Just a Girl~

MASTERLIST AO3

[cherryblossom-enthusiast]

-The Masterlist-

Top Gun:

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

Grounded (Thunk!) (Smut, Fluff)

The heat is sweltering and that's putting it mildly. It might just be the thing to make you go haywire. That, and the football Bradley Bradshaw just hit your head with

Chapter 1/ Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 

The Last of Us

Joel Miller

Bloom Universe 

Bloom  (Smut, fluff)

 Joel Miller was neither friend or foe. You’ve barely talked to the man considering his reclusiveness. But you can’t stop staring and wanting. Turns out, neither could he

The Rules (Fluff)

You’ve been teaching Joel a lot about flowers. It’s about time he tells you a thing or two about cowboys.

Monkey Man

The Kid 

Retribution

Retribution (Angst, Fluff)

A mysterious man arrives at the temple you call home and makes quite an impression.

Red Dead Redemption 2

Arthur Morgan

Unrequited

Unrequited (Angst, Fluff)

Arthur was in love with Mary, wasn't he?

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

ptolemaea | remmick

a/n: hi! so this fic has been a work in progress for three months since i watched sinners and for good reason, it is a beast of a fic! also! i’m from new york so any southern inaccuracies/inaccurate accents should be ignored! there's a lot of violence in this, i would describe it as lovers to enemies if that's your thing. basically this is my swing at answering 'why does remmick wear a wedding ring' in sinners. warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, depictions of suicide, toxic relationships, major character death, gore, weapon use, general content warnings, canon typical violence, p in v sex, fingering (fem receiving), talks of christianity, remmick hates the british, mentions of torture, remmick being so down bad for the reader and it repeatedly goes wrong, angst, manipulative remmick, remmick is a bad husband, so just head that general warning, there's a lot going on in this onelots of teasing, lots of blasphemy, lots and lots of vampire references, kind of a time loop fic if ya think about it, cursing, flirting, many nicknames, preacher’s daughter trope, divorced couple energy, lots of drama, mentions of classism and general class differences, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, with female anatomy, no use of y/n, religious/weird parents word count: 17.5k summary: remmick considers himself a very patient man. after all, he's been waiting for you for centuries. pairing: remmick x fem!reader now playing: ptolemaea - ethel cain "you poor thing/sweet, mourning lamb/there's nothing you can do/it's already been done." let me know what you think!

Mississippi, 1932

At first, he does not approach you. He doesn’t talk to you, for two weeks, he only observes—

He watches. 

He haunts.

And something deep down tells you that he’s been looking for you for a long time. 

It started on a Sunday Night, just as the sun set.

Your mama had told you to fill a pitcher of water from the well that you had on your property, and you, being the good girl you were, obeyed without more than a ‘yes, ma’am.’

Your life hadn’t been anything fancy—You lived in the same house your entire life. You’d never gone farther south than Jackson and never been farther north than Memphis. Your daddy was a preacher; your mama was a devoted wife. You had lived in the same bedroom your entire life, tracing the same cracks in your walls since you were little. 

The depression had hit your little town as hard as it had hit the rest of the country, but when people got desperate and scared, they turned to the lord. While everyone else was worried where their next meal was coming from, your daddy had become the most popular man in town. 

Being the preachers’ daughter, you hadn’t made many friends— other girls didn’t think you’d make a particularly reliable presence in their mischief. And when you were younger, you didn’t mind so much—there had been plenty of chores for you to do. Even as you got older, you didn’t necessarily mind your quiet social life. You found comfort in the few books you could get your hands on, reading anything and everything you could find. 

Your folks didn’t care for that—blaming your wandering eye for knowledge on temptation, telling you that if you wanted to read, you should invest more time in the ‘good book’, and you had nodded and agreed at the time, not bothering to tell them that the good book wasn’t as good as the adventure stories you kept under your bed. 

Even that day your mama had sent you to the well, your mind was somewhere else. It had been a habit of yours, to stare off into space, to the edge of the property line, and just go. Anywhere you wanted. In your head, you were not barely beating the mid-summer heat, a pitcher leaning on your hip—you were in some far-off metropolis, dancing and drinking and learning—

When you glanced towards the edge of the property line, ready to mumble out some dramatic line you had read from one of your books when your eyes met his. He was just standing there. Like you were a play he had been watching for a long time. 

From that far, you couldn’t make out many of his features, and somehow, it made him even scarier. Something about him filled you with dread as you looked at him, and you found yourself not wanting to turn your back on him even as you walked back to your house. But you heard your mama call for you from the porch and knew you couldn’t walk backwards—you’d be accused of demonic possession and scheduled for an exorcism by sunrise. 

So, you made your first in a long list of vampire-related mistakes. 

You turned your back to him and ignored your gut telling you to drop your water pitcher and run back to the house. 

When you got to the porch, your mama had this look on her face. 

“You alright? You’re lookin’ pale,” She said, worry seeping through her words. You pushed out an airy laugh, shaking your head.

“I’m okay, you know how I get when it’s hot like this,” You lied like it was natural—and at this point, you felt like it was. When you had a reputation for being a good girl, no one ever suspected that the words that left your mouth easily were far from the truth.

“Well, alright, hurry up and wash up for bed.” She ordered, before taking the water pitcher from your hands. You were quick to follow, but glanced back to the edge of the property line and—

Mistake number two. 

He was closer now, leaning against the well you were just using, and you could see his features more clearly now. Mostly, you saw that he had dark hair, that an instrument was wrapped around him, and that he reminded you of something dark; something unnatural. 

And there was something about him that made you dizzy, and you wondered what he sounded like when he spoke. You’d get your answer two whole weeks later.

But for those two weeks, you were haunted. It was like he was your ghost, but what had you done to deserve insomnia, stitched between nightmares, and paranoia? You felt like you were being watched. You dreaded the sunset, because you’d see him in the corner of your eye, like a shadow. You’d dream of red irises in black voids—you hadn’t even noticed red eyes, had you? 

It was starting to affect everything. Church was first—a week after this haunting began, you were sitting in church, at the 9:00 a.m. service. You had spent the entire night awake with a pillow over your head trying to escape, go to whatever daydream could break this spell. Then, you were snapped out of it at dawn with a sharp knock at your bedroom door, to get ready for the service, always having errands to run; cookies to bake, people to meet, and church services to participate in. 

But then, while your daddy was doing his sermon, you felt the warm morning sun on your face, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes flutter closed.. And you began to daydream. Drift off, just.. let go. 

He never watched you while the sun was out, he never lingered past sunrise. You were safe.

Nothing could hurt you in the house of the—

Slam!

A smack of a book to your hand jerked you awake, a stinging sensation shooting across the back of your hand, as you looked up, your eyes meeting your fathers. And without another word, he went back to his sermon. 

Shit.

And for the next week, you started to crumble further. You’re jumpy, scared and worst of all—you’re always on the verge of tears. On Monday, a shopping trip with your mama turns into a lecture about respect for her words. By Wednesday, you don’t even want to eat you’re so tired. Friday into Saturday, you think you can hear whispering and it doesn’t stop, causing you to let out soft whimpers as tears stream down your face—you just want to be left alone.

So, Sunday morning, you planted the seeds of ‘I’m not feeling too good’, needing a night to just sleep. To rest. 

Your folks bought it—well, maybe they just saw how badly you wanted to stay home, but with your luck, they would’ve reminded you that the lord heals— But they didn’t. Instead, they told you to get some rest and that you could have some supper left over from the night before.  

As soon as they left for the evening service, you went up to your room and collapsed on your bed. It was a cooler night than it had been in weeks, a rare break from the soldering heat you were used to. You didn’t need to open your windows for it to be cool enough to sleep and that was a blessing. You fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. As if someone had snapped their fingers. 

And you weren’t sure how long you slept. But it was a wonderful reprieve from—

Tap, tap, tap!

Your eyes shot open. Someone was at the front door. 

And you knew who it was. 

You sat up in bed and rubbed your eyes. You took a deep breath. And you made mistake number three. You got up from bed, pulled on your robe, and went to the front door. You took a deep breath. Now or never. You just wanted him to let you sleep. 

You were so tired.

So, you opened the door and got your first good look at your ghost. 

He had dark hair, and had dark edges, as you had remembered—but he had no instrument wrapped around him. And his face was more.. boyish than you would’ve thought yet complimented by smile lines and crows feet. He had a smile that made your stomach turn.

“Good evenin’,” His voice takes you back—for the most part, he had a southern drawl, but there was something else about it—something foreign. Unfamiliar. Ancient. “Hope I didn’t wake ya.”

And that strikes a chord—because you know it’s him that has been keeping you up, so you’re already feeling defensive. 

“Can I help you with somethin’?” 

This causes him to laugh a bit, and you just stare at him. 

“Would you mind if I came in for a minute? I been walkin’ ‘round all day and just need to rest my feet.” He says, and his words are so.. innocent. But he stares at you like you’re prey. 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” You say softly, and he tilts his head, leaning in a bit, his eyes burning into your skin as they wander your nightgown. You pull your robe tighter. 

“How come? You all alone in there?” His voice drops a bit, and there’s something much more sinister behind his words. When you don’t respond, he continues, “Say, you wouldn’t be the daughter of that preacher I saw givin’ his sermon earlier, would you?” He asks, and you’re not sure how he knows about your daddy’s preaching considering you never feel him watching you during the day—but you don’t care. Every inch of you is screaming to run away. To slam the door shut and hide in your closet until your parents get home. Maybe you should’ve grabbed your Pa’s gun before answering the door.

“Can I help you?” You repeat your question, your grip on the door tightening. 

“Didn’t your mama ever teach you manners?”

“She taught me to not talk to strangers.” 

That makes him scoff. 

“Well, my name’s Remmick. What’s yours?” He asks, and you decide to add a tick on the list of mistakes—and you give him your name. Remmick doesn’t seem surprised, like this isn’t new information in the slightest. “Well, we ain’t strangers anymore-- your daddy’s the preacher, right?”

“Yes. He’s preachin’ now, right in town. You should go and check it out.” You’re trying to get him out of here, off your front porch and out of your life. But his feet do not move. It seems as if he’s exactly where he wants to be—well, almost. 

“Now why would I do that when I can talk to his pretty lost lamb?” You almost take a step back at that. 

Pretty? Lost?

“Ain’t no one lost here, except maybe you.” You remind, and he shakes his head,

“Nah, see, now I just don’t think that’s true. You wanna know what I really think, sugar?” He doesn’t give you an answer before he continues, “I think you’ve been lost for a long time. I think you’ve had your head in the clouds, dreamin’ ‘bout somewhere you ain’t never been. And I think you’ve been waitin’ for me to take you there.” 

His words aren’t accusatory, they’re knowing. 

And deep down, you know they’re right. That you have been waiting for something to change for years. But why would you let him believe he’s right?

“Well, I don’t think anyone pays you to do much thinkin’, so I don’t buy whatever it is you’re sellin’.” 

It makes him laugh. 

“No, you don’t yet. But you will.” He says, “Don’t matter how long it takes, one day.. you’re gonna let me in.”

You scoff as you go to close the door. 

“You’ll be waitin’ a long time.”

His words hit you just as you close the door—

“That’s alright, lass. I’m patient.” 

-

You start recalling memories that aren’t yours. Glimpses. 

A soft touch, a flicker of a white dress, and then a whisp of fire. 

Remmick ruins the dream every time. He shows up, and the dream ends, disappearing into clouds of smoke, but when you wake, you could swear you’ve lived hundreds of years. Tuesday night, you bid your folks goodnight, promising to help your mother with cleaning in the morning, 

Then, you wait. 

You wait for a long time. You sit on your bed, and you’re not sure when you start to fall asleep. But before you know it, you’re dreaming again, and this time the dream has a different sort of fuzziness, like film, just like the movies they showed in town (you’d made a habit of sneaking into the theatre while on errands in town.) And this time, the dream isn’t filled with dread. 

But every bit of it feels real. 

The dream starts with you in a bedroom, and someone throwing stones against the glass of your window. It’s as if you’re watching yourself open the window and help someone inside—but you feel the warmth of his hand spread up your arm as you pull him inside, the laugh that escapes him also escapes you, and before you can do much else, his lips are on yours. And it feels real, like you know the feeling well. 

Remmick looks younger. Younger than you’ve ever seen him. His crows feet and smile lines are far less pronounced, and his hair is much lighter than you recall, even with a bit of scruff. And he’s happy. The way he smiles spreads a warmth across your chest, as if you are the one he’s pressing against the bed, whispering about—

Well, he’s whispering in choppy, broken words, his accent thick and foreign. And yet, as if you know him like you know yourself, despite having had one, brief conversation with him, you understand him despite his unfamiliar accent—

“You’re so pretty,” he starts, and you can feel the heat at your core, his fingers finding slick folds as he stretches you out for his cock with his fingers. You’ve never been touched like this before outside of these dream-memories, but it’s like he’s fucking you with his fingers, and you’re letting him—hell, you’re enjoying it, “Letting me fill you up like this, bein’ such a good girl for your—"

You wake up before he can finish his sentence, waking up with a start, blinking as you looked around your now dark bedroom. You rub your eyes, feeling sweat drip down your forehead as you wipe the hair from your face. Your chest is heaving up and down as you attempt to ground yourself; You’re safe, you think, nothing is wrong, and—

Your thighs are coated with a silky wetness, because that dream—or maybe it was a memory—felt so real. You’re waiting for your brain to catch up to the way your body is buzzing for more, chasing an unfamiliar touch that you have always known. You try to reason with yourself. 

You’re being difficult, you think.

How could you possibly have been that close to him, he didn’t even come inside on Sunday, you remind. 

What would he have finished that sentence with?, you wonder, before shaking your head and leaning over to your bedside table to find your crucifix, but you’re interrupted just as your hand finds the chain with a tap, tap, tap!—

Your eyes drift to the window, covered by a thin white curtain, but you can see his silhouette through it, and just the thought of him makes you nauseous—and maybe something else, a little more sinister, a little less than holy. 

But you were waiting for him, not that you’d ever admit it, especially not to him, so you clutch the crucifix in your hand, the metal of the cross digging into your palm, before going over to the window and opening the curtain, like ripping off a bandage with bated breath—

And you let out a soft exhale of relief (with a dash of disappointment) when you find no one standing in front of the window. You blink, and when you open your eyes, suddenly there he is, his eyes burning holes into your skin. The sudden appearance makes you jump (you feel like your soul’s left your body, but you’re not that lucky), which causes Remmick to start laughing at your fear.

Over two weeks of sleep deprivation, nightmares, downright torture, has worn you down. Tears fill your eyes, angry tears that threaten to run down your face, but you just blink them back, and when your eyes open again, they harden into a glare at the man through the glass. Your hands are moving before you can stop yourself, opening the window and telling him—

“If you’re looking to kill me, stop being a pussy and get it over with.” Your voice is sharp, and it makes him laugh again. He’s looking at you like he’s already won. You quietly wonder how long it will take you to understand whatever game he’s playing with you. 

“I don’t wanna kill yer, sugar.” He answers, and you think about the dream you had. Were those really his hands? But why did it feel like it was you he was touching?

“Then, what do you want?” You wonder, and he shrugs. 

“I want you to invite me inside.” It clicks then, that in the dream, there was no invitation, he had just climbed through the window. The gears in your mind begin to move, and your eyes flicker down to his neck, where two small puncture wounds sit as if he had been—

You take a step forward to look at the teeth that he bears, and Remmick humors you, a sickening grin spreading over his face as you peer—and then you step back as if you were worried he’d lunge and bite you (and he would).

“Clever girl,” he praises, and you can feel a shiver of something unfamiliar run down your spine. 

“Vampires aren’t real,” You say, and he gives you this look. You’re moving around your room, turning your back to him (idiot), and digging around for your copy of Dracula. You had to keep it hidden from your parents, not wanting them to accuse you of being persuaded by the devil (Ha.) You glance back at Remmick, who’s just looking at you and smiling, and wonder if maybe you are. You step back towards him to continue your thought, “So all I have to do to get rid of you is stake you through the heart?” You wonder, and he puts a hand right over where his heart should be. 

“Ya could just ask me to leave instead of snappin’ at me, lass.”

“Oh, please.” You scoff, and it makes him smile again. 

“Y’know, that Stoker guy, he gives men like me a bad name,” he starts, “That whole ‘we can’t rest on foreign soil’ thang is a load of shit,” he informs, a smirk on his face. “I can rest anywhere, so long that there’s a pretty girl layin’ there with me.”

The comment goes over your head, because you’re too busy putting the pieces together to acknowledge the way he flirts with you. 

“But I bet he got the other stuff right,” You say, “I never see you in the sun, only ever at night, and you can’t come inside without invitation.” 

Remmick’s fingers curl around your windowsill as he stares at you, as if he’s finding some self-control before he talks again, 

“Yer a smart one, I’ll give ya that.” He hums, “Did I wake you?” 

You look at him with a snap. Something about the way he says it makes you realize he knows exactly what kind of dream you were having. 

“How did you do that? Get inside my head like that?” You question, and Remmick shakes his head. 

“That ain’t me.” He says. 

“Looked a whole damn lot like you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head. 

“I didn’t put that in ya head,” He promises, “You did that all by yerself.”

Your hands come up to rub your eyes, and when you stop, you look up to Remmick again, and he’s looking at you. For a long time. But his gaze isn’t predatory, it’s almost.. yearning. Like he knows something you don’t—or at least, something you haven’t accepted yet. 

“If I let you in,” You start, and when Remmick smiles, his teeth look sharper, “What will you do?” You wonder, recalling that vampires weren’t exactly known for their kindness, their softness.

Remmick tries something he hasn’t in a long time, but, he’d admit to himself later, you always knew how to make him a better man, so he tells you the truth;

“Well, first I’d really like to kiss ya.” He starts, and he tilts his head like a loyal dog, looking at you. “Then, I think I’ll fuck you, nice and slow, that way you really feel every inch of me buried inside of ya,” His vulgar words make you blush, and he seems to like the way you’re frozen in place, “and I’ll be really sweet about it too, don’t you worry, baby, I’ll make you cum over and over again—and I won’t stop kissin’ you neither. And when I’m sure you’re fucked out, curling against me, I’ll ask you if I can bite ya.” He says, “It’ll be up to you. I already told you, I am a patient man.” He leans forward, his fingers curling around the windowsill, and before you know it, you’re moving to slam the window shut, thankful that Remmick pulls his fingers away quick enough to not get his fingers crushed. 

He laughs as he steps back, clearly enjoying your reaction. You glare at him, and it doesn’t seem to shake him at all. 

“I can’t stand you,” You huff, and it only eggs him on. You close the curtain as drool drips down his chin. 

-

You give in on a Thursday. 

Well, you don’t fully give in. 

But you do let him fuck you. 

Alright, yeah, it’s not your brightest idea, but you’re running on empty when it happens. You haven’t slept through the night in weeks, and you keep having these dreams about all the ways he can touch you. 

And maybe, you reason, if you get a fix of him, you could focus. Figure out what it is about him that tortures you, figure out why you have memories you don’t remember living. That night, when he shows up, you’re lingering in your doorway, and he smiles like he knows. Maybe he does. 

You feel crazy. You’d venture to guess you are crazy. 

And maybe that’s why, when he sees you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the edge of the door, just beyond his reach, his face forms into something kind of soft, and without a word, he sits in front of you, mirroring your position. Except, you’re sitting with your posture rigid, and Remmick leans back on palms spread across the wood of your porch.

You keep the gun you should’ve pointed at him the first night you met right out of view, but within reach. Just in case. 

“Why, Hi there, sugar.” His voice does not seem to be letting up on any teasing, despite the look of fondness on his face. 

You look at him for a long, quiet moment. You have a million questions, but finally decide on,

“Why won’t you let me sleep?” You continue when he goes to open his mouth, “And don’t tell me you want me to let you in. I won’t. You know I’m not gonna, so why not just let me sleep through the night? Why torture me, wondering if those dreams are memories or not? Why not spare me the filth, the sin?” 

Remmick smiles at this. He shifts so he’s leaning forward now.

“I’ll cut ya a deal.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “You let me in, and you never have to worry about sleep again.”

You’re not a perfect person. You consider it for a second. But you’re also not stupid, understanding it’s exactly what he wants. 

“Counteroffer,” You start, and Remmick looks amused. You’re glad (Kind of, not really) that at least one of you finds this funny. “You take a hike for the night and let me catch up on a few hours, without any implanted memories either.”

“How ‘bout you consider my offer again?” He hums, and you shrug. 

“Then I guess we have nothing to talk about.” You say, “Goodnight Remmick,” you hum, before standing up, turning away from him and moving to close the screen door when you hear—

“Wait—Just, wait a minute, baby, let’s talk about this.” You can’t help the smirk on your face, wiping it off quick before sitting back down in front of him. He lets out a huff before telling you, “Alright, how about.. You come outside,” he starts, holding a finger up when you open your mouth to counter, “I won’t bite you, but you let me show you how real those memories can be.” His tone is rich, starving for something. Your finger twitches at the idea.

This moment is probably the worst of your vampire related mistakes. 

“And then, when you’re done, you’ll let me sleep.” You say, and he smiles. 

“Deal.” He holds his hand out for you to shake. 

“Deal—Woah!” As soon as your hand grasps his, he’s pulling you past the doorway and onto the porch, right on top of him. His laugh pierces your ears as cold hands spread across your sides.

“You’re a naïve thing.” His tone is too sweet, and your face is too red. 

“You’re a dick.” You grumble back, and he squeezes your sides, 

“You have a dirty mouth for a church girl.” He accuses, his hands beginning to roam. Your face is flush with embarrassment, but you can’t stop thinking about how cold he is, like a body that’s lost it’s heat. It’s really unsettling, but you’d be lying if it didn’t make you want him worse. Something about his non-human qualities draws you in. 

“We can’t do this here,” you remind.

“Why not?” 

 “Besides my folks sleepin’ bout ten feet from us?” You ask rhetorically and Remmick lets out a huff. It almost makes you smile. 

“Fine, we’ll go somewhere more private, just give me a kiss,” He grins, and it’s your turn to scoff. 

“You’re insatiable.” You accuse, “Say please.” 

 Remmick looks at you for a long time. 

“Please.” He finally answers, and you reward him by pressing your lips to his. He eagerly leans into it, tilting his head a bit, giving your lips a better angle to melt into his. He adjusts in one fluid motion, sitting up with you in his lap now. His kiss is desperate, needy. His hands move up to cradle your face.

He kisses you slowly, wanting to really take his time with you, proving to you just how patient he’ll be for you. He can be good, he wants to say, he can be so good for you. 

His tongue lips your lips before he’s pulling away to whisper, “How ‘bout I fuck you in the field behind your house?” he wonders, “Would ye like that, lass?” He asks, and before you can answer, his hand moves up your skirt and between your thighs, his fingers finding your damp underwear. You gasp at the feeling, and he smiles. “Yeah, I recon you would.” 

His lips find yours again, and he’s wrapping his arms around you and hoisting you up, carrying you towards the back of the house as you cling onto him, giggling against his lips as he kisses you, over and over again. 

When you’re in the field, Remmick pauses, not wanting to put you down, but needing to take off the shirt he’s wearing so he can fuck you on the grass. He sighs, before setting you down so you can stand. 

“Don’t you go nowhere,” He advises,  and there’s no room for argument in his words. You happily watch him unbutton his shirt, before laying it on the grass. He sits down on the shirt and lays back, holding his hands out to him. “C’mere,” he requests, and he holds your hands to steady as you position yourself ontop of him, your knees resting on his shirt. 

You admire his torso. He’s pale, but he looks strong. Rough hands come up to brush hair out of your face before he grips your hips, pulling you down so your clothed cunt is pressing on his growing erection. You groan softly, as Remmick’s mouth meets yours, pulling you in for a kiss. 

His fingers find your panties as you kiss, and the way your hips roll against his hard on does not go unnoticed by him. His fingers travel further, beginning to tease your folds as you moan into his mouth. His tongue explores your mouth, like he’s trying to suck your face off. 

There’s no fanfare as Remmick’s fingers slip inside of you, except for you letting out a whine as you adjust to the feeling. You wiggle your hips, as if you’re trying to move away from him, 

“No, Shh, C’mon, Lass,” He hums, catching your mouth with his lips, silencing the way you whine and moan, “It’s okay, I’ve got ya, just relax for me, yeah?” He says softly, beginning to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck. You hum, inhaling sharply. 

You can do this, you think. You want this so bad. You move your hips towards him instead of away, and let out a sharp gasp as he moves his fingers,

“That’s it, that’s my clever girl,” he mumbles softly, “You know how to ride my fingers just perfectly, don’t you? You sure this is yer first time?” He mumbles, whispering into your ear, licking sweat off the skin of your cheek. He moves his fingers faster now, edging you on to ride his fingers.

You let out an annoyed huff when he asks that, only to be cut off with a soft whine when he moves his fingers faster. 

“You know it’s my first time.” You mumble, and he smirks. 

