𝒜𝓃𝓉𝑜𝓃𝒾𝑒

𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂

[ant0niepax]

I actually love these pictures!

[kitsunetsuki-deactivated2026051]

Mario Casilli - Ruthy Ross (Playboy 1973)

[kitsunetsuki-deactivated2026051]

Helmut Newton - Vogue Paris (1981)

[angelsautumn]

[bobito-odenkirk]

I could see this forever...

[dolphinsapphire28]

@christophfanalways​ Can you please tell me where this clip is from?

Credit to you for the gif.

[lucigooseart]

sixer 💋

[tomorrowandbeyond]

[eggerlandmystery]

hahaha alright dude take it easy see you later

[ant0niepax]

us @yazpmarie

[spider-stark]

SAME SIN

pairing - frank castle x reader

summary - in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings - blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count - 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a no nonsense Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

[ant0niepax]

This is the best fanfic

[satcnvs]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ       𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐘

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. ex-military widower ✖ runaway stray

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒. older protective male x vulnerable teen fem. widower x runaway. paternal elements within romance. male saviorism. size differences. opposites attract. ride or die. hurt, comfort, healing. v-rginity loss. dead dove do not eat.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆! The following original fiction contains potentially triggering content, including: extreme age gap, homicide, child and spousal death, kidnapping, s-xual as-sault (background only), r-pe recovery, child abuse (background only), post-traumatic stress disorder and disabling mental illness, paternal elements within romance and and mild ddlg themes (clothing, nicknames). Read at your own discretion.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐎𝟑 - EARLY RELEASE. 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑.

So quickly did his nurturing return to him. So violently did it sear through the unstable and rocky waters of his emotional state. So quickly did it smooth salve over that cardinal wound of his—that need to be a man, to be a father, to be a protector, stifled down and suffocated by the cruelty of the Gods. And he wasn’t sure why he did it, or what had come over him. One moment he was fine, and the next he was sobbing.

The tears came darting down in a torrential pour, finding halt at the edge of his beard, and sinking into the dark hair. His chest ached something vicious, something violent and otherwise untouched for so many years. Something so agonizing it drew nausea up his abdomen and into his throat. 

His body tensed and wracked with it all. An upending grief, splicing him into barely distinguishable fragments of himself and who he once was. It reign on, until finally he’d run out of tears to release, and that was the only reason he’d stopped his catharsis at all. He lay there in bed, the residual ache in his chest slowly dulling, and drew his palm over his eyes, and dragged it down his face with a coughing, nasally groan. Some frustrated, pained noise. And then he rolled over, and reached to flick the bedside lamp off. 

-----------

The night came blanketing in on him fast. All of the day’s work, the events that happened afterwards, the memory of holding his daughter in his arms, so similarly, still lingering within his tired, sore muscles. 

Yes, sleep did come urgent and consuming. He was dragged into its depths by the rush of an adrenaline’s fading, and found himself in some sort of Purgatorio, where there was no reality and no nightmare to experience through the night. Just unencumbered, slumbering rest. 

When he awoke, the room was warm; the air crisp. Specs of dust were suspended in a ray of sunlight casting onto the hardwood, dancing in its beam. His head was pounding gently with a brewing ache, its throb low in his brow bone and ears, and amongst it all he felt this strange grogginess. Just a moment later, he decidedly chalked it up to sleeping so late, grinding the tackiness from his eyes with the base of his palm.

Reuven had never liked to sleep in. In some ways, it made him anxious, perhaps not because of daylight lost but because of a trip in his routine. Keeping a routine had been something life-saving for him. Perhaps, it was the only reason he was able to function at all. Some days he would have a glimpse of what life without that saving grace would be—when the morning came and he opened his eyes and found himself drenched in a terror’s sweat, his mind and heart raging with the agony of his losses and the reliving of them in his subconscious’ reign. 

On those days, he thanked himself immensely for having thought ahead and stocked up on meat and firewood, because his limbs would somehow, inexplicably, feel like lead. His body would become totally useless to him, and instead served only as some anchor to reality that barely felt real. It would take tremendous effort just to brush his teeth, let alone cook a meal and get to the physical labor of the day. 

Sometimes he would have these states of mind, like an aura, that preceded those episodes . He would be just a little bit off. A bit out of it. And would keep seeing their faces, expressionless, pale, interrupting his vision. The widower would try everything he could to make it stop, but always to no avail, until his grief brought him to his knees, and forced him to stop all his running from the grim truth.

Today, he felt like he was on the precipice of that hour, yet again. 

The last time had been three months earlier, and had not lasted just one day. 

These episodes… they were getting worse. More frequent. More intense. His heart pounded with an anxiety of no apparent origin as he sat up in his bed, and stared out the expansive full-length windows into the deep evergreen forest’s abyss. 

He, sometimes, felt just like that forest. 

-----------

The water struck his skin, hot and curing and pooling in his edges. His hand, roughened and calloused, went kneading into the knotted flesh of his shoulders, trying to massage out all the overuse and aging. It was an often enough ritual of his to avoid looking in the mirror, if only to not have to confront the distinctly haunted, aged look in his eyes that his body only mirrored. So infrequent were his glances at his own face that his reflection would sometimes surprise him, as it did this morning, and most mornings he caught a glimpse. 

Every year, he looked more and more like his father, and less and less like the man he’d known back in New York. No, this man who stared back at him was not that same man by any means. Reuven had changed in such fundamental ways that it all touched his features in this harsh, imposing countenance that he could not stand to witness contorted up in his own features. All traces of his internal peace, gone and stomped out and scraped off. It served as the front-and-center reality that he was changed now. That everything had changed. That he had lost everything.. 

No. He did his best to avoid his own eyes as he brushed his teeth, scrubbing hard and urgently, as if it was a task to be gotten over with as quickly as possible. But when he rinsed out his mouth, he did stop, and stare, briefly back into own pupils. 

Dark, almost black, like the night. Beside them, growing lines etched into the thinning skin. His cheeks, harboring spots from the sun here and there, worn and growing tighter around his facial structure. Beneath it all: that thick, unkempt beard that grew and grew and he spent far too much time hiding from his own demons to even think about trimming it. 

