#prompt: two people one bed

[beccel]

Bonus:

[so-many-ocs]

practical writing advice

part 2

avoid writing in bed if you can. writing in bed is the mind-killer. writing in bed is the little death that brings obliteration. you may think "but i can write AND be cozy" you will get sleepy so fast. 98% of the time when i try to get a nighttime writing session done in bed i go to sleep. maybe 70% of the time if it's an afternoon writing session. also it fucking kills your wrists.

STRETCH before writing. stretch as many parts of your body as possible ESPECIALLY YOUR WRISTS! i have chronic tendonitis in both of my arms from not doing this and it is manageable but it is Not Fun!

plug your phone in on the other side of the room. better yet, plug it in and leave it in another room. better yet, power it off and leave it in another room. "i'll just check one quick thing" do not underestimate the power of the doomscroll.

do a warmup. look up writing prompts (i like one-word prompts or prompts that focus on a general theme as it's easier to integrate into my writing style), set a timer for fifteen minutes, or ten, or five, and go ham. make it shitty or incomprehensible, as long as you make it. create a dump document for all your warmups. i currently have two novels in the works that started as one of these fifteen minute little warmups.

pick your background noise ahead of time if you use it, and look for something long. i listen to 3-hour-long silent hill ambient mixes on youtube dot com.

take breaks. around every 45 minutes, as i'm noticing myself begin to lose focus, i get up, grab a drink, get my blood flowing, and give myself some space to breathe.

sometimes i sit down to write and i think "every atom in my body is averse to doing this right now. i would rather dance barefoot on a bed of nails than open my laptop and start typing." and you know what i do? i go do something else instead. don't force it! it will become a chore.

that being said! write as often as possible. try to write every day. try to write at the same time. don't beat yourself up if you can’t, BUT the more often you write, the more often you'll want to write.

if you're stuck on a scene or a page or a chapter, go back to the last place where you felt like you knew what you were doing and start writing from there. keep a copy of your other writing in case you want to reuse it or refer back!

i don't know if this is something that will be helpful for other people but i start mentally preparing myself for my writing session a few hours ahead of time. i will say to myself, "today, at this time, i'm gonna sit down and write that scene where mina walks out on her book club, and it's going to be awesome and i'm looking forward to it." then, by the time i actually begin, i basically have the whole thing written out in my head and can just put it down to paper. it's a good way to at least kickstart the session !

ok thanks bye

[d1stalker]

Origin [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.

Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST

A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙

----

Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James. 

Your James. 

—

It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself. 

Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.

James.

He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.

From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.

"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"

A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."

You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"

He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.

The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.

But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.

Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.

"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.

"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing. 

You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.

“How was your day?" you prompt.

James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It’s all so posh."

You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.

Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"

"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."

The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.

He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”

There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.

The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."

He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.

You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."

For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"

Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."

He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."

You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence. 

"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"

He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."

You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"

Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."

There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—

BANG.

Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.

Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.

"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"

Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.

As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.

"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.

Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.

"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"

The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"

He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?

When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.

Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.

There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.

"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.

You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.

Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.

"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"

James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."

"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.

Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."

It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."

But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."

You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.

Betrayal is written all over his face.

His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.

"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.

The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.

"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"

“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust.  He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”

“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.

“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"

Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.

In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him. 

A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin. 

"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"

You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.

"We have to go!" you say urgently.

His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.

You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you. 

All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.

Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream. 

You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood. 

His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh. 

"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.

He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"

Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"

"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."

"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.

"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"

“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.

"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"

"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."

Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.

Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.

Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.

Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.

“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.

He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.

In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there. 

—

Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.

He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him. 

Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.

It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.

A new identity. 

Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week. 

Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own. 

To you, he’s still James. 

In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.

After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.

“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."

He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."

"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."

You don’t argue. How could you?

The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.

But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.

You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.

And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.

It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.

It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it. 

You’ve fallen in love.

—

It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.

Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.

You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own. 

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body. 

The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.

Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say. 

“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines. 

On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.

In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly. 

“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.

The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.

“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close. 

“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”

But, all good things must come to an end. 

The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.

On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.

When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.

“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.

One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.

The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.

But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”

He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.

Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.

And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.

Just like now.

Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.

Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."

You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."

He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"

—

That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.

And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.

The shack feels too quiet, too still. 

All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know. 

Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air. 

There’s no answer.

Panic grips you as you search the familiar places—around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.

No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.

The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.

"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze. 

By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.

In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain. 

Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.

It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.

The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.

You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.

Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.

The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"

Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.

He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.

—

In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence. 

Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.

Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving. 

Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.

But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.

And that hurts. A lot.

You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.

—

A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?

All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.

But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes. 

The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.

Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.

Except, unlike him, you’re alone.

He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.

Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.

If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?

You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.

Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.

Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.

—

The days bleed into one another.

Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.

You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew. 

And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries. 

The first time you did it, it was an accident. 

You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.

But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet. 

It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.

But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.

Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.

It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.

You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart. 

What if they leave you too?

Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it. 

As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.

So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.

It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.

Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?

You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past. 

He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.

—

Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.

You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves. 

And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.

Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.

So you agree.

And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.

The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.

—

This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.

The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.

“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.

Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”

Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.

You freeze.

You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.

James.

Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.

The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.

His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery. 

A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.

You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.

The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next. 

Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes. 

But it’s too late.

In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.

You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.

Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.

Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”

You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.

The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions. 

How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him? 

But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.

After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.

—

He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.

You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?

Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.

It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.

The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.

Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”

A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.

“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.

“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."

Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”

You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what’s left of him right now.”

Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”

Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word. 

“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”

“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”

Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”

“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”

Charles nods gently. “Of course.”

—

When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.

But it never comes.

Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”

It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier. 

He doesn’t remember you. 

“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”

His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.

You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."

His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again. 

“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”

“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet. 

“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”

Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”

Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”

Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

Because we grew up together. 

Because we were everything to each other. 

Because you were the one person I never stopped loving. 

“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile. 

He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”

The awkward silence returns. 

“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.

Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.

You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom. 

The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.

Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew. 

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.

Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.

Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.

“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”

You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.

Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”

The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.

Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.

“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.” 

—

The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.

Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.

Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.

It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared—that’s too painful.

You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.

When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.

While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.

And sometimes, your eyes meet.

From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.

One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed. 

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk. 

“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did. 

He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”

A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”

Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”

You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.

He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”

Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you. 

“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”

“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”

You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”

He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.

—

For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.

This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run. 

You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.

Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different. 

“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”

“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”

Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?

“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?

Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”

His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”

But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.

—

This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.

“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.

“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”

You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”

“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”

You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”

“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”

—

The memories keep coming.

You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”

He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”

“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Do you remember her name?” 

Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.

“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”

He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”

“Because I know you,” you whisper back. 

To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything. 

—

He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page. 

You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.

Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.

Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.

"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"

“James.”

You still. 

"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—

“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”

The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.

Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”

A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.

But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.

For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”

—

You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.

“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.

James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”

Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold. 

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly. 

You frown. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”

His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”

Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.

“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail. 

“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”

He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”

Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”

Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”

He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.

“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face. 

“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”

Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”

You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.

It was him.

It was always him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”

All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart. 

“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”

He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”

You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord. 

“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”

While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”

“James…”

“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”

“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”

“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.

You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.

Your James. 

----

A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3

[yoshistory]

i do also feel like The Pale Beyond holds your hand TOO much in some aspects but not enough in others

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 261

Adjective: Floral

Noun: Arm

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Floral: of flowers; decorated with or depicting flowers; (botany) of flora or floras

Arm: each of the two upper limbs of the human body from the shoulder to the hand; (in technical use) each of the upper limbs from the shoulder to the elbow; each of the forelimbs of an animal; a flexible limb of an invertebrate animal, e.g. an octopus; a sleeve of a garment; an ability to throw a ball skillfully; an athlete with an ability to throw a ball skillfully; used to refer to the holding of a person's arm in support or companionship; used to refer to something perceived as powerful or protective; a thing comparable to an arm in form or function, typically something that projects from a larger structure; a side part of a chair or other seat on which a sitter's arm can rest; a narrow strip of water or land projecting from a larger body; a branch or division of a company or organization; one of the types of troops of which an army is composed, such as infantry or artillery; (mathematics) each of the lines enclosing an angle

[orionremastered]

could you do a batfam x oblivious reader who’s so close to finding out they’re a vigilante, but she doesn’t even know if that makes sense? like nightwing crawling in through the window when he thought she was asleep, only for her to be awake and go “wrong house?” not realizing it’s her boyfriend.. who thought she was asleep

this made me laugh. very good thinking brains y'all have

Masterlist

Oblivious

Dick Grayson

The sound of your window sliding open prompts you to look up from where you lie your head on the pillow. You can't seem to get to sleep and maybe it's a good thing— you grab for the lamp on the bedside table and raise it high over your head.

Climbing through the window, however, is not a common thief. It's Nightwing.

"What are you doing here?"

The vigilante freezes, slowly looking up to meet your eyes. "I was told there was domestic abuse occurring in this apartment," he says smoothly. "You have a boyfriend?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Where is he?"

You look over to Dick's spot on the bed and only just now do you realise it's empty. There's a note written on paper that reads, OUT TO GET FOOD.

"He's grocery shopping."

"Ah, wrong apartment, then. Sorry to bother you." The vigilante then ducks outside.

Jason Todd

A loud crash prompts you to wake up— far earlier than you're used to. The sun isn't even up yet. Glancing to the side of your bed, you forget Jason's out on a business trip, what ever his business is.

You carefully climb out of bed, creeping to the bedroom door and slowly pushing it open. In your living stands Red Hood himself, dismantling an assault rifle.

"What are you doing in my house?"

The vigilante whips his head around, frozen like a deer in headlights. There's a long few minutes of silence where the two of you stare at each other.

"Gun's not working. I'll be out in a minute, just need to fix it. My apologies."

"Oh," you say, shrugging your shoulders. "Stay safe, then."

Red Hood nods, watching you return to your bed with a quiet sigh.

Tim Drake

Waking up at your usual time and kissing Tim gently on the forehead, almost as a reward for sleeping.

After eating breakfast as quickly as you could, you were surprised to see Tim still asleep and give him another gentle kiss, this time on the nose.

You've only got half an hour until you have to go to work, so you rush to the bathroom to get ready.

The Red Robin suit is draped over the shower wall, unmistakeable.

In your bathroom.

"Tim?" You shout, forgetting your boyfriend's need to sleep. "Tim!"

"What?" he replies groggily, slowly getting out of bed.

"The Red Robin suit is in my bathroom."

"Oh, uh, he asked me to clean it for him. We're sort of like, friends. I guess. It's weird."

"You never told me that," you say.

"It's a recent thing. Sorry."

You shrug and get ready for work, ignoring the suit at is it hangs in your bathroom.

Damian Wayne

"Emergency at work," your boyfriend had said. He gets a lot of those, you think. "Be back in the morning. Maybe later."

Now, going to sleep late— towards midnight, where Damian would have already dragged you into bed— you realised you didn't have on of his shirts to sleep in.

When he wasn't with you to sleep, you always sleep in one of his shirts.

You begin scrummaging through his wardrobe— which you never do— only for a shirt. You find one, your favourite black one, and pull it out.

Underneath the shirt, revealed as you yank it from the drawer, is a katanna.

"Oh. Oh."

It's late. You're tired. You've got the shirt.

It's probably just an antique piece anyway. Rich people have all sorts of things.

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

Parties were NOT Simon Riley's cup of tea. Not only did they drain his social battery, but he was the type of man that much preferred the comfort of a good book and his bed over that of social interaction.

But today was New Year’s Eve, and not only had Soap practically threatened him to come, you would be there. Seeing you would make attending the shitty party worth it. Seeing you always made anything worth it.

Simon walked into the mess hall, his heart racing slightly as he realized just how many people were here. All of the soldiers still on duty were gathered, eating, drinking, joking. Just the sheer amount of chaos that was ensuing made Simon want to run back to his room.

Until he saw you.

He found you watching TV, nursing on some concoction of drink, a languid smile on your lips as you saw him approach.

“Sergeant.” Simon nodded in your direction as he came to stand by you, thankful you couldn’t see the crimson forming in his cheeks.

“Lieutenant.” You smiled up at him, before letting your eyes fall back to the TV in front of you. "Surprised to see you here tonight."

Simon grunted in reply, his eyes scanning the crowded mess hall, finding his Scottish friend laughing with a group of recruits. "Johnny forced me. Plus, the company isn't so bad."

You turned your face slightly, a blush reaching your cheeks at his admission. "Glad to know my company is suitable for you."

You both stood watching the party for a while as a comfortable silence fell between the two of you. This was one of the things Simon adored about you. You never forced him to talk, which frankly, made him all the more eager to do so with you.

“Y/N-.” He began, but Johnny had cut him off with a tap of his glass.

"Alright everyone, begin the count down! It’s ten seconds to midnight!” Johnny called out, grabbing everyone's attention, prompting nearly everyone in the mess hall began to shout out the countdown.

"Ten!"

You couldn't help but look over at your lieutenant, your breath hitching slightly as you saw he was already looking at you, his soft brown eyes softening as they locked on you.

All of the noise in the background, the cheers, the conversations, the sound of the TV, all vanished in that moment. The only thing mattering to you was the way that Simon Riley was looking at you.

"Nine!"

Your many years alongside him began to swirl in your head, all the long missions, the close calls, all those times he risked his life for you, and you for him. All those times he'd let you in to see the man behind the mask, the man that was Simon Riley.

Your feelings for him had only grown in all the time you'd been alongside him, and you found yourself utterly and completely in love with your superior.

"Eight!"

Simon took a step closer to you, his eyes remaining as stoic as ever as they stayed locked on yours. You always hated how you could never tell what he was thinking, could never read what he was feeling by his looking in his eyes.

God, what you would give to be able to know what was going on in that gorgeous head of his right now.

If only you fucking knew.

"Seven!"

You tucked your bottom lip between your teeth as his he now stood almost chest to chest with you, his frame towering over yours as he looked down at you. You blinked a few times, your heart pounding in your chest as you looked up at him. "Hi."

"Hi." He replied, his tone quieter than usual. His hands began to shake slightly as he slowly began to move one of them toward the base of his balaclava.

"Six!"

You watched as he pulled his mask up, revealing a handsome jaw, lined with stubble. His lips were littered with scars, and you couldn't help but stare at them. From what little you could see of his face, you realized just how fucking pretty he was. As if there was any doubt.

"S-Simon." You breathed out, the intensity of his gaze sending a heat coursing throughout the entirety of your body. You couldn’t help yourself, you let your hand grip lightly at his arm, prompting him to chuckle softly.

"Five!"

Simon leaned toward you, his finger lightly touching your chin as he tilted your face up towards his. You found yourself leaning up toward him, your heels leaving the ground slightly.

His touch was so gentle against your chin despite the rough texture of his fingers, and it took everything in you not to moan at the tenderness of his touch.

"Four!"

“You want this?” He asked, his voice holding a nervousness you’d never been on the receiving end of before. “With me?”

All you could do was nod up at him, not trusting yourself to speak. You don't think you'd ever been this nervous in your life, your mouth running dry in anticipation.

"Three!"

This was it, wasn’t it? After all these years, after all those long nights, those deep talks, those longing glances… was this really about to happen?

"Two!"

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest as you felt his breath on your mouth, his lips being just a hair away from your own. You could hear him inhale sharply, and watched as his eyes darted toward your mouth.

"One!"

It was as if time stopped when his lips finally met yours. They slotted against yours so effortlessly, almost as if they were made to be kissed by you.

After years of loving Simon Riley, he was finally, finally kissing you. And it was everything you could ever have hoped it would be.

He pulled away a moment later, the smile on his lips now reaching his beautiful brown eyes. “Happy New Year, sergeant.”

A Happy New Year indeed.

[bbokicidal]

"Are you serious...?" - Angst! [Hyung Line SKZ]

Notes : These are all obviously fictional situations, the red flags are just based off of habits we know they have (like Chan's need to be needed, Changbin being blunt/honest.) This post isn't me saying I think they have these red flags, it's just a fun angsty prompt I wrote down. If you don't like it, scroll and don't read.

If people like this - a maknae line will be written! If not, prolly not lol.

Warnings : Angst with no comfort, red flag behavior - some of these aren't even that bad or could be misunderstandings but still.

Maknae Line | "Good Luck, Babe." Part Two!! Here!

