small wooden tray — laden with fresh bread, olives, figs, and a jug of strong wine — to your other hip. The soft scrape of your sandals against the stone floor alerts Lucius to your presence. His dark gaze lifts from the water, meeting yours with the quiet intensity that you’ve come to expect. Even in the haze of sweat and steam, his presence is impossible to ignore.
Where others would let their gaze wander lower, drifting toward the rest of his bare form submerged beneath the water, you always look at his face. It‘s there that you find what you seek: the sharp edges of your own pain and anger mirrored in his dark eyes. It’s a reflection of the hurt you carry, of all that Rome took from you both.
“You fought well today,” you say, settling beside the pool, the water lapping at the stone.
The words come easily, practiced—part of the familiar routine you’ve both come to rely on. Though the bath is quiet and you seem to be alone, you know better. You’ve learned the hard way that the walls have ears. Every word, every glance, carries weight here, and even in the relative solitude of this alcove, your interactions could be reported back to Macrinus. Only when you’re hidden away in the cell you share each night can you let the pretense fall away.
Lucius hums in response as he lets his head fall back against the cool stone. His muscled arm rests on the edge of the pool and you offer him a brief, gentle touch before withdrawing. The tension in his frame eases a fraction and his eyes flutter closed, but the sharpness of his presence doesn’t fade. He’s aware of every shift in the air, every sound around him. Even in the quiet comfort of this place, Lucius is never truly off guard.
You pick up a ripe fig, its skin velvety and fragrant, and drag it slowly through the warmed honey. Gently, you bring it to his lips, offering it with a quiet gesture. Lucius sighs—softly, almost imperceptibly—and then his lips part, taking the fruit from your fingers. As he bites into it, you feel the heat of his tongue brush against your skin. You try to ignore the traitorous feeling that springs to life in your belly. That feeling has become a frequent companion, one you never asked for, and one that sits uneasily beside the grief you still carry for your late husband.
“You must eat too,” Lucius commands. “You will need your strength for later.”
His rough words carry no real threat, but you react like they do, tucking your chin to your chest in a subtle gesture of submission. At times, it feels like a performance—like you're both actors on a stage, with an unseen audience watching every move. You eat in silence until the tray is bare and the goblet empty. When he rises from the pool, water cascading from his sun-kissed skin, you reach for the fresh robe laid carefully over the stone bench.
“Do you wish…” you begin, lifting your eyes to Lucius, only to falter at his expression. His eyes flicker briefly past you, and then, just as swiftly, return. He gives no warning before he pulls you forward and drags you into the water. Your cry of surprise is swallowed by the splash your bodies make as ripples spread outward. The wet robes cling to you like a heavy second skin and you sink deeper into the water.
“I’ll have you here,” Lucius announces loudly. He grasps your biceps and easily forces you to straddle him. Your face shields his from the outside world. His expression softens and even as his lips part to speak, you shake your head, stopping him before the words can leave his mouth.
You understand, without needing to hear it. The two of you are no longer alone.
He leans back, arms stretched along the edge of the bath. “Ride me,” he commands.
You struggle out of the heavy outer robe and your knuckles unwittingly brush over his abdomen. Lucius tenses beneath you. You offer him a quiet apology before withdrawing and rising to your knees. Your hips shift forward in a facsimile of his request, meeting nothing but a swell of water as you keep a careful distance from his body. He groans and you answer him with a quiet moan of your own. You rise up and down almost mechanically, staring at the chipped stone above his head. His hot breath fans over your neck, the heat of it lingering on your skin. You shudder as a warmth that has nothing to do with the pool gathers under your skin, shame twisting your insides.
Lucius grabs your waist urging you to move faster, and the sounds of his pleasure rise in intensity. The muscles of your thighs protest, burning with effort as you hold the distance between your bodies. The air around you shifts and the murmur of conversation in the other pools begins to fade as the gladiators are drawn in, listening to your performance. The silence grows almost suffocating, but you force yourself to push through the charade. This is just one of many indignities you’ve endured since Rome descended onto the sleepy fishing village you called home. It pales to what could await you if it were gifted to a different gladiator.
“Fuck,” Lucius growls loudly, abruptly stilling your movement to feign his pleasure.
After a beat you gather the courage to look over your shoulder, meeting Viggo’s stare. You tense. Calloused fingertips brush lightly over your jaw, drawing your attention back to Lucius. You stare down at him, taking in the light flush of his dusky cheeks and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His touch lingers for a moment more before his hand disappears beneath the water.
“Use my robe to cover yourself,” he instructs roughly.
It’s then that you realize how transparent your dress has become in the water. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and you slide away, only to freeze when your thigh brushes over an unexpected hardness. Your eyes jump to his and Lucius’s throat bobs, the usual intensity of his features faltering for a brief moment.
"I will fetch more wine," you stammer after a pause, your gaze flicking nervously to Viggo still lingering at the edge of the bath, all too aware that Lucius cannot leave in this state.
Wrapping your arms around your chest, you rise from the pool. The cool air instantly prickles your damp skin. You reach for a robe nearby and pull it around you quickly, grateful for its modesty. Viggo shoots you a brief, assessing glance, but it’s Lucius who commands his attention next.
"Come to admire what isn't yours?" Lucius taunts.
He leans back casually, as though completely unfazed by the situation. It’s effortless the way he slips into his confident, unshakable mask while you hurry away, eager to break the silence and escape the strange weight of the moment.
–
The clang and clash of metal from the arena become a distant hum, fading into the background as you clean the wounds on Lucius's body. Ravi is occupied, tending to the more seriously injured men, so it falls to you to care for your gladiator. You kneel between his thighs and the coarse sand scrapes against the soft skin of your knees. The heat of the day clings to you both, the air thick with the smell of sweat and blood. But beneath it all, there's a scent you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his — a mix of earth and salt that’s oddly comforting.
You gently press a cloth to one of the deeper gashes, cleaning away the blood before you begin stitching the wound. Lucius hisses as you draw the needle through his parted skin, and you glance up at him in concern, but his eyes are closed, his breath steady despite the discomfort. His fingers curl into the edge of the cot, gripping it tightly. You smear the thick, fragrant paste Ravi left over the wound once you’re done.
“You’re getting better at this,” Lucius observes.
“Flesh is not so different from cloth,” you reply.
“A far cry from mending fishing nets,” he says, and for a moment, your eyes meet and you share a small, pained smile.
“And you are a long way from a farm, gladiator,” you acknowledge, shaking your head.
You help him stand, your hands steady as you support his weight, but you pause when you spot Viggo standing in the doorway. Lately, he seems to haunt your every step, his presence a constant shadow. On instinct you shift a little closer to Lucius, your body seeking the reassurance of his proximity just as he draws you near. The subtle movement doesn’t go unnoticed. A small, knowing smile tugs at Viggo’s lips. It’s a look that sends a trickle of unease down your spine.
“Macrinus is entertaining some important guests tomorrow evening, and you are required to attend,” he announces looking at Lucius. “They wish to see a real gladiator up close, to witness your strength and skill firsthand.”
Then, to your surprise, Viggo turns his gaze toward you. “Your presence is also required,” he adds. Although his tone is casual there's an edge to it that makes your stomach tighten.
Lucius doesn’t speak, but his fingers flex against your hip as he considers the other man’s command. You both know there’s little room for refusal when it comes to Macrinus.
“I understand-” you say at the same time Lucius’s voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.
“She is not needed. I alone will attend.”
His gaze never leaves Viggo, and you can see the challenge in his eyes. It’s an attempt to shield you, one you appreciate but understand is futile.
Viggo’s smile remains unchanged. “Macrinus insists.”
The matter is settled and you bow your head, waiting for the other man to leave. Once he is gone you look to Lucius, voice tinged with concern.
“You should not challenge him.”
Lucius steps away, anger rolling off him in waves. “And you should not submit so easily.”
You touch your throat, then turn away to busy yourself with the bloody scraps of cloth and scattered supplies. There’s no point in arguing. You know the truth: that sometimes submission is the only way to survive in a world ruled by men like Macrinus. As you work the silence between you stretches on, thick and charged before Lucius steps toward you.
He sighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck. A moment later, his hand rests on your shoulder. The calloused pads of his fingers graze the nape of your neck, sending a fleeting sense of unexpected longing through you as they briefly sweep over your skin.
“I….” His voice trails off and you close your eyes.
“I know,” you say quietly.
So much of what transpires between you seems left unsaid. You reach back, your hand finding his briefly as the two of you share a quiet moment before he must return to the arena.
–
The bangles on your wrist are heavy and ornate, far too extravagant for a slave. They feel less like adornments and more like shackles. Beside you, Lucius looks equally as uncomfortable in his fine clothes. They’ve trimmed his beard and his tunic—lined with gold thread—glimmers in the dim light. From across the room, Macrinus raises his goblet to the two of you. All around you his guests mingle, sharing hushed conversation and knowing smirks that deepen your discomfort.
The servants, once familiar to you from your time as a slave working in Macrinus's kitchen, all avoid your gaze. You spent years alongside them before you were plucked from that world and thrust into Lucius's service. Their hesitation, the way they look past you, is more than simple discomfort, it’s a warning you don’t yet understand. Your fingers tremble where they rest on Lucius’s arm.
“Something is not right,” you whisper, fear rising in your throat.
Before Lucius can reply, the conversation around you falters, and the air grows still as Macrinus moves to the center of the room. Then, with a sharp clap of his hands, the noise dies completely.
“Our entertainment is about to begin,” he announces, beckoning you forward.
As you approach, his eyes drift between you and Lucius. His smile widens, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “I hope you enjoyed your meal. You’ll both need your strength for the show,” he says.
“I am to fight?” Lucius questions, his voice edged with suspicion.
“No, not today,” Macrinus replies. “My guests are eager for a performance of another kind.”
Your brow furrows and Lucius stares blankly at Macrinus until two servants, moving in unison, pull a table forward. It is laden with the remnants of the earlier feast — half-finished plates, empty goblets, and discarded silverware. They work to clear away the table until it is left bare.
“It is no bed, but it’s finer than your cot,” Macrinus assures.
Lucius jerks back as if struck, his body stiffening in shock while cold dread settles over your shoulder as you both understand Macrinus’s meaning. He watches the small exchange between the two of you with amusement.
“Or, if you prefer not to,” he offers, watching Lucius intently. His voice is smooth with mock consideration as he continues speaking. “I’m sure another gladiator would gladly take your place.”
“No,” Lucius snarls. Before he can move, you dig your nails into his forearm, trying desperately to hold him in place.
Macrinus leans in close, his next words meant only for the two of you. “I expect a good show. Not like that mummer's farce in the bath.”
Ugly surprise washes over you as the full reality of your situation sinks in. Beside you, Lucius shifts and you see the familiar spark in his eyes. It’s the look he gets before a fight when the fire that lives inside him is ready to explode and consume everything in its path. You’ve seen it a thousand times in the arena, and it always ends the same way: with blood.
You almost wish you could let him fight, but you know better. You step closer to Lucius, your presence a quiet plea for him to stop. It takes a moment before he meets your gaze and when he does you see the pain beneath the rage, the knowledge that this moment is slipping beyond his control.
There’s no glory in this—only survival. Yet that truth doesn’t make it any easier to watch the fire in his eyes fade as he steps back. It’s the kind of defeat that no arena or battle could ever impose on him.
“My guests are eager for the show,” Macrinus says and gestures to the table.
You straighten your shoulders, willing your body to follow the courage your mind struggles to summon. Lucius follows with heavy footsteps. You stop before the table, heart pounding, and take a slow, steadying breath to gather your resolve before you turn to face your gladiator. You know the role you’re meant to play, this moment is just another part of the spectacle your life has become.
Without a word, Lucius steps closer and his hands come to rest on your hips, guiding you to sit on the edge of the table. When he moves between your legs, you can’t read his expression. Unexpectedly, one of his large hands cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone. He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Focus on me,” he urges. “It is just us here, no one else matters. Do not think of them. Do not think of anything but me.”
His words are a command and a reassurance all at once, grounding you in the moment even as your pulse quickens.
When he speaks again, his voice is louder, carrying across the room. “Lay back.”
The table is hard and cold beneath you as you follow his instruction, the chill seeping through the thin silks you wear. Lucius pulls you forward until you’re at the very edge, your legs hanging loosely off the sides. Gently, your dress is peeled away until you’re bare to him. His broad frame blocks the crowd from seeing much but you still feel vulnerable and exposed. You curl your fingers into the palms of your hands, trying to remember Lucius’s words as you close your eyes.
The murmurs of the observers increase, and you feel them shift, edging closer. Then, a woman’s gasp cuts through the tension, followed by a wave of hushed surprise that ripples through the gathered Romans. When you open your eyes you can only see the top of Lucius’s head from where he kneels between your thighs. Guilty anticipation zips through you, followed by a spark of heat that flickers low in your stomach at the sudden realization of what he intends to do.
“Barbaric,” a man utters, his voice thick with disdain.
“Now now,” Macrinus says with a slight chuckle. “Remember, our gladiator hails from Numidia. Their customs are not ours."
The first touch from Lucius is barely there, a whisper of contact against your inner thigh, but it grows firmer the higher his fingers climb. Instinctively, you hold your breath, waiting for him to reach the most sacred part of you. At the first touch of his mouth to you, the rest of the world fades away.
Lucius builds your pleasure with slow, steady strokes while his calloused hands knead your thighs. His touch is an anchor and spark all at once. There is little resistance when he curls a finger inside. A second joins the first a moment later and without thought, you thread your fingers into his curls. A long, shuddering moan leaves him, and the vibration tightens the coil in your belly. Lucius’s touch grows rougher and more demanding. He drinks from you like he’s starved for it, as if every drop is the only thing keeping him alive while his fingers work you open.
You come with a throaty cry, your hips leaving the table. Every nerve in your body is alight. You cannot help but hold Lucius against you until the mere brush of his nose against your center makes you quake again, sending waves of warmth through your veins. As much as you want him to stop, you’re desperate for him to continue and keep you in this moment where nothing but the two of you exist.
Lucius pulls away and reality crashes in with starting clarity while the eyes of the crowd cut through you like a thousand sharp edges. Before it all overwhelms you, he climbs onto the table. He lowers himself onto his forearms and the weight of him presses against you.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.
You open your mouth but the words you want to say seem to get caught, trapped somewhere between your chest and your lips. To your surprise, wetness gathers at the corner of your eyes. But even that feels like something you can't fully surrender to. You’re trapped in this strange, painful moment where nothing feels real and everything feels too real all at once. It’s all too much – his tenderness and the horror of the situation.
There’s a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in Lucius’s expression in response, but it’s enough to reveal something beneath the surface and allow you to see the guilt he bears. The lines around his eyes seem to deepen and the tension in his expression makes him look older, wearier, and more vulnerable than you've ever seen him. The desire to soothe him is enough to break the strange spell on you.
"All is well," you assure him, gently brushing your nose against his. “I am no maiden.”
“Fuck her already,” a voice shouts and Lucius pulls back, his handsome face twisting into a snarl. You feel the tension in his muscles, coiling like a spring, ready to snap—and a knot of anxiety tightens in your chest.
You breathe his name, soft and pleading, and he stills, the clench of his jaw betraying the war within. “It is only us,” you remind him, repeating his own words back to him.
He stares down at you, nostrils flaring and then suddenly he bows his head. You feel the fight leave him as he chooses restraint over the violence you both know he’s capable of.
"Only us," he replies, strained.
You hold his gaze as you feel his knuckles brush against your inner thigh to line himself up. He pushes inside slowly and you lift your hips. Your body welcomes him with only the briefest flare of pain, eased by his earlier attention.
“Oh,” you gasp.
Your eyes close as he fills you completely. The sensation is both comforting and alien all at once. You can’t help but think of your late husband, so different from Lucius in every way. You wonder fleetingly if the man above you is thinking of his lost love too. Does that unspoken grief weigh on him as heavily as it does on you?
Before your mind can wander further, Lucius begins to move and your thoughts fizzle out. He curls his powerful body over yours and keeps up a steady pace that makes your skin buzz. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and the smell of him surrounds you, familiar and comforting. As you move together each breath and shift of your body becomes a silent conversation between only the two of you.
“Gods,” he groans into your ear. “You take me so well.”
His unexpected praise has you rocking into him, needy for more. The table creaks each time he thrusts back into you. His lips trail along your neck and you feel that familiar climb to ecstasy begin, like a delicate crescendo inside you. Your nails dig into his skin and his rhythm stutters.
“Sweet girl,” Lucius sighs, pulling back just far enough to meet your gaze.
The tenderness in his eyes is unexpected. Since Macrinus gifted you to Lucius nearly six months ago, you’ve shared many looks; full of pain and grief, anger and understanding, but this is something new, fragile. You stroke his cheek and he surges forward, kissing you roughly.
His lips on yours are a revelation. A storm of emotion rolls through your chest, crystallizing into the realization that you want him. You long for him in a way that goes beyond the need for protection, or a desire for connection. You grasp his face in both hands, your fingers trembling against the hard line of his jaw, and return the kiss with urgency. It’s desperate, almost frantic, as though you’re trying to pull him closer, to merge with him in a way that makes the world outside of the two of you disappear.
He responds with a sharp thrust, angled so perfectly that it sends a flash of heat up your spine. You taste yourself on him when his tongue delves into your mouth. He hardly lets you catch a breath as he pours himself into you over and over until another orgasm washes through you. It’s more intense than the last, bleeding into his own as he comes with a quiet moan.
He gives a few more thrusts and stills, his lips hovering over yours as you share the same air. Your thumbs stroke the soft skin under his eyes and you hold his gaze. In the depths of it, you feel a thousand words rising in your chest, aching to spill out, but you are all too aware you’re not alone.
Before you let the world back in you tilt your chin up, lips brushing over his in a slow, tender kiss that he returns with heartbreaking gentleness. When you finally pull apart, the applause from Macrinus makes you flinch, and Lucius’s expression clouds over.
“What a performance,” Macrinus exclaims.
A titter of applause follows from the audience as though they’ve witnessed something to be praised. Lucius pulls away and you wince as he slips from inside you. A trickle of his seed follows and cold air blankets your body. You curl in on yourself, feeling vulnerable and anxious. When Lucius moves to stand, he carefully pulls your dress to cover you. Then, he helps you upright, and draws you into his side, shielding you with his body. He lifts his chin and offers the crowd a sharp, almost vicious smirk that’s more a baring of teeth than a smile.
“I thought you might fuck like you fight,” Macrinus says. He lays a hand on Lucius’s shoulder like they are old friends and leans close. “I’m pleased to see that I was wrong.”
There’s some other meaning in his words that you don’t catch but Lucius seems to understand. Anger flickers across his face, but beneath it, you see something more unsettling, something you’ve never seen before. Fear.
“We will do a great many things together, I think,” Macrinus continues in a pleased tone, his gaze lingering on the hand Lucius settles possessively on your hip. “A great many things.”
This time when he smiles it reaches his eyes; cold, calculating, and full of something far more sinister.
You spend the rest of the party seated on Lucius’s lap, his arm banded around your waist while the other rests on your thigh. He’s tense and angry as you expect but his focus seems distant, lost somewhere far beyond the room. He rubs the fabric of your dress between his thumb and forefinger, the motion almost absentminded. The wine you sip is overly sweet and sits like a sour stone in your belly. Neither of you speak. Occasionally, some guests, perhaps emboldened by drink or bravery, approach, but Lucius quickly sends them on their way with nothing more than a look.
Only once the party dies down are you dismissed by Viggo. On the journey back to your cell Lucius’s grip on you remains firm, as if he's afraid you might slip away. He doesn't speak, and you notice every so often, his free hand curls into a tight fist at his side, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. It’s not until the door closes behind you, locking you both inside the small, dimly lit space, that Lucius finally speaks.
"You know my true name,” he begins pacing the length of the cell. “But there are things I have not told you."
He speaks slowly, each word carefully measured, as though he’s weighing the cost of revealing what’s hidden. He tells you the truth of his origin, and with each sentence, you sink deeper into the thin cot you both share, the weight of his words pressing down on you. When he finally falls silent, you remain there, frozen. A thousand thoughts flood your mind, but none of them seem to form into anything coherent.
"Does this mean-" you begin, words faltering as you try to process the magnitude of what he’s revealed to you. “Does this mean… you are the rightful emperor?”
“I am.” There’s no pride in his admission, only worry. He releases a harsh breath through his nose like he’s trying to clear something from his chest before he speaks again. “There is a plan in place, with my mother and Acacius, but he will not return from Persia for several weeks yet. We cannot wait for them.”
“What has changed?”
“Surely you must know,” he whispers, regarding you softly.
You shake your head, a quick, instinctive denial, but a deeper part of you already understands. Or perhaps, hopes you do.
“You," he says simply.
It’s the way he says it, so certain and knowing, that makes your breath catch. You stare at him and your heart throbs in your chest, low and sweet like a song.
“I never thought I could want someone again,” he admits. His unexpected words summon the ghost of all you've both lost, and they rise between you like a shadow, lingering for a long painful moment. "I thought it would feel like..." His words trail off.
“A betrayal,” you finish for him, keenly aware of what he must feel.
The vulnerable look on his face awakens something deep and real inside you that you never expected to feel again. You rise from the cot without thinking and move to stand before him.
"It feels right," he continues, his voice softer now, but no less certain. "As easy as breathing."
And then he kisses you, tentative at first, before he grasps your jaw, seeking more of you. The way he holds you, possessively, protectively, makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters, like you're his lifeline in a world that’s about to crumble. It fills you with such longing that you chase his lips when they part from yours.
"Macrinus knows now. And he is planning something," Lucius says, his voice tight with urgency, "and whatever it is, it will be at odds with the good of Rome. He will use you to get to me. And I cannot lose you."
“What will you do?” You ask.
"I'll send word to my mother in the morning," he replies. "You and she must leave Rome. It’s the only way."
You shake your head, unwilling to part from him.
“I will come for you when it is safe,” he promises, capturing your lips in another kiss before he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. "But tonight… tonight, I need you again. Will you have me?” He questions.
You answer him with your lips and he gathers you in his arms. The coarseness of his beard against your chin and the firm press of his lips to yours ignites a bone-deep need within. Suddenly all the danger, the uncertainty, and the inevitability of what’s to come fades into the background. It's just the two of you, the heat of his touch, the depth of his kiss, and the unspoken promise in his embrace.
When he pulls you down on the cot, urging you on top of him, you let his momentum carry you.
“Ride me,” he pleads desperately, framing your hips with his hands.
He gazes up at you with such a mix of desperation and love that you couldn’t deny him, even if you wanted to. The shudder he gives when you take him in hand emboldens you to stroke his length. He groans and pushes his head back, exposing his thickly corded neck. You rise up and sink down on him slowly, savoring each inch. It’s near perfect how he fills you, and even though you’re still sore from earlier, the blend of pain and pleasure thrills you too much to stop.
“Your dress,” he pants, “remove it. Please. I want to see you. All of you.”
You pull the fabric from your body and shed the bangles on your wrist while Lucius removes his tunic. You’re familiar with every inch of his body from tending to his wounds and time in the bathhouse, but you gaze down at him now with renewed appreciation, resting your hands on his firm shoulders. His eyes are filled with affection and desire as they roam your body.
“You’re beautiful,” he praises.
He cups your breasts and draws his thumbs across your nipples until they grow hard. The touch sends sparks of pleasure along your nerves and you twitch around him. He moans and rolls his hips. His arms encircle you, holding you close while he fucks you with strong, powerful thrusts. You bury your face in his neck and drag his skin between your teeth. He answers your action with a groan.
“Gods, the way you feel. You’re perfect,” he praises.
You sit up and plant your hands on his chest, moving your hips to take him deeper. You gasp his name and arch your back, rocking forward with an urgent need that eclipses everything else. For the first time in what feels like forever, you close your eyes and let yourself simply feel. There’s no need to shield yourself, no barriers to maintain.
“Look at me,” Lucius begs, grasping your waist to take control of your movements.
Your eyes flutter open and meet his, the beginning of your orgasm rising to the surface like a tide pushing its way to shore. It grows steadily until it finally crashes over you, flooding your senses and leaving you breathless in its wake. Lucius finds his own end moments after with a low, shuddering gasp. It takes several moments for your breathing to return to normal and when it does Lucius sweeps his hands up your sides comfortingly.
"Stay with me like this,” he asks.
You acquiesce and he gently guides you to rest your cheek against his chest. His hand slides to the middle of your back, his palm warm and steady as he holds you close. Even though he remains inside you still your body relaxes, pooling in his. You close your eyes and listen to the steady drum of his heart, feeling a profound sense of stillness.
You’ve always felt safe in Lucius’s arms, but now, you feel loved in a way you never dreamed you’d experience again. It’s a kind of peace that settles into you, filling all the broken, hollow spaces in your heart where your grief and pain have lingered for so long.
Whatever comes next, his love and strength are something you can hold onto. And for now, that is all you need.
♡
Also part of this series:
Ab Initio
Finis
Protego te
My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.
#lucius verus x reader#lucius verus#lucius verus x you#gladiator ii#gladiator 2#paul mescal#hanno x reader#Post tenebras lux#Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife
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fear
- gojo satoru x reader
his best friend’s defection is still a hard topic for him to swallow, and it leads into an unexpected argument that spurs you to leave, only to unlock a new fear in him when you get into an unfortunate accident afterwards.
genre/warnings: angst, gojo being mean, one scene with a worried nanami *wink*, injured reader, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end
notes: *sigh* my coping mechanism is still gojo’s past arc, which is why this piece takes place on that timeline. just a little context: reader is in the same class with nanami & haibara and was in the same mission that took haibara's life. this is probably the longest oneshot i've written so far sooo… enjoy! :)
general masterlist
A year and a half had passed since Suguru embarked on his path as a curse user. In that one year and a half, Satoru had finished his last year at Jujutsu High, and now was in the halls of his alma mater, speaking to the newly appointed headmaster who was none other than his teacher.
"You're applying to become a teacher?" Yaga asked again with a frown. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. Granted, he was his most troublesome pupil. "Why, Satoru?"
"If I said it's because I want to train young sorcerers to be strong, would you believe me?"
That was not a lie. It was actually 50% of his main reasons anyway. The other 50% was to repent what he missed with Suguru when he chose his dark path—his contempt with the current system of this jujutsu world.
"I would," Yaga responded gruffly. To him, Satoru was irritating, but he also knew that he was also extremely capable, and thus everything he did wasn't just out of nowhere. "But you still have to submit your applications. We can't make an exception even if you come from a prestigious clan."
"That's fine with me," he grinned. "Thanks, sensei."
On summer days, he'd get reminded of Suguru and silly things they had done together. Eating shaved ice, cycling together, driving either you, Shoko or Nanami mad. Satoru missed those days, it hadn't been the same ever since. Not knowing if his best friend was alright—if he was still alive at all—was exhausting.
Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one who was affected by his departure, the only one who stayed right where Suguru left him. Shoko didn't seem ruffled, if anything she just went to more bars and pachinko parlors as of late. Nanami was always a recluse, he never disclosed his feelings. You mourned him, but it was clear that most part of you would always be more focused on Haibara's death.
Satoru understood that he couldn't force anyone to feel what he felt, and he had no right to. But sometimes, he just wanted someone to connect with at his level. Someone to get him just like Suguru did.
And so when he got back to his condo that night—just right next to the one he rented for Megumi and Tsumiki, since he had moved out of his dorm—to find his girlfriend there with a big smile and a tray of cupcakes, unaware of everything and anything, he merely scoffed to himself.
"Satoru, you're back," you acknowledged, beaming like the sunshine you were. "I just baked these for the kids. Do you want some?"
Usually he'd smother you, throw some pickup lines here and there and say yes, but today, he just felt drained. "No." And with that, he stalked away to the bathroom, not glancing back at you.
It was wrong. But tonight he just wanted some peace and quiet, and so keeping his silence seemed to be the best choice as he didn't want to start a pointless argument with you. But you weren’t anything but observant, and definitely noticed that something was amiss with him.
"Are you... alright?" You approached him warily after he came out of the bathroom with wet hair. "Where were you today?"
"Just somewhere," he replied curtly. Afterwards he turned on the hairdryer, drowning the whole place with the noise even as you stood behind him with a visible question mark.
But you were still there after he dried his hair. "Is something bothering you?" you asked with a tilt of your head, concerned. By all means, you mean well. You just wanted to know if he could use your help at all.
When you pulled that expression, he couldn't help feeling annoyed, like he wanted you to take a hint, but you just didn't. "If you know, then just shut it."
It was probably the first time since the two of you got together that Satoru actually said something harsh. But you still tried to be reasonable though, bless you.
"Satoru, I don't know what got into your nerves like this, but I think sleeping through it might help. Have a rest."
"Why are you talking as if you know it?" he snapped, finally turning to you with his cold gaze. "You might not know anything, so don't be a know-it-all. Just mind your own business."
Now you were frustrated with his reply. "Once again, I don't know what happened to you. But if you're taking it out on me because I'm the closest you have—"
"Who said that?" Satoru didn't know where he got all this venom from. It was just at the forefront of his mind and he just got the urge to spew it. "You're considering yourself closest to me? Where did you get that big head from?"
You were aghast, and you blinked a few times to get your bearings. "Let me guess, it's about Geto-san, isn't it? Or the higher ups. Either of that must be what causing you to blindly place your anger on me."
"So what if it was? It isn't like you'll understand anyway."
"Satoru," you started, trying to even your breathing. "What happened to Geto-san isn't your fault. I've been telling you this. It can't be helped—"
"Can't be helped?" he jeered. "Do you know why it has come to this?" his tone took a dangerous edge as he stepped closer. He reached for you, grasping your wrist.
"Maybe because I was too blind back then. If it weren't for you—if only I didn't spend that much time on you, maybe he would still be here."
Did he just say that? Did he just imply that he had regretted the two of you getting together?
You felt your lower lip start to tremble and something seemed to obscure and blur your vision, making it hard to see him clearly. "You... don't mean that."
"Really?" the corner of his lips curled into a disparaging smile. "You never know. Before you know it, this can be over already. After all, I could have anyone out there that I want. Maybe someone less nosey than—”
That did it. You wrenched your arm out of his grip violently, as your first tear fell. His smirk vanished too, replaced with a total stillness to cover his sudden panic that was followed by a sudden sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach.
"You selfish, self-obsessed jerk," you hissed through watery eyes. He was taken aback, even amidst your anger and possible fear of him, your still managed to throw daggers at him. "Fine. You have it. I'll see myself out."
Satoru never wanted you to leave. Honestly, he would've made you stay. But he wasn't in the right state of mind and it was too late to take back what he said. He didn't want to mess this up even further.
You left the cupcakes, even throwing it away just to spite him. Driven by pain and humiliation, you choked back your sob and didn't spare a glance at him as you shut the door.
Peace and quiet. There he had it, he thought as he clenched his fists, at the cost of everything else.
Leaving that condo, every step you took felt like needles piercing your shattered heart. You wiped your tears roughly. No, you refused to cry over such asshole. He made it clear, didn't he? Whatever it was that you two shared, it was at the cost of his best friend leaving him. So now the blame was on you.
If you were thinking clearly, you would've understood that his words were likely a result of his own pent-up pain and frustration that he had kept to himself for some while. But you had no patience for that or even pinpoint what you felt right now—anger, disappointment or dread, or perhaps all three. You just felt wrongly accused.
Your feet brought you back to your dorm in the school. Now it wasn't as bustling as it once were. After Satoru and Shoko's graduation, you didn't really get close to anyone. There was Ichiji, but he treated you more like a mentor rather than a classmate.
As you sank into the comforts of your bed, You replayed the events, trying to find where it went wrong—and found nothing. After all, you had already said all that could be said. It wasn't just him who lost Geto, but you, Shoko and Nanami did too, but it was more convenient for Satoru to blame everyone else rather than trying to understand that they too shared this pain.
Nevertheless, you were disappointed. You didn't expect half of what he spouted, and it got you doubting everything you had.
"You've royally fucked up."
Satoru exhaled, glaring at Shoko through the corner of his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."
The reverse cursed technique user threw him a blank stare, taking in everything from his disheveled hair to his wrinkled trousers. "Gojo, as much as I can’t care less about your sorry ass, I'm saying this not out of concern for you, but rather for Y/N. You are an asshole."
The puff of smoke she blew expanded to create a cloud-like shape. "Yaga-sensei was our teacher. His student is now a mass murderer and wanted dead. Can you even imagine how he feels? And I can't believe I'm saying this—but weren't there three of us?"
A week had gone by and instead of doing the right thing like trying to get into your good graces, Satoru was in Shoko's infirmary in the headquarters instead. He didn't exactly know what he was looking for by going here. Maybe some lingering taste of his happier student days, and Shoko was the only one remaining.
Three of us, huh... she was right. That was precisely why he came here after all.
"You're just sulking because it seems no one cares about your best friend being the best there is. But have you thought about how our juniors also lost Haibara? Right in front of their eyes? Haibara was our friend too."
He was wrong, of course he was. Satoru realized that now. But it felt wrong to ask for your forgiveness now, not to mention the disrupting thought he had—should he let you go for good altogether?
The phone suddenly rang with such fervor that made Shoko utter a swear word. She was on call duty for the rescue team today, and it was supposedly a peaceful day until Satoru decided to barge in to become her company. "Hello? Ichiji? What—speak clearly, I can't hear you."
She switched it to loudspeaker. "...iri-san! Ieiri-san—h-help—please—"
It was noisy, and blaring at the same time, and Ichiji was... Sobbing? Choking? His voice was terribly muffled and—
"L/N-san!" he cried, and Satoru remembered at that moment that you should be in a mission with Ichiji, he remembered you telling him before.
"Hic—s-she fell... hic—she fell! B-blood! She i-is bleeding so much! I-Ieiri-san—hic—s-send help! Please!"
"Hey, stay awake. Breathe. Just breathe."
Everything hurt. Most notably, your head. You could hardly think straight when all you felt was blinding pain and how your breaths came in short wheezes.
Your vision was blurry. The numbness had started to set in and chills ran up and down your spine. You couldn't make out who in front of you was. Was it Ichiji, who went with you in this mission? The only thing that glared was blue.
"You can't sleep, you hear me?" the voice was commanding, willing you to do his bidding. It was familiar, but usually his tone of voice was much lighter, happier.
Satoru.
But why was he here? He wasn't in this mission. It was supposed to be a mission for you and Ichiji.
You remembered getting the cursed spirit after manifesting your domain expansion, until in its last ditch attempt, it went after Ichiji. You had no choice—even when your cursed energy had burned out, you still shoved him away at the cost of being flung from the top of a building.
Not again. Not after Haibara. You’d gladly pay the price if it meant you didn't have to see anyone die in front of you again.
"I..." You managed to croak out—breathing hurt, and you felt your hands being grasped tightly.
"Hey, just breathe. Y/N. Look at me.” Through your blurry haze, you focused on that cold blue, and you saw him. Satoru's sharp eyes, pursed lips and frown. He's really here.
Satoru always said that if there was a cursed spirit apocalypse, then Ichiji would be the first to die. You used to scold him for that, but now as you a laid here possibly dying in your own pool of blood, you found it to be true.
Yet at the same time you knew that with him here, Ichiji must be safe already, and it gave you reassurance so great even when you were on the verge of dying. "I... can't..."
"Yes, you can. Just look at me," he firmly rebuked, his voice came out in a hiss. For all the time you had been with him, you had never heard him so forceful. "If you close your eyes now, I won't forgive you. So please, just hang in there."
It was a struggle to take in any air and darkness encroached on your vision as your consciousness began slipping away.
And everything faded to nothingness.
Satoru honestly thought he had no fears. His worst fear had fully realized after all—Suguru going away into the darkness. What more could he possibly fear?
But when he heard Ichiji's distress call for rescue team, about how you fell from a rooftop of a building and unconscious, he realized that it was a fear he didn't know existed. His mind got disoriented and he teleported to the scene on impulse. He just had to see it for himself. With their petty argument still lacking closure, he felt even worse.
And the sight before him gave him so much fright he never thought was possible.
It was a mistake, he should have brought Shoko along.
You had laid there like a broken doll, your eyes dimmed, and not been able to breathe. He desperately tried to keep you awake, his presence beside you, yet it didn't seem to matter. He watched helplessly as you passed out in his arms.
Satoru felt nothing. The panic that had set in was suddenly gone as your limp body slumped against him, replaced by incessant ringing in his ears and tremor wracking his nervous system. It wasn't long until the rescue team came to retrieve you and even then he still felt numb. He rejected the idea that you might possibly die on him.
That went on until Shoko, who assisted in the emergency treatment, came out of the surgery, sweat on her forehead.
"It's even worse than the aftermath of the guardian deity mission last year," Shoko explained with a grim expression. "Her brain has sustained damage and it affects everything. It may take her quite a while before she can go back to the field."
When she said that, Satoru felt terror washed over him again. You almost died—was all he perceived.
The two of you had no contact for a week just because of his ego. He could still recall that day with vivid clarity, feeling a burning ache in his chest. If someone were to ask him what heartbreak was like, now he certainly would he able the to tell them the two instances in which he experienced them. What he felt now mirrored the same stinging sensation he had felt when Suguru left him.
He visited you when he was allowed to, and you were still unconscious, with many machines connected to your body. It was a sight he still couldn’t bring himself to get used to. He had seen you injured before, but never seen you in your own pool of blood, so this made him feel sick to his stomach.
"Stupid," he whispered, gently rubbing your forehead. His eyes remained fixated on you as you rested, his insides still churning with emotions. "You're not weak, and you're not hopeless." Once upon a time, Satoru might have thought of you as weak, but now he knew better.
"So why you always pick the worst decision?" The more he thought this could've been avoided, the more irked he was. The thought that he could have done something to prevent it intensified the sting of guilt, and he continued to punish himself with it.
And the more he dwelled on the idea that he had hurt you prior to this, the tighter his breath became.
But that was who you were. Self-sacrificing to a fault. And he loved you for that. There was no way of him letting you go now.
It astonished even himself—that he was capable of this love thing. At first it was an attraction, but now that you had been going on for more than a year, it felt like it was no longer a silly infatuation after all.
"Hurry and wake up, will you?" Satoru gently brushed your hair aside, his eyes fixed on you. He didn't know it even as his gut twisted, his frown deepened and his touch quivered, that he was worried sick. "I have a lot to make up for."
And he left you with a tender brush of his lips against your forehead.
Nanami Kento was the first person you saw when you awoke from coma.
You struggled to regain your senses, still feeling absolutely broken. The dull throb on the back of your head was still there, and as if you had found yourself trapped in a fog, you were only able to move sluggishly.
"You're awake?" his gruff voice greeted, laced with concern. In his hand were a bucket of fresh flowers and fruits basket, which he soon placed at the table next to your bed.
It was unexpected, because ever since the tragedy that costed Haibara's life, the two of you had been drifting apart.
You nodded, and let out a hum in response—all you could manage at the moment.
"Thank God." Nanami sounded relieved as he pinched the bridge between his eyes, and you were moved that he had shown this degree of concern.
Your remaining classmate, who suffered the burden of Haibara's life just like you. He was always quiet or brooding somewhere, hiding his own feelings.
You felt tears pricking the corner of your eyes. The fact that he visited you meant that he hadn't decided to cut you out of his life yet.
