averie

she/her | enfp

[heytheredeann]

[chosobite]

blood, sweat and lace

pairing: choso x vampire!reader

genre: angst, suggestive ( 18+ ) » 3.2k words

at a coworker’s gothic-themed birthday party, your hunger as a new vampire is spiralling out of control. luckily, choso kamo is there to rescue you with a slow dance and a black lace handkerchief

contains: mentions of blood, biting, heated make out session, slow burn | choso is half-human, half cursed spirit but reader doesn’t know it | cw: reader struggles with accepting her new identity

written for @yoonsucks event ‘interlaced’ and lowkey based off a bigger project. hope you enjoy reading!

choso art: @/joe44ui on x

Navigating daily life in a new town is hard, but it’s worse when you don’t even recognise yourself.

It’s been almost three weeks since the bite, since your heart stopped beating. But you still have yet to learn how to keep your fangs tucked and how to ignore the rhythmic pulse in the neck of the person in front of you. Even when you’re at the ticket check - you’re baffled that a simple, mindless task as tearing a movie stub is now maddeningly frustrating. The scent of popcorn that used to be one of your biggest comforts is almost nonexistent when every neck in the lobby is a ticking clock of temptation, full of the warm blood you now crave to survive.

This overwhelming hunger is why you’ve been living like a hermit, retreating into the shadows of your apartment, terrified of the monster that might slip out if you lose control. The only exception is work; you still have rent and bills to pay, so you force yourself into the world just long enough to survive.

But tonight is non-negotiable. Nobara is throwing her birthday party and she’s the first - and only - real friend you have made ever since you moved here. You can’t let her down even if a gothic-themed party is the absolute last place you want to be at right now - surrounding yourself with fake blood and plastic teeth while fighting a real, very desperate thirst feels like a cruel joke from the universe, but for her, you’ll do your best.

The apartment is crowded when you arrive; you knew Nobara was extroverted, but you didn’t expect a crowd so… suffocating.

They are singing and laughing, some with plastic fangs falling out of their mouths, others exhaling gray circles of cigarette smoke that hangs heavy in the air. You can also smell the cloying scent of perfume and sweat, but beneath it all lies the most agonising trigger - the hot, sweet iron of blood pulsing through dozens of veins.

You navigate the room, eyes darting, your nails digging deep into your palms. Even your outfit feels like a trap - which, in comparison to some guests that have gone all out, looking like they stepped straight out of a Tim Burton movie, is awkwardly simple. You chose a cheap black dress with a corset that cinches too tight, and a revealing cleavage that makes you feel exposed, the hem brushing your knees with every small step.

“You made it!”

Nobara’s voice cuts through the noise. She looks radiant, so elegant in her purple gown, her face lit up with joy. She grabs your arm, her fingers radiating a heat that makes your throat ache.

“Look at you! You look absolutely gorgeous,” she gushes.

Trying to ignore the thumping of her excited heart, you force a polite curve on your lips. “Not as much as the birthday girl,” you manage to say, tone slightly tilted just enough to sound excited.

She hands you a drink and you accept it. As you chat and you keep sipping on it, the thirst for something entirely else continues flaring up.

It has been three days since your last meal - the 5ml hospital vial Choso had given you the morning after he found you behind the club and saved your life. The supply is long gone and you’re at the point where the hunger stops being just a dull ache.

He had told you it was just a medical surplus he’d managed to find, but the moment the warm liquid hit your tongue, you knew. It was his blood.

You don’t know why he lied, though. Maybe it was pride, or maybe it was some sort of protection. Truthfully, you aren’t sure which would hurt more - him keeping the secret forever, or eventually telling you the truth and making you feel even more like a parasite.

You watched him every day at work - sweeping popcorn, helping Nobara keep up with the rowdy students when they crowd the bar while bickering over nachos, swapping out movie posters in the lobby. You searched for a bandage under the cuff of his uniform or a slight tremor in his hands, - anything to prove you aren’t just deceiving yourself.

But you found nothing.

Still, the certainty sits cold and heavy in your gut. A vampire’s senses shouldn’t be making mistakes, right? The scent of what he gave you was an exact match for the pulse thrumming under his skin.

You’re ninety nine percent sure. The final one percent is just a desperate hope that you’re not harming the only person who actually cared if you made it to sunrise.

For that… you are going to find a way to survive alone. Without draining him.

Speaking of him - Choso is leaning against the far wall, and he looks breathtaking.

He’s wearing a dark suit - all deep velvet textures, subtle romantic ruffles at the collar and a Victorian-style vest that emphasizes his broad, tall frame. For the first time you see his raven black hair loose, falling around his sharp face, effortlessly softly. He has a glass of amber whiskey in his hand, the ice clinking as he watches you with those gloomy, intense eyes.

Until he pushes off the wall to walk toward you, his stride fluid and unrushed - even as he’s perfectly aware of how badly you are struggling. You know he is.

He stops just inches away, looming over you as the scent of his musky cologne momentarily overpowers the smell of the whole room.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” he says, his voice a low, deep vibration. His eyes fall to your glossy lips and stay for a second longer than he probably deems appropriate. “Or like you’re about to bite someone.”

You notice a subtle shift in him; in his gaze as it lingers with an unreadable intensity. It’s so rare to see his professional side crack, even a little bit, and let something through.

You swallow hard, your heart stuttering at the word bite.

“Neither,” you lie, shaking your head; but your voice comes out breathless, unconvincing. “I’m fine. It’s just… it’s too hot in here. And this dress is ridiculous… so uncomfortable.” You tug at the stiff fabric, the friction only fueling your irritation.

Your hands start to shake so violently you have to clench them into fists.

Choso just stands there, watching the way your composure crumbles piece by piece. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

He moves into your space, his body blocking out the lights of the party and creating a small bubble of shadows. Carefully, he catches your fisted hands, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles till your fingers finally unfurl.

His skin is warm, terrifyingly warm.

“I’m fine.” You insist, breath temporarily hitching as one of his hands slides at the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest. “I can handle this,” you add, voice thin as you try to find your footing. He guides you in a small, agonisingly slow circle. “I’m not some… mindless animal.”

The sway of the dance perhaps looks romantic to some. But in actuality - it’s torture. His body heat is radiating through your ridiculous corset that feels like a cage. And with every step, your thigh brushes his, pulling back your focus on the carotid artery inside his neck.

Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore the heavy thrumming, but Choso tightens his grip around you, forcing you to match the pace.

“You can barely stand,” he mutters, leading you with an impressively effortless grace. “Your pupils are blown and you haven’t taken a breath in two minutes. You aren’t handling anything.”

“I said I’m fine!” you snap.

You squeeze your eyes shut, getting dizzier by his scent; salt, wood, metal.

Then, in a flash, the control you’ve fought so desperately to hold onto snaps; like a thread that suddenly slipped through your fingers. All the frustration of the last few weeks spills out in a jagged whisper and you simply aren’t strong enough to hold it back anymore.

You drop his hands, your tight fists returning, only this time stronger.

“I hate this, Choso! I hate that I can hear everyone’s blood, I hate that I’m a parasite on you, and I hate that I’m standing here in this stupid dress, looking at my friend like… l-like I want to eat her! I hate it… I hate what I am! I’m a monster!”

A breath hitches in your throat, a dry sob. But no tears come as your frightened eyes, wide and searching, look up at him. You don’t know if it’s the fact his expression doesn’t shift into pity, or the quiet determination in his gaze as the hard line of his jaw softens - but something manages to steady you, just for a moment. It’s enough to notice him reaching into the breast pocket of his vest.

He pulls out a black handkerchief, made from a delicate lace that he lightly wraps around his wrist; turning it into a barrier to prevent any stray drops from ruining your dress.

The next moment, the lace-covered skin is directly pressed against your lips, the warmth of his pulse beneath impossible to ignore.

“Drink,” he murmurs; his voice a low, irresistible growl and a subtle plea all at once.

“Choso, I can’t—” the protest comes out barely a breath against his palm.

“Yes, you can,” he hisses. His thumb traces the line of your jaw gently, tilting you back, so he can peer through your eyes. “Just… bite me. It’s okay.”

Under the flickering lights, the music around you seems to fade, leaving only the sound of your shared breathing. Choso refuses to look away even for a second, his expression a stable mixture of trust and silent encouragement that makes the walls you’ve been trying to built crumble.

The struggle inside you finally snaps. Leaning forward, you allow your instincts to take the lead, pressing lips into the dark fabric. The resistance of the lace gives away as your fangs descend, sinking into the skin beneath.

The sensation is an intoxicating rush of warmth and vitality that floods your senses through a sharp wave; it silences the roar of the hunger instantly. The frantic noise in your head finally falls silent, replaced only by the rhythmic heat of him.

And it’s not just the physical relief that feels marvelous. It’s also the way he holds you close even as you take from him. It’s his honeyed taste… a complex blend of strength and something else - something close to lust, but deeper.

A soft sound escapes your throat, your hands gripping the collar of his coat, so you can steady yourself against the sensation; the heady, metallic warmth filling your system.

Choso doesn’t even flinch at the sharp sting of the bite. Instead, his arm tightens around you, anchoring you close. He leans down, resting his chin against the top of your head, his breath hitching slightly.

“That’s it,” he whispers in a reassurance. “Good girl. Take as much as you need. I’ve got you.”

The shame you feared melts away at the sound of his words, and as you feed, the edges of your panic gradually smooth out, overpowered by this shared vulnerability.

He’s truly giving this to you. His flesh. His own blood.

For the first time since your transformation, the hunger doesn’t feel like a curse. Tonight, it feels more like a connection.

As the initial rush of the feeding begins to steady enough, you pull back, full for the first time in days. The transition is seamless - the sharp, elongated points of your fangs slip back upward, retracting into your gums until your mouth looks human again.

Your eyes flicker to the handkerchief - it has done its job. Not a single drop has ruined your dress, or his coat. There is only a lone, stray smear of crimson at the corner of your mouth. You catch it with the pad of your thumb, gently wiping it away.

Choso watches you closely; not with fear or shock. There’s a profound, quiet stillness in his eyes. He looks almost relieved - that you stopped fighting yourself and took what you needed.

Around you the party continues in a blurred haze of laughter and clinking glasses. But now, as the two of you stand silently in front of each other, still just as near, the air shifts, charged with the heat you just shared.

Then, he reaches out, his calloused fingers grazing your jaw as he tilts your face up.

He doesn’t mind the blood you just wiped, the fangs he just saw, nor the way your eyes are still wide and stunned.

He kisses you. Slow, studiedly; you’ve never been touched like this before - there wasn’t an ounce of doubt in his actions. As the kiss deepens, the world around you blurs and your fingers scramble for purchase, catching the sleeve of his coat just to stay grounded as the floor seems to tilt beneath your feet.

Your mind is racing once you pull back slowly, struggling to keep up. Just a minute ago you were feeding from his wrist and now you’re… kissing?

It’s all too fast - these changes, and unfamiliar emotions.

“I need a moment,” you breathe against his mouth, the words trailing off in the small space between you as your hand drops from his sleeve.

Choso tilts his head slowly, his expression shifting into something startled. “I’m sorry,” he begins, his voice now slightly rough with uncertainty.

But you don’t hear the rest. You’re already pushing through the crowd in need to find the bathroom as quickly as possible.

You push through the door, the click of the lock cutting off the muffled noise of the party. You walk to the sink, leaning over as you stare at your reflection in the mirror, trying to process the rush of the last few minutes.

You just need a second… a second to feel human again.

Because in all honesty - you hate the way you feel about yourself right now; the memory of your fangs bared in front of him makes your stomach churn. It’s a side of you that feels monstrous, and the fact that he had to witness that form… that he saw the predator behind your eyes… it leaves you feeling exposed in a way you can’t stand.

You take a deep breath, then quickly turn on the faucet to wash your hands and your mouth. After rinsing, you grab the near paper towel and press it to your lips. Not even a minute later there’s a hesitant knock on the door, firm enough to instantly snap you out of your thoughts.

“It’s me,” Choso’s voice comes from the other side. “Can I come in?”

“Leave me alone,” you shout, your voice slightly cracking.

But then, a sudden wave of exhaustion washes over you, overriding the panic. Ignoring him for the rest of the night won’t undo what he saw.

You take one last look of your reflection before unlocking the door and pulling it open, fully expecting to see an empty hallway.

But he is still there. His gaze lifts from the ground on the instant, peering through yours with that quiet concern you grew so familliar with.

You step back to give him room. The small space of the bathroom now feels even tighter with him inside, the air shifting from the memory of what happened under the party lights. You look down at your hands, struggling to find the right words, not knowing where to even start… You still feel the lingering shame, and it’s distracting you from thinking.

“I… I want to say thank you,” you begin, your voice small but sincere. “For letting me…”

You can’t. You can’t find the strength; bite, drink, feed - you can’t say them out loud.

“For helping me.” You finish at once.

Choso nods silently, his eyes holding onto the eye contact steadily, as if letting go would mean letting the intimate moment you had on the dance floor slip away forever. The room is quiet for a long moment before he speaks.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, his tone softer than usual. “The kiss?”

You look away, your fingers finding the edge of the sink as you acknowledge the weight of his question. And then, as your lips part slowly - it hits you. How big the gap between his world and yours is.

“I’m scared,” you confess, finally looking back at him. “I’m scared of what I am when I’m with you.” You take a shallow breath, noticing the subtle frown of his brows. “But no. I don’t regret it.”

A wave of visible relief washes over Choso, as if he had been bracing himself for a completely different answer. He erases the distance between you in a single step, reaching down to take your hand in his - his skin is still just as warm.

He lifts it slowly and leans in, pressing his lips against the inside of your wrist. It’s a slow, tender touch that immediately sends electricity through your body.

One kiss turns into a warm path of multiple kisses up your arm, his lips soft and gentle against your skin, causing your breathing to pick up.

He pauses just below the crook of your elbow, his breath excitedly fanning across your skin as his voice slips huskily.

“I’ll never let anything happen to you,” he murmurs, half-lidded gaze looking at you with unfiltered fidelity. “I swear it.”

By the time his other hand slides up to cup your jaw, your eyes are already closing. His mouth finds yours once more - but this kiss is different; so, so different.

It’s heavier, hungrier, and tastes with quiet urgency that makes your knees go weak.

A tiny moan escapes you when his tongue parts yours lips, sensually making its way through. His fingers never leave, laced through strands of your hair they gently press against the back of your neck to keep you tilted.

The kisses deepen, growing hotter and more demanding as his experient tongue leads yours into an arousing dance. Until he moves down, guiding his panting mouth along the column of your neck, inhaling deeply before kissing the sensitive flesh.

Every wet, warm press of his lips, every nibble, makes the weight in your chest go smaller, replacing it with pure delight. You grip his ruffled shirt tightly, bunching the fabric in your hands as you completely surrender to the sensation, letting him map the line of your throat.

You can feel his heartbeat quickening against your fist as he sucks on your skin with his puffy lips; his bulge growing bigger and harder with want as his body presses against you, surrounding you with heat and his musky scent as his two hands sneak beneath your dress; one of them carefully lifting your leg.

“Hey! Wrap it up in there!” A loud, slurred voice yells out of nowhere. “Need to use the bathroom ASAP!” An insistent banging against the wood follows.

His lips stay pressed against your neck for one last second before he exhales lowly.

Your fingers, trembling, uncurl from the fabric of his shirt; your foot carefully drops back to the floor. Reality rushes back into the room, sharp and overwhelming.

But even after everything, Choso still looks at you with that same gaze, full of hope and promise, before he steps back to turn around, giving you some privacy to fix your dress.

— ♡ thank you for reading! || copyright © chosobite 2026 all rights reserved. do not repost, copy or translate my works on any platforms.

[fairy-girls-journalworld]

New City, New Faces

rookie!leon x older fem reader!

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summary: it had been two weeks since Leon's last encounter with you in the break room. But today he would see why you were so admirable among the other officers.

chapters: 1, 2, _ , _ , _

tags: no use of y/n, no nsfw, older!reader, female!reader, rookie!leon, reader is only 5 years older (so 26), he is an awkward loser around reader still, reader will call leon a duckling a lot still, tw: hostage/robbery situation, albert wesker is here (guys i had too, i love him), not read before hand

Word Count: 1.3k

a/n: I'm sorry for the such delay on this chapter! Life has been busy however, I have plans for the last three chapters

all images came from Pinterest 📌

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It's been two weeks since Leon's encounter with you in the break room. He was still thinking about the name you called him when you left.

'Duckling'.

Just the memory of it made his cheeks flare up and his muscles turn to jelly. How did someone he barely knew have such an effect on him already? He knew you weren't flirting with him, he also knew this feeling you were giving him was not purposeful. You just wanted to help him through the precinct and make sure he didn't have major troubles. It was a nice feeling.

He pulled up the handbrake of the car and sighed heavily. It was his 15th day of working, he wasn't expecting much to happen today either. He gave a few speeding tickets out, answering a few complaint phone calls and stopped one shoplifter over those past 13. He wanted something to happen. Something bigger. Obviously not something so major the entire city would be hurt, but something where he could finally feel like a large enough help to the city itself.

Apparently the universe had been listening to half of his request however. As he stepped a single foot into the front door of the precinct, you came up the stairs and tapped his shoulder with your full palm.

"You're with me, rookie. Come on." You then quickly walked back through the front door. He'd never seen your face so serious during his time here, so this must've been important.

“Where are we going!?” He got into the passenger seat of your patrol car as he slotted his backpack in between his legs before putting his seat belt on. 

“A robbery. Two perpetrators have taken the store owner and two of his workers hostage. So basically I would treat this as your number one job to show us senior officers what you’ve got in you.” You take a sharp turn into the street before speeding off down the road. The sirens were blaring from on top of the roof, it was almost starting to feel like an adrenaline rush for Leon as the car kept getting closer and closer to the scene. His fingers were twitching with anticipation as you pulled up behind another patrol car.

"There's a spare vest in the back seat. Put it on, get your pistol then meet me at the line the others have set up. OK?" Your voice made his brain slow the adrenaline filled thoughts for a moment, soothing them.

"Yes ma'am."

"Good duckling." You then quickly got out of the car and jogged down the path, leaving a now flustered and back to adrenaline filled Leon sat still in the passenger seat.

He then quickly snaps out of his daze and grabs the vest from the backseat before practically falling out of the car as he puts it on. This was his moment to shine, to show the department that he could do anything thrown at him and blast through. With confidence, slight style and positive results. And fuck, he got to show this off to you as well? Even more nerve-wracking but better!

Leon then quickly followed your footsteps, passing other officers who were discussing a plan to get inside without any incidents occurring. At first, he couldn't see you. The crowd was large, apparently the RPD doesn't mind civilians within their group. Leon's eyes still went through all the faces before he finally then saw you. Climbing over a cruiser hood before walking right across the street straight to the store. Are you crazy? He quickly followed, once again, really living up to his nickname.

“What are you doing!? This isn’t procedure!!” The both of you then went to the alleyway between the store and another. Your service pistol in hand and a determined look on your face.

“I have a plan, rookie. Just follow my lead, don’t hit any civilians in there. Only shoot if threatened. We don’t need any deaths here.” Leon nodded, his bangs flopping into his face as he pulled out his own service pistol. Going against procedure like this was definitely not what he was taught and told to keep the attitude of. But, if this is what you think the situation needed, then Leon would follow each and every instruction. 

You went around to the back of the store and found the door to be slightly ajar. You scoffed lightly before slowly pushing it open with your fingertips, gun held up in the other. Luckily, no assailants were in the backroom, so you and Leon both took that as an opportunity to slip into the room and slowly make your way up closer to the front half.

“OK… Stay quiet. Let me try and do some negotiations. If that doesn’t work out… Well, just be prepared.” Leon didn’t answer as he then watched you open the door, not trying to keep anything silent about it. Again, not the correct plan of action but the both of you weren’t in a gun fight yet. So, he still trusted your word, like it was the only thing that should ever be trusted, the only thing that should ever be followed. And perhaps at this point, he was already that infatuated with your existence. When you stepped out of the backroom, the criminals' guns were already aimed right at you, but you stayed calm and raised your hands above your head.

“Boys, I just want to talk. No need for any gunfights here. And no bodies either.” Leon was panicking for you. He tried his best to keep it internalised but he couldn’t stop him from biting his bottom lip softly. His eyes flew back and forth between all in the room. The two robbers, you then the store owner and 3 customers. 

“Bullshit that you just want to talk.” Then it all went in a flash.

One of the men launched at you, so quickly that Leon didn’t even see it happen for a moment until you knocked the guy down with a full blow to the side of the head with your elbow. The other hesitated for a moment, leaving you a perfect opportunity to then grab him, slamming his head down into the counter behind him.

Was that against all protocol in every policing handbook? Yes, yes it was. But did Leon find it mesmerizing and slightly hot? Yes, yes he did. 

“Rookie, handcuff the first one. I’ve got this one.” Your voice was calm, not even out of breath. How many times have you done this? Wait, maybe that’s not an answer he wants to hear.

“Y-Yes ma’am.” He did as told as the front door of the shop bursts open, the other officers piling in to access the scene or help out the hostages. Leon then noticed a man with bright blonde hair, a stronger yellow than his own step in. He felt some type of pressure fall upon his shoulders, like this man held a status he didn’t even know about?

The sunglasses on the man's face hid where his eyes were going, but Leon’s own eyes squinted slightly as the man went to you, quietly discussing something with you. Who was that guy? Did he miss an introduction or a name when he was being shown to everyone? That’s when the patch on the man’s shoulder caught his attention. S.T.A.R.S. The elite force, per say. All of them were out at the time of his first day. And he didn’t really need to go into the direction of their office at all so far. Leon was then snapped out of his thoughts as both yours and the man's faces were looking right in his direction. Right. At. Him. 

“Leon, this is Captain Wesker. Head of the S.T.A.R.S team. Apparently, you have not met.” The seriousness or the usual sweet tone had left you by this point. You seemed to… almost dislike Wesker. Leon won’t comment on it, especially as you push past Wesker, taking the criminal from before outside. 

“Rookie, I’ll make one suggestion to you. If you hear anything above your pay-grade around here, you never heard it.”

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tag list: @animegamerfox @d4ihen @herlovelykiss @cruel-serpent

a/n: i'm planning on 5 chapters for this series! so three more to go!

(please let me know if you'd like to be a part of the tag list for this series!)

[leonsleatherjacket]

shy! leon's assistant! reader x re9! leon

Summary: A week after your intense argument with Leon, all those late nights overworking yourself, the pressure from your parents, the guilt from hurting Leon over your mistake, and the grief of your brother finally makes you crash. Unfortunately for you, it's when you get stuck in an elevator with your boss, Leon S. Kennedy.

Song: Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem

part 4 of this

Leon S. Kennedy’s office was silent the entire week. He dumped files on your desk, less than usual because he didn’t want to be too mean, but there was an overall lack of warmth in his demeanour towards you. You didn’t care anyway. What were you thinking, having a silly crush on your boss? It was probably the fact that you had to spend pretty much all day with him, just a small crush to keep you sane in this grey building.

It wasn’t the way his stubble messily dragged around his jaw and that leathery smell that followed him everywhere, the scent that made you instantly relax. It wasn’t his salt and pepper hair that floppily hung around his face. It wasn’t the way he made you feel so confident in yourself or the way he made sure you were comfortable in every sense possible.

You began to stutter through your sentences, running into the same obstacles you used to, all over again. For some reason, it felt like you were crumpling and twisting back into yourself, and all the blossoming and growth you made in your time with Kennedy had withered away. Just the same shy, awkward girl you were before. Did your growth become stagnant, or had you reached a peak and now you were rolling back down the hill again? Good things don’t last forever, and you learned that the hard way. You had felt weak and vulnerable for allowing yourself to develop an attachment to Leon and working for him. You hadn’t even notice that you allowed yourself to do such a thing.

“Don’t forget about dinner tonight,” your mother said through your phone that was sitting between your ear and your shoulder as you sorted through the files in the archive room.

“I won’t,” you mumbled, frowning at the labels on the files. Every other week, your parents demanded a Friday night dinner. Sometimes there were guests, sometimes they tried to get you with sons of old business bores, sometimes it was just you and them.

“It’s important you come this time, the girls from my charity are coming over and they’d love to see how much you’ve grown up. Your father’s co-workers are coming too, very important men from his firm,” she told you. You gave up searching for the warmth in her voice, because it had frozen over after the storm of your brother passing away.

“I’ll be there,” you said absentmindedly.

“Yeah. Maybe it’s best you don’t wear that white blouse you were wearing last time. Your father found it rather casual.”

You looked down at your white blouse, and cringed, “I won’t.”

“You can finally say you’re doing something serious with your degree now. Isn’t that great, sweetheart?” she asked, and you found it hard to tell if she was being sardonic.

“I’ve always been doing something serious with my degree, mom.”

“Well, I can’t say it did to me and your father. But this job sounds like real responsibility, something we can actually talk about over dinner,” you heard her ushering her cleaners around in the background.

“Yeah.”

“And don’t be shy. You always had a bad habit of that, ever since you were a young girl.”

“I won’t,” you replied, hoping that she could get the hint to leave you alone with your increasingly monotonous tone.

“Alright then. Try to look presentable. See you tonight honey.”

“Bye mom.”

The call ended. Somehow, she always made you feel like you were sixteen again. Sixteen and stupid.

You stared at the phone for a split second before you shoved it back in your pocket. It was hard to tell whether this splitting headache came from your mother’s voice or the presentation that needed to be finished by tonight.

Bringing back files to the office swiftly, Sherry walked up to you, her eyes lighting up as soon as they landed on you.

“Hey, y/n, I need to talk to you about something,” she pulled you aside, her light blond hair looking white and halo-like under the harsh office lights.

“Yeah?”

“First of all, are you okay? You look… horrible,” she murmured, her eyes worriedly darting around your face.

“Thanks,” you said sarcastically. Understanding sarcasm was a lesson taught by Kennedy.

“I’m being serious.”

“I’m fine. What did you need to talk to me about?” you questioned, suspicious of her beaming grin.

“Well,” she led you out of the office area and into the quiet corridor that led down to the toilets. Her head turned from side to side before she leant her neck towards you, “I’m getting married. And I want you to come to my wedding.”

“Oh my god! Sherry! I- Oh my- I’m so happy for you!” you gasped, squealing quietly, bouncing on your heels.

“Shhh! I want to keep it quiet. It’ll be small. Just a few friends,” she smiled, the two of you giggling like schoolgirls. “Leon is coming too.”

The sound of his name was strange, not the familiar warmth that you used to feel when you heard it. Instead, it was cold and slimy.

“Oh… that’s nice,” you said, discovering your old interest in the floor.

“That’s nice? Did you two fight?” she asked and then paused, “honestly, that makes sense. Leon has been miserable all week.”

“We didn’t fight.”

“Look. I’m not gonna pry, but maybe fix it before the wedding?”

Be a grown up, was basically what she was asking the two of you.

“There’s no fixing needed. We’re fine,” you insisted.

“Alright. I really want, even need, the two of you there so, please,” she begged, holding your hands.

“Of course, Sherry. I would never miss your wedding,” you gave her a reassuring smile, straightening your posture.

You sat back at your desk, the lines of data slowly swirling and dancing around the screen. Head throbbing and uncontrollably shivering, a tense heat burrowed itself in your forehead pulling and twisting. When you wiped your forehead, sweat glided across your hand. It’s just the summer, that’s all. But does the summer make your eyes burn every time you blink, make your body feel unbelievably heavy and make you sway when you walk?