“Well, it ain’t mine.” 

Yeah, you had a feeling. 

“Whatever,” You whine, continuing to ride his fingers. 

“Just let me stretch you out,” he grumbles, “I’ll make you feel so good. C’mon, baby, let me make you feel so good,” His teeth graze your neck, but Remmick takes only a nibble, just to hear you gasp as he bites, before moving his fingers faster, making sure to hit just the right spot to make you see stars. 

“Oh, god,” You whine, “Rem, I’m close,” He shushes you softly, guiding your hips to ride his fingers. 

“There you go, look at you.. that’s it..” He coos softly, “Let go for me, all over my fingers,” He praises, biting the shell of your ear when you let out a sharp moan, biting your lip hard, enough to draw blood, even just a bit. His tongue is immediately on your lips as you ride your high, panting softly against his lisp. You give him this look and he shrugs. “Can’t blame a man for takin’ a taste.” He grins, before kissing you again, oh so slowly slipping his fingers out of you before he’s pulling away.

Then, he brings his hand up to his lips and licks one of the fingers you just came on, letting out a soft ‘mmm’, before holding the other two to your lips, wanting you to open your mouth. You’re both a little shocked at how easily you comply. You lick his fingers clean, and he’s drooling by the time you’re done. 

“I need to be inside of you,” he grumbles, beginning to unlatch his belt, before opening his pants, and pulling them down just a bit to pull out his cock. Then, his fingers move up to your thighs, pulling your panties down. 

He rolls them right off your legs, before having you sit back on his lap. He kisses you and stuffs your panties in his pocket while you’re distracted. Then, he’s guiding the tip of his cock towards your slits, teasing your wet, leaking folds. You gasp at that feeling, before rolling your hips forward. He huffs softly, before grabbing your hip with one hand, slowly pushing inside you, groaning softly at the feeling, before kissing you—

He doesn’t want you waking anyone nearby up. Then you might have to stop and Remmick might snap. He slowly pushes you to sit on his cock, and when you’re finally full of him, he gives you a moment to adjust. He keeps kissing you. Then, he feels you begin to roll your hips and clench around him. He begins to thrust into you, grabbing your hips so he can set the pace. 

You begin to melt, your hands resting on Remmick’s bare chest, stabilizing yourself as he fucks up into you, your hips beginning to shake as you get close. 

“Remmick,” You whimper, and he hums and kisses your head. 

Something strange happens as you he fucks you. Suddenly, you have déjà vu, remembering a filmy memory, just like that dreams you’ve been happening. Except in this memory, Remmick and you are in this exact position, his hips thrusting against yours—but you’re in a bed. It’s early morning, and in the memory, you go to look at his face, but he’s flipping you over suddenly, quickening his pace and using his free hand that isn’t on your hips to force your back down, as you moan into the pillows. 

When you open your eyes, Remmick is still making you ride him in the field behind your house. The memory was brief, only a flash—but it shakes you to your core, until you realize how close you are. 

“Oh, my god,” You whine softly, “Rem, ‘m close, honey,” he moans when you call him that, not stopping his pace as he fucks hard into you, feeling your legs spasm as you cum, moaning into his mouth. He keeps fucking you, and then you begin to pull away, but Remmick grabs your hips and pulls you back towards him, reveling in the way you clench around him.

He cums with a moan silenced by your mouth, but you wrap your arms around his neck, hands playing with his hair as he lays back, the two of you panting as he rubs up and down your sides. He listens to your heartbeat, loud in his ears, while looking at the stars. 

Neither of you talk for a long while. You take a break, just laying with one another, appreciating the moment. 

As you lay against him, warm cock still stuffed deep inside of you, filling you up perfectly, Remmick whispers in your ear, 

“Lass?” His voice is rough, and he’s panting gently. “Will you let me bite you?” He asks, and you know what this is. If you say no, and Remmick bites you anyways, you will die still leaking with his cum. 

You hesitate. 

He notices.

But he feels the way you clench around him when he asks.

“Not tonight, Rem.” You say, your tone a little too affectionate as you kiss him softly. He lets out a soft noise into the kiss, and he’s grateful for it, because it gives him time to find his patience. You just smell so god damn good.

“’mkay, sugar” he mumbles against your lips. “That’s alrght. I meant what I said, I won’t bite you until you let me.” He offers softly. 

“You promise?” You wonder. Remmick kisses your cheek. 

“I promise.” 

A long moment pauses. 

“You know I gotta go back inside,” You mumble against his lips, and Remmick groans, his head falling back against the grass. 

“Why you always gotta ruin my fun?” He wonders out loud, and you smile a bit. 

“Just lucky, I guess.” You tease as you sit up, starting to fix your hair and your top. “Hey, where the hell are my panties?” 

Remmick smiles a bit. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He offers, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that, Remmick?” You ask. Remmick smiles and looks at you for a long time. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go.” His words are honest, as honest as he can be. You just smile at him and press a kiss to the space between his eyes. 

“Well, being apart only makes the reunion sweeter.” You remind, and Remmick almost rolls his eyes. He just shakes his head. 

“But I hate to be apart from you,” and based on the way he made your thighs shake, you’re inclined to believe him.

“I know,” You hum, leaning in to kiss him again. He loves this playful, affectionate side of you. “But you told me you were a patient man. Besides, you owe me a good night’s sleep.” You recall, and he nods. 

“I did. And I am a man of my word, so,” he leans in and plans one long, warm kiss right to your lips, his tongue barely breaching your parted lips. Then he pulls away to say, “Off ye go, lass. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He promises, tapping your thigh over your dress and helping you up. He stands, plucking his shirt off the ground. You linger for a moment. 

“You don’t want to walk me home?” You wonder, and Remmick begins to button up his shirt with a soft exhale. 

“Yer pa’s awake,” He grumbles, “Plus.. I gotta eat.” He confesses. You notice, then, the way he moves with a subtle fatigue. He must be hungry. He must’ve thought there was a chance you said yes to being bitten tonight, wanting to really savor the meal he’d been dreaming of for over centuries.

Something about that makes your stomach turn. 

“Okay,” you oblige, because hey... he held up his end of the bargain. He isn’t biting you, and you’ll get a few hours. You just wonder what hunger must feel like to him, since the craving for human blood must be vastly different than the hunger you experienced, especially considering his life span. 

He could go a few weeks without eating before hunger hit him. 

But before you can walk away, he grabs your hand, before bringing it up to his lips, inhaling your scent sharply before dropping your hand. 

“Goodnight, lass.” He says softly, and you smile to him. 

“Goodnight, Remmick.” You say back, walking a couple steps forward before looking back to him, maybe just to see him one last time before he goes out in search of food. He’s standing there, shirt messily buttoned and wrinkled, covered in grass and dirt. He doesn’t mind. His eyes are fixed on you, just watching. 

You keep walking. When you get up to your porch, your face a bit warm, and your hair kind of sweaty, which you’d blame on the humidity, you remember what he said about your father, so you enter after taking a deep breath. 

And there he is, your father, having a cup of something that you doubt is water, while sitting at the table. You smile to him, going towards the cabinet to get a cup for water. 

“Where’d you get off to?” He wonders, and you shrug. 

“I couldn’t sleep. Figured a walk might be nice.” You say, and your father nods. 

“Is it a boy?” He asks, and you just smile again. Remmick isn’t a ‘boy’, he’s—well, he’s not like any man that you’ve ever known. 

“What?”

“Is it a boy that’s been keeping you up at night?” He asks, and you shake your head, 

“No, pa. Told you, I don’t sleep well in this heat.” You take a sip of your water. 

“Right.”

“Well, I’m goin’ to bed.” You yawn, “Night, pa.” You hum, and you don’t even hear him as he bids you goodnight, too busy imagining the night’s sleep you have ahead of you. You close the door behind you and flick your leg to kick your shoe off and doing the same thing with your other leg. 

You put on a thin silk thing to sleep in before glancing out your window. You can see the field where the two of you just were from here, and you see no sign of Remmick. Poor boy, you think, he must be starving. You hope whoever it is that feasts his hunger is good enough until you can figure out what to do about him. If maybe you should let him bite you. 

You fall right asleep as you soon as your head hits the pillow. You’re so tired. And, as foolish as it might be... You trust Remmick to let you sleep.

You sleep soundly that night, completely dreamless—The bright morning sun is shining through your windows, waking you up far too early. But that’s okay. 

You feel refreshed, and quite honestly, looking forward to the next time you’d see him. You spend all day thinking about him, wondering what he looks like when he’s sleeping.

-

By the time you wake up to Remmick’s game, it’s almost too late. 

He’s turned you into something you don’t recognize, and he hasn’t even sunk his teeth into you. You find yourself not caring for other people, busy thinking about your sharp toothed lover. Well, not that you ever cared for other people—but even little things like going to the shops and running errands go from mundane to agitating. All you want to do is wait around for the sun to set so you can sit on your porch and make out with him, ride his fingers, and play with his hair. 

Sometimes you read to him, other times he fiddles with a smaller four string guitar and plays music. You watch his face as he plays, sometimes humming a tune that sounds familiar and foreign at the same time. 

You don’t really sleep. Sure, the sleep deprivation makes you agitated and cranky, but something about Remmick soothes you out of those moods (So it’s torture when he’s not around. You think, in the back of your mind, that this is on purpose. You don’t mind as much as you used to.) And when you do, your dreams are full of those memories that aren’t yours.

Except, they are yours. 

There are glimpses of you in a mirror, and you’re met with your reflection as you know it. Sometimes the mirror is a small thing in that wood house where you pulled Remmick in through the window. Sometimes, the memories take place in a grand hall, with lots of candlelight, elegant music, and silk gloves. In those memories, Remmick stalks you, eyes full of adoration as a suitor spins you—mostly, you get glimpses of him out of the corner of your eye in those dreams. Sometimes, the dreams take place in a cramped apartment, where Remmick wipes soot off your face with a rag and a gentle touch. 

But there are other dreams too. 

Sometimes, you dream of that wood house burning to the ground, and it’s like you’re burning too. Sometimes, you dream of sharp claws cutting across your stomach, ruining a pretty silk gown. Sometimes, you dream of a mean laugh as your hand is crushed in a big power loom, your screams drowned out by the machine’s loud mechanical whirring.

A Saturday deep in the dog days of summer is when everything changes. Well, it started as Saturday, but when it happens, you’re pretty sure it’s early in the morning on Sunday. 

The night had started the same as it usually did. With you staying up, and stepping outside, taking his hand when he offered it to you. You had bit his shoulder trying to stay quiet, and your mouth had filed with a bitter, nasty bile, which caused you to pull away, right as you were riding him on the steps to your porch, and he had begged so sweetly, “C’mon, baby, don’t stop, you’re so tight around me”, and you appreciated the dirty talk, really, you do, but the taste of his.. blood(?) on your lips, in your mouth, on your tongue, causes you to mumble out a soft “Is that your blood? Does it even count as blood?” but Remmick didn’t really care about the question, thick drool dribbling down his chin at the sight of your face bloody, but not hurting, deciding instead to catch your lips in his to kiss you. 

When you had pulled your panties back on, and he had buttoned his pants, you found yourself leaning against the railings of the porch, your legs extended over his lap as he holds his guitar. As he tunes the strings, his hand rubs up and down your leg, a mindless action full of love. 

You had wiped his blood and his drool from your mouth, but the bitter taste lingered. You’d have gone inside to get a drink if you weren’t so infatuated with him. 

“Will you sing me something?” You finally ask, your voice cutting through the sounds of late summer, cicadas humming, frogs singing, crickets strumming. The perfect ensemble to accompany his voice. 

Remmick, for all his talk, all his humming, all his strumming, hesitates. And he finds himself asking why—why is he hesitating to sing you a song? Probably because his first instinct is to sing a song you know—well, a song a version of you knew, a long time ago. 

He looks at you and then smiles. 

“’Course, darlin’.” He hums. He puts his guitar to the side, causing you to sit up a little straighter, intrigued. He starts to utter soft words in a foreign tongue, a language you don’t know, a tune you can’t follow, and your hand finds his, your fingers curling around a gold band. You stand, and he keeps singing but his eyes follow you as you readjust, sitting right on his lap. A smile pierces through his voice as his other arm wraps around you. Your forehead rests against his, and his eyes close, then his voice becomes quieter as he gets to a familiar chorus.

A familiar chorus? 

Your eyes flutter shut as your fingers mess with his ring, and suddenly you’re not on the front porch of your folks’ shack, you’re somewhere else.

 You’re in that wooden house, and Remmick is singing this song as you sit in his lap. You’re wearing a pretty white dress, and when you look down to your hands wrapped around his, you’re taken back by the sight of your hand, a wedding band on your ring finger. You look back at Remmick’s face in the memory, and he opens his eyes, pausing his singing. 

“Mo ghrá thú,” and you aren’t sure what unsettles you more—the fact that you know exactly what that means, or the fact that your instinct is to say it back. 

Actually, you know exactly what takes the cake for ‘most unsettling’. It’s the fact that Remmick’s eyes are not the dark, sometimes red eyes that you’ve gotten used to. In this memory, fuzzy and filmy, Remmick’s eyes are a soft blue that take your breath away. 

Then, you open your eyes, scared. More scared than you had been in weeks. Scared of dying. Scared of Remmick. And honestly, you have every right to be, because Remmick is not only drooling like a dog, his teeth are big, sharp, and his mouth is open, hovering over your shoulder, jaw wide like he’s about to take a bite out of you. 

“What the fuck,” You spit, as you push him off you, taking a few paces back (adding another tick to the list of Vampire related mistakes, you’re supposed to be running towards the house, not away!). Your hand comes up to wipe blood dripping from your nose. Why your nose is bleeding, you don’t know, and honestly, you have bigger problems to deal with right now.

Remmick looks regretful. And you’re not particularly sure why, but you can tell that he doesn’t feel bad about almost biting you, he feels bad that he got caught before he could sink his teeth into your skin. 

“Lass—”

“You told me,” you recalled, and he wants to curse at you for being so damn smart, so damn hot, for making him want you so damn bad. “You told me that if you bit me, it would be up to me!” You’re angry. Hundreds of years of anger and fear has built up and is now oozing out of every pore. 

Remmick knew it couldn’t last forever. That eventually you’d figure it out, that he would push you too far. If he was human, it might make his heart ache. 

"I got caught up in the moment," Remmick sighs, “C’mere, sugar, come—”

“Let me see your ring.” You demand. 

He lets out a condescending chuckle, that comes across as disbelieving. But you’ve woken up to his tricks. 

“My ring?” He scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous, now, baby, it’s just a—”

You extend your palm from where you are, a few steps back from him. Remmick wants to grab you, to finish this once and for all.. His eyes burn into yours as he pulls his golden band off, before tossing it to you. 

You catch it, your eyes never leaving his. You look down, bringing the ring up to your face, taking a long look at it. Your breath catches. Your name is etched onto the inscription, and you suspect that somewhere, a ring just like you saw on your own hand in that memory is inscribed with his name, buried somewhere long forgotten. 

You finally look up at him, after what feels like an eternity (Remmick would laugh at that. You have no idea what it is to wait.).

“So,” You inhale, “When were you gonna tell me that when you were human, you were married to me? Well, a version of me, at least.” Remmick doesn’t respond. Not for a long moment. He’s just starring at you, like he’s trying to decide on something. You keep going, “And when were you goin’ to tell me that you’ve found me, time after time, and killed me, over and over again?” Your voice is shaky, uneven, and full of fear. 

If he wasn’t so mad at that accusation, your fear might make him hard. 

“Nah, now,” he laughs bitterly with a scoff, “that ain’t fair. You know that ain’t fair, because it ain’t true.” 

“Which part?”

“Which part?” He echoes, and you nod.

“Yeah, which damn part? Because I know the marriage part is true, I got memories that ain’t mine, memories of your eyes and they’re blue. And I keep getting glimpses of you killing me, so what the hell part of it ain’t true?” 

Remmick’s eyes burn a bright red. 

“You have no idea how long I have been—”

“Oh, spare me,” You laugh, “I can’t believe you.” You spit, and in one movement, you throw the ring by his feet and start to make your way back up the porch steps, but Remmick is quicker than you, one hand reaching to grab the ring, slipping it back on his hand before he’s kneeling on the step he was just sitting on, and grabbing your leg as you attempt to walk away. 

“Don’t,” he says, and you will yourself not to look at him, to not let him trick you into staying, “Come on, Lass,” he leans in and presses soft kisses up your calf, his hand rubbing up and down, “You’re tellin’ me, you can’t feel it? That pull that keeps me around, that helps me to find you, any place, any time?” 

You look back at him, because you love him. 

And it doesn’t hurt that he looks awful good on his knees. His face is desperate, begging. 

You almost give in. Then you think of the memory in the factory, with your hand crushed in that machine. Remmick did that. He’s the one that caused you all that pain, all of this fear. You look back at him and shake your head. 

“I’m done, Rem.” You turn and go to walk inside.

Another mistake. 

Remmick’s grip hardens, and you attempt to tear your leg from his grip, because it’s going to start bruise if you don’t get away, but as you try and step away, Remmick tugs, knocking you straight to the ground, on your stomach, bruising your knee, hip and arm. You let out a soft groan, glancing back at Remmick, still gripping your ankle. 

“I ain’t lettin’ you go that easy,” And Remmick would’ve finished with ‘not this time’, but you kick him in the face before he can respond. He lets go of you with a groan, that dissolves into a laugh, his hand comes up to simply set his nose back into place with a sickening crack!, and you’re already on your feet when he rises from his knees, taking another step towards you. “I tried really hard, baby, I did—”

“Oh, cry me a river.” You spit, already stepping back from him, almost like a dance. You take a step back, and he steps forward. 

“Ah, ah—Do not interrupt me, lass,” he laughs, “See, I’ve been a patient man, ya know that, I have been patient for centuries. And every time, yer slip through my fingers like sand, no—not sand. Sugar.” He looks like he’s plotting how he’s going to make you scream, and oh, he is, “And I love when ye make me chase ye, I do, but I do not take kindly to spoiled little brats who can’t appreciate when good is good,” He takes another step forward to you, “So next time I get my hands on you, I’m gonna bite ya. I am goin’ to make you mine, and this time, I will keep you mine. I wanna see you kill your mama and pa too, you’ll do it with a smile, and you and I will be together for eternity, you won’t hardly remember denying me,” Remmick promises, then he moves forward to grab you, to pull you close to him, sink his teeth into that pretty neck of yours, but you step back quickly, and he’s stopped by the invisible shield that prevents him from entering your house uninvited. Remmick laughs bitterly. “that’s a cruel trick, clever girl.” 

You smile, but it’s not kind, and it’s not easy. 

You can do that too. Make threatening promises. 

“I’m gonna kill you.” 

Remmick looks at you. 

“What?”

“I am goin’ to kill you.” You reiterate, “And I’ll keep trying to until the day I die. And if it ain’t me, it’ll be someone who looks an awful lot like me.” 

He lets out a snarl—hundreds of years of anger and shame and waiting has made turned him into something unrecognizable. Something evil. 

“I’m patient.” He tells you with a glare. 

“Not patient enough.” You glare right back. 

A match made in hell, the two of you. 

You turn, ready for this to be over.

“Well, sweet dreams, and good luck sleepin’, lass.” Remmick says, just as the door closes behind you. 

You don’t dignify him (or humiliate yourself) by looking back this time. 

-

You fall asleep angry. You fall asleep planning. 

You get an hour or two before you’re woken up by a nightmare you can’t remember when you wake up. You peer out your curtains, met with blinding sun of a brand-new day. You spend twenty minutes getting ready, scrounging up every cent you can—a birthday card here, a penny there, and a small bundle of savings you kept in a metal box between books under your bed. 

You count every dollar. It’s not enough, but it will have to do. You pull a knit bag over your shoulder, and stuff your copy of Dracula inside. You tear out the mostly blank dedication page and begin to scribble a list of things you’ll be needing. Your money and list are stuffed into your pocket. When you’re finished getting ready, you pull your bedroom door open only to be met with the sight of your parents, ready for church. 

You must be a sight for sore eyes—apart from the bags under your eyes and the one thrown over your shoulder, you have fresh bruises on your face, your clothes are wrinkled and ragged, and you hold a pair of flats in your hands that are coated with dirt. 

“You can’t go to church like that,” are the first words out of your father’s mouth. 

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to church,” you respond, moving past them to the kitchen. You search the cabinets for a minute, finding an empty flask and putting that in your bag, too. Then, you begin to scoop breakfast onto a plate without permission. You’re going to have a long day and an even longer night, so you should really eat while you can. 

Your folks are looking at you like you have two heads. 

“What do you mean you ain’t goin’ to church?” Your ma scoffs, “’Course you’re goin’ to church, it’s Sunday.”

You wonder if they’ll do this the easy way. 

“I can’t today, I gotta..” you pause, not knowing how to explain what you need to get ready for. “I got errands to run. I’ll make it up to you guys, I promise,” and your parents share an uneasy look, because they might be two of God’s most loyal lambs, but they aren’t stupid. Their little girl hasn’t been sleeping, and they’re watching you eat like it’s your last meal (and you quietly hope it’s not). 

Your father says your full name in a stern tone, the type that men take on when they want you to listen to them, before continuing, “If you’re sayin’ you got better places to be than the house of the lord on his day of rest—”

You slam both hands down on the table. Okay, the hard way it is, you think. 

“Jesus Christ! Why can’t the two of you just trust me for once? I will go to church tomorrow, Bible study the day after that, hell, I will join a damn convent by the end of the week, but today, I got things to do that ain’t have nothin’ to do with the two of you or God, so either I can catch a ride to town with you, or I can walk there, which is just gonna slow me down.” You snap, years of pent-up frustration spilling out in your words, brought to a head by two months of barely sleeping, memories that you don’t remember making, and a tormenting, cruel man who wants to kill not only you, but your folks too. 

Needless to say, it’s a real quiet drive to town. 

You buy ammunition for your pa’s gun, hoping that long forgotten days of watching your dad and uncle shoot the thing would come back to you after ten years. You’re not entirely sure that will kill Remmick, but it’s the best you have for now. You stop at the general store, and you buy two jars of pickled garlic, a spool of string, bandages, and a pack of cigarettes. You do stop by your father’s church in between services, avoiding his questions, only filling the flask you found with holy water. 

You walk right past your ma, in the pews, praying for you. You’ll apologize tomorrow, you hope.

You wander off the beaten path afterwards, finding the house of a woman you’ve heard is much more familiar with the supernatural than you are. You’re honest with her, too. You hand her the rest of your money and beg the woman to tell you how to kill a vampire.

And that’s how you spend the better part of your afternoon pulling legs off chairs in your house, then filing them down with a knife. You manage to cut your fingers a few times, thankful that they’d clot before nightfall. You don’t need to give him any advantages. You wrap bandages around your fingers before you hide a few of the stakes here and there, hoping your parents will be home long after this is done. You set one jar of garlic in a trap, using the string to set it up. You turn your small shack into a Remmick mouse trap, planning exactly how you’ll do it. Your final touch is wrapping the rosary around your shotgun, letting the cross hang off the barrel. 

Then you wait. You wait for a long time. You bounce between chewing on pickled gloves of garlic and smoking cigarettes. It’s not much of a dinner, but it’s all you can do.

You even doze off a bit, waking up with a start when you hear singing. 

Singing?

It’s dark now, darker than it had been when you fell asleep. You peer out one of the windows in the house, and in the distance, you see Remmick leaning against the well where you first saw him, from a time that seems so damn long ago now. 

He’s singing the song he sang to you last night, and the one he sang to you on your wedding night, hundreds of years ago. 

Motherfucker. You glare at him, flip him off, and then move around the kitchen to make sure everything is ready. You tuck your knife into your pocket, right besides your small flask of holy water. You pop another piece of garlic into your mouth, beginning to chew it as you aim your gun at the screen door.  You watch Remmick come closer, making his way up to your doorway. He stares at you, before his fingers become long claws, slicing through the screen door with an unmatched rage- well, unmatched by anyone except you. 

His sudden destruction makes you falter, only for a moment, taking a half a step back, as a memory flashes into your mind—of his claws cutting across your stomach, adorned in a pretty silk dress, in a past life. You blink the memory away, before inhaling deeply.

“I’ll give you one more chance to leave.” You call to him. He glares. Instead of responding, he lets out a growl, something animalistic. He’s staring holes into your skin, and drool drips from his chin like he can’t help it. And you suspect he can’t. “Fine.” You snap, cocking the gun. “Come in, asshole.” 

Remmick doesn’t hesitate. He slams open the screen door, stepping inside, ignoring the way the screen rattles against the main door. You don’t even pull the string to the garlic jar, just watch as Remmick’s violent opening of the screen causes the jar of pickled garlic resting on the top of the door toppling over and smashing right on top of his head, shattered glass falling all around him. But the best part is the way he yells, the way he curses as the garlic burns him with a violent hiss!, as steam rises off his melting skin. 

Remmick is far less pretty like this. 

