#weight loss cravings stop

[ch3rryy15]

𝟐𝟎-𝟐𝟎-𝟐𝟎 ℳℯ𝓉𝒽ℴ𝒹

• After you took a bite chew AT LEAST 20 times.

• Wait 20 second until you take your next bite.

• Finishing your whole meal should take 20 minutes!!

-> (or longer)

☆*:.｡.o.｡.:*☆*:.｡..｡.:*☆*:.｡.o .｡.:*☆

Personally this Method has helped me A LOT since I’ve been struggling with eating too much food in a short amount of time because i ate too fast. The 20-20-20 Method makes me have control over what and how much I eat. It also helps with cravings or stopping your binge in case you’re binging. *･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*

[sayla-stuff]

✨Remember you have control of your mind ✨

if you continuously tell yourself you don’t like unhealthy food you WILL stop craving it

If you tell your mind you love the feeling of hunger you will start to love it 🤍🤍🤍🤍

[djcgold]

Amazing Ways To Stop Cravings Naturally

Discover the amazing ways to stop cravings naturally and take control of your health! Learn effective natural remedies, nutrition tips, and wellness hacks to curb those cravings for good. Embrace a healthy lifestyle today!

Stop Cravings For High Calorie Foods. Affiliate Disclaimer : Some of the links in this blog Healthy Drinks 4 You  are affiliate links. This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, the owner of this website will receive an affiliate commission. Regardless, the owner of this website only recommend products or services that will add value to the readers. What Causes Cravings?Why…

[joelsgoldrush]

➽ summary: To love is to cherish, to endure, to fight. But to love is also to forget—at least, for you and Logan. Despite countless attempts to erase the part of yourselves that yearns to find completion in each other, you always end up back where it all began: the moment your eyes first met his—the moment everything changed.

➽ word count: 12.4k words

➽ warnings/tags: mdni smut 18+ angst. fluff. feels. enemies to lovers. petnames. multiple focalizors/POVs. memory loss. x1 logan. mutant!reader. flashbacks. dirty talk. oral (f and m receiving). fingering. thigh riding. unprotected p in v. missionary. doggy. creampie. cum swallowing.

➽ a/n: inspired by “eternal sunshine of the spotless mind”, one of the most hauntingly beautiful (and life-changing) films ever made. i took some creative liberties when it came to charles' powers, so just follow along. i’d love to know your thoughts on this one, hope you like it as much as i do! <3

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. Each prayer accepted and each wish resigned.

Alexander Pope.

Logan thinks Jean is speaking to him, but her words dissolve into fragments, lost before they reach him. Her reddish lips shape the vowels and consonants with precision, yet the meaning is drowned out by the pulse in his ears. She’s agitated, her long strides barely matching his pace, heels striking the wooden floor in a staccato rhythm.

A few children peek their heads out from their rooms, curiosity tugging at their expressions as the tension unravels in the hallway. Had it always stretched this far into eternity? It feels as though he’s been walking it for centuries now.

If Jean Grey is the embodiment of grace and intellect, then Logan carries the weight of all the world’s stubbornness. It clings to him like a birthright. Defying her beliefs—or anyone’s—is as instinctual as breathing. She’s trying to dissuade him, to talk him out of this reckless act: asking Charles to meddle in what she’s called his personal issues. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, focusing instead on the steady cadence of his steps toward the man’s office, each one heavier with purpose.

Jean’s voice grows sharper, her warnings echoing in his mind. This is a mistake. You’ll regret it. You’ll want to undo it. Don’t be stupid, Logan. Don’t do this to her—don’t do this to yourself.

But her protests are futile. The cards have already been laid out. Only meters from the door, he comes to a sudden halt. Jean, caught mid-stride, almost stumbles into his back. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers across her face. Maybe, just maybe, she’s convinced him to reconsider. A tentative smile begins to form on her lips, until he turns to her with a look so unyielding, it steals the breath from her lungs.

She has never seen him like this. This resolute, this… haunted. His jaw is clenched, his brow furrowed so tightly it seems etched in stone. There’s no trace of relief or satisfaction in his expression. Only the grim determination of a man about to pass a point of no return.

Why is he doing this? Soon, there will be hands prying into his thoughts, a marauder pulling apart his memories. Think about her. Now think about this moment. What do you remember? Each memory bearing your name, inked into his unconscious, will be inspected, cataloged, and then erased.

A mind already scarred will be stripped even further, the void swallowing everything. It has to come from a place of self-loathing, he thinks, because no reasonable explanation suffices. Perhaps he’s always been this broken, this damaged, and it was only a matter of time before he sought refuge in the very solution that had once been his calvary.

“I’ve made my choice,” he says with a tilt of his head which aims to deliver a tacit message: stay back. Don’t follow me. I have to do this. I need to.

So this is what it feels like, he thinks to himself, to willingly want to forget, to crave oblivion. To stop caring.

His fist hovers over the door, but he doesn’t have to knock. Charles’s been waiting for him. His voice resonates behind Logan’s eyelids, calm and inescapable. Come in.

“Coward.”

That’s the last thing he hears before he steps into the office, leaving her behind.

The first time you saw him, he was a contained storm, seconds away from coming undone in front of a rather small audience. Hardly the most convenient introduction.

You were in Charles’ office, attending one of his Physics lessons—not because you needed to. He’d already taught you these principles long ago, in a different time, under different circumstances. But lately, Charles had been trying to delegate some of his responsibilities, hoping to carve out time for the pressing matters that demanded his full attention. Ever the sweetheart, you’d offered to help, stepping in to take over this class.

Which is why you spent those past few weeks studying him—not just his teaching style, but the way he presented the topics: the analogies he drew, the subtle inflections in his tone. You’d promised yourself perfection, committed to live up to his standard, and that was exactly what you were working toward.

The sound of a door slamming shattered the flow of the lesson. A man burst into the room as though escaping from some unseen predator, shutting the door with a loud, final thud. He didn’t turn to face you. Instead, he lingered by the door, chest pressed against it, his ragged breathing filling the silence. The students abandoned whatever fragments of attention they had left for the class—this new stranger was far more compelling.

And, truthfully, he’d caught your attention, too.

You hesitated, fists clenching slightly at your sides, bracing for something you couldn’t name. A familiar voice cut through your thoughts, grounding you: This is the man I’ve been telling you about.

Apparently, this was Logan Howlett in the flesh. You certainly didn’t expect Charles’ newest recruit to look like this. 

“Good morning, Logan,” Charles greeted him when the man finally spun around. From this distance, you could see the tension carved into his features, the crease in his forehead betraying his distress. Charles, still composed, redirected his focus to the students. “I’d like your definitions of weak and strong anthropic principles on my desk on Wednesday, all right? That’ll be all.”

They didn’t need to be told twice, gathering their belongings in a flurry of notebooks and murmured goodbyes, barely sparing you a glance as they shuffled out. You offered them a tight-lipped smile, lifting a hand in acknowledgment, but your attention was drawn elsewhere. Logan was looking at you—or rather, through you—with a gaze that felt assessing. You never quite met his eye.

He stood there barefoot, dressed only in a sweater and sweatpants, his breath still uneven. Disoriented. His eyes swept across the room, his expression distant yet guarded, as though he was questioning the reality of it all. Considering the way he carried himself, it almost seemed like this was his first encounter with other mutants—but you knew better.

At some point, Charles decided to break the tension. “I’m Charles Xavier,” he began, his tone inviting. “Would you like some breakfast?”

But, of course, his cordiality and kindness were dismissed, being met with a gruff, “Where am I?”

“Westchester, New York,” Charles replied evenly, maneuvering his wheelchair closer. “You were attacked. My people brought you here for medical attention.”

You hadn’t been part of the mission that led to this moment; that had been Scott and Storm. In fact, you hadn’t even met Logan or the girl they’d brought with him—Rogue, as you later learned. Although at the time, rooted in the aftermath, you stepped forward, bridging the distance between yourself and Logan. You extended a hand toward him, offering your name with a cautious smile. “Nice to meet you.”

The gesture lingered awkwardly in the air, refusing even the pretense of acknowledgment. His eyes locked on yours, piercing and unrelenting, and for a brief moment, you wondered if this was his way of dissecting you. Then his gaze shifted back to Charles, impatience dripping from every word he uttered. “I don’t need medical attention. Where’s the girl?”

Oh. So that’s how he wants to play this. You withdrew your hand, doing your best to mask the sting of rejection as you pivoted on your heels and returned to your place beside Charles. “Jerk,” you muttered, low enough that it almost drowned beneath your breath, fussing with your sleeves in a vain effort to seem unaffected.

He didn’t miss it. His expression hardened, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Come again?”

To end the exchange right there, Charles cleared his throat, effectively steering the conversation into a different direction. Seizing the opportunity, he wheeled himself closer to the brown-haired man, his composure intact. What you admired about him was his self-control, something you’d tried to master in the years spent under his guidance without success. Yet, you couldn’t fathom how he managed not to tell Logan to just fuck off. “About Rogue, she’s doing fine.”

Logan arched a brow, his sneer cutting through the air like a blade. “Really?” You couldn’t grasp how he could hold so much bitterness toward a person he barely knew. His voice was thick with condescension, and a dozen sharp retorts swirled in your mind, each one eager to escape your lips. Your mouth parted to respond on Charles’ behalf, but he beat you to it.

“You’re in my school for the gifted. For mutants.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the dense air. Even the act of breathing felt strained, a soundless tug-of-war for the air around you. “You do know you’re not the only one with gifts, don’t you?”

“Is that what you tell those kids?” Logan’s scoff was a window into his beliefs. “That they have gifts?” 

“It’s no more than the truth.”

“Yeah? Truth my ass.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The words escaped you before you could stop them, fury flaring in your chest. You stepped forward, the crackling heat of frustration coursing through your veins, ending in your fingertips. His blank stare only fanned the flames. “We took you in. We saved your life. How about showing a little fucking gratitude?”

Logan advanced, and his eyes bored into yours with a stinging glint of smugness. “I don’t remember asking to be saved.”

Your jaw tightened. You could’ve cracked a tooth as well. “Well, the least you can do is not act like a complete prick.”

A hand encircled your wrist, its grip firm but soothing. Charles’ touch anchored you, grounding you back in the moment. Your breath faltered, tearing your gaze away from Logan’s eyes to meet Charles’ calm expression.

“Don’t be so hard on our guest, my dear,” he murmured, as if the hostility in the room didn’t exist. It could’ve also been that he was too practiced at disarming it. He didn’t bother to glance at Logan, speaking as though the man was just a shadow. “Give him some time. He needs it.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you bowed your head. You sidestepped Logan without another word, avoiding his presence like he was a flame that threatened to scorch. The tension clung to your skin, and you flung the room.

From that day on, Logan becomes the only subject you seem capable of discussing.

It’s everything about him—his walk, his voice, the sheer audacity of his existence—that drives you to the brink of madness. You tell yourself to let it go, to not let it eat away at you, but your mind refuses to cooperate. Each day, it does a stellar job of reminding you that you now share the same roof as a man with forks for hands.

Logan is, undeniably, the source of your every frustration.

“He’s an idiot,” you grumble around a bite of your lunch, settling into one of the chairs in the kitchen. Scott, Ororo, and Jean are gathered around the table with you, savoring a rare break before the afternoon classes pull them back into their routines. “I can confirm it.”

“Trust me, we know,” Ororo snaps, her tone more cutting than you expected. The words catch you off guard, and you pause, napkin halfway to your lips, to lift your eyebrows in surprise. “Look, I’m sorry,” she continues, her voice softening just a fraction, “but could you please talk about something else? It’s been Logan this, Logan that, for weeks now.”

“I think I understand what she means,” Scott chimes in, his tone lighter, nearly playful. You lift your hand for a high five, and he obliges with a grin, stealing a laugh from you.

“See? He gets it!”

Leaning back in his chair, your friend shakes his head. “I must admit I don't like the guy either. He’s—”

Jean’s elbow shoots out, jabbing Scott in the ribs just as Logan crosses the kitchen threshold. Scott’s indignant “Hey!” is muffled by your exaggerated cough, though it does little to mask the smirk threatening to break across your face.

How does the saying go? Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Logan’s eyes sweep across the room, his silence louder than the faint hum of the refrigerator. He strides toward the cupboard with methodical ease, and Storm bites her lip to stifle a laugh once she catches you watching him far longer than you should have. His back muscles tense and flex as he stretches his arms, the white tank clinging tighter with every movement.

“Please, don’t stop talking just because of me,” he remarks, his voice gravelly as he rummages through the cupboard, his focus presumably on some elusive snack. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

Your response comes out of instinct, words laced with irritation. “It’s hard not to,” you retort curtly, putting down your sandwich with a firm slap of your palms against your jeans.

That gets his attention. Logan turns around to confront you, a flicker of amusement twitching at the edges of his mouth. It’s that toothy smile of his that sets your blood simmering. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You jump to your feet, matching his intensity. “Such a pity I can’t say the same about you.” Without missing a beat, you step closer, snatching the bag of chips he’s holding. Hiding them behind your back, tilting your head in mock innocence, and then saying, “Oops.”

His brows draw upward, though his tone stays measured, as if speaking to a child. “C’mon,” he replies, making a half-hearted grab for the bag. “How old are you? Twelve?”

Unable to suppress the grin threatening to break free, you rest your back against the counter. “We both know you can do much better than that.”

Already preparing yourself for the lecture Ororo’s going to unload on you the moment he leaves, you watch as Logan exhales sharply. His irritation is palpable in the way he leans in, one hand planting itself on the counter behind you, his frame eclipsing yours. The proximity is electric, his scent, a mix of leather and something woodsy, fogging your senses. Hazel eyes, so deep you could drown in them, peer down at you, as he attempts to strip away every layer you’re desperately trying to hold together.

Safe to say, it’s working. Damn it. 

“Alright,” he finally says, tapping his fingers against the cool surface. “What do you want from me?”

Your galloping heartbeat is a major detail you choose to ignore, instead turning to the others for support. With an exaggerated motion, you point to each of your friends in turn. “Ororo and Scott were the ones who found you that day,” you start, trailing off, “and Jean ran a ton of tests on you to make sure you were okay. Have you even bothered to thank them for their hospitality?”

You believe you can joke with him—it’s how you usually bond with others, how most of your friendships have started. But you can’t help questioning if Logan can even get your sense of humor. The room falls silent, and his eyes flicker, just briefly, to your friends. 

“You’re right, you’re right. My bad, princess.” One of his big, manly lands on your shoulder, the pressure of it too casual, too familiar, working the muscle there. Your fingers slacken around the bag of chips, the feeling of his touch making it harder to maintain your grip. “Guys, I’m deeply sorry for my lack of amiability. Hope you can forgive me.” The sarcasm is thick in his voice, but it’s the sensation that clings to you, that doesn’t seem to fade—the warmth of it seeping through the layers of your clothes, pressing into your skin, stubbornly refusing to fade.

His hand leaves only when he yanks the bag from your grasp, and the warmth that had been just beside you evaporates with his retreat. In an instant, he’s already pulling away, his parting words a careless “See you around,” tossed over his shoulder.

No one dares to speak after that. Because to speak would be to acknowledge what has just happened. Your stomach has turned into a knot, that kind of knot sailors make that are impossible for beginners to undo. Logan’s fingers left a burn in your shoulder. Can you still smell him, the trail he left? Scott is the first to speak after a minute or so. “What… was that?”

“I have no clue,” Jean says between bites, staring reflectively at you. “Care to elaborate?”

Your tongue feels heavy, your throat parched. Even if you tried, a rational explanation wouldn’t come.

Ever since you were a child, you had yearned to grow up, to experience love as only adults could. In your young, unformed mind, it all seemed like a simple equation: adults dated; adults embraced love in the flesh; adults reveled in freedoms that children could only dream of, waiting patiently for their time to come.

And you did grow up. You did fall in love. But now he’s forgotten you, and nothing could have prepared you for that kind of ending. It wasn’t the closure you would have chosen, not the goodbye you imagined for you and Logan.

You find yourself caught in the in-between—not quite a child, yet not fully an adult either. Because surely, an adult would know how to handle this pain. An adult would find a way to cope. But you feel small. Weak. Hopeless.

It leaves you wondering just how much you are willing to forsake.

More weeks go by, and Logan remains in the mansion, defying the departure you’d expected. Part of you is relieved. He moves through the halls like a shadow, his eyes always on Rogue: checking on her, observing her interactions with the rest of the students at the mansion. She’s thriving, really. Blending in with her peers, forming bonds, especially with a boy named Billy. They are quite the pair.

Yet, despite Rogue’s happiness, Logan can’t seem to shake the grim air that surrounds him, an aura that emanates a quiet kind of disgust.

One night, you’re flipping through channels in the living room, stopping when an old love movie catches your attention. You place the remote down on a cushion, and pull your knees up to your chest, the murmur of the characters’ voices the only sound in the otherwise hushed room. You don’t think anyone else is awake at this hour.

 “Can’t sleep?”

There he is again. Always intruding, always finding his way back to you. The predator creeping into the vixen’s nest. He moves closer, slowly, and you lift your gaze to him, replying, “Actually, I’m a sleepwalker.”

Your comment earns a half-smile from Logan as he drops onto the couch beside you, his leg brushing against yours momentarily, worn denim against bare skin. His attention shifts to the TV, to the grainy images of the film playing out. You steal a glance at him, tracing the hard lines of his side profile.

“Feelin’ romantic tonight?” he asks.

“Not precisely,” you retort, fingers toying with the frayed edges of the blanket pooled at your feet. “There’s nothing else on. Sometimes you have to make do with what’s there.” Your gaze drifts back to him, lingering just a second too long before you add, “What about you? Any ghosts keeping you up?”

“You could call them that,” he says after a pause, his face still angled away. It must be easier to speak to you with this thin, invisible wall between you. “I have nightmares.”