"Gojo-san is out today, but he'll be back by afternoon," he said, mistranslating your tears as some sort of a want to have your annoying—ex?—boyfriend at your side.
The two of you were still not on talking terms, weren’t you?
You so badly wanted to say thank you to him—and tell him that no, you weren't looking for Satoru—but it came out hoarse and barely above a whisper.
"Huh?" Nanami then realized what you were trying to say, and a faint smile graced his lips. "Just... get well soon, L/N. Have a good rest."
Just before you drifted back to sleep, you could hear him sigh and mutter, "Hello, Gojo-san? L/N has awakened. Just letting you know is all.”
You weren't sure how much time had passed when you woke up the second time, but the curtains were already drawn and only darkness came from the window. Your body felt lighter, but you still felt like a mess and and couldn't help but groan in discomfort.
Satoru was there, he perked up at the noise you made. And you realized that it was the first time in about a week that he faced you after that disasterous almost-breakup.
He walked up to you, his expression was more hopeful than you had ever seen him before, like a kid whose wish had been granted. He slowly shifted to sit beside you.
"Hey, welcome back." His voice was soft. It was a change of pace for him, as you were used to seeing him all loud and silly.
Now your voice no longer sounds like a lead. "Hey."
"How are you feeling?" he asked and you took a moment to look at him. He was smiling, but exhaustion reached his bright eyes, dimming them. "You know, with the whole you passing out and almost dying thing?"
His words were almost humorous as he spoke, like he didn't know what else to say except try to lighten the mood, but there was also a strain on his tone, like he was holding back.
"I'm quite fine now, I suppose..." You still felt the lingering pain and dizziness as you slowly sat up. Satoru reached out to steady you—and you realized how his fingers trembled when they made contact with your body—as his brows furrowed with worry when you winced.
"You don't look like it though." His voice dropped and the humor was gone, replaced by this haunted look. You blinked. It was probably the first time you had seem him this ruffled.
He immediately pulled you into a hug, cradling your head to his neck gently, as if to protect and shield you from the world altogether. Exhaling heavily, he leaned on you. "You scared me, you know that?"
You wondered out loud if you really had that hold over him. "Did I?"
"You can't do that to me, you hear?" Satoru stroked your hair, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck. His voice quivered. “Don't ever do that again.”
He pulled you tighter against him, but still careful not to crush you.
You let out a snicker, letting go of everything you felt during this horrible week. "Heh, afraid to lose me, huh?"
"Shut up,” he grumbled. “What were you thinking anyway? How did you calculate that freefalling is better than letting that cursed spirit attack Ichiji?”
"He was defenseless. He could die, you know that."
"And you also can," he quipped, upset, pulling away enough to look you squarely in the eyes, his eyes devoid of any expression, yet filled with a raging wave that you could only interpret as undiluted concern.
The emphasis in his tone made you recoil and feel guilty. If you were in his shoes, you probably would've said the same thing and so you had nothing to say to that.
But the more pressing agenda in the list was the unspoken silent treatment the two of you saw fit to use against each other for the last few days. Satoru was the one who decided to address it first.
"About that night..." he faltered, looking away. "I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry."
Satoru always had trouble processing emotions. This time too. He must've a hard time dealing with the anxiety caused by the possibility of him losing you for good, no matter how much he tried to be unaware of it.
"..." You wanted to respond, to make him understand your point, but somehow right now you were just too weary. And he sensed your reluctance. So you blurted the first thing that gnawed at your mind.
“You said you could have any other women out there—”
"No, really—" he started to panic, and it was blatantly too, which surprised you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Us. I don't regret anything. I’m not breaking up with you. Being with you is the happiest I've been ever since Suguru left."
“That's...” you blinked, before letting out a small sigh. “Okay. Fine then. Let's just put it behind us for now.”
“I—” he almost wheezed, his bright blue eyes were overtaken with sheer urgency to explain how wrong everything had been that night. “You must know that I didn’t mean any of it. And that I hate hurting you the way I did. I won’t—”
"Satoru, I understand," you let out another sigh, fidgeting with your fingers. "Sometimes when I’m reminded of Haibara, I also get sad. I don't want to presume but I think I know how you feel. Just next time, maybe," you shifted your gaze on him, seeing how you had his attention fully. Gojo Satoru, the strongest now, was looking at you as if you had his fate in your hands. "Just tell me if you need space and I would have understood."
"Yeah, okay, sure," he responded immediately, relieved, before a lopsided grin appeared on his face, turning him back into your dork slash boyfriend. "So, am I forgiven now?"
"A thank you would be nice."
In the end, he chuckled, seemingly resigned. "You should sleep more."
He positioned himself into bed next to you, and you let him pull you into his chest again. You could feel how his taut back started to relax upon the contact. He pressed his lips on your forehead in a fleeting kiss.
"Promise me you won't pull that stunt again.”
You smirked. "I can't. What if Ichiji—"
"Then just let him die."
You swatted his arm playfully, pressing your head to his chest as he continued to run his fingers on your hair. He cushioned you carefully, and you felt the tension in him slowly melt away with each breath you took. In your mind, you figured he needed this closeness more than you did, if anything, for the sake of his sanity.
“I love you,” he whispered by your ear, kissing it lightly.
“Mmhm.”
As you felt Satoru's calming presence, it helped ease you into slumber. You soon found yourself in a deep sleep, comfortably held in his embrace.
Epilogue
Ichiji gulped as Satoru stared him down, sizing him up as if he was the most despicable creature on this planet.
Okay, he might be. He was a coward, all he could do was trembling in the face of evil. But he had come in peace, even bringing fruits as an offering! He felt bad too that he was the partial cause for you to be this injured.
He was used to Satoru terrorizing him—calling him names, slapping him, and whatnot—and he could take it. Just this time, he really looked like he could murder him on the spot if he wanted to. A small part of Ichiji mourned that you were his girlfriend, because that pretty much sealed his fate that Gojo Satoru could indeed murder him on the spot because he had a valid enough reason to.
"You are—"
"No! I'm sorry, Gojo-san! I'm sorry for my incompetence!"
"Hah?"
If he was mildly irked before, now Satoru was visibly irritated.
"You're not cut out to be a jujutsu sorcerer," he started. "You're useless. You just get in the way most of the time."
Ichiji kept his head down. No, no. He can't cry!
"Get your driving license or I'll slap the shit out of you."
"Oh?" and before he knew it, Satoru had stalked away, leaving him in the dust. How rude! But...
Get a driver license? Quit the jujutsu work?
Hey, that sounds like something I can do!
#jujutsu kaisen#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru angst#satoru gojo x reader#jjk x reader#jjk angst#jjk fluff#hurt/comfort#gojo satoru#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk fanfic#jjk gojo#gojo fluff#gojo angst#jjk x you#jjk imagines#jujutsu kaisen imagines#gojo x reader#jujutsu kaisen fanfic#nanami kento#jjk gojo satoru#jujutsu kaisen x you#gojo satoru imagines#gojo x you#jujutsu kaisen fluff
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May I request a five x reader where they are living domestically and just being happy and lovey dovey especially experiencing everything they did together while being in the apocalypse, the time commission, stoping the other apocalypses etc (five x Lila doesn’t exist five x Lila doesn’t exist five x Lilia doesn’t-)
a/n: this piece is basically a big fuck you to s4 so enjoy five being happy and domestic with reader and not his own brother’s wife. also five and reader are mentally older adults but physically in their twenties
warnings: language, fluff, mentions of pregnancy
summary: now that the timeline has been fixed and the world is no longer in danger, five can enjoy a peaceful life with you
The sunlight that bleeds through the curtains is almost blinding as Five begins to stir himself awake. Stretching out his limbs until he hears a satisfying pop, he lets out a sigh and moves to reach out for someone that isn’t there. Your spot in bed is still warm which means you haven’t been gone for long, but Five still rises with a sense of urgency when greeted with your absence. Call it muscle memory from dealing with multiple kidnapping ploys against you or an old habit that just won’t die off after having to remain vigilant when protecting you from the enemy, but the poor boy’s heart always skips a beat when you go missing.
He finds you in the kitchen brewing a fresh pot of coffee, your back to him as you hum along to the radio that plays on the counter and search for Five’s favorite cup in the cabinet. He has to pause and take a breath to remind himself that you’re not in danger, your life of protecting timelines and ending apocalypses is over, and the fresh start you’ve made for yourselves isn’t in any jeopardy. You’re real, you’re alive, and you’re his.
“Morning,” Five softly calls with a careful smile as he rests a hand on the small of your back and presses a tender kiss to your lips.
“Good morning,” you great cheerfully before handing him his cup of coffee. “I didn’t hear you get up. Did I wake you?”
“Not at all,” he assures you before taking a hearty gulp of the hot liquid. After years of being together you know how to make Five’s coffee just the way he likes it and could probably do so in your sleep if asked. Your thoughtfulness is just one of the many traits of yours that have him wrapped around your finger always.
“We need to go grocery shopping,” you note dutifully as you peek your head into the fridge in search of breakfast. Frowning, you announce, “We’re out of eggs, so I guess it’s frozen waffles for breakfast.”
“Why don’t we go out for breakfast today?” Five suggests with an innocent shrug.
“Really? But you hate breakfast places. They can never make your coffee right.”
“I also hate seeing you eat frozen waffles three days in a row,” he reminds you with a wry chuckle. Maneuvering you out of the way, Five closes the fridge shut and gives you a gentle nudge in the direction of your shared bedroom. “Go on, get dressed. You can wear that new dress you bought the other day.”
“You’re right!” You exclaim with an excited gasp and rush off to your room before Five can change his mind. Not that he would, of course. Five would do anything to see you happy after all the shit he’s put you through in your time together. Sometimes he still wonders why you ever agreed to marry him, perhaps a slip of sanity or lack of care for your own wellbeing, but he wasn’t one to complain. He liked living the quiet life with you, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.
~~~
The night air is cool against your bare shoulders as you sit comfortably upon the porch swing and listen to the cicadas sing their evening song. The sun has long since set, but the string of lights that hang above you are enough to allow you to see the pages of your color by numbers book. Beside you, Five sits with a book in one hand while the other rests atop of your legs strewn across his lap. He enjoys sitting in the silence of your company as you remain glued together despite partaking in your own hobbies separately.
“We’ve been married for thirty years,” you state simply, breaking the silence but never once breaking your focus from your coloring book.
“Sure have,” is Five’s thoughtful reply. Setting his book aside, your husband gives your calf a gentle squeeze and turns to look at your concentrated features.
“Not including your siblings, it’s always been just us. Together in the apocalypse, partners under the Commission, husband and wife.”
“Is that a bad thing?” He asks, not quite sure what point you’re trying to make. Are you rethinking the marriage? Are you finally starting to have regrets about marrying him? He watches with bated breath as you set your materials to the side and finally meet his anxious gaze.
“I want to start a family of our own,” you finally confess, nervously fidgeting with your wedding ring as you await his response with hopeful eyes. “I don’t want it to be just us anymore.”
Sighing, Five leans his head back and shuts his eyes as he processes your request. He can’t say he’s surprised by your question; he’s noticed the way you eye babies in public, how you linger just a little too long to admire the window display of the infant clothing store at the mall, how you’ll hold the twins for hours in your arms and refuse to give them back until Diego has to physically pry them from your grasp. It’s only natural for you to feel this way, but that’s not the problem. The problem is Five isn’t exactly sure how he feels about becoming a father.
“I don’t know,” he admits carefully, taking great caution when choosing his next words so as to not upset you. “Having a kid, becoming parents… it changes everything.”
“I know we couldn’t before because there was the Commission and then the multiple apocalypses, and that’s why I never asked. But Five,” you urge gently, shifting to sit yourself up on your knees so you can reach over and take both of his hands in your own, “all of that is done with. We fixed the timeline, and all that end of the world nonsense is over with for good. No one is coming after us anymore or trying to kill me to get to you. We can properly grow old now and have a simple life together, wasn’t that always the goal?”
The boy is silent as he mulls over your speech. You’re completely right; saving the world and resetting the timeline to its proper place in order to ensure you and his siblings could have the lives you deserved was always the end goal. But after spending his entire existence trying to complete that task, he finds it hard to adjust to his new life of normalcy. Perhaps he’s not exactly scared of becoming a parent, but scared of what a baby would mean in the grand scheme of things. It would be proof that his work is truly over now, that he can turn his survival mode off after having it set to fight for so many years, and that’s a big adjustment for someone like him.
But when he looks at your hopeful gaze and sees the way you anxiously worry your lip between your teeth, he realizes that he’ll do anything to give you the happy life you deserve. He brings one of your hands to his lips and holds it tight as he murmurs his answer into the skin of your palm.
“If you think we’re ready, then I’m in.”
“You mean it?” You gasp while doing your best to withhold your excitement. Your eyes are wide and full of hope as Five lets out a soft chuckle before giving you a reassuring kiss.
“We survived the end of the world several times, how scary could raising a baby really be?”
He isn’t given an answer to his hypothetical question as you fling yourself into his arms and assault his face with multiple kisses along his skin. It’s safe to say his answer has eased your anxieties, and the boy can only laugh as you express your gratitude.
“I’m so happy you agree!” You exclaim giddily, your hands coming to rest upon his chest to ground yourself as you then suggest to Five’s surprise, “Let’s start trying tonight!”
“What?”
~~~
“That has to be the tiniest Hargreeves I’ve ever seen,” Klaus gushes adoringly as he takes in the details of the ultrasound photo in front of him. “Look at the little peanut, isn’t it precious?”
“I can’t believe Five is actually going to be a dad,” Allison notes in astonishment as the three of you turn your gaze to see him arguing with Diego over the proper way to baby proof your home while Ben eggs them on and ruins Luther’s efforts at trying to keep the peace. You’re only two months along, but Five is anxious to ensure that everything is perfect for your child’s arrival.
“You know, you might just be the first 65 year-old woman to give birth,” Klaus points out cheekily. “You should be in a world records book or something.”
“Very funny,” you retort sarcastically before taking back the ultrasound photo to hang up on the fridge. You falter for a moment when your eyes remain stuck to photo and your brain works on overdrive to commit the image to memory as best as you can.
“Everything okay?” Viktor asks after noticing the sudden change in demeanor.
“I just can’t believe this is real,” you murmur quietly, blinking back tears that threaten to spill. “After everything we’ve been through and everything we’ve lost, I guess a part of me worries that one day I’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream.”
“I know how that feels,” Allison assures you with a comforting squeeze to your shoulder. “But I promise you this isn’t a dream, and whatever you need we’ll be there.”
“Because you’re family now,” Viktor adds on with a confident nod. “And we look out for family no matter what.”
“Even though at one point in our lives we’ve all thought about killing each other,” Klaus notes humorously before giving you a tight squeeze.
“Everything okay over here?” Five asks, appearing at your side and placing a comforting hand on your back as you all turn your gazes towards the fridge and admire the newest addition to the family.
“Everything is perfect.”
#request#the umbrella academy#five hargreeves#number five#five#five hargreeves x reader#five hargreeves imagine#number five x reader#number five imagine#five x reader#five imagine#tua#tua x reader#tua imagine
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Charming Witches [Fred Weasley]
Title: Charming Witches [Fred Weasley]
Pairing: PregnantWife!Reader x Fred Weasley, background Hermione X Ron.
Timeline: Set after canon (Fred lives!)
Summary: Ron has an embarrassing issue and unluckily for him, Fred is the only one that can help.
Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, babies, established relationships. Sexual references throughout. Fred has a bit of a breeding kink- shock. Just a silly little drabble I couldn’t get out of my mind. Fred is a bit mean and sarcastic to Ron.
Word count: 1.6k
"You're, you know... well, sort of, um."
"You'll get there eventually Ronald," Fred jokes with a straight face, half listening to his brother's whispered fumbles whilst he pours himself and his wife a drink, not bothering to offer his youngest brother one. If Fred had even bothered to look at Ron's face, he'd have seen he was as pink in the cheeks as a bottle of love potion, his blush so vivid that he looked ready to erupt with a face full of dragon pox any moment.
Ron clears his throat, trying again, as he casts a nervous glance around the Burrow's kitchen, checking no one was hearing this. He didn't know why he'd chosen Fred of all people to have this conversation with, in theory George would have been a much better choice but he didn't have the same 'qualifications' as his twin, seeing that you and Fred had been together for absolutely years.
"Well, umm," he freezes under Fred's quick but glance, silently telling him to spit it out. "Well you and y/n, you're in sync aren't you... Sexually?"
Whatever Fred was expecting to hear eventually tumble out of his brother's mouth was not even close to the reality and he can't stop his eyebrows from shooting halfway up his forehead instinctively in disbelief.
"Did my very pregnant wife give it away?" He snarks, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of the beer he'd poured, openly enjoying the discomfort his brother was radiating. "That might have been your first clue."
Ron somehow looks paler underneath all the blushing and Fred is revelling in his ability to make his brother squirm.
"Well, yeah I suppose," Ron mumbles, beginning to get defensive and deeply regretting opening up to the trickier twin.
"Calm down Ronald," Fred says, "you and Granger having bedroom troubles?"
"No!" Ron bites back a little too quickly but his resolve breaks under a few seconds of Fred's probing gaze, arms folded in an unconscious power stance. "Maybe."
He's quiet again for a few moments and Fred is uncharacteristically patient whilst he waits for Ron to collect his thoughts.
"How many times would you say is normal, like in a week?"
"Don't know if there's a 'normal' Ronniekins," Fred says with a shrug. "Most days and twice on a Sunday?"
Though he hides it this time, Fred revels in the look of utter horror Ron's eyes convey and it's like he can see the cogs in his brain working on overdrive, emitting smoke as they crumble and break. Evidently, his answer was light years away from what Ron had hoped for. He knows that his wife being ready to pop at any second only helps Ron believe his words and he mentally thanks Godric Gryffindor himself for the overly fortunate timing.
"Don't think it matters mate really; as long as you're both expecting about the same." This time, Fred actually thinks he's being reassuring.
"She just wants to read all the bloody time, even in bed! It's like I'm a bloody afterthought."
"Have you even met your girlfriend?"
This time it's Fred who pauses when he meets the icy glare of his younger brother. He sighs and a slightly awkward silence falls between the pair as they both try to think of how to fix whatever was going on in Ron's mind, hoping that two head were better than one.
"You two alright?"
Ron jumps out of his skin when he hears your slightly concerned greeting upon seeing the two brothers, Fred especially, in near silence.
"Don't tell me you forgot I was here," you joke to Ron, walking over to Fred as he holds out your waiting drink. "Been your sister in law for five years! Plus the bump makes me pretty memorable," you add with a smile.
"I'll say," Fred says with a wink, the cheeky glint in his eyes ever more sparkling as he looks at your bulging tummy, unashamedly ogling your pregnant form. You gently nudged him, silently telling him to be quiet but as you do so, you catch a slightly glare aimed at your husband from Ron.
"Am I interrupting? " You ask outright, sensing tension.
"No," says Fred almost immediately.
"A bit," Ron admits, cringing slightly before he lets out a loud yelp, having been smacked upside the back of the head by his older brother for his disrespect. He grumbles slightly under his breath, absently rubbing the back of his head where Fred's hand had connected to him and let's put a deep sigh.
"You're a girl," he says, averting his eyes anywhere except directly on your own.
Fred snickers at Ron's feeble and clumsy attempt at starting the conversation but opts to take a long swig of his beverage to avoid anymore laughter spilling out, though his delight still shines through his eyes.
"Only when it's not a full moon," you jest, trying to slice through the awkwardness Ron is emitting.
"Forget it, you're as bad as he is."
"Firstly I'm offended," you say, reaching out for his arm gently as you feel his begin to pull away, ignoring your husband's opposition. "Secondly, yes I'm a girl... go on."
"Well," he pauses, gathering courage, long ginger lashes covering his shy eyes that still raise no further than your ankles, "say Fred suddenly didn't want sex."
"Wouldn't happen."
"Fred shush."
"Well... say suddenly he wanted to read at nighttime over having sex."
"Again, wouldn't happen."
"Fred!" You hush him again, this time more firmly.
"How would you go about trying to, you know, fix it."
You were certain you'd never seen Ron this vividly pink in the cheeks before, he looked like he'd been decorated up to display in Umbridge's office.
"That's the problem? Hermione wants to read instead of sex?" You ask, not really seeing the big issue, but trying to say it gently so that you didn't spook him.
He nods, "but it's all the time," he adds, justifying his gripe.
"Well," you say, lowering yourself into Arthur's seat at the head of the kitchen table only a few feet away, unable to stand much longer. "Play her at her own game."
"Eh?" The brothers ask in sync, their faces scrunched into an almost identical confused expression. You simply shrug.
"Make yourself less available to her, pull back a bit," you say, taking a sip of your drink to wet your lips. "Start reading in bed just like she does, act like you're not interested in just sex."
"So I act like I'm not bothered even though I am?" He asks, still not following what you're saying.
"Sort of," you say, trying to find a better way of wording it.
"Reading's always been her favourite thing to do hasn't it? Join in on it. I'd bet on my life that she has a fantasy of you in bed shirtless reading beside her. Stop making advances, let her come to you."
"That's actually quite clever," he says after a few moments of consideration.
"It's been known."
"Shirtless?" He asks with a frown, seemingly fixating on that point.
You chuckle nodding, "well you have to still appeal to her, you don't want it to just be a study session do you?"
"Right, right," he says with a nod, a slight smile returning to his face before it dramatically falls away in an almost comedic move.
"I don't have a book."
"What do you mean you don't have a book?" Fred says in a flabbergasted manner, earning a slight but unconscious raise of your eyebrow. Though you didn't comment on the irony of his words considering you couldn't remember the last time you'd seen him so much as skim the daily prophet.
"I don't really have one," Ron mumbles quietly, "unless my quidditch annual counts."
"It doesn't," you say firmly.
"So I need a book," Ron says firmly, as if he was cementing the plan in his mind, nodding along with his thoughts until he finally makes eye contact. "Thanks y/n," he says with a smile and a nod of his head before he walks away, a bounce in his step.
"Think it's actually gonna work?" Fred asks as you pry yourself out of the chair and walk to stand next to him as you place your empty cup in the sink.
You let out a little chortle and shrug, "well if it doesn't, at least Hermione can read in peace."
Laughter bursts out of Fred and he pulls you close, bump nestled between you as he delights in your words, realising you had absolutely no idea if the plan would work.
Later that evening when everyone was preparing to leave the Burrow after another wonderful family dinner, Ron pulls you and Fred to one side before he left, away from the eyes and ears of everyone else.
"Thanks again for earlier," he says, clearly feeling more at ease about his issue. You smile warmly in reply, happy to help.
"No problem little brother," Fred beams, as if it was him that had offered any advice.
"Oi Ron," you call out quietly to get his attention as he turns to leave. With a smile, you reach down into the bag on your shoulder and pull out an item you'd gleefully searched for in Fred and George's old bedroom after the conversation. "Just incase my advice doesn't work."
Ron frowns reaching for the item you were handing him, a frown that only deepens as he reads the title of the book he was now holding. Fred's laughter is sudden and booming as his eyes land on the once familiar item that had him cracking up laughing, realising instantly what it was.
Twelve fail-safe ways to charm witches.
"Oh piss off."
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#emeritusemeritus#emeritusemerituswrites#harry potter#fred weasley#fred weasley x you#fred weasley x reader#fred weasley imagine#fred weasley masterlist
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Militiae Species Amor Est
Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."
Part II Is Up Now!
This is a story based on an original character, Iris. She has no description in regards to hair, skin color, eye color, etc. It doesn't follow any particular timeline and the events in this story extend longer than the events of the movie. I saw the movie last night and wrote this today in between appointments, so please don't judge if it's slightly messy haha. Please enjoy!
warnings:// some mentions of blood and weapons. time period typical violence.
word count: 6.7k
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The air in the colosseum was thick with noise—cheers, jeers, and the distant clang of swords meeting shields. You sat stiffly in the patrician’s box beside your fiancé, Caius, his hand possessively resting on the arm of your chair. He was absorbed in the spectacle, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement every time the sand turned red. You barely heard him as he leaned close, muttering about the skill of one gladiator. Your attention, however, was elsewhere.
“Hanno,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd, and the colosseum erupted into a frenzy. “The Eagle of the Arena!”
The title was grand, but it wasn’t the name that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the description whispered about him in every corner of Rome: a fighter with unmatched presence, defiance in his eyes, and a grace that reminded you of someone you thought you’d lost forever.
Lucius.
The boy who had once been your entire world.
Your heart raced as the gates creaked open, and Hanno stepped into the sunlight. The sight of him stole your breath. He was older now, broader, his body honed by years of struggle, but there was no mistaking him. His hair, still curling the way you remembered, caught the light, and his eyes—those stormy blue eyes that had once looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered—swept over the crowd.
Lucius.
He moved like the wind, his steps steady, his posture unshaken. The arena seemed to bend to him, the crowd hanging on his every movement. He raised his sword, saluting the emperor, but you knew him too well to miss the flicker of contempt in his gaze. That small defiance confirmed it.
You didn’t realize you were staring until Caius’s voice cut through your thoughts.
“You seem unusually captivated, my dear,” he said, his tone light but edged with suspicion.
You blinked, dragging your gaze away from the arena. “It’s… he’s remarkable,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.
Caius smirked, his pride swelling as if he were responsible for the spectacle before you. “Hanno is Rome’s finest now. A true warrior.”
Your eyes drifted back to Lucius—Hanno—before you could stop yourself. Memories of your childhood together flooded your mind: running through the gardens of Lucilla’s villa, the way his laughter had filled the air like music, the nights you whispered your dreams to each other under the stars.
He had been everything to you, even though the world told you he couldn’t be. You were a servant, an invisible presence in the household of his mother, Lucilla. But to Lucius, you had been more. He’d promised you, one night under the moon, that he would find a way for you to be together.
That promise had been shattered the day Maximus died. Lucius was sent away, his mother’s grief consuming everything in its path. You were left behind, forced to grow up in silence, betrothed to Caius—a man you didn’t love, who saw you as nothing more than a beautiful possession.
Now, years later, here he was. The boy who had held your hand in secret was now a man commanding the attention of thousands, and yet he was still fighting. Not just for survival, but for something greater. For freedom.
You couldn’t look away.
As the match began, Lucius moved with the precision and grace of someone born to the sword. Every strike, every parry, every step was measured and deliberate. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.
When the fight ended—his opponent crumpled in the sand, and the crowd screamed his name—Lucius raised his head. For a fleeting moment, his eyes met yours, and you saw recognition spark there, sharp and immediate.
He knew you.
Your breath caught, your hands gripping the edge of your chair. He didn’t look away, his chest heaving as he stared up at you. The distance between you felt both vast and nonexistent.
“Are you unwell?” Caius’s voice jolted you back to reality, his brows furrowed in irritation.
You forced a smile, your heart pounding. “No. It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
It was him.
Lucius.
And you would find him again. No matter what it took.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The roar of the crowd surged like a wave, crashing against the walls of the colosseum, but Lucius barely heard it. He stood in the center of the arena, the weight of his sword steady in his hand, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the fight. The sand beneath his feet was stained red, the air thick with heat and blood.
Another victory. Another step toward survival.
He turned to acknowledge the emperor with a sharp salute, but his movements were mechanical. His body obeyed out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere, as it always was after a fight. Somewhere far from Rome, far from the sand and the chains. Somewhere warm and quiet, where he wasn’t a gladiator, wasn’t the Eagle of the Arena.
Then he looked up at the crowd, scanning the patrician’s box with a glance he’d perfected—casual enough not to attract suspicion, sharp enough to note every detail.
And he saw her.
At first, he thought his exhaustion was playing tricks on him. He blinked, his grip tightening on his sword as he stared at the woman seated high above. The sun caught her hair, and though she was dressed in the fine silks of a noblewoman, there was no mistaking her.
It was her.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The world around him blurred—the cheers of the crowd, the stink of the arena, even the pain radiating from his bruised ribs. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the woman in front of him.
She was older now, more poised, her features sharper, but it was still her. The same eyes he used to stare into when they were children, the same curve of her lips that had whispered his name in the dark corners of his mother’s villa. The servant girl who had once been his whole world.
The girl he had loved.
Her eyes widened as they locked on his, a mix of shock and disbelief crossing her face. He wondered if she thought him a ghost, just as he had often imagined her face in dreams, only to wake and find himself alone. But this wasn’t a dream. She was here.
His chest tightened as a thousand memories flooded back. Running barefoot through the gardens together, laughing as they dodged his tutors and stole food from the kitchens. Her small, warm hands brushing his as they sat by the fountain, sharing secrets no one else could know.
And then the promises. He had been so sure, so determined, swearing under a sky full of stars that he would always protect her, always come back for her. But life had taken that choice from him. His father’s death, his mother’s grief—it had torn him from her side and thrown him into a world where love had no place.
Yet here she was, staring at him as though no time had passed at all.
The man beside her shifted in his seat, leaning close to speak to her. Lucius’s jaw clenched as the man’s hand brushed hers, the gesture small but possessive. So, she was engaged. Of course, she was. A woman like her, even a servant, could be bartered into a match that served some Roman noble’s ambitions.
But when she looked at her betrothed, there was no warmth in her eyes. None of the light he remembered.
She turned back to him, and for a moment, it felt as though the years melted away. The noise of the arena faded, the weight of his chains forgotten. It was just her and him, as it had always been.
Lucius felt something stir inside him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.
Hope.
His salute lingered a moment longer than it should have, his gaze unwavering. He saw the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers gripped the edge of her chair as if grounding herself against the storm inside her.
And then the guards called for him to return to the cells. The gate creaked open behind him. He forced himself to turn, to walk away, but every step felt heavier than the last.
She was here. She had found him.
And now, no matter the cost, he would find her again.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The barracks were dark and quiet, save for the faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. Lucius sat on the edge of the wooden bench, his head bowed, his hands idly tracing the grooves of the blade across his lap. Around him, the other gladiators had fallen into a tense silence, their usual jests and muttered complaints subdued after the day’s bloodshed.
He’d been Hanno for so long now, the name sliding easily from the lips of the guards, the crowd, the men who fought and bled beside him. Hanno, the invincible gladiator, the Eagle of the Arena. No one questioned where he had come from, why his skills surpassed so many others. They only saw what they wanted—a spectacle, a story to worship or envy.
But tonight, none of that mattered.
Her face had been burned into his mind since he’d seen her, her wide eyes locking with his in the colosseum. Every move he made since had been automatic, his body fighting and surviving on instinct, while his mind reeled with the impossible truth: she was alive.
He gritted his teeth, clenching the blade harder. For years, he’d allowed himself to believe she was lost to him, married off to some faceless noble, her life swallowed by the world of the Roman elite. He’d tried to bury the ache of it, the guilt that he hadn’t fought harder to keep her, the memories of her laugh, her touch, her whispered promises in the moonlight.
But now she was here, close enough to reach, yet still out of his grasp.
“Oi, Hanno,” a gruff voice broke the silence. One of the older gladiators, Gaius, sat sharpening his sword in the corner, his one good eye glinting in the firelight. “You’ve been starin’ at that blade like it owes you coin. What’s on your mind?”
Lucius glanced up, his expression carefully neutral. “Nothing.”
Gaius snorted, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar. You’ve been off since the games today. Can’t say I blame you—crowds like that, they’ll rattle anyone.” He leaned forward, a sly grin spreading across his scarred face. “Or maybe it was someone in the crowd?”
Lucius froze, but only for a moment. Long enough for Gaius’s grin to widen.
“Thought so,” Gaius said. “Some patrician woman caught your eye, eh? Happens to the best of us. Those fine silks and soft hands… nothin’ like the sand and blood we’re used to.”
Lucius forced a smirk, playing along. “Maybe. She looked familiar, that’s all.”
“Familiar?” Gaius raised a brow. “A patrician you’d know? From before?” He lowered his voice, his tone suddenly serious. “Careful, lad. That kind of thinking’ll get you killed. We’re gladiators now, not men with pasts.”
Lucius ignored the warning, leaning back and keeping his voice casual. “You’ve been here longer than most. You hear things. You know people. If I wanted to find out about someone—just out of curiosity—how would I go about it?”
Gaius squinted at him, suspicious now. “Depends who you’re asking about.”
“Her,” Lucius said, his tone sharper than he intended. “She was in the patrician’s box today. y/h/c, y/e/c. Engaged to some nobleman.”
Gaius let out a low whistle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Hanno. Asking about a patrician’s bride-to-be? What, you think you’ll sweep her off her feet, carry her out of here on your shield?” He laughed, but when Lucius didn’t respond, the humor faded from his face.
“You’re serious,” Gaius muttered.
Lucius didn’t answer, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go.
Gaius sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. But you didn’t hear this from me. There’s a steward who works the colosseum, handles the guests in the noble galleries. Quintus is his name. He’s got loose lips when he’s had a bit to drink. You might learn something from him.”
Lucius nodded, already planning his next move. He would find this Quintus, he would learn what he could, and he would find a way to see her.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The barracks were suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and blood. Lucius sat on the stone bench, his head bowed, hands clasped as though in prayer. But he wasn’t praying. Not to the gods, at least. If they had ever cared for him, they had long since turned their backs.
Her face haunted him—the moment he’d locked eyes with her in the patrician’s box. Everything about that instant had shattered his focus, his purpose. The games, the crowd, the blood—they had all faded in that one heartbeat when he saw her again. Iris.
The name stirred something deep within him—something he had buried long ago. She shouldn’t have been there. In this place, with him, after all this time. But there she was, sitting among the nobles, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and recognition, as though she, too, had never forgotten their past. The girl he had loved. The girl he had lost.
He had to know who she was with now—who held her heart.
He caught Titus, one of the younger gladiators, in the corridor late that night when the air had cooled and the others were lost in their rest. The torchlight cast shadows that made everything feel like a dream.
“I need you to send a message,” Lucius said, his voice quiet but firm.
Titus hesitated, glancing nervously at the hallway. “A message? To who?”
“Quintus. The steward,” Lucius said. “Tell him Hanno requests an audience.”
Titus frowned, confused. “Quintus? Why him?”
“Just do it,” Lucius ordered, his tone hardening. “Tell him the Eagle wants to speak to him.”
Reluctantly, Titus nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lucius alone again with his racing thoughts.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
It wasn’t long before Quintus arrived, stepping into the dim light of the corridor with a casual air that belied his sharp eyes. He stopped just outside the bars of Lucius’s cell, arms crossed, his usual smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.
“To what do I owe the honor, Hanno?” Quintus asked, his voice thick with mockery.
Lucius moved to the bars, his grip tight. “I need information.”
Quintus’s eyebrow arched. “Information? About what?”
“Her,” Lucius said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The woman who was in the patrician’s box today. Iris.” He said her name with a careful hesitation, as though he had spoken it too many times in his head already. “I want to know who she’s engaged to.”
Quintus’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked his surprise. “Caius Livius, if you must know,” he replied, his tone as indifferent as ever. “She’s promised to him. A senator’s son.”
Lucius’s jaw tightened, anger rising like a fire within him. Caius. The name tasted bitter on his tongue. He had no claim on Iris anymore, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.
“And where do I find her?” Lucius asked, his voice colder than before.
Quintus leaned closer, his expression unreadable. “You think you can just walk into their life and take what’s already promised?”
“I didn’t ask for your judgment,” Lucius shot back, gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I asked for information.“
Quintus held his gaze for a long moment, as though weighing the consequences of giving away more than he should. “Fine ,” he said finally, his voice lowering. “The wedding is planned for the Saturnalia, and he’ll be parading around the city like any nobleman would. But you, Hanno, are nothing but a gladiator. You’re not in their world anymore.”
Lucius’s eyes hardened, his resolve set. He didn’t care. He would find a way.
Quintus sighed, seeing the determination in Lucius’s eyes. “Be careful. Men like Caius do not take kindly to those who try to steal what they believe belongs to them.”
“I don’t care about their world,” Lucius muttered, his grip still tight on the bars.
Quintus chuckled softly, backing away. “As you wish, Hanno. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Lucius standing alone in the darkened cell.
Iris. She was still here, still within his reach. But now he had to find a way to cross the divide between the life she lived and the life he had been forced into. It would take time, cunning, and risks—he knew that.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The days dragged on in the darkened confines of his cell, but Lucius’s mind was sharp, focused on one singular goal. Iris. Her name burned in his chest like a flame, and every passing hour only fueled his determination to find a way to see her again.
The opportunity finally came in the form of a pre-wedding celebration, a lavish event that would be held in honor of Caius Livius and Iris’s upcoming union. Lucius had learned the details from his fleeting conversation with Quintus. The nobles would gather, music would fill the air, and the festivities would overflow with rich food and wine. And what better place to make a grand appearance, to show his worth and cement his place in the arena, than there?
It was a risky move, but Lucius had long learned that risks were the only path to getting what he wanted. And he wanted Iris back in his life—somehow.
He had been pacing in his cell for days, his mind spinning with ways to gain Macrinus’s approval. The man who oversaw the gladiators was a hard man to impress, focused only on profit and spectacle. But Lucius knew something that could sway him—something that could make Macrinus see the value in letting him appear outside the arena.
When the time came, Lucius finally approached Macrinus after training. The large man stood by the door to the gladiator barracks, as usual, his eyes calculating, a permanent frown etched across his face.
“You’ve got something on your mind, Hanno?” Macrinus’s voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone.
“I want to fight at the pre-wedding celebration,” Lucius said boldly, stepping forward, meeting Macrinus’s gaze without flinching.
Macrinus’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he studied Lucius with suspicion. “What do you mean? You’re already booked for the next game.”
Lucius’s voice remained calm, confident. “A demonstration. A show for the nobles. Not just a fight. A spectacle—something more than just the blood and sand they’re used to. I am worth more than that. My name is already known. They’ll talk about this for weeks. It’ll bring attention to the arena.”
Macrinus scoffed. “I’m not here to pander to noble whims. They want to see blood, Hanno, not performances.”
Lucius leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, convincing tone. “What if you gave them both? The fight, the blood, and the spectacle? You know how the rich love their games, their entertainment. They’ll throw more coin at you than you’ve seen in months. You think I’m just a tool for the sand? No. I’m a showman, too. I can be both your champion and your attraction, Macrinus.”
Macrinus studied him for a long moment, a trace of hesitation on his face. Lucius knew he had his attention. It was all about playing to the man’s greed.
“You think they’ll pay for that?” Macrinus asked skeptically.
“I know they will,” Lucius replied confidently. “You know they will.”
There was a long pause, the silence thick with the weight of the decision. Finally, Macrinus spoke, his tone begrudging. “Fine. But don’t disappoint me, Hanno. If you fail to deliver, you’ll never see the light of day again. Understood?”
Lucius gave him a single, sharp nod. “Understood.”
The deal was struck. He would appear at the celebration—not as a mere gladiator, but as an entertainer, a spectacle that would tantalize the nobles and remind them of the fierce warriors they had come to worship. But Lucius’s true goal wasn’t just to perform. It was to find Iris again.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The night of the pre-wedding celebration arrived, and the grand estate was alive with opulence. Torches lined the paths, casting flickering shadows over the marble columns that held up the towering structure. The air was thick with the sound of music, the chatter of guests, the clinking of goblets filled with wine. Lucius stood in the center of the courtyard, wearing a costume not meant for battle but for spectacle—a fighter’s attire mixed with elaborate decorations meant to draw the eye.
