#love ya too kiddo! ^^

[small-world-au]

I’ve come to be an annoying, attention seeking daughter so…… HI! How was your day? Did you eat good food? Did you sleep welllllll? Idk what else rn… love you! Bye!

Am doing alright! I’ve eaten good food, and my sleep was aight. ^^

💙💙💙

[arlathen]

i can't believe id written all this convoluted Lore for my infamous mc only for it to be made canon that mc has two married slightly distant parents. like. sorry no she doesn't 🫶

[joelsdagger]

‘tis the season || one shot

joel miller x f!reader

nothing new. nothing exciting. just some pwp. major shout out to my very freaky girl @dinandwhiskey, this fic was born due to our 4am conversations about fucking Our Old Man on viagra. and to my fellow ocean unicorn @joeloverture, for the encouragement, always. and to @pedrospatch, for being my eyes, and my biggest cheerleader, you have my heart. anyway – merry christmas eve eve & happy holidays ya filthy animals. may 2025 be ever so kind to you <33

pairing: dbf!joel x reader summary: you’re back in town for christmas, and it’s been months since you’ve seen your boyfriend, joel miller. and he decides to make the most of the brief window of time you have together.  or,  joel fucks you after taking viagra. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ warnings: [no-outbreak au], implied age gap [no mention of ages but reader is in college], secret established long distance relationship [that’s a mouth full] [that’s what she said], drug use, joel miller on viagra is a beast, pet names [baby, darlin’, sweetheart, kiddo], sexualization of the terms kiddo & old man, [mocking] dirty talk, size kink, praise kink, daddy kink, brief mentions of smut that occurs off page [i.e: face-sitting, fingering, anal play, ass eating/rimming, a reach around handjob, f! & m! receiving oral], softdom!joel, unprotected piv, missionary, mating press, overstimulation [rip our girl she’s fighting for her life], dacryphilia, finger sucking, biting, smidge of a pain kink, creampie, squirting, joel fucks you while you’re on the phone with your father, mentions of christmas, (2) christmas puns [author apologizes in advance for said puns], probably [most likely] inaccurate and unrealistic descriptions to the effects of viagra [remember, this is fiction!!], omitting a few tags as to avoid spoilers!!, aaaaand lastly, they’re in love BYE! word count: 3.5k

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for notifs on when i post my writing!!

“Just one more time, sweetheart.”

You don’t respond, tongue-tied. The agonizingly slow drag of his cock inside you is too much, your mind is a blur. 

Joel’s been fucking you for hours. He’s made you come six times since you practically pranced through his front door. Twice on his face, once on his fingers, and three times on his cock. And now you’re overstimulated — cunt swollen and almost begging for relief — but Joel, driven by your high-pitched moans and strained whimpers, is unable to stop himself, working to make you come just one more fucking time.

It’s thanks to that stupid little blue pill his buddy slipped him that he’d been able to fuck you for this long. 

In truth, he doesn’t need it. He never needs it. He fucks you perfectly fine without it. But you’re home for the holidays, and you haven’t seen him or come successfully on your own since the beginning of the fall term, and Joel wanted to take advantage of that.

Send you back fucked so full o’me you’ll feel me in here for weeks, he’d groaned. 

Your drippy hole stretched out and clamped tight around the thick girth of him. It had been so long, your face contorted at the sharp sting, and a pained hiss escaped through his gritted teeth when he pushed the delicious fat tip of his cock past your puffy folds, splitting you in two. 

The warm walls of your cunt pulse around his shaft, your clit throbs against the wet thatch of thick hairs stippled gray at his base. You’re too sensitive, too tender, cunt stinging with every long stroke, but not in the way it makes you want to use your safe word. 

It’s just that Joel hasn’t let up. Two hours spent making you come and he hasn’t let up once. The only time he had given you some semblance of a break was when he got up, turned around, and sat on your face at your plea — your desire to show him how good he had made you feel all those times before. 

His cock in your hand, weak fist tugging away at his length while you lathed away at the tight little hole in the crease between his ass cheeks. Even then, Joel couldn't help himself; shoved three thick fingers into your puffy pussy — timing the thrust of them to the desperate pumps of your joint fists — jacking his cock in unison while you writhed beneath him, pulling another climax from you. 

Only when his sweaty thighs quivered around your body, chin tilted towards the ceiling and a stream of profanities poured from his lips, his body curling over yours as hot spurts of his cum painted your soft tummy when he felt your finger slipping past his puckered rim to the knuckle, had he given you a break. 

“Attagirl, just like that. Pretty little pussy’s gonna cum all over me. C’mon, baby, give it to me,” Joel’s voice is thick with arousal as he rambles above you, his hips expertly rolling into yours, head of his cock nudging that place incompetent college boys have failed to reach. 

“Joel—fuck—I don’t think I can—” You gasp frantically, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, arms wound tight around him.

He smirks with another deliberate roll of his hips. “Thought you said you could keep up. Isn’t that what you said? “Naw, I reckon you said, Try keeping up, old man, wasn’t that it?”  He mocks, imitating your words from earlier. Fucking bastard. 

A whimpering mess, your eyes pinch shut in response. 

“I can’t—” you croak, fingernails digging into his shoulders. 

Deft hands brush your hair back from your face. “You can. I know you can, baby.”  His voice softer, barely audible through the wet smack of his balls, smeared in the evidence of your earlier release, firmly slapping against the curve of your ass. The sounds obscenely echoing through the quiet of his bedroom. 

You whimper and try fruitlessly to nod. He knows you can, and he’s right. Your hips wouldn’t be grinding up off the mattress to meet his thrusts. You wouldn’t be feeling something roiling low in your belly.

“One more time, baby. Give me one more n’ I’ll let this sore little pussy rest,” he whispers, lips kissing away your salty tears. 

You nod eagerly. His hand reaches up to the headboard, fingers curling around it and locking into place, his other removes one of yours from his shoulder, pins it to the pillow above your head. And with his hand clasping your damp palm, fingers squeezing then interlocking with yours, he fucks you harder. 

The change in pace has tears spilling from your eyes and pooling into the shells of your ears. The wave swells, swells, swells —

Your phone screen lights up the dark room, buzzing on Joel’s nightstand. 

You freeze, neck craning in the direction of the vibration, eyes squinting and damp lashes fluttering at the bright screen, Dad, it reads. 

Shit. 

You gaze back up at Joel, wide-eyed, panic surging in your chest. Joel growls. “Don’t answer.” 

You don’t listen. You know your father, he’ll keep calling until you answer. Without saying another word, your hand comes up to the wooden surface in search of your phone. You take a few deep breaths, trying to quell the anxious heat swirling inside you, unplug your phone from the charger, slide a shaky thumb across the screen, and press the phone to the shell of your ear.

“Hey—” You clear your throat awkwardly, “Hey, Dad,” your voice breathy, tired.

You unstick your body from Joel’s, your free hand presses to his strong chest, a silent effort to halt his movements.

“Kid! I’m sorry to call you this late, but before you left for Eve’s, I forgot to let you know to be home in time for breakfast.” 

Jesus. That could’ve been a text. 

You sit up, scoot back into the pillows, while Joel sits back on his knees, wincing in unison as his cum-drenched cock slips out of your overflowing slit. Almost instantly, you feel a steady stream of his spend trickle out of your opening. He’d already managed to fill you to the brim three times tonight.

You fiddle with your bottom lip. “Breakfast? I thought we were just doing dinner.”

“Well, I thought since you’re only in town for a few days, we could go the whole nine yards. I missed our breakfasts together. I enjoy them, kid,” he says softly. 

Your bleary eyes flick back to Joel. The smug grin that graces his lips and the gleam of something darker in his eyes don’t put you at ease. He’s up to something, as always. 

You grumble, massaging your forehead. “Yeah, sure, Dad. I’ll be home by nine. Listen, I gotta—” 

“Oh! Speakin’ of dinner, I was thinking of inviting Joel over,” your dad says, plainly.  

Your heart stutters. “Joel? W-Why?”

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches, dark eyes glimmer with mischief. Two heavy hands find your waist, and he’s sliding you back down towards him. Slow and suspicious, one of his hands finds your knee, and presses it flush to the mattress. You both watch as his other hand cups the back of your other knee, pushing it back down to match the other, exposing you to the sex-tainted air. With his eyes transfixed on the slow trickle of his spend, his hand then wraps around the base of his cock, tip lining up with your aching hole. 

There it is. 

“Poor guy has been asking about you, kid.” And Joel glides the head of his cock up and down your puffy seam, collecting your mixed juices on his tip then taps the heavy weight of it on your perked clit twice in quick succession; Joel smirks at the wet smack. You jolt, thighs attempting to clamp shut, his firm grip on your knee tightens, keeping you open for him. 

You pinch your eyes closed and curse under your breath. 

“What was that, honey?” 

Your eyes snap open, and you scramble to recover, “N-nothing, I just–” You clear your throat again. “Sorry. What were you saying, Dad?”

Joel chuckles lowly as he leans forward on top of you, pressing his broad frame in on you, your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. Chest to chest, belly to belly, pelvis to pelvis, tacky skin against tacky skin, once again as before. He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, and with his mouth at your other ear, his tongue darts out to lick at the salty droplet there before suckling ever so slightly on your flesh, you bite back a moan. 

Your dad, oblivious to your current state, continues, “Oh— Joel’s been asking after you. Think he’s getting sick of your old man if I’m honest. He keeps telling me he misses having you around, always goin’ on about how you’ve grown up right before his eyes…”

He can hear him. You know he can by the feel of the corner of his mouth curling up into a grin, teeth grazing your carotid now. He lifts his head, dark gaze meeting yours while his massive hands cup your tits, caressing, squeezing, kneading, while muttering, Goddamn have you grown up. 

Your cunt flutters around nothing, and you sigh into the phone; your dad doesn’t hear it through his rambling. You don’t register what he’s chatting away about because then, Joel’s nose nuzzles into your neck, traces a line up, up, up until his tongue snakes out and meets the curve of your earlobe. Licks the meat of it into his mouth and takes it between his teeth, your whimper cuts off into a moan when the bite turns sharp.  

His fingers fiddle with your nipples. “Naughty little thing,” Joel taunts, warmth of his breath fanning across the hinge of your jaw, “You liked that?” 

You keen and nod, his hand dips south between your bodies, wrapping around the base of his length, notches the too-wide cockhead at your too-small hole. You turn your head, pressing your mouth to the scruff of his beard, muffling the whine he elicits from you. 

Joel pushes inside, takes a moment, and just to mess with you — he fucks his tip in and out of your drooling hole in small pulses — once, twice, thrice — teasing you, making you moan. He tilts his head, nosing your cheek, breath hot and voice deep, “Listen,” he commands.

Absentmindedly, you tilt your phone away from your ear, away from your dad’s mumblings. You strain your ears to obey him. In and out, in and out. The squelch of your sticky wet reverberates  against the four walls of his bedroom as the blunt head of his cock moves in and out. 

In. And out.  

“Fuck,” you mutter, eyes flitting down to watch his cock impale you. 

Your dad’s voice cuts in through the fog, redrawing your attention.

“Sweetie? You okay? What’s wrong?” 

Your eyes widen. Shit. “I’m–I’m–fine, I– I j-just stubbed my toe. Dad, I really can’t t–” You stammer, and Joel chuckles lowly. 

Your stuttering emboldens him, taking it as an invitation to torture you further, and with his lips against your ear, a breathy moan escapes from his lips as Joel feeds you his cock, slowly working himself back into your spent cunt. So painfully slow that he ensures you feel every ridge and every vein, and in turn, he feels every inch of your warm, velvet walls sucking him in as he eases himself into you. Used cunt clamped tight around him as you welcome him back in — inch by torturous inch. 

He stills once he reaches resistance, and you bite your bottom lip hard enough that you taste copper, suppressing the moan climbing up your chest as his tip knocks your cervix, heavy balls pressed flush to your ass — finally bottoming out inside you.

He ruts into you once, tip bumps your cervix again — goading you, and you gasp in return, fingernails indenting his shoulder, half–moon crescents marking his skin. Beads of sweat roll off his forehead and onto your face, mixing with the warm tears now cascading down your face, and your tongue darts out to taste it. The flavor of him — his sweat, his musk — only feeds the dizzying blur that is your mind. But through the foggy haze and the lewd, wet slap of flesh against flesh, you think you can hear your dad saying, You really need to quit the habit of walking around in the dark, kiddo.

And you think you’re nodding, an endless litany of, yes, yeah–yeah slipping past your lips, as you rush your way through the phone call with your father, uncaring. Only interested in the shifts of Joel’s hips, slowly fucking into you in measured thrusts.

Joel tuts. “Such a dirty fuckin’ girl, gettin’ off while speakin’ to her daddy.” And your grip in his hair tightens, walls tensing in response. “Attagirl, keep squeezin’ me like that. You gonna show me just how naughty you are for me, hm? Gonna let me have it with him on the phone? Gonna cream all over my cock, naughty girl?”

You nod your head numbly, mouth dry and unable to speak with the tip of his cock prodding at the soft spot inside you on every languid stroke, hips swaying back and forth.

The wave begins to crest, and despite your eager nodding at Joel only a second prior, there’s no way in hell you’re really going to come on your boyfriend’s cock — your dad’s best friend — while on the phone with your father. 

Your voice claws its way up your throat, “D-dad, I’m — mmm — sorry I really have to g–”​ You think your thumb presses the red button, but your phone slips from your hand, dropping to the carpet with a muffled thump, and it’s too late to check if you’ve fully hung up on him, and frankly, you’re too consumed by your lover to care. 

Grinning with pride, Joel pulls back, cock halfway out of your pussy and your hands grasp at his shoulders. 

“Joel— f-fuck–please,” you beg, your resolve melting. 

He clicks his tongue. “Na-uh, try again.” 

“D-d-daddy–please,” you whine. 

“D-d-daddy,” he mocks above you. “Say it, pretty girl.” He knows, but he wants to hear you say it. 

“Harder. Please, daddy–I–I wanna come, please, I wanna come,” you mewl, voice all whiny and petulant.

He says nothing. Without pulling out of you, his long fingers wrap around to grip the backs of your knees, pinning your thighs to your chest, knees to your shoulders, feet dangling in the air beside his beautiful head, folding you in half. Then, he moves to plant his feet flat on the mattress, propping himself up, hands on your thighs to steady himself. 

You’re already a mewling, writhing mess underneath him as he fucks in and out of your wasted cunt — it doesn’t take much longer for you to get there. The air fills with sounds of the headboard hammering against the wall and filthy, sloppy sounds of where you two are connected as he bashes into you with arrant primal vigor.

The new angle has him hitting a point inside you, deeper than you ever thought to exist. And still — the wave doesn’t break. With his eyes locked on yours, you know he can tell. He can always tell. He’s made you scream his name enough times since the beginning of your many clandestine meetings last summer to know when you’re teetering on the edge. In need of more. 

And for a moment, you think you can see it in him. Hazel eyes practically glint against the pale moonlight that spills into his bedroom. Joel bares his teeth in a cocky grin, his hand releases one of your thighs to cup your face, thumb parting your plush lips when he says, give it to me, kiddo, soak your old man’s cock. 

Oh fuck. 

Your eyelids flutter shut, your head falling back onto the pillows, hands clutching and pulling at tufts of his grizzled curls. Lips closing around his thumb wedged in your mouth; licking, sucking, biting into his flesh, as the crest finally breaks and washes over you, taking you under the rogue waves.  

But Joel still doesn’t let up. One more time, my ass. 

He’s insatiable. And he shows you just how insatiable he is when his thumb slips from your spit-smeared lips and reaches between your bodies, the pads of his fingers expertly thrum at your sensitive clit.

Your face twinges up at the intense, almost painful pressure as he pinches your clit between his index and middle fingers, hard. The swing of his hips speeds up, cock relentlessly beating your sore cunt. The sight of his girth, disappearing and reappearing as he pounds your pussy at a punishing pace, and his fingers twisting your swollen clit has your belly pulling taut and snapping within the same beat. With a broken shout of his name, you gush around the root of his cock, dripping down his balls. It’s warm and sticky when it seeps down, past your tight ring of muscle, soaking his blue sheets and turning them the shade of charcoal gray. 

Joel coaxes you through your seventh–eighth toe-curling orgasm of the night. An endless stream of sweet nothings spills from him — good girl, that’s it, kiddo. I know, I know, it’s so much, I know – fuck– such a good fuckin’ girl, as he fucks you through it. 

Your sloppy cunt clenches around him, and with his cock choked tight, deep within your bruised walls, he follows soon after. Growls raggedly as he unravels, and his own orgasm rolls through him, decking the hall of your weeping cunt with warm, milky ropes of cum for the fourth time tonight. 

Joel collapses onto your sticky chest, placing open-mouthed kisses to your dampened face — your cheek, your nose, your forehead, while he pumps you full of his seed, abiding by his promise. And when he’s done, his sweaty forehead drops to yours for a moment. The waves now a steady ripple through your body as you come down.

After a moment, he lifts his head, and in retaliation for giving you what was possibly the best fuck of your life while on the phone with your father and nearly exposing your tryst, you bring one of his hands to your face, hollow your cheeks, and suck his thumb while looking up at him with wide and falsely innocent eyes. 

He licks his lips but manages to pry his post-coital eyes away. Instead, his cum-soaked cock slips out of your tired, leaking cunt. When he leans back, you swallow a moan, catching sight of the aftermath of your many arousals in his pubic hair. Graying curls swimming in a pool of your combined releases that drips down his thighs. A thin strand of your shared pearlescent spend shines in the soft moonlight, stretching from his balls to your folds, still connecting the two of you as he pulls away. 

Joel misses it, something else pulls his attention. His gaze shifts to the clock beside your head. A hint of a smirk passes over his lips. 

“You’re lucky it’s Christmas, darlin’,” voice low, dangerous. 

Your head snaps in the same direction. It’s past midnight. You smirk in turn and pull the comforter up to hide it.

You feel him shift over you, elbow popping loudly as he reaches for what he’s looking for before he moves to sit up beside you, back against the headboard. His hand pulls the comforter back down from your face, and you roll over and sit up on your knees to face him. 

His other palm opens, wordlessly presenting you with a single twig of some plant. One with moss green, teardrop–shaped leaves and plump, round berries, waxy and opaque in color.  

Mistletoe.

You take the meat of your bottom lip between your teeth, stifling a laugh that threatens to bubble through you. Because of fucking course he would. 

Though, the soft laugh is short-lived. His broad hand waves the mistletoe over him, but not where it should be. Your gaze follows the movement of his hand, and your mouth falls agape. Your eyes snap back up to Joel’s, and his wicked smirk broadens.

Joel Miller — naked as the day he was born and splayed on top of his messy sheets — dangles the mistletoe over his length, still hard as a rock and stirring in his other hand.

But it doesn’t stop there. 

Beneath the mistletoe rests a lump of bright red and velvety felt; a fluffy white cuff rounds the brim, and a matching fuzzy white bobble hangs at the end of it. 

A Santa hat perched jauntily on his cock.

You shut your mouth and swallow thickly, already feeling that familiar ache at the apex of your thighs, and you clench around emptiness, a stream of his seed dribbling out of your overstuffed cunt and further soiling his bedding. 

“But it ain’t a Merry one till you give Santa's big sack a few kisses.”

[gracieheartspedro]

For Cryin’ Out Loud

pairing: post-outbreak! joel miller x fem!reader

how to help the palestinians and what it means to write for the last of us characters

word count: 7.9k

description: living with joel is complicated, especially when you can’t sleep due to nightmares. when you find yourself in his bed, you can’t help yourself. but joel sure can. give him a day to mull it over.

warnings: pretty slow burn, kinda forced proximity, kinda angsty, unspecified age gap (don’t like it, don’t read it), joel gives you tons of nicknames (darlin’, kiddo, etc.), discussions of nightmares and possible mental illnesses, some fluff, reader isn’t really described, joel is kinda a gaslighter, he’s also a bit pervy, unprotected p in v (wrap it y’all), oral (f! receiving), dirty talk, joel like worships you!!!!!, joel licks his fingers clean, giving genitalia pronouns, joel’s a big boy. think that’s it. lemme know what I missed!

author’s note: I really enjoyed writing this. the idea is pretty simple but I love domestic jackson!joel. I promise i’ll try to switch it up soon and write something that isn’t jackson!era lol. support your fav fics by reblogging and commenting!! thanks love ya <3

For some reason, you always find yourself standing at the threshold of the front door when you cannot sleep. 

The air was especially brisk tonight. You wrapped yourself in a gray chunky sweater you found in the lost and found in Jackson’s thrift store, hoping to regain some warmth. Your bed may have been comfortable, but it was the place where nightmares usually plagued you. 

It was too late to be awake, and you knew that if you were caught, you would hear it from Joel. He always reprimanded you. Every time he caught you up late, it was like your father woke up and found your hand in the cookie jar. 

The dynamic between you two had changed since arriving in Jackson, and you almost resented him for it. When it was just you, him, and Ellie, you were managing a family unit. Joel was always the protective father, you being the mom or the voice of reason, and Ellie being chaos. 

When Ellie and Joel’s relationship shifted, he took on a fatherly role for you. It bothered you. A lot. 

In a moment of contemplation, you hear footsteps coming down the steps behind you. 

He’s wearing flannel pajama pants and no shirt, his hairy tummy something you did not see often. 

“What are you doing awake?” He questions, his voice groggy with a twinge of annoyance. 

You do not feel like explaining yourself, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to get out of this situation without a justification. 

You huff, leaning your back against the door frame so you can get a full look at the broad man. “Can’t sleep. Thought staring into the darkness would help.”

He grunts, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “How’s that workin’ for you, sweetheart?”

You could not close your eyes without the haunting dreams that seemed lively and so real. Every night, you had the same recurring ones. You were being chased, hunted, or murdered. Or all of the above. You would wake in a cold sweat, not wanting to shut your eyelids ever again. 

“Hm,” You say, staring back outside for a brief moment, “‘Was better when you weren’t looking over my shoulder.”

He chuckles, “Get back to bed.”

“I can’t, Joel.”

“You can and will. You’re no good when you’re tired.”

“If I close my eyes, Joel, I will just have the same goddamn nightmares I have every night. And I will end up doing what I’m doing now, which is trying to get some fresh air to forget them.”

“You’re not gonna forget ‘em with some fresh air. You just need to… get over them.”

The breeze picks up as soon as he says it, almost like the world knew the tension would have to be broken with some frigid air. You retort with, “And how do you get over yours?”

"I just accept them," he says, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "I don't have time to dwell on them. There's always more important things to worry about."

"I'm more tired in the morning when I just endure them." You explain, trying not to cry about it. But you are so sick of them. The same thing every night.

“I get it. One day they will subside, I’m sure of it. But for now, you gotta-”

You just want him to shut up. At the same time, your mind is trying to remember the last time you did not have a nightmare. The memory makes your stomach churn. “You remember that one time we were forced to share that sleeping bag? Back in Pittsburgh?”

“Yeah,” His tone was wary, “What about it?”

"That was the first night I didn't have it." You explain, your voice a bit shaking at the insinuation. You don’t want to face the fact that Joel, the man that you have known for going on 10 years, kept your nightmares at bay. The same man who continuously rejected you and told you that he was old enough to be your dad. The same man that told you no, I don’t like you like that. I never will. That Joel. 

“And? Why are you bringing this up now?”

"Because every night I go to my bed and I'm forced to face them alone. When you were there... they didn't even bother holding my mind hostage.”

He took another step closer, closing some of the distance between you two. He towers over you and you can’t help but stare up at him in awe. Joel has always been a complicated part of your life. You consider him your sexual awakening, honestly, but he will never ever know that. Over the years, he’s only gotten more handsome. 

But now, he has a curious expression written all over his face.

"Are you saying you want to share a bed with me?" he asks, his voice gruff and low.

You suck in a deep breath, not wanting to answer. You knew that was stepping over a boundary for Joel. He liked his space. He didn’t like you impeding on that space, especially. Your bedroom was the furthest away from his for a reason.

"I don't know." You manage to say.

Joel's gaze darkened, his expression was completely unreadable. You wish you could read his mind, but you should be grateful you can not. 

Because in Joel’s mind, he’s trying to formulate a way to convince you to stay away from him altogether. The wall he has built over the last decade was intentional. He did not want to hurt you any further. He already knew you had feelings for him, but he was an old man. He did not want to drag you into his mess, all the baggage he carried. He looked after you, he shared a home with you, and that’s it. Strictly platonic. 

He shifted on his feet a little, unable to tear his eyes away from you. You shook like a little leaf.

"You don't know?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble.

You nod, "I don't know if I want that."

You do want that. But you want more, too. You knew you would be playing with fire. You would just be disappointed. 

Joel’s temptations are buried deep but they still fester every now and again. Some days he would catch a glance at you getting dressed in the crack of your door and have to take a cold shower. As soon as he felt those emotions bubble in his chest, he would try to distract himself. Maybe he would take a longer patrol. Maybe he would go to the Tipsy Bison and try to find a woman to take home. That one never really worked. 

“Well, what do you want then? Because standin’ at the door and letting all the cold air in ain’t gonna work for me or you.”

You look down at your picked-over fingernails and contemplate your next sentence. You don't want to be heartbroken in the morning when you wake up and he's there sleeping peacefully next to you and you're not... his.

"I want to sleep with you."

Joel was not expecting such a blunt response from you, but he appreciated you not beating around the bush about it. He gestures for you to step out of the doorway so he can shut the door, which you do. 

He looked down at you, his eyes raking over your face, taking in the exhaustion and uncertainty. 

"You sure?" he asked, his voice a gruff whisper.

You just nod as he locks the front door. You couldn’t believe you were doing this. 

Joel couldn’t believe it either. Maybe it was the tiredness or the instincts he felt to protect you, but he was not mad at the idea of sharing his bed with you. 

You signal for him to go upstairs, “You lead the way.”

-

Joel’s room was always off-limits to you. So when you step into his small little world, you take it all in. 

The artwork around the room was mainly nature landscapes. He had a big dresser right at the room's entrance with picture frames of Sarah, Ellie, and other family members. You were even included in one photo—a picture of you and him on some horses from last year. 

A shirt littered one side of the bed, so you took that as it was probably his side. Unfortunately for you, it was the right side. You felt a pang of guilt realizing you would probably end up restlessly lying in Joel’s bed if you were stuck on the left. 

Before he can pull back the blanket for himself, you stop him. 

“Uh, can I sleep on that side?”

He completely halts in his motions, turning his head towards you with a blank expression. “My side? Why?”

You lick your lips, already regretting this whole thing. 

“Because I have had this superstition since I was a kid that I could only sleep on the right side of the bed."

Joel wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. He can tell you are at war in your head about the question, your expression practically anticipating his rejection. 

"Superstitions, huh?" he said, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips."You and your weird beliefs."

You watch as he crosses to the other side of the bed and lifts the blanket. Is he actually letting you have his side? Maybe he doesn’t hate you. 

“You could also call it a compulsion, but superstitions seem more fun and less like a mental illness.”

He laughs this time, his deep chuckle making you feel a bit more relaxed about the situation. You did not feel like a burden as much. You walk to the right side and pull back his navy blue sheets and blanket. The spot looks warm and inviting so when you crawl in next to Joel, you start to realize that you’re back in the same situation you were in years ago in that sleeping bag. He was so close and warm and you wanted nothing more but for him to hold you and keep you comfortable.

But then another thing came to mind before you could imagine his arms around you. 

You usually sleep on your right side or back, but now you don't know what to do because you didn't know how Joel slept.

"Do you sleep on your side or back?"

Joel studies you as you fidget beside him, your uncertainty causing him to smirk slightly. It was almost endearing, seeing you be completely out of control of your surroundings. He remembers back when you were traveling with him you had an obsessive need to straighten up everything before you fell asleep. You had to roll yourself up in your sleeping bag the same way every night. 

"Usually on my back," he said finally. "But I can sleep on my side, too."

You swallow, trying to picture yourself sleeping. For some reason you felt the urge to have control of the situation, dictating exactly how he has to sleep, too. "Can I... I'll sleep on my side if you can sleep on your back? Is that okay?"

Joel had to suppress a smirk at your request. You knew he was trying to hold back a snarky remark. Instead, he surprises you.

"Sure, you can sleep on your side," he agreed, shifting his body weight onto his back, "’n I'll sleep on my back. No big deal."

You turn to face him, tucking the pillow further under your head. You can tell his eyes are heavy from exhaustion. You know it's time to shut up, to go to sleep, but you feel the need to say something else to him. Sometimes your brain concocts questions and statements and you know you shouldn’t say them, but your mouth betrays you.  

"When was the last time you had a girl in your bed?"

Why the fuck would you ask that? You think to yourself. It fell out of your mouth like drool.

Joel's eyes widened at your blunt question, surprise and a hint of embarrassment coloring his expression. You knew he was probably just expecting you to lay here next to him, maybe roll around a bit, then sleep. But instead, it’s an interrogation.

He took a deep breath, his mind rattling around as he tried to think of a response. He didn't want to admit what his genuine answer was to you, but he too could not help himself.

"Why do you want to know that?" he asks, his voice steely.

You hate that he even responded because now you needed to defend yourself.

"I uh, don't know. I don't know why it matters."

Joel chuckled softly, noting that you probably just had a case of word vomit. You always told him you were infamous for putting your foot in your mouth, especially in awkward situations.

"Curiosity got the better of you, huh?" he asks, rubbing his face with his hands. “You just can’t help yourself, sweetheart.”

He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side to face you, his gaze studying your expression.

You smirk, grateful that he's letting it slide. When he turns onto his side and he's at eye level with you, your face drops a bit. He is ruining the vision in your head. He’s throwing a wrench in your plans.

"You're supposed to be on your back, sir."

Joel couldn't help but chuckle softly at your comment. He knew he was supposed to be on his back, but the new angle allowed him to see you better in the faint moonlight.

"Don't worry," he said, a hint of humor in his voice. "I'll turn back over in a minute. Just... enjoying the view for a bit."

You roll your eyes, lifting your hands from under the covers and lightly hitting his arm. You knew he was just fucking with you now. 

"Okay, for that, I want to know the answer to my stupid question."

Joel let out a low laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He shook his head, amused by your persistence. You start to think about it and you have never really seen him bring anyone home. Maybe it had been a very long time and he was embarrassed. 

"Alright, alright," he said, a hint of resignation in his voice. "Last time I had a girl in my bed..."

He paused for a moment, his eyes dropping to the covers, his mind racing to find the right words.

"Go on..."

Joel took another deep breath, his voice dropping even lower as he spoke.

"It's been a long time, kiddo," he admitted, his voice pierced with a bit of shame. "Almost ten years, if I'm being honest."

Your eyes widen in surprise. "No way... You've never just... got it on with someone in bed?"

Joel's face flushed with embarrassment at your blunt question, a mix of shock and slight irritation flashing across his eyes.

"Jesus, you really don't hold back, do ya?" he muttered. He shifts a bit, trying to get comfortable in a different way. He hadn't expected the conversation to turn so personal, so quickly and he did not want to face you anymore. He was mortified. 

You mentally slap yourself in the face.

"I'm sorry, I am just tired and delusional. Uh, you don't have to answer that."

Joel could practically feel the humiliation radiating off you and he too felt the exact same way. You knew how to add to an already awkward situation.

"No, no, it's fine," he reassured you, his voice a bit gentler now. "I get it. You're tired, and your filter has taken a backseat."

"Yeah, exactly..."

He shifted on the bed, turning onto his back again, his gaze shifting to the ceiling, avoiding your curious stare.

You could not help but stare at his side profile. A prominent straight nose. His downturned lips are surrounded by some fine lines that show his age. He was a beautiful man now, but you can’t help but imagine him back in his 20s. He had to have been a hit with the ladies back then.

Joel could feel your gaze on him, studying his face. And while you were not scrutinizing him, he felt like a commodity in a museum or something.  He forced himself to keep his gaze on the ceiling, refusing to meet your eyes.

"So… ten years and no sex?”

You could seriously, not help yourself.

"Correct.” He grumbles, still not meeting your stare.

"Damn, Joel." You mutter, adjusting a bit to sit up a little more on your pillow. "I seriously thought you were sleeping around the whole time we have been in Jackson.”

He finally turns your way, a bit of offense on his face. “Why would you think that?”

You shrug, not wanting to insult him. But that’s how you formulated your grudge towards him. It was easy to just chalk everything up to problems with random women you have seen around town. 

“You just give off the energy…”

“What?”

You huff, laying back on the pillow. “I don’t know, Joel! I feel like when I’m around you all the ladies think you’re handsome. They stare.”

“They are staring because you’re always following me around and we aren’t married or… together. They think we are odd.” 

You had never heard such things around Jackson, but it does sort of make sense. Everyone was probably just confused because you two lived together but were not a couple. You can admit it is bizarre, but it just did not feel like an option any other way, in your mind. So Tommy gave you two a bigger house and you set up separate rooms. 

But in actuality, Joel secretly told Tommy that he did not want you too far from him. So when Tommy couldn’t give you any other houses nearby, Joel just told him that you two would be roommates.

“Well fuck ‘em.” You mutter, trying not to sound too offended by the thought of people gossiping about you two.

Joel just nods. You settle by tucking your arm under your pillow. You yawn, the exhaustion now taking over your body. You watch Joel grab a pair of reading glasses from the side table and a book. You decide not to bother him, especially because he probably wanted to just read himself to sleep instead of being interrogated by you any further.

You close your eyes and eventually fall asleep. The deeper you get, Joel notices how your breathing pattern changes. When he’s finally ready to get some shut-eye as well, he watches as your body crawls closer to him. Your arm swings over his stomach and rests on his forearm. He is so shocked he does not move a muscle. 

You adjust some more, not knowing what you are doing. Your leg creeps up and tucks right between his. You snuggle your face right into his chest. The only movement Joel decides to make is slinging his arm over your shoulders to pull you in tighter. 

It’s the first time in years that you two slept soundly, with no interruptions. No nightmares, no sudden intrusions, nothing. Silence and snores fill the room and that’s it.

-

When you wake up, it’s slow and gradual. Your brain hardly computes that you’re laying on top of Joel’s shirtless frame, until your hand runs across his warm tummy. 

You crook your neck up, looking at the handsome man you are spreading across. 

His lips are slightly ajar, letting out hardly-there snores. They are so pretty and pink and you cannot help but touch them with feather-like fingertips. You would feel so guilty waking him up-

His eyes slowly open taking notice of your actions even though you tried not to stir him. Your eyes fly open in shock, but he does not seem very annoyed. He smiles. 

“Mornin’ darlin’,” He says in a deep sleep-laced voice. You smile back at him, loving that he decided to call you the nickname you always got giddy over. You press your fingers into his chest before replying.

“I didn’t have a nightmare.”

His hand comes up from your shoulders and tucks some hair behind your ear as he stares down at you, “That’s good kiddo. I’m glad you slept well.”

The intimacy is almost too much. The way this is how it would be if you woke up to Joel every morning. It sends your brain into overdrive and you force yourself to ruin it a bit.

“Woulda slept even better if you didn’t talk so much in your sleep.”

Joel froze for a moment, his cheeks immediately flushing pink with embarrassment. He sits up a bit more, adjusting to the brighter lighting in his room. He knew he had a problem with talking in his sleep. Ellie used to talk about it all the time. He dreaded hearing what he was saying while curled up next to you.

"Uh... what did I say?" he asked, trying to maintain his composure.

"Something about it felt so good to be pressed up against someone, I don't know..." 

You could not help yourself and started to laugh. You knew you were going to get a rise out of him. 

Joel's face flushed an even deeper shade of pink as you started to laugh, clearly amused by your joke. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, his mind racing as he tried to come up with an excuse. He was just dreaming, it was not about you. 

"W-what?" he spluttered out instead of making an excuse. "I didn't... I didn't say anything like that."

You have a shit-eating grin on your face and you press your hands on his chest to prop yourself up. You enjoyed watching him squirm.

Joel's eyes flickered down to your hands on his chest. He sickly thought they felt so right placed there. He imagined what you would look like fully mounting him. 

He tried to keep his expression neutral, but you could see through his stone-cold exterior.

"You're messing with me, aren't you?" he grumbled, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"Fully fuckin' with you." You giggle, hoping he is not really that mad at you. 

“You’re a brat.”

You move your foot slightly, running it up his leg. It sends shockwaves up his body, having you so close and moving around so seamlessly. 

"No, you said something about how beautiful, alluring, and incredible I am. Said I was the girl of your dreams…"

"Yeah, right," he said, a hint of playful sarcasm in his voice. "You expect me to believe that?"

"So, you don't believe me?"

"No, I don't believe you," he says, his voice stern but playful. "I think you're a dirty little liar, trying to play me for a fool."

"A dirty little liar, huh? Well, it's good to know that you don't think I'm beautiful, alluring, and incredible." You giggle at his acknowledgment, knowing he caught you red-handed.

"Oh, I never said that," he smirked, a hint of teasing in his voice. "You are all of those things, darlin’. But you're also a dirty little liar who likes to play games."

"So you think I'm beautiful?" You crack, the biggest smile painted on your face. You don’t even care that he’s calling you a liar because it does not matter. Joel thinks you are beautiful. 

“‘Course I do.”

You push yourself up onto your butt, sitting crisscross next to him. He secretly wishes you were still curled up on top of him. 

“You always this nice in the morning?” You ponder, your fingertips starting to toy with the hair on his stomach. He tries not to pay mind to it, letting you have full access to touch him. 

But it’s driving him insane. The way you look freshly woken up, completely enamored with the idea of him calling you beautiful. You have some puffiness under your eyes and your lips are more swollen than usual.

“I am always nice to you.”

You let out a scoff, “No, you’re not.”

He notices the shift in your tone and starts to get defensive, “Now you’re just lyin’.” 

Joel always loved to gaslight you in these situations. You knew better than to let him get away with it, especially now. “No there was that one time you told me you did not like me and that you would never like me. How you are old enough to be my dad-”

“Because I am!”

And there’s the wall. The only constant in you two’s relationship. He was so good at throwing it up when feelings were being expressed. When vulnerability was presented, Joel could not help but reject it. 

“And the world’s fuckin’ ended, Joel! Big deal!” You almost yell, moving your hands from him. 

Why does he already miss your hands?

He huffs, crossing his arms over his soft chest. “We have had this conversation for the last 10 years.’M not sure why we keep rehashing it.”

“And every time you turn me down it’s another fuckin’ stab in the heart.”

“You know why we can’t,” He practically growls. You can not stand to even look at him anymore with your bitterness and irritation taking over. 

“Whatever, Joel.” 

As soon as you say it, you’re already leaving his room and heading to your own. When you slam the door, you hope you have made your point. You want to scream and punch a hole in the wall, but instead you just furiously stomp around the room and grab your clothes. You had patrol at noon, so you needed to get to the mess hall before breakfast was over. You try not to cry as you strip down and get dressed.

Joel sits in bed, reeling. He hates that it has become a conversation every six months. He hated that rejecting you always sent you into a spiral of hating him for extended periods. It’s not that he did not want you, it was simply just not in the cards. He was too old to be in love. He was too old to play house with you. He just could not submit to the idea of leading you on, especially because you had so much more life to live. 

He finally works up the courage to get out of bed and put on some clothes. He opts for putting on his typical jeans and thick flannel. It was getting colder and he knew by the end of the winter, you would end up with half his flannels anyway, so he had to enjoy them while he had them. 

You storm downstairs, going to the back door for your boots when you spot him in the kitchen. 

“You got pat-”

“Yes.” You respond quickly, shoving your foot into your shoes. He stands behind you with a mug full of tea, watching your every move. 

“Who are you-”

“Jesse.”

He was asking his usual questions, which you were not in the mood to answer. 

“Hey, can you-”

You snap your head back at him, giving him the glare you gave him as a warning usually. By now, he takes it as a hint and backs off. But not this time. 

“Can I what?”

He rolls his eyes, “Can you fuckin’ not be a brat about this?”

You wish your glare came with knives. If that were the case, Joel Miller would be dead on his kitchen floor. 

You are so thrown off by the question that you just watch him get angrier when you do not respond. 

“Are you serious, right now?” You press, keeping your voice from cracking. 

He brings the mug up to his mouth, taking an obnoxious sip. When he pulls the mug away, you notice how steaming it is. “You always pull this shit-”

“No, you do! You do this shit to me every fuckin’ time, Joel. You sweet talk me, make me feel comfortable, have me lapping everything up in the palm of your hands, and then you snatch it away. Then have the audacity to get mad at me!”

You are yelling now and it is throwing him off. Joel knows better than to interrupt you like you do to him. You were the kind of person who would calm down if you felt heard. 

The way he knew you down to your core made this all so painful. Because if he was not so stubborn and true to his convictions, he would have fucked you the moment you touched his lips this morning. 

“I ain’t tryin’ to make this harder than-” “Too fuckin’ late.”

You think back to the moment last night when you knew you were going to hurt your own feelings by sleeping with him. You knew better, yet here you are, still blaming him for your stupidity.

He stands there, still holding his mug, staring you down like a wounded doe who got pierced with an arrow. He feels guilty like he misled you. Before he can say anything, you are lacing up your boots and leaving out the front door without another word. 

-

All day long, Joel wanders around the house trying to get rid of the pit in his stomach. Nothing works. A shower. Reading a book. Cutting wood. As soon as he tried to use laundry as a distraction, he reached into his hamper and found one of your t-shirts. He held it close and smelled it, trying to wrap his head around how he got here. 

You spend all day, silently fuming on horseback with Jesse. When he tries to get you to open up, you ice him out and tell him to focus on the trail in front of him. 

You get back by sundown, the sun setting making it a lot chiller than you expected. You decide to take the long way home, wanting to avoid being home for as long as possible. You were not ready to face Joel, let alone share a space with him. But unfortunately, during your patrol, you fell into some mud and needed a shower. The more time it spent on your clothes and body, the grosser you felt. 

You open the front door, announcing that you are home. It was a habit you and Joel developed after you both pulled guns on each other during late-night arrivals. 

You hear Joel mumble something from the living room, but you do not stop to listen and continue on your way upstairs to the bathroom. 

You strip down as soon as the door is closed, tossing your muddy clothing into a hamper in the corner. You would get them washed and hung as soon as you shower off. 

You hear Joel’s footsteps creaking around the upstairs hallway as you scrub your body with homemade soap and warm water. 

When you start to dry yourself off, you hear Joel grunting something in the hallway. You wrap yourself in a towel and peek your head out the door. He’s on his hands and knees wiping something off the hardwood. “What’s goin’ on?”

He looks up at you, your body only covered in a bleach-stained blue towel. It makes his head spin. He can’t even be mad that you tracked in mud. 

He swallows, gripping the cloth he’s using tighter. “You got mud everywhere.”

You step out, not even really thinking about the fact that you are not properly dressed in front of Joel. You were still mad at him, anyway. Who cares what he thinks?

“Sorry, I could’ve cleaned it up.”

He returns to wiping the wood, “It’s fine, I got it, kiddo.”

You accept his response and move on to your room, but the draft you leave behind drifts to Joel’s nostrils. Your soap smells like lavender and it always sends his mind racing when you are fresh from a shower. He clears his throat, trying to get through the emotions filling his chest. 

But it’s been like this all day. You’re all around him even when you’re not physically here. How can he get away from you? Why is he trying to run in the first place?

He’s on his knees in your hallway, cleaning up your mess, sniffing the air you leave behind because he’s fucking in love with you and he cannot help himself anymore. 

Joel starts to think about how peaceful he felt having you next to him last night and how he would love to feel that way every night. For once he’s not thinking about what everyone else would think. For once he’s thinking selfishly and caving into every desire he has ever pondered about you. How would you feel under him? How would your lips feel pressed against his pulse point? 

His body was on fire, thinking about you. 

