#v;DoW | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eowynstwin · 2 months ago

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peristalsis - v

selkie!soap x reader. depression. strangers to "lovers." shower sex. cunnilingus. smut. manipulative soap. oysters as an aphrodisiac. unstable narrator. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

You watch him over an open book.

It’s an old romance, something from the eighties. Classic bodice ripper, billowing sleeves, tight corsets, mullets and heaving bosoms and all. Naturally, it’s set on a pirate ship, the heroine as the unlucky spoils of a merchant ship raid and the hero a lusty captain able to pierce her virgin’s desire for sexual depravity.

It could only have been more pointed at you if it had been set in the North Atlantic—it isn’t—but you glare at Soap’s back anyway.

He must be able to feel it, because he stands straight at the wheel, shoulders thrown back, occasionally flexing.

The freak.

You’d realized the joke he’d been making, once your heartbeat had slowed. Hiding the pelt somewhere obvious enough for you to see it. You live in the age of the internet—you know what it’s supposed to mean.

And you kind of hate him for it. Now, post-coitus, you can’t shove it away into a box—he is the most attractive man you’ve ever encountered. Rugged and handsome, competent at everything you’ve seen him do, seemingly at home wherever he finds himself. Everything makes him smile. Nothing seems to disconcert him.

And a nice big cock he actually knows how to use. Certainly the best lay you’ve ever had.

What every woman traveling solo, you think, longs to encounter on a solo trip across the world, but will never acknowledge looking for. An answer to an unaddressed desire; proof that satisfaction is out there to find, if it’s searched for.

A lover with no conditions. Someone willing to strip your inhibitions away, knowing your protests are only token.

You had not been searching. You’d given up searching.

And now he mocks you—with every satisfied glance he throws over his shoulder.

“Good book?” he asks, all casual and pleased. “S’ one a’my favorites. Tell me when you get to the naval battle.”

You frown. “You haven’t read this.”

He gives a little huff of amusement. “Read all of ‘em, bonnie.”

No, this is where you draw the line. A good cook, a good fuck, and a romance reader? No. No, you absolutely will not take this.

“Sure you have, Johnny,” you grouse, “you read every single stupid book on that shelf. Sure. Hell, you’ve read books that aren’t on that shelf. You’ve read every new release from the last six months, even. Why not.”

He looks at you again over his shoulder, mouth curled. “Aye. Needed ideas, once a’knew you were comin.’”

He says it matter-of-factly, with only a little bit of pride. As if it was a natural step in the process of getting ready for your arrival—renovate the croft. Stock the fridge and pantry. Plan some island excursions.

Study the erotic mind of the average woman to divine how best to seduce her.

Your frown deepens, and you lift the book higher, making it a barrier between you and him. Loser. Couldn’t he just go to the mainland for a few days if he wanted pussy? Not like it would be hard to find, for him.

You resolve to ignore him for the rest of the trip. A petty endeavor, maybe, but it’s the only one you can make.

But six hours is six hours, and you can’t read the whole time. Periodically you have to get up to stretch your legs, and the windows wrapping around the bridge draw your attention to the sea outside.

Johnny drives the trawler at a remove along the coastline, keeping close enough to the islands for easy viewing. The denizens of the Hebrides are out en masse, enjoying the clear weather, joyfully populating the land- and seascape in the absence of human interlopers.

Porpoises, so much smaller than you might have expected, periodically catch the wake of the boat, swimming alongside, playful and curious. Gulls loop in the air above the dunes, fronds of grass fluttering in the breeze. Gannets, stark white, arrow down into the waves, wings folded back pin-straight as they spear their quarry—silvery fish that boil the surface of the water in their frenzy.

Some removed part of you enjoys their pleasure secondhand. The normally-grey ocean is vibrant in the sunlight, crystalline and sparkling and as blue as Johnny’s eyes.

He seems to be in a good mood, too, although that could just be because you let him fuck you. You feel his eyes on you even as you refuse to look at him, dancing along the curves of your body the same way his fingertips might.

At one point—“Bonnie, I know you’re sulking an’ all, but c’mere.”

He gestures you over to the cockpit, and—embarrassed at being called out—you join him. He brings a hand to the small of your back, stepping behind you and pointing over your shoulder.

A gray wall of passing cliffs, and crags of rock jutting up from the churn at their base. You see ten or twelve grey-and-white seals lounging across every available flat surface, some cuddled in groups of three or four, apparently unbothered by the periodic spray of breaking waves.

“No’ where I’d choose to have a kip, personally,” Johnny says, sounding amused.

You turn your head to look at him, hard. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and he tilts his head to kiss you, undeterred even when you flinch away from it.

His hand tightens across your back, fingers digging in. He sucks your bottom lip between his and caresses it with his tongue, as he edges beneath the hem of your shirt to spread his hand across the warming skin of your back.

“I’m mad for ya,” he murmurs when he pulls away, blush high on his cheeks.

“It’s been two days,” you deadpan.

He presses up behind you, open hand sliding around to press into the low part of your belly, right at the sensitive crest of your mons; you can’t help your gasp when, at the same time, his erection nestles into the cleft of your ass.

“No’ to this,” he purrs in your ear. “Feels like it’s been forever, for this.”

When his fingers start making their way beneath the waistband of your pants, you grab his hand and wrench it away, scoffing.

“You’re just a fucking horndog,” you sneer, betrayed by the heat spilling through your core.

“Aw, you break my heart, bonnie,” Johnny simpers, but there’s a mocking edge to it. As if he knows exactly what you’re hiding.

You step away from him, folding your arms across your chest and staring out at the basking seals instead. Then—

“There’s one in the water,” you say.

A few meters away from the rocks, a round head pokes up from the surface, bobbing with the rise and fall of the waves. Its eyes are slitted closed, nostrils dilating.

“Aw, he’s bottling,” Johnny says affectionately, when he comes over to look. “Look at his wee face.”

You remember suddenly your encounter of the previous day—another lone seal, resting apart from its fellows.

“I saw one on the beach,” you say, “yesterday, after you dropped me off. A big one. You didn’t say they might show up.”

“Male?” he asks, and you nod. “Peripheral male, then. I’m no’ surprised.”

You sigh. “And that is…”

As if magnetized, his hands find you again, this time settling on your waist. It seems that Johnny’s touch is something impossible to escape, in his vicinity. He drags them down over your hips and back up almost idly, as if he’s not even thinking about doing it.

“There’s dominant males, and then there’s the rest of ‘em. Only the dominant ones get to breed at the rookeries, see? And the rest of ‘em have to wait around for the females to leave to have their chance.”

He leans into you from behind, nose in your hair, and you hear him inhale as his hands tighten.

“Once a peripheral male finds a female alone, separated from the colony, ready to go back out to sea—well, that’s his chance to pounce.”

You frown, mostly to yourself. “No matter how the female feels about it.”

“We’ve been over this,” he chides.

He brings his lips to the curve of one ear, then the soft spot behind it. His nose finds the juncture of your neck and shoulder, where the capillaries that he broke with his teeth still throb whenever you press your fingers to them. He inhales again, deeply.

“Why do you do that?” you grouse, unwilling to give him the win.

“Like how you smell,” he says, doing it again.

His tongue caresses the bruise before he closes his mouth over it—but he goes no further than to kiss your neck twice more before returning to the wheel. It leaves you reeling, half-dizzy with arousal, and when you stomp back to your seat with a frustrated growl, he only glances over at you, smirking, and laughs.

He finds a berth in the early evening to park the trawler, and at that point you’re thankful for any kind of solid ground to set your feet on, as well as enough open air to disperse whatever pheromones have saturated the enclosed space of the bridge.

You’ve been half-tempted the whole time to make him drop anchor and drag him belowdeck toward the nearest flat surface big enough for the two of you to share; as it is, you’ve simply stewed in your own juices instead, hot with angry arousal and ignoring the slick pooling in the gusset of your underwear.

Johnny steps out into the cooling air in his usual kilt and sweater, and you once again huddle in his jacket, aromatic with his musk, as he leads you onward. This time, unlike the last excursion, he insists upon holding your hand the whole way, callused fingers worming their way between yours, the captured air hot and humid between your palms.

Callanish turns out to be a henge of standing stones.

Meters-tall megaliths, squarish and narrow like broken teeth, surrounding a burial site and extending in two directions as if lining a road. Inevitably evocative of its cousin Stonehenge, with the notable exception that you are allowed to go up and touch the stones with your bare hands.

“They used ‘em for that TV show,” Johnny informs you as the two of you circuit the main ring. “Well, no’ these, they probably had styrofoam for that, but they got the idea from these.”

You lay your free hand on the nearest stone; it’s cold, and rough to the touch, a day’s worth of sunlight evidently not sufficient to warm it. Tiny spots of moss and lichen cling to the old stone, green and eggshell white.

“Why are we allowed to touch them?” you say. You think of bronze statues, rubbed to a golden gleam by millions of tourist hands.

“That’s Lewisian gneiss, bonnie,” says Johnny, laying his hand, much larger, next to yours. His thumb teases the side of your pinky. “Doubt you could make much of a mark on it. This rock here? Three billion years old.”

You look at him, seeing his profile. The expression on his face is soft—not unlike the way he looked at you earlier, on the way here. He spreads his fingers over the stone, tendons furrowing down the back of his sun-weathered hand.

“No’ just older than us,” he continues. “Older than what we used to be, a’fore we were us. Was there when we first made fire. Was there when we came down th’ trees. Was there all the way back when we left the ocean for the first time—”

He looks at you, then. The setting sun catches in the dips of his irises, setting jewel blue aflame.

“An’ it’ll be there, bonnie, when we go back.”

The wind curls around the stones with the chill of the oncoming night. Even despite the jacket, despite the walk up to the site—you feel it penetrate beneath your skin, deep into your bones.

You choose derision, to reject the shiver.

“And you have this all memorized,” you say.

Johnny doesn’t respond. He continues to stare at you, mouth in a relaxed, but inscrutable line.

You suddenly remember that you do not know this man; though he’s told you enough about himself to fill out his background—you don’t know him. You don’t know how he feels about most things, what’s important to him, why he may find one thing or another meaningful. Not the way you’d have to, in order to understand why the gaze he fixes on you feels so significant.

Whatever you’re supposed to understand in the way he looks at you now, you don’t have the ability to discern. The only thing that occurs to you is that, perhaps, you’ve finally managed to offend him.

It does not satisfy you as much as you might have imagined—

In fact, the thought drops through your belly like a rock.

Again. You did it again.

In the one place you thought you’d never have to face this—you did it again. Here is someone who seems to like even the worst of you, and you somehow found an even uglier side of yourself to show him, a squirming thing that cannot help but sling itself around with no heed for the damage it can cause.

But when you open your mouth to say something reparatory, something that certainly won’t fix what you’ve broken no matter what he might say, his expression softens into something thoughtful.

“Visited when I first came here,” he says. Completely unbothered. “After the discharge an’ all.”

You blink. Sharp heat and the numbness of cold, warring across your face.

“Why?” you ask.

“Dunno.” He shrugs, and lifts his hand from the stone, smiling ruefully. “I was a bastard back then. Didnae wan’ anything’ to do with anyone anymore. Mad at the world, a’was.”

Shucked like an oyster; scaled like a fish. Heat wins out, even in the growing chill. Tender skin scalding itself.

“And what,” you say, reflexively nasty, panic whirring up behind your breastbone, “you thought—you’d get some sort of, magical insight here?”

Johnny laughs. “Naw, a’was just pissing my money away, bonnie. Thought I’d come up here an’ try t’ knock one over.”

Tight chest. Can’t breathe. You step away from him, far away, hide it like you’re looking at another of the standing stones, but a stabbing pain spears upward through your diaphragm.

In—count—hold—out—

“Could you?” you ask, wringing something like a normal tone out of your voice.

“Nope. Paid for it later, though.”

He says it casually. He hasn’t noticed. You reach out to the new stone, drag your fingers overtop of the rough surface, imagine every little bump flipping the friction ridges of each print like pages of a book. Cold—the rock is cold. The wind is cold, and sharp with the smell of rain. The jacket is heavy on your shoulders.

The jacket smells like Johnny.

“I’m sure the park wardens weren’t happy,” you say, feeling your heart slow in your chest.

“No,” he says, and—with the silence of a lightning strike—“I drowned, afterwords, first time I went to sea.”

You look back at him. The wind picks up, ruffling the ends of his mohawk; on the horizon, a rind of darkness splits the clouds from the earth.

“You drowned?” you repeat.

The hem of his kilt flutters and dances. His gaze is intense—the angle of his brow unreadable.

“Aye, bonnie. I did.”

Your ears begin ringing—as you stare at him, you get the sense of dreaming. There’s a distinction to Johnny that contrasts the landscape framing him, a sharpness so focused that everything else lenses around him.

“Why—why are you here?” you find yourself asking, though you’re not entirely sure why. The question leaves you as if surfacing on its own power.

The corners of his mouth quirk—although for once, he doesn’t smirk at you, the way he always does.

“You tell me,” he murmurs.

He holds you in the tilt of his head; in the depths of his eyes, currents pulling you downward. You inhale, and expect, for some reason, water to pour into your lungs.

Then a gust of wind buffets the two of you. Johnny turns, surveying the sky. Breaking the spell, he says, “Come on, let’s get back. I don’ like the look a’that storm.”

Halfway back down the path, the front overtakes you; rain begins sheeting down, ice cold, needle-precise into your hair and down your collar. Johnny grabs your hand again even as you start worrying about slipping, and though the torrent veils the way, the both of you make it back to the trawler in one piece.

Back on the bridge, a red light blinks on the panel by the wheel. While Johnny attends to it, flipping a switch and bringing a microphone on a curly wire to his mouth, you squeeze your hair out over the sink nearby.

“This is Soap on the vessel Sea Ghost,” he says, and waits for a response.

“Soap. Drop anchor somewhere. Looks like a storm’s coming in,” a gruff voice comes in.

“Yeah, Cap, we noticed,” Johnny says with a laugh, turning and smiling at you. “We’re moored, dinna fash.”

“Good. Looks like it’s just for the night. Clear enough in the morning.”

“Barry. You got everything? Shops’ closed tomorrow.”

“Never will understand why. But yes.”

“It’s a holy day, Captain,” Johnny says pleasantly.

Price grumbles something about damn Catholics and their damn rules, which just makes Johnny laugh.

Then, “Gaz is here. Made it in after you left.”

Johnny’s posture shifts. Similar to a dog hearing the turning of a doorknob; amorphous attention coalescing, finding a target to point at. Anticipatory. Tail twitching, winding up to wag.

It’s a new reaction, to you—you’ve never seen it before.

Johnny lifts the transmitter to his mouth. He holds it there for a silent moment, before saying, “And Simon?”

No response from the other end of the line, pulled taut, as if snagged. Then Price responds “Haven’t heard yet.”

Something passes over Johnny’s face. Some flex of the muscle in his jaw. An expression held in check.

That’s—

That’s familiar.

“Alright. Back tomorrow then.”

“See you.”

He replaces the mic on its hook.

Thunder claps somewhere over the distant, open ocean. The trawler creaks and groans as the wind swirls around it. Yellow lamps illuminate the warm, wooden space, but are unable to penetrate the lowering blackness outside.

Tension—you can feel it drawing tight, see his shoulder blades shifting closer together. It aches in the muscles of your own back. He faces away from you, like you’re not there—

He turns to look at you. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t look quite real. As if he’s forcing the expression on his face.

“Poor bonnie,” he croons, looking you up and down. The tenor of his voice is saccharin-sweet and thick. “How’s a hot shower sound to warm up, hmm?”

Your belly pinches. “Sure.”

He leads you down a steep flight of stairs into the stomach of the boat, showing you into a single bedroom. The space is cramped, wedge-shaped—barely enough room for the double bed shoved into the middle of it, sheets and blankets gathered in rumples across the top. The unique musk of its occupant wars with the smell of lacquer; the walls are lined with orangey planks, evoking the sailing ships of old.

Directly to the left of the entrance, an open door leads into a small bathroom, into which Johnny guides you, hands on your hips.

“Go’ plenty a’ drinking water stored upstairs so take all the time you like,” he says. “Here, lemme show you how the taps work.”

You half-expect him, after the instruction, to stand there and watch, waiting until you undress. And he does hesitate for a moment, hovering in the threshold, before giving you a practiced grin, telling you to enjoy yourself, a closing the door behind him.

You stand in the middle of the tiny room for an uncertain heartbeat. Assumptions lurching. Almost—hoping.

His heavy footsteps climb back up the stairs.

So, you peel off your damp clothes and drop them into a pile on the floor, stepping naked into the shower. It’s far less mildewed than you might have worried of a single man living alone. Hot water chases cold out of your hair, streaming with pressure far superior to the cottage’s installment.

You realize your toiletries are still above deck, in your bag, beneath the two paperbacks Johnny packed that you haven’t gotten to just yet. You could step out after him—

You don’t do that anymore. You promised yourself.

The floor sways as the shifting sea rocks the trawler in its berth. You reach for the bar on the wall to steady yourself.

One version of yourself is sometimes able to fool the other. The truth is, you could have told him to stop at any time. Put your foot down, hard. Just because he owns the house you’re staying in doesn’t mean he gets to decide what your entire vacation is going to look like.

You scoff at yourself, without any humor. Vacation. Like you’d ever believed this was anything more than self-imposed exile.

The truth is, water takes the shape of the container it fills.

There’s a chill still present in your hair follicles. Impossible for you to identify until now; live with an ache long enough and it stops registering, until it’s balmed with a moment of relief. This is where the addicts begin; experiencing, for the first time, a complete absence of pain, as if it had never been there in the first place, and, once that pain is restored, the ruthless pursuit of its elimination.

Cold rain outside, warm rain within. You stand in the flow, listless. Steam rapidly clouds the empty spaces around you, gathering in droplets on the wall, drizzling down again.

That’s where the mistake is. Pain is never defeated—only deferred. Its panacea provides only diminishing returns, until it’s useless. Until you might as well be swallowing sugar pills or drinking seawater to assuage your thirst.

But you keep doing it. You remember too well how it felt. You chase it down because now you know how it feels.

At some point you have to understand that it always ends poorly.

The bathroom door opens again, and then the shower door, spilling yellow light into the shadowed recess—

Johnny.

The expression on his face is inscrutable; mysterious, as his gaze moves down your body, following the streaming water. Your arms curl around your chest in a perfunctory attempt to conceal yourself, even despite the futility of the effort.

He’s naked, and half-hard, a refrain on the previous night. One hand holds the travel-size soaps and gels that he must have dug out from your bag. He steps in behind you—enclosing the two of you in together.

“Sorry, bonnie,” he murmurs soothingly in your ear. “Had t’make sure we were tied up for the storm.”

The space is not even suggestive of being big enough for two people. You hear the squeak of the shower wall against his shifting back, hot skin slipping against yours as his hands draw you back against him by the hips.

“Dinnae want you t’slip an’ hit your head,” he murmurs, massaging the fat of your pelvis, as if there’s any reason to make excuses for what he’s doing.

Half-raised hackles petted down too easily. You relax into his touch, even as you disdain it. Your heart tremors in your chest.

“What’s going on tomorrow?” you finally ask. “Who’s Simon?”

Pathetic. A jealous lover, after less than forty-eight hours.

“Old task force,” he answers, kissing the back of your head. “Little reunion, food an’ beer, mostly.”

You half-expect him to go immediately for your breasts, or maybe your pussy. His cock is stiffening against the small of your back. But instead, he opens one of your bottles, squirts some pearly body wash into the palm of his hand. Rubbing a little to lather it, he puts his hands back on your hips, and begins massaging it into your skin.