The moment he stepped into the midst of the crowd, all eyes were on him. His reputation had already preceded him, and now, in the midst of this rich, noble gathering, the anticipation of the fight—his performance—was palpable.
Lucius’s heart pounded in his chest, but not because of the crowd’s gaze. He was searching for her. Iris.
It didn’t take long before his eyes found her, seated at the edge of the grand table, surrounded by the high-ranking men and women of Rome. She was seated next to Caius, her fiancé, but it was her presence that caught Lucius’s attention, her graceful posture, the way she held herself with a quiet elegance that made his heart ache.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, but Lucius knew this was his chance. He had to speak with her. He had to know if she remembered what they had shared. If she felt the same pull he did.
He played his part well, engaging in a mock duel with one of the other gladiators, performing for the crowd, his movements sharp and exaggerated. He could hear the gasps of excitement, the laughter, and the murmurs of approval. But his gaze never left her.
When the crowd finally began to thin out, when the festivities had moved inside to the banquet hall, Lucius saw his opportunity. He took a deep breath, stepping away from the cheering spectators and weaving through the courtyard, making his way toward the quiet area where Iris had slipped away from the crowd.
His pulse quickened as he neared her, and when he saw her alone for the briefest of moments, he stepped forward, his heart pounding with urgency. But just as his hand reached for the veil of the moment, a shadow fell across his path, and he froze.
“Iris.”
Her name, spoken with the weight of ownership, cut through the air. Lucius’s breath caught in his throat as Caius Livius stepped into view, his posture commanding and his eyes sharp with the kind of possessive authority that had always made Lucius’s skin crawl.
Iris’s face faltered for a split second, the mask she had been wearing slipping just enough to reveal the turmoil beneath. She turned, her eyes wide with shock at Caius’s sudden appearance.
“I was about to—” Iris began, but Caius stepped closer, his presence towering over her, blocking Lucius’s approach.
“You were about to what?” Caius’s voice was calm, but there was a hard edge to it. His gaze flicked briefly to Lucius, a look of recognition passing between them before he returned his attention to Iris, his hand subtly resting possessively on her arm. “You should be with your guests, Iris. This isn’t the time for wandering off.”
Iris stiffened at his touch, but she said nothing, her eyes darting briefly toward Lucius.
“I just… needed a moment,” Iris murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled her arm away from Caius’s grasp, the coldness of the gesture unnoticed by him, though Lucius felt the tension between them all the same.
Caius, however, didn’t miss the unspoken exchange. His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened. “I’ll take her back inside. It’s better that way.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he placed a firm hand at the small of her back and guided her away, leaving Lucius standing frozen in the shadows of the courtyard, the words he longed to say locked behind his teeth.
As they disappeared into the throng of nobles, Lucius’s gaze remained on Iris, heart sinking as the distance between them grew. He had come so close—too close—and yet fate had thrown him back into the same endless fight.
This was far from over.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The atmosphere in the grand hall was suffocating. Candles flickered in golden sconces, casting long shadows along the marble floor. The chatter of the guests—nobles and dignitaries alike—filled the air, but Iris barely heard any of it. Her mind was elsewhere, her heart somewhere far from the lavish feast unfolding before her.
Tonight was supposed to be a celebration—a night to honor the union of herself and Caius Livius. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. She had played her part in the arrangements, had donned the gown of a bride and smiled for the guests, but everything felt like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Caius, standing at her side, had not noticed the distance growing between them. His attention was fixed on the guests, on his own image as a future senator, as a man who had already secured his place in Roman society. But for Iris, it was all just a gilded cage, and she was desperate to escape it.
Her gaze drifted toward the center of the room, where the gladiators—Lucius among them, disguised as Hanno—stood, their presence an odd contrast to the aristocratic crowd. They had been invited for spectacle, for entertainment, to make the celebration more “authentic” in the eyes of the nobles. But Iris only saw the man she had once known—Lucius.
There, in the corner of the hall, he stood with his fellow gladiators, their grim faces betraying nothing of what Iris felt in her chest. The way he moved—like a predator, every inch a warrior, but still, something about him seemed so familiar, so painfully alive.
Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. It was brief, a moment suspended in time, but it was enough. He hadn’t seen her as a noblewoman. He hadn’t seen her as the fiancée of Caius Livius. He saw her, Iris, the girl who had once run barefoot through the gardens of Lucilla’s estate with him, the girl who had watched him train and fought by his side in secret. And in that instant, she could see the same longing in his eyes—the same recognition that told her he had never forgotten her, either.
Her heart raced, and she felt the familiar tug of old emotions threatening to pull her back to him. The years apart, the choices they had made, all seemed so distant now. But standing there, in the same room, everything she had tried to bury came flooding back.
“Iris?” Caius’s voice interrupted her thoughts, pulling her back to the reality of the celebration. She turned to face her fiancé, whose eyes were sharp with suspicion. “You’re not listening.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, offering him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I was… distracted.” She forced her gaze away from Lucius and back to Caius, though the effort felt like a betrayal. “I need to step outside for a moment,” she added, the words tumbling from her lips before she could think better of it.
“Outside?” Caius raised an eyebrow, his face hardening. “Why?”
“I just… need air,” Iris said, her voice trembling. She couldn’t explain it to him—not in this moment, not in front of the guests. She didn’t even fully understand herself.
Caius’ frown deepened. “We’re in the middle of a celebration, Iris. You can’t just—”
“I must go,” she interrupted, her tone sharper than she intended. She could feel the weight of the room, the pressure of everyone watching, and it made her skin crawl. “I’ll return shortly.” She didn’t wait for his response, turning away and heading toward the door before he could say another word.
She had already rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times—slipping away unnoticed, making her way to the stables where the gladiators were kept. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but the pull of Lucius—the pull of him—was stronger than any duty she had.
Tonight, of all nights, he would be transported separately from the others. She had learned of his arrival through whispers, and she knew the gladiators would be kept in the cages, awaiting transport to the barracks after the night’s festivities.
But Iris didn’t want to wait. She needed to see him again, to know if it was truly him.
She had paid off a guard earlier, sliding him a small pouch of gold, instructing him to turn a blind eye to her movements. He had agreed, eyes gleaming with greed. She knew it was risky, but she had no choice.
She made her way to the small courtyard behind the villa, where the cages awaited the gladiators. It was dark here, the shadows stretching long and deep, and Iris felt the safety of being hidden, away from the scrutiny of the celebration. The night was still, save for the sound of distant chatter from the main hall.
Iris crouched low behind one of the larger cages, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew they’d arrive soon, and she had one chance—just one. The cage was meant to carry the gladiators back to their quarters, but Iris had found a way to be there first. She slid inside one of the empty cages, curling into the corner where the shadows would hide her. She had to remain out of sight. If anyone saw her, if anyone knew she was here, it would be over.
The cage door creaked open, and the sound of boots on stone grew louder. She held her breath, knowing who it was. When Lucius—or Hanno—finally stepped inside, his form battered, bloodied, and worn from the fight, he stopped, pausing in the doorway. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling, his posture slightly hunched from exhaustion. But even in this broken state, there was no mistaking him.
He didn’t see her at first, his gaze on the floor, but then his eyes flicked up, and they locked. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Iris…” His voice was low, hoarse, almost disbelieving, as if he had to convince himself that she was real.
She swallowed, heart in her throat, and stepped forward. The air between them was thick with unsaid words, but neither of them moved. Not at first. “It’s me,” she said softly, almost in a whisper, afraid to break the fragile spell between them.
Lucius’s gaze softened as he took in the sight of her. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, but still, there was something holding him back. He paused, just a few feet away, as if trying to process the impossible truth of the moment. His eyes searched hers, as if looking for something—some reassurance that this wasn’t just a dream.
“What are you doing here, Iris?” he asked quietly, his voice rough. “You shouldn’t be here. You—” He glanced toward the entrance, where the guards had started moving around, no doubt expecting him to leave soon. “You should be with your fiancé. This is no place for you.”
Her heart stung at the mention of her betrothed. But she couldn’t turn away now, not when he was standing here in front of her, so close and yet so far. She took a tentative step toward him, her fingers brushing the cold bars of the cage, wanting to feel him, to know that he was still the same.
“I couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just needed to see you. To know that you’re still here. That you’re still alive.”
Lucius’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from her. His eyes were filled with something she couldn’t quite place—sorrow, regret, and something deeper, something that made her heart ache with a longing she knew she couldn’t act on.
“I’m not who I was,” he said, his voice quieter now, filled with a mixture of pain and something more. “I’m not that boy anymore, Iris.”
Iris closed her eyes for a moment, her hand still gripping the bars, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside her. She knew the truth of his words. They both knew that nothing had changed—except everything had. The life she had once known with him was long gone. She was promised to another. Lucius was a gladiator, shackled by the life he had been forced into.
“I don’t need anything from you,” she said, her voice breaking as she opened her eyes to meet his. “I just wanted to see you. To know you’re still fighting. To remind myself that you’re real.” Her hand trembled slightly, reaching out. She could barely make herself do it—touch him, feel the reality of him. She just needed to know he wasn’t a memory.
He stood still, watching her, his own hand coming up as if he reached for her, but he didn’t. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—one that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. They couldn’t change what had happened, couldn’t undo the time that had passed. The distance between them now was unbridgeable.
“You have to keep fighting,” Iris said softly, her voice full of quiet desperation. “You have to win these battles, Lucius. Not just for your freedom—but for yourself.”
He nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in his chest. “I’ll keep fighting,” he said, but his voice was strained. “But what if I don’t win? What if there’s nothing left for me once this is over?”
“You have to try,” she said, shaking her head. She felt her throat tighten, but she held it together, taking a deep breath. “For you. For the chance to have something more than this. I can’t change what’s already been decided. But you…” Her voice faltered for a moment. “You can still change your life. You can change Rome. The emperor’s reign terror over us all. The very thing Maximus fought to destroy has been reborn. This…this could be Rome’s second coming. You could change everything!”
He stood still, eyes narrowed as she spoke, her voice growing more urgent, more pleading. The hope in her words was thick, almost suffocating. The weight of her expectations settled onto his shoulders, heavier than any armor he had ever worn in the arena. She was asking him to be a symbol, to be something more than just the man who had been torn apart by the brutal hands of fate. To rise up, to fight—not for his life, not for his freedom—but for something else, something bigger than them both.
The bitterness swirled inside him, bitterness he couldn’t quite shake, even though he knew it wasn’t fair. He wanted to pull her close and ask if she had really come here for him—or if she had come because she needed him to be more than the gladiator she saw. Was she still seeing the boy she once knew? Or had the weight of Rome’s problems and the brutality of their world transformed that image into something else?
“You think I’m here to save Rome?” His voice was low, thick with disbelief, and maybe something sharper, something closer to anger. He took a step closer, his breath quickening. “Have you really come to ask me to fix a city that’s rotting from the inside? To fight in the name of some grand idea, as if that would change anything?”
He could see the shock in her eyes, the way she stiffened at his words, but the feeling that burned inside him wouldn’t let him soften his tone. “I was a boy who used to laugh with you. Who dreamed of something better. And now, I’m here, in chains, fighting for my life like some beast in a cage—and you expect me to change the world? To fight for a cause that wasn’t mine? To be your hero? What do you even want from me, Iris?”
The sharpness of his words hung in the air, and he regretted them almost immediately. He knew it wasn’t her fault. He knew the weight of everything she had said came from a place of fear, of wanting him to be the person he used to be—the person she wanted him to be. But something inside him twisted in frustration, the lingering taste of his own disillusionment clouding his thoughts.
“You don’t even know what it’s like in here,” he continued, his voice quieter now, but still edged with that underlying anger. “What it takes to survive. I’m not some gladiator who can just rise up and change the world, Iris. I’m just a man trying to get through the next fight. And if I die in the arena tomorrow, what’s left of me? What good does it do Rome?”
His fists clenched at his sides, but his gaze softened just a little, though he didn’t allow himself to look away from her. “I know what your life is supposed to be. I know you’ve got your future planned out, with your betrothed and your family. You don’t need me. You don’t need this.” He gestured toward the cage, the arena that held him captive. “You don’t need someone like me anymore.”
There was silence between them now, and for a long moment, Lucius simply stared at her, the weight of his words still hanging between them. It wasn’t anger he felt—not entirely—but frustration, confusion, and something deeper that he couldn’t put into words.
"You do not get to ask me to be someone I’m not anymore.”
Iris stood there, her hand still gripping the bars, her body trembling slightly under the weight of his words. She hadn’t come here to convince him to save the empire. She had come to see him, to remind herself of who he was before he became Hanno—the gladiator. But Lucius, had taken it another way.
Maybe it was too much for him to hear. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with her presence here, what she expected from him, what he was still capable of giving. And maybe he was right to be angry, right to wonder what had brought her here tonight.
But Iris, standing in the cold dark of the cage with him, wanted to say that she didn’t care about all the politics, the battles, the blood. She didn’t care about Rome or her betrothed or the life that had been set out for her. She just wanted him. The boy she had known, the one who had made her laugh and dreamed of a future together. The man standing in front of her now, in chains, so far from the man he had once been.
But she didn’t know how to tell him that. Instead, she stepped back, slowly, her heart breaking with each movement. She had come here to see him, to remind herself of who he was—but now, as he stood there, unable to see past the fight that consumed him, it felt like all of that was slipping away again.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She turned away, the weight of his words still echoing in her ears. “I didn’t mean to ask you to be someone you’re not.”
And with that, she walked away, the door of the cage closing behind her with a final, resounding thud. Lucius watched her go, his chest heavy with regret, but no words came. The cage was cold. The night outside was full of laughter and light, and yet, it felt impossibly far away.
#lucius verus x reader#lucius verus#gladiator ii#gladiator 2#gladiator 2 fic#gladiator ||#hanno x reader#paul mescal#paul mescal x reader#lucius verus x y/n#lucius verus x you
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New life - worst!Logan x Reader (NSFW)
Summary: Logan tries to live his new life in solitarity with peace and quiet. However, it all changes when you move in next to him.
Pairing: worst!Logan x reader
Warnings: angst, fluff, smut, inexperienced (but not a virgin) reader, Wade Wilson. SMUT, hot shower sex, eating out for both So please do not interract if you're under 18.
AN: So I had this story sitting and waiting to be published. This is probably the most smutty thing I have ever written. But I hope you will enjoy it ;) No beta read all the mistakes are my own...
Words: 24 220 (oops)
Logan sat on the porch of the small cabin, his rough hands wrapped around a bottle of cheap beer, staring out at the thick woods that surrounded him. The world was quiet, too quiet for a man like him. It wasn’t just the silence of the woods, but the kind of silence that stretched into the very core of his existence, making him feel like a ghost—a relic in a world that had moved on without him.
He had seen it all. Hell, he’d lived it all. Fought battles that would break most men, lost more people than he cared to remember, and survived wars that had been meant to end him. Yet here he was, in this new reality, a world stitched together from the broken pieces of his past and fragments of a future that wasn’t supposed to be.
And then there was Wade.
Logan took a long drink, letting the beer burn its way down his throat. Wade Wilson—Deadpool—was a walking contradiction. The bastard was a thorn in Logan’s side, an immortal jester who seemed to mock the seriousness of life with every breath he took. Wade’s idea of fun was throwing himself headfirst into a fight just to see how many pieces he’d end up in. And somehow, by some twisted stroke of fate, Wade had followed Logan into this new world.
It wasn’t just Wade, either. Laura was here, too. His daughter, if he could call her that. X-23. She was tough, capable, and deadly. More like him than anyone else, and that’s what scared him the most.
Logan had always thought that isolation was his fate. He’d always believed he was doomed to walk the world alone, leaving destruction in his wake. But now…now he wasn’t so sure.
In this strange new place, with Wade and Laura nearby, Logan found himself struggling to make sense of it all. And the worst part? He couldn’t decide if he hated the fact that he wasn’t alone anymore—or if he secretly loved it.
---
The world they found themselves in wasn’t exactly like the one Logan had known before. There were no Sentinels hunting mutants down. There were no endless wars between mutants and humans. It was… quieter. Softer. And it made Logan feel restless, like a caged animal pacing inside a zoo enclosure too small for his needs.
This world was full of people living normal lives—people who didn’t know about the blood Logan had on his hands, the wars he had fought, or the pain that clawed at his insides every time he closed his eyes. They didn’t know who he was. And he wanted to keep it that way.
But there were still reminders of the past, flickers of the world he’d left behind. Wade, for one. The bastard had somehow adapted to this new reality like a fish to water, making sarcastic jokes about “timeline anomalies” and “multiverse etiquette” while Logan tried not to punch him in the face.
It wasn’t that Logan hated Wade. No, he knew Wade had been through his own version of hell. It was just that Wade had a way of poking at the deepest parts of Logan’s soul, the parts he didn’t want anyone messing with. Like Wade knew exactly how to find the cracks in Logan’s armor and jab at them with a grin on his face.
Yet despite that, Wade was here. And Laura. And something about that gnawed at Logan in ways he couldn’t explain.
Wade’s presence wasn’t just an annoyance. It was a reminder that Logan wasn’t alone. That even in this fractured world, there were still people around him. People who gave a damn. Wade might be a pain in the ass, but Logan couldn’t deny that the man had his back when it counted.
And Laura—she was tougher than nails, just like him. The kid had been through more than anyone her age should have to endure. In many ways, she was his mirror: fierce, stubborn, carrying the weight of violence in her bones. But where Logan was tired, worn down by the decades, Laura still had fire in her. She hadn’t lost that part of herself yet.
God, he hoped she wouldn’t.
---
Logan had spent his life running from his past. It was the one thing he was good at. He had been the lone wolf for so long, keeping people at arm’s length, pushing them away the moment they got too close. He’d lost count of how many times he had built walls around himself, thicker and higher each time. He’d perfected the art of being alone.
But this time, the past felt closer than ever.
In his quiet moments—those rare seconds when Wade wasn’t around, spouting off ridiculous commentary about “crossing universes” or “rebooting franchises”—Logan found his mind drifting back to the things he couldn’t forget. The people. The places. The blood.
The world around him might have changed, but his memories hadn’t.
He remembered the sound of Charles’ voice, the way the professor’s mind had felt inside his own, guiding him when everything else was chaos. He remembered Jean, her face twisted with power and pain, and how he had been the one to end it. To end her. He remembered the wars, the endless wars, and the way they had ripped him apart inside, piece by piece.
Logan’s hands clenched around the neck of the bottle, his knuckles turning white. It wasn’t fair. The memories weren’t fair. They were all ghosts now, haunting him in the quiet of this new world. He had outlived them all, and sometimes he wondered if that was the worst part—being the last one standing.
Laura was the only one who could understand, even if she didn’t say it out loud. She had the same memories, the same scars. They were alike in that way, bound together by the violence of their creation.
Yet she still looked at the world with a glimmer of hope.
Logan envied her for that.
---
What tore at him the most—what kept Logan up at night, staring at the ceiling, his chest heavy with the weight of it—was the gnawing feeling that maybe he didn’t want to be alone. Not anymore.
For years, Logan had convinced himself that solitude was his destiny. That he was too dangerous, too broken to be close to anyone. He had lost too much, and losing again wasn’t something he could handle. It was easier to keep the world at a distance. To fight alone. To bleed alone.
But now, sitting here in the middle of nowhere with Wade making bad jokes and Laura not too far away, Logan found himself facing a truth he didn’t know how to accept.
He cared about them.
He’d never say it out loud, of course. That wasn’t his style. But it was there, gnawing at the back of his mind every time Wade dragged him into some ridiculous situation or Laura reminded him, with a single sharp look, that she was capable of handling herself.
In some messed-up way, these people had become his pack. His family.
Logan didn’t do family. Not after all the ones he had lost. But now, against all odds, there was Wade with his incessant humor, and Laura with her silent strength. And, whether he liked it or not, Logan found himself caring.
Maybe too much.
That was the real problem, wasn’t it? He couldn’t afford to care. He had spent his whole life losing the people he loved, and he didn’t want to go through that again. But this world—this strange new reality—was forcing him to face a future he hadn’t expected. A future where he wasn’t alone.
And it scared the hell out of him.
---
Logan felt the beast stirring inside him every day. The anger, the rage—it was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for an excuse to tear its way out. In the old world, there had always been something to fight. Someone to kill. That’s what kept him going: the battles, the endless battles.
But here?
Here, in this quiet world, the beast had no outlet. There were no enemies to hunt, no wars to fight. And that scared him more than anything, because without the violence to drown in, Logan was left with the one thing he had spent his entire life avoiding: himself.
He didn’t know how to live without the fight. Didn’t know how to be the man people wanted him to be in this strange new life.
And yet, for the first time in years, Logan could feel something else stirring inside him. Something softer. It was a terrifying feeling—one that made him feel exposed and vulnerable in a way no battle ever had. It was the feeling of wanting something more.
Of wanting someone to come home to.
Logan shook his head, trying to shake the thought loose. He was too old for this. Too worn out, too broken. There was no place in his life for softness. No place for—
A voice cut through the silence. “Hey, old man, you brooding again? Don’t worry, I brought beer! And chimichangas!”
Wade.
Logan growled low in his throat, but deep down, a part of him—the part he refused to acknowledge—was relieved.
---
As the sun set over the trees, casting long shadows across the ground, Logan leaned back in his chair, listening to Wade’s footsteps approaching. In another life, in another world, this would’ve been the kind of thing that set him on edge.
***
Logan could hear you long before he saw you.
It was a sunny afternoon—too damn sunny for his taste—when the sound of boxes being shuffled, a car door slamming, and a string of cheerful humming broke the usual quiet of his secluded little corner of the world. Logan’s brows furrowed as he sat on his porch, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He could feel the change, the shift in his surroundings, like the arrival of an unwanted storm.
He wasn’t expecting anyone new to move in. He didn’t need neighbors. Hell, he barely tolerated the company of Wade, and that bastard was like a cockroach, impossible to get rid of. But the sounds continued, grating on his nerves.
Logan tried to ignore it. He took a deep drag from his cigar, letting the smoke curl around him like a protective shield. He wasn’t in the mood for people. Never was.
But then he heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel driveway leading up to his cabin.
“Hey there!” a bright voice called out, too damn chipper for the likes of him.
Logan squinted into the sunlight, his gaze landing on the source of the intrusion.
A woman— with a wide smile and way too much energy—was making her way toward him, waving as if they were old friends. She had a box tucked under one arm, and her other hand flailed in his direction like she hadn’t quite mastered the art of walking and greeting someone at the same time.
Logan’s first thought was to retreat, to grumble some excuse and disappear into his cabin, lock the door, and hope she’d get the hint.
But then she was there, standing at the edge of his porch, her eyes bright with curiosity and excitement. Logan could practically feel her energy radiating off her, and it made his skin itch.
“Hi! Nice to meet ya,” you said, holding out a hand as if you two were meeting at some friendly town gathering. “I just moved in next door! Well, not exactly next door, but you know, close enough. Over there.” You pointed vaguely in the direction of the small house a few yards down the gravel road, the one that had been vacant for months. “I thought I’d come by and introduce myself!”
Logan stared at you, his mouth clamped shut around the cigar, saying nothing. He didn’t want to shake your hand. Hell, he didn’t even want to look at you, but there you were—bright, bubbly, and apparently oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t the neighborly type.
Your hand hovered in the air for a moment longer before you dropped it, unfazed by his lack of response. You were smiling at him like you had all the time in the world, eyes sparkling with some kind of optimism that made Logan’s stomach twist.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” you said, cocking your head to the side, studying him like he was some kind of puzzle you were eager to figure out.
Logan grunted, the only sound he could manage. He wasn’t about to engage in small talk with some stranger, let alone one as annoyingly cheerful as this one.
You didn’t seem bothered by his silence. In fact, you didn’t seem bothered by anything. You just kept talking, as if his gruff demeanor was nothing more than a speed bump on the road of your conversation.
“I’m opening a coffee shop!” you announced, her face lighting up even more, which Logan hadn’t thought was possible. “Right down the street, actually. It’s called Beans of Heaven—cute, right? I thought it was clever. It’s gonna be small, but cozy. You should stop by sometime. I make the best coffee. Seriously, the *best*. You’re not one of those ‘don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee’ types, are you? ’Cause I can fix that. I’ve got all sorts of flavors, too. But if you’re more of a black coffee, no sugar, no fuss kind of guy, I can do that, too.”
You paused just long enough to take a breath, and Logan couldn’t help but feel a little bit of admiration for the fact that you hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen. Damn, you could talk.
“I bet you’re a black coffee type,” you said, giving him a wink like you’d just solved some great mystery. “Strong, no nonsense. That’s you, right?”
Logan grunted again, this time out of sheer disbelief. Were you for real?
You smiled wider—how, he didn’t know—and clapped your hands together. “I knew it! Okay, well, I just wanted to say hi and let you know that I’m around. If you ever need anything, just holler! Or, you know, come by the shop. First cup’s on the house!”
Before Logan could tell you to leave, you waved one last time and turned on your heel, bouncing back toward the car like the world was made of sunshine and rainbows.
Logan stared after you, feeling a mix of irritation and confusion swirling in his gut. You were too much. Too loud. Too… happy. A part of him wanted to destroy that happiness, to crush it beneath the weight of his own darkness, just to see how long your smile would last.
But another part of him—the part that still hadn’t learned to let go of the things he’d lost—wanted to hold on to it. To be a part of it. Maybe even protect it.
He crushed those thoughts as soon as they appeared. That wasn’t him. Not anymore.
No, the loudest part of him wanted to stay far away from you and that relentless energy. He didn’t need that kind of brightness in his life. He’d learned long ago that everything bright eventually dimmed. And Logan was no good at keeping things alive.
---
It didn’t take long for you to open the shop.
Within a week, there was a new sign on the old building just down the road, a colorful thing that read Bean of Heaven in bold, cheerful letters. The place had been empty for as long as Logan could remember, just another relic of a town that was slowly dying. But you had breathed life into it, just like you had with everything else you touched.
Logan had no intention of visiting. He wasn’t about to walk into a place where he’d have to sit and listen to your nonstop chatter. But fate, or maybe just bad luck, had other plans.
He ran out of beer.
There were no bars nearby, and the nearest liquor store was a half-hour drive. He’d been sitting on his porch, staring at the empty bottle in his hand, when the smell hit him—rich, dark, the unmistakable aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting down the street from your shop. His stomach growled, and despite himself, Logan found his feet moving toward the source.
The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside, and there you were—standing behind the counter, pouring coffee with the same level of enthusiasm most people reserved for winning the lottery. Your head snapped up when you saw him, and your face lit up with that damn smile again.
“Neighbour! You made it!” you said, like you’d been expecting him all along. “I knew you’d come by eventually.”
Logan grunted, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He didn’t respond, just made his way to the counter, eyes scanning the shop. It was cozy, like you’d said—lots of wooden tables, warm lighting, and shelves lined with plants and knickknacks. It didn’t feel like a place that belonged in his world.
You handed him a cup, black coffee, no sugar, no cream—just how he liked it. He took a sip, the warmth flooding through him, and he couldn’t help but let out a small sound of approval.
It was the best damn coffee he’d ever had.
“You like it, huh?” You asked, eyes twinkling with pride. “Told you I make the best coffee. You’re gonna be hooked, I promise.”
Logan didn’t answer, just took another sip, letting the coffee do the talking for him.
You leaned on the counter, your head resting in your hands, watching him like he was the most interesting thing in the world. “So,” you said, breaking the silence, “you’re kind of a mystery, aren’t you?”
Logan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like being a mystery to anyone. Especially not someone like you, who seemed intent on figuring him out.
“I bet you’ve got all sorts of stories,” you continued, undeterred by his silence. “I mean, you’ve got that whole ‘lone wolf’ vibe going on. You know, the brooding guy with the mysterious past? People eat that stuff up.”
Logan grunted, trying to ignore you, but you didn’t seem to get the hint. You just kept talking, words bouncing around the shop like they had a life of their own.
“You ever think about opening up? I mean, I’m sure you’ve been through a lot. Everyone’s got their demons, right? And I get it, you don’t want to talk about it. That’s fine. But, you know, sometimes it helps to have someone to talk to. Not that I’m saying you need to talk to me or anything, but—”
Logan shot you a look, one that usually shut people up pretty fast. But you? You just smiled, like he hadn’t even glared at you.
“You’re not much for conversation, huh?”
***
The first few weeks after Logan’s initial trip to Beans of Heaven passed in a haze of routine. Every morning, like clockwork, he’d walk down the road to the small coffee shop. The sun was always just barely creeping over the horizon, and the air was still crisp with the night’s lingering chill. The smell of freshly brewed coffee would hit him the moment he opened the door, mingling with the scent of cinnamon rolls and other pastries you had undoubtedly baked before dawn.
You, for your part, had made a habit of greeting him the same way every day, with a wide smile that seemed to stretch across your entire face. “Logan! Black coffee, no frills, coming right up!”
At first, he just grunted in response, as usual. But there was something about you—something relentless, something he couldn’t quite figure out. Most people would’ve taken the hint after a few days of silence from him, maybe decided to stop talking altogether. But not you. No, you kept at it, talking about everything and nothing, filling the air with words while Logan sat at his usual table in the back corner, sipping his coffee.
He didn’t respond. Not really. But there was a part of him that started to look forward to it, the way your voice would fill the shop, the way you laughed at your own jokes. It was ridiculous, how much energy you had. And even more ridiculous how much it didn’t annoy him as much as it should’ve.
---
It happened one day, without him even meaning to.
Logan had been sitting at his usual spot, staring out the window, watching the way the morning light filtered through the trees. You were behind the counter, humming some cheerful tune while you wiped down the espresso machine. You hadn’t started talking to him yet that morning—maybe you’d finally realized he wasn’t much for conversation.
But then, out of nowhere, you blurted out, “You ever play hockey, Logan?”
His eyes flicked up to you, and for a split second, he almost ignored the question, like he always did. But something inside him cracked, maybe because it was such a random thing to ask, or maybe because he hadn’t been asked about hockey in a long time.
“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough like gravel. “A long time ago.”
Your eyes widened, and for a moment, you looked like you weren't sure if you’d imagined his response or not. But then, just as quickly, you beamed at him. “I knew it! You’ve got that ‘gritty, fight-anyone-who-looks-at-you-wrong’ vibe. Bet you were one of those enforcers, huh? Knocking people’s teeth out?”
Logan snorted, a sound that surprised even him. He hadn’t meant to make it, but there it was. “Something like that.”
You practically bounced on your heels, grinning like you’d just unlocked some great mystery. “That’s awesome! You’ll have to teach me some moves one day. I mean, I’m not a hockey player, but I do love watching the games. Fast-paced, brutal—right up your alley, I bet.”
Logan didn’t respond, but something about the way you said it—about how easily you talked to him, how you didn’t flinch at his gruffness—made him feel… different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that was unfamiliar.
It felt comfortable. And that was terrifying.
---
After that day, something shifted between you two. It wasn’t drastic, but it was there—a slow, almost imperceptible change. Logan found himself responding more often, if only with a few words here and there. You, in turn, seemed to take his gruff replies as victories, your laughter growing warmer every time he said something back.
You still talked a lot. About your shop, about the town, about random things you found amusing. Logan didn’t mind, though. Your voice became part of the background, something that made the shop feel… alive.
And then, one Sunday, you hit him with the invitation that he hadn’t seen coming.
“Hey, Logan?” you called from behind the counter as you wiped down the tables after the last customer of the day had left.
He looked up from his coffee, raising an eyebrow in question.
“So, I was thinking… I’ve got this Sunday dinner tradition, and I usually eat alone, which is fine, but it’d be way more fun if you joined me,” you said, words spilling out in that usual rapid-fire way you had. “I’m making lasagna—well, trying to, anyway. It’s kind of a work in progress, but it’s edible, I promise.”
Logan stared at you for a moment, trying to figure out if you were serious. Dinner? With him? It was the kind of thing people did when they were friends, or at least something close to it.
He wasn’t sure he was ready for that. But the look on your face—hopeful, yet casual, like you weren't pressuring him—made it hard to say no. You weren't asking much. Just dinner.
“I don’t do lasagna,” he said gruffly, setting his mug down.
You blinked, clearly not expecting that response. “Oh… okay. Well, what do you do? I can make something else—anything you like.”
He sighed, knowing he was walking right into the trap. “Steak. Rare.”
Your face lit up like Christmas had come early. “Steak it is! Sunday, six o’clock. Don’t be late!”
And just like that, Logan found himself sitting at your table a few days later, cutting into a steak that was cooked almost perfectly, and listening to you ramble on about some small-town drama that he didn’t care about in the slightest. But he listened anyway, because for the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn’t mind the noise.
It was… nice. And that unsettled him more than anything.
---
Sunday dinners became a thing. He didn’t know how it happened, or when it happened, but suddenly, every Sunday at six, Logan found himself sitting at your table, eating whatever meal you’d decided to cook that week.
In return, he invited you over one evening to watch a hockey game. He wasn’t much of a TV guy, but the game was on, and he figured if you liked hockey as much as you said you did, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone else to sit in silence with while the action played out on the screen.
But, of course, silence wasn’t part of the deal with you.
“Oh my God, that hit was brutal!” you exclaimed, clutching the edge of the couch as one of the players was slammed into the boards. “Is it bad that I kind of love that part?”
Logan chuckled, a sound he was still getting used to making around you. “That’s the best part.”
They watched the rest of the game, and by the end of it, you were nearly bouncing off the couch with excitement, throwing out commentary as if you were one of the analysts. Logan didn’t mind. It reminded him of the old days, of sitting in dingy bars with teammates, knocking back beers after a hard fight. It felt good. Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
---
That comfort was the problem. The more time Logan spent with you, the more he found himself settling into a routine—a dangerous routine. Sunday dinners. Hockey nights. Coffee in the mornings, with your cheerful voice filling the air as you teased him about his gruffness.
He could feel himself relaxing around you, letting his guard down in ways he hadn’t done in years. And that scared the hell out of him.
Logan had learned long ago that comfort didn’t last. It couldn’t. People left. People died. He was a walking reminder of that. The more comfortable he got, the harder it would be when it all inevitably fell apart. And it would fall apart. It always did.
So he started to pull away.
It wasn’t drastic at first. Just little things. He stopped responding as much when you talked to him. He’d grunt instead of offering actual words. He’d sit in the shop for shorter amounts of time, finishing his coffee faster so he didn’t have to linger in your presence.
You noticed, of course. You weren’t oblivious.
“You okay?” you asked one morning, your usual smile faltering just a little as you set his coffee down in front of him.
Logan didn’t meet your gaze. “Yeah. Fine.”
But he wasn’t fine, and you both knew it.
The following week, he didn’t show up for Sunday dinner. He didn’t even call to cancel—he didn’t have your number anyway. He figured you’d get the message. You didn’t need him complicating your life. You didn’t need his baggage, his darkness.
And he sure as hell didn’t need to get attached to someone who would eventually leave, one way or another.
Days passed, and Logan avoided the coffee shop altogether. He holed up in his cabin, kept to himself, buried his feelings under layers of gruff silence. He told himself it was for the best. He was saving both of them from whatever disaster was waiting down the road.
But the silence that followed his absence was unbearable.
---
You had always been good at reading people, even if they didn’t want to be read. And Logan? He was the kind of guy who had ‘walls’ written all over him, the kind of guy who didn’t let people in easily
***
Logan sat in his small living room, the faint crackle of the fireplace the only sound in the cabin. He had a beer in his hand and an ever-present scowl on his face. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the room in shadows, but he didn’t bother to turn on any lights. There was no point. Darkness suited him just fine.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table, and Logan grunted, already knowing who it was without checking. Wade had been pestering him all week, leaving voice messages filled with his usual barrage of nonsense, bad jokes, and bizarre references. Most days, Logan ignored him. But tonight, for reasons he couldn’t quite figure out, he picked up.
“What do you want, Wade?” Logan grumbled as he hit the video call button.
The screen flickered to life, and there was Wade Wilson—Deadpool—grinning like an idiot, wearing what looked like a unicorn onesie, complete with a rainbow mane on the hood.
“Logan!” Wade exclaimed, way too loudly. “My favorite grumpy Canadian! How’s life in the great wide wilderness? Have you finally turned into a lumberjack or are you just planning on brooding yourself into oblivion?”
Logan rolled his eyes, already regretting answering. “What the hell do you want, Wade?”
“What do I want?” Wade gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “What do I want? Just to check in on my best buddy, that’s all! It’s been ages. I’m just making sure you haven’t gotten yourself eaten by a bear or, you know, spontaneously combusted from sheer grumpiness.”
“I’m fine,” Logan said flatly, taking a long pull from his beer.
Wade squinted at him through the screen. “You sure about that, pal? You look like you’ve been chewing on nails and spitting out iron filings. You’re not even gonna give me a smile? Not even a little one?”
Logan grunted. “Don’t push it.”
Wade wiggled his eyebrows. “So, how’s the new reality treating you? You’re all settled in, yeah? Got your cabin, got your woods, got your mysterious brooding vibe going strong. You must be in paradise.”
Logan leaned back in his chair, trying to get comfortable, but Wade’s incessant cheer made it impossible. “It’s fine. Quiet. Just how I like it.”
“Oh sure, I bet,” Wade said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure you’re just living the dream out there, all by yourself, surrounded by nothing but trees and loneliness. Except…wait a minute…” He leaned in close to the camera, his eyes narrowing. “What about that neighbor you mentioned once or twice? What was her name?”
Logan answered before he could stop himself.
Wade’s face lit up with a devilish grin. “Ah! That’s the one! Sooo… how’s she doing? Is she still making you that delicious, life-changing coffee?”
Logan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not with Wade. Not with anyone.
“It’s nothing,” Logan muttered, his voice low. “She’s just… a neighbor.”
Wade leaned back, folding his arms over his chest, clearly enjoying this more than he should. “Just the neighbor, huh? You sure about that? ‘Cause from what I’ve gathered, you’ve been spending a lot of time over at that little coffee shop of hers. And I don’t think it’s just because she makes a killer latte.”
Logan’s grip on the beer bottle tightened. “I go there for the coffee. That’s it.”
“Uh-huh,” Wade said, nodding slowly, his eyes wide with fake innocence. “So, no other reason, huh? Not even a teensy, tiny bit of interest in just her? You’re not, I dunno, secretly enjoying her bubbly personality? Maybe even starting to like the fact that she talks your ear off every morning?”
Logan growled, a low rumble that vibrated through his chest. “I told you, Wade. She’s nothing special. Just an annoying, overly cheerful neighbor who won’t leave me alone.”
Wade’s grin faltered for a second, but Logan didn’t notice. He was too caught up in his own frustration, the words spilling out faster than he could stop them.
“She talks too much. Laughs too damn much. Always smiling, always trying to drag me into these pointless conversations,” Logan snapped, his voice rising. “And she’s always… happy. Like, ridiculously happy. It’s like she’s never had a bad day in her life, and it’s just… it’s too much. I don’t need that. I don’t want that.”
Wade held up a hand, trying to interject, but Logan kept going, his anger building with each word.
“She’s not even a friend. Just this… annoying bother who stumbled into my life and won’t let go. She doesn’t get it—she doesn’t get me. She’s… she’s a distraction. A useless, loud, irritating distraction.”