“Son of a—” He curses his hands coming up to his face as he wipes off extra garlic juice from his eyes and hair, skin still steaming—but you see the way that certain parts of his skin are already healing. He snarls at you. “Ye know, Lass, I think this time, I’m really gonna enjoy killin’ yer.” 

“Yeah,” You nod, “I figured. Feelin’s mutual, sugar.” You spit, aiming the gun right at him. You watch as melted, goopy skin that hangs off his skin begins to inch back his face, his hair regrowing in the spots it was singed off, as if someone is waving a magic wand over his wounds, fixing it. 

“A gun? What, you’re gonna shoot me?” He asks, looking at your gun. He takes a step towards you, but your feet are firmly planted. “Nah, I don’t think so. Little girl like you, probably don’t even know to turn the safety off.. ye ain’t gonna shoot me.”

You click the safety off, voice steady. 

“Wanna bet?” 

“Yeah.” He huffs, chest to your gun now. He’s close enough to grab you, but you can see he’s having fun; And you, in the deepest part of your soul, are still his wife, and want him to enjoy this last bit of fun. “I think yer all bark, no—”

BANG!

Remmick hits the wall before the pain hits him, now leaning against the wall, flat on his ass. He screams as he’s shot back, cursing at you with a hole in his chest.

“You fucking shot me! I can’t believe you—” You reload the gun and shoot again. “Fuck! Stop fuckin’ shootin’ me, you little—” he cuts himself off with a curse, whimpering a soft ‘oooo’, as he sharply inhales. Black blood like bile seeps into his shirt, a hand over the wound on his shoulder. As he licks his wounds, you reach to where you’ve stored the other ammunition, reloading the gun as he’s distracted.

“You’re in trouble. So much trouble, I’m gonna have to fuck that attitude outta ya before I kill ya,” He snarls, and before you can react, he’s up and moving again, except instead of coming right at you, he grabs the glass vase of wild flowers that sits next to the pitcher you were filling when you first saw him. And then he takes that vase and throws it at you. 

He takes advantage of you putting your arms up to block it, shattered glass cutting your cheek, but you’re in better shape than Remmick when he tackles you, bodyweight pressed against you as the gun goes flying across the room. You begin to panic, squirming beneath him, when you feel his one claw digging into your side, the other digging into your thigh, both ripping your clothes and drawing a bit of blood, as his tongue licks the blood from your cheek, dripping out of your fresh cut. 

“I really do hate to kill ye,” he starts, “But I always did love the taste of yer blood.. always tastes like lust, and fear.. Desperation and love.” He smirks, and before you could stop him, his mouth is on yours, capturing you in a deep kiss. You appreciate the way it grounds you back to reality, and while you have your mouth on his, one knee comes up to rub against Remmick’s half hard cock. Remmick groans into the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth, only to pull away and spit to the side. “Chewin’ garlic? Clever girl.” He scoffs, and you move one hand to curl into his hair, your touch warm and soft, despite the moment. He lets out a groan, “Clever, mean, insufferable girl..” 

Your other hand reaches to your pocket, and Remmick’s claws pull out of your thigh to grab your wrist, claws digging into the skin around your hand. You inhale sharply, 

“I have a flask! In my pocket—let me get the garlic tatste outta my mouth, then you can kiss me all you want, Rem.” He lets out a sharp exhale. 

“Fine.”

Fucking Idiot, You want to say, You’re playing my game now. Learn the rules. 

You grab the flask, pull it out, not breaking eye contact despite your shaky hands, bringing it to your lips and untwisting the cap with your teeth. Then you pour a mouthful into your mouth, closing and swishing it around so it coats your mouth. Then, you smile to Remmick, before spitting the holy water at his skin, burning his pretty face again. You kick him right where the sun does not shine, and he groans, rolling off you. 

Sharp pain shoots up his groin. He was going to make you cum, too. 

“Mother—” You scramble for the gun, ignoring the sound of him groaning in pain. You grab the gun off the ground, pointing it right at him. “Sugar, don’t you shoot—” 

BANG!

You cock the gun again, knowing you need to make the most of this last bullet (You’re poor, this is 1932, you can only afford so many bullets). You look at your (kind of) husband, panting softly as he whines and writhers on the ground, holding a new wound in his leg. It doesn’t turn you on like it usually would, well not as much, but it gives your gun a great angle, to aim right for his hard-on, and—

BANG!

Remmick really screams this time, and his blood is everywhere. He’s holding his crotch now, and he’s panting heavily. You’d feel bad if you didn’t know it would take him only a few minutes to heal enough to get you back. Or that he wants to kill you. 

“You little bitch,” he spits, “I’m gonna fuckin gut ya—” 

You smirk, running to the door of your bedroom before asking, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

You slam the door shut as Remmick’s cursing becomes louder, more frantic. It takes him a few minutes to get on his feet again, and another few to find his strength to stumble to your door. 

“You have no idea what we were.” He speaks through the door. He turns the knob, and, of course, you’ve locked it behind you. He can hear you moving around, and he takes a moment to imagine you gurgling on your own blood before he begins to jiggle the handle, “I loved you—I have always loved you, everything I have done, I have done because I love you,” he starts to slam his body into your bedroom door, inhumane strength literally curving the wood, on the verge of knocking it down. “And all you have done since that first time you died, is run.” His voice breaks as he slams his body against the door again, “You run, given me a taste at who I was, and die, over and over,” Thud! “and over,” Thud! “and over!” 

The door cracks off the hinges and falls to the ground with a thunk! And Remmick stumbles into the room, looking around, and getting his bearings. He’s hurt, even if the wounds heal, the pain lingers—and any humanity left in him is fighting, screaming to stop. To let you go, to walk right outside when the sun comes up, finally putting an end to his own misery—and yours. That piece screams, hasn’t she suffered enough? Is this what love is? Would this really make either of you happy?

But time and time again, that thing he calls his conscious, the thing only you can pull out of him, is drowned out by the sound of the horrible, gnawing, crushing craving for power. This power to know your every thought, to literally suck the life out of you, to feel the warmth leave your body—and then come back, just as hungry as he is. 

It’s not a craving that is unique to you—he feels that craving for all people to some degree, but with you, he might as well be sunbathing, that’s how the craving burns. It drowns out everything else within him, even the part of him that wanted to be a better man for you.

He inhales deeply, trying to get a whiff of—

Despite his pain, he smirks. His eyes lock onto your closet. He creeps up. He wonders if you know he’s creeping up, if you’re scared. Of course you’re scared. You’re always so scared in the end. He moves suddenly then, ripping your closet door off it’s hinge and—you’re not there. The only thing he sees when he looks down where you should be cowering in fear, or at least about to lunge at him with a hidden knife or something, is a pair of panties. He laughs then, like, really gets a kick out of this. 

“Dirty girl.” He thinks back to what he called you earlier—“Clever, mean, insufferable, dirty girl..” He scoffs, “Too many words.. I’ll write ya a list.” He grumbles, saying it in the soft whisper that echoes in every corner of your house, trying to focus on that thing that pulls him to you, that thing that tugs no matter how far he wanders. 

Then, he starts to sing you your wedding song, the type of love song that could make any lass swoon, but Remmick only wants you. 

Then his nose picks up on a different smell, and he smirks. Your nose is bleeding, and he knows it’s because that song always brings back a memory, and your nose always bleeds when he does it. He keeps singing as he approaches the window, a smirk on his face. 

He’ll have to add clever to the list twice. 

Suddenly, your eyes snap open, and you’re running before you really know what you’re doing, running towards the fields that surround the back of your house, right to the edge, where you’ve hidden a stake you want to drive through his heart, as Remmick opens the window, intending to climb out the window after you, when he stops, another sound catching his attention. 

The sound of a car pulling up to the front of your house. Your mama and pa are home. 

Remmick knows just how to break you. What better way to get you to spend eternity with him, then throwing in eternity with your folks too? Only, the nicest version of them? At the very least, it might make you do something stupid. 

And you do. 

Your heart is racing as you watch him smile wickedly at you, before turning to go meet your folks at the door. You quickly run through all the ways you could get his attention back on you, and you unthinkingly take your knife out of your pocket, before looking down at your wrists. Then, back to Remmick. Then, you take your knife and make long, deep cuts into your wrists, down to your forearm—The kind of injury Remmick cannot ignore. Not if he wants to turn you before you die. 

You let out an inhuman noise, like an animal stuck in a bear trap. Your hands shake as you make cuts into your other wrist. You can’t breathe. Your vision grows fuzzy as you watch him stumble out of the window, running right towards you. He doesn’t want you to die. He wants you to live forever, and the scent of your blood is making him woozy too. 

You fall to the ground just in time for Remmick to catch you, and the part of you in the back of your mind, who knows this is how the story is always meant to end, kind of enjoys the idea of dying in Remmick’s arms. On the one hand, you love him. On the other hand, you know this moment will haunt him for a long time. 

Your body is shaking, and there is blood everywhere. Remmick cradles you against him, hands smearing your blood as if he could push it back inside of you. 

“No, no, C’mere, I got you,” He has an idea. He leans into your neck and tugs you close to him. His claws, covered in blood, cradle you, as he opens his jaw wide, before sinking his teeth deep into the skin of your collarbone, drinking the sweet taste of you. He drinks, and drinks, and for a moment, he forgets that you’re dying, but he eventually comes up for air, beginning to pet your hair. “All gonna be okay, we’re gonna be together for a long, long time,” he rambles.

You don’t want to die. But you’d rather die than give him what he wants. But it’s more than just the way he’s tortured you for the past two month—although, it does feed into your anger. No, If you turn, it means he won. It means that he gets away with killing all those different versions of you, and still gets to be with you. Still gets to invade your thoughts, still gets to spend eternity with you—after doing nothing but hurt you (and, occasionally, fuck you).

Your hand searches until your fingers wrap around something grainy and wooden. You’re not sure you have the strength to stab Remmick with the stake, but you wonder if you could bide your time until the sun comes up. You pull him in for a kiss, right against your lips, and then stab yourself the best you can with the wooden stake. 

You can taste blood now, and you wonder if Remmick is as overwhelmed by it as you are, how it coats everything around you. Him, the grass, your clothes. Your ears are ringing, the noises of the world far away, muffled by the fuzziness that overtakes you from your wounds. Your vision begins to fade, and the last thing you see before everything turns white is Remmick leaning down to kiss your head, before getting up, setting you down gently, and going to kill your parents. 

Son of a bitch, You think, laying in a pool of Remmick’s and your own tears, and your blood (mostly), I’ll get you in the next life, husband.

-

Ireland, 1652

The first thing you noticed about Remmick was his eyes. A beautiful bright blue. Like a clear creek on a summer’s day. He took you somewhere like that once. Right before he asked you to marry him.

You had met him when he was just a travelling musician, penniless and preforming songs for lodgings. You were working as a governess to a rich British family who had been given the land on account of the patriarch being a clergyman. Remmick had known the family who used to own the land. He hated the people you worked for, the way they took mercilessly.

You thought the kids were nice enough, if not a little snotty. But they were comfortable. They didn’t have to worry about the fact that the people who used to live there often had to choose between food and firewood. 

The two of you fell in love, as deep as any two people could. You fell in love over ale in a pub loud with music, over quiet mornings spent tracing the lines of Remmick’s face, and in between grueling, exhausting day of work. Remmick took your breath away, and Remmick couldn’t go for more than a few hours before itching to see you again. He asked you to marry him and on a warm spring morning, right as the sun rose, you promised to be his forever. 

To your credit, the two of you got a wonderful few months before things went wrong.

Remmick never should’ve went out. He never went out on Sundays, preferring to spend his day off kneeling between your legs, eating you out like a starved man. Sundays were for two things—Rest and keeping his wife happy. He tended to get more gigs on the weekend and often picked up shifts at the pub to pay your bills. So, Sunday was his day off. But you requested, oh so sweetly, for him to pick up honey for your evening tea, and he wanted to pick you a bundle of wildflowers, just to show you that he loved you. After all—Sundays were for keeping his wife happy.

He left right after lunch, but didn’t get back until the early evening, just as the sun set.

Remmick would play that night over and over again in his head.

He’d wonder about whether things would’ve been different. If he had left earlier. If he had never went out in the first place, if he had just spent the morning between your legs like he wanted to, if he had done anything differently. 

But maybe things were always going to end that way, maybe there was nothing he could’ve done. 

 With a fistful of white daffodils, Remmick started to whistle your song as he traversed the path towards your wooden house, the one on the property of the family you worked for.

He heard your screams before he saw the flames. 

He broke out into a sprint, dropping the jar of honey and your flowers as he dashed towards his wife, hoping against hope that you’d be okay. He was just in time to see the men who set the fire ride off on horses, half drunk and laughing—laughing that the woman he loved was burning alive, laughing that the people they deemed below them were suffering. 

You were warm. You were kind, and soft. The hardened edges you did have only emphasized your softness, the way you always gave whoever you were talking to your full attention, the way your hands felt running along his skin. 

He knew he couldn’t save you, not without killing himself, and looking back, that’s exactly what he should’ve done. But before he could, as he sat there, sobbing for his wife—someone creeped out of the shadows. 

“You’re hurting, lad,” They had said, in his native tongue. But his accent was british. Remmick hated that posh accent.  “I can make that pain go away.. Fellowship and love is all you need, but..” They bared their sharp teeth at him, “all you gotta do is let me see that pretty neck of yours, and you’ll have the power to get revenge. Wouldn’t you like that? To kill the men who murdered your pretty little wife?” 

Remmick doesn’t remember saying yes. 

All he does remember is how much pain he was in, how drinking the blood of those men made him feel better, how he missed you horribly—more than the sun.

This is the truth. Remmick really did love you, and he really didn’t understand what he was getting into—it’s true. It really happened. 

But so did everything that came after.

-

London, 1812

He stood outside Lady Arlington’s grand masquerade ball, waiting, watching. His suit was out of style, stolen from an old bachelor he had bitten last week, but at least he was in a suit. Besides, everyone would assume it to be a costume. He looked nice—or he assumed he did. Damn mirrors. 

His mask was fastened onto his face, and he was sure he could convince at least half the people here that his red eyes and sharp teeth were part of the costume. He wasn’t even sure why he was here. He hated London, had specifically avoided Britian in the past two hundred years. 

But something ate away at him. It gnawed at him, told him to come here. Something about this damn masquerade is pulling him in, and It’s too loud to ignore. So, he’s happy when the man at the door graciously accepts the invitation he stole, inviting him in with a posh, “Good evening, Sir, right this way.” 

Remmick sticks to the outskirts of the crowd, watching as men twirled women, listening to the sound of a string quartet, and he finds himself sipping wine that he doesn’t even like. So why is he here? He searches the room, looking for—

And then, his breath catches as he catches sight of a familiar lock of hair. He blinks, his eyes following the glimpse. He watches as familiar woman dance with a man, and then he realizes why she’s so familiar.

But how are you here?

You died. You died, and Remmick turned into this monster. 

But when he hears you laugh, he knows it’s you. He could never forget your laugh, you’re his wife. 

His feet begin to move across the room as the music finishes and you curtsey to your dance partner, making your way towards the refreshment table. He says your name to stop himself from grabbing you in the middle of this crowded room. 

No one ever called you by your first name at a ball, it was always ‘Miss’ followed by your first name or your last name. You knew you’d need to be married eventually, but you always found these dances boring—although you did enjoy a masquerade.

You turned and blinked. Even though he was wearing a mask, there was something... familiar about the man. And his red eyes don’t scare you. They lure you in. 

“Oh, good evening, may I help you?” You ask, and Remmick almost recoils at the sound of your voice. Your familiar, soft cadence is replaced by that posh British accent he hates. 

“I just..” For two hundred years, Remmick has longed to see you again. He’s spent hours mulling it over in his head, coming up with a million different things he would say to you if he could tell you anything. All that comes out is, “Yer beautiful.”

Your face flushes. 

“Oh,” You giggle a bit. “Why, thank you, I—Oh dear,” a gloved hand comes up to cover your gasp, “You seem to have a bit of,” you motion towards your lip, and Remmick feels drool dribbling down his chin. His hand comes up to wipe it away, but you hand him a handkerchief. He mumbles out a thank you, before taking it and wiping his mouth.  

“Thank ye,” he hums, and your head twitches. His accent is rare in a crowd like this, but it pulls your lips up into a smile. 

“It’s a lovely night for a walk. Would you accompany me?”

Technically, you’re not supposed to be unchaperoned and alone with a bachelor. But you have a feeling that this particular bachelor is not the man your mother and father had in mind to be your husband. So, if you don’t get caught, you don’t see the harm. At the very least, it’s not a particularly horrible way to kill time. 

“Of course,” is his answer, offering you his arm, eyes glued on you as you lead him to the nearest door. 

“I never got your name,” you say politely, because it seems he already knows yours, which makes sense—your family is quite popular within ‘society’. Not that you even really believe in that.

“Remmick,” he answers, and you nod. 

“Right, and your last name?”

He scoffs quietly. 

“Just Remmick.” Telling you his last name seems pointless. He’ll just be Remmick. At least in this lifetime. 

“Okay, Just Remmick. Tell me, where does a gentleman such as you find himself when he’s not attending masquerades?” He can tell you know this isn’t really his scene from that question alone—It may not seem like much, but it’s as if he’d forgotten just how clever you were. His clever girl. 

And more selfishly, Remmick misses being known. Being known by you. He feeds minimally, and mostly on animals or small critters. His fingers twitch for more, for blood and destruction, but he just couldn’t. His humanity was louder for a long time. But don’t worry, he’ll get it soon, tonight, in fact. 

“I play music.” He says honestly, “I’m what ye ma would call a, er, ‘penniless musician.’” 

You smile at him. 

“I enjoy music,” You tell him, “I think music is a beautiful thing that transcends time and memory. Don’t you?”

His heart would be beating out of his chest if he still had one. He brings your handkerchief to his chin and wipes drool. He’d make something up, tell you he had something wrong with his mouth, or something. He’d figure it out when you asked about it.

“I do,” he nods, but he’s not fully paying attention, if he’s honest. He’s listening to the living, breathing heartbeat that thumps in your chest, quicker when you make eye contact with him. He wonders if you’re wet, but he doubts that your mind is as dirty or depraved as his. 

“Well, would you play me something sometime?” You ask, and Remmick smiles a bit, pats your arm in an affectionate matter—he’s suddenly back in the meadow just south of your wooden house, watching the way you shone in the sunlight, like it hasn’t been two hundred years since he’s last seen you. 

“Anything ye want, lass.” He promises, and he means it so genuinely that your heart nearly stops. He wipes his chin again. 

“What are you doing here, then?” You ask softly. “I don’t mean any offense, but there are so few people who share your accent, I cannot help my curiosity, though I hold no judgement.” Remmick tries not to scoff at how much he likes you, even his disdain for British accents can’t stop the fact that he loves that even now, two hundred years later, you’re still giving your full attention to every conversation. 

He’s been in love with you for long enough to know your question comes from nothing except genuine curiosity. So, he doesn’t laugh when you ask him that, but he does think about it. 

“Well, ye see, somethin’s been... pulling me, tugging me towards Britian at first,” he starts, “Then to London, and now to this... palace,” he huffs, a part of him a little bitter that he found you in the type of place he couldn’t fit in well, no matter how charismatic. “And I didn’t know what it was pullin’ me towards, but—” he looks at you again. “I think I know what it was pullin’ me towards now..” 

You smile. 

“And what would that be, Mr. Re—” Someone calls your name as footsteps approach, and you turn to look at the source, only to find your mother approaching, guiding a gentleman only a few years older than you towards you.

“Whatever are you doing out here alone, dear?” Your mother asks, and you turn back to introduce Remmick to your mother, but he’s gone. Nowhere to be found. You blink, confused. Where had he gone?

“Just taking a break from all the excitement, mother.” The lie slips off your tongue easily enough, and it’s all your mother needs before she’s introducing you to a young blonde gentleman, and you intend to give him your fullest attention, but you suspect it will be difficult on account of your mysterious penniless musician. 

Remmick watches from the shadows, lingering. He can’t stop glaring at the young eligible bachelor who holds your arm, who’s looking at you like you’re a prize. He waits and waits—until the bachelor closes the door behind you when he leads you into the library of the manor. He tries to reason with himself. 

You’re a very pretty girl. The light blue silk of your dress, your posh accent, your skilled dance moves—you obviously come from money. And he knows you’re clever. He looks around and realizes any bachelor at this stupid party would be lucky to have you. 

He breaks the door handle before he knows what he’s doing, quickly opening the door and this is what he sees:

You, leaning against the far wall of the library, squirming. Your eligible bachelor with his hands on your sides, bunching up the fabric of your dress, with his mouth on your neck. You’re trying to push him away.

Remmick grabs him by the shoulder before he even realizes he’s stepped towards the two of you, and then he’s swinging at him with a clenched fist. It causes you to gasp, and before you know it, blonde bachelor’s nose is bleeding and he’s shoving Remmick back against another bookshelf. Books fall around him, and he glances down and sees one on Irish folklore and mythology—

Open to the section on the Gancanagh—a male fae known for his ability to enchant and kill young women, often through powerful seduction. The legend of the Gancanagh dictates that he cannot enter a home unless invited. Remmick rolls his eyes and is on his feet again, going after blonde bachelor. 

He lunges at him, claws drawn, and then he’s swiping at him, but blonde bachelor, to his credit, isn’t entirely stupid. He grabs you and uses you as a shield—and suddenly there are five distinct, large slashes across the front of your dress. Then, you start to bleed, and Remmick catches you as you fall, blood pooling in your abdomen and soaking his stolen suit.

He sets you down gently, and he goes to move away from you, to fucking kill this blonde asshole, but you grip his arm, pulling him back. 

“Don’t,” You let out a soft whimper of pain, gripping his arm, not wanting him to leave. He leans in and kisses your forehead, 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back, Lass,” he promises, before moving away from you, your weak protests drowned out by how badly Remmick wants this man dead. How badly he wants to drink his blood. 

He grabs the man just as he reaches the door, covering his mouth with his large, now bloodstained claw, and uses that hand to tilt his head, before Remmick sinks his teeth into the flesh of the man who wanted to take you from him. Who kissed you without asking. 

And he tastes delicious. Remmick almost moans—it’s like eating a well-seasoned steak after two hundred years of bone broth. He sucks and sucks, draining the man of every ounce of blood. Then he drops his corpse, using your handkerchief to wipe his chin of any excess blood.

He stands, and glances to the corpse on the ground. Whatever. He’ll wake up in a little bit, but Remmick does not give a single fuck what happens to the poor fool. Remmick, on the other hand, feels phenomenal. He feels like he’s strong enough to hold the sky up, and he starts to smile when he remembers you. 

“Sorry ye had to see that, lass, but yer friend won’t be—” he turns to you and realizes you’re not moving. He’s by your side in a flash. “No, no, c’mon, lass, wake up,” He listens for the sound of your heartbeat, but he doesn’t hear one. He had let you die. Again. And this time, it had been his fault. Not indirectly, either. He should’ve bitten you when he had the chance. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, lass,” he begins to cry, and that feels stupid, so he leans down to try and bite you, maybe he can still bring you back—but his teeth get about an inch to your skin, and it’s like something’s stopping him from sinking in the rest of the way—his eyes flicker down to the cross that hangs from your pretty dead neck. 

Remmick takes only a few more minutes to kiss you, to whisper his apologies before he slips out of the window, deciding to take out his heartbreak and his anger out on anything else with a pulse that comes his way. 

You came back once, he reasons eventually, right before the sun rises the next morning, as he stares at your handkerchief, covered in blood now, since he used it to wipe his mouth four times as he’s drunk the bodies of three different drunk idiots outside a gentleman’s club. He’s sure you’ll come back again. He’ll wait. He has all the time in the world. 

He’ll just have to be patient. 

-

New York, 1892

Fucking Sundays. You always die on a Sunday. 

You and Remmick have been going out for six months. Remmick lays awake at night, thinking about how this is the longest he’s ever gotten with you, at least since you were married. This is try number six. 

Why do you keep dying? 

It frustrates him, like an itch he just can’t get to go away. It’s one of the many things he hates about living forever. Another thing he hates is innovation. He’s watched the Industrial revolution happen slowly at first, and then, all at once. He hates it for all the reasons you can imagine, but part of the things he really hates is how it dulls you. You work hours that are too long. You work a job that’s too harsh. 

You work in a weaving factory. You spend your precious life in a factory without proper ventilation, often working with dangerous equipment and conditions. You’re so tired when you come home. Remmick just wants you to be safe, just wants you nearby, Is that so terrible? 

Or at least, that’s how he had said it when you told him you couldn’t quit your job and stay in the apartment with him forever, like he had asked you to. Remmick figured, what the hell, worst you could do is say no. You had handled him being a vampire so well. 

But nothing could ever go the way he wanted it to. Not in any of your lifetimes so far. He just wanted you close so bad, that the thought of you not being with him, it drives him a little insane. To the point of violence. So, he dug his claws into your ankle, threatening to snap the bone as he offered a game—

“Shh, Shh,” he said, a sinister smile adorning his lips, “Wanna play a game, baby?”

