#I don’t know what it is about this line

[hoshifighting]

rival fashion designer!minghao

— synopsis: where minghao flexes his fashion awards whenever your brand competes against him during fashion week. — WC: 3k — WARNINGS: explicit language, smut, reader uses a transparent clothing (just like rihanna in oscar x swarovski), oral (f. receiving) ENORMOUS DICK!MINGHAO, slight face slap, mentions of choking on a cock, penetrative sex—or trying to.

look, you weren’t trying to start beef with minghao. you don’t even know why the dude hates you so much. okay, maybe you said one thing about his fall line looking like it got snatched off the clearance rack at an IKEA. but that was a year ago. and also? you were drunk and kinda bitter ‘cause your show got bumped for his stupid avant-garde puff-sleeve renaissance clowncore shit.

but now, every fashion week is like a personal vendetta for him to humble you. you’ll be vibin’, sipping your overpriced latte in the designer lounge, and this man will just stroll in, decked out in some vintage runway piece that costs more than your annual budget, flashing that “i won best emerging designer again” smirk like it’s a fucking weapon. and then he’ll throw some casual shit like:

“oh, y/n, is that your collection over there? i thought they were setting up for the kid’s line showcase.”

[...]

so this year, you swore you wouldn’t let him get in your head. you’d play it cool, professional, unbothered. except you walk into your studio late one night, the day before your big runway debut, and this man is just there. sitting on your worktable. wearing a pearl-studded harness and leather pants so tight it should be a crime.

you freeze, halfway through the door, holding the iced coffee you begged your intern to grab five minutes before starbucks closed. “what the fuck are you doing here?”

minghao barely glances up from his phone. “your assistant let me in.”

traitor.

“why?” you slam the coffee on the counter, praying your voice doesn’t shake. the audacity of him just existing in your space is enough to make your blood boil.

he stands, slow as hell, like he’s got all the time in the world. he’s tall—annoyingly tall—so when he steps close, you’re immediately at a disadvantage. but you refuse to back down.

“just wanted to check out the competition,” he says, eyes flicking lazily over the chaos of fabric swatches and half-finished sketches strewn across the room. “cute line. very... simple.”

“fuck you, hao,” you snap, crossing your arms. “it’s called ‘minimalism.’ not that you’d know anything about taste.”

he laughs, soft and low, the kind of sound that creeps under your skin and lingers there. “oh, i have plenty of taste. i just don’t need to keep it basic to get attention.”

and here’s the thing: you hate how much he gets to you. he’s a smug asshole with an overinflated ego, but he’s also stupidly talented, and you can’t ignore the fact that his lines always sell out in under a day. or how his press coverage makes yours look like a local craft fair feature.

but what really gets you is how hot he looks right now, with his ridiculous cheekbones and the glint of that tiny silver chain peeking out from under his collar. it’s disgusting. you hate it.

you’re about to throw a cutting remark his way, something about how he’s overcompensating with all that jewelry, but he beats you to it.

“you know,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, “you’d look good in my designs.”

your brain short-circuits. “excuse me?”

“if you ever want to elevate your style...” he trails off, dragging his gaze down the length of your body like it’s a runway.

“you are so full of shit,” you hiss, but there’s no heat behind it, because your stupid traitorous brain is suddenly imagining what it’d feel like to have his hands on you.

he smirks, all teeth and danger, leaning in so close you can smell his expensive cologne. “maybe. but you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

you don’t answer.

[...]

the next morning, you’re running on zero sleep, fueled by pure spite and caffeine, but your runway show? flawless. models everywhere, hair spray choking the air, seamstresses practically sewing on skin ‘cause the deadlines were that tight. and you were doing a thousand fucking things at once.

fixing a hemline here, shouting at a makeup artist there—“no, not clean girl aesthetic, we’re going full grunge today, wake up!”—all while struggling to get yourself into the swarovskied transparent gown you planned to wear for the night.

no bra, because tits were the least controversial thing in fashion. and the way the crystals draped over your skin looking likew pure art. nipples out and proud, paired with modern curls swirled to perfection and makeup that screamed chaos-but-make-it-glam.

by the time your collection hit the runway, your nerves were shredded. but watching the models strut, each piece shining under the lights... fucking worth it.

and then, the finale: your dress sweeping dramatically across the stage as you closed the parade. you bowed to the crowd, letting the cameras and whispers soak in every inch of you, and as you turned to leave, you felt it.

minghao’s sharp eyes.

you caught his eyes just as they traveled the length of you—from the swirl of your hair, to the unapologetic sharpness of your nipples under the crystals, to the shimmer of your dress, down to the towering heels on your feet.

you just smirked to yourself as you headed backstage, knowing full well your collection didn’t just crawl under his skin this time. it slithered under his flesh, wrapped tight around his ribs, and squeezed.

[...]

minghao’s models stormed the runway like it was their goddamn birthright. and of course, you watched. no designer worth their silk ignored the competition, and minghao wasn’t just competition, he was a walking masterclass in making everyone feel like second place.

he closed his show with his usual flare, stepping out like he already knew the applause was his. fast-forward two designers later, and the nominations for the fashion academy awards started rolling in. you didn’t have to look to know minghao had already claimed half the early awards.

you watched him backstage through narrowed eyes as he balanced four trophies—two tucked in his arms, two in his hands—posing for a picture with that smug-ass smile. you knew that pic was already blowing up on his Instagram. your jaw clenched, nails digging into your palm as the last nominations were announced.

and then, plot twist of the year:

your name came up five times.

designer of the year: you.

new vision in fashion: you.

collection of the year: your brand.

runway innovation: your brand.

showstopper of the year: your brand.

walking out with those five heavy-ass awards in your arms? victory tasted better than champagne. your models and team practically swarmed you, hyping you up ‘cause they knew how much blood, sweat, and tears went into this collection.

but what you really wanted... minghao. definitely minghao. minghao, in your line of sight. because after all the times he flaunted his wins like a smug bastard, you wanted him to feel this.

and lucky for you, fate delivered.

you spotted him in the back hallway, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. clearly, he hadn’t heard the last nominees. his head snapped up when your heels echoed through the space.

“oh, hey, hao,” you called out, voice sweet as honey but sharp as glass. you stopped just short of him, shifting the five trophies in your arms so they pressed against your chest. the weight of them pushed your tits up just enough to catch his eyes.

“looks like I’ve got... a plus one on you this year.” you smirked, shaking the awards a little for good measure, the motion making the crystals on your dress catch the dim hallway light.

his eyes flicked down—brief, subtle, but not subtle enough—and then back up, his expression neutral, but you could feel the shift in his ego.

“congrats,” he said, the word clipped like it physically hurt him.

“thanks, babe,” you purred, turning on your heel with a sway of your hips. “see you next season. maybe.”

and with that, you left, letting the click of your heels carry the weight of your victory.

[...]

days later, you were lounging in minghao’s big leather chair, legs crossed up on his table, showing the expensive ass high heels you always wore. his assistant had let you in with barely a question, and you weren’t one to waste an opportunity.

when he finally walked in, his eyes narrowed immediately. “what the hell are you doing here?”

“relax,” you drawled, leaning back like his office was a spa. “your assistant said I could wait. guess they like me more than you.”

he folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “didn’t think you’d show your face here after the other night. thought you’d be busy polishing all those trophies.”

you grinned, slow and smug. “oh, i polished them. just thought i’d stop by to see how you’re doing. must be hard, you know—losing.”

his jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. instead, he stepped closer, looming over you. “you done?”

“not even close,” you said, standing up to match his energy. you stopped just shy of his chest, tipping your chin up. “but don’t worry, hao. i’ll let you borrow a trophy sometime if you really need the validation.” you patted his shoulder.

he scoffed, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “you know, i like your attitude.”

you raised an eyebrow. “yeah? you must, considering how much you stalk me every season.”

“maybe that’s why we should work together.”

you laughed, loud and sharp, tossing your head back. “oh, that’s rich. you? work with me? what, so you can take credit for my ideas and call it a ‘collaboration’?”

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “i’m serious. we’d be unstoppable.”

for a second, you almost believed him. “unstoppable, huh? what makes you think i’d even want to work with you?”

“because you like the challenge... admit it. you love it when i push you.”

“you’re intolerable.”

“and yet,” he murmured, stepping so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, “you haven’t left yet.”

your laugh came out breathy this time, your pulse quickening as his hand grazed the curve of your hip. “you think I’m staying here for you? please. your assistant let me in, remember?”

“sure,” he said. his thumb traced slow circles against your side, almost lazy. “but you’re still here.”

you were about to snap back with something cutting, something to wipe that stupid smirk off his face, but then he tilted your chin up with two fingers, his gaze locked on yours like a predator sizing up prey.

“stop thinking,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for your lips to almost touch. “you might actually enjoy yourself.”

his lips were soft and plump, moving against yours so fucking good that felt unfair. his hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped.

your hands found his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm under your fingertips as you pushed him slightly, breaking the kiss with a smirk. “you’re bold, i’ll give you that.”

“you’re still thinking,” he teased, catching your bottom lip between his teeth before pulling back.

your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping just enough to feel the flex of his muscles. you threatened to sit on his table.

his eyes widened slighty, his hands immediately grabbing your ass to lift you up, making you yelp. “don’t!”

“what? scared i’ll break it?” you teased, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he places the needles that were spread lazily on the table, inside of a box. he turned, his grip firm as he carried you a few steps and sat you on a nearby armchair.

“there were needles on that table, genius,” he scolded, his tone sulky but his fingers tracing slow lines along your thighs. “you’d be bleeding before I even got started.”

“aww,” you cooed, dragging your nails down his neck. “you worried about me, hao?”

“no,” he muttered, kneeling, dipping his head to kiss along your jawline, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch towards him. “just don’t want to ruin my night with a trip to the hospital.”

your laugh turned into a soft moan as his lips found the spot just below your ear. “guess you’re not as heartless as you act.”

he pulled back slightly, his smirk sharper than ever. “you talk too much.”

you pulled him in for another kiss, your tongues colliding this time. when you tried to take control, tilting your head for a deeper angle, he pulled back just enough to make you chase him.

minghao’s hands were firm on your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your skin like he wasn’t about to wreck you in the middle of his office. his eyes dragged down, lingering on the way your skirt was pushed up, the space between your legs bare and unapologetic.

he clicked his tongue, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “no panties, huh?” he said. “came here like this?”

“what can I say?” you shot back, shifting slightly so his hands pressed harder against your skin. “i had a feeling you’d end up on your knees.”

his smirk deepened, his fingers tightening slightly as he leaned in, close enough for you to feel his breath. he pressed your legs further onto the armrests, spreading you wider, his hands splayed like he wanted to leave imprints.

his tongue flicked out, close enough to make you tense—but he didn’t touch you. instead, he pulled back, his eyes locking with yours as a smirk tugged at his lips.

he leaned in again, his tongue brushing so close you could feel the warmth from his breath, but once again, he pulled back just as you tilted your hips forward.

“hao..” you warned.

“what?” he teased, his lips hovering over your folds.

your hands gripped the armrests as you glared down at him. “if you don’t stop playing, i swear—”

he cut you off with a broad, strong lick, dragging his tongue from your entrance, through your folds, and up to your clit in one unbroken suck. your head fell back as a gasp tore from your lips.

“that shut you up,” he muttered, his voice muffled as he dipped lower, his tongue swirling around your entrance before moving back up. “needy much?”

“shut up and do it again,” you shot back, your voice sharper than the way your thighs trembled under his grip.

and he did the same. your clit throbbing at the rough skin of his tongue, making you melt on his armchair, he smiled at the sight, he knew how a good head felt after months dealing with needles and sparkly cloths.

his lips latched onto your folds, sucking them into his mouth before he pulls back just slightly, his tongue flicking against your clit in quick, teasing strokes. you let out a pornographic moan, before your clap a hand on your mouth, remembering the team outside the office. he chuckled darkly, his hands tightening on your thighs to hold you still. his lips wrapping around your clit again. this time, he sucked it fully into his mouth, his tongue flicking against it as his eyes flicked up to yours.

“you’re so good at this, hmm—fuuuck!” you said, your nails drowning in the leather of the armchair. “you must’ve practiced on a lot of other girls, huh?”

his eyes narrowed slightly, and his teeth grazed your clit just enough to make you wwhimper. “jealous?” he asked, his voice smug, though he didn’t stop the relentless motion of his tongue.

“please,” you shot back, though the way your breath hitched betrayed you as he did a zig-zag on your bud with the tip of his otngue. “you’re better when you’re silent.”

he smirked against you, his lips curving as he pulled back just enough to speak. “then shut me up.”

your fingers tangled in minghao’s hair, tugging him closer, harder, until his face was buried against your pussy. his groan vibrated through you, desperate, and his hands clamped down on your thighs to steady himself as you rolled your hips against his mouth.

