#THE WAY YOU DRAW HIS HAIR AND EYEBROWS>>> | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

majestyeverlasting · 2 days

Text

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞

Pairing Frank Castle x Reader [friends → lovers]

Summary A fresh start with no more loose ends—that’s what you promised yourselves. But when a quick outing stretches longer than expected, dread creeps in and reveals how deeply you care for Frank when he’s finally back by your side [3.7k]

A/N First time writing for Frank. Deeply appreciate Jon Bernthal’s embodiment of the character ♡

The rain hasn’t stopped by the time the van eases into the parking lot, where the water on the ground reflects the cherry-red motel sign shining against the night. It makes no difference to you—lips parted and head tilted against the passenger side window—until Frank gears into park and taps your thigh with two fingers.

Your eyes flutter open to tiny droplets pattering on the outside of the cool glass. That’s when you notice how still the world has grown. No more potholes, smooth turns, or random swells of acceleration to pass other cars who thought they had all the time in the world.

After cutting the engine, he runs a heavy hand down his face and tips his head back, the motion disheveling the back of his dark hair against the headrest. It’s gotten longer. So has the coarser hair of his beard. He never asked for your opinion, nor had you mustered the courage to give it, but the look suited him, as if it was innately right. As he briefly closes his eyes, he misses the way you turn to study his profile, noting how the bridge of his nose catches the glow of the lights outside.

A satisfied hum escapes you as you stretch out your legs, drawing his attention back your way. He blinks observantly, eyebrows set in that eternal furrow that makes him hard to read. But you know he’s alright—content. There’s no other reason not to be. A couple hundred hundred miles ago, he’d tied off one final loose end, and now the world went silent for the first time in a while. It was over. No more living ghosts breathing down your necks. You and Pete Castiglione were free to start a new life, be whoever you wanted to be. That’s what you told yourselves.

Clearing his throat, Frank shifts in his seat and reaches into the cup holder, tossing the room key into your lap. “Room 103. There’s two queens,” he tells you. “I’ll grab the bags.” The finality in his tone suggests he won’t entertain any alterations to the plan.

You reach down to grab your crossbody. “Can I get this one, or is it too much?” You’re trying to be funny. He waves you off, mumbling under his breath, but there’s an undeniable flutter in his gut when you smile at him before hopping out of the van.

He purses his lips when you break into an amusing little jog, eager to escape the rain and key into the room. A muted yellow fills the space as you flip on the lights. No sooner does he watch you peek through the curtains like a groundhog popping up from its burrow. It’s hard to make him out, but you swear you can see him chuckling from behind the windshield.

It’s impressive how he manages to carry both your belongings in one trip. He hums in appreciation as you hold the door open for him. Rather than dumping everything in the main walkway, he trudges the extra few steps to where more space opens up and a small bench rests beneath the full length mirror hanging on the wall.

The air is thick, as it always seems to be at motels, but the citrus undertones suggest recent cleaning. You stake your claim on the bed closest to the bathroom, ready to settle in. The wrapper of a meal bar crinkles as you dig it out from your purse.

Frank’s own mattress squeaks as he plops down onto the foot of the bed and lays back, tucking his hands behind his head. The movement makes the hem of his hoodie rise up just enough to reveal the light trail of dark hair leading down from his belly button. It’s not the most comfortable bed in the world, but you’d be back on the road in the morning headed for central Virginia.

A modest house in the Blue Ridge Mountains awaited, courtesy of one of his buddies who lived further north in Quantico. Of all the other options, it seemed like a promising place to find your footing away from the endless bustle of New York City.

“Frank?” He looks over at you. “Thanks.” For everything, you want to add.

“No worries,” he says. A few moments pass of the rain slowing down outside. It’s a lulling sound that masks the quiet gurgle of your stomach.

Eyes closed, Frank hears you begin to peel open the bar you’re holding. It’s one of the protein-packed ones that are supposed to taste like chocolate, but always end up too chalky. It’d been a while since the late lunch the two of you had.

“I’ll go get you something hot.” He sits up. “Passed a few places coming in.”

You can see how drained he is from driving. It’s in his voice, the slump of his shoulders. “This’ll tie me over for the night,” you insist.

He looks at you with partial belief. Frank was the type who could get caught up in the task at hand and go without eating, if it wasn’t for your reminders. Earlier, he’d brushed over his hunger, only to sit down across from you in that cramped diner booth and inhale his hamburger and fries as you watched, amusement sparkling in your eyes. That look often spurred him into a spiel about how he could get by on a handful of nuts every few hours if he really wanted.

But there was no such talk this time around. The food was good and hearty, and he enjoyed sitting down and sharing a meal without having to look over his shoulder. There was also something special about the way the sunlight streaming through the windows caught your eyes.

“Really, Frank. It’s been a long day,” you say as he stands and makes his way to the door. There was no stopping him when he made up his mind. “I can come with you.” That earns you a disapproving look, and you sigh your defeat. “Drive safe, okay?”

“Yep.”

The rain subsides shortly after he slips out the door. To avoid the risk of falling asleep, you decide to take a shower, considering yourself lucky that the warm water doesn’t run out after the first five minutes.

By the time you dry off, moisturize, and change into old pajamas, Frank hasn’t returned. When you peek out the window at the sound of an engine, it ends up being construction workers. Despite how much you try to will it away, a familiar sense of dread settles in your gut. It only roots deeper upon realizing that he’d left his BlackBerry behind on the bed.

Time continues passing by.

•••

Red and blue police lights appear blazing in the distance in a showy glow. Frank watches from the inside of a family-owned pizzeria, where beautiful candid pictures adorn the walls. The air is rich with the scent of parmesan and garlic, but his face is fixed in a scowl. There’s bruising beginning to develop on the apple of one cheek, and a thin bleeding slash on the other. A few chairs are overturned while tables are askew.

Under different circumstances, maybe in a different life, he would’ve been able to appreciate the homey charm of the place without trouble finding a way to fall at his feet. The universe had deemed him as the only alter fit to handle it.

The woman behind the counter, stout with a long ponytail, nearly collapses in relief as the wailing sirens draw nearer, but Frank’s jaw ticks in irritation at the whole ordeal. Other customers who were once inside have either left or are now standing watch from the parking lot.

Frank turns to look down at the two young men sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall. The masks have been ripped down from their faces, and it’s clear they’ve been roughed up. Despite feeling Frank’s gaze, they refuse to meet it.

Off to side stands another employee who’s around the same age as the men on the ground. He’s holding a wad of napkins to his bloody nose and can’t keep his eyes from flitting to Frank with reverence and gratitude.

“Hey,” Frank barks to the seated men. “When they bust up in here, you don’t run, you hear me? Cause I’m gonna be out there and you won’t even make it to the next lot over,” he says. “If you wanna come in here and be tough guys while your buddy’s trying to make a living and do better for himself, then you own it.”

Their nostrils flare in frustration, but they don’t dare open their mouths. He can see the misplaced anger of his own youth coursing through them.

“Whatever’s going on between you…you talk it out, yeah?” He looks between all of them. “One bad decision, and your folks are gonna be crying and snotting in a courtroom while some guy with a mallet calls the shots.”

As the police cars turn into the parking lot, Frank walks over to a table and picks up the carry out bag of food he’d ordered.

“How do I get outta here?”

Both the long-haired woman and the young employee point to the back hallway where the bathrooms are, watching him disappear as if he were never there at all.

Frank makes it to his van as the police enter the pizzeria. In the rearview mirror, he can see the two men standing from the ground with their heads hanging low. Sighing, he pats down his pockets for his phone with the intent to call you. Nothing. All he can do is curse under his breath and start up the engine.

The No Vacancy sign is switched on when he makes it back. He sees you staring out the window, but you slink back into the room as if the sight of his return was all you needed. A mix of guilt and frustration stir in his chest when you don’t let him in. He has to dig out the key and do it himself with his free hand, the carry out bag crinkling with his efforts. When he slips in and shuts the door behind himself, you’re standing a few yards away. There’s a palpable intensity as you study the afflictions on his face.

Your body wants to fuss over him and push him away all at once—for leaving his phone, for scaring you, for coming back looking like he’d seeked out yet another fight. Most of all, you feel foolish for believing that there was ever a chance at normalcy. There was no rewriting the curse that all the trouble in the world fell at Frank Castle’s feet so he could set things right.

Unlike eight months ago, when you thought he was an enemy, you can’t imagine losing him. You wouldn’t survive it. That magnitude of that fear cloaks itself in anger and puts a target on him when it’s the last thing he deserves.

“What the hell, Frank? You can’t be serious right now.”

Your piercing gaze is muddled with a myriad of emotions, and he can see them all. He stops the knee-jerk reaction that almost makes him raise his voice and go on about how he didn’t ask for anything that transpired within the past hour. How happenstance wasn’t within his control. How the whole idea of the two people like you finding a sense of normality was probably closer to a fairytale.

He doesn’t get into it because he loves you. Even though neither of you have ever said it aloud. It was an unspoken truth, written between the lines of the fact that you worked each other’s nerves, but knew how to sooth them even more. Chasing after a fairytale would be worth it with you.

“Let’s just eat, yeah? Can we do that?”

He brushes past you to put the food on the small table. You track his movements, watching as he takes out a few small boxes. There’s wings, garlic knots, mozzarella sticks—a variety so you can take your pick and get your fill. It was never really too late for pizza, but he knew you would complain about the layers of cheese grease so close to bedtime. You’re not even sure you have an appetite anymore, but he motions for you to come sit and you can’t say no. Your eyes follow him as he goes to wash his hands, wishing you had it in you to scream.

There’s only two chairs and your knees knock beneath the table when he sits down. As you nibble on a garlic knot, you stare at the dried blood on his cheek and the forming bruise.

“Please tell me what happened.” Your tone is lighter than before.

Frank briefly squints then wrinkles his nose, gears turning in his head. Similar to when he walks into a new room, his gaze tracks around different points of your face, as if he’s trying to piece together what he wants to say as he assesses where you are. His thoughts are always written in his expressions even if they aren’t entirely clear.

“It was nothing,” he says.

“Nothing, Frank?”

Nine times out of ten, him coming back to base camp bearing signs of a fight meant that he’d either taken care of everything or it was time to bounce—no in between. There’s no urgency that suggests the latter, so he must be telling the truth. The events of the night have pissed him off more than anything, like a side quest he couldn’t avoid. As much as he dreaded playing it over in his head for the sake of relaying it back to you, he can see that you need it.

“Alright, look.” Frank waits for your attentive nod to continue.

“It was a couple of kids. Came in all loud, making a scene,” he starts. “Long story short, they gang up on their buddy who works there.” Your eyes drift to his lips as he talks, watching the way he wets them every so often. “Everybody starts freaking out, some suit who looks like Mayor LaGaurdia calls the cops.”

He shakes his head like it was all a big mess. “And I’m not about to sit there and watch this kid get the snot beat outta him, so I get up and do somethin’ about it.” The righteous indignation in his tone that stirs an admiration within you. He notices the shift in the way you’re looking at him.

“What?”

You shake your head and bite your lower lip. “So you broke them apart?”

He nods. “One of ‘em got a lick in, pulled out a pocket knife,” he says. “Then I shook both their asses up and made ‘em sit ‘til the cops came.”

“You pulled your punches.”

“I pulled my punches,” he confirms.

This wasn’t the story you were expecting, but you’re grateful for it nonetheless. Frank breaking up fights and setting kids straight was something you could live with—better than dealing with crime rings, crooked feds, and personal vendettas.

A wave of rowdy laughter soon erupts from somewhere in the distance. When you look down, you realize the two of you have made your way through more of the food than you were expecting. Frank wipes his hands off with a napkin and leans back in his chair, watching as you do the same.

The silence is intimate. Frank’s knees are still pressed against yours. He looks like he wants to say one thing but changes his mind to another at the last minute. “I’m gonna go grab a shower, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you mimic the quick, New York way he always clips the word onto the end of his sentences.

He’s never minded your teasing. Every time he thinks he’s gotten away with masking his amusement, you always catch a tell that gives him away. This time, it’s the twitch of his nose as he stands up to throw his stuff away. You file it away in your memory.

“Hey, Frank?” He looks over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was scared.”

“I know.”

Later, the lights around the mirror provide a Hollywood-esque glow as you stand at the sink with one hand braced on the counter, brushing your teeth. This rest of the bathroom is sectioned off behind a door, so you feel the lingering steam from Frank's shower as he steps out in his sleep clothes, drying off his hair. The air smells like the complimentary soap, light and fresh. You absentmindedly shift to make room for him as he drapes the towel around his neck and leans close to the mirror to assess his face.

Now that the blood is gone, the cut looks less imposing. Unphased that you’re bumping shoulders, he reaches for his own toothbrush.

You’ve never paid any mind to how heavy-handed he is while he brushes, but it stands out now that you’re right beside him sharing the same sink. Perhaps it only appears that way, but you force yourself to bite back a teasing comment as you move on to floss. Frank just stares at you in the mirror with a soft, tired look in his eyes that makes your insides feel all fluttery. You’re sure he’s not even aware he’s doing it—or maybe he knows perfectly well.

After he’s ditched the towel around his neck and the two of you are making your way to your respective beds, you bring a halt to his movements by wrapping your arms around him. It’s an awkward angle at first because you come at him partially from the side, partially behind. But he adjusts himself so that your chests are pressed together as he wraps an arm around you—just the one initially, taken aback by your embrace.

“Okay. Oh, boy,” he chuckles in that low way of his that playfully denotes trouble.

You’re not sure why you made the move. As he adds his other arm, it occurs to you that there are too many motivations for there to be just one. Affection seldom looks like this between the two of you—maybe once every blue moon during partings or close calls. The seamless way you melt into him says otherwise. It’s as if relishing his warmth and the steady constant of his frame was all you were made for. The possibility doesn’t even offend you. You keep holding him and he keeps holding you.

“You okay?” he asks after a while, smoothing his wide palm up your back.

You nod before slowly pulling away. “Sorry, I’m just…” You touch a gentle finger to the center of his chest as he looks at you with that familiar furrow between his brows. “Glad you’re back.” Glad he’s still alive.