You are fiddling with some clothes in your dresser after you flick on the overhead light. You do not hear him come into your room behind you. 

You are so wrapped up in your own thoughts that when he clears his throat to announce he’s in your room, you scream. Loud. 

“For cryin’ out loud, woman!” 

You grip your towel tighter when you turn and see him standing at your mercy. 

“Joel, what the fuck?” You yell, gesturing to the fact that you are practically naked. He does not care, of course, and his ears are ringing from your piercing scream. He gathers himself as you shift back, trying to create some distance from him.

He is trying not to gawk at the fact that your grip on the towel against your chest is only pushing up your cleavage. He’s biting back everything. “Can we talk?”

“Talk about what? The fact you crept into my room when I was trying to change? Are we past boundaries now?” 

You are pissed, trying not to rattle off another million things to discuss with him. He’s only really talking about one thing. 

He scoffs at your last statement. “Boundaries were already out the window when you crawled into bed with me last night.”

Silence fills the room as you completely stop breathing. The anger you originally felt dissipates. 

“Joel-“

“I ain’t doin’ this back and forth anymore,” He starts shifting in his spot, unsure if he really should be doing this. “I can’t live how I've been livin’. Somethin’s gotta give.”

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. 

“You are the one who won’t give, Joel.”

As soon as you say it, he practically drags himself over to you. Completely destitute. You have never seen him look so desperate before. You can tell that he’s been at war with himself ever since you left this morning. His eyes never lied.

His hand creeps up your bare arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

But then you remember his words from this morning. You start feeling like this is just a moment of weakness for him and that he will regret it later. You had to stop it before it was too late. You did not want to deal with the consequences. 

“Joel, you said we can’t-”

“Fuck what I said,” He cuts you off, “Do you want this?”

You stare into those brown eyes, searching for a sign of hesitance. You cannot believe Joel is being this vulnerable with you. 

But, you do want him. God, you have wanted him so badly for so long. You have searched for him in every man you have ever been with since knowing him. 

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. He takes note of your parted lips, every word failing you at that moment.

“Darlin’-”

“Yes,” You finally manage. “Yes, I do want this.”

It’s all he needs. He closes the gap between you two by wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his space. His lips crash onto yours, not wasting another breath of air waiting to indulge in his sickest fantasies. 

You are all Joel ever dreamed about. He knew that once he caved and physically gave in, his world would be shot and everything would revolve around you. For years it had been a teetering object on a cliff, one nudge would have him falling. He always managed. But now, he was falling head first. 

His lips move so perfectly with your own. Your hand released your towel and found the tufts of his curls at the base of his head. You did not care that the article pooled around your feet, leaving you completely bare in front of Joel. You have wanted this all along. To be uncovered, to be stripped down to the rawest form. He broke the kiss briefly just to scan your naked body, his forehead pressed against your own. 

“Fuck, you are so beautiful.”

Your heart stutters as his hand traces your stomach down to your hips, all the way down to your ass. He stops there, grabbing a handful. 

“I need you,” You choke out before pressing your lips to his over and over again. “Right now.”

He mumbles “jump” into your mouth and you do so, his hands working quickly to hike you up onto his waist. He carries you to your bed, wasting no time dropping you onto your back. 

He cannot get enough of your soft, swollen lips. Every time he pulls away slightly, he dives in again even more aggressively than the last time. 

You are so hypnotized by the way he feels on top of you. In the light, he seems so much broader than he was last night. He’s still fully clothed, to your dismay. You start to tug at his shirt, motioning him to remove the articles that are in your way. 

He throws off his shirt before he stands up at the edge of the bed and pushes down his jeans. 

“Joel… I-“

He just shuts you up with another passionate kiss. It’s all tongue and teeth like he’s trying to melt into your mouth. Your hands trail up his back, gripping onto his shoulders, holding him down so he is pressing against your nude body. 

“God, I have wanted this for so long,” He sputters, trying not to sound too desperate. “Been wanting this.”

That’s when his hand reaches down between your thighs and gathers the wetness your slit has to offer. His fingers dance across it, starting from the top all the way to your spongy entrance. 

“Please, Joel.”

He loves the lust-laced tone you speak with when you say his name. It almost makes him cum there and then. 

You watch as he makes his way down your body, peppering kisses from your shoulder to your hip. When he parts your legs, you feel quite exposed. The adrenaline of being so spread for him manifests into a moan. 

“You are divine, baby.”

The use of that adjective is so-not-Joel that it makes you giggle. He notes your reaction and decides to sink down into you. When his mouth gets close to your core, it’s no longer a laughing matter. 

He uses his fingers again, using them to spread open your pussy lips. He cannot keep his eyes away from how dripping you are. “This all for me?”

“Y-yes, Joel.”

“God, I was a fuckin’ fool for so long. Could’ve had her earlier and I never fuckin’ caved. Such an idiot.”

Him giving your cunt pronouns was enough to have you throwing your head back and shuttering. His touch was magnetic like he knew exactly what buttons to push as he rubbed his fingers and palm over your core. 

“Yeah, you’ve been missin’ out. Every night…” You swallow before looking down at the man that is enamored with your pussy, “E-every night I would lay in this bed, fuckin’ myself just thinkin’ about you.”

He growls at the statement, before teasingly kissing your clit. “Every night, hm, kiddo?”

“God, yes.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as he leans forward more and dives in. His nose is pressed firmly against the top of your pussy, nudging forward every time his tongue enters your hole. When that motion became consistent, you began to note the rumblings in the pit of your stomach. A familiar build-up that you managed to get when you were playing with yourself. 

His fingers move in tandem with his lips and tongue. While his middle and pointer finger slide in and out of you, his lips wrap around your clit. It’s overwhelming and all-consuming. 

You do not know where to center yourself, so your hands grip the bed sheets you were completely soaking as Joel pulls the first orgasm out of you. 

“That’s it, baby, she’s cryin’ for me, hm?”

You hardly make a noise, the orgasm is so earth-shattering that you just writhe on the mattress. 

“Oh my god…” You groan, finally able to catch your breath. When Joel removes his fingers from you, you watch as he slowly brings them up to his lips.

When he inserts them in his mouth, you gawk at him, unsure how to react. He watches your expression and chuckles darkly.

“Mm, never seen a man enjoy the taste of ya?”

You shake your head. “Never expected to hear those words leave your mouth, either.”

“Wait ‘til you hear what else I got to say.”

He stands up beside the bed, grabs your hips, and brings them to the edge. He is tossing you around with ease, bringing your lower body flush with his. He yanks down his briefs, revealing himself to you. You instantly take notice of how well-endowed he is. You never thought you would ever be close to his cock, let alone have it lining up at your entrance. 

“Joel…“ You stop him with your small voice, but still welcoming him in with your legs opened wide, “I don’t know if it will fit.”

He grins, “It will, baby. Just relax for me, okay?”

You watch him slide his member along your center, the feeling so blissfully overstimulating. You whine a bit, raising your hips to his. 

But Joel continues his torture, enjoying the way you’re squirming under him. The way your eyebrows are knitted together, your eyes shut as you grind up into him. It’s the prettiest sight. 

“Ready?”

Your eyes fly open as you watch him ease his way into your core, the sound of squelching filling the room. You don’t think you have ever been this wet for someone. 

“Oh my fuckin’ god, Joel…”

He smiles as he inches in, “Squeezin’ my cock so good, darlin’.”

When he’s fully sheathed inside, he tests the waters by drawing out slowly. You roll your hips in a circle, trying to feel out every inch of him. He fits, but you know once he starts to move faster, the stretch will become overwhelming. 

He’s trying to focus and not blow his load immediately. You look so beautiful below him, your tits slowly shifting back and forth every time he draws back and forth. He reaches out, wanting to feel the flesh between his fingers. God, he craved every inch of you, he realizes. 

You open your legs as far as you can, letting him hit you at a different angle. The movement allows him to slip in a bit more seamlessly, so when he speeds up his thrusts, you don’t feel like you will completely split in half. 

He brings your leg up to hips, and feeling your soft delicate skin against him makes him lose all sense. His hips snap faster the more you moan out for him. 

“Fuckin’ Christ, girl. I can’t believe I was missin’ out on this cunt,” He babbles, “Need this cunt every day from now on. Gonna have you all to myself every night.”

You are too fucked out of your mind to read into those implications.

“‘M all yours, Joel.”

He smiles, slowing down a bit. “Keep talkin’ like that and ‘ll finish a lot sooner than you.”

You sit up a bit, your eyes flickering over his entire body. He notices you checking out his nude frame, which makes him feel a bit more bold. He leans down, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. You love the way his tongue slips into your mouth so effortlessly. When he opens his mouth, his facial hair tickles your nose a bit which makes you smile. When his hips pick back up to a quicker pace, it sends you gasping into his mouth.

“Please, Joel,” You whine, that familiar build starts up but this time it’s like a freight train. Moving so quickly down every nerve ending in your body. “I’m gonna cum.”

“‘M with you, darlin’. Soak this dick. I’m right behind ya.”

His dirty talk causes the crash. Your body practically lifts off the mattress. You cry out so loud you are sure a neighbor could hear you. You try to gain your bearings, but you are panting like you just ran a mile. 

Joel fucks you through it, but the restriction your pussy is putting on his cock sends him over the edge. His hips stutter into yours, his seed emptying into your spent hole. He just keeps repeating your name as his thrusts slow down.

He has never had such a visceral orgasm in his life. His knees are weak and can hardly keep up his weight. He practically falls on top of you, which does not offend you at all. His warm sweaty body on top of you is almost reassuring. 

“You okay, kiddo?” He finally mutters as his hot breath fans the nape of your neck. You just nod, bringing your hand up to his salt and pepper hair. You tug lightly, smiling to yourself. 

“I’m more than okay.”

He finally sits up, his cock spilling out of you as he adjusts his position. Your hole drips a mixture of cum onto your newly clean sheets, but you could care less. It’s just another thing to hand wash tonight.

Joel stumbles to the middle of the room, picking up your bath towel. He uses it to wipe himself up before coming over to you. Your legs are still slightly apart so he decides to clean you up a bit. He’s gentle, knowing that you are probably still sensitive.

Once he finishes up, he crawls next to you as you continue to recover. Your bones felt like jello so standing up to adjust yourself was not an option.

So instead of facing him, you stare up at your ceiling fan as his eyes lock onto every detail of your profile. It brings him back to one night you two shared under the stars a couple of years ago. It was his turn to keep watch so you curled up in your sleeping bag by the fire. He admired you from across the flames, the orange hues lit up every angle of your face. It was at that moment that Joel realized that he could not picture his life without you. You had weaseled your way into every facet of his life and he used to resent the impact you had on him. You were younger, more patient but still stubborn like him. You made him laugh, like genuinely laugh, for the first time since the infection. While you may have been a bit impulsive with your emotions, he envied the way you could say exactly what you were thinking. 

Joel did not want to love you, but it was impossible not to. 

You finally look over at him, noticing the softness in his gaze.

“Are you okay?” You pose, scrunching your nose. 

He gives you a toothless smile, his eyes crinkling a bit. “I just can’t wait to sleep next to you for the rest of my life.”

tags of people I love and who may wanna read (no pressure I just love u) (some of u did ask tho) : @ashleyfilm @hockeyhughes @pedrospookie @guiltyasdave @amanitacowboy @myownwholewildworld

[strang3lov3]

Rock You

Dad rocks you to sleep.

Tags - dad!joel, incest, smut, one shot, dad jokes, banter, dad!joel eats slim jim’s (sorry. they’re a certified #dadclassic), road head, blow job, cum swallowing, fingering, piv sex, creampie, cockwarming, somno-ish, Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York lol. Sweet and loving nostalgia. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION AND ALL CHARACTERS ARE ADULTS. 5.5k words

A/N - He’s back, daddy’s girls 🩷 thank you for your patience. And thank you to all who contributed in the #dadsnacks discussion! That was very valuable.

Joel pulls his truck up next to the gas pump, then puts the vehicle into park and steps out. With your head against the window, you watch him through the windshield that’s all spattered in gnats and flies, Dad rounding the front of his truck. He looks so handsome, brows knitted together as he untwists the gas cap and puts the pump inside, graying hair blowing in the breeze. He pulls out his wallet then, reads a little sign, and then hangs his head back in irritation. “God dammit.” 

Joel taps twice on your window, voice muffled as he speaks, “Gotta pay inside,” he says. “Let’s go.” 

You roll your eyes. “Dad, let me just stay,” you whine.

But Joel doesn’t budge. “No can do, kiddo. I don’t like ya out here alone,” he says. “Come with, come pick out some junk food with me, huh?”

“I don’t want…whatever.” You can’t fight the smile that grows on your face. Joel knows all too well how to bribe you, his sweet fucking girl. You unclick your seatbelt and Joel opens the truck door, and he takes your hand and helps you down. 

He’ll never stop doing that, you know. He knows you’re big now, all grown up. Your legs are longer and you’re more graceful than the little punk kid you once were, but Joel will always, always help you down. You bit it one goddamn time and ended up with a big gash on your forehead and all these scrapes on your knees, and you screamed bloody murder when Joel dumped peroxide on your skin to clean the wounds. It broke his fucking heart, hurting you like that, even if it was to help you in the long run. At least he got a giggle out of you when he let you hurt him - “hurt” him back by punching him in his strong bicep. Ouch, kiddo. Uh huh. Hurts real bad. Yep, we’re even now. 

Joel holds the glass gas station door open for you, then points to a stack of baskets. “You know what to do.” 

Joel follows you through the gas station, loving that beautiful grin on your face as you grab his snacks first - his preferred junk food never changes. Snickers, sunflower seeds, a honey bun, a couple of Slim Jim’s and some Reese’s peanut butter cups and a big bottle of Arizona Arnold Palmer to wash it all down. You did good, kiddo. 

Dad’s turn. Joel picks out Sour Patch watermelons, your very favorite. He grabs you a big bag of white cheddar popcorn, too, and some of those mini powdered donuts. You always had a thing for those donuts. Joel’s standing in front of the refrigerated section, thinking hard about what to get you to drink. You approach him and browse with him. “Could get ya Bug Juice,” he teases, nudging your arm. “‘Member those?”

You laugh out of your nose, “Ew,” you giggle, scrunching your face.

“Ya liked ‘em when you were little,” Joel replies, opening the fridge and grabbing you a cherry Coke. You smile, Dad knows you so well.  

You and Joel bring your items up to the register, where the attendant scans everything. Joel reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, then narrows his eyes at an end cap that catches his attention. “Grab me one’a them Paydays, would ya?” 

You raise your eyebrow and put your hands on your hips and Jesus, you truly are your father’s daughter. Same fucking mannerisms and facial expressions right there. 

“Dad, no. You broke your tooth on one of those the last time you ate one.” 

“It was one time,” Joel argues quietly, snatching a Payday himself, and handing it as well as a couple of bills to the attendant, who’s laughing at this argument. “Put the change on pump four, please,” he tells her.

“Dad–”

“Can it,” Joel says. “Tooth was already cracked to begin with. Thank ya, ma’am,” he says to the attendant, swiping the white plastic bags full of snacks off the counter. Then he nods his head in the direction of the door. 

“It was not,” you mumble, more for the attendant’s ears than for Joel’s. You wish her a nice rest of her day. 

Outside, Joel opens his truck door for you and helps you into it, then fills his truck with gas. When he’s done, he puts the pump away and joins you in the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life as he turns the key. You’re back on the endless highway in minutes, snacking on junk food together. 

“And ya know the great thing,” Joel starts, pausing to take a swig of his drink, “All this garbage s’only eight thousand calories.” 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Yeah, how’s that?”

You swallow the Sour Patch watermelons you were chewing. “Because it doesn’t count when you eat it in the truck.” 

Joel laughs at that, eyes crinkling with his smile. “You are wise beyond your years, girl.” He’s got his window cracked, and the wind is blowing his curls back. The sun beginning to set makes his dark eyes shine a vibrant amber in its glow. 

Another hour passes. You notice a Volkswagen Beetle and punch Joel in his bicep, snickering. Before he can argue, he notices the car, too. “Didn’t say slug bug, darlin’. Doesn’t count.” 

“Does too.” 

Joel takes his right hand off of the steering wheel and makes his pointer finger and thumb into a circle, and holds it above the floor of the truck. “Psst. What’s that, kid? That a bug on the floor?” You gasp when you look down and roll your eyes when you see Joel’s circle, and he punches you in the bicep in return, laughing triumphantly. He punches lightly, of course. Dad never rough houses too hard with you, baby girl. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, then shakes out his arm. “Goddamn, girl. Your punch is gettin’ harder.”

More time passes by, and you’re keeping track of the number of flies that smack the windshield. You and Joel played twenty questions - he was thinking about coffee, and you were thinking about a cat. He tried to play again, but you shut him down. “I’m bored,” you whined instead, and Joel told you that you could go play in traffic. 

You’re flipping through radio channels now, looking for something to listen to. Remember when Uncle Tommy would sit with you in the truck with some AM station on? Joel hated that. He thinks that’s partially where you got your attitude from, or at least where you learned to argue. Uncle Tommy would beg to differ, though. He thinks you and his brother are the same fucking person. Joel can make all the excuses he wants, and it’ll never change the fact that everything he is - the good, bad, and the ugly - you are too. 

Joel reaches over your head for the CD case attached to the mirror above your seat and pulls out Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York. He puts it into the disc drive, humming along to ‘About a Girl’. You don’t remember it, but Joel used to play this album for you to get you to sleep, sometimes. He’d sing ‘Where Did You Sleep Last Night’ to you, too. Not very well, but neither of you gave a shit, because it was your special thing. Just for you and him, you and Dad.

“Are we almost home?”

“Do you see our house, baby?” 

“No.” 

Joel gives you a silent look in response, and you sigh dramatically. “I’m bored to fucking death,” you complain. 

Joel clicks his tongue. “To death, huh? S’a shame. Well, was nice knowin’ ya.” 

“Daaaad.”

“Oh, I know, I know, I know.” Joel leans over and pushes open the glove box, and rummages around for a pen and some paper. He finds a napkin instead. “Draw me somethin’ pretty,” he tells you. 

You take the napkin, and you can tell it’s many years old by the words ‘a note for your lunch’ that are written on them in faded ink. You chuckle and put that napkin back, and find a different, blank one instead. 

You can’t believe it’s still there after all these years. When you were in elementary school, you asked your dad to leave you a note in your lunch box because you liked that the other kids’ parents would write them sweet and loving notes. Notes like, you’re gonna do great on that test! I love you! 

And what did your dear old man, Joel, write? A note for your lunch. 

Joel would give anything to see the look on your face when you opened it, but in truth, he could perfectly picture it in his imagination when he was at work that day. Your cute little pout, inherited directly from him. When he picked you up from school later, you angrily handed it back to him. 

“What? S’what ya asked for, right? A note for your lunch?”

“I hate you.” 

“Uh huh,” he smirked.

You put your pen to your napkin before you’ve even got the faintest idea of what you want to draw, you just hope you’ll end up somewhere eventually. A squiggly circle here, a wobbly line there, all accidental mistakes. You groan in frustration, then put the napkin and pen back in the glove box. “I don’t wanna draw. It’s too bumpy.” 

Joel sighs deeply and puts his head against his left hand, his elbow resting on the driver’s side door. “You don’t wanna draw,” he starts, “Don’t wanna play games, either. Just wanna complain, huh?”

“Yep,” you answer, crossing your arms and resting your face against the glass window. 

“Then f’ya wanna complain, I’ll give ya somethin’ to complain about.”

You look over and see Joel switching his grip on the wheel. He uses his right hand to start to unbuckle his belt, his eyes darting from his crotch to the road ahead. “Gimme a hand here, kiddo. Shouldn’t be takin’ my eyes off the road.” Another one of his do as I say, not as I do moments.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. C’mon now, don’t make me ask twice.” 

You huff and puff and sigh as you unbuckle yourself to take care of Joel’s belt and jeans. You poor girl, all bored and antsy. Your generation’s gonna have a tough time figuring that one out, Joel thinks. Keeping yourself entertained without a screen in front of your face. Shoot. 

He’s getting hard as your soft, gentle hands undo the leather, patting over his bulge. Joel lets out a sigh when he feels you drag the zipper down, fingers tugging on fabric to free his cock. Joel sucks in his soft belly and pulls himself out for you, giving his length a couple of strokes with his fist before letting you take over. 

It’s difficult to keep his eyes on the road with you bent over his crotch the way you are, with one of your hands wrapped around the base of his cock and the other on his thigh. You begin with a couple of kisses pressed against his soft tip, moving your way down his veiny shaft. You are dad’s kind, sweet girl, through and fucking through. He keeps the fact that this is quite an excruciating tease to himself, because he likes your generous kisses, finds it cute that you do this. 

You circle his head with your tongue just twice, then take Joel into your mouth completely, gagging yourself in the process. You feel embarrassed as Joel pats your back, softly warning you, “Easy - woah - easy, baby girl. Not all once, honey, that’s how ya choke.” He chuckles after he says it.

It took Joel forever to stop cutting your grapes in half. 

He rests the back of his head against his chair as you try again, this time working your way down his shaft a little slower. You’re making a mess of both yourself and Joel, just like he tells you to. “With your hand, baby, just like I showed ya,” Joel reminds you. You move your hand in time with your bobbing head, and the quiet, pleasured groans Joel makes go straight to your core. “Doin’ so good, honey. Attagirl.” 

He grunts in surprise when you pull away suddenly, whining his name. Daaad. Joel pulls his eyes from the road momentarily to watch you pull one of his wiry, graying pubic hairs off of your tongue. He laughs, “Oh shit, I know. My bad, kiddo, I’ll trim first thing tomorrow.”

“You better,” you murmur, wiping your hand on his jeans. You bend back over and continue pleasuring him, and look at how quickly you find your rhythm, baby girl. It’s that steady, quiet, mindless repetition that calms you down, regulates your system. Joel tries to stress the importance of slowing down to you, of getting your mind off of stuff and things. It’s those quiet, repetitive activities that help you. Folding laundry, sorting buttons. And then, your oral fixation is satiated when you bob your head up and down on Dad’s cock, too, isn’t it? And it helps that much further, pacifies you in a sort of way. Funny how that works, huh?

Joel gives your back a couple of taps to signal his impending release. You pump your fist and massage the underside of his cock with your tongue, working him to his peak. Joel moans your name with all the love in the world as he cums all over your tongue, and you taste each rope of the very spend you’re made from, swallowing it all with a hum turned squeak when Joel tugs on your hair a little too hard. “Sorry, kiddo,” he apologizes quietly. Dad always did have a tendency of being rough with your hair when he would put it into pigtails or braids, but you were always a little tender headed, too, weren’t you? Christ, he misses doing those pigtails. The smell of green apple scented Suave’s detangling spray, those colorful hair ties he was always buying. Joel always wondered where they’d disappear to. 

You take a sip of your Coke, then lay your head on Joel’s lap with the back of your head resting against his soft tummy, all tuckered out, just like he wanted you to be. Dad pushes some hair out of your face and traces the curve of your ear, rubbing the cartilage between his fingertips.

Your father has such gentle, loving hands as he runs one of them down your body, tugging up on your shirt. He rubs the valley between your hip and your waist, where it dips just so, then runs his hand over the curve of your ass. He pats you in time with the beat of Nirvana playing over his tinny speakers, then lets his fingers travel lower. He traces that little diamond shape that frames your pussy so perfectly, and tugs your soft shorts and panties to the side, dipping just his middle finger into you. 

Joel can feel you clenching around his knuckle as he pumps it in and out of you, and he can hear that soft murmur of pleasure you let slip. “Yeah, that feels nice, huh, baby?” 

“S’nice,” you mumble in agreement, and Joel’s adding a second finger. Dad’s got you memorized by hand, and knows how to touch you to make you come undone for him like you’re meant to. A little wiggling, curling of his fingers and you’re gasping, dripping into your cotton panties. Joel pulls his fingers out and slides them up the warm, wet seam of your pussy, and he finds your clit swollen and throbbing. Poor kid, he thinks. That can’t feel good.

He rubs your clit in steady, expertly made circles to get you off. He’s not looking to make you cum especially hard or anything like that - just a soft, sweet orgasm to soothe you off to sleep for the rest of the ride. 

There are days when Dad does just that to you though, where he overstimulates you and fucks you so hard you sob. Sometimes he’ll shove his fingers down your throat to keep you from making too much noise, and he’ll feel a little guilty when you gag on them. Sorry, baby. Dad got ahead of himself. 

And then, there are days where you ride him until you’re out of breath and gasping for air, where Joel has to slow you down and force you to take a break. Time out and have a sip of water, kiddo. There’s no rush. Dad’s not going anywhere. 

Dad’s taught you the nuances of sex, and you’re lucky for that. To learn from someone who loves you and who’s so patient and experienced, similarly to when he taught you to drive. It doesn’t have to be all rough and grabbing hands, grabbing fistfuls of hair and flesh like you see in some TV and movies. Dad’s introduced you to the simple pleasure created between a body pressing against another body, the special warmth that comes from skin resting on skin, bones resting on bones, muscle twitching against muscle. Heavy breaths syncing as his arms wrap around your shoulders and waist, holding you close. Soft, gentle, never ending orgasms simply experienced for the sake of being experienced. 

Joel doesn’t change his pace at all when your clit starts to throb and pulse rapidly. “That’s it, honey. Cum for Daddy.” 

He works you through your orgasm, right until you’re whimpering, “S-stop, Dad, please. M’done, all done.”

“All done?” Joel asks, and you nod. He pulls his fingers from you and sucks them clean, then puts his hand on your back again. A little bit of rubbing, maybe some scratching, and you’re out like a light. Joel looks down at your sleeping face and notices a bit of his spend still on your lips. He licks his thumb, brings it to your mouth, then wipes it away. 

And wouldn’t you know it, your song is playing. Joel sings along to the lyrics, repeatedly rubbing your cheekbone with his fingers, looking down at you every so often, though he knows he shouldn’t. 

Sometimes, Joel will still instinctively look into his rearview mirror and angle it down, looking for your little legs kicking in your booster seat. Those days are long gone now, but the alternative isn’t so bad, is it? His sweet little girl asleep in his lap, drooling onto his jeans. The sun’s gone down, and there’s another two hours before he’ll be home with you. Joel holds his forearm protectively around your body. 

When those two hours pass, Joel pulls into his driveway, then shuts off the truck. He puts his keys into the pocket of his soft, worn shirt, and he’s gentle as ever when he lifts your head from his lap, doing this silly and awkward, careful maneuver as he opens the truck door and slides out of the vehicle. He leans over your body and grabs you in his strong arms, then carries you tightly against his chest. Joel closes the truck door shut by kicking it with his foot, then looks down at you. 

Your sleeping face, knocked the fuck out. Lips plump and pouting, drooling - there’s a nice stain of spit on his jeans, too. Not that Joel minds any. Lord knows he’s cleaned up worse from you. “Ohh,” he sighs quietly. “What’m I gonna do with ya, my girl?”

Drives in Joel’s truck always put you to sleep. Joel remembers when you were a baby, and fucking inconsolable. Colicky, you poor thing. All out of sorts. Nothing worked to soothe you - not a bottle, not a story, not being rocked or bounced or anything else. And Joel didn’t have the heart to just let you cry it out, either. He just couldn’t stomach listening to you cry like that, all alone and scared because your dad wasn’t there, and you needed him.

You kept Joel awake for days at a time, screaming your little head off. Joel was at his wits end with you, and he needed a break before he screamed his head off, too. So he buckled you into your little carseat and began driving to Uncle Tommy’s. Tommy owed him one, anyway. And you always had a thing for Tommy, too, which helped. You were sweet on him from day fucking one. He just had this special way with you, where he could soothe you and charm you out of your moods in a way Joel couldn’t always do. It made Joel jealous, if he’s being honest with himself. Still kind of does. 

On that particular drive, Joel had realized at a point that he could actually hear Nirvana playing on the radio, and not your agonized screams and cries. In however many minutes it was you’d gone out like a light, and it’s like everything clicked in that moment. Whenever you got too fussy to relax, he’d just drive with you, his sweet baby girl. Sometimes listening to music, sometimes not. Sometimes Uncle Tommy would come with and he and Joel would talk in whispers that lulled you off to sleep, paired with the dull roar of the truck’s engine.

Joel grunts when he carries you inside, muscles burning as he brings you up the stairs. “When’d you get so fuckin’ big, huh?” he murmurs, laying you down on his bed. He tells himself you probably would’ve ended up in his bed, anyway. Joel unties your shoes one at a time and slips them off, quietly placing them on the floor. And it wasn’t so long ago that your shoes had velcro straps and lit up when you ran, was it? Good fucking god.

Joel takes off your clothes, one article at a time. Socks and pants first, then panties. He gingerly slips your arms back through your sleeves and the collar of your shirt up and over your face, careful not to disturb your slumber. But of course…

“Dad,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“Shit, sweetheart. M’sorry,” Joel whispers, stroking the side of your head. “Didn’t mean to wake ya. Go back to sleep, darlin’. S’okay. You’re home.” 

You shake your head, wiping your eyes as you sit up. “Can’t sleep,” you argue tiredly.

Joel scoffs a laugh. “Oh bullshit, yes ya can. You’ve been knocked out for a while now,” he whispers, pulling off his own shirt. “Jus’ close your eyes, honey. Be right there to snuggle ya.”

“Mm-mm. Rock me, Daddy.” 

Oh, Joel knows what that means. When he looks at you, he’s met with pleading, tired, and big eyes, asking him oh-so-kindly to rock you. You’re a master manipulator with those eyes of yours, you know. It took Joel a long time to learn not to cave to your puppy eyes, and it took Uncle Tommy even longer. If you asked Joel, he’d tell you that you can still get Uncle Tommy with that look.

“Rock you, huh?” Joel’s cock jumps in his denim. “Reckon s’a little late for that, kiddo. ‘Specially for a weeknight.” 

“No, please,” you beg, reaching for your dad’s warm hand and putting it between your thighs. “I need you, Daddy.”

“Y’sure like to pull your ‘daddy’ card when you’re wantin’ somethin’ from me, huh?”  

Joel loves the way you can’t hide your grin from his accusation. He sighs, then bites the corner of his lip to keep himself from mirroring the same smile. It’s true what they say, about kids making you soft. “Yeah, alright. I’ll rock ya,” he concedes, already pushing down his jeans and boxers. He plops in the seat of his La-Z-Boy rocker recliner that’s been in the corner of his room since you were born, lazily pumping his own cock while patting his thigh. “C’mere.”

You groan as you stand up, pausing to yawn while stretching. “Ohh, you are not long for this world, daughter of mine,” Joel murmurs, eyeing you as you move closer to him. You straddle his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face into his neck, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of his skin. “Scoot, kiddo. C’mon, up,” Joel grunts, urging you to sit up before spitting into his palm. “Lazy ass.” You whine in disapproval but do it anyway, sighing when you feel the blunt head of Joel’s cock prodding at your folds. He passes his cock through your seam a couple of times, then lines up with your entrance.

“Careful, baby. Easy does it,” Joel grunts, easing you down his length, sighing at the feeling of being enveloped in your warm cunt, warm for him and him alone. Joel thrusts up a little to bottom out, soothing your cries with the kindest of kisses pressed against your lips. “There she is. Down here, darlin’. Right here.” 

Joel wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, close so that you’re chest to chest, skin to skin. He inhales deeply the scent of the top of your head and rubs your back, propelling the rocking chair with his feet on the ground. He notices goosebumps on your skin.

Rocking used to mean one thing, a long time ago. Joel soothing you to sleep, bonding with you. Your little self pressed against him, with a blanket over your shoulders and tucked under your feet as he read picture books to you. And it still kind of does mean that, in a way. It’s different now, of course, and it was always going to change. But it’s just as special. Maybe even more so, now.

Joel groans as you clench around his length. “Bedtime story,” you murmur against his skin. You’re holding onto him so tightly, warming your hands on his soft body. 

Dad chuckles. “What, am I supposed to read your textbook to ya or somethin’? We donated all your picture books to Goodwill forever ago.” 

“Just wanna hear a story, Daddy.” 

“Mhm.” You moan as Joel leans forward, reaching behind his head to grab a blanket draped over the recliner. He spreads it out, then wraps it around your shoulders. “Let’s see…”

Joel thinks for a moment, quietly rocking you on his cock. With one hand under your ass, he uses his arm’s strength to assist in moving you up and down on his cock, just gentle, easy thrusts. His cockhead rubs perfectly against your g-spot, like you were made perfectly for him. And really, weren’t you? Isn’t this exactly what he brought you into this world for?

One of these things, at least. 

“Alright. I know one,” Joel says. 

“Tell me,” you breathe. 

“I lost ya once,” Joel admits quietly. 

You hum in surprise, pulling away from Joel for a moment to look at him. “Really?”

Dad clutches you back against his chest, putting you right where he wants you. “Sure did,” he answers, pausing for a moment. “Felt so fuckin’ guilty, kid. I thought I failed ya.” 

Your heart pangs at that. “Daaad,” you whisper sadly.

“You couldn’t’ve been older’n four,” Joel begins. “I was tryin’ to get some work done with Uncle Tommy here in the house and ya wouldn’t leave us alone.” 

When you giggle at that, Joel groans softly. You clench around his cock when you laugh. 

“Yeah, laugh it up,” he continues in a soft voice. “Every other minute you wanted juice or a snack or you’d be sweet talkin’ Uncle Tommy into playin’ dolls with you,” Joel says. “You were drivin’ me fuckin nuts, girl.” Joel squeezes you tighter, then turns his head and kisses your forehead. “I sent ya outside in the backyard, which Uncle Tommy and I had just fenced in, mind ya. Because of you, if you’ll recall.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I never told ya?”

“Mm-mm.”

“I sent that fence up because of you, trouble. I’d be grillin’ us hot dogs or somethin’ for dinner and I’d have ya right by my side, drawin’ me pictures with chalk on the patio. Remember this?”

“Mhm,” you murmur.

“Do you remember haulin’ ass across the yard the minute I turned my back?”

You giggle, “No.”

“Mhm, well - so I’m grillin’ for us, right, and I’d turn my back and pshoo, you’d be gone at the neighbor’s house charmin’ that sweet old lady outta the cookies she made. Miss Rosie was her name, right?”

“Yeah, I remember her,” you say fondly. She passed away a few years ago. You and Joel had gone to her funeral.

Dad laughs at the memory. He remembers stomping across her lawn, “Get your little ass back here,” he’d scolded, and you looked like a deer in the headlights with chocolate all over your face. “Did you spoil your dinner?”

“No, Daddy.” 

Joel huffed in frustration as he bent down to pick you up, then held you on his hip. “Well,” he’d said, tickling your chin with his finger, “What do you say to Miss Rosie?”

“Thank you.” 

Joel rolled his eyes and apologized to her, but she didn’t mind your little impromptu visit. Joel maneuvered you so that you were sitting on his shoulders, your little fingers tugging at his hair, and he marched you right back home. 

“Anyway, you were buggin’ me an’ Uncle Tommy so I sent ya outside to make friends with a squirrel or somethin. And sure enough, you stayed busy out there,” Joel says. 

He continues, “An’ then I got nervous,” he explains. “‘Cause I couldn’t see ya, and it was quiet. And quiet usually meant you were troublemakin’, my sweet girl.” He continues, “So I went lookin’ for ya out there and you were fuckin’ gone, kiddo. Gone,” Joel enunciates. “Didn’t know if you’d snuck out through the fence somehow or if some fuckin’ pervert lured ya out with candy and snatched ya off the street. We called the cops an’ everything. Screaming your name, lookin’ for ya in the neighbors’ yards.” Joel sighs deeply before continuing. You squeeze him tight and kiss his neck, and he squeezes you back, almost like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re right here, safe in his arms, and everything’s okay. “I was a wreck talkin’ to the cops. Cryin’ and everything ‘cause I lost my baby.” 

Joel inhales deeply. “And then,” he says, “A cop came up to me and asked me what shoes you were wearin’, and I told him that you were wearing your pink Chucks. He told me to c’mere and I found ya in the fuckin’ egress window. Little shoes pokin’ out.”

“What?”

“The egress window, like the basement window,” Joel clarifies. “You’d lifted up the grate and sat down there, made friends with some toads. An’ then you fell asleep, you little shit.” Joel smiles at your giggle, the same sweet laugh you’ve always had. “Oh, you scared the bejesus outta me, baby girl. Think I started goin’ gray that fuckin’ day,” he whispers, then goes quiet as the story hangs in the air. “Anyway. That’s how I lost ya.”

“Father of the year, huh?” you tease quietly.

Joel rolls his eyes. “Uh huh.” He wants to tell you how sorry he is still, all these years later. But he thinks you know. “I love ya,” is all he says when he focuses on fucking you in the rocking chair he used to soothe you to sleep in, working himself and you closer and closer to the edge. You wriggle your hand between your bodies and touch your clit, and the way Joel fucks himself into you provides enough friction that you’ll be coming soon. He can hear it in the way you moan, or rather, the way you’ve stopped moaning. When you go quiet, he knows you’re close. He is too. 

It’s only one, two, three long and deep thrusts before you’re coming, whimpering, “Dad, Dad, Dad,” as Joel fucks you through it, finding his own orgasm. Fuck, coming with his baby girl. Is there anything in this world more precious and special than that?

You stay on Joel’s lap, dripping his spend. Just quietly coming down, held securely in Dad’s strong arms. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and drifting off to sleep. 

“Alright. Up, baby, up.” Joel pats your ass to rouse you. “I know you’re not sleepin’.” 

But only silence from you. 

“I can’t stay like this with ya, honey, my back’ll be all fucked up. C’mon, kiddo. Up.” 

You don’t budge. Joel sighs deeply, accepting his defeat. He’ll stay like this with you, his softening cock buried in your pussy, maybe just for a moment longer. Rocking you gently, whispering sweet nothings to you. He’s a fucking sucker for you, baby girl.

More dad!joel here and a playlist here!

Hi ♡ if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging and/or sending an ask, but reblogs are especially appreciated. I get people are hesitant to publicly engage with a fic as icky as this one but it goes a long way in breaking the stigma, because after all, it is just fiction. Strength in numbers and all of that :) It’s been a rough go for me lately. I love you, thank you for reading.

Aaaand cat tax. Say hi to Gizmo :)

[heartkaji]

currently thinking about dante sparda who’s a feminist, 6’3, built—and oh, did i mention feminist?

“say, dante, what’s your opinion on men’s rights ?”

“irrelevant.”

dante doesn’t miss the slight pause you make before continuing to stir your drink. he sits in the booth across from you, enzo munching on fries opposite him as he sneaks a sip of his sundae.

“yer joking !” enzo says between belches. “something wrong with ya kiddo ? what do you mean men’s rights are irrelevant ?!”

but dante isn’t listening. he’s more concerned about the gap between your lips & coffee cup, the way you tilt it slightly above your mouth so as to not stain the glass with your gloss. your lips tug into a pout when you find the rim stained in coke pink regardless. you pull out a napkin & wipe it with a frown. cute.

“well, as a six three, employed and financially stable male,” dante clears his throat, smug, “i can’t help but turn my focus to more important things. for example, the widening gap between men and women’s wages. and we can’t forget the rising prices of feminine hygiene products, of course.”

enzo wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. he doesn’t miss the way dante’s pupils seem to flit over to you every now and then. he clicks his tongue,

“kid, please, y’know she hasn’t even looked at ya, right?”

“she will.”

you continue to scroll through your phone.

but dante takes your silence as intrigue.

“anyways,” dante pauses as if searching for the words, “i just think it’s important to raise awareness—”

“yer raisin’ my freakin’ blood pressure.”

dante shoots him a glare. “i just think that, as a six foot four male, it’s my duty to raise awareness about the issues women face and the obvious gender bias in america’s modern day economy.”

“y’said six three before, kid—wait, what’s yer’ height gotta do with anything ?!”

as if on cue, your teaspoon clatters to the ground, and dante, ever the feminist, is quick to lean down to pick it up—rattling the table and spilling enzo’s fries in the process.

“hey! watch it—“

“your spoon, lady,”

you blink. dante’s taken his time to wipe the spoon clean & present it with a napkin. you hesitate a little before obliging with a murmur, “thanks..?”

“you’re welcome,” he says smoothly, relaxing into the booth seat. “no woman should ever have to bend over in a skirt. i mean—unless she wants to. then it’s her choice. her feminine power.”

“oh !”

enzo chokes on a fry. you stare at dante for a beat too long & he can’t tell if you’re confused or interested, but dante has an ego bigger than his head so he decides upon the latter.

“say, lady, don’t you agree that men should always pay on the first date ?”

you raise a brow. “the first ?”

dante waves his hands. “all, really. i only mention the first because i know some strong, independent women prefer to pay too. i respect that. i respect all women, really.”

“right. and is this your way of offering to pay for my food ?”

dante’s pupils shift to your table. only now does he realize you’ve ordered the most expensive french breakfast on the menu, as well as a drink too milky brown to cost the same as your average cappuccino. his wallet aches heavy in his pocket. “with pleasure ! lemme just get my wallet out…hope i didn’t leave it in the hellcat…”

“huh? wasn’t our uber a toyota?”

dante bares his teeth, ready to strangle enzo when you giggle—

“oh, gosh,” you sniffle, wiping tears, “that’s enough, you two are hilarious.”

clearing your throat, you raise your hand to reveal the diamond settled on your finger. “i’m sure you’re lovely and all, but i’m happily engaged.”

“that’s okay! i support women having multiple streams of happiness—ow !”

dante rubs at his shin as you continue. “that’s nice for you, but i’m fine with my fiancé.” you set some cash on the table and dust your skirt off, standing up to leave. “thank you for the laugh, though, gentlemen.”

you wave them goodbye and make your exit.

“God, i love women.”

“seek help,” enzo mutters, as he sneaks a sip from dante’s drink again.

© 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐊𝐀𝐉𝐈 ー do not edit, copy, translate or re-upload.

[rqnarok]

thinking about being old man!logan’s little housewife...

headcanons - cws/tags: sexual content, mdni! old man!logan. dom/sub undertones. age gap. both characters are of the age of consent. unprotected p in v. 18+ only.

logan’s all worn out. there is no justification made on depicting how done he is with the world. he lives his days in an accustomed routine - dread crawling on his scarred skin - digging the soil for his own grave. 

when he meets you, however, the horror, the panic, and the terror begin to fade away from his blurry orbs—replaced by the sight of your sugary sweet smile. you kept him calm by easing down his drinking and self-destruction. and he just can’t deny you, not when his dick gets so fucking hard when you’re around.

you can’t help it either. the need to fix someone seems very familiar in your generation—so sentimental and at the same time, pragmatic. never accepting ‘no’ for an answer, including when he tries to back you down by saying “ya’ don’t want me, kid. i’m an old dog.” as if sunlight to a plant, it only motivates you. leaving him flushed red and burrows knitted after you whispered filthy remarks to his ear. 

up to the point where he finally tears down his prejudices towards marriage and puts a shiny ring on your finger. 

he turns a blind eye to anyone glancing at him weirdly at how much older he looks compared to you, his salt-and-pepper beard not helping either. when charles notices the changes in him—how he seems to smile more and how hickeys sprawled up on his neck—he just can’t help but make snarky comments about it. logan’s too old for you (or so charles told him), and logan finds himself balking at that. 