“Logan—” Wade tried to say, his voice quieter now, but Logan didn’t hear him.
“And what’s worse is, no matter how much I try to push her away, she just keeps coming back. With her damn coffee and her stupid smile and her endless chatter. I don’t need that kind of noise in my life. I don’t need her. I don’t need anyone.”
“Logan—” Wade said again, this time more urgently, his eyes flicking to something off-screen. But Logan wasn’t paying attention.
“I just want to be left alone, Wade. That’s it. Alone.”
There was a beat of silence. The fire crackled in the background, and Logan took a deep breath, his anger slowly ebbing as he realized how much he’d said. He hadn’t meant to go off like that, but once he’d started, the floodgates had opened.
Wade cleared his throat. “Uh… Logan, buddy. You might wanna turn around.”
Logan’s brow furrowed. “What?”
Wade pointed over Logan’s shoulder, a tight, uncomfortable smile on his face. “Turn. Around.”
Logan’s body went rigid. Slowly, he turned in his chair, the weight of Wade’s words sinking into his chest. His heart pounded as his gaze landed on the porch.
And there, standing in the fading light, was you.
You were holding a tray with two cups of coffee and a box—probably filled with some homemade baked goods, knowing you. Your face was pale, eyes wide with shock and hurt. You looked frozen in place, as if you couldn’t quite believe what you’d just heard.
Logan’s mouth went dry, a sinking feeling settling deep in his gut.
You blinked, smile weak, forced, like you were trying to hold it together. “I, uh… I’m sorry,” you said, your voice so soft it barely reached him. “I didn’t mean to… overhear. I just… I brought you some coffee and… and a little something to eat.”
Logan opened his mouth to say something, to explain, but no words came. He was trapped, frozen by the weight of his own mistakes, of everything he’d just said.
Your eyes flicked to the ground, and you set the tray down on the porch railing, hands shaking just slightly. “I’ll… I’ll just go.”
You didn’t wait for him to respond. You didn’t say anything else. You just turned and walked away, the sound of footsteps fading as you disappeared down the gravel road toward your house.
Logan stood there, staring at the tray you’d left behind, a hollow ache spreading through his chest. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do.
He’d hurt you. The one thing he’d tried so hard not to do, and he’d done it anyway.
Behind him, Wade’s voice broke the heavy silence. “Well, Logan, you really stepped in it this time.”
Logan didn’t respond. He just stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, watching the spot where you had been moments before, his mind racing with all the things he wished he could take back.
But it was too late.
You were gone.
***
You could still remember the day you first saw him—the man who seemed to be carved out of stone, with a permanent scowl etched on his face and eyes that carried the weight of the world. He’d been sitting on the porch of his small, weather-beaten cabin, a cigar clamped between his teeth, exuding an aura of "stay the hell away." And yet, there was something about him that drew you in. Maybe it was because, despite that gruff exterior, you sensed something familiar. Something like loneliness.
You had just moved into your new home, a quaint little place down the road. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. After years of drifting from place to place, trying to find somewhere that felt like home, You had finally found this sleepy little town. It had charm, history, and enough distance from your past to feel like a fresh start.
Your coffee shop, Beans of Heaven, had been a dream for years, and now it was finally real. You poured your heart into the place—every morning waking up early to bake pastries, grind fresh coffee beans, and create an atmosphere that felt warm and welcoming. But something was missing. Maybe someone was missing.
Then there was Logan, your grumpy, brooding neighbor who never smiled and hardly ever spoke. He intrigued you in ways you couldn’t explain, but more than that, he reminded you of something you had been missing for a long time: companionship. And though you knew he was the type of man who would rather chew glass than have a heartfelt conversation, you wanted to get to know him. You wanted to be his friend.
---
The first time you approached Logan, you were filled with usual optimism. You had introduced yourself with a wide smile, carrying a box of fresh pastries and two cups of coffee—hoping that a bit of kindness might crack through his tough exterior. His reaction, or lack thereof, had been exactly what you’d expected: a grunt, a nod, and nothing more.
Most people would’ve given up after that first encounter. You weren’t most people.
You didn’t let Logan’s cold demeanor deter you. Day after day, you greeted him at the shop with the same enthusiasm, offering him a free coffee or some fresh-baked cookies. He never accepted anything beyond his usual black coffee, and most of the time he’d just sit in silence, staring out the window. But still, he came back, and that was enough to encourage you.
You had always been the “bubbly” one. The girl with too much energy, too much cheer. It was part of who you were, and you liked to believe that this positivity could rub off on others. But in reality, making friends has never been easy for you. People would be drawn to the warmth and laughter at first, but eventually, they’d drift away. Your constant need for connection, endless talking, enthusiasm—it all became too much for them.
You’d had friends in the past—plenty of them, in fact—but they never stayed for long. They would start to roll their eyes when you laughed too hard or sigh when you talked too much. Slowly, subtly, they’d pull away, leaving you feeling like you were always too much. Too much of a handful. Too much energy. Too much emotion.
So when Logan accepted your invitation to Sunday dinner for the first time, you had been over the moon. He had seemed so closed off, so unreachable, that you hadn’t expected him to agree. And yet, there he was, sitting at your table, cutting into a steak and grumbling his way through dinner. He wasn’t exactly the picture of warmth, but just having him there, sharing a meal with you, felt like a small victory.
Then came the hockey night. Logan had invited you over, and for once, it wasn’t you doing all the pushing. You’d sit on his couch, cheering on the players, feeling more alive than you had in a long time. For a while, everything felt… comfortable.
It was strange to feel so at ease around someone like Logan, but that was the thing—despite his grumpiness, despite his silence—he made you feel safe. You didn’t feel the need to tone yourself down or apologize for being “too much.” With Logan, you could be herself, and that feeling was rare.
---
As the weeks went by, you found herself growing closer to Logan, though “closer” in Logan’s world didn’t mean much. He still grumbled more than he spoke, and he rarely shared anything personal. But the fact that he kept showing up—whether it was for coffee in the mornings, or Sunday dinners at your place—meant more to you than you could ever express.
And somewhere along the way, your feelings started to change.
It wasn’t just friendship you were after anymore. No, it had become something much deeper than that.
You were falling for Logan. Fast and hard.
You hadn’t meant to. It wasn’t like you had planned on it. But there was something about him—something in the way he was so guarded, so rough around the edges, yet kind in the smallest of ways—that made your heart ache. You had seen glimpses of who he really was beneath that tough exterior, and those glimpses made you want to know more. Made you want him.
It was the little things that got to you. Like the way he’d sit quietly and actually listen to you, even when you rambled on about random things. Or how he’d sometimes mutter a sarcastic comment that made you laugh, even when you knew he was trying to sound annoyed. There was a softness to him, buried deep down, and you wanted to uncover it. You wanted to make him smile.
But Logan was a hard man to read, and just when you thought they were becoming friends, just when you thought there might be something more between them, he started pulling away.
---
It wasn’t drastic at first. Just small changes. Logan became quieter, more distant. He stopped responding as much when you talked, going back to his old ways of grunting and nodding instead of giving those rare, short responses you had come to appreciate.
Then, he started spending less time at the coffee shop. He’d come in, get his coffee, and leave without saying much. The conversations you both used to have, no matter how one-sided, seemed to dwindle, replaced by a heavy silence that you didn’t know how to break.
It hurt. You didn’t want to admit it, but it did. After all the time they’d spent together, after all the dinners and the quiet moments, you had started to believe that maybe—just maybe—Logan felt the same way about you as you did about him.
But his distance told you otherwise.
You had never been good at confrontation. You hated the idea of pushing someone into talking about something they didn’t want to. But with Logan, it was different. You didn’t want to lose whatever connection you had. You didn’t want to be just another person who drifted away from him.
So, one evening, you made up your mind. You were going to talk to him. Maybe even… ask him out. You had never been this nervous before, not with anyone else. But Logan was different. He mattered.
You baked his favorite dessert—black olive brownies, not too sweet, just like he liked them. It was something he had mentioned in passing once, a rare glimpse into the things he enjoyed. You had never heard of anyone liking such a strange combination, but you had found a recipe and made it work. You wanted it to be perfect.
Logan had given you a key to his cabin a while ago—“Just in case,” he had said, gruffly, one day after dinner. He’d made it sound like no big deal, but to you, it had meant everything. He trusted you, at least in some small way.
---
That evening, you decided you’d surprise him. Show up with the brownies and some coffee, and just… talk. Maybe you’d tell him how you felt. Maybe you wouldn’t. But at the very least, you wanted to clear the air between you two. You didn’t want to lose him.
You walked up the gravel path to his cabin, your heart pounding in your chest, the tray of brownies carefully balanced in your hands. You were nervous—more nervous than you’d ever been—but you told yourself that everything would be fine. Logan wasn’t the type of man who would just shut you out completely. He wouldn’t hurt you. Not intentionally.
But as you reached the porch, you heard voices.
Logan’s voice, deep and rough, coming from inside the cabin. And someone else—someone familiar.
You paused just before you reached the door, your hand halfway to the knob. It was Wade’s voice. You smiled to herself, remembering the way Logan would grumble about Wade’s constant calls and visits. He’d only ever mentioned Wade a few times, but you could tell the two of them had a complicated friendship.
You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You didn’t want to. But something in Logan’s tone stopped you in her tracks.
“…she’s just an annoying, overly cheerful neighbor who won’t leave me alone.”
You froze.
Your heart clenched in your chest as the words sunk in, cutting through you like a knife. You told yourself you must have misheard, that maybe Logan was talking about someone else, but then he continued.
“She’s not even a friend. Just this… annoying bother who stumbled into my life and won’t let go. She doesn’t get it—she doesn’t get me. She’s a distraction. A useless, loud, irritating distraction.”
You felt your hands start to shake, the tray of brownies wobbling in your grasp. You could hear Wade trying to interrupt him, trying to stop him, but Logan’s voice kept going, his words growing harsher, more defensive.
“I just want to be left alone, Wade. That’s it. Alone.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis as you stood there, frozen on the porch. Your mind raced, your heart pounding so loud you could barely hear anything else. You had come here to talk to him, to open yourself up in a way you hadn’t done in years. You had thought—no, had hoped—that maybe Logan cared about you, even in his gruff, distant way.
But now, standing there, hearing him tear you apart with his words, you realized how wrong you had been.
You had always been too much for people. Too much energy. Too much positivity. Too much… everything. And now, once again, you have pushed someone away without even realizing it.
Your stupid, foolish heart had fallen for someone who didn’t want you. Who didn’t even see you as a friend. You had been a distraction to him—nothing more than a nuisance he had tolerated out of some sense of politeness.
Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away. You wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.
You set the tray of brownies down on the porch railing, Your hands trembling as you adjusted the coffee cups next to them. You stood there for a moment, staring at the door at Logan, when he turned around.
Taking a deep breath, you forced a weak smile onto your face. It was a habit. Something you did when you needed to hold yourself together.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, to Logan. “I didn’t mean to… bother you.”
With that, you turned and walked away, your heart breaking with every step.
---
You had always been the type of person who saw the best in people. You believed in second chances, in redemption, in the idea that everyone deserves kindness. But now, as you walked back to your little house down the road, you felt that familiar ache settling deep in your chest—the one you had felt too many times before.
You had been too much for Logan. Just like you had been too much for everyone else in your life. Friends, acquaintances, even your family—they had all grown tired of you eventually. Of your laughter, energy, the need to connect with people. You had tried so hard to fit in, to make yourself smaller, to be less of a burden. But it never worked.
And now, Logan—the one person you had thought might be different—had proven you wrong.
You were destined to be alone. To always be too much for people to handle.
Logan had made it clear how he felt.
He wanted to be alone, and you would respect that. You wouldn’t bother him anymore. You wouldn’t force your way into his life, trying to make him laugh or smile or feel anything at all. You would leave him alone, just like he wanted.
And maybe, just maybe, you’d learn to live with that.
***
Logan hadn’t planned on hurting you. Hell, he hadn’t planned on any of it. He’d only been trying to keep you at arm’s length—just like he did with everyone else. It wasn’t like he was good with people. He’d learned that a long time ago, that anyone who got close to him ended up hurt one way or another. He was a mess of scars and guilt, haunted by too many lifetimes of pain. He was trying to save you from that.
But now, sitting alone in his cabin, the familiar quiet pressing in on him from all sides, Logan realized just how wrong he’d been. The stillness, the silence—it wasn’t the peace he’d been craving. It was suffocating.
He had driven you away.
It had been days since you’d heard him call you “an annoying, overly cheerful neighbor who wouldn’t leave him alone.” Days since you’d heard him say you weren’t even a friend, that you were just a distraction, a bother. Days since he’d noticed the way your smile had faltered, the way your shoulders had slumped ever so slightly before you quietly left, your tray of coffee and brownies left behind like a sad reminder of what he’d done.
At first, Logan had convinced himself it was for the best. You’d get over it, move on with your life, and he’d go back to the way things were before you’d stumbled into his world. Before you’d made him laugh—actually laugh—or shared your endless supply of kindness, even when he’d done nothing to deserve it.
But that wasn’t how it went.
You didn’t bounce back like you usually did. You didn’t come by the cabin the next day, or the day after that. And the longer the days stretched without you, the heavier Logan’s chest felt. The realization hit him slowly but forcefully: he didn’t want to go back to how things were before.
He missed you.
***
Logan hadn’t stepped foot in your shop since that night, but after nearly a week of dodging the place, he finally couldn’t stand it anymore. So he went. The bell above the door jingled as he walked in, and the familiar scent of fresh coffee and pastries filled the air. But something was off. Something that made Logan’s gut twist uncomfortably.
You were there behind the counter, as usual, but you weren’t the same. Gone was the lively energy that always filled the shop, replaced by a quietness that felt entirely wrong in this place. You weren’t laughing with customers or talking their ears off about the latest coffee blend you were experimenting with. You were polite, efficient, but that was it. Nothing more.
And when you saw him, your expression didn’t change. No smile, no warmth. Just a quiet nod as you took his order like he was any other customer.
It stung more than Logan cared to admit.
He approached the counter, trying to find the words—words he wasn’t good at, words that felt heavy and awkward in his mouth. “Look, I… I’m sorry,” he grumbled, his voice low, rough, as if the words themselves were foreign to him.
You looked up at him, your eyes soft but distant, and gave him a small, tight smile. “There’s no need to apologize, Logan. Really. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. It was anything but fine, and he could see it in the way you held yourself. You were still kind, still polite, but there was a distance there now, a wall that hadn’t been there before. It was like you had taken all that warmth you used to shower him with and locked it away, offering him only the bare minimum.
“You don’t need to act like… like nothing happened,” Logan muttered, his frustration bubbling up despite himself. He didn’t know how to fix this, but he hated the way you were looking at him like he was just another face in the crowd.
But you shook your head, that same small, strained smile on your face. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I understand.”
You turned to grab his coffee, but Logan could see the slight tremble in your hands. You were hurt, even if you weren’t saying it outright. And you were trying so damn hard to pretend like it didn’t matter, like his words hadn’t struck you right in the heart.
When you handed him the coffee, your eyes briefly flickered with something—something like sadness—but then it was gone, replaced with that same forced politeness.
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the cup. He lingered for a moment, hoping you’d say something more, but you didn’t. You just moved on to the next customer, your back turned to him like he wasn’t even there.
Logan left the shop feeling worse than he had when he walked in.
The next few days were no better. Logan started coming back to the coffee shop more regularly, hoping to find a way to fix things, but every time, you treated him the same. Like any other customer. No more easy conversation, no more warmth in your voice, no more lingering smiles.
You were kind, but you were distant. Every interaction felt like a transaction—polite, professional, but cold. And the worst part? Logan could see how much it hurt you to act that way. He could see the moments where you started to talk to him like you used to, where your eyes lit up for a split second like you wanted to tell him about something funny that happened or share one of your stories. But then you’d catch yourself, and the light would die, replaced by that same tired, distant smile.
You were holding yourself back, and Logan knew it was because of him.
He wasn’t the only one who noticed the change in you. Some of your regulars—people who had known you long before Logan ever showed up—started asking if everything was okay. You just brushed them off with a laugh, saying you were tired or had been busy lately, but Logan knew better.
It was his words that had drained you. His careless, stupid words that had taken the best part of you—the part that had always been so full of life—and dimmed it.
And it killed him to know that.
***
The worst part came on a Saturday afternoon before your Sunday dinner meeting the next day, just as Logan was about to leave the shop. He had started to make a habit of stopping by, hoping that maybe—just maybe—you’d start talking to him like you used to. That maybe you’d give him a chance to make things right. But that hadn’t happened. Not yet.
As he reached the door, your voice stopped him.
“Logan?” you called softly, and he turned to see you standing behind the counter, your hands nervously fidgeting with a dishtowel.
“Yeah?” he grunted, turning to face you fully, his brow furrowed.
You hesitated, your eyes flicking to the floor before you spoke. “About tomorrow… You don’t have to come to dinner if you don’t want to. I… I understand if you’d rather not.”
Logan’s heart sank. You had always invited him to Sunday dinner, ever since you’d become friends. It had become part of the routine, something comfortable and familiar. And now, you were telling him it was okay if he didn’t come. That he didn’t have to be there.
The way you said it—the quiet resignation in your voice—it was like you were apologizing for existing. Like you thought you’d pushed him too far by inviting him into your life, by asking for his company.
You looked up at him, your eyes filled with a soft sadness. “I’m sorry if I… if I pushed too hard. I just… I thought maybe you enjoyed it. But if you don’t, it’s okay. I don’t want to bother you.”
Logan stared at you, his throat tight, his chest heavy with guilt. You thought you were the one who had pushed too hard? You thought you were the one who needed to apologize?
“Don’t,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Don’t do that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You just gave him a small, sad smile. “It’s okay, Logan. Really. I understand.”
You didn’t wait for his response. You just turned back to the counter, your shoulders slumped as you busied yourself with cleaning up, as if the conversation had never happened. As if you weren’t slowly slipping away from him, bit by bit.
Logan left the shop with a heavy heart, the weight of everything he’d done crashing down on him all at once.
***
Logan stared at the TV, barely seeing the game. The familiar roar of the crowd, the sharp scrape of skates on ice—all of it faded into the background as his mind drifted back to you.
The silence in the cabin was suffocating. Usually, you’d be here by now, sitting next to him on the couch, your laughter filling the room as you tried to explain to him why one team’s jersey design was superior to the other. You didn’t know much about hockey, but it never stopped you from trying to keep up.
But tonight, the couch beside him was empty.
Logan shifted uncomfortably, his hand resting on the cold beer he hadn’t even opened. He thought back to yesterday, to the way you’d looked at him when you told him he didn’t have to come to dinner. The quiet apology in your voice, the way you’d tried to act like everything was fine even though it clearly wasn’t. You’d been pulling away, bit by bit, and Logan had done nothing to stop it.
He couldn’t shake the image of you standing behind the counter, your usual light dimmed, your eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. And the worst part was, you had apologized to him. You had made it seem like you were the problem, like you had pushed too hard when in reality, it was him who had shoved you away.
And now, here he was—alone, with nothing but the echo of your absence to keep him company.
Logan reached for his phone, his fingers hovering over the screen for a moment before he sighed, setting it down on the table with a heavy thud. He didn’t know how to fix this. He wasn’t good at apologies, wasn’t good at talking about his feelings or admitting when he’d screwed up. But he couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.
And then, like a lightbulb flickering on in the back of his mind, he realized there was only one person he could call.
Logan stared at his phone for what felt like hours, the gnawing pit in his stomach getting worse with every passing minute. He didn’t want to make this call. Of all the people in the world, Wade Wilson was the last person Logan wanted to ask for help. But Wade had been there that night. He had seen everything—and worse, he had seen you.
That meant Wade knew. And if Wade knew, well, Logan had no choice but to call him.
With a resigned sigh, Logan tapped Wade’s number. The phone rang twice before Wade’s obnoxious voice burst through the speaker.
“Logan! My brooding, hairy amigo! What can I do for you? You need a babysitter for Laura? Oh, oh! Wait, I got it—you wanna do a buddy cop movie together! I’ll be the zany, charming sidekick, and you can be the angry guy who growls a lot. Wait, you already do that. So I’ll be—"
“Wade,” Logan growled, cutting him off. “I need your help.”
There was a pause, and Logan could almost hear the grin forming on Wade’s face.
“Oh my God. Hold on. Hold the f—beep—up,” Wade said, dropping his voice like he was narrating a dramatic trailer. “‘Logan needs my help.’ Wow. Wow, guys, are we hearing this? Logan, a.k.a. the Grumpiest X-Man, a.k.a. ‘I don’t need anybody,’ is asking me for help. This is huge! Character development, people! Mark this down for the sequel.”
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting the call. “Wade…”
“Okay, okay, I’m done. I’m done. What’s the problem? Did you finally realize that leather jackets and flannel aren’t a personality?”
Logan gritted his teeth. “It’s about her.”
Another pause. Then, in classic Wade fashion, the tone shifted completely. “Ohhh. Right, the cute neighbor girl with the coffee shop. The one you totally ruined. I remember now. Dude, you really shit the bed on that one, huh?”
Logan clenched his fist, the memory of that night still fresh in his mind. “Yeah… she heard me say some things. Things I didn’t mean.”
“Oh nooo,” Wade groaned dramatically, dragging out the vowels. “You did the whole ‘I’m a lone wolf, I don’t need friends, emotions are for weaklings’ bit, didn’t you? The classic Logan screw-up! Ten out of ten, would not recommend.”
Logan didn’t respond, which was answer enough.
“Dude, she was standing right there with coffee and brownies!” Wade continued. “You might as well have drop-kicked a puppy in front of her. It was painful to watch! I mean, not as painful as X-Men Origins: Wolverine, but still…” He paused, and Logan could practically hear him smirking. “You know she left that tray behind, right? I ate the brownies. They were a little too sweet, but solid effort. Girl’s got a good heart.”
Logan growled, feeling the sting of regret twist deeper in his chest. “I get it, Wade. I messed up.”
“Yeah, no kidding. But here’s the thing, Wolvie,” Wade said, his tone suddenly shifting to something more genuine. “She didn’t just hear you. She heard you, you know? She was standing right there. That ‘annoying’ comment? That hit her like a damn truck. And if you think she’s just going to bounce back with a smile and a cup of coffee like nothing happened, you’re delusional. This is a Hallmark movie waiting to happen, and right now, you’re the grumpy lumberjack who just drove her back to the city.”
Logan swallowed, the weight of Wade’s words hitting him hard. He hadn’t just hurt you; he’d made you feel like you didn’t matter. And for someone like you—someone who put so much heart into everything you did—that was unforgivable.
“So what do I do?” Logan muttered, his voice low.
“You gotta fix it, obviously,” Wade replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve gotta show her that you care. And yeah, that means talking about your feelings, Logan. I know it’s your least favorite thing after happy endings and Deadpool sequels, but tough luck. She’s not a mind reader. You gotta tell her what she means to you.”
Logan frowned. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do that.”
Wade made a dramatic sigh. “Oh, come on! You’ve got claws, a healing factor, and that grizzled Clint Eastwood vibe going on, but you don’t know how to tell a girl you care about her? Listen, all you gotta do is be real. Apologize for being an emotionally constipated idiot, and tell her the truth. That’s it. No drama. No over-the-top declarations of love. Just tell her how you feel.”
Logan sat in silence, the weight of Wade’s words sinking in. He knew Wade was right—God help him, Wade was actually right. If he didn’t fix this, he’d lose you. And after everything, he couldn’t let that happen.
“And for the record,” Wade added, breaking the silence, “if this turns into some epic romantic moment, I better be invited to the wedding. I’ve already got a Deadpool tux ordered, and trust me, it’s glorious.”
Logan sighed, already regretting the call. “Thanks, Wade.”
“Anytime, Wolvie,” Wade chirped, his voice back to its usual annoying cheer. “Now go make things right, and remember—don’t stab anyone while apologizing. That’s generally frowned upon.”
Logan hung up, staring at the phone for a moment longer. Wade’s advice was ringing in his ears. He had to fix this. He had to tell you the truth, no matter how hard it was.
Because losing you wasn’t an option.
***
Logan stood outside your coffee shop, the weight of his own guilt pressing down on him harder than any enemy he’d ever faced. He’d never been good with words, never been good at talking about feelings or admitting when he was wrong. But this? This was something he had to do.
The bell above the door jingled as he pushed it open, the familiar scent of coffee and freshly baked pastries filling the air. It was a comfort, but today, it did little to ease the tension in his chest.
You were behind the counter, as always, but Logan could tell right away that something had changed. You weren’t your usual self. Gone was the bright energy that had always seemed to follow you around like a cloud of sunshine. You smiled at customers, sure, but it was strained, and your usual chatter was replaced by polite, quiet exchanges.
Logan made his way to the counter, the words of apology swirling in his head, but when you looked up at him, something inside him twisted painfully. You looked tired—not physically, but emotionally. The light in your eyes had dimmed, and it was all because of him.
“Logan,” you greeted him softly, your voice polite but distant. “What can I get you?”
He shifted awkwardly, his usual gruff demeanor faltering as he tried to find the words. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice low.
You hesitated for a moment, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the counter. “I’m working right now,” you replied, your tone calm but guarded. “But we can talk later. After I close up.”
Logan swallowed the lump in his throat. The distance in your voice was like a knife twisting in his gut, but he nodded. “I’ll wait,” he muttered.
You gave him a small, tight smile, the same one you’d been giving him ever since that night. The same one that wasn’t real.
“Okay,” you said quietly, and then you turned back to your work, leaving Logan standing there, feeling more lost than ever.
As he left the shop, Logan couldn’t shake the image of you trying to hold it all together—trying to act like his words hadn’t hurt you when he knew damn well they had.
And that was when he realized: this was the moment Wade had warned him about. He couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine. He had to tell you the truth, or he’d lose you for good.
And losing you was something he couldn’t handle.
***
Logan stood in the dim light of Beans of Heaven, waiting for the last customer to leave. The smell of fresh coffee hung in the air, comforting but laced with tension. He had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in his head, but the words felt like jagged rocks in his throat. He wasn’t good at this—never had been. Hell, most of his life had been spent avoiding conversations like this altogether. But tonight, Logan couldn’t avoid it anymore.
You were cleaning up behind the counter, your movements slower than usual, the exhaustion clear in the way your shoulders sagged. You hadn’t said much to him since the night you overheard him—a few words here and there, nothing more. Logan didn’t blame you. He’d hurt you. Badly. And now, he had to own up to it.
When the last customer finally walked out, you turned the sign on the door to "Closed" and exhaled softly. You didn’t even glance his way as you started wiping down the tables. It was like the distance between you had grown into a chasm, one that Logan didn’t know how to cross.
But he was going to try.
“Can we talk?” Logan asked, his voice gruff but quiet.
You paused mid-wipe, your back still turned to him. There was a long, tense moment before you nodded and turned around to face him, leaning against the counter. You didn’t say anything, but your eyes told him enough—you were listening, but barely. Your guard was up, and Logan had no one to blame but himself for that.
“Let’s sit,” Logan said, gesturing to one of the tables.
You hesitated, then walked over to the table and sat down. Logan followed, his heart pounding harder than it had in any battle he’d fought. This wasn’t like fighting an enemy—he couldn’t punch his way through this. He had to speak, to explain himself, and that scared the hell out of him.
He sat across from you, his hands resting on the table, fingers tapping against the wood as he searched for the right words. For a moment, he just looked at you—your face drawn, tired, but still beautiful in that way that had pulled him in from the start. And he hated himself for what he was about to say, for the truth that was going to spill out.
“You deserve the truth,” Logan began, his voice low, rough. “About me. About why I… pushed you away.”
Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and he saw the hurt there, the confusion you’d been carrying ever since that night. He swallowed hard and continued.
“I ain’t from here,” he said, the words awkward as they came out. “Not… this world, I mean. I come from another universe. I came here—ended up here—after a lot of shit went down. My past… it’s a mess. Hell, I’m a mess.”
Your brow furrowed slightly, but you didn’t interrupt. Logan knew he had to keep going, to let the words out before he lost the nerve.
“I was part of a team once,” Logan continued, his gaze dropping to his hands. “The X-Men. We fought for something bigger than ourselves. We tried to make things better… tried to protect people. But I failed them. I let them die. All of ‘em. Professor X, Scott, Jean… the people I cared about most in the world. I couldn’t save them. And it broke me.”
He clenched his fists, the memories crashing down on him like a wave. He had relived those moments over and over again—his failure, the pain of losing everyone he loved.
“I ain’t good with people. Never have been,” Logan said, his voice raw. “I’ve spent my whole life pushing people away, ‘cause I know what happens when they get close. They get hurt. Or worse. I’ve seen it too many times.”
Logan hesitated, his eyes flicking back up to yours. There was something there—a softness, a flicker of understanding, but the hurt was still lingering behind it.
“That night,” Logan said, his voice dropping even lower, “when Wade started talkin’ about you… about us… I panicked. All I could think about was how I didn’t want to drag you into my mess. How I didn’t want to get close, ‘cause I knew it’d end up the same way it always does. So I said those things—those stupid, hurtful things. I didn’t mean ‘em. But I said ‘em anyway.”
Your expression didn’t change, but your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Logan exhaled, feeling the weight of his confession pressing down on him.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he continued, his voice thick with regret. “But I did. And I can’t take that back. I don’t expect you to forgive me, or to trust me again. But you deserve to know that none of this is your fault. I pushed you away because of me. Because I’m afraid of losing you. Of losing anyone else.”
The silence that followed felt like it stretched on forever. Logan stared at the table, waiting for your response, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t know what he expected—anger, tears, maybe even for you to get up and walk away.
But when you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, steady.
“You hurt me, Logan,” you said, and the words hit him like a punch to the gut. “I’ve spent my whole life being the person who’s too much. Too loud. Too bubbly. People get tired of me. They always do. And when you said those things… it felt like you were just like the rest of them. Like you’d gotten tired of me too.”
Logan clenched his jaw, hating himself more with every word you spoke. He hadn’t just hurt you—he’d made you feel like you weren’t enough. Like you were the problem, when it was really him all along.
“I ain’t tired of you,” Logan said, his voice hoarse. “It wasn’t about that. It was my own damn head, my fears… my screwed-up past. I never wanted to hurt you. I swear.”
You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes searching his face as if you were trying to find some piece of the truth hidden there. Logan waited, his chest tight, his breath shallow. The silence between you felt heavy, thick with everything that had been left unsaid for too long.
When the silence stretched on too long, Logan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, murmuring a soft, “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. He’d laid it all out, and now it was up to you.
Logan pushed back from the table, ready to leave—ready to give you the space you needed, the space he had denied you by showing up tonight. He stood up, muttering, “I’ll leave you be. I shouldn’t have—”
“Logan.”
Your voice stopped him mid-step, and he turned to look at you, surprised.
You weren’t looking at him directly, but your voice was softer now, a little less guarded. “There’s a Cup final this Friday, and I was thinking… I could really go for some good beer.”
Logan stared at you for a second, processing your words. It wasn’t much—it wasn’t forgiveness, not yet—but it was something. It was an opening.
And for the first time in days, Logan felt a glimmer of hope.
“Beer, huh?” Logan grunted, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “I think I can manage that.”
You looked up at him then, a small, tentative smile playing at the corners of your lips. And in that moment, Logan knew—he hadn’t lost you completely. Not yet.
***
Logan noticed it in the way your conversations shifted. There was a playfulness between you now that hadn’t always been there before. You teased each other more, flirted even—though you hadn’t quite called it that yet. It was lighthearted at first, a few sarcastic remarks here, a little banter there, but it started to build into something more, something that made Logan’s chest tighten every time you smiled in response to one of his comments.
There were nights when the two of you would close up the shop together, and instead of going your separate ways, you’d sit together in the shop long after it had closed, sharing stories and laughing about things that weren’t even that funny. Logan would bring over a six-pack of beer or you’d dig into the pastries that didn’t sell that day, both of you just… existing together in a way that felt easy, natural.
And the flirting? It became less subtle over time. There was a heat behind it now, a charge that wasn’t there before, like the two of you were slowly testing the waters of something more but neither of you wanted to be the first to dive in.
One night, Logan had come over to your place, a rare occurrence, but something that was happening more frequently. You had invited him over after the shop had closed, and instead of sitting in silence or watching hockey, you’d both cracked open some beers and ended up watching a cheesy romantic comedy that was so bad, it was actually kind of good.
The movie wasn’t exactly what Logan had expected—it was all grand gestures and overly dramatic declarations of love—but there was something about watching it with you that made it… bearable. More than bearable, actually. He found himself laughing along with you, making sarcastic remarks at the ridiculous plot, and somewhere along the way, he realized that he was enjoying it.
Not because of the movie itself, but because of you.
You’d both sat on the couch, not quite touching but close enough that Logan could feel the warmth of your body beside his. And as the movie dragged on, filled with all the usual rom-com clichés, Logan couldn’t help but think about how different this felt—how different you felt. There was something so easy about being around you, something that calmed the constant storm in his head.
But there was something else too.
Logan found himself watching you more than the movie, the sound of your laughter pulling him out of his own thoughts. He’d never really thought about it before, but your laughter was like a balm—so different from the world he was used to. It wasn’t just noise. It was light, something that made his chest tighten in a way that felt both unfamiliar and too familiar at the same time.
When you caught him watching, you didn’t call him out for it. You just smiled, that warm, knowing smile that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, you understood him in ways no one else ever had.
“Logan,” you said softly, your eyes twinkling with amusement as the credits finally started to roll, “why do we always watch these terrible movies?”
Logan grunted, cracking open another beer. “You like ‘em,” he muttered, his usual gruff response. But there was something softer behind it now, something that wasn’t just irritation.
You chuckled, nudging his shoulder playfully. “Yeah, but you could just say no, you know. You don’t have to suffer through them with me.”
Logan shot you a sideways glance, his lips twitching into a small smirk. “Ain’t sufferin’.”
That made you pause for a moment, your expression softening as you looked at him. There was a flicker of something in your eyes—something that made Logan’s heart pound a little harder in his chest.
“Logan,” you said again, your voice quiet but steady, “when are you going to ask me out already?”
Logan’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t expecting you to be so direct—not tonight, not while you were sitting there in the afterglow of a stupid romantic movie you both hated and loved to hate. But there it was, out in the open, plain as day. The unspoken thing between you, finally given a name.
He didn’t answer at first. He just stared at you, his mind spinning as he tried to process what you’d just said. For so long, he’d kept that part of himself buried—the part that wanted more than just friendship, the part that wanted you. He’d been terrified of it, terrified of what it would mean if he let himself feel that way. But now, sitting here with you, the question hanging in the air between you, he wasn’t afraid anymore.
“I… don’t know,” Logan muttered, his voice low, but there was no hesitation in his tone. “Guess I’ve been thinkin’ about it.”
You tilted your head, your lips curving into a small smile. “And?”
Logan’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself be honest.
“And I think I want to,” he admitted, his voice rough but sincere. “I just… I don’t want to mess this up. Don’t want to hurt you.”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned in closer, your hand resting gently on his arm. It was a small gesture, but it sent a jolt of warmth through him, one that settled deep in his chest.
“Logan,” you said softly, your eyes searching his, “you won’t mess this up. I know you. I know who you are, and I know what you’re afraid of. But I’m not going anywhere.”
Logan swallowed hard, the weight of your words hitting him straight in the gut. He’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the inevitable moment when he’d push you too far, or when you’d get tired of him, like everyone else had. But you weren’t like the others. You were still here, still looking at him with those warm, understanding eyes, still offering him more kindness than he thought he deserved.
And for once, Logan didn’t feel the need to run.
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours as the space between you disappeared. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t some grand gesture like the ones in those stupid rom-coms. It was quiet, simple. But it was real.
“I’m askin’ you now,” Logan murmured, his voice low, his lips brushing against yours. “Will you go out with me?”
Your smile widened, and you leaned in to close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a soft, slow kiss that said more than words ever could.
When you finally pulled back, your eyes sparkled with that familiar light that Logan had grown to love.
“Took you long enough,” you teased, your voice soft but filled with warmth.
Logan chuckled, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “Yeah. Guess I’m a slow learner.”
But for the first time in a long time, Logan wasn’t afraid of what came next. He wasn’t afraid of letting you in, of letting himself feel something more than just the weight of his past.
Because with you, it didn’t feel like he was carrying that burden alone anymore.
***
Logan hadn’t been on a date in… well, longer than he cared to admit. Most of his relationships in the past had been more of the “let’s get this over with” variety, not the kind of thing you planned or made special. But this—you—was different. He wanted to do this right. Wanted to show you that he was serious, that you mattered.
The problem was, he didn’t have a damn clue what “doing it right” even meant. What did people do on dates nowadays? Was it still flowers and a fancy dinner, or was that too old-fashioned? The last time Logan had actively thought about dating, people were still sending telegrams. He needed help, but the only person who came to mind made him groan internally.
Wade.
Of course, it had to be Wade.
Logan knew what he was getting himself into when he dialed the number, but that didn’t stop the immediate regret that washed over him when Wade answered on the first ring.
“Wolverine! You calling to finally admit that I’m the most charming, delightful human being in your life? Or is this about the wedding? Because, listen, I already have the tux, and it’s a Deadpool tux. It’s perfect. You’re gonna love it.”
Logan rubbed the bridge of his nose, already tired. “Wade, I need advice.”
There was a beat of silence, and then, predictably, Wade launched into a full-on monologue.
“Oh my God. Everyone stop! Logan needs advice! This is monumental! This is character development at its finest, folks. Truly groundbreaking stuff. So what is it? Planning a trip to the library? Want me to help you pick out your next flannel shirt? Or—wait, wait. It’s about her, isn’t it?”
Logan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t deny it. “Yeah. I need to plan a date.”
“A DATE?!” Wade’s voice went up several octaves, and Logan immediately regretted every decision that had led him to this moment. “Oh, this is amazing! I knew it! I knew it! You and her, finally making it happen! See, I told you—grumpy loners can find love too!”
“Wade,” Logan growled, already losing his patience.
“Right, right. Focus,” Wade said, his tone shifting into something resembling helpfulness. “So, you’re planning a date. And you’re completely clueless, right? No worries, big guy. Your ol’ pal Wade is here to help you out. Here’s what you do: skip the over-the-top romantic crap. Don’t try to be something you’re not. She likes you for you, not for some shiny version of Logan who shows up with roses and a speech. Just… do something the two of you will actually enjoy. Something that won’t make either of you uncomfortable.”
Logan frowned, considering Wade’s words. As much as he hated to admit it, Wade had a point. A candlelit dinner at some fancy restaurant wasn’t him, and it sure as hell wasn’t you. You’d see right through it, and the last thing Logan wanted was to make you feel uncomfortable.
“Just be yourself, man,” Wade continued, as if he hadn’t already dropped enough wisdom for one phone call. “Do something that’ll make you both relax. Oh! And if things go well, don’t forget—consent is sexy. It’s the Wade Wilson guarantee.”
Logan grimaced. “Thanks, Wade.”
“Anytime! And remember—if you need a hype man, I’m your guy. I’ll show up in my tux with a bouquet of tacos and—”
Logan hung up before Wade could finish.
Wade’s words echoed in Logan’s mind as he sat at the kitchen table, staring at his phone. What could he do that would make this date feel like them? Something simple, something that would make you both comfortable.