“So you’re the one screaming at two in the morning?”

“Exactly. That’s me.” He ends up meeting your gaze, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, harboring an emotion he doesn’t voice. “M’sorry if I ever woke you up.”

“I’m usually awake at that time, too.” Your eyes flick to the screen. The couple in the movie bursts out of a building into the rain, their body language unmistakably revealing the heated argument unfolding between them. The man, clad in a raincoat, removes it to cover the woman, his supposed girlfriend. She’s visibly upset, but accepts the gesture nevertheless. “You can always knock on my door if you need anything. Unless I’m snoring—then I’ll be useless.”

Logan clicks his tongue, his focus shifting to the film as well. The man shouts, ‘Because I love you, for God’s sake!’ He casts a glimpse in your direction, his expression unreadable. “Same goes for you.” The woman in the film responds with a strangled, ‘Then prove it!’

“Anytime?”

“Anytime.”

The man cradles the woman’s face before kissing her. She throws her arms around his neck, and the music swells, evolving into a much more melodic song. A chorus of angelic voices replaces the earlier tense harmony. The camera lingers on every angle of their kiss, every desperate touch, as the world outside their embrace ceases to exist.

“This is cheesy,” Logan mutters, his heel bumping against the floor in repeated, short motions. Is he nervous?

“Yeah, so cheesy,” you reply quickly, pulling the blanket over your lap and curling into yourself. He doesn’t look like he’s thinking about kissing you, not even remotely, but you are.

A quiet yawn escapes you, and you rub your fist against your eyes, sleep beginning to take over your body. Logan catches it, his own yawn following like a reflex. “Looks like the movie’s workin’ wonders,” he quips.

You let out a drowsy giggle. “Shut up,” you murmur, but then he’s inching closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. His warmth seeps through, and after a few seconds of hesitation, you allow yourself to lean into his frame, resting your head on his arm. It’s awkward, your neck already protesting the angle, but you accept it. You’ll take the stiffness tomorrow without complaint, because this moment is worth it.

It won’t last long, though, this rare tenderness. These nights, the quiet ones, are when Logan opens up the most—when Jean and Storm aren’t around, when it’s just the two of you. That’s when he approaches you, like a wary black cat testing the waters. But he doesn’t need to tread carefully. Not with you.

“What if I were to fall asleep… hypothetically?” Your eyelids grow heavier with each blink, the pauses between each one stretching longer. Your cheek nuzzles against him, seeking warmth, and you feel the subtle tug of his hand as he pulls the blanket over his legs as well.

“Hypothetically,” he begins, rasping his words near your temple, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Within moments, sleep claims you. You never find out what happens after that, but he stays, trailing quietly behind. No nightmares or shadows from his past dare to haunt him that night.

It was inevitable that an encounter like that would spiral into something more. You weren’t naïve. You could connect the dots, and the picture was clear: Logan wanted you, too. Desire often walked a fine line, and from hatred to something else, it’s hardly a leap—just a small, barely perceptible step. It could change with the shift of light, from dawn to dusk. But you’d need the strength to cross that line, to be bold enough to make the first move.

And now, with the sun already dipped below the horizon, taking its long-awaited rest after a full day of burning up in the sky, you find yourself alone in the kitchen, though you hadn’t started that way. Scott had lingered for a while, insisting he didn’t mind keeping you company. You’d thanked him with a polite smile before subtly nudging him out. It hadn’t taken much—just a few hints. Simplicity at its finest.

At the table, a neat pile of student papers spreads before you. Your pen dances across the pages, leaving corrections and grades in its wake. It’s then that he appears. He doesn’t speak at first, but his presence saturates the room like a shadow stretching across the floor. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him; it must be the unspoken familiarity of how he fills a space. Or maybe it’s just how attuned you’ve become to his every movement.

Logan leans in behind you, close enough that you feel the heat he radiates at your back. His low hum sends a shiver down your spine as he peers over your shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late to be playin’ the teacher?”

Your grip on the pen tightens, a small tremor in your fingers giving away the tension pooling in your stomach. You exhale softly, blowing on the fresh ink. “Would you prefer to have me doing something else?”

Smugness prickles at the edges of your words, but the resolve in your chest is faltering.

“Now that you mention it…” His voice dips, grating next to the shell of your ear as his chest brushes your back. His presence is magnetic, the scrape of his beard scratching your skin while he tilts your head to one side. His fingers sweep your hair over your shoulder, lips mapping the nape of your neck, tasting your fevered skin. “I might have a few ideas in mind.”

Your breath hitches. You try for composure, but it wavers in your reply. “Really?” you ask, because playing dumb always has its merits, after all. “Want to show me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand moves deliberately, tracing a sensual, teasing path up your abdomen. His palm settles over one of your breasts, his thumb brushing the sensitive peak through your sweater. “I don’t think you’d want me to do it here,” he says, his voice thick with suggestion. “Too public for what I’ve got planned for you.”

You disentangle yourself from him, slipping off the chair with an unsteady grace, but Logan doesn’t give you time to find your feet. He smashes his lips with yours, the force of his kiss almost sending you reeling. His tongue presses insistently, seeking entry, as if the urgency in his touch could dissolve every barrier between you. He grabs your cheeks, holding you in place as though you might slip away, drawing you so close there’s barely space to breathe.

You’re caught off guard, not knowing where to put your hands, searching for purchase. The cold metal of the refrigerator handle digs into your lower back as he backs you against it, his groans reverberating through your mouth like a growled confession.

“My bedroom,” you manage to gasp between kisses. “Take me to my bedroom.”

Logan obliges, intertwining his fingers with yours. Together, you ascend the stairs, your laughter mingling in the noiseless night when he missteps and stumbles, momentarily breaking the spell. But he recovers quickly, finding your room in mere seconds. 

The door clicks shut behind you, and he presses you against the wood with a force you’d never experienced, his hands sliding down to grip your ass and knead the supple flesh with a possessive fervor. It all helps to feed the fire pooling in your core.

“Quiet, baby,” he whispers, slipping his fingers beneath the back of your sweatpants. His nails trace fiery lines along your skin, igniting your every nerve. “Don’t want anyone wakin’ up to those pretty sounds you make. They’re just for me, right?”

You nod frantically, longing for more, arching into his hands as your hips grind against his, your body moving with a will of its own. The friction is exquisite, a tantalizing promise. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his words laced with unfiltered hunger. “I’ve thought about havin’ you like this ever since I met you.”

His confession sends a surge of pride through your chest, an ache that feels equal parts affection and astonishment. Ever since the beginning? When he could barely look at you without scowling, his disdain practically tangible? “You hid it well,” you reply, breathless as you trace the outline of his erection over his jeans. The way it twitches under your undivided attention makes your pulse race. “I thought you hated me.”

He lets out a huff of laughter. “I thought the same about you,” he counters, before crushing his lips to yours once more. This time, you can’t help but smile into the kiss, your bodies moving as one, the pent-up tension between you unraveling in waves. “Guess we were both wrong.”

Your pants hit the floor in an unceremonious heap. It should embarrass you, how desperate and utterly needy you sound, the pleas spilling from your lips like the filthiest confessions. But the hunger in you is too vast, too insistent, drowning any possible flicker of shame. Decency was abandoned the moment you crossed that threshold. Logan nudges your legs apart with his knee, and the instant you feel him against your center, a contained sigh escapes you, half-resignation, half-surrender. Thought dissolves, leaving only instinct as you rock against him in slow circles, seeking relief.

“When was the last time someone took care of you?” He toys lazily with the waistband of your panties, like he has all the time in the world. You don’t give him an immediate answer, choosing instead to grind harder against his thigh, your breath hitching at the pressure. “Don’t go all shy on me now, sweetheart,” he says, dipping his head to mouth at your collarbone, the scent of his cologne heady and intoxicating. “Judging by the way you’re basically humpin’ me, I’d say it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t remember,” you blurt out, your head thudding against the door when his teeth nip at the delicate curve of your neck. Your pulse thrums beneath his lips, and you’re seconds from biting your tongue just to keep from crying out. “Stop teasing.”

Logan’s lips quirk up into a wicked smile against your skin, his knee retreating only to be replaced by his fingers, trailing them along the fabric covering your heat. “I like it when you get bossy. It reminds me why I like you so damn much.” He tugs the fabric of your underwear aside, the cool air hitting your wetness for only a moment before his fingers glide over your arousal, testing your patience. One digit slides into you, curling slightly as his palm presses over your mouth, muffling the whine that falls from your parted lips. “So wet for me, princess.”

Your legs shake under the weight of sensation, threatening to give out as you lean into the door for balance. His fingers move inside you with a sharp rhythm, hitting that spot with each furious thrust. The pressure builds, hot and insistent, and it’s overwhelming, but then he drops to his knees, and the sight alone sends a jolt through your core.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds is molten. He laps at you with long strokes, his pace never faltering, pumping his digits in sync with the flick of his tongue, coaxing every sound you’ve tried so hard to stifle. “Oh, fuck. Logan—” 

He groans against your core, his eyes remaining locked on your face, soaking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His focus is relentless, as though your reactions fuel him. You rake your hands through his hair, clutching at his dark locks with haste whenever his wet muscle lavishes extra attention on your clit, the intensity of his ministrations making your voice break, a choked gasp dying on your lips.

Your climax teeters on the edge, faster than you anticipated. “Close,” you manage to huff, the obscene noises he elicits driving you wild. “I’m gonna come. Please, come here—”

Logan detaches himself from you, standing tall with a fierce determination in his eyes. He’s set on pushing you over the edge with his fingers alone. His lips crash against yours, biting and licking, swallowing every desperate mewl that falls from your mouth, spit glistening down his chin. Three knuckles deep, coaxing your body to respond, your walls tighten around him, shuddering as he corners you against the door, the sharp edge of pleasure sending your knees buckling. Your orgasm washes over you, rendering you boneless in his hold. Limp and spent, you can barely return his kisses, panting harshly against his mouth, his arms the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

As you steady your breath, a satisfied smile tugs at your lips. Your eyes flicker down to his slick palm, and a rush of pride floods you. "That was amazing," you breathe, your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, reaching for his belt to tug at it. “My turn now.”

He ends up with his back pressed against the headboard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. You’re positioned between his legs, stimulating him over the fabric of his boxers. “It won’t take too long,” he says, and you feel the weight of his words more than hear them as you pull him free, revealing the hardness beneath. He’s already swollen, the tip wet with precum that coats your thumb as you stroke him once, feeling the heat pulse beneath your touch. A shiver runs through him, his legs stiffening as though on the edge of restraint. Bewitched by the size of him, you lean forward to slip the leaking head past your lips. “Jesus Christ.”

It’s difficult to take all of him at once, but you push through, your mouth stretching to accommodate his size. As you work him with your hand, your tongue traces the veins that snake along his length, feeling him throb. Logan’s body betrays him, his fists tightening around the sheets as if holding on to his last thread of control, desperately keeping his hips still, resisting the urge to fuck up into you.

“Honey, pull out,” he warns, stroking your back. “M’not jokin’. You’re gonna make me come.” But you don’t stop. Instead, you deepen your movements, cheeks hollowing as you take him with more enthusiasm, pushing him toward the back of your throat. When he realizes what you’re doing, a moan escapes him, laced with a dark laugh. “Filthy girl. So that’s what you want? To choke on my cum? Should’ve asked for it sooner.”

Not long afterwards, you feel the first splash of his release hitting your tastebuds. Ropes of his seed flood your mouth, some of it dribbling out to stain the corner of your lips. He watches, his thumb gently swiping over the edge, collecting what’s spilled, his eyes never leaving yours as he moves.

“Show me,” he asks, still breathless. You lean closer, your faces a whisper apart, and then you part your lips, revealing the evidence of your devotion like a masterpiece on display. His fingers find your chin, holding you there as he bites into his lower lip, the pressure turning the skin pale. “Now swallow,” he commands, and you obey, the motion deliberate, your satisfaction mirrored in the curve of his grin. He kisses you languidly, as if savoring the moment. “Where have you been all my life?”

The question invites countless answers, but you choose to murmur, “Down the hallway.”

“Logan, are you even listening?”

Charles’ voice slices through the playful moment, forcing Logan’s hands to still against your sides. The team sits around the table, embroiled in serious discussions that demand focus and discipline. Yet Logan’s fixation on you has rendered him deaf to anything beyond the sound of your laughter. Not a single word of the last hour and a half has stuck, his mind entirely preoccupied by the warmth of you perched on his lap.

He’d insisted he was much more comfortable than any chair, and you’d indulged him, leaning into his chest as his fingers danced teasingly along your ribs. “Of course I am,” Logan drawls, though the way his hand resumes tracing lazy circles on your stomach says otherwise, his entire attention remaining fixed on you.

“I don’t think you are,” Charles counters, leaning forward with both palms flat on his desk. His sharp gaze locks to you, narrowing faintly. “Do I need to seat you two on opposite ends of the room, or can you manage to behave?”

You stiffen in response, the easy comfort of moments ago evaporating. Sliding off Logan’s lap, you settle into the nearest chair, your departure catching him off guard. Your eyes meet his subtly, and you offer him an apologetic smile. Beneath the table, your fingers squeeze his knee, a silent reassurance. Finally, you direct your attention to Charles, straightening in your seat as if to demonstrate your newfound focus.

Logan, however, is less cooperative. His arms cross over his chest, and a crease forms between his brows, the picture of rebellion. Nothing that Charles says registers in his brain. All he can think about is how much better it felt to have you on his lap, where you weren’t bothering anyone. He contents himself with watching you now, contemplating your profile and the way your fingers absentmindedly tap against your notebook.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. It’s not the same. You’ve been dating for a month, much to the surprise of everyone in the mansion. It’s as if the idea of the two of you together had never even crossed their minds. Not even Rogue believed it when she came to ask Logan if the rumors were true. He hadn’t known how to respond to her, caught between mirth and disbelief himself.

It’s been decades since he’s felt this alive. He’s head over heels for you in a way that’s exhilarating. Seeing you, even across a crowded room, lights a fire in him, and he has to actively fight the urge to walk over, pull you close, and kiss you senseless right there in front of your friends.

As the meeting finally draws to a close, Charles asks him to stay for a while. “I just need to have a quick word with you,” he says, waiting until the others leave.

Once you’re out of earshot, Charles sighs, shaking his head like an exhausted parent addressing his wayward child. “Look, I’m glad you two worked through your differences,” he begins, a note of cautious joviality in his tone, “but this... well, this is the opposite of that.”

Logan exhales wearily, rolling his eyes before he can stop himself, and regretting it instantly. Don’t shrug him off, his inner voice scolds him. “C’mon, Charles. You’re overreactin’.”

The man arches a brow. “Am I? Watching the two of you cuddling during a meeting feels like chaperoning teenagers. Honestly, I must admit you’re even worse than them at times.”

That remark lands harder than Logan expects. He opens his not-so-smart-mouth, ready with a retort, but no words come out. For once, his quick wit fails him, leaving him standing there in uncharacteristic silence.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Charles’ eyes fall shut. “Just… try to be more present, alright? And don’t distract her, or yourself, too much. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Later, when he recounts the conversation to you, you start pacing nervously across his bedroom, your teeth worrying at your nails.

“Maybe he’s right,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

“Darlin’—”

“I just don’t want him to be angry with us,” you cut him off, arms dropping to your sides in defeat. Turning toward him, you sit down on the edge of his bed, your shoulder brushing his as your eyes bore into the carpet. “Do you think we should... give each other some space?”

Your suggestion feels like a punch to his gut. He sits up straighter, hands finding their way to your hips as he guides you onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. “I think we’re fine the way we are,” he says, tipping his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours in a loving gesture, coaxing a small smile from you. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Are you happy with me?”

You nod—once, twice, like it’s the only answer you could possibly give. “I love you,” you whisper, the words trembling, your lips curving into a smile that he feels against his own when he kisses you.

“God,” he grumbles against your mouth, long fingers tightening on your hips. “I never get tired of hearin’ that.” Logan cups your ass through your clothes, rocking you against him, and a groan escapes his throat as your center presses against his half-hard cock. “Say it again,” he rasps, his voice wanting.

“I love you,” you breathe, your head falling back when his hands move to unbutton your shirt, his touch reverent and greedy all at once. “I love you so much.”

Before you know it, he’s rolled you onto your back, hovering above you as he peels away the layers between you. He can’t comprehend how he got so lucky, how he gets to have you like this every day, so pliant and eager beneath his body. Your whimpers grow softer, more airy, but even then, you’re still whispering how madly in love you are with him.

This is a memory he’ll hold on to when Charles inevitably asks him to reconsider—to think about what’s best for both you and him. Fragile moments like this will slip through his fingers, but for now, they’re his to cherish.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

It turns out that love doesn’t come neatly wrapped in perfection. No—it’s a chaotic blend of tender glances and fiery clashes, of whispered promises and cutting comebacks. It’s arguments that sting as much as they heal, moments that don’t glitter but still matter, making the difference.

“Fuck off!” you snap, shoving the door against its frame, trying to shut him out. But Logan’s hand wedges in the gap, his strength effortlessly outmatching yours. “Get out, Logan.”

“No.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” he grits through clenched teeth, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Behind him, Jean calls your name, but he doesn’t turn. “Not now, Jean!” His voice echoes down the hall, and the sound of her retreating steps leaves the air tense.

You’ve already crossed the room, standing by the window. The sunlight filters through, painting your silhouette in warm flickers. Outside, the kids are in their break, passing a ball, their laughter carried by the breeze. Logan moves toward you, his presence heavy, and you hold up a hand to stop him.

“I’m going on that mission,” you say firmly.

“No, you’re not.”

Your head snaps toward him, a storm unraveling in your gaze. “Charles wants me there. The team wants me there,” you shoot back, jabbing a finger into his chest with each word, “and most importantly, I want to go. You don’t get to decide for me.”

