summary: you get jealous over a joke toph makes about katara and aang bringing back the air nation, so he fucks your worries right off your head.
wc: 4.3k
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
It was all because of a stupid joke Toph made at dinner; one that everyone took lightly but you.
“So since Aang’s still alive..” she started with a dirty snicker at the man’s absence, quite tipsy, playfully nudging Katara’s side. “That means the Airbenders could be brought back. Think you and him could repopulate the Air nation, Sugar Queen? Have little Airbender babies filling up the temples?”
“What the hell— No!” Katara shoves her off, flustered and embarrassed, groaning in defeat at the others’ laughs.
Zuko offers her a timid smile, his words a little slurred from the drinking. “But it’s true, no? That would be a very heroic act, Katara.”
“Drop it, you guysss..” she sighs, downing one more shot, Toph’s noisy cackling mingling with Sokka’s until they’re interrupted by their synchronized hiccuping, which only causes them to laugh even louder.
Your grip tightens around your glass. You were glad nobody was looking at you; you wouldn’t know how to justify the glare you were throwing their way.
Images of Aang and Katara naked and tangled under the sheets suddenly plagued your mind, and you couldn’t tell if they were the cause of your headache or if that was the work of your sixth drink.
You huff, squeezing your eyes shut and shaking the thoughts off. This was ridiculous.
You push yourself up from the floor, and that piques Katara’s attention. She looks up at you, a little worried. “Leaving already? Is everything okay, sweetie?”
A twinge of guilt tugs at your heartstrings at the genuine worry in her voice. You give her a small nod, and your best attempt at a smile, “Just had too much to drink, don’t worry. I’ll go upstairs, to check on Aang.”
“Gooood,” Toph drawls through a fit of giggles, raising her hand to give you a thumbs up while Sokka refills her mug. “Tell him that Katara’s gonna bring back the Air nation while you’re at it. Gonna give him loooots of babies. Pregnant Katara, pregnant with little Airbenders. Buuunch of ‘em.”
Your lips purse tightly, and as much as you wanted to, you refrain from throwing your glass at her face. “.. Alright. Goodbye.”
You walk off, Katara’s exasperated denials and Toph’s increasingly dirty jokes fading into a dull noise as you storm up the stairs.
You don’t even know why this was upsetting you so badly. Sure, you had a little crush on Aang but.. it’s not like he was yours. He probably would never be.
You weren’t even a bender; so why in the world would he ever pick you over Katara?
Everyone in the group pictured them together for good reason; she was the perfect match for him. And you did love them both a lot as your dear friends.. so why were you this worked up?
Tears prick at your eyes when you stand in front of Aang’s door. You quickly wipe them off with the back of your hand, bewildered at the fact that you were actually crying over this.
You sigh. You shouldn’t have had so much to drink, this was all the alcohol.
After a few more minutes of mulling over your words and composing yourself, you knock on the door softly. Three knocks.
“Come in!” His voice, breezy like always but a little weighed down by the exhaustion of night work, shoots right through your chest like an arrow. You suck in a sharp breath, then slowly slide the door open.
“Ohh, thank Spirits you’re here.” He practically whines as he tips his head back against his chair, limp as a ragdoll. “Dumb Avatar work won’t end, I swear I thought I was about to die from boredom. You’re my savior.”
You force a small smile and walk over to his desk, setting down your glass with a bit of sake left, that he wastes no time in stealing and chugging down in a second.
He exhales with a wide grin, very pleased, melting back against his chair. “Really, really my savior.”
You stare at him silently. Your gaze lingers on the pretty arch of his eyebrows, the light blush already tinting his cheeks because he had the liquor tolerance of a two year old, the adorable twinkle in those tired, happy doe eyes..
You look further down, noting the squeeze of his too-big back against the borrowed chair, and the way his legs twisted uncomfortably to fit under the somehow small-for-him desk.
Downsides of a bigger build, huh. Your mouth dries up a little.
It physically hurt that you couldn’t have him.
His puzzled, sad frown snaps you out of your haze. “You’re not even listening to me.. am I boring you?”
“Oh, no, no, not at all. I’m sorry.” You wave your hands wildly, embarrassed and grateful that he seemingly didn’t pick up on your inappropriate leering. “I just.. just..”
The more you look into his eyes, the heavier your heart feels.
Your friends’ words keep ringing in the back of your head, the filthy images of him and Katara together in different positions refusing to leave your tipsy mind.
Spirits, you felt like you could cry again. Damn you, inhibition-lowering alcohol. And damn you, Toph.
Once again, you’re pulled out of your thoughts by him. His large hand wraps around yours, his features scrunched in worry at the sight of your teary eyes. “Are you okay, sweetheart? Tell me what’s wrong.”
Now was not the time for his stupid nicknames. This was so unfair to your poor heart.
“I am. It’s just.. this dumb thing that happened earlier.” You look down at your hand in his, your eyes welling up much to your embarrassment and dismay.
His fingers gently curl around yours, urging you to look at him. “What dumb thing? Please tell me.”
‘No.’ You wanted to say. ‘It concerns you, so how could I tell you?’ You tell yourself.
Staying silent or lying was the smart idea.
..
Maybe you would’ve been smarter sober.
With the alcohol in your system, and those beautiful eyes boring into yours so intimately in the dark of the night, the moonlight reflecting in his pupils.. you don’t feel the words spill out of your lips until you hear them yourself.
“It’s nothing. Just a joke Toph made,” with each syllable that left your mouth, your brain desperately tried to hit the brakes and shut you up, regret already pooling in your gut as you helplessly watched yourself commit the stupidest mistake of your life. “About.. you and Katara. Talked about you two.. uhm.. repopulating the Air nation, or whatever. Like.. Airbenders aren’t totally extinct since you.. you’re still here. You could, y’know, make more—”
“I-I get the gist,” he interjects, blushing while his grip tightens around your hand. He sighs lowly and shakes the thought off. “Of course it’s Toph. But.. I’m still lost.”
He tilts his head, blinking up at you so sweetly you almost melt. “I think I get the joke. Dirty, sure. But I’m not sure why it’s sad?”
“Sad?” You answer back, just as puzzled. “It’s not sad, though?”
He nods, both of you like lost puppies. “I know. So why is it making you cry?”
Fuck.
Your addled brain racks itself to come up with a reason fast enough, but oh, who were you kidding?
“It’s just..” you look down at the empty glass, wishing it was full so you could down it and hopefully choke on it. “..I don’t know.”
Could you have picked a worse answer? Hard to tell.
A long silence settles between you two, and you can feel his heavy, curious gaze on you without even needing to look at him. You regret doing so, because with the way his eyes suspiciously narrow, his oblivious mind exhausting the possible explanations for your state, you can see him work closer up to the conclusion.
“Welp,” you force an awkward chuckle, patting his hand before sliding yours off his grasp and taking a few steps back, hoping to make it out of here before he figures it out. “I’m sorry to bother you, Aang. It’s nothing really, I think it’s just the drinks getting to me. You know how they always make me soo emotional. Anyway, I just wanted to check up on you, so I’ll get going now.”
You turn around and pick up your pace, but before your fingers find the knob, a gust of wind pushes the door just right out of your reach.
“Wait.” His voice sends a shiver up your spine, cold sweat suddenly rolling off your temples. “Are you..?”
He trails off again, and your limbs grow shakier. This was such a dumb idea, why did you even have to go up to his office? Dumb, dumb, dumb.
You take a deep breath and take one more step to the door, but this time it’s slammed shut with a sharper gust.
“Were you..” You can hear the scraping of his chair as he stands up, your heart sinking down to your ass. “.. Jealous?”
And, unfortunately, there it was.
Even then, knowing Aang, you could’ve still flipped it around. Laughed and played it off. Told him he was wrong. He would’ve believed you.
But, unable to even look up from the door knob, the dumbest answer rolls out of your heavy tongue, a tipsy lightheadedness washing over you for a second. “.. Yes.”
At this point, you didn’t even care anymore. It couldn’t possibly get any worse than this. Maybe now he could laugh at how weird you were being and send you off, finally putting off the burning flames in your chest.
You wait for the longest time, neither of you moving, and right when you expect him to burst out giggling, a firm command escapes his lips instead. “Turn around.”
You blink, dazed.
You slowly turn around, and your breath hitches at the sight before you. Aang standing with his palms flat against the desk, his chest silently heaving, wisps of steam slipping out of his parted lips, more redness across his cheeks, broad and bulky and scary with his no longer sparkling eyes.
There was only what you could describe as heat in them. Not from anger, no, but something awfully akin to lust that had a foreign heat pooling deep in your lower tummy.
Was the alcohol making you see things? Was this just wishful thinking?
“Come here,” he orders again, but it’s shaky this time. Your feet comply before you can process it, and you feel your guts twisting with dread and hopeful anticipation.
Spirits, did you make him uncomfortable? You’d never seen him like this before.
When you finally stand before him, only the desk separating you, your fingers curl around your skirt in guilt. “Aang, I’m so sorry. You already have enough on your plate, I shouldn’t have said anything— Mmf!!”
You’re cut off with a rough kiss, sudden and heated from the get-go, big hands cupping your cheeks as his lips smush against yours in a sloppy mess. You want to make sense of it, but it’s hard to care when your brain’s this fuzzy and you’re living out one of your nightly fantasies.
Neither of you want to stop, breathlessly lapping at each other’s warm tongues and moaning at the unfamiliar feel, swapping sweet sake-flavored saliva.
He reluctantly breaks it with a wet pop, gazing down at you so desperately it had you squeezing your thighs together.
“Don’t move.” Aang whispers, trailing around the table to stand behind you, the order nailing your feet down to the floor. A soft gasp slips from your kiss-bitten lips when his hands tentatively rest on your hips, his breath hot against your ear as his buff body presses against your back. “Is this what you wanted?”
With his touch slowly travelling down to your thighs, all words die out on the tip of your tongue and you can only nod, swallowing thickly.
“You were jealous.” He states again, his voice low and gravelly, like the fact wasn’t embarrassing enough being said the one time. “You’d rather Toph made that joke about you, correct?”
You would’ve answered that, if something huge didn’t poke you in the ass the next second.
Heavens, what the hell was— Oh.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Aang murmurs into your ear, giving your thighs reassuring rubs as he grows unbearably hard against your backside. “I don’t want to.. repopulate the Air nation with Katara, if that’s any consolation. I don’t.”
The words do soothe you a little, but the dirty images are burnt into the back of your eyelids, looping in your mind like a cruel parade, making you shudder against him. “Thank you. I just.. I keep imagining it, and it kills me. Just imagining you on top of her and fucking her— Ah!”
You squeal, startled, when you’re swiftly spun around with not so breezy hands, facing his towering figure with a lick of your bottom lip.
His hands hook around the hem, sliding his shirt off to reveal his muscular frame in all its glory, your gaze sliding down the arrow tattoos, but you’re not given much time before the same hands slide down to the back of your thighs to lift you up on the desk.
He sweeps off the paperwork, crowded between your legs, and you can’t help but moan at how much your thighs have to spread just to wrap around his waist.
So big. In every sense of the word.
“This— Is this what you imagine?” The question’s breathless, lowering himself to look at you and you throb at the eye contact. So does he, judging from the twitching you feel against your inner thigh.
You let out a quivery sigh, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders while he leans even closer, his steamy breath mingling with yours. “..Kind of..”
He nods at that, glances around hesitantly, then decides to push you flat down on the desk. It’s firm but not rough, your head landing softly on the hardwood thanks to an air cushion he swirled up. “How about this?”
You’re about to reply with a “maybe” when wild fingers swiftly fumble with his belt, lowering his pants enough for him to spring up— WOAH!
Your face is set ablaze, quickly looking away, eyes blown wide open in a mix of shock, dread, and helpless arousal.
His hands find your hips once more, tugging your skirt up to reveal your plush thighs and a patch of your lacies that has him choking on a gasp.
He grabs your jaw, turning your head back to face him, desire and uncertainty swimming in his pretty brown eyes. “Are you.. sure about this? There’s no going back.”
“Please,” it slips out of you with a needy gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist while your hands roam over his wide shoulders. “Yes.”
With the blood rushing in your ears, you can’t hear his whispered word, but from the way his face scrunches up, you assume it was a curse.
Your skirt is fully ridden up with a gust of wind, one that (unintentionally or not) flicks up against your clothed folds and has you shivering in his grasp.
Thick fingers tug the delicate fabric to the side, and he moans in awe at the sight of your drooling slit, already so ready for him.
“So wet,” he comments as he admires the slick coating your glistening cunt, not ripping his eyes off it like it was a piece of art. The prolonged staring makes you self-conscious and embarrassed, but when your thighs shift just a little bit to hide yourself, firm hands keep them separated and he looks up at you, mildly offended. “No, don’t hide from me. You asked for this.”
“Well, I didn’t think your staring was on the menu,” you sputter out, flushed.
“I’m sorry, she’s just so beautiful.” He sighs softly, and your breath is knocked out of your lungs when he starts tracing your folds. “I can’t believe you’re already this wet. You wanted me this badly?”
His questions are genuine, but they only increase your shame. Aang senses that, and so decides to finally give you a taste of what you want.
“Fuck—!” Your back archs off the desk with a yelp, two of his abnormally big digits prodding at your sopping wet hole. It takes some time, but when they finally slip inside you, your pussy greedily sucks them in, earning a pleased grunt from him. “Good girl. Gripping me so nicely.”
It feels illegal to even hear such words from him outside the fake scenarios you touched yourself to at night. More desperate mewls are coaxed out of you when he starts scissoring you open, the pads of his fingertips pressing skillfully against your spongy spot and curling upwards.
“Need to get you ready for me,” he breathes out, stretching you out with a third finger that has you ferally clawing at his back. “So you can take me.”
Steam is wafting off him as he pounds his fingers in and out of your tight walls, unable to look away from your fluttering cunt. His calloused thumb comes to swipe over your perked up clit, a wail ripping through your throat. The sound has him lifting his eyes to check on you, and the sight of tears filling the rim of your eyes, your lips contorted into a quivering pout, your hair pooling so prettily around your head, sends a hot jolt of arousal down to his cock.
“Spirits, you—you’re so pretty.” He babbles dazedly, dragging another scream out of you with a thrust of his fingers. “Pretty, pretty girl. I need you now.”
With a few more rubs to your puffy clit, he suddenly pulls away, your arms tightening around him with a pitiful cry.
“No no, don’t cry, please.” Aang wipes the tears off your eyes, stealing a warm kiss from your puckered lips. “I’ll take care of you now baby, I promise.”
His entire body burned hot with his firebending, but especially his hands; scalding as they slid up the back of your thighs to push your legs up against your chest in a mating press.
But even his hot touch paled in comparison to the heat between your thighs.
He exhales through his nose, one of his hands ditching you to wrap around his girthy cock, lazily fisting himself as the tip flushed an angrier red, veins forking up the length.
You gasp when he lines himself up, the leaking tip gliding over your slit like he owned it, and your eyes roll back at its pure thickness.
You didn’t even know if you could take him.
He lowers himself over you, his bare chest pressed flush against yours as he litters your neck with warm open-mouthed kisses. “Ready for me?”
He takes your pathetic whimper as a “yes”, swallowing it with his tongue while he slowly pushes in.
His pre-cum mixes with your slick in filthy squelches, and you both moan loudly when he finally pushes through the tight ring of muscle, plunging into your velvety walls.
You’d think it’d be easier with him prepping you with three of his fingers, but the big stretch was still scream-worthy.
“I—I can’t,” he whines against your lips after some minutes pass by, frowning down at you so sweetly. “I really want to be gentle and good to you, b-but it’s so hard. With how you feel around me, I just wanna— wanna— ugh, lose control. You— feel so good..”
His words have your organs collapsing against each other, your cunt fluttering around him with arousal at the thought of rough sex with the sweet, tender Avatar before you.
How could you resist such a nasty demand made with the most adorable look?
“Lose it.” You whisper into his mouth, feeling his entire back tense up under your hands. You pull him in for a brief kiss, “I want you to lose it.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, your eyes widening at the flickering of his tattoos. “D—Don’t say that.”
His slow thrusts grow faster and rougher, each inch splitting you further and completely numbing your tipsy mind, broken moans ripping through your hoarse throat when he bottoms out.
You try to adjust to his size, the lingering pain only increasing your pleasure as he rolls his hips into the flesh of your ass, his grip deadly tight around your folded thighs. “Spirits—”
The desk clatters under you, mewling in tandem while he tries to fight the Avatar state, flashes of blinding white forcing you to shut your eyes but they were just as quickly forced back open at the animal pounding that accompanied them.
Holy mother of God, you could feel him in your womb.
“Is—” He grunts, suddenly ripping your top off with his teeth to bare your chest to his hungry gaze. You’re taken off guard, choking on your startled yelp when he hikes your hips up to deepen his angle and fuck you harder, his eyes drinking in the bounce of your gorgeous tits. “Is this what you imagined?”
You could hardly tell if it was Aang anymore, tears streaming down your face and hiccuping sobs while his wild thrusts bruised your cervix.
You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stuttering for a second, and that’s when you know he’s close.
He leans down to capture one of your peaked nipples between his teeth, nipping and licking at the sensitive bud as he reveled in your whiny cries. His svelte fingers take care of the neglected one, twisting and rolling it while his tongue flicked harshly against your left.
When his lips close on it in a sucking motion, your mind goes blank and your eyes cross, drool leaking out of your mouth when you open it to beg for release.
With your pleading and the way your cunt lovingly squeezes around his throbbing dick, he completely loses it and brutally picks up the pace.
“Gonna.. gonna cum,” he slurs, latching off your chest to gaze down at your wrecked face. “Pump you full of me. That’s what you want, right?”
He takes your loud moan to his words as approval, drunk on your noises as he fucks you with the stamina that could only belong to the Avatar.
“Fuck, need— need to breed you.” He turns into an incoherent mess, each thrust fucking your earlier scenarios right out of your head, Katara’s image gradually being replaced by yours. Your nails draw blood, scratching down his muscular back while he gets off to the thought of knocking you up, his fingers sliding down to rub fast circles on your clit. “My—my sweet girl, gonna give me lots of little Airbenders. You want that, don’t you? Stuffed full of my cum, bearing my children. You’ll make me a daddy.”
If his cock destroying your cervix wasn’t enough to make you cum, his words definitely did it.
Your orgasm crashes over you, your toes curling in the air, gushing all over him with a broken cry and so does he, the feel of your walls clamping down on him so tightly tipping him over the edge as hot ropes of thick cum paint your insides white.
It’s so warm — and so much — you almost cum again from the sheer sensation.
“Gonna get you pregnant,” he breathlessly pants, angling your hips up for none of his cum to slip out of you. Your pussy spasms around him, thoroughly milking him dry and you don’t know if it’s just the tipsiness, but you could swear you felt all his warm seed seep through your cervix and fill up your womb.
You’re both drenched in sweat, fighting for air. He gives you a few more thrusts for good measure, draining himself out entirely, eliciting an overstimulated mewl from you, before reluctantly pulling out of what he would later consider his home.
Dazed, he watches your swollen folds clench around nothing, and when he sees some of his cum dribble out of them, he tuts and fingers it back inside you. He does this for the next minutes, making sure you’ve taken all of him, appreciating your needy squirms and whimpers each time.
When he’s satisfied with himself, he exhales deeply, all his earlier savageness gone for an affectionate look in his eyes as he gazes down at you. He gives you a fond smile, pressing his large palm flat against where your womb is. “You’ll grow me some Airbenders in here, won’t you? Birth me back my nation?”
Too fucked out to answer, you nod weakly, limp in his grasp. He leans down to kiss you tenderly, slow and warm and wet. “I can’t wait. In some months, everyone will know what happened here. They’ll know who you belong to, who you craved tonight. You’ll be all big and swollen with my babies.”
The thought has you furiously blushing, your arms wrapping tighter around his shoulders. “W-Well.. it’s still too early to know if I’ll be preg—”
“Oh you will be.” He answers with a cheeky grin, patting your belly again. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
You blink at him, incredulous, a small smile tugging at your lips too. “But that’s not how it works. There’s no guarantee that I’m pregnant, even if you know what you’re doing.”
At that, he groans, tucking his face into the crook of your neck while his heavy body rests over yours. “But I’m the Avatar. My stuff’s gotta be special. I’m sure it worked, you’re definitely knocked up.”
You return his tired hug, letting out a soft exasperated sigh. “.. Sure, Aang.”
Meanwhile, everyone downstairs remained blissfully ignorant of what the hell happened a floor above them, all busy with their drinks and tipsy banter.
All, except for a very drunk earthbender that heard everything through the walls. Who was thankfully way too drunk to properly tell the others, only shouting garbled congratulations to the ceiling that nobody bothered to understand. “Niiiice. Good going, Twinkle toes. You lucky dog.”
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
masterlist
* i’d be popping out babies left and right with this yummy bald man.. if you see any mistakes leave me alone i hate proofreading.
ა ˙˖ in which → firelord zuko deflowers his favorite servant
firelord zuko 𝓍 servant!reader
⤳ content: 8.2k words, p in v sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, mentions of virginity, blood, overstimulation, creampie, mentions of cheating
You can remember the exact day it started, this cat and mouse chase between you and Firelord Zuko. It was your first day working at the palace and you had just been assigned to clean his room before he returned from a mission with the Avatar.
It was supposed to be simple. Get in, ensure that not a speck of dust was left behind and get out before he returned home. Easy enough right?
Wrong. Somewhere along your long line of superiors, someone had massively screwed up and failed to notify you that the firelord would be returning early.
You were on your knees with your ass up in the air, your kimono uniform keeping you decent enough as you stretched your body in an attempt to grab a stray piece of fabric from underneath his bed.
“Oh come on! How did he even get that back there..” You had no idea what the thing was, only that it was grating on your nerves and holding you up from your many other duties for the day. Amachiyo would kill you if you slacked on your first day and you really needed this job, as your parents were elderly and no longer able to work. You were the eldest and the responsibility to care for your younger siblings fell on you.
You sighed and stretched your arm further. Just a little closer and you’d be able to hook your finger around it! You were right there, your body half underneath the bed, your tongue poking out the side of your mouth as your face scrunched in determination. Why did he need this big of a bed anyways? It was well known that his majesty and his wife slept in separate quarters, the two hardly concealing their obvious disdain for the other.
You were too busy huffing and muttering obscenities to hear the bedroom door open and close, the sound of shuffling feet coming to a halt at the sight of you bent under the firelord’s bed. When you finally got it you practically sobbed, clutching it tight and scooting back, wiggling your body to free yourself from beneath the wooden bedframe. Your knees and hands were on fire, palms red from the embarrassing amount of time it took you to retrieve the..
You look at the fabric in your hand and squint. Was that.. was that a woman’s undergarments?
Someone cleared their throat just as you nearly were out and you froze, your blood turning cold when the voice spoke and their amusement was evident.
“Not exactly the view I was expecting to return to but I’m not complaining.” The voice chuckled and your heart dropped to your stomach.
You knew that voice. You heard it plenty during the speeches he would give at festivals and events, or the times he’d visit the lower city and you caught a glimpse of him and the conversations he easily held with shop vendors and flustered children. You can practically feel his smothering presence, the heat dripping from his body making the room ten times hotter.
This could not be happening right now. As a servant of the palace, you were paid dearly and in return all you had to do was perform your duties with grace and timeliness. As well as upholding the number one rule that had been installed into you leading up to your first day: do not sully Firelord Zuko with your presence. You had broken all three expectations on your very first day.
I’m definitely getting fired.
“It seems I've frightened you. Would you mind coming from under the bed? Your position isn’t leaving much to imagination. I fear for your honor.” He teases.
As if you suddenly remembered where you were, you quickly removed yourself from beneath the bed, undergarments still tucked in your hand and your heart now in your ass as you attempted to smooth down your kimono and avoided eye contact with the figure towering over you.
“M-my Lord! I- please don’t be angry. I was only cleaning before you returned, I-I swear I was not snooping! I thought I had more t-time-”
You swallowed hard and squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the scolding from hell you knew would soon follow. You had heard all the rumors. That his majesty was quick to anger when inconvenienced, even if he had changed much from when he was a young boy. That he lacked tolerance for incompetence and had even fired someone for making his tea wrong, sending the young boy off in tears.
What would he do to you? You were caught in his private chambers, no less in a compromising position that left your virtue to question. Surely you’d be banished from the country, forced to leave your family behind and flee to the earth kingdom-
You shuffled to your knees and bowed until your head touched the ground and the only thing you could see was the red carpet beneath you. Tears pooled in your eyes and threatened to spill, humiliation eating at you like a parasite.
“If you plan to dismiss me, please allow one of m-my sisters to work in my- my stead. My family won’t survive without-”
You’re cut off by the sound of a deep chuckle filling the room and your blush has covered your entire body at this point, the hair on your arms standing at full attention as goosebumps covered your skin and a tear slipped down your cheek. It wasn’t allowed but you could hardly stop yourself when a sound that angelic basically begged you to lift your head.
You gasped at the sight of your firelord staring down at you, an amused look on his face as he crossed his arms behind his back and lifted a brow, thoroughly entertained as he fought against his rising grin. HIs golden eyes were practically glowing from the warm sun creeping through the drapes, dark bangs falling into his eyes, half blocking the scar on his left eye.
He looked otherworldly. Like a god staring down on his devout worshipper, or a human peering at an ant, and it took all of your remaining strength to fight back the crude thoughts firing up from the sight of him hovering over you, snapping your head back to the ground. He was your ultimate superior, your firelord and you were a mere servant that was meant to neither be seen nor heard.
Your inner thoughts were indecent at best and treasonous at worst. You were far from his wife or even his concubine, and you’d do well to remember that.
“I’m not sure why you think I am cruel enough to fire someone whose job it is to clean up after me. Might I ask where you got this idea that I’m my father?”
Your eyes widened in horror, guilt rotting beneath your skin because you knew better than to believe in rumors but had quickly soaked up the ones pertaining to Zuko’s character and you had never met the man until this very moment. You had first hand witnessed his acts of kindness and yet..
“Forgive my misjudgment, Zu- my lord. My mother always did say my mouth would get me in trouble one day. I tend to spew nonsense when I am nervous, I mean no offense, It is merely gossip that is beneath you.”
The corner of his lip rises, but you don’t see that.
“Hmm, I suppose people tend to grow imaginative when bored. Though you’ll do well to remember that it is beneath you too. Please lift your head from the ground lest you intend to become part of it.”
You were instantly rising, not needing to be told twice as your neck and back were growing stiff from the position. You sat on the back of your legs, knees still digging into the floor and your hands squeezing at the fabric that got you into this disaster, eyes locked on the dark red robes Zuko wore to avoid looking him in the eyes again.
If Amachiyo could see you right now..
“Do you have a name?”
You stammered it out, voice cracking in the process but if Zuko noticed he didn’t say anything. You kept your eyes fixed on his robes, stomach twisting and mind racing.
He let your name flow off his tongue so beautifully, dragging it out until your face was burning from the sound. “Is there a reason you refuse to look at me? Surely it can not be my looks. Sokka insists the scar makes me 'stupidly hot.' I confess I’m still not sure what temperature has to do with it.”
You ignore the last part of that comment, knowing what would come out of your mouth would be far from an appropriate thing for an unwed woman to say to any man that was not her own. “I am forbidden, my lord.”
He simply grunts at that and steps closer, and your heart is thumping so hard that it hurts. You had never been this close to someone of great importance, let alone the firelord himself. You didn’t know what to do with yourself, so you opted for staying still and praying he’d dismiss you lest you embarrass yourself any further.
“Run along then little dove. We wouldn’t want you falling behind on your responsibilities, would we?”
Firelord Zuko was typically a very patient man, however innocent women like you were his guilty pleasure and you were driving him to the brink of insanity. He hadn’t seen you in the two weeks following that day he caught you under his bed, your ass in the air just begging to be fucked.
He was exhausted from his duties and frustrated that you seemed to basically disappear from the palace. It was shameful how badly he wished to see you again, a jest that a mere servant held his thoughts in chains. Zuko thought you might have a secret ability to bend his mind to think of only you, and it was comical as he didn’t even get your name.
He hadn’t slept with any of his concubines since meeting you, his thoughts always drifting back to the frightened maid. It made him feel guilty that he could no longer grow erect with other women, though he’d never leave them unsatisfied. Zuko was far from a selfish lover, even if he never wanted concubines in the first place, he always treated them well.
His current problem? He hadn’t shared his bed in entirely too long and it was starting to mess with his head, making him grow resentful toward you as if you had done something by simply existing.
Needless to say, dinner with his wife was going terribly, what with Zuko’s mood more rotten than it usually was. The clink of silverware against porcelain echoed through the dining hall and his duty sat across from him, regal as ever, her posture straight despite the late hour.
"You've hardly said a word."
Zuko looks up, annoyance evident on his face and he has to force himself to put his mask back in place. It wasn’t her fault that they had been basically forced to marry even if she betrayed him, but that fact didn’t make his reality any easier to accept.
“What is there to say?” He doesn’t miss the way she clenches her jaw, he just doesn’t care so he doesn’t linger on it.
“There’s always matter of state-“
“I just spent all day discussing matters of state.”
His voice was clipped, harsh enough that he hoped to end the conversation but she could never just let things be. Be it at the dinner table or in the gardens with other men.
“You seem distracted.”
Zuko nearly scoffed at that. What a fucking hypocrite. In the early days of their marriage he had vowed to make an effort, even if neither of them wanted this. The clans thought it would be best if he took a wife from one of the bigger three and though he refused in the beginning, he eventually agreed as he was young and dumb, still struggling to keep the elders loyal to him when they had been fierce Ozai supporters.
He regretted that the day he found her in the gardens with one of his guards in the late hours. It’s been years since then and still, they hardly speak to or see each other. Only when Zuko is forced to attend these tiring displays of union to keep everyone happy.
It wasn’t that he would have minded her sleeping around. They were both young when they wed, in relationships with different people prior and hardly knew each other. The way he saw it was that if he could have concubines then she could have her own lovers too, only she broke him after agreeing to give their arranged marriage a chance and he had never been able to forgive her.
Eventually he started sleeping with his concubines and that had been his life for the last eight years. He was fucking miserable.
Zuko let his mind drift back to you, despite knowing he was playing a dangerous game. The way your eyes had widened when he caught you in his chambers, tears forming at the assumption you would be fired, had left him confused and upset that you thought so lowly of him. He had seen frightened servants before but none of them had lingered in his thoughts for weeks afterward.
“Zuko.”
Her voice pulled him back from his wandering mind. He let his fork drop onto his plate, appetite completely gone now and anger simmering through his body. She never talked this much, both of them having mutually agreed to not make this more than what was required to keep people from whispering.
“What?”
Her smile is false, sadness evident on her face and for a split second Zuko almost feels bad about the attitude he’d been giving her. Until the image of her bent behind a flower bush with her dress above her ass and another man having his way with her evades his sight. He had been furious when he caught her all those years ago, especially since he’d only just consummated their marriage a fortnight beforehand.
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
“No. Must not have been important enough.” He sips at his wine with hopes of getting rid of the foulness on his tongue. She never had to do much to rile him up, her voice doing well enough to turn his mood sour.
“At least you’re honest.”
She copies him and sets her own fork down, peering into his eyes from across the table. It made him uncomfortable, as if she could look inside of his head and find that his thoughts belonged to a certain servant he was desperate to see again. He could easily find out who you were, order your higher ups to reveal the name of the woman who cleaned his bedchambers that day, but he didn’t want to come off as a creep. To scare you away before-
“Is there another woman?”
Zuko smirks from behind his wine cup, taking another sip before setting it down again. “No. I am faithfully yours, wife.” Sarcasm laced his voice and the woman’s eye twitched. Good. “Outside of my concubines of course.”
“Forgive me if I find trouble believing that. You do not sound very convincing, husband.”
“There is no other woman, I will not repeat myself. Let’s finish our meal with some level of decorum.”
Zuko’s irritation was rising and his patience was thinning by the second. There technically wasn’t another woman. As firelord he was expected to take concubines to strengthen the chance of producing heirs and she knew and agreed to that. On matters of you, he didn’t even know your name. Even if the way you were on your knees in front of him played in his head night after lonely night.
“Then what is it?” She pressed. “You’ve been absent even while sitting in front of me. I only wish-”
“Must there be a reason?”
“Yes!”
Her voice rings through the dining room, sharp and final and for a moment neither of them speak, the guards shifting awkwardly. The distance between the two of them was larger than the table that separated them. Perhaps in another life they would be able to talk to each other honestly, without the betrayal from the past lingering over them like a dark cloud.
The door to the dining hall opened before he could respond, servants entered to serve the next course but Zuko felt too sick to eat anything else. Guilt twisting in his stomach though he had done nothing wrong.
He barely glanced at them before doing a double take and freezing. Toward the back of the group and carrying a tray with practiced balance, was you, the ghost who had stolen his mind over the past two weeks.
His pulse glitched when you looked up at the same time, his breath catching in his throat because for a sweet, but all too short, few seconds you actually held his gaze. He was hypnotized, and when you looked away his rising smirk quickly turned into a frown.
Such a fucking tease.
Zuko could lie and say that the next time he saw you had been pure coincidence but that wouldn’t be honorable, now would it? He had learned your schedule following that night in the dining hall. You didn’t have to know that though, he would just have to pretend he had no idea that your shift ended an hour ago and that you liked to visit the public gardens afterward.
He’s stood behind you, watching as you bend over in front of the fountain and run your hand down the back of one of the palace cats. He never cared for the things but his younger sister, Kiyi, was fond of them so now they were everywhere. He had to scold his dragon for trying to eat one of them.
You looked so fucking edible outside of your work unifrom, dressed in a silk dress that hugged your ass and hips beautifully and Zuko could feel himself growing hard at the sight. His cheeks burned red at the thought of taking you right here, perhaps his wife had known something about fucking in gardens that he didn’t.
Perhaps he should find out.
“Hmm, scandalous as always.”
You were instantly shooting up and spinning to look at him and his heart almost leaped from his chest. Your hair was free of its usual pulled back style as you opted to let it free fall down your back, your face makeup free and you were so beautiful that it hurt. But the way your robes began to slip off your right shoulder and the wide doe eyed innocent look you were giving him, had his cock straining against his pants.
“My Lord!” You lowered yourself into a bow, hair falling forward and framing your face. “I did not mean to take up space, I was only admiring the gardens and then this cat came along and well, I just had to pet-”
“Please rise and do not apologize. I’m the one intruding, you were here first were you not?”
You were, Zuko knew that because he watched from a safe distance as you entered, waiting for the perfect moment to follow behind you. But that was his secret, right?
You simply stood there with your head bowed respectfully and it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He never liked the rule of not being allowed to look at your superiors but he also hadn’t thought much of it until he met you and decided that such a silly tradition would be dismissed.
“Are you incapable of speaking unless you are apologizing?"
“I’m so-” You quickly close your mouth, biting on the inside of your cheek and still refusing to look at him. Zuko had to fight to keep himself from laughing, you were just too cute. So innocent that you likely had no idea the inappropriate thoughts running through his head right now.
“I’ve found that the gardens look best in the late evening, wouldn’t you agree?”
Of course you would, it was the reason why since you started working here two weeks ago, you came here after every shift without fail. You didn’t know that he knew that though, so he asked anyway.
“Y-yes, my lord.” Your eyes were on everything but him and that just wouldn’t do. He was tired of playing this game, of pretending his attraction wasn’t burning his common sense away, like he didn’t dream of fucking you every night.
So he didn’t think before he was stepping forward, standing tall over you and letting the back of his hand slowly fall down your cheek, relishing in the way you were clearly struggling not to lean into his touch. This was perfect, it was so obvious you wanted him too. Zuko wasn’t alone in feeling this gravitational pull between the two of you.
He lets his finger trail over your bottom lip before gripping your chin between his thumb and index finger, turning your head toward him and lifting until it was tilted back and you were forced to stare at him.
Pure. The feeling that pooled in his stomach was a pure fiery lust that wouldn’t be satiated until he had you quivering beneath him and crying out his name.
“That’s better. From this moment forward you are to look me in the eyes when I speak to you, am I clear?”
He doesn’t miss the way your pupils expand and you allow your body to lean into his, so slightly that if Zuko hadn’t been tracking your every breath he wouldn’t have noticed. “But my lord.. People will talk. The rules-”
“Rules?” He chuckles even though a blush is creeping up his neck at the way you stare so trustfully at him. For the first time in years, he feels nervous. He had been an awkward teenager and horrid at seducing women until puberty kicked in and he learned a thing or two from the many girls that threw themselves at his feet.
“I am the firelord, sweetheart. I do as I wish.”
Zuko was a man of his word. After a desperate struggle to hold himself back from kissing you in public where someone might see, he straightened himself and pulled back, ordering you to meet him in his chambers later that night.
Your heart was racing the entire walk to the east wing of the palace, knowing what he wanted from you because it was what you desperately craved as well. It was why you changed into your finer robes, the finest you could afford as a servant. It was see through enough that your red dress underneath was very obviously visible.
How disgraceful you were, playing into this game with your superior, with a married man. The whispers that would begin once word spread that a mysterious woman that wasn’t the firelord’s wife or concubine, had been spotted entering his chambers, would be enough to bring shame to your family if anyone discovered who you were.
So why were you speeding up your steps to reach his chambers faster? How touch deprived were you to be so eager to sleep with a man you knew would discard you after getting what he wanted?
Still, you announced yourself to the guard posted outside of his door, raising your hand to knock when he confirmed you were who you said you were. Ignoring the way your body shook and your heart pounded in your ears.
On the other side of the door, Zuko was freshly bathed and still dripping with water when you knocked and walked in after he gave the clear. He stood in front of his bed, the small cotton cloth wrapped around his waist doing little to keep him decent, long hair falling down his back, free from the weight of the crown usually nestled atop his head.
“Firelord Zuko, I am here just as you requested.”
You cringe at the formality in your tone. You had never been with a man before and while you knew what Zuko wanted from you and you were more than willing to give it, this was new territory for you. You’d only ever kissed a few men before, never going beyond a heated exchange of spit and maybe a little grinding.
He would be your first.
“Good girl. Shall I reward you for following orders so finely?”
His words had you snapping your head up, eyes blown wide and face burning hot at his pet name. You had quickly believed rumors of his cruelty, terrified of working in the palace and here he was calling you a good girl.
The sudden reality check of Zuko’s true nature gave you whiplash. You can’t help the way your eyes lower, taking in every toned muscle, the scar on his stomach, the drop of water falling so slowly down his tanned skin, the dark trail of hair that disappeared between the cloth wrapped at his waist.
The man was truly out of this world.
“Yes p-please, my lord.” Harlot.
Zuko smirks at the humiliating desperation in your voice, golden eyes burning so bright that you thought he had actual fire in them. As he makes his way toward you, you feel your stomach twist and the goosebumps on your arms double in quantity.
The way he’s walking toward you like the god of seduction has an ache forming between your legs and spit filling your mouth. You have to actively keep your jaw from dropping lest you start drooling. How embarrassing would that be?
When he finally reaches you he’s looming, forcing you to tilt your head back to stare at him. He looked positively masculine, would he be rough with you? The smell of his soap was so strong, so sweet that you wanted to taste it.
He’s being gentle with you, thumb rubbing on your bottom lip as he uses his other hand to slowly untie your robe, never letting his eyes leave yours. His gaze was soul crushing, nerve wrecking enough that your body slightly shook, blood turning cold when his knuckles grazed your gown before he finished untying the knot.
Zuko doesn’t waste a second in pushing your robes to the floor, the soft fabric falling to the sides of your feet. He steps back to admire you and you can feel the flush on your neck and cheeks as his eyes linger on your breasts, hard nipples imprinting on the silk.
You had purposely chosen to forgo your sarashi so your breasts weren’t flattened like they usually were and a sick sense of pride filled your head at the way Zuko was eating you with his eyes.
For a moment you forgot that he was a married man with plenty of concubines to warm his bed, that this was simply a one time thing and he was just using you to get what he wanted.
“Hmm, get on the bed and I shall give you your prize.”
Your eyes are wide, pupils blown black with need and your body is buzzing so much that you can barely feel your fingers that have begun to sweat. Zuko only stands there, hands clasped in front of him as he waits for you to do as you’re told.
You’re too dumbfounded to do anything until he’s raising an eyebrow because from what your short lessons had taught you, the firelord does not repeat himself. So you’re nodding foolishly, hair spilling around your shoulders as you stiffly walk to his bed, trying your best not to collapse and embarrass yourself.
When your knees hit the bed, you turn around to face Zuko and gasp when you see he had been following you and now stood over you once again, dark locks falling into his face.
You swallow hard, your pulse skyrocketing as you reach a hand up to touch him, your fingers tips making the small peach fuzz hair on his face stand to attention the closer you get. Zuko’s eyes only leave yours to look at your lips, his hands moving to your hips to pull you close.
When your hand connects with his cheek, your fingertips brush the scar on his left eye. He stiffened for a moment before melting into the touch. He turns and places a kiss on your wrist, soft and so sweet that it sends shivers down your spine.
Zuko tilts your head up just a little before leaning down, every inch he closes making your knees weaker than they already were. And when his lips finally meet yours, sparks are bursting between the two of you, an invisible tether pulls you deeper into each other.
The kiss had started off slow, your lips moving together slowly as you both savored this moment, until you whimpered softly and your hand tugged at his hair. Zuko groaned back and immediately deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips and you immediately suck it into your mouth.
It leaves your head pleasantly spinning, the floor shifting beneath your feet as he moves to grip your ass, both hands full and pulls you flush against him. You could feel his hard cock rubbing at your hip, twitching with need and your pussy is so drenched you can feel your inner thighs growing wet from your arousal as it starts to trickle out of your panties.
He finally pulls back and your left moving forward, aching for more but he keeps you still with a harsh squeeze to your ass.
“You’ve been such a good servant.” He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. “Now lay on down and spread your legs for me, sweetheart. Your firelord demands it.”
Zuko shoves you onto your back on the bed, your dress riding up your thighs as you gasp. He drops to the floor in front you, slowly sliding your slippers off your feet and kissing your ankles, working his way up your body.
His hands push your gown up as he goes, and when he reaches your clothed cunt it takes the strength of all of his ancestors to stop himself from burying his face into your pussy and eating you through your panties.
Your scent is driving him insane, a mixture of jasmine soap and arousal clouding his senses and he wants nothing more than to devour you, but he wasn’t an animal. He would properly undress you first, take his time with you since you deserved nothing less.
When he reaches your breasts, he pinches each of your already hard nipples, rolling the buds between his fingers and grinning at the breathy moan you tried to fight back, head tossed to the side with your lip tucked between your teeth.
He keeps pushing the gown up your body until you sit up to lift your arms and he pulls it off, tossing it behind him without a care, your hair fanning out on the bed under him as you lay back down and he swears you’re the most divine creature he’s ever seen.
How funny life was, that the woman who made him feel most alive, was the one person his status would never allow him to fully have. Dangerous images started to form, ones where he left his wife and concubines and publicly claimed you as his. Such thoughts were unbecoming of a Fire Lord, untraditional, but Zuko had been breaking those since the day that crown was placed on his head.
What was one more rule overthrown?
The way you’re naively staring up at him has him drunk on desire, his hard cock straining against the towel still wrapped around his waist. He notices how you let your eyes drift across his body, admiring him just as he admired you.
When they land on his hidden twitching length and your eyes widen, he bites back a smirk, enjoying this entirely too much. You were shaking like you’d never done this before, eyes nervously looking around while you chewed on your bottom lip, almost petrified as if you were a-
He pauses, heart quickening at the idea of being your first. His feet move before his mind, reached down to grab your fiddling hands and lacing his fingers with yours to move them above your head. He uses his knee to spread your legs wide and settle his body between them, his cock pressing against your covered pussy.
You lock your legs around his hips, having no clue what you’re doing but following your gut. You're immediately rewarded with a sick pleasure as he grinds into you. It’s almost good enough to cover up the fact that you were terrified, having never gone past the grinding stage.
“Sweetheart..” Zuko whispers “Have you not been deflowered?”
And when you nod your head yes he can’t control the groan that escapes, lowering his head to place his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling long and hard because you smelled too fucking good.
He kisses the area between your shoulder and neck, making his way up until he’s face to face with you again. His pupils have dilated, his eyes burning brighter by the second.
“My my you’re just full of surprises aren’t you, my little dove?”
You swallow hard, your tongue caught in your throat when he starts to move a hand between your thighs, lifting his hips just enough so he can press his fingers against your aching pussy. The first brush of his fingers made you arch off the bed with a cry. He groans, low and guttural as he pushes your panties to the side and teases your entrance, circling but never quite giving you what you craved.
“I’ll take such good care of you, love. Make every second worth it.”
You let out a shaky breath and nod your head again, moving your hips to meet his fingers and growing frustrated when he pulls away.
He laughs at your desperation and it makes you flush hot, ashamed at how desperate you were acting.
“Be patient.”
“Please, Zuko, ngghh fuck.” Your voice cracks as he finally sinks one finger then two inside you, curling just right to make your vision whiten at the edges.
You’re whimpering and tossing your head side to side as he sets a cruelly slow pace, slick dripping down his fingers while he stretches you open. Those heated make out session you shared with men of your status could never live up to this, you were in pure bliss and he hadn’t even fucked you yet.
His breath is hot on your neck, tongue licking taunting strips that have you tightening around his fingers. When you're wet enough and stretched out just right, he picks up the pace bit by bit. Giving you more in small doses.
“That’s it, love. Take what I give you, you’re doing so well.”
He spreads his fingers, scissoring you to help prep you for his cock. You were so fucking tight that if he fucked you at this stage, he’d probably cum within five seconds of being inside you.
Zuko groans loudly when your hands escape his grip and you sink your nails into his back, hips moving in circles around his fingers. He can feel the way your cunt is jumping, clit hard in arousal and he has to taste your or he’ll die, so he’s picking up his pace until his fingers are slamming into you, thumb rubbing harsh circles on your sensitive bud.
Your stomach tightens the longer he goes, a bubble taking root through your body before it bursts and you’re crying out as your very first orgasm rips through you, pussy clenching around his hand.
He kept working you through it, his fingers heating up and your vision turns red from the intense pleasure the newfound warmth added, drawing out every wave until you were a trembling mess beneath him. Only then did he pull his fingers free, glistening with your arousal, and bring them to his lips. His tongue dragged over them with a groan, savoring the taste of you and it has you wanting more .
“What,” You take in a deep breath, face sweaty and burning. “Was that? Did you- did you use your bending on me?”
Zuko shrugs and smiles at you, bangs falling in his face. “A trick I learned. Did you enjoy it?”
Enjoy it? You wanted to laugh in his face because there simply wasn’t a strong enough word to describe what you were feeling, your body trapped between the spirit and living realm. Your pussy was still throbbing from being stretched, legs shaking like jelly as you struggled to catch your breath.
“I want more. Please.” You reach a hand up to touch Zuko’s cheek, thumb rubbing at his scar and you keep your eyes on him as you run your other hand down his side, enjoying the way his body shudders this time.
When you reach the knot keeping the cloth around his hips snug, you start to unwork it, your eyes never leaving his. He lets you, seeming entertained with the idea of you taking charge when only a few hours ago you wouldn’t even look at him.
When it falls to the floor you reach a hand between your bodies, fingers running through his pubes before you wrap them around his cock and he gasps from the sudden contact.
It’s warm, long and thicker than his print let on and your ten seconds of confidence are over before you can enjoy it, hand faltering as you imagine trying to fit that inside of you.
Zuko notices your hesitation, pulling back so he can look at you clearly while rubbing his thumb against your hip. “Don’t think too much about it, love. I promised to be gentle.”
You nod even though nerves still have sweat beading on your forehead. You wanted this, needed this more than anything and even though you knew your parents would be disappointed that you were unwed, you couldn’t find it in you to care.
You would deal with the consequences later, but for now nothing existed outside of this space you and Zuko shared.
“O-okay.” You whisper, the hair on your arms standing to attention when he moves your body up the bed and pulls your panties off, lying on his stomach between your legs as tossing them.
Now you understood how the first pair ended up under his bed.
You whimper as his fingers find your pussy again, circling your overstimulated clit with slow strokes. He nuzzles his nose against your thigh, placing a kiss on it before licking at your entrance in a strip.
You reach a hand down and grab onto his hair, lip catching in your teeth as you start to slowly move your hips against his face. Zuko groans encouragingly, replacing his fingers with his tongue and sucking your clit into his mouth.
You gasp, hand tightening around his black hair as your back arches off the bed and Zuko works you, stretching you open with his index finger, preparing you for what’s to come. Your nipples grow harder by the second, pussy throbbing and leaking juices all over his face and hand.
“My lord?” The voice comes from the other side of the door and you immediately recognize it as a co-workers, your blood turning cold despite the sweat coating your skin.
Panic, pure panic has you attempting to pull your body away but Zuko isn’t having it, using his hand to grab your hip and roughly pin you to the bed. His strength was overwhelming, even while only using half of it he was able to keep you still, attention solely focused on making you cum again.
Tears pull in the corners of your eyes when he adds his middle finger, pushing deep until his knuckles are flush against your pussy, ignoring the voice on the other side of the door.
You’re too gone to truly stop him, legs tightening around his head to pull him closer. You’re bucking widely against him, biting back several moans that threaten to expose your current.. condition.
Zuko uses his powers again, heating his tongue against your clit and you let go, eyes rolling back with your mouth dropped in a silent cry, pussy squirting juices onto the man beneath you. He doesn’t care, doesn’t stop sucking you dry until your legs are dropping from his shoulders.
“I just.. I thought you might be hungry since you skipped dinner.”
“Just ate.” His voice calls out, eyes locked on your eyes with a hint of mischief in them. “Leave me.”
SIlence.
Zuko doesn’t wait, grabbing your legs and hooking them on his arms as he lines his cock up with your entrance. Your eyes are as wide as the moon when he slightly nudges forward, grinding his impressive length through your folds to soak it.
When the sound of footsteps fade away, Zuko doesn’t give you a moment to speak before he’s pushing the tip in. He didn't rush it, didn’t force it. Instead, he held your gaze as he started to push through your tight walls, inch by inch, his breath ragged with restraint.
You cried out as the pain of your broken hymen tore through you, your nails digging into his shoulders. Zuko stilled, his jaw clenched, his voice a rough whisper. “Breathe. Just.. breathe. I’ve got you.”
His cock was discovering new depths, ones his fingers and tongue couldn't quite reach. He stopped with every inch, littering your face in kisses and licking your tears away. “So good for me, love. You’re so brave.”
The feeling of your hymen tearing was sharp and painful, the trick of taking a deep breath only working for a few seconds before it became too overwhelming. Still you bite your lip, forcing yourself to stay quiet but Zuko noticed. Of course he did.
He pulls back, staring down at you with concern etched into his face. “Are you- are you okay? I can stop.” He chokes out the last part when your pussy grips him on instinct, forehead dropping onto yours.
“I just need, mmm, a minute. It burns.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth “My brave little dove. It’ll pass.”
You take deep, shuddering breaths as he gives you time to adjust to his size, his hand cradling your face, lips brushing against yours in the softest kiss as his hair falls on the sides of your face.
When the pain mostly withdrew and was replaced with a deep burn of desire, you nodded for him to continue.
He started by rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts that made your toes curl, making sure to keep his eyes on yours for any signs of discomfort. While Zuko had wanted nothing more than to pound you, he wasn’t a brute and wanted you to enjoy yourself too, especially since it was your first time.
