exuber

[exuber]

Chapter One - Terra

Din Djarin x Witch! Reader

Summary: Injured and unable to go on, Din finds sanctuary on your farm

Warnings: canon typical violence, injured Din, no use of y/n, as with all my work this will be blank slate reader (no physical descriptions used other than being afab, using she/her pronouns and having an ankle injury sustained before this story begins)

Word count: 6.6k

Prologue | Series Masterlist | Chapter 2

“I asked… what… are you doing?”

"I’m helping you.”

When Din rouses to consciousness once more, the moon is once again resting high in the sky.

Astra’s surface soaks in all the light of the stars around her, a stream of bright light slashing through the window of The Crest and bouncing off the edge of his visor. He winces, turning his head away from the light, only to be assaulted with an entirely new pain.

The sharp throbbing spreads up and down his side, stealing the very breath from him. His body slumps, arm missing the controls and his weight buckles to the floor.

There have been plenty of times where Din has been close to the edge. Most of those times were as a young man, the urge to prove himself overriding any fleeting thoughts of self-preservation. He would take bounties that were that side of too dangerous; ones that had the other members of the Guild looking at him like he was reckless or mad, or perhaps both.

It had been easier to bounce back then. Twenty years old with the ability to sleep curled into the cot of his first ship that was little more than a third of the length of him without so much as a twinge of back pain. He could spend days trekking a bounty that left the entire of his body bruised and sore, and yet one good sleep was all he needed to move onto the next one.

Now, it took longer to recover - mentally and physically.

His body aches as he rolls onto his elbows and knees, somehow managing to drag himself to the ladder and then down to the hatch. The only thought urging him on being the thirst he feels, the cartons of water kept stored away all empty - slashed through by the very bounties that had left him in this condition.

He registers, as he stumbles down the ramp, that his body feels abnormally light and pats down his hips and thighs only to realize that all of his weapons are gone.

He can’t even tell for certain how long he had been unconscious for. The sky is now a dark navy and his shadow casts eerily around the small clearing he landed on before losing consciousness. With the way his throat scratches as he tries to swallow it’s likely that there has been a full night and day to pass since then.

He pushes himself from tree to tree as his body pains and groans with injury, hunger and most of all thirst. The ache scratches at his throat and pounds in his head.

The third bounty had certainly been a surprise to Din.

He had only expected two having read over the holosheet the night before his attack as he rested against a rough tree, detailing a pair that liked to work together. Even with the knowledge that there was only meant to be two it had still felt too simple but, tired after a week of traveling on foot, he had ignored the alarm bells that were chiming as he bound their wrists and ankles and instead thought about how he would return both men to the Crest.

His back had been turned for less than a second when the blow came, one that had his head ricocheting against the inside of his helmet and his body falling to the ground in a slump.

When he woke again he found the cantina was empty. The chairs and tables had been toppled over and the two bounties that had been unconscious were long gone along with the third attacker, but Din could barely remember the scuffle that had happened or the group of a dozen men who had returned to finish the job as he fled back to The Crest.

All he knows for certain is the pain he can feel now, the one that starts at the top of his head and thumps and aches all the way down to his feet.

It feels like hours have passed in search of water when the trees finally give way to a large pond.

The water is clear, surrounded by wet rocks that glisten in the moon and patches of fresh grass and flowers. His whole body sags before it, knees narrowly missing a patch of white carnations.

He rips the helmet from his head and throws the water into his mouth like an animal, the palms of his hand barely wet before the cool water slips past his dry lips and into his mouth as he swallows it down again and again. He makes the effort to take in his surroundings as he does so, too wary of letting his guard down again, and he finds himself looking up at the trees that surround the water hole.

They’re thin and tall, full of thick leaves as they reach up towards the sky where Astra shines brightly down on her earth. He can still see the reflection of the moon when he looks back to the water, the ripples growing out from where his gloveless hands plunge back into the pond to disrupt her brightness for a moment before the water settles and she shines brightly down on him once more.

His eyes stay focused on the white light as he quenches his thirst but as he drags his hand down his face and the water settles once more, another light shines into the reflection.

It’s a lighter blue than the sky, dancing and breezing out with the wind. It is entrancing, the kind of light Terra fawns over each night, but before Din can lift his head in search of the cause he realizes that it’s not a light. Instead, it is a woman who is standing on the other side of the pond watching on.

He reaches for his helmet and blaster at the same time, the beskar slipping over his head as his other hand lands on the empty holster. He pushes himself to stand quickly, looking across at the woman who doesn’t seem to pose a threat to his much larger self but still he squares his shoulders and stares back.

“What are you doing?” He asks, his words harsh and loud, sending birds fluttering from the trees.

“I could ask you the same,” your reply is softer - calmer - than his rough words and Din tilts his head. “You are on my farm.”

You hold your hand out to the side and his eyes track the way your dress slips from your shoulder, your fingers pointing towards the large clearing to the left of the pond that Din seemed to have missed, or ignored, when his body first slumped down by the water. There is a large and imperfect circle of grass and at the other end there is a cottage where smoke billows out from the chimney. The sooty fog makes the whole scene before him hazy, though when he blinks again the haze only worsens, darkening at the corners of his eyes, and the smoke begins to turn the entire scene black.

His legs grow weak and his blinks seem to slow. His whole body sways.

“Sir? Are you alright?” You ask, gracefully stepping around the pond in bare feet that sink into the soil as Din stumbles to meet you where the pond ends and your farm begins. “Do you need food? Some more water? I have heat too-”

You stop talking when Din falls to his knees, his body managing to take down a fence that runs around the land as he does so.

You catch him with an oof, breath knocking out your lungs when you stop him before he hits the ground. His heavy arm rests across your shoulders, his legs able to hold up only enough of his weight to stop himself from dragging you down to the ground with him.

“I’ve got you.” You press your hand against his chest plate and allow his weight to lean against you. “Are you a Mandalorian?”

“Yes,” he answers, however strained.

“And you cannot show your face?” You ask, voice slightly labored as you carry his weight across the field.

“No.” Din chokes out a cough and you push open the heavy wood door before carrying your bodies into the cottage.

“I will keep it on. Your helmet, I mean” you reply, letting Din’s weight fall onto a soft surface.

He tries to keep his eyes open when you let go, watching the flurry of your dress move around the room as you lift jars and bottles, digging through shelves to find a mortar and pestle.

“What-” Din tries to lift his weight up onto his elbow but he falls back, the whole room spinning as he goes. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, instead looking down at where Din’s armor had been damaged at his side showing the gaping wound in his skin. You chew on your bottom lip for a moment before turning and reaching for another jar with a different kind of herb, mixing the ingredients into a paste.

You walk across the room as you do so, kneeling by his side and letting the soft material of your dress fan out around your legs. You place the mixture down long enough to pour in a drop of water before going back to… whatever it is in your hands.

Din is still too weak to concentrate, his eyes barely able to stay open long enough to take in the scene before him, but then he feels your soft fingers graze his side and his hand snaps out, gripping your wrist.

“I asked… what… are you doing?” His voice is strained through gritted teeth but you only blink in return, settling down on your knees.

“I’m helping you.”

Your eyes don’t move from Din’s, your hand pausing where it had been when he grabbed your wrist. He takes a moment to look at you, forcing his eyes to stay open and his mind to concentrate, to take in any signs of threat or danger.

Yet instead of the usual danger he feels as a bounty hunter - one that makes him feel both predator and prey - when he looks into your eyes that stare back into his very own, his whole body relaxes on instinct.

There is someone who will save you.

Only when his hand drops from your wrist and he nods do you begin to lather the medicine onto his side.

Din is too weak to stop the groan that fights its way up from his throat, but he doesn’t expect when your other hand slides into his in return.

“How do you-” he begins to grunt through his gasping breaths “-know of the Mandalorian?”

“I’ve read of them; of you I suppose.”

You scoop another slab of paste onto his side and he hisses.

“Just a little longer,” you whisper, squeezing his hand once.

Din can’t stop himself from squeezing back, his teeth biting into his bottom lip until his mouth fills with a copper taste of blood while you concentrate on his side. Soon enough the sharp pain gives way to a dull ache and soon enough he can no longer feel the injury, his hand slipping from your hold to run along his side only to find it numb.

“Please.” You stop him quickly, taking his hand and placing it back down against the blanket he lies on. “Don’t touch it. Your hands are dirty and I mixed a few things together that should stop the pain and rid you of infection.”

You clear the mess of jars and bowls by your side, brushing the dusting of powder from your dress as you carry it back towards the sink and place it into a basin. Despite the pain easing little by little, when you open the curtain enough for the moonlight to pour in he still can’t find the strength to concentrate, his eyes fluttering closed every time he tries to look around the room.

He’s already on the edge of sleep when he hears your voice again, a glass of water being passed into his hand before you place a soft blanket across his body.

“Drink the water before you sleep.”

And those are the last words he hears as you leave the room and he only just manages to finish the glass before his body slumps back down against the soft surface.

*****

When Din wakes again it takes him a moment for him to remember the events of the last few days.

There are bits and pieces floating through his mind of two bounties that were really three, of the dozen or so men who returned to try and finish him off, a journey in the Crest, a long trek to a water hole and….

He sits up quickly, surprised by the lack of pain in his side. He looks down to find the wound dressed and when he places his hand to his side the pain is gone; the numbness too. It feels… normal.

His head whips up quickly again, finding himself in an empty room he doesn’t recognise and the mysterious woman missing.

It is a small room, a small cottage really. It looks like there is only the one main room with two large chairs, a table with four mis-matched stools, a kitchen, dozens of shelves made from different coloured woods filled with books and jars, and a door behind that lies open an inch or so and lets him see into a room with a bed and large basin, where the woman he recognises from the night before is perched on the side.

The sleeve of your dress is rolled up to your elbow, your hand dancing delicately through the water where steam rises, and before Din can make another noise you look up and smile.

“You’re alive.”

He could barely see you the night before between his inability to keep his eyes open for more than a moment and the dark of the night but now you are bathed in the sunlight, your face etching into his mind line by line.

Everything from your eyes to your smile, the slope of your shoulders and wrists. When you stand and walk out of the bedroom, his trained eyes notice how you favour one leg over the other, a weaker ankle that doesn’t seem to stop you from moving any less gracefully.

“I’ve warmed a bath,” you say, nodding back to the other room. “I will clean your clothes while you’re in.”

There is no room to argue when you walk out of the room, the door to the outside opening and closing behind you before Din could blink.

Despite the lack of pain, Din takes his time getting up. He walks into the second room and closes the door behind him, stripping the clothes off and placing them outside of the door while keeping his beskar and armour in the room along with him, within arm’s reach and sight at all times.

His fingers dance around the lip of his helmet for a moment before he eventually kneels down by the basin, taking it off only long enough to clean his face and scrub his hair before he slips it back on and steps into the bath.

The warm water settles his tired muscles, the steam pulling him in until he is sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him and the water splashes against his chest as his arms come to rest on the side of the cool brass tub. It takes him a moment to register something else that has been added to the bath, a lavender oil, and every second he stays in the water his shoulders drop lower and lower until the tension is gone.

He can hear you moving around the farm from the open window. If he leans over the edge of the basin ever so slightly he can see you, his clothes from earlier being hung on a line in the sun as you place your weight on your toes every time you secure his shirts and trousers with a peg.

He watches for a moment, and when your gaze never strays towards the window he lets his eyes drift close. The water sloshes up against his chest, the soothing rhyming motioning pulling him closer and closer to sleep until a knock comes to the door.

“Are you alright in there?”

“Yes,” he answers sharply, the water splashing as he quickly turns to face the still closed door.

“I have left some clothes for you outside,” you reply, tone still soft.

He spends another few minutes in the bath before he steps out, the water spilling down his body and back into the bath before stepping out and opening the door only enough to reach for the clothes.

It doesn’t take long for Din to come back out in the dark green shirt that reaches high up on his neck and the dark trousers that cover his legs, armour strapped on top. There was even a pair of gloves laid out. Well worn leather that is slightly too small for his hands but good enough for now.

He finds you on the farm when he is dressed, back turned to him and mind elsewhere while you remain concentrated on the task at hand as he approaches.

“How can I repay you?”

You turn around, wiping sweat from your brow before shielding your eyes from the sun as you look up at him.

“There’s no need for that,” you reply with a wave of your hand. “Many travelers come through, most injured or hungry, so I fix them or feed them and send them on their way again. All I ask is that if they ever return they remember my name.”

Din shuffles his weight from foot to foot, the soil crunching beneath him.

“Can I have your name then?” He asks, knowing he’ll likely not return to this planet unless another bounty brings him here.

You share your name and Din repeats it back, ignoring the softness creeping into his voice.

“And yours?”

Din stills, his shoulders stiffening and hands clenching into fists by his side.

“Is not something I can give.”

You ponder it for a moment, head tilting slightly, but then you nod and back to the crops, digging into the ground once more, dusting your hands on your dress and reaching into the pouch tied around your waist before picking out three seeds and placing them delicately in the hole. With a few whispered words and closed eyes as you do so, you scatter the soil back over the hole and pat it down.

“I can fix your fence,” Din says once your words are finished.

You turn around and look at Din, eyes then honing in on the Mandalorian sized hole in the fence. You consider for a moment, head tilting and lips pressed together before nodding.

“Very well.” You pat the ground once more, placing the tools to the side and moving to stand with your weight resting on your good ankle.

Din holds his hand out in your direction. You look at it for only a moment before slipping your hand in, his gloved one wrapping completely around your soft skin as he helps you to your feet before your touch slips away.

You show him a small shed to the side of the cottage, full of an array of tools - some that look handmade and some that must have been bought - but once you have told him that he can use what he needs you go back to working the crops and Din walks over to the edge of the field.

Every so often Din finds his focus moving from the fence that is slowly but surely being rebuilt to the strange woman at the other side of the farm. You are still kneeling on the grass, knees digging into the mud and your dress - a dark green today - becoming more and more marked with the soil as you shuffle between each crop you are planting.

He has watched you for almost an hour now, watched you plant forty-seven crops, and even with every last sensor turned up inside his helmet he still can’t quite make out what you are doing.

You hum under your breath as you dig a hole in the ground with an old, rusty shovel before you sprinkle in three seeds - always exactly three as you count them out into your palm - and then close your eyes and whisper the words he can’t make out. After a while he resigns himself to the fact that they aren’t in basic, or any other language he can understand, but he continues to watch anyway as your eyes open again and you cover the seeds up with soil using your bare hands.

Between working on each crop you shuffle along, lifting the basket with your hand as you drag your knees back and forth before settling in place once more, you look up to Din. He pretends to look away, bending down and reaching for another plank of wood, but he can feel his cheeks warm every time as your eyes gaze right into his even behind the visor.

“Sir?” Your voice calls across the farm and he looks up, finding you now standing at the other side of the farm towards the cottage. “It’s about to rain; shall we take a break?”

“Rain?” Din tilts his head up to the sky, the blue one that still hangs brightly above their heads. “It doesn’t look like it will rain?”

You smile and from across the farm he can see how your features soften even further. “Can’t you smell under that helmet?”

“I can smell,” he replies, almost defensively. He doesn’t know what that has to do with anything. He takes another look up at the bright sky - not a cloud in sight - and places the plank of wood in his hand against the post, lifting a hammer with his other. “It won’t rain. I can keep working.”

You open your mouth to reply but close it before any sound comes out, clasping your hands in front of you before nodding once with a humorous smile. He keeps his eyes on you as you turn around, stopping by the basin at the door and washing your hands and feet before skipping back into the cottage.

He continues to work for another ten minutes before he watches the first spot of rain drip against his glove. He grinds his teeth as it rolls down and off the leather, his helmet focused down and his self-pride too strong to look up to follow the dark gray cloud he can feel covering the farm.

Before the raindrop disappears completely another lands, and then another, one after the other splattering against his glove and the rest of his body until he finally grumbles under his breath and walks back across the farm.

His boots sink further and further into the mud with each step he takes and despite the rain now falling heavier than he has ever felt before he makes sure to avoid the neat line of freshly planted crops as he makes his way towards the few steps that lead to the cottage.

You don’t look up when the door opens, not even when the wind howls so strongly that Din has to use both hands to close it behind him. Your eyes stay focused on the meal you are preparing on the table as he walks across the room, his clothes weighing him down with the water that drags across the floor behind him. It is not until he stops before the table that he sees your eyes are crinkling by the side, teeth biting into your bottom lip to stop your smile from growing any wider.

“Not. A. Word.” Din speaks slowly, leaning across the table slightly with a fist resting on the curved wood.

You lift a hand up and pretend to zip your soft lips together, the smile that is straining to be free still painted across your features as you shake your head and pass him a bowl. Din can’t help the smile that begins to tug at the corners of his mouth in return but he keeps his posture steady, his host showing no signs of being intimidated when you finally look up to him.

“Your clothes from yesterday have been washed and are on the bed. Go change; I don’t want you catching a cold and putting all my hard work to waste.”

Din opens his mouth to speak but when you level him with a look that makes him stop, soft features hardening ever so slightly when you raise an eyebrow and tilt your head towards the bedroom.

He changed by the window with the door open an inch or so, enough so he could still hear you moving around the kitchen and by the time he was finished changing the only part of him that was visible was the thin sliver of skin between his helmet and shirt.

His pile of polished armor, minus his helmet still on his head, lay on top of the bed. His eyes lingered on them for a moment before he looked through the gap in the door towards the kitchen. You were humming under your breath and mixing the contents of the pot, and he decided to leave the amour; opening the door with his thick black under layers and helmet with the rest of the armour remaining on the bed.

When he made his way back into the kitchen there was a knife by the bowl and when Din looked at the you and then the knife, you nodded, eyes looking down at his armour-free body for only a moment, barely an inhale of a breath, before you looked back down at the contents of your bowl. You worked side by side as he carefully chopped the vegetables from the bowl, looking over to his side as you did the same to the others.

The only sound was the rain that battered the roof, filling the kitchen with an echo that was both frightening and calming, the way you were ignoring the sound being enough for him to lean towards the latter.

When the vegetables in your bowl are cut he keeps his helmet trained down to the table but watches up through his lashes as you move around the kitchen, grateful hands opening and closing drawers before bending over a stove and lighting a match.

The small flame is enough to light the stove top, soft lips pressing together for a moment as you blow the flame on the match out before waving the smoke back and forth. You smile kindly at his messily chopped vegetables, moving around his large and imposing body while working around Din. When the broth is finally finished, you share it into two bowls, leaving one by the stove and carrying another in your hand.

“You can eat first,” you say, placing a bowl in front of the table.

“No- No, you can. I can wait until you are in bed-” He stops again when you raise an eyebrow at him once more, your hand gently wrapping around his wrist as you tug him towards the table.

“I will clean the clothes that are soaked from the rain. They should be dry by the morning.”

There is no room for arguing once again. You turn and walk back into the bedroom as he waits a moment before lifting his helmet from his head. You wait in the bedroom, and he takes his time enjoying the warm, spicy broth; trusting that you won't look.

Eventually he finishes and slips the helmet back on, clearing his throat. You enter the room again only then, settling by the table to eat.

After a moment of eating in silence Din finally speaks.

“Are you married? Will your husband not worry about a strange man in your home?” He winces at the blunt questions but you smile softly.

“No husband. No-one to worry.” You lift another spoonful of broth and blow on it ever so slightly before slipping it past your lips, only speaking again when you swallow. “May I ask what you were doing here? I am guessing you are not from here.”

“I am not,” Din answers plainly before going on, “and I’m a bounty hunter.” You don't look shocked or surprised, simply nod around another spoonful. “Were you born here?”

“A month's travel from here… I think. I was only ten when I left so I’m not quite sure I remember right.” Your lips press together and twist ever so slightly, eyes focused on the table like you are trying to remember. “I know it was colder than it is here. I have seasons on the farm: summer and winter, spring and fall, but my homeplanet was always cold. Not cold enough for snow but the kind that was found in the wind and made your nose and ears hurt with how bitter it could be.”

“What was it called?” Din asks patiently.

“I’m not sure.”

“You…” He tilts his head. “You’re not sure?”

The name of his home planet. The name of his mother. The name of his father.

Three names that Din will carry in his heart till the end of his days.

You shrug and look up at Din with an almost sad but resigned smile.

“I try to remember but I don’t think anyone ever told me. Nearly everyone who lived there had been there all their lives and no-one traveled so long as I was alive so… I don’t think there was any need to know the name; it was just home.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“Raiders came one night when I had been gone. I couldn’t sleep, I sometimes go through a few weeks where sleep just doesn’t come, and so I had wandered down to the river. I was there till morning and when I came back… everyone had gone.”

“They left you? Your family?” Something in Din hardens as he thinks about this stranger who has been so kind to him being abandoned by her parents.

“No.” You smile sadly across the table and pat Din’s hand once before reaching for another slice of bread. “Gone.”

A sadness blooms inside of Din’s chest, spreading up to his throat and making it difficult to speak as he stares back into your sad eyes. Din had been a similar age when he had lost his parents but the Covert had been there to take him in, to feed him and clothe him and teach him, but you had been left as a young girl without anyone to help.

“Is that how you hurt your ankle?” He asks.

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

“You must be a good bounty hunter with that keen eye,” you tease. “But no. That happened when I was here. I had worked at the port for a while and fell. There were no medic droids near and so it never healed right.” You shrug. “It’s fine for a quiet life, it never causes much bother unless it’s the middle of harvest season.”

“How did you end up here?” Din asks.

“I managed to find my way to a shuttle and I snuck on with the baggage. My mother had always told me that when we die we become stars and so I thought…” Your eyes glaze over with tears and you shake her head, looking out the window before going on. “I thought that I could take a shuttle up to the stars and find her there.”

Din has to rid the ache in his chest and he clears his throat, leaning back into the chair as his fingers dig into the rough wood of the table.

He can feel the way his mother’s hand had rested over his own from his dream, the ghost of a touch that brushes his hand now.

“I didn’t know anything about other planets or how to get anywhere and so I ended up on another shuttle and then another before I landed here. I was so tired and hungry and ended up working at the port a few days walk from here, selling tickets and then selling lost luggage to the scrapyard in return for food or wood.”

“Wood?” Din asks and you finally look back at him, the sadness not quite gone but the tears disappeared now.

You gesture around the cottage. “It took me a few years, I lost count after two because I was never good at tracking the moon like my mother until the past few years, but when I was fifteen I think, perhaps sixteen, I started to build the farm.”

“You built… all of this yourself?” Din asks, unable to mask the disbelief.

“I did.”

And then the sadness in your eyes is gone and your bright smile is back, the moon light catching your eyes as you reach across and rests your palm on Din’s hand once more before you squeezes gently.

“Please don’t feel sorry for me Mandalorian, I love my farm and when I look up into the sky I can see my family every night.”

He doesn’t speak for a while, your hand still resting on his as you scoops up the rest of the broth with two more slices of bread. It’s not until you finish, until your hand begins to slip off of his, when he talks again. He turns his hand over and catches your hand before it moves too far, his fingers curling around your own.

“I’ve traveled through the galaxies and been to many planets. If you tell me anything you can remember I can maybe help you remember the name?” He asks it so gently he’s not sure you hear, but when you rest your other elbow on the table and place your cheek against your palm, you begin to talk again.

“It was cold, like I said, but not with rain or snow. Mostly wind. There was a waterfall near our village and the mountain around it was the most unusual shape, all because of the harsh wind my mother had said. At the bottom of the waterfall there were these rocks, flat and long and looking more like glass than an actual rock. The trees weren’t tall like here but they had thick leaves; the moon also wasn’t as bright, I remember the stars more than the moon.”

When you don’t go on Din finally nods, squeezing your hand in his gently.

“I don’t think I’ve been to such a place but I will keep it in mind on my travels.”

“You will?” Something in you brightens even more, the light coming from you rivaling the moon outside.

“I will. I may not be able to give you my name, but that I promise.”

A silence falls over you again but your hand remains in his, your other hand moving across the table and picking at the small bowls of vegetables that were too much for the soup. When you finally move to the other room to sleep, Din crawls into the soft chair he had slept in the night before, and his own sleep comes to him much easier than ever before.

*****

Din stays for a week longer. He helps around the farm until he is fully healed, though something tugs inside him at the thought of leaving.

It’s perhaps the peacefulness of life here. Their easy conversations as you work the farm side by side and he tells tales of his travels while you tell him of the people who have spent the years camping just off the edge of the farm and bringing with them tales and trinkets from across the universe. The swipe of dirt that always ends up on your cheek or forehead that he has to curl his hand into a fist so he doesn’t reach out to brush it away.

Eventually, when he knows me must move on, he walks into the cottage to find you waiting by the table where a small bag rests.

“What’s this?” He asks.

You open it an inch or so and Din peeks in, your hand lifting each item out.

“There is food and water for your journey. I have also given you some of the medicine from the other night should your side become infected; lather it on the injury and it should clear within an hour or two. Also…” You dig your hand deep into the bag and pull out a small pouch. “When you reach the next clearing you pass on your way to the ship there is a man who has a speeder - give him this and tell him I sent you and he will take you to your ship free of charge, you won’t tire yourself out that way.”

He stares down at you as you tie the bag back up, his mouth still firmly shut when you hand it over to him.

Their goodbye is brief and quiet and Din isn't quite sure he would ever be able to tell you how thankful he is, how much he will miss you after only a week together, but when he reaches the tree edge he turns back and finds you still watching, arms locked around your waist as you lifts one hand in a slow wave and he does the same in return.

*****

Din treks through the familiar forest towards the wide clearing. He told himself as he placed the coordinates into the Crest that he was returning as a favor - to check on the woman who had saved him and to make sure that no raiders had harmed your farm during the most fertile season for the crops. He had stopped a day's walk away so as not to disturb the farm with his ship and had barely stopped walking the entire time, moving forward and forward until the moon was shining down on him and the cottage finally came into sight.

The fire was no longer burning and the night air was so still he could almost convince himself that you weren’t here - but then he saw the figure at the top of the stairs with the same dress on that you had worn that first night.

It was lighter than the blue morning sky and hung loosely off your shoulders, giving him the perfect view of those soft sloping shoulders that set off a feeling in his chest that he battered away as he leaned against the tree. Your eyes lifted from where they had been gazing at the blanket in your lap, on your fingers that were deftly working as you knitted row after row of yarn to protect you in a few months time when the winter rolls in, but your gaze stops before it reaches him. You pause and listen and Din finds himself holding his breath until you turn your gaze back down and your fingers begin the familiar pattern.

He stays there for an hour, perhaps two, just watching the peaceful scene unfold before him and only when he pushes off the tree and into the moonlight do you finally look up, the blanket placed to the side as you take one step and then another until you are off the porch and in the farm.

His hand slides into his pocket as he walks towards you, the small but heavy rock rolling between his fingers. It’s not flat or glass-like - not similar to the ones from your home planet - but it’s light gray and smooth, an almost perfect circle.

You stop halfway into the farm and he finds himself halting a few feet away, watching as your face softens and gives way to the smallest hint of a smile.

*****

Aaaaaand that is the end of Chapter 1! For anyone reading this for the first time, this will be a (long) multi-chapter fic based of a two-part Din fic I wrote years ago - it will be a slow burn and it will be “dual POV” (next chapter will be from reader’s pov then the next from Din’s then back to reader…)

I won’t be using a tag-list but instead I will keep the masterlist (linked at the start of this post) updated with the date of each chapter uploads - I will try to be consistent but I am writing this around my 9-5 and writing what will be my own debut novel!

[exuber]

Shelter - 1

Summary: You save Soap's life. It might have ruined yours. But now you're stuck with the 141 and the man named Ghost won't stop looking at you. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No Y/N) Warnings For This Chapter: Canon typical violence, my attempt at writing Soap's accent, soft Simon, military inaccuracies, canon divergence right off the bat.

A/N: My first COD fic! I hope you guys like it. It will be a slow burn because Reader needs a hug and therapy and Simon is awkward but also needs a hug. Enjoy!

This had been your first vacation in ten years. Ten. You had wanted to wander around London, see the sites, eat pub food, try to see how much the city had changed since you had last visited, ages ago when you had a summer internship at the British Museum. And now you were bleeding out on this shitty, dirty floor. There was shouting somewhere to your left as you hazily stared up at the dark ceiling.

You had made it three days before some guy pulled you off the sidewalk and shoved you into the back of a van. There had been a sharp pain in your neck before the dark came. When you came to, your hands had been tied and you were in the belly of an abandoned tube station, if you were guessing. Your captors were speaking Russian—rapidfire and stilted, but you did recognize some of it. Most of it. Maybe. If your undergraduate studies were still holding up. But you did know something for sure: you were curled up and hiding near a bomb. To keep your mind from wandering about when you were going to be the next hostage shot or when the bomb would explode, you started repeating whatever you heard to yourself, quiet and low. Cities, people’s names, shipments, shipments, shipments. You hadn’t done this in years, your therapist would have a field day, but this was better than the waiting. This was better than the pleading your fellow hostages were doing, begging for their lives.

You kept repeating what you learned. More shipments. More cities.

An immeasurable amount of time dragged on; how many days and nights passed, you couldn’t tell, but you knew exactly how many other hostages your kidnappers had killed before you were the only one left. And you weren’t entirely sure if it was because they had other plans for you or if they had actually forgotten you were there, huddled near the bomb. Perhaps you had taken the saying, “the closer we are to danger, the further we are from harm,” too seriously.

But it mattered little when the fighting started and a too warm hand clapped on your arm. And then the brightest pair of blue eyes were staring at you. The man had the most ridiculous mohawk you’d ever seen but you couldn’t really tell him that, not when he was pressing a finger to his lips. A quick glance down showed his UK flag patch on his vest and you felt the smallest bit of tension slip from your shoulders.

“I’ma get ye outta here, lass,” he said, Scottish brogue winding through your ears.

You only nodded and let him move you into a crouched position. He and another man in a ridiculous hat worked on defusing the bomb, working in tandem on either side as your eyes swept toward the door. You were nearly there. Nearly free.

You were going to get out of here. You were going to live. You were going to see your sister and her baby. You-

-Came to a hard stop when the shooting started.

You curled into a ball behind the bomb as the shouting started but then you heard that ridiculous Scottish accent again. And yes, it was stupid. But you had always been a little stupid. You were on your feet again, hands still tied in front of you, before you could think of anything else to do and ran, shoulder down into the man tussling with the Scot and another man in the dumbest hat you’d ever seen. The man with the gun let out a wet ‘oof’ when your shoulder connected with his side and you both fell to the dirtied floor. You hadn’t even heard the gun go off.

Hadn’t felt anything but a heat blooming across your shoulder.

And then your knees buckled. “Oh.”

A quick glance to the left saw your once white shirt now a dark crimson. Pity. You’d liked this top. Your blood was roaring in your ears but you did remember someone saying the bomb was defused…that was good. Great. Wonderful.

A choked gasp was torn from your throat when large hands clamped over your shoulder and you saw those blue eyes again. “Now, why’d ye go and do that? Made a mess, ye did.”

“Next time,” you ground out between clenched teeth, “I’ll let you get shot.” Dark dots were starting to cloud your vision even as the grip on your shoulder grew tighter. You vaguely heard him shouting for someone to throw him something before he turned back to you. He was bleeding, too, crimson streaked across his face and neck. More of it slithered down his arm.

“We’ll get this cleaned up. Cannae have a bonnie lass bleedin’ out in a place like this.”

And you had to smile. You did, even if you looked absolutely insane, because this was probably the first time in over a decade that someone was nice to you and you had been shot.

And then the Grim Reaper loomed over you, skull bright as he blotted out the light above him.

“Fuck.” The word slurred on your heavy tongue. “Guess I’m dead, then.” The ridiculousness of the situation was not lost on you, even as the light faded and you were out cold.

Your eyes opened slowly, weighed down and scratchy. It took a moment for you to realize you were in a hospital room, small, stuffy, and a worn shade of off-white. Uncoordinated fingers plucked at the thin, bleach-stiff sheets across your hips before you tugged at the neckline of the light blue hospital gown and frowned at the large dressing taped over your shoulder. A single wiggle against the flat pillow let you know you had a matching one on your back. Wonderful.

Well, at least you weren’t dead?

The door opened and a bespectacled man popped his head in. His bright eyes connected with yours for just a moment before the door snapped shut again.

What just happened?

You got your answer a handful of minutes later when your tiny room was filled with several more people, doctors and nurses checking you over and a woman—Laswell, you think she said her name was—staring at you from her place in the corner. She was biding her time, you knew that. Her American drawl had thrown you for just a moment, a stark contrast to the English accents coming at you from all directions. You tried to keep up with all the information they tossed at you, about your stitches, the physical therapy you’d need, how to keep movement to a minimum before helping you into a sling to keep your arm immobilized. It went on and on. The pain meds were keeping you from scratching at your shoulder but it did feel a little like your brain was swimming through your skull.

And three of them said the same thing: “You’re lucky you’re alive. It nearly nicked your subclavian artery and you would have bled out.”

Comforting.

And through it all, Laswell was quiet but when she pushed off the wall, the group of medical professionals dispersed.

“You’ve been through a lot.”

You said nothing as she stepped closer and set a manilla envelope on your bedside.

Her eyes darted to the envelope for a moment, obviously expecting you to take it but she continued on, unperturbed for now, when you did not. “From what I understand, you saved a man’s life and gave them an opening to be able to diffuse the bomb. I would actually say that all of London owes you their gratitude.”

“I doubt I’ll get it though, right?”

Laswell smiled. “Good. You’re smart.” But she still tapped at the folder again.

Fine. You picked up the folder and undid the thin rope closure as best you could with one hand and tipped it open across your lap, spilling paper and pictures across the blanket. One was of the man with the mohawk. And then… “Wait. He’s real?” You plucked one of the pictures up and waved it around like a flag. “I thought he was the Grim Reaper.” A man in a skull mask was staring back at you, large and hulking, and draped entirely in black aside from the SAS patch in the middle of his vest.

“You wouldn’t be the first to think that. But probably the only one to see him like that and live to tell anyone about it.”

Again, so comforting.

You flipped the picture over to see Ghost written in neat, small letters across the bottom. What kind of name was Ghost? He wasn’t a ghost. You flipped over a handful of the other pictures and learned the mohawk belonged to “Soap.” “Gaz” and “Price” soon followed—ah, he was the one with the ridiculous hat. But it was the last picture that had your heart stalling.

Vladimir Makarov was written in that same, small script.

“He’s dead, right?” Your voice shook as you stared down at the picture. “Tell me he’s dead.”

Laswell’s measured silence was all you needed before you hurriedly stuffed the photos and paper back into the folder.

“My flight back to Chicago is leaving on the tenth. What day is it?” You asked, tossing the folder to the foot of the bed. The simple motion had your other shoulder protesting, heat rippling across your chest and down your spine.

“It’s the ninth.”

Relief flooded through you. This would be over soon and you were never going to take another vacation, no matter what your sister told you. “Great. I’ll be out of the country in a couple of hours. Do I need to sign something or-”

Laswell frowned and took a few steps toward you and tension once again wound itself through your spine with each of them. “I don’t think you understand. Makarov’s plan didn’t work because of you-”

“Debatable.”

“-and you saved one of the men who Makarov has a personal vendetta against.”

The heart rate monitor was now leaping all over the place, beeping a sharp staccato into the tense air. You didn’t like this. You didn’t like this at all. “So? Makarov doesn’t know who I am. One of his lackeys grabbed me. He barely saw me.” You had been one of many, another faceless victim to his whims.

But Laswell shook her head. “I guarantee it; he will not forget you.”

Funny. You’d been forgotten by almost everyone else and you were apparently unmissable to a psychopath. “I am supposed to be going home. I want to go home.”

She took another step. “I’m afraid that until Makarov is in custody, it is safer for you to stay-”

“Am I being arrested?” You bit out.

“No.”

“Then I’m free to go.”

Laswell’s lips rolled into her mouth for a moment. “No.”

Traitorous tears stung at your ears. Stupid, so stupid. You hadn’t cried in front of someone else in decades. Tears didn’t help with anything and here you were, crying in a hospital bed in front of a stranger. “I need to go home.”

Another step and she looked down at you, eyes just shy of pitying. “You’ll be dead before you get off the plane.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” She took the folder and opened it again, pulling out one of the papers you hadn’t read and another picture. She set both on your leg with a sigh. “You were taken out of London when you were stable enough to move.”

The next breath stalled in your lungs. “What?”

“Makarov has a long reach. You were wrapped up in it the moment you saved Soap. The hospital room in London that simply had your name on the door was raided. They killed a nurse.” Every new bit of information was a punch to the stomach, leaving you wheezing for breath and throat aching. “Makarov doesn’t do half measures. And he’s in the wind right now and staying quiet since his plan for London failed.”

Something you hadn’t touched in years started to bubble beneath your skin. A rage you hated. The rage that had kept you alive as a kid. “Then do your fucking job and get him. I’m going home.”

“Any word? Movement?” Gaz asked as Simon looked over the print outs of intel and loops of camera footage from the tunnels where Makarov could have fled.

“Nothing.”

Nothing.

Nothing.

He hated it. He hated not knowing.

There were leads, of course. Strings to be pulled on to see where they could go.

But Makarov was in the wind. And every night, he heard the woman on the other side of the thin wall cry whenever she thought no one would hear.

You did not go home. Instead, you were bustled out of the makeshift hospital room and into yet another infuriatingly beige room, your shoulder smarting with the movement even with the sling. At least the baggy sweats they’d let you wear were comfortable. You recognized Soap as Laswell had you sit in a cold metal chair on one side of the table.

“Good ta see ye up and about, lass,” Soap said. The stitches across his face were mostly covered by butterfly bandages that crinkled when he smiled at you. He then pointed at his own sling, barely holding his bulky arm up. “We match.”

You almost returned the smile. Almost. “Glad you’re not dead, too, I guess.”

“I wanted to get a look at ye,” Soap said. “Properly thank ye fer saving my life.”

Your mouth twitched into a small smile. “I think it was a mutual saving. You defuse a bomb, I keep you from getting your brains blown out. We can call it even.”

He laughed, hearty and jovial. “Ye’re tough. That’s good. Ye’ll need it.”

He was trying to be nice to you, you knew that. He seemed nice. Really! But you still felt the snark and sarcasm trying to climb its way out of your throat. You bit it back, probably grimacing the entire time. “I’m not the one shipping off to Kastovia.”

The smile slipped from Soap’s face. “What?”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to read his expression. “I assumed that was where you were going? The guys in the tunnels mentioned it a couple of times.”

“You speak Russian?” Laswell cut in.

What was this line of questioning? You turned as best you could to look at her. “Yeah, sorta. I took a few classes in undergrad.”

“And you didn’t think to mention you overheard anything while you were held captive?”

“You’re CIA. He’s SAS,” you said, hooking a thumb over your shoulder to point at Soap. Your stitches protested immediately, knocking the wind from your lungs for a moment. “I kinda figured you guys had all the information you could get from that shitshow.”

Soap rose from his seat and left the room without a look back as Laswell rounded the table to stare down at you. “You had information and didn’t share it. You know how that looks.”

“I was shot. Did you forget that?” You bit back. “Then you tell me I can’t go home. What was I supposed to do? When was I supposed to offer up any of this? When I was unconscious?”

Laswell’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You don’t trust me.”

The scoff tore itself out of your throat before you could even try to stop it. Scoffing at a CIA agent probably wasn’t your smartest move, but, again, you knew you were kinda stupid. “Wow. Look at you. That scary CIA training is paying off, huh? Love to see my tax dollars hard at work.”