BangChan - Brushing off/Having the wrong priorities

One time, it was him forgetting a dinner date - the next, he was staying at the studio late when he was supposed to be meeting your parents for the first time. You let it slide because ultimately you understood that his job took up a lot of his time, and honestly? It wasn't easy to forget about but he had a tendency to take care of you and make up with it by quick gestures before he left the apartment or when he came home; Soft back hugs, quick cuddles before he fell asleep, or kisses in passing. Lately, however, he's been slacking. He'd begun to shrug you off any time you'd touched his arm or hand, nudging you away while he typed on his laptop. He'd tip his head away from yours while laying in bed together or he'd sit further away on the dressing room sofa.

The tipping point was when he was getting ready to go on stage and was standing in wait for the others to be ready. There was still five minutes and Chris looked a bit jittery, so you figured a quick hug or kiss would help ease his nerves. However as soon as you approach and reach to touch his arms, he steps back and keeps his eyes trained on his phone. You reach again, hesitant, and his brow furrows as he maneuvers to the side to get away. "Don't touch me."

Your lips pop apart in surprise. "...Are you serious?"

He looks over, eyes briefly wandering your face before he reaches to fix his in-ear and walks away to the door, disappearing around the corner and leaving you standing there alone. Even the soft touch of Felix's hand on your back as he passed by was warmer than anything you'd felt from Chris in the last two months.

Lee Know - Keeping secrets / Prioritizing Privacy within himself

Minho had a very, very bad habit of not telling you things. In this instance; That he was leaving for tour in two days.

A world. fucking. tour. The only reason you didn't know about it was because you hadn't been out of your home in the last few weeks unless it was for a quick coffee at the cafe or to grab lunch with a friend. Work was heavy during this time of year and as someone who worked remotely, you often spent grueling hours in your office on your computer - hunched, tired, head pounding and back sore.

So you would think that when you entered your bedroom one evening after just finishing up sorting files in your office, you'd be happy to see your boyfriend already there. And you were for a moment, until you realized he was packing three rather large suitcases full of his clothes and necessities. He looks to you, then away, wordless.

"Are.. you.. moving out, or something?" You breathe in a laugh, eyes wandering over Minho as he folds a t-shirt and tucks it into his suitcase with the others.

"No. I have to bring all of my luggage to the company building tomorrow so they can have it at the airport when we leave for Australia."

"Australia?" Your brows quirk. "When -- Why --"

"Tour." He stops his movements to stare over at you, a hint of irritation evident on his face. "We're going on tour for six months."

"Six--" You breathe out, eyes widening. "Six months. And you didn't think to tell me?"

Minho moves to drop a pair of pants in his suitcase. "I would've told you if you could handle the news, maybe. Every time I mention leaving all you do is whine and pout about how long I'll be gone."

"I get upset, yes, what girlfriend wouldn't be upset that her boyfriend is leaving for a week or two? But six months, Minho, I --"

"Don't start." He all but huffs out the words, shutting you up immediately. Minho turns away to continue folding items of clothing on the shared bed and as you watch him do so, you stand and have to wonder if you want to be there when he returns home from the tour.

Changbin - Not knowing the difference between being rude and being blunt

He didn't seem to understand when to stop. Changbin had a tendency to be honest, sometimes to a fault, though you never seemed to complain about it because most of the time it wasn't a big deal. He called Jeongin out for saying the wrong word when singing, or blatantly threw people under the bus when a joke was taken too far.

And he was like that with you, too. He would be honest with you when you asked his opinion of something - was the shirt unflattering? Were you being too loud? Was your makeup bad today?

He'd lay it on you point blank. Yes, the shirt fit a little weird. Yes, you were being a bit loud in his ear. And yes, your eyeliner was going in two different directions. Criticism that was asked for. But when it wasn't asked for? Oh.

"What is your problem?" He bites as he follows you down the hallway to your bedroom. "We have ten minutes, just wear the damn dress and put your shoes on. We have to go."

Your huffs mix with stifled sobs as you rip open your dresser drawer and dig for other options, hands shaking and eyes teary. "You just told me the dress looks ugly, Changbin. I'm not wearing it out if you don't like it--!"

"What does it matter if i don't like it? It's your body, wear what you want!"

"You're my boyfriend!" You retaliate, frustrated. "I want to look nice for you and -- for the group, and I want you to like what I wear, obviously!"

Changbin lets his eyes roll before he turns out of the bedroom doorway and down the hall. You pause to watch him go, listening as he bites about how he doesn't have time for this and needs to leave for the group dinner. You stand in front of your dresser in shock as the door to your apartment slams shut, leaving you in silence and all on your own.

Hyunjin - Being too cocky / Making you feel inferior

It hadn't happened before now, and you weren't sure why it happened at all. But it did.

You'd approached to gently hold onto your boyfriend's arm as he talked to an older idol - someone he looked up to and had just done a collaboration video with. You'd only come up to tell him that the food was delivered and he could have dinner before his stage, but the look he gave you when he finally turned his head was .... wild.

No words were needed. The way his eyes directed to the side you stood at before falling as if looking you over and then immediately looking away; The way the smirk on his lips only widened and his tongue pushed at his canines as he redirected his gaze elsewhere. The soft scoff that left his lips. The way his arm slipped away from your hold in clear nuance that he didn't want you touching him.

It made you feel like less. Like he was pretending he didn't know you - Like he wanted you to bug off and disappear from his line of sight.

Hyunjin had a tendency to put on a confident, bold persona when he was on stage and at first you thought maybe that was why he was acting this way. It was lingering in his body from the dance video he'd just filmed with the other idol and eventually, it would wear off.

But as he turned from you and lifted a hand to fix his hair, he talks to the other as if you're not even there at all. And you have to wonder if it's a persona for the video, or a side of him you had just experienced for the first time. Now you could only hope it wouldn't happen again.

[withahappyrefrain]

number one on the smut prompts with tyler owens 🫣👀

Most people dreaded summer. The heat, the random thunderstorms, the seemingly endless droughts.

You craved it.

Summer meant late mornings, tangled up in the sheets. It meant watching sunsets in the bed of a truck. It meant going to rodeos and going home instead of a random motel.

It meant tornado season was done. Summer meant Tyler was back in your arms, spending time with you (aside from the research and occasional videos).

The exhaustive heat was still there. But he made it bearable.

"Just come join me," His voice is hot on your neck, his words stated between gentle nips as his fingers toyed with the hem of your denim shorts.

You giggled, trying to remain steadfast despite your thighs clenching, "Why do I feel like you don't want to shower?"

"Because I don't. I want to stay cool and spend time with my pretty girl," Tyler was so shameless, but you couldn't fault him; in fact, you loved that about him. How he was so insistent on talking to you one night after a rodeo, leading you to this very moment years later.

"Please?" How could you ever say no to those stunning green eyes?

The cold tile was refreshing, the cool water giving your heated body a much needed reprieve. Tyler's mouth was unrelenting as it alternated between your lips and your neck, his fingers quickly thrusting in and out of your soaked folds.

You had one hand tangled in his dark blonde hair, tugging on the locks in a desperate attempt to lure his lips back to yours. The other was gripping one of his broad shoulders, no doubt your fingernails creating crescent shaped marks that Boone would tease him about tomorrow.

"Think she's ready for me?" His lips ghost over yours, so close to giving you what you wanted.

You nodded, unable to speak due to how his thumb was drawing lazy circles on your clit.

He hoisted one of your legs up, pinning your knee against his hip. Upon feeling his cock enter, you tilted your head back, a deep moan echoing off the shower tiles.

The sound of skin slapping against skin was barely audible over the shower. No matter how many times you two did this dance, it still took your body some time to adjust to the sheer size of him.

Because of course he was big.

"S'fuckin tight," Tyler grunted, his Texan upbringing shining through in his words, "Every time."

You buried your face into his neck, hoping it would muffle the sounds of your pleasure soaked sobs.

He was relentless, hips all but slamming into yours, determined to push you over the edge. You learned early on that when Tyler put his mind to something, he made sure to see it through, whether it was a storm or your orgasm.

You clutched onto him for leverage, your legs shaking as he got you closer to making stars explode behind your eyes.

"That's it, c'mon pretty girl," he chuckled at the way your tight walls clenched around his cock upon hearing his special nickname for you, "Lemme feel ya. Wanna feel ya soak me."

Almost as if on command, your vision went white as pleasure shot through your body. You were yelling saying something, most likely his name as you soared through the blissful trip.

"Ah fuck, pretty girl," his hips snapped against yours once, twice, three more times before stilling, his own release quickly filling you.

The sound of the water hitting the tiles and your heavy breathing filled the room. Finally, you were the first to chuckle, breaking the ice.

"Welcome home baby," you grinned before pressing a kiss against his wet cheek.

"Welcome home, pretty girl."

[tojirights]

Prompt “❛ i love that no one else has seen you like this, that no one else has felt you before, been inside you. they don't get to have you, but i do. ❜” with alastor :3

Likke reader has been with multiple people but alastor is the first person to make her cum 0.0

prompt: Hii I really like your work! Can you do face sitting with alastor like reader mentions that she wants to sit on alastor face to angel and alastor overhears or angels says outlook to husk while his wasted thank youu

a/n: combining these two prompts!! ^ thinking maybe alastor overhears you talking with angel about your woes and offers to uhhh assist 👀

"the guys down here suck, angel." you sigh, sitting next to angel in the hotel lounge. you crack open your beer and hand him one as well. "yer tellin' me, babe." he chuckles. "whats got ya worked up this tIme?" he hums, reaching an arm around your shoulders. "thats the thing! nothing!" you groan, leaning into his body. "you know how many times i've tried hooking up with someone just for them to bust in 30 seconds and rub my inner thigh?" angel almost chokes on his drink.

"they're the worst. no one down here has been able to make me cum but myself." you mutter, taking a sip of your drink. "who do you want, hm?" angel asks. "maybe i can hook ya up with someone good." he wiggles his eyebrows, earning a giggle from you. the alcohol is making you feel a little brave, so with a sigh, you let your words free. "y'know who i think about all the time?" angel's eyes widen with interest, anticipation building.

"alastor..." you admit for the first time out loud. angel does choke on his drink this time before he laughs. "bitch! the radio demon?!" he barely contains his cackle. "stop! i mean, have you seen him? god, angel. i'd get down on my knees and bark if he told me to. i wanna sit on his face, hold onto his antlers for support. ughh, he's so hot." you whine into angel's chest, embarrasmemt finally setting in. angel tries to contain himself, but you've never said something so out of pocket but also very relatable.

unbeknownst to you, alastor stands not far behind you, his ears twitching as he listens in. a part of him does feel a tinge of guilt for listening, but you'd be quieter if you didn't want anyone to hear you. "well now, isn't that interesting?" alastor's voice makes you jump, almost tossing your beer straight onto angel. "oh fuck..." angel all but pushes you over in an attempt to get away.

"oh my god. alastor i'm so sorry, i was just-" you scramble to defend yourself, but alastor puts his staff under your chin to raise your eyes to his. "what was that you said about wanting to... sit on my face? about these worthless little demons not knowing how to treat a woman?" the sultry tone in his voice has you clenching your thighs together, which you blame on the alcohol swirling in your gut. you laugh awkwardly, trying to brush this off as alastor teasing you but there's a look in his eyes that tells you he's dead serious. "it's nothing! just venting some frustrations, that's all."

your eyes are a dead giveaway, desire flooding them as you peer up at alastor. "why don't you accompany me to my room for the evening, darling? we wouldn't want these inexperienced fools to try and make a move now, would we?" he extends his hand, and you decide to throw caution to the wind. standing, you let him pull you close. "blow my mind, radio boy." you whisper, watching alastor's eyes darken and his smirk grow. alastor uses the shadows, leading you straight to his room in a mere moment.

your heart rate sky rockets, realization hitting your gut as you start to strip. "how long has it been?" he asks, picking you up with ease and carrying you to the bed. "w-what?" you hesistate, watching as alastor ushers you to climb on top of him. "since someone else made you cum?" you swallow, straddling his chest. "i don't even remember al..." alastor's hands come around to grip your ass and pull you forward. with a gasp, you brace yourself on the headboard and then the feeling of alastor's tongue immediately has your brain turning to mush.

it's dizzying, the slide of his tongue up and down your slit was already far better than anything you've experienced in such a long time. "o-oh fuck." your body shudders, barely being able to hold still. alastor's tongue dips passed your entrance, lapping up your juices like a man starving. you already feel that familiar coil in your stomach forming, threatening to snap all over alastor's face. "that's, oh god alastor, that's so good." you moan, gripping tighter on the headboard as your hips start to stutter on their own.

then, you feel alastor's hands on your ass start to push and pull you, forcing your cunt to slide over his tongue. "y-you, i'm gonna-" you can't even think straight, pleasure blinding you to anything else happening in the entire world. alastor hums against your clit, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth and that's it, you're cumming hard enough that your vision goes dark and tears well in your eyes.

you're shaking, barely being able to breathe as alastor's tongue runs lazy circles over your still sensitive clit to ride out your orgasm. before you're fully recovered, alastor quickly flips you onto your back and his fingers find your puffy pussy. "you have no idea the honor it is to be the only one to see you like this, my dear. the only one to feel you-" he pauses, pushing two fingers inside your needy cunt so he can hear your sweet moans. "cum. and i will be the only one to continue feeling that. you will cum on my face, my fingers, my cock... anything you please."

the desire burning in your core strengthens once more. not even your own fingers have ever made you cum twice, but alastor is about to pull a second orgasm from you almost completely back to back. "make me cum again." you whine, hips arching further off the bed as his fingers pump in and out slowly. "on your cock, fuck, please fuck me alastor."

alastor chuckles, his free hand unbottoning the front of his pants just enough to free his cock. "how could i deny such a good girl? cum on my cock, my princess." in an instant, alastor's fingers are replaced by the thickness of his cock. the first thrust alone has you teetering on the edge, while his thumb rubs tight circles on your clit.

your pussy clenches around his girth, pulsing with every sweep of his finger. each thrust of his hips pushes you closer to the edge, his cock filling you like no one else could ever. "y-you, gonna cum again." you cry out, spasms wrecking your body as your second orgasm hits even more intense with the feeling of his thick cock stretching your pussy.

alastlor groans, pumping his cock deeper, deeper until he's cumming as well. "such a good girl." he grunts, pushing each thick rope of cum further inside. "you won't ever have to worry about not being taken care of, my dear." he assures, pulling out slowly even as your cunt tries to squeeze him in. "there's plenty more where that came from, rest your pretty little eyes." he coos, pulling a blanket on your tired body.

you just know this is going to be the best sleep pf your fucking life...

[dilvei]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 ( y! emperor x m! assassin reader )

yandere! emperor x male! assassin reader

warnings:

attempted murder

attempted poisoning

mentions of torture

some dubcon tumble & kissing in the sheets ey

directory: part one, part two [ coming soon ]

this definitely could've gone to a much, much darker route but instead it turned out kind of cute(?). i once had a similar idea to this one but as like a longer fic but i don't have the time for that so eat this instead y'all 🌈🌈

requested by @n4muqr

✾ | much is unknown of the current reigning emperor, dimitri, and what little is known about him is all rather rudimentary, really—merely the common knowledge shared and repeated by most already.

✾ | for instance, it is often said by the masses that dimitri is akin to a sleeping lion. a calm and quiet presence... until a single misstep is made in his presence, prompting his unbridled fury. the emperor does not merely desire perfection, he demands it with an almost relentless, crazed fervor. the emperor will not— cannot simply stand by when something in his vicinity does not reach that impeccable state.

✾ | another topic, oftenly brought up, is his cruelty. the amount of enemies dimitri has amassed on his path to the throne is not few, and those who remain are, well, tortured and tormented inside the cold dungeons for as long as they draw breath.

✾ | but none of those rumors are the ones that pique your interest in the emperor. no. what fascinates you about dimitri is the fact that he has yet to marry, and has remained so for several years of his reign, much to the utter bewilderment of his own people and his own court.

✾ | and the reason for it is so ridiculous that, the first time you heard it, you nearly topple over from laughter. the emperor is unmarried not because he is unattractive or ugly—the opposite really, if the rumors are to be believed—but because he deems that there is no one perfect enough yet to stand by his side. ridiculous, really. but what is an emperor if he is not arrogant?