“that’s it... mhmm, just like that...”

he obeyed, his head bobbing as his tongue slid against you in broad, wet strokes, his lips sealing around your clit every few seconds to suck, deep and rhythmic. the wet, obscene sounds filled the room, and your nails scraped lightly against his scalp as you held him there, guiding him exactly how you wanted.

the heat in your core coiled tighter, and you barely had time to register your orgasm hit.

your back arched, your mouth falling open as moans spilled out shamelessly. your hips rolled against his face as you came, and minghao didn’t stop—not for a second. he worked you through it, sucking and licking as though he felt your climax before you did.

he only pulled back when you began to squirm, your breath coming in sharp gasps as overstimulation took hold. his lips and chin were slick as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting as he looked up at you.

“had fun?” he asked, sarcastically.

you gave a breathless laugh, your chest heaving as you leaned back in the chair. “you talk too much for someone who just spent five minutes swallowing my pussy.”

his smirk widened, and he stood, his hands braced on the armrests as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. “and you talk too much for someone who’s about to beg me to fuck her.”

your gaze flicked to his lips, and then lower—to the bulge straining against his pants. “big words,” you said. “let’s see if you can back them up.”

his hands slid to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he walked you back toward the desk—no needles this time. you didn't even had time to register what was happening before your skirt was pushed higher, his fingers brushing over your thighs as he settled you on the edge.

his hand worked his belt, the clink of the buckle making you clench around nothing.

“this isn’t gonna be quick,” he said as he freed himself, the sheer size of him making your breath catch. it was big both in length and girth.

you swallowed hard.

“relax... mhmm”

he teased your entrance with the tip, sliding it slowly against you, and the stretch was immediate, even as he slightly pressed in. your breath hitched, your hands gripping the edge of the desk as he pushed forward, achingly slow, giving you time to adjust.

“ngh—fuck!” you gasped, your voice breaking as he filled you inch by hard inch.

“breathe,” he murmured, his tone gentle despite the tension in his body. mouth glued on yours to make sure he feels your puffs of air.

“trying”

he paused, his hands tightening on your hips as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “you’re okay,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”

you hiccuped, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as your body struggled to adjust.

“there you go,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as he waited “good girl. just like that.”

you exhaled slowly, your body relaxing slightly helping him to slid in further, the fullness stealing the air from your lungs.

your hands gripped his arms, your nails digging into his skin as he finally bottomed out, his body pressed flush against yours.

“fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as he buried his face in your neck. “you’re—so fucking tight.”

you swallowed hard, your head tilting back as you tried to catch your breath. “you’re—so fucking big.”

he pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours as a smirk tugged at his lips. “think you can take it?”

your breath hitched, and you nodded, your hands sliding to his back as you wrapped your legs around his waist. “try me.”

minghao hips pulls back just an inch before thrusting forward experimentally. the sound that left your lips was somewhere between a moan and a strangled gasp, your nails biting into his shoulders as your body clenched around him.

he paused, a smug smile tugging at his lips as he tilted his head to the side, his eyes flicking over your face. “yeah, knew that’d happen.”

“don’t—” your breath hitched as he moved just slightly, a tiny shift that made you clutch at him even harder. “don’t fucking smile like that.”

his laugh was quiet, he leaned down, his forehead brushing against yours. “why not? you’re almost cummin already.”

“i’m not—” the words caught in your throat as he slid just a little deeper, your body trying desperately to adjust to his size.

“not what?” he asked, his tone playful as he stilled again, waiting for you to catch your breath.

“not—cumming” you managed, though your voice shook with the effort of speaking.

“hmm.” his thumb grazed your clit, circling it trying to soothe your nerves. “then why are you holding on to me likethat?”

you glared at him, though the effect was probably ruined by the way your mouth fell open with a gasp as his thumb pressed down just slightly harder.

your body tensed as he began to move again, sliding in slowly, each inch dragging against you in a way that made your head fall back. the wet squelch of your body adjusting to his girth filled the room, obscenelly.

“shit,” he muttered, his voice tight as he wrapped his arm around your waist, holding you steady. “you’re so—tight. feels like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“maybe i am.”

he laughed softly “you’re all talk,” he murmured, his thumb still circling your clit. “that pussy is begging for me.”

“hao,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his arms as your legs tightened around his waist. “i—fuck, i can’t—”

“you can,” he said softly, his lips moving against your neck. “breathe for me, baby. you’ve got this.”

you exhaled shakily, your chest rising and falling against his as you tried to relax, tried to let the tension in your body melt away. his thumb pressed a little harder against your clit, insistent, coaxing pleasure to override the discomfort.

“that’s it,” he murmured, his voice soft as his arm tightened around your waist. “just like that. let me in.”

your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut as he finally slid deeper, his hips pressing flush against yours. the sensation stole the breath from your lungs, and your fingers dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you.

“you okay?”

you nodded weakly, your hands sliding up to grip his hair as you whispered, “move.”

he chuckled as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “not yet.”

your eyes snapped open, frustration bubbling in your chest as you glared at him. “hao—”

“relax,” he murmured, his thumb circling your clit again, making you cry out slyly. “i’m not gonna ruin you all at once. gotta make sure you can take it.”

“i can,”

“we’ll see,” he said, his tone smug as he finally, finally pulled back, his cock dragging against you.

“hao, just—fuck me already.”

his laugh was quiet. “you’re not ready for that yet, look—” he roll his hips, making you hiccup again. “but don’t worry—I’ll get you there.”

“how about you?” you ask, feeling your orgasm building up as he circled the thumb faster, your hips rolling slightly, weak, like the cock inside you was to heavy to make you roll them freely.

“i can get off just by looking at this pretty face...” he slaps your cheek weakly, twice, making you squeeze around him. “listen to what i'm telling you… you're still going to model for my brand.” he chuckles.

“i’d rather choke to death than work with your brand.”

“why don’t you choke on something else, then?”

[yogsandchaos]

The hermit community is pretty old so I probably don’t have to say this, but I know a lot of people in the fandom are young; but here’s a few tips from an old school yog fan

1. just because someone has left or did a bad thing, doesn’t mean you’re a bad person for enjoying the content, along with still wanting to watch that old content they did or were a part of

2. Just because someone has left or did a bad thing does not mean you cannot continue to make fan content. While it’s understandable if you don’t make more or remove art you have made, you are also not bad if you don’t. YouTube is all about collaboration and transformation. Fanart? Fanfic? Cosplay? That’s all transformative, you don’t have to stop making a new thing from the old thing. It’s fully in your right to do so, but it’s not required.

3. Do not harass people about whether they do or don’t make art or delete art, it’s transformative works and personal choice, the most you should do is ask for it to be tagged so it can be filtered.

4. Don’t harass the creators either, it’s clearly been handled and handled well. If this was a case of it being ignored for years by the company or group (COUGH SJIN YOGSCAST COUGH) then it would be more complicated, but it’s a solved issue. Don’t harass iskall or stress either

5. You are allowed to hold off on making a value judgment until you have more information. We don’t have a lot of information and things around kids media tend to be a lot more stricter then adults for what’s appropriate. so it could be a lot of different things of highly varying morality ranging from assault to a bad case of public intoxication that didn’t fit the child friendly brand of the Hermits. We don’t know. Especially about Stress her resignation and how it relates is a near total mystery right now.

6. Be kind to each other, and remember the people you watch are people, and people do dumb or fucked shit sometimes, it sucks, but these are just people, hopefully it’s something to be grown from by Iskall and not something life ruining, but let this remind everyone to not put people on pedestals as unproblematic. Every hermit has probably held an opinion or been a part of something you’d find distasteful, that’s just what it means to be human. It’s up to you to decide where your personal line is and your comfort levels on that stuff, and no one can make that choice for you.

[whorelaud]

loser!bf!Rafe getting jealous after he discovers you have another man's name as your phone password. contains soft rafe, jealousy & tooth rotting fluff, wc; 747 a/n this is a repost oops

“Hey, baby, can I borrow your phone for a moment?” Your boyfriend’s voice erupted through your ears, earning your attention as you adjusted the falsies around your eye, too accompanied with the action to acknowledge the boy hovering behind you, staring at you through the reflection of the mirror. 

“Mhm,” you cooed, lips parting with concentration. “It’s on the nightstand.” The boy nodded, instantly retrieving your phone from your side of the bed, approaching you once again, this time with the intention of unlocking it. He adjusted the device in front of your face, in an attempt to use face ID, his plan backfiring when your phone lit with the ‘password required’ screen.  

“What’s your password?” He clicked his teeth, leaning his weight against the desk, his figure filling the majority of your view. His fingers soared over the screen, while he patiently waited for you to finish applying your lashes. 

“Luvdrew,” you replied, causing the boy to come to a halt, his expression twisting with puzzlement. “But instead of the e, type in a three.” 

“Luvdrew?” He questioned, ridiculed by your response. “Who the fuck is Drew?” Your gaze shifted back to bim, dumbfounded by the bitterness seeping through his voice, confused by the sudden change in his tone. 

“Oh, Drew Starkey,” you continued, flashing him a smile, oblivious to how casual you were making the conversation seem, upsetting Rafe even more. “You’ve never heard of him? He used to be my celebrity crush.” 

“And you have him as your password? What, you think about him every time you unlock your phone?” His face fumed with annoyance, not failing to hide it as he clicked his teeth, tossing your phone back on the desk. “I don’t even want to use your phone anymore, let that Drew guy use it instead.” 

“What?!” You started, a soft chuckle knocking out of your chest, fully abandoning your makeup on the desk, attention fixing on Rafe, whose face expressed nothing but sulkiness. “Are you jealous?!” 

“No!” He spat back, eyebrows curling with frustration. “Why would I be jealous because you have another man’s name as your password, when you clearly have a boyfriend?!” 

“You are jealous.” You snickered, getting up from your seat. You leveled your face with Rafe’s, tilting his head with a hand to his chin. He avoided your gaze, brushing off the touch as he seized his head down in his lap, not giving in to your coy gesture. “Look at me, I’m sorry! I’ve had it for a while, before we even dated, I must’ve forgotten to change it. I’m sorry! He’s a literal celebrity, baby.” 

“Whatever,” he scoffed, resisting the hand engulfing the curve of his jaw. “Go be with Drew, maybe he’ll treat you better, since I’m not good enough for you.” 

“Rafe!” You shot back, surprised by his stubborn attitude. “Why are you acting like this, I’m sorry.” You pecked the corner of his lips, mimicking your action when he angled his head to the side, a silent invitation for you to continue kissing him. You littered open-mouthed kisses to his mouth, chest swelling with pride when the latter smiled, pressing his lips into a thin line to hold himself back from further giving into your compelling. “There you go, don’t sulk with me, you know I love you.”

“You’re ridiculous.” He mumbled in between kisses, lingering for a moment when you captured his lips in between your own, his moving over yours in an attempt to deepen it. His hands sneaked around your waist, sandwiching you with his legs to keep you in place. “I love you too, I guess.”

“You guess?” You shrugged, “I’ll change my password to luvrafe, there, are you happy?” You muttered, leaning your head back when Rafe chased after your lips, desperate to kiss you. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes, hesitating to mutter his next statement. “So… is that Drew guy more attractive than me?”

“No,” you shook your head, “No one is more attractive than you, you’re the most handsome man on earth.”

“Oh?” He cocked his head to the side, amused by your response, seeking more of your attention. “What else?” 

“Oh, don't get cocky with me.” You teased, grinning from ear to ear. You tilted your head to the side, your next sentence an attempt to rile him up. “You know, I might’ve exaggerated, Drew’s an attractive g–”

“Fuck off!” He interrupted your sentence before you could further speak. “I’m done with you.” 

[luvyeni]

( reaction ) hitting THAT spot ! ୨୧ 一 엔하이픈 ՞

⸃ ⸰ ⌁ enhypen when they hit that spot inside you that have you seeing starsヾ

boyfriend!엔하이픈・ fem!reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ smut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ cw ・ unprotected sex, degradation, fingering, squirting, dirty talk, name calling wc ・ ‎0.4k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ ‎click to library

request. hey, can you do enha or riize when they find THAT spot while doing it with their s/o 🫠

「 ୨୧ authors note 」 i only did the hyung line , hope you don’t mind <3

﹙ 𐙚 : heeseung ﹚ .ᐟ

he’s a little tease when he’s fucking you; so when he finds that spot , the spot that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head in ecstasy, he smirked knowing he found it — now he plans on missing it on purpose , just to have you whining out his name. “hee-heeseung.” he’s smiling after missing it for the fourth time purposely. “what baby?” his head tilting in faux sympathy. “am i not hitting it right?” he held your stomach down , finally hitting stop once again , you let out a loud moan. “fuck baby.” he groaned.