The door opened again and Ghost walked in, shoulders nearly brushing each edge of the frame.

Your entire body tensed as he quietly neared the table and took the seat Soap had vacated. Laswell nodded at him and he tipped the point of his cloth-covered chin. And then she was gone with a snap of the door behind her. You pulled your gaze back to the man…the behemoth…in front of you. His mask was no less unnerving than it had been in the tunnel when you thought he was the Grim Reaper coming to usher your soul into the ether.

But this close you could see the dark honey of his eyes and that turned something else in the dark shadows of your chest.

And you knew you couldn’t be afraid. Not now.

“Ask me anything,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. But what if they didn’t believe you? What if he really would be the last face you saw, like you had believed in the tunnel? “I’ve nothing to hide.”

He huffed. If it were anyone else, you might have guessed it was a laugh. His eyes, hooded and dark, dragged over you. “We’ll see.” In one swift movement, he placed a handgun on the table and then reached across to grab your uninjured arm. He pulled it toward him before you could even think of pulling back. He twisted his grip on your wrist to have your palm up and only then did he release you.

You knew better than to retreat. You needed them to believe you—you were the victim in all of this. You. Not them. You. If you had to sit here with the Grim Reaper to prove it, you would. But it was when he tugged the glove from one of his hands that you felt your next breath stutter behind your teeth. And you were sure he felt it when he pressed the tips of his fingers against the delicate skin of your wrist’s underbelly.

He was warm. Solid. And oh god were you really this touch starved? That the man tasked with interrogating you—to make sure you weren’t a terrorist—was making you burn all over like a schoolgirl? It didn’t help that you felt his broad legs on either side of yours beneath the table.

Get it together.

He asks you questions and you answer. Truthfully. You listed all the places you’d heard, names you could decipher, cargo, shipments, everything. Anything.

Ghost listened to it all with that same hooded stare anchored on your face. Someone else probably would have squirmed under his gaze but you didn’t. If anything, his immovable presence was weirdly comforting. What was wrong with you?

And when you were done, when you had exhausted any and every bit of information you thought you had squirreled away from your time in the tunnel, the man in front of you simply drummed his fingers against your pulse and stood, putting his gun back in its holster and pulling his glove back on.

Funny, you hadn’t realized there were more bones stitched on them, too. At least he was consistent.

He strode toward the door and then turned back to stare at you again, unblinking. “Stay put.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly allowed to leave.”

His dark eyes narrowed for a moment and he huffed. Was it a laugh? You didn’t know, but you wanted it to be. But he left the room before you could ask.

It had been a risk, he knew, and had done it anyway. She could have been a spy, a trained one, good at deception and emitting pity. But he had felt her heartbeat skitter beneath his fingers, an impromptu lie detector. Simon knew she was being truthful. An open book.

A rare thing in times like these.

Well, open enough for him to believe her answers and her muttered instance that she wasn’t “some sort of Russian plant” because she wasn’t “dumb enough to be a criminal.” She was…something else. Simon wasn’t quite sure what that something was, but he knew that he thought of the curve of her bottom lip when he left the room and reported what he learned to Laswell and Price.

The pair looked at each other, matching looks of knowing on their faces. Her knowing about Kastovia hadn’t been expected but it didn’t seem like she knew that they (Gaz and Price) had already gone and had been led on an infuriating game of hide-and-seek with the transport of the Sarin gas. If the bird had been awake (or more willing to share what she’d heard before), they would have been back on base days earlier because it had been exactly where she’d said they would be.

“We need to keep this quiet. Makarov already knows she’s alive and at least suspects that she heard something. He wouldn’t’ve sent his men to the hospital if he didn’t.” Laswell scratched at her chin. “If any more of her intel pays off, this could be invaluable.”

The two continued, looking over the points Simon had written down after leaving that tiny room. And there had been shipments and their locations, names of people who probably would receive them, and then targets. Possibly. It was so much more than what they’d had when Makarov had vanished into the belly of the tunnel.

“She’s given us gold.”

“Or an unpinned grenade.” Laswell sighed and flipped through the pages again, handing one to Price and they spoke again in low tones. Simon listened, as he always did. They would still be sent out, following those breadcrumbs, with glowing red letters.

Something twisted in Simon’s chest, behind the crooked and dark ribs, and he thought of that curve of her bottom lip. “What happens to ‘er?”

You didn’t mind paperwork. Not really. Was it your favorite thing? No. But it was a fact of life that paperwork was inevitable. You almost liked that most of it was the same: sign here, date here, birthdate here. Easy. Simple. Unchanging.

But you weren’t entirely in love with how you knew you were basically signing your life away as Soap stood sentinel in the corner, his matching sling still around his bulging arm. They’d already “handled” your job, telling your supervisor that you had been injured and would be taking a leave of absence from work.

They promptly fired you.

Laswell winced at that and then said that “they” would take care of it. Who “they” were, you didn’t know and didn’t have the wherewithal to ask at the moment. But she inferred that your bills would be paid by someone else so you didn’t really care. Whatever. You’d been an archivist at one of the many museums in Chicago, cataloging anything and everything that came in. It had been good work, to be fair. You were actually using your degrees and the fact that they had you working overnight was almost a perk. It was nice to not have to worry about coworkers’ feelings or them microwaving fish in the communal microwave when you were trying to work.

But…whatever. It was fine. This was…fine.

You were given three meals a day and sometimes a snack. Tea in the early afternoon, much to your delight. You had a warm bed. Things could be worse.

Whenever the doctors or nurses would come in and check on your stitches and your range of movement, he—Ghost—would just be there. In the background. Waiting. Silent and unmoving.

And the painkillers you were given must’ve been some good stuff because you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Or maybe his unhurried gaze was weirdly comforting. Knowing he was there, was always going to be there, was nice. A weird constant in the upheaval of your life. (And maybe you should call up your therapist after you finally get home.)

You signed your name on the last paper and then managed to stack everything neatly with one arm before handing it to Soap who took it with a small smile. “Ye’re handling this well.”

“Yeah.” Been through worse, is what you could have said. But worse was debatable. At least in some regard. You could handle being fired. You had savings. You could find another job. Your sister always said you had the uncanny ability to land on your feet. You’d let her keep that assumption. It wouldn’t be the first one she’d made about you. “Can I make a phone call now?”

Soap tapped a finger against the papers and his blue eyes were full of pity. You almost hated it. “I’ll ask Laswell.”

Well, that wasn’t a firm no, at least.

It had been a few days since your interrogation with Ghost. You had deduced that you were on a military base of some sort, with the people walking by in uniform and the staccato of gun shots at exactly eight o’clock in the morning, every morning. Probably a firing range. While you weren’t allowed out of your beige hospital room, they were kind enough to bring you a few very well worn novels to help pass the time. Again…it was fine.

The door opened a few minutes later and Ghost and Laswell walked in, a large black brick looking contraption tucked beneath Laswell’s arm. Your heart stuttered for just a moment. A satellite phone?

“You need to understand that anyone you call could be in danger. Used against you.”

The next breath rattled behind your teeth. You had expected that. You knew that. But your sister deserved at least something.��“Did you see her in my file?”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

Laswell’s answering quiet was all you needed. Good.

“I’ll keep it quick,” you said, stretching out your good arm toward the phone. “Promise.”

“Any funny business-”

“I’ll expect a bullet between the eyes. Yeah, sure. Can I please have the phone?”

Ghost made that huffing sound again and you felt the corners of your mouth push into a twitching smile for just a heartbeat to two. The phone was weighty in your palm as you plugged in the number and held it up to your ear. It rang twice before… “Hello?”

“Hey, Kirby.”

There was an answering giggle and it shifted a weight on your shoulders. “Hey stranger! I thought you were living it up in London for a few days more? Thought you were gonna call me when you were home.”

“Oh, um. So there’s been a change of plans. I’m gonna stay for a little longer. I’ve been asked to consult at one of the archives here.”

Kirby hummed, crackling the line. “Consult. You’re so important. That mean you left-”

“They fired me, actually.”

She gasped. You imagined her clutching her phone tighter, placing another hand over her heart. She was always so delicate. Outraged on your behalf, too. “No!”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. You said I needed a new job anyway.” You shut your eyes, feeling them burn with tears. Lying to her didn’t feel right. She was the only person in the world you trusted.

“They were awful to you. But, you always land on your feet, don’t you?”

You smiled despite it all, wobbly and crooked. God, you missed her. “I try. But I didn’t want you to worry if you didn’t hear from me for a bit as I get settled here.”

Kirby laughed. “You’re the worrier, not me.”

“That’s true.” You were. And even know, with a bullet wound and a supposed bounty on your head, you worried about your little sister. You might worry about her forever, actually.

“You’ll still be able to make it to the delivery, right?” The smallest bit of trepidation dipped into the syllables. Kirby wasn’t scared often and it twisted at your marrow. “I need you to hold my hand.”

You opened your eyes and looked at Laswell and Ghost, lifting your chin a bit. You were going to be there. Come hell or high water. Or more terrorists. “Wouldn’t miss it, Kirbs. You know that.” You eventually said your goodbyes and “I love you” and “I love you, too” before ending the call with a quiet, “give the little one a hello for me, okay?”

The phone clicked in your hand and you let it slip back into Laswell’s grip when she reached for it. “Any other family you need to call that weren’t in any of your files?” The question was tinged with exhaustion.

You didn’t feel bad. “No. It’s just her.”

Laswell frowned but said nothing else as she strode from the room.

You expected Ghost to follow. He seemed fond of doing that. But he didn’t. His unmoving stare was anchored on you. “Why wouldn’t your file show your sister?”

Well, he certainly cuts to the chase. “It’s a long story.”

His large arms crossed over his broad chest (you ignored how your heart hiccuped. God he was so big.) “We’ve got time.”

Chapter Two

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!

[exuber]

Talkative

Story Summary -> Mike Wheeler had no idea why Y/N was allowed to be in Hellfire. She just took up all the time he could've been using to talk about, you know, what he wanted to. Maybe she was let in because of Eddie's very obvious soft spot for her? Or maybe it's because the other members genuinely like her? Who knows, but one thing is for sure: her not talking to him drives Eddie insane.

Tags -> Friends to Lovers, Misunderstandings, Mike Wheeler is a little bitch sometimes

Would you prefer to read this on AO3? Click here!

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mike had heard it before. So many times, in fact. Literally so many. Y/N had been yapping away about how excited she was for the next Hellfire session for ages - well, since the last one. He had lost count of how many times he'd had to block her out. It was just over and over again. Word after word. Nothing but endless monologues of how cool she thought the direction Eddie was taking the campaign in was.

Or she'd talk about whatever movie she'd just seen. Or something interesting she'd read in an article. It seemed as if she'd just talk about whatever was on her mind, and if the other person showed enthusiasm or interest, they'd make it a full-blown conversation. (You know how two-way interactions tend to go.) And he had been left wondering why the hell Eddie even bothered to let her into the party. She was insufferable.

Nobody else seemed to mind it. It's just that Mike seemed to be under the impression that Y/N was talking up valuable speaking time. Speaking time that he could've been using to talk about El or Will or how weird it was that Lucas couldn't hang out after school today because he had basketball practice. Or...you get the gist. Anyone else could and should be speaking about what he wanted to hear, not whatever fucking dribble Y/N was spouting.

The current 'dribble' was Y/N excitedly gushing to Dustin about the upcoming Billy Joel album that was supposed to come out sometime in July. Mike sat quietly, resting his elbows on the lunch table, flicking between half listening to Y/N and dramatically eye-rolling at Gareth, who was paying the younger boy very little attention.

Billy Joel wasn't something that the members of Corroded Coffin were interested in, but Y/N and Dustin liked him so they'd be courteous. Plus, seeing the two geek out about music was nice. Yet, as most know, Mike isn't overly courteous. For some reason, he felt the need to keep interrupting it. That need only grew with every interruption.

"Jesus, Y/N, do you ever pause for breath?" Mike asked, half laughing and half irritated. "I don't think you've taken a break in the past twenty minutes."

Y/N let out a nervous laugh and immediately apologised in a quiet voice, "Sorry, guys. How were your weekends?" as she deflected the conversation onto them now and swallowed the new sense of shame that Mike had stirred up. Immediately, Mike jumped at the chance to talk about what El had told him in one of her letters. Now this was a topic he liked. This was a worthwhile topic.

That little snide comment never would've made it out of Wheeler's mouth if Eddie had been there. He was currently preoccupied with a drug deal, so anything was free game. Munson had a tendency to let Y/N drone on and on because of that tiny (actually huge and obvious) crush he had on her. All members of Hellfire knew of their leader's infatuation with little Miss Chatterbox, well, except Y/N. It was so plain for everyone else to see. He'd listen so intently, always resting his head on his hand as he gazed at her with longing. He'd ask her endless questions about whatever, even if he had no idea what she was on about.

Any chance to get her to speak more, he took. So when he arrived midway through lunch and greeted, "Hey, Lady Folksworth," and she didn't immediately respond with 'Just Alais is fine,' he knew something was up. It was something she always said. In and out of game. Lady Folksworth, her highborn ranger, hated being called Lady Folksworth. Y/N just gave him a small wave and continued with her food, listening and encouragingly nodding every now and again, but not another sound from her was heard.

Weird. That was weird.

From that moment on, Eddie noticed how little Y/N had said for the rest of the day. Maybe she was on an off day. Tomorrow would be fine. She'd be back to normal tomorrow.

Tomorrow was a smidge louder. Y/N seemed to engage in the conversation at lunch. Then Mike rolled his eyes at something she said.

Apologetically, she asked, "Sorry, did I speak over you, Wheeler?"

"Not the first time. Don't worry, Y/N. We're used to it."

Somehow he managed to play it off as if it were a friendly jab, but they both knew he meant it. Y/N laughed it off originally. She soon decided to shut up once more.

Mike managed to do that every day that week. He'd make some offhanded comment about how talkative she was, essentially shaming her into silence and switching so he could be the one who was talking. And she let him. Why not? He was just a kid. A kid who clearly needs attention. Just give it to him, and he'll start being nice to her. Right?

Wrong. The next session was when Y/N gave up trying to reel back her natural mouthy-ness by becoming a borderline mute at lunch.

Eddie had let the party into the Hellfire room early so they could come up with a battle strategy. Y/N had been a little late and heard from the other side of the door as Mike exclaimed to the other members, "...and honestly, sometimes I wish I could cast an eternal silence on Y/N so she'd just let someone else get a word in for once and..."

She stood in the doorway, just listening in for a moment. It was technically eavesdropping, but still, she was supposed to already be in the room, and she wasn't. If anything, it was Mike's fault for talking about someone he knew was going to arrive soon. From the little window, she saw as the other boys unpacked their bags and sat down, mostly paying Mike's little ramble no attention, which was comforting.

Yet he continued, "She's probably talking the ears off some unlucky guy that has to hear her drone on and on about... about whatever it is she talks about. I don't even listen anymore. Cause, it's like, is it interesting? No. Do we care? No. Not at all. Would this party be better without her?" He paused. "Who's to say?"

Better off without her? The boys wanted the session to just be that, the boys. That's fine. She'd let them do that. It's not as if Hellfire was the best part of her week or anything. Y/N turned and walked away, making a beeline towards the car park. She didn't want to listen to any more, which also meant that she didn't hear as the other boys disagreed with what Mike said.

Dustin actually smacked Mike around the back of his head and reminded his buddy, "You're doing the exact same thing with Y/N as you did to Max. Just because El isn't here doesn't mean another girl can't be cool and interesting."

"Yeah, Y/N's cool. She bought my lunch today since Daniel Oliver stole my money," Gareth admitted, giving Mike a disapproving look.

"Oh, she did that for me last week," Jeff added. "Then she almost got her ass kicked when she tried to steal it back off Danny-boy."

Since her feet were carrying her faster than her brain could comprehend, Y/N managed to bump into someone as she hurried to her car. Eddie held his arms out to steady her, but she was in no mood to be soothed. 

"Hellfire is the other way, Lady Folksworth."

She huffed out, "I know where Hellfire is; thank you very much. I'll-"

"Hey, hey, what's up?" She didn't want to talk. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be quiet, so she didn't answer him for a moment. The silence was broken as she heard him say, "Y/N, what's wrong?" with genuine concern laced in his voice.

"My grandpa just died," she blurted out, not even knowing why she said it. The words were simply leaving her mouth as she felt her lie fall flat.

He knew her better than that. "Which one? The one that's already dead or the other one that's already dead?" He countered, crossing his arms, not believing her lie in the slightest.

Shit. He'd caught her. There were two options in her mind. Go further or change course. "Well, he was like an old guy who was a family friend... you know, he was a non-grandpa," she furthered, walking away from him towards her car. "And I have a headache."

"I'm pretty sure I have an aspirin. Not my usual supply, but I'm bound to have one."

"No...no. I'm fine. Not fine enough to stay. Not that fine, but... I should go."

But there was no way in hell that was going to happen: she wasn't going to get away with these awful fibs. Without having to try too hard, he took a few long strides, making it in front of her in no time and placing his hands on her shoulders to gently push her in the opposite direction.

"Y/N."

"Eddie?"

"Tell me the truth."

Okay. It was time to change course. She used an ancient female tactic that has a tendency to get you out of doing things. Gym. Sex. Chores. All types of shit.

"I'm on my period."

It wasn't exactly a lie either. Maybe that's why Mike's words got to her so much this week? Huh, crazy.

"Ohh," he replied sympathetically, "The offer of painkillers still stands," and just like that, he was being so nice about it. "Name anything, and I'll get it for you. I'll go to the store down the street and be back in no time."

Her heart fluttered. It wasn't every day a boy was so understanding. He didn't even act grossed out by it like they usually did. He actually didn't make a big deal out of it. So, she couldn't help herself and wrapped her arms around his shoulders to give him the biggest, warmest hug she could manage. He hugged her back, closing his eyes to savour the moment.

"You're a good egg," she whispered, squeezing him a smidge. His face was bright red, but that's fine. She wouldn't be able to see it if he buried his face in her hair. "Ed, you can let go now if you want to."

"I don't want to," he chuckled, pulling her tighter to him and refusing to budge. He even started to shift his weight from left to right so they'd begin swaying slowly side to side, making her giggle, which entirely was his intention.

There was something about her giggle that just filled him with an immense sense of joy. It always turned his day around: he felt lighter, happier, and more energetic. It didn't even matter what he was doing. He couldn't understand it. One moment he was feeling listless and miserable. The next, she would start laughing, and then he'd be good and giddy. It was like magic.

Unknowingly, she had been playing with the strand of hair at the nape of his neck, and the moment she realised, she stopped and reminded him, "Hellfire is waiting for their handsome and charismatic Dungeon Master to arrive."

Oh shit. He'd forgotten about that. He'd been so focused on her, he'd forgotten to do his job. It was a serious breach of protocol. But, in this moment, he didn't care. Leaning back so he could see in her face if she lied, he shyly enquired, "You think I'm handsome?"

"Yeah, Ed, I do," she answered seriously, without even the smallest hint of a smirk. It was like she really meant it, and, boy, was he relieved. She really did think he was handsome.

Well shit, his fucking face was heating up again. How the hell did she have this kind of effect on him? And he'd never have guessed that it would've gotten worse as he complimented her back, "Oh, cool. Yeah, that's nice. You're, uh, you're handsome too - I mean pretty. Girls are pretty. I know you're not supposed to call a girl handsome. You're really pretty, Y/N."

Really. Not only was she both handsome and pretty, but she was also 'really pretty'. That last part made him wince a little as he admitted it, but it was worth it for the look on her face. It was the happiest he'd seen her in a while, which made his own face even brighter. It almost made her forget about what Mike had said.

Almost.

She looked away, her lips upturned in a coy grin, but didn't internalise what he'd said. That could wait till later. That could wait until she was in the privacy of her car so she could let out a really unflattering squeal. The urge to do so was increasing every second that she was still in his grasp, so she slowly backed up, innocently letting her hands trail down his shoulders and chest as she moved away.

Bashfully, she tucked some hair behind her ear as she let out, "You can call me handsome if you want to. I don't mind it. Honestly, I was going to say that your hair looked pretty when I saw you this morning, but I didn't want to, I don't know, freak you out or anything."

"You were worried about freaking out the freak?"

"Something like that." She looked down at her shoes for a moment. "Anyway, I better go. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, uh... yeah, see you, Y/N."

He watched as she started to walk away, only to turn around and hurry back, claiming, "Oh, I forgot to do this," and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for being so sweet."

Blushing, he nervously beamed, "Yeah, oh, yeah, you're welcome. Totally welcome," and couldn't help but distract himself from the fact that his cheek felt like it was burning and his head was spinning over the mere contact of her lips on his skin by focusing on her figure as she made it out of his field of vision and towards the parking lot.

Okay. Okay, he needed to calm down before he arrived in Hellfire. The boys would surely tease him if he turned up looking like a freshly picked tomato. It's always a good idea to make an entrance, and that definitely would throw them off long enough that he could return his focus to his second true love, D&D. Opening the door wide and announcing, "My dear boys, we may be one maiden down, and while Alais's absence will render the dynamic a little askew, she will be sorely missed until the next session, but we must press on. So, boys, it's time." 

Eddie immediately sauntered to his chair and waited for his disciples to prepare themselves. He always tried to make his entrances as elaborate as possible. The more attention to where he wanted it to be directed, the better.

Dustin piped up to ask, "Wait, Y/N's not here? I swear she said she was coming earlier."

"She felt ill."

Maybe it was just his imagination, but Eddie swore he heard Mike whisper to himself, "Thank God."

"Anyway, we must press on, gentlemen, without interruption," Eddie said, putting a finger to his lips to still Mike's rising protests.

Despite being one member down, the boys got on with it. Although they could all tell that the party was a little disjointed without their beloved Lady Folksworth. It wasn't that she was the most experienced member, though she might have been the most enthusiastic, but she was the one who kept them on their toes. It wasn't everyday that the Archduke Zariel of Avernus visited the mortal realm. There wasn't a whole lot to prepare for, but somehow, when Y/N was around, it felt like there were a million things to do.

Ultimately, it was a difficult battle (that may have been a slight bit easier if had seven PC's like Eddie had planned), but the boys (Dustin) managed to come up with an ingenious plan to kill the fallen angel and prevent her from returning for now.

The next day, when Gareth and Jeff had walked up to Eddie while he was at his locker, the older boy remarked, "Hellfire last night was quieter, don't you think? It wasn't as high energy as usual."

"That's because Alais was missing," Gareth pointed out, knowing full well that Eddie had been missing Y/N's presence. Even in the session, he seemed a bit preoccupied, a bit concerned if she was okay.

He'd even planned to buy a bunch of stuff she liked and show up unannounced at her house to be like, "Hey! I know I'm a gross, stinky boy and I don't get this period thing, but I hope this helps," but what if her dad were there and just assumed Eddie was making moves on his daughter? Which wouldn't have been completely incorrect. Yet, this was a move out of worry, not lust.

Plus, as soon as the other boys heard, he'd never get away from the teasing. Showing up to Y/N's house with a period care package? That would prove he was totally whipped. Totally. They weren't even dating, and he was completely and utterly wrapped around her finger.

Jeff decided to tease, "I'm sure Eddie was fully aware that Y/N wasn't there to play footsie under the table with him."

"I don't know what you're implying, Jeffrey," Eddie responded dryly. He one hundred percent knew what was being implied. That girl was his favourite thing in the world, and he would have done anything to be with her.

"Well, I'm sure we won't catch you gazing so lovingly at her at lunch again," Gareth said, resting his head on his fist and staring wistfully into the distance as he did his best impression of Eddie.

"Why, fair Y/N, why won't you accept my love? Is it the hair? Should I change it?" Jeff said in an exaggerated, disappointed voice.

Eddie was used to this at this point. He just usually just went along with it, but today he had an update. "I highly doubt it's the hair; she told me she thinks it looks pretty."

"Oooh, did you hear that, Jeff? She said his hair looks pretty."

"I wonder how long we'll be hearing about that one for."

"Remember when she said she liked the shirt he was wearing and he didn't take it off for almost a week?"

Gareth and Jeff burst out laughing. Eddie shrugged it off and turned the conversation back onto Hellfire. What he didn't realise was that Y/N was just about to walk up to him as he declared, "Even though she has a charisma mod of minus two, Alais is a complete chatterbox. That's probably why we could hear ourselves think last night," but she walked away, not wanting to hear if he pulled a Mike.

Mike getting annoyed at her voice was fine. It hurt a little, but she'd get over it. Eddie, on the other hand, that stung. He usually was nice and kind and pretty and sweet and chivalrous and totally cool and out of her league and was great at guitar and had the cutest eyes she'd ever seen, so the thought that she could be annoying him caused her to double down on the quietness thing.

Frankly, if Eddie had said anything actually mean, she would probably start crying and never stop. He was the sweetest guy she knew, and sometimes she felt that there was something going on between them when he would look at her for a second too long, or the amount of times he would force her into hugging him, and they would stay like that for what felt like an eternity, just as he'd done the night before.

Or, if she'd ask for advantage when they were playing, she'd say, "Eddie, if you wanted to be a good, no, a great Dungeon Master, you'd give me advantage right now," in the softest voice she could, and he'd give her that look of 'you know this isn't one of your characters abilities' but would say yes anyway.

As a result, Y/N kept mostly to herself that day. In any of the classes she had with her friends, she said hello and then made it seem like she was intensely interested in whatever the teacher was saying, which wasn't true. Eddie couldn't help but notice how she didn't even say anything other than "Hey" to him the entire day.

Tomorrow came and it was the same. And the day after that. And after that. And then the whole week. He had no idea how long periods lasted, but this was hell. Two weeks went by, and she barely said a word to him.

Actually, he was kind of offended.

It's not like he was planning on asking her to the movies, which they'd done so many times before, but he was going to make it obvious that there was going to be nothing platonic about this invitation. Well, that's what he thought last time they went, yet he didn't manage to follow through.

The moment they had before Hellfire had given him enough of an idea that she could like him. It was a possibility. She'd fucking kissed him, after all. Although it was on the cheek and she could've just been overly friendly and emotional because of, you know, the monthly blood monster. But maybe she liked him? That was a definite possibility.

Now she was ignoring him. You don't ignore somebody you're into. Or do you? Was she playing the hard-to-get move? No. Y/N wouldn't pull that. Would she?

Maybe she knew he liked her and didn't want to upset him when he found out she was going after someone else. That was his exact thought when he 'bumped' into her on the weekend at Family Video and saw her joyfully talking to Steve like she used to with him. She'd looked so happy then, so carefree, as she gestured wildly as she spoke about the movie Clue.

Apparently, Harrington hadn't seen it, so Y/N was giving him a rundown about the Tim Curry flick, telling him all about how Eddie had taken her to go and see it in the cinema the year before. Her laugh was music to his ears, even if it wasn't caused by him.

Very animatedly, she waved the VHS around as she explained, "Yeah, we went back three times because they're were different endings depending on what screening you went to. It was really cool. Each ending had a different killer or killers, I guess because there tended to be multiple, which is kind of genius." Then she put the video down as she almost threw it, which would've been funny, but she'd have to pay for it if it broke.

"Wait, so it's based on the board game?" Steve enquired, resting his hand under his chin as he gazed up at her. "The whole Miss Scarlet in the dining room with the rusty spoon or whatever game?"

Rusty spoon. That definitely should be one of the weapons.

Y/N giggled, confirming, "Yeah, that's the one. In the movie, Miss Scarlet is, well, she's basically a pimp."

"Now I have to see this movie." He leant forward and tried to flirt, "Do you want to..."

No way. Was Harrington flirting with Y/N? That was not happening. Not on Eddie's watch. Sliding in next to her, Eddie wrapped his arm around Y/N's shoulders and squeezed lightly, cheerfully interrupting Steve and greeting, "Funny seeing you here, Lady Folksworth."

Steve immediately stood up straighter, thinking he'd accidentally tried it on with a 'taken' girl. That wasn't his intention. Still....?

"Munson, how are you? How's high school treating you still?"

"It's going swell, Harrington," Eddie retorted, biting back the tone that he wanted to use.

"Think you're going to graduate this year?"

"They do say the third time's a charm."

Staring between the two, Y/N didn't really know what to do or say. She was lost, unsure of how to react to this situation. It was so awkward. She waited for a break in their exchange before lying, "My dad is probably waiting for me in the car. I'll see you two later," and unhooking herself from Eddie's arm. As soon as she was free, she gave them both a wave and began to leave.

Eddie called after her, "You forgot something."

Oh. Was he referring to what she'd forgotten before? He must've, so she made her way back to him and kissed his cheek, expecting that that was the thing he was talking about. Nope. In his hand was the VHS of Clue that she'd left on the counter. He handed it to her with a smug grin.

"Hey, do I get one of those?" Steve joked, earning a swift punch in the arm from Eddie.

"Bye, Steve. Bye, Eddie."

And she was off.

"Why did you get a kiss and I didn't?"

"Why did she say goodbye to you first?"

Actually, what the fuck had he done? He could've sworn he saw her car and not her dad's in the parking lot as he entered. Then again, he hadn't looked hard enough to be sure. Eddie was pretty sure he hadn't done anything to upset her. What if he had? Oh shit, that would suck. That would actually be the worst. The worst of the worst would be if he'd actually upset her and she didn't want to talk to him anymore. If that happened, he would be so royally screwed. 

But, no. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them.

Steve still asked, "Have you guys fallen out?"

"Me and Y/N? No. I don't think so."

"Are you sure? She left in a hurry as soon as you showed up."

Oh, he thought that too. Fuck, Eddie wished that Steve hadn't pointed it out because now it was out in the open. The words had been said out loud. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

Steve raised his eyebrows. "Are you two... together?"

They weren't, but, "Why do you want to know that?" It was obvious why Steve wanted to know. Eddie's reaction made it clear enough what his true feelings were since he stared at Steve blankly for a few moments before awkwardly shrugging and nervously scratching the back of his neck. The moment he put it together, he whined, "Dude, no."

"What? I haven't even done anything."

"Yet. You haven't done anything yet. Literally any other girl, ask any other girl. Please. I'm begging you. Don't."

God, he felt like such a fucking pussy. He was literally begging Steve Harrington not to ask out the girl he likes. That was how low he was willing to stoop for Y/N.

"But..."

"Just don't."

Harrington hesitated and then said, "Fine." After a moment of silence passed between them, Steve asked, "What are you doing here anyway?"

Robin butted in with "Y/N always comes in at lunch time on a Saturday, and he knows that," and bumped Steve out of the way so she could serve a customer that had been waiting, having been completely ignored by the two boys. "Harrington, are you even going to attempt to do some work?"

With that, Eddie tapped the counter in thought for a moment, his mind swimming with all the possibilities of why Y/N was acting in such a way. She'd claimed it was because of period pain, and not that he knew much about that, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it was something else. She'd been almost mute for two weeks now. Did periods last that long?

Then he said something that he'd never ever expected to come out of his mouth. "Right. I'm off to the library." That wasn't it. He went to the library often because books are fucking expensive. The surprise came when he followed that up with "I've got some biology homework to do."

So that's what he did. He went past the fantasy section, his heart panging as he did so, and straight to the non-fiction area, finding one that was named 'The Female Species' in no time. When he opened it, his eyes immediately went to the illustrations. Yep. That was a pussy. Fucking hell, the things he'd do for Y/N. She better appreciate his research.

At the end of their shift, Eddie re-entered Family Video and went straight up to Robin. "I read in a book that periods usually last five days; is it normal for the girl to be really reserved at that time? The book was very factual about organs and tubes and shit, but didn't have anything about behaviour."

Steve heard and beelined for the back office. Robin blinked at him, her eyes wide, and obviously she was just confused why she was being bombarded with girl talk. So, Eddie continued, "Y/N hasn't been herself lately, you know. I think something's up."

"Just ask her."

"She's avoiding me like that time that I didn't shower for a week and she didn't want to be rude." Robin looked absolutely disgusted, as she should. "Don't look at me like that. Our plumbing broke."

"Alright, alright." She placed all of the cashing-up stuff down on the counter and called for Steve to do it. He wasn't as quick as her (she's got some mad quick addition skills, I know it), but it would have to do for today. "I will ask on Monday."

"What about tomorrow?"

Standing her ground, Robin repeated, "No. I will ask on Monday."

Eddie continued to whine for five minutes straight, hoping that if he threw a tantrum, Robin would give in and, maybe, even immediately go to Y/N's house and find out as soon as she possibly could. But no, Robin was tired and had barely sat down her entire shift. Plus, she had to work tomorrow too, so Monday was the best and only option that she was willing to do.

Monday couldn't come soon enough.

At lunch that day, Robin decided to ask Y/N to sit with her instead of with the Hellfire lot, which was a little weird at first, but she quickly grew comfortable with it. Y/N seemed as talkative as ever as she interacted with Robin and the other members of the marching band. What the hell was Eddie talking about?

From his position at his lunch table, Eddie watched with eagle eyes at the band table to see if there was any possibility of Y/N changing her mind and going back to the Hellfire camp. He caught Robin's gaze, and she just shrugged as if to say, 'You're overreacting.' Was he? Was he just reading into it too deeply? Nope. No way. He knew her better than that. He knew her better than Robin did. He was sure of it.

They shared the same fifth period lesson, and the moment she went to hurry to the next class, he easily lifted her off the ground and made his way to the janitor's closet with her squirming in his arms. They got a few weird looks from the other students, but mostly they were too busy with their own schedules to give too much of a shit.

"Put me down! Edward Anthony Munson, fucking put me down!" She exclaimed, slapping his arm in the hopes he'd stop manhandling her. He did once they were inside. He also made sure that he stood directly in front of the door so she wouldn't be able to leave.

Well, he intended to stay posted up by the door like a German Shepherd, but he quickly noticed that the janitor had a Santana poster and moved to take a closer look with a "Sick. He's got a Shango album poster. You know, it's not my usual type of music, but my uncle loves it," so she took the opportunity to try to weave past him.

Still, she had no chance. He quickly whipped his arm out and managed to wrap his arm around her waist, pulling her up against him.

"Hey!" She protested. Looking up at him, her anger faded as she saw his face, but she still tried to be stern as she asked, "What are you doing?"

It was moments like this that Y/N became fully aware of how much taller than her he was. She was used to it, but it still kind of threw her. If he'd been any other man, she would've been intimidated, but with him, she just found herself drawn to his beauty.

"Eddie, what the hell?" She asked, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink. Damn, he loved the way she looked when she was blushing. It made her eyes go all soft and dreamy. He didn't answer. He just looked at her beautiful face, and his heart melted into a puddle of mush behind his sternum. He was staring at her lips so hard that he was barely able to muster up a response.

But he did. Eventually. Eventually, he blurted out, "Do you not like hanging out with me anymore?" His voice came out quiet and unsure, almost as if it took all of his courage to get the words out - that's because it had. It somehow got even quieter as he said, "Do you not like me anymore, Y/N?"

The soft, pretty pink on her cheeks deepened and her eyes shone like diamonds. All traces of uncertainty were gone, and in its place was shock. She studied his face for a moment, looking for any kind of signs of joking or teasing in his eyes. When she couldn't find anything, she sighed and said, "Of course I like you. What made you think that... that I didn't?"

"Wha- what? Uh, the fact that you haven't said more than two sentences to me all week." He couldn't believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. He didn't know what had come over him. One minute he was fine, and then the next - boom! Out came the sass. He'd never been good at holding in his feelings, especially when he was really into someone.

Not even giving her time to explain, he proclaimed, "And don't give me that crap about being on your period because I read up about that shit and it sounds fucking awful, I will admit, but it doesn't last two fucking weeks, Y/N. You're killing me here, sweetheart."

She couldn't help it. At his words, she let out a boisterous laugh that made his heart skip a beat. He hadn't heard her laugh like that in forever, and it just felt so goddamn good. Cackling, she said, "You read up on periods?"

"I was worried about you, and I don't exactly have a mother to ask about it. Uncle Wayne would've never let me live it down if I asked him."

Lightly, she dropped her forehead to rest on his chest as she tittered. His heart was about to burst out of his chest and into the open air. She lifted her head up off of his chest and looked him dead in the eyes, smiling as she claimed, "You're very sweet, Eds."

Sweet? She called him sweet? Everything in his body felt like it had turned to jelly. It took all of his willpower to keep himself from kissing the hell out of her. She still hadn't told him the actual reason, so he continued on his path of questioning. Putting on his best 'I'm a tough negotiator' face, he declared, "I'm serious, though. What the fuck is going on with you?"

"Is that face supposed to intimidate me into telling you what's wrong?"

Whoops. She gave it away.

"So there is something wrong!" He dramatically took his hands off her and flailed them in the air. "I knew it! I fucking knew it! Robin can fucking suck it."

Like usual, she found his little tantrums humorous, and she just gazed at him with a grin on her face as he continued to wave his arms in the air, swearing his fuzzy head off. It was like he was an overgrown toddler, trying his best to get a reaction out of her, and his efforts were successful as she laughed at him. How are you supposed to not laugh at a fully grown man hysterically jumping around in a confined space, accidently knocking over a mop on his warpath? He stopped for a moment, put it back in its place, then started whining again.

"Why won't you talk to me? This is bullshit. I've only had Dustin to annoy this entire week, which is fun, but I'd prefer to annoy you. I even stooped low enough to try and fuck with Wheeler."

"No, not Mike. How did you survive?"

Slowly, he got closer to her with a smug smile on his face, his eyes narrowing as he raised his hand to accusingly point at her as he began to facetiously complain, "You're laughing at my concern! Honestly, Y/N, I don't know why I do it. I had to look the librarian in the eyes and say, 'Hi, where's the section about pussies? Yeah, my friend has one, and I want to know why its making her act all stupid and shit. Oh, and where's the erotica while we're at it? Might as well add that to my collection too. That will give me something to do while I wait for her to even breathe in my direction!' Well, actually, no, I didn't say that, but I could've. I could've done that. I would've done that."

Swallowing down all her anticipation and nerves, she teased, "Aw, you would've checked out erotica for me?"

"Shut up," he joked, then immediately backtracked, "No, don't shut up. That's the whole thing. Don't shut - you know what? Fuck it, I'm just going to -"

Instead of continuing to ramble, he didn't know what came over him, but he knew it wasn't rational. Maybe it had something to do with the way her lips looked so full and soft. His hand grabbed her by the waist and yanked her forward, pressing their lips together with a hunger he couldn't explain. He didn't remember moving, or if he had, he forgot. One moment he was speaking, and the next, well, the next, all of his senses were focused on her.

A soft sigh escaped her lips, which caused him to smile against her mouth. He couldn't help himself; he couldn't stop smiling at the perfection of it all. Her body was pressed up against his; she was pressed into his chest. All he wanted to do was kiss her for hours. Her lips felt so soft, so sweet, and he couldn't stop touching them and tasting them. Every single part of his body was in tune with hers, and it was an amazing feeling.

There was a break in the kiss as he pulled back slightly to look at her, his hands resting on her hips as he tried to apologise, "Tell me whatever I did wrong and I'll make it up to you. I'll do what -"

"I'm not paid enough to care about this shit."

The pair broke apart, and their heads whipped to look at the newcomer. It was silent for a while as they just stared at the janitor in the hopes that he might magically vanish. "Get out," the janitor said. "Get out before I make sure you two end up in detention."

Detention was not on the cards as Y/N grabbed Eddie's hand and dragged him into the corridor as he still seemed a little dazed. Addressing the janitor, he complimented, "Cool Carlos Santana poster, by the way. That's actually what we went in there to see. Crazy. We heard about it through the grapevine, you know," so she pulled him away before he could say anything else.