As you stood up, a pounding feeling circled your head, and you grabbed the edge of your desk. You wiped away the hairs that were slicked to your face and drifted your fingers across your desk as you walked over to Leon’s desk, placing your finished report on it.

His pen stopped moving across his paper and he paused before looking up at you. You looked hollow. Your forehead was glistening with sweat and your eyes struggled to focus on him, like you were trying to stay present in the room that was spiralling out of your control.

“You look awful,” He remarked, raising an eyebrow. You just wanted to slap the cocky look off his face, how dare that be the first three words he said to you all week. But you could feel a stone forming in your throat and you internally cursed yourself for being such a big crybaby.

“Full of compliments,” you mumbled, turning around to go back to your desk, stumbling clumsily in your heels.

“You’re sick,” he observed, immediately standing up from his chair. Oh, so he has decided he cares now.

“I’m not,” you denied, having the same tone of a toddler beginning to have a tantrum.

“You are,” he said firmly, a temper beginning to boil.

“It’s just the summer. I’m a bit hot,” you dismissed him with your hand.

“You’re pale and sweaty,” he insisted, “sit.”

“I’m not a dog,” you retorted, your eyebrows furrowing, your breathing becoming uneven and hard to control.

“You’re going home.”

“I am not. You know I have that report and presentation for your mission due in tomorrow,” you told him, stepping forward.

“You’re going home,” he repeated, walking over to you, but you stepped back, swaying. He grabbed your wrist to make sure you didn’t end up on the floor.

“No! Everything is unfinished, I’m going home after they’re finished,” your voice raised, jerking your wrist away from him.

“What is wrong with you? Just take the damn day off,” he shook his head, your stubbornness had him in disbelief.

“I’m not letting the team down!” your voice was raised, feeling the same anger you did in the car park.

“You’re letting me down by coming into my office barely conscious and pretending you’re fine!” he hissed, gesturing towards you.

“I just-“ you stammered, trying to remember everything you needed to complete, “I need five more minutes,”

“What you need is a bed.”

“What I need-,” you were becoming out of breath, “what I need is to finish my work!”

He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. You weren’t warm, you were literally burning. Your flushed cheeks and glassy eyes stared at him, slightly out of place. For a split second, you could feel his breath on your skin.

“That’s it. You’re going home,” he said with a finality and unplugged your computer. He had never been forceful like this before.

You let out something between a whimper and a cry, “I can’t rest unless it’s finished.”

“Jesus, y/n, I’ll do it myself. I’ll do anything for you to be at home and resting right now,” he sighed, his eyes drifting back up at you, the limp wire in his hand, “You are not being very professional right now. Look at you.”

“Oh please, when has this ever been professional?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. Who does he think he is to start lecturing you?

He ignored you.

But he couldn’t ignore the grave of the office goldfish outside the building, he couldn’t ignore the fixed shower head, he couldn’t ignore the anger he felt when he heard your mother on the phone, he couldn’t ignore how hearing your laugh eased something in him, he couldn’t ignore the way he chased after you when he found your resignation letter.

“Elevator. Now,” He demanded, grabbing your bag and then holding your shoulder to keep you upright.

“I don’t need an escort.” You mumbled, bringing your shoulders up to your ears to inch away from his touch.

“You do when you come into my office like this.”

You didn’t respond.

The elevator doors shut.

The two of you stood next to each other, a very clear, clean space between you. He stood there in his navy suit, no tie due to the heat. You stood there in your white blouse and black pencil skirt. His eyes flickered to the necklace that shimmered alongside the beads of sweat that clung to your collarbone. Your eyes flickered to his hands that were tightly clenching onto your bag.

The elevator began to hum, and that weird tickly feeling in your stomach occurred whenever you got in the elevator.

Silence fell.

But of course, Leon Kennedy can never keep his mouth shut.

“I’ll finish your presentation,” he started, shoving his other hand in his pocket.

“No- you won’t understand where I left off,” somehow, you still had enough fumes to argue with him.

“It’s fine. I’ve got this,” he reassured you, softening his tone.

“I’ve got it! I had it but you’re sending me home!” you turned to him sharply, your head spinning in response.

“Because you’re-,” he was going to continue arguing back, but the elevator had enough of your bickering and shook and lights flickered. It wasn’t moving downwards or upwards. This threw you further into your disorientation and your body swayed backwards.

 “Woah,” he grabbed your arm, his other hand dropping your bag and instinctively held your waist to steady you.

“Leon-“ you said, your voice thinning as you tried to balance yourself.

“Hey, I’ve got you,” he held you firmly, "the elevator has really chosen the wrong time."

You were fighting a pointless battle. The last time you got home before the sunset was a month ago. You spent your weekends restlessly finishing off other department’s work. The fridge hadn’t seen real substantial food for a while. Your parents just kept demanding and demanding, and you felt as if you were being eaten alive by the two of them. A machine is what you were to them. When you thought you were growing away from the shy, perfection-hungry teen, one mistake detonated the bomb inside of you.

What would your brother think? The way he tore your family apart. Left you all alone. Suddenly you were the one experiencing everything first, without an older brother to guide you through it. He would probably call you an idiot for behaving this way, that you were being silly, that you looked terrible before laughing and giving you a hug which always made you burst out crying.

Your body couldn’t keep up with the rate at which you were abusing it.

Your knees buckled and Leon fell onto his knees, trying to catch you before you hit the floor.

“Told you I wasn’t good enough,” you murmured into his chest, shivering and trembling in his arms. His hand was holding your shoulder, his other hand firm around the backs of your knees.

“You just collapsed and I have to hold you in my damn hands to keep you upright and you’re telling me you’re not good enough?” he lets out a short, breathy laugh, freeing his hand of your leg and moving the hair out of your face.

“I messed it all up,” you said hoarsely, your trembling fingers holding onto his jacket, just to ground yourself.

“Yeah, you did,” he sighed, “you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “just wanted to earn my place in your office.”

“You earned it the minute you got the job. Quit needing to prove yourself all the damn time,” he whispered back. “You’re killing yourself.”

“I just wanted to be good enough,” you mumbled, half delirious, staring up at him with glassy eyes.

He was there, his eyes darting all over your face as if you were going to shatter at any second.

“You already are. You’ve always been good enough for me, the minute you walked in with those color-coded folders,” he let out another small laugh, his thumb rubbing circles into your shoulder. You squirmed, trying to keep your head up right and your eyelids open.

“Leon,” you croaked, fingers tightening around his collar, “don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he murmured, his gaze flickering to the closed doors of the elevators and then shooting back to you as if looking away from you for a second could make you disappear alone.

Your eyelids were heavy, succumbing to your utter exhaustion. Leon shook you gently,

“Hey-,”

“Tired,” you barely made out the word as your grip loosened.

“I know,” he said, “but I need you to stay awake until we get out of the elevator.”

“Demanding… so much,”

“Well, you collapsing in an elevator is kind of forcing my hand right now,”

“Are you still mad at me?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing weakly and then relaxing again, like the small movement required all of your effort, “the car-park argument.”

“That is something for later. All I need you to do right now is to keep looking at me.”

“Still demanding.”

“You’re the one who chose the demanding boss,”

“…..didn’t.”

“Did.” A smirk was tugging on his lips until your eyes began to close again, and it vanished off his face. “Hey- keep arguing with me- just keep talking.”

“Trying…always trying so hard for you,” your words dragged and slurred.

His jaw tightened. He knew you had family problems, but he didn't want to believe that you were pushing yourself to your very limits because of him. You were meant to be safe in his office, in the DSO building and supported. That always eased something in him, knowing you don't have to deal with the physical horrors he faced.

But this wasn't safety. Had he pushed you too hard? Did he make you feel like you had to earn you place every day?

You walked into his office with those stupid folders and your stupid stuttering sentences and he immediately knew you were the best person for the job. You weren't meant to go almost unconscious over it.

“Hey. You’re not ruining yourself to keep up with me. Hell, you’re not even keeping up with me- you’re overqualified for half the bullshit I throw at you.”

“Never feels like it."

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he grabbed your drifting chin softly, tilting it to face him, “Hey. Eyes up. You promised arguing.”

“Tired,” your voice died out, alongside the flame inside of you. You were left shivering, teeth clattering softly.

“Hey, hey- no, no, no,” he started to shake you again but with more desperation, panic creeping into his voice, “Stay with me y/n. I'm not leaving your side.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused before smiling a little when you saw that familiar face.

“Here,” you slowly lifted your hand and gave him two little taps on the side of his cheek.

“Good, just, keep talking,” he said quickly, “I’m gonna take you to medical, and then drive you home, okay?”

You shifted and squirmed in his grip.

“No- don’t take me home- my parents,” you groaned, feeling like a teenager who was about to get scolded for being out late. You knew your parents were going to publicly execute you for bailing on them on their Friday night dinners.

He shook his head and hesitated for a second.

“Fine. Then I’m taking you back to mine.”

“Unprofessional...” you murmured, your weight sagging against him, your fingers lazily dragging themselves along his stubble, totally delirious. He could feel how hot you were through your clothes.

“So is dying in the elevator.”

“Not dying.”

“You’re doing a pretty good impression right now.”

The elevator jolted back to life, descending with a graceful hum.

note: the climax of the series is here. thank u for all the kind comments, it really encourages me. i'm surprised by how many people love my silly office fic. sorry if the ending was a little sudden for this chapter i realllyy didn't know how to end it. next chapter will be leon taking care of us yaaaayyy. the next chapter will be more fluff, and more leon focused. also im super super tired rn so if theres any grammar mistakes u didnt see them

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[millimeraki]

BRINGING HOME HOPE

Spoilers for major plot points of Resident Evil Requiem

[RE9!Leon / CIA Agent!Wife!Reader]

(You’re waiting for the call that will make you a widow. And then the front door opens.)

Word Count: ~ 4.7k Rating: E - a lot of hurt, a lot of comfort, some very emotional smut in between Author's Note: So this is me coping and my version of this scene we all apparently need. Love all the different takes I've seen so far, and all aimed to just give Leon the peace he deserves. I sat with a lot of unpeaceful feelings for quite a few days and am a little embarassed actually that this game had such a big impact on me. I really got emotional damage from this, from Leon's whole arc (no pun intended), from going through Raccoon City, from effing Victor Gideon writing that damn note what the helly...all the way to where we now stand. Writing it down and talking to some people helped a lot though 🥰 I don't know why but I see Leon being married to another Agent, it crystallized for me over time. Glad we can cope together. All the love, Milli 💕

Somewhere in that dim space between sleep and consciousness, your mind betrayed you.

It tormented you with the single worst nightmare your brain could conjure – showing you distorted faces of strangers, a revolver, blood. He was on his knees, holding himself upright for as long as he could, because he wouldn’t give up until the very last second. But what your mind wanted to show you was that last second.

You knew it was a dream. You fought against it with everything you had, trying to claw your way back to reality – the one where you had forced yourself to stay awake for over 24 hours, nerves strung tight like wire, your eyes glued to your laptop, searching for an answer.

Exhaustion had overtaken you. And the moment your eyes closed, something slipped in that your waking mind would never allow: hopelessness.

You were half there, half here. The presence of the computer mouse in your hand clashed violently with the horrific image behind your closed eyelids. The way he coughed up blood, the black markings now everywhere – his hands, his arms, his face.

It was as if he was looking at you one last time. When he spoke, no sound left his lips – but you knew the movement better than anyone. Three words, unmistakable:

“I love you.”

A gunshot – your scream made real. It tore from your throat and jolted your body upright. You looked around wildly, half-expecting it all to have been nothing but a nightmare, that your husband would rush into the room and ask what had happened.

It didn’t take long to realize that being awake wasn’t any better than the torment of sleep. The real world was hardly kinder. Your dry throat ached as you swallowed, your racing heart refused to slow, just like the panic twisting in your stomach.

Your laptop still sat open in the darkness of the ongoing night. Your desk was covered in stacks of folders – more or less illegally obtained and printed documents – and a long list of numbers. People who still owed you a favor or two.

Despite your position at the CIA, despite digging deep into the servers, despite giving Sherry every bit of access she needed – no matter the consequences – you had hit nothing but dead ends. And now you hadn’t heard from Sherry in far too long.

You expected the call any second. The one telling you that you were a widow. Those calls always came no matter what time it was.

If only you had gone with him. You were just as trained. Just as resourceful. Just on a different side of the government.

But he hadn’t allowed it. Said he wouldn’t be able to focus if he had to worry about you.

Not that you weren’t used to it. Not that you didn’t know the dangers. You had always lived with the risks of the job.

But this time was different.

This time, Leon wasn’t fighting something – not the next bioweapon.

He was fighting time.

By the time Sherry had given you the update about the Raccoon City Syndrome – ridiculous name – Leon had already been too far away. You never would’ve caught up to him. And Sherry had convinced you, far too skillfully, that the two of you could help him best by continuing to search for answers.

Rarely had you ever felt this helpless. If Leon died, you would die. You might both be trained agents, but when all was said and done, you were just two people. And you couldn’t live with the knowledge that you hadn’t saved your husband. You couldn’t carry the same burden he had all these years. You weren’t that strong. Not like him.

You were just about to reach for your phone – to call Sherry again, or try Chris, or Rebecca, anyone who might know something – when a familiar sound ripped your body out of the desk chair before your mind could even process it.

The apartment door.

You stumbled forward, bracing your hands against the doorframe, forcing yourself upright through a dizzy spell. Your vision was still blurred as you stared into the hallway.

With sheer willpower, you waited for your sight to steady – until you could finally focus on the figure standing down the hall.

A heavy breath left you.

He stood there. Holding a damn bouquet of flowers.

The contrast was almost absurd. The bouquet was full of bright, untouched blossoms – and he looked like he’d been dragged through hell. His clothes were dirty, his face covered in cuts – yet there was a careful smile on his lips.

One heartbeat passed.

“Hey honey… I’m home.”

There was hesitation in his voice, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay for him to be here.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, the last bit of air leaving your lungs.

You pushed off and crossed the distance between you as fast as you could.

Leon knew.

As you ran toward him, his shoulders dropped, his gaze melting into something soft – devotion, exhaustion – and he opened his arms just as you reached for him.

The paper around the bouquet crinkled as your bodies collided. His arms were strong, just like you remembered, wrapping tightly around you. He pulled you in with force, his large frame folding into yours, his forehead resting against your shoulder.

Standing on your toes, you pressed yourself into him, clinging to his familiar, broad shoulders, reveling in the fact that he was here – that he was breathing, that you could feel him.

“What happened?” you asked, trying to pull back, but he only held on tighter, didn’t answer.

“Leon,” you insisted, loosening your grip from around his neck and pressing against his upper arms.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your shoulder, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck, pressing a kiss there.

“Why are you sorry?” you asked quietly, giving his bicep a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re shaking.”

With his request that you stay behind – that you help Sherry search for a cure instead of going into the field with him – he had asked everything of you. He knew that. He could never tell you how close he had come to shaking hands with death. Never tell you how many times he had thought of you, how many times he feared he wouldn’t be able to make it right.

Only the thought that you were safe from the most dangerous virus in the world had kept him going. And in the end, even that reason would have been futile.

Leon could never tell you that this time, he hadn’t even been able to save himself.

“It’s okay.” You pressed gently against his arms again, and this time, Leon let you push him back.

Your gazes locked as your hands traced the contours of his arms, all the way down to where his hands now rested on your hips. 

No gloves. His skin was smooth. You felt his wedding band beneath your fingers.

Your eyes flicked to his neck – to the spot that had already been blackened when he left.

No black marks. No Raccoon City Syndrome.

Relief flooded your entire system.

You guided his hands forward, took the bouquet from him, and set it down on the counter beside you. His palms were warm in yours – no trace left of the illness that had been consuming him, the reason he had to leave, the reason everything in you had been so certain there would be no way out this time.

“What happened?” you asked again, finding his eyes “The last thing I heard from Sherry was that you found ARK.” Your hand rose to his cheek, fingers slipping into his hair, your thumb tracing along his jaw – anything to make sure he was really here. “What happened down there, Leon?”

Leon caught your wandering hand, never once breaking eye contact – not even as he pressed a kiss into your palm.

Waiting for answers was becoming unbearable. You had to suppress the urge to shake him, while he simply looked down at you with so much love in his eyes that your chest tightened.

How close had you really come to losing him?

“A lot,” he finally said. “I’ll tell you everything… under the shower? Look – I got blood and dirt all over you.”

His hand brushed over your neck, trying to wipe away the mixture of blood and grime from your skin. Sherry hadn’t been able to reach you, your phone probably dead from not being charged as you somehow managed to forget regularly – so Leon hadn’t wasted a second.

He had come straight home.

Straight back to you.

“Yeah… okay,” you agreed quickly. You just wanted to feel him – to wash away what had happened to him, to wash away Raccoon City.

Even if that would never truly be possible… you would try. Again and again.

Leon let out a quiet, satisfied sigh as warm water cascaded over his head. He ran a hand through his hair, then over his face. Dirty streams trailed down his solid frame.

With careful fingertips, you traced the numerous cuts and bruises. Aside from the usual injuries after an intense mission, he looked… good.

Not just good – he carried himself differently. Straighter. Lighter, somehow.

“Elpis wasn’t a virus,” Leon began without preamble. “Pass me the shampoo?”

You reached behind you to the shelf, opened the shampoo – the one you had insisted your husband use instead of his beloved 5-in-1 shampoo, shower gel, industrial filler – and poured some into your hands.

“So it was a cure?”

Leon’s gaze dropped to you, soft, yielding – taking in the way the water beaded over your hair, the shine in your eyes as you lifted your arms and let your fingers slide into his.

“Yeah,” he confirmed your, quite obvious, conclusion. If Elpis wasn’t a virus, not a bioweapon, then it had to be a cure. “Actually… a cure for everything. Every virus out there.”

Leon closed his eyes, savoring the gentle pressure of your fingers against his scalp. Another low, content sound rumbled from his chest. His large hands found your body, gliding over your soft, wet skin.

God, it felt good to touch you. To know he had time again – time with you.

“Well, thank god.” You exhaled deeply, not even willing to begin unpacking what a universal antiviral would mean for the world. The only thing that mattered was that it had saved your husband. “How did you find out?”

Your hands slipped from his hair, down along his neck, over his shoulders, his arms, flattening against his strong chest – a silent cue for him to rinse.

The foam washed away everything on the surface. Dirt loosened from his hair, from his skin – but like always, so much remained. This time, even with Elpis offering a chance to make things right… the memories of Raccoon City clung stubbornly.

“I didn’t,” Leon said, tipping his head back into the stream of water. “It was Grace.”

“Grace?” you echoed, surprised for only a second before collecting yourself. Anyone in this line of work knew how quickly people could be pushed beyond their limits. 

The FBI girl had saved your husband.

You gave a tired smile. “Guess I’ll have to write her a thank-you note, then.”

You swallowed the small pang of regret – that it hadn’t been you. You couldn’t have done what Grace did. Couldn’t have set the same chain of events into motion.

Leon chuckled softly.

“Come here,” he murmured, opening his arms, inviting you in.

You melted into him, skin against skin beneath the steady rain of the shower. The water drummed gently against your head, and a quiet calm settled in – until you felt the crushing exhaustion of the past day begin to catch up with you, adrenaline slowly draining away.

“Tell me what happened down there,” you mumbled anyway, your ear pressed to his chest, eyes closed, listening for his heartbeat.

“Mhm,” he hummed, his hands moving up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes. “Okay… but don’t get mad.”

You smiled faintly. “Try me.”

Leon couldn’t really refuse you, not when you asked like that. The least he could do was soften the edges. Leave out some amounts of blood he’d coughed up, the brief blackout in the dump – anything that might reveal just how close he had come to dying.

But it was enough.

Cold fear crept back into your body as he spoke. You knew your husband. He hid the worst of it behind cheeky remarks and bad jokes. He couldn’t fool you.

He had almost died.

And worse – he had been forced to relive it all. Raccoon City. The R.P.D., files you knew, too. You didn’t press him about what it had felt like, not directly – but your heart cracked when he made a passing remark about the West Office, the “WELCOME LEON” banner, and Gideon's note beside it. Just a throwaway comment, but you heard it.

“Jesus. If that asshole wasn’t already dead, I’d go and shoot him myself,” you muttered.

You were lying in bed now, facing each other, having done little more than dry off before collapsing naked into the familiar sheets, shutting the world out.

Leon let out a quiet laugh. “I bet you would, baby.”

You studied his face closely. The face you knew like the back of your hand, and yet… different. Softer, somehow. Some of the lines smoothed out, the blue of his eyes deeper again, his complexion healthier. 

Strange, how used you had become to a sick version of your husband.

Strange, how much the virus had actually taken from him over the years.

It was unbearable to think about.

“You look good,” you whispered.

Your wedding ring caught a soft ray of the rising sun as you lifted your hand to brush a strand of hair from his face, the light slipping through a narrow gap in the heavy curtains of your bedroom, drawn tight to keep the outside from ever touching him again.

“Feel good.”

Gentle fingers traced along your upper arm, your bodies completely wrapped in the weight of the warm, fluffy blanket. Heat spread around you and between you. Now that he lay beside you – alive, breathing, and for the foreseeable future – you finally began to settle again. Not least because of his way of taking everything so lightly. It rubbed off on you, whether you wanted it to or not. His content expression rested slightly crumpled against his bent, strong bicep, affection in his eyes as you continued to touch each other softly.

With the calm, however, came concern, and you found yourself worrying more about his mental state than his physical one.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice stayed quiet, as if you didn’t want the world to hear words meant only for him in this moment.

His gaze grew a little more serious, but the soothing movement of his fingers on your skin didn’t stop.

“That you had to go back there,” you finished your thought. “I hate it. Even if it – right there –” you could hardly grasp it yourself, that the last piece of Raccoon City inside him could only be destroyed in Raccoon City itself, “ – even if there was no other way. Just the thought of it is torture to me. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there with you.”

Your heart felt heavy. There were so many questions on the tip of your tongue – questions that could potentially break you. First, you needed to calm down, to process Leon’s return, his healing. Then, maybe then, you could confront him with them.

A warm, living hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin.

“It’s okay. I’m actually glad you weren’t there for it. It was ugly.”

“I can handle ugly,” you replied quickly.

“I know.” His face moved closer. “But I couldn’t have handled watching you suffer for me.”

You sighed. You understood. You really did. But you wished so much you had been at his side. Even with Grace, so you could have helped them both.

“I love you.” His hand slipped into your damp hair, resting at the back of your neck.

You let yourself be drawn in by the gentle pressure and his even gentler eyes, giving in as you closed the last distance between you.

His lips were as soft as ever as they met yours with a reverence you could only describe as worshipful. Feeling him again, after those endless hours of fear, was like breaking the surface for air – though with every movement of his mouth against yours, he stole more and more of that breath away.

His large body, which had lingered at a loving distance just to take you in, shifted closer until warm skin met yours – and it felt more like coming home than walking through that door ever could have. And suddenly, it was impossible for Leon to imagine a reality where he didn’t return to you. As always, after he had nearly lost his life.

But this time, something was different. This time, he had been healed of something that had plagued him all along, without him even knowing it, until it had almost been too late. The last piece of Raccoon City had been purged from his body. The memories remained, but the past no longer possessed him. Not in the way that made him chase something unreachable.

He felt you in an entirely new way – his beautiful, strong wife, who knew everything about him and had chosen to marry him anyway. Who gave him safety in a world where nothing was safe. His anchor – no, his harbor – where he could simply… be. No expectations. No hero. No agent. Just a husband who wanted to make his wife happy.

He would make it up to you.

His hand moved to the curve of your neck, gently tipping your head back. You followed, opening yourself to him, your arm draped over his solid body. Leon murmured softly against you – the kiss deepened, more sensual now, just a touch hungry. Skin brushed against skin, fanning slow-burning flames within both of you – that ever-present fire that would never go out.

It grew hotter, warming everything you were, until a burning longing rushed through your veins – the need to be close, to feel each other in the way only you could.

Leon’s hand wandered down from your neck, tracing slow, indulgent paths over your soft skin, never breaking your connection, only deepening it.

Those exploring touches tingled along your nerve endings, goosebumps rising wherever his fingers passed.

You drew in a breath at the growing pull in your belly, the soft throb at your core, anticipating Leon’s touch.

“Leon…” you breathed against his lips, making him real – well, more real.

“You are everything, you know,” he murmured back, his breath mingling with yours.

Your palm rested flat against his chest, feeling his heart pounding wildly – for you, for both of you.

“I love you,” you said, and for some inexplicable reason your heart tightened just before a quiet moan slipped from your lips against his, as his hand moved between your thighs.

Almost automatically, you rolled onto your back, opening yourself to him, giving him better access to the place he knew so well. His lips brushed your cheek, your jawline, your neck, while his skilled touch drew slow circles over your clit that made your breath hitch. He moved his fingers further down, slid first one, then two fingers into you, pushed deep, finding the spot inside you he knew you liked best.

He watched your reactions, noticing them more clearly than ever – the way your lips parted slightly, your eyelids fluttered closed to savor it, then opened again to meet his gaze. The small, adorable sounds that escaped you. He would listen to them until he died of old age, and not a second sooner.

“Turn around, baby,” he instructed gently, his voice deep and comforting.

You followed again, letting his presence guide you as you rolled onto your side, him settling behind you. With one smooth movement he freed your upper bodies from the blanket before his hand trailed down your form, over your thigh. He grasped it gently, lifting your leg as far as the covers allowed.

The air around you buzzed – not with reckless hunger, but with intimacy, with trust. That was what made you arch toward him.

Leon reached for his cock, already aching for you, searching for you, and aligned himself carefully. He pressed forward slowly, easing into you inch by deliberate inch, savoring every bit until he was fully buried inside you and a soft sound hummed from your throat.

He stretched out one arm to cradle your head, offering you the best pillow in the world, and drew you close with the other. His large, warm body wrapped around you like a living blanket – except the first slow thrust stole the air from your lungs before you pulled it back in again.

Leon groaned into the curve of your neck, pressing a kiss into your hair as he held you as close as possible and moved inside you again, and again. He knew your body so well it didn’t take much to send you both drifting toward that shared state of bliss.

His movements were deliberate, deep, almost reverent, aimed not just at pleasure, but at closeness, at dissolving into one another. Low, satisfied sounds rumbled in his chest whenever your velvet walls tightened around him.

They traveled straight to your ear, and you answered with eager sighs of your own.

More than anything, it was comforting to be here like this again – feeling whole, unified – while he whispered into your ear. Not just sweet nothings, but promises. Declarations of love. Vows that he would remain at your side.

“You saved me. You did, and you always will.”

The words rushed through you, and a choked sound escaped your lips. It overwhelmed you. The intensity of it. You had been intense like that before – but today something in Leon had shifted.

“Only because you saved me first,” you answered softly, affectionately, reaching back to take his hand.

Leon exhaled sharply.

Your fingers intertwined, skin sliding against skin as his rhythm faltered slightly. He tried to hold onto it, to keep taking you slowly, deeply – but your words had struck something possessive and tender inside him.

“Fuck,” he breathed hoarsely. “I married the perfect woman.”

He moved through you with what restraint he had left, drawing higher sounds from you, a soft whimper. His exhausted body began to betray him, chasing that place where you would both end up spent and tangled together. His hand found your hip, pulling you back against him.

You clung to the arm beneath your head, moaning quietly, not searching for the perfect climax, but for him. More of him. All of him.

“I’m gonna come,” he breathed against your ear.

A soft exhale left you. “Yes,” you whispered your consent.