✾ | still, the fact that there is no direct heir to the throne due to this is utterly hilarious to you. even more comical is the moment when, one day, you are given the task to assassinate said emperor.

✾ | you hold no loyalty for powerful men like dimitri, especially when they are reputed to be arrogant fools. and yet, curiosity stirs within you as to who issued such an order, for you are certain that you are not the only one sent to assassinate dimitri. his little brother perhaps? he is, after all, next in line to the throne.

✾ | a day after you receive the task, you simply... wait, and you remain waiting even as news of failed assassination attempts after another reaches your ears. not one assassin has succeeded, and it baffles you, really; it is either due to the emperor's extreme luck or, perhaps, his perfectionism has extended to other aspects of his life—namely, the protection that surrounds him.

✾ | so, you plan. disguising one's self to infiltrate the palace would take too long, and the likelihood of success is slim, especially given dimitri’s vigilant eye monitoring everyone’s movements. in the end, only one course of action comes to mind.

✾ | in the dead of night, you silently scale the towering walls of the palace—walls too high for most, surely, but easily surmountable for someone like you. with a mask covering the lower half of your face and more daggers than one should be permitted to carry, you ascend with ease.

✾ | landing on the balcony with barely a sound, you smile as you successfully arrive at the chambers of the arrogant emperor dimitri.

✾ | lock picking the door inside is awfully easy, and as you step into the bedroom that is almost suffocating with its golden splendor, you finally see him. you see the emperor.

✾ | dimitri is in bed, unguarded, with eyes closed and lips parted, so breathtaking to behold that, for a moment, you forget you are here to kill him, to murder him.

✾ | as you edge closer to his still body, you observe the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each soft breath. how his golden eyelashes flutter as the cold night air sweeps in from the open balcony window. it seems almost a waste to kill such beauty.

✾ | and just as you brandish your cold dagger to his neck, your other hand ready to silence his dying cries, dimitri's eyes shoot wide open, an icy gaze staring directly into you.

✾ | despite only just waking, the emperor is fast, sharp and alert, and in a blink, dimitri has already swiftly caught both your wrists with his hands in a vice-like grip, rendering you motionless as you both stare into each other’s eyes in tense silence.

"You shouldn’t be up at such an hour, Your Majesty,” you slowly quip with narrowed eyes, breaking the silence between you as you struggle to free your hands from Dimitri’s grip. Your efforts are futile; his hold on you tightens further.

No doubt, that bruises will soon bloom like dark flowers on your skin, assuming, that is, Dimitri ever lets go of his grip.

With an almost empty sharpness in his gaze, Dimitri inches his face closer to yours, his expression thin as he responds, “And you, should not wander as you wish in your emperor’s chambers. Wherever did you learn your manners, stranger?”

"Well, certainly not around here, Your Majesty.” You let out a sharp laugh before kneeing him in the stomach. But, to your surprise, you flinch instead of the emperor. It feels as though... you just kneed a solid rock.

At your failed attempt, Dimitri merely raises a brow and sighs, shaking his head in disappointment. “I must admit, this is a first. No assassin thus far has attempted to climb my palace walls only to knee me in the stomach. I must say, you do make a memorable first impression.”

"I'm flattered, Your Majesty," you say with a faux smile as you continue to struggle against his grip. Another sigh escapes the Emperor's lips.

Suddenly, perhaps finally finding himself tired of your antics, Dimitri pulls you towards him with a firm grip, effortlessly throwing you onto his bed, pinning you under him with only a hand as though you weigh nothing.

Well now, this is bad.

Dimitri hovers above you, his warm breath caressing your neck, his gaze piercing you with a cold, steely silence. Then— he rips off your mask, revealing your complete face, twisted with frustration; Dimitri's eyes seem to gleam as he notices it.

"Must you really rip it off?"

"It obscured my view of your face, oh assassin. Your mask was a hindrance to us both," he answers, voice as smooth as velvet. With his free hand, and an empty gaze that all but screams danger, Dimitri’s fingertips softly caress your face before slowly, but surely, descending to your neck. You gulp.

Before he can act in a way you do not desire—specifically, choking you lifeless beneath him—you lean forward, rising to press your lips against his in desperation.

Not for his mercy, no—heavens, no. Your lips are coated in poison, a venom strong enough to probably lull a lion into instant slumber, and soon, will render Dimitri paralyzed as well.

Unsurprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly—because you’ve seen it, seen the hint of desire brimming inside his eyes, a flicker that escapes the mask the Emperor puts on—Dimitri kisses you back. And if your swift brush of lips could ever be labeled as a kiss, then what Dimitri unleashed upon you could only be deemed a ravage.

He wastes no time slipping his tongue past your lips, savoring and exploring your mouth as one might indulge in a delectable, forbidden fruit. Despite your efforts, you find yourself drawn into his passion, grappling beneath him as he intensifies the kiss with each passing moment, as though melding your bodies together.

There is no room to breathe, and your head reels from the lack of air.

A bruising grip is placed on your waist as Dimitri somehow deepens the kiss further, his tongue exploring every inch of you, and as you attempt to pull away, he presses forward, biting your lip almost as a form of punishment.

A low whine escapes your throat, seemingly satisfying Dimitri as he hums softly into your mouth. Then, finally, ever so finally, he ends the kiss, leaving you gasping for air.

Tears well in your eyes as you gaze up at him, a half-smirk playing on his lips while he hovers above you, still gripping both your wrists firmly in his single hand, still unaffected by the poison after how much time has passed. How... is this be possible? Is Dimitri perhaps immune to such poison?

As realization washes over you, the half-smirk on Dimitri’s face transforms into a full one. "The poison on your lips is sweet, oh assassin," he whispers, "but in my opinion, the kiss is far, far sweeter."

"You...!"

As you prepare to kick the Emperor in his groin out of extreme frustration, he releases his grip on you, rising from the bed before straightening his attire. "You have passed, my assassin. And henceforth, you will serve me, and me alone," he announces, voice ringing clear inside your head.

You blink, letting his words sink in before narrowing your eyes at Dimitri, who is now sitting languidly on one of his many comfortable chairs in the room. “Just what are you talking about?” His words make little sense, and you feel an undying urge to hurl the nearest object right at his face.

"Who do you think orchestrated the countless assassinations on my dear self, oh assassin of mine? I seek only the finest, and while I knew no one could truly ever succeed in killing me, thus far, your attempt has been the closest."

You push yourself off the bed, striding towards him with your fists clenched. "This is all beyond ridiculous. Do you have any idea how many of us were tasked to end your life?"

"I do."

You cross your arms with a sigh. "So, what now? Is my task over?" The room is far too cold now after you have tasted the warmth that is your Emperor, and your job is clearly over, now that you have, somehow, been forcefully given a new one instead.

Dimitri responds, "You are to be my assassin. I will point the way, and you will obediently follow, with no questions asked. To kill whomever I send you to kill, to dispose of their bodies with no witnesses in sight, and to return to me when I have need of you. Is that clear?"

You roll your eyes at his arrogant tone but then nod obligingly upon seeing the slightest hint of anger in his expression. "Yes, yes. Is there anything else you require of me, Your Majesty? If not, I will be taking my leave now."

"Remain still,” he commands, and a distant part of you screams in frustration as your body effortlessly complies. He approaches you slowly, offering a small smile before placing your mask back over your face.

"When we are alone, just the two of us, I expect you to address me by my given name, my assassin.” He pauses then, lifting your chin with a finger. You tense.

"And...?" you ask back, your voice shaky.

The Emperor’s gaze flickers towards your lips, concealed beneath the mask, as he issues his last command. “That last method of yours. I forbid you from employing it on anyone else,” he muses, tightening his grip on your chin, almost painfully so.

“Your lips are reserved solely for mine.”

[reiderwriter]

🧺 Any More 🧺

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

For the CM Kink Bingo Challenge 2024

Requested: spencer realizing that he’ll never love someone as much as he loves you. (whether that be because of a case or what have you), his mind is absolutely blown with how much he worships you and how much you love and care for him and he shows you that with the softest most sickeningly sweet sex you and him has ever done. <3

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI! Discussions of case details, case burnout, very close friends to lovers, oral (f receiving), vanilla sex (p in v penetration). Discussions of mental health, and two idiots in love.

A/N: I'm hitting the prompt Vanilla for this one, so please don't be scared off by the KinkBingo tags! I had a lot of fun writing this one (and adding Pride and Prejudice quotes into the smut scene because HELLO). Let me know what you think in the replies~♡

Masterlist || Bingo Board

You hadn't seen Spencer in 100 days. Which in the grand scheme of things wasn't that long, trapped in the purgatory of a ‘what if’ the way you had been for the last eight years. 

You'd lived without him for longer than 100 days before. He'd been in prison, you'd been on assignments, you'd lived an entire life before meeting him, but now somehow 100 days was too much time, and you were exhausted. You understood why Spencer had to take some time away from you, from the team in an official capacity after everything he'd been through. You supported him even. 

But when even your free time didn't overlap anymore, you wondered if your relationship would ever be the same again. 

Spencer was a friend, your best friend, probably. You'd arrived on the BAU team, he'd rattled off some statistics, stammering the way through them, and you'd immediately warmed to the man. He was brilliant, funny, and fiercely loyal, and you tried your best to protect him even when the job seemed designed to break people like him into thousands of little pieces. 

You'd tried to convince him to leave before, after Maeve had died. You didn't want to see him heart broken again, but no one else had seemed to agree. 

“Reid needs purpose,” they'd said. “Reid needs something to do.” 

What Reid needed was to not end up dead before he had a chance to be happy, and happiness didn't come often in your field of work. 

You'd been almost vindicated a year later when he'd been shot again, almost fatally. Vindicated, maybe but distraught and inconsolable. Morgan had to carry you screaming and clawing out of his hospital room multiple times. It sounded stupid enough to yourself that it was only then you realized your feelings for the man. 

You wanted to be Spencer Reid's happiness, which was why you were so lost without him. 

He was coming back on Monday, and at least you had the weekend to sort your feelings out about everything.not just about him, but about the job you'd found didn't fit you well enough anymore, about the team you loved like family, about the relationship you knew would likely never come to fruition. 

You dumped your bags at your door when you'd arrived in your house that night, pushed yourself into your bedroom and let yourself collapse on your bed, balling up into as cozy a position as you could. You didn't even bother taking your jacket off, you just let your brain haze over and sleep rush in. 

Three quiet raps at your door lifted you up and out of bed again, not an hour later. 

You grabbed your phone, grabbed the second go-bag you kept at your house, put your shoes back on, and opened the door, expecting Emily and a new case. 

“Where are we going?” You said, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, not even looking up at your guest. 

“Hopefully, nowhere? I brought takeout.” 

Your eyes widened then, taking in all 185cm of Doctor Spencer Reid, tweed jacket and plastic bag full of chow mein included. 

“Spencer,” you breathed out, like a sigh of relief, letting the bag drop to the floor next to the first one and letting yourself into his arms. 

He held you carefully there for a second before leading you back into the apartment, wrapping an arm around you and ruffling your hair. It was brotherly, and it made you sick to your stomach. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Emily said you were back from a case,” he started, unpacking the takeaway from the containers. “And it feels wrong to eat this without you.” 

You rolled your eyes and followed him into the kitchen, pulling two forks out of the drawer nearer you and stabbing them in the top of your two cups. 

“Hey, I can use chopsticks now,” he said, defending himself against an inside joke. Spencer was always useless with his hands. 

“I don't care if you can use them, I care that they don't accidentally end up stabbing me,” you said, taking yourself back to your bedroom, Spencer following. 

“You'd hardly die from being stabbed by a wooden chopstick, maybe a papercut or a splinter but-” 

“But you're just bad enough that I don't want to risk it.” 

You kicked off your shoes again and climbed onto your bed. Spencer followed. 

“Remind me again why we aren't sitting on your couch?” 

“Uncomfortable.” 

“Or at your breakfast bar?” 

“Glorified filing cabinet right now. Eat.” 

He shook his head but complied, leaning back against your pillows as you both began carefully eating. Silently, you pulled your laptop onto your bed, opened it up, and pressed play on a movie, one you'd seen more than once, and you'd forced Spencer to watch before as well. 

In a comfortable, friendly silence, you finished your food. You stretched out in a yawn once and then curled into his side, letting his mumbling voice, repeating the movie lines as they were spoken, lull you softly into sleep. 

Spencer knew he had to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to wake you. The movie had finished hours ago, he'd closed the laptop and turned off the bug lights, but he couldn't leave. 

Unlike you, he hadn't counted the days that you'd been apart. He hadn't needed to. He knew you'd be waiting there for him when he returned, knew you'd give him a smile and a pat on the back, and immediately start bouncing ideas off of him. It was what he loved about you. 

As he laid next to you in your bed, a place he'd absolutely been before, his heart thumped. Just once, but hard. 

Even in sleep, you looked exhausted. Your shirt was crumpled, hair a mess, you were still wearing makeup, and he knew he'd probably get an earful for letting you sleep like that in the morning. You were a mess, and he still wanted you. 

The thought came to him suddenly, another painful thump of his chest echoing in his mind. He rubbed absent mindedly at his chest as if experiencing heartburn. In the dim light of the room, he let his head drop to the pillow and wrapped two shaky arms around you and pulled you in closer. 

The two of you were a picture - both in suits, both with badges still somewhere on your person, both dearly clinging to the person they feared losing the most. 

When you woke the next morning, it was actually the afternoon. 

“Spencer,” you groaned, melting under the heat of his embrace. Somehow, during the night, he'd rolled on top of you, pressing you into the bed with a delightful pressure, head nuzzled into your neck, arms tucked around your waist. 

“Spencer, we should get up,” you said again, forcing your eyelids apart as your mascara tried to glue them together. 

“Mmmmhh,” he groaned, moving to pick himself up off you for a minute but lowering himself again. If asked, he'd blame your hand in his hair, stroking the rogue curls gently, as if he were a prized pet and you their carer. 

“Spencer, its 2pm.” 

“On a Saturday.” You laughed at how pouty his voice sounded, but he complied and rolled off of you slightly, arms still wrapped around you. 

“Come on. Get up. I've got some clothes that might fit you, let's get you out of the tweed.” 

He huffed but nodded and lifted himself halfway to upright, eyes still closed lazily as he let in the light millimetre by millimetre. 

“God, my face feels horrible,” you said, itching at your nose. “How did we even sleep so long like this? My belt is still on, Spencer, my belt.” 

“If you were still wearing a weapon, then I'd be worried,” he smiled. 

You shot him a sarcastic look and finally detangled yourself, only to clasp his hands and pull him forward as well, letting him trail you to your closet. 

“Here, change in the bathroom,” he nodded and walked away, following directions with eyes still closed, as if it were really his apartment and not your own. 

100 days without him, and it was as if it had only been 100 hours. Your entire body chemistry changed when he was around, the stick holding your spine rigidly in place, dissolving into calm, into a smile and a free giggle. It felt right again, and you almost forgot you'd ever felt wrong. 

After briefly changing, you swapped place with Spencer, who'd exited the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and wet hair. 

“Dry it for me?” He asked, sitting on your couch, and you nodded your ascent. A shower and a quick change later, and you were doing just that. 

As much as he tried to keep his head upright, it kept lolling onto your thigh, yawns stretching out of him as he nuzzled closer to you. 

“Spencer, you're like a big kid, keep your head up.” 

“I'm not a kid,” he laughed, hooking his arms behind your knees and nuzzling closer into your soft sweats. “I'm just tired.” 

“You're right. A child would probably be better behaved.” 

“Our child would be,” he sighed, but you'd already turned the hairdryer back on, drowning out everything. Everything but that thump again. A child, he was thinking about children, and more importantly, he was thinking about your children. With him. 

He'd always imagined himself with a family, knowing it would ultimately stay in his imagination. But for a second, his visions changed. It wasn't just a child or two. It was you. Thump. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

He only released the image when you finally pushed his head off of you and stood, turning away from him to get a glass of water from your kitchen. 

“So, any plans today? Books to read, papers to mark, undergrads to run away screaming from?” You let the ice water cool your hot cheeks, but kept your back to him. You were hot, embarrassed, and you were looking at him in a sickeningly sweet way that could only be described as love struck or struck dumb. 