Inward, up your stomach. Pressing into the soft parts of it, with the water slicking his way. His mouth touches the back of your neck—softly. Tenderly. With all of the languor you rejected the previous night, and not enough space for you to slap it away again.

His lips press inward, looking for the bite he left, which he lays his tongue on as if in contrition, licking it like a dog with a wound. The comfortable warmth of the shower swelters with his added body heat; the steam pulses in time with the heavy beats of your heart.

One hand slides up your body, fording your thoracic arch, the wedge of his hand ascending the length of your breastbone. He cups your jaw, bubbles between his fingers, one of your breasts nestling between his bicep and forearm.

He tilts your head to the side as he cranes his head further into your neck, lipping at the space behind your ear, kissing delicate, sensitive skin, as his other hand drags soap around your ribs, beneath and over both breasts, up into your pits and back down again.

A doll in his hands, bent along the shape of his will. He shifts his hips, frotting his erection against you.

“Johnny,” you breathe. “Johnny, this isn’t anything. This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Aye, bonnie,” he hums. “Whatever you say.”

He licks a hollow in your throat.

His other hand dips lower, sweeping down into the crease of one thigh to round the lower swell of your hip; then back up again, fingers spreading.

The stall compresses your arms close against you; the only space you have available to lay your useless hands is on his arms. The dark hair you find with your fingertips is coarse, wiry, plastered to hot skin with water. The spray seeps between the both of you, streams in the runnels of flesh pressed together.

Between your legs, your clitoris heats, awakening even though untouched. You give a small whine, and Johnny huffs a little chuckle in your ear, suckling your neck as his fingers make the descent back, rinsed in the falling water, teasing your pubic hair before nudging your folds apart.

He finds you slick and aching. He only dips lower briefly to wet his fingers, and then, as he settles a light touch over where you’re most desperate for it, relief razes through your nerves in a sudden wash.

You search for the back of his head, slotting your fingers into the ends of his mohawk at the nape of his neck. He hums against you, hand dropping down from your jaw to cup one breast in his palm, weighing it, thumb flicking around the pert nipple in the same tight circle he draws around your clitoris.

Orgasm, usually so obvious on approach, sneaks up on you, quick and quiet, but when it takes you it floods you, rather than knocking you down. You tremble all over, the follicles on your scalp standing on end, the nerves down your back and sides bending like dune grass to a wind.

Your long, breathy cry reverberates against the shower walls, and you lean heavily back against Johnny’s body, grip tightening where you have your hands on him.

He twitches against your back, but he makes no move to chase his own climax. He only turns you carefully, when you recover, and lays his hot, open mouth on yours, tugging your hips close enough to trap his cock against your belly. This time, the wall is cool at your back, the crown of your head moving against it as Johnny angles himself deeper, sliding his tongue between your lips.

“C’mon,” he says, when he finally pulls away. His pupils are huge, black dilation swallowing the blue. The spray fills the empty spaces between the strands of his mohawk, fluffing the hair a little as it courses down the shaved sides of his scalp. “Need to get my mouth on you again, bonnie.”

This time, when he eats you out, he does it at his leisure. Licking honey off a spoon. So lightly that you whine at him, find the energy to bitch at him to do it like he means it, but tonight he does not indulge you.

No—he mouths at you, eyes closed, curly lashes against his cheek as you lay belly-up on the rumpled sheets of his bed. The heat of his tongue in your cleft is the only source of warmth you have as the rain lashes at the outside of the trawler, but the hot shower still lingers in your skin—

Humid. Sticky. Sweat gathering beneath Johnny’s palms where he holds your thighs to his ears, as if mimicking the way your sex will clutch around him when he enters you. Slick and tight and viscous.

When he crawls up your body—nosing at your belly, your breasts, inhaling as if your musk is something he’s trying to get drunk on—he fucks you slow and deep. You stop being able to tell if it’s the storm rocking the boat, or the weight of his hips rolling against yours, one of his hands on the headboard for leverage and the other on your mons, pressing down with the heel of his hand to feel the head of his cock moving in you.

Tacky skin catching on the grind; heart speeding up as he grins at you from above, thumb tapping your clitoris. Enough to wind you up. You reach for his hips with your clawed hands, digging your nails into the meat of his ass—firm, muscle tensed, twitching every time he bottoms out.

“Johnny,” you finally beg, on the edge of a sob, “please, Johnny, please—”

Breath leaves him like a steam valve turned, pressure carrying an uninhibited moan. He ignores your plea, hips rolling slow, forcing you to feel every inch of him in and out of you, every ridge—every vein pulsing on the surface of his cock.

His eyes are closed still; when the widest part of him catches the rim of you around him again, his mouth drops open, lips pink and bitten.

Lost—he’s lost in pleasure, in the feeling of you around him, pulling him in. You watch his chest as it heaves, the flex of his stomach as it tightens—the twitch in the muscles of his arms as the impact of each thrust ripples up his body.

Look at me, you want to say. Look at me. I’m right here. Look at me.

“Again,” he groans, choked, restrained, hands gripping your hips. “Say it again, bonnie—”

“Please—” you whine, on the edge of a sob, “please, please, please—”

Thumb metronoming at a quick tempo where you need it—you seize, back arching, tightening around him so narrowly you could force him out—

He snarls, sharp and hard, thrusting into the resistance, hands falling to fist in the mattress. Breath coming rough and fast, sweat dripping from his forehead into the cups of your collarbones and down between your breasts. Hard and fast now, pushing in as far as your body will let him, and a final, long moan tears from his parted lips, liquid heat flooding you as Johnny goes rigid with a climax following only moments after your own.

Pelvis flush with your thighs. He doesn’t let a drop escape, pushing against you, lifting your hips from the bed.

“Tha’s right,” he slurs, eyes hazy when they open. “Tha’s right, that’s where it belongs.”

He collapses on top of you, almost crushing you with his weight, as he seeks your mouth out with his. He moves his hips against yours with shallow thrusts, whining in his throat.

“Didn’t you—” you pull your lips away, too hot, too cold, buzzing and exhausted, “didn’t you just finish?”

He tongues at your cheek instead, and then down your neck. “Doesnae matter, is no’ enough. C’mon, bonnie, wrap your legs aroun’ me, please…”

After he is finally spent—long after you’ve had enough energy to do more than lay beneath him and let him use you as he pleases—Johnny diverts briefly to the galley, bringing back with him a plate of oysters and a pry knife. It’s his bed, so you don’t complain about shell fragments, but you resolve to make him change the sheets anyway, shifting uncomfortably to find a spot that isn’t soaked.

“Was on this boat,” Johnny says, as if picking up the thread of a conversation only recently dropped. He picks up one of the oysters and shucks it open. “When I drowned.”

The way he says it, you’d think it was a casual thing, something he barely thought about anymore, but the line of his brow is low and serious.

He hands you one half; you bring the shell to your lips and tip it upward. Brine slides across your tongue, flesh smooth and buttery. Johnny watches you with soft eyes before having his own.

“Price was with me. I told him to fuck off, but he said he wasnae gonna let me take it out alone the first time ever. I was a bastard back then, I told ya. We went out in a storm, like this one, even though any eedjit could take a look outside and know it’d kill him.”

You flick at the edge of the shell with your fingernail, looking down at your hands. “Why’d you do it?”

“Dunno. Had somethin’ to prove, I guess.”

“That you could still do stuff like that?”

He doesn’t respond, so you look back up at him. He angles his gaze toward the mess of your hair—the new hickies he’s left on your neck—the bead of your nipples in the cold. The hard angles of his face soften.

“All my life,” he says, measuredly, “all I wanted to be was a soldier. An’ I couldnae anymore. Even though I was better. Hell, I was better than better. But I couldnae go back. That was it. It all wen’ on withou’ me.”

He breaks open more oysters as he talks, hands steady and deft around shells and knife. When he finishes, he slides the plate into your lap, and reclines to face you on his side, propping his head up with his hand.

“We wen’ out when the waves were as tall as a man, an’ us hangin’ onto the railing for dear fuckin’ life,” he continues. There’s a faraway quality to the tone of his voice. “Only life wasnae so fuckin’ dear, was it? I could’ve held on tighter, I think. I fell off.”

“And Price pulled you out?”

That feeling again, meeting his gaze; caught in the arms of a whirlpool, being dragged down. A vial in a centrifuge, constituent parts separating.

“No,” he says, “he didnae.”

“Then…”

“Eat, bonnie.”

There’s a stillness to him that feels unnatural. Johnny is a man who should be constantly in motion, gesturing with his hands, bouncing on the balls of his feet, tapping any available surface with rolling fingertips. Instead, here in front of you, he’s still as a statue. Chest softly rising and falling, but otherwise completely placid.

He gazes steadily at you, down at the plate, and then back up. You sigh, and pick up another shell.

“I don’t remember exactly what happened. I remember getting pushed down deep, real deep, then getting forced up again, on a current or something. Not far enough to get any air, mind. I thought, I’m gonna die out here, an’ I didnae want to.”

He shifts then, a little forward toward you.

“That seemed important, you know? I didnae want to die. Dinna think the sea would’ve given me up f’ I did. It knows. Sometimes it doesnae care. But I guess that time, it did, ‘cause after I blacked out, next thing I know I’m wakin’ up on the shore.”

Something hard shifts in your belly.

“Cap found me a bit later, bringin’ the boat in. Gave him a real scare. Think it turned some of his hair gray overnight. After that…a’was no’ the same. How could y’be, after that?”

You—you don’t want to know any of this. You don’t care. You didn’t ask. His story drops expectation on your shoulders, heavy, custom-tailored, laden with understanding that sands your abraded nerves.

All of this is too much. The damp sheets beneath you, the food, the sex. The fact that you picked the last place in the world thought you could ever meet anyone, let alone someone who—

“And now you have a seal fetish,” you sneer.

Who understands.

Indulgent. This is indulgent, reckless, idiotic in the extreme.

Soap reaches out, and wraps a large, sun-brown hand around your wrist, the one still holding the oyster. Pulling it towards him, he opens his mouth and then tips the flesh from the shell. He slurps it down, noisily, mimicking the sound of his mouth and tongue on your pussy.

“Something like that,” he says, with a sharp, cocky grin.

He changes the sheets. Dims the lights. Plasters himself around you as the storm blows itself out, arm heavy over your waist, thigh and knee nested inside yours.

He’s warm at your back, musky with the mingling aroma of dried sex and sweat.

Sturdy. More real than anything that’s ever put its hands on you.

Johnny, who the sea loved so much it spat him back out. So treasured by the world that a bullet to the brain couldn’t even take him away from it.

Who, by the sound of it, means so much to the people in his life that they would follow him to the middle of nowhere just to keep an eye on him.

Bile churns in your stomach.

next chapter early access

a/n: two chapters left!

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #mwritessoap #madi writes #selkie soap #peristalsis #'i'm going to write shorter chapters' writes this monstrosity #i am so not happy with this but we forge ahead nonetheless #hopefully I can get 6 up in EA next week. maaaaybe a double posting since the epilogue won't take long to edit. i think.

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lubdubology · 5 months ago

Text

When Things Turn Green Again

SYNOPSIS: Hoping to mend the pain of your broken heart and bury the memory of your failed marriage, you turn towards the woods. A cabin was left in your name and it’s the exact distraction you were looking for. What you didn’t anticipate is meeting a quiet, ruggedly handsome man along the way who helps you heal.

PAIRING: Logan x fem!reader

WC: 11k

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; mentions of cheating/divorce; emotional trauma; fluff; sexual innuendos; brief mentions of drinking; dirty talk; slight dom!Logan; oral (f receiving); fingering; doggy style; cock warming; sex with feelings; unprotected p in v

A/N: I pictured either Origins!Logan or Wolverine!Logan, but I think you can envision any Logan you’d prefer. And again thanks to @joelsgoldrush for the support through writing this ❤️ I really do love this piece I wrote and I hope you do too. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! And thank you to everyone who has read, commented, liked and reblogged both Soft Edges and Til The Sun Turns Black—I never imagined either of those stories reaching over 1k notes.

The gravel crunches under your tires as you roll down the long driveway. Memories bloom deep in your chest as you near the cabin, of times simpler than this, unburdened by trappings of real life. You spent your formative years out here in the woods with your grandfather. Summers spent learning how to fish on the lake; how to recognize the poisonous berries from the nonpoisonous ones; and making fires, roasting marshmallows long after the sun had gone down.

Your grandfather had helped build this cabin. He’d always preferred the outdoors and solitude from people—with the obvious exception of your grandmother and mother—and he’d often come here to escape. Especially after he lost them both.

The cabin comes into view through the trees just starting to unfurl their spring foliage. Patches of snow still dot the landscape but the wet brown of winter is losing to spring’s verdant hues. The structure has seen better days, last having been lived in over ten years ago.

A stab of regret pierces your chest. The cabin was willed to you when your grandfather died, but this was your first trip up here since the funeral. You planned to, of course, but as the old saying goes, life happened. Now, you’re hoping the old place can give you something to sink your energy into besides thinking about your failed marriage.

You park the truck and step out, surveying the property. The shrubs and flower beds are overgrown and choked with old growth and weeds. Years worth of leaves rest upon the roof and clog the gutters. The front porch has several loose or missing spindles and you’re almost afraid to step up onto the old boards. Proving yourself right, the wood groans and creaks beneath your feet, certain spots threatening to give way.

“That’s going to be a fun project,” you mutter to yourself.

Opening the front door, you’re met with the damp mustiness of a long closed up space. A layer of dust seems to coat nearly every surface and cobwebs linger in the corners. You’re hoping the repairs needed inside the cabin are more cosmetic than costly.

You open up the old blinds, letting the early morning light filter in the room. It’s not a large space, an open kitchen, living room and dinning area with separate bedroom and attached bathroom. A small set of steps leads up to a loft, which also doubles as a sleeping space or bonus area.

You unload your belongings from the truck, tucking them away inside the bedroom, before opening all the windows to let in the fresh air. Thankfully, the glass and protective screens are in relatively good repair—a few need replacing, but an easy enough job. You feel a sense of purpose flourish within you, something you haven’t felt for months and you wonder if this is just the reprieve you need to find yourself again.

+++

You spend the morning taking inventory of the repairs needed around the cabin to make it immediately livable. Jotting down a list of supplies, you hop in your truck and head into town to hit up the hardware store.

The owner, George, recognizes you from previous trips with your grandfather when you were younger. He greets you warmly and helps you find everything you need. As you’re checking out, he asks, “Run into Logan yet?”

“Logan?”

He nods his head. “Shares a property line with you. Has a cabin of his own just about a quarter mile north of yours. Asked him to keep his eye out on the place.”

“Oh, well, that was nice of him,” you comment, stuffing your receipt in your purse.

George shrugs. “Figured it would give him something different to do. Doesn’t interact much with people.”

“Guess I’ll just have to introduce myself then,” you say, lifting your bags up off the checkout counter.

“Good luck with that,” George responds with a huffed laugh. “He’s not one for small talk.”

You give George a polite smile and leave the store, bags in hand. But the conversation sparks your curiosity and you find yourself thinking of the man who shares the woods with you. You promised yourself once you were settled, you’d make the short hike towards his place and introduce yourself.

Arriving back at the cabin, you park the truck and hop out, stopping short when you spot a lone figure walking around from the back of your property. You can’t stop the prickle of anxiety that zips up your spine as the figure comes closer, but he doesn’t see you yet, his eyes on the ground as he walks.

You shut the truck door with more force than necessary, the sound echoing off the trees. He looks up then and you suck in a short breath as his rugged features come into view—well trimmed but scruffy beard, wild dark hair and a fit muscular frame you can see even under the flannel of his shirt.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach and you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt like this. You can feel a blush creep across your face and you grip the bags in your hands tighter just to feel something other than the hammering of your heart in your chest.

He stops short of where you’re standing and jerks a thumb behind him. “Turned your electrical breaker on,” he says without introduction and you can only stare at him.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I, uh—thanks.”

He tilts his head and looks at you and you feel like you’re on fire under his glare. It’s an inquisitive one, like he can’t quite figure out what you’re doing in a place like this and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. And yet, you don’t want him to stop looking at you.

“Right,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for something. He fishes out a key and holds it in your direction. “This is yours.”

You shift the bags, so you’re holding them all in one hand and reach for the key. Your fingertips brush against his just briefly, but it’s enough to set sparks along your skin and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. As he steps back from you, you blurt out your name and then immediately wish for a swift death at your awkwardness.

God, this was embarrassing.

It’s like you’ve never interacted with humans before.

He gives the barest hint of a smile. “Logan.”

“Nice to meet you, Logan,” you say, just so you can taste his name in your mouth.

Logan nods and turns to head down the path that leads away from your cabin and deeper into the woods. You watch him go, his figure fading further into the distance and you can’t help but think, I’m in trouble.

+++

You spend the rest of the day keeping busy around the cabin—wiping down dusty surfaces, sweeping up cobwebs, replacing broken light bulbs—but your mind never strays far from Logan and the inexplicable pull you have towards him.

You’ve dated. You were married. You weren’t a stranger to the opposite sex and physical attraction, but this felt like more. Like an unavoidable pull between you and him and you’ve just been spun into his orbit.

And that attraction terrifies you.

Over the next few days, you try and shove him from your mind. It helps that you haven’t seen him again, but your eyes inevitably dart towards the path leading away from your cabin as if you’re expecting him to come walking through.

Then, the idea comes to you late one night as you’re sitting in front of the fire, watching the flames lick higher. No matter how hard you had tried, Logan remained firmly planted in your mind, his roots stubborn and unyielding.

Your grandfather always said your grandmother’s cooking was always something that warmed his heart.

But as you walk the small path towards Logan’s property you briefly wonder if you’ve lost your mind. You carry the small pie dish in your hands and as his cabin grows closer you’re actually contemplating turning back and forgetting the whole thing.

Who the hell bakes pies for people any more?

His cabin is smaller than yours, a little more rustic and worn, which seems fitting based on the little you know about him. Several piles of firewood line the roofed porch and at the opposite end, a single chair and table sit in front of the window. With one last shaky inhale, you climb the steps and rap your knuckles against the door. From inside you hear heavy footfalls and then the door opens.

Logan looks down at you and then towards the dish in your hands, an odd expression crossing his handsome features.

“I made you a pie,” you blurt unceremoniously and you instantly wish for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Logan just continues to stare at you and you think you see the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. But maybe not.

“I, uh, my grandfather lived in the cabin next to yours and it’s mine now. I’m fixing it up, because…well, just because and he taught me to pick berries as a kid? So, I did that and I made you this,” you finish in a ramble, flames of embarrassment licking across your skin.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His eyes flick down at the dish in your hands again and you hold it up a bit higher, nudging it closer towards him. As he reaches out to take it, his fingers brush against yours and you again feel electricity tingle down your fingertips. If he notices it too, he says nothing, not that he’s said anything since you showed up on his porch.

Logan tucks the dish closer to his body and gives you a slight nod. You take that as a good sign and step back to leave. “Okay, cool, cool. Well, um, enjoy. I made sure all he berries were the edible ones so you don’t end up throwing up everywhere.”

At that he actually huffs a chuckle. “Good to know,” he finally says, his voice warm and rich and just a bit gruff.

“Right, well, enjoy!” You turn to leave and can feel his stare against your back and it takes all your remaining functioning brain cells to walk normally.

You spend the next few days trying to forget all about your ill-fated attempt to play neighbor, figuring if he didn’t want to know you before, he definitely didn’t after that.