“don’t doubt me baby i know what makes your little pussy quiver , i just like seeing you suffer a bit.”

﹙ 𐙚 : jay ﹚ .ᐟ

jay knows your body like the back of his hand; he knows when you’re feeling it; he knows when he’s doing something wrong and he fixes it, he know what noises you make when you want him to speed up or slow down, when you’re about to cum — and especially when he hit that spot. “jay.” he hovered above you. “i know baby , i know.” he grunted , making sure to keep hitting that spongy spot inside you. “i found that precious literally spot didn’t i.” you dumbly nodded. “i know, you’re such a good girl.” he praised.

“i got you baby , just let me fuck you, make you cum all over my cock.”

﹙ 𐙚 : jake ﹚ .ᐟ

the moment his fingers curl inside you; hitting that rough spot, your legs closed around his hands. “no baby , don’t close them.” he smiled against your cheek. “is that it? the spot that will have you squirting all over my fingers?” that’s his new motive; his only goal — to make you squirt all over his hands. his long slender fingers moving inside you. “fuck jake!” between that and his thumb rubbing your clit , you soon were squirting all over his fingers. “that’s it -fuck- make a mess for me.” he groaned.

“that’s it keep making a mess on my hands.”

﹙ 𐙚 : sunghoon ﹚ .ᐟ

sunghoons goal is to fuck you completely dumb; so when he finds that spot; your eyes crossing and tongue loling out of your mouth, he sees it as a success, he’s successfully turned you into his own nasty slut. “look at you drooling.” he scoffed, pressing your face down into the pillow, allowing him to go deeper. “nasty slut, letting me use you like this.” he cursed seeing you all fucked out for him. “your brain all fuzzy.” he hissed.

“gonna turn your mind into mush.”

©️LUVYENI

[littlelamy]

Teach Me

nerd!rafe x experienced!reader

Rafe Cameron wasn’t usually this quiet.

He wasn’t the loudest guy by any means, but his nervous energy tonight was new. Usually, his shyness came with a sort of clumsy charm, a stammered compliment or a soft laugh that always made your heart ache in the best way. But as he sat stiffly on the edge of your bed, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, he looked like he might bolt at any moment.

“Rafey,” you said softly, stepping closer and leaning into his line of sight. “You okay?”

His head snapped up, blue eyes wide behind the smudge on his glasses. He pushed them up his nose, his hand shaking slightly, and dropped his gaze back to his lap. His long fingers twisted together, pale from how tightly he was holding them.

“Y-yeah,” he mumbled, though his voice betrayed him with its unsteady wobble.

Your lips curved into a soft smile as you reached out, fingertips brushing his jawline. “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

Rafe swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, but didn’t meet your gaze. “I just… I want to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.” You perched beside him on the bed, close enough that your knees bumped. “I’m listening.”

His lips parted, then closed again, as though the words were stuck in his throat. Finally, he managed, “I want to… I mean, I need to… be better for you. Better at, um, pleasing you.”

Your chest tightened at his vulnerable confession. “Rafe, you’re already amazing. You don’t have to—”

“No.” His voice came out firm, but he winced at his own abruptness. “I mean, thank you. But I want to do more for you. I want to know how to… touch you the way you deserve.”

The raw sincerity in his words made your heart swell. His cheeks were stained with a deep blush, and he looked like he was fighting every instinct to hide his face in his hands.

“You’re so sweet,” you whispered, lacing your fingers through his and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We can take our time, baby. I’ll show you everything you want to know.”

Rafe relaxed slightly as you guided him to sit cross-legged on the bed. His hoodie lay discarded nearby, and his glasses perched crookedly on his nose, slightly fogged from the heat in the room.

“First thing,” you said, settling in front of him, “is to pay attention. My body will tell you when something feels good—whether it’s my breathing, the way I move, or the sounds I make.”

His eyes widened, and he nodded quickly, his gaze flickering nervously between your face and your body.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I can do that.”

You reached for his hand, gently placing it on your thigh. “Start here. Gentle touches, nothing rushed. Feel how warm my skin is? That’s a good sign.”

Rafe’s fingers were warm and hesitant, but they began to explore as you encouraged him. He let his hand glide up slowly, his breath hitching when his fingertips grazed the hem of your shorts.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low and strained.

You smiled, running a hand through his messy hair. “That’s perfect.”

As his touch grew more assured, his fingers dipped under the fabric, skimming the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The softness of his movements contrasted with the heat pooling in your stomach, and a quiet sigh escaped your lips.

“Like that?” he asked, his brows furrowing slightly as he searched your face for affirmation.

“Exactly like that,” you murmured, your voice catching.

You shifted back against the pillows, tugging him down beside you. “Now, from here, you can explore more. Don’t overthink it. Use your hands, your mouth—just do what feels natural.”

Rafe’s blush deepened, but he nodded. His hand skimmed up your stomach, pausing when he reached the curve of your hip. His fingers trembled slightly, but the reverence in his touch sent a shiver through you.

When his lips brushed your collarbone, warm and tentative, you let out a soft moan. His head snapped up, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Was that too much?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You cupped his cheek, pulling him back down for a kiss. “Not at all. That was perfect. Keep going, Rafey.”

Encouraged, he pressed his lips to your skin again, lingering this time. His kisses grew bolder, trailing down to the swell of your chest. His hands followed, brushing over you with featherlight touches that left your skin tingling.

“See how my body reacts?” you whispered, your breath hitching as his hand grazed a particularly sensitive spot. “That’s what I mean by listening.”

Rafe’s lips quirked into a shy smile, and he leaned into your touch with newfound confidence.

Rafe’s hand hesitated at the waistband of your panties, his fingertips brushing the soft fabric with a touch so light it sent a shiver up your spine. His wide blue eyes searched yours, filled with nervous anticipation, his lips slightly parted as though he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take the next step.

“Can I?” His voice was barely above a whisper, trembling but threaded with yearning.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice soft but certain.

His exhale was shaky as he focused his attention fully on you, his hand dipping beneath the fabric with deliberate slowness. The first brush of his fingers against your bare skin sent a jolt of electricity through your body, your breath catching audibly. His touch was tentative, his movements almost reverent, as though he couldn’t believe you were letting him do this.

“Rafey,” you murmured, your voice a mix of encouragement and need.

His fingers explored with unsteady care, tracing the slickness pooling there. His thumb brushed experimentally against your clit, and your body responded instantly, arching slightly under his touch. The sensation was almost too much yet not nearly enough, a delicious pressure that made you gasp softly.

“Is that good?” he asked, his brows furrowing in concentration as he watched your reaction.

“So good,” you managed, your voice a little breathless. “Keep going, just like that.”

The reassurance made his shoulders relax, and his movements grew bolder. His thumb pressed more firmly, circling that swollen bundle of nerves with a rhythm that made your thighs clench instinctively around his hand. The quiet whimper that slipped from your lips seemed to spur him on, his other hand coming to rest on your hip to steady you as his fingers moved with growing confidence.

Your body was alive under his touch, every nerve alight as he adjusted his movements, clearly paying attention to how you squirmed and sighed beneath him. The hesitancy from earlier was melting away, replaced by a kind of focused eagerness that made your chest tighten with affection.

“That feels good,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his messy hair. “You’re doing so good, Rafe.”

His lips curved into the smallest, shyest smile, but his fingers didn’t falter. He leaned down then, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck, trailing lower with every press of his lips. His hair tickled against your skin, the sensation adding to the whirlwind of pleasure building inside you.

When his kisses reached the hollow of your throat, you tilted your head back, giving him better access. He took it eagerly, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. The combination of his mouth and his hand working together was intoxicating, a steady rhythm that had you biting your lip to stifle the moans threatening to spill out.

“You like that?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and velvety. The rare confidence in his tone sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you couldn’t help but nod, your fingers gripping his hair tighter.

“I love it,” you whispered, your voice trembling with pure pleasure.

His movements stilled for a moment as he shifted, his glasses slightly askew as he glanced up at you. “I… Can I try something else?” he asked, his voice softer now, more uncertain.

“Yes,” you answered without hesitation, your heart racing as his hands gently eased your panties down your legs.

Rafe paused, his breath catching as he took in the sight of you fully. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, but his gaze was captivated, reverent. Slowly, he settled himself lower, his shoulders nestled between your thighs.

“You don’t have to—” you started, but the determined look in his eyes stopped you.

“I want to,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

The first press of his lips to your inner thigh was soft, almost hesitant. He lingered there, kissing a trail upward, his breath warm against your skin. Each kiss was tender, deliberate, until he was just where you wanted him most.

His lips brushed against you then, soft and unhurried, and the sensation sent a gasp tumbling from your lips. He hesitated, his blue eyes flicking up to yours for reassurance, and when he saw the way your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, he pressed another kiss, firmer this time.

The wet warmth of his mouth and the softness of his tongue as he tentatively explored made your entire body tense with pleasure. He was careful, almost shy, but each touch carried a sincerity that left you breathless.

“Rafey,” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need.

The sound of his name on your lips seemed to embolden him. His hands gripped your thighs gently, pulling you closer as he deepened his movements, his tongue finding the rhythm that made you gasp and arch beneath him. Every flick, every press, was deliberate, his sole focus on making you fall apart under his care.

“Is this… okay?” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot against you.

“Perfect,” you managed, your voice breaking on the word. “Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

Rafe’s mouth was insistent now, his shyness giving way to a careful confidence as he listened to every sound you made, adjusting his movements to match the reactions he drew from you. Your hands found his hair, tugging gently as you lost yourself in the overwhelming sensations he was giving you.

Every kiss, every caress, was a revelation—an unspoken promise that he was there to learn every inch of you, to cherish you completely. The pleasure built steadily, an intoxicating crescendo that left you breathless, your thighs trembling as he found just the right rhythm with his mouth. His lips latched around that sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking softly at first, then with increasing determination as your whimpers turned into desperate cries of his name.

“Rafey,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair as your hips pressed up against him, unable to control the way your body chased the peak he was bringing you toward.

His hands gripped your thighs firmly but gently, holding you in place as he gave it one last, deliberate suck. The sensation sent you spiraling, your body arching as the climax washed over you in waves, leaving you shaking and completely at his mercy. Your breath hitched, the room filled with the sound of your soft cries and his satisfied hum against you.

When the intensity finally began to drop, Rafe eased his touch, his mouth leaving a final tender kiss against your skin before he pulled away. His lips were parted, his breathing ragged, and his face was flushed with both pride and nervousness. His lips and chin glistened, a mix of his efforts and your release, and the sight alone sent another shiver through you.

He climbed back up the bed, his gaze locked on yours as if silently asking for reassurance. Leaning over you, his hands braced on either side of your head, he pressed his lips to yours in a tentative kiss. The taste of yourself lingered on his lips, and the sound he made—low, guttural, and almost shy—vibrated against your mouth.

“Did I… Was that okay?” he asked softly, his voice trembling with vulnerability. His blue eyes searched yours, his glasses slightly askew, and his lips glistening as he hovered just inches from you.

Your heart swelled at the nervousness in his voice, and instead of answering right away, you pulled him into another kiss. This time, it was deep, lingering, your fingers threading through his hair to pull him even closer. When you finally broke away, his lips were even more swollen, and his breath mingled with yours.

“You did amazing, sweetie,” you whispered, your voice full of affection and awe.

The words flooded him with relief, his shoulders relaxing as a shy yet proud smile tugged at the corners of his damp lips. Unable to resist, you reached up to wipe your arousal from his chin, your thumb grazing his flushed skin before leaning in to kiss him again.

Rafe melted into you, his earlier hesitation completely gone, replaced by a quiet confidence that had your heart racing all over again. And as he buried his face in your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin, you knew this was just the beginning of something even more beautiful between you.

a/n: last post of the day🥵

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

[eccentricwritingbaby]

i miss you, i’m sorry 

lando norris x reader

summary - breakup, missed calls, and lando at your doorstep. 

masterlist 

-

do you remember happy together?

i do, don’t you?