“No, no, I finished all my obligations at the college yesterday,” he said, following behind you and picking up your cup when you set it down, taking a sip himself. 

“I was… I was actually hoping we could spend some time together? Unless you had plans, which is totally fine-” 

“No, Spencer, yeah, I have no plans, that's…. Well I have to do laundry, which is a bit boring but, no. No plans.” 

“Laundry?” 

“Two week case in Florida, I don't know how you didn't smell me yesterday, Spencer. I'd be running for the hills.” 

He laughed and stepped away again, grabbing the two go bags by the door and coming back into your space. 

“How about we get this done now so we can spend the day in a Who-Trek marathon?” 

“Make that a Who-Greys Anatomy Marathon, and you have yourself a deal.” 

He pouted again, and you snorted at the sight, taking another sip of water to calm yourself before you could react safely to that face. 

“Come on, you know you've been dying to know what happens next at the Grey Sloane Memorial Hospital.” 

“I thought it was called the Seattle Grace Mercy?” 

“Oh we better get to that laundry now. You have a lot to catch up on.” 

Grabbing a bag in one hand and his free hand in your other, you made your way down to your building's laundry room. But despite the man by your side and the relaxing day threatening to stretch ahead of you, a gloom caught you in the corridors. 

You'd worked for two weeks, practically solid. You'd killed a man two days ago, or at least someone on your team had multiple shots having been fired. Another day on your job, another unsub felled, and everyone else was content with this just being a part of the job description. 

It felt like each step towards the laundry room, each thing you did that was normal, that was regular, threw back in your face the pain you endured to save lives. 

The bag in your hand weighed you down, pulling you lower and lower by the second. 

You reached the laundry room, and you found the weight almost unbearable, stopping just before you could step in. You didn't have to think about what came next though, because suddenly the bag was out of your hands and Spencer was sorting your laundry for you. 

“It's a Saturday, so your neighbour's won't complain if we separate the darks and lights into two machines, will they?” He asked, not looking up at you as he worked pouring out the fabric softener and the detergent. “Y/N?” 

You hadn't noticed the lightness in your body until the tears hit your cheeks, the weight gone with his support. 

“Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?” He said, hands cupping your face, because of course he was immediately at your side. 

“I-I can't do it, Spencer…” your voice shook, pitching upwards, your vision blurring with tears. 

“Can't do what, Y/N? Talk to me please, let me help?” 

“I can't do laundry!” You said, finally bursting into a full fit of tears and burying your head in his waiting chest. 

“L-Laundry?” He said, trying not to laugh, but the smile slipping out anyway now you were holding him. 

You only sobbed again, nodding into his shirt, aware you were probably leaving snot all over it but not being able to care. It was your shirt anyway. You would just have to add it back to your laundry pile. 

The thought set you off on another wave of sobs, and Spencer set about comforting you again. Keeping an arm wrapped around you, he put his quarters into the machines and set them off before quickly ushering you back up the stairs into your apartment. 

“Y/N? Y/N, please talk to me,” he begged, smoothing your hair out of your eyes as you tried to gather yourself.

“I don't…. I can't….” You took a breath again, aware of the way your breathing hitched in your chest as you did. 

“I don't think I can do this anymore,” you said, and his eyes widened quickly. 

“This? Y/N, if you mean this as in us, then I can't-” 

“This job,” you clarified, hands digging into the soft flesh of his arms further as he held you, finally sitting back on your couch. 

“The job. Okay, the job. That's okay. We all feel like this at some point.” 

You sniffed again and refused to meet his eyes. 

“But this isn't like the other times this - It's like my whole b-body is protesting, and I can't sleep, and if I don't, then I might get sloppy and an unsub could-” 

“Y/N, focus on my voice. You're spiralling. Listen to my voice, let's take some breaths, and think about this for a second.” 

He guided you through some breathing, a hand on your back tapping out beats even as his voice grew quiet. 

When you finally relaxed, you were sat on top of him, his hand rubbing circles into your back. 

“I think it started when you left,” you whispered. “When you went to Mexico, and then, you know,” you've voice thickened, and you couldn't get the words out. 

“And then these last 100 days they've just been…difficult.” 

“100…difficult,” he echoed, almost breathless as he listened to you. 

“It's like I can't do it without you. I never had to try to do it without you, and now I get what people say when they say this job is shitty, because it is when your best friend isn't there.” 

You gave him a weak smile and wiped away your tears, trying to climb from his lap. But his firm arms held you still, and you didn't really want out anyways. 

“When I get home, everything is different, and I can't make myself do anything. If you weren't here, I wouldn't have done that laundry. I'd let it sit and avoid it for weeks. Do you understand?” 

“Y/N, lots of people feel depressed sometimes-” 

“It's not - Spencer, I don't think this is something I can medicate my way out of. I don't know what to do because I can't do my job without you, and I can't be happy doing my job, and if I leave my job I'll be without you and then-” 

Your voice cracked again. 

“And then I still won't be happy.” The words were barely a whisper, but they were a plea, too. You weren't sure what for. 

“You can't be happy without me?” He asked, but it was more a statement than anything else. Spencer felt horrible in that moment as his chest rattled, gleeful that he was your happiness. 

“I love you,” he said, outloud finally after eight years. 

“I love you, too, Spencer, but-” 

“No, Y/N. Listen to me. I. Love. You.” The thumping of his heart set the tempo for the choir that was his senses to begin singing, as he finally leaned forward and kissed you.

“I love you, and I don't care if you're working at the BAU or if you're avoiding laundry at home. I, god, you're amazing and wonderful, and you're a human being, and you've our yourself under so much pressure for the last decade to keep me alive, to keep all of us alive really and….” 

He took another breath, leaning into kiss you one more time. 

“And you deserve a break.” 

“W-When we take breaks, people die.” 

“Did anyone die when I was teaching for the last three months? When JJ went on maternity leave?” 

You shook your head, but your brain was still a mess. 

“You all had reasons, I-” 

“You have reasons, too. Y/N…. Y/N, let me be your reason.” 

For a moment or two, Spencer truly thought you were going to say no. He thought you would get up and walk away, or better yet, ask him to leave and never come back. 

So when you pressed your lips to his, he was sure that this was a dream. 

But to you, it was salvation. Spencer Reid's love was the lifeline you'd been thrown, and it was buoyant enough to make you start floating. 

His hands kneaded the flesh at your hips as he pulled you closer still to him, his tongue slipping into your mouth to explore every part of you there. 

“Y/N… love…you,” he mumbled with each spare breath he caught, and you only detangled your lips to hear him say it again as he pressed similarly heated kisses against every inch of your exposed skin. 

When Spencer's mind lost its ability to create original speech, he leant back on a lifetime of information, of learning love through books and people and marathons with you. 

“I know that all I know right now is that I love you. And I know that I always will,” he whispered, lifting you and carrying you back to the bed you'd only crawled from an hour hence. 

A hand slid under your shirt, and slowly pushed it over your head, letting it slowly drop to the floor as he held you tenderly. 

“To me, you are perfect.”

His mouth found one nipple, and he gently kissed, then suckled at it, hands softly caressing your stomach, feeling along every ridge of you as you writhed under him. 

“Of all the FBI Units, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.” 

“Spencer,” you said, voice still thick with tears, but these ones more tender, more joyful. 

His hand eased your sweats over your ass and off, his hips settling between your legs as if he found the place he was made to lie forever. 

“The truth of it is, I’ve loved you from the first second I met you.” 

His mouth trailed lower until his tongue hit your clit, brushing against it languidly, as if it was his deepest desire to taste you and nothing else ever again.

His tongue flattened and flicked and pushed inside of you as you replayed his words again and again and again. You found yourself repeating them with him. 

“I love you,” you echoed as he pushed a finger inside of you. 

“I.. love you,” you gasped as he added another. 

“I love you,” you screamed as your back arched up off the bed, finding your pleasure in his tongue, just ad you'd found love in his words. 

“You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love….” He freed his cock from his pants, and took it in hand.

“I love…” With another kiss, he pressed the tip of it against you, asking for permission silently as you nodded your head. 

“I love you.” He pushed in slowly, but it wouldn't matter how he did it because now you knew how he felt, and you didn't want to return to a time of not knowing. 

Hooking your legs around him, Spencer dropped his forehead to yours and looked you directly in the eyes as he began moving. In and out, he thrust, mouth open in a moan of pleasure, likely mirroring your own.

The poetry, the movie lines, they were gone now, and Spencer was left with nothing but you, and love, and love for you. 

“Spencer,” you moaned out, and he felt his chest swell. Pride. His name on your tongue, his body pressed to yours, claiming you as his ad you claimed him as yours. 

He came with a shudder and you were not far behind, his undoing sending a shiver up your spine as his fingers grazed your clit again. 

You sat panting for a minute, still attached, still forehead to forehead. 

You weren't sure if it was him who giggled first or if it was you, but you were glad it was one of you. 

You spent the rest of the night, the rest of the weekend, wrapped in his warmth, dressed in his love, taking each day a step at a time as you basked in his adoration.

[fanficgirl429]

Mike has a feelings for you (fluff)

Prompt: While babysitting Abby she tells you that Mike has a crush on you

Pairing: Reader x Mike Schmidt

----

“I can’t believe I have to fucking work today,” Mike says, pulling his gray security shirt on. “I told them I can only work during the week!”

Your best friend scrambles around the living room, looking for his phone, keys, and wallet- all of which are in various places. You are currently sitting on the couch, watching all of this unfold. He was always leaving his items in various places. How many times had you told him to leave them in the same spot?

He finds his keys and phone and shoves them into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Where is my wallet?” he says, running his fingers through his already messy brown hair.

“Did you check your room?” you ask.

He quickly leaves the room and returns moments later with his wallet in his hand.

Mike let’s out a sigh and looks over at you. “Are you sure you’re ok watching her? I can always call Max.”

“I don’t mind watching her at all,” you tell him.

You stand up and walk over to your best friend. Wrapping your arms around his waist you pull him into a tight hug. He instantly relaxes and wraps his arms around you.

“You have no idea how amazing you are,” Mike tells you, smiling.

You laugh as Mike takes a step back and towards the front door.

“Thank you so much for watching her,” Mike calls. “I owe you!”

“Hey Abs,” you say, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “What are you drawing?”

Abby smiles and passes you the sheet of paper. There is a white house with a large tree and three people standing out front. A man, a woman, and a child.

“You have to tell me who everyone is,” you say, pointing to the three people.

Abby stands up and comes to sit besides you on the bed. Her small hand points to the man on the page, “That’s Mike,” she moves her hand to the woman, “you,” and points to the child, “and that’s me.”

You weren’t shocked that you were drawn- Abby tended to draw the three of you alot. Mike and you had been best friends since middle school and you loved Abby like she was your little sister. Most of her drawings were things the three of you had done together or what she wanted to do with the two of you.

“And who’s house is this?” you question.

“We all live there together,” Abby states.

“Oh, that sounds fun,” you reply.

“Yea! Because you and Mike are going to get married!”

Abby’s comment throws you off. Not once has she ever asked about your and her brother's relationship.

“What makes you think we’re getting married?”

“Because Mike has a crush on you,” Abby says, shrugging.

You laugh. “No he doesn’t.”

Abby nods her head. “Yes he does. He says your name a lot in his sleep.”

“But that doesn’t mean he has a crush on me,” you tell her.

Abby’s silent for a moment then answers quietly. “You make him smile and laugh and he’s always happy when you’re around. He’s not like that around anyone else.”

Her answer surprises you but kids are very perceptive. Instead of pressing any further, you tell Abby to start to get ready for bed.

“Do you have a crush on Mike?” Abby askes as you tuck her in to her bed.

“Oh…um…yea, I do,” you tell her.

Little does Abby know but you are in love with her brother.

Abby smiles and nods and you turn the light off, closing the door behind you as you walk back to the living room.

—-

Abby falls asleep quickly and you sit in the living room watching tv. Your mind keeps going back to conversation with Abby. Does Mike really have a crush on you?

Abby doesn't know it (well maybe she figured it out) but you’ve had feelings for Mike for a long time. You loved your relationship with Mike and didn’t want to jeopardize it so you never made any indication or moves towards him. You had hoped that maybe he would be the first one to make a move but he never did.

All of the sudden it hits you, how tired you are. You stand up from the couch and stretch and slowly walk back towards Mikes room. This isn’t the first time you had slept over. Many times after Abby had gone to sleep, you and Mike would stay up together, hanging out. At first Mike insisted that you sleep at his house but now he didn’t even have to say anything- you would just crash on his bed, next to him.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep and a few hours later, the bed dips slightly as Mike lays down next to you- waking you but only for a brief moment.

—-

The sun peeks through the curtains in Mikes room and the smell of bacon and pancakes wake you up from your sleep.

The spot on the bed next to you is disheveled -the only evidence that Mike has slept there.

As you lay in bed for another minute, you hear voices drifting down the hallway. You can’t make out what they are saying but you can tell it’s Mike and Abby.

Standing up, you walk into the hallway but hang back for a moment- waiting to see what they are talking about.

“Did you know that Y/N had a crush on you?” Abby tells Mike.

“How do you know?” you hear him ask.

“She told me,” Abby states matter of factly.

It’s then that you decide to walk into the small kitchen. Abby and Mike are both sitting at the small kitchen table, eating bacon and pancakes.

“Morning,” you say, walking over to the coffee maker.

“Morning,” Abby and Mike say at the same time.

Mike's hair is sticking up in various directions and he looks like he just woke up. His dark t-shirt hugs his frame and you know he’s wearing his favorite pair of flannel pajama pants.

“I’m going to go draw,” Abby says, leaving you and Mike alone in the kitchen.

Mike watches as you pour yourself a glass of coffee but don’t turn around to face him.

“So,” he begins. “Abby told me something interesting…”

“And what was that?” you question, although you already know the answer.

“She said that you have a crush on me.”

“Oh. Why would she say that?”

“She said that you told her you did.”

You turn around to face your best friend, your eyes locking with his. His cheeks are slightly pink and it makes you feel better that this conversation might be slightly embarrassing for him as well.

“I-uh-,” you stammer.

Mike stands up and walks over to you and your back presses against the counter. He slowly moves his hands to your waist, waiting to see how you’ll react. When you don’t move away, he grips your waist, his brown eyes locking with yours.

“What if I told you that I had a crush on you?” he says.

A soft smile crosses your lips and Mike reaches up and places his hand against your cheek, his thumb moving in small circles.

You move your arms up and snake them around his neck, waiting for him to make the next move. His body is pressed against yours and you can feel his heart pounding against his chest.

Within moments, he leans down and brushes his lips against yours before pulling away.

“Why did you stop?” you tease him.

He smiles as his presses his lips against yours and they move together, almost as if the two of you had done this before.

[hoseoksluna]

BOOKWORMS | knj

pairing: boyfriend!namjoon x reader

genre: smut; fluff

word count: 4.4k

summary: namjoon thinks of you when he reads a smut scene in his book.

warnings: boyfriend namjoon!!!, kimi namijoon reading, mentions of sex (riding), oral sex (f. receiving), nipple play, the importance of consent, teasing, raw sex, breeding kink <3, big dick namu!!, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, joonie's chain dangling in ur face, tummy bulge, creampie, bruising, hickeys, aftercare:(

note: it took blood, sweat and tears (hehe) to write this and i'm so happy it's finally here!! i loved writing about namjoon. he's my whole soul and the entirety of my heart and i have to write abt him again soon. please take your time reading this and enjoy urself! let me know what you think in the comments mwah (or tell me anonymously in my inbox) and as i always say please like and if u want to - reblog, but i won't pressure u baby. love love you!!

side note: if you want to jump straight to the smut, it's right under the asterisks &lt;;3

You revel, you truly do, in seeing your boyfriend in such a serene state of mind. 

Nose buried in a book, Namjoon pays no mind to the surroundings fleeting by him with each flutter of his eyelashes. It goes unnoticed by him, strangely so, how you tidy up the apartment you share. How you feed the two cats that chose you and him to be their human parents. How you fondle their soft ears. How you bend over the furniture to whisper ‘pspsps’ at them when they need a moment away from you just to see their round eyes look up at you stupidly. Namjoon usually observes these moments; this utmost natural behavior of yours. He draws strength from the homeliness of it all with each and every swell of his lungs. Needs it to survive. That is until he gets a hold of that one papery portal and sits comfortably on the couch, one ankle propped over the knee. Then, he ceases to exist in this world. 