You’re coming back from a hike when you spot Logan through the trees walking away from your place, hands tucked deep within his pockets. Your heart quickens in your chest as you walk up to the front door and find the baking dish sitting on the old welcome mat. It’s freshly washed with a folded up piece of paper sitting inside—Thank you.

You’re certain your smile could rival the light from the sun.

+++

It becomes a routine over the next few weeks—you bringing him food and him returning the dish, all without exchanging any words. You’re thankful he’s not much of a talker because you can’t seem to stop making a fool of yourself around him.

And you don’t know why.

He’s a handsome man, that anyone can see, but you’ve never been so flustered around a beautiful man before.

There’s something else about Logan you can’t pinpoint that sets your heart fluttering behind your ribs. He seems lonely in the same way you are, and you wonder if he’s out here to lick and heal old wounds just like you. You have an inexplicable want to help him, even if that means sharing your food leftovers with him and trying to chip away at the wall that surrounds him.

A part of you is hoping he can help break down your walls, too.

You’re waist deep under the kitchen sink when a knock on the door drags you from fixing the leaking drain.

“Ah, fuck,” you curse, trying to maneuver out of the space while also not spilling the stagnant water left in the sink trap. As you set the old drain down you call out, “Just a second!”

You wipe your hands against your thighs and swing the door open to find Logan standing there, your glass baking dish from yesterday in his hands. For a second you blink silently at him, unable to think of anything but the fact that you’re wearing grease stained overalls and probably smell like a swamp.

“Logan, hi,” you finally say, brushing your hair out of your face.

He gives you a strange look as he hands the dish back to you. You open your mouth to speak when he interrupts you, “Why do you feed me?”

His question hangs in the air and you freeze. Of all the things he could have asked, you weren’t sure why you didn’t expect that one. His voice is a little gruff, but underneath there’s something that makes your heart race. Something vulnerable.

You swallow and grip the edge of the glass dish. Logan stares at you, his gaze intense, and you feel exposed. Like he’s trying to dissect you with just a look.

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” you finally admit. “You just…seem like you could use some kindness.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything else. The silence stretches between you, heavy and charged, and you can feel your pulse quicken. “I can stop if—if you want.”

“No,” he says, his voice rough, but with an undercurrent of tenderness. “No, you don’t have to stop. Just not used to people doin’ things like that for me.”

His admission catches you off guard being the first real piece of personal information he’s shared with you. You’ve gleaned certain things from George—he’s told you about Logan being a mutant and a few pieces of his past—but you know there’s still a world of history hiding behind his loner facade that he keeps hidden. You’re hoping eventually he lets you take a peak inside.

“Everyone deserves kindness, Logan,” you say.

His gaze flickers, a shadow of something crossing his features that makes your heart ache. He shifts on his feet and stares down at the dish in your hands. “I’m not so sure of that,” he replies.

“Well, I am.”

Logan’s eyes drag back up to yours and you try to calm the nervous energy that bubbles under your skin as his stare presses into you. He gives you a small nod then before turning to leave.

He pauses as he hits your driveway and looks back at you, cursing lowly to himself. Scratching at the back of his head, he walks back up the steps and pulls something out of the pocket of his jacket. “I, uh, here,” he says uncertainly as he hands you the small cloth bag.

You can only stare as you take the bag from him, the gift surprisingly light in your hand, but the gesture heavy with unspoken emotion. Your mind races as you think of what could be inside and your heart hammers loudly in your chest.

Logan stands there, eyes not quite meeting yours as he waits for you to open it. Your fingers tremble slightly as you undo the drawstrings and peer inside, finding a mixture of different seeds. You can’t help but trail your fingers through them, feeling the faint warmth they hold from where they were nestled against Logan’s body.

“Oh, Logan,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion.

You glance up at him and he’s looking at you, scratching at his beard, the faintest hint of blush staining his cheeks. “They’re wildflowers. Don’t know what kind. But, I dunno. I thought you could use them for your garden.”

Your chest tightens as you pull the strings close and tuck the bag in your pocket. “I love them, Logan,” you say, offering him a smile. “Thank you.”

For a moment, you see the tension in his shoulders relax just a bit as he exhales. “Just seemed like something you’d appreciate,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you.

Something has shifted between you and you find yourself itching to touch him, but you don’t. Not yet. The thread holding you two together is there, but thin, and you don’t want it to fray. “I really do appreciate it,” you say softly, stepping just the tiniest bit closer.

Logan nods and his mouth tugs into something that’s not quite a smile, but close. He looks at you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze pressing into you. “Okay. Good.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turns and jogs down the steps.

“Guess I’ll see you around then,” you call after him, a smile spreading across your face.

He glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah. I guess you will.”

And maybe, just maybe, the walls around him are beginning to crumble.

+++

Sweat beads across your brow as you work, but you pay it no heed. Your attention keeps slipping to Logan as you pry another nail loose from the rotted board. You’ve fallen into an odd relationship with the elusive man whose property line you share, yet you still barely know anything about him.

It’s been a week since he stopped by and gave you those wildflower seeds. A warmth still spreads in your chest when you think about it. And true to his promise, you do see him around, albeit not as much as you’d like. He seems wary, as if his gift opened up a part of himself he wasn’t ready for you to see.

But at least he doesn’t drop off your clean dishes and run anymore.

As you pry the last nail free, the rotten board comes free and you toss it down onto the grass along with the others. Thankfully, the porch isn’t terribly large and you figure another hour or so to remove the remaining boards before you can start laying down fresh lumber.

The crunch of gravel pulls you from your work and you look up to find Logan walking down the path, a large leather bag in his hand. You look up at him, wiping the sweat off your brow and lean back onto your heels, trying your best not to stare at his forearms.

“Oh, hey, Logan,” you say, wiping your hands against your jeans as you stand. “What brings you to my side of the woods?”

He actually smiles at you and nods towards the porch. “Need help?”

You hate the little flutter you feel pressing against your ribs. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Well, it’s good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering.”

You blink, caught off guard by his directness. “Oh, well, if you insist,” you say, trying to calm your nerves. “It would be nice to have a second set of hands.”

He sets the leather bag down on the porch with a thud and you catch a glimpse of the tools nestled inside. Logan notices you looking and comments, “I know a few things.” His smirk makes your legs feel like jello.

“Oh, I bet you know a lot of things,” you blurt, and your eyes widen at the double entendre of your words, heat flushing across your face.

Logan laughs, a real laugh, his eyes crinkling. “Well, it’s always good to be well educated,” he says with a wink.

Fuck, you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust.

Shoving down your raging embarrassment, you lay out your plan to fix the porch and Logan gives a small nod. He starts at the opposite end, prying loose the first board with ease. You try not to stare at the way his muscles move and how his skin begins to slick with the first beads of sweat. You work in silence for a while, the only sounds those of the forest around you.

“So, what actually brought you out here?” Logan finally asks.

You glance over at him and watch as he tosses another board onto the grass. He looks at you expectantly and you sigh. “I got divorced,” you answer honestly. “And I needed something pour my energy into other than wondering where the fuck I went wrong.”

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, your openness leaving you feeling raw, and instead focus on the board in front of you. Anger begins to simmer in your veins at the thought of the last couple of years and you grab the next plank with just enough force to wedge a splinter deep into your palm. A loud curse falls from your lips as you drop the board.

You feel Logan next to you and you suck in a deep breath as he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours. “Lemme see,” he says, pulling you close and you can smell the earthiness of him, like damp soil and campfire smoke. You find yourself staring at him, his proximity intoxicating, as you drink in his long lashes and the slope of his nose.

He tilts your palm towards himself, his fingers pressing gently yet with firm enough pressure to push the splinter out of your skin. Pulling it out the rest of the way, his eyes flick up to yours. “Somehow I don’t think you’re the one that fucked up, sweetheart.” His voice is warm and you want to melt into him.

“Well,” you start, clearing your throat, “I certainly wasn’t fucking his mistresses.”

Something in his eyes darkens and a shiver runs down your spine. “He’s a fool for losin’ you,” he growls, and his words hit you with more force than you’d care to admit.

His hand still lingers on yours, steady and reassuring and warm and for a moment you think he might lean closer. You desperately want him to. To press his mouth against yours, to feel his breath against your skin, to have his taste against your tongue. But he pulls back, his expression one of thin control, but you can see the storm behind his gaze.

“A damn fool,” he mutters under his breath and you can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about himself or your ex.

Logan lets your hand go, turning back towards the porch and you mourn the loss, your skin still tingling from the contact. You swallow hard, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. It’s Logan—quiet, gruff Logan, who never really sticks around for a real conversation and yet here he is, offering help and showing that maybe he’s not entirely as unaffected by you as you thought.

Your heartbeat drums in your ears as you watch him go back to work, prying up the next board, his muscles flexing beneath his worn shirt. His jaw clenches and there’s a focused determination in his movements and you can’t tell if he’s working out some anger or trying to keep himself in check.

You work in silence for several more minutes, the only sounds being the prying of loose boards and creaking lumber. There’s a tension between you now, more so than there was before, something palpable.

It’s enough to drive you mad.

“What about you?” you finally ask, your voice somewhat hesitant. “You don’t talk about yourself much.”

Logan glances at you from the corner of his eye and his brow furrows, as if he’s weighing whether or not to answer. “Not much to tell,” he grunts, pulling up another board with more force than necessary.

“Somehow, I doubt that. You don’t just wake up one day alone in the woods with forearms like that.”

Logan looks over at you and smirks. “Maybe I’m just really good with my hands.” His voice dips low and you can’t help the warmth that pools low in your belly at his words.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. “Yeah, no…yep. I’m starting to figure that out.”

He’s silent for a few moments as he goes back to work and the air between you hums with something charged. “You really want to know?” he asks, his voice rough. “I’ve been around for too long, longer than anyone should. Done things I’m not proud of.” He tosses another plank aside and all you can do it watch him. “I’ve…I’ve hurt people I care about. People I’ve cared about have hurt me. I’m not really sure I belong anywhere, so I just…drift.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something broken and vulnerable, and it catches you off guard. For all his outward strength, there’s man deep down inside who’s lost, and your heart aches for him.

“You belong here,” you say softly.

He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the tension shift as the weight of your words settle between you. Another board gets tossed aside. “Yeah, maybe.”

He finally raises his gaze to yours and for a moment the world quiets—the forest, the porch, all of it—as his eyes lock onto yours and his expression softens. You offer him a warm smile and then return back to the porch, hesitant to push him any further.

You work comfortably together after that. The old boards removed, Logan helps you place and nail down the new ones. Your conversation is limited to the project, but you don’t mind.

As Logan packs up his tools, you glance over at him. “Thank you.”

A half smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome,” comes his reply as he steps off the porch and heads down the path back towards his cabin.

“Logan!” you call, lightly jogging after him before he slips out of view. He pauses and turns back towards you. “Can I make you dinner?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you already been doin’ that?”

“No,” you say shaking your head, “I mean, yes, I have, but like a proper dinner? Fresh from kitchen to table. I can come by you, if you’d like.”

Logan studies you for a moment, his gaze intense and you can feel your heart beating against your ribs. He’s silent for so long you wonder if you’ve overstepped and you open your mouth to speak when he says, “Alright. Come by tomorrow, six o’clock.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “Tomorrow it is.”

+++

You’re up before the sun, your nerves a tangle of raw edges. You lay there, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

You weren’t expecting to meet someone out here in the woods. You were hoping for tranquility, a distraction to quiet the voice in your head that kept nagging you for how your life veered off course. That maybe if you worked more, did more, loved more you wouldn’t be a thirty year old divorcee.

Instead, you find a mysterious man who sparks within you a flame you long thought extinguished. A ruggedly handsome man who’s somehow wormed his way into your life and has you wondering if maybe he can’t help mend the pieces of your broken heart.

Except you don’t know if that same spark is ignited within him and if his gesture of dinner is simple kindness. A response to the kindness you’ve shown him over the last two months or if he’s feeling that same attraction you do.

God, you hope he does.

You spend the morning cleaning, trying to pour your nervous energy into something productive other than worrying about what the evening may bring. Driving into town, you agonize over what to make even though he’s been eating what you’ve made without complaint for weeks now. You opt to keep it simple—pasta with homemade meat sauce, a nice loaf of bread and a couple bottles of wine.

While the sauce is simmering on the stove you get ready. You dress for comfort, a simple pair of leggings and a flowy top that hangs slightly off your shoulders. You catch your reflection in the mirror and give yourself a silent nod of encouragement. Despite this just being dinner, the night brims with the possibility of maybe something more.

Once the food is prepared, you carefully pack everything in a large basket and begin the walk to Logan’s cabin. The night is cool, but still holds the warmth of day and the promise of summer to come. You feel your anticipation heighten the closer you get to his place and your stomach drops when you see it appear up ahead.

It’s just Logan, you remind yourself.

Stepping up onto his porch, you give a hesitant knock at the door. He greets you almost instantly and you suck in a deep breath. Logan looks good and your heart does a flip as you take him in—well fitting jeans, a clean white shirt underneath a soft red flannel button down, his hair is still slightly damp from a shower.

“You’re early,” he comments, standing aside to let you in. You catch the slight frown tug at his mouth as he notices the basket. “You coulda cooked here, you know.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know if you’d want me invading your space,” you reply, following him deeper into the cabin and setting the basket down on the counter.

Logan turns back towards you, bracing his hands against the counter. “I don’t mind you in my space.”

His words hang in the air between you and you can feel your pulse quicken. You glance up at him, and the way he’s looking at you—steady and unflinching—sends a thrill down your spine.

You clear your throat, trying to settle the nerves in your chest. “Next time then,” you say lightly, hoping he can’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Logan’s lips quirk into a half smile. “Next time,” he agrees.

He reaches into a cabinet above him, pulling down a couple of plates and glasses, setting a small table in the corner of the small kitchen. You keep yourself busy unpacking the food, arranging the bread, pasta and sauce on the table, working around him as he uncorks the wine and pours both of you a glass.

Logan joins you then, raising his glass and clinking it gently against yours. He nods in a silent cheers and tips his head back as he drinks, his eyes never leaving yours. You can’t suppress the shiver that shoots down your spine.

Setting down his glass, he serves you and then himself, commenting, “This smells amazing.”

“Family recipe,” you reply, taking another sip wine. “Remind me to make it for you when I have fresh tomatoes. It’s even better then.”

“I’ll have to do that,” he says with a smile.

Conversation starts off slow, but not awkward, as you both test the limits of what you’re wiling to share. Logan’s answers are often short, reserved, but what he does reveal helps bring into focus the outline of the man before you. An outline you’re hoping he’ll let you fill in.

“George says you’re a mutant,” you start slowly and you don’t miss the way his posture stiffens, his fork scraping harshly against the plate.

He goes still and you wonder if you fucked up. Crossed a boundary he wasn’t willing to cross.

Eventually, Logan’s eyes flick up to yours and he lets out a small hum. “He did, did he?”

You nod, chewing. “It doesn’t bother me.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “It bothers most people.”

“I’m not most people,” you reply, your voice soft.

Something in his face softens then, the furrow of his brow a little less pronounced. A slight smile plays at his lips. “No. No you’re not.”

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest and your face flushes. Taking another bite, you ask, “Can I see?”

Logan studies you for a moment and you can see him deciding whether or not to show you that part of him he’d rather keep hidden. He sets the silverware down and he flexes his fingers before resting his palms back on the table. Then, he unsheathes his claws and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips.

You see him flinch at your reaction and he goes to retract his claws and you reach for him. “Don’t,” you say, your fingers hovering just above the blades.

As he relaxes, you gently rest your fingertips against the metal, finding it surprisingly cool but still holding a faint warmth from his body. His eyes drop to where you’re touching him as you slowly begin to trace each blade with your fingers, following the slight curve down to where they emerge from his skin. You look up at him, finding his gaze fixed on you and you shiver under the intensity.

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper. You feel him shudder beneath you as he retracts his claws, leaving your fingertips nestled against the skin between his knuckles.

You pull your hand away from his, mourning the loss of his skin against yours. Logan clears his throat and pulls his hands into his lap, glancing down at them as if they’re foreign, something he’s never taken the time to notice before. He flexes his fingers once more before dragging his gaze back to your face.

“Do they hurt?” you ask quietly.

He shakes his head. “No. Not anymore.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Thank you for showing me.”

Logan studies you for a long moment, searching your face like he’s trying to figure you out. You know he’s probably not used to this, someone seeing him as something other than a mutant, an aberration, someone who should be hidden away. Then, his face softens.

“People don’t usually ask,” he says quietly.

You smile gently, feeling that flame inside you burn just a bit brighter. “I just want to know you.”

He leans back in his chair, his gaze still steady, but more open, as if some of those invisible walls he surrounds himself with have started to come down. If only just enough to let the light shine through.

An unspoken tension simmers, thickening the air, and you know he can feel it too, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s heavy with promise. You turn your attention back to your plate and for a few moments, neither of you speak.

“So,” you say after a beat, “Do you ever use them as forks?”

Logan huffs out a laugh, the sound surprising you and his eyes crinkle in genuine amusement. “I can’t say that I have,” he replies with a smile.

You grin. “You should give it a try.”

“If I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

The rest of dinner passes with easy conversation and you feel your nerves begin to settle, just a bit. Logan seems less guarded too, more at ease than you’ve ever seen him.

You help him clear the table, ignoring his request that you just sit and relax. As you stand next to him, emptying the leftovers into a container, you feel his eyes on you. When you hand him the container, your fingers brush again, but this time he doesn’t immediately pull away. His fingers linger just a bit longer than necessary and your breath catches in your throat.

“Thanks for dinner, he says quietly, voice low. “And for…understanding.”

You nod, feeling that unmistakable pull between you, the tug that’s kept you orbiting closer and closer to him. “Anytime, Logan,” you answer softly. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he’s been burned before and is still figuring out if he can trust what you’re offering him. And you understand his turmoil, trust having shattered your heart into pieces, pieces you’re still trying to pick up and reshape.

Logan steps a little bit closer then and before you can say anything else, his hand gently reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is simple but intimate and it sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling lowly in your belly.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let me walk you home.”

He grabs your basket before you can protest and you follow him out into the night. There’s a full moon hanging heavy in the sky, illuminating the path in front of you, yet you remain close to Logan. You curse to yourself as you trip over an exposed root and then you feel Logan reach out for you, his fingers wrapping securely around your own. The heat of his palm against yours is almost overwhelming.

Your cabin comes into view and Logan slows, his fingers slipping from your grasp as he sets the basket down on the porch.

“Good night, Logan,” you say softly as you walk up the steps.

As you turn from him, he reaches for your wrist, his fingers curling and pressing hotly against your skin. Your breath hitches as he climbs the steps to join you on the porch, and your gasps dies in your throat as he tilts your chin up and forces you to meet his gaze.

“Do I make you nervous?” His voice is low, breath hot and damp against your skin.

“Yes,” you breathe, somehow inching closer to him, your fingers reaching for the hem of his flannel and twisting into the fabric.

“Why?” He brushes his nose against yours and you chase after the touch.

Swallowing hard, you look up at him from under your lashes. You tilt further into him, your mouth hovering just over his. “Because I haven’t felt like this in a very long time and I don’t want it to go away.” Don’t want you to go away.

Logan nods and whispers, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” And then he presses his mouth to yours.

It’s soft, barely a hint of skin against skin, but when you whisper, “Please,” against his lips, Logan growls and then he’s everywhere. His kiss claims you, his tongue licking in your mouth and you whimper as his fingers curl along the nape of your neck somehow pulling you impossibly closer.