His fingers tightened against your skin as a shudder seized him, running down his spine and through his entire body. His breathing turned ragged as he spilled inside you, giving everything his tired body had to offer, knowing it wasn't enough, but with all the will in the world to show you that you belonged to him, and he to you. As long as he could, he drew out the moment, letting the wave slowly subside with increasingly smaller, fading thrusts, until a deep sense of peace settled over.

“You okay?” he asked breathlessly, still inside you, his eyes searching for your face.

The aftershock of everything – the unbearable search for a cure; the fear; the relief that he was alive; the closeness you had thought, at times, you had lost forever – cracked your composure wide open. Where adrenaline had carried you before, your soul now lay completely exposed, stripped bare in front of Leon and everything he was.

The moment the question left his lips, tears flooded your eyes, unstoppable. For a second you tried to hold them back, but it quickly became clear it was useless. They blurred your vision, stealing your view of your fingers intertwined with his.

Your chest tightened, your heart aching. You squeezed Leon’s hand, searching for something to hold onto. A sob broke free.

“Hey, heyhey – ” Leon pressed himself closer, hoping you could feel his steady breathing against your neck, the kiss on your shoulder – that he was here, that he was holding you, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Even as his own heart grew heavy, as he felt more helpless than he had in any moment of his infection. He had almost made you a widow. And he knew you knew that he would do it all again in a heartbeat. Maybe minus the wrongly made assessment. But he would take every measure to keep you safe.

His tenderness didn’t make it better. Quite the opposite. The tears streamed freely down your face. You hated how you looked when you cried. Covering your face with your hands, you let yourself sob harder, more openly, with every passing second – lost in that maelstrom of fear and overwhelming relief.

“I thought I lost you,” you sobbed into your hands.

Leon exhaled heavily, scattering small kisses wherever he could reach. He nudged you to turn around, breaking your position only to pull you into his arms as tightly as possible. Against his chest, he felt the dampness of your tears as your hands clutched at him, crying everything out.

Your mind fired wildly, your control gone – gone even enough to keep your questions buried.

“What if Grace hadn’t known the password?”

Leon tensed slightly, no answer ready.

“What if she had destroyed Elpis?”

He said your name softly – a warning, a plea not to follow that line of thought.

But you barely heard him through your sorrow. He would have died there. He had walked in willingly, like always, without asking for backup. And in the end, it had been Chris Redfield and his Hounds who pulled him out.

“You were ready to die, weren’t you?” The words sent panic surging through your body, your sobs turning harsher, shaking you. “Oh God, you expected it.” Your lungs tightened, breath coming in shallow, strained bursts, your face aching with the force of it.

“Look at me,” Leon said, gentle but firm.

“No.” You pressed yourself desperately against his chest. Even after all these years, you didn’t want him to see you like this.

“Please. Look at me.”

You didn’t stand a chance in that state. Leon created just enough space to tilt your chin upward.

He had seen you cry before, but not like this. Not so completely undone. You usually cried from anger, not from this kind of grief. The sight made his chest tighten – and before he could stop it, tears welled in his own eyes, blurring his vision.

He wiped at them quickly, but you had already seen.

Tears in your husband’s eyes were a rare thing – so rare it startled you enough that your own tears faltered.

“Leon…” He leaned into your hand against his cheek.

“I love you,” he said again, as if he could never say it enough. “And I’m here. And we have so much time.” A small, careful smile appeared. “No more T-Virus.”

No more virus – and with it, no more shadow of Raccoon City. Elpis would erase the T-virus and every other virus in the world. What that would mean for the world… you would face that together. What mattered more was that Leon’s guilt could finally come to an end. The villains of this world might try, again and again, to convince him he couldn’t save anyone…

He reached for a tissue on the nightstand and held it up to your nose.

“Hard blow,” he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

You blinked, then rolled your eyes. “Gimme that.” You snatched the tissue and blew your nose. “Bet this isn’t the hard blow you envisioned for your return.”

He chuckled, and you couldn’t help the small smile that followed from your own lips. “Ah, it was fifty-fifty.”

…even if Leon had believed it himself for a long time, you would prove to him that he was so much more than what people said about him. More than just someone who had to save the world. 

Because he saved your world every time he came home.

And that he never had to bear the burden alone, and never would again.  

[torucider]

guitarist choso fanart 🫶

[ambi0613-oldaccount]

WIP of Master Caleb? Master Xia? of Shaoxi Hollow because I adore him.

[avananabread]

Does a dragon purr?

Sylus fluff 💕

You were lying on your boyfriend’s bed, reading on your phone, when you hear the faint sounds of a motorcycle outside come near and stop.

The front door opens, his footsteps sounding heavy and slow. A few seconds later, a tired Sylus opens the bedroom door and stops when he sees you looking back at him over the edge of your phone. “Still awake?”

“Hey,” still lying down, you set the phone aside and raise your arms straight up into the air, offering a hug.

Sylus gives a small smile. “Hold that thought,” he asks, as he shuffles to the bathroom to clean up and change.

“Hurry before my arms go numb!” You urge him with a laugh.

“I requested you to hold that thought, not to hold that pose.” Sylus called back with amusement. Still, his pace goes a bit faster. He comes close and kisses your head, your lips, over your heart. He sinks his body on top of yours, resting his head on your chest, then letting out a sigh as he gathers you close by the waist.

You thread your fingers through his hair a few times, admiring how soft they are and how it looks under the dim light. Sylus doesn’t say anything, and neither do you, allowing a calmness to settle around you and dissipate whatever chaos he’s come back from.

Your hands explore downwards, gliding down his neck, smoothing out his shoulders and biceps, before settling on the space between his shoulders. You form your hands into claws and started scratching his back, raking in unhurried big sweeps, down and up and down again and again in a loop, and—

Rrrrrrr

You stopped, the sound catching you off-guard, as it seemed to come from deep within his chest. “Sylus? Did you just… purr?”

Sylus slightly tilts his head up to peek one eye at you. “If I agree, would the scratching resume?”

“Pfft,” you giggle. “You totally did.” But you continue your ministration on his back.

Sylus scoffs playfully. “For the record, that was not a purr, sweetie. That was a rumble.”

You smile into his hair, your hands still raking around his back slowly. “Suuure, sure. If you say so.” You feel the vibrations on your ribs as he rumbles again to demonstrate.

You hum, pressing your lips together to keep from laughing. “Rest, my rumbling dragon.”

“Mnn.” Sylus holds you a little bit closer. Your hands don’t stop until his breathing has evened out and he’s drifted off to sleep.

———————

Don’t mind me I just wanted Sylus to be my weighted blanket but then he began to purr rumble. I need a purring contented Sylus on top of me pls. Preferably in that black compression shirt heehee or bare-chested will do. :3 Also, I will never ever get over this photo I used above, even though I don’t have this card… *cries in f2p*T_T

Edited to add a few kisses, how could I forget that >:(

[tamurilofrivendell]

Stop Running | Thranduil x Reader

Read on AO3

Pairing Thranduil/Reader

Synopsis: Thranduil confesses his feelings for the reader but they feel they are not well suited for a king and basically avoid him until they come face to face once more.

Content: Angst. Fluff.

Prompt: (#10 & #14 on this list). They’re in bold in the text below.

Requested by anon (so freaking long ago, I know! I’m so sorry lmao)

“I’m pretty sure about my feelings.” Thranduil had told you four days ago, in a soft voice while brushing his fingers through your hair.

Thirty seconds before you had fled from his sight.

You had been avoiding him ever since and he was growing weary of it. Of appearing in a room only to hear that, not even a minute before, you had hurriedly vacated it. Of not being able to just find you in these very halls that he knew like the back of his own hand!

Thranduil knew what he wanted and what he wanted was you. He had thought that you were of the same mind. So, how had him asking - very nicely, he might add! - to court you, ended up like this?

Keep reading

[marshmellin]

What’s the Elvish Word for “Fine”?

Rated I for (angry) Idiots in Love: 5.8K words, Thranduil x unnamed/undescribed mortal woman, 2nd person POV, no use of y/n Rated mature for language only, "arranged marriage" in a political sense with consent between willing adults, they’re big mad but is it anger or just being stupid?

No beta, we die like Thranduil's first wife who is not mentioned

You rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. Thranduil was sitting on Carasta’s desk. Sitting was the wrong term. Lounging.  “Hello, wife.”  He was in dark, silvery robes without his crown, his long legs propped up against a chair. With a far-too-broad smile on his face.  Something stupid was happening. 

If you enjoy this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all my TROP/LOTR content and AO3 profile.

//

“It is infuriating that you keep putting up this long –” – slam – “ – infuriating – ” – slam – “ – show – ” – slam —. “I can not want you in the way you want me.” Cold blue eyes stared at you, waiting for the outburst, the anger he so desperately wanted to bloom across your face. 

When Thranduil started to feel something – anything – stirring in his chest, he started a fight. You noticed the two of you fought often. More so now than at the beginning of your not-quite-a-marriage two years ago. You did not think it a coincidence, but what the hell did you know?

You’d thought you’d entered a partnership with someone civil. 

Nodding almost imperceptibly, you kept your face still. “And what, exactly, makes you think I want you, Thranduil?” You let just a little sarcasm creep in. 

He narrowed his cold eyes, evaluating you. 

The issue was, however: You did want him. 

In the last two years, you had come to want him very much, though you admit you are unsure how it started given his general demeanor. 

Well, that’s a lie. He’s an elf. And he is particularly attractive for an elf, at that. His face alone gives his behavior a pass for the first three, maybe four encounters. 

But this behavior was not one of his better looks and you’d have no issue turning this version of the Elvenking down for the rest of your very mortal life. 

White hot fury flashed across his face. “You know what I mean. Constantly, you show it. And I can not — will not — respond the way you want!”

You leaned back in your chair. “I do not know what you mean, Thranduil” you said firmly, shaking your head exaggeratedly. “What is it that I show you?”  --You weren’t showing him sex or physical affection, certainly so – “What is it that you claim to see from me that you can not respond to, Thranduil?”

The more you said his name, the angrier he would get, which is why you kept doing it. Thranduil all but snaked his way to gripping the desk across from you, leaning over your papers. Curtains of snow-white hair hanging between you as he glared down at you. Not exactly giving you "the high ground” so to speak, but the fact that he came this close to you meant he was already on his back foot. 

“You…are….constantly…HERE. You ask after me, you bring me food, you manage to interrupt me during every letter I’ve written in the last four weeks. You bring me books you think I might like, you leave me letters about your work. I do not know how to respond to you. I have been alone in these chambers for centuries and yet you are HERE. I do not want this and I do not want you. And I do not know why you continue to make this arrangement so difficult by pretending.”

You blinked at that, tilting your head. Slowly. You were giving him time to suss it out on his own. 

But his rage was icy, bathed in wine from dinner, and he didn’t seem to know how to do math in the cold. 

You set the quill down and steepled your fingers, elbows resting on the desk as you looked up at him looming above you. 

Fine. 

“Everything you have just ‘accused’ me of is what spouses do, Thranduil. Husbands and wives. Partners. Bluntly, you bought yourself a wife, ThranduilI, through an even exchange: you have a skilled negotiator and queen, my uncle’s people have food and protection.”

Muscles in his jaw worked and he opened his mouth, “That is not–”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “Ah-aht, no, Thranduil. No. You said what you wanted to say both tonight and many other nights. And now you will let me do the same.” 

The look on his face didn’t change, but his mouth snapped shut. 

It might do him some good to shut up for a moment, even if it gave you heartburn to demand it.

“It weighs on my heart that someone asking after your wellbeing startles you so,” you said steadily, fingers tapping against the desk as if making an observation that it was raining outside – but the truth of it stung you. 

It did hurt that he was so…that he thought someone making sure he ate was…

It was heartbreaking. 

But, it was becoming increasingly clear, his heart was not yours to mend. 

You sighed again. At this point you were sighing more often than breathing. “Thank you for this final, clear message that you take no pleasure in our” — marriage? Partnership? It had never been one — “contract. I will make my thoughts equally as plain: I have one job in Greenwood. It is to be your wife and queen. And in truth, it’s a shitty job, but I’m going to do it as best as I can, Thranduil. I agree, our quarters are not ideal and I will leave for another part of the palace within the week.”

Thranduil held your gaze. You cocked an eyebrow. You thought you saw another muscle in his jaw twitch, but you weren’t sure. 

When he finally spoke, his tone was softer, which you had not expected. “I do not want to…put on a show….”

Your eyebrows shot up at that. You were done being lectured. “You purchased a fucking show, Thranduil. Now you are angry when it’s performed for you? Fine. That is your choice, and I am happy to stop acting like this is a working partnership.” You snorted and broke eye contact, reaching down to pick up your quill. 

Head down, squinting at the parchment, you did your best to dismiss him. It had taken you an extraordinary amount of effort to say all of this to him, for several reasons, and you could not look him in the eye any longer. 

Firstly, fuck him for coming in to your study, knocking books around and talking too loudly after you both just sat through an entrant for Arda’s Most Boring Banquet award and smiled as his queen was supposed to. King Amdír’s son Amroth wasn’t exactly the best conversationalist and yet, converse you had with the obnoxious Silvan. 

And you were feeling quite unappreciated at this moment, considering you’d also negotiated an agreement for open trade of leather goods from Amroth’s father during the dinner. While Thranduil drank — a reminder that he is, at least, two glasses in — and muttered every time you stood near him at a respectful distance. 

Secondly, this was the only time you had ever thought about your relationship with Thranduil as a contract that he did not seem to understand. 

You knew what was being exchanged. The elven-ness of it all had been jarring at first, yes, but you knew from a young age you would enter a political marriage and you had been raised for one. Binding your family and your people to the largest local realm ruled by a nearly-immortal being was a solid strategy to ensure your great, great, great-grandchildren would be protected and fed -- and it was the equivalent of a 10-year contract to someone like Thranduil. You had no qualms about this, and you entered the agreement with him with open eyes, as equals. 

Yet, you had not probed deeply into his understanding of it until today. Of what partnership meant to him. In any way. 

Leaving behind a book he may find interesting? About a topic, if you recalled correctly — and you know you did — he discussed during dinner once and noted he wished to understand better. 

That was too much after two years of knowing each other? Of knowing each other in any capacity? Even just as a member of his court, much less his wife? 

If so, he had a very weak understanding of any kind of partnership, marriage or otherwise, and you truly had expected more from him. 

Thirdly, you did not want to leave his chambers or stop asking how he was or stop bringing him books he may like or leaving notes about your day. As irritable and obnoxious and, honestly, unpleasant as Thranduil could be…. 

You found him endearing in those milliseconds he allowed himself to feel anything but anger. All together, he was many negative things, yes. But he was also protective of his family and his people, wise in how he negotiated relationships with neighboring kingdoms and the High Elves. He was well-read and, when he allowed himself to show it, he had this wonderful wit and charm that was…well, he was charming. 

You had been charmed. 

And over the last two years of this arrangement, you learned you wanted to be his wife in more than just contractual terms. You think you’ve fallen in love with him. And you know you want him to want you in return. 

But. 

He just said plainly that he did not want that. That he did not want you. 

And if this is where you were, then this is where you were. Your options were limited, your contract signed, and your choices made. 

You had not expected to find love here. Confirming it was absent didn’t change a damn thing, and at this point it did not sting. Your job was to negotiate contracts on behalf of Thranduil Oropherion, the Elvenking and to attend events as his Queen. 

That was it.

Leaving him books or being pleasant was not part of the contract you signed. 

Your thoughts drifted aimlessly, landing on the question of how you would like your new chambers laid out — since a large takeaway from this conversation was that spending time in the same room — palace — realm — continent — with you angered him. 

The conjoined study layout here was not ideal. Thranduil had a tendency to shout profanities at his correspondence before replying in a more civil manner. You had grown accustomed to it — even smiling on occasion when he invented new ways to swear at Thorin or Celeborn — but perhaps it was best to avoid that distraction now that you were.... 

Well, if Thranduil is not near me, it doesn’t matter if the rooms are conjoined or not. 

With a small sigh, you noted that request with an asterisk to return to later. 

You were halfway through the next line when you realized he had. not. moved. At all. Not even an inch. He was still staring at the top of your head as you wrote, long hair falling into the space between you. 

Why? This conversation, much like your illusions of ever having a civil working relationship, was over. 

You set the quill aside gently as you looked up to meet his eyes. "Yes, Thranduil?"

“So, that is what it was, then?”

Furrowing your brow, you shook your head in confusion. “I don’t ... wait, what?” Your gaze met his. All the ice in his eyes had melted, but the rest of him moved stiffly as he leaned back, letting go of the desk. 

“Fine.”

He spun on his heel, hair flaring around him, and walked out. 

“Fine!” you shouted after him, half rising from the desk to make sure it carried to the next room. 

You weren’t sure why you were shouting at him, but you’d make sure you’d be the one to shout last. 

//

The next morning, you asked a courier to take your note to Thranduil requesting new chambers on the far side of the Halls. 'Note' was a generous term: it was a list of items for him to approve, signed with the first initial of your name. 

Warm, it was not. 

But the courier said he had been instructed “not to deliver messages to King Thranduil at this time, my lady. His majesty requests your presence in the throne room.”

You arched an eyebrow at that. 

“Very well, thank you for letting me know.” You waved your hand to dismiss the courier. 

“Ah,” he said softly, shifting uncomfortably. 

Thranduil. Are you familiar with an old saying from the lowlands? Bite my ass? If not, then it is unlikely you’re familiar with that phrase’s cousin, Go fuck yourself. I am happy to teach you both.

“Your majesty, I would be honored to, um, guard you as you travel to the throne room,” he ended weakly, because guarding a queen while she walked in her own halls was a ridiculous thing to suggest. 

Thranduil was doing something very stupid. You weren’t sure what, exactly, but you could sense it. 

“I appreciate the offer, Lieutenant, but I am not going to the throne room today.” Thranduil had, at least, taught you a few tricks for leadership. Or, more accurately, intimidation. 

The young ellon looked very torn, as if repeating hierarchy structures in his head and continually arriving at the conclusion that Thranduil was at the top. “Your maj—“ 

“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.” Yes, the Elvenking was at the top of all of those hierarchies, but you rested just beneath him. 

…Well…

The guard left. 

So you used this opportunity to take the scroll he would not deliver to Thranduil, and went to look for Carasta, Thranduil’s private secretary. Walking from your section of your chambers through Thranduil’s, your goal was getting to Carsasta’s work table on the far side of the suite. You would provide him with the list of your requests. If Thranduil didn’t want to accept your request from Carasta, that was fine. You would find the nearest builder and take the walls down yourself, but you were not spending one more minute sharing your chambers with Thranduil than either of you wished to. 

You rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. Thranduil was sitting on Carasta’s desk. Sitting was the wrong term. Lounging. 

“Hello, wife.” 

He was in dark, silvery robes without his crown, his long legs propped up against a chair. With a far-too-broad smile on his face. 

Something stupid was happening. 

“King Thranduil,” you said, inclining your head. 

“Melethnín,” he said softly, his eyes going wide. “What brings you here? I hoped you would join me in the main hall.” 

My love? You cocked an eyebrow. “I am simply leaving a note for Carasta regarding my chambers,” you said evenly, reaching around Thranduil’s long form to place the scroll on Carasta’s desk. You didn’t even want to guess how he made it from the throne room to Carasta’s desk that fast. 

Was he even in the throne room or did he know you’d ignore him?

“Ah, I am eager to read this,” Thranduil said happily, picking up the scroll and opening it. 

It took everything in you not to snatch it from him. Even though he had been the original recipient. 

Icy eyes skimming your notes, he tsked loudly. “Ah, melethnín, this is not sufficient. Not at all! I would not have you move so far from our shared quarters. Mmm, no, we shall draft a new plan together. It is only right for a queen to have a full suite for her study and work, verinya.”

My love. My wife. 

So, something very stupid. 

You sighed. “Thranduil. I am moving my chambers to the other side of the Halls.”

He shook his head, his face the picture of innocence as he rolled up the scroll and hid it away in his robes — where, you didn’t know, because his robes were almost skintight. “I do not want you to leave our chambers.”

“I’ll write another request, king.”

“I’ll intercept it, queen.”

“Thranduil.”

“Melethnín.”

 A long pause. 

“You asked me to leave you alone.”

He shook his head firmly. “No, I said you were always here.”

“You shouted that you wanted space.”

He cocked his head, arrogance on his face, as silver hair cascaded over his shoulder. “I did not. I acknowledge I raised my voice in a very unrefined way, for which I do truly apologize. But I did not demand space apart from you. And on either account, I find I have changed my mind, verinya.”

My wife. 

“You will find I have not, veronya.” You spun on your heel and walked out. 

You heard him raise his voice mockingly, calling, “I haven’t interrupted your day, have I, my love?” at your back as you left. 

“No. You’re fine,” you gritted out loudly as you stomped out. 

“Fine,” came the muted reply from three rooms away. 

// 

Two months later, and Thranduil had not stopped yet, though his tone had grown less mocking, at least. 

He came to you for every meal — and he managed to carry on many thoughtful conversations despite the one-word replies you often gave. He brought you books — frustratingly, the titles were interesting, and he had clearly listened to you at some point to pick them out. He came to ask you questions while you wrote letters and arranged new trade agreements — his comments were obnoxiously helpful and pertinent. 

Thranduil seemed to think that acting pleasant toward you was a punishment of some kind. 

And it was, because it felt like a perverse game. He was showing you what you could have if you…if he….

Well, you weren’t sure what. Something you could not have? He had been very clear. And, you knew, he could be very petty. 

Thranduil also seemed to be playing more than one game, particularly by calling you every pet name devised by Elves or Men — and you think you caught a Dwarven term of endearment or two in there as well, so clearly he was not aware of the origins of the term or he never would have uttered it in his halls.  

And yet you did not know why he continued this game for so long. But you suspected the other shoe would drop at some point. 

It was the second time that evening he had scooted his chair closer to yours, the two of you practically sharing a desk. 

“May I suggest you add another clause here — we can’t be held responsible for orc raids. Transfer of ownership occurs when the wine leaves our barges, even if within our borders. I have spoken with Celeborn on this point already, and told him it was not up for discussion.” He tapped a long finger on the side of your paper and looked down, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Don’t let him go around us, melethnín.”

He kept breaking your heart with this game, and you were done. 

“Thranduil, stop.”

The smile slipped from his face. “Ah. Of course. I’ll leave you to it,” he murmured gently, turning back to his side of the desk. 

When did we pick sides of the same desk?

You sighed and stood, creating some distance between the two of you. 

You were done. It was done now. 

“You have made your point. I understand. You think it’s suffocating. That I am suffocating. I understand. I understood this two months ago when you told me that you would remain married to me —  unwillingly — if I left you alone. And I have moved to limit our interactions since then. I understand what you want.“

You held back a scream, but did not manage to stop a snarl from escaping somewhere deep in your chest. “I will never send you a book ever again, on my oath to Varda and Manwë, I will never speak to you outside a royal function ever again. Please, just stop.”

Thranduil stood as well, rising fluidly and pausing to gently place his chair under his half of the — under the desk. He was, well, patient as he turned to face you, a surprising softness in his eyes. 

“I changed my—“

“— yes, Thranduil, you changed your damn mind about the damn rooms. I heard you. I have not changed mine. I am not asking you to alter our marriage contract here, okay, this is a small thing. I want to move to my own study — per your request — and I cannot understand why you have fixated on this so strongly.”

He did not want you to leave this space. Yet he did not want you to stay in this space. 

No option was good enough for him.  

You crossed your arms. You had seen him be petulant before but two months? You finally met his gaze and it was exactly what you were expecting. Anger blossoming across his face, that one small muscle in his cheek that always twitched. 

“Contract.”

“Fine. Contract.” You threw your hands up in frustration and started rummaging through the desk. “If you want to read the damn thing to ensure I’m following it, I’ll tell you right now there are exactly zero requirements around—”

“Carasta’s files are much more organized,” Thranduil said icily. 

You looked up, letting the papers in your hands scatter to the desktop. “Marry Carasta then, goddamnit. I don’t care.” You were so tired it came out as a flat statement. 

Taking a deep breath, Thranduil seemed to try again, looking for patience in himself you had never seen him find. 

“I don’t want to be married to Carasta,” he said simply, managing to keep his voice steady. “I want to understand.”

You furrowed your brow even more. He wasn’t making sense.

“You aren’t making sense.” 

A small growl escaped him. “What is it that you want? You…I didn’t understand what you meant by…” he huffed and managed to do so haughtily. “Was it a show or not?”

“Was what a show?” You looked around the room, as if expecting to spot the audience, and let your hands drop to your legs in a clapping sound. “The only person complicating this is you. I have stopped reaching out, as you have asked. Why are you fighting—“

“So it was.” He spun on his heel again. 

Oh, I think the fuck not. You were absolutely not doing this for another two months. You were a patient woman but you had limits. Honestly, one limit. And you had reached it. 

You snatched at his arm, grabbing a layer of his cape, which allowed him to walk several more feet before feeling any resistance. 

“Stop. Oh, for fuck’s sake, just stop.”

“I am stopping,” he replied through gritted teeth, hair swinging as he jerked his head to look at you. “I am done.”

You imagined you heard the sound of the other shoe dropping on a marble floor somewhere far away.

You both stood still for a long moment, your hand holding the edge of his cape like an awkward flag between the two of you. His eyes were still white flame, staring into the distance, not meeting yours. The set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin said he wanted to argue again. 

That he was feeling something. 

Why? Done with what? 

“What are you done with?”

Thranduil shrugged your hand off his cape and swept it dramatically behind him. “This. Because you...I thought you did not and then I thought you did, and now it is clear my first impression was correct and you do not. I have approached this incorrectly twice now. I will not attempt it a third. You have been clear.”

You cocked your head at him. The two of you hadn’t used a meaningful noun in quite some time during this argument. You knew that was the type of risk that had to be corrected immediately. 

No one was ever on the same page the first time. 

But you had a suspicion. 

“Define ‘this,’” you all but whispered. 

“Absolutely not. I am done speaking of it. I will not allow you to mock me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I’m not mocking you, I’m asking you a question. We have strayed so far from the start of this conversation that I fear we are saying the same thing and don’t know it.”

He glared at you. “That can’t—“

“Why has your behavior been so different the last two months?”

Thranduil shifted almost uncomfortably, but managed to keep venom in his tone. “You indicated this is the behavior of those who are partners.” A small pause, his voice turning sullen. “Of husbands and wives.”

It took all your focus not to move a single muscle in your face. “You indicated several times that you did not care for me to be your partner or your wife.”

“Yes,” he hissed, “But I changed my mind because I thought I had misunderstood before, and I do not know how to show that to you properly now.”

Thranduil started pacing, his long legs turning the study into two, maybe three steps at most before he spun again. His robes barely fit the space.  

No. This— No. You felt a laugh somewhere deep in your chest, but you forced it down in case he misunderstood. 

Which you both seemed to be doing often lately. 

“Tell me, specifically, what you are trying to show me,” you asked cautiously. 

This was not a time for miscommunication. You would stay here the rest of your mortal life if needed, but you would walk out of this room knowing what the fuck he meant. 

Because you thought you already knew. 

He shook his head, silver hair glinting in the firelight. 

“Thranduil.”

He was still shaking his head, glaring at the hearth, nearly shaking in anger. But he hadn’t left or slammed any doors, which was a good sign. 

One of the first things you had learned about negotiating, years ago when you first followed your uncle to his council meetings as a child, was that the party who named an honest, earnest number first was on their back foot. Yes, it was possible to put out an offer first and still make more from it than expected or hoped for — and sometimes, offering first was both a wise and generous way to proceed — but generally speaking, it took extraordinary skill or luck to argue for more after naming the first number. 