Then it hit him.
That lake you had mentioned a while back—the one you’d talked about like it was the most peaceful place in the world. You’d told him about it on one of your long walks, how you used to go there to clear your head, to escape the noise of the world. A place where the stars felt closer, and everything else just… disappeared.
Logan could work with that. He wasn’t about to cook for you (that would probably end in disaster), but he could pick up some food, pack a cooler, and take you to that lake. It wasn’t fancy, but it felt right. And that’s what mattered.
The plan was simple: grab some food, drive out to the lake, and spend the evening under the stars. Just the two of you. He didn’t need grand gestures. He just needed you.
***
The sun was just starting to set when Logan pulled up to your place, his truck parked in front of your door. You stepped out, your hair tied back, wearing a beautiful dress that suited you perfectly. And damn, if Logan didn’t think you looked beautiful. No frills, no makeup—just you.
“Hey,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips as you approached the truck.
“Hey,” Logan grunted, returning your smile with a small one of his own.
He opened the door for you, and you climbed into the passenger seat, your eyes flicking to the cooler in the back. “What’s all that?” you asked, curiosity in your voice.
Logan shrugged, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Figured we’d grab some food and head out to that lake you told me about. Thought we could, y’know, just hang out.”
Your smile widened, the kind of smile that made Logan’s chest tighten in a way that felt both comforting and terrifying. “That sounds perfect.”
The drive to the lake was quiet, but it was a comfortable silence. Logan wasn’t much for small talk, and you seemed content just to sit back and enjoy the ride. The trees blurred past as they drove further away from town, the sun dipping lower and casting a golden glow over the road.
When they finally arrived at the lake, the sky had turned a deep shade of purple, the stars just starting to peek through the twilight. The water was calm, the surface reflecting the fading light in a way that made the whole scene feel almost surreal.
Logan parked the truck, grabbed the cooler, and the two of you made your way down to the shoreline, settling on a blanket he’d brought. He cracked open a couple of beers, and the two of you sat in silence for a moment, watching as the stars began to fill the sky.
“This is perfect,” you said softly, your eyes fixed on the sky above. “Thank you for this.”
Logan glanced at you, his chest tightening again. “I figured you needed a break,” he muttered. “We both do.”
You looked over at him, your smile soft. “Yeah. We do.”
***
The conversation flowed easily after that. The two of you talked about everything and nothing, the way you always did. You teased him about his gruffness, and he shot back with a sarcastic remark about your bad taste in movies. There was a lightness between you now, the tension from the past few weeks all but gone.
At some point, you pulled out one of the sandwiches Logan had bought, laughing at how he’d bought way more food than either of you could possibly eat.
“Logan,” you said between bites, “you realize this could feed a small army, right?”
He grunted, shrugging. “Didn’t want you to go hungry.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Always so practical.”
As the night wore on, the stars grew brighter, and the conversation turned quieter, more intimate. You leaned back on the blanket, your head tilted toward the sky, while Logan leaned back on his elbows, watching you more than the stars.
“I love it out here,” you murmured, your voice soft. “It feels like everything just… stops. You know?”
Logan nodded. He knew exactly what you meant.
The quiet stretched between you, the air thick with something unspoken. Logan could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, that familiar feeling in his chest growing stronger. He wanted to kiss you—needed to—but he wasn’t sure how to make that first move.
But then, you turned to him, your eyes meeting his, and there was a flicker of something there—something that told him he didn’t need to worry.
You shifted, leaning in closer, and Logan felt his heart start to race. Your lips were inches from his, your breath warm against his skin as you smiled softly.
“Logan,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet of the night. “When are you going to kiss me?”
Logan’s breath hitched in his throat. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. Instead, he leaned in, closing the distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, slow kiss that made everything else disappear. The stars, the lake, the past—none of it mattered anymore.
The kiss deepened, your hand sliding up to rest against his cheek, and Logan responded in kind, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer as the world around you faded into the background. It was soft at first, hesitant, but the more you kissed, the more the fire between you grew.
Logan could feel the heat rising between you, the tension that had been simmering for weeks finally boiling over. Your body pressed against his, your hands tangling in his hair as the kiss became more insistent, more urgent. And Logan didn’t pull away. He didn’t run.
When you finally pulled back, your lips swollen from the kiss, you looked at him, your eyes filled with a mixture of desire and something deeper.
“I usually wait until the third date,” you said, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “but I’ve waited long enough.”
Logan’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at you, his mind racing. “You sure?”
You nodded, your smile softening. “I’m sure.”
Logan didn’t hesitate after that. He kissed you again, slower this time, more deliberate, his hands roaming over your body with a tenderness that surprised even him. And when the moment felt right, he stood, pulling you gently to your feet, his hand resting on the small of your back as he led you back to the truck.
The drive back to your place was quiet, but the tension between you was electric, the air thick with anticipation.
When Logan pulled up in front of your house, the night was still quiet, the stars twinkling overhead like a promise. He helped you out of the truck, his hand lingering on your waist as you walked to the front door.
You turned to him, your eyes searching his, and Logan could see the flicker of doubt, of nervousness, but it was quickly replaced by something else—something deeper.
“You coming in?” you asked, your voice soft but steady.
Logan didn’t answer with words. He just nodded, following you inside, knowing that whatever happened next, this was exactly where he was supposed to be.
And for the first time in a long time, Logan wasn’t afraid of what came next.
***
You and Logan moved swiftly through the shadows, hands unable to resist the pull of each other’s bodies. The moment you stepped into your room, everything else faded away. Your lips collided in a fiery kiss, the kind that left no room for hesitation. Logan’s calloused fingers cradled your face, his rough thumbs grazing the softness of your flushed cheeks, sparking a shiver that ran through you. You let out a breathy moan, silently urging him to explore further, to claim you in the way only he could.
Logan's touch was both urgent and reverent as he led you towards the bed, his lips tracing a heated path down the curve of your neck. Each kiss sent electric sparks racing down your spine, igniting your skin with anticipation. He gently guided you down onto the cool sheets, his broad frame hovering above you, an intoxicating mix of power and restraint. The weight of him, the solid, muscular planes of his chest pressing against your sensitive breasts, made you arch up instinctively, offering yourself to him—a silent, burning invitation that left him breathless.
His hands—those strong, capable hands—moved across your body with deliberate intent. He memorized every inch, tracing the dip of your waist, the soft curve of your hips, and the smooth expanse of your thighs. His fingers found the hem of the dress, tugging it upwards with a tantalizing slowness that made your breath catch in your throat. As he peeled away the fabric, revealing your lace-clad thighs, the world narrowed to just them. Your heart pounded as your desire mirrored the hunger in his gaze.
As Logan hovered over you once again, the air between you two seemed to thicken with anticipation. Your nerves fluttered, heart pounding in your chest, but now it was mixed with an undeniable heat, a pull you couldn’t resist. His eyes locked onto yours, his gaze dark and intense, and for a moment, it felt like the world had fallen away—leaving just you two in the stillness of the night.
He leaned down, brushing his lips once again against your neck, kissing it softly at first, but soon his mouth became more insistent, his tongue flicking against your skin as his hands roamed your body. Logan's touch was both gentle and commanding, tracing the lines of your curves with deliberate intent. His fingers grazed your hips, sliding up the smooth expanse of your stomach, sending shivers racing through you. You gasped softly, your body arching into his touch, as your mind warred between nervousness and a craving you couldn’t deny.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he growled softly, his breath hot against your skin as his lips continued their descent.
With slow, deliberate motions, Logan pulled your dress up, exposing you inch by inch until it was discarded somewhere on the floor. He took a moment to admire you completely, his gaze lingering on your bare skin, drinking in every curve and freckle. You felt exposed under his intense gaze, but Logan had a way of making you feel not just desired but worshiped.
The moment your lips met, everything else seemed to fade away, the world narrowing down to just the heat between you. Logan’s mouth was firm and insistent, but his kiss was careful at first, testing, coaxing you into the moment. His hand slid to the back of your neck, his rough fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer. The sensation of his lips moving against your made your head spin, the warmth of his breath mixing with yours in a rhythm that quickly turned hungry.
Your heart raced as you pressed yourself against him, feeling the hard lines of his chest beneath your hands. The sharp contrast between his rugged strength and the softness of his touch sent a thrill through you, and any nervousness you had melted away under the heat of his attention. You opened your mouth to him, letting him in, and his tongue slipped past your lips, exploring you with deliberate slowness that made your body shiver.
Logan’s kisses were deep, demanding, but there was a tenderness behind them—a quiet intensity that made you feel like you was the only thing that mattered to him in that moment. His hands roamed your body, his fingers tracing the line of your waist, skimming over your hips and dipping to the small of your back, pulling you closer with every touch. It was as if he couldn’t get enough of you, like he was savoring every inch of your skin.
Your body responded instinctively to his touch, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. With a soft, breathless moan, you tugged at the buttons, wanting to feel him fully, skin against skin. Logan obliged, pulling away just long enough to shrug off his shirt, revealing the broad, scarred planes of his chest. Your breath caught at the sight of him, the sharp lines of muscle, the dark smattering of hair across his chest, and the scars that marked his skin—each one telling a story of battles fought and survived.
Your fingers traced the scars lightly, almost reverently, and Logan let out a low growl of appreciation, his eyes darkening as he watched you. His hands moved to your waist, his knuckles grazing the soft skin of your thighs. The feel of his hands on your bare skin made your heart race, your breath quickening as the heat between you two flared even hotter.
Logan paused, his gaze once again sweeping over your body with an intensity that made you blush. His eyes lingered on your breasts this time, barely covered by the thin lace of your bra, and then trailed down to your hips, his hand brushing lightly over your thigh. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he repeated, his voice rough with need. His fingers slipped beneath the strap of your bra, pulling it down just enough to expose one breast to his hungry gaze. He leaned in, his lips brushing over the soft swell of your skin before his mouth closed over your nipple, his tongue flicking against the hardened peak.
You gasped, your back arching as a sharp jolt of pleasure shot through you. Logan’s hand slid behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it aside, leaving you fully exposed to him. His mouth moved to your other breast, sucking gently, his tongue swirling around your nipple while his hands roamed your body, exploring every curve, every dip, as if he was trying to memorize you by touch alone.
Your breath came in shallow pants as his mouth continued its assault, alternating between soft kisses and sharp nips that sent sparks of pleasure through you. You felt his hands slide lower, tracing the line of your panties before tugging them down your legs. The cool air hit your bare skin, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of Logan’s touch as he spread your thighs apart, his fingers teasing your folds, exploring the wetness with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made your whole body tremble.
“Logan,” you moaned, your hips rising to meet his hand, your body desperate for more of him. But he was in no hurry, his fingers moving in lazy circles, dipping into you just enough to make you gasp, but never fully giving what you craved.
He grinned against your skin, clearly enjoying the way you were falling apart under his touch. “Patience, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “I want to take my time with you.”
But Logan’s control was slipping, and you could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers tightened on your hips as he fought to keep his composure. His kisses grew more heated, more frantic, as he worked his way back up your body, his mouth finding yours again in a kiss that was hot and desperate, full of need.
You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh, straining against his boxers, and the thought of him—of all of him—made your head spin. Your hand moved down, fingers brushing over the bulge in his boxers, and Logan groaned into your mouth, his hips bucking slightly at the contact.
“Fuck, baby…” he rasped, his breath coming out in harsh, ragged pants as you rubbed him through the fabric, feeling the heat of him, the way his cock twitched in response to you touch. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”
With a growl, Logan pulled back just long enough to shed the rest of his clothes, his eyes never leaving yours as he stood above you, fully exposed. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, his cock hard and thick, jutting towards you with a dark flush at the tip.
And he was back on you. Logan’s kisses trailed lower, his lips moving from your neck to your collarbone, then down to the swell of your breasts. Each touch sent a new wave of heat through you, your body already humming with anticipation. He lingered there for a moment, his mouth closing over one hardened nipple, his tongue flicking across it as you gasped and arched into him. But it was clear from the way his hands gripped your hips, how his kisses continued to drift lower, that he had something else in mind.
Your breath caught in your throat as Logan shifted, his hands sliding down your sides, his lips now kissing a line along your stomach. The tension in the air thickened, and your heart pounded with both anticipation and nervous excitement. His hands reached your thighs, spreading them gently, and a flush of heat spread across your skin as you lay bare before him. You felt exposed—vulnerable in the most intimate way—but Logan’s gaze, dark and hungry, made you feel worshiped rather than nervous.
“You’re just perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire, his breath warm against your inner thigh. The words melted your last bit of hesitation, and your body relaxed under his touch, opening up to him.
Logan’s mouth hovered just over your center, his breath teasing your already slick folds, but he didn’t dive in right away. Instead, his lips brushed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, sending shivers up your spine, as he kissed his way closer. He was slow, deliberate, savoring every moment, every touch, as if he wanted to make sure you felt everything.
Then, without warning, his tongue flicked out, parting your folds and brushing against your clit with a gentle, teasing stroke. You gasped, your hips jolting up at the sudden jolt of pleasure, your fingers gripping the sheets tightly. Logan’s hands slid beneath you, holding you hips in place, his grip firm yet gentle, and he let out a low, appreciative growl.
“You taste so fucking good,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust, and the sound of it made your body pulse with need.
He dove back in, his tongue flicking over your clit again, this time with more pressure, more intent. The sensation was electric, pleasure shooting through you with every stroke. Logan’s mouth worked you over slowly at first, his tongue swirling around your clit, teasing with light, maddening flicks that had your hips lifting toward him, silently begging for more. He knew exactly how to make you squirm, how to drive you wild with the simplest of touches.
You moaned softly, your head falling back against the pillow as your body arched, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The pleasure was building, a slow, steady burn deep in your core, and Logan seemed determined to make it last. His tongue slid lower, dipping between your folds, tasting you, before returning to your clit, sucking gently. Every move he made was deliberate, calculated to push you closer to the edge without ever letting you tip over.
“Logan…,” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need. Your hips bucked again, seeking more, and Logan let out another low groan as he tightened his grip on your thighs, holding them still.
“Patience, babygirl,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a mix of command and amusement. But there was a hunger in his tone too, a barely restrained urgency that matched the fire burning inside you.
His tongue pressed harder now, flicking and circling your clit in a rhythm that had you gasping and trembling beneath him. Every stroke of his tongue sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, your body responding to him in ways you couldn’t control. Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as you held him close, unable to stop the desperate little sounds spilling from your lips.
“Please, Logan…” you gasped, voice barely more than a breath. You were so close now, the tension inside you coiling tighter and tighter with every flick of his tongue, every teasing suck. You could feel the edge coming, but you needed more—needed him to push you over.
Logan’s response was a deep, throaty growl that sent vibrations straight through your core. His tongue moved faster, his mouth working you with an intensity that had your whole body trembling. His lips closed over your clit, sucking hard now, while his fingers slipped down to your entrance, sliding inside you with ease, filling you with a deep, deliberate rhythm that matched the movements of his tongue.
“Oh God… Logan…!” you cried, your voice breaking as your body arched off the bed. The pleasure hit you like a tidal wave, crashing over in powerful, uncontrollable waves. Your orgasm tore through, your muscles clenching as your entire body trembled, your pussy pulsing around his fingers as he continued to work you through it.
Logan didn’t stop, didn’t let up, his mouth still sucking gently at your clit, his fingers still buried deep inside you, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from your trembling body. He groaned against you, clearly enjoying the way you came undone beneath him, the way your body responded to his touch.
Your vision blurred, your breath coming out in sharp, uneven gasps as the pleasure finally began to ebb, leaving you limp and trembling beneath him. Your hands slipped from his hair, falling to the bed as your body went slack, utterly spent.
Logan kissed his way back up your body, his lips trailing along your stomach, breasts, before finally reaching your mouth again. His kiss was soft this time, gentle, as if to soothe the lingering aftershocks of your release. You melted into him, your hands finding his shoulders, holding him close as you tried to catch your breath.
“You okay, baby?” he murmured against your lips, his hand brushing the hair from your face as he looked down at you, his eyes full of concern despite the heat still simmering between them.
You nodded, a small, blissful smile curving your lips as you gazed up at him. “More than okay,” you whispered, voice breathless but full of affection. Logan’s touch, his attention—everything about him—had left you feeling cherished, worshiped, and utterly satisfied.
You wanted to do the same for him, but you didn’t know how. When Logan sat down, he could feel the nervousness from you.
Your heart raced as you sat on the bed, your eyes fixed on Logan, who sat shirtless in front of you, his broad, muscled chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. The room felt impossibly warm, and though you had been teasing and playful all night, nerves twisted in your stomach. You wanted to please him, wanted to make him feel as good as he always made you feel, but there was one thing you hadn’t done before.
Logan’s eyes were dark with desire, his lips curved into a small, amused smile as he watched you. “What is it, Princess?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You look nervous.”
You bit your lip, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks as you looked up at him, your voice coming out quieter than intended. “I… I’ve never… done that before.” You hesitated, glancing down at his hard and ready to go cock. “You know… going down on someone.”
Logan’s smile softened, and he crouched down in front of you, taking your hand in his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for, babygirl,” he said, his voice gentle but thick with heat. “It’s all up to you.”
You shook your head, determination sparking in your eyes despite the butterflies in your stomach. “I want to… I want to make you feel good. I just… I want you to show me. Teach me how.”
Logan’s eyes darkened even further at your words, a low growl rumbling from deep in his chest. “Fuck, sweetgirl,” he muttered, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lip. “You have no idea how much I want that. And I’ll guide you through every second, baby, if that’s what you want.”
You nodded, heart racing as you leaned into his touch, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. Logan stood up.Your eyes widened slightly as you looked up at him. He was big—thick, hard, and veined—and the thought of taking him into your mouth sent a thrill of nervous energy through you.
Logan moved closer, standing just in front of you as you sat on the edge of the bed. He stroked your cheek softly, his voice low and patient. “Just go slow, okay? Start by touching me. See what feels good for you.”
You nodded, your hand trembling slightly as you reached up, fingers wrapping around his cock for the first time. He was warm and firm, and the way he twitched in your hand made your heart race even faster. Logan let out a low groan as your fingers began to move along his length, stroking him slowly, your grip light at first, unsure but eager to learn.
“That’s good, baby,” Logan rasped, his voice thick with desire. “Just like that. Nice and slow.”
Your confidence grew a little with his encouragement, and you tightened the grip slightly, your strokes becoming more deliberate. Logan’s breath hitched, and his hand found the back of your neck, not pushing you but resting there, his fingers gently massaging the base of your skull.
You glanced up at him, eyes searching for guidance. “Is this okay?”
Logan’s dark gaze met yours, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s more than okay,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your lower lip again. “You’re doing great. Now, if you’re ready… use your mouth. Just take your time.”
Your heart pounded in your chest as you leaned forward, lips parting slightly as you pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his cock. Logan groaned, his grip on your neck tightening just a little, and the sound sent a jolt of excitement through you. You could taste the salty bead of pre-cum on your lips as you kissed him again, this time allowing your tongue to flick out and swirl gently around the head.
Logan hissed softly, his head tilting back as his hand flexed against your neck. “Fuck, princess… that feels good.”
Emboldened by his reaction, you opened your mouth wider, taking the head of his cock between your lips. You sucked lightly, tongue swirling around the tip as you moved your hand along his length, stroking what you couldn’t yet fit in your mouth. Logan’s low groan spurred you on, and you took him deeper, lips wrapping around him as your tongue continued to explore.
“Just like that, baby,” Logan rasped, his voice strained as his hips twitched forward, though he held back, letting you set the pace. “Use your hand to stroke the rest, yeah? Keep going slow, and just… fuck, that feels so good.”
You did as he said, your hand working in time with your mouth as you moved up and down his length, taking him a little deeper with each bob of your head. Your nervousness started to fade as you focused on his reactions—the way his muscles tensed, the way his breath came out in short, ragged gasps, the way he groaned your name when you did something right.
You could feel him pulsing in your mouth, thick and heavy, and the way his cock twitched as your tongue swirled around the underside of the head made your thighs clench. Logan’s fingers tightened in your hair, but he was still careful, still letting you lead.
“God, sweetheart… you’re fucking amazing,” he groaned, his voice rough with pleasure. “Try taking me a little deeper now. If it’s too much, just pull back.”
You nodded slightly, your lips still wrapped around him, and took a deep breath as you pushed yourself further down his length, feeling the stretch of him against your tongue. He was big, but you wanted to take as much of him as you could. You relaxed your throat, letting him slip deeper, until you could feel him at the back of your throat.
Logan groaned louder, his hips twitching forward just slightly, but he pulled back immediately, not wanting to overwhelm you. “That’s it, baby,” he muttered, his voice tight with restraint. “You’re doing so fucking good.”
You bobbed your head slowly, sucking him in deeper with each movement, your hand stroking the base of his cock while your tongue worked the sensitive underside. The sound of Logan’s pleasure, the low groans and ragged breaths, spurred you on, and you began to pick up the pace, your confidence growing with every reaction you pulled from him.
“Fuck, baby… I’m not gonna last long if you keep doing that,” Logan rasped, his voice tight as his fingers tangled more firmly in your hair. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”
You hummed around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath as you took him even deeper, your lips stretching around his thick length. You felt a surge of pride at how you were making him fall apart, and the way his hips started to twitch forward with every stroke only encouraged you.
Logan’s breathing turned ragged, his hand tightening in your hair as he fought to keep control. “Shit, baby, I’m close… you want me to come in your mouth?”
You paused, your lips still wrapped around him, and looked up at him through your lashes, nodding slightly as best as you could. The look in his eyes darkened even further, and his grip on you tightened as he thrust gently into your mouth, his movements careful but desperate.
“Good girl,” he groaned, his voice thick with pleasure. “Just like that… fuck, I’m gonna come.”
His words sent a thrill through you, and you worked him faster, hand stroking his length while your mouth sucked him in deeper, your tongue flicking against him with each bob of your head. Logan’s whole body tensed, his muscles going taut as he groaned your name, and with one final thrust, he came hard, spilling into your mouth.
You felt the hot rush of his release, his cock pulsing against your tongue as he filled her mouth. You swallowed as much as you could, his taste salty and thick, and you kept stroking him gently, milking every last drop from him as he trembled above you.
When it was over, Logan pulled back slowly, his chest heaving as he looked down at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. He reached down, pulling you up to your feet and kissing you deeply, his hand cupping your face as his lips lingered on yours.
“God, Princess,” he whispered against your mouth, his voice still breathless. “You’re fucking perfect.”
You smiled, cheeks flushed but your heart full of warmth. You had wanted to make him feel good, and the look in his eyes told you you had done more than that.
***
You didn’t know when you had fallen asleep, a warm haze of emotions and aftershocks from the night still lingering in your body. Apparently, that's what a mix of raw passion and orgasms can do to a person. As you started to stretch, a familiar touch stopped you — Logan's hand was resting possessively on your thigh.
“You’re awake finally,” his voice, deep and husky from sleep, sent a delicious shiver down your spine. It was the kind of voice that could melt you with just a word. He pressed a soft kiss to your bare shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. That sound alone made heat bloom low in your belly, reminding you of just how powerfully he affected you. You were still getting used to the intensity of it all, how he had this effortless way of making you feel like you could combust under his touch. It wasn’t just lust, but something deeper. The way his presence made you feel desired, seen.
His morning erection nudged against your ass as his mouth trailed down your shoulder, teasing the sensitive spot at your neck with soft bites. "Last night was incredible," you whispered, feeling the soft ache between your thighs from the passion you'd shared. His mouth found your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe, and a soft gasp escaped your lips.
You could feel the smile in his voice as he replied, “You were amazing.”
You blushed at his praise, remembering how vulnerable you'd felt when you told him last night about your nervousness. He had a way of making you feel safe, even in your most insecure moments. But here he was now, his hands tracing your curves, cupping your breasts with a mix of gentleness and hunger. His thumb grazed over your nipples, making your breath hitch. "You're the one to talk," you murmured, barely able to focus as his hands roamed over you.
He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the way your body responded to him, as if it were made to fit against his. His thigh slid between your legs, pressing just right against your clit, making you gasp and instinctively roll your hips. "Relax, princess," he purred, the nickname sending a fresh wave of heat through you.
But as much as your body begged for more, a sudden urgency interrupted the moment. “I need to pee,” you said, almost breathlessly. You hated to stop him, but your body had its demands.
Logan let out a playful growl of frustration, making you giggle as he rolled onto his back. “That was mean,” he grumbled. You leaned over and kissed the tip of his nose, unable to hide your smile.
"I'll be quick. You go make coffee."
His hand gave your ass a playful swat as you slipped out of bed, both of you laughing softly, the easy intimacy of the morning wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Even as you headed for the bathroom, you felt his eyes on you, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before his hands were back on your body.
***
And you were right. The coffee was nice, though Logan couldn’t help but tease, mentioning it would have tasted even better if you’d made it yourself. You smiled at his playful jab, both of you leaning into the easy conversation about the day ahead. You mentioned wanting to hit the pool on your day off, but Logan’s eyes narrowed playfully, letting you know he preferred the gym instead. You nearly made a joke about him being like a cat avoiding water, but you bit your tongue, enjoying the teasing exchange.
As you gathered the coffee mugs, the moment felt light and perfect. "What do you want for breakfast?" you asked over your shoulder. "I could make French toast if you'd—"
Before you could finish, you felt Logan’s strong hands slide onto your hips, pulling you gently back into him. His touch was warm, sending a shiver down your spine, and you gasped softly as his lips found your neck, trailing slow, lingering kisses along the sensitive skin. His breath was hot, and the deliberate, sensual way he kissed you had your pulse quickening in an instant.
“How about we take a shower first?” he suggested, his voice husky, each word laced with promise.
You smiled, leaning back into him, your body already reacting to his touch. "Somehow, I don’t think a shower is all you're thinking about, Logan," you teased, though your voice was softer now, betraying the way his closeness made your thoughts scatter.
He chuckled low, the sound rumbling through you as he turned you around to face him. His eyes were dark with desire, and before you could say another word, he kissed you, hard and full of need. His lips claimed yours in a way that made you melt against him, and as his tongue slipped into your mouth, teasing and tasting, a soft moan escaped you. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, pressing your body against his as the kiss deepened.
“We’ll shower…” he whispered, breaking the kiss just enough to press his lips to yours again, a series of quick, heated pecks that left you breathless. “Eventually.”
Before you could react, Logan’s arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the floor with ease and tossing you playfully over his shoulder. You squealed in surprise, laughing as he carried you effortlessly toward the bathroom.
“Logan!” you giggled, your voice a mix of surprise and excitement, heart racing as he walked with purpose.
“I’m going to take my time with you, princess,” he said, his voice low, teasing, and filled with all kinds of promises as he stepped into the bathroom. “I’ll wash every inch of you—thoroughly.”
The way he said it made heat bloom inside you, and as he set you down, you could feel his gaze trailing over your body, lingering with unspoken desire.
***
The steam in the bathroom thickened, swirling around you both as Logan's hands slid over your waist, guiding you gently back under the warm spray of the shower. Water cascaded down your skin, adding to the heat building between you, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on your wet body. The room was filled with a mix of heat and the soft sounds of the water splashing, but it was his gaze that held you captive — intense, filled with hunger and something deeper that made your heart race.
His lips found yours again, softer this time, as though savoring the taste, but the kiss quickly deepened, his hands moving up to cup your face. Your body responded instinctively, leaning into him as the warmth from the water mingled with the growing heat between you. His hands were everywhere — sliding down your back, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together, the water making every touch more electric, more intimate.
The sensation of his skin against yours, the slick, wet heat between you, sent shivers down your spine. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss intensified, becoming more urgent, more needy. Logan’s hands slipped lower, resting on your hips, and he lifted you effortlessly, pinning you gently against the cool tile of the shower wall. The contrast of the heat from his body and the coolness of the tiles behind you made you gasp softly, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
He paused for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing heavy as he gazed into your eyes. There was something raw in that look, an unspoken desire, as if he was making sure you were fully with him at that moment. You nodded slightly, your hands running through his damp hair, urging him on, and that was all the encouragement he needed.
Logan’s lips trailed down your neck, hot and wet from the shower, and you couldn’t hold back the soft moan that escaped as his mouth found your collarbone, biting gently before soothing the skin with soft kisses. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you firmly in place, every touch deliberate, every kiss igniting a deeper sense of longing.
The rhythm between you was slow, teasing, as though he was taking his time exploring every inch of you, memorizing the way your body responded to him. The water poured over you both, heightening every sensation, and you could feel the tension building, the anticipation thick in the air.
“Logan…” you whispered, breathless, your voice barely above the sound of the shower. He responded with another deep kiss, his hands sliding down your back, holding you even closer, making it impossible to tell where his body ended and yours began. Each movement was fluid, natural, as if you were both made for this — for each other.
His lips returned to your neck, trailing fire down your skin, and the combination of the heat from the water and his touch had you lost in the moment. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word between you was a promise, a building of tension that pulled you both deeper into the connection you shared.
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his breath ragged. “I’ve wanted this for so long…” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.
You smiled softly, feeling the same way, your fingers brushing across his jawline as you leaned in for another kiss, softer this time, full of the unspoken feelings between you. The moment wasn’t just about the physical connection — it was something deeper, something that lingered in the way his touch made you feel cherished and wanted.
The shower continued to rain down around you, but in that moment, all you felt was him — the warmth of his body, the tenderness of his hands, and the growing intensity of your shared desire.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your ear, his voice low and thick with lust. His fingers trailed down your stomach, his touch teasing, deliberate, as he spread your legs with one of his own, positioning you just how he wanted. His rough hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding through your slick folds, and the instant he found your clit, your whole body jolted at the sharp, sudden pleasure.
A soft moan escaped your lips as Logan’s fingers started to work you, circling your clit with slow, firm strokes that had your hips rocking against his hand instinctively. The warmth of the water mixed with the heat radiating off his body, but it was nothing compared to the growing fire in your core as Logan’s touch sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you.
His other hand gripped your waist, holding you steady as his fingers moved faster, pressing harder against your clit in a way that made your legs tremble. His lips were back at your neck, kissing you, his teeth grazing your skin, sending shivers down your spine.
“I’ve barely touched you, and you’re already so fucking wet for me,” Logan growled, his voice dark and filled with satisfaction as he teased you, his fingers slipping lower, finding your entrance and pushing inside you. His fingers curled deep, hitting that perfect spot that made your breath hitch, and your body tensed, the pressure inside you building rapidly.
“Logan…” you gasped, your hands bracing against the tile as you leaned into him, your hips grinding against his hand, desperate for more of the pleasure he was giving you. His touch was skilled, practiced, every movement pushing you closer to the edge, but he kept control, taking his time, making you feel every single stroke.
“You’re gonna come for me, baby,” he whispered, his voice hot against your ear, his fingers working faster now, his thumb brushing over your clit in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. “I want to feel you come all over my hand.”
Your breath came out in ragged pants, your body trembling as the tension inside you coiled tighter and tighter, ready to snap. Logan’s fingers pressed harder, his pace relentless, and you could feel the orgasm building fast, the pleasure overwhelming as he drove you closer to the brink.
“Come for me,” Logan growled, his voice rough and commanding as his thumb circled your clit one last time, his fingers curling deep inside you. “Now.”
That was all it took. Your body tensed as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and intense, your pussy clenching tight around his fingers as the pleasure exploded inside you. You cried out his name, your legs shaking as your body trembled under the force of your release, every wave crashing over you harder than the last.
Logan groaned low in his throat as he felt you come, his hand never stopping, his fingers stroking you through every last tremor of your orgasm. “Good girl,” he muttered, his voice thick with pride as he held you steady, his body pressed tight against yours. “That’s it, baby… just like that.”
When the last waves of your orgasm finally ebbed, you slumped back against him, breathless and trembling. But Logan wasn’t done with you yet. His lips brushed against your ear, sending another shiver through you as his fingers slipped from between your legs.
“Turn around,” he commanded softly, and you did, your legs still weak from your release, but your body aching for more of him.
Logan knelt in front of you, the water pouring over his broad, muscled shoulders as he looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes. “I want to taste you,” he growled, his hands gripping your thighs as he spread them apart. “And I’m going to make you come again.”
Your heart raced as he pressed his mouth against your already sensitive core, his tongue flicking over your clit with quick, teasing strokes that made you gasp and grab his shoulders for support. The pleasure hit you instantly, the aftershocks of your first orgasm still rippling through your body as Logan licked and sucked at your clit with a precision that left you trembling.
“Logan… oh my God…” you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his wet hair as you rocked your hips against his mouth, already feeling the heat building inside you all over again. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, holding you in place as he devoured you, his tongue swirling around your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you with every movement.
He groaned against you, the vibration making your legs shake as he worked you over, his tongue relentless, his mouth hot and wet as the pleasure built faster this time, more intense. Your body was still buzzing from the first orgasm, your nerves already raw, and Logan seemed determined to push you even further.
“You taste so fucking good,” he rasped against your core, his voice low and rough as he dove back in, his tongue flicking over your clit in a rhythm that had you gasping for breath, the edge of another orgasm already within reach. “I want you to come in my mouth, baby. I want to feel you fall apart again.”
His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you could feel the tension coiling tight in your core, your body on the verge of breaking as Logan’s tongue worked you faster, harder. The pleasure was overwhelming, your hips bucking against his face as you chased the release that was already so close.
“Logan… please…” you whimpered, your voice trembling as the orgasm built inside you like a storm, the pressure too much, too intense. But Logan wasn’t letting up, his mouth relentless, his grip on your thighs bruising as he growled against your clit.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice dark and rough as his tongue flicked over your clit one last time, pushing you over the edge.
You shattered. The orgasm tore through you, harder than the first, your whole body trembling as the pleasure ripped you apart. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your legs shaking as you cried out his name, your pussy pulsing with every wave of your release.
Logan groaned into you, his mouth still moving, drawing out every last tremor of your orgasm until you were completely spent, your body weak and trembling from the intensity of it. When he finally pulled back, his lips glistening, he looked up at you with a satisfied grin.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he growled, standing up slowly, his hands sliding up your body as he pulled you against him.
You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your stomach, his cock thick and pulsing with need. But Logan wasn’t in a rush. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep, slow kiss, his hands roaming your body as the water poured over both of you.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and rough with desire. “But I’m not going to come until you do again. I want to feel you come around my cock.”
Your heart raced at his words, your body already aching for him, desperate for him to fill you. “Please, Logan,” you gasped, your nails digging into his back as you rocked your hips against him. “I need you inside me.”
Logan groaned, lifting you effortlessly as he positioned himself at your entrance. The tip of his cock brushed against your slick folds, teasing you for a moment before he thrust inside, filling you completely with one slow, deliberate movement.
The sudden fullness made you gasp, your back arching against the tiles as Logan buried himself deep inside you, stretching you in a way that made your body tremble all over again. He didn’t move at first, just held you there, his forehead resting against yours as he groaned low in his throat.
“Fuck, you feel so tight,” he growled, his breath hot against your lips as he began to move, his hips rolling in slow, deep thrusts that made you moan.
He set a slow, deliberate pace, each thrust deep and powerful, his cock dragging against your inner walls in a way that made you feel every inch of him. The pleasure built quickly, your body still sensitive from your previous orgasms, and you could feel yourself teetering on the edge again as Logan’s thrusts grew harder, more desperate.
“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he drove into you, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you with every stroke. “I’m not going to last much longer, baby… but I want you to come first. I need to feel you come around my cock before I fill you up.”
His words sent a jolt of heat through you, your body responding instantly to the idea of him coming inside you, of him filling you completely. The tension inside you coiled tighter, the pressure building fast as Logan fucked you harder, his breath ragged as he chased his own release.
“Logan…” you gasped, your fingers gripping his shoulders as the pleasure built inside you, your whole body trembling as the edge came rushing toward you. “I’m so close…”
"Come for me," Logan growled, his voice rough with need as his thrusts became more frantic, his cock driving into you harder and deeper with every stroke. "I want to feel you fall apart around me, baby. Then I’ll fill you up.”
His words sent you spiraling, the intensity of his movements pushing you closer to the edge with every thrust. The way he filled you so completely, the way his cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, left you gasping for breath, your nails digging into his shoulders as you clung to him.
“Logan… oh God, I’m gonna come,” you whimpered, your voice shaking as your body tensed, the orgasm building inside you like a tidal wave ready to break.
“That’s it,” he growled, his grip on your hips tightening as his pace quickened, his control slipping as he drove into you harder, faster. “Come for me, baby. I need to feel it.”
And then it hit you. The orgasm crashed through you like a storm, your body convulsing around him as the pleasure tore through you, your pussy clenching tight around his cock. Your head fell back against the tiles, a broken moan escaping your lips as you cried out his name, your whole body trembling violently with the force of your release.
Logan groaned deeply, his movements faltering for a moment as he felt you come around him, your pussy pulsing and squeezing his cock with every wave of your orgasm. “Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, his voice strained as he fought to hold on, his hips still thrusting into you, prolonging your pleasure.
He didn’t stop. Even as your body trembled with aftershocks, Logan kept going, his pace relentless as he chased his own release. His breath came out in ragged gasps, his forehead pressed against yours as he groaned, “I’m gonna come… I need to fill you up.”
His words, dark and laced with raw need, sent a fresh wave of heat through you. The thought of him coming inside you, of being filled completely, made your body pulse all over again, your hips instinctively bucking up against him.
“Please, Logan… I want it. I want you to come inside me,” you gasped, your voice thick with desire as you clung to him, your nails scraping down his back.
Logan groaned loudly, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate as he reached the edge. His grip on your hips tightened, his hands nearly bruising as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. With a low, guttural moan, he came hard, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled into you, filling you with his hot release.
“Fuck… Princess…” he groaned, his body trembling against yours as he rode out his orgasm, his hips twitching as he pumped every last drop into you.
You could feel the heat of him, thick and warm as it filled you completely, the sensation sending a final shiver of pleasure through your body. Logan’s breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against yours as the last waves of his release washed over him. For a moment, the world was silent, the only sound was the steady rush of water and your uneven breaths as you both held each other, trembling in the aftermath.
Logan kissed you softly, his lips brushing against yours as his hands moved to cradle your face. “You’re fucking incredible,” he murmured, his voice rough but filled with a deep satisfaction.
You smiled against his lips, your heart still racing as you whispered, “So are you, Logan.”
His cock softened inside you, but neither of you moved, the warmth of the water and the heat of the moment wrapping around you both like a cocoon. Logan held you close, his forehead pressed to yours as he whispered, “I’m never getting enough of you.”
The water continued to pour down over both of you, your bodies still intertwined, but now the intensity of the moment had softened into something warm and intimate. Logan held you close, his chest pressed against yours, the heat of his breath mingling with the steam swirling around you. He smiled down at you, the look in his eyes softened by the tenderness that followed the passion you had shared.
“I did promise to wash every inch of you, didn’t I?” he murmured, his voice low and playful, but there was a gentle sincerity beneath it. His hands glided down your sides, steadying you as he reached for the bar of soap resting on the shelf nearby.
You smiled up at him, feeling the warmth of his touch as his soapy hands returned to your body. “I thought you forgot about that,” you teased, but your voice was soft, content.
Logan chuckled softly, his eyes dark but affectionate. “I never forget a promise,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours in a brief, tender kiss before he turned his attention to washing you, as he had promised.