"I swear to God, that was so fucking awkward," Y/N laughed, trying to suppress her giggles.

The moment they made it around the first corner they saw, he scanned if any teachers were around and then began to kiss her cheek, gradually making his way down from her cheekbone to her neck, manoeuvring her so her back was against the cold wall and his front was against hers. He nuzzled his face into her neck, inhaling her scent and absorbing it through his skin. 

Teasingly, he reared back and came to a compromise: "If you tell me what's going on in that pretty head of yours, I won't leave the biggest hickey I possibly can on your neck. Just imagine how long you'll be grounded for when your parents see that."

"You're not serious."

"Watch me." He lowered his head once again, his lips finding her skin just above her collarbone, before she tugged on his hair to pull him back up. "Start talking."

Taking a breath, she finally explained, "So, I'm trying this thing where I let other people get a word in. We all know that I have a habit of talking a bit too much, and you're probably sick of my voice at thi-"

"What the fuck are you on about?"

His blunt statement made her jump.

She was just about to speak again when a junior, who obviously had a hall pass to use the bathroom, gave them a funny look and walked by without saying a word. Jokingly, she pointed out, "Why did we choose to do this in a public corridor?"

"And she begins avoiding my question once again," he taunted, moving his mouth under her jaw to plant a kiss there. He grinned, smug, and self-assured, and Y/N felt a swell of pride at his confidence. She considered her answer for a few moments, and in that time, his hand slipped from her hip to her lower back, sliding beneath her t-shirt to graze over her bare skin. She loved the way he was so comfortable in their little game.

"Stop," she laughed, but he kept his lips there, pressing against her neck and making her shiver. "Somebody mentioned that I'm a bit of a motormouth, so I decided to reel it back, okay?"

He craned his head back in surprise. "Who?"

"I'm no snitch, Munson."

"Uh, I'd like to know who fucked with my girl. I'm planning on kicking their ass."

Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she coquetted, "Your girl? Is that what I am now?" And to be super effective, she softly brushed some of his hair behind his ear.

There was no mistaking the pleased grin that curved his lips. He gave her the goofiest, most lovestruck grin possible, declaring that, "Oh yeah, didn't you hear? You have been for a while. Did I forget to mention it?"

"You may have forgotten, yeah. Maybe you did, and I was too busy chatting to notice," she joked, and he chuckled. Her hand moved to his chest, and she felt his heart pound against her palm, his breath quicken, and his body tense. Her smile faltered for a moment as she apologised, "I'm sorry for practically ignoring you for a while."

At her words, his answer was low and sincere. "Yeah, it sucked." He tilted her chin up as she'd moved her focus away from his face, suggesting, "You could always make it up to me by hanging out with me after school and rambling to me about every single thought that pops into your head."

"Eddie, I'm sure you don't really want -"

"You don't get to tell me what I want," he said, and the serious expression returned to his face. He shook his head and kissed her again, this time briefly but with a lot of affection. It was an answer in itself. Against her lips, he mumbled, "Your voice is my favourite sound in the world; don't deprive me of it again or I'll probably go insane."

That made her do the most girlish giggle he’d ever heard.

"Just so you know," he said, "you could read anything to me and I'd be enthralled. You could read the fucking Bible to me, and I'd convert in no time."

Despite the casualness of his statement, it made her realise how truly into her he was and how much he thought she was worth listening to. She loved the way he looked at her, like she was the only girl in the world, the way he thought she was so special. He didn't see her as just another member of Hellfire; he saw her as his girl.

Putting his favourite things together, she offered, "Why don't you come over; we'll smoke, and I'll read The Hobbit to you? My parents are out, so it's up to you."

He'd never heard something so perfect for him in his life. The smile that stretched across his face was absolutely, unarguably perfect. She waited until he'd composed himself before she copied his actions from before and kissed from his cheekbone down, which caused him to shiver slightly and unconsciously put his hand on the back of her head. 

Trying to play it cool despite how his body was reacting, he retorted, "What about your cat? Is she in?"

"You'll have to come over to find out."

So he did. He was practically vibrating with anticipation as he pulled his van onto her driveway and didn't even wait for her to get her keys in the front door before he hurried up behind her, grabbing onto her waist and tugging her against him so he could kiss the back of her neck. 

The moment she opened the door and pulled him inside, he noticed her cat and beelined towards her. "Hey, stinky," he said, holding the cat in his hands. He looked at Y/N and back to the cat. The theory that all pets look like their owners seemed to be correct, as Y/N's kitten was as cute as she was.

"Don't call my baby stinky," Y/N playfully warned, stroking the cat and leaning down to bump their noses together, causing the cat to lovingly nip at the tip of her nose.

"I can't help it," Eddie replied, holding the cat by the armpits and holding her above his head, wiggling her from side to side, falsely insulting, "Liquorice is just such a gross, ugly cat."

Faking offence, Y/N grabbed the kitten from his hands and cradled it as she began walking to her bedroom, cooing, "Don't listen to the rip-off Van Halen-looking boy, baby. He failed ninth grade English too many times for his opinion to be valid."

Eddie, of course, was hot on her heels as he followed her. "I'm not a boy; I'm a man."

"Whatever you say."

When they made it up to her room, Eddie immediately made himself at home, kicking his shoes off and jumping face first onto her bed. Y/N rolled her eyes and dropped the cat onto her pillow before sitting on the bed to beam as Eddie turned on to his side and pouted, urging her to "Kiss me?"

How could she not? She obliged, leaning in and pressing her lips to his. His reaction was immediate. He eagerly responded to her kiss, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close, tongue eagerly exploring hers. Y/N was the first to pull back as she felt Liquorice pawing at her arm. 

"Oh, sorry, you jealous thing," she joked, giving the cat an equal amount of attention by scratching her belly. She instructed Eddie, "Take over while I find the book."

Liquorice had always liked Eddie, which was weird as she rarely liked anyone. Especially men. But it was as if she saw how kind he was and just went with it when he started to gently run his hands through her fur, purring as he did so.

Reading aloud, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat..." 

Y/N had found the book and made her way back to her bed, leaning against the headboard as Eddie manoeuvred to sit between her legs, bringing Liquorice to sit in his lap. Together they both said, "It was a hobbit hole, and that means comfort." 

Of course he knew that bit off by heart.

Slithering her arms around him, she placed her chin on his shoulder, occasionally giving him a peck on the cheek between paragraphs as she continued reading. He leant back, listening intently as he lit his spliff, taking a few drags before placing it between her lips and dreamily gazing at her as she let the smoke out of her nose like a sexy dragon. A sexy Smaug.

Never had he felt so comfortable. In a relationship or just in general. No matter how many people he'd been with before, there'd never been a moment when he'd ever truly felt like this.

Almost the second before she finished the final paragraph of the first chapter, Liquorice was spooked by a sound from outside and decided that she didn't want any more attention. Y/N called after her, "Do not start a fight with the dog next door," and all the cat seemed to do was narrow her eyes and saunter out of the room.

Finishing the last bit, Y/N declared, "Bilbo went to sleep with that in his ears, and it gave him very uncomfortable dreams. It was long after the break of day when he woke up."

Now that he no longer had a cat on his lap to worry about, Eddie took the book from her hands and set it on her bedside table, turning around to face her as he flirted, "Honestly, whoever told you to shut up must not have taste because I've read that so many times and it never sounded that good before."

The compliment was not lost on her as Y/N giggled, "I swore you fell asleep halfway."

"I was resting my eyes." He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers, only to pull back, looking into her eyes. "You're seriously not going to tell me who?"

"Nope." 

Fine. That'll do. He let out a huff, but it was quickly forgotten as she placed her hand on the side of his face, gently ghosting her thumb over his skin as she pressed her lips against his. And that's how they spent most of the evening. Just smooching with the occasional playful bout of taunting.

Over time, it wasn't rare for Eddie to spend all of his free time in the warm comfort of Y/N's bedroom. He lay on his side, leaning over her slightly as she used their intertwined hands to gesture, soaking in all of his focus.

It wasn't long before Eddie pieced together who had made her feel that way. Mike had made some offhanded insult about how long she had been talking, and Y/N looked at Eddie like 'this fucking guy, amiright?', accidently giving it away.

Then Hellfire came, and Mike was very surprised when his PC died only thirty minutes into the session. 

Strangely, it seemed as if the DM was personally targeting him. 

Who knows why?

*Click here for my masterlist*

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[exuber]

Astra - Prologue

(Din Djarin x Witch! Reader fic)

Summary: An injured Din lands on a planet he has only ever heard of in his mother’s bedtime stories, a place where salvation may come when he least expects it

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, injured Din, grief of lost parents

Word Count: 1.1k

Series masterlist | next chapter

Before Astra, there had been Terra.

When he was a child, Din’s mother would soothe him to sleep with stories of a planet on the outer rim called Terra. The planet had one moon, named Astra, and a sky that was so clear at night you could see her rough, alabaster surface, alongside the millions of stars that shone brightly in the sky.

It is known to be a fruitful planet, with tall trees and fields upon fields of green, but it had not always been this way. The story goes that years ago Terra did not have a moon and, instead, at night the sky was a dark blanket of navy with only the dusting of stars that twinkled above. That had been until one day a star fell from the sky and crashed down to the surface, breaking off a piece of Terra that floated up into the night. That piece of rock became Astra and it shone brightly down on Terra every night.

Terra was heartbroken at this loss and each day that passed the desert planet turned into a fruitful one; the rivers that had been dry raged with her tears and the wind that had been still howled in pain as it carried the pollen to greener grass. She cried from dawn till dusk, silencing only when the sun set and Astra could be seen high in the sky.

Terra would bask in her glow and even though they only had the night together, it was long enough for the rivers and wind to calm and for the planet to bore life once more.

Whenever Din’s mother told him this story she held him tighter against her side, like she was scared that he would suddenly break away from her to never be seen again. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel her hold.

Rough fingertips from hours of hard labour. Soothing circles rubbed into the skin of his arms that had still been scar free. The clean smell of her bath salts, used sparingly and after particularly long days at work.

Din doesn’t let himself think of his parents often. He fights against any memories of them that will creep out from the dark corners of his mind; times when he smells a broth like his mother’s or watches a small child play with a carving made by their father. He can’t stand the ache that follows when he does, one that is more subtle than the grief he first felt as a boy, but has stayed with him for years since.

It makes him think too deeply about what he is doing with the life that he is so lucky to have when theirs was ripped away while protecting him. He thinks about what they would see when they looked at him now. Would they even recognise him with a wall of beskar and weapons covering every inch of his body?

It’s not the grief he fights against. It is not the grief he is scared to feel. No, it’s the thought that even if they would recognise him as the man he has become, they may not be proud of him.

Mandalorian. Warrior. Bounty hunter. Killer.

There is no fighting against the thoughts of his mother when he stares up at Astra and is reminded of the stories she told of the moons and stars while putting him to bed at night, her voice gentle and quiet as she brushed the hair from his eyes and told him stories of love and promises and kindness. The thoughts of her remain as he flirts in and out of consciousness for hours, barely finding enough strength to remove the blade from his side before losing the battle against sleep once more.

The only time Din ever truly thinks of his mother in his dreams, her presence in them is enough to keep her face and voice fresh in his mind. She is always smiling when she appears, much like the way he had never seen her without a smile until that final day. Sometimes in his dreams she talks to him with that same smile on her face but most of the time he finds himself walking away from her, the pain that follows when he wakes up in the morning, the one that reminds him that she is gone, being too much to carry.

Now, as his feet carry him towards the home he recognises all too well, he is too weak to fight her. He lets her slip her hand into his and she pulls him to the chair he would always sit at for breakfast and dinner, that same hand coming to brush the hair from his eyes like she did when he was a child.

“You are injured.”

“I always am,” he replies and doesn’t miss the way her smile falters. “I think… I think I may be too hurt this time.”

He looks around the room, one he usually refuses to enter in his dreams. It’s exactly as he remembers if he tries hard enough, the sets of three that are placed around the room; three bowls, three plates, three sets of cutlery; three pairs of shoes lined neatly at the door, three cloaks hanging on the hooks above them; three chairs that surround the table with three marks from where the bowls had been set for years now.

He eventually looks back to his mother, a woman who is still the same age as she was when she passed, the same age that he is now. She is - was, he reminds himself - a beautiful woman with hair and eyes as dark as Din’s and round cheeks that were always flushed with pink after a day of work.

“There is someone who will save you,” his mother goes on, sitting in the chair by his side and scuffing it along the floor until her knee bumps his and she places her hand over his own.

“There is no one on this planet, Ma. It’s all land and barely any people.” He finds his voice softening, much like hers had when she patiently explained something to him as a child, and it has her eyes lighting with humor.

“Why did you come here then?” She asks, her thumb stroking over his scarred hand. “If not to be saved, why did you come here?”

Why did he come here?

Fleeting thoughts of crawling to his ship, of slumping into the seat to flee the planet that seemed to turn against him when the bounty had gone wrong. His hand bumping across the controls, his blurry vision tracking the map before he finally clicked on the one name he could recognise from his memories. Or perhaps, from his dreams.

He doesn’t - he can’t - answer.

“You are where you’re meant to be.” The pain between his ribs begins to return - slowly and then with all it’s might and he clings to his mother’s hand. “I’ll see you again, Son.”

“Ma-”

“Soon.”

[exuber]

Return

Summary: König misses his neighbor and pathetically eagerly waits for you to return. Paring: König/F!Reader Rated: T+ Word count: 1319 Notes: [More neighbor König] As always, König speaking German is in "italics".

In all his fantasies, you were always there when he came back home. He’d come home still covered in sweat and grime and you wouldn’t even care, you’d just run up and hug him. Then you’d fuss over him, insist that he eat something that you were keeping warm just for him. And he'd lead you back to his room and he'd eat what he really wanted.

But things were never quite like his fantasies. Instead of you waiting for him at the top of the stairs, you were gone. He only left for a few days, a meeting with executives nothing more, but he still couldn't wait to get back home and see you. The day he landed, you sent him a text saying that you would be away for a few days. There was a death in your brother-in-law's family and instead of making the kids miss a week of school, your sister asked you to stay with the kids. 

He sighed as he washed dishes. Usually, if you ate dinner together (which was more often than not these days), you would do the dishes together too. It turned the task from something boring and tedious to something exciting and even fun. He’ll never forget the night that dishes turned into a little soapy splash war while you were wearing a white blouse. Sure you went home shortly after, a little embarrassed and keeping your arms crossed over your chest, but that only fueled his dreams even more. He went to sleep imagining that the pillow under his head was instead your soft chest.

For a moment he wondered if he could sneak into your flat (as much as one sneaks when they have a key!) and sleep in your bed, surrounded by your scent and warmth. He didn't. He thought about it, a lot, but he didn't want to break the trust you put in him when you gave him your spare key. Nor could he bear the thought that you'd think less of him. 

So he did the next best thing. He slept with his nose pressed into the blanket that you usually wrapped around you when you complained that he kept his flat a little too cold. 

On Tuesday he tried calling you after work, but you were busy with the various after school activities the kids had, so the conversation was short. “Welcome back! I missed you too! I’ll be back Friday night. Gotta go, g’night!” 

At least he got to hear your voice. 

He tried to text you on Wednesday, but by the time you answered, he was already starting to get tired and the conversation fizzled out pretty quickly. 

He slept with the pillow that you usually leaned on that night. It wasn’t the same, he wasn’t even sure if he could actually still smell you or if it was just his imagination. But it reminded him of you, so he held it close in his sleep.

He could hardly sit still Friday, impatient enough to raise a few eyebrows when he rushed home as soon as he could, as if that would make you get home any faster. No, he just didn’t want to miss you, he hadn’t seen you in so long that he needed to spend as much time with you as possible.

Should he question when and how he became this attached to his neighbor? Probably, yes. But he wasn’t going to, not when his phone just lit up with a text from you saying that you were on the way home. 

Then he froze, his heart hammering in his chest as he realized that he hadn’t changed out of his work clothes. He cursed under his breath and rushed through a shower, he even shaved the five o’clock shadow off his chin. He paced around his room so much trying to decide how “casual” he should look that he practically air dried.

An alert on his phone told him that someone had just set off the motion detector he set up in the stairway. (He'd take it down later!) And he rushed to finish dressing. Simple gray sweats and a black t-shirt. He hesitated when his hands hovered over his makeshift mask but when he heard footsteps in the hall he grabbed it and hastily threw it over his head, at least he could hide any embarrassing faces he'd make. 

He managed to pause and catch his breath before he opened the door, seeing you standing in front of your door with your keys in hand. 

You only had the door unlocked, not even opened yet, when König emerged from his flat, your name a cheerful exclamation on his lips. 

“König!” You laughed as he quickly gathered you in his arms. 

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hood pushed up so that his lips were pressed into your skin as he mumbled something in German. You were grateful for how many cognates German and English shared, you figured he was saying something about you coming home. 

“Ok! Ok!” You laughed again as you wiggled in his arms. “Let me put my things inside!” 

“No! No!” He shook his head, face still pressed to your neck. “If you leave  again you won’t come back!” 

“Then come inside with me!” You protested with a giggle. 

He nodded and leaned down just enough to grab your bag in one hand, the other securely placed on your back. You wrapped your legs around him when you realized he had no intention of putting you back on your feet. “You act like I’m the one that went off to war!” 

“You were gone long enough.”

“It was a week!” Admittedly by the end of the week you were eager to get home and just as eager to see König again. 

He carelessly dropped your bag by the door and locked it behind him before you carried you to the couch, where he laid you down and climbed on top of you. “Like I said,” he once again buried his face in the crook of your neck, “too long.” 

“You,” you shifted beneath him, allowing the two of you to get more comfortable, König ended up with his head resting on your chest, your heartbeat lulling him into an easy relaxed state. “-are acting like a big baby.” You finished with a chuckle.

König hummed and looked up at you, resting his chin between your breasts, “you are good at taking care of babies. Will you take care of me?” 

You let out a sharp laugh that you tried to hold back, giggling at his absurdity. When you finally had your laughter under control, you met his eyes again. He was looking up at you reverently, like you were about to say something profound. You just smiled sweetly at him, “only if you promise to always come home to me.” 

He nodded quickly, “I promise.” 

“Good.” 

“Good.” He nodded again and went back to resting his head on your chest.

“Ok, now get up.” You nudged him, though he didn’t budge. 

“Already breaking your promise, my love?” 

You rolled your eyes and nudged him again, “noo. Just suggesting we move to my room, it’d be more comfortable.” 

König paused before he finally pushed himself up, “yea ok, you’re right.”

Even as he stood, he didn’t let go of you, pulling you up with him and keeping his arms around you as you led him to your room. 

As he slipped into bed behind you, wrapping you up in his arms and holding you close, it felt so easy to drift off to sleep, the anxiety that had been gnawing at him all week gone in what felt like an instant. 

Even as your presence lulled him to sleep, he knew what it was. He’d been back for a week but it finally felt like he was home.

End Notes: This was a totally unplanned chapter, but I'll write what I can these days.

[Neighbor!König Masterlist]

Neighbor König taglist (blurbs): 

@warrior-of-justice  @cumikering @ihateuguys @rand0m--fangirl @keiva1000 @dtftheavengers @takeyour-pants-off @aeeliy @milenko115 @sodonuthideout @onegami @nadiauddincrafts @nadiauddincrafts @grizzersmamma @flooftoof @techs-ass @virginalsacrifice @s0rc3r3r @sleeplessskeleton @introvered-violinist @tizylish @romula96 @peach-habibitch @mitchlow @queenotaku27 @fenixnegras @emmbny @love-dove-noora @lesbianmitsuri @supergirl16 @wybwtjmiadz @ghonigsloverbabe @thatmusedhatter @grassclippers @skystreamchan @lordlydragon @luvecarson @thetestsubject666 @mafer383 @darkangel4121 @puppylikethedog  @trashitytrashitytrash @teapartydreams 

[exuber]

— santa baby

santa!joel x f!reader

synopsis

you find an intruder dressed like santa in the living room of your childhood home on christmas eve. what could go wrong? or, you learn that santa is real. and extremely charming. and handsome. and he fucks, hard.

wordcount: 5.6k

ao3 | masterlist | fic notifs

tags/warnings: explicit (18+ mdni), christmas fluff/humor/smut, rom-com vibes, crack/silly fic treated semi-seriously, no use of y/n, age gap (reader is a mid 20's grad student, joel is in his 50's), unprotected piv, pet names (baby, baby girl, sweetheart, honey, little girl), brief daddy kink, santa kink(?), joel is santa, soft!joel, strangers to lovers, reader initially thinks joel is an intruder that poses a threat but is never actually in danger, so light thriller elements

When your eyes flutter open, it takes a moment to process the sight before you. Firelight still crackles in the hearth; the comforting scent of freshly baked cookies wafting in from the kitchen. The picturesque tableau of the perfect living room on Christmas Eve is interrupted by only one issue: the presence of large black boots standing before the mantle, attached to a towering man in a fur-lined red coat.

The first possibility— you’re dreaming. You must have been drunker than you thought when you dozed off in the plush lounge chair earlier that evening, warmed by the fire across from you. You do have weird dreams after drinking too much.

But... you only had a couple glasses of eggnog. Your blood alcohol content is definitely not high enough to be dreaming up a stranger decked head to toe in red sneaking around your parent's living room in the middle of the night. If this were a dream, the stranger would at least have a decent beard to complete the Santa look, right? The patchy shit framing his jaw is, quite frankly, an insult to mall Santas and Christmas card illustrators everywhere.

Trudging through the dregs of sleep, each thought like pushing through molasses. You rub your eyes to clear your head as your mind settles on the horrifying, disastrous, second possibility. Some fucking psycho is in your parents living room, on Christmas Eve, dressed like Santa Claus.

The stranger hasn't noticed you open your eyes, back still turned towards you, broad shoulders on display where the velvet of his coat pulls taut. His body shifts as he reaches for something above the hearth, adjusting the stockings… And methodically removing them from the hooks on the mantel! Is this motherfucker really swiping the stockings you and your siblings managed to hand-sew as a gift to your parents a few years ago? They aren’t even full of stocking stuffers yet! Not to mention that they are, quite frankly, of shitty construction and devoid of any material worth. What did this asshole want with them?

Rage simmers within you like a pot of water left too long on the stove, but fear wins out as reality washes over you—stock-still in your seat, blood frozen over in an icy river beneath your skin. There is a burglar just feet away from you, his huge shoulders filling out the joke of a red jacket he wears, strong frame easily visible beneath the costume. And your family won’t be able to clamber downstairs fast enough to stop him from doing some serious damage to you even if your scream did wake them up. So… motionless you remain. 

You must have been asleep when he walked in. And he had left you alone. Pretty shit move for a burglar– probably should have chosen a house without a 20 something year old passed out in the living room, but okay. Whatever. Maybe you can just close your eyes, pretend you never woke up, and he won't hurt you.

But then knock off Santa does something unexpected—he puts the stocking back on its hook, hanging a little heavier now. What kind of thief is this guy? He definitely isn't very good at it.

Maybe… the icy river rages back to life in your veins, dread cracking through its frozen surface. Maybe he isn't a burglar at all. Maybe he put something dangerous in the stocking like poison, or a bomb, or—

Shit. Fuck. You are definitely alone, in the middle of the night, with some sick fucking Santa themed serial killer. 

Strange man? yes.

Breaking and entering? Yes.

In the dead of night? Yes. 

Burglar? Definitely not.

Deranged serial killer is like, the next option down the list. To someone else, burglar to serial killer may seem to be a large jump to make. But in this moment of pure panic, you find no other logical conclusions.

Serial-killer-Santa has moved onto the next stocking, rummaging for something in the bag slung over his shoulder, still facing away from you.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Your body is wide awake now, each second passing in slow-motion while Serial-killer-Santa fills each of your family’s stockings with who-knows-what. Whatever it is can’t be good. Right?

What is this guy’s plan? Does whatever he put in the stockings do the job? Is he filling them up for shits and giggles before going around the house and doing it himself? And, most importantly, what the fuck are you supposed to do?

There is no way you can get past him unnoticed to grab a knife from the kitchen. Gears turn as you run through your options. Something close by will have to do. Your eyes scan the room for anything you could use to fight him off.

There is no way you’re letting this fucking creep kill your whole family on Christmas Eve. Who the fuck does that?

Finally, your eyes fall upon your saving grace. Wrought iron fire tools, old-fashioned and quaint in their appearance in their stand beside the fireplace. They could also very well be your doom—they sit just few feet away from fucked up Santa. He could turn at any moment and see what you’re doing. Without the element of surprise, you have nothing.

You shift in your seat, holding in your breath as you wait for the creak of furniture that never comes. Without even breathing a sigh of relief, you inch across the plush rug covering the old wooden floor, lowered to all fours. Each movement is calculated, your body taut with tension. Knee, forward, stop.  Hand, forward, stop. Over and over, for what feels like en eternity. Breath held until your hands wrap around the handle of the little shovel standing beside the hearth.

Fucked up Santa is an arm’s length away as you draw the shovel up and out of its holder, careful not to make a sound. Between the shovel and the fire-poker, you figure blunt force trauma is the more dependable option. Just knock him in the head, and you’ll be safe. Feet tuck beneath your knees, knees beneath your hips, hamstrings burning as you push yourself up little by little. Until, with a swing backwards for momentum, you bring it down on Santa’s head hard.

Did it just fucking bounce off his skull?

You try again.

Bounce.

Again.

Bounce.

Again, again, again.

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

What the fuck?

Panic surges through you, a sinking pit where your stomach should be. What little control you had over the situation is ripped from your grasp and it leaves your mind reeling as you try to come up with a new plan to get out of this encounter intact. The bored drawl of his voice finally rouses you from your racing thoughts.

“You done?”

The shovel is still held tight in your grasp, ready for another swing, when those big brown eyes disarm you. His forehead is creased into a scowl and his lips are slightly downturned at the corners, like you are nothing more than a pestering inconvenience. But those damn eyes—burnt amber and gentle; they draw you in like a fly to honey.

You’re certain your eyes bulge out of their sockets, your mouth hanging open like a fish out of water, stunned as you’re caught between drinking in the sight of him like the sweetest ambrosia, and knocking him upside the head one more time to see if it’ll take.

Maybe-serial-killer Santa drags a huge, gloved palm down his face; body sagging in exhaustion or frustration as he lets out a breath. The bag he had been holding flops on the ground beside him.

You track the movement of his hands—are the gloves to keep from leaving any DNA behind?

He must feel the fear radiating from your body because he holds his palms out like you’re a baby deer he’s trying not to scare off. “Look, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Great, the devastatingly sexy trespasser tampering with your fireplace says he won’t hurt you. Luckily criminals are known for their credibility!

The man nods encouragingly when you don’t bolt after his first statement. “This is my last stop of the night before flyin’ back home.”

Your eyebrows draw together. It’s not like you can run, so the only option you see is to engage with this weirdo. There aren’t any flights out this late, the airport is closed. Is he rich, or is he delusional?

“What like, a private jet or something?”

His lips quirk up in a smirk, “like reindeer.”

Oh, great. Delusional. Maybe your sense of self preservation is finally depleted, because you scoff.

His grin widens. “Don’t believe me?”

“Reindeer don’t fly, asshole. ‘Specially not for delusional intruders on Christmas Eve.”

His chuckle is soft and warm, comforting like a fresh cup of cocoa.

“I’d say that’s the only type ‘a person they fly for, sweetheart.”

Knock off Santa does have a point. And the term of endearment has your blood rushing between your legs. But, still. There’s no way… right?

“Ya want to see?”

So. Your life just got a lot weirder. It turns out Serial-killer-Santa isn’t Serial-killer-Santa at all. The reality is even more improbable than that: he’s just… regular Santa. Old Saint Nick. Father Christmas. With reindeer and snow magic to prove it. You think those melting-chocolate eyes have something to do with how quickly you accept the whole thing—kneeling in fresh snow with a stranger in the front yard well past midnight, hairy whiskers and warm breath against your skin as a reindeer eats straight from your palm.

Not-fucked-up-Santa’s gaze weighs heavy in your chest. A soft grin tugs at his lips. There is something enchanting about the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself. Gruff and sure, with warm eyes and secret smiles that belied his rough exterior. On his knees beside you, he affectionately scratches behind another reindeer’s ears.

The snow is freezing where it melts through your pajama pants, but the warmth in your chest makes it all worthwhile. You can’t believe you thought this guy was some kind of evil psycho. After you spent the last half an hour together in the front yard, you swear he reminds you of an overgrown teddy bear.

You nod towards the reindeer he’s petting. “What’s its name?”

“Prancer.”

Your laugh rings like a bell, rising into the night sky. You shake your head with upturned lips. “Prancer like in the songs?”

The man nods. “Just like ‘em.”

You look down, suddenly shy, eyes tracing reflections of Christmas lights atop the fresh coat of snow.

“So, what about you?” You ask, realizing you aren’t actually sure what to call him.

He cups both sides of Prancer’s face playfully, the reindeer leaning into get more chin scratches. He responds absentmindedly, “What about me?”

“What should I call you?” You ask, recalling different names you’ve heard over the years. “Santa Claus? Kris Kringle? Saint Nicholas?”

“The name’s Joel.”

Your head quirks to the side, surprised. “Joel like Jolly?”

He huffs a low chuckle, standing up with a fond pat on Prancer’s back. The lights lining the roof glint in his silver hair. “Joel like it’s what my momma named me.”

You raise to your feet as well, snow crunching beneath the slippers you slid on before following Santa—Joel—outside.

He rests gloved hands on his hips, standing with one knee popped out a little. Assessing you like he knows what you’ll say next.

“So… what’s with the other names?”

His little grins are becoming a familiar sight, warming your bones like the living room hearth. “Only started this gig a few years back.” Joel tilts his head upwards, taking in the inky black sky and its silver dusting of stars.

“Kris was the last guy. Before that it was Nick.” He lets out a sigh, breath a white cloud; nodding towards the team of animals harnessed to his sleigh. “The reindeer live forever. Santas… not quite. Usually get about a millennium, give or take a few decades.”

You nod, processing. “What Christmas is this for you?”

Joel rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “The third.”

Your eyes widen and you can’t help but laugh. Even if it is a little morbid. “Wait, Santa died two years ago?!”

Crossing his arms, Joel replies with a subtle twinkle in his eyes, “I’m Santa. Been over that already.” Chuckling under his breath he adds, “you ain’t the brightest light on the tree, huh sweetheart?”

Your hand finds his shoulder in a playful shove. “You know what I mean, asshole!” Huffing a laugh of your own before you continue, crossing your arms over your chest in mock defense. “And my GPA this semester was three point nine. So I’m plenty bright.”

That leather-clad hand reaches out to cup your cheek and your heart soars before Joel catches himself.

Hovering awkwardly between you, he speaks. A muttered out I can tell, darlin’ before he lowers his hand in a stilted movement.

Before you can think about it, your palm is wrapped around his wrist, and he slots his fingers between yours. Heat is radiating off his body like a furnace—whether it’s from Santa magic or the fur lined coat, you aren’t certain.

You blink up at Joel through lowered lashes, standing at least a head taller than you. “Aren’t you gonna ask my name, Santa Claus?” Voice lilting and flirtatious, you wonder if a little bit of that liquid courage still thrums in your veins.

“Don’t need to. Already know it.” As soon as the words pass through his lips, his eyes widen and he’s backing away from you, leaving your hand achingly empty.

“Shit, uh–” Joel clears his throat, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “That came out wrong. It’s just—”

Putting him out of his self-imposed misery, a giggle bubbles up in your chest. “The list?”

Joel nods, shoulders sagging in relief. “The list.”

Your body floats towards Joel’s again like you are attracted by some magnetic force. Eyes wide and doe-like, you surprise even yourself with the next question. “And which list is my name on?”

His face is so close you can feel his breath hot against your cheek. Black leather cool against your ear as he tucks a tress of hair behind it before cupping one side of your face in his big palm. Your heart beats like a wild drum inside your chest.

 Mere inches separate his lips from yours when he answers your question, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His voice is low and rough, with a teasing edge. “Don’t know, baby. You been a good girl?”

You swallow the lump stuck in your throat, absolutely certain he can hear the way your breath catches. All you can manage is a little nod.

Joel raises the other gloved palm to cup the base of your skull in both hands, tilting your head up towards him. The space between your lips is thick with tension, begging to be crossed. But you are as frozen as the air around you. Enchanted; not by the magic or impossibility of who this man claims to be; but by the way his silver hair glints in the starlight, curling at the base of his neck. By the way his fingers spread warmth where they touch, and the way you long to feel the work-roughened skin beneath them. By the way his eyes smile before his lips, and the way he makes your insides dance in leaps and twirls like the sugar plum fairy.

His voice comes out in a whisper. “You gonna be a good girl for me right now?”

The smallest nod of your head before he clarifies—“words, baby.”

You have half a mind to be embarrassed by the way you’re about to beg, but you know Joel is just as desperate as you feel in this moment. That he needs to hear what you want, that you feel this feeble string of fate pulling taut between your hearts, that already this may be something more than lust. Spellbound in the way he makes you feel seen, by the care he’s already shown you; the way he delays going home to rest after the longest night of the year to comfort you and ensure that you know you are safe, that he isn’t a threat to you or your family.

Your pleading whisper matches his. “Kiss me, Joel.”

The moment the words escape into the chill between you, Joel closes the meager distance keeping him from you. His lips are warm, chapped and rough where yours are smooth. His touch is feather-light where he still cups the base of your skull; his kiss just as gentle. Hands brace his chest, a rock upon which to hold steady against each wave of sensation. His mouth moves against you tender and timid, as if any movement too sudden could break the spell you’ve cast upon each other.

But you ache for more; for the heat and passion simmering beneath your skin. Longing for not just his gentle touch but also his jagged edges. When you trace the heat of your tongue across the seam of his lips, he opens for you like a bright red flower blooming in white snow. Suddenly tenderness is traded for hunger, and your fingers wrap around the white fur of his collar. Tugging it downwards, begging for his body flush against yours. Begging him to bare himself before you.

Hands gently wrap around your wrists in an urge you to pause. Voice wobbly as if he is holding himself back from continuing too. “Not here, baby girl.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath as he kissed you. But you must have been, because your little huffs puff white plumes into the air as you catch it.

“Come up to my bedroom?”

The moment Joel nods his assent, you take him by the hand to lead him inside, an unspoken promise lingering in each step.

You gently pull the door to you bedroom closed behind you. Your back rests against the white surface; the gentle cool of the wood so juxtaposed to the way each nerve ending in your body crackles with flame. Fingers turn the lock without looking, eyes fixed on the way Joel devours your body with sight alone. The bedside lamp is still turned on, warm light washing over the planes of his face. Letting you study each line and freckle now that he is lit by something more than the night sky.

It does not surprise you that he is even more devastatingly handsome in the light. Now that you can see the little wrinkle of concern between his brows, the lines that frame his eyes commemorating each scowl and belly laugh that you didn’t get to see. Your heart swells with gratitude for what you can see—how the worry line ease and the crows-feet deepen as he matches your timid grin with a one that splits his face in joy.

He speaks your name like it’s the one Christmas wish he doesn’t have the power to grant. All his magic, and he looks at you as if you’re the most enchanting thing in the room. “Can I kiss you again?”

You surge forward to capture his lips, more desperate now for the time spent parted as you walked through the quiet house. Hands bump into each other as you struggle to rid your bodies of the layers separating them. Melting against Joel at the first touch of his gloveless hands upon your skin; they bear the callouses you knew you would find. His fingers light trails of white-hot sparks with each touch across your skin, unbuttoning your knit cardigan and coasting his hand along the skin beneath the hem of your shirt.

Unlike the frigid air outside, your skin holds no chill. Despite your lack of proper dress, you never felt cold as you stood with Joel in the yard. Your lips pull into a smile against his, heart full with the knowledge that he did that for you.

His chest is toned and belly pleasantly full as you strip him of his coat and shirt. Pants pool on the carpet soft beneath your feet, shoes abandoned in the foyer. Your gaze stops short on the bulge outlined in Joel’s red (of course) boxer-briefs as his catches on your mismatched bra and panties. Fingers trace along the softness of your abdomen, slowly reaching around to the clasp of your bra, eyes locked with yours in a question. You quickly nod, and Joel’s fingers deftly unclasp the fabric before he lets it fall unceremoniously to the floor.

His pupils, already darkening his irises, blow even wider as he studies your pert nipples and the supple flesh of your breasts. One hand finds each, each gentle squeeze sending heat straight to your core. Surely the gusset of your panties is already soaked. Before you can lament the loss of his touch, he cups your chin in his hands. Lips find yours, reverent and gentle, as you slowly walk him to the bed.

The back of his calves meet the side of your mattress, urging him to sit on the edge before you climb into his lap, legs straddled on either side. Your fingers tangle through his gray locks– his rest upon your waist, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the skin beneath your breasts. Lips hover just a hairs breadth apart, eyes locked in a heated gaze as you grind against him, his bulge rubbing the fabric of your panties against your slick folds.

He warns, “don’t have a condom, darlin.’”

It’s a stupid decision. The sex-ed outreach ambassadors at your school would definitely be horrified to see a grad student engage in such reckless behavior. But as you breathe out a response, you mean it. “Don’t care, Joel. Need you.”

His lips ghost against yours in a brief tease of a kiss before pulling back to speak against them. “Can’t get you sick. Perk of the job.” He steals another kiss before continuing, “you on somethin’?”

You nod, relief mixing with wonder at how he keeps finding little ways to take care of you. At the way he’s keeping you safe. You sound breathless when manage to speak, only getting out a simple, “IUD,” in response.

His hands guide your hips against the hard outline of his cock. You can feel his grin against your lips as you kiss him deep and long. His scruff rubs against your face and you trace it with your fingertips, stopping to rub the smooth little patch of skin you find along his jaw. You can’t believe you thought this sweet scruff was a sad excuse of a beard. He grinds his hips upward and you both groan at the friction. You think surely you could swim in all the slick pooled in your panties. The feeling of his cock against your seam has your cunt aching through the fabric keeping your centers apart. That feeling in your belly builds with each movement against him, and you think you could come like this.

“Joel, please.”

The deep edge of dominance in his voice sends a fresh wave of arousal washing over you. “Please what, baby girl?”

Your reply comes out in a needy whine— “need to feel you!”

Joel hums low in his throat as his teeth graze the shell of your ear. He buries his face in your hair, breathing in the scent of your shampoo—cinnamon and vanilla.

“Need Father Christmas to touch this sweet little pussy, hm?” The kiss he presses against your temple is so at odds with the filthy words that leave his lips. “Filled up your stocking out there, now you need t’be filled up right here?” Joel taps gently against your panties. “That it?”

His eyes find yours expectantly, your mind swimming in the sensation of his cock rubbing against your seam and his finger painfully close to where you need him most. You blurt out the first words that come to your mind—a little moan of yes, Daddy—the assent that he needs to hear before he touches you the way you want. You don’t mean to call him Daddy, didn’t even realize you were thinking it before it slips out. Heat rises in your cheeks. It’s his own damn fault, calling himself Father Christmas. You hope you haven’t scared him away; broken the haze of lust that has fallen over you both.

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by a broken groan as his hips buck into you. “Oh sweetheart.” His voice sounds wrecked, want cracking the last word— whiskered lips curve into a knowing grin. “Just need Daddy to take care of ya.” A drag of his cock against your dripping cunt through the layers of underwear. “S’ok, honey.”