Logan doesn’t step back, doesn’t flinch. He can’t understand how you don’t see his side of things, how the thought of you being in danger like this twists his insides into knots. “I can’t lose you.”

“Logan—”

“No, you don’t get it!” The words burst out of him. “What if something happens to you? What if you get hurt, and we can’t get you back in time?” His fists clench at his sides, fighting the need to pull you into his arms, to feel that you’re still here with him, still safe. “It’d kill me, because I love you with everything that I am. Just thinkin’ about losin’ you makes me sick.”

Your expression softens, but only for a moment. You take a step in his direction, closing the space between you. There’s no hesitation in your tone when you speak, leaving space for conviction. “I had a life before you, Logan. I’ve been here since I was a child, learning how to fight, how to survive. I’ve gone on missions for years—missions that were just as dangerous as this one. I don’t need you to protect me like this.” Your voice wavers, just barely. “I appreciate that you care, but I’m just as capable as you are.”

How long can someone hold their breath? Logan doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until your arms encircle his waist, your embrace melting the tension that’s been coiling in his chest. You bury your face against him, your breath steadying, and he draws a long breath, pressing his lips to your forehead like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands with a softness that feels almost out of place after the heated exchange.

“You get so bossy sometimes.”

"I thought you said you liked me bossy," you answer, your voice low, laced with mixed feelings, as you look up at him through hooded eyes.

Logan’s lips twitch into what aims to simulate a smile, but it’s weighed down by the sadness pooling in his gaze. It doesn’t reach the crinkle of his eyes, doesn’t carry the warmth it usually does. 

“I do,” he says, his voice rough, barely audible, brushing a thumb across your cheek. The words hang between you, carrying a plea for things to feel less heavy, for this closeness to fix what words can’t.

The arguments come more frequently now. The love hasn’t faded—of course, it hasn’t—but it feels buried beneath the noise. You and Logan clash over everything, over nothing, over things neither of you can quite name, all the fucking time.

It’s a cycle that none of you can seem to break, passion feeding the fire until it burns too bright, too hot. One of you always storms out, slamming doors or throwing words that linger in the air like acid smoke. And yet, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how lost you both feel, the love is still there. Aching, waiting for the dust to settle.

You tell yourself it’s just a rough patch. That love like this isn’t easy, that it’s supposed to be messy. But sometimes, when the silence stretches too long after another fight, you can’t help but wonder how much more the two of you can take before something breaks for good.

Lust becomes your apology, an untamed collision of anger and desire that you can’t resist. It’s not gentle—it’s frenzied and blazing. The bed creaks beneath you, the sounds of your moans and the slap of his hips against your ass enveloping the room. Every thrust drives you closer, the ferocity of it making your head bump into the headboard, but all you can think about is how full he makes you feel.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry out, drooling all over the pillow, ass high up in the air as Logan continues to pound into you. He pulls out all of a sudden, making you gasp in protest. That’s when you feel his tongue against your slit, eating you out from behind, spreading your cheeks to see just how much further he can go. Your hand flies back, pressing him into your skin. “So good, baby. F-fuck.”

There’s no leaving him, not even in your wildest dreams. When he spills inside you, you always ask him to hold you close, whispering for him to stay there. To keep you full of him. And he does, fusing your body with the mattress, his weight anchoring you to the pleasure he knows how to grant you. 

But then, it’s morning. The sun filters through the curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets, and you’re tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist. You stare at the ceiling, your mind crawling back to the fight, to the anger that seemed so vital only hours ago. You have to force yourself to remember why you were so mad in the first place. As his hand slides over your hip, pulling you toward him, the memory slips further away.

Dating Logan means understanding the darkness he carries, the nightmares he has almost every night. Usually, you’re woken by his movements, his rambling, the tremors that run through his body. You’ve perfected a way of rousing him gently, pulling him from the grip of whatever horrors his mind conjures without causing him more harm.

Though tonight, you must’ve been drained. You didn’t notice the moment the nightmare began.

“Honey? Oh, fuck. Wake up, c’mon.” His voice pulls you from the depths of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open and adjust to the dim light, the first thing you see is Logan, sitting rigid, staring at your arm as though it’s breaking him apart. The pain in his gaze is nearly palpable.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice groggy as you sit up, still partly disoriented. “Logan, are you okay?”

Then you see it: Blood. Dark stains seeping into the sheets, trailing from a jagged cut running the length of your forearm. It isn’t deep, and oddly, it doesn’t even hurt that much. But Logan looks stricken, his eyes flickering between your wound and his own hands.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt,” you assure him as you fumble to grab the ruined sheets, bundling them up to contain the mess. Reaching for the lamp on the nightstand, you switch it on, bathing the room in a golden glow. That’s when you notice the droplets of blood on his knuckles, the torn skin where his claws must have pierced through. This has never happened before. Neither of you know what to say or how to react. When you reach for his hand, he recoils, shaking his head like he’s trying to will the scene away. “Hey, don’t do that.” 

“I knew it’d happen eventually.” He’s spiraling, rising to his feet. A man trying to escape himself. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his chest and back, his body tense with the effort of holding his pieces together. Turning to face you, his expression is the embodiment of torment. In his eyes, it’s as though the prophecy has been confirmed, irrevocably, by his own doing. “I hurt you. I told you it was going to happen.”

“Why are you acting like this?” you ask, pushing yourself off the bed to meet him. You’re tired, too tired to be arguing like this. “It won’t happen again.”

“How can you be so sure? You said the same thing before, and now look. Look at where we are.”

You’re at a loss for how to calm him. The exhaustion weighing on you makes your thoughts sluggish, and you’re afraid of saying something you’ll regret. But giving up isn’t an option—not with him, not because of this. Slowly, you step back and spin in place, letting him see you fully, the wound and all.

“You see? I’m fine,” you insist. “I’m not hurt. Please, Logan, believe me when I say I’m okay.”

He doesn’t respond, but the uncertainty etched into his face lingers. For a moment, you think you’ve reassured him, as he lets you guide him back to the bed. Together, you pull the sheets up to cover your bodies, and he leans into the pillows with a weary sigh. He mutters something about being sweaty, so you don’t rest your head on his chest as usual, settling into the curve of his shoulder instead. The rhythm of his breathing, uneven at first, begins to steady.

At some point, the warmth of his body disappears. You stir faintly, but your mind is too clouded by sleep to register it as anything more than the remnants of a rather vivid dream.

Logan remains standing, staring at Charles, refusing the invitation to sit down. “You told Jean,” he says, and the other man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even attempt to deny it. “I asked you to keep it between us.”

“I thought she might help you reconsider,” Charles answers, looking more serious than usual, his piercing eyes fixed on Logan. “Logan, I still don’t believe this is the right path for you. It’s not the solution to your problems. You can’t run from her, from this—relying on forgetting won’t bring you peace.”

Who really knows what’s best for him? Logan certainly doesn’t. After all these decades of walking the earth, what has he truly learned? His long life feels like a cruel irony, offering time without clarity. What use is immortality when you’re paralyzed by indecision, unsure of what you truly want?

“I can’t leave her. At least, not willingly,” he explains, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the arm of a chair, the gesture lacking finesse. “She’ll get over it. She’s stronger than she thinks.”

“You’re deciding for her.”

To that, Logan has no reply. He only looks away.

“When I got here, you told me you’d help with whatever I needed.” Logan crosses the room, lowering himself into a chair by Charles’ desk, his posture stiff. He lifts his chin slightly, trying to convey a confidence he doesn’t actually feel. “This is what I need you to do. Today.”

“Let’s start with your most recent memories and work backward from there.” Charles rolls himself closer, his chair nearly brushing Logan’s legs. “There’s an emotional core to every memory, and when you eradicate that core, it begins to degrade. By the time I’m done, those memories will have withered, as in a dream upon waking.”

Logan’s throat tightens at the description. There’s no comfort in Charles’ words. It doesn’t sound like a dream. It sounds like a nightmare.

“Do you want to proceed?”

“Yes.” Logan’s reply is immediate, though it scrapes his throat like gravel.

Charles nods once, solemnly. “Then tell me your most recent memory of her.”

I think I was preparing a class when she burst through the door, uninvited. I’d been trying to keep my distance from her, because of... well, all of this. But it wasn’t easy. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to leave, so I let her stay. She came up behind me, wrapped her arms around me, and asked if I had much left to do. I told her everything else could wait. Big mistake.

We were lying on my bed. Somehow, we always ended up there, tangled together. It wasn’t strictly... sexual. There’s something profoundly vulnerable about sharing that space. Snuggling, you could call it. Now that I think about it, she likes resting her head on my chest. Says it’s the best way to hear my heartbeat and find out if it matches hers.

“Focus, Logan.”

Yeah, I know. You’re right. Anyway, she asked me if I believed in soulmates, and I laughed. Obviously, she thought I was mocking her, so I had to convince her I wasn’t. I just thought the question was funny.

“Why did you laugh?”

Because it was exactly the kind of question she’d ask. She hadn’t before, but I’d been waiting for it. She told me she thought soulmates existed, and that I was hers. And I laughed again, and she threatened to leave. I held her tighter.

I told her I didn’t know if soulmates were real. I didn’t have that kind of certainty. What I did know, I said, was that I loved her. That was the only thing I was sure of. Soulmates or no soulmates, I loved her. I was right where I wanted to be. Those were my exact words.

“When did this happen?”

Yesterday. Before she left with Ororo and Scott for their mission. That’s why I’m choosing to do this now.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you again. Are you absolutely certain you want me to do this?”

Yes, Charles. Please, don’t ask me again.

Throwing open the mansion’s entry door, you let it swing wide as you step inside. You could use a shower, but right now, all you care about is finding him. Where is he?

Before starting your search, a cluster of students rushes toward you, their arms wrapping around your waist. Their laughter fills your senses as they chatter excitedly, hugging you tightly. “We missed you!” A boy exclaims, and you can’t help but smile, ruffling his hair.

“Have you seen Professor Logan?” you ask, crouching to meet the eye of one of the younger girls.

She grins, her innocent smile spreading, and she points toward the kitchen. “He’s in there.”

You thank her and make your way to the kitchen, your heart beating a little faster. You find him standing by the counter, slicing bread. His movements are methodical, his posture calm, but something feels off. You pause in the doorway, scrutinizing his face for a sign, any sign, that he’s happy to see you.

But his gaze flicks to you for only a brief moment, cool and detached, before returning to his task.

“Hey,” you call softly, tilting your head. His shoulders tense, and he doesn’t stop cutting. “I’m back,” you add, stepping closer, hoping for some sort of acknowledgment.

It takes him a few seconds to respond, and when he does, his voice sounds flat. “I see.” He opens a drawer, pulling out a fork. “Good for you, I guess.”

The words hit you like a slap. A joke, surely. But why? You take a hesitant step forward, your brows furrowing. “Logan, why—”

Before you can finish, a hand grabs yours, yanking you out of the kitchen. Startled, you turn to see Jean, her expression pale and stricken.

“Jean?” you ask, confused. “Is this another one of Logan’s pranks?”

Her lips twitch, and tears glisten in her eyes when she swallows thickly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I tried to stop him. I really did. But he—he wouldn’t listen!” Her hands tighten around yours, quivering. You’ve never seen her like this before.

“Wait—slow down,” you urge, your stomach twisting.

“I swear, I tried to talk him out of it,” she pleads, each of the words she utters rushing out like a flood. “You know how stubborn he can get.”

It doesn’t take too long for her panic to feel contagious. The pit in your abdomen deepens as you glance back toward the kitchen, where Logan stands just out of sight.

Something is wrong—terribly wrong.

“Jean, what did he do?”

Despite all his wisdom, Charles had known this moment would come the second he agreed to help Logan.

The door to his office flies open, slamming against the wall with a force that reverberates through the room. You storm in, your strides long and charged with anger, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Madness blazes in your eyes. “You did what?!”

“My dear—”

“You erased me from my boyfriend’s memory!” The words erupt from you, shaking the very air. You fling your arms wide, your fury spilling over. Before he can respond, you turn on his bookshelf, yanking ancient, cherished volumes from their resting places. One by one, you ignite them, flames devouring their fragile pages in an instant.

Then, there’s a momentary pause—a flicker of silence before you seize another book. This one you hurl in his direction, not quite at his face, but close enough to graze the air near his shoulder before it hits the floor with a heavy thud. The sound echoes, a physical punctuation to your rage.

“You made me disappear! He doesn’t fucking know who I am!”

His expression, pained and weary, holds no exasperation—only regret. “He asked me to do it.”

“What kind of an answer is that?” The question hangs underlined by the tears that stream down your face. Your voice breaks, the pain behind it cutting deeper than any accusation. “You could’ve said no, Charles. How many times have you denied me things?”

“You didn’t see him in the way I did, he was—” He stops himself, faltering. No words can repair what he has already destroyed. “I’m sorry.”

You stand there, breathing hard, the space between you filled with smoldering ash and a silence so loud it feels suffocating. The remains of his books lie scattered, the faint scent of burnt paper lingering in the air. Charles watches you, but he doesn’t move to stop you. He doesn’t fight you.

The fury ebbs, leaving behind a hollow ache that takes its place in your chest. “If you’re so willing to erase love like it’s nothing, then do it for me, too.”

Charles’s brows knit together. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? Logan doesn’t remember me. I walk into a room, and he looks right through me. Like I’m a stranger, like I never mattered. So tell me, what’s the point in remembering him if he’s already forgotten me?”

“I don’t believe forgetting will give you the peace you’re looking for.”

“Is that what you told him as well? Clearly, it worked out well.”

Touché.

“I’ve already hurt you enough,” he whispers.

“And you’ll keep hurting me if you don’t do this. I can’t carry this alone.” You kneel in front of him, clutching the edge of his wheelchair. “If you could take it away from him, you can take it away from me, too.”

Charles stares down at you, his mouth tightening, as if the weight of your words presses down on him. His hands, usually so steady, shift uncomfortably in his lap. It’s clear he can’t believe this is the second time he’s found himself in this situation, faced with the same desperate request. “Are you sure?”

You nod your head. “He wanted to forget me. Now, I want to forget him.”

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy with resignation. “All right,” he says softly, though his voice carries a sadness he doesn’t try to hide. “But I need you to understand… once it’s done, there’s no going back.”

 “That’s the point.” You wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand, as though erasing the tears could also erase the doubt creeping in.

“Then sit,” he counters, motioning to the chair Logan sat in days ago.

You hesitate for a moment, the finality of the act looming large. Slowly, you lower yourself into the chair, gripping its arms with all your earnest. Charles wheels himself closer, and the reality of what’s about to happen sets in.

“Tell me your last memory of him,” he says gently, his voice barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes, and the image surfaces instantly: Logan, holding you close, whispering that he loves you. No soulmates, no destiny—just love. You let out a shaky breath, your heart breaking all over again as you begin to recount it. “The last time he looked at me like I was his whole world.”

Charles nods, his expression unreadable, placing his hands on your temples. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I had to leave the next day, so I wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. My things were already packed. I walked into Logan’s room and asked him if he was busy. A week isn’t a lot, but ever since he moved here, we hadn’t been apart from each other. I was anxious about that. I thought it’d be so hard to fall asleep without him at night. What—oh, God, what’ll happen now?

“I need you to keep going, darling.”

Don’t call me that. 

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

I convinced him to lie in bed with me. I had my head on his chest, and he kissed my forehead. His beard scratched me in the right way. It never hurt or bothered me. I had once dated a guy who had a beard, and it was just so uncomfortable. But that wasn’t Logan’s case. He would kiss me and hug me, and it felt like the best thing in the world.

There was a question I’d been meaning to ask him. It was about soulmates, and the existence of them. I thought Logan was my soulmate, and I said it to him. I asked if he believed in them, but he laughed. He told me he wasn’t making fun of me or anything, just that he thought the question was funny.

Logan said he didn’t know whether soulmates existed or not, but he knew for a fact that he loved me. He didn’t care about anything else. He loved me. He really did. Do you think he loved me, Charles?

“Yes. I do believe so.”

Then why did you take that away from me?

“I’m sorry.”

I hate you.

“I know.”

Your head pounds, an ache that feels like it’s splitting you in two. It’s a pain unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your vision blurs, forcing you to blink repeatedly until the world around you sharpens into focus.

Four blank walls. The stark, colorless void offers nothing but the oppressive weight of emptiness. This must be your mind, stripped bare. Somewhere in the depths of this space, Charles is at work, pulling threads and unraveling every memory of Logan.

You push yourself off the cold floor. A soundless shift disturbs the space—a door appears out of nowhere, its frame faintly glowing, and without hesitation, you reach for the handle and swing it open.

On the other side is a fragment of your past: that night months ago, sitting in the living room, watching a movie. Logan had decided to join you. The memory pulls you in, and suddenly, you’re no longer standing—you’re on the couch. Your clothes have altered to match that night. Logan sits beside you, the warmth of his presence impossibly real.

This moment feels untouched by time, but deep down, you know the truth. Charles is erasing it even as you relive it. Soon, this too will vanish.

The scene begins to warp. It’s no longer the movie on the screen. The couple has been replaced by you and Logan. You’re watching yourselves from a third perspective, your bodies framed by the flickering light of the TV. It’s deeply unsettling, but in this fragmented state of consciousness, it doesn’t feel worth questioning.

“Logan?”

“Tell me.”

You grab a cushion and smack him on the arm, the motion instinctive. “You idiot!”

“What was that for?” he asks, laughing as he takes the cushion from your hands, tossing it aside. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You erased me from your memory!” you accuse him, even as you know the futility of it. He’s merely a fragment, a faint echo of who he once was to you. A lingering shard of memory caught in the tangled wires of your brain, sparking as it teeters on the edge of a short circuit. “You’re not even real, are you?”