With slow, deliberate movements, Logan’s hands traveled over your skin, spreading the lather of the soap along your shoulders, down your arms, and across your back. His touch was firm but soothing, almost reverent, as though he was savoring the simple act of caring for you. His fingers trailed down to your waist, his touch lingering as he washed your hips, his eyes occasionally flicking up to meet yours with a gentle smile.
His hands continued lower, gliding over your thighs, every movement patient, unhurried. He made sure to wash every inch of you, taking his time as the soap mixed with the water, rinsing away the remnants of the passion you had shared. It wasn’t just about getting clean—it was a moment of connection, of closeness, that lingered between you both.
“You’re perfect,” Logan whispered, his eyes tracing the lines of your body as he knelt slightly to wash your legs. His voice was soft, almost like he was speaking to himself, but the words sent warmth blooming in your chest.
When he finished, he pulled you close again, his lips brushing your temple as the water poured over both of you. “Your turn,” he murmured, handing you the bar of soap.
With a smile, you took it, running the lather between your hands as you began to return the favor. You started at his broad shoulders, your hands gliding over his firm muscles as the soap spread across his skin. Logan let out a soft sigh of contentment, his eyes closing as he leaned into your touch, his body relaxing beneath your hands.
Your fingers trailed down his chest, tracing the scars that marked his skin, feeling the strength beneath your touch. Logan opened his eyes briefly, catching your gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips as you moved your hands lower, over his abdomen, down his hips. You took your time, washing him just as thoroughly as he had done for you, the intimacy of the moment deepening as you cared for each other.
When you were done, Logan cupped your face in his hands, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice rough but full of affection.
You smiled against his lips, your arms wrapping around his neck as you kissed him back, the warmth of the water and the closeness of his body making you feel safe, cherished.
As the last of the soap washed away, Logan turned off the water, the sound of the shower replaced by the quiet hum of the world outside. He grabbed a towel and gently wrapped it around your shoulders, pulling you close to him as he dried you off, his hands moving slowly, almost reverently.
Once you were dry, he toweled off himself quickly before pulling you into his arms again, his chest warm against your skin as he kissed the top of your head. “Let’s get out of here before we shrivel up,” he teased lightly, his voice still soft, but there was a playful glint in his eyes.
With a smile, you let him lead you out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, where the warmth and comfort of the soft sheets awaited you. Logan pulled you down onto the bed with him, his arms wrapping around you as he drew you close, holding you against his chest.
“You’re something else, sweetheart,” he murmured softly, his lips brushing your forehead as you snuggled into him, your body relaxing completely in his arms.
You smiled, feeling completely at peace as you whispered, “This was the best date I have ever been on, Logan.”
“Good,” he whispered back, his hand gently stroking your hair as you both settled into the quiet comfort of the moment. Wrapped in each other’s arms, the intensity of the night faded into a deep sense of contentment, leaving only the warmth of the connection you shared as you drifted off together, completely at ease in each other’s presence.
#logan howlett#logan x reader#logan smut#logan howlett angst#logan howlett smut#logan wolverine#wolverine#wolverine x reader#wolverine angst#wolverine smut#hugh jackman wolverine#hugh jackman#smut#angst#deadpool and wolverine#worst wolverine#deadpool 3
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Positive
Pairing: lee felix x reader
Word count: 1,8k
Tags: a tiny bit of angst, fluff, pregnancy
Summary: a positive surprise for you and your boyfriend felix
a/n: I was in need of some comfort/fluff, so this happened? Enjoy <3
Through your tears you see two barely visible pink lines and beside you on the floor are three more tests, all of them showing two lines.
Positive.
'Shit, shit, shit, this can't be happening,' you mumble, combing your fingers through your messy hair.
There's one more unused test in your purse and for a moment you debate peeing on yet another stick. Maybe these four were wrong, maybe it's false positive, maybe the last one will show only one line.
'How did this happen, y/n?' You whisper to yourself, pulling on the strands of your hair. 'How could you let this happen?'
You know how, of course. It's fairly obvious with the amount of mind blowing sex you and your boyfriend Felix have been having, but to your memory you were pretty sure the two of you always remembered to use a condom.
Your phone buzzes in your purse, but you ignore it. Now is not the time to talk to Felix, or anyone really. You're pretty sure that as soon as you hear his voice you'll either burst into tears or tell him right away that you're pregnant.
Pregnant.
Fresh tears roll down your cheeks and you bite your fist to not let any sobs escape. You may be the only person currently in the bathroom, but someone can always come in.
It's not like you don't want a baby. You've been dreaming of becoming a mom basically your whole life and ever since meeting Felix, that desire has only grown stronger. The thing is, you've never really spoken about it before.
There have been jokes and silly imaginations about what your future would be like in a few years from now or when you'll start a family together, but the timeline of that future has always been for much later in life.
The sound of a door opening startles you and you hastily start to gather all four of the tests from the floor. In your hurry one slips from your fingers and slides across the floor and under the door to the other side.
Fuck. Of course.
You reach out to blindly grab the test, but instead of plastic your fingers meet warm and soft skin.
Please be a woman, please be a woman, please.
‘Y/N? Is that you in there?’
You squeeze your eyes shut at the familiar voice and this time a sob does escape your mouth.
‘Y/N? Open the door, baby,’ Felix begs, pulling on the handle as if that will be enough to unlock the door from the inside.
‘Please don't be mad,’ you cry. ‘I didn't know.’
There's a short silence and you bite your lip, trying to stop it from trembling.
‘Baby,’ Felix his deep voice is soothing. ‘Why would I be mad? If what I'm holding in my hand right now is what I think it is, then I couldn’t be happier.’
It only takes a second for you to unlock and open the door, revealing Felix with sparkling and wet eyes, flushed cheeks and such a wide grin, that you immediately stop crying.
‘R-really?’
‘Yes, Angel, are you kidding me?’ he smiles, reaching out to pull you in his arms. ‘Is it what I think it is though? Are you sure?’
You bury your face into Felix's neck, breathing in his familiar scent as you cling onto his hoodie.
‘If you think you're holding a stick I peed on, then yes,’ you murmur, cuddling even closer to him.
The test immediately falls to the floor and you can't help but giggle as Felix maneuvers you towards the sink to wash his hands, all while you're still clinging onto him. When he's finished he wraps his arms around you.
‘What do two lines mean?’ he whispers, pressing his lips to your temple.
‘You know what it means, babe.’
‘I need to hear you say it.’
You lean back a little so you can look him in the eyes. There's no anxiety, fear or anger in his beautiful brown eyes, only love and hope.
‘If the doctor confirms it,’ you start, but your bottom lip quivers again so you take a deep breath before you continue. ‘I'm pregnant.’
Felix closes his eyes and smiles, shaking his head like he doesn't believe you. Tears roll down his cheeks and his hold on you tightens.
‘Say that again,’ he murmurs, burying his face into the crook of your neck and pressing kisses at every inch of skin he can get to.
You giggle and try to push his head away. ‘Felix! That tickles’
‘Say it again, Angel,’ Felix begs, his voice deeper than before.
‘I'm pregnant.’
Saying it out loud makes it even more real and for the first time since seeing the two pink lines, you feel butterflies in your stomach.
You're pregnant. You're carrying Felix his baby in your stomach, your baby.
Felix lets out a shuddering breath and laughs. It's one of the best sounds in the world to your opinion.
‘You’re going to be a dad, Lixie,’ you whisper, moving up your hands to touch his wet cheeks. ‘The best dad in the whole wide world.’
****
Three weeks after finding out you'll be parents in about seven to eight months, you're sitting in the waiting room of the hospital with Felix's hand clasped in yours.
‘I need to pee so bad,’ you whine, bouncing your left leg up and down as if the movement will help distract your bladder.
Ever since that day in the bathroom at JYP's, Felix has been in full research mode. He bought multiple books, printed out articles and spent hours browsing online to learn about pregnancy and newborn babies.
‘I know, Angel, but according to the internet it's best to go in with a full bladder or they might not be able to see the baby very well,’ Felix patiently explains, just like the other six times you complained.
‘I might not be able to hold it if they press that thingy on my belly,’ you grumble. ‘You want me to pee all over the seat?’
Felix pulls a disgusted face and you laugh, immediately regretting it when your bladder screams at you for release.
A door opens in the hallway and a tiny woman with curly brown hair and a long white doctor's coat steps out of a room.
‘Miss L/N, Y/N?’
You stand up with a nervous smile and tighten your fingers around Felix's. To his credit he doesn't wince at your death grip.
‘What if they don't see anything?’ You whisper to Felix as you walk towards the kind looking woman. ‘What if they don't hear a heartbeat?’
Your own heart is beating in your chest like a wild beast and you can almost imagine it coming out of your ribcage like it sometimes does in cartoons.
‘Breath, babygirl,’ Felix soothes, pressing a kiss to your temple as he guides you into the room. ‘We'll be okay no matter what.’
You're pretty sure that isn’t true, but maybe now is not the time to panic about that.
‘I can tell you're nervous,’ the doctor smiles at you and gestures to the surprisingly comfortable looking table. There's some sort of soft leather cushion on top of it with a paper sheet. ‘Why don't you lay down, so we can have a look.’
Felix helps you up the table and stands by your side, your hand still in his.
The doctor explains to you what she is going to do and that if she can’t see the baby, she'll try a vaginal ultrasound instead. You nervously bite your lip and nod, your gaze finding Felix's.
‘Relax, Angel,’ he smiles, lifting your intertwined fingers to his mouth to press a kiss on the back of your hand.
The gel is cold on your stomach and with baited breath you look at the monitor beside your head. At first all you see is grey and white smudges, but then the doctor stops moving and a black circle comes into view.
‘There,’ the doctor smiles, turning the monitor more towards you.
Your mouth drops open at the sight of the tiny little bean and Felix gasps, his fingers tightening their grip around yours.
And then you hear it.
The heartbeat.
Tears spring into your eyes and when you look at Felix, his cheeks are already strained with tears, his eyes shining with happiness.
‘Congratulations, you’re most definitely pregnant,’ the doctor laughs. ‘You’re about 8 weeks along.’
‘We're having a baby,’ you say, your voice croaks and you smile so wide it hurts your cheeks.
‘We're having a baby,’ Felix repeats, crying, and leaning over you to press his forehead against yours. ‘You've just made me the happiest man alive, Angel.’
You laugh and wrap your free hand around the back of his neck to pull him in for a kiss. His lips are soft and taste salty from his tears.
‘And I'm the luckiest woman alive to have you by my side for this,’ you whisper against his mouth.
‘Oh you two are adorable,’ the doctor giggles and when you look up you see she snapped a picture of you with her phone. ‘I'll airdrop it to you,’ she winks.
‘Can we have pictures of the ultrasound too?’ You ask her, eager to have even more proof in your hands that this is all real.
‘Of course, I'll print them out for you.’
You turn your attention back on Felix and kiss him again and again, until the doctor clears her throat and you pull away with flushed cheeks. Felix chuckles and accepts some paper towels to clean your stomach.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says, smiling shyly at the doctor.
‘No worries sugar, I've seen way worse,’ the doctor winks, making the both of you laugh again.
When you walk back to your car you can't stop looking at the pictures of the little bean growing inside your stomach.
‘Is this really happening?’ You ask Felix.
‘Yes, my love,’ he grins, tucking you closer to his side. ‘It’s real.’
‘Can we tell the boys?’
‘Really?’ His eyes widen. ‘They'll lose their shit.’
You grin up at him and kiss his cheek. ‘Better watch your mouth, daddy to be, can't have you swearing in front of the baby.’
His eyes darken and before you realize what is happening you're gently pushed against the side of your car. Every inch of Felix's body is pressed against yours and you let out a surprised laugh.
‘Lix!’
‘Soon I won't be able to do this anymore, got to savor the moments I still can,’ he says, capturing your mouth in a deep and passionate kiss.
You melt against him and for a minute you forget that you're in the hospital's parking lot. All that matters right at this moment is you and Felix.
And the little human growing in your belly.
a/n: felix will make the best dad one day! I might write more of this if you guys are interested ;)
>> part 2: telling the boys
disclaimer: ive never had an ultrasound (of my uterus at least), so this is all based off the stories my co workers have told me haha
taglist: @jaeminie-cricket @jeonginsbaee @staylovesmiley @newbbystay @cashtonsbetch @mariahxrrera @kaleigh-2002 @silencionyx @smileykiddie08 @my-neurodivergent-world @yaorzu-blog @yoongiismylove2018 @staytinyluv @bookswillfindyouaway @queen-thiccness @notastraykid @ateez-atiny380 @estella-novella @furfoxsake22 @hyunjinhoexxx @insomnjen @girl-in-love-with-kpop @vivilovesuu @velvetmoonlght @skz8love @corgilover20 @littlelostdemonofthelight @stephanieeeyang @zulie-and-cats @chanshugsaretherapy @pizzalove5000 @dazzlingjade @milie-com @thequibbie @channiesrightasscheek @strawbrriz @delulustardust @velvetskize
#stray kids fanfic#stray kids x reader#lee felix x reader#stray kids scenarios#stray kids imagines#lee felix fluff#skz fluff#stray kids fluff#lee felix scenarios#chancloud8 writes
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ME AND MY BROKEN HEART ★ CL16 ( & MV33 )
PAIRING ✦ charles leclerc x fem!ex girlfriend!reader ; max verstappen x fem!reader
SUMMARY ✦ when charles leaves you heartbroken, you end up letting a certain red bull driver help mend your broken heart [ SMAU ]
WARNINGS ✦ cursing
REQUESTED ✦ here!
NOTES ✦ reader is a model for dior. for the timeline of this, reader & charles broke up in august 2023 and he got with another woman (choosing to leave her unnamed because there will be NO alex slander) in september 2023. as per request, the fc i've used is hannah harrell, but feel free to picture whoever you want! my requests are closed at the moment.
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liked by yourbsf, anyataylorjoy, and 691,221 others
yourusername had to learn that the hard way 👎
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user1 THE LAST SLIDE WHAT.
user2 NO WAY ARE HER AND CHARLES BROKEN UP NOOO
user3 MY FAV COUPLE 💔
user4 the way im so upset rn is not healthy.
user5 real like THEY WERE PARENTS
user6 okay but y/n is still glowing??
user7 righttt!! enough about the guy who drives in circles all day, lets talk about HER 😍
user8 he fumbled.
user9 realll!
yourbsf making that cake was wayyy too much fun 😋
yourusername breaking it apart was even better 😉
anyataylorjoy 😍😍
yourusername who needs a man when i have you 🩷
liked by yourbsf, maxverstappen1, and 651,212 others
tagged yourbsf
yourusername greek air to cure the breakup blues 🇬🇷💙
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user14 OKAYYY MISS Y/N YOU ARE SERVING AS PER!!
user15 she's living her best life and im HERE FOR IT
user16 her and her bsf are actually everything to me
user17 so trueee i need a friendship like theirs!!
user18 NOO I WAS JUST IN GREECE I CANT BELIEVE I MISSED YOU
user19 NO I WAS AS WELL I WAS SO UPSET WHEN I SAW THIS
user20 bet charles is missing you rn!!
user21 who cares abt charles? she's literally getting over him rn, he's so yesterday's news 😴
user22 what part did you go to?? im planning on going over the holidays in october, and i desperately need some recs!! 🫶
yourusername crete!! it was so so beautiful, can confirm 🩷
user23 one driver out of her likes, another (max verstappen) in her likes
user24 okay but they'd be such a good couple??
yourbsf GIRLS TRIP WAS THE BESTTT
yourusername NEXT ONE PENDING FOR SUREEE
mariloublg_ absolutely gorgeous gorgeous girlies 😍😍
yourusername MARILOU MY ANGEL 🩷
user25 i came here from the instagram gossip website and can i just say in that interview you SERVED
user26 REALLL
user27 wait what are you guys on about?? im so lost HELP
user26 go on @/f1wagnews and you'll see!
liked by user28, user29, and 871,291 others
f1wagnews NEW: Y/N L/N breaks her silence on the circulating paparazzi pictures of Charles Leclerc & his apparent new girlfriend. When asked by the media what she thought, she said: "Charles being in a new relationship not even a month later is naturally a shock, seeing as I assumed he would treat me and the times we shared over the past three years with the same dignity and respect that I am treating him. I don't know, I guess these sort of memories aren't as priceless to him as they are to me. Still, I hope he's happy in his new relationship."
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user28 OKAYY MISS Y/N IS BACKK!!
user29 THIS is what i was waiting for.
user30 she is actually handling this really maturely to be fair to her!!
user31 realll!! i wish i would've been like this with my ex
user32 okay so a lot of the comments are saying she handled this w grace or whatever but is it just me who disagrees? like she's literally being rude to him and his new girlfriend, and you're all hyping her up?? like huh??
user33 honestly this comment makes no sense to me; she didn't say anything rude about charles in this, she simply said that she was shocked to see him in a relationship when they were together for three years, and honestly she's valid for that! i don't think many girls would enjoy seeing their ex boyfriend and his new girlfriend all over the media, and so y/n is honestly handling this so well.
yourusername
( caption one: crazy huh 😉 | caption two: compensation acquired ✅ + tags )
liked by mariloublg_, maxverstappen1, and 667,891 others
tagged mariloublg_
yourusername america with my girl 🩷 (& her boyfriend...)
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user37 THE CAPTION LMAOO
user38 Y/N REMAINS HILARIOUS
user39 ASTON MARTIN SWITCH UP HELLOOO??
user40 I KNOWW marilou and her are so cute though i loveee
user41 it's so weird to see her in green after having seen her in red for the past three years
user42 i knowww but she looks like she's happy now and that's all that matters tbh!!
lance_stroll thanks so much for the shoutout y/n, appreciate you too i guess
yourusername listen stroll if you hurt her i'll be at ur doorstep.
lance_stroll im actually sort of scared of you at times y/n.
yourusername good! 😊😊
maxverstappen1 so you liked seeing me win then?
yourusername you've been winning since like the prehistoric ages mate i think ive gotten used to it by now 🙄 (yes)
user43 so like is it just me or is this flirty...
mariloublg_ MY GIRL FOREVERRR 🫶
yourusername 🩷🩷
liked by yourbsf, maxverstappen1, and 702,192 others
tagged maxverstappen
yourusername second slide is me when i finally manage to get my shit together
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user44 OKAY BUT ARE MAX AND Y/N DATING ORRR
user45 MAYBEEE!! honestly they'd be so cute i just KNOW he'd treat her right
user46 y/n you are my everything.
user47 the flowersss?? did miss y/n get herself another man?
user48 has to be max.
maxverstappen1 the second slide was uncalled for. ☹️
yourusername I COULDNT STOP LAUGHING IM SO SORRY IT WAS HILARIOUS 😭
maxverstappen1 the flowers 👀👀
yourusername yeah!! wonder who got me those 😍
anyataylorjoy you have a man now? ☹️
yourusername nooo ur the only one i need baby i swear 🩷
liked by mariloublg_, user49, and 921,933 others
f1wagnews NEW: Y/N L/N is a WAG again...but for a different driver on the grid! In a recent interview during the Las Vegas Grand Prix, Max Verstappen confirmed to the press that he and Y/N had entered a relationship a couple of weeks prior, after pictures circulated of the two in his car in Monaco: "Well obviously she came to the COTA grand prix and I had already known her before and we were good friends, so we fell right back where we left off, and here we are now! [...] Yeah things are going great, she's truly one of the best people I've ever met."
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user49 Y/NSTAPPEN LETS GOOOO
user50 MY GIRL IS A WAG AGAINNN I LOVE
user51 is it just me who misses charles and y/n ☹️
user52 yeah. 😊
mariloublg_ ❤️❤️
user53 MARILOUUUU?? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!!
user54 ONE OF Y/N'S BEST FRIENDS AND FELLOW WAG COMMENTING OH ITS SERIOUS.
user55 they are seriously adorableee 🫶🫶
yourusername
( caption one: third time's the charm? 😬 | caption two: wtf is this man thinking about now. )
liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, and 934,219 others
tagged maxverstappen1
yourusername MR WORLD CHAMPPP!! so so proud of you maxie, my winner always 🩷
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user59 Y/N AWWWW
user60 i have a feeling this one's working out idk
user61 oh absolutely
user62 so happy to see you happy again y/n!! 🫶🫶
user63 lost some race driver and came back with a world champion 🏆🏆
user64 ADORABLEEE
mariloublg_ MY CUTIES
yourusername OUR BIGGEST FAN
mariloublg_ well as your fairy godmother it IS an obligation to be ur biggest fan ever 🧚♀️🧚♀️
maxverstappen1 love you ❤️
yourusername my champ 🏆
charles_leclerc so happy for both of you ❤️
yourusername thank you so much charles, hope ur doing well w ur gf 🩷
user65 charles and y/n are talking again, i can officially sleep in peace.
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#f1#f1 x reader#f1 smau#requests#formula one x reader#f1 imagine#formula 1#f1 imagines#f1 x you#charles lecrelc#charles leclerc x female reader#charles leclerc x y/n#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#max verstappen#max verstappen x y/n#max verstappen x you#max verstappen x reader#f1 x female reader#formula one#formula one x y/n#mclqren
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i'll do better, i swear
pairing: ayato x fem!reader
genre: angstober, events, angst with slight happy ending
summary: an arranged marriage between the kamisato family and your family, but the busy nature of being the head of the kamisato family keeps ayato away from you
word count: 1.8k
a/n: dont ask about where in the canon timeline this falls, idek myself. anyways, im just feeding those who enjoy arranged marriage troupes (myself) by writing this
the kimono restricted your breathing, obi tight around your waist. you stood beside your father, eyes trained on the floor beneath you, an ornament beside him.
pleasantries were exchanged between the head of the kamisato family and your father, while you stood silently. since birth, you had been trained to be the perfect wife, proficient in cooking, cleaning, brewing tea and needlework. it was beaten into you to remain quiet until spoken to, agree to everything your father or husband said, without question.
you knelt onto the cushion, hands placed in your lap, fingers trembling. the head of the kamisato family offered you a porcelain cup of tea, which you accepted with grace and a quiet word of gratitude.
the exchange continued around you, discussions of your marriage with ayato, son and heir of the kamisato family, as though you were a mere ghost. you quietly sipped at the tea, wincing inwardly at the bitter taste, mirroring the feeling inside your heart. the conversation ended when all the tea disappeared from the pot, the deep and unyielding voices of the men fading into exchanges of goodbye.
as you left the estate, you let a breath you didn’t know you had been holding. you had fulfilled your duty today, but the next time you came to the estate, it would be for your wedding.
the ceremony was grand, hiding the lack of love in your union of families. the wedding passed in a blur of noise and colour. bright silks, glittering jewels, and ceremonial incense that filled the air like a fog, concealing the truth. you felt like a marionette on a string, pulled from place to place by bustling servants, their hurried gestures dictating your every move. this was only a union of houses, not hearts and no amount of jewellery or grandeur could hide that.
your only companions the sweet younger sister of ayato and his faithful servant, thoma. you were grateful for their presence, keeping you grounded in the chaos. even after the wedding, they stuck true to you.
as the lady of the house, you attended to your duties diligently, from directing the household staff to overseeing the preparations of ceremonies. more often than not, you found yourself sitting in the sunlight of the patio, a pair of scissors in hand, trimming and replacing the wilting flowers, decorating the cold vases. petals fell like delicate fragments of your own sorrow. while you replaced them, you wondered if you were just like these flowers—-ornaments to be seen.
the busy nature of your husband’s work limited his time spent with you. you didn’t blame him, you understood the weight of his position, however his absence was a knife in your heart, a wound that never seemed to heal. the vases were like the halls of the house, beautifully decorated, but cold.
ayaka and thoma could only watch you with pity, the forgotten and unwanted lady of the kamisato house. they noticed how your hands would slow, becoming lost in thought, scissors dangling from your hands as you stared up at the sky, watching the birds in envy.
they longed to speak to you about it, but the silence was too heavy, too suffocating to break.
the chirpiness of cicadas faded, the end of summer near. leaves turned from vibrant green to a multitude of warm colours, sunset painted across the leaves of the trees. winter came in a flurry of snow and cold air, while spring’s short warmth was quickly replaced by the heat of summer.
without you realising, a year had passed and your wedding anniversary was nearing.
in that year, you were lucky if you could catch a glimpse of him leaving, as he slipped on his shoes to leave the house.
despite that, you had endeavoured to make your first year anniversary special. accompanied by thoma, the two of you wandered the streets of inazuma, picking out the best produce while thoma filled the air with pleasant conversation. you found yourself smiling and laughing along, heart light with cheer.
once you arrived at home, ayaka helped you prepare the feast, the pair of you bustling around the kitchen in practiced movement, like two elegant dancers, prancing around the kitchen to the rhythm of clinking utensils and bubbling pots. perhaps this dinner would bring the two of you closer.
the candles burned brightly like your hope, the only source of light in the dim room. the sun had set hours ago, the moonlight brightening the night sky. you sat patiently, ignoring the tingling of your legs, folded neatly underneath you.
as the night deepened, your eyelids began drooping, head bobbling as you fought to stay awake. the candles flickered, the wax dripping down the length of the candle.
a creak of the wooden plank startled you awake, your heart ablaze with hope. but it was only ayaka, her heart breaking at the look of hope on your face. she shook her head, watching you with pity as she watched your face crumple in disappointment. tears threatened to spill, but you held them back, sniffles filling the room.
the candles flickered weakly, their flames dimming, like your hope.
you plastered on your mask, a smile pasted onto your face. ayaka couldn’t bear to see you like this. to her, you were like the kind, gentle, elder sister she had always wanted. you quickly became someone ayaka looked up to. you listened to her talk and ramble about her problems and thoughts, she wanted to do the same. she wanted to be someone who you could open up to, someone who didn’t judge. now, she sat helpless, watching the cracks in your mask form and widen.
with quick strides, she crossed the room, engulfing you in a tight hug. surprise flitted across your face, before you embraced her tightly, tears leaking from your eyes. ayaka’s actions comforted you, her simple action breaking a hole in the high walls you put up.
like a dam breaking, you sobbed, words flowing out of your mouth, words that you had been taught from a young age should be kept hidden inside. women should only talk about the good things, the positives. talk of the negative feelings, the burdens you have, and you’ll become ugly, your tutor had scared you.
you took the opportunity of the sake placed on the table, pouring yourself endless cups, drinking away the sorrow. before long, the world took on a fuzzy haze, your face warm and your tongue slurring.
in your drunk stupor, you engaged in rare ‘girl talk’ with ayaka.
“you know,” you slurred, voice blending, head drooping. “as a child, i dreamed of receiving flowers from someone.” your voice trailed off, descending into silence.
just as ayaka was becoming worried about the lack of noise from you, the stillness was broken by soft snores. you had fallen asleep, dreaming of a life where you had affection and love. quietly chuckling, ayaka thought about how cute this scene was. your body slumping slightly, expression peaceful in the haze of exhaustion and alcohol.
despite the heaviness of the night, your relaxed and vulnerable figure warmed her heart. you looked so small and fragile in the large empty room, illuminated by the moonlight.
the shoji door slid open with a gentle swish, ayato’s tall figure framing the doorway. his hair was loosening from its neat ponytail, ink staining his fingers.
“sister.” he breathed quietly in greeting. “thoma reminded me what date today was.”
his sister’s sharp and disapproving glare made him flinch, guilt evident on his features. with measured steps, ayato entered the room, his gaze falling on your slumped form, a flicker of something flashed across his face.
ayaka’s eyes flitted between you and ayato, a complex mix of emotions swelling in her chest. relief, combined with frustration and disappointment.
“brother,” ayaka’s soft voice broke the silence, a quiet plea tinging her voice. “please, lady [name] deserves better than how you’re treating her.” a sigh falls from ayaka’s lips. “at least try to spare some time, or send a letter home when you don’t have the time, so she doesn’t have to wait like this.”
ayato stilled, the weight of ayaka’s quiet reprimand heavy on his shoulders, impossible to ignore and piercing through the composed facade he had grown so used to wearing.
“i…” ayato’s voice faltered, struggling to find the right words. in matters of state, he had always had a quick mind, ready to negotiate treaties and settle disputes, yet now, the words slipped through his fingers like sand.
“it was not my intention to neglect her,” ayato admitted, eyes downcast. “but i realise now…”
ayaka’s eyes softened as she looked at her brother. “make amends, ayato. she’s been waiting for you, tonight especially—” she gestures to the untouched food, laying on the table, the melting candles, “—she had hoped…”
ayaka is cut off when her brother’s arm shoots out, catching your head before it can hit the table. gently, he leans your head on his shoulder, the faint scent of sake clinging to you. in your sleep, you stirred, but remain lost in the dreams of a life filled with tenderness and love.
“i will try,” ayato promised, his face set with determination. “you will watch me, and you will be proud.”
for a long while, the only sound in the room was the soft rustle of the evening breeze. ayaka watched her brother in silence, hoping that this time, he would stay true to his promise.
ayato cradled your form, the soft rise and fall of your breathing a sharp contrast to his inner turmoil. his heart clenched as he imagined the hope you must have carried, waiting for him, as the hours slipped by.
ayaka studied her brother’s face, noticing the burden of regret etched into his features. ayato had always been a man of responsibility, maybe this time his duties would extend to you, his wife.
with tender care, ayato picked you up, carrying you to your room. he was startled when he felt his clothing grow wet, quiet sniffles filling the air. you were crying in your sleep.
gently, ayato set you down on your bed, as though afraid you might shatter if he placed you down too hard. he covered your figure with the luscious silk blankets, brushing away your tears with his hand. despite all the duties that were waiting for him, ayato stayed for a few more hours,
a few days later, as you sit on the patio, watching the koi fish, thoma approaches you, hands hidden behind his back.
“m’lady,” thoma breaks into your thoughts, voice hesitant. “these are for you, from my lord.”
in his hands is a stunning bouquet of native inazuman flowers, mixed with your favourite flowers, carefully selected and curated with love.
perhaps, just perhaps, things were beginning to change.
taglist (open): @yeonjunsfox
∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) © curated with love by milkbobayun 2024 / づ ♡
#genshin impact#genshin impact x reader#genshin x reader#genshin angst#genshin impact angst#ayato x reader#ayato x you#ayato angst#ayato x reader angst#angstober#ayato fluff
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TEN'S A GOOD NUMBER
Aaron Hotchner x psychiatrist!reader
Sypnosis: After Aaron's traumatizing encounter with Peter Lewis, he's sent to you, but who knew a profiler is the worst patient you'll ever have? Warning: enemies to lovers— ish(?) angst. a dash of fluff. light mentions of death and trauma. a few curses. went ballistic— it's lengthy, so pace yourself. A/N: loosely follows Mr. Scratch timeline for three seasons.
Monday, May 4, 8:34 AM
Aaron Hotchner sits across from you.
He studies you in every detail like he's about to take an exam, and you're the topic.
The weight of your scribbles—light, almost featherlike. Ink leaves a soft trail of words, a map of your thoughts, your perception of him.
The speed of your hand. Swift and elegant. Each movement portrays a scene in a movie. As if they're telling a quiet story, your story he is yet to unravel.
The way you deprive him of eye contact.
What are you hiding?
Why can't you look him in the eye?
The occasional nod to remind him that you're listening—not like anything's coming out from his end.
In conclusion, just about everything you do, really.
To Aaron, you're a cheat sheet. His way back to the field, to work—the part of his life that cannot be halted despite the need for a break.
"Your hand is heavier," Aaron vaguely goads.
You silently stare at him, waiting for the rest of his thoughts to spill out of his mouth.
"Usually, you write like you're afraid to puncture the paper, but just right now, your strikes are deeper. Your grip on your pen is also tighter. Am I annoying you?"
Creative.
You think to yourself as he rakes his eyes down the canvas of your face, blank and land of nothing but mirroring eyes.
Although you prefer Aaron's comment about your new lipstick and how it makes your skin glow—something about your prospect of finding a lover—fifteen minutes into your session. You didn't peg him as a man who knows his lipstick shades, but you stand corrected as he says coral with the utmost confidence for a man who wears his tie like a choker.
Aaron does it all the time. Every five minutes, he says one thing he's noticed about you and then proceeds to zip his mouth, denying you details about him like you're some hired criminal paid to torture the King's hidden fortune out of him.
And as per your entertainment, you'd do something out of your character to throw him off. If you can laugh at his gullibility, you would.
His goal is to intimidate you. Pressure you. Make you tick like every other serial killer he's encountered. Because he'd really rather be across an unsub than you. Aaron would rather be the one to ask questions and not you. In his eyes, you're no better than a small-town detective ignorantly interrogating a serial killer for a cheap gas station robbery, unaware of the skeletons in his closet.
At this moment, Aaron ponders why he agreed to meet with you once a week only to sit in almost absolute silence for about an hour, then go about his day like he hadn't just wasted minutes of his—and your—life.
It's always the same.
He arrives, flaunts his profiling skills for an accumulated total of twelve minutes, and then sits across you like a rock for the remaining forty minutes.
Aaron could've talked more, but...
He despises you.
Well, not you, per se. He despises the profession, and you just happen to choose it as your career. Nonetheless, Aaron generalizes and includes you on his list.
He finds it unnecessary and a waste of one's valuable time. Presenting a series of well-thought-out facts that he's sure Spencer Reid will enjoy. A list of reasons why talking to a psychiatrist isn't as helpful as people perceive it to be.
Aaron spits the words 'family' and 'friends' for the sake of ease and comfort as if he doesn't flinch at the words 'your father' and his face hasn't been frozen into a permanent stern. Because why talk to someone who doesn't know you when there are people who know you best? He lies through his teeth. He lies to himself.
Then, there's you.
You don't know him enough to trust his lies.
"Profiling me won't get you cleared," you state out of the blue. "This is our seventh session, and you haven't said anything." You add, finally lifting your gaze.
Aaron feels taken aback. He'd never encountered a shrink with such pride at their job—they managed to infuriate him. You infuriate him.
Now that you've granted him the wish—your eyes meeting his—it's having an effect on him instead. One that he wishes he didn't feel creep under his skin, stimulating the anxiety he's worked hard to ignore.
Still, Aaron squares his shoulder, "Nothing is wrong with me," He claims like he's not feeling the pit of his stomach churn with every word. "I'm only here for the formalities." He says.
"Ahh," You deadpan, pulling your eyes down on your clipboard. Hushed scribbles echo in the room. "Is that what you told, Dr. Briar? Or Dr. McCormick? Stiles doesn't seem to remember you at all—"
"They deemed me fit to go back to work, which you don't seem to realize." Aaron cuts you off. He doesn't notice the slight lilt of his voice. How a vein peeked on his forehead as he furrows his brows.
You have an effect on him, and Aaron's in strong denial.
"How?" You lean a bit, propping against your lap. It's the first time he's ever let himself tear out of his 'I don't break' shell. You consider it a crumb of a breakthrough and a laughable stain on your pride.
Challenging his stability—you raise your brows—makes him tick.
A faux frown draws on your face—patronizing, "Did you play a staring contest, and they lost against you?" You notice the little twitch of his eye masked as a blink.
It's a little unprofessional to provoke your patient, but you do, anyway.
This one's been particularly adamant about manipulating you into permitting him back to work like you were born yesterday. You think it hilarious how smug he's been for the past six sessions. It is as if you didn't spend almost half of your life devoted to the study of behavior. Like you hadn't figured out his plans from the get-go.
Profilers. They catch a criminal out of idea of sorts, and they think they can read everyone. It makes you want to laugh while pointing at him.
Aaron stares at you with his usual stoic expression, intimidating eyes filled with unforeseen horrors, and a straight mouth that's no use in your four walls.
He decides then that he hates you with a passion.
You feel a vibration on your wrist, "Would you look at that? Your time's up, Hotchner." You withdraw, straightening your back as you scribble yet another word Aaron is curious to know.
If he only knew you're not really writing anything new about the nature of his mental state or anything legible at all, you imagine Aaron exploding like a stack of case files blown by harsh wind.
But can he blame you when he's given you nothing to write?
"Agent Hotchner," He corrects with gritted teeth. Aaron's jaw clenches as he pierces his gaze through you. His hands intertwined with each other as if he's preventing himself from clawing at you.
You smile at him, "In this room, you're just Aaron Hotchner. A patient. A case." You know the specific word will piss him off, much less the motherly tone you paired it with.
A tactic. Unlike him, you don't need a team of agents to get a rise out of a culprit. The bare idea of you, a stranger who has access to his life on a piece of paper, is enough a stimuli to get an individual aiming at your neck.
"So, between you and me, I think you should start talking if you ever want to fly to wherever city your team wanders in. The longer you take, the less progress we make, and the less progress you make, the more possible that the bureau will assign a new psychiatrist for you." You say nonchalantly, letting his anger lead him right into your trap.
The words float like small fire specks of dust, both dazzling and dangerous to the eyes. Getting assigned to a new psychiatrist is like getting an easy case directly handed to Aaron. However, it also means he'll have to restart his psych evaluation process, and he knows firsthand how time-consuming that is.
"But, then again, who knows? Maybe the next fella will let you slide like the others did. Or you'll have to attend a series of sessions again for a lengthy psych evaluation. I've got friends too, you know? They might do me a favor and make your life more… difficult." You're bluffing. In no way, shape, or form will you jeopardize his health, even if Aaron's the most stubborn patient you have ever met in your lifetime.
His nose flares as he stands up. You know that he's done and murdered you in his mind at the way he's glaring at you with invisible daggers, but you play it well and act blameless.
Aaron marches out of your office with blazing hatred. You watch as he dulls every vicinity he's stepped into like death taking a stroll. A part of you is apologetic to his colleagues. They'll be having one hell of a day.
Retreating back inside your office, you plop on your chair behind your desk as a heavy sigh escapes your lips.
You stare at Aaron Hotchner's patient chart.
"What am I going to do with you?" You ask rhetorically in the air.
Aaron Hotchner is—for you at least—a special case. A case so intricate you had to be careful how you'd tread the water, wary of its fragile ripples.
When Aaron's chart landed on your desk, you immediately knew that he'd be toilsome. He'd make it his goal to skip the talk and jump back onto another case. The same routine he did with his old therapists and psychologist, anyone that was able to write a note and say he's fine when he's really not—never have been for a long time.
You already had enough patients on your plate, but you just couldn't say no to your favorite Italian patient; you only had one. You're the best bureau-mandated psychiatrist. His words, not yours.
Then, again, you never fail to mentally brag about how easily you read Aaron just from his chart, his image, and the first step he took to get inside your office. You read him like an open toddler's book, a piece of cake.
During the first session, you learn how badly Aaron's last case had affected him. The intonation of his voice. The way he'd shake his hand, your hand. His scorn. His fiddling fingers.
It's amazing how he's managed to divert his anger towards you instead of the man who traumatized him.
Melodic ringing snaps you out of your trance.
Aaron Hotchner might just get what he wants.
Sunday, May 10, 11:51 PM
A sniffle tickles your nose as you lay flat on the carpet floor of your apartment.
Your face stings from tear stains, and you muse how horrid you must look after your makeup runs dry. Your chunky heels were still on. In a minute or two, you expect one of your feet to cramp.
The day has been hostile towards you.
The mind, which used to be an oasis of positive thoughts, has gone draught. Sleep begins to blur your vision, and you don't hesitate to let it take over.