“if she doesn’t want it, she would’ve left already.”

he’s right. if you didn’t want it, you would’ve left him. oh, but you stayed. and not only did you stay, but you also took care of him. letting you eat out the palm of his hands. 

greeting logan when he comes back from his blue-collar work, cooking and baking his favorite foods, ironing his work clothes and spraying the fabric with a lovely scent, kissing his bloodied knuckles, putting the prettiest outfit for him as a show, warming his cock when he sits lazily on the couch, nuzzling his thighs while you wait for him to get harden again, and letting him have you anywhere and anytime he wants.

logan keeps a polaroid of you while he’s away. a reminder to himself that he has a home now. he’d keep it in his wallet or his jacket pocket or hanging it on the car’s rear-view mirror. how empty was he to be so full of you now?

he never thought he would live a life like this—like how it is supposed to be. without you knowing, logan added one or two hours into his shift so that he could earn more extra pennies. the money he’ll use to pamper you, to make you feel comfortable and content. let you buy anything you want—all things on your shopping list are checked out by the end of the week.

and y’know, he’s an old man who’s not as strong as he used to be. so you pay for all this hard work by burying your face in logan’s neck as you ride him on the sofa. his head tilts slightly to catch your red-kissed lips with his - logan breathes something about how good you’re making him feel, “such a good little wife f’r your old man.”

he loves to tease you—telling you that you’re making him feel younger than ever when he’s with you, “gettin’ tired already, baby? need me t’do it for ya’?” his murmurs get to you as his large palms cup your ass, getting a handful of the plush skin before guiding you up and down his girth. 

logan knows how tired you can be, especially when you start whining desperately like this, so he gives one or two light smacks for encouragement, “there ya’ go, kiddo. fuck. don’t stop now. doin’ so well, baby. so good.” 

how you always ask for kisses from him ignites that taboo, perverted part of him he did not even know existed. anything that reminds him of how needy you are for him — feels so fucking wrong. but again, it gets his dick so fucking hard, too. he cannot help but to give in. 

“bet no one has ever fucked this pretty pussy like i have, huh? need a real man to do it.”

he’s so fucking smug of himself since he had you. knowing those boys your age wishes that you choose them instead. but he’ll know that would never happen because when he says something like “look acha, drooling over an old man like me. gonna let me fill ya’ up, hm?” your walls manage to grip his girth tighter - squeezing him in so deliciously logan wonders what kind of a heroism act he did to deserve you. 

makes you do a little ‘fashion show’ for him in the living room, parading yourself wearing all kinds of clothes that he bought. logan spreads his muscular thighs wide as he reads the newspaper—and the sight of him wearing his glasses that rest at the tip of his nose is holy to you, waiting to be worshipped. 

you’d come out with a white lingerie that barely covers anything, “do you like it, lo?” whilst you giggle and twirl in front of him, you almost miss how he adjusted his seating position to palm himself through his trousers. telling you, “c’mere here, baby. lemme take good look at’cha, gimme some sugar.” 

by ‘taking a look’ he means hiking up the sheer cloth to inspect your glistening mound, “hm. such a perfect pussy you got here, sweet’art.” probing his thick finger on the wet slick, humming at the dirty squelching sound. the look that he has makes your legs tremble  - his untrimmed greying beard - his vague-looking face scars. 

oh, coming home to you is the best part of his day. always. he’d see you heating the soup you made earlier and loses his fucking mind. turning off the stove in quick movements before hauling you up in his arms. 

skin meets skin slapping fills the room and praises come out of his mouth so naturally, “f-fuck. gon’ stuff ya’ up, darlin'." you’re vulnerable and bare, you can’t even think when he’s got you like this. 

logan would intertwine his fingers with yours. placing them side by side to see the wedding rings. a legitimate reminder that you’re his and he’s yours—forever. 

“good little wife. my good little wife.” 

[thechaoticcherub]

More Than Air

Pairing: Dad!Joel x female reader

Summary: The power is cut in your apartment in the Boston QZ, your dad, Joel wants to keep you warm and teach you a few things.

Warnings: 18+, Incest, DDDNE(dead dove do not eat), Legal age gap, Dubcon, daddy kink(?), Virgin!reader, Joel is REALLY icky, innocence kink, male masturbation, fingering, bordering on size kink, emotions, lots of feelings, pet names, reader is not described besides having boobs, hair and a vagina, no use of y/n.

notes: OOF. Okay I'm diving head first into this. This is an icky, gross, incest fic and I'm not sorry. I'm going to get hate for it but eh, I write whats fun and idc if it disturbs people...when it comes down to it, you have to take responsibility for what you consume. if this isn't for you, move along and thats fine. Don't come whining to me about how you hate it. anyway! I hope that if this is your jam, you enjoy! Also: obviously, I do not condone this in reality. Fiction is fiction and doesn't hurt anyone.

Also I'm going to thank my friend @strang3lov3 for being my dad!joel buddy and giving me the guts to keep writing him.

Word Count: 5k

The first time Dad actually crossed a line with you was a year into living in the Boston QZ. You had never known you could feel such a strange mix of emotions; anger, disgust, excitement and a deep, abiding admiration and love for the man who had been your maker and savior. Joel had been finding himself deeper and deeper into the smuggling world here in Boston but you only knew this because of what you had picked up from others, and what you overheard. Joel closed you out of that part of his life, which was his whole life, and only told you what was absolutely necessary. 

Before the night where everything changed, shifting into a different and more confusing plane of existence, there had been little moments that sent shivers cascading through your body. His eyes lingering on your body when you scamper to your room from your shared bathroom after a chilly shower. Joel had noticed the way your shirts fit you, taking note that you really weren’t his little girl anymore,

“Aint ya got a a shirt that covers you more?” He asked while you sat at the table and ate your plain, gloopy oatmeal. 

“It’s the end of the world, Dad. My choices are pretty limited,” You responded. You watched his eyes slip down, noticing where your shirt gaped and showed off your cleavage. 

“Just…never realized what a woman you are now,” He commented, sipping his coffee as he unabashedly examined your chest. You tugged your shirt up, and pulled a face at the comment,

“Don’t say that, Dad, ’s’weird.” You said, but there was a small part of you, a part you didn’t like to look at too closely that liked that he had noticed. 

There had even been a time where  he came to wake you up one morning and waited around while you started to get changed. You had urged him to leave, 

“Dad, I’m changing!”

“I’ve seen it all before, kiddo.” He griped, leaning against the doorframe and watching you peel off the sweatshirt you slept in and turn away from him so all he could see was your back. You shifted uncomfortably, you had always been a little innocent, too trusting, gullible almost but this just felt wrong. But even in the wrongness of it you found a spark light up inside you that made you arch your back a little when you hooked your bra behind your back, knowing his eyes were on you.

“You don’t need to make sure I get dressed, I’m not a little kid.” You mumbled as he turned back to him, pulling your shirt on over your bra.

“Cut me some slack,” he said, “You’re always goin’ to be my little girl,” He smiled as you crossed your arms over your chest and stalked towards the door. Joel grabbed your waist as you passed him and squeezed, making you giggle. 

But before the night that FEDRA cut the power to your block of apartments it had never really crossed a line. He had never touched you or done anything of the sort. Maybe if it hadn’t been a cold winter night whatever tension that had been building in your father wouldn’t have snapped. Maybe if FEDRA hadn’t been needing to conserve energy you would still be the completely innocent girl you once were. Maybe it just came down to this being cordyceps fault, like everything else. Daddy would have just been a word you had called Joel growing up, sex would have been something you learned from a college boy, fumbling in a dorm, not from the broken man you called father. 

No use dwelling in what ifs. It was the what ifs that would kill you if you let them in this infected and decaying world. 

There hadn’t been a complete blackout since summer and it was an especially cold winter night so it didn’t take long for the whole apartment to chill when the power went out. But it wasn’t until around 2 AM when the cold in your room became unbearable. You were shivering under the weight of two quilts when your door opened,

“Dad?” You asked, turning your head to look at the broad shape of your father in the darkened doorway. 

“It’s too cold to sleep alone, babygirl, scoot over.” He said. You immediately felt uncomfortable at the idea of sharing a bed with your father. You never would have thought twice about it in the before times but things had felt so different, so shadowy, and strange now. You moved over to accept Joel into the space next to you. 

“Why did they do this now?” You whined, as Joel lifted the quilts, causing cold air to rush in. He slid his big body into the space next to you. 

“I dunno, darlin’ to torture us but I’m sure they’d give some bullshit explanation like conserving energy,” He griped, settling down close to you. You had a double bed which was plenty big for you but now with Joel it felt tiny and his body felt inescapable. You swallowed back your anxiety and reminded yourself that this was your dad, the man who had raised you and protected you, saved your life on many occasions. There was no real reason to be scared of his touch. 

You started to relax and even as you did, you wondered if you were so tense because of him or because of you. You were lying on your back, looking up at the ceiling, cursing your own feelings as Joel jostled in the bed more,

“Make some more room, hon, you ain’t that big you don’t need to hog.” He said. You grumbled and rolled over onto your side, facing away from him. 

“It’s fuckin’ freezin,” he added, tugging the quilts up higher. You felt him turn so he was curled towards you, scooting closer, you could feel his front pressed into your back. He was warm, delightfully so, you couldn’t help but tuck yourself close to him. “Atta girl,” he breathed, reaching up and brushing your hair back away from your face so he could see you a little better. You hummed out a soft noise as you finally felt comfortable in the bed, his warmth mixing with yours to make it decently pleasant under the covers. “You jus’ go to sleep while your old man tries to finally warm up,” Joel half laughed. You smiled and let your eyes drift closed. 

Waking up, you thought it must have been close to morning but as you opened your eyes finally you realized it was just as dark as before and the apartment was quiet. Your dad was behind you still, his hand had made its way to your belly, his big fingers stretched out,  thumb just under your breast bone, pinky reaching down towards your belly button. He had you in a possessive grip, fingers digging into your flesh. As you struggled out of your hazy sleep state you could feel rapid motion behind you. 

Your whole body stiffened and Joel’s grip tightened on you, you knew what he was doing behind you, you could feel the jeans he had laid down to go to sleep in were unbuckled, the hand not on your tummy was tucked into his pants and he was touching himself. And now he was aware that you were awake,  you started to try and move away from him, wanting to get out from under the blankets despite how cold it was outside. Joel’s hand tightened on your stomach and he pulled you back towards him,

“Don’t you go anywhere, sweetheart. It’s too cold out there,” He breathed, as if he wasn’t touching his dick right behind you, as if he wasn’t your father masturbating while holding onto you. Your brow knit in confusion but at the same time, your body warmed even further. There was heat in your cheeks that was mirrored in your belly, the low down part of your belly and even lower than that, the part of your body that had rarely been explored and had been left abandoned due to the apocalypse. 

“Dad!’” You gasped out as he held you back. 

“I’m sorry, babygirl,” He said, and his voice sounded truly regretful. “Just let Daddy do this,” He said, he tugged you back and you felt your butt pressed into his crotch. You were jostled by his hand moving inside his pants. You let out a nervous whimper,

“Dad, this…this is weird-“ You tried to swallow back the feeling of strange need you had, the need to experimentally push your hips back and feel him more. 

“I know it feels funny, I’m sorry.” Joel breathed into your ear, his hand speeding up. “But I’m just…just lovin’ on you, peanut,” He spoke. You twisted yourself so you were laying on your back again, staring up at the ceiling. Your heart hammered in your chest and you couldn’t parse out what was disgust and what was excitement rising up inside of you. Your lower lip trembled, it was overwhelming to feel so many things all at once. Joel must have noticed your glassy eyes,  and your trembling lip because a calm came over his body and he tugged his hand from his pants.

“Babygirl,” he reached up and took your chin in his fingers, “Don’t cry, I’m sorry.” While he still sounded truly remorseful for his violation, it didn’t seem like it was the end. You wanted to be upset that you could tell more was going to happen but you couldn’t help but notice relief wash through you. You wanted more and that thought horrified you. 

 “I’m sorry, but you do have to learn this stuff sometime…and who better to teach ya than your old man?” He leaned over you and pressed a delicate kiss to your cheek. You had felt him kiss you so many times, your lips when you were a very little girl, your cheek, the top of your head, and forehead as your grew up but this felt so different. Like a lover places kisses against the skin of their paramore, not the way a father loves his daughter. It both made you cringe and tingled, adding to the warmth in your belly.

“Daddy,” You said, your voice came out sounding weak and whiny, not like the voice you typically used, even with him. You hadn’t called him ‘daddy’ since you were small, and now you were grown up and the childish word sounded horribly sexual in your mouth.  You were unsure of your every move, you questioned all of your feelings but Joel seemed so sure of himself, even as he apologized, as if he knew this was bad behavior but it had to happen. Joel reached under the blankets to the hem of your shirt and started to tug it up, you instinctively put your hand on his to stop him,

“Shh, peanut.” He said, “I’m just goin’ to take a quick look. I know it can be scary, but you’re my brave girl, aint ya?” You watched him smile encouragingly. He was so handsome and it warmed you through so you loosend your grip on his hand. Joel pulled the shirt up to expose your naked breasts to him, the air in the bedroom was frigid so goosebumps erupted on your chest, puckering the skin around your nipples and making them harden. You shivered and whimpered. Joel scooted closer to you, “Lets just get this off of you,” Joel murmured, barely speaking to you, just mumbling the words to himself as he pulled the shirt off of your head. 

“There’s my girl,” He said. “Ya know, I ain’t seen your whole body since you grew up, darlin’” His fingers dragged down your chest and excitement and heat bubbled up and then the shame squashed it a little. Disgusting. Terrible. Naughty but needed. Joel looked down at you, you could barely meet his eyes, but he didn’t seem to mind, he was examining your chest. “Didn’t realize just how beautiful the girl I made was,” his fingers traced over one of your nipples, circling the hardened point. You shuddered at the feeling and he smiled at your reaction. 

“Dad,” You said, your voice trembled over the word. “This feels-“ He cut you off by pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I know, I’m sorry,” He said, “Daddy’s jus’ got to give you a little lovin’ so you understand,” he said. You wanted to tell him that you did understand, that you didn’t need to understand anymore but your body was betraying you because his fingers did feel good and the heat in your tummy was building. “Plus it’s still so cold, and if we get undressed we’ll get warmer,” he convinced. Undressed? More undressed than this? Did he mean he wanted to be naked too? The thought of your dad, in your small bed, pressed so close to you made you feel so many emotions you couldn’t focus on one in particular.

Joel’s pants were already undone, it was easy for him to slip them off and you watched, unable to stop him as he did so, lifting his hips to get them down his legs and then kicking them off. You could feel the heat of his lower body now and you knew there was the heavy presence of his cock right next to you, almost pressed into your pajama clad hip. 

Joel was lying on his side, his eyes roaming over your bare chest, he moved closer and closer to you until he was wedged against your side. Your dad’s dick was pressed into your side but you hadn’t looked. You hadn’t turned your head towards him. You couldn’t, you felt like if you looked at him, this would all be real and you would have to actually face it.

It was getting warmer and warmer under the covers and you wished so badly you didn’t love the feeling as much as you did. Joel reached out and his big hand cupped one of your tits, “Fuck,” Joel breathed as his fingers dug into your flesh, dimpling the skin under his fingers. “Let’s get your pajama pants off of you, babygirl.” Joel rolled over so he was on top of you, he pushed your legs open enough to accommodate his body between them. You whined and closed your eyes, it felt too wrong to look up into the face of your dad while he was just in his dirty flannel shirt, his cock out, so you found every excuse to keep your eyes away. 

“Look at me, peanut. Look at your Daddy,” He told you. Your heart skipped a beat, making you squirm in pleasure and embarrassment. Reluctantly, you opened your eyes to gaze up at him, his eyes were wild, his hair was a mess and you knew if you dropped your eyes you’d see his cock hard and angry with need. Joel seemed like a man possessed. Possessed with a need for you, his daughter, his sweet little girl. In the darkest corners of your mind, you loved that. You loved you could make him look like that. 

“Lift your hips up,” He instructed. You pressed your hips up and felt his fingers dig into the side of your pajama pants and underwear, he gave them a tug, pulling them off of you. The cold air hit your body and you shivered. “I know it’s cold,” Joel whispered. “We’ll warm up together,” Joel told you. Your brow knit,

“Daddy,” you whined, squirming underneath him and closing your legs. “This is embarrassing,” You mumbled. 

“No,” Joel said, his voice turning stern. “Don’t be embarrassed of your pretty body, Daddy’s going to appreciate every inch of ya,” He took your knees and pushed them open more, eyes glued to your pussy. You squirmed at the feeling of his gaze on your most intimate part and you looked up at him, trying to convince yourself that this was so wrong, that you needed to push him away and say no but you didn’t want to. You wanted to feel him. The desire for him was too strong. He was familiar, strong, everything a man should be and you wanted him. No matter how much you wished you could fight it off, no matter how much you felt disgusted by him, by your own needs, you wanted to explore his body. 

“You ever had an orgasm, babygirl?” he asked, his fingers dragged from your knee down your thigh towards your bare pussy. You were taken aback by the question, orgasms weren’t something you thought about anymore. You felt a little anger that he felt like he could ask that question, but you were naked and splayed out in front of him, of course he felt like he could ask. You didn’t say anything, “C’mon, peanut. You can tell Daddy the truth, I won’t be mad.” He encouraged. 

“Yes, just by myself,” You told him, “Not for a long time though,” You tried to remember the last time you had felt like this, this rush of excitement, wetness building in your core and heat burning through you.

“Poor girl,” Joel rubbed over your hip and stroked the backs of his fingers down your pubic bone, feeling the hair there, stroking over it. Your heart felt like it was going to stop at any second. Like it would beat so hard that it would just explode from the fear and longing that was working you up into what felt like a frenzy. “Daddy can help make you feel better,” he huffed as he scooted down a little to get a better angle to touch you. 

Joel’s fingers slipped over your slit and you realized how wet you had gotten from your own fucking father, everything felt like it was melting away from you. You felt like you were losing sight of reality, partially because it felt so good and partially because of how horrible it was that you liked this. 

Joel tsked under his breath as he gathered your wetness on his fingers, “God girl, you make a mess a’yourself like this often?” He asked with a chuckle. The sound of it eased some of the fear in you, it felt familiar to joke with him, even though his touch like this felt so completely unfamiliar. 

“N-no,” you managed. You shivered again in the cold air as his other hand joined the one  stroking your slit and gently started to spread your lips open. You instantly squirmed at the feeling and tried to close your knees. 

“Aw c’mon, peanut, your daddy wants to see what he’s doin’, it’ll feel good.” He coaxed your legs back open and you whined in a feeble protest,

“But Dad, it’s…I’m-“ 

“None of that bashfulness shit, you think I’ve never seen a pussy before?” He asked. You opened your mouth but he cut you off, “How the fuck do ya think you got here?” That shut you up instantly.  You let him spread your pussy lips open, his eyes focused on your wet cunt spread out in front of him. 

It was so cold in the room you were thankful that your feet were still tucked under the blanket but the rest of you was covered with goosebumps, even your pussy started to get the little bumps as you shivered, despite the heat inside your body. 

“That’s my good girl,” he purred as his fingers started to stroke up and down you spread pussy, not quite touching your clit but grazing around it. He knew exactly how to touch you, he knew exactly what you needed in each second. “How’s that, peanut?” He asked, looking at your face twisting in pleasure and then back down at your pussy that he was keeping spread open and softly stroking. 

“So…s-so good.” You squeaked out, pressing your hips up, wanting him to stroke your clit properly but knowing he was doing everything with the clear purpose of working you up. 

“That’s right,” Joel nodded, “Daddy’s got ya,” he said. “I knew you needed some lovin’” he breathed. The pad of his pointer finger grazed along your clit and it made you convulse, you felt so sensitive there, it had been so long since you had given it any attention. Joel chuckled, “That your special spot, right there?” he asked, teasing around it again. You whined, unable to form words as he teased your clit. He knew it was your clit, he could see that but him confirming that it was special wormed into your brain. He understood that was how you liked it, that your favorite, your special favorite, was having your clit gently played with. 

“Dad,” You moaned, you reached out to him, wanting to grab hold of any part of his body. You came in contact with his bare knee and you dug your fingers into it. 

“I know,” he said, “It feels good, don’t it?” he asked around a smile, you nodded and took a deep, shuddering breath. His fingers lovingly stroked around your clit, teasing you, bringing you closer and closer to a release you hadn’t felt in so long. You were so close, teetering there on the edge of bliss but then Joel pulled his fingers back, dropping his other hand too, leaving you desperate for more. 

“Daddy!” You whined out, you wondered if he was doing this on purpose, making you ask for an orgasm from your own father. You watched his familiar features turn to worry at the whine in your voice,

“What is it, honey?” He asked in mock concern, he knew how frustrated you were, how much you wanted to come and he was teasing you anyway. 

“I-I…I want more-“ you whined, pressing your hips up, it was harrowing to admit it outlaid. You watched Joel nod, the look of fake concern still plastered on his face. 

“I know you do,” he half laughed, breaking through the concern. “Daddy’s still got stuff to teach ya,” He stroked down the lips of your pussy again to your entrance. You stiffened again as you felt him starting to push his middle finger inside of you. “I know it’s tight, babygirl.” His dark eyes met yours and you tried to express everything you were feeling to him through just a look. Joel had always been able to know what was wrong with you at just a glance and he had always been there to take care of whatever the problem was. You wanted him to understand the uncertainty, the desperate need and the horror at your own desires. When your eyes met, he softened slightly at the sight  of the expression,“I’m sorry,” He said and you wondered how sorry he actually was. Was he sorry for teasing you? For making you need it? For all of it? “I just wanna be the one to teach my little girl all this,” he said, his voice was rough and earnest but his finger nudged again at your entrance. “It’ll probably hurt a little but I’ll go slow for ya,” he started to push his finger into you again. There was a little pain, but you were soaked and his finger slipped in fairly easily. Your cunt stretched to accommodate the thickness of your father’s finger and you longed for more at the same time as you wished you had the will to push him away. “I know, babygirl.” He said, trying to placate you. “C’mere, give me a kiss, it’ll make it feel better.” He leaned over you while his finger worked its way inside of you and pressed his lips to yours.  Your heart lept into your throat. The thrill of a kiss that was so utterly forbidden was too much. You were a revolting girl. Revolting for how much you liked it. You found yourself kissing him back while he worked you open with his finger. Joel pumped his finger in and out of you, your cunt tightened around him with each thrust. You moaned into his mouth, lips parting enough for his tongue to press inside of your mouth, teasing your tongue.

“Dad,” You said as he pulled back, “Dad, it feels so good,” You said it like you couldn’t believe it, like if you didn’t get more you might go completely insane. Joel stroked your cheek with his free hand, 

“I know, I’m goin’ to make you come around my fingers.” He assured you. You nodded, looking down between your bodies, his cock was hard between his legs, neglected while he paid attention to you. You had never seen a cock in real life before, your mouth hung open as you looked at it. At the same time, Joel’s thumb nudged against your clit, sending a spasm of pleasure through you. 

“Daddy,” You gasped, Joel noticed your gaze on him and he chuckled. 

“You see Daddy’s cock?” he asked. You nodded, your mouth hanging open in awe at it. Joel let his free hand drop to his cock and started to stroke it, showing it off to you. His cock was so big, imagining it inside of you made you squirm against his finger. Joel kept pumping his finger in and out of you, curling it up to stroke you from the inside while his thumb stroked over your clit in tantalizing circles. It was overwhelmingly good and now you couldn’t take your eyes off the mesmerizing sight of your father stroking his cock up and down, lavishing attention around the dusky head. Joel laughed again and your eyes snapped up to his face,

“You want your daddy’s cock, dont ya?” he asked. You squirmed, you couldn’t admit it, that was a horrible, disgusting thing to want but you couldn’t deny your body’s reaction. “Awww,” he laughed, “I can feel how bad you want it, peanut. You’re clenchin’ down on my finger- oh are you goin’ to come?” Joel was surprised by the way your face twisted, the way your whole body tightened. “C’mon, tell Daddy,” He growled. You nodded, unable to form words anymore as his finger filled you up repeatedly and his thumb teased your clit. “That’s my good girl, daddy’s got ya,” he breathed. The tension inside of you snapped, like spring finally releasing and you came around his fingers, gasping, the heat from your cunt seemed to spread up, enveloping you as you started to shake through your orgasm.

“Oh god, Daddy!” You moaned, watching now as Joel touched himself in earnest. “Daddy…daddy I wanna…” You started to babble almost incoherently, “I want your co-cock, Daddy, please give it to me—I…I need it.” You whined, not even fully realizing what you were saying. Tears pricked your eyes as you admitted your most shameful thoughts. Joel seemed to love the sound of you pleading with him, his hand tightened on his cock, pumping it up and down above you. He sat up on his knees and you desperately reached out for his cock, but your needy fingers were met with his hand closing around your wrist. 

“No, no, no, little girl.” He said. “Not yet. Your little pussy isn’t ready for Daddy’s big cock yet,” he explained. You let out an angry whine and wanted to hide away from him, to reel back from him in frustration. As if reading your mind, he reached out and grabbed your hip, “Nuh-uh, stay right there. I want somethin’ to come on,” He growled. Your lower lip trembled, you felt so disgusted with yourself and still so needy that sob built in your chest. It was threatening to burst out, but you didn’t want to ruin it for him. Tears spilled out of your eyes as Joel continued to work his hand up and down his cock. 

“Aw poor girl, I know Daddy’s bein’ mean,” he fucked into his own fist, teasing you with the visual of his cock gliding in and out of his hand faster and fast.  You watched Joel’s facial expression change, tiny micro-expressions of pain, lust, desperation, anger and intense desire flitted over his features, or maybe it was just feral need. Determination to find his orgasm, but the words he choked out next made you sure there had been moments of real pain in his expression,

“I’m s-sorry,” He actually sounded sorry, sorry for so much. Sorry for the world that you were living in, sorry that his pain and suffering had turned into darkness that had nursed a need for you, his daughter. His heart, soul, flesh and blood.  Sorry that he had decided it was time to act on it. Sorry that you enjoyed every depraved fucking second. “You goin’…goin’ to look so pretty with my come painted on your tummy,” he groaned and watched him squeeze around the head of his cock and direct it down as thick ropes of his spend spilled out over your tummy and pubic bone. You let out a sob as he groaned through his pleasure. “Fuck,” he breathed as you cried. “I’m so sorry, babygirl. Let Daddy hold ya,” he said even as he came down from his own high. 

“Aw, peanut, you’re freezing,” He said as he wrapped his arms around you and gathered you up. He kissed the side of your head, “Daddy’s sorry, so sorry. Felt so good.” He shuddered and tugged the quilts up around the two of you. You took a deep breath of his familiar, comforting smell and allowed yourself to relax against him, he squeezed you tighter as he felt you relax. 

“Do you love me, dad?” You asked, unsure of why you needed the reassurance more than anything now but you asked and waited for his answer. 

“More than air, peanut.” He breathed. 

“I love you too,” You said even as your naked body warmed against your father’s under the quilt and his come dried on your skin. 

[tojisteddy]

how would Simon react if you safeworded out?

would he be gruff but still sweet and soft and apologetic? would he fuss over you or play it cool while taking care of you? (“oh, lovey im so sorry…” or “its alright, thank you for telling me, i wont push you so far next time, kiddo…”)

why would blackcat!reader safeword out? stress? just not feeling it? maybe emotional?

I think there are two things in this world that Simon Riley is (and always will be) very serious about and that’s aftercare and your safety.

Like yeah he’s an asshole and gruff guy but when it comes to you, he really is a big softie at heart. So when he tells you off when you get back after not texting him back all night or gently making sure you walk on the inside of the street when your with him, it’s for good reason, he’s showing he cares. He loves you to pieces. Will do any and everything for you. So if he’s pushed too far, he makes mental note of it. And if he wants to push that far again, he’ll end up doing a check. Making sure you know your safeword, or right before he knows you’ll ‘give’ he’ll tap you out himself.

So when he hears you say the safeword, he doesn’t hesitate. He knows the first thing you need is comfort and reassurance. So he pulls out, and holds you in his big arms. Kisses you all over while you cry, getting you to calm down and listen to his words because he means them, truly.

“Simon was too mean, yeah? I Shouldn’t ‘ve pushed you like that, doll.”

“Dad’s sorry kitty, you were perfect, did everything I said so well. Always so good f’me.”

And if you refute his words, too in your own head, he’ll hold you just a little tighter. So you can hear his heartbeat, rocking you in his arms,

“You’ll never be the one at fault baby, ‘ts on me. My job to watch over you, right kiddo? Thanks for tellin me Princess, love you so much.”

Blackcat!reader would safeword out from stress or better yet, Simon just instinctively knows you’re off. Sad to say but I think blackcat!reader has been through a shit ton and can be pushed (and has found comfort in Simon pushing you to the limit). You’re the type to hold shit in like a tower until someone knocks it all over. let’s say a day where the cards just were not in your favor. It was terrible day at work and both of your dogs were acting up when you got home and you yelled at Simon, like really yelled at him (which is something neither of you do). Simon would be 10 spanks to thirty and either you grip at shirt and tell him you ‘give’ already sniffling or he notices you’re not crying. You’re just trembling, taking everything he’s giving you. And Simon will sit up you, ask you what’s wrong and then the dam in your eyes just breaks.

Choking on your own sobs,

“Pa I- I-“ boo-hoo, snot everywhere, clutching onto him, balling your eyes out till their puffy.

Simon doesn’t hesitate to pick you up, he lets out a soft sigh in his head because he hates to see you like this. And he hated that he always has to be the one to push you to cry (of all people). But he’s working on it, working on getting you to communicate and doing so makes him want to get better at communicating for himself too. He wants to be his best for you.

He coos, “Let’s give the princess a bath, hm kitten? Gonna get ya nice ‘nd clean ‘nd then get you in bed with that little Sanrio rabbit. Then we can talk tomorrow.”

You nod, taking a shaky breath followed by a hiccup. You manage to squeak out a ‘sorry’ halfway through the bath, and that’s when Simon gets playful, he boop your nose or tickles right under your chin making you squirm.

“What’s there to apologize for? Used your safeword like the big girl I know you are. Couldn’t be more proud ‘f you honey.”

He’ll nibble at your jaw and rest his head atop of yours while he rubs your back after getting you in bed.

“Just a bad day gorgeous, you’re not bad. Tomorrow’ll be better.”

a/n: I think crybaby, feenin & a little comfort are like prime examples too. Thank you so much for asking anon!!! I fuckin love with ppl ask questions!!

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱<3: @bruisedfig @tessakate @sevikasblackgf @mocha-the-muse @nightfwn @mims900

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“Stormy night” pt.2: Late night calls

Pre Outbreak!Joel Miller x babysitter!Reader

part two of STORMY NIGHT but can be read as a stand alone

part 1 here | Joel’s Masterlist here

Summary: Joel’s mind is full of doubts after you two slept together for the first time, but you remind him of how much you want him in a heated phone call.

WC: 3.3k

Tags/Warnings: smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, age gap, phone sex, masturbation, joel feels insecure about his age, reader babysits sarah.

You’ve continued your life with normality, babysitting Sarah like you’ve been doing for the last six months.

Joel hadn’t touched you since that night a week ago in his kitchen. He hadn’t talked about it either. You didn’t insist. You wouldn’t even know what to say.

The silence screamed every time you looked at each other too long. It sat between you like a ghost, whispering reminders of the way his body had crushed yours into the counter, the way you’d gasped his name like a prayer.

But things had shifted—subtle, unmistakable. The air between you buzzed differently now, thick with something unspoken and restless. The way his eyes lingered on you when he came home and found you curled up on the couch. Like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he was fighting the urge to touch. The way his fingers brushed yours a little too long when he handed over your pay. That fleeting contact burned like a brand.

He was more talkative too. He’d open up more often than before, telling you about his day—grumbling about busted tools, long hours, or the price of gas. His voice would soften when he talked to you, his words less guarded, like he forgot to keep the walls up. Sometimes, he’d even eat dinner with you before you left.

But he still hadn’t touched you. And it was killing you.

Because you remembered. Every second. The feel of his rough hands trailing over your skin, claiming every inch of you. The way his palms had held you like something precious, like he didn’t want to let go. The way he moved inside you, how his body fit against yours like you were made for him.

You still heard your own moans echoing in your head when you closed your eyes. Still felt the ghost of his weight pinning you to the kitchen counter, still ached from the way he took his time. You tried to recreate it, night after night, fingers buried deep between your legs—but it never came close.

It wasn’t Joel.

One evening, you were with Sarah, both of you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, working on her science fair project—a little volcano that had already claimed half the carpet with glitter glue.

You first heard the rumble of the truck engine, then headlights sweeping across the living room wall.

Moments later, the front door clicked open and Joel stepped inside. He looked wrecked. Hair tousled. Shirt clinging to the sweat on his chest. Dust streaked across his jeans.

But his eyes—those warm, grey eyes—they looked like he’d barely slept, but yet they landed on you, and they didn’t leave. Heat coiled in your belly, sharp and familiar

“Dad!” Sarah shouted, springing up to wrap her arms around him. “Look at the volcano we’re making!”

Joel smiled, tired but real. “Goddamn, that looks amazin’, sunshine,” he said, voice full of that proud dad tone.

Sarah beamed, pulling him down to show him all the little details, explaining exactly how you two had made it and how the lava would erupt.

You watched Joel watching her, and something twisted in your chest. He looked at her like she was his whole world. That softness—the gentleness in his voice, the way he crouched next to her with such care—it made your heart ache.

Eventually, a little yawn slipped out of Sarah.

“Alright, kiddo. Time for bed,” Joel said, playfully squeezing her arm before leaning in to kiss the top of her head.

For once, Sarah didn’t protest. Didn’t beg for another episode of her favorite show. She just mumbled a sleepy “Goodnight, you two. Love ya,” and trudged upstairs.

“Sweet dreams, sunshine,” he called softly.

And then it was just the two of you.

The silence was immediate. Charged. Heavy with the words neither of you had dared speak.

“You alright?” Joel asked, voice low and rough.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with a slow, tired motion—like the weight of the world sat there. “I mean… well—” His words faltered, caught in something unspoken. “You been okay since… that night?”

There it was. The question hanging in the air, the elephant you both had danced around. He was addressing what had happened between you two.

You lifted your eyes to meet his—searching, honest. “Yeah. You?”

He swallowed hard. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I shoulda stopped. Shoulda been the adult.” He let out a humorless breath. “Hell, I am the adult.”

“I am an adult too, Joel,” you said quietly. “And you didn’t make me uncomfortable.” Your voice was steady, but your chest was tight with everything you wanted to say and couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna screw this up. You’re… you’re important. To Sarah. To me.”

The way he said it—quiet, unsure, like it hurt to speak—made your chest tighten. You wanted to take that weight from him, to make him believe he wasn’t doing anything wrong just by feeling.

Your heart pounded. It thudded so loud in your chest you wondered if he could hear it. “Who said anything about screwing things up? You’re not screwing up anything.”

Joel exhaled slowly, like he was trying to breathe out the tension in his chest. “I been sleepin’ on the couch every night. Can’t even look at my bed without seein’ you in it. Smellin’ you. Even after changin’ the damn sheets.”

“I don’t want you to pretend nothing happened,” you whispered. The words cracked as they left your lips. Your hands trembled slightly, clenched into fists in your lap.

“I’ve been tryin’ not to think about it,” he said. “But I can’t. I walk around half-hard every time you’re near. I don’t know how to act. Don’t know what to say.”

“Joel—”

“I don’t get it,” he muttered. “You’re young. Hot. You could have any guy you wanted. Why the hell would ya want me? I’m old. Rusty. Can’t even get through a day without my back crackin’ in three places. Probably forgot half the shit I used to know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, almost laughing. “Joel, we had a great time the other night, it was probably the best night of my life. You’re overthinking it. Don’t do that.”

“You don’t get it… I—” He shook his head, covering his face for a moment. His shoulders hunched forward like the weight of his doubts was too much to carry. “I need time to process this, yeah? Gimme time to think, I don’t wanna ruin it.”

You nodded softly. You weren’t going to push, there was no use in that. That would only make him retreat.

If he needed time, then you’d give it to him. Even if it hurt.

You grabbed your bag quietly, your fingers lingering on the strap a moment before you murmured a soft goodbye. Stepping out into the night, the cold air hit your skin like a shock—but it was a relief, somehow. You let the door click shut behind you and took a deep breath, knowing this was far from over.

Joel had been tossing and turning for forty minutes, nowhere near sleep.

Your conversation kept replaying in his mind on a torturous loop. Your voice, soft and sure, kept echoing in his ears—“You didn’t make me uncomfortable.” And it only made the ache in his chest deepen.

He cursed himself—quietly, sharply—for getting tangled in this whole mess.

Was it wrong? Maybe.

Sure, you were over a decade younger. But you were an adult. You wanted him, he’d never pushed you or forced you into anything. And It wasn’t like he was a pervert chasing every younger girl who walked by, it was only you that he liked.

And that terrified him.

What if this was just a phase for you? Just a fun, wild story to tell later, he pictured you laughing later with your friends telling them about— “That time I hooked up with the hot single dad I worked for.”

You were just a girl in her college years, trying to experiment, testing boundaries. Joel knew that world well—hell, he remembered exactly what it was like when he was your age: reckless, hungry for anything new, chasing moments that burned bright but didn’t last.

Joel wasn’t stupid. You’d get bored real soon, grow out of this. Move on and go for someone your age. Someone who didn’t wake up sore from bending the wrong way. Someone who didn’t carry the weight of a lifetime of mistakes.

Someone with a future who could provide something more than a mortgage and a busted back. Someone to have your own family with, not having to take care of someone else’s daughter. Not bound to a man still trying to figure out how to be enough—for himself, for Sarah… for you.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, curling into himself.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Joel’s name lit up your screen, and your breath caught in your throat.

You scrambled to grab it, heart thudding, fingers fumbling just a little like your body already knew it was him.

You answered quickly. “Hey. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry for callin’ so late,” Joel said, his voice low and scratchy. It was that deep, half-broken tone, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. Like he’d been lying in bed thinking about you just as hard as you’d been thinking about him.

You could hear the exhaustion in him. And something else. Something heavier. Something low and aching, wrapped in need.

“I just needed to hear your voice. That okay?”

“Of course,” you said softly. “It’s good to hear yours too.”

“What’re you doin’?”

“I’m in bed.” You said, shifting under the blanket instinctively, suddenly hyper-aware of the heat pooling between your thighs, the empty ache. The place between your legs throbbed sensitive and wanting.

You heard his breath hitch—just a subtle catch, but it made your skin prickle. Your nipples tightened beneath the fabric of your shirt. Your thighs pressed together on their own. One little sound from him and your whole body was already unraveling.

“Me too,” he whispered.

“I miss you,” you confessed. “So bad it hurts. I wish you were here. I wish your hands wer—”

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice breaking. “You know you’re killin’ me right now, right?”

You smiled, cheeks heating.

Your thighs pressed together under the covers, trying to soothe the throb you felt blooming low in your belly.

Silence stretched between you, humming with tension. The kind of silence that pulsed with need, with wanting, with everything you both weren’t saying but felt too deeply to ignore.

Then Joel’s voice came back, low and thick. Like honey and gravel, dragging across your nerves.

“You touchin’ yourself, babygirl?”

You swallowed, heart hammering.

“Not yet.” Your voice came out breathy, almost trembling with anticipation. Your fingers twitched, already itching to move.

Joel let out a low groan—the kind that made your toes curl. You could hear the frustration in it, the hunger.

“Can I hear ya? Please. Lemme listen.”

Your breath caught. “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he rasped, voice like silk.

Your whole body shivered at the praise. You slid your hand beneath your oversized T-shirt, the fabric brushing over your hardened nipples. Your skin felt electric, too hot.

You trailed your fingers slowly down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties until you found your slick folds. You were drenched. The heat between your legs was almost unbearable, your pussy aching, begging.

God, you were soaked. Swollen. Your body already reaching for something it knew only he could give.

“Tell me what you’re doin’,” Joel murmured. “Wanna picture it.”

“I’m… touching myself,” you whispered, lips parting as you circled your clit, just small circles around that bundle of nerves. A soft moan spilled from you, your hips already lifting slightly, chasing the sensation.

Joel’s breath hitched again. “You wet for me, baby?”

“So wet,” you gasped. “I’m dripping.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Wanna spread you open. Eat you out. Make you cum on my tongue.”

You whimpered, your fingers teasing just enough to build the pressure. Your hips rolled instinctively, chasing more. You imagined the scratch of his beard against your thighs, the heat of his mouth, the way he’d groan against you like he was starving.

“Joel,” you moaned. “I wish it was you…”

“I know, baby. Think bout my mouth on you,” he said, voice rough. “Think bout my cock inside you. Stretchin’ you out. Fillin’ that pretty pussy up.”

You sucked in a sharp breath and pushed two fingers inside your tight entrance, your walls clenching around the intrusion. It wasn’t enough. Not even close. You needed him. The weight of him. The stretch. The depth.

You let out a cry, hips arching off the mattress.

“That’s it, babygirl. Touch yourself f’me. Make yourself cum.”

“Joel…fuck,” you gasped. “My fingers… they’re not enough. I want your cock. It’s so big—I need it.”

You heard the faint rustle on the line, Joel groaning as he fumbled with his belt. You could picture it so clearly—legs spread wide, back against his sheets, his strong hand wrapped around himself, around his thick, throbbing cock, desperate and slick, stroking to the sound of your voice.

Then you heard the wet sound of him spitting on his hand.

“Shit—I’m gonna give it to you next time I see you. Gonna give you my cock. It’s all yours.” You could hear the rhythmic creamy sound on the background. Wet and steady. Fucking obscene. It made your walls flutter again, clenching around nothing.

You moaned, waves of pleasure crushing over you as you pumped your fingers, knuckles deep, in and out of you, fucking yourself harder, the slick sound of your fingers echoing in the quiet room, your breath coming in gasps.

“Put the phone closer, baby… lemme hear how you fuck yourself,” he said, voice thick with breath, gravel dragging at every word.

There was hunger in it. A rawness that made your toes curl. Like he was starving for every part of you—even just the sounds.

You obeyed, lips parted, breath catching as you shifted the phone lower. Your hand trembled slightly as you moved it, angling the speaker toward the slick heat between your thighs. The wet sounds of your fingers working through your folds filled the receiver—slow, messy, obscene.

You heard him groan on the other end. Sharp. Desperate.

“Wish I was there,” he muttered. His breath hitch, the sound of him losing control. “Wanna bury myself in that sweet little cunt. Fuck you slow. Make it last all night. Give you every fuckin’ inch.”

You moaned his name with a broken sob of pleasure, thighs trembling, back arched as your fingers fucked into your drenched heat.

“Joel…fuck—” your voice cracked, wrecked with want. “Nobody’s ever touched me like you… nobody’s ever fucked me like you do.”

His breath came through the line sharp and ragged, almost pained.

“I know, baby…” he groaned, voice thick with pride and hunger. “You were insatiable. Wasn’t enough to fuck you in the kitchen, was it? No— you wanted my cock when I took you to bed too, again and again.”

Your body jolted with the memory. The way he had fucked you over the counter, so hard you nearly screamed. And then the multiple rounds that followed after you two went to bed, allegedly to sleep.

He had picked you up, carried you to his bed like you weighed nothing, and then mounted you like a man starved. He hadn’t just fucked you. He owned you that night.

“I kept beggin’,” you breathed. “Told you I couldn’t take another round but I still opened my legs for you.”

Joel groaned like he was in pain. “God, I remember. You said you couldn’t, but your pussy was still so fuckin’ hungry. Grippin’ me tight, milkin’ every drop I gave you. You took it so well f’me.”

“You came inside me so many times,” you whispered. “It was leaking out of me all night.”

“Shit— I remember when you were lyin’ on your stomach, ass all red from how hard I’d fucked you. Still twitchin’. Could barely breathe. You kept beggin’ me not to stop.”

“Tell me what you’re doing now” you begged, breathless.

“Got my fist ‘round my cock,” he said, voice breaking a little on a breath. “Squeezin’ tight. Thumb right over the tip. It’s—fuck—it’s leakin’, baby. Been hard since I called.”

