#V; Searching For A Path

[neredoesnotfail]

❛ do not forget what i am.  ❜ // @lcftyambiticns

"And what is that?" the drow questions with a mocking not-quite-smile, that telltale [ patronizing ] sing-song to his voice.

His head canted slightly to one side, he continues, pondering the potential answers aloud.

"A ne'er-do-well? A cad? A wizard of... questionable renown? A mere mortal hoping to cast off his mortality? What, precisely, is it that you wish us to remember that you are?"

[joelsgoldrush]

“never is a promise” | 12.4k

old man!logan x f!reader

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

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 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 shots. 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 says, 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 it, 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. Warmth 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 humid 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 followin’ me. Had been doin’ 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. 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 struggle to 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 all 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 swell 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, sweetheart. 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. 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, and 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?” he asks 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.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

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 somethin’. 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 surround 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 cheek, 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.” He trails 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 laughin’?”

“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. Just thinkin’ 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!!! :)

[mystiika]

garrett tag drop

[chamisulgrape]

i need a big boy 𖤐 [p.sh]

you've heard the stories and you know what happens to bunnies that enter the woods at night. really, it’s your fault. you knew this would happen. it’s like you wanted this… no? oh, but didn’t you?

pairing → wolf!sunghoon x afab bunny!reader word count → 3.9k tags → oneshot, wolf!sunghoon x bunny!reader, little red riding hood inspired, petnames (bun, bunny, u get it), reader is a little dumb smut tags → pwp, noncon/dubcon, p in v, oral sex (f!receiving), loss of virginity, some blood, blood kink, virginity kink, breeding kink, mentions of womb/cervix/cherry-popping, knotting, saliva/drool, squirting, biting/claiming, mentions of death, this is just a tiny bit nasty :3 warnings → pls heed the tags! noncon/dubcon claiming :3 lapslock + not proofread i’m sleep deprived and Crazy rn. a/n → wrote this trying to get out of my writer’s block </3 pls enjoy my belligerent 1am insanity

♪ all the girls are needing, i need a big boy give me a big boy, i need a big boy

minors dni. dark content ahead.

“h-hello? is anyone there?”

your voice is soft and shaky. your soft, plush white ears stand tall as they flick, listening for something—anything. your tail is stiff in fear and you can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

you don’t know how you got here; the middle of the dark, dangerous woods that are in no way a place for something like you, at least not this late at night. you’ve never ventured this far at night, you know better—you know that it isn’t safe for bunnies like you.

you’ve heard the stories of what happens to bunnies like you when they get caught. you’ve seen the bodies brought back to your village—bloodied, mangled, dead and used. every corpse that was brought back reeked of… of wolves.

you were just supposed to be on your way to your grandma’s house. every month, on the same day, your grandma calls you to her house for a visit. usually you make the journey with your mother, but your mother is terribly sick with a cold and told you it was okay for you to venture alone.

“you’ll be okay, sunshine. whatever you do, stay on the trail. do not leave the path. if it starts getting dark, come back.” your mom’s voice was sweet and caring as she packed you a basket with treats for you and your grandma to share.

your mother trusted you enough with this, and you didn’t want to let her down. you missed your grandma terribly and wanted nothing more than to make it to her house safely.

but—there’s always a but.

you’re lost.

somehow you managed to stray from the trail. something distracted you, but in your fear you can’t even seem to recall what it was. one second you were walking the trail like a good daughter, and the next the sun was gone and so was the path.

you tried to find your way back, but it only caused you to be more confused and lost. it was dark, the only light coming from the glow of the full moon. you were whimpering in fear. the full moon only means one thing: wolves.

somewhere along your search back to the trail, you heard something. there was a snap! then it was quiet, too quiet. the silence is eerie, uncomfortable. you feel like you’re being watched… like something is there with you, watching you, waiting for you.

you let out another sound of distress, your ears flicking anxiously. you freeze when you hear the sound again, closer this time. you don’t move—you can’t. you’re frozen in place, just like a helpless prey.

“hello? is anyone there?” your voice shakes. you’re trembling, your fingers gripping the basket so tight that the wood starts to splinter. “hello?”

then, you hear a chuckle. the sound is low, deep, and it echoes and resonates deep within you.

“tsk, tsk, tsk.” the voice is getting closer. “poor little bunny, are you lost?”

your eyes widen like saucers when the owner of the voice shows itself. a wolf. you’re frozen in fear still, not knowing whether to run and hide or to freeze and accept your fate.

“w-wolf!” you stutter, your voice not able to reach a complete scream. you can’t scream, you can’t run. it’s too late.

“pretty bunny, are you lost?” the wolf repeats himself. “i can show you the way. i don’t bite.”

the wolf emphasizes the word with a big grin, the moonlight glints and his canines radiate.

“oh, what sharp teeth you have,” you whimper. “you’re not going to eat me?”

“no, bunny,” the wolf still has that wolfish grin on hus face. “i would never eat a bunny. i’m a nice wolf, you can trust me…”

“_____,” against your better judgement, you tell the wolf your name. “will you really show me the way?”

“yes, bunny,” the wolf nods, taking a few steps closer. his eyes rake up and down your trembling body, and his gaze stops at the very end of your cloak. “my name is sunghoon, bun.”

“s-sunghoon?”

the wolf, sunghoon, nods. “sounds so pretty comin’ from your mouth, bun. what are you doing out here all alone? it isn’t safe for an innocent bunny like you. you’d be eaten alive by some real bad wolves by now if i hadn’t found you.”

your cheeks heat, and your gaze drops to the floor. your ears droop at the shame of being lost. “i’m just trying to make it to my grandma’s house, mr. wolf. she lives near the middle of the forest, by the big lake.”

“ah, does she now?” sunghoon licks his lips. “i know exactly where that is. you’re lucky you ran into me tonight, bun. i can show you the way.”

“really?” you perk up, meeting his eyes again. he’s closer now, so close that if you reached your arm out you would be able to touch him. he smells… oddly okay, not like how the other bunnies at your village describe wolves to smell like. he smells of grass and flowers and oak, not like the blood of bunnies. “please, please, please!”

sunghoon chuckles, his gaze dark as he looks down at you. the height difference is jarring, he’s over a head taller than you, and from up close you can see that he’s big.

he’s way bigger than you, his arms are so big that the plain t-shirt he’s wearing looks small, way too small for his body. he has prominent veins along his forearms and hands that pop out and twitch with his every movement, and his chest is so extremely large that it looks as if he has ginormous pecs. his shoulders are so broad, and you think that sunghoon is probably very strong.

“of course, bunny. you just have to follow me. i know a shortcut to the lake. it’s very close, just up ahead. maybe another half mile.” sunghoon reaches his hand out, offering it to you. “come, bun. let me take you.”

you’re trusting—too trusting for your own good—as you take his hand, letting him enclose his large palm over your small hand.

sunghoon leads you deeper into the woods, and you follow him blindly. you can’t wait to be at your grandma’s house, and you trust that sunghoon will lead you there in no time.

it’s odd, though. you haven’t seen or heard a single animal or creature near you in minutes.

“you’re very pretty, bunny. your cloak seems so soft and warm.” sunghoon’s voice breaks the silence. “i wonder, what are you wearing underneath it?”

“thank you. my grandma gifted me this cloak,” you say, softly. “i’m wearing a dress my grandma also handmade for me.”

“mmm,” sunghoon hums. “you smell very good, bun. like chocolate and vanilla. i wonder how you taste, too.”

you shiver. “what?”

“nothing, bun. we’re almost there.”

you start to tremble again, but then you smell the water, and you know the lake is near. your parents always told you to not trust wolves, that wolves will only tear you apart and lick your bones clean one by one, but this wolf—sunghoon, has been trustworthy. he didn’t eat you.

the lake comes into view moments later, the water practically sparkles underneath the moonlight.

you gasp. “sunghoon! you really brought me here! thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“i told you, bunny,” sunghoon grins. “your grandma’s house should be near. are you staying overnight?”

“no, i’m supposed to return home tonight, my parents will be worried sick if i don’t…”

“then i shall wait for you, bun. i will accompany you on your way back home to make sure you make it safe and sound.”

“oh,” you say, surprised. “you would do that?”

“of course. i have to make sure you don’t get eaten by any wolves… hm?”

“o-okay,” you murmur, sheepish. “i shouldn’t be long.”

sunghoon nods, and you rush off to your grandma’s. her house is only around the corner, so the walk is quick.

you think about sunghoon the whole way there. he proved that wolves aren’t all bad. some wolves can be trusted and some wolves won’t eat you. everything you’ve learned about wolves was wrong, and you can’t wait to go back to your village and spread the new information you learned.

“grandma! i’m here!”

your grandma’s house is warm and comforting as you enter. you set the basket of goods on her small wooden table.

“dear! you made it!” your grandma approaches you, rushing you into a hug. “i was so scared, dear. it’s so late at night.”

“yes, grandma. i’m safe.” you reassure her. “mom packed you some sweets, your favorite.”

“ah, did she—” your grandma stills. “dear, what’s that smell?”

you sniff the air. “what do you mean?”

“you—you reek of wolf!”

“grandma, it’s okay! please, calm down! the wolf helped me here! he didn’t try to eat me!”

“you’re a traitor—traitor!” your grandma backs away in horror. “you brought a wolf here? you need to leave, now.”

“no, grandma, please! he wouldn’t hurt me, or you!” you reach for her, wanting to console her, but she flinches away like she’s been burned.

“no family of mine will be in contact with a wolf,” your grandma spits the word like it’s poison. “get out. never come back.”

“no, grandma!”

she rushes you out the door, locking it behind you and leaving you out in the cold with nothing but your cloak. you sniffle, hot tears making their way down your cheeks as you sob and knock on the door rapidly.

“grandma! please! let me in!” you cry, helplessly holding onto the doorknob like she’ll open it. “please!”

it seems like an eternity that passes before you get tired of trying. your grandma disowned you and left you in the cold. you can’t go back, what if the rest of the town also treats you the same way? what do you do?

you get a brilliant idea then. you’ll go to the lake and wash yourself. you’ll wash the scent of sunghoon away and make it back home. nobody will know.

you make it a few steps before you smell it again—him.

“bunny? what’s wrong?” sunghoon steps into view. his face is masked with concern and pity. “poor little bunny, why are you crying?”

“my grandma—she,” the thought of your grandma has you breaking down once more. you rush into sunghoon’s arms, his big chest comforts you. “she left me! she told me to get out as i smell like a wolf, and told me she never wanted to see me again!”

sunghoon cradles your head as you sob into his chest. “shh, there, there. it’ll be alright, bunny. she just doesn’t understand.”

“i have to go to the lake—i have to wash off before i go home. or else they—they won’t accept me back.”

“okay, bunny. let’s go to the lake and wash you off. then i’ll walk you home, okay?” sunghoon’s voice is deep and low, and somehow comforting.

you nod, sniffling, and let sunghoon lead you to the lake, hand in hand.

sunghoon is quiet as he leads you both knee deep into the water. he reaches for your cloak, and you let him undress you. your cries quiet now, only sniffles escape every few moments.

sunghoon drops your cloak somewhere below you, before reaching for the straps of your small, silk babydoll dress.

he sucks in a breath, but you’re too overwhelmed by your grandma to pay any mind to it. he undoes the straps one by one, before letting your dress slide down and fall into the water as well.

“bunny,” sunghoon murmurs. “kneel and wash yourself.”

you obey, making sure to rinse yourself and get rid of the wolf scent on you. after your fur is soaked and your body is freezing, you consider yourself clean enough.

“bunny, you’re shaking,” sunghoon says. “are you cold?”

you nod, and sunghoon coos. “but your clothes are all wet. whatever will we do?”

“i-i don’t know…” you’re freezing and trembling so much that your teeth chatter as your tail drips water into the lake. “it’s so cold.” you whine.

“aw, is my bunny cold?” sunghoon coos again. “do you need me to warm you up?”

you nod, and sunghoon grins. “come here, bunny. come to me.”

you step closer to him, and he pulls you in roughly. he wraps his arms around you, enclosing your body with his larger one. he’s so warm, extremely warm, and you let out a soft sigh as your body finally starts to warm up.

“you’re so small, bunny,” sunghoon’s breath hits your ears as he speaks. “and so soft, so supple and soft.”

you whine, shy, and then you feel it.

“s-sunghoon… something is poking me,” you whisper.

“is there?” sunghoon murmurs, his voice low and dripping something you aren’t sure of.

the hardness you feel twitches, pressing deeper against your thigh. you’re scared to look down, scared of what you might see.

“sunghoon, it—it’s…”

“fuck,” sunghoon growls, suddenly. you flinch at his outburst, your ears stiffening and standing tall upon your head. “i can’t hold back anymore.”

“sunghoon, what?” you say, your voice shaking.

sunghoon ignores you, picking you up and out of the water, carrying you in his arms as he reaches grass and mud again.

“you make me crazy, bun,” sunghoon’s voice is rough as he speaks. “i can’t hold back anymore. not when you’re nude and presenting yourself so nicely to me.”

“s-sunghoon?” you tremble in his hold. he releases you, then, to put you back onto your feet.

when you meet his eyes again, he looks different. gone is the comforting face you thought you knew, and now there’s a predatory, evil look in his eyes.

“please, sunghoon, you’re scaring me.” you plead, whisper. “sunghoon?”

it’s like he can’t hear you. he doesn’t answer as he leans down, his hands on your bare waist as he presses his nose into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply.

“fuck, bun, you smell so good,” sunghoon groans, and you feel the hardness return. sunghoon grinds against your leg, and your tail stiffens in fear. “you smell so delicious, bunny. so perfect for me. i’m going to tear you apart.”

“sunghoon, no! please!” you cry and beg. he wouldn’t eat you, he’d never, right?

“don’t worry, bun. i’m not going to eat you,” sunghoon chuckles and it vibrates against your skin. he licks a stripe from your collarbone to your ear, before whispering, “but i’m going to ravage you. you’re mine now, bunny.”

you tremble in his hold, cringing at the feeling of his tongue against your skin. “no! sunghoon! please, please!”

then suddenly, sunghoon lets you go. “no?”

“no!” you cry, pleading. “please!”

“run, bunny,” sunghoon smirks, his sharp canines making an appearance again. “i’ll count to three. i’ll give you a headstart. if i catch you, i get to take you.”

you turn on your heels immediately, scrambling to run for your life. you’re still naked, and the ground is rough on your feet as you try to dodge rocks and branches.

“one…”

you’re heaving, running so hard that you feel like you might throw up.

“two…”

but bunnies are known for being quick, aren’t they?

“three! i’m coming, bunny. you can’t hide from me!”

your heart drops. you don’t know where you are, but you know that sunghoon is already close, you hear his footsteps gradually getting closer to you, and you have nowhere to hide. you look around frantically, looking for something, anything.

your eyes land on a small hole, just big enough to burrow yourself in. that’s it, you think. you’ll hide there.

you’re almost in the hole, digging yourself deeper when you smell him.

“poor little bunny,” sunghoon’s voice is too close. “are you lost?”

he growls, and you feel his fingers close around your ankle as you get violently dragged from the hole. you were so close.

you let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“found you.” sunghoon looks crazy. he’s panting, his eyes wide with excitement. “i told you, you can’t hide from me. you’re mine. i could smell your fear from a mile away. could smell your sweet, little pussy calling out to me.

“no! please, let me go!” you thrash in his hold, but it’s no use. sunghoon is stronger than you as he straddles your hips, your wrists above your head and held by one of his hands as the other explores your body.

“shhh, bun. i’ll take good care of you,” sunghoon laughs, in a frenzy. “you smell unmated, fresh and sweet. i’ve never taken a bunny before. it’ll be both our first times, hm?”

you can’t reply anymore, you’re choking on your spit and tears, and you’re more than sure that there’s snot rolling down the sides of your cheeks as well.

“sweet, virgin bunny,” sunghoon leans in to lick your cheek, eating up all your tears and wetness. “you taste so good, i wonder how you taste down here.”

you kick your legs and thrash when sunghoon lifts his hips. it’s the wrong move, because sunghoon comes back up to snap his teeth at you. he bites at your jaw, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make you go limp—tranquilizing you.

“stay still, bunny. or i really might just eat you instead.”

you cry silently, finally giving up as sunghoon disappears below you. he spreads your legs open, exhaling at the sight of your pussy, all presented to him.

“you look delicious,” sunghoon leans in, inhaling deeply as he uses his fingers to spread your folds, exposing yourself to him. you feel wetness as he licks a stripe from your asshole to your clit. “you taste so good—i’m never going to get enough of you, bunny.”

you whimper as he licks you—practically eating you with his mouth. your clit is sensitive, the nub starting to swell against your will as he continues to devour you with his tongue.

“bunny,” sunghoon murmurs. “you like this, don’t you?”

“n-no! no, no!” you say, weak. you shake your head, trembling as your ears flatten.

“oh? but your body betrays you. your hole is already getting itself ready for my cock.” sunghoon chuckles, evil. “so wet already.”

sunghoon trails his fingers from your thighs to your pussy, and your hole flutters as he slowly sticks his two fingers past your entrance.

“fuck, bun, you’re so tight,” sunghoon groans. “your little virgin pussy is going to break when i get my cock in you. how are you going to take my knot like this?”

your eyes widen in fear. “knot? no—sunghoon, i can’t!”

“but you will,” sunghoon raises himself, and you’re horrified to see that he’s already nude. his cock is huge, hard and leaking. his cock is a deep shade of red, bordering on purple with how hard he is. “you’ll make it fit. it’s okay if it doesn’t. i’m still going to take you anyways.”

you shake your head as he gets closer to you, one hand around his cock as the tip prods at your entrance. “no! sunghoon! i’m not ready—you’re going to break me! please!”

sunghoon growls. “shut up. take it. take it like the innocent virgin bunny you are. i’m going to ruin you, you’re going to reek of alpha once i’m done with you. you’ll never be able to go home after this.”

he pushes into you roughly, and you can’t hold back the scream you let out. your voice cracks with the intensity of your scream. the pain is unbearable, your body just wants to cave in on itself and shut down.

“fuck, you’re so tight. i’m going to break you. i’m going to fill you with my litter. you’re never leaving, you’ll take my cum and carry my pups forever.”

sunghoon groans, his eyes never leaving yours as he fucks into you roughly, his balls slapping against your buttcheeks with every thrust. you smell the blood—the blood that leaves your cunt as sunghoon’s cock breaks past the first layer inside of you. it drips down your cheeks and onto the dirty ground beneath you, and you’re ashamed.

you’re no longer a virgin anymore. you’ve been taken and broken in by the worst kind—a wolf.

sunghoon growls, animalistic, slamming into you at a pace ao brutal that it bruises your insides—bruising your cervix. then you feel it, the tip of his cock breaching so deep into you, practically reaching your womb.

“you feel that?” sunghoon groans, rolling his eyes. “i’m so deep inside you, bunny. i’ve broken you, i’m going to fuck you so good, every day, every day until your stomach is round with my pups. and then i’ll do it again, and again, and again.”

you cry, but your body betrays you. the pain and pleasure makes you want to just die. you’re torn between submitting and fighting back.

your body seems to decide for you as you tighten around sunghoon’s cock.

“fuck, yeah, you like this, don’t you? you like being used by me, huh? fucking whore. just wanted to get your virginity stolen away from you by a big, bad wolf, hm? that’s all you really needed, right?”

sunghoon never lets up. his cock pushes past the entrance of your womb with every thrust, and he’s losing himself in the feeling of being inside your tight, wet heat. your walls are so soft, so tight, practically sucking him in every time he pulls back out, just to slam back in harder than before.

your body keeps betraying you, because on a particularly hard thrust, you seize up, releasing wet, clear liquid all over sunghoon’s cock.

“i’m—i’m peeing!” you squeal, your release still squirting like a waterfall on sunghoon’s cock.

“fuck, bunny, your little pussy just squirted all over me. you like it that much? fuck, fuck,” sunghoon growls, leaning down and pressing his face into your neck. “that’s it, keep squirting on alpha’s cock, just like that. make it all wet for me, fuck!”

sunghoon does the unimaginable then; he bites you. his teeth sink deep into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, biting down and breaking skin, his canines drawing blood from you.

you cry and scream and thrash in his hold, your pussy weakly clenching around his cock as he forces his mating bite onto you—claiming you as his for life.

you feel his cock swell, growing larger and bigger. you panic, trying to push him off of you, but it’s no use. he’s going to knot you, and you have no choice but to take it.

he pushes into you, breaking you open and shoving his knot inside of you. it hurts, you feel like you’ve been ripped open, and you can feel his body shake with pleasure as he finally releases his cum into your womb.

he keeps grinding and grinding as his cock shoots out more cum, filling you up with his white, hot release, marking you from the inside out.

he releases your neck, then, finally pulling his teeth out of you. you meet his eyes in horror, your mouth dropping open with a sob when you see blood—your blood all over sunghoon’s lips and chin.

he smirks, his teeth stained red, as he licks his lips.

“you’re mine now, little bunny. you can’t ever hide from me again.”

sunghoon grinds his cock, inflated with his knot, inside of you, and you know now—this is never going to end.

a/n: i feel insane it’s 2am i finished this in an hour pls bare w me if there r any mistakes…

masterlist

[venusdews]

SERVE!

caleb [夏以昼] + female reader + zayne [黎深]

synopsis. who were the cute boys watching your tennis match today? you planned to find out.

genre & contents. 18+! MDNI! tennis player!zayne, tennis player!caleb, tennis player!reader, smut, porn with plot, oral (giving), cumshot, unprotected p in v, nipple play, soft dom!caleb, soft sub!zayne, nasty 3some, pull out, slapping, fingering, slight dirty talk, a lil mxm if you squint, what else to say… wc; 4.5k+

author's note. this came from me listening to the challengers soundtrack… i have no excuse i just wanted to write a smutty zayne and caleb fic (even though this just kept getting longer the more i revised) … enjoy <3

“Holy shit.”

The two men had been sitting on the bleachers for almost two hours, completely enthralled by the girl who was on the tennis court. They really had only intended to pass by after training, maybe stay for a few plays.

It was hard to ignore the whispers throughout Linkon Tennis Club, of a girl who was only on a path to surpass everyone here. Of course, they had been curious to see who she was, maybe skeptical of all the talk surrounding her. But nothing compared to watching her up close.

She was unrelenting, hard-hitting and implacable.

Even as her opponent continued to fall far behind in points, she showed no signs of backing down. It was only until the last set that she let their serve fall on her side, not even attempting to hit the ball with her racket. As if she wanted to taunt him. 

It’s only then that they take note of the man stomping off the court, someone who up until now, had been considered undefeated in their club.

Caleb swears he sees a smirk appear on her face as she walks off the court.

“That was…” Zayne starts, but it seems he’s unable to find the words to describe what he’s feeling right now.

“Fucking hot.” Caleb finishes, eyes still locked onto the girl as she uses a towel to wipe her glistening skin.

Zayne clears his throat, standing up suddenly as if snapping out of a trance. Up until then, he had been unaware of the setting sun. “We need to go.” 

Caleb doesn’t notice he’s walking down the bleachers until the girl is out of sight. He grabs his bag, almost stumbling down the steps as he catches up to Zayne.

He whistles lowly.

“You ever see anyone play like that?” Caleb brings his hand under his chin, unable to shake the image of her on the court. Or, unable to shake the image of her completely. He wanted to know more about her. No, needed.

“No.” It was true. Zayne found himself adjusting his shirt collar nervously. Suddenly the heat of the sun was heavy on his skin. He wouldn’t admit that watching her play like that was enough to have an effect on him.

“You think she’s coming to the party tonight?” Caleb ponders out loud, more to himself. He finds himself hoping to catch sight of her again as they exit the court and enter the parking lot, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Why does it matter?” Zayne responds, tossing his bag onto the top of his car's hood, searching for his keys.

Caleb leans onto the hood, hands coming up under his chin as he eyes Zayne. “Maybe because that was one of the best matches I’ve ever seen, and it wasn’t even a serious one. You’re not just a little curious to see what she’s like?”

Zayne fishes his keys out, pointing his gaze at Caleb’s puppy eyes. “Oh, so it has nothing to do with the fact that you find her attractive?”

“Do you not?” Caleb takes note of the way Zayne avoids his question.

Zayne looks away, unlocking his car door and throwing his bag to the backseat.

“At least I'm not afraid to admit when I like a woman…” Caleb mumbles, hoping it's low enough that Zayne doesn't hear.

He does.

And he locks the car just as Caleb tries to open the passenger door.

He bangs his hand against the window, and Zayne can’t deny he finds his pouting a bit amusing. 

“Zayne!”

He plasters his face against the window. “Open the door?” 

Zayne pretends to not hear him, turning the car’s ignition on.

“Please?”

The doors unlock, a shit eating grin spreading onto Caleb’s face.

“Someone can’t get enough of you.”

Your friend Tara is giggling as she hands you a towel. You take it, wiping your face but not before rolling your eyes.

You knew exactly who she was talking about. It wasn’t unusual for you to gain a bit of an audience when you played, even if it was just a match for fun like this one. But those two had showed up early and stayed throughout the whole thing.

Watching you. And only you.

It was hard to ignore the way their eyes watched your every move.

“They’re not exactly trying to hide it,” you quip, a bit harsh. But maybe you didn’t want to admit the effect the two very attractive men had on you.

Tara seems to see right through you, a coy smile on her face as she throws you a water bottle.

You chug it, ignoring her as you gather your things, tossing your bag over your shoulder. She walks alongside you as you exit the court.

“You know, they’ll probably be at the party tonight.” she sing-songs, skipping to catch up to your brisk pace. You were desperate for a cold shower and your bed.

“Good for them,” she rolls her eyes at your feigned nonchalance. You use both of your hands to scour your bag, scowling when you come up empty handed.

Tara clears her throat and you look up, narrowing your eyes at her. She dangles your keys in front of you, the tiny tennis racquet clinking.

As you reach out to take them, she pulls back. “Tell me you’re going tonight…”

“I can’t. I have practice early tomorrow.”

“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes at the weak excuse. She crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes as if to say ‘I don’t believe you’.

“I vividly recall you promising me this would be your one night out.” 

You do remember. A promise that came from being tired from practice and Tara continuously pestering you about it. You’d argue it was more like she forced you until you said yes.

Tara twirls the keys around her finger, “I’ll stand here all day…”

Despite her playful tone, you knew better than anyone she would definitely stay here until you said yes. Your mind drifts back to the two boys sitting at the bleachers, the way you might have intentionally played up your skills. The way you felt your body heat rise, not just from your running back and forth.

This was not the first time you had seen them around. A glance of them on the courts, in the dining hall, at tournaments. The two were joined at the hip. It seemed as though they were always together. Practicing together, walking together, hell, they probably slept together.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just a tiny bit curious to know more about them.

With a resigned sigh, “Fine,” you say, and her face looks as if she was just handed a brand new puppy. “But I'm taking clothes out of your closet.”

She throws you the keys, already on a tangent about what alcohol to pregame with. But as you enter your car and drive off, there’s only one thought on your mind.

You would make it your mission to get to know them tonight.

To no one’s surprise, Caleb is able to drag Zayne out to the party. He hated coming to any type of social gathering, but maybe the possibility of catching a glimpse of you was enough to get him out the door this time.

Zayne is embarrassed to admit how many times he changed his shirt.

They’re leaning against one the tables, beers in hand as they lazily watch the partygoers. The night was warm, a dampness kissing their skin. As entertaining as watching their drunk tennis club fall onto the grass was, they were really only here for one reason.

You.

However, as the night sky continued to darken, their hopes of seeing you began to diminish with the setting sun.

One beer turns into two, three, four, until their table is littered with empty bottles. Their faces were flushed, and the stars seemed a bit brighter now. Caleb has a permanent pout on his face, gaze on the beer cap he was flipping in between his fingers.

It was unlike him to be so affected by anyone, much less a stranger. He was a bit of a playboy back in the early days of his tennis career, a womanizer as Zayne would call him. Though it was far behind him, now, it was a bit humiliating for him to be so bent over a girl.

Zayne, on the other hand, stayed back for the most part. Not that he didn’t have many opportunities, trust that he had many. But Zayne was never one for no strings attached hookups. A hopeless romantic, Caleb would say to tease him. Though, he had no shame in his beliefs around love.

It was no wonder why he was so infatuated by you.

There’s an eruption of cheers from where people have made a makeshift dance floor, and Caleb lazily turns. His head shoots up, body turning at whiplash speed, causing a few bottles to fall to the ground.

“Hey—!”

Zayne furrows his brows, looking at Caleb for an explanation to his sudden movements. His eyes are wide, unblinking as if he’s afraid to miss whatever he’s watching.

He follows his gaze, and it lands on you.

In the middle of the crowd, there you are, dancing without a care in the world.

They stare dumbfoundedly at your figure, clad in a mini skirt and strappy top. You turn towards them, undoubtedly staring at both of them. Your eyes dart between them, an inviting smile on your face. Maybe the alcohol was making them hallucinate.

Zayne flushes, looking to the side and clearing his throat.

Without a second to think, Caleb is standing up and walking towards you.

“Caleb!” but it’s futile. All Zayne can do is standby and watch as Caleb works his infuriating charm on you, hands coming to sit on your waist with ease.

He hates to admit it, but somewhere in his heart he feels a twinge of envy.

The party is in full swing when you arrive. 

You're surprised to see how crowded it is, almost everyone from the tennis club was here and then some. Almost as soon as you arrive, Tara pulls you to the dance floor (that was more just a patch of shorter grass closer to the music). 

You can’t help the way your eyes scan the room, searching for those two inseparable figures. 

As you let the alcohol flow through your veins, dancing to the music, you find exactly who you’re looking for. 

Sitting perfectly in your line of sight, is the brown haired boy who couldn't keep his eyes off of you earlier. Even now, he’s staring straight at you, and you don't even try to hide the shiver it sends down your spine.

Next to him is his inseparable half, avoiding your gaze.

Your eyes say everything you can’t. An invitation. 

A fishing line thrown into the water.

The brown haired man is up before you can process, making a beeline for you.

“Hey,” he says, unabashedly checking you out with his iris colored eyes. You tilt your head, smiling. 

“I’m Caleb.”

“Hi, Caleb.”

The fish bites, you pull back.

You hold out your hand as an offer. An offer for what, you weren’t so sure yourself.

But he takes it, with almost no hesitation.

You guide his hand to your waist, letting him take control. He sways with you, following the beat of the music effortlessly. When he asks for your name, you tell him with a bite of your lip.

It was unlike you to be so forward, but there was no refusing it now.

You wanted him tonight, badly.

“I saw you playing today,” he leans down to say it, eyes hovering over your ear. The feeling makes you hot, not just from the lingering heat of the night.

“I know,” you breathe “I saw you, too.”

Caleb smirks, eyes lighting with a fire. “You’re amazing.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes. While you (usually) were not one to brag, it was something you were used to hearing. Hearing him say it, though, had a different type of effect on you.

You turn around, grinding against him as the music becomes more sensual. His hands grip your waist, and you swear you hear a low grunt. This was definitely having as much affect as it was on you. Your arms come around his neck.

“Who’s your friend?” You can’t help but ask as you eye the almost sulking man who was still at the table.

You see the way he’s eyeing you, a type of intensity you couldn’t describe. 

Tall, dark hair, chiseled features, and carrying an air of aloofness.

God, he was sexy too.

“Zayne?” he questions, a bit strained but you choose to ignore it. The man rocking his hips behind you, the one in front practically eye-fucking you, it was too much to handle.

Zayne and Caleb.

Was it crazy to want them both?

You twirl to face Caleb, not surprised to see his eyes have darkened into a deep hue of purple. It only encourages you further. “Why don’t we go back to your place?”

It’s bold, you’re well aware. It makes his eyes widen for a second, before a smug smirk appears on his face.

“Your friend’s invited too.”

Zayne and Caleb are very still. 

With bated breath, afraid to make any sudden movements.

The walk to their apartment was a blur, filled with gentle caresses and prying eyes. Caleb was almost seeing stars from the anticipation of getting to have you so close. Though, they were both unsure of what to expect, even through their beer-induced haze.

Sitting across from you, in their shared apartment, they were feeling completely sober now. 

They watch you carefully as your hand comes down to the beer bottle in the middle, using your fingers to spin it. Yeah, it might have been a juvenile game, but you seemed to have something up your sleeve when you suggested it.

And who were they to deny the girl that had them wrapped around her fingers?

Their eyes are glued to the spinning bottle as it slows down, landing…

Right in between Zayne and Caleb.

Their heads whip up to face you, and there’s a sly smile growing onto your face. You stand from the floor, walking to the couch behind you.

You plant yourself in the middle, leaning back on the palms of your hands.

“Come here,” you beckon with a jerk of your head.

Their eyes go wide, and Caleb glances at Zayne, whose face is impossibly red.

“Which one—?” Zayne starts, but Caleb is scrambling off the floor to sit next to you. As if a switch is flipped, he stumbles to follow, sitting on your left.

The air is still, the music that had been playing from somewhere in the room fading into the background. You lean your head back, biting your lip as your eyes dart between them both.

“Kiss me.”

The universe was surely on your side tonight. 

That was the only explanation for the position you were in.

You’re sandwiched by both men, and your biggest problem right now is choosing who to look at.

Two gorgeous, panty-dropping men, in the palm of your hands.

Two men who were staring at you like they wanted to devour you whole.

Caleb bites first, hand coming up to hold your face. His grip is firm, unwilling to let your gaze wander elsewhere. “Are you sure about this, baby?”

The pet name comes out too easily, but it makes you lean into him. You stare into his eyes, unyielding.

“Yes.”

“Both… of us?” Zayne asks, voice low.

“Yes.”

It’s firm. 

And it's all Caleb needs to crash his lips into yours. Behind you, Zayne’s hands wander up your thighs, slipping under your skirt as he attacks your neck, leaving a trail of saliva as he sloppily sucks on your skin.

You moan softly, and the sound makes Caleb's grip on your jaw tighten. He’s shoving his tongue down your throat, uncaring of the way you struggle to breathe.

He relents, letting go of your face. You turn to Zayne, whose face is flushed a sweet pink. He looks completely undone, and you haven’t even touched him. You work to unbutton his shirt, trailing kisses on his deliciously taut chest. As soon as it's off, you trail up his jaw until your tongue is slipping past his lips.

He kisses slowly, gentle with intention. Zayne lets you take the lead, and your nails trail over his exposed biceps. Tiny crescent moons bloom as your nails dig into his skin. He deepens the kiss.

There’s a smack on your ass, and you pull away to face Caleb once again.

“C’mere,” it's a demand. You crawl onto his lap facing away from the couch, back pressed tightly against his clothes chest. Zayne stands, moving to position himself in front of you. From here, you have a perfect view of the prominent erection growing under his shorts.

Caleb pulls your top off in one swift motion and you gasp as your nipples hit the air. His fingers brush over them, teasing and pulling before they trail down. Your skirt is pushed up past your hips, pink lace panties on full display for both of them.

“Fuck, baby,” Caleb moans as his fingers hover over your clothed pussy. “I can feel how wet you are already. I’ve barely even touched you.”

You whine, throwing your head back onto his shoulders. Zayne is watching you through heavy lidded eyes, palming his cock. As sexy as he looked like this, you wanted to put your hands all over him.

“Let me help you,” you stare up at him through your lashes. 

Zayne walks closer, watching your fingers make work of his waistband. You almost gasp when you pull his cock out, flushed a bright red and dripping at the tip. It was big, to say the least. You wondered how much of it could fit in your mouth.

Caleb’s slender fingers slip into your slick folds and you whine, hand faltering on Zayne’s length. It earns you a slap on your thigh.

“Don’t leave him waiting, baby,” his voice is low, and you'd give anything to be able to see his face right now. “Show him what you can do with that pretty mouth of yours.”

His words are enough to bring your mouth to Zayne’s tip. You slip him into your mouth, taking him until he hits the back of your throat. He throws his head back, groaning as his hand comes up to grip the back of your head.

He wasn’t even in all the way.

Your skin is hot to the touch, cunt dripping as Caleb continues to work you expertly. Moaning around his cock, you can’t keep your eyes off Zayne’s face twisted in pleasure. It was obvious he was attempting to hold back his noises, lips held tightly under his teeth. 

It only makes you want to hear him more, so you hollow your cheeks, bobbing your head up and down his length. With every stroke, his tip hits the back of your throat. 

“Oh, fuck,” Zayne groans as he brings his other hand to your head, hips sloppily thrusting against your mouth. His whimpers are like angels singing. Spit is dripping out of your mouth, your eyes are welling with tears, but you don’t care. How could you deny him such pleasure?

Caleb slips another finger in you, stretching your pussy with every hit against your walls. You moan as his other hand comes to pinch your nipple. 

“Mm, baby,” you grind into his hand, feeling his hard cock against your ass. His breath is heavy against your ear. His fingers seem to know exactly what spots to hit, your unending moans muffled around Zayne's length.

“You feel so good around me.” Your sounds get higher, walls squelching against Caleb’s fingers. That familiar feeling starts to pool at your belly, and he knows you're close.

“You gonna cum for me?” His voice is gruff, laced with desire as he works to push you over the edge. The coil tightens, but you make sure to keep Zayne’s cock in your mouth. 

“Mmmph!” you whine as you feel your liquid fight against Caleb’s fingers, soaking them completely. His eyes are blown wide as he watches your fluids shoot out of your pulsing hole.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers softly, taking his glistening fingers out and bringing them to his face. He can’t help himself, putting them into his mouth. Your taste almost makes him combust right then and there.

“Alright,” he says, looking at Zayne’s disheveled appearance with a smug smirk. “Let me have a turn, baby.”

With a pop! Zayne slips out of your mouth. Caleb stands, pulling you with him. He twirls you to face him now. His hand comes to your ass, slapping it hard enough to leave a mark. You moan, chasing his lips.

He lets you catch him, a gentle kiss compared to the way he just defiled your pussy.

“Bend over,” he says, and you do.

Zayne’s hands come to your waist, holding you in place. You feel your pussy clench in anticipation as you watch Caleb get rid of the clothing covering his hard cock.

And of course, he’s big.

Big and thick.

Enough to stretch your mouth completely.

Caleb slaps his cock against your cheek as he looks at Zayne.

“Why don’t you stretch her out a little more for me?”

The grin on his face says it all as he watches Zayne align himself with your wet cunt. You sigh, feeling his tip gliding against your lips before he slowly opens you wide. The fit is incredibly tight, and you can feel every single inch of his length as he slowly slides in.

Zayne is putty in your hands. The way you’re tightening around him is almost enough to drive him over the edge. His fingers dig into your hips.

Caleb brings his hand to your jaw, tilting your head up. He glides his thumb over your bottom lip. 

“So pretty,” he murmurs softly, bringing his tip to your lips.

“Go on, baby.”

That’s enough for the both of you.

Zayne brings his hips back, tip just at the entrance before he slams back into you.

You take Caleb into your salivating mouth, until your nose almost hits his skin. With every thrust against your walls, you slide your mouth up and down Caleb’s throbbing cock.

Your moans mix together sweetly, breaths mingling with the hot bedroom air. They’re unrelenting against your gaping holes, and you can feel the sweat dripping from their bodies onto you. A sheen layer of sweat covers them, almost glowing under the low light.

You’re a mess, moaning around Caleb’s cock as he uses your mouth to pleasure himself. 

Zayne’s head is spinning, drunk off the way your pussy felt around him. His hand comes up to pull your hair back, admiring the way your back arches. Every bounce of your ass against him got him closer and closer to the edge.

God, he was insatiable. 

Caleb was no better, unable to keep his eyes off your pretty face. Cheeks hollow, taking him so fucking well. He couldn’t believe how he had you. He was desperate to carve every line and curve of your figure into his mind, afraid that if he blinks you’ll disappear.

He hoped when morning came he’d still be able to see you.

“Fuck, baby,” Caleb moans, “I’m so fucking close.”

He looks over to Zayne, taking in the pink hue that trailed from his cheeks to his ears. His brows were furrowed, tongue hanging slightly out of his mouth.

Yeah, he was definitely close, too.

“Can I cum on that pretty face, baby?” you moan, trying to nod your head against his merciless throat-fucking.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Mhm,” is all you can muster.

Zayne’s hip thrusts were getting sloppier, and you tightened around him, wanting to make sure he came too.

Something about being completely covered in their seed made you lose all sense of self.

Caleb grunts as he pulls out of your mouth, spurts of cum shooting onto your face, dripping down your cheek. You stick your tongue out, hoping to catch some to taste.

Zayne follows soon after, pulling out of you to cum on your back. It’s warm, endless globs of his cum enveloping your back, falling down your waist. He pumps his cock gently, making sure to leave every last drop to you.

He leans down, placing a gentle kiss on the small of your back.

Their chests are still rapidly rising and descending as they try to catch their breath. In the post orgasm clarity, you can’t help but laugh at your situation.

Never did you think you would have ended up here tonight.

Though, you definitely weren’t complaining.

Caleb falls onto the couch, gaze still on you as he chuckles breathlessly. A mixture of disbelief and incredulousness on his face.

“Stay there,” You hear Zayne move behind you, walking into the bathroom and turning the faucet on. He comes back, gently holding you as he brings a wet towel to your skin. You gasp softly at the sudden contact, but you let him wipe your back down.