You’re happy for him. Over time, you’ve come to find that you have a certain fondness for the way he remains stoic. Because you always know what kind of book he’s reading, a smile blossoms on its own over the line of your lips whenever your eye catches the sculpture-like look on his face. It’s like even if he let himself hold his breath, his consciousness would waver back to the earth and the wretched awareness that he’s here, among mortals and the unfair capitalist system aftermath, would stream in his bloodstream, poisoning his experience. It takes the leisure out of it and makes the bed for misery instead. He doesn’t like it. Hates it, in fact. It’s a necessity that he focuses, as he embarks on the journey, because he does it for you.

Namjoon confides in his feelings and his literature with you almost on a daily basis. On the same couch, with the same cats snoring faintly, their small bodies spilling over the perimeter of your tangled legs. Doesn’t matter if it’s his thigh or the curve of your hip. The animals always find a warm crook to doze in, eavesdropping in, with their curious little ears, on the conversations you’re having. Though you reckon they like the meat of his thigh the best. You do, too. Can’t really blame them. The same serenity that intimately knows the person of Namjoon perceives the person of you when he prompts you to rest your head on his lap while he brushes his book-kissed fingers through the silky waterfall of your hair. Thoroughly explains the intricacies of the plot he’s invested in to you. Describes the characters as if they’re real people he’s become acquainted with. They are real to you as you listen. As you ask additional questions and gaze up at his eyes just to catch that one body of a shooting star fiery hot in the glossiness of his eyes. As you wonder, openly, what will happen to them.

“I’ll tell you when they tell me.” He sunk the promise onto the smooth skin of your forehead with the pucker of his lips.

It’s how you discovered, in all seriousness, that the plaster of his stoicism breaks during these literary moments.

Various colors of emotion tug and twist his features, the bare kind. The unrestrained kind. You know it’s a relief for him when the dam bursts open, soaking you in the beauty of humanness one only finds in literature these days. You can’t help but fall in love with him all over again when his eyebrows furrow. When his orbs nearly burn a hole in the ceiling when he’s trying to think of the right word that will ultimately help him convey the unfolding of the storyline. When he gives up and weaves English into his sentences, relying on his hands to say what his overstimulated brain fails to do. 

He reads to pass knowledge to you. The serenity whispered it into the chambers of your heart, a puff of hot breath in winter’s cold. It soothingly rubbed his shoulders when Namjoon told you there used to be a time when he couldn’t stand the sight of his books lining up the walls of his apartment. Wanted to burn it down and watch as the evidence of his melancholy dies in front of him. Because that’s what most of his book collection consisted of back then. The innermost shadowy faces of his pain. Loneliness. Sadness. Despair from life, from it not being enough for him, from it not saving a spot there for him–not once throughout the course of his life. That’s why he reads different kinds of books now. Ones that do not reflect his survival before you.

The reader has to get wiser, ruffled by life in order to gain more, gain what they need from those once deeply loved pages. It’s what the serenity believes. It’s what you believe and hope for Namjoon. That one day, somehow by the healing of the love you give him, he will look back and pick a souvenir from that moonless country of pain. Put it up somewhere between the spines of his new cluttered collection. Look at it from time to time and sense that it’s telling him something. Something that will fill the stitched-up cracks in his heart with sunlight. Something that he will pass over to you. It’s your love language after all. Namjoon reads because you read. It’s his own personal healing thing. 

You two are just a pair of two bookworms. Unfit for the world outside. Fit for the land you two created. Whose soil you take care of together.

***

Dinner is almost ready by the time you feel his fingertips gripping your hips. You hum, acknowledging his presence. Glad for the homely heat that radiates off of his body and seeps into your bones as you stir the risotto you decided to make on the stove. Coldness had been embracing you all day while he read so you’re overjoyed that he ripped it away from you.

Namjoon places a kiss on your temple and you sigh in relief. You might be too dependent on him, but so is he. He wouldn’t be nuzzling his face in your hair, squeezing your waist, peppering kisses on your tender skin if he wasn’t. It’s the perfect balance. And it’s not that you’re not able to be away from each other. The principle of looking forward to one another is what makes it so sweet, so endurable for the pair of you. Of the coming back and coming into contact at the end of the day. It’s natural. Simple. Human.

“Missed me?” Namjoon husks into your ear. 

You smirk and turn off the stove, turning around to face him. “Terribly.”

His body is clad in a black T-shirt that fits his broad figure well and a pair of baggy sweats of the same color, having discarded the warm crewneck he was wearing earlier somewhere in the universe of his book. A long silver chain twinkles in the middle of his chest in the yellow light. You caress it with your fingers and leave your palm there, on the hardness of his pecs. 

“I finished the book,” he says and you blink up at him. You’re not surprised at all. “Couldn’t put it down.”

Sleepy wrinkles have left their mark on his face from the cozy position he laid in for too long on the couch. His short sunlit hair, grown healthily from his military service, is tousled in all directions and you smooth it down for him. How did God bless you with such a beautiful man is something you’ll wonder about for the rest of your life. 

“What happened to Theo in the end?” you ask, genuinely curious about whether one of the characters you’ve grown attached to is okay after all the shit the author put him through. 

Namjoon was reading a coming-of-age book about a boy named Theo. A panorama of his childhood and adolescent life, you’ve heard all about it. Namjoon cared a lot about this story, cared a lot about the protagonist’s emotions and reactions to the reappearing storms. What made him stick with it, despite the nearly triggering themes, is the fact that Theo never let go of his optimism no matter what. It was incredibly inspiring for Namjoon. Something new. Something that he never thought could be possible. You’re proud of him for daring to read a book so reminiscent of his past.

“You’re not gonna believe it,” Namjoon says, a blush creeping along his cheeks.

You raise one of your eyebrows in question. 

“Theo got laid,” Namjoon reveals, laughing softly. “I’m so happy for him.”

You gasp and burst into giggles. “What?”

“He got some!” 

Your laughter rises in volume. “He lost his virginity and that’s the end?”

“It was a big moment for him. A triumph of some kind. Like he shed his old skin and left that broken life behind. It was amazing.” Namjoon’s eyes glint with tiny shooting stars and you melt. He always finds poetic meanings in the varieties of the character arcs. You think you just fell in love with him all over again. 

“That’s really beautiful,” you admit. It reminds you of something. Of something quite personal. “My first time with you changed my life as well.”

Namjoon’s eyebrows curl in tenderness. Dragon eyes widen and round in fervent emotion. He squeezes his arms around you, enfolding you in a hug. Kisses you warmly. Strokes your hair down your back. Your own eyes pool with little tears with the intimate knowledge that you chose the right person to unfold your raw femininity with. No one, no man other than him could have created such a safe for that to happen.

“Tell you what,” Namjoon says a bit hoarsely. “I saw us in it.”

You hum, encouraging him to continue. Crave for more of his thoughts and confidential findings. Its fire spreading through your body, as each word of his registers in your brain, always makes you feel phenomenally alive. You’re not timid to avow that it’s your addiction. Shame doesn’t know you.

“Elena was on top and he was watching her. In awe of her,” he murmurs, caressing your cheek with the tip of his thumb. “Made me think of our last time. A life changing experience of mine as well.”

You welcome the fire and suspire with sudden desire, eyes lidding. Your heart begins to thump. Namjoon studies your reaction. 

“You remember well, don’t you?” He nudges his nose against yours. “I was in awe of you just the same.” 

It’s impossible not to remember. The memory consumes your mind every waking hour. Gets you needy in ways you haven’t felt before. Namjoon had you sat on his lap among the fluffiness of your innumerable pillows and plushies. Had you do all the work as he focused on the sleekness of your freshly moisturized calves, its coconut aroma interfused with the scent of sex and the euphony of your bounces, ragged breaths and broken moans making his head all fucked up. He was loud himself, more loud than you ever recalled him being. Reading your body at the mercy of the pleasure his hard length was giving you with his bottom lip sucked between his teeth. Not once did he take his eyes off of you, not once did he help you. Just gripped your calves. Your thighs. Your tits all in his face. Only when you came hard, out of your own delightful merit, did his eyes roll back. You left his hips glazed with the evidence of your well-deserved orgasm, a porcelain statue made glossy.

A little later, during your pillow talk, he told you he’d found the idea of you using him while getting yourself off extremely hot. Made him more hard than he’d been in a while. Begged you to be even more selfish next time, adding an indistinct, ‘well, of course, if you want’ to the end of his sentence because he’s Namjoon.

“I do,” you breathe. “Touched myself to it this morning while you were still asleep.”

Namjoon groans. “God.” He kisses the side of your neck. Gets close to your ear. “You wanna do it again, hm? Wanna fuck me?” 

You might burst. His closeness, his heat, his need to ask for your consent turns you unstable. You’re choked up on your words, mind too fuzzy to say something. Turned on. Fucked up.

“You wanna show me how you touched yourself?” Namjoon continues, but you shake your head against the side of his face. 

You had touched yourself in the shower. Couldn’t say no to the impulse. Sharing that part of you for his eyes to see isn’t something you’re quite ready for. To you, it’s still something that’s yours. Something private. A courage you have yet to pluck up. You’re afraid to give him this last part of your femininity.

“Not today,” you whisper, planting a kiss on his neck. Feel him shiver. “I’m sorry. Do you mind?”

Withdrawing from your neck, Namjoon looks you dead in the eye, brows twisted in stern seriousness. “Don’t ever apologize for something like that again. Hear me when I say that.”

You squeeze his shoulder, the corners of your mouth lowering in a pout. Thankfulness grips your heart and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. 

“You know this is why we do this right?” he asks you. “Why I ask you these questions? I need to always know what you’re comfortable with so I don’t make a mistake.”

You nod. “Yes, Namjoon, I know and I’m so thankful.”

“Good. I’ll never push you to do anything you don’t want. Don’t forget that, okay?”

“Okay, I won’t.” 

“That’s my girl. 

You grab him by the back of his neck and engulf him in a hug. Luckiest girl in the world? That you are. The fact that you’re his is still something you can’t wrap your head around.

“We can stop. We don’t even have to do anything tonight—”

“No, Namjoon.” You withdraw. “Look.” Wrapping your hand around his wrist, you slip his hand beneath the confines of your panties. 

His breath shakes when he reaches your soaked folds. He traces your hole with his middle finger and your hips follow his movement, the pleasure so faint but so good that you flutter your eyes closed.

“Fuck, baby.” 

“Yeah, I need you. Need more,” you breathe out. “Can’t leave me like this, can you?”

Namjoon hums. “No, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of this pussy.” 

He kisses you. Massages his tongue against yours. You buck your hips into his hand and Namjoon hears your body language. Takes his fingers up and rubs your swollen clit from side to side, quickening his pace as he swallows your moans down his throat. Gets angry at your tight leggings hindering him in giving you more, so he gets on his knees and swiftly pulls them down along with your underwear. 

“Sit on the counter.”

You comply right away. Namjoon takes your feet in his hands and gently removes your slippers, removing your garments fully so they don’t pool around your ankles. He needs your legs spread and he needs them spread wide for what he’s about to do to you. 

Torso long enough to reach you, he remains on his knees. Runs his hands up the back of your thighs to guide you into the position he wants you in. “Lock your arms around the back of your knees. Don’t let go.”

You do as he says, biting your lips in nervousness. Intertwine your hands together. Prepare yourself to die. 

Namjoon studies your dewy pussy, index and middle finger mimicking the letter V as he slides them up and down your folds, squeezing just right to hear you mewling. Your knees being so close together makes her look a lot more pillowy and you hear Namjoon breathe hard, absolutely hypnotized by the beauty of your flesh. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re dripping down my hand.” He withdraws his fingers to show you how your slick trickles down the lines on his palm, changing the course of his life once and for all. 

Your clit throbs, breath matching his. “Please, Namjoon.”

He curses inaudibly. Brings his fingers back down to your folds, squeezes your lips and your clit together. Hisses at the sweet whimpery sounds spilling out of your mouth. Presses tighter so you whine needily for him. Takes you into his mouth when he accomplished what he wanted, tonguing your clit in slow agonizing circles that has you buckling your hips again. Puts his hands on your thighs to keep you down, flicking fast to absolutely abuse the fuck of you. Dragon eyes zeroing on yours, he gives you the hypnosis that your pussy did to him as he sucks on your bundle of nerves. You can’t even scream. Can’t breathe. The pleasure overwhelms you wholly and straps you down. There’s nothing you can do but take it. 

You come hard on his tongue. Namjoon laps it all up gladly. And when he’s finished, he stands up and slips those two digits that ruined you into your hole. Doesn’t move them. Lets you adjust instead.

“One more,” he mutters. “Please.”

You nod.

“Use your words or we’re stopping.”

You groan and close your eyes, your thighs visibly shaking in your iron grip from your orgasm. “Yes, Namjoon, one more. I’ll come for you.”

Namjoon places a wet kiss on your thigh to praise you, and to thank you as well. Begins to move his fingers promptly, but can’t seem to get enough of your skin. Proceeds to make it shiny with his liquid love, sucking it to bruise you. To remember this moment a little more fondly in the morning. 

Creating a trail up to the back of your knee, his digits pick up the speed. The pool of slick you left in his palm sloshes with each rapid thrust of his hand. He looks back at you and sees you lost in the pleasure, eyes lidded and unfocused. “Look at me.” 

You do, weakly.

“Just a little bit more and I’ll fuck you, all right?”

You’re about to nod, but decide against it. “Mhm, yes, Namjoon, fuck.” 

He smiles down at you. Your relief inches closer. “I’m so proud of you for speaking up today. For letting me know.” 

You could cry right now. Because of his fingers making you feel so good. Because of his kindness making you feel so safe. It all closes in on you and you whimper. 

Abruptly, Namjoon unravels your grip on your knees and kisses you, tongue slipping in. You come all over his hand, without meaning to, and he doesn’t stop. On the contrary, Namjoon fucks you harder. Takes all four of his fingers and strums your clit, prolonging your orgasm, swallowing down all of your moans. 

“Come on.”

Namjoon helps you down. If it weren’t for his arms holding you steady, you would’ve collapsed on the floor. Your legs shake, muscles taut and tense. 

“I got you.”

Sat on the floor with his joggers and boxers pulled beneath his crotch, he pulls you down on his lap. A wisp of precum adorns his tip and you wrap your hand around it, collecting it with your thumb. Watch him as you swirl your tongue around the digit before sucking on it, letting go with an obscene pop. Namjoon licks his lips, hands clasping your hips hard enough to bruise you. Twitches in your other hand.

“Don’t fucking do that to me, baby.” 

You laugh almost inaudibly, drunk on him. “Are you gonna come in me?” 

He replaces your hand, holding his length at the base for you to sink down. And you do, gasping softly at his thickness. Your dewiness helps it to be a smooth ride.

“Gonna pump you full. Leave you dripping,” he promises, voice restrained. “Gonna fuck you so good you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.” 

One thing about Namjoon, he’s a man of his word. 

Seated perfectly on him, he waits for you to adjust. Alleviates the tremble of your thighs with his palms, massaging the muscles. Takes off your shirt and flings it across the kitchen. Gropes your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers. You start to grind on him, throwing your head back. He latches onto your nipple and flicks the nub with his tongue. You lose your mind, leaking down his balls. 

“Ready?” he asks against the fullness of your breast. 

“Yeah, fuck me, Joon.” 

He thrusts into you once to watch you fall apart. Locks your arms behind your back. Grabs your forearms for his use.

“You forgot something.”

He thrusts again, harder this time.

“What?” you breathe out, meekly. 

“What word do you use when you want to ask for something?”

He watches you as you work it out in your brain. Fucks into you three more times, equally hard, to disrupt you. 

“Fuck, sorry. Please, Joon, please.”

He grinds, hips rotating in circles. 

“Uh-huh, that’s right. Now use it.” 

Namjoon envelops your tit in his mouth, swirling his tongue around your areola. Sucking. Keeping up the agonizing pace. Groaning when you clench down on him. 

“Please, hmph, fuck me.”

Your breast bounces back when he lets go, biting his lip. “Knew you could do it,” he coos. “Smart fucking girl.” 

