#you agree. i don’t need to explain this

[pencil-n-pen]

I’M STILL TRYING EVERYTHING

⋆° 𐙚 ₊🧦☕🧸₊°⋆ ೀ₊°⋆

previous | kofi | masterlist

post prison!spencer reid x fem!reader

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I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me.

-mirrorball, taylor swift

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summary: you’ve never had a date or a relationship that either didn’t work out or end in disaster. now that you have spencer, you’re determined not to let it happen again

cw: referenced bad past relationships, very very vaguely referenced past domestic abuse that honestly could be taken a different way, referenced child abuse (readers parents are STILL not it) again this is a criminal minds fic so references to graphic violence

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort (do i even need to say this? you all know who i am) insecurity, like one line of misogyny and it’s in the past and not brought up again, spencer being soft n worried, HEALTHY COMMUNICATION, spencer is just as gone for reader as she is for him honestly he's just a sap

a/n: back by popular demand !! seriously guys, you have no idea how much the support and comments and reblogs and asks means to me 🥹 the overwhelming amount of love for the first fic made me so happy when people started asking about a sequel i knew i had to !!

read the crossword on the collage for a surprise :)

this one goes out to all my girlies who’ve ever felt like they needed to be less in order to get a boyfriend or keep one. we’ll have our soft love just the way it was meant to be

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Spencer is a really good boyfriend.

Like… a really good boyfriend. You’re not sure if this is how having a real boyfriend is or if Spencer is just like this.

He’s so good to you. He’s just so- so him. You can’t explain it. Can’t put it into words.

He’s very patient with you. You’ve never explicitly stated it, but he’s picked up on your previous relationship experience- or more accurately, your lack thereof. The morning after you’d gone home with him, night consisting of nothing but easy sleep and warmth, he’d asked you out for real. Asked you if you’d go on a date with him, and you’d agreed, a giddy smile fixed firmly on your face.

But you still worry.

All it takes it one conversation with your parents to push things over the edge.

“Yes, dad. He’s very good to me.”

A laugh crackles over the line. “I tell you, your mother and I never thought we’d see the day.”

The words twinge uncomfortably in your chest. “Hey, I’m not that bad. I’ve just been focused.”

“More like uptight.”

“Dad—“

“You know, you still haven’t come out to visit your poor old parents since getting this so-called cushy job. And now you’ve got this boyfriend. You’re too young to settle down. Don’t you think we should meet him?”

Sometimes conversations turn so quickly they leave you stranded— scrambling to pick up pieces of what you thought was going to happen and piece them together to make something new. Something for the new route the conversation has taken.

You couldn’t hold back your sigh if you tried. “We haven’t been dating for that long dad, I don’t want to spring this on him—“

“Sweetie, if we don’t meet him now, why might never meet him. Who knows how long he’s gonna stick around?”

(Sometimes, in moments like these, for just a split second, you wonder how a father could say something like that, to his daughter. You wonder why, wonder what you did wrong. And then, you imagine Hotch saying those same things, and you can’t, and it almost makes you feel a little better.)

Your blood runs cold. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“Well, you know how things have ended in the past. I’m just saying I’d like to meet him before he’s gone."

You don't dignify his words with a response.

"Come on, honey. I'm just joking with you."

"It's not funny."

"Don't be like that--"

"Goodbye."

You hang up, snapping the phone shut with a sigh.

The older you've gotten, the more conversations with your parents end up like this. You suppose it's the way you 'wasted your potential' or 'never made something of yourself.' They've always held resentment ever since you decided to become an agent. So you know not to take what they say to heart, because their words only come from a place of disappointment and displeasure. It's not a reflection of who you really are or what you've really accomplished.

Or at least, that's what Hotch told you when he'd overheard one of your phone calls. It meant more than you'd let on.

But your Dad's words linger in your head. They're irritating and sharp where they claw around in your head because they're true.

You can count on one hand the amount of romantic endeavors you've had. And from those, they all ended horribly. Your parents lost sympathy towards the end of your attempts, muttered words of needing to try harder to keep them, that you should be satisfied that somebody wanted you at all, that you should try to be less... you.

Try to be less... you, dear. The books and the facts- nobody wants those. Put some more effort into your appearance. Otherwise you'll end up all alone.

You'd tried to take their advice, of course. But the relationships that were fathered your parents direction were not loving. There was nothing soft or gentle or warm about them. You'd never felt more unlovable.

So when the incident with the shooter happened and you were lying on the lecture hall floor, blood coloring the carpet deep scarlet, you'd vowed to never let it happen again. That you were going to use your intellect and wit and passion for what you wanted to do- you'd promised yourself that if you survived, you would try to make your life your own, one step at a time.

This, of course, is easier said than done.

It's easy enough to refuse to let yourself get involved with men who are clearly only interested in your for your badge or your body --though the latter happens so rarely you really don't have to worry about it-- because you don't care about them. They're blips on your radar.

But Spencer? Sweet, sweet Spencer who makes you hot-cocoa and binge watches Doctor Who with you, even the later seasons, which you know he doesn't like as much but you love. Spencer who always has a grounding touch to offer, or a quiet command when you need him. Spencer who puts you first.

But there's a limit to these things, right? As far as you've seen, romantic relationship's are transactional, or conditional. Sometimes both. He can't just... keep doing this forever. It's too kind. Too sweet. It'll come to an end soon. Like, like the honeymoon era in early relationships. That's all it is. Plus, he's older than you, and you have no illusions about your unavoidable impulsiveness and naivety.

You've been told that your standards are too high before. "Struck by the hopeless romantic's arrow," your brother had said once, back when you were still in school, crying over a boy who'd told you that he didn't want to date you because you were too smart for a girl.

"That's not being hopeless romantic. There's no such thing as being too smart for a girl."

"There isn't," He'd amended, "But you're not going to have an easy time finding a guy. You of all people can't really afford to be picky."

He'd been right, in the end. So you're just... having a hard time figuring out how genuine Spencer's actions are. Guy's don't really act all romantic in the context of you. You've been told your whole life to be happy with what you get, and what you've had in the past is decidedly not lining up with how Spencer treats you.

It's a nasty little thing in your ear. Is it real? Does it matter as much to him?

When is it all going to end?

--

Rossi make's an offhand comment during a mission that you talk a lot when you're excited about the subject at hand.

JJ agrees. "It's a little unnerving when the subject is the bruising patterns of strangulation."

That little voice comes back.

Too much too much too much too much too much--

"It's useful," You protest, mouth dry.

JJ snorts, "I'm not sure about that. We need to know that the victim was strangled, not what happens to the body during blunt-force asphyxiation."

You'd grown quiet then, let the chatter and musings of the rest of the team wash over you.

Is that something Spencer finds annoying? You have always found things other's view morbid and disturbing fascinating. But JJ is right. No one wants to hear about that.

You brush the comment off, square your shoulders, get back on with the case.

Be better. Try harder.

You don't seen the furrow of Spencer's brows from where he's been watching you, or the quick look he shares with Hotch.

--

You'd never really thought about how clingy you can be before Emily makes an offhand comment about it while the two of you wait in line at a coffee shop. There's a couple in front of you, the girl all over her partner, kissing and giggling and hugging them close.

"Ugh," Emily groans once the two get their coffee and move on. "I could never understand the appeal of all that. I mean doesn't it feel stifling?"

A little stab of ice in your stomach.

"I don't know. I think it's nice."

"No, thank you. If I were her partner, I'd feel smothered."

You think about that conversation every time you take Spencer's hand or lean into his simple touches. They're invasive little things, the thoughts. It's not hard to pull back on all the touching. You never really ask for them in the first place- always too nervous to come off clingy. But you suppose just taking, taking, taking is just the same.

A quick shake of your head, not leaning in, a quiet "I'm fine." and that little nagging fear of smothering begins to quiet. It doesn't leave, but it does get quieter. For a little while, at least.

--

The hard part is trying to be less without noticeably being less. Spencer's smart- and he's a profiler. If you pull back too much too quickly, he'll notice, and you don't want to talk about this yet. You just need to make sure he'll stay. That things won't—

That you won't find out too late that you don't mean as much to him as he does to you.

That's the kind of thing that can't happen again. But ascertaining his true feelings and desires is difficult, because this is all kind's of new territory for you. You want to believe it's real. You really, really want to believe it's real.

But it's never been real before, so why would it be real now?

--

You've asked around (subtly and carefully, of course) about the type of girl Spencer's dated or drifted towards in the past. You know he said he wanted something soft and sweet, but you can't help but think that you're not really either, nor are you in line with his type. All things considered, you're a mess. Something tired-eyed and hollow is how you feel most days. Some sort of creature perhaps? You're honestly not sure what you are. You've spent your entire life being singled out or otherwise othered- always too smart or too different or too weird or too much or too loud or too quiet or too shy or too, too, too. Always too something. You have never been called soft or sweet. In a demeaning way, sure, but never with the quiet reverence that Spencer said it with that night.

It feels like a balancing act, a bit. Holding all those too much parts so close to your chest with one hand and shoving the ones you think Spencer wants with the other hand.

You could probably drop the one hand. The one holding the bad parts. But you're just not convinced he'll stay. You're not sure that he won't look at them with some form of disgust or pity or something else terrible.

You know the balancing act isn't sustainable— you'll fall eventually, and everything will come crashing down, but until then, you just keep trying. Trying to see if he'll stay, trying to see what to do if he won't. How to ensure he will, if that's something that's possible.

--

The act does not hold up for as long as you hoped it would. It comes crashing down with a glass. Literally.

You and Spencer are in the kitchen on a rare weekend off, cooking and drinking wine and swaying to some little old love song.

It should be perfect, except you're worrying that you look ugly while you're dancing, and you're probably singing off-key, and he maybe wants you to shut up so he can hear the song or dance in peace.

He reaches towards you and you just— your brain shrieks for a moment, all senses going into overdrive and you jerk backward, and your elbow knocks into your wine glass, and it falls, shattering behind you with a deafening crash.

Your entire body tenses, waiting for yelling or sighing or something, because you broke the glass, there's crystalline shards everywhere, the wine red and it looks like blood, maybe it is, maybe you're bleeding because the glass was really close to your foot when it fell but you're not sure because you can't really feel your feet or your fingers or—

"Don't move," Spencer says, voice serious, and tears well in your eyes, because this is when it all ends isn't it? "I don't want you to— honey?"

"Yes?" You croak.

His eyes are swimming with concern as he takes in your hunched shoulders, shallow breaths, and scared expression.

Understanding flickers in his features, and you resist the urge to hold your breath.

"Nothing is going to happen to you because of the glass, okay? Everything is fine. We're fine. I'm not mad. See? I'm not mad. I just don't want you to cut your feet on the glass. I'm going to clean this up and get your slippers, okay?"

"Okay." You breathe, voice hoarse. You wring your hands nervously as he leaves to retrieve the necessary supplies to clean the mess, heart beating so fast and so hard you're shocked you can't see it through your shirt.

He's not mad. He's not mad. You're not in trouble. Your parents aren't here. You're not grounded. You're not in trouble. He's not mad.

You're silent while he cleans, focused on getting your breathing under control while he babbles quietly about the history of glass making and the significance of types of wine glasses. The facts and history wash over you in steady waves, easing the tension in your shoulders bit by bit.

"I didn't think you were going to hit me, Spencer."

He continues cleaning. "It's okay if you did. I would never blame you for that."

"But I don't," You say, suddenly desperate, "I know you wouldn't, I've never been hit, not like that."

He's quiet for a few minutes. "Does this have something to do with how you've been acting recently?"

You freeze. "What do you mean?"

He looks up, leaning back on his knees. Making himself smaller, you realize. He's trying not to scare you again.

"You're dating a profiler. Also, I speak fluent you, and you've been chewing all your hangnails again. You only do that when you're stressed and pretending like you're not."

Your finger's twitch at your sides.

His hands come up slowly, and he rubs the length of your waist and hips. "We don't have to talk about it right now, but I think we should soon. I don't want you hurting all by yourself. You've had enough of that. That's what I'm here for."

He finishes cleaning up the glass, and finishes cooking dinner- he'd assured you he'd turned off all burners when the glass hit the floor, so nothing's burnt.

Once you've both eaten, he steers you towards the couch and wordlessly puts on Doctor Who.

The Pandorica is just about to open when you finally decide that if you don't start talking, you never will.

"My parents think you're going to leave me."

Spencer makes a wounded noise in his throat. "Why do they think that?"

"Because it's happened before. I'm, um. I'm not very good at getting into relationships. Or keeping them."

"But that's not your fault."

You sniff hard, rubbing your face with your sleeve. "It is though, isn't it? At least a little. I know I can be a lot. I know I'm not easy to—"

You cut yourself off, but the words hang in the air anyway; unsaid.

I'm not easy to love.

"Anyway," You say, pushing through the lump in your throat. "I just thought. I don't know. I was worried that you'd get fed up with me."

"No," He whispers, voice raw and full of something a lot heavier than fond. "No, no baby. I like that you're clingy and you ramble when you get excited, because it means that we get to talk about something together."

He shifts on the couch, sitting criss-crossed, ducking his head down to catch your gaze. "You know what else I like?"