The gesture almost makes your heart swell.

Caleb looks at you with indiscernible emotions swimming in his eyes. He takes the towel from Zayne, wiping at your face with the most sedulous care. It’s so sweet, the way they handle you. You’d never think they’d be capable of all the sinful things you just witnessed.

Trying to ignore the way your face heats up as Caleb holds your face, you look away from his soft puppy eyes.

You stand up straight, slipping your skirt and ruined panties. With a flirtatious smile, you start walking to the bathroom. “I’m gonna shower.”

“Feel free to join me.”

Caleb and Zayne look at each other before scrambling to follow behind.

You awake to two pairs of arms enveloping you, the first signs of dawn peeking through the window. It takes all your energy to quietly slip out of their grip. The two men are too deep in their dreams to notice as you collect your scattered clothes.

You sigh as you hold the skirt Tara let you borrow in front of you. It was ruined completely. She was definitely going to kill you. And maybe congratulate you after she hears of your night.

Clad in a too-big Linkon Tennis Club hoodie and sweats, you’re about to slip out of the room when you look back to the bed.

Gorgeous, even with their tousled hair and soft snores.

Gently, closing the door, you fish your forgotten phone out of your purse. You glance at the time as you walk down the hallway, sighing when you realize you had enough time to make it to practice.

Hopefully they’d come to your next match.

[moonlightwritingf1]

Mine to Touch | LN4

🌸 summary ━━━━━━━ Lando’s obsessed with missionary—because he can rub her clit, watch her fall apart, and fuck her deep. And sometimes? He makes it soft, slow and absolutely passionate.

🌸 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🌸 word count ━━━━━━━ 4.2k

🌸 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, multiple orgasms, teasing?,

Based on this request.

The low hum of the city outside her apartment window was almost comforting, but Y/N couldn’t shake the tightness in her chest. Lando had texted her an hour ago, saying he was on his way over.

“Be there soon, princess.”

Her heart fluttered at the nickname, just like it always did. It wasn’t the first time he’d called her that—he’d said it a handful of times before, usually soft and playful, always without hesitation—but somehow, each time still made her stomach flip. She never got tired of it. Princess. It felt too good, too tender, especially coming from him.

Her eyes drifted to the bouquet of roses sitting quietly on her kitchen counter, the petals still fresh and vibrant despite the week that had passed since he’d sent them. She had cried when they arrived—hot, uncontrollable tears streaming down her face the moment she read the note tucked inside.

It had been a terrible week. One of those weeks where everything felt heavy and dull and wrong. And then, out of nowhere, the flowers had shown up. From him.

No one had ever given her flowers before. Not once. Not even during birthdays, not even from past boyfriends. But Lando had. Just because he knew she’d had a shit week and wanted to make her feel better.

She didn’t even know how he found out she’d been struggling.

But somehow, he knew. And he sent roses. And he called her princess.

And now he was on his way.

She adjusted the hem of her oversized sweater, the one she’d stolen from him months ago. It still smelled like him—his cologne, his warmth. It was a dangerous reminder of how much she’d grown to crave him, even if she hated admitting it to herself. The way her fingers curled tighter around the fabric made her feel stupid, like she was trying to hold on to something she couldn’t name. Something fragile. Something that scared her just as much as it comforted her.

Because she wanted him. In ways that ran far deeper than she’d ever planned.

The knock at the door startled her, and she took a deep breath before opening it. There he was, leaning against the doorframe, his hair slightly messy, that teasing grin on his face. “Hey, baby,” he said, his voice low and warm.

Why did he have to look like that? She stepped aside to let him in, her cheeks already heating up. “Hey,” she replied, her voice softer than she intended.

He didn’t waste time. As soon as the door clicked shut, he pulled her into his arms, his hands sliding around her waist. She could feel the firmness of his body against hers, the way his presence seemed to fill the room. “Missed you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear.

She shivered, her hands instinctively gripping the front of his shirt. “I missed you too,” she admitted, though the words felt heavy on her tongue. Missed him. She always missed him when he wasn’t around, even when she told herself she shouldn’t.

Lando’s fingers traced a path up her spine, sending a jolt of electricity through her. “You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, his voice soft but probing. “Everything okay?”

Quiet. She had been quiet. She’d been avoiding him more than usual—dodging his calls, making vague excuses to skip out on group hangouts. It wasn’t just him. It was everything. The weight of it all. The exhaustion. The overwhelming pressure she couldn’t explain without falling apart.

“I’m fine,” she lied, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her.

He didn’t look convinced. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing gently over her skin. “You’re not fine, princess,” he said, his tone soft but unshakable. “Talk to me.”

She hesitated, her eyes searching his. There was so much she wanted to say—how work had been suffocating, how she’d been running on empty, how she didn’t even recognize herself some days. But the words caught in her throat, too heavy to voice, too fragile to release.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered instead, her voice cracking just enough to betray her.

He didn’t press. He just looked at her like she was something precious. And when she leaned into his touch, her lips parting as he leaned down to kiss her, it felt like breathing for the first time in days.

It was soft at first, almost tentative, as if he was testing her. But then she kissed him back, her hands sliding up to his neck, pulling him closer. The tension between them shifted, the air crackling with something unspoken.

Lando’s grip on her tightened, his hands sliding down to her hips. He broke the kiss, his breath warm against her skin. “Let me take care of you,” he murmured, his voice rough with need.

She nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t trust herself to speak, didn’t trust herself to stop him even if she wanted to. And right now, she didn’t want to.

He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bedroom. His lips found hers again, harder this time, more demanding. She felt the heat building between them, the way his body pressed against hers as he laid her down on the bed.

His hands were everywhere, touching her, exploring her, making her feel things she couldn’t ignore. She arched into his touch, her breath hitching as he pulled off her sweater, leaving her in just her bra and leggings.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, his eyes filled with desire as he looked down at her.

She blushed, her hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled, the sound low and throaty as he helped her pull his shirt off. His chest was bare, his skin warm under her fingertips. She traced the lines of his muscles, her heart racing as he leaned down to kiss her again.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of her leggings, pulling them down slowly with a teasing drag. She lifted her hips to help him, her legs trembling as the fabric slipped down her thighs and off her ankles. The cool air kissed her skin, sending a shiver through her body. Lando’s eyes darkened as he took her in, his gaze trailing up her legs, her hips, her stomach, like he was memorizing every inch of her.

Next, his hands moved to the clasp of her bra, his fingers deft and steady despite the hunger in his eyes. She held her breath as he unhooked it, the fabric falling away to reveal her breasts. His low groan of appreciation made her blush, but she didn’t look away. She could see the intensity in his gaze, the way he seemed to worship her with his eyes alone.

Finally, his fingers hooked into the edge of her underwear, pulling them down with the same deliberate slowness. She lifted her hips again, her heart pounding as he revealed her completely. There was no hiding now, no barriers between them.

Even after all this time—after all the nights tangled in his sheets, after countless times they’d undressed each other with trembling hands and hungry mouths—she still felt shy when she was naked in front of him. Something about the way he looked at her, like he saw everything, always made her chest tighten and her cheeks burn.

But she also felt safe. In a way she couldn’t quite explain. Like he didn’t just want her—he cherished her.

Lando’s hands skimmed her thighs, her hips, as if he was savoring the moment. His gaze never left hers.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “You’re so fucking perfect, baby.”

She bit her lip, her cheeks burning as he leaned down to kiss her again. His hands kept moving, his touch sending shivers through her body. When he finally stripped off his own clothes, she couldn’t help but stare. He was beautiful, every inch of him, and she felt a surge of desire that she couldn’t ignore.

He settled between her legs, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress in the most intoxicating way. She could feel him—hard and ready—against her inner thigh, and a gasp escaped her lips as his hips shifted, brushing against her sensitive core. His hands gripped her hips firmly, anchoring her in place as he leaned down to kiss her neck, his lips warm and insistent.

His teeth grazed her skin, sending a jolt of electricity through her that made her arch into him. She could feel his breath, hot and uneven, against her ear as he whispered, “You feel so good, princess.” His voice was rough, almost a growl, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

One of his hands slid up her side, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist before cupping her breast. His thumb brushed over her nipple, teasing it into a stiff peak, and she couldn’t hold back the soft moan that escaped her. “Lando,” she breathed, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.

He responded with a low groan, the length of his hard cock pressing and grinding against her slick folds, teasing her clit with slow, deliberate movements. She gasped, her hips instinctively arching into his, craving more of the delicious friction. His cock felt so good against her, the heat of it sending waves of pleasure through her body. His lips trailed lower, down her collarbone, his teeth nipping gently at her skin as he moved. Every touch, every kiss, felt like he was worshipping her, like he couldn’t get enough.

Lando’s hips shifted slightly, the tip of his cock brushing against her clit in a way that made her whimper. “You like that, baby?” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. She could only nod, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. He was teasing her, driving her crazy with the slow, deliberate pace of his movements, his cock sliding against her sensitive clit, making her toes curl and her body tremble with need.

“You’re so wet for me,” he said, his voice rough and filled with satisfaction. His hand slid down to where their bodies were pressed together, his fingers brushing against her slick folds, making her moan. He was torturing her, in the best way possible, his cock still rubbing against her clit, his fingers teasing her entrance, driving her closer to the edge with every touch.

“I love the way you react to me,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His lips found hers again, his kiss deep and consuming, his tongue teasing hers as his hands explored her body. She could feel the urgency in his touch, the way he seemed to be holding back, but only just.

She was losing herself in him, in the way he made her feel, and she didn’t want it to stop. Every touch, every kiss, was pulling her deeper, making her crave more. He was all she could think about, all she could feel. And she knew, in that moment, she was completely his.

“Lando,” she breathed, her hands gripping his shoulders.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough with need.

He reached down, his fingers finding her clit, circling it with a gentle yet firm pressure as he positioned himself at her entrance. She could feel the heat of him, the thick, hard length of his cock pressing against her slick folds, teasing her, making her body tremble with anticipation. Her breath hitched, her nails digging into his shoulders as she waited, her stomach tightening with a mix of nerves and desire.

Then, slowly, oh so slowly, he pushed inside her.

The moment his tip breached her entrance, she gasped, a sharp, breathy sound that filled the room. Her pussy clenched around him, hot and tight, as he stretched her, filling her in the most exquisite way. The sensation was overwhelming—his cock was thick, hard, and insistent, sliding deeper with every inch, igniting a fire in her core that she couldn’t ignore. She felt full, achingly so, as he sank deeper, her body yielding to his, welcoming him with a shiver of pleasure that ran through her entire being.

Lando’s breath caught, a low groan escaping his lips as her warmth enveloped him. She was so tight, so wet, the heat of her pussy gripping him like a vice, making his head spin. He could feel every ridge, every pulse of her walls around him, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to lose himself in her entirely. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his voice rough, almost pained with desperation. “You feel so fucking good.”

She could see the strain in his face, the way he was holding back, his jaw clenched as he fought to keep himself steady. His eyes were locked on hers, filled with a hunger that made her stomach clench. He moved slowly, his hips grinding against hers, the thick length of his cock dragging against her sensitive walls in a way that made her moan, her hands gripping him tighter.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed, his voice trembling as he pushed deeper, his cock stretching her in the most delicious way. “So wet for me, princess. Fuck, I can feel how much you want me.”

She could barely form words, her body too consumed by the sensation of him inside her. Every inch he pushed in sent waves of pleasure through her, her pussy clenching around him as if trying to pull him deeper. She could feel the weight of him, the way his hips pressed against hers, his cock filling her completely, touching her in places that made her see stars.

He paused when he was fully sheathed inside her, his breath hot and uneven against her skin. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice raw with possession, his eyes never leaving hers. “All mine.”

Then he started to move—slowly, deliberately, his hips rolling against hers, his cock sliding in and out of her with a torturous rhythm. Each thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through her, her clit pulsing with need as he rubbed it with his fingers in perfect sync with his strokes.

She was everywhere—the way her arms clung to him, her nails digging into his skin, her thighs trembling beneath him. Lando’s forehead rested against hers, his breath hot and uneven as he rocked into her, slow and deep, each thrust dragging a gasp from her lips. His hand was between them, fingers rubbing gentle circles on her clit, the pressure perfect and maddening. “That’s it, baby,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “You feel that? You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

She gasped his name, the sound barely audible over the pounding of her heart. He kissed her then—deep, desperate, reverent—his tongue tangling with hers as if he could consume every part of her. “Look at me, princess,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers as he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Don’t look away. I need to see you fall apart.”

Her legs quivered as he pinned her wrists above her head, his body flush with hers, his slow, deliberate strokes dragging her closer to the edge. “Say it,” he growled, his lips grazing her neck, his teeth nipping at her skin. “Say you’re mine.”

She could barely think, let alone speak, her body shaking as his fingers worked her clit with relentless precision. “You’re mine, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with possession. “My princess. My everything.”

Her thighs spread wider, her hips lifting to meet his every thrust as he took her deeper, his forehead pressed to hers. “This,” he groaned, the rhythm of his hips steady and unrelenting. “This is how I always want to have you. Just like this, princess. Every damn night.”

Her breath hitched, her eyes fluttering shut as the tension coiled tighter, threatening to snap. “Why?” she managed to whisper, her voice trembling. “Why... like this?”

His answer was immediate, his lips brushing her ear as he murmured, “Because I can see your face when you come. Because I can feel you better. And because—” His fingers worked her clit harder, the pressure making her back arch. “—this is the only position where I can love you and ruin you at the same time.”

She was already shaking, her body hovering on the edge, when he whispered it again, his voice rough with desire. “I love fucking you like this because I can touch you like this.” His fingers rubbed her clit harder, his eyes locked on hers, watching her come undone. “And because no one else gets to see you like this. No one.”

His thrusts grew messier, his rhythm faltering as his fingers worked her clit with relentless pressure. “You don’t get it,” he panted, his breath hot against her skin. “I’m obsessed with this. With you. With making you come like this.”

She tried to hide her face, her cheeks burning as she felt herself nearing the edge, but he wouldn’t let her. “Eyes on me, baby,” he growled, his fingers rubbing her clit harder, his thrusts deep and rough. “You’re so fucking pretty when you come. Don’t look away.”

Her legs began to tremble, her whole body shaking uncontrollably as he kept thrusting, kept rubbing her clit just right. “You always do this,” he murmured, his voice ragged, his eyes locked on hers. “Always shake when you’re about to come. Drives me fucking crazy.”

He pushed deeper, his fingers working her clit fast and messy, until she cried out, her body convulsing as she came undone beneath him. “That’s it,” he whispered, his voice rough with need. “Let me feel you fall apart. I need it.”

And fall apart she did, completely and utterly his. Her body seized, a wave of pleasure crashing over her so intensely that her vision blurred. Her pussy clenched around him, pulsing, tightening, as if trying to pull him even deeper inside her. Lando groaned, his cock still buried to the hilt, his hips stuttering as he felt her walls gripping him like a vice. “Fuck, baby,” he growled, his voice raw, trembling. “You’re so tight. I can feel you squeezing me—every fucking inch.”

She gasped, her back arching off the bed, her fingers clawing at his shoulders as the sensation consumed her. Her clit throbbed under his relentless touch, her pussy quivering around his cock as he kept thrusting, slow but deep, dragging out every last shiver of her orgasm. “Lando,” she whimpered, her voice breaking, her body trembling uncontrollably. “I can’t—it’s too much—I—”

But he didn’t stop. He kept moving, his cock sliding in and out of her slick, swollen folds, her pussy still fluttering around him as he pushed her higher, dragged her further. “Look at me, princess,” he commanded, his voice rough, desperate. She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze, and what she saw there—pure, unrelenting desire—sent another wave of heat crashing through her. “Good girl,” he murmured, his hips grinding against hers, his cock filling her so completely she thought she might break. “You feel so fucking good when you come. I can’t get enough of it.”

And then, just as her orgasm began to ease, his rhythm faltered. His breath hitched, his jaw clenching as he drove into her one last time, deep and hard, her name a ragged whisper on his lips. He came with a low, guttural groan, his cock throbbing inside her as he spilled himself, hot and thick, filling her in a way that made her shudder. Her pussy milked him, her walls still clenching around his length as he emptied himself, his body trembling against hers.

For a moment, they were both still, the only sounds their ragged breathing, the heat of their bodies pressed together. Lando’s forehead rested against hers, his breath hot and uneven as he whispered, “You’re mine, princess. Forever.” 

And in that moment, she believed him. The words hung in the air between them, raw and heavy, as his forehead rested against hers, their breaths uneven and tangled. She felt the weight of his confession in the way he held her—like letting go wasn’t an option. He was still inside her, warm and throbbing faintly, grounding her in a way that made her feel both exposed and safe. She wanted to believe him—needed to—because this… this was everything.

Lando shifted slightly, his hand sliding down her side in a slow, deliberate caress. His fingers traced the curve of her hip, then moved between her thighs, finding her clit with practiced ease. He rubbed in slow, steady circles, his touch soft but certain, and a soft gasp escaped her lips.

“This,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “this is why I love missionary. Because I can feel all of you.”

Her cheeks burned, eyes fluttering shut as he kept working her clit with maddening precision. He knew every inch of her, exactly how to touch her, how to break her down.

“I can see your face,” he whispered against her skin. “Every little reaction, every breath, every moan. All mine.”

Her hips lifted instinctively, seeking more, and he chuckled—low and deep.

“You’re so fucking responsive,” he said, fingers pressing harder. “Every time I touch you, you act like it’s the first time. Drives me insane, baby.”

She could still feel him inside her, thick and pulsing, his hips slowly grinding against hers.

“And I can rub you just like this,” he murmured, circling her clit with expert rhythm. “I can make you come while I’m still inside. Feel you tighten around me like you’re pulling me deeper.”

She moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders as he kept going, relentless.

“I love it,” he breathed against her ear. “The way you feel wrapped around me. The way you hold me like you never want to let go.”

Her clit throbbed under his touch, her body clenching around him in anticipation.

“And this,” he said, his voice a rasp, “your clit… so sensitive. I love knowing I’m the one who gets to touch it like this. The one who gets to make you fall apart.”

She was already there, tension winding tight, her body poised on the edge. And he knew. He always did.

“You’re close, aren’t you, princess?” he murmured, fingers quickening, pressure unyielding. “I can feel it. I can see it in your eyes.”

She nodded, breath hitching, legs trembling.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Let go for me. Let me feel it. Let me see you.”

And she did. Her body convulsed, pussy clamping down around him as she came hard, waves of pleasure crashing through her. He didn’t stop—kept rubbing, kept thrusting slow and deep, drawing out every last ripple of release.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, breath ragged. “You feel so fucking good when you come.”

When she finally stilled, her body limp and trembling, he leaned down to kiss her, his lips soft and tender. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, his fingers still tracing the curve of her hip. She sighed into the kiss, her eyes fluttering shut as she savored the warmth of his lips against hers. But then his hand moved lower again, his fingers brushing against her clit, and she gasped, her body jerking at the sudden sensitivity.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice shaky, her hands pressing against his chest. “Stop. It’s—it’s too much. I’m too sensitive.”

He chuckled, the sound low and teasing, his fingers dancing lightly over her clit, just enough to make her squirm. “Oh, baby,” he murmured, his lips grazing her ear. “You’re so fucking sensitive right now. It’s adorable.”

“Lando,” she whined, her hands gripping his shoulders as she tried to push him away, but he didn’t stop immediately. Instead, he lingered, his touch still light but insistent, his lips brushing against her neck as he whispered, “Just one more touch, princess. You know you like it.”

She shook her head, her breath hitching as his fingers teased her clit again, the sensation almost too much to bear. “Please,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Stop. I can’t—”

He finally relented, his hand moving away from her clit, but he didn’t pull out of her. Instead, he stayed right where he was, his cock still buried deep inside her, his warmth filling her in the most intimate way. He kissed her again, his lips soft and tender, his hands moving to cup her face as he whispered, “Okay, baby. I’ll stop. But I’m not done loving you yet.”

His lips trailed over her face, kissing her cheeks, her jawline, her forehead, every touch so gentle it made her heart ache. He was everywhere, his breath warm against her skin, his lips worshipping her as if she was the most precious thing in the world. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I could spend forever just like this, just loving you.”

She felt her cheeks burn, her heart swelling at his words. He was so tender, so loving, and it made her feel things she couldn’t put into words. Her hands cupped his face, her fingers brushing over his stubble as she whispered, “I love you, Lando.”

His eyes locked with hers, a soft smile playing on his lips as he leaned down to kiss her again. “I love you too, princess,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “So fucking much.”

[riddlesbunny]

drunk on jealousy

summary: Trying to get back at Matty for making you jealous, you end up in a predicament none of you saw coming.

pairing: Mattheo Riddle & Theo Nott x Reader

word count: 1.8k words

warnings: Explicit smut, jealousy, alcohol consumption, grinding in public, threesome, oral (f and m receiving), p in v sex, cuck mattheo if you squint, creampie, 18+ MDNI

note: send me Matty requests!!

The common room is buzzing as it usually does after the boys win against Gryffindor. Excitement lingers in the air, along with the scent of something stronger, that you can only assume was snuggled in by a group of rowdy seventh years. 

Laughter and cheers echo through the room, drowning out the crackling fireplace, where a few players lounge.  But none of that matters because all you can focus on is Mattheo’s hand on another girl’s waist, lips brushing against her ear as she giggles. Fucking bastard. 

Your rage and jealousy have to marching over towards Mattheo, but suddenly your path is blocked.

“He’s not worth the trouble, bella.” 

“Get outta my way, Theo!” you snarl, trying to shove past him but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he pulls you closer into him, “Why don’t you give me your attention tonight instead, mi amor?” 

Your eyes narrow, searching his emerald irises for any hint of insincerity. 

“What do you mean?” 

He hands you a glass of firewhisky and pulls you towards one of the couches. He pats his thighs as he sits, motioning for you to sit on his lap. 

“Really?” 

“Do you want to make him jealous or not?” 

It doesn’t take long for the firewhisky to hit and after a few minutes, you find yourself basically grinding on Theo. 

His hands grasp your hips possessively, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he steers you in slow, tortuous circles on his lap. 

As you make eye contact with Matty from across the room you can instantly tell he’s jealous. 

The way his fingers tighten around his glass. The sharp flicker of his gaze as it snaps to you, burning, jaw clenching. 

“Anddd he’s still looking,” Theo muses, voice low, lips barely ghosting your skin. 

You press down harder on his lap, your pussy involuntarily getting wetter at the contact, and a moan escapes your lips. 

Matty moves— and in an instant, he’s towering over you and Theo, looking murderous. Before you can even smirk in satisfaction, his hand is gripping your wrist, tugging you off of Theo’s lap with little effort. 

“I think that’s enough,” Matty growls, his voice laced with something dark. His grip tightens, not exactly painful, but firm, leaving no room for you to argue. 

“Didn’t take you to be the jealous type,” Theo says casually. 

Mattheo doesn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, he drags you though the sea of students, out of the common room and straight to his dorm. 

The door slams behind you and Mattheo’s hands are all over you. 

“What the hell was that, huh?” He asks, pulling your shirt down over your bra before his hands grip your ass harshly. But before you can say anything, there is a knock at the door followed by Theo’s voice, smug as ever. 

“Hai lasciato cadere questo, principessa.” 

 You forgot this, Princess.

When Mattheo opens the door, Theo is dangling your silver bracelet in the air.  It must have slid off your wrist while you were dancing on him. 

“Thank you,” you say as your grab the jewelry from him. Mattheo stands impatiently, waiting for him to leave. But instead, Theo enters the room. 

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt, do continue whatever it was you were planning to do to her.” 

It is now extremely clear to you that Theo still has a raging hard-on from when you were dancing on him.

“Not with you in here… out!” Mattheo all but shouts at Theo. 

Theo’s eyes darken, “we’ve done it before.”

At this, you give Mattheo a look of bewilderment.

“Not with her.”

You swallow hard, gripping the bracelet in your palm. "What does he mean, ‘done it before'?"

Mattheo hesitates and you feel your pulse quicken. 

 "Mattheo."

His gaze meets yours.

 "It's complicated,” he says and you take a step back. 

"That's not an answer."

A muscle in his jaw twitches.

“He likes to get under my skin, baby. That's all it is."

You shake your head, "I don't believe you."

Mattheo steps forward, reaching for you, but you pull away and his eyes darken. 

"Don't let him mess with your head, baby. He's playing a game."

You bite your lip, watching him closely. 

“And what if I want to play?”

Mattheo’s gaze sharpens, his frustration morphing into something else—something dangerous.

“You don’t,” he says, voice low, possessive, but the way he looks at you says otherwise.

Theo grins widely now, taking another step towards you. 

"It seems your boy doesn’t want to share you,” he states as you glance at Mattheo, “but you have the power here, bella.”

“Oh, this is bullshit!” Mattheo groans. 

“I think you want to,” Theo muses, motioning to the wet patch you left on his pants earlier, causing you to blush. You’re afraid to even look at Mattheo now.

Theo reaches out to cup your chin, tilting your head back so you look up at him. "If you asked him right now to watch while I fuck you senseless, I bet he'd do it."

Your heart hammers in your chest, but now you’re horny, and your decide to take a risk. 

"Would you, Matty?" you ask, turning your head slightly to break Theo's hold. Your heart races as you meet Mattheo's eyes again, searching for any sign that this might not end in disaster.

All of you know that Mattheo could never deny you anything. 

Mattheo's eyes flicker from Theo to you, then back again. His jaw clenches and unclenches, a muscle twitching there. 

"Yes," he finally growls and your pussy pulses in response, wetness soaking through your panties.

With a smug smile, Theo leans down to press his lips against yours. Before you can deepen the kiss, Mattheo's hands are on your waist, pulling you away, “not yet," he commands. Theo smirks, backing off for now.

Mattheo leads you over to his bed, pushing you gently onto your back.His eyes never leave yours as he joins you on the mattress, lying beside you.

"Lift your hips, darling," Mattheo orders, sliding his hands under the hem of your skirt. You comply, lifting your ass so he can slide your drenched panties down your legs and toss them aside.

Theo watches, licking his lips as Mattheo parts your thighs and lowers his head between them. His tongue delves into your slick folds, stroking through your slick heat before circling around your swollen clit.

Your breath catches as Mattheo sucks your clit into his mouth, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Theo watches greedily, one hand stroking himself through his pants.

Mattheo's fingers slide inside you, curling upwards as they press against that spot only he knows how to find.

Your moans fill the room as Mattheo devours you, fingers pumping in and out of your pussy, driving you closer to climax. Theo yanks his pants and boxers down so his cock springs free.

Theo fists his shaft, working it furiously as he watches Mattheo feast on you. His other hand grips your breasts roughly, squeezing and kneading you through your shirt.

As you writhe beneath him, you feel yourself begin to peak, Mattheo stops suddenly, raising his head to look at you. Your core aches, yearning for release. "What….. why did you stop?"

"Because, baby," Mattheo breathes, a cruel twist to his lips. "I thought you wanted me to watch him fuck you senseless?” 

You whimper in protest as your cheeks burn, your pussy pulsing with unsatisfied need. But before you can utter a word, Theo is there, positioning himself between your spread legs.

Theo's rough hands grip your ass, tilting your hips as he rubs his cock along your slit. Every inch of your skin tingles as he drags his length through your wetness, not entering you, teasing you further.

"You're torturing me," you moan, hips bucking in a pathetic attempt to impale yourself on Theo's cock. He smirks, enjoying this game too much.

Theo's hips flex, pressing just an inch of his thick cock into you. "Ohhh fuck”, you moan, feeling the tight fit as you stretch to accommodate him. He pushes a little deeper, making you gasp.

Your nails dig into the sheets as Theo slides in further, a delicious ache spreading through your core. Mattheo leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss.

Theo pumps into you, his hips meeting yours with forceful thrusts.

Your lips still tangled with Mattheo's, moaning into his mouth, your fingernails now dig into his chest. 

Breaking the kiss, Mattheo trails his mouth down your neck, nipping and sucking as he moves lower. Theo slams into you harder, hitting that sweet spot with each thrust.

"Let me taste you now, baby," you say to Mattheo.

 "Yeah?" He asks, eyes darting wildly between yours.

“Mhm," you all but moan as you bite down on your lip so hard you swear you could draw blood.

Within seconds Mattheo's pants are down and his erect cock is level with your face.

Taking Mattheo's thick cock in your hands, you guide it to your eager mouth, wrapping your lips around its tip. Your tongue swirls around the head, tasting precum and saltiness, encouraging more.

Moaning around Mattheo's cock, you take more of him into your mouth as Theo increases his pace, hammering into your wet cunt as Mattheo pushes deeper into your throat.

Your jaw aches with the effort to accommodate Mattheo's girth, saliva pools at the corners of your mouth as you take him deep. 

Theo slams into you harder, driven wild by the sight of you sucking Mattheo's cock. Sweat beads on his brow as he pounds you relentlessly, adding the occasional twist of his hips to grind against your clit.

"Such a dirty little slut you are for us, bella" Theo notes, causing your pussy to flutter

Your walls clutch tightly around Theo's cock, your orgasm building with each thrust. 

"That's it, baby," Mattheo groans, his fingers tangling in your hair as he face-fucks you, “take every inch of that big cock."

"Mmm," you babble around Mattheo's cock, suction increasing as Theo's strokes become more aggressive. Your body tightens like a bowstring ready to snap, pleasure coiling in your belly.

You raise your eyes to Mattheo's, pleading silently. Theo slaps your ass, punctuating each of his words with a forceful thrust. "Cum. for. us., Bella," he demands.

You’re over the edge as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. 

Your climax triggers Theo's, his cock throbbing as he erupts deep inside you. The sound of Mattheo's ragged breaths fill the air as he grips your hair tighter. "Fuck yeah, baby. Cum all over his cock. That's it, that's a good girl," he praises before erupting down your throat in hot spurts.

As Theo pulls out, ropes of cum spill from your spasming hole, coating the sensitive folds of your pussy. Mattheo drags you upright, locking his mouth onto yours.

Mattheo kisses you ferociously, the salty tang of his cum still on your tongue mingling with Theo's musk lingering on your lips.

“I guess we’ll have to win all of our matches from now on, if it’ll lead to this,” Theo smirks.

“Okay, you’ve overstayed your welcome! Get out!” Mattheo yells as the three of you erupt into a fit of laughter. 

[winxanity-ii]

DAMNED DEVOTION [3/3]

ship: father charlie x fem!nun!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 ( m. receiving oral/handjob; fem. receiving oral; p in v; overstimulation; creampie, wrap before you tap kiddos; breeding kink; degradation/praise kink; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery ) word count: 5.4k a/n: ahhh, i can't believe i finally finished the final part to this little 'devotion' piece. to thank you all for following along with this series i may have gone a little filthy 😅 also, don't know if you guys care to know, but it's my twin (@k-nayee) and i's 20th birthday today, wheeewwww 🎉🥳! i'll see you all in the next update, and don't be afraid to shoot an ask/request or check out my other works! this is a continuation of my previous one-shotS, '𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍' and '𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.' If you haven't read those yet, I recommend starting there to understand the progression of their relationship….

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

It was a bright afternoon, the sun hanging high in the sky, its rays filtering through the branches of the old oak tree that stood at the edge of the courtyard. The air smelled fresh, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the distant murmur of conversation.

A group of young nuns-in-training, dressed in their modest habits, sat on the grass, their voices soft with laughter. You were among them, sitting with your legs tucked beneath you, your Bible open in your lap, a pencil in your hand as you made notes from the earlier service.

The warmth of the sun on your skin made you feel content, almost peaceful, and you were momentarily lost in thought, the words on the page blurring slightly as your mind wandered.

"Sister ____!" a voice called, breaking through your concentration.

You looked up, startled, to see one of the younger nuns smiling at you, her eyes bright with curiosity. She had a round face, still clinging to the softness of her youth, her cheeks flushed from the sun. Her name was Sister Olive, and she was always one of the more talkative ones, her energy infectious among the group.

"Yes?" you replied, giving her a gentle smile. The group of nuns-in-training giggled amongst themselves, their eyes flickering between you and something—or rather someone—further down the courtyard path.

You followed their gaze and saw Father Charlie walking alongside another priest, his expression focused, his hands clasped behind his back.

The sun seemed to catch on his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the soft waves of his hair. He looked every bit the holy man, yet there was an undeniable handsomeness to him, something that drew eyes wherever he went.

Sister Olive leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Sister ____, does Father Charlie have a wife?"

Your brows furrowed slightly, confused by the question. "Pardon?" you asked, blinking as you looked back at her.

The group broke into another fit of giggles, Sister Olive glancing towards Father Charlie again before continuing. "I heard that priests can be married if they were married before being ordained..." she trailed off, her tone curious, her gaze turning back to you. "I just wondered if Father Charlie was ever married. He seems like he could be, doesn't he?"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks at the implication, and you quickly shook your head, trying to keep your voice steady. "No, Sister Olive, he isn't married," you answered, your tone soft but firm.

The young nuns exchanged glances, and another wave of giggles spread through the group, their laughter light and full of the innocence of youth.

Sister Olive sighed dramatically, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Ah, I thought so. He's too serious to have a wife, don't you think? But still... he's quite handsome."

You swallowed, glancing back towards Father Charlie, who was now nearing the edge of the courtyard, his eyes scanning the area as if searching for something—or someone.

You quickly looked away, your heart fluttering in your chest, a strange mixture of emotions churning within you. You knew you shouldn't think of him in that way, shouldn't let the words of the younger nuns affect you, but it was impossible not to.

The memory of his touch, his voice, the way he had looked at you in the confessional—it all came rushing back, making your pulse quicken, your hands trembling slightly as you closed your Bible.

A second later, a shadow fell over the group; the young nuns quickly quieted, their giggles turning into soft murmurs. Looking up, you saw Father Charlie standing before you, a small, knowing grin on his lips.

His eyes locked onto yours, an intensity in his gaze that made your breath catch. He gave a short, polite bow of his head. "Good morning, Sister ____," he said, his voice smooth, almost gentle, before his gaze shifted to the rest of the group. "Good morning, sisters."

The young nuns responded in unison, their voices a mix of giggles and greetings. You looked down at your Bible, mumbling a quiet, "Good morning, Father Charlie," along with the others, your face heating up under his watchful eyes.

You thought that was the end of it, that he would move on and let you be, but then he spoke again, his voice calling your name.

"Sister ____," he said, his tone still polite, but there was something in it that made your heart skip a beat. "I was hoping I could have your assistance with preparing for next week's sermon. I need some help organizing the notes and scriptures. Would you be able to spare a moment?"

You felt your heart race, already knowing that this was a lie, that his request had little to do with the sermon and everything to do with the tension that lingered between you.

Clearing your throat, you forced a smile, nodding as you closed your Bible and rose to your feet. "Of course, Father," you replied, turning to the young nuns. "I'll see you all later."

They nodded, their eyes wide with curiosity as they watched you walk away with Father Charlie. He led you across the courtyard, his pace measured, his hands clasped behind his back.

You followed him in silence, your heart pounding, your mind racing with a mix of anticipation and fear.

He brought you to the sacristy—a room in the church where sacred objects and vestments were kept and prepared for use during rituals.

The room was medium-sized, its thick concrete walls lined with shelves that held ornate chalices, gilded candlesticks, and other sacred items. A large wooden table stood in the center, covered with cloth and a few open books, the sunlight streaming through the small window, casting a warm glow over the space.

The air smelled faintly of incense, the scent comforting yet heavy, reminding you of the solemnity of the church.

You turned around just in time to see Father Charlie shut the door, the soft click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.

Your heart skipped a beat, your breath catching in your throat as he turned back to you, his eyes dark, filled with something you couldn't quite name—something that made your pulse quicken, your hands trembling slightly at your sides.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself, and turned back around, your eyes roaming over the various sacred objects lining the shelves. You busied yourself by adjusting the cloth on the table, pretending to study the items, anything to keep yourself distracted from the tension filling the room.

You could feel him behind you, his presence heavy, the air thick with something unspoken.

A shudder ran through you as you felt his hands on your shoulders, his fingers rubbing gently against the fabric of your habit, caressing your shoulders with a slow, deliberate touch. You closed your eyes, trying to suppress the tremble that ran through your body, your breath catching in your throat.

"F-Father Charlie..." you began, your voice barely above a whisper, your heart pounding in your chest.

Before you could say anything more, he spun you around, his hands firm on your shoulders. His eyes were intense, dark, filled with a hunger that made your knees weak. His face was inches from yours, and you could see the way his pupils were blown wide; his lips parted slightly as he looked at you.

"Shhh," he murmured, one of his hands moving up to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. His touch was gentle, almost tender, but there was an intensity behind it that made your heart race. His gaze bore into yours, and for a moment, you felt like you were caught, trapped in the depth of his eyes, unable to look away.

You took a shaky step back, your eyes dropping to the floor as you tried to gather your thoughts. You turned away from him, your hands gripping the edge of the table, your knuckles white as you spoke, your voice trembling. "Father, I... I find myself at war. What we... what we have, it's wrong. It's against everything we believe in, everything we stand for. I can't... we can't keep doing this."

You heard him let out a soft, frustrated sigh, and a second later, his hands were on you again, spinning you around to face him. There was a tension in his jaw; his eyes narrowed slightly, frustration evident in the way he looked at you.

"No," he said, his voice firm, his gaze intense as he held you in place. "No, Sister. You're wrong. This... what we have, it's not wrong. It's not some sin that we need to be ashamed of." His voice softened slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Do you think the love between Jesus and Mary Magdalene was wrong? Do you think He loved her any less because of who she was? Love is not something to be condemned, not when it's real... not when it consumes you the way this consumes me."

His voice dropped lower, almost a groan, his eyes darkening as he stepped closer, his chest brushing against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me. The way you look at me, the way you move, the way you speak—it's made me delirious. I can't think of anything else but you; I can't focus on anything but this need, this hunger for you. You've taken hold of me, body and soul, and I can't... I can't let you go."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your cheeks flushing at the intensity of his gaze, the raw need in his voice. You could feel your resolve crumbling, the conflict within you fading beneath the weight of his confession, the depth of his longing.

"Please," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly, a desperate edge to his words. "Please, just let me have you, one last time. If you're sure—if you really mean it, I'll let you go. But please... just one more time."

A soft, almost mousy, "Okay," left your lips before you could stop yourself, the word barely audible, but it was all he needed.

In an instant, he was on you, his lips crashing against yours, his hands pulling you close, his fingers digging into your waist as he kissed you with a hunger that took your breath away.

Your steps staggered back, your body unsteady as he moved with you, following you, his lips never leaving yours. Your back hit the edge of the table, and he pressed against you, his body warm, his touch insistent, his kiss deepening as his tongue slipped into your mouth, coaxing a soft moan from your throat.

His hands moved to your hips, lifting you slightly as he guided you onto the table, his lips trailing down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You could feel the intensity of his need, the way his body pressed against yours, his hands exploring, claiming, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

His fingers were frantic as they pushed up your habit, his touch rough, almost desperate. His lips never left your skin, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone, across your chest.

You could feel his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts, his need evident in every hurried movement, every touch. He kissed you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours, swallowing your soft moans as his hands moved beneath the fabric, lifting it higher, his touch hot against your bare skin.

You gasped when he dropped to his knees before you, his lips brushing against your inner thigh, his hands holding your legs apart. Just as he was about to continue, you panicked slightly, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping them tightly. "W-Wait," you stuttered, your voice shaky, your heart pounding in your chest.

Charlie looked up at you, his gaze questioning, his breath hot against your thighs. His eyes were dark, filled with desire, and his lips were parted, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

You swallowed, licking your lips nervously as you avoided his gaze, your fingers still gripping his shoulders. "I... you always... I mean, you always... please me with your mouth," you stammered, your face growing hot, your voice barely above a whisper. "I-I was wondering if... if I could... return the favor?"

Your words were awkward, your innocence clear in the way you spoke, the way your eyes flickered everywhere but at him. You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself, your voice going quiet. "I mean... if you want, Father..." You finally forced yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes wide, nervous, and hopeful.

For a moment, there was silence between the two of you, the air thick with tension. You began to worry that you had said something wrong, that you had crossed some line, but then Charlie let out a low groan, his hands tightening on your thighs, his head dropping against them. He muttered something, his voice muffled, and you barely caught the words, "Are you truly an angel, or a devil sent to test me?"

He stood slowly, his hands sliding up your thighs as he rose, his eyes never leaving yours. When he reached you, he cupped your face, pulling you into a deep, lingering kiss. His lips moved slowly against yours, his tongue teasing, tasting, and when he finally pulled away, he left a soft peck against your lips. His eyes were softer now, the intensity replaced with something gentler, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip, his touch tender.

Then, his expression shifted, his eyes darkening, a low, commanding tone entering his voice as he spoke. "Get on your knees," he said, his voice almost a growl.

You felt a shiver run through you, your body reacting instinctively to his words. You stared up at him, your heart pounding, your pulse quickening as you saw the way his eyes had darkened, the hunger there almost overwhelming. His breathing was shallow, his gaze so intense it made your knees weak.

Slowly, you moved, slipping off the table, your feet touching the ground as you lowered yourself to your knees before him. You didn't break eye contact as you descended, your gaze locked on his, the intensity of the moment making your heart pound.