“That’s it. Take all of it, perfect girl.” He grunts, his pelvis rubbing against your clit so beautifully that you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer.
“Haah, oh god! That f-feels amazing, my lord.”
The sound of his title slipping from your tongue has him reeling, leaving him hopelessly flustered and his cheeks dusted pink as he smashes his mouth against yours, your tongues tangling as he picks up his pace. Your pussy suctions every time he pulls far enough out and shoves his cock deep inside, mushroom tip rubbing against your cervix.
It drives you crazy the way he’s stretching you, the perfect mixture of pain and pleasure making the world around you tilt. You lift your hips, silently begging for more and it doesn't take long for Zuko to understand you.
He kisses you one more time before sitting on the back on his legs, grabbing your hips with both hands and leaning over your body to fold you in half. You’re in a mean mating press, your legs pressing into your chest as Zuko hovers over you.
His eyes are burning bright from the lit hearth, his chest red from exertion. Tears pool at the sight, he was truly unbelievable. Zuko was arguably the most powerful man in the realm and here he was, on top of you and in this moment, yours.
“Fuck, I w-won’t last long like this.”
Zuko swears. Something he never does as he finds it to be uncouth, however you were turning him mad, clouding his judgement.
“S’kay.” Your words slurred as you pushed his hair from his face and moved your hips as best as you could in this position. “Just need.. you to move.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Zuko doesn’t start slow because when he looks down and sees the way his cock is snug inside of you, disappearing and reappearing coated in light red blood, he snaps. His body hunches over yours as he slams into you, savoring the way you scream out his name and rake your nails over his chest.
“OH! Zuko, I’m-” You’re whining and tossing your head back, drool and tears leaking down your face, your pussy squelching from blood and arousal, making a big fucking mess on the silk sheets.
“Yes? Tell me, love. Tell your firelord what you need.”
You can’t speak, spit bubbling in your mouth while Zuko fucks you dumb on his cock. He’s pounding you so hard that your body is moving up the bed, the headboard slamming loudly into the wall as he has his way with you.
“I think I know what you need.”
The world tilts when he pulls you off his cock and flips you onto your stomach, using his hands to push your legs together.
“What are you-” Your question is cut short by the feeling of him lowering his body over yours and slipping his cock between your legs, nudging until he’s at your entrance again and pushing through your squishy walls.
“You need more, so I’m giving you more.” He bottoms out in one sharp thrust, his balls smacking against your ass as he starts to ruthlessly pound into you, his hand pushing your face into the mattress.
“Huuuuh, oh fuck! God yes, just like t-that!” Your fingers grip the sheets, knuckles turning white from the force.
Zuko fucks you impossible harder and in return, your pussy clenched around him tight, sucking up his cock and refusing to let go.
He has you in a prone position, propping himself on his elbows so he doesn’t squish you, lips sucking on your neck and making sure to leave marks. If he couldn’t publicly have you, he would make sure others knew you were already claimed. An ugly sense of possession swelling in his chest.
His thrust grows animalistic and your cunt flutters around him. The pressure builds in your core and coils tighter with every stroke.
“So perfect for me, love. Say it, say you’re mine.”
Your back arches, nipples dragging across the bed and you’re stuttering out I’m yours! as the knot in your stomach finally bursts and you’re cumming for the third time. The pleasure is white and it’s hot, your screams muffed as you turn your face into the bed.
Zuko wraps your hair in his hand, twisting it and pulling while he keeps fucking you, cock swelling as he chases his releases. His breathing is ragged, hips pushing you further down.
“Can I- fuck- can you I breed you?”
You nod your head, pushing your hips up to meet his thrusts. He slams into you a few more times before burying himself to the hilt with a loud groan, cock pulsing as hot cum spurts against your cervix, thick and overflowing.
His hips jerk with each pulse, pumping his seed deeper inside you. You feel the warmth of his cum leaking out, further ruining his sheets.
Zuko stays there for a minute, letting the last of his release drip into you before slowly pulling out and falling to the bed beside you.
You slowly roll onto your back, pussy sore and when you can think straight, reality crashes into you that you were no longer pure.
Who would marry you now?
Before anxiety could swallow you whole, Zuko was pulling you into his arms, grabbing your leg to hike it over his waist. You hesitate before laying your head on his chest, relief washing over you that he hadn’t immediately kicked you out.
Tomorrow. You could worry about your future tomorrow. For now, you would enjoy the bliss of being his before you were just his servant again come morning.
“Mine.” He leans down to kiss the top of your head. “All mine.”
He grabs your hand and toys with your ring finger, and you had no idea that Zuko was already planning a way to end his marriage without causing an uproar, thinking of how to ask you to be his girlfriend without scaring you off.
He would have to handle his council first, not that it really mattered in the end. Nothing and no one was going to stop him from making you his.
❦ lisa's note: this took an embarassing amount of time to finish so I hope you guys enjoy it and pls ignore any grammar errors, my brain is fried 🥲 comments are always appreciated!
summary: damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolves all defenses and unravels the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: fluff+angst+hea, yearner damian who even without his memories, refuses to part from you ever again.
“Beloved.” Damian Wayne, your ex-boyfriend, is chained to the hospital bed in the most literal sense. Strapped down by physical restraints, he looks at you as if he's found his solace. “You’re here.”
He hasn’t called you that in months.
Dick, who barely made sense over the phone other than needing you to come over immediately for 'an emergency', approaches you with the same precaution to a frightened lamb. “He's had a concussion.”
You know that—it was the first thing you registered over the phone, but it didn’t solve the puzzle for why Damian wanted your presence.
“A minor concussion.” Damian scoffs. “Nothing worth the fuss of being chained to a hospital bed.”
“I wouldn’t call amnesia minor.” Dick says sternly.
..Amnesia?
“The doctor is over-exaggerating.” Damian argues. “There are no important events that I have forgotten.”
The pieces are clicking together, the missing fragments for why Damian's gaze doesn't grow cold when he sees you. Your shocked gaze meets Dick’s, who only nods subtly.
He doesn’t remember the break-up.
There are too many questions, none that can be addressed in this room when Damian is staring at you like he used to, completely unguarded and softened into a blurred memory of someone who used to hold your heart delicately.
“Damian.” You mutter briskly, even when the notion of addressing him weakens you. “I need to have a talk with Dick. Outside.”
Damian’s brows furrow. “Why did you call me that?”
Your steps that are halfway turned towards the door falter. “Your name?”
“Yes. You only call me that when you are angry.” He states, trying to lift himself from the bed. The restraints tighten, marking angry red lines over his wrists, but he doesn’t even flinch as he tries to reach for you.
Dick is quick to stop him, pushing him down by the shoulders. “The doctor says no movement.”
“I have given my opinion on the doctor’s expertise repeatedly.” Damian scoffs, irritated—but his gaze is distracted, trying to meet yours past Dick's shoulders. “Beloved, if you’re mad that I endangered myself, I assure you I am in perfect health.”
“That’s not—” You swallow, feeling an awful sink in the pit of your stomach and harshly avert your gaze. “Dick, outside. Now.”
Damian calls out your name, but you’re out the door before he—or whatever version of him was waiting for you in that room, can twist your emotions further.
You hear the door close gently behind you and sense the lingering guilt that hovers in the air.
You stare blankly at the chipped paint of the hospital walls. “You shouldn’t have called me here.”
“I know.” Dick sighs, and only now can you truly hear his distress. “You should’ve seen him. He was convinced you were in danger—that we were hiding something when you didn’t show after the first hour of his consciousness.”
“I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t go back in there pretending everything’s fine.”
Dick hesitates. There's a reason you were called over—which he purposely excluded in the call. “The doctor said we have to keep his stress to a minimum. We’re worried his condition will be unstable if you’re.. not around.”
You whip your gaze to meet his, but he's looking back at the door, where his youngest brother laid—unaware of the turmoil that was happening outside. You suck in a breath. “It’s not my job to be his keeper.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking you… as a friend." He pleads, looking back at you. "He’s my brother, and I know something happened between the two of you—and that he’s been stupid, which is why he ended up getting a concussion in the first place.”
His suggestion is loud in the silence, that the possibility of Damian's impulsivity which led to his injury is because of you. It couldn't be true. Not when he made it so evidently clear that you mattered the least to him out of everything in his life's priorities.
“He doesn’t want to admit it.” Dick tries. “He never does when it comes to his emotions, but he needs you. I know you won't believe me, not when he’s the one that should’ve told you, but you saw that look on his face. It’s like he finally allowed himself to breathe when he saw you.”
“So—" Your hands flail, desperate to release some tension. "What do you expect me to do?”
“Just.. be around him, the same way it was before, till he gets his memories back.” He sighs again, running a hand through the mess of his hair, knowing how unfair it sounds. "If anything, it may help speed up his recovery. You won't have to deal with him for long."
Your fingers run over the crescent moons your nails have indented into your palms. The silence drags, and you know there's already a conclusion being made without your consent. “...This is insane.”
—
“Something's wrong.” Damian comments, watching you shuffle around his apartment, well, you had to get used to it being your shared apartment again—when he straight up refused on staying over at his family's manor.
Something doesn't quite cut it. “Nothing's wrong.” Your voice is stiff even to your own ears and as you pull out the kitchen drawers. Your heart squeezes at the sight of your mugs still kept inside, unchanged since you moved out.
It wasn’t just the mugs, but almost everything inside the apartment—as if time has frozen within these walls, because he didn’t throw any of your leftover belongings away.
“I can feel it. There is something you’re hiding.” He pushes.
"Since when were you the empath?" Taking out a dusty mug, you rinse it over the open tap, focusing heavily on the task to avoid his prying stare. “Dick said not to tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter what Grayson said.” Despite obvious instructions from the doctor, Damian disregards them and moves abruptly from the couch, hand still clutching an icepack to the back of his head. “You can tell me anything.”
You slam down the mug with more force than necessary, causing a loud screech through the air. It freezes the atmosphere in the apartment, and you make the mistake of glancing over to see his reaction. Taken aback, the rarest hurt displays itself across his face, forcing you to look back down at the counter. This is going to be impossible.
"Damian, please sit down." You plead, refusing to look at him. "You're not meant to be moving."
His frustration ticks. You can feel it in the barest hunch of his shoulders, because the curse of reading his habits still comes so easily. He rounds the counter, stopping right in front of you. His free hand comes to lift your chin with the intention of forcing you to meet his gaze, but you grab his clothed wrist before he can even come close to contacting your skin.
Shock doesn't come close to describing the parting of his lips, the widening of his pupils. "You are angry." He states, but it comes out in a huff of disbelief.
"Damian." Your voice comes out as a warning. "You should be resting."
"No."
"Why?" You snap.
"The woman I am in love with is clearly upset with me, and I have no recollection of why." He answers briskly. "You’re calling me by my birth name which I have never hated more to hear, because it means I have disappointed you. Forgive me, if I am concerned."
The word 'love' sets off the wrong trigger.
“Love? It didn’t seem like it when you broke up with me.” It spills out before you can stop it. You suck in a breath, already regretting it. There goes your promise to Dick.
You expect his expression to fall into the one you’re familiar with, cold—cutting, but as the seconds pass, the hit doesn’t come like you expect it to. His brows knit together in complete bafflement. “Why would I do such a thing?”
You shrug, an aloof act that fools not even you. You’re the last person who can answer a question that’s been haunting you since he did it. “Beats me.”
“I would never—ever leave you, Beloved.” His voice is strained, as if the mere thought confounds him with disbelief. "If this is your punishment for me going on that mission without your permission, I am sorry. Just—"
His lips purse together, and his hand still caught in yours loosens itself from your grip to grab hold of your fingers, tentatively interlacing them together. "Don't ever say those words again."
Your lips part and close, confusion etched in your features. The Damian in front of you—doesn't coincide with the one in the last memories you have with him at all.
He struggled when you weren't there. Dick's voice rings in your ears, having said that right when you were signing the papers for Damian’s discharge, listing your name to be put as his emergency contact to provide updates on his condition.
"Right, fine." You dismiss, even when you can see how your short response stings him. "If you don't want me to be pissed, please go back to the couch. I will call the hospital on you if you don't listen."
His expression stiffens at the thought of being trapped in that stuffy room flooded with fluorescent lights, of the pushy nurse who demanded he’d get bed rest for at least forty-eight hours as he exited the doors. In restrained obedience, his expression flickers in contemplation. "Then you’ll come with me."
Your lips part to argue, but he's already pulling you along, his hand still intertwined with yours, dragging you along to the couch. He sits, forcing you right into his lap.
"You are to remain here till I am well." He states, his free arm coming to rest on your thighs, trapping you in his hold.
"That is—" You splutter. "I didn't agree to this."
"Call it compromise." He remarks, his scarred fingers squeezing yours. "I will not feel better till you are no longer mad."
You stare at him in disbelief. Had he ever been this clingy before? Your brain has trained so hard on forgetting the details that it's hard to make sense of what's real and what isn't.
"You're unbelievable." You mutter.
"And you're mine still." He responds easily.
It stills your heart, so sudden in tearing open the wreckage that lays hidden that you have to settle on staring at the windows instead, at the row of your wilted plants that he's struggled in keeping alive.
He sets the ice pack on the end table, his freezing hand coming up to caress your chin, sending a shiver down your spine at the cool temperature. "Will you truly not tell me what has displeased you?"
You had. Quite abruptly too with all your honesty. It still shocks you that he rejected the possibility of a break-up so quickly.
"Patients shouldn't speak so much." You mutter, knowing his stubbornness will get you nowhere closer to convincing him.
His lips quirk up into the faintest smile. "You worry."
"Of course, I am worried." When Dick had called you, Damian and emergency room was enough to toss your senses to the wind. Nothing of the past even made its way into consideration when you had rushed over, barring Gotham's traffic laws and all.
"For someone who prides himself on the least concussions among his siblings, you're not doing a very good job in living up to your word."
“But I have lived up to my word.” He answers.
You shift your gaze to him, confused.
“My promises to you mean more than some tally.” He declares. “I gave you my word that I will always make it back home to you, alive.”
His promises mean nothing. They shouldn’t—but the way he looks at you, filled with utter devotion, makes you wonder when he decided this version of him didn’t belong to you anymore.
It’s like you’re tossed into a time loop, forced to experience what you’ve lost over and over with every reminder.
“I should make dinner.” You announce abruptly, desperate to be out of his arms.
He stares at you in surprise, blinking slowly. “Alright, I shall accompany you.”
“What happened to staying on the couch?”
He shrugs. “That was the doctor’s orders, and I don’t recall making any promises to that loon.”
—
Dinner settles as a silent staring competition, tension running thick through the air with only him as the singular active participant, his eyes staring unblinkingly, digging a hole into your very bones as you poke at your plate, long after the meal has finished.
Just when sleep finally arrives, and you think you’re free from your nightmarish duties, caught between torn memories and thin lies, do you realise your mistake. Sleeping arrangements.
Damian pulls at the sheets, clearly expecting you to sleep by his side. Your mind scrambles for an excuse to sleep elsewhere but there is only one bedroom, and sleeping on the couch will only reinforce his suspicions of you being upset.
Just act like normal. Dick had suggested, like it’s that easy to resume being the girlfriend to your ex who doesn’t remember that he is one.
"Beloved?” He calls, snapping you out of your stupor.
You’re truly in for it. Your foolish decision to play pretend has reached its limits, and you’re to bear the consequences.
“Coming.” You respond weakly, making your way over to the bed.
You settle at the very edge, laying down stiffly as you pull the sheets over you. Seconds pass in silence and you think you’ve done it, completed your task without complications, when you hear a sudden displeased grunt.
Large hands wrap around your waist, and tugs you into a broad chest. Your eyes snap open wide, completely frozen as Damian tucks his nose into the crook of your shoulder.
“It is cruel even of you to be so far when I am injured, habibti.” He whispers against your ear.
You can barely breathe, scared he’ll feel the palpitations of your heart hammering against your ribs, right above his hold. He only calls you that when he is desperate, when a single language can’t capture what he wishes to convey.
“You told me yourself.” He grumbles. “Even if it carries to the next morning, we must never go to sleep angry at one another.”
Your lip quivers, and you force your eyes shut. “I am not angry.”
He’s silent, but his grip tightens ever so slightly, as if afraid you’ll drift further away if he doesn’t. “...I choose to believe you.”
—
Desperation is a rare look on Damian, but you think even this is cutting close to your given patience.
“I am unable to feed myself.” He shrugs, hands crossed over in obvious pretence.
“Damian—”
His gaze sharpens.
You resist a sigh. “Dami. I have to head to work, and you’re not starving yourself.”
“Five minutes.” He rebuts. “That is my usual speed for breakfast. You can spare that.”
He is right. You usually get to the office early anyway, but that doesn’t make his weaponised incompetence any easier to swallow—even for five minutes.
“Last I recall, concussions don’t erase your ability to use a spoon.” You retort, grabbing the utensil with more force than necessary. “And you were eating perfectly fine last night.”
“I suppose the doctor is right.” He remarks. “I require bed rest—and last night, I did not sleep well. A certain someone was desperate to escape my hold.”
“Petty.” You mutter, scooping the porridge and blowing on it. He watches you intently, seemingly very pleased with himself.
You lift the spoon to his lips, your lips pursed in impatience. With a deliberate slowness, he leans in, his fingers sneakingly wrapping around your wrist. He brings the spoon to his lips, but his eyes are trained on you.
He takes a bite, and hums. He lets his fingers drum softly against your wrist for a few more seconds before he comments. “My appetite is satiated.”
You scoff, but you can’t help the smile that quirks up involuntarily. “Liar.”
He shakes his head, feigning ignorance. “I suppose for my survival, you will have to feed me every morning."
"Since you clearly need to be babied, why don't I call Dick over to spoon-feed you then?"
His expression sours comically. "That is a horrible suggestion."
"Then, figure out how to use your hands." You mock, forcing the spoon into his fingers. "I'm heading off to work, don't do anything stupid."
"That's reserved for my siblings." He mutters, and his gaze traces over you, searching. Whatever he wants to find, it's not there, hidden by the mask you've put on, and his shoulders droop.
Crossing his arms, he looks at you with a thick expression. "I'll wait for you."
Grabbing your bag, you give him the barest nod as a response and you’re halfway to the door when his throat clears. You resist a sigh, and force yourself to look back at him. "Yes?"
“Aren’t you forgetting something important?” He mutters briskly.
Your brows furrow, thinking. He’s on his prescribed meds, has attempted at breakfast, and is on house arrest till he recovers, barred from all patrols till he’s able to function without an ice pack to his scalp.
His expression contorts briefly in disappointment, before he mutters something incoherently. Walking over to you, he stares at you with a narrowed expression before he leans in—and presses a kiss to your forehead.
You blink rapidly, growing flustered.
“For good luck.” He murmurs. “Since you’re the one leaving earlier this time, I’ll forgive you for forgetting.”
Right, you used to always give him a kiss before you left, till it became a ceremonious habit. He always seemed so undeterred to them, that you assumed he was merely tolerating your teasing by standing as still as a statue.
You never thought he actually waited for them.
Staring at him speechlessly, you find your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. For someone who’s lost his memories, he was strangely hyper-aware of all your previous habits.
“Have a good day, beloved.” He wishes, eyes softening in a cruel, dangerous form of lowering your defences.
Blinking harshly and regaining your senses, you mutter a quick goodbye and leave as quickly as you can. You wish you could tear out the beating organ in your chest that refuses to calm down at his affections.
He is not your Damian and hasn’t been for months. You refuse to fall for him again, not when it meant having your heart broken twice when he wakes from this feverish nightmare and remembers… that he doesn’t love you anymore.
—
Twilight has long settled among the darkened dusky clouds, and your back aches from hunching over your desk for the last couple of hours.
It was a reprieve to be away from Damian, to be sucked into a part of your life where it was constant with your past and present. So much so, you over-did yourself on your workload, starting on more tasks than you were supposed to.
Checking the clock, you wince. Eight p.m.
You were supposed to be home three hours ago. Checking your phone, you’re surprised to find no notifications, asking for updates on your location or the time you’ll reach home. Only to remember you blocked him eight months ago.
You curse, quickly unblocking him. You can only imagine his reaction—of you not coming back home at your usual hour and being unreachable?
Quickly packing your bag, you grab for your coat, stumbling as you tug it on and exit through the revolving doors. One hand haphazardly scrolls through your phone, pressing on his contact, and you’re busy thinking of some flimsy excuse that didn’t involve avoiding his entire existence. Too busy to notice someone approaching you at alarming speed.
The harsh yell of your name, echoed in a deep timbre that could only belong to him, snaps you out of your daze.
You wince, readying yourself before you turn. You expect him to be angry, disappointed. A mirror of the perfect statue you remember in your memories, cold and detached.
You didn’t expect to see him panting, hands on his thighs, hair sticking in all directions, and his eyes—filled with an uncharacteristic panic. Damian Wayne, the epitome of a man carved into a sharpened blade, stands before you as a complete mess.
"You didn't come home." He states, voice barely constrained to be levelled.
"Damian."
"Whatever I have done, forgive me." He exhales, sweat pooling at his forehead, cheeks reddened from running as he lifts himself back up, towering over you. Yet, he has never looked so vulnerable. "I just needed to make sure you were okay."
Damian Wayne never begs, not even when you walked out the door eight months ago.
Yet here he was, one hand coming up to clutch his head, gritting his teeth and trying to conceal his pain. Whatever pretence you held, the cold front you’ve desperately tried to upkeep to distance yourself—completely vanishes as you rush towards him.
“Damian, you’re not supposed to strain your head. Much less run all the way here.” Your stern expression falls short, replaced with worry as your eyes rapidly look him up and down. “It could lead to complications.”
“It felt wrong.”
The crease between your brows deepen. “What felt wrong?”
“Letting you walk away.” He grits. “Seeing you close the door on me. My body exhibited strange symptoms—palpitations, nerves—and somehow, I was convinced if I let you go, you’ll never come back. My head’s been hurting since and I waited. I truly tried.”
"I found notes." He says through the clenching of his jaw. "From the last few months in my phone."
You freeze.
"It contained your routine of how often you water your plants, your favourite recipes, and half-written texts I've never sent." He lists out. "As if I'm afraid I'll forget. Like you weren't there to remind me."
"Just stop. You're hurting yourself." It's hard to see him like this—so unguarded, filled with pain. It's hard to hear his efforts, when neither of you can understand what went through his mind, lost in his scattered memories. "I'll go home with you."
"I can't remember what I've done." Abruptly removing his hand from the back of his head, his fingers come up to caress your cheek. Even distressed, his touch is so soft, so gentle. His eyes search yours, trying to find the answer he seeks. "I don't know if I deserve to ask you to go home. Not when I haven't made it up to you."
"No matter how angry I am, I will never want to see you in pain." You plead. Grabbing onto his fingers, you interlock them with yours and tug him along back to the apartment. "We’re going home."
—
The kitchen counter is filled with your favourite flowers, even when you know he can’t stand the smell of them wilting two days later. An uneaten plate has grown cold on the dining table, evidence of a meal he’s cooked for you.
It's unbearable, because the guilt that drowns your chest, deepens into a painful tug at every controlled breath, pulling at the thought of him waiting for you alone. You drop your bag on the sofa, but the pretense is holding on by a thin thread and when you turn—he's standing there and watching, his gaze locked onto you as if he could look at nothing else.
You haven’t even noticed the tears streaming down your face, but you’re just so tired. Of fighting this obvious battle you were never meant to win.
You still love him. Even if he’s forgotten the fight, and the words he said that tore you apart.
Maybe it's the sight of your tears. He hated it whenever you cried, no matter how bad a fight’s ever gotten—but the distance he maintained out of respect for you vanishes as he moves in an instant, arms wrapping around you. He mutters into your hair, begging. “I’m sorry, hayati. Do not cry because of me.”
“I missed you.” Your voice cracks. “So much. It killed me to be away—but it was what you wanted.”
"Never." His voice lowers, desperate to make you believe, pulling away with his hands still wrapped around you, lowering his head to force you to meet his eyes. "I will never wish for your absence.”
He leans in, forehead pressed against yours. "You are all I could ever want. You're the reason I fought tooth and nail to make it back from that mission. You're what makes sense when everything else crashes. The idiot I was, I rebuke all his decisions because I want you. Now. Forever."
"I don't know if you'll mean it." Your voice comes out hoarse, broken. "When you remember the reason that you pulled away."
"I may have lost my memories." He says sternly. "But I know who I am. That has never changed. Not before, and certainly not now. You’re the only one who’s ever been the keeper to my heart, and it’ll be you till my last breath.”
You want to believe him. So desperately, you want to love him again and not fear that he'll drift away, with the fear of disappointing his father, or letting his never-ending mission break the two of you apart again.
"If losing my memories is what it takes to get you back, I will do it again and more." He says with absolute conviction. "I have never been more sure. This is what I want. You are all I need. So, stay. We'll figure this out together. Even when my memories return."
"Just—don’t leave me." His voice softens, his gaze pooled with a deep-set fear that his body seems to remember, even when his mind is frayed. "I can’t bear it.”
—
His plea follows you into your dreams. This version of him is still hard for your mind to wrap around, that when you wake from a shuffle of movement, it takes you a moment to readjust and recognise your surroundings. Or rather, the arms pulling away from your waist. You force your eyes open, blinking blearily before turning around to face him.
"Dami?" You murmur.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he's looking at you with a sober, dreaded realisation, like—he's woken up from a dream.
It strikes you immediately, the fog in his gaze that has lifted, and you're quick to pull away fully to your side of the bed, the sheets dragging along your legs. "You remember."
"Beloved." His hand reaches out, disbelieving—but it freezes mid-air and pulls back, a quiet guilt filling his gaze. "You're here."
You swallow, pulling your knees under your elbows. "Are you going to kick me out?"
His expression cracks—revealing a cold rage taking over his expression, but it wasn't directed at you. It was for himself.
"No." He answers shortly, disgust creased into the tension between his brows. "I should be the one to leave. I have hurt you, deeply. I took advantage of your kindness while I was unable to recover my memories, and trapped you into being here with me."
His jaw clenches, and he averts his gaze. "I understand if you want to be done with me. Permanently. I will have it all sorted by the morning."
No. That is not what you want. You want him—honest and bearing his heart to you, the way he did earlier. You didn't want kindness, or polite pity, because you still see the man you love under the mask that he's desperately trying to upkeep.
"No." Your voice echoes against the walls, and his gaze snaps to you. "I do not want you to go. I want you to tell me everything. What you were thinking, what you did while I was gone, and what you want from me. I'm not letting you let me go this time, Damian. So, talk."
He inhales, and even as his fists dig into the sheets, there is a quiet, trembling hope you find when his eyes soften, tracing over your features like he's finally able to breathe with you in his vision.
"I lost sight." He speaks, his voice weaker than you've ever heard it. "Of what truly mattered. The mission, the fights with Father—it consumed me as a never-ending battle to prove myself. With every failure, it escaped as a lash, a punishment that slowly began to trick my mind into thinking that I did not deserve life's blessings. That I did not deserve you."
"I thought you were better off without a partner who always came back needing stitches, bleeding across the floorboards." His gaze darkens, and somewhere in him, he sounds as if he still believes it. "That you deserved someone who was stable, warm, kind. Who knew how to use his words instead of wielding them like a dagger. Who could hold your heart without being so afraid of breaking it."
"I was so sure of it." He mocks, a cold dagger dragging over the open wound of his regret. "I made the decision for us without asking."
"I regretted it." He says quickly, gaze flickering with a sudden intensity. "Immediately. On the first sleepless night, when I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the side you always occupied. When the plants started to wilt as if they couldn't bear anyone's hands but yours. When I made two coffees in the morning and had to drain it in the sink."
"I had reserved a space in each part of my life unknowingly, for you." He admits. "When I lost you, I felt it—this unbearable loss—and I knew I’ve made it impossible to live without you.”
"But you did." You mutter. "For eight months."
"Living?" He smiles wryly, and not a hint of it reaches his soulless gaze. "I knew that I had hurt you, and I would’ve been an even more selfish bastard if I asked you to forgive me. But I was not living.”
“I carried on in the only way I knew how before meeting you. By surviving—barely. I grew reckless. Impulsive. Threw myself into mission after mission. By the time I realised how far gone I was, I was bleeding out in an alleyway and Dick was dragging me to the hospital."
You could only let silence answer for you. His honesty, which was all you ever wished for, was simultaneously so much to bear.
"Did you mean what you said earlier?” You ask quietly.
"Every single word." His fingers twitch, a slight tremor he tries to hide by digging deeper into the sheets. "You are all I want. There wasn't a day since you left that I haven't regretted letting you go. I may have survived, but the clock on my life stopped till you came back into it."
A lock that's been trapped in that hollow cavity in your chest, weighing you down since the first time you saw him in the hospital, and maybe even before then—finally breaks. Your hands come up to shield the pain you’ve desperately tried to hide, tears running down to no avail.
Whatever semblance of dignity he was trying to uphold, it completely shatters as he reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. He lets out a deep exhale, hands rubbing against your back, comforting and warm.
"I am sorry I hurt you." He mutters into the crown of your head. "I am sorry I've been a fool. No apologies can make up for what I've done to us—only that I regret every moment I wasted, and that it took me this long to tell you what you deserved to hear."
"I don't want you to go away, Damian." It’s the most genuine plea you’ve ever asked of him, bearing your heart so deeply that it terrifies you of its vulnerability. "Don't disappear on me again. Don’t shut me out. I hated not being able to read you, and feeling like I was isolated in what was meant to be a partnership between the two of us."
He shakes his head wordlessly, pulling away slightly to lower his gaze, meeting yours and there’s a raw desperation in the green of his eyes. “I will never leave. Not as long as you’ll have me—I will spend the rest of my life forging myself to be the man you deserve. I will communicate. I will apologise. I will do anything you want, hayati.”
“You have a lot to make up for.” You remind him.
“As long as you’ll give me the time.” He answers. “I will not waste a moment more.”
“I want grovelling.” You go on. “Like—on your knees grovelling.”
“I can do it now.” His response is quicker than sound, and he’s already ready to obey your every command.
“I want you to tell me when you feel something is wrong. When you feel you’re not enough, you have to say it.” You demand.
“Yes, my love.” He answers, a soft nod brushing against your forehead.
“I want you to call the hospital now, because we need to get a scan to make sure everything’s okay.”
His expression falters—a brief hesitation at the thought of the pushy doctor and his accompanying nurse.
“Damian.”
He flinches at the sound of his birth name, stressed in that particular tone that signals you're not joking about your conditions if he wanted to be with you again. Not even his hatred for hospitals will risk him even the slightest chance of losing you.
With or without his memories, he had always known that you're the peace in his life that he thought he didn't deserve, but cherished so deeply that he finds no meaning in the word if it weren't for you.
“I will call the hospital immediately, Beloved.”
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
Synopsis: He believed the entire world had forgotten Peter Parker, until the girl he never spoke to in class said his name. [Gif Creds: manny-jacinto].
First Peter Parker fic in celebration of the trailer drop ✨💃
(Edited 3/31: I officially made this into a small little series, so I DEEPLY apologize for the previous mess of formatting 😭🙏)
『••✎••』
His face changed in an instant.
The easy, half-apologetic smile Peter had been wearing—sorry, my bad, let me help—froze, then cracked. His brown eyes widened, pupils blowing out like he’d been hit with a flashbang. The color drained from his already pale cheeks, leaving the faint acne scars and the sheen of nervous sweat stark against his skin. His mouth parted, lips forming a silent what? before any sound could escape.
You blinked up at him, crouched on the grimy New York sidewalk, one hand steadying your precariously tall stack of books, the other hovering over the scattered ones at your feet. The world kept moving—the rumble of the subway beneath the pavement, the wail of a distant siren, the shuffle of pedestrians flowing around the two of you like water around stones. But in the sudden, suffocating vacuum between you and him, all of that noise simply dissolved.
"Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry," he’d been saying just a second ago, a familiar, breathless rush. He’d bumped into you—a classic traffic jam on the sidewalk—and your world had tipped sideways. Physics took over. Textbooks on organic chemistry and literary theory splayed out across the concrete like a fan.
He remembered you. He was sure of it. You sat two rows ahead and one to the left in Mr. Harrison’s history class. You never spoke, but he knew you were one of the smartest kids in the room, your hand perpetually in the air while he was usually trying to calculate if he had enough web fluid for patrol later that night. He’d seen you in the halls—a quiet, focused presence that never seemed to intersect with the chaotic orbit of himself, MJ, and Ned.
You smiled, a small, polite curve of your lips as you both reached for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Your fingers had brushed.
"It’s okay, happens all the time." You had said, gathering the last book and tucking it into your stack. Then you looked him in the eye, a brief, friendly glance of acknowledgment, and said the words that had just short-circuited his entire nervous system.
"See you around, Peter."
And just like that, the universe tilted on its axis.
You’d pushed yourself to your feet, adjusting your bag, giving him another polite smile before turning to merge back into the river of people on the sidewalk. The moment was over—a simple, forgettable bump with a vague acquaintance from high school.
Except it wasn’t.
Wait.
His lungs seized. The name echoed in the hollow of his chest, a ghost of a sound, but it was the most real thing he’d heard in an eternity. Peter. Not "hey, kid" or "that guy" or the frustrated sigh of a landlord who never knew his renter’s name. Peter. Said with the casual familiarity of someone who had always known it.
A frantic, desperate energy seized him. He couldn’t let you go. He couldn’t let you walk away and vanish back into the faceless crowd, leaving him to wonder if he’d finally, truly lost it.
"Wait!"
He shot forward, a burst of speed that felt more like a spider’s leap than a human’s jog. He caught your arm just above the elbow. It was a gentle touch, barely any pressure, but you stopped instantly, turning back to him with a look of surprise, your brow furrowed. Your books wobbled in your arms.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in a silent room. He leaned in, not caring that he was blocking the flow of foot traffic, that a businessman had to sidestep him with an annoyed grunt. All that mattered was your face, your confused eyes, and the five letters he needed to hear again.
"Wait," he repeated, his voice raspy, thin. "What… what did you say?"
Your confusion deepened, a small line creasing between your brows. You glanced from his wild-eyed face down to where he was still touching your sleeve, then back up again.
"Uh…" you hesitated, clearly thrown by the intensity of his reaction. "I just said, ‘see you around’?"
"No, before that. The… the last part." He could barely breathe the words out. Please. Please say it again. Let him know he wasn’t hallucinating, that the loneliness hadn’t finally cracked him open.
You blinked, slow and deliberate, as if trying to decipher a foreign language. A flicker of something like concern crossed your features.
"Peter?" you said, his name a soft, questioning thing in the city noise. "Are you okay?"
The world shattered around him.
It wasn’t a question of how. He didn’t care how. Not yet. The sheer, overwhelming fact of it crashed over him like a tidal wave. The weight of a year’s worth of invisibility, of nonexistence, suddenly lifted. Air rushed into lungs that had been starved for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe. A tremor ran through his entire body—a violent, shuddering release of tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding.
He didn’t answer your question. He couldn’t. All he could do was stare, his grip on your sleeve slackening until his fingers just brushed the fabric of your jacket. He was looking at you, but he wasn’t seeing a college student with a stack of books anymore. He was seeing an anchor. A lighthouse in a fog that had swallowed him whole.
A shaky, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips—a broken sound that held the ghost of a sob. He stared at you as if you’d just handed him the entire universe, piece by precious piece.
You, completely unaware of the magnitude of the moment—of the dam you’d just broken—just stood there. You took in the dazed look, the trembling hands, the way he was looking at you like you were a miracle.
And you just looked… concerned. Worried for the weird guy from your old high school who was currently having some kind of meltdown on a public sidewalk.
"Peter," you said again, a little firmer this time, reaching out a hesitant hand. "Seriously. Are you alright?"
And he was. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was more than alright.
this short series has to be one of the best fics I’ve read in a while. if you’re looking for something to read while you wait for brand new day, this is a really good pick 🫶
[academic rivals] [sex bets] [eight-year hogwarts] [quidditch captain draco] [smutty] [switchy] [tortured past] [idiots in love] [an overall sexy and emotional good time] [hogwarts in winter] [loss of virgnity] [pining]
Summary: When your no-strings-attached agreement to lose your virginity to the perfectly agreeable Theodore Nott falls through, you're in need of a substitute. And for some reason, your academic rival, long-time nemesis, and perpetual thorn in your side, Draco Malfoy, thinks he's the perfect one.
You're determined not to fall for whatever tricks he has up his sleeve, but as you start trading kisses like curses and sex wagers like blood oaths, things get...complicated.
And you're not sure how many more bets you can make with him before you lose much more than you bargained for.
18+ content. CW: so much smut. swearing. drinking. eight year at Hogwarts, post-war so characters are aged up.
chapter one - Your Rival
chapter two - The Plan
chapter three - A Kiss
chapter four - The Monster Within
chapter five - Let's Raise The Stakes
chapter six - A Lesson In Impulse
chapter seven - A Little Honey
chapter eight - Liar
chapter nine - The Most Unforgivable Curse
chapter ten - Ruinous Games
chapter eleven - One Of Many
chapter twelve - The Death Of Me
chapter thirteen - A Flame This Scorching
chapter fourteen - What If
chapter fifteen - A Silent Confession
chapter sixteen - His Birthright
chapter seventeen - The Twists of Fate
chapter eighteen (coming soon)
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
see slytherin roster's instagrams (my oc's) ✧ or read on ao3!
⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ please comment below if you want to be added to this story's taglist 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
a/n: thanks for reading! if you liked this, please reblog to share!! and head over to the chat box on my profile, I'm always down to fangirl with you guys.
this story (so far) has filled me with so many different emotions, giddiness, shock, anger, panic, excitement, oh my goodness. I haven’t felt this compelled by a fanfic in so long. if you’re considering reading, please do!! worth all of your time and good luck 🤭😚
- ☆ - a/n: ♧ reposting this fic because tumblr nuked it from the tags. if you ever happened to find the original two-parter floating somewhere lmk :3 ♧ latest project — Shanks ♧
- ☆ - tags: ♧ reader is a member of the straw-hats ♧ light!voyeurism ♧ teasing ♧ fem!reader ♧ some subby!sanji and dom!reader but Sanji-kun is a true switch :3 ♧ panty sniffing ♧ begging ♧ male!masturbation ♧ cum play-ish ♧ leg fetish(?) ♧ body worship ♧ humping ♧ Sanji gets a nose bleed so there will be mentions of blood ♧ idk how else to tag this but reader teases sanji and he's a lil desperate cunt-slut ♧ never had a beta, we die like fools ♧
“Bye, guys! Stay safe!”
Seated on Franky’s mechanical shoulders, Chopper waved back at you. His adorable laughter drifted past the treelines along with their farewells and energetic chaos fleeing towards another mini adventure. One you would not be a part of this time.
The rest of the crew left you on board with the promise to return soon as they scoured for supplies on an inhabited island, but with the way Luffy sped away— and Nami shouted after him— you knew there wouldn’t be much hope reigning in the Captain’s excitement.
You could trust Luffy to disrupt a plan and completely derail a simple situation. His shouts and the crew’s calls for him to slow down faded faster than the dust he left behind.
The seconds ticked.
You held your breath.
Standing alone, you listened intently for the silence to shatter the way you have become accustomed to— only to hear nothing but the squawk of birds resting on the mast. Undisturbed and unthreatened. Without so much as a song or laughter to burst, the ship rocked against the crystal waters of the shallow shore as you stood on the massive boat.
The world quiet, the view serene.
“Yes!” You let out an excited squeal, stomping your feet on the grassy deck in a silly dance of freedom and peace. “It’s finally quiet!” You shouted, laughing to yourself when no one answered you but the flaps of the wind against the furled sails above you.
There were no shouts other than your own, no arguments or explosions— no disturbances of other people. Finally! After five weeks of non-stop excitement and open sea, you twirled, jumped and danced your butt off with no one to interrupt or insult your ridiculous display of glee because you were alone!
“They all left, yes, yes!”
You sang merrily, taking up space with wide arms and a beaming smile.
You loved the straw hats. Travelling with them has been the most thrilling adventure of your life. They were amazing! Incredible, free-spirited— but sometimes, when the songs turn repetitive, and the merriment mutates into mayhem, you just want time to yourself.
Having grown up alone, you had become accustomed to the stillness of an empty room. It was comforting, the calmness of your own company and the hyper-independence it developed. A stark contrast to the life you started with your new makeshift family, and after so long of bumping and sharing space with colourful, loud personalities, you were thankful for the chance to stretch your arms and lay on the soft grass.
A moment to unwind, relax, and hear nothing but the waves below and revel in the tranquillity of solitude.
“Now, iced tea on the deck or a long bubble bath?” You mused out loud, whistling while making your way to the kitchen, “or both?” You paused up the stairs.
You sought to utilise all the time you had with maximum relaxation — with the way Luffy screamed over the odd-looking animal that stole his fruit; reading a book in the bathtub right now would guarantee no disturbances or uncomfortable attention for a while. No long lines or perverted interferences. You could take your time soaking in the warm water, and if they arrived by late dinner, they would find you already sated, happy and relaxed in the kitchen.
Right, decisions finally made, you went back down the stairs.
First, you needed your book back from Usopp, who swore he would finish and return yet never did, so you made your way to the boy’s quarters. They have lockers with their names, so it wouldn’t be too difficult unless he stashed it somewhere else, hopefully, the room wasn’t too messy— “Damn,” you heard someone hiss, a low voice that stopped you in your tracks, followed by inaudible murmurs that most definitely belonged to a man.
Fuck. Just like that, your good mood died, snatching your solitude away before you had the chance to indulge in it fully.
There was someone else here wrecking your fantasy and all the excitement of relaxing alone. No one ever said you would be guarding the ship with another person, yet the sounds of shuffling filled you with instant disappointment as you stood outside the room with the door slightly ajar.
You eyed them carefully through the crack, peeking in to seize a glimpse of who was ruining your day of fun, only to catch a wisp of blonde hair and a streak of smoke before you heard him hum something to himself as he shrugged off his suit jacket, clearly undressing.
Oh.
Swallowing your nerves, you spied from the slim gap through the door— watching smooth, slender hands loosen and tug on the tie around a pale neck until it slipped out and neatly folded on the dresser in front of him.
You paused, disappointment somehow melting as something else fluttered through your body. Something hot. Something wicked and indecent thumped an ache in your core as you watched him unbutton his top collar.
Then the second.
Third.
Unwittingly, your thoughts began to drift. Obliviously slipping into a heated dream envisioning how his strong hands would feel on your hips, your waist, gripping your supple skin when he presses you into his chest. The hot wisps of smoke and spice fogging your perception when he tilts his head down to yours, lips soft and slightly parted…
Sanji rolled his neck, popping the tension that released a low hiss from him, startling you out of the fantasy you unknowingly faded into before a sudden realisation rooted you to the spot— you were watching a man undress.
You were watching Sanji undress.
You only needed your book— a simple noise or shuffle would make your presence known, but you watched Sanji rake his fingers through his hair instead and toe off his shoes, standing in the middle of the room.
You weren’t all that sure about the layout of their quarters, considering you were usually respectful— but you could tell Sanji was closer to the beds and had a medium-sized dresser beside it with a sink and mirror in the corner. The room was spacious, bigger than the girl’s quarters, including a sofa and table in a sunken spot nestled in the middle of their room. It wasn’t as disorganised as you pictured. A lot of colourful knacks matching different aesthetics, but they all had a place that belonged to them. A piece of individuality.
You leaned back, hoping you went unnoticed by the man who often sang for your attention— and Nami’s and Robin’s, and any pretty girl he laid his eyes on. He was shameless, obscene. Yet there you stood, watching him unwind and strip ever so slowly exposing a physique you never expected from the ship’s cook.
The wavering sense of guilt drifted from your consciousness, fading into a vague afterthought with every second you spent gazing into the rift through the door as if it were luring you into depravity.
You wondered why you held your breath when his humming stopped.
Say something before—
His tired groan flushed warmth on your cheeks as you ducked behind the frame, shamefully peering into the room and watching him finish unbuttoning his blue striped shirt with deft fingers. Gingerly unclasping the buttons one by one until the shirt hung loosely on his shoulders. Over soft skin and hardened muscle.
It was almost elegant how he shifted his cigarette with his teeth to avoid the tiny trickles of ashes from falling on his suit, then gently placed his black jacket on the bed with grace you couldn’t fathom as he slid the shirt off his broad shoulders in the same motion.
Brightening the room, hitching your breath.
Sanji... he was beautiful.
In a gentle sort of way, with poise, strength and a style all his own. In an amorous way that kept you fixated on his toned back. His broad shoulders, smooth chest, and the cut of his well-defined abs. In the sense that had you admiring the grace of his movements and all the years he must have spent perfecting them.
You have watched him work while travelling with the strawhats these last few weeks. For no other reason than admiration, at the time, because you respected his power and the regency of his fighting style. But now, in the absence of stubborn rivalry and heart-eyed temptations— to glimpse the softness of his smile for yourself was like witnessing the shimmer of undisturbed water shining in the light of a spring day.
Peaceful.
A smile all his own, no snarky comment or perverted leer to taint the innocence or sincerity of his expression— you could only describe it as pretty.
It had you clutching the hem of your sundress, crouching down slightly when his lithe body sauntered from your sight. Was he preparing to take a shower? Did they have their own private facilities? Or is he about to walk out and catch you and your hidden decadence for unassuming men?
Your mind raced with questions, mixing with a perverted sort of fascination you dared not to admit, leering behind the door that hinged on the stillness of your presence.
Sanji turned back to your frame, humming another tune that was all too familiar when music played merrily on the deck. He sounded at ease, his voice carrying through the room softer than the smoke that swirled around him.
You bit back a smile, unintentionally slanting into the door, craving more than a slim peek into the room. deeper than a glance, especially when his hand inched towards his pants.
His movements were effortless— if it were not for the click of the buckle and the loud snap of leather, you would have missed how he unclasped his belt with one hand and yanked it fluidly with one rough tug out of the loops.
Fuck, that should not have been as attractive as it was, yet heat flushed anyway like it was coursing through your blood vessels, pumping your heart into a sensual beat out of its control. As much as you wanted to deny it, and turn your guilt away, it forced you to realise how difficult it was becoming to justify your presence— and even tougher to care about the intrusion of Sanji’s privacy.
He would have done the same, right? Though Sanji would have been less conspicuous and ten times more audacious, it was still innocent for you. For now.
“Where’s?” He mumbled before a soft aha came right after, a blue towel appearing in your field of vision. Hard muscles and a lean torso shifted through the gap, his back to you as he fiddled with something you could not see.
Your gaze lingered, slinking down every tight ridge and exposed skin you were blessed to witness.
There was a beauty to him you had not seen before, a tenderness to his features you only noticed now through the sliver of light. The colour on his cheeks, the tilt of his lips, the little curl of his eyebrow most people teased him for. There was something feminine about it— a spark of gentility he may have inherited from his mother, not that you knew much about that, just a softness he seemed to be blessed with.
It was admirable how he took excellent care of his things too. Rolling his belt, setting aside his cufflinks, buffing his shoes, even hanging his shirt over the chair to be later washed and pressed— you know he did after Brook thanked him for kindly ironing his shirts as well.
Perhaps there is more to him than silly sexual deviances. More than hazy eyes over full tits and round ass-cheeks. Sanji was diligent. Thoughtful. Tender.
Whereas you were the deviant leaning in a little too intently now, your perverted gaze following the veins on his forearms as he stretched them above his head, emitting low groans when his back pulled tautly and the muscles constricted tight.
You squirmed, the sounds of his groans and sighs making you clench your thighs as you watched him stretch, then admired himself in the mirror, rubbing his chin over the dark hairs you wished he wasn’t thinking of shaving. You liked the facial hair— almost as much as his ass when he leaned forward to splash some water on his face.
“Wait..” you murmured out loud without thinking. When did he snuff the cigarette?
Shame filled you instantly. Sanji’s ass distracted you for too long because now he was wiping his face with a clean blue towel, droplets of water rolling down his sturdy neck before they were selfishly wiped away just when you began imagining licking it off his skin.
You huffed, your feet planted to the floorboards, unable to speak louder than a tortured gasp while your thighs cinched to ease an unpleasant ache when he ran his hand through his hair again, with pretty blonde strands falling wet over his face. Over sweet eyes and high cheekbones.
It was exhilarating, intrusive, and extremely impolite, yet you could not turn away or apologise for the violation, too mesmerised by the physique usually clad in lavish suits. Only witnessing a faint glimmer of the man you had never known before— lurking behind the shadow of the door frame that separated you from him and spared him from your wandering stare.
There was a clink and a small flame before the smell of smoke wafted through the door once again. A thick cloud of vapour swirled around Sanji as he tilted his head back, eyes closed and basking in the serenity of the surrounding silence. Much like you wanted to before you became lustfully distracted, spoiling his privacy. Invading his space. That guilt you previously estranged yourself from inched back into your consciousness as Sanji sighed softly, looking every bit of the peace you intended for yourself earlier.
Your teeth latched on your bottom lip, nervousness churning, desire twisting into a sick delusion— your prying had to end. Even Sanji deserved the politeness of privacy.
So, you turned to leave, determined to ignore all you had seen, just for the floorboards to creak under your weight when your feet shuffled a little too loudly.
Your body stilled, you felt your pulse explode, and excuses and apologies were ready to spill from your trembling lips as you whipped your head back to the door— only to freeze when you caught him unbuttoning his pants.
He stood there, shirtless, hair damp and dark pants low on his hips as the zipper rang louder than the blood rushing in your head.
A smothered gasp escaped behind your hand, an inaudible “Oh god,” choking out beneath the pleasured grunts you heard through the wall. Sweat beaded down your temple, somehow feeling hot and sticky despite the chilling wind that ruffled your hair, tickling the flushed skin of your chest as your breathing quickened.
He was... touching himself— idly, lazily, using the heel of his palm to rub on his crotch as it steadily grew into a heavy bulge pressing into the teeth of the zipper.
“Fuck... ”
You squeaked, thankfully no louder than his own low grunt.
His teeth peaked through his smile, chuckling at something past your sight. His smile was sultry, his laugh airy. Thank God, no one could ever see the creeping blush up your neck over Sanji. Or feel the stickiness that marred your panties over the sight of his erection lewdly shaped beneath the fabric of his dark pants. The man who needed blood transfusions whenever he saw a pretty girl.
You would have felt humiliated if you weren’t so distracted. And breathless, lightheaded, and not to mention wet.
His ridiculousness was why you never noticed these things before, like the slenderness of his long fingers, or how his sharp jaw clenched to keep the cigarette in place— or the elegance of his strides across the room to place his shoes in the locker and hang his suit jacket before stepping into the sunken sofa.
A new light, a new Sanji to you— a voyeuristic secret you could never confess even through the stuttered breaths of your own arousal.
Shit, shit, shit!
He was right there, facing you— yet unaware of the glowering eyes and thundering pulse a few feet away from him. At least, that’s what you hoped as you watched him throw his head back over the couch and rub the back of his neck tiredly— teasing you with a view of his sculptured body and the heavy tent straining against the zip of his pants.
Fuck… he was a vision. Perhaps if he had a fraction of this elegance towards women, he would have them falling at his feet, begging for his attention— panting his name— raking your nails down his smooth chest.