After a long moment of fixating on the deep stretch of gray that took host in two bilateral lines within the dark brown hair, he grabbed his clippers from the cabinet, and brought them to life with a harsh buzz. 

He did his best to get the lines straight. It sure had been awhile since he’d last bothered to even attempt taking care of his appearance. Why he’d chosen to this morning, he would not allow himself to ponder. 

If he did, he might find some desire, down there at the vortex of his human needs, for company. A lasting company. It was only right, to be presentable for company.

No. He was just getting ready for the day, and it was about damn time. That was all.

A haircut, however, would have to wait for another day, when he could get down to Quinalt and bother Odina for one. It had been awhile since he had checked on her anyway. Maintaining friendships was not Reuven’s strong suit. Not anymore, at least. 

The past fifteen years had been largely spent with only his own mind to break the silence. Packs of wolves and flocks of geese, too, occasionally. Dealing with other people had become so much more exhausting; navigating the waters of his anger while concomitantly trying to play nice with others had proven to be quite the feat. One that he had not yet mastered, and, truthfully, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to bother. 

No one understood. They never did. They would give him this soft look, full of enraging pity, if he ever disclosed how he’d even wound up out here, in the northwest mountains. He wasn’t even sure what to do with his grief himself, so how could he expect anyone else to know how to respond? That fact still did nothing to solve this fatal conundrum of his, though. He would just find himself growing increasingly more and more agitated and eager to leave, as whatever stranger he was talking to went on and on about their menial lives. Bitched about nothing of importance, and Reuven would be left seething silently, perplexingly, afterwards. He would grip his steering wheel with knuckles gone white, and ask himself how anyone could be so lucky to have their daughter not getting into the college she wanted as the largest problem of their decade? He would fester and compare and imagine what life might have been like for him, if Chedva had been able to grow tall and mature and sign up for college. What school would she have wanted to go to? What would she have studied? What if, what if, what if. And he would drown and sputter against his own anger.

Reuven hated talking to other people because it always ended with this. 

Somehow, someway, it always ended with this. 

So he stuck to talking about the weather, and didn’t often afford anyone more than a few words of his deep, husky voice, and he let others judge him as standoffish, so long as they left him alone, and he could survive existing in his grief another day.

Perhaps, that was why he hadn’t insisted on waking the girl. 

She might want to… talk to him. And he wasn’t ready.

He had tried, but only just so. His knuckles had rapped on the hardwood, carved door and waited for signs of life and when they didn’t come, the man stood there awkwardly, trying to decide if he should peek in. And then he remembered how the girl had backed away from him when he’d gone to give her his jacket, and decided against it. 

He told himself he wouldn’t bother her until she came to bother him, and that absolved him of some of the obligation to be a good host, and to surpass the threshold of his comfort zone. 

-----------

It was almost noon by the time he’d made it downstairs to make breakfast. The sun was nearing its highest height, and he would need to race it if he wanted to stock up on more meat before the impending storm. It was due to hit within the next day, 

As he cooked, he stared into the reflective, greasy surface of the cast iron, between a bed of frying scrambled eggs. He imagined that his mind was like that pan—reflecting everything off of it, any light that struck upon the baked-in outer surface of polymerization. Beneath that surface was just a hard, gripping hunk of metal. 

It was only after a bird flew by the window, squawking loudly, that he snapped out of it. Suddenly, the memory of the girl’s frailty dawned on him again, and became urgent again, and he went to pile the eggs on a plate until he paused, remembering an instructor some thirty-five years prior. When Reuven was just a scruffy, lanky new recruit, sitting in a classroom to prepare himself for the quote unquote real world and a fancy new uniform. 

Refeeding syndrome.

If she had been starving for awhile, then a high pile of food might do more harm than good.

He took a scoop off of her eggs.

It felt strange to be plating more than one meal. Strange and… nice. He had been alone for so long. Human connection, no matter how menial, was a basic need, of course. And perhaps, the way in which this differed from his half-distracted talks with his acquaintances down in Neilton and Quinalt was that he was… providing. For the first time in what felt like forever.

So perhaps, then, even further, that was the explanation for why he felt so nervous about it—rapping his knuckles gently on the door again, and then carefully placing the plate on the floor before it when he did not hear even a rustle.

In some peculiar way, this felt to him as giving a gift to a new lover might feel. Foreign, exciting, and riddled with the worry of I hope they like it. And he did. He really, really hoped she liked it. His kids had never liked his cooking. He’d never been as naturally gifted with it as their mother had been. 

  Still, he was certain it was difficult to go wrong with butter and potatoes.

-----------

The girl lingered on his mind all day.

He began to stew in his thinking, wondering if she had maybe snuck out in the middle of the night, and his gift of breakfast would go untouched because she was not there at all.

But just as he pushed thoughts of his children out of his mind, he pushed thought of her, too, back and away, to busy himself with the tasks of the day. While the sun was still high, he pulled on some under armor and slung his sleek, black rifle over his back and set off. 

By the time he’d returned, deer slung over his shoulders, it had already begun to get dark again. The winter, of course, was not so forgiving, even with daylight saving’s time. He’d have to butcher it tomorrow, which was not the ideal, but the temperature was cold enough that the meat would sustain the elements.

He stepped back into the house, peeling off his jacket and throwing it on the porch to be cleaned of blood later. The warmth of the foyer greeted him, and he hung up his rifle, set down his gloves, and stepped out of his boots.

Again, the house was as silent as he’d left it. 

Reuven palmed at his face as he ascended the steps, anticipating to see the plate of food still left on the floor in front of the door, food cold and untouched. But, as he rounded the corner into the hallway that looked down upon the living room, he saw the plate was indeed still there, but it was devoid of food. All but licked clean. 

His heart leaped. 

With what, he wasn’t so sure. But he was goddamn thrilled to bring the plate downstairs and wash it, only to fill it back up with chicken and rice half an hour later, and return it before the door, with another tap on the door. 

He would leave her be. Surely, she must be exhausted. For a brief moment,m before he was about to walk back downstairs, he remembered the state of her last night. Her nested hair. The piles of wet clothing she was draped under. It took him a long, pivotal pause to decide to do it, but he took slow strides to the hallway closet, where its wooden door squeaked on its hinges. He hadn’t looked in there since he’d stocked the closet. 