Joel’s huge palms guide you to grind against him steadily. “Santa’s here. M’gonna take care of you, gonna take care’a my girl.”

His girl.

Panties pulled to the side, a calloused index finger runs through your soaked folds. Each touch sends sparks thrumming through your veins. You bury your face in his neck, hips bucking when the pad of his finger grazes your clit. Breathing deep to inhale his scent; pine and peppermint. A low groan tears out of Joel’s throat as he dips a finger inside your aching cunt, pumping in and out as your walls convulse around him.

“So damn wet for me, baby.”

You moan out a high pitched mhm. Joel rubs his thumb against your clit as he moves in and out, only one finger inside and you already feel deliciously full—but you need more. Adding a second finger inside you, you swear he can read you like an open book. Knows just what you need.

The stretch of two of Joel’s fingers is nothing like when you touch yourself; you can’t imagine how his length will feel. He can already reach so deep, easily rubbing against the spongy little spot hidden inside that makes you see stars with each pump of his fingers in and out.

“Good fuckin girl, takin’ what I give ya,” Joel breathes into your hair. “Think this pretty pussy is ready for my cock?”

“Yes, Joel, please, fuck—” his fingers brush against your g-spot one last time and cut off your begging with a keening whimper.

You watch entranced as Joel’s tongue darts out to taste you on his soaked fingers before sucking them in his mouth. He hums around his fingers contentedly. “Knew you’d taste sweet, baby girl.” Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head, speaking into your hair. “I could stay down there until the sun comes up, just tastin’ you.”

You won’t deny that the idea excites you. But you can feel his hardness press against your core, panties partly covering your folds now that Joel’s hand isn’t there to hold them to the side. You feel so empty, your achy cunt pulsing around air. So desperate to be full of him that any course of action except Joel splitting you in half with his cock seems unacceptable.

Your head pulls back, batting your eyelashes with the sweetest puppy-dog eyes you can muster. It doesn’t take much pretending for you to look so needy– it surprises you, the burn already starting behind your eyes. You’re certain you’d cry if he denies you a second longer.

“Taste later, Joel.” Lips press against his scruffy cheek. “Need your cock, please.” Lips press against the other one. “Now.”

Something about Joel, about the way he takes care of you, his rough-edged gentleness—you’re downright desperate. And it feels good.

Joel’s belly laugh is full of warmth, loud in the quiet of the house. “Later, huh? I’m holdin’ you to that.”

You’re grateful that your bedroom is far enough from the rest of your family’s to worry too much about the sound carrying and waking them. But still, you shush him with a scandalized grin. “Joel!” You whisper-laugh. “Not so loud.”

He lifts you from his lap like you weigh nothing, laying you back gently against the mattress. You add Santa-super-strength to the mental list of things about Joel that turn you on. He harrumphs, pouting playfully as he rids himself of his underwear.

His length bobs heavy, hanging thick and long between his legs. Goosebumps pebble your skin; his fingers are big. But his cock is huge.

Strong legs straddle either side of your hips, lips brushing against your ears as he speaks, “weren’t so worried ‘bout bein’ loud when you were beggin’ for my cock, little girl.” The words are harsh, but his voice holds no bite—teasing.

Joel’s name falls from your lips again. This time it’s a needy whimper.

He thumbs the hem of your panties, gaze serious as it meets yours. “Can I take these off, darlin’?”

Immediately, you nod. “Joel, please.”

Gently tugging your underwear off, he throws it backwards to join the rest of your clothes somewhere on the bedroom floor. His palm cups your pussy, the curls covering your mound slick to the touch.

He hushes the little whines leaving your throat. “Sh, sh, sh. S’ok baby girl.” Running a finger through your soaked folds, his voice is reverent, “gonna give you what you need.”

Joel’s cock his heavy against your thigh as he lines it up with you. Body covering yours like a blanket, propped up on his elbow above you. He runs the head through your puffy folds once, twice, thrice; each nerve on fire with every teasing motion. Finally, he notches his hard length at your entrance, waiting for you to nod before he slowly pushes inside.

There is a pressure in your core like you’ve never felt as he stretches you open. When you finally take him to the hilt, he stills to let you adjust to his size. Joel’s nose brushes yours, sweat glistening on his forehead in the warmth of your room.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

He hasn’t even moved yet, but your breath already comes in shallow pants. The tip of him brushes a spot so deep inside that you feel like you’re made of jelly. “So good, Joel. So good.”

He rolls his hips slowly, cock still wedged within you. You cry out, nipples brushing his skin as your back arches into him. Voice breathy, you only manage two desperate words– “I’m ready.”

Finally he moves, pulling nearly all the way out before he thrusts back in, deep and languid. Joel pumps his cock in and out, keeping his pace slow and comfortable. Like he’s still afraid to hurt you.

The stretch of your walls around his length has your skin prickling, clit swollen and begging for attention. Pleasure builds in your belly, but you need more. Nails dig gently into his back, urging him on.

“Harder, Joel, please,” you manage between panting breaths.

It’s like the leash that holds him back frays and snaps at your permission. Your fingers tangle in his silver curls, the pad of his thumb swirling around your puffy clit. Your cunt spasms around him as tension pulls taut deep in your abdomen with each rough snap of his hips against yours.

He fucks you mercilessly, for minutes or hours. You lose track of time as he pulls earth-shattering pleasure from your body.

“That’s right, good fuckin’ girl. Come on my cock, baby.” His comes out rough and breathy, sounding as wrecked as you feel. “Give it to me, baby.” Each instruction spurs you closer to the edge, coaxing you toward release with every mind numbing brush of his cock. It’s so deep inside that he must be hitting your cervix. He growls low in his throat, “let go f’me”

Joel’s thrusts quicken, frenzied as you writhe beneath him. With a few more tight circles around your aching clit, your eyes roll back as your release hits you. Walls flutter around his cock as he fucks you through the aftershocks, his thumb stilling its movements.

His pace doesn’t let up as he chases his pleasure, your arousal coating his cock in a slick squelch with each snap of his hips. “So good for me, so fuckin’ good.”

A desperate wine tears from your throat, stars painting your eyelids at his praise and the tip of him brushing against your g-spot as he fucks you hard and deep.

“Y'want ol' Santa to put a little snow inside ya, baby girl?”

The rasp of his voice has you begging for him to fill you with his spend. Needy whines of yes, Joel, please, fuck, yes!

He makes a strangled noise as his hips stutter, face buried in your neck as he spills within you, fucking his spend deeper as your cunt milks him dry. After a few shallow thrusts to ride out the aftershocks, he falls limp on top of you.

In this moment, you aren’t worried about the mix of your come and his dripping out of your cunt and onto the bedsheets. You aren’t even worried if your family heard Santa fuck you stupid.

All you care about is Joel, the softness of his curls between your fingertips. The feeling of plush lips against yours as he kisses you gently, his large palm cupping your face. You lay there, limbs tangled, in the arms of this man who was a stranger just hours ago.

You hope he never becomes a stranger again. After all, you do owe him a taste. You get the sense that you’ll be making good on that promise.

fuck neil druckmann, support palestine

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i've had such a busy christmas eve and need to go pass out now but i might add more detailed notes later lol if you enjoyed and want to leave feedback it would make my day!! need santa!joel bad idk it's embarassing

idk if i would have written a santa!joel fic if i hadn't been inspired by mr. winter by @kedsandtubesocks! please go read it ✨

dividers by @saradika-graphics

follow @elflutter-fics for notifs! i may some mutuals in the replies 🤍

[exuber]

pretty baby (joel miller x f!reader)

summary: working as a nanny for joel miller is about to get a whole lot more interesting.

warnings: age gap (28/50), infidelity, divorce, power imbalance, soft!joel, rich!joel (lmao), cursing, joel is taller than reader, mention of alcohol, marriage angst, smut, pussy pronouns, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, kinda dom!joel ig, praise kink, 18+ mdni.

notes: this is my first time writing this kind of thing, and truthfully i’m not sure if it’s any good, but enjoy :) most importantly: if it’s not for you, that’s fine! you can scroll away and forget you ever saw it. please be kind, always ✨ and finally, i obviously don’t condone any of this shit in real life ✌🏻

big huge thank you, as ever, to my wonderful beta @macfrog 🤍 you know i couldn’t do this without you, babe. love you with my whole heart.

A strip of light shines from beneath the door of the study, obnoxiously bright in the darkness of the house.

Mr. Miller never works this late.

After a year of working for the family, you know their habits, the way they lived. You know that Mr. Miller — call me Joel, darlin’ — always drinks an iced espresso with an insane six shots to get him ready for the day. You know that Melissa — his wife — likes to finish the week with a ludicrously expensive bottle of rosé, often hosting her friends around the ornate marble countertops in the kitchen.

You also know that their marriage is not a happy one.

As a nanny to their two children, not much manages to creep past you about the inhabitants of the luxurious home you shared, and there’s one thing you’re absolutely certain of: Melissa Miller was growing to resent her husband. The two of them had worked hard to make their millions, but Mr. Miller, it seems, hasn’t stopped.

You barely see him outside his study or away from his office downtown. Sure, he makes time for the kids, but that’s when you aren’t needed. They love him, clamouring for him whenever he walks through the door, showing off their latest school work or dance routines they’d picked up from their friends.

That’s when you clock out for the day, watching him shed his suit jacket and tie, his offspring using him as a climbing frame. You retreated to your bedroom in those situations; listening for the terse exchanges you’d hear between husband and wife in the hallway after dark.

Melissa’s words from the previous Friday come back to you as you stand outside the study: swirling the blush-coloured liquid in her glass, stem held delicately between expertly manicured nails. Her friends had nodded and pouted in sympathy, her dissatisfaction towards her husband quite apparent as you made your dinner quietly in the corner.

Fantastic father, you guys know that. He’s a truly great guy. But, he’s married to his career. Not to me. Not for a long time.

The look on her face told you everything you needed to know. You’d seen it before with your girlfriends, felt it before yourself when your relationship with your college boyfriend had run its course.

She’d checked out mentally already.

You’d overheard her again one day when you’d been doing laundry, whispering on the phone about her plans. There’s a guy at work, she’d giggled. James from Accounting. Is this what it’s like to have someone actually want you?

You weren’t getting involved. It wasn’t your place.

Besides, Mr. Miller is always good to you; paying you more than you’d ever dreamed of, asking how your day was going on the odd occasion you see him around the grand home they’ve invited you to live in. For the most part, he simply stays out of your way.

You just admire him from afar.

You know he’s fifty: you’d helped the kids sign his birthday card last year, heard his sarcastic comments about being an older father. He’s a whole twenty-two years your senior, but the fact he was incredibly fucking handsome was never lost on you. Dark hair threaded with silver, same as the scruff along his cheeks. A thick moustache over his full upper lip, beautiful curved nose, brown eyes kind and warm. Taller than you, but never imposing.

A crush on the much-older man who employs you to work in his own home? A fucking terrible idea, to be honest. So, you don’t indulge it; ignoring your daydreams about him in the other wing of the house, sharing a bed with a wife who no longer loves him.

You shift from foot to foot, now, as the floorboards creak beneath you. Melissa hasn’t been home all day, a note left to say Mr. Miller and the children were the only ones who’d need dinner. You wonder, idly, if she’s with James from Accounting right now, drawing up divorce papers and planning how to split the childcare.

So, you’ll simply knock on the study door, just to see if Mr. Miller is okay, let him know you’ve finished for the day.

That’ll be fine, right?

Your fist connects lightly with the smooth oak, and you hear his low voice telling you to come in.

“Hey, Mr. Miller. The girls are sleeping, so I’m gonna turn in for the night. There’s chilli already made, if you wanted anything to-”

“Can I ask you a question?”

His interruption comes as a surprise, until he turns in his chair. He looks.. Defeated. His thick-rimmed glasses in one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. White shirt unbuttoned with his chest exposed, tie pulled loose, shoulders slouched dejectedly.

“Uh, sure.”

Chewing your lip, you stand in front of his desk, his gaze bloodshot and broken. You twist your hands, feeling your palms begin to sweat.

“Did you know about my wife wanting a divorce?”

///

He’s never been this direct, never really asked you any other questions than how was your weekend?

This is new.

Apparently, Melissa had called him. It was over. There was someone else; had been for a while. She’d taken a bag of clothes to her mom’s, would come by in the morning to see the children. He tells you the facts, tone laced with bitterness as he scrubs a hand across his face.

You feigned innocence; gasping and grimacing at all the right times. It truly was a mess: she’d clearly blindsided him, and it showed.

“I know I shouldn’t have been workin’ so late all the time, that I probably should’ve paid her more goddamn attention,” he sighs. “I guess we were strugglin’, but I thought that just came with being parents, y’know?”

You nod encouragingly, even though you don’t know. This is the most Mr. Miller has ever spoken to you; pouring his heart out to the girl he pays to look after his babies. You’re not even sure he knows your surname.

“‘f that’s what she really wants, I won’t stop her. It’s just — the kids. I don’t want ‘em thinkin’ badly of me.”

You fight a strange urge to reach out and smooth the crease between his brows, take his face in your hands. You’re unsure what’s come over you; you know he’s a grown man — much more grown than you.

“Mr. Miller, they’d never think that. You’re the best daddy ever — that’s what they tell me, every single day,” you babble, fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “It’s probably for the best, in the long run. If — if she isn’t happy.”

Fuck. You’ve said too much.

He blinks slowly up at you, eyes shining in the reflection of the low lamplight. “‘f you say so, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

You try to shift your focus away from how the name makes you feel, the butterflies that begin to drift in your belly. He’s so fucking handsome: you like being his darlin’, his sweetheart.

You wonder what else you could be for him.

“Been tryin’ to guess how long she’s been screwin’ some other fucker behind my back, too. Makes me feel like a damned fool.” He pinches the bridge of his nose again as he talks, elbows set on his thighs.

In truth, Melissa and her paramour couldn’t be further from your mind: he’s here, and you want to help him feel better, in any way you can.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Miller? To make it easier?”

He chuckles, then. “Stop callin’ me that, maybe?”

“‘Least I made you smile,” you tease, eyebrows raised. Your hand finds his shoulder, and he moves his to rest over it. His palm all but swallows yours whole; warm and rough as he squeezes. Despite yourself, and his obvious anguish, a buzz of desire claws at your spine.

You’re standing over him, now, watching as his eyes find your waist, the curve of your chest. You squirm a little, unsure of how to feel. Something changes in his gaze: a decision being made. You’re rocked by the realisation of how badly you want him, and how much you probably fucking shouldn’t do.

“You really wanna help me, huh?”

His voice is barely a murmur, and you know he’s offering you a choice. Something tells you that Mr. Miller would never make you do anything you didn’t want to do — that you’re safe with him. Eyes falling to the broad expanse of his chest, the thick biceps in his white shirt; you know you want this. Just as much as he does.

“Yes,” you breathe quietly. “I really do.”

Something passes between you both: unspoken, but shared in its secrecy. You’re confident he’s doing this out of spite, a form of payback towards the woman who’s left him for someone else; but your panties are wet, and you’re past caring.

“Lock the door, darlin’.”

///

Never in a million years did you think you’d find yourself here when you woke up this morning: rolling your hips over Mr. Miller’s thighs in his office chair, his teeth in the column of your throat. Dress hiked up around your waist, his hands grab at your ass, and he’s devouring you like a man starved.

“You’re real fuckin’ pretty, baby. I ever tell you that?”

A giggle bubbles in your chest, the absurdity of the situation finally permeating your consciousness.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“No,” he repeats back to you softly. “That wouldn’t have been right, would it?”

You shrug your shoulders, dragging his lips to yours. This isn’t right either: his wedding band cool against your skin, his name on the paycheck that goes into your account each month. The thrill of it all is heady, but you find it spurs you on even more.

The sensation of his tongue in your mouth is intoxicating; he tastes faintly of whiskey, his cologne almost overwhelming. He’s touching you gently, softly; but each gesture is full of intent, unbridled lust spilling over on both sides.

Mr. Miller plays with the straps of your dress, thick fingers pulling at the dainty bows that hold it in place. He breaks away from you, your chin in his hand as he seeks permission.

“I think you’re pretty all over, baby girl. You gonna let me find out? Let me see if I’m right?”

He’s hard, and huge: you feel the solid shape of him against your core. His words make you shudder in his arms, warm wetness pooling in your underwear.

“Y—Yes, yes, Mr. Miller. I want you to —“

He slides the thin fabric down your forearms, tutting under his breath. “It’s Joel, baby. ‘m just Joel.”

You nod in submission, chest heaving as he exposes you in an agonisingly slow fashion. It’s worth it, though, to watch his pupils dilate as your tits spill free, feel his intake of breath as his hands squeeze and tug at you mercilessly.

“Joel.”

His name is a strangled curse on your tongue, his head dipping to spread messy kisses across your collarbones, tongue dragging lower, kissing the peaks of you reverently. Your back arches of its own accord, pushing you further into his warm, wet mouth.

Your mind is empty of any coherent thought save for the indescribable way Joel’s making you feel. You want to touch him, too, whining as you scrabble for his belt buckle, his bulge prominent and mouth-watering. That laugh rumbles through his chest again, and he pries your fingers away, kissing the tips individually.

“Next time, sweetheart, y’can have it. I promise. Get up on the desk f’me, now.”

Next time.

The idea of it makes you dizzy, leaning on his forearm as Joel helps you onto the priceless antique. He drags your dress from under you, panties falling to the floor, sneakers following with a thump. You’re fully bare for him; dripping onto his facts and figures, his spreadsheets and contracts.

Joel’s throat bobs at the sight of you, his fingernails scratching at his jaw.

“Oh, baby. She needs me, huh? She needs me real bad.”

He deftly hooks your legs over his shoulders, heart beating out of your chest as he lowers himself to your centre. Gripping his silvered curls, his tongue slides over your core, and you buck your hips eagerly into his mouth. He’s so fucking good at it: one huge hand flat on your belly, the other linked with yours.

Joel takes his time, moving to slip his fingers inside you slowly, telling you you’re doin’ so good for him, that you can take ‘em, that he knows you can. It’s all you can do to hold onto him for dear life as you come; reduced to nothing more than a pliant plaything for him, in awe of how you’re responding so impatiently already.

“Joel.. Please. I wanna feel you. More of you.”

He smirks, popping the button of his slacks. He pulls his cock free: it’s big, just like you thought it would be; stiff in his hand and leaking over his thick fingers. You swallow, bracing yourself a little. Joel notices your hesitancy, his thumb on your lower lip, tugging it from your teeth.

“You still wanna do this? Hey, s’okay if not,” he says gently, kissing your forehead. The tenderness is unexpected, but you welcome it anyway, reaching down to wrap your fingers round the sheer width of him. His breath shortens deliciously as you stroke him, and you spread your legs a little wider.

“I want you to fuck me, Mr. Miller.”

The deliberate use of his name pulls a groan from him, brown eyes turning to black. He feeds you it slowly: hand wrapped round your throat, tongue in your mouth. Your nails pierce his skin as he stretches you exquisitely, bare feet digging into his ass to feel him even deeper.

“Attagirl,” Joel tells you through ragged breaths, and you note the pride in his voice. It makes you grin, urging him on as pens and paper fall to floor, desk shaking with the snap of his hips. His pounding is relentless, and before long you’re coming together, his hand over your mouth to subdue your cries of fucked-out bliss.

His spend splashes over your belly, damp foreheads pressed together as your heart rates settle. Joel tucks himself away after a beat, roots around in the draws for some tissue. Your thighs are still shaking, hips sore from his solid grip, but you’re smiling.

You’ve never felt this good after sex: even though it was with the man who employs you, over his desk in the home he shares with his soon to be ex-wife. The absurdity of it all, again, almost makes you giggle.

He dabs at your stomach, throwing the tissue in the trash. Joel wraps one strong forearm round your middle, tipping your chin to look up at him. He searches your face, and you’re glad you don’t see regret in his eyes.

“You okay?”

“Never better.”

His lips against yours are soft now, the earlier hunger dulled by mutual orgasms. You decide not to worry about what comes next, attempting to forget the fact you’re probably jobless for sure. But you know you’d do it all over again, that you’ll go to sleep tonight dreaming of him inside you.

Joel slides your panties along your thighs, helps you wrangle your dress over your head. You’re only just noticing he’s still got all his fucking clothes on; you didn’t get to see him, not the way he saw you.

Next time, sweetheart, y’can have it. I promise.

You wonder whether there’ll ever really be a next time.

He clears his throat, pulls you to your feet. The moonlight curves against his nose, moustache still slick with the remnants of you. You know you probably should feel awkward or ashamed, but you don’t want to flee. You want to stay right here, rooted to the spot beneath him.

“Listen.. I, uh, I don’t know what the arrangements are goin’ to be movin’ forward, but I’d like it if you stuck around.”

His hands settle on your hips, and you blink up at him through your lashes. Just having him touch you again — so innocently, with no real intent behind it — has you wondering what took this so long to fucking happen.

“Me too, Mr. Miller. I’d like that very much.”

///

divider by @saradika-graphics 🫶🏻

[exuber]

Cookies Are A Love Language

For Writer Wednesday! @autumnleaves1991-blog @clydesducktape

Pairing: Frankie Morales x gender neutral reader

Warnings: food, baking, brief mention of a mother on readers part but nothing descriptive, Fluff, established relationship

A/N: The one time I baked gingerbread cookies, I ended up very frustrated. This fic very much reflects that. This is also kind of a tribute to all the years spent baking with my mom.

It’s not uncommon for Frankie to come home and find the lights already on, despite the fact that he technically lives alone.

Though the clatter of pans and slightly burnt smell of molasses that hangs in the air once he makes his way inside is a new occurrence.

Keep reading

[exuber]

In my humble opinion

[exuber]

Rescue

Scar x Reader

warnings: language, choking, ooc? WE DON’T KNOW HIM AND IT’S A CRIME I DID MY BEST

“You saved me,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and your throat irritated with you for speaking after all that smoke you inhaled.

Scar just shook his head.

His brows were pulled together as they usually were, making him look angry— as he usually did. Ekko could make him grin, though, and some of the children. When they weren’t trying to “borrow” the hoverboards, that is.

Scar had been here longer, he was the lieutenant of the Firelights for fucks sake, but you both knew rules and risks. Every time your team went on a mission there was a chance someone might not come back, and those chances only got higher with every success. He knew the risks of turning around after the grenades came to life.

Ekko’s blend was his own creation, designed to destroy only shimmer. Even the ones you used on people were only for detaining, not killing. So when they turned and saw black smoke spewing from the broken window of the airship, it was an enormous sign something went awry. Awful as they may be, the Firelights didn’t celebrate the deaths of their enemies. On the way to the rendezvous point Ekko called out his headcount to no one, it seemed, because Scar wasn’t there to hear it like he should’ve been.

Even from miles away he heard you gagging and coughing. For a moment Scar thought he heard the rapid thump thump thump of your heartbeat. He later realized it was his own. The mask did fuck all to help him see with the thick, black cloud. He relied solely on your fading sounds to guide him. You were smart, crawling in your attempt to find the exit. In one fluid movement, he chucked a grenade at the opposite wall and snatched your body off the ground. Crystals erupted and made the wall easier to smash through. The newer and bigger hole allowed the smoke to escape in heaps, hopefully saving a few more lives.

Scar’s hands trembled at the memory. Angry, he was always so angry. Every time he looked at you and saw your busted eye, thought about how terrified and lost you must have felt, shit, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. At least you looked better now than when he handed you off to the medics. He had visited every day since then and had no intention of stopping. He crossed his arms to stop the tremors.

You managed a weak, and rather pathetic, smile for your knight in dark armor. One minute he’s afraid you won’t make it and the next you’re sitting in front of him, bruised and chipper. It’s endearing. It’s twisting his heart in opposite directions.

“Thanks anyways.”

Truly, Scar would have done it for anyone here.

Still, he couldn’t deny that you were a special case. Your thanks meant more to him than you knew. Perhaps… this petrifying occasion could be the wake up call he didn’t know he needed.

~

come hangout with us and talk about arcane (and more!) on [discord]

[exuber]

the duel

Pairing: knight!Din Djarin x f!reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Rating: Mature

Summary: When a grave injustice is done to you, there is only one man who will defend your honor.

Warnings: graphic violence | animal death (a horse gets killed) | death of a close family member | a hint of “who did this to you?” | a lot of historical inaccuracies | reader has long hair | a dash of self-loathing

Notes: I know I'm the slowest writer ever when it comes to working through my 10k follower celebration requests but we're getting there. A very sweet anon requested "Can you just look at me? Please?" with Din Djarin and my brain made that into a medieval AU somehow. Dear anon, I'm not entirely sure this is what you had in mind but I had THE most fun writing it, and I'm so so in love with knight!Din that it's going to be incredibly hard to let him go. As always, huge thanks to Dani @alexturner who said this is the best fic I've written recently - it's amazing what I can achieve when there is no smut to overthink!

The air smells of smoke and horse manure and cold. It smells of blood and death too, but Din isn’t quite certain that he isn’t imagining that. No one has died here, at least not today, and if he keeps his cool, then the sun will set without him having taken yet another life. All he has to do is immobilize his opponent, make him surrender. If he can do that, he’ll win more than one victory today.

He bows, deeply, in front of Lord Marlowe and the assembled guests. To his left, Rhyswald the Crusader does the same, the insincerity evident in the way he inclines his head, moves his feet. Din has every reason to hate Lord Marlowe, every reason to wish the worst on the other man, but he wouldn’t dream of disrespecting him, least of all in his own house.

Rhyswald lifts his head, runs a gloved hand through his blond curls, and dons his heavy helmet. Din ignores the smirk on his face, the way he bares his teeth in something resembling a snarl. He can’t let these things get to him if he wants to walk away from this duel victorious, his hands clean. He lifts his own helmet, ready to hide his face behind the T-shaped visor, when he sees you stand and abandon your seat next to Lord Marlowe. You walk to the edge of the berfrois, your pale blue wool dress looking almost white in the soft light of the winter morning, your dark blue coat billowing behind you. You don’t wrap it around yourself, even though the cold morning air makes you gasp. Your eyes are fixed on Din’s, but he can hardly bear to look at you, his heart in his throat threatening to choke him.

You reach the edge of the berfrois and you seem so close that he thinks if he just extended his arm, he could touch you. And then you extend your arm and his hands begin to tremble. If he had to draw his sword right now, he wouldn’t be able to hold up the weapon. There is something in your hand, a piece of white silk, and you smile at him before letting it go, the cloth gently gliding down in the calm air, toward Din. He steps forward, his hand outstretched, and everything around him vanishes – the lists, the nobles, Lord Marlowe on his high-backed chair, even Rhyswald and his vile face. It’s just you and the token you’re bestowing on him that Din sees.

He secures the piece of silk around his left lower arm, gently pulling it tight with his teeth. By the time he is done, you have returned to your seat, regarding the spectacle before you with cold detachment. Like him, you can’t let this get to you. The world begins to come back with shouts and the sounds of stomping hooves and Rhyswald’s voice snarling some insult Din doesn’t quite catch. He walks over to his horse Razor, tied up at the edge of the lists. Razor is covered in Din’s colors, the dark blue of his father and the silver of his liege, its black fur shiny with sweat already. Din hoists himself up, takes his shield from a knave, and draws his long, heavy sword. With a deep breath, he turns Razor to face Rhsywald.

Din tastes blood on his tongue as he charges at his opponent, blood from where he has bitten the inside of his cheek. Rhyswald’s helmet is obscuring most of his face, but Din can imagine the smirk he is wearing beneath, sure of his victory. After all, didn’t he fight in the crusades? Didn’t he risk his life and soul for king and country? And where was Din while his fellow countrymen were risking their lives overseas? Where was he? Din raises his sword high above his head, channeling all his strength into his right arm, and a growl erupts from his chest, drowned out by Razor’s hooves hammering against the frozen ground.

Din manages to hit Rhyswald’s shield, but the steel glides of the leather reinforcements uselessly. Rhyswald misses Din’s shoulder because he twists out of the way in time but even before Din manages to turn Razor around, he’s there again with a second attack, splintering the top of Din’s shield with a forceful blow. Din changes direction, his back facing Rhyswald for a moment, but the bold move pays off. When he goes in for a second attack, the other man parries his blow with a surprised shout.

Beneath the horses’ hooves, the ground slowly breaks open and becomes uneven while the knights try to gain the upper hand. They are evenly matched, Din has to admit that, but whereas he fights for an advantage, Rhyswald fights to humiliate. When Din parries a blow, Rhyswald tries to hit him with his shield, when Din tries to free his sword, Rhyswald tries to punch his chin or scratch his unprotected lower arms. The longer the horses dance around each other, the harder it is for Din to keep the promise he made to himself.

“You should give up now,” Rhyswald suggests after a while, his voice coming out in strained pants, “because I will kill you if you don’t.”

Din doesn’t reply because there really isn’t anything he could say.

Rhyswald tries to grab Din’s arm but almost loses the grip on his sword and has to straighten his back. “Did no one teach you manners, boy? You answer your superiors.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Din presses out through gritted teeth, the blade of his sword coming down hard against the spaulder protecting Rhyswald’s shoulder but bouncing off it without leaving a mark.

Rhsywald pulls back his steed, disengaging, and Din drops his arm to relieve his straining muscles. “Why not? Did your little harlot forbid you to speak? Because she knows if you talk to me, it’ll only expose her lies?”

Din doesn’t mean to, but he can’t stop himself from charging at Rhyswald in a rash move and missing him when he swerves.

“Oh, so it’s true?” Rhyswald taunts, making his horse prance around Din’s. “Do you always do as she says?

“Shut up,” Din growls. Rhyswald’s grating voice is making his blood boil.

“Apparently not,” Rhsywald remarks, and Din can make out the smirk beneath his helmet. “So tell me, do you believe her little story? Or do you know she’s a liar?”

Din spurs on Razor, the pounding hooves quickening his heartbeat. He’s aiming the blade at Rhsywald’s head, but his opponent predicts the move long before Din can carry it out. Their blades clash and send out sparks. The force of the impact makes pain shoot up Din’s arm and he grunts. Rhyswald doesn’t let him catch his breath. He lands blow after blow, and Din can barely keep him in check while Razor nervously prances beneath him.

“That would explain why she picked you as her champion,” Rhyswald goes on while his blade comes down hard against Din’s shield. “Gullible Din Djarin who’d do anything for the taste of a ma–”

Din kicks, hard, and is surprised when his foot connects with Rhyswald’s middle. Rhyswald gives a shout of surprise, and Din knows his eyes are wide beneath that helmet. With a rattling crash, Rhyswald lands on the hard, trampled ground and his horse takes off with a whinny. Around them, the berfrois erupt with cheers.

Din closes his eyes and the sound changes. It now is the gentle rustling of newly grown leaves swaying in a warm spring breeze. When he opens his eyes, he’s back in Headdon Fort walking the corridors, climbing steep stairs. Outside the windows, the world is breaking out into colors, bright and fresh, while inside the mood is dampened by bad news recently received. As a knight passing through, no one has informed Din of the tragedy. 

Din doesn’t know what he is looking for, only that he is too restless to quietly sit in a chair yet too exhausted from his recent travels to spend his time training. The fort is almost empty since everyone is enjoying the spring sunshine, and Din, in turn, is enjoying the quiet. Until he hears a stifled sob, turns a corner, and finds you leaning against the damp stone wall. You’re crouching, face buried in your hands, a scroll of parchment lying at your feet, and your chest is heaving with violent sobs.

Din should walk away, spare you the embarrassment of being seen at such a vulnerable moment, but he can’t. It’s not his upbringing and training, the chivalry demanded of him. It’s the love he feels for you that makes him rush to your side instead of turning away from you.

You must hear his heavy footsteps despite your preoccupation, and you look up, eyes red, cheeks wet. “Din,” you breathe, your voice hoarse.

His chest tightens at the sound of his name coming from your lips in such a familiar manner. He steps in front of you, unsure whether he is allowed to approach, flexing the fingers on his right hand, still stiff from a recently sustained injury. “What do you need?” he asks.

You smile at him, gently, your grief momentarily forgotten. “It’s Eldrin,” you answer. “He … he died.”

Din’s chest grows tighter, a feeling no longer welcome. Out of your brothers, Eldrin was his favorite. Din had always looked up to the older man, and Eldrin had always treated him like an equal. “How?” he asks.

You shake your head as a new wave of grief rushes over you. Din can’t bear to see you like this. He drops down to his knees next to you, the floor uncomfortably cold through the fabric of his chausses. But he doesn’t care when you lean into him and bury your face against his shoulder. In fact, he doesn’t feel anything anymore except the warmth of your body against his and the way his heart flutters in his chest.

Steadied by Din’s presence, you finally answer. “He was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Din echoes, slinging an arm around your shoulders. The bright spring sunshine seems to darken at your words, and despair settles over the both of you.

“He was trying to save a friend,” you go on, your words muffled against Din’s tunic. “Lord Raaf. He had gotten into a fight, and Eldrin was trying to help him. They were all drunk, it was a stupid, drunken fight.” You sob, and Din can’t help himself. He kisses the top of your head, and feels a stab of pride when you pull him closer.

“Raaf,” you go on after you have somewhat collected yourself, “he said Eldrin got stabbed in the back. I don’t know why.” You look up at him, your eyes impossibly bright with tears. “Why, Din?”

“I don’t know,” Din replies. He could talk about honor, call the murderer a coward, curse his name, but none of these things would help you. Instead, he asks, “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” you reply, grabbing fistfuls of Din’s shirt. “He’s dead.”

“Does Raaf know who stabbed Eldrin?”

You nod. “A knight. He calls himself Rhyswald the Crusader.”

“There are witnesses,” Din goes on. “Lord Raaf. He saw it happen. Rhyswald will be brought to justice.”

You give him a tired smile. “I don’t want justice. I want Eldrin to be alive.”

Din’s stomach knots painfully, as if he had been stabbed himself.

It’s the same pain he feels now, back on the lists, watching the murderer push himself into a kneeling position, reaching for his sword. “Stay down,” Din whispers, but Rhyswald lets loose a deep growl and stands, picks up his mud-caked sword.

“You coward!” he shouts, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I should have known that you won’t be able to win this fight without cheating.”

“Enough!” Din barks. “Do you surrender?”

There are whispers all around him as he waits for an answer.

Rhsywald spits, and it comes out red. “No.”

The whispers stop.

Din circles Rhyswald, Razor snorting beneath him. “Then you have made your choice,” he declares with a heavy heart, raising his sword.

Rhyswald charges. Razor, surprised by the sudden movement, rears up and then collapses, the front legs giving way, breaking with a sickening crack. Din hits the ground, hard, the impact pushing all the air from his lungs. One leg gets buried under Razor’s body, while the other twists at an odd angle, and he loses both his sword and shield. The crowd gasps, there are one or two shouts, but Din only hears the blood rushing in his ears, and the rattling sound of Razor’s dying breath.

Din’s vision darkens when Rhyswald casts his shadow down on him. He pulls his sword out of Razor’s chest with a sickening squelch and huffs. “There. Now we’re evenly matched.”

Din places a gloved hand on Razor’s back, the body warm and alive to the touch. He can’t allow himself to feel, can’t allow Rhyswald’s dishonesty to get to him. He pushes the horse off his leg and stands, ignoring the pain in his calf, the way his vision goes dark as blood pounds behind his eyes. He limps to where his sword lies half-buried in the mud, then to where his shield sticks out of a heap of soil. He picks up both weapons, his grip like iron, and turns to face Rhyswald.

They circle each other; every other step is agony to Din, but it doesn’t escape him that Rhyswald holds his elbow at an odd angle or that his helmet has shifted, obscuring his view. Din shakes his head to get rid of the ringing in his ears but it doesn’t help. He loosens the grip on his sword, then tightens it again, and before Rhyswald can take on a defensive stance, he rushes toward him, his only goal to inflict as much pain as possible. He can let himself have that, he decides, as long as it doesn’t cloud his judgement.

Steel meets steel, and Din’s ears are now ringing with the sweet sound of combat. Rhyswald manages to keep him at bay, but no matter how hard he tries to get a blow in, Din doesn’t let him. He forces Rhyswald to defend himself, forces him to back away from Razor’s dead body, forces him to fight for his life. Rhyswald is strong, his defenses are tough, but once in a while, there is a crack in them, and Din exploits it ruthlessly.

Rhyswald’s shield splinters in half after Din hits it repeatedly, and the two halves fall to the ground, useless. Din can’t help but smile a cruel smile, already tasting victory, but without the additional weight, his opponent is faster and finally gains the upper hand. He pushes back against Din’s assaults with vicious jabs, forcing Din to divide his attention between parrying Rhyswald’s blows with his shield and defending himself with his sword.

Din’s arms grow heavy, so heavy that every time he has to raise his sword it feels like a task impossible to accomplish. Rhyswald seems to tire too – his footfalls are heavy and he grunts every time he swings his sword at Din. But when the blade lands against Din’s right cuisse, he feels the blow in his entire body and his knee gives way, making him stumble. Rhyswald goes for Din’s standard next, and it’s only through sheer force of will that he manages to parry that blow. The audience gasps, groans, and then falls silent.

“Don’t you hear?” Rhyswald hisses, pushing his blade down against Din’s. Every muscle in Din’s arm is screaming for him to give in. “They hate you. They want to see you dead. Why don’t we give them what they want?”

He kicks Din in the chest, swirls around, and with the force of a final blow lets the blade of his sword rush toward Din. Din lets out a hoarse shout as his lower arm is sliced open and hot blood spurts out, drenching his tunic. Steam rises in the freezing air.

“You should give in now,” Rhyswald suggests. “It would spare you the pain and humiliation.” He reaches for Din’s injured arm, for the piece of silk tied around it; Din draws back with a hiss. Darkness settles over Rhyswald’s face. “Have it your way then.”

He raises his sword high above his head at the same time as Din raises his shield, and when blade hits wood, Din pushes himself up, flinging his cover at Rhyswald. He feels bile rise in his throat at the effort; instead of air, it feels like he is breathing in fire, but he stands, and Rhyswald struggles for a moment, caught off-guard by Din’s resistance. Still, Rhyswald has a point – it would be so easy to give in, to stop here and let fate take its course.

The glove on Din’s left hand is growing heavy with blood. He glances down to examine the damage and his eyes land on the piece of silk Rhyswald tried to touch, the token you gave him, convinced he would be victorious. He promised you, did he not? He offered his services to bring you justice, to right that terrible wrong that had been done to you. He can’t give up, no matter how much he wants to. Not when you are up there in the berfrois, all your hopes resting on him. Your hands are doubtlessly clenched in your lap, your eyes are wide with terror. You are praying, he is sure of that – not to a merciful God, but to him, begging him to keep going.

“You’re tougher than I had thought, I’ll give you that.” Rhyswald’s voice sounds tinny from beneath his helmet, and it lures Din out of his thoughts and back onto the lists. “But you still have to resort to tricks to gain the upper hand.”

Din is barely listening to the words. His eyes are roaming Rhyswald’s armor, looking for a weak spot, a small opening he could attack. There is nothing, not even a loosening rerebrace. But the way Rhyswald is holding his sword, his grip lax … if Din could disarm him, this fight would be over.

With an outcry, hoarse and violent, he storms at Rhyswald who is too late to raise his sword to defend himself. It flies out of his grip and lands somewhere to his right, halfway sinking into the mud. There is some careful applause coming from the berfrois, one or two cheers, as people are trying to figure out what just happened. Din feels a smile forming on his lips, one that is cold and calculating, as he allows himself this small indulgence because no one can see it.