You scoot over, mirroring his position. "What?"

"I like that you always know when I need you. Even when I don't think I do, you're there. Because I do need you. This isn't a one-way street."

His words hit you straight in your chest. "Oh."

He smiles, brows a little scrunched, brown eyes a deep pool of fondness and a splash of concern. "Yeah. And I'm thinking you need me a little more than you want to let on."

The seam of your pajama pants suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the world. Amazing, the wonders of a sewing machine.

"Maybe."

"Mmm," He hums, "So if I need you, don't you think that you're allowed to need me?"

Your fingers pick and twirl a loose thread around. "...Yes?"

A large, firm hand covers your thigh, giving it a quick squeeze. "Yes. Not only are you allowed to need me, I want you to need me. Cause you know how you're always worried about being the best girlfriend? Well, I'm always worried about being the best boyfriend."

That makes you look up. "Really?"

He chuckles again, a little puff of air fanning your face. "Yes, really. I assure you, contrary to your past experiences, this is one of those bare minimum things in a relationship."

"That does not," He continues, immediately catching the brief flicker of doubt and shame on your face, "Mean that it is your fault at all for how you were treated in the past. You wouldn't expect me to suddenly become an expert in veterinary medicine just because I've been to the vet's office a few times, right?"

"When did you go to the vet's—"

"Shh, I'm being a good boyfriend," He holds up a hand, lips quirking up when you can't suppress a tiny giggle, "But seriously. You had no frame of reference, right? And you were being told it was your fault. But it wasn't. You didn't deserve that."

He lets his words hang in the air for a little while and allows you time to process this new information.

"What do I do now?"

"Well," He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, curls tickling your forehead, "You've got a pretty sweet deal here. Just three things. You have to keep letting me need you, let yourself need me, and one last little thing."

"What?"

You're so close your breaths are mingling.

"Let me show you what this is supposed to look like. How a man is supposed to treat a pretty girl. His pretty girl."

"Oh, well," Heat rushes to your cheeks, your stomach doing flip-flops, "That sounds pretty hard. I don't know how I'll hold up."

His hand comes up to hold the side of your face, his thumb sweeping strokes under your eye.

"You say that now, but I know what happens to you when I get romantic. You swoon."

You laugh. "I do not swoon."

"You will."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It isn't a kiss-kiss. He's kissing you just to kiss you; just to let you know that he's here, that you have him.

It's sweet and perfect and exactly what you need.

--

Letting yourself need Spencer is marginally easier now that you know he needs you. Now that you know you're not going all in for someone who isn't.

He also starts needing you a bit... louder.

It's late evening, and most people have gone home except you and a couple other members of the team, all still working on paperwork.

Except Spencer, who's decided to drape himself over your shoulders like a cat, his chin resting on your head.

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Either finished it or it can be done later."

You shift your shoulders, smiling at how his grumbles vibrate against your back.

He moves his head, pressing his cheek to your head instead of his chin, heaving a deep sigh.

"Your hair smells good."

"Like what?"

"You're shampoo. Yours always smell better than mine."

You continue to work through your paperwork, Spencer a continuous and solid weight against your back.

"Is this even comfortable for your back at all?"

"Doesn't matter. Need girlfriend time."

He can't see it, but you're sure he knows how hard you blush.

--

Spencer's cooking the two of you a late breakfast in the kitchen of his apartment, hair still all mussed from sleep. He's quite the sight. You can't stop staring.

You're sitting on the counter, still dressed in your pajamas, legs swinging.

"You wanna know something cool?"

"You know it,"

"Butterflies and moths can drink blood and tears. There's nutrients in them. Purple Emperor butterflies are especially known for this. It's called mud-puddling."

"So you're telling me I should make sure I bandage any open wounds before I go to a butterfly house?"

"I guess. I can't imagine they'd be able to drink enough blood to actually cause any damage."

"Maybe we'll have to go to a butterfly house. For research."

"Should we get dinner afterwards?"

"We'll deserve it, you know, for all the hard research we'll have done."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose so."

--

Spencer's bed is infinitely more comfortable than your bed. You're pretty sure it's a combination of the fact that it's the only thing in the entire world that smells so much like him and the fact that he spent part of his large FBI paycheck on a fancy mattress. Back support is very important to him.

You're doing a little reading before bed, shamelessly sprawled all over him while he does his own reading. You've got a leg hooked over his hips, the other tangled with his legs, and your arms and head pillowed on his chest. You move a little every time he takes a breath, and more than once you've paused in your reading, mesmerized by the feeling.

He shifts under you, setting his book down on his night stand and making himself more comfortable.

"Should I move?"

"No," he says, voice deep and gravelly with sleep. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush to him, face pressed to the crook of your neck. He breathes deep, scruffy stubble scratching against your skin. "Like you close. Good for sleep."

Even with the lamp on, and your book in your hand, you fall asleep soon after him.

--

It's an ordinary evening for the two of you. Discarded dishes sit on the coffee table in front of the teeth, neither of you paying them any attention, wrapped up in each other and eyes glued to the T.V.

You look up at Spencer who's watching Doctor Who with the focus of a man who's never seen it, even though you know for a fact he's seen it before, several times in fact.

"I want to know the things you like," He'd said simply, the one time you'd asked why he takes your nightly Doctor Who watching so seriously.

And tonight's no different. Tonight, he looks... well, he looks like Spencer. His face illuminated by the TV screen, his hair all mussed from you running your hands through it earlier.

And it just kind of all hits you at once. You know.

"I love you."

He looks down at you, his expression soft and surprised. When your words register, his expression is so sickeningly fond and happy you can't help but lean in, burying your face in his chest. He rubs your back consolingly, then presses a little kiss to the crown of your head.

"I love you too."

⋆⭒˚.⋆

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[misctf]

I just started a job at this university teaching biology. I am 52 and some of my students from the wrestling team are telling me I should join. I try to tell them I am too old. They set up a meeting with their coach. Should I go?

Why you decided to agree to this meeting was beyond you. You’re a biology teacher- a man of science. You’ve spent years building your career and livelihood. Sacrificing your early years in the lab while your friends and family enjoyed theirs. It was finally time for you to turn a new page- get a job at a small university, spend time with your husband, and finally put less emphasis on academia. Bitterly, you realize that the emphasis on academics is somewhat lacking at your new, smaller university. Sports seemed to reign supreme here, especially the wrestling program.

“So bro...” You raise an eyebrow, “Or do you prefer Mr...”

“Doctor.” You correct him- you weren’t going to let some glorified gym teacher demean you.

The wrestling coach smirks, “Ah right, doctor.” He cracks his knuckles, “So my boys tell me you’re not gonna pass ‘em.” He leans forward and you catch a whiff of his cologne- there’s a hint of pine and you subconsciously lean forward, enjoying the smell, “Look, it’s vital that you pass ‘em.” His smile is framed by a well-groomed beard and you can tell he works-out based on how his button-down hugs his muscular arms and chest, “Can you do me a solid? For coach? Just let it slide. Give ‘em the grades. For coach.” He puts emphasis on the word.

“For coach?” You mumble, “I... uh...” Why was your dick getting hard? Why was your mouth ajar? Were you drooling on yourself? You quickly shake your head, “Look, don’t tell anyone about this.” You say- noticing the smug smirk growing on Coach’s face, “I’ll pass them, but they need to work hard.”

“I’m sure they will. All my boys do.” He says, “You’re dismissed.” You nod, and without a second thought, leave the room.

Your husband asks you why you were late that night and you explain your odd meeting with Coach. He raises an eyebrow, asking why you call him Coach, but you’re unable to come up with an answer. It seemed right. He is Coach... You quickly tell him you’re tired and head up to get ready for bed. You needed the rest. At 52, you certainly didn’t have the energy for these longer days. You sigh as you look at yourself in the mirror- taking in the pudge around your mid-section, your tired eyes, and your horseshoe pattern hairstyle. Years of stress and chasing grants certainly did their number on you. You and your husband crawl into bed and you give him a kiss, albeit with less enthusiasm. Your mind wanders to images of Coach- his smile, his cologne, his build- and you find yourself smiling- your dreams filled with images of the other man.

You wake up the next morning with a morning wood reminiscent of your younger days. You quietly get out of bed, making sure not to wake your husband, and get ready for your lecture. But the day drags, your mind constantly preoccupied with images of Coach. Even as you’re trying to teach the basics of evolutionary biology, the subject you dedicated your PhD to, you’re struggling. The group of wrestlers in the back are snickering, and you feel your blood boil. This wasn’t high school. You weren’t going to let yourself be bullied by a bunch of stupid, dumb jocks. But you can’t bring yourself to discipline them. With a defeated sigh, you dismiss the class, telling them you aren’t feeling well. And as your students trickle out, you start to wonder. Did you really dismiss class early? Did you ever do that at any point in your many years of teaching? Why couldn’t you stop thinking about Coach? No... this was all wrong... It was those wrestlers, you figure. They disrupted your class- snickering and mocking you. They needed to be taught a lesson...

“Ah, so you’re back, doc.” Coach says, watching as you enter his office, “Again, thanks for giving my boys the grades they need to pass. Wrestling is...”

“Enough,” You say, your confidence and conviction seemingly catching Coach off guard, “Your wrestlers are disrupting class. It’s one thing if they want to fail, it’s another thing if they...”

“Woah, woah calm down there. Can you do that for me? For Coach?” You freeze, the confidence boiling your blood evaporating in an instant, “That’s right, easy does it big guy. Just like that. For Coach.” He smiles and you feel lightheaded, “It’s not right to talk to me like that. Respect is important, don’t you agree?” You nod, your eyes vacant, “So how about we work this out.” You watch as he adjusts his belt, “Relax a bit and suck my dick. Can you do that for me? For Coach?”

There’s no thought to protest. No resistance. You’re on your knees, your tongue greedily teasing his head. And soon enough, you’re deep throating him. His cock tastes good as it fills your mouth, and you can feel your dick straining against your pants. But your pleasure didn’t come from your dick right now- it came from sucking Coach’s cock. Up, down, up down... His moans tell you you’re doing it right... reassuring you that you’re exactly what Coach needs. And you gag as his dick swells before sending a torrent of cum down your throat. You swallow each drop, greedily licking the tip for any last drop.

“See, don’t you feel better now?” Coach pants, “Treat my boys with respect. Can you do that? For Coach?” You nod, “Good, good. Alright you slut, you’re dismissed.”

You stagger to your car, arriving at your home- your eyes still half-lidded. Your mind trying to conceive what just happened. You tell your husband you don’t feel well, and he looks at you with some concern, but you tell him not to worry. And as you lie in bed, you can’t help but wonder how this is happening. What was going on? And god, you couldn’t wait for Coach to let you suck his dick again.

Weeks seemed to pass and your life was starting to unravel. You’d lost complete control of your class- often just telling them to read out of a textbook. Your passion for teaching diminishing. You figured it was because you and your husband were fighting more. He finally had enough of your personality change and you pushing him away- your affection and friendship diminishing as your thoughts and desires centered around Coach. He finally moved out after you told him about your activities with Coach. Your heart broke when you saw how crushed he looked, and in that moment you wanted to tell him something was wrong. That you needed help... But Coach... Coach needed you... And that thought drowned out any remaining logic or love you had for your husband. Now, completely isolated, there were no more distractions.

“Yo you comin’ to the match tonight?” One of the wrestlers asked you at the end of another uninspired class, “Coach wants ya there.”

“Coach wants me?” You say, unable to hide the joy in your voice, “Yeah... yeah I’ll be there.” The wrestler gave you a knowing smirk and walked out, laughing about something with his friends.

You find yourself sitting on the sidelines later that night, your eyes wandering around trying to catch a glimpse of Coach. And when you finally made eye contact, a grin formed on his face. It was predatory- malicious even. Part of you wanted to run and escape, find your husband and leave this town. Quit this job. Live the life you’d built after so much hard work and dedication. But before you could even stand, Coach was sitting next to you, and you felt your resistance crumble.

“Please...” You whimper, “Don’t...”

“We have a problem.” Coach says, completely ignoring you, “AJ is injured.” He puts an arm around you, “He’s supposed to compete soon.”

“I don’t...” The world around you fades into the background. It’s just you and Coach, “I...”

“I need you, now more than ever.” Coach says, “Can you do this for me? For Coach?”

“For Coach...” You try your best to fight it, to resist saying it, “I’m not...”

“Can you lose the gut? Can you do that for Coach?” He asks, and you gasp as your paunch suddenly pulls back, leaving you with a flat stomach, “And while you’re at it, can you pack on some muscle. You can do that, right? For Coach?”

You groan as six tight abs form on your now previously smooth abdomen, a perfect set of V-lines pointing to your crotch. But it’s not just a new six-pack that you’re sporting. Your pecs swell with firm muscle- your previous moobs becoming toned and muscular. Your grunt and breath faster as your back widens and your arms tone before swelling with muscle- your once unimpressive arms sporting a set of bis and tris you’d only seen on dedicated athletes.

“Yeah, you’re doing great.” Coach says, watching as your calves and thighs swell with muscle, “But can you lose some age? 52 is too old, would you be able to be 21? For Coach?”