So generally speaking, the party who moved first was not in the strong position. 

Generally speaking. 

But, you had an extraordinary amount of skill — that’s why you were in this room. At the same time, you hadn’t felt particularly lucky lately, but…you would still name a number first. 

Fine. 

“Melethnín.”

That got him to turn with inhuman speed, his face a mask of rage. “I said do not mock me.” His icy eyes locked with yours. 

“I am not mocking you.”

His brow furrowed. “Then why,” he said quickly, crossing the study in two large steps to loom over you, “did you call me that?”

“Why,” you challenged back, “have you called me that for the past two months?”

Thranduil's pale eyes had not yet left your face, inches away now, searching you for any hint that you were lying or mocking him. His gaze did not waver and he finally leaned back, satisfied. “You do not know what it means. You are mocking me.”

A harsh chuckle at that. “I know exactly what it means and I am not mocking you.” You put a hand on your hip at the implied insult that you, the goddamn Queen of the Silvan Elves of the Greenwood, wife of the Elvenking, did not know the most basic endearment your people use to address their spouses and children. “Well, correction, now I am mocking you….you’re questioning my understanding of vocabulary? Well, how good is your Khuzdul, again, Thranduil? Zigil’ûl is a Dwarven term of endearment; I’m surprised you deigned to use it.” 

He hadn’t noticed “silver stream” was not in Quenya? Even with the accents? 

His eyes softened, but still anger flashed across his face as he stared down at you. “You have not answered why you are using an elven term of endearment to refer to me right now.”

You thought about pushing back. But something very fragile in his eyes made you pause. It felt like a risk but…you were willing to name a second number. 

Fine. 

A sigh. “I used this Sindarin term because it’s how I refer to you in my head.”

Thranduil cocked his head, looking at you curiously now, some of his rage fading. “How good is —“

“— I am fluent in Sindarin. We speak it fifty percent of the time we are together instead of Westron. Stop it, Thranduil.”

He did stop at that, at least for a moment, as thoughts started churning in his head. His pale eyes flicked around the room, looking at everything but you. 

A surprising sign of vulnerability from a king who would lock eyes with Manwë himself and never blink, if given the chance. If able to take that chance by force. 

“No.” Thranduil shook his head again, still refusing to meet your gaze, speaking to your bookshelf. “No, I will not stop until I understand. You said I had purchased a performance and that you would stop performing it. You just looked for the contract to show me what you were required to do as my wife.”

A pause as he turned his head toward you, but stayed facing the other direction — ready to run. 

“But, if your past behavior was a performance, then…I do not understand why you would call me melethnín in the privacy of your own mind, especially now,” he ended with a noise between a sigh and an irritated groan, still not meeting your eyes. 

You saw the issue now. He thought you showed care for him in the last two years because it was what was expected of you. 

A performance. 

Not because you actually gave a damn about him as a partner or as a husband. 

And then, you pulled back from him. Because he asked you to. Because he did not understand that caring about him was something you genuinely wanted to do. Enjoyed doing. Thranduil had not wanted to be part of a show because he…. 

He thought you were being cruel to him. As you thought he had been to you for the last two months. 

He was that wrong for two years? 

You looked up to meet his gaze. Thranduil hesitated, seeming to have the same revelation, but finding himself much less confident in the outcome. “So, please explain it. Why would you call me your love today?” he asked again, his voice so soft you barely heard him. 

Naming the third number in a row was too large of a request to concede, even for him. Even now that you understood. You needed an assurance of some kind first. 

“A counter-question, first. Have the last two months been a performance on your part, Thranduil?” Some vulnerability entered your tone, too, though you wished it had not. “I will not allow you to mock me, either.”

A pause. “The first two days were, yes.”

You raised an eyebrow at that, but he met your gaze unflinchingly. “And then I found I…I preferred it. I enjoyed being closer to you and hearing your thoughts. And I noticed the quality of your contracts improved.”

You crossed your arms. “Mmhmm,” you grunted at that.  

Thranduil cocked his head, his eyes soft now, his tone surprisingly sweet and earnest. “So if you’ll forgive those first few days, melethnín, then no, I have not been false to you once in these past months.” A brief hesitation. “Was it…Before. How you showed that you cared for me. Was that an act for you?”

You paused, considering carefully. “For the last two months, any modicum of patience I’ve shown in your presence has been an act. But no, nothing before the night…we last fought,” you ended simply. 

“Oh.” A faint blush rose to his cheeks.

You both stood there, staring dumbly at each other. 

Thranduil dipped his head in embarrassment. “It is rare, but I find even I need time to learn.”

You nodded slowly. He was telling you that he had misunderstood. Maybe he was telling you he loved you. But he remained frustratingly vague. 

You were struggling between the urge to kiss him or punch him. You tried to calculate your odds at both and concluded you’d need to do it in a specific order for it to work. Kiss first, then punch. 

A knee to the groin was the only way he won’t see it coming until it’s too late. But you also had a growing interest in that area…

No matter what you chose, you weren’t going to be fast enough. Maybe while he slept. 

“So, to summarize,” you started slowly. And then your mouth shut gently. You opened it a few more times to speak but nothing came out, so you stood there with your hand on your hip, moving your mouth like a fish. 

The politician and jackass in Thranduil got there first. “To summarize, you have been in love with me since the day we met, and over the last two months I’ve learned that there are certain merits to being the recipient of that love.”

You felt your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, and your mouth did open at that. 

The arrogance. 

“The arrogance. Absolutely not. Revise it.” 

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth but he remained silent. This was him teasing you. You’d enjoy it thoroughly in any other context. “No, you do not get to be this way with me after all of that, Thranduil…”

The smirk grew as he leaned closer to you. “I will no longer answer to that name when you use it. You’ll have to try another, melethnín.”

Fine. 

“Heconna.” Bastard. 

He raised an eyebrow at that one. “Fluent, indeed. But I have time and I can wait for you to find the correct term.”

“Pellopë.” Jackass. 

The smirk never left his face. “Yes, we’ve established that you know and use words in both Sindarin and Quenya that most Eldar would blush to hear. I’m sure this vocabulary is useful when you swear at local merchants and drink in their bars — a very queenly activity.” 

He was still teasing you. He finally had come close enough to snake his hands low around your hips, craning down at you, nothing but a blend of absolute mischief and arrogance in his pale eyes. “Mmm, I’m happy to give you a hint, wife.”

This was the most surprising day you had experienced since coming to Greenwood. And you were going to use it to your advantage as much as you could. 

Too many things were still unspoken. 

You shook your head and pulled back — gently, you still wanted him badly and your resolve was weakening the more he leaned into you. Gods, he smelled good. “Absolutely not. Not until you revise it.”

He sighed, his long fingers splayed across your lower back as he nudged you closer to his chest in return. “To summarize: Your caring behavior toward me was never an act or obligation on your part, and neither was mine. We seem to," he hesitated a beat, "Love each other, though we are quite ineffectual at speaking plainly with each other.” 

Thranduil reached out to tuck back a strand of your hair, his finger gently tracing the rounded shell of your ear as you fought to repress a shiver. “With this new understanding in mind, our marriage no longer needs to remain contractual alone, if you wish to become closer. As I do.” His fingers brushed against your face, trailing down your neck softly to trace your collarbone. His other hand kept you close against him. “Is this revision more to your liking, melethnín?”

You frowned, hands coming to rest on his chest. “Yes. But you owe me an apology for more than the last two months.”

“Yes,” he agreed softly, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “Would you like me to begin reciting my long list of sins now? Or would you prefer we kissed instead? I have a rather clear preference, but,” he shrugged over-casually. “I will make time for both.” 

You hesitated. “Both.” 

“Fine, verinya,” he murmured, gently tilting your head up towards his.

“Fine, veronya,” you whispered back against his lips. 

// AN: I'd have to leave you on a cliffhanger, so:

Túra in Quenya means "big, or great," which would capture "fine!" well enough.

Dail in Sindarin means "lovely," which I imagine can be sarcastic af coming from Thranduil, the petty bastard.

The difference in these two languages, for purpose of these idiots in love, is snobbery. Quenya is high-brow, Sindarin is what all normal people speak. He says he loves her in common tongue but calls her wife as high-brow as possible to be a jackass. Mission accomplished, Thran-daddy.

// If you enjoyed this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all my TROP/LOTR content and AO3 profile.

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 103 }

find you.

...... x fem.reader

warnings: unedited; SPOILERS FOR FFXVI; if you do not wish to be spoiled, then i suggest you readers skip this story and DO NOT read the tags.

{ i'll run away with your footsteps, i'll build a city that dreams for two. and if you lose yourself, i will find you. }

the rain was heavy, making her cloak stick to her like an uncomfortable second skin as she followed the boy she adored with her entire heart and soul.

throughout the downpour, she follows her beloved, struggling to seek shelter as they remained on the run.

joshua rosfield was the youngest son of the archduke that ruled over rosaria, yet his world had been torn apart the moment his mother had betrayed his kingdom. he suffered a tragic fate, nearly dying by the hands of his brother when ifrit had attacked him.

his life was hanging by the thread when she had come across his form, laid alone bleeding in the midst of the forest, leaving behind a trail of blood in his wake.

she was but a mere child back then when she came across joshua for the first time, seeing him clinging on to the last bit of his life as she helped carry him back to her cottage to the best of her abilities.

when she arrives back home with a gravely injured boy, her parents acted immediately, taking the boy out of her hands. as her mother washed away the blood that stains her tattered dress, her father was the one who helped with nursing joshua back to health.

even without his dire injuries, it was clear that joshua was a sickly boy. but due to his determination and inner strength, he was able to heal, gaining a bit of his strength with each day that passes by. she was utterly intrigued and drawn to joshua even then, seeing him as a prince with his golden curls and light blue eyes that reminded her of a pretty gemstone-

it was strange, but she knew that she would follow him to the ends of the world with no questions asked.

and perhaps this strange stirring and desire kept in her heart was but an omen for what was to come.

it was in the middle of the night, and she was sleeping peacefully in her room with joshua settled beside her. she was aware of how the young boy had not fallen asleep yet, but thought nothing of it. she was caught in her own land of dreams when a sudden movement startles her awake. her eyes were blurry from sleep, making her rub at her eyes as she looks around her room, only to see joshua donning his clothes once more. she gasps at the sight, becoming fully awake as her bare feet pads at the wooden floors of her room. "joshua, where are you going?" her voice was a mere whisper, tears filling at her eyes at the thought of joshua leaving. he does not face her, chewing at his bottom lip as his blue eyes shone with a determination that seemed out of place for a boy his age. "i need to find my brother and protect him. he needs me, just as i need him."

he faces her, and calls out her name while taking a hold of her hand. "i will forever be indebted to you for saving my life. if you promise to wait for me, i will return to you with my brother beside me." joshua appears conflicted then, his hand reaching out to her, looking like he wished to brush back her strands of hair before deciding against it. hiding his tears, he turns away from her and murmurs a tiny "goodbye." but she refused to allow him to leave-

at least, not without her. "joshua, wait." she clings to him, taking a hold of his tiny wrist, feeling saddened at how much he was trembling. he was trying so hard to be brave, but she knew deep down that he was scared.

and she couldn't leave him.

"take me with you. i...i don't wish for you to go on this journey alone, joshua."

he faces her, true blue eyes meeting with her unwavering gaze. his lips tremble as he whispers once more. "but what of your parents? will you really leave behind the people who love you so much?"

she shakes her head while giving him a smile. "it's because i know that they love me that i am willing to help you. they will wait for me, i am sure of it."

so with their satchels packed and a final note written for her parents to find, she goes with joshua on his journey.

for eighteen years, she has remained by his side, helping him protect his brother from the shadows as he traveled throughout all of valisthea to find out the mysteries pertaining to the blight and the mothercrystals.

their travels have taken them down a dirt path, now turned muddy from the storm as she found herself struggling to keep up with joshua. her head was pounding, and there was an odd sense of nausea that was felt blooming from within her abdomen.

her skin felt hot, and the downpour that felt like a needle-like rain was making her feel worse than usual. her eyes were blinded from the rain, and somewhere along the way, she had lost sight of joshua.

"joshua?! where are you?" a cough escapes from her chapped lips, wracking through her body as she stops walking. her tattered boots sink into the dirt, making her lose her balance as she fell down to her knees.

her skin felt hot, and she was feeling weaker than usual. her coughs refused to cease, feeling the bile crawling up her throat as she clamps her hand over her mouth in response. her mind was in a haze, and she struggled to keep herself from throwing up whatever contents were left in her stomach.

succumbing to her exhaustion, she softly cries out to joshua before slumping forwards, her body landing against the mud as she failed to hear the voice calling out her name.

---

the young woman awakens with a start, her eyes becoming aware of the flames that burned so bright from the midst of the room. with a moan, she slowly sits up, only to be stopped by a gentle hand that was placed on her chest.

"don't get up, or else you'll make yourself even sicker." she recognizes joshua's voice and quietly lays back down. he looks at her with adoration while reassuring her, "while you slept, i helped you take some medicine so that should help you feel better soon."

"t-thank you, joshua."

looking at her surroundings, she realizes that she was in an abandoned, wooden hut. the sound of rain was still audible, and had it not been for joshua's flames, then she was certain she would not be able to see a damn thing due to the darkness caused by the storm.

from her periphery, she sees that her clothes were hanging from the hut's banisters, making her gasp as she faces joshua. she could feel her face heating up and her heart pounding when she realizes that she is completely bare, donning what appears to be joshua's brown cloak. he meets her gaze and remains settled next to her, tending to the fire while dressed in his red tunic and leather pants.

with a sigh, she slowly picks herself up all while running a hand through her damp locks of hair. "i...i am sorry for falling behind, joshua. i lost sight of you and felt so sick-"

"sssh, my dear, there is no need to apologize." now completely focused on her, joshua leans forward, his voice oozing with gentleness while his gaze held the same fondness she had been familiar with for all these years.

she closes her eyes and leans into his touch, sighing as she allowed her lips the pleasure of kissing the palm of his hand. "how were you able to find me, especially out in this pouring rain? i could barely see you..."

joshua's eyes become kinder when he leans even closer to her, shutting his eyes as he allows his lips to press against her forehead. "i will never forsake you or leave you behind. you mean...everything to me, and i will always find you."

she was overcome with emotions, feeling the love she held for joshua brimming. acting on pure instincts and her heart's desires alone, she crawls towards joshua and settles herself on his lap. she allows her nose to brush against the soft skin of his collarbones, with joshua holding her even closer to his form as he wraps his arms around her.

they look into each other's eyes, their respective gazes filled with adoration and a promise of unspoken devotion when they come closer. their lips meld perfectly together, becoming slotted against each other in a searing kiss that conveys the love they held for one another.

she wished for nothing more than to bask in her beloved joshua's love, but a sudden need to sneeze was what ultimately forces her to reluctantly pull away from his loving lips.

"achoo-!"

she looks away from joshua, embarrassed as she wipes away at her nose, feeling her skin heat up once more when joshua lets out a rich laugh in response.

"my love, you are utterly adorable!"

joshua continues to chuckle deeply, holding her even closer to him as he ran the tip of his nose against her hair. he sighs, pressing a kiss against her temple.

they were silent for a few more beats, with joshua brushing his lips against her skin every so often. she remains quiet, and it was joshua who breaks the silence when he tells her,

"clive would love you; he would say that you were the perfect woman for me."

she could feel her heart soaring at the mention of his brother, her own eyes filling with tears when she meets his forlorn gaze. "you will reunite with clive once more, i'll make sure of it, my love."

joshua flashes her a kind smile, thanking her for her kind words before placing a hand behind her head. he allows her to bury her face within his chest as he lay back against the ground.

"rest well, my love, and get better soon. when you are well once more shall we continue our journey."

feeling safe while in his embrace, she allows her eyelids to grow heavier, her lips pressed against his chest as she basks in the warmth of his arms.

she was utterly devoted to him, knowing that she will do anything to protect his smile-

but lucky for her, joshua rosfield was just as dedicated to her, already swearing to protect her ever since he was a little boy.

a.n. - best boy best boy best boy best boy 🥀

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[cryptictongues]

To Kiss is to Hunger

pairing: Joshua Rosfield x Fem!Reader rating: Mature word count: 5.0K summary: You are terrified to kiss Joshua. Joshua has an idea to remedy that.

warnings: practice kissing, grinding, touching, intimacy, mutual pining, insecurities and self-doubt, just straight up romance

Author’s Notes: Ngl I know I said it would be a little frisky, but just so happens I made it just a little bit friskier because Joshua is just a touch starved man. Just a heads up, please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.

[AO3 link]

You couldn’t fathom why you are in the Shelves this late into the night. ‘It’s silly.” You think, walking around, trying to find anything to help you with your little dilemma. You tried to put your brain to rest, to calm its ravenous thoughts of anxiety, but the efforts were futile. And it is all because a teasing strawberry blond tried to kiss you.

You and the young Lord got quite close after his arrival to the Hideaway. You help out as a barmaid for Molly in the Ale House, and the first night of Joshua being out of the infirmary after the fall of Drake’s Tail had been all the talk. You would overhear conversations about how charming he was, how he was very knowledgeable about the lands of Valisthea, and how he is the brother of the leader of the Hideaway. He piqued your curiosity, as most newcomers do, but you didn’t think anything to come of it.

There was one night, however, where service wasn’t off its rig, and you had decided to take that time to practice your reading. Reading and writing are forbidden practices for Branded, and you were only able to learn reading due to old, scribbled writings thrown into the trash bins. You would rummage through for every written scrap in the dead of night and return it before your enslavers came to. To you, it was a piece to the puzzle of your freedom. But only a piece. 

You were reading an old children’s fairytale: a prince in search of the long-lost princess who searched day and night to find her. You were immersed, so much so you hadn’t noticed the presence in front of you, seemingly still but present all the same. 

“Ah, I read that story many times as a child. A true classic.”

Your head had snapped so far back you thought you would’ve fallen backwards. Your eyes jumped until they landed on the man before you, and you remember how wonderstruck you felt. He was the most beautiful man you had ever seen, and the way he was looking at you had your stomach producing butterflies. You felt a sense of embarrassment, however, as the book you were reading was adapted for children. You knew those born with a silver spoon were highly educated, so to have someone as handsome and surely intelligent as he watching you read made you nervous to be a laughing stock. 

“Yeah, but it’s more of a watered down version of it. I’m sure I’ll get to read the original someday.” You had awkwardly explained, waiting for him to make a joke of your lack of ability to read at a level that matched your maturity. That joke, however, never came. He stayed and asked you questions, such as who your favorite character was, what your favorite part of the story was, and so on. That conversation led beyond the book, and it is a fond memory of the golden boy.

It wasn’t long after that he offered to tutor you and made an extraordinary effort to give you books about topics you liked. Hell, he would even bring books back from long expeditions that him, Clive, and Jill would go on. “I found this story about sea fairies that I thought you would like.” “I saw a merchant selling a copy of this book I think you’ll enjoy.” “This book made me think of you.”

After many nights and days passing, it had become apparent that your heart had let him in, and you were relieved to know that his heart blazed for you also. However, unlike you, he is very evident about how he shows his feelings for you. He initiated the first hand holding, the first embrace, every tender moment you both have shared has been started by him. It makes you nervous, he makes you nervous, but in a conflicting way because you want everything he has to offer, yet your life of being treated less than for so long has put in the fear of not being enough. You fear you will misstep, embarrass yourself, he will realize he can have someone better, and let you down gently. He is a gentleman, after all.

All of the insecurities and doubts you hold have led you to the shelves due to this past evening's events.

-

A gathering of many members of the Hideaway was taking place, enjoying each other’s company, exchanging stories from the road, and eating and drinking so good that spirits were at an all time high. About halfway through the evening, Joshua and Clive had returned from their mission that had kept them away for well over a week, and joined everyone in the festivities. You could feel Joshua’s eyes on you constantly as you worked, soft gazes in your direction as you brought over more ale. You hadn’t seen each other since he had left, and you could see from the look in his eyes that he wanted you close, longing for your time. 

And you weren’t the only one to sense it.

“Go on.” You heard Molly speak as you polished the cups.

“Hmmm?” You turned to see her smirking at you, nudging her head in the direction of the young Rosfield. 

“You are free of your duties. You spend some time with everyone, especially you know who.” 

You shook your head, your cheeks flushed. “I appreciate it, but Molly there is a lot to clean up. I can’t ask you to do this all by yourself.”

“Nonsense.” She scoffed, walking to you, taking the scrub and cup out of your hands, only to set them aside to grab your own. “We all deserve a little down time. Please, I insist.”

You hesitated, and her eyes softened. “In these troubling times, every moment counts; for anything can happen at any time. We must be selfish with our time.” 

That alone had set you into motion. You had walked over to sit beside him, hip to hip, his arm draped around your side with his head leaning slightly against your own as Clive shared his and his brother’s adventures. 

You could tell Joshua was more touchy than normal, not that you minded. You would feel him squeeze you from time to time. If you shifted slightly, he would adjust so you were still close to him. You would feel him turn his head to bury his face into your hair, gentle caresses of his lips against your scalp. No words were spoken between the two of you, just enjoying the night together with everyone. But even nights like these had to end. 

You called it a night, telling everyone that you were going to head to the bed chambers, but not before Joshua insisted on walking you there. The two of you had bid goodnight to the others, and with your hand in Joshua’s grasp, the two of you walked to the bed chambers, small talk between the two of you as you both headed there slowly.  

“I can’t believe you let Clive do that.” You giggled, Joshua’s story about his older brother shoving a carrot into his mouth to make him sick. 

“He had reason, for we were in an unfortunate situation. We needed a reason to slip away.” Joshua grimaced, vaguely remembering the taste of the raw carrot. “Besides, I have always had a soft spot for my brother. I’d do anything for him.”

“I know having him back in your life has been a gift.” You smiled, waving his arm back and forth as you both approached the bed chambers. He pulled your arm back gently, causing you to turn into his arms. The way he was looking at you left you speechless; a thousand words being spoken through one look. 

“Why yes, it has truly been a gift by the Founder to be reunited with my brother.” He brings your hand up to his chest, right above his heart; the thumping gingerly warming up your palm. “It has also been a gift to have the honor of being allowed your time, my lady.”

You shook your head, but before you could’ve said anything, Joshua had spoken once more. “On the topic of gifts, I have something for you.” 

He slipped his free hand into the large pouch of his belt and pulled out what you can see is a book. He placed the book in both of your hands, grazing them before allowing you to inspect it. You recognized the artistry of the book: hardbound leather, intricate gold lining, and a sturdy weight in your hand. You looked at the title and you found yourself releasing a shaky breath. 

“I thought you said there were no more copies.” You whispered, in disbelief as to what you were seeing. Enchanting thy Fair Maiden. It was a copy of a book Joshua has praised over. He would recite lines to you from what he memorized as a child, and you would ask him to retell them to you over and over again, never tiring from hearing his smooth voice telling you a tale.

“It took some bartering, but it was worth it if it means I could grant you a copy.” 

Snapping from your mind, you looked to him, shaking your head in disbelief. “Joshua, I can’t accept this. This is one of your favorite stories. You should keep it.” 

You tried pushing the book back into Joshua’s, but not before him grasping both of your hands and gently pushing it back into your vicinity. “My lady.” He begged. “I can reassure you that nothing would please me more than you accepting this gift.”

You stayed silent for a moment, a brief pause in the timeline aside from you and him, before smiling shyly, looking away from him in a flush. “I will cherish this for all days, Joshua. Maybe you can read it to me properly sometime.”

“Anything for you, dearest.” 

Your gaze stayed down, not knowing how to bid farewell for the night, before you felt Joshua’s hand lightly touch your cheek, lifting your face for him to look upon. You sensed a certain hesitancy, his eyes seeking for something on your face before landing back on your own. 

“May I try something?” 

Everything started to go slow and fast at the same time, your mind racing and hyper focusing on every detail. You focused on how much closer Joshua had gotten to you, how his body heat had your body melting tenfold, how his face leaned down to yours, his hand stroking your cheek. You realized what he was asking to do: he was asking to kiss you.

Sudden flashes of self-doubt came crashing down onto you, Joshua’s hand on your branded cheek making you feel self-conscious. What is he doing? How can he want to kiss me? Oh, Greagor be with me, I have never kissed anyone. I am going to make a fool of myself!

Out of reflex and fear, you stepped back and away from Joshua’s reach. He looked startled, not expecting your reaction, and all you could do was stare at him as you calmed your heart down. You felt embarrassment shudder down your spine, but you knew that it would have been worse if you had attempted to kiss him. 

You tried to shrug it off, chuckling awkwardly as if that would erase the last few seconds of shame you felt. “It is late. I’m afraid I must turn in. Goodnight, Joshua.” 

You flung the chamber door open and closed it just as fast without a glance in Joshua’s direction, your back hitting the wood as you worked your anxieties down.

Now you’ve really done it stupid stupid STUPID!

-

So here you are, looking for a kissing manual that doesn’t exist.

“I can’t believe it has come to this.” You moan, shaking your head at how pathetic you currently feel. You want to kiss him; of course you want to kiss him! But the thought of kissing him and making a complete fool out of yourself has strung itself high in your head. You will do anything to ease your anxieties, and if finding literature that will help you is the way, then so be it. 

You keep searching the shelves, and finally you see something that catches your attention. You see a book with a deep red spine, and immediately you become curious. Red means romance which maybe means kissing, right? you think and go to reach for it, your tippy toes giving you an extra inch that helps you grab the old spine of the book. Once the book is grasped, you give it a once over and what you see is nothing at all. The book has no title, no author, no nothing. Just hardbound leather that looks as if it had been dyed with blood. 

You move to sit at a table, the kissing debacle hiding in the back of your skull as a new curiosity peeks. You stare at the book intently, like it was going to open up for you to tell you all of its secrets. A book with no visible identity, no mark.

The curiosity killed the cat as you finally flipped it open, the crackle of the pages singing, showing its age. The first few pages are barren with no offering until you reach the first official page. You read, smiling because you can read everything on the page in comprehension, but also because it’s a love poem. You never have had the chance to read poetry thus far, so this was a treat for you. Just the thing I need to ease my mind.

You continue reading the poems, most being about love, companionship, and things in the realm of romance. As you read them, you picture Joshua and yourself, like the two of you were living in the reality of this book full of lovely prose. In a way, it makes you recognize that maybe what Joshua sees in you is what you are imagining right now: a lover, a partner for life. You feel a sense of confidence swell in you, so you read on, addicted to the words written out.

Until you get to the next page.

What you read next halts your breathing, slowing it down to stop fire from growing in your chest. This poem is about the same things previously stated, love, romance, companionship, but in a much more intimate form. The words strung together formed the most erotic sentences, words of longing for the senses. They make you blush hotly; they make you antsy in your chair while locked in, but most especially they make your mind run wild with fantasies of you and him. 

Oh, you and him.

You mind wanders as you read, zoning out into a reality where you exude the confidence to give into Joshua’s desires and more. The words dig into your skin, warming you up that your thin nightgown felt like plenty of layers on this cool night. You are so immersed that you don’t hear the large doors open, and the calling of your name feels like a figment of your imagination. It’s not until you feel the warmth on your shoulders that you are brought back, feeling like a bucket of cold water has been dropped over your head from the cold sweat.