“No,” he admits, his voice tinged with something like regret. “I’m just in your mind. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. You’re just what’s left.” You lower your gaze, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How long do you think it’ll take Charles to erase you?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. The words you long for, the closure you might crave, are swallowed up. His lips vanish mid-formulation, and then you’re staring at a blank void where his mouth used to be. The rest of his features begins to fade—his eyes dissolve into nothingness, followed by his nose, his brows, the lines of his face. All that’s left is the space where he once sat, and even that feels tenuous.

You’re on your own now. The memory of him—of that night, the first time you truly shared an intimate moment—has been swept away like smoke in the wind. You collapse onto the floor, trembling as sobs tear through you, your hands pressed tightly against your face, attempting to contain your anguish. “I don’t want to forget you,” you choke out between hiccupped breaths, the sting of tears burning your eyes. “I never asked for any of this.”

“I know,” a familiar voice murmurs behind you, and there he is—Logan. This time, he’s wearing his suit. His claws are unsheathed, gleaming. “I shouldn’t have done it first. I don’t know what I was thinking��.”

You push yourself to your feet, drawn to him. When you move to hug him, he takes a step back, raising his claws as if to protect you from getting harmed. “I can’t retract them. If I hug you, I’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, pressing forward and slotting yourself between his arms, ignoring the danger. Your face finds its habitual place against his chest, and you inhale deeply, inhaling his scent. “I just want you.”

His arms fold around you hesitantly, careful yet incomplete. You feel a sharp pain, a searing slice along your ribs that rips a scream from your throat. The agony is blinding, drowning your world into darkness.

When you open your eyes again, you’re somewhere else entirely. The bed feels soft beneath you, the sheets tangled around your legs. Logan is there beside you, his body warm against yours, both of you naked under the sheets.

“You’re lost in thought,” he says, his voice tender, taking a strand of your hair, twisting it gently before tucking it behind your ear. “You alright?”

His face won’t stay still. Beard, no beard. A moustache that fades as quickly as it appears. Hair long, then short. Sideburns one moment, smooth skin the next. He’s a shifting mosaic of himself. You realize you can’t remember what he looked like the last time you saw him.

“I’m forgetting you.” Your fingertips trace the curve of his cheek, memorizing each detail. “I don’t think I can stop it now.”

He’s seconds away from crying, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels both desperate and resigned. “Stay here with me,” he whispers against your mouth, his hands sliding over your arms, your stomach, your legs. “Don’t let me go.”

“You did it to me first,” you say, voice thick with emotion, pulling him closer, down until his body presses fully against yours. His weight feels real, but you know it’s not. Nothing about this moment is.

His voice breaks, repeating the same mantra. “Stay here with me. Don’t let me go.”

The touches multiply. It’s no longer just his hands on your skin. It’s as if the entire universe is reaching for you. The cacophony of touches, the overlapping voices—“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”—swirls into a suffocating chaos.

Logan begins to blur, like a photograph left too long in the sun. His face fades first, then his body, until all that remains is a ghost of his shadow. Then even that is gone. The bed disappears beneath you, leaving you adrift in an empty expanse. You can’t tell if you’re still there, or if you’ve vanished with him.

You exhale slowly. Silence, at last.

The second first time you see him, he’s sitting alone outside on a weathered bench, his shoulders slightly hunched. He’s completely alone, and you pause a few steps away, studying him for a moment. He doesn’t seem like someone you would’ve missed at the mansion. Charles mentioned he’d recently joined the team, a mutant who had spent too long wandering the earth.

You clear your throat, trying not to overthink it. “Mind if I take a seat?” you ask, your hands clasped behind your back as you wait for his reply.

He shifts to one end of the bench, leaving you more than enough room, though his movements seem cautious. You sit down, exhaling softly as an awkward silence stretches between you. His demeanor isn’t exactly inviting, and you wonder how to bridge the gap.

After a moment, you stretch out your hand, offering a polite smile, giving him your name. He glances at your hand, then takes it. “M’Logan,” he says simply, though you already knew that from your previous talk with Charles. His fingers are rough, calloused, yet they linger a beat longer than necessary before letting go. “The other day, I was in the kitchen, and you walked in. You were acting… strange.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Really?” Your gaze flickers between his face and your hand that still feels warm from his touch. “I don’t remember that. Are you sure it was me?”

Logan hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought so… but maybe not.” His lips press into a thin line, shrugging. “Never mind. I could be wrong.”

Tilting your head, you study him. There’s something familiar that you can’t quite place. “Have we met before? Outside this place, I mean. It’s just… I feel like I know you. Like I’ve seen you somewhere, but I can’t figure out where.”

His eyes meet yours then, like your question has triggered something dormant. He leans back slightly, his posture relaxing as he lets out a low chuckle. “Funny you’d say that. I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but… I got the same feeling.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.” His lips quirk into a smile, one that matches yours.

Inside the mansion, Charles and Jean watch the scene through the window. Jean folds her arms across her chest, her expression caught between awe and disbelief. “This is crazy,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

“Don’t get me started,” Charles replies.

“They don’t know what happened, but they still feel it. Like they’re connected.” She peers down at Charles, her voice quieter now. “You erased everything, didn’t you? Every memory, every trace.”

Charles keeps his eyes on the scene outside, his features softening as he watches the two of you talk. He sighs, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “You’re asking me for an explanation I don’t have. I guess some things… refuse to be forgotten.”

Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.

Friedrich Nietzsche.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

With Me Forever

Dark!Mommy!Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Word count: 1.3K

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Stockholm syndrome, Dubcon, kidnapping/confinement, psychological conditioning/manipulation, Mommy kink, emotional manipulation, pet play, loss of autonomy, magical manipulation, breeding kink, objectification, power play

Authors notes: Man Idk who took over while writing this one, but they were amazing.

The room is dim, heavy velvet curtains drawn over the windows, allowing only slivers of muted sunlight to filter through. You’ve been here for days—weeks, maybe even months. Time feels warped in this house, your new prison. Every surface is lavish, grand even, but that doesn’t dull the sharp edge of fear that grips your heart.

Agatha is watching you again. Her presence is unmistakable—she's never too far from you, whether you see her or not. You’d taken notice of a cicada in the room she kept you in. It never got too close to you, but always somewhere you could see it.

 Her deep, sultry voice curls around your senses like smoke as she enters the room, heels clicking against the hardwood floor. She’s dressed impeccably, as usual, in a pair of dark purple suit pants, a white button up and a navy blue overcoat, her sharp eyes glittering with amusement as she watches you on the bed.

"Good morning, my little bunny," she purrs, her voice sending a shiver down your spine. "Have you decided to behave today?"

You turn your head away, trying to ignore the way your body reacts to her. Every fiber of your being wants to resist her, to fight back against the constant manipulation, but it’s hard—too hard—especially when your body betrays you. You hate how she’s gotten under your skin, how her touch has become something you crave, even as your mind rebels.

Her hands are the only touch you’ve felt in a long time let alone a nice touch, something tender that doesn’t leave a mark on you. Your body wanted more of it even though you knew this was all wrong. She kidnapped you. She’s keeping you here for her own amusement and pleasure. 

Agatha chuckles darkly, sensing your internal struggle. She moves closer, her fingers trailing lightly along the curve of your neck. You flinch, but you don’t pull away. You can't.

"My sweet girl," she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear, "it’s only a matter of time before you stop fighting. You’ll see that everything I do is for you, for us. I could give you so much more than anyone else ever could including that other little witch you were so fond of. All you have to do is surrender."

Her words are a poison, dripping into your thoughts, planting seeds of doubt. She’s always been careful, never harsh and certainly never violent. Instead, she plays with your mind, with your desires, making you question everything. 

Is it really so bad to want her? 

To give in?

"You and I could be so much together," Agatha continues, her hand sliding down your arm, her nails grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver. "I know what you can do and I could teach you things that would make the world bow at your feet."

You close your eyes, trying to block her out, but it’s impossible. She’s everywhere, inside your head, inside your heart. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, you feel yourself breaking, crumbling under the weight of her words, her presence.

"You’ll never leave," she says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Not because I won’t let you, but because you won’t want to."

And the terrifying part is that you know she’s right.

You feel her hand move over the curves of your body, goosebumps running over your whole body. Her fingers were always freezing as she somehow made your skin feel like it was on fire. The only movement you were allowed was to arch into her touch. Your body once again betraying you as it did just that, asking for more from her as you don’t dare look her in the eyes. She chuckles, dark and low, at the action. 

“Your body doesn’t lie to me bunny. Look at me. Look at Mommy.” She’d started to call herself that. Mommy, you thought it was just a jab at all the Mommy issues you have and it very well might be the case, but fuck you just wanted to make Mommy happy. Yet you still want to fight against her. You don’t want to give her the satisfaction. Not yet at least. 

Her hand starts rubbing your thigh, each stroke drawing closer to your heated core. You close your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. You feel her movement and the bed dips down between your legs. You’re moved slightly with where her weight is and you feel a hand on each thigh. 

Her strokes are gentle as she leans down, her heated mouth meaning your skin. A rush of heat to your core hits and a needy whine comes out of you.

“All you have to do is ask, bunny.” She mumbles against your skin. This was the game that was played every time. Like some even more twisted form of conditioning. She’d wait until you were all needy, begging for her cock, begging to be bred by her. It wasn’t fair. You bite your lip debating if you want to hold out this time, you’ve done it a few times, but you’d always regret it because she’d work you up and ruin your orgasm each time. 

“Please Mommy…need you…need you inside of me…” You manage out and Agatha looks down at you, slowly rubbing around your overly sensitive nub, but not actually touching it. You swallow hard before continuing. You know what she’s waiting for and you want to say it. You want her to know, need her to know. 

“I’m yours Mommy please I’ll be your good bunny! Need Mommy’s cock inside of me. Only yours makes me feel good. No one else could make me feel good like you Mommy. No one could make me cum like you do Mommy!” You feel tears prick the corners of your eyes. 

A smirk appears on Agatha’s face, a snap of her fingers and your clothes are gone. She has her purple enchanted strap out and ready. It was already pushing at your soaked entrance. Making it easy for Agatha to slip inside of you. 

“F-fuck…” You arch into her, not realizing how much you needed her. 

“You’re so tight, bunny. You feel amazing. Mommy’s going to make sure you feel amazing.” She manages out, you can tell she’s breathless just from entering you. Feeling how tight and wet you were. 

“Please Mommy I’ll be your best bunny ever!” 

She simply smirks as she grips your hips and before you can say anything else she’s pounding into you relentlessly. You can’t help but moan as she hits your spot over and over again. You don’t feel one of her hands move up to your head, it isn’t until you hear the Latin come out her mouth that you know she’s using her magic she’s making you more fuzzy, more needy for her. Another form of conditioning, her magic. 

You watch her fingers, watching her hand flex and fingers move. It isn’t her magic making you fuzzy and needy. You grab her wrists and don’t think about it as you take her fingers into your mouth, sucking on them eagerly. 

You look up at her with half lidded eyes, dark and lustful. You were ready to be completely hers. She could see it in your eyes. 

“That’s my good bunny. Just like that. You’re Mommy’s bunny aren’t you?” She asks, her voice full of lust, her heated breath you could swear you saw. You nod and mumble an ‘mhmm’ around her fingers. 

You don’t think it’s possible but she speeds up. You’re moaning around her fingers and she can tell you’re close. She keeps her pace, letting you fall over the edge as you let her fingers go, choosing to lunge forward to hold onto her as you rocked your hips into her. Her hands find their way to your back, her natural nails clawing down your back. 

“My bunny.” You feel her fill you, her hot cum hitting against your walls. You were hers completely and you had been for a while, you knew that. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be, you don’t even remember that other witch’s name.

“Your bunny Mommy forever.”

[springtyme]

Hi love! I'm not feeling good and have been kinda down so I was wondering if you could write a sweet spencer x fem reader where she's usually the tough one but she goes through a loss and he finds her crying alone in the dark in the office and just comforts her

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 ♡

Thank you for the request, hun <3 I'm so sorry to hear that you are feeling down. I hope some Spencer comfort might help a little <3

Spencer Reid x fem!reader || Masterlist || Spencer playlist

summary: It is not unusual for Spencer to stay late at the office. What is unusual, however, is finding you crying in the conference room.

word count: 2.4k

warnings/tags: Hurt/comfort. Grief and mourning. Loss of a family member. Spencer being the sweetest. Mutual pining.

The dim glow of the office lights flicker softly in the nearly empty room, casting long shadows that dance against the walls. It is late, far past the hour when most of the BAU team had called it a night. The constant hum and buzz that usually fills the air of the bullpen has faded into a profound silence, leaving only the delicate, rhythmic sound of paper rustling everytime Spencer turns a page of the pile of reports in front of him. 

It is not unusual that he stays late to finish his work; in fact, it has become somewhat of a routine, maybe not the most healthy one, but he cherishes the quiet of the after-hours; it is a time when he can think without the distractions of the day, his thought pattern getting the opportunity to fully unfold with uninterrupted clarity. 

He stretches his long limbs, feeling the fatigue settle into his bones as he takes a deep breath, inhaling the faint scent of stale coffee, and the lingering smell of old paper.

As he leans back in his chair, his gaze lands on the clock on the wall, its clock hands ticking steadily, the sound echoing in the emptiness. It’s late, and he knows he should call it a night, but there’s a stubborn part of him that clings to the work. He eyes the stack of reports one more time, each file holding the remnants of cases that had left their mark on him—cases that never truly leave him, echoing in his mind long after the team has moved on.

The clock ticks monotonously, each passing second weighing heavily upon him. Pushing away from the desk, he stands up, stretching again to relieve the tension that has built in his shoulders. He should really call it a night. He begins packing up his things, methodically sliding reports into a neat pile and shutting down his computer. The soft whirring of the cooling fan fades into silence as the screen goes dark, mirroring the dim ambiance of the office. He tosses his pen into the collection of writing utensils, a small victory for tidiness amidst the chaos of his thoughts.   

With a deep sigh, he slings his messenger bag over one shoulder, the slight squeak of the rubber soles of his sneakers on the polished floor the only sound in the quiet office as he leaves the bullpen. The silence envelops him, the weight of solitude pressing in from all sides as he walks through the dark, empty building.  As he makes his way past the break room, he considers stopping for one last cup of coffee before his drive home, even though he fully knows that what his body doesn’t need right now is more caffeine. What he needs is sleep, and a reprieve from the steady hum of his thoughts. But his change for a somewhat decent sleep this night has long passed.

But his internal debate about the pros and cons of indulging in his coffee craving comes to a full stop as he walks past the conference room. The door is slightly ajar, and a faint light spills out into the dark hallway, accompanied with a faint sound—a soft, muffled whimper. 

Spencer’s heart tightens in his chest at the sound as he instinctively makes his way toward the door. Pushing it open cautiously, he peeks inside, his breath catching in his throat at the scene before him. The sight that greets him tugs painfully at his heart—it’s you, sitting on the cold floor of the conference room, shoulders shaking with hushed sobs, your usually strong demeanor momentarily shattered to pieces.

You, the one who always has the right answer, the sharpest wit, and a comforting strength that seems to radiate outwards, are curled up in the corner, your back against the wall, knees drawn up to your chest and your face half hidden in your hands, tears silently tracing paths down your cheek. The usually composed agent, known for your bravery and unbreakable spirit, now lost and broken. It pierce through him like a knife.

He remembers how you had arrived at the BAU two years ago with a fierce determination, melding graceful resilience with an unyielding strength that never fails to inspire those around you. Whether confronting hard truths or providing support to your teammates, you are always a pillar of strength—invincible in the face of adversity. It was something Spencer couldn’t help but deeply admire, and as he has gotten to know you over the last two years, he finds himself constantly drawn to and captivated by that strength as well as your kindness. 

He approaches cautiously, his heart twisting with a painful empathy. The sight of you right now is such a stark contrast to the strong, independent woman he’s come to know, and despite his slightly reserved nature and the hesitant fear of intruding, he feels a strong surge of protectiveness as he watches you now. 

He says your name softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him to give you a semblance of privacy. “Hey…” His voice is gentle, barely above a whisper, infused with a mix of concern and warmth. He takes a step closer, his heart aching as he watches you react to his voice—your head snaps up, wide eyes red-rimmed and swollen, a stark contrast to your usual bright gaze. 

For a short moment you’re just frozen, like a deer caught in headlights, your gaze searching his face, grappling with a mixture of surprise and vulnerability. It’s a moment poised on the knife's edge, and Spencer holds his breath, afraid to disrupt the fragile atmosphere.

Then you blink rapidly, and wipe hastily at your cheeks, trying to regain your composure and to erase any trace of your tears, but the effort only makes it worse, as if the floodgates threaten to open wide once more—the walls have come crashing down, and he can see the vulnerability you usually keep so well-hidden.

He takes another cautious step closer, the distance between you suddenly feeling impossibly vast, despite the small space of the room. “Can I sit?” he asks gently, indicating the floor beside you. You nod slightly, and he settles onto the cool surface, instinctively mirroring your posture. The silence drapes between you like a thin veil, both comforting and heavy. He doesn’t rush you; there is an unspoken understanding that you need this space to gather your thoughts.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally offers, his voice softening into a whisper as he looks into your eyes, searching for an answer, however small. Your gaze drifts, focusing on the ground between you, words trapped beneath the weight of your sorrow.

“I—” you start, but the words crumple like dried leaves in your throat, too fragile to escape. You take a sharp breath, the air trembling slightly as it fills your lungs. The vulnerability in your eyes pulls at him, deepening the ache in his chest, and he feels an overwhelming urge to reach out—to comfort you, to tell you that it’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. “I lost someone,” you finally manage to whisper, your voice trembling with the depth of your pain. The admission hangs in the air, heavy and tangible, as Spencer processes your words, his heart sinking in solidarity. 