Your body seemed to defy the biology that you dedicated your life to as the years reversed themselves. Your skin becoming youthful and tanned, while your body hair vanished, leaving your new pecs, abs, and muscular back clean-shaven and smooth. In fact, you realize that the only place you actually grew hair was on your head and your pits. The wiry, musky pit hair poking out between your arms. You run a hand through your new hair and gasp. You’d started going bald in your 20s but now...

“This doesn’t.... this doesn’t make sense...” Your voice is unfamiliar to you now. Even in your 20s you didn’t sound like this... You sound like those wrestlers from your class- oafish and cocky... a voice befitting a jock, “How... are you doing this? Why...?”

“I know you’re a biology expert, but I don’t think we need that anymore, don’t you agree? How about you lose the smarts there, doc. Can you do that for me? For Coach?”

You realize in a momentary sense of clarity that this man... whatever he was... he took everything from you. The life you built... gone. And you weren’t about to let him take your career. All your hard work. Your passion... your... your what?

“Huhuhuh.” You feel drool forming in the corner of your mouth as a dim chuckle leaves your lips, “Like uh what... Wasn’t I like a...” Your head starts to hurt, memories of late night lab sessions, your dissertation- all overwhelming the simpler circuitry of your more primian brain, “Oh fuck Coach...”

“Just let it out, let it go.” Coach whispers, “Be the wrestler I need you to be. Do that for me. For Coach.”

And in that moment, whatever resistance- whatever memories you had been fighting to hold onto- vanish. Your body goes slack as your brain empties of your years of teaching and learning. But in the void of your empty brain, a new spark ignites. Wrestling... years of experience... years of intense training... all the moves, all the positions... And even more important, the passion for it- the desire to be the fucking best.

“Fuck Coach.” You grumble, your voice dull and slow, “You need me out there?”

“Not in that outfit.” He chuckles, “You know better than that. Singlet buddy. Put on singlet. Do it for me. For Coach.”

“Coach, bruh, already wearing a singlet.” You chuckle, gesturing at the tight singlet wrapped around your body, “Don’t tell me you’re losin’ it, Coach.” You smirk, a smug arrogance embedded in your tone, “Just tell me what you need me to do.” The two of you stand up, and Coach grins.

“I need you to win.” He says, “Win for me. For Coach.”

You grin as you walk to the face your opponent. You could do it. You could do anything. As long as it was for him. For Coach.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Give and Take 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Steve Rogers

This AU is called Watcher Anonymous and will include different series for different characters. This is our introduction to Steve and Charity

Summary: the women's shelter harbours a particularly suspicious character.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Hey, Steve,” Leanne greets him as the door blows shut behind him. The unusually windy day has him out of sorts. “Breezy out, huh?”  

“Yeah,” he does his best to tidy his hair. So much for that new pomade. He straightens the lapels of his jacket his tie swept over his shoulder. “Sorry, I’m late.”  

“Right on time.” She assures him.  

The door opens and blows back on its hinges. Steve turns as a flurry gusts in around the figure. Charity trips through and barely saves the box in her arms from overturning. Steve is quick to steady it, his skin tingling as he touches her tweed sleeves. She smiles at him with a thanks.  

“I’ve got some surprises,” she announces over his head, “it’s why I’m behind.” 

She’s breathless. He is too. He stays close. Do something, Rogers. She’s right there. 

“Can I help?” He asks. 

She bats her eyes at him and her full cheeks get rounder, “sure can. You're such a doll.” 

She hands him the box and he takes it without falter. It’s heavy but he won’t let her see that. He peeks at the hastily closed flaps, he can see something peeking in the small space between the cardboard. 

“There’s more in my car,” she says. “Lea, you mind if I leave my bag with you while I get the stuff?” 

“Sure thing,” the receptionist replies. 

Everyone likes Charity. She’s a bright spot even when times are tough. At the shelter, almost every day is rough. Of course, they don’t have to be there but they choose to be. Those who come seeking help don’t have that choice. 

Steve watches her swirl out and stares dumbly after her. Her beret is crooked, the bow of her blouse is half out over her jacket, and her pleated skirt catches the wind dangerous. Her full calves and the bottom of her thighs peek out at him with the rise in her hem. 

“What’s in it, then?” Leanne asks. 

Steve turns and clears his throat. He comes forward and leans the box on the corner of the desk. He squints as he pulls back a flap. He hums as he reaches in. 

“Tampons,” he takes a package out. 

Leanne laughs. Steve is slightly embarrassed but why should he be? Women need those things and that’s what they do here. Give women what they need. 

Charity returns again. She has a whole wagon of boxes behind her. She bounces in proudly. 

“Forgot I still had this thing in my car,” she beams. 

“I could’ve helped,” Steve snaps out of his daze and shoves the package back in the box. 

“Oh, no, all good.” 

“Where’d you get all this?” Leanne wonders as she taps the box with her pen. 

“Work! We did a promotional deal with a pharmacy and I was talking to the local owner. He donated all this back stock.” She explains bright, “just took a bit of convincing!” 

Steve hesitates. He could be convinced to give her anything. Still, the suggestion makes him uneasy. What did she do? 

“We can do some care boxes,” she declares. “I got some stuff to put it all in too.” 

“Oh, right, well, everyone else is serving dinner,” Leanne clucks. 

“I can help,” Steve offers. 

“Sure,” Charity agrees. “Is the back room free?” 

“Yeah, movie night’s in the rec room so just don’t go in there.” Leanne girds. 

Charity goes to drag the wagon forward but Steve blocks her. He sets the box of tampons on top. 

“Let me,” he insists. 

“Oh, Steve, thanks.” 

She remembers his name! His hand grazes hers as he takes the handle and she brushes by him. Her perfume, a discount brand that smells like cherry, wafts from her. He follows her through the heavy door she unlocks with the code and down the hall. 

They get everything into the backroom, slightly crowded by the shelves of toilet paper and cleaner. She tuts and looks around. “Hope you don’t mind working on the floor.” She’s happy enough to get down on her knees as she takes a box from the wagon. “I got some zip-up pouches. That way they can keep using them after.” 

She takes out one of the floral plastic pouches. He wonders if this was actually all given to her. He’d give her most anything but would a corporate shill really succumb to her so easy? 

He starts moving the boxes off the wagon then folds it up out of the way. He kneels down with her, padding him knees on his coat. He’s too boney to be on the floor. 

“Thank you for helping,” she says. “So, tampons, pads, lip balm, vaseline, lotion, body and face, soap, shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste,” she goes down a pretty extensive list as she packs the first kit. “And I even got some chocolate truffles as a treat!” 

“Wow, that’s quite a haul,” he says and takes a striped pouch. 

“Oh, and there’s kids’ stuff especially for the youngins,” she says, “they get a puppy or kitten keychain too.” 

“So you... what do you do for work?” He asks, even though he knows. 

“I do communications. Mostly promotional events and all that.” She shifts onto her butt. Her hips look even wider as her skirt fans around her bent legs. “Boring. I’d love to work here full-time but a girls’ gotta pay the rent.” 

“Right,” he nods thoughtfully as he takes a tub of lip balm. 

“And you...?” She peeks up at him, “oh don’t forget, there’s little slots to tuck the small stuff.” She shows him the inside of a pouch. 

“Um, if you think your work is boring, mine’s... dull. Museum. I do tours mostly.” He answers.  

He likes his job but he’s used to people teasing. Well, he gets to look at art and cool relics and talk about it whenever someone happens by. He likes the renaissance ones with the fuller figures, they remind him of her. 

“No way! That’s so cool. Do you have anything about Letizia Borgia? I read an article the other day.” 

“Some, mostly artists but we have some papal stuff too,” his pulse evens out a bit. It’s easy to talk about his expertise. 

“And the Medicis?” She wonders. 

“I thought you were in communications,” he teases. 

She laughs and it blooms in his cheeks like fire. “Between everything, I do find some time for hobbies. Though I might lose a bit of sleep.” 

He chuckles, a little more tension slaking away. This isn’t as scary as he imagined. He’ll have something to report to the discord at least. 

 “Ha, yeah, tell me about it,” he grins. 

[mizusbabygirl]

double double ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

player 380 (se-mi) x fem reader AND guard 011 (kang no-eul) x fem reader ────୨ৎ──── cw: no-eul and se-mi both have a g!p (girl penis), threesome, creampie, unprotected sex, blowjob, masturbation, sexting??, some fluff bc why not

i’m incredibly sorry for not posting a lot anymore. i’ve just been really busy lately but i’ll still take requests because yes, i need more ideas 🙏🙏.

you dip your fingers deep inside your vagina, your fingers trace around your wetness, the pink flesh inside your pussy. soft moans escape from your mouth as you struggle to reach over to grab your phone with your unoccupied hand to record yourself fingering and playing with your pussy and send it to the girl who you’ve been crushing on since high school.

this love interest of yours has also had feelings for you but you two have never dated since your former classmates didn’t like the idea of same-sex relationships.

but now that you’ve graduated and you finally feel confident enough to do whatever the fuck you wanted, you finally found the chance to have contact with that girl again.

se-mi was her name, wasn’t it?

you thought to yourself as you tapped on the record button on your phone and continued pumping your fingers in and out of your pussy. you made a few fake moans to make it seem more lewd than it already was. you found yourself spreading your folds with your fingers, playing around with your clit and teasing yourself until you eventually came.

what if she forgot about me and found someone else?

you thought again as you saved the video into your camera and tossed your phone aside as you made your way to the bathroom to clean yourself up.

she couldn’t possibly… she basically promised that she would give me the world back then.

you went back to your room and picked up your phone, starring at the “who’s this” message from her. you let out a big sigh and started typing away, explaining who you were, hoping she hasn’t forgotten about you.

“se-mi, you seriously don’t remember me?”

read

your head falls back against the couch’s backrest, feeling your phone drop out of your hands. your eyes become teary realizing that se-mi didn’t want anything to do with you anymore.

2 months later

it was the day before valentine’s day and you were in your room snacking on chocolate bars and scrolling through instagram, seeing all your friends post their partners. you felt happy for them but you were tired of being single and alone. suddenly, you see a notification and to your surprise, it was se-mi.

a smile grew on your face as you immediately opened her message.

“hey, let’s talk”

seeing that message made you giggle, you finally thought the universe granted your wish and that you were finally going to be happy.

just as you were typing, an incoming call popped up on your screen.

it was her.

as you were calling with her, your brain flooded with memories that you shared with her back in high school. you felt like you were finally at peace for once. you felt like you finally have gotten what you’ve wanted.

after the call, you both agreed to go on a date at a local restaurant the next day for valentine’s day.

“my pretty girl, i’m sorry i haven’t answered you for so long, nonetheless, i’m also sorry i never even tried getting in contact with you again after we graduated,” se-mi said as she held your hand tightly as the two of you walked out of the restaurant.

you stopped and watched her reach for something in her bag, she pulls out a letter along with a small gift box.

“it might not be much, but this sure is given to you by me with lots of love. happy valentine’s day,” se-mi said as she handed the gift and the letter.

you held the small box in your hands. curiously, you open the box carefully and find a small pink beaded bracelet. it was the bracelet she wanted to give you back in high school.

“se-mi, how did you manage to keep it for all these years? you really haven’t forgotten about me haven’t you?” you smiled.

“no. in fact, i’ve always dreamed about the day we could finally start dating and perhaps start a future together soon,” se-mi said and pressed a kiss on your forehead.

you starred into her deep dark brown eyes, her gaze looking soft and full of love that made you want to pull her into a kiss.

you missed the feeling of her soft lips meeting yours, her tongue entering your mouth, her taste, her soft whines. but here you are, experiencing that all over again.

you found yourself under her, her body pressed against yours, on top of you on your bed. both of you felt hungry for each other and the fabric of your clothes began to feel uncomfortable as if you were urging to take them off to feel her bare skin against yours.

“baby, before i take my clothes off,” she hesitated as she broke the hot make out session between the two of you, “i want to share a secret of mine to you”. se-mi rolls off the bed and unbuckles her belt. you tilt your head, you curiously wonder what type of secret she was hiding from you.

just as you began unbuttoning your shirt, she unzips her pants and pulls them down, revealing her grey boxers.

“you wearing boxers is your biggest secret?” you giggled but your smile eventually faded away as soon as you saw a bulge. your eyes widened as she pulled them down.

she has a dick..? it definitely looks real but it looks bigger than average…

you felt your pussy getting wet at the sight of her dick becoming hardened. so you immediately undress yourself, leaving yourself only wearing a pair of pink panties that will soon be torn apart by the hands of se-mi.

“se-mi…” you whined as her tip teased your clothed pussy. “you know.. it would’ve been funny if i told you about this back then so that way i could be pounding your pussy all day everyday in the school bathrooms,” se-mi giggled as she spread your thighs.