You slam the book shut, turning so quickly that the room starts to spin before the warmth on your shoulders grows firm, steadying you in your seat. You look to see Joshua staring at you, worry showing on his face seemingly from your reaction. “I deeply apologize, my lady. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

You breathe a chuckle, seeing him here at a time like this would be your luck. You cross your arms, becoming extremely aware of your lack of clothing under his gaze. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you.” He retorts and pulls out a chair to sit facing you. “Truthfully, I couldn’t sleep much. I came here to see if doing more research would tire me, but it seems fate has chosen a more direct route to my restlessness.”

You see why he can’t sleep, and sigh because this is from your doing. “Joshua, you have nothing to fret over. You did nothing wrong.”

“But I’m afraid you are wrong, my lady. I shouldn’t have been so forward, and to know I put you in an uncomfortable position upsets me greatly. I would never dream of making you uneasy, and for my mishaps I must apologize to you. I cannot bear the thought of you keeping your distance because of my foolishness.” 

You watch him as he apologizes for his directness, which internally makes you laugh because that isn’t the issue. You love his directness, just as he is being direct with you right now. It’s you. It’s your cowardice for wanting something more and not having the courage to pursue because of the what ifs, the buts, the howevers. It’s your fear of rejection because of your lived experiences. It’s you, not him. 

“Joshua.” You state, moving to grab his hands within your own. “You did nothing wrong.”

“My lady, please I-” 

“Shhh,” you hush. “Let me speak.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, and I apologize for making you feel you need to.” You exhale, preparing to open yourself up for display. “It’s all me. I’m inexperienced, and I’ve been viewed as nothing for so long that I’m fearful that one misstep will set you away; that you can have someone who knows what they are doing and have the confidence to show for it.”

“Is that really what this is about?” Joshua asks.

You nod, looking down at the two of your intertwined hands. You see Joshua’s hands pull away from yours and your breath shakes. This is it. He is going to leave. That’s until you feel the heat that only the Phoenix could exude on your cheeks, your head being brought up to see him smiling. “My dearest,” Joshua whispers, as if talking any louder would damn him. “You are my everything, for you have captured me: mind, body, and soul. Also, your inexperience mirrors mine, I can assure you.”

Your eyes widen. “There is no way that can be true. You are a Lord.”

He’s laughing now, shaking his head as his hands go back to you, grasping them with care. “I was only a child then. Besides, the Undying were very protective of me under their care. There was no time nor place for such things. Even then, the only person that was always allowed in my vicinity was Jote, and we have never viewed each other romantically.”

“So, there really has been no one?” You whisper, your mind stuck between disbelief and credence.

“No. Not until now.” He squeezes your hands. “My heart belongs to you, and you alone. There is no one else I’d rather give myself to.”

You shiver, the idea of experiencing forms of intimacy together for the first time spreads a raging fire in your stomach. “You sure have a way with words, Joshua Rosfield.”

“You can thank all of the romance novels I read in my youth.” He chuckles. “Speaking of books, what were you reading?”

“What?” You ask, forgetting about the erotica sitting inches away from you. 

“The book you were reading. I don’t believe I have read that one yet. May I take a look?” 

You are panicking, knowing the contents of the book and who is asking to take a peek. You go to grab it, reacting as fast as you could, but alas you reacted too late. Joshua now has the book, opening the page you had left off on, and starts to read. You see his eyes go wide, his pupils dilating, his fingers fidgeting against the page he is holding. You freak out, going to reach for the book before he reads further. “Okay Joshua, that’s enough.” A smile creeps up slowly on his face, humming as he moves to stand up before your fingertips touch the book, backing away slowly as he continues. You stand up, walking up to him to get that god forsaken book away from him. 

“Oh Joshua, please give me back the book!” You panic. 

“By the Founder, what possessed you to read this smut?” Joshua smirks, seamlessly avoiding your grabby hands as he reads the pages. “Especially in the middle of the night?”

He wasn’t meant to see this! He wasn’t meant to see you reading the abhorrent words you were consuming. He wasn’t meant to see you like this in your flimsy gown. Damn me! Why did I not cover up more?!

“To taste the lips is to be fulfilled, for the instinct of man is to claim, conquer, and revel in the midst of her flesh. To kiss is to hunger, to feast among the softest of petals that call to him, beckoning for his return to get both of their fills.”

You are internally screaming now. You can’t believe he is tormenting you like this. You are still reaching for the book, desperate for this nightmare to end, before you hear an “oomph” as Joshua’s back collides into one of the shelves. You snatch the book from him, running back to put it back where it came from. “Okay, enough please!”

“Forgive me.” Joshua says, although it is said with a devilish grin. “I just didn’t know you had such… exquisite taste.”

“I didn’t even know what was in the book when I pulled it.” You say defensively, hands waving manically in front of you like they would make you more convincing. “I was just trying to find something that would help give me the courage.”

As if that isn’t as embarrassing, or even more so.

“What if we do something that helps us both gain courage? A practice session if you will.” Joshua says from the other side of the room, keeping his distance to see what tone you will take.

“What do you have in mind?” You draw out nervously, twiddling your thumbs in anticipation.

Joshua walks back over to where you both had sat, moving the chair so it was facing you before sitting down. He rubs his thighs a little as if he needed to warm them up, before patting his lap. “Come take a seat.”

Instinct has you taking a step forward before a hitch finds itself in your feet, stopping them all together. 

“Do you trust me?” He asks sincerely.

“Of course, I do.” You quickly blurt out, as if answering a second later would draw doubt. 

He smiles, his hand reaching out to invite you over. “Then please, my dearest, come to me.”

You take a deep breath and walk over till you stand before him. You grasp his hand, tingles running up your arm as he pulls you to him and guides you onto his lap. Your hands move to steady yourself on his shoulders, while he places his hands on your lower back to support you. Your legs dangle on either side of the chair, your gown riding up your thighs which you are all too aware of. However, you note that Joshua is only looking at you, gauging to see where your head is. “Is this okay, my lady?”

“Mhmm.” You hum, trying to calm your rapid heart. This is so intimate, too intimate, but you want it. You want him. You want to create every kind of intimacy with him, and this is a start. You knew that it is time to take that leap, especially since he will take that leap with you. 

“Joshua,” you murmur, eyes still on his. “Will you kiss me?”

“As you wish, my love.” 

You close your eyes, leaning in slightly to show that you aren’t backing out. You feel one of Joshua’s hands move to your left cheek, your branded cheek, tracing it with his thumb gently. Soon you feel him move forward, his forehead sitting against yours, his breath hitting your lips in puffs. The anticipation was killing you, your hands squeezing his shoulders to urge him on, and before you know it his lips are against your own. The kiss is light, a sweet peck before pulling away slightly, only to go back to give one more. You both are testing the waters, giving into each other slowly until the two of you start to grow peckish.

The kiss is gradual, pecks graduating to long lip locks and more movement. Your hands have found homage in Joshua’s hair, gripping not too hard but enough to show him how much you are enjoying him. His hands found their way to the crease of your hips, gripping the flesh to keep you in place. You can feel yourself growing restless, needing more of him within your senses. 

It’s like he can read your mind as his hands bring your body closer. A gasp leaves your lips as his groin settles against your heat, leaving your head spinning. His kisses become feverish, his hands roaming up and down your thighs, your nightgown receding higher in the process. You sense satiability is nowhere in sight, the movements of his body proving to you that the absence of intimate touch has turned him into a depraved man. Because even though Joshua Rosfield is a gentleman with a heart of selflessness, he is still a man with selfish desires and needs.

Your hands go back to grip at his shoulders, trying to calm yourself from his ministrations. A wetness hits your lips, and your mouth opens willingly, needing to taste him further. Your tongues melt together, creating a unique taste between the two of you that’s so addicting you don’t know how either of you will stop. You lean more into him, your hands going back to his hair to control his movements, causing him to groan in the most sinful way. You pull away, giggling knowing you got him to make such pretty sounds. The confidence from it goes straight to your head, going right back in for his lips to have him make more delicious sounds. 

A deep feral groan is released from Joshua’s throat, causing him to pull away in heavy breaths. He looks at you with hazy eyes, smiling deliriously. “You will be the death of me, my love.”

Your hands are now trailing from his hair to his chest, your hands running up and down the fabric of his tunic, feeling the toned body beneath it all. Your head leans back against his forehead, both of your breaths heavy on each other’s lips. “Then shall death keep us together, never parted.”

Joshua leans up back to your lips, kissing you hungrily, your declaration causing him to hunger for more. You still had the high ground, you being on top giving you more opportunity to take the lead. You knew this could be too soon, a little risky, but your sureness that Joshua feels the same hunger as you do is enough to convince you. You start to grind down slowly on top of him, your undergarments and his matching tunic pants the only barriers. 

“Fuck,” Joshua draws out breathless, his arms coming up to wrap around you to ground himself. 

“Does that feel good, my Lord?” You smile, feeling over the moon that you are making him act this way. 

“You have no idea.” Joshua gasps. “You have turned me into a new man.”

You giggle as you continue your movements. “Is that so?”

“By the Founder, yes!” He groans loudly at a particular movement of your hips. “How about I show you.”

Suddenly you are being lifted up, your butt settled onto a hard surface, legs spread apart by Joshua’s hips, and warm lips ravishing your own. Your nightgown is definitely way past your legs now, bunched up at your hips with Joshua’s hands right under the fabric. This new side of Joshua has you addicted, the push and pull the both of you are playing at exciting you more. You release his lips and lean up to his neck, nipping at the skin at the juncture of his neck and jaw. His breath hitches, leaning into you as you nip and kiss his neck. It’s as if he is hypnotized by your love bites, casting a spell on him. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to you, but in an instant everything stops.

You open your eyes to see Joshua breathing hard, his hands gripping the table. Your hands go to his face, worry etching into your brain. “Darling, did I do something wrong?”

Joshua laughs, his eyes opening to look right back at you. “Absolutely not.” His hands go to yours on his face, holding onto each one as he brings them down. “I just don’t want to accomplish everything in one night, especially here in the Shelves.”

He pulls you up to your feet, your hands still in his as he looks at you with the brightest smile on his face. “I want to have time to savor you when the time is right.”

Even after all of that, he is still ever the gentleman. 

“I agree. I’m sorry if I went too far.” You chuckle, a tinge of embarrassment in your tone. 

Joshua embraces you, his head tucked into your neck. “You have nothing to apologize for. I hope you don’t think I had ulterior motives.”

“Never,” you say quickly, squeezing him to you.

“We should head back to our respective beds before people notice we’ve disappeared.” Joshua hums.

You hum in agreement and pull back, so you are now under Joshua’s arm. Both of you head out the doors of the Shelves into the cool night air. You shiver, and Joshua brings you in closer to shield you from the cold. He walks you back to the bed chambers, and before he departs, he places a light kiss on your lips, causing your eyes to flutter close at the bliss you feel in the moment. 

“Goodnight, my dearest. I shall see you in the morning.” Joshua says after he pulls away.

“Goodnight, Joshua. But before you go, may I request something?” 

“Anything for you, my dearest.” 

“Can we practice some more later? You are my tutor after all.” And my lover, my partner for life.

Joshua beams at you. “I would love nothing more.”

[ilguna]

☼ stings (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; ’ HI CAN I PLEASE REQUEST THE READER LIKE CLEANING FINNICKS WOUNDS?? like idk why he would be all banged up but like just some fluff of the reader just cleaning up poor little finnick would make my life complete tbh. thank you love! ‘

warnings; swearing, self-inflicted injury (trackers)

wc; 2.2k

–

Keep reading

[ivybucky]

lightning in a bottle - logan howlett x reader

mutant!reader nearly harms the team in a moment of panic and feels unable to deal with the aftermath, but logan is there to bring you back in more ways than one

a/n: i have so many ideas besties... currently have a list of 5 fic ideas and this is the first one I was able to flush out. here's some angst with happy ending for ya (no smut)

content: angst with happy ending, lots of electricity(literally), mentions of torture and screaming, mentions of mutant experimentation, implications of shitty birth family, confession of feelings, reader crying, sad reader, angry/sad logan