There was something electric in the air, something that made your skin tingle, your breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

Father Charlie's eyes were dark, his gaze fixed on you, his lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling as he watched you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension between you almost unbearable.

You knelt there, looking up at him, your hands resting on your thighs, waiting, anticipating.

Slowly, Charlie's hands moved beneath his robes, the rustling of fabric almost deafening in the silence of the room. You heard the soft clink of his belt buckle, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

Your eyes widened slightly, your breath catching in your throat as you watched him, expecting him to pull his robes up and over his waist, but instead, he began slipping off the entire robe, his movements slow, deliberate.

Your gaze was drawn to his chest as the robe slid off his shoulders, revealing smooth, tanned skin, the muscles beneath rippling with each movement. He pulled the robe over his head, his arms flexing, the fabric falling to the floor behind him.

Your eyes trailed down his body, taking in every inch of him—the broadness of his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell, the dark hair that started at his navel and led downward, disappearing beneath the waistband of his unbuckled trousers.

There was a dark line of hair, a happy trail that made your breathing stutter, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.

Charlie's eyes never left yours as he reached down, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his touch gentle, almost affectionate. His thumb caressed the bottom of your face before his hand shifted, his fingers gently squeezing your cheeks until your lips puckered slightly. His eyes darkened, his lips curling into a faint smile.

"Pull it out," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. He dropped his hand away, his gaze heavy as he watched you.

With shaking hands, you reached up, your fingers trembling as they found the button of his trousers. You fumbled for a moment, your breath shaky, your heart pounding in your chest.

You unbuttoned his trousers, your fingers brushing against the zipper, pulling it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. You tugged the fabric down his hips, the trousers falling to his ankles.

Your eyes widened as you saw the large bulge straining against the fabric of his boxers, the outline of him clear, the sight making your breath hitch. Slowly, you reached forward, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, your gaze fixed on him.

His length sprang free, bobbing slightly before settling against his thigh. You couldn't help but stare, taking him in. The veins along his length stood out, thick and prominent, the head flushed a deep pink, glistening slightly.

You swallowed hard, your eyes tracing every inch of him, the reality of it sinking in. He was bigger than you remembered, the sheer size of him making your breath catch, your heart pounding even harder.

That... that was inside me...

Your cheeks flushed at the memory, the thought of it making your thighs press together, heat pooling in your belly.

"Sister," Charlie's voice broke through your thoughts, his tone soft but commanding. Your eyes snapped up, meeting his gaze, his dark eyes watching you intently. There was something in his expression, a mixture of desire and tenderness that made your breath catch. "Give me your hand," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitated for only a moment before you extended your hand to him, your fingers trembling slightly. He took it gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you watched as his other hand moved down his chest, his fingers gliding over his smooth skin, tracing the lines of his muscles before finally wrapping around his length.

He let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling as he began to stroke himself, his thumb rubbing over the sensitive tip. His eyes never left yours, watching your reaction, his lips parted as he sucked in a breath, a shudder running through his body.

The sight made your mouth go dry, your eyes widening as you watched him, unable to look away. After a few seconds, he shuddered your name, his voice rough, needy. "Touch me," he panted, his eyes half-lidded, his gaze filled with desire.

You allowed him to guide your hand, wrapping your fingers around him, his own hand covering yours, his grip firm. A low, broken moan left his lips at the contact, his head tilting back slightly, his eyes closing for a moment.

You could feel the warmth of him, the way he twitched in your hand, the weight of him almost overwhelming.

Sitting up on your knees, you moved closer, your other hand resting on his strong thigh to steady yourself. Your thumb unconsciously brushed against his leg, the muscles tensing beneath your touch as you focused on holding him in your hand.

You looked up at him, your eyes questioning, unsure of what to do next. Charlie's gaze dropped to meet yours, his thumb reaching out to pull down your bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he dipped it into your mouth for a brief moment. He let out a soft sigh, his voice almost a whisper. "Open wider," he instructed, his eyes fixed on you. "Drop your tongue, just like you're about to eat a popsicle."

You followed his instructions, your jaw dropping open, your tongue hanging out slightly, your eyes still locked on his. He hummed in approval, guiding your hand up, moving his length towards your awaiting tongue.

The tip of him brushed against your tongue, the taste salty, musky, as he rubbed the head across the surface, letting out an appreciative hum. He did this for a few seconds, his eyes watching every reaction you made, his lips curling into a small smile.

Slowly, he pushed himself further into your mouth, just an inch or two, his breath hitching as he watched you. "Close your lips around it," he murmured, his voice strained. "Suck."

You closed your mouth around him, your lips sealing around the head of his length, your tongue pressing against the underside. He let out a deep groan, his hand moving to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held you in place. "Just like that," he whispered, his voice thick hoarse. "That's it... good girl."

You began to suck gently, your cheeks hollowing as you moved your head slightly, taking him in just a bit more. The taste of him filled your mouth, salty and slightly bitter, but not unpleasant.

His hips jerked slightly, a low moan escaping his lips as he watched you, his eyes dark, filled with lust. He guided you slowly, his hand on the back of your head setting the pace, his breathing growing more ragged with each passing moment.

"Use your tongue," he panted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Swirl it around the tip... yes, just like that." You did as he instructed, your tongue moving over the sensitive head, and he shuddered, his grip on your hair tightening, a deep groan rumbling from his chest. "God, you have no idea what you do to me," he muttered, his voice strained, his eyes locked on yours.

You continued to move, your hand stroking the base of him as you sucked, your other hand still resting on his thigh, your thumb brushing against his skin in a soothing motion.

His breaths came in short gasps, his chest heaving as he watched you, his eyes half-lidded, his lips parted. He whispered your name, his voice filled with need, his hips rocking slightly, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

"You're perfect," he groaned, his head tilting back, his eyes closing as he lost himself in the sensation. "So good... just like that. Don't stop." His words were slurred, his voice thick with pleasure, and you could feel him throbbing in your mouth, the taste of him growing stronger as he neared his peak.

His hips began to move more, his breathing turning into short, desperate gasps, his hand guiding you, holding you in place as he chased his release. He muttered your name, his voice breaking, a mixture of moans and whispered praises filling the room as he lost himself to the pleasure.

When he finally came, the taste of him filled your mouth, his hips jerking, a deep groan escaping his lips as he held you there, his fingers tangled in your hair. He panted heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked down at you, his eyes dark, filled with something raw, something possessive.

Charlie reached down, his hand wrapping around your arm, pulling you up from your knees with a strength that left you breathless. He yanked you into a kiss, his lips crashing against yours, his tongue licking into your mouth, tasting himself on your tongue.

He groaned against your lips, his hand moving to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he devoured you, his kiss deep, consuming. His tongue moved against yours, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as he pulled back slightly, licking across your lips before placing a softer, lingering kiss there.

He pulled away, his eyes locking onto yours, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. Without a word, he lifted you, settling you back onto the table, his hands pushing up your habit, his gaze dropping between your legs as he knelt before you once again. "I need to prep you," he murmured, his voice husky, his hands sliding up your thighs.

His fingers reached between your legs, expecting to find the fabric of your underwear, but instead, they came in contact with your soaked folds. He let out a surprised sound, his eyes shooting up to meet yours, a brow raised in question. You released a huff, your cheeks flushing as you looked away, muttering, "It's laundry day..."

Charlie let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly, his lips curling into an amused smile. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your knee before his hands moved to push your thighs further apart, the stretch making your muscles burn slightly, the sensation both uncomfortable and thrilling. He held your legs open, his eyes fixed on you, watching your every reaction.

Before you knew it, his mouth was on you, his lips pressing against your sensitive flesh, a silent gasp falling from your lips, your eyes closing, your head falling back as your back arched off the table.

The feeling of his tongue moving against you, licking, sucking, made your thighs tremble in his hold, your fingers gripping the edge of the table, your knuckles turning white.

He worshipped you with his mouth, his tongue moving with purpose, teasing your entrance, his lips closing around your clit, sucking gently.

One of his hands moved up, his fingers brushing against your entrance before slowly pushing inside, stretching you, his mouth never stopping, never hesitating. He worked you with a skill that left you breathless, every flick of his tongue, every gentle thrust of his fingers pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

Your orgasm built slowly, a steady climb that made your whole body tense, every nerve ending alive with sensation. Charlie seemed to know exactly where to touch, where to kiss, how to move his fingers to bring you to the brink, his name falling from your lips in a breathless whisper, your body trembling, your thighs shaking around his head.

But just as you were about to fall over the edge, just as the pleasure was about to consume you, he pulled away.

A frustrated whine escaped your lips, your eyes opening, a mixture of confusion and need in your gaze as you looked down at him. He stood slowly, his eyes dark, a small smirk playing on his lips as he watched you, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your body aching for release.

Charlie licked his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he reached up, his fingers tilting your head back, exposing the line of your neck to him. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss just below your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. His other hand moved to wrap one of your legs around his waist, his fingers digging into your thigh as he held you against him, his body pressed tightly to yours.

He let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Don't worry, Sister," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'll fill you back up and give you what you need." The words sent a shiver down your spine, your core clenching at the promise, a whimper escaping your lips.

Charlie reached between your bodies, his hand wrapping around his length, positioning himself. He rubbed the tip against your clit, the sensation making your body jerk, a gasp falling from your lips.

He moved slowly, dragging the head of his length up and down your slit, teasing you, your body trembling in his arms, the anticipation almost too much to bear.

Then, without warning, he pushed forward, bullying his way into you, the stretch almost unbearable.

You arched further into his arms, your mouth falling open in a silent scream, your body struggling to accommodate him. He let out a deep groan, his fingers tightening on your thigh, his other hand moving to grip your hip, holding you in place as he filled you completely.

His pace was brutal, each stroke long and deep, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in, his hips slamming against yours. His breath was hot against your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke, his voice low, rough, filled with need. "You... You feel so good... so tight around me," he panted, his words broken by soft moans. "I'm going to fuck you, fill you up until you can't think of anything else."

His hips snapped against yours, his movements rough, desperate, his body pressing you down against the table, his weight holding you in place. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "Imagine it, Sister," he whispered, his voice dark, almost a growl. "A secret child... a product of our sin, of our blasphemy against the church." His words sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your core clenching around him, your body reacting to the forbidden promise, the thought of it pushing you closer to the edge.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your entire body tensing, your back arching as the pleasure consumed you, a silent scream on your lips. You could feel Charlie shudder above you, his thrusts growing erratic, his breath coming in short gasps as he chased his own release.

After a few more brutal strokes, he let out a deep groan, his hips pressing against yours as he came, his body tensing, his fingers digging into your skin.

He stayed there, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath hot against your neck as he tried to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling heavily. You could feel his heart pounding against your own, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breathing, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex.

You shivered as he began to pull back, the movement making you wince slightly, your body still sensitive from the intense pleasure.

His softening length slipped out of you, the feeling making you gasp softly, a mix of relief and emptiness settling in your chest. You felt the warm, sticky sensation as globs of his cum poured out, slowly dripping down your inner thighs.

You began to close your legs, thinking he was done, that he would put his clothes back on, but his hand stopped you, his fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, keeping you open.

Charlie lowered himself to his knees once again, his eyes fixed on you, a dark hunger still present in his gaze. Before you could understand what was happening, his mouth was on you, his lips pressing against your sensitive folds.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips as you felt his tongue, warm and wet, sliding through your slickness, lapping up the mixture of your release and his own. His groans were sinful, vibrating against you, his eyes fluttering closed as if savoring the taste.

Your brain raced, unsure of what to do or what to say, your body twitching beneath his touch, your legs instinctively trying to close, still overly sensitive from your previous climax. But Charlie's hands were strong, his grip firm as he held your thighs apart, his fingers digging into your skin, keeping you open for him.

He was relentless, his tongue moving with purpose, his lips closing around your swollen clit, sucking gently, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

Your breaths came in short, desperate gasps, your fingers gripping the edge of the table, your knuckles white. You could feel the pleasure building again, a slow, steady climb that made your whole body tense, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

You couldn't hold back the soft whimpers and moans that spilled from your lips, your head falling back, your eyes closing as the pleasure consumed you.

When you came, it hit you like a final, blinding wave, your body arching off the table, your thighs trembling in Charlie's hold. A broken cry escaped your lips, your back arching, your eyes squeezed shut.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Your mind was clouded as the pleasure consumed you, the feeling like the flames of damnation licking at your skin. For I am burned by the fire of desire, a sinner in the eyes of heaven.

And you weren't sure if you minded at all.

A/N: ya know, i think my smut has gotten better, what do you guys think??? and to answer the upcoming question(s) i know will be asked: yes, this is the final part, i won't be continuing the 'Devotion' series/making it into a book 😔 i know, i know. i promise i want too, but knowing me, i tend to bounce around/start new projects out of nowhere, so if i didn't spend weeks planning before hand, it'll grow cold eventually, and i don't wanna put you guys through that 😩 but never fret, i will continue writing for father charlie 😝, he's just too versatile not to. see you guys soon ❤️❤️❤️.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

TITLE: rainy day

PAIRING: michael "robby" robinavitch x female reader

RATING: explicit | WORD COUNT:

SUMMARY:

when a thunderstorm cuts your plans short, you and robby make the most of his day off together at home.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

no use of y/n, established relationship, domestic fluff

explicit sexual content (18+ - minors do not interact): oral (f receiving), fingering, hair pulling, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, multiple positions, creampie.

let me know if any are missing!

LINKS:

main blog | masterlists | AO3

The bed is empty when you wake up. It usually is, given Robby’s schedule, but you know he has the day off. You sit up, stretch your arms above your head, and leave the comfort of your mattress in search of the man.

You find him in the kitchen, standing at your stove with a spatula in his hand. He looks up when he hears you, smiling in the way that creases the corners of his eyes.

“She lives,” he jokes, sliding the spatula beneath a pancake and flipping it expertly. “I thought you’d sleep longer.”

“Probably would have if you were still in bed,” you respond pointedly. He raises an eyebrow at you and gestures to the pan.

“I made breakfast.” He points to the fridge. “Even got some of that juice you like.”

“You went to the store? How long have you been up?”

“Since five.”

“Jesus,” you laugh. “You’re insane.”

He doesn’t argue, just laughs and shakes his head.

“What did you want to do today?” He asks.

“Coffee, used bookstore, farmer’s market,” you reply. “In that order.”

“Yes m’am.” He flips the finished pancake onto a stack of similar ones. “But first, eat some of these.”

You gladly accept the plate and get the fancy maple syrup from the fridge, along with the juice he picked up for you and the last of your strawberries. You slide everything across the island towards the barstools on the other side and grab some plates and forks before taking a seat.

Robby sets the dirty dishes in the sink and joins you in the seat next to yours, using his foot to drag your stool closer and kissing your cheek when you’re within reach. A warmth settles in your belly.

Mornings like this one are rare with Robby’s schedule. He works a lot — more than he should, really, but that’s an argument for another day — so when you get the chance to see him for more than a brief kiss goodbye as he heads out the door, you both try to savor it.

Because rest looks good on him. The circles under his eyes fade, if only slightly, and the tension in his shoulders eases. He smiles at you when he catches you staring.

“See something you like?” He asks.

“Always,” you respond easily, relishing the way his cheeks grow pink and the flush spreads down his neck, disappearing beneath his t-shirt. “Thanks for breakfast.”

He hums, leaning in to kiss you. It’s slow, soft — syrupy, like your pancakes. Your fork clatters against the plate as you drop it in favor of wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close.

His big hand settles on your waist, squeezing, feeling the shape of you, before sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt in search of skin. A little moan escapes you at the warmth and he swallows it, licking into your mouth as he does.

Robby pulls away first to say, “You better go get dressed if you want to leave the house today.”

“Leaving is overrated,” you reply, stealing another kiss that’s more of a shared smile against each other’s mouths.

“I’m happy to keep you in bed all day,” he murmurs, “but I know how you get when you don’t get your fancy coffee on the weekends.”

“Fine,” you acquiesce, giving his lips one last peck. “Rain check?”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Coffee in hand, you wander the aisles of your favorite used bookstore. You’ve already got two in the reusable bag slung over your shoulder.

When you cross paths with Robby, he pulls you in for a kiss that turns into a heated make out session against a shelf in a little corner of the shop, tucked away from other shoppers. He pulls back when he hears footsteps approaching and reaches above your head for a book, opening it and pretending to read as another customer passes by the aisle. They don’t spare you a glance, thankfully — otherwise they would see the way your lips are still spit slick and swollen, your chest heaving as you catch your breath, or the way Robby looks down at you, gaze dark and expression smug as he reaches down to adjust himself in his jeans.

The weather starts to shift while you’re at the farmer’s market. Dark clouds rolling in, wind picking up speed, the scent of the earth growing thick in the air. Vendors start packing up, finishing transactions with furtive glances at the sky.

“Let’s head back,” Robby suggests. You agree, taking his hand and following him through the crowd.

You’re nearly home when the sky opens up and the rain pours down, soaking you to the bone. Water drips from your clothes and onto the floor of the elevator, little puddles forming at your feet.

Back in your apartment, the two of you kick off your shoes by the door. Robby sets your bag in the kitchen and follows you to your bedroom, shutting the door. You turn on one of the lamps on your nightstand, bathing the room in warm, gentle light.

Outside, rain batters the windows in a tempo that matches your pulse as Robby’s hands find the bottom of your shirt, lifting the soaked fabric up over your head and dropping it to the floor. He reaches behind your back, unhooking your bra with one skilled flick of his fingers and a smug tilt to his lips.

“How about that rain check?” He asks, his voice a deep rumble like the thunder that grows louder as the storm rages on.

His hand is on your lower back, pulling you against his body. You tilt your face toward his and he takes the invitation, kissing you, hot and hungry.

He reaches for your jeans, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. The warmth of his mouth and his hands against your damp skin as he drags the denim down your thighs makes you shiver. Before standing up, he pulls your underwear off as well, adding them to the growing pile of clothing and leaving you bare.

“On the bed,” he rumbles. You follow his command, lying back against the pillows and watching him remove his clothes.

He joins you on the mattress, caging you beneath him with his broad frame, his lower body cradled between your thighs. His cock is hard and heavy against your mound, trapped between your bodies.

Robby drops his head to kiss your neck, leaving a searing trail that begins beneath your ear, moving down until he’s taking a nipple into his mouth. Your eyelids flutter at the sensation, the harsh pull of his mouth and gentle flick of his tongue over the hard bud.

“Fuck,” you breathe, arching into him. Your fingers tangle in his hair. “Feels so good, Robby.”

You can feel his smile against your skin. He releases you with a slick pop, giving the opposite breast the same attention until you’re whining beneath him. He shifts lower, peppering kisses down your stomach, stopping just shy of where you crave his mouth most.

He gets comfortable, urging your legs over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around your thighs before leaning in and dragging his tongue through your slit and circling it over your clit in slow, lazy circles. Your hips buck at the sensation but he presses a hand to your lower belly, fingers splayed against your skin and broad palm holding you down against the mattress.

Robby doesn’t care about finesse when he’s got those pretty noises you make filling his head. He’s messy with it, sloppy, spit and slick coating his chin and his nose bumping your clit when he drives his tongue inside of you, desperate for more. Your fingers are in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him moan against your pussy, the vibration only serving to send you spiraling even fast towards your release.

Two thick fingers slip inside of you with little resistance, making you gasp. He drives them into you in time with swirls of his tongue, rough in a way that has your eyes rolling and your head dropping back against the pillow.

“Robby, fuck—I—“

You come undone before you can even finish getting the words out, squeezing your thighs together against the wave of sensation that crashes over you. He eases you through it, gentle laps of his tongue instead of maddening circles, slowing the push and drag of his fingers until you’re fluttering around him.

He sits up, beard shiny and lips swollen. He lies in his spot on the bed, turned to his side to face you, reaching for you and dragging you closer, until you’re chest to chest and he can reach down to hike your leg over his hip.

You reach between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock. His breath stutters, a quiet fuck, yes spilling from his lips. He’s slick with pre-cum, your fist moving over him easily.

When he flexes his hips, the flushed tip of him drags against your cunt and you both gasp. You angle his cock so that the next thrust drives him into your body, one steady slide into your tight heat that has you seeing stars.

Robby’s hand is on your ass, grip tight enough to ache as he rocks your body against his. The position is intimate, all shared breath and sweaty limbs and your nails dragging across his shoulders, leaving little red lines like a brand.

But it’s not enough. He wants to be buried so deep you feel him for days, so he pulls out even though you whine about it and turns you on your stomach, dragging your hips into the air to meet his and sinking back into you with a groan.

“Fuck,” he growls through clenched teeth. He spreads your cheeks, watches his cock disappear inside of you, watches the way you clench desperately around him when he pulls out.

It drives him a little insane, the way your back arches on instinct and your ass bounces against him with each thrust. He won’t last long like this but he won’t have to, not with the way you’re moaning his name and fisting the sheets.

He brings his fingers to your clit, drawing tight circles over the sensitive bud and waits for that telltale little pulse of your cunt around his cock that means you’re close to finishing and then pinches your clit, a little rough, making you completely shatter, your moan muffled in the pillow and your body shaking with the force of it.

He follows soon after with three sloppy thrusts before burying deep, holding your hips in a tight grip as he fills you with his spend. You collapse against the mattress, exhausted and sore in the best kind of way.

Robby disappears into the bathroom and emerges with a wet washcloth that he uses to clean up between your legs while you lie there in the aftermath of your orgasm, spent and sated. When he’s done, he adds the cloth to the pile of wet clothes and crawls back into bed with you, tugging the duvet up over your naked bodies.

“I guess that’s one way to spend a rainy day,” you comment, playing with the chain around his neck.

“Day’s not over,” Robby says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Rain hasn’t let up either.”

You laugh, warm and bright, and he can feel it through his chest. Closing his eyes, he commits the sound to memory, tucking it away for when he needs a little sunshine on his rainy days.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment 💕

[tellingtell5]

Midnight Mass 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

Remmick x v femreader

Summary: The church welcomed a new preacher. Poor souls—they let in a monster. But even monsters fall, and he’s already on his knees for a novice.

A/N: I can't stop with this man. I stumbled upon an idea recently and it just wouldn't leave my head—so I wrote something. I don’t even know what it’s supposed to be, just a story full of sinners, churches, and a Remmick who's starving… for touch.

This story was born from a simple idea that goes like this: "I need a fic where Remmick just straight-up plots on a nun reader and her innocence taunts him. Like he'd weep to see her do the littlest things. When she prays he feels just a little bit of salvation when she speaks it makes his knees go weak. He sees her as his angel." This story wouldn’t exist without @jaythewriter

The irony of it all might have struck him as amusing—had it not been one of the finest ideas he'd conceived in the last few centuries.

That preacher had the misfortune of crossing Remmick’s path, and he, in turn, had seized the chance to rob the Almighty of yet another servant. By his own tally, he was winning.

In the pathetic man’s final memories—memories he had not the sense to lift in prayer as his jugular was torn—Remmick saw what he had long been searching for. A flock. A community who listened devoutly as their shepherd preached from the pulpit, vowing undying loyalty.

The sensation bloomed within him like fire, and a thought took root deep in his mind. He would crawl to the gates of that temple glimpsed in the dying man’s memory—and make it his own. He would become the new shepherd, the one who saved these poor souls from their fate. He would raise a congregation of the devoted, shaping them little by little, through the Word and through blood.

It had not been difficult. One of the sisters had opened the door without question the moment she saw the collar.

“Come in, Father. We’ve been expecting you.”

He hadn’t even needed to request permission to enter—she had simply stepped aside and held the door wide.

The women received him with open arms.

“We weren’t sure how long it would take for them to send another pastor.”

He had smiled and praised their hospitality, drawing blushes from those who had been cloistered longest within those walls.

He could already hear the whispers circulating about him.

“The new Father is so young… and that smile of his… It won’t take long before we adore him.”

Convincing them to change the hour of the liturgies had proven more arduous. He claimed his training had taught him that the veil of night brought one closer to the Almighty.

Dusk, he said, was a sacred time—more contemplative, more intimate.

Though skeptical at first, the sisters soon adopted the change. And they were right to trust him.

At first, only the sisters and a few vagrants—seeking a full belly and warm bed—attended the masses.

But then a rumor began to spread:

The new pastor promised eternal life.

Here. On Earth.

No more waiting for the solace of a cold grave to be reunited with one’s kin.

He claimed to have brought true immortality.

“You are not dust, nor shall you return to it.”

The pews filled with bowed heads, all paying homage to the new Word of God, which now took flesh in the hungry smile of that shepherd.

As they drank of the blood of their savior, he drank of theirs, those faithful who sought redemption at his altar.

He took his time, amassing followers. Drunk on power. He spoke—and countless voices answered with gratitude.

They offered themselves freely.

“Father, help me—I have lost the path.”

“I shall help you find it,” he replied, before reshaping them into creatures of the night.

But among the sea of souls, one figure stood apart.

You.

The girl newly arrived to the parish.

Sent to take your vows.

A novice.

A woman just beginning to kneel at the altar, offering your life to the Almighty.

Had he still breath in his body, it would have caught in his throat when he saw you kneel. It was visceral—the way you did it, as if your very soul depended on it.

His mouth watered at the sight of your bowed head, so deep in prayer.

He lost the thread of thought each time your voice reached him—those whispered fragments of breath, gasping with devotion.

And then you would rise, and your eyes would meet his. Eyes brimming with such innocence it could only be blasphemy.

A weak smile played on your lips, and though no sound escaped, your mouth would shape a single word: “Father.”

He would have to bite his own lip, stifling the sound that threatened to betray what stirred within him.

In those moments, all other prayers faded to ash. None of it satisfied him—because he had not yet claimed your devotion. There was something strange blooming in his chest.

He wanted to be the vessel of your prayers.

The reason you knelt.

The one to whom you begged for mercy

He nearly let the mask slip. That mask of the gentle shepherd promising redemption—he nearly let the wolf beneath show.

The first time it happened was after mass. The congregation stood, lining up for communion. And when his favored lamb stepped forward, he almost surrendered.

You looked up at him from beneath your lashes.

An innocent smile curved your lips.

Your mouth opened slowly; the tip of your tongue peeked out, waiting.

He forgot what he was meant to do—that he should place the host on your tongue and send you in peace.

Another thought crept in: that he could offer you his body in truth—that his could be granted real salvation.

He came back to himself as he reached out with the wafer. The wet heat of your mouth brushed against his fingers.

A broken sound escaped his throat.

And you—

You answered it with a gasping moan so soft, so trembling, it nearly made the sacred offering fall from your lips.

He had no need for the devotion of all those people. What he truly craved was the touch of that novice. The barest graze of your hand would have sufficed. He pictured those fingers—now clasped in sacred supplication—threading through his hair, gliding just above the skin of his shoulders. His knees quivered, and he feared he might fall to them and beg you for mercy, beg you to touch him.

It lasted only a moment—a fleeting breath for you, an eternity for him. You closed your lips and, just before taking your leave, offered him the first words you'd spoken since arriving:

"Father?"

He responded with a guttural hum, void of words.

"You're drooling."

He blinked several times, struggling to comprehend your meaning. When he failed to react, you stepped closer, raised a hesitant hand, and brushed the tip of your fingers along his chin, collecting the trail of saliva. He remained unmoved, lost in thought, lost in the warmth of your living skin against the pallor of his own. A strangled moan escaped him, and he fought the urge to beg you to take it away with your tongue. When you were done, you did not wipe your hand. You left him in silence.

His bones ached. His skin itched—desperate to be touched like that once more. He was fascinated by you, by everything about you. He could watch you for hours, kneeling in silent devotion before a god who never answered. But he would answer. He would reward every one of your prayers.

Something stirred in his dead chest when he thought: if you could give yourself so wholly to a god cruel and thankless, what might you offer a monster who spoke back? A flicker of hope burned within him. A glimmer of salvation. But he still did not know what it was he truly wanted from you—whether to corrupt you and make you his, or surrender to your innocence and your aching desire to save others.

He always chose the first.

The last time his mask slipped was in the confessional, listening to the woes of his flock. He found it dull—time dragged unbearably, which was saying much for a creature such as he.

He was about to leave the cramped chamber when he heard the wood creak beneath someone's weight. The cloying scent of incense that had surrounded him was swept away by something else—something that made his fists clench and his composure waver. Every sense lit up, overwhelmed by your presence. He could not help but wet his lips, seeking the taste of you in the heavy air of the confessional.

He needed to flee that space, now a prison thumping with the echo of your heartbeat. A slow rhythm, one that had lulled him to sleep through the stone walls that separated your quarters from his.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The sound of your voice struck him like a blow, and he grasped the wooden bench beneath him to stay upright. No words came—he was too dazed by your nearness.

You remained still. From the moment you entered that narrow chamber, the blood beneath your skin had begun to stir, crackling and restless. Just as it always did in the preacher’s presence. You felt like a moth, spellbound by the colour and scent of a newly bloomed flower. Suspended in a kind of limbo, you waited for his reply, uncertain whether you'd spoken your words rightly. You breathed deeply, unaware that each breath drew you ever closer to the Devil himself.

"Speak, child. What burdens your soul?"

Your tongue felt thick, clumsy. His voice had rendered you motionless. It had emerged rough, reverberating through the wooden walls as though he were everywhere—like the Almighty Himself.

"I have had doubts, Father."

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from correcting you, from begging—no, pleading—for you to call him by name. For you to form the true syllables of his being with those lips, those lips that tempted him with every prayer they uttered to God. But he did not. He waited in silence for you to continue.

"Since I came to this congregation, troubling thoughts have come upon me."

You shifted, seeking to relieve your sore knees. The movement brought your thighs together, and an unfamiliar tension began to stir low in your belly. And all the while, you knew—knew with perfect certainty—that the very cause of your unrest was seated just on the other side of the wooden screen. You could see his silhouette leaning in, as if trying to draw nearer to you through the lattice.

The sound you let slip filled his ears. The sweet scent of your desire clouded his mind completely. He let it invade his hollow chest, and in that moment, he swore he could feel his dead heart beat again. He could almost swear he had glimpsed the face of God just by breathing you in.

He summoned your face in his mind and, for the first time in his existence, believed in the divine. If angels walked the earth, surely they would wear your countenance. He wanted to leave that chamber, to kiss you. No—that wasn’t enough. He wanted to drink you. To beg you to touch his body with those hands that had only ever known the flesh of the Lord. To run your lips across his skin—the same lips that had spoken a thousand prayers, now offered to him.

And then he would repay you. He would fall to his knees and press his mouth to every place where your pulse thundered, where your body cried out for pleasure, where—

"Father?"

He had collapsed to his knees within the confessional. The pressure in his trousers had become unbearable. He was utterly lost in the rapture of his own imaginings. You had kept speaking while he spiraled ever deeper into his thoughts.

"Forgive me, I was…" What would he say? That he had been dreaming of destroying a soul like yours? "…I was distracted."

"It’s alright. Please, don’t worry. It’s only natural to have one's thoughts elsewhere. It happens to me often."

There it was—that goodness in you that tore the words from his throat. That left him hollow, aching to be something better than what he was.

"Continue."

He just wanted to hear your voice. Any excuse would do. To listen to the way your heart sped or slowed with every emotion that crossed your face.

"Father, as I was saying… I have been troubled with doubt. I am told I must give my devotion entirely to the Lord. But… another man appears in my prayers. How can I vow eternal devotion, when my thoughts already belong to someone else?"

Desire gave way to jealousy—an emotion he had never known. Bile rose in his throat, and he had to swallow hard to push down the knot of fury rising there. He searched the memories of his converted faithful, those whose minds he now shared. Demanded an answer. But none had seen another man near you. Only images of you, watching him when he wasn’t looking. Only him.

"But it is not only my thoughts, Father. He appears in my dreams as well."

"What kind of dreams?"

He startled himself—he hadn't thought he had strength enough left to summon his voice.

"I’m ashamed to admit it."

Another sound, the whisper of movement. The wood creaked once more beneath your weight as you shifted, trying to ease a pressure that clung to you all day, dull and persistent.

"In those dreams… someone touches me. It’s that man. Not roughly, not in sin. It’s... gentle. Tender. As if I were the one being worshipped."

Silence fell—thick, suffocating. A silence you could slice through like meat.

"...And I like it. When I wake, I find myself wishing it were true."

He couldn’t speak. Not a single word. He tried to root himself to the floor, to keep from leaping upon you like a beast. Because what you were offering—what you had just confessed—was what he had longed for more than anything.

"How am I to give myself wholly to the Lord," you whispered, "if my soul and body no longer belong to Him?"

He opened his mouth, but another voice came out—not his own.

"And to whom do they belong, child?"

Again, that terrible stillness. Another shifting of cloth and knees on old wood. And then the words that shattered him.

"To you, Father."

There was no shame in your voice. Not a flicker of repentance. That’s when he understood: you hadn’t come seeking absolution. You had come to offer yourself.

Like a lamb stepping willingly into the wolf’s mouth—and rejoicing in the devouring.

A gasp rose to your lips but never left them as the confessional door burst open. He stood there, wild-eyed, breathless, as if trying to drink in your very presence. You were still on your knees, looking up at him.

You feared divine punishment. Retribution. But it never came. Instead, he fell to his knees before you.

The desperation in his eyes was raw. He looked up at you the way saints must look up at their holy relics, with terror and awe. He trembled—perhaps from restraint, perhaps from hunger.

"Please."

It was not a command but a plea. You didn't need to ask what he meant—you already knew. You raised a hand, and without hesitation, you buried it in his hair. That shadowed thing, that spiritless wretch, melted under your touch like frost beneath the sun. He crumbled in your palm, begging silently for more.

A sound escaped him—was it a sob? A groan? It broke something in you. You wanted to give more. With your other hand, you reached across his chest, still clothed. He never wore the cassock, and you preferred it that way—it let you see him better.

He leaned into you until his forehead rested against your shoulder, as though that contact alone kept him alive. His breath was a trembling wind in your ear, his chest heaving with a storm he dared not unleash.

He clung to you like a penitent to a relic, a damned soul clinging to the last scrap of mercy.

"Touch me," he whispered—and it was as though the stone walls of the chapel shuddered.

The word was a prayer. A surrender.

He, who had always held the final word. He, who had heard confessions and passed judgments.

Now he begged.

"Please..."

His voice broke under the weight of need. He raised his eyes to you—dark, shining with the sting of frustrated longing.

"I need your hands upon me. Do it. Let you be the one to bless me. With that touch. With that skin."

His fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, trembling, unsure. He could not bring himself to remove it—not without your permission. Because in that moment, you were his deity.

Your warmth bled through the linen between you, a slow-burning fire that consumed him from the inside out.

And then, you moved.

Your fingers slid up along his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours. At the touch, he let out a low, aching sound—half sob, half plea. Like a wounded creature unsure if comfort would come.

"Give me one reason to believe," he whispered. "Make me believe I still have a soul."

And you touched him—not with pity, but with dominion.

One by one, you undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing skin marked by sleepless nights and some long-forgotten struggle for virtue. He trembled with each new inch of flesh uncovered. His lips parted with the anticipation, the unbearable sweetness of it.

"Look at me, Father," you commanded, drawing out the title like a dare.

And he obeyed.

Because he was no longer priest, nor man, nor monster.

He was devoted. A thing made of longing, of need—kneeling before the only divinity that might still offer him salvation: you.

When your lips touched his bare chest, he released a sound caught between a sob and a laugh. As if, for the first time, he understood what it meant to believe.

You watch the way his lashes flutter, how his mouth parts as if readying a prayer or a moan.

Your fingers trace the line of his collarbone, slowly, deliberately. His skin is hot — fevered almost — as though your presence alone has set him alight. When your thumb brushes the hollow of his throat, his head falls back just slightly, exposing more of himself. Offering it. Offering everything.

You lean closer. Your lips barely graze his skin — a whisper of contact — and he gasps like it hurts. Or like it heals.

“You’re shaking,” you murmur.

“I’m trying,” he chokes out, “so hard not to fall apart.”

But he’s already unraveling for you. Each second is a thread undone. And you like watching him come undone.

You lower your mouth to his chest. He cries out — softly, beautifully — and fists his hands into the fabric of your habit like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world. You can feel his need pressing against you, insistent and utterly helpless, but he doesn’t dare move. Doesn’t dare guide your hand.

He’s waiting. Needing. Yours.

You let your hand drift down. Slowly. Testing.

When your palm rests just above his waistband, he inhales sharply, his whole body tightening beneath you. His hips rise, involuntary, and his eyes flutter open in a haze of worship and hunger.

“Please,” he whispers, voice rough, almost broken. “I beg you. Don’t stop.”

And so you don’t.

You undo the button. You pull down the zipper. You feel him shudder — a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through both of you — and you push the fabric down just enough to free him.

The sight of him, hard and flushed and trembling, sends a rush of heat to your core. He is beautiful in his vulnerability. Glorious in his surrender.

You wrap your hand around him, and he whimpers.

No. He weeps.

Not from pain. Not from guilt. But from relief.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, lips brushing your neck, and you feel the wetness there — hot, desperate tears as he mutters thank-yous and praises under his breath, not to any god, but to you.

Only you.

Because in this moment, you are not a nun. You are a miracle.

And he is your worshipper.

You feel him twitch in your hand, a pulse like thunder just under your palm. His hips strain forward, breath catching again and again against your neck. His lips linger too long there now — not in reverence.

In hunger.

You sense the shift instantly. The way his tongue flicks the hollow behind your ear, how his breath suddenly comes cooler, shivering over your skin like a prelude. It’s no longer just need — it’s instinct. Ancient. Ravenous.

Then you feel them: the tips of his fangs grazing your skin. It’s subtle, gentle. A test. A question.

But you answer it before it becomes a plea.

“No.”

Your voice is firm. You don’t raise it, but the word cuts through him like a lash. He pulls back with a strangled groan, his whole body wracked with restraint.

“I—” he tries, his voice hoarse, desperate, full of shame. “I didn’t mean to, I just—”

You hush him with your touch. You never stop moving your hand. If anything, you tighten just slightly. He gasps, eyes rolling back, head falling against your chest again.

His hands are gripping your thighs now, not to take, but to anchor himself — shaking like he might fall apart if you let go. He’s trying so hard to hold back. But he wants. You can feel it rising in him — this deep, writhing hunger not just for your body but your blood.

And you make him wait. Let him ache. Let him tremble.

He moans something — unintelligible, fervent — and just as his climax builds, as his breath shortens and his whole being coils beneath your touch like a creature about to break — you raise your free hand to your mouth.

Your teeth sink into your own wrist. The pain is sharp, but clean. Righteous.

A thin line of blood blossoms instantly, warm and deep red, and his eyes snap to it like a beast scenting prey.

He stares at it. Then at you.

A heartbeat. Two.

And then you press your wrist to his mouth.

He freezes — utterly still — even as your other hand continues to work him toward release.

He’s panting, eyes flicking between your face and your bleeding wrist. You feel his lips twitch against your skin, and you whisper:

“Now.”

He opens his mouth — wide, reverent — and draws you in. The first pull is soft. Careful. Almost prayerful.

Then the second comes, deeper, more desperate, and you feel him groan against your skin. Feel the growl ripple through his chest as your blood hits his tongue. His hips jerk forward and he spills into your hand with a cry torn between rapture and agony.

He drinks like a starving man.

Your blood slides down his throat, and you watch his body convulse under the weight of it — of you. He clutches you as though you’re the last holy thing left in this godless world. You feel the thank-you he can’t speak thrumming through his veins. You gave him everything — not just your touch, but your life, your essence.

And he gives himself to you.

Completely.

[neredoesnotfail]

❛ you have no power over me. ❜ // @starlyht { sol'rys }

Nere laughs, loud and sudden and sharp. It is neither a kind nor a happy sound, a fact that likely becomes as apparent with the disdainful expression as he regards the other male drow.

"You say that as though I should wish to make such a claim," Nere answers, shaking his head.

"What need have I for a sellsword when I am no doubt just as adept—if not more so—in battle? You far overestimate your importance."

"And yet! perhaps it is Baenre with whom you intended to speak, and wished only my critique on the delivery of such a proclamation. If that is the case, I would recommend having a blade at the ready. You might need it."

[joelsgoldrush]

“epiphany” | 21k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: Superheroes and mutants weren’t enough. No—the universe had to throw in soulmates who share scars. Fantastic, right? Except yours had vanished, only to mysteriously reappear with the arrival of a new face: the “Worst” Logan Howlett, fresh from another earth.

OR What happens when a hopeless romantic crosses paths with the ultimate soulmate skeptic?

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ strangers to lovers. drinking. cursing. slow burn. angst. pining. mentions of alcohol. fluff. reflecting on the art of writing/poems/books. dual POV. takes place after the events of “deadpool & wolverine”. TW: multiple descriptions of scars. worst/variant!logan. implied age gap (reader’s in her late 20s). they’re both touch starved. wade’s everyone’s friend. miscommunication/misunderstandings. oral sex (f and m receiving). fingering, grinding. some slight hair pulling. unprotected p in v, creampie. sex with feelings.

A/N: HOPELESS ROMANTICS RISE! here we go again with another long ass fic. this is a soulmates AU in which you get your soulmate’s scars. if you feel triggered by this topic, please refrain from reading. i had a lot of fun writing this even though it took me a while to get it done. thanks to @lubdubology for being my beta and allowing me to share my work with you. and also thanks to @brushworth for giving me the chance to write this. having said this, enjoy the story! i’d love to know your thoughts on it <3

Love giveth and love taketh away.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

If it weren’t for love, you wouldn’t be here. No one would, actually. Human beings are the result of billions of people who loved each other just enough—or at least long enough to bring life into the world.