Rhyswald looks at his useless sword, lets the implication of it no longer being in his hand sink in. Then he huffs and rolls his shoulders. Din steels himself for another insult, hopes for a swift surrender, but stiffens when Rhyswald loosens his heavy morning star from his belt.

“We’re just getting started,” he sneers.

Din rolls his neck, his shoulders, then flings his sword from him. There is one faint shout of, “No!” somewhere in the distance, and all he can hope is that it did not come from you. “Forgive me,” he whispers, pulling his pernach out of the loop on his belt.

When Rhyswald charges, morning star swinging at his side, Din is ready for him.

The air around him warms as the lists vanish and are replaced by a ground of dust, dry air being swirling up in the hot summer sun. Din takes a step to the side and twists his upper body, avoiding his opponent who rushes past him with a curse. Din turns and kicks him in the backside so he lands on the dry ground, face first. The other men clap and cheer, and Din runs the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat and dirt.

That is when he spots you rushing toward him, your hands balled into fists at your sides, your footfalls heavy with anger. Din hears the other knights snicker, one or two whistle, but he ignores them. His entire world has become you – there is no room for anything else.

“What happened?” he asks as soon as you are close enough to hear him.

You stop in front of him, your eyes shiny with unshed tears. “I don’t know who else to talk to,” is all you say.

Din softly closes his hand around your elbow. “Come,” he says, “let’s go.”

There are some lewd comments, some more whistles, but you don’t seem to hear them. You let yourself be guided into the shadow of one of the trees in the enormous courtyard, where the heat is a little less punishing, and prying ears have a hard time overhearing your conversation.

Din takes in your appearance, your fine dress, your long hair, braided intricately, and his face heats with the realization of how he must look next to you, dirty and sweaty and half undressed, with his tunic hanging open and its sleeves rolled up, curls rumpled, hands brown with dust. You don’t seem to mind though.

“Rhyswald was acquitted.” Your voice is strained with anger and hatred; Din barely recognizes it. “The king has acquitted him.”

Din wishes he could offer you words of comfort. Instead, all he manages is a suppressed, “What?”

It should not be like this, was not supposed to go like this. You were convinced the king’s verdict would bring you justice, and Din was convinced of the righteousness of your cause. After all, Rhyswald had stabbed Eldrin in the back, in front of witnesses. Maybe you had misheard the king, misunderstood his verdict.

You lower your eyes at Din, and for a moment he thinks you’re redirecting your anger at him. “He didn’t believe Raaf, said Raaf was too drunk to know what he saw.”

“But there were others,” Din presses, unable to make sense of it all, “other witnesses. People who say Rhyswald …” He finds himself unable to finish the sentence.

You begin to pace beneath the shadow of the tree, your face shiny with sweat. “None of them confirmed Raaf’s story. They said it was too dark, they can’t be sure of what they saw, Rhyswald wasn’t drunk, they want to believe his story. The king said it wasn’t enough.”

Din watches you pace, rooted to the spot by his uselessness. He hears the clanging of swords, the shouts and cheers – the other knights must have resumed their training, already tired of poking fun at him. He hears the song of a bird high up in the tree above you, and the high laughter of a little girl somewhere close by. They all go on with their lives as if the world had not just ended.

“There must be something we can do,” Din finally says. “Maybe the king will reconsider if …”

“If what, Din?” you snarl. He flinches. You notice, and your face falls. “I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help but there is nothing we can do to change his mind. There is only …”

“You can’t give up,” Din interrupts you. “There has to be a way. We will find one.”

Your face softens as you gift him a smile. “There is one way. The only way. But it’s hopeless.”

“Tell me,” Din demands, taking both your hands in his.

You lower your gaze to where your hands are joined. “Trial by combat,” you answer. “If God’s verdict were to be in favor of my brother …”

Din tightens his hold on you. “Why would that be hopeless? Aren’t you convinced of Rhyswald’s guilt?”

You wind your way out of Din’s grip. “It’s not that. I don’t have a champion.”

Din blinks, trying to sort through his thoughts. “I’m sure your fiancé …”

“Lord Marlow accepts the king’s verdict,” you cut him off. “There’s nothing I can do.”

Din pulls you close. “Yes. There is.”

The sharp pain in his right arm brings Din back to the present. It has to be broken, judging by the way it uselessly hangs at his side. When the morning star hit the rerebrace, Din could hear the sickening crack it made. Rhyswald could too, and it put a cruel smile on his face, one Din could see all too clearly now that Rhyswald lost his helmet somewhere in the mud. Din tries to flex his fingers, tries to bend his right arm at the elbow, but the responding pain makes his vision darken and stars dance in front of his eyes.

Opposite him, Rhyswald looks how Din feels. His bottom lip is split, his teeth are red with blood. He spits and a tooth lands at his feet. Din inhales sharply and tries to straighten his back, but Rhyswald chooses this moment to charge at him, the morning star long forgotten, lost somewhere on the battlefield. Din glances longingly at his pernach, now too heavy for him to wield with his broken arm, then widens his stance, bracing for the impact.

Rhyswald is aiming for his shoulder, but Din takes a calculated step back and Rhyswald misses. He stumbles but immediately regains his balance, his eyes wild with rage. Din can’t help but smile.

Rhyswald reaches for Din’s left arm, which is still bleeding, and Din hisses when his hand closes around it, hard. He struggles against the grip, but can’t use his right hand to push Rhyswald off, and when he yanks back his arm, he only pulls his opponent toward him. Rhyswald closes his other hand around Din’s throat, but Din twists back his head, then brings his helmet down hard against Rhyswald’s temple. That does the trick.

Rhyswald stumbles back and Din falls forward, grunting in pain. He can make out the tears and dents in Rhyswald’s armor where he was able to do some damage with his pernach, cut so deeply he drew blood, but it wasn’t enough. Rhyswald still stands, still fights. And Din knows he cannot take much more of this.

Rhyswald kicks, aiming for Din’s legs, and when Din tries to evade him, his leg gives way and he folds, falling to his knees in front of Rhyswald. Then his head starts ringing, and he realizes Rhyswald is pommeling the helmet with his bare hands, trying everything to make Din surrender. And Din wants to. By God, he wants to! He’s so exhausted he can’t even tell if this fight is real or if he blacked out minutes ago and this is all a fever-induced vision.

Rhyswald lands a kick against Din’s chest, and Din crashes to the ground. It has begun to snow, and as he is lying there, looking up into the sky, he can see the flakes dancing around him. When Rhyswald straddles him, sinking to his knees on either side of Din’s torso, he can’t find the fight in him to oppose him. Instead, he lets Rhyswald punch him, his chest, his chin; his head rings every time Rhyswald’s fist connects with his helmet, but there is no point in fighting back when it’s so easy to lie here and watch the snow come down gently.

Rhyswald curses, trying to pull Din’s helmet off his head. But his gloves are slick with blood and mud, and he cannot find purchase against the smooth iron. Din shakes his hands off with a grunt and his head comes to rest on its side where he has a clear view of the berfrois. A clear view of you.

You are halfway out of your chair, your eyes wide with shock. His chest constricts, the pain unbearable, so much more violent than anything Rhyswald did to him today. If he doesn’t fight back, this will be the last thing he sees, his last conscious thought will be that he disappointed you. And maybe that’s what he deserves. He killed so many people, ruined so many lives – this is his punishment for all the hurt he brought into this world. What’s one more broken person? What’s one more ruined life? Of course, the only thing he can give you as his present on your wedding day is for you to watch him get butchered. He lived his life dishonorably, of course it has to end the same way.

Drained, he closes his eyes, waiting for the end to come.

When he opens them again, it’s you he sees. Your eyes are bright, and you try to hide a grin behind the back of your hand, but he gently takes your wrist and pulls it away from your face. He can’t remember the last time he saw you smile like this, and he wants to savor every second of it.

You kiss him again, and it’s as if he was forgotten how to breathe. All he feels is the gentle press of your lips against his, the way you’re still so unsure but so, so eager to have him like this. It makes his heart bloom like a meadow in springtime. He can’t help himself – he has to cup your cheek. You shudder against him in response.

“Let us stay here forever.” The words are out before he can stop them.

You glance up into his eyes, your face so unguarded it makes him want to fight for your affection. Makes him want to die for it too. “I wish we could.” You push him back against the hard stone wall of the alcove you’re hiding in. “Let’s not talk about it.”

The next time you kiss him, he can taste your grief on your lips. “There’s –,” he starts, but you shake your head.

“No.” You touch your finger to his lips, and he freezes, blood rushing downwards, tight between his legs. “Din … I’m so sorry.”

There is nothing for you to be sorry for, no choice he regrets making where you are concerned, but hearing you say those words makes a lump form in his throat. “Don’t.” He kisses you to hide the ache that has to be written all over his face. “It’s what you have to do. You have your duties, as I have mine.”

You lace your fingers with his, squeezing them hard. He presses his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling.

“I’ll always be yours, Din. Always.”

Din reaches for his dagger strapped to his thigh, gritting his teeth against the pain. Rhyswald’s triumphant grin is wiped off his face when Din knees him in the crotch before stabbing him between his ribs where his armor has shifted. Rhyswald lets out a pained grunt, his eyes falling shut, as he tries to grab Din’s wrist to pull the dagger back out. Din does it for him, relishing the wet sound it makes against Rhyswald’s flesh. Then he pushes Rhyswald off him and rolls onto his side, arm braced against the other man’s chest, pushing himself onto his knees. The pain that is everywhere in his body now is almost unbearable, makes him want to vomit and pass out, but the sight of Rhyswald’s eyes, widened in terror, keeps him going.

Din closes his left hand around Rhyswald’s throat and Rhyswald starts kicking his legs in panic, clawing at Din’s fingers and arm. But Din doesn’t let go, only pushes him deeper into the mud. This isn’t the first time he is taking a life, and he knows it won’t be the last, but he will never again enjoy killing someone this much. He tightens his hold on Rhyswald’s throat, watches as his eyes begin to bulge, and he feels a strange calm come over him. It’s easy to grab the dagger, even with his broken arm, so easy to press the blade against the skin of Rhyswald’s throat, and even easier still to cut, one smooth motion, followed by blood, so much blood. It seeps into Din’s gloves, hot in the freezing winter air, drenches his hands so all the world can see he has taken another life.

Din doesn’t let go until Rhyswald’s eyes cloud over and he stops twitching. He pushes himself away from the dead body, a pained growl passing his lips. He isn’t shaking – that will come later – but he isn’t feeling the satisfaction he thought he would feel. He raises his eyes and glances up at the berfrois, up to where you are sitting. It’s not as if he had expected you to jump out of your chair and cheer for him, but he had hoped for some acknowledgement of a job well done. Instead, he finds you staring at him, eyes wide with terror, and he looks down at his soiled gloves and the man next to him, his throat cut open like a red, angry maw.

You would look at Din like that. Not with relief or adoration, but with terror. After all, now that you have seen his uglier side, you recognized the kind of monster he truly is. And who could love a monster, even if that monster killed for you?

Din kneels in the cold mud, eyes fixed on his hands, his terrible hands that have done so much bad in this world. He should have surrendered, should have let Rhyswald kill him. But there are men carrying his corpse away, and Din has to go on living, knowing the only person he truly loves despises him. He wishes there were cheers or curses, people talking, getting ready to leave, discussing the duel, anything, but it’s so quiet and he is alone with his thoughts that are so loud. He’s even alone on the lists now, Rhyswald’s corpse having been carried off, and still, he can’t bring himself to get up and leave. He can’t even raise his head because looking at you again would kill him.

His world turns pale blue as you come to stand in front of him. You kneel, not caring about spoiling your wedding dress – you’re kneeling in the dirt and blood, and you say, “Can you just look at me? Please?” but Din can’t. He doesn’t want to face your hatred, even if that makes him a coward.

Your voice is so soft as you repeat that, “Please,” and it does something to him, reminds him that he can never refuse you. His broken arm twitches painfully as his heart picks up speed, and then he looks up.

You have a soft smile on your face, one he had thought he’d never see again. You raise your hands, lifting the helmet off his head, and then you press your forehead to his, just like he did with you before you told him you’ll always be his.

“I love you,” you whisper into the cold winter morning.

That’s all he needs from you.

If you enjoyed the fic, I’d love to hear from you 🥰 feel free to leave a comment or drop into my inbox anytime …

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[exuber]

Ghost doesn't cutesy talk cats, he talks to them like other adult men and it's hilarious.

They're at a safehouse, and Ghost is listening to the radio, Price hears him talking to someone, and he's confused because both of his sergeants are conked out asleep.

So, he walks around the corner and finds Ghost sitting on a step with the radio playing and a stray kitten biting his laces while he talks to her. "I don't believe shoelaces constitute part of a balanced diet."

John just sits down on the step next to him and ignores how his knees click. "What's her name?"

"She's yet to disclose name or rank, but given that she's clearly smarter than those two through there, I'd say she's a lieutenant." He responds so dryly that John can't help but snort.

"Ah, I see. Making her way through the ranks at her young age, impressive." He leans forward to pet the kitten, flattening down the tuft of fur sticking up on her head.

"She's a hard worker, look at those paws. Grubby, she's been busy."

The kitten offers them a mewl in response, and he nods accordingly.

"She's stern, reminds me of Laswell."

That makes Ghost laugh.

[exuber]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘: 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐓

main masterlist | series masterlist | tag

⬩ pairing(s) gomez inspired!simon "ghost" riley x morticia inspired!fem!reader

⬩ warning(s) language, spiders, devoted husband!simon (seriously, he's absolutely obsessed with you!), pregnancy (mention), dad!simon, mom!reader

⬩ author's note spooky season might be over but it's always halloween at the riley house! saw an addams family gif a little while ago and had to go back and watch the sitcom version from '64. i ended up not being able to stop imagining simon in a relationship like gomez and morticia's–passionate and completely devoted to each other and their family! i hope you enjoy this as much as i did writing it, as there is much more of the riley family to come! (lovely divider is by @wethairjoel)

⬩ word count 1.4k

You’re uncomfortable here. Simon can feel it without even having to look at you.

The lights are too bright in the headmaster’s office, as are all the colors decorating the walls around you. No wonder his little Raven comes home with a frown that reminds him of yours and stories that make the entire house groan.

It’s when you shift for the second time, sniffing and rolling your stiff shoulders, that Simon places a warm palm on the back of your neck. The man watches you carefully as you all but melt into the touch, sinking against his hand with a soft sigh. It takes you a moment but you finally turn your head to meet his eyes, a silent thank you oozing from them in the quiet. His response–a squeeze of his hand–works well to settle you.

“Just a little longer, my darling,” your husband murmurs softly, not having to lean very far in his chair to plant a lingering kiss on the shell of your ear. He takes in a long inhale, the smell of you somewhat calming his frayed nerves. He breathes you in once more before kissing you again, this time on your jaw. “Then we’ll pick up our girl and leave this fuckin' hell they call a school.”

Simon’s lips drag nicely against you as he speaks. Slipping against you with light pecks, and staying there so long that it glides your hand into his grasp without you even noticing.

“I wonder what she’s done now. Hopefully something only a little unfortunate…” you sigh out, Simon laughing shortly against you as his mind fills with all the possible troubles his firstborn can cause. She takes after both you and Simon, he finds. Wickedly smart, fearless, and holds just enough disdain to make it the rest of the world’s problem.

Oh, your little Raven. Named after the blackbird that landed on the window seal the foggy morning you found out you were pregnant nearly seven years ago.

Neither of you bother to look when the door creaks open behind you, as Headmaster Archer is no one to be impressed by. A microscopic grin, however, cracks your lips when you hear his steps hesitate at the sight of you and your husband settled in front of his desk. It’s gone quicker than it came when you remind yourself where you are; in a little man’s stupid office for a reason you already know you’ll despise.

The footsteps resume after a quiet sigh, Headmaster Archer plastering an obviously fake smile as his greeting. He has to ease down in his chair, still not used to how harsh the pitch-black hue of your and Simon’s clothing clashes with the rest of the school.

“Mr. and Mrs. Riley… always a pleasure.”

“I wish we could say the same,” Simon rumbles back with an unimpressed look, the index finger of his free hand absentmindedly drawing swirls on the back of your hand. “Can we get on with it? ‘Ve got places to be.”

“Don’t we all,” Headmaster Archer chuckles rather nervously. The smile on his face drops into something uneasy at the displeased expressions on your and Simon’s faces. He gathers himself with a pathetic clearing of his throat and straightening of some blank, unimportant papers. He doesn’t even attempt to look at you, knowing that his bones will shake hard enough to shatter if he were to do such a thing. Instead, the headmaster settles for a few meek glances in Simon’s direction. “Alright. Well, I’ll try to make this as simple as possible; there was an… incident that occurred in Raven’s class today.”

Even with Simon still gripping just above your back, you grow painfully rigid. Your question leaves you, hot and quick.

“What incident?”

Headmaster Archer swallows thickly, still unable to flick his eyes your way. “It happened during today’s show and tell–”

“Look at my wife when you speak to her, Headmaster.”

The man behind the desk nearly jumps at Simon’s words. They ring darkly in the room, and the headmaster has to wring his shaking fingers hard to gain the courage to finally do as Simon commands. He doesn’t remember how to talk until an arched eyebrow from you has his voice croaking out.

“Tarantulas. She brought tarantulas–three of them, all as big and hairy as a rat–for show and tell. Pulled them out like they were nothing, then tried to pass them around. Her instructor was barely able to reign them up in all the chaos they caused. Children were crying. The adults were shaking. In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like it…”

The ramble trails off into nothing, allowing you and Simon a moment of quiet while the headmaster wipes at his face with a cheap handkerchief. God, you two make him sweat, and not in a good way.

Tilting your head, you peek over at your husband. He’s already looking at you, face reading ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Licking your lips, your eyes cut back to Headmaster Archer. 

“Not to be obtuse,Headmaster, but I don’t see what your issue is. All she wanted was to show her fellow pupils her favorite pets. Is that really so bad?”

“It is when the pets are spiders, Mrs. Riley. Not just spiders, but dangerous ones that, frankly, a child as young as Raven should not have access to.”

The headmaster has no idea where the things spilling out of his mouth are coming from. Maybe it’s the heat of the room making him a little braver. Maybe it’s because he knows he’ll see Raven’s spiders in his nightmares tonight, you and Simon standing along with them happily while they eat him alive. 

Regret soon washes over him faster than he can think. Even more so when he sees Simon, in all his dark clothes and scars and thick muscles, clench his jaw and shift in his seat like he’s thinking about hitting the man. Coincidentally, you’re the one moving first, giving the hand of a seething Simon a tender squeeze before you uncross your legs to stand.

You don’t have to move any closer than you are now to say what you want. The anger dripping from your tone is sharp enough to slice at him as it always does.

You’re all sinister smiles as you promise the man. “If you upset my daughter again, you’ll have a lot more than a few spiders to worry about, Headmaster.”

With that, you’re gone. Nothing more from you other than one last glare at the headmaster and a sweet kiss on Simon’s cheek before your heels click out of the horrid office. If Simon wasn’t so miffed, he’d remember to swivel his head to watch your hips as you go.

Unlucky for the headmaster, Simon does not swivel or admire. All he does is stare something horrid into the man across from him, eyes so hot they could bore a hole into the sweaty head of Archer if Simon wished it hard enough. 

The two remain in that position for a good while–Headmaster Archer doing all he can not to evaporate into a puddle of fear and Simon nearly wishing the man dead for making his girls upset. It’s around five minutes later when a small voice sounds at the office entrance.

“Papa, can we leave now? Mama’s ready.”

Simon rips away his glare, making sure to soften his eyes as he looks back at his daughter. He can tell she’s a little sad, mostly annoyed, as she cradles her tarantulas in a see-through cage. 

“Of course,” he coos without a second look to the headmaster, raising from his chair and moving to lift his daughter into his arms. He kisses her forehead, arms encircling her to ensure she doesn’t fall. “And you did nothing wrong, my girl. Do you hear me? Let’s just make sure to keep our pets at home from now on, yes? These silly little people don’t know how to appreciate them like you do.”

“Yes, Papa,” little Raven nods dutifully, Simon rewarding her with another kiss on the cheek and rub on her back. “Can we stop and catch crickets for my spiders on the way home? They’ve had a rough day…”

Simon huffs a laugh, glancing down at the cage of spiders with a short smile. He looks back up at his daughter and winks, exiting the office and leaving behind a shaking, sweating, helpless Headmaster Archer.

“Anything for you, my little devil.”

VOTE IN THE LATEST POLL (NOV 4-5)

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[exuber]

Cardinal

Pairing: Logan Howlett ("Worst" Wolverine) x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (for themes and smut).

Word count: 16.6k

Summary: At the edge of the world, someone from another keeps you from stepping off.

Tags/Warnings (Please, read the warnings!!): Post-Deadpool & Wolverine, female reader (female anatomy etc + 2 mentions of hair long enough to fall into your eyes), strangers-to-lovers, depression, suicidal ideations, suicide attempt and mentions thereof, addiction, drinking alcohol, drugs (mentioned not used), panic attacks, sobriety meetings, anxiety, recovery, co-dependency vibes, sprinkles of soulmateism, explicit smut (oral and unprotected PIV), happy ending (yay!!). If I forgot anything, please let me know!

Notes: Deadpool and Wolverine re-triggered my X-Men obsession and what started as a means to write some smut actually became this idea about two broken people who shouldn't even have met in the first place finding each other. There's a lot of me in this story, more than there's ever been I think. I'm sorry for this glimpse into my head, and I'm sorry if this isn't as Reader-insert as it should be, but... I'm not that sorry, you know. Huge thanks to @javier-pena , for not only reading this over and fixing so many embarrassing mistakes, but also for saying she'd read this even if it was 20k words and always believing in my abilities as a writer, even when I sometimes didn't.

If you want to read the smut as a standalone, you can! Just CTRL + F (or search in page) for 'Logan reaches for' and read away.

THE LOOKOUT

With closed eyes, you inhale the cool, December air, before looking down at your feet. Here, at the edge of the lookout, the grass has been trampled. You imagine friends taking bets on who dares get closest to the edge, lovers making memories, families taking pictures. It’s strangely soothing that maybe you’re not the first to stand here to do this. 

Far below your feet, the water laps at the rocks. The force of it depends on the weather and tonight it’s violent, with big splashes and crashing sounds. The wind tugs at your coat, pulling you towards the water as if to help you along, making you look up again as you hold your balance. In front of you, the line of the horizon is dark but visible – it would have been impossible to make out if the moon hadn’t been as bright as it is.

It’s like you’re looking at the edge of the world.

During the weeks that fall had made way for winter, you scoped the place out a couple times. The first time you stood at this cliff’s edge, the place it took you to mentally scared you so much that you got back into your car and broke down in tears. The next couple times, things became more and more serious, as your life crumbled around you, and your feelings numbed, and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Something had crept in while you weren’t looking, settling somewhere behind your eyes and spreading out to make a home behind your ribs, slowly but surely changing you. And once you realized it, it was already too late. It had grown large, became jilted and jealous, like it wanted all of you. It pushed away everyone and everything you held dear, until it was just you and that… something.

Especially during the quiet of the night, the lookout became soothing, a strange sense of familiarity enveloping you each time you were here. It was addictive and pretty soon, it became a daily routine to visit. But lately it’s been losing its shine, your feelings here dulling and darkening too. You’re exhausted, fed up, tired of giving it more of you.

Today you want it to be your last time here. 

You’ve had countless hours to contemplate what it would be like, imagined – all but romanticised – how the cold water would paralyse your limbs if the impact wouldn't do the trick. You read somewhere that it’s apparently like falling asleep when the water finally fills your lungs. You’ll be gone, but the thing will be too.

The thought makes your eyes fill with tears, but not from fear. All you feel is relief, like it’s right, how it’s supposed to be. It makes you smile despite everything, and–

“Hey, stop!”

A voice behind you thunders through the silence and makes you shriek into the night, dirt toppling over the edge of the lookout below the shuffle of your foot. A string of curses follows, heavy footfalls behind you indicating that the intruder is approaching you.

“Fuck off!” you throw over your shoulder, your voice a roar with how it’s amplified by the wind. 

After, your throat closes up, fighting the angry tears over the fact that you can’t even fucking kill yourself in peace. Never have you seen anyone here at night, never. What you hate even more is how it breaks your momentum. The haze that was surrounding you is pierced, and your body’s baser instincts kick in. Adrenaline suddenly pumps through your veins, making your legs tremble, your heart hammer, your body scream for you to step back from where you’re standing. Your anger, however, has you nailed to the floor. 

You almost miss the much softer, “Hey,” as a man steps into your peripheral vision. You pretend like you don’t hear him, or see him – you simply pretend he isn’t there, focussing on getting back into your previous mindset. 

But then he takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you warn, hating how your voice comes out trembling – weak.

“Easy.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You stand there together for what feels like hours. You will yourself to not let it affect you, setting your jaw to keep your teeth from clattering on account of the cold, allow the wind to blow your hair into your eyes without brushing it away. Even when it begins to rain, you don’t move, don’t blink even once more than you need to. From the corner of your eye you watch the man shove his hands back in the pockets of the brown leather jacket he’s wearing, and you quietly celebrate that your surroundings are fazing him more than they are you.

“You know–” he begins.

“I’m not really looking for a conversation.”

“Me neither,” he immediately counters, suddenly impatient, “so I’ll get right to it: You planning on jumping? Because if you think the water’s gonna be nice to you, you’ve got that wrong. You’ll end up in there feeling everything, that fall isn’t gonna do shit.”

Having expected a gentle approach, his bluntness and his tone knock the wind out of you. You cock your jaw, the shame creeping up your body the first bit of warmth you’ve felt in a while. Your cold fingers ball to fists as you will yourself not to care. Yes, his words and the way he's shatteríng your expectations with them sting, but you don’t even know this guy–

“And there’s nothing fuckin’ peaceful about it, it’s just panic. Right before you go too far…” He raises a fist and holds it against the center of his chest, “...there’s this burning right here that’s hell.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” you finally spit out.

“Died like that a couple times,” he says without waiting a beat.

The casual statement of something so bizarre beats your resolve before you know it, your head turning in his direction. “‘A couple times’?”

“I, uh…” You watch him hesitate, the moonlight illuminating the tick of his jaw, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way his chest falls as he sighs, “Let’s just say I can’t die.”

Before you can stop yourself, you snort at that. “That must fucking suck.”

He barks out a laugh, “Got that right.” It startles you when his head suddenly turns to you, when he looks you in the eye for the first time. “But trust me, being down there isn’t much better.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you waver. You can’t really place it, or decipher why it makes you want to open up to him. Maybe it’s because you’re freezing and it’s your body betraying you, tricking you into moving so you can generate some warmth, moving your lips to keep them from going blue. Or maybe it’s simply because he’s a stranger and it’s so much easier to be honest when there are no consequences.

“Things just feel so…,” you begin, voice shaky. Every possible way to end the sentence crosses your mind, seemingly all wrong, before you settle on what’s closest to how you feel, “endless.”

To your relief, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell you to give it time that it will get better, or any of the other bullshit you’ve heard from all the other people that had been in your life and left a long time ago. You do find something else in the shift in his eyes, something you haven’t encountered before.

Understanding.

It might be worse. If anything, it’s overwhelming, making your eyes dart away from his as you sniff. 

The wind still tugs at you, the waves still hit the rocks, but your moment seems to have passed. It’s a sobering conclusion, a twisted version of wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe it was him who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, the outcome is the same.

You take a step back, and another, but it takes considerable effort; you hadn’t taken your numb legs into consideration. You stumble, falling back on the dewy, cold grass, not quick enough to catch yourself on your hands. With a groan, you move to sit upright.

“Shit. Hey, you still with me?” The stranger kneels next to you, fingers lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.”

“No s-sh-hit,” you retort.

He sighs, offering you a hand so he can pull you up. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up.”

– – – – –

Logan.

That’s his name. 

It’s how he introduced himself, anyway, after he suggested you follow him. To his credit, he did offer to drive you, but you didn’t want to leave your car in the parking lot of the lookout. Logan waited 15 minutes for you while you put the blowers on the highest, warmest setting and waited for the feeling to return to your limbs. After, his brown truck led the way here – here being some hole in the wall, 24 hour diner. You could have not followed, but the drive was kind of mesmerizing; the night seemed darker than usual, and Logan’s tail lights served as a lighthouse.

Outside, the diner is all Christmas lights and flashing signs, but the interior is like something straight out of Twin Peaks; booths to the left, red barstools to the right, a girl that looks too pretty and too young to be here standing behind the counter. There were two other patrons you spotted along the way as Logan led you to one of the back booths. Once seated, Logan studied the pamphlets–or pretended to, more like, because as soon as the waitress came up he ordered two whiskeys and nothing else.

Between then and now, as you nursed your drink sip by careful sip, you hadn’t learned much more about him other than that he could knock back a glass of whiskey like he got paid to do so. And in truth, you like it this way; preferring silent company, the droning of the machinery behind the counter and the quiet hum of a song on the jukebox next to the entrance. The white noise helps to distract from the white noise in your head. Settling back into the leather cushions of the booth, you let some warmth seep back into your body. Opposite you, Logan does the same. 

Some moments after you finish your drink, one of the waitresses walks up to your booth to ask you about a refill, like she’s asked Logan twice now. You’re handing her the glass when Logan says, “She’s had enough.”

Your head whips from her to him. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t say anything, and from the corner of your eye, you see the girl leave. With your glass. Logan’s is on his lips, his eyes observing you over the rim, looking at you like he– Dammit. You sigh deeply, a sense of anger filling you. You don’t need this, least of all from him. When you stand from the booth, those eyes follow you, making you voice your observations,

“Quit pitying me, Logan.”

“I’m not,” he says before taking another sip. “You still have to drive.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t?”

Logan shrugs. “It’s different for me.”

Anger is still prevalent in your voice when you ask, “Well, let me guess, it’s another case of ‘I died like that a couple times’?” 

He hums.

“And how does that work?”

“Regenerative ability,” he sighs. Another sip before he elaborates, “X-Gene.” 

The admission makes you plop back down in your seat. Well, that explains things – he’s a mutant. You’re not familiar with that world, but you know enough to know it meant that. It isn’t like you couldn’t have deduced it before, but truthfully, you kind of thought he was bullshiting you as part of some tactic. Now, his actions and words make more sense: He really knows what it’s like to... That’s why he had that look on his face. Suddenly, you see him in a different light–

“Now who’s pitying who, hmm?” Logan asks, giving you a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he sets his glass down on the table.

“I’m not, I’m just… processing. So this...” you lift his glass, swirl the contents around, “...doesn’t even affect you?”

“It does. For a few seconds.” He plucks the glass back from your hand, and throws the whiskey back with one gulp. His pupils dilate, pushing the hazel of his irises out until his eyes are almost black for a second, two… before going back to normal. “But if I chugged the bottle, I’d pass out.”

“Well, so would I,” you say with a chuckle. “So maybe we’re not that different after all.”

Just as the corner of his mouth lifts, your smile falls, because… it isn’t true; you’re very different. You’re pretty sure you don’t have what it takes to do what he did tonight. To care enough to do it. To sit with a stranger and hear them bitch and moan about being denied a drink. A feeling creeps up on you, sticky and uncomfortable, like you’ve overstayed your welcome—burdened him.

“I should head home,” you say, standing again.

Lightning fast, Logan’s hand shoots out to close around your wrist. “That really where you’re going?”

“Yes,” you reply. When you pull your hand back, he doesn’t let up. You fish your car key out of your pocket with your free hand, voice tighter when you say, “Let me go.”

“Just promise me something,” he says, eyes as dark as they’d been earlier, yet his drink has gone untouched since. “Don’t go back there again.”

“Not making promises I can’t keep,” you say, giving him a wry smile. “To strangers, but least of all to myself.”

He sighs, and lets you pull yourself from his hold.

THE CRAVING

New Years comes and goes, and you quickly discover that it was foolish superstition to think that it might change how you feel.

You find yourself in some club, a drink in each hand. You hate to admit it, but Logan’s words scared you out of your original idea and the only time you can bear to think of how to move on from it is when alcohol soothes the embarrassing grief of your shattered, macabre fantasy. It’s not a good way to deal with things, but it works.

There’s a part of you that welcomes feeling anything at all, but that… something inside you is busy trying to squash it. 

It’s getting somewhere, because you have no idea how much you’ve already had to drink, but you’re buzzing pleasantly. Adding to it, you knock both drinks back, slamming the glasses on the bar before spinning around and facing the crowd of dancing bodies. The music sucks, the dance floor is cramped, you’re tired… The truth is that you’re too old for this, but it’s easy to escape here, surrounded by strangers. You clumsily drag the back of your hand over your wet mouth, push your sweaty hair from your eyes, and join them.

The past couple weeks, you found yourself craving something. Contact. And here is where you can get your fill; a hand on your waist, lips on your ear, the music too loud and yourself too drunk to even comprehend what’s being said, but never more. You want them to get close, but never too close.

After some time – could be an hour, could be 10 minutes – you make your way to the bathroom. It’s quieter here, the dulled thump of the music making the time you spend there feel slow and syrupy. 

When you exit the stall, you bump into someone.

It’s a man. The dark hood over his head obscures his eyes, but you can’t help but think he’s looking right at you when a bright, almost unnatural grin appears on his face. It draws you in like a magnet, more so when he says, “Need something to take the edge off?” 

Curiously, you watch as he opens his palm, long fingers unfurling slowly until they reveal a small plastic bag in his hand. 

“First time’s on the house.”

You have no idea what it is exactly, but your eyes widen. This is new territory for you, and all the possibilities it opens up are suddenly invading your mind. As if on auto-pilot, you reach for the place where you keep your money, the sound of the door opening completely lost on you.

A hand closes around your bicep, pulling you aside with a quick yank of an arm.

“She isn’t interested, pal.” 

It’s another man, who effortlessly tucks you half behind him. Before you can protest beyond an indignant huff, there’s a sound, like a sword being unsheathed, and you catch a flash of red, and of knives. Frowning, you try to get a better look, but your view is obscured by the man’s shoulder. The hooded man seems undeterred, regarding the weapons with the same sickening grin, before leaving the bathroom, muttering something that you don’t understand on the way out. The sword sound returns, the man twists around, and–

“Logan?” you slur in disbelief. 

Logan doesn’t reply, instead takes hold of your arm again, making you follow him out of the bathroom. There he stops the two of you to murmur something to a woman wearing the same clothes as him, before tugging you along again. You’re stumbling after him on account of his pace and the iron grip he has on you as he leads you to the back door. He pushes it open with enough force to make the hinges creak, a gust of wind blowing in your face. It’s a contrast to go from the crowded, sweaty club to the silent, cold back-alley where tall brick walls and employee cars cage you in. You shake your arm and Logan’s grip loosens – another and he lets you go.

“How did you even find–” You cut yourself off, eyes widening, “Oh, my god, are you following me?”

Logan scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, please, do you think I have time to follow you around all day?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You and your fucking…,” you gesture wildly into the air at him, “savior complex.”

“I work here,” he growls. When you give him a look, he adds, “It’s temporary. ‘Sides, me and my savior complex are the reason that creep isn’t selling god knows what to you in that bathroom right now!” His voice is a roar, echoing off the walls around you.

“Maybe I wanted that creep to sell god knows what to me in that bathroom,” you say, doing a poor impression of his voice, before turning and walking away from him.

Logan sighs. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And then what, huh?”

“I don’t fucking know, Logan,” you say, twisting around to face him again, arms spread out by your side. “Figure out a new way out of this.”

“Yeah? Third time’s the charm?”

“Why do you even care, huh? You don’t even know me,” you say. Almost immediately, you let out a bitter laugh as your own words hit your ears, a sad realization dawning on you. “But I guess that makes two of us.”

It’s not like you expected him to, but he doesn’t answer.

“You know I used to like myself? I used to smile, I used to have friends, I used to be more sober than drunk. But this feeling, it takes… everything.” You raise a fist, hold it to the center of your chest. “It takes everything I love, pushes away everyone I love, including myself. It eats me up, and wants more and more, until I’m something I’m not and until I’m so far away from that version of myself, my old self, that it feels easier to just fucking–” you pause with a wet gasp for air.

“Destroy yourself,” Logan finishes for you.

Your chest heaves, an unshed tear clings to your lash line. “Exactly.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Let me take you home,” he says, voice gentle. 

You should hate the implications of that gentleness, but you don’t. In your drunk state of mind, it’s easier to admit it’s nice that someone understands, that someone’s there to stop you from going too far… 

Tomorrow, when some of your pragmatism returns, you’ll deny this embarrassing thought ever occurred; if relying on other people worked, it would have worked a long time ago, and you wouldn’t be standing here with him. If you’re lucky, you might even forget this entirely, and wake up with a hangover that you’ll enjoy a little too much because it feels like a punishment–

“What about your job?” you ask with a sniff.

Logan’s palm finds the space between your shoulder blades with a gentle push, the warmth of it seeping in through your clothes, and he leads you to his truck. “They’ll manage without me.”

– – – – –

When you wake, your world is tilted sideways, a blanket is pulled up to your chin and there's a pillow under your head. They’re not your own; the blanket is itchy and the pillow’s too small. When you try to move your legs, they stick uncomfortably to the material below them, and you realize you’re on a leather couch. You squint at the light that comes in from a window across from you–

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

The voice startles you, eyes shifting to focus on the source: A man lying on his front on the floor, chin in his hands as he kicks his feet back and forth in the air. 

“Wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but it hasn’t been very pleasurable. You’ve been barfing up the place since the moment you stepped inside. Kept poor Al up all night. Her ears are sensitive,” he adds with a whisper. “But don’t worry, she left about an hour ago.”

“Who are you?” you slur, blinking against the light.

“Logan.” He sighs when you frown. “I know, not how you remember. This is what I look like during the day; blessed with incredible good looks at night and, well,” he gestures at his face that’s covered in scars, "this, during the day. Bit of a reverse Princess Fiona situation–”

“Cut it out, Wade,” comes the sharp protest from next to you. With considerable effort, you turn your head and see the actual Logan, slumped back in a recliner next to the couch, rubbing some sleep out of his eyes while motioning for the other man to go.

“I’ll let you two talk.” Wade winks.

Logan stands when Wade does, walking from your field of view. Your head is scrambling to catch up, trying to piece together what happened last night, but only coming up with bits and pieces.

“How are you feeling?” Logan asks as he makes his way back to you, handing you a glass of water.

You flinch when the front door closes behind Wade with a bang, before taking the glass from Logan and taking a few thankful sips. “Like shit.”

“Yeah,” is all he says as he sits back down.

“What–”

“You fell asleep in the car. Didn’t know where to take you, figured the couch was the safest place.”

“Oh…,” you say, voice small. 

You try not to think about being so wasted that you had to be carried out of Logan’s car, or about what Wade said earlier about the things that happened as soon as you stepped inside the apartment. During your silence, Logan’s fingers fiddle with the armrest, before his hand balls into a fist, and it unlocks something in your hazy memory.

“I have the weirdest memory of you having… a sword?”

You watch as Logan’s lips purse in amusement. His tongue rolls around in his mouth, seemingly contemplating something, before saying, “You probably saw these.” He holds up his fist, flexing his forearm before three blades shoot from between his knuckles like claws, accompanied by a shing!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you startle, spilling some water on your blanket. Your head spins with your hangover and the bizarity of the situation. If it didn’t sound so much like how it did in your memory, you might think you were still drunk. 