On the topmost shelf was a box. On its side read a name. Chedva.

He pulled it down, his heart pounding something wretched, and tried to cough at the lump growing in his throat as he pulled out some of his baby girl’s old clothing. 

A slow, deep inhale allowed him to take the shirt and pants out. This girl needed them. Of that he was certain. 

They were left, neatly folded atop a towel, beside her dinner. Taped to the fabric was a note.

The shower is down the hall to the left, the last door by the railing. Help yourself.

That night, Reuven slept easier, knowing she was finally fed.

[vmiina]

threesome with ruby and dean :(!!

your thighs are wrapped around dean’s head as he sucks on your clit, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. his toned arms wrap around your thighs, pulling you closer to him so he could get more of you. his green irises gleaming as he stares into your eyes through his thick eyelashes, his pupils blown wide. his eyes shift to your side, the soft gleam in them disappearing almost immediately as he sees ruby.

if looks could kill ruby would be dead by now, dean narrows his eyes, like he’s trying to see right past her. but you didn’t notice that. too busy focusing on the feeling of ruby’s lips against your own, the kiss was full of need, pent-up frustration and pure sin. it wasn’t gentle either, it was full of possessive force, all of it coming from ruby. her tongue claims more territory as she deepens the kiss, the heat of everything almost too overwhelming. both dean and ruby devouring you with their tongues.

no matter how many times you three did this together, no matter how many times he was around you and ruby, you were the only one of those two that he softened for. he’s always thought of ruby as nothing but a manipulative demon, always getting in his way. he never liked her, but since you always insisted on having her there too he couldn’t say no, right? and besides he enjoyed the way she always had you like a whimpering mess, wrapped around her finger.

your soft gasps and moans are muffled by ruby’s lips, which is honestly good since noises you’re making would definitely be heard to the room next door. the motel walls aren’t that thick, dean had said many times, from experience. you couldn’t breathe, feeling overstimulated all over, but you couldn’t pull away from either ruby or dean. ruby’s lips too intoxicating on yours, and dean’s grip on your thighs nearly bruising. ruby brushes your hair out of your face softly, her nails tangling with your locs as she caresses your hair.

ruby eventually breaks the kiss, letting out a soft sigh at the loss of your lips. as soon as the kiss broke you let out a soft cry, finally letting dean hear how good he’s making you feel, and if that didn’t make his already high-confidence even higher he doesn’t know what. “baby you gotta be quiet, don’t want the people next door t’hear you.” dean coos against your inner thigh, halting his actions for a moment, making you let out a soft whine. he presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh before he gently bites on it, sucking on the bite mark after, creating a faint red bruise there. it has you tugging on his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp.

“you heard him.” ruby coos, as if she’s mocking you for the noises you’re making. it has dean rolling his eyes, he didn’t need her confirming his words. dean removes his other hand from your thigh, bringing it between your legs as he teases your entrance with his fingers. pushing the his ring finger inside your pussy, watching you closely to observe your reaction. your warm gummy walls immediately clench around his finger, sucking it right in. it has dean grinning, like he’s proud of himself for getting you this riled up and needy.

it doesn’t take long for dean to find your g-spot, it’s like he knows your body better than you do. his fingers curl against the spongy spot inside you, it has your back arching off of the dingy motel bed. both dean and ruby seem extremely turned on by your responsiveness, with dean finally taking his other hand off your thigh to palm himself through his boxers. ruby on the other hand just observes mostly, her gaze full of lust, even she couldn’t deny that she really enjoyed the view. she squeezes her thighs together firmly, trying to ease some of the need coiling in her lower abdomen.

“that’s the spot ain’t it?” dean teases, his husky tone accompanied with a grunt. he rolls his hips into his palm, pressing a soft kiss to your aching clit. his hot breath fanning over the sensitive bud as his fingers work on you, adding onto the the pleasure. your hand reach towards ruby, grabbing the bedsheets a couple of times in the process until you actually manage to grip onto her hand, squeezing it in a way that’s almost painful, nails digging into her burning hot skin. “fuck— dean—“ you moan out, all whilst ruby cups your face, rubbing her thumb softly against your cheek, in a way that’s almost domestic.

dean slowly slips his middle finger inside you too, stretching you out. you didn’t even register the pain at first, only paying attention to the delicious feeling of his fingers fucking into you. your brows furrow, mouth agape as soft whimpers pour out in an unbroken rhythm, just a bit too loudly. “shut the fuck up.” ruby commands in a harsh tone, she really doesn’t want anyone to hear what you’re up to. for a moment you’re quiet, not wanting to disobey her, knowing what it could cause. but it doesn’t take long until you’re nothing but a moaning and a whimpering mess.

ruby sticks her fingers in your mouth, deep enough to elicit a gag reflex. she makes you suck on her fingers, in order to keep you quiet. you look at her, seeing smug grin on her lips. “jesus dean, don’t let her come too soon.” ruby orders, making you let out a strangled ‘no’ against her fingers, making her press your tongue down, making it impossible for you to protest. that’s one of the only thing ruby has said that dean can agree on, he shifts his gaze from you to her. “wasn’t plannin’ on it.” he says as he pulls his fingers completely out of your pussy, leaving you feeling empty, clenching around nothing.

dean scoots up, removing himself from between your legs where he had been nestled for what felt like an eternity. now straddling your hips but not daring to put his full weight on you, his boxer-clad hard on against your stomach. he brushes your hair out of your face before he presses a couple of gentle kisses all over your face, his cheek brushing lightly against ruby’s palm. “you think you’re ready to take me?” he purrs against your neck as he shifts down your body slowly, pressing kisses on each part. ruby takes her fingers out of your mouth, finally letting you breathe and speak properly. her fingers coated with your spit. “yes— please dean. i need you—“ you cry out, hips arching off the bed.

dean grabs you by your waist, flipping you around so you’re laying on your stomach. your face hovering inches over ruby’s pussy, covered by her lace panties, you could see a wet patch there and it turned you on even more. you’re too busy focusing on that so you don’t even realize that dean’s gripping you by your hips, lifting them so that your ass is in the air, so he can fuck you properly. ruby’s delicate fingers hover over the hem of her panties, slipping beneath them so she can pull them off.

dean’s boxers are long gone, he had thrown them somewhere across the motel room. he spits on his hand, bringing it down to stroke himself a couple times before he aligns himself with your entrance. the pink tip of his cock nearly red, coated with the precum oozing out. he grips the base of his length firmly, brushing it against your folds a couple times before he slides into you in one smooth move. filling you up in a way that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. ruby cups your cheek, relishing in the way you already look so fucked-out. she slaps your cheek a couple times, not hard enough to hurt but enough to sting in a way that gets you back to your senses.