“Where else would I be, huh?” He taps your chin with his knuckle. “I walk out any door without you, best believe I’m making it back some way somehow.”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice anymore.

He gives your chin another affectionate tap. “Alright then. Bedtime.”

•••

A small sliver of light slips in through the slit in the curtains, casting itself onto the lower portion of Frank’s bed right over his feet. Even after staring at it for what feels like forever, you can’t bring yourself to close your eyes and surrender to the grasp of sleep. Yet the steady rise and fall of Frank’s chest continues on like some sort of miracle. You wish you were close enough to feel it for yourself, and when that pull doesn’t go away, you push the covers off and tiptoe over to his bed amid the dark.

When the other side of his mattress dips, he thinks it’s one of those half-waking dreams until your leg brushes against his in your attempt to join him beneath the sheets. He immediately shifts to accommodate you, tugging more covers over to your side even though there’s already plenty. As he moves, you can smell the familiar scent of his skin and feel the weight of his proximity.

“Thought you were—thought I was dreaming,” he rasps.

With the way your heart has begun hammering in your ears, you’re surprised you can hear him. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, you’re okay, sweetheart.” His voice is thick, but not from tiredness this time.

Both of you remain still after you’ve settled, scared that moving would shatter this sweet reality that had been woven together by fate. The warmth of his body calls out to you, but you don’t indulge even though you want to. That hesitation doesn’t last long. The moment he reaches out, you press yourself back against his chest. He lets his hand come to rest over your stomach as he tucks his nose into your head, breathing you in. When you relax further into him, his fingertips venture just beneath the hem of your shirt to grace the soft skin above your waistline. The gesture is achingly chaste. The two of you fall asleep just like that.

Morning seems to come soon, sunlight spilling into the room around the closed curtains. The light is tender in the way it bathes the charming color palette of the room. Frank’s eyes flutter open to find that neither of you had shifted much during the night. You're further away, but his arm remains draped over your middle. He doesn’t know that you're awake—that you’ve been awake.

The first thing your gaze fell on was the alarm clock nearing nine o’ clock. You’d slept in way longer than usual, especially for what was meant to be another day on the road. You can’t bring yourself to mind.

It isn’t until Frank withdraws his arm that you finally allow yourself to shift. The sheets rustle in a tell-tale sign that he’s stretching, and you roll over in time to see him on his back with his arms extended, knuckles brushing against the headboard. You scoot closer, resting a hand on his chest after he lowers his arms and tucks the one furthest from you behind his head, bicep flexing.

Neither of you say anything, but there’s a quiet sense of acknowledgement—of seeing and being seen. With a lone finger, you draw lazy shapes over his pecs through the fabric of his shirt as he slowly blinks down at your hand. As Frank turns to press a kiss to your temple, he reckons he could get used to mornings like these.

♡ Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts.

#frank castle #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle fanfic #frank castle x reader #frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #the punisher #jon bernthal #friends to lovers fic #friends to lovers

63 notes · View notes

kittykat-25 · 9 hours

Text

HOME- An S.Coups Fic

Pairing: Seungcheol x Reader

Genre: Comfort, Scoups savings the day

Synopsis: you’ve never had an issue with hiding your relationship with Seungcheol but he does when your ex gets a little too close.

A/N: me being completely WHIPPED for Choi Seungcheol. This is my first Seventeen Fic so I hope you enjoy🥹

Sitting at dinner with your friends from your home town whom you haven’t seen since you moved almost a year ago. You glared at your so called best friend; Tori, she raised her eyebrow at you in question. You cut your eyes to the man sitting beside you, a little too close for comfort. Your ex, who you were not told was coming on this trip smiles at you. You force a smile and turn to glare at your friend. “Your hairs longer.” He said twirling a strand of your hair between his fingers. “Yeah hair grows out in a year.” You mumbled pulling your head away. “How do you like living in Seoul?” Another friend asked. “I love it, I love the fast pace and the friends I’ve made are incredible, learning the language was a hard start but you pick it up fast.” You friend scoffs, “tell us more about this boyfriend of yours? We don’t even know his name.” You smile as Cheols face fills your mind, “he’s amazing,I’m sorry he couldn’t be here tonight.” You missed your best friend roll her eyes. You jump feeling a hand brush your thigh, grazing the skin where your dress ends. You look over and find your ex smirking at you, shoving his hand away. “Stop.” You said quiet enough to not draw attention. He chuckled and leans back and your friends pepper you with more questions.

A while later you’ve had enough of the constant touches and sly comments from your ex. You excuse yourself and walk towards the bathroom pulling your phone out pressing the first contact in your recents, “Choi Seongcheols phone, the other love of his life speaking!” Rings out as Jeonghan; you and Cheols best friend answers, his voice bringing you small amount of comfort.” Hannie,-“ you are quickly cut off.” Y/n, why are you being such a bitch tonight.” You mute Jeonghan and turn towards your old friend, “excuse me?” You ask, “you are being so rude to him, bringing up a boyfriend that probably doesn’t even exist, you broke his heart and then fled the country. Give him a break.” You laugh, though there’s no humor behind it. “I broke his heart, he cheated on me. He needs to get over it. It’s the consequences of his actions.” You add, “and you asked about My love life. I told you already I was seeing someone. You chose to do that.” You snapped back. “Oh please, we both know you don’t actually have a boyfriend. You just want to make it seem like you have it together over here. When clearly you are losing it.“ Tori scoffs, you roll your eyes, “Fuck you.” Tori’s jaw drops a little, stunned by your reaction. “You’ve turned into a real bitch since you moved. You never use to treat me this way.” You rolled your eyes, “I apologize that me no longer being a push over inconveniences you.” She stomps by and you let out an exhale before turning your attention back to the phone call. “Y/n” Jeonghan started, “please come get me.” You sigh into the phone. “CHEOL” you hear another friend yell, Joshua by the sounds of it. “Where are you?” He asked as you hear shoes being thrown on. The voice of your boyfriend coming to life in the background. “Baby? What happened?” He ground out, worry laced in his words. You heard the car door shut, multiple voices pilling in. “Her friends are dicks, did they tell you your ex was going to be here.” Jeonghan said gruffly. “No.” your voice said shakily. “He won’t stop making comments and- touching me.” You add quieter. You hear an exhale and know it’s Cheol. “He touched you?” A deeper voice asked kindly but you can hear the venom that’s not normally there, Wonwoo. “I’m interrupting guys night, I’m so sorry.” You apologized when you processed all the voices you had heard. “Don’t you dare apologize for calling me when you need me baby.” your boyfriend exclaimed, “We’re five minutes away y/n. We’ll see you soon.” Jeonghan calls to you before the call ends.

You put on a brave face and walk back to the table. Your ex takes him time racking his eyes over you, bile rising in your throat. But your old friend was right, you had changed since you moved. You were no longer timid and shy. Being best friends and dating the leader of Seventeen will do that to a person. Hard to be scared when 13 guys have your back, the few men on their way proving that point. You never told your friend you were dating Cheol, she was a fan and you didn’t need the rumors starting, you had been very careful with your relationship. Only Pledis and your families knew. And yet here he comes to rescue you, the guilt of what this will publicly do starts the make you panic. Worsening as you sat down, your exes hand came down on your thigh. You shoved him off, “do not touch me.” You stated. Loud enough for the three others to hear. He laughed, “there’s no harm in it y/n.” You glare at him, “there is when I said stop. Multiple times now.” Your other friends chuckle, “yall bicker like a married couple.” Tori says with a smile. “It’s not bickering when he crosses boundaries.” You snap. You look into the reflection of the mirror on the wall, breathing a sigh of relief when you see the familiar black car of your boyfriend pull up. Your grin falters when you feel the weight of a hand on your thigh again. You shove him hand off and onto the table, not even thinking before grabbing the steak knife as well. Stabbing it into the table between his fingers. “Touch me again and it’ll go through your hand.” Venom dripped from your voice, your exes face turned sour, his hand rearing back before it was caught in a thigh grip. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Cheol spat, shaving him away from you. Tori gasped when she realized who was behind you, his hand out reached for you to take. You grabbed your purse and slid your hand into his, pulling you gently to your feet, you looked behind him to find Jeonghan standing behind Cheol, Joshua, Wonwoo and Mingyu standing a few feet away. A hard look on their faces, “please take her to the car.” He called back, you walked towards your friends, smirking at Cheols dominance. You made it to the door of the restaurant when you turned back, Cheol leaning down saying something to your old friends making their faces pale. He straightened up, face hard but completely melting into a soft smile for you. Taking your hand and leading you to the car, putting the restaurant and your old friends in the past.

A/n: sooo I might post a pt2 of some sorts. Maybe from Jeonghan’s POV but I hope you enjoyyy

#scoups #seventeen #svt x reader #seungcheol x reader #svt drabbles

51 notes · View notes

inkformyblood · 2 days

Text

i hear you call my name (it feels like home) GhostSoap

Written for the GhostSoap server Balanced Equinox event! For the fic complete with John's POV (written by the wonderful ChaoticEmmeline) here is it on ao3

Tags <3: @imjustheretofightforlove @mossyroach

Fantasy/Medieval AU, Mistaken Identity, Sort of Fake Dating, Mutual Pining

Simon scuffs his heel along the stray stones on the road, a thin plume of dust following the action. The mark wouldn’t last long, obscured in the same instant of formation by the man behind him in the procession, but it existed for a moment.

He hadn’t thought it would be sunny when he first met his fiance.

He hadn’t thought he would meet them at all.

Succession is a strange thing in his kingdom, one of many things that could be considered distasteful about it from an outsider’s perspective, and Simon had been nothing more than a blade in the shadows, a body on the battlefield, directed first one way and then another to coat his hands in gore for the sake of his orders. Orders given by his father and then his older brother when he began to step into the role. He doesn’t want to think overtly about the change in circumstances that has left him in this position; married off like some third or fourth daughter, his hand suddenly the best thing about him.

His jaw is clenched, an ache stabbing through the scar tissue over his neck, and Simon, reluctantly, relaxes the muscle. He presses the ball of his thumb against the hinge of his jaw, feeling bone shift beneath his touch. The sensation is muted through his gloves, heavy dark leather and what feels like every drop of moisture in his body pooling into the lining. His eyes sting with every other blink between the glare of the sun and the damenable temperature doing its best to cook him inside his formal clothes. Another corner, another field fit to bursting with vibrant crops spilling as far as the eye can see. Simon breathes in, ignoring the taste of ash that clings to his tongue.

He’s getting married after all.

Married.

When he had received the order, it had been delivered much like any other, a piece of parchment sealed with the family crest accompanying a wrapped bundle. He’d been hoping for some fresh rations, would have taken new weapons, and, instead, it had been clothes. Formal enough that he wouldn’t embarrass the family, not formal enough to match the occasion.

He misses his armour. Entering the city had gone smoothly enough, an eyebrow raised by one of the guards at the sword strapped to his pack, and his brace of knives sat unevenly against his hips beneath the delicate stitchwork on his tunic. Too short on the torso, a touch too broad in the shoulders, but he was able to keep his mask on. It’s a simple thing, dark fabric drawn up over his nose and encircling his cheeks and neck, but it is heavy with sweat, his breath fogging against his cheeks with every exhalation. Above him, ahead of him, the castle sits; a towering construction with towers and battlements protruding from it. Couple of weak spots that Simon can immediately spot, more likely lingering just beyond his scope of vision.

There’s a man on one of the battlements, too far away for Simon to pick out anything more than the general shape of him. It’s his hair that catches Simon’s eye, a streak down the centre of his head that catches the faint breeze like a pennant. Simon tips his head back as the procession works its way beneath the open gate, a blessed sliver of shadow blotting out the sun for a moment. Even the air is heavy here, thick against his tongue, and Simon tugs at the base of his mask, drawing it away from the hollow of his throat in search of some relief. He finds none.

There will be none.

Behind them, the last of the procession steps into the castle and the towering doors in front creak open, heavy chains rattling with the effort.

Three more weak points.

No, four.

A guard close to Simon drops his spear, both hands clinging to the fragile flag he carries, his eyes wide with panic as he tries to catch it regardless, tearing himself in two directions. Simon moves on instinct, swinging his leg out to catch the blade with his boot before he continues the movement upwards. He catches the spear with one hand and holds it out to the guard, maintaining his grip until it is secure once more. Turning away, Simon surveys the procession, already in motion once more.

Fuck.

He’s lost his place.

Simon moves back into the crowd, setting his shoulders in a rough line as he works his way through it. The movement must be obvious from above, a blade cutting through a field of swaying wheat, and Simon keeps his head lowered, just enough to keep his focus on his target.

“Name?”

“Riley delegation,” Simon answers the steward, halted at the doorway. His shadow bleeds in front of him, a wash of darkness against cool stone as the sun brushes against the top of the castle walls. He looks monstrous.

He is a monster. Not something he’s likely to forget, formed and forged and ready to kneel in front of the altar he is going to be sacrificed on. This kingdom is prosperous but untrained, untested. Simon and his kingdom will be the threat in the shadows to keep the smaller monsters away, chaining Death itself to ward from household pests.

The steward nods once, eagerness bright in his eyes. He’s young, his cheeks flushed pink, and he nearly bounces on his heels as he turns to face the main hall. “Riley delegation,” he announces, his voice filling the space.

Simon keeps his gaze down, watching his shadow blur in front of him. One heartbeat, then two, and he can move once more, making his way down the stairs. This entire event feels wrong, like he’s folding himself into a shape he was never meant to wear, something intended for someone softer, sweeter, suited for good things. He pauses in front of the throne, bowing to the seated pair. He’d heard the gossip about the current king and queen, about their careful and dedicated manipulations for the marriage of their fourth son, the man being offered up to Simon’s kingdom as a living bargaining chip. A snarl tugs at the corner of his mouth, still hidden behind his mask, and he pushes the expression away as he straightens, aiming for a routine compliance. He’d been subjected to drills, same as any other soldier, and this is nothing more than that. Just another drill. Walk there, stand here, do nothing, be nothing.