Caressing him the way your fingers unconsciously mimicked on the door as you pressed yourself against it, tits hot and heavily squished into redwood, desperate for cool relief on your flushed skin while straining to see past the hem of his pants. He was so close, yet out of reach, as you watched his hand run down his neck, gliding it on his chest sensually before grasping the chubb that had him sighing lowly into his own touch.
“Just a little,” he groaned, rubbing on his cock lazily, as if he was convincing himself to indulge in his own pleasure, “before they come back.”
Oh god, oh god.
You weren’t in the right state of mind to be making decisions when every grumble and low hum of his vibrated straight between your thighs. Pooling slick in your panties that had you chewing on your bottom lip to sanctify some sanity when heated arousal rushed through your body.
“We have time,” he murmured, shifting in his seat to tug down his pants a little more, dark blonde tufts of hair peeking through, giving himself room to breathe with his underwear sliding just beneath it. His chubb was fat and still hidden, but you could see the tip twitch with every squeeze of his abdomen, teasing himself with the friction rubbing upon his dick. “uhh, yea, please.” He moaned a sweet sound seeped in desperation, his eyes closed and hips jerking, playing his fantasy out loud, his hands clenched by his sides. “Touch me, please, I’ll be good”, he whispered, smiling as he did, a flush colouring his cheeks. “Jus’ for you, yea? All you. Pretty girl, make me so hard.” He choked the last word, taking the cigarette out of his mouth for a steady breath of air before clenching it back in his teeth.
You were a mess.
You had to stop, turn away— breathe.
Sanji was begging, whining to be touched as he bucked his hips, using his abs to move his cock in his pants. Edging himself in a fantasy you only hoped to be a part of— but you could never dare to interfere. Your chest heaved, nipples taut and stroking against the door, gripping the handle so it stayed put even as your legs shook from the pressure to keep you upright.
Leave, you had to leave.
Move your feet, release the grip on the door and shift your weight to the side.
You manually counted your breaths, ripping your gaze from Sanji’s pleading stare.
Leave, just leave.
“Don't leave,” he whined, sitting upright. “at least let me watch you too, it’s only fair.”
It was as if a wave of cold, salty, ocean water dunked on you from the way you shrieked at the sound of your own name.
The door creaked, opening wide, betraying you by exposing the statue you had become and on the brink of collapsing from shame or even darting from his sights if you could have managed to work your knees.
Though his eyes were free from shock or disgust, he looked almost excited. Eager. The cigarette clenched in his wide grin; hair pushed back— you could see how his eyes glowed.
You gaped back at him, shock contorting into a dry wheeze you couldn’t control while his smile curled into a light chuckle, amused by your flustered expression.
“Don’t leave,” he repeated, the invitation sounding almost kind coming from his lips, a charming smile hidden behind an obscene request while tugging on his pants when his hard cock pressed too tightly in its confines. “Watch me, please.”
Sanji asked you not to leave.
Sanji said your name while asking you not to leave— not to leave watching him masturbate.
Your breath fell past your lips, frozen just outside the bedroom door, your blood still humming through your body. You were stuck. Mortified. No matter how many times you rephrased or repeated it in your head, you could not move or answer him in anything but a squeak. “Why?”
“Why not?” He countered, striding towards you, bulge still prominent. “You’ve been watching me the whole time. Why stop now?”
“No! I-I didn’t mean to—”
He nodded teasingly, “you liked it.” Sanji snickered when you snapped your mouth shut, your denial ruined by the searing shame choking your words as he stalked closer. “I liked it too,” he said lowly, “made me so hard.”
“I wasn’t—” you huffed, desperate to explain yourself despite the way your gaze flickered down at his chest with every pathetic stammer. “I just wanted- and then you- it’s only—”
Sanji laughed, waving his hand dismissively with his cigarette pinched between his fingers, twirling a ring of smoke between you. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. No harm in a little peeking,” his teeth flashed prettily, excitement shining at your bashful glances towards his shapely crotch. “If you want, maybe you can make it up to me. I’d hate to tell the rest of the crew what you did.”
“How?” You hated how timid you sounded, so you cleared your throat and stood straighter, only taking a small step back when he got closer, heart thundering and not at all bothered by his proximity. “It’s not like I’d let you watch me. I know what you’re like.”
“Do you?”
“Y-yes.”
His curly brow quirked up, amusement glossing his tone, “You don’t sound so sure, dearie.”
“I know you’ll just brag about me looking at you as if I’m some horny perv lurking around the boy’s room—”
“But you are,” he interjected, taking a slow drag of smoke and blowing it downwind. “I wasn’t the one caught lurking—”
“This time!” You bristled from the accusation, digging an accusatory finger at his firm, muscled chest, lingering a second too long before snapping. “You’re the one always butting in when the girls bathe. You’re the one trying to sneak a glance when we change! You’re the rude one!” You shouted, guilt clawing in your chest when all he did was smile. “I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry, okay? But don’t make me out to be a pervert like you.”
Sanji rubbed his chest sadly, palming the exact spot you touched as if he were cherishing the contact with his big hand sprawled on his own skin. “Aw, darlin’,” he cooed with a cute pout on his lips, “do I make you uncomfortable?”
“No!” you shrieked a little too quickly, “I-I mean, yes! When you—”
“When I undress?”
“God!—”
“When I rub my cock?”
Your cheeks burned, a strangled whine slipping before you could clamp your teeth on your bottom lip, “That’s not! You—”
“I, what?” he purred, tilting his head down again, the simmering scent of smoke tickling your lips, “you can’t even look at me in the eye, but you had no trouble watching me stroke my cock to you. Did watching me make you wet, darlin’?”
The lie spilled in an undignified splutter, the word no holding too many syllables when you tried to say it.
His laughter chimed in your ears, a vibrant sound that brightened his face, and though he was laughing at you, a part of you softened from the sight. Mesmerised by it.
Pretty. Shimmering waters.
Somehow, it helped you release a steady breath, perhaps for the first time since you discovered him. Putting you at ease and in control.
Taking another step back, it was easier to blurt out your next half-lie. “I wasn’t watching you, I came for something.”
“Is there any chance that thing being me?”
“There is a better chance I slap you if you don’t back the fuck up.”
“Promise?” Sanji chuckled, a rosy blush tinting his cheeks. He invaded your space again, smoke and soap stroking your senses while his hands stayed respectfully by his sides. “Wow, dirty words sound so pretty when you say it.” He tilted his chin, inching closer, lips inviting, “Say fuck again.”
In your head, you slapped him. You pushed past his large, dominating frame, and went on your way to enjoy the bath you had planned and forget all that you have seen.
In reality? In the sensuous bubble of arousal he encased you in— the curse tickled his lips in a low murmur. Like a pre-emptive kiss he savoured by swiping his tongue on his bottom lip just so he could taste the words you teased as an insult.
“Again,” he pleaded, slanting you into the wooden railing. Gripping the beam. Almost chest to chest. Almost touching.
“Fuck,” you breathed, “you.”
“Please…again..”
“Sanji—”
“mmhh..”
“—fuck… you.”
“Shit.” his laugh strained into a desperate husk.
You could almost taste it. And you wanted to, to taste him that is, because you could tell he was cracking. In a singular moment, you turned the tides on him, taking the upper hand and the dominance he flexed exposing you. And like a switch, Sanji was pleading— his adams apple bobbed, lips parted, eyes blown. Not anything like the charm he exuded earlier. He sounded helpless. Distraught. Struggling against the invisible line you still held between you, yet honouring the boundary you have placed because he was still a gentleman.
You admired that.
Part of you— the wretched, drunk on lust part you shoved in a cage most nights to escape her fantasies— wished for him to push the waters and break the barrier. To feel the warmth of his skin pressed against yours. His hands, his lips.
His eyes shined instead. Hooded and sparkling a desire you mimicked with your slow breaths.
The birds squawked above, and Sanji finally found his voice.
“Can I masturbate to you?”
“Huh?”
“You’re so pretty, so tempting,” he said. Flexing his grip on the beam as if it were a lifeline. “I loved it when you were watching me. If you don’t want me to touch you, that’s fine. I won’t push you. But please, watch me. And I promise it will be just between us, okay?”
You squirmed. The words of rejection faded faster than they formed while you tried not to shrink under his pleading stare. You could feel your back pressed against the rail, digging into your skin as Sanji stood tall, shirtless and strong— caging you with his hand gripping the wooden beam right by your hip. Your bodies close, breaths hot and almost in sync, yours just a little shakier as you contemplated his invitation.
To watch him. Openly.
Why was it so daunting with his permission? With his lust blown eyes homed in on yours. Longing for something more than your stuttered breath to brush his skin.
Even in the open air, all you could feel was the heat raying from his bare chest and the twinge of smoke fanning around you. His arousal straining yet inches away from contact with your thigh he keeps achingly out of reach. It was just him, you, and the birds sitting on the mast, but it felt like you were locked in a steel cage with hundreds of spectators waiting on your next move.
You couldn’t hear them above the raging waves of your own thoughts. However, it was hard to stay objective when the currents that pulsed in your blood rushed between your thighs, dousing you with a tender ache that was becoming harder to ignore.
When you took too long to respond, his smile faded. “I’ll leave you be—”
“Sit back down,” you commanded, pushing on his chest and smiling when he shuddered beneath your palm.
Sanji grinned. He took your hand, your name spoken softer than any ballad as he whispered it into your skin and placed a kiss to accompany the warmth it spread. “Yes, my lady.”
In the depths of his eyes, you fell. The world blackened and you plunged deep into his domain. Into his desires.
Tethered only by the delicate hold he kept of your hand, you stepped into the room behind him, keeping your head up despite the nervousness that swirled within.
The anonymity you deluded yourself into believing snapped when the door closed behind you. Sanji was freakishly deceptive. Of course, he knew. Of course, he was teasing you. But the genuine plea that shined in his eyes made it impossible to walk away.
He looked so cute. So masculine and vulnerable at the same time. You wanted to see more of him it drove you right into the lustful fog that blanketed the space in between.
When he released your hand, you found yourself missing the contact of his large palm clasped in yours.
Sanji took his place back on the sofa, thighs spread, and lips parted in breathless excitement. But before anything else happened, he snuffed his bud in the ashtray in front of him. “You can walk away any time you want, sweetheart. No hard feelings or awkwardness, okay?”
Your shoulders visibly relaxed, unaware they were ever tense, but it made you smile anyway. Grateful for the reminder and the familiarity of his gentlemanly deference.
“I know,” you give him a genuine smile, “just between us, yeah?”
“Of course, darlin’.” His smile mirrored yours like the glimmering waters they are modelled after. Putting you at ease and in control once again when he affirms; “Just between us.”
With a deep breath— you cooled your expression, while his eyes shined as an air of apathy befell around you.
There was no turning back from this, and as you stood there, shielded from the cooling wind and the anchoring weight of the door you once hid behind, you realised that you truly didn’t want to.
You were inside.
You had his attention. You could watch him— Sanji, undress, and pleasure himself without anything obstructing your view or fixate on the shame twisting in your gut this time because he invited you in. Led you by the hand while you pretended the contact didn’t ignite anything.
That the warmth of his hand clasped in yours didn’t buckle your knees when you stepped over the threshold. Or that you could still feel the brush of his lips on your fingers.
You could continue pretending none of it mattered because this was just a game, and you were good at playing games. You could play this one with him too.
“Sit back,” you ordered after finally finding your voice, “—and show me what you were doing.”
“Fuck,” his hands fumbled.
His excitement forced you to chew on your bottom lip to surpass a snicker. It was endearing, but you held onto your indifference like a vice. You were looking forward to seeing him unravel.
“Keep—” he swallowed thickly. “Keep talking to me like that.”
“Like what?” you watched him palm his cock through his pants again, his erection growing harder with the new stimulation beneath his hand. “Tell you how I like to watch pretty boys touch themselves?”
You crossed your arms, smirking when his attention locked on to the swell of your breasts curving over the top of the dress, flashing delectable skin that had him swiping his tongue hungrily. “I think you’re a little pathetic,” you shrugged, “and predictable.”
His lip tilted. “I guess I just can’t help myself.”
“Hmm, well, you can have a little more decorum, though. Be a little less obvious too.”
He chuckled airily. “Not when I’m stroking my cock to you, darlin.”
Sanji shifted slightly, dragging his pants down lower and exposing more of the dark blonde trail that led past his waistband. Taunting you with a flash of skin you couldn’t turn away from. “Want to see how hard just looking at you makes me?”
A smile peeked through despite your best efforts. “I can see well enough from here.”
“That’s not what it looked like before,” he teased, cupping his balls through the fabric. “I thought you might fall through the door from how far you leaned in trying to sneak a peek.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I thought we were passed the bashful lies, sweetheart?”
You peered down at him through your lashes, ignoring the flush creeping up your neck from his sultry gaze.
Neither of you said another word for a minute as the room filled with Sanji’s breathy sighs. He was using his abs again, clenching them and bucking his hips to rub his cock against his pants. The friction making him grip the sofa. His lips part.
Your thighs cinched watching his reddened tip slip through when his pants slid further down. He looked wrecked already. Pearly dribbles of pre-cum smeared over his abs, trickling over the toned lines and ridges with every jerk of his hips, adding a lewd sheen to his skin as the rise and fall of his chest quickened.
Just standing there stumbled whines from his throat, you wondered about the sort of sounds he would make into your neck.
“Sanji”. His gaze snapped up. “Use your thumb for me,” you said softly. “Rub on your slit, I want to see your tip get sensitive.”
“Sh-it, like this?”
“Good boy.”
He moaned.
“Oh,” you grinned. “You like that, huh?”
Sanji nodded timidly, his blush darkening when his control slipped. He didn’t mean to confess such a kink, but the way you purred the praise sent shockwaves up his spine. Made his cock twitch, hand tremble.
“I like how you talk to me,” he confessed lowly. “Your voice, how it sounds when you say my name. How you lower your tone, or your breath catches when I groan— fuck. It drives me crazy.”
You hummed playfully, nibbling on your bottom lip when he canted his hips into his hand rhythmically. Now completely free from the confines of his slacks, his cock stayed caged in his fist, his shaft long and slender throbbing with a hue that matched his cheeks as pre-cum slicked loudly, coating his fingers in its sticky mixture while you stood there ignoring the wetness soaking your own panties.
“You look desperate already, Sanji-kun.” You teased lightly, hiding your hands behind your back so he couldn’t see you dig your nails into your palms. “Do you like being watched that much? I can see you leaking, your cock is so wet, and we’ve just started. Are you going to cum so soon? That’s sort of pathetic, don’t you think?”
“I can’t help it,” he groaned, damp blond strands falling over high cheekbones. “It’s like your eyes set me on fire. Igniting everything that sits under my skin, burning me through, it feels so good, it almost hurts. Fuck, sweetheart, I can’t imagine what would happen if you touched me. Your hands on my chest, your sweet lips on my neck. If you so much as leaned into me, letting me breathe in your scent, uhh-shit- I’m ashamed to admit I might cum untouched.” His throat constricted, seizing his words into a tortured rasp. “Darlin’, for my sake, for my sanity, you have to stay back and let me just watch. Let me look at you and imagine all the ways you’d set me alight with just a kiss.”
“Would you let me?” you asked breathlessly. “Kiss you, I mean.”
“Oh, in a heartbeat.”
“Even if you’d gush blood and pass out?” you couldn’t help the giggle.
“Even if it were my last,” Sanji groaned desperately. “To kiss you would be the end of me, and I would pray they’d bring me back so I can do it again.”
Your chest tightened hearing the affection hidden beneath his moans.
There were deep crescent shapes in your palms now, the skin reddened and pinched from your efforts to maintain even an ounce of control, but the sting paled in comparison to the drum of your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. Rattling the bars of your sanity the longer you stood in his presence.
Sanji looked at you as if— as if he would never see the light again.
With awe, longing, and something close to anguish when the light shines further away from him. As something beyond his reach yet to be cherished and marvelled at all the same. To be revered. Desired. Loved but never possessed because it wasn’t his place to assert his will, but to bask in the warmth the light spread.
It was intoxicating, and he was unravelling faster than you anticipated.
You could tell from how he thumbed the thin veins forking along his length, how pre-cum spilled over his fingers, pooling at the base of his cock and how his chest heaved that he was chasing a fast-approaching release that had him stuttering your name past his lips— involuntarily rising heat all the way to the tips of your ears.
Sanji was too erratic. Too frenetic.
Moaning and thrusting and rolling his wrist over and over his shaft so fast, it was a wonder he remained conscious. He looked unbalanced. A sort of frantic that reminded you of all the times he over-excited himself and exploded into a fit leaving him comatose and bloodied.
You had to slow him down, to set the pace for now only to have him moan in a melody of salacious cries later on, and then bend him into a rhythm only your pulse can match.
At your mercy, your control.
In a way that wouldn’t end with the rest of the crew returning to find Sanji dead on the floor seeped in his own cum and blood. This is exactly how this was heading if you let him continue down this path.
Whining incessantly while fucking his tight fist in faster strokes, his teary gaze seared straight into your core, almost certain you could feel the warmth of his touch from across the room as you fought the urge to squirm and find the power to bark:
“Stop.”
The command shot straight through him. Snapping him at attention like a stinging whip on his back.
His jaw ticked. Veins pulsed.
Sanji’s rigid composure would have been comical if his erection hadn’t slapped against his stomach. Angry red and swollen with need, it looked almost painful, especially with the way his brows twisted miserably as he panted heavily glowing with sweat and desperation.
“Breathe.”
When he inhaled a wheezing, sharp breath— you shook your head, instructing him to go slower. Calmer. Until his shoulders laxed and his throat swallowed a decent gulp. “Good boy, just breathe for me.”
Sanji nodded meekly, even managing a smile as he clenched and unclenched his hands on his knees, wiping off the gooey, sordid evidence of his arousal in quiet shame.
You observed him critically, assessing his mental and physical state and deeming him a little untethered. As if he were floating, glassy-eyed and adrift in his own mind until enough deep breaths grounded him back to your focus. You watched him come to grips with things— his attention shifting to his pants bunched at his thighs, to his cock standing full mast, to the hot air suffocating the room.
Sanji sighed wistfully, threading his trembling hand through his sweaty bangs and out of his face, a deep blush colouring his cheeks.
“Feeling better?” you asked gently. “I just can’t have you passing out on me before things really get started.”
It took him a moment to find his voice again. His throat was dry despite the wetness clinging to his skin.
“Sorry. I’m just— I’m so hard,” he chuckled weakly. “Can’t, uhh— I can’t imagine what you might think of me right now. How ridiculous and pathetic I might look being so— so enamoured by you.”
You shrugged to lighten the mood. “I always assumed you were a two-minute man, but I won’t tell anyone.”
The laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes as he flexed his fists, actively avoiding the erection pulsing against his stomach, or the truth of his blinding lust and the dizzying spell it held over him.
“I thought I could— I thought I had more control, like when we were on the deck.” Sanji said sullenly, vaguely aware of the festering insecurities. “It was exciting being the one to tease you, to look down at a beautiful woman like you and make her flustered. Being so close to you was- it was so hot, electric even— but having you watch me right now in that commanding tone is ten times more intense. It’s addicting— it’s also humiliating and thrilling all at once. I feel so contorted and … I’m embarrassed to admit how far I’m willing to let you break me”. He confessed shyly.
“Sanji…”
“But that somehow turns me on even more. It’s just… you’re so beautiful”. Sanji whispered gravelly, “It’s just not fair what that does to me.”
“It’s okay,” you released your own shaky inhibitions with a slow exhale and offered a tilted smile, warmth tickling your cheeks upon his conviction. “I like seeing you this way. It was fun on the deck, how dominating you were teasing me. But right now, your eyes shine and it’s really flattering.” You smirked playfully, “Pretty boys like you look best when they’re sweaty and desperate.”
Sanji’s blush was much more obvious than yours, his fair complexion making every inner thought radiate through his skin, but he stayed quiet for a few seconds, his smile strained.
“Be honest with me. If-if I hadn’t said anything, would you have walked away without a word afterwards?”
You thought about it for a moment, stunning him with your impassive gaze towards his raw vulnerability.
There was a touch of wistfulness in it— in the tenderness of his question making it clear that your answer would mean more to him than simply feeding his ego— he needed to feel desirable, worthy— so with a wicked idea, you took those steps forward to bridge the gap between you and relished when his chest hitched visibly as you stood planted between his open thighs.
You pulled him back from the edge, only so you could push him down yourself.
You were so close he could reach out and touch you now if he wanted, his leg could press against yours. His arm could brush your thigh and call it an accident, or he could even brazenly drag you into his lap to finally feel relief on his aching cock. It wouldn’t even take much strength on his part, to grab you by the arm and yank you into his awaiting heat. Your body warm and pressed against his. Flushed and tight.
But as you peered down at him— his lashes wet, face burning, pre cum glistening. Hands stilted on his knees as he inhaled your scent so deep it filled his chest— you know Sanji would never cross that line, not without permission.
You felt powerful in that fact. In the knowledge that you could break a man as powerful as him with a caress, a word. A kiss.
“Yes. I would have walked away,” you confessed firmly. When his expression fell, you bent down at the waist, the words brushing on his lips. “But I would have paid extra close attention to you.”
His mouth fell open, your name almost coherent in the pitiful whimper that escaped disguised as a breath. Yet he still managed to smile despite the blood rushing to his head. “Sweet God, you’re cruel.”
“And you’re shaking.”
He was.
Already unsteady and trembling to keep himself upright. To stay conscious and not let his vision completely glaze over as white spots danced across your face, sparkling you in a tantalising light he fought to keep in his sights even if it muffled his other senses when your scent enveloped him too. Erotically feminine and something so distinctly you his pulse ticked beneath his jaw.
“More, please..”
“mhmm— you have to open your eyes and look at me, Sanji-kun. I might get sad and walk away if you don’t.”
When he finally opened them, you were blessed by the sight of shimmering tears glossing wide, love filled pupils.
“y’know…” you sighed, fighting the warmth spreading between your thighs, “watching you made me realise something.”
“What?”
“That there are layers to you, and I liked discovering them.” The noise he made resembled a strangled animal when you brushed your thumb over his soft cheek. “Your patience, tenderness, diligence, I never paid it any special attention until today. How you take care of your things, how gentle your hands are— I never thought you would be so…” you swiped your tongue upon his bottom lip. “Beautiful.”
“Fuck..” his eyes rolled. A full body shudder raked down his back this time, prickling every fibre etched in his being and ultimately triggering sensitive blood vessels in his nose to pop suddenly as spurts of cum pre-emptively dribbled out of his tip.
You giggled. “Are you okay, Sanji-kun?”
you watched him shake his head inaudibly, hips humping the air for much needed relief as the blood trickled down his nose in slow drips. Almost mimicking how his cock drooled obscenely.
He wouldn’t last much longer like this. Every muscle, nerve and vein burned to keep himself tethered to the seat. “More, I beg you. T-talk to me more, ‘m so close..”
His plea sounded hoarse even to his own ears, but it made you smile all the same.
“I think,” you trailed off, flickering your eyes to his lips, then wiping off the blood gently. “I would have paid attention to your laugh.”
That sobered him a little bit, the confusion furrowed his brows.
“You looked at ease, even though you were teasing me. I liked hearing you hum, chuckle, seeing you smile. You looked relaxed. There was something attractive about it, I can’t quite explain how much I enjoyed seeing that, even before you unzipped your pants. I think I was a little enamoured by you.”
His expression glowed. “R-really?”
You nodded earnestly. “You’re beautiful, Sanji. That’s why I was watching you, why I had to walk away cause it made me feel guilty to see you so … unguarded.”
“I—”
“Do me a favour,” you cupped his jaw with a warm palm, “don’t pass out.”
Before he could reply, Sanji tasted heaven.
It was the slightest touch on his lips, barely a kiss, hardly a brushstroke, but it was enough to hear something akin to an angel’s song as he was bathed in a white light.
Or …
His eyes rolled so far back, his vision became discoloured, and the sound he heard was a high-pitch whine that tore through his own throat and reverberated in the room.
“On your knees.”
Sanji collapsed, gasping and quaking on his hands and knees as if he’d been fighting for his life. Which, in a way, he really was. Fighting to keep some blood in his system that hadn’t already poured into his cock or down his nose when the heat coiling in his belly burned that much hotter from your kiss. Scorching him, blistering the goosebumps that prickled along his flesh making him hypersensitive and numb all at once— numb to the sounds outside this room, hypersensitive to your every move. And if anyone were to find him like this— no, he didn’t care. You were a dream he never wanted to wake up from, even if it ripped him apart, and he’d be damned if anyone came to ruin it now.
Instead, he chewed on his bottom lip, savouring the taste of you, of your sweet gloss and plump lips and dizzying scent— but when he reached to fist his cock to the memory of you pressed against him— Sanji couldn’t stop himself from keening loudly when your foot pushed his hand away.
“I didn’t say you could touch yourself, cutie’.”
“What can I do?” Sanji quivered up at you pleadingly. “I’ll do anything, please. Oh please, please tell me what to do for you, darlin’.”
“Take off my shoes.”
You lifted your right leg for him, offering up your foot clad in the strappy sandal and watched him inhale sharply through his nose.
“I—” his adams apple bobbed as he sat back on his heels, “I can touch you?”
This was a test, a prank. You were only playing with him. the kiss was enough to kill him, and your smile was too sinful to be sincere, but he prayed, nonetheless. Pleaded and hoped and then choked on his own spit when you nodded firmly.
“Yes, but only my legs. And if you’re a good boy, I’ll give you something better.”
Sanji nodded heartily, murmuring his thanks and gratitude for the opportunity presented to him, his voice carrying a thick layer of emotion he didn’t have the sense to evaluate for this blessing. Only knowing the relief he felt when your bare skin pressed against his, whispering the praises into the cleft of your ankle— his lips brushed a chaste kiss, a sweet touch that could only be seeped with devotion.
You wouldn’t have heard it at all if it weren’t breathed into your skin, ardently sincere like the last prayer whispered by the helpless. So, in an act of mercy, you brushed his hair back and tilted his head up towards you, holding him delicately as if he’d shatter by your hands. Which you were fully capable of doing— but you presented him the tenderness of your smile instead, verbalising your consent and letting it flow soothingly between you.
He took a few seconds to stabilise himself, though even with your permission, Sanji’s touch felt shaky against your skin as if he was unsure about your words or his own strength to maintain consciousness, but he did anyway. Willed himself with the strength to harden his spine and indulge in his deepest desires. Just this once, while you still graced him with it.
His hands were warm, soft, and gentle. Everything like the man they belonged to as Sanji stroked your leg sensually, starting from your knee all the way down to your ankle. His long fingers pressing and squeezing the supple skin beneath his palms, curving along your plump flesh pulling quiet sighs you didn’t bother to hide that he drank in greedily, relishing in your pleasure as if it was pierced straight into his vein.
“y’so beautiful,” Sanji groaned into your leg. “I can’t believe—” he shook his head, ridding himself of the doubt that plagued him before dragging his lips along your calf as his fingers fiddled with the strap that wrapped around you. Achingly slow and deliberately unhurried. “You’re so soft, it’s incredible. Even your legs are gorgeous.” he spoke as if thorns were scraping his throat, every word coming out in a low rasp filled with need. “Every part of you sets me on edge,” he continued, his kisses following where the straps once curled, “— as if I’m holding on by my fingertips, and the only thing that keeps me from breaking— from plummeting and colliding into the ground is you.” He slipped your shoe off and placed it gently to the side, your foot now bare, then moved on to the other leg and gave it the exact same treatment. “But… its also like you’re waiting for me at the bottom, ready to unearth me and giggle as you dust off the dirt from my shattered bones.”
You feel his kiss on your ankle again, a breathy sigh tickling your flesh as you swallowed your nerves. “What if I am? I like you beneath me.”
“I don’t mind,” he replied easily. He held you up carefully, his grip firm yet tender as he kneaded the taut muscle, every caress and gentle stroke pooling desire deep in your core. “If it were anyone else, I would have done what I usually do by making a fool of myself as soon as the rest of the crew left.” The heat of his stare was almost unnerving. “But it was you, and I never felt more compelled to fall.”
Fuck.
You lost your resolve, and your expression softened with a laugh that fluttered out like the butterflies tickling your chest. “You shouldn’t look so attractive with your cock so wet, Sanji-kun. It’s unfair, and hard to remain impassive when you look so beautiful desperate for me.”
“I’m sorry, darlin’.” He laid his cheek against your leg, exhaustion weighing him. “We can stop”, he offered sincerely. This momentary pause gave him the clarity he needed, the fog inhibiting his senses cleared enough to think. Though his cock still ached, there was a layer of calm settling too. Your comfort important to him above all else. “You’ve done more than enough for me,” Sanji pressed another kiss to your knee, your shoe accompanying its twin on the floor, “more than I could have hoped for already. It won’t take much for me to finish on my own. You were wonderful, darlin'.”
“You would stop, just like that?”
“Of course,” Sanji affirmed candidly, his eyes kind. “Like I said, I would do anything for you. My pleasure is secondary.”
The words hung in the air, but your plan was still in motion.
“Tell me, then. What would happen if I touched right…here.”
“Ahh-uhh!”
“Does it hurt?” you cooed sickeningly sweet. “hmm, from your expression it looks like you’re enjoying it a little too much.”
He bobbed his head frantically, blonde hair flailing with the movement, your devious plan wrecking him immediately. “Ye-es, in the-uhh best way, angel. Fu-uuck, I-I can’t believe you’re tou-ching me like this.”
“Yeah? y’like it that much?” you laughed airily. “Your balls feel soft on my foot, all rounded and heavy.” Lifting your leg up higher, you rubbed your leg on his length, sliding it up and down, skin to skin, until those salacious moans spilt from his mouth in loud cries. “wow, it’s’warm and wet from all the pre you were leaking earlier, too. How gross.”
“Oh-oh, god, pl-ease, sweet darlin’. Fuck-ngh!”
You hummed delightedly, watching his cheeks blossom into another sweet blush, his eyes glazing over immediately as Sanji shuddered and keened beneath you with the familiar scent of desperation clouding the room in a thicker layer. A potent, charged atmosphere that had you panting as you watched Sanji unravel once again in the short time you had him under your command— your plan a success.
“You’re dripping all over again.” you teased with another slow drag of your foot, his balls resting on top while his shaft twitched upon your shin. “Look at how your pretty cock leaks! All red and cute! So much cum, I’m surprised you haven’t squirted.”
“ohh-ahh, sw-sweetheart don’t be me-eean!”
“I’m not!” you insisted through unfiltered giggles. “Look at you, humping my leg! Gettin’ yourself all worked up from just touching me, you’re so cute, Sanji-kun.” Your laughter seized as you clicked your tongue, faux disgust colouring your tone as you rolled your foot over his long shaft, collecting the stringy wetness that drooled from his tip on your toes. “Tsk, your cock is makin’ a dirty mess all over my leg, though. Could you be anymore pathetic?”
“’m so’rry,” he squirmed. “Ca-an I clean it uhh-up?”
You leered down at him, “only if you use your mouth, pretty.”
Sanji licked long strokes along your leg, collecting the sticky essence that spit from his tip the harder he rolled his hips. Swallowing his own dirty arousal while fervently grinding his cock along the curve of your leg with no sense or rhythm, only following the lust you stoked within him, stumbling moans, hitching his whines. Begging and squeezing his eyes shut to prevent the tears from falling, but you saw them anyway.
You saw everything. How his chest concaved with every breath he took, how his balls pulled tight on your foot, how deeply and utterly he was at your mercy.
It filled you with pride. Along with a dark sense of satisfaction you couldn’t quite place to have Black-leg Sanji— bounty over a billion berries, the left wing of the future king of the pirates— whinging and coating your skin with his arousal.
And you had one more trick up your sleeve. One that could possibly kill him, but you wanted to push the boundaries.
See how far you could bend him before he snapped.
“You can’t cum yet,” you sang cheerily, weaving your fingers through his hair again. “You have to be good for me, okay?”
“Fuu-uk, ‘m tryin’!” Sanji cried out, his last threads of control almost slipping from his grasp, stitch by stitch, seam by seam, but he gripped them tighter in his fists, and fiercely blinked away the fog misting his vision just to have the chance to gaze upon your smile for a little while longer. “I wo-on’t, jus’ for you. Cause you-you asked.”
“Good boy. Now, tell me you like it.” you gave his hair a firm tug, directing focus to his bucking hips. “Tell me how much your cock aches, how hard it is, how much you love touching me.”
Sanji shuddered, another frantic nod dizzying his vision as he jerked his hips harder. “I do! So-so much”, he hiccupped. “I lo- ohhh, uhh, yes!— I love you touch-in’ me. Teasin’ me, makin’ a mess of me-eee— ahh, shit! Tou-uch me, please, fuck! Please, I love it— love your eyes, your voice, your touch. I’ll die, ohh, god-oh god, lemme jus’ die like this, it’s oka-ay if it’s you. For you, all you, fuck-fuck!”
“I think you deserve your reward now, Sanji-kun.”
Sanji snapped his head up, his hips stilting. “This-this isn’t the reward?” how could it not be? He was touching you, kissing your body, smearing his cock all over your pretty leg. What could be better than this?
You pulled back from him, and slowly, painfully slow, deathly slow, you lifted the hem of your dress.
He first saw your thighs, thick and supple, making him swipe his tongue along his bottom lip just imagining the taste of your sweat, of the grooves of your cellulite.
your dress lifted higher, and his hands flexed, picturing squeezing on the squishy flesh and feeling it fill his palms and pudge out against his fingers where he couldn't quite grasp.
This was the reward, yes? Pretty, coloured thick thighs he’d be happy to touch, to worship with hips he could sink his teeth into, full and curved and beautifully rounded.
But your hand lifted higher. Higher. Until he ascended so high he heard the angel’s song again, welcoming him to paradise.
“Sanji, you’re shaking an’ whining loudly.”
Was he?
“Wipe the blood first… good boy. Come here, it’s’okay,” you tugged him closer, his face inches away from your panties. “You’ve been so good, I thought you might like to ...” your cheeks burned, “To touch.”
He could smell it now, the wetness that made your thighs clench earlier. That had you sighing and chewing on your bottom lip as he chased his own pleasure. The arousal that allowed him this far with you, coating your pink panties and, fuuck.
You-your panties… they— they had the cutest bow on it. right above your mound and the lewd wet patch he ached to… “Did-did you say touch?”
You nodded, tugging him closer by his hair. “I won’t take off my panties, but I don’t see why you can’t use them to get yourself off, just this once. It’s what you always wanted, right?”
What he always wanted.
“Are… are you sure?”
What he always wanted and prayed and dreamed and lusted after— but he had to make sure. To know this is what you wanted. Sanji couldn’t— he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if it weren’t your desire too. Even if he was seeing double and the room tilted on its axis or his blood pooled on the floorboards more than his own body, he wouldn’t be able to stand again without hearing you say—
“Sanji-kun, touch me.”
You tugged him closer, cooing your affirmations, stroking his hair. Going slow and speaking so softly, he wondered if you were talking to him at all.
“It’s okay,” you purred, your eyes gentle. “You can use me to cum. I want to see you cum for me.”
Use you?
His brows knitted. That didn’t sound right.
Use.
Use.
Use?
That word felt wrong, dirty. Even in his inebriated, lust-filled fog, Sanji knew that it wasn’t right. That it was tactless. That you deserved better than that.
“I don’t— I don’t want to ever use you.” he husked. Just saying the word made his stomach churn, and though his limbs felt heavy, he lifted himself a little taller on his knees. “Don’t ever say that to me again.”
Sanji’s sudden coherency surprised you when he was trembling moments before, but there was no mistaking the sincerity in his tone, and you could only stare— awed, heated and incredibly wrecked with the emotions he stirred. Yet rather than replying, your grip on him tightened, a challenge tilting your brow, waiting to see what move he’d make with the offer you raised.
“Okay… oh-okay, ‘m gonna touch you now, darlin’.”
With all the strength he could muster, Sanji pushed forward and inhaled deeply, pressing his nose in your crotch, and filling his lungs until the only air that could possibly flow through him was you. “Ohh, fuck.” Sanji groaned, the sound vibrating on your most intimate parts, pulling deep from his throat, and sounding nothing short of sinful that had you keening lowly in response.
“Oh, fuck- oh fuck, darlin’ you’re a dream.” He murmured into your cunt, his words bleeding back to babble as he breathed in long and deep. It was intoxicating, the heady scent of your pussy. Driving him mad, sick, practically delirious by the slick that marred your panties, creating the most dazzling patch of arousal right in the middle. Oh fuck, his tongue immediately began lapping at the damp fabric caging your plump lips. “Fuck!”
You choked on a moan. “Is that all you can say?”
Sanji shook his head, his hands finding your full-figured hips and squeezing, eliciting a low mewl with the fat filling his palms and bulging out at the sides just how he pictured it. “Fuck!” he grunted again into your cunt; his mouth muffled but his shouts reverberated from the intensity that shook him at the core. “Fuck-fuck!”
You huffed out a chuckle. “Sweetie, if it’s too much for you—”
He couldn’t hear you. Sanji held you tighter, drew you closer into his open mouth, his jaw slack, muscles taut, cock aching— but it was a sensation he could ignore while his tongue messaged and rolled and lapped at your clothed cunt. Dragging along your labia over and over until it wettened enough to slip his tongue down the seam of your pussy, spreading it to finally circle your pulsing clit and suck, the fabric damp with a lewd mixture of slick and saliva as your whimpers rang loud.
“Fu-uhh, shit, you taste so goo’ fo’me”, his words were gruff, his mind addled— Sanji couldn’t focus past your cunt, your scent, not when it wafted through him and settled deep in his abdomen— twisting lust straight down to his neglected cock drooling on the floor.
“Sa-anji! Fuck, hmm, keep-keep going!”
He groaned, digging his fingers into your hips and shoving you harder into his mouth. “Su’ch a pretty cunt, shit-fuck.” He held you firmly, his strength unrelenting even as you swayed, letting you writhe on his face. “Darlin’, sweet girl, sweet sweet cunt, uhh, y’make my cock hurt so-so much. Make me so hard, so dizzy. All you, shit-shit. Uhh-uhh, s’wet fo’me. Tha’ank you. thank y-you, than-k you.”
You moaned for him, and the sound of it tingled his spine, acutely aware of the sharp tugging on his scalp, but Sanji paid the rest of it no mind. He was touching you, licking your pussy through your pretty panties, inhaling your arousal, making you moan.
Making you cry his name, making you wet.
And he answered it all with low hums and deep grunts of praises, thanking you fiercely, his devotion syphoning from every breath as if you poured into him yourself.
Sanji flickered his tongue on your clit, alternating between soft and hard strokes that had you grinding your hips on his tongue, and he revelled in it while your pussy rewarded him by staining your panties with sticky fluids he drank greedily. Devouring your cunt with his whole face, bumping his nose into your clit, his chin wet, cheeks flushed.
“Imma cum!” you tried to warn him, to stave off the flutter in your belly and not embarrass yourself by cumming so soon, but his touch, his tongue— even with the panties in the way it only added to the friction. To the burn flooding over your body from the moment you discovered him. You squirmed, rocked, and sighed as the coil tightened in your belly— a sensation so intense you attempted to cinch your thighs, but Sanji pinched your hips, pulling you apart for him, ignoring your pleas.
Holding you closer, grunting praises, flattening his tongue, pressing hard until you came with a loud cry.
“Su’ch a goo’girl, so good for me. that’s it, lemme clean that up for you, darlin’.”
Sanji lapped at your cunt, your panties ruined and almost dripping from your release that he swallowed as best he could before you ripped him off with a harsh tug.
“Stand,” you panted harshly. Your balance was shoddy, but you stood firm, yanking the man to his full height, and wrapped your fist around his cock. Gently tugging on his flushed sex in quick strokes. “Cum for me.”
Sanji curled into your touch, white-hot and just barely keeping himself standing with a hard grip on your hips— he slumped into your chest, fucking into your hand chaotically. “I-I didn’t— y-you. Uhh, fuck!”
“What is it?”
Tears stung his waterline. “I di-idn’t clean u-uhh, ahh, mmm, I wanted— wanted to clean you u-uhp.” He cried out, fidgeting in your grasp, his cock overly sensitive and shamefully drooling all over your wrist. He wanted to be strong, to make you cum and slump on his chest, but Sanji could hardly keep his eyes open at this point. He felt airy, foggy, every sensation felt like it was dolled up to ten and he couldn’t find the strength to keep standing.
And it hurt, fuck, his cock hurt. His balls hurt, his chest hurt, breathing hurt— it ended up as short gasps and high-pitch whines into your neck until you brushed your thumb over his slit and Sanji saw stars.
“ahh! Im-imma cum! ‘mma cu-uuh, fuck-fuck!”
“It’s okay, sweet boy,” you jerked him firmly with one hand and pulled down the bow of your panties, exposing your plump mound. “Cum right here, I wan’ feel you cum on me.” you slipped his tip between your pussy lips, a low, wet, squelching noise added to his moans now.
To yours and the raunchy sounds that swirled in between.
“Sweet-sweetheart!” Sanji squeaked, bucking his hips widely, your pussy smearing wet kisses all over his cock. Hot and squishy and so so delicious his orgasm crashed through him like a tidal wave, surging and pulsing and dousing him with a pleasure that raked a voiceless cry— splatting his cum in your panties and slathering your slit with gooey, icky glops of his release. Your panties filled with both stains of arousal.
“Good boy.” your kisses feathered over his rapid pulse, the praises almost as gentle as your lips. “Such a good boy, shh. I got you, hun.”
Sanji held you close, shivering through his climax, pitifully cowering his face into the warm crook of your neck until his cries settled into cute whimpers and the spots misting the corners blended into colours he could actually see.
“Shh, you did so well, cutie.” You stroked his back, unbothered by the sweat clinging to his skin or the sticky, hot mush that was caged to your cunt. the latter tingling the nerves of your spine in an addictive way. “That felt amazing.”
“Ye-yea?”
“Yes, hun.”
There were a few seconds of heavy breathing, then shuffling of clothes, and suddenly, Sanji was seated back on the sofa, but the comforting weight of your plush body sat on top of him too. He liked it, it was grounding. Safe.
Sanji held you tight, his strong arms locking you in place over his lap. Your bodies hot and tempering down ever so slowly in each other’s embrace.
There’s was a gentle hum in the room, or maybe it was your voice, tenderly washing over him as Sanji came to grips with his body again. With the heat, the sweat and throb of arousal cooling into a low ebb in his abdomen. With the reality that you both stood in and your roles in it. But he couldn’t bring himself to care of anything else but you curling in his lap.
You smelt nice, you played with his hair and hummed in his ear, and you felt so… so good in his arms.
“Thank you.” he croaked after a while. Feeling satiated and satisfied sinking into your embrace, Sanji could do nothing else but whisper his thanks into your lips over and over, his kiss filled with all the gratitude of an answered prayer. “Thank you for this, for holding me. I don’t know when it got so out of hand.”
You smirked, patting his chest playfully, hoping he did not notice how your heart soared as you attempted to joke. “probably as soon as I agreed to this little game.”
This time, Sanji’s smile beaned wide, pretty teeth shining bright. “I just can’t help myself, darlin.” he nuzzled into your cheek, savouring the intimacy. “I told you what would happen if you got too close.”
You laughed softly, “I suppose I was warned.” You shifted in his lap, straddling him now instead with the gooey mixture flushed hot in your panties, squishing against your achy clit, it made you breathless. Eager. “If you’re a good boy—”
His stomach flipped excitedly.
“—Maybe we’ll play again.”
Sanji shuddered, his smile waning as his lips parted cutely. “Don’t tease me. I—”
“SANJI! OI! I GOT THIS BIG FISH! IT HAS TWO HEADS CAN WE EAT IT?!”
“Oi, Shitty-brow! I found this buried sword, lemme cut you with it!”
You stifled the laughter behind your hand, the cutest frown scrunching his face from their untimely interruption. Even so, you began moving to crawl off his lap before the other straw hats walked in with their treasures, but Sanji gripped your wrist, his pleading stare shooting familiar sparks in your core.
“Promise we’ll do this again?”
You smiled warmly, leaning in for a kiss only to swipe your tongue upon his bottom lip, “Yes, and it will stay just between us.”
Sanji blushed, savouring the taste of you on his own tongue. “Yea, of course. Just between us, darlin’.”
This time, you stood up to leave, but not without one final look over your shoulder, “just like your cum soaking my panties right now.”
You quickly slipped out of the room before anyone could notice, twirling your shoe as the sound of a heavy thud crashed behind you and the boys shouts followed shortly after.
“WOW! So much blood! Was there a fight?! Are they still here?! I wanna fight!”
“LUFFY N-NO THAT—”
“EW SHITTY BROW! WAKE UP AND CLEAN THIS SHIT YOU PERV—”
// - tysm for the support! hopefully the tags will hold up this time:333 please do not repost or translate my stories.
Synopsis: All your life you’d listened to your friend, Usopp spin wild tales about pirates and adventure. Pirates weren’t a thing that came often to Syrup Village, but one straw hat pirate and his crew changed all that the day they arrived. Now, you aren’t so sure if your sleepy little village was always pirate-free or if no one had been paying attention.
Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x Reader
Genre: friends to lovers, frenemies to lovers, slow burn (I hope y’all like aching) eventual smut
Words: 15.7+
A/N: This chapter got waaaaaay ahead of me. It got longer and longer without me realizing it. So, I apologize for the length in advance and if this isn't any good. In the anime, Nami has some wild outfits and I wanted to sort of bring that to this adaptation a little. Nothing too crazy, but still Nami anime-esque. Also, don’t shoot me but I had a little creative liberty with something in here it’s not canon so yeaaaaaa…please just indulge me for the story lol. Also, this has another Zoro POV, and from here on out things will be very angsty, because I am the proclaimed mayor of Angstville, courtesy of @chans-room and it is my duty to bring a little to the next few chapters. As always, thank you, guys, for all the love and support. For always being so kind and loving it as much as you do. I hope you all continue to enjoy this story🖤 Much Love, Jenn
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Previous Next
“Hey Nami?”
You hoped the widespread dread you were beginning to feel wasn’t that apparent in your tone as you spoke. You did one last check in the mirror before turning to her reply of, “Hmmm?”
“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but-“
“But?”
God, she looked amused.
“Is this supposed to be so…short?”
There was no denying Nami liked clothes. Gold. Berry. Okay, so Nami likes shiny things and things that could also buy her the shiny things. She also seemed to have a flair for fashion. Unfortunately, that fashion was intended to be worn on someone with a bit more confidence than you had. For once, you’d wished you’d paid attention to other things outside of just the components of what made up a plant.
“You don’t like what I picked.”
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” you stuttered out. “But this skirt is definitely…short.”
In one smooth move, Nami uncrossed her legs and got up from her seat. When she reached you, her hands grabbed your shoulders and gently turned you back to the mirror. Your reflections showed one woman questioning her whole existence because of a skirt with a corset style top, and one who looked confident in everything she did.
This time you were definitely not the latter.
“You look hot.”
“I look ridiculous and I’m afraid to bend over.”
Nami rolled her eyes so hard for a split second all that you saw was white. The hands that were on your shoulders now forcing you to turn from your reflected look of terror to her. Nami’s eyes shown bright with a determination to make you confident in walking out of her room and heading into the restaurant.
“Doc, do we need to do an affirmation together.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I need you to shake off whatever thoughts you’re having and realize that you are hot. Be confident in your own body.”
To send her words home, Nami clapped her hands against your shoulders and gave them one last shake before releasing you. You weren’t sure what to do or say after that so you just stood…staring back at her.
“Are you going to blink?”
“Sorry,” you hummed, shaking your head. “I was still trying to understand why you get a whole shirt and I get this.”
While her pink and tan outfit was tight and showed a good amount, her small eyelet cut out on her shirt barely showed, if any, cleavage. You felt like a bakery with the amount of buns you were selling.
There was that eye roll again.
“Oh my god,” she muttered under her breath. “You are impossible.”
Nami appeared to be tired of trying and turned on her heel to go over to a drawer. You weren’t sure what she was doing - or grabbing - but instead of watching her, you found your eyes drifting back to the mirror. You didn’t look bad just…different. You weren’t used to looking hot, as Nami put it but also so exposed. You reached over and grabbed your satchel and placed it over your shoulder, using it like a security blanket. All it did was make you feel more exposed than before, like a fraud wearing your face but dressed as someone more confident than you’d felt.
The sound of a drawer shutting hard brought you out of your thoughts and back into the present. It didn’t keep your hands from wringing the strap on your satchel.
Fuck it
“Hey, Nami do you think-“
“Zoro is going to like it? Yeah. I think he won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”
You felt like the air had been stripped from your lungs. Your eyes no doubt were large and showing your surprise as you struggled to make words formulate on your tongue.
“Okay, that wasn’t what I was going to ask.”
“It wasn’t?” She teased.
“You know damn well I was going to ask something else.”
Why does she look so smug?
No. You were not frowning.
“Okay, then tell me: what were you going to ask?”
“I suddenly can no longer recall.”
Nami’s smile was joined seconds later with laughter that followed behind you as you tried to make your escape. The sound of very happy feet following closely behind at your heels. You were tempted to look back just to see if she was skipping, but her next teasing words sent you up the stairs two at a time.
“Sure you don’t.”
“You can’t prove it,” you shot back just as you cleared the stairs.
The sun was a welcome warmth on your skin after days of being covered in the mist of the fog. The sounds of happy banter between Usopp and Luffy sent you walking towards the main belly of the ship. You could see Usopp dressed in a pirate hat, a leather jacket sans the shirt, and matching pants. A pair of circle sunglasses adorned his face and you had to admit he looked pretty cool. Luffy just made you want to reach over and gently pinch his cheeks.
How is anyone supposed to take him seriously…
He was wearing overalls, for Christ sakes. Luffy looked absolutely adorable.
At the sound of your approach the guys turned towards you and the reaction you received made you want to throttle Nami. Luffy’s smile faltered ever slightly and Usopp wouldn’t even look you in the eye.
“Hey Doc, you look-ugh different.”
“Gee, thanks Usopp,” you grumbled.
“Are you guys done playing dress up so we can get a drink?”
Of course he was more interested in a drink than food. Of course, Zoro sounded like his usual grumpy self, as well. The problem? He didn’t look like his usual grumpy self.
While Zoro had been wearing t-shirts and jeans - things that looked comfy and regular the past few days - it was replaced with something dangerous. The hue of his kimono style shirt was a blue so deep it could’ve come from the ocean itself.
The most dangerous part about the shirt wasn’t just that it left a devilish window of skin on his chest available to torment your eyes. It was that same v-shaped window indicated the indent of a sculpted chest and collarbones, but the fabric at his arms hugged the muscles tight. The same strong arms you’d watch do repeated reps with weights and push-ups. Muscles that moved with ease under the skin as he skillfully practiced with his swords.
The dangerous part, after all of this, was that it mimicked a gi. The fabric folded over each other telling you that it would only take a slight tug from your hand to release the tucked material from his pants, from the safety of his sashed belt to leave his chest exposed to your hands and-
God, focus on something else.
But you couldn’t focus on anything else. How could you with the way he was looking at you?
Zoro’s eyes scanned over your body and every inch his gaze lingered caused your skin to flush. You fought the urge to fidget with the strap of your satchel but couldn’t stop your teeth from pulling in your bottom lip. Zoro’s eyes caught the movement and honed in on it. Your breath hitched in your throat and you could’ve sworn Zoro noticed that too.