He begins to fuck you properly. Thrusting up and down as he holds you steady, keeping his eyes locked on yours. As he takes control of your squirming, leaving his fingerprints on your forearms and waist. You’re breathless, whimpering, on the verge of sobbing. So turned on and needy for him that the emotions brim in you, threatening to spill over. 

“Aren’t you?” Namjoon continues. “Aren’t you a smart girl?” 

You nod, knowing exactly what he wants to hear. “I’m a smart girl.” 

He spanks your ass to reward you and you arch your back. Tits all in his face. He’s mesmerized watching them bounce and nearly slap against each other, nubs hard and pointed. He licks them up, flicking them with his tongue. You round your shoulders a little in pleasure, his strong grip not letting you fold like your body wants. 

“That’s right. So smart and good for me. So fucking wet. Making me lose my mind.”

Namjoon kisses you. Inhales you. Withdraws only for a mere second before he’s back, tongue in, toying with you the way you like it. You feel your relief calling your name.

“Namjoon, I’m so fucking close. I’m so close. I’m gonna come,” you whine, forehead pressed against his, face twisted in ecstasy.

Namjoon stops out of the blue and slips out of you. You whine loudly, but before you know it, he carries you to the couch and lays you down on it. Takes off all of his clothes until only his silver chain remains, shining bright in the dim light. He spreads your legs, one limb over the backrest, the other around his thigh. Grips his length and tugs at it a few times, the feeling of your wetness making him slippery pulling moan after moan out of him. 

He enters you again and resumes his fast pace, holding your calf in his hand. “Smart girls come on the couch, not on the floor like whores. You got that?” 

You nod almost too eagerly, fucked out beyond measure. “Yes, Joon, please make me come. Please, come here.” 

Namjoon leans towards you, propping his elbows by your head, cradling you. “I’m here. I’m gonna make you come.” 

From this angle, he fucks you more deeply than before, his tip reaching your cervix. You roll your eyes back, but bring them right back to his face when his chain taps you on the chin. You find it so hot that you grind your hips against his, meeting his thrusts, encouraging him to fuck you harder. The chain meets you in erratic staccatos and you scratch your nails down his bare back, the sword-like pendant hurting you in a way that you like. 

Namjoon notices. Slows down his movements. Pinches the chain from the back of his neck. Prompts you to lift your head and slides it over, letting it rest in the middle of your breasts. Then fucks you back into the couch.  

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips. “Gonna breed you. Hm. You want that, don’t you?”

The cord tightens in your lower belly. The bulge of where his tip is hitting you nudges him in his stomach and he looks down. Curses. 

“Look.” 

You follow his eyes and moan. “Namjoon, Namjoon, please come in me. I’m so close. Wanna feel you. Please.” 

He grunts, nodding his head. Licks his fingertips and presses them against your clit. Pleasures you in fast and swift jerks until you’re knocking your head back. Only when he grabs your jaw and kisses you does the cord snap, his lips being your ultimate undoing. 

Namjoon presses you down with his body, keeps you calm and collected. Kisses you all through it, your jaw, your neck, your cheeks. Then his thrusts turn sloppy and his cock twitches in you. He gives you one final hard thrusts and fills you up, groaning against your mouth.

You’re smoothing down the sting of your scratches on his back when he pulls out of you and his cum drips out of you. You wish you could see what he sees, hand on his mouth, careful to catch his drool. You push out more for him and he curses, fondling your pussy with his thumb before he pumps it back in. 

He comes back to you and kisses you. Fixes your hair. Caresses your cheek. Helps you stand on your feet as he leads you into the shower. Washes every inch of your body, heedful of the bruises he left on the back of your thigh. Lathers your hair in your favorite shampoo. Wraps you in a towel. Wanted to moisturize your body, but you told him off, knowing both of you would get horny again. You let him brush your hair, though, placing a comb in his hand. He’s gentle as he undoes the knots, then he blowdries your hair. 

And you do the same for him.

Once the pillow touches your cheeks, you’re both out like a light. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

[violettaskies]

Of Books & Beasts

Prompt: virginity

Paring: best friend!steve harrington x f!reader

Genre: romance, slow burn, friends to lovers, one bed trope

Notes: wc 9.1k // my first kinktober story (one of five) // hope everyone enjoys it // it’s very soft // a little scary movie night sleep over // reader falls asleep next to steve and things get a little steamy // i wrote everything to have as much consent as possible // steve is a bit of a perv lol

Warnings: MINORS DNI, 18+ ONLY, NSFW // slight somnophilia, dry humping, virginity loss, vaginal fingering // masturbation // smut // 'just the tip' is used once or twice // please let me know if there is anymore that need to be added!

ao3 // kinktober masterlist // full masterlist // lazy ghoul’s kinktober prompts

-:-:-:-:-

The night was meant to be a simple one. After weeks of assignments, exams, quizzes, and extracurricular activities at college, all you wanted to do was relax. Well, you still had one more assignment left to do, but maybe you were able to kill two birds with one stone, right? 

Luckily, this assignment was one that you could easily ask for help with from your friend. Someone who always stole movies for you to borrow on many weekends anyways. With your class being based on books which turned into film adaptations, it means a lot of time spent reading and watching. In truth, you felt bad for your classmates who had to rent out the tapes for extended periods just to finish analysis for assignments; all while you didn’t even need to bat an eyelash in Steve’s direction for him to hide movies in your backpack while his manager wasn’t looking. 

With the theme of this particular assignment matching the season and going with horror films, a movie night was something that you craved. Thick sweaters, even thicker blankets, a bit of hot chocolate, and candy from the grocery store that had the orange and black packaging — they were all of the aspects to the marathon you proposed when you walked into Family Video on a Friday afternoon after you got off the bus. Despite all of your convincing tactics, your friend already had his answer long before you began to ask.

“Anything for you, dove. I’ll get everything on this list for us,” Steve smiled at you, after looking at the assignment rubric, as you stood on the other side of the cash register. 

“Alright, maybe I should place a pizza order now so that we don’t starve during the Friday dinner rush tonight,” you said sweetly as you nervously thought about what to order. 

“Don’t you worry about it, it’s on me. Let me treat you a little.” 

“I’m the one who asked you to have a movie marathon with me, I should really be the one paying,” you insisted while you brought your hand closer to the telephone. 

But, quickly, the man was able to grasp it lightly to stop you from moving towards the numbers. You could never admit just how much your skin tingled at the touch. “I’m serious. This shift finishes in twenty minutes, then I can drive us home and I’m all yours. Do whatever you want with me, dove. I can even help out with your stress relief later. Maybe I’ll bend —” 

“Please don’t continue that sentence,” you cut him off easily. Steve always loved to tease you and any eavesdroppers who may be listening in and theorizing if you two were dating or not. The town is full of gossip fiends. “Any louder and people will start to believe you.” 

The younger Harrington chuckled as he got out from behind the counter to stand fully in front of you. He adored to see the way you outwardly pretended you hated the fake moves he would pull. From him putting his arm around your shoulder whilst walking around town, whistling every other time he picked you up from the city bus stop, to intimidating every guy who looked in your direction for too long. However, both of you never knew the other wished for it all to be real. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll be good and stop teasing you,” he chuckled lowly. 

“Thank you,” you smiled to yourself before looking up at Steve with wide eyes. “So will you also be buying garlic knots tonight too?” 

“Yes, as long as you promise to stay awake until the final movie, sleepy girl.” 

-:-:-:-:-

You, in fact, did not stay awake the whole movie night. It wasn’t Tim Curry’s fault either. Normally, it was tradition for you two to end off every evening like this with one musical or something more lighthearted to offset the mood. But the day just exhausted you from every angle, that once you finally got to relax and watch a movie for leisure — you relaxed a little too hard. Adding the components of the cold pizza and Steve putting a blanket on you while continuously keeping a grasp on your knee, you were bound to knock out before the movie ended. Later, it was Steve who woke you up with a whisper in your ear. The sound shocked you at first, and then when you opened your eyes to see the man kneeling in front of you, it did cause a slightly loud gasp to escape your lips. After some groaning on your end about not wanting to intrude, you finally gave in to the invitation Steve gave to let you sleep over tonight. The main contributing factor had to be the fact that the man had a really nice blanket and pillow set that felt like it came from a hotel. 

However, as you both ended off the night in your room, it was Steve who began to groan — although, it was due to pure frustration.

“I don’t have any clean clothes,” your host said as he rummaged through his drawers. 

“How about any sweater and some of those long johns your mother always buys you?” you giggled as you sat on the bed now, reading a book you recently checked out from the library. 

“Or you could always sleep naked, I heard it’s really healthy for you. Plus, I would not mind at — ow,” Steve was on his little sarcastic joke before you threw an old pair of socks at his head. 

“Maybe I should just head home, this feels like such a nuisance to you,” you smiled and whispered shyly. 

Steve really was trying hard to find you something to sleep in. So much so that it caused some sweat to drop on his forehead. But, truly, the man was standing there trying to work up the courage to ask you to put on one of his old swim team sweaters and a cotton pair of shorts he knew would hug your body beautifully. 

Yes, you have slept over before when you were younger. However, those were all planned out with you bringing something from home. Well, there was one emergency where you stayed the night due to a horrific snow storm; but, Mrs. Harrington was there to give you your Christmas present a few weeks early and allow you to sleep in some pyjamas which were covered in cute bunnies. This was the first time you would be here spontaneously alone with Steve — and god, did he feel like all of his prayers were answered. The amount of times he has imagined you laying on his bed, committing the most sinful acts, in various positions and scenarios, could be seen as absolutely perverted. So to have the opportunity to have you on his bed, wearing his clothes, covered in his blanket; it all seemed unfathomable to the man. 

“Here,” Steve exclaimed quickly so that you would actually stay. “Maybe you would be alright with this sweatshirt and some shorts?” 

“This is more than alright. Thank you, Steve,” You skipped off to the washroom to finally get ready for bed and let your friend change into his own pyjamas. 

However, when you got the clothing on, it was so embarrassing to stare into the mirror. Everything fits fine — and on a normal day at home, you would probably wear something similar. But remembering the fact that you would be sleeping next to your best friend was so nerve wracking. It was just a lot shorter than what you would usually wear around him if you did wear a skirt or shorts. You just thanked the heavens that the blanket would be covering your legs so that you didn’t feel as exposed. 

Not that you believed Steve would try anything; not that you didn’t want him to try anything either. But, you were scared of getting so cold and cuddling too close to him like you did last December during the winter storm. Waking up in Steve’s arms caused your heart to flutter so harshly that your heart rate didn’t go down for days. It made you think about how badly you wished you could wake up to his handsome face everyday. Most especially, it made you think about how nicely his leg felt right in between your thighs, and the way it massaged your — 

No. 

This was an innocent sleepover like the thousands that other best friends have had over the years. All you had to do was sleep next to him with a pillow between your bodies and hope you didn’t accidentally roll your way into his arms again. You weren’t sure if you were ready for the heartbreak of knowing that being entwined in each other’s arms would not last forever. 

“Do you want the left or right side of the bed?” Steve called out from the other side of the door, startling you out of your thoughts. 

“Anything is fine,” you replied whilst opening the door. Seeing that Steve was laying in the middle, ready to roll over to whichever side you preferred. The image of him with arms and legs spread out made you giggle. 

“The left side is closer to the lamp if you’d like to read a bit before sleeping,” he said as he shifted over to the ride side of the bed and patted to your new spot. 

“Are you a mind reader or something?” you chuckled between steps.

Steve put the book in the air as you tucked yourself into bed, a nice distance away from him. Once he saw you were comfortable, he placed the book gently in your lap and said: “no, but I could tell your little nap will probably have you staying awake for the next hour or so.” 

“Oh, if the light is gonna bother you then I can turn it off and head to sleep too.” 

The concern in your eyes was absolutely beautiful. As you started up at him with the lamp glowing behind you, you looked like a nymph in the night. And oh how Steve knew he would be the luckiest man alive to sleep next to you. 

“Go ahead, dove. I can sleep through anything,” he whispered lowly whilst rubbing your thigh that was covered by the thick blanket. “What’s it about anyways?” 

You took a deep breath to calm down before speaking. Steve’s touch caused you to feel warm, even more so when he squeezed your thigh every few moments. “Not too sure about the entire plot since I’m only on chapter two. But it’s about a prince and his beast companion. They’ve been best friends for a long time and are going on adventures. This was in the romance section so I’m guessing the best friends fall in love,” you rambled, getting quieter with the last few words. 

What a dream. 

“Is it dirty?” Steve teased as he sunk further underneath the blanket. 

“No, I-I’ve never read a story like that before,” you said sternly. 

“Oh, I believe you,” his voice got deeper and slower with each word, only indicating that he was bound to fall asleep any second. “Have fun reading.” 

They were the last words he said before drifting off to sleep peacefully next to you. Luckily, that meant it was a lot easier to read the rest of the book until you felt your own eyes start closing and the words on the page started to become blurry. 

It was a beautiful story, full of lore and love, a mix of historical fiction and mythology. After reading and watching stories based on the horror genre for a few weeks now, it was nice to have a little bit of a break and just read about love. Your heart started to feel warm and giddy as each page passed — even going as far as quietly giggling when you felt your cheeks feel warm as a result of the prince’s romantic actions throughout the book. You didn’t even notice that you were sinking further and further into the blanket because you were so engrossed in the imaginary world. It didn’t even matter that the angle made your back hurt a little. 

Well, not really. Once you started to feel stiff, you moved into a straighter position. However, you were interrupted by a low and groggy voice. 

“You want to get under here?” Steve asked you through half-lidded eyes and his arm moving to invite you to move even closer into his body. 

Wordlessly, you accepted the offer and went right up to Steve’s body. The book was on his chest while your cheek was at his side. Everything felt so comfortable and domestic — a part of you wished this could last forever. 

But right then, the storyline of the book went on a different path, to say the least. 

You see, the prince got hurt whilst fighting off some evil spirits. He was bleeding everywhere and in so much pain. But the companion, a beautiful wolf-demon, was able to heal his wounds to the point where it wouldn’t be so life threatening. It was so simple, to use a little magic and bandages in hopes of survival, but the author was able to portray it wonderfully. To thank the woman, the prince moved his arms around her to hold her a warm embrace. It was so sweet, just like the position you were in now. However, it took a turn for the romantics. A little too romantic. An activity you definitely were not currently doing with Steve. 

The man kissed her sweetly: from her shoulders, up to her neck, then finally landed on her plump lips. It was beautiful, so serene, accompanied by a drawing of the two in bed with locked lips and legs. Slowly, she started to rock against his leg, adoring the pressure against the place no one had touched before. As she gasped into each kiss, the prince smiled in tandem. Even moving his hips to help the lady feel more pleasure. You wondered how that felt, it was only a slight movement of the hips — there was no way it could feel that good.

But you were so wrong. 

Just as you tried to move positions, Steve moved his leg upwards, moving his thigh right against your heat. It felt so good, to the point where you bit your lip to suppress the whimper that was about to escape your lips. The man next to you, tried to find a better position to sleep in too, moving his legs some more until it found solace as it intertwined with your own legs. 

Fuck, it felt really good. You tried so hard not to move your hips in tandem so that you could amp up the pleasure. So instead, you continued to read, trying to focus on the writing techniques and nothing else. However, you only began noting the things the characters did with one another. How they whispered sweet nothings as they continued their game to see how long it would take the lady to climax. And you noticed the way you felt warm between your legs, a slight throbbing to seal the deal. 

Maybe in another world you would wake up Steve and ask him to let you out of his embrace so that you could excuse yourself to the washroom and down. But not in this one. In this world, you were at peace in his arms. In this world, you really didn’t care about the throbbing ache between your legs because you were extremely sleepy. In this world, you would convince yourself that it would pass. In this world, the sound of both your hearts beating as one was enough of a lullaby to cause even the most stubborn of characters to sleep. Just as you did now, with the book still on Steve’s chest, and your bodies squeezing closer together. 

-:-:-:-:-

Steve was an extremely heavy sleeper when he was with you. Most of the time, you would be awake first during these little sleepovers and do something before he even pried his eyes open and then decided to keep them shut because of the sun seeping through the windows. It wouldn’t surprise Steve to see you reading at your desk or braiding friendship bracelets when you had that arts n’ crafts phase a couple years ago. This time, however, he was the one who awoke in the middle of the night to movement from beside him. Maybe it was due to some level of paranoia he has gained over the past few years regarding a life that he wishes you would never need to experience. It’s funny that you were reading books with monsters the world has nightmares about, while he was one of the people who was facing them. He wishes so badly to protect you from all of it. So when you started moving in your sleep, something you never do, Steve felt his body wake up in an instant. 