You whined at that, pressing your fingers deeper, hips arching up. The ache inside you swelling like it knew his voice could reach all the way in.

“Wish it was your mouth,” he groaned. “Wish I could fuck into that pretty throat, hear you gag on it like a good girl.”

He groaned again, louder this time. The rhythm of his stroking matched the slick, wet sounds coming from your end of the line.

“I’m close… Joel, I’m so close—” your voice broke as your muscles tensed, your body strung tight like a bow, curling your fingers just right to hit your g-spot.

“I’m right behind you, baby… cum with me. Wanna hear you lose it.”

You cried out, pleasure crashing through you like a wave.

Your thighs trembled violently, your back arched, and you clenched down hard around your fingers. You came with a broken sob, his name falling from your lips like a spell.

“Oh, fuck—Joel—fuck—”

“Jesus, baby… I’m comin’,” he hissed. “Fuck—fuck, that’s it—your voice—your fuckin’ moans—”

You heard him gasp, and then his breath hitched a ragged, broken sound as he came. Hard. There was a wet, rhythmic slap and a final low growl from deep in his chest as he spilled into his hand, breathing heavy, almost panting.

You could picture him now—spread out, chest rising, hand still loosely around his softening cock, skin flushed, hair damp at his temples, thick ropes of cum coating his stomach.

“That’s my girl… fuck, you sound so goddamn good when you cum,” he said, still breathless. “Shit… made a mess on the sheets.”

“Was it worth the mess?” you murmured, breathless.

Joel let out a lazy chuckle. “Darlin’… you have no idea how much it was worth it.”

“Don’t change the sheets,” you said between gasps, still catching your breath. “I want to see it tomorrow.”

He chuckled, deep and low. “You wanna see my dry cum on the sheets?”

“I want the proof of how bad you wanted me.”

“Jesus… you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispered, voice reverent.

“Just so you know, I’m not going anywhere, Joel. No matter how much you try to push me away.”

“Don’t say that shit unless you mean it,” he said, voice low, but vulnerable. “Not if this is just somethin’ you’re gonna grow out of.”

“I meant it, Joel,” you whispered. “I still mean it.”

“I just… I don’t get why. Why me? I’m not—”

“How can you not see it?” you said with a soft laugh, still glowing from the high. “Joel, the other night you made me cum so much I felt like I was gonna pass out. I’ve never been with a guy who could make me cum, and you do it just by talking to me. That’s how much I want you. How can you not understand?”

“I just worry… one day this won’t be enough. You’ll get bored once the thrill’s gone, that you’ll wake up and realize you should’ve been with someone younger. Someone who can give you a clean slate, not a man with a teenage daughter and a bad back.”

“I promise you, Joel, I’m not in this for the thrill,” you said gently. “You and Sarah… you both matter too much. I wouldn’t mess with that.”

Joel let out a shaky breath. “How can ya be so fuckin’ perfect and still want an old man like me?”

“Well, the old man has some serious skills.” You said, hearing his chuckle on the other side of the line.

“I just— Christ, I’m like fifteen years older than you. My back cracks every time I bend down to tie my boots. I make old man noises gettin’ outta bed. I got a mortgage, a busted knee, and a daughter who depends on me. I don’t exactly scream eligible bachelor, darlin’.”

“Joel, listen,” you tried to say.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered, quieter now. “You’re smart. Young. Fuckin’ gorgeous. You’ve got a future. Hell, I probably already lived through the best parts of mine.” He let out a bitter little huff. “What happens when you want marriage? Kids? I can’t start over again. I—I don’t know if I have that in me.”

“You’re not just some older guy to me. You’re Joel. The way you see me, the way you listen… that means more than anything else.”

He chuckled, shaky but real. “Damn, you’re good at this. Makin’ a man feel wanted when he’s been feelin’ invisible for so long.”

“Do you believe me then?” you asked. “That I want you? That I mean it?”

“I do,” he whispered, soft as a secret. “I wish I could be there right now,” he murmured. “Just to hold you. Just to—fuck—I don’t even know. Fall asleep next to you. Wake up with your leg thrown over me. Make you coffee in the mornin’.”

A beat passed. Then: “I know I’m older, baby. I know there’s things you’ll want one day that I probably can’t give. But I swear to God… if you let me keep you, I’ll try to do my best. I’ll damn well try.”

You smiled, curling into your pillow, heart full.

Your body still tingled, warm and sated, but it was his voice in your ear that soothed you. That made everything feel right.

Joel stayed on the line, breathing steady in your ear, until sleep took you both— the connection crackling softly, his breathing a steady comfort in your ear like a silent promise.

A/N: Thank you so much for all the support on the first part. It made me so happy to see how much you enjoyed it, I hope you liked this part as much🫶🏻🩷

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[sttoru]

dad toji x reader grocery shopping with baby megumi

ෆ tags. dad!toji x female reader. fluff. you’re gumi’s mother.

“look at your mama, kid.” toji grins as he lazily pushes your shopping cart forwards. you were walking a few steps ahead to grab some necessities, leaving the father-son duo behind, “she’s so damn beautiful, ain’t she?”

megumi was seated in the baby-seat, babbling and cooing just by hearing the familiar word ‘mama’ spill from toji’s lips. the simple mention of you gets your little son feeling all giddy on the inside, even if his limited vocabulary doesn’t allow him to fully grasp what his dad was saying.

at one point, you seem to have wandered a bit too far ahead. toji and megumi were three aisles behind you, which you didn’t even notice because you were too busy going through your grocery list.

“oh, no, what’re we gonna do?” toji playfully puts on a worried expression as he pokes his son’s chubby cheek, “we lost mama.” and as if on cue, megumi’s smile turns upside down. he couldn’t understand what his father was saying, though seeing that (fake) worried expression on his parent’s face was enough to make him burst out crying.

“hey, hey,” toji immediately tries to calm megumi down by ruffling his hair gently, “i was just jokin’, but eh— guess you don’t even know what that means, do ya?”

you immediately rush back to see what occured once you heard the familiar cries of your child and see your husband trying to soothe megumi. toji was now holding onto the baby, one hand on the back of megumi’s tiny head while the other was slowly patting his lower back in a soothing manner.

“what happened, love?” you ask worriedly as you walk over to the two. megumi seemed to have calmed down in his father’s embrace after a few moments. in fact, your son had completely forgotten his sadness the second you were visible to him again.

toji shrugs and scratches his cheek, “i was just jokin’ with the kiddo, but i guess he doesn’t like his daddy’s humor.”

you sigh and hold yourself back from giving toji an earful in the midst of the store once you realised what probably happened.

if the man’s not teasing you, he’s teasing his child. you don’t know how many times you’ve scolded your husband for making megumi cry on accident due to his jokes. it’s quite literally impossible to get him to understand that megumi is too young to pick up on social cues. it’s either that or toji simply acts like he doesn’t understand.

it was most likely the latter since you know that toji always loves getting reactions out of the people he teases;

“toji—” “yeah, yeah, i know. i won’t do it again, babe.”

oh, he most definitely will.

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ begin again

chapter summary: You and Logan learn how to raise a baby, and how to ask for help.

word count: 20.1k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this spans the first year of gabby's life! again, i did research about baby's milestones, etc. so it may not be completely accurate!

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, fluff, smut, unprotected piv, slight exhibitionism, slight pussy personification, creampie, baby (does that need to be a warning?)

series masterlist - chapter 15.0, chapter 15.5 → chapter 17

2 weeks

Gabby cried from her crib at the foot of the bed, her wails piercing through the early morning stillness. Logan was instantly awake, sitting up in bed with the kind of reflexes that had been honed over a lifetime of surviving danger. His eyes darted to the crib, then to you, still fast asleep, your face soft and peaceful for the first time in what felt like days.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck as he padded over to the crib. “Alright, kiddo,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff, though it softened as he reached down to lift her into his arms. “What’s got you all worked up, huh?”

Gabby squirmed against him, her tiny fists flailing, her cries escalating as he held her close. He gently rocked her, his large hand supporting her head with a care that seemed almost unnatural for someone so gruff. “Shh, I got ya,” he murmured, the words rumbling deep in his chest. “Don’t wake your mom, alright? She needs the rest.”

He glanced back at you, still out cold, your glasses resting on the nightstand next to an empty bottle of water and a half-finished parenting book. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. You’d been running yourself ragged during the day, tending to Gabby’s every need without a single complaint. The least he could do was handle the nights, even if Gabby seemed determined to test his limits.

Logan moved to the rocking chair by the window, easing himself into it with Gabby nestled against his chest. The rain tapped gently against the glass, and he began to sway back and forth, his rough voice humming a low, wordless tune. Gabby’s cries started to quiet, her tiny body relaxing as the motion soothed her.

“Feisty, just like your mom,” Logan said quietly, his lips quirking into a small smirk. “You get that stubborn streak from her, y’know. Always pushin’ herself too hard, even when she doesn’t need to.”

Gabby gurgled in response, her tiny fingers curling against his chest. Logan’s smirk softened into something closer to awe. “You’re lucky, kid. You’ve got the best mom in the world. She’s been fightin’ for you since before you even got here.”

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, his gaze drifting to the crib, then back to you. Memories flickered in his mind—moments from this life and the lives before it, all tangled together in the strange, unshakable bond he’d shared with you across time.

“You don’t know it yet,” Logan murmured, his voice barely audible over the rain, “but you’re part of somethin’ special, kid. Your mom, she’s somethin’ else. She’s been that way in every life. And this time…” He trailed off, his thumb brushing against Gabby’s cheek as she let out a tiny sigh. “This time, we’re doin’ it right.”

Gabby’s eyes fluttered shut, her breathing evening out as she finally fell back to sleep. Logan leaned his head back against the chair, exhaling a slow, steady breath. The tension in his shoulders eased as he watched her, the weight of the moment grounding him in a way few things ever had.

After a while, he rose carefully, placing Gabby back in her crib with the same precision he used in a fight. Once she was settled, he moved back to the bed, pausing to watch you for a moment before sliding in beside you. He lay on his side, his hand brushing against yours as he whispered, “You’re doin’ good, sweetheart. Real good.”

The words weren’t meant to wake you, but something in your subconscious stirred. You shifted slightly, your hand brushing against his, your voice thick with sleep as you murmured, “Logan?”

“Yeah, darlin’. It’s me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Gabby?” you asked, your eyes still closed.

“She’s fine,” he assured you, his thumb tracing slow circles over the back of your hand. “Went back to sleep. You stay restin’, alright?”

You hummed softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips as sleep pulled you under again. Logan watched you for a moment longer, the steady rhythm of your breathing matching Gabby’s soft sighs from the crib. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt a quiet kind of peace—fragile, but real.

And he wasn’t going to let it slip away.

---

2 Months

“Look at you! Already sittin’ in a highchair with no support,” you cooed, your voice soft and filled with warmth as you settled onto a stool at the kitchen island. You tore off a piece of your bagel and popped it into your mouth, watching Gabby in awe. “You’re about two months early, aren’t ya?”

Gabby’s tiny body wobbled slightly in the highchair, but her head stayed steady, her wide eyes darting around the room. She let out a soft gurgle, one of her fists clumsily swatting at the teething ring on the tray in front of her.

“Overachiever already,” you murmured with a smile, resting your chin on your hand. The quiet morning was a rare treat, the mansion’s usual chaos muted by the fact that most of the kids—and Logan—were in class.

Your moment of peace was interrupted by the sound of footsteps padding into the kitchen. You glanced up to see Rogue and Jubilee sauntering in, their voices low as they chatted.

“Hey, Y/N,” Rogue greeted, tossing her gloves onto the counter. Her eyes immediately zeroed in on Gabby. “Well, ain’t she just the cutest thing?”

Jubilee grinned, leaning over the highchair to make a silly face. “Look at her! She’s so tiny, but she’s already got the ‘I’m better than you’ face down.”

Gabby blinked up at her, unimpressed, and let out a small grunt.

You laughed, wiping your hands on a napkin. “She’s been perfecting that look for weeks.”

“She’s definitely Logan’s kid,” Rogue teased, her Southern drawl thick as she plucked an apple from the fruit bowl. “Got his scowl and everythin'.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” you warned with a smirk. “He’ll start claiming it’s hereditary.”

Jubilee snickered, stealing a piece of your bagel before you could stop her. “So, how’s it feel bein’ the mom of a genius baby?”

“Exhausting,” you said with a laugh, leaning back slightly. “She’s great during the day, but the nights? Forget it. Logan’s been taking over most of the time, though.”

Rogue raised a brow. “Logan? Gettin’ up at night for feedings? That I’d pay to see.”

“It’s sweeter than you’d think,” you admitted, warmth spreading through your chest at the thought. “He’s so patient with her. Talks to her like she understands every word.”

“She probably does,” Jubilee said, crossing her arms. “That’s the face of a baby who’s judging us all right now.”

Gabby let out a soft coo, her tiny fingers curling around the edge of the tray as if to prove Jubilee’s point. Rogue and Jubilee both erupted into laughter.

“See?” Jubilee said, pointing dramatically. “She knows.”

“Alright, alright,” you said, waving them off. “Don’t inflate her ego too much. She’s already the most spoiled baby in this mansion.”

“She deserves it,” Rogue said, biting into her apple. “Took you two long enough to get her here.”

Your smile faltered slightly, but it returned just as quickly. “Yeah,” you said softly, glancing down at Gabby. “She’s worth the wait.”

The room grew quiet for a moment, a comfortable silence settling over the three of you. Rogue nudged you gently, her voice softer now. “You’re doin’ great, Y/N. Really.”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “It helps having all of you here. It really does.”

The sound of another set of footsteps broke the moment, and Remy strolled into the kitchen, a deck of cards in his hands. He paused when he saw Gabby, his eyes lighting up. “Well, well, look who’s holdin’ court this mornin’,” he drawled, giving her a wink.

“She’s practicing her royal wave,” you joked, motioning toward the way Gabby was batting at the air.

Remy chuckled, stepping closer. “She’ll be dealin’ cards better than me in no time. Smart girl like that? She’ll have us all figured out before she can even talk.” Gabby gurgled at him, and he grinned. “See? She agrees.”

Jubilee rolled her eyes, tossing a crumpled napkin at him. “Stop flirting with the baby, Gambit.”

“I’m just statin’ facts,” he said with an exaggerated shrug, catching the napkin mid-air and flicking it back at her.

The kitchen filled with laughter again, and you leaned back in your chair, watching as your friends entertained Gabby with a mix of silly faces, dramatic gestures, and endless banter. Despite the exhaustion, despite the sleepless nights, moments like this made everything feel right. Gabby was here, surrounded by love, and you couldn’t ask for more.

---

4 Months

The July heat meant two things: one, Gabby got to wear cute little dresses that she seemed to love, and two, you had to wear things to keep you cool that you weren’t sure you looked good in anymore.

Before getting pregnant, you never really had a problem with the way you looked, but now, with the new stretch marks and loose skin, things had changed. It wasn’t that you didn’t love your body for what it had done—bringing Gabby into the world was the most incredible thing you’d ever experienced. But some days, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you struggled to reconcile the new reality with the old.

“Why’re you standin’ there like that?” Logan’s voice startled you from the bathroom doorway. He leaned against the frame, his arms crossed, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

You tugged your loose tank top back into place, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Just... thinking.”

“About what?” He stepped inside, his boots barely making a sound against the tile. “And don’t give me that ‘it’s nothing’ crap.”

You sighed, leaning against the counter. “About how different I look now.”

Logan’s brow furrowed, and he came closer, standing in front of you. “Different how?”

“Like...” You gestured vaguely toward the mirror, your hands falling back to your sides. “Like this. Stretch marks, extra skin, all of it. I know it’s normal, but it’s still hard to see sometimes.”

Logan’s gaze didn’t waver as he listened. He stepped closer, his hands settling on your hips, warm and steady. “Y/N, you just had a baby. A damn miracle, after everything. You carried her, kept her safe, brought her into the world. Your body’s been through hell and came out stronger for it.”

You bit your lip, your eyes lowering. “I know that. I do. But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss how I used to feel about myself.”

Logan tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His voice softened, rough edges giving way to something deeper. “I’ve known you a long time, darlin’. Longer than either of us probably care to count. And through all of it, you’ve never been anything but beautiful to me.”

Your chest tightened, and you shook your head lightly. “Logan—”

“I mean it,” he interrupted, his grip on your hips firm but gentle. “You don’t see what I see, and that’s fine. But let me tell you somethin’—you’ve never been more incredible to me than you are right now.”

The raw sincerity in his voice made your throat close up, and you blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I just... It’s hard sometimes. Feeling like me again.”

Logan pulled you into his arms, holding you close as his hand rubbed slow circles on your back. “You’re still you, Y/N. The strongest, smartest, most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. And if you ever need remindin’, you come to me. Got it?”

You nodded against his chest, your arms wrapping around him. “Got it.”

---

Everyone had made their way to the nearby beach, including Gabby with a comically large sunhat perched on her tiny head. The brim was so wide that it flopped down over her forehead, occasionally covering her eyes and earning a quiet laugh from you as Logan adjusted it for the fourth time.

“She’s gonna hate this thing,” Logan muttered, tilting the hat back so Gabby’s face was visible again. He held her against his chest, her little legs dangling from his arm as her tiny fists waved at the warm July breeze.

“Unless you want a sunburned baby, the hat stays,” you said, smiling as you spread a towel over the back of a beach chair.

Logan huffed, shifting Gabby slightly so he could free a hand to grab the sunscreen from the bag. “What’s the point of wearin’ this if I’m still puttin’ sunscreen on her?”

“Double protection,” you teased, glancing at him over your shoulder. “You’re just mad because it’s adorable.”

“It’s impractical,” he countered, but the faint tug at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Gabby let out a small coo, her wide eyes darting from you to the waves in the distance, then back to Logan’s face.

You finished arranging the chairs and stepped closer, reaching out to adjust the hat again as it slipped sideways. “You’re holding her like a sack of potatoes, Logan. No wonder the hat won’t stay on.”

“She’s fine,” Logan said, brushing his fingers over Gabby’s back. “Aren’t ya, kid? You don’t care about hats.”

Gabby opened her mouth and made a soft noise, her little tongue darting out before she smacked her lips. You tilted your head, your smile growing. “She’s hungry.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, looking at Gabby with mild confusion. “How can you tell?”

“She’s looking at me,” you said, laughing softly as you pointed toward her face. “And opening and closing her mouth. It’s classic hungry baby behavior.”

Logan squinted, watching her for a moment. “She’s been makin’ faces since we got here. How do you know it’s hunger?”

“Because,” you said, your tone patient but amused, “she’s staring at my chest like it owes her something.”

Logan’s bark of laughter startled Gabby, who let out a little squeak in response. He kissed the top of her head, his grin softening into something warmer. “Alright, darlin’, guess you know best. You wanna sit or head back to the car?”

“We’ll stay here,” you said, motioning toward the chairs. “I brought a blanket. She’s fine.”

Logan followed as you sat down, handing Gabby to you with a care that still made your heart swell. Once she was settled in your arms, you reached for the bag, pulling out a lightweight nursing cover.

“Need me to grab anything?” Logan asked, crouching beside you as you adjusted Gabby.

“No, I’ve got it,” you said, slipping the cover over your shoulder. Gabby latched quickly, her soft noises muffled by the fabric. “You can sit, though. She’s not gonna take long.”

Logan sank into the chair next to you, stretching his legs out as he leaned back. His gaze shifted between Gabby’s covered head and the shoreline in the distance, his expression relaxed for the first time all day.

“This is nice,” he said after a moment, his voice low.

“Even with the hat debacle?” you teased, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

“Even with the hat,” Logan admitted, his smirk returning. “She’s got more personality than half the people here already.”

You adjusted the nursing cover over your shoulder, glancing up at him with a soft laugh. “Are you saying she’s more entertaining than Jubilee’s attempts to surf? Because that’s a bold claim.”

Logan tilted his head toward the shoreline, where Jubilee was attempting to paddle out on a surfboard that seemed to have a personal vendetta against her. She was currently tumbling off into the shallow water for what had to be the fifth time, her shouts of frustration carrying over the sound of the waves.

“Alright, fair point,” Logan said, his grin widening. “Jubilee’s got her beat—for now.”

Gabby let out a little hum against you, her tiny body relaxing as her feeding slowed. You rested your hand on her back, glancing toward the water where Rogue and Remy were helping some of the younger kids build a sandcastle. Laura sat nearby, her small hands carefully carving details into a turret with an intense focus that rivaled her usual demeanor.

“It’s kind of nice, isn’t it?” you murmured, shifting your attention back to Logan. “Everyone just… relaxing for once.”

He nodded, his gaze sweeping over the scene. “Yeah, it is. Doesn’t happen often around here.”

Gabby pulled away with a tiny, satisfied sigh, and you adjusted her before lifting her to your shoulder. Logan immediately stood, reaching into the bag to grab a burp cloth. “Here,” he said, passing it to you without hesitation.

“Thanks,” you said softly, positioning the cloth and patting Gabby’s back. After a moment, a quiet burp escaped her, followed by a little coo that made Logan’s smirk return.

“Efficient,” he commented, settling back into his chair. “Takes after you there.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as Gabby nestled against your shoulder, her small face tucked against your neck. “She’s four months old, Logan. Let’s not assign her a work ethic just yet.”

“Why not?” he teased, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Never too early to start. She’ll be runnin’ circles around the rest of us in no time.”

“Please don’t start training her before she can even walk,” you said, your voice dry but affectionate. “She’s still figuring out how her hands work.”

“Fine,” he said with a mock sigh, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll give her a few more months.”

A shadow fell over you as Jean approached, her hair tucked beneath a wide-brimmed sunhat. She carried a drink in one hand and waved with the other. “How’s the little one?” she asked, her tone light as she crouched beside you.

“She just ate,” you said, shifting Gabby slightly so Jean could see her. “And she’s apparently trying to set records for fastest burp.”

“Overachiever,” Jean said with a grin, brushing her fingers lightly over Gabby’s tiny hand. “You’re doing great, Y/N. She looks so happy.”

“Thanks, Jean,” you said, a shy warmth creeping into your voice. “I think she likes the beach. Or at least the breeze.”

Jean straightened, her gaze flicking to Logan. “And how are you holding up, Logan? Still hating the hat?”

“It’s ridiculous,” Logan said, deadpan. “But I’ll deal with it.”

Jean laughed, patting his shoulder as she headed toward the water. “Try not to grumble too much. You’re scaring the seagulls.”

As she walked away, Logan shook his head, muttering something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch. You leaned back in your chair, one hand resting gently on Gabby’s back as you watched the others enjoy the day.

---

Most of the team were out on a mission, leaving Logan and you at the mansion with the younger kids. Luckily, there were a few kids old enough to take care of the rest while you got a bit of time to yourself to take a bath.

Logan walked the quiet halls of the mansion with Gabby pressed against his bare chest, her small body tucked securely in one of his arms. Her soft coos and the occasional gurgle broke the silence, but otherwise, the place was still. Most of the kids were busy with games or projects downstairs, and for once, the usual hum of chaos was absent.

He glanced down at Gabby, her head leaning against his chest as her tiny fingers flexed against his skin. Skin-to-skin contact, Jean had said, was good for bonding. Logan had scoffed at first—some scientific nonsense about oxytocin and comfort—but seeing how Gabby relaxed against him every time, he’d begrudgingly admitted it made sense.

“You don’t know how good you’ve got it, kid,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, but soft enough to keep her calm. “Walkin’ around like this while your mom finally gets a damn break. Don’t go ruinin’ it for her, alright?”

Gabby let out a small, high-pitched noise, almost like a protest, and Logan huffed. “What’s that supposed to mean? You got somethin’ to say?”

As if answering, she wriggled slightly, her tiny hand grabbing a clump of his chest hair. Logan winced but didn’t try to pull her hand away. “Alright, maybe you’re tougher than you look. But let’s ease up on the claws, yeah?”

They passed by one of the large windows in the corridor, the late-morning sunlight streaming in and catching on the edges of the ornate frame. Logan stopped, shifting his hold on Gabby so she could see outside. Her head wobbled as she stared at the trees swaying gently in the summer breeze.

“See that?” he murmured, tilting her slightly so her face was closer to the window. “Big ol’ world out there. Not in a rush to throw you into it, but one day, you’re gonna run this place. You just wait.”

Gabby turned her face toward him, her expression unreadable, and Logan smirked. “Yeah, I know. Big talk from the guy who almost lost it when you sneezed yesterday. Don’t hold it against me, alright?”

He started walking again, his boots making faint thuds against the hardwood floors. The sound was steady, rhythmic, and seemed to soothe Gabby further as her tiny body grew heavier in his arms. Logan glanced down, catching her eyelids starting to droop.

“You really are somethin’,” he said quietly, his free hand brushing over her back. “Got me talkin’ like a damn fool in the middle of the day.”

By the time Logan reached the den, Gabby was nearly asleep. He eased onto the couch, careful not to jostle her too much as he adjusted his position. He propped his feet up on the coffee table—knowing full well you’d scold him for it later—and leaned back, one hand rubbing gentle circles on Gabby’s back.

The sound of distant laughter filtered up from the lower levels, probably some of the younger kids playing a game. Logan let his eyes close for a moment, his breathing slowing to match Gabby’s tiny, even breaths. The quiet peace of the moment was rare, and he wasn’t about to let it slip away.

After a while, he felt Gabby stir, her small face burrowing further into his chest. “You awake again, huh?” he murmured, glancing down at her. “Guess you’re not big on naps.”

He shifted slightly, reaching for the remote to turn on the TV at a low volume. The background noise might keep her content for a little while longer—or at least buy him enough time to keep you resting.

“She’s quiet,” a familiar voice called softly from the doorway. Logan turned to see Laura standing there, her small frame leaning against the doorframe as she eyed Gabby curiously.

“Yeah,” Logan said, his voice low. “For now. Don’t jinx it.”

Laura padded into the room, her usual stoicism softening slightly as she approached the couch. “She likes you,” she said simply, standing on her tiptoes to peek at Gabby.

Logan smirked. “’Course she does. What’s not to like?”

Laura gave him a skeptical look, but there was a faint hint of amusement in her expression. “Can I hold her?”

“Maybe later,” Logan said, adjusting Gabby slightly as she wriggled in his arms. “She’s just about settled, and I’m not takin’ any chances with her wakin’ up.”

Laura nodded, understanding. “Y/N’s still in the bath?”

“Yeah,” Logan said, glancing toward the ceiling as if he could sense exactly where you were. “Figured she could use some peace and quiet.”

“Good,” Laura said, her tone firm. “She needs it.”

Logan tilted his head, studying her for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, she does.”

Laura lingered for another second before turning toward the door. “I’ll tell the others to keep it down.”

“Thanks, kid,” Logan said, his voice softening as he watched her leave.

As the door clicked shut, Logan glanced down at Gabby, who was fully asleep now, her tiny fist still clutching a bit of his chest hair. He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You got a lot of people lookin’ out for you, y’know that?” he murmured. Gabby didn’t respond, of course, but her peaceful expression seemed to say enough.

Logan leaned back again, his eyes drifting to the window. He’d hold onto this moment for as long as he could. After all, you’d be out of the bath soon—and you’d be taking Gabby with you. For now, though, it was just him and his daughter, the quiet hum of the mansion wrapping around them like a warm blanket.

---

5 Months

You hid your face with your hands, then pulled them away again with a big grin. “Peekaboo!”

Gabby’s wide, toothless smile lit up her entire face, her bright eyes crinkling at the edges. She flailed her chubby arms excitedly, making an adorable gurgling sound that almost made you want to burst into laughter yourself. It was the kind of sound that made all the sleepless nights and spit-up-stained clothes worth it.

Logan, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the couch, chuckled softly as he watched the two of you. “You’re gonna wear her out with all that peekaboo.”

You shot him a playful look, adjusting your glasses as you leaned forward toward Gabby. “That’s the plan. If I can tire her out now, maybe she’ll sleep through the night.”

“She’s not even five months old, sweetheart. You think she’s gonna take pity on us?” Logan smirked, his tone teasing as he reached for one of Gabby’s teething toys and handed it to her.

Gabby grabbed the toy clumsily, shoving it straight toward her mouth and drooling all over it in seconds. Logan’s smirk turned into a grin. “Yeah, no pity. She’s ruthless.”

You laughed, leaning back in the chair and watching Gabby with affection. “She’s learning so much, though. Did you see how she grabbed that? Last week, she’d just stare at it like it was some alien object.”

“Yeah,” Logan said, his voice softer now as he kept his gaze on her. “She’s growin’ fast.”

Gabby dropped the teething toy onto the play mat with a squishy plop and immediately started fussing, her face scrunching up in frustration. Logan leaned forward and picked it up, wiping it on the corner of his shirt before handing it back to her.

“Here ya go, kid,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “Ain’t that big a deal.”

“She’s dramatic,” you said, shaking your head fondly. “Takes after her dad.”

Logan arched a brow, pretending to be offended. “Dramatic? Me?”

“Yes, you,” you teased, crossing your arms and smiling. “You’re the one who grumbles when you can’t find your favorite mug in the morning.”

“That’s not dramatic. That’s just havin’ priorities,” Logan countered, leaning back against the couch again with a grin.

“Sure it is,” you said, your tone light and teasing as you bent down to pick up another toy Gabby had knocked away. “Maybe I should start writing down all your dramatic moments. I’ll make a scrapbook.”

Logan huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute, darlin’.”

“Lucky?” you repeated with a laugh, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who’s lucky. Gabby and I could be keeping track of your antics.”

Gabby babbled something incomprehensible, as if weighing in on the conversation, and Logan nodded at her seriously. “See? Even she agrees.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re impossible.”

Logan just smirked, reaching out to nudge Gabby’s tiny foot with his finger. She wiggled happily, her earlier frustration forgotten.

After a moment, you leaned back, watching the two of them with a quiet sense of contentment. It wasn’t a grand moment—just a lazy afternoon spent playing on the floor with Gabby—but it was perfect in its own way. These were the kinds of memories you wanted to keep forever.

“Alright,” Logan said suddenly, pushing himself up onto his knees. “If we’re doin’ this peekaboo thing, we’re doin’ it right.”

“Oh?” you asked, arching a brow.

“Yeah.” He picked up one of Gabby’s soft blankets and held it up in front of his face. “Watch this. Ready, kid?”

Gabby blinked at him, her little hands grasping at the air.

Logan pulled the blanket down with a flourish. “Peekaboo!”

Gabby’s face lit up, her laughter bubbling out in delighted squeals that made both of you laugh along with her.

“See?” Logan said, throwing the blanket back up again. “She loves it.”

“She loves you being ridiculous,” you said, smiling as Gabby kicked her legs in pure joy.

“Ridiculous works,” Logan said with a shrug, peeking around the edge of the blanket to make Gabby giggle again.

As you watched the two of them, the sight made your heart swell. It wasn’t perfect; nothing ever was. But this? This was as close as it got.

---

6 Months

You held the small spoon with a dollop of banana puree and made an exaggerated airplane noise as you brought it closer to Gabby’s mouth. Her wide, curious eyes followed the spoon’s trajectory until it reached her lips. She hesitated for a moment, then opened her mouth just enough for you to slide the puree in.

“There you go,” you cooed, grinning as Gabby smacked her lips around the spoon, her tiny face scrunching up in surprise at the new texture. A gurgling sound followed as a bit of banana dribbled down her chin.

“Messy eater already,” you murmured with a fond laugh, reaching for the cloth you’d draped over the back of her highchair. You dabbed at her chin, though she seemed more interested in the next bite than staying clean.

“You’re something else, you know that?” you said softly, scooping up another bit of puree. “Already sitting up, trying new foods… It’s like every day you’re doing something new.” You paused for a moment, watching Gabby’s tiny hands swipe at the air as if she could grab the spoon herself. “I love it. I love being here with you. But, oh, sometimes I miss teaching.”

Gabby babbled in response, her little fists making clumsy contact with the highchair tray. You let out a small laugh, adjusting your glasses as you looked at her. “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade this time for anything. It’s just… I don’t know. I feel like my brain’s getting a little rusty. Physics isn’t exactly part of our routine, is it?”

Another tiny coo escaped her, and you sighed, your smile softening. “It’s silly, isn’t it? I live at a mansion full of mutants and still get bored. Jean’s always telling me to ask for help, but…” You trailed off, scooping up another spoonful of puree. “I guess I’m not great at that, huh?”

Gabby smacked her lips around the spoon, a bit of banana smearing on her cheek this time. You wiped it away gently, your voice dropping to a softer murmur. “Maybe when you’re a little older, I’ll get back to it. Right now, you’re my whole world, kiddo.”

Unbeknownst to you, Logan stood quietly in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His sharp eyes softened as he watched the scene unfold, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He didn’t interrupt, letting your words hang in the air before slipping away silently, leaving you to finish Gabby’s meal in peace.

---

Later that day, as the sun dipped lower in the sky and the mansion’s hallways filled with the sound of kids finishing their classes, you sat in the common room with Gabby nestled in your arms. She was dozing, her tiny fist curled against your chest, and you swayed gently in the rocking chair.

Logan appeared, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. He leaned down to kiss the top of Gabby’s head before sitting on the armrest beside you. “She go down easy after lunch?” he asked, his voice low to avoid waking her.

“Not bad,” you said, adjusting your hold on her. “She didn’t seem thrilled about the bananas, though.”

Logan smirked. “Takes after me there. Not much for mush.”

You chuckled softly, shifting your glasses up your nose. “At least she didn’t spit it all out.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he spoke again. “I was thinkin’... You mentioned something earlier about missin’ teachin’. You still feel that way?”

Your brows furrowed in surprise. “You heard that?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice soft. “Was passin’ by the kitchen. Didn’t wanna interrupt.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I love being with her—”

“I know you do,” Logan said, cutting you off gently. “But it’s okay to miss other stuff too, Y/N. Doesn’t mean you’re not a good mom.”

You glanced down at Gabby, her tiny breaths steady and peaceful. “I do miss it,” you admitted quietly. “I miss the classroom, the kids, explaining things. But there’s so much to think about now. What if Gabby gets hungry? Or needs a change? Who’s going to watch her?”

Logan’s smirk softened into something closer to a grin. “You forget where we live? We got Rogue, Kitty, Jubilee—and yeah, even Remy, though I’m not exactly thrilled about that one. They’d all pitch in if you needed ‘em.”

You hesitated, biting your lip as you mulled it over. “I don’t want to put too much on them. They’ve got their own lives.”

Logan rested a hand on your shoulder, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “They wouldn’t offer if they couldn’t handle it. And you’d still be close by if somethin’ came up.”

The idea settled in your mind, the weight of it less daunting now. You looked up at Logan, your voice tentative. “You really think I could do it?”

“I know you can,” he said, his tone firm but warm. “You’re a hell of a teacher, Y/N. And if it makes you happy, then we’ll make it work. Simple as that.”

You smiled, your chest tightening with gratitude. “Thanks, Logan.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Now, think you can sneak back in there and tell Scott he’s got his physics teacher back?”

You laughed softly, cradling Gabby closer. “Not until this one wakes up. But yeah… I think I can.”

“Good,” Logan said, his grin widening. “It’s about time.”

As the two of you sat there, the quiet hum of the mansion wrapping around you, the thought of stepping back into the classroom didn’t feel so daunting after all. With Logan by your side, you knew you could handle anything.

---

Laura stacked a few blocks on top of each other and then looked over at Gabby, who was currently banging two blocks together with loud, repetitive smacks. She frowned, glancing at Rogue, who was sprawled on the couch with a magazine in hand.

“Why is she doing that?” Laura asked, her tone flat but clearly puzzled. “She should be stacking them.”

Rogue set the magazine down, tilting her head toward Gabby. “She’s a baby, Laura. That’s what babies do—they don’t follow instructions, they just… do baby things.”

Laura frowned deeper, crossing her arms. “It’s not efficient.”

Rogue chuckled, sitting up and brushing her hair out of her face. “She’s six months old, sugar. She’s not worried about efficiency. She’s just learnin’ how to use her hands.”

Gabby, oblivious to the critique, let out a triumphant squeal as one of the blocks bounced off the mat and rolled toward Laura. Laura picked it up, inspecting it like it held the answer to her question, then set it back in front of Gabby.

“She doesn’t understand the point,” Laura said matter-of-factly.

Rogue leaned back, grinning. “The point is havin’ fun. You used to be like that too, y’know.”

“No, I didn’t,” Laura replied quickly. “I always had a purpose.”

Rogue’s grin softened, but she didn’t press. Instead, she picked up a stuffed toy from the floor and handed it to Gabby, who immediately started gnawing on it with her gums.

“See?” Rogue said, gesturing to the drooling baby. “She’s got her own way of figuring things out. Give her time.”

Laura watched for another moment, then turned back to her stack of blocks. She added another one carefully to the top, her small hands steady and precise. “She’s messy.”

“That’s part of it,” Rogue said, laughing. “Not everyone can be neat like you.”

Gabby banged her block again, and Laura sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “It’s still not efficient.”

---

When you returned from your physics class, you found Rogue and Laura in the living room, with Gabby happily babbling on her play mat. You smiled at the scene as you approached.

“How’d she do?” you asked, setting your bag down on a chair.

“Great,” Rogue said, waving her hand lazily. “Couple of loud squeals, but nothin’ we couldn’t handle. She’s been workin’ real hard on makin’ as much noise as possible.”

Gabby looked up at the sound of your voice, her face lighting up. She let out a delighted squeal, reaching her arms toward you. You crouched down to pick her up, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you murmured, adjusting her in your arms. “Were you good for Rogue and Laura?”

“She was fine,” Laura said, stacking the blocks again with intense focus. “But she’s very loud.”

“That’s normal,” you said with a soft laugh, running your hand over Gabby’s tiny back. “She’s finding her voice.”

“She’s finding it a lot,” Laura said, glancing up at you with a hint of exasperation.

You smiled at her, tilting your head. “How about you? Did you have fun?”

Laura hesitated, glancing between you and Gabby. “It was… okay. She doesn’t like blocks.”

“She’s still little,” you said gently. “She’ll get there.”

Logan’s voice carried from the hallway as he entered the room, wiping his hands on a rag. “What’s this about blocks? She tryin’ to outbuild you, Laura?”

Laura rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath as Logan grinned. He crossed the room to you and Gabby, his hand automatically resting on your back.

“How was class?” he asked, his tone softening as he looked at you.

“Good,” you said, leaning slightly into his touch. “I think the kids are finally starting to get the new section.”

“And you?” he asked, tilting his head toward Gabby. “How’s my girl?”

Gabby responded with a loud, happy squeal, smacking her little hands against your shoulder. Logan chuckled, brushing a hand over her head.

“She’s got lungs, I’ll give her that.”

“She’s been practicing,” you said, grinning.

“She’s also very messy,” Laura added from the floor, earning a laugh from Rogue.

“She’s a baby, Laura,” Logan said, crouching beside her. “Messy’s part of the job.”

Laura gave him a skeptical look, but said nothing, returning to her blocks. Logan smirked and turned back to you, his hand brushing against Gabby’s as she reached for him.

“Guess I’ll handle dinner tonight,” he said, his tone teasing. “Sounds like you earned a break.”

You smiled at him, your heart warming at the offer. “I won’t say no to that.”

As Logan stood and kissed your temple, Gabby let out another happy squeal, her tiny hand reaching toward his face. The room felt light, filled with warmth and laughter, and for a moment, the world outside seemed a distant memory.

---

During game night—while playing monopoly—Gabby had crawled from your lap to her toys a foot away.

“No!” Jubilee exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air as the tiny plastic hotel landed on its side. “Kitty got Boardwalk again? You’ve got some kind of Monopoly magic going on.”

Kitty smirked, straightening the hotel with the precision of someone used to winning. “It’s not magic, Jubilee. It’s strategy. And maybe a little luck.”

“Luck, my ass,” Rogue muttered, tossing the dice across the board. “I’ve been stuck on Baltic Avenue for three rounds. This game’s rigged.”

Jean chuckled, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her money neatly stacked in front of her. “You sound like Logan.”

“I’m right here, Jean,” Logan grumbled from his spot on the couch. His feet were propped up on the coffee table—earning a mild glare from you—and he had a fistful of fake cash that looked pitiful compared to Kitty’s growing empire. “And this game is rigged. Every time I land somewhere, it’s one of Kitty’s properties.”

“Maybe don’t land there,” you teased, adjusting your glasses as you sat cross-legged on the rug beside the board. Gabby was now making her slow journey back, her small form determined.

“Yeah, Logan,” Jubilee said, grinning as she leaned back on her hands. “Just don’t land on Boardwalk. Easy fix.”

Logan gave her a flat look. “You think you’re funny, don’t ya?”

“I know I’m funny,” Jubilee shot back, earning a laugh from Kitty and Rogue.

Jean glanced up as Gabby made her way over, her tiny hands slapping against the rug as she babbled happily. “Looks like someone’s on the move.”

Gabby reached Jean and tugged at her pant leg with surprising determination. Jean smiled, scooping her up and settling her on her lap. “You want in on the game, huh?”

Gabby gurgled, her chubby hand grabbing at the corner of the board. Jean gently redirected her toward the teething toy that had been tucked into her pocket. Gabby immediately began chewing on it, her wide eyes locking onto Scott, who sat across the board from Jean with his arms crossed and a scowl firmly in place.

“Why’s she staring at me?” Scott asked, his tone flat but curious as he gestured toward Gabby with a tilt of his head.

“She thinks you look funny,” Logan said, smirking as he leaned back. “Can’t blame her.”

Jean rolled her eyes, bouncing Gabby lightly on her lap. “Don’t listen to him, Gabby. Scott’s just a little grumpy because he landed on Marvin Gardens three times in a row.”

“More like he’s always grumpy,” Jubilee muttered, tossing her dice and moving her piece forward with exaggerated precision. “Oh, look. Free parking. Guess I’ll take that jackpot.”

Scott sighed, ignoring the commentary as Gabby continued to stare at him. “Does she always do that?”

“Sometimes,” you said, smiling as you leaned against the couch. “She likes people-watching. You’ve got one of those faces.”

Gabby, as if to emphasize the point, let out a squeal and waved the teething toy in Scott’s general direction. He stared at her, his expression unreadable, before finally reaching for his piece to roll the dice.

The next second, Gabby flung the toy directly at his face.

The thud wasn’t loud, but it was enough to startle everyone into silence. Scott froze, blinking behind his visor as the toy bounced off his forehead and landed on the board, knocking over a few houses in the process.

“Did she just—” Jubilee began, but her words dissolved into laughter as Rogue followed suit, clutching her sides.

“Good aim,” Logan muttered, a hint of pride sneaking into his voice as he glanced at Gabby, who looked entirely unrepentant.

Gabby giggled, clearly amused by the commotion she’d caused. Jean shook her head, her lips twitching into a smile as she picked up the toy and handed it back to Gabby. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

Scott sighed, picking up his piece and resetting the houses with a resigned expression. “Can we just finish this game before I get attacked again?”

“Not if Kitty buys all the railroads first,” Rogue said, grinning as Kitty beamed at her neatly organized properties.

“She’s not buying anythin’ else,” Logan grumbled, tossing his dice. “Not if I’ve got anythin’ to say about it.”

You watched the scene unfold, your hand resting lightly on Gabby’s back as she squirmed happily in Jean’s lap. Despite the chaos—and the slightly bruised pride of certain players—the moment felt light, warm, and perfectly imperfect.

Somehow, it was exactly what you needed.

---

7 Months

You and Logan took on the task of the month’s grocery shopping, giving you the ability to step outside in a place that wasn’t just the mansion’s lawn.

Logan parked the truck, letting the engine idle for a moment before cutting it off. You handed him the list you’d been jotting on the entire drive, its edges crinkled from your anxious fidgeting.