Until a bombarding knock jolts you up.
"I'm here! I'm here! Calm down!" You shout as you swing the door open. A familiar man stands in front of you with a dour face. Your eyebrows narrow tightly, "Mr. Hotchner—"
"What did you write?!" Aaron badgers as he storms inside your apartment like he owns the place. He pivots on the balls of his feet once he's reached your living room, glowering at you with scalding fury. "I was relieved to know that you released me from your care and looked forward to my clearance. So, tell me why a random therapist called me this morning to confirm an appointment I didn't even know I had. What did you write on my report that I have to go through this again for the second time? Is dealing with your sick games not enough? I'm fine. I know I'm fine. I'm straight in the head to go back in the field. I aced the psych evaluation questions. Your sessions are the problem. You're the problem." His ears, face, and neck are burning red. If he's a cartoon character, you imagine he'd be steaming with smoke by now.
Quite surprised; you're standing speechless. You're watching Aaron like he's a crazy old hag yapping about the Revolutionary War and how she hates not having the power to shoot every redcoat for the sake of rage.
You head towards your sofa, taking a seat.
Aaron examines you in confusion, furrowing his brows.
After a moment, you look at him expectantly. "Don't be shy, Mr. Hotchner. By any means—" you nod towards the armchair across you, glancing back and forth between him and the empty space "—continue with your thoughts. You already started. Might as well let it all out."
He only clenches his hands inside his pockets as he bores holes into your head.
What a sad little man.
You scoff in your mind.
You lean against the back of the sofa, tilting your head to meet dagger-like brown eyes aiming at you. "No? Suit yourself, then." You shrug, feeling the soft cushions under your palms.
"Let me remind you that I'm a federal agent, and I can make your life a living hell if I want to." He threatens, glaring at you as if the twitch of his eye is enough to make you combust into thin air.
But all you see is a child on a tantrum, deprived of getting what he wants.
"Answer my question. What. Did. You. Write?" He growls.
Silence coats the two of you.
His heavy breathing fills the deafening air. Your nonchalance fuels his hatred more than ever and the sentiment is beginning to emit from both ends. It takes a lot out of you to think of multiple ways to sprinkle some salty sense onto him without stinging his wounds.
One thing you learned well enough in time is how good Aaron is when pushing someone's buttons. A perk of his prosecutor days and seasoned by his bureau career.
He's just troubled.
He's just in denial of his own pain.
You chant the words in your head—uncertain of its purpose. Detachment ironically detaches from your senses like old velcro.
"You're not the first agent in my office, Mr. Hotchner. And frankly, you should be thanking me for taking you in. Unlike your old therapists, I actually read through your chart and took the time to understand you to the best of my ability. I cared—" Shocked as he is, your eyes subtly widen.
Before you can continue Aaron speaks over you, "I do not care about your pity. What I wanted was for you to do your damn job and clear me back to work. But that's just little to no pay for a shrink, isn't it? You need messed up people to stay messed up so they can continue knocking on your door." A clear hint of a demeaning smirk flashes across his face.
The sheer irreverence makes you dizzy. The calm snaps, banishing kindness and composure out the window. And rage knocks on your door.
"That's the problem. You don't care. You don't care about yourself." Your tone is sharp—stern.
You knew. You knew from the moment his file thudded on your wooden desk. The moment SSA David Rossi charmed his way to get your favor. You know that Aaron Hotchner does what he believes is right. Not because the unit chief title has gotten in his head. No. Not the slightest. But because he only cares about his values and people.
And you're neither.
It's not you to hold grudges. So, you had it down and set before you accepted Rossi's request. You had it tattooed in your mind that no matter how sharp-tongued and insensitive the man before you might be, he's still just a man under the weight of the world's greatest horrors.
You cannot break. You're not allowed to break.
Pieces of you shatter at the realization that some patients under your care inevitably slip away from your fingers. How your promised oath to do no harm did nothing—not enough to stop the monsters that haunt the world. Not enough to stop you, Aaron's psychiatrist, from dumping your own frustration onto him the same way he's currently doing to you.
But you're not Aaron's psychiatrist today. You're not anything today. You're not on the clock. And no one except Aaron—to your demise—will ever witness such an ugly sight. If ever he shuts up about his dilemma, that is.
"I did my job exactly as I should." You declare, licking the bottom of your lips. Damned the Hippocratic Oath. You wonder if the healing gods will forgive you.
You really shouldn't say the words that are about to leave your mouth, but you've been taking whatever hostility he's got for the last two months; the capacity has reached its limit. A little bit of harshness wouldn't hurt, would it?
"When are you going to admit that the reason you can't sleep at night is not because of all the serial killers you claim I prevent you from catching?" You finally stand. You are a few inches shorter, yet you have never felt taller than you do right now.
You grit your teeth as you move closer to Aaron, almost a breath away, tiptoeing. "When will you admit that the mighty SSA Aaron Hotchner, unit chief, doesn't blink, not once, because he's afraid he'd become the very thing he promised to put away." You raise your brows, challenging him.
Aaron's face morphs into bewilderment and perturbation. His brows are sewn shut. His jawline pops out as he grinds his teeth.
Resentment. Fury. Vexation. Chagrin.
All Aaron felt was anger.
Antagonized.
A walking tower of pure acrimony, finger-pointing towards the innocent.
"Don't you dare compare me to those— I'm anything but." He towers over you, losing his words through the stream of lividity flooding all over his senses.
"Do you really believe that?"
Aaron studies your face. It's different. It's raw and maimed. A squeeze of guilt whispers, but he shoves it quickly.
"What did you write?" He asks once more, earning a scoff out of you.
You step back, staring straight into his glare. Crossed arms tight against your chest. Brows rest over your deadpan eyes.
"While SSA Aaron Hotchner is proficient at his skills and rather placid in physically and mentally challenging situations, I strongly recommend further evaluation in psychotherapy as his emotional capacity is at its limits. The stress accumulated from the job itself has given him little to no time to allow himself the indulgence to properly process certain impacts of the stimulus he encounters on the job. Will update after further observation. Is what I wrote… so far."
You pause.
"Aaron Hotchner is an insufferable, pompous idiot who's afraid of nothing but himself. He is incapable of stepping off his pedestal and refuses to cooperate while complaining about the consequences he himself caused. He has been through enormous trauma. It will be torture to try and help him cope properly. I do not want him in my care as he is a danger to his own progress, and I don't want any part of it. Is what I wanted to write."
Silence.
For him to reflect.
For you to breathe.
Aaron's frozen before you. A pale statue bleached under the moon's harsh reality. Words that used to be superficial insecurities float in the wind of truth, forming into a cage he's sentenced for life.
Your fuse still runs—a long time coming from two months of his deliberate disrespect. The silence annoys you, so you break it. "Excuse my hostility. No one's invaded my privacy and barged into my household at such an unreasonable hour before." The impassive smile on your lips can haunt anyone.
Maybe you've gone too far.
Maybe it's evil to say such blunt things to someone fragile.
But Aaron started the countdown. He lit the fuse. Now, you're exploding right before his eyes, reaping what he sowed. And he's forced to eat up all the debris.
His eyes twitch, scanning your face for any sign of bluff, any sign of fallacy. Any sign that he successfully pissed you off and your words were nothing but overwhelmed impulse.
"I—" he closes his mouth, then agape. Any sign. Aaron will take anything besides the forthright expression on your face. He inhales, "I'm sorry." The sound dies before it can roll off his tongue.
It's like watching a bully shrink into the tiniest man who's ever lived.
Okay, maybe you were a little bit brutal.
You gulp as guilt creeps along your veins, wishing that someone out there would just do you both a favor and snipe you out before the embarrassment settles.
Drawing in a gentle breath, you take another step back from Aaron with a delicate voice, "You're not starting a new evaluation, but you're not done either. I transferred you under someone else's care because of personal reasons. My life doesn't revolve around you, Mr. Hotchner. So, if you have nothing else to say, go home." Your eyes drift to the vast selection of objects in your living room to diffuse the growing pity you can't help but harbor.
Only then does Aaron discern his impulsivity. Internally arguing with himself as he allows himself to look at you. One thing he's never done since the moment he met you with screwed brows and unwavering bias. His gaze instantly softens like a thick fog around him finally dissipates. Like he's achieved a clearer vision.
The first thing he notices is the state of your face. The dry mascara that drew faded stripes down your cheeks. Your puffy eyes are now faint pink, but he recalls them being red when he arrived.
Then Aaron brings his attention to your black dress. It's a simple formal, mesh midi dress, but he admits how it elegantly fits you. But he doesn't say it aloud because there's only one reason why you'd wear such an article of depressing clothing.
As if your words and his own realizations aren't enough, he gets a glimpse of the clock on your wall that reads 12:03 AM.
His blood suddenly stops flowing—skin clammy and pale. Aaron's lightheaded from guilt and penitence.
Without another word, you lead him towards the door, swinging it open. The past 24 hours already drained you, and Aaron just about made it fifty times worse. All you wanted was to get a shuteye.
Aaron swallows the shame and makes his way out. Before he leaves, though, he turns to face you once more. Genuine curiosity pinches his brows.
"Why didn't you just clear me out like the others did if I was such a difficult case?" The word tastes bitter in his mouth. What used to be a desired flavor turned rotten on his palette.
He asks with utter softness, leaving you skeptical to respond.
"Same reason why you kept attending my sessions even though you clearly hated it." You slightly close the door, only leaving enough space for the two of you to see each other.
He looks at you like the answer's all over your face but written in some foreign language he's not familiar with. Aaron barely opens his mouth when you answer the question in his mind.
"You needed a place where you can just be."
The door shuts.
Friday, June 19, 11:02 PM
"I didn't know where to go."
You pore at Aaron Hotchner with nothing but a flimsy robe to prevent his imagination from going rampant—and dirty.
It's eleven in the evening. It's been one month since you last saw him. It's been a month since he barged into your apartment like an entitled brat. It's been a month since you let your emotions take over. It's been a month since the two of you revealed parts of yourselves either of you don't dare think of.
A month and no contact.
You didn't wonder; just hoped and prayed that Aaron finally finds it in him to let go of the emotional turmoil that's torturing the soul out of his body.
Sighing, you step aside and let him in, closing the door behind you like it's normal to stop by one's ex-psychiatrist's apartment in the middle of the night without prior notice and, most importantly, without meter to run the minutes he's inconveniencing you.
Aaron walks in, and the heavy humidity of arousal immediately hits him.
Oh.
Well...
If he had something to say, Aaron kept his mouth shut. He is at fault for driving straight to your place like he's your bestest friend. So, he doesn't mention it, ignoring the fact that you're barely clothed.
Besides, after your last interaction with him, Aaron's certain he didn't have any prerogative in how you'd like to spend your Friday evening.
"Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute." Your steps are light behind him—feet nimbly grazing the wooden floor.
He turns to face you but quickly averts his gaze to avoid the glistening sight of your thighs. "Thank you..." He does his best to sound normal, choking in between syllables.
Aaron begins to regret his decision. Though, not enough to leave your place.
You disappear in the corner of the hallway. Allowing Aaron to finally release the breath he didn't know he was holding.
With you out of sight, his mind deliberately wanders...
What were you doing?
Aaron shakes his head vigorously like a worm under a storm of salt. The thought is undiscovered—untouched territory, forbidden to be exact. Should he form such thoughts, he'll do it somewhere else or rather about someone else.
Just as he caters to the sudden dizziness caused by his action, a man, half-dressed, walks past him, cursing under his breath and buttoning his shirt. Aaron's eyes widen a little, keeping his stoic face.
Oh, that's what you were doing.
Ick—as Aaron would like to call your visitor—had brown and curly, unruly hair. He was tall and definitely had a face, which, Aaron assumes, is nothing like the one he envisioned you're attracted to.
Somehow not a pleasant discovery compared to what he attempted to imagine—you, alone.
Ick looks at Aaron with a scoff echoing out of his throat, "Oh, what a surprise! She's a slut." He states smugly.
"Or she just wants someone better." The words spill out without hesitation, fired on sight. Aaron doesn't know where the boldness came from as he leans against the seat with a cocky smirk on his face. Definitely no more perplexed than the uncertainty of anger boiling inside of him. He glares at the man either way.
The man scoffs again before leaving with a couple more insults that Aaron thinks he's lucky to whisper, or your visitor would've left your apartment in an ambulance.
Ick slams the door, shaking the vase on the accent chest by the entrance.
Where did that come from?
He's questionably not as big of a hater as he was before, but Aaron can't determine the motivation that made him act the way he just did with a person who has business with you, which he should have no interest in.
Moments later, you come back, fully clothed, in an oversized hoodie and a pair of wide-leg linen pants. Comfy and a 180 contrast on how you dress at work, plus the garments you had on minutes ago.
You make a beeline to your kitchen, "Water or scotch?" You holler out, opening cabinets with a creek on their hinges.
The question is rhetorical. You place a glass with brown liquid glinting under the warm ambient light on the coffee table in front of Aaron, then plop on the armchair across from him, catering your own glass.
He stares between you and the glass while you kiss yours, never breaking your gaze. You hum in delight, making a popping sound with your lips.
Aaron opens his mouth and then closes it, falling into a cycle like a fish underwater. How should he explain himself? How does one explain why they're bothering their ex-psychiatrist past working hours? After making a scene a month ago? He swallows the thick void in his throat.
"Don't talk, just drink. Sit here for an hour. Then, go home." You say, opening up a book that's been sitting on the table since he arrived.
Aaron feels a surge of relief. He reaches for the drink and lets the smoky taste trail down his throat without hesitation. He wouldn't have guessed you as a fan of scotch—or anything not clear or fruity. This is the first he's seen you without some sort of filter he can't read through, and the observation prints you under a new light.
The silence comforts him. The occasional scrape of paper against paper with each flip of a page provides him reassurance. The company he finds within your presence gives him solace.
You let him be. Asked no questions, reading in peace like he was just any other friend who needed company.
He does as you said. Indulging in the hour of tranquility and stillness. His nerves tame. And he forgets why he went to you in the first place.
Why did he go to you?
Of all people. Of all the friends he brags about. The family he cherishes. His feet dragged—drove him to you.
The onerous unit chief chose to wander to your front door, sipping scotch as he enjoyed the silence and absence of others' guilting worry and constant craving to make him feel better when all he wanted was peace and letting the ache pass in gradual acceptance.
By the end of the hour, you call him a cab with the instructions for him to pick up his car the next day.
Aaron slept effortlessly that night.
Saturday, October 24, 9:24 PM
Aaron expected some sort of rejection or for you to slam the door close, or worse, ignore him as soon as you see his face through the peephole.
One can only tolerate a couple of unannounced visits from an insufferable ex-patient, right? He's surprised you haven't called the cops on him.
He skims your face for any sign of irritation or annoyance as soon as you reveal yourself behind your door, standing next to it to give him way. Aaron saw nothing but impatience.
You knit your brows, slightly tilting your head at his frozen build outside the frame of your door. "Well? Are you stuck or something? Get in, Hotchner—" You turn before you can even finish talking, disappearing down the small entryway.
He turns deaf for a moment. Your voice rings in his ears as if a bomb had just popped the only working drum he had left.
Hotchner.
Agent.
Mister—
Just Hotchner.
One simple change, and the light above your head suddenly looks brighter.
Like he's found something good. Something he can say he knows. Something he can trust(?)
"Don't forget to take your shoes off and shut the door!" You holler from the living room—unfazed.
Aaron flinches, snapping out of his trance. He wonders where you'd gone to, furrowing his brows, and yet enters your apartment with the permission you'd given him. He closes the door, pivoting on the soles of his dress shoes as he tentatively takes them off per your instructions.
He emerges back in your peripheral while you stare at the screen on your laptop, blue-filtered glasses back on. Your fingers hammer on the keys, soft sighs slipping past your lips every once in a while.
You glance at Aaron when his figure stays at the corner of your eye, cupping a coffee mug between your hands. "There's fresh coffee if you'd like. Are you hungry? I don't usually eat dinner, so I have nothing ready to eat, but I can whip something up." You blow over the surface of caffeine, and steam wafts on the tip of your nose.
"No—" He shakes his head, scoffing in confusion, "I'm sorry—"
"Apology accepted," You muffle into the mug.
Aaron's brows connect tighter, and his forehead creases. He looks at you like he's under an illusion, a hypnotic dream he can't quite distinguish.
"Hold on," He hoists his hand up as if to pause a scene in the movie. "I'm very confused. What is going on? Why are you being… casual and nice?"
"You say it like I'm incapable of human decency." Your back makes contact with the cushion of your sofa, pulling your legs close to your chest while one hand holds the handle of your mug. You roll your eyes when Aaron only stares at you, "Are you uncomfortable? Do you want to leave?"
Aaron shakes his head.
"Problem solved, then?" Confusion is still fresh on his blank face. You mentally smack your forehead. "There are patients who lack temporal sense, but turning them away when they clearly need immediate tending to would be a form of negligence on my part. So, feel at home." You theatrically stretch your arms, offering every corner of your space as his own.
"But I'm not your patient anymore. I've been back on duty for weeks." Aaron informs. Although he finds a place for his go bag on your floor.
If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he's about to stay for a sleepover—coming to your apartment late at night.
You wrinkle your nose, "Okay?" You look around as if someone else is in the room with you two. "Is that why you went here? You wanted to brag?"
Three months.
Aaron's been back to his usual routine for the past three months. And it's been four since he drank scotch on the very couch you're comfortably in.
A chuckle.
The sound tickles your ears, filling you with unexpected pride.
"No," Aaron shakes his head as the chuckle resonates through his chest. "I… I don't really know why I came here, if I'm being honest." He swallows air.
You nod, setting your laptop back on your lap. "Like I said, you're free to feel at home. Scotch is in the third cupboard. Coffee's in the pot. I've got some stuff to take care of, so help yourself." Your eyes are already fixed on the screen, hands jumping from one key to the other.
With your permission, Aaron ventures into your kitchen. Neat. Clean. Cozy. He somehow imagines you cooking as a hobby.
He settles for coffee. Asking you from the kitchen island if you'd like a refill—which you took without a thought, hoisting your cup up—and taking out a couple of his files to get a head start on his paperwork. He wasn't allowed to bring them outside the bureau's building, but it didn't matter at the moment.
Your apartment becomes a haven.
Aaron, for the first time in years, feels comfortable to slouch. He had no collection of when and how, but turns out he'd changed into a quarter-zip and one of his pajamas tucked in his go bag through the hours.
The two of you silently took care of your own thing until 1 AM strikes, and a yawn pulls you back into the earth.
You turn your head towards the kitchen to find Aaron scribbling over your kitchen island. He's sipping coffee—a fresh batch he made not long ago.
Stretching, you make your way past him. After placing the mug into the sink, you lean against it, crossing your arms as you stare at him. "Ten."
"What's that?" Aaron halts on his seat, lifting his head to look at you.
"I'm granting you ten visits," You announce.
"And that means?.."
Your face deadpans, and he does well at stifling a smile. "You can come here whenever you want—need, but only for ten free visits. It doesn't matter if it's late, too early, or unreasonable. I'm allowing you to knock on my door whenever you need. Any more than that, you have to attend my sessions in my office, where I get paid."
"What's the catch?" Aaron entwines his eyebrows, straightening his back as he props on the edge of the counter.
"No catch. Just one condition," You shift your weight on your other leg, "Don't come empty-handed. Food, drink, things, a person, anything. Bring something." Your brows hang on your forehead, anticipating any type of response.
Aaron weighs his choices. Calculated every possible outcome and benefit. He meets your eyes again. Index and thumb rubbing the growing stubble on his chin.
"Ten's a good number," He says as he nods.
Wednesday, March 2, 7:31 PM
Eleven months pass by in the blink of an eye.
It's the seventh time Aaron showed up without warning, and by this point in whatever acquaintance you two had, you aren't fazed or surprised anymore.
The fourth time he knocked on your door, he was carrying a hefty price of whiskey. An odd reason for a psychiatrist and a former patient to bond with, but you had no qualms about sipping neat whiskey that night.
At first, he stayed for an hour. Then, an hour turned into three. One time, a case hit too deep, and three became seven, but that only happened once—all you remember was a Wednesday night.
"Are you okay?"
Gentle sighs escape shivering lips. Tears pooling deep inside sockets.
One sharp sniff breaks it all.
You sob under Aaron's worried eyes as your grip on the knob almost snaps it off the door.
His brows twists and he reflexively yanks you by the back of your head into his chest, bringing you out of your apartment and into the complex's hallway.
"What happened?" He carefully inquires while he rests his chin atop your head.
You're a mess in his arms. Uncontrollable whimpers muffled in his soaked chest.
Aaron suggested that you two step inside for more privacy and heat, but he didn't complain when you two stayed frozen in the end of winter evening.
When it stops. The suffocating ache. You lightly push yourself off him, wiping the leftover tears off your cheeks—half of it already dampened his shirt.
Fifty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.
You cried to the point of dehydration.
"Sorry," you mutter, eyes down. "We should go inside if we don't want to catch hypothermia." You sniffle.
"Oh, we don't want that," Aaron attempts to joke, closely observing whether you'd react to it.
You didn't.
He closes the door behind him, following your figure as you practically drag yourself to your unofficial designated spot on the sofa.
"I know I'm the last person you'd want to hear this from, but would you like to talk about it?" He bites his inner cheek.
Nothing.
You only mold yourself into a ball.
Aaron hesitates whether to stay or leave you alone. It's true that you said he's welcome anytime, but you're definitely in no condition to entertain his own problems when you can't even look him in the eye the way you would, no matter how insufferable he is.
But he can't just leave you by yourself either. Nothing is stopping him, but he's not cold-blooded enough.
"It's not easy," Aaron fractures out of his trance at the sound of your small voice. You look at him with a tight-lipped smile. "This job, I mean."
You inhale a sharp breath, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. "I can be hopeful, positive, supportive… Everything to prove that a better life is possible, but at the end of the day, it's not my choice." You wryly chuckle. "It's the patient's. It's your decision to want to feel better. To want to change. To want to live—" You choke, and the tears flow once more.
"It's not about me, but I can't help feeling like a failure." Sobs spill off your lips, gasping for air. "I was supposed to make everything better. I was supposed to heal everyone and save everyone from whatever monster was hurting them. She said she's never felt so much better. She said it's the first time she felt so peaceful for years, Hotchner. She said she was looking forward to our next session. But she just… I didn't—" You gulp—struggling. "I didn't catch it. I didn't catch her lie. And hours later, I get a call from her mother telling me she— she died." Your hands shakily clasp your mouth to push the sobs back, but you fail.
Aaron doesn't know what to say.
But he knows what to feel.
He knows it well.
The guilt. The shame of never living up to your own promise. The pain of losing someone you swore to keep safe.
Then, it hits him like a wrecking ball.
How difficult of a patient was he before?
Has he ever made you cry before?
It's a stretch that you'd ever shed a tear over his stubbornness, but Aaron hopes you never did.
Because he's never seen anyone care so much despite getting all the hate. Despite taking all the blame. You stood your ground and became other people's foundation. You became their comfort.
You became the only thing that gave him serenity.
With the little time he's known you—a total of 43 genuine friendly hours—Aaron can testify in heaven that they had mistakenly dropped you into the earth. And he's never felt blessed to have someone like you. Never felt lucky enough to find someone with who he could feel broken as much as he could but never needed to save face.
So, he's heartbroken for you. And guilty that more than half of the time you'd known him, he made your passion a miserable experience.
And also guilty of developing feelings for you.
Saturday, August 13, 4:16 PM
"I'm not playing favorites, but your tech analyst definitely deserves better than being cooped up in the bureau's building." You say, plopping on the sofa with a soft bounce and a squeak from the coil spring.
Aaron hands you a glass of bourbon while sipping his own. Eyes fixated on the board on your coffee table. "I have no other choice. It's the only way to keep her safe. Unless you're willing to adopt her, I don't want to hear it." He chuckles, connecting his brows at the sight of your winning streak.
You two are playing Scrabble. It was Monopoly twenty minutes ago, but along the lines, you learned how butt-hurt a six-foot and two-inch man can get. Not an enlightening experience. It would have been two stars if you had to rate it.
So, you switched to Scrabble.
And Aaron is losing again.
Boy, were you so entertained.
He just came back from a fairly short case from Los Angeles. The case is not heavy or mentally draining—according to Aaron, but Jack's at a two-day sleepover, and Aaron has no idea how to spend the rest of his day—turning down Derek Morgan's and David Rossi's invitation to grab a drink at O'Keefe's with you in mind.
Aaron leans on the back of his seat. You don't know when your reclining armchair became his designated seat, but you noticed how lax he is in it and didn't question it further.
Months and months of relaxing stillness in your home—only ever full of bizarre surprises and irresistible joy whenever Aaron knocks at your door. With no means of communication or ever seeing each other at either workplace, Aaron's visits are welcomed but never fully anticipated. Thrilling.
Spelling the word 'loser' on the board with triple points, you bite the tissue inside your lower lip. "Maybe you can play Scrabble with her. Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky and win." You grin smugly at him.
Aaron gapes at you with a mixture of disbelief and merriment. He looks down on the flat entertainment, then back to you as he blinks. "You're cheating." He declares, pointing an accusatory finger at you.
A hearty laugh Aaron's never heard before roars out of you, and it's melodic to his ears. The meringue light spills through the forgotten open blinds of your window, painting your face with a dreamy filter. Aaron feels dizzy at the sight.
Your smile is contagious, and out of nowhere, his heart starts to pick up as if he'd caught whatever illness your radiant lips had by only staring at it. The loose hair over your forehead frames your face differently—different good. Like you'd been glowing, and the watts in your core mysteriously increased, so you're as bright as the sun and as warm as its light.
"You're just a sore loser. Suck it up, Hotchner." You shake with mirth, casually running dainty fingers along the curve of your ear.
"Aaron," He blurts too fast, too soon—too late to take back.
With a nonchalant shrug, you rephrase, "Suck. It. Up. Aaron." Much more emphasis and friskiness.
You tease him more about his lack of greatness in board games compared to his undeniable talent in every case the BAU encountered. But Aaron's already dazed by your lips calling his name.
Without either of you realizing it, 4 PM became AM.
Talk about abusing one's privileges. Aaron's moderately good at that. You conclude he's simply a strutting opportunist.
After the longest winning streak you've ever had in your life, you and Aaron decided to take a much-needed break and fell into silent reading—or, in your case, grooming your schedule for the next five months.
Midnight strikes along the grumble of Aaron's stomach. You two were too quiet. It echoed all over your apartment. Both of you fell into an obstreperous fit of laughter for another hour, stopping for a minute in between only to laugh some more as soon as you met each other's eyes.
Now, it's four in the morning. You're busy munching on Chinese takeout from a 24-hour restaurant Aaron called in. He claims he has handsome privilege courtesy of the owner, which you mockingly laughed at, to his dismay.
"I'm still terrified." He blurts.
The case must've been very difficult, then. He lied yesterday. However, at this point in your friendship, you expect him to do so, even if it's obvious.
You'd long given up on coaxing Aaron to talk about the case that brought him to your office. Or any other cases that got him knocking on your door at the most unreasonable hour. You thought that the best you could offer him was the comfort that no matter how beaten up he looked, you'd ask no questions and let him sort his boggled mind until he was ready to talk about it.
Looks like tonight's the moment. It only took more than a year, so it is not a big deal—to either of you, at least.
He looks at you when you remain quiet, silently asking for your permission. You nod, and he continues, "What Peter Lewis did to me was terrorizing. I always wonder whether I'm making the right decision or sending my agents straight to their deaths. I second guess. I'm scared that a part of him is still in my head, driving me to make a fatal mistake." Aaron starts playing with his food, poking an orange chicken with his chopsticks.
The memory brings a tangy taste to his tongue, and Aaron can't help but cringe. It's the first time he's ever talked about Peter Lewis. Granted, Aaron spoke about the event numerous times but never about how it made him feel. Never how it broke him.
Is it weird to say you're a little proud of Aaron?
Of course, you don't tell him that. Not out loud. You know he knows you're proud of him. And that's enough said.
With a few audible chews—caused by a carrot bit stuck between your teeth—that somehow doesn't piss Aaron off, you swallow the food and draw your lips into a thin line. You place the chopsticks on the side, wiping the rim of your mouth.
You know he's watching you. Anticipatingly waiting for a response for anything other than the silence he's accustomed to.
"Breathe," You gently instruct, clear enough for him to hear but not too loud for Aaron to jump in shock.
And he does.
His shoulder blades rise and fall into a soft rhythm. Aaron was holding his breath, and you knew. Of course, you knew.
"Do you know the purpose of defense mechanisms?" You quiz him, earning a nod from Aaron, and yet no following answer. "You were already mad at me even before we met. And for what? Nothing concrete, I'm sure."
Aaron was about to object, but you raised your hand to stop him, "I'm not trying to attack you. All I'm saying is that rather than being in denial, you displaced your frustration on someone else less threatening—me."
Silence.
"I'm sorry—"
"I'm not done, shush!" You close your fist to mute him, cutting him off.
Aaron subtly rolls his eyes. He started doing so on his fifth visit when Aaron brought Jack and a few video games.
He told you that Jack's heard about your interest in a couple of games and wanted to play with you, but you know damn well Aaron bought the game for himself. Nonetheless, you entertained them by teaming up with Jack and obliterating Aaron. He vowed never to play against you ever again, at least not to your face.
"I would never know the pain and suffering that you went through. And somehow, even with that fact, a part of your life was in the palm of my hand. You had no control, but I did. So, instead of understanding the why, you hated the wrong who. And it's okay."
You take a sip from your straw, and a bubbly sensation fills you. Your tongue glides over your lips as you lean against the counter. "In short, for a man who's been through a lot, you know how to cope." A shrug ends your sentence, grabbing another bite of chow mein on your plate.
"Yeah, right," Aaron scoffs. The sincerity in your voice sparks something in him. It's giddy and tempting. But he can't possibly show the smile that's itching to spread his lips.
But his nonchalance may have triggered something in you because Aaron doesn't expect your next move. His neck felt like a snapped glow stick after you manually turned his head to face you—grabbing him by the space between his neck and chin. Aaron widens his eyes in the process.
"Listen here, you stubborn poopy head." You start, forehead creasing.
Aaron badly wanted to poke fun at your poor, intimidating skills, but he realized you didn't need any pointers just by the glare in your eyes.
"Peter Lewis got to your head, but that doesn't mean you were weak to let him. Yes, you fought through the influence of the drug heroically. Yes, you saved your agents and, most importantly, yourself. But it's still okay to be scared. It's okay that you feel broken. Who says broken things aren't great?"
It might be the sleep deprivation that's hitting Aaron, but he's very much enjoying your little fuse. How your words meant nothing like how you sound.
"That silver watch of yours—" you glance at his wrist "—has been broken for years, but I bet if you pawn it, it'll be more valuable than me. Antiques are expensive because they have unique histories. They survived beaten up, scratched, damaged, but still as beautiful as ever."
You're rambling, explaining more than you need to. Felt obligated to drill in his mind that despite the bad things, Aaron remains good. You're uncertain—clueless—as to why you felt the need to prove his praiseworthy, almost as if you're trying to convince yourself rather than him.
"From my observation, you're a sharper profiler despite all the things you went through. A part of you suffered and died in that house and many houses before. Of course, you'll be broken. You're a human being, Aaron. Act like one for Pete's sake!"
"I don't know whether you're being nice or mean." He chuckles with a mischievous grin, marveling at the way your eyes narrow as you look at him.
"I liked you better when you didn't talk." You tut, rolling your eyes.
For a moment, your senses heighten, and the simple brush of his hand against the skin over your wrist, as he takes your hold off him, sends billions of electricity throughout your body.
Aaron smiles—genuinely. "Thank you," He says softly, clearing his throat. His hand is still tight around your wrist. "You simply could've slammed the door the first time I knocked, but you always let me in. I appreciate you tolerating me."
You laugh, retracting your hands off his skin before you melt in his grasp. "I did not let you in the first time. You barged in like I'm some fugitive." You fix your posture on the stool beneath you, looking away.
His chuckle wakes the butterflies in your stomach, and you shove them right back down by stuffing your mouth with food.
Your eyes catch a glimpse of the time, "Y-you better go home and change before your son wonders why his father smells like Chinese food for Sunday brunch. Jack's a big fan of good 'ole syrupy pancakes, there's a good one by the bureau's building. Better hurry up and pick him up." It's amazing how much you almost choked and stuttered as you spoke, hoping that Aaron wouldn't question the way your demeanor changed.
Aaron takes one last bite before towering next to you, "Let me clean up. It's the least I can do for imposing half of your weekend." He insists, swiping the styrofoam off your hands.
"Glad you got manners," You nod approvingly, earning another chuckle from him, making sure you gave him enough space to move around without brushing any part of your body, or you wouldn't know what the brewing feeling in your chest would make you do.
You mindlessly peer at Aaron's broad shoulders and dark hair that looks so soft you wonder if it'll melt with your touch. You blink, catching yourself mid-swoon.
After a few minutes, Aaron bids you goodbye and you wish him well, asking to relay a short message to Jack.
"I think you're only nice to me because of Jack," He jokes, pivoting on the heel of his shoes to get one last glimpse of you.
You give him a tight smile, raising your brows as you shrug.
One visit left.
Thursday, May 5, 12:51 PM
The news said Mr. Scratch escaped prison. Peter Lewis is out and about, no doubt, planning serious harm against Aaron. You turn the TV off. The image shrinks into a small diamond spark 'til it leaves a dark screen.
Ninety-eight beats per minute are your normal, but you surmise it's about a hundred and twelve at the moment as your mind anxiously ruminates your not-so-favorite-unofficial patient's well-being.
You glance at your phone, debating whether to give him a call, but even if you gain the guts to do so, you don't have his number. Who knew that refusing personal contacts would backfire? Aaron can knock anytime, you said. It doesn't matter whether he texts or calls before, you said.
Now, you have no means of contacting him, and you refuse to resort to his ways—going through his file like he went through yours.
It's a shitty feeling.
You keep your fingers as far away from your mouth as possible, afraid you'll bite your nails to its quick. If Aaron was with you, he'd say something annoyingly witty about how your anxiety's too easy to read, and you'd be bantering back a remark about his tells that not many notice but sure slightly pisses him off that you know him like the back of your hand.
Eyes dart in the direction of your entryway, waiting for any distinctive sound only Aaron makes whenever he closes the door like a teenager coming home past curfew.
"This is driving me crazy!" You ruffle your own hair, rubbing your face in frustration.
Tempted to wait outside your door for Aaron to arrive, in need of a company. A once-in-a-lifetime bone-crushing hug, given by yours truly. Or open up the 1997 Old Forester bourbon on top of your shelf that Aaron's been eyeing for a year.
You need to know if he's okay. You need to see that he's okay. Physically, mentally, and emotionally okay.
No one ever knocked.
Friday, November 18, 2:33 PM
"Aren't you curious?"
You look at Rossi, "About?" Your eyebrows pinch together. You backtrack the entire session in your mind, trying to remember if there is anything you are supposed to be curious about.
There's none.
Rossi turns to face you, a hand emerging out of his pocket. "You're not curious where he's been? I've known him for years, and I've never been more curious about his whereabouts 'til now." The hand waves around as each syllable flows, and slices the air every emphasis he makes like a conductor of his emotions.
He usually talks with his hand whenever he's emotionally troubled, attempting to make a point to himself, justifying that his feelings are reasonable.
David Rossi has been your patient for years; you can write any and everything about him into a best-selling book.
"You said it yourself, Dave," You shrugged with your arms. "You've known him for years. He and I saw each other a couple of times during our physician-patient interaction. Any interaction we had after is just the two of us drowning in silence."
Aaron never knocked that day.
He hasn't redeemed his last visit for the past five months. While it isn't the longest time he's never stopped by, you're bitter about it.
You couldn't sleep for a week after Peter Lewis escaped prison. You were afraid that Aaron's name would flash across any type of screen or mark a headline on every article and newspaper. You had to take anxiety medication to stop your body from trembling whenever the thought of him crossed your mind.
It was hell.
The utter hopelessness and lack of courage teared you apart. The strangeness. The nonexistence. You don't reckon a conversation with Aaron that involves you and him. Only you or him or whatever depressing topic comes up. You're not even sure if you had actual conversations. Always wallowing in silence while sipping either scotch or coffee.
But you two had a deal. No catch. Not even feelings. Developing one for Aaron did not cross your mind when you granted him the power to bother you at any running time.
All of it is to say you wish you had known Aaron's last visit was, in fact, the last.
Rossi squints, "You're telling me the quietness you shared didn't matter? That his company didn't benefit you the same way it did for him?" He stands tall, pleased with his words.
It did.
Of course, it did.
And you loved every second of it.
Even if you realize it too late.
But you won't say that to Rossi. Or to anyone ever.
A sigh drops your shoulders. You give him a blank stare, letting his question hover for a moment. "What do you want me to say?" You continue packing up your things on your desk, breaking eye contact.
If you knew David Rossi like the back of your hand, David Rossi knew you like every family of the victims he managed to save.
Worried.
Heartbroken.
Hurt.
Aaron never told Rossi about any interactions with you after he was released from your care. It's information Rossi's only ever heard a confirmation from you. But he knew it from the moment Aaron came to work after his first session with you and couldn't seem to get the specific idea of you out of his head.
"We're doing everything we can to catch Peter Lewis. Aaron will be back, I promise."
Pause.
You fight your every single sense to remain composed. Hearing Aaron's name instantly made you crumble. The sound of it hitting your chest with such force you had to bite the tissue behind your closed lip. You badly wanted—needed to cry and throw a tantrum.
The inner ends of your brows lift up as you nod, "Good for you... and for him. I'll see you in two weeks, Dave." You dismiss, walking around your desk to push him out of your office.
"Wait, wait! Just listen!" You retract your hands off his back and let him face you. "He's okay. He and Jack are safe somewhere I, unfortunately, don't know." He tries to meet your gaze—successful. "But! But that's a good thing. Not knowing where he is while in protective custody is good. Safe. I just thought you'd want to know."
You nod, "Certainly a good information, Dave. But not really necessary." Your tongue subtly swipes the bottom of your lips. "Aa—Agent Hotchner was a patient. Anything outside of that is not my business." Liar.
Rossi tucks his mouth into a thin line, nodding. "See you in two weeks, kid."
Tuesday, March 27, 6:12 PM
It's a nice Spring.
Your hair dances like the breeze is music as you trudge back to your apartment against the rush hour sidewalk traffic.
A year and a half.
You moved to a different place since then.
Moved on— from something that never existed, but really, your old complex just ran out of business.
You couldn't possibly move on, even if you wanted to.
"Good evening, Mrs. Willows," You smile at the old lady as she steps on the base of the stairs.
Mrs. Willows was old, close to ninety. And she's the best landlady you've ever met.
She smiles back, "Oh, just in time!" She waddles towards you, scraping the soles of her flats against the creaky floorboards.
"Did you need anything, Mrs—"
The old lady doesn't let you finish when she yanks you back up the stairs. Confusion fills you, but if you are being honest, you're more amazed by her speed. You didn't know it was possible for her to have that much energy.
"There's this handsome boy knocking at your door earlier. So, I let him in."
You dig your feet on one of the steps, halting her. "Mrs. Willows, you let a stranger in my house?" Your brows knit.