“No, you fucking— ow!” You yelped as he tightened his grip, threating to rip his claws up the skin of your calf, “Ow, ow—Fuck, okay, fine! Yes, What game?” You sob, and Remmick’s grip loosened only slightly. 

“Hide and seek.”

He was stalking you through the factory, where you worked. No one was here now; it had been too late. But you turned on all the big machines, hoping to throw off his hearing. That was the worst part about being with you for longer. You had more time to know his weaknesses. To hate him. 

But he was close. He could smell you. The sweat that beaded down your forehead, the heat between your thighs, and the smell of your blood as it dripped from your ankle. You were hiding, knelt under one of those big machines. Your heart is racing, and your ankle really fucking aches. You creep around the machine to see where he was, when he grabs you from behind. 

You struggle against him, yelling, but neither of you can hear each other over the loud industrial machinery. He grabs your arm, before sticking it in the machine, focusing on the sound of your screams—he thinks he even laughs. 

He can’t remember killing you. 

He just wakes up a few hours later, laying in a pool of your blood, right before the factory opens. He needs to go. 

He spends as much time as he can apologizing over your body, as he always does. He was sloppy this time. Sloppier than he had been. He had let any urge he felt win, but he was sure if he could keep his wits about you, and strike when he needed to, and he would finally get to keep you. 

He’d just need to be smarter about it. Next time, he decides right then and there, as he limps away from the factory and towards the nearest port, needing to kill a few decades, will be different. 

Next time, the story will end a different way. 

-

Indiana, 1982

You twisted your key in the door of the family video, shivering a bit. You hated working the night shift. You rarely ever did. You pulled your jacket close, before fishing into your bag, pulling out your Walkman and unwrapping the cord of your headphones, walking down the sidewalk, towards the path you’ll take to get home. 

Your thumb begins to press down to begin your tape, when you hear the vroom, vroom from a motorcycle fit for a man who might be a little butthurt that the last time you saw him, you shot him in the dick, among other places. 

But when your head picks up to look at the motorcycle, you pause, because you suddenly realize you’ve never seen this man before in your life. And yet, there’s a familiarity about him. He’s leaning against his motorcycle now, having turned it off and parked it. 

“Hey there, Sugar,” he says, maybe a little too sweetly. He doesn’t hide the way he looks you up and down. You don’t hate it. You’re currently taking the summer to enjoy your hometown before you go away to school. So, if a handsome man with a hot motorcycle wants to take you home, who are you to deny him? (No survival instinct, but you’ll catch on quick.)

“Hi. Cool bike.” You say, pulling your jacket closer to your body. 

“Why, thank you.” You can’t place his accent. “Wanna ride?” He asks, and you roll your eyes but are thankful it’s too dark for him to see your red cheeks. 

“On the bike you mean?” You question, and Remmick offers you the helmet he holds. 

“For now.” He shrugs, and you take it, resting it on your hip.

“Well, where are we gonna go?” You wonder, “I know what you’re after, and I expect a nice date before I even think about something like that,” You smile, and Remmick scoffs.

“You have no idea what I’m after,” He starts, before reaching to his mostly non-existent soft side and rephrasing, “How ‘bout you and I go for a drink?” He offers, and you let out a nervous laugh. 

“I was just gonna go home and watch a movie,” you tell him, and he tilts his head.

“Oh yeah? What movie?” Remmick won’t admit it, but he’s watched as movies have gone from an expensive, once in a while treat, to something most families pick three of on a Friday and return them the next Friday, and... he thinks that is one small silver lining to this horrible, never-ending existence. 

You dig into your bag and pull out a VHS Tape, labeled Dracula, a movie that came out in 1979. You don’t love it as an adaptation of your favorite book, but for what it is, you enjoy it. Remmick laughs. 

“What? Not a vampire guy?” 

Remmick doesn’t remember it being laid on this thick the last time. 

He shrugs. 

“I just think that bein’ a vampire,” he shakes his head. “it ain’t all it’s made out to be.” 

You shrug. 

“I think it’s sexy.” 

Remmick’s head picks up at that, a smirk forming on his face. 

“Yeah?”

You smile. He’s funny. Too cool, too flirty, and just desperate enough for you to see through his charade. You’re not sure why, but you get the idea that his desperation goes deeper than just looking for a fuck—

“Yeah. A mysterious, handsome stranger, biting my neck and promising me forever?” You wonder out loud, taking a few steps towards him. “What kind of girl wouldn’t think that’s romantic?” 

Remmick would laugh if he hadn’t spent the last two centuries figuring out that you are exactly the kind of girl who doesn’t think that’s romantic. Well, maybe he would laugh if he also wasn’t really fucking bitter about it. 

He offers you his hand. 

“Let’s find out. I got popcorn back at mine.” Remmick doesn’t really eat, but movies have become synonymous with popcorn, and he’s just desperate to get you alone, to get his teeth in your neck. He won’t fail again. He can’t—he doesn’t know if he has it in him. As it is, ever since you slit your wrists, you’re significantly angrier at him by the end. 

The last time the two of you met, he had these horrific 60’s style sideburns, and you stabbed him in the eye with a mirror shard from a disco ball and had gotten blood all over what you had described as your ‘dancing boots’. 

“Hmm.. I dunno.” You shrug. “I’m not in the habit of going home with a stranger.” You tease, and he scoffs. This again?

“Well, my name’s Remmick. And yours,” he says your name, and a shiver runs down your spine. 

“I didn’t tell you that.” 

He taps the top left of his chest with the pointer finger of his right hand. 

“Yer name tag.” 

You let out a laugh.

“Oh, right. Sorry, that was silly of me.” 

“Silly girl.” He teases. Clever, mean, insufferable, dirty, silly girl. “So, what do you say?” he extends his hand again. You think about it for a long minute. A really long moment. Remmick holds his breath. C’mon, lass, He thinks, take the god damn bait before I grab you right here.

You sigh, put on his helmet, and take his hand. 

“There are worse ways to spend a Sunday night,” you shrug as you climb onto the back of his motorcycle. 

As you wrap your arms around him, chest pressed to his back, Remmick finds that he couldn’t agree more. 

[imgonnaeditstuff]

Okay I forgive you. You can stay. -> 1.05 I'll Believe In Anything

[cherryblossom-enthusiast]

The more is see father Jud Duplenticy on my timeline, the more I froth at the mouth about writing a smut oneshot with a confessional and debauchery ensues. Someone convince me I shouldn't🫩🫩

[margaretencinos]

feeling normal

[custardhorse]

the scene where jud storms over, rolls up his sleeves and immediately starts going to town on the punching bag, and then asks ‘can i use this?’ whilst actively beating the shit out of it<3

[bucksfucks]

steam & soft hands.

summary: You indulge in a bath while Adam is out hunting. He thinks you're gone when he can't immediately find you, he just wants to worship you.

pairing: the creature (adam frankenstein) x reader

word count: 2,140 words

themes: adam panics for a sentence, adam is also so soft and loving in this, embarrassed and blushing adam, so much worship and praise, adam really does worship the reader, also a ton of sexual tension before it breaks, 18+ ONLY MDNI

author's note: this can be read as a standalone, however, this is technically part of my what wolves fear universe if you'd like to catch up on that first!

WHAT WOLVES FEAR MASTERPOST

Twilight had always made the cottage feel like something enchanted and tonight it felt especially so. Adam had gone hunting in the woods and the hush of early evening began settling like soft hands over the crooked roof.

You moved through the cottage slowly, lighting candles one by one until warm gold flickered across the walls. You’d been saving dried lavender for weeks, hoarded from the garden you and Adam had coaxed back to life, and tonight felt like the right night to use it.

You sprinkled it into the steaming bath, watching the petals bloom into pale purple islands on top of the water.

Steam curled around your face, the candles glowed and for the first time in days, you felt yourself breathe.

You undressed, slipping into the heat with a sigh that seemed to loosen every muscle in your body. You leaned your head back, closing your eyes, letting the scent of lavender wrap around you.

You didn’t hear the door open. But you heard the moment Adam realized you weren’t in the main room.

“Little one?” His voice was tight, alarmed and desperately searching.

You sat up slightly. “In here!”

Silence. Then hurried footsteps that stopped abruptly outside the bathroom door.

“Are you...are you well?” he called through the wood, panic barely held at bay.

“Yes,” you laughed softly. “Come in.”

The door cracked open, and Adam—with his broad shoulders, wild hair, cheeks flushed from exertion and cold—peered inside.

Then, he froze. Absolutely froze.

His eyes went wide, then a little but wider until he slapped his hand over his eyes so hard you'd think he'd have concussed himself.

“Oh—oh God—I am so sorry,” he blurted, turning his head away so sharply his neck protested with a small crack. “I did not...I did not know—I would never invade your privacy—I only thought—”

“Adam,” you said gently, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I—naked—you are...there is water and....candles...lavender—” He stopped himself, voice cracking with embarrassment. “I should step out—I should...this is terribly improper...I should walk back into the woods and never return—”

“Adam,” you repeated, warmth rising in your chest, “you’re allowed to look.”

He went still like a hunted animal who didn’t trust what it had just heard.

“Allowed?” he whispered, as if he was tasting the meaning.

“Yes,” you said. “You’re my Adam. You can see me like this.”

Slowly, painfully slowly, he removed his hand from its place over his eyes. The sight of you in the candlelit bath nearly brought him to his knees.

He staggered one step, like the beauty of you physically knocked him off balance. Then, without meaning to, he lowered himself fully to his knees beside the tub.

His forehead pressed against the cool iron.

He looked undone, lost and worshipful.

“I do not know where to look,” he murmured, voice shaking. “I do not know how to look without…without falling apart.”

“Then let yourself fall apart,” you whispered and his breath stuttered.

Your hand drifted over the rim of the tub, fingertips brushing his cheek. The moment he felt your touch, he trembled, head turning into your palm like a starving creature finally offered food.

“Come closer,” you murmured.

“I…am close,” he whispered helplessly.

“Closer.”

He shifted, inching forward until his chest pressed against the outside of the tub, his breath stirring the steam on the water’s surface.

His hand hovered over the water. Then, he dipped his hand into the bath. The warm water swallowed his massive, trembling fingers and he finally allowed himself to touch you.

Lightly. Reverently. As though you were carved of stone.

He traced your ankle first, following the delicate bone beneath your soft skin. His breath caught as he did so. Then he moved higher, drawing slow lines along your calf as the lavender petals parted around his knuckles.

“Your skin…” he whispered, voice breaking. “It feels like warm light.”

You smiled. “Then touch me.” He made a wounded, grateful sound.

As if he had been waiting his entire life to be told that. His fingertips slid up to your knee, then the inside of your thigh. Not bold, but awed.

“Tell me if I go too far,” he murmured. “You won’t.” You reassured.

His hand traveled up the curve of your hip, gliding beneath the water until his palm cupped your waist. His thumb brushed under your ribs, your breath stuttered and he froze instantly.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you whispered. “But you made me feel.” He shuddered.

“I fear,” he whispered, “that if I begin touching you the way I dream of touching you…I will lose every shred of restraint I have once again.”

“Then lose it.”

His head snapped up, eyes darkening with a hunger that nearly stole your breath.

“I want,” he whispered, “to worship.”

“Then worship,” you breathed.

He exhaled, a sound that was sharp and broken, then leaned in and pressed a trembling kiss to your dripping shoulder.

It was not a kiss of lust, it was adoration and it was surrender.

His hand slid up your side beneath the water, tracing the soft swell of your breast with a feather-light touch that made your body heat beneath the surface.

A groan tore from him—low, helpless.

“I want to memorize you,” he whispered. “Every curve. Every breath.”

“Then do it.”

His forehead dropped to your chest, breath hot against your damp skin. His hand explored your ribs, your waist, your hips. His touch was gentle but hungry, worshipful but desperate.

“You are…” he breathed, “a shape I was made to hold.”

You combed your fingers through his hair. “And you,” you whispered, “are a man who is allowed to see me.”

He let out a shaky breath. “Then I will look.”

You stood slowly, water cascading down your body in glowing droplets while candles flickered over your bare skin.

Adam stared. Paralyzed, devastated, blessed. Even he didn't know.

He looked up at you like a man who had never seen beauty until this very instant...and might never again.

“Come,” you whispered, reaching for him.

He rose without thought and wrapped you in a thick towel, his hands shaking so violently the fabric nearly slipped from his fingers. He dried your skin slowly, like each sweep of the towel was a prayer.

When he finished, you let the towel drop and his breath caught so sharply that it pained him.

“I…” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I am undone.”

You reached for his hands. “Come to the fire with me.”

He followed you like he would follow you into heaven or hell. The fire was already lit, bathing the room in gold. You stood before it, naked and warm from the bath, shadows dancing over your curves.

Adam stopped in the doorway, took a moment to stare, and then fell to his knees without being asked.

“Please,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Let me…let me adore you.”

You stepped closer, allowing him. He kissed your stomach first, then your hips and finally, the soft skin just above your thigh.

His hands cupped the backs of your legs, holding you steady, trembling as though he could barely survive the closeness.

“You are everything I ever prayed for,” he murmured against your skin. “Everything I never believed I could touch.”

You slid your fingers into his hair, tugging gently until he looked up at you. You saw that his eyes were ruin, black with desire, wet with emotion, and soft with worship.

Adam didn’t move at first. Not until you whispered his name again—soft, certain, meant only for him.

“Adam. Stay with me.”

The words undid him more thoroughly than anything else could have. He reached for you in the hesitant way he always did when he wanted something desperately.

“Here?” he asked, voice low, half-breath, half-prayer.

“Here,” you confirmed, tugging gently at his shirt until he followed.

He did. Carefully. So carefully as if the rug before the fire was holy ground and you were the altar he had never believed he deserved.

When he lowered himself over you, he paused.

“Tell me if—”

You silenced him with a hand to his cheek.

“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”

Something loosened inside him, a restraint he’d held tight around his ribs for months, cracking open with a tremor that passed through his entire body.

He touched you then. Not rushed nor greedy.

His hands skimmed along your sides, learning the shape of you all over again as though he feared a single night could erase every memory he’d made. His fingers traced every line and curve with trembling devotion. Your waist, your ribs, the sweep of your hip, mapping you like he meant to carry your outline beneath his skin forever.

Your breath caught. He heard it and swallowed hard.

“Is this…” He paused, thumb brushing over your stomach. “Is this good?”

“More,” you whispered. “Adam...more.”

He made a sound, quiet and ruined before he lowered himself fully over you, bracing his weight on his forearms so he wouldn’t crush you. His body fit against yours in a way that felt both brand-new and long-destined.

The fire cracked, you felt its heat at your back, his heat everywhere else.

He kissed you like a man on the edge of worship, his lips slow and searching, savouring every tiny sound you made. Your hands slid up his back, fingers tracing scars, seams, muscle and you felt him shiver under every touch.

“You undo me,” he murmured against your mouth. “You…you unmake all the worst parts of me.”

Your hips brushed his, an unintentional shift, but it drew a gasp from him—sharp, helpless, so honest it made your stomach twist with want.

“Do that again,” he whispered before he could stop himself. “Please.”

And so you did, not wanting to deny him any pleasure.

His breath stuttered against your throat and hands gripped your waist, gentle even in desperation, guiding your hips, teaching himself the rhythm of your body with reverent caution. Every movement from him was slow and so intentional, as though he wanted to feel you feel him without rushing through a single heartbeat of it.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped.

“It isn’t enough,” you replied.

His eyes fluttered closed, the sound he made almost painful in its honesty.

He kissed along your jaw, your throat, the hollow beneath your ear, just long, slow sweeps of his mouth that made you arch into him involuntarily.

He groaned—soft, low, guttural.

“God,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours, “I could love you forever like this. Slow. Close. Yours.”

You held his face in your hands. “Don’t stop,” you breathed and he didn’t.

His movements grew deeper, more certain, but never careless. His hands slid beneath you to hold you against him, cradling you as though you were something precious he was terrified to drop.

He watched your face as he moved, his eyes were wide, undoing himself every time your breath hitched or your fingers dug into his back.

“I love you,” he whispered, not out of lust but out of awe. “I love you—God help me, I love you.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair. “I love you,” you echoed, the words breaking out of you, pulled from some deep, trembling place.

Adam made a quiet, shattered noise. It was part sob, part laugh before lowering his body until he could wrap you completely in his arms, holding you through each slow, inevitable crest of pleasure and thrust.

He moved with you, not against you, guiding you into the rhythm of him until your breaths synced, your bodies aligned, the world narrowing down to firelight and warmth and the soft sounds he couldn’t swallow anymore.

It was not frantic or rushed, but simply two people choosing each other with every breath.

When your hands trembled against his body, he covered them with his own. When your breath broke, he whispered your name like a vow. When your body arched into his one final time, he followed—falling into you with a sound of pure, raw devotion.

And when the moment passed he still refused to pull away.

He stayed inside your arms, inside your warmth, forehead pressed to your cheek. Both of you were breathing, shaking, but above all, loving.

“Thank you,” he whispered when he finally found his voice, “for letting me stay. For letting me…be this close.

You turned your head and kissed his temple. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather have you.”

He exhaled a slow, disbelieving breath and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you gently into his chest as he turned you his chest and himself onto the rug before the fire.

You lay tangled together, the flames low and golden, your legs still intertwined, his heartbeat pressed to your ribs. And Adam held you like he had finally found the place he belonged.

[littlewidowlena]

This may be my favourite scene from the whole movie,

[gusdeservedbetter]

You know what isn't a crime, but definitely should be one? The casual mischaracterization of Sentry in fan content. I'm so done😭

1. I hate how he's often depicted as cruel, he's not, look at him, fucking look? And when Ava asks about the hair dye, what does he do? He looks to Val for an answer, he's constantly fidgeting, trying to find an out for the bunch of misfits who previously helped him in the vault.

2. I hate how people try to turn it into a Marc Spector, Steven Grant and Jake Lockley situation when it's. Like. Not?? This is such a disservice to both Moon Knight and The Sentry, and real people who relate to the two characters' (very distinct very different) mental health issues. Bob doesn't have DID, if anything, the movie leans towards him being bipolar. Sentry is Bob, the guy literally tells Yelena in the vault that he has high highs and low lows, the high is Sentry, the low is the Void, that's it. Bob is both Sentry and The Void. What's so hard to understand? It's the mania (Sentry), followed by depression (Void) then he forgets. That's how Bob describes it in the first act of the film, that's how it happens in the third act.

3. This is not a contradiction to point 1, but Sentry is unhinged. He is awkward and somehow soft spoken? But he is unhinged, and invincible, and fucking terrifying. I'm tired of the stoic depictions in fics like🙂‍↔️ idc if you wanna write fics for comic Sentry, just don't tag them as mcu stuff. (WHO AM I KIDDING COMIC SENTRY IS FUCKING SCARYYY STOP THE BABYFICATION)

4. He is not evil (the fact that we have to spell this out... media literacy is truly dead huh), no shit the Thunderbolts* will be scared of him, of course they will be– he kicked the ever-living shit out of them. But he's not malicious, he doesn't use unnecessary force. Call it condescending, but he's going easy on them, toying with them, and deals arguably softer blows to Yelena, John and Ava, the trio he already met at the vault (because he's the same person, yk? jesus)

5. Prespective is a thing, the team wasn't there to see Sentry tell Val he doesn't want to kill them (they're no threat to him), it's the root cause of their disagreement, it leads to the New York Blackout TM, but we, the audience, were. So tell me why the fuck do I see stuff with this guy terrorizing that team for no reason? 😭 bfr guys.

6. So what? So while I can buy you showing me Ava or John or Alexei or Bucky or Yelena being fearful of the Sentry, or Val (hahaha eat shit Val), I simply can't get behind him actually being a threat to them, on purpose and beyond swatting them like flies, because hi hello have you seen the movie? Yeah.

7. Have I mentioned Sentry is unhinged? Yeah. Yeah. We got glimpses of it with Val before Mel pressed the kill switch but!! Sentry!! Is!! Unhinged!!

8. Find a middle ground, he doesn't have to be uwu or straight up satan or stoic as a rock, he is Bob in mania, so that's inherently Bob with high levels of energy and a higher self esteem (more like a GODLY EGO) and impulsivness and dillusions of grandeur (except they're not dellusions anymore? So rip), so do with that what you will.

Fingers crossed for more in-character Sentry content, at least the Sentry depicted by Lewis Pullman, who put his all into this performance but whose character is still somehow misunderstood? Anyways.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

[cherryblossom-enthusiast]

HEAVILY agree with #2 cause this is not just Moon Knight 2.0😭

[sassycolortheorist101-blog]

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

* body language masterlist

* a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

* a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

* 550 words to say instead of fuckin said

* 638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

* some more body language help

(hope this helps some ppl)

[darlingshane]

Jon Bernthal can't play Frank Castle without Deborah Ann Woll.

[mattposting]

WET MATT MURDOCK AND HIS CROSS NECKLACE

[theautomattic]

One of the Original Tumblr King of Whump, Angst, and Sluttiness is almost back! Matt Murdock on our television screens once again, world is healing ❤️

[danidrabbles]

Cardinal

Pairing: Logan Howlett ("Worst" Wolverine) x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (for themes and smut).

Word count: 16.6k

Summary: At the edge of the world, someone from another keeps you from stepping off.

Tags/Warnings (Please, read the warnings!!): Post-Deadpool & Wolverine, female reader (female anatomy etc + 2 mentions of hair long enough to fall into your eyes), strangers-to-lovers, depression, suicidal ideations, suicide attempt and mentions thereof, addiction, drinking alcohol, drugs (mentioned not used), panic attacks, sobriety meetings, anxiety, recovery, co-dependency vibes, sprinkles of soulmateism, explicit smut (oral and unprotected PIV), happy ending (yay!!). If I forgot anything, please let me know!

Notes: Deadpool and Wolverine re-triggered my X-Men obsession and what started as a means to write some smut actually became this idea about two broken people who shouldn't even have met in the first place finding each other. There's a lot of me in this story, more than there's ever been I think. I'm sorry for this glimpse into my head, and I'm sorry if this isn't as Reader-insert as it should be, but... I'm not that sorry, you know. Huge thanks to @javier-pena , for not only reading this over and fixing so many embarrassing mistakes, but also for saying she'd read this even if it was 20k words and always believing in my abilities as a writer, even when I sometimes didn't.

If you want to read the smut as a standalone, you can! Just CTRL + F (or search in page) for 'Logan reaches for' and read away.

THE LOOKOUT

With closed eyes, you inhale the cool, December air, before looking down at your feet. Here, at the edge of the lookout, the grass has been trampled. You imagine friends taking bets on who dares get closest to the edge, lovers making memories, families taking pictures. It’s strangely soothing that maybe you’re not the first to stand here to do this. 

Far below your feet, the water laps at the rocks. The force of it depends on the weather and tonight it’s violent, with big splashes and crashing sounds. The wind tugs at your coat, pulling you towards the water as if to help you along, making you look up again as you hold your balance. In front of you, the line of the horizon is dark but visible – it would have been impossible to make out if the moon hadn’t been as bright as it is.

It’s like you’re looking at the edge of the world.

During the weeks that fall had made way for winter, you scoped the place out a couple times. The first time you stood at this cliff’s edge, the place it took you to mentally scared you so much that you got back into your car and broke down in tears. The next couple times, things became more and more serious, as your life crumbled around you, and your feelings numbed, and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Something had crept in while you weren’t looking, settling somewhere behind your eyes and spreading out to make a home behind your ribs, slowly but surely changing you. And once you realized it, it was already too late. It had grown large, became jilted and jealous, like it wanted all of you. It pushed away everyone and everything you held dear, until it was just you and that… something.

Especially during the quiet of the night, the lookout became soothing, a strange sense of familiarity enveloping you each time you were here. It was addictive and pretty soon, it became a daily routine to visit. But lately it’s been losing its shine, your feelings here dulling and darkening too. You’re exhausted, fed up, tired of giving it more of you.

Today you want it to be your last time here. 

You’ve had countless hours to contemplate what it would be like, imagined – all but romanticised – how the cold water would paralyse your limbs if the impact wouldn't do the trick. You read somewhere that it’s apparently like falling asleep when the water finally fills your lungs. You’ll be gone, but the thing will be too.

The thought makes your eyes fill with tears, but not from fear. All you feel is relief, like it’s right, how it’s supposed to be. It makes you smile despite everything, and–

“Hey, stop!”

A voice behind you thunders through the silence and makes you shriek into the night, dirt toppling over the edge of the lookout below the shuffle of your foot. A string of curses follows, heavy footfalls behind you indicating that the intruder is approaching you.

“Fuck off!” you throw over your shoulder, your voice a roar with how it’s amplified by the wind. 