“It’ll be more efficient if we split up,” you said, your glasses sliding down your nose as you leaned toward him. “I’ll grab the food, and you can get these.”

Logan glanced at the list in his hand, then at yours, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Why the hell is mine shorter than yours?”

“Because, Logan,” you replied patiently, adjusting your glasses, “you never buy the right things. Remember when Ororo asked you to get tomato paste, and you brought back tomato sauce?”

He grunted, crossing his arms. “It’s all tomatoes.”

“It’s not the same,” you said, fighting a smile. “Plus, you’ve got the heavy lifting—laundry detergent, air filters—”

“You makin’ this up as you go?” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing slightly.

You ignored him, leaning over the console and pointing to the list. “It’s all right there. Just stick to it, and we’ll be out of here in no time.”

Logan muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue further.

He shot you a look but didn’t argue, folding the list back into his pocket. “Fine. But if this ends up takin’ longer than you said, I’m blamin’ you.”

“It’s groceries, Logan. Not a mission.” You leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before reaching for the door handle. “Now, let’s get this over with.”

Before you could step out, Logan’s hand caught yours. His expression had shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tilted his head toward you. “What was that for?”

You blinked, confused. “What was what for?”

“The kiss,” he said, his voice dropping to a rougher edge.

“Because I wanted to?” you replied, your tone teasing as you stepped out of the truck and shut the door.

You were a few steps toward the store entrance when you noticed he wasn’t following. Turning back, you saw Logan still sitting in the truck, his arms crossed and a suspiciously casual look on his face.

“Logan?” you called, walking back to his side of the vehicle. “What’s taking so long?”

He gestured toward his lap, his lips twitching in what could only be described as an annoyed smirk.

It took a second, but when realization hit, your cheeks burned. “Seriously?”

“You started it,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact as he shrugged.

You covered your face with your hands for a moment, trying to stifle a laugh. “Logan, we’re in the grocery store parking lot. You can’t just… react like that!”

He gave you a pointed look. “What’d you expect, darlin’? You kiss me like that, then act like nothin’ happened?”

You glanced around the lot, grateful that no one was nearby. “Just… take a minute. Think about cold showers or… I don’t know, taxes or something.”

Logan smirked, leaning his head back against the seat, arms crossed over his chest. “Taxes don’t do it for me, darlin’. And cold showers only work if I’m not still thinkin’ about you.”

“Logan,” you muttered, your cheeks heating as you glanced toward the store’s entrance, half-wondering if anyone could see you standing there like some flustered cartoon character. “This is ridiculous.”

“Not my fault you’re irresistible,” he drawled, his smirk growing wider.

You sighed, adjusting your glasses as you glared at him, though the effect was dulled by the flush spreading across your face. “We’re here to buy groceries, not... whatever this is.”

Logan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the steering wheel, his grin softening as he looked up at you. “You’re cute when you’re all flustered.”

“Logan,” you repeated, more firmly this time, but you couldn’t stop the corners of your mouth from twitching upward. “Get yourself together, and let’s go. We’ll be in and out faster if we stick to the plan.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What plan? The one where I get the short list and you pretend you’re not secretly double-checking every item I grab?”

“I do not double-check,” you protested, straightening your back. “I just—look, you grab what’s on the list, and I trust you. Simple.”

Logan chuckled, his voice low and warm. “Sure you do, sweetheart. You’ve been writin’ notes on that thing like it’s a classified mission.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Fine. If you don’t want to follow the list, I’ll do it all myself.”

Logan opened the door and stepped out of the truck, his boots crunching against the pavement as he shut the door behind him. “Nope. You’re not carryin’ a damn bag more than you have to. Let’s split up and get this over with before you find somethin’ else to nag me about.”

“Logan!” you said, your voice rising in mock indignation. “I don’t nag.”

He smirked, slipping an arm around your waist as he steered you toward the store’s entrance. “You do. But I don’t mind.”

You sighed, leaning slightly into his side despite your exasperation. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he teased, his hand brushing against yours as you walked through the sliding glass doors.

Inside, the store was brightly lit and buzzing with quiet activity, the kind of sterile, structured chaos you always found oddly soothing. You handed Logan his list and pointed toward the household goods aisle. “You start there. I’ll handle produce and dairy. Meet back at the checkout?”

Logan glanced at the list, then at you, his expression somewhere between skeptical and amused. “You’re really trustin’ me with this?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, adjusting your glasses. “You’ve got this, Logan. Just follow the—”

“Yeah, yeah, follow the list,” he interrupted, giving you a mock salute as he turned toward his section. “See you in twenty minutes, professor.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips as you headed toward the produce section. Grabbing a cart, you focused on filling it with the items you needed, the mundane task grounding you in a way that felt strangely comforting.

Still, you found yourself glancing toward the household aisle every so often, half-expecting to catch Logan tossing random things into his cart. When you didn’t, you allowed yourself a small moment of pride. Maybe he really was sticking to the list.

About twenty minutes later, you spotted him near the checkout, leaning casually against a cart that looked suspiciously empty. You raised an eyebrow as you approached. “That’s all you got?”

He shrugged, holding up the list as if to prove his innocence. “I got everything on here. And yeah, it wasn’t much.”

You peered into his cart, noting the perfectly chosen items, and nodded. “Okay, color me impressed.”

Logan smirked, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Told you I could handle it.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warned, tossing a bag of apples into your own cart. “You still have to carry all of this into the house.”

He chuckled, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for your cart. “Deal. As long as I get somethin’ for all this hard work.”

“Oh, you’ll get something,” you said dryly, guiding the cart toward the register. “Like a thank-you.”

“That’s a start,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in close. “But I was thinkin’ somethin’ a little sweeter.”

“Logan,” you hissed, glancing around the store as your face flushed. “Not here.”

He smirked, leaning back with a satisfied expression. “You’re too easy to rile up, darlin’. Makes it fun.”

You shook your head, though the warmth in your chest betrayed you. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still smilin’,” he said, nudging your shoulder lightly.

---

The ride back to the mansion was quiet, other than the radio softly playing in the background and your pen moving along the paper as you filled out the checkbook.

The truck came to a stop, the rumble of the engine fading into silence. You glanced up from your checkbook, expecting to see the mansion’s familiar gates, but instead, the view outside was an empty stretch of freeway, bathed in the warm hues of October’s late afternoon. You frowned, tilting your head toward Logan.

“Why’d we stop?”

He didn’t answer right away, his hands still resting on the steering wheel, fingers tapping against the leather. His eyes shifted toward you, a glint of mischief in their depths that immediately put you on edge.

“Logan?” you prompted, more cautious this time.

“Just thought we’d take a minute,” he said, his voice rough but calm, carrying that familiar rasp that always made your stomach flip.

Your brow furrowed as you gestured toward the road ahead. “We’re on the side of the freeway. A minute for what?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned across the console, his hand brushing against your cheek as he captured your lips in a kiss. It was deliberate, unhurried, and so intense it left you momentarily stunned.

When he finally pulled back, your breath was uneven, your glasses slightly askew.

“Logan,” you started, voice tinged with disbelief. “We’re on the side of the road. Anyone could see us!”

His smirk was infuriatingly confident. “Ain’t nobody out here but us, sweetheart.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, but he didn’t give you the chance. His hand slid behind your neck, drawing you back to him. This time, the kiss was firmer, his other hand moving to rest lightly on your waist. You tried to maintain some semblance of resolve, your mind racing with all the practical reasons why this was a terrible idea.

“Logan,” you mumbled against his lips, trying to twist away, but his growl of annoyance stopped you cold.

“Stop overthinkin’,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips moved against yours again, more insistent now, and you felt your resistance faltering.

Your hands, which had initially braced against his chest in protest, found themselves clutching his shirt instead, fingers curling into the fabric. The console between you pressed uncomfortably into your side, but Logan didn’t seem to notice—or care.

“This isn’t… practical,” you managed to say between kisses, though the argument was growing weaker by the second.

“Didn’t stop you earlier,” he shot back, his voice thick with amusement and something darker that made your stomach tighten.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and filled with heat. There was a challenge in them, daring you to say no, to push him away for real this time. But you didn’t.

With a resigned sigh—and a muttered quip at your own lack of willpower—you shifted in your seat, awkwardly maneuvering yourself over the console. Logan’s hands were immediately on your hips, steadying you as you clambered into his lap. He pushed the seat back to give you more room, his movements calm and deliberate, as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Better?” he asked, his lips brushing against your ear as his hands settled on your thighs.

You adjusted your glasses, your face burning. “No. This is ridiculous.”

Logan chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. “You’re the one who climbed over, darlin’.”

“You left me no choice,” you muttered, though your voice lacked conviction. Your hands rested on his shoulders now, fingers brushing against the warm skin where his collar dipped low.

“Didn’t hear you complainin’,” he teased, his lips finding the curve of your jaw. You let out a shaky breath, your resolve crumbling entirely as his hands slid up your sides, under the hem of your sweater.

You closed your eyes, giving in completely as his kisses trailed down your neck. His fingers found the button of your jeans, and your breath hitched as he deftly undid it.

“Logan,” you murmured, though this time it wasn’t a protest. Your voice was softer, tinged with anticipation as his hand slipped beneath the denim, his touch igniting a fire that had been simmering between you all day.

Logan’s fingers pressed more firmly against you, his other hand holding your waist steady on his lap. His mouth brushed your ear, his voice low and coaxing. “C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.”

You bit your lip, your head tipping back against the roof of the truck as his fingers moved with an infuriatingly slow rhythm. “Logan,” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely above a breath.

He growled, his lips traveling along your jaw to your neck. “That’s not what I want. Don’t be shy. Nobody’s here but me.”

Your hands tightened on his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt as your body betrayed you, arching closer to him. “Feels so good,” you managed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“That’s better,” he murmured, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The soft scrape sent a shiver down your spine, and the sound that escaped your lips was louder this time. He rewarded you with a pleased hum, his fingers quickening their pace as if daring you to keep going.

Your mind raced, the logical part of you trying to fight against the heat building inside you, but Logan was relentless. His lips found the hollow of your throat, and he bit down gently, sending a sharp jolt of sensation through you.

“Logan,” you gasped, louder now, your head tipping forward as your hands clutched at his biceps. “Oh, God…”

He growled again, the sound vibrating against your skin. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he rasped. “Knew you could do it, darlin’.”

Your glasses slid down your nose, and you shoved them back up hastily, though your trembling hands made it almost impossible. Logan’s grin was all sharp edges as he watched you, his own breath uneven, but he didn’t let up. His thumb brushed against the sensitive bundle of nerves at your core, and your hips bucked involuntarily against his hand.

“Don’t stop,” you said, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “Please, don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he replied, his voice thick with desire. His lips captured yours in a deep, unyielding kiss, swallowing the moans that spilled from your mouth as his fingers worked you over.

The truck’s interior felt impossibly small, the windows fogging slightly as the tension between you built to a fever pitch. Logan shifted beneath you, his hips pressing up in response to the way your body moved against him. His free hand slid up your back, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

“You’re so damn beautiful like this,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and reverent all at once. “Can’t get enough of you.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly as you finally gave up trying to stifle the sounds spilling from you. “Logan,” you moaned, his name a plea, a prayer, and a curse all in one.

He groaned at the sound, his lips moving down your neck again, tongue flicking over the marks he’d left. “That’s it, darlin’,” he coaxed. “Let it all out. Don’t hold back for me.”

The coil in your stomach tightened, your body trembling as the sensation built higher and higher. Your hands gripped his shoulders so tightly you were sure you’d leave marks that would only last seconds, but Logan didn’t seem to care. If anything, he seemed to thrive on the way you clung to him, his own restraint fraying with every noise you made.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “Just let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

His words sent you over the edge, the pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense you forgot how to breathe for a moment. Your head fell against his shoulder, and you cried out, his name spilling from your lips in a broken, desperate sound that echoed through the quiet truck. Logan didn’t stop, his fingers working you through the high until you were trembling in his arms.

When you finally came down, your breath still ragged, you felt his hand gently smoothing over your back, his lips pressing soft kisses to your hairline. “You okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the edge of teasing replaced with something softer.

You nodded, your cheek resting against Logan’s shoulder as you tried to catch your breath. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “More than okay.” You leaned in to kiss him, your glasses lightly thumping against his temple as your hands blindly reached down for his belt.

Logan caught the movement immediately, his lips curling into that familiar smirk that made your stomach flip. “You sure about this, darlin’? Not that I’m complainin’, but...” He let the teasing lilt hang, his fingers brushing along your sides. “Didn’t think you’d be the one unbucklin’ my belt out here.”

You flushed, your fingers fumbling against the leather. “You started this,” you shot back, your voice shaking slightly but resolute. “And you’re… you’re the one who—”

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound reverberating through you. “Fair point.” His hand covered yours for a moment, steadying your trembling fingers. “Here, let me.” He made quick work of the buckle, the metallic clink loud in the confined space. “Ain’t gotta be nervous with me, sweetheart.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lied, your hands sliding down to tug at his jeans. But the heat rising to your face betrayed you, and Logan wasn’t about to let it go unnoticed.

“Course you’re not,” he drawled, his tone thick with amusement. His hands settled on your hips again, his grip firm as he leaned in to nip at your bottom lip. “You’re just… determined.”

“Logan,” you said, your voice soft but edged with impatience. “Stop teasing me.”

He grinned, his teeth glinting in the dim light of the truck’s cab. “You’re too easy, darlin’. But don’t worry, I’ll be good.”

As you shifted, trying to maneuver out of your own jeans, reality hit. The cramped space made it nearly impossible. You huffed in frustration, your glasses slipping down your nose as you tried to wriggle free. Logan watched you with an arched brow, clearly amused.

“Need a hand?” he offered, though the mischievous glint in his eye suggested he had something else in mind.

“It’s just… tight in here,” you muttered, tugging at the stubborn denim. “I didn’t exactly dress for this.”

Logan’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Lucky for you, I’ve got a shortcut.” Before you could question him, you heard the unmistakable snikt of his claws extending. The sound was sharp and precise, and your breath hitched as you glanced down.

“Logan,” you started, but he cut you off with a reassuring kiss.

“Relax,” he murmured against your lips. “I’m careful.”

You held still as the cool metal pressed lightly against the fabric of your jeans. With a quick, deliberate motion, Logan sliced through the denim and your underwear, his claws never so much as grazing your skin. The ruined fabric fell away, leaving you exposed and breathless.

“Told ya I’d take care of it,” he said, his voice low and husky as he retracted his claws. His hands immediately returned to your hips, pulling you closer. “Now, c’mere.”

Before you could respond, Logan shifted beneath you, his strong hands guiding you as he pushed into you with a slow, deliberate thrust. The stretch was overwhelming, his size forcing you to take him inch by inch. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, a soft gasp escaping your lips.

“Missed me, didn’t she?” Logan rasped, his voice thick with satisfaction. His hands gripped your hips tighter, holding you steady as he bottomed out inside you. “Could’ve told me sooner, darlin’. Would’ve taken care of her right away.”

Your head tipped back, a breathless “mmhmm” the only response you could manage. The sensation of him filling you completely was almost too much, your body trembling in his lap.

Logan’s grin widened, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart.”

Your hands slid into his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as you rocked against him. “Oh, God,” you breathed, your voice breaking as he began to move. “Right there, honey. Right there.”

Logan groaned, the sound guttural and raw as he thrust up into you. His pace was measured at first, each movement deliberate and controlled, but as your nails raked across his scalp, his restraint began to slip.

“You drive me crazy,” he growled, his voice rough and desperate. His hands roamed over your body, one sliding up to cup your breast through your sweater while the other gripped your waist, guiding your movements. “Don’t hold back on me now, Y/N. Let me hear you.”

Your hips moved in time with his, the friction sending sparks of pleasure coursing through you. “Logan,” you moaned, his name a breathless plea. “You feel so… so good.”

He growled in response, his lips finding the sensitive spot on your neck that made your entire body arch against him. “That’s it, darlin’. Just like that. You’re perfect.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him groan. The sound was deep and rough, vibrating against your skin as his teeth scraped lightly over your collarbone. “Keep makin’ those sounds,” he urged, his voice ragged. “Drives me wild.”

You couldn’t stop the cries spilling from your lips, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. Logan’s pace quickened, his movements growing more urgent as he chased his own release. The tension between you was electric, every touch and sound amplifying the intensity.

“Logan,” you gasped, your voice trembling. “I… I’m gonna—”

“I’ve got you,” he interrupted, his tone fierce and possessive. “Let go for me, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

His words sent you spiraling, your body tightening around him as the pleasure overwhelmed you. Your cry echoed in the small space, and Logan followed close behind, his groan rumbling through your chest as he found his release. He held you tightly, his hands gripping you like a lifeline as you both rode out the aftershocks.

For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the only sounds in the truck your ragged breaths and the faint hum of the radio. Logan’s arms wrapped around you, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses to your temple.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the teasing edge replaced with genuine concern.

You nodded, your head resting against his shoulder. “Yeah,” you murmured, your voice still shaky. “Better than okay.”

He chuckled softly, his hands moving to rub soothing circles on your back. “Good.” He tilted your chin up, his eyes meeting yours. “Didn’t mean to make such a mess of your jeans, though.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, light and unrestrained. “Guess I’ll have to borrow one of your flannels for the ride back.”

Logan’s grin widened, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You can have all the flannels you want, darlin’. Long as you keep lookin’ at me like that.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was undeniable as you leaned in to kiss him again, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

And even though the ice cream was melted when you got to the mansion, and Ororo gave the two of you a lecture about it, you couldn’t find it in you to care.

---

You sighed, rubbing your temples. You were usually great at multitasking, but pumping while grading physics homework probably wasn’t your best idea. The steady hum of the pump filled the quiet corner of your bedroom, and every few minutes, Gabby’s baby monitor crackled softly, broadcasting her occasional coos and babbles from the nursery.

“Maybe I’ll finish this last paper before she wakes up,” you muttered, glancing at the clock on your desk. You adjusted your glasses, eyes scanning the barely legible handwriting of one of your students. “Or maybe not, if Todd keeps writing his answers in chicken scratch.”

A quiet knock at the door startled you. Before you could answer, Logan’s voice came through. “You decent?”

“Yes,” you called, setting the paper aside and pausing the pump. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Logan stepped inside, holding two mugs of tea. His sharp gaze swept over you, then the pump, then the papers scattered across your desk. “This what you call takin’ it easy?”

“I’m not overdoing it,” you said defensively, though the tension in your shoulders probably said otherwise. “I’m multitasking.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He walked over, setting one of the mugs in front of you and leaning against the desk. “Didn’t realize you had three hands.”

You rolled your eyes, picking up the mug. “I’m fine, Logan. It’s just grading.”

“And pumping,” he added, his smirk softening into something closer to a grin. “You ever think about askin’ someone else to handle this stuff for a day?”

"What, and letting you pump?" You poked Logan’s chest, your fingertip bouncing off the solid muscle. “You don’t have the assets for that.”

Logan smirked, catching your hand before you could pull it back. “No, but I’ve got the patience to remind you to take a damn break every now and then.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. “I don’t need reminding. I’m fine.”

“You’re fine, huh?” Logan tilted his head, still holding your hand as he raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure fine people don’t try to grade papers while attached to a milk machine.”

You let out an exasperated laugh. “You make it sound so dignified.”

He grinned, leaning in just enough to let his voice drop. “Ain’t no shame in it, darlin’. Just sayin’ you don’t need to do it all at once.”

You sighed, your shoulders softening as you looked up at him. “I know. I just... I like feeling productive. If I don’t keep moving, I feel like I’m slacking.”

Logan huffed, letting go of your hand only to brush his fingers against your cheek. “You’re raisin’ a baby, teachin’ classes, and keepin’ the whole mansion from fallin’ apart. If that’s slackin’, I’d love to see what busy looks like.”

“It’s not about being busy,” you murmured, your voice quieter now. “It’s about... I don’t know. Feeling like I’m still me, I guess.”

Logan’s hand slid to the back of your neck, his touch warm and grounding. “You’re still you, sweetheart. Whether you’re teachin’ physics or sittin’ here with Gabby strapped to your chest, you’re still the same person. Don’t need to prove nothin’.”

You let his words settle over you, your fingers idly tracing the edge of your desk. “It’s hard sometimes. Remembering that.”

“That’s why you’ve got me,” Logan said simply, his thumb brushing lightly against your neck. “When you forget, I’ll remind you.”

You smiled at him, your heart swelling at the quiet sincerity in his tone. “You’re annoyingly good at that, you know.”

“Damn right I am,” he said with a smirk, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before stepping back. “Now, finish up here and come downstairs. Laura’s got Gabby, and I’ve got somethin’ I want to show you.”

“What kind of something?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’ll see,” he said, already heading for the door. “Don’t take too long.”

“Bossy,” you called after him, though there was no heat in your tone.

---

In the backyard, the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the lawn, where Laura sat cross-legged with Gabby propped up on a soft blanket. Gabby was babbling happily, her chubby hands reaching for the toys scattered around her.

“What’s going on?” you asked as Logan led you outside. Laura looked up and gave a small wave but didn’t get up, her attention returning to Gabby.

“Just thought we’d spend some time out here,” Logan said, motioning toward the small table set up nearby. Two mugs of tea sat waiting, along with a plate of cookies that had clearly come from the kitchen’s communal stash.

You smiled, your chest tightening at the simple thoughtfulness of it. “This is your big surprise? Tea and cookies?”

“Not just that,” Logan said, pulling out one of the chairs for you. “Figured you could use a break, sit back, and watch the kid go nuts with her toys.”

You sat down, adjusting your glasses as you glanced at Gabby, who was now chewing on a brightly colored block. “She looks pretty content.”

“She’s havin’ a good day,” Logan said, sitting across from you and leaning back in his chair. His eyes softened as he watched Laura gently hand Gabby another toy. “Thought you might wanna see it without worryin’ about a million other things.”

You wrapped your hands around the warm mug, your smile lingering. “You’re full of surprises, Logan.”

He smirked, reaching for his own mug. “Gotta keep you on your toes, don’t I?”

As the two of you sat there, sipping tea and watching Gabby’s tiny world unfold, you felt a quiet kind of peace settle over you. It wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t need to be. This was your life—messy, chaotic, and filled with love.

---

9 Months

"Ah-ah-ah-ah," Gabby repeated, smacking her tiny hand against the highchair tray with increasing determination. Her eyes were wide, her gummy smile bright, as though she was conducting some kind of concert.

You leaned forward, adjusting your glasses with one hand while wiping a glob of mashed sweet potato from the corner of Gabby’s mouth with the other. “You’re really into this, huh? Are we raising a singer, or are you just testing your lungs again?”

Gabby responded with another loud, triumphant "Ah!" before smacking the tray even harder.

Logan leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s got a hell of a sense of rhythm, I’ll give her that. You sure she didn’t get that from you?”

You rolled your eyes, scooping up another spoonful of sweet potato. “I can barely clap on beat, Logan. This is all her.” You waved the spoon in front of Gabby’s face. “Alright, sweetie, let’s take a break from the drum solo and try some more food.”

Gabby’s eyes locked on the spoon, her hands pausing mid-air. She opened her mouth slightly, but the moment the sweet potato hit her tongue, her face scrunched up in exaggerated disapproval.

“Really?” you asked, stifling a laugh. “You loved this yesterday.”

Logan chuckled, pushing off the counter to come closer. “She’s got opinions now. Can’t expect her to eat the same thing two days in a row.”

“She’s a baby,” you countered, wiping her chin as the sweet potato dribbled out. “She doesn’t know what opinions are.”

“Try tellin’ her that,” Logan said, crouching beside Gabby’s highchair. He tapped lightly on the tray, drawing her attention. “What’s the problem, kid? You too fancy for sweet potatoes now?”

Gabby responded by smacking her hand down again, this time sending the spoon clattering to the floor.

“Guess that’s a no,” Logan said, his smirk widening as he straightened up. “Looks like she’s takin’ after me with the stubborn streak.”

“I thought we weren’t assigning her personality traits yet,” you teased, reaching down to grab the spoon.

Logan shrugged, grabbing a clean spoon from the drying rack and holding it out to you. “Might be too early for that, but the evidence is piling up.”

You sighed, taking the spoon and scooping up a smaller portion of the puree. “Okay, one more try, Gabby. If you don’t want it, we’ll call it a draw.”

Gabby’s expression softened as you brought the spoon closer. She hesitated, her little lips parting just enough for you to slide the spoon in. This time, she swallowed it without fuss, though her face still held a trace of skepticism.

“There we go,” you said softly, a triumphant smile spreading across your face. “See? It’s not so bad.”

Logan leaned over, his arm brushing against yours as he watched Gabby closely. “You’re just playin’ games with us, aren’t ya, kid?”

Gabby let out another loud babble, smacking the tray one last time for good measure. Logan chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, thought so.”

As you set the spoon down and reached for a damp cloth, the sound of small footsteps padded into the kitchen. Laura appeared in the doorway, her sharp eyes darting between the two of you and Gabby.

“Why is she so loud?” Laura asked, crossing her arms.

“She’s practicing her vocals,” Logan said, his tone dry as he turned to lean against the counter again. “Maybe she’ll front a band one day.”

Laura frowned, tilting her head slightly as she studied Gabby. “She just yells for no reason.”

“It’s not for no reason,” you said, wiping Gabby’s sticky hands. “She’s learning how to communicate. Babbling helps her figure out sounds.”

Laura didn’t look entirely convinced but stepped closer, her gaze lingering on Gabby. “She’s messy.”

“She’s nine months old,” Logan said, smirking as he ruffled Laura’s hair. “Mess comes with the territory.”

Laura ducked out of his reach, scowling at him before turning her attention back to Gabby. “Can I feed her?”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing at Logan, who gave a small shrug. “Sure,” you said, handing Laura the spoon. “Just be gentle, okay?”

Laura took the spoon carefully, her brow furrowed in concentration as she scooped up a bit of the puree. She held it out in front of Gabby, who blinked at her, seemingly unsure of what to do with this new development.

“Open your mouth,” Laura said flatly, her tone more commanding than coaxing.

Gabby stared at her for a long moment, then let out a loud squeal before clumsily grabbing the spoon and smearing the sweet potato all over her face.

Logan barked out a laugh, clapping Laura lightly on the shoulder. “Nice try, kid.”

Laura frowned, handing the spoon back to you. “She doesn’t listen.”

“She’s not ready for instructions yet,” you said gently, wiping Gabby’s face again. “But you did fine, Laura. She’s just… exploring.”

Laura huffed, crossing her arms again. “She’s weird.”

Logan smirked, glancing at Gabby, who had resumed banging her hands against the tray. “Yeah, she’s weird. But she’s our weird.”

“Can I take her to my room? I want to read her a book,” Laura said, standing beside Gabby’s highchair with her arms crossed, her expression as neutral as ever.

You blinked, slightly taken aback by the request, but then nodded. “Sure, Laura. Just be careful with her, okay?”

Logan arched an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as he took Gabby out of her highchair and passed her to Laura with surprising ease. Gabby gurgled, grabbing at the collar of Laura’s shirt, her tiny fingers clinging tightly.

“I’ll be careful,” Laura said, her voice steady as she adjusted Gabby’s position. She didn’t wait for further instructions, heading out of the kitchen with Gabby in her arms.

You exchanged a glance with Logan, who smirked faintly. “Guess she’s gettin’ attached.”

“She’s been helping out a lot lately,” you said softly, watching the doorway. “I think it’s good for her. Gives her something to focus on.”

Logan shrugged, his smirk turning into a grin. “Good for us, too. Gabby’s got another set of eyes on her. Not that Laura misses much.”

As Laura carried Gabby upstairs, her low muttering drifted down the hallway. “Mom and Dad were gonna get all kissy and mushy, and I didn’t want you to suffer through it. You’re welcome.”

Neither you nor Logan caught her words, too busy sipping tea and chatting about how much Gabby had started babbling lately.

---

Upstairs, Laura walked into her room, kicking the door shut gently behind her. She set Gabby down on a soft blanket spread out on the floor, carefully arranging a few stuffed animals and books within Gabby’s reach.

Gabby immediately grabbed one of the stuffed animals—a slightly squashed bunny—and started chewing on its ear.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to do,” Laura said, sitting cross-legged beside her. She picked up a book, flipping it open to a random page. “You’re supposed to listen. It’s a story. Not a chew toy.”

Gabby let out a happy squeal, smacking the bunny against her leg as Laura sighed. “Fine. I’ll read anyway.”

She cleared her throat and started reading in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. “Once upon a time, there was a bear who didn’t want to hibernate…”

---

Back in the kitchen, Logan leaned against the counter, his arms crossed as he watched you finish tidying up. “You think she’s really readin’ to Gabby, or just sittin’ there quietly?”

“Probably a mix of both,” you said, smiling as you rinsed a dish. “But honestly, I think Gabby just likes being around her. Laura has this… calmness about her. Even if she doesn’t think so.”

Logan huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Calm, huh? Guess that’s one way to put it.”

You dried your hands and turned to face him, adjusting your glasses. “She’s done a lot for someone her age. Watching Gabby seems to make her feel more… normal. Or as normal as things can be around here.”

He nodded, his expression softening. “Yeah. She’s got a good heart. Just gotta let her figure it out in her own time.”

You walked over to him, resting your hand on his arm. “That’s what we’re here for, right? To help her figure it out?”

Logan’s lips twitched into a small smile. “You’ve got a knack for helpin’ people find their way, darlin’. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised she’s takin’ to you.”

Your cheeks warmed slightly, and you tilted your head toward the doorway. “You saying we should check on them, or are you worried Gabby’s got Laura wrapped around her finger?”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Nah. Laura can handle herself. But Gabby? She’s got a way of gettin’ what she wants.”

You laughed, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

“Can’t imagine who you’re talkin’ about,” Logan replied, his voice low and teasing as his hand brushed lightly against yours.

---

In Laura’s room, Gabby had abandoned the bunny in favor of crawling toward Laura’s lap. Laura set the book down, watching Gabby with a puzzled expression as the baby reached up, her tiny hands grabbing at Laura’s sleeve.

“What are you doing?” Laura asked, though there was no real annoyance in her tone. She hesitated for a moment before carefully lifting Gabby onto her lap.

Gabby gurgled, smacking her hands against Laura’s legs before letting out a delighted squeal. Laura sighed, shaking her head. “You’re weird. But I guess you’re not terrible.”

Gabby let out another happy sound, leaning her head against Laura’s chest. For a moment, Laura sat still, unsure of what to do. Then, slowly, she wrapped her arms around Gabby, holding her close.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Laura muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

And in her own quiet way, she meant it.

---

Every time the three of you were in the same room, Gabby’s gaze would dart back and forth between you and Logan as though she were keeping track of something only she understood. You didn’t think much of it at first—babies were curious about everything—but the pattern became impossible to ignore.

The soft glow of the Christmas lights you and Rogue strung up around the common room bathed the space in warm colors. Gabby sat on the floor with a stack of brightly colored nesting cups, occasionally toppling them over with a delighted squeal. You and Logan were on the couch, your legs tucked under you as you skimmed through a science journal article.

Logan leaned back, his arm stretched across the back of the couch, his attention flicking between the TV and you. “You’ve been starin’ at that thing for twenty minutes, darlin’. You figure out what’s so damn fascinating yet?”

You adjusted your glasses and smiled, keeping your eyes on the article. “I’m cross-referencing this data with the lesson plan I’ve been working on. It’s... interesting.”

“Interesting, huh?” Logan drawled, his tone dripping with mock skepticism. “Or are you just avoidin’ admitin’ you’re stuck?”

“I’m not stuck,” you replied, nudging his knee with your foot. “I’m refining.”

“Uh-huh,” he said with a smirk, leaning closer. “Let me know when you’re done refining so I can steal your attention back.”

You set the journal down with a chuckle, turning toward him. “You’ve got my attention now, don’t you?”

“Damn right I do,” Logan said, leaning in as his hand settled on your leg. His lips met yours, warm and familiar, and the kiss lingered just long enough for the world to blur at the edges.

“Ah!” Gabby’s sudden exclamation made you pull back, her voice sharp and clear over the soft hum of the TV. She clapped her tiny hands together, her wide eyes locked on you and Logan.

You glanced at her, your cheeks flushing slightly as you adjusted your glasses. “What was that, sweetheart?”

Gabby smacked her hands against the floor and let out another loud, triumphant “Ah!” before babbling, “ki-k-ki-s-ki.”

Logan leaned forward, his brow furrowing. “She got somethin’ to say, or is she just givin’ us a performance?”

“Probably both,” you said, smiling as you reached down to hand her one of the cups. “She’s very expressive tonight.”

Gabby took the cup, shook it with both hands, and then looked directly at you and Logan again. This time, her little mouth formed the word slowly, deliberately: “kissy.”

Your eyes widened, and Logan’s smirk froze in place. For a beat, neither of you spoke, both too stunned to react.

“Kissy!” Gabby repeated, louder this time, her voice full of triumph as if she’d just mastered a critical life skill.

Logan barked out a laugh, leaning back against the couch. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to suppress a laugh that quickly turned into a giggle. “Did she just—? She—oh my God.”

Gabby clapped her hands again, clearly pleased with herself. “Kissy!”

“She knows what she’s sayin’,” Logan said, shaking his head with a grin. “That little troublemaker.”

You looked at Gabby, who was now grinning ear to ear, her tiny teeth just beginning to peek through her gums. “Where did you even learn that word?”

“Kissy!” she said again, her excitement undeterred.

Logan glanced toward the door. “I got a theory.”

Before you could ask, Laura appeared, her small frame leaning against the doorway. “What’s going on?”

You raised an eyebrow, gesturing toward Gabby. “She just said ‘kissy.’ Do you know anything about that?”

Laura’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something behind her eyes—amusement, maybe guilt. “She sees you two all the time,” Laura said flatly. “It’s not a mystery.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “You been teachin’ her to say it?”

“I didn’t teach her,” Laura said, her tone as matter-of-fact as ever. “I just told her what you were doing.”

You blinked, your voice caught somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “And what exactly did you tell her?”

Laura shrugged. “That you’re always kissing. And it’s mushy.”

“Mushy?” Logan repeated, his eyebrows shooting up.

Laura nodded, her expression unflinching. “Yeah. You’re mushy.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter anymore, leaning into Logan’s side as your shoulders shook. “She’s not wrong,” you said between giggles.

Logan sighed, running a hand over his face, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a faint smirk. “This place is somethin’ else.”

Gabby babbled again, clearly enjoying the chaos she’d caused, and Laura turned to leave, her mission apparently accomplished.

As the room quieted again, Logan glanced down at Gabby, who was now chewing on her cup with great enthusiasm. “Kissy, huh?” he said, his voice low and amused.

“She’s observant,” you said, still smiling as you brushed a hand over Gabby’s soft head. “And apparently, so is Laura.”

Logan chuckled, pulling you closer. “Guess we’re gonna have to watch ourselves.”

“Not a chance,” you said, tilting your head up to kiss him again.

From her spot on the floor, Gabby squealed in delight. “Kissy!”

---

It was close to the end of the school day, and the common room was alive with soft noise. Laura sat cross-legged on the floor, her small fingers carefully hitting a few notes on the xylophone before handing the mallet to Gabby, who immediately smacked it down with more enthusiasm than rhythm.

Rogue was on the other side of the room, picking up the scattered toys Gabby had left in her wake. “You got a real knack for chaos, little one,” she said over her shoulder, glancing at the baby, who seemed completely unfazed by the remark.

Gabby hit another loud note on the xylophone, pausing to glance at Laura as if expecting applause. Laura gave a tiny nod, her version of approval, then hit another sequence of notes for Gabby to imitate.

As Gabby’s mismatched melody filled the room, Remy strolled in, flipping a card idly between his fingers. His easy smirk widened when he saw Rogue. “Cher, you tryin’ to clean this place, or just rearrangin’ the mess?”

Rogue straightened, tossing a plush bear into a nearby bin. “Someone’s gotta keep it from lookin’ like a toy store exploded.”

“Could leave it,” Remy suggested, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Keeps things interesting.”

Rogue rolled her eyes but didn’t respond, her attention turning back to the floor.

Gabby, meanwhile, had stopped her xylophone performance. Her bright eyes locked onto Remy and Rogue, watching them intently. She clumsily pushed herself onto all fours, crawling toward Rogue with determination.

“Where you off to, Gabby?” Laura asked, her tone flat but curious as she watched the baby make her way across the room.

Gabby stopped a few feet from Rogue and sat back on her heels, her hands clapping together as she exclaimed, “kissy!”

Rogue froze mid-reach for a toy, her head snapping toward Gabby. “What’d she just say?”

“Kissy!” Gabby repeated, her voice louder this time, her little fists hitting the floor for emphasis.

Remy chuckled, crouching beside Gabby with his trademark grin. “Now that’s a word I can get behind. You rootin’ for me, petite?”

Gabby giggled, clapping again as if cheering him on.

Rogue looked at him, her expression a mix of amusement and warning. “Don’t you even think about it, Remy.”

“Why not? The little one’s givin’ me the go-ahead,” he teased, leaning slightly closer to Rogue.

Before Rogue could respond, Logan’s gruff voice cut through the room like a blade. “I don’t wanna see that.”

Everyone turned to find Logan standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his expression far from amused. His sharp eyes darted between Remy and Rogue before settling on Gabby, who looked entirely too pleased with herself.

“Logan,” Rogue said, exasperated. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, I know what it looks like,” Logan grumbled, stepping further into the room. “And I don’t wanna see it.”

Remy straightened, his smirk not quite as wide but still firmly in place. “Relax, homme. Just a little fun.”

Logan’s glare didn’t falter. “You wanna have fun? Go shuffle a deck of cards. Away from Rogue.”

Gabby let out another cheerful “kissy!” and Logan sighed, running a hand over his face.

He crouched beside her, his tone softening as he grumbled, “What’s with you cheerin’ them on, huh? You tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

Gabby tilted her head at him, her wide eyes uncomprehending but curious. She reached out, patting his arm as if to reassure him.

Logan’s lips twitched into the faintest smile, but he quickly covered it up, standing and turning back to Rogue and Remy. “You two—keep it PG.”

Rogue huffed, tossing another toy into the bin. “It was PG until you walked in here, Logan.”

Remy chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Guess we’ll keep it that way, then.”

Laura stood, picking up the xylophone as she watched the scene unfold. “Gabby started it,” she said matter-of-factly, setting the toy on a nearby shelf.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Logan said, glancing at the baby, who had crawled over to his boots and was now trying to pull herself up. He scooped her up with a practiced ease, holding her against his chest. “You got somethin’ else to say, troublemaker?”

Gabby responded by grabbing a fistful of his shirt and babbling happily, her earlier declaration of “kissy” seemingly forgotten.

Logan shook his head, his expression softening as he glanced down at her. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Rogue smirked, tossing a stuffed animal onto the pile. “She gets it from her mama.”

Logan didn’t argue, but his small smile lingered as he carried Gabby toward the door. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go find your ma before you start more trouble.”

As Logan left the room, Gabby let out a delighted squeal, her tiny hands still clutching his shirt.

Rogue and Remy exchanged a glance, Rogue shaking her head with a faint smile. “He’s gonna be impossible now.”

Remy grinned, leaning closer. “Maybe, but it’s fun to watch.”

“Don’t push it,” Rogue warned, though her smile betrayed her.

---

10 Months

“She’s not gonna like that.” Logan commented, leaning against the doorway of Gabby’s room as you put her stuffed bear—one she called Nova—into the laundry basket.

"Logan, it needs to be washed. It’ll only take a few hours. I’m sure we can stall her long enough, and she won’t even know it’s missing," you said, tucking Gabby’s beloved stuffed bear, Nova, into the laundry basket.

Logan leaned against the doorway of Gabby’s room, his arms crossed and a skeptical look on his face. “You’re underestimatin’ her. She’s got instincts when it comes to that thing. You’ll be lucky to make it halfway down the hall before she notices.”

“She’s not that attached,” you said, though your tone faltered slightly. “Right, Laura?”

Laura didn’t look up from her spot on the floor, where she was playing an uncharacteristically enthusiastic game of peekaboo with Gabby. “She takes it everywhere. She sleeps with it. She even tried to put it in the fridge yesterday.”

“Great,” Logan muttered, pushing off the doorframe. “Told ya.”

You sighed, adjusting your glasses as you hefted the basket. “It’s fine. She’s playing right now. By the time she notices, Nova will be fresh, clean, and back in her arms.”

Logan followed you into the hallway, his boots thudding softly against the floor. “Your optimism’s cute, sweetheart, but it’s gonna blow up in your face.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the basket as you started walking. “I’m not backing down. She’ll survive without it for a couple of hours.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that,” Logan said, his smirk audible even without looking at him.

As the two of you walked, your pace slower than usual thanks to the weight of the basket, you felt a slight tug on your pajama pant leg. You frowned, glancing down, only to freeze in place.

Gabby stood there, her tiny body wobbling slightly as she balanced on her own two feet. She looked up at you with wide, determined eyes, her small hands reaching up toward the basket.

“Nova,” she said, her voice clear and purposeful.

Your jaw dropped. “Logan.”

“Yeah?” His voice had an edge of concern as he turned to look at you.

“She… she walked,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

Logan’s gaze darted to Gabby, and his eyes widened slightly as he took in the sight of her standing, clutching your pants for balance. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, crouching beside her. “You takin’ your first steps to save a stuffed bear, huh, princess?”

Gabby looked at him briefly, then back at the basket, her hand tugging your leg again. “Nova,” she repeated, her voice insistent.

You set the basket down carefully, kneeling in front of her. “Sweetheart, you walked! That’s amazing! You’re amazing!” You couldn’t stop the proud smile spreading across your face, even as Gabby’s focus stayed firmly on Nova.

Logan reached out, steadying her with a hand on her back as she shifted on her feet. “Guess she’s got priorities,” he said with a soft chuckle.

Gabby’s gaze didn’t waver. She pointed at the basket, her small finger aimed directly at the stuffed bear buried beneath the laundry. “Nova.”

You exchanged a look with Logan, who raised an eyebrow. “Told ya.”

You sighed, reaching into the basket to retrieve Nova. The bear was stained and worn from months of love, its fur sticking out in odd directions, but Gabby’s face lit up the moment you handed it to her.

She grabbed Nova tightly, hugging the bear to her chest as she plopped down onto her bottom with a satisfied grunt.

“Well, so much for sneaking it away,” you said, pushing your glasses up your nose as you sat back on your heels.

“She won this round,” Logan said, standing and crossing his arms. His expression softened as he watched Gabby, who was now babbling happily at Nova as if the bear had been on an epic journey. “But hey, at least she walked for it.”

You reached out, brushing a hand over Gabby’s soft head. “That she did. And she said ‘Nova’ again. That’s two milestones in one day.”

“Overachiever,” Logan said with a smirk, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “You gonna keep Nova here and let her celebrate, or try to sneak it into the wash later?”

“I think she’s earned a break,” you said with a small laugh, watching as Gabby lifted Nova and waved the bear around in triumph. “We’ll figure out the cleaning part another time.”

“Smart choice,” Logan said, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “C’mon. Let’s get this laundry done while she’s distracted. If we’re lucky, maybe Laura’ll keep her busy.”

Gabby looked up at Logan, clutching Nova tightly. “No,” she said simply, her tone firm.

Logan barked out a laugh. “Well, guess that settles that.”

You shook your head, unable to hide your smile as you scooped Gabby up, Nova and all. “Come on, troublemaker. Let’s see if Laura can tire you out while we try to finish one chore today.”

Logan picked up the laundry basket as you walked back to her room. “How the hell did she even come up with the name ‘Nova’?”

You shifted Gabby to a more comfortable position on your hip, her little hand smacking lightly against your glasses as you avoided her playful grab. “Oh, I don’t know,” you said, your tone light. “Maybe she’s just creative. Or maybe you’re just upset she hasn’t said ‘Dada’ yet.”