You were supposed to dislike him. He was an asshole. A drunk. A pain in the ass with a smart mouth. God, it didn’t stop you from wanting him so bad your body ached. From the way he was watching you, you could’ve sworn maybe it felt the same for him. It was a nice thought until he opened his mouth.
“You’re going to wear that?”
And just like that, whatever witchcraft was in the air to make you think of doing anything other than annoying the shit out of him was gone.
“I think she looks good.”
Nami came to stand beside you and tore Zoro’s eyes from you to her.
“Yeah she does,” Usopp agreed from behind you, “but Naan would have a fit if she saw you dressed like this.”
A groan exhaled from your lips as you turned and started for the ramp. No, you were not stomping your feet. You just needed to get off this damn boat and away from all the idiot men aboard.
“Good thing Naan isn’t here, then,” you huffed.
You could practically feel Usopp shrug his shoulders, his hands up in question as he yelled after you, “I was just being honest. Naan would tell her it wasn’t practical.”
You weren’t sure who he said the last part too and you didn’t care. You were already stepping over the side of the Merry and heading towards the ramp when you felt a presence behind you. You expected it to be Nami and what you got was the shock of seeing Moss colored hair and the glint of three gold earrings.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m walking. What does it look like?”
But why must you do it next to me?
The question hung on the back of your tongue. You weren’t brave enough to ask it, because you could already hear the question of, “Why?”. Why did it matter if Zoro chose to walk beside, in front, or behind you? It shouldn’t matter what he chose to do, but it did matter because the way he looked at you just now was forever burned into your frontal lobe.
“Just this once you couldn’t just leave the swords on the ship?”
“Wherever I go the Wado Ichimonji goes.”
Of course it does
You expected him to do his usual of falling back to stand with Luffy. It’s what he usually did. Today was apparently shaping up to be an unusual one. Not only did he not stop walking with you, he continued to follow close behind you as you entered into the Baratie. His presence was hard to miss since when you stopped inside the foray of the restaurant Zoro was mere inches from your back.
“Must you stand so damn close to me?”
Each word was uttered through clenched teeth. You didn’t want to turn around and look at him. You didn’t need eyes in the back of your head to know if you did you would come fast first to the exposed skin of his chest.
“Why’d you bring your satchel in here? Are you worried someone is going to stub their toe?”
“Can you for two seconds-“
The words had come out as a growl. Your skin bristled with a heated irritation to rip into him, and tell him that he was being his infamous asshole self. Cool points went to you for not completely falling apart when you caught sight of him.
Zoro was too damn close looking how he looked with his chest exposed like that. His hands in their rightful place of one in his pocket and the other resting casually on his sword. The darkness of his eyes appeared so endless you were certain the moon could call them home. Maybe she already had and that’s why they sparked to life every time he looked at you.
Just like now.
One minute, Zoro’s face held its usual emotionless stare and the next you watched as his eyes lit up like fireworks in the night sky; celebrating an event you once again missed. A soft tug on the corner of his lip lifted just enough you could’ve called it a smirk.
When did he start looking at you like this?
That wasn’t even the biggest question. The biggest question was, when did you start to fall for it?
You felt your tongue involuntarily flick out to wet your suddenly dry lips, and to your horror Zoro’s eyes lazily watched the movement. He didn’t even try to hide it.
Oh god, you should’ve stayed on the boat.
You watched Nami come through the double doors entrance and the way her face lit up as her eyes roamed between the both of you instantly sent your eyes rolling. You were never going to hear the end of this. You let out a deep breath, your eyes scanning one last time in his direction, before you walked over to join Nami.
The Baratie was a thing of beauty. You’d never seen a building like it. While the outside was made of boards of broken down ships in the style of an actual fish, red siding and white ashwood for those fishy lips, the inside was a well thought out piece of beauty. The foray split open to a staircase of cherry wood that led down to a tiled floor of checkered black and white. It should’ve looked ridiculous, but only the center was made with these tiles. The rest was made with the continued us of the cherry wood that led up to an intricate painting on the ceiling. Sections of the fish's belly were carved out into long booths that looked like they could comfortably seat a party of eight.
Also, the smell of the food was making you almost willing to grovel to get a plate because there was no way-
“Welcome to Baratie. How may I help you?”
The fishman was polite enough with his semi-warm smile. It was the smile of a man forced to be approachable and nice all day, and not one that he meant.
“Hi. Where do we eat?”
Luffy’s smile on the other hand could make a rainbow weep.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?”
Yup. There was no way you guys could afford a place like this or apparently even have the chance to get in. You could feel your shoulders deflate as you walked over to the railing and leaned your arms against it. All the people dining - all the pirates - didn’t appear the least bit phased at your staring. Luffy pressed himself shoulder-to-shoulder with you with the two of you taking in the fancy scene before you.
To be fair, with food like what they were being served you wouldn’t care who watched you stuff your face either.
“Do we need one?”
Your forehead had already relocated itself to the cool wood of the rail. Your knees meeting the metal as you tried not to laugh at how cluelessly innocent Luffy was.
“We are very full today. I could put you on the waiting list. It’s three weeks out.”
“Maybe you want to check your book again.” Usopp walked forward, as confident as ever, and leaned himself against the hostess podium. You were expecting one of his smooth stories and instead wanted to throw yourself over the side of the railing as he finished. “You wouldn’t want to turn away the future King of the Pirates, would you?”
“And who is that supposed to be, sir?”
“Monkey D. Luffy. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Based on the heavy sigh that came from the hostess you could tell his patience was wearing thin. So was his pleasantness.
“Well, in that case, I suppose we could find you a table. In three weeks.”
Usopp came to stand beside you with a smile as big as the ocean blue on his face. He was so proud, like he’d accomplished something major. Usopp had both the ability to create bullshit from thin air, and the ability to believe others would believe what he said without question. That’s why he was giving you the finger gun of celebration without noticing the look on the hostess face - or the mumbled words.
“Even out here, Doc I still got it.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
You noticed Nami move forward as Luffy conjoined himself to your other available side. You were now perfectly sandwiched between your Captain and your best friend. Both of them jumping in giddy excitement at the idea of sitting down at any minute and eating.
“What are you going to eat, Doc?”
“I hadn’t thought about it, yet. I didn’t think we’d get past the front door.”
“Why is that?”
“She’s always been a little cynical ever since we were kids.”
You balked at Usopp’s admission and if you could’ve scoffed any louder it would’ve turned into a cough.
“I am not cynical!”
“You are literally one of the most cynical people I’ve ever met.”
“That’s because I’m one of the few people you’ve ever met who still talks to you,” you grumbled.
“See? That cynicism is turning its ugly little head right now. It’s okay, Doc. I forgive you.”
Your mouth was open, a reply stationed on your tongue, when you heard something shocking behind you. The hostess was advising Nami to follow after him and when you glanced at her as she smiled at Zoro, you wondered what had been said. All it took was for Usopp to see him beckoning for them to follow for his ego to be boosted. His hands clapping happily against yours and Luffy’s shoulders as he giggled out, “See, I told you it would work.”
You peeled yourself from the railing and headed to follow the rest of the crew when, once again, you realized Zoro was waiting at the stairs edge. He wasn’t looking at you while he waited, however, for his eyes were glued to the many possibilities of would be threats in the room.
As soon as your feet touched down on the burgundy runner that ran the length of the stairs Zoro followed after. It wasn’t like the last time when you could feel him practically right on your heels. A switch had turned on in his head and Zoro was on high alert.
Luffy took the last step in a loud double-footed jump that finally brought the attention of most of the tables to your descent. While up top, looking down from the foray, the space in the booth’s had looked massive. It still was, but a startling realization that you could end up next to Zoro left you scrambling for some space.
“I have to pee.”
You’d just gotten to the tables edge and it felt like the only thing to say to save yourself. Everyone froze for all of a few seconds before they continued scooting into the booth.
“Okay, Doc. Go to the bathroom,” Nami stated.
She looked so relaxed that you felt incredibly jealous. You wish you could be that cool, calm, and collected all the time. Except, obviously, when Luffy was testing her patience.
You turned to ask the host where it could be located when the sound of Zoro’s swords thrashing around turned your head in his direction. For a split second, he looked a little flushed. His eyes scanning the room to see if anyone had watched him try and fail, very badly, at getting his swords to go inside the booth.
“Just take them off,” you huffed at him in passing.
“I’ve got this.”
Zoro’s eyes were still trained on the room, on every pair of eyes that dared to stare back, as he moved to the other side with Nami. Even then you watched him struggle to move his swords into the alcove between the pillar and the seat.
“If you still need to use the facilities Miss, they will be right this way.”
You gave the table with Luffy and your crew mates one last look before you followed the host closely to the safety behind a locked door.
Did locking the door seem a bit much when there were four available stalls inside? Yes. When you say you needed to hear that click to signify that you were completely alone to ease some of the growing tension in your shoulders, you meant it.
You rushed over to the sink and found your hands grabbing at the porcelain to help center yourself. Your head was dizzy from the mental whiplash that seemed to be your relationship with Zoro. One minute, you couldn’t stand him and he seemed equally annoyed with your very existence. The next, he was helping you with your sea sickness or inadvertently doing things around the ship to make your life a little easier. Now, he was looking at you differently. Zoro was acting strange, but honestly, when wasn’t he?
You glanced up at your reflection in the mirror. The words falling automatically from your lips.
“So are you.”
It wasn’t all him. It never was. Cause and effect. One couldn’t exist without the other, and maybe that was why you felt the way you did gazing at your reflection. You’d been trying to deny the gravitational pull that you were hopelessly fighting against ever since you met him. Before you’d ever seen his face your soul seemed to say, “Oh, there you are.”
It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t scientific and yet here you were locked inside of a bathroom all because the thought of sitting next to him made your heart feel like it would try and flee your chest.
You allowed yourself a couple more minutes to boost yourself back up. You could do this. It was just a guy. A guy who’d tucked a flower behind your ear and looked at you like you’d both strung up the stars and drank the last bottle of his rum.
A knock on the bathroom door brought you crashing back to reality. You quickly moved over to the door to release the latch. You’d barely had any time to move back before a woman came barreling through looking not too pleased with you locking the door. You mouthed a, “sorry,” in a way of apology before you made yourself scarce and walked back out to the table.
The minute you stepped back into the main dining room you got the sense you’d missed something. Your eyes searched over the tables. You found a pair of shoes that belonged to a pair of legs that was attached to a man lying lifelessly still on the floor.
Yup. You’d most definitely missed something.
The doctor in you immediately wanted to go to the man and make sure he wasn’t dead. You could practically feel your toes point in the direction for the rest of your body to follow. You just weren’t sure if it was something you should do in a room full of pirates. Plus, no one else seemed particularly worried that he wasn’t breathing so that should be good enough for you.
You were bouncing on your feet. You wanted to go check so badly. It almost happened to where you were going to say fuck it and just go check when you noticed your waiter at your table. He was tall, strong build set inside a stylish suit with stark white hair that appeared to reach his cheeks. He didn’t look happy to be there until his eyes spotted Nami and a smile as smooth as sin slid across his face.
He is handsome.
Nami looked unimpressed and a part of you was dying to know what the hell was happening. Luckily for you, you were about to find out.
As you approached the table Zoro’s eyes that had narrowed in on their waiter flicked to your oncoming approach and…did he look worried? The annoyance that had hardened his eyes noticeably softened, his back sitting up straighter in his seat while he continued to watch you come to the table. He had his arms crossed over his chest and you wanted to scream. Everything was flexing at you and it just felt like the universe was incredibly unfair.
“Sorry guys. Uhm have you guys noticed the ugh guy just laying there on the floor” you stated.
You were looking. Again.
You were standing next to the waiter who turned to greet you, his hands tucked in his pockets - fuckin great another one. The smile had wilted at the edges until his eyes fell on you and instantly he flashed a set of pretty teeth.
“They’re alright, madam. Just a couple of men who needed to be reminded of the rules of the house. My name is Sanji and I’ll be your waiter for this evening. Is there anything that I can get you to start? Appetizers? A drink, perhaps?”
Sanji was incredibly polite and his accent was as smooth as the rest of him. His eyes were impossibly blue. While Nami’s appeared almost gray at times, especially when she became upset and the color darkened like storm clouds, Sanji’s reminded you of azure aster’s in the spring.
“What is the strongest thing you have?”
You really could use that drink. You were in the middle of taking your satchel from across your body, eyes scoping to see where you would sit, when Sanji’s reply stopped you died in your tracks.
“That would be me, sweetheart.”
Did he just wink at you?
“What’s wrong with your face?”
“I think he just does that.” Nami cut in sending your eyes to travel to where she sat inside the booth. “It’s like an involuntary tick or something.”
“Oh. Explains a lot.”
You knew Sanji could tell you were both taking the piss out of him, but there was no denying he was a good sport about it.
“Not a tick. Just a show of appreciation for two lovely ladies, such as yourselves.”
“Okay. I’ve heard enough.”
A soft yelp of surprise came from you as you felt a soft, yet calloused hand grab at your wrist and, not so gently, pull you to their side. Zoro’s side. He had just magically removed himself from the booth and was pulling you to the now open section. The section that would put you next to Nami, but also him.
“Oy, women don’t like to be manhandled like that,” Sanji interjected.
“This one likes to be manhandled quite often. We don’t need your concern.”
Usopp’s water sprayed across the table and you were willing to bet that would’ve been your very own reaction if you didn’t have a mouthful of words.
“What the hell are you talking about?” You blanched back at him.
Zoro’s attention wasn’t directed at you. He and the waiter seemed to be in a battle of…something. Even as he sat back down, his legs spread broad and arms crossed back over his chest, Zoro oozed two simple words: “Try me.”
“See, that’s your problem right there. Women don’t like to be manhandled-“
“Sometimes we do,” Nami mumbled and you had to hide your smirk with your hand.
“They like to be treated like queen’s and with respect.”
“I thought a waiter’s job was to bring food to the table. I don’t see any food.”
The tension that rose around you was palpable. The two of them acted like they were caught in a verbal pissing match. Nervously, you glanced around the table to find Usopp playing with his napkin while peeking out to look at both the men. Luffy just looked genuinely lost.
Same.
You imagined there was a chance you would never get that drink, or any food, with how this evening was turning out. Finally, with an irritated roll of his tongue along his jaw Sanji turned to the rest of the table and tried to apply that same easy going smile as before.
“I’ll be right back with your order. Please let me know if there is anything else I can get you ladies.”
“They’re fine.”
With one last glance in Zoro’s direction Sanji left and headed back into what you assumed must be the kitchen. When you were sure he was gone you turned and smacked Zoro in his arm. He didn’t even look phased.
“What?”
“‘What?’” You mimicked back at him. That earned you a stare. “What in the hell was that?”
“Seems to me like somebody was jealous.”
Usopp teased and for once when Zoro’s eyes narrowed in on him, Usopp didn’t even flinch.
“I’m not jealous of a waiter.”
“Your actions say otherwise,” Nami reminded him.
In usual Zoro fashion he didn’t respond right away. His arms tightened a little more on his chest as he situated his back higher against the back of the booth. His jaw ticking like a time bomb refusing to respond to any of your prodding.
You wanted answers. You wanted him to explain what the hell that was all about, because your skin was still burning where his hand had latched on to you. It felt possessive; a man reaching out to claim something that was his.
The world around you might as well have gone by in a blur. You knew at some point the drinks and food had been deposited on the table. You could smell the delicious food sitting in front of you; the appetizers everyone was sharing around the table. The only thing you were able to focus on was tracing the place of where his fingers had wrapped around your wrist. Your mind felt like it was held prisoner, unable to let go and it wasn’t until you felt someone’s presence leaning closer to you in the booth that you finally broke free.
“Are you not going to eat?”
Nami’s question whispered against your neck and you had to fight to suppress the shiver that threatened to move down your spine. When had she gotten so close? Nami was looking at you like you’d given her reason to worry.
How long had you been sitting there staring off into space? Your eyes drifted to glance around the table - Luffy noticeably with his mouth full - and the drink sitting in front of you.
“Oh, thank god. Booze,” you mumbled, as you reached out to take the glass.
It took you less than a minute to bring the rim to your lips and down it in two very audible gulps. You tried not to make a face as the liquor hit the back of your throat. When you’d told Sanji you wanted something strong, he’d delivered.
“Well, at least you did something other than stare off into space.”
“You know, it might not be any of my business-“
“I don’t think a sentence started that way leads to anything good.”
Usopp didn’t seem the least bit deterred by Zoro’s words. He continued to trim a piece of the meat off his steak while he glanced around the table. While you didn’t know what it was Usopp was about to say or ask, you knew one thing was for sure. You needed more-
“Beer! Yes!”
God, help you, but you were giggling from excitement of finding more alcohol. Just as you reached out to grab it, Zoro’s voice came bombarding through your good time.
“That’s mine.”
You were sure Zoro was expecting you to set the bottle back down. To not uncap the top and stare him down as you bring the bottle up to your lips and take a long, slow pull. When you finished you set your now claimed beer down in front of you.
“It was yours.”
“I was wondering, Zoro, how you got that bruise on your face?”
Usopp motioned to the exact spot where the bruise in question used to be with the hand that held his steak knife. You cringed at the idea of him hurting himself, and could feel the words of caution bubbling up on your tongue.
“I don’t have a bruise.”
“You did, though,” Luffy offered up in between his next bit. “It was on your left cheek.”
“That was me.”
Why were you raising your hand? Quickly, you set it back down in your lap. The smile that spread across your lips, however, stayed.
“Doc, let’s not go around telling tall-tales, okay,” Usopp chuckled.
“Usopp, you are the king of tall-tales. Mine is very much real,” you beamed.
Nami looked between the two of you. Her eyes got brighter with each passing second as she realized you weren’t lying.
“Oh my god,” she chuckled. “It is true, isn’t it.”
“Yup.”
You popped the p at the end for dramatic effect. Your hand grabbing a hold of your new bottle of beer that you quickly took a sip of.
“You seem way too happy about this,” Zoro grumbled, his food now forgotten.
You couldn’t deny you were enjoying retelling this moment. The way everyone else acted, it’s as if you’d taken on a giant and everyone was surprised you’d survived. If that was the case, you would have to take a page out of Usopp’s book and embellish the story just a little.
“So, there I was racing back to get to Kaya’s to save you guys, when I heard a lot of strange grunting coming from the well.”
“The one you hate?”
“Yes, Usopp, that exact one. I was going to pass by when the sounds got even worse - someone was indeed stuck inside the well. When I went over to peer across the ledge a wild Moss-haired idiot appeared from the side.”
“I’m going to have to object to this retelling.”
You waved Zoro’s words off and fought the urge to shush him.
“No interruptions, please. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah the Moss-haired idiot who came over the side-“
“And instead of helping me this psycho decided to punch me and almost send me back down the well.”
“Psycho?” You balked.
“Yeah, a psycho. What kind of person sees someone struggling to get out of a well and, instead of helping them, tries to send them back down?”
“Why are you guys always like this,” Nami cut in.
“Like what?”
“You guys act like you can’t say one nice thing to each other or it’s going to be the end of the world.”
“I can too say something nice.”
You were not going to pout. Nami’s brows raised upwards like you’d told her there was no such thing as the West Blue and that fish could fly. You crossed your arms to try and ward her off, but there was no getting away from it.
“Can I just say, this food is so good? I don’t know if I can take another bite - but I’m gonna.”
You allowed them to comment about the food. The food you still hadn’t tried. While you’d sat in silence, stewing over thoughts filled with questions and not enough answers everyone had eaten.
“Oh, man you said it.”
“I’m not going to be able to eat for a week,” Nami agreed.
“Should we get dessert?”
“I have all I need right here,” Zoro stated, his thumb flicking the top off his beer before he took a drink.
You could feel a smart ass remark sitting in the back of your throat. You wanted to say it - to see that flash of irritation darken his eyes. You liked the idea of getting under his skin, because whether you wanted to admit it or not, Zoro was definitely under yours. Maybe it would’ve been simpler if you’d stayed at Syrup Village.
“Mmm! That reminds me. We should make a toast! Everyone grab your glasses. To the best crew sailing on the sea and to our victory. Yeah!”
Luffy grabbed his glass of milk and held it up. His happiness is enough to get most of you to join him in raising a glass. Hell, it was enough to get Usopp to clink his beer against Luffy’s milk.
Beside you, Zoro smiled and took a drink from his bottle and you never wanted to be an alcoholic beverage more in your life. You needed to get out of this booth. You seriously needed to go back to the ship and think about your life choices.
“No, I’m sorry. What victory exactly?”
Nami didn’t try to make her tone flat or hide the question off her face. She was genuinely perplexed, while the rest of you were eager for any reason just to drink.
“Our victory against the marines. It was our very first battle and we crushed them.”
“I don’t know how many naval battles you guys have been a part of-“
“Two dozen, at least.”
Why did Usopp’s response not surprise you in the slightest.
“But that was a disaster,” Nami continued without missing a beat. “We were unprepared, uncoordinated. By all rights, we should be at the bottom of the sea.”
“We’re not though. Luffy saved us.”
For a split second, this Nami you were seeing was different from the one you’d spent the last few days aboard the Merry. Sure, at times she could have a prickly exterior, but never like this. Usopp defending Luffy triggered something inside her - something rage-filled and dangerous. Something born from desperation.
“Are we really going to ignore the elephant in the room right now?”
Luffy was smiling like he usually did. Unable to follow wherever Nami was leading you all, but you could sense it. You weren’t sure what drove you to try and play peacekeeper. Why you spoke her name softly between you and tried to reach out to her, only for her to pull away like you’d stung her.
“You failed to mention that your grandfather was a marine. And not just any marine, but a Vice-Admiral, at that! I don’t know about you three, but I didn’t sign up for that.”
Zoro had been listening to her through closed eyes. You weren’t sure if he was truly trying to listen or dismiss what she had to say, but it surprised you when he stepped in. His first instinct was to stick up for Luffy, something you hadn’t been expecting.
“You raided a marine base. Of course that’ll make you a target.”
“I’m sorry what?”
If you had been drinking or eating, you would’ve choked. Neither of them seemed to pay you any mind.
“If I stole the map, no one would’ve known I was there, as opposed to wrecking a base commander’s office.”
Yes, you could vaguely recall Luffy’s speech to Kaya about all the marvelous things they’d done in the few days they’d known each other. Did you necessarily believe him at the time? Not really. But now…
Before a fresh wave of thoughts could wash up in your brain, Sanji magically appeared placing the bill on the table.
“Your bill, sir.”
Luffy looked around at all of you, a soft smile playing at his lips, as he held up his finger for all of you to wait. He quickly signed the receipt and handed it back.
“Thank you, my good man.”
Sanji took the bill back, his eyebrow quirked up as he read whatever Luffy had signed at the bottom. Whatever it was sent a grin wider than the East Blue to brighten up his face.
“No, sir. Thank you.”
Luffy waited for Sanji to leave the table before he looked back at you all. For once, he wasn’t all smiles. All that care-free energy was contained and replaced with a seriousness you weren’t sure you liked.
“Look, I’m not saying it’s good that the Marines are on our tail, but we showed them that they can’t just roll over us. This crew, our crew, can handle anything.”
It would’ve been a riveting Captain's speech if it wasn’t interrupted the second he finished speaking.
“Who the hell is Monkey D. Luffy?”
The voice that rang across the Baratie was thick with age. You didn’t have to look far to know it belonged to the older gentleman who stood at the entrance to what you could only assume was the kitchen. His peg leg made clunking noises off the tile as he made his way towards the table.
How did he know where to go? Luffy was just leaning out the side of the booth waving ever so-slightly with his smile back on his face. “Here.”
“You seem to be confused about the rules of the house, but Baratie doesn’t offer credit. You eat, you pay.”
How much is the food?
You only had thirty-three Berry to your name. You started to reach inside your bag when Luffy waved you to stop. The older Chef looked from you and back to Luffy who placed his hands together like he was about to pray.
“I think you’re confused. The meal has already been paid for. I just haven’t given you the money yet.”
“Yeah, and how’s that?”
“You can add it to my treasure tab.”
Your forehead hit the edge of the table so fast you weren’t even sure it actually hurt.
“And what, pray tell, is that?”
“I may not look like a big deal yet, but you’re talking to the future King of the Pirates. And as soon as I find the One Piece, I’m going to come back, pay this bill in full, and with interest.”
At least the Chef had the decency to chuckle before he lurched down and grabbed Luffy by the front of his overalls.
“I got a better idea.”
You watched as he placed Luffy in front of him with a controlling hand held on to his shoulder. A way to keep him from running, if he tried, but you knew Luffy would go without a fight. You glanced around the table to find no one making a move to follow.
“You guys are seriously just going to sit here,” you huffed.
Nami leaned her head back against the booth. Her eyes looking up at the ceiling and refusing to look anywhere else.
“I need a drink.”
“Yeah,” Zoro chuckled as he grabbed a hold of what was left of his beer. “Now you’re talking.”
You’d waited until they all removed themselves from the booth before you slipped away. You were sure the three of them wouldn’t miss your presence as you made your way towards the kitchen. It wasn’t until you’d passed the last pillar before the kitchen that you felt the familiar touch of calloused fingers wrap themselves lazily around your wrist.
The tug you felt this time was softer - a plea for your attention instead of forcing it. You weren’t sure what you expected when you turned around. If Zoro would be his usual unreadable smoothness like stone or if the corner of his eyes would be tinged with annoyance. There were only a few possibilities that you’d grown accustomed to and all of them were nothing of what you got.
When you turned to meet him, Zoro didn’t look like he usually did. The hardness that kept him unreadable was replaced with something softer. His lips parted as he searched your face with your wrist still held loosely in his hand.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to help, Luffy.”
“Luffy, can handle himself.”
“Zoro-“
You weren’t sure why your tone had come off saying his name as breathy as it did. As if you were both tucked inside the alcove of a church hiding to keep from being caught doing something forbidden. You also couldn’t explain why when he dropped your wrist from his hand you’d chosen to place it on his chest. It wasn’t until you’d done that you realized just how close you both were.
“I’m not going to leave him to do dishes by himself until he tells me too.”
“How do you know he’s doing dishes?”
“Why the hell else would he take him into the kitchen?”
“Good point.”
You removed your hand from his chest and, for a split second, you thought you saw a glint of loss.
“You guys head to the bar and I’ll meet you there shortly.”
Zoro made no move to leave. He stood there looking every bit as intimidating as a man with three swords could be, while also looking seemingly lost. He appeared to be thinking something over - a debate in his mind about whether or not he should even say whatever was weighing heavily there.
You almost told him to just spit it out, but he looked like he would rather chew on razor blades than say whatever it was. When Zoro finally got it off his chest it sounded like he’d choked.
“What about the waiter?”
Confusion clouded your features as you replied, “What about him? Do you need me to find him for you or-“
Zoro waved you off. He looked more awkward now than you’d ever seen him. All the cool confidence that he’d oozed seemingly gone in the blink of an eye, and replaced with a hand behind his neck and eyes that refused to meet yours.
“No. I mean be careful of the waiter?”
“I’m confused.” That was an understatement. “Is there something I’m missing about this waiter?”
“No - it's - never mind. I’ll just see you when you finish doing whatever it is you plan to do.”
“Okay.”
“What are you planning to do?”
Your head was metaphorically and literally spinning from the conversation. One second, Zoro looked ready to follow after Usopp and Nami who were no doubt already at a table with drink in hand. The next, he seemed uncharacteristically bashful.
You didn’t want to smile. What if it ruined the moment?
“I plan on helping Luffy by helping the Chef.”
“I’m going to pretend that makes sense.”
When you gave him a thumbs up in response you wished lightning would’ve come down and burnt you to a crisp. What made it worse? From the smile that was beginning to work its way at the corners of Zoro’s lips, you could practically hear what he was going to say.
“You really are masterful with replies.”
“Okay, well, I’m gonna go in there now,” you stated. Your body slowly backed away from him and the heart stopping smile that was only growing wider.
When did he start smiling at you like that?
You were almost to the swinging double doors when someone came rushing through and collided immediately with your back. The sound of dishes crashing sent your eyes wide and finally tore you away from the swordsman in front of you.
“Fuck.”
“Oi, what’s going on out here?”
Double fuck.
You stooped down to help the waiter pick up the pieces of plates that had shattered on the ground and the food right along with it.
“What the bloody hell is going on ‘ere?”
Looking up from your crouched position on the floor, you were greeted by the same Chef who had pulled Luffy into the back. Without thinking you jolted to stand upright to face him with your hands struggling to keep the pieces of broken plate from dropping.
“I came to help my Captain in your kitchen.”
As the words left your mouth, so too did a couple pieces of a plate.
“No.”
It was abrupt. It was harsh and it was final. He didn’t even give you a chance to try and change his mind. The hard sound of his peg leg turning back into the kitchen cutting off whatever your next sentence might have been.
“Hey! I can help!”
You pushed through the double doors and narrowly missed a cook passing by with a flaming piece of meat sautéing in the pan. You pulled a face and quickly moved away. This time you were watching closely where you were going and playing extra close attention to the fast pace movements happening around you.
For someone so large, the Chef made his way with ease around the kitchen. You weren’t sure if he was just light on his feet or if everyone in the kitchen just learned to work around him.
“No.” He sounded like he’d smoked two packs of smokes a day and finished it off by gargling with a cigar. “What you can do is get out of my kitchen before you make more of a mess.”
“Hey Doc!” Luffy waved from his place in the corner. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to help you.”
And to show how helpful you were, you placed the broken pieces of plate down on the table. The old man regarded him momentarily before looking back at you.
“You’re with him?”
“Yeah I am.”
The old man turned back to Luffy, a large thumb pointed back to you as he spoke, “She broke a couple plates outside. That’s also added to your tab.”
“Oh, okay wait!” You came around the corner of a cutting station, arms still out in front of you like you were warding off a bear. “That’s why I'm here. I have a service I think would benefit you.”
“And what, pray tell, would that be?”
You put on your brightest smile and flared your arms out in front of you like you were a prize to behold.
“I’m a doctor.”
You expected a different reaction. A completely different reaction to him looking like he was about to make you fish food.
“Get out of my kitchen.”
“Did you hear me-“
“I heard you just fine, girl. What I need is for you to get out of my kitchen.”
The way he called you girl reminded you of Naan. It was the same tone that was used to tell you that you were in the way. You weren’t helping. You were just being a pain in the ass. There were more than a handful of times that you’d told Naan you could help; you knew enough to assist with minor surgeries. To help with childbirth when the women came in hollering and screaming like their body was being broken and molded anew.
You’d spent your whole life learning how to forage and create and heal. You knew you could help - that you could ease this man’s pain.
“No.”
When crystal blue eyes honed in on your position you refused to bend. You stared back at him and for the first time ever you squared your own shoulders in defiance.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Your stump - I bet it hurts you something awful. The problem with prosthetics is that they still rub the skin - can bruise. What if I tell you that I can make you a salve that can alleviate that for you?”
He’d placed his hands on his hips somehow making him appear broader. He was trying to intimidate you, but he had nothing on a little old lady and her cane.
“She is really the best doctor in all of the East Blue. If your leg really does hurt you, why not let Doc try and see if it helps?”
He looked from Luffy and back to you - his eyes showing how undecided he was. You thought you were going to have to try again when he finally replied, “You got one hour before the second dinner. If it isn’t as good as you say I’m doubling what he owes me.”
The joy you felt at winning something was quickly taken from you as you resisted the urge to chase after him.
“Wait what?!”
The old man wasn’t going to answer you. He was too busy walking away, off to see something about food. You didn’t even get a chance to ask him for a pot or if he had any mortars in his kitchen. You glanced over at Luffy who was giving you two thumbs up and smiling his usual smile.
At least one of you believed in you.
You were about to remind him that you were left with nothing to use when the waiter from earlier, Zoro’s best friend, magically appeared. His jacket was now missing and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to expose his forearms.
“I’m assuming you’re in need of some assistance.”
A breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding released from you in a soft laugh of gratitude.
“Yes, please! I need a pot and mortar and pestle. If you can direct me where to get them-“
“No, I can get them for you. I live to serve.”
Sanji spared you one last parting smile before he moved swiftly around the kitchen collecting what you’d asked. Everything else you either already had in your satchel or you could easily run back to the ship to get. Somewhere in the back of your mind, when Sanji came back to hand you your requested items and winked, you swore you could hear Zoro’s teeth grinding in irritation.
Zeff, as you later learned from Sanji, had given you all of one hour to make your salve. You’d finished in forty minutes.
The kitchen had been cleared out and empty, which you learned was the usual between the break up in the first, second, and third dinner. It also meant it gave you ample time to look over Zeff’s leg. Not that the old man looked the least bit thrilled about it.
His rough exterior was making it hard for you not to be a little jumpy. Add in the extra audience of both Luffy and Sanji who seemed to be fascinated just from you removing the old man’s boot a little harder to work.
The minute you’d removed the wooden prosthetic from his knee you immediately could see the bruising. The hard rashes that bleed across the skin leaving angry marks that almost threatened to make the skin weep. You couldn’t keep the air from hissing between your teeth as you took in a sharp breath.
You could hear Zeff too. The way he tried to swallow back down a groan that threatened to become something close to a cry of pain. Gently, you set it aside and started getting to work. Your hands pull out clean linen and wrap from your satchel and the green chiterra you’d just harvested.
You got up from where you sat and poured warm water into a bowl Luffy just cleaned. Immediately, you placed a clean cloth inside until it was completely soaked and rung it out before you gently placed it on his stump. You could hear the whistle of pain flash between his teeth, but you didn’t look to see if he was glaring at you still. You continued to smash up the chiterra until it made a paste.
Once you knew everything was ready, you gently began to clean the skin; exposing the places where the rash had torn skin. In those areas you placed the chiterra and in the areas where no broken skin showed you deposited the salve. The minty scent enveloped the space and as you began to wrap up Zeff’s leg, you dared to peek at him.
“What is that smell? Mint?”
“Aloe Vera. It helps with burns and irritations on the skin. I figured it would help soothe your skin. Give you some relief.”
“Hmmm.”
It was a sound you’d grown up with. Naan made the same kind when she was unsure of what to say. When she wasn’t ready to admit you were right or that you’d proven yourself capable.
“There.” You huffed as you put the prosthetic back on. “Make sure you wash it at least once a day. The salve can be put on two to three times daily. Don’t be scared to be generous with it and-“ you pulled the piece of paper you’d written the measurements and ingredients on. Your fingers waving it back and forth in front of him just to make sure you had his attention. “I’ll give you the recipe if you knock off more than half of what Luffy owes you. Deal?”
“You really think your fancy medicine is worth more than my food?”
“Is it worth more than your comfort? You tell me: how does your leg feel now?”
You tried to hide your growing smile as you could see the battle Zeff was warring on in his head. While he was old and stubborn, you knew relief from pain of any kind was usually the path most took.
With a heavy sigh, Zeff put his hand out for the paper and you knew you had him. This time you did allow a cheeky smile to celebrate.
“Your Naan teach you to be a pain in the ass like this too?”
“Nope. That I’ve learned all on my own.”
“Sounds about right.”
You leaned back on the stool and watched as Zeff began to get up. The caution his body had grown accustomed too every time he moved was noticeable in his slow movements.
“I told you she was the best in all of the East Blue.”
Luffy looked so proud. You weren’t sure what you expected, but the amount of pride he radiated was something new to you. Sure, you’d had Naan tell you that you did good but it wasn’t the same. There was something about the way Luffy looked at people - really looked - to the point for the first time you felt seen.
Luffy didn’t just say he thought you were the best because he was trying to talk you up. He believed in you and what you could do.
“Yeah, that may be so, but you still owe me some clean dishes.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
He smacked the top of the chair he’d been sitting in as he got up. He didn’t argue or call for a rest. Luffy simply headed back towards the sink to finish on the load of dishes he’d left as they’d watched you work. The idea of him still slaving away in the space while you were all out there enjoying yourselves didn’t feel right.
“You should be able to go out with the rest of us and have a drink.”
“I’ll be alright here. You go on ahead and meet the rest of the crew. I’ll be with you guys soon enough.”
How soon? It didn’t feel right to leave him there. Even worse to bring over dishes you’d gotten dirty for him to wash in the end.
“At least let me wash these, Luffy.”
He’d opened his mouth to tell - what? To tell you to go again, most likely but you never actually heard him say it. Right when he was about to speak, Sanji was just there. His hands gently taking the dishes out of yours and walking over to place them beside the sink.
“How about I do these dishes for you.”
“Why would you do that?”
Sanji glanced away from you for a moment. His eyes focusing in on a memory, maybe. Whatever it was memory or thought, his eyes went into a thousand yard stare. One that was untouchable as the clouds. Finally, he turned to look at you and a touch of a smile was back.
“Zeff is cantankerous old shit bag but-“
“But he’s your cantankerous old shit bag. I get it.”
And you did. Naan and Zeff had a lot in common, specifically in their not-so-great parenting that wasn’t parenting skills. Even more so in the way they tried to make it seem like any help you tried to give wasn’t going to be good enough. You’d just come to realize that, while at first you’d hated Naan for always telling you it just wasn’t good enough, whatever you did, you realized as you got older it was because she knew you could do better. Would you have preferred a hug? A lighter lesson sharing a cup of hot chocolate? Hell yeah you would’ve but…this was okay too.
The closed smile Sanji wore cracked a little as you finished his sentence. A smile of realizing someone else understood seemed to make the tension ease from his shoulders just a bit.
“I’ll wash these up for you and let’s say, in return, you have a drink with me later.”
He’d remove the dish towel from his shoulders; his right hand tightened inside the fabric as he used it to prop himself up just a little. He was leaning against the counter with that soft, inviting smile still barely showing any teeth. You realized as you considered his offer you liked it better when he was smiling just a little too wide; all the flirting making him happier than he seemed now.
Fuck you wondered what Zoro would do if he knew what you were about to say? What did it matter anyways? It wasn’t like you belonged to each other or had feelings or…you know…whatever.
It was your turn to take your head out of the clouds and look back over at Sanji. He wasn’t being pushy. You were sure if you told him no he would be a gentleman about it. So, taking a deep breath you finally gave him your response.
“A drink would be good.”
What in the absolute hell’s were you doing?
In a matter of a millisecond, Sanji brightened up and it made your chastising fall short. It couldn’t be that big of a deal if it made him this happy, it could it?
“Great. I’ll finish up here and find you at the bar.”
“Alright. I guess I’ll see you in a bit then.”
You replaced your satchel over your shoulder and started to make your way towards the back door. You weren’t even sure where the bar was. Wherever it was you knew a certain Moss-haired swordsman would be there with the others.
“Good. It’s a date.”
You whirled around so fast the vertigo almost threatened to topple you over.
“Ugh, it is not a date.”
“Sounds like a date to me,” Sanji teased, his hand flipping the dish towel back over his shoulder.
He looked so smug. Why were all the men you were running into either smug, attractive, and a pain in the ass? Well, besides Luffy, that is. He was becoming your sunshine son whether he agreed or not.
“It sounds like a drink,” you responded.
Your feet were still carrying you to the back door, but you honestly couldn’t get there fast enough.
“A drink under the stars and hushed conversation.”
“To have a hushed conversation you have to be like this close,” using your hands you indicate the amount of space necessary to make that even a remote possibility, “and it’s in a crowded place, which means yelling.”
“You’re adorable you know when you’re all flushed like that.”
“Excuse me while I go throw myself overboard.”
“Doc! Make sure Nami or Usopp get you out!” Luffy called after you. “I won’t be able to go in.”
You weren’t going to tell him it was a figure of speech. He seemed so genuinely concerned that you would just throw yourself off that you kind of didn’t want to ruin the moment. One last glance at Sanji before you left out the back door, and you debated whether you were joking or not.
You weren’t exactly sure where you were heading, you just knew that there was the sound of music. Music usually meant very few things. Either someone was having a dinner party with music playing in the background, highly unlikely, or you were headed directly for the bar.
The bar where your crew mates were at. The bar that Zoro was at and the same bar Sanji would come looking for you at later. God, how soon was later? The thought made each new step you took sound more pronounced, louder than the last as you practically dragged yourself into the fish’s mouth.
It wasn’t an incredibly large space. It was pretty crowded already, and if it wasn’t for its size you would’ve worried you wouldn’t have been able to find them. Luckily for you, Usopp spotted you first and waved you over to the table they’d claimed right at the edge of the fish’s lip.
While Nami and Zoro were nursing a beer and whiskey, respectfully, Usopp apparently found a punch bowl. By the looks of said punch bowl and the glossy look hollowing out Usopp’s eyes, you knew you were going to need one just as big.
“Where did you get that fish bowl and do they have more?” You asked, removing your satchel and sitting down next to Nami.
“Nice of you to finally join us.”
“Oh, it’s so nice to be missed.”
You clutched your hands dramatically to your chest causing Nami to bump into you playfully in response.
“In all seriousness though, I’m going to need one of those fish bowls. ASAP.”
“I don’t know if you want one, Doc,” Usopp replied before taking another long pull from his straw. “It tastes just like candy. I don’t even think there is any liquor in this.”
“Pace yourself.” Zoro warned. “Last time I said that I ended up face down underneath a table.”
You leaned forward, your elbows resting on the small table, as you cupped your chin in your hands. You tried for cute and tried to smile that ended up squished between cheeks and hands.
“What were you doing under the table?”
“Napping,” he replied curtly.
“No one chooses to nap under a table in a bar.”
“I’ve napped in the crow’s nest on the Merry a few times.”
Yup. There was definitely liquor in that fishbowl.
“By the way, if you see Sanji let me know. I inadvertently may have slightly agreed to have a drink with him.”
“Nami’s boyfriend?”
“Nami’s what?”
“The waiter?!”
“He is not my boyfriend,” Nami protested a finger up to signify to Usopp to make a point, “and what is happening?”
“He asked after I fixed up Zeff’s - the big angry Chef - leg. I made a little salve for him to help take the pain away when he wore the prosthetic.”
“And somehow that led to you being asked for a drink?”
“I guess?” You shrugged.
“Man, I gotta try that,” Usopp mumbled as he took another long sip through his straws.
“I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
Your eyes panned over to Zoro. His arms painfully tight across his chest and his jaw wasn’t faring any better. It looked painful. You wanted to remind him it was possible to get lockjaw just from grinding your teeth into dust.
“Well, I’m going to go get me a fishbowl.”
You remove yourself from your newly claimed spot and walk over towards the bar. The bartender himself seemed easy enough, happy to take your money, and even happier to take a tip as he handed over your drink. It was so heavy that you thought it would take you half a decade just to get it back to the table without spilling it. So, the best way to combat spillage was by starting to drink some down.
Usopp was right. They did taste exactly like candy.
When you arrived back at the table, it was noticeably more quiet. Nami’s eyes focused on her now empty glass that she swirled around in her hand. Zoro wasn’t looking at you, as per usual, as if you’d done something wrong and Usopp was busy finishing off his drink. You weren’t sure how to inject yourself back into a conversation that had grown stagnant. You weren’t born with the ease of conversation; not like Nami who always seemed to know what to do. When to smile and the right words to make someone open up. You’d only take a couple of sips of your drink when Zoro’s gruff voice sliced into the silence.
“What are you holding onto that is so heavy?”
He took a drink from his own glass as he waited for Nami to speak. To lift her head up or show any signs that she’d heard him.
“You guys seriously don’t think what Luffy did was messed up?”
You weren’t following. You were too busy taking another drink, eyes darting between the two of them. You felt silly. Obviously, whatever was bothering Nami wasn’t a secret. It wasn’t something she was holding close to ruin you all later, but whatever it was that weighed on her she felt Luffy had done something detrimental. Almost.
Zoro regarded her evenly before he set his glass back down on his thigh. His gaze looked away from her as he replied, “Yeah. He should’ve told us. But if you haven’t noticed we’ve been making enemies everywhere we go. Psycho clowns, killer butlers: what are the Marines going to do?”
“You don’t understand. I can’t get caught not when I’m so close-“
Nami looked ready to break. The tears of panic that edged at the corners of her eyes made all the earlier playfulness disappear. The sharpness of words you threatened to say to defend Luffy losing their edge as you watched her stare into her glass like it would be able to give her all the answers. To tell her it would all be okay.
Zoro looked between you and Usopp, who was doing his best to not be a part of this particular conversation. His lips wrapped around the straws buried deep in his drink and refused to let go.
Men.
You were about to reach out to her, to ask her if she was okay, really okay, not just the kind you pretend to be through words when a mask of a smile was back on her face. She set down her glass and gave a quick glance around the table before clapping her hands down on her bare legs and lifting up out of her seat.
“Who wants a drink? It’s on me.”
“That’s my favorite kind.”
“Of course it is.”
You ignored Zoro’s stare as Nami removed herself from the booth - from all of you. She was more than halfway to the bar when you reached over and smacked Zoro’s shoulder. He looked surprised for all of a second before he looked from his shoulder and back to you.
“‘That’s my favorite kind.’” You mimicked. “God, who says that?”
“Someone who likes free drinks?” Usopp offered up.
“You are both -“
“Impossible. We know.”
Shaking your head, you shimmied out of the booth and started making your way through the groups of people. You could barely see Nami up ahead with an older gentleman speaking to her. A spindle of curiosity began to weave its way inside your belly and filled your head with questions. He didn’t seem to be flirting with her or trying. No, they seemed to be discussing business.
“Nami.”
You spoke her name lightly the way you would an animal that was skittish. The hand you’d reached out to tap her shoulder falling short as she turned halfway to face you.
“Hey, Doc, what are you doing?”
“I came to check on you.”
Nami pulled a face, her shoulders shrugging just enough to brush off your words.
“I promise you, I’m just fine. I don’t need a check-up or anything like that.”
The bartender chose at that moment to set down a bottle of rum and four shot glasses, which Nami grabbed immediately. She thanked him with a smile and turned to head back to the table forcing you to practically run after her.
“Nami- Nami, wait!”
“What do you want?!”
The anger of her words forced you to take a step back. Your hands raised just to let her know you meant her no harm.
“Do you remember when I told you that you had a friend in Syrup village?”
“What about it?”
“While I didn’t stay in the village, I’m still your friend and while I may not be able to protect you like Zoro, or be full of sunshine and stretchy like Luffy, or hell, be as sharp as Usopp with a slingshot I’m still here for you. Does that make sense?”
“I think?”
“I Just- okay look I’m not good at this either. My only friend I had was Usopp and I’m not sure how to say this but if you need to talk or if anything is bothering you, you can tell me. I’m not going to judge you or you know…”
It all felt like it was going good in your head and then you breathed, started talking, and for some reason panicked. Bless Nami for finding it all vaguely amusing, from what you could tell, because the smile that graced her lips was the one you’d come to expect. Bright and full of the youth sometimes you feel like she’d missed.
“Why do you get so awkward at the end of long speeches?”
Her words were light and airy; full of the laughter that flowed through each one. You allowed her go wrap her arm around your shoulders as you both moved back to the table. Your own laughter threatening to burst at any minute.
“I don’t get awkward.”
You could hear the eye roll she gave as you both began to release one another. You wouldn’t fit in the booth this way if you didn’t.
“Every time. Without fail. You start off so strong.”
“I just get nervous that I’m not making any sense, especially when you’re saying things that matter.”
“What you said back there matters?”
She’d placed the rum and glasses down on the table. Usopp’s fishbowl long since emptied and Zoro was moving towards the bottle at Lightning speed, as if he couldn’t wait to meet oblivion. Before Nami disappeared back into the booth you gently grabbed her hand to stop her making sure she faced you completely before you spoke low enough for only her to hear.
“It matters because you matter to me, Nami. All jokes aside, just don’t forget I’m here for you.”
Her eyes pricked with the edge of tears but she quickly nodded and turned away from you. The only proof you’d gotten she heard you was the soft squeeze of her hand in yours just before she let you go.
“God, I don’t know which one of them is worse. Can that even be classified as dancing?”
Nami’s soft laughter filtered over to him and Zoro couldn’t help but respond with a smile. At some point, you’d dived head first into too many of the giant fishbowls, deciding not to heed his warning, and come out the other side completely and utterly shit faced. So, when Usopp asked you to join him out on the dance floor, you didn't hesitate. For the last hour, Zoro wished there was a camera around just to hold this moment hostage from time.
He watched as you did moves he was willing to bet, if you were sober, would flush your cheeks in the rosy hue he’d found himself becoming obsessed with ever since he’d placed that snowdrop behind your ear. Another moment that time had taken he’d hoped to have burned into his memory. The way you’d looked up at him shifted something inside him, and Zoro wasn’t sure if he could ever get it back, or if he even cared it was gone.
You were in the middle of your next move - one arm behind your head while the other was close to your side. Your shoulder rotating in strange circles as your body bounced off beat. Usopp had gone back to doing a shuffle beside you that broke you out of your dance and into his.
Zoro could feel a smile threatening to burst its way on to his lips. Quickly, he brought his beer up and took a long pull from the glass.
“You’re different with her.” Every word was punctuated. Slow. As if Nami was afraid saying it too fast would spook him.
He took the glass from his lips and set it back on his thigh. His hand still wrapped around the cool mug as he finally regarded Nami.
“I’m not different with anybody.”
“Well, that’s not true. You’re different with Luffy; with us. I’m betting you don’t look at us the way you look at her, though.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It’s nothing.
God, he wanted it to be true. Even now, however, he could feel his neck straining to stay facing Nami’s direction. He wanted to look back and see what you were doing. To make sure you were safe.
And that waiter hadn’t magically appeared.
Nami must have known he was lying. She may have been a thief, but Zoro had come to realize her bullshit calling meter was the best he’d ever seen. She regarded him coolly with her brows raised in mock shock.
“I have eyes, Zoro. Unless you’re looking at me the same way when I’m not looking - it’s different.”
If he played it cool, kept his face free of emotion, and didn’t react he could still call her a liar. It was a solid plan that would’ve worked if his jaw hadn’t ticked in annoyance. Zoro wasn’t annoyed with Nami. He was annoyed at himself for being caught wanting something -someone - besides his goal.
He looked down into the safety of the amber liquid in his glass. Unsure of what - how - to begin to deny you hadn’t snuck in and taken a piece of him and called it yours. Luckily, he didn’t have to.
“Look,” Nami sighed. “I know you’ve got your own thing going on. Who doesn’t.”
“Why do I feel like there’s a but coming,” he grumbled.
“But it’s okay to still want other things too.”
Zoro allowed himself to look up from the safety of the glass and willed himself to appear emotionless as he considered her. His mind was still mulling over her words and what Nami could possibly be trying to get at.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Like her.”
No.
In a flash, Zoro could see how simple it would be to have you. His imagination ran in a million directions, in a trillion scenarios of a life that held a path for you to walk with him. He almost gave in and allowed the warmth of the idea of touching you, knowing you, to consume him until a clash of swords resonated in his mind.
As fast as it was created, it was destroyed. He found himself back in the woods standing in front of Kuina, so full of fire and life. The determination lit a fire in her eyes until he could’ve sworn he’d be consumed.
“Until one of us is the greatest swordsman who ever lived.”
It was his goal then just like she had been his goal - and it had remained his goal even now. Zoro couldn’t allow himself to lose sight of that. It was his dream to be the world’s greatest swordsman, but it had also been hers.
Kuina.
Zoro could still see her there waiting for him. Dead and dried leaves crunching under her feet as she waited for him to meet her in the clearing, her eyes brimming with challenge.