“oh baby..!” you moan out loudly as se-mi reaches over and rips open your panties, revealing your tight pussy covered in its own juices. you lick your lips at the feeling of her hard member about to enter your tight pussy.

se-mi rubs her tip around your slick, making you whine and feel frustrated since she kept edging you.

oh but how much she loves watching you whine and get all fuzzy when she teases you…

just before you could stick it in yourself, you feel her push her dick inside you, causing you to scream. “oh fuck.. never knew it was that fucking huge!” you let out a loud moan as she started thrusting inside of your baby maker slowly, but hard.

you could see the satisfaction se-mi had on her face and she looked fucking proud having her new girlfriend act like a slut for her dick. she watched you crave for it, savour it, watched your pussy devour it whole.

“you know,” she spoke up, her voice sounding quite raspy, “there was this girl that went to the same school as us and she also had a dick like me”. her thrusts accelerated but her main goal was to beat your cervix deep and hard, no matter the pace.

“her name?” you spoke in between moans. “kang.. hmm i don’t remember…” se-mi answered, her thrusts creating wet slapping sounds that mixed perfectly with her moans and yours.

“well for now.. it doesn’t matter, doll,” se-mi’s voice became gentle as she was about to cum. “oh fuck!” se-mi yelled out as she gave you a creampie, her hot cum filling up your womb.

you squirm around the bed feeling her hot load mixing around in your womb. “se-mi..” you moan, her body collapsing on top of yours. “her name was kang no-eul,” se-mi whispered into your ear.

2 months later, you and se-mi were constantly getting into arguments, meaning your relationship with her wasn’t working out how you wanted it to. but what she doesn’t know was that you recently started talking with no-eul.

yeah, you’re an asshole for that…

but are you really one? besides, se-mi wasn’t fulfilling any of your needs, not even the bare minimum. so what does she expect? does she expect you to still stay with her even though your relationship with her is in the ruins?

you don’t remember much about no-eul. all you remember from her is how she used to get in trouble at school a lot and how she constantly dated many girls at once. you never liked no-eul since you thought she was a jerk and an asshole. but you came to think about how she could probably have matured by now and how she could probably be better than se-mi.

the air felt warm, the flowers outside went from being small buds to beautiful colourful flowers with petals of all shapes and sizes. it was may and you recently have broken up with se-mi since you found no-eul now, and you realized how much better she is than se-mi.

you and no-eul weren’t dating yet but today the two of you decided to go to the mall as a small date. no-eul had a thing for constantly touching your thighs, hugging you, caressing you, even in public. you never minded it though, in fact, you loved it.

as the day was ending, no-eul had to go home but you didn’t have a lift so you went in her car. the ride home wasn’t awkward at all since the two of you were listening to songs on the radio that the both of you enjoyed.

“don’t you want to stay at my house for the night instead?” no-eul suggested as she parked outside of your home. you shaked her head, rejecting her offer since you weren’t comfortable enough yet. but as a way to build comfortability with her, you leaned in and gave her a peck on her cheek. “i’ll see you later, i promise,” you said as you gave her another kiss on her cheek and then you got off the vehicle.

that night, your feelings for her began to grow and so they did as the week went by.

“fucking brat,” no-eul grunted as she pushed your head against the bathroom stall the two of you were having sex in. your back was arched and you were bent over, taking her dick inside you. she pumped her dick in and out of your pussy and asshole.

she was so fucking advanced at this…

anyone who entered the bathroom could hear the moans and fast slapping sounds coming from the stall the two of you were in.

“fucking tempting me all day with you wearing a skirt and you only wore a pair of panties with a hole in them underneath, fucking pervert,” no-eul said as she put her finger inside your mouth as she kept thrusting inside your pussy. “don’t pull out,” you spoke up, your saliva coating her fingers as she put another one in. “you want me to breed you?” she asked using a sarcastic tone. you nodded. “you seriously want my cum dripping out of your pussy in front of everyone? have fucking morals,” she asked again, thrusting in slowly but hard, clearly giving signs that she was about to bust a nut inside of you.

“oh but how could i ever want to pull out? your gummy cervix feels so stretchy and warm,” she giggled as small spurts of her seed spurted inside of you. she gave her last thrust and pushed her dick inside of you, as deep as possible as her cum filled your cunt. it didn’t have much difference to se-mi’s cum. but you could tell se-mi’s was much more watery and no-eul’s was thick and sticky.

she pulled out, a string of her cum connected between her tip and your pussy. you turned around and adjusted your skirt and put your panties back on quick, not having enough time to wipe off her cum from your thighs and pussy.

“let’s go to my house at this point.. you’re going to feel uncomfortable all day if you walk around like this,” she said, giving you a kiss on your lips.

just as soon as you entered her home and she shut the door behind y’all, she unzipped her pants, bent you over, lifted your skirt, pulled down your panties and began fucking you relentlessly again. “take off your clothes please, oh fuck, i want to see your tits and everything,” no-eul said, her voice reeking with lust.

she threw you onto a nearby couch, you quickly took off your skirt and unhooked your bra, and took off the rest of your clothes.

she threw herself onto you, her tits pressing against yours, she gave you sloppy wet kisses on your lips. her nipples became hardened and turned into a bright pink color as she entered you again. this time, it slipped inside of you perfectly since her dick was covered in her own pre-cum and your pussy had her left over cum still dripping out of you. “you’re so hot, mommy,” you whimpered as she threw your leg over her shoulder and felt her jack hammering inside of you, beads of sweat coating her forehead. “mommy, eh?” she giggled, clearly feeling aroused by the pet name you gave her.

“come on baby, i want you on your hands and knees now, and don’t forget to arch that back,” she ordered as she randomly pulled out and saw you follow her order. instead, the upper part of your body laid on the couch making it better for you to arch your back as much as possible.

she slipped it in again, she gave your ass a sharp slap. her hands gripped onto your sides, thrusting in deep and fast.

“your ex.. se-mi.. wants to see you again,”

later that evening

you were laying next to no-eul, cuddling with her until you heard your phone ringing. you reach over to pick it up and took a look at the phone number that was calling.

it was se-mi.

“no-eul, you were right!”

“pick it up then, let’s see what she has to say,”

you answer the phone, and hear se-mi’s voice. you haven’t heard her voice since the day you broke up with her.

“i’m outside of no-eul’s but you can tell me to leave,”

“no, no, it’s fine—i’ll go unlock the door for you,”

“great, thanks,”

“before you hang up, why’re you wanting to see me again?”

“we’ll talk about it when you let me in,”

you hung up the call then turned to look at no-eul, who was listening to the entire conversation. “i’m not stopping you,” no-eul said. “but she’s my ex—aren’t you worried she might want to get back with me,” you added.

“and is that my problem? besides, you know who’s better,” she said then reached over to caress your cheek. you sighed, “fine”.

you opened the door and saw se-mi standing in the doorway. before you could at least say hi to her, she walked right past you and went directly towards no-eul.

could it be that no-eul asked se-mi to come over?

“slow down! fuck!” you yelled out as se-mi bounced you up and down onto no-eul’s dick.

here you are, having a fucking threesome with your ex and your current girlfriend.

“your pussy really loosened up after getting with no-eul, didn’t it?” se-mi giggled, her hands lifted your body up and down onto no-eul faster and faster until you couldn’t take it anymore. “too bad you can’t see how pretty she looks right now, bouncing up and down on you, no-eul,” she teased.

no-eul scoffed, rolled her eyes and said, “and too bad you couldn’t be a good girlfriend for her so she had to run to me.”

se-mi furrowed her eyebrows and stopped what she was doing. you got off of no-eul’s lap then watched se-mi push you onto the bed. you laid on your stomach and felt se-mi grip onto your hips and pulled you towards her. “se-mi.. i missed you,” you uttered. se-mi, with a smirk on her face, began to fuck your pussy from behind relentlessly. she didn’t care about starting off slow or gentle, she went fast and rough, her tip hitting the end of your cervix with each pound.

“no-eul, don’t you want to join?” you asked. no-eul got in front of you, pulling your hair, making your head lift up to look at her. “of course i do,” she said. “open your mouth, baby,” no-eul ordered as you opened your mouth slightly.

“good girl,”

no-eul slipped her dick inside of your mouth while se-mi continued pounding you from behind.

this would make a great porno, wouldn’t it? the title for it could be double double.

too bad no-eul was actually fucking other girls whilst the two of you were dating. she never matured.

se-mi was really the one for you. afterall, despite the ups and downs, she always stayed loyal and she knew your heart only belonged to her.

[moosesarecute]

Chapter 13: The Shadow to my Flame

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Azriel was having a hard time.

He had, together with Rhys and Cass, explained to Mor and Amren that they had let Ashe not only into the Night Court, but also into Velaris.

When they had started explaining that Ashe was a Vanserra, Mor had become…distant. It didn’t take long for her to get into self-defence mode. He didn’t blame her for that, of course, but he wished they had gone about explaining it in a kinder way.

Amren agreed and had given him and his brothers many disappointed looks afterwards.

Azriel was also doing bad, because he hadn’t seen Ashe in over a week.

Samli and Thord had come up with the idea that Ashe would live with them, to try to not overwhelm her with all the changes. Azriel agreed that it was a good idea, but he hated not being able to help her.

So, he had been sneaking into her room after Thord and Samli had gone into bed to try to talk with her. She had grown quieter for each time he visited, and he got a worse and worse feeling of worry for each time he left.

But for the last week, Ashe hadn’t been in her room when he visited. Azriel took that as a sign she needed space, but he still let his shadows follow her.

They gave him updates about how she every night, snuck off and burned and burned and burned. She never did any harm, unless you count the trees she burned down, but she was growing more and more exhausted for each night.

Azriel had to admit that he was worried about her. Of course he was, she was his mate, he was supposed to worry. But he forced himself to stay away.

That was until his hands started hurting more than usual and his shadows informed him that she had burned her hands badly. They whispered about how she lost control for just a little and how her hands now were full of blisters.

His mind was brought right back to his younger self. He barely managed to pull himself out of his head before he got a panic attack.

Azriel used his worry to first pick up some bandages and cooling cream before he shadow-walked to where the shadows told him his Ashe was.

She was seated leaning against a tree and breathing heavily when he arrived. Her eyes widened just a little when she saw him and then she abruptly stood up. She was shaking and it was visible that she had been crying.

He slowly made his way towards her.

“I brought-”

“Don’t come closer,” she said. He had never heard her voice sounding more panicked. He stopped at her words. “You need to leave.”

Her shaking became worse and Azriel saw how she tightened her hands to try to ease the pain.

“I’m just here to help, Flame,” he answered and took another step towards her. Ashe reacted by taking a step away from him. “I have some cooling cream for your hands.”

She shook her head once more. Tears again begun to flow.

“I’ll hurt you. You have to leave,” her voice sounded even more panicked and urgent.

Hurt him? She could never hurt him.

He furrowed his brows at her words.

“You could never hurt me Ashe. Please, I just want to help you. See!” He held up the cooling cream and bandages. “I know you hurt your hands. These will help you.”

He knew by that terrified look on her face that he wouldn’t get any closer to her that night. He moved slowly as he put the cream and bandages on the ground.

“I’m here for you if you need me Ashe,” he said and he surprised himself when he heard the shakiness in his voice. Was he going to cry? He held the tears in, but he could see how Ashe definitely understood that he was getting emotional. “It will be better eventually.”

He stood straight and was about to move away, when Ashe took a small step towards him. She stopped herself after just one step. She looked terrified about what she had just done, but Azriel got hope.

He looked hopeful at her, waiting for her to make another move.

“I can help you, Ashe,” he said again and slowly lifted his foot to take a step towards her.

“No,” she almost yelled at him. “You can’t help. No one can help. Please, leave. You must leave.”

“Ashe, please-”

“LEAVE!”

One moment the forest was shining in the light from the moon, the next it was lit up by the fire that accidently left Ashe’s hands.

It was a thin, soft flame. It didn’t hurt as it hit Azriel’s hand. He got surprised by it, but it didn’t hurt. It almost felt comforting. It felt like his own shadows, but a little warmer. It wasn’t burning hot like the fire from wood. It was alive and felt safe.

However, Ashe didn’t realize he felt it that way. She looked like she had seen a ghost. That was until she got a little green tint in her cheeks.

She winnowed away before she threw up.

Azriel knew he had fucked up.

He had been in his room at the House of Wind for an hour. His shadows were covering him and the entire room. He wouldn’t be surprised if he learned that they were seeping out into the corridor.

What in the cauldron was he going to do?

He could feel all of Ashe’s terror and guilt. It overwhelmed the mother out of him. He was bawling his eyes out. He couldn’t remember last time he cried that much.

He needed to a plan to help Ashe. Firstly, he needed a plan to make Ashe tell him what she was struggling with. He had spent over an hour trying to come up with something, but the only thing he got was Rhys forcing it out of her brain, which didn’t seem like a good idea for her to trust him, or having his shadows follow her for every second of every day.

But they already did, and he still didn’t know what to do.

A soft knock on his door made his shadows stop covering him. They went to the opposite side of the room and swirled in a big black blob.

“Can I speak to you?”

It was Mor.

He got up from his bed and opened the door for her to come through. Mor’s eyes widened when she saw Azriel’s blood red eyes. He tried to rub the worst out, but it didn’t help much.

They sat down on his bed and Mor begun speaking.

“Rhys explained Ashe’s life. How she had no clue she was a Vanserra. I overreacted and I hurt you by not letting you explain, I’m sorry.”