Logan grumbled under his breath, adjusting his grip on the basket. “She hasn’t said ‘Mama’ either, so don’t get too smug about it.”

You smirked, leaning a little closer to him as you walked. “Touché.”

“Still,” Logan said, glancing at Gabby, who was now hugging Nova to her chest with all the determination her tiny body could muster. “Ain’t nobody around here sayin’ somethin’ like ‘Nova’—’cept you.”

You froze for half a second, just enough for Logan to notice. His sharp gaze flicked to you, and his brow arched. “What’s that look for?”

“I don’t have a look,” you said quickly, though your voice carried an edge of guilt. You pushed your glasses up your nose and looked straight ahead, trying to seem casual. “It’s just a name.”

Logan’s narrowed eyes weren’t buying it. When the two of you stepped into Gabby’s room, he set the laundry basket down and crossed his arms. “Alright, out with it. You been teachin’ her that?”

You hesitated, looking at Gabby, who was happily babbling to Nova on the floor. Then your gaze drifted toward the small bookshelf in the corner of her room. The brightly colored baby books were neatly arranged—except for one outlier: your worn copy of a space encyclopedia, wedged awkwardly between Goodnight Moon and The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Logan followed your line of sight, and his lips twitched into a knowing smirk. “You been readin’ her that thing?”

You sighed, the heat creeping up your neck as you adjusted Gabby’s blanket. “Maybe. Once or twice.”

“Once or twice, huh?” Logan walked over to the bookshelf, pulling the encyclopedia free and flipping it open. “This thing’s got more words in it than the mansion library. When’d you start?”

“About a month ago,” you admitted, glancing at Gabby, who had now abandoned Nova to chew on the corner of a toy block. “It was late, and I couldn’t handle reading The Hungry Caterpillar for the millionth time. So, I... improvised.”

Logan’s smirk widened, and he leaned against the bookshelf, flipping through the pages. “So instead of caterpillars and bedtime rhymes, you’re tellin’ her about quasars and black holes?”

“Not all at once,” you said defensively, crossing your arms. “Just little bits while I was breastfeeding her. She doesn’t mind.”

Logan closed the book and set it on the shelf, his expression softening. “You’re somethin’ else, darlin’.”

You shrugged, your fingers brushing over Gabby’s soft hair as you smiled at her. “I just thought... why not? She’s listening anyway. Might as well throw in something interesting.”

Logan crouched beside Gabby, picking up the block she’d been gnawing on. “Interesting’s one way to put it. Guess we know why she’s walkin’ around yellin’ ‘Nova’ now.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, sinking onto the floor beside them. “It does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Better than some of the other baby babble,” Logan said, offering Gabby the block again, which she grabbed with enthusiasm. He glanced at you, his smirk softening into something warmer. “She’s got good taste. Must get it from you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed on your face as Gabby babbled happily between the two of you. “Or she just really likes space.” You looked over at Logan, “and maybe you do to.”

He snorted as he sat down next do you, “sure.”

“Mm-hmm. Says the guy who used ‘quasar’ in the same sentence as ‘black hole.’” You elbowed Logan’s side lightly, your voice teasing. “Admit it, you listen to me.”

Logan smirked, sitting back on his heels. “I listen, sweetheart. Doesn’t mean I’m startin’ a fan club or anythin’.”

“Oh, of course not,” you said with a laugh. “The great Wolverine, fascinated by a little space trivia? Unheard of.”

He reached over, plucking a block from Gabby’s pile and turning it over in his hand. “I wouldn’t call it fascination. More like… toleratin’ it.”

Gabby babbled happily, waving Nova around like a victorious flag. You reached over to gently tug the bear away from her mouth before she could soak it again. “Tolerating? That’s funny, because I seem to remember you asking me about the Hubble Constant last week.”

Logan gave you a sidelong glance, his smirk growing. “I was just makin’ conversation.”

“Sure you were,” you replied, nudging him with your foot. “Next thing I know, you’ll be asking me to explain quantum entanglement during dinner.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, leaning closer. “Though I’ll admit, I like hearin’ you talk about it. Your face lights up when you get goin’. Kinda nice to see.”

You paused, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. Heat crept up your neck, and you adjusted your glasses, looking down at Gabby, who had resumed her enthusiastic gnawing on a block. “Well… I like talking about it,” you murmured, feeling uncharacteristically shy under his gaze.

Logan tilted his head, watching you for a moment longer before smirking again. “Knew it.”

“Knew what?” you asked, glancing at him suspiciously.

“That I’d get you all flustered,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “You’re easy to read, darlin’.”

You huffed, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Logan said with a grin, leaning back on his hands. “But you love me for it.”

Before you could respond, Gabby let out a triumphant squeal, lifting Nova above her head like she’d just conquered a kingdom. Both of you turned to her, your laughter echoing softly through the room.

“She’s got good taste in toys,” Logan said, shaking his head as Gabby began smacking the bear against the floor in rhythmic thuds.

“She’s persistent, that’s for sure,” you said, resting your chin on your hand as you watched her. “Though maybe next time, I’ll think twice before trying to sneak it away for a wash.”

“Told ya,” Logan said with a smirk, reaching over to ruffle Gabby’s soft, wispy hair. She giggled at the motion, her eyes crinkling with delight.

---

11 Months

Gabby walked into the kitchen with the help of her small toy shopping cart. She had a few things already in it, Nova, a pair of Logan’s sunglasses—though where she got them you weren’t sure—and a teething ring.

You and Logan sat at the kitchen table, his eyes watching her like a hawk as she rounded the kitchen island to Jean and Scott. Jean leaned against the counter, sipping her tea while Scott held a banana in his hand, hanging at his side.

Gabby paused by Jean, looking up at her then at Scott before moving a few steps forward, and putting her hand around the banana. Scott looked down and lightly tugged it back, but Gabby’s grip was strong.

Scott glanced down at Gabby, who was determinedly gripping the banana, her little face scrunched with concentration. “You want this?” he asked.

Gabby’s only response was an emphatic, “ba!”

Jean sipped her tea, clearly amused. “She’s not going to back down, Scott. Might as well let her win this one.”

“She’s got a grip like a vice,” Scott muttered, trying—and failing—to wiggle the banana free from her hand without much effort. Gabby’s determination only grew, her tiny legs bouncing as she held on tighter.

“You’re gonna lose,” Logan called from the table, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin. “You don’t stand a chance against her.”

Scott’s jaw tightened as Gabby gave another determined squeak. “I’m not losing to a baby.”

Jean laughed softly, setting her mug down. “You’re already losing, Scott.”

Gabby made her next move with the precision of a baby who’d been plotting this for her entire short life—she leaned her weight forward and wobbled just enough to make Scott let go, stumbling back a step. She held the banana aloft like a trophy, her victorious babble echoing through the kitchen.

Scott sighed, crossing his arms. “Fine. She wins.”

“She always wins,” Logan said, his tone smug as he stood and walked toward Gabby. “Don’t feel bad, Slim. She’s got a talent for takin’ people down.”

Gabby turned to Logan, waving the banana in triumph. “Ba!”

Logan crouched beside her, resting his forearms on his knees. “What’re you gonna do with that, huh? You don’t even like bananas.”

“She likes winning,” Jean said with a grin, watching as Gabby proudly dropped the banana into her toy cart.

You couldn’t help but laugh from your seat at the table. “She’s practicing for grocery runs already. By the time she’s two, she’ll be the one running the errands.”

Scott muttered something under his breath about unfair battles, retreating to the counter to peel another banana for himself.

“C’mere, princess,” Logan said, lifting Gabby into his arms. “You cause enough trouble for one morning?”

Gabby grabbed at his shirt with one hand and pointed toward her cart with the other, babbling with the urgency of a general giving orders.

“Yeah, I get it. You’ve got important stuff to do,” Logan said, shaking his head as he set her back down and she started walking with her cart.

“Bye-bye, Gabby.” You said.

Gabby turned briefly toward you, giving a short wave with her tiny hand before marching her toy shopping cart out of the kitchen. The sound of the plastic wheels rolling against the tile faded as she made her determined exit, leaving a moment of quiet in her wake.

---

In the middle of the day, sometime around lunch, the door to your office opened, and Gabby rolled her cart inside with Laura behind her.

Gabby came to a stop beside you and looked up before reaching into her cart, which now had more random objects, and held up your cherry lipgloss.

“Gabby, where’d you get this?” you asked, rolling the cherry lip gloss in your palm and leaning down to meet her gaze. Gabby tilted her head, her round face lighting up with a bright, gummy grin. She reached up toward the gloss as if asking for it back.

“You know, your dada really likes when I wear this,” you murmured, holding it just out of her reach. “And I haven’t been able to find it for days. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Gabby’s response was to babble something unintelligible before crawling over to her toy cart and grabbing Logan's sunglasses. She held them up triumphantly, as if revealing the spoils of her latest heist.

“Nova, the sunglasses, and now this,” you said, narrowing your eyes playfully. “You’ve been busy.”

Behind her, Laura stood with her arms crossed, watching the exchange with quiet interest. “She puts everything in that cart,” Laura said matter-of-factly. “Yesterday, she tried to take Logan’s boots.”

You stifled a laugh, imagining the chaos of Gabby attempting to drag Logan’s heavy boots across the mansion. “She’s got ambition. I’ll give her that.”

Laura tilted her head. “What’s ambition?”

“It’s when someone works really hard to get something they want,” you explained, reaching out to adjust Gabby’s slightly tilted onesie.

“Even if it’s not hers?” Laura asked, her brow furrowing as she glanced at the cart.

You laughed softly. “Sometimes, yes. But we’ll teach her about sharing eventually.”

Gabby clapped her hands together, her bright eyes darting between you and Laura as though she was reveling in the attention. She reached for the lip gloss again, her tiny fingers curling around the edge of your hand.

“Oh, no you don’t,” you said gently, pulling it back. “This is going back in my bag, young lady. And your cart’s getting a cleanout later.”

Gabby responded with a delighted squeal, clearly unbothered by your threat.

---

1 Year

“Good morning, birthday girl. Did Dada already dress you?” You crouched down beside Gabby, who was sitting on the nursery floor, her little legs kicking excitedly. The tiny shirt she wore was pink and had “1 Year of Trouble” printed across it in sparkly letters. Her pants were mismatched, a bright purple pair that didn’t remotely coordinate. Nova was tucked under her arm, looking as worn as ever.

Logan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his smirk barely concealed. “Yeah, I dressed her. Got a problem with it?”

You bit back a laugh, adjusting your glasses. “Not a problem, but maybe next time, we can aim for colors that don’t clash so hard they make my eyes water.”

“She’s a kid, not a damn fashion show,” Logan said, shrugging. “Besides, she likes it. Don’t ya, princess?”

Gabby responded with a babble and a triumphant wave of Nova, which somehow flopped out of her hand and landed at Logan’s feet. He picked it up without a second thought, tucking it back into her grasp.

You smiled, standing up and brushing your hands on your jeans. “I guess I’ll let it slide since it’s her birthday. Did you get everything ready downstairs?”

Logan tilted his head, pretending to think. “Let’s see... Balloons? Check. Cake? Check. Jean stealing half the decorations to ‘fix’ them? Double check.”

You laughed softly, crossing your arms. “That sounds about right. Did Jubilee get the piñata?”

Logan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, but she filled it with chocolate. Real smart, considering half the kids can’t eat it without making a mess.”

“She means well,” you said, nudging his arm. “And it’s not like Gabby’s even old enough to hit the piñata. It’s for the older kids.”

“Still a mess,” Logan muttered, but his smirk betrayed him. He crouched down to Gabby’s level, offering her his hand. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go see what Jean’s been up to with the decorations.”

Gabby clumsily grabbed his hand and pulled herself to her feet, wobbling slightly before steadying herself against his leg. “You’re walking like a pro now,” you said, smiling as you bent to grab your phone. “Let me get a picture before we go downstairs.”

Logan gave you a look. “Another picture? How many do you need?”

“As many as I can get,” you replied, already framing the shot as Gabby toddled toward him, her little feet barely making a sound against the floor. “It’s her first birthday, Logan. I want to remember it.”

He sighed, scooping Gabby up and holding her on his hip. “Alright, get your shot. But make it quick.”

You snapped a picture, laughing when Logan leaned into the frame just enough to make a mock-serious face. “Perfect,” you said, slipping your phone back into your pocket. “Now let’s go before Jean starts rearranging the furniture.”

---

Downstairs, the common room had been transformed into a bright and cheerful party space. Balloons in every shade of pink and yellow floated along the ceiling, and a banner reading “Happy 1st Birthday, Gabby!” stretched across the wall above a table piled high with presents. Jean was busy adjusting the streamers while Kitty and Jubilee arranged the cupcakes into the shape of a big “1.”

“Look who finally made it!” Jubilee said, grinning as she caught sight of the three of you. “Hey, birthday girl!”

Gabby squealed, reaching out toward the balloons as Logan carried her closer. “Ba!” she exclaimed, pointing toward the table.

“She’s already got her priorities straight,” Jean said with a laugh, stepping back to admire her work. “What do you think, Y/N? Does it pass the birthday party test?”

“It looks amazing,” you said, genuinely impressed. “You went all out, Jean. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Jean said, waving a hand. “I couldn’t let Gabby’s first birthday be anything less than perfect.”

Logan leaned closer to you, lowering his voice. “Perfect, huh? She’s been bossin’ us around for two hours.”

You smirked. “You’re lucky she didn’t assign you balloon duty. Or worse—streamers.”

Logan huffed, setting Gabby down on the playmat near the gift table. “She’s lucky I didn’t walk out when she suggested we put glitter on the cake.”

Jean overheard, rolling her eyes. “It was edible glitter, Logan. And I decided against it.”

“Thank God,” he muttered, crossing his arms.

Gabby crawled toward the nearest balloon string, her little fingers grabbing at it with glee. Kitty crouched beside her, helping her pull it closer. “You like that one, huh?” Kitty said with a smile. “It’s all yours, birthday girl.”

As the rest of the team began to trickle in—Rogue, Remy, Scott, Ororo, Charles, and the other students—the room filled with laughter and chatter. Gabby became the center of attention, each person taking turns crouching down to her level to say hello or hand her a small toy.

Watching from the side, you leaned against Logan, his arm draped loosely around your waist. “She’s loving this,” you said softly, your heart swelling at the sight of Gabby grinning up at Rogue, who was showing her a glittery wand.

“Yeah,” Logan said, his voice low. “She deserves it.”

You glanced up at him, your hand brushing against his. “So do you.”

He looked down at you, his expression softening as he squeezed your hand lightly. “I got everything I need right here, sweetheart.”

“Hey, lovebirds!” Jubilee called from the table, holding up a cupcake with a single candle in it. “We’re ready for the big moment!”

Logan smirked, guiding you toward the table. “C’mon, darlin’. Let’s make it official.”

You followed him, your hand brushing his as you walked. Gabby was scooped up by Rogue, who carried her toward the center of the room where Jubilee was setting up the cupcake with the lit candle. Everyone gathered around, forming a loose circle, the warm hum of laughter and chatter filling the air.

“Alright, everyone,” Jubilee called, her grin wide as she held up her phone, ready to record. “It’s Gabby’s big moment! Let’s make it loud and fun!”

Jean stepped forward with a tambourine she’d somehow acquired, shaking it lightly. “Alright, on three—”

“One, two, three!”

The room erupted into a cheerful rendition of “Happy Birthday,” voices blending together in a way that was more enthusiastic than harmonious. Gabby’s wide eyes darted around the circle, her little face lighting up with pure joy as she clapped her hands to the beat.

When the song ended, Jubilee pointed toward the cupcake. “Okay, Gabby, time to make a wish and blow out the candle!”

Gabby tilted her head, staring at the tiny flickering flame like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Rogue gently guided her closer. “Alright, sugar. Just give it a little puff.”

Logan crouched beside Gabby, his hand resting lightly on her back. “C’mon, kid. You got this.”

With everyone’s encouragement, Gabby made a soft squeak and leaned forward, though it was more of a drool-filled rasp than a proper blow. The flame flickered but didn’t go out.

“Team effort!” Jean said, leaning in and gently blowing out the candle. The room burst into applause, and Gabby clapped along, her laugh bubbling over the noise.

“Alright, who wants to clean her up after she dives into that cupcake?” Kitty joked, pulling out her phone to snap a picture.

“Not it,” Scott said quickly, holding his hands up and stepping back.

“Don’t look at me,” Remy added, smirking. “I’m good with cards, not cake.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “I’ll handle it. She’s got my luck anyway.”

“She’s all yours,” you teased, nudging him lightly as Jubilee handed the cupcake to Gabby.

Gabby stared at the cupcake for a moment, her small hands reaching out cautiously. She poked at the frosting, smearing it across her fingers before bringing it to her mouth. Her eyes widened as she tasted the sweetness, and without hesitation, she grabbed the entire cupcake, squishing it between her tiny fists as she giggled.

“There it is,” Rogue said with a laugh. “The mess we’ve all been waiting for.”

Logan chuckled, standing up and crossing his arms as he watched Gabby smear frosting across her face. “She’s havin’ a good time. That’s what matters.”

“She’s going to need a bath immediately,” you said, shaking your head but smiling as Gabby smeared frosting on Nova. “And probably a deep clean for Nova, too.”

“Can’t wait,” Logan said dryly, though the warmth in his tone gave him away.

As the party continued, Gabby was passed from one set of arms to another, each person showering her with love and attention. She laughed, babbled, and waved her frosting-covered hands at everyone, her joy infectious. By the end of the party, she was slumped against Logan’s chest, her little body exhausted from the excitement.

“Big day, huh?” Logan murmured, brushing a bit of frosting from her cheek with his thumb.

You leaned against him, your hand resting lightly on his arm. “She had the best time. Thank you for helping make it special.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Logan said, his voice low and steady. He glanced down at Gabby, then at you, his smirk softening into a small smile. “We’re lucky, darlin’. Real lucky.”

You nodded, your eyes meeting his. “Yeah, we are.”

like i said, that was gabby's first year, so spanning from around march 2018 to march 2019! next chapter will span the next 4-ish years

[pawstriez]

. ༉‧₊ 𝐀 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐄

✧ synopsis : after almost a decade of a healthy marriage, four kids, and a stressful bakery opening, you and toji have learned to take your alone time very seriously.

✧ tags : firefighter! toji + baker! reader, reader uses she/her pronouns, blk fem reader ofc, mentions of alcohol, public sex ?? in the car, mentions of vaginal penetration, cowgirl, pet names like bby, love, pretty, mama bc yall already know etc, excuse any errors. i wrote this in a few different povs at first so — 𝟓.𝟖𝐊 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 smiles as he pulls into his driveway, the familiar cacophony of squeals and thuds greeting him before he’d even opened the door - the kiddos must’ve been riding the after dinner sugar high. cheerfully shaking his head, he braced himself for the chaos and noise that awaited inside your now shared, cozy little place the two of you have grown to call home.

it’d been nearly six years since that fateful summer when you’d quite literally swept into his life like a swirl of sunshine and baked goods. six years of dizzying ups and downs, laughter and tears, the most intense love he’d ever known to face. sometimes it still didn’t feel real, even now - this life you’d built from the spark of simple flirting over sweets n’ crème brulee.

so much had happened in that span of adventures : you, graduating at the top of your culinary class, your desserts and pastries that you’d stressed so hard about being the toast of the competition circuit. toji retiring as lieutenant of the fire department after over a decade of service, not daring to miss out on any more milestones as the two of you started your family. not to mention the whirlwind of wedding plans, and then the magical day itself where you vowed forever to each other in front of family and friends.

then the true blessings had come along, one right after the other - megumi, who was still adjusting to the new family dynamic of it all, but was yet so proud of his father. little rascally rose, a firecracker just like her mama with the same bright eyes and full curls. goofy, tender-hearted kenji who practically worshipped his big brother and sister, wanting nothing more than to mimic their every move and be just like his papa. and finally malachai, the happy surprise baby who seemed to have inherited the best of both his parents’ feisty personalities.

toji wouldn’t trade this beautiful chaos for anything in the world. but he’d be lying if he said the constant juggling act of family life wasn’t difficult - for the both of you. it was rare for you guys to get a real moment alone together, just the two of you. your intimacy had cooled down amidst all the lovely distractions, as had the simple art of conversation beyond trading information about grocery lists and pediatrician appointments.

date nights had become a long forgotten luxury, almost seemingly impossible to coordinate when your trusted babysitters were your siblings with families of their own. but tonight, uncle satoru had stepped up and volunteered his services, giving toji and you a well overdue opportunity to reconnect.

toji unbuckles his seatbelt and exited the truck, tamping down a flutter of nerves. what if the easy rhythm and sizzling chemistry you’d once shared was gone for good? a victim of sleep deprivation and chicken nugget overdoses? what if it was too late to rekindle that spark?

pushing open the front door, he was immediately swamped by a tiny army of squirming, chattering bodies. “papa, papa, papa!” rose seized his hand and tugged insistently. “you gotta’ see the cool fort we built! kenji made it super big this time!”

“we’ll show ya, dad!” kenji crowed, already streaking towards the living room, malachai hot on his heels with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“hold up there, you lil’ tornados,” toji called in vain, being unceremoniously dragged by his giggling daughter into the chaos. every available pillow, cushion, and blanket had been appropriated to create an elaborate tent city surrounded by toys and stuffed animals . . and gojo sat smack in the middle of it all, long legs splayed out as he played some kind of intricate make believe game with the two boys.

“baby, you’re home!” you swept in from the kitchen, wisps of hair escaping your messy bun and face flushed from exertion. you were wearing a cute pink sundress that struck a nostalgic chord in toji’s memory - you’ve had it for years, one of his favorite things to slowly peel off of your shoulders after a night out to be exact. “thank goodness. i was startin’ to think i’d have to call backup.”

you stand on your tippy toes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, and just like that, his weariness evaporated as if by magic. your familiar floral scent, your soft warmth, the kids’ laughter surrounding him - this moment of serenipity in the midst of routinely chaos bringing a lump to his throat.

“not a chance,” he rumbled, sliding an arm around your waist. “i wouldn’t miss this for the world.” downy goosebumps erupted down your arms at his words, flustering deeply. awe, his voice still got you going after all this time. good to know. very good to know. “y’all holdin’ down the fort?”

“y’know how it is,” you reply with a gentle squeeze of his hand, watching in fond exasperation as rose ordered poor gojo to lie down so kenji could perform his ‘very important surgery.’ “satoru took his role a lil’ too seriously this time and got lost in their games.”

you stood together watching for a few moments, the kids pausing just long enough to acknowledge toji’s presence again before diving back into their shenanigans. it was all so beautifully vibrant and alive, the little people you created and who brought such joy, such richness and meaning to your lives. but still . . . toji felt the undeniable tug of wanting you all to himself. just for a few hours at least. he wanted to bask in your undivided attention. to remember what it felt like to not share you with anyone else.

you must have picked up on his restlessness, your eyelids drifting shut as he stroked the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. “soon as we get back, m’ cravin’ some peace n’ quiet. maybe a hot soak in the tub after all this madness.” your tone was light and casual, but the smoldering undertone was unmistakable.

toji found himself swallowing reflexively as his skin prickled with awakening interest. “is that a promise, mama?” he murmured gruffly, not even trying to hide the roughness in his voice.

you peeked up at him through long lashes, a smile curving on your lips. “mm . . . you should know this by now. m’ a girl who keeps her promises.” burying any further suggestive replies, you cleared your throat and turned to gojo, who’d been buried under a pile of stuffed teddy bears. “alright babies, mama n’ daddy gotta’ go for a bit. gumi’s at a friend’s place, and there’s dinner in the fridge if you guys get hungry — so pretty please be good for your uncle gojo, y’hear?”

a chorus of whines follow after your words, but the kids were quickly distracted again by the siren song of more roughhousing. rose blew toji an exaggerated kiss while kenji and malachai paid both of you absolutely no mind whatsoever, already wrestling in a tangle of small limbs. gojo simply shot you a weary thumbs up from beneath his plush prison, glasses askew and hair wild as toji fought the urge to chuckle, “have fun you two. keep me posted, and please for the love of god - quit knockin’ her up, toji. i’m being attacked by three little rascals and it’s just absolutely absurd,” he jokes.

“i don’t make promises i can’t keep, satoru.”

you fished your purse and sweater from the hall closet while toji hovered close, drinking in every detail of you. suddenly he was struck by the profound urge to pull you in close and just breathe nothing but you, to lose himself in the familiar softness and strength of your embrace. but he restrained himself with an effort. all too soon they’d be able to indulge that craving for closeness, he reminded himself as you linked your fingers through his.

with a final wave to the kids and fond shake of his head at gojo’s predicament, toji guided you to the car. the simple act of opening your door and helping you in was enough to set his pulse racing, anticipation crackling in the air as your fingers tangled briefly together. electric from even the most innocent of contact.

by the time he’d slid behind the wheel, he felt ten years younger, energized by the promise of this evening alone with the woman he loved. as toji pulled out of the driveway, you were already reaching for the radio to cue up one of your old playlists, humming along contentedly as warm twilight spilled through the windows. toji cuts you an affectionate glance and reaches over to squeeze your knee - a brief, cherished moment before the magic began.

he couldn’t wait to see where it all would lead.

“so where we headed, hot stuff?” you asked, eyes sparkling with mischief as she toyed with the ends of her hair. “hopefully somewhere without a soft play area and a kids meal if y’know what i mean.”

toji snorted, distracted for a second by the way the skirt of her sundress rode up her thighs as she shifted in the passenger seat. “nah, no funzones tonight. but i can think of a few things i’d like to play with though.”

his suggestive drawl was rewarded with a scandalized laugh and playful swat to his shoulder. “you’re so gross, babe.” your eyes twinkle with amusement before flickering to the darkening sky outside. “seriously though . . . surprise me? i wanna’ be wooed. s’ been too long since you’ve had the chance to take me out. we used to do it all the time.”

kissing away the pout on your lips and squeezing your knee again, toji grinned crookedly. “i know, baby. tonight will be one to remember - i swear.”

true to his word, he bypassed all the usual dining spots they frequented as a family, instead guiding you to a cozy trattoria tucked away on a quiet cobblestone street you didn’t even know existed. he pulled up in front and turned to gauge your reaction, smile widening at the look of surprise and delight on your lovely face.

“bambolino’s?” you exclaimed, craning your neck to peer through the warmly lit windows. “toji, this place is famous! i swear geto raves about their stuffed shells every time he comes over . . like they’re life changing or something!”

“nothin’s better than your cookin’ so we’ll see. m’ a tough crowd to please.” chuckling, he cut the engine and climbed out to open your door, and you hopped out with a charming little shimmy of your hips, curls bouncing around your shoulders now. toji quite literally had to bite back a groan as images of sweeping you up onto the hood and hiking that dress up around your waist flooded his mind unbidden.

jesus, dude. maybe he felt a little too hot n’ bothered. this was a night to reconnect emotionally, not just physically. ‘keep it together, man,’ he mumbles to himself.

threading your arm through his, you allowed him to lead you to the heavy oak door. “well well, aren’t you just the sweetest.”

toji leaned over to murmur in her ear, voice low and intimate. “like i said . . . a night to remember. and m’ just gettin’ started, lovely.” he felt you shiver and had to quickly resist the urge to press an open mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot behind you ear — the spot he knew drove you crazy. but he reined himself in, offering you his arm instead. you slanted him an arch look from beneath your lashes as you took his elbow, well aware of the charged energy in the room. “you’re such smooth talker,” you teased. “but m’ callin’ you out - you gotta’ keep deliverin’ now.”

the inside of the restaurant was every bit as quaint and charming as the exterior, all warm golden lighting and rustic decor like something plucked from a cozy little italian village. your table of choice nestled in a babylon themed area, made for discreet intimacy. along with linen napkins and sparkling wine already waiting along with a single garden rose in a low vase.

as toji held out your chair for you, you leaned up to brush a soft kiss to his cheek. “this lovely, t,” you murmured, fingers trailing over the pristine white tablecloth. “really, baby . . . jus’ lovely.”

he hummed, momentarily distracted by the alluring fragrance of your signature perfume mixed with the lingering scent of baked goodies in your hair from a hectic day’s work at the bakery. “you deserve it,” he rumbled once he’d found his voice again. “. . . i know how crazy swamped you been with the kids and workin’ on side projects for the shop. tonight is strictly about you, mama. no responsibilities, no worries. just you n’ me enjoyin’ each other. like we used to do.”

your smile softened at the corners as you regarded him with open adoration. “when did all your charm come back?” you teased gently, though . . that tone was genuine. “feels like we haven’t had a moment alone in ages. hard to remember the last time you wooed me like this.”

“tonight’s special. couldn’t let another moment go by without remindin’ you exactly why you chose to put up with me.”

your expression turned impish once more. “coulda’ fooled me - i seem to recall it was you who was pushin’ lil’ ol’ me away, no?”

he formed his features into his best look of faux offense, tone full of lofty dignity. “can a man not get nervous anymore? you were stunning i was terrified — as megumi would say, your aura was just . . .” beneath the table, you could start to feel him sliding his foot forward to glide his ankle over yours, naughtiness giving him away even before your muffled squeak of surprise. toji just grinned that stupid grin at you innocently, as though not at all aware of the toe he was trailing up the delicate skin of your inner calf, “out of this world, sweetheart.”

you had to clear your throat before replying, voice husky with a mixture of amusement and something darker. “oh shut up. jus’ admit you loved me before you even knew it yet.” but despite the humor, you lashes had lowered invitingly as you let your calves part further, granting him unrestricted access.

his gaze snagged on the glimpse of your skin revealed as his foot inched higher and higher to skim the sensitive crease behind your knee. already, his blood was pounding with renewed interest, awakened by the heady combination of your pheromones and just being within your space. hmph. it was like suddenly the intimate, flickering candles and red wine he'd scoffed at earlier as a cheesy cliche seemed perfectly fitting, matching the frisson of sexual heat enkindling within him.

you spent the first part of dinner treading familiar ground - teasing n’ flirting, punctuated by conversations and easy silences that felt almost novel in your peacefulness these days. there was an ease to it, a bond between you both that couldn’t be so easily broken by the stress of soccer practices, ballet recitals or piles of laundry.

an intimacy beyond the aspects of physical that toji clung to . . . even as his vixen urges stirred elsewhere.

once appetizers had been polished off and the main courses brought out, toji leaned back in his chair and leveled you with a heavy lidded stare. slowly, he scooped up his cloth napkin and tossed it onto the table as though throwing down a gauntlet. your eyebrows rose in polite question even as a smirk tugged at the corners of your lips.

“y’know . .” toji began, voice pitched low and rough like buttered rum. “you look absolutely stunning tonight, yn. i couldn’t be more proud of the woman you are n’ i jus’ uh . .” he pauses for a moment. wow, even after six years you still found a way to steal the words right out of his mouth, “i jus’ love you — you’re the mother of my children, my heart, my everyth - ”

your breath caught audibly, lashes fluttering as you struggled not to squirm under the potent weight of his stare. still, you rallied with a sassy arch of one brow. “if we weren’t already married, i’d say you were attempting at proposing to me right now, toji.”

“aye, m’ tryin’ t’be sentimental here, lady,” toji chuckled, the sound impossibly intimate amidst the hushed ambiance of the cozy trattoria. reaching across the table, he traced a feather-light path along your forearm with the very tips of his fingers, feeling the fine hairs there rise in gooseflesh, “y’know i’d marry you a thousand times over.”

the sleek black car purred through the dim streets, a monotonous swish of the windshield wipers being the only sound breaking the heavy silence within. in the passenger seat, you gazed out the rain streaked window, city lights smearing across your face in streaks of red and gold and neon blue. the night had been magical - champagne and oysters at bambolino’s, after that there was slow dancing cheek to cheek to smoky jazz at the club down the street, and last but not least — chocolate lava cake shared and savored at the tiny candle lit dessert boutique. all the romance and luxury toji knew his beautiful wife deserved.

but now, cocooned together in the warm confines of the car, the mood had shifted into something . . . more carnal. not sure how it couldn’t have become carnal with toji’s eyes constantly flicking away from the road to steal glimpses of you. in the dim glow of the dash, he drank in the way your clingy pink dress embraced every mouthwatering curve you had, the deep v neckline offering a tantalizing view of your collarbones. and oh, the silky chestnut curls tumbled over your bare shoulders, toji’s fingers itched to suken into them, to pull her close and breathe in the familiar sweet vanilla of her shampoo as he cruised.

he inhaled subtly, your delicate floral perfume underlaid with the warm, sleep-rumpled scent of your skin filling his head with sense memories. lazy sunlit mornings tangled in egyptian cotton sheets, your hair spilled across the pillow. sweaty afternoons grappling on the living room rug like lovestruck college kids. languid twilight baths with your slippery curves pressed back against his chest. he shifted in his seat as his blood began to simmer.

as if she could read his increasingly lurid thoughts, yn turned to meet his gaze. in the shadows, her eyes glittered like black diamonds, dark and fathomless, brimming with wicked promises. slowly, deliberately, she dragged her pink tongue across her bottom lip, leaving the glossed flesh glistening temptingly. toji swallowed hard.

suddenly, the air of the car felt suffocating, the rain misted air unbearably thick and hot. toji cranked the ac, but it did little to cool his overheated skin. he stared deadahead at the surging blades, trying to ignore the rising pressure in his groin.

without a word, you lifted a hand from your lap and slid it across the center console. toji sucked in a sharp breath as your palm skated up his thigh to rest just south of dangerous territory. even through the crisp fabric of his tailored slacks, her touch burned like a brand. as your nimble fingers began to trace idle whorls and spirals, you notice toji’s hands flex around the steering wheel.

“you better get us home safe, mr. we have kids to feed,” you purred, your dulcet voice flooding the charged air between them. “wouldn’t wanna’ have an accident now, would we?” your tone was pure filthy innuendo.

toji risked a glance sideways and instantly regretted it. you looked like a temptation, the old school femme fatale, all dangerous curves and scarlet lips and come-hither eyes. he could practically hear the harps and horns of the kill bill sirens blaring in his brain as he dragged his gaze forward again, locking it on the taillights winking mockingly through the rain smeared glass.

it would be so easy to pull the car over, to say fuck it to propriety and yank you into his lap. to ruck that sinful dress up around your waist and lose himself in your pussy until the windows were disgustingly fogged. so easy to let the inferno building in his veins consume you both right there in the goddamn car.

but toji prided himself on his discipline, his ironclad restraint. you couldn’t be a firefighter without grit, without the ability to stay focused and clear headed no matter what temptations beckoned. he knew that all too well. so he kept his ass planted firmly in the leather seat, even as his body screamed for more of his wife’s wicked touch.

even if his cock throbbed persistently against his fly, inflamed and aching.

you, however, seemed to have no such compunctions about maintaining composure. heedless of toji’s grip on the wheel, you unbuckled your seatbelt and twisted in your seat to face him. in a move that nearly short circuited his brain, you drew one endless leg up onto the seat, making the hem of your dress ride up to reveal the lacy edge of a sheer white thigh high.

toji’s mouth went dust dry. “what’re you doin’?”

“gettin’ comfortable,” you replied airly, but the devilish quirk of your painted lips gave away the game. slowly, you trailed a fingertip along the inside of your thigh, the back of your hand just barely grazing the tent in toji’s slacks as you did so — making him hiss out a breath between his teeth.

“quit playin’ wit’ me, yeah?”

you hummed, unconcerned, and continued her leisurely exploration, tracing idle patterns on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. “i’d rather you play with somethin’ else — i mean, you said it yourself.”

toji’s foot pressed down on the accelerator as if by it’s own volition, the car surging forward through the fuzzy soft darkness. toji's heart beat in time, a primal drum urging him to get the fuck home, where he could strip his vixen of a wife bare and remind you where teasin’ got you.

remind you how good he could make you burn.

your throaty chuckle broke him from his reverie. he glanced over to see you still caressing your own thighs, a wry twist to your lips. “you’re thinkin’ about fuckin’ me, aren’t you?” you mused casually, as if remarking on the weather. “how bad you wanna’ pull this car over, bend me over the hood n’ fuck me like i know you want to.”

liquid heat rolled down toji’s spine to pool in his groin, his cock jerking ravenously in the confines of his straining zipper. “goddammit,” he bit out, knuckles gone bloodless on the steering wheel.

you bit your lip on a smirk, shaky satisfaction in your exhale. “c’mon, daddy,” you coaxed, voice husky and sex-soaked. “i can feel you thinkin’ about it . . . those big hands spreading me open jus’ f’you?”

toji couldn't choke back his groan, pressure building to a rolling boil in his veins. his whole world narrowed down to the flex of his thighs, the strain of keeping the car on the road, and the siren song of your body, your scent, your dirty fuckin’ mouth.

“i’ve been so wet all night, t . .” you continued blithely, as if remarking on the weather. “since the second you walked in from work.” you reached over to smooth a proprietary hand along his thigh, thumb still skating dangerously close to his crotch. “i jus’ wanted to drop to my knees and worship you with my mouth right then n’ there.”

toji nearly swallowed his tongue, vivid images of your plush lips stretching around his cock flooding his brain. “c’mon, baby . .”

“ — but i was such a good girl,” you singsonged. “i was patient. i kept my hands to myself through dinner, even though all i could think about was how good you’d feel inside me.” your fingers creep higher to graze his zipper, “how deep i could take this big dick in my pretty little cunt.”

“don’t make me stop this car n’ —“

“pull over,” you murmured, voice molten and dark with promise. “anywhere. i don’t give a fuck - jus’ fuck me, toji. please . . s’ been too fuckin’ long.”

your words shot through him like an electric charge, heat searing down his spine to pool gravid and pulsing in his groin. “shit’,” he bit out, dizzy, nearly delirious with the force of his want. “ well, i know better than to argue with you. go ahead n’ tell me where, baby.”

“over there,” you pointed through the smeared windshield at an empty parking lot on the right, a black gulf set back from the glistening street. “that lot. pull in.” nearly shaking with the effort of holding himself in check, toji wrenched the wheel to the right, tires juddering over wet asphalt as he whipped into the vacant lot. the moment he threw the car into park, you were scrambling into his lap, sinuous as a snake, that tight dress rucking up around your hips completely now.

toji groaned gutturally as the heat of you settled over him, the damp crotch of your panties grinding right against his aching cock. you were like a furnace through the thin satin, searing him, branding him. he bucked helplessly under the pressure, too far gone for finesse.

“shit,” panted against the shell of his ear, nipping at the sensitive skin. your little hands scrabbling at his belt, desperate, graceless. “wan’ you s’bad. been drippin’ — it hurts, daddy . .”

toji made a wounded sound as you finally freed his straining erection, wrapping slim fingers around the thick root and pumping once, slowly. you let out a broken moan at the heavy heat of him pulsing in your grip, the way he jerked and kicked against the palm, already leaking from the flushed tip.

“look at you,” you purred, running a thumb through the slippery bead of precum. you brought the digit to your mouth, sucking it clean with a low hum that vibrated straight through him. “mm, so fuckin’ hard f’me.” toji’s hands flew to your hips, gripping bruisingly tight, a drowning man clutching a lifeline. the flimsy lace of your panties was no barrier - he ripped them aside, baring the slick folds of your cunt to the humid air. need pounded behind his eyes, turned his blood to quicksilver, his bones to molten steel.

“i missed you, mama,” he rasped, throat tight, voice scraped raw. “missed you so much.” his calloused hands roam your tummy, waist, and then chest — stopping when his palms grope the full plumpness of your titties, “awe baby . . they’re so heavy. have they gotten bigger?” the casual rubbing is soon interrupted when he pulls them out from their comfortable position in your sundress, your breasts flopping out in the prettiest way.

nipples hard n’ ready to just be absolutely tended to.

“i think so,” you reply, running your hands up and down his chest, “ever since i had rose . . they’ve gotten more n’ more swollen.” it was true. that girl had been your most painful birth ever — and keep in mind, this was coming from a mother of four. your back ached, you felt uncomfortable everywhere, and your tits well . . . let’s just say it felt like carrying around bags of sand attached to your sore chest.

but you’d do it again. anything for your sweet baby girl.

“do they hurt?”

“a little bit,” and on your word, toji leans forward, taking one of your exposed nipples into his mouth as he teased the other with his fingers. you could only moan as he sucked softly, almost as if he were trying to pry somethin’ out of em’, “aah — mmph! s’ sensitive, daddy . . so sensitive.”

with a needy cry, you wasted to time to pull your panties to the side and tap the tip of him against your slit, “put it in, t . . please,” you don’t even wait for his approval to notch the broad head of his cock against your opening as he worked. he didn’t mind - not one bit. if anything, he was more eager than you. you then wrap around him, gently sinking down, sheathing him in tight, and clinging on. his head cracked back against the headrest after letting go of your nipple with a pop! - fireworks exploding behind his eyes as your silky walls enveloped him, gripped him, fluttered sweetly around his aching length like you’d been waiting for his return.

“oh my god,” you whimpered, lip caught harshly between your teeth. you looked nearly pained, brow pinched, lashes fluttering as you fought to adjust to the invasion. after all, it’s been a while. “i missed you stretchin’ me out, daddy . . missed y’re dick s-so much.”

toji panted shallowly through his nose, every tendon in his body pulled bowstring tight as he fought the feral urge to surge up into you, to seize and take and claim. his fingers flexed convulsively on your hips, blunt nails biting into the plump flesh of your ass.

“i know, i know. i feel you mama. m’ so sorry, daddy’s been neglectin’ this pussy, huh? keep makin’ yourself f-feel good,” he encouraged gutturally, thumbs sweeping over the delicate skin of her inner thighs, smearing her arousal into the creases. “mm, tryin’ to take it all i see . . always so eager to make me proud, ain’t ya’?”

with a keening mewl as a reply, you began to move, rocking shallowly, finding a rhythm. your hands braced on his broad shoulders, using the leverage to grind down, to swivel your hips in maddening figure eights. pleasure sparkled up toji’s spine, gathered in his heavy balls, pulling them up tight and throbbing against his body.

“s-shit, yeah,” he hissed, head swimming, drowning in sensation. “that pussy’s fuckin’ good, yn — always so fuckin’ good. ride that dick jus’ like that.”

you made a desperate sound, head lolling on your neck, lush mouth falling open. each drag of your warm walls had his nerve endings sparking, a livewire of ecstasy. he could feel every clench, every ripple of your ass around him, could feel you growing wetter, slicker, easing the way for faster, harder thrusts.

soon enough you were bouncing feverishly in his lap, shameless, transported. your nails bit into his shoulders through his shirt as you slammed yourself down, the wet smack of sticky flesh and her breathless cries fogging the windows. each downstroke punched the breath from his lungs, until he was dizzy with it, drunk on the feel of you, the sweat and sex musk and some dark energy radiating off of you.

“c’mon,” he growled, palming your ass, spreading you open lewdly so he could watch himself disappear into your gleaming folds, over n’ over, creamy n’ noisy. “gonna’ nut on this dick, hm? gonna’ soak daddy with this greedy lil’ cunt? my greedy fuckin’ cunt — all mine, isn’t it? say that shit.”

“y-yess, s’ all yours, d-daddy,” you panted, back arching sharply as his pelvis pressed just right against your swollen clit. that and the feeling of his hardened head nuzzling against your gummy cervix was just enough to — “m’ close . . m’ so close, baby!” he could feel you starting to tighten, starting to talk and pulse around his hammering cock. with a choked off curse, he gripped the globes of your ass and slammed you down, grinding his hips in deep, filthy circles that had your voice breaking on a sob.