“My aunt—she was the one who raised me after…” You pause, your voice quivering, unable to continue. “She was my everything.”

Spencer’s brow furrows, understanding flooding his features. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs softly.  “That must be so hard.”

You nod slowly, tears spilling once more, but they feel different now. They aren’t just tears of sorrow; they’re also tears of release. “I thought I was strong enough to handle it, but… I don’t know,” you choke out, words mixing with your quiet sobs. You wipe at your cheeks, but it only seems to make it worse. “I thought I could be there for everyone else, but now… I feel so lost.”

Spencer glances down, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. He knows all too well that grief can shape-shift the toughest person into someone fragile, and he admires your bravery more than he can express. “You don’t have to be strong right now,” he offers gently. “It’s okay to feel lost. Grief… it isn’t something that can be carried alone. It’s… it’s a process.”

You look at him. Spencer feels the weight of your gaze, your eyes searching his with a mix of relief and uncertainty. His heart swells with a desire to be there for you, to provide whatever comfort he can in this moment of vulnerability. Something about your anguish makes him want to wrap you in his arms and shield you from the pain. Spencer shifts closer, an instinctive act of solidarity. “Can I?” he asks, hesitating as he gently rests a hand on your back, his touch light but reassuring. Without any hesitation, you lean into him. 

Spencer feels the warmth of your presence as you lean against him, the soft weight of your body a tangible confirmation that you’re letting him in—allowing him to share in your pain, and comfort you. He is not the most used to physical contact like this, but he can’t help but think it is nice at this moment, even though it feels like a pretty selfish thought right now. He just feels an overwhelming sense of purpose wash over him.  

As you lean into him, Spencer feels an incredible gravity, both weighty and reliving as you let yourself breakdown in his arms. The scent of your hair, hair, something soft and familiar, fills his senses, grounding him in this moment. For a while, there is only the sound of your quiet sobs. He simply sits with you, holding you, letting you grieve and waits till you are ready to speak again. He can feel the shudders of your breath against his side as your sobs slowly begin to cease. 

You let out a shaky breath, a sound that lingers between vulnerability and relief. “I don’t know how to navigate this… I feel like I’m drowning,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper, yet so filled with longing for understanding. “I just feel so lost.”

Spencer nods slowly, letting your words settle between you. “You’re not alone in this,” he reassures you softly, leaning slightly closer. “It’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to feel lost.” He pauses, looking into your eyes with sincerity. “You don’t have to put on a brave face for anyone, least of all for me. I feel lost all the time.”

“How do you get through it?” you question, your voice quavering with a sense of seeking. Your vulnerability is evident, and Spencer takes a moment, considering your question as he searches for the right words. 

“I let myself be sad,” he finally replies softly, his voice almost a whisper, as if sharing a secret. It’s not a profound revelation, but it’s the truth. 

“I guess I’m just so used to being the anchor for everyone else, you know?” you whisper, lifting your chin slightly to meet his gaze. “And I miss her, Spence. I miss her so much. She was my anchor.”

Spencer feels the weight of your words press heavily against his heart, he holds you a little tighter again. Your pain resonates within him. Silence envelops you both, as you take a deep breath, letting your conversation and stillness of the room resonate around you.

“What was she like? Your aunt?” Spencer’s voice finally breaks the silence. 

“She was… everything,” you say. “Always the one with a joke to lighten the mood, a listening ear no matter how busy life got. Even when things were tough, she always managed to find a silver lining. And she was so strong, and so smart. She was the toughest, most resilient, yet the most gentle and kindest person I’ve ever known.” Your voice has restored some of its usual strength and spark as you talk about her.

“She sounds just like you,” Spencer says softly, a small, encouraging smile tugging at his lips.

You glance up at him, the corner of your mouth faintly lifting too. “She always said that strength isn’t just about being tough—it’s about knowing when to lean on others,” you express, your voice steadier now as memories of your aunt, filled with warmth and love, wash over you. “I wish I’d listened more when she said that.”

Spencer nods thoughtfully, absorbing your words as they hang in the air. The soft light spills around you, illuminating the moment as you share this piece of yourself—your pain and love for someone who shaped who you are. 

A bittersweet yet comfortable silence falls between you. Spencer shifts, adjusting his position, still holding you, as if creating an invisible barrier against the darkness outside the room that feels so vast and all-consuming.

You lean against him a little more, finding solace in his presence. “Thank you,” you softly say. 

“For what?”

“For being you, for being here. You mean a lot to me, you know…” 

Spencer can’t help but feel a warmth enveloping his chest at your words; he wishes he could always be that presence of comfort in your life. “You mean a lot to me too,” he adds, vulnerability threading through his otherwise composed demeanor. “And I’m here for you, no matter what.”

Your gaze meets his again, and in the depths of your eyes—filled with remnants of pain mixed with newfound understanding—he sees the cracks beginning to heal. “Thank you, Spence.”

The two of you sit in that intimate silence for a while longer, until finally, he checks the clock again. “It’s late.”

You nod.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Spencer offers softly. 

You take a second to contemplate his offer, Spencer can guess your considerations about his offer, the logistics of you not having your car to drive to work tomorrow, but Spencer doesn’t mind getting up earlier tomorrow to swing by your place and drive together. Eventually, you nod again, this time with a sense of quiet gratitude radiating from you.

 “That would be nice.” You agree, your voice still soft, but steadier than before. A weak, sleepy smile tugging at your lips as you look up at him and Spencer feels how a rush of warmth bloom in his chest.

Thank you for reading <3 Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated

[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 12

Prior and future parts here.

Simon gets even. Graphic depictions of violence. Food control. Ableist thoughts. Suggested sexual abuse.

-

Johnny is letting a cigarette turn to ash in his hand when he sees you leave the apartment complex. You droop in the overcast weather like a flower wilted by the cold, your shoulders bowed, your steps heavy even as you reach the sidewalk and push yourself into a jog. This is a ritual for you, Johnny knows—knows, thanks to those days spent planning murder. 

He knew those days weren’t for nothing. 

Sitting the cigarette on the balcony railing, he puts his first two fingers in his mouth and tries to whistle—it makes a pitiful little sound that doesn’t come close to reaching you. Red faced, Johnny thinks maybe it is for the best. God forbid you think he was catcalling you. 

“She’s gone,” Johnny calls back into the apartment. He leaves the cigarette behind; he’s losing the taste for them. Even now the smell of one just makes his stomach roll. Everything these days does though, as his body struggles to adjust to no more OxyContin in his system. Even though the worst of the shakes and the shits are behind him, there’s the craving that never ceases—craving for that blissful loss of awareness, craving the weight of the pill on his tongue and the knowledge that with it soon things will get better. 

He doesn’t need that today though. He feels it in the air. Things will get better. He doesn’t need to speak the words into existence, doesn’t need to pray nor pander. There is God, but then there is Ghost. Today belongs to him. Things will change because Ghost will make them. 

“Alright,” Simon calls from where he’s at the sink doing dishes. He stops and leaves the water to turn cold, drying his hands on a nearby dish towel. 

Gloves sit on the countertop. 

“Come with me,” Simon says one more time as he slides the gloves on, working the fabric tightly over his damp hands.

Johnny is just as overwhelmed now as he was the first time Simon asked—because he knows Simon means it. Simon would take him, liability or not, dangerous or not, foolish or not. His word—unshakable, irrefutable as it always is—is proof that the weeks spent with a chasm between them weren’t for nothing. 

But Simon isn’t the only one allowed to grow. 

“I’d just put us both in danger,” Johnny says, slipping his hand into his pocket. “I’d rather that cunt get what he deserves.” 

“Just going to talk to him, Johnny,” Simon says calmly. 

“Could be…be…” there’s a word on the tip of Johnny’s tongue, but like something left on a high shelf, he just can’t quite reach it no matter how he strains, his fingertips brushing over familiar syllables like the cardboard box of his favorite cereal. He grits his teeth. “God fucking damn it all. Cocksucking fuck.” 

“Notice you never forget any of those words?” 

“Aye and thank God I don’t,” Johnny snaps. He forces himself to take a breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. The word he was looking for still doesn’t come, so he changes the sentence altogether.  

“He could forget something as simple as a talk.” 

“It’ll be memorable,” Simon promises, eyes glittering. He comes to Johnny and kisses him, cupping the jaw that’s grown too sharp over past months. Johnny’s lashes flutter, his hand leaving his own pocket and finding Simon’s waistband, fingertips curling into it to tug him closer—

They break the kiss. 

“Just a talk?” Johnny asks, running his fingers over the metal grip of Simon’s sidearm where it is tucked in his pants.

“That’s the memorable part.” 

Johnny is absolutely insane; he just laughs. 

-

Simon’s last moment of doubt comes in the hallway with his hand poised to knock on your boyfriend’s door. What he’s doing could get him a six-by-eight cell in any of the country’s not-so-finest jails or prisons. It would destroy this little slice of life he’s built with Johnny, painful though that life sometimes is. 

But he’d known it was coming to this long before Johnny had picked a fight with the monster next door. He’d known when you sat in his apartment and burnt your mouth on his tea. He’d known when he woke from a nap to see you standing in the darkness of his room wringing your hands. This isn’t just about Johnny. 

What’s the use, Simon wonders, in looking the way I do, and having the skills I have, if I’m not making bad men regret being alive?

Ghost knocks on the neighbor’s door at half-past one in the afternoon. You are less than a quarter of a mile away from the apartment building, on your run. Johnny says your circuit usually takes you thirty to forty-five minutes which is plenty of time—as a matter of fact, Ghost intends to be in and out with time to spare. 

He knocks again when there’s no answer. He knows your boyfriend is home, knows that he doesn’t work and spends most days being a lazy sod around the apartment. When he hears movement on the other side of the door, he steps back and lets himself linger innocuously within sight of the peephole. He purposefully doesn’t cut his eyes towards his own apartment, the door of which is cracked open, a vivid blue eye visible between the frame and the door. 

Your boyfriend is smart enough to leave the latch lock on. He opens the door the few inches the chain will allow, his brows raised in a mix of derision and disbelief at the sight of Ghost on the other side. 

“Simon,” he says dryly. “What can I do for you?” 

“I wanted to talk to you about the other night,” Ghost says. He shifts from foot to foot, hands deep within his pockets, too aware of how still he can be and eager to appear human in this moment. “I feel like, like I put my foot in it. I wanted to explain myself, I mean.”

It’s bait, something shiny and dangly, hopefully disguising the cruel sharpness of the hook. Appeal to his own superiority. I put my foot in it. Make it more convenient for him to let you in than talk in the hallway. I wanted to explain myself. 

Ghost can snap that chain like a line of fish wire, but it will make noise. He’s hoping not to attract anymore attention than he needs to. 

Your boyfriend heaves a sigh, bracing one fist against the door frame. His face twists into something understanding and contrite. “Look, I don’t blame you. I wasn’t exactly being Prince Charming. If my mother had heard me talking to a lady like that, she would have whooped my ass, you know what I mean?”

It is difficult to believe that the creature in front of him has a mother at all, that he isn’t just spawned from sulfur and brimstone, something slimy and misshapen that crawled from a crack in the earth. But he must have a mother, mustn’t he? Even the worst men do.

Ghost hopes she’s dead. 

“I know what you mean,” Ghost lies, like his mother ever raised her gentle hands to him. He clears his throat. “When I heard you call her a slut, I just—“

The shorter man winces, eyes flickering toward what little bit of the hallway he can see around Ghost’s hulking figure. He laughs a little, but there’s not much mirth in the sound. “You want to say that any louder? Jesus. Look—you want a beer?”

That easy. 

“I could go for a beer,” Ghost says, face impassive. 

Your boyfriend reaches for the chain. Ghost’s adrenaline spikes, slowing the movement, sharpening the colors, amplifying the sound as the latch comes undone—

—then Ghost’s boot is meeting the door. 

It catches your boyfriend in the face, the crunch of cartilage sprinkled beneath the thud of wood on flesh as it batters him backwards and to the ground. Ghost forces his way into the apartment and shuts the door behind him quietly. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” your boyfriend shouts, his words spraying blood and garbled as he gingerly feels at his injured face. 

Ghost is on him in an instant, one skeletal hand gripping around his shirt and wrenching him up off the floor, seams in the fabric straining. He chokes him, gripping tight enough that the worm can’t even swallow, can’t suck in the breath to shout. His nose isn’t the same shape anymore, blood streaming from both nostrils, so dark it’s nearly black where it drips over Ghost’s fingers. Ghost has seen the expression on his face a thousand times before, just on other faces. The eyes are always the same: brown, blue, green, hazel, gray. Fear is always the same. 

“We’re gonna talk,” Ghost tells him. “And you’re not going to do any shouting, understand me? If you do, I’ll make it even worse for you. Nod if you understand.” 

Ghost uses his grip on the man’s head to make him nod. Blood splatters against his wrist between his gloves and the sleeves of his shirt, burning hot. His face is turning red with lack of oxygen, both hands scrabbling at Ghost’s gloved fingers, fighting for scraps of air. 

“Good man,” Ghost says. He lets go of his throat. 

Your boyfriend screams. Smart, honestly. His best chance at getting out of this unscathed is if there’s a knock on the door, after all. 

Ghost grips his throat again, cutting off the sound before it can carry. Frantic, he takes up clawing at Ghost’s gloves and sleeves again, digging divots into the larger man’s forearms. Ghost tweaks the man’s broken nose just to watch his eyes stream with tears. 

“Work with me. We can be civil, can’t we? Can’t we?” 

There’s a struggle. For a moment your boyfriend manages to break Ghost’s grip (never underestimate the strength of a man afraid for his life). Ghost lets him run, blood dripping onto the laminate floors like a breadcrumb trail, and Ghost the monster following along behind. Your boyfriend seems to realize last minute that the bedroom is no good—there’s not even a fucking door to shut between them for Christ’s sake—and he feigns for the balcony instead. 

Ghost forgot how much he likes the chase. It does something to him, something to his blood. He’s fucking good at this, good at giving a man a rope just long enough to hang himself with. Good at giving them hope just to watch it leave their eyes. 

But it’s risky to underestimate the enemy, and Ghost can’t afford risks. Not for him. Not for Johnny. Not for you. 

Ghost goes for his gun and slips it from the concealed holster in his waistband. It’s a comfortable weight in his hand, and at the sight of it, your boyfriend goes stiller than a statue. It’s game over, then. They both know it. His hands are shaking as he lifts them. 

“Alright,” your boyfriend says, voice congested, blood smeared across his cheeks. “Just—calm down. You want to talk? We can talk. Civil, right?” 

“Civil. Sit down,” says Ghost, keeping the gun fixed on him as he crosses the room and sits at the kitchen table, chair legs screeching across laminate. Not long ago, they were seated here playing poker together. But then, Ghost had only been wishing he could draw his sidearm. 

Your boyfriend sits. 

They talk.

-

The door closes behind Ghost, and Johnny can’t help pacing, holding his breath as he listens for sounds through the walls, for any sign that things are going south. But ultimately he has faith in Ghost; things will go whatever direction Ghost wills them. 

Drifting around the apartment, Johnny freezes when he thinks he hears a scream, something high and bitten off. For a moment he hears the slowing thud thud thud of helicopter blades, feels the cold wind against his face as he realizes they’re going down. No stopping it. No getting out of this one, MacTavish. He can see the expression on his fellow soldiers’ faces, can feel their mortal terror reflected in his own. It is cruel to see death coming. Cruel and terrifying beyond measure. 

Outside, it begins to rain. 

“No, no, no, no,” Johnny says, staggering to the balcony. He stands there breathing in the cold air, blinking away the visions of the past. 

Then he sees you, soaked to the bone. Coming back early. 

“Fuuuuck me,” he mutters. His palm is sweating terribly despite the cold air billowing in through the open balcony. He closes the sliding door and limps his way to the front door, heart pounding. 

He grabs his key off of the hook. He goes to jam his feet into his slip on shoes but the angle isn’t right and he has to stoop down, fix the angle with his hand, and then try again—god, had he just heard the elevator doors open?—come the fuck on, Johnny, they’re shoes, you’re a grown man, put on your fucking shoes—

He bursts out of the apartment and into the empty hallway. Shutting the apartment door behind him, he jams his key into the lock and tries to calm his racing heart. This isn’t like him. He’s been in high pressure situations before—he’s looked death in the fucking face—and never been this rattled. 

Out of practice, I am, he thinks, hands shaking. Out of bloody practice. 

The elevator doors open and you stand there, drenched from head to toe. You look even more defeated than you had leaving the apartment, and something in Johnny’s chest absolutely aches for you. His mouth wobbles. He forces it into a smile as he watches you approach. 

“Hi, lass,” he says. “Fancy running into you.” 

“Johnny,” you say with warmth that makes his chest flutter. You look exhausted, the bruises on your face more stark now that you aren’t wearing any makeup. Still, your shoulders sag with something like relief at the sight of him. “How—how are you? Practicing with your key again?”

“Ah—no, not this time. Just—trying to get in. But look at you, you’re shaking.” He opens the door, hopes you didn’t notice that it was already unlocked. “Come in, let me get you a towel.” 

You glance toward your apartment door, face experiencing a host of emotions. “I shouldn’t,” you say with genuine regret. “He’s expecting me.”

“Just long enough to dry off and have a cup of something warm,” Johnny insists. You’re shivering even in the warmth of the hallway, and while you could easily go into your own apartment to dry off, Johnny prefers you in his. 

“Alright,” you say, arms wrapped around yourself, mouth curled into an anxious frown. “Just for a few minutes. You said…a cup of something warm?” 

“Aye,” Johnny says brightly, pushing the door open and standing aside to let you in first. “Could make you a tea if you like; Simon’s taught me well enough. Or I have coffee in the pot from this morning.”