But isn’t it in the name of love that people act in bad faith? Why would something so pure be used in vain?

You don’t get it, but as the years go by, you slowly come to terms with the idea that perhaps you never will. Not because there isn’t a reason, but because you’re in love with the idea of love.

How could you not be? It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up.

Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

It had always been a relentless race, your only worry being to catch it before time ran out. But with each day that passed, the finish line only stretched further and further away. Now, they all blur together, to the point where you live and breathe on autopilot. 

In a Jane Austen novel, you’d be considered a lone woman. That character who’s nice, and kind, and loved by some, but not in the way she yearns for. Every time she’s mentioned, you go “Oh, the poor girl,” until the slow realization dawns.

In reality, she’s you, and it’s you who you feel sorry for, not a fictional character. You.

All in all, love giveth. And love also taketh away. 

Love maketh you miserable.

Soulmates—a nine-letter word that holds so much meaning.

It’s one of those words that you learn early in your life, one you hear at home or on the TV. Your parents never fail to mention it if given the chance. The first time you’re introduced to the topic is at school when you're older, a bit more self-conscious, and no longer preoccupied with picking your nose.

“Everybody has a soulmate. And no,” your teacher had added after a pause, already anticipating the inevitable questions from any curious 10-year-old, “there isn’t such a thing as not having one. We all do. You just have to search for them.”

Back then, that had been your favorite game—always keeping an eye open, scanning the crowd more than once in new places. You knew for sure that more than one person probably thought you’d strained your neck from all the times you glanced over your shoulder.

It must be pretty obvious now, the fact that you’re—well, alone. Saying ‘without a companion’ sounds quite outdated. They can’t see through you, but something in the way you walk or speak must give it away. 

Or is it the fact that you always ask for a table for one?

“Are you expecting someone else?” A waitress approaches you, her tone gentle as she makes sure you’re on your own. A small notebook dangles from her slender fingers, and your eyes catch the name stitched onto her apron: Emily.

The response you give her is on the verge of sounding automatic, robotic even, like one of those prerecorded messages busy people leave on their phones. “No. Just me.”

She nods, and you feel the sympathy in her gaze. You’ve mastered the art of recognizing that look—the one hovering between concern and pity.

Of course, people rarely voice it, but they’ll never know their eyes sometimes say more than they think.

As she jots down your order, you’re met with the ring on her left hand. Very pretty, very shiny. Very expensive as well. Your attention must linger on it a little too long, because she catches you staring, making you feel exposed.

Emily—you decide to call her that way from now on, because once you know her name, it feels odd to address her as the waitress—offers you a shy smile.

“I’m getting married next month,” she blurts out, happiness radiating from her pores. Her eyes glint like two lanterns in a starless night. She also looks younger than you, and the abrupt silence forces you to pinch your wrist, a reminder of the fact that this is a conversation, and not just something you're overhearing.

“Congratulations,” you manage to reply, returning the smile. If she saw how your expression faltered the second she walked away, you wonder if she’d still think you were so amiable.

Sometimes, your façade slips—you can’t help it. That’s what the ‘hopeless’ in ‘hopeless romantic’ stands for.

Some minutes later, she comes back with your coffee, and you catch another glimpse of the ring as it twinkles in front of you. Envy doesn’t suit you, so you shift your focus.

Taking out your laptop, you scroll through the latest headlines. This is your attempt at acting more like an adult and less like a girl in her mid-twenties who has no clue what she’s doing.

One article stands out from the rest: Hollywood Actress Divorces Loving Husband of 25 Years to Pursue Presumed Soulmate. “I saw his scars and knew he was the one.”

Interesting. You can’t help but feel sorry for the displaced husband, though.

“Good for you,” you mutter under your breath, clicking the link to read more. There’s a picture of the actress and her new boyfriend that makes you stop dead in your tracks: they’re smiling at each other, their faces close, noses almost touching, while they show off their matching scars—the unmistakable sign that they’re, in fact, soulmates.

Soulmates, superheroes, mutants. It all sounds like a whole lot, doesn’t it? Overwhelming, to say the least. One thing’s for sure—you’ll never get bored in this world.

But, hey! Don’t forget that there are multiple universes out there. Maybe in one of them, you’re not this pathetic.

Why are you being so hard on yourself? That’s not even the point. Shaking your head, you keep glancing at their scars—they’re identical, perfect mirrors of one another. The kind of scars that only two destined souls share.

Their happiness is evident, tangible. You can feel it by just eyeing the image. It’s a bitter sensation that metamorphoses into a warmth, which heavily spreads through your chest, filling up every empty space it finds. 

To say you understand that feeling would be a downright lie. And you may be many things, but a pathological liar is not one of them.

As if on cue, you duck your head, rolling up the sleeves of your jacket. You do the same with your shirt, foolishly hoping to find something other than smooth, unmarked skin.

No scars. No marks. No sign of a soulmate, of a lover. In the world you inhabit—this universe full of the most inexplicable things—you’re alone. 

Without a second thought, you pack your things, shoving them rapidly into your bag. The cafe feels too little and too large all at once, the walls closing on you.

The rest of the customers are looking at you. Fuck, they already noticed it—you can’t escape it.

Have they? Do you think they see you like you see yourself? The lone woman who writes poems for an addressee who will never read them?

In silence, you hand Emily the money for your coffee. You fear that if you open your mouth, a cry will come out, and that’s the last thing you need today. She gives you that look again—pity laced with sorrow, the one you despise. It burns.

At that moment, a man walks in, passing right by you. You see his face, his green eyes, and the way his lips curl into a grin as he greets Emily.

The scar on her forehead, which you'd missed before, mirrors the one on his.

They are soulmates. 

It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is.

She wishes you a nice morning as you leave the cafe. Little does she know you’ll spend the rest of the day locked in your apartment, mourning someone you never even met.

Until the day you lost them, you wore your scars with pride.

They were scattered across your stomach, back, chest, and even your legs and arms. Some were shallow, others deep. It never occurred to you—the thought that they belonged in the shadows, hidden.

Everyone has them, you thought as you stood in front of the mirror, running your fingers along their jagged paths. I just seem to have more than most people.

Over the years, you might have changed your hairstyle or the way you dressed, but your scars never did—they’d always been there, and they were yours.

Partly yours, of course, since you knew they belonged to your soulmate as well.

The older you grew, the more you realized having a good memory was both a gift and a curse. You still remembered that moment so vividly—when you found out that somebody out there was meant for you and only you.

A point of no return, that’s what it’d been. From that day on, not a single one went by without you imagining the first encounter with your Prince Charming. 

In the meantime, you dated. A few boyfriends came and went during and after high school, mostly as practice for the real thing, you’d told yourself.

God, you were determined to know everything. To be the best girlfriend ever, so that when you finally met him, he’d be over the moon.

At the age of seventeen, it sounded like a brilliant plan.

You never knew how, but your life became that meantime. All your friends began to find their soulmates: in the supermarket, while traveling, at the goddamn doctor’s office.

Everybody was fulfilling the purpose you’d been taught humans were made for—everyone but you.

The scars multiplied, yet he was nowhere to be seen, remaining out of reach. Your soulmate’s whereabouts were a mystery. What the hell does he do in his free time? was something you used to often ponder. Is he suffering? Does he need help?

“Be patient, give it some time. The less you seek, the more you’ll find,” your mother would say, trying to sound encouraging. Although she was trying to do her best, that phrase alone had the power to make you go nuts.

Be patient? Waiting was all you’d been doing. What was so wrong with you that he seemed to be hiding from you? You didn’t want to wait any longer, no—you wanted to find him. If it meant traveling to Italy like your cousin had to meet her husband, then so fucking be it.

Many nights, sleep eluded you. Lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, you’d imagine what life with him would be like. What he would look like. You were certain that no matter his appearance, you’d think he was beautiful.

Wasn’t that the whole point of soulmates—that the bond you two shared transcended physical attraction?

Nevertheless, you secretly wished he’d have brown hair. He didn’t need to know, but you had a weakness for brunettes.

On the night of your twenty-second birthday, you were getting ready for the big event when every trace of your scars disappeared.

The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower’s stream, and as you wiped it clean with the palm of your hand, the image you saw reflected on the glass made your stomach do a flip.

There were no scars. No marks. Nothing. At first, you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you—it couldn’t be. Scars didn’t just vanish. It was impossible.

But as you lowered your gaze, tracing your limbs again and again, the truth hit you. The marks you knew by heart, the ones that reminded you, He’s out there, somewhere, were gone.

You felt it deep in your chest, too. Every sound seemed louder and clearer: the blood rushing through your veins, each shaky breath you took. Where are they? Your fingers dug into your flesh, intending to ground yourself.

Is he… dead? It was the only reasonable explanation, the rule you’d known all along. You’d read it countless times, memorizing the principles about scars.

The scream that tore from your throat brought your mother running upstairs, and she entered the bathroom with a horrified expression on her face.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” she asked, but your mind was already far away. Your whole body shuddered in her arms, a sob slipping past your lips as you crumbled to the floor, desperately hoping it was all a nightmare. “It must be a mistake, honey. I’m sure he’s okay.”

But he’s not, you wanted to tell her. The words, however, never formed—only a broken whimper escaped your lips. Isn’t that what we were taught? Our scars belong to our soulmates; they bind us to them in a way that simple words can’t explain.

It goes deeper than the skin. It delves into our bodies, our minds, reaching into the very essence of who we are. What was once his is also mine, but they’re gone.

He’s gone. He must be, because otherwise, how would you explain this void?

When one’s soulmate passes away, that person will notice the disappearance of their scars. The physical marks that once symbolized their connection fade, leaving no trace. This absence is accompanied by a distinct, unsettling sensation—an awareness of loss that goes beyond the physical, signaling the end of the bond.

A part of you died with him that day.

The first time you exchanged words with Wade Wilson, you thought he was a total dick.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t know him—not when he was so infamous for that mouth of his. Deadpool: the self-proclaimed superhero with a vocabulary that was 90% profanity, who made cracking jokes while fighting the bad guys look easy.

Super funny? Sure. But not exactly your cup of tea when all you wanted was to crawl into bed and forget the world existed.

He was apparently long retired from superheroing. No one had seen that red, sex-toy-looking suit in ages, which was why you were only mildly surprised as you spotted him hauling boxes into your building on a Tuesday afternoon.

It was late, and you weren’t in the mood for small talk. He’d been there barely a week, yet somehow, he’d already managed to fuck things up. 

You let out a deep sigh, rubbing the crease between your brows. “Look, Wally—”

“It’s pronounced Wade,” he corrected you, trying to edge his face further into the gap between the door and its frame, though you didn’t let your guard down. “You’re pretty rude, you know that?”

“I’ve been up for twenty-four hours, and I need to sleep,” you groaned, trying to push him away with one hand. Technically, he wasn’t even asking for something that complicated—he wanted to use your microwave to heat his dinner, since his had decided to stop working out of the blue.

The thing was that you’d had the kind of week that felt like a one-way trip to hell, an important detail he wasn’t aware of. “Go ask someone else. I can’t do charity tonight.”

“You’re the only one who answered,” he said, pressing his palms together in a pleading gesture, his lips curling into a heartbreaking pout. “Please, my lovely neighbor, whose name I don’t know. You wouldn’t want me to starve to death, would you?

“I thought you couldn’t die.” You raised an eyebrow, half-interested.

Wade’s arms dropped to his sides, his eyes drifting downward. “And I thought kindness wasn’t extinct, but here we are.” He spun on his heel, acting defeated and dragging his feet like a scolded puppy. “Can’t believe this is what the world’s come to. I’m sure the Bible says something about treating others how you’d want to be treated.”

Why. Just… why? Some cosmic, divine force from beyond might have been testing you that night.

“Wait,” you croaked just as he was about to step into his apartment—which was literally three meters from yours. His face lit up, expecting you to continue, and you moved aside slightly, signaling him in. “Five minutes and you’re out, okay? I really need to get some rest.”

The rest was history. Wade was just standing there, mesmerized by your microwave as if he’d never seen one before.

You could only hear the faint buzzing sound of the gadget, punctuated by the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the counter. He was humming a tune while shaking his head to the beat.

You tried to focus, replaying the guided meditation you sometimes followed to sleep in your mind.

Allow yourself to feel the stillness of this moment. Notice your breath slowing as your body begins to calm. Be the observer of your breath, flowing in and out naturally, as your lungs—

Yeah, it wasn’t working.

“Please, stop it,” you eventually told Wade, whose gaze shifted from the microwave to you, brows furrowed.

“And why’s that?”

“They say it’s bad for your eyes,” you explained, recalling a half-forgotten news report you’d heard on the TV. Whether it was a myth or not, you’d never know. “I believe it’s because of the radiation exposure.”

Leaning back on the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest. “At this point, I think I’m safe. You, on the other hand… maybe not so much,” he nearly whispered that last part, and your desire to strangle him grew stronger.

Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.

He jerked his thumb toward the pile of papers and books you had on your kitchen table. “So, you’re a writer?” 

“Editor, in reality,” you snapped, your eyelids twitching as you watched him leaf through your stuff. “Wade, don’t touch my things.”

“Sorry, can’t help myself. I’m very curious.” Flashing you a quick grin, he opened your notebook, squinting his eyes as he went through the pages. “But you write too, huh? I’m discovering plenty of material here.”

The bastard. “Give. It. Back,” you snarled, lunging at him and trying to snatch the notebook from his hands, but he was faster, raising it out of reach. “I hope your food explodes in that microwave, asshole.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about it,” he snorted, tossing the notebook onto the couch and retrieving his dinner instead. You stared at him in disbelief, opening your mouth to scold him, but nothing came out. Then, there he was, standing in front of you with his plate and a fork.

Wait. Was that your fork?

“It’s hot, I’ll give you that.” He blew on his food to cool it down, and as he glanced up, he was met with your murderous glare. “Whoa. Want some? You could’ve just asked me. No need to get so angry.”

Calling it a desire to kill him would’ve been an understatement. And the worst part? He couldn’t die. “You’ve got what you needed. Now, can you leave?”

“How long’s it been since you talked to another human being?”

You blinked, feeling the sudden urge to look around, half expecting a hidden camera. “Why do you always answer with another question?”

“All I’m saying is I’ve been meaning to talk to you for days now, but you’re practically living the hermit life,” he said between bites of chicken, excusing himself briefly to chew. “That robe you’re wearing? It’s had the same stain on it since I moved in. Also, your doormat’s buried under a mountain of newspapers, so either you really love trees, or you’ve been avoiding any sort of social interaction.”

If he had been wrong, you would’ve felt much better. But he… wasn’t, and it sucked.

“I feel like I should be scared,” you mumbled after a long stretch of silence, your eyes going round.

Wade did no more than laugh at your troubled expression. “Scared of me? That’s cute. I’m a nice guy, sweet pea. Persistent, sure, but I’ve got a knack for getting under people’s skin,” he said, grinning through a mouthful of food—which, for the sake of your sanity, you chose to ignore.

After he had finished eating, he let the fork fall into the sink, the metal striking against the surface with a piercing echo, making you jump. He stretched his arms with a satisfied yawn, and he seemed determined to leave you alone. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, following his movements as he ambled toward the door. “Are you telling me your microwave does work?”

“Oh, you’re a smart one, aren’t you?” Wade patted your head, ruffling your hair like you were a puppy who had just learned a new trick. “Good night, peanut.”

From that moment on, the two of you became inseparable. Your personalities clicked in a way you’d never experienced before with any other friend. Wade was loyal to a fault, and he treated you like the little sister he had never had. 

Most importantly, he didn’t pity you—he saw you for who you were, not just someone marked by a lost soulmate. You never told him how much that meant to you, but deep down, you were grateful.

Which brings you to the present day. You’ve been friends with him for over a year, and he’s taken every chance to introduce you to his “weird but lovable” (his words, not yours) group of friends.

“Check your social anxiety at the door, thank you,” he’d tell you every time he hosted a get-together and you were invited.

Somehow, you had managed to bond with them—especially Althea, his elderly roommate, who occasionally forgets who you are despite living next door.

“Remind me of your name again, sweetie? All this disco dust must be affecting my memory,” she’d ask, leaning in close so you’d practically have to shout it into her ear. Then she’d nod, smirking knowingly. “Ah, yes. I thought so. Just making sure.”

She’s quite the character. A real sweetheart if you leave aside the number of times she’s offered you more types of drugs than you knew existed.

Tonight, you’re throwing Wade a surprise birthday party. Among all the party tasks, you’ve handled the decorations and the cake. The room’s a riot of color, with balloons floating lazily from the ceiling and a cascade of streamers draping over the furniture.

Guests start arriving, greeting you warmly, a feeling you once thought impossible. They’re Wade’s friends, sure, but on some level, you like to think they’re your friends now too: Vanessa, Dopinder, Buck, Shatterstar, Colossus, Negasonic Teenage Warhead, and Yukio.

As you hear footsteps approaching the door, Wade’s voice filters through the hallway. Panicking, you whirl around to the group. “He’s here! Everyone shut up!” you whisper urgently, turning off the lights and pressing your back flat against the wall next to the door.

Seconds later, the sound of keys jingling fills the air as both Wade and Peter step into the apartment.

You flip the lights back on just as Dopinder pops his much-anticipated party popper. “Surprise!” you all scream in unison, and Wade’s face splits into a grin, unsure of whom to hug first.

“You guys are lucky I’m not armed,” he quips, slinging an arm around Dopinder’s shoulders. “Six years ago, you’d all be dead!”

And you giggle, because… well, what else are you supposed to do?

As you expected, the night unfolds smoothly. You’re having fun, engaging in conversations despite yesterday’s emotional meltdown at the cafe. It’ll be okay—it always is. The food is amazing, the company even better. You remind yourself that romantic love isn’t the only kind that matters—that’s what friends are for, after all, to teach you that lesson.

The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses, creating a lively symphony that wraps around you like a warm blanket. Yukio calls your name, waving her head in front of your eyes, trying to snap you out of your thoughts. “Everything okay?” she wonders, concern flickering in her voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, tightening your grip on your beer bottle. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

You all gather around the cake when Wade’s about to blow the candles. You know he’s preparing himself for a speech. “Another year of spinning around the moon, huh?”

“Sun, you dumbass,” Al corrects him, and you have to bite your lip to keep your laughter to yourself.

“Okay, flat-earther,” Wade shoots back, giving her a playful side-eye. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, right—I can’t thank you all enough for being here. These past few years have been... well, rough on me, to say the least,” he says, glancing down at the cake with a small, crooked smile. “But I’m happy now. We’ve got each other’s back, like a team!”

“Like The Avengers, you mean?” Dopinder pipes up, eyes sparkling with excitement. There’s a moment of silence in which you swear you’d be able to hear a hairpin drop.

It’s still a sensitive topic.

“Next time, give me a trigger warning before you mention them,” Wade mutters in a hushed tone, and Dopinder shrinks sheepishly. “I guess what I wanted to tell you was…” he trails off, his palm covering the place where his heart is, “that I'm glad you’re all here. Being surrounded by the people I love most is the best birthday gift ever.”

His words stir something inside you. Vanessa gently nudges his arm, smiling up at him. “Why don’t you make your wish?”

Wade dramatically drops to his knees in front of the cake, eyes fluttering shut before blowing out the candles, whistles and cheers erupting all around.

Just then, you hear the unmistakable sound of the doorbell ringing through the air. You exchange a curious glance with Wade, raising your eyebrows. “That’s weird. Want me to get it?”

“Nah, I got it,” he says, excusing himself to answer the door. He slips outside, shutting it behind him, and everything returns to normal. For a while, you assume he’s chatting with someone who dropped by to say hi—but that doesn’t really make sense.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s been out there so long?” Vanessa inquires, her worry starting to creep in.

“I’ll go check on him,” you tell her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before heading to the door.

But when you open it, there’s no Wade in sight. Just… his toupee—or “hair system” as he insists on calling it, lying on the floor.

Kneeling down, you gingerly pick it up, a strange sensation settling in your chest.

Where the hell did he go?

After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.

Completely out of character, right? He thought so too. The number of times he'd stepped foot inside a church could be counted on one hand, so why would a man like him resort to religion?

In the past, he had been told he was part of God’s plan, but somewhere along the way, he felt like he had become God’s mistake.

After living a life plagued with loss and constantly in hiding, he wasn’t shocked that his self-worth was in the gutter.

Things only spiraled after letting everyone down, especially after that particular day when things took a turn for the worse. He had prayed, asking God to make him forget.

When that didn’t work, he just drank harder and smoked more. But not even drowning in alcohol and clouds of nicotine could put an end to his struggles—he was condemned to suffer.

In spite of everyone’s wishes, he’s still going strong, stuck with no defined purpose. It’s almost impossible not to fall into a routine that seeks to numb him, to put him under anesthesia—waking up after passing out who-knows-where, finding the nearest bar, sinking into whiskey and the haze of ashtrays.

Then he does it all over again, a never-ending cycle. His self-destructive habits don’t lead him to oblivion; instead, they intensify every sensation, making each memory and emotion painfully vivid. 

Day after day, he convinces himself he’s got it under control. Logan may be tough as fuck, and he may heal faster than anyone else, but his pride is in pieces.

No amount of strength or supernatural abilities can stop the decay he feels inside, the slow rot creeping deeper within him the longer he remains trapped in this life.

He slams the empty glass onto the counter with a heavy thud, tapping two fingers against it. “Again,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

The bartender looks at him like he's the reincarnation of all things vile. “I told you—you’re not welcome here. You’re not welcome anywhere. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

Oh, yes. Music to his ears. If he had a nickel for every time he heard that, he’d be rich. “Just give me one more drink and then I’ll leave.”

“That’s not how it works,” the bartender replies, and Logan knows he’s screwed. Another public establishment he’s been banned from—fucking perfect.

Will there ever be a day where he’s not treated like garbage?

“It does now,” an unknown voice joins the conversation, and Logan glances to his side, arching a brow. The masked man doesn’t let his stare falter. “Leave the bottle.”

“Do I know you, bub?” 

“You don’t, but I know you.”

This serves as evidence of how pliant he’s become. Years ago, he would’ve already wiped the floor with this guy. They didn’t call him Logan “short fuse” Howlett for nothing. But now? He just can’t bring himself to do it.

“Everybody does. I’m the—”

Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.

“—Wolverine.” Once he finishes the sentence, his words taste bitter. Perhaps it’s the venom on his tongue, or maybe it’s just the alcohol from yesterday kicking him again. Either way, both hit hard.

“Yes, you are,” the stranger says, continuing to stare at him, as if Logan’s worth the effort. “And I’m going to need you to come with me. Right now.”

Logan holds his breath. The worst part of it all is that his day’s just getting started. He has no clue who this guy is or why he’s claiming to need him.

But he’s got the wrong man—Logan doesn’t know him, and he sure as hell doesn’t have anything good to offer.

Or so he believed five minutes ago. Life seems to have its own way of surprising him.

Knowing he’ll regret it later, he closes his fingers around the whiskey bottle, chugging the liquor until darkness takes over his senses.

Nighty-night, Logan.

I'm aware that you're not mine, and nor will you ever be.

I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out

where this need to call you mine stems from. 

You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed

in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.

I’m aware that you're not mine

because I haven't bought you yet;

I hold no claim over you,

nor can I control who touches you and who doesn't.

I want you to be mine,

but no amount of money would buy your soul.

You're beyond reach—someone has already marked you.

I’m aware that you’re not mine, 

and I guess maybe that’s how life is meant to be.

“Bullshit,” you mutter softly into the quiet of your apartment, where the only sound is the echo of your own voice.

Chewing the end of your pen, your eyes narrow as they skim over the poem you’d written over a month ago.

Since then, you’ve been working on refining the details, but something is missing—that you can feel. The flow is awkward, the choice of words stiff. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit together. 

You take a long sip from your coffee, tucking both knees up onto the chair you're sitting in. 7:30 a.m., and already, your mind is spinning, diving headfirst into a poem when countless other things are demanding your attention—like, a hundred things, really.

Right now, cracking this piece feels more important than any other task on your list.

Who do you write to? That part is easy—your soulmate. That deceased, probably buried, long-gone soulmate of yours.

It shouldn’t be funny, but there’s an absurdity to it.

Without warning, a memory slips into your thoughts—one girl you used to work with once advising you to change the subject of your writing.

“You should go for some self-love crap. People usually eat that up,” she said, not even bothering to look up from her nails, red polish smeared over the edges.

Her fingers were a mess, coated in that fiery hue, but she didn’t seem to care as she tapped your notebook with her lacquered index finger. “This is repetitive. Keep writing about the same thing, and people will get bored of you.”

“I haven’t published them yet,” you answered, your voice coming out more high-pitched than usual, betraying the doubt you intended to suppress. Her blue eyes flicked up, studying your face as you slid the now red-stained notebook back into your bag, away from her careless, messy fingers. “I thought… I thought we were supposed to write about what we feel passionate about.”

That managed to catch her attention. Passionate. She let out a laugh—sharp and cold, like something straight out of a villain’s script in a children’s movie. It grated against your ears.

“Sweetie, you call that passionate?” She waved her hand dismissively, standing up from the table.

Taller, older, and more secure—just the fact that she gave you her time should’ve made you feel grateful. “Not to be a bitch, but what you showed me is kind of depressing.” 

Kind of depressing. From that moment on, you kind of hated her. Small victories, though—the agency fired her a year later. You like to think you kind of won that battle.

Still, she might’ve been right about one thing: your writing does fall into patterns. It’s predictable, to say the least—the rhythm, the themes. Even the metaphors you include can be found in several of your poems.

Are you… lazy? Has someone revealed the way to break out of it? If there is, you figure you're fine without it.

You don’t want to write the kind of articles she’d churn out about the latest trends or the five best positions to get pregnant faster. Nor do you want to pick apart celebrities' lives for a flashy headline.

What you do want is to write about love. Real love. Even if you are not the most qualified person to do it. Even if nobody wants to read the words from someone who has never experienced it in the flesh.

And you’ll get there—how? You’re still figuring that out.

As long as you live and breathe, love will remain in your thoughts, haunting you—especially with your muse being the fleeting dream of a soulmate you never got to meet in the first place.

But it’s time to start your day—the real one. The one where you have to step outside the safety of your four walls and deal with reality.

The to-do list assembles in your mind: groceries, that book you’ve been meaning to pick up, emails you need to answer.

You let your mind take over, guiding you through the motions without a second thought. As you head back to your room, you get rid of the comfortable robe you love so much.

Next, your shirt comes off, tossed carelessly onto the bed. Just as you're about to step out of your pajama pants, you notice them.

The scars.

They’re not the same, not the faded lines etched into your skin that you could see every night behind your eyelids. New marks glow against your flesh, each one a map of something you don’t yet understand, standing out like new brushstrokes on an old canvas.

You can’t help but freeze, your breath faltering for a moment, and you nearly trip over yourself. Kicking your pants to the side, you stare down at your hips, thighs, the hollow of your ribcage. 

Tentatively, you press your fingers into the lines, expecting them to fade, to disappear under your touch like some peculiar illusion.

But they don’t. They remain. You can feel the raised edges, the subtle roughness, the heat beneath your touch.

These scars are different from the ones you had before. Under no circumstances are they the faint memories you once carried. No—these are fresh and vibrant. Marks that shouldn’t exist, the stories they’ve witnessed unfamiliar to you.

Within seconds, you’re sobbing, and you blink through the wetness clouding your vision, wiping your tears of disbelief (and maybe hope?) away with the back of your hand.

Nothing changes. They’re still there.

You've never heard of scars returning like this. It goes against everything in the manual on your shelf. Scars vanish when a soulmate dies, but they don’t come back. Not like this. And they certainly don’t change. 

Barely able to stand without stumbling, you scramble to your phone. The first person you call is your mom, your fingers shaking as you press the buttons. She screams into the phone, and all you can do is laugh through the tears.

What doesn’t sit right with her is the change in the scars. She mentions something about reaching out to a specialist, insisting that your case is rare—one in a million.

Almost immediately, you think of Wade, knowing he’d want to hear this. God, he’d be ecstatic. Before you even realize it, you’re standing in front of his door, finger hovering over the bell.

That’s when the realization hits you: he’s been gone for nearly three days, off doing whatever it is he does.

Ringing the bell, a smile tugs at your lips. News like these are meant to be shared.

“Althea, it’s me!” you call out, hoping she’ll hear you. You press your forehead against the door, fidgeting with your fingers. “I have something to tell you.”

Logan has had better days. Days that didn’t involve escaping The Void, fighting a hundred Wades, or saving an earth that wasn’t even his to begin with.

You know, normal days—of being sneered at while drinking to forget and, fuck, how many hours has he been sober? It feels like an eternity.

When the adrenaline wears off and the heroism fades, he’s back to being just Logan again. If he had a watch, he’d probably tap the glass and fake impatience to Wade, pretending he’s got somewhere else to be.

He should leave. That’s his first impulse: to escape before it’s too late, but a question arises in his mind: does he truly want to?

Wade watches as Logan rises to his feet, planning to walk away. Pretty stupid, Logan thinks, considering he knows no one else in this universe—apart from the scarred man he’s become friends with against his will.

“Logan!” Wade yells his name, his voice light but firm enough to halt him in his tracks. Logan turns to face him, greeted by Wade’s familiar, infuriating smile.

It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.

Nothing’s holding him back, so why not accept it? The odds of being the target of hateful glares are lower here, and that’s reason enough for Logan to give a small tilt of his head and return to the bench where Wade remains seated.

“We’re gonna be roommates!” the latter exclaims, a wide grin stretching across his face as they head toward the building. “Can you imagine all the fun we’ll have?”

Logan presses his lips into a thin line. “Looking forward to it,” he murmurs, a small glimmer of sarcasm slipping into his tone, although Wade takes his words at face value.

“Me too, roomie. Me too.”

“Let’s not use that word.”

Wade holds the door open for Logan with an exaggerated bow. “Why not? It’s the truth. We can even share my bed if that’s—”

The sound of Logan’s claws succeeds in silencing him. Wade recoils and covers his crotch, no doubt remembering past close calls.

“You know what? You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. No problem.”

Was moving in with Wade the worst idea he’s had in a while? Absolutely. The reason? Althea, the elderly woman he lives with, isn’t answering the door, and he doesn’t have his keys.

Logan covers his eyes with a hand, silently questioning all of his life choices. And it’s only been ten minutes.

“This doesn’t happen often,” Wade reassures him, rubbing his neck.

“Hard to believe,” Logan mutters, some unknown muscle in his jaw beginning to ache from how hard he’s gritting his teeth. “You just leave the house without your fucking keys?”

Wade huffs, jutting out a hip in mock offense. “Those TVA guys didn’t exactly send a ‘We’re here to ruin your day’ memo. I was ambushed, okay?” he retorts, keeping a finger glued to the doorbell, its shrill ring gnawing at Logan’s already thin patience. “Al, I swear to God, I’m replacing your blood pressure pills with laxatives if you don’t wake up!”

“How old is she?” Logan asks, searching for anything to keep him from snapping the other man’s neck. Peaceful thoughts.

“Compared to you, she’s basically a newborn,” Wade replies, rocking back and forth on his heels. He’s having the time of his life—meanwhile, Logan’s self-control is reaching its limit.

His claws twitch in his knuckles. He’s had enough, and with a jerk of his left hand, they gleam as they slide out, ready to break the damn door. 

But then Wade jumps in front of him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there, buddy! I’m not letting you turn my door into a strainer.”

“Move,” Logan barks, not an ounce of friendliness in his tone. His stare is flat, unfazed.

“I’d rather not. You can’t just go around breaking people’s doors, man. Not cool,” Wade blurts quickly, placing both hands on Logan’s chest, pushing him away. “How about I ask my neighbor, huh? I gave her a spare set of keys for situations like these.”

“I thought you said this didn’t happen often.”

“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”

Before Logan can answer back, Wade rushes to the door next to his, slamming his fist on it like a madman, his finger hammering the doorbell simultaneously.

The devil’s orchestra—a symphony straight from hell.

Logan grabs Wade’s wrist before he can knock again, hissing: “Have some manners, will you?” 

Wade tries to shake his arm free from Logan’s tight grip. “She’s in there. I know it,” he replies in the same tone, but now he uses his other hand to ring the doorbell with greater feeling.

After a pause, he stamps his foot on the floor, throwing his head back. “Come on! Is this how you treat me after being away? Shame on you, Missy!”

This neighbor must be very patient, Logan thinks, to keep up with a guy like Wade without often seeing red.

As the door finally swings open, his grip on Wade loosens, and his hand falls limply to his side.

“What… the fuck?”

The sound of your voice—soft, slightly groggy from sleep—pulls his attention away from the door incident. His gaze is fixed entirely on you—you look as if you’ve just rolled out of bed, which makes sense since it’s still early.

Back in The Void, Wade had rambled on about all his friends, you included. Logan recalls how he had described you: a book editor who lived on her own and loved reading. You were younger—but then again, who wasn’t younger than him?

The picture Wade had shown him, with you standing in the background, hadn’t done you justice. He had found you attractive then, but seeing you in person?

You’re… far more than he expected.

More beautiful, for starters.

Fuck. Why is he even thinking about that? He must’ve been staring at you for quite a while—you glance at him like a startled lamb, clearly feeling self-conscious under his unwavering stare.

“May I know,” you start, tightening your robe, “why you were banging on my door like that? I thought I was getting robbed for a minute.” You direct your question at Wade, avoiding Logan’s presence, which makes something tighten in his chest.

He finds the way you stifle a yawn endearing, though.

Okay, that’s enough, he tells his mind. Let it go.

Wade steps in first, dropping his mask on the nearest surface. “Hello, my dear. Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just a few scratches. No, I wasn’t partying—I was kidnapped. Thanks for asking.”

You draw in a long breath, rubbing your eyes to wake up once and for all, and then you proceed to gesture for Logan to enter. Even now, you find it difficult to maintain eye contact with him. “Do you—would you like to come in?”

Not only are you pretty, but also polite. He nods, muttering a gruff: “Yeah, thank you.”

As he walks past you, your shoulders brush briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through him. A tingling sensation on the verge of being electrifying that has him knitting his brows.

His gaze finds yours, searching your expression to see if you felt it too. But you look away, closing the door to go after Wade.

Great. You must think he’s a weirdo. 

“I’m always up for company, but why so early?” you ask your friend, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. “And are you going to tell me what happened the other day? You left without saying anything.”

Wade hops onto a stool at the kitchen counter, swinging his legs like a child. “You know Al. When it comes to sleeping, she’s like a much older version of Sleeping Beauty,” he replies with a grin, snatching the mug you were about to use for your morning coffee. “Thanks, you’re such a doll.”

“That was—mine,” you sigh, hitting him in the thigh, and Wade winces with a fake whine. “I don’t think I’ve missed you that much. Go back to being missing in action,” you say, grabbing another mug and filling it before raising it toward Logan. “Coffee?”

Logan hesitates. You’re treating him like you’ve known him for years, not minutes. “I’m… good.”

“You sure? I made it fresh, just before you guys arrived.”

“Don’t worry, I’m—”

“I love the chemistry here,” Wade interrupts your conversation, drawing your attention back to him, “but you still got the keys I gave you, right?”

You roll your eyes, blowing on your steamy coffee before answering. “I do, but I want answers first. And I want them now.”

Twenty minutes and a rambling, half-coherent story later, your drink has gone cold, and Logan’s patience is wearing thin… again.

Will he survive sleeping under the same roof as Wade? Stay tuned for more.

“And then I told Paradox ‘He has risen, babygirl’—”

“I think you’re being too specific,” Logan interjects, noting how you’re staring into space with wide eyes. “She seems confused.”

“I am,” you admit, rubbing your temples. He doesn’t blame you: Wade’s a terrible storyteller. You offer him a weak smile as you turn to him. “So… you’re from another universe.”

“Last time I checked.” His back collapses against the couch, groaning softly. He sits beside you, and the way your eyes sweep over him, taking in his disheveled and sweaty appearance, doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”

“I’m public enemy number one.”

Too harsh, idiot.

“Oh. That’s… good to know.”

Wade says your name, and you look to your right, lifting your brows. “Do you mind if I grab the keys myself? I need a shower. I’ve been marinating in sweat and blood for way too long.”

You grimace, pointing toward your room. “Top drawer of my nightstand.”

With that, he embarks on a quest to find them, leaving Logan alone with you. Silence stretches between you two.

He doesn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything. Casual conversation isn’t his forte.

“You and Wade…?”

Letting out a giggle, you lean back on the couch. “God, no. We’re just friends,” you explain, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. For a fleeting moment, your eyes bore into his, and then you return to burning holes in the floor. “I’m single. Haven’t found my soulmate yet.”

It’s his turn to chuckle now—a dark, humorless sound rumbling in his chest. You chew on a cuticle, Logan’s gesture igniting a sense of curiosity in you.

“What?” you ask him, puzzled.

“Do you really believe in that? Soulmates who share scars?” If he were to think carefully, he’d watch his tone. It’s too late, anyway—you straighten your posture, your face contorting with each passing second. “I can tell you do.”

“And I can tell you don’t.”

“Why would I? Those are lies,” he retorts, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

His opinion is anything but objective, totally biased, given that every time he dove into love’s arms, he was met with the crude reality: not everyone’s meant to be loved, himself included.

The look you give him is enough to wipe the smirk off his face. 

“Soulmates exist, Logan. We all have one.” There’s a certainty in your tone, marked by the subtle way in which you say his name, that he finds alluring. He shouldn’t, especially when you seem angry above all. 

“And where is yours, then?”

He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your expression becomes inscrutable. You could be either disappointed, frustrated, or even exasperated—sad, perhaps?

Logan feels as though a weight has settled on his shoulders just from staring into your eyes.

You strike back with silence. Plain, pure, dreadful silence that has him wondering if he’s breathing properly.

At long last, Wade comes back from his expedition, keys dangling from his fingers. “It was quite the treasure hunt, you know? You’ve got a lot of garbage in there.” He sticks his face between Logan’s and yours when you don't answer him. “Guys, is there something wrong? Are you doing a staring contest? If so, can I join?”

“I need to start getting ready for work,” you announce, standing up from the couch. Logan mimics you, and you open the door, your fingers curling around the knob. “You should get going. And Wade,” you pause, acknowledging only him, “I need to talk to you later. In private.”

Without Logan. That’s what you wanted to say but didn’t.

“Sure, my queen. I live to serve,” Wade says in rejoinder, and he kisses your forehead briefly, which forces Logan to avert his gaze the whole time his lips are on you, feeling uncomfortable watching. “Take care, alright?” 

You give Wade a small nod, waiting until he’s outside your apartment to glance at Logan.

“Goodbye,” you croak, and he knows he should say something, that he—

The door almost closes on his nose.

Had he been an asshole? He was merely expressing his thoughts. The idea of soulmates didn’t sit well with him.

Once settled into Wade’s apartment, Logan steps into the shower, water rinsing off his body. Yet he finds himself unable to stop thinking about you.

The disappointment in your eyes when he asked about your soulmate.

The coldness in your tone at the end, so different from the warmth you initially offered.

He feels drawn to you, as if some sort of invisible string is tying the two of you. Were it possible, he would use his own claws to cut it, but he can’t discern where it begins or ends. Instead, he prefers to blame his touch-starved state for this reaction. 

He’s already hating this earth. So much for a man whose skin refuses to scar.

And where is yours, then?

His words shouldn’t have stung the way they did. All the charm—the gruff exterior, the mysterious personality—had vanished.

The guy from another universe, with the claws, the healing abilities, and the raspy voice, is a moron.

A ridiculously good-looking moron? Yes, but a moron nonetheless.

There is something about him you can’t quite place. A chill creeps down your spine as you replay the instant your eyes first locked. Your body had reacted in ways it never had before, drawn to him like metal to a magnet.

Why? You’d seen handsome men before, even been with some. Yet, you’ve never felt this—this gravitational pull, this inexplicable pull to invade someone’s personal space.

How would your soulmate feel if he saw you like this, lusting after another man?

You shudder at the thought. This isn’t like you. You pride yourself on loyalty—perhaps a little too much. You don’t read two books at the same time, and you’ve been buying the same brand of shampoo for the past five years.

So why now? Why him? It feels like a betrayal of your own mind, your conscience turned against you.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

That afternoon, as you take a nap on the couch, he invades your dreams. It’s not even a wet dream, but he’s there, staking a claim on a part of you he has no right to.

You wake up with your hand clutching your chest, a frustrated punch landing on the nearest cushion.

The next day, you drop by Wade’s place for a quick visit, your eyes darting around the room every few seconds, half-expecting Logan to appear out of nowhere.

“I told you, he’s sleeping. That guy’s got a fucked up sleep schedule,” Wade says, urging you to take a seat beside him at the table. “Why don’t you wanna see him?”

Because he’s messing with your sanity. Your brain cells are practically disintegrating at the mere thought of breathing the same air as him.

“I just—I need to tell you something.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“What? Wade, no! You’ve been gone for three days—pregnancies take months.”