words: 2329

~~~~~

All you could think about was the lightning. 

You remember walking into the room, where the footage of your torture was displaying blatantly across the TV news cycle, the team sitting there and watching with rapt attention. “Mutant Experimentation Footage Leaked” scrolled across the screen. You remember the static tingling in your fingertips as you recognized what you were watching. Your own cries echoed from the speakers as footage of Stryker’s experimentation on you from a month prior when you had been captured is played to the nation. 

“Turn it off,” you had said quietly, pleadingly. The team’s gaze snaps to your silhouette in the door frame. Their eyes held sorrow, and something else that you did not want to see. 

“Y/N-” Storm had started to speak, but you wouldn’t have it. 

“Turn it off, now,” you’d said, clenched fists at your side as the panic began to swell, small flares of electricity flaring around your knuckles. Memories of the torture, the agony, the hatred came rushing back all at one and your eyes couldn’t leave the screen as it continuously replayed it. 

As the feeling heightening, electricity cracked in the air. Your eyes lit up, a bright purple gleam taking over. There was too much silence in the room, the sounds of your screams playing in a loop like a broken record as the news team played the footage over and over. Finally, someone broke it. “Y/N,” Logan had spoken up, an odd, unfamiliar tone in his voice. Good god, was that pity?

“What?” You had snapped, finally looking away from the footage and making eye contact with the team, with Logan, and you understood it wasn’t pity you heard in his voice, but a form of fear. Your anger slowly dissipated as you took in the state of the room - everyone in that room (who wasn’t bald) had hair floating up into the air, falling under the influence of the clouded electricity that filled the ceiling, just as one is before they get struck by lightning. 

And gods above you had almost struck them. 

Your fists fell lax at your sides, realization of the height of your emotions, the loss of control taking over your features. “I-” you stuttered, unsure how to apologize for the pain you nearly inflicted. “I-I’m sorry.”

For a moment, no one moved a muscle, no one said a word. It wasn’t the first time you had lost control, but it was the first time any of them were in danger because of it. Everyone stood like statues, watching you with bated breath, as if you were one nudge away from electrocuting the masses. You turned and fled the room, quickly striding back to your room to inevitably lock yourself in. It was the only place you felt like you could be and not hurt anyone.

Hours had passed since, but you couldn’t shake the look on their faces, the pure fright they showed, caused by you. Decidedly, that wouldn’t happen again - you wouldn’t allow it, in any capacity. Would they always fear you now? Could you manage to stay surrounded by people you loved, but knew there would always be a limit to how far their love for you went? Could you withstand the constant pins and needles your family would walk on around you, again?

It was that thought that had you hurriedly shuffling through your closet to find the duffle bag you had lugged over your shoulder when you were originally picked up by X-Men. It was crumbled into a wrinkled ball on the top shelf, thought to no longer have any use. 

You paced around the room, picking up the things you knew you couldn’t leave without. The students can go through my clothes, you thought with some sort of sad acceptance. Though, that didn’t keep you from packing some of the staples. The school logo printed on a t-shirt, an old sweatshirt that was singed from a fire fight in your first mission with the rest of the team, a stolen old flannel that smelt like smoke and whiskey-

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” You look up almost startled at Logan standing at the door to your bedroom, now cracked wide open. Logan… You’d nearly forgotten about the worst part - leaving him behind.

He leans against the door frame with a confused expression, arms crossed over his chest. You furrow your brows before turning back to the half-full duffle bag that sat on the foot of your bed. You knew you couldn’t look at him when you spoke again. 

“I’m leaving,” you nearly mutter and you stuff more clothes into the bag. You can feel your eyes getting hot, and try to take a deep breath to calm yourself. 

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” he asks, his own brows furrowing. “Leaving for a mission?”

Your movements paused. You could tell the truth, but the reality was that he would try to stop you. And even if nothing had come out of the tension that hung between the two of you, you knew you would give in. 

“Yeah,” you swallowed as you lied. “Just a quick one, some intel gathering. I’m leaving sometime tomorrow morning.”

There was a brief pause, like Logan was trying to get a read on how truthful you were being. “Maybe I should come with you,” he says. “For backup, just in case.”

You clench your eyes shut - of course, he thought you needed to be accompanied. “I’ll be fine on my own,” your hands slow their movements as you place the last item in the bag, a gray zip up hoodie Logan had given you once. Were you saying that to reassure him, or yourself? You lied through your teeth like it was painful, as if the act of clenching your jaw so hard would break your bones and your will. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

There was another pause, and you were sure he was going to call your bluff, but he just clicked his tongue. “Well alright,” he said gruffly, almost dejectedly. His hand fiddled with the door frame for a moment hesitantly. “You know that if you need-“

“I know,” you interrupted, turning to give him a tight smile. “I know.” He gave a saddened half smile before nodding and walking away. 

The space he once occupied at the door was empty now, but for a moment you stared at as if he was still there, as if he was still trying to comfort you even when he didn’t know how. 

An errant tear slipped from your eye and trailed down your face for a moment before you snapped back into reality, wiping the tear away quickly with the heel of your hand. You aggressively zipped up the bag and slung it over your shoulder, eager to leave before anyone, mainly Charles, got an idea of your plan. 

With the click of the front door, and the clap of a thunderstorm on the dark horizon, you were gone. 

As Logan left your room, he externally winced at his inability to provide comfort - to you of all fucking people - as if the non-action hurt him. The pain on your face seeped into the air and into his adamantium bones, as if it was transferable through the longing gazes and secretly honeyed words. 

He hung his head and he slowly walked further down the hall, a part of him hoping he would hear your door creak open and hear you call out his name. Instead, he was met with the faint sniffles of a teary nose that only his heightened hearing could pick up, a scuffle of fabric being shoved tightly into the duffle that was then harshly zipped shut with a shuddering sigh.

He turned the corner to retreat to his room before he could hear any more, deciding to join the mission the next morning anyways. 

The following morning, Logan made his way to Charles, unexpecting wanting to make his intentions to follow her known to someone. He entered the room, Charles already staring directly at him with a face one could only describe as similar to an omniscient god.

“Logan,” Charles spoke, somewhat resigned. “She doesn’t have a mission.”

Logan paused in his step with a furrowed brow. “What are you talking about? She said she was leaving this morning.”

“I did not give her one,” he confirms. “I have a feeling-”

Logan cut him off before the professor could continue. His jaw was clenched tight as he spoke the words. “She left.”

A tense silence took over the room, Charles watching Logan with a straight, yet dissecting gaze. Logan broke eye contact and looked away momentarily as he felt his heart sink to his stomach for the first time in decades. 

Finally, he looked back to Charles with a determined glare. “Where is she?”

The side of the professor’s mouth twitches up. 

—-

It only took two days for Logan to reach you. Charles was able to track your location easily as soon as he was asked. It took nothing for Logan to take the bike and peel out of the upstate town. Now, he stood in the rain staring at the shitty side-of-the-road motel with a simmering glare. 

His mind floated despondently in the air above him, completely unattached from his body as it stomped its way up the stairs and down the hall to your room. His fist banged on the door loudly, uncaring of its stability under his metal skeleton. His heightened exhaustion and emotions tethered him enough to not let his head fly too far away from him, but the reality was that he hadn’t slept since you left and the only words he spoke were to himself as he practiced what he would say to get you to return.

But then, the door swung open. His mind snapped back to his body as soon as he saw your face, but the pleas he had planned to beg left him just as quick. 

“You lied to me,” he growled, he accused, standing in the open door, his hands resting up on the door frame. The rain continued to pour just past the motel covering, evidence of its duration linger in the form of wet tracks down his leather jacket, the dampness of his hair, the drops that stuck to his face. 

“Logan-”

“You lied to me, Y/N,” he repeated, a new kind of angry heat simmering in his eyes. “You were not leaving for a mission.”

You take another deep breath. “‘M leaving for good,” you utter softly, your hands trembling slightly at the first out loud admission of what you had planned to do. You circled the back in the room, putting the cheap mattress in between you as some sort of barrier. The duffle bag he saw you packing days ago sat mockingly between you both. 

“Come on, what the fuck? ‘Leaving for good’?” He asks incredulously, taking a step forward and letting his arms drop to his sides. “You were going to leave the mansion, just like that?”

You stare at the duffle’s opening, having only reached that motel hours ago, not long enough to unpack the only remaining items you had. “I can’t stay, Logan,” you say softly, not moving to look at him. “No matter how careful I am, no matter how hard I try, I can’t control it, I can’t control me. Even Charles doesn’t know what to do with me, I-I had to leave, it’ll be better for everyone.”

“No,” he says defiantly, moving cautiously closer around the side of the bed. “Not everyone.”

The tears welled in your eyes at his words, unable to stop them from falling and you crossed your arms in front of you protectively, the tear-stained cuffs of the hoodie, his hoodie, pushed up your forearms. “Why are you here, Logan?”

“Why am I- are you stupid?” He scoffed, causing you to flinch at his harshness. “I’m here to bring you back. You’re not leaving the school, you’re not leaving me alone-”

“You don’t want me,” you cried, with tears streaming down your face as you shake your head. He can feel his heart break at the side of your distress. “None of you do. I nearly struck all of you the other day, just because I got emotional. I almost hurt you, and that’s the last thing you need, Logan.”

Logan quickly moves closer to stand in front of you and cups your cheeks, bringing your wet eyes to his. “Don’t you get it,” he says with a strained, rough voice. His thumbs sweep gently under your eyes to brush away the tears. “You are the only thing I need. Fuck everything and everyone else.”

Your hands come up to hold onto his wrist, keeping his hands exactly where they are on your face. “Logan-” you stutter as you search his eyes almost hopefully. “What are you saying?”

There’s a brief silence in between your soft sniffles and the sound of the rain on the other side of the motel door. When Logan speaks again, it is deliberate, and it’s what he wanted to say all along. “I’m saying I am nothing without you, sweetheart,” he urges, his thumb pulling your bottom lip from your teeth. “I was nothing before you, and I know that if you leave now, I’ll be nothing all over again. Not a single person in that school wants you to leave, me especially.”

You squeeze your eyes shut in time with the hopeful clenching of your heart, forcing tears out as you do so. You rest your forehead against Logan’s as he continues. “Please,” he nearly whispers, his nose bumping against yours. “Come home with me and turn nothing into something again.”

You nodded against him and spoke a wet “okay” before pressing your lips, finally, against his. And, just as you had predicted you would several nights ago, you gave in. 

_____

a/n: quickly posting this bc if i keep staring at it i'll never post it pls tell me how i did :D logan smut comin soon, pls like, comment, reblog

[ilguna]

Hey, congrats on 1.6k! You really deserve it. Can you please write something about finnick with 6, 8, and 22 from the fluff prompt list? I love your writing so much!

☼ shattered (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, PTSD mention.

wc; 1.7k

prompt; "I promised to love you forever." & "I'll take care of you." & "Are you hurt? What happened?"

–

No matter how hard everyone tried, it wasn’t a secret to any of the surviving victors that the Quarter Quell had successfully reset everyone back to square one. You could pretend and act tough, but slowly, at her own unbearable pace, misery was coming to set you straight.

Fortunately for you, it was established early on that you and Finnick wouldn’t be participating in a single cleanup that would be planned. Inside District Four, outside of District Four, it didn’t matter. The last thing you two wanted to see was injured soldiers and the bodies of casualties that had happened to help Katniss’ cause.

In order to preserve the peace that you’ve kindled, the wall had to be put up, a boundary to separate you and them. They might have helped, but they still don’t understand the sacrifices that came with going back inside. The first and the most important one being: the stability that took years to build up.

You and Finnick had finally begun to see the end of nightmares, no more waking up in the middle of the night with a tight chest, sore throat and tears on your face. No more of having to hold each other until the feeling finally went away. You stopped going days without having a proper rest, and same goes for Finnick.

Not to mention the PTSD episodes weren’t triggered by the smallest things anymore. Sure, it was still hell to deal with, but you stopped hyperventilating at the mention of a few words, or hearing a sentence that you’d heard inside of the games. You could go about your daily activities without your mother standing at the door to make sure that you could get through it, that she wouldn’t have to catch you if you suddenly fell.

Progress, real progress had begun to be made, normalcy was just around the corner. And you gave it all away the second that the Quarter Quell was announced, the second you realized why Snow had decided on that specific Quarter Quell. You and Finnick had no choice but to help, and volunteer. You gave away your future on a gold platter, so now it’s your time to take it back, even if it’s broken and chipped.

You did your part in the rebellion, you stood on the front lines with everyone else. You held Finnick’s hand and there were countless times where you prayed that you two would make it out fine. You think that you’re allowed to back out now. If anyone thinks differently, you’ll gladly show the new wounds you endured to get them their freedom. And remind them that if it weren’t for you and Finnick volunteering, that success might not have been so easy to reach.

You don’t owe them anything else. In fact, they now owe you.

“(Y/n)?” You turn at the voice, eyes finding the doorway. It takes you a moment to see that it’s your mother, dressed in her Sunday attire, a beige canvas bag draped over her arm, “I’m going now.”

You give her a smile, “Okay, have fun.”

“Finnick is upstairs if you need him,” she says, “I won’t be home until ten tonight.”

You give a half-hearted shrug, “Make sure to tell your friends hi for me.”

“Sure,” she starts to go, but then stops, “Do you need help with anything?”

Another curse that came back after the Quarter Quell, your mother’s double-checking, always asking if you need help. You appreciate that she does it, you know she only worries because of the times you can’t do simple stuff on your own. Lately, though, you’ve been fine around the house, which is why she thought it would be okay to finally go out tonight.

You know that if you asked, if you really needed her, she would cancel her plans and stay here. You know that she’s been looking forward to tonight, and you don’t want to ruin that. Besides, you’re feeling just fine, and Finnick is handling the recovery a lot better than you are.

“I’m good, mom, thank you.” you wave.

“I love you,” she says, heading towards the front door.

“Love you too!”

She opens the front door, briefly allowing you to see the sunset that’s taken over the sky. Maybe you and Finnick should go out and take a stroll while dinner cooks. You think that you can make it around Victor’s Village without any problems.

You turn back to the mess that you’ve created on the counter, waiting for you to prepare the salad. You know that to reach where you were before, you have to start taking the hard steps. Before, it had taken you weeks to work up the courage to even stand in a kitchen, knowing how many weapons were in the room, what drawer they were in, how to use them.

It’s easy now, you take your time peeling off lettuce, washing it, and then setting it aside for when you have to cut it. You rinse the tomatoes and cucumbers beneath the water, letting it join the lettuce. Since the window is right in front of the sink, the droplets of water catch the light, creating little sunsets of their own.

Carefully, you slide out the drawer with the knives, picking the one that’s best for cutting the vegetables. It isn’t until you’ve successfully done it, do you realize that you’ve forgotten the bowl to put it in. You set the knife behind the sink, out of harm’s way while you go to find where your mother hides the glass bowls.

Well, hide is an overstatement, she just always places them in a spot where you can’t find them. Your hunt doesn’t last nearly as long as you thought it would, you find them hidden on a low shelf inside of the pantry. You slide it out, being careful not to let it slip in your hands.

As you turn around, heading back towards the spot in front of the window, you miss something in the window. It isn’t until you go back to check, does your heart drop in your chest.

You scream, bowl dropping from your hands as you lower into a crouch, hands over the back of your neck. The glass bowl shatters all over the tile floor, sending shards spraying in every direction. You suck in a deep breath, only for it to come back out as a sob.

Upstairs, you can hear a thump, and then your name being called. You press your lips together, eyes squeezing hard when the shudder goes through your body. You have to remember that it’s not real. The hallucinations aren’t real. Cashmere wasn’t outside of the window, she can’t hurt you anymore.

“(Y/n)?” Finnick yells, he’s coming down the stairs now, bare feet slapping against the wooden staircase.

If he comes off the stairs, he might step on glass. The thought alone is enough to let your hands unclamp from the back of your head. You look up, and through the blur of tears, you can see him in the middle of the staircase.

“(Y/n), are you hurt? What happened?” he asks.

You hold your palm out, motioning for him not to go any further, voice wobbling, “Glass.”

Finnick stops, looking over the floor. His eyes jump from spot to spot, but end at your feet, which are also bare. You know that there’s glass stuck in your skin, you can feel it. If you move even an inch, you know the blood will be worse, and you’re not sure if you can handle the sight of that yet.

“Okay, hold on,” he says, disappearing up the stairs. He comes back down a moment later, tennis shoes pulled onto his feet lazily. He steps down onto the base floor, and you can hear the glass crunching beneath his feet.

Finnick heads straight towards you, not bothering to grab a broom to sweep the glass aside. You press a hand to your mouth, sobbing into it. This is your fault, you just made this whole mess…

“Come on,” Finnick says, reaching out to scoop you up, “I’ll take care of you in the bathroom, okay?”

“I’m so sorry,” you cry, eyes filling with tears again.

You let him pick you up, trying not to curl your toes when the pain goes racing through them.

“Honey, you have no reason to apologize.” Finnick frowns, eyes going over your face, “It was an accident.”

He brings you to the stairs, kicking off his shoes at the bottom step before he goes up the rest of the way. He takes you to your guys’ bedroom, into the attached bathroom, and sits you on the counter. While you watch him flick on the lights and grab out the first aid kit, you struggle to keep your lips pressed together, not wanting to cry. You know that he hates it when you cry, he doesn’t like to see you upset.

He sits on a stool at your feet, starting to take out the glass. He’s gentle, and he’ll look up each time you let out a hiss to make sure that he’s not hurting you too badly. Finnick is so good to you, and this is what you bring to the table.

“I don’t know why you bother to stay with me,” your voice is quiet, hands tightening into fists when the lump in your throat grows.

He stops moving, eyebrows drawing in. When his eyes land on you, you can tell that you’ve upset him, “What?”

“I’m putting you through all of this again, don’t you think you deserve better?” you ask.

He presses his lips together for a second, “I promised to love you forever, remember?” you bite the inside of your cheek, “Do you really think I would be better off starting with someone new? You are better, (Y/n).”

You swallow the thickness in your throat, “I’m sorry.”

“I chose you for a reason, and it’s because I love you. I don’t love anyone else, but you.” Finnick says, eyes flickering back down to your feet, “Please don’t forget that again.”

--

I'm so sorry that this is so late! I didn't have the motivation to write this at first, and it didn't help that I was stressed over Anteric.

this was part of my 1.6k celebration!

[ilguna]

☼ whisper of the beast (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; on your own, you try to find your boyfriend in the arena. instead, you run across something much, much worse.

warnings; swearing, death, weapon usage, ehhh gore, blood mention.

wc; 2.5k

prompt; 11. "Just keep breathing. In and out. You're doing great."

—

There is something seriously horrifying going on with this arena, and each time you think you get close to figuring it out—it changes.

The only consistent factor in each of your theories is the jungle, and that’s because it’s the root of the fear. When you travel through the greenery for long periods of time, a creeping feeling grows on you, one that you can’t shake unless you make your way back to the beach.

Which is far from safe, itself. Especially since there are nine other tributes alive here, roaming around, hunting for lone victors. For it only being the second day of the Games, it’s remarkable that so many are dead, already. With six of them dying today, alone.

It makes you think that you’re being overly paranoid, because you’re out here by yourself. It’s a completely new experience to you. The first time around, during your Games, the Career alliance lasted up until the very last second. You never had to keep an eye out for yourself, because you had others with you that were doing the same thing.

You were under the impression that you’d be doing that for these Games, too, but nothing has gone according to plan. You and Finnick had a long discussion the night of the interviews on what to expect regarding corralling Katniss and Peeta into the alliance. Neither of you thought it would be easy. Worst case scenario, you’d grab one and he’d get the other, and the two of you would meet up somewhere in the middle. 

The Gamemakers really must have it out for you this year, determined to keep you and Finnick apart. That’s why they decided to put you on the opposite side of the Cornucopia, keeping you from seeing Finnick. While also putting Brutus in your water wedge, to ensure that you wouldn’t be able to reach him.

By the time you fought off Brutus and got to the Cornucopia, all three of them were gone. The only option you had left was to wait for Johanna and Blight, but with them still in the water and the Careers coming to take over, you had to leave. There wasn’t a choice in the matter.

Since, you’ve spent your time traveling through the jungle and taking the occasional rest on the beach, in the hopes that you’ll run across your boyfriend. The search was casual yesterday, as you were more worried about finding drinking water than the rebel alliance. Now that the numbers are spiraling, you know that the rescue plan is right around the corner.

You’re confident enough to say that they won’t do it today, but it’s got to be tomorrow or the day after. They won’t have Katniss and Peeta openly in danger like this for longer than they have to. You likely have less than forty-eight hours to find them, or else you’ll get trapped in here and taken by the Capitol.

You would say that you wish you had a general idea on which direction they went in yesterday, but it probably won’t make much of a difference. With the amount of people dying in these trees, you’re sure Finnick is directing them the opposite way, just in case. 

It’s another reason why you can’t stand to be in the jungle for long periods of time. From what you’ve gathered, at least half of the tributes that have died today so far, have come from somewhere in the trees. It makes you think that something is out here, and it’s more than just a rogue tribute.

In fact, it would make more sense for it to be a mutt of some kind. In the last Quarter Quell, they were everywhere. There was not a single animal that a tribute could trust to be friendly. On top of that, there were aspects of the arena that took them by surprise. 

It appeared to be the most breathtaking place imaginable. The Cornucopia was in the middle of a vibrantly green meadow, the sky a perfect blue, with fluffy white clouds. In the distance, there was a snow capped mountain, one that looked straight out of a picture book. On the other side, a healthy forest with plants you couldn’t name.

Of course, it was all too good to be true. The mountain was revealed to be a deadly volcano, the plants were poisonous, the water was infected with a disease, the insects stung and the flowers could kill when inhaled too closely. Everything that was placed in that arena was working against them.

Who’s to say it’s not the same for this one?

You pause next to a nearby tree to rest your feet, because they’re throbbing in your shoes. You lift one, stretching your thigh, feeling the immediate relief that comes with being off the foot. After a minute, you switch, but it doesn’t feel as good this time around.

When you reach up to run a hand through your hair to smooth it back, you find that your scalp is wet, soaked from sweating so much. It feels much hotter today than it was yesterday, like the Gamemakers are trying to boil you alive. It’s brutal enough being in here, do they really need to make it any worse?

You dip your head, eyes closed while you take a deep breath, sighing it out. You return to walking, paying attention to where you place your feet.

It might make more sense for you to go down to the beach and wait for Finnick, Katniss and Peeta to show up. The issue is that you’re not willing to take the risk of the Careers spotting you while you’re down there. The four of them could easily get you pinned down. You’ll be dead before you can call for help.

A branch rustling behind you makes your next step stutter. Your eyes widen, as you slowly look across the fern in front of you, to the left of your vision. With sensitive ears, you adjust the spear in your hand, turning your body halfway to look behind you, at the tree you were just standing at.

There’s nothing.

You take a minute to search the trees around you, backtracking to get a better look. Even if it’s just a critter, you want to know. If there’s living animals out here, that means there’s a water source—and you won’t have to depend on your sponsors to keep you hydrated.

There’s not a trace. At least, that’s what you think, until your eyes catch the hoof print in the mud. Your face contorts, you drop into a crouch to get closer, curious on what could’ve made a mark like this. As far as your knowledge on the jungle goes, there shouldn’t be anything that could leave this behind.

The goosebumps that crawl up your arms are involuntary, stomach dropping. The safety blanket that the jungle had been providing seconds ago, is gone now. There’s something in here with you, and it was smart enough to run when it made noise.

You raise your head, thinking about the best way to handle this situation, when your heart seizes in your chest.

What the fuck is that.

In one fluid movement, you jump to your feet, turning in the direction of the beach, and beginning to sprint down the slope. A screech cuts through the previously quiet air, piercing your ears enough to make you wince at the pitch.

And then you can hear it galloping behind you, hands and feet pounding against the spongy jungle ground. A scream rises in your throat, terrified to look behind you to see how fast this thing actually is.

You take the chance when you swing around a tree, stealing a glance over your shoulder. 

Whatever it is, it’s demonic.

You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s coming at you on all fours, there’s hooves where its feet should be, with long and pointed nails on its fingers. Its fur is so black that you can’t make out where its eyes are, or if it has any skin exposed at all. It’s a beast straight out of one of your nightmares.

It isn’t fast by any means, but it’s not slow, either.

You can hear it tearing up a path behind you, trampling through the bushes, ripping bark off trees. As the path between the trees narrows, the jungle becomes more condensed. You hear less of it coming in contact with the ground, thumping replacing the noise.

Until it stops altogether.

Your instincts take over, jerking to the right, shoulder slamming into the tree. You watch in silence as the beast flies by where you were a second ago, claws out and ready to latch on. It comes into contact with the ground about ten feet away, head whipping unnaturally to see over its shoulder.

“No, no!” You let out, beginning to weave through the trees.

A snarl rips through its throat at the idea of you outsmarting it. It’s coming for you, and there’s nothing you can do besides run for your life and dodge it each time it tries to attack. 

You play this game for what feels like an hour, but it can’t be more than twenty minutes. You make it half a mile down the slope, knowing that the beach can’t be that far away from where you are, when you realize that it’s gone. The monster that has been chasing you has given up.

You lean over your knees, mouth watering, throat beginning to close. As you gasp for air, your body tries to expel some of the heat by making you sweat, but all that’s doing is making you sick. You think you might throw up. 

Right as you’ve come to terms with losing all the water and food in your body, spit falling from your mouth in long strings, a shadow on the ground grows larger. Your face twists, thinking that something must be falling, like a leaf.

It hits you, literally, flattening you against the ground, head hitting the dirt. It digs in, nails cutting through skin as it tears through your back and arms, shredding your jumpsuit. A scream leaves your lips, a white hot and blinding pain smothering you all at once.

Your hand tightens around the spear, cheek against Earth as the beast presses into your shoulders, keeping you from moving. Still, with the small amount of mobility you have, you swing the head of the spear up, toward yourself, narrowly missing your left  shoulder.

It lodges into the beast, causing it to roar in pain. You shove the pole further back, hoping that it pushes into its body deeper. The weight on your shoulders disappears, you can hear it stumbling away.

In the window you have, you get back to your feet, ignoring the screaming pain your entire backside is in. You just need to make it to the beach, it’s not that far away, you’ve covered this distance in your sleep before. It’s harder to do, though, when every hard step you take makes you grit your teeth to keep from crying out. 

The beast is catching up with you, recovering from its wound. It’s faster than you are, and it’s completely disregarding everything in its path. Nothing can slow it down. You can see the golden sand through the trees, you’re almost there.

A body jumps out from behind a bush, making you run into it. For a moment, you’re sure that it’s an exact replica of the monster behind you, but once you realize that you’re staring at another tribute jumpsuit, the panic subsides. But only for a second.

“Move!” You shriek, trying to get around him. He grabs the sides of your arms, holding you there.

You look up, finding that you’re standing face to face with the male tribute from Ten—someone who is not part of the rebel alliance, and doesn’t care whether or not you make it out alive. When you glance over your shoulder, you can see that the beast is getting closer. It’s not going to stop until it gets its hands on somebody.

And it won’t be you.

The only choice you have is to sacrifice him, so that’s exactly what you do. You jerk him around, switching places with him, forcing his back to the beast. His eyes widen, mouth opening to say something, when you pull back from him, lifting your leg to kick him in the chest.

The beast takes him gratefully, landing on his back. He stumbles forward, struggling under the weight of the beast. You watch in horror as its jaws unhinge, revealing razor sharp teeth. It throws its head back, before whipping forward, mouth securing around the tribute’s neck.

And with no resistance, he rips out a chunk of the flesh. A spray of blood hits you in the face, and it coats the jungle floor. You back away with wide eyes, watching as Ten’s legs can’t hold him up anymore, body collapsing in the dirt beneath the beast.

A cannon fires.

You turn, making the final push for the beach before it can come after you, too. 

The moment your feet hit the sand, it begins to drag you down, keeping you from running as far away as your mind is screaming for you to go. You make it a few feet before landing on your hands and knees, sucking in sharp breaths and letting them out aggressively. 

That was almost you. That could’ve been you.

You try to crawl, hands forming in fists in the sand, tears falling from your eyes.

“(Y/n)?” You hear. There’s a headache forming, black spots coming to eat away at the corners of your vision. “(Y/n), hey.”

A hand touching your lower back makes you swing a hand up to get them off. Your wrist is caught, eyes meeting Finnick’s, finding him worried. 

“You’re okay, honey. I’m right here.” He pulls at your elbow to make you sit up on your knees. 

You grab onto his shoulder, struggling to breathe, “It—it… The—” 

Finnick takes your hand placing it against his chest. “Follow me.” He takes a deep breath, you try to follow, stuttering. He blows it out, you sob. “Come on, (Y/n). Just keep breathing. In and out.” You mimic his breaths, allowing them to even out. “You’re doing great.”

“Finnick.” You cry, head falling forward.

He cups your face with both hands, lifting your head. He’s only a couple inches away from you. “You’re safe with me, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” He wipes your tears away with his thumbs. “Do you want to tell me what’s in there?”

You look away, eyes too intense to stare into. “A monster.”

--

this was part of my 3k celebration!!

[hyper-fixates]

Time After Time

Logan Howlett/Wolverine x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 15.2k never let me near him again

Tags/warnings: age-gap due to logan’s mutation (reader’s age not specified), mutant!reader, unprotected sex, teasing, friends to lovers, explicit language, dry humping, storm cameos, fluff, domesticity, the claws come out when he’s close (👁️👁️), detailed descriptions & scenes of nightmares/trauma/PTSD/panic attacks, one (1) ass smack, alcohol consumption, vomiting, biting/marking, angst, soft!logan, creampie, groping/touching, use of “baby” once, aftercare, yearning (kindly let me know if anything was missed!).

Summary: 4 times you end up in Logan’s bed, and the 1 time he does something about it.

Notes: this falls somewhere in between “which could mean nothing” and “we can fix each other” 🫡 (written with a mix of X1 & X2 logan!)

Your heart, despite always being alive and beating, sometimes wakes up before you.

You can feel it before your eyes even have a chance to open. It jolts your sleep-ridden body and collapses your lungs without giving your brain a chance to fight against it. Muscles and limbs feel lifeless and detached from your body, shaking from the sleep that your heart knows wasn’t completely dreamless.

You kick the blankets off of yourself and sit up in a panic, trying to regain some control of your sudden erratic breaths while bringing a lethargic hand to your heaving chest in hopes to ground yourself. It never works.

Maybe your ribs are shrinking and squeezing your lungs, making you delirious from the lack of oxygen, but you know that’s not the case. Your heart feels like its being squeezed and broken into a million tiny pieces.

No part of your body feels real, yet you keep your hand on your chest as firmly as you can, trying to focus on controlling the pounding of your heart that’s working so hard with each beat that it hurts. 

“Fuck. Fuck,” you choke out, feeling the tears finally breach and roll down your cheeks as your nervous system catches up to what’s happening.

 Panic. It’s all panic.

You can’t do anything but sit there and let the tears hit the freshly-washed fitted sheet on your bed. So you let it happen. Nothing can stop it.

Trauma is such a fickle thing. One moment you’re fine, and then the next, your heart is screaming at you and forcing your body to process something at 4 a.m. on a random Friday when all you wanted was some goddamn sleep.

There is no choice. Your mind doesn’t give you one.

The tremors subside slowly after a few minutes, giving you the feeling back to your arms and legs, albeit minimal.

You slide to sit at the edge of your bed, resting an elbow on your thigh and setting your chin into your palm with a defeated, yet shaky, huff. 

You look to your window and see that the sun hasn’t even started to rise yet. You’ll be up for the rest of the foreseeable morning, but there’s not much to do so early besides wander aimlessly and think…then think some more. 

You’re confident the professor isn’t even awake at this hour, which says enough about your state. You would typically go visit Storm for some comfort, but she’s been gone fuck-knows-where with Hank and Scott until Sunday at the latest. Thanks, Charles.

A questionable, and probably manic, decision comes to mind. One that’s only two doors down, one over from Storm.

Your impulsive feet make up your mind for you. The cold hardwood floor shocking you further into consciousness as if your heart didn’t do a good enough job.

You tiptoe a couple steps down the hall, forcing yourself to turn and face the large wooden door when you reach it. You just stand there staring at it, unknocking, analyzing the wood grains, suddenly very interested in what type of wood it is and what stain was used to—

“Uh. Are you okay?”

You refocus your eyes onto the man now standing in front of you in the doorway, adorning a barely-zipped school hoodie and black sweats.

“Huh?” You blink a few times, disoriented.