After, your throat closes up, fighting the angry tears over the fact that you can’t even fucking kill yourself in peace. Never have you seen anyone here at night, never. What you hate even more is how it breaks your momentum. The haze that was surrounding you is pierced, and your body’s baser instincts kick in. Adrenaline suddenly pumps through your veins, making your legs tremble, your heart hammer, your body scream for you to step back from where you’re standing. Your anger, however, has you nailed to the floor. 

You almost miss the much softer, “Hey,” as a man steps into your peripheral vision. You pretend like you don’t hear him, or see him – you simply pretend he isn’t there, focussing on getting back into your previous mindset. 

But then he takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you warn, hating how your voice comes out trembling – weak.

“Easy.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You stand there together for what feels like hours. You will yourself to not let it affect you, setting your jaw to keep your teeth from clattering on account of the cold, allow the wind to blow your hair into your eyes without brushing it away. Even when it begins to rain, you don’t move, don’t blink even once more than you need to. From the corner of your eye you watch the man shove his hands back in the pockets of the brown leather jacket he’s wearing, and you quietly celebrate that your surroundings are fazing him more than they are you.

“You know–” he begins.

“I’m not really looking for a conversation.”

“Me neither,” he immediately counters, suddenly impatient, “so I’ll get right to it: You planning on jumping? Because if you think the water’s gonna be nice to you, you’ve got that wrong. You’ll end up in there feeling everything, that fall isn’t gonna do shit.”

Having expected a gentle approach, his bluntness and his tone knock the wind out of you. You cock your jaw, the shame creeping up your body the first bit of warmth you’ve felt in a while. Your cold fingers ball to fists as you will yourself not to care. Yes, his words and the way he's shatteríng your expectations with them sting, but you don’t even know this guy–

“And there’s nothing fuckin’ peaceful about it, it’s just panic. Right before you go too far…” He raises a fist and holds it against the center of his chest, “...there’s this burning right here that’s hell.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” you finally spit out.

“Died like that a couple times,” he says without waiting a beat.

The casual statement of something so bizarre beats your resolve before you know it, your head turning in his direction. “‘A couple times’?”

“I, uh…” You watch him hesitate, the moonlight illuminating the tick of his jaw, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way his chest falls as he sighs, “Let’s just say I can’t die.”

Before you can stop yourself, you snort at that. “That must fucking suck.”

He barks out a laugh, “Got that right.” It startles you when his head suddenly turns to you, when he looks you in the eye for the first time. “But trust me, being down there isn’t much better.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you waver. You can’t really place it, or decipher why it makes you want to open up to him. Maybe it’s because you’re freezing and it’s your body betraying you, tricking you into moving so you can generate some warmth, moving your lips to keep them from going blue. Or maybe it’s simply because he’s a stranger and it’s so much easier to be honest when there are no consequences.

“Things just feel so…,” you begin, voice shaky. Every possible way to end the sentence crosses your mind, seemingly all wrong, before you settle on what’s closest to how you feel, “endless.”

To your relief, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell you to give it time that it will get better, or any of the other bullshit you’ve heard from all the other people that had been in your life and left a long time ago. You do find something else in the shift in his eyes, something you haven’t encountered before.

Understanding.

It might be worse. If anything, it’s overwhelming, making your eyes dart away from his as you sniff. 

The wind still tugs at you, the waves still hit the rocks, but your moment seems to have passed. It’s a sobering conclusion, a twisted version of wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe it was him who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, the outcome is the same.

You take a step back, and another, but it takes considerable effort; you hadn’t taken your numb legs into consideration. You stumble, falling back on the dewy, cold grass, not quick enough to catch yourself on your hands. With a groan, you move to sit upright.

“Shit. Hey, you still with me?” The stranger kneels next to you, fingers lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.”

“No s-sh-hit,” you retort.

He sighs, offering you a hand so he can pull you up. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up.”

– – – – –

Logan.

That’s his name. 

It’s how he introduced himself, anyway, after he suggested you follow him. To his credit, he did offer to drive you, but you didn’t want to leave your car in the parking lot of the lookout. Logan waited 15 minutes for you while you put the blowers on the highest, warmest setting and waited for the feeling to return to your limbs. After, his brown truck led the way here – here being some hole in the wall, 24 hour diner. You could have not followed, but the drive was kind of mesmerizing; the night seemed darker than usual, and Logan’s tail lights served as a lighthouse.

Outside, the diner is all Christmas lights and flashing signs, but the interior is like something straight out of Twin Peaks; booths to the left, red barstools to the right, a girl that looks too pretty and too young to be here standing behind the counter. There were two other patrons you spotted along the way as Logan led you to one of the back booths. Once seated, Logan studied the pamphlets–or pretended to, more like, because as soon as the waitress came up he ordered two whiskeys and nothing else.

Between then and now, as you nursed your drink sip by careful sip, you hadn’t learned much more about him other than that he could knock back a glass of whiskey like he got paid to do so. And in truth, you like it this way; preferring silent company, the droning of the machinery behind the counter and the quiet hum of a song on the jukebox next to the entrance. The white noise helps to distract from the white noise in your head. Settling back into the leather cushions of the booth, you let some warmth seep back into your body. Opposite you, Logan does the same. 

Some moments after you finish your drink, one of the waitresses walks up to your booth to ask you about a refill, like she’s asked Logan twice now. You’re handing her the glass when Logan says, “She’s had enough.”

Your head whips from her to him. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t say anything, and from the corner of your eye, you see the girl leave. With your glass. Logan’s is on his lips, his eyes observing you over the rim, looking at you like he– Dammit. You sigh deeply, a sense of anger filling you. You don’t need this, least of all from him. When you stand from the booth, those eyes follow you, making you voice your observations,

“Quit pitying me, Logan.”

“I’m not,” he says before taking another sip. “You still have to drive.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t?”

Logan shrugs. “It’s different for me.”

Anger is still prevalent in your voice when you ask, “Well, let me guess, it’s another case of ‘I died like that a couple times’?” 

He hums.

“And how does that work?”

“Regenerative ability,” he sighs. Another sip before he elaborates, “X-Gene.” 

The admission makes you plop back down in your seat. Well, that explains things – he’s a mutant. You’re not familiar with that world, but you know enough to know it meant that. It isn’t like you couldn’t have deduced it before, but truthfully, you kind of thought he was bullshiting you as part of some tactic. Now, his actions and words make more sense: He really knows what it’s like to... That’s why he had that look on his face. Suddenly, you see him in a different light–

“Now who’s pitying who, hmm?” Logan asks, giving you a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he sets his glass down on the table.

“I’m not, I’m just… processing. So this...” you lift his glass, swirl the contents around, “...doesn’t even affect you?”

“It does. For a few seconds.” He plucks the glass back from your hand, and throws the whiskey back with one gulp. His pupils dilate, pushing the hazel of his irises out until his eyes are almost black for a second, two… before going back to normal. “But if I chugged the bottle, I’d pass out.”

“Well, so would I,” you say with a chuckle. “So maybe we’re not that different after all.”

Just as the corner of his mouth lifts, your smile falls, because… it isn’t true; you’re very different. You’re pretty sure you don’t have what it takes to do what he did tonight. To care enough to do it. To sit with a stranger and hear them bitch and moan about being denied a drink. A feeling creeps up on you, sticky and uncomfortable, like you’ve overstayed your welcome—burdened him.

“I should head home,” you say, standing again.

Lightning fast, Logan’s hand shoots out to close around your wrist. “That really where you’re going?”

“Yes,” you reply. When you pull your hand back, he doesn’t let up. You fish your car key out of your pocket with your free hand, voice tighter when you say, “Let me go.”

“Just promise me something,” he says, eyes as dark as they’d been earlier, yet his drink has gone untouched since. “Don’t go back there again.”

“Not making promises I can’t keep,” you say, giving him a wry smile. “To strangers, but least of all to myself.”

He sighs, and lets you pull yourself from his hold.

THE CRAVING

New Years comes and goes, and you quickly discover that it was foolish superstition to think that it might change how you feel.

You find yourself in some club, a drink in each hand. You hate to admit it, but Logan’s words scared you out of your original idea and the only time you can bear to think of how to move on from it is when alcohol soothes the embarrassing grief of your shattered, macabre fantasy. It’s not a good way to deal with things, but it works.

There’s a part of you that welcomes feeling anything at all, but that… something inside you is busy trying to squash it. 

It’s getting somewhere, because you have no idea how much you’ve already had to drink, but you’re buzzing pleasantly. Adding to it, you knock both drinks back, slamming the glasses on the bar before spinning around and facing the crowd of dancing bodies. The music sucks, the dance floor is cramped, you’re tired… The truth is that you’re too old for this, but it’s easy to escape here, surrounded by strangers. You clumsily drag the back of your hand over your wet mouth, push your sweaty hair from your eyes, and join them.

The past couple weeks, you found yourself craving something. Contact. And here is where you can get your fill; a hand on your waist, lips on your ear, the music too loud and yourself too drunk to even comprehend what’s being said, but never more. You want them to get close, but never too close.

After some time – could be an hour, could be 10 minutes – you make your way to the bathroom. It’s quieter here, the dulled thump of the music making the time you spend there feel slow and syrupy. 

When you exit the stall, you bump into someone.

It’s a man. The dark hood over his head obscures his eyes, but you can’t help but think he’s looking right at you when a bright, almost unnatural grin appears on his face. It draws you in like a magnet, more so when he says, “Need something to take the edge off?” 

Curiously, you watch as he opens his palm, long fingers unfurling slowly until they reveal a small plastic bag in his hand. 

“First time’s on the house.”

You have no idea what it is exactly, but your eyes widen. This is new territory for you, and all the possibilities it opens up are suddenly invading your mind. As if on auto-pilot, you reach for the place where you keep your money, the sound of the door opening completely lost on you.

A hand closes around your bicep, pulling you aside with a quick yank of an arm.

“She isn’t interested, pal.” 

It’s another man, who effortlessly tucks you half behind him. Before you can protest beyond an indignant huff, there’s a sound, like a sword being unsheathed, and you catch a flash of red, and of knives. Frowning, you try to get a better look, but your view is obscured by the man’s shoulder. The hooded man seems undeterred, regarding the weapons with the same sickening grin, before leaving the bathroom, muttering something that you don’t understand on the way out. The sword sound returns, the man twists around, and–

“Logan?” you slur in disbelief. 

Logan doesn’t reply, instead takes hold of your arm again, making you follow him out of the bathroom. There he stops the two of you to murmur something to a woman wearing the same clothes as him, before tugging you along again. You’re stumbling after him on account of his pace and the iron grip he has on you as he leads you to the back door. He pushes it open with enough force to make the hinges creak, a gust of wind blowing in your face. It’s a contrast to go from the crowded, sweaty club to the silent, cold back-alley where tall brick walls and employee cars cage you in. You shake your arm and Logan’s grip loosens – another and he lets you go.

“How did you even find–” You cut yourself off, eyes widening, “Oh, my god, are you following me?”

Logan scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, please, do you think I have time to follow you around all day?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You and your fucking…,” you gesture wildly into the air at him, “savior complex.”

“I work here,” he growls. When you give him a look, he adds, “It’s temporary. ‘Sides, me and my savior complex are the reason that creep isn’t selling god knows what to you in that bathroom right now!” His voice is a roar, echoing off the walls around you.

“Maybe I wanted that creep to sell god knows what to me in that bathroom,” you say, doing a poor impression of his voice, before turning and walking away from him.

Logan sighs. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And then what, huh?”

“I don’t fucking know, Logan,” you say, twisting around to face him again, arms spread out by your side. “Figure out a new way out of this.”

“Yeah? Third time’s the charm?”

“Why do you even care, huh? You don’t even know me,” you say. Almost immediately, you let out a bitter laugh as your own words hit your ears, a sad realization dawning on you. “But I guess that makes two of us.”

It’s not like you expected him to, but he doesn’t answer.

“You know I used to like myself? I used to smile, I used to have friends, I used to be more sober than drunk. But this feeling, it takes… everything.” You raise a fist, hold it to the center of your chest. “It takes everything I love, pushes away everyone I love, including myself. It eats me up, and wants more and more, until I’m something I’m not and until I’m so far away from that version of myself, my old self, that it feels easier to just fucking–” you pause with a wet gasp for air.

“Destroy yourself,” Logan finishes for you.

Your chest heaves, an unshed tear clings to your lash line. “Exactly.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Let me take you home,” he says, voice gentle. 

You should hate the implications of that gentleness, but you don’t. In your drunk state of mind, it’s easier to admit it’s nice that someone understands, that someone’s there to stop you from going too far… 

Tomorrow, when some of your pragmatism returns, you’ll deny this embarrassing thought ever occurred; if relying on other people worked, it would have worked a long time ago, and you wouldn’t be standing here with him. If you’re lucky, you might even forget this entirely, and wake up with a hangover that you’ll enjoy a little too much because it feels like a punishment–

“What about your job?” you ask with a sniff.

Logan’s palm finds the space between your shoulder blades with a gentle push, the warmth of it seeping in through your clothes, and he leads you to his truck. “They’ll manage without me.”

– – – – –

When you wake, your world is tilted sideways, a blanket is pulled up to your chin and there's a pillow under your head. They’re not your own; the blanket is itchy and the pillow’s too small. When you try to move your legs, they stick uncomfortably to the material below them, and you realize you’re on a leather couch. You squint at the light that comes in from a window across from you–

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

The voice startles you, eyes shifting to focus on the source: A man lying on his front on the floor, chin in his hands as he kicks his feet back and forth in the air. 

“Wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but it hasn’t been very pleasurable. You’ve been barfing up the place since the moment you stepped inside. Kept poor Al up all night. Her ears are sensitive,” he adds with a whisper. “But don’t worry, she left about an hour ago.”

“Who are you?” you slur, blinking against the light.

“Logan.” He sighs when you frown. “I know, not how you remember. This is what I look like during the day; blessed with incredible good looks at night and, well,” he gestures at his face that’s covered in scars, "this, during the day. Bit of a reverse Princess Fiona situation–”

“Cut it out, Wade,” comes the sharp protest from next to you. With considerable effort, you turn your head and see the actual Logan, slumped back in a recliner next to the couch, rubbing some sleep out of his eyes while motioning for the other man to go.

“I’ll let you two talk.” Wade winks.

Logan stands when Wade does, walking from your field of view. Your head is scrambling to catch up, trying to piece together what happened last night, but only coming up with bits and pieces.

“How are you feeling?” Logan asks as he makes his way back to you, handing you a glass of water.

You flinch when the front door closes behind Wade with a bang, before taking the glass from Logan and taking a few thankful sips. “Like shit.”

“Yeah,” is all he says as he sits back down.

“What–”

“You fell asleep in the car. Didn’t know where to take you, figured the couch was the safest place.”

“Oh…,” you say, voice small. 

You try not to think about being so wasted that you had to be carried out of Logan’s car, or about what Wade said earlier about the things that happened as soon as you stepped inside the apartment. During your silence, Logan’s fingers fiddle with the armrest, before his hand balls into a fist, and it unlocks something in your hazy memory.

“I have the weirdest memory of you having… a sword?”

You watch as Logan’s lips purse in amusement. His tongue rolls around in his mouth, seemingly contemplating something, before saying, “You probably saw these.” He holds up his fist, flexing his forearm before three blades shoot from between his knuckles like claws, accompanied by a shing!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you startle, spilling some water on your blanket. Your head spins with your hangover and the bizarity of the situation. If it didn’t sound so much like how it did in your memory, you might think you were still drunk. 

There’s so many things you want to ask, your intrigue almost winning out over your hangover until the sharp start of a headache gives you pause. Instead, you take another sip of water before rubbing your temple.

“It’s a story for another time,” Logan says, like he can read your mind, and you want to ask him that, too. His claws retreat, the cuts they leave between his knuckles immediately smoothing over until they’re gone. “I gotta go check if I still have a job.”

The words make you feel warm all over, the memory of your back-alley conversation coming back in full force. The thought of the things you admitted to him and that you put him in the position that he had to risk his job for you make you feel even warmer, your gaze no doubt laced with embarrassment and worry when you look at him.

“‘S not your fault,” Logan assures, standing and fishing his car key from the pocket of his jeans. “You don’t have to rush but um, make sure you close the door behind you on the way out. Gets jammed sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, watching as he makes his way to the front door. 

He takes a final glance at you over his shoulder, then leaves, accompanied by a bang.

THE PUZZLE

It takes you a little over a week to muster up the courage to go back. Admittedly, your courage is aided by another, foreign feeling. You don’t have a name for it yet, or maybe you’re afraid to call it what it is, but somewhere along the week, you became consumed with the thought that feeling like you did wasn’t all there was. That there is something beyond this. 

Perhaps foreign wasn’t the right way to describe it, because it is something you’ve felt before – it’s just been long dormant. The last time, it lasted about a month before it all came crashing down, and you swore you wouldn’t fall for it again, but you can’t help it. The feeling’s too sweet, and the idea that there’s still some baser instinct willing you to keep fighting for yourself makes you feel like the sun is shining on you. 

So yeah, maybe you’re just having one of your good weeks, where the thing sleeps – quiet while its presence still simmers. But you figured now’s your chance to take advantage of its unguarded moment.

Sneaking into the building is surprisingly easy. It helps that it isn’t anything fancy. You wanted to forego the humiliation of ringing the bell and him not letting you in, but standing in front of the door now, panting after climbing three flights of stairs, you don’t know if this is much better. 

Just when you’re about to knock, the door swings open. In the opening, Logan has one arm in his jacket, head twisted to watch the other that’s caught halfway in the sleeve. It takes him almost bumping into you to realize your presence. “Shit, sorry.” He steadies himself with a hand on your arm, the touch leaving you as fast as it appeared.

“Hi,” you breathe, taking a step back to give him a little more space.

He nods in greeting. “Brings you here?”

It takes you a moment, caught off guard by him skipping over pleasantries and cutting right to the chase, despite your best intentions; it’s not that he’s ever been any different in his interactions with you.

“I came by because I, um, owe you an apology, for my behavior at your workplace and for, you know…,” you trail off, gesturing at the door.

“Barfing up the place!” comes a shout from inside the apartment. 

Logan’s eyes close with a sigh, before he steps into the hallway with you and closes the door with a bang. 

“That,” you finish sheepishly. “I’m really sorry.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“I also wanted to ask, um, if you want to come with me to get a coffee. To make it up to you.”

Logan just looks at you, the leather of his jacket creaking as he crosses his thick arms in front of his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly. You hate how he somehow can see right through you, how he makes you elaborate, and honest.

“I want to quit drinking,” you say, fiddling with the sleeve of your coat. “It doesn’t make me better, and when I don’t do it I finally feel a little… normal. Maybe coffee’s technically just as bad, but it’s the only thing that’s currently acting like… like a reverse gateway drink? And I feel like you’re the only person I know that might get that feeling of–”

“I do,” Logan cuts in, voice softer than before – assuring. His arms drop from where they’re crossed and he starts making his way to the stairs. “Let’s go.”

– – – – –

You don’t know this coffee place, and from the way he looks around and shifts around in a chair that might be a bit too small for him, neither does Logan. Main reason you picked it is because the booths remind you a little too much of a bar – and you like the tall windows. The coffee’s pretty decent.

“Did they fire you?” you ask, picking at a loose corner of one of the laminated menus before setting it back in its holder.

“Boss commended me for helping a customer, but not so much for leaving before my shift ended,” Logan replies. “Got off with a warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Said that already, and I accepted,” he says. When he takes a sip of the coffee, he winces. “No need to worry about it anymore, okay? I would do it again.”

You nod, folding your hands around the warm cup in front of you.

“But, um, Wade hasn’t shut up about… the incident.” There’s a different tone to his voice, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “His words.”

“You know, I kind of get the feeling that Wade doesn’t shut up about a lot of things.” It comes out a little meaner than you intend, but it makes Logan laugh and finally slump back in his chair a little. 

“You’re a quick study.”

Offering him a short smile in return, you continue with the other real reason you came to see him, before you chicken out. “I also stopped by because I wanted to, uh… because I realized I never really… I never… I never thanked you, for um… And–”

With a shake of his head, Logan sits upright. “Y’don’t–”

To your horror, your eyes brim with tears, “Logan, I’m supposed to be dead–”

“So am I,” he counters. He lets the words hang between the two of you for a moment, until you look at him, before he continues, “I’ve been where you are. Past it, even.”

You don’t know what to say to that, if the lump in your throat will even permit you to speak, but it’s impossible to look away from him. Logan’s gaze is piercing, frown ever present, but it’s not from anger. Instead, it’s like he’s searching for something, the right thing, to say. The silence doesn’t bother you; if anything, it makes his words seem more genuine when he does speak,

“I had someone who was annoying enough to not give up on me when I could really use it. If getting a coffee with you that’s, frankly…,” he makes a face as he pauses, “a horrible excuse for a coffee, helps… I can do that. I want to do that.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you blink away your tears. “Was it Wade?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, and it’s honest – fond. “Yeah.”

“Figured,” you say. “How did you meet him?”

Across from you, Logan stills. You swallow thickly, adjusting yourself in your chair. It’s an innocent question, but maybe it isn’t something he’d like to revisit right now. Logan’s mug squeaks when he grips it tighter, and he looks at you with something like defeat– 

It makes you deflate. This must be what you looked like the night you met…

There’s no way to have prepared for what he tells you next: That he came from another timeline about three months ago, that he and Wade saved this one from being destroyed and almost got killed in the process, that he has nothing to go back to after the death of his team, so he stayed here. 

There’s hesitation in it, like he isn’t telling you the whole story, though you don’t comment on it. He doesn’t owe you anything and you’re too busy putting all the pieces in the Logan-shaped puzzle in your mind together; his words and actions towards you are starting to make more and more sense.

“It’s a very brave thing the two of you did,” you say when he’s finished.

“Hmm, it was all Wade,” Logan muses. “He did it all for the people he cares about.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same if you were in his place.”

At that, he lets out a dry laugh with absolutely no joy behind it. “Do me a favor, don’t put me on a pedestal.”

You frown, but before you can comment, he stands. A knot forms in your stomach, worried you’ve offended him, but he clears up the uncertainty immediately.

“I gotta go but um, Wade’s friends–,” he stops himself, correcting, “our friends are coming over to watch a movie, next week, 7:30. I have no idea what crap they’re going to be watching but… it’s nice. It’ll be nice to be around good people.” Logan doesn’t wait for your answer, simply takes his wallet from his pocket and leaves enough money to cover the bill.

“Wait, no, I invited you,” you protest. “I should–”

“You can pay next time.” 

When you nod, he says his goodbyes with a jerk of his head and makes his way to the door.

– – – – –

You see Logan two more times for coffee that week. He never lets you pay.

THE PANTRY

“–but it’s the best one!” Wade protests, DVD in hand.

“They fly a car into space, Wade,” Laura sighs.

“Launched off a jet,” he corrects. Like it helps.

You cover your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the smile that appears at everyone’s babbling. Unbeknownst to you, you had found yourself invited to a double feature night, with Wade as the self proclaimed DVDJ. The credits had barely started rolling on A Good Day To Die Hard, or Wade had another DVD at the ready. It was met with the same amount of enthusiasm as when he presented the first.

It hadn’t been easy to make yourself go to this tonight. On your way, you’d thought of turning around at almost every step. Of course, that was all before you knew it would be this fun, and that you’d be relieved you hadn’t canceled last minute. Even meeting everyone hadn’t been as bad as you feared. 

There’s Peter, Wade’s friend. Ellie, another one of Wade’s friends. Yukio, Ellie’s girlfriend. Laura, Logan’s daughter. Mary Puppins, Wade’s small, disgusting but adorable dog, who had greeted you with equal amounts saliva and enthusiasm, before falling asleep next to the TV, completely unbothered by the commotion. Unlike Althea, Logan and Wade’s blind roommate, who had taken one listen to the gaggle of voices and left. The elusive Vanessa, Wade’s ex-but-we-might-get-back-together you heard about a couple times, wasn’t there.

Logan had been right, it was nice to be surrounded by good people. Especially good people who were… unconventional. It made joining them less complicated, less performative, and as the evening progressed it made you a participant instead of a silent observer. Wade even called you, “good for the group dynamic,” and it made you beam with pride.

“Don’t they have like, rockets attached to the car?” Ellie questions, to which Yukio’s eyebrows knit together.

“Exactly!” Wade exclaims, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Citizen Kane wishes.”

There’s more grumbling from everyone when Wade pops the DVD into the player, and he grumbles something back about how Logan would back him up if he wasn’t in the bathroom because he, quote unquote, goes way back with some of these dudes.

You’re pretty sure he’s the only one who knows what he’s even talking about.

An empty bowl of popcorn rests in your lap, and as you put it on the table, you notice how sticky and greasy your fingers and palms are. When the opening credits begin to roll, you get up to wash your hands, assuring Wade he doesn’t need to pause the movie before you go.

The apartment’s small, so it isn’t far to the kitchen, but it’s nice to stretch your legs. You can still hear the sounds from movie night; tell-tale action movie music, comments of disbelief and Wade shutting them down. They’re more faint, though, more so when you turn the tap on and wash your hands.