“hi, you’ve reached y/n! i can’t come to the phone right now but please leave me a messa-”

click. lando stares down at his phone, the daunting contact photo of you two together and happy staring back at him. mocking him. his eyes are brimmed with salty tears, his head mentally begging you to call him back. 

you had broken up one month ago, pressures of life forcing the two of you to become resentful and angry, with a common thought that you would both be better off apart. after two years together he moved out of your shared apartment, giving it to you, and finding his own. but, within a week, lando had missed you too deeply to even recognize any faults near the end, just hopelessly attempting to contact you in any way. he had called you every day since then, always getting your voicemail and never having the right mind to leave one. 

the boxes scattered around his apartment were just inanimate reminders of you, and how much he wished he would’ve never left. how much he wished he would have fought for you and your love, a love that hadn’t disappeared the more you two were apart, it only grew stronger. 

you said ‘forever’, in the end i fought it

please, be honest, are we better for it?

thought you’d hate me, but instead you called

and said, “i miss you”

i caught it

lando fell back into the couch, his dark phone haunting him as he reminisced. what was so bad about the end? you couldn’t make a few races? he knew his love radiated and compensated for that. he could deal with missed races and conflicting schedules if it meant having you back in his life. as he sits, the slight buzzing of his phone catches him out of his trance, and your smiling face appears on his screen. quick and slightly sweating fingers slide across the screen, answering fast with a clearing of his throat. 

“h-hello?” his voice slightly cracks into the phone. 

“hi,” he hears you sigh from the other line, his smile finally coming back as he hears your current voice, “you called?” 

“been calling,” lando tries to lighten the mood, “‘m glad you called back,”

“me too,” your soft voice is music to his ears, “i, i miss you,” your small confession was everything to lando as his full smile returned to his face for the first time since your ultimate breakup. 

“miss you too, love,” he sighs out in relief, “been needin’ to hear your voice,”

“yours too,”

nothing happened in the way i wanted

every corner of this house is haunted

and i know you said that we’re not talking

but i miss you, i’m sorry

“how’ve you been?” he subtly asks, his fingers now playing with the hem of his shirt - a nervous habit he had picked up from you in your years together. 

“have to admit, not that good,” he hears your giggle through his phone and his heart jumps with love, “the apartment feels too quiet without you here,” 

“my new one feels too empty without you here,” lando replies, his hand runs down his face, preparing himself for his next question, “listen, i-i know you said you didn’t want to see me but-”

“come over,” your voice interrupts, already knowing what he was going to ask, “please,” your voice drops into your most vulnerable octave, and lando is already scrambling to retrieve his keys in order to head out the door to your old shared apartment, to you. 

“be there in five, love,” he responds swiftly, jogging out the door in order to make it towards you faster. 

everything i know brings me back to us

i don’t wanna go, we’ve been here before

everywhere i go leads me back to you

the gentle knocking at your door brings you out of your post-call fog and back into reality. he was here. the man that walked out of your life easily and then wouldn’t leave you alone to heal is here. and fuck, you were so happy to see him. 

the breakup hadn’t been your first decision either, the words had just shouted out of your mouth before you could think things through in a fit of rage. and lando listened. and left. but now he’s here. 

opening the door you’re faced with the man you loved, love. his bright eyes and curly hair still the same, his hoodie and joggers making him ever so soft, and the smile graced on his face was hard to miss. 

“hi,” he whispers, almost afraid to scare you off.

“hi,” you whisper back, same fears in your brain as his, “come in,” you gesture to the inside of your once shared apartment, and he easily steps in, bringing a warmth that was missing to the space and making it a home again. just like that. 

“wow,” he states, keeping his same quiet demeanor, “i’ve missed this place,” looking around, his eyes land on you, “i’ve missed you,”

“i’ve missed you too, lan,” you take a step towards him, “i miss you, a-and i’m sorry, for everything,”

“why are you apologizing?” he takes your hands into his own, giving them both a soft squeeze, “i should be the one apologizing, i just left when things got hard instead of working on it and figuring it out, i-”

“no no,” you cut off his ranting, “i should have never suggested a breakup, that was my fault,”

“and i should have never gone along with it, i should’ve stayed, should’ve fought,”

“you did fight, lan,” your eyes begin to gloss as you look up at him, “you called and called, i just shut you out-”

“then don’t shut me out now, give me another chance,” his pulls your hands that are in his to wrap around his neck as his own land on your waist, “please, baby, give us another chance,”

“i love you,” you whisper, “i still love you, of course i want to be with you again,” lando doesn’t hesitate, now knowing you’re on the same page as him and moves forward to capture your lips into a breathtaking kiss.

“god i’ve missed this,” he pants, forehead resting against yours, “please never break up with me again,”

“please never leave again,” you whisper back.

“wouldn’t even dream of it, baby,”

[watchmegetobsessed]

UNMATCHED II.

A/N: soooo you guys were just as horny for a part 2 to this story as i was so here we are, giving in to the temptation. disclaimer, i know their behavior is giving red flag energy but lets just put that aside for the sake of the story now lol

WORD COUNT: 3.8k

WARNING: sexual content, age gap, student-professor relationship

SUMMARY: Harry has been trying his best to forget what happened with Y/N, he is set on never making the same mistake, but it seems like fate has different plans for him.

PART 1 | MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

That skirt. That goddamned skirt. That’s gonna be the death of Harry. 

And also the fact that she went back to that asshole. 

Sitting in the busy school cafeteria Harry has zoned out of the conversation at the table a long time ago, precisely when he saw Y/N stroll in wearing that short skirt with that dickhead she should have ditched already or better, she shouldn’t have even dated him in the first place. But now they are moving in the line with their group of friends and he has his hand on her waist and it keeps inching lower, just a few more inches and his hand could be slipping under her skir–

“Harry? Hello?” 

Stella catches his attention and he is forced to move his focus back to his colleagues at the table. 

“Huh? Sorry, what did you say?” He clears his throat and keeps his eyes on his half-eaten sandwich in front of him. 

“What’s up with you? You haven’t been your usual self lately.”

“Just… tired. I’m behind with my research and have a bunch of papers to grade before winter break.”

“The joys of being a teacher,” Stella chuckles. “Don’t worry, it’ll get better with time.”

“Really?”

“No,” she smirks at him. “But you’ll care less.”

She soon returns to the conversation at the table and Harry finds himself looking for Y/N again. There’s no trace of her in the line, but he is quick to spot her at a table across the dining hall, sitting beside Dickhead who has an arm around her neck, keeping her close as he wants everyone to know that they are together.

And it irks Harry way more than it probably should. 

It’s been a little over a week since Stella’s Christmas party and also that very heated and very wrong kiss he shared with Y/N. That weekend was like hell, he kept beating himself over and over about it, cursing himself out for being so stupid and reckless. He still has no idea what came over him that let him make out with a student, but he knew one thing for sure: it couldn’t happen again. 

So when Y/N walked into the classroom before his first lecture early on monday he didn’t even let her speak before he got to the point. 

“It shouldn’t have happened. I’m so sorry for it, but I can’t undo it now. I suggest let’s pretend nothing happened, it’s for the absolute best. No one can know about it and it will never happen again.”

She seemed taken aback by his outburst, but after a bit of hesitation she nodded.

“Okay. Nothing happened. It must have been the wine.”

“Yes,” he agreed right away. “We both drank more than we should have and made a mistake.”

She flinched at his last word, but didn’t protest, only nodded, holding her textbooks tighter to her chest. She looked so sad, even disappointed that Harry almost wanted to take back what he just said, but he knew he couldn’t. 

“Are you… okay?” he dared to ask, but when she looked at him again, her eyes told nothing. 

“I’m fine. I’ll see you in class, professor.”

And she was out of the classroom before he could say another word. In class she sat in the back and not even once did she look at him. He knows, because he kept looking at her. 

He’s been trying his best to get her out of his head, but with not much luck. Not when all he can think about is how soft her lips felt against his, how insanely good she tasted mixed with the coldness of the night, how amazingly she fit into his palm, the curve of her neck, back, waist and hips… and how badly he wants to experience it again even though it’s the worst possible idea. 

Harry thinks he is going insane. Genuinely. 

He’s been burying himself into work, but his focus has been all over the place, so it’s been more like a waste of time. He is one of the last ones in the building today as well. Most professors left a long time ago, but the lights in Harry’s tiny office are still on as he is hunched over a stack of papers. When he has to read over the same line for the twentieth time he drops his pen with a tired groan and leans back in his chair. He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes roughly, until he is practically seeing stars. 

“Fuck,” he huffs, staring at the papers that are still waiting to be graded. Checking the time on his phone he is surprised to see that it’s already past seven.

He stands from his chair and steps to the window. The campus looks quiet at this time, only a few students are walking towards the dorm that’s next to the literature department’s building. It’s a wednesday night, the semester ends next week so some lucky students who have no more exams left in the year have already left for the holidays. Harry will be going home right before Christmas, he plans to use those few days of the break to work on his research in peace. 

From his window he sees part of the parking lot next to the dorm, it’s quite dark there, he almost doesn’t notice the figures sitting in the car closest to him, but a few heartbeats later realization hits him.

It’s Y/N and the dickhead. 

They are pretty far, but Harry can tell that they are in a heated fight, judging from how Y/N is gesticulating. Obviously he can’t hear them, but if he had to guess he would say she is shouting, from what he can see. 

For a moment he tells him to just ignore the scene, it’s none of anyone else’s business, let alone his. But when he sees the asshole slap his hands against the wheel several times, making Y/N jump, Harry is moving before he could second guess his actions. 

He practically sprints down that stairs, already trying to figure out how he’ll interject without appearing like a creep, but he forgets all his plans when he is marching towards the parking lot and sees the scene unfold from up close. 

At some point they must have gotten out of the car, because Harry catches the dickhead getting back into the driving seat, Y/N is crying and tries to stop him from shutting the door, but he swings it with such force that she stumbles forward, holding onto the handle. When Harry sees her almost fall to the asphalt he starts running, just as the car comes to life and he drives away so fast, he almost runs over Y/N’s feet. 

“Fuck you, Charlie! Fuck you!” She screams after the car, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Harry rushes over to her, grabs her by her shoulders and turns her away from the direction of the car. “Hey, what happened?”

She is gasping for air from the crying as she wraps her arms around her, those beautiful eyes that are usually filled with curiosity are now full of confusion and hurt. 

“Y/N, look at me,” he begs and she hiccups a few times before she finally looks him in the eyes. 

“H-Harry?”

He ignores how good it feels to hear her call him by his first name again and tries to focus on the situation.

“Yeah. Let’s get inside, okay? It’s freezing cold.”

She nods and lets him steer her towards the building and up to his office. By the time she sits in the old armchair in the corner of his office she has stopped sobbing, but her expression looks just as miserable as before. 

“I’ll make you a tea. Do you like tea?” he asks, stepping over to the tiny side table where he keeps his kettle and tiny tea collection with two mugs. She nods and he is quick to turn on the kettle. He grabs a chamomile filter and drops it into one of the mugs and while the water boils he hands her a box of tissues that she accepts with a quietly murmured thank you. 

When the tea is done he hands her the mug and sits in his chair, unsure what to say. He definitely did not plan to have her in his office anytime soon and definitely not like this. 

“Go on, lecture me about being with him,” she says at last, staring into the mug in her hands. 

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“But you’d be right.” She looks up at him, eyes still red from the crying. 

“Why did you go back to him?” he softly asks, not wanting to make her feel even worse. 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, looking away again. “He could be convincing, I guess.”

“Hope you won’t believe him after this.”

“No,” she chuckles bitterly before taking a sip from the tea, leaning back in the armchair. “Not even the sex will convince me to go back to him.”

Harry’s muscles jump at her words. Not because he is such a prude, but because instantly he is thinking about sex… and her… and his body reacts involuntarily. Clearing his throat he crosses his legs and looks anywhere but at her.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” she chuckles softly, but she doesn’t seem sorry at all. 

“No, I… um…” Harry has no idea what to say. This feels like such an impossible situation, he is definitely walking on eggshells here and the fact that he is semi-hard does not help his case. 

While he is looking for the right words she places her mug to his desk and crosses her legs, a curious look playing in her eyes as she is looking at him. She appears calm and confident suddenly, like she wasn’t sobbing ten minutes ago. 

“I lied,” she then speaks up.

“About what?”

“I know why I went back to him.”

“Oh. Okay, why did you?”

She holds his gaze for one… two… three seconds before her lips part, then she hesitates for one more moment before answering. 

“Because I couldn’t go to you.”

A shiver runs down his spine at her words, his body is betraying him already, but he hangs onto the last bit of his rationality.

“Y/N, don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t tell the truth?”

“We agreed that we are not talking about it again.”

“I’m not talking about that night. I’m talking about how badly I’ve been wanting you, but knowing I can’t have you I went back to Charlie even though I knew I shouldn’t have.” 

“Y/N…” His mouth is dry and he feels ridiculously hot even though the heating hasn’t been working too well lately in his office. He is clawing at the arms of his chair, trying to keep the remains of his cool, though it feels like he is hanging on a thread.