“I’d make an amazing uncle, though.” He grabs your hand between his, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Babies are so adorable at that—”

“My scars are back,” you cut him off, putting an end to his nonsense. Pulling the neck of your sweater to the side, you show him the thin lines etched into your collarbone. “But they are different this time.”

“Different? You mean they changed?” His disbelief is clear as he reaches for your arm, frowning while he inspects more of your scars. Wade’s jaw slackens, color draining out of his face. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“Fuck?”

“Yeah, fuck!” His strong arms envelop you, and you lean into the embrace, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Is this good news? Are we happy? Does this mean I have a shot at becoming an uncle after all?”

You laugh a little at his eagerness, rubbing gentle circles into his back. “I am happy. I just—I don’t know what these changes mean yet.”

Althea steps out of the bathroom, her cane tapping the floor in rhythmic beats. “I already told you what they mean.”

Wade pulls away from you, glaring at her. “You meddler! Haven’t we talked about not eavesdropping? Hasn’t life taught you anything after all these decades?”

“Upside of being blind: I’ve never seen this motherfucker in Crocs,” she says, pointing her cane at you, though you know her aim is Wade. “Downside of being blind: I hear everything in this apartment. And you, kid, have a new soulmate.”

“I know what we talked about the other day, but... it doesn’t make sense, Al. You only get one soulmate,” you protest, feeling the tension grow as you pace around the table. “Why can’t it just be simple? My friends are getting engaged, years are flying by, and I’m still out here chasing this… this idiot who no one can even find!”

That’s when Logan appears, emerging from his room, holding several empty beer cans. He rolls his eyes and walks straight into the kitchen. “Great. Who else is coming tonight?”

Wade smirks, clapping a hand on Logan’s shoulder as he looks at you. “Sweetie, Logan’s going through his second puberty at the ripe old age of two hundred. The pediatrician said it’s just hormones, nothing to worry about. Excuse his shitty attitude.”

With a low groan, Logan shrugs off Wade’s hand, scowling. If anything, the younger man’s grin just grows bigger. “Wolvie, I gotta admit that whole ‘Don’t fall in love with me or I’ll break your heart’ personality shouldn’t turn me on, but here we are.”

You decide to take that as your cue to leave. You grab your bag, muttering a quick goodbye to Althea as you head for the door.

But Logan calls after you. “Can we talk?”

You freeze, your back to him. “How much did you hear?” you ask, not daring—not being able—to meet his gaze.

“All of it,” he admits after a beat, and you curse under your breath. “But it doesn’t—Hey!” He follows you into the hallway. “I’m talking to you!”

“No, you’re not.” You fumble for your keys, fingers shaking as you try to unlock your door. “Leave me alone.”

“I won’t,” he mumbles behind you, his voice softer now. “Come on. Don’t be so harsh.”

“I can’t believe you,” you whisper, finally finding the right key and jiggling it into the lock. The door swings open, and you step into the safety of your apartment. But when you try to close it, Logan’s foot wedges into the gap, blocking it. “Get out.”

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, me neither. But I owe you an apology.”

You wonder if he realizes the hold he has on you. No matter how hard you try to mask it, the unbearable pounding of your heart betrays you.

Scanning his features, you trace the rugged contours of his face with your eyes, lingering on the lines on his forehead—the aftermath of what it looks like a life lived through bitterness and pain.

“Can I come in?” he insists, his tone on the verge of sounding pleading.

You hesitate. The sensible part of you screams to send him away. Thinking that avoiding him would be as easy as stealing candy from a baby is a long-forgotten idea now: you’d been naïve to even consider it possible.

He’s going to find a way to sneak into your space, your home—and you’ll let him in. You’ll grant him a chance to cross a boundary that should’ve been already drawn.

It feels like you’re fifteen again, infatuated with the guy you know you shouldn’t get close to. Paul from high school wasn’t your soulmate back then—Logan isn’t now.

The smart thing would be to take a step back, accept his apology, and ask him to leave. That’s how you preserve what little remains of your sanity and protect your heart, which is already hanging by a thread.

But God, it feels so good to be near him.

You step aside. He walks in. Something tells you this won’t be the last time.

“I’m waiting.” You stay near the counter, pressing your back against it, and keeping your distance. Logan sits awkwardly on the edge of your couch, unsure of where to begin.

“Look, about what I said yesterday…I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere, earnest. “I didn’t know you believed in soulmates.”

“It’s not a matter of believing in them or not, Logan. My soulmate is out there—yours too.”

Your words coax a grin from him, and he shakes his head. “I guess we’ll never see eye to eye on that.” In a fluid motion, he crosses the room, and you find his unexpected proximity a bit exasperating. “Do you forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Give me a break, darlin’. I’m trying my best.”

“Well, you were an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“The first time we exchanged words.”

“Also yes.”

“And now you’re apologizing.”

“Positive. I just did.”

It’s not that you’re easy—it’s Logan’s persuasive allure that gets to you.

“What else can I do to win your forgiveness?” he wonders aloud, his syrupy voice making you tighten your grip on the counter.

An idea sparks in your mind. You move toward the pile of books next to the TV, eyeing the titles, until one catches your attention: your copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, one of the first novels you’d read when you were younger.

It’s adorned with colorful post-its, and the pages, sort of rough to the touch, are marked with handwritten notes in the margins.

“How do you feel about reading?”

“Not my strongest suit,” he answers, arching a brow as he takes in your enthusiasm. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“You want me to believe you’re sorry for what you said? Then read this,” you say, wiggling the book in front of him, “and we can start over.”

“What is it about? Let me guess: love and soulmates. Did I get it right?” he asks, playfulness lacing his tone. His breath hitches as you press the book against his chest, silently urging him to take it. His pinky grazes your hand, feeling your skin and sending a jolt through you.

Logan watches you with half-lidded eyes, and it takes every ounce of willpower to tear yourself away from him and his maddening touch.

You clear your throat. “Open it to page one hundred fifty-three.”

“Do you—you remember specific pages?”

“And read what’s underlined in black,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed for an instant. “Please.”

Logan must mutter something along the lines of ‘You’ve got to be kidding me’ before searching for it. It’s only then that he begins to recite the passage:

He is not to them what he is to me. He is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine; – I am sure he is – I feel akin to him – I understand the language of his countenance and movements; though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered: – and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.

You’ve chosen a damn good page.

Logan looks up from the book, his mouth slightly parted, as if he’s about to speak. You interject before he can find the words.

“You’ve got a week to read it.”

“How long is it again?”

“Four hundred pages.”

He surrenders, sighing in defeat. “You’re killing me here, y’know?”

“Write an opinion essay if possible.”

Right there, Logan offers you a mock laugh. “Haha. That’s so funny.”

“It is for me,” you talk back, unable to hide your smile from him, and soon he mirrors your expression. 

As Logan steps toward the door, he hesitates and glances back. “We’re all good then?”

Leaning against the doorframe, you raise your chin defiantly. “We’ll be when you finish the book.”

What he says next has your stomach turning into knots. “You’re trouble.” His tone shifts—no longer teasing, but grounded in truth. Gone are the jokes; he seems to mean every word.

For the rest of the night, one line from the book doesn’t stop echoing in your mind—the line about soulmates: I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. 

You’re trouble for him, and he’s trouble for you. You hope he knows it too.

He thought that not seeing you for a week would snuff out his feelings. That by next Wednesday, every thought tied to your name, every urge to uncover the last of your secrets, would be extinguished.

That's what time usually did: it diminished dangerous desires that couldn't afford to be voiced, and buried those longings that had no place in the light of day.

Logan now figures he’s been underestimating the spell you cast on him with just a few glances and the intensity of your eyes. He’s seen you animated, angry—both defiant and vulnerable.

Each of your gestures feels like a memory he can’t quite place.

The way you laugh, the right corner of your mouth lifting just slightly higher than the left—he swears it isn’t the first time he's seen a smile brighter than the sun.

Still, he convinces himself it’s all in his head. He must be the one losing his mind, the years finally catching up to him. It’s the only reasonable explanation for the thoughts that consume his every waking moment.

He’s wrong—you’re right. He’s seeing things where there are none—you’re simply too kind.

Too kind. Too young. Too damn clever for your own good, with your books and that sharp mind of yours. He wonders how you see yourself.

Do you like the reflection in the mirror? Are you content with the way your life has turned out?

Do you, too, lie awake at night, the bed stretching endlessly, aching for a touch that never comes?

The walls in this place are paper-thin. When darkness falls, and the moon rises, the big, scary Wolverine can’t close his eyes.

Instead, he listens.

Some nights, you play the same movie on repeat—a romantic comedy that lasts exactly one hundred and twenty minutes. For two hours straight, he’s privy to your laughter, your commentary at the characters on the screen.

He hears you cry when the lead couple drifts apart after a terrible argument, but they always find their way back to each other, and you watch every second until the credits roll.

None of the other films you pick ever ends in heartbreak, he realizes. They all have happy endings—the kind you wish for yourself.

One way or another, there must be a way to get you out of his system. He knows, without a doubt, that you wouldn’t want him. He’s not your soulmate, and it’s clear that finding that person has become the center of your existence.

Logan can’t allow himself to be the moron who derails your purpose.

Sure, he’s done bad things, but he likes to believe that at least a part of him—some small fraction—hasn’t been lost yet. That there’s a piece of him that can be saved, which is the reason why he stayed here: to be a better man than the one he was in his universe.

But it’s hard. Harder still because it’s you who disrupts his quest for redemption. How is he supposed to go on with his life when every thought circles back to you? The idea of holding you, kissing you—sleeping beside you haunts him.

And so the images blur, new dreams twisting with his usual nightmares.

Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.

One afternoon, while deliberately steering clear of Jane Eyre, he reluctantly turns to Wade in search of answers. “Tell me more about her.”

Wade, lounging on the couch, stops scrolling on his phone and drops it onto his chest, drawing his eyebrows together.

“Her? Who do you mean?” His tone oozes with feigned innocence, barely containing a shit-eating grin when Logan grits out your name, his tone rough, almost pained. “Oh, Romeo. You’ve got it bad.”

Intending to maintain some semblance of control, Logan strides into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and the last bottle of whiskey. As he tips it, only a few drops fall into the glass.

“No, I don’t,” he says, extending his arm and holding the bottle up. “We’re out of whiskey.”

“You keep saying we, but you’re the only alcoholic in this apartment.” Wade kicks off his shoes, propping his feet on the coffee table. “So, why the sudden interest in the lady? She getting through that tough exterior of yours? I’ll give her points for that.”

“And you wonder why I don’t talk to you.”

“I saw the book,” the younger man replies, lacing his fingers behind his head, watching as Logan rummages through the fridge with increasing frustration. “You never told me you were into classics. If I’d known, I’d have gotten you a copy of Pride and Prejudice.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who came to me, looking for the essential oil of truth?”

The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable, mood-killing.

“See what I just did there?” he adds, and Logan feels forced to shake his head from side to side, appearing conflicted. Wade lets out a low huff. “That was Virginia Woolf. Add her to your reading list.”

“Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”

“More times than I can count. I’m just not everyone’s cup of coffee.”

“Tea, Wade. Not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“Whatever.” Wade simpers, as though Logan’s correction is the punchline to a joke only he gets. He sets his palms flat on the table, looming closer with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, what would you like to know about my dear friend?”

Logan hesitates, the weight of his question heavy on his tongue. “What’s the deal with her scars?”

The air shifts. Wade’s playful expression fades and he tilts his head, his tone turning serious. “I don’t think it’s my story to tell,” he begins, gaze dropping to the floor. “But she lost them years ago. She was living a normal life, and one day, they were just—gone, like they were never there. It broke her. We didn’t know each other back then, but you’ve seen her.”

Wade’s eyes flick back up, while Logan stands there, tongue-tied. “You even know the kind of books she reads—nothing can shake that belief in real love, in soulmates being destined. Imagine how she must’ve felt when she found out her presumed soulmate was dead… without a single warning.”

From what he had heard, that sense of loss was impossible to put into words. Those who’d gone through it described the experience as if half of you—your body, your soul, your very essence—was being ripped away.

The pain was excruciating, and the only way to survive it was by means of tolerating it—no remedy, just the endurance to outlast the agony.

It wasn’t just a momentary hurt. It was the kind of torment that lingered, making you question who you were and what little remained of you.

You and Logan had more in common than he’s willing to admit.

“She’s a good person,” he mutters absent-mindedly, his thumb grazing the cover of the book. He had carried it everywhere for a week now, without even cracking it open.

“Oh, you dirty pig…” Wade whispers, his eyes lighting up as if a lightbulb suddenly went off in his mind. “Now I get it. You wanna know her. Like, really know her!”

“I don’t—”

“Your sex life is none of my business. I’m all up for you putting your mutant dick to work, otherwise it’s just wasted potential. But it’s my friend we’re talking about.”

Logan’s jaw tightens, and he snaps. “Drop the speech, alright? I’m not trying to get into her pants. I just want to be nice. That’s all.”

“Nice, huh? What’s your version of nice? Starting a two-person book club?” Wade stifles a laugh, pressing a finger to Logan’s chest. “Look, if you want to sleep with her, and the feeling’s mutual, then go for it. Just tell me this—how long’s it been since you visited Pussy Village? Was it before or after the Big Bang?”

Things are never truly serious with Wade Wilson. “I’m not answering that.”

Wade raises both hands in surrender, still chuckling. “Fine, fine. But if you’re really interested, just be clear about it. She doesn’t need a half-assed situationship.”

By now, it’s like a mantra he repeats again and again, hoping that eventually both Wade and he will start to believe it. “I don’t want to have sex with her.”

As he heads back to his (now Wade’s old) room, Wade adds, “I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you underlined some quotes you like.”

Much to his dismay, that’s exactly what Logan does.

His handwriting isn’t the most legible, but he tries his best, leaving notes in the margins of some pages, such as:

I hate this John kid.

Her aunt is a cunt.

This is too cheesy.

Mr. Rochester’s married?

St. John—what a prick.

He finishes the book at 7 a.m. A long-ass book—just for you. While getting ready for work, Wade calls him an unemployed fucker, and Logan knows nothing better than to shoot back a similar insult, stretching his arms as the first rays of sunlight creep through the curtains.

Wade was right about something, even if Logan himself doesn’t wish to admit it: he’s behaving like a teenager—staying up until dawn, practically chained to the bed without daring to go out. Falling for a girl he didn’t know a week ago.

Learning to control his impulses has been a hard task, especially with his temperament. Over the years, Logan thought he’d mastered the art of self-restraint, long past the point where his body moved without his mind’s permission.

As his feet carry him down the hall toward your apartment, he recognizes how wrong he is.

This is a terrible idea, he thinks. And yet, his fist knocks on the wood. Three times.

Fuck.

The door opens just a crack. You peek out, your face barely visible, eyes puffy from sleep. “Logan?”

His name isn’t a fancy one. It’s pretty normal, pretty standard. There must be a thousand other guys named like him—yet it’s only when you say it, your voice turning it into something rare and unique, that it feels different, like it’s only his.

The tone you use with him isn’t the one he’s used to: Logan, you’re a disappointment. Logan, how dare you turn your back on your friends? Logan, they’re all dead. Logan, it’s your fault.

Yours is inviting, and warm, and new. He likes new.

“I just finished it,” he answers, holding up the book, mindful not to grip it too tight as not to crumple the pages.

You scratch the back of your head, blinking at him. “You just finished it… at 7 a.m.?

Yeah, it sounds stupid now that you say it out loud, but it’s true. Hoping his reaction is enough to explain what he can’t put into words, he gives you a slow nod.

This time, you don’t wait for him to say more. “Come in?”

Yes, this is what he’s been looking forward all week. This moment, this interaction.

This Come in. This Yes, thank you. You’re so kind.

His quiet acceptance of your invitation, the unpronounced thought of I don’t deserve this, but I can’t back off now, because how could I ever say no to you?

He follows you into the kitchen as you move to make tea. “Want some?” you ask, but he declines the offer. If he were to drink anything right now, it would be something much stronger, not tea, despite the early hour. “You’re here to talk about the book?”

“Well, you told me I could come back after reading it.”

“I did,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips as you hide it behind your mug. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so punctual.”

You don’t need to know that he’s been counting down the seconds, marking each minute in his mind since the last time he saw you. That’s a detail he’ll keep to himself. “It’s a good story.”

“Tell me about it.” You smile even wider, and he takes a moment to absorb the details of your face—the crinkles by your eyes, the way your nose scrunches when you’re amused. “I lent you my most precious book. Fell in love with it years ago.”

“I can see why you liked it,” he explains, flipping through the pages to find the one he marked. “All the romance and the yearning—”

“Hey, it’s also good for other reasons,” you try to defend yourself, but any other argument dies on your lips when he finds the passage he was looking for and begins to read aloud.

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now,” he recites, his voice lower, almost reverent, as he looks up from the page to meet your gaze. “It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.”

You seem startled by the sharp sound of him closing the book. He’s sort of breathless, and from where he stands, he can tell you are too. “That’s one of my favorite passages.”

“I can’t blame you for believing in soulmates if this is the kind of thing you read growing up,” he teases, handing the book back to you.

Though a part of him almost wishes he didn’t have to—so that it would still be a reason, a tether, pulling him back to you again and again.

Grinning, you take it, your eyes remaining trained on his. “I happen to notice it hasn’t changed your perspective on soulmates.”

“It’ll take more than a book.”

“This is, in my opinion, one of the best love stories ever written. How else will I convince you?”

“Why do you feel like you need to convince me?” He takes a step forward—you take a step back. “Why can’t it be the other way around? I might end up being the one who convinces you.”

“You could never,” you respond, clasping your hands behind your back. “It would be like convincing me the sky is green instead of blue.”

Logan retreats slightly. “Don’t you get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Of waiting. Of always being on the lookout.”

You don’t react badly to his question. You’re not even shaken, not fazed in the slightest. “When I meet him, I’ll know all the waiting was worth it.”

“And in the meantime?” Logan inquires, pressing himself further into your intimacy, edging closer as if testing the boundaries you’re willing to cross. His words are a subtle request for more, for answers. “What will you do until you find him?”

If you ever do, he thinks, but it’s left unsaid, lingering in his thoughts. He’s getting better at not saying the things that sit heavy in his chest without thinking.

“I think you misunderstand, Logan.” You study him through your lashes, and he feels he’s become the keeper of your most sacred secrets. “It’s not about waiting as if my life’s on pause. I’ve been with other people. But in the end, I want to choose him.”

That casual admission strikes him like a wave of cold water. A flicker of jealousy burns at the edges of his composure, though he tries to smother it.

I’ve been with other people, you say, your tone so nonchalant, and yet the mental images that flood his mind are anything but comfortable.

He imagines someone else standing in your kitchen. Perhaps in five minutes, there will be another man knocking on your door, here to discuss a book, and it won’t be him.

Perhaps this isn’t rare for you—all this come in, grab something to drink, let’s talk when you’re done reading.

Perhaps he’s not as important as you make him feel.

His thoughts spiral until your voice pulls him back from the brink.

“Don’t you understand how beautiful it is?” There’s a dazzling glint in your expression, a light in your eyes that makes him ache. “Outside of these four walls, there’s a person who’s waiting to meet me, in the same way I expect to meet him. I can’t grant myself the choice not to believe in something like this.”

Far from easing the martyr in his mind, this conversation only deepens his internal struggle. The questions overlap each other: what happens if you never find him? Would you ever consider settling for somebody else?

He rephrases that last one—would you ever consider being with him?

“He’s a lucky guy,” Logan murmurs, and just like that, he feels himself slipping deeper, falling into the rabbit hole with you guiding him through the madness.

For a moment, he can pretend—pretend that matching scars and bonds that defy the rules of his principles make sense.

Maybe, just for you, he’ll allow himself to believe it.

Your eyes soften with sudden emotion, glistening with the beginnings of tears. He feels the primal urge to reach out, to cup your cheek, to be there when the first tear falls. “You think so?” you ask, your voice fragile.

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now.

“Of course I do,” he replies, his tone quiet but laden with a strange, undeniable truth.

It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.

Whatever this is between you—it’s messed up. He’s messed up. And you… you’re just as tangled in this chaos for indulging it, for looking at him in that way that calls out to him.

The more time he spends with you, the less he feels like himself. Everything he’s done lately—reading that damn book, standing in your apartment at 7 a.m.—none of it feels like something he’d do.

It’s not just his mind you’re messing with: it’s his very sense of self.

Logan’s smart mouth had always been a liability, getting him into trouble either by saying too much or by choosing the wrong words. Bad things had always followed in the wake of his tongue.

Somehow, when it comes to you, he’s the most careful he’s ever been. He doesn’t want to upset you, nor does he want to be the cause of any sorrow that might affect your heart.

When the two of you stand at the threshold once more, just as you have other times before, you softly say: “I feel like I’m experiencing a déjà vu.”

He laughs, because it sounds ridiculous. “Care to explain why?”

“You come, we talk, you leave.” You lean against the wall, your hand ghosting over the handle. “But you never stay that long.”

There’s no mistaking the layered meaning in your words. You, who work with language and its peculiarities for a living, never speak by chance—every phrase, every pause, carries an assigned weight. The double meaning in your statement doesn’t escape either of you.

You’re a natural at this madness, diving headfirst into it. You must be losing it, too, because your actions don’t match what you said before.

Slowly, his fingers brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the perfect excuse to feel your skin, to close the distance without saying what he actually wants.

They say food and shelter are the basic human needs, but Logan chooses to believe they forgot to include the longing to reach out and just feel you.

“I can’t stay,” he finally responds to your earlier comment, his hand still lingering against your skin.

His strength—the only thing saving him from completely giving in—helps him pull himself away.

Before the impulse to kiss you becomes too overwhelming to resist, Logan leaves.

Some time later, you’re making lunch, music playing softly in the background at the same time the city’s distinct noise finds a way to break through your tranquility.

You rely greatly on the knowledge that you’re good at multitasking—now more than ever, with a book in one hand and the other stirring the pasta on the stove.

The warmth from the pot rises around you, but you trust yourself not to be careless. Not to be stupid enough to burn yourself with the boiling water.

This time, you miscalculate. Not only do you dip the wooden spoon into the pot, but your fingertips too.

Though it only lasts a second, and the voice in your head instantly screams Hot! Hot! Hot!, the shock makes you drop the book to the floor. You yank your hand back, racing to the sink to run it under cold water.

“Fuck,” you grumble, watching the skin redden in protest. “Lesson learned: no more multitasking.”

The funny thing is, just a door away, Logan’s watching a movie with Wade when he feels a sting in the tips of his fingers.

It’s barely there, practically faint, but he looks down, inspecting his hand like it doesn’t belong to his own body. His skin briefly flushes with irritation before returning to its normal state.

Wade notices his distraction. “Hey, you okay?”

Logan pays no mind to it. “Sure. Just felt something strange.”

Is it still called avoiding if you’re both doing it? You’d like to think so.

For the sake of clarity, let’s say you’ve been actively avoiding Logan, but truth be told—he’s been avoiding you too. That last encounter in your apartment didn’t help matters at all.

If anything, it made everything worse.

You’ve been down this road before, knowing men like him too well: they’re everywhere, until they’re not.

One day, they vanish without a trace, leaving you staring at the empty space they used to occupy, asking yourself ‘What happened to my Prince Charming in disguise?’

They disappear as though they never existed, and not even the best detective can track them down.

So far, your avoidance strategy has worked wonders. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s a distraction—an undeniably attractive one, the kind anyone would want to trip over.

Yet you miss him, which is dumb: why are you missing someone you were never supposed to care about in the first place?

You return home after a long trip to the grocery store, arms laden with bags. It’s the kind of errand that exhausts you, though you keep telling yourself it’s better than thinking about him.

As you struggle to get through the building's exit, you resign yourself to the fact that it’ll take several trips to bring everything up to your apartment.

Then the elevator doors slide open, and you drop everything to the floor.

You should’ve known better than to assume victory so soon. After days of successfully avoiding him, there he is.

And of course, it’s when you look your worst—tired from running around, weighed down by groceries, barely holding it together.

“Hey,” he greets you, standing just outside the elevator, like he’s not sure if he should step inside or stay where he is. He’s dressed in a red-and-black flannel shirt, layered over a white vest, a leather jacket tossed over his shoulders, and a pair of jeans that seem made for him.

He looks... ridiculously good.

“Hi,” you manage to answer after a beat, scrambling to collect the bags you’d dropped. “Just—give me a second.”

“Let me help you,” Logan says, ducking down to gather the groceries, but you pull them away.

“I’ve got it. Are you going out? On a date, maybe?” You nod toward his clothes, trying to keep things light, teasing even.

Glancing down at himself, a crease appears between his brows, and in one swoop, he gathers all the bags with a single hand. “I’m supposed to meet Wade at a bar, but he’ll survive without me.”

“Logan, you don’t—”

But he’s already moving, one hand tugging you out of the elevator, the other gesturing toward your apartment.

“Not up for debate,” he mutters. Then, without waiting for permission, he holds out his hand. “Keys.”

Sighing, you dig into your pocket and drop them into his open palm. He unlocks the door with practiced ease, stepping inside and placing the bags on your kitchen counter.

As he starts to unpack them, you stop him. “You really don’t need to do that.”

That seems to catch his attention. He pauses, turning toward you with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the counter.

His unrelenting stare sizes you up, and he cocks his head to the side. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

He thinks he’s so discreet, so smooth. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you explain, fiddling with the frayed edge of your sweater, tugging at it like it might unravel your nerves.

You hear him click his tongue. “Been busy too.” His words hang in the air, thickening the atmosphere. Your body tenses, and you stare at his shoes, until— “Sweetheart,” he calls you softly, and your eyes snap shut for a moment, your chin almost pressing against your chest. “My eyes are up here.”

A quick flutter of your lashes brings you back to him, and your chest tightens with the effort it takes to look into his eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you ask, praying he’ll let this go.

You watch as his mouth twitches with something halfway between a smile and a smirk. “You already want me to leave?”

“If you have plans, then yeah.”

He huffs out a laugh, inhaling a shallow breath like you’ve missed something obvious. “Wade can wait. He’ll be fine.” His expression shifts, and the playful tone in his voice falls away, replaced by something more raw. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You can’t help but snort. “Oh, please. Like you haven’t been doing the same.” You walk over to the couch, feeling your legs wobble beneath you. You collapse into one corner, hoping the distance will help you breathe.

Like a shadow, Logan follows after you, sitting far too close. His legs splay wide, so wide they’re almost grazing yours.

“At least I have a reason for it. What about you?” His hand reaches out, fingers closing around yours in a grip that’s both firm and gentle, enhancing your anxiety. Your throat tightens, the room shrinking around you. “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy,” he says, his voice rough and low. “I need you to tell me you feel it too.”

Panic flares in your chest, and you scramble for time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, but your voice cracks, the uncertainty leaking through the cracks in your bravado.

He doesn’t buy your acting. “You do. We can’t keep playing dumb. You’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind one of these days.”

It’s not just his words—it’s the way he stands so close, heat radiating from his body, the roughness of his hand gripping yours like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.

The intensity of it all weighs on you in ways you can’t even begin to describe, leaving you breathless, caught between denial and desire.

“Logan, this isn’t—”

“What? Okay?” There’s a glimpse of mirthlessness in his tone as he speaks, his forehead furrowing. “I can’t stay away from you, don’t you see it? It feels too good to be wrong,” he utters, inching forward. You know you should take a step back, tell him to stop. Nothing good can come from this. “It takes two to feel these things. It can’t be just me.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to give in.” Blood pounds in your ears, your pulse racing as your heart hammers unpleasantly. Little shivers of ice run through your spine, and yet, your stomach burns with desire.

More than ever, you feel yourself slipping, your sanity at risk.

Logan runs his eyes up and down your face, agitated, almost going cross-eyed. “Earlier you asked if I was going on a date. Would you like that? Me being with other people? Kissing another woman?” His hot breath caresses your cheek, and you avert your gaze momentarily. “Answer me.”

Don’t do it. For the love of God, don’t. “I can’t—I don’t—”

“Come on, baby.”

“I don’t want you to be with other people,” you mumble, your lips almost grazing his, and that’s all he needs to grip your chin and pull you into a kiss.

His mouth moves hungrily over yours, pushing you back until the armrest digs into your lower back. A choked whimper gets lost in your throat, and you bring him closer by grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, your chest pressing against his.

Logan bites down on your lip, soothing the sting with his tongue, and the moan you let out reverberates in the apartment.

“This is what you were hiding from me?” he rasps, his forehead bumping against yours. “These sweet sounds you make?”

You end up perched in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. He’s hard beneath you, and as you shift, your center makes contact with his erection through the layers of fabric.

Both of you sigh into each other’s mouths, your hips moving on their own accord, rocking slightly against his clothed cock. He hooks one of his arms around your waist, guiding your movements.

Everything seems to fall into place. Outside your window, birds chirp. The world feels lighter, like a better place. The beast inside you quiets, and for once, your mind is blissfully blank.

Logic? Error 404—not found.

You tug at his hair, and Logan growls, breaking the kiss. “Do that again.” He jerks under your touch, bucking up into you. Encouraged, you pull his hair again, fingers wrapping around a strand at the nape of his neck, and you’re rewarded with a deep groan.

He’s dizzy for it, but you’re no better, not when he trails his kisses down your neck, his mouth latching onto your skin, tasting the sweat and salt.

“I can’t control myself around you,” he murmurs, groping your tits, and you wail, the ache between your legs becoming intolerable. His hands slip under your sweater, caressing the scars on your back.

That’s when recognition settles over you.

What are you doing? And why are you doing it?

He ceases sucking your flesh when you go rigid on top of him. Pecking your lips once again, Logan’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs rubbing circles on your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t understand how he does it, how he can remain so calm. Doesn’t he realize the gravity of this? “We have to stop.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me something you already know the answer to.”

His arms drop to his sides, releasing you from his hold. You push yourself off him, away from the couch, putting as much distance between you as you can.

Pressing your palms to your eyes, you shake your head. “God, I’m stupid. This is stupid.”

Your reaction seems to get on his nerves, his frustration somehow increasing. Logan stands, towering over you. “Was it stupid when you were dry humping me?”

“Fuck you, Logan.”

“I’m not the bad guy here. You kissed me back.” He doesn’t let up, trailing behind you as you try to escape. “You want me as much as I want you.”

“Will you stop saying that?” you bark, throwing your arms in the air. Your chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. “Yeah, we like each other. So? Does that make it right? How can you just ignore how wrong this is?”

His expression hardens, anger flashing in his eyes. “Forget your idea of what's good and bad. You're just upset you can't control what you feel.”

“He’s closer than ever.”

Logan gawks at you, his voice bitter as he goes on with his rambling. “That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.”

“You wish you were him, don’t you?” You jab your finger into his chest, feeling his heartbeat, a flutter you choose to ignore. “You want to be my soulmate.”

“Damn right I do,” he practically spits his words, narrowing his eyes at you. “But I’m not him.”

“No. You’re not.”

Everything seems to fall out of place. Outside your window, birds don’t chirp—they scream for mercy. The world doesn’t feel lighter, but heavier. The beast inside you roars back to life, restless and louder than ever, while your mind spins in chaos.

“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.” Your voice pierces through the thick silence in the room, and you swallow down the lump forming in your throat.

“If that’s what you want,” he replies, his jaw clenched tight, irritation radiating off him in waves.

“It’s what we both need.”

“Speak for yourself. I don’t have a soulmate.” His tone is biting, but you don’t miss the undercurrent of longing in his words. “But if in any other universe I do, I hope it’s you.”

Your hand turns the knob, and then he’s halfway out the door, sparing you one last glance before he turns his back to you.

No more visits. No more books. No more bruising kisses that leave you questioning your mere existence.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

It didn’t go well in the end.

You remember your first heartbreak—seventeen, fresh out of high school. One of your hands clutched a million dreams, and the other, a pillow soaked with your tears.

Your mother remained by your side, caressing your back, attempting to soothe the sobs that racked your body. She murmured that it’d pass, that you wouldn’t feel like this forever. You believed her then, and trusted that things would eventually be okay.

Almost ten years later, another heartbreak shouldn’t come as a surprise. By now, you thought you would’ve developed the tools to survive it. You should be able to piece yourself back together by instinct.

But life, as it turns out, has a peculiar way of catching you off guard.

Whether it’s pent-up horniness, touch-starvation, or genuine affection—it doesn't change the fact that your pseudo-relationship with Logan fell apart.

Though you’re not the one who’s suffering the most. Neither is Logan.

Wade, the third party in this tangled mess, has somehow taken it the hardest.

“I feel like a child of divorce,” he says, his head resting on your lap, eyes distant as they fixate on the peeling wallpaper. “You need to do something about that.”

“I’ll take care of it next month.”

He’s supposed to be the one supporting you, but it feels like the roles are reversed—you’re comforting him, letting him vent.

“My two favorite people now can’t even be in the same room. What are we gonna do for Christmas? New Year's Eve?” Straightening up, he grabs the nearest cushion and buries his face into it to muffle a defeated scream. “Damn it, Cupid! You had one job!”

All in all, Wade’s emotionally unavailable at the moment, grieving your separation from Logan as if it were his own loss, too caught up in his melodrama to be of any real help.

Meanwhile, you fill your days with work, books, anything to keep your mind occupied.

You go to bed too late, you wake up too early. Sleep too little, cry too much.

One thing stays constant—you and Logan don’t talk. Stolen glances in the hallway, awkward elevator rides—those are the only remnants of whatever you once were. Back to being strangers again. 

Well, not really. Strangers don’t know the route to your mouth the way he does.

The ache lingers every day. Missing him when you’re awake is a common occurrence. At night, as you toss and turn beneath the sheets, he stars in your dreams. You can’t recall the last time he wasn’t lodged in your thoughts. 

Where there used to be ideas, creativity, and plots worth scribbling down, there’s now only Logan—a man destined to problematize your stay on earth.

That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.

And yet, despite all of it, you continue to prioritize someone else. Someone who isn’t even here. Clung to the idea of a soulmate, you chose him over Logan.

What did he expect? For you to abandon your principles, your belief in destiny? It’s who you are. Nearly thirty years of life guided by one belief can’t just be discarded like trash.

You liked to separate things into categories: good and bad, right and wrong. A simple method to structure everything, to make sense of your world, and it has worked most of the time.

But now? The limits of those sacred categories look blurred. Your judgment feels unreliable, and you wonder if the choices you’ve made lately have been the correct ones.

Each of your decisions seems to be leading you further down a path you can’t recognize. 

What’s the goal? Finding your soulmate, the voice in your head mockingly answers for the hundredth time, rolling its imaginary eyes. And where is he?

You’ve shut Logan out, a man who’s made it clear he has feelings for you, for this elusive person. Isn’t it time he steps into the light at long last?

This is what you fear the most: loneliness.

You don’t want to be the lone woman who sits by herself in a cafe, drawing pity from waitresses who discuss her solitude. By no means do you wish to be that friend who dispenses wise dating advice, but goes home to an empty bed. You refuse to become the godmother whose hand no one holds when her time comes.

No, this can’t be all fate has to offer to you. There must be more. If your life were a book, you’d be flipping through the pages to the last chapter, desperate to see how it ends.

Or, better yet, you’d grab a pen and rewrite it yourself. What kind of ending you’ll have—you’re not so sure about that.

It’s Sunday, one of those endless weekends where the only way to survive is by rearranging your entire apartment. You could manage it alone, but help would be nice—Wade’s help, to be more precise, would be perfect for this kind of task, and you find yourself knocking on his door. 

No answer. Deciding to dial his number to see if he’s fallen asleep, you try calling him, waiting through the rings until he finally picks up. “Hey.”

Except it’s not Wade’s voice that answers. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

The door swings open, and Logan appears right behind it, holding Wade’s phone to his ear.

He narrows his eyes, leaning against the frame, a single eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “How sad. You don’t remember what I sound like.”

You feel foolish for still being on the call, so you lock your phone, ending it. “Where’s Wade?” you ask, frowning as you hold your breath, your voice sharper than intended.

“Out and about. Didn’t tell me where he was going,” Logan replies, glaring at you as he raises the phone to your face. “He left without this.”

Abort mission! Nodding in agreement, you begin to step back. “Great, I’ll look for him later.”

You’re close to being locked up once again in the safety of your apartment when you hear him: “You need anything?”

It’s the most he’s said to you in weeks. You hesitate, keeping your back turned. “I’m moving some heavy stuff around. Thought I could use the help.”

“I could do it.”

No. Not really. He’s doing that thing again—offering help when you know you shouldn’t accept it. You shake your head.

“It’s not necessary,” you say, forcing a casual tone.

“Doesn’t have to mean anything,” he retorts, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as they draw closer. With each passing second, your options shrink, leaving you no room for retreat. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to kiss you again if that’s what’s got you all worked up.”

“I’m not worked up,” you hiss, and he sidesteps you easily, his arm nudging yours.

The electricity is still there, undeniable, but neither of you has the courage to acknowledge it, acting as though it’s an ordinary occurrence.

His eyes roam the room, like he’s forgotten what your apartment looked like. He pauses by the bookshelf, his fingers gliding over the spine of Jane Eyre, and a low whistle escapes him as he slips it back into place. 

You, frozen at the threshold, feel your irritation simmering just beneath the surface, and the urge to hide in your bedroom only becomes stronger.

After this, you’ll have to burn your favorite book. What a pity.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the loops of his jeans, his posture both confident and annoyingly relaxed.

There’s a challenge in his tone, and he acts as if you’re the one who pulled him into this situation—like he didn’t worm his way in here.

You gesture toward the couch. “Can you put it by the window?”

He sets to work, moving the smaller pieces of furniture aside to make space for the couch. Under no circumstances are you going to just stand there and watch him sweat.

Instead, you busy yourself with the long-forgotten glasses and cups gathering dust in one of the kitchen cabinets, each one glinting with past disappointments.

Wetting a towel, you start by wiping the rims. The air feels heavily charged with uneasiness, but you're relieved that for once, you can breathe without feeling like you’re on the brink of a heart attack.

You can already imagine Wade’s face when you tell him—

“So,” Logan’s voice cuts through the silence, startling you, “how’s the search going? Got any luck?”

His words have the desired effect on you, and the glass slips from your grasp, shattering against the floor in a crash that mirrors the jump of your heart. You curse under your breath, stepping back from the mess, taking in the shards sprawled around your shoes.

“Be careful,” he says from the other side of the room, still dragging the furniture into place, and you scrutinize him over your shoulder, your brows knitted.

“I don’t need your advice,” you murmur through gritted teeth as you crouch to pick up the larger shards. His attention returns to the couch, but you guess he’s not technically thinking how nice of a person you are.

As you kneel, your hands tremble slightly, and you wonder when that started. You fumble for a larger shard of glass, bracing your hand against the floor for balance, unaware of the smaller piece lying dangerously close to your fingers.

The sting comes fast, slicing through the skin of your pinky. You flinch, raising your hand, and Logan, hearing the faint wince, abandons his task and crosses the room to you.

"I don’t need your advice," he echoes, mocking your tone as he squats beside you, his hand closing around yours to inspect the wound. "You’re bleeding."

“Brilliant observation, Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed—” The words die in your throat, your eyes widening as you take a closer look at his hand. “Wait, why are you bleeding?”

He snorts, diverting his attention to his own hand. “What do you mean I’m—” Whatever it is he intended to shoot back remains unsaid as both of you stare down at the small cut in his pinky.

Driven by instinct, you place your hands side by side, your finger grazing his. The cuts are identical: same place, same width, same depth. The only difference is his vanishes within seconds, leaving only a few droplets of crimson blood as evidence.

Logan couldn’t have cut himself. He was nowhere near the glass. “Are you…?” You swallow thickly, trying to string together a coherent thought, dizziness making its triumphant appearance. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that—”

“I need a drink.”

“Can you stop acting like a dick for one second?” You peer into his glossy eyes, watching him try to avoid your gaze, though he can’t seem to resist. “Please, Logan. Look at me.”

When he does, his mouth parts as if to speak, then closes again. “I don’t understand. I thought I didn’t have a soulmate.” His gruff tone slows even further, like he's straining to push the words from his lungs. “I thought—I thought I was alone.”

It explains so much: how your scars had reappeared once he and Wade returned from The Void. 

The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.

The dread that washed over you each time he walked away.

The dreams that plagued your nights, and the tightness in your chest these past few weeks that made you wonder if you could ever coexist in the same space as him without breaking apart.

All those times you felt he was getting closer weren’t just a figment of your imagination—he was, in fact, right there.

But he wasn’t just anyone—it was him. Logan is your soulmate. You two are meant to be together. How long would it take for you to truly believe it? Until it no longer sounded like something too good to be true?

Without uttering a sound, Logan gazes at you, silently pleading to see them. To see your scars. You extend your arm, and with a gentle motion, he rolls up the sleeve of your shirt, revealing the marks etched into your skin.

He runs his fingers along the lines, trying to understand the bond you now share—both his and yours.

In a sense, you’re his. You carry his scars, the physical manifestation of the life he has lived. Even though he may not bear any of his own, you do, and that’s more than enough.

He belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

“There are more,” you tell him. your voice barely above a whisper. He stands, offering you his hand, and you take it, rising to your feet. Logan inches closer, his mouth hovering just above yours, his large hand coming up to cup your cheek.

The look he gives you is one reserved for those he loves, a look filled with such warmth and affection that it almost feels dreamlike.