You wind your arms around his shoulders, your fingers tangling in the short strands at the back of his head. Your entire world is focused down to the feel of his lips on yours and the press of his fingers against your jaw as he pulls you towards his hungry mouth.

Logan’s grip on you tightens, one hand splayed across your lower back and the other pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him. The heat between you is palpable, each movement of his lips setting you further aflame. You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his beard scraping against your skin, leaving a tingling trail in its wake.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless and his forehead rests against yours, your shared breaths mingling in the space between you. His eyes are dark and intense as they search your face and you feel untethered, Logan being the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough, but surprisingly tender as his thumb traces along the line of your jaw.

You nod, swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

His lips quirk into a small smile. “Good.” He brushes a stray strand of hair away from your cheek, his hand lingering at the side of your face. He presses one last soft kiss to the corner of your mouth before he steps back and walks down the path back home.

+++

You can’t stop thinking about the kiss—Logan’s lips against yours, the taste of his tongue, the press of his hands against your skin, hot and heavy, yet gentle.

You want to live in that moment forever. Want to know only his kisses for the rest of your life, for him to be the first person you kiss good morning and the last person you kiss goodnight. For him to kiss you just because he can, because he misses you, because he can’t get the feel of your mouth out of his mind and he needs to feel you again pressing against him.

You also want to run away, hide yourself from these emotions that are overwhelming you and leaving you feeling raw and exposed and absolutely terrified. You haven’t kissed another man in two years and he broke your heart, leaving nothing but shattered pieces and dust in his wake. Dust that still clings to you despite your best efforts to sweep it up. Those pieces of your heart are still sharp, jagged where they should be smooth.

You’ve always been trusting, choosing to see the light in others as opposed the darkness. Believing deep down that everyone deserves kindness, deserves a second chance, that one bad deed does not a bad person make. But he stole a part of that from you and you hate him for it. Hate that even now, after all this time, he’s able to worm his way into your brain and make you question the motives of the man who’s made you feel more alive than you have in months.

Last night you felt unshackled, unbound by the fear that had chained you for so long. You felt as if Logan’s very touch, his presence, had set your soul on fire and instead of fearing the burn, you were ready to embrace the warmth.

But now, raw contempt begins to simmer in your veins and you need something to pour your frustration into before it threatens to consume you whole.

Throwing your hair up into a messy bun and throwing on a paint-stained shirt and ripped jeans, you head outside looking for a project to sink fingers into. In the small shed behind the cabin, you find a few gardening supplies—a small shovel, trowel, bow rake—and you drag them out and to the overgrown flower beds.

You don’t even bother with the tools at first, ripping at the dead growth with your bare hands, pulling it from the earth in great clumps and tossing it aside. Your pulse beats loudly in your ears as you move from bed to bed, clawing away the old growth, your breathing growing ragged and your palms staining with dirt.

Grabbing the rake, you dig at the remaining plants, tearing at the roots, destroying the new growth. Tears run hotly down your face, blurring your vision and your throat aches from force of your breathing and screams you’ve been holding back.

From behind you, you hear the sound of your name and you whip around so quickly, the rake goes flying from your hands. You can hear the snikt of Logan’s claws as they unsheathe and the splintering of wood as he deflects the rake flying at him. It clatters to the ground between you as he retracts his claws and looks at you, his brow furrowed in concern.

You wonder, then, exactly what you look like in that moment. Dirt caked on your hands and under your fingernails, cheeks flushed with exertion, hair a halo of disarray. The pure adrenaline you’d been running on wanes and your limbs suddenly feel heavy and you sink to the ground in front of him. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, because you’re afraid of what you’ll see.

Logan approaches you slowly, kneeling down in front of you and gently raising your chin to look up at him. The stark worry etched on his face makes you ache and fresh tears burn in your eyes. You wipe at your eyes, which only serves to smear dirt across your face.

“I’m terrified, Logan,” you whisper, wanting to reach for him, but afraid to touch him. “I terrified of how much I like you.”

“You scare me too,” he confesses softly and your heart breaks.

He leans closer, fingers resting hesitantly against your knees. You reach for him too, grabbing on to the open sides of his jacket and pulling him to you. Logan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t push back and instead envelopes you into his arms, your head resting against the solid warmth of his chest.

Safe in his arms, you cry. Harsh, broken sobs as he rubs your back, the soft caress of his fingers along your spine anchoring you to him as he holds you. He murmurs into your hair that he’s got you, to let it all out, and you do.

Eventually, you calm and sigh, pressing your forehead against his chest, loathe to move just yet. “I’m broken, Logan,” you mumble into his shirt. You look up at him then, the softness and concern on his face making you physically ache. “I still have broken pieces where I should be whole.”

Slowly, tentatively, he brings his hands up to your face, cupping your cheeks in his hands. His thumbs brush at the dirt and tears under your eyes and he smoothes the hair away from your forehead. “Maybe some of my pieces fit,” he says, voice low, but steady.

His words send a flood of emotion through you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Then the gravity of what he’s saying hits you—he’s offering you himself, all his jagged and scarred pieces, the pieces no one else sees.

The pieces he wants you to see.

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. His sigh is hot against your cheek, but he doesn’t press further.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his skin and somehow it feels like the most important thing you’ve ever said.

“C’mon,” he says, “Let me help you get this cleaned up.”

You nod, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. Logan stands, offering you his hand. You take it, your fingers slipping into his and his grip is steady, yet gentle as he helps you up.

Without a word, Logan grabs the broken rake and begins removing the debris from the beds you laid waste to. You watch him work for a moment before joining in, pulling the weeds from the beds you hadn’t gotten to yet. Every now and then your eyes meet, but you don’t say anything. You don’t feel the need to fill the space with words, his presence beside you speaking volumes more than he could ever say.

After a while, Logan pauses and looks over at you, wiping the dirt from his hands into his jeans. “You still got those seeds I gave you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Go get ‘em,” he says nodding towards the cabin. “We’ll plant something new.”

You retrieve the small pouch where you’ve kept it safe and come out to find Logan kneeling in the dirt, his fingers making small pockets of earth to house the new flowers. He looks up at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You join him on the ground, dropping a few seeds in each well as he moves to create the next one.

“I’m not very good at this,” Logan starts, covering the last well with dirt, “but I promise I won’t break you. You don’t gotta be scared of me.”

He looks at you then, his hazel eyes meeting yours and you reach for his hand, your thumb brushing across his dirt stained knuckles.

“No,” you reply with a smile, “I don’t think I do.”

+++

It’s been three days since that moment with Logan in the garden and the air between you has been quiet. Logan hasn’t come by the cabin, but you hadn’t sought him out either. You weren’t avoiding him, exactly. More a need for space, a chance to process the feelings you felt for him, to test if you were truly ready to open yourself up to him.

Your mind never strays far from him, though. An almost constant loop plays in your brain of the way he held you, the way he spoke, the quiet promise he made not to break you. There’s a large part of you that believes him; your heart is screaming at you shed your lingering doubt and trust him, but your rational brain is grasping desperately to the kernel of truth that vows can be broken.

So you turn to what you do best—pour your energy into other things. The cabin is spotless now, cleaned of disuse and age, turned into a cozy place of retreat, a simple shelter turned into a home. And yet…

You’re sitting on the porch, watching the sun dip lower in the sky, the book you’d been trying to read long forgotten. The forest is peaceful, alive with the sounds of early summer. But as calming as it is, you can’t ignore the ache in your chest—you miss him. More than you thought possible.

Just as you’re about to stand, the sound of boots against gravel catches your attention. You look up and there he is—Logan. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket as he walks up the path. His look is cautious, as if he’s unsure whether or not you’ll accept his presence.

Your heart skips a beat and you stand, wiping your palms against your jeans as he draws closer. His hazel eyes meet yours and there’s something softer about him, something open.

He stops a few feet away from you, gaze steady. “I wasn’t sure if I should come by.” His voice is still gruff, but quieter than usual. “If you needed space or not.”

“I did, need space. But not from you,” you clarify. You take a hesitant step towards him. “I missed you.”

Logan sighs then, his posture relaxing just slightly. “I wanted so badly to see you. I didn’t know if I should stay away.”

Before you can second guess yourself, you step down from the porch, closing the distance between you. You stand in front of him, noticing the faint lines of tension around his mouth, the way his jaw is clenched as if bracing himself for your rejection.

“Don’t stay away,” you say softly, “I want you here.”

You reach for him, your fingers brushing against his hands as you pull them from his pockets. Logan doesn’t pull away and the warmth of his skin against yours feels like the most natural thing in the world. You feel it then, that familiar pull—the one that’s been there since the beginning, drawing you closer and closer into his orbit, his sun.

You brush your thumbs across his knuckles and look up at him. “You wanna come inside?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll make you something to eat?”

Logan nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

As you lead him inside, something in the air between you shifts, something subtle. But you know one thing for certain—you’re not afraid anymore. Not of this.

+++

The sun has set, the food long gone and as Logan’s hand reaches for the front door, you slip in front of him. His scent overwhelms you, that earthy dampness you’ve come to associate with him flooding your senses.

“What if you stayed?” you ask, the slight waver in your voice betraying your boldness.

You watch as his eyes darken and he leans even further into your space. “Do you know what you’re asking, sweetheart?” he replies, eyes searching your face.

Swallowing, you nod. “I do,” you whisper.

Then you slide your arms around his waist, pulling him closer as you lean in and kiss the hollow of his throat. You can feel him swallow hard beneath your lips and you smirk into his skin as you drag your mouth higher, over the long column of his neck to nip at the corner of his jaw.

“Stay,” you murmur in his ear.

Logan turns, his nose brushing against your cheek as he seeks your mouth and you inhale deeply as his lips find yours. His fingers wind themselves into your hair, resting against the nape of your neck as he pulls you closer. You whimper into his mouth when he pulls back, eyes blown black.

“Show me where,” he says, his voice low.

You lead him up the stairs, his hand warm in yours and you barely make it to the top before Logan’s spinning you around, mouth finding yours. His is kiss is demanding, so different from that first one all those nights ago. This is urgent and desperate, like he can’t possibly get you close enough to satisfy the need deep within him. And you feel it too, pouring yourself back equally into the kiss, moaning as his tongue finally slips alongside yours.

Your fingers fumble along the top of his jeans, pulling his shirt from where it’s tucked and sliding your hands up along the sides of his ribs. He rewards you with a deep groan of his own, nipping slightly at your bottom lip.

“Christ, sweetheart,” he rumbles against your lips, kissing you once, twice, “I’ve been dyin’ to feel your hands on me.”

“Me, too,” you reply, gasping as his hands find the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to brush his fingers hotly along your skin.

Logan pulls back just enough to look down at your face, his fingers still clutching the fabric of your shirt, but lifting it just a bit higher. His gaze is questioning, asking for silent permission to continue. You nod once and he slowly drags the shirt up, his fingers skimming along your sides, over the swells of your breasts as he pulls the shirt over your head.

Despite the heat coursing through your veins, you shiver under the intensity of his stare. He kisses you again, inhaling deeply, before moving down, nipping over your chin, your throat, in between your breasts.

Logan’s hands follow his mouth, running a trail from your shoulders, down long your spine, easily flicking open the clasp of your bra on the way. He glances up at you as he moves to pull the straps aside, dragging them down your arms.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asks, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, thumbs fanning out across your nipples.

A jolt of pleasure shoots down your spine and pools low in your belly. You feel like you might spontaneously catch on fire and he’s barely touched you. You can’t remember ever feeling like this when a man has touched you, so consumed by want and need.

His fingers trail lower, brushing along the top of your jeans, popping open the button. You grab for his hand, stopping him. You see the concern flicker across his face and you smile. “Your turn,” you say, sliding your palms up his chest and pushing the flannel from his shoulders, his shirt following suit.

You revel in his muscular physique, your fingers tracing along his collarbones, down over the broad planes of his chest, feeling the wiry hair beneath your fingertips. His muscles flutter beneath your touch as you follow the trail of hair lower, down to the vee between his hips.

Logan’s arousal is evident by the tenting of his jeans, and your eyes locked on his, you dip lower, giving the faintest of caresses over the fabric.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he curses. “Take your pants off.”

It’s a command, not an ask, and one you’re more than willing to comply with.

Nervous energy licks at your skin as your fingers tuck into the waistband of your jeans and pull them down. Logan follows your lead, unbuckling his belt and shoving his jeans over his hips, kicking them aside. His cock juts out proudly, thick and heavy, nestled in a bed of hair.

Logan’s on you before you can kick away the last leg, hoisting you up under your thighs and forcing you to wrap your legs around his hips. His palms are hot against your ass and you can feel his cock trapped between you.

He moves you both to the bed, setting you down before crawling over you and slotting himself between your thighs. Leaning back on his heels, he stares down at you, skin flushed. He kisses you softly once, before dragging a single finger down the center of your chest, hooking it into the waistband of your panties.

“What do you like?” he asks lowly, eyes boring into yours.

You stare at him, unable to comprehend his question as he slides his finger back and forth across your skin. Electric sparks of anticipation crawl up your spine and you can feel the rapid flutter of your heart against your ribs.

“You want me to touch you with my fingers?” His voice is low, so low and you shiver.

Your mouth has gone dry and you can only nod.

“You want me to touch you with my mouth?” Logan leans down, skimming his lips across your collarbone, nipping lightly.

Your fingers stutter across his shoulders and wind themselves into his hair. Logan’s smirk presses into the corner of your jaw. “Want me to touch you with both?”

“Please,” you whine into his neck, breath hot against his skin.

Logan trails back down your body, kisses peppering over your neck, both breasts, your belly before he presses a kiss to the top of your clothed mound. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and looks up at you, asking for permission. At your nod, he pulls he material down, eyes never leaving yours as he trails his fingers down your legs and tosses the fabric aside.

You’re fully bare, exposed in a way you haven’t been in a long time and your nerves blush across your skin. Instinctively, you try to close your legs, but he stops you, his hot palms curling against your thighs.

“You don’t gotta hide from me,” Logan says, kissing your knee and spreading your legs further apart. “You’re so pretty like this. Flushed and wet and smelling so sweet for me.”

A jolt of desire zips down your spine. Nothing could have prepared you for the filthiness of words that would spill from his mouth. Or how much you’d enjoy hearing them.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” you murmur.

“That’s not possible.”

“Other men have—“

Your words die in your throat as Logan grips your chin, forcing your gaze up to his face. His expression is soft, but his eyes flash with a glint of something dark. “When I fuck you, I’ll be the only man in your bed, understand?”

The roughness and edge in his voice makes you shiver and heat pools between your thighs. You swallow heavily and nod.

“I want this,” he says, his tone softer. “I want you. Whatever you’ll give me.”

Slowly, you reach for his hand and guide his fingers to where you’re wet and aching for him. At the first brush of his fingertips against your folds, you gasp and your fingers dig deeper into his skin.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Logan coos. “I’m gonna make you feel good.”

And then he’s touching you, fingers dragging through your arousal before circling around your clit. He caresses you like he knows you and you’re molten beneath him. One finger, then two slip inside you, pressing against that spot that makes you squirm and grip at the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “You weren’t lying.” Logan quirks an eyebrow, fingers still curling within you, his rhythm picking up speed. “You are good with your hands.”

His chuckle rumbles through his chest as he continues to move, this thumb working over your clit. Your hips jolt off the bed when Logan replaces his thumb with his tongue, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth.

He continues to work your cunt, long, flat presses of his tongue against your clit punctuated by the short, sharp thrusts of his fingers. The dual sensation is enough to wind that tension in your core tighter, building you up higher and higher until you feel yourself reaching that inevitable peak.

“Logan, I—I’m so close,” you gasp, fisting your fingers into his hair.

His growl against your cunt is enough to send you over the edge, the vibrations rippling through your body as your orgasm washes over you. Through half lidded eyes, you meet his gaze from between your thighs, his eyes dark with desire and you shiver at the intensity of his stare.

Logan crawls over you, pressing a kiss to your lips. You can taste yourself on his lips, bright and sour, as he licks into your mouth.

“Do you trust me?”

Logan’s fingers are still moving against you, wringing out the last of your orgasm and you can only nod. He withdraws his fingers and you whine, but he just smirks and taps your hip.

“Turn over,” he commands lowly.

A shudder ripples through you as you willingly comply, rolling onto your stomach as Logan’s palm trails from your hip over the swell of your ass. His fingers kneed into your flesh and you squeak as he curves them over your skin, pulling you up onto your knees, drawing your hips flush with his. The thick feel of his cock presses into your ass and you can’t help but push back, enjoying the strangled moan that falls from his lips.

“I can’t wait to be nestled deep inside you,” he groans, slotting his cock between your thighs, running the length along your wet cunt.

You peer over your shoulder and smirk at him. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Logan lines up then and the air punches out of your lungs as he slowly eases himself in to the hilt. He’s deep at this angle and you feel claimed, owned in the best way possible as he begins to move his hips. The drag of his cock against your walls is exquisite and you’re sure you’ve never experienced pleasure quite like this before.

His fingers dig into the flesh at your hips, grabbing as much as he can to pull you back into him and you push back, meeting him thrust for thrust. His grip is enough to be bruising, teetering that line between pleasure and pain and yet you relish it.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Look so good stretched around my cock.”

Pleasure zips along your spine and curls along your limbs, each drag of his cock against you coiling that band in your belly tighter and tighter. Yet, you need more. You need to feel him, feel his arms around you, on you, feel his mouth hot and open against your skin.

“I need to feel you closer,” you whine. “Please, I—”

Logan’s arm slips underneath you, curling just under your breasts and pulling your back flush to his chest. He holds on, fingertips splaying across your ribcage as he fucks up into you, his breath hot and damp against your ear.

You turn your head just enough to capture his lips, your mouth pressing against his in an open-mouthed kiss. He steals the moan from your throat as his other hand dips to where you’re joined, fingers beginning to circle around your clit.

Slipping a hand into his hair, you hold him to you, your head falling back onto his shoulder. Logan groans when you rake your nails along his scalp and you do it again. Your mixed groans and the wet noises from where he’s thrusting into you fill the room and time seems to stop. There is nothing but the thick feel of him between your legs, the fervent press of his fingers against your clit and the tight grasp of his hand across your breast.

A litany of praise falls from his mouth and his words burn through you, setting you aflame from the inside. It’s too early for thoughts of love and forever, but you can feel something real, something undeniable pulling you together, uniting you in a way more than just physical. You’re bound to him.

Logan’s hand slides up your sternum, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, pulling your focus back to him. The pad of his thumb pulls at your lower lip. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he husks into your ear. “I wanna hear those pretty sounds you make.”

And you do, two more forceful thrusts sending you teetering over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you. Logan doesn’t stop, fucking you through wave after wave, his thrusts getting sloppier as he chases his own release.

“Let me feel you, Logan,” you pant, your breath coming out in short gasps. “Please.”

With a deep groan into your shoulder he comes, his cock spasming deep within you, painting your womb with his seed. His arm around your hips holds you firmly in place as he uses your body to wring out the last of his pleasure, shallowly thrusting as your walls caress him. When he finally stills, breath hot against your skin, you can feel your combined come slick against your thighs.

You don’t know how long he holds you like that, back to chest, keeping you in his arms simply because he can.

Only later, when the sweat begins to cool on your skin and your flesh pebbles, does Logan lay you down, finally slipping from within you. He pulls you close and you rest your head against his chest, the comforting lull of his heartbeat echoing in your ear.