Two hours ago, Azriel would have appreciated the apology, but right now it felt so insignificant. He had such bigger problems to fix.

He muttered a small thank you and expected Mor to leave. But she didn’t.

“I’m not going to leave you when it is so visible that you have been crying your eyes out. What’s going on?”

He knew she wasn’t going to leave until he told her, so he just started speaking. He always found it hard to explain things, so it took some time, but she eventually understood.

“So she burned you?”

“Yes, but no. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t leave a mark. It was almost soft.”

“But you flinched because you got surprised, and she thinks she hurt you? And then she left before you could explain?”

He only nodded.

“You care a lot about this female, don’t you?” Mor spoke extremely softly.

“She’s my mate.”

Mor looked at him both surprised and happy. None of them had mates. They didn’t even know many mates that actually liked each other, other than Miryam and Drakon.

Azriel felt honoured to have a mate, but at the same time he had never felt so lost in his entire life. He wanted someone to tell him what to do, but no one knew. No one had experienced what he was going through.

“You could explain it to her, you know. Explain it, not with words, but show her that she didn’t hurt you. Her fire is different because you obviously care for her, so show her the difference between her fire and other fire.”

It was the best idea Azriel could hear, so he started working.

Ashe was poisoned by her own mind.

She was a danger to the people around her. Or at least that is what she told herself. For each day, she noticed more and more details that gave away that she was his daughter. And for each detail, she got even more need to shut down her powers.

He flinched.

Ashe saw it every time she closed her eyes. And every time she saw it, she got more motivated to lose her powers.

If she didn’t, she would become him.

That’s how she ended up wandering through the sketchier parts of Velaris. That’s how she met with the drug dealer. And last, that’s how she got hold of the faebane.

Ashe knew it was stupid, she knew it was dangerous and potentially lethal, but if she didn’t do it, she would become lethal.

She started small. Only taking a pinch of the powder and adding it to her water. It tasted earthy and dry, but she got it down. However, she could still use her powers, so a few hours later, she took some more. Relief washed over her together with the nausea when she no longer could use her fire.

Good.

No fire = no danger to others

But then, after a few hours, she could again light her candle. So, she drank some more.

She felt like a thick cloud had laid over her. It held her mind tightly and it was highly uncomfortable. All her limbs felt heavy to move. Even lifting her eyebrows was a struggle. She began to cold sweat and uncontrollably shake, but it meant that she was safer for anybody else.

She looked down at her burned hands. She hadn’t let them heal completely before she started with the faebane. They would leave scars, but she deserved it. Azriel had similar scars, and she had hurt him, so she would experience the same amount of pain.

Samli and Thord were as loving as usual. They gave her food and hugs when she needed it. They asked why she was smelling so earthy but accepted her answer when she told them she had been spending a lot of time outside.

They were visibly worried but listed to her when she said she needed some space.

But she didn’t want space. She wanted to be held and comforted. She wanted someone to explain why the hell her life had taken such a turn and help her to see herself as herself and not him. She wanted to be loved and taken care off, but she was too much of a danger, so she couldn’t let anyone close enough.

She had proven that she wasn’t safe to be around. He had hurt Azriel. She had hurt the person she cared the most about. If she wasn’t safe to Azriel, she wouldn’t be safe to anyone else either.

Azriel had felt the bond growing quieter and quieter. When it got silent for the first time, he was sure Ashe was dead. He had completely lost it. He sent all his shadows to her and was almost on his way when the shadows told him that she was okay and safe.

Azriel was on edge for the rest of the day. He realized, after doing some studying about mating bonds, that he probably just closed her side without realizing it.

But then she didn’t open it. Not for days. Azriel had to admit he was worried. It did help a little when his brothers teased him for being to paranoid, but at the same time he just needed her to tell him that she was okay.

His brothers had been awful. They were only teasing him. Saying that he was whipped or wrapped around her finger. They weren’t wrong. Azriel wished his brothers were lucky enough to have mates, if only just so Azriel could tease them back.

It had been three days after the fire incident when Azriel was finally ready to explain. He had been practicing for three days, but he also wished for Ashe to have some time. He didn’t want to push her. If she told him to leave, he would.

Samli opened the door when he knocked.

“Please, be gentle with her,” she said. “I think she’s doing a lot worse than what she’s letting on.”

He nodded and promised to be gentle. He didn’t think he could ever be something else with her.

He knocked on her bedroom door and she opened after a while.

She had huge undereye circles and she looked exhausted. It felt like someone had stabbed Azriel. He just wanted her to be alright. Tears pressed on his eyes.

Ashe moved and let him into her room.

Azriel remembered laughing when he first saw her huge bed made for Illyrian wings. He had gotten hopeful that maybe one day, he would sleep in it with her. Now, it only felt like it was haunting him.

It looked like it only had been slept in a few times.

“I’m sorry,” Ashe spoke. Cauldron, her voice sounded weak. Azriel turned to look at her and saw that she was even paler than usual. What was going on? “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I-”

“You didn’t,” he started. “You didn’t hurt me. I just got surprised.”

He was about to start the explanation he had been practicing for the last three days, when he smelled it.

He noticed how her sweet smell was sour. How it didn’t give him the comfort it usually did. It only made him anxious.

He stopped and told himself it couldn’t be.

That was until his shadows drew his attention to a small jar that stood on Ashe’s desk.

He moved swiftly towards it and Ashe didn’t even have time to protest before he had opened it and smelled the faebane.

He felt chills going done his body. Had she been poisoning herself?

He looked over to her and she looked even paler than before. Her mouth was open, and she looked like she was trying to explain, but that she couldn’t.

“When did you get this?”

“Three days ago.”

He was going to puke. She had gotten it after she sent fire towards him.

“Was it full?”

“Yes.”

That’s a lot of faebane.

Azriel didn’t even try to hold back his protective instincts.

He dropped the lid back onto the jar and immediately moved back to Ashe. He didn’t let her protest as he embraced her so tightly. He also didn’t bother holding back his tears.

His mate had felt so low, felt so dangerous, that she poisoned herself. For three day. And he hadn’t noticed.

“Never again,” his shadows told him, and he agreed.

“Please, Ashe. I’m not letting you do this anymore. I’m going to help you. You can’t scare me away. I won’t leave you. I don’t care if you tell me to leave, okay? I’m going to stay, and you’ll have to find a way to deal with it. Okay?”

Her shoulders shaking told him that she was crying silently. He soon felt her tears soke his shirt. He only held her tighter.

She drew a breath and said something. But it was so quiet and full of sobs that not even his shadows heard it. He started stroking her hair in a hope it would calm her sobs a little. However, it only made her cry more.

“What did you say?” he whispered into her ear.

“Please, stay.”

Hope filled his heart.

“I’ll stay forever.”

Madja had given her a quite harsh talking to about how stupid she was. And even though Azriel felt the need to protect her from all the harshness of the world, Ashe’s eyes seemed more aware than it had since she got to the Night Court.

Madja had gotten all the poison out, but Ashe would remain weak and sick for a couple of days. She had dressed Ashe’s hands and given her an even bigger supply of cooling cream than earlier.

Azriel had held Ashe’s hand the entire time. He wouldn’t ever want to let go, but if he had wished to do so, he couldn’t. Ashe was holding him so tightly. It was like she was scared he would leave if she let go.

He needed her to know that he wouldn’t leave. Not now, not ever.

Samli and Thord had dinner ready for both of them when they got back from the healers. They apologized that they hadn’t noticed how bad Ashe was doing and then they told them how happy they were no permanent damage had been done.

Ashe only played with her food. She was deep in her thoughts and Azriel hoped she wasn’t spiralling deeper.

After dinner, he carried her up to her room. She had tried to walk, but even walking on the flat floor was too hard for her currently weak body.

Azriel adored having her in his arms, and even though he was overwhelmed and stressed, he couldn’t help but hope that it wouldn’t be the last time he carried her to her bedroom. He only hoped it was because of other reasons.

His shadows helped him lifting the duvet as he laid her down into the bed. She sunk into the mattress and Azriel realized how he loved seeing her relaxed. She was blinking lazily and Azriel had to smile at her.

He tucked her in tightly together with the shadows. It was a high possibility she would experience some fever throughout the night, so he didn’t want her to freeze.

He brushed the hair away from her face and watched how she closed her eyes and then, they stayed closed. He lifted her hand that had been holding his since before they went to the healer, and he kissed it softly.

Azriel then stood up and carefully let go of her hand. He moved quietly to the door when the cutest voice he had ever heard stopped him.

“Where you going?” Ashe asked him. He could hear how tried she was, but some panic still bloomed through her words. When he turned, she had almost sat up in the bed, only leaning down on one of her arms.

“I was going to let you sleep.”

He looked over at her and saw how tears started to fall. He immediately got the intense need to hurt anything that had ever hurt her. He moved over, sat down on the bed and dried some of her tears.

“What’s going on? Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”

She sniffed a little before she spoke.

“You said you would stay.”

Azriel felt relived. She had gotten him to think something was terribly wrong. But he saw how devastated she looked at the thought of being left and realized that to her, him leaving probably was something being terribly wrong.

“I’ll stay, my Flame.”

She nodded seriously and then moved over, picked up the duvet and grabbed his hand once again.

Her seriousness was only displayed as adorable in Azriel’s mind, but he laid down next to her. She then lifted his arm and laid it around her waist before she moved closer and closer to Azriel. He then covered them both with his wing.

Her amber eyes were almost glowing in the night light.

Azriel begun stroking her hair once more and it didn’t take long before she was snoring not so softly.

His mate snored.

Taglist: @tele86 @demon-master-zero @kbear8863 @atluky @mis-lil-red @rcarbo1

Let me know if you want to be added!

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

[infiniteeight8]

Stephen is desperate for Tony to love him back, to the point that he uses his knowledge of Tony to manipulate him into a relationship. (Potentially manipulates things so Tony and Pepper break up? Or this could be after that?) After all, he knows he'll treat Tony right, what does it matter how they get to this point. The ends justify the means, right?

I love this prompt so much. 😃 So much potential here. *rubs hands together*

This is a “they won on Titan” AU. So Pepper and Tony are, prior to this fic, engaged. I did a google for how long Pepper has known Tony and landed on almost 20 years, since she says she’s been curating his art collection for ten years in Iron Man 2 (2010) and Infinity War happens in 2018.

-

Stephen knows the instant Tony lands on the Sanctum’s doorstep. By the time the armor is retracted and the Sanctum’s doors have swung open for him, Stephen is already halfway down the stairs. Tony stalks into the foyer and the doors quickly close behind him. A protective gesture, Stephen’s connection to the Sanctum tells him. “Tony. Is everything okay?”

“The wedding’s off,” Tony says shortly. He starts pacing.

Stephen’s heart lifts. “I’m sorry,” he says carefully. 

Tony snorts. “Don’t be. I’m the one who called it off. Pepper’s probably still trying to call me.”

“What happened?” Stephen positions himself so that Tony will pass close to him on his traverses of the foyer, but doesn’t try to stop him.

“I took your advice,” Tony says, “and talked to Pepper about DUM-E and U. About what they would need if something happened to me.”

“I take it that didn’t go well.” It never had in any of the futures Stephen had seen. 

“Understatement of the year.” Tony raises his hands and scrubs them through his hair. “Pepper has known me for nearly twenty years. She was around when DUM-E literally saved my life! She’s known him and U almost as long. How can she not get it? How did I not realize that she doesn’t get it?”

“If you explained—”

“No,” Tony cuts him off, as Stephen knew he would. There’s a line to tread here; Stephen can’t risk making Tony feel defensive of Pepper. “If she doesn’t get it after all this time, she never will. And frankly, after what she said, I’m not interested in giving her the chance.”

Stephen winces. “That bad?”

Tony stops pacing and turns to face Stephen. “She said, and I quote, “Tony, I know you’re attached to these things, but this is really too far. They’re machines, not children.’”

Stephen lets himself look as appalled as he feels. That was one of the more extreme options. “She called them things?”

Tony barks a harsh laugh. “Yeah. And when I told her that I made them and they have thoughts and personalities of their own and that as far as I’m concerned that does make them my kids, she asked if I’d thought about having real kids. Like we weren’t even talking about the bots anymore, like that conversation was over.”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Stephen says gently. “I can’t imagine how anyone could meet either DUM-E or U and not understand that they’re people.”

“Me neither,” Tony deflates. “But I’m starting to think that you and I are two of a kind there. I mean, did the other wizards recognize Levi?” Tony waggles his fingers in belated greeting and Levi waved a corner at him. 

“The Ancient One once called Levi ‘fickle’,” Stephen says dryly.

“Yeah, no, she clearly didn’t understand them at all,” Tony agrees. He sighs and takes a heavy seat on the Sanctum’s steps. “I thought I was finally going to get my happily ever after, you know?”

Stephen sits beside him. “Would the kind of white picket fence life that Pepper wanted really have made you happy?” he asks. It actually had, in some of those futures. But Tony could be just as happy, often happier, living a different life with Stephen.

“I don’t know,” Tony says. “But I was willing to try.”