“get your mouth on me, whore.” ruby demands as she grabs your hair, tugging it so that your mouth is hovering over her glistening cunt. dean pulls out completely, only to thrust all the way back in, throwing his head back. dean’s action made your head bump to ruby’s inner thigh, making you let out a soft whine. “c’mon, be good.” ruby says as she inches closer, making your lips connect with her clit. you wrap your trembling hands around her thighs, overwhelmed with pleasure. ruby’s just trying to get your attention off dean, to get all the attention to herself.

dean finds a steady pace, his hips pistoning against your ass, the filthy sounds of skin slapping filling the small motel room, bouncing off the walls. dean keeps his gaze locked on you between ruby’s legs, that sight could make him cum right there and then. and it nearly does, but only nearly. he has to squeeze his eyes shut, take a deep breath but the sight in front of him is burnt deep into his retinas. “you feel so good— shit baby.” dean practically whimpers out as he grips onto your hips tightly. you let out breathy moans against ruby’s aching pussy, her body trembling with each of your gentle licks.

“good fuckin’ girl.” ruby rasps out, even she lets a soft moan escape through her lips, her hands gripping your locs like a lifeline, pushing your head even closer to her heat. each flick of your tongue sending shock through her. “you like how he’s fuckin’ you huh? you feel good?” ruby taunts you softly, as you lap up at her juices. letting out a incoherent answer, scratching at her thighs, leaving red marks behind. “already fucked dumb, didn’t take much.” dean scoffs as he presses a gentle kiss to your back, lips tracing your spine.

you start to suck on ruby’s clit, even biting down on it a couple times. it has ruby’s hips shuddering as she nears her climax, it doesn’t take much, she’s so goddamn pent up. she grinds her cunt against your face, wanting you to devour every inch of her. “pleaseugh—“ you beg, not even sure for what. dean’s thrusts becoming sloppy, your walls gripping onto him in a way that makes it almost impossible to plunge out of you. “ease up.” dean grunts as he lands a harsh smack on your ass, leaving his handprint on the skin there.

after a while ruby finally comes with a cry, making you devour every single drip of her fluids. as she pulls back, you bury your arousal-coated face in the sheets, gripping them so hard your knuckles turn white. dean keeps going at a bruising pace, but you can tell how close he is by his shaky breath, the movement of his hips faltering for a moment as he releases inside you with a loud whine. coating your insides white, with you leaving a creamy ring around the base of his cock “you’re so goddamn good, a fuckin’ gem.” dean husks as he pulls out, letting you collapse to the bed.

saw a tiktok that said something like “imagine having a boyfriend and a girlfriend who hate each other” and that kinda inspired this. literally my sweet babies ugh i love them so much ☹️☹️.

[ant0niepax]

Me when

[cuteness--overload]

[th3mrskory]

Unspoken Desires

Pairing: fem!Reader x Old Man!Logan

Warning: 18+ MDNI, SMUT,explicit language, coercion (if you squint), oral (male/female receiving), handjob, fingering, unprotected p in v, missionary, doggy style, anal play, creampie.

Summary: Y/N is always the one taking care of everyone, but tonight Logan decides it’s her turn to let go. Rough, tender, and unapologetically intense, he’ll make sure she doesn’t forget who’s in charge—or how good it feels to be taken care of for once.

Word count: 5.6k

A/N: As @coocoocachewgotscrewed so brilliantly put it, 'As the girl that takes care of everyone: SOMEONE TAKE CARE OF ME.' And that’s how this little fic came to life.

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

The world had never been kind to her softness. In her youth, she'd learned early that the only way to survive was to take up space, to become a force others couldn't ignore, even if they didn't understand it. She had built walls from the ground up, stone by stone until they formed a fortress no one could breach. She had everything together—mostly. She had to. People depended on her and needed her strength to carry them through the chaos of life, so she did. She carried it all. Always.

But there were moments—quiet moments, when the world was still—when the weight of it all pressed against her chest, relentless. The loneliness in her veins. The unspoken ache buried deep within her ribs.

She never asked for help. She didn't need it. Her hands were too used to giving. And when she laughed, when she made jokes about being single—"Men want to be babied. I don't have time to raise a child."—it was easier to mask the truth. It was easier to hide the hunger that lingered beneath her words. The hunger for something she couldn't name, something too soft to fit into the life she'd built.

It was supposed to be just another day, another task, another moment in the long string of motions she went through without thought. But then she saw him—Logan, standing there with that quiet, raw strength of his. The way he didn't try to impress anyone, didn't need to, because the power in him was as much in his silence as it was in his actions. There was no pretense. No façade.

And she hated that it drew her in. 

She hated how much she wanted him—him, the one man who wouldn't cower in her presence, the one who wouldn't need her to be anything other than exactly what she was.

She noticed him more these days, more than she cared to admit. She tried to bury the thoughts, to ignore the way her heart would quicken whenever he was near, the way her body seemed to ache for something it didn't know how to name.

Logan saw it, though. He always did. The way she wore that strength-like armor. But he'd spent enough time with it to know what armor looked like—he knew what it meant to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders and never let anyone see how heavy it was.

He didn't pity her. Hell, he admired her more than anyone he'd ever known. But he saw the cracks. The storm churned behind her eyes. The way she pulled away just when things might have gotten too real, too close. 

She never let anyone in.

But he wasn't afraid of it. Not of her. Not of that ferocity.

And so, on that night, after a thousand little things had piled up until there was no room left for her to breathe, it came out.

Her words were sharp, and cutting, but they were the truth. The raw, jagged truth that she never allowed to be spoken. She was tired of pretending. Tired of holding the world together when no one saw her crumble beneath it.