King Duncan is a solidly built man, just beginning to go grey at the temples, and he holds himself well, broad shoulders and belly speaking to the prosperity of his kingdom. Next to him sits Queen Marion, slightly shorter than her husband with her hair braided and piled on top of her head. It could be concealment but Simon doubts it. They’re a well-matched pair, their eyes dark and intent as they look down at Simon, drinking him in. The Queen opens her mouth, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners, and Simon flushes in reflexive embarrassment at his ill-fitting clothes, his ill-suited self.

“So, you’re the ambassador? Emissary for the Riley kingdom?”

There’s another man, slightly offset to the King and Queen, an oversight Simon would not make again. He’s leaning forward, his stance wide and his weight tipped over one leg. A flash of recognition hits Simon, the same man from the battlements, not just a guard but someone more important. A personal detail, maybe. But, no.

Simon’s gaze flickers to the circlet around the man’s brow, a beautiful and delicate piece that only heightens the wild ferocity that the shaved hairstyle adds to the man. His eyes are blue, striking enough that Simon doesn’t answer for a long moment. And then, another.

“John,” Queen Marion says, her tone bright.

John doesn’t flinch but there’s a lessening of him, a rounding to his shoulders, his weight sliding onto his back leg. He’s no longer a warrior in that instance but a child being scolded by their mother. He catches Simon’s gaze once more, the blue of his eyes a touch darker as his brow furrows before the expression is wiped away. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I spoke out of turn.”

“Ambassador, Your Majesties. No need for apologies, it was my error and mine alone.” Simon is ruined. He’ll build his own funeral pyre later because this man standing before him, the man who is turning to grin at Simon like Simon is the one who wove the stars into the sky and coaxed the sun into rising, is his fiance, his future husband.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador?” John pauses, tipping his head to one side.

Simon swallows, keeping his hands flat at his side. His fingers itch to pick up a blade, not for any solid reason but to have, to be able to flick it along the flat of his fingers just to watch John’s gaze follow it. A moment of reprieve from digging his own grave, tossing another shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. “Simon, please, Your Majesty.”

Safe enough of a name to give. If questioned, it wouldn’t be uncommon to share a name with the Prince and, selfishly, Simon wants John to know him by his proper name, instead of his title.

“Ambassador Simon,” John nods. “I’ll need to catch you later. We’ve got lots to talk about, yeah?”

“John,” Queen Marion sighs. John bounces back on his heels with a small laugh. She continues, addressing Simon. “We thank you for the journey. We understand it is a notable distance from your country and we appreciate yourself and the Prince travelling to us for this engagement. I trust he will be following shortly?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Simon, the second Prince, answers, lying through his teeth and the thin cloth of his mask. “The Prince will be arriving shortly.”

⁂

Simon doesn’t look at Roach.

The other man had detached from the rest of the delegation several dances ago, choosing to forgo the array of delicacies laid out in front of them — in celebration of the upcoming wedding — to haunt Simon’s shadow. He’s a solid presence behind Simon, his own mask drawn high over his features and his hood pulled low across his brow to obscure the rest, and Simon doesn’t need to look to know the expression on his face.

One dance flows into another, both unfamiliar to Simon although that was only to be expected. The music he is accustomed to is rough and ready, a handful of notes coaxed out of hand organ that had already been battered by a sword twice, a low whistle from chapped lips and a mouthful of blood. A few of the others slip onto the dancefloor, wraiths in dark leather with their masks pulled high over their faces to match Simon’s own. There’s comfort in that kind of wordless solidarity. Roach’s foot presses over his own and Simon realises he had been moving, tapping the heel of his boot in time to the music.

He still doesn’t look at the other man.

He doesn’t need to. Roach’s hand digs into the dip of Simon’s waist, a touch of cruelty in the familiarity of the gesture, and Simon straightens, fighting the urge to cringe away from it. The touch didn’t hurt; it tickled.

“Alright,” Simon murmurs, keeping his voice low. There’s a courtier four steps away who is some sort of spy for the crown, another just across from them who is either a renowned gossip or yet another agent allocated to their group. “I fucked up.”

Roach is his closest friend, hell, his only friend in whatever way the word could be applied to either of them. Two broken pieces somehow coming together to form a disjointed whole.

“Royalty doesn’t fuck up,” Roach whispers, his voice catching on every harsh consonant, dragging its heels over the softer vowels. “It will be explained as caution.” He pauses, swallowing. “And the Prince keeps watching you.”

Oh?

Simon deliberately hadn’t been watching the high table, tracking the shadows out of the corner of his eye but little else. He’d be called back up soon enough to be shown to a room to prepare for the feast later on that day, and from little he knew of his father’s court, he would have to assume that from the moment he stepped foot inside the castle that he would be watched. Roach is safe enough, along with the other members of his party, but no-one could be trusted until the wedding is completed and Simon can officially call Prince John his husband. His fascination meant nothing until then.

Roach presses his fingers in further like he is trying to claw open a barely healed wound, fingers curling so there’s the rough edge of nails through the bunched fabric. “Look.”

Objectively, Simon knew John to be a beauty before he had travelled here. There had been a portrait included with the missive pulling Simon from the front line to trek across three countries to arrive here, but it must have been a few years old or painted with little consideration of the man it was meant to show. The man Simon would have expected from that tiny smudged picture is short, near-waifish in stature, with honey blond hair cascading over one shoulder. It had been too small to see much in the way of his features but the only accuracy was the blue of John’s eyes, the solitary mastery on display. Prince John marries the features of his parents well; the broadness of his father and the height of his mother, not as tall as Simon himself but there is some strength to him. He would be a wonder with some more concentrated training.

Simon cuts his thoughts off there, letting them fall bloodless to the ground. This marriage would be nothing more than a partnership that promises to be beneficial to both parties, nothing more. He can’t let himself forget that.

The Prince’s gaze flickers to Simon before he looks away, his cheeks pink.

That’s strange. Unexpected.

Simon is used to people looking away from him. He’s aware of what he looks like, how out of place he is in this ballroom, some hulking behemoth ripped from the battlefield and shoved where he was never meant to exist, but people didn’t normally blush when they averted their eyes from him.

It’s a good colour on the Prince. Pretty, even.

The Queen holds her hand and the music falls silent. The pair that had broken away from Simon’s party pause in their twirling, arms wrapped around waist and shoulder, closer than they should be for propriety's sake, but they’re from Simon’s court. Some eccentricities are expected and should be exploited ruthlessly. “Thank you all for joining us for this time leading up to Prince John’s wedding.” She smiles sweetly through the applause that her words bring, a chill prickling over the nape of Simon’s neck. “If the Ambassador from the Riley delegation would please join us for a moment?”

Simon does so, feeling the blade he is forging for himself sing against his neck. He can survive this. He has to.

⁂

Life in the MacTavish kingdom moves slowly, hours dripping past with the same consistency as honey. It isn’t the same as the uneasy quiet before battle or the achingly long time after that can only be spent nursing new injuries and commiserating over loss; this time feels hopeful, the kingdom mustering under fresh banners of their Prince’s upcoming marriage.

A marriage Simon can only hope he hasn’t tarnished before it has even happened.

“What would you do—” Simon asks Roach as the other man leans over the small basin in the corner of their room, “—if I threw myself off of the battlements rather than face this party?”

The rasp of a razor is deceptively loud in such a quiet space. Simon watches Roach work, the deliberate stretch of the skin around the jumble of scar tissue on his cheek so he can navigate the blade over the sparse hair growth there, steam fogging up the polished mirror resting in the alcove. In the other man’s hazy reflection, a smudge of the mirror wiped clear before it begins to cloud once again, Simon catches Roach’s gaze, dark against dark, and shrugs.

Roach grins, uneven, lopsided, a shattered mirror to Simon’s own. “Take you either way. Pretty up your corpse and stand you against a pillar.”

Simon laughs. He can’t help it. The sound struggles out of him, quiet at first then louder. Roach braces himself against the side of the basin as his shoulders tremble, every breath catching at the apex with an aching hitch. In another life, this would be all Simon would have to concern himself with, battles and the spaces between, going where he is ordered and killing whoever he is aimed towards. The door on the far wall had been opened once into the adjourning room on that first night, the ostentatious set-up intended for Prince Riley had been meticulous from the firewood stacked in perfect rows in the grate to the heavy embroidered comforter drawn over the lower half of the bed. Simon hadn’t dared to touch it.

Roach wipes the remnants of the soap from his face before he draws his mask back up over his nose. He crosses the room in a few steps, tipping himself backwards onto the bed in the same manner Simon had moments prior, his head near Simon’s hips, his hips near Simon’s head. They’re the same like this, warriors with soft sheets against the layered scars on their backs, both out of place and clinging to stability. Simon just might be able to find that here.

“Tell me truthfully, Simon.” Roach raises his head, the motion a whisper against Simon’s fingers and Simon does the same. His voice is hushed, intended for Simon’s ears alone, and a prickle of unease courses down Simon’s spine. “What do you think of the Prince?”

Simon bites the tip of his tongue, grinds the blunt edge of his teeth until it aches. It’s Roach asking, his only friend, his shadow, the one person he could count on in the entire decaying world. “I could grow to care for him.”

“Could?” Roach tangles their fingers together, squeezing until bone creaks beneath the pressure. “Have, Si.”

There’s no time to consider the weight of his words, a deep toll echoing through the castle to summon the guests to the ball. Simon stands on legs that don’t seem to be able to bear his weight and doesn’t look at Roach at his side, always by his side.

Prince John isn’t what Simon had expected. He’s only had a few occasions to interact with the other man since their first fateful introduction, but the man has dominated Simon’s thoughts. It had been a small moment, Prince John half-turning his face towards Simon while caught in a conversation with another. His mouth had initially been pressed tight together, a thin line of pressure making the fullness of his lower lip more apparent, but he had discarded that stress in an instant as he had smiled over at Simon, one brow arched in a silent question. Simon is nothing to this man, a delegate from a kingdom as mired in darkness as John’s own is awash with light, a false Ambassador denying himself for no other reason than reflex.

(He knows why.)

John would have come to Simon’s side if he had gestured for him to do so, because he is a kind man, a good man. There is an intent focus about him that would feel clinical if John had been anyone else, a glint of wonder in brilliant blue eyes that hadn’t yet given fruit or been torn up for the harvest, and Simon would let himself be known down to the marrow if John asks him to.

(He is afraid.)

Simon’s kingdom is reclusive, exporting warriors and a handful of trade goods. Their wealth is in blood and bone instead of something that lasts, affection never factors into a decision. This marriage is no different to any other order Simon has been given, his role carved so deeply into his flesh that it hasn’t scarred. It simply is, he simply is. He can’t love John, he wouldn’t survive the loss of it.

There’s still battlefield mud on Simon’s boots as they sweep into the Royal Hall, Roach half a step behind and bristling with the weapons Simon had been unable to keep on his person. He feels the absence of his sword like a wound through his spine, a hollowing at the core of his person. He couldn’t understand how people could live like this, exposed, vulnerable. Prince John doesn’t strike him as a man who would willingly roll over and let scavengers pick at his ribcage; instead, he’d be a symbol of righteous fury, teeth bared and bloody.

At the high table, the royal family sits, gold shining at their brows and place settings. It’s a striking image, King Duncan resplendent in finery and flanked by his wife and son. Three openings to cut his throat, four if Simon can break one of the goblets into something more substantial. He doesn’t look directly at Prince John, trying to devour his fill in scant movements tracked out of the corner of his eye, and it still burns like he’s staring into the sun. Simon blinks and the afterimage stays with him, haunting him.

There are roots growing in his lungs, thorns pricking his veins from the inside-out, and Simon doesn’t know what will bloom if he lets it.

Queen Marion is a softer figure than her husband and son, silk where they are gold-leaf steel. Her hair is carefully coiled on top of her head and Simon’s gaze flickers over it, tracking the shift of one of the ornaments as she stands, drawing every wandering eye to her. It’s an impressive skill, one that would make her a formidable opponent on a battlefield Simon is entirely unaccustomed to. He could learn to be, would learn to be if the Prince needed it of him.

As Simon makes his way to her, commanded by little else than a raised goblet and an inclined head, he hears the wildfires of gossip burst around him, a deliberate dissection of his entire being from the stitching on his doublet to the mask he wears. It’s different to the version he wears on the battlefield, thinner in some attempt at civility but the fabric is still dark, the stitching heavy and deliberate to partially obscure the features beneath. He knows a handful of the rumours that circulate about his kingdom — difficult not to with some of the concerned clucking that follows himself and his companions down every hallway, ladies clustering behind their fans as if they are solid stone, servants unaware of how much their voices echo — but the whisper circle around their masks more than anything else.

His favourite is the most fantastical, a children’s bedtime story given just enough substance to stagger. A handful whisper that the Royal family of Simon’s kingdom are cursed to never die but are not spared from decay so beneath the masks they wear, their faces are nothing but gleaming bones, their skin stolen from corpses.

In truth, soldiers wear the masks and the nobles follow suit to try and steal what little favour they could from wells long since run dry. Simon’s scars are not the most extensive in the army, the sharp lines on either side of his mouth fading to a silver sheen over time, running darker in the chill, but he still feels the blade that made them every morning when he first wakes, a dull ache where he can no longer feel any sensation, a tugging against unforgiving healing when he goes to speak.

He will need to lower his mask to drink, to eat.

Everyone will see.

John will see.

“A drink, Ambassador?” Queen Marion asks as he draws closer, gesturing to the place left empty next to her. It’s a high honour, one that even Simon is aware of, and he accepts with a short bow, sitting down carefully next to her. Too many lines of sight for him to keep track of so he settles for monitoring the obvious, the balcony above, the pillar next to the interior door, steeling himself for agony. He lowers his gaze to the goblet, far too fine for the likes of him, the wine inside rich and dark. It could be poisoned. Simon studies her for a moment, the fall of her dress at her wrists and the jewellery clustering her neck, her hands. Her wedding ring is relatively simple, a single outlier amongst courtly trappings, and she turns to him with a smile that he cannot understand but trusts all the same.