She looks at you, "Well, I figured it's one of your patients." She shrugs.
"I wasn't expecting any home visit today." You announce, peeking at the top of the stairs. "And I would've been home if there was…"
You excuse yourself, cautiously walking towards your door. The floor plan is different from your old apartment. But everything still felt the same.
The anxiety of a random stranger going through your place left you rushing to the living room. You don't exactly let any random patient inside your home. It's usually the profilers that seem to have a liking to you that lucked the privilege to visit your home at any given time.
"I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to set an appointment at the clinic—" you abruptly stop, blinking.
Aaron Hotchner.
He's sat on the armchair, only lifting his gaze after he'd closed the book you were reading before you decided to step out to run some errands.
He is wearing a navy blue quarter zip sweater and a white shirt, peeking from under. It's paired with loose-fitting gray casual pants. Like his closet had an upset stomach and threw up all over him.
The bags under his eyes are almost invisible. It used to be a tint of greenish purple. A proof of his late nights and stressful days. He's caught up with sleep for a while now.
His hair, a little longer than you're accustomed to, somehow made him look young and boyish. Probably why Mrs. Willows referred to him as a boy.
It's quite an image. Not one you'd expect to see upon opening your front door, but you mentally admit liking it.
He looks refreshing and well-rested.
"I heard you started your own practice?" He didn't mean to form it as a question, tongue-tied by nervousness. He flashes an awkward, subtle smile, dipping his hands into his pockets.
Your lashes flutter like butterflies gliding through the soft wind of Spring, except you're struggling to go against the breeze, winded by the city pollution.
"H-have you eaten?" You ask, snapping out of your trance as you head to the kitchen. Great. A question for a question. You're as nervous as he is, and you don't feel the need to hide it, though you aren't inclined to admit it.
He chuckles, and it still makes you melt after a year of trying to remember how it sounds, "That's your first question? Not 'What are you doing here?' or 'How did you find me?'" He follows you to the kitchen, it's a lot smaller than the one at your old place but you had a dinner table now, which still feels like an upgrade.
You turn and face him, leaning against the counter, "I'll just charge the entire team on their next visit. But I have a feeling David's the culprit." You blurt, earning raised brows from Aaron. "Oh? They didn't tell you? Your team unofficially designated me as their psychiatrist. I guess they also kept an important information from you." You twist on your feet to focus on the produce you carefully picked in hopes someone would join you for dinner.
But you didn't expect Aaron to be that person.
"Are you mad at me?"
"No!" You almost stumble as you spin back to face him. "I'm in no position to be mad. If a patient doesn't need my services, then I have no say." You lick the lower of your lip, biting it as soon as your tongue glides past. Heat pooling in the back of your eyes.
Aaron steps closer, "I didn't mean to—"
"I told you I'm not mad."
"You're really going to lie to an FBI profiler?"
"Former," You correct him, sniffing as you fight the tears from rolling down your cheeks. Your head's tilted up, almost facing the ceiling. Anger and frustration hammer into your chest.
He rolls his eyes, trying to catch yours. "Former, right." He parrots with a little more sarcasm. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you anything... I needed to make sure Jack's safe." He softly speaks, making sure you understand every syllable.
It's your turn to roll your eyes, blinking and letting a tear fall in the process. "You don't have to apologize for protecting your son. I'm not evil, Hotchner. I'll do the same thing for my family. I'm completely indifferent about your disappearance, and i-it's allergy season. I'm fine." You wipe the tear stain off your face.
"I missed hearing you say my name like it's a foul word." Aaron smiles so brightly you thought you were dead and some divine was just using his image to guide you across.
"Seriously? That's what you took from it?" You shake your head, turning your back to him once more. "I feel bad for Jack now that you're a full-time father."
Aaron laughs, and by definition. "Oh, he's had enough of me." His eyebrows jump on his forehead, drifting his eyes aside as if he's replaying every instance Jack's complained to him.
You laugh, too. A full hearty laugh that seems to source from the casualty between the two of you despite the irritation you felt.
It's still the same. The ease. The effortless flow and connection despite anxious nerves. It felt like talking to an old friend you've known longer than you are alive.
You nibble on your lips, "So? You're off protective custody, or do I have to call you Brad?" You quiz airily, back still facing him to hide any form of amusement that's forming on your facial features.
"Brad?" He scoffs, crossing his arms and knitting his brows. He sounds about offended as if you'd disrespected his entire bloodline.
"Yeah, you look like a Brad to me." You remember a story from the women in the BAU. One that they happily shared one evening at Rossi's before they all begged to be added to your list of patients once you start your private practice.
Aaron lets out another scoff. "No, I'm just Aaron. Aaron to everyone. Aaron to you." He grumbles something under his breath that you don't hear, but a clear indication of his disapproval regarding the name.
You stifle a giggle, "Well, just Aaron. Consider yourself lucky that I got a free slot. I would've been with a patient by now." You state.
"Am I really just a patient to you?" Aaron inquires from behind you. He attentively observes for any subtle movement or expression in your voice. There's a longing look in his eyes that you aren't aware of. A frown drops his lips as he adds, "I at least thought we were friends."
"Mm," You hum a chuckle, "More like my stalker. But sure, we'll go with yours... friends—"
He spins you by the waist, and you're not sure if your initial thought of dreaming is ending anytime soon as your body tenses under his hold.
A small yelp squeaks out of you, hands flying behind you on the counter as if to hold yourself up from your wobbly feet. And you're certain both of you can hear the loud pulse on your carotid.
"Hotchner, what the hell?!" You chastise, pulling back, but to no avail. Caged and pinned by his strength, and you're too baffled to react accordingly.
"I'd like to redeem my tenth visit." Aaron smiles from ear to ear. You never thought it possible for a stern-faced man to ever grin this wide. To ever be this bright and bubbly.
Aaron keeps the two of you that way for a few minutes. His face is a few inches from yours. You can hear him calculating in his head.
Only the busy street outside and one of your neighbor's loud TV fills the silence.
"Your pupils are dilated." Aaron grins mischievously. He further scans your face, the same way he did when he used to be your patient, reading you like it's his job to know every micro-movement and expression you make.
Your eyes widen, "Stop—" Your voice barely comes out, breath hitching halfway through your throat. "—profiling me." The space between you and his body feels suffocatingly good. It's making you dizzy.
"Usually, you're composed, but you can barely look me in the eyes." His hands remain on your hips, and every twitch of it makes you stiff like a statue. "Am I making you nervous?" He quips wittily.
Like a switch, your heart rate steadies, and his image becomes clear.
It's Aaron Hotchner.
Just Aaron, he said.
Warmth surges through your veins. You stare at the grin on his face.
Your head tilts, and you blink excruciatingly slow. "Are you trying to ask me out, Hotchner?" You mirror the trail of his eyes like a map.
Aaron beams like he'd won the lottery. Sending you impulsive thoughts such as kissing the smile off his face.
It's tempting and nauseating.
And if he doesn't stop, you just might.
"Ten."
Your eyebrows merge in confusion, "What?"
"Ten dates," He breathes as he looks you in the eye. "Let me take you out on ten dates. Then you can decide if I'm just one of your many stubborn patients or if I can be more. Let me make it up to you in ten dates. Please." He implores, hopeful, or rather knowing that you'd say yes.
And he'd be right.
All you want at that moment is to say yes.
But teasing him won't hurt, at least not you.
"And what's in it for me?" You try your best not to smile as you taunt him.
Aaron rolls his eyes, but his grin tugs the corner of his lips up. "You get unlimited access to me?"
"Wow, that's... very compelling." And you burst out laughing, folding on your stomach as you lean against his chest. You inhale, "Sorry, I expected better negotiation. Uh, any catch?" You say between chuckles.
He shakes his head, "Just one condition," He's chuckling now, too. Not immune from your contagious giggles. "I spend most of my days with you. Even if it's just sitting in silence. I want it to be with you." He lets go of one of your hips and tucks a strand behind your ear.
The giggles die down a bit, gazing at him with reverie. You nod after a few seconds, squeezing his arms. You lift yourself, tiptoeing, closing the gap.
You leave a quick, soft peck on his lips, smiling as you get back on your feet.
Aaron smiles, and you're as ecstatic as he is.
Another nod fills your chest with utter joy as you breathe in euphoria.
"Ten's a good number."
#aaron hotchner#criminal minds#ssa aaron hotchner#fem!reader#aaron hotchner one shot#aaron hotchner fic#aaron hotchner criminal minds#aaron hotch fic#aaron hotch x reader#aaron hotch x you#aaron hotch hotchner#aaron hotchner angst#aaron hotchner fluff#hotch#cm#criminalminds#bau team
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L.H. | Like a Moth to a Flame
Masterlist | Buy me a coffee
Summary: Logan Howlett is a dangerous man; at least, that's what he wants you to think when he first meets you during your shift at Lucky's. However, he only seems to prove the opposite as he becomes a more constant presence in your life. After learning his true identity in a dark back alley, he's certain you want nothing to do with him. But against your better judgment, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
Pairing: Lumberjack!Logan Howlett x Bartender!Reader
Warnings: canon typical violence, men being creepy in an alley, canon divergent (because fuck the timelines), mutual pining, miscommunication
Word Count: 3.4K
Author’s Note: I am overwhelmed with the love and support for my first Logan fic. This man has taken over my ever waking thought. I wrote this while picturing lumberjack Logan from X-Men Origins: Wolverine and listening to Hozier (this man is so "Too Sweet" and "NFWMB" coded). Super proud of how this turned out, hope you enjoy it.
You’re used to a rough-and-tumble, rough-around-the-edges kind of crowd — blue-collar workers, committed hunters, down-on-their-luck drifters. Maybe that’s why you don’t think twice when he enters the tiny dive bar. He’s clad in a deep maroon flannel tucked into a tattered pair of jeans. You don’t even look in his direction as he sidles into a seat at the end of the bar. He looks like any other patron you’ve met while bartending at Lucky’s.
“Hey there, what can I get for you?”
He leans forward, forearms flexing against the counter. A shiver runs down your spine as your eyes linger on the deep scars etched in between his knuckles before traveling up his broad frame. It’s as if your fight or flight response kicks in, and suddenly, a voice in your head tells you to run. But as you finally meet his hazel eyes, you freeze. There’s a hollowness in how he looks at you — a profound sadness that makes your heart ache for the man sitting before you.
“Whiskey, neat.”
You simply nod at his request before turning to pour him a glass. As you place the drink before him, a flash of metal across his chest grabs your attention. The man follows your gaze, and his features harden at the realization of what caught your interest. He quickly shoves the dog tags hanging loosely around his neck under his shirt — out of your line of sight. Your cheeks instantly flush, humiliation washing over your body. You begin to apologize, but the man downs his glass of whiskey and slaps some cash on the table.
“Thanks for the drink.”
With that, he grabs his leather jacket off the back of his chair and stalks out of the bar. You watch him leave in stunned silence. You hadn’t meant to invade his privacy in any way. You’re used to the anonymity that some men around here need to survive — hell, you don’t even know the names of some of your regulars. Before you can get swallowed up by embarrassment, one of your other patrons calls for another drink. Shaking off your previous interaction, you return your attention to your job.
After work, you couldn’t stop thinking about the encounter. With a deep sigh, you pour yourself a drink and collapse into your couch. You don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about it. In reality, you probably won’t ever see the man again, which should relieve you; however, the thought only disappoints you.
To your surprise, he walks back into the bar three days later during your shift. You try to ignore his presence as he moves to sit at the same spot at the end of the bar. To make amends, you pour a glass of whiskey and set it in front of him.
“This one’s on the house.”
The man looks up, giving you a confused expression. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off.
“Don’t. It’s just an apology for the other night.”
He gives you a nod before grabbing the glass and taking a long drink. You turn away from him, but his deep voice cuts through the rowdy Friday night crowd before you can take a step.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. I still expect a tip, though.”
A chuckle reverberates in his chest. The sound of it causes your face to light up. The man’s lips pull up into a small, gentle smile. You force yourself to return to work before you get further drawn into him. Unlike the other night, he sits at the bar for the rest of your shift, ordering several glasses of whiskey and keeping his eyes trained on the television above your head.
“It’s the end of my shift. Ready to close out with me?”
Logan nods, downing the rest of his whiskey and then placing several bills on the counter.
“Keep the change.”
“Wow, thank you…”
You trail off, realizing you still haven’t learned his name. Looking down at the money he placed before you, you notice he’s tipped you at least fifty percent. You don’t want to invade his privacy again, but a part of you wishes you knew his name so that you could thank him properly.
“Logan.”
“Thank you, Logan.”
He stands up from his seat before clearing his throat awkwardly.
“You working tomorrow?”
You bite your lip at his words, trying to stop yourself from grinning like an idiot. Trying to ground yourself back into reality, you remind yourself that you don’t fraternize with your clientele. While working at Lucky’s, you’ve learned one thing about the men who frequent the establishment — they’re bad news. But then you look back up at him. He’s got to be over six feet tall; his simple white t-shirt accentuates just how broad his body is, and yet this sturdy, well-built man looks almost nervous standing before you. Your body responds before your brain can catch up.
“My shift starts at 6:00.”
Logan slides his leather jacket on, and a slight smirk spreads across his features. He’s a devastatingly handsome man, and you’re no better than a moth to a flame — irresistibly attracted to that which you know will hurt you.
“See you then.”
And you do see him during your shift the next day, and your shift after that, and the one after that. Logan’s there in his seat at the end of the bar during all of your shifts, ordering whiskeys and making polite conversation until he’s become a constant presence in your life.
Today is no different. You have a glass of whiskey ready for Logan when he enters the bar. His schedule with the town’s logging company is pretty consistent. Logan accepts the glass graciously as you slide it in front of him.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
You ignore how nonchalantly the term of endearment slips past his lips — and how your heart lurches as he says it. Instead, you focus on his features, which somehow look more exhausted than usual today. His work is hard, long, and labor-intensive; however, throughout your conversations with the hardened lumberjack, you’ve also learned that Logan’s sleep schedule is abysmal. He’s a grown man; he can decide what he wants to do — or doesn’t want to do — but a part of you can’t help but want to care for him.
“You gotta get some sleep, Logan.”
He scoffs in response, looking up at you with tired eyes. You know he isn’t angry at your suggestion, but the pointed look he gives you is a warning. He’s opened up quite a bit throughout his frequent visits to the bar, but there is still an air of mystery about the man sitting before you. You know better than to push him, so you raise your hands defeatedly.
“All I’m saying is that those dark circles do nothing for that handsome face.”
A warm laugh reverberates in Logan’s chest. He takes a long drink from his glass before responding, downing a considerable amount of whiskey with absolutely no reaction.
“You think I’m handsome?”
You roll your eyes at the man, trying to keep your cool. Logan is an enigma to you — simultaneously socially awkward and overly flirtatious. It’s as if he has two personalities — two completely different sides of himself — fighting for dominance at all times. And yet, it works because he’s catastrophically charming.
“Shut up.”
A smug smirk spreads across Logan’s face, and you decide it’s getting a little too stuffy in the small dive bar. You grab the pack of cigarettes you keep stashed under the bar and turn back to Logan. He already knows what you’re about to ask. It’s become routine for Logan to join you during your fifteen-minute break, sharing cigarettes in the secluded alley behind the bar.
“I’m going for a smoke. You coming?”
“Let me finish my drink. I’ll be right out.”
You nod at him before moving towards the back door. As you step out into the alley, you’re met with a much-appreciated, cool breeze. It causes a shiver to run down your spine as your body adjusts to the sudden difference in temperature. After placing a cigarette between your lips, you pull a small silver lighter out of your back pocket. You slide your thumb over the engraving on the side: L.H. Logan had given you the lighter after yours burnt out about a month ago. You tried to give it back, but he insisted you keep it. You bring the lighter up to your face, but a voice surprises you before you can light your cigarette.
“Those things’ll kill you, sweetheart.”
A man you’ve never seen before emerges from the darkness and approaches you with an uncomfortable air of familiarity. The way this man says Logan’s term of endearment makes you sick to your stomach. It sounds sweet coming from Logan’s lips — grounded in a deep respect and laced with affection.
You were simply going to ignore him, knowing Logan’s presence would deter him in a matter of minutes; however, your body bristles as two more figures join him from the darkness of the alley. Your body moves on its own accord, seeking the comfort and safety of the bar — of Logan. But the man closest to you grabs your arm before you can step out of their reach.
“Where you going, sweetheart? The party’s out here.”
His voice is sickly sweet and dripping with venom — a stark contrast to Logan’s low, warm timbre. The two men behind him laugh at his words. Your fight or flight response kicks in, and you struggle against the man’s hold as you’re hit with the gravity of your situation.
“Just let me go.”
Your voice is stern as you rip your arm away from the man’s grip. You rush to get away, but he’s quicker. He places both hands on the brick wall behind you, caging you in. Now you’re panicking. A threatening growl interrupts the encounter before the man in front of you can say anything else, and Logan emerges from the darkness. His features are menacing in the dim light of the alley, but you’re met with a sense of relief rather than fear.
“You heard her. Let her go.”
The tiny hairs on the back of your neck raise at the sound of his voice; however, the stranger in front of you doesn’t seem to find him as frightening. Instead of backing down, the man lets out a dry, unamused laugh at Logan’s words.
“We’re just having some fun here.”
Bile rises in your throat at the insinuation in his tone. Logan seems equally displeased by his response as another animalistic growl rips through his body. He takes an intimidating step forward before speaking.
“You don’t want to do this, bub.”
It’s almost as if he’s pleading with them — begging them to stop so that he doesn’t have to act first. Your eyes find those dog tags hanging around his neck again. Your heart breaks as you realize Logan doesn’t want to fight, but he will — for you. Based on the look in his eyes, he’ll rip these men apart limb from limb if they lay a hand on you.
“No, buddy, you don’t want to do this. You’re outnumbered — three to one. You don’t stand a chance.”
The man’s tone is amused but impatient. He’s itching for Logan to either leave them be or throw the first punch, but he does neither. Instead, Logan squares his shoulders and extends his arms out at his sides.
“You sure about that?”
Your brow furrows at an unfamiliar sound — a strange, metallic snikt. You’re surprised when the man’s arms fall from either side of your shoulders. You take the opportunity to create distance between yourself and the group of men who are all staring at Logan. Not understanding what caused their sudden hesitation, you also look over at Logan. Your body tenses at the sight of him standing in the middle of the alley with long, metal claws protruding from his fists. He takes another step forward, and the men scatter, running for their lives.
Logan waits a few moments, ensuring that the men are actually gone. Then he lets out a deep sigh as his metal claws retract back into his hands. Your hands meet the cool brick behind you, grounding you in this incredibly unreal moment. You blink, expecting to wake up from whatever dream you’re having right now — but you’re not dreaming.
Logan finally turns to face you, and his features soften. His eyes scan your body, checking you over for injuries. He takes a step toward you but stops as you take a step toward the bar's back door. You can’t seem to look away from his hands — at those deep, pronounced scars between his knuckles. His eyes follow yours, and you’re met with instant regret as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. You finally look up at his face and are anguished at the sight of his hardened features.
You want to tell him a million things. Your body moved on its own accord. You didn’t mean to stare at his scars. You’re just confused. You’re grateful for his help. You’re not afraid of him.
But you don’t mutter a single word. It’s as if you’re frozen in place.
“Alright.”
Your heart almost breaks in two at the pained sound of his voice. Logan meets your eyes one last time, disappointment evident in his gaze. Finally, your body shakes out of its paralysis, but it’s too late — the damage has already been done. You watch helplessly as he begins walking away from you.
“Logan, wait.”
But he doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking until he vanishes into the darkness. Tears begin rolling down your cheeks as you slide down against the brick wall — partly because of what could have happened and partly because of what did happen. And just like the first day you met Logan, you fear you may never see him again.
But once again, you were wrong.
Eight unbearably long days later, Logan enters Lucky’s again. You watch his bated breath as he approaches, hoping he’ll sit at his usual spot at the end of the bar. Instead, Logan places a few bills on the counter before meeting your gaze. You draw in a shaky breath as you look into his hazel eyes — the hollowness is back, and our heart aches as you realize you’re now the reason behind that sadness.
“Didn’t feel right not closing out last time.”
You almost laugh at his words — the free glass of whiskey was the last thing on your mind. He rolls his shoulders back nervously, his muscles flexing under his black t-shirt. You reach out and grab his hand before he can pull it away from the counter. His eyes instantly widen, but the physical contact seems to make him relax ever so slightly.
“Can we talk, please?”
Your hand tightens around his, physically begging him to just stay. Logan nods in silent agreement. You pull your hand away from his and try to push down the sudden disappointment caused by the loss of his touch. You move toward the back door, and Logan follows you into the alley from a safe distance. For a moment, you’re lost in a bout of deja vu as you lean against the brick wall, and Logan stands before you. Your hands nervously find Logan’s lighter in your pocket, looking for something to occupy yourself with. The movement catches Logan’s eyes, and you swear the corners of his lips twitch up into a small smile at the sight of his lighter in your hands.
“I’m sorry.”
The words tumble out of you clumsily. Logan’s brow furrows, and you watch as his head tilts slightly to the side.
“What?”
“I’m so sorry, Logan.”
Logan’s lips pull into a small frown as he considers your apology. He takes a cautious step forward, watching you intently. He’s waiting for you to pull away, but you stand your ground.
“Why are you apologizing, sweetheart?”
You can’t help the small smile that spreads across your face. Hearing him say that name — the word that’s been keeping you up at night — you realize just how much you missed the sound of his voice.
“I made you think I’m afraid of you.”
Logan takes another step forward, testing you. You know what he’s trying to do — he’s giving you an out. Pull away, and he’ll stop, but you lock eyes with the man before you. His movements might be cautious, but his eyes are wild with unspoken emotion.
“Well, are you?”
“No.”
Another step forward. He’s now standing within arm’s length. You could reach out and touch him. God, you want to reach out and touch him. Logan looks down at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. No man has ever looked at you like this, but then again, Logan certainly isn’t like any other man.
“You should be.”
That voice from the first day you met him appears yet again, telling you to run. But you stay put. You don’t need to run from him. You don’t need to fear him. He protected you from those men. He was prepared to fight for you. He revealed his true identity to keep you safe. And once again, you’re like a moth to his flame — gravitating towards him.
“I’m not afraid of you, Logan. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He’s a breath away, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off his body. You wonder if he can hear your heart pounding in your chest as his gaze moves from your eyes to your lips. His hand covers yours, stopping your anxious fidgeting with his lighter. You watch in awe as he takes it from your grasp and places it into your jacket pocket. He moves his hand out of your pocket; his fingers leave a scorching sensation behind in their absence as they slide across your skin until they reach your waist. His other hand comes up and tenderly caresses the side of your face.
“Say it again.”
Your breath hitches at his request, but you do what he asks — hell, you’d do anything for him.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Logan shakes his head. His hand moves to take hold of the other side of your waist. The grip he has on you is secure but gentle.
“No, sweetheart. Not that part.”
Oh. Oh.
You could cry at the realization — at his need to feel wanted and appreciated. You move your hands to either side of his face. He melts into your touch before meeting your eyes again. A part of you wonders if anyone has ever touched Logan like this — if he’s ever known what physical contact feels like outside of a fight.
“I’m not afraid of you, Logan. I trust you.”
And suddenly, Logan is pulling you into him. His lips desperately find yours. Your fingers thread through his hair as his body pushes you into the brick wall. His movements are rooted in a deep hunger — not driven by lust, but in a need to be known and loved and touched. So that’s just what you do. Your hands move through his hair, down his neck, across his chest, over his back. You attempt to touch every bit of Logan to prove that you want this — that you want him.
A low growl reverberates in his chest as he pulls away from your lips. Unlike the night before, this growl isn’t rooted in anger but, instead, the result of a deep desire. His hands move away from your body and find the wall behind you. Your brow furrows at the loss of his touch until you hear a familiar sound on either side of you — a sharp, metallic snikt. He leans down, forehead resting against yours as his short, rapid breaths fan over your face.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t control it sometimes.”
You shake your head at his admission. He did control himself — he purposely removed his hands from your body before his claws extended. He protects you as if it’s just his second nature — something he doesn’t even need to take the time to consider. You run your hands up his chest, feeling the tense muscles under his t-shirt, before gently grabbing his face.
“Hey. Hey.”
You pull away slightly so you can look him in the eye. Your words grab his attention, grounding him.
“You have nothing to apologize for. I trust you.”
His breaths gradually even out, and eventually, you hear his claws retract and feel the familiar warmth of his touch against your skin again. As Logan maintains eye contact, looking at you as if you’re the answer to some unspoken prayer, you begin to think you’ve gotten this all wrong: maybe you’re not the moth, but the flame.
#logan howlett#james logan howlett#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett x you#logan howlett fanfiction#hugh jackman#x men#x men fanfiction#deadpool and wolverine#wolverine#wolverine fanfiction#wolverine x reader#wolverine x deadpool#marvel#marvel fanfiction
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a first class drabble ᰔ jeon jungkook
wc: 1.8k timeline: a month after fc1 requested by: this anon moodboard by: the gorgeous @kooeuphoria
content (18+ mdni): lots of fluff, concerned bf gukkie, yn has a headache and he wants to physically fight it, lots of cuddles n kisses, they almost break up...😔, lil bit of petting, jk has dirty thoughts about his gf(who's surprised not me)
✋: could be read as a standalone, but not recommended! u should def check out the main fic first <3
it was just another typical sunday afternoon, the kind where everything felt a little more relaxed, easygoing.
well, as easygoing as it gets for the elite, with chefs promptly bringing out dish after dish, glasses never staying empty for long, trays of hors d'oeuvres appearing the moment they began to run low. everything moved seamlessly, a quiet display of luxury and indulgence. you know, the usual.
four of south korea’s wealthiest families—the kims, jeons, parks, and (other) kims—had gathered for lunch at the jeon family mansion, standing tall and proud on the border of seoul city.
you sat at the long dining table, surrounded by familiar faces. jungkook’s parents were hosting, naturally, and your family was seated nearby—your mom and dad chatting with jungkook’s father, while taehyung was deep in conversation with seokjin across from you. jimin and minji sat beside them, their parents currently scolding the twins for arguing over the last gruyere and crab palmier. everyone was in good spirits, enjoying the day.
until the pounding in your head got worse. the soft murmur of voices around you felt louder, and the brightness of the room made you wince. you tried to keep up with conversation, nodding along when necessary, but the ache behind your eyes was relentless.
your boyfriend noticed immediately, his brows furrowing as he glanced over. his hand squeezed softly where it rested on your thigh. “baby? are you okay?” he asked quietly, his eyes scanning your face with concern.
you forced a smile. “headache, gukkie. i’m fine.”
but jungkook wasn’t convinced. his gaze flickered over you, worry clearly etched into his pretty features. “is it from the accident? the doctor said there could be late effects. are you dizzy? do you need to lie down?” his voice was soft but urgent, concern only growing behind his big boba eyes.
you sighed, leaning your head on his shoulder as he pulled your chair even closer (if that was possible) by his grip on your bare thigh under your skirt. “no, baby, it’s just a migraine i think. i didn’t sleep well last night, remember?”
but that did nothing to calm him. jungkook was already pulling out his phone, his fingers flying over the screen. “i’m calling a doctor.”
“gukkie—” you started to protest, but the look on his face silenced you.
within thirty minutes, the doctor arrived at the mansion, with minji discreetly guiding him up the two flights of stairs. she was the only one you told about your boyfriend's dramatic precautions, so as not to alert your parents. she reached jungkook's childhood bedroom and ushered the doctor inside.
jungkook hastily jumped off the bed next to you to greet the doctor and explain, in heavy detail, the serious and concerning prognosis that he had come to on his own: a headache.
minji slipped over to you, smiling as she noticed the two large empty glasses of water jungkook had practically forced you to drink. she kissed your forehead, letting you know her family was heading off and that she’d see you back at the penthouse. you nodded, giving her bum a quick pat over her sundress as she slipped out of the room.
jungkook sat back on the bed next to you, his tattooed fingers rubbing over your knuckles, watching as the doctor ran through a quick examination. after a few minutes, the doctor confirmed it was just a migraine, likely caused by lack of sleep.
you tilted your head, giving your boyfriend a pointed look, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. jungkook responded with a relieved pout, his big eyes still full of worry despite the doctor's reassurance.
even after the doctor left—with noticeably heavier pockets than when he arrived—jungkook still looked concerned. he slid down beside you, your head naturally finding its place on his chest. “it’s scary, baby. what if something else comes up?” he murmured, his hands running gente strokes over your ass through your skirt.
"you're so cute," you sighed softly, your fingers lazily tracing circles over his tummy. “i’m fine, gukkie,” you reassured him, pressing a little kiss to his nipple through the fabric of his dress shirt. “just need to rest.”
he nodded softly. “okay, let’s rest.”
jungkook quickly hopped off the bed, moving over to your side to help you sit up for a sec. he rested one hand on your stomach while the other tugged the blanket from underneath you. you giggled softly when his strength almost sent you toppling over.
"god, you're so rough with your patients," you teased, smiling when he cursed under his breath and caught you, mumbling a sheepish apology before pressing a quick kiss to your lips. once the blanket was properly draped over you, he hurried back around to his side of the bed, crawling under the covers and pulling you close to his chest.
you hummed in delight, his familiar scent and the warmth of his big arms wrapped around you doing wonders to ease the ache in your head alresady. his fingers traced soothing circles over your thigh, which rested comfortably across his waist, his lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead.
"gukkie, i've been thinking."
jungkook’s heart slammed against his fucking chest, his lips freezing mid-kiss on your skin.
no. that’s what people say when they’re about to break up with someone, isn't it? why would you want to break up with him? was he really being too overbearing? he was just worried about you! no, no, no—
"baby, calm down, oh my god," you cooed softly when his posture immediately stiffened, your brows furrowing as a laugh left your lips. you could feel his heart racing beneath your cheek, could practically see the silly thoughts running through his head.
you lifted your lips to his jaw, pressing a hundred quick kisses into his skin until you felt his taut muscles start to relax. he still had a little frown when he looked down at you, his eyes scanning your face as you gazed up at him in amusement.
“why did you say it like that?” jungkook huffed—okay, maybe it was a whine—letting you pepper soft kisses over his cheeks. his fingers tightened their grip on your thigh, seeking reassurance.
you chuckled into his skin, pressing one last kiss to the soft spot on his neck before resting your head on his chest again. “you know i’ll always have love for you, right, gukkie?”
“y/n, you’re literally saying the most stereotypical breakup lines ever, and i’m going to lose my shit—”
you snickered, your hand rubbing absentmindedly over his abs. now that lacrosse season had ended, he wasn’t as lean, and god, did you love it. you could sink your teeth into his softer flesh so much easier now... “okay, that one was on purpose,” you admitted through a giggle, looking back up to see him already glancing down at you with narrowed eyes.
jungkook shook his head with a soft huff, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your pout. well, it was supposed to be a quick kiss. but the second he felt your breathy sigh, his grip on your ass tightened slightly, both hands slipping around to pull you a little closer. instinctively, you pried his lips open with your tongue, and soon enough, you were lazily making out in his childhood fucking bedroom.
jungkook wasn’t sure what he did in a past life to deserve this, but all of the wishes he’d made since he first understood what kissing a girl even was, were all coming true.
he sigh ed into your mouth, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, the soft, wet click of your tongues making his heart race harder. your hands slid up to his curls, tugging lightly as you shifted even closer, your body pressing snugly against his.
the moment his hardening cock brushed against you through his trousers, a soft hum of delight escaped your throat, causing a low groan to bubble in his. his hands gripped your ass tighter, pulling you into him, savoring the feeling of your warm, soft body. the kiss slowed a little before you pulled away softly, lips swollen and red as you leaned back into the crook of his neck.
jungkook rested his cheek against your hair, his warm hands running up and down your thighs under the blanket, feeling your breathing slowly even out. even though he was already hard as a fucking rock, the satisfaction of having you resting in his arms, knowing you were finally relaxing and resting off your headache, was orgasmic in its own way.
“baby, before you sleep, please?” jungkook whispered into your hair, his hands slipping up to caress your back gently. he wanted to get one last thing out of you before you drifted off completely.
“yes, love?” you mumbled sleepily, your lips brushing against the skin of his neck. your eyes were fluttered shut, limbs like jelly as his touch soothed every tired muscle in your body.
“what were you thinking about? when you said that earlier?”
“ohh,” you hummed softly, recalling the conversation. “was just gonna say that i want a piercing.”
jungkook’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as he felt his dick twitch in his briefs. you were just gonna say that you wanted a piercing? just? like he wasn’t going to lie here for an hour now, thinking about it?
“where, baby?” he asked quickly, trying to keep his voice steady, even though he could tell you were about to doze off. “sorry, my love, i know you’re about to sleep. just—where do you want it? like another ear piercing?”
“mmm, i dunno for sure,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible into his neck. “maybe belly button… think s’cute. you can pick where if you want, though, babe,” you trailed off, your words growing softer until you lazily added, “—y,” correcting yourself, remembering he didn’t like babe. he liked baby.
jungkook nearly came in his pants.
“baby, i—” he choked, but your breathing had already evened out, your long, slow exhale warm against his neck as you drifted off completely.
you’d let him pick? what the fuck? were you serious?
jungkook laid there, wide-eyed, not even bothering to count the minutes as they slipped by, his mind racing as he mentally traced his hands over every inch of your body, picturing the perfect place for a gem.
oh, he knew where he wanted it—your nipple. nipples. but that was probably a bit too much to start with… still, he’d be more than happy with a belly button piercing. the thought of sinking his teeth into it after you’d come undone on his tongue a few times? god, fuck.
he pictured himself resting his head on your soft belly like he always did after he’d had his face buried between your legs and you needed to catch your breath. except this time, he’d be lazily playing with the piercing while you recuperated, waiting for you to give him the go before he immediately dived back in for more.
at that thought, jungkook finally felt the gentle pull of sleep, slowly dozing off with you safe in his arms, a happy little smile tugging at his lips.
pov you can never decide if you like past or present tense better and your writing has been a fuckfest of both lately
all works perm tag list: @fr0ggieth1nk @apobangpogirlyyy @joonwater (ageless blogs were not added, sorry loves 🥺)
#📁fc.docx#jeon jungkook#jungkook drabble#jungkook fluff#jungkook smut#jungkook angst#jungkook x reader#jungkook fic#jungkook x you#bts#jungkook imagine#jungkook#jungkook bts#jungkook fanfic#fic:fc
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— when the time comes
pairing: old man!logan howlett x gn! reader
word count: no idea but this one isn't very long.
part two is out!
tags: major character death — angst — reader is logan’s sunshine — mention of blood & wounds — logan low-key proposing 5 seconds before he dies — non established relationship
author's note: this has been on my mind since 2 days ago so I had to do it now.. I hope you guys enjoy reading this heartbreak! and yes I wrote this after watching Logan (2017) again. just a bit of an alternative type of ending so I can write abt logan x reader! as always reblogs & likes & conversations are sooo welcome ^_^
god stood me up
and I don't know why
lights are on
but nobody's home
you find him leaning against a tree trunk, a chunk of wood piercing his sides open as blood soaks through his shirt. that isn't the only wound he's sporting but it's the most evident one; the one that'll possibly lead him to his demise.
logan blinks upon noticing you as if he's just seeing things or dreaming. when you crouch down beside him and place your hand on his arm, he realizes exactly just how real you are. “logan?” there are tears in your eyes and he hates that you're crying because of him again. you had been living with him, charles and caliban way before it all turned to shit. and somehow the only ones left standing were laura and you. and the kids that logan had managed to save; he truly had saved so many lives.
there's a silence aside from his heavy breathing before your shaky hands cup his face. the blood flows out of his wound and mouth like a river. in some way you're bleeding too — inside your heart. “hey sunshine.” logan whispers with a soft smile and you feel something tear your chest apart from the inside. “I made you cry again.” you see the way his hand twitches by his side. he wants to touch you but he's old and tired and wounded. there's no energy left in him to move anymore. “the kids are okay, laura is okay— I have the car and..and there's still time— the hospital—” your voice trails off when logan closed his eyes.
“you know what makes me angry, sunshine?” logan asks and you simply stare at him, shaking your head. when he opens his eyes again, they are full of unshed tears. “gonna miss my daughter’s first birthday with me—” logan mutters brokenly and the vision of laura swims beneath his half-opened eyelids. and after laura there is you; smiling. at the beach. you've always wanted to go to the beach with him but he never took you since he was working day and night to take care of everything. of everyone. “and i’m also gonna miss my sunshine.” his eyes fall on you, on your crying face. the tears sliding down your cheeks are plenty and there is so much emotion pooling in those orbs of yours. logan wants to kiss you, tell you it'll be alright. but he can’t even move.
he coughs, some blood spluttering on his white shirt and you flinch. your fingers shake as you slide them through his messy hair, stroking them in the way he’s always loved. “logan, I'm sorry...I— I'm so sorry logan..” you keep chanting and logan feels the frustration in his bones when he tries to move his arms. he can't, he's too weak now, and he's angry with himself that he's unable to comfort you the way he wants. the way he once could but never did. “not you nor the entire world could ever prevent this, sunshine. it was meant to be like this.” he says before coughing again, more blood trickling down his beard.
you crawl by his side, on the dirty ground, and press against his ‘good’ side while leaning your head on his shoulder. you tilt your head back enough for your eyes to reach his exhausted face. logan maintains a smile you haven't seen in forever. in damn years to be precise. “charles spoke to me of other timelines and some shit about— multiverse was it?” he pauses, taking a deep breath. “I don't fucking know. I just wanted him to take the damn pills.” his sentence makes both of you laugh although logan is holding back with that — it'll only cause more physical pain after all. “point is..if it's true then—”
“—we gotta find each other yeah? and laura.” his eyes aren't on you anymore but they're in the sky. it's bluer than ever and the clouds part to show him the sun. logan doesn't look away even if it makes his eyes ache. you stare. “wanna make it right, sunshine.” he tells you as you sniffle by him. his fingers flinch again between your bodies and you slide a single hand down to hold his own, to intertwine your fingers in a gentle mess. “but for now I want to rest.” logan whispers and your grip tightens around his hand. if he had the strength, he'd squeeze back. you knew this.
“you did excellent.” you finally manage to say, a little steadier this time. logan averts his gaze to you as you continue. “you did a good job. you did such a good job.” you repeat with a smile so soft that logan starts yearning for you already. his faint chuckle turns into a rough cough and he takes some time to recover before speaking again.
“maybe after I rest, I'll open my eyes and..” you watch as logan’s eyes begin closing and how the heaving of his chest slows. he's deathly pale by now, the veins underneath his eyes are prominent, but your grip never slackens. you crawl closer until your foreheads touch. logan draws one last breath and you swallow down your cry. “and I'll see my daughter. and my... spouse.” your eyes shoot open wide but logan’s remain fallen shut. your chest heaves up and down intensely but logan’s remains still.
when the time comes, your feet are forcefully dragging you away towards your old car while logan lies beneath the ground.
#logan howlett#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett x you#logan howlett angst#major character death#logan 2017#wolverine#wolverine x reader#wolverine x you#marvel#hugh jackman#hugh jackman x reader#Spotify#old man logan#old man logan x reader#old logan#old!logan howlett
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