You lightly trace your fingertips over the crest of his hipbone just to feel him beneath you. His breathing evens out, approaching that blissful edge of sleep when you glance up at him. Logan opens his eyes, gaze meeting yours and he smiles.

“Logan?”

His hum vibrates through his chest.

“I think we’re healing each other.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he answers, “I think we are.”

#logan howlett x you #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #origins wolverine #origins logan howlett #the wolverine #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine smut #logan howlett fic #logan howlett fanfiction #logan x reader #logan howlett x fem!reader

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vmiina · 22 days ago

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save a prayer

summary you come to jensen’s trailer while he’s on the set of supernatural.

warnings 18+ mdni!! porn without plot quickie unprotected p in v creampie risk of getting caught dirty talk

the door to jensen’s trailer clicks shut behind you, sealing you both inside the small, dimly lit space. the chatter of his crew members is distant, but it’s close enough for you both to know that you have to be careful.

jensen exhales sharply, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in the process. he’s still in full dean winchester mode— leather jacket, boots, that damn amulet hanging on his neck. “you shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, but his eyes betray his words’ meaning as they rake over you hungrily.

you step closer, fingers curling around his jacket, pulling him closer to you. “we both know that’s a lie.”

a low chuckle leaves his lips, but before you can say anything else he crashes his lips on yours. the kiss is messy, desperate. his hands are already sliding up your shirt, pushing it up just above your chest, revealing your bra to him, his fingertips glide over your hot skin, sending a shiver down your spine. he backs you up until his knees hit the small couch in his trailer, his body presses you down on it, trapping you under his weight.

“fuck—“ he mutters against your mouth, teeth pulling at your bottom lip before he moves lower, kissing down your neck as his hands work on your jeans, undoing the button with practiced ease, slipping them down. jensen plants a sloppy kiss to the crook of your neck, sucking the skin there. his stubble scratches against your skin and you arch into him, fingers slipping under the leather jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. he shrugs it off, throwing it across the small space, yanking at his belt next.

somewhere outside, a crew member shouts something about a lighting setup, reminding you of just how little time you have. but jensen doesn’t seem to care— his movements are rough, hurried, his breath hot against your skin as he fumbles with his jeans.

“we gotta be quick,” he says, but his smirk says he’s enjoying the risk of this all. the fact that you have a chance of getting caught makes him even more excited.

your hands move just as urgently as his, tugging his jeans down just enough, your fingers curling around his already hardened cock, making him groan against your collarbone. jensen’s hips immediately buck into your grip, his face lifting from your neck to look you in the eye, glaring at you as a warning, silently begging you to stop teasing him.

but you’re just as impatient as he is, so you don’t tease for long, your fingers slip under the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, making his length snap up against his lower abdomen.

he runs his fingers through your covered folds a couple times, stopping to rub at your clit, just to rile you up. his gaze is intense, trying to capture every single one of your reactions. when you land a harsh smack at his shoulder he scoffs, pulling your panties to the side and stopping the teasing.

jensen slides a couple fingers into your pussy, making sure you’re loose enough so he can slide in without hurting you. when he’s sure that you’re ready, he aligns the tip of his cock with your entrance, slowly pushing in, burying himself to the hilt in one swift moment. you let out a gasp at the stretch, but it’s short-lived, quickly swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you again, rough and consuming.

he grips your hip as he thrusts forward, making the trailer creak slightly with each snap of his hips. “couldn’t even fuckin’ wait till i was done filming, huh?” he taunts once he breaks the kiss, eyes locked on your face.

jensen’s filthy words and the way his cock is hitting every right spot inside you has you let out a particularly loud moan slip through your lips, your hand immediately comes up to clamp over your mouth in order to keep yourself shut, but he just grabs your wrist firmly, pulling your hand down.

“c’mon— don’t, let ‘em all hear who’s fucking you,” he husks, pressing kisses on your cheek, the action rather sweet compared to the rapid movement of his hips.

you bite your lip, trying to keep down the moan that threatens to slip out, but jensen’s free hand finds his way to your throat, thumb pressing just enough to make you let out a gasp. “feel so fuckin’ good,” he breathes. “could keep fuckin’ you like this all goddamn day but i’ve got—“ he grits his teeth, barely able to keep himself together. “i’ve got a goddamn schedule.”

the thought of him needing to hurry only fuels the fire between you, makes you clench around him as you try to match his cruel rhythm, your hands grip his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin even through the shirt he’s wearing. a smirk forms on his lips and his cock drives into you faster, harder, as if the thought of getting caught only motivates him further.

“let them hear you,” he insists, pulling your legs around his waist, pushing you deeper into the couch. he’s desperate now, a bead of sweat on his forehead as his release grows closer. “don’t give a fuck— shit— about the set if it means i get to have you like this.”

and with that, you lose yourself completely in the pleasure, the tension in your body snapping as you come apart around his cock. jensen groans, his own release following quickly, his movement faltering as he buries himself deep, his cum coating your insides.

he pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his chest heaving as he presses a kiss to your forehead, hand coming up to brush hair out of your face. “you did good,” he praises as he pulls out from you.

you both scramble to fix yourselves as quickly as possible, the voices outside growing closer and louder, signaling that he has to go back to the set. “we’ll have more time later, ‘kay?” he promises before stepping out of the trailer, ready to return to his role.

#ꦿ writing. ⸝⸝#jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles smut #dean winchester smut #supernatural #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #jensen fucking ackles #dean winchester oneshot #dean winchester imagine

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wildestdreamsblog · 4 months ago

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Latibule Season 2: VI

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (Mafia/Detective AU)

Summary: In which he lost his latibule.

Warnings: Secret Identity, Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Mention of death, Disability, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: I miss Yoongi. I hope his heart is happy right now

Masterlist, Latibule 2.V

If you tell Yoongi to go to hell, he’d most likely laugh at your face and told you that he had already been there.

He was there.

He lived there. In fact, hell was an old friend of his, one that he spent too much time with. Hell was before you, long before. He just never thought there could be a hell after you.

Each day after your supposedly demise was hell for him– a nightmare that just wouldn’t end. It was something he couldn’t escape. It was as though his world was devoid of any good, of any color and taste, of any happiness. Hell was not a place. No. Hell was a feeling.

It was the weight that pressed down on him every morning, the heaviness in his chest when he opened his eyes to find your side of the bed empty. Hell was the silence that replaced your laughter, the absence of your voice calling his name, the ghost of your touch that never quite left his skin. Hell was the cold, unrelenting thought that you were gone, and that he'd never get to hold you again.

It was exactly what he was feeling as you looked at him with disgust in your eyes. It was the way you looked at him as though you no longer recognized him. It was the way you wanted nothing but to leave him again.

Yet Yoongi knew what heaven was, too. He had known because of you.

You were his heaven. You were his latibule, his safe place, the one person who could calm the storms inside him. When you were with him, he could breathe.

You had been the anchor, the one thing that kept him tethered to a life that wasn’t just pain and darkness. When you ‘died’, he just kept sinking. It was too cold without you. You took the sun with you and every day since then felt like he was drowning. It didn’t matter how much time had passed or how many things had changed in the world around him—nothing mattered when you were gone. You had been everything.

He wanted to tell you that hell wasn’t a place. It was a life without you in it. And for Yoongi, that was the cruelest punishment of all.

So, forgive him if he couldn’t let go. Forgive him for holding on so tightly, because after all the pain, after all the years of suffocating, the thought of losing you again was simply unimaginable.

He wouldn’t let go, not even when you were glaring at him so hard from your position on the hospital bed. All that mattered was that you were here, you were alive, and he wasn’t going to let you slip away again.

And that was how Seokjin found you and Yoongi.

He blinked at the atmosphere in the hospital room. The animosity coming from you was too strong, while Yoongi was just shrugging off your irritation., his hold on your hand not letting up for even a second.

The scene was enough to suffocate him—his eyes flicking between you, still glaring at Yoongi with fire in your eyes, and Yoongi, whose posture was relaxed but whose expression was softer, almost... defeated. It was clear to Seokjin that Yoongi was not going to move an inch, and you, in your hospital bed, weren’t about to give in. The tension in the room was so thick it almost had a physical presence.

“For the record,” Seokjin started, trying to cut through the tension as he checked your dextrose and adjusted the IV drip, his voice light and casual as though he was merely talking about the sunny weather outside. "I’d rather be in a ten-day conference with a bunch of idiots than be here right now. Scratch that. I’d rather be with Jungkook and listen to him go on and on about missing his wife than be here. Honestly."

Silence.

Seokjin sighed as he turned away from the bedside table, jotting something down on his tablet. “I also know a good relationship therapist. I’ll give you her card later, Yoongs.”

Yoongi finally looked up at Seokjin, his eyes tired but steady. “Not in the mood for your jokes, hyung.”

“Are you in the mood to let me go?” You asked dryly, you brain itching to leave the hospital and go back to your own life.

Yoongi smirked, his eyes flicking to yours, a teasing glint softening the sharp edges of his gaze. His fingers tightened around yours just enough to remind you he wasn’t letting go anytime soon. “Not a chance, angel.” His lips curled into a playful smile, and before you could even process what he was doing, he leaned down and kissed the back of your hand, much to your reluctant surprise.

He wanted to say that he would rather clip your wings. That way, you wouldn’t be able to fly away from him like the angel that you were.

“Drama,” Seokjin singsonged. It would have been impressive how effortlessly his voice flowed, how rich it sounded despite the absurdity of the moment. It would have been, had you not been absolutely annoyed at him. “I’m allergic to that, by the way. Jimin, on the other hand, would thrive in this. I will call him as soon as I finish this.”

Before Yoongi could even respond, Seokjin turned his full attention to you. “I have the results, as well as your records from your previous doctor. I am sure you're already well-aware of your diagnosis. I’m not going into details—"

“Do go into the details,” Yoongi insisted, almost impatient, as he wanted to know all about what happened and who he had to go after for turning you into this. They took something from you and he firmly believed that he should take something from theirs, too.

"I don’t want to," Seokjin said with a simplicity that dripped with smugness, his voice cool and collected in a way that only he could pull off. His gaze shifted to Yoongi, and he pouted exaggeratedly, lips curling into the perfect picture of a petulant child—a brat, through and through. "Time is gold, and you know I’m scheduled every day from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. to look for my runaway sunshine. It’s already 9:23 in the morning, and my sunshine won’t find itself, now, will it?"

“Hyung, it is important that I find-”

“So, going back before we were rudely interrupted,” he cut him off, completely turning his body to you with a smile on his face. “Operation or no operation? Blind or no blind?”

You blinked owlishly at his approach. The way he phrased it made it feel almost… casual. As though your fate were just another routine decision, like choosing a drink at a café. There was no warmth in his tone, no hesitation. Just… options. And a lack of them at the same time.

The stakes were far higher than Seokjin seemed to realize, but then again, maybe that was exactly how he managed to remain so calm. He had mastered detachment.

“What are the chances of success?” you asked, finally finding your voice. The question tumbled out before you could stop it, and you immediately regretted how small it sounded in the weight of the room. Despite your acceptance with your situation, there was still a part of you that clung to hope that you could live normally again and without the weight of the impending disability. There was a part of you that was praying so hard that you’d get to witness your son grow up.

Seokjin didn’t flinch. In fact, he didn’t even seem to think twice before answering. He spoke almost like he was offering you a simple piece of advice.

“Forty-sixty,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours with a casual coolness that didn’t match the gravity of his words. “But since I’m the doctor… fifty-fifty.”

Suddenly, it hit Yoongi. It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t one moment, but a sudden avalanche of all the things he hadn’t seen—the things he should have noticed, the things he was too blind to acknowledge, and yet, here they were, all crashing back to him with the force of a thousand waves.

How you had always moved through the dark like it was second nature to you, as though you had already prepared for it. How you never stumbled, never hesitated, even when the room’s lights were out, your steps confident and sure, like you already knew the path in the pitch blackness.

Then there were the nights. Every night, without fail, you would step outside and look at the stars, your gaze soft and wistful, as if you were committing each constellation to memory, as though you feared you might never see them again.

And those mornings. The mornings when you would wake up, your eyes still heavy with sleep, but you would always look at him with such tenderness, a kind of reverence in your gaze that he had never fully understood. Sometimes, when you thought he was asleep, you’d trace the angles of his face with your fingertips, gently memorizing the curve of his jaw, the shape of his nose, the lines of his brow—as if you feared forgetting them, as though you were trying to make sure every detail was etched into your memory forever.

But it wasn’t until that dreadful day that everything crashed down around him.

The day when you failed to see the car coming, when you didn’t even flinch as it came dangerously close, and he had to shout your name to pull you back in time. That moment, when his heart had stopped, and he had felt something break inside of him, but he hadn’t understood why. He thought it was just a close call. He thought you were distracted.

But now, in the quiet aftermath of Seokjin’s words, it all made sense. Your condition was worse than he anticipated.

The decision itself was no brainer to you. You knew what you would choose. There was no assurance that you would see again, and you had long accepted your fate. It just became more difficult now that you had a son. You thought that you would rather lose your sight slowly than lose it all at once. That way, you reasoned, you could still bask in his innocent face and commit his form to memory than to never see him again.

You were about to respond, your mind racing with all the things you wanted to say, but before you could open your mouth, Yoongi stood up suddenly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. His face shifted from quiet tension to outright frustration, morphing into an expression of disbelief, as if this whole conversation was beneath him.

"Why are we even discussing this?" Yoongi said, his voice rising with impatience. "My Angel will go under the operation—"

You cut him off immediately, spinning to face him with a glare sharp enough to cut through his words.

“Who says I will?” You shot him an incredulous look, appalled by his audacity. You turned to him with an incredulous look. The audacity of this man who fooled you to decide for you! “You don’t have a say in this.”

Yoongi froze, his expression falling into an unreadable mask for a moment before a humorless chuckle left his lips. He didn't like this, not one bit. In fact, he seemed almost offended by your defiance. He barely spared you a glance before turning to Seokjin, his entire posture brimming with the kind of authority he rarely let slip.

“I’ll pay double the cost, hyung,” he said with the kind of conviction that usually made people back down. “Whatever the cost is, I’ll double it. No, I’ll triple it, hyung. She will be well.”

“Does my decision not matter?!”

Seokjin, thankfully, didn’t let the moment drag on too long. With an exaggerated grimace, he turned to Yoongi, his voice dripping with mock disgust.

“Ew,” Seokjin said, his tone like he’d just stepped in something unpleasant. He glanced Yoongi up and down, as if inspecting him, before tapping away at his tablet with exaggerated speed. "You should know that money does nothing for me." He paused, just long enough to let that sink in, then flashed the tablet at you like it was some kind of trophy.

"Look!" he said with a wide, almost smug grin. "And that’s just my money in one of the many, many, many accounts I have. My and sunshine’s future children can live off of my wealth for several generations." He flicked his eyes over to Yoongi, his expression gleeful, as if he’d just won an argument that wasn’t even his to win.

“And besides!” Seokjin continued, not missing a beat. “I cannot operate on someone in my hospital without consent! That is malpractice!”

Yoongi’s eyes flared with incredulity. "That is where you draw the line?!" His voice rose again, this time laced with disbelief, frustration, and something else, something darker. "Malpractice? You—"

“Well, I have to draw the line somewhere!” Seokjin said, his voice light and teasing, though the words held a strange weight, the corners of his lips curling into a playful smirk. “If I don’t, I’ll be just like the Joker—only with a more handsome, perfect, and immaculate face. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He winked for emphasis, clearly pleased with his own self-deprecating humor. But as ridiculous as his words sounded, there was a sharp truth to them. Heavens knew what might happen if Seokjin ever truly lost the tiny bit of humanity and morality he still clung to. That would be a terrifying thought.

But Yoongi wasn’t laughing.

He was standing in the middle of the room, his fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight with frustration. His eyes were a storm of emotion, and as much as he tried to suppress it, there was a flicker of desperation burning beneath the surface.

Seokjin seemed to sense it, his tone turning a bit more serious as he let the joke fall away. “But hyung—” Yoongi began, stepping forward, his voice cracking with a rare vulnerability. “You don’t understand, I need her to be—”

“Only family members can decide for a medical procedure on behalf,” Seokjin interrupted him with an almost bored finality, his tone sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. “Are you her husband? No? Then no. She has to decide for herself.”

Seokjin turned to him, and this time his eyes didn’t have the usual glint they had on them. This time, it was cold and serious. It was as though there was a switch in his hyung, one that he could freely turn on and off. “Trust me on this, Yoongi.”

He looked down at his watch with a frown. “You made me late. It’s already 10:01! I am definitely going to charge this in your bill!” He ranted on, his long legs moved with purpose, and for a moment, Yoongi almost forgot how ridiculous Seokjin could be when he was trying to make a point.

But just as Seokjin reached the door, he stopped and turned on his heel, his gaze shifting to you.

“And you,” Seokjin pointed directly at you with an overly dramatic flourish, “you have a week to decide. A week, understand? You have to decide, or I will,” he raised his brows at you, hinting another thing that you should disclose to his brother. Your eyes widened at what he was insinuating and you knew your time was running out. You were starting to wonder what his play was that he was actively keeping quiet regarding the other thing that he found out – the secret that you never wanted Yoongi to know. “For the meantime, I’ll discharge you. Don’t get too comfortable here. The two of you are ruining the vibes in my immaculate hospital with your angst that’s definitely worse than Nicholas Spark’s drama novels!”

Yoongi, still standing stiffly in the middle of the room, opened his mouth, probably to protest or to demand more information, but Seokjin wasn’t finished. No, the grand finale was just beginning.

He turned, his finger now wagging at Yoongi with comical intensity. "And you!" Seokjin’s voice rose again, sharper now. "Unless you can become her husband in a week, the decision is just hers to make! Got it? Are you sure you understand? You do? You don’t? Okay, bye!"

“This is kidnapping,” you noted as he lead you inside his penthouse. To be honest, you were terrified of entering another unfamiliar territory. You got so used to your old place and knowing where everything was, knowing which direction to step to avoid uneven floorings, and of knowing all the edges and corners your place had that it became your comfort zone. You were independent there, so opposite to who you were reduced to right now in his space. When your sight worsened further, Hoseok suddenly stopped moving places so often. He decided that it had been long enough and that the family he took for his own was safe and forgotten by him. He decided to show you the soft side of his heart when he noticed how bad you were starting to struggle.

He didn’t know that that was going to become his downfall.

And now, you were back to square one.

“You can call it what you want, and I’ll call it what I want. This is called taking my Angel home,” he replied, his voice deep. He surmised from his drive home that it didn’t matter what you were feeling right now nor the hatred that you kept deep in your heart for him. You loved him once, you sure as hell could do it again.

He’d make you.

He was sure he could because the opposite of that happening was unimaginable to him.

“I’m not your property. I’m not your angel,” you seethed as you attempted to pull your hand away from his. Everything had gone by way too fast that it left you reeling. Your past and present collided, and you feared that you could no longer keep up. At the end of the day, you just wanted to see your son. You wanted, no. You needed to see him longer, to be able to use your sense of sight for far longer before you were subjected to a life of darkness without ever seeing his face again.

Yoongi’s mouth curled into a small, unreadable smile as he gently guided you toward the sofa. His touch never wavered. He was careful, but in a way that only made the underlying control more apparent. When he finally settled you down, he didn’t back off. No, he planted himself right in front of you, on the coffee table, his knee brushing against your thigh, forcing you into his orbit, where you could no longer escape.