Queen Marion speaks clearly as she turns away from him, her voice cutting over the rolling field of whispers like a scythe through wheat although Simon can’t make out her words over the rush of blood in his ears, a wardrum of his own construction. Eyes turn to her, Simon sheltered for an instant by her actions, merely a shadow at her side, concealed by her radiance. He reaches for the goblet, covering the span of his face with his other hand as he hooks his thumb into the fabric of his mask, drawing it down as he drinks deeply.

“Changing your hairstyle this close to a wedding is certainly a bold choice to make, my son,” Queen Marion continues. Her smile is fond, powder cracking slightly over the lines in the corners of her eyes, and she reaches one hand out to Prince John who leans forward accommodatingly. “However, your circlet. A fine piece of our history, if I do say so myself. If I am remembering correctly, it once belonged to my grandfather, King Ivar of the former Upland territory. He was a fine warrior, skilled in several forms of combat and the piece was a gift from his paramor, Jarl Geirr of the Medipad. Geirr’s artisans were talented craftsmen, renowned for their work. I believe one repeat customer was an Empress from across the ocean and she made the journey personally to secure their wares. We have a rich history in our veins, one that is important to respect and honour.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” John murmurs, ducking his head.

He cuts a fine figure in a dark grey coat, embroidery picked out at the cuffs and collar in what Simon would lay money on being pure silver thread. It isn’t a colour Simon would have associated with the Prince; the other man reminds him more of sunlight filtering through stained glass, a ruin transforming into something beautiful by his mere presence. Simon glances back to the goblet, prodding his lower lip with his tongue as he thinks. The taste of the wine lingers, memories of plucking berries from roadside bushes and devouring them in handfuls as he marches crowding to the forefront of his mind, the remembered snap of banners unfurling nearly startling him from his seat. He knows that dark shade.

His colours.

There’s an uneven weight sitting low in his belly, a bonfire accompaniment to the heat rushing through his chest. He isn’t a man prone to blushing, a boon given his pale colouring that would ignite in an instant, but he can taste flames in the back of his throat, overpowering the remnants of the wine. If he can salvage the marriage once his deception is revealed, John will be his husband. He will wear Simon’s colours.

Simon isn’t going to survive this unscathed, unchanged.

The meal passes slowly. Beneath him, the court fades into nothing more than a shifting sea of colours. The majority wear blue and green, a few with red, however, the men wear a patterning on their clothing, a repeated hatchwork of different colours and lines. It’s something new for Simon to sink his teeth into, desperate for a moment’s reprieve from the inevitable wildfire in his mind. The Queen speaks to him throughout the meal, soft comments that he can nod and shake his head in response to, her smile never wavering from something soft and… and…

When the plates are cleared, Simon rises when asked to, the Queen’s hand resting on the crook of his elbow. Through the layers of fabric, he can feel the strength in her grip, the slight indentations of calluses on her thumb and forefinger. She is head and shoulders shorter than him and he’s careful to adjust his stride to hers as they make their way to the dance floor. The panic in Simon’s veins feels solid, a beartrap convalescing around his heart and restricting his breath. So many eyes are watching him, burning into the slope of his shoulders, the thin line of skin visible at the nape of his neck and the beginning of the scar that is exposed there. It’s darker than most of his others, healing raised and jagged. Noticeable.

“Music,” Queen Marion commands. She’s facing Simon, her face momentarily hidden from the rest of the court, and her expression is fragile, teetering on the edge of something. It doesn’t last long enough for Simon to categorise it, gone nearly before he can notice it amongst the swelling of strings as the first dance begins.

Simon holds her hand carefully, the thick leather of his gloves blunting the sensation of her skin against his own. He presses the back of his hand to the small of her back as they step together, a simple dance and one that Simon is familiar with.

“You must forgive my son,” Marion utters to him. Her mouth barely moves as she continues, her voice pitched for his ears alone. “He is a good boy, a brave young man, but courtly pursuits bore him. He will cultivate a court befitting his husband, however. Rest assured, he will serve Prince Simon well.”

Simon catches himself with a reassurance on his tongue, a single brief statement that would tear away any chance at subterfuge he has left, because how could John be anything other than perfect? He swallows it back, expecting the taste to be rotten like everything else in his life, and it’s sweet instead. He tries to speak as softly as the Queen when he answers but it feels like a pale imitation. “Thank you for your insight, Your Majesty. I have faith the Prince will succeed in whatever role he takes.”

Queen Marion inclines her head as the song draws to a thunderous close. “A moment, Ambassador. I find myself needing to attend to the other guests, however—” She doesn’t pull away from him as she turns, scanning the ballroom with a practised eye.

A moment of respite and Simon takes it gladly, scanning the ballroom over the heads of the assembled figures. He catches sight of Roach in an instant, the man dressed in the same dark clothing as the rest of his delegation and marking a careful patrol route through the gossiping crowd. Ahead of him, enough distance to not draw attention, the King moves, pausing to speak with a member of his court between every few steps. The Chamberlain at his side is the same that first escorted them to their chambers all that time ago. His name escapes Simon for a moment, lost in the mire of everything else he needs to remember before it rises to the surface: John Price. A knight if he’s correct.

Simon lets himself grin, relaxing in fractions, a slight loosening in his shoulders, his fingers curling more securely against the Queen’s still held carefully in his. At least Roach is enjoying himself.

Another figure approaches and Simon tenses once more. Queen Marion’s gaze snaps to him for a moment, assessing him like a combatant at first before it changes to something else, maintaining the softness as she looks back to Prince John. “If you would take care of the ambassador?” she asks, gesturing for John to take her place as she steps away.

Prince John nods once, his gaze following his mother for a few delicate steps before the crowd swallows her up and they are alone in the centre of it all once more. There’s a persistent flush high on the Prince’s cheeks that only darkens as his eyes flicker to Simon’s, sticking for a moment before his gaze lowers, cataloguing the lines of his throat, the slope of his shoulders, halting at his chest before climbing once more. There’s a fervent hunger to the other man, wondering the shade of Simon’s blood and how best to tear his throat out. An artist’s focus, Simon realises, heat slung low in his belly at the thought of being known like that.

It’s the work of a moment to pull his gloves off and tuck them into his belt.

“Do yeh have a preference for leading, Ambassador?” Prince John asks. Any disappointment he may feel at Simon’s continued presence instead of his true fiancé is well-hidden, his features marble-cast in a joy Simon can delude himself into thinking is real.

Prince John isn’t his betrothed and yet, he is. The man Simon is standing here is more himself than he’s been in years.

“If you’d allow me the honour?” Simon answers. He can feel every rough note in his voice catch in his chest, clumsily hewn next to the sculpture of the other man, fragile enough to shatter with a gentle word.

John’s hand is warm against his own, the tips of his fingers skimming carefully over the harsh texture of Simon’s scars before he settles, solid and sure. “Honour’s all mine.”

It doesn’t feel real. Simon moves through steps he half-remembers, reaching for solidity in a dream and coming away wanting, but everything pales to the warmth of John in his arms. His hands are his first focus, John’s are slightly broader, a cluster of the same calluses that line Simon’s palms scattered there. They fit together perfectly as the music swells, a wavering string calling out in exhalation. There’s the scent of woodsmoke, fusing with the lingering rich aroma of the wine, and a fragment in the back of Simon’s mind slips free. He hasn’t imbibed enough to let the tight control of himself slip, but with John so close, he could imagine that this is what it feels like. It’s the potential that sets his mind spinning, a lapse of concentration for an instant as Simon lets himself enjoy the dance.

The moment doesn’t last.

Simon’s foot catches against John’s, stepping where he shouldn’t be. His reaction is instantaneous, pulling back the first moment he feels the contact but it isn’t enough. They stumble, nearly colliding with another pair with all the grace of a drunken bull. Simon’s cheeks burn, his throat closing like he’s preparing to dive from a cliff. Nothing beneath him, no saviour except, this time, there is.

Prince John chuckles, his mouth twisting into a wry grin. It’s a new expression for Simon to study, drinking it down now that he’s close enough to see the exact way John tips his head to one side like a conspirator with a secret. “Suppose I should stop tryin’ to steal the lead, then.”

Deliberately loud. Targeted to draw eyes away from Simon once more. John’s shoulders are broad enough to hold the blame he’s carrying and Simon’s treacherous heart skips a beat, his vision gradually expanding with a dull haze at the edges. He breathes out carefully, rolling his shoulders to release the knot of tension between them. It’s the same instinct that leads him the battle, the cause of several of the scars that decorate his skin, the urge to fling himself forward and take the blows himself. Strange to be on the other side of it.

Prince John leans closer, squeezing Simon’s hand once as they adjust their stance, still close enough for Simon to count the individual sweep of his dark lashes. “Don’t mind the gawking hens, my lord.” They sweep past one such couple, their gazes clinging to John, burrs on his clothing, and Simon’s grip tightens, a low unease prickling in his chest. John continues, “My father’s courtiers are good people but prone to excessive nosiness.”

Simon huffs out a quiet laugh and is rewarded by John’s grin widening, beatific and glorious. The Prince surges forward, his words coming quickly now that he’s found his footing, working beneath the chunks in Simon’s armour so sweetly he can barely mind it. “Was the food to yer liking? I’ve been told Prince Simon campaigns often. Do ye accompany him in the field? If anything is too much, I’ll personally have a word with the kitchens.”

He knows Simon only as the Ambassador, not a Prince, not his fiancé. The deception has given Simon a gift, a glimpse into the man who would be his husband instead of the concerned fabrication he had thought he would meet. Simon smiles, the action unfamiliar but easy enough to slip into, wide enough he can feel his mask shift with the expression.

“It’s far better than I’m accustomed to and your kingdom’s hospitality is greatly appreciated,” Simon says, skirting the edges of the truth. If this was a fight it would be easier, each move strung onto a wire pulled taut against Simon’s hold, but the dance doesn’t feel as treacherous with John in his arms, the lingering burn of his hands held in his. “I’ve spent time on the field with the Prince recently so have had nothing but rations until my time here.”

Nothing but rations for months. What had truly been the defining test of Simon’s subterfuge hadn’t been meeting the Royal family, it had been breakfast the day that followed.

“It has been better than I could have hoped,” Simon murmurs, his words hopefully lost beneath the swell of strings as the dance concludes.

He bows his head to the Prince, knowing there would be others swarming to tear free a piece of the other man for themselves. He’ll treasure the glimpse he has been given, keep it close and safe. The Prince’s hand lingers in his, the other man’s hold on his shoulder keeping him grounded for a moment. When John’s gaze meets his, there’s steel in his eyes, a nerve gathered and held tight before it can desert once more.

“If it doesn’t sound too forward, I’d like to meet with you on the morrow, perhaps after our midday meal? I must admit, shameful as it is, but I know little about my future husband’s kingdom. Hoping your insight would at least prevent me from making a right arse of myself and embarrassing him in front of his court, aye?”

“Of course, Your Highness. I will endeavour to answer your questions to the best of my ability.” Simon draws his hands free and tugs his gloves back on. He can still feel the imprint of the Prince’s touch on him, a heady flush that had little to do with the wine blooming in his chest. He steps away and someone else steps forward to fill his space. Simon turns away, turns to Roach at his side, his shadow again, something jagged tearing at his heart as John slips into another’s arms and the dance begins once more.

⁂

“Find me something?” Simon whispers to Roach as the pair step outside onto a small enclosed balcony. Plants wreath the ornately carved columns of the railing, a few artfully spilling onto the railing and Roach plucks a leaf as they pass, digging the jagged edge of his nail into the furrow. The scent is immediate, near-medicinal in the harshness, and Simon breathes in deeply, trying to calm the frantic whirl of his thoughts.

He isn’t meant to be in love with his fiancé.

Fuck. Fuck.

This changes everything. (It changes nothing.)

Roach pauses next to him, turning to study Simon, the movement barely visible out of the corner of his eye. Simon braces himself against the stonework, digging his fingers into the surface. Grit scratches beneath his gloves, the sensation not enough to dull the memory of John’s hands in his. He doesn’t know what he looks like but he feels untethered, free of a leash he couldn’t remember locking around his neck.

Boots silent against the stone, his hand steady where it wraps around Simon’s wrist, nudging aside the leather until fingertips brush skin, Roach leans in closer. “What do you wish, sir?”

It’s an escape. If Simon asks him to, they will leave, marriage and Princes be damned. But… he doesn’t want to run. He wants to see this to the end. He owes John that much of his tattered heart at least.

“Gossip. Something fun.” If these are to be his people as well, if he is to care for them like John does, Simon will do everything he can to make this work. This may all be for naught but he wishes to try, to try and be a shade of the better man that John deserves.

Roach nods once and vanishes back into the ballroom on silent feet. Simon leans forward on the bannister, hissing a slow breath out through his teeth. Behind him, music spills out as another dance begins, a wash of golden light cascading to fall at Simon’s heels. There’s a chill in the air, the season beginning to grow cooler with the lengthening nights and shorter days heralding the upcoming wedding ceremony when the balance was starkest. Simon tips his head back, worrying at a loose seam on the edge of his gloves as he watches the stars gleam overhead, uncaring and hungry all the same.

Footsteps.

Familiar footsteps.

“Your Highness,” Simon rumbles as Prince John slumps against the stone beside him, closer than he had been previously and yet achingly far from when they had danced together.

The other man grins up at him, loose-limbed and rumpled, unselfconscious of just how beautiful he is. There’s a heady flush to his cheeks, sweat beading on his brow, and he breathes deeply before he speaks, picking up their previous conversation as if they had never been parted. “So… if ye don’t mind my asking, where does the prince intend for us to live? I’m eager to travel with him, if that’s his mind. I just…”

Simon remains quiet, watching John carefully. There’s a tense strain to his bearing, his smile sharp as he speaks, and something seems to uncoil in his chest as he looks over to Simon in fragments, a gradual loosening. It’s dangerous territory for Simon to be walking in; this kingdom knows him only as the Ambassador he claims to be and their fury at the revelation could be unmatched, but Simon has been in danger every day of his life. He isn’t the heir, only a legitimate spare sent to the battlefield even before he was strong enough to hold a sword.