There’s so many things you want to ask, your intrigue almost winning out over your hangover until the sharp start of a headache gives you pause. Instead, you take another sip of water before rubbing your temple.

“It’s a story for another time,” Logan says, like he can read your mind, and you want to ask him that, too. His claws retreat, the cuts they leave between his knuckles immediately smoothing over until they’re gone. “I gotta go check if I still have a job.”

The words make you feel warm all over, the memory of your back-alley conversation coming back in full force. The thought of the things you admitted to him and that you put him in the position that he had to risk his job for you make you feel even warmer, your gaze no doubt laced with embarrassment and worry when you look at him.

“‘S not your fault,” Logan assures, standing and fishing his car key from the pocket of his jeans. “You don’t have to rush but um, make sure you close the door behind you on the way out. Gets jammed sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, watching as he makes his way to the front door. 

He takes a final glance at you over his shoulder, then leaves, accompanied by a bang.

THE PUZZLE

It takes you a little over a week to muster up the courage to go back. Admittedly, your courage is aided by another, foreign feeling. You don’t have a name for it yet, or maybe you’re afraid to call it what it is, but somewhere along the week, you became consumed with the thought that feeling like you did wasn’t all there was. That there is something beyond this. 

Perhaps foreign wasn’t the right way to describe it, because it is something you’ve felt before – it’s just been long dormant. The last time, it lasted about a month before it all came crashing down, and you swore you wouldn’t fall for it again, but you can’t help it. The feeling’s too sweet, and the idea that there’s still some baser instinct willing you to keep fighting for yourself makes you feel like the sun is shining on you. 

So yeah, maybe you’re just having one of your good weeks, where the thing sleeps – quiet while its presence still simmers. But you figured now’s your chance to take advantage of its unguarded moment.

Sneaking into the building is surprisingly easy. It helps that it isn’t anything fancy. You wanted to forego the humiliation of ringing the bell and him not letting you in, but standing in front of the door now, panting after climbing three flights of stairs, you don’t know if this is much better. 

Just when you’re about to knock, the door swings open. In the opening, Logan has one arm in his jacket, head twisted to watch the other that’s caught halfway in the sleeve. It takes him almost bumping into you to realize your presence. “Shit, sorry.” He steadies himself with a hand on your arm, the touch leaving you as fast as it appeared.

“Hi,” you breathe, taking a step back to give him a little more space.

He nods in greeting. “Brings you here?”

It takes you a moment, caught off guard by him skipping over pleasantries and cutting right to the chase, despite your best intentions; it’s not that he’s ever been any different in his interactions with you.

“I came by because I, um, owe you an apology, for my behavior at your workplace and for, you know…,” you trail off, gesturing at the door.

“Barfing up the place!” comes a shout from inside the apartment. 

Logan’s eyes close with a sigh, before he steps into the hallway with you and closes the door with a bang. 

“That,” you finish sheepishly. “I’m really sorry.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“I also wanted to ask, um, if you want to come with me to get a coffee. To make it up to you.”

Logan just looks at you, the leather of his jacket creaking as he crosses his thick arms in front of his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly. You hate how he somehow can see right through you, how he makes you elaborate, and honest.

“I want to quit drinking,” you say, fiddling with the sleeve of your coat. “It doesn’t make me better, and when I don’t do it I finally feel a little… normal. Maybe coffee’s technically just as bad, but it’s the only thing that’s currently acting like… like a reverse gateway drink? And I feel like you’re the only person I know that might get that feeling of–”

“I do,” Logan cuts in, voice softer than before – assuring. His arms drop from where they’re crossed and he starts making his way to the stairs. “Let’s go.”

– – – – –

You don’t know this coffee place, and from the way he looks around and shifts around in a chair that might be a bit too small for him, neither does Logan. Main reason you picked it is because the booths remind you a little too much of a bar – and you like the tall windows. The coffee’s pretty decent.

“Did they fire you?” you ask, picking at a loose corner of one of the laminated menus before setting it back in its holder.

“Boss commended me for helping a customer, but not so much for leaving before my shift ended,” Logan replies. “Got off with a warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Said that already, and I accepted,” he says. When he takes a sip of the coffee, he winces. “No need to worry about it anymore, okay? I would do it again.”

You nod, folding your hands around the warm cup in front of you.

“But, um, Wade hasn’t shut up about… the incident.” There’s a different tone to his voice, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “His words.”

“You know, I kind of get the feeling that Wade doesn’t shut up about a lot of things.” It comes out a little meaner than you intend, but it makes Logan laugh and finally slump back in his chair a little. 

“You’re a quick study.”

Offering him a short smile in return, you continue with the other real reason you came to see him, before you chicken out. “I also stopped by because I wanted to, uh… because I realized I never really… I never… I never thanked you, for um… And–”

With a shake of his head, Logan sits upright. “Y’don’t–”

To your horror, your eyes brim with tears, “Logan, I’m supposed to be dead–”

“So am I,” he counters. He lets the words hang between the two of you for a moment, until you look at him, before he continues, “I’ve been where you are. Past it, even.”

You don’t know what to say to that, if the lump in your throat will even permit you to speak, but it’s impossible to look away from him. Logan’s gaze is piercing, frown ever present, but it’s not from anger. Instead, it’s like he’s searching for something, the right thing, to say. The silence doesn’t bother you; if anything, it makes his words seem more genuine when he does speak,

“I had someone who was annoying enough to not give up on me when I could really use it. If getting a coffee with you that’s, frankly…,” he makes a face as he pauses, “a horrible excuse for a coffee, helps… I can do that. I want to do that.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you blink away your tears. “Was it Wade?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, and it’s honest – fond. “Yeah.”

“Figured,” you say. “How did you meet him?”

Across from you, Logan stills. You swallow thickly, adjusting yourself in your chair. It’s an innocent question, but maybe it isn’t something he’d like to revisit right now. Logan’s mug squeaks when he grips it tighter, and he looks at you with something like defeat– 

It makes you deflate. This must be what you looked like the night you met…

There’s no way to have prepared for what he tells you next: That he came from another timeline about three months ago, that he and Wade saved this one from being destroyed and almost got killed in the process, that he has nothing to go back to after the death of his team, so he stayed here. 

There’s hesitation in it, like he isn’t telling you the whole story, though you don’t comment on it. He doesn’t owe you anything and you’re too busy putting all the pieces in the Logan-shaped puzzle in your mind together; his words and actions towards you are starting to make more and more sense.

“It’s a very brave thing the two of you did,” you say when he’s finished.

“Hmm, it was all Wade,” Logan muses. “He did it all for the people he cares about.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same if you were in his place.”

At that, he lets out a dry laugh with absolutely no joy behind it. “Do me a favor, don’t put me on a pedestal.”

You frown, but before you can comment, he stands. A knot forms in your stomach, worried you’ve offended him, but he clears up the uncertainty immediately.

“I gotta go but um, Wade’s friends–,” he stops himself, correcting, “our friends are coming over to watch a movie, next week, 7:30. I have no idea what crap they’re going to be watching but… it’s nice. It’ll be nice to be around good people.” Logan doesn’t wait for your answer, simply takes his wallet from his pocket and leaves enough money to cover the bill.

“Wait, no, I invited you,” you protest. “I should–”

“You can pay next time.” 

When you nod, he says his goodbyes with a jerk of his head and makes his way to the door.

– – – – –

You see Logan two more times for coffee that week. He never lets you pay.

THE PANTRY

“–but it’s the best one!” Wade protests, DVD in hand.

“They fly a car into space, Wade,” Laura sighs.

“Launched off a jet,” he corrects. Like it helps.

You cover your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the smile that appears at everyone’s babbling. Unbeknownst to you, you had found yourself invited to a double feature night, with Wade as the self proclaimed DVDJ. The credits had barely started rolling on A Good Day To Die Hard, or Wade had another DVD at the ready. It was met with the same amount of enthusiasm as when he presented the first.

It hadn’t been easy to make yourself go to this tonight. On your way, you’d thought of turning around at almost every step. Of course, that was all before you knew it would be this fun, and that you’d be relieved you hadn’t canceled last minute. Even meeting everyone hadn’t been as bad as you feared. 

There’s Peter, Wade’s friend. Ellie, another one of Wade’s friends. Yukio, Ellie’s girlfriend. Laura, Logan’s daughter. Mary Puppins, Wade’s small, disgusting but adorable dog, who had greeted you with equal amounts saliva and enthusiasm, before falling asleep next to the TV, completely unbothered by the commotion. Unlike Althea, Logan and Wade’s blind roommate, who had taken one listen to the gaggle of voices and left. The elusive Vanessa, Wade’s ex-but-we-might-get-back-together you heard about a couple times, wasn’t there.

Logan had been right, it was nice to be surrounded by good people. Especially good people who were… unconventional. It made joining them less complicated, less performative, and as the evening progressed it made you a participant instead of a silent observer. Wade even called you, “good for the group dynamic,” and it made you beam with pride.

“Don’t they have like, rockets attached to the car?” Ellie questions, to which Yukio’s eyebrows knit together.

“Exactly!” Wade exclaims, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Citizen Kane wishes.”

There’s more grumbling from everyone when Wade pops the DVD into the player, and he grumbles something back about how Logan would back him up if he wasn’t in the bathroom because he, quote unquote, goes way back with some of these dudes.

You’re pretty sure he’s the only one who knows what he’s even talking about.

An empty bowl of popcorn rests in your lap, and as you put it on the table, you notice how sticky and greasy your fingers and palms are. When the opening credits begin to roll, you get up to wash your hands, assuring Wade he doesn’t need to pause the movie before you go.

The apartment’s small, so it isn’t far to the kitchen, but it’s nice to stretch your legs. You can still hear the sounds from movie night; tell-tale action movie music, comments of disbelief and Wade shutting them down. They’re more faint, though, more so when you turn the tap on and wash your hands.

Right as you’re finished, you hear a dull thud. You turn the water off, head tilted and at attention while you dry your hands. There’s another sound, like a muffled groan. It’s coming from the pantry, you realize, noting that the door is slightly ajar. There’s a shing! sound followed by a distressed grunt, and before you know it you’re walking over, wrapping your fingers around the door to pull it open–

You’re not sure what it was you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Logan’s sitting on the floor, uncharacteristically small, curled up against one of the walls. His chest is heaving, shoulders all but going up to his ears with how he’s trying to draw in breaths. Next to him, his fist is balled against the hardwood, claws buried in the floor.

Fuck.

Dropping to your knees, you wedge yourself between his. “It’s okay, you’re having a panic attack,” you explain, your hands landing on his shoulders with a light shake. “You need to breathe. I’ll help you, just look at me.”

Logan’s head stays tipped down, a deep, rattling breath sailing from his mouth as he curls further in on himself.

“Hey!” you say sharply, cupping his jaw with two hands and tilting his face up, “Look at me.” 

Logan’s eyes are wet when they meet yours, moving frantically as they search your face, tears spilling over when he blinks. Something changes in his gaze, like he finally sees it’s you, and his bottom lip begins to tremble. His hand lifts from where it’s buried in the floor, clutching onto your wrist like a lifeline.

“Breathe,” you instruct, trying not to flinch at the sharp claws in front of you. He doesn’t catch on immediately, so you overdo the purse of your lips when you blow out a breath before exaggerating an inhale through your nose, showing him what to do. It starts off shaky, a fresh set of tears falling from Logan’s eyes as he does as you instruct, but after a couple of times you find a rhythm together. The silver between his knuckles slowly disappears. “There you go, good job. Keep going.”

You sit like that, until the wild shift of his eyes stops, his pulse steadies beneath your fingertips, and eventually his eyes close with a deep exhale. His grip on you loosens and you take it as your cue to let go of him, slumping back against the wall opposite him with a sigh of relief. The both of you catch your breath, sitting together in silence until Logan breaks it.

“Came outta nowhere… suddenly I was back there… letting them down.”

“It caught you off guard, it happens–”

“I let them get killed,” he says, voice raw. “They were like– They were my family, they trusted me to be there for them and I… I was too caught up in my own bullshit. I should have been with them, I should be dead with them.”

Logan’s tears still come, but the words almost sound reverent; as if saying them out loud just to punish himself with his own shortcomings is a balm. He’s talking about his team from there, you realize, and something clicks. All this time, you thought this was about him being unable to die due to his mutation, but it’s more than that. It’s shame, remorse, grief, survivor’s guilt, all wrapped into one.

It’s the final piece of your mind puzzle that makes his picture appear.

“How– How can I ever atone for that?” he asks. “How can I ever–”

“Logan, you can't change your past,” you interrupt carefully. “You made your choices and they made theirs, and you honored them by– by…stepping up to the task, by doing what you did with Wade.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

“What if it was?” you counter. Your hand finds his knee with a squeeze, before adding, “You did what they would have done. And now you… you need to allow yourself to honor their memory without feeling like you have to destroy yourself to do it. You deserve that.”

Logan blinks at you, eyes still glossy. He looks devastated yet calmer than before, like the emotion is still there, but displaced. For a good while, you sit with him like that while his sniffles lessen and his breathing returns to normal… until there’s a loud explosion coming from the living room. It’s followed by cheers and hollers, and you’re both suddenly reminded of where you are. 

“C’mon,” you say, patting Logan’s knee before using it as leverage to haul yourself up with a groan. You give him room by holding the door open for him. “Better get back before we miss the good stuff.”

Still on the floor, Logan exhales heavily. “Think this was the good stuff.”

– – – – –

Three weeks later, on your way to your third movie night, you catch Wade and Vanessa making out in the building hallway. 

It stops you dead in your tracks and makes for an awkward meeting with Wade’s mystery woman, who is beautiful but very direct when she asks you what the fuck you’re staring at. Wade certainly has a type when it comes to the company he keeps… He quickly shushes the situation, introducing the two of you, and it immediately makes Vanessa’s expression twist into recognition. 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, followed by an apologetic smile. 

You respond in kind. 

When Wade tugs at her jacket impatiently, they brush past you and make their way to the exit. “See you around!” she throws over her shoulder.

A grin forms on your lips, realizing what you just witnessed, and you race up the stairs. With Wade gone, you’re not sure if there will be a movie, but at least you have gossip to share with your friends.

THE MEETING

April flies by, rolls into May, and thing’s are… okay.

With some help, you find a therapist. It’s good, she’s good, but it’s difficult to be confronted with things that are painful, week after week, and to keep reminding yourself it’s all part of the process you’re going through.

Last week, after a particularly difficult session, you’d left her office being auto-piloted by dark feelings, like they knew exactly when to strike. You had turned corners and crossed streets, wandering as you stewed on everything you’d discussed –  like your mind was playing a constant loop of your most painful moments. It was a small miracle you had heard your phone, and that you had the presence of mind to thumb the green button.

You’d answered without saying a word.

“Got any plans?” Logan had asked on the other side of the line.

“No,” you’d replied, coming back to yourself a little bit at the sound of his voice.

“Al’s making her meatballs – she and Wade can’t agree on if they’re famous or infamous. Thought you might like to come. If it tastes like shit, we’ll order in.”

You’d hummed, managing to ask, “What time?”

It had stayed quiet on the other end, and that’s how you’d known he was onto you, could picture the pinch of his brows, his lips forming a thin line. For the first time, you welcomed it—wanted so badly to reach through the phone, shake his shoulders, ask for his help and accept it, like he had done with you weeks ago. 

“Sounds to me like now might be good.”

“Yeah,” you had agreed, the constricting tightness in your chest easing up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” You’d released a shuddering breath, ear still pressed to the phone as you took in your surroundings before you auto-piloted yourself to a different destination. 

“Logan?”

“Still here.”

“Thank you for calling.”

“‘course. Get here soon, I’ll stay on the phone.”

The afternoon had ended with Logan and yourself allowing Althea to boss you around in the small apartment’s kitchen, rolling meatballs, sharing stories — Althea’s recollection of something that happened to her in her 20s that involved her stealing a police horse while wearing nothing but a thong, made you cry from laughing.

The meatballs were the best you ever had, though you couldn’t be sure if they actually were, or if it was just the taste of the moment that was better than anything had been that day. 

Sometime after dinner, Logan had nudged your shoulder to show you a little plastic chip. He flashed it at you long enough that you could read the words one month, before he pocketed it again. Then he suggested you come with him next week. 

“I thought it was bullshit too, but it helps,” he’d explained. “Figured I couldn’t continue to drink whatever that stuff is you call coffee to… avoid my problems.”

You contemplated his suggestion. Things were going well for you in that regard, but your therapist had also recommended you go to one of these things, even if it was just for the community aspect of it. It just made it so… official. Your problems, but most of all, your recovery. You weren’t good at keeping promises to yourself, and this felt like a big commitment. Not to mention the speeches and other people’s problems...

But as Logan told you more about it, the location, how it had been for him, you sensed something else between the lines: He wasn’t just asking for you, he was also asking for himself. Maybe… this was his way of telling you he needed some support. 

That’s how you find yourself inside a high school gymnasium a week later. It’s as gloomy as you expected. Slick floors, gray fold-out chairs set in neat rows, buzzing lights in a high ceiling, and a slightly raised podium with a whiteboard that reads a welcome message in capital letters. 

Unsure of what to do, you follow Logan as he weaves through the crowd to find a seat. As you do, it strikes you that there’s a pretty even distribution of people, with many genders, ages and lifestyles represented. Eventually you take a seat; not quite in the back, but definitely not in the front. 

The whole thing goes by in a blur, but where you expected to be overwhelmed, you feel… connected. Here you are, surrounded by people with different backgrounds, different lives, but all their stories have something you can relate to. Where you thought addiction was the common denominator, it’s actually the desire to turn your lives around that unites you the most.

“Before we end the night I want to circle back to last week, when we spoke about goals, or things we want to work towards,” says the woman leading the meeting – you’re ashamed to admit you already forgot her name. “Does anyone want to share something about that?”

It takes a lot to hide your surprise when Logan raises his hand. 

“Logan! Come on up!” She sounds as surprised as you feel, beckoning him to her.

The plastic chair he sits on creaks when he stands and his boots squeak against the shiny floor as he does as she asks. He looks so out of place on a podium; both larger than life behind the lectern and lost to the space of the stage. He clears his throat as he retrieves a paper from his pocket and unfolds it while his eyes scan the room until they land on yours. You give him a little nod of encouragement, and it kicks him into gear.

“Not good at this stuff, so I’m going to keep it brief,” he starts. 

It earns him a chuckle or two from the other attendees, and you can tell he doesn’t expect it when he looks up from his paper. Your hands clasp together with nerves as you watch him divide his weight from one leg to another, before focussing his gaze back down.

“My life has changed a lot over the past few months. For the first time in a long time, it’s not all bad. Coming here has been good. I’m starting to feel more like I did before–” 

He stops his monotonous droning with a frustrated sigh, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket and sounding considerably more lively after. 

“I have people I care about again, and um, it scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to let them down, and every day I feel like I will because of all of my… past shit.” He pauses and swallows hard before he continues, “They show me so much kindness and understanding, that… that even though it’s fucking hard, I want to be able to see myself the way they see me. And allow them to care about me without feeling like I… have to earn it all the time, without destroying myself to do it.” 

You exhale for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

“So, that’s what I’m currently working on.” Logan sighs. “That’s it. Thank you.”

A small applause follows, and you quickly unclasp your hands to join in.

Your palms hurt after.

– – – – –

“It was really nice, what you said in there,” you say, fingers caressing a little plastic chip of your own that you keep safe in your coat pocket. You haven’t felt proud of yourself in a while, but tonight you do.

The evening is nice, the setting sun bathing the city in hues of orange and pink. Your pace is slow and comfortable, your arm occasionally brushing Logan’s when you make room for all the other pedestrians. You didn’t plan on him walking you home, but he insisted and you enjoy the company – it makes you a little sad when you turn onto your street.

Logan scoffs in reply. 

“I’m being serious,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm on purpose now. “It was nice for people to hear a guy like you say those things. I’m proud of you.”

You swear he blushes. “A guy like me, huh?” he asks, almost amused.

It’s your turn to scoff. “You know what I mean.” 

“A mutant?” He looks at you from the corner of his eye.

“No,” you say, because it’s not what you meant, but the hint of seriousness in his voice and the fact he’s not entirely wrong make you track back. “Well, maybe that, too, but I meant someone who looks like you, allowing themselves to be vulnerable. Sets a nice example.”

Logan doesn’t shoot your comments down like you expect. Instead, he seems to consider your words, maybe he even silently accepts the compliment. “Think you have some things to say that could set a nice example, too.”

“Maybe next time.”

During the comfortable silence that follows, you’re reminded of something you’ve been considering for weeks now. You hadn’t paid much attention to it since that night, but as you worked through the feelings that got you to that point, the question kept coming back.

“I’ve been wondering something,” you begin. “The night we met... What were you doing at the lookout?”

Logan glances at you, contemplating the question. “When I had just, um, gotten here, it wasn’t always easy to adjust, you know? So I went to all these places that I knew from back there, to ground myself, to see that things may be different, but that they’re not that different.”

“You went there on your side?”

He hums.

“By yourself?”

He hums again.

“Did you…” You hesitate to finish your sentence, both because you’re not sure if you have any right to ask and because you’ve reached your building. You stop walking, and Logan follows your lead. 

“No, no, no, I… I can’t explain it, it’s just one of those places I was always drawn to,” Logan says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans with a shrug. His brows furrow suddenly, his mind seemingly lost in something before his eyes flick back to yours. “Think it took me coming over here to find reason in it.”

It’s a thought that’s equal parts sad and lovely. 

The silence that follows hangs between you, thick with something you can’t place, but Logan doesn’t look away from you, eyes scanning your face before they land back on yours. You can’t help thinking that maybe this is how he does it, and the question comes out before you can help it,

“Is mind reading part of the X-Gene thing?”

His eyes widen – amusement or surprise, you can’t say. “It can be.” 

“Can you do it?”

“No,” he says. “And it’s for the best, fucking hurts when you can’t control it.” Then the start of a smile begins to form on his lips. “‘sides, I don’t know if I would have a lot of… consideration for people’s boundaries.”

It makes you chuckle. “Right. Not to mention some minds are probably a lot – imagine reading Wade’s mind.”

“Hurts to even imagine,” Logan says, gesturing for you to be quiet as he winces, but a smile breaks through anyway. When your shared laughter dies down, he jerks his chin at the building behind you, “This your place?”

“Wha–?” Going home long forgotten in the moment, you glance over your shoulder. “Oh! Yes.”

“All right,” he nods. “See you next week?”

“Definitely,” you reply.

“Oh,” Logan says right before you turn around. “Bring coffee? You owe me.”

You make a face at him. “You don’t have to– I’ll get you something else, I know you don’t like it.”

“I like it when I drink it with you.”

It’s incredibly hard to hide your grin. “Okay, I’ll bring coffee. See you next week, Logan.”

“See you.” 

He lingers, watching you climb the steps, waiting until the door opens after you turn your key in the lock. It’s not until you close the door, when you can only make out his silhouette through the patterned glass window in it, that he walks off.

THE SUMMER

Walking back from a very successful job interview, you find yourself on your way to your friends with a big, plastic bottle of coke under your arm. It’s a warm feeling to know that you’ll soon have a job that suits you and that you have people to celebrate with; you look forward to seeing them and sharing this with them.

You’re invited inside with open arms, tight hugs, exclaimed praise and congratulations, and it makes you giddy, a feeling so foreign that you wish you could bottle it up right this instant. With a grin, you shake the Coca Cola bottle, before twisting the cap off. You let out an excited shout as you watch the foam shoot out from the top, bubbles and dark liquid pulsing down the neck of the bottle as cheers surround you.

It’s not champagne, but Althea grumbles about the soda ruining her floors, Wade gets mismatched glasses from the cupboard, and Logan clinks his glass to yours and tells you he’s proud of you.

It’s way better than champagne.

– – – – –

You’re in serious, desperate need of a new place… 

The August heat is relentless, and the entire building’s AC isn’t working. It’s with considerable effort that you manage to make your way to your friends’ place, the promise of a constant, cold stream of wind the only thing that keeps you going. But when the front door opens, it isn’t with the welcoming, cool waft of air you were hoping for. Instead, there’s no temperature change, only Wade in his underwear.

“No.” It’s a little embarrassing how you literally pout, but these are desperate times. “Here, too?”

“If it wasn’t this fucking hot I’d be offended by that greeting.” He sighs. “Come in.”

Slightly defeated, you shuffle past the threshold, while Wade lingers. Mary Puppins trots by, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel secured on her back, and you catch a glimpse of Logan exiting the bedroom. He’s in black shorts and a ribbed, sleeveless shirt, and with a desperate groan, he lets himself fall back into the recliner in the living room. 

“Tried everything, there’s no fixing that fucking thing.”

Wade makes a face, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking: Wade’s in his underwear, Logan’s emerging from the bedroom… But we didn’t fuck, it’s not that kind of st–”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask from behind him, glancing over his shoulder into the empty hallway.

“No one–You!” The door closes with a bang.

Confused, you walk further into the apartment. “Well, telling me you didn’t is just going to make me think that you did.” Wade darts past you and takes a seat on the couch, but you hang back and lean against the kitchen table to avoid sitting on leather.

Wade suddenly turns to face you. “Did I ever tell you about our time in The Void?”

“Wade,” Logan warns.

Wade’s eyes are sparkling with mischief and you can’t deny how fun it is to indulge the way he pushes Logan’s buttons. It’s a good distraction from how you’re drenched in sweat. And you’re actually curious.

You play your part, letting out a faux-scandalised gasp. “Did you..?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Wolverine goes both ways. All the ways, really.” He grins. “We’re so alike.”

“Shut up. Both of you.” Logan groans, lacking any real threat as he adjusts in his seat and wipes some sweat off his brow. “It’s too fucking hot to be annoyed.”

It isn’t lost on you he doesn’t deny a thing.

– – – – –

Apartments look weird with nothing in them.

It’s what crossed your mind after you finished packing up your place three days ago, and it crosses your mind now as you look into the open space of your new one from the doorway. It’s a pleasant, late summer day; perfect weather to move, which was on your schedule for today.

“Incoming!” comes from behind you, followed by quick, heavy steps.

You jump aside as Ellie sails through the door, carefully setting a big box marked “Kitchen” down in its designated area, followed by Logan who is balancing three boxes at once. After a beat, Yukio follows, holding a single table lamp in her hand. It takes some effort not to laugh, not just because of how funny it looks, but also because you relate; after all the exhausting late nights you pulled packing up, that’s also the kind of energy you’re bringing to this.

It’s nice of them to help, and instead of shoving that feeling away in fear, you allow yourself to bask in it. You don’t get long, however, because more help has just arrived.

Wade. With Vanessa. Hands interlocked.

It draws everyone’s eyes to the doorway. Wade looks almost bashful, and it baffles you how someone who can say the most insane things unprompted, all without batting an eye, could blush while holding hands with a girl he likes. To his credit, he shakes it off quickly.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Stop ogling me and my girlfriend and get back to work everyone!”

– – – – –

“So it was like an experiment?” you ask, stirring the pot on your stove before taking a careful bite of food off your wooden spoon.

Tonight’s your first night hosting at your new place – Family Dinner, Wade had dubbed it. With fall setting in, you had an idea of what to make, but it still made you nervous to have everyone in your space. Logan saw right through you, offering to come over early to help you prepare. 

Once he had arrived, it hadn’t taken long for him to admit he wasn’t much of a cook, so he mainly chopped vegetables as you chatted; you about your new place, Logan about his new job as a boxing instructor, Laura going off to college. You don’t remember exactly how the subject of his adamantium came up, but he was telling you freely about it.

“They needed someone who could regenerate fast enough to bond with it,” he explains. “I was in a dark place. Figured I didn’t have anything to lose if it didn’t work.”

You nod in understanding. “Do you… remember much about it?” You put your spoon down, then put the lid back on the pan. 

Logan’s knife stops hitting the cutting board. “Yeah, I… I remember every second of it.”

You look at him then. His eyes are still cast down at his task. Unsure of what to say, you think about what you’d want to hear, and you find it might be best to say nothing at all. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder. Logan’s head turns to you, and you feel like the look you share is more important than anything you could’ve told him. His hand covers yours with an appreciative squeeze. 

“But I’m trying to leave that there so I can focus on remembering what happens to me here.” As soon as he’s said it, his hand quickly slips off yours, adding, in a rush, “Here in this timeline, I mean.” 

You smile at him, but a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. “That sounds like a great idea.”

– – – – –

“I need your help with something,” you say, balancing your phone between your ear and your shoulder while you turn a birthday card over in your hand. Deciding you don’t like it, you throw it back on the pile of cards and continue your grocery shopping.

“Just say the word,” comes Logan’s reply from the other end.

“I need you to steal something out of the apartment for me.” There’s a silence, and you purposely let the feeling of trepidation linger.

“Am gonna need you to say a little more than just that.”

You laugh, “Wade’s been talking about getting a little frame for his polaroid. You know, the polaroid that you held on to for him in The Void, after the two of you fu–”

“Yes, I know the one,” he interjects with a huff. He pauses, sighs, then says, “Consider it done.”

THE PARTY

“There you are!” Wade shouts after he opens the door. He pulls you into a hug that you return with a wide smile. Over his shoulder, you see that the apartment’s crowded, bustling with people who are there for his birthday party.

“I got you something,” you say, offering the small package to him after you step inside and hang up your coat.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if you hadn’t,” he admits as he closes the door behind you with a bang. Wade takes the package from your hand, shaking it next to his ear but hearing it make no sound in response. “Is it a cock ring?”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Unfortunately, they were all sold out.”

“They always are,” he says, making a disappointed face. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you watch as he tears at the wrapping paper to reveal his gift. He makes another face when he sees it. “Well, now I feel like an asshole. This is really nice.”

“Logan helped me kidnap it,” you explain, pointing at the picture. “And the little red hearts on the frame, well, they’re your color, but they also reminded me of how much you care about people.”

When he looks at you after, it’s with genuine emotion… but Wade is Wade. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of happy you walked in here barfing up the place.”

A strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude claws its way up your neck. “Thank you.”

“We should take a new one,” he decides suddenly, pointing at the picture. “You both should be in it.” His head turns, watching as Logan approaches the two of you. “But let’s be realistic, his shoulders are so broad he wouldn’t even fit in the frame, much less his bul–”

“Stop talking about my dick, Wade,” Logan snaps.

“I was saying only good things! Jeez, so sensitive…” Wade turns, putting the picture on the kitchen table behind him where it joins all the other gifts.

“Did he like it?” Logan asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Good,” he replies. “Was a nice idea.”

You eye all the other gifts, some clearer who they are from than others. “What did you get him?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts as he points at a roll of silver duct tape with a small red bow on top, making you fix them both with a confused look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Logan shrugs.

Wade’s eyes sparkle, but in a rare turn of events, he doesn’t elaborate, only adds, “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.” 

“And I have top level clearance, lieutenant,” you reply. You exhale through your nose in an amused laugh when Wade makes a surprised face that indicates you’ve gotten the reference. “What, you thought a Tom Cruise impression could save you?”

“No,” he grins, and as if on cue, the doorbell rings, “but that can. Birthday Boy duty calls, but I want it on record that I could do Top Gun, easily, while Tom would never be able to pull off Deadpool.”

– – – – –

The party settles into something comfortable, soft music in the background of lively chatter. Yukio has just finished telling you about a Professor Layton cosplay she’s doing when you excuse yourself, both your glass and your social battery empty enough to look for a momentary out. Finding your way through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen, filling your glass with water and taking a few sips. 

While you do, the music suddenly gets louder, taking over for the steady chatter. You turn around, leaning back against the kitchen counter, and watch as Wade drags Vanessa to the middle of the apartment. People make room for them, exchanging looks while Wade wraps his arm around her waist, takes her hand in his and begins dancing with her. With a laugh, she slaps him on the chest, before settling into his embrace anyway. Some follow their lead, but your eyes stay glued to them. Wade spins Vanessa under his arm, the smile on her face bright enough to light up the entire room. In return, he looks at her with so much adoration he’s almost glowing himself. It fills you with warmth to see the both of them so happy.

It hits you how you haven’t thought about this in a while. You’d decided long ago that the future wasn’t something you had to worry about, but suddenly you’ve arrived, like you’re in some alternate reality where your future is now, and that it would be nice to share it with someone. The sting behind your eyes catches you a little off guard; mixed feelings of time that has been taken from you, but also of time you’re getting back with the life you now have.

For a while now, you’ve suspected the thing inside you is gone, that there isn’t much to feed off of anymore. If it is, it would make sense that there’s room for something else.

Wade and Vanessa make it look easy, even though you know it’s been far from easy for them. You suppose that’s what it’s like, especially as you get older. It’s less about big gestures, more about small ones; someone to make you laugh, to spin you under their arm, who knows how to apologize, seeks you out during your quiet moments–

“Do you dance?”

You startle, head turning towards the voice next to you– 

“Logan,” you breathe. 

It’s like you’re seeing him for the very first time. He’s standing so close, almost touching you but not quite, heat radiating off of him nonetheless. The plaid shirt he’s wearing isn’t even buttoned and still the fabric is pulled taunt over his shoulders and the thick of his biceps. He’s grinning, his nose pulled up in an adorable scrunch, the corner of his eyes crinkling - you never noticed before, but there’s a hint of green between the hazel.

It hits you so suddenly that you have to grab the counter to keep your balance. Everything that’s been happening, that you’ve been feeling, all the times something happened between the two of you that you couldn’t put your finger on… it falls into place with a well-timed, completely unrelated question and a glance at him.

You like him.

All you can do is blink at him, dazed, unable to speak, even more so when he leans in a little closer, mistaking your silence for misunderstanding. “I mean, not that I– You and Wade were doing a bit earlier, it’s a reference to–” Logan straightens suddenly, his expression slipping into concern as he watches you, “Are you okay?”

You feel warm, so aware of all his attention on you that you’re afraid he might be able to see your pulse blink rapidly below the angle of your jaw. “Yeah,” you reply, voice hoarse, looking away from him to blink the leftover wetness from earlier out of your eyes. 

Anxiety claws its way into your chest, your mind coming to terms with what it’s puzzled together at such a sickening pace that there’s an immediate knot in your stomach. The party has instantly lost its shine, and you look down at the glass in your hand, gulping down its contents. You need to be alone with your thoughts, you need to think about this before–

“I gotta go,” you say in such a rush that it almost sounds like one word while you set your glass on the kitchen counter.

Logan’s eyes follow you as you push past him, grab your coat and reach for the doorknob. “Wait–”

“Bye, Logan.”

THE TABLE

Once at home, you change into something more comfortable, your mind racing while you peel your party clothes off, toss your bra aside, change into an oversized shirt and plop down on the couch after.

Despite having already established that your mind was occupied with other things for a very long time, it’s laughable in hindsight that you never noticed your feelings before. It’s not like you don’t know what Logan’s like; he’s kind, funny, supportive…

…broad, handsome.

Shit.

Why did you have to come to your senses? Things were better before that moment. Logan’s your friend, whom you met in the most unconventional way possible. It’s ridiculous to want more than what you have when what you have is good. Or to think that he would want more.

But he might.

Because you may have been occupied with depression, anxiety, recovery, and everything in between, but you were there; you remember the time you spent with him, the way he looks at you, drinks the coffee you like, laughs at your jokes, seems to know exactly when to call you, seeks you out in a crowd.

But it would change everyth– 

Actually, not a whole lot would change, if you really think about it. You already see him all the time, you’ve seen the very worst of each other, overcome a great deal of hardship together, you make each other better, his friends are your… 

friends. 

You didn’t say goodbye to Wade.

The thought comes suddenly. It was his birthday party and you didn’t even say goodbye to him before you left. You’re a terrible friend. Dread sinks into your limbs, and you reach for your phone to type out a quick, apologetic message. Just as you hit send, there’s a series of loud knocks on the door, and it makes you freeze up where you’re seated.

“Are you in there?” a muffled voice calls out.

It’s Logan, you realize, and a plethora of fake excuses as to why you left the party early present themselves to your mind as you quickly make your way over to the door.

The first thing you notice when you open it is that he’s dripping wet from the rain, clothes soaked through and his hair flat. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and it’s different from how he usually looks; he looks actually mad.

“Logan, is everything–” you begin, concerned, but he cuts you off by pushing past you and letting himself inside, boots stomping against the wooden floor. 

“Jesus, here you are. Why’d you leave like that, huh? Saying goodbye, your eyes all wet. I went after you and you were fucking gone, it scared the shit out of me. Didn’t see the car at the lookout, but I went to look for you anyway, and you weren’t in the water, thank fuck–”

“Wait, you went–” you pause, the mental image of Logan running out into the rain to the cliffside making your eyes widen. “Did you think..?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Shit.” Your heart is racing when you step closer to him. “No, I wasn’t… I don’t want that anymore.”

“Then what the fuck was that all about?”

The desperation and misunderstanding in his eyes is unmistakable, and you hate that you made him feel like that. “I was just… I needed a moment, after seeing Wade and Vanessa like that,” you say, trying to provide yourself with more time to think, unsure if you already want to broach the subject of why you really left.

“You… like Wade?” Logan asks, his frown deepening.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at the unexpected question. “No. I mean, I adore Wade, but not like that. He’s with Vanessa.”

The answer does nothing to change his expression. “And you want it to be different?”

His line of questioning confuses you. “I– No. Logan, this isn’t about Wade or Vanessa, but it’s about… what they have. Something that’s real, but imperfect, and that’s what actually makes it perfect, and I just… I was in a really bad place for such a long time, I didn’t give myself time to even think about… I haven’t felt myself wanting for so long,” your gaze flicks up to his. “Seeing them just made me realize there’s so much left that I still want.” 

Internally, you curse the way he always makes you say too much, because you can see the understanding wash over his features. His expression softens, the balled fists by his side loosen, and his eyes search you, as if to see if that thing you want is him. There’s no doubt he finds his answer; you’re ever the open book when it comes to him, and your pulse quickens while he silently observes you. 

Logan reaches for you so quickly that you can barely prepare for it, a hand on your waist to pull you in, another on your cheek to tip your face up and guide your mouth to his. A shaky breath sails out through your nose when your lips meet, your eyes fluttering shut and your palms sliding up his damp but warm chest to curl in the soaked fabric of his shirt. It’s eager, and the angle is off, but it’s quickly adjusted with a brief parting and a near in-sync tilt of your heads in the other direction. 

Logan pulls away, but stays close, and you almost feel his words before hearing them, “Been… thinking about doing that.”

“Really?” you say, breathless and amused. “When did you, um, start wanting to do that?”

“Few weeks ago–Fuck, no, more than that. Almost did, that day after your first meeting, after you told me you were proud of me,” he admits. “But I wanted to give you time, space. Wasn’t sure if you felt–”

“I do. Didn’t realize it before, but I fucking do,” you assure him, another tug on his collar trying to pull him back to you. His admissions, knowing he wants you too, only make you want him more, like you have to make up for all the time you wasted not doing this sooner.

Logan’s hand on your waist holds you off. “I just don’t know how to… how to be this,” he confesses softly.

“That’s okay,” you say, your nose brushing against his. “I don’t either.”

He inches forward like he intends to kiss you again, but seems to reconsider, swallowing hard before saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time we figure it out together, huh?”

The words make you surge forward to close the gap between you, your brows creasing, attempting to convey everything you feel with one press of your lips to his. Logan’s hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you to him in a way that seems to mirror your efforts. Something lights up inside you, something you lost long ago, and it makes you bold, opening your mouth under his to get a taste of him. 