"Why is that, angel?" he asked, his voice low, each word dripping with something that could have been sympathy, if it wasn’t for the edge in his tone. You knew that tone well enough. It wasn’t about soothing you. It wasn’t about offering comfort. It was about breaking you down, piece by piece, until he had enough of your cracks exposed to know how to fix what was broken between you two.

The smile on his lips widened slightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes were cold, searching, calculating, and you hated how easily you could feel the weight of his gaze as it settled on you. He wasn’t asking a question, not really.

“Because you claimed that I want you gone? That it was me who wanted you dead?” His voice was calm, too calm, but you could hear the quiet fury behind it. His words were deliberate, every one of them cutting through the air like a knife, honing in on your weak points with pinpoint accuracy.

You clenched your fists, nails digging into the fabric of your jeans, trying to hold onto the shred of control you still had. His proximity made it harder to breathe, harder to think, but you refused to let him see you falter. You wouldn’t let him think that you were weaker than you’d been before. You wouldn’t.

“You’re asking me that now?” you spat, the words hot with defiance, but your voice wavered slightly, betraying you. “After everything that’s happened? After you… you did what you did?”

Yoongi tilted his head, an almost imperceptible shift in his posture that made it clear he wasn’t even close to finished with you. He had no intention of letting you get away with anything. Without warning, his hands gripped yours—gentle, but unyielding. You tried to pull away, but his hold was steady, calculated, as he brought your trembling hands to his lips. The warmth of his mouth pressed softly against your skin, and each kiss felt like a slow burn, searing through the thin walls of your resistance as he whispered. “And what exactly did I do the night of the accident? Didn’t I do my absolute best to save you? Didn’t I almost die, too?” You were shaking your head even before he finished speaking. All the thoughts in your mind were chaotic. The constant statements of Hoseok that Yoongi lied, that he was Agustd and that he wanted you dead were clashing with what Yoongi was saying.

Your breath caught in your throat, a wave of panic hitting you like a slap to the face. He was wrong. He had to be. His words were poison, they twisted things, warped them into something unrecognizable. The chaos in your mind roared louder, drowning out his voice, but still, the cracks in your resolve grew wider with every second he spoke.

“No?” His voice dropped even lower, and you could hear the challenge in it, the subtle shift of control. “Angel, just because you didn’t know that I was crazy looking for you doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, an erratic beat that only matched the mess of thoughts colliding inside your mind. “If you really looked for me, then why didn’t you find me?!” The words slipped out before you could stop them. Your voice trembled with all the pain, the months of waiting, the helplessness that had turned into something darker, something bitter.

You wanted to scream that you waited. You wanted to say that for months, there was a part of you that clung to hope that he’d find you and your son, that he would explain and that everything would be back to the way they were. You wanted to say you waited and waited until hope morphed into an ugly hatred. You waited until the love turned into suspicions and manipulations. You waited until love had to fade in the background.

But your voice faltered. The words caught in your throat.

“Who looked for me?” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of your own disbelief. “Was it Suga? Was it Yoongi? Or was it Agustd?”

Yoongi’s expression darkened, and for a moment, his eyes flashed with something close to anger—an emotion so raw, so real, that it stopped you in your tracks. But then, just as quickly, his face softened, and he reached for you again, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand.

“Me, my angel,” he replied softly, his voice carrying a tenderness that made your chest ache. “Your Suga. I looked for you. I searched for you.”

The silence that followed hung heavy, thick with the unspoken truths you were both refusing to face. Yoongi exhaled a long, weary sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of everything pressing down on him was almost too much to bear.

“I already told you that I don’t want you gone,” he said, his voice edged with frustration now, the calmness cracking. “Whoever has been feeding you those lies is the one manipulating you. Not me. I already told you the truth.”

You flinched at his words, the sting of them cutting through your confusion like a blade. He was still trying to make you believe him, trying to make you accept his version of reality. And the worst part was, part of you—part of you—wanted to.

But the pain, the years of waiting, the broken trust, the sense of abandonment—it was too much. You had to protect yourself, even if it meant shutting him out. Even if it meant believing the lies, the twisted stories you had heard from others. They had to be true. Didn’t they?

“But you’re not ready to hear that, are you?” Yoongi’s voice broke through your thoughts, colder now, sharper. “You’d rather believe the lies that that person is telling you.”

“Think, angel,” he said, his voice low but forceful, each word coming out with such purpose that it shook you to your core. “You know my past. You know how my parents were. You know I would never do to someone I love what they did to me, more so I would never do that to you.” He leaned in, his breath brushing against your ear as he continued, his voice a soft, almost desperate whisper. “So why do you think that I would do anything to hurt you? Why would I want the only person I have ever loved so fucking sincerely and dearly that it physically hurt?”

You felt the weight of his words pressing down on you, the intensity in his voice pushing you to the brink of something you couldn’t yet grasp. The emotions, the memories, they were swirling in your mind, fighting for dominance. You could feel his pain, his truth, but you couldn’t let yourself go there—not yet. Not when everything was so raw, so broken. Not when he had been the one to break you in ways that couldn’t be easily fixed.

“Stop,” you cut him off, your voice barely above a whisper, but it was a sharp, desperate plea. “Just stop, Yoongi. I can’t do this with you anymore.”

His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with something else—something deeper, something you couldn’t read, but it made your chest tighten. He wasn’t letting you escape. Not this time.

“No.” His voice was firm, unyielding, and it made your breath catch in your throat. “You will hear this, angel. You need to hear this once and for all. I would never hurt you. You have my whole heart. You have my soul.” He was so close now, his presence overwhelming, and the words spilled out of him like a confession. “The only thing I did wrong was failing to protect the only person I have and will ever love.”

His gaze locked onto yours, raw and unfiltered, as though he was trying to pour every ounce of himself into you. You wanted to turn away, to block him out, but your body felt like it was frozen in place, unable to move under the weight of his words.

“I am Agustd,” he said, his voice a low growl that vibrated through your bones, “but to you, I am your Suga. I breathe and live for you.”

You shook your head, trying to push the conflicting emotions away, but they only pressed harder against you. You didn’t know what to believe anymore. His words twisted around your heart, like hands pulling at your insides, but the damage—the damage—had already been done. The things he had left unsaid, the lies, the betrayal, you couldn’t just let that go.

Jung Hoseok’s warnings echoed in your mind, "Yoongi's a liar. Agustd is a monster. He's the one who wanted you dead." The words were like knives, cutting through the fragile web of trust that you had left for him.

“Jung Hoseok was a master manipulator,” Yoongi continued, his voice steady, even as he leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing against yours. “If he’s the one feeding you lies—and I bet he was—then you need to hear this. His skills could rival that of Taehyung’s. I don’t blame you, even someone trained to resist would find it difficult to not believe in his well-crafted lies.”

You flinched at the mention of Hoseok’s name, the anger in your chest flaring, but Yoongi wasn’t finished. His words were no longer pleading; they were final, like he had made up his mind, and there was no turning back.

“Now that everything is said and done, you will never leave my side again.” His tone was possessive, unyielding, and something dark flickered in his eyes—like a promise, or a threat. “You will be better. I will give you my fucking eye if I have to.” His hands tightened around your wrists, almost painfully, as if to remind you that you were his. “I will find the ones who did this to you, and I will take their eyes for you.”

The words made your stomach churn. The anger, the rawness in his voice—it was like a wild thing, untamed and dangerous. But beneath it, you could hear the desperation, the hunger to make things right in his own twisted way. He was fixing things in his mind, as if it was so simple. As if all of it could be erased with promises and force.

Kim Namjoon POV

“A marriage license? All of a sudden?”

Yoongi’s tone came through the receiver, flat and unbothered. “Don’t act like you can’t procure a legal marriage license if you wanted, Joonie. You do have judges on your payroll,” he said, almost lazily, as though this wasn’t the kind of thing that should set off alarm bells. As if asking for a favor that would change the entire course of someone’s life was a casual thing.

Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut in frustration. He knew that tone. Yoongi was done. He was already over the conversation before it even started, and now Namjoon was being roped into cleaning up his mess. "You owe me one, hyung," Namjoon sighed, already thinking of which legal connections he could call in. Who did he know who could bypass the usual bureaucracy of marriage licenses, and who could expedite the paperwork without it being flagged?

Yoongi chuckled on the other end of the line, a sound that made Namjoon’s jaw clench. “I thought helping you make him disappear was payment enough for several favors?” he teased. There it was—the casual reminder of the past favor Namjoon had done for him. That particular favor had been a little more… permanent than he had bargained for.

Ah, yes. His little love’s ex-boyfriend, also known as the sperm donor of who he now considered as his own child. “I’ll have it delivered tomorrow.”

Namjoon sighed as he removed his glasses. His back was turned to his surprise guest as he took in the twinkling city lights from his office window. It was past midnight and yet, he was still as busy as ever because of family matters. It was too bad, though, because he was planning to come home early to the family he took for his own.

“Why are my brothers stressing me out?” Namjoon murmured to himself, sitting back in his chair, his fingers massaging his temples. He didn’t even realize how much tension had been building until he felt the muscles in his neck protest against the pressure.

Jung Hoseok chuckled softly, his form entirely at ease, as though he hadn’t disappeared for years and the world hadn’t been turned upside down in his absence. His posture was relaxed, leaning back slightly in the chair, with a sense of calm that only he could exude. Despite everything—the years, the distance, the mess he’d left behind—he carried himself with the same unbothered grace.

“What did he want, Joonie?” Hoseok asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, the kind of question that usually came with a hint of mischief or curiosity. His eyes, warm and inviting, locked onto Namjoon’s, as if he were trying to brush off the tension hanging in the air.

Namjoon, however, was not in the mood for any of Hoseok's usual lightheartedness. He tossed his glasses onto the desk with a frustrated sigh, his shoulders tight with the stress of being dragged into yet another one of Yoongi’s messes. He had tried to be patient, tried to play the role of the level-headed one, but his temper was running out.

“You know, just normal things like a fucking marriage license,” Namjoon snapped, his voice edged with frustration. “I swear, you all ask for the easiest things from me. Who do you think I am? You think I studied my ass off for years to become a lawyer for you all to ask me to bend the laws for you, and for fuck’s sake, I can no longer ignore this—whose child is that?!”

His finger shot out, pointing sharply at the bundle cradled against Hoseok’s chest.

The baby slept soundly, wrapped snugly in a soft, cream-colored blanket, oblivious to the storm swirling around the adults in the room. Hoseok’s hand gently brushed the child’s head, as if to reassure Namjoon that everything was just fine, as though nothing about this situation was worth stressing over.

“Language, Joonie,” Hoseok chided, his voice a low, soothing murmur, as if Namjoon’s outburst was the least important part of the situation. “Yoongi’s son is sleeping.”

Latibule 2.VII

#yandere bts #bts fic #bts yandere #min yoongi fic #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x y/n #bts fanfic #bts mafia au #mafia min yoongi x you

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lulualuana · 1 month ago

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Cry For Me

woke up from my second nap and this shit formed so eliquently in my mind, yet my valentine's special is just staring at me unfinished oops

wc: 873

cw: rough, somehow feels more crude than anything else i've written idk why, p in v sex, mating press (fav position sue me), mentions of creampies, overstimulation, mild (not so mild) dumbification, crying kink bc mmm yeah, i think that's everything of note..

enjoy?

It didn't hurt. That's what kept running through your head despite the tears running down your face. You weren't in pain, you just felt too good and your default reaction is to practically sob your eyes out over it. You'd always been a bit of a crybaby. Leon liked it. Loved it, actually.

The way you'd cry when overwhelmed and overstimulated. The way you would push at his head and damn near claw at his scalp when he ate you out, trying to pull free before you burst into tears. The way you would hiccup and tense up trying to bite back the tears when he fucked you into the mattress, only to end up with the sheets covered in tears and come anyway.

It was fucking delicious. It’s what he aimed for honestly. He’d never admitted it up until now, but he loved watching you cry. It gave him a rush he didn’t understand but couldn’t get anywhere else.

It was all he was thinking about when he came back from work, particularly pissed off. Some rookie had fucked up exponentially and he was the one who had to stay later and fix his mistake when all he wanted was to go home and cuddle his cute girlfriend. Needless to say, he wanted something a little more stress relieving that cuddling now.

You were all for it, of course, the caring girlfriend you are. You wanted him to be healthy, happy and stress free. So you didn’t protest when he was impatiently tugging off the cute outfit you wore out with your friends earlier, didn’t protest when he bit your neck harder than he usually did, bit down your protest when he tore your favorite panties and bra. You sure as hell didn’t complain when he was pressing his hands underneath your knees, pressing your legs up to your chest as he stuffed his cock so deep inside you, you swore you could feel it in your chest.

No, the complaints only came with how good it felt, as always. His body caging you down against the mattress, holding you open as he thrusted over and over and over again with no end in sight. He wasn’t gentle about it and fuck, if that didn’t only make it feel ten times better. He kissed you, unabashedly groaning against your mouth as he fucked you so good your saw stars. Maybe that was also from the lack of oxygen as he kissed you.

Either way, it wasn’t long before it became too much for you. Wasn’t long before you were pushing against his thrusts, your lust-drunk mind incapable of forming the right words to tell Leon you were going to come so you just did. Clamping down so tight around him, he knew you came, but that didn’t make his relentless pace stop, and that’s when the waterworks started.

Your hands met his shoulders with no malicious intent, even as your nails sunk into his skin, pushing as tears built up in your eyes, clouding your already hazing vision. His thrusts only jostled them free, sending them free falling down your cheeks and the sides of your face. You stuttered out incomprehensible words, something or other about it being too much and needing a break, yet your pussy fluttered and sucked him back in so welcomingly that he couldn’t help but not believe you.

He tutted down at you, slowing his pace as if to give you the recess you thought you craved, yet as his thrusts slowed, the strength behind them increased. “You feel so fucking good around me, sweetheart. So tight and warm, do you really want me to give you a break?” Whatever you babble in response is met with a particularly deep and hard thrust that just seems to pull the tears right from your eyes along with a pretty little sob from your lips too.

“And look how pretty you are,” he coos, leaning down over you and pressing more weight down onto you as he just admires you. His eyes are sharp as they trail your figure from this close up position. How you’re wrapped so tight around him, the way your chest heaves, your smudged lip gloss that he’s sure he’s rocking too, all the way up to the mascara running down your cheeks that’s chased by more tears. He can’t help himself when his tongue slips out, lapping at your tears and groaning at the salty taste as he bucks into you. “You’re a fucking vision, baby. I love seeing you cry for me.”

While that would’ve been alarming to hear from any other person, it was intoxicating to hear from Leon. It was enough to make the overstimulation worth it. It was enough to stir you back up when his thrusts picked back up with a fervor and more weight behind them, his mouth down by your ear. “I wanna’ see how you cry when I come inside you, baby. Wanna’ see your pretty face covered in tears when I stuff your pretty pussy full over,” a thrust, “and over,” a deeper thrust, “and over again.”