“I won’t do anything about it, don’t worry. And I won’t bring it up again.” She sounds different this time, the confidence has turned into what feels like disappointment and it lurches something in Harry’s gut. 

Standing she smoothes her clothes before looking at Harry, a tiny sliver of expectancy glistening in her eyes. 

“Thanks for the tea. I better get going.”

She is already moving towards the door when Harry jumps to his feet, entirely lost about what to think, do or say. He strides after her and just when she is about to reach for the knob, he grabs her other hand, stopping her mid action. 

But he has no idea why he just did that. His rationality is screaming at him, but with each passing moment he spends holding her hand, the noise gets farther and farther away until it’s lost somewhere in the back of his mind. 

Slowly, she turns her head, eyes taking in the sight of their touching hands before her gaze meets his. He instantly stumbles back, letting go of her like she was on fire, but she doesn’t seem surprised. Instead, she turns around and just stands there, with a calm, but determined look on her face. 

“Careful professor,” she then speaks up. “I might take your actions as a hint.”

“A hint…” he breathes out, almost mesmerized with her, he is convinced she’s put a spell on him, because he can’t move or think straight, he just keeps staring at her.

“Yes, a hint,” she nods shortly. “That you want me just as much as I want you.”

He swallows down a moan that almost slips through his lips at her words. His whole body is burning for her, palms sweating and itching to touch her and he can almost taste her on his tongue again, desperate to pick up from where they left off not long ago. 

The tiniest smirk tugs on the corners of her mouth when she sees just how much he is struggling and she takes it as her queue to push her luck just a bit further. She takes a step closer to him, but still leaves some space between them, wanting him to close those last inches. 

“You know you can have me.” She cocks her head to the side, blinking up at him innocently. “Right here, on your desk or in that armchair. I want to be your good girl and take whatever you give me.”

“Stop it,” he manages to breathe out, but all his strength is gone, it sounds more like a plea rather than an order. 

“What if I don’t?” she sassily questions. “Will you punish me?”

Harry whimpers. They both know he is close to breaking and she is not stepping down now and she’s determined to push him over the edge. Slowly she reaches up, drags a finger across her lips before moving then down, tugging at her shirt at her chest, revealing more of the exposed skin there, then she starts playing with the top button, all while keeping her eyes focused on him. He sucks on his breath, his gaze keeps switching between her eyes and what her fingers are doing. 

Then it pops open, revealing the delicious swell of her breasts and a bit of the lacy bra as well and he knows he is gone. 

“Close the curtain,” he simply orders and a sudden rush of excitement washes over her as she quickly moves across the room, drawing the curtains on the window and turning around she is expecting him to be in the same spot, but to her surprise he is right there and before she could say a word, his lips crash down on hers with such force she would have fallen back if he didn’t already have an arm around her waist. 

His other hand is quick to find its way to her throat first, then to her jaw, angling her head perfectly so he can devour her. 

He spins them around and she gasps when her ass meets the edge of his desk, still kissing her he pushes forward, blindly tossing everything on the desk aside to make room, something clatters as it falls to the ground but neither of them cares to even look. His hands are on the back of her legs and he helps her up until she is sitting on top of the desk. 

She eagerly opens her thighs and circles her legs around his hips, pulling him closer and when she feels just how hard he already is, pushing against her clothed center, she can’t help but moan at the sensation. 

“It’s a one time thing,” he pants when her fingers start to work on his shirt and his hands find the button of her jeans. 

“Sure,” she breathes out smiling.

“Just to get it out of our system.”

“Of course,” she nods eagerly, and a moment later she is tugging his shirt off his shoulders. 

Buttons come undone, clothes are thrown across the room and soon enough all of his focus is on her naked chest, his hands exploring the tender, heated skin before his head dips down and his mouth meets her hardened nipples. 

“Oh fuck,” she moans, head falling back as she has an arm around his shoulders, the other one planted behind her on the desk. All while his hands are tugging down her jeans, finally giving him the chance to touch her inner thighs, exploring the warmth and softness he’s been fantasizing about for so long. 

He gently bites on one of her nipples, making her back arch, burying his face between her breasts before he leans back to get rid of her jeans. She has a moment to admire his naked torso, all the tattoos he’s been hiding under his clothes, his pants are hanging around his knees and his erection is throbbing through the fabric of his underwear. She can’t help but smile at the sight, it’s surely one she’ll remember forever.

When her jeans are discarded on the floor he plants his hands on her thighs and pushes them wide open, revealing her drenched panties. He brings his thumb over the wet fabric, lazily drags it over her clit, making her tremble under his touch. Then keeping eye contact with her he pulls his chair under him, sits down and rolls closer so his face is perfectly lined up with her. With his eyes still locked on hers, he leans forward, moves her panties to the side and places a sloppy, open mouthed kiss to her throbbing clit, making her moan so loud, he digs his fingers into her thighs pulling back. 

“You need to be quiet,” he warns her and she just eagerly nods, watching him take her underwear off completely and go back to where he was a moment ago. 

Harry drinks up her taste, he licks, kisses and sucks on the right spots, making her see stars as her orgasm is building up. When she feels two of his fingers slip into her she grabs a handful of his hair, tugging on it. 

But right when she is about to tip over the edge he pulls back, leaving her in a heaving mess. Reaching into one of his drawers he grabs a condom and standing up he watches her lying on his desk, chest rapidly rising and falling while he rolls the condom on. 

To his surprise, she gets up and jumps off the desk, taking the initiative by pushing him down back into the chair and straddling his lap. His hands are quick to move to her ass as his cock wedges between her drenched folds. He hisses when she starts rolling her hips, making them both even more feral for what’s about to come. 

She leans forward and kisses him, her hand reaching down between them until it finds his cock. She gives him a few lazy strokes to which he hums lowly into her mouth. Then she stops her kisses, lips still brushing against his, eyes meeting again as she lifts herself up just enough to angle him underneath her and then slowly she eases down, letting him enter her inch by inch until she is filled entirely. She gasps at the feeling of her walls stretching around him and they both stop for a few moments, just savoring how perfectly they fit together. 

She plants both her hands to the base of his neck, kisses him again and starts moving her hips. 

“Fuck, Y/N, you feel so good,” he groans, locking his arms around her, fingers digging into her naked back and side as she starts to slowly pick up her pace, bouncing on him. 

When he starts thrusting upwards, meeting her movements, her head rolls back from how deep she feels him inside her, his tip reaching the perfect spot. 

“Yes, right there!” she gasps as he buries his head in her neck, kissing and sucking on the soft skin while keeping his rhythm. “I’m so close,” she breathes out, her hands raking through his messy hair. 

Wanting even more friction she adjusts herself and then starts moving faster and rougher, aching for the release. She looks down, her eyes meet his gaze and she just knows he is as close as she is. 

“Harry,” she moans and hearing his name fall from her lips is what pushes him over the edge.

Grunting, his thrusts get rougher and fall out of their fast pace, he pushes into her over and over again as he fills the condom and watching him fall apart helps her let go as well. He feels her walls tighten around him while he is still riding out the afterwaves of his own orgasm, her mouth hangs open, nails digging into his shoulders so harshly they surely leave marks. 

Then they both slowly come off their high and she leans forward, capturing his lips in a much softer kiss than the ones they’ve shared just minutes ago. He gladly returns, their lips melt together and his fingers gently roam her naked back while he is still inside her. 

They’re quiet when she moves off him and grabs a few tissues to clean herself up while he discards the condom. The clothes are picked up from the floor one by one and a sense of unsureness settles between them as they both get dressed. 

She was the only thing on his mind just five minutes ago, but now that the sex haze is gone, his thoughts start racing. What did he do? What will happen now? This shouldn’t have happened but still, he wants to do it again and again and again. 

As if she knew he was panicking inside, she steps to him, takes his face in her hands and pulls him into a long, passionate kiss that instantly makes him forget about everything else. 

“Don’t overthink it,” she whispers against his lips. “We’re adults.”

“I’m your teacher,” he hums.

“The semester is almost over. Grade my last paper and we’re done,” she simply says with very little care about his current status. But he is not that sold on it just yet, hesitation and worry is all over his face. “Did you not want it?”

“You know how much I wanted it,” he admits defeatedly. 

“Great. I wanted it too. And I want it again. So I’ll come by tomorrow again. You’ll bend me over that desk after I had your cock in my mouth, then tell me what grade I’m getting for the semester and we do it again after that.”

He is already feeling himself getting hard again. Deep down he knows he should say no, but he has no will left to fight with himself anymore. So all he does is nod and then kiss her. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, professor.” She grabs her coat from the floor and then walks out of his office like nothing happened. 

Harry falls into his chair and assesses the mess on and around his desk, staring at the spot where she was sitting not long ago. He knows he is making his biggest mistake ever, but sinning has never felt this good.

And right now he is willing to take this risk.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[hoshifighting]

the sex ''ick's'' seventeen would give

WARNINGS: it's just for fun, and it doesn't match what the members do out there—so if you don't like, dont read.

seungcheol: his damn ass clapping louder than anything else in the room. like, the rhythm is giving standing ovation, and he’s completely unaware. if you dare mention it, he’ll pretend he didn’t hear.

jeonghan: he’d spend the whole day teasing you, promising he’s gonna ruin you later, only to nut in two minutes flat or tap out ‘cause his arms are tired “ugh, it’s so hot in here,” or “my legs are cramping.”

joshua: crying after nutting. he’s suddenly sniffling, you even got startled on the first time, his body getting REALLY sensitve.

junhui: he’ll mirror your moans, badly. you moan? he mimics it, but it sounds like a parody. like, he thinks he’s harmonizing, but it’s straight-up cringe. you try to ignore it, but he just keeps going.

hoshi: fucking u fully naked, except for his damn stoompas (those ugly-ass luxury brand chunky shoes). “they give me grip,” he’d say, like he’s at a crossfit competition, not blowing your back out. the sight of those big-ass sneakers ruins the vibe every time. (illustrative photos)

wonwoo: absolutely no facial expressions. man could be balls deep in you, and his face is blank, like he’s doing math in his head. but in fact, he's just daydreaming.

woozi: soundtrack enthusiast. he’d insist on playing a playlist he made just for you, but it’s all anime OSTs. like, nothing kills the vibe faster than hearing some intense battle music while he’s thrusting.

minghao: if you’re on top, he’d start giving unsolicited feedback. “tilt your hips a little more—yeah, like that. now, slower.” thinks he’s teaching a masterclass while you’re just trying to survive on his cock.

mingyu: checking himself out mid-thrust. fixing his hair in the mirror. if you call him out with a “are you fucking me or yourself?” he’d blush “n-no, I’m focusing on you!”

seokmin: laughs during the dirtiest parts, like a full belly laugh because he’s nervous or thinks something’s funny. he just goes, “HAHAHA—ah! sorry, I don’t know why I did that.” it’s cute tho...

seungkwan: every little thing is exaggerated—he’s gasping like he’s in a soap opera, grabbing his chest like he’s about to faint. you move slightly? “oh my god, I’m gonna DIE babe!”

vernon: won’t take off his adidas tracksuit. every damn time, it’s on—jacket unzipped, pants pushed down, and he’s acting like this is perfectly normal. while you're getting dizzy almost, from the adidas long lines, and from seeing this tracksuit for the zillionth time this month. [im feeling it too personally bc my dad uses tracksuit's often 😭]

chan: overexplaining everything he’s doing. like, “okay, so now I’m gonna flip you over, and then I’ll go deeper, and—”

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[giuseppe-yuki]

birthday celebration?

normal!max verstappen x billionaire!reader

w.c.: 3.8k

warnings: suggestive material, curse words, danica patrick (?), sassy and jimmy slander (sorry i love them irl i promise)

part of my money, money, money!universe

summary: yesterday was max's birthday. the press wants to know: you guys went all out to celebrate, right?

a/n: so yesterday was actually my birthday 🤭 i tried my best to post this before it hit 12 as a birthday treat for y'all, but it didn't really work out... consider this a late birthday post + max 4 wdc celebration :)

p.s. this is NOT the money, money, money spinoff that i promised- i'm working on that i swear🤞🥲

picture credits from pinterest :)

to say the driveway up to the gala building was crowded was an understatement. if you looked out the window of the very expensive rolls royce you were currently seated in, you could spot at least five rosso corsa ferraris and like, three jet black lamborghinis within a meter from you. to be honest, you had to give props to your private driver, daniil, because there was no way you could have strategically maneuvered the car onto the jam-packed road without causing a rather exorbitant pileup of supercars. next to you, on the plush leather seats, was your boyfriend in his freshly pressed, custom fitted suit that you had your assistant buy just for the event. he sits there politely with his hands folded together, wide blue eyes blinking at you innocently. he looked mighty handsome, and if you weren’t currently sitting in a car with a billion cars, paparazzi, and influential figures right outside, you certainly would have done some not-so-appropriate things to max right then and there.

instead of doing said things and traumatizing your poor private driver, you quickly glance at your phone. 

a bold 5:10 flashes across the screen, in front of your lockscreen of max curled up in bed with jimmy and sassy. 

shit. 

you were scheduled to do some press stuff outside the event around 5:20, and had to be inside by 5:45. if the queue of cars of ahead of you didn’t hurry up, you would probably be late, and it wouldn’t be a good thing if the ceo of redbull herself was late to her own redbull gala. 

max, like the sweet, observant boyfriend that he is, peers down at his own phone, notes the time, then tilts his head at you. 