His grip on you tightens with a groan, spurring him into action and walking you backwards into the dark kitchen, the only illumination the slivers of moonlight that come through the kitchen window. You jolt when the back of your thighs hit the table, before you’re scrambling to get on top of it, two hands at your waist helping to hoist you up. Your thighs widen to make room for Logan’s while you push the green flannel shirt off his shoulders, struggling to peel it off his arms to the point you have to break away with a laugh to really get it right. It lands on the floor with a wet sound, before he reaches for the back of his shirt, curling his fingers around the collar and pulling it over his head.

Logan’s sturdy, warm to the touch and surprisingly pliant when you can’t help but let your fingers flit along the corded muscles and protruding veins while he toes off his shoes. His hand flies to the back of your head to fist the hair at the nape of your neck when your lips explore, find his jaw, and travel down his neck. A soft sound sails from his mouth, a barely audible moan that carries over into something deeper when your lips brush a spot just above his clavicle. Using the grip he has on you, he drags you back up to his mouth, doing some more of his own exploring when his warm tongue strokes against your own. 

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs with a buck of his hips against yours. The thrill of having him pushed up against you, half-hard, warm, full of promise, makes you moan, teeth clacking against his when you do. “Always so fucking good to me.”

It makes you want to protest, from the very moment you met, he’s the one always being that to you, but it dies on your tongue when Logan’s flicks over the tips of his fingers. His impatient hand finds its way between you, disappearing under the waistband of your underwear and stretching the material to make room. His name comes out as a whimper when his spit-slick fingers easily glide through the soft skin between your legs. He curses, another buck of his hips pressing his hand closer against you, and your kiss turns messy and uncoordinated when he dips one finger to touch your clit. 

“This okay?” Logan asks when you gasp, drawing languid circles between your legs.

“Yeah, it’s just– Oh, god.” Two thick fingers find your entrance, swirling the wetness there around. “Been a while,” you manage to finish your sentence.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises. “You want that?”

All you can do is nod, and Logan presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulls his hand back. It’s paired with a wet sound that makes your cheeks heat, more so when you watch him get on his knees and yank you to the edge of the table, the quick turn of events and the casual display of his strength making you a little dizzy. Logan’s nose presses into the fabric between your legs with a sharp inhale, before quick, practiced moves work your underwear down your legs. One eager hand places a thigh on his shoulder as another holds you at the bend of your knee. You lie back, arching as you hurriedly pull your t-shirt over your head, leaning up on your elbows just in time to watch him bend down. 

The feeling of Logan’s hot breath sailing out over your sensitive skin alone is enough to make you gasp. He drags his lips and nose across your folds, easing you into it as much as his lack of patience will allow before tasting you with a swipe of his tongue. It isn’t tentative or testing, but firm and sure, and clearly for his enjoyment as much as yours when he repeats his action and groans into you. The vibrations of it and the gentle scratch of his facial hair only add to the liquid feeling in the pit of your stomach. Letting go of your knee, he curls a strong arm around your thigh, spreading you open then pulling you flush against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Oh, that feels really good,” you spur him on, your heel digging in between his shoulder blades. You watch him with hooded eyes, shifting your weight to one elbow so you can cup your breast with a whine. 

Logan’s eyes slip shut in focus, working his tongue up and down your clit and making you arch into his mouth. Reaching for you blindly, he slides a hand over yours on your chest, fingers fitting between your own and squeezing while his tongue slides lower to lick over where you’re dripping for him. He lets out an appreciative hum as he repeats the move until your thighs clench and shake around his ears. His tongue dips inside you, curling up against the slick walls of your cunt, and his name tumbles from your mouth, soft, pleading, making his eyes shoot open to meet yours.

The sight of him looking up at you like that from between your thighs, with dark eyes, the tip of his nose glistening with your wetness, will probably haunt you for the rest of your life. 

Logan shushes your begging, pulling away and watching as your pussy clenches at the sudden lack of attention. “Let me give you something to come on,” he murmurs, before fitting a finger at your entrance. It meets absolutely no resistance, a second finger sliding inside with just as much ease, and he sets a steady, deep rhythm before his mouth returns to your clit.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Your head rolls back between your shoulder blades, mouth open on a silent gasp, but he draws your attention back to him with a curl of his fingers, finding a spot that makes you go rigid for a second. It all builds so fast, so suddenly. The hand on your chest shakes Logan’s off, finding the crown of his head and sliding your fingers into his hair. He’s too strong to really make purchase, but you try anyway, using your grip to roll your hips against him. The sound of his groans, every flick of his tongue and every squelching, delicious curl of his fingers all send you closer and closer, until his hand presses down on your belly, and…

“Logan,” you manage, voice sharp with a warning that comes too late when he makes you tumble over the edge. 

It’s so much after so long, the force of it making you fall back against the table, something between a gasp and a shout tearing from your throat. He holds you tighter, to keep you in place and guide the desperate roll of your hips against his face. Your orgasm quickly slips into something bordering on oversensitivity, and you let out a dry sob that makes you slap a hand over your mouth when Logan’s tongue travels a path from where his stilled fingers disappear inside you, up to your clit. He stays there, gentle, uncharacteristically patient as you slowly come to a twitching halt. 

He’s a blur when he comes back into your field of view after standing up, towering over you to watch as you come back down to earth. Becoming sharper with every heavy blink of your eyes, you notice the smile on his face is smug, that the hair surrounding it is a shade darker than the rest. You sigh softly when his fingers slip from you, the feeling of them sliding wetly over your clit making you tremble, but his touch doesn’t leave you completely when he moves to stroke the outside of your thigh.

“How’s that?” Logan dares to ask.

“Hmm, no speaking yet,” you protest.

Reaching for him, you slide both of your arms up over his broad shoulders, wrists crossed in the nape of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. It’s slow, and deep, the taste of yourself shared between the two of you as your tongue slides over his. The table protests with a creak when his hands land beside your head, more when his chest pushes down on yours and you wrap a leg around his waist to get him even closer. The hair scattered across his broad chest teases your nipples and the hard ridge of his cock strains against his jeans and presses up against your slick cunt. It makes your jaw go slack, stoking your desire and making you burn with the need to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. 

With a push against his shoulders, you take him along as you sit upright again, accompanied by another creak of the table. Mouth still on his, you slide a hand down to cup him over his jeans, the weight of him against your wide open palm making you pulse. Logan grunts when your hand squeezes, and your mouth slides off his, kissing his jaw, sliding back down his neck. He cups your head, keeping you in place while watching your hand.

“Feels nice,” he husks, voice so deep it makes you want to push him aside and get on your knees for him, but then he asks, “Are you gonna let me fuck you?”

“God, yeah,” you say with a nod, watching as the mark you just sucked into his neck disappears far too soon while you continue rubbing him over the denim. “Want you inside of me.”

“Jesus–Then get it out,” he instructs, guiding your hand to his belt. 

If you weren’t so turned on you might wince at how eager you are, at how quickly you tug the buckle open and pull the leather free. Logan groans when it relieves some of the pressure, letting his forehead rest against yours. Together, you watch your hands make quick work of his zipper, your fist closing around his cock while your other hand works his pants down until he can kick it off and under the table.

He fits nicely in your palm, heavy and ready, sticky at the tip. With a purse of your lips, you let your spit trickle down in a straight line, and he hisses when it hits him. Your free hand flattens against his stomach, sliding down along the hard planes of his body and following the vein just below his belly button down, until it meets your other hand that loosely strokes up to the root of his cock. Logan arches into you when you stroke back up with a tighter grip, all but getting on his toes to chase your touch. Using both of your hands to get all of him, you twist your fists in opposite directions once, twice, before circling his tip with one thumb. Your other hand curls around the underside of him, dragging some of your spit down to his balls with the tips of your fingers.

“F–fuck,” Logan stutters when you play with him there, cupping him in your hand as well as you can and squeezing his shaft when it twitches in response. His eyes slip shut as his palms land on the outside of your thighs with a smack, fingertips digging into your soft skin. 

It makes you jolt, then grin, giddy from the sharp sting and the power you have over his pleasure. “How’s that?” you echo with a teasing lilt.

He does have the words to answer, albeit a little slurred, “‘S good, sweetheart.”

The nickname tacked on at the end takes root in your chest, blooms bright and makes you ache. You translate your appreciation into tightening your strokes and spreading more of the precome that steadily leaks from his tip around.

“C’mere,” Logan says softly, taking over for you with one hand, giving himself a few strokes before pushing your thighs further apart and shuffling closer to line himself up with you.

You’re so wet that the head of his cock is practically already slipping inside of you, but your hand clasps around his bicep when he really starts to breach you. After giving you a shallow little thrust, his hips draw back, before pushing a little further, gauging your reaction.

“Just like that,” you sigh, watching the careful slide of him in and out of you. “Keep going just like that.”

He gets you opened up like that, giving you a little more with each wind of his hips. Logan’s hand finds the back of your neck, his palm splaying out and keeping you close enough that you’re practically sharing air with each sigh and moan. Eventually, your knees have to draw up to his flanks in order for him to keep going and you wind a leg around his hip to close the final distance with a press of your heel into one of the firm cheeks of his ass. A long breath sails out from between your lips when you pulse around him, slowly adjusting to having all of him filling you up. You can tell he has to put considerable effort into letting you, wood groaning below you when he clutches onto the table.

“Fuck, it’s a lot,” you say, and when he grins against your mouth you can’t help but kiss him again – just a peck. The hand at the back of your neck squeezes in reassurance as he continues to let you lead, and it’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel warm all over. You melt into it his touch, your body relaxing as the pleasure of the stretch of him takes over.  

“Can stay like this a little longer if you want,” he says, but the strain in his voice says something different.

“Hmm, no, you can move.” You’ve barely said it, or his hips are drawing back, and it would have made you laugh if it didn’t feel so fucking incredible. He almost slips from you completely, before sliding all the way back inside with a grunt. The table scrapes along the floor, and vaguely you register one of your chairs falling over in the process. When he repeats the action, the furniture squeaks again below you. “Just don’t break my table.”

The sound he makes in response is non-commital, and when he fucks back into you and nudges against something wonderful, you can’t say you disagree. Grabbing hold of his shoulder and using the leg you have wrapped around him, you roll your hips against his, and he begins to meet you halfway until you work up a rhythm together. The table protest further, a shrill sound filling the room after each slap of skin–

With a frustrated groan and accompanied by a startled squeal from yourself, Logan lifts you. The surprised laugh that threatens to bubble up your throat quickly morphs into something heavier that comes out with a rasp when he makes it all look unusually effortless. Attempting to brace yourself, you sling one arm over his shoulders, the other winding around his neck so you can rake your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s a struggle to keep your balance, a helpless heel digging into the back of his thigh to keep yourself upright. Quick to aid, Logan slides an arm under you, fingers splayed across your ass as your knee hangs off the inside of his elbow. He turns a quarter, presses you up against the wall, and doesn’t miss a beat as he continues fucking you. 

“Jesus, Logan,” you say, voice almost a growl and barely recognizable as your own.

With your new position, you can see him better, the both of you lit from the side with the window to your left. The moonlight paints him in a tapestry of light and shadows when the wind blows through the tree branches, momentarily amplifying the glint in his eyes and the flex of his chest and arms like a strobe light.

The different angle he finds with his cock is a little too good, the feeling of the thick base of him stretching you open with each thrust making you dazed and talkative, “It’s so deep like this, can–oh, my god–can feel you everywhere.” 

Logan curses at your words, squeezing your waist and pushing you harder against the wall. There’s a deep-voiced appreciation of how good you feel in there too that doesn’t quite make it from your ears to your brain because somehow he’s still speeding up. His head ducks down to your chest, mouthing at the soft skin of your breast before closing his lips around a nipple. 

You whine, using the grip you have on him to roll your hips against the piston of his while you pant into his crown. Though the sound he makes against you when you do it makes you beam with pride, it’s not something you can keep up for very long, your hold on him slacking after a few thrust until you slip back against the wall. 

Logan pulls back when you do, tightening his hold on you while his eyes glide from the bounce of your tits that glisten with his spit to down between your bodies. 

“Touch yourself,” he instructs, grunting when you immediately do as he says by bringing a hand down between where you’re joined. Your fingers spread in a V-shape around where he fucks into you, collecting some of your mixed arousal before using it to rub your clit. “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, make yourself come.”

You nod, rapidly feeling everything zeroing in on the fingers that draw tight circles over your clit and that spot deep inside you that Logan’s finding with every thrust. “Yeah, fuck, I’m–Don’t stop, don’t stop, please–”

He’s coming before you are, tucking his head below your chin to let out a deep, drawn out moan against your neck that ends with his teeth grazing your skin. It’s so much, the pressure of him grinding himself into you with twitching, barely there thrusts, the heat of his release as it fills you where you’re gripping him like a vice, and as your fingers still twirl between your legs you come, and come, and come. 

The leg you have wrapped around his hip slips off, but before your toes can even scrape the floor, he catches your thigh, cupping your ass with both hands now to keep you up, and close. With a soft, satisfied sound, you let your forehead fall against Logan’s shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat with every light press of your lips there.

It takes you a moment to notice your back has come off the wall, that Logan is walking the both of you into your living room and to the couch. He bends his knees, dropping you between your pillows, where you land with as much grace as you can muster considering you feel like you’re made of lead. The soft couch is pleasant against your body, your sore limbs sinking into the cushions. 

Logan fits himself between your legs again, widening them around his broad shoulders before his lips find your overstretched thighs, leaving marks and kisses up up up, until his tongue slips back into your pussy. Your back arches off the couch, hands shooting down to fist his hair with a whine while Logan’s hand fists his cock. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can tell he’s already getting hard again, and his tongue is making something swirl low in your belly that’s making you pant, and...

It’ll be a long night.

THE PEARL

It had taken a lot of convincing and downright groveling, but Wade had allowed you to bring a movie for movie night. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust your taste in movies, his main gripe with your choice was that it wasn’t a Christmas movie – mandatory for December. Wade’s right, but after you explained that it’s the movie you always watch at the end of the year (and after Logan and yourself conceded that yes, his birthday was technically also your anniversary) he’d agreed. 

Now that you’re actually watching it, you suspect he’s genuinely invested, because after a handful of comments about The Hulk, he’s been quiet for longer than you’ve ever heard him be quiet.

In the scene on the screen, Mark Ruffalo’s character Dan and Keira Knightley’s character Gretta are taking an evening walk around New York City, dancing, singing and sharing music with each other as they do. Eventually, they stop and sit next to each other on some steps, watching as the city continues to move without them.

“...the most banal scenes are suddenly invested with so much meaning, ya know? All these banalities, they're suddenly turned into these… these beautiful, effervescent pearls,” Dan says, wistfully looking on as New York bustles around him. “I gotta say, as I've gotten older these pearls are just… becoming increasingly more and more rare to me.”

The arm Logan has slung around your shoulder tightens, and the couch creaks softly as you lean further into his side, your cheek squishing against his warm chest.

“More string than pearls?” Gretta inquires with a frown.

“Yeah. You got to travel over a lot more string to get to the pearls.” There’s a pause as he turns to look at her, “This moment is a pearl, Gretta.”

She gives him a hint of a smile. “It sort of is, isn't it?”

“All this has been a pearl,” he admits, sharing a look with her.

A finger curls under your chin, tipping your head up until your eyes meet Logan’s. He gives you the same look you just saw on the screen, his eyes soft as they take you in, the hint of green between the hazel illuminated by the light of the television. A thumb swipes over your bottom lip fondly, before he leans down to kiss you.

It takes a lot of string indeed.

Sometimes even interdimensional string.

– – – – –

(THE END)

If you made it all the way here, thanks for reading. Seriously. Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with. I hope to share more writing soon - emphasis on hope, I'm not making promises, just an educated wish.

And lastly, if you're struggling with mental health problems, please don't wait for a handsome stranger to sweep you off your feet. I know from experience that it can be incredibly difficult to reach that hand out, but I also know from experience that things can get better. There are ways to get help and you deserve to get help 🫂

[exuber]

all's fair in love and viscera...

pair: logan howlett x mutant!fem!reader wc: 6.7k contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, violence, blood, gore (more so thoughts of gore) nat probably blatantly ignoring canon, fighting as foreplay, bleeding as foreplay, written with X2 logan in mind, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (fem!receiving), finger sucking hehehe, light choking, hair pulling, blood play, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, scent kink, pain kink, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n. author’s note: i have a rotting note that says "logan spar fic turned face sitting" so that's what this is but it kinda got a little weird lol i also just wanted an excuse to write more about the mutant ability that's been bopping around in my brain since watching season four of the boys. kisses!

logan wants to spar...

You can smell him before he even opens the door to the training room.

It’s funny, because almost all blood smells the exact same. It melds into one coppery, metallic tang that stings your nose everywhere you go.

Mutant blood is only slightly different, something sharper with a tartness that lingers in the air longer, that tingles along the edge of your senses and burns the back of your throat.

Logan's blood is something entirely different.

The first time you met him it almost brought you to your knees. It was so overwhelming, the smell swarming you so intoxicating and all encompassing that it made you feel dizzy.

Logan’s blood is a wild mix of earthy musk and something like charred wood. His scent carries an electric charge, like the smell of air right before a thunderstorm, like ozone after a lightning strike.

It's like nothing you've ever encountered before—hot and acidic, with a barely there underlying sweetness that never fails to turn your insides to liquid. It seems to defy normalcy, bending the rules of what you know about blood and biology.

You know in the back of your mind that it's the adamantium. It's been fused to his skeleton for so long, it must be something chemical. A reaction happening in his body that makes it so distinctly different.

Part of you likes to think that it's just Logan, that the scent is a reflection of everything he is. The raw, untamed essence of his nature, something primal that’s deeply ingrained in his being.

The door creaks open behind you, you make it a point to keep your focus on the punching bag. You've been here for hours, your arms only finally starting to burn with exertion. The bag feels solid and grounding under your taped knuckles, swinging lightly with every hit.

Logan's heavy footsteps get closer and closer, echoing through the empty room until he's striding past you to lean against the wall next to the bag's rig.

You don't look at him, but you can feel his gaze—an intense, almost palpable thing.

“Figured you’d be down here,” Logan's voice is the familiar rough and gravelly rumble you've become used to, cutting through the silence between the two of you with a barely there teasing edge. “Couldn’t sleep, huh?” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Logan has an even better sense of smell than you do, and he can sniff out a lot more than blood. You're sure he knew you were here this whole time, that he could smell you from his room two stories up.

You give a small, noncommittal grunt, ignoring him as you throw another punch. Sweat is dotted across your hairline, it drips down the small of your back and the column of your throat. It's not that you don't like Logan, that you don’t want him here, you have the complete opposite of that problem.

You like Logan too much, more than you should.

Every time he’s near, you’re intensely aware of how much his presence affects you, of the way all the blood in your body starts to sizzle under your skin with a throbbing need that's getting harder and harder to ignore. It’s like a constant, low-grade fever that only flares up when he gets too close. 

“Come on, kid. You can’t ignore me all night,” he says, thick arms crossing over his chest. "Don't make me beg."

You let out a breath, more exasperated than anything else, and finally turn to face him. Logan’s standing there, all broad shoulders and rugged confidence in his white tank and gray sweats, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

That smirk—it's almost as dangerous as the claws hidden just underneath his skin.

“Didn’t know you were the begging type.” Your attempt to sound casual is overpowered by the slight breathy edge of your voice. You blame it on the workout.

Logan's smirk widens just a fraction, and you can tell he's caught the hitch in your voice. His eyes, sharp and knowing, narrow in on you with that familiar mix of amusement and something you can't quite place, something that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Only when I really want something," he replies easily.

Your form falters, just barely, but it’s enough for Logan to notice. You can hear the amused huff he lets out.

You throw another punch at the bag, more to steady yourself than anything else. The impact reverberates through your knuckles, but it doesn't do much to dispel the heat pooling low in your stomach.

"Back to ignoring me?" he asks, needling. You can see the raise of his brow in your peripheral vision.

“Trying to,” you mutter under your breath, though it's more to yourself than to him. You keep your gaze locked firmly on the bag, willing your pulse to steady.

"What's that?" he leans in closer, his scent wafting over to you as he does. Somehow stronger than before, an assault on your senses. You barely conceal a shiver.

"It’s not my fault you’re here when I'm at my least chatty," you retort blandly, a little louder, willing your voice to sound as steady as it can.

"Looks to me like you’re always at your least chatty,” he shoots back, not showing any signs of backing down.

"It's late,” you reply tersely.

"Yeah," he says. "It is late."

The words hang in the air, laced with a double meaning that neither of you acknowledges.

"Too late to be up hounding the bags like they owe you money," he adds, the tone of his voice almost gentle in a way that catches you off guard. Nothing like the Logan you're used to.

“Yeah, well,” you grunt, throwing a particularly sharp jab. “Some of us don’t need all the beauty sleep."

Logan lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, you can feel the vibration of it in your bones. "Funny," he muses to himself, voice going quiet like he's turning your words over in his mind. "I can see why Charles keeps you around."

You huff, sweaty brows knitting together in frustration. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”

“Babysit?” He smirks, clearly amused. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Your resolve finally cracks, your fists sore when you drop them to your sides and turn to Logan with a questioning look on your face.

"What do you want, Logan?”

It sounds harsher than you meant it, rough and exasperated as you start to catch your breath for the first time since he walked in.

Logan doesn't respond, just pushes off the wall to step closer. His scent hits you like a truck now that your focus is solely on him, you can feel your blood start to thrum under your veins. The sweat dripping down your back feels like it’s igniting the tension in your body, and Logan’s only making it worse the closer he gets.

He stops a little less than a foot away from you. It’s too close, he evades your space until all you can see is him. The width of his shoulders, the strong muscle of his chest and torso filling your view.

Logan doesn't say anything for a few beats, just stares down at you with a studying look on his face. It's a struggle to keep still under the intensity of his gaze. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, the rhythmic thud loud in your ears as the silence stretches between you.

He tilts his head to the side slightly, eyes narrowing as he trails them over your sweaty face. You're seconds away from saying something, from turning and running with your tail between your legs, when he beats you to it.

He lets out an amused scoff, shaking his head as he walks past you to the large blue training mat in the middle of the room.

"C'mon," he calls over his shoulder, "Try hitting something that hits back, might help clear your head."

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift, but Logan’s already made his way to the center of the mat, turning to face you with a challenging glint in his eye.

You shake your head slowly, not moving from your place across the room. "I don't want to fight you."

Logan chuckles wryly, “Could’ve fooled me, sweetheart.”

The nickname sends a jolt through you, your pulse skipping in response. It’s always the way he says it—rough around the edges but with a softness that’s almost affectionate. You clench your fists tight, as if the simple act of it will keep your thoughts in check.

"Think you can keep up?" he teases, rolling his shoulders in that casual, self-assured way of his. But there's something in his tone, a challenge that makes you want to prove yourself.

You cast your eyes to the ceiling, exasperated, a bemused laugh bubbling from your chest as you do. "You know I can," you reply, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you. "This isn't about that."

You should just say no. You should say no and go back up to your room so you can go to bed and forget all about this in the morning. You can barely stand to be in the same room with Logan for more than thirty minutes at a time, training with him is too much of a risk.

"What's it about then? You scared?" Logan's voice snaps you out of your thoughts, a playful smirk curling his lips. He raises an eyebrow, daring you to join him.

That does it. A spark of defiance flares in your chest, overriding the nervous tension that’s been building since he walked in. You’re not one to back down from a fight, especially when Logan's practically begging for one.

Without thinking, you stride over to the mat.

Logan watches you approach, his stance relaxed but ready, like a predator sizing up its prey. You try your best to ignore the smug look on his face as you kick off your shoes and join him.

"Not scared," you shrug, running your fingers over the tape on your knuckles. "I just don't need you getting all pissy when I win." You roll your shoulders, shake out your arms, and square up, focusing on the way Logan’s eyes are locked on yours.

Logan's grin widens, a flash of sharp teeth that makes your pulse quicken. "We'll see about that."

You drop into a ready stance, the tension in your muscles coiled tight like a spring. For a moment, neither of you moves, just sizing each other up. The silence between you stretches taut like a bowstring. Your eyes lock onto Logan's, each of you reading the other, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The air between you feels like it's vibrating, charged with a mix of tension, anticipation, and something else—something unspoken, simmering just beneath the surface.

Then, in a blur of motion, Logan makes the first move, just like you expected him to. He lunges, fast and strong, but you're ready for him, sidestepping the blow and bringing your forearm up to deflect his fist away from your body.

"Slow start, old man?" you quip, a sly smile tugging at your lips as you regain your footing. "Speed isn't what it used to be?"

Logan chuckles, a low and throaty sound. "Just warming up, sweetheart. Don't want you crying unfair when I take you down too quick."

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically before launching your own attack. You swing a swift roundhouse kick aimed at his midsection. He anticipates the move, catching your ankle with one hand while his other reaches out to grab your wrist.

But you're quicker. Using the momentum, you twist your body and slip free from his grasp, landing lightly back on your feet a few steps away. The brief contact sends a jolt up your leg, his touch searing even through the thick layer of your sweats.

"Stop holding back," you say roughly, your lips turned down in a displeased frown. "Hit me."

Logan's eyes flash with amusement. "Careful what you wish for."

He advances again, this time more aggressive. He throws a combination of punches—left, right, left—each one precise and controlled. You block the first two, but the third grazes past your defenses, skimming your rib cage hard enough to sting.

You hiss softly at the impact but don't back down. Instead, you duck low and sweep your leg out in a wide arc, aiming to knock him off balance. Logan slides back just in time, your foot swiping through empty air as he evades the attack with a kind of brute grace that you wouldn’t expect.

"Getting fancy now?" he remarks, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face.

You don't respond, springing to your feet with a raised fist in a swift uppercut. This time you connect, your knuckles catching his stubbled jaw with a loud 'crack'. Your whole hand throbs, you can feel the break in your thumb snap back together in a sharp pinch.

Logan stumbles back a step, his head snapping to the ceiling with the force of your hit. When he turns back to you, there's a large bruise blooming along the sharp cut of his jaw. You watch the color of it spread across his skin, angry reds and dull purples that fade as fast as they appear.

There's a glint of something dangerous in his eyes as he meets your gaze. The brown of them darker than before, his pupils blown out and glossy in a way you've never seen.

With a low growl, he comes at you again, faster this time. His movements a blur of muscle and intent. You manage to block the first hit, but not the second, his fist catches your side with enough power to make you stumble back a few steps. Pain flares white hot through your ribs, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

You lose yourself in the rhythm of the fight. The world narrows down to the two of you, the sound of your breaths and the feel of his skin brushing against yours in fleeting moments of contact.

There's a thrill in it, in the way you challenge each other, in the way you push past your own boundaries.

But there's also something more, something deeper. Every time your eyes lock, you can feel the electricity between you, the way your heart skips a beat, the way your breath catches in your throat. It's not just about the fight anymore. 

You feel more alive than you have in a long time. More alive with every sting of each new blow, with the way your muscles burn, with the stray hairs that stick to your forehead.

The heat between you is almost tangible, mixing with the sweat and exertion. Every punch, every block, sends a jolt of adrenaline through your system, making it both exhilarating and maddening.

The scent of him—earthy, electric, and utterly intoxicating—growing stronger with every second. Your senses are on high alert, every part of you tuned in to his presence.

It wraps around your whole being, making it hard to think straight. But you don’t need to think—you just move, letting your instincts take over.

Logan feints to the left and uses it to sweep your legs out from under you in the same move he mocked you for. Your back hits the floor with a hard thud, the give of the mat not doing much to soften the hardwood underneath.

All the breath in your lungs rushes out of you in a sharp gasp. Before you can recover, Logan is looming over you. He cages your body under his own, thick arms on either side of your head, his weight pressing you further into the floor. His breath is hot against your ear as he leans in close, his voice a low, almost growling murmur.

"Gotcha."

You try to come up with a witty comment, a snarky line, a petty insult. Anything at all really—but the words catch in your throat. Instead, you just stare up at him, your chest heaving violently, your heart pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.

The whole room feels like it’s spinning, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the intensity in Logan’s eyes, the heat of him against you.

Suddenly, your entire body feels like it's on fire. Phantom flames lapping at every inch of your skin that send your head reeling quicker than you can blink. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, but you've only ever felt it outside of a mission once, and it didn't end well.

For a few heart stopping seconds, you're more than confused. Panic starts to set in at the thought of having another "accident" and not even knowing what's triggering it.

Through the messy haze of your panic, you finally see it. The tiny cut above Logan's brow leaking a thin trail of red down the side of his face.

Everything around you dissolves into static, your eyes zeroing in on that single bead of crimson. The cut's long gone by the time it drips from his jaw to the mat right next to your shoulder. Logan's skin stitching back together and leaving no trace that it was ever broken in the first place, but it doesn't matter.

The damage is already done, and you can feel your body start to react.

You can feel your resolve crumbling, the edges of your self-control fraying with every passing second. Your own blood pulses beneath your skin like liquid fire as your stomach churns and twists. The intense need to feel, to taste, to take claws at your throat.

You let out a low, guttural sound, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, as you lose the last of your control.

Hank had called it a frenzy, but that wasn't a technical term.

"You're not in your right mind. You've essentially been conditioned to react strongly to the scent and sight of blood, particularly when you're already in a heightened emotional or physical state. The combination of adrenaline, exertion, and the scent triggers this...well, this 'frenzy' for lack of a better term."

It's like you blackout, and when you wake up, you're straddling Logan's chest with your hand wrapped around his throat in a vice-like grip. The tan column of his throat glowing red beneath your hand, a map of blue veins inked along his skin like spiderwebs as you watch the blood pulse through them.

Your grip tightens instinctively, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to reign in the storm swirling inside you. Everything narrows down to the pounding in your ears, the blazing heat of Logan's skin under your fingers, and the urge to let go, to give in.

Logan's voice starts to trickle in around the static buzzing in your ears, your name falling from his lips sounds strained, but there's a calmness to it. The fog of your instincts begins to fade, the world around you slowly starting to piece back together.

You blink, the haze in your mind clearing as you try to focus on his face, the way his eyes are locked onto yours. Intense, but not clouded with fear like you expected.

Your chest heaves with every breath, ragged and short like they're being ripped out of your lungs. Your wide eyes dropping to where your hand is still locked around his throat, panic surges in your chest like ice freezing over a lake.

But before you can do anything, Logan's reaching up, his hand catching your wrist in a tight grip. His thumb brushes over your pulse point—the touch sends a jolt through you, as if he’s touched a live wire.

“Don't,” he says, like he knows what you're thinking, his voice a rough whisper. The rasp of it vibrates against your hand. “Don't stop now."

Logan’s other hand comes up to rest on your hips, his touch firm but not forceful. He doesn’t try to wrestle control away from you; instead, he holds you steady. His fingers dig into your skin, grounding you.

“Come on,” he coaxes, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sends a shiver of anticipation through you. “I can take it. Give it to me.”

The world around you blurs, your focus entirely on the man beneath you, the way his body feels under your hands, the way he’s willingly surrendering to your control.

You take a breath, trying to steady yourself, but it’s no use. You search his eyes, dark and full of want. There's a heat there, a spark that crackles between you, and it only adds fuel to your fire.

If he wants to push, you're ready to push back.

Silently, you slide your hand up the expanse of his throat, feeling the way his pulse beats strong and fast under your palm. The glow under his skin dissipates as you make your way up, tracing your fingers over his jaw and up to his bottom lip.

Logan’s breathing is rapid, his chest rising and falling under you quicker than before. His lips are slick and red, parted so enticingly that you can help but slide your index finger over them. Your nail digs into the fat of his bottom lip, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to let him feel it.

Logan lets you toy with him, meets your gaze head on as you push further. Your finger presses deeper, pushing past the seam of his lips to feel the warmth of his mouth, the wet glide of his tongue against your skin.

The sharp bite of Logan's teeth pinches your skin as he closes his lips around your finger and sucks.

Your breath catches in your throat, heat blooming in your core as his tongue brushes over the pad of your finger. You can feel the ache of your cunt between your legs, arousal leaking wet and sticky in your panties.

Your other hand rises up to rest on the side of his face, your fingers grazing over his cheekbone. The touch feather-light but filled with a fierce, unspoken energy. Logan’s breath hitches slightly, his eyes darkening even further.

Your palm splays over the skin of his cheek, the heat of his face seeping into your hand. Logan’s eyes close for a moment, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he tilts his head into your touch.

In a quick move, you dig your fingernails into the fat of his cheek roughly. Logan’s body arches under you, his back snapping off the mat with guttural groan ripping from his chest as you pierce his skin.

You gasp at the scent of him wafting up through the air, at the feeling of his teeth digging into your own flesh. His blood leaking onto the tips of your fingers feels like a shock to your system, both electrifying and terrifying.

His skin glows even brighter than before. A mix of reds and oranges that light up just beneath his skin, the blue of his veins like rivers on a map. Your nails dig deeper into his skin, drawing more blood, the warm, sticky liquid coating your fingers. You watch, mesmerized, as the glow under his skin pulses in response, as if feeding off your energy, amplifying the connection between you.

Logan’s breath hitches, his body tensing beneath yours, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into your touch, his eyes dark and hooded with desire.

it takes barely any energy from you. The faintest traces of your power used for something none of those demented scientists in white lab coats intended.

None of that matters. All that matters is the raw, animalistic connection between you—the way his body is responding to your touch, the way his eyes shine with want, the way his blood sings in harmony with yours.

You could boil Logan alive in less than a second, burst every vessel and capillary in his body until he's nothing more than a copper stain on the floor. But his hands only tighten their grip on your waist to drag you impossibly closer.

"More," Logan growls, his voice vibrating against your palm as his teeth sink a little deeper into your finger, the heat of his breath searing against your skin. He hooks his hands under your thighs, dragging your body up his chest until your legs are spread on either side of his head. 

Your hands fly to his hair, steadying yourself with two fist fulls of the brown tufts that sit atop his head. You’ve always been curious if Logan styles his hair this way on purpose, or if it just grows like that naturally. You don't have time to ponder it for long before he's letting out another ragged groan and burying his face between your thighs.

You can feel the heat of his breath over the clothed expanse of your cunt, his nose trailing along the inseam of your sweats as he inhales greedy lungfuls of your scent.

"Logan," you gasp, voice gone high and breathy around the edges.

"Tell me what you want," he says lowly, his lips brushing over you with every word.

It's muffled slightly, but the demand in his tone still sends a shock through you. Your grip on his hair tightens as your mind falls into a whirl of sensations and emotions you couldn't possibly confront.

He presses a heated kiss against the fabric of your sweats, right over where your aching clit pulses with need. The sensation sends an electric jolt straight through your core. Your whole body hums with an intense craving, a need that burns hot and fierce.

"Tell me," he repeats, his voice a rough rasp that vibrates against your core.

You swallow hard, your breath hitching as you try to form a coherent thought, let alone speak.

"I want..." you start, your voice trembling with a mixture of desperation and desire. The words are there, lodged in your throat, but saying them out loud feels like crossing a line you’re not sure you’re ready to cross.

"I need you,” you breathe out, the confession slipping from your lips like a secret finally set free “I need everything.”

Logan’s eyes flare with something fierce and wild. Without a word, he pulls you closer, his hands surging up to tear through the fabric of your clothes like it's nothing but tissue paper. The tattered remains of your panties and sweats pool to the floor in a crumpled mess.

The heat of his breath is replaced by the pressure of his mouth, his tongue sliding through the wet slit of your cunt. He lets out a filthy groan at the first real taste of you, the flat of his tongue lapping eagerly through your dripping slit.

The thrill of his mouth against your most sensitive spots sends a jolt through your entire body, your back arching taut as you grip his hair even tighter. Logan’s groan reverberates through you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat pooling in your core.

Logan is relentless, devouring you like he’s been starving for this, starving for you. The wet sounds of his mouth working you over mix with your breathless whimpers and the low growls rumbling from his chest. He works his tongue expertly, tracing every inch of you, mapping out every spot that makes you tremble and moan.

Your thighs tighten around his head, hips grinding against his face almost unintentionally as heat starts coiling tight in your belly. The scruff of his jaw rubs against the sensitive skin of your thighs with each drag of his head, the sting of it just adds to the assault of pleasure. You wish he could leave his mark on you, wish that your skin wouldn’t work overtime to fix the angry red blotches of raw skin he leaves in his wake.

Logan grips you hard enough that you can see the bruises decorating your skin every time you look down. His arms firm and strong where they’re locked around your thighs to keep you pressed against his mouth. His nose bumps against your throbbing clit each time he fucks his tongue into your leaking cunt.

“Logan,” you moan, your voice a breathy plea that only seems to spur him on. He flicks his tongue over your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a harsh pull that makes you cry out, your whole body shuddering with the intensity of it.

“Taste so fucking good, baby,” he murmurs against you, the words muffled by the slickness of your folds. “Could eat you all night.”

“Logan, I’m—” you start, but the words catch in your throat as he sucks hard on your clit, sending you careening over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, your entire body convulsing with the force of it as you cry out his name, your nails digging into his scalp as you hold on.

Logan doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. He licks you through your release, his mouth working you over with a single-minded intensity that has you writhing against him, overstimulated and desperate for more.

“Fuck, Logan, please,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re begging for, just knowing you need something, anything to ease the ache that’s still throbbing deep inside you.

Logan pulls back just enough to look up at you, the bottom of his face slick with your arousal, eyes dark with a hunger that matches your own. He licks his lips, savoring the taste of you.

Logan’s hands slide up your thighs, his touch gentle now but still impossibly firm. He trails his fingers along your skin, tracing the sensitive lines where your skin starts to heal the damage he left behind.

“Still with me?” he asks, his voice is softer than before but there’s still an unmistakable rough edge coating his words.

You nod, your voice barely a whisper as you try to collect yourself. “Yeah...I’m here.”

“Good,” he growls softly, his hands squeezing the sore skin of your hips. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You’re on your back in less than a second, Logan flipping your positions so fast it has your head spinning. His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, all sharp teeth and bruising pressure. 

It’s a kiss that feels like a fight, like a challenge, like a promise of something much darker and more consuming just beneath the surface. His stubble scrapes against your skin, adding to the raw, visceral feeling of it all. Your teeth clack together violently, you can taste the faint coppery tang of blood on his lips. 

You kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring all the pent-up frustration, all the desire, all the fear and anger and need into the contact between you. Your hands are everywhere, clawing at his hair, his shoulders, his back—needing to feel him, to mark him, to claim him as yours in a way that’s as undeniable as the blood pulsing through your veins.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him to fill the ache that’s building inside you. Logan grinds against you, his hard cock still trapped in the fabric of his sweats rubbing against your spit soaked cunt. You can’t help the desperate whimper that escapes your throat. “Please, Logan,” you gasp out against his lips, your voice trembling with need. “Fuck me, I need it, please–.” 

He growls low in his throat, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierce intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. “You sure you’re ready for this, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice rough, his breath hot against your skin. 

You nod frantically, your hips bucking up against him darkens the fabric tent of his bottoms. He feels huge, heavy and hot where he pushes against your slick folds. “Yes, please, just—” Logan doesn’t let you finish. 

With a swift, almost feral move, he pushes the hem of his sweats down roughly, the sound of seams ripping rings through the room. You barely have time to gasp before he’s pushing his cock into you, stretching you wide, filling you so completely that all you can do is cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he immediately sets a relentless pace. 

You don’t have any time to adjust to the thick length of his cock carving its way inside of you, the sting of it has your eyes screwed shut. It’s only barely straddling the knife's edge of where pain and pleasure meld together, but it has you crying out his name all the same. 