His words leave no room for misinterpretation. You’re not getting a break, and neither are your tear ducts.

~~~

sobs (but sexily)

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy smut #resident evil #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine

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sissylittlefeather · 6 months ago

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Kinktober Day 8: Cockwarming

Daddy Likes His Football

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, cussing, kissing, Elvis being a bit dominant, reader being bratty, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), p in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, cockwarming

Word count: ~1.2k

This is a sequel to Daddy Likes His Coat.

Kinktober Masterlist

In between tours in 1972, Elvis settles into Graceland like a hermit, but he has you there with him. He assures you you're the only company he needs. And you know why. He can't go anywhere these days without being mauled by fans. When he was younger, it didn't bother him so much. He even enjoyed it. But now he just wants to be left alone to live his life.

You're a little bored with being stuck in the house, but you'd never tell him that. One Sunday afternoon you wander around the house looking for him. You're wearing one of his pajama shirts and nothing else, having just woken up from a nap. The house is weirdly quiet, but a lot of the guys spend Sundays with their families, so you figure he's alone. Finally, you find him.

He's in the TV room with three different football games playing on the three TVs. You walk up to him cautiously and run your fingers in his hair. He holds the back of your thigh but doesn't take his eyes off the TVs.

"Daddy, I'm bored."

"You're such a brat, little one. Wanting constant attention." He still won't look at you. You roll your eyes and scoff. Then, you knock the remote onto the floor.

"Oops." You bend over right in front of him, giving him a full view of your pussy. He doesn't acknowledge you, but he definitely notices. He's just not quite ready to give into your brattiness yet. You huff and slam the remote on the table. Again, he ignores you. Still, his dick twitches in his pants as it begins to harden.

"God, you're a needy little thing." He mumbles. You pick up his hand and suck two of his fingers into your mouth and then move down and push them up inside you. He pumps them a few times and then pulls them out, lazily licking them. He knows that will drive you insane. You put your hands on your hips and glare at him.

"Daddy. Am I really less interesting than football?" You pout and still he pretends to ignore you. Secretly, he's hard as a rock watching your little display.

"Cleveland is about to score, baby. I can't pay attention to you right now." You roll your eyes and go to walk away, but he grabs you and pulls you into his lap. "You're a menace, little one. You and this needy pussy." He runs his hand up your thigh and starts to play with your clit. You roll your head back and moan loudly. His hands go to his zipper and you try not to squeal with excitement. "I'm gonna fill her up and see if you'll leave me alone then."

He rearranges you and pulls you down to sink your pussy onto his cock facing away from him. He grunts softly, but doesn't stop watching the game. You start to move on him and he grabs your hips to hold them still.

"Distracting, honey. Stop." He holds you in his lap with his dick so far inside you, but doesn't move. The feeling of him deep in your pussy makes you want to scream, but you try to keep your composure.

Then, Cleveland scores. He yells and bucks his hips and you almost cum right then and there.

"Daddy..." You moan loudly as he holds you on his cock.

"A minute and thirty left in the game, honey. I'll fuck you when it's done. Unless you move too much and then I'll leave you unsatisfied."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?" His hips buck once, but he stops and leaves you begging for more.

"Please. Please daddy...." You whine and whimper and squirm on his lap. You try to stand up off of him to turn and straddle him, but he holds you in place on his lap.

"Did daddy say you could move?"

"Please..." You hiss as your orgasm approaches.

"Game's almost over, baby. Tell daddy what you want." The clock reads :32 seconds left. You pray it'll be over quickly.

"I want you to fuck me!" You moan loudly. He just chuckles and runs his fingertips up and down your back as he continues to fill your pussy completely.

"You'll sit here until daddy is ready, or you'll go to bed alone tonight." You whimper and wiggle and try to get more friction as he watches the game. Finally, he pulls his hand back and smacks the side of your ass, hard. The sting reverberates through your body straight to your center and you moan. "What did I say?"

"Yes, daddy. I'll be still." You whine, nibbling on your bottom lip, but you don't move again. The Browns score another touchdown and you whimper softly as he celebrates. But there's a flag and they call it back. He sits up and starts yelling and gesturing wildly at the TV. You almost scream with the sensation of him finally moving inside you, your orgasm so close you can feel the edge of it. You whisper quietly.

"Elvis, please..."

"Oh you brat, you. This little pussy just can't handle not being fucked. Is that it?"

"Please..." You hold onto his knees and almost burst into tears. He realizes he's pushed you far enough and softens, pulling you back against him and kissing your neck tenderly. His voice is gentle as he whispers in your ear.

"You want me to fuck you, baby?"

"Yes, yes please!"

"Turn around, doll." You do as you're told and turn to face him and straddle his hips. He pulls you down onto his dick and watches over your shoulder as the game ends and the Browns win. After what feels like forever, he looks up into your face and cups your cheek with his hand. "My pretty baby. So needy, but I yove her. Go ahead and get what you came down here for."

You giggle with delight and start to move on him as he grabs your hips, his cock hitting your g-spot with every bounce and roll. You moan and press your forehead against his and whisper.

"Fuck."

"You gonna cum for me, sweetheart?"

"All over your dick, daddy."

"Good girl." He rubs on your clit with his thumb a bit to really send you over the edge and you shudder and pulse on him as your orgasm washes over you. He groans with the sensation of your walls squeezing him. You sigh, satisfied, and then kiss the end of his nose.

"Mmmm, your turn now, daddy. How do you want it?" He grabs your chin in his hand and kisses you. Then he mumbles against your lips.

"I want this dirty little mouth, baby. The next game is on and you're in my way." You can tell by his tone that he's joking, mostly, so you smile and climb off of him, settling between his knees. He shifts his hips to give you better access and then groans as you take him in your mouth. You go to work licking and sucking and swirling your tongue over the tip of his cock. He loves it when you do this. You're the best head he's ever had and he grunts as his climax approaches. The football games play on the TVs behind you, but somehow he forgets to watch.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

@ccab @atleastpleasetelephone @deltafalax @msamarican @angschrof @lustnhim @jhoneybees @polksaladava @searchingforgravity @librababe99 @hooked-on-elvis @your-nanas-house @peaceloveelvis @makethemorning @theelvisprincess @mrspresley69

Anyone else want a Kinktober tag everyday?

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fic #elvis smut #elvis fanfiction #elvis fic #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis x you #elvis x y/n #elvis presley smut #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley x you #kinktober 2024 #kinktober

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mydemimonde · 10 months ago

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'Honey, Are You Coming?' (Baby Said, Part 2) — Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader

divider is from @plutism

a/n: hello! i'm soooo so sorry for taking too long in doing the second part of baby said, college and work are driving me insane and i barely have time to write. i really hope you like this

Summary: After that mindblowing night after the bar, you find yourself waiting for Aemond's call, growing slightly disappointed.

Words: 4691

Warnings: +18 (minors dni), female reader, no use y/n nor specific physical description, swearing, dirty talk, hand kink, praising, tiddy sucking, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, slightly dominant aemond, riding, no proof reading! english is not my first language, i apologise in advance if there are any mistakes.

It’s been five days and you haven’t heard anything from Aemond. Not a call, not even a text message. Nothing. You started to feel a little bit anxious and somewhat offended. Perhaps he didn’t like you that much, or worse, he had a girlfriend and still had sex with you. You shake your head, trying to get rid of those thoughts, focusing on the task at hand.

A year before your graduation, you got a job in a small publishing house, working as an editor. You didn’t earn a fortune, but it was more than enough to make ends meet and pay rent. Still, you were trying to find a job in a bigger place, freelancing didn’t appeal to you and you were actually looking for a new flat, closer to the capital, which meant higher prices.

“For fuck’s sake,” you hear Arianne curse next to you, making you startle. With a frown, you lift your head to look at her. “You have been eyeing your phone for the last fifteen minutes, it’s quite annoying,” she says, half serious, half joking. The brunette tilts her head and places a hand on her hip. “He hasn’t called you yet, has he?”

You shake your head, pursing your lips. “I don’t know why it affects me so much… it was just a one night stand” you explain, running a hand through your hair and sighing.

“Perhaps he’s busy…” your friend tries to reason with you, seeing how defeated you looked. She gets on her knees and grabs your hands. “Hey, I don’t want you to feel like rubbish, you shouldn’t feel like this, even if he was a mindblowing fuck.” She says, quoting the words you said when you told her about that night, giving her all the nasty details over a cup of wine during dinner. “Have you checked his socials?” She asks, to which you nod.

“Yep. Private account on Instagram, no Twitter. Didn’t even bother to check Facebook, no one uses it nowadays” you move your hand in the air. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t ask a following request.”

“What’s stopping you?” She asks with a frown and clicks her tongue in annoyance when you shrug. “I swear to God…” she mutters under her breath before plopping down on her chair, opening an incognito tab in her browser, as if what she was doing was illegal.

You frown and move your chair next to hers. “What are you doing?” You watch as she types his name on the search bar. You read the first few results with narrowed eyes. They scan the many search results populating the screen, but they focus on one particular title. Meet the Targaryens: The Powerhouse Family Behind ‘Valyrian Press’

Oh God. “Click that one…” you point at the title and Arianne immediately clicks. The webpage loads quickly and a big picture pops up on the screen. Your eyes fall to Aemond’s figure in the family picture. He was looking into the camera, a serious expression on his face, his hands into the pockets of his black suit. He wore all black.

Arianne turns to look at you. “You didn’t tell me this snack was the son of Viserys Targaryen…”

“I didn’t know!” You whisper-shout, shrugging. “I had no idea he was the son of Viserys Targaryen, though the surname did ring a bell.” Just when she opens her mouth to speak, you interrupt her, lifting your index finger in the air. “Hey, it wasn’t a date, it was a fuck, okay? We didn’t just sit down to talk about our families” you explain, defending yourself. She lifts her hands in surrender.

“Didn’t say anything at all.” Your friend turns again and skims the article. “Well, my dear friend, you had sex with a single billionaire, son of the owner of one of the most important publishing houses in the country. If you don’t send that Instagram request, I will do it.” Just when she finishes saying that, your phone vibrates. Your head jerks and you extend your hand to grab it, your eyes widening when you see the notification. Arianne frowns. “Is it him?”

You nod, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. Arianne gasps and chuckles as you open the text message.

Hi. I apologise for not writing sooner. May I call you?

You fight the urge of jumping up and down and screaming of happiness, and instead you take a deep breath to calm down the butterflies in your stomach and type an answer, your hands shaking in excitement.

Hi there :) Sure, you can call me.

Just a minute after you sent that message, your phone vibrates once more, and you take the call, eager to listen to his voice. “Hi?”

“Hello, gorgeous.” Gorgeous. You hear him hiss. “I’m so, so sorry for not calling you back. I have been quite busy these days, travelling and accompanying my father to so many meetings…” you can picture him moving his hands around, explaining things to you. “I meant to call you right after that night, but work got in the way. I hope you accept my apologies…”

You smile against the phone. “Don’t worry, Aemond. It’s okay, I suspected you were busy,” you reply, biting your lower lip to try to stop a laugh, seeing Arianne making faces at your words and mouthing ‘I told you’.

“Anyways, I’m in the city right now… are you at work?” He asks after a soft sigh and you find yourself twirling a strand of your hair like a high school girl. How pathetic, you think.

“Yes, but I finish my shift at 5pm. We can grab a coffee or a sandwich, if you want…” you suggest.

“Of course, darling. Give me your address, I can pick you up and we can go to Honeyholt Bakery, they sell delicious lemon cakes.” You beam, lemon cakes were your favourites, but you never told him that. You give him your job’s address before saying goodbye and hanging up.

You plop down on your chair, a dreamy look in your face as you look at the ceiling. You feel Arianne’s gaze on you, and you look down at her. She slowly shakes her head, a smirk making its way on her face. “I sooo envy you, lucky bitch” she jokes, making you giggle.

Knowing that you were hours away from meeting Aemond was all the motivation you needed to get down to work quickly, going over the document you had to edit before sending it to the executive editor. You finish a bit earlier than expected and grab your jacket and purse, kiss Arianne’s head and head towards the exit to wait for Aemond. You leave him a message letting him know you were ready, and not even a minute later you receive his reply. On my way ;)

Less than ten minutes later, you see a black BMW with tinted windows steering around the corner, slowing down and parking right in front of the doors of the building. The driver’s windows roll down and you see Aemond, with his hair combed back and wearing sunglasses. Fuck me.

He smiles at you and you smile back. “Hello, darling.” His voice is smooth and it makes you swallow hard. He steps out of the car, not before shifting the gear level into park mode and pulling the lever so that the car stays right in place.

“Hi, Aemond” you reply, your eyes sweeping over his lean figure clad in some brown polished shoes, black trousers, black shirt and black leather jacket. A lot of black. He looks delicious. He leans in to kiss your cheek, his expensive cologne filling your nostrils.

He places a hand on your lower back and indicates you to get into his car, opening the door for you, which you thank. He closes the door and walks around his vehicle to get inside, and you take a moment to look around, noticing how clean it smells. There’s music playing, the electric guitars and drums echoing in the small space. When Aemond gets inside and closes the door, he turns the volume of the radio down, but the music is still audible. You can recognize the song very clearly.

Meet me there where it never closes

Meet me there, I'll give you your roses

All is fair in love, oh-oh-oh

Honey, are you coming?

He takes his glasses off and begins driving the car at a normal speed as he talks. “How have you been, gorgeous?”

“I’ve been great… I have a lot more work now, but it’s so fulfilling,” you reply, your gaze falling to his hand on the steering wheel. He looks so confident as he drives, and you suddenly feel your cheeks getting hot, so you move your gaze to the window, watching the shops as you pass by.

Aemond smirks and glances at you. “I’m happy for you. The most important thing is enjoying and loving what you do” you hum at his answer, showing your agreement. “You work at a publishing house, right?”

“Yeah, I work as an editor, have been doing it for a year now” he raises his brows and nods.

“So I take it that you’re comfortable in that place…” his eyes are fixed on the road, concentrated on driving.

You purse your lips to the side, humming. “I’m actually looking for other publishing houses. I’m thinking about moving closer to the capital, and the rent is obviously higher in those areas, so I need a better wage.”

Aemond nods, taking in your words. “Well, my father has a publishing house. Valyrian Press, you might have heard of it.” Your eyes widen in surprise —fake, of course,— at his words. “There are some vacancies, and the pay is really good.”

“Your dad owns Valyrian Press?” He hums. “Oh, that’s why your surname rang a bell…” What a big fat lie.

Aemond huffs a laugh. “You’re telling me that you didn’t google my name?” How the fuck does he know things?

“Not me, my friend did.” He chuckles. “It never crossed my mind to google anything… but perhaps I did look up your social media…” you trail off.

Aemond chuckles again, the sound making your heart flutter. “Well, I barely use social media, I have an Instagram account but I’m not very fond of those apps…” You look at him and shake your head, letting out a soft chuckle. He parks the car outside the café. “What do y’wanna eat, darling?”

You. “Uhm, a cappuccino and some lemon cakes would be fine.”

He winks at you and smirks. “Excellent choice. I’ll be back soon” and with that, he exits the car. You watch him as he walks towards the bakery, biting your lip at the sight. You rest your head against the back of the seat, sighing and thinking about that man you barely know. You don’t know why, but you feel so drawn to him and you want to kick yourself because you’ve never felt like this for anyone. Not even your ex, for God’s sake.

You see Aemond getting out of the shop with two cups in one hand and a small white box with a yellow bow on top on the other hand. You stretch to get the door open, making it easier for him to get into the car.

“Thank you, beautiful” he offers you a smile and you sit comfortably in your position. He hands you the coffees and sets the box in the middle of your seats before closing the door and starting the car. “Where would you like to go?” He asks you, grabbing his cup and taking a sip from it.

“Wherever you want, Aemond… is there any specific place you wanna go?” You ask as you look at him, your eyes momentarily drifting to his hand on the steering wheel, the other one wrapped around the cup. Fuck, how is it that his hands were enough to make you go wild, the mere though of having them roaming over your body, pushing your legs apart, grabbing your hips, squeezing your tits, choking you… and his fingers, God, his long fingers.

“Hey!” He calls you, startling you. His glances at you once again, smirking when he sees you blinking and wide-eyed. “I asked you a question…”

You blink a few times more, frowning. “Uhm, sorry… what?” Your voice comes out meekly as you try to gather your thoughts. He stops at the red light.

“I asked you if you wanted me to take you to your apartment…” when you don’t answer, he huffs a laugh. “Cat got your tongue, hm?” He murmurs in a husky voice. He places his cup on the cup holder and extends his arm, his left hand coming up to your face to cup your cheek. “You like my hands, don’t you?” Aemond looks at you, giving you a smug smile when you mutter something inaudible. “You think I didn’t notice how you were staring at my hands, love?” You swallow hard as his thumb grazes your lower lip and you take the opportunity to open your mouth slightly, the tip of your tongue licking his digit before sucking it, the sensation going straight to his cock.

You hear him curse under his breath, his chest heaving. He sees the light going from red, to yellow, to green out of the corner of his eye and, reluctantly, he pulls his thumb out of your mouth, fearing that if you did that again, he might lose control of the vehicle. Before he retreats his hand you take it and guide it inside your jeans, letting him feel you.

“Fuck, you’re soaked” he mutters as he feels your wet folds, his other hand gripping the wheel tightly, his knuckles going white. You keep him there, pressing his hand against your cunt to get some relief. “Holy shit, babygirl, wait…” he retreats his fingers from your cunt and you whine. “Shh, relax…” he shushes you, his fingers quickly undoing the button of your jeans and pulling down the zipper to get more space.

He hisses when he gets his hand inside your lace panties again, his middle finger trailing up your entrance, gathering some of your essence to rub your clit with his digit. “Oh, fuck” you curse, throwing your head back and closing your eyes as the pad of his finger rubs lazy circles over your bud.

“God, love, you’re really wet… thinking about my hands turns you on, huh?” He taunts you, a low growl rumbling in his throat when he feels your cunt sucking his finger in. Aemond slides his finger inside you and you mewl as he starts pumping it. He continues driving, his gaze focused on the road ahead, his mind racing. “Want another finger, baby?”

“Hmm… ngh… yes, Aemond- oh!” You squeak when he inserts his index finger. You grip the grab handle above the window, trying to hold onto something as his fingers continue his work. “Fuck, right there” you moan when his fingers curl up, hitting your sweet spot with ease.

Aemond hums, curling them again and increasing the pace of his fingers. You were thankful the windows were tinted, otherwise passers-by would see what you were doing inside that car. Aemond’s grip on the steering wheel tightens as he feels your cunt tightening around his fingers, you are so close to cumming so he slows down the movements.

“N-no, Aemond, don’t stop, I’m so close…” you complain in a whine, and he groans lowly.

“Baby, I’m so fucking hard right now and if you continue making those beautiful sounds I might cum in my pants and crash this vehicle. I need you to tell me where you wanna go, I can’t focus on the road if I have you squeezing my fingers like that…” he explains, panting a little bit.

“Pull over… drive to a parking lot, I don’t know…” you plead, bucking your hips slightly. You don’t know how long you can last, not when the heel of his palm is pressing against your clit, eliciting whimpers from you.

Aemond drives towards the nearest parking lot he finds, his fingers moving inside you again at a relentless pace, making you gasp. “Fuck, baby, I can feel you getting closer, you’re squeezing my fingers so tightly…” He says through gritted teeth, smirking when you let out a high-pitched moan the moment his fingers reach that rough patch inside you, making you jolt. “C’mon, pretty girl. Cum all over my fingers, wanna feel you…” he coaxes.

He grunts when you press your legs together as you come, head thrown back and jaw open, incoherent words and moans spilling past your lips. His fingers continue working inside you, helping you ride out your orgasm. He pulls them out, and you nearly choke as you watch him, through half-lidded eyes, how he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean and moaning at the taste.

“You taste incredibly sweet, baby. You have no idea how much I need to put my cock inside you” you moan in response, head spinning at his words. He enters the parking lot and rushes to find a spot, parking the car immediately. “Come to the back” he orders, and he peeks around to check that no one sees you in the almost empty place.

Both of you get to the back of the car, almost throwing yourself at him. His lips capture yours in an intense kiss, his hand cupping your neck to pull you closer and angle your head to deepen it while the other rests on your waist. The tip of his tongue presses slightly against your lower lip and you gladly part your lips, allowing his tongue to explore your mouth. You can taste the strong coffee in his mouth.

Your hands trail down his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken under your palms. Aemond growls into your mouth when one of your hands cup his evident bulge, palming him through the fabric. “Holy… shit…” he mutters against your lips. You take the opportunity to leave open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, his neck, all the way to his earlobe.

“Want to suck your cock, Aemond…” you purr in his ear before taking his earlobe between your teeth, nibbling softly as you lower the zipper of his jeans, slithering your hand under his boxers.

“F-fuck…” he curses through gritted teeth, closing his eyes for a moment as you pull down his jeans and boxers in one motion. Your mouth waters at the sight of his cock straining against his stomach and you move in your place, bringing your legs up to kneel next to him, your ass propped up in direction to the window. Your index finger grates the weeping tip, making him shudder. “Don’t tease… put your mouth to work, needy girl” he instructs, his hand landing on your ass with a loud smack, making you yelp.