Zoro could almost feel his muscles taut and ready to go to her. His thumb playing at the hilt of his sword, to pull it out in one smooth motion and come forward those last few feet in a class of steel. He could feel his feet moving and the sound of the leaves crunching under his weight. He was almost to her when the sound of laughter floating through the breeze like a wind chime forced him to stop. He didn’t know who or what it was, or why his first thought was you, but when he turned to glance behind him he felt his heart stop.
He was suddenly standing back in the lavender fields at Irkhaven. Zoro’s eyes scanned around until you were there, like Kuina, standing just out of reach. You were surrounded by a sea of purple and sunlight that only seemed to brighten as you smiled in his direction. It was the smile that warmed him down to his bones and made his chest ache for once with something other than sadness and guilt. Zoro wouldn’t dare think it - risk saying it - in case this was some kind of spell.
You spoke his name - beckoning him to follow you - just like Kuina. Underneath all of your softness you held your own fire, your own determination, that made you appear wild. The wind whipping at your hair and turning you ethereal amongst all the life that you held within your eyes.
Zoro could feel himself stuck between the place where he began and the place where he was going. Where you were waiting with Luffy, Usopp, and Nami. A place he never imagined his life would take him and yet…
The sound of Nami almost shouting his name shook him out of his thoughts and the sound of cracking glass filtered through moments later. He could feel the glass in his hand fracturing; dangerously close to collapsing inward if he squeezed harder. He set the weeping glass down and spared a glance to Nami as he removed himself from the seat.
“Hey, Zoro, are you okay?”
He hated how he could see the concern was etched into every crease of her features. The way she pretended to care. He made sure his hand was secured on the Wado Ichimonji before he stood to his full height. His eyes glancing over at you and Usopp now entrenched in a dance battle.
Suddenly, being inside the mouth of a fish made him feel like he was being swallowed whole. He couldn’t be near you - couldn’t risk confessing in the heat of a drunken moment that you had consumed him, mind and soul, and he wasn’t sure if he cared.
“I gotta go back to the Merry. Forgot something.”
“Forgot what? Zoro? Zoro!”
He didn’t look behind him to see what Nami was doing. Their earlier game of “guess my trauma,” officially over as he rushed towards the next dock. The pounding of his heart reminding him of the dangers of caring; of allowing yourself to get wrapped up in other people.
To this day, Zoro could still feel the ice that pierced his heart when he was told Kuina was gone. The way the world seemed to shift into madness and somehow remain the same. It was his mind that could no longer make sense of a world where she no longer resided. Zoro would’ve gone to the gates of hell to get her back if he could and with the searing vision of your smile, head whipped back in joy, Zoro felt that same exact emotion he’d felt over seven years ago.
He would tear the world apart to keep you in it and that was a confession he couldn’t afford to say.
For the last hour Zoro had been able to sit in the stillness of the ship and enjoy the silence. The only intrusive sound was that of things moving below the water and the of the wet stone sliding across the Wado Ichimonji.
It’d taken him longer than he’d ever admit to collect himself. His meditation hadn’t been able to clear his mind the way it usually did, and it wasn’t until he’d begun to take care of Kuina’s blade that his thoughts had ceased.
Of course, all good things were meant to come crashing down.
“How long do you think you’re going to hide out here and pout?”
Zoro’s wrist stopped mid-motion down the sword. His eyes unable to tear away from the moonlight gleaming on the blade just in case looking at you sent him reeling over the edge again.
Being alone with you on the Merry was about the worst thing that could happen to him. At least at the bar he would have continued to play twenty questions with Nami and been surrounded by plenty of sound to help drown out whatever was going on with him.
You aren’t focused.
But he was, wasn’t he? In the last seven years, Zoro had devoted himself to his training. To become stronger. Faster. The only swordsman to use three swords and earn the name of The Demon. With every waking hour Zoro was closer to becoming who he - who she - dreamed of being.
The sound of your footsteps drawing closer almost made him delirious. His hand tightening down on the wet stone before he set it down beside him. His eyes turned out to look once more into the endless midnight in front of him.
“Who says I’m hiding?”
His voice sounded rough, like it hadn’t been used in months. He picked up the rum he’d taken from his room and took a swig to clear his throat and his senses. By the time he finished taking his drink, you were standing beside where he sat on the crate. Your arms wrapped around your middle with your hip cocked looking like you were ready to give him hell.
I am hiding.
It was the only clear thought he had as his eyes adjusted to your presence. Your eyes were glassy from the alcohol even though you were trying to make it seem like you were sober, he guessed. But Zoro could tell you were tipsy with the way you swayed along with each push of the ocean’s wave against the ship.
He and Nami were going to have a talk about dressing you next time. Every part of you felt exposed to him and yet, it wasn’t enough. It was all just a game, teasing him constantly no matter what angle he looked at it. What was even worse was how the moon highlighted you in light and half in shadow.
“I say you are and we both know I’m usually right.”
A sly smile slid across his lips before he could stop it. His eyes transfixed while you took the finishing steps until you stood before him. With your arms back down at your side you felt more open to him, vulnerable somehow. It was the look in your eyes that told him why.
Maybe he wasn’t just imagining it too but what did it prove? You were both idiots on a sinking ship. Looking up at you now, the way you shamelessly devoured every inch the moonlight provided your eyes he knew you’d both happily drown.
“Is that so?”
“It’s the new unwritten rule on the ship.”
“Guess I’m going to have to have a talk with Luffy about that.”
“He’s still in the kitchen finishing up dishes if you want to be a good first mate and help him.”
“I should go help him.”
“The waiters in there with him, though.”
“He doesn’t need my help that bad.”
Zoro wasn’t sure what it was that made your head fall back the way it did. What it was that caused you to laugh the way you did with your hand covering your mouth as if it was enough to silence it. He didn’t know what he did, but he swore he would do it again just to see you like this.
“Is that why you are hiding out on the ship? Afraid of some competition?”
You went to sit down next to him and his hand reached out to grab you by your hip to stop you. It was meant to be a gesture to get you to stop. Instead, his hand slid under the fabric of the corset and he could hear the audible sharp whistle as you sucked in a breath. He wondered if you would let him keep it there, if you’d let him pull you closer until you were perfectly positioned between his legs.
As fast as his hand and touched you it retreated and it was his turn to stand.
“Let’s cut the chit chat. I have something better in mind.
“You seriously think now is a good time to train?”
You couldn’t believe it. Your brain was still a mess from seconds ago when his hand somehow found its way under your clothes. The way he’d looked up at you, you half expected him to pull you closer. The hunger that flashed in obsidian eyes was enough to make you think you were about to find out just how plush his lips might actually be.
As fast as it happened it ended and the disappointment was raw in your chest. Zoro, on the other hand, looked right at home.
“Why not? Did you have something else in mind?”
Yes.
“No,” you grumbled.
You were most definitely not pouting.
“Good. First, you have to fix your stance.”
“Okay, how should I be-“
A scream of shock left you as you nearly jumped out of your skin. You turned just in time to see him slide the handle of a sword back inside the sheath. The same one that he’d used mere seconds ago to smack against your bare thigh.
“Did you just spank me with your sword?”
God, he looked too pleased with himself.
“I could do it again, if you like.”
You could feel your mouth opening and closing. You didn’t know what to say. Yes, please do? That felt too desperate and yelling at him would do nothing but prove you did like it in some weird way.
Shit. Your cheeks were burning.
“How about we just direct me, verbally, like a normal sensei would do.”
“You could also call me master, instead of sensei, if you like.”
Zoro had stepped close to you - close enough if you leaned back just an inch you would be against him. His words were dripped heavily with teasing, but the way the husk of his tone whispered along your skin like a caress threatened to make your knees buckle.
This was supposed to be training for god sake. Clearing your throat, you dared to lean your head back just enough it rested on his chest. Your eyes batting up at him as you replied, “Or I can just call you an asshole.”
A heavy sigh blew through his nose as he stepped away from you, almost sending you falling on your ass.
“Do you even have a weapon?”
“There are pots in the kitchen,” you deadpanned.
Zoro looked at you like he would throw you over the side of the ship at any minute.
“I mean a real weapon.”
“My knife is in my satchel.”
You both stood there staring at one another. You weren’t sure what he was expecting you to do. If you were just magically supposed to make your satchel appear or leave to go get it. Zoro wasn’t saying much. He was just standing there one hand on his sword and a thumb tucked into his sash.
“Are you going to keep staring at me all night or are you going to go get it?”
Whatever tension that had been brimming between you, unspoken words, or anything else was instantly gone. All of it exploded by his usual rigid posture and dead-eye stare that only moments ago made you believe that maybe, just maybe, your drunken mind wasn’t as delusional as you thought.
“When I come back you better be ready to get your ass kicked,” you seethed.
You went to turn on your booted heel when a strong wave rocked the ship and almost sent you toppling forward. You’d braced yourself for impact; your knees colliding once again with the wood or possible scraps to your hands and bare legs.
Instead, your back collided with a warm body with a forearm locked around your middle keeping you impossibly tight against them. The scent of sandalwood and skin melded together flooding your scenes until your brain was in overload.
You looked back and found his face mere inches from yours. So close you could feel the heat of his breath along your jaw tempting you to close those last few inches. For a brief moment you thought you’d unlocked some new form of drunken bravery inside of you, but all of it came crashing down when Zoro let go and stepped away.
“Maybe I should walk back with you. You don’t seem like you’re able to walk.”
“Okay.”
You didn’t know what else to say. Should you tell him to come close again? Should you tell him that while he was equally the most infuriating human on the planet you somehow couldn’t imagine a space where he wasn’t in it?
How could knowing someone for only a short while turn into…this.
You knew you wouldn’t say any of it. Not even enough liquor in the world could get you to tell Roronoa Zoro, The Demon, that you had a crush on him just as deadly as he was.
So, you turned on your heel and headed back towards the giant mouth of the fish. The steady sounds of Zoro’s heavy footsteps right behind you until you finally made it back into the bar. You’d only gotten a few steps to the table when you realized something was wrong. A man in a trench coat and large hat with a feather was standing in front of Nami and Usopp. They didn’t appear frightened but…why was he there?
“Oh, hey guys! This is my new best friend-“ Usopp stated.
Nami softly smacked him on his chest as she cut in, “This is not our friend.”
The man in question turned to stare at Zoro and you. His eyes sunflower yellow with swirls like a bullseye within making you almost take a step back from him. You bummed back into Zoro and this time when you looked at him he no longer looked unreadable. He was looking at this man like he was a godsend - a dream come true in the form of curled mustaches and oversized feathers.
“You’re Dracule Mihawk.”
“I have business with your captain. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll hand him over.”
“Well, we don’t know anyone named Luffy, do we guys? Zoro?”
You’d been so enamored by Mihawk’s appearance you hadn’t realized Zoro had moved around you. His eyes still fastened to him as he moved around to face him.
“I’ve been following your career since I was a child. It’s an honor to finally meet you, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Mihawk looked bored out of his skull.
“Which is why it pains me to inform you that tomorrow you’re going to die.”
“Wait, what?”
“What the actual fuck…”
Your words came out as an uttered whisper. You were too shell shocked to say more - do more. It felt like you were watching this whole interaction through the lense of a telescope on a distant island where idiots roamed free.
“I, Roronoa Zoro, challenge you to a duel to the death.”
“What the actual fuck! Zoro!”
This time you were loud. Much louder than you wanted with every syllable ringing out your panic like a dinner bell.
“I’ve never heard of you.”
“They call me the Demon Pirate Hunter. But my lifelong dream is to best you in single combat and become the greatest swordsman in the world.”
“You’re serious.”
“Accept my challenge and I’ll show you how serious I am.”
“Very well. Tomorrow at dawn and when I’m done with you Pirate Hunter I’ll take your captain.”
No. No. No - “No.”
Your head was still ringing out with the word. Unable to comprehend what in the actual hell had just happened. You’d come back to get your small cutting knife. He was supposed to be training you right now back on the deck of the Merry. This was wrong. All wrong.
Nami leaned forward from her seat. Her own worry was bleeding into her eyes, her voice, as she asked, “What in the hell did you just do?”
You were still trying to figure that out when Zoro turned and walked away leaving dread the size of a crater to worm its way inside your chest.
As always, thank you all so much for reading. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated.
he’s a cynic who has sworn off love. you’re a jaded romantic under pressure to wed. when one season bids you greet each other after many spent apart, a deeper bond blooms despite outward differences…
…and the fact that he’s friends with your father.
⚜️ WARNINGS/TAGS: AGE GAP RELATIONSHIP/dad's friend (go away if that’s not your thing!); estranged friends(?) to lovers; slow burn; period-typical misogyny and sexism 🥀 (not by logan of course); mcu/bridgerton cameos; heavy bridgerton references; yearning; reader gaslights herself a lot in this; emotional constipation; slight forced proximity; SMUT MDNI! (virginity loss/first time, dirty talk, oral, softdom!logan? he talks you through it; a bit of size kink; one pussyjob line; praise kink; creampie); nicknames (too many to list down)
⚜️ READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader is Xavier's adopted daughter, reader has hair (mentions of brushing) and is able-bodied, reader is a virgin (i promise it's not infantilized!!!)
⚜️ WORD COUNT: 18.1k
look at this wc total by the way. yeah no way this was gonna fit into one post lmao
⚜️ AUTHOR’S NOTE: guys it's FINALLY done. 40 hours of my life between january 3rd and today dedicated to this freaking fic. i want to cry. thank you for reading and indulging in my freakishly specific fantasies <3 thank you to @houseofhyde @flockoff-featherface for hearing me talk about this idea, and to @theworstwolvie @princessanglophile for reading the teaser, and to @superbassbuck who gave me feedback—you all mean so much to me.
if it sucks, lie 👅
Dearest Gentle Reader,
Any worthy member of high society would know that the first ball of the season bears many similarities to the beginning of war. London’s noblest reconnoiter and devise strategies for a plan of attack; playing a game not unlike the actual brutality unfolding on our shores.
Indeed, there were events that unfolded at Lady Danbury’s soiree last night which have caught this humble author’s eye.
Foreign dignitaries made for manifold attractions. The Maximoffs, who hailed from the East, brought along with them two coveted candidates for courting: twins Pietro and Wanda Maximoff, who enjoyed attention in the heaps from bachelors and bachelorettes alike.
The regiments stationed in town throughout the season meant there were handsome officers at last night’s ball. Militia often make good company, especially the ever-popular Captain Steve Rogers and Sergeant James Barnes, who reveled like the rest after a well-fought campaign. Their return from battle ignited another: this time in the ballroom, where mamas of the Ton competed to put their daughters in the men’s path.
While some officers were busy chasing skirts—or being chased by them—one actually did his duty of protection.
Sir James Howlett of Clawthorne Abbey was seen dealing justice to a trespasser, who was none other than his rumored half-brother, Victor Creed. The matter of their inheritance notwithstanding, the young lady who was harassed also happened to be Sir Howlett’s very own ward in her early years.
Although perhaps Sir Howlett should consider rescinding that relation. He and the lady were spotted emerging from a drawing room, one tenderly bandaged hand and two equally tender looks between the two of them.
After all, what woman wouldn’t swoon for a man who put himself in danger to save them from ruin?
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown
“What are you reading?”
Calmly, you slipped the thin ivory sheet under the newspapers on the table. Your father strolled in, rolling his chair on his own. He looked to be in high spirits despite the evening that just transpired.
“Good morning, Father,” you chimed in innocently, as though your heart wasn’t stuttering at what you just read. “Just the dailies. Tea?”
“Please.”
He placed himself at the end of the table next to you. You poured him a cup as a footman walked in with a tray of bread and butter.
The morning was like any other, if not for the peace that seemed brittler to the touch, easily broken by the most minute of things—like the periodical you were hiding. Your father wouldn’t care for trifle gossip exchanged in such societal papers, but he might question why you were interested in it.
Really, you just wanted to know if it was unreasonable for your chest to flutter whenever you thought of last night—not from fear, but from Logan.
You did not want to share that piece of information over breakfast.
But Charles spoke anyway, and suddenly you had something new to worry about.
“I was thinking,” he began.
“You tend to do that,” you took a sip of tea.
He shot you a look. You pursed your lips.
“I suppose it’s good that you’re not so shaken over yesterday’s events,” he sighed, the liveliness about him quickly caving in to a cloud. “But you must understand. As your father, I feel… inadequate in such times.”
Brows knitted. You put down your cup, rising from your seat only to kneel by his side, concerned over the quick change in his mood.
“Father, what on earth are you talking about?”
He placed a hand over yours: the one you’d stationed by his chair. Warmth and comfort enveloped you, but you felt it—the gentlest of tremors within him, a rude reminder of his advancing age.
“I could defend you in thirteen different courts and thirteen different languages, but should a man lay his hand on you, I can do little more than cry out.”
The reality of it nearly shattered you. “Father, please—”
“No, let me finish.”
Charles clasped your hand in both of his.
“Dearest, I’d applaud your composure if this matter weren’t so grave. You’re far from defenseless, I know this, but the possibility of last night repeating itself weighs greatly on my mind.”
You looked at him, sensing the thread of an idea he was pulling you towards. He had that look in his eyes that you’ve come to recognize over the years.
“I think it’s prudent to hire someone to watch over you.”
You shook your head, shoulders sagging at the suggestion. As if the Ton didn’t have enough eyes already.
“Please, the mere thought is already too much.”
“Too much for you, maybe, but I’d personally find it a great relief—”
“I know yesterday could’ve gone really wrong, but I promise to be more careful.”
“And I trust you, dearest, but…”
The clearing of throat by the entrance silenced your bickering. It was the butler, both hands behind his back.
“Sir James Howlett,” he announced.
True enough, Logan walked in, the black tailcoat flapping behind him nothing more than a de rigueur he quickly shed after bowing at the two of you. You rose to reciprocate the gesture.
It was then that Charles was able to finish his sentence.
“…I already asked Logan for a favor.”
“Bad timing?” he asked, stopping in the middle of hooking his coat on a hanger. “I can come back later.”
“Nonsense.” “Not at all.”
Logan’s eyebrow arched at the scene, but he approached regardless.
You were still looking at him, gobsmacked at the fact that he was in the parlor at ten in the morning, looking like he was part of the household with that dark grey waistcoat and linen shirt.
“Tea, Sir?” you murmured.
He nodded. You didn’t bother calling for a servant and poured another cup.
Fingers brush when you handed it to him. The skin-on-skin contact jolted with remnants of sparks from last night: subtle, but far from nothing, enough to make you pull back a little faster than you should have.
His knuckles were bandaged, the same wraps as last night. The mere sight melted the butterflies in your stomach into quiet concern.
“Does it still hurt?” you whispered.
“It never did, sweetheart.”
You dared to glimpse at his face. His eyes looked more green in this light—its brilliance pulled your head to turn to your father, as if avoiding being blinded.
“What’s this about a favor?”
“Your father thought it’d be best for me to stick around.”
That pulled your half-asleep eyes wide open. “You’re to be the guard?”
“‘Guard’ feels like an exaggeration,” Charles chimed in much too placidly, “He’s just… keeping you company.”
“And you’re alright with this?”
Logan looked at you, face unreadable. “Your father and I spoke about it last night.”
“Without me?” you volleyed.
The expression on Logan’s face was slight, but enough for you to grasp. It read like the faintest of pouts.
“You were the one who wandered off on your own.”
“Have I not apologized for it in the carriage yesterday?”
Silence took over. Your gaze avoided his in favor of the papers, though if asked what news there was, you probably couldn’t answer.
Logan grabbed the bread plate, putting one on his, and then another on yours, before casually slicing some butter like your heart didn’t just bang itself against your ribcage, wanting out. The angle in which he sat next to you placed him so perfectly against sunlight—bright rays seemed to kiss the lines next to his eyes.
“This Victor character is still in town, doing,” Charles gestured with a hand, failing to find the words, “whatever the blazes.”
“The ass is probably tying up loose ends before he can piss off overseas,” Logan added. A dagger of a look from Charles at the language, and he sat back slightly. “…Sorry.”
You couldn’t even pretend to read the paper in front of you anymore. You took a sip of tea in hopes of calming you down, but it didn’t exactly work.
“It has been decided.” You clipped. “Hasn’t it?”
“‘Fraid so.” “Correct, my dear.”
As a last ditch effort, you threw a look to your father: the kind that cried a clandestine plea with nary a peep. Perhaps such a maneuver was childish, but so was this entire guard setup they shook on behind your back.
The look didn’t work, of course. If anything, his obstinacy for doing things his way got passed on to you.
“Only for the time being, child,” he placated. You sighed—but not exactly from disappointment.
You should be angrier about this arrangement. So why weren’t you?
“And does Sir Logan have any qualms about being a chaperone again?” you murmured, scanning a paragraph for the nth time to no avail. “As I recall, you protested against it back then.”
“Not like I have anything better to do ’round these parts, sweetheart.”
You dared to glance at him. Or at least it was meant to be a glance, before hazel eyes trapped you to them.
There they were again: the butterflies in your stomach. The blasted internal organ may as well be a conservatory of fluttering wings, at this point.
More hot tea, you thought as you nearly threw your head back, emptying the cup. Maybe that would help melt those pesky critters away.
How you were going to handle Logan being close to you all the time, you were about to find out.
Eyes. So many eyes were watching.
Decidedly, the habits of a soldier were impossible to unlearn, because Logan assessed a perfectly normal park with the exactitude one would a battlefield. So much uncovered space meant there was nowhere to hide from shot stares. Each person that passed by, no matter how genteel, might as well be an enemy spy of some kind—yes, even that matronly older lady with the huge skirt.
In fighting an open war with a hidden enemy, Logan knew that the eyes were one’s ultimate weapon.
High society had its way of concealing intentions behind thick curtains of ‘manner maketh man’, but a person of Logan’s years and experience knew better.
The day was a beautiful, clear blue. So was the lake. Many flowers were in good enough spirits to bloom, peppering paved paths with vermilion and amethyst and gold—nature’s very own color palette. The clouds painted cotton-like streaks on the sky that moved faster than usual, their reflection on the lake rippling like a sheet thanks to a light breeze. It smelled like spring.
So many beautiful things to look at. Why did people look only at you?
You, walking next to him as he pushed your father’s wheelchair forward, pretty parasol in hand. There was an air of ease about you as you spoke about a fabric merchant you met in Venice. And speaking of fabric, did the shade of your dress make you shine, or was it the other way around?
Logan almost couldn’t fault the turning of heads. If he hadn’t needed to watch where he was going, he’d be looking at you too.
The shadow of Victor’s ambush looked like it had escaped you completely. Granted, three days had passed since the incident, but Logan was beginning to believe that Victor wasn’t the only person he needed to protect you from.
Whoever coined the phrase ‘polite company’ to refer to the most civil of civilization was either generously naive or thoroughly stupid. Because nothing about the eyes trailing your walking form felt polite. Men raked their gazes down to your walking slippers, while women pinned theirs on your face, each person wearing an expression that betrayed their sentiments:
An interest piqued, as if wondering how they had not noticed you before. Polite admiration—the kind provided from afar.
And then there was that green, green jealousy. An emotion diametric to adoration. One could mistake it as grass, the way it grew quickly and easily everywhere.
However, Logan’s mild ire was eclipsed by sardonic empathy (rare as he may grant it), because of course a handsome gentleman by his lonesome couldn’t resist stopping you in your tracks.
He exchanged a few words with you, and that green weed of a feeling began to grow in Logan, too.
The man had failed to address Logan and your father entirely. Judging by his manner of behavior and dress, which were quite proper, this could only mean that he was enamored to the point of forgetting basic etiquette.
“My lady. Stephen Strange, at your service,” he bowed. “Terrible, what happened to you—should I ever see that Creed fellow within even an inch of my vicinity, I promise he will be dealt with.”
You blinked and replied, polite in expressing your thanks and speaking to him as though you were already acquaintances. It was this trait of yours that softened Logan to you all those years ago: the generosity of your sweetness.
So yes, he ought to join the jealous brigade when you smiled brilliantly at a passing joke about the gentleman’s name.
But a thought quickly soothed that ache.
Logan was allowed to watch you. Him; a gentleman who barely deserved to be called one. He was the one standing by your side while promenading with Charles. He had the privilege of being kept in your precious memories.
He was the person you trusted.
They could all stare, but Logan was the only one who had the excuse to.
And look, there it was: the little glance you always gave him in between conversation no matter how riveting, as if you could feel wafts of his restlessness. Its twinkle seemed to whisper “I’ll be there soon”, like he was a berth of return. Like you’d always come back to him eventually.
When this Strange fellow ended the chat with a kiss on your gloved hand, only then he seemed to realize that he’d ignored two of your wards, one of whom was your father. He nodded at Logan and Charles before walking off elsewhere, pace hasted by the faux pas.
The two masters of their houses exchanged a look.
You turned to your party and pointed up ahead.
“Shall we go over there? I spy a free bench. Perhaps we can stare at the lake for a while.”
I don’t think the lake is what I’ll be staring at, was what Logan wanted to say, but he settled for a nod.
“Of course, dear,” Charles smiled up at you, eyes squinting at the bright sun mirrored blindingly on the lake. “Do you suppose Esther packed us a snack?”
And so another day spent with your little family went by.
This was akin to what people did on holidays, Logan thought: schedules didn’t exist, save for going to the modiste’s or the confectionary on your whim—the latter more frequent than the former.
Sometimes he wished you were inclined to go out more, because whenever you stayed in, the estate would see guests.
Gentlemen calling on you, that is.
And of course Logan bore witness throughout, lounging in the drawing room with your father while you sat on the sofa with some poor fellow who looked too flustered to function. Logan would busy himself with something—the papers, or a book—while sneaking glances at your countenance.
If your heart was set on one, you did well to not let it show. The men who’d left Clairview likely felt the genial warmth of their host, but remained curious about where your affections lie; for you were obliging at least, friendly at most.
The only exception was when Pietro came to visit. The room actually echoed with twin laughter over what appeared to be a bilingual joke.
Coffee only amplified the glib bitterness between Logan’s ribs. He’d know—it was his third cup within the hour.
He downed them all anyway.
To be fair, he wasn’t the only one coyly watching. Charles was, too, with the superior elegance of a man who knew the game. But the true experts were the help, Logan noted: they flitted to and fro as though they have many a task, camouflaging comprehension with the invisibility of their rank. If Charles were a master player, Mrs. Pemberton was practically the one who set up the board.
With Clawthorne’s inheritance matter coming to a close, Logan was left with the menial organization of his house and heaps of free time—hence the loitering, although Xavier would call it ‘spending time with a friend’.
Such freedom usually inspired in Logan a boredom, at first, which later on would metamorphose into an unignorable desire to escape. To moor or mountain, vale or fountain, it mattered little: for if asked for Sir James Howlett’s defining trait, most would answer his tendency to rarely ever stay.
But as the spring days passed, he found himself slowly changing.ut he was slowly changing.
No longer did he enjoy the idea of finding distraction at his usual haunts. The boxing ring must have missed the weight of his punches, and profits at the gentlemen’s club had probably gone down with nobody to drain their whiskey.
Alas, even a man as taciturn as he was dissuaded by the company of more outgoing friends—you and Charles being the only two he had. Except designating that title to you was… odd.
Because although his relations with you were certainly friend-ly, something in him whispered it was more than that.
He had this urge.
Felt it when you roped him into chess for an afternoon. The weather didn’t look too promising, and Charles holed himself in his study over a pressing household matter.
“Just like the old days?” you held up the set with both hands.
When would you learn that bringing up ‘the old days’ almost always resulted in him teasing you?
There was the barest hint of a smirk on his lips. “Only if you put the knight next to the queen, just like the old days,” he murmured, “You always thought they looked good together.”
Logan was never a man of many words, but if tormenting you with them yielded such delectable reactions, then he’d do it till the end of time. The flush on your cheeks alone was worth it.
The rain became a deluge within a the hour, as though April showers had lost their mild temperance and wanted a taste of wrath. You remained in the parlor: weary of chess, you decided to sketch, sitting neatly on an armchair facing the dining table with a pad on your lap.
“You’re staring,” you said to him, eyes firmly pinned on your subject.
Cherries in a china bowl.
He stood by your side as patient strokes of charcoal built up into a gradual shade. The artwork bore resemblance to reality, enough to inspire a type of hunger in him: a hunger for something to bite into, although at this point he wasn’t sure if it was the cherries or something else.
The way your hair fell at the sides of your face made him want to touch you.
A touch was different from a bite, that he know, but touching would leave a mark on your relationship all the same.
So he clenched his fist until his knuckles—that were once red and raw from fighting a man for you—turned white.
When he could no longer take the suffocation to his circulation, he approached the dining table in two long strides, only to pluck a cherry out of its vessel. You clicked your tongue at the disturbance of your subject, eyes snapping up at him after he was ignored for God knows how long.
There you are.
In a bid to keep your attention, he ate one straight off the paired stem, not bothering to look away from you.
Then he held its untouched twin in front of your face like bait.
A second passed—then two, then three, fraught with what he thought to be consideration.
Until finally you took it, fingers twisting the cherry from its stem. You popped it in your mouth.
Heart attacks were rather common for men his age. He might as well be experiencing one right now, for a pang struck him—zipping from the back of his legs to the tip of his spine near the neck.
Its cause? Your lips closing in on the red little ball. Plump. Smooth. The size of that cursed beating organ doubled to the point of implosion.
Your face scrunched at the burst of flavor, chewing through it.
“Sweet,” you remarked quietly.
He had to excuse himself to erase the shape of your mouth from his mind. One step towards the edge and he’d have imagined you wrapping them around something else…
This path of physical attraction was deathly perilous, but it really wasn’t just your body that threatened the threads of his honor. If his only plague were mere desires of the flesh, there were many routes he could venture to quell it. Roads he traveled before.
Whiskey wasn’t the only thing he drank at the gentlemen’s club, after all.
Two days after the blasted cherries, you’d asked him to go on a morning ride.
“More for Blacklock and Tawny. Get them out of the beaten path,” you persuaded.
As if he was ever going to say no to you in the first place.
Then he saw you mount your chestnut mare with ease, and his chest ached.
Seven years ago, you weren’t so proficient a rider.
He had laughed (picture a most strained exhale instead) when your voice trembled at the slightest pick-up of your horse’s speed. Your grip on the reins was timid, letting your steed take charge rather than the other way around. Getting you to pull harder was tough: “I thought I might hurt her,” you’d told him afterwards—her being the horse, who’d watched the two of you chat in front of here like all was right in the world. Like you hadn’t cast your eyes on the ground, feeling like you’d failed his tutelage.
Now you galloped like the gales, reminding him of that blur he saw one foggy Farthings morning.
The route you took was moderate and lovely—a change of scenery for both rider and horse. The two of you remained quiet in favor of the sounds of nature: birds tended to love singing in the mornings, and the breeze shook branches in a gentle dance.
Except Logan’s thoughts strayed without a conversation to anchor them.
What else had you learned while he didn’t exist in your periphery? Who had the pleasure of taking you under their wing? Who guided your hand to teach you, like the time he showed you how to tug on the reins to get into a brisk trot, warm palm encasing the back of your hand?
Has anyone touched you?
As much as he wanted you now, he envied whoever got to see you become a woman while he was away. A slice of the past he would never get a taste of.
By the seventh outing, Charles suggested that Logan should simply remain at Clairview for the time being.
“The guest room would continue to gather dust otherwise,” the older man reasoned.
“I don’t want to impose,” was Logan’s unsure response. What if he roamed the halls one sleepless night, only to find you doing the same in nothing but a nightgown? He wasn’t so sure of his gentlemanly restraint that he’d invite it to be put to the test. The threads of his integrity might be thinner than what you wore to bed.
Charles shook his head. “Please, you won’t. It would be our pleasure.”
God. Why that word specifically, Charles?
Both men turned at your form seated across them, book in hand—Logan did so for a bead on your opinion, while Charles undoubtedly sought your support. Your face was calm and hard to read, but the words that came out of your mouth settled the matter.
“Spare Blacklock from running to and fro on the same path,” you chimed, “Stay with us.”
He’d evidently survived the heart attack from the day with cherries, but the way his chest twinged at your expectant look, Logan ought to call a physician for a check-up.
Wasn’t his heart made to be hurt? Why did it writhe in pain whenever you were near?
The next morning, he arrived with a modest suitcase of his things, and a bouquet of flowers especially for you.
Apple blossoms and violets on a bed of ivy.
The month of May had a peculiar talent of drawing people out of their comfortable homes, mild weather and all.
It was a rather innocent idea. Mrs. Pemberton brought it up as a simple interposition while pouring tea for your party one afternoon.
Long story short, that was how you, Logan, and Charles ended up here: in a pocket of meadow, fenced between a steady stream and the leagues that led to town. Nature was lush here in this transitory place. Birch and pine dotted green ground every few feet, their branches filtering golden sunlight into fascinating stipples of light that shifted and flickered with the passing clouds.
The trickle of water flowed nearby, its mere sound refreshing not only to you, but also to the ducks that rested their wings in the river. They quacked as though in play.
At one point in the afternoon, you caught a glimpse of a fawn, but the creature dashed away before you could convince yourself it was real.
Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the lively voices of the rest of your party: Charles was laughing at something Esther shrieked at, followed by the overlap of Mrs. Pemberton’s voice over Kurt’s. From what little words you could discern, it sounded like Kurt had tried to show your poor handmaiden a bug—fascinating to him, indubitably grotesque to her.
Meanwhile, you and Logan were comfortably situated under an oak tree’s generous shade. Your back rested against its wide trunk. Logan was splayed on the grass in front of you, laid down such that you saw only his head of hair and broad chest under linen shirt, the rest of him disappearing with a gentle slope in the ground.
Even without view of his face, he looked carelessly handsome.
The two of you had books in your hands, but you were talking to each other too much to be reading. The riveting topic at hand?
Men.
“I thought Anthony Bridgerton was popular?” he piped up, finally sitting up to turn and look at you.
You sighed. “His popularity is exactly what makes him so… irksome.”
He chuckled at your adjective of choice. It wasn’t everyday he got to hear you complain.
“How so?”
“Well, talking to him felt like he was trying to hire me rather than court me,” you flicked a blade of grass, clearly annoyed. “He kept asking me things like… what languages I spoke, or my proficiency in embroidery. Then, when I admitted I wasn’t so accomplished in the pianoforte—because he asked me about it, mind you—he suggested that I dedicate at least two hours a day for practice!”
Logan caught the huff you let out.
“Good luck finding a love match with that attitude. Did he excel in any of the things he asked of, anyway?”
“And he wasn’t handsome enough to distract you from all that drivel?” Logan teased.
You shut your book with indignation, eyes rolled. “Please. The redeeming qualities of his face are wasted with that personality. He reeks condescension.”
Perhaps Logan should feel bad for being so satisfied at your dissatisfaction, but he couldn’t bring himself to. The incident with Victor essentially thrust you into a social spotlight, so to speak. A signal to eligible bachelors: here is a girl worth fighting for.
A girl worth marrying.
The flux of admirers that came after elicited two responses in Logan he didn’t care to admit.
The first was pride that your loveliness was now apparent to all. The second was jealousy in wanting to keep you all to himself. It was an avaricious voice that slithered in the depths of him—he was the one who kept you, guided you, protected you. Did he not have the right to, for having taken part in the forming of your resplendency?
Logan broke from his treacherous thoughts. “What about the Maximoff boy?”
“Pietro?” You blinked, pressing and parting your lips, until finally:
“He’s great company.”
“But?”
You shot him a look, though unable to deny the suggested conjuction. In that defeat, you leaned your head back against bark, staring up at the gaps between leaves.
“But…” you sighed. “I don’t know. There is no but.”
“You said but.”
“You said but first.”
“Just spit it out, will you?”
Eyes met. The sunlight that illuminated you made the color of your irises more brilliant, and in that one second, it was like he glimpsed a hidden wistfulness.
“It’s foolish and romantic and you’ll make fun of me,” you protested.
What escaped him wasn’t so much a laugh as it was a huff.
“Say it anyway.”
“Fine,” you crossed your arms in an act of courage, “I don’t feel it with him.”
Logan paused, letting his question stick to the silence. He watched your face fall: first in the drop of your gaze, then in the slight downturn of your lips, then in the wisp of a hair that shaded part of your cheek.
“I don’t feel… the way people say you do when you’re in love,” you answer. Fingers play with the hem of your dress. “Which pains me, because he’s endlessly charming and exceedingly kind and—and anyone would be lucky to have him.”
Trying to un-sense the crack in him as he heard your sorrows was like putting honey back into its jar: impossible. Knowledge marred him already—he wasn’t so naive to not realize what it was that caused him these persistent pangs.
He spoke up. Whether to divert his or your attention, he wasn’t sure.
“Would you still let him court you?” he asked.
You pursed your lips. “I couldn’t, in good conscience.”
Then a small smile graced your face, but the words that follow were more lash than balm:
“I’d ask you if romantic affection could grow with time, but I forgot you were averse to it.”
The silence that befell the air brought to mind a certain time in the Clairview gardens, to that conversation that revealed the rift between you and him. It was the kind of quiet found in regretful conclusions: one that said any further discussion would be obsolete, because to reconcile the grounds you both stood at was impossible.
You believed in love. He didn’t. Or so he thought.
The stillness suffocated.
He resorted to a tease as a bid to break the unseasonable frost. Just as you had prophesied.
“You read too many of those books, buttercup.”
You thawed a little, lips a vexed simper. “I knew it. I knew you’d make fun of me.”
“‘M not making fun of you. It’s nice to know that you’re a young woman, after all.” As if he weren’t already acutely aware of that with every second he spent with you.
The more obvious gap between you and him was that of age, after all.
“And you? What are you even reading, history?” you blitzed. “I thought it’d be recent memory for you.”
Logan ran a hand through his hair once, fingers threading through dark hair. Grey strands caught the light, disappearing once he moved his hand away, but a glimpse was enough to make your heart jump. 'What was unfashionable to society looked so becoming on him, it was rather unfair.
“Speaking of history,” you murmured, this time with a tinge of sheepishness, “you must have loved at least once in your long life.”
Something in his hazel eyes softened as he looked at you. A proper lady wouldn’t flatter herself so easily, which was why you decided he must have unintentionally done so in reminiscence, rather than a result of looking at you.
“I’ve loved,” he confessed. “Many times, in fact.”
Ever the transparent character, your posture straightened with interest, eyes slightly wide. He found it adorable.
“But only at night, before it fades with the sunrise,” he concluded, gaze expectant.
The expression you wore was that of a woman appalled: jaws slack, cheeks warming more from shyness than from sun’s kiss, flush apparent even under the shade of the tree.
“That is… absolutely repulsive, you arse.”
He smirked. “You asked.”
“Rake,” you bit back, not without a slight mirth.
He would never deny the accusation, because that was exactly what rakes did: chase for scraps of intimacy after dark, mongrel-like in their greed. Sex offered him a glimpse of what he truly hungered for, wrapping that unattainable treasure like jelly around a golden nugget. Having it certainly didn’t hurt—not unless he wanted it to; and even then, it was a kind of pain that furthered pleasure.
But come morning, he’d find himself starving again.
For a closeness more than of bodies.
Like with many other great expectations, it was easier to avoid dealing with it. By sunset, if it was a difficult day, Logan would drown himself in alcohol of the same kind and bliss in a different bed—things that encouraged forgetfulness.
Rinse and repeat. A perfectly acceptable way of surviving.
You were playing with the hem of your dress again, looking down.
“I suppose you’re sufficiently entertained then?” Your tone was cautious. Curious, even, like the fawn that approached the river earlier.
He sat still and silent, not wanting to scare you.
Hesitantly, you said:
“With… the women?”
A misstep here and you’d bolt—which was the last thing he wanted, especially with the privilege of having you close for the many days past.
“You don’t want to hear about it, sweetheart,” he met your gaze, which narrowed at his response.
You shot him a small smile. “I’m far from a child.”
I know, he wanted to reply, and that’s why this is dangerous.
“Doesn’t mean you know all the ways a lady can be seduced.”
His voice dropped low, more vibration than anything, and he wished he didn’t notice the way your breath caught under the neckline of your dress that traced below collarbone.
He dragged his eyes back up.
“I know some,” you replied.
Now it was his turn to fall victim to stolen breath. Eyebrows knitted by instinct at your response, a wave of possibilities washing slowly over him. You weren’t the type to lie for a simple reaction, unless something in your nature had fundamentally changed while he was away—except so far, he’d found your better qualities as enduring as precious metal.
So he must trust that you did know some.
And some felt too much.
The roar of his heartbeat reached his ears, drowning birdsong.
He’d been gone for seven years, for goodness’ sake. Twenty-eight seasons during which you’ve come of age, danced, and maybe courted before you truly understood what the word meant.
Did a boy tell you how ladies were lured? Showed you? Was it a suitor that changed his mind?
Logan didn’t know which was worse: an inexperienced scamp or a grown man with no sane mind of his own—because the inability to please you should be a sin, and to let you go an even graver one.
“You’ve…”
The single syllable trailed nowhere, but you caught his implication, your hands raised as if he was pointing a verbal firearm.
“No—no, goodness, no.”
“Then how…?”
“Stories,” you blurted out, “I meant… I’ve read some.”
Like the gradual pool of a spilt drink, the grin formed slowly on Logan’s face, coaxed by uncageable humor laced with provocation. The words rolled out of his lips even slower—he wouldn’t waste the taste of the upper hand on each syllable.
“So when you say you like reading, it’s those kinds of books.”
Flame coated your cheeks red. It pulled him forward as though he were a moth, sitting closer to you.
“I—they—it was a book, I didn’t know.” Gone was the image of a collected lady; here was a stammering mess.
He didn’t even respond, dead set on elevating the suspense. You looked a mix of mortification and an inch towards the edge of tears.
Then his hand snatched the book out of your lap.
You shrieked, the sound melting into a laugh that was more in shock than amusement.
He nearly escaped, if not for you gripping his forearms as you screamed “Give it back!”, dragged up on your own two feet as he stood. He snickered in earnest. The sound distracted you enough for him to break free, striding to a stop a few feet in front of you, where he was safe to crack open the book at a random page.
His twinkling eyes scanned between the lines.
“You’ll find nothing satisfactory in there,” you seethed.
“Nothing is satisfactory when they’re words on a page, darling,” he drawled, still not looking at you, “It’s in the deed.”
The flush in your face returned. “You’re unbelievable.”
“This looks promising,” he murmured at a passage. Then, reading aloud, “‘…and in dream, Lady Chatterley found that the mere phantoms of the Duke’s mouth were enough to draw pleasure out of her own—’”
“Stop it,” you ripped the book out of his hands, ignoring his laugh, “I didn’t even know that was going to happen!”
“Now you do,” he teased, “You’re welcome.”
“How dare you.”
“Don’t blame me for milking this, buttercup. For once, you can’t run to your father and make me the bad guy.”
You scoffed, red-faced from anger and shame and every other emotion in between—but a secret part of you was relieved. Maybe now he’d finally see you as a woman instead of the girl he babysat.
“You’re cruel,” you spat weakly anyway.
“And you’re a naughty little lady,” he hummed back, “Now let’s stop, before I ruin whatever innocence you have left.”
This time, the quiet that took over made it seem like you were actually considering it.
“I’m afraid you’ve made me inconsolably upset, Sir,” you finally said, mockingly polite and not entirely honest, “Let us read in silence before I run away with the violence of my rage. The birds would appreciate it.”
He smiled at you like you were a bristling kitten.
“Sure. Tell me about Lady Chatterley’s dream later.”
“Sir!”
Logan ignored and indulged you all at once, sitting back on the grass to read his own book like you’d asked with his back towards you. Though the pages were spread, he wasn’t aware of a single printed word, mind set on the ghost-presence of your form behind him, the heat of you against that lucky tree.
Discovering the nature of your reading material brought him much relief—an unexpected response. It confirmed to him that you were a woman after all, with curious sensibilities that he didn’t proclaim to understand completely, like the rest of your sex.
Although, what little knowledge he had of women was proven to be… meaningful, in a manner of speaking.
His own book wasn’t half as exciting: less fantasy coitus and more factual accuracy on shipbuilding—a subject he thought he could occupy himself with for the rest of the afternoon, when in fact his attentions easily strayed to that passage about Lady Chatterley’s dream.
Had you reached that point in the story? That would explain your complete silence.
Even a glimpse or two of the indecency that followed the paragraph was enough to inspire his imagination. His eyes caught the words ‘spread’, ‘drank’, and ‘soft moan’—his brain strung them together in moving images.
Lady Chatterley took on your face in this vision, with a flush not dissimilar to the one earlier adorning your cheeks. The fabric of your nightgown shifted as a pair of hands snaked up your bare legs, parting them to make room for a body to nestle within. He thought of your lips, the plump shape they took around a dark cherry, how he might use his own mouth to lure sounds out of them…
In his head, you’d moan his name. Not Sir. Not James.
Logan.
Because looking at you would affect his base ruminations for the worse (or was it for the better?), he chose to lock his jaw and stare at a technical illustration of a ship’s hull, as if it would erase the heat in his stomach faster.
But then minutes passed, and he hadn’t heard the flip of a page in so long.
Like Orpheus, he turned back to look at you.
When he’d expected you to be engrossed in enchantment, instead, there you were: head leaned against a tree, eyes closed. Your hand still rested on an open book, abandoned temporarily.
You were asleep.
Perhaps the excitement from earlier, the sun’s warmth, and waking up early in the morning had coalesced into a mood that lulled you to rest.
The sight melted Eros’ short-lived spell on him. It made his heart grow to no mean size, and the spaces between his fingers hurt from the avowed hope of something he couldn’t have.
But maybe, in this sliver of a moment, he could.
There was a glimmer in his blood, then a friction between his stubborn resistance and the urge to chase after it. A private increase of suspense with affection as its tipping point: that he could leave this one thing for you and be content with a void to fill in the arms of different for the rest of his life.
One brush of something real—just one. That was all he needed to tide through the years.
He knelt beside you, as quiet as his boots might let him, his own book forgotten on the grass.
Then his fingertips stroke your hair.
The movement was the slow inch of growing vine, like the time that passed around absence, like ardor in its most subdued form. Because no such circumstance would present itself twice: when else could he do this, but nary anyone but simple sparrows to judge his touch?
The backs of his fingers dared to trace the curve of your cheek. Hazel eyes followed, memorizing the flutter of lashes sat on skin. The slope of your nose. The slight part of your lips in slumber.
Lovely, he thought.
Unsurprising that he had no scruples about caving a man’s face with his fist for daring to threaten you. He’d do so many besotted things for you—things he wouldn’t even consider doing for other people, things he didn’t even think he could do.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. He used to think himself an outlier to this truth, having been attracted the most to the act of deserting familiar faces.
Now he wasn’t so sure. In fact, he found his foundations shaken.
The just one promised he made to himself was swiftly broken, for his fingers continued to stroke your cheek. Slow and careful, both in wanting not to disturb you and in making the moment last.
Some yards away, Logan caught a glimpse of blue checkers—Mrs. Pemberton’s picnic mat, the fabric batted and folded up.
It was time to leave.
He carried your soporose form towards the parked carriage, arm under knees and back. Felt the soft of your breath. Let your face hide against his chest. Caught flower scents on your skin.
A few hours later, you woke up to a familiar ceiling, and Esther asking how you felt. Sleepy, you’d answered, wondering who it was that tucked you in so comfortably under the sheets.
You went down for dinner anyway.
Nobody said a word about how it happened—how you got home. But somehow you knew.
Like your body relived his touch without permission.
The news sought him out before he could.
Early mornings at the harbor was always packed. Today’s cloudy part of later-dawn was no exception.
The air was thick with industry smog, damp fabric, and salt. People trudged in a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd that didn’t discriminate between class or gender. A more selective gentleman would abhor being part of such a scene, but Logan was used to it.
He was here on strictly business. No lingering in taverns with convenient liquor. No exchanging introductory handshakes.
A package awaited him. He had been notified by a Clawthorne page that had hurried to Clairview with the notice. The item sailed all the way from America aboard the same ship he took to the New World—her crew was respectable enough for Logan to trust with such precious cargo: the secured samples of an investment mine, which he’d visited on his previous expedition.
From the sea of heads, Logan stood blessedly taller than the rest, allowing him a glimpse of the silhouette he was looking for.
A portly man stood in the distance, the thinning hair on his head proudly displayed a great contrast to a bushy beard. His coat of dark green was open at the sides, revealing the unbuttoned collar of his inner muslin shirt and the extremely unkempt ribbon above it. Windswept, presumably. He was busy biting into a cigar. Beady eyes watched as men half his age lugged boxes down a wooden ramp that looked dangerously slippery from saltwater. Both his hands were in pockets, one of which had a small chain hanging past it, implying a pocket watch.
This was the Captain of the Barossa.
“Howlett!” he barked upon Logan’s approach, face pulled into a wide grin. “Been too long, m’boy.”
“Rough waters, Captain?” They clapped each other’s shoulders.
“Someth’n like that,” the Captain replied, before turning back at the deck behind him. “Collingwood! The goods!”
Some seconds later, a young man with a freckled face rushed towards them, a small box in hand. Unlike the much larger crates carried by the rest of the crew, this one’s material evidently enjoyed more care: it was lacquered and varnished in a darker color.
The young sailor called Collingwood handed Logan a quill and a piece of paper, which the older man signed. The small chest was handed to him expressly.
Logan cracked it open just a smidge.
“No slaves, as promised?”
“Pah! Only if you count the prospector himself one. Got his letter in there an’ ev’rything.”
Logan looked at him, eyes pressing for a more straightforward answer.
“Trust me boy,” the Captain’s voice dropped, “I went through great lengths to get this. Thought it impossible.”
The box snapped close before Logan shoved it into his inside coat pocket. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Spendin’ the rest of yer inheritance?” The Captain huffed.
If Logan were three decades younger, he’d cough at the cigar smoke in his face, but that hazy taste was now a second nature. Shag tobacco, he recognized.
Logan decided he wouldn’t be so easily perceived. “News travel the high seas faster than I thought.”
The Captain grinned his yellow teeth into view.
Financial security wasn’t Logan’s main objective in procuring the object, but the Captain could choose to believe whatever truth he wanted to, and there would be no harm nor foul. He was a sailor after the sea’s own heart rather than man’s riches.
Still, Logan dropped a few heavy coins onto his plump palms.
“Little extra for your troubles.”
The Captain pocketed it, nonchalant.
“Sail’s up day after tomorrow. You joining?”
Logan blinked at the unexpected question. Another voyage.
“So soon?”
“Winds ‘re restless. Any later and we’d be caught in a storm, I reckon.”
Recollection rocked the hull of Logan’s mind, as though the Captain’s words lifted the anchor that kept it grounded. Thoughts washed up ashore like ambergris, forgotten and foul.
Leaving London was first on Logan’s list after the ordeal with Victor, but then the bastard went and caused an entirely different one involving you, and Logan hadn’t thought of leaving ever since. The days passed by like a forever holiday, where he got to spend no time apart from and all three meals with you. Light, soft, dappled in sunlight. It reminded him of faint dreams he would get while sleeping in trenches.
Perhaps this was the wake-up call he needed.
Departing with the Barossa was an opportunity he craved as early as the day after his return. Yet as it presented itself to him now, Logan found himself entirely unprepared.
Someone reeled him back to this place. Someone who smelled like flowers.
“I’ll think about it,” he murmured to the Captain, still strained with the thought of leaving, but already the older man was rummaging inside his coat, fingers producing sheets of crinkled paper.