He’d take whatever punishment was necessary for his transgressions. It would only be fair.

“I’d like him to be happy,” John continues. “Even if we’re ill-suited, I cannae blame him for any of this.”

John has no concept for the blade that he has just neatly slid between Simon’s ribs. Happiness is something made for other people, not something that Simon has been able to crave for himself. Weapons couldn’t be happy, corpses couldn’t feel joy.

And what is Simon if he’s not either of those things?

Prince John laughs, shaking his head. “Tha’ came out wrong. What I meant is that I’m pleased with this union and hope I can assist in my husband’s future rule in any way.”

A muscle in Prince John’s jaw tightens, the lines of his throat drawn harsh as the shadows pool around them both. Simon aches to reach out to him, to feel the warmth of his touch against bare skin once more, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

He’d only been a child when his older brother had married, his hands long since bloodied and the wedding had been several weeks past by the time the missive had reached him on the battlefield. Barely two sentences long and ranked beneath his next set of orders, a simple statement about the successful union that didn’t cut as deep as intended. Marriage is a contract, nothing more, nothing less. Simon isn’t so much a fool to think his own would be any different, regardless of his feelings. Even so…

“The Prince wishes the union will be successful for you both. If travel is your wish, I doubt it would be denied to you.”

Simon will make sure of it.

⁂

“Do you wish you could fight in the tournament?” Roach tugs the needle through the loose seam in Simon’s glove before tying a knot and snapping the thread. They are both pooled across Simon’s bed, the sheets tucked taut beneath them, and the door to what would have been the Prince’s bedroom thrown wide. The day had dawned bright and warm, sweat already beginning to slick down their spines beneath their dark clothes.

“No. It would be strange to fight somewhere when people aren’t actually trying to kill me.”

Simon flexes his fingers, tugging on the fresh seam. It’s neat work, the stitches small and uniform in the leather like they would be in flesh. Too many of his injuries to count had benefited from Roach’s stitching. “Better that I don’t. Can’t hide the way I fight from anyone who might know.”

Someone’s coming down the corridor. Their heads snap to the sound like the well-trained dogs they are. There’s already a blade in Simon’s hand; he doesn’t remember reaching for it.

“The Chamberlain,” Simon murmurs, letting his eyes drift half-closed as he concentrates.

The knock on the door echoes a moment later, brisk with a power behind it. Through his fluttering lashes, he can see Roach stand and make his way to the door. Simon moves as well, placing himself in the crevasse when the door would open. Positioned like this, he wouldn’t be able see the Chamberlain, Price, or the hallway beyond, only Roach’s profile, his mask drawn high over his features, his dark eyes the sole focal point. The door opens soundlessly and Roach stands, shoulders square, against this new opponent.

“Honoured guests,” Price says. “The Royal Family extends the invitation for you both to join them in the Royal Booth.”

Roach looks the man over once more, his face carefully blank to the outside observer. The hand closest to Simon twitches on the back of the door, once, twice, a cat flicking its tail in unabridged delight. “We will be a moment, sir,” Roach rasps before he steps back, nudging the door ajar.

Simon leans close to his ear, keeping his voice low as he resheates the small blade into the concealed holster at his thigh. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

Roach blinks up at him, the very picture of innocence. “Only following orders, sir.”

⁂

Metal rings against metal as Simon makes his way to the Royal booth, Roach walking in his shadow. It’s a familiar sound, the air already sticky with sweat and a sour tang on the breeze that the fragrant smells of roasting meat and sweet honey couldn’t fully mask. A row of tents ring one edge of the wooden fence that encloses the arena and people scurry between them, laden with pieces of armour or weapons. As Simon watches, a knight he recognises as being close to the Prince strides across one of the makeshift alleyways, muddy handprints on his chest and a sword balanced across his shoulders. He ducks under one of the tent partitions and disappears from sight.

“Good-sized crowd,” Simon says. Too many unknowns, he means, too many targets.

He doesn’t need to be looking at Roach to see the tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze roams over the crowd who never move in closer as they pass through. “It’ll be an experience to watch from the Royal booth,” Roach says. I’ll watch over them too, he means, and Simon ducks his head in acknowledgment.

Roach vanishes into his seat first, a lower row off to the side with a scattering of other favoured guests. He’s an ink blot amongst their finery and they lean away from him, hiding their whispers behind delicate fans, the back of a gloved hand. Simon’s jaw clenches, something old and bitter condensing at the back of his throat.

He isn’t unfamiliar with the dismissal Roach faces; a lowborn child thrown into the army with no name and no family ties. It had only been chance that they had collided, Roach throwing himself into Simon’s back to knock him to the ground during an enemy barrage. He’d received a wound to his flank for his trouble and Simon’s companionship. They’re an unlikely pair, but they are well-suited all the same, the Ghost and his shadow.

There are two empty chairs amongst the Royal family; one next to the King and the other next to the Queen. Simon’s steps slow as he draws nearer, sketching an uneasy bow as his mind races. Prince John isn’t here.

The Queen brightens as his approach but there’s a furrow worn into her brow, her mouth drawn tight against her smile. “Apologies, my dearest friend. My son excites himself into a fit when there’s a tourney.” It’s a sight Simon craves like air now that he’s aware of its existence. “He’ll be joining us shortly, I’m sure. But, please, rest assured he’ll be with us soon.”

Ghost takes the seat next to her. It’s a plush affair, set slightly lower than her own but he still towers over her frame. He rounds his shoulders carefully, intent on letting any curious glances wash over him. His skin crawls with them; it seems that every second person in the crowd is staring into the Royal box, their faces blank and meaningless to him in their slack excitement. He thinks of John and the band in his chest slackens slightly. It doesn’t seem to fit what Simon knows of the man to picture him at the sidelines, he would spend time there surely, basking in the delight of his people, his skin sticky with their lingering touches, but that wouldn’t be the entirety of his experience.

The sand of the arena is smooth, pale in colour, unmarred by the blood that would soon crest across its surface. Simon has fought on every terrain he can imagine and several others he hadn’t thought possible until he was up to his waist in stinking stagnant water, but sand is unpleasant to get out of armour. Already, he can feel some of the telltale grit between his back teeth, the distant taste of salt.

Trumpets blare, drawing Simon from his thoughts.

There. At the mouth of the arena, Prince John strides forward to rapturous applause. He had been made for this, moulded and shaped to be loved and adored. He wears armour on his torso, steel moulded to the width of him and polished to a bright sheen that catches the sunlight on every rivet, but his legs are mostly bare, the only protection a kilt patterned in demanding shades of red and blue. Prince John turns to the crowd first, walking backwards as he holds his arms aloft, his kilt riding up an inch or two to expose the thick bands around his thighs. Broad thighs.

Others file in after Prince John but they’re unimportant. Inconsequential. Simon could not look away from the Prince even if it meant his death, and it would be a glorious sight to die to, one that should be immortalised but would only exist in the fragile confines of Simon’s memory.

Prince John circles the arena, his grin only growing broader as he reaches the space in front of the Royal booth. Next to him, Simon hears the Queen sigh, the sound catching on her throat until it’s exasperated but fond. “What are you doing, John?” She murmurs, barely audible above the screams of the crowd. They have ceased to be recognisable, a dull heat haze, a halo around the Prince as he reaches into the folds of kilt and pulls free a small ring of flowers.

They’re the same shade of blue as his eyes.

Prince John bows once, his hair held in a loose tie falling forward across his features, and he steps forwards, rising onto the balls of his feet to hold the flowers out to Simon. “As you know, ma favours belong t’ma betrothed.”

Oh, fuck.

He knows.

The King laughs, the thud of his crown knocking against the back of his throne echoing through the hollows in Simon’s chest. “Or in this case, his representative. Give them a sound thrashing my boy! Show House Riley what they are lucky to recieve!”

Simon stands, leaning forwards against the railing at the front of the booth. It would be too obvious to remove his glove to accept the favour and there is acid in the base of his tongue at so many people seeing the jagged skin of his hands, so he settles for remembering as he holds out a hand, cupped palm like he’s asking for benediction. Prince John’s eyes crinkle at the corner when he smiles, his fingers lingering over the worn seams of Simon’s gloves as he presses the flowers into his palm.

“Keep it safe for me, yeah?”

Simon nods once before he settles back into his seat. It doesn’t feel real, like he’s caught in an instant between dreaming and waking. His hand rests in his lap, the other tucked beneath it, and the petals rustle with every inadvertent twitch of his fingers. It’s nice. Sweet even.

The flush on his cheeks isn’t visible beneath his mask but Simon burns all the same. John’s a good man.

He can’t remember much of the tourney when it concludes, the roar of the crowd indistinguishable from the frantic echoing of his heart in his head. He keeps the flower close, fingers brushing the delicate petals like a prayer.

⁂

“Si— Ambassador. Walk with me?”

Simon doesn’t twitch at John’s sudden appearance at his side having heard the man’s footsteps speed up when Simon came into view, the rustle of abandoned paperwork dropped into a nearby alcove to do so. It’s strange to see John so unaccompanied, stranger still for Simon to be. The Prince’s momentary slip hasn’t gone unnoticed and Simon worries at it like a kernel caught between his teeth as he walks with the other man. Ever since the tourney, the ball prior, the very air between them feels different, charged in heraldry of a storm, and Simon isn’t a betting man; he wouldn’t presume to guess John’s thoughts but he can hope all the same.

Simon wears a false face. Would John still enjoy the company of the man beneath?

The ruse had progressed for far longer than he intended from a momentary slip of the tongue to a lie honed to a keen edge. It would be easier to flee than fall upon it when he’s discovered but still he lingers, a man half-starved and suddenly allowed to feast. He stays for John.

“Have ye been t’the gardens? Meant to be one of our treasures.”

Simon shakes his head and John brightens, scraping his fingers over the new growth on his scalp. He’s wearing the same circlet as he was at the ball, the gold flush against his skin. It moves slightly with the shift of his fingers, a darker imprint beneath it.

“Jus’ this way.”

The gardens are enclosed, an outcropping within the thicker walls that circle the main keep. The heady scent of roses floods the air as John opens the door with some effort as the lock sticks before he inclines his head and gestures for Simon to go first. Pink, red, white, a few scatters of orange and yellow, it seems that the entire sky is choking beneath the weight of the roses wreathing the door, the walls, any structure left unattended along the walkway that meanders out and back again.

John moves onto the path and Simon follows him, intent on the man by his side. There’s something different about him, an uncertainty that hadn’t been present before the tourney, and Simon can’t find the words to pry closer. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth, just as liable to poison him as it is the Prince. He wants to be able to help, to soothe, but it would be better suited to ask a battleaxe to till a field. A better man than Simon would know what to say, to ask.

He loves John, he wishes to be able to do this small comfort for him.

John reaches out to one of the low-hanging flowers, bruising a petal between his fingers before he releases it, the bough leaping back into place.“Honourable, to fight for your lands, to fight with your people beside you.” He sighs, tipping his face back to the wash of sunlight. “Even a spare like myself wasn’t given much time on the field. My first was just after my seventeenth birthday. Raiders along the coast. Feathered a few but I was forbidden from engaging in the van. And then there was…”

It is a wonder to just watch John speak. He is already animated, sheer joy spilling from him like his own personal sun burning in his chest, fuelling him to greater heights, but when he speaks, it is like poetry. War breeds good poets to spill mournful dirges and furious rebuttals alike and he has more than enough occasion to listen around sputtering campfires, but he could sit by John’s side and listen to him speak until all of the stars fell out of the sky. John glances up at him, searching for something in Simon’s face and he must find whatever it is as he breaks into a laugh, swaying slightly as he walks. “Last summer I accompanied some of our men to the south. Some of that bad business between Oswye and Craustan ended up in our pastures. Finally met steel with steel and drove the bastards out of our borders. Father and Mother were not pleased. Ye see,” John leans closer, nearly as close as he had been when they had danced. “I wasn’t to be involved in the fray. But the lower houses needed to know that my father wasn’t neglecting them and I couldn’t permit other kingdoms to bleed my people. Negotiations failed and I showed’em how the MacTavish clan deals with problems. Mediated two armies into licking their wounds. Both sides agreed to peace after that.”

The pride John wears is well-earned, burnished to a near shine and tacked to the swell of his chest. Simon remembers both Oswye and Craustan, some low-lying kingdoms that hungered for more resources, more land, more gold to the detriment of everything else. The royals didn’t care about the state of their armies, their people, only that their coffers were full and their tables alone were plentiful. It had rankled Simon on his passages along their borders while he had been scouting, the few citizens that staggered out of the forests terrified and delirious from hunger and sickness, but then they had turned their gazes towards Simon’s kingdom and he had been unleashed upon them. His leash had drawn tight before they could be wiped from the map; his father preferred to leave them cowed and terrified of his shadow in whatever form it takes.

It didn’t surprise him that they turned to John’s kingdom next.

John’s shoulder knocks against his as they walk, companionable in a way that makes Simon want to excavate his chest for the sake of respite. “Tell me some of Simon’s feats? Or maybe just one of your yers? I’m sure you’ve got a few stories to tell. And please… no formalities. Not with me… not when we don’t have the nattering hens clucking around to remind us all of our places.”

Simon laughs then. Couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to, pressing his hand to his mouth to try and muffle the raspy sound. It pulls his mask flush against his skin, drawing one edge down where his fingers press into his cheek. He pulls the fabric back into place as he straightens, turning his gaze back to John. “If that’s what you wish, John.”

“Johnny.” John leans into his hip, his entire frame curving towards Simon. There’s a sharp glint in his eyes, a hound given a target to chase down and worry into submission. Simon can’t help but wonder what those teeth would feel like pressed against his throat.