“Do you want me to see them?” he inquires, and all he needs is a nod from you to gently tug your shirt up your chest and over your head.

He lets out a dry chuckle when you attempt to tame your hair, the effort proving to be in vain. The clock on the wall seems to pause its ticking the moment his fingers begin to trail each of the scars that captures his gaze.

You can’t even begin to fathom what thoughts might be swirling in his mind, but if the flicker of lust and desire you catch in his expression is anything to go by, you’re not so worried.

Logan’s touch carries an unexpected softness, a tenderness you never imagined a man like him could possess.

Deep down, you wish he understood that these scars don’t hurt, that they never have. “I’m okay,” you reassure him, prompting him to explore more of your skin, to claim you as his.

“Do you… like them?” he asks without meeting your eyes.

Do you like my scars? is the real question hidden underneath.

Do you like me? is the one he can’t bring himself to pronounce.

“They’re yours. I could never not like them.” 

Before you stands a man you once believed was meant to be your burden, your trial. Logan had been the earthquake sent to test your endurance, to see how much you could withstand before surrendering and waving the white flag.

The same fingers that once imprinted his mark on you now linger on the strap of your bra, waiting for you to decide whether to let him go further or stop.

Desire has a limit before it overwhelms. There’s only so much need a person can contain before it spills over, uncontrollable and raw.

This game, one you never learned how to play, feels as foreign to him as it does to you—neither of you knows the rules.

“Can I see more?” He’s still talking about the scars, still fumbling with the strap, and you nod, your eyelids growing droopier as you take his free hand and direct it to the front of your jeans.

He catches the hint, undoing the button with ease, allowing you to shed the last layers of restraint.

Bare, moments away from being completely naked, standing in stark contrast to Logan, who remains fully clothed, your stomach does a flip as he rubs his thumb along the sides of your underwear.

Leaning your forehead against his shoulder, you stifle a sigh when he splays his hand across your lower back, pulling you closer.

His rough grip tightens on your ass, testing the feel of you, while your breathing becomes shallow, erratic.

“What is it, honey?” He slides his fingers your stomach, just below your belly button, brushing a small scar in there. “Want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” you croak, the plea slipping out involuntarily, throwing your arms around his neck. He buries his face against your jaw, his lips parting against your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

You tilt your head back, exposing more of your throat to him, breathless as you whisper: “I’ve waited so long.”

He moves toward the couch, and you follow, trying to anticipate what he’s got planned for you. “I know, baby. I know. You’ve waited long enough.” Guiding your body down, he has you lying horizontally on the sofa. He unhooks your bra, kneading your breasts with both hands, eliciting a ragged gasp from you. “But I’m here now. You don’t have to wait any longer,” he huffs by your ear, rolling your nipples between his fingers, his breath mingling with yours, each exhale warm and inviting. “Gonna let me make you feel good? Show you how much I’ve been thinkin’ about you?”

Instead of answering with real words, you surge forward, crashing your lips against with his, reveling in the way he cages you with his biceps, locking you up in a prison of desire from which you never wish to break free. He tries not to settle his full weight on top of you, attentive not to crush you.

As he nips at the column of your throat, you squirm beneath him, canting your hips up to seek the friction you crave.

He presses his knee against your center and you push back, grinding against him with an animalistic urgency.

You can’t recall ever feeling this desperate, this overwhelmed by a man. But then again, he’s unlike any other you’ve encountered in your array of momentary hookups.

His kisses grow even more insistent as breathy moans roll off to your tongue, merging with the occasional creak of the couch beneath your movements.

Logan spreads your thighs wider, sinking to his knees on the floor to tug your lower half forward until your ass is almost hanging in the air. He places your thighs on his shoulders, supporting you as he leans in to pepper your soft flesh with kisses.

One can be certain that he’s marking your inner thighs with a hickey or two, the scratch of his beard feeling magnificent against your sensitive skin, and you can hardly bring yourself to think about the potential burn he’ll leave behind. Logan inhales your scent, the tip of his nose dangerously close to your cunt, and you tangle a hand in his hair as he continues to test your patience.

“Eager?” he wonders aloud, looking at you through his lashes. While maintaining eye contact, he presses a kiss to your clit through the fabric of your panties.

He does it again, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, his fingers deftly pulling your underwear down your legs.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds has you scrunching your eyebrows in pleasure, tightening your grip on his hair. Logan moans against you, the sound muffled as he dips the tip of his tongue into your entrance, lapping at your arousal with an insatiable hunger.

The way you purr his name—a soft caress, a pat on his back that says Yeah, you’re doing fine—only spurs him on, infusing every one of his ministrations with fervor.

His longing for you radiates in the intensity of his touch, sending shivers through you, making you writhe because of his hands alone.

Your core throbs. Your skin prickles with electricity. Your legs quake on either side of his face. He’s hungry and you’re his feast. He’s parched and you’re the last bottle of water in an arid world.

Logan eats you out like this will be the only time he’ll have the privilege—each movement calculated, pushing all the right buttons, pulling out every trick he knows to make you think No, it doesn’t get any better than this. This is as much as one can get.

Then his fingers join the symphony of pleasure, pumping in and out of you as he keeps flicking your clit with expert precision, and your back arches from the couch, following his pace with your hips. He pushes back, you push forward—he pushes forward, you push back.

Who is enjoying this more: him or you?

His pointed tongue teases your bud, matched with the persistent hammering of his fingers plunged into your wet heat. The combination has you coming on his mouth, falling over the precipice while you struggle to keep yourself together.

Your walls flutter around his digits, and your cries fuse with his groans, both overshadowed by his insatiable desire to savor until the last drop of your release.

Shockwaves ripple through your body and you prop your weight on your arms to capture his lips in a fervent kiss, your eyes rolling rolling back in ecstasy as you taste yourself, a mix of sour and sweet.

In a frenzy, he sheds his clothes, practically tearing them away, and you wrap your hand around his length, stroking him in time with your kisses. Logan pulls back, panting against you, and you steal a glance at him.

Your gaze travels down to his hard cock, the tip a furious red, and he seizes your wrist.

“Why don’t you kiss it better?” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave. In this moment, you’re taken aback by his beauty, and the urge to express it rises within you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against his thigh, showering his skin with heated kisses. You stare in disbelief at the trail of hair leading to his girth, mouth watering at the sight.

A kiss on the tip, followed by a broad lick along a prominent vein—Logan’s grip on the armrest tightens, his knuckles turning white. “So perfect.”

“Shut up,” he retorts breathlessly, but you revel in the strangled noise that escapes him as you take him deeper, his head disappearing between your lips. His palm rests on your nape, anchoring you in place. “Goddammit. The fuckin’—mouth you have on you.”

You try to take him in further once you’re feeling more confident, while Logan fights with all his might against the need to thrust his hips up into your warmth. He can’t stay still, grunting and smothering you with lavish praise that heightens your arousal, slick pouring out of you in waves.

“Pretty thing you are. Don’t even know how to function around you. You got me all—fuck, actin’ all stupid.”

At one point, he tells you to stop, because he doesn’t want to come just yet. You know what comes next as he rubs his cock along your folds, blending your wetness with his precum.

It’s sloppy, and dirty, and messy—and God, do you love it.

He sinks into you and the world collides in a way you never expected. Everything you thought you knew falls apart, leaving you stranded in unfamiliar territory.

You can’t comprehend how you’ve spent so many years without him. Without this.

Your lips find his, and he swallows every sound he punches out of your lungs. His thrusts grow harder and faster as you adjust to his size, how big he feels inside you.

He digs his fingers into the globes of your ass, yanking you towards his shaft every time he fucks into you. You feel the brush of his balls against your skin, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

You come to understand it fully as his eyes flicker to yours, checking for any signs of discomfort in your features.

You understand why people write books and songs about love when he breathes your name in the shell of your ear, chanting how good you’re taking him, how tight and wet you are for him.

You understand the place love occupies in your life as the sound of your bodies slapping together creates a melody which has never been played before.

You understand why you’ve searched for this your entire life, lifting every carpet in hopes of uncovering the love you’ve pined for.

In the past, it had always felt like a race—finding your soulmate before the clock struck twelve. Now that you have him, you wonder what the future holds for you, how this connection will evolve.

For now, you can allow yourself the possibility of relishing the drag of his cock in your interior. His pace doesn’t falter for a second—something about mutants and their non-stop stamina, no doubt. He shoves a hand between your sweaty bodies, rubbing circles on your already swollen bud.

Each time he fills you to the brim, you have to ground yourself, resisting the pull of an altered reality.

“So full,” you blurt out, mewling with a specially hard thrust, a chocked sob lodged in your throat. “Please, stay.”

It could mean many things: Please, keep fucking me. Please, don’t leave after this. Please, remain by my side form this moment onward, because I don’t know how to go on with my life now that I’ve experienced this closeness.

Whatever meaning he ascribes to your words is of little importance. He tightens his arms around you, kissing you deeply, tongue and teeth clashing as they compete to see who wins the battle. “Never. I’m never lettin’ you go, y’hear me?”

Heat pools in your lower back, a coiling tension radiating through your limbs. “You’re mine, princess. Can’t afford to lose you now that I found you. Gonna remind you every day.”

His rambling pushes you over the edge, your dripping cunt spasming around him as you reach your climax, moaning his name against his shoulder. You cling to him, convulsing beneath his body, and he grinds his hips into yours, his chest rumbling as he growls.

“Inside,” you mumble, extending your hand to press it to his waist. “Need you inside me. Please, I want it so bad.”

Logan stutters against you, his forehead falling against your collarbone as he finishes with one powerful thrust, his cock pulsing warm ropes of come within your cunt. You clench around him, whining as he prolongs both your pleasure and his, milking the last drop of his seed. His voice is a constant murmur, filling every space in the room until he slumps against you.

Night has fallen. The cut on your pinky no longer stings. Your scars, after all, are still there, nestled against Logan’s unmarked skin. You caress his back, sighing contentedly as a wave of peace washes over you.

You’ve never felt this relaxed.

Logan grasps your chin and tilts it up, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey,” he mutters, his gaze roaming all over your face.

You cup his cheek, his rough stubble grazing your palm. “Hey, stranger. Long time no see.”

A genuine laugh pierces through the silence. the kind he rarely allows himself. Crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, his brow furrowing as he glances at you with love.

Love—hadn’t you pondered its existence for so long? Your fuel for living, the muse behind your best poems, a recurring motif in your fantasies.

Love now has Logan’s name written in ink, no longer a blank canvas awaiting its unknown owner. No—it’s all his now.

You’d do it all over again if it meant ending up like this, tangled and intertwined, with the promise of a future together. He has many stories to share—about his past universe, about himself. You have secrets to unveil, too. There’s so much you both have yet to discover about each other.

But time isn’t up. This isn’t a race, you remind yourself: things are just getting started.

Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up. Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.

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

[missadangel]

⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

V. Confessio

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Chapter Summary:  Which was tougher: dragging your fake husband -from ancient time- to go shopping or getting him to wear those outfits? Now that's a real head-scratcher…You and Marcus are getting closer... Chapter W. Count and warnings: 10k; confession of feelings, KISSING, injury, mention about death, romantic comedy, falling in love, fluffy, lying (a lot), mention about smuggling, sharing a room, mention about reincarnation, praising kink.. authors note: The reincarnation mentioned here is based on ancient Roman beliefs, and more information will be provided in future episodes. Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut General Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk(but falls in love with reader), its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

chapter theme...

“It happened again,” Marcus muttered, pushing himself up from the cold, hard floor, his eyes wide with disbelief as he took in his surroundings. For him, it came as a shock, but for you, it was a wave of relief and joy to return. Neither of you anticipated returning in this way—indeed, Marcus hadn’t expected to return at all.

But wait, was that anger flickering in his eyes?

He stood up, brushing off his armor as he ran his hands over its surface, searching for the marks left by arrows that had once pierced him. The weight of reality that he had died and then risen again hung heavy in the air. Suddenly, thoughts of his soldiers and Julius flooded back, and he turned his gaze towards the fading rift, its brilliant light dimming with each passing moment.

“Marcus,” you called, stepping closer to him. “Are you all right?”

“I need to leave.”

You blinked in disbelief, your heart racing as you stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Are you out of your mind? You know better than I do what just happened! You can’t go back there!”

He remained fixated on the rift. “Julius, my soldiers, Rome...” Then he turned to face you, fury burning in his eyes. “Why did you bring me here?”

You frowned, anger bubbling up within you. “Are you serious? I saved your life!”

“No, you didn’t. I was already dead.”

You let out a sharp laugh, incredulous. “And what do you think will happen when you go back? They’ll kill you again. Is that what you want?”

His determination was evident as he stared at the rift, completely ignoring you.

You grasped his arm firmly. “You promised me.”

Finally, he looked at you. “I kept my promise. You came back.”

“I meant the other promise.”

He held your gaze for a heavy moment before responding, his voice softening. “I couldn’t keep it. Forgive me. But you need to understand, even if going back means facing death once more, I have to do it.”

“Why? Just for Julius? You don’t want to stay here with me?”

“I don’t belong here, Rosa,” he said, his voice firm yet tinged with sadness.

You tightened your grip on his hand, feeling a mix of surprise and urgency. “You don’t belong there anymore, either. The soldiers saw you die; everyone will think you’re dead. Look, that world is perilous, filled with death and danger. Sure, this place isn’t perfect, but at least no one is trying to shoot you with arrows or stab you with swords. Marcus, it’s your time—I get that—but in that world, you’re walking into death every single day. It’s safer here. Please, stay.”

You thought desperately, you might not have a family or a lover waiting for you there, but you have me here.

Stay with me.

He gently pushed your hand away, shaking his head. “I must fulfill my duty as a general—for Rome,” he stated, turning resolutely back to the rift. But just as he was about to reach it, the rift suddenly vanished, swallowed by the night. Marcus froze, shock etching his features.

“Oops,” you said, stifling a laugh. Part of you felt like he deserved it; why had he insisted on returning, knowing his fate?

Anger flickered in his eyes as he turned to you.

“M-maybe this is for the b-best,” you stammered, softly trying to calm him down. “Should I promise to find a way to get you back there like you did for me? Nah, I don't think so.”

He frowned, recognizing the sarcasm in your tone, yet suddenly his expression shifted to concern. “Rosa,” he murmured, studying your face.

“Wh-what?” you asked, confused about what was happening. Then you felt warmth trickling down your lip to your chin and instinctively touched it.

Blood stained your finger.

Was your nose bleeding?

“Whoa—what the hell?”

Just then, you felt dizzy and stumbled, but Marcus rushed to your side, wrapping his arms around you. “Are you well?” One arm held you close while his other hand caressed your cheek.

“Yeah, I guess,” you murmured, reaching for your bag with your free hand. He anticipated your move, opening your bag and handing it to you with hurried efficiency. You took a tissue and pressed it against your nose, applying pressure until the flow finally started to subside.

And then Marcus’s worry consumed him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the rift had closed and he was once again trapped in 2025. “Rosa, what is wrong? Are you sick?”

“No, it’s just a silly nosebleed,” you reassured him. “I get them sometimes when I’m stressed. Actually, I'm surprised this hasn’t happened sooner, given everything I’ve been through.”

That’s when it hit you. Usually, this place buzzed with tourists—especially next to the Pantheon—but now, it felt eerily silent. Then you thought of Lizzie. How long had you been away? Did time move differently while you were gone? “Marcus, something’s wrong.”

“Tell me what you need. We should find a medicus. I can take you there.” 

“No, no, I’m fine. It’s not the case,” you insisted, stuffing the tissue up your nose. “It’s this place. Last time, it was a movie set, but now it’s deserted when it should be filled with people.”

Your eyes widened as you noticed yellow police tape up ahead that read ‘POLICE DO NOT CROSS.’

“Look, something has happened here. The cops have cordoned off the area.”

“What does that mean?”

“Either a crime has happened here, or something terrible has unfolded. They put up these warnings to keep people away, and here we are, right in the middle of it all,” you replied, your eyes scanning the eerie surroundings.

As you continued walking, you recalled that there should have been a parking lot ahead with your car parked there. You should have headed straight to it. It felt strange that there was no one around, but finding your sister was your top priority. You longed to see her, to hug her tight, maybe even cry with her for hours. Approaching the parking lot, you suddenly spotted police officers ahead and quickly ducked down, signaling Marcus to do the same. “Shit.”

“Are those 'police'?” he whispered.

“Cops, yeah, but fortunately, there are only two of them,” you said, scanning the area. Thankfully, the yellow lines didn’t extend into the parking lot. You crept forward cautiously. “Alright, we’re going to get to my car quietly.”

“Your car? How you are certain that your car is located there?

“Remember, before you returned to your time and dragged me with you, I parked there.” You pulled the key from your bag. “See?” you explained, showing him before pressing the button to unlock the doors. The car beeped, and the yellow signal lights flashed. You couldn’t help but jump for joy. “Oh, baby!” you exclaimed, running toward the car. You placed your hands on the hood and sighed deeply. “I missed you so much, girl.”

Marcus chuckled. “Girl?”

“Yes, my dear Giulietta.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the brand name,” you said. “Never mind, just get in.”

While Marcus fumbled with the door, someone suddenly shouted, “Hey, you two! Stay where you are!”

It was the cops.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath.

It turned out you had to go to the police station before heading home. Five days earlier, there had been an explosion near the Pantheon—a terrorist attack, the police informed you once you arrived. When they came to take off your strange and bloody clothes, convincing them of your innocence proved to be a real challenge.

The officers were skeptical of your story, given you were in a crime scene, and that ultimately led to both of you being detained in a cell. You and Marcus were separated since the men’s and women’s cells were adjacent but distinct. Straining against the bars, you tried to glimpse into the next cell, but visibility was limited.

“Marcus! Are you there? Are you okay?”

“I’m here, Rosa. Are you alright?”

“Yes, I never thought my return would be like this,” you sighed.

Marcus sighed too, recalling the last time he was in a similar situation. "These police men resemble the Praetorian Guards, both share similar duties."

“You could say that,” you said with a shaky laugh.

Later, as you exchanged awkward glances with the other women in the cell—thanks to your blood-soaked ancient Roman attire—you heard a familiar voice.

It was your sister.

“Lizzie!” you shouted, rushing to the bars.

“Rose!” she exclaimed, sprinting toward your cell.

The police officer unlocked the cell and allowed you out. “You’re free, ma’am.”

You joyfully embraced Lizzie, holding her tightly. Tears of happiness streamed down your face as you said, “Oh, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” she said, her eyes welling up as well. You both stepped back to take in each other’s faces, and you kissed her cheeks affectionately. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I thought the same. Where in God’s name have you been?”

“I'll tell you everything, but Lizzie, how did you even know I was at the police station?”

“The missing person ads we put out for you. The cops called to tell me you—the missing person—had been found.”

"Did you just say ‘we'?"

That's when you noticed her standing behind your sister.

Your aunt, Victoria.

You hadn't spoken to her in years, yet she rushed over to embrace you and touched your sister Lizzie's shoulder. "Elizabeth called me the day after you went missing. We've been searching for you for weeks."

"Weeks?"

"It's been almost twenty days now." 

It seemed that time didn't move differently. That was a relief, but your sister's desperation to reach out to your aunt made you feel sad.

"Where have you been? What happened? And what in the world are you wearing?" Lizzie asked, her eyes wide.

"Uh, well, I..." Just then, you remembered Marcus. When you turned to look at him, you found he was watching you too. You glanced at the police officer beside you. "Isn't he getting released?"

"No, ma'am. There's no identification for the gentleman, nor any information regarding his Italian nationality. His account is also inconsistent; there's no way we can let him go."

"Isn't he the same guy from last time?" Lizzie murmured. "Were you with him the entire time?"

You shot her a warning look. "I'll explain everything later. You wait outside; I need to speak to the commissioner."

Unfortunately, the commissioner was not easily swayed. You had to weave a web of lies about what you were doing at the crime scene, surprising even yourself—you could win an Oscar for that performance. Still, nothing was enough to get Marcus released. It all came down to his lack of identification; he needed citizenship to get out.

Now that you were back, it felt like the situation has reversed.

As you prepared to leave the station, guilt flooded over you while making your way toward Marcus' cell. "Marcus, I’m really sorry you have to spend the night here. You need ID. I wish I could ask the Prime Minister of Italy for your citizenship, just as you asked your emperor for mine back then," you joked.

“I understand that it is difficult for you to manage that,” he said, smiling.

“Very much so,” you confessed. Birth certificates, residency papers—all of it was a headache. In that moment, one solution came to mind, though it was illegal and certainly punishable. "Look, just hang in there. I'll find a way to get you out of here tomorrow. It’ll be tough, but it's possible."

“I trust you, Rosa,” he remarked with an even broader smile.

That smile.

You'd face any consequence for that smile.

What on earth?

You are standing right in front of the cell now; get a grip girl, you told yourself.

Reluctantly, you left him there and walked out of the station with your aunt and sister.

Back home, they bombarded you with questions, but your mind was elsewhere—on Marcus. He was stuck in that cell tonight, surrounded by strangers in an unwelcoming place and another time.

Poor guy.

As much as you were relieved to finally sleep in your own bed after what felt like ages, thoughts of Marcus consumed your mind that morning.

"What? You've been on a movie set on some island all this time?" 

"And you couldn't call because your phone ended up in the sea?" 

"You didn't even have a chance to call on a landline because there was no settlement or radio tower on the island?" 

At breakfast, it felt as if you were being filled with questions instead of food.

“I couldn't call anyone all this time because I had temporary memory loss from a head injury, but nothing serious really,” you carried on, weaving your web of lies. It seemed like it would never end. 

"Jesus! Are you okay now?" Your aunt asked, worry etched on her face.

"Did you have a CT scan? An MRI?" Lizzie asked.

"Yes, yes, everything is fine, don't worry. Look, I'm fine, really. But I need to get Marcus out of the police station. I've gotta go—like, now."

"What's going on between you and him?" Lizzie asked again, narrowing her eyes skeptically. 

“Can I answer all that later? I promise I’ll give you all the details,” you replied, kissing her goodbye before hurrying out the door. 

You fabricated a story for your aunt and sister, telling them that your ID and clothes were in your lost suitcase during the flight, so they assumed you were heading to the airport. Instead, you made your way to his agency to meet Andre, a man known for forging documents for films and capable of creating fake IDs. However, there was a problem—Marcus didn’t have any photos. Andre suggested another acquaintance, a hacker and mastermind in document manipulation, who was careful to avoid crossing legal lines. His home resembled something out of a crime thriller, filled with computers and equipment that simmered with potential mischief. Thankfully, he was a professional, and within mere hours, he crafted the document you needed—a convincing fake ID that could serve its purpose. "Here you go, beautiful. The document you wanted."

"Thank you so much," you said, genuine relief flooding through you.

"Just a word of caution: this will only buy you some time with the police. They won’t let him do anything without proper identification."

You're right. Can you assist me later if I come back for a legitimate ID? I need that ASAP." you asked, attempting to sound innocent.

The man was clearly charmed by your soft voice. "Sure, but sweetheart, it comes at a cost."

“What do you mean?”

"It'll cost you a small fortune."

"Oh, I see." 

You headed to the police station with the temporary document in hand, thinking about the figure he mentioned—thousands of euros for a fake ID. The counterfeit document you were holding had already cost you a few hundred euros from the bank, but it had proven effective. They released Marcus, but only after he promised to present his real ID within a few days. They then reduced the timeframe to three days, given that he had previously signed a similar document.

Damn.

Yet, a sigh of relief escaped you as you stepped out of the police station. “Oh, thank goodness that’s sorted.” 

"Thank you, Rosa. You’ve once again rescued me,” He smiled, his expression thankful. 

You exchanged smiles, but you noticed everyone on the sidewalk was casting strange looks your way. "Marcus, we need to change your outfit. You look odd in that... miniskirt," you stifled a laugh.

He frowned. "It's called a tunica," he said defensively. 

"I'm sorry, but in this day and age, with this outfit, you appear to be a man in a skirt, at least to everyone else."

He let out a frustrated sigh. "Can you please not use that word?"

"Alright, alright, I’ll stick with tunica. But you can't walk around like this while you're here. We need to get you something else, Mr. General," you joked, touching his shoulder. "It’s time for you to cover your legs," you teased him.

"Do men must cover their legs here?" 

"Well, they usually wear pants, but some choose shorts," you explained catching his glare. "Look at that guy wearing shorts," you pointed at a tourist snapping pictures nearby. 

Marcus sighed again. "Well, I guess you're right. It’s hard to endure the stares and laughter of others, especially with the disrespect aimed at me, particularly from women."

"I can’t really blame them, though; your thighs are... pretty impressive," you remarked, stealing a glance at his strong, muscular legs and letting out a small sigh.

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you think so, Rosa?"

You quickly looked away, "Not at all. I was just messing with you."

He let out a laugh, but then suddenly grabbed his calf, wincing in pain. 

"What happened?" 

"My wound seems to be getting worse. I need to have it wrapped with some new cloth."

"Oh, right. The police didn't even take you to the hospital because you didn’t have ID, did they? Let me see." 

The gash on his calf was deep, making you feel dizzy at the sight. "Marcus, we have to go to the hospital right now. But first, let’s buy you some new clothes. Come on." With that, you took his hand and led him toward the nearest clothing store.

If there was anything more difficult than explaining to Marcus what was happening in the clothing store, it was trying to convince him to wear those clothes—especially the underwear. Fortunately, thanks to the lifeless mannequins and the pictures of models, plus his own intelligence, he quickly grasped what you were saying.

The only issue was that he didn’t like it at all.

In the men’s section, while waiting for him to emerge from the fitting room, the other male customers glanced over at you with puzzled looks. Usually, it was a woman trying on clothes while a man waited outside, but this situation felt completely different.

“Marcus?” you gently knocked on the fitting room door. “Are you dressed?”

At that moment, the door swung open, and Marcus stepped out. You were taken aback as you took in his appearance. You had picked out clothes one by one, handing them to him to try on, but you could never have anticipated how good they would look on him. He wore black jeans, a dark blue shirt, and white sneakers with the laces tied awkwardly. If it weren’t for the scar on his face, you might have mistaken him for someone else entirely. But there it was, that stern expression; it was undoubtedly him.

“These clothes are a bit strange,” he grumbled. “These pants are too tight.”

“No, they’re not; they’re your size and fit perfectly,” you said, reaching up to adjust the collar of his shirt, which looked a little odd rolled up. “Come here.”

Marcus focused on the smile on your face as you tidied his shirt. Despite his discomfort with the new clothes, he enjoyed seeing you happy. He even entertained the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could fit into this new life with you. It was hard for him, just as it was for you to adapt to his time. However, he believed it was worth the effort if it meant seeing your smile every day.

“Come on, take a look at yourself in the mirror,” you said, taking his arm.

When he first gazed into the mirror, he was startled to see such a large reflection showing every detail so clearly.

How could you blame him?

His brow furrowed as he examined the shirt and pants, feeling the buttons and inspecting the neat seams. Then he smiled back at your reflection. “It will require some time to adjust to this attire.”

"You'll manage, General," you said, patting his back.

While you paid for the new clothes with your credit card, he continued to look around in awe. He could hardly imagine how much more there was to take in and discover in this world.

Marcus picked up all the shopping bags as you left the store together, carefully balancing his armor and the clothes he had changed out of in the oversized bag you had requested. You were surprised by how easily he carried everything. Well, he was a man wielding a sword, after all—those strong arms, muscles, biceps.

Damn it.

Your mind wandered in that direction again.

But you couldn’t help it; he looked incredibly attractive in those clothes.

Women still turned to look at him on the street, but this time it was with admiration, not ridicule.

Just what you needed.

After strolling for a bit longer, you noticed an ice cream shop up ahead. “Marcus, are you ready for your first ice cream?”

He raised an eyebrow, then studied the sign and the people enjoying their ice-creams outside. “You sit here, I’ll grab us both some,” you said, pointing to a nearby bench. He complied, setting the bags on the floor and watching you from a distance as you stood in line. When you returned with two ice cream cones, you handed him one. “I didn’t know what kind of fruit you like, so since it’s your first time, I asked for plain milk ice cream. Give it a try, Mr. General.”

Marcus held the cone gingerly. You sat beside him and demonstrated how to eat it by sticking out your tongue to lick the ice cream, he chuckled at your expression.

“This is sweet and cold,” he murmured after tasting his first scoop.

“Yes, that’s what ice cream is. So, do you like it?”

He nodded with a smile.

You saw a bloodstain on his thigh that messed up his new pants. “Oh no, Marcus, how could we forget this? Get up—we need to go to the hospital,” you said, tugging him gently. “Let’s drop the bags in the trunk of the car first; I parked over there.”

“Not like that, pull it tight,” you instructed Marcus as he fumbled with the seat belt. Sighing, you reached over to help him, he turned his head so quickly that your lips nearly brushed against each other. Unfazed, you secured his seat belt and gripped the steering wheel. “You have no idea how much I missed driving my baby,” you said with a cheerful grin.

“Baby... You say that word so often. What does it mean?” he asked, his expression a mix of curiosity and confusion.

You were taken aback and paused at the red light to give him your full attention. “Well, it means 'young child.' We also use that word for things we love or care about. It’s a cute way to refer to someone you cherish. I'm not exactly sure where the term originates, but that’s how we typically use it.”

He nodded, recalling something. “When we were in the shop, a woman called a man ‘baby,’” he said, as if it were an offense.

You chuckled. “That’s how lovers or couples speak to each other, you know? It’s like saying ‘my love’ but in a cute way. You Romans say—”

“Amor meus,” he said, looking at you with a penetrating gaze. “Mel malum, mea vita, mea lux..."

The way he spoke those words was so sweet, like music to your ears. You swallowed hard as you locked eyes with him. “Yeah, it sounds way cooler when you say it in your language, I guess,” you murmured, your gaze drifting to his lips.

Out of nowhere, a horn honked, snapping you back to reality. The driver behind you was getting impatient, waiting for you to hit the gas. The light was green, and you were just sitting there.

“Mi aeterne amor,” Marcus murmured to himself with a smile.

“Wait, what did you say?” you shifted into gear, eager to reach the hospital just around the corner.

“Nothing,” he said softly.

“Anyway, here we are.”

Even though dealing with the hospital hassle without proper ID was a pain, you managed to get through using a fake document you got yesterday. You stayed right by Marcus when they took him to the emergency room. He was looking around, eyes wide, soaking in all the hospital details while you filled him in on everything. Before long, a tall, stunning blonde woman walked into the triage area, looking more like an actress playing a doctor on a TV show. She shot a bright smile at Marcus, “Could you roll down your pants?” while slipping on her gloves. Then she turned to you, and for some reason, her gaze made you uneasy. “You’ll need to step outside, please.”

You felt a rush of indignation. “He’s my husband,” you said firmly.

The woman seemed displeased with your tone. “Alright, then help your husband,” she said.

“Of course I will,” you shot back, assisting Marcus.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, struggling to contain his amusement at your reaction. The doctor checked out his wound. “It’s pretty deep, but luckily it missed any arteries, thanks to your strong muscles, of course,” she said with a grin.

Marcus frowned.

For the first time, you were kinda grateful for his caveman vibe.

You tried not to giggle.

Take that bitch.

Then she told the nurse to clean it up and stitch it, and just like that, she was gone.

“What the heck? Is she a doctor or a model?” you whispered.

Marcus chuckled. “I never seen a woman healer before.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, is that something you find intriguing, Mr. General?”

He seemed taken aback by your sudden shift in tone. “I didn’t say—”

All men are the same.

It seems that even ancient ones find blondes more appealing.

"Her hair isn’t even real, it’s all dyed, you know? And she had so much makeup on, it looked like she just fell into a bucket of it or something."

“Why would that matter to me? And why are you suddenly angry?”

“I’m not!” you snapped, surprising even yourself as heads turned in your direction.

Oops.

What just happened?

What's wrong with me, you thought, feeling embarrassed.

You cleared your throat. “Let’s get going if you're ready,” you said, taking his arm and urging him to leave the damn hospital.

“We really need to get rid of that thing, you know?” You gestured towards the bag Marcus was carrying, filled to the brim with his old—or perhaps ancient—clothes as you both climbed the stairs to your apartment in the building. Without even looking at it, he already grasped what you meant. "Your bag is quite significant to you, isn’t it? I distinctly recall how reluctant you were to part with it while..."

“It’s not the same thing you know. Let’s at least get rid of your armor or something. You can keep your little knife if you want.”

“Pugio is a type of dagger, not a knife.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” you replied, opening the door to your apartment.

Your aunt was still staying with you, which made you a bit uncomfortable, but you felt grateful for her support of Lizzie while you were away. You ordered pizza for dinner from the restaurant downstairs, and Marcus seemed to enjoy the ‘cheese and tomato dough’ for the first time.

“So, did you meet on the movie set?” your aunt asked, glancing at Marcus.

Oh, right. It was normal for her to have questions when you came home with a man.

“Yes, I told you. Marcus is one of the extras.”

"I asked him, not you," she muttered.  

"And I was just answering for him," you shot back.

“What’s going on between you two? It’s not just a friendship, is it?”

“Aunt Victoria,” you warned, shooting her a glare. “Marcus is here for a few days because his family lives far away,” you said, hoping your tone sounded convincing. “And he’s just my friend.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows, looking at you with a gaze that you couldn't quite comprehend.

“So, the only reason you’re together is to shoot the new movie?”

“Yes, of course we’ll start shooting soon,” you replied nervously, taking a sip of your coke.

You had technically been fired from your last job—it wasn’t your fault you were kidnapped—but how could they have known? You needed to call the head costume designer as soon as possible and plead for your job back. Otherwise, you weren’t sure how you’d untangle the web of lies you had spun.

When you got up to clear the plates, Marcus followed you. He had been quiet since your arrival, and while he appreciated you answering all the questions for him, there was something that seemed to trouble him.

“Rosa?”

“Hmm?” you replied, focused on the plates in the sink.

“Are you well?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve lied so many times my head hurts.”

“You seem pretty skilled at this,” he said with a smirk, crossing his arms as he glanced at you. “At the hospital, you referred to me as your husband. Now, though, you’re telling your aunt and sister that I’m 'just' a friend.”

You stared at him, trying to understand the implication of his tone. “What was I supposed to say? That we’re married?”

His expression fell. “Is it so bad to be married to me?”

Did he hurt?

Suddenly, a glass shattered voice came, breaking the moment. Lizzie stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, her eyes wide with shock as the glass slipped from her hand. “Did you marry him?”

Unfortunately, she was loud enough that your aunt sprang up from the table, running to you. “What? What did you say?”

“Crap,” you muttered under your breath.

After cleaning up the glass shards, your aunt sat you down on the couch as if conducting a police interrogation, bombarding you with questions once more.

“So that’s why you disappeared? You got married in secret? How could you do that? As if the last time wasn’t tragic enough. You didn’t even tell your family, me. Do you hate me that much, Rose?”

“I can’t say I love you very much,” you retorted, crossing your arms.

“Rose!” Lizzie interjected. “Aunt Victoria was there for me while you were gone, -busy with marrying apparently-. She covered Dad’s hospital bills and the rent.”

“Lizzie, honey, I get it, but I can’t forget what she did to my mother in the past okay?”

“Don’t change the subject,” your aunt shot back, jabbing a finger at you. “Why did you marry him? How did it happen so fast? Did you get married in a church? Tell me everything right now.”

“It’s entirely my fault,” Marcus said. “I am the one to blame, Lady Victoria. I implore you not to unleash your frustrations on Rose because of my actions."

She looked at him in surprise, taken aback by his respectful tone and demeanor.

“Marcus,” you said, squeezing his hand gently. “I’ll handle this.” You turned to your aunt. “I know this is all very sudden, but I’m not a little girl anymore. I’ve told you everything already. I love Marcus; he’s the one, and that’s why I married him.”

Marcus smiled, your aunt frowned. You then took Lizzie’s hands and crouched down beside her. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart—for disappearing, for leaving you alone, for marrying without telling you. I hope you can forgive me.”

Lizzie leaned down and hugged you tightly. “It’s okay, you silly. That’s just how your life goes; you’ve always been a bit messy. But please, don’t ever disappear like that again.”

“Okay, I promise,” you said as you hugged her back.

“Then, um, Victoria, you’ll be heading home, right? After all, there’ll be three of us in this apartment now.”

Victoria narrowed her eyes at you. “You ungrateful girl. Are you kicking me out now?”

“A little,” you replied, grinning sweetly.

Lizzie walked over to you, saying, “Rose, she should at least stay the night.”

“Come on, don’t act like she’s out there homeless on the street. Remember, our aunt's husband is an Italian billionaire, and they live in a mansion.”

“But in Milan,” she shot back, clearly frustrated. “Plus, it’s late. How am I supposed to get a plane ticket at this hour? I can go tomorrow if you really want me to leave so badly.” She sighed heavily as she sank onto the couch. “I can’t believe it’s been years since we last saw each other, and look at how you’ve chosen to greet me. First, you vanished without a word, and now you show up married—to someone much older, whom we barely know, along with his family who is a complete mystery to us.” 

“I know him and his family, so there’s really no need for you to pry,” you said, ignoring the disapproving look she gave you. “Okay, that’s enough for tonight; it’s getting late,” you said, standing up. “Since we don’t have another room, Victoria, you can sleep in my room—”

“Oh no, Rose, I’ll take the couch. You’re a married woman now, and it’s only right you share your room with your husband,” she said, stealing a glance at Marcus out of the corner of her eye.

Oh great.

After you made up the couch with sheets and pillows for Victoria, Lizzie headed to her room. Now it was just you and Marcus. As you entered your room, you both exchanged awkward smiles. "Well, this is my room,” you said hesitantly, giving him a quick tour since it was his first time there.

Marcus’s eyes immediately fell on the small photographs pinned to the clipboard above your desk—sweet snapshots of you and Lizzie as kids, alongside your mom and dad. A smile spread across his face as he saw your younger self.

After all, he had known you from another time and another life since you were a child. You might look and speak different, but, you were her, and he knew that.

“Well, my room isn’t as big as yours, but I hope you like it, Mr. General,” you said with a laugh. That's when you noticed the piles of your underwears on the small armchair—something you had embraced longingly the day before. In a panic, you rushed over to stuff them into the drawer, but they got stuck and wouldn’t close. “Sorry it’s a bit messy. We don’t have slaves to pick up after us,” you added with a hint of sarcasm, forcing the drawer shut.

"Thank you for welcoming me into your room, Rosa. I also want to say I'm sorry for putting you in a tough situation with your aunt."

His apology caught you off guard—it was the first time he had ever said that to you. “Well, it’s good you recognize your mistake,” you said. “But what’s done is done. No need to dwell on it. You probably don't know, but there is a saying: 'Everything happens for a reason.'"

He smiled at this. “Possibly.” There definitely was a reason for all of this, but why now, after so many years? What had drawn you back to him? He pondered these questions, wondering if you would ever remember him. Was the woman standing in front of him just a familiar face, or were you truly the same person, body and soul? He hesitated to stir up painful memories, preferring you to find your own way back to them. He didn’t want to relive that hurt—the kind that pushed him into darkness every time he thought about it, the source of his deep-seated anger.

“Marcus? Earth to Marcus.”

Pulled back to reality, he realized you were calling him. Even for a brief moment, the weight of his thoughts had distracted him.

“Are you okay? How’s your wound?” you asked, glancing down at his calf, though he was still fully dressed.

“I’m well, feeling tired a bit. The police station was noisy, and those people were asking all sorts of strange questions.”

“Right, and you didn’t even get a shower, did you?”

“A shower?” he echoed, confused.

“I meant a bath. Come with me,” you said, motioning for him to follow. You opened the door to the small en-suite bathroom in your room and invited him inside. Though it wasn’t spacious, it had everything—a shower, a sink, a bathroom cabinet, and a spot for hanging a bathrobe. “I know it’s not as large as your big-ass balneum, but you can use it for your needs and to shower if you stay here with me.”

Maybe one day we can take a shower together, you thought, nervously biting your lower lip at the idea.

Marcus looked around with intrigue, his expression a mix of astonishment as he eyed the shower.

Oh poor baby.

You giggled and opened the shower door, picking up the shower head to demonstrate. “See? This is where the water comes out,” you said, turning on the faucet.

He crossed his arms. “That… is a remarkable invention.”

“Yes, it is. And this is shampoo, mine, but you can use it. Go ahead and take your first shower.”

“Alright,” he said, irritated as he began unbuttoning his shirt, cursing the buttons.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” you said, laughing softly.

When he finally managed to unbutton all the buttons, he hesitated, glancing at you meaningfully before realizing you were just standing there, staring. “Oh, sorry, I’ll give you some privacy,” you said, turning to leave the bathroom, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over you.

You closed the door and leaned back against it, taking a deep breath. “God, I was practically staring at him; well done, Rose,” you muttered to yourself, still grappling with the fact that there was an incredibly attractive man in your bathroom, taking a shower. Sure, he wasn't from this time, and maybe he wasn’t even officially yours, but the reality was undeniable. Your heart raced as you slipped into your nightgown. It wasn't too short and didn't show much cleavage—comfortable, just how you liked it for sleeping. But it felt weird—this was the first time you were sharing your space, a place you never even let your sister into, with a guy. And not just any guy, but a ridiculously handsome one.