The Captain slapped the document on top of the little chest that Logan held, then replied, “For when you’ve decided.”
With a final puff of his cigar, he marched up the gangway to shout more orders to his men.
Logan was left alone in a crowd of people. He peered into the papers that looked beyond familiar.
It said PASSENGER PERMIT FOR SAILING VESSEL in big letters.
An hour or so later, Logan arrived back to Clairview with two things near his chest: the same box in his coat pocket and a newfound conundrum. There would be plenty of time and space to ponder both—he reached home well before the hour of breakfast, and Charles had kindly let him use the den as a temporary office.
The first thing he did when he reached the dark room was examine the contents of that little box.
Its latch clicked open brazenly, unlike the small peek he took at the harbor earlier. It revealed a plush satin pillow base, tailor-made to fit the dimensions of the box.
Atop that cushioning sat a diamond, clear and brilliant. When it caught the light, it looked almost colorless, but the shade it casted was the complete opposite: an array of colors spilled on his desk, painting rainbow hues in infinite sparkling prisms. The cool-toned stone was much heavier than it appeared, weighty even in the expanse of his palm.
Then there were the passenger papers.
It sat like a patient judge on his desk, calling attention through the name of the ship it granted boarding and a date that loomed ever closer.
Logan’s sternum pulled taut—the day after tomorrow was practically no time at all, a parting most sudden to him and both his hosts at Clairview.
Funny how Fate worked sometimes. Here was the key to the path he’d longed for, because if Logan had it his way, he’d hop ships until he keeled over from a bad liver.
But that was before you.
Now, the thought of leaving you alone again both scared and soothed him.
Soothed, because it would finally mean the calming of violent emotions—emotions he weren’t sure he was allowed to feel for you. Absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder. It made space for other things to fill the gaps.
For all his disdain towards the men who courted you, he considered himself the lowest of them all: his face was too old next to yours, hands too marred with gunpowder and bloodied past, fingers too callused for the delicate fabric of your being.
You deserved so much better. Perhaps the reason why no suitor had passed Logan’s secret assessments was because your perfect husband was being crowned a prince in a different nation.
This was all without considering the reproach that would arise, should he dare pair himself with you. A ward and her guardian entangled romantically was just the type of gossip the Ton hungered for, and high society had a way of regurgitating even the smallest of whiffs into a full-blown storm.
What if they thought he’d planned this since your youth? Eyed you like prey, ignored a friend’s trust for the sole purpose of snatching his precious treasure of a daughter?
In that line of questioning, Logan couldn’t care less about his own image. The Ton could paint him black for all he cared.
It was you he worried for.
No matter how far from the truth such rumors would be, you’d still sit dead center in a radius of hurt. He knew that the sweet mouth of ladies hid scathing remarks very well—you’d be at the mercy of a brood of vipers dressed in feathers.
And Charles, bless his heart, would be burdened with yet another difficulty he didn’t deserve to face. Though Charles had the disposition of a saint, there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t come to doubt Logan’s intentions eventually. Mayfair’s malarkey was unfair like that.
You and he were too complicated to ever be fated. In this regard, leaving you was a simple decision. A soothingly simple decision.
But the thought of boarding another ship made him weak in the knees with fear.
He cursed his own greed and ran a hand through his hair.
The diamond was once again shut in its box. A visit to the town’s jeweler would be a much needed distraction.
Something lingered in the air that presaged tragedy.
It was hard to pinpoint exactly what is was, for scarcely a thing was out of place. The help adhered to their usual shifts, breakfast was white bread with the right shade of toasted gold, and the papers had nothing noteworthy. The sky was a perfect blue despite its grayish beginnings.
But scarcely a thing was not the same as nary a thing.
Logan wasn’t present for breakfast: a small irregularity that made a whole world’s difference. He went to town for business, said the footman.
Even after Logan returned to Clairview later that day, you barely saw him. He chose to withdraw in the den doing God knows what. A part of you wanted to knock on that stubborn door and coax him to read, to play, to engage in whatever that meant spending time with him, but you swatted that childish urge aside to give him the space he seemed to privately demand.
Come dinnertime, the bad omen proved itself true, striking like sudden thunder within the parlor. You thought you’d braced yourself, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what was about to happen.
For what Logan was going to say.
“I’m leaving for America.”
He announced it without preamble, not a minute after the first bite of food. Whatever soup you took by the spoonful immediately tasted like dry ash—you could hardly drink it, too shocked to even will your throat to work.
The table grew church-quiet. There was no movement, like the room was suspended in time.
Charles’s eyes widened politely, but you weren’t so sure your father was as coherent as his perfect mannerisms implied.
“Again? When?” he asked.
Logan didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, looking down at his food which he hadn’t eaten.
“The Barossa sets sail the day after tomorrow.”
It took everything to not let cutlery clatter onto the table. The tips of your fingers turned frosty against a flurry of thoughts, ribs pulled tight with pain.
Was this the business he troubled himself with the entire day, finding an escape route? Had he woken up today stricken with the urge to flee? Did he decide enough was enough? What about the company he kept?
What about you?
“My, that’s… immediate,” Charles breathed.
Then Logan looked straight at you, hazel eyes gleaming more yellow in the candlelight, and you froze.
“It’s only for a month,” he declared, “We’ll meet again soon enough.”
The words unlocked a memory so pivotal, you could never chose whether you would want it emblazoned or erased forever.
It had been autumn, you thought. You remembered senses: a warm hand on your coat-covered shoulder, heat behind your eyes, and a tremble in your lips that you couldn’t control, too young to remain stoic at the face of loss.
Logan had said those words before. Right before the war. Right before he left you.
We’ll meet again soon enough.
How could he expect you to believe him now? The last time he said that, you ended up parted for seven years.
Perhaps his absence today was his manner of preparing you for the inevitable.
All at once, you felt like a little girl again, orphaned, abandoned for greater things.
You avoided his eyes and continued eating despite the loss of your appetite. There was nothing for you to say, and you needed something to help you swallow the lump in your throat. Bitterness coated your bones, their brittleness demanding you to finish your food and retire early, if only it meant you wouldn’t have to look at him again.
Might as well get a head start on not having him around.
Charles cleared his throat. The gentle sound landed heavy in thicket-like tension. There was an apparent sentimentality in his voice when he spoke.
“Well,” he finally said, “in that case, I’ll have Mrs. Pemberton prepare a sirloin for tomorrow night.”
What happened afterwards was an outburst of activities.
In the final day of Logan’s stay, one more suitcase arrived from Clawthorne. Apparently two small ones were enough for him to survive for a month in a faraway land.
The manor’s kitchen was a hubbub of industry: chefs worked doubly hard under Mrs. Pemberton’s instruction in preparing the best meal ever to grace Clairview’s dining table, as though they wanted Sir James Howlett to sing praises about the sauce reduction to the Americans.
Meanwhile, you weren’t so effortful in your send-off. In fact, all of your efforts were poured into evading his presence—part of a vow you made for yourself, and you were nothing if you didn’t keep your word.
It was easy to dodge in an estate so big. You slunk away from his eyes whenever they gaze at you for so much as a second too long. Thank goodness for the advantage of growing up in these walls: at the mere graze of heat, you’d expeditiously retreat to parts of the house you’d run to as a child who didn’t want to be found.
The staircase before the servant’s quarters. A hidden balcony in the west wing. An old nursery that was never redecorated.
All you did was trace the lines on your palm while you hid, and breathed.
This was for your own good, you told yourself. His absence was both poison and cure, and you were still confused as to the thin line that existed between the two: poison in that it hurt to not have him around, cure for your foreseeable future without him.
You only came face to face with him at dinnertime. Even then, you tried your best not to face him.
In some ways, the atmosphere felt like a continuation of last night. Fraught tension never left the room—at least for you. Much to your grief, Charles’s speech was jovial enough to suggest that he was not even the slightest upset in the first place, wistfulness notwithstanding.
“To our dear friend Logan,” he raised his glass, “who continues to be marvelous company, even after all these years. May your travels be abundant in both outcome and joy.”
“Thank you,” Logan’s reply was muted despite the occasion, “It’s been a pleasure.”
So these weeks were just that for him: a pleasure—the kind one finds in their entertainment. An amusement to pass the time while your heart slowly latched onto his despite yourself.
You offered no toast, only sat and stewed, just like the opening course: first in contempt for his choices, second in a brand of loneliness you’d acquainted yourself with seven years ago. Both left an increasingly unsavory taste in your mouth; even the most delectably cooked meats couldn’t encourage a drop of appetite in you.
Amidst the slight undercurrent of apprehension, Charles did his best in engaging Logan with talks of England, America, and the seas in-between. It was his words that brought you back from your mental stepping-out.
“We’ll be happy to send you off tomorrow. My daughter and I are accustomed to the harbor—you wouldn’t mind, would you, dear?”
For the first time that night, you held your gaze.
In your father’s eyes, you saw sympathy and a gentle coaxing. If anyone could convince you of a sixth sense, it would be him—for you’d never experienced speaking without words with other people. His voice in your head was formless, not even shaping words, but where it was linguistically abstract, you felt it.
It told you that concern, if not uttered, would be seen as nonexistent. You knew this to be fact—you were an adult.
But your restrained anguish meant you didn’t even know if you wanted to say anything. What would he have you do at this juncture—protest, negotiate, condemn? You knew of nothing that would stop him from boarding that ship, and so any bid to do so would be an effort destined to be wasted: much like the succulent sirloin that your tongue couldn’t so much as taste right now.
You settled for practiced civility.
“Of course not,” you replied, looking at neither men, cutting the meat on your plate in too-small pieces.
You felt Logan’s intense stare at the side of your face.
The second main course rolled around, then desserts, then plates were cleared to make way for wine glasses. You stopped a liveried footman from filling yours.
“You’re not partaking?” Charles asked.
“Actually, I was thinking of retiring early,” you announced, standing from your seat. Logan did the same, though you didn’t honor him with a look.
There it was again. One look from your father that delivered a thousand words.
Within it, he poured everything: a plea for you to reconsider, an encouragement for honesty, but also a compassionate understanding—that you were a person of your own, free to make your own choices—and if as your father he could give you the freedom you were often denied, then he’d give it to you.
I’ve decided, your eyes replied.
“I need rest,” were the words you said out loud, “what with our early departure tomorrow.”
A perfectly logical excuse, though only you and the heavens knew how much it hurt to be in Logan’s vicinity. One would mistakenly attribute the ache to a full stomach.
You were certain it was from a broken heart.
With that, you slid your chair back under the table, and bowed. Both men bowed back; Logan standing, Charles sitting.
You couldn’t see Logan’s eyes trail your form as you walked out of the room. You couldn’t see at all, rather, for fighting back tears meant that they lingered in your eyes, obscuring vision with unshed heat.
The warm bath helped, but only to the extent of you being in it. Afterwards, dressing up for bed felt cold—though at the very least you didn’t have to school your face in the presence of the men.
There was one person, however, whose scrutiny you couldn’t avoid at this juncture.
Esther was brushing your hair when she spoke.
“You’re not hiding it very well, my Lady.”
This was nearly a custom in her years of being assigned your handmaiden. Close in age, the two of you navigated a childhood confined to social etiquette that was designed to divide people of different standing. But friendship formed in defiance of those rules—she even traveled with you overseas to attend to you.
When Esther spoke like this, toeing the line of propriety and otherwise, you understood that she was seeking your spoken permission. Your reply was more of a challenge, fringed with the slightest of venom she didn’t at all deserve.
“Hide what, Esther? If you’d like to be plain, just ask.”
“May I please be plain with you, my Lady?”
“You may.”
From that point on, Esther was no longer your maid. She was a friend. A sister.
The young woman behind you sighed, hand on her waist, as though already lacking patience for the impending argument.
“I don’t understand why you won’t just tell him.”
Thorns grew in the crack of your breastbone. “Because there’s no point, Esther.”
“How do you know that?”
“He said so himself,” you turned to her, face steeled with resolve. “He was always meant to board that ship—he was always going to leave—even if I did tell him what I have gone through, thr-through pains to conceal, what of it? The man himself has told me he had no desire nor use for such sentiments!”
A beat of silence. At least Esther was generous enough to let you catch your breath.
“You’re letting him go out of cowardice instead of kindness,” she said, catching your eyes in the mirror.
Her response only felt like a slap in the face because it was true.
“What would you have me do, then, since you’re so wise?” you snarked.
Esther put the hair-brushing to a pause, lips pursed in vexation.
“Have you ever considered that maybe making your feelings clear would stop him from leaving?”
You sighed, palms covering your face, “Esther—”
“Or is your pride more valuable than honesty?”
“It is not pride that stops me, but the pointlessness of it,” you answered, voice measured, as if by controlling it would influence the flame in your chest all the same, “You must understand. He doesn’t want to marry—abhors the very idea of romance. This was one of the first things he told me upon his return.”
“Still—”
“Do you not think it plausible that he expressly said so to stop me from—”
The remaining words died at the tip of your tongue.
—falling in love with him.
Love.
How modern speech had diluted those four letters into something less, its meaning lost to overuse for matters entirely menial. Some people loved balls. Other people loved caviar. How minor it has become, thrown around so frequently within one’s daily vocabulary.
Meanwhile, the love that gripped you recalled a violence that hurt you more than it did the object of your affections. A furnace that ran on every instance you kept it hidden, its flame fed by each time you put on a mask to disguise it.
In fighting to conceal it, the love you had was at once moving and paralyzing.
Esther’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Would you be happy if he left without knowing what you felt for him?”
I don’t know, you wanted to scream, the only way for me to be happy is if he stayed.
You looked down at your lap. “My affections are a burden, while he seeks freedom first and foremost,” you answered. “Knowing would only weigh him down.”
Eyes met again in the mirror. You managed a terse smile—the thinnest disguise you ever wore.
“I’ll be alright, Esther.”
She breathed—once, twice, her grip on carved bone hairbrush betraying her reluctance to leave the conversation to rest. But your eyes insisted on the lies you told, and she eventually relented: not because she bought it, but because she acknowledged your decision.
“If you say so, my Lady.”
She went back to comb through your locks, once again a handmaiden.
You weren’t sure how much time had passed since you climbed onto your bed. Your consciousness wouldn’t fall sacrifice to sleep.
There was no tossing or turning. It was a still sort of unrest: one that had you on your back the entire time, frozen under the sheets. The entire time, your eyes were tacked onto the shape of the canopy overhead, ignoring the wisps of sheer curtains that provided the illusory sense of shifting to a land of dreams.
Even ensconced in such luxurious comforts, you felt deprived. Exactly of what, you had only a sliver of an idea.
Perhaps you weren’t as decisive as you led Esther to believe.
Answers to complicated mysteries such as this usually revealed themselves to you while you were walking. Where there was air to breathe in.
So that was what you did: you rose before the sun and climbed down the curved steps that led you out of the house, quiet as a mouse who didn’t bother to wear a bed jacket despite the chill.
You had half a mind that the cold would help you think.
Air hit your face proper once you stepped out of the foyer. While you could see a hint of your breath in such temperature, its gossamer floating up before disappearing entirely, nothing else in the landscape moved.
You walked to the garden.
The hour was in that magic place between too late and too early; it washed everything in tinctures of indigos and dark blues. Who knew when the sun would be up? You hadn’t bothered checking a clock on your way out, but it wasn’t so dark that you were walking blind.
Aside from your footsteps on the path, not a single sound could be heart. The birds were asleep. Crickets, too, from the hollow silence that covered the world like a cloak. You coast, slow and steady into rows of botanical arrangements—somehow, the growth seemed to lure you in deeper, as though they could cast spells.
There wasn’t even a breeze to sway the flowers.
Mist coated the ground in the distance, its lightness smoothing the landscape into a singular plane, and it looked like a canvas; a painting of the here and now. Even the stars overhead felt closer to the ground, their watch not yet ended.
You reached the wisteria arch. What bloomed so lush and beautiful had turned sparse thanks to the passing of time: as May’s last dregs trudge on, their petals coat the ground more than their own stems, a pond of light purple that you could step on—soft like the end of a pretty dream.
Under the stars and that wisteria arch, you were completely alone in the world.
Until you heard the crunch of gravel behind you.
Turning in surprise, you saw him. Logan.
The source of your tumult stood on the path just before the clearing of the arch, himself in a state that echoed your own: clothes and coat haphazardly put on, hair tousled. Your eyes met, but he didn’t shrink—instead walking towards you with sure steps until you were face to face.
He hadn’t gotten the chance to do so in a while.
“I can’t sleep,” you offered plainly.
“Me neither.”
“Last night—” “I suppose—”
Twin voices overlapped and ceased at the same time, words rushed. He cleared his throat. You cut in through the quiet.
“I suppose you’re all packed, then?”
He nodded, but offered no more. Whatever he wanted to say must’ve ceased to exist, leaving you with stray thoughts about the nature of this… this power that kept pulling you to him. Like gravity, it couldn’t be seen, yet it existed so surely in your world.
The conversation you had with Esther made a mark on your mind, so much that you could recall it even now with your tormentor before you. One point about it bothered you in particular.
You thought he’d find your affections for him a burden, when in fact, he wasn’t entirely innocent, was he?
And because today was the last day of his existence in your life, your lips loosened.
“Esther, my handmaiden,” you began, “she… she told me the meaning. Of your flowers, that is.”
His only response was in the steady stare at you.
The day he moved in temporarily to Clairview felt like ages ago, when it had only been barely a season. The bouquet of flowers he gifted you then had long died, but the memory of it remained: you could recall each individual flower, and the ribbon that wrapped around them was now the decorative sash of a vase in your room—a keepsake.
Apple blossoms and violets on a bed of ivy.
Except when you received it, you didn’t know that apple blossoms signified ‘preference’, or that violets meant a giver besotted with love.
Ivy stood for ‘everlasting’.
Here you were, hours before his departure. It was clear now that those blooms together were an aesthetic choice rather than a symbolic one.
Your mind continued to rule out everything Logan ever did to remotely suggest attraction. You had no choice. Otherwise, you’d sooner curse yourself than think he was pursuing you, when he’d made his intentions or lack-thereof so unambiguous.
He stayed close to you—that was to protect you from Victor. He lingered during every suitor visit—much like your father, it was paternal care that encouraged him to witness the men’s true merit. He jested with you about romance novels—that was just his way of indulging you: a kindness that led you to believe you were no longer a girl in his eyes, because a mere girl you so certainly remained when he carried you to your quarters and tucked you in bed…
It frustrated you so, the amounts of self-immolation you went through. The constant over-correction of your suppositions inspired by his deeds.
You became a person whose talent was to mistrust her own feelings.
From the ashes of abandoned sense rose a sudden selfishness: to publicly kill this rhizomatic feeling once and for all. Make him watch as you cut it off; tree, root, and twig. Let them feed a final flame and finally be put to rest in its proper sepulcher, leaving you to wash your cold hands of them.
Here lies Your Feelings. May they stay dead forever.
Logan’s hazel eyes hadn’t left you.
You took a deep breath before the plunge. After this, there would be nothing left unsaid. A cross laid down. An agony ended.
You only regretted the shake in your voice when you eventually spoke.
“You must think me foolish,” you forced out, blinking too rapidly for this to be an ordinary speech, “especially after you’ve shared with me your disagreements toward such… starry-eyed sentiments.”
You swallowed. “I must admit, I thought—I hoped—that after all this time, maybe you’d find your opinions c-changed.”
In looking down at your walking slippers surrounded by petals, you missed the way his hand clenched.
“But I’m completely aware of my own folly—of the many times I mistook your actions as a sign for such a change, or worse, affection. And I am also aware of how selfish it is for me to say this to you despite your forewarning. It’s just that… before you’re gone—”
“Sweetheart—”
“I love you, Sir,” you quivered, finally looking him in the eye. “I think I have for a while.”
Despite the silence, the air took on the opposite of being settled. In a dead hour, the only thing that came alive was your breath and his, white threads drifting up with each labored exhale.
You parted your lips. Closed it. Then opened it again to speak:
“One word from you and I’ll cease this feeling forever. I promise.”
He took a step closer and suddenly you were in his arms, face against broad chest.
You had no time to register the warmth that shrouded you, already picking up the faint scent of tobacco and something you couldn’t gather in his overcoat—something you decided was innately him.
Then he placed a tender kiss on the crown of your head, and you swore your breastbone cracked.
“You can’t, sweetheart.”
This was it, you thought to yourself.
You didn’t know what you expected when you stuttered your feelings out in the open, but of course he’d turn you down gently—he was kind that way. Fresh wound made way for even fresher tears: they pooled in your eyes at the sweet pain he continued to inflict by stroking your hair.
“I know I can’t,” you croaked, voice wrecked from nothing but the riot in your chest, “but I’m not asking for permission, Sir, I just—”
He’d leaned down to look at you. You hid your face by stepping backward, escaping from his arms.
It was like you spoke to the petals on the ground instead.
“I wanted you to know. That’s all.”
“That’s not what I meant,” hands chased, once again encircling you. It snapped your gaze up—the twist in his face spelled out pain.
“You can’t just stop it,” he concluded.
You looked at him, thoughts messier than when you were in bed.
“I agree, but for my sake, I—I must try. Time heals all wounds, isn’t that what people say?”
“You can’t.”
“What would you know about stopping affection, Sir?” you nearly laughed, vision blurring with hot tears. “You’d reject it from even starting.”
“I’d know because I tried,” he snapped.
You froze.
“What exactly did you think I was doing the entire time I was here?”
The answer came flooding like a tidal wave. Memories washed over before you could purge them—before you could annotate with doubt, or amend what you thought were misunderstanding.
He’d bought you flowers. Promenaded with you. Stood every time you entered a room, and again when you left it. Teased you—something you’d never experienced before. You thought it an amusement on his part; experimentation at the detriment of your face that always gained color.
And then he’d fought with his own two hands at another man’s threat.
Then he asked you again, as if he could watch the thoughts unfolding in your head.
“Why did you think I was there—in the garden, at the ball?”
There was answer in his gaze, transparent in its voicelessness.
The sun hadn’t yet risen, but it felt as though night’s shroud was beginning to lift. A veil taken off of you, allowing you to finally see the answer hidden behind beautiful hazel.
He looked at you with fondness beyond friendship.
You knew, because that was exactly what you felt—that tempest of tenderness you tried to dismiss. It was a look you were sure you’d worn many times over.
A look of love.
“I was looking for you,” he rasped, “and the flowers meant what they meant.”
You nearly sobbed. “Then why are you leaving?”
“Because I thought it would make it stop,” the baritone of his voice dragged like gravel. “But even then, I hoped it wouldn’t.”
Before you could ask him what he meant, he stood in front of you, tips of your slippers and his boots brushing.
Then he gently seized your wrist, and, producing something from his coat pocket, he placed it in your palm.
Fingers unfurled around the cold object. You stared down at a diamond-encrusted ring.
A clear-colored rock sat at the center of the band, larger than the rest.
It looked to be about your size.
“It was meant to be a gift—just the stone—but I got ahead of myself,” he murmured, “went to town and had this made before my mind was.”
Air rushed out your lungs, shuddering from disbelief, as if you were still convinced the weight of the ring on your palm was dreamed up—that maybe you’d misheard what he’d said, that this was just another delusion taken too far.
But he leaned down, nose nearly brushing yours, and suddenly there was no space for a margin of error.
His breath caressed the side of your cheek.
“Never was good with words, buttercup.”
The rising tide of memories now ebbed backwards to a further past, pulling you along their magnetic current:
Swept you to a time beyond this spring, before he stood at the bottom of that staircase looking up at you—to your scared shrieks on horseback, to the clumsy way he braided your hair, to his stern attention at a skinned knee.
To curious questions and shuttlecock games in the summer, before finally it stopped at a goodbye exchanged in autumn underneath heavy coats—
“I love you,” he said.
You didn’t gather that the wetness on your cheeks was from tears, not until the back of his finger reached to gently wipe it away. The realization was too much: that all this time, you both shared a sacred honor, thieves who’d been stealing moments with each other, conspiring to hide affection from view.
His brows knitted. “You’re cold.”
Arms disrobed from the dark coat. The weight of the fabric found your shoulders, engulfing you in him.
It made you cry more.
He held you again, and your hands found his forearms. Lips brushed against your cheekbone, kissing away tears, then he moved to the corners of your eyes to catch them before more could fall.
“Sssh,” he cooed over your shaking shoulders, “it’s alright.”
Then you felt it: the cool metal sliding against your left ring finger.
Your chest nearly collapsed.
“Perfect,” he whispered, admiring the ring on your hand.
“Sir—”
Logan shook his head. “Don’t call me that. Not anymore.”
His name was stolen out of you.
“Logan.”
There was a pulse in his eyes, black expanding to swallow the hazel that was still brilliant in the dark.
Then, with a cadence as slow as poetry, he asked:
“I know I already put it on you, but would you do me the honor?”
If you weren’t already carrying so many feelings in you, you’d surely laugh with joy. Of course this was how your beloved companion proposed: with as little words and romance as possible.
But even so, for the first time, you couldn’t doubt his feelings.
You responded: first with a sob, then with a quiet nod.
His thumb wiped gently at a stray tear, the hand on your face all at once making you tilt your face up to meet more of his gaze. That same thumb moved slowly down until it grazed your bottom lip.
Bodies inched close, like sunrise to horizon. The sky took on a lighter blue.
He slanted his face against yours—
—and kissed you.
With the softest brush of his lips against yours, you felt the slow pains of growing uncoil under your sternum. The restlessness that brought you here was erased with his hand cradling your jaw, as if the kiss siphoned every ache you’d suffered and made it worth it.
Even when you parted, he was never far, only enough to watch fluttering lashes peer up at him.
Then, like your lips called for his, he dipped down to coax you into another kiss.
And another… and another.
You shivered—not from the cold—and Logan pulled you closer, something you thought wasn’t possible. One hand encircled your waist, the other steady at the back of your neck. His lips tasted like him, a thought that drew a sigh out your mouth.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathed against you.
You tugged at the front of his shirt. He groaned, kissing you deeper. Thank goodness for his hand cradling your head, because you grew dizzy at the blood rush.
In being held by him, you were felled by him.
His tongue was honeysuckle-sweet as it laved past the seam of your lips, drinking you with every pass. The slightest graze of teeth on your bottom lip stuttered your breathing: he teased without reprieve, and you realized with a heady rush that, once again, you were a student under his tutelage.
You’d never done this before—and his method of teaching was by doing.
So you slowly, slowly did the same, closing his bottom lip between your teeth, and sucked.
Your palms on his chest almost jumped at the low purr reverberating underneath.
When you part, your lips and his were the color of stewed cherry, having enjoyed the sweet fruits of Time’s vines—like full-bodied grapes, your feelings were left in an unopened cellar, morphing into a substance most intoxicating.
Now that everything was spilled out in the open, you were tempted to overindulge.
The hands around his shirt begged at much, but he was the one to put it into words.
“Please, God, let me have you.”
You nodded your assent, and not a second later, gravity forsook you as he lifted you in his arms. The maneuver left you breathless with a spiked heartbeat, and in that temporary panic your arms clutched at his shoulders. His forearm was warm underneath the bend of your knees.
“Logan—what if someone sees?”
“Tell them you’re feverish,” he murmured into your hair, quickly making his way back into the manor.
The way your body temperature climbed, at least you wouldn’t be lying.
There was nobody to find Logan whisking you in his arms down the hallways of the house. The sky was not yet light, its color shifting in a long yawn: either reluctant to give way to another day, or wanting to enshroud you for a little longer.
He was on you the moment the bedroom door closed—you were the one with the sense to lock it before he could kiss you again, this time with unmasked hunger. Your feet scarcely touched the ground and already he corralled you against the thick wooden door, the gentle impact ridding you of his loose coat that once covered your shoulders.
But he tore himself away, cool air rushing to meet the skin your cotton slip didn’t cover. Eyes blinked open, lost—
—until you saw the way he was looking at you.
His face held back a raging sea of want.
Lips descended again, this time on your jaw.
“Gonna show you how I really feel,” voice scraped skin, “Will you let me?”
His grip didn’t just held your waist—you sensed a restraint that told you he was holding himself back. A delay before the dam burst, as if waiting for you to say yes.
Once you did so, neither of you would be the same again. The thought made you shudder.
Logan pulled away from your neck, eyes searching yours.
“Please,” you whispered.
What unfurled after wasn’t a burst of impatient movement—instead, you shuddered at the ripple of his shoulders under your fingers as he tugged your body closer to his. He was slow, kissing you again while he prowled forward, feet forcing yours to step back back back until your calves hit the edge of the bed and the world tilted.
Your back landed on the soft mattress. He hovered close by, suspended by muscled forearms.
One of his hands cupped the side of your cheek, and at that moment you felt the outpour of his reverent disbelief—like he couldn’t fathom having you in every sense of the word, including the five that longed to see, hear, touch, smell, and taste you.
“You have no idea how much I want you,” he rumbled, fingers stroking your jaw.
You’d normally reject such a notion, having longed for him just as much. But perhaps, in the gap of age and knowledge between yours and his, you truly didn’t.
Because you wouldn’t even know how to imagine kissing him like this: like a kindling fire that provoked your blood to thrum with thirst. Still, he remained languid, slowly dragging you to the center of the bed before tracing the slopes of your face with his lips.
Cheek. Eyelid. Forehead. Temple. Jaw. Ear.
You twisted slightly underneath him, sensitive of each brush, but he was steadfast.
It’d be foolish to rush what begged to be known for so long. The ache that lived through seasons almost demanded he took his time.
So he started with your lips first, but not before staring at the way they parted: portent as though spelling out the words ‘drink me’.
Which was exactly what he did.
Lips press against yours, mouths open. When you thought he couldn’t give you more, he did just that—slowly building you up with each devouring, letting you down gently at the parting. The lazy rhythm felt like needle into fabric—thread, pull, thread, pull—as if the two of you were mending time-torn ruptures, stitching up a seven-year emptiness.
It’s always been you, you thought, mind ringing with want.
The moan that escaped him made you realize you spoke the words out loud.
It was as if your confession gave his hands a license to roam, and the excuse you prepared of a fever started to feel like a self-fulfilling prophecy. They were as patient as his mouth. His touch was bright, making you weak—each drag of calluses against your skin drew goosebumps in its wake.
He touched your collarbone first, sliding to your shoulder before he palmed the curve of it. Then there was a slow stroke down your upper arm, to your waist and hips…
Only when your fingers dug into his biceps, he cradled your knee.
And gently parted it.
You chest heaved. Warmth trailed up your thigh above the fabric of your nightgown, and you wondered: if it felt so good above clothes, how would his touch feel under?
“You know what happens, don’t you?” he murmured, looking into your eyes. “Read it in your books?”
In another time and place you’d accuse him of clairvoyance, because he started to part your knees further, kneeling in the gap between your legs. Fingers teased an inch or two below cotton, administering strokes that should feel calming, except they only serve to stir you to the beginnings of madness.
You nodded. Caught his pupils dilating in the dark.
If only you knew you wore the same look on your face.
“Tell me you want it.”
“I want it,” you whispered.
“Are you sure?” he asked again.
The answer you gave was more breath than voice. “Yes. Please.”
“You trust me?”
His question was a bid for consent. You replied with loyalty, a small smile on your face.
“I accepted your proposal, didn’t I?”
Logan masked the jump in his heart by mauling your neck, tearing a giggle out of you that melted into a much less innocent sound.
Fingers traversed daringly under the hem of your slip, inching up until the material of it moved in the same direction. Palms caressed your bare skin. You shivered, unaccustomed to his warm touch and cool air in parts of your body that rarely got to breathe.
While you looked down at how high your chemise had ridden up, he was looking at your face.
His hand grasped the hem. “Is this okay?”
You nod.
And then, gingerly, you clasped a hand above his, encouraging him to lift it up.
Emboldened by your instruction, Logan moved his hand up, peeling the fabric to reveal inches of you he hadn’t seen before, until you raised your arms up to let him take it off of you entirely.
His jaw went slack.
“Christ, look at you.”
Your heart banged against ribcage, repercussions of choosing to be vulnerable like this. But there was no room for fear—not when he stared at you like that.
Worshipful as he beheld the temple that was your body, sacred sinew that housed a life he treasured more than his own.
He dragged a path down the center of your body. Your chest heaved at the reversal of roles in this very moment: his hands were the student now, discovering every new curve of you underneath them, eyes memorizing the way you shivered as he made his way back up.
It was on this path that he dared to cup your breast, thumb deliberating above a hardened peak before he allowed the pad of his finger to brush against it ever so slightly.
You writhed, whimpering.
“Feels good?”
You nodded. He shook his head.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
You obeyed, voice thin with need. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, it—feels good,” you sighed.
Flames licked your body as he began to massage your tits, palms cupping flesh while his eyes drew hot paths, past your torso, to the waistband of your underwear.
“You ever touch yourself here?” he squeezed. Then, with one hand on your inner thigh, “Or down here?”
The question amplified the rush of blood on your cheeks. “O-Once or twice.”
He hummed. For a second, he imagined you doing it—here, behind the sheer curtains of your canopy bed, hand buried under thick winter quilts while you burned in defiance against the cold outside. The thought almost got him drunk.
“What did you think of?”
Your head lolled to the side, too embarrassed to even face him. He tutted, hand cupping your jaw to make you look at him.
“Tell me.”
In your deliberation, your lashes fluttered. Then came your damning answer.
“You.”
It nearly undid him.
“Gonna make you feel good,” he murmured, leaning down to nibble your neck even before saying all the words, “just lie back and let me.”
He marked you with all of his warmth, hands slowly tracing a path that nearly made you beg for mercy or for more, you didn’t know. But your true ruin arrived later, when his mouth followed that same trail—down, down until he hovered over your chest, hot breath blowing on a nipple.
When he took it within the cavern of his mouth, you cried out softly.
Hips chafed against air on instinct, a movement he reacted to with one hand pinning your hipbone down while his thumb drew soothing circles on your skin. Your fingers raked through his hair. He hummed against you, tongue flicking once, twice, thrice before he moved to the other side, and you crumbled all over again.
Two fingers hooked onto the waistband of the only thing you were wearing. The garment was taken off of you within seconds.
For the first time, you were naked in front of a man—the only one you’d ever loved.
Logan murmured hell and something else blasphemous as his eyes drank you in. Blood roared too loudly in your ear for you to tell.
“You’re still clothed,” you said, tugging at the front of his shirt.
He couldn’t even look away from you as he took it off.
While you were busy admiring the expanse of his chest, littered generously with hair that you’d only gotten glimpses of, his hands snaked up your thighs again.
Only this time, one of them moseyed between your legs. A finger swept a slow stroke up your core, and you nearly thrashed, a weak mewl escaping you at the shiver that wracked you. His other hand kept you down.
“So wet already.” You’ve never heard his voice sound so lost.
And then he pulled back, only to slide down between your legs, coming face-to-face with a part of you you’d never even seen clearly before.
“Logan—” you piped up sheepishly, a warning.
“Hm?”
But he hummed it against your mound, so of course your consciousness thinned. Unbidden, your mouth parted, revealing a sound so sinful you felt him rumble back vibrations near your core.
For the first time in a while, Logan’s gaze drifted to the window, like it usually did.
As it turned out, the sky caught his attention. It was catching fire, much like your body: a thread of pink began to appear on the horizon line, thin but unmistakable, even with the row of conifers that stood in front of it.
“As much as I’d kill to hear you,” he purred, “we don’t want the help thinking you’re screaming from murder. Stay quiet, alright?”
Maybe the question was rhetorical, because he didn’t stop for an answer.
His tongue was molten as it licked between the seam of you. The heat and pleasure ripped a sharp moan from your gullet, too fast to dampen with a hand cupped over your face, but there wasn’t enough time for horror to settle in your stomach—not when he busied himself between your legs, kissing you there the way you’d learned one can be kissed only moments ago.
This was a reintroduction, in many ways: not only were you getting to know each other, he was getting to know you more than you knew yourself. A mutual education.
You’d have plenty of time to study him later.
“Taste so sweet,” he moaned into you. You made the mistake of glancing down at the same time as a finger found its way to your entrance, circling, and it took everything not to scream like he had warned you.
If only you had even the slightest of a sane mind, you’d notice how hypocritical he was being.
Because while he’d ordered you to keep quiet, he was liberal with his own noise. Wet sounds of his lips smacking against your slick and the greedy slurps of his tongue echoed in your room. Your screams would’ve implied a murder, but this?
The help would think you harbored a stray dog in your quarters.
When that finger came to play with the slick bundle of nerves, a sensation yanked your awareness to feel only pleasure. You muffled your mewl with a fist.
“Logan,” you hiccuped, “n-not yet—”
Your lover parted from you with a slick ‘pop’, sighing into you as you clenched around nothing. Left bereft from the loss of his maddening friction, you found space to finally breathe, swallowing lungfuls of much-needed air.
Then his eyes met yours, letting you speak.
“Want you inside when—when I—”
The column of his throat bobbed with desire.
In one fell swoop, he was kneeling again, wiping his mouth before bowing his back to lean over you. Your lidded eyes caught the tortured lines that formed on his face.
The moment was small, yet too sacred to miss.
He unbuttoned his breeches and yanked it down. Your gaze followed his at that exact second, and you swore you felt the heat of his length just as clearly as you saw him—it throbbed, you swore it did, because the space between your legs did the same.
A thought flitted past, enough for your feeble mind to catch.
Was that supposed to go inside of you?
As it turned out, the thought was quite crystal on your face.
Or maybe it was the way you slowly clawed backward that clued him in, because he followed you just as closely, as if cold from the gap of your bodies.
“‘S alright, pretty,” he cooed, but the slight smirk gave away his true feelings.
Nervousness washed over you. It seized your stomach first and your chest cavity second, doubling your heart rate a fatal realization: that he’d done this many times before, and you hadn’t at all.
There wasn’t even room to be jealous of the line of women that had warmed his bed. Not when you were so sure of how you felt for him—except your body felt like it needed convincing.
“Will it hurt?” you asked.
And then, like your words turned a knob in him, the smugness on his face was no more, melted slowly into a steady understanding. His hand came up to comb through your hair.
For a moment, you vaguely recall him doing the same to you during a particularly fearful thunderstorm in your youth.
“Not if we take it slow,” came his reply, softly spoken between sweet kisses across your face. “If it does, you tell me, and we stop.”
You nod while looking into his eyes.
“Okay.”
Shivers skittered down your spine when he angled himself into you with a hand, blunt tip resting on your folds. You linked your arms around his neck for something to hold on to.
“Feel that?” he growled past gritted teeth, “That’s all for you. You made me like this.”
Those words paired with the slide of his hard length between you nearly made you sob at how empty you felt.
“Logan, please just—I need—”
He hummed right next to your ear.
“Sweet thing. I know. Let me take care of you.”
The way he slid into you was love, most sacred and profane.
A reedy gasp shattered the silence as he slowly notched the tip inside of you, your eyelids fluttering from alien sensations. Hands gripped his forearms, while he loyally spanned one of his around your waist to hold your body the way he needed to.
How strange—the feeling burned, but to say it hurt would be somewhat false.
Hazel eyes kept a vigil on your face.
“Doing so good,” he rasped. “Want me to stop?”
You shook your head.
“Keep going.”
And he did. You traded the air in your lungs for more of him, his cock pushing slowly into you, stretching every hollow crevice you didn’t know you had.
Great thinkers of ages past had proclaimed man a paradoxical creature. The man making his way inside you might be the biggest paradox there ever was.
Because despite Logan’s reputation for being tight-lipped, right now, he certainly was not.
As if your mind wasn’t broken in enough fragments, he pressed his lips against your ear and spoke your ruin. Every phrase was both torture and reward, afflicted unto you whenever you took in more of him, inch by devastating inch.
“Breathe, sweetheart.”
“Oh, attagirl. Thaaat’s it. Let me in.”
“There we go. Good girl. Good girl.”
He kept going. You kept taking him, until your vision started to blur around the edges. Until every crevice you didn’t know existed was filled with him.
Until he sheathed himself to the hilt.
He moaned, open mouth above yours.
“God, you’re fucking perfect.”
The stretch of his size was scintillating for only a few moments. After deep breaths, the heat melted into a kind that soothed, almost lulling you into contentedness. You were starkly aware of a second heartbeat forming between your legs. His pulse or yours, you couldn’t tell.
Not that it mattered, now that you’d taken all of him.
It was as though you’d crossed into a foreign place, both cavernous and expansive in its perpetuity, so long as you and he were one. Perhaps a state of mind rather than space. It whispered to you in divine dichotomy, taunting the fullness of love with an alluring siren call to sink deeper, feel more.
He succumbed first, thrusting lightly into you. You jolted in response, nerves alight at even the slightest of friction.
The both of you traded shuddered breaths, and then he did it again.
“Look at you,” he panted, “so good for me.”
You pursed your lips, muting a whine.
Something dangerous lit up behind his hazel eyes, which had nearly turned onyx from lust.
Something that smelled a challenge.
His length sank in again—only once, but meaner, faster, enough for an actual noise escaped you. You clasped a hand over your mouth, frightened at how loud you were becoming.
He parted his lips, but the words felt like they came out of his chest.
“Let me ruin you. Only I get to ruin you.”
The way he began sliding in and out of you, there was scarcely any space to think, let alone respond. Intelligence faded, replaced by the base instinct of a much overdue hunger. Your body spoke to him with each spasm of your walls, every noise you failed to suppress a celebration that fueled his vigor—for not keeping quiet, he didn’t admonish you, as if forgetting and breaking his own command.
“You’re the only one,” he husked, almost drunkenly slurring while he swiveled his hips into yours, “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Only I get to have you like this, don’t I?”
You choked on his name. Whispered yes’s against his lips.
His pace quickened. The mattress creaked. Your fingernails began to dig into his skin. Through the crescendo, he spewed constant syllables dripped with need:
“Take it, ‘s all for you, good girl, good fucking girl—”
Shapes formed behind your eyelids. Before long, his strokes shifted into something punishing, one syllable gritted out for every time he pounded home.
“I—” thrust,
“—love—” his hipbones slammed against yours,
“—you,” he drove an inch deeper. The impact threw your head back against the pillow.
Sobs wracked your shoulders, violent and unbidden. Each push coiled a knot in your lower belly, tightening it to a point of erratic desperation. The sounds and actuality of him driving into you punched overwhelming pleasure, so much that your hands flew to your face, hiding it from view as you thrashed, head pressed sideways into the pillow.
He stopped completely.
Your heart almost did too.
Fingers gently pried yours away, stripping you of your shyness. His hand guided your chin back to face him, surveying your teary pools of lust for eyes.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart. Wanna see you when I make you cum.”
Then every snap of his hips siphoned suffering out of you, like poison out of an old wound.
The many times you’d sting yourself with the thought of unrequited affections, paid back in full with a thousand times the owed pleasure. He rutted into you with untamed devotion, crashing into you like an ocean that had found its anchor, a tortured soul craving heaven in your eyes.
Heat gripped you everywhere—behind your eyes, in your stomach, the bright spot he hit as he buried himself in you. You caught him right before the precipice. He kissed you just in time.
You screamed his name into his mouth anyway.
This time, his hand held yours. The one wearing the ring.
It felt like flying and falling all at once.
White burned the edges of your vision as you came, your voice tapering into a keen moan. He choked out an expletive at the clamp of your walls around him, following suit with the desperate saw of his pelvis against you.
And then you were full—of him and the thing he leaked. It flooded you all the way inside before spilling out, the amounts of it suffocating, like every part of his body sought to claim every part of yours.
The moment seemed as though it could stretch as long as the sun endured. Or until the moon failed—whichever happened first.
Sweat-misted limbs tangled with each other. His hazy eyes looked down on yours.
You kissed.
And kissed, and kissed, filthy and holy with every pass of each other’s lips, a collection of relieved sighs and grateful prayers exchanged in between.
At the final part, you saw color in his face. The sun was coming up, threaded golden light pouring slowly into your room.
As his forehead came to a rest against yours, you sighed, basking in the affection of the man you thought wasn’t destined for you—only to find that, after life’s maze and love’s riddles, you were exactly where you needed to be.
With him.
You gently brought his hand to your lips, and pressed them against the knuckles you’d once upon a time bandaged.
The sun caught your diamond ring in a brilliant glimmer. He echoed you then, taking your left hand and kissing the back of it.
“You’re going to miss your ship,” you murmured.
“Yeah?” he hummed. “Well, I’m not leaving.”
He buried his face into your neck, both to breathe you in and to hide the smile that took over him.
You laughed softly, arms wrapping around his back before your fingers combed his hair.
Blame the exorbitant amount of time it took for the two of you to finally be together, because he felt the same hunger rise in him again—alarmingly fast for a man his age, yet not at all unwelcome, by the look he peeked on your face.
He pulled you up by your wrists.
Either you couldn’t contain the shriek or you’ve stopped bothering to mask it at this point.
He sat you on his lap, slowly coming alive inside of you. You shuddered.
“Logan,” his roaming hands threatened your clarity of speech, “the help will be here anytime soon—”
The funny thing? You did nothing to get off him.
“Fifteen minutes,” he murmured, palms on your hips, “fifteen minutes, and then I’ll bang on Charles’s door to ask for his blessing.”
Then he bounced you on his cock once, and you moaned.
“For now, you need to show me how good you’ve become at riding.”
Pliant were your limbs as his hands arranged them—there was no resistance as he helped you bracket your knees outside of his.
You did as you were told. What were you, if not a dedicated autodidact?
The only time Logan left your side after that was, like he’d said, to ask your father for your hand in marriage. According to your betrothed, the older man’s shoulders had sagged so low he thought they were going to drop—such was the extent of your father’s relief.
“I had a feeling,” Charles had admitted, “but it was far beyond my right to impose my assumptions unto both of you.”
And if I’d boarded the ship? Logan had asked.
With a bright smile, Charles answered:
“Well, we’d have gone with you.”
The wedding was going to be in June.
You didn’t think it was possible for a person to be more satisfied than your soon-to-be husband.
As it turned out, Esther wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.
can i also say it is fucking prophetic that i watched kate and leopold right before doing the last push for this second part... (nudging @singulartoast here) because what the fuck do you mean:
he carries kate to bed and tucks her in,
liev schreiber (victor creed) is in this movie,
leopold goes and grabs a ring to propose,
and he freaking speaks flower language???? (there's also a charles in the movie HELP 😭)
bye. idk. the guy who wrote the story of kate and leopold is a man called steven rogers (not to be confused with a popular fictional character of the same name) and i think my mind melded with his a little.
ok yap over. see you in the next one (i'm all out of words)
"Your hungry flirt borders intrusion / And I'm building memories on things we have not said / Full is not heavy as empty, not nearly, my love / Give me the first taste / Let it begin, heaven cannot wait forever / Darling, just start start the chase, I'll let you win." The First Taste by Fiona Apple
SUMMARY: From the moment you first laid eyes on Logan, you knew he was a tough nut to crack. But if there’s one thing you love, it’s a challenge. As your relationship grows, you’re determined to show him that, in this universe, he can also be loved.
WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. angst. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. age-gap (reader is 25). once again wade saves the day. domestic!logan. soft dom!logan. logan calls reader “kid”. they watch (500) days of summer. oral sex (f and m receiving). fingering. thigh riding. thumb sucking. throat fucking. multiple orgasms. unprotected p in v. creampie (i would say i’m sorry but i’d be lying)
AUTHOR’S NOTE: jeez. hi guys!!! hope you’re doing alright. this is the 2nd part to “guilty pleasure.” writing for these two has been a total rollercoaster, but god was it worth it. as i always tell you, english isn’t my first language, so if you come across any mistake and you feel like letting me know, there’s no problem. thank you so much for all the support you’ve been giving my posts. i’m happy strangers out there take the time to read my silly stories :)
A girl and a mutant walk into an apartment…
Actually, you’re still trying to come up with the rest of the joke. But one thing’s true: Logan’s about to set foot in your place.
You curse under your breath, putting both your hands to work as you struggle to open the door. “Fucking swollen wood. I hate humidity,” you mutter, glancing back at Logan, who frowns as you keep trying different maneuvers to get the door to function properly.
It’s a shitty situation overall. And having that gorgeous man practically glued to your back isn’t helping in any way. You can tell he wants to give you a hand, but you’re not having it—women in STEM or something of the sort.
“May I—” he starts, though you cut him off before he can finish.
“I’ve got this. Just need to—” you say, ramming your shoulder into the door with enough force to make it finally give away. Almost stumbling over the carpet but managing to catch yourself, you sigh in relief. Meanwhile, Logan stands still, scrutinizing you until you gesture for him to enter. “Welcome to the smallest apartment in New York City. It's nothing fancy, but it’s got everything you need for a comfortable stay on a budget. Make yourself at home!”
Logan narrows his eyes, the tiniest smirk playing on his lips before stepping inside. Each of his movements seems to be premeditated as he tosses his jacket onto the couch, surveying the room. A portrait of when you were a kid, probably six or seven years old, catches his attention. He tilts his head, picking up the picture to examine it more closely, and then flashes you a lopsided grin. “How cute.”
“Well, I’ve changed a lot,” you take the picture from his hands, returning it to the shelf where he had gotten it from.
“Well,” he echoes, mocking your tone, “your beauty certainly hasn’t.”
His eyes bore into you as you meet his gaze. What amazes you most is that he’s being completely honest. In a heartbeat, you look away, wondering what’s gotten into you. Usually, you’re not this awkward—you’ve learned how to take compliments over the years, knowing how to smile just right, to flutter your eyelashes. To blush and giggle in command. Those were the tools that helped you to survive countless first dates—your dearest aces up your sleeve.
There’s no use denying that they remained just that: first, failed dates. You hope you never have to go back to dating apps after this.
“Are you hungry? ‘Cause I’m starving,” you say, trying to walk away from him, although he’s faster, catching your hand in his.
“Hey,” he urges you to make eye contact with him, his voice perplexingly soft. “Is everything okay?”
You nod so vigorously that you nearly strain your neck. “I’m fine, I swear. I just never get past this point.”
Inching closer, he presses his lips together for a split second, his brows furrowing in confusion. “You lost me there.”
“Guys who come into my apartment don’t tend to call back,” you admit, a flush creeping up your face, cheeks getting hotter. “I happen to believe it’s a curse, though I’ve kissed, like, a hundred toads so far and it still won’t break.”
“So y’think you’re gonna scare me off,” he raises an eyebrow, grinning. His rough fingers become gentle as they tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s sweet. Should be the other way around.”
Wow. You two are a match made in heaven.
As you detach yourself from his embrace and head to the kitchen, you decide to look for something edible in the fridge, finding different trays of food from days ago, none of which look appetizing or suitable for feeding the Tin Woodman standing behind you.
All of a sudden, the unmistakable metallic sound of Logan’s claws unsheathing rings in your ears, forcing you to spin around. The image that unfolds before you is peculiar, to say the least: he’s cornering your cat against the door.
Why is he about to fight a cat?
“Please don’t kill him?” you take a step in his direction and scoop the little ball of white fur into your arms. Logan stares at both of you, eyes squinted and brows knitted. “I’m sure he’s the cutest feline you’ve ever seen. Have mercy on him.”
“I didn’t know you had a cat.”
“Earnest wasn’t aware of your existence either,” you reply, scratching along the animal’s back. He purrs beside your neck, his yellowish eyes never leaving Logan’s. “Earnest, this is Logan. He has claws just like you.”