“do you want to just run up to the entrance?” he asks, pocketing his phone. “i’m sure it’s not too far, and i don’t want you to be late for your pr stuff!” 

that didn’t sound like a bad idea. 

after notifying daniil, you and max slip out of the vehicle, much to the surprise of the people in the cars around you. once you squeeze out of the crowd of exotic cars onto the sidewalk, max takes your hand and bolts his way towards the grandly decorated stairs of the gala in the distance. 

unfortunately, you might have misjudged the distance to the entrance, because you both end up a little moist from sweat by the time your heeled feet reach the red carpet-lined stone stairs that lead up to open double doors- the entrance to the gala. lining the stairs are multiple cameras and interviewers, met-gala style. you are sure these are the pr interviews that your assistant was talking about, judging by the sprinkle of red-bull sponsored athletes chit-chatting to a few press members along the stairs and groups of photographers sending off bright flashes with their high-tech cameras. to your right, a man you recognize as sergio perez nods slowly as his interviewer animatedly gestures to a picture of sergio diving into what looks like a pool with a mexican flag wrapped around him. directly in front of you stands daniel ricciardo posing in different silly positions, much to the delight of the gossip magazine paparazzis that were probably having a field day photographing him. next to you, max ecstatically pulls on your dress and points to your left to the esports content creator, ludwig, who laughs loudly to your left as he banters with an excited looking man with a rather large microphone in hand. you haven’t really looked into ludwig’s content, but you often saw max watching his streams while you were in your online meetings, so if he liked ludwig, you guess you did too. 

you attempt to quickly pull max towards the top of the stairs towards the entrance to the gala in an effort to completely avoid doing your media duties, but you are unfortunately stopped within the next twenty seconds by your own interviewer, a lady in the brightest pink outfit you had ever seen in your life.

“heLLO!” the lady says rather enthusiastically. “danica patrick, reporting for tmz!”

“er, hi!” you respond, a little less enthusiastically. max, half-hidden behind you, gives a light wave to the camera. 

unperturbed, she flashes you both a toothy, unnaturally white smile at you both and places a microphone towards her glossy lips. 

“so, miss redbull ceo! it’s so nice to meet you!” she remarks, “and you look absolutely flawless today!” 

you give her and the camera a tight smile. 

“thank you,” you respond, as if you didn’t have two drops of sweat going down your neck and a slightly dirt-dusted gown from the sprint from your car. 

she nods, and then as if just realizing max’s presence, snatches him out from his half-hidden position behind you. 

“and you!” she exclaims, looking max up and down.  “you must be the boyfriend! max-” she checks her notes- “verstappen! yes, i’ve heard so much about you!” 

your boyfriend blinks at her, nervously twiddling the redbull pin that was pinned to his lapel. 

“okay,” he says after a beat of silence. 

the lady nods, and scribbles something down in her notes as if max had something absolutely life-changing, before turning back to you. 

“so, i’ve received the news that yesterday was max’s birthday,” she proclaims. “and i was just wondering what’d you guys did to celebrate! as a successful ceo, you must have went all out, huh?”

seriously? you think. what of question is this? you get to interview a ceo and this is the best thing you can come up with?

when you hesitate a second before answering, she probes, “rumor has it that you both went to bora bora yesterday...” 

as if it knew that today was your boyfriend’s birthday, the bright rays of the monaco sun shined a golden beam of light straight onto max’s hair, lighting the blondish-brown strands into a little halo around his head. even if it feels like a creep to just stare at his peaceful face, you can’t help but gaze a little too long at his pouty lips, long eyelashes, and light stubble. from the corner of your eye, you can see one of his devilish cats balancing precariously on the bedframe. you clock it as sassy, who you knew, unfortunately from experience, loved to pounce on max’s face in the morning when she was feeling a little hungry. sassy meows at you innocently before proceeding to crouch in a position, ready to pounce. jimmy watches at the end of the bed, doing absolutely nothing as you fight for your life trying to wave sassy away without waking up max. 

like the absolute devil sassy is, she leaps off the bedframe, claws extended, right at max. with your lightning quick reflexes that should earn you a seat in the redbull f1 team that your company sponsors, you snatch the bengal cat out of the air before she gets a chance to maul your boyfriend and send him to the emergency room on his birthday. 

she hisses at you, teeth bared, and you just about catapult her out of the open window next to the bed.

instead, you take a deep breath. you deduce that max probably wouldn’t like to wake up finding out that his cat was a pancake on the streets below his apartment, probably ran over by someone’s ferrari pista. instead, you opt for a less extreme “fuck you,” that you hiss right back at sassy. 

like he sensed someone threatening his baby, your boyfriend shifts around. 

“whadyou say?” max mutters from the pillows behind you.

you whip back to face your boyfriend, simultaneously shoving sassy away from you. 

max rubs his eyes sleepily and uses a hand to block the sun that now shines into his eyes. you try not to stare again at his eyes that light a warm whisky brown in the beams of sunlight that seep through his fingers. it cannot be legal to look this good.

“nothing,” you dismiss. 

leaping forward, you wrap your arms around him in a hug.

a surprised look crosses his face, but he leans into your embrace anyways. 

“do you know what day it is, maxie?” you ask, voice a little muffled from being pressed into the crook of his neck. 

max takes a shockingly long time to respond. 

“um… saturday?” he says slowly.

you give him a weird look. 

“well yes…but it’s also your birthday!” you exclaim.

“oh!” he laughs, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “i totally forgot!”

“no way,” you say incredulously.

“yes way,” max replies, tucking you into his side with an arm around you. 

leave it up to your boyfriend to forget his own birthday. 

“well,” you state after a beat of silence of looking at the popcorn ceiling of his apartment. “good thing we still have, like, sixteen hours left to do whatever you want- and we basically have unlimited budget- so go crazy!” 

“hmm,” he says. 

“anywhere you’d like, really- bali, the hamptons, paris, dubai, maldives, bora bora,” you suggest helpfully. “or all of them?”

max thinks for second. 

“how about monaco?”

you blink confusedly. 

“so… right here?” 

“yeah,” he responds. 

you shrug. 

“sure, that’s fine too!”

deborah, or danica, or whatever her name was, babbles on as you and max stand on the stairs awkwardly.

“an inside source has also relayed to us that you might have bought your boyfriend an abt audi rs6, legacy edition for his birthday- an insanely rare and expensive car which only has 200 made in the entire world! 

an abt-legacy what? you can’t help but think, what the hell was that? 

once you get dolled up with your 12-step get-ready process and max pulls on his usual clothes (white shirt + unfortunate-looking skinny jeans), you both hop in max’s trusty little yellow renault clio rs. of course, like the cat lover he was, max refused to accept any expensive material gifts from you, and instead requested to visit the cat shelter as a birthday “gift.” you guess you would probably have to return the tag heuer watch in your bedside drawer that you had gotten him plus the keys to that yacht that was currently sitting in the monaco bay that you thought he would like. 

max whistles a cheerful tune as he types in the cat shelter address onto his phone’s navigation app as you try your best to think of the best way to approach your assistant and tell him to return the yacht that he might have spent the last week negotiating with some old rich prick to buy. his phone makes a small “ding” and prompts him to back out of the tiny garage underneath his apartment, which he does with surprising ease. the ride to the shelter is pretty smooth, except that tiny part where this dumb guy with an all-black ferrari with a red ‘16’ on the side runs the red light, almost t-bones your boyfriend, and then proceeds to stop diagonally in the middle of the road with the most rancid parking job. 

your boyfriend walks into the cat shelter with you in tow. he passes right past the front desk, waves to the man playing sudoku on his phone, and then proceeds navigates the halls like he’s been there a million times. (actually, he might have) you pass row after row of cats in little kennels that your boyfriend somehow knows the names of, before coming to a stop in front of a young lady filling little formula bottles with milk. she has at least three cats worth of cat fur all over her paw-print sweater.

“max!” she remarks, looking a little too thrilled to see him. “how are you? i haven't seen you since, like, last tuesday!” 

looking to you, her smile drops significantly. 

“oh, and… who is this?” 

“hi, i’m max’s girlfriend,” you articulate, answering her question. you reach your hand out to shake, but she pointedly ignores it. 

“great…” she says fakely. “um, so how may i help you guys?” 

max seems to not notice. instead, he has a wide smile pasted on his face. 

“well, it’s actually my birthday today, and i would like to spread kindness by making a donation to my favorite cat shelter!” he announces. 

ten minutes later, you find yourself signing a check that is made out for the ‘monaco meow manor.’ 

max twiddles his pen around his fingers.

“how much should i put it down as?” he asks, pen hovering above the empty line on the check.

you shrug. 

“i don’t know, it’s your birthday, maxie. you choose.” 

the lady who was obviously into max and the sudoku guy at the front eyes the both of you from their place at the front desk. 

you watch as max writes down a 3300 on the piece of paper. he glances at you quickly. when you raise an eyebrow at him, he turns back and adds two more zeroes at the end. but, then he proceeds to place the commas all wrong. 

“that says 3,300,00, max,” you say, pointing to the obviously misplaced commas. 

“oh,” he says. “i can’t really erase it- it’s pen.”

the lady, whose scowl has disappeared, and the guy, who sudoku puzzle has long been abandoned, whips around after hearing this number, jaws dropped. 

ignoring them, you take the pen from max’s hand. 

“here,” you say, adding another neat zero to the end of max’s blocky numbers so it reads 3,300,000. 

“okay, great, thanks!” your boyfriend says, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

he then turns to the lady and hands her the check. 

“here’s the check. i hope all the kitties in here can all live long healthy lives and get everything they ever need!” 

the two people at the desk look like they are about to pass out. 

the lady clutches at the check with a white-knuckled hand and profusely thanks the pair of you. 

you fight the urge to roll your eyes. oh, now she pays attention to you. 

max, oblivious, beams, before taking your hand and leading you back out to his little yellow car. 

“helping the kitties- check!” he declares. 

you can’t help but smile and pull max into a searing kiss in front of the little cat shelter that was about to become the best-funded feline sanctuary in monaco, and most likely france too. 

you don’t even have a chance to respond to danica’s inquiry about the complicated-sounding car that you supposedly “bought” for max before she rambles on.

“i bet you bought your little boyfriend the most luxurious foods too!” she spouts. “wagyu beef, spaghetti with saffron, caviar- ooh! maybe a glass of moët?”

“i’m not telling youuuuu!” max trills, leaping around the tiny living room of his monaco apartment with his phone held high above his head. 

you don’t know whether to start raging in annoyance from your place on the scraggly carpet or to laugh at your boyfriend twirling on the lumpy sofa, phone screen purposely held away from you. jimmy only aggravates the situation by butting his head directly at your shin. 

“max! is it a crime to want know what we are going to eat for dinner??” you shout, exasperated. 

max somehow does a perfect pirouette off of the sofa (???) and smiles at you. 

“no, but it should be a crime to look so pretty,” he says, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. you try and bat him away, but he is faster. he leaps up, cackling, and bolts away. his apartment isn’t that big, just his kitchen, living room, and his single bedroom, so you take your time hoisting yourself off the carpet. you resist the urge to punt jimmy away from your shin like a football, and instead gingerly step over him before sprinting over to max’s bedroom. 

he awaits behind his bedroom door, and literally tackles you to his bed, pinning you underneath him.

its hard to stay mad at max when he’s giggling like a little kid and looking at you with those impossibly blue eyes that crinkled in the corners while he laughs. 

“i hate you,” you say with no heat. 

“mhm, i’m sure you do,” he says, all the sudden sobering up. he leans his head down and nips at your neck. 

you both know where this always leads. 

max’s white shirt disappears within seconds like the sight of a f1 car by the grandstands, and soon enough, yours does too. 

before you can do anything, though, the doorbell rings. 

your boyfriend pulls off of you, albeit hesitantly. 