“Johnny.” Simon lingers over the taste of it, sweet like honey, like a golden afternoon. “A few campaigns ago, we were mostly at a standstill outside of the city. Most of any war is sitting around waiting so it was something we were used to.” The only brightside had been that it had been clear and warm. “#One of the battalion commanders had the little bit power go to his head, so he wanted to be kept updated on every arrow that hit the ground overnight to the point where he’d go survey the campsite himself. So, I made sure I picked up some of the enemy's arrows after the battle and spent my night shooting them into the air so they’d land at the camp’s border. He went scurrying after them every time.” Simon shrugs, rolling his shoulders. One of his joints sticks, releasing with a crack and Simon sighs. He misses his sword, the weight of it to keep him grounded whenever his thoughts float whenever Johnny is nearby. “Not quite as glorious as your exploits, I’m sure.”

Johnny’s teeth indent his lower lip, his breathing shallow as he struggles through his laughter. “About the same level, I’d say. Any more?”

Simon grins. He wants Johnny to know him like he wants to know the other man. He isn’t proud of most of what he has done on the battlefield, it had been necessary but that had been all. His hands are caked with blood from the things he had done and he wants Johnny to know the man he is despite that.

“If you insist,” he murmurs, inclining his head towards Johnny.

⁂

Simon never expected things to turn out like this. When he had pictured his future as a younger man, bleeding on a cot in the corner of a medical tent and not knowing if he’d even have a face when they were through with him, he’d thought of a blade through his belly, a knife at his throat, some inglorious demise in the soaking sodden mud.

A fiance had never crossed his mind, let alone a fiance that he loved.

The enclosed garden is as good a place as any to twist his thoughts around his fingers and try and braid the fraying ends into something that made sense. Roach had stepped away, the sharp imprint of his fingers still a bruise against Simon’s ribs, a welcome hurt to focus on given that he had been unable to train since he first set foot in this kingdom. His racing mind is a poor substitute for being able to run.

Days crept by and his wedding draws closer and closer with no sign of the errant Prince Simon. The whispers are not quiet anymore, the rasp of a powder keg filling to the top and near-enough ready to burst. He would laugh at the rumours if they weren’t so insulting; not taking offence for himself or the empty plinth of Prince Simon, but on Johnny’s behalf. He hadn’t walked to the garden under his own power, steered by a man half his height when Simon had been overtaken by a rage intended for the battlefield, the compulsion to remove his mask so he could better tear out perfumed throats with his teeth.

His absence is a slight on Johnny, an insult to the man he loves, and it is Simon’s fault.

He would cut his throat himself if he thought it would help but there’s no sacrifice Simon can make to pull back the seconds that had slipped by, to alter every choice he had made except one. He wouldn’t change falling in love with Johnny for anything.

Behind him, the door to the garden creaks open, the hinges moving a little easier after fresh prolonged use, and Johnny’s boots scuff against the gravel. Simon senses the moment Johnny sees him half-sprawled out in a patch of grass, his face tipped back to the weak sunlight filtering through the clouds. There’s an immediate electricity in the air, the focus of a half-starved wolf stumbling across a stag in the forest and ignoring the sharp jut of its antlers.

“Simon.” The word isn’t an exhalation or a sob, not a shriek or a roar, simply his name and that is all it should be. Johnny tips himself onto the grass next to Simon, uncaring of the tangle of his limbs as he curls forwards to press the flat of his palms to his forehead, resting against his knees. He’s wearing a kilt, the pattern the same as the one he wore at the tourney, the fabric a heavier weave and it creases at the fold of his thighs, pooling onto the grass. “Ah’m glad to see you.”

He straightens in fragments: shoulders first, broad beneath the thin white shirt he wears, seams straining with the effort; his back next, his spine a delicate hollow that Simon aches to trace his fingers down, to count every vertebrate by touch and not just by sight and guesswork; his head, his circlet tacky with sweat and the shine of the jewels dulled by the uneven smudges of fingerprints over them. His hair is growing in, the defensive prickles of Johnny’s freshly shorn sides beginning to soften. He drops his hands last, his eyes distant, staring at Simon but not truly seeing him.

Johnny leans closer and Simon doesn’t move away.

One of Johnny’s hands presses against Simon’s thigh, the other loosely curled in front of his chest, unwilling or unable to reach out. His breath fogs against Simon’s cheeks, barely felt through the fabric except by the slight change in temperature, Johnny’s gaze flickering to Simon’s eyes before dropping lower, watching his mouth. A kiss through fabric, sensation blunted but present enough…

Johnny’s thumb presses against the edge of Simon’s mask, high on his cheek.

The Prince moves away, snatching his hands away from Simon as if the very thought of him burns. “Forgive me— you’re not— I cannot do this. To lead you on is to lead myself astray. I have to honour… my prince.”

He stands, sketching out a trembling bow intended for someone high above Simon’s current station, the man John wishes him to be, and flees from him.

Simon never had cause to be jealous of himself before now, but he finds that he despises Prince Simon with every thread of his being. Tomorrow. This delusion will end tomorrow. He needs to confess what he’s done.

⁂

“Move aside.”

Simon huffs out a breath into his cupped palms, a sudden ache blooming in his worn knuckles at the declaration from the door. Dread is a familiar companion, easily notching into the hollows of Simon’s ribs with such ease he wonders how he ever thought this marriage would come to pass. The headboard creaks beneath his weight as he leans fully back against it, the base of his spine relaxing in torturous relief as he settles his sword across the span of his thighs. The blade is still slick with oil, the remnants of which line the cracks in Simon’s palms in the same fashion. It’s lighter in shade than the kind he normally favours, his thoughts skimming over rain instead of blood.

Roach at the doorway doesn’t step away. John may be a Prince, but he isn’t Roach’s.

Instead, he leans back slightly, face upturned towards a world that has only ever revealed the soft parts of itself when it is punching him down and tips his gaze towards Simon. His arms are tense, fingers wrapped around the edge of the door and his other hand braced against the stonework.

“I said move aside before I do it myself.” Each word is measured, vibrating like a freshly struck fork, and Simon tracks their impact by the pressure in Roach’s grip, the fresh holes boring into Simon’s belly. To see Johnny delighted had been a miracle; what does the man look like angry, what level of devotion could he illicit in fury?

“Roach,” Simon calls, pitching his voice loud enough to carry. His cheeks ache, scarred lips pulled up over his teeth and he can’t say if he’s grinning or matching Johnny’s snarl. “Stand down.”

Simon splays his hands over his sword, one over the pommel, pressing down until the cool metal indents into his palm, and the other against the blade. He curls his fingers, testing the edge against his skin. Honed to a point and hungry. He’s been waiting for this confrontation since he arrived, mud-streaked and exhausted and desperate to be someone other than who he was for a moment. Simon’s a soldier, a wraith bound to this shape, but in Johnny’s arms, he had been human.

It’s a harrowing thing to mourn the loss of.

Simon rests his head against the wall, the edge of the headboard indenting the base of his skull. “The Prince wishes to speak to me.”

(It’s over.)

The door swings wide, Roach’s arm dropping a deliberate few seconds after it does so. The shadows of the room cling to his slighter frame as Prince John steps forward, eclipsing everything else in existence. His blue eyes are bright, the flickering candlelight caught in the glow of them, and he levels his gaze at Simon like a challenge, one of the wickedly sharp halberds decorating the palace artwork made to run him through.

(It’s almost a relief.)

“You’re the Prince.” Sharp, clear, bloodless. John’s gaze flicks over Simon before it returns to Roach. “And who are you, then? His lover.”

Simon’s grin grows sharp, his eyes narrowing. “He’s my friend, the same as your knight. I won’t let him be insulted by anyone.” He jerks his head towards the door, never taking his eyes from Johnny.

It’s a declaration he’s gone to the ground to defend, beating his knuckles bloody against helmets until the metal is a dull smear beneath his hands. He loves Johnny, will always continue to do so regardless of his impending doom, but he won’t accept an insult to Roach. Roach inclines his head, a flicker of movement in the corner of Simon’s vision.

“My Prince, Your Highness” Roach murmurs and steps out of the room, the door closing behind him.

John watches him leave, jaw drawn tight beneath the pale wash of stubble over his cheeks. His hands hang at his side, oddly still. There’s a smudge of ink over one finger, dark enough that it could be mistaken as a bloodstain for a single heartstopping instant. “I…” Johnny clears his throat, drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders. A fighting stance. “I was to be wed to a prince I didn’t know. I was supposed to play my part and be happy, be grateful that I could be useful for only my realm but yours too.”

“Johnny–”

“I’m not finished.”

There’s the curled lip, the bared teeth that Simon has come to expect; not just anger but hatred, disgust. John jerks into motion, striding to one edge of the room then the other, turn, repeat. His knuckles are pale beneath the force of his grip, every footfall a fresh shovel of dirt onto Simon’s grave. “Was it a ploy all along? I wish to God it was. Knowing you’re here to kill me or my parents makes it easier for me to hate you instead of doing all this… because you didn’t want to. I cannae hate you for that. Marriage, it… it changes you. And I… never wanted Prince Simon to be tied down to me or anyone else. We’re princes, we have duties and expectations… but we’re still… you’re still just… Simon. I only wish you told me sooner. You never had to… I wouldn’t have…

“I never would have thought to love you.”

It is only by the pounding of his heart in his head, the screaming hollow of his lungs, and the bright flash of pain over his palm that Simon knows he is still alive. His hand is flush against the blade of his sword, blood seeping from the fresh wound and staining the sheets beneath him, the dark fabric of his clothes.

Johnny turns back to him, his chest heaving with every ragged breath even as he schools his features back into court-forged neutrality. “Explain.”

Simon presses his teeth against the tip of his tongue, biting down until the pressure matches the pulse in his hand. “Wasn’t a ploy or a trick,” he says. “It was—”

He’d never been good at expressing himself through words, a waste of resources to teach a blade courtly manners or speech, but he steels himself all the same. Simon fixes his gaze at a spot on the edge of the bed, Johnny a trembling shadow behind the sweep of his lashes. He can’t look at him while he does this, can’t see the final embers of affection die utterly.

Simon tugs his mask down, pulling the ties free, and letting the fabric drop.

“You heard the rumours about the Ghost of the Riley Kingdom, about me, yes? Damn fine piece of work. Won us more battles than the fighting did. But, what none of them seem to remember is how old I was when I was sent onto the field for the first time. These—” He drags the blunt edge of his nails over one of the scars that bisect his cheeks, running from the permanently notched corner of his mouth to the swell of his cheekbones. His touch catches on the rough texture, the areas with no sensation except pressure, “—are a reminder of that. I was captured because of my family name, carved up because of my bloodline, and I returned to that duty again and again and again. So, when I arrived here, when I saw you, and I had the opportunity to be someone else for a while?

“I’m not a good man, Johnny, but my actions were never intended to hurt you. I’ve been told my entire life that my duty is to die and you have been the only one who thought differently, who made me believe it could be different. If you wish me to leave, then I will, but I’ll forever be indebted to you for that.”

“I don’t know your reasons, Si. Prince Simon. But I…” Johnny’s thumb brushes against his neck, fabric whispering beneath his touch. “I’d have yer hand. I’d be at yer side for as long as you’d have me. Even in disgrace. We could flee now, I’d have the bishop marry us with our men as witnesses. But if I was never—” Johnny blinks slowly, close enough to Simon that he could feel the trembling inhalation in the way his head spins from it. “—If marriage was never what you wanted, then you would do well to leave soon.”

“There hasn’t been a moment since I met you that I didn’t want to marry you.” Simon closes the distance between them, not to kiss Johnny but to press his forehead against Johnny’s. “But this is your home, your family, your people. How can I ask you to leave all that behind and be a mercenary prince with me?”

“These are my people… this is my home… but Si, I always knew I’d be forced to leave it all one day for a wife or a husband. Because I’m the fourth son, inheriting nothing save a duchy to disappear to once my vows are spoken.” Tears brim in Johnny’s eyes but never quite spill free, the blue nearly obscured behind a film of them. He laughs once, softly. “If anything, the tale of the mercenary princes will be quite famous.”

Moving carefully, as if Simon is some wild thing prone to bolting or biting, Johnny rubs his thumb over Simon’s cheek, the touch there and not at the same time. “Lemme wrap your hands.”

Wordlessly, Simon holds his hands out, palms up. In addition to the sluggishly bleeding wound across one palm, the other is muddied with repeated grinning imprints of a skull. Johnny hisses through his teeth at the sight of them, his brow drawn into deep furrows as he surveys the damage. “Won’t pretend that I’m a dab hand with a needle and thread but I don’t think it needs stitching. Will hurt while it’s healing though.”

“I know.” Another pause, a blink as Johnny’s gaze wanders once more, tracing over the bridge of Simon’s nose, his mouth, the line of his jaw, before he stands and moves to the dresser. Simon continues, “Should be some bandages in the second.”

It’s nice to have someone take care of him. Unexpected, still strange and awkward in a fumbling way Simon hasn’t felt since he was a boy with limbs that were too long for him and a mind that never seemed to quiet. Johnny bows his head as he returns to sit in front of Simon, his mouth moving soundlessly as he works. They never part, not truly, Johnny’s fingers remain curled around Simon’s as he works, drawing the pale cloth tighter and pinning it closed.

“Alright.” Johnny clears his throat, looking around the room as he does so, but his gaze returns to Simon again and again, shy little glances under his lashes. It’s close to how he would watch Simon when they first met down to the colour high on his cheeks. “We need to move quickly. Not much time before my family notices I’m not where I should be.”

Simon nods once. They untangle themselves slowly, deliberately, and Simon can still feel Johnny’s touch over the blunted pads of his fingers, the cracks in his palms. He returns his sword to the holster, strapping it to his back before he reaches for their packs, slinging both his and Roach’s onto his shoulder. They had never thought to unload them, both ready to leave at a moment’s notice. He turns back to Johnny in the centre of the room, his face pale but determined, smiling at the other man before Simon draws his mask back into place.

It doesn’t sit as well as it once did.