“Coffee is fine,” you say. Your eyes flicker around the apartment. The door closes behind you both, and more tension bleeds from your shoulders as your eyes rake over him. “Are you alright? I was worried about you. Did he—hurt you badly?” 

God, you’re a darling, even dripping wet with your clothes sticking to you (and Johnny doesn’t need to be thinking about that, about the way your curves are visible beneath the sodden fabric. He’s doing that more and more often lately, thinking thoughts he shouldn’t). 

“I’m fine, love,” he promises. “Knee aches like a bitch. But when doesn’t it? Let me get you that towel, you’re dripping all over the floor.” 

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” you mutter, looking down at the puddle you are making on the linoleum. “I’ll clean it up, honest—“ 

“Don’t worry about it. More worried about you. You’ll catch a cold like this.” Johnny fights to control his own limp, trying to salvage his pride as he goes to the linen closet and fetches you a towel. 

It isn’t until he goes to hand it to you that he sees the splint on your littlest finger, and the towel nearly falls from his hand. You take it but he reaches for you anyway, his fingers softly angled and slow to move, like you are an easily startled animal. 

“He did this,” Johnny says, taking your hand gently in his own. His heart is loud in his ears, blood throbbing in his skull as he coaxes you to turn your hand over so he can examine it from every angle. “How?” 

“Just sort of—“ you make the motion of snapping something in two, and Johnny’s stomach rolls with nausea. 

“Sick fuck,” Johnny mutters. He covers your fingers with his own, wishing to heal you. 

“Doesn’t hurt,” you murmur. Your hand flexes, soft fingertips trailing over Johnny’s calloused palm. 

“Liar,” Johnny says softly. He glances up to catch you already looking at him, your eyes wide and soft. The two of you are standing close enough for your breaths to mingle, and it shocks Johnny back into awareness. What the fuck is he doing, coming onto you? 

It’s not like that, Johnny thinks to himself as he steps back and watches you try to towel yourself off, squeezing at your sodden clothes. But deep down he suspects it's exactly like that. 

“I’ll get your coffee,” he says, wishing to put a little distance between you both. Pouring with his weak hand is harder than it looks, muscles trembling a little. He sloshes some over the lip of the mug and his face colors. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds you not looking at him, your eyes distant, cradling your hurt hand to your chest. 

He weighs the pros and cons of asking you to carry your own cup to the table—but the table is right fucking there. It’s just a few steps. Surely Johnny can get ahold of himself long enough to make the journey. Taking the handle of the mug in his hand, he grips it firmly and steadies himself. 

One step. His knee aches, but he doesn’t baby it. Two steps. Three—halfway there. 

The front door opens and Johnny drops the mug. It shatters on the floor sending steaming coffee and shards of porcelain every direction. 

Simon stands there, his figure taking up the entire doorway, something out of many men’s nightmares. But not Johnny’s. Clear blue eyes scan him over from head to toe, but other than having taken his gloves off, he doesn’t look any different. 

“It was an accident,” you say, looking from Simon to the cup. Your hand is pressed over your heart, like an oath, like you’re trying to still it. “I was distracting him. I—“

“It’s alright,” Simon says, coming in. He shuts the door behind him. “Just a cup. Alright, Johnny?”

“Alright,” Johnny says. He raises both his brows, silently asking: are you? 

Simon nods imperceptibly. He goes and kneels down in the disaster zone, delicately picking up the larger pieces of porcelain. 

“Let me help,” you mumble, coming to kneel beside him. 

“Don’t, lass,” Johnny says. “You’ll cut yourself.”

“I’ll be careful—oh,” you say, reaching out to hover your hand gently over Ghost’s wrist. “You’re bleeding.”

Three sets of eyes turn to where Ghost’s sleeve has ridden up, at the drop of blood there. Johnny stares in horror as you brush your thumb against it only to find the spot stays, the blood dried and coagulated. 

Ghost draws his hand away, glancing up to meet Johnny’s eyes, exchanging a glance. “Old wound. Don’t worry about it.” 

-

You don’t connect the dots. 

Not when you clean the blood off the whitewashed door. Not when you mop it off the floor. Not when you sanitize the table. 

Creeping into the bedroom you share with your boyfriend, you stand still like a rabbit in a dog’s gaze letting your eyes adjust to the darkness. His figure is in the same place it’s been all night, curled up beneath the blankets on his side of the bed. 

You swallow. “Do you—want me to make dinner?” 

“Not hungry,” he says, his voice nasally. You’d only gotten one good look at his face, but it hadn’t been pretty: both eyes darkening with bruises, his nose swollen and misshapen. 

Not hungry. Alright. But: “I am.” 

One of his hands reaches out and slaps at the key to the refrigerator where it rests on the nightstand. He takes it and throws it at you without looking, the key falling short and clattering against the laminate floors. 

You drop down to your hands and knees, feeling for it in the darkness. You must take too long, because he sighs heavily in a way that makes your face heat up. Finally you find it and you slip out of the bedroom, eager to be far away from him. 

Belly full, you slip into the bedroom hours later just to find him still awake, his breaths loud where he’s forced to breathe through his mouth. You turn the key over and over in your hand, deciding. Feeling his eyes on you in the dark, you creep to the nightstand and softly place it back in its spot. 

He says nothing, not even when you slip beneath the covers beside him. 

Dread fills you when he rolls toward you, but already your body is going soft and limp, your brain ready to escape away to a safer place inside. You know what’s coming, the pain, the humiliation. It’s a nightly ritual for him, same as brushing his teeth and washing his face. 

Except he doesn’t touch you. 

You lay awake, eyes on the ceiling, waiting. Even when he starts to snore—great sawing sounds—you cannot seem to shut your eyes. 

You do not sleep. 

[glitch-karma]

Hii! Can you do Vanitas x sleepy reader? They’re kinda just sleep deprived all the time, hehe. Sorry if I’m bothering you, I hope you can do this request! <3

✧Me who started this at 2:35 am:

✧One shot

✧Cw: Gn!Reader, Fluff-ish, Reader is a vampire and Vanitas's assistant, reader struggles with insomnia, maybe ooc Vanitas, complicated relationship (still romantic-ish)

✧ probably not proof read

✧theres always crumbs for vnc so here y'all go

It was a slight chilly night as Vanitas sat on the roof of the Hotel Chouchou. The breeze of the night came through slowly, the wind flowing through his hair lightly. It was funny, how the city of Paris still looked almost alive at night. The soft glow of lights speckled the city.

Vanitas wore a dully melancholic expression as he stated at the city. It was eerily quiet as he numbly stared out.

The sound of soft foot steps approaching notified him someone was near, though he stayed perfectly still. "... It's late y'know?" He said, his face shifting to a light smirk as he looked behind him. There you stood, the eye bags under your eyes evident as you stared down at him, before turning to the city. "You're up too, non?"

He huffed as he looked away, placing his hand to his face. "This is why you're so exhausted all the time y'know?" He scolded you lightly. "It's fine." You nodded.

There was silence as you stood behind him quietly. Vanitas glanced behind him, noticing how you wore the same, dull expression he'd worn not so long ago. What could you be thinking about? Sometimes it was hard to remember that you were also a broken person such as himself. Honestly, he'd rather not think about it.

You let out a light yawn as you finally sat down beside him. Vanitas chuckled at your drowsiness as he looked back out to the city again. You sat there for a long while, just the two of you and the sounds of the dead Paris Streets.

Vanitas could feel you shiver beside him lightly as he sighed. "Why are you out here anyways? You're obviously exhausted." He said annoyed. "I'm always like this." You shook your head. He scoffed out a chuckle as he nodded. "Well duh, stating the obvious."

The eeiry silence once again enraptured the two of you. Vanitas mentally scolded himself as his thoughts couldn't be cleared of you. Your presence beside him somehow managed to break through the barriers he'd carefully constructed. It was exhausting, the way his mind couldn't ever stop thinking about you.

"I don't get it," he muttered, a hint of frustration tainting his words. "Why do you push yourself so hard, running on empty all the time?" His gaze shifted to you, attempting to decipher your expression.

You shrugged with an indifferent expression. "Dunno.." at this Vanitas stared at you more. Your gaze met his, and for a moment, something softened in his eyes. Uncomfortable with the vulnerability, he turned his attention back to the city lights.

"I guess I've been like this for awhile." You mumbled out. Vanitas glanced up at you again. "Sleep just doesn't really come that easily, even if it's all I crave. You know, you're not the only one with demons," you said softly, your gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "We all carry our burdens, Vanitas."

He scoffed, his wall being built within him once more. "I don't need your pity." "It's not pity," your tone was gentle. "It's understanding."

For a moment, Vanitas looked away, not wanting to listen. Then, with a sigh that carried the weight of unspoken emotions, he spoke. "Understanding won't change anything."

"Maybe. But I can hope it helps ease it.. Just being there. Even in the silence of the night." You finished.

Your words hung in the air as another silence engulfed the both of you. Vanitas found himself momentarily at a loss for words.

As Vanitas tried to regain his composure, he stole another glance at you. There was a softness in your worn out eyes that echoed the vulnerability he often tried to bury. It was a vulnerability he couldn't quite comprehend.

Vanitas sighed as he looked away again. "You talk too much." He huffed out. You merely shrugged, a small but genuine smile playing on your lips. "It's a talent, I suppose."

He let out a scoff, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps a hint of gratitude. After a few moments, another yawn escaped your lips. You glanced up at him slightly. "It's weird.. you're one of the most unbearable, scary people I've ever met." "Okay, ouch." He commented, letting you continue.

Your eyes closed for a second before opening again in defiance, "But I feel the most relaxed when I'm with you." You finished.

The contradiction between tonight's conversations and the usual banter between you two left him momentarily speechless. His attempt to mask his surprise with a scoff was futile as he grew embarrassed.

"You're delusional if you think I'm someone you should find relaxing," he retorted. Yet, the subtle tint of pink on his cheeks portrayed the effect of your words. "Probably." You mumbled out, slowly blinking.

Your yawns persisted, and a drowsy smile lingered on your lips as you observed Vanitas's futile attempts to deflect your words. "You're just spouting nonsense because you're half-asleep." He shifted away from you. "Sure, that's what I'm doing."

The silence made him glance up again, noticing you staring into the city lights, closing and reopening your eyes every few seconds. He couldn't help but stare at you for a bit, before jerking his head back to the city himself.

"You should.. Let yourself sleep." He mumbled out. You looked over with slightly surprised eyes, before your face slowly softened. "..thanks, Vanitas."

"yeah, yeah whatever.." he embarrassedly mumbled, looking away from you. You chuckled, continuing to stare at the beautiful pairs sky together.

[lyneira]

Spicy Rengoku headcanons!

-> how rengoku would be like in bed

kyojuro rengoku x fem!reader / cw: cunnilingus, creampie, virginity loss, breeding kink

part 2 including rengoku, tengen, sanemi, giyuu, gyomei and haganezuka!

a/n: I recently finished the mugen train arc and just needed more of him 🥲

He'd do everything with such fervor that there's no doubt you'll know exactly how much of it he has. The erotic noises that would emerge from him would be a testament to this. When he's eating you out, you'll hear how loudly he'll slurp up your juices, smacking his lips as he swallows your nectar, humming lowly into your pussy, "Delicious... So delicious!" He'll loudly moan out in between slurps. Or hearing how harshly his skin slaps against yours as he fucks you, the wet, gushing sounds of his dick repeatedly caressing your inner walls and kissing your core filling the air

Not only will you hear the extent of his passion for you, you'll see it too. When he comes up from between your thighs, you can observe your essence stained on his face, the juices dripping from the sides of his mouth and even from his flushed cheeks. He doesn't bother wiping it off because he's too drunk on your arousal to do so. Plus, if this sight would prove how much he craved and desired you, then he would let you make a mess of him all the more.

On that note, won't you allow him to do the same? He'd be ecstatic if you'd let him both creampie you and release all over you. No need to worry about how much that would take, he has so much love to give you and won't stop until he's given you it entirely. To see you so full of him, his seed dripping from both of your lips and all over your skin would be a sight that'd set him ablaze (heh)

Therefore, I think he'd also have a breeding kink too? He would love to have little ones bringing joy to both you and him, and the thought of being able to teach them and guide them all he knows would be so endearing in his eyes. To have this family with you would be the reason why he'd relentlessly fuck his seed into you for countless nights until you've finally shown signs of pregnancy. And even then, he'd want to fill you up, to cater to your cravings and because of how lovely you looked with your belly swollen

Whether it came to eating you out or fucking your brains out, he'd do them all with such enthusiasm. This man would be bursting with energy and would last much more than a couple of rounds with you, making love to you without his strength ever waning. He firecely devotes himself to his passions, and you're one of them, so he'd go all night and to the morning if he really wanted to.

He'd definitely be vocal! He isn't afraid to voice out how good you're making him feel whether it's through his loud, guttural moans that send vibrations through your body when he presses his lips against your skin or through his praises of you. Grunts, groans, moans, you'll hear them all! LOL

He'd be more than willing to try out all kinds of positions with you. He'd probably enjoy positions where he can firmly ground himself so that he can fuck you at a relentless pace with little to no interruption. So having your back pressed against the wall and legs wrapped around his waist or over his shoulders as he thrusts up into you would be one of his favorite things to do. Also, mating press for sure! (So that he's able to lodge himself in the deepest parts of you and release his seed)

Also, imagine him being the one to take your virginity? Him guiding you through your first time? He'd be such a natural at instructing you and making sure you would feel ready to take him in. He would be the very definition of gentle, but firm

After eating you out and fingering your tight, virgin hole enough, he'll pull out his cock, already stained with his precum, and would slide it up and down your pussy, letting his essence mix with yours to ease and smoothen his motions.

Looking at his dick and feeling the weight of it on your entrance would leave you feeling anxious and would have you wondering if it would fit. Because although he had prepared you so well, the sight of it (specifically his girth) would still intimidate you. If you tell him, "It won't fit", as he's ready to sheathe himself inside of you, he'll take his other hand, bring it to your face to softly caress your cheek, and would assure you it will, saying, "I know you can take me in, sweetheart. It'll hurt a little bit, but I promise you it will feel good. There's no need to be scared. I've got you. Trust me"

And of course you trust this ray of sunshine so you give him the go-ahead and he'd finally insert himself into you. You’d sharply gasp as you feel the thickness of his cock splitting you open, to which he'll quickly assuage you by rubbing circles on your hip and cooing, "I'll take it slow. Take a deep breath for me, y/n... Ease into my length"

Sure enough, you'd gradually adjust to the sheer size of his cock as he slowly buries himself into your cunt, inch by inch

And as he begins to quicken his pace, he'd heave out, with a small chuckle, "You're doing so good..! Ah, so tight..!! Squeezing my cock, just like that...!"

I also see Rengoku as the type to intensely stare at your face as he makes love to you, both relishing the delightful, expressions of pain and pleasure you'd give him and ensuring that he's not truly hurting you. So don't be startled when you open your eyes to see his fiery hues locked in on yours as he's giving his love to you

Overall, very enthusiastic, eager, loud, and has a lot of stamina when it comes to sex

© 2023 lyneira. PLEASE DO NOT COPY, PLAGIARIZE, OR REPOST MY WRITING ONTO OTHER PLATFORMS

[tlou-reid]

Timeless ❆ Aaron Hotchner

☃︎ SUMMARY: a timeline of Aaron’s and his soulmates’ love life.

☃︎WARNINGS: random asshole character at the beginning, aaron and jack being cuties, death and mentions of an undisclosed illness, a funeral :(

.｡❅⋆⍋∞｡∞⍋⋆❅｡.

“We would have been timeless, ‘cause I believe that we were supposed to find this. So, even in a different life, you still would've been mine. We would've been timeless.”

Day One

“Aaron!” the barista called into the busy cafe, setting down a carrier of four drinks. His name was quickly sketched across all four, signifying his loss to the team.

Aaron, Penelope, JJ and Luke had made a bet that Aaron would have a home cooked meal for five out of the seven days they were in town. He’d caved on day four, getting home late and craving the acidic burn of pizza sauce and greasiness of mozzarella cheese. He couldn’t help himself, forgetting all about the silly bet he’d made.

He remembered in the morning when he came eye to eye with the Italian man on the pizza place’s logo. Aaron figured it would be easier to just come in with their prize, coffees from Penelope’s favorite local place, and accept defeat than have to confront each of them.

So, he picks up his tray with a sigh and continues his way to his car, hoping to get to the BAU as soon as possible.

However, this would prove difficult. Aaron is shocked to see a big SUV blocking him in, and a lady jumping out of it. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” She yelled into the open door, slamming it at the end of her sentence. Aaron could see the passenger side window roll down. He heard a man’s voice this time, with a much darker, violent tone, “YOU SHOULD’VE THOUGHT ABOUT IT BEFORE YOU GOT IN THE CAR, BITCH!”

The law enforcement officer in Aaron kicked in when he heard the foul names being thrown towards this lady. She was gearing up to retaliate, but he stepped in front of her. Aaron used his free hand to quickly pull out his badge. It was a bit clumsily, due to the weight of the coffees in his other hand.

Once he was standing protectively in front of the lady and had his badge on full display, Aaron spoke, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave before you cause a further public disturbance.” His voice was low, the same way he talked to suspect. “Oh, fuck you.” The man said one last time, making eye contact with the lady, before pulling off.

“Are you okay?” Aaron turned around to face the lady. “Yeah, the guy’s just an asshole. Fucking offers me a ride and thinks that means he’s getting laid?” You’re rambling at this point, aggravated at the entire situation. “Where are you trying to go?” His entire plan of getting to work quickly went out the window when he saw how beautiful your eyes were.

“I work at the office around the block. I usually drive but someone hit my car yesterday and it’s in the shop today,” Aaron was growing more and more concerned with your wellbeing as you spoke, “I’m just gonna walk. Thanks for taking care of that asshole, I can’t believe I’m gonna have to see him later.”