“Don’t you dare compare me to that,” Logan warns you, retracting his claws with a sigh. You can’t help but wonder if he ever feels tranquil, at peace. “Y’know, you’ve doomed him to bad fortune with that name. Is he at least toilet trained?”
“Are you hating on The Importance of Being Earnest?” you ask, expecting a retort, though apparently the play’s title doesn’t ring a bell for him. “Oscar Wilde?”
“Who do you think you’re talkin’ to, kid?”
Now’s your time to roll your eyes, setting the cat down and letting it run away. He likes to hide in the bathroom—don’t ask why, because not even you know the answer to that. You flick your gaze up back to Logan, placing your hands on your hips. “See, you gave him trust issues.”
“He’ll survive. Don’t they have seven lives?”
This is the perfect conversation to have with someone who just ate you out thirty minutes ago: how many lives do cats have. Jesus.
At some point, Logan flops onto the couch, stretching out. You shudder as you hear him crack his neck, the popping sound getting on your nerves. He pats the empty side of the sofa, spreading his thighs until he’s almost taking up all the space. “Come here.”
Putting aside all your thoughts, you accept the invitation. You sit down, motionless, and his arm grazes the cushion behind your head, pulling you closer to him. You rest your cheek on his chest, letting out a deep sigh, one that you’ve been holding in since you got to the apartment. Is it possible that he knows you craved this? This proximity, this kind of affection. To be held—it’s been your only wish for months. He drums his fingers on your shoulder blades, then starts rubbing your back ever so lightly.
Far from dozing off, you feel alive.
It’s hard not to lose track of time and space when you find yourself immersed in the warmth he offers, and that’s when you realize how deeply you’re falling for this man. “Logan?” the mere thought of asking him what’s been on your mind terrifies you. The last thing you want is to ruin things—or whatever it is that you have. He hums, a low, heavy sound in his throat, indicating you to continue. “I have a question.”
“Ask away.”
You lift your face from his chest and look him in the eye. The city’s still alive outside, with music and chatter sneaking in through the window. Everything seems to be perfect, and you wish you could stay like this—just staring at him as if he were a painting in a museum, and you the critic who can’t stop writing articles about its beauty.
Okay, that was… weirdly specific.
Logan tries to hide his smile as you peck his lips repeatedly. For a moment, you almost forget what you were going to ask him in the first place. But then he’s ready to listen, and you a wave of nausea washes over you.
“I know that we came here to… engage in adult practices.”
“Fucking, you mean.”
“I didn’t want to be that straightforward, but yeah,” you say, shaking your head as to rearrange your thoughts. “Would you mind if we stayed like this?” to emphasize your point, you kick your shoes off and put your legs on top of his lap. He observes the whole sequence without daring to utter a word. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to try that too. I truly do. But… right now, all I want is to cuddle,” he’s still silent, making you even more nervous. “I’m sorry. Is that okay with you?”
His whole body engulfs yours, your cheek coming to rest once again in its original position. You can feel the rhythmic beating of his heart, each breath he takes, the air he exhales dampening your nape. Logan peppers your neck with chaste kisses before pressing his lips to your temple. His voice comes out strained, partially muffled by your hair. “Who do you take me for, huh?” he’s right there, beside your ear, fucking everywhere. There isn’t a single centimeter of your exposed skin that he isn’t touching, marking as his. You don’t give him an answer, in part because you’re unsure of what to say. He takes your silence as a cue to keep talking. “Let me take you to bed.”
“I can walk on my own.”
“I know,” he mutters, standing up with you in his arms, one arm beneath your knees and the other one under your shoulders. Logan’s not used to being this cautious, this patient with someone he’s known for less than two weeks. You see it in his eyes when he lets his guard down—something that has cracked, a shell that’s been broken.
As he places you gently on top of the covers, he lingers for a moment, crouching beside the bed and searching for your lowered gaze. His fingers are warm as he tilts your chin up. “I didn’t come here just to have sex with you. That was a possibility, of course—but it’s not the main reason why I’m here,” he rasps, words accompanied by the light brush of his lips against yours for a quick, brief kiss. “I care about you. A lot. I’m fine with whatever we do as long as I get to be close to you,” he grabs your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He then goes back to his usual bossy self, his demeanor changing. “And I don’t want to hear you apologizing for not wanting to have sex ever again. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now you’re making jokes?”
“I can’t have serious conversations,” you confess, observing the look of pure confusion on his face. “It’s true. I once spoke at a funeral and they cut me off forty seconds into my speech.”
Logan laughs at your sudden confession, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Rising to his feet, he begins to unbutton his flannel, pausing after the first few buttons are undone, waiting for your approval. “Do you want me to stay tonight?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is what I want.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
His words don’t hide any real threat—that you know.
You stifle your laughter, shedding your clothes. Instead of going to the bathroom to change, you toss your work clothes carelessly to the floor, opting for an old pair of pajamas that are the complete opposite of sexy. They surely have seen better days.
Logan’s eyes trail over you, taking his time to analyze the faded lettering on your wrinkled shirt. “Keep calm and eat pizza?” he reads aloud.
“Hey. I bought it when I was seventeen.”
“You could use a new wardrobe.”
“Well, what about you?” you tease, toying with his belt. “You’re gonna sleep like this in my bed?”
“Can’t wait for me to get my shirt off, huh?” he grins, that all-too-familiar smile on his lips.
You play along, folding your arms over your chest. “You think so highly of yourself.”
Without breaking eye contact, Logan unbuckles his jeans, letting them pool around his ankles. He then shrugs off his flannel, leaving him in just his briefs and vest. You scan his body, and the room suddenly feels a hundred degrees hotter, the air between you thickening. Logan notices your reaction, chuckling. “Don’t get too excited. This is all you’re getting today.”
“I think I’ve already heard that before.”
“Kid.”
You raise your hands in surrender, showing him your palms and mouthing ’sorry’. Approaching your bed, you pull back the covers and slip into it. When you see Logan still standing there, you frown. “Where are your manners? Come here. I’m very impatient.”
He grumbles something under his breath, but he doesn’t make you wait long. He proceeds to get under the sheets beside you, occupying that side of the bed that’s always been empty. As you both settle in, facing each other, you can’t help but giggle, your contagious laugh getting to him. “What now?”
“You’re beautiful,” you whisper, tracing the bridge of his nose with your index finger, a featherlight touch that has him closing his eyes. In the soft glow of the night, with the city’s distant sounds filtering in, he looks breathtaking. “I mean it.”
“Do you have an off switch?”
“I’m… not sure. Let’s find out tomorrow.”
“You need to sleep,” he pulls you onto his chest with firm but gentle hands. He intertwines his legs with yours, holding you close.
“Wait. I have a game to play.”
“It’s late.”
“Please?”
He sighs. “Okay.”
“We have to make confessions until we fall asleep.”
“You just want to talk—that doesn’t even qualify as a game.”
“It does in this universe,” you reply, feeling his chest rumble with a chuckle as you settle more comfortably against him. “I’ll start: remember the first night you came to the bar?” he hums in acknowledgment. “It wasn’t Burger Night. We don’t serve food. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”
He kisses the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. “I knew. You don’t have a kitchen down there, baby,” he falls silent, taking his time to come up with a confession of his own. “I have a fear of flying.”
“Really? You, of all people?”
“I wasn’t expecting to be judged.”
“Oh, don’t be such a crybaby,” you tease, burying your face further into the crook of his shoulder, inhaling his scent. He shivers slightly where your nose touches his skin. “I like you. It’s kind of scary, and I’m sure saying something like this probably goes against the rules of dating 101, but I do. I feel safe with you, like—like this is where I’m supposed to be.”
Almost as if the pieces of the puzzle finally fit together, you think to yourself, though the words stay unspoken.
You’ve come to learn that Logan’s not a man of many words—he’s more of the “show, don’t tell” kind of guy. So when he makes you lift your face, you’re not surprised by the way he kisses you: hungrily. Passionately, like a starved man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. A soft whimper gets lost somewhere in your throat as his tongue makes its way into your mouth, languidly stroking yours.
“We didn’t brush our teeth,” you whisper against his lips, laughing when he groans in exasperation.
“You love having the final say, don’t you?”
“I’m being serious, Logan. Cavities are a real issue for me.”
“You can always get new teeth.”
“But my morning breath—”
“It’ll stink anyway, and so will mine,” he responds, taking a deep breath and clearing his throat once he settles into his ideal sleep position. “Good night.”
“Night,” you murmur, nuzzling your cheek against his neck. Despite your efforts to ignore it, being cradled like this feels incredible. You can’t believe you went twenty-five years without it.
Just as you’re about to drift off, curiosity strikes. “Can you get tattoos?”
“Bub, I was actually falling asleep.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry,” you mumble, feeling a bit sheepish.
More silence.
“Logan?”
“Hmm?”
“What was the Great Depression like?”
“Fuck me,” he mutters, his voice gruff as he shifts lightly. “It was fine. Now go to sleep.”
And you do, but not for long. An abrupt coldness wakes you up, eyes wide open, feeling disoriented. It’s still pitch black outside, far quieter than when you first fell asleep. The clock on your nightstand reads it’s 3:17 am, though it feels like you’ve only been in bed for five minutes.
Then you see him—he’s twitching in his sleep on the far side of the bed, his painful grunts reaching your ears. Most of what he says is unintelligible, but there’s one word he keeps repeating over and over again without fail: “No.”
You don’t usually have nightmares. What’s the best way to wake someone from one? You’re still thinking when he starts mumbling again, his voice thick with distress, and now he’s throwing his arms in the air as if he were fighting off something—or someone—in his dreams.
Pressing your hands to his cheeks, you attempt to hold his face steady. He clenches his fists, his breath quickening the more he battles whatever’s haunting him. “Logan,” you whisper at first, subtly shaking his shoulders, but his eyebrows stay furrowed, deep in his nightmare. This time, you tighten your grip, fully sitting on top of him. “Logan. Logan! Wake up!”
Without warning, you’re on your back, pinned against the mattress. Logan’s straddling your hips, caging you in with his body, the weight of his adamantium skeleton pressing down. Your hands are trapped beneath his, and you watch as he clenches his jaw, teeth bared in a way that looks painful. His eyes are so dark and wild you barely recognize him, prominent veins throbbing in his neck with each labored breath he takes.
“Logan,” your own voice sounds unnatural, forced, as you do your best to bring him back to reality. “It’s me. You’re alright.”
That seems to get through him. Logan stares at you in disbelief, his eyes softening as they take in your terrified expression. He abruptly pulls away, retreating to the nearest wall. He’s gasping for air, slamming his eyes shut, his legs trembling. The only sound you can hear is his rapid breathing. You get up from the bed, taking a step in his direction, but you don’t manage to go any further since he stops you with a shout.
“Stay right there!” he’s growling, pointing his finger at you. “I’m serious. Don’t come any closer.”
“Logan…”
“Please, no!” his voice increases in pitch, not being able to meet your eyes. “Please. Just stay there.”
You comply, not wanting to upset him any further. Sitting back on your knees, you try to appear calm. A man so strong, capable of things you can’t even understand. A weapon turned against himself now stands before you, pushing you away as if his presence were poisonous. He slumps to the floor, the fabric of his vest soaked with sweat.
Once he’s fully conscious, you cautiously crawl toward him, watching his every move. On a random day, this might have been funny for both of you, but right now, there’s no room for laughter. Logan shakes his head, his shoulders tensing when you reach out to hug him, wrapping your arms around his broad frame. It takes him a couple of minutes, but eventually, his body sags against yours. For a while, neither of you speaks. You just thread your fingers through his hair, hoping the closeness will help soothe him. “Feeling better?” you whisper in the shell of his ear, and he pulls back to look you in the eye. You caress his cheek, his stubble rough against your skin. “Welcome back.”
“I’m sorry,” it’s the first thing he says, covering your hand with his. One by one, he kisses your knuckles, still shaking his head. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“You had a nightmare—it’s not like you could control it.”
“But I could’ve hurt you,” he says, lowering his gaze to your wrists, where his fingerprints have left their mark. “God. I’m so sorry. I have to go.”
“Wait!” you grab his arm, your mouth setting in a hard line, stopping him from leaving. “Don’t run away from me, not now. Don’t push me away, Logan.”
“I could’ve done something much worse.”
“But you didn’t. It was a nightmare, baby. You didn’t know,” you kiss his forehead, hoping to talk some sense into him. “Please, stay. Let’s try to get some more sleep.”
“What if—”
You hold his face close to yours, your noses brushing. “You won’t hurt me.”
This time, he lets you keep him close, the roles now reversed. You can see him fighting his exhaustion, not wanting to fall asleep. But the more you play with his hair, the harder it is for him to stay awake.
“I’m alright,” he says, seemingly reading your mind. It’s hard to tell whether he’s reassuring you or himself.
“I know,” you knead his shoulder, aiming to ease the tension knotted there. “You better sleep, or I might start rambling again.”
A faint, tired hum escapes him, at long last allowing his eyes to close. “I like hearing you talk,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your collarbone, drifting off soon after that.
You continue to hug him, feeling the weight of his body gradually relax against yours as his breathing evens out. The room is quiet, but your mind is far from it: a tornado of emotions swirls within you—concern, relief, love, and something else you can’t quite decipher. It isn’t until sleep finally claims you too that your brain stops going a hundred kilometers an hour.
The most surreal Sunday night of your whole life.
“So… when will you let me see Lolo again?”
Wade’s question makes you stop mid-pour, flicking your eyes between the drink and him. A few seats away, you hand a glass to Adam. Returning to where Wade’s currently sitting, you dry your hands on your apron. “Why are you even here?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, and he gives half a shrug. “Last time I checked, I wasn’t holding him against his will.”
“He’s been crashing at your place almost every night. You have your own methods, woman,” he raises one finger, then quickly adds another, pointing at your shirt. “Two methods, in fact.”
At that, you laugh mirthlessly, shaking your head with a grin. “I’m surprised anyone would willingly date you.”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he retorts, taking a tentative sip of his beer and leaning back in his chair.
You glance at him while you wipe down the bar, looking for something to occupy your hands. “He’s not my boyfriend—yet.”
Wade mimics a punch in his chest, just where his heart’s supposed to be, though you’re starting to question whether he has one. His lips form a small, exaggerated pout. “That must hurt, doll. You got yourself into a situationship with a goddamn fossil. Good luck getting out of that.”
“It’s not that bad,” you say, rolling your eyes. “We’re cool this way. There’s absolutely no need for a title.”
“Okay, let’s rehearse that one more time because you look like you’re about to cry,” he lifts an eyebrow, drawing nearer. “You want the title, right?”
“I don’t.”
He props his chin on his hand, laughing at you. “Yes, you do. You can’t fool me.”
“I said I don’t.”
“I said I don’t,” he mocks you, kicking his legs and puckering his lips.
You can’t help but throw the towel down on the counter with irritation, giving in. “Okay! Of course, I want the fucking title.”
“There she is!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in a triumphant gesture. “Glad we’re speaking the truth now,” he tilts his head to the side, noticing your sudden silence. “Hey, drop the long face. I’m sure he’s been thinking about it. In order to understand Logan, I usually compare him to elders over ninety.”
“Why would you do that?” you ask, your tone a mix of mild annoyance and curiosity.
“Just think about it! Senior citizens didn’t date for too long in the past. They’d go straight from strangers to lovers. Take my grandparents, for example: in the span of one year, they met at a party, then got married, and had five kids. Do you really want to have a litter of Logan’s grumpy, hairy puppies?”
“Wade, that’s not even possible.”
“The point is,” he continues, finishing his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Logan’s rusty in this area, alright? I’d bet a thousand dollars he probably dated Cleopatra.”
“How did you pass History in high school?”
“I never graduated, but keep that between us,” he lifts his shoulders, shrugging. He spins the empty bottle, contemplating his next words. “You should tell him how you feel and what you want. That’s what works best for Vanessa and me. It’s easier that way—you can’t expect him to just guess.”
You wrap your arms around yourself. “I just wish he’d realize it on his own.”
“Well, sometimes you need to give the other person a bit of guidance. I’m just laying out the basics of a relationship here. Did your parents hate each other or something?”
The irony of it all. “They got divorced when I was little.”
“Oh, god,” Wade sighs, rubbing his temples before glancing at you. “Let me get this straight: Mommy and Daddy weren’t exactly the poster children for love. And you also happen to be a bartender. Anything else, honey? Please tell me you’re at least getting laid, because otherwise, I’m going to feel tremendously sorry for you and your mental health.”
Just then, you hear your name being called. Smiling at Wade, you mumble: “Saved by the bell.” Once you’re back from taking some orders, Wade jumps to his feet, coming around the counter to hug you.
“Dude, what’s the matter with you?” you ask, loosely returning the hug.
“You’re a fucking survivor,” he whispers in your ear, genuinely sounding concerned. “I don’t know how you do it—you seem so put together. I would’ve lost it by now. A life without sex sounds awful.”
“Jesus, Wade! Get off!” you stretch your arm to punch him in the back, earning a groan from him. “Back to your seat, gentleman. I certainly don’t need your pity.”
“I’m a certified sexologist. Your secret’s safe with me,” he declares with a smirk, gesturing to his empty beer. “But first, I’m gonna need more of this tasty apple juice.”
“I hope you’ve got some cash on you,” you say, getting him another beer. “Why do I get the feeling Logan would kill us if he knew we’re talking about this?”
“Isn’t that what makes it even better?”
Swaying on your feet, you scrunch your nose, momentarily lost in thought. “He won’t let me touch him. I don’t know if it’s me that does something wrong. We do have our… moments, but he takes care of himself. And usually in the bathroom.”
Wade goes white in front of you. “How long has this been going on?”
“Over a month.”
“Oh. That’s bad, like, really bad.”
“Thanks! I’ll be sleeping on the highway tonight. You can always join me.”
“Doll, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed, alright?” he waves his hand dismissively, then sets his palms flat on the counter. “I know I’m starting to sound like a broken record, but talking to him is your best bet. This isn’t something you can just brush under the carpet. You’re like a goddamn radio—put it to good use.”
Just as you’re about to reply, you spot Logan entering the bar. You raise a hand in greeting, waving at him. He meets your gaze and smiles briefly, and so your eyes drift to Wade’s, shooting him a warning look. “If you keep this to yourself, I won’t charge you for today,” you mutter through gritted teeth, to which he answers by pretending to zip his mouth closed.
Logan takes a seat next to him, ignoring his presence. Instead, he focuses entirely on you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hey, homey.”
“Hiya, Wade,” Wade greets himself with a mock cheer, patting his own back, which makes you laugh. He turns to Logan and his whole face lights up. “I’m afraid to tell you I can’t sleep when you’re not around.”
Logan rolls his eyes. “Get your shit together.”
“You’re the worst roommate ever! Can’t believe you got yourself a girl and completely forgot about your bro,” Wade murmurs under his breath, just as his phone rings. “Thank God. I’ve got to go. My love nugget’s calling,” he announces, heading for the door. Before leaving, Wade blows the two of you a kiss. “I hate you both, but I also love you. Peace out, my friends!”
Logan and you exchange glances. “He’s a funny guy, isn’t he?”
“You could say that,” he replies, leaning in to kiss you on the lips. Logan intends to deepen the kiss, but you pull away after a couple of seconds. He frowns, clearly confused. “That’s how you greet me?”
You bite your lip, trying to suppress a giggle. “My tip jar is practically empty, and I hate to say it, but it’s your fault.”
“Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”
“Oh, no.”
“Good, ‘cause I’m not,” he plants a quick kiss on your cheek, making you smile. “You have classes tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, at 9 am,” you almost grunt, not feeling too enthusiastic about it. “I’m gonna need your help. I can’t sleep through my alarm, okay? The professor said tomorrow’s class is an important one. Midterms are right around the corner, and I can’t take the liberty of failing them.”
“That won’t happen,” he assures you, and you believe him. “I can be of help, don’t worry. You won’t oversleep.”
Oh, Logan. Sweet, lying Logan.
Turns out you ended up oversleeping. Twenty-five years on this earth, and you still haven’t learned not to trust a man, even if his puppy-dog eyes silently beg you to do otherwise. The thing is—you love them. You love men. And you’re especially fond of the one currently sleeping in your bed.
The first rays of sunshine hit your face, waking you up. You attempt to raise a hand to shield your eyes, but moving any limbs feels like a Herculean task. A warm body is pressed against your back, one veiny arm draped over your stomach. Logan remains fast asleep behind you, his steady breathing succeeding in making you feel at ease. You reach back, running your fingers through his messy hair, and he grumbles in his sleep, instinctively pulling you closer.
What a nice, domestic morning. Yep, you’re getting used to this. And nope, you don’t regret it, not even in the slightest bit.
Though there must be a mistake, because you’re preeeeetty sure you had something important to do.
Oh. You have classes. Had—past tense.
You reach for your nightstand, blindly groping for your phone. The charger is lying on the floor, the plastic of it all damaged. Perhaps Earnest had chewed on it while you were sleeping? You gently pry Logan’s arm off you, sitting up, and your bleary eyes land on something barely peeking out from under the bed.
It’s your fucking phone. The screen is completely shattered, with three distinct holes in the middle of it. Three holes, how strange! You can’t help but wonder who might have left them. Clutching your pillow, you whack Logan in the face with it. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!”
He groans, trying to take the pillow away from you. “What the fuck is wrong with you, kid?”
“I wish I had a UNO reverse card because I should be the one asking you that!” you jab your finger into his chest, showing him the ruined phone. “You broke my fucking phone!”
“What?” he asks, voice laden with sleep, still disoriented. He holds the phone, carefully scrutinizing it. “I think I don’t know how to hit the snooze button.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I believe you’ve made that very clear,” you huff, tossing the phone aside as you flop back onto the mattress. The clock on your nightstand says 11:05 am, and you cover your face with your hands, taking a deep breath. “Next time, when it goes off, just wake me up and I’ll do it.”
Logan settles beside you, resting his head on his forearm as he watches you. “I’m sorry, bub. I’ll get you a new one.”
“It’s fine,” you murmur, sighing. This is your free ticket to be a menace. “I should’ve known dinosaurs and phones would never get along. My bad, pal.”
You don’t even get to see his reaction because he starts tickling you, the room filling with your laughter. Squealing, you try to wriggle away, but his fingers dig into your ribs, expertly finding your most ticklish spots. Your giggles escalate into breathless laughter, your eyes squeezed shut as you desperately attempt to push him away. He’s relentless, chuckling when his own laughter bubbles up.
“L-logan, stop!” you gasp between fits of laughter, aiming to grasp his hands.
“We dinosaurs love tickling people. Sorry, sweetheart,” he manhandles you until you’re perched on his lap, fisting the fabric of your (his) shirt. Leaning forward, he captures your mouth in a heated kiss. “I’m sorry about the phone,” he slurs the words against your cheek, his lips trailing down to your neck. You tell him that it’s okay, trying to find a comfortable position on top of him, and that’s when his thigh presses against your core, your eyes widening at the unexpected sensation. Logan’s no fool, noticing the way your breath hitches. “What’s wrong, baby? You woke up needy?”
“No, I just—” you trail off as he does it again, his strong thigh coming in contact with your clothed cunt. You search for leverage by placing your hands on his shoulders, glancing at him. “Logan.”
“I’m all ears,” he rests his back against the headboard, the tent in his boxers impossible to ignore. “You want to get off on my thigh,” he states with certainty. It’s not a question—it’s a full-on statement. He knows what you want, what you crave. “Come on then. Grind against it.”
You do as he says, not caring to think twice. You start moving, rubbing your wet pussy against his muscular thigh. The friction sends jolts of pleasure through you, and soon, you’re whimpering his name, your hands trailing down his abs. Why hadn’t you tried this before? It feels fucking amazing.
From his position, Logan stares at you, his lips slightly parted, eyes clouded with lust. Your arousal drenches your panties, soaking through them, the fabric clinging to his coarse leg hair. He glances down at the mess you’re making, his grin widening as he takes in the sight. “Goddamn, woman. I’m gonna make you clean it off, I swear to God.”
“Need your help,” you whisper, lowering your head, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. The coil tightening inside you is almost unbearable. A kiss is what you lean in for, desperate for more, though Logan appears to have other plans. He fists your hair, pulling at your nape and yanking your head back. The roughness of the movement pulls a moan from your lips, your mouth parched like a desert.
“Eyes up here, okay? You look at me when I make you come,” his raspy voice makes you feel tingly, each word sending shivers down your spine. His hands fiercely grab the flesh of your hips, guiding you, helping you grind harder against his thigh. You think you’re on the verge of drooling when you catch the way his abdomen flexes, working to push you toward that long-awaited release. “That’s it, there you go,” he rasps, relishing the sounds he’s eliciting from you, each of your gasps feeding his desire.
Time slows as the warmth in your belly finally erupts, your eyes fighting to stay open through the aftershocks of your orgasm. No actual words leave your mouth, just a string of whines and moans, some carrying Logan’s name. He swallows every single sound you make, everything you give him, grunting as your legs tremble and shake atop him.
He lets you collapse onto your back, your breathing gradually evening out. “I think I saw fireworks behind my lids,” you confess, your mouth dry, expecting Logan to flop onto the mattress beside you. But he doesn’t. Through your blurry vision, you contemplate as he positions himself between your parted legs, getting dangerously close to your cunt. “Logan, what are you— Oh, fuck,” you moan mid-sentence when you feel him pulling your panties aside to lick a slow strip through your folds, collecting your arousal. He points his tongue, dipping it into your entrance, and you wince, squirming. “Santa Claus, is that you?”
Logan grins against you, closing his mouth around clit for a moment. He then shifts until he’s eye-to-eye with you, two of his fingers sliding into you in one smooth motion. “Give me another one,” he murmurs, his other hand slipping under your shirt to play with your nipples, pinching them.
You never imagined two fingers could bring such intense pleasure. You just lie there, taking it like a good girl, as Logan sometimes call you. “Please, I need you,” you cry out, your fingernails scraping against his torso.
“I know, darlin’. I’m right here,” he rasps against your temple, moving his fingers in and out of you with more enthusiasm. But what he doesn’t understand is that you need all of him. Your hands itch to touch him, to feel the weight of his cock. The corners of his mouth turn up as he watches you struggle to find words. “Wish you could see yourself like this. Such a pretty girl, so gorgeous like this,” his fingers keep grazing that bundle of joy deep inside you, and he goes in for a kiss, the sour taste of your slick invading your taste buds. “Tightest pussy I’ve ever had. Need to stretch you real good before fucking you with my cock.”
Bingo! That last sentence does it for you, and you come for the second time in the morning, your cunt clenching and spasming around his fingers. You hide your face in his neck, mouthing at his Adam’s apple. He hasn’t trimmed his beard in days, and it shows because you can now feel a burning sensation on the soft skin of your inner thighs.
“You’re allowed to break all my phones from now on,” you suggest, only to hear Logan’s laughter in your ear. He snakes a hand through your hair, shoving it back away from your face. You feel him kiss your sweaty forehead, and as you press yourself closer to his body, something hard nudges your hipbone.
Absentmindedly, you trace the waistband of his boxers with your index finger, your eyes snapping to his face. Logan freezes on the spot, and it’s almost as if he’s stopped breathing. Without a word, he rises from the bed, his movements sudden and almost mechanical. You watch him, puzzled, as he heads toward the bathroom, the intimacy of just moments ago being abruptly replaced by a dreadful silence.
“Logan, is everything okay? Do you need something?” you ask and he pauses at the bathroom door, his back to you. For a brief second, you think he might actually open up, but when he turns around, his expression is neutral, masking whatever thoughts are running through his mind. At last, he flashes you a quick smile.
“I’m fine,” he says, his tone gentle but distant. “Just gonna take a shower. Then we can have breakfast together, right?”
You nod, his words easing the growing sense of frustration gnawing at you. He disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of running water soon follows. You sink back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling. You take your pillow and bury your face in it, letting out a muffled groan. There’s something he isn't telling you, something hidden deep beneath his usual gruff exterior. Although you try to piece together the fragments of his behavior, they don’t quite fit.
The minutes drag on, and the sound of the shower becomes a distant, constant background noise. You close your eyes, visualizing your happy place, but your thoughts keep spiraling. All you can do is wait—wait for him to come back and act as if nothing had happened.
Logan’s right there, just a few feet away—yet in moments like these, he feels miles apart. It’s one of those days in which, no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to bridge that distance.
It had all started with you asking Logan “Have you ever watched (500) Days of Summer?”
Of course, he had refused to watch the movie at first, and of course, you had threatened him with phoning Wade to let him know that Logan wanted to have a sleepover. That had done the trick.
You had asked for a day off at the bar, and surprisingly, your boss hadn’t objected. That turn of events led to this moment: sprawled out on the couch with Logan, the two of you watching the final minutes of your favorite film. Logan takes a long drag of his cigar, eyes trained intently on the screen. He’s only wearing sweatpants, which had caused your attention to drift from the plot a few times. The fact that you managed to sit through the entire movie without needing to pause it makes you feel particularly invincible.
Hey.
You again.
Yeah. I, uh, was just wondering if maybe after this, if, um, you— you want to get some coffee or something.
Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sort of supposed to meet someone after this.
Okay.
“That poor fella,” Logan murmurs, taking a slow sip of his beer. You look up at him from where your head rests on his lap, a contented smile playing on your lips. His fingers absently stroke your hair.
“Just wait,” you say, pointing to the screen of your laptop.
Sure.
What’s that?
Why not?
Okay. Well, then I’ll just, uh— I’ll wait for you.
We— we’ll figure it out.
We’ll figure it out.
“They’ll figure it out!” you exclaim, but Logan quickly shushes you, his attention unwavering.
My name’s Tom.
Nice to meet you. I’m Autumn.
When the movie comes to an end, you’re met with Joseph Gordon-Levitt breaking the fourth wall, staring straight at the audience as if he knows he’s about to get himself into a mess with another girl named after a season. You sit up, your eyes eagerly searching for Logan’s. “So? Did you like it? I’ve watched it seven times now. Can’t understand how it gets better each time.”
Logan closes his mouth around his cigar, inhaling deeply before answering. “Yeah, it was pretty good,” he says, his hand finding your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Summer’s a bitch, though.”
“I respectfully disagree,” you tell him, grabbing his beer and giving it a try, only to grimace at the taste. Shuddering, you set it back down. “Why don’t you like her character?”
“Well, for starters, she did Tom dirty. Played with him like he was a damn rag doll.”
You raise an eyebrow, hugging a cushion closer to your chest as you lean back into the couch. “He knew from the beginning she didn’t want to be his girlfriend. Summer was clear—Tom just though he was smart enough to change her mind.”
“They acted like boyfriend and girlfriend the whole movie,” he scorns, placing his cigar down into the ashtray with a bit more force than necessary.
Is your first argument going to be over a movie? Exciting.
“Logan, they weren’t even official.”
“But she made it seem like they were,” he insists, the frustration in his voice growing.
“They were in a situationship—the perfect example, really. That’s not the same as being a couple.”
His gaze dips to the floor, brows knitted in a deep frown. “I think you’re relying on the technicality that they never used those titles. I mean, they did everything together. Isn’t that what normal couples do?”
Lord have mercy.
“Logan, who am I to you?” you inquire, crossing your arms over your chest.
He hesitates, narrowing his eyes, the question clearly catching him off guard. “You are—what? I don’t understand. Is this some kind of mind game you’re playing?”
“It’s actually very simple: if someone were to ask you about me, what would you say? Am I a friend? A bartender?” you inch forward, holding your breath, your tone faltering slightly. Meanwhile, Logan’s hands tighten into fists at his sides. “A fling? Your girlfriend? You complain so much about Summer, yet you can’t even name what we have.”
The living room falls into a heavy silence. Logan blinks slowly, his forehead creasing as he processes your words. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because these are the kinds of conversations we need to have. I understand you don’t want to have them, but I do.”
“Fine. Then tell me what it is that you want,” he asks, his mouth snapping shut when he sees you snorting in response.
“I don’t— I don’t know! To know how you feel, if possible?” you stand up from the couch, taking the cushion with you. You grind your jaw, gnawing on your bottom lip. “Why is it that every time I try to touch you, you push me away?”
He scrunches up his face, mirroring your movements and rising from his seat. “Bub, can we please talk about this tomorrow—”
“No! You don’t get to make all the choices, that’s not fair. Deciphering you isn’t easy, Logan. I’m not asking you to tell me everything you’ve been through. I just wish I could know how you feel about me. I can’t stand in front of you and pretend I don’t mind where this is going, because I’m more than sure I’m falling in love with you. “
“You can’t. You shouldn’t,” he says, his expression hardening. He turns his back to you, running his hands over his face in frustration before heading to the kitchen.
“Well, what were you expecting?” you follow him into the kitchen, finding Earnest on top of the fridge, beholding the scene with a curious gaze. “You basically moved in here, gave me a free trial of what life with you might be like, and now you have the audacity to appear surprised when I tell you I’ve caught feelings?” salty tears start rolling down your cheeks, and you spread your arms wide in exasperation. “Oh, but you’re right. How could I’ve been this stupid, to fall for the damned Wolverine!” you laugh bitterly, expecting him to break eye contact, but he doesn’t. “You think you’re so bad, so broken. Guess what: you’re not, because I love you, and I couldn’t care less about your past. You may think you’re unlovable, but you’re not, you hear me?”
For a heartbeat, the world seems to pause. And so he says:
“You are the most exasperating person I know.”
“Wow. Thank you so much!” you retort, your voice dripping with sarcasm. You run a hand through your hair, infuriated. “That makes me feel better!”
“Let me do the talking now,” he says, taking long strides toward you, and the proximity makes you lower your head. “You’re not getting the final say today. Just because I’m not over-sharing my feelings all the time doesn’t mean I don’t have them! In fact, I do. I may not express them openly, but they exist. And I wish you could see inside my head! You’d be delighted at how much time I spend thinking about you,” you cackle at his words, rolling your eyes. His fingers grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “There hasn’t been a single moment since the day we met that I have stopped wanting you. Your voice is like a goddamn radio that, no matter what I do, I can’t turn off. It’s like I’m infected by you, and I hate it!” his eyes burn with a mix of anger and affectionpur, his pursed lips softening as he continues. “No good ever comes from caring this much about someone. So excuse me for being scared of ruining the only good thing that’s happened to me in years!”
You hit him with the cushion—not with enough force to make him hurt, but enough to make a point.
“Drop it, kid.”
“I’m—” you hit him again, “not—” and again, “stupid. I know what I’m getting myself into,” as you attempt to raise the cushion once more, Logan takes it from your hands, throwing it on the counter. Your shoulders sag, trying to find the strength to keep going. “And I know for a fact,” you add, glancing at his conflicted eyes, “that the easiest thing for me would be to walk away from you, but I can’t. It’s too fucking late.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do! These are my feelings, okay? Mine, not yours. You don’t have the right to decide who I love and who I don’t.”
Logan’s eyes squint, scanning your face. “You’re… obnoxious.”
“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”
“And I—I love you,” he confesses, his nostrils flaring with emotion. Opening your mouth to say something, you close it moments later, your gaze locked on his. “You could take what you said, pretend as if I didn’t exist, and I wouldn’t say a thing, y’understand? I would move cities if you asked me, because I love you that fucking much, and I want you to be happy.”
You reach for his hand, briefly intertwining your fingers with his. Looking at him through your eyelashes, you rub your fingers over his stubble. “And what if my happiness comes from being with you?”
Logan lets out a harsh breath, his arm curling around your waist, pressing his chest to yours. “I can’t promise I’ll be the perfect boyfriend. I’ll probably makeplenty of mistakes.”
“Fine with me.”
“And you’ll be mad at me. A lot.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure it’s mutual.”
Both of you laugh then, and you’re taken aback when he brushes his nose against your cheek, silently seeking permission to kiss you. His lips move hungrily against yours, trailing his hands down your spine, pulling you closer. He breaks the kiss and laughs at your eagerness when you chase after his mouth. You end up perched on his lap as he settles into one of your kitchen chairs. Logan stares into your eyes, his gaze drifting lower. “I won’t push you away this time. Not anymore.”
That’s your cue to finally do what you’ve been yearning for weeks. You fall to your knees in front of him, shaky fingers that graze the hairs on his happy trail. The bulge in his sweatpants is close to your face, and your mouth waters at the thought of having him between your lips. “Can I?” you ask, your voice a touch higher.
He draws a long breath, tilting his head slightly. “You may, baby.”
You pull at his sweatpants and boxers, sliding them down his legs just enough to free his hard cock. As you take a look at it, you find yourself at a loss for words, the sight overwhelming. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the first taste of his precum as you envelop his head between your lips, that musky scent of his hitting you.
A whimper escapes you, and Logan hisses when you run your tongue along the slit, his hands gripping the back of your neck tightly. “Fuck, darlin’. Thought about your mouth so many times, but never imagined it’d feel this good,” he cants his hips up, causing your movements to stutter. “You can take a bit more, can’t you?” his question ends with a guttural grunt, his fingers tightening on your hair. “Gotta show me how much you want this.”
Logan takes all that you give him. You lower your head further, taking in another inch of him. Sex’s supposed to feel good, but this? It feels even greater. And he’s not even inside you yet, you hear a voice murmur in your head. The hand on your nape encourages you to move faster, and you sneak a hand between your bodies, grasping him by the base. You swallow around him, eyes fluttering open when he tugs sharply at your hair..
“Thaaaat’s it, honey. Just like that, want you to choke on it,” he grumbles, running his mouth just the way you like. The tip of his cock nudges the back of your throat and tears fill your eyes. You pull away to catch your breath, still stroking him as you regain composure. Logan’s gaze is intense, and he stares into your soul, his chest heaving. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Dick got your tongue?”
You’ll definitely get back to that joke later.
“Will you—can you—”
“Come on, beautiful. I don’t have all day.”
God, you love it when he’s mean.
“Fuck my throat,” you plead, your voice barely above a whisper.
A smile dangles on the corner of his lips. “We both know you can be nicer.”
The fucker makes your pulse race. “Can you fuck my throat?” you ask again, more insistently. “Please.”
He guides himself into your mouth, smirking as he watches how your eyes roll back in pleasure. “How polite of you to say please. Some good manners you’ve got.”
You whimper around him, your body responding to the rhythm he sets, fully immersed in the intensity of the moment. And for a while, you drift away, losing your sanity with each thrust of his hips, every tug at your hair. It’s almost impossible not to compare him to your past hookups. You try to recall at least a single instance when another man made you feel this way, but no memory surfaces.
Time seems to stretch and warp. You don’t really know when it happens—he pulls you off his cock, cradling your face, examining you. “You fucking love that, don’t you?” he asks with that sweet, syrupy voice, brushing away your tears. There’s no room left for embarrassment, so you nod, closing your mouth around his thumb. Defeated, Logan shakes his head, pressing his finger against your tongue. “I was planning on coming on your mouth, but I think I’ve got a better idea.”
In the blink of an eye, you’re in your bedroom. Not even a metaphor—he picks you up and basically runs to your room, closing the door behind him. You prop yourself on your forearms, trying to process what’s about to happen. Logan, already naked, climbs onto the bed after you, He kisses you slowly, tracing the curves of your body. “You still want this?”
“I do. I’m just… nervous, that’s all,” you admit, flashing him a quick smile. “It’s been two years of celibacy for me. Will it fit?” you ask, glancing down at his cock, and Logan stares at you in confusion. “Also, how many girlfriends have you had? Just curious.”
“I don’t think this is the time for that conversation.”
“You’re right,” you agree, lying back on the mattress, bracing yourself for what’s to come. “Were they pretty?”
“Bub.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up,” he replies with a smirk. “Focus on me, okay?”
Despite your tries to crack jokes at the worst possible moment, things escalate pretty quickly. Logan’s got three fingers inside you, pumping them in and out. He’s already made you come once with his mouth—to get you more relaxed, he had said. Wanting sounds slip past your lips as he doesn’t miss the chance to hit that spot that makes you squeeze your legs together. The tip of his nose drags long lines up and down the skin of your neck, mouthing at your jaw.
“I’m ready,” you mumble after some minutes, reaching for his cock and stroking him. “Let’s break the bed.”
“You’re lucky you’re this cute,” he says, catching your lips in a kiss. “Condom?”
“Negative, Sergeant.”
“You don’t have any?”
You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “I don’t want you to use one.”
The way his gaze darkens doesn’t go unnoticed by you. His hand guides your face toward his cock. “Get me wet,” he commands, and you oblige, sucking him into your mouth. You hum around him, unable to contain yourself, and you hear Logan chuckling above you. “Can’t believe this is what it takes for you to shut up. Gotta keep your mouth full all the time.”
Once he’s satisfied with the way you’ve slicked him, he positions himself over you, caging you between his arms. Logan pins you down with his body, his hot breath mingling with yours. When you stare into his eyes, all you see is pure love, and your heart swells with affection. “Will you fuck the bad jokes out of me?”
Logan laughs, rubbing his length along your folds, grazing your clit for a fleeting second. “I sure as hell will,” he assures you, lining himself up with your wet entrance. He looks into your eyes for approval. “Ready?”
“I was born rea— Fuck!” you nearly scream as his head breaches you, your eyes squeezing shut. Turns out his fingers weren’t enough. “Fucking mutant dick.”
“You’ll love it, believe me,” he husks next to your ear. His arms shake where they rest on each side of your head, seemingly as affected as you are. Logan pulls out, and then fucks into you with a little more force. “How are you still so tight? You’re killin’ me here.”
“I’ve got no idea, but you feel—amazing,” you gasp, latching onto his back, holding him close to you. His thrusts gain strength, and suddenly he’s bottoming inside you. “Oh, god. I can feel you in my stomach.”
“I know, baby, I know. Can feel it too,” he curls one of his hands around your throat, keeping you in place. From his position, he can watch the way your face contorts in pleasure. Lowering his head to envelop one of your nipples between his lips, he sucks hard. “You were desperate enough to get on your knees in the damn kitchen. You’ll be good now too, am I right?”
“Yes. Yes. I can be good,” you pant, eyes wide and pleading. “Anything you want. Just don’t stop.”
“I’m not stoppin’, princess. Don’t worry,” his mouth curves into a wicked grin as he drives into you again, this time even deeper. His hand on your throat tightens slightly, just enough to make you feel the pressure, grounding you in the moment. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs against your chest, his voice laden with need.
Each thrust has you gasping, your body arching off the bed to meet his. Logan’s grip on your neck loosens as his hand slides down to grasp your hip. He squeezes your tender flesh, pulling you harder against him, as if he can’t get close enough. The bed creaks under the intensity, but you barely notice, too far lost in the rhythm of his movements.
“You’re perfect, all I’ve ever wanted,” he slips his free hand between your bodies to find your clit, and the moment his fingers make contact with it, you can’t help but whine. “So fuckin’ perfect,” you hear him repeat, more to himself than to you, his voice stranded as he tries to hold himself back, letting you chase your own release first.
The pressure inside you builds up, tightening with every skilled flick of his fingers. You’re sure you must look like a mess, sweaty and sticky, though the way he looks at you makes you forget everything else. “Logan, I’m—” you croak, the wind being knocked out of your lungs with each relentless thrust. “I think I’m gonna come.”
He picks up speed, snapping his hips faster. “I’ve got you, let go for me. I’ll take care of you, baby, I swear,” his pace becomes erratic, digging his fingers into the softness of your thighs as the headboard keeps slamming against the wall. Your body obeys him, a shuddering release tearing through you, moaning Logan’s name and gripping him like a vice. “That’s it, fuck, that’s it,” he doesn’t stop, driving you through your orgasm. His eyes snap to your face, contemplating how wrecked you look. “Tell me where—please, sweetheart.”
“Inside.”
“What?”
“I said inside. Come inside me, Logan.”
He’s not strong enough to deny you such a thing. Logan buries himself to the hilt, groaning your name as his cock twitches and paints your walls with his thick seed. Beside your head, his claws unsheate, tearing into the pillow. He ruts against you, his body trembling and writhing against yours, already apologizing for the pillow incident while pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “Sorry, I’m sorry. That hasn’t happened in a while.”
When Logan collapses beside you, he pulls you into his arms, kissing you eagerly. You return the kiss, wincing as you feel a bit of his cum slip out of you, rolling down your thighs. He stares at your glistening cunt without an ounce of remorse, and you close your legs. “That’s private.”
“It wasn’t very private a minute ago.”
“Logan?”
“Tell me, bub.”
“Knock, knock.”
He must truly love you, because he plays along: “Who’s there?”
“Ice cream.”
“Ice cream who?”
“Ice cream for you all night long.”
“Guess I didn’t succeed in fuckin’ the bad jokes out of you,” he teases softly, letting his head fall back on the bed. “But it’s fine. I’ll just have to keep tryin’.”
This is the story of how you end up dating a man who’s two hundred years old. But it’s also the story of how that same man learns to let his guard down and open his heart. So, remember this, kids: the sky’s the limit, especially when it comes to love—and yes, even when it involves dating mutants.
18+ cw: unprotected [irresponsible] sex. just the tip (until it isn’t). mutual loss of virginity - slight bleeding. thighfucking. pussyjob. slippery slope. creampie. mutual pining. idiots in love. religious references/guilt. banter as foreplay lol
summary: your friend’s reputation of being good in bed is common knowledge to the entire living-and-breathing student population of columbia. confusion arises when he tells you he’s actually a virgin. (wc: 11k - i know 😔)
a/n: hello. :) this is PURELY self-indulgent wish fulfillment, initially written for the touch prompts “foreheads pressed against each other” + “two fingers against a pulse point,” then i swiftly lost control after the first 2k words. I LOVE LOVE LOVE MATT MURDOCK JUST THE TIP FICS, i love their authors, and so here is my contribution!!! addtl warnings: lots of talk about religion, purity culture talk, matt’s guilt (featuring my favorite: intrusive thoughts of bible verses during sex). matt & reader lose their virginity to each other. that’s it… enjoy my filth…
“No fucking way.”
It’s ridiculous: Matt’s desk isn’t made for two. Not even close. It’s for this reason that you’ve ended up almost on top of him, trying to act like your thigh isn’t pressed to his.
And if your excuse for all this was that you were trying to get any real learning in, you’d be a liar, and a bad one at that.
Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred.
The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.
Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him.
Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him.
Not like you.
So, rash girl that you are, you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.
“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”
His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”
Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.”
Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping.
“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”
“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”
Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully.
“Well, then, enlighten me.”
Enlighten me.
You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”
You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.
Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”
One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.
“Yeah,” you manage.
“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”
“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.
“Well—yes?”
“Okay. Yes.”
“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”
As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”
It takes you a second.
To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips…
Oh.
“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”
Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.
“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.
“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”
He’s grinning wide. “Because?”
“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..”
Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!
“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”
“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!”
You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan.
“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”
“Worse? How is that worse?”
“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.”
Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.
A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.
Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are. In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”
His head tilts fractionally.
“Sorry?”
“It’s all fiction.”
“Being good at oral is fiction?”
“Yes.”
“As in, not real?”
“Yes.”
Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.
There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful.
“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”
“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”
A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!
“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.
“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.
“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.
“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”
You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.
“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”
“Oh God.”
“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”
“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”
Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.
“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”
“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”
“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.
So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage:
“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”
Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.
“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”
You blink. Fuck.
He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just…
A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?
“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”
But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.
He’s… crying.
That made him cry?
No way. You’ve never seen him cry before.
No, no. He’s wheezing.
From laughter.
“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”
“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”
“You walked into that one again.”
“That’s not funny!”
.
Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though.
Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it?
That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.
Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.
An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.
But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest.
The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants.
Which is clearly how you see him.
So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much.
Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to.
Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect.
He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard.
Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.
Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.
“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”
Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak.
“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”
“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”
He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”
“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch.
“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”
He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.
Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”
But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”
Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?
Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate.
He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.
No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.
Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.
“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”
Matt tilts his head.
“I’m a virgin too.”
Oh?
That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.
Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it.
He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.
“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”
You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you.
“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”
“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”
“Dick.”
He smiles.
You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”
Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”
You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.
“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”
“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”
You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.
“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”
Right.
Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.
He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.
“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”
“Just do it once—then it’s over.”
“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully.
“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.
“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.
The issue, of course, is that he’s hard.
Hard and sweating and stuck.
If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now.
Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.
You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.
“You okay?” you murmur.
He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”
“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”
“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”
Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.
Christ, Matt. This how you do it?
He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking.
But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.
His thumb strokes your side.
“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”
You nod before your brain can even catch up.
“…Okay.”
For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.
And then his mouth is on yours.
The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.
There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful.
Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—
It jerks, slipping sideways.
You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.
“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure.
It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.
“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.
“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”
You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment.
Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.
“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below.
Jesus.
But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.
“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.
Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help.
Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.
“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.
He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”
“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”
A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.
“Yeah?” you breathe.
“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”
“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.
Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated.
His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.
“Wait. Wait—”
He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”
“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”
It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—
“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”
You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”
His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now.
“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.
Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.
You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”
His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”
Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching.
You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.
It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.
“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”
For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.
That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”
At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely.
“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”
And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.
Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”
“Not really.”
“They expensive?”
“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”
“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply.
RRRIP—!
Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum.
“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry.”
“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”
“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”
His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”
“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”
Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop.
But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?
The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.
He should stop.
“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”
Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.
“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”
Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts.
You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.
And Matt’s losing it.
He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.
His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.
You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”
His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.
And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him.
You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.
It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough.
“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”
“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”
As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.
Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.
“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”
And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.
The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.
The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.
Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor.
Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.
“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”
And if your hand causes you to sin…
“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you.
Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.
“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”
You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.
Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”
“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience.
He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.
Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.
But how can he refuse you?
“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”
You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.
You do no such thing.
“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”
Need you, Matt.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”
You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief.
God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven.
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…
Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.
Then he’s pushing forward.
Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.
“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”
You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.
“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”
Hurts.
Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.
If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—
But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.
The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.
As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.
Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.
“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.
“What’s unfair?”
Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.
“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”
Christ.
Matt swallows.
This girl is gonna be the death of me.
“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles.
“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.
“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”
Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.
“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”
The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.
“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—”
But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.
The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.
“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.
“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”
“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”
But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.
He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.
You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.
“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—”
Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.
His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.
You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.
“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”
Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.
And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.
Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.
Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…
Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good.
“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.
It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.
“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.
He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.
And then he does it again.
And again.
And again.
Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.
“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”
As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.
“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”
Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.
One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.
“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.
The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.
“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.
He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.
Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.
By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—
He can’t.
He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.
And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.
…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor…
It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.
…not in the passion of lust.
Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?
He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.
As long as he doesn’t come inside you.
That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.
But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther?
He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.
“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”
But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”
And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.
“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.
It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.
And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.
Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.
Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.
Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.
Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely.
His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.
The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.
“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.
“Yeah.”
Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”
The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”
Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters.
“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”
“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling.
Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”
“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”
“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”
There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck.
A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”
“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.
“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”
You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.
“We should probably get back to studying.”
“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”
“You’re the one who made me more behind!”
His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”
You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.
For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.
The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.
“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly.
“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”
Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”
“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”
There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.
“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”
“Yes we are,” Foggy agrees cheerfully, plucking the bill from her hand. He tucks it neatly into his wallet and tips his dice bag toward her in mock toast. “To young love, and finally getting its head out of its ass.”
Giyu has always been a master of Dead Calm—until Sanemi decides to shatter it in the middle of the Hashira courtyard.
When a secret, tree-climbing crush is turned into a public spectacle, Giyu makes the worst tactical calculation of his life: he interprets your shock as disgust. What follows is a broken pillar, a frantic retreat, and a chase into the mountains to prove that he isn't alone.