“cum on that dick,” he commanded, holding her steady even as she thrashed and writhed, impaled to the root on his steel-hard length. “give it to daddy — m-make a mess on me, nasty fuckin’ slut.”

he punctuated the words with one brutal thrust, and you had no choice but to cum with a ragged wail, clenching down on him so tight he lost his vision. your cunt rippled and gushed, rhythmic waves gracefully and sloppily milking his pulsing cock as ecstasy whited out behind your eyes.

“fuck, fuck, baby, i can’t — m’ bout to cum, m’ cummin’ - aw fuck!” he choked out, and then his own orgasm was crashing through him, a tidal wave of rapture searing through his veins. he spurted long and hard, painting your trembling walls with scorching ropes of cum that had you shuddering through the aftershocks.

for long moments they stayed locked together, panting into the thick air, pulses gradually slowing. finally you shifted with a shuddery exhale, and toji groaned low in his chest as he slipped free of you in a hot gush. she collapsed bonelessly against his chest, sweat cooling on your skin, looking thoroughly debauched.

toji caught your face between his palms, tipped it up to meet her blissed-out gaze. “holy fuck i love you,” he rasped, thumbs sweeping over your tear stained cheeks, “so fuckin’ much, man - fuck.”

“me too . . l-love you too, babe.” you finished, voice a satisfied husk. a slow grin spread over your face, catlike and smug. “i can’t believe you fucked me in a parking lot.”

“you didn’t give me much choice,” he growled playfully, nipping at your jaw once, twice, three times. “my lil’ cum bunny jus’ couldn’t wait till’ we got home.”

you shivered, squirming against the twitch of renewed interest between his legs. “guess we better head back then,” you murmured. “round two in our nice comfy bed sounds pretty perfect right about now.”

toji made a low sound of agreement, already envisioning peeling her out of that sinful dress and worshipping every inch of her properly. “i can make a thirty minute drive a fifteen — that work for you?”

“y’know you didn’t have to ask that.” you clambered off his lap and they hastily rearranged your clothing, giggling like you were being caught by some mall cop patrolling the area. and then, toji reversed, pulled back onto the glistening streets, one hand resting possessively high on your thigh as the lights of the city streaked by.

soon you were pulling into your familiar driveway. toji killed the engine and dashed around to open your door, ever the gentleman as usual even after tiring you and himself out so thoroughly. hand in hand, giddy and eager, you made you way up the front walk, your heels clicking on the wet concrete.

the door swung open on a scene of perfect domestic tranquility. there on the oversized couch lay satoru, sprawled out and snoring softly, the little ones curled up safe and sound on his chest. the sight filling toji’s heart with indescribable warmth.

gingerly, you both crept closer, not wanting to wake your peaceful babies. toji gazed down at their somber faces, so innocent in sleep, and felt his throat tighten with emotion. you then settled against his side and he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“we made some damn cute kids,” you whispered with a contented sigh.

“absolutely we did,” toji agreed gruffly. he turned and pressed a kiss to your hair, soft and sweet. “i love our little family so much. and you . . i say it all the time, but god, i love you more than anything, yn. i wouldn’t have them without you.”

you tilted your face up to his, eyes liquid and luminous in the low light. “take me to bed n’ show me just how much you love me, lieutenant,” you murmured against his lips.

grinning, toji swept her into a bridal carry, careful not to jostle satoru and the kids. “roger that,” he whispered back playfully. “let’s go complete operation ‘welcome home.’”

and with that, he carried his gorgeous, giggling wife down the hall to their bedroom, ready to spend the rest of the night making good on the promise that had been building between them all evening long — a promise of passion, devotion, and a love that could set the whole world on fire.

[witherby]

If Punch line can trigger Jason easily what would happen is she ever met Harley?

Let's explore that!

Punchline: First Session

Masterlist is Here!

"I need your help."

Harley perks up, gasping, and rushes over to hug Batman tightly.

"I never thought this day would come," she says, jumping up and down and clutching a gauntleted hand. "Yes!! Yes I would love to be your therapist! We have so much to work on, starting with your parents. I really think you never internalized the event and haven't given yourself any space to grieve after —"

Her hands get squeezed gently, recapturing her attention. Blue eyes meet white lenses, and she furrows her brow.

"Okay, that's fine!" She sighs. "Can't say I'm not disappointed, but if one of your kiddos is looking for help instead, I'm still more than hap—"

"Not one of mine," Batman gently interrupts. "This is a...very delicate case, Harley."

"What's delicate mean in this context, Batsy?" She asks. "Delicate like schizophrenic? Delicate like CPTSD? Delicate like one wrong word away from explodin' and killin' everybody in a mile radius?"

"Delicate," he says, "like...this might hit too close to home for you."

"Me?"

Batman nods. Harley hums, equal parts curious and cautious.

"Any good psychologist worth her salt won't let a personal connection get in the way of providin' aid," she tells him. "If the patient isn't somebody I can help myself, I'll help ya find someone who can. When can I meet 'em?"

--

Your file lies scattered across the floor of the cave. Harley stares wide-eyed at your picture while she trembles on her hands and knees. Bruce, having changed out of his suit, kneels beside her with a steadying hand on her back.

"Oh," she whispers, "Brucie, she's so small for her age. And her age!! Sh-she's..."

Harley shakes her head. Bruce continues rubbing small circles in her back. When she leans against him for support, he holds her upright.

"How'd he keep a kid hidden for eight years?" She whispers, voice thick. "I know I fucked off to go play Happy Family with Ivy, but..."

"Nobody knew," he says. "Harleen, don't play the blame game, not for this. He kept her a secret for a reason; no one was supposed to know."

Harley lifts her hands to her face, rubbing her eyes before any tears can well up and fall. She takes deep, calming breaths, gathering her focus, then carefully collects the papers and stands with his help. She draws a pad and pen out of her pocket.

"I ain't promising anything," she says, looking up at Bruce. "This is...this is a whole different ball game, 'specially with that chucklefuck as the daddy. But I'm gonna try, okay?"

He nods. "Take your time. You were the first person I thought of, but don't force this if it's too much."

Harley gently squeezes his hand in acknowledgement. She walks past him and down the hall towards the containment cells, heels clicking quietly against the floor. She dug out her old coat with the name tag pinned to it and even threw her hair back in a low braid to appear as non-threatening as possible. The closer she gets to your door, the more the wonders if you would've been more comfortable if she showed up in her combat getup and mallet.

"Miss Punchline?" She calls, stopping in front of your cell. A cursory glance of your environment tells her immediately that you're under-stimulated. She writes that down. "I'm Doctor Quinzel. Do ya mind if I come in and chat with you a while?"

You cease all movement. You'd been sitting with your back to the door, gently stroking the head of the teddy bear Alfred gave you while muttering Mistress Mary's nursery rhyme, but when you hear her, you practically turn into a statue. Unless she actively stares at your back, Harley can't even see you draw breath.

"Miss Punchline?" She repeats calmly. "I won't come in if you don't want, but I'd really like to talk to you."

"...Popsy talks about you, sometimes," you say. Harley can't decipher your tone, but the words make her feel cold all over. "Says he used to miss his favorite gal."

"I'm sure he's mentioned me once or twice," she says, clearing her throat. "But I'm old news. Why don't you tell me about yourself? I'm gonna punch in the door code now, okay?"

You don't move. Harley unlocks your cell and walks inside, getting a better look at how sparsely decorated it is. The bed is clearly unused and half of the activities left here would cause an ordinary child to lose interest in about an hour without company. Overall, Bruce and his family are keeping you in a dreary room. If she accomplishes nothing else today, it's a guarantee that she's gonna get you better accommodations.

Harley walks around the room until she can see you face-to-face. Once she's in your periphery, your eyes snap to her and follow her every movement like a predator. She lowers herself to the ground, taking a seat a few feet away from you.

"There you are," she says kindly. Your smile is just as placid as the one in your photo. "I like ya make-up. The swirly pattern on your cheeks is very cute."

You don't respond, though your smile widens briefly. Highly receptive to praise. Your eyes don't leave hers, scanning, assessing, calculating. Harley doesn't feel like you're about to attack her, but you're clearly juggling something around in your mind.

"Bet you're thinking about mine," she continues. "Normally I like puttin' on the face paint, but sometimes my pores gotta breathe, you know? Well — the pores I got left." She glances down at her hands, paper white like the rest of her body from her dip in a vat of acid. With relief, Harley notes that your unpainted skin is a healthy color. Even though the bar's lower than Hell, it's nice to know that at least the Joker didn't immediately treat you to a dunk of your own.

"Punchline, I'm gonna be frank with you," she says.

"Nice to meetcha, Frank," you chirp, grinning mischievously. Harley lifts a brow.

"That was funny," she praises. "I know your, eh, Popsy, he places a lot of value on bein' funny. Used to say nothin' was worth the effort if it didn't amuse him at the end of the day. I'm sure you know that already."

"A giggle a day keeps the boredom away!" You say, pitch and cadence matching that of your father's. Harley knows that the grip on her pen is too tight. She breathes deep and forces herself to relax. "Ohh, hit a nerve, Frank?"

"I'm doin' just fine," she says. "What's boredom look like for you and Popsy?"

You separate your hands, fingers splayed wide, and make explosion noises.

"Do you get caught up in that explosion?"

Your smile doesn't change but your eyes get sharp. Harley makes a note.

"It's hard keepin' him entertained all day, every day," she says. "I would know. But I'm gonna tell ya somethin' your popsy probably never has."

Harley scoots a tad closer to you, reaching her hand out and gently taking one of yours. She can feel every bone in your hand and has to utilize all of her training to school her expression.

"It's not your job to make yer popsy happy. In fact, it's not your job to make any adult happy. Grown-ups shouldn't rely on their children for emotional regulation."

"Couldn't rely on you, either, could be?" You snicker. "Since you ran away."

"I left him because he was treatin' me like dirt," Harley says, a little more firm than necessary. "He's real good at drawin' you in, Punchline. Shows you an ounce of praise that makes you feel invincible, makes you wanna do anything he asks to get more of it."

Harley lets go of your hand to tuck a lock of emerald green hair behind your right ear, brushing gently against the shell. The edges are distorted, flatter than your left.

"He's also real good at draggin' you through the mud, makin' you feel like everything's your fault. Like you got no choice but to make it up t'him. Ya never wanna get on his bad side cause he really makes you feel it."

You tilt your head away from her hand, eyes dropping back down to the teddy bear Alfred gave you. You resume petting it, slightly faster and rougher than before. Harley makes a note.

"His anger's always more powerful than his joy, Punchline," she says, "but both of them are destructive. I wanna help ya break away from his cycle."

"No thanks," you say, "if I wanted to be a washed-up, third-rate party clown, I would!"

Harley feels a wave of pity for you. It's obvious you're just regurgitating your father's words back at her, and she's not surprised. Change doesn't happen overnight, especially not for you.

There's so much work to do, but Harley's not afraid. You may look and behave similarly to the Joker, but you're young and still impressionable and already starting to pull away from him without even realizing it.

"I can tell yer getting upset, and that's the last thing I want," she says, climbing to her feet, "so I think this is a good stopping point for today. But I'd really like to see you again. Would you be alright with that?"

You blow a raspberry at her, then cackle. Harley exhales sharply through her nose, giving you a fond smile, and pats your head as she steps past you and opens the cell door.

She can do this. She will do this. For you.

But, first thing's first.

"Brucie, you're kidding me with the furnishings! How's the richest man on the planet gonna put a kid in such a shitty room!? Don't look at me like that, mister. You brought me in t'do a job and I'm gonna do it right!!"

[strang3lov3]

Late Wip Wednesday

His poor, sweet, tender-hearted girl. Don't you know that attitude of yours is only gonna get you in trouble? Joel knows it’s your just where you’re at in life - he thought he knew the world like the back of his hand when he was your age, too. 

Joel wipes your tear-stained cheeks, all swollen and raw. Eyes rimmed red as more tears well up, then spill down, back into your hairline. “Oh, sweetheart. What am I gonna do with ya?” he sighs, gently thumbing away those tears again. 

You sniffle and shrug, avoiding his gaze. A hiccuping sob escapes your lips. “S'okay. Drink some water,” Joel tells you, pulling you upright. He gives you the glass, has  you take a few sips, and he notices the way you look at his hand between your thighs. He notices your muscles twitching, eyes widening…knows exactly what you want. He’d reckon those pretty pink panties of yours are soaked, too. Poor thing. 

You can’t get anything past Joel.

“Daddy–”

“Not tonight, kiddo. Y’lost them privileges.” 

“Please,” you beg. Joel takes your glass of water and sets it down on the nightstand. 

“No,” Joel bites, pulling his hand away. He pulls your blankets over your shoulders, then turns off your lamp. “Daddy’s gonna have to think of a way for you to earn ‘em back.”  He kisses you on the forehead, saddened by the way you turn away from him. “I love ya with my whole heart, Pumpkin, but you are gonna learn that there are consequences for your actions. Now get some sleep.”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 1 - In My Brain and In My Blood

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This story is non-canon compliant rewrite, but primarily plot wise. Think of it as we're cooking with all the same ingredients (i.e lore, characters, setting, and backstory) but with one change (you) that gets us to a drastically different ending.

What the means is that there will be a lot of similar plot points to the real Supernatural, but the further we go through the story the more it will diverge. I've also take some creative labor with the reader, adding lore that's defiantly not a part of canon, but crucial to this story.

If you have any questions about this, feel free to ask! If not, I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter title is from The End by Halsey

Word Count: 16.3k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: See the Masterlist for a Summary. Contains usual tags.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 2

Read on A03!

You know a few things about the dark.

It’s alive inside you. It has been your whole life. It makes your words too harsh and your brain too sharp and your love too big. It’s makes you too fragile, but still too sharp, and raises everything to a dangerous height you don’t know how to come down from. It makes everyone move away because they can see it. You can see it, always.

It covers every corner of your body, and grows roots in something white in your chest. Something no one but you can see. You’d asked your dad once—does he feel it too, feel the strange glow and pull of everything beautiful around you—and he’d looked at you like you were insane.

You might be.

But it’s hard not to be, in this line of work. 

Hunting. Monsters and ghosts and nightmares, all around you and calling to you in your sleep. It’s where most of the darkness lives, in the way that few monsters lay hands on you, no matter how much of their blood you shed. Ghosts will treat you like any other, but the monsters look at you like they recognize you. 

Like you’re one of them.

And that’s something you’ve never told your dad. You never will. He already hates that you do this, and not a month goes by where he doesn’t glare at you from across the table, beer bottle in hand, and ask you to stop.

“Kiddo,” he’d grunted the last time, narrowing his eyes at you over dinner. “That was the last one.”

“You say that every time-“

“And you ain’t listenin’ to me every time!” He’d snapped. “You don’t have to do this shit, not with your-“ He’d made a face, giving you a pointed look. “Ya’ know. Thing.”

“Witch.” You’d sighed. “You’re allowed to say it. I’m a witch.”

“You ain’t a witch-“

“I’m not a normal witch.” You’d corrected with a frown, picking at the wood of the table. “But I’m still not human.”

“You’re human,” he’d muttered your name, and when you’d looked up, he’d been staring at you with an exhausted expression and you’d felt something eat at your tongue. “But you’re right. You ain’t normal, kiddo, and it’s gonna get you fuckin’ killed-“

“It hasn’t yet-“

“It will. It always does.” He’d stood, giving you one last, tired look. “And I’m not tryin’ to lose you too.”

You’d given him a close-lipped smile. “You won’t lose me. I’m being careful.”

He’d rolled his eyes—you were being careful, and he knew it, but it still pissed him off—and nodded. And that had been it.

It’s like that every time. He tells you to quit, because you don’t need to do this, and you tell him you have to. You’re good at it. You’re more resourceful than half the hunters he knows, smarter than all of them, and better by a mile. He’d trained you. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d realized it was either him teaching you or you learning through trial and error, and he’d decided you being a pain in his freakin’ ass was better than you being dead.

Because—in the end—all he really cares about is that you’re safe. It’s why you know to be careful, why you know what hunts to call for backup on, and why you know that—if you need to—you can crawl back home with your guts in your hand and he won’t yell at you until you’re better. Keeping you safe is his job, more than hunting, more than research, more than cars. He’d chosen to do it when he’d found you—eight years old and starving on the side of a highway—and it had stayed that way ever since. It didn’t matter what you were, what seemed to be inside of you, or how you were certainly more trouble that you were worth. He always made sure you were safe.

Safe from your real family, for what you know and refuse to be. Safe from the worst of the monsters and ghosts, who don’t seem to care for that horrible kinship you don’t know how to stop. Safe from hunters, and how they’ll hate you for what you know how to do.

Safe from John Winchester, and how he’ll put a bullet in your brain without question for what you don’t know how to change.

It’s the top rule. Stay away from the Winchesters. When John comes around for a hunt, hide in your room. When he drops his boys off before vanishing for weeks at a time, sneak out and call your uncle. He’ll pick you up, keep you safe, and drop you back home when the brothers leave. They can’t see you, because they’re loyal to their father and will tell him about the witch-girl who made the wind howl louder than it should’ve. John can’t know about you, because he’s a complicated man with a good heart, but he’ll hurt you worse than any ghost or monster could. 

But you have to say—at least from this distance—he doesn’t look that dangerous.

You know it’s him. You recognize his car in the parking lot from seeing it in your dad’s yard, and recognize his voice from the living room of your house. It’s clearer now—no longer muffled through a door you’d keep an ear pressed to—and you’re certain it’s him. 

And he’s just a man. A broad-shouldered, tired man with a face that doesn’t seem like it’s ever smiledand dark hair that’s streaked with slight silver. He even sounds exhausted, his voice laced with a thin irritation he either doesn’t know how to hide, or doesn’t care to.

“Dean,” he grunts, and you can’t see who he’s talking to, the bookshelves of the library only revealing John’s cold, set face. “Go back to the morgue and look at the bodies again. See if you can get a blood type on the vics.”

“A blood type?” A second voice, this one so clearly younger, a little defiant and bright, asks. “Dad, why do we care about their blood type-“

“Because this bitch is spilling it left and right, and we need to work out what skin she’s got in that game.” John’s words are short, impatient. “And you’re not here to ask me questions, Sam, you’re here to get through these damn books. Dean, go to the morgue.”

“Yes, sir.” That’s a third voice. It’s pretty. Deeper than the second—Sam’s—but not as tired as John’s. Mostly just cautious. “Can I, uh, can I take Sammy-“

“No.” John snaps. “I need him here for the readin’. Take the car and go.”

There’s a soft sound of metal ringing through the air, a scrape of wood on the floor, and you almost don’t move fast enough. You almost don’t duck behind the shelf in time for the third voice—the pretty one, Dean—to pass you, humming something you’d recognize if you weren’t lost in your panic.

Dean doesn’t see you.

But you see him.

And it’s not just his voice that’s pretty. 

You don’t know a lot about the Winchester brothers. Only what your dad has told you. Dean’s three years older than you, Sam’s a year younger. Dean likes music, Sam likes books. They’re both good boys—better than your dad seems to think John deserves, although he’ll never say that out loud—but Sam can be defiant and Dean can be trouble.

You hope Dean’s trouble. He has to be, when he looks like that. 

Because in only a split second of his side profile, you’re sure Dean Winchester is the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Will ever see. It’s almost ethereal, and a little unfair. All of his features are clean and strong, like someone carved him from marble, but there’s a scar you could see on his jaw and a cut on his lower lip that made him seem human. Made his seem tangible. 

Touchable.

You’d like to touch him. You’ve seen him once, but everything in your body seems to think the world will collapse if you don’t touch him now. If you don’t at least talk to him. Hear his deep, charming voice directed at you. See at his face up close, see it’s clear resemble to John that feels pointless, because Dean looks like he smiles. He looks like he’s meant to smile, and you’d really like to find out if he’d smile at you. 

And that white thing—the one you feel all the time—seems to really like him. Even the darkness is trying to reach out to him, move into him, and you’re not really sure what the fuck is happening. He’d just walked past you, and your body is suddenly trapped by something overwhelming and dizzying in your lungs, your every nerve prickling the longer your brain circles him. The longer it spirals around his beautiful face, and full lips, and the way his voice sounded like something even bigger than the darkness in your body-

“Hey, Dad?” That same voice cuts through your thoughts, a little raised as Dean calls between the shelves. “Are you feeling anything from the beer earlier?”

“No.” John’s voice is clipped as he responds, and you can hear the frown in his voice. “You feelin’ alright, son?”

“Yeah, uh-“ There’s a heavy pause, and you can hear Dean shuffling slightly just out of your sight. “I dunno. Must’ve stood up too fast.”

“Dad, if he feels light headed he might not be safe to drive-“

“I’m alright, Sammy.” Dean’s words are fast. Not frantic, but rapid. “Nothing’s gonna happen to the car, Dad, I promise.”

John grunts. “Better not. Get moving, Dean, we don’t got all night.”

“Yes, sir.” 

You hear Dean shuffle away, sounds of flipping paper and scratching pencils re-filling the air, and you’re trapped in your spot. You shouldn’t follow Dean. Following Dean will almost certainly end in meeting John, and that’s the one thing you’re never supposed to do. Your dad doesn’t fight you when you leave for months at a time, or cross paths with other hunters, or run dangerous scams to keep yourself afloat. He’s okay with more than he probably should be, and he never tells you that you can’t do something. 

But you can’t talk to John Winchester. 

He can’t know who you are. What you are.

So you can’t follow Dean. Your brain is deeply aware that following Dean would be a truly horrible idea, and your body seems to be on board. There’s iron around your lungs when John mutters something to Sam, and a sore shot of electrically whenever one of them stands up to move books around. You’re really good at running. You know exactly when to call it and go. You can sense danger so easily—it’s the same chill of needles ice running up your spine, every single time—and John is dangerous. And you really shouldn’t follow Dean.

But the White thing keeps bucking around inside you. You can almost see it rush and roar in the air, feel it thrash deep down—past your heart chamber and embedded a little to the right—to try and follow Dean Winchester. And it feeds the darkness. It starts to twinge and pulse, seeping and infecting your muscles and blood, locking around your skull and making everything far too big. You can feel it all. The books on the shelves that all read Dean, and the squeak of the floors that say his name, and the lights start to flicker as the air turns humid and cool.

“Dad-“

“I’m seein’ it, Sammy, grab the gun-“

You raise the back of your hand to your mouth and bite. Hard. Grounding yourself before the flood can burst out of your body, before John Winchester could find out who you are in the worst way possible.

And when you run—out the back and to your stolen Lexus—you don’t even realize where you’re going until you’re halfway there.

To the morgue.

After Dean.

It’s a terrible idea. You have ten, long minutes of driving to figure out every way in which this is a terrible idea. You don’t know him. This will distract you from the case. John Winchester will try to kill you. Your dad will kill you. And there’s a high chance it will all be for nothing, because everything in you that’s calling to Dean belongs to that white thing. And that’s a part of you, and no one else. There’s a chance that this—whatever the fuck this is—is something driven by what you are, what’s wrong with you, so Dean won’t feel it at all.

You know all of that. And you still make it the whole drive without turning around. You park and rifle through your glove compartment for a fake ID, pull on your stiff, too-itchy well officer, would a fraud wear this? Jacket, and still don’t turn the engine back on and book it out of town. You even manage to justify it. You’re working this case too. You were here first. You’d noticed the blood thing from the start—it’s why you took the case—but you just hadn’t gotten to the morgue yet. You’d already been planning on it, and Dean just happens to be here at the same time. 

No matter what, you’ll get through it. You always get through it. And this might be a horrible idea, but that knowledge won’t stop you from stepping out of the car and making your way to the morgue. Know something has never really stopped you, and no amount of twisting bile in your gut—telling you to run, because you don’t love life, but you’d really rather not be murdered today—is going to prevent you from doing this. Nothing is stronger than the White in your chest, and it wants to talk to Dean Winchester. 

So that’s exactly what you’re going to do.

It is, as always, worryingly easy to get into the morgue. Half of the work is flashing the badge and saying the right words—Agent Smith, from the insurance company, I need to take a look at the autopsies for the claims—but most of it is the confidence. You carry yourself like a haughty, too-good-for-this-morgue insurance agent. Your chin is raised when you stop at the desk, and your words to the receptionist are impatient and clipped, and God, it makes you feel like the scum of the earth how she’s nervous and apologetic, but you get in the door. You always get in the door, because this is the simple part. The smiles with teeth, and the lies you spit through them are so fucking simple.

The hard part is always different. Sometimes it’s the ghosts that follow you after a failure, the ones that can’t be killed with salt and fire. Sometimes it’s long nights that you don’t have time tp sleep, and the tug and rot of that darkness in your chest tries to push to the surface. Sometimes it’s a puzzle you barely manage to solve, and it costs a little bit more of your flesh and soul each time.

But today, it’s Dean Winchester. Or, as the receptionist calls him, Officer Costello.

“Officer?” You raise your brows. “So the cops are looking into a serial killer.”

“I, um-“ The receptionist flushes, her eyes widening slightly. “I don’t know, he just said he was from a town over, and our Chief asked him to take a look, I’m not-“

“I’ll just ask him while I’m in there.” You shrug, the receptionist’s mouth opens in likely protest, and you call over your shoulder as you walk away. “I need to know for the report!”

You push through the doors—nobody chasing after you a sign of success—turn into the mortuary’s office, and freeze at the sight before you. 

Dean’s hunched over the mortuary’s desk, frowning at the largest stack of papers you’ve ever seen, and shit, he’s even prettier up close. Spiky hair and slightly tanned, freckled skin, rough looking hands sorting through the files and full lips in a frown and what the fuck is happening to you-

His head shoots up, eyes widening—green eyes, deep and vibrant and you need to get a goddamn grip—and you stare at each other for a long, confusing second before he finally speaks.

“Ma’am, if you could wait for the doctor outside please, this is, uh, official police business-“

You scoff, even as your whole body hums from the deep, smooth sound of his voice. “Is that really the excuse you’re going to use?”

Dean tenses, dropping the papers on the desk and rising to his full height, glaring down at you. He’s really tall, and broad, and probably warm-

“Excuse me? If you don’t exit this office right now, I’ll have reason to put you under arrest-“

“What reason?”

He blinks at you. “Interfering in police business-“

“Fake police business?”

“I’m not, this isn’t-“ Dean shakes his head, eyes narrowing on yours. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a fake insurance agent.” You lift your badge up from him to see, giving a sweet, fake smile. “And you’re a hunter.”

“Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about-“

“I think you do.” You step forward, dropping into a seat across the desk. “To start, you’re definitely not a cop. Cops don’t drive muscle cars and raid morgue documents.”

He frowns, still watching you wearily. “How’d you know that’s my car?”

You’d slipped a little. You shouldn’t know that’s the Winchester’s car. But you’re quick on your feet, and by the time you say the lie it might as well be the truth. “Only three cars in the lot. Mine, the black one, and a minivan. And you don’t really seem like a minivan guy.”

Dean grunts, his body still braced and words tense. “I could be allowed to drive whatever car I want on duty-“

You give him an amused expression, tucking your knees into your chest as you lean back in your seat.  “You’re like, twenty. There’s no way they’d let you drive your own car. Or,” you raise your brows. “Ask you investigate a bunch of weird murders by yourself.”

Dean frowns, but drops in the swivel chair behind the desk. “I’m twenty-one,” he mutters, and you snort. 

“Congratulations-“

“And you,” his eyes shoot to yours, voice dropping into a low drawl that felt like it could be dangerous, but mostly made you feel a little fuzzy. “Haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

You say your full name—the real one, that you’d been given at birth and he’d never connect to your dad—and drop your feet back to the floor, extending your hand across the desk. “I’m a hunter too.”

Dean chuckles, but meets your hand with a grin. “Yeah, I figured that part out myself, Princess. Dean Winchester.”

You shake his hand, and your smile must make you look like an idiot. It’s far too wide just from him telling you his name and touching your skin—he is warm, and his hands are calloused and big and still so soft—but there’s something like lightning sparking and shooting over your skin, and the White inside you is shining like a star. Pulsing and glowing and molding with the darkness. Making nothing really seem that bad at all. 

Dean’s smiling back. And you’d been right. His face is meant to smile. It’s meant to have this broad, cocky grin that’s full of teasing joy and a bright-eyed delight in something you can’t quite place. You really can’t tell if he can feel it. There’s a glint in his eyes that’s full of promises, but you can’t figure out if he can feel this. This raging tug in your body that keeps your hand in his longer than it needs to be, that makes his skin feel like a furnace and your heart feel right in your body.

He might. He really might feel it. His hand stays in yours as well, his grip a little tighter than it needs to be, and when you manage to pull away, he clears his throat—a small, adorable blush covering his pretty face—and stares at you like you’ve fallen from the sky, and you’re still covered in stardust.

“So, uh,” Dean glances down at the papers, then back to you. “You here for the autopsy reports?”

You nod, crossing your legs under your body. “Yep. You gonna share?”

“That depends.” Dean shrugs, shooting you another, very mind-numbing smirk. “You gonna help us out?”

“Us?” You tilt your head at him, twisting a ring on your finger. “You’ve got a partner?”

“Partners.” Dean corrects you with a grin. “My dad and brother. We always hunt together, it’s safer and Sammy’s still a kid, so-“ He cuts himself off, his face falling into a small frown. “Do you, are you hunting alone?”

“Mostly, yeah.” You shrug. “But I can help you out-“

“You, you shouldn’t be hunting alone.” Dean cuts you off with a shake of his head, his voice almost disbelieving. “It’s not safe. Gonna get you killed.”

“Uh huh.” You narrow your eyes, your voice becoming dry and bored. “Do you want my help, Dean Winchester?”

“Sure, but-“

“Then drop it, give me the papers, and let me help.”

He frowns. “You’re kinda bossy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re kinda-“

“It’s not bad.” He pushes some of the files across the desk, shooting you a wink. “Just making sure you know.”

“Oh.” You stare at him. He’s so pretty, and his smile does weird things to your gut and ribs and the White inside of you. “Uh-“

“I’ll take these.” Dean taps the files still in front of him, watching you with a strange expression. “You got those?”

“Sure.” You mumble, pulling the papers into your lap. “Um, thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs. “More hands, we’ll be done faster. You, uh, you know what you’re lookin’ for-“

“Blood.” You flip open the first file, playing with the corner of a page as you speak. “Every vic’s been covered in it. It’s uh,” you grimace slightly, an image of a corpse painted red flashing in your head. “It’s been really gross.”

Dean hums in agreement, giving you a curious look. “You’ve seen all the bodies?”

“Most of them,” you look down to the file, flipping through it until you find the blood report “I’ve been here for like, five days.”

“Huh.” He frowns, looking down to his own paper. “We’ve been here four. Only seen two of them.”

“Well, maybe I’m just better at my job.”

He laughs, and when you glance back up, he’s grinning. “Sure, Princess.”

You kick him under the desk, and he makes a fake sound of pain.

“What was that for?!“

“Making fun of me,” you stick your tongue out at him, not looking up from your papers. “Not very nice, Winchester.”

“You made fun of me-“

“And if you wanna kick me, I won’t stop you-“

“I’m not gonna kick a lady-“

“Well then.” You shrug, unable to fight the smile on your face. “That’s not my fault, is it?”

He huffs, his voice dropping to a low mutter you can still defiantly hear. “Bossy.”

“That’s not being bossy, it’s-“ You cut yourself off, leaning down to re-read the file in front of you. “Shit.”

“It is shit,” Dean complains, and you can hear the pout in his voice as you grab the next file in your stack, rushing through the report to find what you’re looking for. “You’re lucky I-“

“No, that’s not-” you look up at him, your brain moving too fast to fully linger on why you might be lucky. “Give me your file.”

Dean frowns, but slides the paper over the desk. “What-“

You raise your hand, scanning over the file and grinning as you find what you’re looking for. “I’ve got it.” 

“Got what-“

“That blood wasn’t only the vics. It was their’s, plus,” you turn the page for Dean to read, pointing to the words. “All the previous vics. Mixed together. That’s why there’s been more and more every time.”

“Oh.” Dean leans forward, scanning over the page. “Kinda like a really gross blood cocktail?”

“Exactly.” You grin at him. “I know what we’re looking for.”

He looks back up at you, raising his brows. “You gonna tell me, or-“

“It’s a moroi.” You drop the files, leaning back and pushing your feet back up on the desk. “It explains the messiness perfectly.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “My dad says it’s just a normal ghost with a weird thing for blood-“

“Your dad is wrong. It’s a moroi.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “My dad’s never wrong. And he’s more experienced than both of us combined, he’d know if it was a moray-“

“Mo-roi-“

“And look,” Dean leans across the desk, pointing to the files. “All of them had the same blood type. That’s what Dad said to look for.”

“They have the same blood type because it’s a moroi.” You hold his gaze, because every single part of you might want this man in a way you can’t possibly begin to understand, but you’re also fucking right. “They’re Romanian vampire babies.’

“Vampire babies-“

“Evil infant spirits that didn’t get baptized. They’re really rare, but this-“ You tap the files with a smug grin. “Is their exact MO. Specific blood type that they’ve probably got a taste for, mixing it with their previous victims, incredibly sloppy.”

“Because they’re babies.” Dean mutters, frowning into the air. “And babies, uh, don’t know how to clean.”

You nod. “Because babies don’t know how to clean.”

“And you’re sure?” Dean looks down to the files, his tone cautious. “I mean, you said they’re kinda rare-“

“They are.” You shrug. “And that’s why I’m sure.”

Rare things are your specialty. Things that even the most experienced hunters don’t understand, that were hard to track and harder to kill. Things that were stranger than strange, darker than dark, worse than evil. Things that wouldn’t hurt you, and you’ve taught yourself every way kill. It’s why you’d taken this case in the first place.  It’s why you’re fucking right.

“You, uh,” Dean’s words are slow, like he’s picking them carefully. “You know how to kill these things?”

“Yep.”

“You wanna come with me? To explain it to Dad and Sammy?”

“I, um-“ You start to pick at the skin around your nails, your skin suddenly itching and a weight forming in your lungs. “I mean, I can just tell you how, and you can deal with it, and I can go-“

“Go?” Dean frowns, his brow drawn. “Where are you going?”

“Out of town.” You keep your voice strong and even, because no matter how much the White inside you seems to be trying to move into Dean—no matter how much you’d really like to stay in this office and talk to him for a million years—you have to go. You cannot meet John Winchester. “If your Dad’s as good as you say-“

“He is-“

“Then you’ll be able to handle this. You don’t need me.”

“Well,” Dean leans over the desk, his voice dropping to a charming drawl. “If I ask you nicely, will you consider staying? Giving us a hand?”

You hold his gaze, unable to find enough willpower to shut him down immediately. “How nicely?” 

“Please,” Dean says your name, giving you a taunting, boyish grin, and the White inside you ignites. You’ve heard your name said a million ways, but never like that. Never in Dean’s voice, never like it’s some sort of curse and prayer all at once, never like it’s bigger than just a name. “Please stay in town and help me out. Please explain this moroi shit to my dad, and help us kill the son of a bitch. I’ll buy you a beer, and be in your debt for a million freakin’ years. Please.”

He’s already got you. If the way he said your name didn’t make you fold, the shit-eating smirk on his face and gleam in his eyes that tells you exactly how he plans to repay that debt made you cave. 

“I don’t drink.” You mumble, your face heated and eyes a little wide. “But I’ll take two million years and a promise that you’ll listen to me.”

Dean chuckles. “Awesome.” He grins, his eyes never leaving yours as he stands. “Let’s get outta here, I’ll drive you to our motel.”

That’s where you manage to draw a line. You’ll bow to Dean’s charming words and handsome face, you’ll follow him out of the office and into the parking lot, and you’ll agree to come meet John and Sam Winchester—no matter how stupid and deadly an idea it will certainly prove to be—but you’ll drive yourself. You didn’t steal that Lexus not to drive it, and when things inevitably go sideways, you’ll need a car to escape in. 

“You sure?” Dean walks you to the Lexus, standing right at your side and watching you in a way the White seems to feel. “I mean, it’s not a problem-“

“I’m sure.” You grab your keys out of your pocket, stopping in front of the car. “All my shit is in here, and I can just follow you. It’ll be fine.”

“Well, how am I gonna know you won’t just drive off?” Dean doesn’t budge, barely sparing your car a glance. “Leave me to deal with the vampire babies alone?”

You give him a flat. “I won’t just drive off, Winchester-“

“You might.” He shrugs. “I don’t know you that well, you could be playing me-“

“I’m not- Fine.” You roll your eyes, shoving your badge into his hands. “You can hold onto that, and I’ll have to follow you to get it back. Happy?”

“Very.” Dean winks at you, flipping your badge open to read. “Agent Smith- Who’s Smith?”

“Nobody. Smith is the most common last name in United States.” You shrug, and Dean looks at you like you’re insane. “What?”

“Nothin’, I just-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low laugh. “It’s practical. Smart.”

You narrow your eyes. “But?”

“No but,” He says your name with a bright, cocky grin, and tucks your badge into his pocket. “Can I not call you smart?”

“Not when you don’t really mean it-“

“I mean it. You’re smart.” His grin grows, and it feels like it’s burning its way right into your heart. Kicking it up to a higher speed, warming it until your whole body feels lost in a misting haze. It’s so fucking weird. “Are all your badges Smith?”

“No.” You mutter, crossing your arms to try and stop your heart beating right out of your chest. “Smith is just insurance. Johnson does wildlife, Brown is a cop, and Miller’s FBI.”

“Huh,” Dean looks at you like he’s never seen anything more amusing in his life. It’s not really helpful. “Sammy’s gonna like you.”

“Sammy?”

“My brother.” Dean shrugs. “He’s smart too. Not half as pretty, but smart.”

You flush, leaning back to ground yourself against the cool metal of the car. “You don’t know me, Winchester. I might be a dumbass.”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Dumb people don’t know about vampire babies.”

“I’d argue vampire babies are the exact thing a dumb person would know about-“

“And I’d argue dumb people don’t say I’d argue.”

You scowl. “Touché.”

Dean laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Dumb people don’t say touché-“

“Shut up.” You kick him again, and this time his grin just becomes teasing and smug and a little fucking dizzying.

“That’s not nice, Princess-“

“I said shut up.” You mutter, turning to open your car door. “Go get in your car so we can actually do our jobs.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean’s still grinning at you, his eyes widening as they finally flick to the Lexus. “Holy shit, you drive this?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, dropping into your seat and pointing across the lot to his car. “Go.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Bossy.”

You glare at him. “Winchester-“

He gives you one last wink you feel deep in your core, closes your door, and walks away without another word. But—right after he climbs into the driver seat—he pulls out your badge, holds it up to the window, and mouths Follow me, or this is mine.

You roll your eyes, flip him off, and watch him laugh as he pulls out of the lot. And you could leave. Badges are easy to make, you’re not emotional attached to Agent Smith, and this is your last chance to keep yourself away from John Winchester. To listen to your every instinct, to your dad’s stern voice in your head, and run. It would be so fucking easy to run. To turn around and never look back, never allow yourself to indulge Dean Winchester further than one conversation.

But you don’t want to run. You want to follow this odd pull to him, follow him to the motel, follow him wherever else he seems to be going. Which is fucking insane, because you don’t know him, he doesn’t know you, and he’s almost certainly better off without you. Most people are. Hell, you’d be better off without you, if you could figure out how to do that.

And you know all that. But you still don’t want to run.

So you follow Dean out of the parking lot, through the winding backstreets of the town, and to a backwater motel. You park your car right next to his, close your eyes to take a long, steadying breath, and try to rationalize to yourself how this could possibly end up not blowing up in your face. You’ll keep a hold on yourself. John won’t know who you are, or what you are, or who you know, or what you know, or-

“Shit!” You jump as something raps on your window, and hear a loud laugh from outside your car.

You’ll get through this. You always do.

“You yelped.” Dean tells you as you climb out of the car, a wide, teasing grin on his face. “Real tough of you, Princess-“

“Suck my dick, Winchester.” You glare at him, and his grin only grows wider. “And stop calling me princess.”

“Nah,” Dean places his hand on your back, steering you towards the motel. “Suits you too well.”

“I don’t know what that means-“

“You don’t have to.” He smirks at you, and it does something impossible good to your brain. Makes it calm. A little fuzzy, a little smooth, but so fucking calm. “C’mon, I texted Dad that I found you, he and Sammy’ll be in our room.”

Dean Winchester is dangerous. You should be scratching and clawing and fighting like a feral animal to go, to get back in your car and as far away from here—from John Winchester—as possible. But he says I found you with a proud grin and puff of his chest like he’s bragging, and all that your stupid body knows how to do is lean slightly into his chest and follow him wherever he takes you. Somewhere dark, or somewhere horrible, or somewhere gray or somewhere safe.

Or just a shabby, paint-peeling motel room, where John Winchester and a shaggy haired kid are sitting around a table, looking at you—standing awkwardly in the doorway, watching them wearily, your back straight but arms crossed in defense—like you’re the strangest thing they’ve ever seen.

“This is, um,” Dean glances at you as he says your full name, and you realize he’s more tense than he’d been before. Standing a little taller, his eyes a little more guarded, his expression impossibly neutral. “She’s the hunter I mentioned.” Dean says your name again, pointing to the table as he continues. “That’s my dad, John, and my brother, Sammy.”

“Hi.” The kid—he’s taller than you, and barely younger, but there’s something about him that still says kid—offers you a small smile. “Do you, uh, do you hunt alone?”

“Yeah,” you give Sam a smile back, trying to force your tone to be casual, your body to relax, and your eyes not to wander to where John is tall in his seat, just watching you. “He tell you that?”

You jerk your head at Dean, who frowns. “So what if I did-“

“So, you’re being a real dramatic bitch about that. You’re not my dad, Winchester, let’s calm down.” You give him a small grin, and feel something odd and bright inflate in your chest when his mouth tugs up for the first time since you’ve walked into the room.

Dean looks like he’s going to say something back, but John clears his throat, and something curls and rots in your stomach at how quickly Dean goes rigid, how fast his mouth snaps shut. 

“You got a father, girl?”

You look at John, and he looks even more tired up close, in the dim light of the motel. More threatening as well, watching you like you’re prey, or a parasite, or a disease. Like you’re going to go feral and destroy everything in the room. It would sting less if he wasn’t right. If his attention wasn’t making your skin crawl and the White in you start to twist and pound to escape your body, the darkness rushing out as everything becomes big again. If you weren’t digging your nails into your palm to stop yourself from proving him right, and if you weren’t raising your chin in a weak attempt to be a little taller than you are. 

“I do.” You hold his gaze, and wonder if he can see the darkness. If he already knows what you are, and is trying to work out how to kill you. “We’re really close, actually.”

“He know you hunt?”

“He does.” You shrug. “He’s fine with it.”

That’s a lie. Your dad hates that you hunt. You’re certain the only reason he doesn’t lock you in his panic room to keep you away from the monsters and ghosts is because he knows you’d escape, and he’d never see you again. But John doesn’t know that, and you’re a fantastic liar, so if he doesn’t believe you it’s not because you don’t sell the words, it’s because he just doesn’t trust you. Because whatever you say, he’s going to keep looking at you like he can see right into your horrible center.

John’s face twitches, and as he leans slightly forward, you’re not sure Dean’s breathing at your side. “Your old man a hunter too?”

You nod, realize this is getting a little away from you, and start to run your thumb over your palm as John narrows his eyes.

“What’s his name?”

You use your real father’s name—your biological father, who you’ll never see again if you can help it—and it stings on your tongue. You hate that you have to say it. You hate that you have to repeat it, adding your real last name, but it works. John grunts, and looks away.

“Dean.”

“Yes, sir?”

“How old is she?”

“I, uh-“ Dean looks at you with wide eyes. “How old are you?”

You raise your brows. “How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty…” Dean scratches his head slightly, looking a little afraid. It would be adorable if this wasn’t such an oddly volatile situation. “Twenty-teen?”

“Twenty-teen?”