His eyes were having trouble fully opening themselves as he could hear faint whimpering sounds coming from you and slight movements near his thigh. It was enough to turn his head to the left to see what was wrong. But nothing was wrong per se. If anything this was right out of a perverted fantasy he has had millions of times before. 

As his eyes finally came into focus at what was in front of him, Steve could only smile and thank the heavens. You were laying in the same position you initially fell asleep in: book held in your hand, it being face down on Steve’s chest on a particular page, while your own face was on the side of his chest. But, the thing that surprised him the most was the grip your thighs had around his own. Slowly, your hips were thrusting back and forth against his leg, humping over and over. Whenever your body hit the perfect spot against your clit, you would mewl against his chest, sending a vibration through his body. Your hard nipples would poke Steve’s stomach once in a while too. 

Good Lord, he was so distracted by the vision of you thrusting against his thigh, that he didn’t realize just how hard he had become. He only noticed it when your leg tensed up and moved towards his crotch, touching the underside and head in the process. 

You were about to become the death of him tonight. 

Curiously, he picked up the book you were reading to put it on the bedside table, when the words jumped out at him. 

“And then the prince lifted the dress of the maiden beast. How scary she was to the eyes of the kingdom, but how beautiful she looked with swollen lips and lust-filled eyes. She was wet, so wet that it seeped through the layers of clothing.”

Just then, Steve looked down to notice how your wetness was doing the same thing. Your arousal had gone past your shorts and went onto the cotton bottoms he was wearing. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The man skipped a few paragraphs to see just exactly what the prince and his lady were up to. Words of biting, screaming, thrusting harshly against the wall, even scratches along one another’s backs. It was pornographic, it was beautiful, and Steve was shocked that your virgin eyes read through some of this before falling asleep. 

If only he could recreate it with you. Seeing you moan and move to your lust-filled slumber was more than enough of a dream come true to the man. But this was wrong. So wrong. You both were best friends. He loved you, wished he could be more with you. But he believed that wasn’t worthy of you. You were the princess this whole town adored while he was just a former playboy many people seemed to dislike sometimes. There was a part of him that wanted to see how long it would take for you to come against his leg. However, his guilt took over quickly. 

“Wake up, my dove. It’s getting hot in here.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. The mixture of blankets and his arousal made Steve sweat through his clothes easily. 

“Hm? What?” You rolled more onto his chest, your weight atop his body nicely. It would have been the world’s most comfortable position, one that would start off most of his perverted fantasies about you; however, he had to stop himself from thrusting against your thigh that was now perfectly on top of his hardness. “Feels so nice, Stevie,” you murmured, still half-asleep. 

“Fuck — you really like that, huh?” The man whispered as you looked up at him with glazed eyes. You were still not cognizant that what you were doing was not in a dream. 

“I feel so warm down there, your leg is massaging me nicely,” you moaned whilst humping some more. “Kiss me, please.” 

Every move you were doing, every word you were saying, every whimper that came out of your throat — the man has imagined it all before. You were all of his greatest fantasies come to life. He wished so badly to ravish you on the spot and satiate all of the pent-up pleasure your body needed to release. Your lips were swollen now from all of the biting you’ve been doing to quiet down your moans; but, good god, the man was going to memorize it all for the sake of his future sessions with his right hand. 

Steve really needed to stop this, and fully wake you up as soon as possible. This wasn’t the normal you, you didn’t even realize exactly what you were doing. “Pretty girl, no matter how much I want to continue this, we can’t.” The words fell from his lips painfully. 

“Why not? You don’t feel good?” You whimpered as you reached up and put your arms around Steve’s neck, stopping your hips’ movements all together. 

“Feels so good, baby,” Steve moaned loudly this time as he thrusted against your leg like he imagined a million times before. It wasn't helping that you thought your face closer to his in order to hear his breathy moans easier. The man was so close to leaning forward and kissing your plump lips. “But, this isn’t a dream, and you’re not fully awake. I don’t want you to regret this—”

The man was going to ramble on and continue to comfort you into waking up fully. However, you got the message loud and clear. So much so, that your heart dropped and you gasped. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I’ll move over t-there — ah.” The moan coming out of your mouth was completely involuntary as you lifted your body up and intended on moving down and away from Steve’s figure. 

“Did that feel good?” Steve teased, now that you were both fully cognizant of your sleeping status. 

“I don’t know why I did that, I’m sorry.” If only you could apologize a million times, because you would; your guilty conscience would make sure of it. 

“You probably had some sweet dreams, huh?” 

Just as you were separated from the man, you heard his words and looked over at his figure. Through the dim lighting of the lamp, you could see that he was holding up the novel you were reading before bed, and it was open to the very scene that inspired any of your hormone-induced movements tonight. 

“Oh no,” you whispered. Looking down, there was a wet spot on Steve’s thigh where your heat was pressed against. He was admiring it as if he were memorizing just how it looks. And he was. “This is so embarrassing,” you though out loud

“It’s no big deal, dove. Guys have nudie magazines and a video here and there. I would never judge you for a little novel,” Steve chuckled as he sat up to the headboard to mirror your actions. 

“I didn’t know it was going to be like that in the story,” you whispered. 

“Did you like it?” Your friend was genuinely curious. Throughout your history as friends, you had never even asked him for advice about relationships — this erotic chapter of the novel must have been a shocking first exposure to it all. 

You thought about the question for a few moments. Remembering the emotions and fire you felt in different parts of your body, you could really only tell him the truth. “Y-yeah, I suppose so.”  

“Then don’t feel embarrassed or bad about it,” Steve nudged your shoulder sweetly to make you feel less embarrassed over the situation. “Never thought you were into reading it in front of other people though.”

“Don’t tease,” you pouted, putting your head under the blanket to hide from the embarrassment. 

“I’ll stop, I promise. But, you did give me a wonderful way to wake up,” you could hear him smiling just by the sound of his voice. 

Those words made you slowly peek your way out of the thick blanket to see Steve looming over you with a smirk that teased your soul. The lamp in the room made him glow, while the moon’s beams that were seeping through the blinds made him look like one of the many drawings of the prince in the book you were just reading. It took all the strength within you, not to squeeze your thighs together and satiate the throbbing between them. 

“Let’s never talk about this again,” you whispered, the blanket still covering your mouth. 

“If that’s what you would be comfortable with,” Steve chuckled as he laid back in his spot. 

“Y-yes, I would be.” 

After a moment of awkward silence, you both in regular sleeping positions, Steve wanted to break the ice a bit. “It is a well-written book. Maybe I could borrow it sometime.” 

“You’re so annoying,” you giggled, grabbing a small pillow on the bed and lightly hitting his chest with it.

“Learn anything while reading? You could use me as a practice dummy.” The man laid on his side now, looking at you as he put on a seductive tone. 

“You’re just a dummy, Steve,” you playfully scoffed with a giggle. 

“That was the last one, promise. Sweet dreams, dove.” 

In truth, Steve wanted you to sleep as quickly as possible so that he could make his way to the washroom and get rid of his hard problem. It was hurting now, even as he tried to think about anything else that would possibly subside his arousal. Your movements and moans will never be erased from his mind. Steve’s imagination was running wild with how you actually sounded as you were feeling pleasure. 

No one has ever thanked a book more in the history of mankind. 

“Is that what sex is like?” You whispered into the night, cutting off the man’s thoughts. 

“What do you mean?” Steve replied as he turned to his side to look at you staring up to the ceiling.  

“In the book, they talk about it like it happens so fast and hard,” you said the words with a concerned tone while turning your body towards his to face him. 

“Well, it can be fast and hard if the couple wants it that way. But, taking it slow is nice too,” the man next to you chuckled sweetly. 

You felt dumb asking the question. For years, you have known that Steve was a lot more experienced than you in the department of relations with the opposite sex. There have been countless times where Steve would tell you about any dates that he has gone on, or imply lewd acts he committed with his girlfriend of the week. And all you would do is nod out of pure curiosity. However, this was the first time you outright spoke about sex with him. 

“Right, right, that makes sense. It must feel really nice,” you continued your thoughts. 

“It does. Everything is so warm and wet. The noises too are something you’ll never forget. My hand and imagination does not do it justice sometimes.” Right then, Steve’s mind went through flashbacks of times he has laid in bed with the image of you stuck as his muse. He has imagined the way you would react and moan to things he would do with you. Would you bite your lip whilst looking down between your bodies? Would you whimper in the same way you do when you beg Steve to drive you somewhere and he just had a long day at work? Anything you would do would be erotic, and enough fire for him to reach the happiest of endings. However, by the end, he would pray for the day he could experience the real thing with you.  

“I wonder what it will be like for me,” you giggled, bringing the blanket close to your face again. 

“You got a good idea a few minutes ago,” Steve teased as he looked you up and down. 

All you could do was hit his shoulder then hide your face into it as he leaned back onto the bed. “It did feel really, really nice, Steve. I’m so sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. You liked it, didn’t you?” he said, trying to soothe your embarrassment of it all. As he squeezed his arm around you tighter to have you closer to his chest, Steve realized that your bare thighs had found their way around his again. You looked so beautiful cuddling next to him, tightening your legs slowly. “Then, maybe I can help. You didn’t get to finish, sweet girl.” 

The deepness of Steve’s voice resonated through your entire body as you looked up at him with desperate eyes. His proposal sounded so good. You felt this constant throbbing between your legs that only increased ten-fold every time you and Steve accidentally breathed too close together. As you gripped his chest with your hands, and his thigh with your own — you really craved to continue the pleasure you were feeling moments before. 

“I didn’t even know that I started,” you pouted. 

“Oh, but finishing is one of the best parts,” he teased whilst moving his thigh upwards to massage your cunt slowly. 

“Steve—” you moaned like music to his ears.

Your friend began to move his thigh up and down to stroke your pussy, hitting your clit from the right angle to make you bite your lip in between whimpers. He held your face sweetly, making sure that he could see how every movement affected you. Steve was sure that the image of your pupils getting darker would be engraved in his mind forever. 

“My best friend needs help, and you know I would do anything for you,” he whispered, hovering his lips above yours. 

“More, please.” 

“So polite,” Steve teased, quickening his pace and moving one hand to your breasts. “Doing such a dirty thing and now you’re being so nice.” 

“I feel so — I feel like I need more,” you said quietly as if it were a desperate plea. 

Steve squeezed your right breast sweetly, pinching your hardened nipple through the thick sweater fabric. He noted how you thrusted yourself against his thigh and nearly fell onto his lips as you moaned. 

“Is your body on fire? You feel nice, dove,” he smiled, kissing your cheek to tease you. 

“So good. Kiss me, Steve, please.” You weren’t sure what took over your body in that moment, but you gripped onto his hair and leaned your lips towards his. Yet, he was the one who kissed you first. It was a kiss that made the angels sing above you, one that you both have been imagining for years and years. Hearing all of the stories of girls in school raving about his talents with his mouth and tongue — a part of you could never believe that he would be that amazing.

But, you were wrong, so wrong. 

As he kissed you deeply, poking his tongue through to taste you more, you couldn’t help but whimper loudly into the kiss. Steve adored it, promising himself to try everything he could to hear every variation of your beautiful sounds. Just when he brought a hand down to your back, urging your hips to move forwards on his leg, you swear you were about to see stars. This is what all the magazines were talking about. This is what all the whispered conversations during girl talk were giggling about. This is what the novel you were just reading was writing about when it came to the pleasures of the flesh. You remembered what the lady did in the book, and decided to emulate her actions. Although you were slowing down your kisses, your hand found its way to Steve’s clothed hardness. It was nearly peeking out of the sweatpant elastic by now which made you gasp in surprise. 

“God, what did you learn in that book?” Steve moaned as he felt your delicate hand on him. 

“The characters in the story were really good friends too. She was always tempted to be the one who helped him out when he was really stressed out.” You smiled into the kiss, noticing how teasing him only made you wetter. 

You hand gripped his hardness some more, focusing on the large head that could be felt through the fabric.

“Here I thought that was going to be my job tonight,” Steve’s voice was low now as he kissed you down your neck and moved the hand that was previously on your back, to your front. The shorts you were wearing rode up to tighten upon your cunt. The fabric squeezed your clit, and caused your arousal to get all over the place where your thighs met. 

Steve pushed the fabric to the side, noticing how you didn’t wear panties to sleep, and started to lightly massage your clit. “Oh God,” you moaned into his mouth while arching your back. 

The movement made Steve want to lay you down on your back to have easier access between your legs. Although you whimpered in slight disappointment when you didn’t feel the pressure of his thigh, that all went away when the man teased your wet entrance with his fingers before going up to your clit again. 

“No panties, huh? You’re bound to be the death of me.” 

“I normally don’t wear any to bed if I’m wearing shorts,” you whispered, moving yourself to feel his fingers more against your nub. 

“Is it alright if I take these off?” He barely got the question out before you began to nod. 

Looking at you in all your glory was absolutely mind blowing to Steve. He swears that he felt his cock twitch in excitement when he saw your arousal dripping on his sheets. The light from the lamp made you look like you were glowing, and the man was so tempted to taste what he has been craving for so long. But, he took it slow, circling your clit faster and faster as he leaned down to kiss you deeply. As every moan was swallowed by him, Steve began to thrust himself upon the side of your hip to satiate his arousal. 

The moment he stopped kissing you for a moment, he wordlessly looked you in the eye, teasing your entrance now with his fingers. With a nod and smile through bitten lips, you gave him full permission to fill your hole that has been desperately throbbing around nothingness.  

“Feels so good, Stevie. Keep doing that, please,” you groaned as he fingered you deeper and deeper. 

“Are you close, dove? Are you gonna come? You’re so tight, can barely fit these two fingers,” Steve teased as he kissed your neck to make you moan louder. 

“More — need more.” The grip you had on his hair became tighter as you pushed yourself down on his hand, nearly fucking yourself on his fingers. Feeling so stretched out was a brand new experience. You were never one to masturbate, even when everyone mentioned it was so much fun. Everything from seeing a hot guy at the mall, a rockstar who was shirtless on the cover of a magazine, or the angle of a showerhead accidentally focusing on a sweet spot — none of those experiences ever happened in your life. In truth, nothing ever made you curious enough to even try to see if other things would have a similar effect. But something about this night made you want to experience it all with Steve. 

The man quickened his pace with his fingers, using one hand to thrust into you while the other massaged your clit sweetly. Your moans echoed through the room as you arch your back in ecstasy. The feeling of Steve’s lips on your throat made you want to thrust against his hand harder, but you were too overwhelmed to move your hips in tandem. Instead, you lifted up your shirt and started to squeeze your lonely nipples. 

You aren’t sure what took over — all you knew was that everything felt so good. 

“Fuck, you really do have the most perfect tits,” Steve whispered to himself when he got up from your neck. He felt your movements and thought something was wrong. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of your swollen nipples, eager for some sort of touch. When he saw your fingers squeeze your right nipple, he could not handle it anymore and dove down to suck on them, leaving marks on your smooth skin. 

“Steve, everything you’re doing feels so good,” you moaned. 

“Are you gonna come for me, baby? I know you can do it.” 

And you did. Loudly. Just those words, working in tandem with his fingers and mouth, were more than enough to make you orgasm into oblivion. Steve had two fingers inside of you whilst his thumb was massaging your clit in small circles. You barely had the strength to tell him how good it felt since you were shaking below him in pleasure. All you could do was grasp Steve’s hair as he kissed one nipple of yours to the next. It was your very first orgasm, and you were welcoming it with open arms. 

“So nice —” you whimpered incoherently. 

Steve kissed you, swallowing in your moans of ecstasy. “I’m never gonna get tired of that sound,” he teased as he took out his fingers from inside of you and just massaged your clit as you got down from your high. 

“So much better than reading a book,” you giggled as your body calmed down. 

“Maybe we gotta find you crazier books then,” Steve smiled with you while kissing your soft lips. 