Damn hormones.

You slapped yourself to regain your senses.

You opened your laptop, one of the few things you had missed, and fired off an email to the head costume designer. You also remembered you needed to buy a new phone tomorrow. Just then, the bathroom door slowly opened, and you froze, closing your laptop. Marcus stepped out, clad in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, revealing his stunning physique.

Oh, great.

Shit.

He was even more breathtaking than you had imagined. Instinctively, you covered your face with your hands. “Marcus, you’re taking this marriage thing a bit too far.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, pulling out a t-shirt and long sweatpants that you had bought for him from bags. “Is this what I'm supposed to wear, Rosa?”

Peeking through your fingers, you nodded. “Yes, yes, those.”

“Why are you hiding your face? Do you think I'm ugly, awful?” he quipped, glancing at the scars on his shoulder and chest.

What a ridiculous thought, what an absurd conclusion.

You lowered your hands. “Don’t be silly, Marcus,” you said as you stepped closer. You swallowed hard, taking stock of his shoulder, his chest, those amazing muscles. “It would be a sin to call you ugly, a grave sin, truly unforgivable,” you added, almost as if you were speaking to his muscles rather than him.

He chuckled, reaching a hand toward you, gently lifting your chin to close your dropped jaw.

You only realized your mouth had been agape in astonishment when he shut it for you.

Fucking embarrassing.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, turning back toward the bathroom to get dressed.

By the time he returned, you had composed yourself a bit, but the real tension was just around the corner.

Where was Marcus going to sleep?

“I can rest here,” he said, gesturing toward your cramped little chair.

“No way. You’ll wake up with a stiff neck if you sleep there. Look, you gave me your bed back then, so it's my turn now,” you insisted, pulling back the covers. “It’s a double bed—maybe not the widest, but I think we’ll both fit just fine.” Your voice cracked slightly.

Gently, Marcus touched your shoulder, sensing your unease. “Rosa, that’s  not necessary. You should rest in your bed," he glanced down and continued, "I can manage on the floor.”

“Floor? But your back will hurt.”

He smiled. “Did I ever tell you about the places I slept during the war?”

You recalled his stories and smiled. “Alright, but let’s at least put a duvet down on the floor for you.” You retrieved a thick duvet from the bottom of your wardrobe and laid it out.

“Thank you, Rosa,” Marcus said with a warm smile as he sank into the duvet and sheets you had prepared for him.

You got into your own bed, glancing over at him. He didn't seem very comfortable, but he appeared content nonetheless.

Not entirely sure why, but perhaps it was the comfort of having your room—and bed—back after so long that made you sleep so well. The first thing you did upon waking was look out at your room's sunlit window, not a small ancient Rome window. Then, of course, there was Marcus. He was still asleep, his eyes closed. Sunlight streamed through the small window, illuminating part of his face, highlighting his eyelashes and tousled hair.

You slid to the edge of the bed and let out a sigh of admiration as you watched him. Here, lying peacefully and quietly, he looked nothing like the fierce, fearless Roman soldier.

Surprisingly, you found yourself wishing he could stay here with you as your “fake husband” forever.

Fake husband.

Could he ever become your real husband someday?

Would he ever open his heart to you?

And most importantly, would he want to stay with you?

Maybe he’d want to leave.

After all, why would he want to stay? It’s not like he had feelings for you or anything.

That couldn’t have been what he meant by being soft with you, could it?

You pushed those thoughts aside as you sat up in bed. Carefully avoiding waking him, you slipped out of bed and quietly exited the room.

When Marcus woke up, he realized that even though he was sleeping on the floor, he felt surprisingly comfortable. It was odd, but he actually liked it. As he noticed that you weren’t in bed, he got up, picked up the duvet and sheets you had laid out for him, and draped it over the bed. This unfamiliar room, with its strange furniture and atmosphere, was something he was still adjusting to. However, he found himself feeling oddly happy; it didn’t bother him as it once had.

Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he truly belonged somewhere else. Gazing at the pictures on the wall, he wondered if he could truly stay here for good. It seemed daunting, but perhaps it was possible. To never wield a sword again, to never see Julius or Rome or the villa where he had been born and raised—those thoughts weighed on him. What would his life be without them?

What was his role in this new life?

He could easily be your husband in the Rome he knew, standing by your side and protecting you as a general. But here, in this unfamiliar place, he felt like a total stranger—just an ordinary man without responsibilities. How would he make his way through this new world when even casual conversations seemed awkward and foreign to him?

The sounds from outside the room broke him from his thoughts, he opened the door and stepped out. Although it was a bit strange to know he was staying in a much smaller space—a cozy apartment—with three women, he felt happy.

When you saw him, a smile lit up your face as you welcomed him to the table you had so thoughtfully set. “Marcus, sit opposite Lizzie while I get the pancakes,” you said cheerfully, heading to the kitchen.

Lizzie and Victoria exchanged glances as he settled in.

“I hope you have a strong stomach, Marcus,” Lizzie teased with a giggle.

Victoria chimed in with a laugh, "He’s a strong man, I can tell, and patient too—especially for putting up with Rose."

Marcus frowned, not quite catching the underlying joke.

Yet, he understood when you brought the pancakes to the table and took his first bite. Everyone at the table shared awkward glances, except for you, as they chewed silently.

Then you looked at them, and your face fell when you realized they were chewing very slowly definitely not with appetite.

Suddenly, Lizzie jumped up. “I’m going to be late for school,” she said, leaning over to kiss you on the cheek. “See you later.”

“Hey, you haven’t finished your breakfast,” you called out, but she was already out the door, not listening.

You turned to Marcus and Victoria. “Is it that bad?”

Victoria swallowed hard. “Honey, I’m sorry, but lying is a sin, and you're just not good at it. Maybe you should stick to other chores than cooking,” she said, gulping down her orange juice to wash away the unpalatable taste.

You looked at Marcus, “Do you really think these pancakes are bad?”

He shook his head. “No, I think they’re delicious,” He took another bite, hiding his true feelings to spare your feelings, and you beamed with joy.

“Ohhh, love,” Victoria murmured.

When you took a bite yourself, nausea hit, and you quickly spat it into a napkin. “Marcus, stop eating that! It’s a disaster.”

“It’s alright, Rosa,” he replied gently.

“He’s really in love with you, my dear,” Victoria giggled.

Marcus smirked, and you looked away, blushing. Victoria sighed, watching you both. “It’s lovely to see you with someone who truly loves you. I wish your father could see this.”

“I wish,” you responded quietly. Then you clapped your hands. “Marcus, forget the pancakes. I’ll take you out for breakfast. We need to swing by the set anyway, right, baby?” you said, giving him a playful wink.

Surprised, he nodded. “Fine, whatever you want... baby.” He said his first 'baby' word so sweetly that your eyes locked for a moment, nearly forgetting your aunt's presence.

“Oh, that brings back memories from when my husband and I were newlyweds,” she said with a dreamy sigh.

Then Marcus got up and went to find his new shoes, struggling with the laces.

“When are you leaving?” you asked at her as you standing up too.

She rolled his eyes. “Sweet Jesus, this girl. I have an 8 PM flight; are you happy now?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Don’t think you can dodge it,” she said playfully, tilting her head at you while you grabbed your purse from the coat hanger.

“What do you mean?”

“I expect you two to visit me in Milan as soon as possible,” she said, looking at you both.

“Sure, we’ll see,” you murmured as you took Marcus's hand, and together you left the apartment.

Your aunt quietly whispered to herself after you departed, "How am I going to explain her real parents at this point? Even though you aren't my biological niece, I truly love you, Rose. I just hope you won't come to resent me even more when you find out the truth.”

You could have asked your aunt for a little money to cover what the man referred to as a small fortune for Marcus' ID card, but you hadn't borrowed from her until now. You weren’t about to start asking her for help at this point. So, the two ancient coins from the pouch that Marcus handed you on your wedding night, filled with denarii, would have to do. It looked like Roman denarii were very valuable in your time.

You were oficially an artifact smuggler now, just perfect.

“Here you are, Mr. General.” You handed Marcus his newly printed ID card with a smile. “Congratulations, you’re officially an Italian citizen now.”

Marcus took the card and studied it intently. “So this shiny little thing with my picture is an official document of citizenship?” he muttered, somewhat incredulously.

You chuckled. "Yes, that's exactly it. And you look incredibly handsome in this photo—seriously, check it out. You’re really photogenic."

“It’s truly remarkable how swiftly my likeness has been captured,” he said, still in awe.

You opened the car door and glanced back at him. "It's called a camera. I'll explain later, I promise, but we need to buy a phone for both of us. Come on, jump in."

When Marcus stepped into the mall for the first time, he seemed overwhelmed. It was as crowded as the Colosseum but far more colorful and vibrant. People hustled about, focused on shopping and wandering, and it felt like a massive, bustling market—yet not quite the same.

Noticing his nervousness, you realized just how much you had underestimated his situation. You remembered how it felt the first time you visited the Circus Maximus, but Marcus’s experience must be far more daunting—after all, he was a Roman soldier who had time-traveled to this modern world.

You took his hand firmly, and he looked down at your clasped fingers, then back to you. You smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I’m right here with you. Let’s go.”

You showed Marcus around the tech store, he marveled at the various gadgets while you browsed for a new phone. When it came time to pay, he discovered a nearby boy engrossed in a game on a console. Fascinated, Marcus picked up a joystick, but when he pressed the wrong button, he inadvertently became 2nd player to the game. The boy invited him to race together, and, of course, they dove right in. “Oh man, you suck!” the boy laughed.

That hardly seemed fair.

You walked over and took the joystick from Marcus. “It’s easy to beat someone who’s never played before, don't you think kiddo?”

“Okay, if you think you can do better, auntie.”

You blinked at him, taken aback. "Auntie?"

“Or should I call you Grandma?” he laughed.

“You little—” You lunged towards him, but Marcus caught your arm.

"Easy, Rosa."

"You're right; he's just a kid. Let’s get out of here."

"What, scared? 'Cause you're a chicken?” He mimicked chicken sounds.

You rolled your eyes. "This kid is killing me. I better teach him a lesson. Hold my bag, Marcus." You handed him your handbag and approached the boy, grabbing the joystick again. "Let’s see what you’ve got, you little shrimp.”

The two of you began to play, and Marcus enjoyed watching as onlookers gathered to see the race. In the end, you won and boy got frustrated. "Now you can go cry to your mama, kiddo," you teased.

But suddenly, you froze as the boy spotted his mother in the distance. He started filling her in on everything, even throwing in some lies. She was a large woman with an unfriendly expression.

You took a step back. “Marcus, on the count of three, we’re making a run for it.”

“Why?”

"One, two..." The woman was closing in, and then she noticed you. "Three! Go!"

You started running, pulling him along, though it felt like he effortlessly let you lead. Marcus smiled as you sprinted past the shops. Compared to the threats of his time, this felt almost comical to him.

You even had to navigate one of the escalators backward, and once outside the mall, you leaned against the wall, catching your breath and laughing. "That was close."

“Rosa, you are truly unique,” he said, still chuckling.

“What do you mean? Didn’t you see her? She was towering over us—at least 6' tall! If she caught me…” You shuddered at the thought.

“Do you believe I would allow that to occur? Have you forgotten who I am?”

You grinned. “My husband?”

"I intended to say General of Rome, but you're right. As your husband, it is my responsibility to protect you from any danger. You are my wife."

As your breathing steadied, you realized how much you liked the word “wife.”

“Are all children from your time like this? They seem very disrespectful.”

You sighed. “Oh, they’re worse, believe me.”

In the evening, after you sent your aunt off to catch her flight, you all flopped down on the couch. Lizzie was sitting across from you, watching with a grin while you helped Marcus figure out how to use his brand-new phone—his first one ever.

"So, Marcus, how old are you?"

Suddenly, you both turned to look at Lizzie, surprised by her abrupt question.

“Lizzie—” you scolded her gently.

“I mean, why haven’t you had a phone all these years? It’s really weird.”

“It’s not weird, it’s a choice. Marcus and his family have just preferred to live like the Amish for all this time,” you lied, one of your many fabrications.

“I think there’s more to it than that, but you won’t spill the beans,” Lizzie said, narrowing her eyes at you.

“Okay, want to know the truth?” you said seriously, locking eyes with her. “Marcus is a Roman soldier who traveled through time thousands of years to get to the present day.”

Marcus blinked in surprise before turning to Lizzie, who stood up and rolled her eyes at you. “Fine, don’t tell me. But just so you know, that’s scientifically impossible. If you had read my books or watched the shows I do, you’d see how absurd this sounds.” With that, she turned and walked out of the living room.

“If only you knew the truth,” you muttered to yourself.

"Your sister is tough to persuade, unlike my brother Julius."

"That’s because she’s extremely scientific. Trust me, she’s hard to convince of anything. She’s the smartest person I know."

Suddenly, you heard someone calling your name from outside. There was only one person who would do that.

“Damn it.”

You went to the window, opened it, and peeked out just as Lizzie stepped into the living room. “He’s here.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” you said, slamming the window shut in frustration.

Marcus stood up as well. "Rosa?"

“You stay put,” you instructed, heading for the door. “I’ll take care of him and be right back.”

Lizzie glanced at Marcus after you walked out. “Don’t worry; she’s done this before.”

“But who is that man?”

“Nicolo. Rose’s ex-fiancé.”

Even though he didn’t know the word “fiancé,” Marcus grasped the situation immediately.

“Nicolo, what the fuck are you doing here again?” you shouted as you stepped outside.

Nicolo was, as usual, drunk. Years had passed since your breakup, yet he still showed up in front of your apartment building from time to time. Everyone in the building was familiar with him now— from the restaurant downstairs to your landlady After all, he made quite a scene each time he appeared.

“Rose,” he slurred with a silly grin. “I miss you gorgeous. Let’s talk,” he said, reaching for your hand, but you pulled away.

“Cut it out! Stop bothering me. Just go now, leave!"

The residents were watching from their windows, as if they were watching tv show.

“Isn’t that the guy again?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“I think she’s about to kick him to the curb again.”

“Oh great, now I’m embarrassing myself in front of the neighbors because of you,” you snapped.

“I won’t give up until you come back to me. I’ll burn this apartment down!” he shouted at the onlookers.

They cursed at him angrily.

“What did he say?” someone asked.

“Someone call the police!” yelled another voice.

He grabbed your arm tightly once more.

“Let go of my arm!” you barked.

“Rose, please, forgive me. I can’t breathe without you,” he said, his eyes pleading, though they clearly lacked sincerity.

“I'll choke you so you'll never breathe!” you barked, then you sighed. “Nicolo, just get out of my life already! You left me at the altar, and we broke up, end of story.” As you turned to leave, he stepped toward you and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

“Come on, Rose. If you won’t come along on your own, I’ll just have to drag you with me, you know I will,” he said, sounding pretty desperate.

“Let go of me, you jerk!” you yelled, trying to wriggle out of his hold.

“Rosa!”

Marcus's voice thundered as he rushed toward you, seizing Nicolo's wrist and pushing him away. Physically, Nicolo was no match for Marcus—being shorter and thinner—yet he took his chance. “Who the fuck are you? How dare you shove me?” Nicolo retaliated with a punch, but instead of backing down, Marcus caught his fist effortlessly.

The cracking sound of Nicolo’s fingers echoed as Marcus held on tight, causing him to yelp in pain. “I’m her husband,” Marcus declared through gritted teeth and shoved him again.

Nicolo was shocked, but his pain was so intense that he focused solely on that. “You fucking lunatic! You broke my damn fingers!” he groaned, clutching his injured hand in agony.

Your mouth fell open in shock.

You weren't alone; all the residents of the apartment building and bystanders on the street were watching in awe.

As Nicolo stumbled away, nursing his hand and grumbling angrily, Marcus turned to you and gently brushed your cheek. “Are you well, Rosa?”

You nodded. “Y-yes, t-thank you, I guess.”

Suddenly, applause erupted from onlookers. Great, now everyone knows you’re married.

“Someone had to put him in his place,” a voice called out.

“That bastard got what was coming to him,” another chimed in.

“Good job, Marcus!” praised a lady from the ground floor.

You couldn’t help but giggle. "Looks like you’ve got fans just like you did back in -your- Rome, Mr. General." Clapping your hands, you teased, "Acacius, Acacius, Acacius—general of Rome," mimicking the cheers of his citizens.

He chuckled at your playful imitation. “I suppose it’s not so bad being here after all.”

As you made your way back to the apartment, you found yourself deep in conversation with the landlady about marriage-related matters. Fortunately, she was supportive and even expressed her appreciation for how Marcus got Nicolo—apparently she was really impressed when Marcus broke that bastards fingers.

In the end, Marcus emerged as the hero of the building.

Clearly, heroism ran in his veins—no kidding.

“Oh, what a night,” you muttered as you flopped down onto your bed. "The idiot never knows when to quit. But maybe now he will, thinking I'm married and that my husband broke his fingers. Truth be told, I've always wanted to break his fingers. It must be hurt."

Marcus closed the door behind him and turned towards you. "He hurt you more by breaking your heart, Rosa. He should be grateful I didn’t break every bone in his body.”

You knew he wasn’t just saying that; he would absolutely follow through if pushed.  

Yes he would.

He was remarkable.

You felt an undeniable pull toward him, especially with his protective nature.

But how did this happen.

Why him, when you’d always shunned violent, rude men?

Why this man?

Why him, especially when he didn’t even belong to your time? You sighed and gazed at his face. Yes, he was older, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes telling that story, and the silver streaks in his hair along with the scar on his cheek hinted at a life of battles fought. But none of that was unappealing to you; it was downright beautiful.

Something had changed.

Maybe it was love.

What you thought you felt before, the fleeting feeling you had for Nicolo, was nothing compared to this.

You could feel the difference.

Deep in your heart.

You wondered if he felt it too.

He must have—there was something different about the way he looked at you now.

Does he love you as well?

You had spent the whole night contemplating it. You propped yourself up in bed and cast a glance at Marcus.

Your heart nearly skipped a beat when you realized he was awake, the soft glow of the dim light highlighting his features as he watched you intently. Embarrassed, you turned away, a rush of heat creeping up your neck. But after a moment, you summoned the courage, faced him again, and stepped forward. He stared at you in surprise as he sat up.

“Rosa? What’s wrong?”

Sitting beside him, you bit your lip nervously, feeling the weight of your next words. “Marcus, you really see me now, don’t you? I’m not the kind of person who can keep my thoughts locked up inside. I tend to talk too much, but I can't find peace until I share what I’m feeling.”

He nodded, his intense gaze never leaving yours.

“That’s why I need to say this,” you pressed on, meeting his eyes with unwavering determination. “I think I’m in love with you.” You swallowed hard, a flutter of anticipation gripping your stomach as you awaited his reaction.

A soft, tender smile spread across his face, deepening the lines around his eyes as he cupped your face in his calloused hands.

Your eyes widened in surprise, your heart racing as you held his gaze.

What would happen next?

“Rosa...” he whispered, his warm breath a gentle caress against your skin. Then, with an affectionate smile, he brushed his fingers through your hair, his eyes drinking in every detail of your face.

“Look, I know your heart still belongs to her,” you rushed to explain, feeling a surge of words spill from you. “You don’t have to answer me right away. I understand if I sound insane—I truly don’t know how all this happened—but I couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer, and—”

Before you could finish, he closed the distance between you, silencing your words with a kiss that sent a jolt of electricity through you.

His lips were warm, and he's soft, so soft with you when you kissed him back.

To your surprise, he was tender with you, delicate, almost chaste.

But, damn, he was a good kisser.

Any hesitance any suspicions you had left crumbled and melted into him. You could fight against harsh, against mean or rough. But you had no defense against kindness.

You laid cautious trembling hands on his chest, cream cotton over warm skin, muscle, bone; his heartbeat is wild under your palms, hand unsteady on your neck, and there was the truth under his shell of cool, composed. He was as swept up -- stirred up -- by this as you are.

You arched your back like a bow to fold yourself into him, wanted to push closer, crack him open and taste that hidden inside. You wanted to drink him in.

He groaned against you, broke the kiss away with a wet sound, hot breath on your cheek. “Rosa," he said, panting, grabbing your shoulders, looking into your eyes.

"You need to know something-“ he said, stopping you.

Consumed by lust, “Later, please,” you said, catching his lips, catching the words and swallowing them. Tangled your fingers in his hair, and opened your mouth under his, pushed inside.

It was never like this with Nicolo, ever.

Nothing chaste or delicate now. Blood rushes through your whole body, scorching shuddering wave from the top of your head to your feet. 

He held you back once more, struggling against the wave of desire surging between you as your fingers tugged at his soft T-shirt. He could feel the tension building; if you ventured further, he'd lose all sense of restraint.

You were pushing him to his limits.

Gently, he took your hands in his, pressing a tender kiss against each palm before locking eyes with you. “Rosa, please listen to me.”

“Don’t you want me?” you asked, the weight of disappointment heavy in your voice.

“Don’t be absurd. Believe me, there’s nothing I want more at this moment. However, there’s something you need to understand,” he said, touching your cheek softly.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his lips.

In such a special moment, what else could possibly matter?

“Rosa, you were right. My heart belongs to her.”

You furrowed your brows, caught off guard.

Was he really rejecting you?

Suddenly, tears began to well in your eyes.

He brushed his fingers gently against your cheek. “But she is you, and you are her. The woman my heart belongs to is you, Rosa.”

“Wait, what does that mean? I’m completely lost,” you muttered.

In that instant, he uttered the words you’d never anticipated.

“I can’t claim to fully understand either. At first, I noticed a few uncanny similarities and brushed them off as mere coincidence. But then I stumbled upon that photograph, and it struck me how your features mirror hers so closely. When I lost her, the sorrow felt insurmountable—I prayed with all my heart to reunite with her in another life. Now, reflecting on everything, I think the reason I’m here, and perhaps why you’ve come to my time, is intertwined with this truth. I’ve been mulling over it endlessly. You can decipher that parchment, Sol Invictus; you can see the symbols—everything connects. Rosa, I believe you are her reincarnation. You are my Rhea.”

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️ Your thoughts are important to me, so please share them with me.

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[puffins-muffins]

Night & Morning

Pairing: Jax Teller x Female Plus Size!Reader Word Count: 2200 Summary: Your very casual, no-strings arrangement with Jax begins to shift when he stays the night for the first time. In the morning, he wakes you with sleepy sex. Warnings: SMUT! 18+ only please, minors DNI!! hints of marijuana use, (unprotected - be responsible!) P in V sex, cursing, slight feels. A/N: I just had to come (hehe) back to these two from the What Lovers Do universe! 🥰 This little one-shot takes place before the events in WLD (huge thanks to my bestie @laurfilijames 😉) You can read them together or on their own. All feedback (comments, reblogs, likes) is very much appreciated!! 🩷 Enjoy lovers!!

The air in your bedroom is thick with the scent of sex and marijuana smoke. The window is cracked just enough to let the cool night breeze slip in. Jax is lying on his back, one arm slung over his face. His chest rises and falls in the dim light of your bedroom. You’re curled on your side, head propped on your hand, just watching him.

This is usually the part where one of you leaves.

It’s just the way things are. He never stays, you never ask him to, and vice versa. 

But so far, he hasn’t moved.

His jeans are still on the floor, his kutte is draped over the back of the chair in the corner, but he hasn’t reached for either yet. Instead, he’s just… lying there, his body loose and unguarded in a way you’re not used to.

You shift slightly, dragging the sheet higher over your bare skin. “You good?”

His arm lowers just enough for his eyes to meet yours, heavy-lidded and unreadable. You take him in— the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his stubble frames the faint smirk that doesn't fully settle on his face. There's a moment of hesitation before he quietly says, “Yeah.”

That’s it. No explanation, no excuse for why he’s still here.

You nod, settling back against your pillow, pretending this doesn’t feel different. Pretending your heart isn’t skipping at the idea of him staying, even for just a little longer. 

A few minutes pass in silence, the kind that isn’t awkward, just comfortable. Jax exhales deeply, rolling onto his side, propping his head up on his hand to face you. His other hand reaches out, his rough fingers tracing a slow path along your arm.

It’s not entirely sexual, just softer, something neither of you have ever really done before.

You swallow, your gaze locked on his. His stormy blue eyes hold something you can’t quite pinpoint. There’s a flicker of hesitation, something caught between want and uncertainty, like he’s not sure if he should be here, but he doesn’t want to leave either.

“Didn’t take you for the type to linger.” You murmur, chewing on your bottom lip, immediately regretting opening your mouth and potentially ruining the entire moment. 

He huffs out a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. His fingers keep moving, light and tender. “Guess I don’t feel like leaving yet.”

The admission sits heavy between you. Jax searches your face like he’s waiting for you to tell him to go. But you don’t.

“Okay,” you assure him, a lazy smile gracing your lips. 

Eventually, his hand stills, his fingers lingering just a moment before he lays on his back again. His eyes shift toward the ceiling, his expression indiscernible, like he’s sorting through thoughts he’ll never say out loud.

You try to make whatever decision he’s grappling with a little easier by embracing the fact that he hasn’t left yet— something that, to your own surprise, you’re completely okay with.

You mold against him, the soft curves of your body pressing into the hard planes of his, draping the plushness of your thighs over him as you nuzzle closer. His arm wraps around you, his body relaxing against yours— like maybe he needed the silent reassurance that it’s okay, that this is okay. His lips brush over the top of your head, and he pulls you in even closer.

Your fingers trace along the ridges of old scars that are etched into his abdomen. You don’t ask where they came from, already knowing enough about his life to understand that each one carries a reminder of unsaid choices.

Your palm smooths over a particularly deep scar near his ribs, your thumb grazing over the raised skin in slow strokes. His breathing hitches for just a moment before settling, and then you feel it, the silent acceptance— the way he lets you in without any words.

For however long, you just exist together, finding an unexpected comfort in something that neither of you has tried to make sense of. 

Jax is awake before the sun, dim light from the early morning barely filtering through your blinds. The warmth of your body is a quiet comfort, your breath steady and soft against his forearm.

And fuck, the way you’re nestled against him is already doing things to him.

His arm is draped lazily over your waist, fingers resting just above your navel. Your back is pressed flush to his chest— your plump, naked ass tucked right against his morning arousal. You fit beside him so perfectly it almost feels intentional.

His cock twitches at the contact, a slow throb of heat spreading through him. He lets out a breath, his lips brushing against the crook of your neck, and when you don’t stir, he lets himself indulge a little.

Jax presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder, breathing you in, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. His hand moves, tracing lazy patterns along your stomach before sliding down, fingers grazing your thick hip, then lower, over the curve of your ass.

You shift slightly, a sleepy little sigh escaping you, but you’re still lost in sleep.

Jax smirks against your skin, tilting his hips just enough to drag his cock along the crease of your ass, teasing himself more than you. His fingers trail between your thighs, skimming your dimpled skin, not quite touching where you need him, but enough to make you stir again.

A soft, breathy sound slips from you, your body instinctively pressing back into him.

His smirk spreads into a wide grin, his breath feathery against your ear, goosebumps rising across your skin. “Mornin’, darlin’.”

You hum, still half-asleep, but the shift in your breathing tells him you’re waking up now. He keeps his touches light, his kisses are unhurried, his fingers caressing between your thighs.

He feels it the moment you start to give in. The way your hips shift, how your thighs part slightly, your body already anticipating him.

Jax groans, his hand sliding between your legs, fingers grazing your slick heat. “Fuck,” he mutters, his cock jolting against you. “Already wet for me?”

Your only answer is another soft sigh, your body pressing closer— inviting him in.

Jax presses the tip of his cock against your entrance, teasing you with it before sinking in, slowly filling you inch by inch. His forehead rests against your shoulder, his breath ragged against your skin as he bottoms out.

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers gripping the sheets as he holds himself there, savoring the way you clench around him, warm and snug.

Jax groans, pulling out just enough before pushing back in. His movements are measured, dragging out the sensation, making you feel every thick inch of him. The slow pace is intoxicating— each deep, unhurried thrust sending waves of pleasure through you, leaving you aching for more.

His arm tightens around your waist, making sure there’s no space between you. His lips never leave your skin, peppering open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and neck. His breath is ragged as he savors the way your body responds to him, how you let him take his time with you.

He keeps it unhurried, his arousal heightened by the consistent moans that slip from you while he moves inside you. His hand slides up, cupping your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sets a lazy rhythm. He feels every reaction— the way your back arches, the way your body tightens around him, the way you crave him.

“You like that?” he rasps against your jaw, his voice still husky from sleep.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, your hand covers his, guiding his grip tighter around your breast, silently urging him on, letting your body tell him exactly how much you do.

Jax curses under his breath, his grip on your breast tightening, giving you exactly what you’re asking for. Then, his hand begins to slide down, his fingertips dragging over the soft swell of your stomach. The heat of his palm leaves a burning trail in its wake as he moves lower. 

When his fingers finally slip between your thighs, you gasp, your breath hitching as he finds your clit. He strokes it in gradual, teasing circles— his touch light and agonizing.

His fingers press down just enough to send an another shot of pleasure rippling through you, heat spreading through your limbs. Your breathing grows uneven, your pussy tightening around him with each thrust, his touch keeping you on the brink. 

Your hips begin to move more frantic, more desperate, grinding against him with an urgency you can’t control, chasing the release that feels just out of reach. You need him to push you over.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he breathes out. “Keep doin’ that, grind on me just like that.”

You whimper, rolling your hips, feeling the delicious friction of his cock hitting that perfect spot. The movement rips a groan from his throat, holding you firm as he thrusts deeper, making sure you feel every drag of his thick, throbbing length.

His fingers press firmly against your clit, his low grunts hot against your neck as the pressure builds, pushing you closer. It's maddening— just enough to keep you on edge, to make your pussy flutter around his cock.

His voice is nothing but a rough whisper against your skin, “Feels so fuckin’ good, huh?”

You can’t speak, can’t form a single coherent thought. All you do is moan, letting him take what he wants while your noises beg him to give you what you need. 

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your shoulder, his voice filled with need— the command sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers never stop their torturous pace against your clit, until his words give you the final nudge that sends you spiraling.

Your body clenches as your orgasm crashes over you in waves, spreading outward, leaving your entire body trembling. Needy, breathless moans of his name tumble from your lips as your walls convulse around him.

The pleasure is overwhelming, your nails dig into his arm that’s wrapped around you as you fall completely apart with him buried so deep inside you.

Jax groans, low and absolutely wrecked, his hips stuttering as he feels you come undone around him. “Fuck,” he grits out, his grip on you tightening— your body milking him, dragging him toward his own breaking point.

The way you tighten around him, pussy soaked and perfect, has him thrusting into you a little harder, his pace turning more frantic. His breath is ragged against your shoulder, his lips still pressed to your flush skin as he groans your name. His grip on your hip is firm, but as the pleasure builds, his hand moves, searching— reaching for something more.

Without hesitation, you meet him halfway, your fingers sliding into his, intertwining and then gripping him just as tightly. It’s instinctive, but the moment your hands lock together, a spark ignites— new and unfamiliar.

This isn’t just sex.

It’s intimate. Deeper than just the way he’s buried inside you, it’s the way he moves— purposeful and consuming.

His body tenses, muscles tight, sweat glistening on both of you as his release crashes over him. “Fuck, darlin’,” he groans, plunging himself in your sensitive cunt. His cock throbs, pulsing as he spills inside you, warmth spreading as he empties himself with a shuddered exhale.

His thrusts slow, his damp forehead pressing to your shoulder. Your breaths are heavy— bodies still slick and tangled. Even as the aftershocks fade, his grip on your hand doesn’t loosen. 

Jax stays wrapped around you, his body still flush against yours, his breath steadying as the glow of the morning creeps into your bedroom.

You sigh, satisfied, your body still humming from the aftermath of him, the intimacy of it all hanging between you. He presses a lazy, lingering kiss to your shoulder, his stubble scratching delicately against your skin before he rests his head there.

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence is comfortable. Easy. Filled with something neither of you is willing to define but both undeniably feel.

Then, with a smirk you can hear in his voice, Jax finally breaks it.

“Ya know,” he muses, shifting just enough to nuzzle his nose against your neck, “if wakin’ up like this is what happens when I stick around, I might have to spend the night more often.”

You scoff a quiet, amused laugh, tilting your head slightly to look at him over your shoulder. “Oh yeah?” you challenge, arching a playful brow. “You sure you can handle that? Wouldn’t want this accidentally turning into a thing.”

Jax grins, his fingers giving the generous curve of your hip a light squeeze. “Shit, babe,” he drawls, pressing another lazy kiss to your skin, “I think we passed that point the second I didn’t sneak out.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your lips as you settle back against him, blissed out and content, letting the comfort of him sink into you.

Neither of you say it out loud, but the thought lingers between you.

Maybe this isn’t the only time he’ll stay.

[swordgrace]

𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

༺ aemond targaryen x fem!reader.

synopsis: in aemond targaryen’s eyes, you have far exceeded anything that he could’ve imagined. during a moment of solace, you indulge in the prince’s growing affections.

———————————————————————————

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested.

༺ WORD COUNT: 7.1K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, biting, scratching, switch!aemond, fingering (f!receiving), groping, lots of kissing, hair pulling, vulnerable aemond, melancholy aftercare, slight power imbalance, possessive aemond, talk of insecurities, begging, etc.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: finally ,,, an aemond fic! I am currently looking for requests for this account, and hopefully this is a good showcase in terms of getting people interested! This was so fun to write and helped me get into the Aemond headspace, I so look forward to sharing more of my work with all of you!

𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐊 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 the skies over King’s Landing, bringing with it a sense of wariness and discomfort. Rumors and whispers grew of an approaching war between Rhaenyra Targaryen and King Aegon Targaryen — a war between kin that would surely plunge the realm into a great darkness.

Bloodshed and the mere thought of violence caused you to shiver, goosebumps prickling along the length of your spine. The evening was a touch colder, the air bitter and misty with the first inklings of a nighttime deluge. Raindrops smashed into the courtyard, against the castle walls in a steady sheet.

Sworn to serve Lady Alicent Hightower, the dowager Queen, she had dismissed you quite suddenly, citing that she preferred to be left alone this evening. You found it intriguing that Ser Criston Cole so vigilantly guarded the former Queen’s chambers with wandering eyes, but it was none of your business.

The halls of the Red Keep were warm with the glow of torchlight amongst the illumination of the moon, clouds bringing down rain and the low rumble of thunder. You were prepared to make the venture down to the Servant’s Quarters, until you were stopped by a guard somewhere down the corridor.

“My Lady,” One of the Kingsguard, Ser Cargyll, addressed you nobly, even if you were just a handmaiden. “The Prince Aemond is searching for you. He is requesting your presence.”

Prince Aemond — a name not unfamiliar to you.

You felt the subtle hitch within the depths of your throat at the mention of Aemond Targaryen. The Prince was rather acquainted with you, in ways that many would consider uncouth and sinful, but it was a budding relationship. If anything, you found him to be a being of mystique and repression, in your experience.

Under the guise of mere duty, you nodded, curtsying before Ser Cargyll. “Thank you, Ser. I will make my way to his chambers.” You kept your voice hushed, ensuring an air of respect for those who slumbered within the Keep’s walls.

Carrying bundles of fresh linens within your arms, you made your way to the Prince’s quarters, a path that you were somewhat familiar with. Your encounters with Aemond weren’t often, but whenever they did occur, it filled you with a certain thrill and exhilaration. You never imagined yourself to be desirable, the object of a Prince’s infatuations, yet here you were.

A sharp clap of thunder caused you to gasp, nearly losing your footing as you traversed through the darkened corridors, passing by the occasional fellow servant or patrolling knight. Something about this night felt unusual — as if there was an ominous presence lingering around the corner.

Thunderstorms had a horrible habit of making you incredibly paranoid — tonight was no different, it seemed. With a deliberate pace, you ascended the grand flight of steps toward Aemond’s chambers, noticing the lack of protection outside. The Prince wasn’t fond of being hovered over, a notion that you could understand.

The set of ornate, mahogany doors were equipped with iron knobs fashioned into the heads of dragons — quite fitting, considering his heritage. You knocked thrice, stepping back as you waited for the Prince himself, or his summons.

With bated breath, you wrung your digits into the silk and linens clutched within your arms, awaiting the Prince to allow you inside. The suspense was nearly unbearable — sometimes he called you inside, and other times, he greeted you himself with a sly curl of his mouth and that glittering, violet eye of his.

To your delight, the door creaked open, groaning in protest as Aemond stood within the gap, regal and svelte in his leather tunic and fine regalia. His hand perched along the edge of the door, lips tilting into that familiar countenance of his — cunning yet tinged with faint hints of amusement.

“My Lady,” Aemond’s voice was a lull, like the purr of a great cat as he beckoned you inside. He cared little for prying eyes, allowing you to step into the warmth of his open chambers before he latched the door behind him. “You came rather swiftly.” He stated — a mere observation, but it was most accurate.

“Is this not an urgent matter?” To keep appearances, you sometimes asked redundant questions — but Aemond enjoyed them nonetheless. He let out a brief hum, violet hue raking over you as it had several times before. There was something reverent there, a silent appreciation that happened to scream if someone looked close enough.

With a brief hum of amusement, Aemond ogled you, head canting slightly to one side. Blackfyre sat soundly atop his hip, bound in the finest sheath and belt that hung atop his narrow waist. “I suppose not,” He reached out, gently swiping his fingers across your jaw. “I merely wanted to see you.”

Warmth fluttered within your breast, spreading like ivy across the rest of your body. The bulk of the heat settled within your features as you struggled to maintain your composure. “And I you, my Prince.” It was enough to make Aemond’s stare sparkle. “Any word on what will come of the growing conflict?”

Aemond stepped toward the large table, scattered in maps and scrolls, the largest of it being a cartographic description of Westeros. Coins were scattered atop it, meant to resemble garrisons of their forces. “Not yet.” He replied, circling the table before he looked at you. “It is hard to plan for a war that you’ve no counsel in.”

From what Aemond had told you during previous trysts, he was not on the small council — and his brother, the King, seemed more content on drinking and letting others run his kingdom for him. A piece of Aemond spited Aegon for this, for his lack of propriety and sense of duty.

The Prince’s woes weren’t unfamiliar to you. In fact, he had placed his head within your lap and recounted the multitude of misfortunes that had befallen him on many occasions before he had any desire to touch you. Perhaps it was this gesture that had given your budding relationship such a firm foundation.

War was on the horizon, and Aegon hadn’t the slightest clue of what to do — which left Aemond to stew and plot away, to strategize where there wasn’t any inkling of it. It would always fall upon him, the more responsible sibling.

You trailed after him, curious to see such a large map of the continent. If anything, you were more perplexed by the different kingdoms and sigils on coins than the war. “You mean to strategize without the King?” You inquired, noticing the scoff that emerged from Aemond.

“It is nothing new. I only wish to serve the King and my house.” He replied, expression becoming pensive before he sank down into the cushioned armchair, the one placed before his sea of maps and books. Candles danced atop the table, listless and bright.

Aemond was a learned individual, with a thirst for books and tomes, alongside the blade. You admired his desire for more, his desire for knowledge. There was a stark duality to Aemond that you had caught glimpses of during the course of your endeavors — from sharp and cold, like steel, to a hint of warmth.

The Prince’s chambers were spacious, surrounded by an ocean of quiet, with a high terrace and an open wall. You watched as the rain fell, providing a gentle ambiance to your surroundings. A flash of lightning split the sky, and the thunderous gloom of the night raged on.

With a soft exhale, you approached the terrace, lined in a thick bannister and a row of columns. If you extended your hand out far enough, you could catch the rain, feeling the chill of the droplets glide across your palm. It was soothing, enough to ease the heat that had made permanent residence within your skin.

In silent rapture, Aemond watched you carefully, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The glow of moonlight framed your features in silver, accompanied by the twinge of orange — it made you look like a goddess, a beauty incarnate standing before him. His fingers tensed into the arm of his chair, desire beginning to fester inside of him.

Initially, he thought little of you — the lowborn girl that dutifully served his mother, yet the night you’d found him strewn about in his quarters, wounded and wistful, he’d changed his mind. Aemond fell swiftly, and he fell hard — many nights were spent with you in his bed, his head within your lap. It inevitably transformed into desire and the first blossoming of affection.

“Thunderstorms used to terrify me as a child,” You broke the silence, recoiling until your palm was pressed close to your chest. “Now, they seem to make everything ominous, as if there is a lingering dread.” You let out a chuckle, seemingly embarrassed. “It isn’t much different than being afraid.”

Aemond tucked a hand beneath his chin, leaning some of his weight against it as he listened to you. “What do you fear, my Lady?” He questioned, as if attempting to pick you apart, crawl beneath your flesh. You enticed him, evoked a sense of intrigue that he seldom felt in the presence of noble women.

A rather heavy question, but you decided to answer honestly, depositing the stack of linens onto the lounge in front of you. “Being locked away in a cage, perhaps the darkness.” You trailed off. “War.” You grimaced, gaze flickering toward the map on his table yet again.

You always feared war more than anything — it always brought worse things with it. Bloodshed, famine, death, the feeling of no sanctuary or peace.

With a soft huff, Aemond’s violet eye flickered away from you and to his map, surveying his growing plan for any imperfections. He remained quiet for a moment, and decided that he had little desire to talk to you on the topic of war — not when there were plenty of other things he could do.