Aaron knows he should probably walk away, but he can’t stop himself from asking, “See him later?” You nod, “He’s my fucking neighbor. Sorry, I don’t usually cuss this much, he just really pissed me off.” Aaron laughs at this, seeing as the first thing he heard you say was “fucking asshole”.

“You’re sure you don’t need a ride?” He asks one more time. “No, I could probably use the walk to cool off some. Thank you,” Your voice trailed off, not knowing what to call him. He stuck his hand out for you to shake, “Aaron.” He filled in the blank for you.

You told him your name, shook his hand, and bid him goodbye. You made it maybe six steps before you turned back around, “Aaron!” You hollered, walking quickly to catch up to him. “I know this is bold and I don’t even know if you’re single, but you were very kind and I think you’re very good looking. Could I get your number maybe?”

Aaron meets you with a laugh. You’re wary, not knowing that a laugh from Aaron was extremely rare, and something a lot of people would kill to hear. Your nerves are eased when he says, “I’d love to give you my number.”

Day 16

The night was going wonderfully. Aaron was proving that chivalry was, in fact, not dead. Just lost in older men. He was comfortable meeting you at the restaurant, he pulled out your chair for you, ordered a bottle of the fancy wine the restaurant carried, and was currently sliding his credit card into the check holder.

The conversation between you two flowed beautifully all night, making it seem like time flew by. He signed the bottom of the receipt, leaving a very generous cash tip, and turned his attention towards you. “Ready to go?” Aaron asked, not wanting to rush you away. You gave him a shy nod, trying to figure out a way to say you want to see him again soon without sounding obsessed.

Aaron stood and you followed, interlocking your arm with his. You two walked out of the restaurant, only letting each other go when he held the door for you. “Which one’s yours?” He asked, wanting to walk you to your car. You held out the key, clicking the lock button to get it to light up.

Aaron walked you over, opening the driver’s side door for you. “Look at her!” You squealed, excited for him to see your car, “Fresh out of the shop!” Aaron laughed at your excitement. Once you were comfortable in your seat and buckled up, Aaron went to speak again.

“I had fun,” He smiled at you. “I did, too.” You replied. “Would you like to do it again, sometime?” He asked, fumbling over his word a bit. You couldn’t help but find the way you made him nervous adorable.

“I would love to, whenever you’re free.” He’d told you about how hectic his work life could get, which you understood. “I’ll call you.” He promised, getting ready to close the door. “Goodnight, Aaron.” He gave you once last smile, repeated your sentiment, and closed the door for you.

Day 102

“Why’d you pick him?” Aaron’s son, Jack asked. “Jack!” Aaron laughed, loading up spaghetti noodles on his plate.

It’s your first time meeting Jack. You were both scared and excited, not knowing how he would react to Aaron bringing home a new girlfriend. “He protected me the first time I met him, I felt like I owed him.” You joked as Aaron passed you the pasta. You smiled when Jack let out a loud laugh.

Dinner continued like this, with teasing and laughter. You felt incredibly welcomed in the Hotchner household, loving the energy both of the boys created. You fit like a missing puzzle piece, being able to help Jack team up on his dad, and be there when Aaron was feigning sadness at one his jokes. Plus, both of them were happy to have a home cooked meal for the first time in about a week. Jack even said you could come over whenever you wanted, as long as you cooked.

“I think he likes you,” Aaron said as he climbed into bed next to you, later that night. “I think so, too. We laughed a lot.” Aaron nodded, moving over to press a kiss to the side of your head.

“Welcome to the family,” He muttered as he wiggled down into the blankets, falling asleep quickly.

Day 1534

“I do.” You said as you slid the ring onto Aaron’s finger, missing the first time due the tears welling up in your eyes.

Everyone seated for the ceremony cheered as the pastor said, “You may kiss the bride!” Aaron pulled you in by your waist, pressing himself as close as possible to you. The kiss was appropriate, considering there was a crowd watching, but full of love.

After you pulled away, you moved yourself behind Aaron, pulling his best man in for a big hug. Jack smiled against your neck, squeezing you tight. You grabbed one his hands, and one of Aaron, walking back down the aisle with both of them by your side.

“Mr., Mr., and Mrs. Hotchner,” Jessica smiled, introducing you three to the reception. You were ready to dance and celebrate with the people you loved most in the world. And you were so excited to share their last name.

Day 12152

You had always hoped it would be you to pass first. Something easy for Aaron, Jack, and his children to handle. Passing away in your sleep, peacefully and free of pain.

But, wishes are rarely granted. You were sat next to Aaron when he passed. As hard as his battle with illness had been, he fought as best he could. You knew he’d spent his whole life fighting, so you, as sad as you were, you relieved to know he was somewhere safe and relaxing. Somewhere where there was no fight to be had.

He would be surrounded by people he loved, more than he had around him in his old age now.

Jack held you tight at the funeral, knowing you were heartbroken. Part of him was relieved too. His father was no longer in pain. When he knelt at his dad’s casket, he made one last promise to look over you. To take care of you, to love you, and to protect you, just as Aaron had done since the day he met you.

You weren’t too worried about it, though. You knew you’d join him when the time was right, and he would be waiting for you. You two were meant to be, even if you’d met late in life. No matter how long it took, or where you guys were, you and Aaron would find each other.

[inklore]

undo me

premise: the relationship between you and john is anything but soft, normal, domestic. it's deeper and more complicated than that. the pleasure and relief of desire that the two of you bring each other the only things clear cut.

pairing: john wick x (f)reader

word count: 904

warnings: eighteen+ content, handjob, dirty talk, references and illusions to oral and fingering, established fwbs, blood mention, reader is in the same 'business' as john.

note: i've never written for this beautiful man and it's honestly a crime because he's so underrated and i want to hold him!

The fire that’s burning in his eyes—lust fueled, hungry, a craving only you can stop that has that underlying anger within it—scalds your senses. Makes the hand that you have wrapped around his cock ache to move faster, to twist, and run your thumb along the leaking head so you can hear that deep groan he lets out against your forehead. The noises he tries to hide with the kisses to the top of your skull that are anything but affection. 

Affection he’d never admit to and you’d never claim anything of. 

The two of you were the same. Joined in loss and hatred, and the bloodshed that you’ve spilt and tainted your skin with was second nature. Something that felt like you were born into, for, the longer you stayed in the business. The longer enemies piled as high as the bodies you’d claimed along the way of some sort of redemption. A release. A freedom from something that had no end. 

It was only when you two were together like this—when John allowed himself to be like this with you—that those enemies, the bloodshed, and freedom didn’t matter. 

Weren’t pounding at the door, threatening to take your life before you could take theirs. 

You didn’t know if he was a giving lover. Not really. When you were done, he usually finished you off, always with his fingers. A handful of times with his mouth. There were no soft kisses or devotions whispered into the crook of your neck. Pulling him towards the bed and stripping like some domesticated couple was not in the cards. Wasn’t what this was about—why it had kept happening and why you always knew his knock by heart and grew wetter the closer you got to the door. 

To invite him another night to give each other the release you needed—that closeness to another person as your hearts would allow—and then he was gone and reality was back with a vengeance. 

Tonight is no different. 

The same knock. 

The same quick work of unbuckling his pants to slide your hand down them to pull out his cock and wrap your fist around it. 

Your knees had bent, a descent ready to be made to give him a better release from his tense shoulders with your mouth. But his grip on your hip had stopped you.

His forehead coming down on yours, hair growing slick with sweat the longer you jerked him off, the more his body sank into the pleasure. His breath heavy, “want your eyes on me tonight.” He had said, an overanalysis of the tenor in it, making you want to think it was begging. A desperate plea. 

But never from him. 

And you had done what he said. 

Kept your eyes on him.

Let your eyes move along his face; watch as he wets his lips with his tongue, as his eyes screw shut for half a second when you twist your wrist at the head of his cock the way he liked. The fist he had pressed into the door behind your head keeping himself stationary. His body weight half leaned into you, giving just enough room for him to move his hips.

To fuck up into your hand.

To set the pace he needed. 

There was a time and place for you to make conversation while doing this. To ask him if he had a rough day or crack a joke. But tonight, you know he doesn’t need it. He just needs this.

You.

Your hand. 

To get off. 

For you to help him. 

“John,” you murmur softly against his cheek. Bring his attention back to you, popping whatever fantasy he’s letting burn through his gaze, so he can only see you. “Tell me how good it feels; am I making you feel good?” 

“Yeah,” his voice has lost all of its normal sternness. All of the frightening edges that have men and women running. He sounds weak, breathless, and overcome. It makes you ache. “Couldn’t–” he curses under his breath. Brings the hand from your hip to your neck to rest and tighten with each downward stroke. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you tonight. I needed to see you. Needed to-”

“To come for me.” The noise he lets out at your words has your gut plummeting. Your thighs closing in around the leg he has positioned between them. You open your mouth to tell him to do it, to come for you, to let go. But his fingers are muffling your words. Stealing them from your tongue as he presses two fingers against it. 

“Get them wet.” He demands. Watches as you swirl your tongue around them and coat them in your spit, taking them out when he’s satisfied and moving them down to where your fingers are wrapped around him. Swiping the spit against his head for you to use as more friction—easier, wetter. 

You can tell he’s close by the hitch in his breath. The fast rock of his hips, the fingers digging into your neck. 

And the way he’s looking at you, the slow trail he makes between your eyes and your mouth, you half expect him to kiss you. To press his mouth to yours in a way he’s never done before. 

A slow seeping disappointment is swiped away by arousal when he says, “get on your knees. I want you to taste what you do to me.” 

[mommyownsmee]

Mommy want your cock inside.... makes me want to cry when I think about how good it'd feel while you take my virginity... I love you so much mommy, just want to be a good girl for you

"I want you to moan my name, babygirl. Come on, do it. I know you want it. Just give in, honey."

Your breath catches in your throat, the heat of my words sending shivers down your spine. You can feel the intensity of my gaze, the way it seems to penetrate your very soul. It’s as if I can see through your every defense, every barrier you’ve put up to protect yourself.

"Please, Mommy," you whisper, your voice barely audible, trembling with a mix of anticipation and fear.

I move closer, my breath warm against your ear. "You don't need to be afraid," I murmur, my tone softer now, laced with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. "Just let go. Let yourself feel everything."

Your resolve is crumbling, the walls you’ve so carefully built beginning to fall away. You close your eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming emotions coursing through you. The sound of my voice, the touch of my hand on your skin, it’s all too much and not enough all at once.

My hand traces a line down your body, fingers dancing lightly over your skin, sending electric jolts of pleasure with every touch. "That's it," I encourage, my hand gently tilting your chin up so that your eyes meet mine. "Just let it out."

Bound and vulnerable, you are caught in the delicate balance of power and trust. Leather cuffs encircle your wrists, secured to the bedposts, leaving you completely at my mercy. The sight of you in such a state, eyes wide with a mix of fear and longing, is almost too much for me to bear.

I smile, a slow, predatory grin, as I trail my strap along your thigh, the light sting eliciting a gasp. "You look so beautiful like this," I say, my voice a low purr. "So ready to be claimed."

I move the strap again, this time letting it tap lightly against the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, your body arching instinctively toward the touch, craving more. "Please, Mommy," you whisper again, your voice a trembling plea.

I lean down, my lips brushing against your ear. "I want to hear you beg, babygirl," I whisper, my breath hot and tantalizing. "Tell me what you want."

"Please, Mommy," you repeat, your voice breaking, "I need you."

A satisfied hum is my only response as I shift, positioning myself so that you can feel the full weight of my presence. "Good girl," I murmur, rewarding you with a deeper, more insistent touch.

My hands move with confident precision, teasing and testing your limits. The cool leather of the cuffs contrasts with the warmth of my touch, creating a dizzying mix of sensations that leaves you breathless. The strap taps rhythmically against your skin, each gentle strike a reminder of my control, my power over you.

"Do you trust me?" I ask, my voice a whisper, my eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

"Yes, Mommy," you breathe, the word a confession, a surrender.

"Good," I say, and my hand moves lower, my touch now demanding, insistent. I know exactly how to drive you to the edge, how to keep you teetering there, suspended in a state of exquisite anticipation.

I pause, my hand stilling, and you can't help but whimper at the sudden loss. "Beg for me," I command, my voice firm. "Tell me how much you want it."

"Please, Mommy," you beg, the need in your voice raw and unfiltered. "Please, I need you. I need to feel you. Please, don't stop."

"That's better," I murmur, a note of approval in my tone. I resume my touch, my fingers working you with a skillful precision that makes you see stars. The strap leaves a trail of heat in its wake, each touch a perfect mix of pain and pleasure.

"And who do you belong to?" I ask, my voice a seductive whisper.

"You, Mommy," you moan, your voice shaking. "I belong to you."

"That's right," I say, my touch growing even more demanding. "You're mine. All mine."

Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alive with sensation. The cuffs bite into your wrists as you pull against them, lost in the intensity of the moment. You can feel yourself reaching the edge, teetering on the brink of release.

"You'll only get what I allow," I say, my voice firm.

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breathing as my fingers continue their teasing exploration. I can feel the tension building in you, your body straining against the cuffs, your mind caught in the delicious torment.

"Tell me how much you need it," I command, my voice a sultry whisper against your ear.

"I need it so much, Mommy," you gasp, your voice filled with yearning. "Please, I can't take much more."

I tilt my head, considering. "Not yet," I say softly. "You have to earn it."

I trace my fingers over the sensitive skin of your neck, down your back, and then lower, making you arch and writhe with every touch. The feeling of control, the power over your pleasure, fills me with a heady sense of satisfaction.

"Look at me," I order.

You lift your head, your eyes meeting mine, filled with a mix of need and submission. "Good," I murmur. "You’re doing so well."

I lean in, my lips brushing against yours, teasingly close. "Just a little longer," I whisper. "And then, maybe, I'll give you what you need."

You whimper, your body a tight coil of desire. I smile, knowing exactly how to keep you on the edge, how to draw out every ounce of pleasure until you’re completely at my mercy.

My hands continue their exploration, fingers dancing lightly over your skin, each touch sending shivers through you. Your breath hitches, a quiet plea escaping your lips. I revel in the sound, in the way you respond to every little stimulus.

"You want it so badly, don't you?" I ask, my voice a low purr while the tip of the strap brushes along your cunt. "Tell me how much you want it."

"Please," you gasp, your voice trembling with longing. "I need it."

I tilt my head, pretending to consider. "I don't know if you've earned it yet," I say, my tone playful yet firm. "But I do love hearing you beg."

My hand trails down your spine once more, pausing just above where you crave my touch the most. I lean in, my breath hot against your ear. "Just a little longer," I repeat.

You squirm, trying to press closer, but I hold you in place, my grip firm but gentle. "Patience," I murmur. "It's all about patience."

I let my fingers drift lower, my strap again brushing against your most sensitive spots, and you moan, a sound filled with desperate need. The tension between us is electric, every moment stretched to its breaking point.

"Now," I say softly, "let's see how much more you can take."

I increase the pressure of my strap against your cunt slightly, my touch more deliberate, more focused.

Your eyes widen, a mix of relief and renewed desperation in your gaze as I push it into you.

Every fiber of your being is attuned to my movements, your breath quickening with every passing second.

I lean closer, my lips just grazing your ear.

"You're so close," | whisper, my voice sending a shiver down your spine.

"But not yet."

A frustrated moan escapes your lips, and I can feel the tension in your body reaching its peak. I watch you carefully, gauging every reaction, every subtle shift in your expression.

"You're doing so well," I murmur, my voice soft and encouraging. "Just a little more."

The words wash over you, offering a strange mix of comfort and torment. Your body responds instinctively, hips arching towards me, seeking more of the pressure you crave. I maintain a steady rhythm, deliberately holding back just enough to keep you on the edge.

With each thrust, your moans grow louder, more insistent, and I can feel the heat radiating from your skin. The room seems to close in around us, the outside world fading away until there is nothing but the two of us, locked in this moment of exquisite tension.

I trail my free hand up your side, fingers brushing lightly over your ribs before finding their way to your breast. I cup it gently, my thumb circling your nipple, drawing a sharp intake of breath from you.

"That's it," I coax, my voice barely more than a breath. "Let go, but only when I say."

Your body quivers, caught in the push and pull of desire and restraint. You meet my gaze, eyes pleading, and I can see the struggle within you, the desperate need to surrender and the resolve to hold on just a little longer.

I press a little harder, moving with a calculated precision that sends waves of pleasure crashing through you. Your body arches, a strangled cry escaping your lips as you teeter on the brink of release.

Your breaths come in shallow, ragged bursts, and I can see the struggle in your eyes as you fight to hold on, to obey my command. It's a delicious torment, one that binds us together in this dance of control and surrender.

"Please," you whisper, the word a broken plea.

I smile, a slow, knowing curve of my lips. "Not yet," I repeat, relishing the power I hold over you. "Just a little longer."

The anticipation builds, every second stretching into eternity. I can feel the fine tremors running through you, your muscles taut with the effort of holding back. It's a beautiful, maddening dance, and I savor every moment of it.

Finally, sensing you're on the edge of what you can endure, I relent. "Alright," I say softly, my tone gentling. "You've earned it."

I allow my touch to grow firmer, more purposeful, and the reaction is immediate.

"Come for me," I command, my voice like silk. "Come for me, babygirl. Moan my name." I lean in close, my breath hot against your skin as I whisper, "Now."

The word is a release, a command, and you obey instantly. Your body convulses, a keening cry spilling from your lips as the orgasm rips through you. I hold you through it, my movements gentle now, coaxing you through the waves of pleasure until they subside. Your body arches, a cry of pure, unfiltered release spilling from your lips. I hold you through it, my own satisfaction mingling with yours, a shared moment of exquisite pleasure. You just let go, and in that moment, the only thing that matters is the way I make you feel.