Right as you’re finished, you hear a dull thud. You turn the water off, head tilted and at attention while you dry your hands. There’s another sound, like a muffled groan. It’s coming from the pantry, you realize, noting that the door is slightly ajar. There’s a shing! sound followed by a distressed grunt, and before you know it you’re walking over, wrapping your fingers around the door to pull it open–

You’re not sure what it was you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Logan’s sitting on the floor, uncharacteristically small, curled up against one of the walls. His chest is heaving, shoulders all but going up to his ears with how he’s trying to draw in breaths. Next to him, his fist is balled against the hardwood, claws buried in the floor.

Fuck.

Dropping to your knees, you wedge yourself between his. “It’s okay, you’re having a panic attack,” you explain, your hands landing on his shoulders with a light shake. “You need to breathe. I’ll help you, just look at me.”

Logan’s head stays tipped down, a deep, rattling breath sailing from his mouth as he curls further in on himself.

“Hey!” you say sharply, cupping his jaw with two hands and tilting his face up, “Look at me.” 

Logan’s eyes are wet when they meet yours, moving frantically as they search your face, tears spilling over when he blinks. Something changes in his gaze, like he finally sees it’s you, and his bottom lip begins to tremble. His hand lifts from where it’s buried in the floor, clutching onto your wrist like a lifeline.

“Breathe,” you instruct, trying not to flinch at the sharp claws in front of you. He doesn’t catch on immediately, so you overdo the purse of your lips when you blow out a breath before exaggerating an inhale through your nose, showing him what to do. It starts off shaky, a fresh set of tears falling from Logan’s eyes as he does as you instruct, but after a couple of times you find a rhythm together. The silver between his knuckles slowly disappears. “There you go, good job. Keep going.”

You sit like that, until the wild shift of his eyes stops, his pulse steadies beneath your fingertips, and eventually his eyes close with a deep exhale. His grip on you loosens and you take it as your cue to let go of him, slumping back against the wall opposite him with a sigh of relief. The both of you catch your breath, sitting together in silence until Logan breaks it.

“Came outta nowhere… suddenly I was back there… letting them down.”

“It caught you off guard, it happens–”

“I let them get killed,” he says, voice raw. “They were like– They were my family, they trusted me to be there for them and I… I was too caught up in my own bullshit. I should have been with them, I should be dead with them.”

Logan’s tears still come, but the words almost sound reverent; as if saying them out loud just to punish himself with his own shortcomings is a balm. He’s talking about his team from there, you realize, and something clicks. All this time, you thought this was about him being unable to die due to his mutation, but it’s more than that. It’s shame, remorse, grief, survivor’s guilt, all wrapped into one.

It’s the final piece of your mind puzzle that makes his picture appear.

“How– How can I ever atone for that?” he asks. “How can I ever–”

“Logan, you can't change your past,” you interrupt carefully. “You made your choices and they made theirs, and you honored them by– by…stepping up to the task, by doing what you did with Wade.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

“What if it was?” you counter. Your hand finds his knee with a squeeze, before adding, “You did what they would have done. And now you… you need to allow yourself to honor their memory without feeling like you have to destroy yourself to do it. You deserve that.”

Logan blinks at you, eyes still glossy. He looks devastated yet calmer than before, like the emotion is still there, but displaced. For a good while, you sit with him like that while his sniffles lessen and his breathing returns to normal… until there’s a loud explosion coming from the living room. It’s followed by cheers and hollers, and you’re both suddenly reminded of where you are. 

“C’mon,” you say, patting Logan’s knee before using it as leverage to haul yourself up with a groan. You give him room by holding the door open for him. “Better get back before we miss the good stuff.”

Still on the floor, Logan exhales heavily. “Think this was the good stuff.”

– – – – –

Three weeks later, on your way to your third movie night, you catch Wade and Vanessa making out in the building hallway. 

It stops you dead in your tracks and makes for an awkward meeting with Wade’s mystery woman, who is beautiful but very direct when she asks you what the fuck you’re staring at. Wade certainly has a type when it comes to the company he keeps… He quickly shushes the situation, introducing the two of you, and it immediately makes Vanessa’s expression twist into recognition. 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, followed by an apologetic smile. 

You respond in kind. 

When Wade tugs at her jacket impatiently, they brush past you and make their way to the exit. “See you around!” she throws over her shoulder.

A grin forms on your lips, realizing what you just witnessed, and you race up the stairs. With Wade gone, you’re not sure if there will be a movie, but at least you have gossip to share with your friends.

THE MEETING

April flies by, rolls into May, and thing’s are… okay.

With some help, you find a therapist. It’s good, she’s good, but it’s difficult to be confronted with things that are painful, week after week, and to keep reminding yourself it’s all part of the process you’re going through.

Last week, after a particularly difficult session, you’d left her office being auto-piloted by dark feelings, like they knew exactly when to strike. You had turned corners and crossed streets, wandering as you stewed on everything you’d discussed –  like your mind was playing a constant loop of your most painful moments. It was a small miracle you had heard your phone, and that you had the presence of mind to thumb the green button.

You’d answered without saying a word.

“Got any plans?” Logan had asked on the other side of the line.

“No,” you’d replied, coming back to yourself a little bit at the sound of his voice.

“Al’s making her meatballs – she and Wade can’t agree on if they’re famous or infamous. Thought you might like to come. If it tastes like shit, we’ll order in.”

You’d hummed, managing to ask, “What time?”

It had stayed quiet on the other end, and that’s how you’d known he was onto you, could picture the pinch of his brows, his lips forming a thin line. For the first time, you welcomed it—wanted so badly to reach through the phone, shake his shoulders, ask for his help and accept it, like he had done with you weeks ago. 

“Sounds to me like now might be good.”

“Yeah,” you had agreed, the constricting tightness in your chest easing up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” You’d released a shuddering breath, ear still pressed to the phone as you took in your surroundings before you auto-piloted yourself to a different destination. 

“Logan?”

“Still here.”

“Thank you for calling.”

“‘course. Get here soon, I’ll stay on the phone.”

The afternoon had ended with Logan and yourself allowing Althea to boss you around in the small apartment’s kitchen, rolling meatballs, sharing stories — Althea’s recollection of something that happened to her in her 20s that involved her stealing a police horse while wearing nothing but a thong, made you cry from laughing.

The meatballs were the best you ever had, though you couldn’t be sure if they actually were, or if it was just the taste of the moment that was better than anything had been that day. 

Sometime after dinner, Logan had nudged your shoulder to show you a little plastic chip. He flashed it at you long enough that you could read the words one month, before he pocketed it again. Then he suggested you come with him next week. 

“I thought it was bullshit too, but it helps,” he’d explained. “Figured I couldn’t continue to drink whatever that stuff is you call coffee to… avoid my problems.”

You contemplated his suggestion. Things were going well for you in that regard, but your therapist had also recommended you go to one of these things, even if it was just for the community aspect of it. It just made it so… official. Your problems, but most of all, your recovery. You weren’t good at keeping promises to yourself, and this felt like a big commitment. Not to mention the speeches and other people’s problems...

But as Logan told you more about it, the location, how it had been for him, you sensed something else between the lines: He wasn’t just asking for you, he was also asking for himself. Maybe… this was his way of telling you he needed some support. 

That’s how you find yourself inside a high school gymnasium a week later. It’s as gloomy as you expected. Slick floors, gray fold-out chairs set in neat rows, buzzing lights in a high ceiling, and a slightly raised podium with a whiteboard that reads a welcome message in capital letters. 

Unsure of what to do, you follow Logan as he weaves through the crowd to find a seat. As you do, it strikes you that there’s a pretty even distribution of people, with many genders, ages and lifestyles represented. Eventually you take a seat; not quite in the back, but definitely not in the front. 

The whole thing goes by in a blur, but where you expected to be overwhelmed, you feel… connected. Here you are, surrounded by people with different backgrounds, different lives, but all their stories have something you can relate to. Where you thought addiction was the common denominator, it’s actually the desire to turn your lives around that unites you the most.

“Before we end the night I want to circle back to last week, when we spoke about goals, or things we want to work towards,” says the woman leading the meeting – you’re ashamed to admit you already forgot her name. “Does anyone want to share something about that?”

It takes a lot to hide your surprise when Logan raises his hand. 

“Logan! Come on up!” She sounds as surprised as you feel, beckoning him to her.

The plastic chair he sits on creaks when he stands and his boots squeak against the shiny floor as he does as she asks. He looks so out of place on a podium; both larger than life behind the lectern and lost to the space of the stage. He clears his throat as he retrieves a paper from his pocket and unfolds it while his eyes scan the room until they land on yours. You give him a little nod of encouragement, and it kicks him into gear.

“Not good at this stuff, so I’m going to keep it brief,” he starts. 

It earns him a chuckle or two from the other attendees, and you can tell he doesn’t expect it when he looks up from his paper. Your hands clasp together with nerves as you watch him divide his weight from one leg to another, before focussing his gaze back down.

“My life has changed a lot over the past few months. For the first time in a long time, it’s not all bad. Coming here has been good. I’m starting to feel more like I did before–” 

He stops his monotonous droning with a frustrated sigh, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket and sounding considerably more lively after. 

“I have people I care about again, and um, it scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to let them down, and every day I feel like I will because of all of my… past shit.” He pauses and swallows hard before he continues, “They show me so much kindness and understanding, that… that even though it’s fucking hard, I want to be able to see myself the way they see me. And allow them to care about me without feeling like I… have to earn it all the time, without destroying myself to do it.” 

You exhale for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

“So, that’s what I’m currently working on.” Logan sighs. “That’s it. Thank you.”

A small applause follows, and you quickly unclasp your hands to join in.

Your palms hurt after.

– – – – –

“It was really nice, what you said in there,” you say, fingers caressing a little plastic chip of your own that you keep safe in your coat pocket. You haven’t felt proud of yourself in a while, but tonight you do.

The evening is nice, the setting sun bathing the city in hues of orange and pink. Your pace is slow and comfortable, your arm occasionally brushing Logan’s when you make room for all the other pedestrians. You didn’t plan on him walking you home, but he insisted and you enjoy the company – it makes you a little sad when you turn onto your street.

Logan scoffs in reply. 

“I’m being serious,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm on purpose now. “It was nice for people to hear a guy like you say those things. I’m proud of you.”

You swear he blushes. “A guy like me, huh?” he asks, almost amused.

It’s your turn to scoff. “You know what I mean.” 

“A mutant?” He looks at you from the corner of his eye.

“No,” you say, because it’s not what you meant, but the hint of seriousness in his voice and the fact he’s not entirely wrong make you track back. “Well, maybe that, too, but I meant someone who looks like you, allowing themselves to be vulnerable. Sets a nice example.”

Logan doesn’t shoot your comments down like you expect. Instead, he seems to consider your words, maybe he even silently accepts the compliment. “Think you have some things to say that could set a nice example, too.”

“Maybe next time.”

During the comfortable silence that follows, you’re reminded of something you’ve been considering for weeks now. You hadn’t paid much attention to it since that night, but as you worked through the feelings that got you to that point, the question kept coming back.

“I’ve been wondering something,” you begin. “The night we met... What were you doing at the lookout?”

Logan glances at you, contemplating the question. “When I had just, um, gotten here, it wasn’t always easy to adjust, you know? So I went to all these places that I knew from back there, to ground myself, to see that things may be different, but that they’re not that different.”

“You went there on your side?”

He hums.

“By yourself?”

He hums again.

“Did you…” You hesitate to finish your sentence, both because you’re not sure if you have any right to ask and because you’ve reached your building. You stop walking, and Logan follows your lead. 

“No, no, no, I… I can’t explain it, it’s just one of those places I was always drawn to,” Logan says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans with a shrug. His brows furrow suddenly, his mind seemingly lost in something before his eyes flick back to yours. “Think it took me coming over here to find reason in it.”

It’s a thought that’s equal parts sad and lovely. 

The silence that follows hangs between you, thick with something you can’t place, but Logan doesn’t look away from you, eyes scanning your face before they land back on yours. You can’t help thinking that maybe this is how he does it, and the question comes out before you can help it,

“Is mind reading part of the X-Gene thing?”

His eyes widen – amusement or surprise, you can’t say. “It can be.” 

“Can you do it?”

“No,” he says. “And it’s for the best, fucking hurts when you can’t control it.” Then the start of a smile begins to form on his lips. “‘sides, I don’t know if I would have a lot of… consideration for people’s boundaries.”

It makes you chuckle. “Right. Not to mention some minds are probably a lot – imagine reading Wade’s mind.”

“Hurts to even imagine,” Logan says, gesturing for you to be quiet as he winces, but a smile breaks through anyway. When your shared laughter dies down, he jerks his chin at the building behind you, “This your place?”

“Wha–?” Going home long forgotten in the moment, you glance over your shoulder. “Oh! Yes.”

“All right,” he nods. “See you next week?”

“Definitely,” you reply.

“Oh,” Logan says right before you turn around. “Bring coffee? You owe me.”

You make a face at him. “You don’t have to– I’ll get you something else, I know you don’t like it.”

“I like it when I drink it with you.”

It’s incredibly hard to hide your grin. “Okay, I’ll bring coffee. See you next week, Logan.”

“See you.” 

He lingers, watching you climb the steps, waiting until the door opens after you turn your key in the lock. It’s not until you close the door, when you can only make out his silhouette through the patterned glass window in it, that he walks off.

THE SUMMER

Walking back from a very successful job interview, you find yourself on your way to your friends with a big, plastic bottle of coke under your arm. It’s a warm feeling to know that you’ll soon have a job that suits you and that you have people to celebrate with; you look forward to seeing them and sharing this with them.

You’re invited inside with open arms, tight hugs, exclaimed praise and congratulations, and it makes you giddy, a feeling so foreign that you wish you could bottle it up right this instant. With a grin, you shake the Coca Cola bottle, before twisting the cap off. You let out an excited shout as you watch the foam shoot out from the top, bubbles and dark liquid pulsing down the neck of the bottle as cheers surround you.

It’s not champagne, but Althea grumbles about the soda ruining her floors, Wade gets mismatched glasses from the cupboard, and Logan clinks his glass to yours and tells you he’s proud of you.

It’s way better than champagne.

– – – – –

You’re in serious, desperate need of a new place… 

The August heat is relentless, and the entire building’s AC isn’t working. It’s with considerable effort that you manage to make your way to your friends’ place, the promise of a constant, cold stream of wind the only thing that keeps you going. But when the front door opens, it isn’t with the welcoming, cool waft of air you were hoping for. Instead, there’s no temperature change, only Wade in his underwear.

“No.” It’s a little embarrassing how you literally pout, but these are desperate times. “Here, too?”

“If it wasn’t this fucking hot I’d be offended by that greeting.” He sighs. “Come in.”

Slightly defeated, you shuffle past the threshold, while Wade lingers. Mary Puppins trots by, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel secured on her back, and you catch a glimpse of Logan exiting the bedroom. He’s in black shorts and a ribbed, sleeveless shirt, and with a desperate groan, he lets himself fall back into the recliner in the living room. 

“Tried everything, there’s no fixing that fucking thing.”

Wade makes a face, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking: Wade’s in his underwear, Logan’s emerging from the bedroom… But we didn’t fuck, it’s not that kind of st–”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask from behind him, glancing over his shoulder into the empty hallway.

“No one–You!” The door closes with a bang.

Confused, you walk further into the apartment. “Well, telling me you didn’t is just going to make me think that you did.” Wade darts past you and takes a seat on the couch, but you hang back and lean against the kitchen table to avoid sitting on leather.

Wade suddenly turns to face you. “Did I ever tell you about our time in The Void?”

“Wade,” Logan warns.

Wade’s eyes are sparkling with mischief and you can’t deny how fun it is to indulge the way he pushes Logan’s buttons. It’s a good distraction from how you’re drenched in sweat. And you’re actually curious.

You play your part, letting out a faux-scandalised gasp. “Did you..?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Wolverine goes both ways. All the ways, really.” He grins. “We’re so alike.”

“Shut up. Both of you.” Logan groans, lacking any real threat as he adjusts in his seat and wipes some sweat off his brow. “It’s too fucking hot to be annoyed.”

It isn’t lost on you he doesn’t deny a thing.

– – – – –

Apartments look weird with nothing in them.

It’s what crossed your mind after you finished packing up your place three days ago, and it crosses your mind now as you look into the open space of your new one from the doorway. It’s a pleasant, late summer day; perfect weather to move, which was on your schedule for today.

“Incoming!” comes from behind you, followed by quick, heavy steps.

You jump aside as Ellie sails through the door, carefully setting a big box marked “Kitchen” down in its designated area, followed by Logan who is balancing three boxes at once. After a beat, Yukio follows, holding a single table lamp in her hand. It takes some effort not to laugh, not just because of how funny it looks, but also because you relate; after all the exhausting late nights you pulled packing up, that’s also the kind of energy you’re bringing to this.

It’s nice of them to help, and instead of shoving that feeling away in fear, you allow yourself to bask in it. You don’t get long, however, because more help has just arrived.

Wade. With Vanessa. Hands interlocked.

It draws everyone’s eyes to the doorway. Wade looks almost bashful, and it baffles you how someone who can say the most insane things unprompted, all without batting an eye, could blush while holding hands with a girl he likes. To his credit, he shakes it off quickly.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Stop ogling me and my girlfriend and get back to work everyone!”

– – – – –

“So it was like an experiment?” you ask, stirring the pot on your stove before taking a careful bite of food off your wooden spoon.

Tonight’s your first night hosting at your new place – Family Dinner, Wade had dubbed it. With fall setting in, you had an idea of what to make, but it still made you nervous to have everyone in your space. Logan saw right through you, offering to come over early to help you prepare. 

Once he had arrived, it hadn’t taken long for him to admit he wasn’t much of a cook, so he mainly chopped vegetables as you chatted; you about your new place, Logan about his new job as a boxing instructor, Laura going off to college. You don’t remember exactly how the subject of his adamantium came up, but he was telling you freely about it.

“They needed someone who could regenerate fast enough to bond with it,” he explains. “I was in a dark place. Figured I didn’t have anything to lose if it didn’t work.”

You nod in understanding. “Do you… remember much about it?” You put your spoon down, then put the lid back on the pan. 

Logan’s knife stops hitting the cutting board. “Yeah, I… I remember every second of it.”

You look at him then. His eyes are still cast down at his task. Unsure of what to say, you think about what you’d want to hear, and you find it might be best to say nothing at all. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder. Logan’s head turns to you, and you feel like the look you share is more important than anything you could’ve told him. His hand covers yours with an appreciative squeeze. 

“But I’m trying to leave that there so I can focus on remembering what happens to me here.” As soon as he’s said it, his hand quickly slips off yours, adding, in a rush, “Here in this timeline, I mean.” 

You smile at him, but a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. “That sounds like a great idea.”

– – – – –

“I need your help with something,” you say, balancing your phone between your ear and your shoulder while you turn a birthday card over in your hand. Deciding you don’t like it, you throw it back on the pile of cards and continue your grocery shopping.

“Just say the word,” comes Logan’s reply from the other end.

“I need you to steal something out of the apartment for me.” There’s a silence, and you purposely let the feeling of trepidation linger.

“Am gonna need you to say a little more than just that.”

You laugh, “Wade’s been talking about getting a little frame for his polaroid. You know, the polaroid that you held on to for him in The Void, after the two of you fu–”

“Yes, I know the one,” he interjects with a huff. He pauses, sighs, then says, “Consider it done.”

THE PARTY

“There you are!” Wade shouts after he opens the door. He pulls you into a hug that you return with a wide smile. Over his shoulder, you see that the apartment’s crowded, bustling with people who are there for his birthday party.

“I got you something,” you say, offering the small package to him after you step inside and hang up your coat.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if you hadn’t,” he admits as he closes the door behind you with a bang. Wade takes the package from your hand, shaking it next to his ear but hearing it make no sound in response. “Is it a cock ring?”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Unfortunately, they were all sold out.”

“They always are,” he says, making a disappointed face. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you watch as he tears at the wrapping paper to reveal his gift. He makes another face when he sees it. “Well, now I feel like an asshole. This is really nice.”

“Logan helped me kidnap it,” you explain, pointing at the picture. “And the little red hearts on the frame, well, they’re your color, but they also reminded me of how much you care about people.”

When he looks at you after, it’s with genuine emotion… but Wade is Wade. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of happy you walked in here barfing up the place.”

A strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude claws its way up your neck. “Thank you.”

“We should take a new one,” he decides suddenly, pointing at the picture. “You both should be in it.” His head turns, watching as Logan approaches the two of you. “But let’s be realistic, his shoulders are so broad he wouldn’t even fit in the frame, much less his bul–”

“Stop talking about my dick, Wade,” Logan snaps.

“I was saying only good things! Jeez, so sensitive…” Wade turns, putting the picture on the kitchen table behind him where it joins all the other gifts.

“Did he like it?” Logan asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Good,” he replies. “Was a nice idea.”

You eye all the other gifts, some clearer who they are from than others. “What did you get him?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts as he points at a roll of silver duct tape with a small red bow on top, making you fix them both with a confused look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Logan shrugs.

Wade’s eyes sparkle, but in a rare turn of events, he doesn’t elaborate, only adds, “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.” 

“And I have top level clearance, lieutenant,” you reply. You exhale through your nose in an amused laugh when Wade makes a surprised face that indicates you’ve gotten the reference. “What, you thought a Tom Cruise impression could save you?”

“No,” he grins, and as if on cue, the doorbell rings, “but that can. Birthday Boy duty calls, but I want it on record that I could do Top Gun, easily, while Tom would never be able to pull off Deadpool.”

– – – – –

The party settles into something comfortable, soft music in the background of lively chatter. Yukio has just finished telling you about a Professor Layton cosplay she’s doing when you excuse yourself, both your glass and your social battery empty enough to look for a momentary out. Finding your way through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen, filling your glass with water and taking a few sips. 

While you do, the music suddenly gets louder, taking over for the steady chatter. You turn around, leaning back against the kitchen counter, and watch as Wade drags Vanessa to the middle of the apartment. People make room for them, exchanging looks while Wade wraps his arm around her waist, takes her hand in his and begins dancing with her. With a laugh, she slaps him on the chest, before settling into his embrace anyway. Some follow their lead, but your eyes stay glued to them. Wade spins Vanessa under his arm, the smile on her face bright enough to light up the entire room. In return, he looks at her with so much adoration he’s almost glowing himself. It fills you with warmth to see the both of them so happy.

It hits you how you haven’t thought about this in a while. You’d decided long ago that the future wasn’t something you had to worry about, but suddenly you’ve arrived, like you’re in some alternate reality where your future is now, and that it would be nice to share it with someone. The sting behind your eyes catches you a little off guard; mixed feelings of time that has been taken from you, but also of time you’re getting back with the life you now have.

For a while now, you’ve suspected the thing inside you is gone, that there isn’t much to feed off of anymore. If it is, it would make sense that there’s room for something else.

Wade and Vanessa make it look easy, even though you know it’s been far from easy for them. You suppose that’s what it’s like, especially as you get older. It’s less about big gestures, more about small ones; someone to make you laugh, to spin you under their arm, who knows how to apologize, seeks you out during your quiet moments–

“Do you dance?”

You startle, head turning towards the voice next to you– 

“Logan,” you breathe. 

It’s like you’re seeing him for the very first time. He’s standing so close, almost touching you but not quite, heat radiating off of him nonetheless. The plaid shirt he’s wearing isn’t even buttoned and still the fabric is pulled taunt over his shoulders and the thick of his biceps. He’s grinning, his nose pulled up in an adorable scrunch, the corner of his eyes crinkling - you never noticed before, but there’s a hint of green between the hazel.

It hits you so suddenly that you have to grab the counter to keep your balance. Everything that’s been happening, that you’ve been feeling, all the times something happened between the two of you that you couldn’t put your finger on… it falls into place with a well-timed, completely unrelated question and a glance at him.

You like him.

All you can do is blink at him, dazed, unable to speak, even more so when he leans in a little closer, mistaking your silence for misunderstanding. “I mean, not that I– You and Wade were doing a bit earlier, it’s a reference to–” Logan straightens suddenly, his expression slipping into concern as he watches you, “Are you okay?”

You feel warm, so aware of all his attention on you that you’re afraid he might be able to see your pulse blink rapidly below the angle of your jaw. “Yeah,” you reply, voice hoarse, looking away from him to blink the leftover wetness from earlier out of your eyes. 

Anxiety claws its way into your chest, your mind coming to terms with what it’s puzzled together at such a sickening pace that there’s an immediate knot in your stomach. The party has instantly lost its shine, and you look down at the glass in your hand, gulping down its contents. You need to be alone with your thoughts, you need to think about this before–

“I gotta go,” you say in such a rush that it almost sounds like one word while you set your glass on the kitchen counter.

Logan’s eyes follow you as you push past him, grab your coat and reach for the doorknob. “Wait–”

“Bye, Logan.”