"What, you think I don't need help? You think I like doing everything myself?" Her voice trembled only slightly, a crack in the fortress that she had so carefully built.

He didn't flinch. Didn't back away. He'd seen that wall before, and he didn't fear it.

He only stepped closer, his presence as solid as the ground beneath them.

"I think you're too damn stubborn to ask for it," he said, his voice low, but the understanding in it was enough to make her heart catch in her throat.

For a moment, the world paused. The storm inside her stilled, and she saw it—really saw it for the first time. He wasn't afraid of her strength. He didn't want to tear it down. He just wanted to be there, beside her, when it all became too much to bear.

He didn't need to fix her. He didn't need to save her.

He just needed to let her be.

Let her lean into him. Let her rest.

Her breath caught as she stepped toward him, her hands trembling, unsure but desperate. For once, she wasn't the one giving. For once, she could be held, could be taken care of. 

Logan's hands were steady, as they always were, but now, they weren't just offering strength. They were offering safety—something she hadn't realized she'd been searching for all along. 

"Hey," he whispered, his voice low, soothing. "You don't have to be strong all the time. You're allowed to let it out." 

The words broke something inside her. Heat prickled behind her eyes, and her chest heaved with the weight of everything she'd kept buried. 

Logan didn't move. He didn't push. He just let her cry, his hand resting firm and comforting on her back, his presence solid as the ground beneath her. 

"Y/N..." His voice was softer now, laced with something she couldn't quite place. Gently, his hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away her tears with a tenderness that made her knees weak. 

"You don't have to carry it all, bub. Let me in, just this once." 

Her hands shook as she pressed them to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. Grounding her. And when she rubbed her cheek against his palm, the motion instinctive, something inside her gave way. 

Her eyes fell to his lips. The urge to kiss him became impossible to ignore. 

He leaned down, brushing his lips against her forehead, but then he paused, his gaze locking with hers. 

She couldn't stop herself. She leaned in, kissing him hard, desperate for the release, the comfort, the closeness. It was a kiss that broke everything wide open—a kiss that held the weight of everything they'd both been holding back. 

The kiss deepened, the world narrowing to the warmth of his lips and the solid strength of his hands still cradling her face. She felt the tension in her chest unravel, replaced by a need that clawed at her, desperate and all-consuming.

Logan didn't rush. He never did. His hands slid down, slow and deliberate, tracing over her arms until his fingers wrapped around her wrists. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his breath hot against her lips.

"No walls. No fightin'. Just let me.", he murmured, his voice gravelly and sure, sending a shiver down her spine. The words hit her like a hammer, shattering the last of her defenses. She wasn't used to this, wasn't used to handing over the reins, but with Logan, it felt...safe. Right.

Her pulse thundered as she nodded, the tiniest of movements, but it was enough for him.

Logan's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile before he kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands guiding hers up and over her head. Her fingers curled instinctively as he pinned her wrists against the wall behind her, the roughness of the surface contrasting with the gentleness of his touch.

"Just let me make you feel good," he said, his voice low and commanding. She exhaled shakily, her head tilting back as his mouth moved to her neck, teeth scraping lightly against her skin before his tongue soothed the spot. Her body arched into him, her hips pressing forward, seeking more, needing more.

"Logan..." Her voice was barely above a whisper, a plea wrapped in the sound of his name.

He hummed against her throat, one hand still holding her wrists in place while the other traveled down her side, his fingers skimming over the curve of her hip. "That's it," he rumbled. "Let me hear you."

Each touch, each kiss, stripped away the layers she'd built to protect herself. She wasn't in control anymore—not of her body, not of her mind, not of the way she melted beneath him. And for once, she didn't care.

Logan moved with a precision that left her breathless, his hand slipping beneath her shirt, rough fingertips tracing the softness of her skin. He paused just below her ribs, his eyes flicking up to hers.

"Say it, darlin'," he coaxed. "Say you'll let me have you."

Her lips parted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I'm yours."

And that was all it took.

His hands, calloused and strong, gripped her thighs, hoisting her up with an ease that sent a shiver racing down her spine. She gasped, clinging to his shoulders as her body pressed tightly against his.

"Where's your bedroom?" he growled against her ear, his voice low, gravelly, and filled with the kind of raw command that made her knees weak, though she wasn't even standing.

"End of the hall," she whispered, the words trembling out of her as his teeth grazed her earlobe, a low hum rumbling deep in his chest.

"Good girl," he murmured, the praise almost too rough to feel soft, and yet it sent heat pooling low in her stomach.

He moved through her place with purposeful strides, each step a reminder of the strength coiled in his body. She felt the steady rhythm of his breathing against her chest, the way his arms tightened around her as if he dared anything or anyone to take her from him.

When they reached her bedroom, Logan kicked the door open without hesitation, the force behind it making it swing back against the wall. The dim light from the hallway framed his silhouette—broad shoulders, wild hair, and eyes that burned as he looked down at her.

The room felt smaller with him in it, his presence overwhelming, and consuming. He didn't glance around, didn't make a single remark. His focus was entirely on her as if the world beyond her didn't exist.

"On the bed," he rasped, his voice cutting through the thick silence.

Before she could even process his words, he was lowering her onto the mattress, her back meeting the cool sheets as his hands lingered, pressing her down as he needed her to stay right where she was.

"Logan—"

"Quiet." The single word was sharp and commanding, and it sent a jolt of heat through her.

His eyes roved over her, dark and smoldering, drinking her in as though he was committing every inch of her to memory. One knee pressed into the mattress beside her, his weight shifting as he leaned closer, his hands bracketing her head.

"Spent your whole damn life holdin' everything together," he muttered his tone a mix of frustration and something darker. "Not tonight. Tonight, you're mine."

Her lips parted, but no sound came out, just a sharp intake of breath as he tilted her chin up with his thumb, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"I'm not askin', darlin'." His voice dropped to a growl, sending a shudder down her spine.

Her heart thundered in her chest as his lips claimed hers again, rough and unrelenting, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip just enough to make her gasp. The sound made his grip tighten, his hands sliding down her sides slowly as if savoring the way her body responded to him.

"You don't have to be strong tonight," he murmured against her lips, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. "Let me carry it. Let me carry you."