Levi flares out and wraps around Tony’s shoulders, giving him a kind of hug where Stephen can’t, not quite yet. And if the action pulls Tony against Stephen for a moment or two, well, so much the better. Levi has been on board with Stephen’s plan from the beginning.

Tony laughs and pats the fold of cloak curled around him. “Thanks, Levi.” He turns to Stephen, almost close enough to kiss. They aren’t there yet, but Stephen can’t help thinking about it. Tony goes on, oblivious. “Want to come hang out with the bots with me? I’m feeling the need for some quality time.”

Stephen smiles. “I’d love to.” 

Everything is going exactly as planned.

[elis-corner]

I’m sorry to derail your post a bit but I totally agree and need somewhere to explain why.

First, by insisting on only using she/her for Gerard, you’re essentially putting them in a binary. You’re saying, “he doesn’t present masc, so he MUST be fem”, and applying it even to times when he ISN’T presenting femininely. That’s borderline misgendering.

Second, people might point out that their most recent statement was that you can use any pronouns for him, but that doesn’t mean they’re any/all, it just means that they don’t care if they get called she/her. It’s like how, in an old fandom I was in, a content creator essentially said “I want to be called he/him but I don’t care if you use different pronouns so long as you’re not doing it with malicious intent”. That’s probably more of what Gerard meant. “he/they but other pronouns are okay”.

I’m a gnc trans guy (in the closet), but that doesn’t mean that when I wear a dress or skirt that I’m instantly cis again. So why should that apply itself in reverse and make Gerard transfem? Clothing doesn’t equal gender, it just helps people express it.

At the end of the day, he’s a person, not a character. There is no world in which we can try and put labels on them and for us to be right. Only he knows how he feels. Let him be label-less. Let him just be himself. And let him do so without him having to be a woman (this also plays into the idea that only afab people can be gnc).

(i saw someone else post something like this, but i wanted to rant abt it too)

as someone who's a transgender mcr fan, can we stop assuming that gerard wearing skirts, dresses, and overall preferring certain feminine traits over masculine traits instantly makes them a trans woman?? Can gerard not appreciate feminine culture without being a woman? I'm probably overreacting about this, but gerard stated that he always preferred he/they pronouns. No where did they mention she/her and i feel like a lot of people totally overlook that. I get if you're just making a joke, cuz i do that too, but i've seen people who genuinely ONLY use she/her on gerard and i always thought it was a little weird. Again, I could be overreacting but I feel like if gerard already stated their preferences then who are we as his fans to be overlooking those preferences? It's not up to us to bend gerard's identity and preferences to what WE think is fit. Gerard's identity is not based on how WE feel. I know this probably isn't the biggest deal ever, just something i wanted to rant about

thank you for coming to my emo ted talk

[rynnthefangirl]

I loved the list you made about the things that Stan and Ford can and should or can't and should not be accountable but like there are somethings I don't get and I hope you could help me see things from your perspective. Like, the majority of people agrees that Ford has the right to hold a grudge at Stan for him breaking his machine since he did not apologize to Ford and time is not an apology. Ford also thought that Stan would be fine on his own and that was the reason he never checked on him. Also, Bill is a master manipulator, so Ford believing in him is more about Bill being good at manipulating people than Ford's ego.

I also think you forget to add some things, like, Ford didn't explained to Stan the situation that he was in, he just shoved the Journal 1 on him and ordered him to hide it without even saying if he would contact him to come back or not. He also brought up their childhood dream while doing that and later said to Stan that did nothing worthwhile with his life until that moment. And he also burned and branded Stan. While Stan called Ford selfish for not using his grant money to help their family and later tried to burn Journal 1 out of spite. He also messed up with Ford's infinity sided dice, which put him and Dipper in danger.

Thanks for the ask!

Regarding Ford not checking on Stan, I think you are correct that he figured Stan would be fine… but I also think that Ford believed this at least in part because he doesn’t want contend with his mixed feelings about his brother. He just wants to feel justifiably angry, so that he can forget about Stan and focus on himself and his future. Knowing that Stan was suffering would force him to confront how he does still love and miss his brother (but his aim is getting better), which would burden him and put him in a position of having to choose whether to make a sacrifice (whether it be time, money, emotional effort, part of his career goals) for Stan’s sake. Which he doesn’t want to do. Ford isn’t a bad guy, and he does love his brother… but he is really good at believing things just because he wants to believe them. I don’t think this is a reasonable view of reality though. Stan was kicked out at 18, with no money to his name, no friends, no family, no home. Ford should have considered the possibility that Stan may be suffering and need him. I certainly don’t blame him for being upset with Stan about the project or even necessarily for holding a grudge about it (especially given how terribly Stan handled that confrontation), but we know Ford cares for his brother despite that, and he doesn’t really show it when he chooses to never check on him for 10 years.

As for Bill and Ford, well I think it’s both Bill’s manipulation AND Ford’s ego. Like yes Bill was a good manipulator, but it worked because there was something for him to target. Ford was so desperate to believe he was special and important, which goes back to Ford being really good at believing things that aren’t actually reasonable just because he wants them to be true. I’ll link a more in depth post that I made that is kinda on this same topic, if you are interested :)

Then for the other points you bring up, you are right that both of them did a lot to escalate that situation into a fight. I will admit I am extremely lenient towards Ford in this situation because he was in the middle of a mental breakdown. I mean he’s been essentially tortured for days on end, I don’t blame him for being a bit thoughtless. I think the onus was on Stan to see that and realize he needs to be the bigger person in that moment. As for the infinity sided dice though, gotta disagree about that being on Stan… who puts an incredibly dangerous object like that in a cheap plastic case in a little sack? 😂 but to be fair, that dumb choice was more just for plot purposes so the episode can happen.

Here’s a link to the post I mentioned:

And thanks again for the ask, I love the Stan twins and talking about their relationship!

[modismod]

I understand the lemonade lore but I’m sorry Beyoncé I cannot take your Jolene seriously at all

[yeah-thats-probably-it]

@noandnooneelse

How does Star Trek Universal Translator™ translate the accent? We see people like Chekov speak, and he has an accent, but I'm not sure why. My main thought is that he is speaking English, so the translator's does not have to do much work in regards towards other English speaker, such as Kirk and Bones. It's not actually translating in that regard, just kind of letting him speak normally towards other English speakers, and then translating towards other other non-English speakers. It becomes interesting when you consider that he might be speaking Russian, and in that case, where does the accent come from? Another point is Spock. Vulcan's have their own language, and arguably with their own accents and dialects varying on regions. However, when he speaks, he sounds like he is just speaking English with an American accent. Now, Logically it could be that he just learned English from his mother, an American, and speaks it on a ship where English is most likely the dominant language for clarification sake, but lets humor the hypothetical. If he's speaking Vulcan and it's just getting translated, then naturally the translator just defaults to an American Accent, which makes sense given that Star Fleet is based within the United States. However, also humoring the hypothetical, Chekov is speaking Russian, and yet he's being translated with a Russian accent. So, let's just say for the sake of the argument that he is speaking Russian throughout the whole series. That would mean that Chekov is being translated with an accent, and Spock is not. What's the criteria for that? Does the Vulcan accent just not make sense in English language, and therefore the translator just cuts it out? It's also interesting to note the other side of things. Going back to Chekov only speaking Russian, how would that get translated on his end? Would Kirk be speaking Russian with an American accent? Would it just be a regular Russian accent cause the translator isn't translating that? What about Spock only speaking Vulcan? Would Kirk be translated with a Vulcan accent or just a really butchered one? I also want to bing up Worf, as he was raised Russian. His parents, if I recall. correctly, have heavy Russian accents, once more bringing up my point with Chekov, but Worf does not. Assuming Worf speaks Russian and only Russian, then why does he get translator with more of an English/American accent compared to his parents? I also wanted to bring up Picard, with him being French yet speaking with a British Accent, but I think it was told in the series that French became obsolete by the 23rd/24th century, so people learned English instead, explaining his accent despite being French. Am I overanalyzing this? Absolutely. More likely than not, it was just the dictators wanting to show diversity amongst the crew and not taking the implication of the accents too seriously. The logical option, as well, would be that a majority of them learned English prior to going Star Fleet, and therefore the translator doesn't have to work as hard to translate them for other people, so they can retain their accent.

[ephemeral-winter]

for some reason yesterday I found myself explaining the concept of “kinning” to my boss, via a detour into “shifting” as popularized by die girlies auf TikTok, which naturally led us into a discussion of H*rry P*tter and it was soon clear that my boss has only ever seen movies 5 through 8 which meant that when he asked me whether Sirius Black was, like, not the dad, right? I could only barely restrain a strangled yelp

[quietwingsinthesky]

sometimes i think about my spn oc and how i rewrote everything about amara to interact with the story i was trying to tell about her. there were some really neat ideas in that i need to recycle for something one day. like, in the show proper, they just let amara take over a human baby and that’s fine, but amara’s not Meant To Be Here. this entire universe is one constructed in her absence. saying she can possess a human body should be like saying if you took a person and sent them to a universe where 1+1=3, they could just figure out how to function within that.

which in story took the form of Amara being something that could not be Understood, only Rationalized. a force locked outside the narrative who could only get inside and destroy things if given a role within it. by the Winchesters as A Monster To Face. by Chuck as Wayward, Unreachable Sister. and by miss oc as. simultaneously a projected creature to be saved, an amalgamation of injustices done to herself (and others) that would never be righted but could be made up for by being a part of this. and as something impossibly powerful that could be both protection and purpose.

and the Darkness wasn’t any of those things, really, but to have agency in her own story required new shackles, but ones she was always straining against. she wouldn’t fit inside the confines of a human mind, let alone a body, at least not well enough to leave it Intact. like lucifer burning through nick, but Worse. because the burns were an expected outcome of skin not strong enough to hold him. humans were built for angels, some were built better and some worse, but they’re meant to work. putting amara in human skin should disconnect the skin and mind and soul from the reality her brother built itself, i think. slowly. bit by bit.

and at the same time, i’d gone and written the kind of wild scenario you really can only write for your thirteen year old mary sue, given that spn oc the part of herald/high priestess/failed vessel. which she pursued with wild abandon like that would fix anything wrong with her <3

in the end, running alongside the borrowed family theming of the original show was my own theme of “how much self-annihilation will you accept to make your point. are you accepting it, really. or are you seeking it.” not just physically, in letting something unmake the base components of what you are as it tries to fit inside you or in it constricting and suffocating itself beyond self-recognition to get inside in the first place, but, obviously, it’s supernatural, how much selfhood do you cede to your family. is it worth it.

it was interesting, if nothing else. let thirteen year old me cook. she had ideas.

[jammmbi]

god i need therapy and to move out

[chromekingkong]

Truly growing tired of people being so media illiterate they have to like actually over analyze every piece of media cause they actually aren’t « smart » enough to just…accept something as « art » for what it is…including the time it was made…not to excuse anything but like Rocky Horror Picture Show was a counter culture, shocking, « disgusting » piece of media…ironically during the same overly puritanical time that seems to be coming back. Again, cause most audiences just sit and STARE and accept whatever they see, they go with the mainstream opinion and then go on to find something else to consume. How that era of Musical Theater were angry, horny responses to the restriction of heteronormative, evangelical ideology and queer phobia…

Whether it’s Jesus Christ Super Star, HAIR, Rocky Horror Picture Show, Little Shop of Horrors…like even when you watch it how can people miss the OBVIOUS cultural commentary and fuck you??? EVEN GREASE KINDA!!! Omfg Frank n Furter IS/WAS/WILL ALWAYS BE so quintessential to my unapologetic queerness. Random but I literally want a song played at my funeral to be I’m Going Home…if at that point you don’t get Frank N Furter…get the fuck out the room!!!

Respectfully why do people need to problematize everything old nowadays??? Answer: the height of PSEUDO intellectualism. People feel late to the intelligence game (cause kids WERE left behind.) They feel late to the critic/discourse culture that really is DEAD. Swear to god, I’ll die for my terrible, ugly, problematic, angry, homosexual, hyper sexual, crazy ass media. If you can’t hang, drop off….

EDIT: AND LET ME ADD TOO THAT MY STRAIGHT (hmmm I’m rethinking a lot) WHITE DAD BORN IN 1963 WHOS OPENLY FAVE PREZS ARE NIXON AND TRUMP…STAY WITH ME!!! STAY WITH ME!!! A MAN LIKE THIS SAT ME DOWN AT LIKE 6 AND MADE ME WATCH THIS SHIT!!! I SAY ALL THAT TO SAY…a lot of these criticisms of older media literally just seem like tryna almost appropriate an assumed response of the time…when everyone kinda ate it up…lol

Just saw a video like "um actually rocky horror isn't good queer representation because frank sexually assaults janet" girl he kills and eats people. It's called the rocky HORROR picture show not the rocky cute gay rep tw t-slur picture show

[headful-of-worms]

While high I was ranting to my roommate about how some of the vibes in shonen ai remind me of how some people think of lesbians and how historical depictions of real life lesbian are like

Wow they’re really great friends who live together and talk about how they couldn’t live without each other and maybe they call either partner but everyone just says they’re real good friends

And I had a bunch of points lined up in my head that I wanted to say next as I was monologuing but

Suddenly I was struck with the thought that

Yaoi is Yuri

And then I realized that whatever else I wanted to say should be disregarded for the greatest epiphany I could gift to my roommate

[imaginedisish]

Heroes (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: I think I used David Bowie's "Heroes" for another fic when I first started writing on this blog. Oh well. We're using it again bc it inspired this fic. This is a combo request fic: Co-teachers/Logan having a nightmare/smut. Hope you guys enjoy!