The kiss became deeper as you embraced one another. Your friend found his way on top of you which felt so surreal. Throughout your friendship, you never believed that some of your naughty dreams that you pushed to the side, would ever come true. Steve was having the same thoughts; however, he never pushed those dreams to the side. More likely, he would take care of any hard problem that was in between his legs. But, kissing you only made him throb harder. Especially now that he knows what your pussy felt like on his fingertips, 

“Again — I can take more,” you whispered between kisses. 

“Needy girl, you really want to?” Steve asked, making sure this wasn’t a dream for him now. 

“Mhm, yes, what if we slipped it in?” your hand moved down his body and to the waistband of his pants. Without even stretching the fabric, you looked up at him with sweet eyes. “Would it feel good too? Maybe just the tip?” 

Fuck. 

Steve needed to calm himself down. He was already on the verge of cumming in his pants, watching you orgasm on his sheets. Even now, as the remnants of your arousal covered his fingers, he wondered how it would feel against his hardness. But, Steve couldn’t do that to you now. Especially knowing the fact that it would be your first time. However, the lust that clouded your eyes as you pouted up at him, was convincing him slowly. 

The conflict on Steve’s face was so apparent that you whispered: “oh, we don’t need to—”

“Fuck, I want to,” Steve kissed you sweetly. “Are you sure, baby? Sure that you can take it all?”

“Yes, yes, I promise you that I can,” you smiled up at him and then bit your lips out of a mixture of excitement and nervousness. 

You kissed one another again, not being to stand the time your lips were apart from each other’s. As you did so, Steve brought his hands under your sweater to nearly rip it off of you — leaving you beautifully naked on his plaid sheets. His hands were calling to him, telling him that one day he needed to take a picture of you like this. But, there is going to be another time, surely. Right now, he wanted to satiate your body’s cravings. As you stared up at him and squeezed your thighs together, Steve was truly about to combust. 

“It’s kinda cold,” you giggled as you stared down at your hardened nipples. Then, you sat up slightly to meet his lips again, but not without whispering close to his mouth. “Can I take off your clothes too?” 

With those words, Steve helped you take off his tight shirt and sweatpants. You’ve been teasingly touching it throughout tonight’s escapades; however, seeing his hardness in all its glory, stunned you. It was a lot thicker and longer than you initially believed. In truth, there were countless moments where you had gotten a glimpse of his size. Like the times he invited you to his backyard to swim, and he always seemed to choose tighter swim shorts every week. Or the one time he forgot to bring a towel into the shower so you brought one to him, thinking that he was going to keep the shower curtain atop his body for some modesty; however, when you were on your way out the room, he let go of the plastic curtain a bit too early and you saw a definite outline from the side of your eyes. Every single time, no matter how crazy the situation may be, you felt warm all over your body. This time, however, seeing the way it hung and the precum leaking out of it, you were hypnotized to say the least. 

“One sec, dove,” Steve whispered as he saw that you were about to touch it. You looked to see that he bent his body to reach his nightstand and take out a little clear bottle. 

“What is that?” You asked innocently as you began to stroke him while he wasn’t looking. 

“I-it’s — fuck — it’s lube. We could use a little if you wanted to,” Steve said seriously before bringing a hand to your arousal and massaging your clit sweetly. “Not sure if we will need much,” he teased. 

Steve kissed you again, having you lay down on the bed fully. He thrusted his hardness against your pussy a few times, seeing how you reacted to the feeling. You adored it, mewling every time the head of his cock coincided with your clit. In truth, you both could have been doing this for the rest of the night until you two came; however, you were throbbing around nothing and you craved to feel more stretched out than with Steve’s fingers. 

You broke away from the kiss, eyeing the bottle of lube curiously, before Steve grabbed it and put it in your hands to look at closer. There were times you saw a similar bottle in the drug store and noticed they were next to the condoms and pregnancy tests. You saw that there were big bold letters on the front: ‘for her pleasure,’ which confused you slightly. But, you decided to give it a try anyways — it must be something good, you guessed. 

“Let's use a little, Steve.” 

“Yeah, sure. You want me to put it on?” He asked sweetly as he outstretched his hand. 

“N-no, I wanna try something,” you smiled up at him before putting a dollop of the gel in your right hand. “You’re so big, Stevie. You’re gonna stretch me out so good.” 

Your words were hypnotizing the man above you as you circled your hand over his cock and stroked a few times. And to think that he believed that he was to be taking the lead tonight. 

“F-fuck, dove. Your hands are so soft.” Steve’s moans were making you wetter by the second. You felt your heat throb harshly around nothing, before you moved your hips upwards a little and guided his cock into you. 

Just the tip — you said the words before. 

But, fuck, it felt so nice that you both needed so much more. Steve stayed still above you as he watched the way you move your hips to bounce on his cock from below. Inch by inch, you thrusted yourself upon his lube-covered hardness, causing moans to echo through the room as you got stretched out. 

This was so much better than you both could have ever dreamed of. 

“So hard,” you whispered as you got in the last inch and took all of Steve’s cock in. 

“You’re taking me so well, dove. So fucking wet,” he said as he kissed you and let you get used to the large size. 

“Feels nice.”  

“Tell me if you don’t like it,” Steve whispered as he kissed your lips one last time before moving his mouth down your neck and finally thrusting his hips into you. 

Everything seemed to amplify ten-fold. All of the pleasure, moans, tingling, stretching — it all felt so nice. It was if you two were the only people in the world, with the sky changing from a navy blue to a bright orange. Sweet nothings were whispered into the air as you both wanted to give each other the poetic justice you deserved.��

Steve kissed you every time he heard your moans get louder and louder, wanting to taste your ecstasy. He moved back and forth from kissing your lips, to your neck, to your breasts. It all made you grip his hair tightly no matter where he was focusing on your body. 

“Keep going please, Steve. Everything feels so full,” you screamed incoherently.  

“God, you're throbbing around me. I don’t think I can take it.” The man above you was thrusting into you at an increasingly faster pace, missing the feeling of your warm pussy every time he was even an inch out of you. 

“Steve, I wanna feel you cum,” you whispered before grabbing his hair to have him stop sucking on your nipples in order to look at you. 

He adored how needy you were. “Dirty little mouth, Princess.” 

“Need more — need you to go faster.”

“You know I've been dreaming about this moment time and time again. Who knew all it would take is a dirty novel, isn’t that right?” Steve teased as he reached town and pinched your clit playfully. 

“You’ll never regret driving me to the bookstore from now on,” you giggled in between whimpers.

In truth, you didn’t notice the way you were moving yourself upwards to meet his thrusts. It made Steve bite his lip to stop himself from cumming inside of you prematurely.  “Dove, you're taking me so well — fuck — better than I’ve ever imagined,” he moaned. 

“What have you imagined? What were we doing?” you asked it so innocently, stroking his chest as he continued to thrust into you. 

Where did you learn how to do that? — was what he really wanted to ask. Instead, his mind started to blurt out his fantasies. 

“Sometimes I’d have you like this: fucked out and cock drunk in the middle of the night. Other times it would be me bending you over while you’re studying. Always wearing those tiny skirts with the slit.” 

“For you, I wear it for you. I know the yellow skirt is your favourite, isn’t it?” You teased him now. 

You always noticed the way he would ask you pick things up from the floor, mention that your shoes were untied while he was standing behind you, or the way he would always take off a piece of lint from the back of your skirt — even if you had just used a lint roller on it a few moments before. He loved the way the fabric would sway, and you loved the way he looked at you. It made you feel so warm even on the windiest and coldest of days. 

One thing was for certain, it definitely felt like such a tease in comparison to how your heart and body felt right now.  

“You little minx,” Steve moaned as he thrusted into you faster. 

“Do you think I don’t imagine you ripping my skirt into a million pieces every time you stare at me?” the words fell from your lips breathily while Steve’s pace increased more and more. “You’re not so good at recognizing mirrors in front of you when you’re staring at the back of my tiny skirt, huh?”

“God, you like it when I’m being your perv, naughty girl,” Steve stated.

“Makes me feel nice. Just like this.” 

Just then, Steve made sure that his thrusts and massages on your clit were working in tandem with the way your pussy was throbbing on his cock. He could tell with the way you were arching your back more and closing your eyes, that you were bound to orgasm soon. “You’re so beautiful, dove. So beautiful and taking me so well.”  

“Oh my—” your voice sounded so sweet as you looked up at him with desperation in your eyes. 

“That’s it, let it happen,” Steve grunted, making sure to stop himself from cumming so that he could time it with yours.  

“Faster, please,” you nearly screamed now as everything was hitting you in all the perfect spots. 

Steve took that as his sign to move faster: from his hands to his hips. He loved to see the way you were reaching your climax on his cock — an image he would never get out of his mind for the rest of his life. You were squeezing his hardness tighter and tighter, with your moans getting louder in tandem. And so, Steve angled his cock upwards to try and hit your sweetest spot inside of you. 

And he did. 

Good god, he did. 

“That’s it, that’s my dove.” He chanted over and over as you were shaking beneath him, orgasming harder than you did previously. 

“S-Steve, fuck.” You rarely swear, but to know that he was the one to cause this little word to fall from lips with such grace — it was the final straw for Steve. 

He began to cum inside of you, your pussy milking him with each thrust. All of his arousal was filling you up to the point where it started to spill out and glisten all over your thighs. “So tight,” he whimpered above you. 

For a few moments, you both came down from your highs. With a few thrusts and kisses, you allowed your bodies and heart rates to calm down as one. It was beautiful and so bewitching to experience it all. You weren’t so sure what it would be like now. Being friends for so long meant that you both knew so much about each other. However, now, you two seemed to see a lot of each other too. There was no turning back to what it was before. Not after everything felt so good in this way. 

You both looked into each other’s eyes before kissing sweetly, enveloping each other in one last kiss before breaking apart under the morning sun’s rays. 

“You are so beautiful,” Steve whispered as he moved to lay next to you. 

“So are you,” you smiled while cuddling close to him. 

“Are you alright?” He asked sweetly, kissing your forehead in the process. 

“Yeah, I guess I feel a little sore,” you giggled as you moved your head upwards to feel your lips on his again. 

Steve gasped into the kiss, breaking it apart to get some tissues from his nightstand. “Do you need a bath, some water, or food?” He asked whilst wiping the remnants of his climax away on your thighs. 

“I’m fine, Steve, I promise.” You smiled as he looked at you with the biggest hazel gaze. 

Truthfully, you looked like a goddess glowing next to him with the dawn reflecting on your skin. He wasn’t sure if there were enough words in any dictionary to describe your beauty. Maybe not even from the book you were reading before bed. “How about you sleep for a bit and then when you wake up, I’ll have all your favourite breakfast foods on the kitchen table?” The offer was so tempting coming from Steve’s lips. 

“Hmm, what if I want to help you?” You giggled. You weren’t sure if you wanted to be separate from him for too long. The place in between your thighs was begging for his touch again. “There is a scene in that book where the prince and the lady were eating breakfast and then—”

You stopped speaking when you saw Steve reach behind him to find the novel on his nightstand, before flipping pages in the book to see what you were talking about. “Maybe you should read this story to me another day and I can help you every time you get really excited during a scene,” he winked. 

“Another day?” 

“Yes, for now, we could get started on writing the beginning of our newest story, dove. If you would like to, of course.” Steve whispered the words as he hovered his lips above yours, teasing you with each breath that tickled your skin. 

“I’d really, really love that,” you smiled up at him, bringing your arms around his neck in the process. 

If one thing was for certain after tonight: both of you found comfort and love in each other’s arms — and later on in a few different sections of the book store too. 

-:-:-:-:-

[ode2rin]

Rin thinks you’re pretty. 

No, scratch that; it was far too inadequate to describe you that way. If he were to be utterly honest, you were exquisitely, heartbreakingly beautiful, far more than his heart could contain.

You’re pretty when you spoke, when you said his name, when you smiled – oh God, don't even get him started on how your smile could brighten even the darkest of days. He was certain that a face like yours was meant for smiling, and it was even brighter when he was the reason behind it.

Right now, however, Rin finds it hard to look at your face when you’re like this – crying.

and it is even worse when he’s the source of it.

“Stop crying, dumbass,” he whispered, sighing. 

“Then stop getting into fights, you asshole,” you retorted back in between sobs.

Rin fell silent after your reply. He couldn't find the right words, not with your sobs filling the room and drowning his thoughts. He watched you as you applied a small amount of betadine to a cotton swab and wiped away your tears before turning to him.

“Take a seat. Let me clean that,” you offered, pertaining to the small cut o n his lip.

Rin took one long look at your face, and without a word, he moved to the corner of your bed, feeling the familiar dip of the mattress beneath him while you pulled the chair beside your table and placed it in front of him.

He'd been here countless times before. Growing up with your mothers being best friends meant that you were practically childhood friends by default, and that also meant spending endless hours in each other's homes.

But this time was different from all the previous visits; it was the first time he was in your room, no longer just a close friend anymore. That reality and your crushing tears – they were consuming all corners of his thoughts.

You closed the gap between you two to get a better look at the swollen cut from a blow he had taken. You gently dabbed the swab around the wound and felt Rin's sharp intake of breath as you did so.

You began to reason, “This wouldn't happen if you could've just–”

“I don't want to hear it.”

You bit your lower lip and tears started swelling again in the corner of your eyes. Rin was nothing if not so fucking stubborn– that you knew since childhood, but you wished he could put it aside for a moment and truly listen to you.

“Okay,” you coldly said, conceding and turning your focus on cleaning his wound.

Rin wanted to pummel his own self in the ground because of the passing hurt that graced your eyes from how he cut you off. A sniff escaped you and Rin physically felt his heart contract.

What was he supposed to do? Stand by and let those damn assholes make lewd comments about you? There was no way in hell he would just let it slide.

This wasn't the first time Rin had taken matters into his own hands when it came to you. Since third grade, Rin had taken his mom's words about looking after you to heart. And it had always been that way, even back when he was hellbent in denying his feelings. Not an ounce of rationality graces his mind when it comes to you, so you should've already known that he didn't have it in him to hold back.

He caught your hand and gently squeezed it. The gesture prompted you to look at him briefly before turning your gaze away, still hurt from his dismissal of your concern.

“I didn’t mean that,” he squeezes your hand again, “Look at me, please.”

You turned your head to meet your stubborn boyfriend. This time, you let the tears fall freely.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, sincere and uncharacteristically gentle, “Speak to me, y/n.”

“I just..” you sobbed, “I don’t like it when you get hurt. That’s all.”

“I don’t like it more when you get hurt,” he countered.

“It's just some stupid words from stupid people, Rin. They're not worth it.”

“But you are.”

Your heart raced at Rin's words. when you raise your gaze to seek his’, you are met with a pair of half-lidded teal eyes staring right into you.

“You’re the one who’s worth it.”

Rin's words lingered in the air, leaving you utterly speechless. You never expected him to utter something so heartfelt – after all, this was Itoshi Rin. A man capable of almost anything, yet kind words seemed to be an exception. Then again, this was Rin, the very same man who believed he wasn't adept at love and yet chose to lay his heart bare in your palms, albeit a bit stubbornly.

As you struggled to find words to express how much his words meant to you, Rin gently raised his hands to wipe away the lingering tears in your eyes. His fingers brushed against the loose strands of hair nearly covering your eyes, tucking them away with meticulous care. His touch was so gentle that it’s almost hard to believe it was the same hands who mercilessly struck two men hours ago.

His other hand snaked around your waist, pulling you closer until you were almost seated on his right leg. The closeness made your heart swell, and you couldn't help but nestle into his warmth.

“Stop crying, please?” he murmured, “you’re getting your snot in my shirt.” 

Way to ruin a moment. “I hate you,” you jokingly scoff against his neck.

“No, you don’t,” he disagrees, so full of conviction it needed some humbling.

“You bet? No kisses,” you see him smirk at your declaration, “until that cut completely heals,” you added, wiping that smirk on his face.

A laugh escaped you at the sudden shift in his expression. gone was the challenged smirk and all that's left are furrowed brows and a subtle pout. 

How dare you take that away from him? Maybe you do hate him, Rin is convinced.

“Still worth it, baby?” you ribbed, seemingly enjoying his misery.

“Yes.” with you finally smiling? Absolutely. You’re smiling, and sometimes, it’s enough and more – even for Itoshi Rin.

note. ode2RIN comeback because of rinturn 2023 (I KNOW IT'S LATE)