Logan fucking sounds identical to Logan fighting, guttural groans and growls that are ripped from somewhere deep in his chest to pierce through the air between you. That ring in your ears and shake through your very soul like thunder. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grates, his voice thick with lust as he holds himself still for a moment, eyes glued to where you’re stretched around him. The puffy, abused lips of your cunt slick with his spit and the pre-come steadily leaking from his dark red tip. “Feels like heaven, sweetheart.”

You moan, high and loud in the back of your throat as your ankles lock around his lower back. Your heels dig into the skin just above his ass as your cunt trembles around his cock, your spongy walls working over him desperately, milking him. 

“You like that don’t you?” Logan taunts, starting to snap his hips with purpose. “You like getting fucked like this, princess?” He leans down enough to growl directly into your ear, “I can smell how much you want it, how bad you're aching for it." 

He slides his hands up your sides, rough palms gliding over your sweat-slick skin as he continues, "You drive me fucking crazy, sweetheart. I can barely think straight with you on top of me, with your scent all over me. You know what you're doing, don’t you? Getting me all riled up like this."

You can’t respond, can’t speak. You can barely form a coherent thought, your lips falling open in a stream of desperate moans and whines as you bury your face in his neck.

The pulse of his carotid artery under your lips is maddening, each beat of his heart like a drum driving you further into madness. You want to sink your teeth into the skin there, to pull flesh and muscle from bone so you can watch the blood run in rivers and streams down Logan’s body.

The taste of him fresh and heady on your tongue as you watch the layers build back up from nothing, nerves and veins weaving themselves back together grotesquely.

“Fuck,” Logan groans, the sound vibrating through your mouth as you press your lips against his throat, your teeth scraping against his skin with barely restrained hunger.

You nip at his throat, your teeth leaving small indentations that fade almost as quickly as they appear. Logan’s breathing is ragged, his chest heaving with every shallow breath as he leans into your touch, his body taut with anticipation.

"Atta girl, that's it," he growls, voice thick with desire as his hands grip your hips even tighter, nails digging into your skin as he ruts into you like a beast. His hips snapping against yours hard enough to sting, the loud slap of it bouncing off the walls to echo lewdly in your ears.

He’s fucking you like he wants to break you, reinforced hips heavy as he pounds you into the floor mercilessly. “Taking my cock so well, best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever felt.”

You can feel the way Logan’s cock jerks and pulses inside of you, the taut heaviness of his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. You know he’s close, the brutal rhythm of his hips gets sloppier by the second.

You press your body up against his, your chest flush with his own as your hands wander over the hard planes of his back, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his skin. You dig your nails into his shoulder blades roughly, basking in the way his muscles roll and flex underneath your greedy palms.

You can feel the heat radiating from him, the pulsing glow of his blood under your fingertips as you explore every inch of him with a hunger that’s almost feral. 

And then, with a low, guttural sound that you barely recognize as your own, you sink your teeth into his neck.

Logan’s reaction is immediate and visceral. His entire body tenses above you, a sharp hiss escaping his lips as you bite down, hard enough to draw blood. The taste of him floods your mouth, metallic and rich, and it sends a wave of heat crashing through you.

You can feel his blood on your tongue, warm and thick, the taste of it driving you wild. It’s everything you’ve been craving, everything you’ve been trying to resist. And now that you’ve finally given in, it’s like a dam has broken inside you.

Logan’s growl is pure animal, his hips bucking up hard as he thrusts into you one last time, burying his cock as deep in you as he can. The force of his orgasm rips through him, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as he unloads inside of you. It’s so much, pulse after pulse of hot come that floods your insides. His hips don’t slow, still pumping and fucking like he’s trying to stuff you as full of himself as he can.

The feeling of it pushes you over the edge, your own orgasm crashing over you in a wave of white-hot pleasure that leaves you gasping and trembling above him. Your shaking cunt gushes over his cock as you swallow the blood pooling on your tongue.

Logan’s hips finally still, slotting flush with yours as he slumps onto the floor next to you, dragging you along with him so you can lay flat on his chest. The coarse hair scattered along his pecs scratches the skin of your cheek, you bury your face in the sweaty crook of his neck. You feel hazy, like you’re floating through the air, completely weightless. 

You think you could live here, plastered to the strong planes of Logan’s body, stuffed full of his cock and leaking his come in messy trails down your shaking thighs. 

But eventually, you have to pull back, your breath coming in short bursts as you lick the blood from your lips. Logan’s eyes are on you, shining under the chandelier light, his chest heaving with the effort of breathing. The wound on his neck is already healing, the skin knitting itself back together, but the blood still stains his skin red, a vivid reminder.

There’s a moment of silence, the air between you thick with tension and something else—something new and unspoken. You’re both panting, bodies still trembling with adrenaline.

Logan’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips, smearing the remnants of his blood across your skin. His eyes are locked on yours, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

Finally, he reaches down slowly, like you’re a cornered animal that might turn and run any second. He takes your wrist in his hand, dragging it from the middle of his chest to the muscle directly over his heart. He presses your palm flat against him, blanketing your hand with his own.

“What do you feel,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a breath.

The question catches you off guard. It’s a challenge, but it’s also an invitation—a chance to confront whatever’s swirling inside you instead of running away from it. You hesitate, searching for the right words to encapsulate the storm of emotions you feel thrumming through your bones.

"You," you whisper back, your palm sliding over the sweaty plain of his bare chest. "All I feel is you."

Logan’s eyes soften, and a rare, genuine smile tugs at the corners of his lips. The intensity of the moment seems to dissolve, leaving a quiet understanding between you. He leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, and you can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice a tender caress against your ear. His thumb brushes along your pulse in a feather light touch. “That makes two of us.”

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[exuber]

gaz would make such a cute vampire, too 🥺

New

Paring: Vampire!Gaz/Witch!Reader (f) Summary: After Gaz wakes up feeling sick, Soap takes him to meet one of his friends, a healer he said. Actually, he called you a witch. Warnings: Vampires drink blood. Word Count: 1328 Rating: T+ (but future chapters will be explicit/18+) Notes: Gaz has been a vampire for almost an entire week! A follow up to this drabble.

[dividers]

When Johnny called in favors, he really called in favors. As if you owed him! As if your magic hadn’t saved his life! If anyone owed anyone a favor, it was him! But the damn bastard was your best friend, and even if he was annoying sometimes, you did love him, and you had never heard him so serious before. 

But helping a freshly turned vampire? That was a little out of your wheelhouse. It would have been better to get to him before he was turned, but Johnny wasn’t even sure when that happened. All he knew was that you could help.

So he swung by your cottage with a few friends and introduced you to the fledgling vampire. “Gaz” was left standing awkwardly in your home with his bags as his teammates jumped back into their truck and took off.

“Well, let me show you to the guest room.” Thankfully you had the space. 

He cleared his throat, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Oh? Got this handled on your own, do ya?” 

“This isn’t- I’m not. I’m just sick.” 

You nodded, playing along with his denial for now. “Well, I’m a healer. So, healer’s orders: lay down and rest while I make something to eat.” 

Although he was still hesitant, he relented and grabbed his bag before following you to the guest room. The spare room was set up rather simply, a single bed pushed to one side of the room, a wardrobe on the other, and more importantly for your new roommate, black out curtains. 

“Rest. I’ll come by when dinner’s ready.” 

He nodded and looked at you almost demure as he muttered out his thanks.

Honestly, the last time he had his own room was before he joined the military, so that part would be nice. And it was comfortably dark; the headache that had been plaguing him for days was already starting to ease. 

Despite the fact that it was the middle of the day, the darkened room and soft bed lulled him into the kind of deep sleep he hadn’t had in years. 

“Gaz!” 

He felt himself jerked away, staring into Soap’s eyes as the world came back into focus.

Soap sighed and gave Gaz’s shoulder a hard squeeze. “Thought we lost ya!” 

“Wh-what-” His throat was dry and sore, leading him into a little coughing fit.

Soap ignored his question and spoke into his radio. “Found em, Cap! We’re-”

Gaz groaned, his eyes tightly shut, as Soap loudly, way too loudly, called out their location to Price. Why was he screaming so much?

Soap looked back at him, hand dropping from his radio back to Gaz’s shoulder. “Hey, y’alrigh? Gaz?” 

“Gaz?” 

When he didn’t wake after you called him twice, you walked into the room and turned on the bedside lamp, at the lowest setting, before trying again.

“Fuck off, Soap.” He groaned and threw an arm over his eyes, protecting them from the onslaught of dim light.

“Wow,” you chuckled, “dinnae realize my voice was that deep.” 

“What!” Gaz jolted up and gaped at you for a moment before he shook his head. “Ah! No, I didn’t mean that! I mean. You have a lovely voice-” 

You cut him off with a barked out laugh and waved your hand at him. “Oh, you’re quite the charmer, aren’t ya?” 

Honestly, he usually was. He just hadn’t been feeling like himself lately.

“Dinner’s ready when you are.” You said before slipping out of the room and leaving him in privacy once again.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was hungry, yes, but he’d been feeling hungry for a week and no matter how much he ate, it didn’t alleviate the hunger pains at all. Maybe that was why you asked for a lofty payment before Price and the others left, so you could feed him.

He took a moment to compose himself and wash up. By the time he made his way to the front of the house, you were already sitting down at the small table with a bowl of something that smelled delicious. 

“That smells good,” he smiled after taking a breath and looking around the little dining area. Was he supposed to serve himself?

“How’re ya feeling? Headache?”

“Uh, yea, actually. Been bothering me for days.” He said as he plopped down in a chair across from you.

You hummed and gently nudged an insulated tumbler his way. “Drink that first, it’ll help with the headache.” 

“Ok,” he hesitated as he grabbed the cup and looked down at the opaque lid, “what’s in it?” He asked as he put one hand over the top, about to open it.

“Just drink it.” 

He paused and looked up at you just as you took a bite of your stew.

“It’ll help. Trust me.” 

He had no reason to. Just because Soap trusted you didn’t mean he had to. But as he stared into your eyes he realized that there was just something about you that made him trust you too. A warmth, maybe, and a welcome one at that, as the weather here was a bit on the chilly side.

He took a small sip at first, not sure if he was going to be met with cold or hot liquid. It was pleasantly warm instead (is everything about your home warm?). The liquid is thick, not quite as thick as the gravy in the stew you are eating, but perhaps you simply watered it down. The taste almost matches the scent of your dinner too, so he’s convinced you’ve just given him slightly thickened broth. 

It didn’t take long for him to guzzle down the rest of the broth, he doesn’t even notice you watching him do so. He sighs contentedly as he finally puts the cup down. “Mm, that was, delicious.” 

He looked at you with a large smile, and feeling that he had some of the broth stuck to his lip, he ran a thumb over the liquid. He froze when he saw dark red staining his hands.

“Wh-what is this?” He quickly ripped the lid off and looked at the dregs of his drink. “Is this blood?!”

“Well, you are a vampire.” 

He glared at you, disgusted that you made him drink blood, worried that you made him drink blood, before his stomach dropped and he remembered. He was alone here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, with a crazy person. Fucking Soap.

“Look,” he started firmly, but you interrupted him.

“How’s the headache?” 

The headache? He froze. Shit. It was, “...gone.”

“Mmhm.” You hummed and took another bite of your meal. “That was goat blood, by the way. Your friends didn’t pay me enough to acquire human blood on such short notice.” You dipped your spoon back in your bowl, goat stew. You’ll be eating goat for a while. 

He swallowed thickly and looked down at his cup again. “Vampires aren’t real.” Though his tone was steady, it was starting to sound like even he didn’t believe that.

You pushed your phone forward on the table, the selfie cam open. “Oh, you’ve always had fangs, have ya?” 

He looked at his reflection and sure enough his canines were abnormally long. “That’s a filter.” He said as he dropped your phone back on the table.

You laughed and waved your hand, motioning behind him. “There’s a mirror behind ya, check your reflection yourself.” 

“Ha! I thought vampires didn’t have reflections!” He even grinned as he pointed at you.

“A common misconception. Silver messes with all manner of creatures. Modern mirrors, like that one, are coated in aluminium.” 

You laughed again when he scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I have an antique silver mirror at my altar, if ya wanna see that one.” 

“Altar?” He blinked and tilted his head. He furrowed his brows as he remembered when Soap first mentioned you. “So when Soap called you a witch-”

“Oh, he wasn’t lying!” 

[Multi fandom masterlist]

[exuber]

warmth of doorways | joel miller x reader

pairing: no outbreak!contractor!joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel spends another late night at work. you pay him a visit.

warnings: MDNI. plot and porn. allusions to joel's unsavory youth. oral (fem receiving). mentions of violence, past arguments, and money insecurity. joel smokes one (1) cigarette. alcohol. fingering. unprotected p in v. no mention of reader characteristics other than wardrobe. overuse of commas and hyphens. proofread once. 5.8k

mildly inspired by it will come back / i'm on fire

The office clock ticks rhythmically with every second that passes, broken up by the muted whirling of the ceiling fans as they turn almost imperceptibly counterclockwise on the ceiling.  

Austin is quiet. Outside, orange streetlights glow in narrow cones on the sidewalks, humming, straining with electricity as the bulbs fight to keep the pavement lit. If he really listens, he can hear the faint footsteps of heels against the concrete, the soft sounds of giggling and the low baritone of the voice that follows. Somewhere further down the block, someone is closing their car door, almost swallowed by a dog barking. A breeze pushes against the building and flows through a draft near the window's ledge, pushes through the double-paned glass, and brings with it the smell of damp earth and wet asphalt, leftovers of an afternoon storm. The air is cool and calm as if waiting to be born again tomorrow morning into something more alive, more chaotic, as it simmers in the heat of the Texas sun. 

The other contractors have gone home, back to their wives or families or one bedroom apartments, leaving the office silent save for these sounds of a city reminding him that the hour is late, that the night will not wait for him. 

His chair creaks beneath his weight as he shifts, the leather uncomfortably warm from his body heat. 

Joel stares down at his work. Its contents blur together into a massive, nondescript monstrosity of a shape, small lines of scribbled pencil spilling over one another and morphing into a clump of meaningless letters. He tries to spread them out again into something he can read until a film gathers over his eyes. He’s forced to rub them with the heels of his hands, but even then they are still irritated, his tired gaze struggling to focus on anything other than the sting that radiates through his corneas from the strain of keeping them open and concentrated for so long. The paperwork never ends. It just seems to grow and grow in a pile of meeting briefings and documents requiring his signature, clipboards, a backlog of voicemails from clients to listen to, and notes to take. His palm and the space between his fingers are beginning to cramp with the pressure of the pen he’s holding, having gone through almost everything in one sitting, desperate to put even a tiny dent into the mountain that rests before him. 

The fluorescent lighting isn’t helping, blanketing his work space in a coat of sterile white, making everything around him feel sharp and cold and like he’d hurt himself on it, even the half-filled plastic water bottle sitting at the edge of the desk. 

He sighs, leans back, drags his carton of cigarettes against the wood then taps the bottom against its surface a few times, forcibly packing the tobacco tighter. You’ve been trying to get him to relax on his smoking, or at least cut back, but with shit storm after shit storm constantly coasting towards him with no remorse, the nicotine is the only thing keeping him from going entirely AWOL. He does his best not to feel guilty about it. It would be sad, and ironic, that if he managed to make something successful out of the fucking mess of building a business, his downfall would be lung cancer, and he knows you know that, too, but you never push. You’re never like that and he’s grateful for it. 

He lets his mind drift to you and what you must be doing as he lifts his lighter, a small, stainless steel zippo engraved with his initials, a gift from his parents when he graduated high school, and lights his cigarette before bringing his wristwatch to his face, squinting to read the time. 

Almost midnight. 

Hours spent studying schematic designs, imagining rooms, and the lives that might be led within them, has made him lose track of his own. The days blend together, hours passing as easily and fluidly as water does lapping up against sand, every one of his thoughts curtailed by installation fees and HVAC subcontractors, schedule conflicts and site plans.

You’ve been good about that, too. Gentle. Guiding him back into his own existence. Making it easier for him to remember that although overseeing is his job, he doesn’t have to be invariably vigilant, that not every waking second has to be dedicated to worrying, that he’s going to burn himself out if he keeps going on like this. 

So he isn’t surprised when he spots your shadow first, cast long against the polished tiled floors, followed by your appearance in the doorway. 

He instantly relaxes. 

“What are you doin’ here? You should be sleepin,’” Joel chastises, although he’s smiling just a little, flicking his cigarette against the clay ash-tray sitting at the center of his desk, surrounded by notepads and coffee mugs and drafting pencils.

“You should be at home,” you counter, smiling back. 

He pauses, brings the bud back to his lips and takes a drag. The air goes thick and heavy. 

“There’s a lot of things I should be doing," he answers, stress and worry coupled in his voice as he sits forward and exhales, one elbow on the desk, pushing his fingers through his hair, the other dangling with his cigarette, billowing with gray smoke.  

You look at him for what feels like a long time, following the tense line of muscle in his shoulders as they stretch and roll beneath the cotton of his dress shirt, see his eyes close as he rubs a hand over his face, his breath leaving his body in a reticent, exhausted exhale. 

Then he’s watching as you push off the door frame and walk over to him, plucking the bud from between his middle and pointer fingers and quietly extinguishing it, your lips pursed. You lean against the wood of his desk, between his legs. 

Neither of you have forgotten about the plate you’d dropped. It was only some cheap ceramic thing you had picked up while out shopping when you first moved into your house, one of the ones with the grooves on the bottom to keep it from being knocked over as easily, dipped in bright yellow pottery glaze and dotted around its edges by bright blue flowers, the texture of the sponge used to make the design adding a sort of authentic, homey feel. A pretty thing that came in a set of six, the other five still sitting in your cabinets. It wasn’t difficult to clean up, broken into three solid pieces with only some of the powdery dust from its impact really needing to be swept up, but it wasn’t so much about the plate breaking itself than what it meant. What it symbolized. 

Your shattering frustrations. 

His fracturing exhaustion. 

“They can’t wait?” 

Joel leans back. 

“Not most of ‘em, no.” 

“So you’re killing yourself here? Instead of lying in bed with your wife?” You eye the half empty amber bottle of scotch and the glass filled with melting ice next to it, glance at his accolades hung on the wall, certifications he worked tirelessly to achieve. 

He sighs, hollow, empty sounding. “It’s ain’t that simple. I told you they can’t wait.” 

You go to sit in his lap, bringing your palm up to cup his cheek. “It could be. Divide the work. You’re just one man.” 

He grabs your hand. It’s not your fault you don’t know he can’t bring himself to when so much hinges on the success of this enterprise. Your future. Sarah's future.

“I’m just one man in charge of everythin’ else. It isn’t.” 

There’s another pause, filled by your heavy gazes as you look at one another, waiting for the other to yield. It’s been like this before, instances where you’re stuck within pregnant hesitations, expecting the other to give in, too stubborn to realize it shouldn’t be about who breaks first.

You’re learning that, though, no matter how frustrating it is. 

“I miss my husband,” you confess, although it’s not really a confession more than an admittance to what you both already knew, what you’ve both already felt, everything about this feeling delicate and intimate in a way that makes your lungs constrict.  

Joel frowns, turns his head and kisses the inside of your wrist. His gaze is soft upon you, as gentle as the quiet moon. 

“I know. ‘M sorry,” he murmurs against the delicate skin. 

“You could have called,” you whisper, breathy and painfully soft, not sure you’d be able to say it any louder and still maintain the fragile, stunned atmosphere existing in the space between your bodies. 

“I didn’t want to wake you.” 

You almost roll your eyes. No, better to be up and left worrying.

“I wouldn’t have minded.” 

Joel glides his hand up your forearm, his calloused palm warm and heavy, the pad of his thumb brushing soothingly across the bend of your elbow. 

“I would have.” 

Your chest swells up and suddenly you’re choking on bittersweet nostalgia, on memories of when your husband wasn’t being stripped away from you bit by bit by a business he’s trying hard to keep afloat. And you’re choking on sadness, too, on the overwhelming feeling of active loss, so you’re tempted to let yourself lean into it, to just drop the conversation even though you know that you need to have it because sometimes it's easier to let your problems fall asleep quietly rather than wake them by pushing too hard. It’s easier to let yourself rest.

Still, you persist. 

“You can’t keep going on like this. It isn’t just that I miss you, Joel.” 

He knows you won’t repeat yourself. He knows what you mean, anyway. It isn’t about clarity. He’s been doing what he can, suffering what he must. 

“Please, I don’t want to have this argument, honey.” 

The beginnings of a headache are settling somewhere just behind temples, spreading quickly across his forehead, behind his eyes. There’s nothing more he wants than to be able to do what you’re asking, but he chose this profession, and you chose him. He doesn’t have the energy or the will to fight with you right now. 

You reach up and trace the curve of his brow with your thumb, hoping to ease away the wrinkle that lives between them, and maybe mute the thought that has manifested it, the friction and stress of the situation rising until it’s nearly palpable. 

“I’m not trying to argue with you. I’m trying to talk to you, something I seem to be able to do less and less," you explain, palm dropping to mold against the curve of his jaw. 

Joel looks away, at the folders and blue and white floor plans in front of him, at the doorway, half-expecting to see someone standing in it, ready to give him another piece of information that will set construction back weeks and cost him more money than he has.

“You think I enjoy this any more than you do?” The sharpness in his tone is immediately countered by the look of frustrated remorse that softens his expression, a sort of tug on his eyebrows until that damn furrow is finally gone.

“No, I don’t,” you say gently. “And I know that you’ve got a job to do, but I’d like it if it didn’t tear you away from me completely.” 

You twist the hair at the nape of his neck between your fingers as you lean forward, resting your forehead against his own and closing your eyes. 

“I love you, Joel. I miss you. I don’t like sleeping alone in our bed.” 

He won’t apologize again, and he’s sure you wouldn’t want to hear it anyway, but not for any spiteful reason. You’ve both got your hands tied, but he’s sorry for a lot of things - for keeping you awake, for worrying you, for stressing you out, but mostly he’s sorry he’s given you a marriage like this. A marriage filled with nights spent alone in a house he had picked out because it was the safest, because that’s what he needs to think about instead of whether you like the view, or what the outside looks like. He’s got to think about whether the locks will hold, whether the windows won’t shatter completely, whether - god forbid - you can have neighbors to rely on if something were to happen because he’s away all the time now, gone, trying to build a life. 

He’s got to think of these things and you’ve got to make the sacrifices. 

“I don’t like it either.” There’s an unspoken end of his sentence, an ellipse, a part that he leaves out that neither of you wants to say. I don’t like it either, but... 

But this is my job. 

But this is our life. 

But you’ll have to get used to it. 

So he masks it with an exhale, an empty and low sound, as if he’s been waiting for too long with too much, not relieved but resigned. 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been alone.” He changes the subject, sitting back in his seat as you open your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you agree, trying not to feel bad about it. “Too long. It feels like we’re dating again.” 

Joel chuckles, low and warm and light, like smelling laundry through an open window when the wind carries it through the house, cool and placid. He still looks at you that way, the same way he had when your relationship was just starting, with honey-dewed eyes and a sort of crooked, half-smile, like he wasn’t doing it on purpose, just couldn’t help himself. The same way he’s looking at you now. 

“Except this time your father isn’t here watchin’ us, lookin’ like he wants to kill me.”

Your groan is superseded by your laughter as you shake your head, glad for it but also feeling like time is moving too quickly, too fast for you to really keep up with it. Where had that time gone? Where is it now? 

“Thank God that he isn’t. And he likes you now, it just took him a while.” 

Joel rolls his eyes, scoffing. He’s sat through too many tense dinners and awkward conversations to believe that, even coming from you. 

“Uh-huh. You keep tellin’ yourself that, honey.” Your father is a hardass, but he’s well-intentioned, their every interaction peppered with warnings about providing for you like Joel doesn’t feel guilty enough about dragging you down with him. 

He looks at you, still grinning. 

“Yeah, I know,” you sigh, the remnants of laughter still in your voice. “But I still married you.” 

“For reasons I’ve still yet to understand.” 

“For reasons I’ll remind you of until the day I die.” 

Joel quiets and shifts his gaze to some point of interest on his desk, where one of the edges is chipping, maybe, or maybe he’s looking at a stained ring discoloring the wood because a drink had been left to sweat without a coaster. Nothing important, nothing that warrants catching his attention, the movement secondary to the thoughts in his head to retreat. You both are aware of the alternative to that sentence. 

You guide him back to you. 

“I mean it, Joel. I don’t regret marrying you.” 

“I know you don’t.” Joel rubs his mouth with his hand. He finally meets your gaze as he continues. “But sometimes I wonder what your life could have been like, if it could’ve been better.” 

“It would have been nothing,” you correct fiercely. 

“You would have been comfortable, provided for-.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know that I put you through hell every day that you’re with me.” 

“Stop it.” 

You don’t even know half of it, he thinks, through no fault of your own. He’s shielded you from what he can, has kept things to himself, given you half-answers when you’d ask why he’s adding overtime dates to the calendar on the fridge, checking to see if Sarah’s lunch is packed before making his own, tossing change into an old paint can on a shelf in his closet. 

‘Things with work,’ he says.

‘Issues with the client,’ he says.

‘I need to stay a little later,’ he says. 

‘This company might fail,’ he doesn’t. ‘And it scares the shit out of me.’ 

“I’m sorry, honey. How can I make it up to you?” 

It isn’t about making anything up to anybody. This is far too complex for that, but he can at least give a little. You sacrifice so much for him, for a life you didn’t really ask to be living, so whatever he can give he knows it won’t even begin to replace what you’ve lost. Your sleep and sanity and security. And it probably won’t ever, but he can try to return the comfort that you give him, the peace of mind, the love. 

The kind that has to be fought for, torn from your chests in hissing, passive aggressive outbursts in the middle of your kitchen that burn like acid with each word that crawls up your throats, or falling easily after being pulled gently from your hands in moments like this, when you’re trying to convince one another that your biggest concerns shouldn’t be each other because you both can’t stand the feeling of being a burden, unable to handle the lurches of guilt and the helplessness that accompanies it. 

“Coming home at a normal hour would be nice.” You aren’t looking to make this conversation any more serious, to be stuck spending a night convincing him that he hadn’t damned you to some sort of anxiety-ridden, fearful existence by proposing to you because for all the bad, all the heartache and stress and worry, there are the good moments too. The early mornings, subdued afternoons spent sitting in the sunshine reading, evenings spent dancing on your patio bathed in warm light from paper lanterns he had hung up the summer before. Moments that are perfect, beautiful, and real and everything you hang on to when the bad ones come. 

Joel senses this and wants to protest, and while he gives you a searching look he refrains from saying anything that might carry the conversation backward. 

“It won’t always be like this,” he says instead, moving one hand to rest at your lower back, his thumb rubbing the soft skin beneath your shirt. “But I like these visits.”

“I’m sure you do. None of this looks at all exciting.” You turn to the desk, at the documents scattered everywhere, at unfinished contract drafts, at illustrations of building models that are far from perfect, with stairs and doors leading nowhere like they lead to some ghost elevator, at the crumbled-up balls of paper. 

“Unfortunately even the borin’ parts are still my job.” 

“Good thing I’m here then, huh?” You shift in his lap, draping your arms around his neck. 

“Yes,” he agrees, both palms now molded against your waist, digging slightly into your hips. “It’s a very good thing you’re here.” 

It feels nice to have these instances, tediums between bigger periods in time like the one you just had, insignificant and maybe not that meaningful but sweet nonetheless, where you can be happy, flirt with your husband while trying your best to speak in hushed, shy voices so the nighttime janitor doesn’t come skirting down the hallway, wondering why he’s hearing a woman’s voice so late at night coming from the contractor’s office.

So you take his face in your hands feeling like a lovesick teenager, his cheeks flushed warm with affection, a little scratchy from a day’s worth of stubble, his eyes soft, and for the first time since you got here, free from the burdens that normally cloud them, and you kiss him, saccharine and slow and easy. 

He tastes faintly like the scotch, and his lips are little bit chapped but they’re amiable in their movements, as if he’d be content to just go on like this kissing you, not worried about where it will lead, or if it’ll lead to anything at all, making you feel slow yet hyper aware from his gentle caresses, and his hands when they climb higher, having moved beneath your shirt, are rough and hot and careful - always so careful with you - and you don’t like to think about why even though you’ve got a pretty good guess. Careful hands that have a history you know only in bits and pieces. Careful hands that have curled into fists, become bloodied and bruised and scabbed. Careful hands that sweat around the grip of a saw, or a hammer, nowadays, the scabs of his youth long gone, but hinted at in the fading white scars that litter his knuckles.

Careful hands that don’t want to risk letting that seep into you, as if you’re something he’d be able to taint, convolute. 

You lean away, then move even further back when he follows, quickly speaking before he’s on you again. “Touch me like you mean it, Joel. Please.” 

“Anythin’ you want, honey.” 

You card your fingers through Joel’s hair, tug slightly at the roots and try not to get too lost in his answering rumble as his kisses slowly grow in intensity until it becomes nearly desperate, finally indulging in the need for closeness he’s stifled to keep himself from cracking beneath the pressure of work completely. 

Joel pulls you closer with a shallow groan, shifts his seat so that you’re right up against the desk, the lip of it digging into your back, but his warmth is seeping into you and through your clothes, so you really don’t care how the wood bites a little into your muscles, coupled with the way his cock is already straining through his jeans, hard and thick and it makes you feel like this entire thing is sort of scandalous. It is dangerous, and even though you know he wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t sure the building was empty, the possibility of being caught does thrill you; makes you grin against his lips, lets him pull you apart piece by piece, his kisses loving and devoted and his hands roaming across your rib-cage and breasts like he isn’t sure where he wants to keep them, wanting to touch all of you at once. 

He rises to his feet, takes a step forward and places you onto the desk, his focus so far away from the papers and other shit that decorates it he doesn’t notice or even really care how they’re being pushed or crumpled or ripped by your movements, desire curling and slivering throughout his body, pooling in his belly, settling itself in his lower abdomen and pressing itself against you, his hips between your legs, the thin fabric of your work skirt doing little to fight the hard outline of his cock against your thigh. 

Joel keeps kissing you, fingers pressed against the space between your shoulder blades, the other flat against the surface of his desk, pausing only once to check the doorway again as he kisses your cheeks, then your jaw, before descending down the gentle curve of your neck, trailing his mouth down and across your collarbone before sucking a bruise into the skin at the base of your throat, right next to your fluttering heartbeat. 

You say his name, syrupy thick and mellow, inhaling sharply when he rolls his hips in response and hums a pleased, vibrating sound that makes you pull him closer and wrap your arm around the broad expanse of his shoulder while the other goes to his belt, untucking his shirt with a shaking, hurried hand, feeling like it's unfair that you’ve got two layers to go through while he only has one, his lips slanting against yours again making it even more difficult to focus on getting him undressed especially now that the palm that isn’t on you is suddenly sliding across your thigh and he’s - God - he’s -

He’s making you feel worshiped. Murmurs of his supplication whispered against your mouth, swallowed by your answering, pitiful moans.  

He has to help you with his belt, lightly pushing your hands away to do it himself, tugging the leather through the buckle and then out of the loops, tossing it haphazardly onto the chair behind him, turning back to you without saying a word, looking so in love with you that it makes your chest ache. 

“Joel-” His name gets caught in your throat, but it doesn’t matter because he’s talking and he knows. He knows exactly how you’re feeling because it’s the same for him too - this longing, this incredible, suffocating, twinge of remorse and grief all jumbled up and twisted somewhere beneath your breastplates for things left unsaid yet still acknowledged, the terrifying things, the things that bring you here when it's midnight and you should be asleep but you aren’t because they’re the same things that keep him away and keep you awake. 

“I’m right here,” he murmurs and it’s like you’re drowning in how much he wants you, his eyes raking over you in a way that makes your entire body feel warm, taking in every inch of you with a reverence that makes your thighs tense up and your cunt squeeze around nothing. 

He urges you to lay back, heavy-lidded and following as you do what he says, your skirt bunched around your waist, waiting for him to do something, anything at all that’ll relieve the restless thrumming that’s settled just below your belly button, spreading like an opening fan throughout your abdomen, converting with every second that passes into a dull pounding that makes everything you’re wearing feel insufferably uncomfortable, hyper aware of the way your panties stick to your cunt, and you’re about to say something again, plead with him to move faster, but he’s leaning down and kissing you - placating you - earnest and cloying and you’re just relaxing into it when he leans away, traveling down and down and down your body until his shoulders are between your legs and he’s - 

You open your mouth to say something but you don’t know what. You can hardly think with the way he inches lower and lower, hooking your already spread legs over his shoulders with so much ease it makes you blush. His arms are positioned on either side of your legs and his breath is hot and swirling over the insides of your thighs and the realization of what he intends to do and the seriousness of where and why and the fact that you’re on his fucking desk of all things makes you tremble and your chest bloom in flustered warmth and your fingers curl into the pliable material of your skirt, waiting for him - always waiting - to do something. 

He starts at your knee, with kisses gentle and sweet, works his way up to the inside of your thigh, humming against the delicate tissue nonsensical praise and muses before giving your other leg the same treatment, the same pattern, sucking bruises and nipping at them pinprick sharp before soothing it with his tongue, making you squirm and gasp with every press of his lips, unsure what to do with the overwhelming affection you hold for him growing exponentially in your chest. 

This continues for a long time, hazy and drunkard slow, calloused palms sliding up and down until it feels like you might explode from the tension and you whisper his name, deferential and restive and it nearly makes him grimace in anguish at all the things he can’t do for you, his heart feeling as if it’s been filled with cement and splintered, then shattered completely - the fragile, desperate whine in your voice splitting it in incomplete halves and you think, unsurely, that if he keeps going on like this you’re going to burn up - catch fire and asphyxiate on the smoke. 

But then his thumbs are hooking beneath the lines of fabric that curves across your hips, and he begins to pull them down, tells you to bend your knees and you listen without a second thought, allowing him to strip you of the garment and then they, too, join his belt on the chair and you’re left with nothing really at all protecting you aside from your skirt but its bunched up around your waist like it has been since he laid you down and not doing a damn thing to stop the shiver that makes you shudder against the desk, your heated skin erupting into goosebumps. 

Joel settles himself and brings his hands to your cunt, reaching out to spread you open. There isn’t time to formulate any sort of thoughts about it or what he’s doing because you can hardly breathe let alone think, Joel’s mouth hot against your pussy, his tongue dragging over your clit and you’ve been so worked up that it hurts, almost, and you’re left trying to push him away and pull him closer in equal measures. 

Your lungs stutter, muscles tensing, all the while panting and keening and rocking your hips with no real sense of direction as he brushes a spot that makes you moan and when you twist your fingers in his hair he makes a sound that’s nearly a growl, then he has one finger inside you then another, fucking you slowly with his fingers, taking his time, curling them up and flexing his wrist, his watch digging uncomfortably into the juncture of your leg where it meets your thigh but its okay because all of its mingling together and he’s suddenly yanking you closer as if he wants to fucking devour you, looking up at you with hungry eyes and the next few seconds seem to last for entire years, everything so intense already that you flutter around him, helplessly keening. 

He sucks gently, looks up again in time to see your eyes screw shut, your eyelashes fluttering as he puts his whole mouth on you, rumbling rich and low at the taste of it, your brows creased tightly in coiled pleasure. Joel groans at the sight from somewhere deep within his chest, his cock twitching, his belly feeling like it's been filled with magma as you dig your nails into his hair, fracturing into little pieces. 

The words he drags from you are babbling, halfway to a cry or sob, something equally as frenzied in its neediness, syllables of his name and something that might be please catching against the rounding of your teeth. 

“I’ll give you what you need, baby. Relax,” Joel appeases against your already oversensitive cunt, the pleasure too much and so much that it makes your toes curl until they hurt, like he’s injected gasoline into your bloodstream and made you swallow a match, ready to snap and burst into a fucking supernova, so close to cumming it feels as if every nerve has been stripped to its bear components. 

The pressure against your clit intensifies, becomes sharp and fierce, his tongue circling over and over again, so acute that your hips twitch and he keeps you pinned - holds you down, keeps going and going and going until the world turns white-hot and bright and you’re choking, every breath drawn in fighting against some invisible leaded anchor and fuck - it’s too much all at once, too much after what feels like so long, too much that life can’t always be like this. 

He eases away from you, presses his lips to your shuddering thighs wet and shiny with your cum, deliberate in his motions as he crawls back up your body, soft and pliant and slightly sore, guiding your legs carefully - tenderly - around his waist. 

“I love you.” 

God you love him too. So much that it physically hurts. 

But arousal, harsh and blinding, eclipses your every sense, keeps you from saying anything at all other than his name, moaned pitifully when you glance down and see him undoing his pants and taking his cock in his hand, hard and thick in his fist and you clutch at his back, feeling spun out and delirious as he pushes in gradually, gently, turning your body into a liquid quiver. 

Joel gasps as if the sound was wrenched from him against his will, and your eyes flicker over him, at the muscles tensing beneath his shirt, the sweat darkening his collar, at his lips, red and raw and plump from kissing you beneath his beard glistening with you, his shoulders broad and his arms are sturdy, and his eyes, when you finally meet his gaze, are blown with affection and desire and love. 

And then it’s broken. 

His hips snap forward and you shift a little up the desk, one of his hands moving to cup the back of your head while the other finds your own, lacing your fingers together and you let out a shaky, short, involuntary whimper as he starts to move, getting pleasantly lost in the feeling of being so stretched and full. 

He trails open-mouthed kisses along your neck, curled over you, and the picture of it in your head, of him so big and broad and draped over you like a second skin, makes your cunt clench and rips a groan from his throat that sounds just as wrecked as you feel, his lips dragging along the underside of your jaw, his fingers squeezing your palm. 

Neither of you are going to last much longer. You’ve already been made too taut, too tight and stretched out and resting on the precipice of something, like fingertips pulling back a bowstring, fiery bright pleasure cementing you to his ministrations when his thumb catches your clit, swiping once, your body singing, then over and over again until your shoulder blades are folding against one another as you rock off the desk and into him, his arm encircling your waist, never stopping, working you through every roiling wave and every filthy noise you make until you collapse - falling away from him whimpering. 

“You’re perfect. So good for me, sweetness. So fuckin’ good.”

His rhythm falters, his breathing hard and burning and shuddering as he holds you against his chest, leaving you to wail against his shoulder, puffing against his neck, clinging onto him like he’s the only thing keeping your grounded and then he shatters too, fingers suddenly in your hair, whispering sentences that you can’t quite make out, adoring among a slew of curses. 

His office comes back in pieces, blurry splinters and slightly out of focus. 

His head tips against your shoulder and you both stay like that for a long while, resting against each other, breathing. You sigh, shuddering and low and content, and he leans back to look at you, his expression open and sincere and it’s the most vulnerable you’ve seen him in awhile. 

“I’ll try to come home earlier.” 

You know that he’ll try. You also know that it doesn’t matter. 

You’re not going to dwell on it. 

“I don’t know if you should. This visit was fun.” You grin, exhausted but happy and glad to be near him, glad that’s happy, and if anything at least he’s here - in this building where he’s less likely to get hurt, less likely to do anything other than listen to conversations and go through paperwork. 

‘Yeah, until we get caught,” he agrees before pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

You hum in agreement, then start to giggle. You’ll go home with him tonight in one piece. That’s all you can ask. 

“Then it’ll really be like when we were dating.”