Her resolve cracked beneath the weight of his words, her body trembling as her hands found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. For once, she didn't fight. She didn't resist.

She just let go.

Logan's eyes never left hers as he straightened, standing tall above her. His hands were steady as he reached for the hem of her shirt. The air between them felt charged, and heavy, like the moment before a storm.

"Arms up," he commanded, his voice low and rough, leaving no room for hesitation.

She obeyed without a word, raising her arms as he gripped the fabric, his knuckles brushing against her sides. He pulled the shirt up slowly, dragging the material over her skin with a sensuality that made her shiver. The shirt caught for a moment, tangled in her hair, and Logan let out a low chuckle, dark and throaty.

"Relax," he muttered, his voice softer now as he freed her, his fingers lingering against her temple, brushing stray strands away from her face.

The shirt dropped to the floor with a quiet rustle, forgotten the second it left his hand. His gaze roamed over her now-bare skin, unhurried and scorching, like he wanted to memorize every curve, every scar, every inch of her that she'd never let anyone else see.

"You're beautiful," he said, the words rough and quiet as if they weren't meant for her to hear, but they landed with the force of a confession.

Her cheeks burned under his scrutiny, but there was no hiding from him. He stepped closer, his hands moving to the waistband of her jeans. His fingers brushed her skin, calloused and warm, and she bit back a gasp as he popped the button with ease.

"Look at me," he ordered, his tone low but firm.

Her eyes met his, and the intensity in his gaze made her breath hitch. He was utterly focused as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world. Slowly, he slid the zipper down, the sound loud in the quiet room.

"Lift your hips," he murmured, his hands curling around the waistband, tugging the denim down with maddening slowness.

She shifted, doing as he asked, and he peeled the jeans away, dragging them down her legs. His fingers brushed her calves, and her ankles before the fabric joined her shirt on the floor. The air felt colder now, her skin hypersensitive to every little movement, every little touch.

Logan's eyes raked over her, his expression dark and unreadable. Then he reached out, his hands gripping her ankles, his thumbs running along the delicate bone there. He tugged her toward him, pulling her to the edge of the bed with a strength that made her stomach flip.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he growled, his voice ragged, laced with something almost feral.

Her heart raced as he leaned down, his fingers hooking into the thin straps of her bra, sliding them off her shoulders with an aching slowness. The straps fell away, his knuckles grazing her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"You don't need this," he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her collarbone as he reached behind her, unhooking the clasp with a practiced ease.

The bra slipped from her body, and Logan let it fall without a glance, his hands already returning to her, tracing a path down her sides. His palms were warm, rough in the best way, and they left trails of fire wherever they touched.

"Every inch of you," he whispered, his lips ghosting over her skin as his hands slid lower. "Mine."

Her breath hitched, her body arching toward him instinctively, surrendering completely to his touch.

Logan's hands paused at her hips, his fingers slipping under the thin elastic of her panties. His gaze flicked up to hers, holding her there with an intensity that made her pulse thunder in her ears.

She nodded, her voice failing her, but it didn't matter. Logan saw everything he needed in her eyes.

With one smooth motion, he slid the last barrier from her body, baring her completely to him. He stood there for a moment, his gaze raking over her with a hunger that made her shiver.

"Perfect," he muttered, more to himself than to her, before leaning down, his lips brushing against her ear.

"Now let me show you what it means to let go."

Logan knelt between her legs, his hands on her knees, gently parting them as he moved with calm, deliberate intent. She froze for a second, a wave of embarrassment washing over her as she realized she hadn't shaved. Her gaze quickly flicked away, her cheeks flushing with the sudden vulnerability she felt.

But Logan noticed. He looked at her with a reassuring, almost amused smirk, his eyes flickering down her body before meeting hers again.

"Don't," he murmured, his voice low and soothing as he pressed a thumb along her inner thigh. "I like it just like this."

Her breath hitched at his words, the tension in her body slowly melting under his touch.

He lowered himself slowly, nuzzling his face against her inner thighs, placing soft, teasing kisses along their expanse. His right hand moved to her center, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her sensitive bud. His middle and ring fingers slid over her hole, collecting her wetness, and spreading it across her labia.

"She's drooling for me," he murmured as his fingers slowly began to push inside, allowing her to adjust to the stretch. He kept his gaze fixed on her face, watching her pleasure as his fingers began to pump in and out, each movement deliberate and slow.

His fingers continued their rhythmic motion, working in tandem with his mouth. He moved his tongue over her clit, the tip flicking over the sensitive skin in a slow, teasing rhythm that made her body arch toward him. Her hands fisted the sheets beneath her, desperately trying to hold onto something as the heat of his touch seared into her.

"Logan... please," she gasped, her voice trembling, her hips pressing closer to his face.

Logan didn't stop. His tongue flicked faster now, tracing every curve, every inch of her, his mouth drinking in her arousal. She couldn't stop herself anymore; her back arched as her body responded to him, the tension building within her like a wave. "So good," she moaned, her voice breathy and desperate.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Logan murmured against her skin, his voice rough, thick with desire. He paused for a moment, lifting his head to look up at her. "I can feel you shaking. Let go."

She shuddered under his gaze, the command in his voice stripping away the last of her resistance. Her body wanted to obey, to give herself over completely to the sensations he was creating. "I can't... I need you, Logan," she pleaded, tangling her fingers in his hair, urging him back to her, wordlessly begging for more.

Logan smirked, his hands sliding down her sides, gripping her hips tightly as he pulled her closer to his mouth, continuing the rhythm with even more force, more hunger. Every lick, every flick of his tongue brought her closer to the edge.

He could feel the way her body tightened, the way her breath quickened. And then, without warning, his mouth pressed harder against her clit, his tongue moving with desperate speed as he drove her to the brink. She moaned loudly, her body shuddering as she reached the edge. "Logan... oh god," she cried out, completely surrendering to the pleasure.

As she caught her breath, her body still humming with the lingering sensation of his touch, a quiet yearning stirred within her. She sat up, her eyes locking onto his as she gently took his hand. Without a word, she brought his fingers to her lips, her eyes never leaving his. She traced them with her tongue, sucking them clean, savoring the taste of her arousal, before pulling back just a little.