THE TABLE

Once at home, you change into something more comfortable, your mind racing while you peel your party clothes off, toss your bra aside, change into an oversized shirt and plop down on the couch after.

Despite having already established that your mind was occupied with other things for a very long time, it’s laughable in hindsight that you never noticed your feelings before. It’s not like you don’t know what Logan’s like; he’s kind, funny, supportive…

…broad, handsome.

Shit.

Why did you have to come to your senses? Things were better before that moment. Logan’s your friend, whom you met in the most unconventional way possible. It’s ridiculous to want more than what you have when what you have is good. Or to think that he would want more.

But he might.

Because you may have been occupied with depression, anxiety, recovery, and everything in between, but you were there; you remember the time you spent with him, the way he looks at you, drinks the coffee you like, laughs at your jokes, seems to know exactly when to call you, seeks you out in a crowd.

But it would change everyth– 

Actually, not a whole lot would change, if you really think about it. You already see him all the time, you’ve seen the very worst of each other, overcome a great deal of hardship together, you make each other better, his friends are your… 

friends. 

You didn’t say goodbye to Wade.

The thought comes suddenly. It was his birthday party and you didn’t even say goodbye to him before you left. You’re a terrible friend. Dread sinks into your limbs, and you reach for your phone to type out a quick, apologetic message. Just as you hit send, there’s a series of loud knocks on the door, and it makes you freeze up where you’re seated.

“Are you in there?” a muffled voice calls out.

It’s Logan, you realize, and a plethora of fake excuses as to why you left the party early present themselves to your mind as you quickly make your way over to the door.

The first thing you notice when you open it is that he’s dripping wet from the rain, clothes soaked through and his hair flat. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and it’s different from how he usually looks; he looks actually mad.

“Logan, is everything–” you begin, concerned, but he cuts you off by pushing past you and letting himself inside, boots stomping against the wooden floor. 

“Jesus, here you are. Why’d you leave like that, huh? Saying goodbye, your eyes all wet. I went after you and you were fucking gone, it scared the shit out of me. Didn’t see the car at the lookout, but I went to look for you anyway, and you weren’t in the water, thank fuck–”

“Wait, you went–” you pause, the mental image of Logan running out into the rain to the cliffside making your eyes widen. “Did you think..?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Shit.” Your heart is racing when you step closer to him. “No, I wasn’t… I don’t want that anymore.”

“Then what the fuck was that all about?”

The desperation and misunderstanding in his eyes is unmistakable, and you hate that you made him feel like that. “I was just… I needed a moment, after seeing Wade and Vanessa like that,” you say, trying to provide yourself with more time to think, unsure if you already want to broach the subject of why you really left.

“You… like Wade?” Logan asks, his frown deepening.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at the unexpected question. “No. I mean, I adore Wade, but not like that. He’s with Vanessa.”

The answer does nothing to change his expression. “And you want it to be different?”

His line of questioning confuses you. “I– No. Logan, this isn’t about Wade or Vanessa, but it’s about… what they have. Something that’s real, but imperfect, and that’s what actually makes it perfect, and I just… I was in a really bad place for such a long time, I didn’t give myself time to even think about… I haven’t felt myself wanting for so long,” your gaze flicks up to his. “Seeing them just made me realize there’s so much left that I still want.” 

Internally, you curse the way he always makes you say too much, because you can see the understanding wash over his features. His expression softens, the balled fists by his side loosen, and his eyes search you, as if to see if that thing you want is him. There’s no doubt he finds his answer; you’re ever the open book when it comes to him, and your pulse quickens while he silently observes you. 

Logan reaches for you so quickly that you can barely prepare for it, a hand on your waist to pull you in, another on your cheek to tip your face up and guide your mouth to his. A shaky breath sails out through your nose when your lips meet, your eyes fluttering shut and your palms sliding up his damp but warm chest to curl in the soaked fabric of his shirt. It’s eager, and the angle is off, but it’s quickly adjusted with a brief parting and a near in-sync tilt of your heads in the other direction. 

Logan pulls away, but stays close, and you almost feel his words before hearing them, “Been… thinking about doing that.”

“Really?” you say, breathless and amused. “When did you, um, start wanting to do that?”

“Few weeks ago–Fuck, no, more than that. Almost did, that day after your first meeting, after you told me you were proud of me,” he admits. “But I wanted to give you time, space. Wasn’t sure if you felt–”

“I do. Didn’t realize it before, but I fucking do,” you assure him, another tug on his collar trying to pull him back to you. His admissions, knowing he wants you too, only make you want him more, like you have to make up for all the time you wasted not doing this sooner.

Logan’s hand on your waist holds you off. “I just don’t know how to… how to be this,” he confesses softly.

“That’s okay,” you say, your nose brushing against his. “I don’t either.”

He inches forward like he intends to kiss you again, but seems to reconsider, swallowing hard before saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time we figure it out together, huh?”

The words make you surge forward to close the gap between you, your brows creasing, attempting to convey everything you feel with one press of your lips to his. Logan’s hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you to him in a way that seems to mirror your efforts. Something lights up inside you, something you lost long ago, and it makes you bold, opening your mouth under his to get a taste of him. 

His grip on you tightens with a groan, spurring him into action and walking you backwards into the dark kitchen, the only illumination the slivers of moonlight that come through the kitchen window. You jolt when the back of your thighs hit the table, before you’re scrambling to get on top of it, two hands at your waist helping to hoist you up. Your thighs widen to make room for Logan’s while you push the green flannel shirt off his shoulders, struggling to peel it off his arms to the point you have to break away with a laugh to really get it right. It lands on the floor with a wet sound, before he reaches for the back of his shirt, curling his fingers around the collar and pulling it over his head.

Logan’s sturdy, warm to the touch and surprisingly pliant when you can’t help but let your fingers flit along the corded muscles and protruding veins while he toes off his shoes. His hand flies to the back of your head to fist the hair at the nape of your neck when your lips explore, find his jaw, and travel down his neck. A soft sound sails from his mouth, a barely audible moan that carries over into something deeper when your lips brush a spot just above his clavicle. Using the grip he has on you, he drags you back up to his mouth, doing some more of his own exploring when his warm tongue strokes against your own. 

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs with a buck of his hips against yours. The thrill of having him pushed up against you, half-hard, warm, full of promise, makes you moan, teeth clacking against his when you do. “Always so fucking good to me.”

It makes you want to protest, from the very moment you met, he’s the one always being that to you, but it dies on your tongue when Logan’s flicks over the tips of his fingers. His impatient hand finds its way between you, disappearing under the waistband of your underwear and stretching the material to make room. His name comes out as a whimper when his spit-slick fingers easily glide through the soft skin between your legs. He curses, another buck of his hips pressing his hand closer against you, and your kiss turns messy and uncoordinated when he dips one finger to touch your clit. 

“This okay?” Logan asks when you gasp, drawing languid circles between your legs.

“Yeah, it’s just– Oh, god.” Two thick fingers find your entrance, swirling the wetness there around. “Been a while,” you manage to finish your sentence.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises. “You want that?”

All you can do is nod, and Logan presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulls his hand back. It’s paired with a wet sound that makes your cheeks heat, more so when you watch him get on his knees and yank you to the edge of the table, the quick turn of events and the casual display of his strength making you a little dizzy. Logan’s nose presses into the fabric between your legs with a sharp inhale, before quick, practiced moves work your underwear down your legs. One eager hand places a thigh on his shoulder as another holds you at the bend of your knee. You lie back, arching as you hurriedly pull your t-shirt over your head, leaning up on your elbows just in time to watch him bend down. 

The feeling of Logan’s hot breath sailing out over your sensitive skin alone is enough to make you gasp. He drags his lips and nose across your folds, easing you into it as much as his lack of patience will allow before tasting you with a swipe of his tongue. It isn’t tentative or testing, but firm and sure, and clearly for his enjoyment as much as yours when he repeats his action and groans into you. The vibrations of it and the gentle scratch of his facial hair only add to the liquid feeling in the pit of your stomach. Letting go of your knee, he curls a strong arm around your thigh, spreading you open then pulling you flush against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Oh, that feels really good,” you spur him on, your heel digging in between his shoulder blades. You watch him with hooded eyes, shifting your weight to one elbow so you can cup your breast with a whine. 

Logan’s eyes slip shut in focus, working his tongue up and down your clit and making you arch into his mouth. Reaching for you blindly, he slides a hand over yours on your chest, fingers fitting between your own and squeezing while his tongue slides lower to lick over where you’re dripping for him. He lets out an appreciative hum as he repeats the move until your thighs clench and shake around his ears. His tongue dips inside you, curling up against the slick walls of your cunt, and his name tumbles from your mouth, soft, pleading, making his eyes shoot open to meet yours.

The sight of him looking up at you like that from between your thighs, with dark eyes, the tip of his nose glistening with your wetness, will probably haunt you for the rest of your life. 

Logan shushes your begging, pulling away and watching as your pussy clenches at the sudden lack of attention. “Let me give you something to come on,” he murmurs, before fitting a finger at your entrance. It meets absolutely no resistance, a second finger sliding inside with just as much ease, and he sets a steady, deep rhythm before his mouth returns to your clit.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Your head rolls back between your shoulder blades, mouth open on a silent gasp, but he draws your attention back to him with a curl of his fingers, finding a spot that makes you go rigid for a second. It all builds so fast, so suddenly. The hand on your chest shakes Logan’s off, finding the crown of his head and sliding your fingers into his hair. He’s too strong to really make purchase, but you try anyway, using your grip to roll your hips against him. The sound of his groans, every flick of his tongue and every squelching, delicious curl of his fingers all send you closer and closer, until his hand presses down on your belly, and…

“Logan,” you manage, voice sharp with a warning that comes too late when he makes you tumble over the edge. 

It’s so much after so long, the force of it making you fall back against the table, something between a gasp and a shout tearing from your throat. He holds you tighter, to keep you in place and guide the desperate roll of your hips against his face. Your orgasm quickly slips into something bordering on oversensitivity, and you let out a dry sob that makes you slap a hand over your mouth when Logan’s tongue travels a path from where his stilled fingers disappear inside you, up to your clit. He stays there, gentle, uncharacteristically patient as you slowly come to a twitching halt. 

He’s a blur when he comes back into your field of view after standing up, towering over you to watch as you come back down to earth. Becoming sharper with every heavy blink of your eyes, you notice the smile on his face is smug, that the hair surrounding it is a shade darker than the rest. You sigh softly when his fingers slip from you, the feeling of them sliding wetly over your clit making you tremble, but his touch doesn’t leave you completely when he moves to stroke the outside of your thigh.

“How’s that?” Logan dares to ask.

“Hmm, no speaking yet,” you protest.

Reaching for him, you slide both of your arms up over his broad shoulders, wrists crossed in the nape of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. It’s slow, and deep, the taste of yourself shared between the two of you as your tongue slides over his. The table protests with a creak when his hands land beside your head, more when his chest pushes down on yours and you wrap a leg around his waist to get him even closer. The hair scattered across his broad chest teases your nipples and the hard ridge of his cock strains against his jeans and presses up against your slick cunt. It makes your jaw go slack, stoking your desire and making you burn with the need to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. 

With a push against his shoulders, you take him along as you sit upright again, accompanied by another creak of the table. Mouth still on his, you slide a hand down to cup him over his jeans, the weight of him against your wide open palm making you pulse. Logan grunts when your hand squeezes, and your mouth slides off his, kissing his jaw, sliding back down his neck. He cups your head, keeping you in place while watching your hand.

“Feels nice,” he husks, voice so deep it makes you want to push him aside and get on your knees for him, but then he asks, “Are you gonna let me fuck you?”

“God, yeah,” you say with a nod, watching as the mark you just sucked into his neck disappears far too soon while you continue rubbing him over the denim. “Want you inside of me.”

“Jesus–Then get it out,” he instructs, guiding your hand to his belt. 

If you weren’t so turned on you might wince at how eager you are, at how quickly you tug the buckle open and pull the leather free. Logan groans when it relieves some of the pressure, letting his forehead rest against yours. Together, you watch your hands make quick work of his zipper, your fist closing around his cock while your other hand works his pants down until he can kick it off and under the table.

He fits nicely in your palm, heavy and ready, sticky at the tip. With a purse of your lips, you let your spit trickle down in a straight line, and he hisses when it hits him. Your free hand flattens against his stomach, sliding down along the hard planes of his body and following the vein just below his belly button down, until it meets your other hand that loosely strokes up to the root of his cock. Logan arches into you when you stroke back up with a tighter grip, all but getting on his toes to chase your touch. Using both of your hands to get all of him, you twist your fists in opposite directions once, twice, before circling his tip with one thumb. Your other hand curls around the underside of him, dragging some of your spit down to his balls with the tips of your fingers.

“F–fuck,” Logan stutters when you play with him there, cupping him in your hand as well as you can and squeezing his shaft when it twitches in response. His eyes slip shut as his palms land on the outside of your thighs with a smack, fingertips digging into your soft skin. 

It makes you jolt, then grin, giddy from the sharp sting and the power you have over his pleasure. “How’s that?” you echo with a teasing lilt.

He does have the words to answer, albeit a little slurred, “‘S good, sweetheart.”

The nickname tacked on at the end takes root in your chest, blooms bright and makes you ache. You translate your appreciation into tightening your strokes and spreading more of the precome that steadily leaks from his tip around.

“C’mere,” Logan says softly, taking over for you with one hand, giving himself a few strokes before pushing your thighs further apart and shuffling closer to line himself up with you.

You’re so wet that the head of his cock is practically already slipping inside of you, but your hand clasps around his bicep when he really starts to breach you. After giving you a shallow little thrust, his hips draw back, before pushing a little further, gauging your reaction.

“Just like that,” you sigh, watching the careful slide of him in and out of you. “Keep going just like that.”

He gets you opened up like that, giving you a little more with each wind of his hips. Logan’s hand finds the back of your neck, his palm splaying out and keeping you close enough that you’re practically sharing air with each sigh and moan. Eventually, your knees have to draw up to his flanks in order for him to keep going and you wind a leg around his hip to close the final distance with a press of your heel into one of the firm cheeks of his ass. A long breath sails out from between your lips when you pulse around him, slowly adjusting to having all of him filling you up. You can tell he has to put considerable effort into letting you, wood groaning below you when he clutches onto the table.

“Fuck, it’s a lot,” you say, and when he grins against your mouth you can’t help but kiss him again – just a peck. The hand at the back of your neck squeezes in reassurance as he continues to let you lead, and it’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel warm all over. You melt into it his touch, your body relaxing as the pleasure of the stretch of him takes over.  

“Can stay like this a little longer if you want,” he says, but the strain in his voice says something different.

“Hmm, no, you can move.” You’ve barely said it, or his hips are drawing back, and it would have made you laugh if it didn’t feel so fucking incredible. He almost slips from you completely, before sliding all the way back inside with a grunt. The table scrapes along the floor, and vaguely you register one of your chairs falling over in the process. When he repeats the action, the furniture squeaks again below you. “Just don’t break my table.”

The sound he makes in response is non-commital, and when he fucks back into you and nudges against something wonderful, you can’t say you disagree. Grabbing hold of his shoulder and using the leg you have wrapped around him, you roll your hips against his, and he begins to meet you halfway until you work up a rhythm together. The table protest further, a shrill sound filling the room after each slap of skin–

With a frustrated groan and accompanied by a startled squeal from yourself, Logan lifts you. The surprised laugh that threatens to bubble up your throat quickly morphs into something heavier that comes out with a rasp when he makes it all look unusually effortless. Attempting to brace yourself, you sling one arm over his shoulders, the other winding around his neck so you can rake your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s a struggle to keep your balance, a helpless heel digging into the back of his thigh to keep yourself upright. Quick to aid, Logan slides an arm under you, fingers splayed across your ass as your knee hangs off the inside of his elbow. He turns a quarter, presses you up against the wall, and doesn’t miss a beat as he continues fucking you. 

“Jesus, Logan,” you say, voice almost a growl and barely recognizable as your own.

With your new position, you can see him better, the both of you lit from the side with the window to your left. The moonlight paints him in a tapestry of light and shadows when the wind blows through the tree branches, momentarily amplifying the glint in his eyes and the flex of his chest and arms like a strobe light.

The different angle he finds with his cock is a little too good, the feeling of the thick base of him stretching you open with each thrust making you dazed and talkative, “It’s so deep like this, can–oh, my god–can feel you everywhere.” 

Logan curses at your words, squeezing your waist and pushing you harder against the wall. There’s a deep-voiced appreciation of how good you feel in there too that doesn’t quite make it from your ears to your brain because somehow he’s still speeding up. His head ducks down to your chest, mouthing at the soft skin of your breast before closing his lips around a nipple. 

You whine, using the grip you have on him to roll your hips against the piston of his while you pant into his crown. Though the sound he makes against you when you do it makes you beam with pride, it’s not something you can keep up for very long, your hold on him slacking after a few thrust until you slip back against the wall. 

Logan pulls back when you do, tightening his hold on you while his eyes glide from the bounce of your tits that glisten with his spit to down between your bodies. 

“Touch yourself,” he instructs, grunting when you immediately do as he says by bringing a hand down between where you’re joined. Your fingers spread in a V-shape around where he fucks into you, collecting some of your mixed arousal before using it to rub your clit. “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, make yourself come.”

You nod, rapidly feeling everything zeroing in on the fingers that draw tight circles over your clit and that spot deep inside you that Logan’s finding with every thrust. “Yeah, fuck, I’m–Don’t stop, don’t stop, please–”

He’s coming before you are, tucking his head below your chin to let out a deep, drawn out moan against your neck that ends with his teeth grazing your skin. It’s so much, the pressure of him grinding himself into you with twitching, barely there thrusts, the heat of his release as it fills you where you’re gripping him like a vice, and as your fingers still twirl between your legs you come, and come, and come. 

The leg you have wrapped around his hip slips off, but before your toes can even scrape the floor, he catches your thigh, cupping your ass with both hands now to keep you up, and close. With a soft, satisfied sound, you let your forehead fall against Logan’s shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat with every light press of your lips there.

It takes you a moment to notice your back has come off the wall, that Logan is walking the both of you into your living room and to the couch. He bends his knees, dropping you between your pillows, where you land with as much grace as you can muster considering you feel like you’re made of lead. The soft couch is pleasant against your body, your sore limbs sinking into the cushions. 

Logan fits himself between your legs again, widening them around his broad shoulders before his lips find your overstretched thighs, leaving marks and kisses up up up, until his tongue slips back into your pussy. Your back arches off the couch, hands shooting down to fist his hair with a whine while Logan’s hand fists his cock. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can tell he’s already getting hard again, and his tongue is making something swirl low in your belly that’s making you pant, and...

It’ll be a long night.

THE PEARL

It had taken a lot of convincing and downright groveling, but Wade had allowed you to bring a movie for movie night. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust your taste in movies, his main gripe with your choice was that it wasn’t a Christmas movie – mandatory for December. Wade’s right, but after you explained that it’s the movie you always watch at the end of the year (and after Logan and yourself conceded that yes, his birthday was technically also your anniversary) he’d agreed. 

Now that you’re actually watching it, you suspect he’s genuinely invested, because after a handful of comments about The Hulk, he’s been quiet for longer than you’ve ever heard him be quiet.

In the scene on the screen, Mark Ruffalo’s character Dan and Keira Knightley’s character Gretta are taking an evening walk around New York City, dancing, singing and sharing music with each other as they do. Eventually, they stop and sit next to each other on some steps, watching as the city continues to move without them.

“...the most banal scenes are suddenly invested with so much meaning, ya know? All these banalities, they're suddenly turned into these… these beautiful, effervescent pearls,” Dan says, wistfully looking on as New York bustles around him. “I gotta say, as I've gotten older these pearls are just… becoming increasingly more and more rare to me.”

The arm Logan has slung around your shoulder tightens, and the couch creaks softly as you lean further into his side, your cheek squishing against his warm chest.

“More string than pearls?” Gretta inquires with a frown.

“Yeah. You got to travel over a lot more string to get to the pearls.” There’s a pause as he turns to look at her, “This moment is a pearl, Gretta.”

She gives him a hint of a smile. “It sort of is, isn't it?”

“All this has been a pearl,” he admits, sharing a look with her.

A finger curls under your chin, tipping your head up until your eyes meet Logan’s. He gives you the same look you just saw on the screen, his eyes soft as they take you in, the hint of green between the hazel illuminated by the light of the television. A thumb swipes over your bottom lip fondly, before he leans down to kiss you.

It takes a lot of string indeed.

Sometimes even interdimensional string.

– – – – –

(THE END)

If you made it all the way here, thanks for reading. Seriously. Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with. I hope to share more writing soon - emphasis on hope, I'm not making promises, just an educated wish.

And lastly, if you're struggling with mental health problems, please don't wait for a handsome stranger to sweep you off your feet. I know from experience that it can be incredibly difficult to reach that hand out, but I also know from experience that things can get better. There are ways to get help and you deserve to get help 🫂

[cherryblossom-enthusiast]

you write arthur so beautifully😭 i beg! i plead for more! anything at all! 💞

🥺 Your comments flatter me and I will always try to write more! I'm just extremely busy with nursing school!!

[cherryblossom-enthusiast]

Unrequited (Arthur Morganxf! Reader) - RDR2

A/N: Whoever decided that there could be a button where Arthur Morgan says "good girl" how ever many times you want, I hope both sides of your pillow are cold.

Synopsis: Arthur loved Mary, didn't he? So, why was it he was spouting all this nonesense about loving you?

Warning/ Tags: Angst. But like SO MUCH FLUFF. Allusions to Sex. Mentions of violence. Coarse language. Kissing. Hurt/ Comfort. Angst with a happy ending.

Word Count: 6.1K

Masterlist

Even now, Arthur Morgan was a lovesick fool for Mary Linton.

You shouldn’t have been surprised; you weren’t really. Arthur doesn’t talk about her much anymore, but you’d known him long enough to see he’d never really let that part of himself go. That part of him that loves. That dreams of something better for himself even if he thinks he’s the big, bad, scary man that he is.

And maybe in some aspect, he is that man. Threatening, bartering, killing. Sometimes you look in his eyes and see nothing but a hard, desolate exterior that wouldn’t think twice about shooting anybody up so long as Dutch told him to do it. But the reality Arthur Morgan doesn’t want to accept is that there’s goodness hiding within the moulding of a gunslinger enforcer.

You can glimpse that goodness when he helps a woman on the road or gives medicine to a man dying from snake poison, and you can especially see it when he’s hauling his ass on his horse to help Mary even when he’s being pulled left and right to finish errands for the camp.

So no, you shouldn’t have been surprised that Arthur would ride out the earliest he could to help his past lover.

But hell, why did it have to hurt you every damn time?

He returns to camp just after the sun rises and light starts to colour the world around you. The air is still crisp, and the heat of the sun is non-existent on your skin.  You’re brushing your horse’s mane when you hear the familiar holler of his voice towards Bill. You don’t look towards him as his horse trots towards the hitching post.

As he dismounts, he greets you, a little pep in the tone of his voice.

It irritates you immediately.

“Mornin’.”

You grit your teeth and put on the brightest smile you can muster. “Mornin’!”

He takes a moment. His eyebrows crease. “Something matter?”

“Uh-?”

“Nothing it’s just-“ he breaks to think about the right words to say. “You don’t look- Never mind.”

This only encourages you to grow your façade stronger. “So,” you start “what’d Mary need this time?” It comes off a little pettier than you intended it to be. He doesn’t deserve that, hell, Mary didn’t deserve your bitterness either, fine woman she was.

That little fact seemed inconsequential however every time he uttered her name and the familiar feeling of jealousy pricked, downright stabbed itself in your gut.

He picks up on your tone, not appreciating it one bit. The displeasure that carves into his expression almost makes you wince and the fake smile that’s plastered on your face twitches the slightest bit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You take the coward’s way out, you always do.

You break eye contact and continue to brush. You’re rewarded by a loving whinny and it almost distracts you from the ice-cold awkwardness you’ve built around this conversation. “Nothin’, just asking.”

Whether he believes your fib or doesn’t, he doesn’t let it show. But him moving on has you thanking God regardless. He takes out a brush, starting to work on his own mare’s mane. “Good girl.” He whispers. Warmth creeps up your neck as your ears tingle towards the baritone timber of his voice. It makes you lose all self-respect for yourself. He sneaks a look at you for the tiniest bit of time before continuing your conversation. “Her brother, he was involved in some weird religious group.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep,” he sighs “buncha turtle lovers.”

That gets a genuine chuckle out of you even though you don’t understand it. When you glance towards Arthur’s direction, the indifference has faded away from his features and all that’s left is a sarcastic smirk in its place. All frost has melted away and all too quickly you’re back to the ease that usually came with your dynamic.

You can’t help but throw a snide joke his way. “Gosh, if you’re still this involved in their family drama, you should just make it official and propose again.”