(Or: The one where Sanemi is a menace, Giyu is a disaster, and the Flower Hashira finally catches him.) (Giyu x Reader)
Part Two
Weeks Later…
The Hashira meeting had been long, a dry affair of regional reports and shifting patrol boundaries. Giyu had endured it as he endured all things: with a stoic, internal silence, his gaze fixed on the perfectly raked gravel, his presence a pocket of cold, indifferent air.
He was a stone. He was Dead Calm.
(He was a liar.)
His entire body was a tightly wound spring, a single, raw nerve thrumming with the memory of the previous weeks. Gentle-san. He was acutely, painfully aware of Sanemi, two positions to his right, whose very breathing seemed to be a suppressed, mocking chuckle. He was aware of Obanai, whose cold, dismissive silence was somehow louder. He was aware of Shinobu, whose polite, neutral questions to Oyakata-sama felt laced with a new, dangerous, surgical precision.
And he was aware, in a way that burned, of you.
You were kneeling on his left, your haori a brilliant, agonizing splash in his peripheral vision. You were perfectly still, your posture a model of respectful grace. You smelled, faintly, of soap and sugar.
Giyu had spent the entire two-hour meeting focusing on not looking at you and not thinking about you. He was failing on both counts.
"You are dismissed."
Oyakata-sama’s gentle voice was a release.
The line of Hashira broke. The formal tension evaporated, replaced by the low murmur of individual conversations, of stretches, of plans being made for the evening.
Giyu's plan was simple: Escape.
He rose to his feet in one fluid, blessedly silent motion, his hand already on his hilt, his entire being geared toward a swift, tactical retreat to his own estate. He would be in the dojo, and he would practice his forms until his arms burned and his mind was, finally, blessedly empty.
He turned.
He had taken one step.
"(Y/N)-chan!"
A bright, joyful shriek. Mitsuri, her face flushed with the pleasure of release, bounced across the gravel, her pink-and-green braids flying. She grabbed your arm, her own body practically vibrating with energy.
"That was so long! My legs fell asleep, and I was sure I was going to fall over when Oyakata-sama dismissed us! Are you hungry? I'm starving. I heard about a new shop in the village! They sell this new kind of cake... the kind that looks just like a raindrop!"
Giyu... paused.
His escape was blocked. Not physically. But... he couldn't just walk away..
You, who had been rising with your usual, silent grace, were suddenly enveloped in the whirlwind of Mitsuri's enthusiasm. The formal, serious Flower Hashira from the meeting vanished. A bright, delighted, dimpled smile lit your face.
"A raindrop cake? Mitsuri-san, really? We have to go! Right now?"
"Right now!" Mitsuri confirmed, linking her arm with yours. "We can... oh! We can try to get Shinobu-chan to come! And... and..."
The two of you stood in the center of the courtyard, a perfect, self-contained bubble of sunshine and sugar. You were giggling, heads bowed together, lost in a rapid-fire, whispered discussion.
You were, in a word, oblivious.
You were oblivious to the fact that the entire courtyard, in that moment, had become a silent, high-stakes theater. And you were the stars of the show.
Obanai had not moved.
His mismatched eyes were locked on Mitsuri.
He watched the way her green eyes sparkled when she laughed. He watched the way her hand, small and strong, gestured in the air as she described the dessert. He watched the way her braid, which had come slightly loose, fell across the collar of her uniform.
He was, in that moment, nothing but a pair of eyes, and those eyes held only her.
And you were oblivious, too, to the gaze from the stones.
Giyu was still frozen in his first step of escape. He had not left. He could not.
He was staring at you.
He was trying not to. He was furious with himself for it. His gaze was supposed to be on the gate. It was supposed to be on the path home. But it slipped. It strayed. It locked.
It was not Obanai's gaze. Obanai's was a possessive, adoring, outward force. Giyu's was the opposite. It was a hungry, terrified, internal thing. It was the look of a man freezing to death, staring at a fire he would never, ever allow himself to touch.
He watched you. He watched you laugh. He watched your hand—the same hand that had plunged a blade into a demon's chest, the same hand that had once offered him daikon—fly up to cover your mouth, a gesture of pure, artless shyness. He watched the way the sun caught the color of your hair.
He was lost.
His "kindest eyes," as you had called them, were, in that moment, full of a profound, painful, and hopeless warmth. He was a stone, yes, but he was a stone that had been left in the sun for too long. He was burning.
And of this silent, two-pronged, intense devotion, the two women at the center of it saw nothing.
But everyone else...
Everyone else saw everything.
Shinobu had been on her way to the Butterfly Estate, but she had paused. She was, Giyu realized with a fresh, cold spike of panic, standing directly in his line of sight to you. She had, in one fluid, graceful motion, intercepted his gaze.
She was smiling. Her usual, pleasant, perfect smile.
She did not look at Giyu. She looked at you and Mitsuri, giggling over your sweets.
"They are so full of life, aren't they?" she murmured, her voice a soft, polite sound, meant for no one and everyone.
Then, her gaze, sharp as a scalpel, slid to the right. She looked up into the branches of the maple tree. She saw Obanai, a statue of pure, focused longing. Her smile tightened. It became analytical.
Then, her head turned, just slightly, to the left.
Her gaze met Giyu's.
He had been caught staring. Again.
Giyu's blood stopped.
Shinobu's smile changed. The polite mask was gone. The analytical look was gone. It was replaced by one of delighted, scientific discovery.
She held his gaze for one... two... three agonizing seconds.
Then, she winked. A single, tiny, catastrophic flutter of her eyelid.
Giyu's composure nearly fractured right then and there.
"Tch."
The sound was a low, disgusted snarl from the other side of the courtyard.
Giyu's head snapped around.
Sanemi was leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed. He had been watching the entire, silent, pathetic exchange.
He had watched Obanai in the tree. (Pathetic.) He had watched Giyu failing to be aloof. (Hilarious.) And he had just watched Shinobu catch Giyu in the act.
Sanemi's face was a mask of glee. He was relishing this. Tormenting Giyu about his crush was his favorite new hobby. He looked at Giyu, who was now pale, caught in the crossfire.
Sanemi pushed himself off the pillar.
No. No. No. He's coming over...
Sanemi sauntered, a slow, predatory roll of his shoulders, not toward Giyu, but toward the center of the courtyard. He was walking toward the girls.
"Oi," he barked.
The bubble of sunshine popped.
You and Mitsuri froze, startled. You instinctively stepped half-a-step behind Mitsuri, flinching.
Giyu saw it. He saw you recoil from Sanemi. His stomach twisted.
"Shinazugawa-san!" Mitsuri squeaked, her face flushing. "G-g-good afternoon!"
Sanemi ignored her.
His gaze was on you.
It was not a kind gaze. It was a bully's gaze.
"So," he drawled. "You survived the meeting without falling asleep, pipsqueak. Good for you."
"Shut up, Kanroji," he snapped. "I'm talking to my old mission partner." He grinned. "Or... wait. My mistake. You're not my partner anymore, are you?"
His eyes flicked. Just once. A lightning-fast glance over your shoulder. Directly at Giyu.
It was a taunt. A public prodding.
I'm talking to your girl. What are you going to do about it, Gentle-san?
Giyu stopped breathing. He couldn't move. He was a coward. He was frozen. He was about to flee.
"Shinazugawa."
The voice. It was not Giyu's. It was Rengoku's.
He, who had been watching this whole thing with a small, soft smile, was suddenly there. His smile was gone. He was not shouting. His voice was a low, calm flame.
"That is enough," he said.
Sanemi tensed. He turned. His grin became a snarl. "What's it to you, Rengoku?"
"You are making her uncomfortable," Rengoku stated. "And you are being a bully. Which is a waste of your spirit. Stop it."
The two of them stared at each other. Wind and Flame.
And Sanemi, who would have fought anyone else, just scowled. He respected Rengoku's power.
"Tch," he snarled. "You're no fun. I was just saying hello to Tomioka's favorite person."
He said it.
He said it.
Giyu's world ended and he went eerily still....
You blinked. "His... what?"
Mitsuri's hand flew to her mouth. "Ehhh?!"
Giyu did not see the other Hashira. He did not see Rengoku's sudden, horrified silence or Tengen's sharp intake of breath. He did not see Shinobu's smile freeze, her eyes wide with the realization that her game had just turned into a war.
He saw only you.
You were staring at him, your face completely, utterly white. Your eyes, which he had come to recognize as either serenely focused or warm with gentle, blushing embarrassment, were now just... wide. Vast and empty. Your lips were parted. You looked horrified.
You looked, to his shame-ravaged mind, exactly as he expected. Disgusted. Appalled. Repulsed.
But you were processing the revelation, your mind trying to connect the dots—his favorite person? He... he likes me? Romantically? Your heart was a trapped bird in your own chest. The way... the way I like him?
But Giyu couldn't see the complex, fragile dawn of your realization. He only saw the shock.
He had contaminated you. He had taken your kindness, your sincerity, your sweet-toothed, gentle nature, and he had soiled it with his... his stalking. His pathetic, tree-climbing longing.
And Sanemi...
Sanemi had enjoyed it. He had done this deliberately. He had held this secret, this weapon, and waited for the most public, most humiliating moment to detonate it. He had not just revealed Giyu's feelings; he had held you up to be ridiculed with him. He had exposed you.
Something in Giyu broke.
The crushing, suffocating weight of his own self-hatred—the impostor syndrome, the guilt, the grief, the cowardice—imploded. The void left behind was not empty. It was filled with something white-hot, pure, and terrifying.
The temperature in the courtyard plummeted.
It was not a feeling; it was a physical shift. The air became thin, the light sharp and cold. A pressure, silent and immense, radiated from the Water Hashira.
Gyomei suddenly straightened, his prayer beads stopping dead. "Namu Amida Butsu..." he whispered, his sightless eyes turning toward Giyu. "This... this is not right."
"Tomioka...?" Rengoku started, his voice losing its boom, his hand moving slightly. "Calm your spirit. He is just—"
It was too late.
Giyu turned.
His head moved with a slow, hydraulic, terrible smoothness. The man who had been frozen in panic, the "lovesick squirrel" from that night was gone.
Sanemi was still grinning, a feral, triumphant, "got-you" expression. "What's wrong, Gentle-san?" he purred, savoring the new name. "Did I finally—"
SHIIIIING.
The sound was not a draw. It was an eruption.
Giyu was no longer standing by the rocks. He was in front of Sanemi. He had not used a form. He had not used a breath. He had just... moved.
His blade was a blur of blue light, aimed not to disarm, but to end.
Water Breathing, Fourth Form: Striking Tide.
It was the fastest any of them had ever seen him use it. It was not the fluid, adaptable strike of a master. It was a piston of pure killing intent.
Sanemi, for all his mockery, was still a Hashira. His reflexes were inhuman.
Wind Breathing, First Form: Dust Whirlwind Cutter!
CLANG!
It was a high, ringing shriek of steel meeting steel. It was a sound that had never, ever been heard in this courtyard.
Sanemi had blocked it. His green blade was horizontal, holding back Giyu's downward slash.
But the force...
Sanemi's eyes went wide. This was not Giyu's usual, reserved, efficient strength. This was the force of a tidal wave. This was the ocean's bottom.
The block held, but it did not stop.
Sanemi's sandals carved two deep trenches in the pristine gravel as he was hurled backward. He flew a full ten meters, his body a rigid line, before he slammed back-first into the thick, wooden support pillar of the engawa.
CRACK!
The pillar, a foot thick, split. Wood-dust exploded into the air. Sanemi crumpled to the ground, his sword clattering on the stones, his chest heaving, a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
He was laughing. A high, wild, breathless cackle. "You... you finally... HA! You finally did it, you gloomy bastard!"
The courtyard was in chaos.
"ENOUGH!" Rengoku roared, his voice a physical blast of heat as he surged forward.
"TOMIOKA! SHINAZUGAWA! IN THE MASTER'S PRESENCE!" Tengen bellowed, his own blades already half-drawn, moving to flank.
"Stop this."
The command was from Ubuyashiki. His voice was not raised, but it was filled with a cold, sharp power that cut through the panic.
But Giyu did not hear it.
He did not see Rengoku. He did not see Tengen. He did not see you, your hands now pressed against your mouth, your eyes wide with a new, terrifying, and unmistakable awe.
He only saw Sanemi, grinning, bloody, on the ground.
He had hurt you. He had embarrassed you.
Giyu raised his blade, his empty blue eyes fixed on his target, and charged.
"He's not stopping!" Shinobu shrieked, her voice high with genuine panic. "Himejima-san!"
Sanemi, his feral grin widening, pushed himself up, his own blade flashing. Second Form: Claws-Purifying Wind!
He met Giyu's charge. The courtyard, the sacred ground, erupted. Gravel and air itself seemed to tear apart as Water and Wind collided. It was not a spar. It was a brawl. Giyu's movements were no longer fluid; they were brutal, crushing, overwhelming. Sanemi's were vicious, sharp, and aimed to maim.
CLANG! SHING! KRAK!
"I SAID, ENOUGH!"
Rengoku did not try to get between them. He tackled Giyu, slamming into his side, wrapping his arms around his torso, his feet digging into the gravel to halt the Water Hashira's impossible, rage-fueled momentum.
At the exact same instant, Gyomei was simply there. He had moved with the speed of a silent, gray mountain. He did not grab Sanemi's blade. He grabbed Sanemi's wrist.
CRUNCH.
Sanemi shouted in agony as Gyomei's fingers, like a steel vise, clamped down, his grip absolute, forcing the blade from his nerveless hand.
"You... will... be... still," Gyomei commanded, his voice a low, weeping, and terrible rumble.
"GET OFF ME, YOU BASTARD!" Sanemi roared, trying to kick at the Stone Hashira.
"TOMIOKA! CONTROL YOURSELF!" Rengoku yelled, his arms locked around Giyu's chest.
But Giyu was gone. He was a thing of pure, cold reflex. He slammed his head back, catching Rengoku on the chin, and spun, his blade slicing up...
WHAP.
A blur of white and black. Obanai dropping from his tree, his undrawn sword, still in its sheath, slamming down hard on Giyu's wrist. The shock of the impact, not the pain, was what did it.
Giyu's fingers went numb. His blue Nichirin blade fell from his grasp and clattered onto the gravel.
Silence.
The fight was over. It had lasted less than ten seconds.
Giyu stood, his chest heaving, his arm tingling. He was unarmed. Rengoku was holding him from behind. Gyomei had Sanemi pinned against the splintered pillar, his face a mask of fury. Tengen and Shinobu stood, blades half-drawn, a few feet away, forming a perimeter. You were trembling as Mitsuri held and tried to comfort you.
And Oyakata-sama was still standing on the veranda. He had not moved.
Giyu's mind, which had been a white, roaring void, cleared.
The rage... it was gone.
And the shame.rushed back in.
He saw it. The splintered pillar. The torn gravel. Rengoku, breathing hard, his chin already bruising. Sanemi, bleeding from the mouth, his wrist clearly broken.
And Oyakata-sama.
He had drawn his blade. In this courtyard. In the Master's presence. Against a comrade.
He had attacked a fellow Hashira.
His gaze flicked, uncontrollably, to you.
You were staring at him. Your face was white. Your eyes were wide, not with disgust, but with a new, terrifying... understanding.
You saw. You knew.
He had confirmed it. He had confirmed Sanemi's taunt, with his own violence.
Giyu's world ended.
He could not breathe.
He ripped himself out of Rengoku's grasp.
"Tomioka... Giyu... wait," Rengoku said, his voice now gentle, alarmed.
Giyu didn't listen.
He didn't look at Sanemi. He didn't look at Oyakata-sama. He could not, he would rather die, than look at him right now.
He turned.
And he fled.
He didn't storm. He didn't stride. He ran.
His feet, in their simple sandals, pounded on the gravel, the sound a frantic, desperate, cowardly retreat. He burst through the main gate, his torn, mismatched haori flapping behind him, a banner of his own complete, and now very public, disgrace.
He was gone.
In the courtyard, a new, cold, and terrible silence fell.
Sanemi, his rage now gone, just stared at the empty gateway, his chest heaving, his mind blank. He... he... he... actually...
Mitsuri began to cry, small, terrified sobs.
And you... you just stood there, your heart a wild, frantic, terrified drum.
You looked from the empty gate... to Sanemi's bleeding mouth... and back to the empty gate.
He... you thought, your entire body trembling.
He... he did that...
...for me.
It was rage.
It was protection.
And it was love.
Rengoku, his face grim,looked at the empty gate, his usual bright optimism utterly eclipsed. "Tomioka," he whispered. "By the gods."
The tension was a physical thing, a glass dome pressing down on them all.
"So." Tengen was the first to find his voice, his arms crossed as he stared at the damage. "That... was not flamboyant. That was a disaster."
"He attacked him," Obanai stated from his branch, his voice a flat, cold assessment. "In your presence, Oyakata-sama. He drew his blade on a comrade."
"He was provoked."
The words came from Shinobu. Her smile was gone, her face pale and sharp. Her eyes were fixed on Sanemi with a cold, reptilian anger. "He was goaded, Iguro-san. Like a bear in a cage. You poke it with a stick long enough, you cannot be surprised when it takes your arm."
"He drew first," Sanemi spat, cradling his ruined wrist. "He lost control. He's unstable. He's a—"
"Sanemi."
Ubuyashiki's voice was not loud. It was as soft as a breeze, but it cut through Sanemi's rage like a blade.
The Wind Hashira froze. He looked up at his master, his breathing ragged. The anger in his eyes was still there, but it was now warring with a sudden, cold dread.
Kagaya had not moved. He stood on the veranda, his scarred face turned toward Sanemi. The gentle smile that usually graced his features was gone. It was not replaced by anger, but by something far, far worse: a profound, quiet, and heavy disappointment.
"You are a Hashira, Sanemi," Kagaya said, his voice carrying across the gravel. "You are a pillar of our world. You are supposed to be an example of strength. Of self-control."
"I... Oyakata-sama, he attacked me!" Sanemi protested, the injustice of it burning in his throat.
"And why," Kagaya asked, his voice still impossibly soft, "did he do that?"
Sanemi's mouth clamped shut.
"You knew of his affliction," Kagaya continued. "You know Giyu. You know his silence. You know the burden he carries. You know he is a man who walks in a different kind of darkness than the rest of us."
Giyu's self-imposed isolation, his refusal to train with others, his stark mantra of 'I am not the same as you'—it was a source of irritation for them all. But Kagaya, in that moment, framed it not as arrogance, but as a deep, abiding wound.
"And you," Kagaya's voice was now sharp, a sliver of ice. "You found a new wound. A... a private, nascent feeling. And you decided, in your judgment, to take a knife to it. Here. In front of us all. In front of her."
He did not need to raise his voice. The condemnation was total.
"You did not do it to help him, Sanemi. You did not do it to bring him into the light. You did it to hurt him. You used his affection as a weapon. You used (Y/N) as your prop. You sought to humiliate him, and in doing so, you have shamed yourself. You have shamed this courtyard."
Sanemi's face, which had been pale with pain, was now a deep, blotchy red. He looked down at the gravel, his one good hand clenched into a fist. He was shaking, not with rage, but with a shame that was deeper than any physical pain. He had failed his master.
"That... was not my intention," he muttered, the words thick.
"What was your intention, then?" Kagaya asked, his voice echoing in the silence.
Sanemi had no answer. Because he knew the truth. He had wanted to humiliate Giyu. He had wanted to see him break. He had just never, in his wildest, most fevered imagination, expected him to break like this. He had expected Giyu to stammer, to blush, to flee. He had not expected his head to nearly get taken off.
"He's right, Shinazugawa." Rengoku's voice was low, his bright hair seeming to dim. "That was beneath you."
"Tch." Sanemi spat onto the gravel. He would accept his master's word, but he would not accept Rengoku's.
"Gyomei," Kagaya said, his voice softening again. "Take Sanemi to the Butterfly Estate. Shinobu, please tend to his wrist. It seems Giyu... did not hold back."
"Yes, Oyakata-sama," Gyomei rumbled. He hauled Sanemi to his feet, the Wind Hashira's arm still locked in his grasp, and began to lead him away. Sanemi did not fight. He walked, his head bowed, his defeat absolute.
As they passed, Shinobu gave Sanemi a look of pure, unadulterated loathing. "You are an idiot," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss for his ears alone. "You took a delicate piece of machinery and you hit it with a sledgehammer. Now it's broken."
Sanemi just growled, too pained and too shamed to retaliate.
The courtyard began to empty. Tengen, shaking his head, muttered, "This is going to be a flamboyant mess to clean up," and vanished. Obanai dropped from his tree, his face a mask. He glanced once at the two remaining girls, then at the empty gate Giyu had fled through, and stalked away. Muichiro had, at some point, already wandered off, his attention stolen by a dragonfly.
Soon, only two people were left on the gravel.
Mitsuri, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide.
And you.
You had not moved. You were still frozen, your pale skin the color of milk, your hands clenched at your sides.
"(Y/N)-chan...?" Mitsuri whispered, her voice trembling. "Are you... are you okay? That was... that was terrifying."
You didn't respond. You were... processing.
Your mind was a chaotic storm. It was replaying not just the past five minutes, but the last few months.
Giyu gave me directions. He sparred with me. He used his Eleventh Form. He accepted my candy. A blue one. Oyakata-sama assigned us as partners. He ate my snack. The salmon daikon. His... his... favorite... He fought with me. He moved with me. He... he saved me. I saved him. We were a team. He... smiled.
And then, today.
Tomioka's new favorite.
Sanemi's taunt. Giyu's face, his pale, pained face, as he looked at you. The way his body had gone rigid, his scent changing. The shame. The agony.
And then... the rage.
A rage that was not his own. It was a rage that had been born of you. For you.
He had misinterpreted your shock. You saw it now. He had seen your stunned silence, and he had translated it as disgust. He thought you were repulsed by him.
And his reaction to that, his immediate, soul-deep response, was not to flee.
It was to attack.
He had attacked the man who had hurt you. The man who had exposed you. The man who had made you the center of a cruel, public mockery.
He hadn't been defending his own honor. He had been defending yours.
He... likes me, you thought, your mind a dizzying, soaring, terrifying spiral.
He... he... he has... feelings... for me.
The words you had whispered to Mitsuri last night, the ones that had felt so secret and safe, came rushing back.
...the kindest eyes I've ever seen.
You had meant it. And now... you understood. That sadness you saw... that gentleness... it was real. And it was all tangled up with this... this feeling.
A feeling you now recognized in your own chest.
Your heart, which had been frozen in shock, gave a powerful, painful thud.
He has a crush on me.
The way...
The way I have a crush on him.
The realization was so enormous, so sudden, so total, that your knees buckled.
"(Y/N)-chan!" Mitsuri yelped, catching you before you hit the gravel. "Oh, no! You're faint! It's the shock! That Shinazugara, he's a... a... a meanie!"
"He... he did it... for me," you whispered, your voice cracking. You clung to Mitsuri's haori, your whole body trembling.
"What? Who?" Mitsuri asked, her own mind trying to catch up. "Tomioka-san? He... he fought Sanemi-san... because of... you?"
The realization hit Mitsuri. Her eyes, already wide, became perfect saucers.
"Oh," Mitsuri breathed. "Oh. Oh."
"He likes you!" Mitsuri shrieked, her voice a combination of terror and pure, undiluted romantic ecstasy. "Like... like-likes you!"
The pieces all clicked for Mitsuri, forming a beautiful, if terrifying, mosaic.
"But... he ran," you whispered, the hurt returning, sharp and sudden. "He looked... he looked so... angry. And then so ashamed. He ran away."
"He flinched from me," you remembered, the new pain mixing with the old, and a sob broke from your throat. "He... he probably hates me."
"No, no, no!" Mitsuri said, shaking you. "That's not it! He doesn't hate you! He's just... he's Tomioka! He doesn't know how to have feelings! He probably thinks... he probably thinks you hate him!"
You looked up, your eyes shining with unshed tears, meeting Mitsuri's. "You think so?"
"I know so!" Mitsuri said, her voice filled with the absolute conviction of the Love Hashira. "He looked at you... and you looked shocked... and he thought you were disgusted! And so he exploded! It's tragically romantic!"
"But he attacked a fellowHashira," you whispered, the gravity of it setting in. "In front of Oyakata-sama."
The two of you looked at the veranda, where your master had disappeared. The shattered pillar stood as a monument to what had just happened.
"He's in so much trouble," you said, a new, cold fear washing over you. "And it's my fault."
"No!" Mitsuri said, grabbing your shoulders. "It is not your fault! It's Shinazugawa-san's fault!"
You pulled away from Mitsuri, your mind racing. He was hurt. He was ashamed. He was... alone.
He had run, and he was in pain, and it was because of you. Because of what he felt, and what Sanemi said, and what you didn't say.
You had to find him.
You had to fix this.
"Where are you going?" Mitsuri called out, as you turned from her, your face set with a new, terrified determination.
"I have to find him," you said, your voice shaking but resolute. "I have to talk to him."
"Wait! That's probably a bad idea! He angry!"
"He's my partner," you said, the word tasting heavy.
You turned and ran.
You ran from the courtyard, ignoring Mitsuri's cry of wait. You didn't care about his anger. His anger was a shield, just like your breathing style. You had just seen the man behind the shield, and he was in more pain than anyone you had ever known.
You ran. Your mind was a desperate, chaotic map. Where? Where would he go?
He wouldn't go to the Butterfly Estate. He was the antithesis of Shinobu's world. He wouldn't go to the training grounds; they were too open, too public. He wouldn't be anywhere near the other Hashira.
He would go where he always went. Away.
You sprinted to his estate first, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. The Water Estate was silent, the air still and heavy. The doors were slid open.
"Tomioka-san?" you called out, your voice echoing in the empty, pristine dojo.
Nothing. The koi in his pond swam lazily, their colors a mocking, placid contrast to the storm in your chest. He was not here.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at you. He hadn't just retreated. He had fled. He had run from you.
You ran back out, your mind racing. Where does a man who wants to disappear go? Where does a man who hates himself go to be alone?
You raced past the main compound, your light sandals barely making a sound on the packed earth. You ran past the training fields, past the small shrine, and into the woods that bordered the north side of the headquarters. The manicured paths gave way to a deer track, and then to nothing but thick, tangled undergrowth.
You were running blind, fueled only by a desperate, aching need to find him, to fix this. To tell him... what? I'm not disgusted? I like you, too? The thought made your face burn, but you didn't slow.
The forest grew darker, the trees thicker. Twilight was falling in earnest, the sky turning a deep, bruised purple. You were lost. You had no idea where he could be.
"Ami!" you cried out, your voice sharp.
A whoosh of wings, and a small, pearl-gray crow detached itself from a high branch, landing neatly on your outstretched arm. It was smaller than the other Kasugai crows, and much quieter.
"Ami, please," you whispered, your voice trembling. You pressed your fingers to your forehead, trying to focus. "Find him. Please. Find Tomioka-san."
The crow, Ami, cocked her head, her black, intelligent eyes staring into yours. She let out a single, soft caw. She understood the scent of your distress, and she understood the name that was inextricably linked to it.
Ami launched from your arm, a gray streak against the darkening sky, and flew northwest, toward the mountains.
"Wait!" you cried, plunging into the undergrowth after her.
It was not a run. It was a fight. Thorny brambles tore at your white haori, snagging the delicate silk. A low-hanging branch caught your cheek, leaving a stinging red line. Your sandals, so perfect for the dojo floor, were useless on the slick, leaf-strewn incline. You stumbled, catching yourself on a mossy rock, your palms stinging.
You didn't care. You just kept moving, your eyes fixed on the gray speck of your crow, your ears straining for its guiding caw.
You were climbing now, your lungs burning, the cold mountain air sharp in your throat. The roar of the headquarters was gone, replaced by the sound of wind in the high pines and... something else.
A deeper sound. A constant, rushing roar.
Water.
Ami let out a sharp, piercing cry, circling high above a dense cluster of rocks and cypress trees.
"Ami!" you gasped, scrambling up the last, rocky incline.
You burst through a curtain of hanging vines and stopped, your breath stolen.
It was a box canyon, a deep, hidden fold in the mountain. A massive waterfall, easily a hundred feet high, crashed down from a dark, stone precipice, its water a churning, white torrent in the gloom. It hammered into a deep, black, and violent pool, sending a cold, permanent mist into the air that clung to everything.
Your crow cawed again, landing on a branch overhead.
You scanned the clearing. The roar of the water was immense, a physical weight in the air. "Giyu-san?" you called out, your voice sounding small, snatched away by the noise. "Tomioka-san!"
Nothing.
You saw his haori.
It was folded. Not thrown. Folded. Perfectly. It sat on a dry, flat rock near the edge of the pool, his red and green-and-yellow haori a small, sad patch of color in the gray mist.
Your heart seized. Oh, no. Please... no.
You ran to the edge of the pool, your eyes scanning the black, churning water. "Giyu!"
And then you saw him.
He was not in the pool. He was under it.
He was standing, his back to you, directly beneath the full, punishing, brutal cascade of the waterfall.
He was in his black slayer uniform, his Nichirin blade still strapped to his side. The water, thousands of gallons a second, hammered onto his shoulders and head. It was a force that should have flattened a man.
But he stood.
He was rigid, his feet planted on the submerged rock, his arms locked at his sides. He was a statue of pure, self-inflicted penance. He was not training. He was not washing away the shame. He was taking it. He was letting the mountain hit him, again and again, a physical echo of the emotional beating he had just endured.
He was trying to drown his feelings. He was trying to freeze the part of him that cared.
The sight of it broke you.
The shy, blushing girl was gone. The awe-struck rookie was gone. The only thing left was the Protector. The woman whose deepest instinct was to shield.
And the man you loved was trying to destroy himself.
"GIYU-SAN!" you screamed, your voice a raw tear against the roar of the water.
He flinched. A violent, full-body jolt. He knew your voice.
He turned, his head moving with a terrible, slow deliberation. His black hair was plastered to his skull, water streaming from his face. And his eyes...
His eyes were wide, blue, and wild. They were the eyes of a cornered animal, a wolf caught in a trap. They were not sad. They were furious.
"GO!" he roared. His voice was a raw, broken sound, barely audible over the water. "GO AWAY!"
This was not a request. It was a command, born of sheer, desperate terror. He was not angry at you. He was terrified of you. Terrified of you seeing him like this. Broken. Ashamed. Pathetic.
Your resolve hardened. He can't push me away. Not this time.
You took one step into the churning pool.
The cold was immediate. It was not a gentle chill. It was a shock, a physical blow that stole your breath and drove needles of ice into your ankles. The water was melt-off from the mountain, and it was bitter.
"NO!" he yelled, his voice cracking. He took a step toward you, his hand raised. "GO BACK! IT'S NOT SAFE!"
He was, even now, still trying to protect you.
"NO!" you screamed back, the word torn from your throat. You took another step, the water swirling around your knees, the current pulling, strong. You stumbled on a slick, unseen rock, catching yourself.
"I am not leaving you!"
You were the Flower Hashira. You set your feet, found your balance, and pushed. You fought the current, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps against the cold. The water was at your waist now, your skirt a heavy, dragging weight, your haori fanning out around you like a drowning lily.
"I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE!" Giyu roared. He turned his back to you, a final, brutal, 'you are not welcome here' gesture. He braced himself under the water again, as if you were not there.
You lunged.
You used your breath, a sharp hiss of Flower Breathing, to propel you through the last, deepest part of the pool. You burst through the hammering, ice-cold curtain of the waterfall itself.
The force of it hit you. It was like being punched by the mountain. You were blinded, deafened, and you slammed hard into his back.
He was a wall. A wall of cold, unyielding, shaking iron.
You threw your arms around him from behind, your small hands locking around his uniform, your face pressed into the soaking, cold fabric of his back. You held on, your entire body trembling, not just from the cold, but from the sheer, terrifying vibration of the man you were holding. He was shaking. Not from a chill. From everything. From the rage. From the shame. From the desperate, agonizing effort of holding himself together.
"Giyu," you cried, your voice muffled against his back, the name a broken, familiar thing. "Giyu... please."
He roared. It was not a word. It was a sound of pure, animalistic agony.
He grabbed your arms, his fingers digging into your forearms like steel traps, and tore you off him. He spun, his movements fast and violent, and slammed you back against the wet, mossy rock wall behind the waterfall.
The impact knocked the wind from you. You gasped, your head hitting the stone.
He was in front of you, his hands braced on the rock on either side of your head, caging you in. Water streamed from his hair, his face, his uniform. You were in a small, dark cavern behind the falls, the roar of the water a deafening, echoing tomb.
His face was inches from yours. His "kind eyes" were wide, blue, and mad with a pain you couldn't understand.
"WHY?" he yelled, his voice raw, echoing in the small space. "Why did you follow me? Why can't you just leave me alone?"
He was shaking. His shoulders, his arms, his hands... they were all trembling with a force that had nothing to do with the cold.
You, your back aching, your head spinning, looked at this broken, beautiful, furious man. You were not afraid of him. You were heartbroken for him.
"Because..." you said, your voice a reedy, trembling thing, but you met his gaze. You did not look away. "Because you ran."
"I... I..." He looked lost. The rage was cracking.
"You ran," you whispered, your voice gaining a small, trembling strength. "Shinazugawa-san hurt you. He said that. And you looked at me and you thought..."
"STOP," he breathed, the word a plea. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Don't."
"You thought I was disgusted," you finished, your voice breaking.
His eyes snapped open. The wildness was still there, but it was raw. It was pain.
"I'm not," you whispered.
Giyu's breath hitched. He stared at you, his mind unable to process the words.
"I'm not disgusted, Giyu-san," you said, your voice a little stronger. "I was shocked. I didn't know."
"You don't..." he started, his voice a rasp. "It's not what he..."
"Is it?" you interrupted, your eyes searching his. "Is it not true?"
Giyu froze.
You were asking him.
You were asking him if he had feelings for you.
He couldn't breathe.
The silence stretched, filled only by the roar of the waterfall around them.
He couldn't lie to you. He couldn't.
He broke.
The stone crumbled. The iron shattered. The Water Hashira vanished.
His face, his beautiful, stoic, agonized face, crumpled.
His shoulders slumped. His hands, braced against the wall, began to slide. He fell. He didn't fall down. He fell in.
His forehead thudded gently against your shoulder.
His body sagged against yours.
He was shaking. Not with rage. But with sobs. Silent, wracking, terrible sobs that tore through him.
Your own breath stalled.
He was crying.
This man. This pillar of ice and silence.
He was broken.
And he was clinging to you.
Your arms, which had been trapped between you, came up.
They wrapped around his neck.
Your cold, wet hands buried themselves in his soaked hair.
You held him.
You held him tight.
"It's okay," you whispered, your own tears streaming down your face, mixing with the waterfall. "It's okay. I'm here."
"I... I..." he choked out, his voice a ruined thing. "I'm sorry."
"Shhh," you said, holding him tighter. "It's okay. You don't have to talk. Just breathe. Just breathe."
He didn't answer. He just clung to you.
He hid his face in the curve of your neck, and for the first time since he was a child, he just let go.
He let the shame and the grief and the terrible, aching loneliness of the last decade out.
And you, the Flower Hashira, his partner...
You held him.
You were his shield.
Giyu clung to you. His face was buried in the curve of your neck, his body wracked by silent, tearing sobs. The dam had not just broken; it had been obliterated. A decade of tightly controlled grief, of self-imposed isolation, of the crushing weight of his perceived fraudulence—it all came pouring out, a flood that threatened to drown him.
He wept for Sabito, the laughing, righteous boy who should have been standing here. He wept for his sister, Tsutako, for the flash of her wedding kimono on the night the demon came. He wept for Urokodaki and the disappointment he must surely feel. He wept for the Hashira he stood beside but never with, for the gulf of his own making that separated him from them.
He wept for the terrible, aching loneliness that had been his constant companion.
And through it all, you held him.
You did not speak. You did not offer platitudes. You simply held him, your small arms wrapped fiercely around his neck, your cold, wet hands tangled in his soaked hair. Your own body was trembling against his—partly from the icy water that hammered down just inches away, partly from the sheer, raw violence of his grief.
You were so small. Yet you were anchoring him. Your presence was a steady point of warmth in the freezing, roaring darkness. You were the rock face he was pressed against, the only solid thing in a world that had dissolved into pain.
He could feel your breath warm against his ear. He could feel the frantic, bird-like beat of your heart against his chest. He could smell the clean scent of soap, the faint trace of sugar, underneath the cold, metallic tang of the mountain water.
You were real. You were here. You had followed him.
He sobbed harder, a ragged sound ripped from his throat. He hadn't meant to run. He had just been terrified. Terrified of you seeing the pathetic, broken thing he was. Terrified of tainting you with his own darkness. Terrified of the impossible, fragile hope you represented.
He had hurt you. He had made you think he hated you.
Gentle. Kindest eyes.
The memory surfaced again, a tiny, flickering candle in the storm. Your voice, hesitant and soft, on the veranda. You hadn't been disgusted. You hadn't been mocking him. You had seen something good in him. Something he hadn't believed existed.
"Disgusted?"
Your voice, from moments ago, right here in this watery cavern. He heard it again, clear as a bell.
I am not disgusted, Giyu-san.
He clung to the words. He turned them over in his mind, testing their weight, their truth. You hadn't recoiled. You hadn't screamed. You hadn't run.
Eventually, the sobs began to subside. The raw, tearing grief was still there, a deep, hollow ache in his chest, but the frantic edge was gone. He was still shaking, but it was a finer tremor now, exhaustion setting in. He was cold. So cold. The waterfall hammered down, a relentless, icy punishment.
He became aware, slowly, of the arms around his neck. Of the small body pressed against his back, offering what little warmth it had. Of the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing against his ear.
You were still here. You hadn't run. You weren't disgusted.
You might...
The thought was too terrifying to complete. But it was there. A tiny, fragile seed of impossible hope planted in the ruins of his breakdown.
He slowly, carefully, began to pull himself back together. The stoic mask, shattered beyond repair, couldn't be reformed. But he could breathe.
He took a breath. A ragged, shuddering inhale that tasted of cold water and stone.
He took another.
He could feel you shift slightly as he did, your hold on him loosening just a fraction, giving him space.
He slowly lifted his head from your shoulder. The movement felt heavy, weighted. He kept his face turned away, staring at the roaring sheet of water that separated them from the world. He couldn't look at you. Not yet.
"I..." His voice was a wreck. A raw, shredded whisper. "I am sorry."
Your arms tightened around his neck again, a brief, reassuring squeeze. "Don't," you whispered back, your voice thick, still close to his ear. "Don't apologize. Not for that."
He didn't know what "that" meant. For crying? For clinging to you? For everything?
"I hurt you," he said, the guilt a fresh stab.
He felt you go still against his back.
"You were scared," you said, your voice quiet, uncertain. "I startled you."
"No," he said, the word rough. He forced himself to be honest. At least about this. "I was ashamed. Of myself. Not of you. Never of you."
He felt your breath hitch.
The silence stretched again, filled only by the roar of the water. He could feel you thinking, processing his words.
"Why?" you finally whispered. "Why were you ashamed?"
He couldn't tell you. He couldn't tell you about Sabito. He couldn't tell you about the tree. He couldn't tell you why.
"I am not..." he began, the old, familiar lie rising to his lips. I am not qualified. I am not the same.
But he stopped. He couldn't say it. Not now. Not after this. Not while you were holding him.
"It doesn't matter," he mumbled instead, staring at the water.
"It does matter," you said, your voice regaining a fraction of its gentle firmness. "It matters to me."
He squeezed his eyes shut. You weren't letting him retreat. You weren't letting him hide.
"You thought I was disgusted," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "In the courtyard. When Shinazugawa-san..."
Giyu flinched, a small, involuntary movement.
"I wasn't," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper again. "I was just shocked. I didn't know what to think."
He could feel your cheek press lightly against him as you spoke.
"He shouldn't have said that," you continued, a flicker of anger in your tone. "It was cruel. To you. And..."
You hesitated.
"...and to me," you finished, the words barely audible.
He felt you shift again. Your arms loosened around his neck. Your hands slid down, resting gently on his shoulders.
"Giyu-san," you whispered.
He slowly, hesitantly, turned his head. Just enough to see your face in the dim, watery light filtering through the falls.
You were looking at him. Your face was pale, tear-streaked, your hair plastered to your skin. But your eyes were fixed on his. And they were clear. They held no disgust. No pity. No mockery.
They held concern. And something else. Something hesitant. Something warm.
"You are not disqualified," you said, your voice soft but firm. "You are the Water Hashira. You are my partner. You are brave. You are kind."
You were refuting his self-hatred. You were defending him. To himself.
"And I..." you began, your voice trembling again. Your gaze dropped, just for a second, to his lips, then darted back up to his eyes. Your blush, even in the cold, returned—a faint, lovely warmth on your pale cheeks.
"I am honored," you whispered.
Honored?
The word made no sense. Honored by what? By his pathetic feelings? By his tree-climbing?
"Honored that someone as strong and gentle as you..." Your voice faltered. You took a breath. "...could feel anything like that for me."
Giyu's world stopped.
It didn't shatter. It didn't explode.
It just stopped.
The roar of the waterfall faded. The cold vanished. The shame, the grief, the fear—it all just receded.
There was only your face. Your words.
Honored. Strong. Gentle. Feel anything like that. For me.
He stared at you, his mind a silent, echoing chamber.
You felt the same way.
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a hope. It was in your eyes. It was in your blush. It was in the trembling of your hands on his shoulders. It was in the word.
Honored.
He... he...
He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. He had never been here before.
He just looked at you.
He saw the girl from the path, blushing and lost. He saw the Hashira in the dojo, a blur of impossible grace. He saw the warrior on the mountain pass, her blade a piercing drill. He saw the kind woman who had brought him daikon.
And now he saw this. This small, trembling, brave girl, standing in a freezing waterfall, holding onto a broken man, and telling him... telling him...
He reached up. Slowly. His hand, shaking, brushed a strand of wet hair from your cheek. His fingers were numb with cold, but your skin was warm.
You gasped, a tiny, sharp intake of breath. Your eyes widened. You didn't pull away.
You leaned into his touch. Just a fraction. A centimeter.
He was still broken. He was still a fraud. He was still Giyu.
But maybe... just maybe...
That was enough.
He looked into your luminous, kind eyes.
And for the first time in a very long time, Giyu smiled.
A real smile. Small. Watery. Broken.
But real.
And your heart didn't just stop.
It flew.
You rose on your toes, a small, unthinking movement. Your cold, wet hands slid from his shoulders, one moving up to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his soaked, matted hair. The other hand came to rest on his jaw, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his bone.
And then, you closed the final distance.
Your lips, cold and chapped from the water, pressed against his.
It was a collision. It was clumsy, wet, and freezing. It was nothing like the stories. It was all chattering teeth and the awkward, shocking press of skin. It was the first kiss for both of you, and neither had any idea what you were doing.
For Giyu, it was a cataclysm.
His entire body seized. The touch, so gentle, so warm despite the cold, was an electrical shock that bypassed his brain and went straight to his heart. His mind, which had just begun to piece itself back together, went utterly, blindingly white.
This was not happening. This could not be happening.
You were kissing him.
He was a fraud. He was a coward. He was unworthy. He was the man who had flinched from you. He was Sanemi's joke.
You were the Flower Hashira. You were gentle, pure, and strong. You were wrong. This was a mistake. You had misunderstood. You were kissing a ghost.
You felt his response. Or rather, his lack of it.
He was a statue. His lips were cold, unresponsive, pressed shut beneath yours. His body was rigid, his hands still braced against the rocky wall on either side of your head, caging you in but not touching you.
A new, colder panic washed over you, more chilling than the waterfall.
I made a mistake. Oh, god, I made a mistake.
He is disgusted. This wasn't affection. This was assault. You had forced this on him.
You pulled back, a small, horrified gasp escaping you. Your face, which had been warm with resolve, was now as pale and cold as the water.
"I’m sorry," you whispered, your voice a wrecked, broken thing. "I... Giyu-san, I didn't mean to. I misread."
You tried to pull away, to turn your face, to flee as he had.
"No."
The word was not spoken. It was a groan. A deep, primal sound ripped from his very center.
Giyu's mind had rebooted. He had seen you pull away. He had seen the terror in your eyes—not of him, but of your own perceived mistake. He had seen the light he had just rekindled, and he had, again, been the one to snuff it out.
He couldn't. He wouldn't.
His body moved, finally, before his brain could list the thousand reasons why he was unworthy.
His hand, the one that had been braced on the stone beside your head, moved. It was not gentle. It was clumsy, desperate, and fast. It clamped onto your waist, his fingers digging into the soaked fabric of your uniform, and he pulled you.
Hard.
The small space between you vanished. You gasped as your body slammed flush against his, the air driven from your lungs. You were no longer pinned against the wall. You were pinned against him.
His other hand, the one that had been on your cheek, slid, grasping, into the thick, wet mass of your hair at the back of your head. He angled your face, his grip unsteady, his whole arm shaking.
He was so, so cold. And he was burning.
He looked at you, his blue eyes dark, wide, and filled with a terrifying, raw need. He was not calm. He was not gentle. He was a drowning man, and you were the only solid thing in the ocean.
"Don't stop," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp.
And then, he kissed you.
It was not a kiss of finesse. It was a kiss of desperation. It was a raw, bruising press of his mouth to yours, clumsy, angled wrong, and everything.
Your shock lasted only a second. The relief that flooded you was so profound, so all-consuming, that your legs gave out. You sagged against him, your own arms locking around his neck, holding on as if he were the only thing keeping you from being swept away by the waterfall.
He wasn't responding to your kiss. He was answering it.
He didn't know what he was doing. His lips were firm, untrained, moving against yours with a desperate, seeking pressure. He tasted of cold stone, of iron, of the faint, clean salt of his own tears. He was shaking, his entire body trembling against yours, the last of his iron control completely, totally gone.
For you, the clumsiness was the perfection. This was not the smooth, practiced kiss of a man like Tengen. Giyu’s kiss was honest. It was raw. It was real.
You kissed him back, your own inexperience meeting his. It was a fumbling, breathless, beautiful mess. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer.
Giyu's mind, which had been a white static of terror, was now a white light of sensation. He could feel everything. The softness of your lips. The cold water sluicing over his back. The impossible warmth of your body pressed against his. The rapid, frantic beat of your heart against his ribs.
You were here. You were real. You were not disgusted.
His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you so close he thought you might fuse, two pieces of ice melting into one. The last wall inside him, the one that held back the hope, the longing, the love... it didn't just break. It vaporized.
The roar of the waterfall, which had been the only sound in the world, was gone. The cold, which had leeched all the feeling from his skin, was gone. There was only this. This impossible, terrifying, warm contact. This feeling.
He had been alone for so long. He had been a ghost, haunting his own life. And now he was touching someone. Someone who was touching him back.
A small, broken sound escaped his throat, a sound that was half-groan, half-sob, and he kissed you deeper, no longer asking, but claiming. He was clumsy. He was desperate. He was starving.
You met his desperation, your own needs, so long suppressed, rising to meet him. You were the shield, and he was the man who needed one. He was the stoic pillar, and you were the one who saw the cracks. It was a perfect, terrible, beautiful fit.
It was only the need for air, a burning, human, inconvenient need, that finally broke you apart.
You didn't separate. You just parted.
Your lips unlocked with a small, wet sound that was shockingly loud in the sudden, roaring return of the waterfall's thunder.
You rested your foreheads against each other.
You were both gasping, your breath pluming in the cold, misty air. You were trembling so hard your teeth chattered. You were soaked. You were freezing. And neither of you had ever felt so warm.
Giyu's eyes were squeezed shut. He couldn't open them. He couldn't face this. The reality of what he had just done. What you had just done.
His hands were still tangled in your hair, gripping your waist. He had not let you go. He was terrified that if he did, you would dissolve. That this was a dream. A hallucination brought on by shame and hypothermia.
"Giyu..."
Your voice. It was a wreck. A breathless, shaky, wonderful whisper against his skin.
He couldn't answer. He had no words. He had never had words for this.
"Giyu," you said again, and he felt your cold hand move from his neck, your fingers, so small, tracing the line of his jaw. "Look at me."
He couldn't.
"Please."
He had to.
Slowly, his eyelids, which felt as heavy as stone, flickered open.
You were right there. Inches away. Your pale, pupil-less lavender eyes were wide, luminous in the dim, gray light. They were shining, not just with tears, but with you. With a dawning, terrified, brilliant joy.
"You are freezing," you whispered, your own body shivering violently against his. "We have to get out of the water."
It was the most practical, logical, normal thing you could have said.
It saved him.
He could do that. He could be functional.
He didn't speak. He just nodded. A single, jerky, agonized nod.
He did not let go of you. He could not let go of you.
His arm, which had been locked around your waist, tightened. He shifted, turning his body, putting himself between you and the worst of the waterfall's spray. He kept one hand buried in your hair, anchoring you to him, and used his other to find a handhold on the slick, mossy rock.
"Hold on," he rasped.
He moved, half-pulling, half-carrying you out of the small cavern.
The main force of the waterfall hit you again, a sudden, brutal, ice-cold slap from reality. It was a punishing, deafening roar. You cried out, burying your face against his chest, your arms locking around his neck.
Giyu didn't flinch. He set his feet, braced his body against the tonnage of water, and pushed. He was the Water Hashira. This was his element.
He pushed through the curtain.
The sudden, relative quiet of the canyon was a shock. He half-dragged, half-carried you through the churning, waist-deep pool, his legs stronger, his body a shield against the current. He did not let you stumble.
You collapsed onto the rocky bank, onto the sharp, cold gravel. You landed in a wet, tangled heap, your limbs entwined, both of you gasping, your chests heaving.
The cold was immediate. The water, no longer a buffer, was just water. And it was freezing.
"God," you breathed, shivering so hard your teeth chattered.
Giyu pulled away, just enough to sit up. He looked at you.
You were a mess. Your uniform. Your haori was torn from your run, soaked and clinging, gray with dirt. Your beautiful hair was a tangled, dripping mop. Your lips were pale and starting to turn blue.
He was a monster.
"You’re freezing," he said, his voice a low, rough rasp.
He looked at his own haori. His dry haori. Still neatly folded on the rock, a monument to his earlier, simpler, lonely despair.
He grabbed it.
"Here," he grunted.
He didn't ask. He just acted. He unhooked your own wet, clinging haori from your shoulders, dropping it to the ground. Then, he took his dry one, shook it open and, with a clumsy, awkward, desperate tenderness, he wrapped it around you.
You clutched the fabric, your small, cold hands disappearing into the sleeves. It was warm. Or, at least, it was dry. It smelled like him. Faintly of soap, and cedar, and something uniquely Giyu.
You turned, your face buried in the warm, dry silk, your lavender eyes, wide and shining, peering up at him.
"Giyu..." you started.
He looked at you. Really looked at you.
You were tiny. You were drenched. You were shivering.
And you were wearing his haori.
You were his.
The thought hit him.
He was in love.
And you...
He looked at your face.
You weren't running. You were waiting.
He had to say something.
He couldn't.
So, he did the only thing he could.
He sat down.
He sat on the cold rock, his back to the roaring waterfall, his own soaked, black uniform dripping onto the gravel. He looked at his feet.
The silence stretched.
It was your turn.
You watched him. This impossible man.
He had attacked a Hashira. He had run. He had cried. He had kissed you.