"Dirty girl…" he said, his left hand cupping her cheek.

"I could be sucking something else", she said seductively.

He looked at her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. "You don't have to," he murmured, his voice low, steady.

"I want to. Please."

Logan stood up slowly, keeping his eyes locked with hers. There was an intensity in his gaze, an unspoken challenge, and a silent invitation all at once.

She positioned herself on her knees before him. Her movements were deliberate, almost hypnotic, as her hands traced the strong lines of his shoulders, sliding down his chest, and over the hard muscles of his belly.

When her fingers reached his belt, she didn't hesitate. With a swift motion, she unbuckled it, the leather slipping free with an audible click before it fell to the floor. Her hands moved quickly to the button of his dress pants, flicking it open, and she slowly lowered the zipper.

She tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling it free from his waistband. Her fingers, delicate yet determined, began to unbutton the shirt, one button at a time. Her gaze never left him, and the way her hands worked with such slow precision sent a wave of heat through his chest. The act was intimate, each button a whispered invitation.

Once the shirt was undone, she moved to the cuffs, gently opening them before pressing a soft kiss to the back of each of his hands. Logan closed his eyes briefly at the touch, the tenderness of it catching him off guard. His thumb stroked the curve of her cheek, the touch affectionate, reverent.

There was something magnetic about the way she undressed him—each movement slow and filled with purpose. Her eyes held a quiet hunger that mirrored his own, a silent language between them that made his pulse quicken.

He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. She didn't waste a moment, pulling his pants and boxers down his legs in one smooth, fluid motion, letting them drop to the floor as he stepped out of the garment.

He stood there, bare in front of her. His body was exposed, but it wasn't the nudity that left him feeling vulnerable. It was the way his body didn't respond like it once had, the slow burn of frustration creeping in.

But that did not deter her. She braced herself on all fours, the movement full of quiet confidence. Leaning in, she began licking and gently sucking at his balls, the heat of her mouth sending a shiver through him. His breath hitched as her right hand took hold of his semi-hard dick, her touch light but teasing, coaxing him to respond. The softness of her lips, the pressure of her hand, stirred something deep inside him, and he could feel himself slowly hardening.

She licked a long stripe from his balls up to his tip, her mouth hot against his skin. The sudden surge of sensation had him grunting low, his hands instinctively finding their way into her hair, fingers curling into her locks as he pulled her closer.

"Fuck," Logan breathed, his voice low and rough, as his grip tightened on her hair, pulling her in deeper, the feeling of her mouth sending waves of heat through him. "Don't stop," he muttered.

Y/N could feel him growing heavier and thick in her mouth. She released his dick with a loud pop and with both hands began pumping it.

At the sight Logan closed his eyes and let his head fall back, the hold on her hair tightening. She took him in her mouth and, hollowing her cheeks, began taking him deeper.

She gagged around him when her nose reached the grey hairs on the base and pulled back coughing, a string of saliva connecting her to his member.

Y/N looked up and smiled mischievously seeing him fully erect.

Logan pushed her onto the bed, his hands firmly pinning her wrists to the mattress as he hovered over her. His eyes locked onto hers.

"You're trouble," he finally muttered, his voice deep and rough.

She smirked, but there was a glint of challenge in her eyes. "You don't seem to mind," she teased, her breath hitching as his gaze darkened with hunger.

His lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. Without warning, he moved, pinning her down more securely. "No, I don't," he growled, his voice low as he leaned in closer, brushing his lips over her neck.

Her breath quickened as she felt the weight of his body pressing against hers. She could feel the heat radiating off him, and despite herself, she arched up, meeting the intensity of his gaze. He was in control now, his hands steady as he guided her into place.

He took a breath, his lips brushing against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "You're going to beg for it," he whispered. His tone was rough, yet there was a subtle edge of something softer, almost possessive. "And I'll make sure you don't forget who's in charge."

She bit her lip, anticipating what he would do next.

Logan smiled darkly and kissed her again, his right hand traveling down her chest and grabbing her right breast, giving it a harsh squeeze.

He positioned himself between her legs, gripping his member at the base as he ran his tip along her sensitive center, teasing her with deliberate strokes from her clit to her entrance. Each motion made her hips twitch, her body responding instinctively to his touch.

Her moans filled the room, "Logan," she said breathlessly.

"Yes?"

She closed her legs around him pulling him closer. Logan laughed at her antics. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned back slightly, gathering spit in his mouth before letting it fall onto her, aiding his movement.

Her moans became desperate, almost broken, her hands clutching at his forearms. "Logan," she whimpered, her voice raw with need. "Please… I need you."

His smirk deepened as he held her gaze, the intensity in his eyes making her squirm beneath him. "I told you, you'd beg" he murmured, his voice low and rough.

Her chest heaved, her lips trembling with the words she couldn't seem to stop. "I'm yours, Logan. Please…"

One large hand moved to her throat, his palm pressing gently against her skin, holding her in place. His thumb traced the line of her jaw as his other hand gripped her thigh, pulling her even closer. "Mine," he growled, his tone possessive, claiming.

The pressure at her throat made her head swim, a strange mix of restraint and trust that sent a bolt of heat through her. She arched into his hold, her body surrendering completely.

"You like this, don't you?" he rasped, his lips brushing against hers but not quite touching. His voice was low and commanding, but there was a glint of something softer beneath it, a promise just out of reach.

Her breath hitched, and she let out a shaky moan, her hands clutching at his wrist. "Yes," she whispered, desperate and trembling.

His mouth curved into a wicked smirk as his hand shifted, loosening his hold just enough for her to feel the contrast. "Let me take care of you," he murmured, dragging his thumb along the curve of her jaw.

The words lingered in the air, heavy with intent but unspoken in full. His free hand slid down her body, fingers tracing her curves with a deliberateness that made her skin tingle.

She whimpered, her body responding to every calculated movement. "Logan..."

He leaned in, his lips ghosting over her ear. "Stop thinking. Just feel," he whispered, the edge of his voice rough yet grounding. "That's all I want from you tonight."

He shifted between her legs, his hands gripping her hips, lifting her with ease as he positioned himself. The heat of his body pressed against hers, and her heart thudded in her chest, anticipation coiling tightly in her core.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper.