In the corridor, the knight, Garrick, stands, tipped against the wall close to the door while Roach waits opposite to him. His face is downturned, but that isn’t enough to hide the wide edges of his grin behind his mask. Garrick rights himself as the door swings open, the straps of a few bags clutched in one hand, the other fluttering first over the hilt of his sword then to rest by his side. “Right,” he announces, glancing between them both. “You two kissed and made up?” There’s a deliberate brightness to his voice, not quite in jest but not enough to dissuade Simon of the notion that they both had their ears pressed to the door moments prior.

“Something like tha’,” Johnny answers, stepping forward and reclaiming his pack from Garrick. “Now, let’s go.”

They make a well-fitting if strange group as they make their way around the corner, the Prince of the land, his sworn knight, a foreign Prince masquerading as an Ambassador and his shadow. Simon can’t look away from Johnny just ahead of him as they walk, the confidence in his stride as he hurries them onwards, excitement crackling to the ends of his hair like a lightning strike. They stagger to an uneven halt as they round the corner, the broad figure of Chamberlain Price made broader by armour standing in the centre. Simon wraps his fingers around his sword, sensing Roach mirroring the movement behind him. He’d need some height to throw the blade, and Simon readies himself for the impact of boots against his thigh, his back as Roach gets that needed height.

“So,” Price says, “you’ve made your choice, my prince.”

Johnny straightens, squaring his shoulders before he nods.

“You’ll want to take the west corridor. I’ve asked Lady Sorcha to prepare your travelling clothes. Oh, and Kyle?”

“Sir?”

“Serve him well.”

The remaining corridors weren’t empty of soldiers, a few roaming in fixed patterns that are easy enough to avoid, and handfuls more are pointedly distracted at their posts.

“Three,” Roach whispers, leaning forward just enough to bump his head into the scant free space on Simon’s back between holster and pack. “Pay up.”

“That last one looked before he returned to staring at the wall.” Simon draws the coins free from the pouch at his waist, holding them back towards Roach. Tucked into the small alcove outside of the castle, the air is cool, tracing delicate fingers over the line of sweat beading on Simon’s forehead, seeping into his hair. Gaz stands at the entrance, his profile cast in sharp relief, before he steps out with a sharp whistle. The distant trudge of footsteps grows purposeful, a small group of workmen heading towards him, and they step out at his instruction, Johnny’s fingers twisting around Simon’s.

There’s a peculiar stillness inside of a church as if the world has drawn a breath in and hasn’t yet decided to exhale. The light isn’t strong enough to cast coloured shards across the floor from the ornate stained glass windows, but it is enough to illuminate the huddled pews and the altar holding court in front of them all.

“My Prince.” The bishop is an older man, his hair long gone white and beginning to thin across the crown of his head. He stoops as he walks closer, the hem of his robe dragging softly against the stone. “‘Tis a strange hour for a visit.”

“Aye, it is, Father. But I have a request of ye.” Johnny steps forward, drawing Simon to stand at his side and Simon moves with him willingly. The only warmth left in him are the places Johnny touches, the lingering mirages of his hand blooming and collapsing over the blank bare skin of Simon’s hands. Johnny raises their joined hands into the bishop’s line of sight. “I want you to marry us. Now.”

The bishop recoils as if Johnny had slapped him. His eyes are wide, wild, and he draws his hands close to his chest, fingers pressed together as if asking for some eternal forgiveness. “My Prince, if this is some jest, I must refuse. You are betrothed to Prince Riley, it would be a grave injustice to the realm for you to do this. And to draw the Ambassador into this tomfoolery!”

Gaz speaks, a grin painted broadly across his face. “Father, the Ambassador is the Prince. I swear it on my honour.”

Johnny rises onto his toes, twisting so his cheek is pressed against Simon’s, facing Roach behind them both, before he speaks. “If nearly anyone other than Gaz would try that, they’d be turned on their heel with their ears ringing with scripture before they even knew what was happening.”

Simon tips his gaze sideways, studying the other man. Gaz doesn’t look away from the bishop, his expression warm and earnest, impossible to not be believed. If he had been born in Simon’s kingdom, he’d be an entirely different creature, a viper dripping poison into foreign dignitaries' ears until they were sick with it.

“Indeed.” The Bishop stares at them each in turn, his brow furrowed. “This is most unprecedented, my lords.”

“There’s been nothing scandalous between them, sir. Prince John wishes to respect his fiancés desire for privacy. Prince Simon heads his father’s armies, you see. A large gathering already paints him and John as targets. If they were doing this in sin, they’d never come before you, Excellency.” Gaz concludes with a nod, his hands clasped in front of his chest, beseeching, a careful mimicry of the bishop’s own stance.

“Very well.” The Bishop clears his throat and spreads his arms, holding them in place. “If the couple would step forward, we will proceed with the vows.”

Simon does as he’s bidden, Roach and Gaz moving into place behind them, as he turns to face Johnny. The other man’s eyes are bright, blue as the fresh dawn, and he has never looked more beautiful than he did in this moment. The vows are rote repetition; Johnny echoing the bishop’s words before Simon follows suit.

The bishop pauses, tucking his hands back into his draping sleeves as he studies them both. “Traditionally, the partner is crowned at this stage, however due to the sudden nature of this wedding—“

“I have something.” Johnny pulls the circlet from his brow, his hair falling askew over his forehead before he pushes it back in a single motion. “If you’re willing, that is.”

Simon kneels on the cool floor of the church, lets the warmth bleed away from him as Johnny stands above, a delicate circlet of gold held in both hands.

“With this,” Johnny begins, his gaze never wavering from Simon, some deity of old cast in flesh and blood, “I crown you, husband and Prince Regent of the MacTavish kingdom.”

The metal is still warm, sitting high on his brow, slightly off-centre. Johnny huffs out a quiet laugh, nudging the circlet back into place. He holds out his hands once more for Simon to take as he stands, the pair swaying together as he does so.

“I now pronounce you husband and husband. I invite you to seal your wedding vows with a kiss.”

Johnny cups Simon’s cheek with one trembling hand, blocking the bishop from sight. It’s a small gesture and Simon didn’t think it had been possible to love Johnny more and yet he does. He loves him more with every passing second. Simon tugs his mask down, leaning to kiss Johnny, his husband, his love.

It is just as wonderful as he thought it would be.

“My bonnie husband…” Johnny whispers, eyes blown wide and dark, never looking away from Simon.

“Yours,” Simon murmurs. “All yours, my husband.”

⁂

There’s countless marks worn into the road by the passage of the procession through the laden fields and bursts of rich greenery. No banners snap overhead to announce their presence, barely more than a dark shadow detached from the skeleton of something monstrous, but they are known all the same.

Honoured all the same.

The castle sits squat, a few new towers carved onto its surface since the last time they had seen it. Three places it could be breached from now, four if the fires were banked to glowing coals. One corner is awash with a thick growth of roses, their scent heavy in the air even amongst the warm bloom of harvest that promises golden dawns and distant evenings.

Simon had left the MacTavish kingdom freshly married and crowned, his husband at his side and two knights at his back. Glancing at Johnny, Simon swings himself down from his horse first, dust covering his boots, a finer scattering working its way up to his thighs. Travelling back had an exhausting undertaking but worth it in the end.

He holds his hands out for his husband as he dismounts.

Johnny had become everything Simon had thought he could and more. His hair is still shorn short at the sides, the mane on top woven into braids like his forefathers of old, and his mask is one of Simon’s, doing little to hide the gleam in his eyes.

The Chamberlain is waiting for them as they approach, grey flecked through his beard and hair, new lines in the corners of his eyes. He moves solidly, having lost none of his powerful frame in the time they’d been away, escorting them to the throne room before he clears his throat and announces, “Riley delegation.”

The King and Queen look at Johnny first. Simon looks to Johnny and meets the man’s gaze fully, his eyes half-lidded as if in a dream before he straightens, turning towards the thrones.

“My King, my Queen. May I introduce Prince Simon Riley, my husband, officially and properly this time?”

#ghostsoap #ghoap #soapghost #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #my writing #balancedghostsoap #ghostsoap equinox knights #fanfic

27 notes · View notes

alectoperdita · 19 hours

Note

jou makes kaiba a character bento of blue eyes. kaiba believes this is a murder attempt via starvation because how can he eat blue eyes

Anon, I'm not sure if this was what you were hoping for, but here we go.

---

"Fubuki, if you don't put on your jacket this minute, I'm punting you out the door like a football!"

A child's screeching echoed through the high-ceiling foyer, followed by two sets of footsteps pounding across the marble.

Seto listened, barely straining to make out the sound of his husband giving chase to their four-year-old son. There was Fubuki's obstinate "no!", the clatter of some piece of furniture, and Katsuya's bitten-off swearing. After a beat, he considered getting up and checking on them.

But then, bright amber eyes, framed by golden blond bangs, peered up from his lap. Asuka, swinging her legs gently, reached out with one chubby hand to offer him a mini-sausage off her plate.

"They'll sort it out," he muttered, both to himself and her.

Her response was to wave the sausage more insistently. The beginning of a pout formed on her stained lips.

Quickly, he bent over and took a small bite. This was their bargain: she finished her breakfast as long as he ate with her. The taste was a bit on the bland side. But she was three, so they didn't want to flavor her food too heavily.

Beaming with pride, his daughter stuffed the rest into her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out, reminiscent of a chipmunk.

Seto couldn't help but grin at the picture he made. His hand was halfway into his pocket for his phone before he caught himself. God, he was becoming one of those parents.

Thankfully, his husband's reappearance in the kitchen door restored his dignity. Katsuya's hair was tousled and sticking out in every which way, reminding Seto of their youth. He leaned heavily against the door jamb, using the frame to support himself and the bundle hefted under one arm. Fubuki kicked his feet wildly as they dangled in the air, but it wasn't in a tantrum. He enjoyed being carried like a sack of potatoes for some reason.

"Got 'em," Katsuya grunted, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. It was a dreadfully handsome look on him. "Is Asuka ready to go?"

Seto plucked the napkin off the dining table and wiped her face clean. As soon as he finished, he invited her to wordlessly hop down from his lap. Without further prompting, she lifted both arms so he could help her into her jacket.

"Now she is," he announced and stood.

Asuka laughed and twirled, before running to join Katsuya and Fubuki.

As much as Seto could spend the rest of the day staring at his impossible family, the kids were due at kindergarten and he had an early meeting. While Katsuya tidied the children's appearance, zipping up Fubuki's jacket resoundingly so he couldn't throw it off, Seto brought over the bentos from the kitchen counter.

He arched a questioning eyebrow at his husband as he handed them off. "Don't you think you've overdone it?"

In addition to each child's usual bento box, there was a two-tiered one. Then again, Katsuya always slipped comfortably into the role of house husband when it was the off-season for the pro-circuit.

Warmth spread through Seto's body when their hands brushed. Katsuya's fingers purposefully lingered on his wrists. Nor did he let go after he closed his palms over the back of Seto's hands, drawing him in for a short kiss.

Katsuya smiled. "Nah, the big one's for you."

"You didn't have to."

"Someone says you've been skipping lunch lately. So now you don't have an excuse."

Seto sighed. "Isono."

"I'm not giving up the identity of my mole that easily." Katsuya gave a wink.

Another kiss, a muttered goodbye; and then they were gone. The mansion always felt eerily quiet without them.

*****

Meetings were the bane of his existence. On days like today, when they were packed back-to-back, Seto longed for a megalomaniac or two. At least they had the decency to settle matters, even if it was of life and death, through Duel Monsters.

He collapsed into his office chair for the first time since he arrived hours ago. At the moment, he couldn't bear to check his inbox and see how many messages awaited his attention.

Likely too many.

For now, he wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet of his private office.

Eventually, his gaze roamed across his desk's surface: paperwork, pens, photos of his family, a black two-tier bento box.

He straightened.

He'd completely forgotten about the lunch Katsuya made for him until now.

Well, it was lunch time. He didn't have an excuse now as Katsuya said earlier. And he so hated to disappoint his husband. Plus, he liked Katsuya's cooking.

The top level contained an assortment of side dishes: a small salad, stewed beef and vegetables, and a couple of the same hot dog octopuses Katsuya always made for the children's bentos. But the tier below that? Seto gawked at what he uncovered.

Katsuya had been making character bento for Fubuki and Asuka since the start of autumn. The kids loved showing off their colorful arrangements to their classmates. Over time, Seto too had watched his husband get increasingly more creative and elaborate with their lunches.

It appeared he was no exception.

A rather faithful depiction of his ace monster stared back at him. Shaped out of suspiciously blue-tinted rice, his Blue-Eyes roared triumphantly at a background of black rice. It was mostly the head, neck, and upper shoulders with a hint of the wings, but Katsuya had captured its essence, using carefully cut pieces of dried seaweed to fill in the finer details and contour.

Seto wondered how long it took him to make this.

He snapped a photo for posterity. Then he tested his husband.

I think your plan may have backfired.

Katsuya responded instantly.

Why's that?

There's no way I can wreck her majesty.

I love you, even if you are a huge dork.

#replies #anonymous #joukai asks #my fanfiction #puppyshipping #violetshipping #kaijou #I'm thinking they either adopted here or had a surrogate #as for how Jou dyed the rice blue i'm thinking diluted butterfly pea flower tea #i didn't get to write this past weekend so feeling a bit insane #sorry to use your ask as an excuse #sorry also it's a bit rushed but I wasn't trying to write a novel #I'M SORRY FOR THE CORN AND THE CHEESE

22 notes · View notes

stardustvalentine · 2 months

Text

i wanted to draw kyoutani in a more realistic style and i may have gotten Slightly carried away cuz i couldn’t decide on his facial features. oops. here is me diagraming him like a dog in a bio textbook

#kyoutani kentarou #kyotani kentaro #kentaro kyotani #haikyuu #hq fanart #haikyuu!!#my art #sorry if it’s hard to read! i had so much to say #i DID draw his hair shorter than usual so there. it’s almost a buzzcut. are you happy now #ugh my mind knows kyoutani doesnt have eyebrows but my heart says big bushy brows every time 😔#it’s ok he’s my favorite character so i’m allowed to draw him in whatever way is the most fun for me personally

62 notes · View notes

unordinary-diary · 3 months

Text

Blyke in Season 3.