Logan quirks a brow, looking you up and down cautiously. “Are you okay?” He asks again, offering a look of concern—or maybe confusion—that you haven’t seen often. A look that’s never needed to be directed towards you.

You come back to yourself. “But—I…didn’t knock,” you respond, looking equally as confused as him as you point to the door. 

He leans against the edge of the door, face softening. “I could smell you before you passed Storm’s room,” he clarifies, a hint of reluctance in his tone. Oh. 

You feel like a child who has just gained awareness, all too conscious of your situation.

“You’re…awake?” Is all you manage despite probably needing to say much more than that to explain just why exactly you’re standing outside Logan’s room at 4 a.m.

“So are you,” he counters with a curious look. “So let me ask again. Are you okay?” He locks his eyes on yours, probably in hopes to understand why the fuck you’re outside his room at 4 a.m.

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” you say, and it’s the truth. 

You should probably be embarrassed. You show up at Logan’s door unannounced, dressed in a flimsy shirt and matching sweats—thanks, Charles—that can’t fully hide the remaining quivers throughout your body.

Logan pulls his lips together at your admission. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head trying to figure you out.

“Can’t sleep?” He questions, but he knows he’s right.

“Yeah.” You don’t know why you’re making it Logan’s problem, though. Sure, he happens to be awake, but maybe this is all too personal to push on the guy who’s seemingly all pride and no solicitude most of the time.

It’s not that he’s not a good, nice guy, but you don’t know how you would define your relationship, or lack of.

You know each other well enough from existing in the same space over the past couple months, being part of the same “team”, but it’s nothing to call a close friendship like you and Storm. He’s a bit of a rare species in the mansion, not really lingering around.

He cocks his head in a half shrug, the soft points in his hair broken by sleep shake gently with the movement.

“I don’t think I can help you,” he says wearily. “I’m no better. Clearly.” He gestures between you, drawing attention to the fact that you’re both awake. The helpless cannot help the helpless.

“Oh—no, I’m not looking for help. I think I’m beyond that at this point,” you laugh but stop yourself short when Logan doesn’t follow. Tough crowd.

“I, uh, don’t actually know what I’m looking for,” you offer.

You knit your brows together in thought, still wondering why the fuck you’re here. Comfort? Entertainment? Some other unknown third thing?

“I’m not really used to Storm being gone for so long,” you admit. “I just feel…all over the place, I guess.”

Logan considers your vulnerability for a beat, eyes flicking to yours. “I can hear you sometimes,” he says, a knowing—almost sympathetic—look on his face. “We have the same problem.”

You go cold, any expression you had on your face sliding away. You wish the floor could swallow you right now. You know things have been getting worse recently, but you didn’t think anyone could hear that fact. Maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise from someone who could smell you from down the hallway.

He steps back, pulling his door open further. An invitation.

You don’t move right away. Could this be a false awakening? You’re not sure what you expected when you came to his door, but you also didn’t expect him to open it without you knocking, so you have to suspend disbelief for now. You figured he’d offer a few words of advice and dismiss you, or maybe even tell you to fuck off, but he opened his door wider for you. But you didn’t exactly think any of it through in the first place anyway.

You force your feet to carry you into Logan’s room. It’s not much different from yours; scarce belongings, minimal decor, a small work desk, brown curtains that are drawn back, and a bed. 

“Were you, uh…sleeping before I came?” You sit on the unmade bed, nothing noticeably different from it compared to yours.

He shuts the door quietly, moving to the small desk across the room and filing some scattered papers together neatly.

“Trying to,” he says, keeping his gaze on the desk.

Fucking duh. “Sorry if I disturbed you,” you wince to yourself. 

You see him briefly shake his head at your unnecessary apology. “I had to get up anyway.” His voice is still gravelly from sleep.

It feels like you’re invading his space. But he invited you in. How many others have had the opportunity to be in here? Probably too many. There’s nothing to make this special.

“I’m fucking exhausted,” you sigh, flopping back on his bed defeated. Simply overwhelmed with the uncontrollable repercussions of your mutation.

“Try to sleep. If you want,” he offers, moving to the edge of the bed. “It’s easier said than done, but I have to meet with Charles in an hour.” It’s gruff, but he’s sincere.  

Maybe the professor is awake after all.

You roll your head to the side to look at him. Was he really offering for you to stay in his bed?

“Oh, wow…uh, sure.” It comes off as more of a question, but he quirks his brows in acknowledgment, turning back to the desk and collecting a handful of other miscellaneous papers.

“I have to head downstairs and take care of some things. Stay as long as you need,” he says, zipping his sweater the rest of the way up. Thank God in heaven.

A shy “thanks” is all you manage as you situate yourself on the bed.

Is this fucking weird? You could name a handful of others in the mansion right this second that would kill without hesitation to be where you are. They’d probably kill you specifically to get it. It’s not much of a secret that Logan is the subject of almost all students’ desires. He knows it, too. 

“See you later,” he adds, his lips forming the slightest hint of a caring smile as he sees himself out. You throw one back before the door clicks shut.

Should you be offended that he didn’t stay? That he left so quickly? No, no, he can’t. He couldn’t. Charles is expecting him. The timing is just horrid. But now you’re just…alone…in Logan’s room, expected to sleep because of a random act of kindness in his heart.

Lying in his bed instead of yours is an odd sensation. The sheets and mattress are exactly the same, the pillows are just as fluffy, yet it feels unalike. 

You flop your head on his pillow, tugging the blankets up to your chin. Your fingers graze something by your hip as you settle in, making you push the blanket back down. Leaning over, you see three puncture marks in the mattress, fraying the bedsheet material into feather-soft strands around the deep holes.

Your eyes widen, remembering his words before he invited you in: “We have the same problem.”

Part of your heart fractures for the second time today. Your eyes cross over to the other side of you, seeing a matching set of holes just below the pillow. It’s suddenly easy to understand why no one besides him has been seen coming and going from this room in a while. One day, things just seemed to change. 

Maybe his act of kindness was an act of mercy. Trauma will always find you, and it will make sure you feel it until you either destroy it or it destroys you.

Even the Wolverine isn’t an exception. 

━━━━ ● ━━━━

The gold liquid is gone from the glass as quickly as it was poured.

Your throat clenches and protests the swallow as you try to suppress the urge to gag. You gently set the shot glass back on the counter, watching Storm chase with a piece of lime that does nothing to help the puckered face she makes from the tequila. 

“No more, no more. I can’t.” Your arms anchor you to the counter to stop yourself from swaying too much.

Storm nods, still fighting off the sourness with furrowed brows and a scrunched nose. You giggle at her when she quickly screws the cap back on the bottle, sliding it out of reach.

“You’re a bad influence,” she scolds as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“No—I’m under the influence,” you counter, a playful smile on your lips. “There’s a difference. You still have your own free will.”

Storm rolls her eyes so hard you only see the whites of them. “We have training tomorrow,” she slurs. “Charles will not be happy if we show up half-conscious.” She rounds the counter to you, grabbing your shoulders for stability, and you do the same.

“He’ll be lucky if we show up at all,” you mumble. 

The dim kitchen lighting embraces the two of you, the rest of the mansion blanketed in darkness with everyone fast asleep—like you both should be.

You close your eyes with a roll of your neck, more giggles falling through your lips as you clumsily grab onto Storm and rock and sway together for a moment, the alcohol quickly catching up to your motor skills. It feels like you’re spinning through time and space, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel fucking euphoric. At this rate, neither of you will be able to make it back to your rooms.

“Am I interrupting something?”

You lose a bit of your balance as you try to find the resonant voice, eyes shooting open. Storm unintentionally startles and stumbles away from you, white hair also jumping from the excitement.

You grab onto the counter again, sucking in a deep breath. “Fuck, don’t do that,” you growl through your teeth, a hand on your chest as you try to calm yourself.

“Don’t do what? Come to the shared kitchen to grab a drink?” Logan huffs a laugh, an amused smile creeps to his lips as he takes in your drunk and shaken state from the entryway.

“Doesn’t anyone sleep in this place?” He mumbles to himself.

“And with that, I’m done for the night,” Storm chuckles, fixing her hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Her eyes lock intensely on yours, index finger firmly poking the middle of your chest to make her point for you to show up to training very clear.

“See you, Logan,” she dismisses, stumbling as she passes him.

Logan shakes his head, still smiling. He steps to the fridge, opening the double doors and plucking a bottle of soda from the bottom shelf. No alcohol is readily available in the communal fridge because, after all, you’re all in a school full of kids, so Storm had to get creative; Scott will be missing a rather large bottle from the now not-so-secret stash in his room.

As the alcohol continues to settle in you, you feel more and more lightheaded as it brings you to a new level of euphoria again. You only know this because watching Logan pop the cap of his drink with mindless ease feels a little more exciting than it would be if you were sober. But you’re not sober, and that’s the problem.

“Not gonna follow Storm?” He asks, taking a generous sip from the bottle as he casually places his free hand on the counter to lean on across from you.

A tight smile forms, mostly to yourself. “I don’t think I can make it down the hall,” you laugh in embarrassment. Maybe that last shot was one too many, and it’s not even fully done working its magic yet.

Logan raises a brow. “Want some help?” There’s no judgement in his tone like you expect. Then again, you don’t know what the fuck to expect from him.

Your already half-closed eyes, blurry and unfocused, meet his hazel ones in interest. Another favour?

It’s been two weeks since he let you sleep off the nightmares in his bed. Two weeks since you learned he’s burdened with them, too. You traced the holes in the mattress over and over before you eventually fell asleep, wondering what—or who—could have hurt him so badly. He plays it off cool; you wouldn’t suspect anything from talking to him. The same could probably be said about you.

“I didn’t know wolverine’s were chivalrous,” you tease.

The yellow hue of the lights dance over the quaffed points in his hair, making them appear sharper than usual. You would never admit it, especially to him, but you adore them. They give him an absurd amount of character that you’d expect a guy like him to not care about. 

You’re not exactly complaining about the fitting grey tank-top he has on either.

“Not overly,” he plays along, taking another mouthful of the fizzy drink. “I like to think I’m special,” he says quieter.

“Maybe you are,” you say as you try and straighten yourself to see if you can stand unassisted.

The world tilts as you stand to your full height, eyes rolling into your head from the wave of dizziness. “Wow, okay,” you say to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut to stop the spinning. How many shots did you have again?

A warm hand presses between your shoulders. “Woah, nice and easy. Nice and easy.” Logan appears by your side to steady you, other hand grabbing your elbow to pull you straight. You wobble in his grip, letting him guide your useless, alcohol-ridden body.

His hand on your back rubs a few small, comforting circles as you work to regain your bearings. He watches your expressions intently, looking for the right moment to get you moving back to your room safe and sound.

Your arm crosses over your body out of instinct to grab the hand he has on your elbow for extra support.

“Are you okay?” He asks. He seems to ask you that a lot.

You lean into him, your shoulder to his chest, and you can feel the blackout creeping up on you like humidity from a thunderstorm—it’s usually too late to do anything once you notice it. 

“I drank a lot,” you laugh deeply, rolling your head onto his shoulder to look up at him.

He looks so much more delicate under the ambient lights—his usual defined features have shifted and melted him into someone that doesn’t look like they should be a feared animal out in the world.

Logan all but cradles you, that same look of concern crossing his features from the night you went to his door. The only difference is that you’ve had a generous amount of tequila—and are currently being kept alert by the hot touch of his hands. That’s new.

“Can you walk?” He holds your squinty eye contact, probably searching for any signs of a coherent thought behind the blissful expression on your face. “Or will I have to carry you?” He muses, a hint of a smile crosses his lips as his hand moves up to gently rub over your shoulders. 

Drunk you likes the sound of anything relating to Logan keeping his hands on you right now. You wonder what sober you would think.

“I’m not gonna tell you no, but it feels like I’m floating in a bubble that won’t stop spinning,” you hum as you let the sensation consume your senses. “I might fly away.” You dip your head back off of his shoulder in amusement as you laugh again. 

“Yeah, you’re fucked up,” he mumbles lovingly. Just like anyone else who’s concerned for your well-being would. 

“Hey, kitty cat—I’m perfectly buzzed,” you emphasize the teasing nickname, narrowing your eyes at him sternly as you bring your gaze back to his in defence.

“‘Kitty cat’? Really?” He snorts. “I think you’re past your bedtime by three drinks,” he remarks back with equal levity.

“Then take me to bed if you’re so concerned,” you sigh dramatically, going limp in his arms to make your point. 

Truthfully, you’re probably past your bedtime by five shots. But he doesn’t need to know that. You just know that you can’t control your limbs like you were able to ten minutes ago.

“Maybe I will.” You don’t see it, but he does his quick little eye roll that you’ve seen pointed towards Scott too many times. 

He slides the hand on your elbow down to the backs of your knees, pulling you up off the floor and into his chest as you fall into the arm that was rubbing your back. 

Oh, so it’s gonna be like that. 

An excited—or maybe shocked—noise escapes your mouth as he adjusts you in his arms. You extend your right arm up and over his shoulder to hug his neck and keep yourself stable.

The trip to your room isn’t one that should take long, but each sway from Logan’s steps goes straight to your stomach in waves of queasiness. It feels like forever before you feel him bend awkwardly to turn your doorknob.

You’re fighting to keep yourself conscious the entire time, not wanting to regret missing the feeling of being in his arms.

The room is only lit by the silver moonlight creeping through the window. It’s hard to distinguish anything through your bleary eyes besides Logan’s look of determination to get you in your bed.

He leans down, shuffling you out of his arms and onto the mattress as swiftly as possible. The care of it all pokes at your heart. 

He silently goes around each corner of the bed adjusting the blankets. It may be dark, but the moonlight highlights the peaks of his shoulders as he moves. Your eyes might be involuntarily half-shut, but that doesn’t stop you from staring.

You’re now probably no better than every other mutant in this school.

“Logan,” you start before you can fully process the foolish thing you’re about to say next.

He rounds the bed back to the side you’re huddled on, looking down on you. “Yeah?” The subtle jingle of his dog tag pierces the quiet that’s lingering in the room.

You part your lips to speak but the words die in your throat. They’re replaced by a flood of saliva that has you sitting up at a speed that shouldn’t be possible for someone as intoxicated as you. You cover your mouth with your hand, feeling your stomach churning and finally rejecting the tequila. 

You suddenly feel very awake.

“Hey, hey.” Logan squats down in front of you with his already permanently-furrowed brows pinched closer together than you’ve ever seen before, a hand coming to your shoulder in concern. “What—”

“Bathroom,” you mumble through your palm, eyes rolling shut at the nausea. 

He doesn’t say another word. He pulls you to your feet by your arms, walking behind you fiercely with his hands gripping your shoulders to guide you to the small bathroom across the room.  

You push the door open, falling to your knees in the darkness over the toilet as the mistakes from the night expel themselves from your body through rounds of coughing and gagging. He lingers in the doorway, keeping an eye on you but still giving you privacy.

“Fuck,” you cough, resting your warm forehead on your hand as you slump against the toilet. That definitely sobered you up fast.

Exhaustion hits you like a truck. “Logan…” you croak from your crumpled position on the tile floor. 

He steps in, bending down again to reach your height. You can barely make out the shadow of him in the fading moonlight.

“Just…help me back to bed,” you groan, reaching for his arm as you use the toilet seat to push yourself the rest of the way up. You stumble against him as you try to make it back through the doorway.

He guides you to the bed the same way he did to the bathroom—steering you from behind.

“I’m gonna get you some water,” he says as you settle back into bed, head hitting the pillow with a quiet thud. “Even though you did this to yourself.”

“Fuck off,” you groan.

You close your eyes, hearing his footsteps fade back toward the bathroom. You hear the tap run for a couple seconds before he’s next to you again, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Drink. All of it,” he says firmly, holding the cup out to you.

You sit back up slowly, no doubt lethargic, an unimpressed look on your face that earns you a raised brow that tells you there’s no room to object.

You finish the cup in four mouthfuls, handing it back to him. “Thanks.”

You fall back onto the pillow, no longer feeling like you’re travelling through space and time.

The clothes you’re in are close enough to pyjamas. There’s no sense in undressing in front of Logan, especially with what you were about to say to him before you were rudely interrupted by the consequences of your own actions.

He returns the cup to the bathroom and you pull the blanket over your waist as you hopefully settle in for the rest of the night. You owe him big time for this. The thought of just how exactly you’ll manage that fills you with anxiety.

You turn on your side, fingers sliding over the mattress with the movement. They graze familiar strands of feather-soft fabric by the pillow.

This is Logan’s room. Are you just that drunk that you couldn’t tell the difference when he brought you in? Or are your rooms just that similar to each other?

You dip a finger in one of the three holes, hearing the bathroom door click shut as Logan makes his way back. 

“Why am I in your bed?” You see him rustling through some drawers of clothing by the small desk, but he stops when you finish your question.

“You can’t take care of yourself tonight,” he says. “You’re too drunk.” He pulls the grey tank-top off, stuffing it in one of the drawers and shutting it.

You sit up at that, head still foggy and tipsy, watching him move to the foot of the bed across from you. You try to focus your eyes on anything but his bare chest and the dark hair that adorns it and trails down past the waistband of his sweats. His hair is somehow even more wild from mindlessly pulling the tank-top over his head.

“Ah. I was gonna ask you to stay anyway,” you reveal, almost whispering the bold confession.

You were planning to ask before the tequila decided to make another appearance, but maybe doing it this way isn’t so bad either. He did all the heavy-lifting.

A modest, tight-lipped smile graces his lips. “I think you still have some tequila to sleep off.”

Whether or not you still have some shots in your system, what you feel and want right now is real. It’s not influenced by anything besides some mild andronitis created by the fact that you share a common struggle.

“Is it…safe? To share a bed?” The most coherent thought you’ve had all night makes him stiffen from your sudden nervous tone. Your body could easily replace the mattress and become a new home for the deep punctures. 

Your eyelids have been fighting against being pulled shut by alcohol-induced drowsiness, yet your eyes are wider than they’ve been all night in this moment.

You’re sat right in the middle of the bed and Logan comes around to the right, sitting on the edge of the mattress to come down to your level.

“You’re just gonna have to trust me.” His eyes are imploring and apologetic all at once. He understands the prospect of even having you here in the first place.

You nod, sliding over to the left to give him more room. 

Logan wouldn’t put you in harms way, you reason with yourself. He wouldn’t risk potentially killing someone, especially a fellow mutant, if he wasn’t absolutely sure of his mental state. But you also don’t really know his demons.

You roll onto your right side, tugging the blanket up to your chin in comfort. “Why haven’t you been given a new mattress?” You ask as he turns to face you in the same position, his half of the blanket resting at his hip.

The bed dips significantly on his side, almost encouraging you to roll over against him.

“Forgot to ask,” he says quietly, running his right hand through his hair to push the shorter strands off his forehead.

From his tone you can decipher that he actually means “can’t be bothered.” It’s a devastating thing to imagine just how many he goes through, anyway. He probably doesn’t see the point in replacing something that will inevitably have the same fate as the others.

There has to be less than an arms length between you two. It’s a surreal situation to be in considering what you thought you knew about him. A recluse. Standoffish. Maybe it’s all a fluke and the alcohol is severely fucking with your perception of what’s actually happening.

“Thanks for everything,” you whisper as if someone else will overhear.

“Get some sleep,” he insists, rolling onto his back. You do the same.

You stare at the blank ceiling for a while, noticing the exact moment Logan falls asleep; his breathing grows slow and his body runs even hotter than before. 

You think about how he could wake at any moment, claws accidentally sliding right through your stomach from a nightmare or two. You imagine all the others that have been in your position—if they felt scared, if they even knew. 

He asked you to trust him, and that should be enough. 

There is a body full of secrets and hurt sleeping undisturbed next to you with the ability to withstand and regenerate from any physical injury, yet there’s something that hasn’t allowed the same to be done for his mind. 

━━━━

The bright amber sun hits your closed eyes through the window, making you roll your head away onto the other side of the cool pillow.

You want more sleep. Your head feels like a bag of bricks and your body feels like it got beat with them.

You stretch a leg out, gently grazing something solid with your foot. Your eyes shoot open, the night coming back to you as you drift into consciousness. Logan. 

You shoot up, bouncing a little from the momentum.

Logan startles next to you, clearly interrupted from a deep sleep. “What the fuck…” he groans, rubbing a hand over his face, not seeming interested in making a move to sit up with you.

“What time is it?” Your eyes bounce around the room looking for a clock.

He grunts, reaching for a watch on the nightstand. “Seven-forty.”

You needed to be in the Danger Room for 7 o’clock.

“Fuck!” You rip the blanket off, almost tripping as you run to the bathroom.

Logan also wants to roll back over and go back to sleep, but he knows he won’t be able to. He doesn’t work like that. So he just lays there, listening to you swear and make a mess of his bathroom as the clattering of fuck-knows-what fills the room. 

The surprise of how well he slept makes him feel uneasy. Although it definitely wasn’t eight hours, it was uninterrupted. He doesn’t want to credit that to you, though. He wants to believe that he’s getting better overall, and maybe he is, so he can’t offer you any flattery in his mind.

Another distant “fuck” escapes the bathroom, pulling him out of his thoughts. You exit a few minutes later, as refreshed and presentable as you could get yourself, and the sight of Logan still in bed makes something in you ache for another moment of feeling him care and tend to you. Maybe that’s your hangover talking.

“Thanks again. I’ll see you around,” you say hurriedly, offering an apologetic smile as you turn the doorknob to leave.

“Good luck with Charles.” It’s a genuine advisory. Fuck. You’ll be so incredibly lucky if he doesn’t give you more than a stern lecture in front of everyone.

You take a deep breath in and slip out of Logan’s room. There’s not a single cut, mark, or scratch on you, just like he promised.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

“I was told it’ll take a day to fix,” Storm explains with a shrug. “You’ll have to find somewhere or someone to room with until tomorrow. Jean already offered to have me stay with her.” A contrite look passes over her face.

You stand outside your rooms, staring in at the remnants of the mess caused by two terrakinetic kids fucking around in the courtyard when they weren’t supposed to be. They somehow managed to throw, or launch, sizeable tree branches right through each of your windows. Of course it wasn’t on purpose, but the Danger Room exists for a reason—to avoid mishaps like this. 

Shards of glass and fragments of wood splatter your floors. The branches are hanging half-way out both of your windows, caught on the window sills and bobbing in the evening summer wind. The kids are extremely fortunate that neither of you were in your rooms when it happened.

“It’s fine. It’s just one night,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes in frustration. You don’t love how quickly your mind picks out who to go to. It’s already nearing 11 p.m., so you have to work fast. 

Storm squeezes your shoulder in comfort. “The living room is always free,” she suggests with a remorseful smile.

But you don’t want the living room. Stiff couches mixed with students clamouring and passing by at the crack of dawn isn’t exactly a recipe for a good nights rest. As if you usually get one, anyway.

“Not a fucking chance,” you laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you say again, dismissing her worries. You wish her goodnight when she steps by you to head towards Jean’s room at the very end of the hall.

You glare at the mess in your room, not daring to step in. The amount of shattered glass everywhere makes the floor look like a body of water from the reflections of the pale moonlight bouncing and refracting off of the jagged shards.

“Fuck,” you spit through your teeth, solely to yourself.

Not even a full week after Logan saw you at your worst, you’re going to go back and ask for the left side of his bed. Shameless.

You don’t have much of a choice; you’re not comfortable having it be anyone else. It’s only because Logan saw you at your worst that you feel he’s the most logical choice. Already having shared a bed with him this week may also have some weight in your decision.  

You take the few self-assured steps to his room, once again standing in front of his door. This time you feel more confident in approaching the Wolverine in his den.

You knock three times, the piercing sound echoing through the hall.

“You start to miss me or what?” A bare chest enters your view. You note the dog tag hanging from his neck again before you find his unyielding gaze full of ambiguity, wondering why you’re here. Again.

You blink at him slowly in hilarity. “Ha, funny. Can I stay with you tonight?” You ask flatly, not thrilled with the situation, but not completely displeased with being here now. “My window—”

“I know what happened,” he interrupts. “Figured you’d go for the couch in the living room.” He looks at you more pointedly with teasing suspicion. 

“I think you know no one would ever willingly choose to sleep out there,” you reason, running a hand over your face in both shame and defeat.

He makes a face that tells you “touché” and you smirk in satisfaction. “If you don’t mind giving up half of your bed again, I would really appreciate it. I promise I’m not trying to make this a habit,” you sigh. Spending the night in Logan’s bed three times in the past month has to be a record for anyone recently. 

“I don’t think it would be a bad habit,” he argues. Oh. “C’mon.” He gives a jerk of his head to allow you in, his tufts of his hair bristling with the quick movement.

“Thanks,” you squeak. He wants you here? 

He shuts the door behind you, following you to the bed that’s clearly already had him in it. The blanket rests in waves on the mattress that remind you of just how human Logan is despite his reputation and image.

“Do you have an early morning?” You ask, slipping under the blanket.

“No. Charles was feeling nice for once,” he raises his tone sarcastically to rag on Charles’ judgement, which has clearly been a much needed one before now.

“Not an early bird?” You roll onto your right side like last time, facing him as he settles on his back with a deep breath. The bed sinks in again where he lays, your body wanting to give in to the laws of gravity and fall into him.

“Fuck no,” he laughs lightly, eyes crinkling around the corners. It’s self-deprecating, but it’s still a genuine laugh. The condescension from it lingers in the air, all directed at himself in a way that tells you he’s thinking about how inconceivably fucked up he is.

The last time he had a decent sleep was when you were drunk in his bed a few days ago.

“People like us don’t usually get the pleasure of a full eight hours,” he notes, sliding his gaze to yours for a fraction of a second.

He props an arm behind his head, the other resting on his chest and idly twisting the dog tag between his fingers. You watch the thin piece of steel slide and flip easily, the chain tinkling with every movement.

People like us.

“You mean mutants,” you state. You see his jaw tense in what little light there is from the half-moon tonight.

You see his brows pull together. “Yeah.” He has a point.

You think about the mutants you know, how they all have some horrific story about their gifts or family, or both. How they either were shamed by society or experimented on like rats. 

The scenarios are endless. If you can think of it, some mutant has probably lived it.

Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach. You and Logan are not isolated or special cases, but you’ve already shared a moment of vulnerability with him when you came to his door all those weeks ago seeking solace for the same thing he fights with: the inescapable ability of remembering.

You pull the blanket tighter against you. “I don’t think you’ll hurt me.” 

He turns his head to you, confusion written on his face. “What?” He stops toying with the dog tag.

“Your claws. I trust you.” You didn’t feel like you were in immediate danger that first night, but you want to reassure him anyway. Or maybe you’re reassuring yourself. 

He hasn’t had to say a single word for you to know his nightmares trigger something instinctive and combative that’s been hardwired into his DNA. In this case, it’s his claws needing to find a home in his mattresses, where another body could potentially lay one night. Like yours is right now.

You noticed the lack of holes in this mattress when you first got to the bed. Maybe you mentioning them last time was enough for him to finally request a new one.

Logan knows he shouldn’t make promises he doesn’t know he’ll be able to keep, but he wants to keep you here tonight, so he improvises. He abandons the dog tag between his fingers completely, turning onto his side and reaching to find your hand under the blanket. You meet him halfway, sliding your fingers between his as your palms lay flat on the bed.

A smile tugs at your lips for a moment. He watches your interlinked fingers, observing the size difference, wondering if he really just did that—and why. 

You assume it’s his way of saying “thank you” for your trust when you probably shouldn’t be putting that much into him.

“Does it hurt?” You whisper, pulling your fingers out from his just enough to caress the divets between his knuckles that conceal the claws.

He knows what you’re asking. “Every time.” He softly pushes his fingers back into yours, squeezing a little. 

There’s a deadly stillness in the room despite his window being cracked. You both know you’re one in the same in a way, and that’s a connection that Logan hasn’t let himself experience. Not everyone likes looking in a mirror.

To be truly seen by someone, wholly, without judgement or fear, is what he deserves. 

“What are you?” He asks, rubbing his index finger back and forth along the top of your hand. “Telekinetic? Psychic?” His curious voice grows quiet, hazel eyes fascinated with you and your lack of a physical mutation, at least nothing that he can see.

It never occurred to you that he didn’t know your mutation, or that you’ve never told him. It was never needed, but it seems unfair that you know about his when he wasn’t the one who told you.

“Ha, close.” Your eyes twinkle as you notice how intently he’s listening. “Psychometric,” you correct, watching his forehead crease.

“Sounds like math,” he quips, readjusting his head on the pillow. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat he’s putting off.

You laugh quietly. “No, it’s extrasensory perception. It lets me see the history of any object or person I touch, but only if I accept the energy,” you explain.

You watch his eyes narrow and you know what he’s thinking, so you quickly interject as he begins to pull his hand out from yours. “I need to touch a pulse point to be able to see anything,” you reassure, feeling his fingers slide back against yours. “The heart remembers everything,” you clarify.

The catch? The person’s memories and past stay with you after you see them. It’s become hard to distinguish what memories are yours or someone else’s. They all become intertwined. Good or bad, violent or gentle. You see it all, and then it’s part of you. Forever.

“I haven’t looked. I promise.” 

“Good. You don’t need to see that shit,” he huffs, eyes wandering over your face. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but he’s a little startled for the first time in a while.

“I’m sure I’ve seen it all,” you state. It’s probably not far off from the truth. Your gift came when you were all too young, and plenty of time has passed since then for you to rack up this amount of damage from near-strangers and their lives.

“No, you haven’t.” A sure expression passes over him, shaking his head as best as he can against the pillow. 

“Then I’ll count myself lucky,” you say softly. You have no idea what Logan has experienced, but his demeanor makes you want to stay curious. Not everything needs to be known, and you’re definitely not entitled to it.

A faint smile appears on his lips, then it’s gone just as quick. “Get some sleep,” he rasps. He turns onto his back and his hand abandons yours. 

It’s a complete repeat of last time.

Something twinges in your heart, and you don’t like it. What exactly had you expected from Logan? He’s just doing you a courtesy by letting you stay here for the night. Nothing more. And that’s what you should expect: nothing.

The hum of crickets outside eventually lulls you into a dead sleep. It’s heavy and deep, not a single muscle twitching in your body. Logan breathes steadily next to you, a hand on his chest as the occasional snore fills the air.

From above you two might look like you’re transient, only here in this moment for a short time. And, realistically, you are. 

━━━━

Logan was no where to be seen by the time you woke up, and you made quick work to get out of his room. It always feel wrong to be in someone’s space when they aren’t there.

Just like Storm said, the windows in your rooms were fixed the next day. It looks as though nothing even happened.

“Thank fuck,” you mumble to yourself as you step back into your room.

If you ever have to spend another night in Logan’s bed, you might as well wear a shirt that says “yes, we’re fucking!”, even if it isn’t true. You could deny it all you want, but it won’t stop what students would say. Nothing gets past them, even if it’s behind a closed door.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

“Are you fucking Logan?”

You almost swallow your tongue. “Sorry?” Your brows shoot up in surprise, eyes round in disbelief.

“Are you guys sleeping together?” Storm casually asks as she flicks through the T.V. channels, glancing over to you from her spot on the couch.

You’re sat comfortably in an arm chair, suddenly no longer caring what channel she decides on. “Why would you think that?” Technically you were sleeping together, but not like that. It may never happen again, no matter how badly you want it to.

“Things travel fast around here,” she deflects with a cheeky smile. “And, you know, Logan is…Logan.” She shrugs.

You don’t even know what to say to that. Is there a right or wrong answer?

“It wasn’t like that,” you grumble. “He was doing me a favour. As a friend.” It hasn’t even been a full day since he let you stay with him while pieces of your window laid on your floor, and people are already convinced you’re fucking. 

You haven’t even managed a chaste kiss, despite how much as you want to, never mind his dick being balls deep in you.

“Right.” She emphasizes the word, not convinced. Or just pushing your buttons because she can. 

You roll your eyes. “If anything was happening, you’d be the first to know,” you point out. 

She looks back over to you. “I know,” she says with another, more sincere, smile. “You two would be cute, though.” 

You give her some side-eye, not quite sure if you disagree entirely with that statement. Whatever happens, happens. Logan is not something you can control or influence. He does what—and who—he wants, when he wants. 

━━━━

A bolt of lightening strikes you. You gasp, then release a choked cry, eyes flying open as you claw at your chest in terror.

Your throat tightens and you break out in a cold sweat as you sit up. The soft blanket around you feels constricting. Sporadic and short breaths make you heave as your body registers the horrors in your subconscious. 

There was never any lighting. That’s just what the pain feels like.

The muscles in your shoulders and neck tense from your panicked state as your heart struggles to keep a normal rhythm. You yank the blanket off, feeling weak from fear and the onset of tremors. Your whole body gives up on itself as you sob through broken exhales. Your legs have gone cold, lungs shrinking inch by inch with every passing minute. 