“foods here, i guess,” he says, pulling his shirt back on like he wasn’t about to whip off his pants two seconds ago. 

you roll your eyes as max goes to fetch the food while you get presentable again. 

when you pad into the kitchen, you genuinely expect to see the world’s best chef tossing vegetables a meter in the air, considering how secretive max was about the birthday dinner you both were having. 

instead, max sits at the table with a ripped bag that displays a tell-tale green ubereats sticker, along with a few black plastic boxes that takes up half of the table space. 

your boyfriend rips the lids off with a flourish, showing you the contents. 

“my favoriteeeeeeee!” he chirps, gesturing to thin slices of beef carpaccio laid out prettily in the container, fragrant tomato soup in another plastic bowl, and two cupcakes.

it was kind of a weird combination, but hey, if max liked it, you weren’t gonna argue with it. 

you grab utensils for the both of you, and dig in. 

when the dregs of the tomato soup is all that's left in your bowl, the beef carpaccio is reduced to a few stray capers and lemon juice, and the wrapper is all that’s left of the cupcake, you lay back contently in your chair. 

“you know, “ you state, “i could’ve flyed in the best beef carpaccio maker in the world, the best tomato soup chef ever, and like, gordon ramsey for the cupcakes and had them make this for you.”

“eh,” he says, also laying back in his seat, feeling full and happy, “ubereats from the restaurant three blocks down is honestly just as good too.” 

danica was still not done. 

“the parties must have been wild for max's birthday, too!” she raves. “with your influence, i bet all the celebs were there! kim k, rihanna, carlos alcaraz, oprah winfrey, lebron james, johnny depp, billie ellish- shall i go on?

no, you think to yourself. no, you shouldn’t.

feeling content, you flop onto max’s bed. your boyfriend slides onto the mattress next to you, allowing you to snuggle into his soft body. you inhale the smell of his cologne, and a feeling of content drapes over your body like a warm blanket. 

“happy birthday, again, max,” you mutter, voice muffled in his chest. you slowly slide a hand suggestively into his shirt. 

“thanks,” he says. he pauses a moment before getting up, effectively making your hand drop out.  “i think i’d like to play a video game right now.”

“oh,” is all you can think to say. you loved your boyfriend very much, but sometimes he just could not understand context clues. 

“are you sure?” you ask as he sets up his gaming system, loading in f123. “we could do something else…” you trail off slowly, seeing if he could pick up what you were putting down. 

“yeah,” he says, eyes trained on the tv. he scrolls through a bunch of men in racing suits, and you spot a like, two with your company’s sign, big and bold, across their chest. huh, you kind of forgot your company sponsored f1. you squint your eyes at the white lettering displaying their names- sergio perez and daniel ricciardo. they seemed like pretty successful dudes, looking at their stats. max clicks on daniel’s profile, and jumps back onto the bed next to you as the loading screen pops up, still oblivious to your intentions. 

he let him zoom through a track named mug jello or something like that for the better half of an hour before making another move, since it was his birthday, after all. 

“do you want to watch netflix and... chill?” you suggest, nudging max. 

“one second,” he responds, as the stopwatch thing at the side of the screen turns entirely purple. a checkered flag fills the screen, and the guy with the redbull racing suit appears, drinking champagne out of a shoe. “woohoo!” he says, beaming down at you, who has now draped yourself over his lap. “i won!”

you blink at him. how was being in his lap not obvious enough?

“oh, yeah, sure, we can watch a movie.” he says hurriedly, misjudging the seriously? look on your face. 

max gently moves you out of his lap as he changes the tv channels to netflix. 

when he turns back around, you have your shirt off, sitting suggestively on the bed. 

your boyfriend laughs. 

“is it really that hot in the room? i can turn on the ac if you want,” he offers helpfully. 

reaching over, he opens his window, effectively blasting your semi-naked body with a blast of cold monaco wind that frequented the coast at night. you swear to god, if you get sick tomorrow-

you finally give up your attempts after max switches on a film called “crazy rich asians.” you snuggle into him innocently as the movie starts, and honestly, the beginning is kind of good. 

you are right in the middle of the scene where the movie’s main character, rachel, is getting a makeover by her friend, peik lin, and her ridiculous family when you catch max staring at you.

“hey, baby,” he whisper-yells, nudging you. 

“mmm?” you respond, fully intrigued as Rachel tries on dress after dress. 

“do you want to..?” 

you don’t really comprehend what he is saying as you are too focused on an intense emotional scene that pops up on the screen. 

“huh?” you say distractedly.

max’s mouth latches to your neck. 

you manage to tear your eyes away from the screen to realize what max is doing. 

oh.

you notice are still shirtless and your boyfriends hands were now wandering to places that were not so family-friendly. 

damn it, you curse silently, the movie was just getting good!

still, you can’t help to give in to max’s urges.

pretty soon, the screen glazes over in black. a prompt pops up: are you still watching?

the brunette interviewer beams at you and max, awaiting a response. the microphone that she holds is shoved a little too close to your face for comfort. seeing your silent form, her face drops into a scowl.

“no comment?” she sniffs in disdain. 

turning to max, she prods the microphone towards his lips. 

“you?” she snaps.

your boyfriend shrugs.

“all i can say is that my birthday yesterday was simply lovely.”

taglist: @sunny44 @taliya8346282844eliviahdgdajs @xjval @fellowwomenlover @ironmaiden1313

@phobiccneel @comicalivy @amz824 @gloriousartisanpastacroissant @mastermindbaby

[arcenciel-par-une-larme]

Brazenautomaton wrote this (emphases mine) back in September 2020, and to the surprise of absolutely nobody, it still applies word for word because these people (who BTW have the balls to call Trump supporters cultists) have not changed ONE JOT OR TITTLE in their narrative, and they keep giving us ample demonstrations of the Definition Of Insanity again and again:

This isn’t a “purity test”. This is “you guys cannot stop betraying me, you are just as bad as your opponents despite claiming we need to vote for you to keep your opponents from getting power, you do not give a shit about any of the causes you claim to be for, you engage in shitty backroom deals to sabotage the primaries and make sure the one awful candidate you Anointed gets the nomination, you cannot stop betraying me, and I am not going to reward your bad behaviour any more. The only way you might possibly realize you have to stop being terrible and actually do something about the causes you claim to champion, is to stop rewarding you for betraying us. You need to be reminded that a vote is not something you are entitled to, it is something you have to earn. I will vote for the candidate who doesn’t make me want to put a gun in my mouth and if you can’t meet that standard you don’t get my vote.” [...] The party line is now “Okay, the party betrayed us and nominated awful people who won’t do anything we want them to do, but we still have the obligation to vote for them! After we elect these people, then we’ll really hold them accountable and make them do what we want!” And how do they propose to hold politicians accountable when they are committed to always voting for those politicians no matter what? It’s not like “well, okay, next election will be the time to address how they keep betraying us.” Every single election in my entire lifetime, the Democrats have said, whether about the Presidency or lower offices, “Okay, so we know we betrayed you and nominated people you hate and who won’t do the things you want. But you have to vote for them anyway! This particular election is just too important to hold us accountable for betraying you, so much is at stake in this particular election!” You cannot stop bad behaviour by rewarding it. If they don’t earn my vote they don’t get my vote.

Listen to me. Listen to me right now. Two years from now people are going to tell you to vote for Democrats in the midterms. And you're going to shut the fuck up and do it.

[meazalykov]

two worlds collide

emily fox x WNBA!liberty!reader

summary: going on a date with a soccer player, especially an arsenal player, was not what you expected to do during the WNBA break

you sit at the corner table of a cozy restaurant in new york city, your fingers idly tapping against the wooden surface.

the glow of soft yellow lights overhead casts a warm shimmer over the room, glinting off polished silverware and the dark, gleaming wood. 

it’s early evening, just the cusp of sunset, where the streets outside hum with the mingled voices of commuters, tourists, and the occasional street performer.

sabrina had sworn that this was the perfect spot. 

“trust me,” she’d said with a sly grin, eyes glinting with a playful mischief. 

“you two will hit it off.” you remember the way she had nudged your arm weeks ago, barely holding back a laugh when you asked for details.

“wait wait wait– who’s emily? what team does she play on?” you had asked, leaning back in the locker room after practice, beads of sweat still rolling down your neck from drills. 

the name was unfamiliar, and your mind scrolled through every possible wnba roster. nothing.

sabrina had raised an eyebrow, tying back her ponytail. 

“not an emily in the wnba. she’s a soccer girl. arsenal’s defensive player, plays for the uswnt, too.”

your breath had caught in a laugh. 

“an arsenal player? you know i’m a chelsea fan.”

“and yet,” sabrina said, crossing her arms with that knowing smirk, 

“you’ll survive. she’s nice. you’ll see.”

you glance at your phone now, the screen lighting up to show the time: 6:47 p.m. 

emily’s supposed to be here at seven. the soft murmur of voices around you doesn’t distract you from the nervous thrum in your chest. 

on the court, your playstyle might say you’re fearless on the court, storming and crossing up the other team without hesitation, but sitting here waiting for a first date feels like stepping up to the free-throw line with a championship game on the line.

the door opens, letting in a quick gust of cool air that makes your shoulders tense slightly. your eyes shift instinctively, and there she is—emily. 

she’s wearing a dark denim jacket over a white t-shirt, dark brown hair pulled back in a casual ponytail that still somehow looks effortlessly styled. you’re wearing a blue sweater with blue levi jeans, somehow casual. 

emily is scanning the room, eyes bright and clear, until they land on you. she smiles, a small curve that softens her sharp, athletic features, and it’s enough to make your heart skip.

“y/n?” she asks, voice smooth, accented just slightly in a way that tells you she’s been overseas for some time.

“that’s me,” you reply, standing up and offering your hand, which she takes without hesitation.

“nice to finally meet you,” emily says, slipping into the seat across from you. she moves with the ease of someone who’s spent her life in motion.

you both take a moment, the initial rush of introductions settling. you order drinks—her, a classic gin, and you opt for your usual. 

as the server walks away, emily leans forward, resting her elbows on the table.

“so,” she starts, eyes sparkling with curiosity, 

“sabrina tells me you’re a chelsea fan. should i be worried?”

you laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing at the playful jab. 

“don’t worry,” you say, smirking. 

“i won’t hold arsenal against you—at least, not tonight.”

“sounds fair,” she replies, and there’s a moment where you both smile, the warmth between you growing.

the conversation flows easily after that. you share stories about your college days at uconn—the relentless practices, the roar of packed arenas, the thrill of being drafted third overall for the liberty. 

emily’s eyes light up as she tells you about growing up playing soccer until the sun dipped low and her mother would call her home.

“and after some time in north carolina–arsenal came calling since caitlin really wanted me to play with her,” she says, sipping her drink. 

“wasn’t even sure i’d say yes. london felt like another world at first.”

“but you did,” you say, nodding, already picturing her on a pitch, stopping forwards with ease.

“and i did,” emily confirms, eyes catching yours with a look that lingers.

the night stretches on, the restaurant’s bustle slowing as patrons leave, and yet, you barely notice. 

you talk about the upcoming olympics, how emily’s gearing up for it, and she asks if you’ll be watching.

“i’ll be cheering louder than anyone,” you say, meaning every word.

she asks why you weren’t on the basketball team representing the USA in the olympics, you said it was due to an injury scare on your wrist. she understood as a girl who had many injures herself.

by the time the server brings the check, neither of you are in a rush to leave. 

outside, the city’s lights twinkle like a sea of stars, and when you step onto the sidewalk, the air feels cool against your skin.

“thank you for tonight,” emily says, and you catch the faintest hint of nerves in her voice.

you smile, hands slipping into your pockets. 

“anytime.”

“next time,” she says, with a hint of mischief, “don’t wear chelsea blue.”

you look down at your sweater, noting that the blue did match chelsea’s colors. 

“deal,” you laugh, already thinking about when the next time will be.

whenever the american girl comes back from london. 

masterlist

[littlespoonevan]

your hand in my pocket to keep us both warm

post 8x08 because i'm SAD in a way that can only be eased with buddie hurt/comfort 💔 title from abstract (psychopomp) by hozier

-

Buck is the one to drive him to the airport because who else would it be?

It feels a lot like deja vu as he approaches the glass doors of Departures but his step only falters for a moment before Eddie’s hand is catching his sleeve at the elbow and leading him through them. It’s further than Abby ever let him get.

Eddie lets him go as far the security line and he almost looks regretful when he turns to face Buck.

Buck would like to think he’s handled this well so far. He’s been supportive, helped Eddie choose his new home, listened to his fears about his parents, reassured him about Christopher, promised to oversee the shipping of the rest of Eddie’s stuff next week. He’s done everything right.

It hasn’t made any of this feel less wrong.

They look at each other now, awkward in a way they never are, until Eddie drops his bag and pulls him into a hug without saying anything.