“I dunno, I mean you gotta be old than Sammy, and you sound like you’re old, but-“

“I sound like I’m old?”

“Just cause of the words you use! You look like you can’t be old than me, but I don’t know-“

“Jesus Christ, dude.” You take pity on Dean—who looks like he’s about to have a panic attack—and pat his shoulder as you speak. “I’m eighteen. And,” you look back to John, cooling your voice and narrowing your eyes. “I can speak for myself.”

John doesn’t waver. You can’t really imagine a world where he would. “I don’t doubt that, girl. But I ain’t lookin’ for help on this case, and you’re barely votin’ age-“

“I’m aware of my age.” You interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest. “But I’ve also been hunting, alone, since I was fifteen, and this,” you gesture through the air, holding John’s cold gaze. “Is my type of case. So you need my help.”

John scoffs. “It’s a ghost, sweetheart, me and my boys will be fine without you-“

“She says it’s not a ghost.” Dean mumbles, paling as John’s gaze shoots to him. “It’s, uh, a moroi?”

You hum in agreement, offering Dean a small grin that John doesn’t seem to miss.  

Sam raises his hand at the table, his expression open and curious. “What’s a moroi?”

“Romanian vampire baby.” Dean says, shooting Sam the first real, full grin you’ve seen on his face since you entered the motel room. “They never got a chance to learn who Mr. Clean is, which is why there’s been so much freakin’ blood everywhere. Right?”

Dean looks at you with a hopeful, bright expression, and it makes the White glow and sing as you nod.

“It’s a ghost.” John grunts, and when you look back to the table, he’s glaring at you. “We got freezin’ temperatures, EMF, and no break ins-“

“Because they’re death monsters. And they can shape-shift, into a guy, or a bug, or a cat.” You shrug. “Wouldn’t be that hard to get into a house.”

John scowls. “And you’d bet all our lives on this-“

“Yes.” You say, the words simple. You’re good at your fucking job, and there’s no doubt in your mind. “It is a moroi. I’ve hunted them before.”

“You have?” Sam’s eyes widen, his tone filled with something that might be admiration. “That’s so-“

John cuts Sam off with a raised hand, his attention never wavering from you. “Well,” he drawls your name, and it’s mocking and cruel and awful. The opposite of how Dean says it, in a way you hope to never hear again. “If you’re such an expert, how the hell do we kill the asshole.”

“Easy.” You shrug, as if there’s not something wired and painful in your muscles that’s trying to force you to run, run, run, far away from John Winchester and his cold voice. “You stab it in the heart with a nail.”

“With a nail.” John repeats, his voice flat, and you scowl. 

“Well, that, or,” you stand a little taller, making your voice cool and bored. “We throw a Romanian funeral for it, and find a living relative to walk around its grave three times with a candle.”

Dean makes a choked sound from off to the side, and when you look, he’s staring at you like you’d fallen from space again. John doesn’t look half as awestruck. He mostly looks pissed.

“This ain’t the time for jokes-“

“That’s not a joke.” You snap. “There are multiple ways to kill something, and that’s one of the ways you can deal with a moroi. It’s that, the nail, or burning resin on a Tuesday, then a Saturday.”

John laughs, no amusement or joy in the sound. “You might think your smart, kid, but how about I see a plan. Stabbin’ something in the heart ain’t gonna be easy, and hell, girl, you said they shape shift. How the fuck are you thinkin’ we find them-“

“There will be blood in its nails and eyes.” You hold your ground, but your palm grows red as you break skin. “And there is a pattern to the tarbets, we’ve just all been looking in the wrong place.”

“A pattern?” Sam’s eyes are still wide, his voice a little eager. “But none of the vics have been the same age, gender, ethnicity, occupation-“

“Have they all been parents? Lived near graveyards?”

All three Winchesters gape at you for a second, and Dean looks at John with wide eyes.

“Shit, Dad, she’s right.” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “The one we looked at yesterday, the house had one of those baby gates-“

“And we’ve driven past a graveyard every time.” Sam adds, looking between you and John with a nervous expression. “So, uh, it could be-“

“I know what it could be, Sam.” John grunts, his glare fully focused on Dean. “You willing to bet on her, son?” 

Dean looks at you, and he shouldn’t be—you’re a stranger, you’re a liar, you’re a monster that’s attracted to him like a magnet—but he nods. He stares at you like he doesn’t really understand what’s going on either, like he’s looking for a reason to not trust you and side with his father, but can’t find one. And—right before he looks back to his father—you see a flash in his eyes that makes you think he feels it. That whatever the fuck is happening to you, it’s happening to Dean too, and he’s just as helpless as you are to fight it.

“I am, sir.” He says, hands flexing at his side. “Sammy and I can do door duty, figure out who’s next on this things hit list-“

Sam frowns. “I don’t wanna do door duty-“

“Blame Dean,” John shrugs, giving Dean a curt nod. “Take my car and be back in two hours-“

You raise your hand, and John cuts himself off with a glower.

“What.”

“They don’t need to do door duty,” you say, your fingers running over your palm. “The moroi will only target parents of infants, so you can look for baby seats in cars. And it’ll all be near same cemetery. Five miles radius.” You catch Dean raising his brows at you, and shrug. “They don’t like to stray far from home.”

“And by home,” Sam jumps in, words slow as he connects the dots. “You’re talking about their grave.”

“Or their coffin.” You offer him a close-lipped smile. “But yeah. It’s already dusk, our best bet would be splitting up and patrolling a few streets until we see the thing. It’ll probably be in its regular form, at least until it spots a house.”

Dean frowns at you. “What’s that gonna look like?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Hairy. Bloody and hairy. It’ll be gross, you’ll see it.”

“And how,” John grunts. “Are you thinkin’ we split up.”

“We’ve got two cars.” You shrug. “Three if you have a second one-“

“We don’t.” John snaps. “And I took a fuckin’ taxi back here, ain’t no way I’m not driving my car, or lettin’ a little girl go off to hunt this on her own-“

“How honorable,” you mutter under your breath—careful to make sure Dean doesn’t hear you—and raise your voice back to a bored, flat tone.  “Then you’ll take your car, and I’ll take one of them,” you nod between Sam and Dean. “So we’re off in pairs.”

“Dad, I could go with her.” Dean takes a small step forward, his tone slightly nervous. “I mean, it would be safer for you to take Sammy. And you know I’d be careful.“

John grunts, jaw ticking, and you can see he’s considering it. That, somehow, you’ve convinced him to go with this, and he hasn’t put a bullet in your brain. There’s a frantic, wired part of you along your skin that’s certain he’s just waiting for an excuse, but for now you’ll take it. You’ll take Dean volunteering to go with you, John not killing you, and everyone winning when you’re right, because you will be. You’re not good for much, but you’re good for this. 

“I want you to drive.” John tells Dean, and you’ll allow it. If it keeps Dean near you—as you so confusingly and desperately crave—you’ll let him drive your stupid, fancy car. Fuck, you’ll let him run it into a ditch if he wants, as long as you’re there with him, and what the fuck is happening to you- 

Dean says your name, and you blink at him as he continues. “I, uh, if you’re good with it-“

“Sure, I don’t give a fuck.” You toss Dean your keys, and he frowns. “I mean, try not to total it, or do donuts-“

Dean gasps, his face full of mock offense that pulls a smile onto your face. “Do I look like a hooligan to you-“

You raise your brows. “Did you just say hooligan?”

“Yeah,” he grins at you, and nothing else seems that real. “It’s a fun word, don’t bash it-“

“I am not bashing it-“

“Kinda sounds like you’re bashin’ it-“

“Well, it kinda sounds like you’re going to try and do donuts in my car-“

“Princess, I would never-“

“Winchester, I don’t believe you-“

John coughs, loudly, and you and Dean fall silent. That keeps happening. You talk to Dean, and everything fades until you’re just smiling like an idiot and watching him like he’s the sun, and you’re just existing in his orbit. And he does the same thing. Dean’s face is red, and he’s staring at the floor as John glowers at him, but you keep catching his eyes darting to you, a small furrow on his brow that you wish you could ask him about. You wish you could ask him a million things. About his life, about his likes and dislikes, why his whole family hunts and what he thinks of your dad—the one he’d know, the one that’s going to murder you when he finds out what you’re doing right now—and if he can feel this too. He must. It’s like a drug, and it’s flashing and loud in the White, and making the darkness blur into something you think would be better. Into something you wouldn’t hate, molding with something that feels foreign but right, strange but just as powerful and certain as gravity. Something secret, that you think you should be fighting but can’t bring yourself to raise a weapon against. 

Something bigger than you. Bigger than him. Bigger than the White inside your chest and the darkness that’s pushed down, down, down as you force yourself to stay in place, and not either grab Dean’s face and scream—shout at him in a begging question of do you feel this, or am I going fucking insane—or run. Flee as John Winchester gives you one last look like he’s imaging your blood on the floor, and you climb into the passenger’s seat of the Lexus.

But you manage to keep it together, and you’ll have to settle for this. For talking to Dean as you patrol up and down a darkened suburban street with white-picket fences, your knees up on the dash and your fingers growing bloody as you pick at them to keep the darkness down. 

“So, uh,” Dean taps his hands on the wheel, staring out at the road. “Hunting.“

You blink at him, raising your brows. “What?”

“I just, mean how’d you end up doing it? You’re young-“

“You’re literally only three years old than me-“

“But I got Dad and Sammy.” He scowls. “You’re alone.”

“Yeah, we’ve establish that.” You cross your arms, curling slightly into your seat. “I’m really good at my job, Winchester, I’m not that worried.”

Dean chuckles, glancing at your half-pout with an amused expression. “Still Winchester? When am I gonna get the honor of her majesty using my first name?”

You glare at him, and it just makes his grin wider. “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Bossy.”

And he’s so confusingly adorable and handsome—in the soft, shimmering light of the streetlamps and fog—that you speak without even thinking. “You have to earn first names, Deano.”

He freezes for a second, and his grin becomes his whole face. Wide and charming, sweeping you off your feet and knocking the breath from your lungs without even touching you. 

“So,” he drawls, still smirking like an idiot. “Nicknames you’ll pass out like party favors, but I need to work to just be Dean.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, can I at least shoot down Deano?”

“Maybe,” you hum. “On what grounds?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, eyes flashing in the low light. “It kinda makes me sound like a birthday clown?”

You giggle. A small, soft giggle that he pulls out of you with barely any effort, that you want to hate but can’t figure out how to. “Maybe you are a clown-“

“Birthday clown.” He corrects, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Don’t drop the birthday part, that means I’ve got a job. And I can’t be a clown, Sammy’ll never speak to me again.” Dean glances at you, his voice dropping slightly. “He freakin’ hates clowns. Might shoot me before I explain that a pretty lady turned me into one against my will.”

You raise your brows, trying to push down the flush on your face from pretty lady. How he’d said the words like they were teasing, but still so serious, and looked at you with a small smirk when they had his intended effect. You can barely remember how to clear your throat and use words, let alone tease and spar with him when the White is blinding in your body.

“Unfortunately,” you manage to speak, nudging his shoulder with your own. “All sales are final. You’re Deano now.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but his grin doesn’t falter for a second. “Until I earn Dean, though, right?”

“If you earn Dean.”

He hums, shooting you another, oddly heated glance. “And what do I need to do for that?”

You only shrug, running your fingers over your palm to sooth the darkness. It’s starting to eat over your nerves and heart, trying reach out and touch Dean in a way you can’t allow, in a way that will end whatever this is before it begins. Dean only gives you a strange look, his smile still wide on his face.

“Well,” Dean says your whole name, over-pronouncing each syllable. “Am I allowed to return the favor?”

“What favor.”

“Callin’ you a nickname.” He winks at you, and it settles—warm and soft and strong—in your core. “It’s only fair.”

You shake your head. “No. I don’t even have a nickname.”

“Bet I could fix that.”

“Would be a losing bet. I wouldn’t take it.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

And just like that, you’ve lost. You’d seen it coming, too. It was too easy a solution for him to have, to easy a path to allow him to take, too easy to let the small part of you—that had wanted to hear him call you Princess again, because it soothed something that was always feral inside of you and blurred the darkness into the White until nothing hurt inside you—allow Dean to coax you where he’d clearly wanted you, and follow with a smile on your face. But all of this was too easy. Talking to Dean was too easy, because the conversation seems to flow and ebb without effort, and you’re almost always in danger of saying too much. He seems to know how to—without any obvious intention—get you to tell him anything he asks, leaving you biting your tongue to keep down bits of the truth that could prove deadly. But he doesn’t push you to speak—which is perfect and terrifying all within itself—and when you fall into silence it’s easy too. It’s easy to control the darkness, calmed only by your thumb and long breathes, and easy to keep everything small. Just you and Dean in the soft silence of the car, just you and Dean in the whole world.

“My mom died.” Dean says suddenly, frowning out the window. “It’s why I’m hunting. And,” he adds, his voice growing a little firmer, a little more defensive. “It’s why my dad’s so careful. I know he can be tough, but we’ve only got each other, and he’s just tryin’ to-“

“I get it.” You whisper, something deep in your chest aching for him. For this pretty, impossible man who might be bigger than the whole word, and how his brow is knit in a confusing kind of hollow pain as he defends his father. Goes to arms for him without prompting, like it’s a reflex. And you really do get it, but even if you didn’t, you somehow care too much about him to force him to rage and spit fire in John’s defense. It looks like it might rip him apart, and you never really want to see him go. So you just offer him a gentle, full lipped but toothless smile, and place your hand on his arm. “And that really fucking sucks.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, and doesn’t try to move his arm away. “It does really fucking suck. Thanks.”

“My dad’s wife died.” You offer, as if that would somehow make this better, and Dean gives you an odd look.

“Dad’s wife? Not your mom?”

You swallow. You did it again. You slipped when you’re usually so fucking careful. “It’s complicated.”

“Ah.” Dean has a little furrow between his brow that you’d like to run your thumb over, but he drops it. “Are you, you gonna tell me why you hunt? If it’s not your Dad’s wife?”

You sigh, a feral instinct of survive shoving the truth just a little further down. “That’s complicated too. I mean it’s not,” you glance up at him, his eyes fixed onto the road. “It’s not like yours. I didn’t lose anyone.”

“Is it a family thing? Like, your dad brought you in?” Dean’s every word is careful, like he’s afraid he might spook you. But that’s another thing that’s too easy. Staying next to Dean and not bristling or fleeing is far too fucking easy. 

“No,” you say, watching the light and shadows shift over his face in a strange, perfect dance. “He tries to stop me from doing it all the time. Shit, he called me last night and asked me to come home.”

Dean frowns. “You-“

“Dean!” You cut him off with a hand over his mouth, and he slams the breaks with a screech. You can see his staring at you from the corner of your eye, but you barely spare him a glance, your eyes locked over his shoulder, out the window, at a shifting figure in the dark. “Look.”

He turns his head, prying your hand from his mouth as he glares out the window. “I don’t-“

“There,” you hiss, leaning a little further forward. “See the-“

“That might just be a shadow,” Dean mutters, his voice dropping to a whisper as he scans over the dark. “Or a fox-“

You turn your head, giving him a flat look. “Do foxes look like babies covered in blood?”

“No.” He grins at you. “But I’ve seen weirder shit, Princess.”

You’re suddenly aware of how close you are. How you’d leaned over the console and started to practically hang off of Dean’s body, how your faces are barely a breath apart and you can see every deep color and fleck of gold in his eyes. He really only gets prettier, and he’s so warm, and there’s molten silver in your chest trying to tangle into him. He smells like fresh grass and spice, his eyes are dilating—but maybe just from the dark—and everything seems to be slowing down as the silver looks for other places to leak out. Places that wouldn’t hurt anyone, like the mist of the night that seems to glow and the wind that seems to bend and creak the trees in your direction, and the golden streetlamps-

Dean’s eyes shoot to the road as the lights start to flicker, his body tensing against yours. “Shit. We should, uh-“

You nod, push yourself away, and try to pretend your body doesn’t grieve the loss of his touch.

John and Sam are taking too long to arrive. You’re tense and bouncing on the sidewalk as you wait, turning a sharp nail between your fingers, and Dean keeps a hand around your wrist as he frowns down the street. You think he can sense that, if he looks away for only a second, you’ll dart into the house and deal with this yourself. You could. This nail has killed three moroi before, and you’d been completely alone then. 

“Winchester.” 

Dean looks at you with a frown, and you tug your arm slightly.

“Let me go.”

“No,” he grunts, his grip tightening. “Dad said to wait.”

“He’s not my dad-“

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean mutters, his gaze moving back to the empty, dark fog. “We’re waiting.”

You scowl. “Fine. Can you let go-“

“No.”

“I swear to god, Dean Winchester-“

“If I let you go,” he snaps, his glare shooting back to you. “You’re going to run in there. So no.”

You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know me-“

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Look me in the eyes,” he drawls your name, holding your gaze. “And say you won’t run.”

It should be an easy lie, but it gets caught in your throat and you can only gape at him. Dean raises his brows as you continue to stare, and the White inside you starts to thrash as you clear your throat, forcing the words out.

“I’d handle it.”

He scoffs. “There is no way you’re gonna be able to handle it alone-“

“So, come with me,” You hiss, leaning forward until your face is only an inch from his. “And I won’t be alone.”

You don’t know why it breaks him. But something flashes in his eyes, he groans—running his free hand over his face and giving you a look of disbelief—and he caves. 

And from there it’s mostly a blur. It’s always a blur. The darkness inside of you latches onto something primal, and it’s all only a blur. 

Usually it’s all but a blackout. Like something overtakes you and you become just as monstrous as what you’re hunting, your brain only holding onto what you’ll need in order to survive next time, and a sticky smell of blood to haunt your sleep. But Dean’s here now, and things come into focus. Time is still a rush, and you’re still moving on pure instinct, but you remember Dean’s body being pressed to yours as you crept through the suburban house. You remember to set look on his face as you swept the rooms, figuring out what the moroi could be, where it might be hiding. You remember seeing it first, and the sound of flesh tearing as it launched at Dean—over you—and you swatted it with your arm like a baseball. 

You remember Dean shouting your name as you raced forward with the nail in your hand, and how it sounded like his chest was being ripped open. You remember finding that small patch of soft flesh on the moroi’s chest, driving the nail home, and tasting bile when it vomited blood up into your face. 

You remember Dean passing you his shirt on the curb a few blocks down, because the very ungrateful almost-victims threatened to call the cops, and you were covered in blood. He’d faced away as your changed—zipping up his own jacket and humming while he waited—and you could’ve sworn he was blushing when he turned back around.

Then John Winchester had arrived—looking at Dean like he’d just sprouted a second, hideous head and you like he was imaging how amazing you’d look in a casket—and everything grew sharp as they drove away. 

More of it comes together as you drive yourself back to the motel. Dean had dumped the body in the gutter, and you had given him your motel address. John had snapped at you to meet them tomorrow for a debrief, and told Dean that they’d talk back at the room. Sam had smiled at you, and it was a nice smile. There hadn’t seemed to be anything beneath it—just a kind smile for the woman sitting on the curb next to his shirtless brother, her hair matted in blood and fingers covered in monster hair—and you’d liked that. 

When you enter your room, it suddenly feels too small. Nothing is big enough for how strange this is, how you might need all the world and a little more to figure out what the fuck just happened. You miss Dean. You’d met him today, and you miss him more than you’ve missed anything before. You keep looking to the side to see if he’s there, when you know he won’t be. The White is bucking and keening inside of you, the darkness falling out of your body—you can feel the pain of the water as it becomes steam in the shower, and you’re almost knocked to your knees by the ache of the phone to be closer to the lamp—and you need to find out if he could meld them together again. If it had been a fluke, or an accident, or if you were simply losing your fucking mind.

You have to be. You must be going mad. It’s the only explanation for why you take a long shower and change into your own clothing, but you still smell grass and leather and spice. It’s purgatorial. You go through your whole routine—scrubbing all the blood off your body with rough sugar that bites into your skin, running your hands under white-hot water that leaves your skin raw but the darkness pushed down, tending to your hair until it frame your features easily, and you don’t look like a bruised and battered animal—but you still smell him. You toss his shirt off to the side, but he’s clinging to the sheets. You change into sleepwear, but your body can still feel a strong, warm touch. You turn your empty flask in your hands, watching light catch off the steel, and someone’s knocking on your fucking door-

Dean hisses your name through the wood, and you freeze.

“I know you’re in there!” He’s half-shouting, and the whole world feels more colorful, and what is wrong with you. “C’mon, Princess, open the door. It’s me!” He pauses, the knocking faltering. “Uh, Dean Winchester.”

He sounds a little defeated, and you can’t stop the smile on your face as you toss the flask back into your bag, cross the room, and open the door. 

Dean gives you an adorable, almost nervous grin and scans over you. Slow and deep and appreciative—taking in your sleep clothes, how your whole body is more relaxed than it had been all day—and his smile grows as his eyes find yours once more.

“You look pretty wearing normal stuff.” He leans a little on the door frame, and it’s so effortlessly and perfectly rouge-cowboy-white-knight-and-knave that he has to have practiced. “Better than that old-lady jacket you hand on before.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s my professional jacket, Winchester. What do you want?”

The words are harsher than you mean them to be, and his grin falters slightly. “I was, uh, I was wondering,” he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “I got my dad’s car. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go for a drive or something, but you’re obviously ready to turn in, so-“

“Do you want to come in?” 

You’re not sure how he’s doing this. Making you speak without thought, making your words reckless when they’re usually so carefully chosen. You have to be careful with your words, because you’ve spent years weaving a web that shows everyone everything, but not from every angle. And he’s fucking unraveling it. Dean just looks at you, and you pull at a thread so he can see whatever he wants, and you can’t understand how the fuck he’s doing it.

It must be on purpose, but he looks just as shocked as you are—gaping at you slightly, his features open and uncertain—and you don’t think it’s an act. Especially not as his voice becomes slightly hoarse, his feet restlessly shifting his weight as he speaks.

“Yeah, if you want, but I’m good to just head out if you-“

“Do you want to head out?”

Dean’s grin becomes bright once more, and the shake of his head sends a spark of lightning through your body.

“So,” you step to the side, offering him a small smile. “Come in.”

He shuffles inside, scanning over your scattered possessions and stopping at the side of the bed. 

“I can,” he looks back to you, his eyes a little wide. “I can sit on the floor, or we can go outside-“

You shake your head, moving to his side. “There are bugs outside. Sit on the bed.”

Dean glances at the mattress like the sheets might leap up and strangle him. “Floor looks good-“

“Winchester.” You point at the bed, giving him a stern glare. “Sit.”

“I am not a freakin’ dog-“

You place a hand on his chest and push him—just enough for him to get the message—and he sit on the bed with a wide happy? gesture. 

You drop at his side, watching him carefully as you try to work out what is happening. Why he’s here. If he’s looking at you like that—like you’re more than a human, but that’s hypnotizing, and he’d love to find what you actually are—because he can feel this too. 

But Dean beats you to it.

“Can I ask you something?”

You tilt your head at him, pulling your knees into your chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“Huh.” Dean hums, the smile creeping back onto his face. “How about we trade? I ask you a question, you gimme an answer, then we switch.”

You give him an amused look. “That’s just a conversation.”

“Nah, because if I ask you something and you answer, now I owe you a question. You can turn down a question, but you’ll still owe an answer.”

You frown. “What happens if you owe an answer?”

He shrugs, flopping onto his back. “Then the other person keeps asking questions.”

Dean looks so real. He’s grinning up at you, light dancing as his eyes as he obviously baits you into whatever he’s trying to do. 

And you fall for it. Despite your best judgement, you fall.

“I’m going first.” 

He chuckles, but raises his hand for you to shake. “Deal, Princess.”

The moment your hand folds into Dean’s he pulls you down, leaving your smushed slightly against him and his face only inches from yours once more. And your yelp was undignified, and he’s such an asshole—laughing and grinning as you shove his chest—and you’re smiling too. 

Because this is easy. And you have a feeling that, if this strange man—who’s too pretty, and that’s making you feel like you’ve never really been alive before this—dragged you right down to hell, you’d still be laughing and smiling at him. And that’s so fucking dangerous. And you know that, but you still can’t stop looking at him, and you can’t roll away. And you decide that, just for tonight, you’re going to indulge this. You’ll dedicate hours when he’s gone to figuring out what the fuck this is. Right now you get to laugh and smile and act like nothing in the world has ever—could ever—hurt you.

“So,” Dean says your name, and it still sounds too good. “You have a question to go first with? Or were you just bein’ bossy-“

“Shut up.” You swing your leg to kick his shin, he laughs, and it’s like music. Making you high and dizzy as you watch him, running your thumb over your palm. “I’ve got it, Winchester. You ready?”

“Born it, sweetheart,” he winks at you, and that’s dizzying too. “Hit me.”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you already, I wanted to talk to you-“

You hum, holding his gaze with a small frown. “Why?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s two questions-“

“It’s a ride off of the first question-“

“Well, I still gotta ask my first question before you get a second one.” He raises his brows at you, bump your knee with his. “We shook on this, Princess, you don’t get to change it now.”

You glare at him, but you think he knows it’s fake, because his grin becomes almost blinding. “Fine. Go.”

Dean rolls onto his side, holding your gaze as he speaks. “How’d you get that car?”

You frown. “The Lexus?”

He nods, and you sigh. 

“I borrowed it.” It’s not a lie, but it’s a half-truth. It’s a half-truth that will keep him here, at your side, for a little longer than you might deserve. “For the hunt.”

“Well, it’s freakin’ awesome.” He grins at you, and your face might burst into flame. “Your move.”

“Why are you really here?”

Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “Will you let it go if I say to talk again?”

“Nope. Answer me.”

“It’s, uh,” he rolls flat on his back once more, running a hand over his face. “Tomorrow’s gonna be Dad telling us about safety and Sammy asking you a bunch of questions.” He shoots you a small, amused grin. “I think he’s been writing them down. He’s into all that geek-shit too-“

“I am not a geek-“

“Yeah, you are.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry, I think it’s adorable. But Sammy thinks you’re the coolest person we’ve ever met. So after Dad finishes, he’ll try to use you like a freakin’ library, and I just figured I’m the one who found you, so I should get a night of you all to myself.”

You gape at him for a second, and you’ve defiantly burst into flames. He wants you all himself, and he thinks you’re adorable, and he doesn’t know you, but he doesn’t seem like the type to say all that just to get in your pants, and if he was, he’d be there already. He’d just have to roll on top of you, but he’s only looking at you like you’re something sacred instead of a disease or trophy. 

He must feel this too. He has too. And you want to ask him, but you don’t know how, because you don’t even know what this is. It’s magnetic and infinite and bigger than anything, forging something you don’t know how to name between where the White and darkness live in your body. And Dean might not even have the White and darkness. Nobody else does—that’s something that’s wrong with only you—so if you phrase it like that he’ll think you’re insane-

“My turn.” Dean says, and you’re dragged back down to earth, grounded in his smooth voice. “What’s up with your hand?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“That one.” he reaches over, tapping the back your hand. “You’ve been touching it all day, and I kinda, uh,” he gives you an apologetic look. “I saw the scar. If you wanna pass on this one, I’ll drop it, but-“

“No, it’s,” you take a long breath, because this would be an easy one to refuse to answer, but his fingers are lingering on your knuckles and setting off little sparks over your skin, and you want to tell him. It takes a moment of just staring at him to you find the words, and his eyes never leave yours, and everything about him seems to drug you into a loose-lipped, trusting ease. “I’ve have it since I was really young. There was, um, an incident.”

Dean still doesn’t look away, his voice slightly lower. “Hunting incident, or-“

“No.” You swallow, turning your hand for him to see the long, clean scar on your palm. Running through it in a neat, raised line. “Just an incident.”

He looks like he’s going to say something. Not push, but say something, and you blurt out your next question before he can get the chance. It’s not what you wanted to ask—you hadn’t offered yourself enough time to find the right words for something really fucking weird is happening to me, and I need to know if it’s happening to you too—but it’s dragged out of you in desperation to learn a little more about him. In a plea for him to only know that you’re marred where he can see, and never discover that you’re twisted where he can’t.

“What’s it like?” You watch him carefully, your fingers starting to trace over the scar. “Hunting with your family?”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “I mean, Dad’s a freakin’ genius at it, and it’s awesome to watch him work. Plus I get to keep an eye on Sammy like this. Know he’s safe.” He frowns. “I mean, it’s better than sending him off alone. Letting him be in danger.”

You hum, scanning over the wrinkle in his brow, your thumb starts to itch to press on it, sooth his whole face into a relaxed smile. “You guys are close?”

Dean nods eagerly. “Yeah, I mean, He’s a freakin’ loser, but he’s all I got. He’s a weird little geek-“

You laugh. “He’s taller than you are, De. I wouldn’t call that little.”

“He’s little in spirit-“ Dean cuts himself off, and his grin looks almost manic. “Did you just call me De?”

“No.” You hold his gaze, even as your face warms. “Shut up.”

“I heard you, Princess, you can’t lie to me-“

“Well, is that your question?” You grin at him, your body leaning a little further without you moving it, and Dean eyes flash.

“You gonna tell me the truth if it is?”

You nod, and he smirks.

“Then yeah, it was.”

“Okay. I did call you De.” Before he can gloat, you push on. “Why do you call me Princess?”

“I told you already, it suits you-“

You narrow your eyes. “Try again, Winchester. Real answer this time.”

He sighs, shaking his head at the ceiling. “You just,” Dean waves his hand through the air. “You’ve got a thing going. You don’t look like a hunter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“ 

“It means,” He gives you a strange look you can feel flash through your blood, melding the White back into the darkness, turning every simple and bright as he continues. “That if you asked me what I thought you were, I’d have said something fancy.”

You open your mouth, but he’s not done, and he won’t look away from you.

“I dunno, you just seem too pretty to be down here in the mud with us. You should eating caviar and wearing those poofy dresses-“

You snort. “Poofy dresses?”

“Yeah, like in movies, when they dance around like douchebags-“

“So you’re saying I seem like a douchebag-“

“No, I’m saying you should be somewhere that’s not here.” Dean’s attention is washing over you like a rising tide—slow and natural and deep—and you still can’t read that expression on his handsome face. “The mud.”

He’s so close. And if he thinks you’re pretty, he’s a work of art. You’ve never see someone look like him. Like he was created, and not born. Every freckle on his face is more like a star than a flaw, and there a slight crook to his nose that tells you he’s been punched there before, but it only makes you want to run your finger over the bump and see if his pretty eyes flutter or flash. His lips are chapped but they’d still be soft. His hands look rough, but that just means he uses them.

You think it would be nice to let him use you.

“I like it in the mud,” you whisper, daring to inch a little closer, until you’re sharing a breath. “It feels real. And,” you grin at him, everything blurring around you but pretty green eyes and shining silver in your chest. “I’ve got good company down here.”

There it is. The flash in his eyes as they darken slightly, a warm breath fanning over your face, and he looks golden. In the warm light of the lamp, glowing soft on his tan skin, Dean looks like something more than human. You feel like something more than human, and for the first time in your life, that’s not a curse. And he’s still so fucking close, and this is a terrible idea, but you can’t bring yourself to move away.

You should. He’s John Winchester’s son, and you’re not sure how you forgot that. It’s past midnight, and you have a feeling he wasn’t supposed to be here at all, and this is the worst idea you’ve ever had. 

But you still can’t move.

“You should, um,” you swallow, and your lips might have brushed over his. “You should get back. It’s late, and your dad-“ 

“Shit,” Dean mutters, but still doesn’t try to move away. “Yeah.” 

Your eyes dart down to his lips—full and pink, just a small movement away from yours—and you decide you don’t care what’s happening to you. This is—Dean is—too good to care. You don’t need to know why this is happening, or what it means, or if you should be trying to run from it. You just need Dean. You think that—if the world ended and time began to move slowly—you might plant roots in the motel floor and grow into Dean until the world flooded and you were both washed away. 

“I have one last question,” he mutters, breath ghosting over your lips. “If I leave you my number, will you use it?”

You nod without thinking, he grins, and you’re so fucked. You can’t kiss him. You might fall from a million feet if you kiss him. Down, down, down, clinging to him as you both try to find an end to whatever this is and likely fail to. But Dean sits up slowly—like the movement is painful—and when he helps you to your feet you think you might ascend from just his hand in yours. Touching him feels like it’s making you pure and worthy of something, and you have to know what kissing him will do.

Not on the lips. You still have enough of your willpower and caution to not crash all the way down, at least not right now. But you kiss his cheek, and that’s tragedy enough. It snaps something into place inside you, soft stubble and warm skin too much for your entire existence to handle. It’s all too much to handle, and if he hadn’t mumbled a low promise of seeing you tomorrow and left when he did, you would’ve jumped on him to chase whatever this feeling is. How it’s the only thing you’ve ever felt that might belong inside you, and the only easy thing that the darkness has ever bended for.

And when you sleep, that’s easy too. It’s dreamless and deep, no nightmares, no waking up in a cold sweat, no darkness wrapping around you and leaving the sheets only ash when you wake up.

But when you do wake up, something is wrong. You feel it first, gnawing at your nails and blood. And when you roll over to check the time, your phone is gone. 

It had been on the bedside table, a scrap of paper with Dean’s number under it, and it’s gone.

The paper is gone too.

You shoot out of bed, and Dean’s shirt is still in the corner, because he’d told you to give it to him in the morning, to trade it for your Agent Smith badge. But your phone is gone.Your window is open—cool breeze rushing through the room—and your phone is fucking gone.

You’d been smart to pack the night before. You’d been smart to keep your keys in your jacket, and park right outside your room. You can shove everything in the passenger’s seat and screech out of the motel lot in a second. You don’t know why, but you’re heading to Dean first. Something is wrong, and you don’t know what, but the White is trying to strangle your heart and the darkness is already eating up your spine and over your skull.

John Winchester’s sleek, black muscle car—Dean told you it was an Impala, and he’d said it with a pride in his voice that had dragged a smile onto your face—isn’t parked in the lot. And when you knock on the door nobody answers. All the lights in the room are off, there’s no shadows moving through the window, and the door is locked.

You move to the front desk and ask if the men in that room had checked out. And when the clerk gives you a weary look and says that they’d paid for another two nights, but dropped the keys off that morning, your gut twists. 

They were gone. Dean was gone. And something fragile and new shattered inside you, leaving small pieces lodged through your whole body. You stumble back to your car, the darkness moving out of your body and the whole world too fucking big, and you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’d known him a day. He’d known you a day. Nothing was owed, but you can still feel it. How the White seems to be howling from the loss of him, and the darkness can’t stop growing as it sinks in. 

He left. You don’t know why, but Dean left. He’d probably taken your phone, taken his number, and just fucking left you. Maybe he’d seen you last night, really seen you, and realized what you were. Maybe he’d just been playing you the whole time for some sort of scam. Maybe you hadn’t kissed him, and he’d decided you weren’t worth the chase. And that would mean you had been going crazy, and he hadn’t felt anything at all.

The thought lets the darkness move over you, and you can feel everything everywhere. The electricity in the wires over your head, the wear of painted lines in the parking lot, the hope of the grass peeking through the concrete under your feet. 

The grass that smells like Dean.

It breaks through you before you can stop it. Reaching past your body and down into the pavement, cracking it open with all the force of how much this hurts. How it shouldn’t hurt, it doesn’t make any sense that it hurts, but you’re still breaking and bowing and bending to the way you feel like you’ve been fucking shot. You fall down to the curb, curling into yourself as the ground shakes under your feet, and the wind picks up until—in the forest across the parking lot—a branch falls to the ground.

Then a second one. 

You manage to bring your hand to your mouth, to bite down hard and force all the darkness back into your body, and you still don’t know what to do. 

This hurts so much, and you’re alone in the middle of nowhere, and Dean’s gone.

You still have your burner phone. Your dad makes you keep it in your jacket, just in case something happens, and it only has his number. You dial him with shaking hands, the darkness still trying to climb back out of you, take a deep breath as you raise it to your ear.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” He says your name, his voice already edged with worry. “I didn’t think I’d be hearin’ from you until after that blood hunt thing-“

“Hunt’s over.” You mumble, staring at the cracked pavement. “Got it last night.”

“Was it a vamp like I told ya’-“

“Moroi.”

“I’d call that vamp enough. Good work, kiddo, Rufus owes us a dinner-“

“Bobby?”

Your voice is soft, and he hears it. Bobby always hears it. 

“What happened,” he says your name, and you can hear the frown in his voice. It makes everything worse, because you can’t tell him. Not now, maybe not ever if you can avoid it. You can’t handle how he’ll help you fix this and let you rest, then spend a week lecturing you and telling you everything you already know. Because you really do know. You fucked up, and you know that.

But Bobby doesn’t have to.

“Nothing, I just-“ you swallow, your nails digging into your calf. “Can I come home?”

There’s a long moment of static through the phone, and when Bobby speaks again his voice is low. “You can always come home,” he says your name, and you choke on the clean air around you. “But you get a week of mopin’ before we’re grabbin’ that dinner from Rufus. Alright?”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I’ll be there by tomorrow.”

“Should be two days, if you drive carefully like you’re supposed to.” Bobby grunts. “And ditch that fancy car you’ve been usin’, I don’t need the cops askin’ questions about it.”

You feel a smile tug at your lips. “You never let me have anything nice, Bobby-“

“You never let me have goddamn peace, kid.” Bobby snaps, and your smile grows. “Your bed will be ready for you. And I better not see that bells and whistles hunk of shit in my yard-“

“Aye, aye captain. No fancy cars.” You make a mock salute he can’t see, and Bobby huffs.

“Stolen fancy cars.” He grumbles. “Stop bein’ a smartass and get on the road.”

When the call ends, your smile feels real. The strange, fractured feeling in the White is still there, and the darkness might be trying to fly out of you, but you’re better than before. You’ll go home, Bobby will never know what happened, and none of this will last. You’ll be fine. Dean Winchester might haunt you like a phantom or cancer for the rest of your fucking life—or at least until you figure out what he did to you, and how to fix it—but you’ll get through this. 

You always do.

—————————

Dean’s grip was tight on Her phone. It was just a fucking block of metal—it would be useless when they tossed it off a bridge in a few miles—but he couldn’t let go of it. It felt wrong to let go of it. 

He’d be letting go of Her.

He hadn’t wanted to take it, but Dad said he needed to—Don’t want to let an angry woman have a line to you, son. Especially not a crazy one—and Dad knew what he was talking about, so Dean had done it. He’d snuck back into Her room through the window, grabbed Her phone and the paper with his number, and felt like the lowest piece of trash in the goddamn garbage can. The maggot-ridden chunk of food that nobody had wanted, but was still figuring out a way to fuck everything else up in twisted retribution. 

Because there was guilt eating at Dean’s stomach. He shouldn’t have taken Her phone, not when She wasn’t that much older than Sammy. Not when She’d said her dad would be waiting for her to call, and Dean might have stolen Her only line to safety just because-

Because She’d been using him. And he’d been falling for it. She’d given him that smile like he’d fallen out of the sun and into Her hands, She’d crafted some sort of perfect mask that had felt so real—felt like this strange, mouthy, clever woman had just appeared to him, and he could’ve had something nice for once in his goddamn life—and moved Dean like a fucking pawn. 

Dad had been waiting for him when he got back, and whatever weird spell She’d put Dean under—making him feel a little drunk on nothing, making him act like a fucking idiot—had been ripped away under his glare. 

But Dean hadn’t gotten yelled at. He’d just been sat down—Dad’s gaze filled with disappointment that Dean’s bones didn’t know how to handle—and had papers pushed across the table in his direction. 

“What are these?” He’d asked, and Dad had sighed, because Dean was too much of an idiot to just know, and Dad knew it. 

“Read them.” Dad had grumbled, watching Dean through narrowed eyes. “And tell me if you want to see that girl again.”

He’d frowned but scanned over the papers. Printed out website pages about… Her. Her family. How She was missing, how She’d stolen from them, and how they were rich. Normal, alive, and rich, looking for Her and whatever she’d taken. Warning that She was crazy, a chronic liar, and should be turned over to the police if seen. There was no picture, but there was a description that matched Her perfectly, right down to a scar on her palm.

“Dad.” He’d looked up with wide eyes, something strange bucking around inside of him, insisting that this was a lie. Dean didn’t know Her—they’d had three conversations for fuck’s sake—but this didn’t seem like Her. None of this seemed like the clever, beautiful, almost ethereal woman he’d been lying on the bed with. Dean didn’t know howor why, but this couldn’t be the truth. “I don’t-“

“She’s just usin’ you, Dean.” Dad had muttered, his eyes softening just enough for Dean to know he was sorry. He might not really like Her, but he was trying to protect Dean. He always was. “Chasing a high that her daddy can’t give her, lookin’ for a way to pull somethin’ on us. Probably huntin’ just for some sort of fucked up thrill. This,” Dad tapped the papers, his face twisting in disgust. “Isn’t someone who deserves our time, and I don’t know what her game is, but I ain’t just gonna let my boy fall for it.”

Something in Dean had still been fighting. Insisting that Dad was wrong, he had to be wrong, because Dean might not really know Her but he’d throw his life down at her feet. He’d plummet to the bottom of the ocean to follow Her down, if She called him with that siren-like voice and asked him to.

And that was how he knew Dad was right. Dean had no idea who She really was, and he’d already been ready to become a sword for her to wield. So he’d nodded, asked Dad what to do, and fallen back into the line She’d forced him out of. And it wouldn’t matter that Dean had been an idiot and almost fallen for Her—Her tricks, or just Her—because Dad had saved him. He’d protected him. And it didn’t matter.

Now, as they drove—Dad’s grip tight on the wheel, Sammy sleeping in the backseat—Dean repeated it over and over. That hadn’t mattered. It had been a mistake that Dad caught, so no harm, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that She’d looked at Dean like she could see him, or that Her voice sounded like an angel in a dream. It didn’t matter that Her lips had felt right on his cheek, and that his annoying brain kept trying to move the ghost of Her touch to his own mouth. It didn’t matter that he could still smell the sugar and fruit that had invaded his every sense when She’d been pressed against him. It didn’t matter that She’d fit perfectly at his side, like she was just another part of him he hadn’t known he was missing. It didn’t matter that something felt like it had been ignited in Dean’s chest. Golden and light and washing him over with a sense of calm he’d never known, making him feel like—if he had been stupid enough to fall further—the worst that could happen was She didn’t fall with him. And even that would be worth the way this feeling was like lightning over his bones, making him strong and fucking alive. 

But it didn’t matter. He’d fallen for a pretty, spoiled little bitch—his heart almost withered at that idea, still being a freaking dumbass and trying to justify why She’d done this—and he’d never even see Her again, so it didn’t matter.

And it defiantly didn’t fucking matter that he’d taken Her flask, because he was fucking pathetic. Because he’d been sneaking around her room, and the flash of silver had caught his eyes, and he’d stolen it like some sort of street urchin. He’d burn it, just to rid himself of the way She was becoming plague-like on his mind. It wasn’t like she needed a flask, anyway. She didn’t even drink.

But that might have just been another strange lie. So Dean would burn it. He wouldn’t tell Dad or Sammy that he’d taken it—they didn’t really need to know how weak and useless Dean really was—so he’d burn it and everyone would forget this had ever happened. He’d burn it, and never think of Her again.

Dean felt like he was being ripped in half for reasons he couldn’t even start to understand, but it had been nothing, and it didn’t matter.

Dean dreamt of Her when he finally drifted off. And his heart kept trying to beat him back down—back to Her—but he held strong. He could dream of Her and not go back. He’d never see Her again, and dreams weren’t real. 

None of that had been real, and Dean could dream of Her.

So he would.

End Note: I know we’re off to a rough start, and we’ve got a long road ahead of us, but just remember this. What’s about to come could’ve been entirely avoided if John Winchester wasn’t the actual worst.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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