You swallow hard and lick your lips as you lean forward, your right hand wrapping around his base. Like a lollipop, your tongue licks his cock from the base to the tip, eliciting a hiss from him. The hand that smacked your ass comes to rest on the small of your back, hiking up your blouse and rubbing circles on your skin.

Your lips wrap around his tip, sucking it gently and swirling your tongue around it. “God… yes, like that…” he breathes out, his voice rough. You stroke his shaft with your hand in rhythm with the movements of your mouth, up and down his length. Your hair falls to the side but Aemond is quick to grab it, putting it in a ponytail as your head bobs up and down. He resists the urge to buck his hips up, trying not to hurt you.

You stop stroking him and move your hand to cup his balls, which ignites something primal in Aemond. He can’t help but thrust his hips upwards into your mouth, making you moan. “Fucking hell, you’re taking me so deep into that wet mouth… love it” he coos, biting his lip at the sight of your mouth around him and your head bobbing up and down. His cock is covered in your saliva, glistening under the dim lights of the parking lot.

You hollow your cheeks as you go up, your hands wrapping around his base again, adding a bit of pressure. That makes him growl and pant, the sounds he makes going straight to your cunt. He continues praising you in choked, needy moans, telling you how good your mouth feels on his cock, how he’s going to wreck your pussy immediately afterwards, his hand guiding your head up and down his length. You feel him twitch in your mouth, the signal that he’s close to cumming.

“Are you coming, Aemond?” You ask, your hot breath fanning against his length before taking him deep into your mouth, gagging around him.

“Y-yes… s-stop… I’m so close…” he warns, the obscene wet sucking sounds that fill the car making him let out a strangled moan. He pulls you away from his length, a trail of saliva still connecting your mouth to him. You use the palm of your hand to wipe your mouth, licking your lips and looking at him.

“Why did you want me to stop?” Your hand presses on his inner thigh, making him sigh deeply and let go of your hair.

“Because when I cum, I want to do it deep inside your cunt, alright?” He explains as he leans his back against the seat, his words making your jaw drop. “Now, get rid of those jeans and ride me.”

You eagerly do as told, putting your legs down and shimming out of your jeans and soaked panties. You toss them aside and straddle him, your bent knees on either side of his hips, your chest pressing against his given the constricted space you are in. His hands immediately land on either side of your hips, guiding you to sink down on his cock.

Both of you moan at the contact, your eyes close as he lets you adjust to his size. When you open your eyes you find his hungry gaze on you, his pupils dark with lust. He licks his lips, bringing one hand to cup your neck and pull you down to kiss him. The kiss is slow but passionate, sensual. You find support on his shoulders and you start moving your hips, finding the right rhythm.

Aemond pulls back to breath, his lips hovering over yours as you rest your forehead against his. His fingers grip your hips tightly, certainly leaving marks. “Hmm…” he hums, feeling how your cunt sucks him in, engulfing him. “D’you feel me deep inside you, baby?” He murmurs against your lips.

“Y-yes… you’re so deep, Aemond,” you reply in a shaky whisper. You feel his breath against your face due to the close proximity, hearing the low grunts and whines that leave his lips. His hands move from your hips to your abdomen, lifting your blouse to feel your skin, his touch setting your body on fire.

“No bra?” His eyes widen in surprise and he smirks. “Naughty girl, I might have to punish you…” He taunts as he pulls the straps of your blouse down, freeing your breasts. He mutters a curse and dives into your chest, his hands bringing your tits together, squeezing as his tongue swirls around your right nipple, making you arch your back against him. “You fit perfectly in my hands, baby…” he squeezes your tits once more, making you throw your head back. Aemond leans forward and leaves wet kisses on your throat, sucking the junction between your neck and shoulder as his big hands knead your tits.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you increase the speed of your movements, letting out desperate whines as the tip of his cock bullies the rough patch inside you. You’ve never been this wet before, the squelching sounds making you blush furiously in embarrassment. “Fuck, you’re so wet… can’t wait for when you soak my cock as you come” those dirty words he mutters against your ear have you gasping loudly and furrowing your brows. Aemond rests his forehead against your shoulder, the sounds escaping his lips coming out muffled.

“Aemond… I’m… fuck, I’m so close…” you speak in a choked moan, your arms wrapping around his neck as you bounce on his dick.

You feel him smirk against your skin, his teeth nibbling your collarbone. “Yeah, I can feel that… you’re so tight, love, you feel so fucking good” he praises, his voice hoarse and deep. Aemond lifts his head from your shoulder, looking up at you, his eyes roaming over your face. “Look at me” he demands in an authoritative, stern voice. You do as told, locking your eyes with his. “Do not tear your gaze away from me, you understand?” You nod frantically, your brows knitted together in pleasure.

His hands lower to your backside, gripping your ass tightly, helping you as you move on top of him. He brings his legs together, plants his feet on the floor and starts bucking his hips up, meeting your movements. Your eyes close shut involuntarily, wanton and sinful moans spilling past your lips as he pounds into you. “I said, fucking look at me” he says through gritten teeth, and you obey, as hard as it is to do so.

His eyes roam over your face, committing every detail to memory. “Y’gonna cum all over my cock, hmm? Can feel you squeezing me.” You nod, unable to speak. His hands grip your ass tighter, his nails digging into your skin. “Come, baby… let go and soak me, c’mon,” he gives your ass a loud smack, and that does it to you. His mouth is agape as he watches you come undone above him, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull and lips parted as you gasp for air. “That’s it, baby… I got you.”

You feel blood rushing through your ears, your eyes flutter close and your legs tremble. You feel Aemond’s hard grip on your ass as he keeps pounding into you, chasing his own release. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna…” his hips stutter and his arms wrap around your waist tightly as he cums deep inside your cunt, a guttural groan coming out of his lips, the sound muffled as he hides his head in your shoulder.

Both of you stay there, panting and holding each other as you come down from your intense orgasms. You feel like you’re walking on a cloud, feeling boneless. Once you finally catch your breaths, he lifts his head to place a kiss on your lips. He pulls back and huffs a laugh.

“Shit… are you okay?” He asks, placing soft kisses along your collarbone, bringing you back to earth. You struggle to find the words, but eventually open your mouth to speak.

“Yes… I feel amazing…” he chuckles at your answer, your voice coming out croaky.

“I’m glad. Did I fuck your brains out?” He smirks when you nod, and places another kiss on your lips as his hands rub soothing circles on your back. He rests his forehead against yours, looking into your eyes. You untangle your arms from around his neck and place your hands on either side of his face, admiring his features. “I was serious, you know. About the vacancies,” he explains to you. “I can ask my father to arrange a job interview. I’m dead serious, darling.”

You chuckle, the sound of your soft laugh making him smile. You tilt your head. “Hmm… I think you’re just trying to get into my pants…” you tease, to which he chuckles.

“But I already did. Twice” he replies in a low voice, making you giggle. “Oh, and one more thing.” He adds, looking at you, his playful expression turning into a soft one. “Would you go on a date with me?”

Your lips curve into a smile. “Yes. I would love to.”

taglist: @melsunshine @tsujifreya @fan-goddess

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen one shot #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x you #moder aemond targaryen #modern aemond targaryen smut #hotd #hotd smut #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell fic #mydemimondewrites

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kurishiri · 7 months ago

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95k bonus . . . Liebe geht durch den Magen

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ warning ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ none; it’s really just vogel being silly! hope you’re ready for the dari, nica, and ring galore, hehe.

Kate: A tea party with all of the members of Vogel…?

Victor: Mhm, it seems like all of them have taken an interest in you. So they asked for a chance to speak with you.

Kate: Well, seeing as I’m the only one who isn’t Cursed, I guess it makes sense they would hold an interest.

Victor: Indeed. …How would you like to answer? It’s completely up to you.

V: …However, both parties hold their own secrets.

V: And we do often take care of them, seeing as they are diplomatic guests.

V: Should there be anything making you anxious, or you feel even slightly you don’t want to do this, or anything of the sort, then you are always free to turn them dow—

Kate: …Victor. I will attend the tea party.

Victor: Wait, really? Are you sure?

Kate: Since they have come here to deepen relations between the organizations, turning down an opportunity like this wouldn’t leave a good impression, I’d imagine.

K: And besides, I would like to be of some use to you and Crown, for extending such hospitality to me.

When I expressed my honest feelings, Victor’s expression softened in turn.

Victor: I’m grateful for your honesty. Well then, it’s about time I give them a response.

V: Ahh, but… I’ll have Roger listen in from nearby, so if something happens you can just give a shout, okay?

V: No matter the time and place, I’ll come running.

After Victor’s words resonated in my heart, several days passed——

Darius: Thank you for accepting our invitation, miss fairytale keeper.

D: Did you perhaps prepare everything on this table?

Lined up on the table was filled to the brim with snacks, causing Darius to blink.

Kate: Victor and I prepared them. We were hoping it would be nice if you could eat these…

K: And that we can be on more friendly terms as we’re chatting like this.

Ring: You want to be on more friendly terms with the ones who might kill you? I don’t see the point?

Kate: …Gh.

Nica: Riiing, now don’t go saying gruesome things like that. You’ll bother the Spatzi.

N: So sorry about that? Ring is a Jungfrau [1] who tends to get a bit more nervous around cute girls.

Wearing an amiable smile as he faced me, Nika lifted the heavy air around us.

Kate: Jung…?

Ring: Y-you don’t have to ask what it is! …And also, it’s not like I’m nervous.

R: But, I won’t deny… that you are… cute…

He was simply cautious around me; it was not as though he was really doing me any harm for now.

…Even so, though, I myself had become ever so slightly anxious.

(The members of Vogel are also Cursed, if I recall, right…)

(If they had such intentions, they could easily take my life.)

The fear that I had first felt when I started working for Crown started to paint over my heart, when…

Darius: …Are you nervous, by any chance?

Donning a childlike innocence, Darius looked into my face.

Kate: Ah… umm…

Darius: Well, well… if we did possess a strong ability much like Sir Rex…

D: I wouldn’t blame you for feeling powerless even while simply conversing.

D: But you can relax around us. My ability will not kill you.

D: ——In fact, there is absolutely no way it will. Okay?

Nica: Oh, me and my brother’s abilities aren’t really harmful too.

N: That said, it can probably make you feel really good and maybe make you feel a bit fuzzy, but that’s actually a good thing, isn’t it?

Kate: R-right…

(Just what ability does that entail…?)

Although I still held my doubts, I knew that their abilities didn’t pose a danger to my life, which ebbed my fear.

Darius: Now then, now that you know we mean you no harm, how about we partake in these?

With Darius’ encouragement, Ring quickly reached out to a cake in front of him.

Ring: Mm…! This is really good.

Taking large bites, the cake was gone before I knew it, and Ring then reached out for another snack.

Nica: Geez, Ring, why are you just taking whatever’s in front of you? Pick the ones that especially look good.

While saying so, Nica reached for a baked pastry diagonal of him.

Nica: I recognize this shape. Isn’t this from the high-class bakery near the castle?

Kate: I’m surprised you know of it! That shop——

Nica: Mn… hm? It’s good, but did it really come from that shop?

Kate: Well, what I wanted to say was that shop’s pastry shapes were the inspiration for these homemade sweets.

That said, this time, Victor and I did make our rounds around a variety of bakeries, and put this together.

And I tried to make homemade pastries here at the castle that were freshly made or were hard to obtain.

Nica: They’re ‘homemade’? So they’re basically cheap foods, in which case I don’t want any.

Kate: Eh—

Nica: Here, Ring, say ‘ahh.’

Nica pushed his half eaten pastry into Ring’s mouth.

Ring: Mn… this is also really good…

When he was eating it, Nica said it was ‘good,’ but maybe he’s actually not good with homemade pastries…?

Darius: Hey, miss fairytale keeper, this is Baumkuchen [2], isn’t it?

This time, Darius called out to me while pulling on my sleeve.

Kate: That’s right. We figured since you’re here, we could prepare some German pastries… or that’s what Victor said.

Darius: Ho-oh…

Darius used a knife to lightly cut a slice before he carried it to my mouth.

Darius: Here, have a bite?

Kate: Mn… mmm, it’s really fluffy and delicious!

Darius: I’m glad to hear. Then it’s my turn.

With layers of the Baumkuchen spilling, Darius brought it to his mouth.

Darius: Mm, it’s delicious. …But, I take it it’s not something made in most of England. So where did you get this?

Kate: Actually, while I was racking my head on how to make Baumkuchen…

K: Victor made a gadget that could make it.

In order to make a delicious Baumkuchen by the tea party, I practiced baking it day in and day out.

…I feel that I can keep the fact that for some time the castle’s snacks consisted of nothing but Baumkuchen to myself.

Darius: He made a whole gadget just for this? Hmm… he’s quite strange, I’d say.

Kate: I can’t argue with that… but I’m sure it’s just that he was happy.

K: Happy that you guys, who are also Cursed, have come to England——or rather, to Crown.

Darius: …The pleasure is ours. I’m delighted at how warmly we’re treated here.

D: I do like the Baumkuchen, so do make it again sometime.

Kate: Alright!

I was so glad he liked it that I gave an immediate answer, but…

(Making it is quite time consuming and requires skill… but I’ll try my best.)

Nica: This topic’s all well and good, but what I really want to hear about the Spatzi [3] herself.

N: You know, like what fragrances you like, or which types of guys you fancy, that kind of thing… what about you, Ring?

Ring: Mngh…!? U-uhm…

R: ………M-maybe, like, which color of the sky she most likes?

Nica: The sophistication’s lacking, I see.

Ring: And what’s the problem with that?

Darius: I do agree with Nika here though. I would also like to get to know you better.

D: But simply asking would be a bore, so how about we play a guessing game?

Nica: So, Ratespiel? Now we’re talking.

Darius: Let’s make it so each person can make a single guess, and until then, we can continue asking questions…

D: Come play with us, why don’t you, miss fairytale keeper?

D: If possible… I would prefer you choose a topic that pertains to yourself.

Kate: Alright, then…

K: Out of the foods on this table, which one is my most favorite?

Darius: Hehe, that’s quite a charming topic? Then let’s start.

Nica: Sounds good to me, though I’d like to propose another twist.

N: The first person to guess the correct answer will be able to ask the Spatzi out on a date. Well, how about it?

Ring: A date…!? [surprised]

Darius: You do make a good point. A competition does call for a prize of sorts… well, miss fairytale keeper? Are you fine with this?

Kate: U-um, I think a date may be a bit——

When I tried to speak up, though, the three of them looked at me, causing my breath to catch in my throat.

Ring was looking at me with a guarded look, as though he were a guard dog who could tear my neck apart with a single order.

Nica was looking at me with a scrutinizing look, as though he was thinking about how to play with a toy.

And Darius was wearing an amiable smile, but his eyes alone were sharp, like that of a predator aiming for its prey——

With the three of them looking at me in their own way, I couldn’t bring myself to disagree, feeling myself surrounded by a heavy air.

Darius: ‘I think a date may be a bit’ what was that now?

Kate: …Nope, never mind. That works for me.

Overwhelmed by the pressure, I could only nod, and Darius returned the gesture with an angelic smile.

Like a signal, the tense atmosphere became more lax.

Darius: Thank you. Then, let the game start.

With that, the tea party proceeded such that Darius, Nika, and Ring asked me questions.

While the discussion occasionally went off track, this peaceful time continued to pass by——

Ring: I got it!

The one who had his answer ready first was Ring.

Darius: A friendly reminder that you only have one chance. If you miss the mark, that will be the end… are you sure you would like to answer?

Ring: Don’t worry, I’m sure of this.

R: The answer is——that fruit before your eyes!

Kate: …Miss.

Ring: Wh…!? I-I see… so it was wrong…

Ring looked a bit despondent at my answer, and though he looked like a guard dog before, in an instant, he looked more like an abandoned puppy,

and I had to desperately fight the urge to say ‘actually, it’s a hit.’

Nica: …Hey, Ring. Mind if I say how you got to your answer?

Ring: ‘How I got to my answer’?

Nica: When you were about to grab that fruit, the Spatzi said ‘go ahead’ to you with a smile and put it on your plate,

N: and so you held a positive association with that fruit, leading you to your answer?

Ring: N-now that you mention it… that might’ve been the case… it was completely unconscious…

Darius: Ahaha, you’re so adorably honest, Ring.

Nica: Well then, it’s about time I guess too. The correct answer is… this chocolate.

N: It’s a bit on the mini side, and it looks cute too, and not to mention the packaging is also intricate. It practically oozes the traits a girl would like.

Kate: Miss.

Nica: Oops, too bad.

As opposed to Ring, who seemed down upon getting his guess wrong, Nika didn’t show any signs of caring, even if he did.

It was as though he knew from the beginning his answer was wrong.

Darius: I would prefer you make a serious guess, or this game will really end up in a bore.

Nica: But I thought long and hard about what girls would like and picked based on that?

N: Besides, this is where a subordinate hands the torch to the master.

Nika gave a smug wink, and Darius shrugged his shoulders in response.

Darius: It seems I bear a great responsibility now. If I’m unable to answer correctly, I’m afraid the little miss fairytale keeper——

D: And Crown as well would be disappointed in me.

Kate: Don’t worry, I won’t be disappointed even if you don’t answer correctly. It’s just a game, after all.

Darius: Hmm, so you believe I won’t get the answer right, is that it?

Kate: That…

(If I’m being completely honest, yes, I did think that.)

(Because the answer to this question is… a bit special.)

Darius: Hehe, seeing you have such low expectations of me makes me want to try my utmost hardest.

D: Alright, I have my answer.

D: I see you were trying not to eat this chocolate cake, right?

D: Because you like it, you saved it for last, I take it. So, my answer is that chocolate cake.

I was about to reply with an immediate ‘miss,’ when he opened his mouth before me.

Darius: …is what a normal person would say, but that would be incorrect.

Kate: Eh…

Darius: The answer to your question is——-

D: ‘Everything here on the table.’

Kate: …That’s a hit.

Ring: A-all of it…!? Is that answer even possible?

Nica: Well, we never established that the said thing had to just be a single thing, so yeah, it’s fully possible.

N: But even so, way to bend the rules there, Spatzi. I didn’t think you had it in you.

N: …You really are an interesting one, aren’t you.

Darius: I did think it was a strange answer, but considering the little miss fairytale keeper’s character, it wasn’t too difficult.

D: Perhaps you thought something like, ‘If I’m preparing something for guests, I would choose the things I believe are the most delicious’… am I right?

Kate: It is as you say…

While consulting with Victor, I chose all of the pastries here.

So, that’s why if I were to choose my most favorite among these, the answer would naturally be ‘everything.’

Kate: It was a bit of an underhanded answer, so I didn’t think you would get it.

Darius: Hehe, but I did. Oh, but, I don’t think it’s underhanded.

D: After all, I take it you thought up of such an answer so that you didn’t have to assign winners and losers, yes?

Kate: Yes, there was also that. Since it was such a fun tea party, I didn’t want to label anyone as winners and losers…

Darius: To see you try to put us on an equal footing without assigning a winner…

D: You truly are sweet to the point it’s cloying… and kind as well.

Ring: B-by the way… will Darius ask her out? O-on a date, that is…!

Darius: Ahh, that nearly slipped my mind. Well, miss fairytale keeper, will you go out on a date with me next time?

Kate: …I will.

I didn’t have much reason to turn him down, and now that I got to talk with them like this, I started to become more interested in the members of Vogel.

(…And going out together with them seems pretty fun too.)

Nica: Okay, then, when you’re done with your date with Dari, let me know, okay? We can plan a date of our own then.

Kate: Eh—

Nica: The prize for the game was the right to ask you out on a date, but there’s no need to hinge something like that on a game, right?

N: Besides, if the answer to the question is ‘everything on the table,’ that would technically make my answer right, too, yeah?

Kate: I… guess so…?

Nica: And you caught my interest too anyway…

N: …Ah, that’s right. Since we’re talking about this, why don’t you invite the Spatzi on a date too, Ring?

Ring: O-on a date…!? I… I’ll pass.

R: …But when you go on your date with Nica and Darius, I’ll tag along behind you guys.

Nica: Wait, why though?

Ring: If she’s around, you’ll let your guards down and lose sight of your surroundings, right?

R: So I’ll cover those bases during your date.

Nica: Ehh…

Darius: Hehe, thank you, Ring.

D: …Hey, miss fairytale keeper. I must say that half a day isn’t nearly enough.

D: Why don’t we take our sweet time chatting on our date, the two of us?

A smile played on Darius’ lips, and I couldn’t look away from his honey-colored eyes.

Just then, I remembered Victor’s words from before I went out.

—— Flashback ——

Victor: Ahh, that’s right, Kate. There’s one thing I should say.

V: If you wish to return to your normal everyday life after this month passes… you mustn’t let your heart get stolen by them.

—— End flashback ——

(It’ll be alright… I think I was able to enjoy this time today when I tried talking to them.)

(This feeling won’t blossom into love. Surely…)

Fin.

will vs darius jude vs nica alfons vs ring

NOTES:

[0] according to our handy google translate, the title of this story, Liebe geht durch den Magen, translates to “love goes through the stomach.” I assume this may reference or be the equivalent to a similar English saying, “the way to one’s heart is through their stomach.”

[1] “virgin” in German nhdkshfds

[2] and here we have a quote from Wikipedia: Baumkuchen is a kind of spit cake from German cuisine. It is also a popular dessert in Japan. The characteristic rings that appear in its slices resemble tree rings, and give the cake its German name, Baumkuchen, which literally translates to “tree cake” or “log cake”.

[3] originally, I had Rotkehlchen, which is like the literal translation for “robin” as far as I know. Spatzi means “sparrow,” but can be used as a term of endearment in the same way the Crown members call Kate “robin” out of endearment. In his collection story event, he mentions that the word he used is German for robin, but it could be localized to something like “it is a German-equivalent term of endearment for robin.” Thanks to @.citrusmornings for providing this link!

END NOTES: did you enjoy this story? because i know i did, haha. i really enjoy all the vogel characters so far; they all have interesting personalities, and they bounce off each other in a fun way as well.

honestly, i’m still trying to sort of get an idea of how i want to sort of translate and write these characters. overall, though, i tried to give darius a more innocent air, with some hints of his nobility, while also having a strong sort of presence. and i tried to capture nica’s sort of casual and flippant (but also clever and sharp) air, which contrasts with how ring gets shy and flustered pretty easily.

i’d love to hear your thoughts!

full masterlist 🕊️

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