“War is inevitable, like so many other things in life,” Aemond’s voice carried an indiscernible edge to it. After a brief pause, he continued. “I would keep you safe.” Sometimes, you had difficulty detecting sincerity with the Prince, but you could see it now, even if it was subtle.

If it was meant to be a flattering or sentimental statement, it happened to work, prompting you to dip your head. Sheepishness settled into your features, causing you to tether your hands together. “You honor me, my Prince. I did not know that the life of a handmaiden meant something to you.”

At last, his head angled toward you, lilac hue dancing with light as he leaned back within his chair, the wood groaning in protest. “Come here.” He waved you forward with a flick of his fingers, desiring to feel your warmth, be close to you. Aemond’s lust for you was subtle, but when it sparked to life, it burned like a dragon’s fire.

Your heartbeat fluttered like the wings of a bird, stirring beneath your breast as you obeyed the Prince’s command. Stepping closer, you felt Aemond’s hand trace the swell of your hip, coaxing you into his lap. Without a word, he rested his cheek against your sternum, feeling your fingers rake through his silken tresses.

“Your life is worth a great deal.” Aemond stated, breath fanning out across your collarbone. The Prince savored the sensation of your soft flesh beneath him, heart loud enough to ring within his ears as he pressed close to your chest. Wordlessly, he planted a kiss against the column of your throat.

A shiver rolled down your spine, a sensation that left you aching for more. You never imagined yourself becoming the object of the Prince’s affections, enough for him to state that your life had meaning beyond the station of a servant. “Then it is a mutual feeling.” You uttered, nails lightly scraping against the nape of his neck.

Aemond had often been deprived of affection — even in his dealings with whores, it was originally Aegon’s design, his will enforced. There was no shared connection with a woman seeking coin and a boy, barely thirteen. He preferred you above all else, warm and tender within his grasp, with no desire to use him to further your station.

He used to believe that the only solace he could find was in himself — until he began seeking you out.

What originally began as an arrangement of convenience, purely lust and instinct, had now spiraled into something more. He shared his past with you, treated you to the inner machinations of his splintered family, and in rare instances, became quite vulnerable. Sentiments be damned, Aemond was beginning to feel affectionate towards you.

The growing connection he shared with you, albeit unorthodox and unexpected, outweighed any previous experience he had. You were his — a precious creature that he intended on savoring forever, if he could. Not many would approve of his hunger for a lowborn girl, but Aemond cared little for it.

Above all, known or unknown, he wanted your love.

Aemond’s lilac eye drifted to your visage, drinking you in as he had many times before. The way you cradled his skull within your hand, your other palm planted firmly against his chest — it was intoxicating. He sank closer, finding comfort in your warmth.

He listened to your heart — the way it excitedly galloped for him, pounded within his ear like the deep lull of a drum. The Prince kissed your collarbone, shifting some of your robes away to reveal the soft expanse of your skin. Perhaps, he hadn’t made it known, but you belonged to him — it would stay that way.

A slight chill caused you to press closer, seeking the warmth of the Dragon Prince. Rain continued to pour outside, with thunder rattling the black, cloudy skies, as powerful as a dragon’s cry. Your hand found his shoulder, digits gently massaging into the broad, sinewy muscle of his clothed shoulder.

The sharp ridge of his nose brushed along your neck, lips following suit as he planted several deliberate kisses against your jugular; underneath your jaw. “Cold?” Aemond inquired, able to feel the icy bite of your flesh as it brushed against his. He felt you shudder — but he wondered if that was from something else.

“Slightly, my Prince.” You confessed, though your body’s physical responses were from his lips, in-tandem with the misty chill from the thunderstorm. The flicker of candlelight danced across his features — narrow and defined, beautiful beyond comparison.

“Hm,” Aemond hummed, dragging his lips around the curve of your jawline, pressing another kiss beneath your ear. His scent filled your nose — spiced herbs, smoke and leather, intermingled with that of a dragon. “Shall I remedy this misfortune?” He uttered, his voice crackling with desire.

He nearly smirked at the sound of your breath hitching within your throat — a delicious response to his shameless flirtation. Aemond’s hand crawled along the length of your leg, grabbing at the end of your robes before slipping underneath. His narrow digits danced along your calf, before finding the pliant meat of your thigh.

“Aemond,” You whispered, shifting within his lap as the Prince continued to kiss your neck. The garment you wore was shoddy and somewhat ill-fitting, and you longed to have it removed. You pressed a kiss against his brow, the one that had the beginnings of a scar. “Please.”

The sensation of your lips against his scar nearly drove him into a frenzy — it did the last time you coupled. Aemond let out a brief huff, detaching his mouth from your throat as he hungrily sought your lips. The kiss was overflowing with desire, his hand slithering against your inner thigh.

His slender digits found the apex between your thighs, swiping over the slick heat of your cunt. It was feather-light and tantalizing, meant to make you squirm, a promise of more to come throughout your night together. You whimpered, feeling his thumb ghost around your clit, splitting past your folds.

You reciprocated the kiss with a flurry of passion, tilting your hips forward toward Aemond’s hand. The playful curve of his mouth was tangible as you kissed him again, reaching to cup his face. The pad of your thumb traced along his cheekbone, feeling his teeth graze along your lower lip.

Aemond shivered beneath your palm, finding the sensation of it to be foreign, yet comforting all the same. He hadn’t removed his eyepatch before, during your previous trysts — the thought of you seeing it somewhat unnerved him. It was often used for intimidation, to terrify others into subservience, but it wasn’t like that with you.

As you pulled your head back just slightly, you pressed a tender kiss against Aemond’s jaw, and then against his cheek — another secured itself atop his eyepatch. You felt the Prince’s breath hitch, a subtle noise that left you wanting more.

His hand stilled between your legs, the other holding just underneath your breast. “It would be unwise to remove it.” Aemond uttered, voice as smooth as silk, and just as tantalizing. There was something forlorn about him, as if he were afraid of you glimpsing upon his face.

“I would never insist upon it, Aemond. Just know that I would never pass judgment,” You replied, tucking several strands of pale, silky hair aside. “You are still just as handsome, just as perfect.” Your soft-spoken reassurance made him flustered, yet he was unwilling to reveal that side of himself.

Admittedly, he considered taking it off then, but he decided against it, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. Your hand drifted to the front of his tunic, lined in an impressive array of metallic buttons, bearing the Targaryen sigil. Aemond found your sentiments to be sweet — just like the rest of you.

Wordlessly, the one-eyed Prince coaxed you to your feet, bringing you toward the roaring hearth, beside the light of a crackling fire. The ground beneath you was covered in the layered pelts of various game, from stags to the thick hide of a bear, cushioned enough to provide a safe landing for the both of you.

Aemond towered over you, svelte and broad-shouldered, hand coming to cup your chin as he kissed you. It was slow and unusually sweet, but much to your disappointment, it was short-lived. His hands moved to the front of your robes, tugging at the rugged laces to loosen the bodice.

He watched you hawkishly, enraptured as the both of you maneuvered the shoddy fabric aside. You pulled it over your head, tossing the garment somewhere behind you. It landed on the stone floor with an unceremonious thud, leaving you bare before the Prince.

It was an exchange, one that Aemond silently complied with as he peeled aside his own tunic, lips twitching into a smirk as you pushed away the leather and fine linen of his undershirt. He was all sinewy muscle and narrow limbs, with a pale musculature that seemed to glow whenever the light touched it.

The both of you gazed at one another, your breathing significantly more labored than his own. Your excitement was palpable, the anticipation stirring within your stomach as arousal pooled between your legs. Aemond hungrily consumed your mouth in a blistering kiss, hands grabbing at your hips and chest.

You reached for his shoulders, arms tossing themselves around the back of his neck, digits raking through his hair. Aemond’s tongue greedily slipped past your parted lips, allowing you to taste him. A low hum of approval rumbled within his throat as you submitted to him, chest blossoming with warmth.

It was all tongue and teeth and want — a dance that finally gave way to carnal desire and primitive instincts. You felt Aemond’s hand grope at your haunch, feeling your pliant flesh as he nipped at your lower lip. The flame of desire glistened within his lilac hue.

“Lie down,” Aemond uttered, his voice becoming a touch gravelly, saturated with lust. He watched as you obeyed, sinking down onto the furs with a flustered expression. He stood over you, reveling in the sight of your body, kissed by fire, legs pulled up at the knee. “You are perfect.”

Perfect — you shuddered, stomach churning with liquid heat as you propped yourself back upon your elbows, palms idly running across the soft furs. Aemond sank down, pressing a hot, needy kiss to your lips before he knelt between your thighs, mouth hungrily returning to your throat.

“Aemond,” You moaned, the noise soft and simpering as he assaulted your neck in passionate kisses. Teeth and tongue worked together, leaving behind a handful of marks, some glaringly obvious. He continued his descent, kissing your collarbone, and then your breast. “Please keep going.” A breathy whine left you, then.

His lips twitched into a smirk as he planted a series of hot kisses around your breast, the other palm preoccupied with groping and kneading into the soft flesh there. Aemond felt your body arch into him, knees squeezing at his narrow hips.

With a stroke of his tongue, the Prince began to suck at the peak of your breast, nose brushing along your sternum. The heat from the flame crawled across your body, leaving you feverishly hot. Aemond’s actions did little to soothe it, igniting the fire within your belly.

Your hands flew toward his crown of pale tresses, digits digging in toward the nape of his neck. The furs brushed against your back as you reclined, stealing glimpses at Aemond, who methodically and reverently worked his way along your body.

“Ao sytilībagon naejot nyke,” Aemond purred, sinking his teeth into the sensitive flesh below your breast, as if to ensure his point was made. That singular lilac hue caught your heady gaze, prompting him to continue his descent. He abandoned your breast with a lasting kiss, mouth traveling along your stomach and hips. “Ñuhon.”

Listening to Aemond’s enchanting High Valyrian made you shudder, allowing it to encompass you. His voice was nothing more than a lascivious purr, meant to entice and tempt you — you were beyond elated to oblige. You watched with doe-like eyes as Aemond kissed your waist, and then your thighs.

His incendiary stare never faltered, and as he pushed his shoulders between your legs, he held it throughout. Aemond listened to the delicious hitch within your throat, the way you preemptively curled your nails into his shoulders — it was intoxicating.

In an unexpected maneuver, Aemond gingerly abandoned the fine leather of his eyepatch, revealing the glistening, sapphire eye, marred-over with an age-old scar. You were dazzled, perplexed by his beauty and the vibrant gleam of the jewel that was permanently socketed into his eye.

As a display of reassurance, your fingers crept from his shoulder to his face, gingerly tracing around his countenance, from eyebrow to cheekbone. Aemond’s subtle exhale of delight signaled his approval, and without warning, he raked his tongue across your cunt.

Your lips fell apart, unable to smother the pleasured whine that escaped you. His tongue raked hot embers across your aching core, delivering a series of deliberate strokes that were sure to make you squirm. Aemond preferred to savor you, consuming every drop of your nectar as if it were the finest of wines.

Those dextrous, spindly hands of his found the pliant flesh of your thighs, hooking underneath to provide a place of rest for your legs. He squeezed slightly, signaling his presence there as he pressed forward. His mouth greedily lapped at your cunt, gliding from the hood of your clit to your entrance.

“Aemond!” A wanton moan tore past your lips, back beginning to arch into his ministrations. The Prince slowed, sharp nose brushing against your mouth as he dipped forward, tongue briefly pushing inside of you. The subtle sensation made you whine, nails dragging themselves across his shoulder.

You were perfect — flesh velveteen beneath his palms, physique begging for more, your pleasure coming to fruition. You were at his mercy, but fortunately, Aemond was feeling most gracious this evening. The echo of the thunderstorm shook the walls a time or two, but it all became atmospheric, simply background noise.

With one hand fisted within his platinum tresses, the other scratched haplessly at his shoulder, nails leaving behind reddish crescents as he flicked his tongue across your clit. The sensation was fleeting, but he sought to drag it out, lips greedily pursing around the pearl of your cunt.

Another breathy moan left you, stomach pooling with a rush of molten heat. It oozed between your legs as your arousal fell upon the Prince’s tongue, much to his delight. He did not waste a drop, mouth traveling wherever he pleased, lapping at every inch of your cunt.

His throat echoed with a low growl, hands grabbing at your thighs. He traced his tongue around your clit, teasing you with feather-light jolts of bliss. You let out a whine, occasionally writhing atop the furs, head lolled back in a display of pure ecstasy.

Aemond’s subtle groan of delight reverberated throughout him whenever you tugged on his tresses, forcing him further into the warm embrace between your thighs. He pressed a string of kisses along your clit, as if he were worshiping you. He enjoyed your greed — if anything, he wanted to indulge you.

The warm lick of the hearth danced across your flesh, seeping into your very bones. Perspiration dotted your brow, jaw tight as Aemond ogled you from between your legs, like a svelte predator, poised for the kill. “You’re perfect, Aemond.” You exhaled, noticing the subtle twinkle in his lilac eye.

That familiar cheshire smirk of his returned; your sweetly-spoken compliments and shower of praise clearly satiated Aemond. He kissed your thigh, breath hot as it fanned across your aching core. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” His voice was cajoling, playful as he nipped at your hip.

You squirmed, becoming desperate for a release, one that your Prince seemed to dangle before your eyes like a carrot on a stick. “Please,” You moaned, digits tightening within his tresses, a subtle signal to continue. “Please, Aemond!” With such an urgent plea from a sweet mouth, Aemond couldn’t resist you.

It seemed that begging would get you places — Aemond thoroughly savored every second of it. Your lust mirrored his own, perhaps subdued, but it was a raging desire nonetheless. He placed another string of kisses against your inner thighs, gazing at you with an incendiary fondness.

Sluggishly, he descended to your cunt once more, dragging the flat of his tongue along your slit in one broad stroke. With a shiver, your hips rolled forward, eased into submission by Aemond’s hands, which happened to lock you into place as he swarmed forward.

He drank you in, tongue greedily flicking between your weeping core and clit, until he began to apply that same pressure as before. His thin lips pursed around the pearl of your cunt, suckling on the clutch of sensitive nerves until it drove you mad, back arching from the furs.

By the Seven, the things Aemond did to you.

There was a fervor in his ministrations, a ravenous hunger that threatened to tear you asunder. His tongue lapped at your core, interchanging with those brief moments of his lips latched around your clit. You whimpered, thighs pressing on either side of his head.

“Aemond,” You sighed with passion, fisting his silky tresses until you tugged him closer, burying his face within the warmth of your cunt. Aemond didn’t seem to mind, treating you with another barrage of suckling and kisses until you were spent. “Fuck.”

Your unholy mouth made Aemond shudder, groping at your thighs as he brought you to climax. Your release was bittersweet upon his tongue, the most sinful taste imaginable — yet he never claimed to be a pious man. He worked tirelessly to clean you up, cock aching within the confines of his leather trousers.

As you rode the pleasurable high of your release, your body unfurled, the tension within your stomach coming to a halt. A molten bliss wept between your legs, soothed by the cool lick of Aemond’s tongue. Your tryst was far from finished — you had more left to give.

In a coiled, poised fashion, Aemond moved from between your legs, prepared to untie the strings of his trousers and sink himself into you, but you stopped him, placing your palms against the plane of his chest. His musculature was lean and narrow, almost spider-like.

Aemond did not make a sound, watching as you rocked up onto your knees, thighs quivering as you eased him down onto his back — the same position you had been trapped in moments prior. He was enraptured, lilac eye glued to you as if you were heaven sent, a goddess coming to claim him for yourself.

You tossed one leg over him, thighs straddling those spindly hips of his, palms dragging across his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen — wherever you could reach. Aemond shivered beneath the intensity of your embrace, lips quirked into the ghost of a smirk, a look of perplexity to mask his desire to submit to you.

“Tell me you want this,” You whispered, nails lightly raking themselves toward his breeches, not daring to go any further until Aemond offered you his consent on the matter. He was often on top of you, domineering and incredibly energetic, but this was different — for him, and for you. “Say the word and you can have me elsewhere.”

The subtle bob of his throat wasn’t easy to spot, masked by shadow, one half of his countenance basked in the glow of the firelight. His sparkling sapphire gazed at you for an eternity, the other drifting across your supple physique, seated atop him as if you’d mounted a stallion.

His hands came to rest atop your thighs, splayed out, possessively groping your pliant flesh. “I want you,” Aemond uttered, his voice a delicious purr, an octave full of an unrestrained lust. “In whatever way that is.” He quite enjoyed this position — he liked seeing you in all of your beauty, bared before him.

With a gentle smile, your digits began to unravel the ties of his trousers, gracing across his hip bones. It was enough to make him shudder, even if the action was barely noticeable. Together, you and Aemond removed the rest of his clothing — and there he was.

He was a beautiful creature, all lanky musculature and pale flesh, stringy and angular. Everything about him was sharp, like the edge of a blade. Aemond was charming, enchanting to you whether he realized it or not. It was enough to prompt you to lean forward, pressing a string of kisses along his collarbone.

“My Prince,” You murmured into his skin, your nose nuzzling underneath the sharp slope of his jaw. You kissed him there, listening to the hitch in his throat. Aemond hummed, lips curling into something of a perplexed line as his hands wandered about your frame, ensuring to touch and caress every curve, every part of you. “My Prince.”

Aemond turned his head, the movement precise and not at all coincidental. His lips captured yours in a feverish kiss, his cock eagerly pressing against your slick cunt. You gasped, feeling the length of it tempt you as he had several times before, but this time, he grabbed your chin, ogling you with his lilac hue.

He wanted to watch your face as you sank yourself onto him, briefly grabbing his cock in order to guide it to your aching slit. The pleasure that blossomed across your countenance was a sight to behold, and you were met with the familiar tilt of his mouth, a fire smoldering within his gaze as he bucked upwards.

His cock speared you with a suddenness, causing you to moan as you adjusted yourself, rocking up onto your knees. Aemond’s palms held your thighs, and he was more than willing to do some of the work, unwilling to let you tire yourself.

It was mesmerizing to see you on top of him like this, breasts full and lovely, softly jostling with each movement. Your flesh was velveteen, pure perfection cast in the sienna glow of the hearth. The fire was dying, but the lust between you and Aemond was far from extinguished.

Your palms fell flat atop his abdomen, finding your purchase there as you began to ride him. It was sluggish and erratic, at first — you let out a soft moan whenever Aemond moved too, using his strength to meet you halfway. His hips lurched forward, cock thrusting into your cunt several times over.

A string of wanton whines and moans escaped you in droves, feeling his grasp on your thighs tighten. He was quite enamored with you, especially like this — there was no sweeter feeling. He continued to buck up into you whenever he could, sheathing himself inside of you, possessing you from below.

Aemond’s visage contorted into one of shared satisfaction, shifting from indiscernible to pleasurable. He sat up just enough to be within reach of you, hips pushing up to meet the downward fall of your body, his cock buried deep inside of you.

“Aemond,” You exhaled, tossing your arms around his shoulders, feeling one of his hands wander from your thigh to your waist, colliding into you with a passionate fervor. The pace you set was sporadic and needy, wanton with desire as you rode him, your movements attempting to temper themselves. “Kiss me.”

That breathy plea of yours was enough to make Aemond submit, lips claiming yours again in an achingly slow, heated kiss. The feeling of your tight cunt around him, slick and warm, made him groan. He was desperate to keep a rhythmic pace, if that were even possible.

Flesh collided against flesh, and you felt Aemond’s mouth pry itself away from yours, creeping toward the column of your throat. He kissed your jugular, face buried within the hollow between your neck and shoulder. You continued your conquest, rocking up and down along his length, nails digging into his shoulder.

Aemond coaxed you backward, wanting you on your back for the final moments of your coupling. You were swift, slumped back down within the furs as the Prince seized your haunch, spreading your legs by bullying himself between them as he had before.

His thrusts became a touch rougher, chasing after a release as he began to rut into you, cock reaching the threshold as he filled your cunt. Strands of pale hair fell around his face, brow glistening with a thin layer of perspiration.

You gasped, back arching as you hitched one leg around his hips, grabbing at his biceps. Aemond’s pace intensified, turning into something carnal and primal, need outweighing sensibility. Lewd noises filled his chamber — the clash of flesh, the sound of your entangled panting and groans of ecstasy.

Wordlessly, he sought your mouth, kissing you with a blistering force that made your head spin with delirium. You reciprocated with passion, feeling his tongue split past your lips, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. Your teeth snagged across his lower lip, enough to make Aemond’s throat echo with a faint growl.

Between the tangle of teeth and tongue, bodies becoming one, you rolled your hips in-tandem with Aemond’s sharp, brutal thrusts. “Don’t stop.” You whispered, wanting him to chase after his release, feeling the pleasurable pulsations between your thighs.

Aemond let out a soft grunt, cock burying itself within you over and over again, precum slathering your insides. The sensation of your cunt around him was perfection — he wanted more of you, all of you. You felt his hand snake around your throat, cupping beneath your jaw as he squeezed just enough to make you whine.

He was relentless, pounding into you with an obvious desperation that only furthered your desire for him. You gripped his shoulders, bringing yourself as close as you could, any sliver of distance beginning to dissipate, eclipsed by conjoined bodies and shared bliss.

At last, his countenance contorted into one of complete and utter pleasure, pale brows furrowed in concentration, violet-colored eye closing for just a moment. His cock throbbed inside of you, brazenly spilling himself wherever he saw fit. He pulled out halfway through, painting your thighs in a sticky sheen of glistening seed.

With a huff of finality, Aemond kissed your jaw, removing himself from you long enough to retrieve one of the many blankets draped across the foot of his bed. You watched him in rapturous silence, the way his physique moved, sinewy muscle highlighted by the flicker of a fading fire.

You cleaned yourself up, feeling Aemond return as he draped the blanket within your lap. As the hearth began to die, the chill of his chambers became evident, thunder rattling overhead, accompanied by the onslaught of a cold deluge. He rekindled the flame, wordlessly slinking down to curl next to you.

Strewn beside the fire, Aemond’s head came to rest atop your sternum, arm draped across your midsection. You held him, kept him close — it provided a sense of vulnerability that made you truly believe that he was yours. You stroked his hair, surprised that he hadn’t asked for you to leave.

“Whenever you wish for me to depart, say the word, my Prince.” You uttered, feeling him tighten his hold upon you. Aemond gazed listlessly into the flames, lilac hue half-lidded as you continued to caress the crown of his head. He didn’t want to go anywhere.

“No,” Aemond’s command was sharp and punctuated, despite the softness of his tone, something that demanded you yield to him. “I want you here.” He uttered, shivering when your other hand traced along what expanse of his spine you could reach.

Prepared to make your vigil beside Aemond, you settled, leaning into him just as he careened into you. The silence was eerily comforting, lulled by the atmospheric backdrop of the thunderstorm. You always enjoyed the aftermath — you enjoyed holding Aemond, most of all. It made you feel cherished in a different way, one that others might not have understood.

You shifted forward, burying your lips atop the pale crown of Aemond’s skull, letting it linger beyond the boundaries of chastity. He exhaled, body fully curled against yours, half of him reclining against you, the other half left to soak in the crackling warmth of the fire.

As your digits tenderly traced the muscle of his forearm, Aemond finally broke the silence once more, happy to let you stroke his hair. “I have always been different, teased and ridiculed,” He lamented, a twinge of melancholy within his voice. “Underestimated, most of all.”

It was a rare glimpse into the window of Aemond’s being — the man that craved love and affection, longed to be thought of as important. After Storm’s End, his mother had cast her frustrations and scorn down upon him, condescending and detached.

A gentle exhale escaped him as you stroked along the angular slope of his jaw, turning his head away from the fire and toward you. You looked down upon him, this man capable of ruthlessness and cunning, and saw the threads of a shattered youth — of someone who longed to feel a tender touch.

“Those who’ve attempted to slight me have always fallen so short of the mark,” Aemond uttered, a vague reference to the Velaryon boy that he had wrongfully slaughtered. He had some regrets about that one, but he hoped that it would cement his strength — he was the rider of Vhagar, and even then, it never felt like enough. “Hm.”

He seemed incredibly comfortable like this, pressed into your warmth, his cheek nestling against your collarbone. You continued to trace along the smooth plane of his musculature, allowing your digits to finally brush underneath his scarred, sapphire eye.

“You feel cold,” You hummed, noticing the way in which he absentmindedly leaned into your palm, allowing you to fully cup his face. “You are strong, Aemond — resilient and cunning. It is not my place to speak of your family, but I’ve come to know you, and I know that you are stronger than all of them.”

Bristling underneath the sweetly-spoken purr of your praises, Aemond kept his arm draped around you, the other coming to rest underneath your breast. The pad of his thumb graced your silky flesh, and he wanted to stay like this forever, if he could.

Aemond regarded you with a forlorn intensity, one that still danced with a subtle frustration, intermingled with his growing sense of possessiveness towards you. He kissed your palm, and then placed a kiss against your chest, ear pressed to the beating swell of your heart.

“I do not feel different with you,” Aemond uttered, able to listen to the little flutter within your chest, the steady gallop of your heart. “I do not want that to change.” His tone became solemn, and you simply coaxed him closer, allowing him to use the crook of your elbow as a place to rest, fingers raking through his hair.

“It won’t change, my Prince.” Your reassurance was gentle, as saccharine as the finest honey. Aemond’s hum was one of contentment as he crawled forward, head resting against your shoulder instead, allowing him to better hold onto you just as you held him.

Silence passed between you, accompanied by the brief crackle of dried tinder atop the logs, the light of burning embers dancing before you both. He kissed your jaw again, the slope of his nose brushing around your neck as he peered towards the flames.

Again, you felt your breath hitch when Aemond held tightly to you, lifting his head just enough to gaze down upon you. Your countenance was captivating — beautiful beyond compare, awestruck of his appearance. His lilac hue flickered across your face, drinking in the doe-like look you had before he hummed.

The ghost of an indiscernible expression fluttered across his features — incredibly subtle, yet present nonetheless. “I certainly hope not.” He murmured, lips molding themselves to yours, and then to the corner of your mouth before he resumed his former position.

You kissed the top of his head once more, cradling him as you would something fragile. You knew that Aemond’s insecurities resurfaced often, but now, they seemed far more prevalent. Regardless, your affection for him wouldn’t waver — you worried that he wouldn’t feel the same for you, however.

Unbeknownst to you, Aemond already possessed you, body and soul — and that was more dangerous than any blade or any dragon.

copyright @ swordgrace / please do not post or translate my works onto other platforms.

[lovelymindescape]

can i request a thanos x virgin reader smut

Softened Edges (Choi Su-bong x Virgin!Fem!Reader)

pairing — choi su-bong x virgin!fem!reader

Summary - In the games you and Thanos were getting closer than friends. You have a special bond. Maybe that's because you told him in the games because you thought you're gonna die that you are still a virgin and that you want someone (him) that you trust to take it

warnings -most likely ooc Thanos. oral (fem receiving). unprotected p in v. implied cumming inside. Dirty talk. Virgin!Reader. Mild Roughness (Thanos's personality).Emotional Vulnerability. later established relationship. MDNI!

author’s note — not my first time writing smut but my first time Posting my smut writing , ignore typos , English is not my first language

The dim glow of the neon signs out on the street flickered through the window, casting hazy red lines across your shared bed. Thanos sat at the edge, rolling a cigarette between his fingers, the rough pads of his thumb pressing against the paper as if lost in thought.

“You sure about this?” His voice was deep, rasping with the weight of someone who had seen too much. He didn’t look at you right away, his dark eyes scanning the floor instead, as if giving you space to change your mind. You swallowed, fingers gripping the sheets beneath you. “Yeah. I am.”

That made him pause. Thanos wasn’t a man who hesitated often, but something about this—about you—made him move slower, more deliberate. He finally turned, setting the unlit cigarette aside before reaching out. His hand cupped your cheek, rough callouses dragging lightly against your skin. “I ain’t the kind of guy who does this ‘sweetly.’ His thumb brushed over your lower lip, gaze flickering with something unreadable. “But I can be careful.”

A shiver ran through you, nerves mixing with anticipation. “I trust you.” That was all it took. Su-bong let out a low sigh, as if shaking off whatever restraint was left in him. He pulled you closer, his warmth grounding you even as your heart raced. There was nothing rushed, nothing careless. For once, the man known as Thanos wasn’t taking—he was giving. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid to let yourself fall.

He let's his hand wander, his fingers softly tilting your chin up. The kiss starts slow—gentle, coaxing—before deepening, his tongue teasing against yours. His hands slide down your arms, tracing over your wrists before pulling you against him.

You shiver as his hands find the hem of your shirt, pushing it up inch by inch. "Lift your arms," he whispers. You obey, and the fabric is gone in seconds. His gaze lingers on your newly exposed skin, hunger flickering in his eyes , as he starts to plant little kisses all over. His fingers trail over your stomach, down to your hips, before slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. Thanos pauses, searching your face for hesitation. "Still with me?"

You nod, breathless.

With one swift movement he also removes your pants off you , Thanos takes a step back and admires what he just discovered. "I don't say this with a real meaning often , but you're beautiful , very beautiful to be honest".

He eases you back onto the bed, his lips tracing a slow, deliberate path down your chest. With skilled fingers, he unclasps your bra, sliding it off with practiced ease. His mouth latches onto your breast, lips warm and wet, tongue circling your nipple in lazy, teasing strokes. Each flick sends a spark straight between your thighs. He doesn’t stop there. His kisses travel lower, grazing over your ribs, dipping to your stomach. With every press of his lips, he leaves his mark—soft nips, lingering heat—claiming every inch of you.

His lips travel lower, grazing over your ribs and dipping to your stomach, each kiss lingering just long enough to make you squirm beneath him. His fingers skim along the edge of your panties, teasing, not yet giving you what you need."

"You're already trembling," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. "I’ve barely even touched you." Your breath catches as he hooks his fingers into the fabric, sliding it down slowly. He watches your expression, drinking in every flicker of anticipation.

The way you press your thighs together doesn’t go unnoticed. "Open up for me, sweetheart,"he coaxes, softly but his voice is low and commanding, with an edge of tenderness. "Let me see all of you."

Your heart begins to race in your chest. You part your thighs hesitantly, feeling exposed under his dark, heated gaze. "Good girl," he praises, running his hands over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His fingers trail upward, barely brushing over your core, enough to send a shiver through you—but not enough to satisfy.

You let out a quiet whimper, hips shifting slightly. He chuckles, clearly pleased by your sudden reaction. "So desperate already?" He dips a single finger between your folds, just teasing, gathering the slickness there before withdrawing again.

You bite your lip, frustration mixing with anticipation. "P-please..." His smirk deepens, but there’s warmth in his eyes. "Patience, sweetheart. I want to feel you come undone first." He leans in, pressing a lingering kiss just above where you need him most, his breath hot against your skin. Then, with agonizing slowness, he lowers his mouth.

His breath is warm against your most sensitive spot, the anticipation making every nerve in your body stand on edge. You barely have time to process the feeling before his tongue flicks out—just once, barely a touch—before pulling away again. The gasp that leaves your lips is embarrassingly needy.

"Mmm," he hums, satisfied. "You’re so sensitive. I wonder… how much more can you take?" Your fingers clutch at the sheets as his tongue moves again, this time with more purpose. He starts slow, dragging the wet heat of his mouth over you in slow, torturous strokes. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you open for him, completely at his mercy. "You taste so sweet, sweetheart," he murmurs between kisses, his voice thick with desire.

"I could stay here all night." Your mind feels hazy, lost in the unfamiliar but intoxicating sensations. You’ve never felt anything like this before—each stroke of his tongue sends a pulse of pleasure straight through you, leaving you breathless and trembling. Your hips buck slightly, chasing the feeling, but he immediately presses them back down with firm hands. "Ah, ah," he chides, amusement lacing his tone.

"Look at you, already so eager. But I’m in charge here, remember?" You bite your lip, embarrassed but unable to stop the soft whimper that escapes you when he flattens his tongue against you, applying more pressure. A tightness starts to build deep in your stomach, unfamiliar but overwhelming, and it only grows stronger as he adds a single finger, pressing inside you with slow, deliberate care.

"You’re so tight," he groans, his voice strained with restraint. "Relax for me, sweetheart. Let me in." His finger moves slowly at first, curling just right, coaxing pleasure from you with every stroke. His mouth never stops—lapping, teasing, driving you higher until the tension inside you coils impossibly tight. "That’s it," he breathes against you, feeling the way you tighten around him.

"Let go, sweetheart. Let me feel you fall apart." The pressure snaps. A cry leaves your lips as pleasure crashes over you, wave after wave rolling through your body. Your thighs tremble, fingers tangled in the sheets as you struggle to process the intensity of it all. He doesn't stop—not yet. He works you through it, tongue and fingers moving just enough to prolong your high, until the pleasure turns into oversensitivity and you're forced to whimper his name.

Only then does he finally pull away, lips glistening as he looks up at you with dark, heated eyes. "So beautiful," he murmurs, crawling back up your body to capture your lips in a deep, lingering kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, but you’re too dazed to feel shy about it. "You’re not done yet, sweetheart," he whispers against your lips.

Your whole body trembles as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through you, leaving you breathless and weak beneath him. Every nerve feels alight, oversensitive, but your mind is hazy, floating in the warmth of his touch.

He watches you, drinking in the sight of your blissed-out expression—your chest rising and falling, lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath.

A smirk tugs at his lips, but there’s something else in his gaze, something darker. "Still with me, sweetheart?" he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. You nod weakly, but before you can fully recover, his hands slide up your body, covering you with his warmth as he moves to hover over you again. He kisses you—slow and deep, his tongue teasing against yours, letting you taste the remnants of your release on his lips.

Your body is still tingling, sensitive, but when he shifts between your legs, his hips pressing against yours, a different kind of heat starts to build. Your breath hitches as you feel him, heavy and hard, pressing against your entrance. "Mmm, you’re still shaking," he muses, brushing his lips along your jaw. His fingers glide down your side, soothing, grounding. "That felt good, didn’t it?"

You manage a nod, but the moment his tip nudges against you—just barely there—a soft gasp escapes you. He groans at the sound, rolling his hips just enough to tease. "So sensitive," he murmurs, voice thick with desire. "But you’re still so warm… so wet for me. You want more, don’t you?" Heat flares in your cheeks, but the way your body reacts—the way your thighs instinctively part for him—betrays you.

"That’s my girl," he praises, dragging his fingers along your hip before gripping it firmly. "I’ll go slow, sweetheart. I want you to feel everything." One hand finds yours, fingers lacing together as he slowly and carefully starts to push inside.

A soft whimper escapes you as he pushes deeper, stretching you inch by inch. The fullness is overwhelming, teetering between discomfort and something unfamiliar—something almost too much. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and he stills immediately, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Easy, sweetheart," he soothes, voice strained, as if it’s taking every ounce of control to hold himself back. "You’re taking me so well."

His hands caress your thighs, his thumbs drawing slow, grounding circles into your skin. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss—distracting, comforting, easing you through the adjustment. "Breathe," he murmurs against your lips.

You do. A deep inhale. A shaky exhale.

As your body relaxes around him, the discomfort begins to fade, replaced by a warmth that spreads deep inside you.

A new kind of pressure lingers there, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. You shift slightly beneath him, testing, and a soft moan slips from your lips at the sensation. His breath hitches. "Fuck," he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. His voice is rough, his control fraying at the edges. "You feel so tight, sweetheart. So perfect around me."

The praise sends a fresh wave of heat through you, and he notices—of course he notices. A smirk tugs at his lips, teasing, but there’s something deeper in his gaze. "Does it feel good?" he asks, his voice low, coaxing. You swallow hard, nodding shyly. "Words, sweetheart." His hips roll forward, just barely, sending a shiver through your body. "Tell me how it feels." "I—I like it," you admit breathlessly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His smirk deepens, but there’s warmth in his expression, something almost reverent. "That’s my good girl." Slowly, carefully, he pulls back before pressing in again, a slow, deliberate glide that has your nails digging into his skin. The stretch still lingers, but this time, pleasure begins to unfurl beneath it, curling low in your stomach. "That’s it," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp. "You’re taking me so well, sweetheart. Just let go for me."

His movements start slow—measured, gentle, letting you feel every inch of him as he fills you completely. He watches your expression intently, catching every flutter of your lashes, every gasp that spills from your lips. His hands never stop moving—one grips your thigh, keeping you open for him, while the other strokes soothing patterns against your skin. The teasing edge remains, but it’s softer now—less playful, more intimate. He leans down, capturing your lips in another kiss, this one deep and slow, matching the rhythm of his movements.

"You're mine now," he whispers against your lips, voice dripping with possessive affection. "Every little inch of you." A shiver runs through you, and something shifts. The pleasure starts to build, the sensitivity from before making every movement feel sharper, deeper. Your hips move instinctively, chasing the feeling, and he groans at the way you tighten around him.

"So eager now," he teases, but his voice is strained, as if he’s barely holding himself together. His pace picks up slightly, not rough, but more insistent—each thrust pressing deeper, sending waves of heat through your body. Your mind feels hazy, lost in the pleasure, the overwhelming fullness, the way he makes you feel completely his.

"I want to hear you," he breathes, his lips brushing against your ear. "Don’t hold back, sweetheart. Let me hear those pretty sounds." A soft moan escapes you, and he rewards you with a deep thrust, dragging another breathless whimper from your lips. His grip tightens on your hips, his control slipping as your body molds to his, meeting him perfectly. "That’s my girl," he praises, voice thick with need.

The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling, building, rising higher and higher. He feels it—feels the way your body clenches around him, the way your breaths turn shallow. "You're close, aren’t you , sweetheart?"* he murmurs, a smirk in his voice. "Let go for me, sweetheart. Come around me." His fingers slip between your bodies, finding your clit , drawing circles with his thumb , pressing just right—and the world shatters.

A cry escapes your lips as pleasure crashes over you, your body tensing, pulsing, unraveling beneath him. He groans, his pace faltering for a moment as your walls tighten around him, dragging him deeper into the sensation. "Fuck—" his breath stutters, his control snapping as he buries himself to the hilt, his own release hitting him hard.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your uneven breaths, the faint hum of your racing heartbeat in your ears. He stays inside you, warm and solid, his body pressed firmly against yours as he presses soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your forehead. "You were perfect," he murmurs, voice softer now, his teasing replaced with something warmer, something deeply affectionate.

He shifts slightly, careful not to move too fast, his hands soothing over your skin. Taking care of you. "Are you okay?" he asks, voice gentle, lips brushing your temple. You nod, your body still tingling, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and warmth. A contented sigh escapes you as he pulls you against his chest, wrapping you securely in his arms.

He smirks, but there’s nothing smug about it this time—just satisfaction, love, and a hint of possessiveness. "Get some rest, sweetheart," he murmurs. The warmth of his body surrounds you, his arms wrapped securely around your waist as he pulls you against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, a soothing rhythm beneath your ear, grounding you in the soft haze of exhaustion and lingering pleasure.

"Are you really okay, sweetheart?" His voice is softer now, husky from exertion but laced with something deeper—concern, affection. His fingers trace slow, absentminded circles on your back, his touch tender in contrast to the dominance he held before. You hum a sleepy, contented sound, nuzzling closer.

His scent is everywhere , a mix of heat and musk, but beneath it lingers something undeniably him —comforting, familiar. He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. "That good, huh?" Your cheeks warm, and you make a small, embarrassed noise in response. He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

His eyes—so intense before—now hold a different kind of fire, something softer, more possessive in an entirely different way. "You were perfect," he murmurs, brushing his lips against your forehead. A sigh escapes you as his hands continue their slow, soothing strokes along your skin.

He shifts slightly, sitting up just enough to pull the blankets over both of you before tucking you firmly against him again. "Do you feel okay?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern now. "Not too sore?" You shake your head, though there’s an ache settling deep in your muscles—a reminder of just how thoroughly he had you.

He seems to sense it because his hands drift lower, massaging your hips gently, easing any tension. "I’ll run us a bath soon," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "But for now, just rest, sweetheart." You bask in the comfort of his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

The room is quiet except for the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the sound of your intertwined breaths. Then—his fingers pause their gentle strokes against your back. A beat of silence lingers between you before he exhales, almost as if gathering his thoughts.

"I meant what I said earlier," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more serious. You blink up at him sleepily, confusion flickering across your face. "About what?" His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing over the flushed skin there. His gaze searches yours , something unspoken lingering behind his teasing smirk.

"That you’re mine," he says simply. Your breath catches. "But I don’t just mean for tonight," he continues, his voice lower now, more intimate. "I don’t want this to be just once, sweetheart." He leans in, his lips ghosting over yours , his breath warm and full of unspoken promises. "I want you."

His fingers tighten slightly against your hip, as if grounding himself in the moment. "All of you. Not just in my bed—but in my life." Your chest tightens, a different kind of warmth flooding through you now—not desire, but something deeper, something almost overwhelming.

"Be mine," he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. "For real."

There’s no teasing in his voice this time—just genuine affection, quiet possessiveness, and a rare kind of vulnerability. The words hang between you, weighty and full of meaning. And as you look up into his waiting gaze, you already know your answer.

A/N : So , this is my first real story posted on here and it is pretty long from what I have before , also like I said this the first time Posting smut , so Feedback is appreciated !💜

Tag: @onecojg