She nodded, her breath hitching as she felt the tip of his member pressing against her entrance. With a slow, fluid motion, he eased himself inside, feeling the resistance of her body disappearing.

Y/N threw her head back, a low moan slipping from her lips as her body adjusted to his length, "Fuck," she breathed, unable to hide the raw need in her voice.

She bit her lip at the feeling of him twitching inside of her. Logan leaned forward, his tongue sliding down the side of her neck. He then moved to her breasts, attaching his mouth to one of her nipples and sucking. He released her nipple.

"Breathe," he whispered, his hand sliding up to rest on her waist, grounding her. "I've got you."

He straightened up, his body towering over hers, and braced his hand on the headboard as he drew his hips back, the feel of his withdrawal sending a shiver through her. She barely had time to adjust before he slammed back into her.

She was trembling beneath him, her nails digging into his shoulders as she tried to keep up with the brutal rhythm he set. Every time he pulled out, every time he pushed back in, the pressure inside her built, and she couldn't help but whimper.

He picked up the pace, his thrusts turning faster, more brutal, as he pushed into her with a hunger that matched the fire in her veins. Her hips moved to meet him, desperate for more, and he responded with a growl of approval, his hands tightening on her hips to anchor her in place as his rhythm grew harder, more punishing.

"Fuck Y/N."

She smiled at him.

"You like that, don't you?" Logan's voice was rough, and dark, as he pulled back slightly, only to push in even harder.

She couldn't stop herself from moaning, the sharpness of the sensation hitting her in waves.

"That's right," Logan growled, his grip on her hips like iron as he rocked into her with force.

Her body responded without thought, her legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, faster as if she couldn't get enough. The sound of skin slapping echoed in the room, mixing with the desperate gasps coming from her lips.

Without warning, he shifted his position, his hands leaving her hips for a moment, only to slip under her and lift her body, pulling her into a new angle. She gasped, the sudden shift throwing her off balance, but Logan's grip on her was firm, and controlling, as he guided her back onto him.

Her back arched instinctively, the new position deepening their connection, and she moaned, her hands reaching for the headboard to brace herself. Logan's thrusts grew slower but deeper, more deliberate now, aimed to bring her right to the brink.

Logan's hand came down hard on her left asscheek jolting Y/N forward.

"Logan…" she gasped, her voice trembling with need.

He could hear it—the desperation in her voice, the way her body was bucking against his. He watched her face, her eyes closed tight, her lips parted in a silent plea for release. He wanted to hear her, wanted to feel her break under him.

He gave one last hard, deep thrust, then paused, letting the sensation build before pulling back almost completely. She whimpered, the loss of movement driving her crazy, and before she could protest, he repositioned again, this time bending her further back, his hands now holding her shoulders down as he ran his member between her asscheeks.

Her breath hitched as she looked back at him, over her shoulder, her eyes filled with raw desire.

Logan didn't wait any longer. He positioned himself behind her, his hands firmly gripping her hips as he pushed into her slowly at first, savoring the tight, intense heat that engulfed him. The change in angle sent a shockwave of pleasure through her, and she moaned, her hands clutching at the sheets in desperation.

"Fuck," Logan muttered, his voice low and full of grit as he began to move, his thrusts quick and forceful, each one pushing her further into the bed.

She gasped with each hard thrust, the pleasure taking over her senses, her body rocking in time with his. The deeper connection from this position sent waves of bliss coursing through her, and she pressed back into him, her hips meeting his with every thrust.

"Does this feel better?" Logan growled, his hands tightening on her hips, guiding her with raw intensity.

She could barely manage a breathless, "Yes, harder…"

His thrusts grew harder, faster, and relentless, pushing her toward the edge.

She couldn't hold back anymore, "Logan …I'm gonna…"

His strokes grew sloppier as he grabbed her neck, angling her face so he could kiss her.

Y/N's moans filled the room. The mixture of his hard thrusts and the slap of his balls on her ass pushed her over the edge as she began shaking.

Y/N fell forward, her face on the bed and her ass in the air. Logan didn't stop. His hands opened her asscheeks as he watched his thick, veiny member going in and out of her hole, creating a creamy ring at the base of his member.

The new angle allowed Logan to continuously hit her cervix. "Be a good girl, come on my dick."

Her hands fisted the sheets and Logan, with his thumb began circling her other hole. The new stimulation tipped Y/N over the edge as she came hard on his member.

Logan didn't stop. Didn't even slow down as he followed her, his movements like a force of nature, unyielding, as he pushed her through the waves of pleasure, every last inch of her shaking with the force of it.

Her mouth fell open as she felt him stilling and his release spilling inside of her.

"Fuck!", he said, throwing his head back.

He remained still for a moment but then pulled out when he felt his member softening. He sat on his knees admiring their joint releases dripping out of her spent hole.

"Jesus, that's a fucking sight.", his index finger reached collecting the release and pushing it back.

Y/N moaned and fell on her stomach. He removed his fingers and lay next to her.

"Did it help?", he asked playfully.

"Shut up Logan."

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© th3mrskory 2025 — all rights reserved.

[azurine-cryptid]

Constantine sketches

[hraishin]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 2/3 Fandom: Filth (2013), Shame (2011) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bruce Robertson/Brandon Sullivan Characters: Brandon Sullivan, Bruce Robertson (Filth) Additional Tags: Swearing, Resolved Sexual Tension, Getting Together, Moving In Together, Sexual Content, Gratuitous Scottish Vernacular, Bruce Robertson is Gay and Homophobic, Brandon Sullivan is a Horny Sweetheart, Brandon Sullivan is having A Day, Facials, blowjob, Homoerotic Tango Dancing, Cockblocking Series: Part 2 of Folie à Deux Summary:

After Bruce kicks him out of their shared hotel room, Brandon doesn’t expect to stumble into him again two weeks later on the streets of New York. And what he is even less prepared for is Bruce unofficially moving in with him. Then again, Brandon can’t really complain - or can he?

Featuring: Bad currywurst, a stolen blanket and an excessive amount of cockblocking.

*

CHAPTER 2 IS UP! :D

[pleasure-is-relief]

[nihtscada]

"stop calling him babygirl, that is a grown man" TELL THE ARTISTS THAT, THEN