The idea haunts you, of course, it does. But you weren’t going to let Arthur know that. The more you joke, the more it becomes real, the more your true feelings become buried underneath a pile of age-old lies and supportive nonsense. Because at the end of the day, if it would make Arthur happy, you’d keep biting your lip and pushing him towards happiness. 

Love worked funny like that.

His smirk falls and you’re worried you pushed it a tad bit too far. “I tried once and I don’t know if it’ll ever happen.” He turns almost sombre, like thinking back on old memories that were equal parts sweet and bitter and this bothers you in a different way.

“I sincerely think if you were to propose to her right now, she’d say yes with no questions asked.” You hope he sees the genuineness in your intentions.

He merely gives you a scoff, slightly shaking his head. “Yeah well,” he trails off. “It’d never work out now.”

You decide not to continue pushing. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to dig deeper into the situation and even in your sorry narrow-minded state, you could understand and respect keeping your mouth shut when you needed to. You lick your lips and stick another sickly-sweet smile to your face. “Well, you continue on moping, but I can’t say I’ll be sticking around to see you grumbling around.”

That gets him to snort. “And where will the rough and tough princess be today? Helping a rabbit off the road? Wait-“ he pauses for dramatic effect “Talking to the birds and singing em’ a song?” He makes himself chortle quietly at the idea.

“I have a date.”

That gets him to stop cold turkey. He’s only met with a smug appearance on your end. “You?”

You fake great offence and snap at him. “Hey! Even I can seduce someone if I try!”

“No, I know- I” He appears shaken up about your revelation and for a moment, the tiniest fraction of a second, you could almost see the tensing of his jaw. “With who?”

It’s your turn to leer at him. “Why’s it matter?”

“It doesn’t I-“ he stutters “I just-“

You raise an eyebrow. “Well if you must know, he works at the hardware store.” You say as you recall the day you met the gentleman. “I helped him carry out some tasks and he gave me a daffodil in exchange, of all things.” You pointed at the flower currently tucked in the band of your hat. “Cutest thing.”

“Is that right?” He gruffed out.

“Mhm, so I’m gonna escort him and his granddaughter to a birthday party out in Strawberry.” You giggle. “He said he needed a ‘fighter’ with him because of his ‘old bones’ and ‘lumbago’” You roll your eyes. “Sounds like Uncle.”

This seems to take Arthur by surprise. The dark clouds in his eyes clear out and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Wha-?”

You bite your lip to keep your internal laughter from spilling. “Listen, I offered.” You explain. “He’s been giving me discounts at the store and that girl is just the sweetest thing and well-“ you shrug, “I couldn’t say no like the goddamn softie I am.”

The blades in his eyes dull at the statement. The mysterious scrunch of his shoulders from earlier disappears. He steps away from his horse and walks around his mare to shorten the gap between the two of you. It reminds you that he’s tall, much bigger than you are. “That bleedin’ heart of yours is gonna get you killed one day.”

He mutters his words lightly and yet, there’s some odd sadness you don’t understand attached to it. He puckers his lips as if he wants to say more on the matter yet can’t.

You put on your best Arthur impression, puffing up your chest and scrunching your face. “Well, somehow this don’t suit me, now does it?”

At that, Arthur chuckles deeply. “Nah, you obviously ain’t tall enough to be me, shortcake.” He jabs you playfully at the shoulder and in response, you over-exaggerate the motion of being pushed back. Though, if he really wanted to, Arthur could have you on your back in less than a second.

He wouldn’t even have to touch you.

Before you can go down that rabbit hole of thoughts, you carry on with the train of humour. “Besides, heard from Jerry there’ll be plenty of cute fellas around to keep me entertained.”

The clouds start to roll back in his demeanour, dare you say with a touch of thunder this time. “You gonna be looking at other men?” The lightness in his voice is gone, only replaced with the venom from before.

You’re befuddled at the quick-changing atmosphere, but don’t go back on what you said. “All I’ve got to look at are you folks all day,” you quip “A girl needs a change of scenery every once in a while.”

He crosses his arms, clearly not amused. “We not pretty enough for you?”

“Well, you are certainly, but I don’t know about Pearson.”

You purse your lips immediately and silently curse yourself at the admission. That same old shit-eating grin makes a comeback. “Is that right?”

You push his arm back, but unlike him, you hardly get the man to move more than half an inch. “Oh shut it.” You quickly un-hitch your horse and mount her. All you want to do is wipe his lips so it turns back into his usual frown, but you’re afraid you’d just embarrass yourself further. “I won’t be back for a while.” You pull your horse away and pat her on the side. “Didn’t know children’s birthday parties could take so damn long.”

“How long will you be gone for?” He mumbles, voice noticeably quieter.

“However long it takes for a fella to get me off.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. The sun highlights the tips of his ears go red. “Wha- What?” He strained out like he wasn’t quite sure of what he just heard.

A real, true laugh comes out of you then as you spur your horse into action, cantering away from camp. You don’t wait to hear the rest of what he has to say. His flushed look is enough of a prize to take with you.

You replay it all the way to Strawberry.

------------------

It was well past sundown when you return. Truthfully, you don’t even know what time it is, all you knew was that you were gone long enough that laying down on your cot would be much appreciated by your aching muscles. There’s a light breeze and you take your hat off, shaking out your hair.

The party was a success. Jerry and his granddaughter got to and from Strawberry safely, and really, that was all you could wish for when you were being hunted constantly because of the bounty on your head. You knew you offered, hell you were pretty self-approving when you did. But even then, you made sure to ask if Jerry really wanted a gunslinger as an escort, to which he replied, “Oh, shove it.”

Wonderful man.

The rest of the camp, well those that were here anyways, aside from Bill who was back on guard duty, are already fast asleep. The crackle of the fire is the only sound filling your ears other than your own footsteps.

There’s a small oil lamp turned on in the corner of your vision, brightening the blue hue and you instantly know the only bastard who would be up at this hour.

He’s drawing again. His brows are focused in that way you loved so much and he only looks up from his journal once you amble closer towards him. You almost hate that you’ve disrupted him. You could watch him draw for hours and hardly get bored.

He closes the book and looks up at you. You nod towards his hands. “You’ll have to show me what you’re working on at some point, Picasso.”

Arthur lets a huff through his nose. “Not gonna happen.” He motions you to sit beside him and you take him up on his offer. You catch a whiff of his scent, something like tobacco mixed with old leather. It may have been slightly repulsive to anyone else, but this was Arthur, and all it made you feel was safe. “You was gone a long time.” He points out, a bitter tinge to his voice. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your head at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “You just went off and didn’t come back until now.” The bitter tinge in his voice morphs into something like annoyance. “I was worried.” He mumbles low.

“Oh, I was fine.” You bump your shoulder against his, but it again, doesn’t make him sway. “Besides, I had a fella with me.”

His hand, the one closest to you, balls up at his side. He’s always been hard to read, but he clearly wasn’t happy at your revelation, and you had half a mind in this late hour to stew in that fact. “Did you now?”

“Sure, one of them single fathers.” You let a small laugh escape you and shake your head as you kick the dirt with your worn-out boots. “Don’t worry, I’d never steal one from a married woman.”

“Was he…cute?” He mutters.

“Never thought I’d hear the word ‘cute’ come out of Arthur Morgan’s mouth.” You catch a glimpse towards him and again note the same pink twinge on his ears, probably embarrassed at being called out on something so stupid.

You finally start to feel that familiar flutter in your stomach that was hidden behind all that supportive “do what makes you happy nonsense”.

No, we couldn’t have that.

So, you bury it down.

It just became easier that way after all these years.

“That ain’t the damn point.” He continues to grumble. “Was he?”

You ponder the question for a short while. “I mean, he was alright in the looks department, not cute-“

He cuts you off quickly. “Just alright?” He scoffs lightly.

You remember the aforementioned single father in question. His looks are the last thing on your mind. He was alright, not cute, not ugly. Sure, you wouldn’t want to sleep with the man, but-

“He was damn good with his kid, and I thought I’d like to get to know someone like that more.” You reveal through a whisper.

This causes Arthur to frown, but his expression softens. Some of that constant bitterness fades away. “You- “he cuts off and thickly swallows. “You weren’t doing anything strange were you?”

You can feel a prickle of heat in your face at the question. “I mean, we talked sure, but if anything, I just maybe wanted to indulge in a fantasy.” You shrug.

He snaps his gaze back towards you. “A fantasy?”

“What it’d be like-“

God, why was it so hard to say?  “Being normal, having a family.”

The silence that follows is thick and you immediately scold yourself for ruining a perfectly airy conversation just like this morning. You regret it, you do, but you can’t deny how nice it is to finally get that dream off your chest. It wasn’t original, what woman at Camp, save Mrs. Adler, didn’t want that stability?

The feeling of riding was freeing. It gave you the grace of flying during a time when you were being held down and that will never change. But nowadays, you find that instead of being held down, you want to be held close. To be called important, matter to someone, so that when you felt lost soaring, you’d always have a beacon home.

“Damn it, you can’t be sayin’ things like that.” He forces out a murmur, a shred of his usual gruff tone.

“You ever think about that?” You tread lightly. “Having kids? Building a farm out somewhere and just-“ a deep sigh escapes you. “living and not surviving?”

It takes him a while to answer your question.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.” The vulnerability colors his voice and it starts to trip you over the edge.

You nod, pursing your lips. “With Mary?” You meekly ask, the crickets chirping making the exchange more awkward. You almost cringe at the silence of it all.

He tenses at her name and it seems like you get your answer.

“With Mary? I mean-“ He tries to dissuade you with absolutely no conviction in his voice. He pauses and curses under his breath. Arthur shakes his head, closing his eyes a moment. “Y’know, it ain’t always about Mary.”

You scoff in disbelief. “Arthur, it’s always been about Mary.” Sighing deeply, you bite your cheek at the acidic truth. “Even when you met Eliza, it was still about Mary.”

He’s taken aback by your statement and a subtle look of frustration overcomes his features. “No, it hasn’t.”

You want to say more, but your sardonic nature halts at his stoic reply. It’s like your heart stops, a coldness and a shrill wake your senses from the inside out. “What?” Your brain halts, all thought ceasing to exist except to process his next response. He tries to avoid eye contact, but you seek his gaze as you tilt your head sideways. “Arthur, what do you mean?” You repeat more sternly, begging to get a straight answer.

A stick of dynamite explodes.

“What about you?” His voice is hoarse like this is the most difficult thing he’s ever had to squeeze out of his mouth. “What about when it became you?”

The smoke clears and all that’s left is the destruction that caters right in the center of your chest.

There’s no longer just a flutter in your stomach, there’s a whole damn circus, and it decides to release the butterflies you worked so hard to keep from their magical chest of caution.

You shake your head and your body goes rigid. You move away from him and stand abruptly as you place your hands on your hips. He’s quick to follow you on your feet.  A sarcastic laugh leaves your throat before you can stop yourself. “Arthur-“

“No, let me finish.” He steps in front of you and holds your shoulders square, turning your body towards him. Even in your bubbling anger, you hate the way your skin immediately melts under his touch. His eyes and actions are pleading for you to stay, so you let him speak, biting your tongue to keep yourself from interrupting. He stumbles over his words. “It’s been you for a long damn time.” He admits. “But I was, I don’t know-“You notice the light sheen of sweat gracing his forehead. “I was scared to say something.”

“If this is some dumb joke-“

“No!” He immediately denies like he’s appalled you would even think of it in that way. 

“Well,” you sneer “I’m sorry if I have a hard time believing that.” You remove his hands from your shoulders stiffly and start to trudge away back to your horse.

In the years you’d known him, Arthur had been a force, even more so when he was younger and reckless. He was stubborn as a mule and despite keeping the peace for the most part, there was a strut in his step when he walked because he knew he had the power to change that whenever he wanted and get away scotch-free. Arthur was arrogant in that way, always threatening people with a smirk or an edge to his voice.

But this is the first time you see him flinch and it happens to be at your curt words.

A lump catches in your throat, but you’re too annoyed to care, all but continuing the short distance back to the hitching posts. Arthur is hot on your tracks, not letting up one bit. Maybe Bill was overhearing, maybe one of the girls stirred awake. It didn’t matter, you couldn’t care less. You just wanted to get the hell away from here.

His catches up to you in no time, his strides much longer than yours. He steps in front of your path and when you make a move to step aside, he mirrors your actions. You click your tongue, glowering at him from beneath your lashes. “Look,” he starts “now I know you may not like me, but I-“

That gets your anger rising to incomparable heights. “Not like you?!” You practically shout out. Looking around, you remember where you are and it’s the only reason your voice lowers. “Arthur, I’ve liked you since the day I met you!”

His eyebrows pull together and his nose crinkles. Arthur’s face morphs into something like agitation from its previous confusion. “So, why all this attitude?”

You’re dejected. “Why all this attitude?” You softly hiss. “Why all this attitude when I’ve loved you for years and all I’ve heard about is Mary?”

Arthur winces. He steps back from you, recoiling like he’s just been shot by a sniper rifle.

Good, you think. He should feel like a right asshole.

“’Why all this attitude’ he says!” You giggle manically at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. “Where do I even start?” You begin to rant, hands back on your hips to give you some sort of anchor from sinking towards the ground.  “I don’t know Arthur, maybe it’s because while I’ve been here stewing in self-pity, you were always out seeing her.  Maybe, it’s because every time you were young, drunk, and broken, you’d come back whispering her name, mistaking her for me, and I was the one helping you pick up the pieces.”

Your heart was racing a million yards a minute, but you couldn’t stop now. All the hurt and sorry baggage poured out like molten lava, burning with years of intensity. “Or maybe-“ you point an index finger at him and snap sarcastically as if you’ve just discovered a newfound truth “Maybe, it was because I worked so damn hard to tell myself I wasn’t in love with you and you just-“ your voice breaks.

Arthur doesn’t interrupt you at any part of your monologuing. Just like usual, you can hardly decipher his emotions except notice the colour draining from his face.

“So, I’m sorry that I don’t believe you when you say It’s been me.” You continue. “You’ve given me no reason to believe otherwise.”

You sidestep him, not taking a single look back in fear of him seeing the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. You unhitch your horse, giving her a slight pat before mounting her again.

- - - - - - - - - - -

You don’t see or speak to Arthur for a few days after your argument.

You don’t have much energy to talk to anyone really.

So, you somehow end up back at a familiar field surrounded by evergreen trees and flowers. The crystalline water of the hot springs gleams in your eyes and a chill wind sends shivers up your spine.

You set up camp and stay a while. You don’t consider yourself the best hunter, but fishing didn’t require the same dexterity. Its quiet, peaceful even, for a while. All you hear is the chirp of the birds and the steady flow of water.

 It gives you time to cool off, reflect on everything that’s happened.

The more time you spend out here, the more hesitant you are to leave. It's a nice reprieve from the perils of civilization and you find yourself slipping away, trying to grasp a sense of peace that's unimaginable for you most days.

Tends to happen when you're an outlaw, you suppose.

But one day, as you’re laying under the shade of a tree, feeling the blades of soft grass beneath you, you hear heavy footsteps starting to approach.

There's no need to bother even acting surprised.

Arthur takes a seat beside you with a deep sigh. He leans back, using his hands to support him.

The both of you are silent for a while, not one peep out of your mouths. You expect it to be uncomfortable but having him by your side brings an ease you haven’t felt in days. Arthur continues to stare up at the sun starting to descend in the horizon and you follow suit, eyes trained to the sky above.

“When I met you, I thought you were nothing more than a naïve, innocent little thing.” He starts, baritone drawl catching you off guard. You don’t realize how much you’d missed hearing it until now. “You were this small, precious thing I needed to protect. “

 You glance towards him and notice the small smile now gracing his lips, his eyes glossed over like remembering memories from so very long ago. “You could barely ride a horse, hell, you could barely mount one.”

The genuine warmth in his voice continues to chip away any frustrations left within you as you recall those days like snapshots in your mind.

“Every day, it was something new with you.” He laughs out, making your heart traitorously skip a beat. “You were learning the ropes of it all, and for a while, you were just someone I taught.”  He pauses and you look at him more clearly this time, head turned towards him fully in an effort to really listen to what he has to say. “But Mary, she-“ he swallows “I could just turn my thoughts off with her.”

He gives out another sigh. “I loved her, I did.” He admits. “It was so easy loving her at the time. We had no expectations of one another, and then all of a sudden that shifted and I don’t know if I could have been the man she needed me to be.”

You ache but it’s not because he mentions his past lover’s name.

“So I ended up actin’ like a goddamn fool. Boozin’, sleeping around.” He groans, obviously not proud of his previous ventures. “Dutch and Hosea, they couldn’t pull me out of it. I mean, they tried everything, but then-“ He releases a relieved chuckle. “Some woman I’d never met before poured a bucket of cold water over my head and pulled out her revolver, threatening to shoot my dumb ass if I didn’t get up.”

You snort as you’re reminded of that day.

It was dry and humid, overall making it a miserable summer afternoon. Arthur stumbled back into camp smelling like he was doused in moonshine, groggy and slurring his words together. Even Hosea, forgiving as he was, cringed at his sorry state.

You just about had it.

After collecting some from the nearby stream, you pushed Arthur down and doused him in ice-cold water. He sputtered, clearly not happy about what you just did and attempted to get up to confront you. You pulled out your gun before he could and shot right between his legs onto the dirt below. “If you don’t pull your damn weight around here, I’ll make sure the next shot hits!” you shouted, utterly disappointed.

“Good times.” You mutter and Arthur’s smile widens.

“Sure.” He agreed. “When my eyes started to clear, I swear to god I thought I was looking at an angel.”

You had a hard time believing that too. “You looked at a woman who just shot at you and thought she was angelic?”

He tries to find better words. “I guess you looked ethereal all together.” He tries to explain. “Like you were something I’d see at the pearly white gates of judgement.”

You sat amused at his thoughts. “That so?”

He’s finally able to make eye contact with you and revels in that fact. “My vision was still a little hazy and you just stood over me, posture straight, hat on.” He takes his hand and scratches his chin. It’s a tick for when he’s nervous. “Your hair had a glow to it from the sun and your eyes, they just- had this fire in em’ I’d never seen before.”

His shoulders drop and the mood suddenly turns mellow. “When we were ridin’ around and ended up at this clearin’, you just took off without me and I realized how much you’d grown into yourself right under my nose. You didn’t change really, you were still the same old, sunshine, animal-lovin’ princess, but the way you carried yourself? Asserted yourself more?  God-.”

He holds your gaze as he continues and it’s like the world holds its breath for whatever he has to say next. “You rode off, hair wild, not looking back at me one bit and I just couldn’t stop starin’ at you because I thought you were such a damn sight.”

“It made me wonder-“ his words trail off. He stops for a while and you let him. You know how much courage it was taking him right now to admit this to you, letting down those guarded stone walls he loved so much.

You lick your lips, and in an act of your own bravery, you settle your hand on top of his, to which he visibly softens upon. “Made you wonder?” You urge.

“If that’s what Mary felt like, seeing me go all those times.” He finishes. “Because I hated it. I hated every time you got on that horse and left, and it would only hurt less whenever you came back.”

Arthur’s hand starts to clench, but you flip his hand in yours so you can interlock your fingers properly. You give his hand a squeeze and the tension eases off.

“But then I hear you wantin’ to go off with some man and all I could do was mope like a sorry idiot because what if-“ His throat works. “What if you rode off and didn’t come back this time?”

“Oh, Arthur.” You softly coo.

His hand starts to make small slow circles over your hands. “You know I realized something when I last saw Mary that I didn’t before.”

You’re expectant to hear what it is.

“Every time it got a little too rough between us, she was done with me.” He perceived. “I don’t blame her, she deserves someone to make her happy, but I wasn’t gonna change fast enough in her eyes.” He squeezes your hand tighter. “But you- you didn’t expect me to change on a dime. You were patient, you understood that I didn’t want to start a family not because I didn’t want to, but because I was afraid of feeling that pain again.”

After clenching his jaw, he takes his other palm and cups your cheek with the utmost tenderness a man of his size could muster. “With you, I feel like I can be something else, something good.” You lean towards his touch, begging that if this were a dream, you never wanted to be woken up. His gaze is soft on your features, highlighted by the starlight above.

“I know and I’m sorry for that sweetheart, I really am.”

“I fell in love with you a long time ago Arthur Morgan.” You confess. “I keep running away because no one holds me close enough to keep me somewhere.”

You feel a lump in your throat as you remember all the times you rode off wanting to hear him shout "Wait!", but he never did.

Tears start to escape your eyes and you don’t bother wiping them away. “Loving you hurt so much Arthur.” You whimper. “I started to pack all of those feelings away if it meant I didn’t have to ruin what we already had.”

He presses his rough lips to your forehead and leans back. “I know sweetheart, I’m sorry.” He tilts your chin up with a finger. “If I could go back and change the way I handled it all, I would.”

“Give me something to believe that this is real. That I’m not just making this up in my misery.”

Arthur takes a moment to look at you before he speaks. He takes the time to figure out how he’s supposed to approach what he wanted to convey “Close your eyes for just a second.” He mumbled, his voice pleading.

You don’t question it and do what he wants you to do. You fully accept you’d be one of those pathetic individuals who’d follow him off a cliff if it meant staying with him and keeping him safe.

In the darkness, you feel him pick up your hands and place them on his chest. Under your palms, you feel the fast thrum of the beat of his heart and the laboured way his chest rises. You stay like that for a few seconds and match your breathing to his.

You tilt your head. “What?”

“Okay,” his voice cuts through your thoughts “now open your eyes.” You follow his command and you open your eyes to Arthur with a tender expression. You feel his breathing get faster, like he’s almost waiting for a reaction.

Arthur chuckles quietly at your question. “This is me trying to prove I’m serious about you.” His hands are still around your wrists, keeping your palms on his chest in place.

“By what? Letting me feel you up?” You jokingly say. “Arthur, who do you think’s being lugging your heavy ass around when you’re drunk, cause it sure as hell ain’t Uncle-“

Even in the darkness that surrounded you, you can sense his embarrassment. He starts to sputter to quickly get words out “Wha- no, that’s not what- I- you-“ He stutters, clearly flustered at the comment. He sighs. “Now, that’s not what I meant and you know it, sweetheart.”

“So then, what?” You push. You’re not trying to be obtuse in any way, but you want to hear a proper answer.

Arthur swallows awkwardly. “I’m just- I want you to know that my heart beats for you.”

It puts you in such a complete state of shock, it renders you speechless.

Just a couple of days ago, you would have been thirsty to hear those words drip out of his lips, but now that you’ve actually heard him say it, you don’t know how to exactly respond.

“Sweetheart?” He calls, voice laced with worry.

You slowly lean down and press your ear against his chest, wrapping your arms around him. He smells like gun smoke and mountain air. The fast bu-dump of his heart is intoxicating, making you break out into a smile.

After a few seconds, he slowly places his own arms around you and pulls you in closer. His hold is firm. Secure. A bandwagon of bandits or federal agents could show up this instant and he wouldn’t let anything or anyone so much as even look at you the wrong way.

He tucks your head under his chin. “I can’t give you a house, or children, or land right now, but I want you to know you have my heart.” He places another soft kiss on your forehead. “You’ve had it for a long time and it’ll always be yours as long you’ll have me.”

“Well, I never thought Arthur Morgan was capable of such sweet words.” You tease.

You feel the rumble of his chest as he freely laughs. “Well, there’s a lot we don’t know about each other it seems.”

You give his statement some thought. “Maybe we can start to find those things about each other out.”

He nods against you. “I’d like that.”

You sniffle and follow him in letting out a laugh. “I’ll end up falling asleep here if we keep this up.”

He snickers at your comment. “I guess I’ll just have to carry you to bed then, huh?” He teases back, his tone light and playful.

You push away from his chest and fix your gaze directly at him, a dazed smile on your face. “I guess you’ll just have to, Arthur Morgan.”

His breathing hitches, obviously not expecting to be accepted on his offer. “Yeah, I suppose I will, sweetheart.”

You grasp his face with your hands and do something you’ve been wanting to do since the day you met him.

You place a kiss squarely on his mouth and he reciprocates it almost immediately.

His lips, though slightly chapped are soft and his stubble that he hasn’t shaved for weeks tickles your cheeks, poking you in a pleasurable way. You taste the tobacco on him and though you don’t smoke, maybe through kissing him you get the appeal. Fingers thread through your braid that’s falling apart by the second.

For the first time, you don't hold the butteflies back.

You part your lips to deepen the kiss and allow him to explore your mouth with his tongue.

It becomes hungry. Insatiable. It's years of pent up frustration and confusion exploding into a possession that consumes your whole body. He groans and you barely notice when he scoops you up, hooking his arm under your legs. “God, we could have been doing this earlier.” He growls.

As you giggle against his lips, Arthur continues to carry you, walking briskly towards your tent.

And the world around you stayed silent that night, except for a few hushed noises.

- - - - - - -

A/N: Yee-haw. Pls interact, I need to to talk to more RDR people lmao. pls.

[ianto-j0nes]

Wade is just like me fr