The way I can unravel you with just a few words, a simple touch.

You moan my name, the sound a mix of longing and relief, and it is the sweetest sound I have ever heard. I smile, my eyes filled with a mix of pride and adoration.

"There you go," I whisper, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. "That's my girl."

In that instant, you know you are mine, and I am yours. There is no going back, no denying the connection we share. As I hold you close, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of us in our perfect, passionate embrace.

I stroke your hair gently, my fingers threading through the strands. "You've been so good for me," I murmur, my voice filled with affection. "How do you feel?"

"Good, Mommy," you reply, your voice soft, eyes half-closed in contentment. "I feel so safe with you."

I smile, pressing a kiss to your temple. "That's what I want to hear. You are always safe with me, babygirl. Always."

I untie the cuffs, rubbing your wrists gently to soothe any soreness. "Let's get you comfortable," I say, guiding you to lie down fully on the bed. I cover you with a warm blanket, tucking it around your body.

"Thank you, Mommy," you whisper, your voice filled with gratitude and love.

I lie down beside you, wrapping my arms around you, holding you close. "Rest now, my love," I whisper. "You've done so well. I'm so proud of you."

JOIN MY TELEGRAM GROUP

[bits-and-babs]

hello!new person here. i read your "close proximity" fic and loved it! I'd love to see how you'd write Din Djarin x shower sex. also, I'm sorry for your loss

𝐒𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 — 𝐃𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐉𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍

» PAIRING : The Mandalorian x f!Reader

» CONTENTS : shower sex [if that wasn’t obvious], dirty talk, Din is like a hybrid of a sub and a service top? Cream pie (practice safe sex, kids!), overstimulation. 18+ guys, you know the drill.

» AUTHORS NOTE : thank you for the condolences sweet pea <3 and thank you for sending in an ask to distract me, it’s really appreciated

» DIN MASTERLIST : here || MAIN MASTERLIST : here

The ‘thnk’ sound of beskar being set somewhere outside of the shower makes your heart lurch. Your eyes scream to open but you keep them firmly closed, squeezed together so hard that shapes swirl behind your eyelids.

When you and The Mandalorian had returned to the Razor Crest soiled with blood, you had insisted upon a shower the moment the soles of your boots hit the Durasteel of the boarding ramp. Mon Calamari vital fluids smell precisely as you'd expect – fishy.

Mando hadn't responded initially; his visor turned to you in silent acknowledgement. A man of little words, you had taken that to mean he accepted your fixed proposal. Only when you entered the hanger did you hear his awkward monotone piercing his helmet vocoder.

"You need any help?"

You had turned on your heel, momentarily shocked into silence. The Mandalorian wasn't forward like this. Ever.

"You won't be able to wash your hai–"

"Just keep your eyes closed." He'd smothered your concerns before you had a chance to voice them entirely, a strain in his voice practically begging you to stop questioning him.

Your pulse thumps in your eardrums, drowning out the roar of the falling water hitting the shower floor. It's impossible to listen for where Mando is, his stealthy movements smothered by the racket.

"Ma– Mando?" You mumble, hands hanging awkwardly by your side. He doesn't respond, and you take a step back in a clumsy attempt to avoid being in his way. The stream of hot water bears down on the top of your head, the impact resonating through your skull.

His hands, shed of their two-tone leather gloves, grab at your hips and push you clumsily against the wall. The sudden contact forces you to steal a breath from the steamy air, gasping loudly. It singes your lungs; makes you lightheaded.

Mando smothers your lips with his own. The kiss is clunky and disjointed at first, but he licks into your mouth, and your knees melt beneath the hot water.

When you mindlessly wrap your arms around Mando's neck, he leans his body weight against you. You’re chest to chest, and you can feel his pulse lurch when your fingers run through the hair at the base of his neck. There is a scar there, the skin rough and ragged in comparison to the surrounding dermis. In your kiss-drunk haze, you vaguely recall Mando informing you of his running with Moff Gideon and the almost fatal wound he sustained while protecting the child. Something buzzes through you, surging inside your chest – admiration.

"I've dreamt about this.” He breathes the admission into your mouth, and your whole body seizes. It's not just the sound of his unmodulated voice, the gravelly, brooding timbre and the way it settles between your thighs and swells around your clit as though he possesses the power of the Force.

No. It's the words themselves. It's the concept of Mando visiting you in his dreams, as though every waking moment he spends with you isn't enough to satiate his desire to be close to you. It’s tender, soft, and so unlike the hard, unyielding Mando you’d grown to know.

It reels you, knocks you off your axis to think that the immovable being before you craved you as you yearned for him. That before he was a Mandalorian; he was a human, a human with needs.

He needed you.

You sigh into his kisses, rolling your hips up to meet his and noting his hard cock pressing flat to your lower abdomen.

Water droplets run down your body, but instead of dousing the flaming heat of your body, they act like gasoline. The sensation of the trickling liquid sparks hot embers across your ribs, your hips, and your breasts. Mando’s palms quickly follow the trail squeezing at your flesh greedily as though he were jealous that the water got to touch you first.

"Hah–" you moan as you feel Mando sweep the head of his cock through your folds, collecting the slick before tapping it over your clit. Static fizzes in your blocked vision, prickling behind your eyelids as a wave of pleasure rocks through you. “Mando-“

“Fuck,” he husks, and the undistorted vibration in his voice rattles your brain and strikes you dumb. “Fuck, you’re so good.”

He’s not praising you. He’s babbling. Rambling random nonsense as he sweeps through your folds again, relishing in the arousal that coats his throbbing dick.

“Stars! You’re so wet- feel so fucking good when I-hahhh-“ Mando loses his composure when he begins to sink into your heat, mouth falling open and letting out a pathetic moan.

He scrambles to grab your thigh, hooking it over his waist and then pushing it towards your chest. It angles your hips, and he slides straight inside you with little resistance, your body desperate to be filled.

“Fuuuck-“ he grits through his teeth, panting as your walls flutter around him. The stretch of him sinking inside you so easily burns. It scorches down your spine, searing your nerve ends and sending your body into meltdown as your body trembles at the intense bliss he draws from you so easily.

“Feel so fucking good-“ he chokes as he rocks into you, your walls instantly gripping around him in response. He’s not pulling away, instead repetitively pushing deep into you and bumping his head against your cervix. It hurts, smarting like a bruise, but the pain spurs on the twisting, winding arousal that blooms through you.

You’re wheezing, each thrust knocking oxygen from your lungs and sparking colourful, swirling distortions behind your eyelids. A repetitive wailing sound reaches your ears, short, sharp and pitiful.

“Uh uh uh- Ma-Mah-aha-“

“You get so tight when you want to cum,” Mando groans in your ear, his own voice distorted with exertion. “Sta- It’s okay-… I won’t stop; give it to me.”

Mando’s proclamation trips you over that edge, his promise to keep going. It’s tearing you open, your orgasm bursting a hole through you like you’ve been shot with a blaster bolt.

You’re sobbing, clamping down around him as your tears mix with the shower water and slip down the drain.

“F-Fu-Fuck-“ Mando struggles, his hips stuttering as he cums inside of you. There’s so much of it; his breathing wrecked as he continues to thrust into the deepest parts of you.

You don’t even get to question his failure to keep his promise. Mando, despite cumming so early, continues to push into your heat, ignoring the soul-shattering overstimulation. The slam of his fist against the durasteel shocks a ragged whine from your throat, your eyes rolling back into your head.

“I’m- oh fuck, I’m gonna give you another,” he heaves, voice bleeding into your brain and screwing with the hormones there until your body is drowning in dopamine, buzzing with it. “You’re gon-na give me another, baby, come on-“

[ruewrote]

𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 . . .

PAIRING: sadier adler x fem!reader WARNINGS: forbidden love, suggestive, no use of y/n GENRE: angst SONG INSPIRATION: everytime by ariana grande WORD COUNT: 1k NOTE: disappointed in myself that i haven't written for her sooner

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The fire crackled low, The evening air hung heavy with the scent of pine and smoke, yet it was nothing compared to the weight pressing down on your chest. You sat apart from the others, distant but within reach of the fire's warmth. In truth, there was only one source of warmth you craved, a warmth you knew you shouldn’t long for.

Across the camp, her gaze met yours. Sadie Adler. The outlaw. The gunslinger. The woman who had somehow slipped beneath your defenses without either of you meaning to. Her presence drew you in, even when you knew you should’ve been running in the opposite direction. 

Her eyes lingered on you, deep and unreadable, but in the brief moment your gazes locked, you felt it, the silent understanding, the shared guilt, and the ache.

It shouldn’t be this way. It shouldn’t feel this way.

You turned away, pulling your jacket tighter around your body as if it could shield you from the intensity of what you were feeling. It wasn’t right. You weren’t supposed to crave someone like this, nevermind a woman.

to feel like your entire being was tethered to hers, especially when the world you lived in would never understand. The two of you were outlaws in more ways than one, the weight of it was suffocating.

But it didn't quite stop the longing. 

The quiet moments, when no one else was looking, were the hardest. A lingering glance when you passed by, her hand brushing yours for just a second too long. Those stolen glances told stories neither of you were brave enough to say aloud. 

A fire ignited in your chest each time she was near, but with that fire came a bitter aftertaste, a reminder of why this could never be.

You saw Sadie shift, rising from where she sat, making her way toward the edge of camp. Her stride was purposeful, but the way her fingers tightened at her sides betrayed the restraint she was forcing upon herself.

Her usual air of confidence faltered when she glanced at you again, and something inside you snapped. You stood, heart thudding painfully in your chest, following her before you could second guess yourself.

The moonlight broke through the trees as you approached her near the clearing, bathing her in a soft, silver glow. She didn’t turn around, but she knew you were there. The tension between you stretched thin, threatening to unravel at any moment.

“Y’know this ain’t right,” she muttered, her voice low and rough, as if speaking the truth aloud made it more real. 

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing larger. “I know.”

She finally turned to face you, and the raw emotion in her eyes made your stomach churn. Sadie was strong, fierce, independent. She had survived so much. loss, pain, the unforgiving brutality of this world. But standing here, in the quiet of the night with only you to bear witness, her walls fell down. 

For a moment, there was no such thing as outlaws, no gunslingers. Just Sadie, the woman who longed for something she couldn’t have. Just you, the person who wanted her more than she could bear.

“We can’t do this,” she continued, but her words trembled. 

You took a step closer, drawn to her despite every reason not to be. “I know.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. whatever it was between you, could never be without consequences. It was dangerous, reckless, and everything you shouldn’t want.

And yet, you did. So did she.

The space between you grew smaller, until you were standing so close you could feel the heat of her body, her breath ghosting across your skin. You could see the struggle in her eyes, the same that mirrored your own. Sadie’s fingers twitched at her sides, like she wanted to reach out and pull you closer, but something held herself back.

“I can’t–” she started, but the rest of her words died in the air, her voice cracking under the weight of it all.

You hesitated only for a moment, before reaching up to gently place your hand on her arm. The contact sent a jolt through you, and her breath hitched in response. It was a small, almost innocent touch, but it was enough to break whatever fragile restraint she had left.

Before you knew it, her lips were on yours. desperate, hungry, and full of all the things neither of you had been able to say. The kiss was messy, fueled by the ache that had been building between you for weeks, maybe even months.

It was everything you had both wanted and everything you knew you shouldn’t have. But in that moment, none of it mattered.

Her hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against her body as if she was afraid you might disappear if she let go. You melted into her, your hands tangling in her hair as you kissed her back with the same intensity. you let yourself forget about the consequences. You let yourself just feel.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other as the reality of what had just happened settled between you. Sadie’s eyes were full of regret, but there was something else there too, something that looked like relief.

“I told you it ain’t right,” she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction now.

You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead harder against hers. “I know.”

You both stood there, wrapped in each other’s presence for a few more moments before Sadie pulled away. Her face was conflicted, torn between wanting more and knowing she couldn’t have it. She took a step back, breaking the physical connection, but her eyes still lingered on you, soft and full of things left unsaid.

“We can’t… not again,” she said softly, her voice filled with a kind of finality that made your chest ache.

You nodded, though your heart screamed at you to disagree, to beg her to stay. But you both knew the truth of it all. The world wouldn’t let you have this, not without paying a price neither of you were willing to risk.

As Sadie turned and walked away, disappearing into the camp, you were left standing there. alone, aching, knowing you would never stop wanting her.

But some things were too dangerous to hold onto, 

even when they felt so right.

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© ruewrote 2024.

[weightgainworld]

Manipulating labels

I have a confession to make, I have been manipulating your calorie intake. Those healthy foods we bought were actually for helping people gain weight. I know things like the "diet soda", say 0 calories, but I switched them all out for normal soda and changed the labels. Those low-fat and sugar sweets are also extra fattening since I added extra sugar before putting them in their boxes. Even your water I have spiked with appetite stimulants to make your cravings worse. Also, you have gained 20 pounds in 2 weeks but lost 20. I tell you all this not cause I am sorry, but as a reminder. I won't let you lose a single pound. Weight loss is not an option for you. You were born to be an overweight food lover. You don't need to be dieting or eating less, you need to be stuffing your face and eating till you can't move. Who cares if the doctor says you are too obese for your age? You should show them what obesity really means. It's not like you plan to stop me either. The only thing you care about is eating good food that fills you up. Being healthy is just a trick to stop you from enjoying food. There is a reason fast food tastes so good, it's because it's good for you. Now let's get you some more diet sodas.

[nausicaamusiclover20]

Summary: You decide to do it for the first time

Warnings: 18+, loss of virginity

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I could feel my heart racing as we lay in bed together, the atmosphere thick with anticipation. I wanted to , and the nervous excitement coursing through me was almost overwhelming. Turning to him, I bit my lip, feeling a mix of eagerness and anxiety. “Is it okay if we take this further? I feel ready, I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, but I knew I was ready. He looked at me, his gaze steady and warm. “Are you sure you want to?” His voice was low and gentle, searching my eyes for reassurance. “I am,” I replied, my heart pounding. “I really want to.” A soft smile spread across his face, his eyes filled with warmth.

“Okay. I’m here for you.” With that, he leaned in closer, capturing my lips with his in a soft kiss. It was tender, almost reverent, as if he wanted to savor the moment. My body responded instinctively, leaning into him as the kiss deepened. As he pulled back, I could see the hunger in his eyes, matching the longing in my own. I knew I was ready, and I wanted him to know it too. “I want to feel you,” I said, my voice steady.“Are you sure?” he asked again, wanting to make sure I felt comfortable. “Yes,” I affirmed, my pulse quickening with anticipation.

“I’m ready for this.”He began to explore my body, his hands gliding over my curves, igniting flames of desire within me. Each caress sent shivers down my spine, leaving me breathless and craving more. I felt the pressure building inside me, a delightful tension that I had never experienced before. “You’re doing so well,” he encouraged, his voice low and filled with admiration. “Just... don’t stop,” I breathed, my body arching toward him. “It feels so good.”With that, he positioned himself between my legs, his eyes searching mine for any sign of hesitation. As he entered me, the sensation was overwhelming—a mix of pressure, fullness, and the sudden, undeniable connection between us.

I gasped softly, my fingers instinctively digging into his back as he paused for a moment, giving me time to adjust. Our eyes met, and for a heartbeat, we were both still, just feeling the weight of what we were sharing. His hand cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing gently over my skin. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.“I’m okay... just a little nervous,” I admitted, and he smiled softly, his gaze filled with warmth. “It’s normal to feel that way. I’m right here with you.”He moved slowly, his hips rocking into mine with a gentle rhythm.

 Each movement sent waves of heat coursing through me, and I could feel the mix of nervousness and excitement as he continued. His lips found my neck, trailing soft kisses along my skin, and with each slow thrust, I felt the tension within me begin to build. “Just let go and enjoy the moment,” he urged, his breath warm against my ear. “I want to make this special for you.”“I trust you,” I whispered, my body arching up to meet him with every movement, matching his rhythm as the pleasure grew.“Good,” he replied, his voice thick with desire. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”I could feel the heat rising between us, the connection pulling us closer together.

“Me too,” I gasped, my breath hitching as he found my sensitive spot again, sending waves of pleasure through me.“I’m close,” I whispered, my voice trembling as the wave of pleasure crashed over me. He looked down at me, his expression filled with admiration. “You’re doing it great,” he murmured, his movements still gentle as he encouraged me through it. “Just a little longer, I promise.”With a soft gasp, I felt the pleasure envelop me, my body tensing as I finally let go

With a soft gasp, I felt the pleasure envelop me, my body tensing as I finally let go. A rush of warmth flooded through me, and I could feel him right there with me, his own release hitting moments later, his breathless sigh matching mine. As the intensity built, I could feel us both reaching a peak, our breaths quickening, hearts racing in sync.Finally, as I felt his body tense beside me, the warmth of his skin radiating against mine. When the sensations began to ebb, I lay there, feeling his arm wrap protectively around my waist, anchoring me as we both slowly returned to reality.“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, his voice filled with genuine concern as he brushed a strand of hair from my face.I nodded, a smile spreading across my lips. “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”His eyes sparkled with a mix of pride and tenderness.

 “You were amazing. I can’t believe we just did that.”“I know,” I said, my heart racing. “Thank you for being so gentle with me. It really means a lot.”He smiled softly, leaning in closer. “You deserve all the gentleness in the world. I want this to be a beautiful memory for you.”I felt warmth bloom in my chest, and I reached out to trace my fingers along his jaw. “It is. I don’t think I could ever forget this""Good,” he replied, his voice low and sincere. “Because I want us to make more memories like this.”I leaned in, capturing his lips with mine in a lingering kiss, filled with promise and hope. “I’d like that,” I whispered against his mouth, feeling the connection between us deepen in that moment.