Summary: You and Logan are assigned by Charles to co-teach a class to learn how to work as a team. You expect Logan to be cold, distant, short. What you don't expect is the way you find yourself needing him, and him needing you.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!! SMUT! Dry humping, Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, soft!Logan, cocky!Logan (always), softdom!Logan vibes, implied age gap (Logan is obvi older), frenemies to lovers, feelings, some violence (Logan accidentally hurts the reader while having a nightmare), reader has regenerative powers, fluff, hurt to comfort (literally), reader has family trauma, afab!/f!reader, cursing, def some grammatical errors, I think that's it!

Word Count: 5,267 kinda wanna do a part 2 this was cute

“I work better alone Charles. You know that.” 

You and Logan Howlett never did see eye to eye. 

“Yes, Logan. Which is why I’m giving you this challenge.”

He was always cold. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Always distant. 

“Hence why it is an excellent idea, Logan.”

But you never thought he’d be this resistant to teaching a class with you. 

“I’m fine with it,” you say, your eyes flitting between Logan and Charles. “It doesn’t faze me at all.”

Logan’s leather jacket crinkles and he puts his hands on his hips. He furrows his brows. “You’re fine with this?” He asks, cocking his head to the side. 

You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t see why not.” Your eyes find Logan’s, but you can’t make out the expression on his face. Can’t tell if it’s dislike, pure hatred, or something else altogether. 

“This can’t happen,” Logan insists, tearing his eyes away from yours and turning towards the Professor. His words sting and you’re not quite sure why—not sure why you should care about this at all. 

“It is too late,” Charles’s voice booms. “I have already decided. You will co-teach a history class for...” Charles trails off, choosing his words carefully. “Younger students.”

You smile, but Logan rolls his eyes, his brows still furrowed. “How young?” You say in unison, although in starkly different tones. You whip your head to face Logan and find that his eyes are already on you.  

“Ages six to seven,” Charles explains. “This will be a smaller class, given how rare it is for children of that age to show their abilities, and the course will be incredibly simple.” He rolls away from behind the desk and approaches you and Logan in the center of the room. “I have faith that the two of you can handle this.”

Logan exhales deeply but doesn’t say a word. “We can,” you answer, your stare breaking away from Logan and turning to the Professor instead. “I look forward to teaching the class,” you pause, “with Logan.”

Something in Logan’s glare softens. His frown slowly disappears, melting away. His jaw relaxes, and his shoulders go slack. “Fine.” He’s curt, but something about the resolve in his voice gives you an ounce of hope that maybe, just maybe this will go well. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is, in fact, not going well at all. 

Agreeing on the curriculum was not a problem. Logan, having experienced most of U.S. History, believes in telling history as it happened. No rose-colored glasses. No murky half-truths or prettily wrapped white lies. No weird Christopher Columbus-themed arts and crafts. Having seen multiple wars and experiencing the power of government exploitation firsthand—not surprisingly—has made Logan progressive.

So, you had designed an age-appropriate, honest, curriculum. You were shocked at how well you and Logan worked together. You shared quiet hours in the library, passing scribblings and notes back and forth while pouring over books. You actually felt quite confident. 

That is, until the very first class. 

You and Logan had only just introduced yourselves—written your names on the board. 

“We are going to have a fun, educational year,” you finish, smiling widely. “Does anyone have any questions?”

A young girl in the center of the room raises her hand. You nod towards her, and she smiles sheepishly. “Are you two married?”

You’re taken back, your brows furrowing. “Oh, um—”

“No,” Logan cuts you off, his arms crossing tightly against his chest. His shortness hurts more than you’re willing to admit. “Absolutely not.” 

The little girl’s eyes widen. “But then why do you look at her like that?”

“Excuse me?” Logan asks, his voice a little too harsh. “Like what, kid?”

“Logan,” you whisper, turning to face him. “She’s six. Let it go,” you chide. “Professor Logan and I are friends and co-teachers. That’s all.” You turn back to the little girl, who nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. 

The rest of the class goes relatively well. It’s very introductory—teaching the children how mutant history and human history are intertwined. You and Logan are able to simplify things for the children so that they can understand. And, as the class goes on, Logan seems more comfortable with the children. 

The period is almost over when a little boy raises his hand, and Logan calls on him. “My older brother told me people like us are scary,” he says shyly. His eyes are sad—too tired for a six-year-old. “He told me that we shouldn’t exist.”

Your stomach drops, tears burning behind your sinuses. You think back to your own family, back to the trauma of being disowned for something you couldn’t control. You’re too heartbroken to tackle the question. Logan’s eyes flicker between you and the little boy. 

“Your brother is wrong,” Logan answers, crossing the room to stand next to you. He brings a hand to your lower back. It’s the ghost of a touch, but it’s a lifeline. “You’re special,” Logan says, and you know he’s talking to you, too. “You all are. Don’t listen to what they say. You’re more important than you’ll ever know. More extraordinary than they can understand.”

The bell rings, and the children stand, collecting their belongings. “See you all tomorrow,” Logan shouts over the shuffling and ruckus in the hallway. The children file out the door, jumping and cheering as if nothing happened. 

“They’re so resilient,” you say, shaking your head and watching them leave. You look over to Logan—his face close to yours, his palm still pressed against your back. 

“So are you,” he whispers, smiling softly, rubbing up and down your back. “You did great.”

“Yes, she did. And you did too, Logan,” Charles says, suddenly in the doorway to the classroom. “I forgot to drop off the roll call this morning,” Charles explains, holding out a sheet of paper. You cross the room to meet him, taking the sheet into your hands. “It has the list of names of the children in your class, as well as their abilities.” Charles backs into the hallway. “Excellent work, you two. You make a better team than you realize.”

“Thank you, Professor,” you say. Logan mumbles a soft Thanks, and heads towards the door once Charles is gone. 

He scratches his head, almost nervously. “Got another class to teach,” he husks. “Meet up later to go over tomorrow’s lesson plan?” 

You nod your head. “Sounds good.” Logan smiles and walks through the doorway and down the hall. 

You look at the roll call, and your eyes widen. Your heart beats out of your chest. You find the name of the little girl who had asked if you and Logan were married. 

Claire Teller—Precognition, Clairvoyance, shows signs of potential telekinesis.

The paper falls from your hands and drifts slowly to the floor. You look down, your lips parted in shock. Did she see you and Logan—

“You alright, sugar?” Rogue’s voice snaps you back to reality. You look up, and she’s standing in the door. 

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, shaking your head. “I’m fine.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the week goes smoothly. You and Logan meet each night to discuss the lesson plan for the following day. The classes go well. Claire always seems a bit distracted, her eyes flickering between you and Logan, but she does just fine in class. 

In fact, you’d say this was going better than well. You and Logan, despite his hesitation in the beginning, were growing closer every day. 

It’s written in secret, stolen moments—hands accidentally brushing, glances across the room. But you can feel it, the way your lives are being sewn together. You find ways to spend time alone outside of class—ordering dinner and grading together, practicing in the Danger Room as partners and not opponents. You had become something of a team.   

Tonight, you’re alone with Logan, sitting on the floor of his room, grading the small quiz you had given the children on the branches of government. Logan had picked the background music—60s and 70s rock. 

You hum along to Evil Woman by Electric Light Orchestra as you write “100%” at the top of a student’s quiz. 

“Pretty voice,” Logan rasps, looking up from his last quiz. Before you can react, before you can even process what he says, he’s moving on. “You almost done?”

“Just finished.” You write another “100%” and look up at Logan. He’s on his side, resting his head in his hand, balancing on his elbow. He smirks and stands up, striding over to you. He reaches his hand out, and you tilt your head, confused. You take his hand all the same, and he pulls you up. 

Logan’s hands find your waist, and he sways you from side to side. You giggle, shakily bringing your arms up and around his neck. Your heart thunders in your chest as you dance with him. 

“Didn’t take you for a dancer,” you murmur. Evil Woman fades out and Heroes by David Bowie starts up.  

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Logan husks. He pulls you in tighter, his chest pressed to yours. 

“Yeah?” You ask, letting your head rest in the crook of his neck. Your eyes flutter closed. “Like what?”

He’s suddenly silent, and you can feel the tension thicken in the room. “When Charles came to us about the class…” He trails off, searching for the right words to say. “I was nervous,” he admits. 

You lift your head from his neck. “Why?” You question, smiling softly. 

Logan presses his forehead to yours. “Because I—” But then there’s a knock at the door. “Logan?” It’s Charles on the other side. Logan huffs, his eyes closing defeatedly as he loosens his hold on your waist and walks over to the door. 

“There has been an emergency,” Charles says the second the door is open. “I need you to go on a mission immediately. This is a dire situation.”

Logan looks across the room to you. “Okay,” he says, his eyes still trained on yours. 

Charles nods and heads down the hallway. “Meet me downstairs. Hank is readying the jet now.” 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” you confess, fighting the tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. You can’t quite place where the feeling is coming from—why you’re suddenly so nervous about Logan leaving. A month ago, this sort of thing would’ve felt routine, normal. There’s always a crisis somewhere. 

Logan swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I’ll come back,” he promises. “And we can talk then.” He strides over to you, wrapping you in his arms, and pulling you into his chest. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” 

“Logan?” Charles calls from downstairs. “We need to leave at once!” 

Logan squeezes you tightly before letting go. He works his jaw, his teeth gritting as he backs out of the room and down the hallway. Your heart drops as you listen to his footsteps echoing against the stairs. By the time you muster up the courage to follow him, it’s too late. The door to the mansion slams just as you make it to the bottom of the steps. 

You can still hear Heroes faintly playing from Logan’s room. 

And the guns, shot above our heads (over our heads) And we kissed, as though nothing could fall (nothing could fall) And the shame, was on the other side Oh we can beat them, forever and ever Then we could be Heroes, just for one day

You sit on the bottom step, your head falling into your hands.

“Oh, sugar,” Rogue whispers as she walks into the foyer. She settles next to you. “I didn’t know you and Logan…” She trails off, shaking her head. “He’ll come back. He always does.” She hangs her arm around your shoulder, tugging you into her chest. 

You hope she’s right. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Logan is still gone. You’re forced to teach the class alone. As you’re starting roll call, a young boy raises his hand. 

“Yes, Jimmy?” You call, arching your brows. 

“Where’s Professor Logan?” He asks curiously, tilting his head to the side. 

You swallow harshly, inhaling deeply. “He has something to take care of,” you explain. “It’ll just be me teaching today. Is that alright with you?” You try to sound light, jovial, plastering a fake smile across your face. The kids buy it, giggling and nodding. Jimmy smiles widely and nods, too.

But Claire—the little girl who can seemingly see into the future, stares at you sympathetically. It sends a chill down your spine. It’s like she knows how you’re feeling—can see it in her mind’s eye. You shake the feeling off, proceeding with the lesson. The material is distracting enough—the U.S. voting system, carefully explained so that the children can understand. 

The rest of the class goes off without a hitch, and the bell finally rings. The session felt longer than usual without Logan, and certainly harder to get through, but not impossible. The class picks up their belongings and files out. You grab your papers, readying to leave, assuming that everyone is gone. 

“He’s going to come back,” a small, familiar voice whispers. You look up from your materials, and there’s Claire, standing in front of the desk. Her deep, brown eyes twitch back and forth. She closes them tightly and smiles. “You don’t have to worry,” she assures. “He’s safe. He’ll always come back to you.” She pauses. “All I see is happiness.” The veins in her temples grow thicker, and you can tell she’s working too hard to look to the future.

“Claire,” you say, your hand grabbing her shoulder. “Don’t hurt yourself, my love. You don’t have to do that for me. I’m okay.”

Her eyes fly open, and she smiles widely, as if nothing happened. She steps away from the desk, your hand falling from her shoulder. “Didn’t hurt at all!” She calls as she skips out the door. “See you Monday!”

You shake your head. Resilient, you think to yourself. So goddamn resilient. 

The rest of the evening is slow. You try to keep yourself busy—grading papers, listening to music, going for a run, training in the Danger Room. But all you can think about is Logan. 

After dinner, you get ready for bed, changing into a pair of panties and an oversized t-shirt. You sit alone in your room, on your bed, reminding yourself of what Claire had told you this afternoon. 

He’s going to come back. You don’t have to worry. He’s safe. 

You lay back on your pillows, bringing the covers up to your chin and closing your eyes. You repeat her words over and over again in your head as you fall asleep. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake up a few hours later, your bedside lamp still on. Your alarm clock reads 1:45 AM. You groan, rolling over and shutting your eyes tightly, trying to force yourself back to sleep. But it’s no use—you’re awake, thinking of Logan already. 