This is my prediction. With the way Season 2 ended, I think they’ll find Blyke months later looking something like this.

Shit happens to people in prison. Terrence was murdered in his cell, Rein was worried about being killed by other inmates, hell, Blyke’s already pretty banged up in the finale and he’s been there for 2.5 seconds. Not to mention that the Authorities seem to have no problem torturing kids *COUgh* Keon.

Perhaps it’s a bit pessimistic, but the story’s been getting a lot darker lately. I doubt Blyke’s getting out of prison without a little extra trauma at least.

Latest Chapter as of Prediction: Side Story — Triple Threat (1)

#blyke unordinary #unordinary #Prediction #Drawing in my diary again #art #unordinary spoilers #normally the spoiler warning is at the top but not this time bc it’s an image post #I changed his expression so many times #I was going for that resigned kind of dead inside look #At first it looked too angry #and then it looked just like nothing #totally nuetral face #then it looked too sad #like he was gonna cry #and then I got this #many more iterations along the way #Was worried about damaging my paper the amount of times I erased his eyebrows #Tbh I think I still fucked it up #Also I spent awhile on the background and you can barely see it #could’ve just made it gray ngl #I also spent a long time on this band of light on him #like as if someone had opened a door and light shined through #but I got rid of it #Waste of my DAMN time smh #I’m rlly proud of the hair though #Shit happens in Lovun Prison #Is all of that blood his? Who knows.#also I drew all those cuts in different stages of healing be proud of me #This was supposed to be a doodle/warmup I did NOT expect it to take all day #Ngl Im really glad I turned my sketchbook sideways for this one bc the lined paper reminds me of prison bars like this

41 notes · View notes

getosugurusbangs · 8 months

Text

every day i thank god that my mom is supportive of my design headcanons for characters because if i had to answer her questioning me about why i do it, i’d probably lose it

#shout out to my mom for this #literally earlier today she was like #”yknow. you could totally just copy the character down and everything-#-but i like how you interpret them in your own way”#and it made me happy #if she wasn’t supportive of it/was more nosy about it she’d probably ask me the most annoying to answer stuff #if my dad was into anime and knew the characters i draw. he definitely would ask the most annoying and infuriating shit #ANYWAYS since i’m on the topic of my design hcs. y’all wanna hear the reasoning behind some? too bad you’re getting it anyway #there’s some that i do for more practical reasons #then some i do just because i think they look good #like. i draw gojo with brown skin because when i started drawing him i only drew traditionally #and his eyebrows and eyelashes would show up soooo much better on darker skin #so i did that so you could just… actually see some of his hair 💀#but then i draw geto with moles and piercings cuz i just think it looks good on him. same for yuta and toge too #i draw maki and mai with brown skin because i think it looks really nice with their hair color #plus i love seeing black cosplayers cosplay maki or mai. and so i was like “…yeah i should draw that”#anyways sorry for the rant 💀#me.txt

10 notes · View notes

mako-island-moon-pool · 4 months

Text

Personally of the belief that live action fans who go onto animanga posts uninvited like 'I DESPERATELY NEED YOU TO KNOW THAT I THINK THE ART STYLE IS UGLY EVEN THO THIS OPINION IS IRRELEVANT TO THE POST' should be hit with a big rock. We already moved past this ten years ago, get with it or get lost. Swallow the hunger inside of you that demands everything be palatable to you. Maybe you could stand to be a little uncomfortable for a while

#Keep ur trashy comments to yourself #It's not even ugly! It's just not the conventional anime style so you deem it ugly. That's so fucking sad of you #You're the type of person who sees a piece of art and is like OMG WERE THEY ON DRUGS?!?!?!?!?!#Idk I think the art style is very fitting for the gigantic world Oda has built #People are allowed to be ''ugly'' because not all of us were born to be models. Shock and horror I know #(this is NOT aimed at the ppl who critque the way Oda draws women (to a degree...) bc I agree he could've done the same for women as he doe #The men by giving them way more diverse features and body shapes)#No this is aimed at the ppl who think the style as a whole is ugly and demean it bc it doesn't suit their tastes #Meanwhile their taste is the most conventional cookie cutter bland pretty boy/girl bullshit out there #(I say to a degree up there bc I think ppl go way too far with the criticisms like the one person who posted the Charlotte family identical #Sisters and went LOOK HOW SIMILAR THESE WOMEN ARE ODA SUCKS when they were MEANT to look similar)#^ yes that is an actual post I saw in like 2018 or 2019 when WCI was reaching its end in the anime and it made me die laughing #There are dozens of other examples you could've given but no. You intentionally chose the triplets (quintuplets? It's been a hot minute)#Rebecca and Nami and Vivi and Shirahoshi all having the exact same face with different hair? No I will use the identical twins as proof #What a unique way to undermine your own argument bc I was with you up until that #Anyway yeah the more I think abt the more I think the live action sucks actually for getting rid of Sanji's eyebrows bc they'd 'look bad'#Who cares? It's part of his design. You are cutting off parts of his character. Same w/ Usopp's nose.#Who fucking cares if it would have looked 'bad' or 'ugly'? Is that all you guys really care about? Keeping up appearances???#I'm so sick of the shit I like getting 'remade' to appeal to people who will never actually appreciate why stuff looks the way it does #It's so shallow I hate it #<- yes I'm still bitter about what they did to my boy WW in the three guns reboot iykyk #And Livio and Razlo for that matter. What the FUCK was that about #Idk maybe it's cuz it's something I recognized in myself and attempted to squash so it's frustrating seeing other ppl do it #And again obvs Oda isn't perfect w/ this either as he draws evil women as fat old hags and his protags as skinny and beautiful #Or how he thinks not following ur dreams will make u ugly and fat and following ur dreams will make u conventionally attractive #I get it. Storytelling method. But u can do better. Use colorschemes instead of physical attributes or something like Veneer does

3 notes · View notes

danothan · 2 years

Text

had an 8hr superhero call with @bebagerie and they drew my barry?? easily i could cry

#same friend i had the 5hr jayce call with btw #i can always count on him to be insane with me #dc #the flash #barry allen #is for me?#friend’s art #i’ve been staring at this all night and now again all morning #guys… she even got my lightning bolt blushies and the way i draw his eyebrows…#AND THE ADHD OF THIS IMAGE so so real!!!!!#also i am absolutely stealing the little hair wisps on the side of his head emm was a visionary for that one #in exchange i know so much abt spiderman now #it’s a good deal we got going on sharing our red nerd heroes and their respective company #one day i will share my barry with you all too but i am a hero noob and i am shy U__U

21 notes · View notes

softgrungeprophet · 2 years

Text

my power grows every time someone compliments me drawing peter with big brown doe eyes or a big nose or thick eyebrows etc.

but also, more seriously, i appreciate those compliments a lot (not just for peter but my own characters as well) cause i always appreciate seeing love for those features and i want to show my own love for those features because i also think they are beautiful, so it's nice when someone says nice things about them...

when i get compliments about peter's dark eyes or qela's unibrow it makes me very happy because, not to be sappy or anything 😂 but i am always putting little bits of myself into everything i make, and i may not be so self-conscious about my own little mini unibrow or whatever but it's not exactly something you see complimented or treated as potentially attractive in (american, at least) media very often 💀 so i really appreciate the positivity even for the things i don't expect people to compliment

#also hand compliments but that's just cause even tho i like hands they're hard to draw 😂#nadia rambles #i actually draw peter with a very similar nose as some of my own family though not exactly the same shape #my own nose is not that distinguished though 😂 but i do got those brows #that's part of why miqela has a unibrow lol - peter is a mix of comics reference and spite 😂😂#that's why i make his hair and eyes so dark lmfaooo #i do get a little self conscious drawing him though cause by default it's very similar to drawing myself #so i often end up reining in my tendencies to draw eyebrow nose bridge hair 😅#but also i can point at andrew garfield and say ''he has that too!'' so. you know. he's why i draw peter's neck like that #(weird compliment?) i think he has a really beautiful neck so i like drawing peter with that #rambling 😂 anyway thanks random people online i appreciate you guys #i don't think the way i draw peter ACTUALLY looks like me but there's no denying the details i draw from experience lol

4 notes · View notes

joelsgoldrush · 15 days

Text

“NEVER IS A PROMISE” | 12.4k

old man!logan x fem!reader

SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.

WARNINGS/TAGS: smut - mdni 18+ mentions of drinking, angst, some fluff, old man!logan x caregiver!reader, implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties), miscommunication, slow burn, pining, reader is shorter than logan and has long hair, charles in his cupid era, petnames, minor injuries, wound tending, mentions of blood, virgin!reader, dirty talk, cum shot, fingering, handjobs, oral sex (m receiving), loving sex, sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?), unprotected p in v

A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)

No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him.

“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”

“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”

“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces.

“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet,” he hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.

His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”

Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.

That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”

Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.

He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”

You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."

Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” he reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them,” he relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."

“Damn,” you blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.

He leans back with a satisfied grin. "That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy."

"Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though,” you stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”

“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he ponders, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize. Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices, but says nothing in return.

It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on. The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.

Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.

What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere. In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—

Alright. You don’t need this either.

Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life. But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.

“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.

You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.

When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”

“Don’t say that,” you squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different,” you place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”

He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”

“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” you rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.

After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support. You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”

If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”

“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”

His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”

“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe,” you glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” his voice falters, overcome by his own emotions.

That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.

“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”

These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.

“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I,” you stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”

Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him. You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.

You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry. You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat.

Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread. Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.

“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”

You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.

Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.

“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?”

“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”

The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.

“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”

Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you? “I just—I want to be of help.”

“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.

When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.

Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.

It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers. As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.

And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.

He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.

It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.

Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.

You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.

Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.

To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.

The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present. Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.

It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips. Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.

During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.

One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby,” he pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”

His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order. While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest. Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.

An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation. Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”

“How about with a kiss, huh?” he inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot. As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”

“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”

The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine. Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.

There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.

“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.

Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”

“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”

“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”

The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.

“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”

He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.

You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.

The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—

Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs. The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos.

You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was the Wolverine. The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.

“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.

You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.

Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.

He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow. Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.

“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.

Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself. The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.

Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”

“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.

Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. A flush of crimson crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.

“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”

Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?”

Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”

“Ninety-somethin’.”

You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”

“Then I suppose there is somethin’ you can help me with.”

And so began a new chapter in your life. The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence. Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.

“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening’,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.

“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”

Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.

Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your warm breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night. The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.

There goes another piece of you.

You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.

He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto. On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite. But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.

Logan hasn’t come back home yet.

It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.

You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.

After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides. All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?

Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.

He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower. Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”

“They were following’ me. Had been doing’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.

“Did you kill them?“ you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.

Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”

You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.

“I thought—I was so scared, and I—“ your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—“

He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”

“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t—“

”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”

He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks. Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.

“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time.

“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.

Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—“

You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”

“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.

“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface. Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”

You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind. Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.

That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”

If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds.

He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored. You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.

“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes.

Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”

You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you can’t quite put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.

Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.

You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming. Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.

You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented. Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.

Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.

Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.

“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”

You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.

“Was it a nightmare?“ you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.

Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.”

“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early,” you stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” you prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.

He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”

So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.

Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.

You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” you decide to ask him, straightening your back.

“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”

“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.

“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.

“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”

His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” you pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected. Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know. “When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”

Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.

“You never had a boyfriend?” he gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.

A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.

“How could they not want you?”

“They didn’t think like you do.”

“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”

Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. ��I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”

There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”

You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Come sit with me, doll.”

Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him. Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours. You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.

His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist. It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.

“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.

This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.

“I asked you something,” his teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.

“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.

“Why?”

Goddamn.

“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down,” you obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side. He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”

You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—

With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips. “So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” he edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”

It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”

“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt. Logan’s on the verge of drooling over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”

“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”

“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath. A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”

The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”

You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm. The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.

Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”

A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples. “It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.

“Just nice?” one of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” you can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this. Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”

He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”

It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.

“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?”

“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God,” he slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”

“In a minute,” he begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.

Tears threaten to well in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”

“I can tell,” he curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, pretty girl. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax. Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily. You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.

“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”

Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.

“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”

Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest. He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to see right through me,” he adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t.

Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.

You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.

He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers.

You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.

“Good,” he looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.

This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog. Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.

Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation.

“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs.

As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him. “That lie’s older than me,” he slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. I gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”

Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.

By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise—you hate how determined he is.

“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off.

“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”

“How did you get this one?” you trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.

He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” he laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?” it’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.

His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him. You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.

You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.

Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”

So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you. Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization.

“He looks happier, doesn’t he?” the old man says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you.

“Logan, you mean?”

“Yes, my dear.”

You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“

“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are.

A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.

One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.

“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”

There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”

Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.

A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”

Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school. You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to.

“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”

Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.

Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home. He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.

“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.

“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”

Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.

You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”

Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head. Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.

So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.

“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”

Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”

“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?

Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.

It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.

Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”

“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent. You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.

When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up. But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.

You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever. He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.

And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.

This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps. You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.

After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

The shit I’d for you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

Not now.

The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts. It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.

But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.

Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?

Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.

Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.

“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.

As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.

“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”

Red. You’re seeing red.

“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”

“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—” before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.

There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake. His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.

“What where you doing with my phone?” it’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm. Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you something. Why did you answer?”

“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.

“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”

The nerve of this man.

“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?” you search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”

“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan,” you throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“And you are testing mine,” you rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”

Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”

“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”

“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”

Oh.

You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.

Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?

“Then why do you keep running?” you edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”

His arms surrounding your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.

You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place. Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.

This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.

“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”

You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”

“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” you retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”

His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best,” he presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”

Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually. The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.

He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip.

“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”

“I’m all ears.”

Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to,” you cup his cheeks, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”

If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room. Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you,” trailing his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”

Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.

He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine,” his tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”

At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you. You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.

For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open.

Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughing?”

“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”

As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts. He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length.

Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.

“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”

His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.

With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?

When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge. “That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”

Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.

Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound. You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while.

Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.

“So this is what it feels like,” his voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, baby. I was just thinking aloud.”

You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.

This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.

And God, is he feeling it.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

6K notes · View notes