You crawl to the edge of your bed, wanting to just get out and leave—the blanket. The bed. The room. Most of all, you want to escape your own mind.

You sink onto the floor when a foot touches the ground, and you realize walking isn’t in the cards right now. You’re shaking too badly to be able to physically move. All your strength is gone, robbed by your memories.

Balmy tears paint your face in determination, making sure no part of you is left untouched by this spell.

You screw your eyes shut, tears still slipping out with ease anyway. Leaning your back against the bed-frame, you curl into yourself and wrap your arms around your knees on the chilled hardwood.

You try to focus on your breathing to at least slow your heart down to a pace that doesn’t hurt.

Wounded cries rip their way out of you, interrupting the breaths you try to steady. A hand touches your arm and you yelp like an injured dog, flailing at the contact as your arms swing out from around your knees in shock.

“Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s me.” Strong hands quickly wrap around each of your wrists to stop your arms from thrashing.

You try to focus your eyes, blurred and stinging from tears, on the person kneeling closely in front of you.

“L-Logan…” you whisper, balling your fists to try and expel the shakes.

He looks like someone who shouldn’t be able to be concerned about another person, yet the look on his face scares you. Brows pinched together in worry, eyes frantic, lips parted from heavy breaths. All because of you.

“It’s just me,” he hushes your cries. His thumbs stroke the undersides of your wrists tenderly, no doubt feeling your racing pulse. 

You feel disoriented. “Wh…how…” 

“I heard you,” he explains, watching you process everything. He drops your wrists when some recognition passes over your face.

“What do you need?” He follows your gaze as it wanders around the room, trying to keep you from spiralling further.

You look at him for a moment. He’s got his white tank-top on, the black sweats, and an intense need to help you written all over him. Fresh tears burn your cheeks as you come back into reality.

“I want it to fucking stop,” you weep, head falling into your hands in shame.

You don’t want him to see you like this, even though it’s a commonality between you two. It’s too intimate. You’d take him seeing you blackout drunk everyday of the year over this.

Then you do remember that it has stopped. Each time in Logan’s bed. There was silence. Peace. For the whole night. For both of you.

“Tell me what you need,” he says firmly, angling his head down to keep your eyes on him, desperately wanting an answer.

“You.” You suck in an agonizing breath to try and collect yourself.

He doesn’t flinch like you expect him to. If anything, his eyes become more pensive, clearly considering something. Then he shakes his head in wariness.

“C’mon. Let’s get you out of here,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. The only sound echoing in the room is your wobbly breathes, your body jerking with each one as you enter the aftermath and begin to go slack.

An arm slides behind your back, his hand grabbing ahold of your side while he pulls your legs over his other arm, picking you up off the floor.

He cradles you against him just like he did when you were drunk, carrying you out of your room.

He left your door open when he came in, and you hope no students heard or saw anything. He tilts to grab the doorknob, shutting it without a sound.

You wipe and rub at your eyes as Logan takes a few steps down the hall, quickly getting to where he needs to go when you feel him lean for his doorknob.

You’re sure a few rogue, leftover tears fall onto his shirt before he manages to sit on his bed lightly, you still curled tightly in his arms. 

His hand pushes on your back for you to sit upright on his lap. “Face me,” he encourages, holding onto your sides as you twist around, bending your legs to slide over his thighs and straddle him loosely. 

You look down at him, he looks up at you, feeling the quivers in your body dissipate as you melt further into his lap. A fondness crosses over both of your tired faces. He rests his arms over your thighs, warm hands linking behind your back as you do the same around his neck. 

It’s nothing provocative or seductive. All you can feel is the care and concern rolling off of him in suffocating waves. He wants you to feel safe, and if that means overrunning your senses with his presence, then that’s what he’ll do.

“Got anything to say?” He murmurs, the fallen strands of hair around the edges of his forehead bristle with each move of his head. The rest of his hair fails to fully resemble the cat-like ears he had earlier in the day. 

What does he want to hear? 

You let your head hang a little, your nose almost brushing his. “I have nothing to say,” you assert, fidgeting with the chain of his dog tag at the nape of his neck. 

You don’t necessarily feel embarrassed about him seeing you in such a helpless state, but you don’t want to simply unload your shit on him. So, in turn, you have nothing to say.

“Bullshit.” He almost rolls his eyes. There’s no real threat of him forcing you to say anything behind it. He won’t pry, but he doesn’t believe you.

An offended look overcomes your face, and you almost pull away. You don’t want to feel the humiliation of elaborating on just why exactly you said you needed him in this moment out of everything else. 

“I just…” You roll your lips together in thought, measuring the words you could say but won’t. “Want to sleep. Here,” you sigh. “I don’t wanna go back.” You deflate in his arms, voice wobbly. 

It’s already who-knows what time, and you need to pacify your wired nervous system; Logan simply holding you has already helped with that more than you want to admit.

His mouth quirks up briefly at that. “What happened to not wanting to make that a habit?” His eyes soften as his arms retract from around your sides, letting you slip easily onto his bed from his lap in a moment of calm, or relief.

Habit, if not resisted, soon becomes necessity.

“Special circumstances,” you reason, already pulling the blanket over you while he keeps his place at the edge of the bed, observing you with amusement.

“Seems like you get into those a lot,” he notes, pushing himself off the mattress.

He steps around to the other side—his designated spot—and slips the tank-top off, letting it drop to the floor. You’re not trying to be a freak, but you watch the whole thing.

The flex of his arms and shoulders are out of your mind as fast as they entered as you watch him hook his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats and pull them downright in front of you, not even turning around or to the side to try and conceal himself.

Your eyes widen, then you reel in your thoughts before they get lost at sea. No one who is sane fucking sleeps in sweatpants. Duh.

But didn’t he the last two times? It’s hard for you to remember, but you’d certainly recall if you were face-to-face with the outline of his di—

“It’s rude to stare, y’know.” Logan pulls his lips together, interrupting your thoughts. You try to not eyeball the bulge too hard, but it basically looked at you first. 

The snug briefs do little to hide anything. They hide nothing, actually.

You almost scoff, but the playfulness in his tone tells you he couldn’t give a shit. He probably likes it anyway. From what you know, he definitely does.

“Oh, yeah, like you’ve ever cared about modesty,” you throw back, averting your gaze to the ceiling anyway.

It’s not that he runs around the mansion naked, but he definitely isn’t shy about what he looks like or against showing some skin. You’ve seen and heard enough over the past few months.

You hear a stifled chuckle as he joins you under the blanket without a retort. He knows you’re right. He’s just glad you’re a little lively and alert.

“Will you be okay for the rest of the night?” He brings both hands behind his head on the pillow, propping himself up a little.

“I should be fine,” you say confidently. “The challenge will be getting back to sleep.” You laugh in exasperation. 

It’s always hard to calm down and get back to a place of tranquility after everything has settled with your mind. You’re pumped full of adrenaline and there’s not much that can curb something that persistent flowing through your body.

You haven’t found anything to help with it. Yet. 

“There’s not many people that’ll understand what you go through,” he starts, voice rough with fatigue. “But I do.”

You look to him, sliding an arm under your pillow as you turn on your side. “How do you…help it.” You’re not sure if you phrased that right. It feels crude to reduce something so complex to the likes of a common cold that has an array of over-the-counter solutions. 

“You don’t. It just has to run its course.” He looks to you, wanting to see your reaction. 

It wasn’t meant to be hurtful or insensitive, but he’s not going to lie to you and say that things can only get better and that the worst is over. Especially for mutants, that’s not always true.

Although you don’t know what Logan lives with every day and sleeps with every night, you do know that his capacity for empathy is still intact. Here you are in his bed after all, seeing and indulging in a side of him that many never will. 

You sigh lightly. “We’re quite the pair.” 

A comfortable half-smirk slips over his lips. “I think we’re just fucked up insomniacs,” he suggests with a breathy exhale that’s close enough to a laugh.

You wish you could slide a thumb over the pulse in his wrist and see what’s haunting him, just to understand what happened to the Wolverine, but you’ve learned that doing so usually isn’t worth the price you’ll pay after. If what’s in his head is horrific enough to cause him to go through a couple mattresses a month, then it won’t do you any good either.

“I sleep pretty good with you,” you offer, seeing how he raises a brow in doubt almost instantly.

He sleeps well with you, too. It kind of rattled him when he noticed a pattern of uninterrupted nights and you being by his side. Not a single mattress ruined on those nights.

“Try not to knee me in the stomach tonight,” he deflects with ease. He takes his hands out from behind his head, sliding his left arm under the pillow as he turns over onto his side and closes his eyes. Facing you.

You mentally smack yourself. Multiple times. You didn’t think you drifted that much when you slept. 

“No promises,” you mutter. You catch a small shake of his head before you let yourself join him in unconsciousness as you mirror each others lonely bodies.

━━━━

Your eyes ache—to open, to move, to touch. Enough crying will do that to you.Your eyelids are heavy, but there’s something else weighing down on you. 

A tired groan crawls from your throat as you try to place yourself for a moment. The morning sun is just beginning to shine too brightly for your liking, and you squish your face deeper into the pillow.

You’re still tipsy with sleep, lying flat on your stomach, but there’s something dense and hot resting over your back. 

You prop yourself up on your forearms, giving yourself a minute to wake up. You twist your hips around to sit yourself up, feeling the thing on your back slide down to your waist. 

The blanket pools around your hips, and you feel a hand reflexively squeeze over the meat of your hip in disapproval of your moving. Something in you clenches at the sensation of something invading the area with ease. A spot reserved for intimacy.

Your head quirks to your right, seeing Logan on his stomach with his right arm thrown over your midsection. 

You blink in surprise, staring at his sleeping body. His hair is sticking up every which way, his head half-off the pillow, his side of the blanket not even covering the curve of his ass anymore. It’s endearing to see the Wolverine in such a normal, human state.

But if someone were to walk in, it would look like you two spent the whole night fucking. A lot. That wakes you up a little more.

You peek over at the nightstand behind him and see the time blinking on his watch. It’s already 8 a.m. 

You rest a hand over his shoulder to gently guide his arm off of you, but you stop yourself. Instead, you lightly trace your fingers down his shoulders and upper back a couple times, occasionally scratching softly over the ridges of muscle.

A shiver quickly rolls through his upper body, but your touch doesn’t fully wake him. He knows it’s just you.

It’s the least you can do for him as a thanks for recovering your broken body from the floor of your room and bringing you here when he didn’t necessarily have to.

It almost feels like instinct to offer comforting gestures to him. There’s something inside you that just pulls to him. You want to be the one that can give him comfort and help him put himself back together. 

You want to be the only one.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

There’s a shadow that’s been following you around the mansion. 

As soon as you stepped out of Logan’s room that morning a few days ago, it started. 

This shadow likes to be nosy about what you’re doing. This shadow likes to be in your space. This shadow wants to be in your space. And he is.

No one has seen Logan out around the mansion this much, including you, and that’s how you noticed he’s basically been attached to your hip ever since he decided your back was a comfortable armrest. 

He’s always just there, like a stray cat begging for food or affection. There to entertain you, banter with you, indulge you, in any way he can, including now as you trail back inside the mansion well behind Storm from an evening walkabout in the garden.

“No smoking in the courtyard,” you sing as you pass him carelessly, not even offering a glance to him in interest. 

You like playing this game. Whatever it is. Constantly poking and prodding at each other to see what you can do to get the other to break in some way, no matter how slight. 

Your heart flutters and flips every time; maybe from the thrill of it all, maybe from the arousal you get from the tension. You hope he feels everything, too.

He turns his head to watch you cross into the entryway. “Blow me,” he throws back playfully through a thick puff of smoke, leaning against the brick wall with a cigar pinched between two fingers.

You suppress a chuckle, keeping your unwavering pace. “Yeah, you wish!” You yell over your shoulder. You know he hears you. He wouldn’t let himself miss it.

Logan smirks and shakes his head in amusement, always impressed with your quick rebuttals that occasionally tent his jeans. He takes one last drag out of spite before following your footsteps inside. 

You have become, by definition, friends…in a way. Even if you sorely cross the line into other territory more often than not. Sexual innuendos and friendly flirting can only go on for so long before the underlying intentions and meaning reflects real desires. 

It’s evolved into more than just borrowing his bed a couple times or helping each other out. It’s surpassed the fear of whatever habit you were afraid of forming from doing so. It’s become a dependency to get that adrenaline high from simply riling each other up.

You have an assumption that if you were to end up in Logan’s bed again, somehow, there will be a point of no return that you’ll be faced with. There aren’t many more excuses that can be used for explaining to yourselves why you’re together in bed before you have to recognize the truth.

That platonic line is being stretched too thin, and you’re not sure how much farther it can go.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

“How’ve you been sleeping?”

“Fine. You?”

“Could be better.” Logan hides his smirk, but you can hear it in his voice.

You narrow your eyes skeptically as he fishes around in the fruit bowl sitting in the middle of the kitchen island.

“How so?” You ask. Your legs swing leisurely as you sit upon the chilled countertop on his left, idly waiting for Storm to show up and go with you to training.

A smug, tight-lipped grin flashes across his face, a green apple rolling around in his palms before he puts it back. “You could be there,” he provokes, his eyes bright.

It’s your turn to raise a brow at him, but you can’t stop your smile. “Oh?”

He turns to you, tenderly grabbing the tops of your thighs and parting them slightly to stand between your legs.

This isn’t the first time he’s done this, and he knows it rouses you in all the right ways. But, neither of you will do anything about it. Not even a brief kiss.

“Come on,” he goads, planting his hands down next to your hips, bringing himself in closer as he bears his weight on his arms. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” He sways his head side to side to emphasize his point.

Fuck. That’s good. 

That may be exactly what you did for him, but it’s now a figure of speech for something else entirely. It’s almost impossible to argue against either way, as if you want to. This is what you’ve been patiently waiting for. 

You put your hands over his as you lean back a little to put some distance between you. “How sweet,” you hum.

His eyes flick from yours to your lips one too many times before you continue. “You start to miss me?” You tease as you lean forward again, echoing what he said to you the night your window got smashed in.

“Smart-ass,” he mutters as you laugh quietly. The tips of your noses barely graze each other as he steps in closer again. You’re almost at the same height like this. 

“Save me the left side,” you advise, bringing your hands to his shoulders as you fondle his white t-shirt between your fingers. You’re so close, and he’s already so warm against you just like this.

“Always do.”

━━━━

You want to rip your heart out of your chest from how hard it’s pounding against your ribs. It’s almost throwing you forward with each heavy beat.

Three resounding knocks fill the hallway as you shuffle on your feet, waiting for Logan to open the door.

It feels like you’re doing something bad. Something parents would warn their kids against. Something greatly envied.

Everything inside you feels on fire. Your thoughts, desires, anxiety, all jumbling together into one distorted state of mind and body.

“Ah, welcome back.” His sarcastic tone makes your face go hot. A satisfied smirk crosses his lips as he runs a hand through his shaggy, unstyled hair. 

You shake your head, pursing your lips. “Knock it off.” You gently shove at his bare chest. Misbehaviour already. But are you really surprised?

Logan grabs your wrist, delicately guiding you into his room. “You enjoy it,” he says lowly, quickly shutting the door as soon as you’re in. 

“Maybe,” you hum in response, pulling away from his grasp and seeking out your side of the bed. Logan follows closely behind, giving your ass a light smack in encouragement before he cuts away to his side while you jolt in shock, a stunned look on your face as you whip your head around to him across the bed.

“Oh, really?” You scoff. He’s biting back a smile, not moving until he knows what you’ll do next. He’s never gone that far before.

“I’m sorry, that was rude—how can I make it up to you?” He almost chokes on a laugh, pulling his dog tag back and forth along the chain while he considers you.

This Logan is very different from the one you were met with the first night he let you in his space. This one is attentive and exuberant, yet he hasn’t given you much up until this point right now. You’ve gotten way too comfortable with him without even doing anything to you. 

In this moment, he isn’t the brooding, animalistic Wolverine many see him as. He’s just Logan—for you. 

You watch him carefully, easing yourself onto the bed. “Get in the fucking bed,” you slap his side of the mattress with a thump of your palm. “And do what you promised earlier,” you stare pointedly at him.

He owes you that “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” favour he decided to pull out to get you here. 

“Mm, alright, alright,” he surrenders, a look of amusement still on his face as he kneels onto the bed. “I thought of a pretty good idea for it,” he says softly, crawling to sit next to you on top of the blanket as the bed-frame creaks with the added weight.

Your shoulders almost brush against each other. You shift, turning your body fully toward him. “Oh? Wh—woah!”

You squeal when his strong hands latch onto your sides, lifting you just enough to pull you over his legs to plant you on his lap. He leans back against the headboard, pulling on your thighs so you straddle him tightly. 

He looks devilish when you catch his gaze again, and you know what’s coming. What’s been coming. Your hands find their places on his shoulders, warm and taut, as his hands hold your hips. 

The bond between you will culminate tonight. It will be wrapped in a blanket and trapped between two alike souls that lie heart-to-heart in the dead of night. It will be perpetual.

The heat of him between your legs makes you restless. It’s just you, him, and the darkness in the quiet room you’ve become too familiar with.

“Logan…” you trail off bashfully when you feel something firm through his sweats poke against your cunt. It clearly doesn’t take much to excite him.

“Hm?” He takes you in for a split second, hands running from your hips up to your chest leisurely with a sharp inhale, not yet completely bothered by the fact that you have a shirt on. 

You suck in a shaky breath when your hips accidentally shift over his bulge from his hands pushing and pulling over you.

“What’s the idea?” Your voice wavers.

You know what it is. He knows that. You just want to hear him say it and fill the silence.

“Something I’ve wanted for a while,” he murmurs, eyes hyper-focused on you. 

Your fingers dance their way to the sides of his neck, brushing along the supple skin while you feel muscles and tendons flex with every slight movement. You subtly press the pad of your index finger against the pulse point right under his jaw, just to ground yourself and truly feel that Logan is there in front of you. 

His pulse is steady but hard, much like yours, and the prickle of energy festering against the finger almost makes it go numb from not accepting it into your body. 

“Show me, then.” You smile sweetly, leaning in closer while you tilt his head up with the hand under his jaw, your finger slipping from his pulse and caressing over the dense, coarse hair along his cheek.

Your noses bump while your lips part in anticipation. His eyes flutter as he falls into you and frantically claims your mouth in an unbreakable kiss.

The first kiss. Nothing could tear him from you in this moment.

Your hands cradle his cheeks, keeping him from pulling off too far. His hands scratch and paw at your back, trying to find a way to somehow get you closer against him.

It’s all a little messy, your lips mostly just mashing together without any rhyme or reason, but neither of you care. You only care about how electrifying it feels to finally have Logan and feel how perfectly connected you are together after all these nights. You go together like a key and its lock.

“Logan,” you pant when his mouth releases yours for a fraction of a breath. The seconds between kisses dwindle the more you take from each other.

Your thighs tense as he pulls half an inch away just to reconnect more crazed as his lips lock over your bottom one aimlessly. Something deep inside you trembles and aches.

He grunts, accidentally sucking the tip of your tongue briefly before slotting his lips back over yours in an apology. “Hold on,” he mumbles in a rush against your parted lips. He knows what you’re asking—or trying to ask. He snakes an arm up along your spine and wraps the other around your waist.

Then the world is tilting.

He drops you on your back on the bed from his lap, hovering over you as he distracts you with harsh but pleasing kisses and wet bites along your neck, settling his hips heavily between your thighs. You squirm and feel how bolts of arousal are making your cunt pulse involuntarily. 

Logan groans. “Fuck—I can smell it. I smell you.” He slowly grinds his hips into yours almost reflexively. He squeezes his eyes shut, and you tip your chin up to press a chaste kiss to his slick lips. 

“Taste…if you want to,” you propose, lightly scratching up and down his shoulders and arms, only enough to leave faint red lines for a couple seconds.

Logan’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head before he gives it a small shake, a conflicted look overtaking his face. “Of course I fucking want to, but—fuck—next time. I promise.” He swallows whatever you were going to say with a deep kiss that has you nearly shaking when he sucks on your bottom lip. 

“Let’s just take things easy,” he says roughly, bearing his weight on his left arm while he tries to get your sleep shorts and underwear off.

A promise of a next time makes your brain go fuzzy like static.

“I’ll hold you to it, then,” you resolve, lifting your hips as much as you can for him to lean back and pull away to wrestle your clothes the rest of the way down your legs, discarding them just as quickly.

“I hope you will,” he breathes through a small laugh as he shuffles on his knees. He doesn’t want to completely overwhelm you and scare you off, he just wants to enjoy you in a simple way that won’t entirely ruin you for tomorrow.

He doesn’t know what you can or cannot handle, but he’s going to find out.

The fresh air in the room brushes cooly against your wet cunt. It’s a nice contrast to how fiery your whole body feels, but Logan feels even warmer than you somehow. Maybe wolverine’s just run hot.

His sweats have ridden down his hips from his desperate grinding against you, and the dangerous cut of his v-line grows more and more narrow as the waistband teases the reveal of what’s underneath.

You watch him—palming his dick once as your knees sway side-to-side in waiting. His thumbs hook under the stretchy fabric, working what remains of his clothes down his sturdy thighs.

“It’s rude to stare.” He pops a brow, a smug, arrogant grin quirking his lips.

You push yourself to sit up, considerably shorter than him in this position as he stands on his knees, and walk two fingers up his toned stomach to his chest, avoiding the hard cock between you. 

He looks at you with curiosity until your hand grabs his dog tag in a fist, pulling it towards you. “Then stop showing me your dick,” you say as he leans in to your pulling a little to not have the chain break away.

You knew the night Logan dropped his pants in front of you and let you eye-up his bulge would come back to haunt you. But it’s alluring. Big. Curves a little to the left, barely noticeable. A respectable amount of hair decorates the space between his bellybutton and the base of his cock.

He gives in to the tension on the chain, falling back to the mattress with you and trapping you between his arms as his cock rests heavy on your clit.

“How about I find somewhere to put it?” His smile pushes a whole new wave of arousal from you.

“It would be a damn shame if you didn’t,” you say against his mouth, giving your hips a roll just to tease him before hugging his waist tightly with your knees.

“Good.” He gives you a strong kiss with a small grunt, running his hands over your sides under your shirt. The movement pushes it up, up, up, until you have no choice but to stretch your arms out above you and let him slide it off between more thoughtless kisses, leaving you entirely bare.

He lets you breathe for a moment, dipping his head to bite and suck marks along your collarbones messily. You squeeze around his hips harder, trying to get him to give you something other than his scratchy cheeks rubbing against your skin and the chilled steel of the dog tag dragging over your chest.

The tip of his cock falls and catches over your clit when he moves lower, licking and sucking over your chest like a starved animal finding food for the first time in a week. You gasp from the mixed sensations.

“C’mon, kitty cat, you can do all this while inside m-me,” you say breathily, fingers digging into his shoulders to stop yourself from trembling too much. 

Logan bites over a nipple before pulling himself back up to look at you. “Is that a promise?” He says lowly, that stupid smirk gracing his face again.

“Try it and find out,” you demand, enjoying the sting of the deeper bites blooming on your torso.

He purses his lips, shifting his weight back onto his knees to grab ahold of his cock to angle and guide it in.

“Hm, guess no lube is needed,” he muses when he gets a look at your cunt, sparing you a glance through his lashes.

You roll your eyes shut when your whole body lights up red-hot. “Jesus fucking Christ, Logan,” you slap a hand over your eyes as you grimace. You don’t want to be that aware of your naked self right now.

He suppresses whatever expression was about to cross his face when his cock notches itself between your soaked folds, teasing your hole with the blunt tip. His brows pinch together and you forget the embarrassment from his crude remark.

But he leaves his cock like that, on the precipice of sliding the rest of the way in with a snap of his hips. Instead, he carefully uncurls his upper body to crawl his way back up to you while holding his hips deathly still.

“Alright, stay with me,” he whispers against your neck when you moan, pressing a tender kiss to your rabid pulse in reassurance. 

“O-okay,” you sigh, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the roots while the other squeezes around his arm as best as it can. You’re not even really sure what he’s saying.  

He kisses up your cheek and over to your lips again. You try to keep up with his quick mouth, licking and sucking whatever part you can get ahold of, but you’ve become lost in the feeling of him all over you. 

He’s in your mouth, on your chest, against your stomach, nudging your cunt. Everywhere.

He slips his tongue over yours, securing your lips together at the same time he pushes his cock in halfway. Now you understand what he was saying. 

The lightheadedness from being filled, even just a bit, almost makes you lose yourself. The stretch makes your stomach drop, your legs shake, and your mouth fall open with a whine. 

“A-ah—fuck. Fuck, Logan,” you whimper, fisting his hair with both hands to stop yourself from falling apart.

He groans, either at the grip you have on his hair or how good your cunt feels already, and runs a hand up your left thigh in comfort as you squeeze around his hips tighter to draw him in. 

“Just a bit more,” he soothes, trying to resist the urge to slide into you in one fell swoop. It would be so easy to just let his hips fall into yours and fill your cunt.

Another heated kiss, another few inches. He works his cock into you the rest of the way with ease. You guess the lube thing wasn’t really a joke. His hungry, needy kisses may have also helped with that.

You choke on your gasps, not wanting to get too loud, and Logan does the same. He tries to muffle both of your moans with his mouth, attempting to form complete kisses, but it just turns into you panting against each other as he finally bottoms out, hitting his end. 

Your legs relax around his waist as he deftly rocks his hips in small thrusts to get you familiar with his size, his small grunts filling the air each time you swallow him whole.

You let out a deep breath, dropping your hands back to his tense shoulders. He lines your jaw with soft kisses, fisting the blanket in his hands beside your head.

“Fuck. Already feels too good,” he moans, pressing into you harder and unintentionally rubbing himself over your tender clit.

You smile, squirming while he works down your neck again. “Best of luck,” you huff, amused at the fact that he might not last as long as he wants to.

He brings his face back to yours, a completely blissful expression controlling his features, but there’s still some mischief in his hazel eyes. “Oh? Yeah?”

You hold each other’s gaze, both equally dazed and overwhelmed, and he draws his hips back and pushes into your wet cunt with a complete, strong thrust. The sound of his pelvis hitting against the backs of your thighs makes him laugh in pleasure and satisfaction when you instantly roll eyes and head back.

Your cunt quivers, gripping him tight, and then it’s Logan’s turn to lose composure. He drops his head to your chest, managing a few deep breaths as he slowly pulls out halfway just to push right back into you, over and over. 

It’s a pace that isn’t quite pure, mindless fucking, but it’s also not somewhere near earnest love-making. It’s something that feels specifically curated for you. Something that feels measured and sincere. 

The strength of his thighs hitting against yours pushes you up the mattress a few inches, and you don’t know whether to gasp or moan. He reaches somewhere deep inside you, and you know he can feel that, too.

A helpless groan slips through Logan’s lips. “Where have you fucking been, huh?” He muses through shaky breaths, the determined plunge of his cock hitting something that makes your muscles tense throughout your body. 

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, keeping him close. “Two doors down,” you giggle, understanding that’s not quite what he was asking.

“Fucking smart-ass,” he grumbles, silencing any further rebuttals with a wet kiss. You don’t think you could manage much more of a conversation even if you wanted to.

The silence is quickly filled with obscene sounds that only seem to leave you wetter and Logan throbbing. You can hear your bodies connecting through your gasping for air and his choked moans, and you can feel the mess you’re making all over him. It’s smeared along the inside of your thighs from how deep he’s been hitting. The squelching only seems to make him fuck into you harder.

Something inside you starts to grow tight and wind up in your core, making you repeatedly clench around him while his cock strokes all the right spots inside you as he makes sure he’s fucking himself in to the base. He doesn’t deprive you of anything. 

He drops his head to your neck, wedging his face in to latch onto the spot right where your neck starts to slope into your shoulder. The dense muscle there gives him something to basically chew on, sinking his teeth in as deep as he can without drawing blood.

“H-hah, Logan,” you whine, tilting your head into the side of his and squirming from the pleasant sting.

You feel his arm move beside you, then you hear the sound of tearing fabric as he gives a particularly brutal snap of his hips, followed by a deep groan against your skin.

You can barely form any thoughts, but you can guess what just happened. If he pulled his hand back, three long, slim holes would probably be where his knuckles are right now.

“Fu-uck, Logan, you just got t-this mattress,” you laugh a little, your words choppy from how hard he’s driving into you now.

He draws back from your neck, seeing your half-lidded eyes trying to focus on him. “Can’t always control it,” he reasons, giving you two short, fleeting kisses as you hear his claws retract from the innocent mattress. 

You see the double-edged sword. You can guess that that’s the same explanation he would probably use for the nightmares. It can go either way, and now you’ve seen both sides.

“It’s okay,” you say in a hushed tone. You cradle his face, and he rests his forehead against yours. “Keep going…keep going,” you coax, face scrunching from your nearing orgasm.

You can feel it in your toes, your stomach, your shoulders—you’re tightening up everywhere, and he can undoubtedly feel it in your cunt as you pulse around him. It grips him just right for a couple seconds before relaxing completely and leaving him to chase for more.

“Keep squeezing me like that and you’ll get whatever you want,” he offers, fighting to maintain his steady pace for both your sakes.

You almost whine, knowing whatever your body does is beyond your control at this point.

“Just—inside.” You can’t even string together a full sentence anymore, but the urgency and stress on the last word makes Logan’s ears perk up.

He presses a soft kiss to your clammy forehead in acknowledgment, the muscles in his arms straining and flexing as he grabs ahold of his own orgasm after a particularly inviting flutter of your walls.

You’re both walking the line, teetering on the edge of utter euphoria, and you know nothing will be the same after. You don’t want it to be. You hope it isn’t.

He reaches an arm back, sliding his hand up your thigh again and slotting it behind the bend in your knee. He pushes forward—only slightly—bringing your leg closer to your stomach to stretch you open for him.

His cock brushes over something new. Something that makes you bite your tongue. The angle lets him fit perfectly against you, not hindered by the flesh of your thigh stopping his hips.

You want to cry from how good it all feels. You want to be suspended in this feeling forever. You want Logan to—

“Focus, baby. Focus on me,” he coos, bringing you back to reality. He holds the side of your head with his other hand affectionately. “Come on…come on, I know you’re almost there,” he encourages with a quick kiss that goes straight to your stomach.

The burn in your thigh from the stretch can’t overpower the sparks of your orgasm, and Logan just fanned the flames with a few little words.

You come with a broken sob, convulsing around his cock while he fucks you through it, submitting to his own orgasm only seconds after with deep, shaky breaths as he empties himself inside your cunt.

He doesn’t pull out or pull away. He relaxes on top of you, sweaty and sticky with cum, and he places the barest whisper of a kiss on your chin, your parted lips, your nose, and then your forehead. 

Your ears ring from your orgasm, eyes still slightly out of focus. Your body trembles from your muscles finally releasing the tension they’ve been caught up in. 

You desperately suck in air, trying to calm your pounding heart, and you just lie there and let Logan walk your body through a cool-down. Soft kisses. Soft touches. Soft looks. Between sweat, cum, and whatever else.

He rocks a little on his knees, weak from his release, and carefully pulls out of you with a huff as he caresses your stomach and thighs appreciatively to wind you down. You get a good look at him. Not a scratch. His hair tells a story, though—one where he’s completely possessed by bliss. 

You probably look like you survived an animal attack.

“Are we even?” Logan says through a kiss against your stomach.

A mindless laugh crawls from your throat, caught up in the feeling of his hands rubbing circles over your hips. “I think I still owe you,” you argue, resting your hands over his as they travel smoothly up your side.

You’ll find a way to make everything up to him. Including the sex. The scale is now tipping to his side too much. All the nights spent in his bed, what he’s done for you, what you’ve done for each other, may just be immeasurable, but that won’t stop you from finding a way to get him back for it all. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, snaking back up your body and pressing himself against you. Face-to-face. Chest-to-chest. 

You mindfully run your hands over the sides of his head, trying to tame his hair and style it back to how it was earlier in the night. It doesn’t work. He enjoys it anyway.

“Do I have the pleasure of staying here tonight?” You ask rhetorically, enjoying the warmth of him on top of you against the brisk air creeping in from the cracked window.

Logan blinks. “You can stay every night.” 

A loving smile springs over your face. This may be the beginning of the end to your troubles and worries.  

You—maybe foolishly—trust him. You trust that he won’t accidentally bury his claws in your side during the night, but you’ve had impressive luck with that up until this point. The only thing you can do now is continue to push that luck.

Healing isn’t linear, and you can’t expect someone to fix you, but everyone finds their thing at some point. 

You slither your hand down to his neck, index finger grazing over his pulse again. You feel the energy biting against you.

Your lips graze over his, tempting him to give you a slow, deep kiss. “Can I have the left side?” Rhetorical, again.

Logan chuckles against your mouth. “Always.”