You push yourself to sit up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, and pressing your feet into the cold wood floors below. You walk to your door, twist the knob, and head out into the hallway.  A lap around the mansion might make you tired—might relax you. 

You walk down the hallway slowly, noticing instantly that Logan’s door is closed. You can’t help but pick up your pace, striding towards Logan’s room. 

You stand in front of his door, your hand on the knob, ready to twist and push. You stop yourself, wondering if this is crossing a line, tearing down a carefully constructed boundary. But all you want is to see him breathing, lying on his bed. You need to know he’s in there—safe. 

You knock once, but there’s no answer. You swallow nervously, twisting the knob and pushing the door open. 

Your heart stops. There he is. He’s home. He’s safe. He’s breathing. You let out a sigh of relief, smiling softly as you start to close the door. 

But then his head snaps to the side, and he grunts. “Logan?” You call, opening the door slightly. He doesn’t answer. He grunts again. You quickly notice the way his fists white-knuckle his sheets. 

You step inside his room, closing the door behind you. “Lo,” you whisper into the darkness. He tosses and turns, his head whipping from side to side. He must be having a nightmare, You think to yourself, your heart breaking in two, watching pain wrack his body, his mind. 

You meet his side, placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking him softly. “Logan,” you say, your voice louder, stronger this time. “You need to wake up.” But he doesn’t. He groans, his brows furrowed, sweat beading his forehead. 

“Come on,” you plead, climbing into the bed, and straddling him. You hold him down by his shoulders, stopping him from writhing. Now that you’re closer, you can see the tears streaming down his cheeks, can see the agony etched into the lines of his face. “Logan!” You yell. “You gotta wake—”

His eyes fly open, and you feel cold metal pierce your leg. Your jaw drops as pain stings sharply in your thigh. “Oh fuck,” Logan curses, sitting up and retracting his claws. Tears brim in the corners of your eyes as the pain worsens. “Shit!” He cries out, grabbing at your thigh, blood spilling into his fingers. 

You close your eyes as your powers take hold. Your skin slowly stitches up, putting yourself together again. You groan, and Logan wraps his arms around you, holding you tight against his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles into the side of your head, pressing soft, gentle kisses there. “I love you, I’m so sorry sweetheart.”

What did he just say?

“W-what?” You ask, the pain fading away as those three words echo in your mind. 

Logan’s breathing only quickens as he realizes what he said. “A-are you okay?” He asks, ignoring your question. 

You nod. “It’s already gone,” you whisper, nodding to your thigh. “But what did you just—”

“I love you,” he interrupts, saying it again. You pull back a bit to look at him. You can see the seriousness in his eyes, the adoration, the honesty. “I love you.” 

You bite your lip, your eyes widening as you process what this means. Logan loves you. It’s everything you ever wanted. Everything you could have asked for. It just makes sense.

“I love you too,” you confess, choking on your words. “I was so worried. I didn’t know when you’d come back, or if you’d come back at all. I saw your door closed, and I just had to see you. I needed to know that you were okay, that you came home.”

He presses his forehead to yours, his eyes closing. “Before I left,” he pauses, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I was going to tell you why I didn’t want to work together.” His eyes open again. “I was scared to get close to you,” he explains. “I knew I wanted you the second I saw you. Knew I had to have you. I’ve never felt that way before. You opened something inside me that I thought I didn’t have. Turns out it was just locked, waiting around for you.”

“Logan,” you breathe, his lips just inches from yours. “I wanted you too. Wanted you this whole time.” You need him to kiss you—to take you right here and now. “I thought you didn’t like me,” you admit, giggling softly. 

He shakes his head, smirking. “I liked you too much,” he rasps. “Didn’t know what to do about it. You were driving me crazy, sweetheart.” You can feel his erection straining in his boxers, and you can’t help but grind down on him, your core rocking against his cock. “Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips. “Slow down, pretty girl. Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod emphatically. “Already healed,” you assure him. “Just need you, Lo.”

“Need you too, sweetheart,” Logan groans, rolling your hips against his, tugging you down his length. “Can feel you soaking through those panties already,” he grunts. And he’s right. The heat pooling between your legs is uncontrollable. 

You groan as your clit drags across his erection. “F-fuck,” you stutter, his fingers digging into your hips. You bring your hands to the waistband of his boxers, tugging at them. But before you can get anywhere, Logan is flipping you onto your back and crawling down your body. 

“Next time, sweetheart,” he coos, hiking your shirt up and smirking when he sees you aren’t wearing a bra. He palms your breasts, tweaking your nipples before sliding down further. “Wanna take care of you this first time.”

Your heart flutters in your chest at his words. You can see the hunger in his eyes as he kisses down your stomach, going past the hem of your panties, stopping at your clit. He takes a deep breath. “Can smell that pretty pussy. Know she needs me, darlin’.” 

He hooks his fingers into your waistband, and tugs the thin lace down your legs, revealing your aching cunt to him. He settles between your thighs, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your clit. 

“L-Lo,” you choke. “Please.”

He smiles against you, breathing you in again. “Please what, princess?” He asks, looking up at you under hooded eyes. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you beg. “Need you. Always gonna need you.” 

His smile meets his eyes as he licks a long stripe through your folds, his tongue pushing through your entrance, tasting you, savoring you. He hums against you, the vibration of his voice rocking your core. “Tastes so good,” he mumbles, licking another long stripe. “Perfect pussy. Knew you’d be this sweet.”

You watch as he laps at you, drinking you in. Logan’s tongue finds your clit, drawing tight circles into the bud. “F-feels so good,” you stutter. 

“I know, beautiful” He soothes, his fingers trailing up your inner thigh, drawing closer to your heat. “You look so pretty when you let me eat you out,” he praises, his fingers prodding your entrance. “You want more?” He teases, slipping just past your slit and quickly pulling out. 

“Yes,” you whimper, pleasure coursing through your veins. “Need your fingers, Lo. Please.”

He wastes no time—suddenly thrusting inside you, his long, thick fingers splitting you in two. Your walls flutter around him, sucking him in, taking him deeper. “So tight,” he coos, pulling out and sliding back in. “So fucking wet.”

Logan wraps his lips around your clit, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, hard. He releases, his teeth grazing the bud lightly. Your walls clench around his fingers at the sensation. “Fuck,” Logan curses, smirking against you. “You like that?” He teases. “Like when I’m rough with you?” His tongue flits out, lapping flat strokes across your clit. 

You moan a soft Yes in affirmation, your back arching off the mattress. You’re already close, ready to let go. But Logan isn’t letting up, his fingers slamming into you, taking your clit back into his mouth and sucking harder, rougher this time. He swirls soothing circles into the bud, pushing you to the edge. 

“Logan,” you whine, your hips squirming as he drags his tongue harder against your heat. “I’m so close.” 

Your muscles contract and release around his fingers as he hits that sweet spot inside you, pump after pump. “I know, pretty girl,” He soothes, his free hand wrapping around your hip and holding you down to the mattress. “Look at you,” he praises between harsh sucks. “So beautiful like this.” His tongue circles your overstimulated clit. “Already fucked out, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” you mutter, your hips squirming helplessly against his grip. It’s all too much, his hushed whispers, his praises, the way his tongue flits against you, his deep thrusts dragging along your walls. “Logan, I’m gonna…” 

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Logan coaches, his tongue still lapping at you ravenously. He’s starving, unwilling to stop. He needs more. “Should keep you in my bed so I can taste you whenever I want.” He grunts against you. “Want you to come on my fingers, darlin’. Wanna taste it. Let go.”

It’s all blazing, white-hot heat, raging through your body, searing your skin. Your eyes stay trained on Logan as he works you through your orgasm—ravaging you, lapping up every last drop of your release. His fingers pump in and out, slowly, before he pulls out completely. But his face stays buried against your cunt, his tongue pushing through your folds. 

“Logan,” you whine, lacing your fingers through his hair. “Need you up here.” 

He looks up from your heat and licks one more long stripe before climbing up your body. He tugs his boxers down his legs, his eyes not leaving yours. His cock springs free, bumping against his stomach. 

Logan settles on top of you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand wraps around the base of his cock. You instinctually spread your legs, as if it’s second nature, as if you’ve been here before. “Such a good girl,” Logan praises, sliding his tip through your folds. “All spread open for me.” His cock nudges against your clit and slides back down. “You need me, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you choke. “More than you can—”

And then he’s plunging inside you, bottoming out with just one thrust. “Fuck!” You cry out. He stays inside, unmoving, letting you adjust to the size of him. 

He presses his forehead to yours. “You okay?” He asks. His cock throbs, pushing against your walls, searching for more. His hand slips between your bodies and finds your clit. 

“Y-yes,” You stutter, sighing in relief as his fingertips draw gentle strokes into the bud. “S-so big.”

“I know,” Logan soothes, sliding out only to shove himself back in, down to the hit. Your back arches off the mattress, your chest coming flush with his. “Gonna work you open.” His voice is gentle, calm. “I’ve got you. Relax for me, sweetheart.” 

Logan pulls out and thrusts in again, his lips swallowing your moans with a kiss. His fingers swirl around your clit as pleasure pulses through your every nerve ending. “Feels so good,” you murmur as he picks up his pace, his hips rolling against yours. 

He grunts. “So perfect,” he praises. “Fucking made for me.” He pumps in and out of you harder, faster now, letting himself go. He pinches your clit, rolling the bud under his fingertips. “Never gonna want anyone but you, you know that?” He twitches inside you, and your walls flutter around him. 

You curse under your breath. “Yes,” you cry out. “Only gonna want you, Lo. Only you.”

“Doing so good for me,” he husks between hard thrusts. “Taking me so well.” His hips snap against yours, his fingers circling your clit rapidly, adding more pressure. His lips find yours again, biting, kissing you bruisingly, fitting against you like a puzzle piece. 

Your chests heave together, the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoing against the walls of the room. “You’re so perfect,” he whispers, his lips suddenly at the shell of your ear. He bites down on your pulse point, his tongue flitting out to lick the pain away. “So fucking beautiful.” 

Your walls contract around him, squeezing him as he sinks deeper inside you, hitting exactly where you need him most. You’re so close, ready to come undone. “Fuck, Logan,” you whine as he pounds into you. “I’m gonna—”

“Me too, pretty girl,” he rasps, twitching inside you. You wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him close as he plunges deeper. He lifts his head from the crook of your neck and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “Don’t wanna stop. Don’t wanna…” He trails off, his cock throbbing inside you again. You know he can’t hold back.

You tighten your legs around his waist. “Don’t stop,” you beg. “Stay inside.” 

He groans, his forehead pressing to yours. “You want me to fill you up, sweetheart? That what you’re asking for?”

“Y-yes,” you stammer, his fingers pinching your clit and stroking relentlessly. “Please,” you choke, begging, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes. 

“Fuck,” he curses. “Wanna feel you come on my cock, sweetheart. Wanna make you mine.” 

“Already yours,” you whisper, your muscles contracting around his length again, your legs trembling as stars flood your vision. Logan moans your name, and you can feel him spilling inside you. You come together, your orgasm crashing into you, more intense, more powerful than the last. 

“Love you so much,” he whispers as he finishes, painting your walls. 

“Love you too, Lo,” you say back, your heart beating out of your chest as you come down from your high. 

His fingers drag against your clit, swiping gently before running up your body, slipping under your back, and pulling you into his chest. His hips are still, his cock unmoving inside you. He finally pulls out, and rolls off you, taking you with him. He tugs you into his chest, holding you tightly.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly. “Need anything?”

“J-just you,” you stammer. His fingertips trace patterns along your back, soothing and gentle. 

“Let me clean you up, sweetheart,” Logan whispers, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead and moving to sit up. But you stop him, wrapping your arms around his torso and holding him down. He smirks, letting you pull him back. “I’m just gonna grab a towel, yeah? Wanna take care of you. I’ll come right back.”

You nod, letting him go. He slips out of the bed, strides over to his bathroom, and grabs a towel from inside without turning a light on. Within ten seconds he’s back in bed, just like he said he would be. 

Logan brings the towel between your legs and wipes you clean. His touch is gentle, soothing, careful not to be too rough. Once he’s done, he throws the towel to the floor and reaches over to his nightstand. When he turns back to you, he has a glass of water in his hand. He extends the glass out, bringing it to your lips. The water feels cool as it slides down your throat. You drain the glass, and Logan smiles as he pulls it from your lips. 

He places the cup back down on the nightstand and pulls you into his arms again. You bury your head into the center of his chest, listening carefully to his heartbeat. It’s even, steady, constant. Just like him. 

“Never felt like this before,” he whispers into the silent darkness of the room. 

“Like what?” You mumble, your voice muffled against his chest. 

You can hear the smile in his voice as the words leave his lips. “Happy. Safe.”

Tears—happy tears—free themselves from your eyes, sliding down your cheeks. 

“Can’t let go of you,” he hums, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t wanna go back to before.”

“You don’t have to, Lo,” you pant. “I’m yours. Always.” And you know you mean it. You know it’s true. It’s already been decided, already played out. Already etched into the future. 

Are you two married? Claire had asked. 

He’ll always come back to you. All I see is happiness, She had promised.

And she was right. 

“I love you,” Logan husks. 

“I love you, too.” 

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