Maybe because there’s nothing to say. Buck’s heart has been lodged in his throat since he parked the car; he’s not even sure he could say anything if he wanted to.

Eddie’s arms around him are a familiar weight though so Buck allows himself to sink into them. To tuck his chin into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder and to fist his hands in the back of his jacket like if he holds on tight enough he might be able to convince Eddie to stay.

When Eddie does pull back he makes no attempt to leave the circle of Buck’s arms. Instead one of his hands goes to that same spot at the juncture of Buck’s neck – always the same spot – and when his thumb makes contact with the divot in Buck’s throat he seeks out Buck’s gaze.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Buck croaks, the tell-tale burn behind his eyes becoming more pronounced by the second.

“Like I’m Abby,” Eddie sighs. “Or Ali. Or Tommy. I’m not leaving you, Buck.”

Buck tries to laugh but it comes out too hysterical and Eddie’s hand tightens on his neck.

“I’m leaving,” he allows. “But I’m not leaving you.”

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you,” Buck says, the words wobbling in the middle. His hands are still twisted in Eddie’s jacket.

“And you think I do?” Eddie asks with a half-laugh. “Who am I gonna talk to when my folks are driving me crazy? Who am I gonna talk to when I do anything? Besides, you think Chris will accept you not visiting at least once a month?”

Truthfully, Buck has no idea what Chris wants right now but he clings to Eddie’s words anyway.

“Everyone at work is gonna find me insufferable. It was bad enough that last time you weren’t there.”

Eddie laughs again, thumb brushing Buck’s neck seemingly absentmindedly. “No they won’t. And I’ll be on Facetime so much it’ll be like I never left.”

Buck ducks his head but nods anyway, gathering up the courage to say what he wants to say next. “I know you have to go,” he starts, steeling himself as he makes himself meet Eddie’s gaze. “But please don’t go forever.”

Eddie’s expression blanks, his mouth parting over nothing. Buck can only stare back, hoping that just this once it might be different. That he won’t get a, ‘Take care of yourself, Buck,’ and a hand to the cheek before the person in front of him disappears forever.

Eddie doesn’t touch his cheek. Instead he presses their foreheads together hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make Buck’s breath catch and rush out of him on a shaky exhale.

“I won’t. I promise,” Eddie breathes and his hand moves from Buck’s neck to the back of Buck’s head and Buck can’t help wondering for a moment what would happen if he closed the distance between them. If Eddie would kiss him back.

It’s not a thought he’s ever entertained before but he’s thinking it now and it feels…like it makes sense. Like an inevitability.

And what a time to have a realisation like that.

Eddie leans back then and Buck forces himself to unclench his hands, attempting to smooth out the back of Eddie’s jacket with trembling hands.

“You should go,” he says because Eddie won’t.

Eddie nods faintly in agreement and it looks like it takes every ounce of effort for him to take a step back. Buck picks up his bag for him, offers it to him, and tries for a weak smile so Eddie will know it’s okay. That he can go and Buck won’t cause a scene.

“I’ll call you as soon as I get to my parents place.”

Buck nods. “Give Chris a hug for me.”

“I will.”

Eddie starts looking towards the security line again and Buck blurts out, “Tell him I love him.”

Eddie looks back to him, a devastating smile of understanding on his face. “He knows already. But I will.”

Buck nods again and then there’s nothing left to say. Eddie turns to go and Buck does the same because he can’t watch until he’s out of sight. It hurts too much already and he can barely hold his tears back as it is.

He doesn’t need to watch himself get left behind again.

~

He’s just unlocking his car when his phone rings. He doesn’t check who it is as he climbs in, just shoves the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he reaches for his seatbelt.

“Keep me company while I wait for my flight?”

He straightens so quickly the phone almost falls into his lap but he catches it just in time. And he tries to laugh but he thinks it might come out more like a sob. “Keep me company on the drive home?”

“Always,” Eddie says like they’re driving home from work after a long shift.

Buck switches his phone to speaker mode and looks down at the keys in his hand, at the keys to the loft, Maddie’s place and Eddie’s house respectively, considering his options before turning on the ignition.

“So there’s the guy at the gate-“ Eddie starts and Buck lets the sound of his voice wash over him. Allows himself just one singular moment where he closes his eyes and holds his hand to his chest before he pulls himself together and drives out of his space.

Eddie is offering him a play by play of the guy at the gate who’s insisting his luggage is not chirping and Buck gets his breath back enough to make a quip about how that made it through the security scanner.

When he reaches the freeway it takes hardly any thought at all for him to take the exit that’ll get him to the Diaz house fastest.

He’s going home after all.

~

[letorip]

aline

“et j'ai crié, crié "aline!" pour qu'elle revienne, et j'ai pleuré, pleuré, oh j'avais trop de peine”

===+++===

pairing: wednesday addams x reader

summary: sometimes you’d talk about dying to wednesday, though it was something an addams couldn’t ever really fear. that was, until the person being lost was you.

warnings: erm you die lol, major character death, wednesday being sad, mentions of blood, self sacrifice, maybe a little contrived way to die but too bad

word count: 1.6k

A/N: i promise im okay but this was truly an interesting plot line to follow, and i couldn’t bear not writing it down. if it made you sad, don’t worry, because i have more fluffy stuff on the way. it was something short i had considered doing for a long time, so even if this flops i'm completely happy with how it came out.

===+++===

===+++===

"Wednesday?" you asked, eyes on the wooden ceiling of her room. From the way her head rests against the warm plane of your chest, she can feel the smooth skin move as you say her name, heart right under her ear. It nearly lulls her to sleep, had it not been a question.

"Yes?" she purrs, lazily propping herself up on her arm. There are heavy weights on her eyelids, but the line of your mouth tells her something is troubling you. You’re too saturnine, much too glum for what you and Wednesday just did, and her eyes soften imperceptibly, her thumb going to your side to quietly stroke itself back and forth there. “What’s plaguing you?”

You can’t help but shudder at the contact of her hand and the goosebumps the pads of her fingers leave in their wake. “Are you... do you...," you attempt, the question falling flat on your tongue. She furrows her eyebrows at your hesitation.

"Say your thoughts,” she says, forehead creased in concern. It's almost funny, how caring and soft she is, now that she's given up on trying to seem aloof and apathetic towards you, her skin warm against your own.

The Addams Curse to love someone with every fibre of their being had taken hold of Wednesday entirely, and she looked at you sometimes like you held her beating heart in your hands, or at least like she'd cut it out for you, if you were to need it. She raises a hand, gently brushing a few hairs from your forehead.

“Are you afraid of dying?”

Her eyebrows furrow even further, scanning your face for any indicators of harm. “Where is this coming from? Has something been done to you?”

But you shrug, finally looking down to look her in the eyes with softness. “I was just wondering… are you?”

She narrows her eyes. “You know I’m an Addams. Death is a friend, not a foe. Fear of that serves no purpose. Only cowardice from facing a fight. Only to make you weak.”

Your eyes flit away. “Hm.” There’s no hiding of disagreement in your tone, and it has an embarrassing amount of power over her, how she itches to know what goes on in that head of yours.

“What?”

“I think… I think my fear is what makes me strong. I’m afraid of losing those I care about. And so I fight with every bit of sweat, blood, and tears that I have. Your loss is my deepest fear, Wednesday. My deepest.”

She stared at you momentarily, then looked out the window to the stars. “How is one to fear death when it is far from the end? Death may take me from your sight, but it cannot take me from your heart. There I live, vibrant and whole. Forever.”

===+++===

You’d never even realised how much blood the human body could actually hold, until you were standing there in the centre of the quad with an arrow straight right below your heart, its steel tip poking from your back. Your own blood coated your hands where you cupped it, dribbling down the splintered wood and splattering in droplets to the cobblestone in thick, dark red splotches.

The blood— your blood— is coming out even more now, and you turn to look at Wednesday, where you had shoved her out of harm’s way. Her eyes are wide in horror, like she's seeing something straight from a nightmare of hers, and you take a clammy step towards her, frigid and burning at the same time.

“Wens—” you stammer, and suddenly your knees are giving out. She rushes forward, trying to catch you in her arms, but you're too heavy, deadweight that tugs on her. You fall onto them, your knees, clutching at the newly opened maw of your chest with a gasp, and before you know it you’re falling forward towards the floor.

Wednesday follows you down, catching you before you can land, and she holds you tight, turning you over onto your back as the arrow sticks straight up from the heart she cherishes so much. The wood is already splintering, nearly falling apart, and her hand goes to your wound as if trying to put your blood back into your body.

It’s uncomfortable, with the metal tip of Xavier’s arrow sticking from the back of your chest and lightly prodding at her front, but she squeezes you tightly against herself, hands frantically travelling the length of your torso and raking over your arms, anywhere she can reach. But there’s nothing she can do. It’s a thought she refuses to confront, but Wednesday specialised in dealing with dead things; she was unfamiliar with how to keep things alive, no matter how much she needed you to stay that way.

Crackstone is cackling from his belly, a toothy sneer spreading itself out onto his leathery face as he looks at the damage he’s done, stomping towards you. “Hey!” Bianca yells from the opposite door, and the pilgrim whips around, as Xavier takes another shot at him. It lands in the pilgrim’s arm but he pulls it out like a twig, snapping it and tossing it to the ground, before he makes his way towards Bianca.

Your white shirt is completely soaking itself in your blood, droplets running down Wednesday’s fingers where she tries to hold the wound and apply pressure. But there was no saving a skewered heart.

"No, no, no," she coos, voice barely above a whisper and tears already pricking at the corners of her eyes. You're crying out in pain as the arrow shifts within you, fingers scrabbling at Wednesday's arms where they hold at you. Your fingernails sink into her skin, and she winces but doesn't pull away.

"Wens," you say again, infinitely weaker than before. "Wednesday…” It’s like your mouth won’t move coherently with your brain, like words mean trudging through ice and slush to come out, even the red-hot ones you need to say. “H—Hurts,” you spit out, and with it comes a small stream of blood from your mouth as you cough and air becomes less and less available.

She nods in a rush, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. “I’m aware, I know,” she’s completely crying now. “We will get you care, cara mia, just hol— just hold on for a little while.” But you’re shaking your head.

“Don’t have— I don’t have—” you’re coughing up more blood, and she wipes it from your chin with a shaky hand. There’s just too much of it, everywhere. You had once gifted her some as a token of your devotion and it was a prized possession of hers, but now there was so much and she would have given it back in a heartbeat if it gave you any more of those.

She can vaguely hear Bianca and Xavier yelling on the other side of the quad, and various fires rage on in their chaotic yet vibrant corners, tickling against her skin in large crackles, burning in the reflection of your eyes that stare up at the sky. Your head is leaning against her shoulder, and she raises her hand, stroking through your soft hair as you heave in her arms.

“You must live, I promise you,” Wednesday insists fiercely, “I promise you, if you die right now, I will kill you.” But its tears that streak down her face, her jaw clenching and dark eyeliner running down her cheeks. She’s squeezing you right against herself, feeling the pain of the sharp arrow poke at her own skin.

“Vibrant and wh—whole?” you said with a smile, feeling your voice begin to slow down and with it, the beating of your heart. The blood has pooled in a sick puddle around your body.

She’s shaking her head. “Cara mia, we don’t need to do this, we will get you to a doctor. You will be—”

“—Wednesday,” you interrupt. Your voice has reached an eerie calm that sends a shiver down her spine, and it snaps her from any sort of hope. “Vibrant… and whole?”

She looks down at you for a moment, tracing the features of your nose, the planes of your cheeks, the colours of your eyes and the wryness of your smile. Wednesday swallows. “Forever. You know that. You must always know that.”

You nod, letting out a small laugh. It hurts, she can hear you wheeze right after you done it, but you sit in silence for a moment, and she can feel you get slower and slower, and your shirt gets redder and redder. The tears are uncontrollable, now, as she sits there with you. Her friends are losing in the corner, but she's losing something unthinkable, and she's so damn scared the entire time it's happening.

"The stars look beautiful tonight," you whisper so only she can hear it, your voice cracking at the end. In seconds, you're gone. She can feel the life, the glorious life, evaporate from you, your head lulling back against her and your weight becoming a hundred times heavier, but she doesn't move, squeezing you against her.

She's unsure how long she stays like that, but when she can no longer take it, she shifts, laying you down on the ground. You look peaceful, looking up at the stars, and it takes an effort to close your eyes that Wednesday had never felt with the dead before. She gently closes them, shutting the door on the eyes that used to captivate her very heart. It's almost like she could convince herself that you're only resting for a moment, and she leans over you, placing a meaningful kiss upon your forehead, just like she would when she snuck out after a night of sleeping over, and there were no prying eyes there to watch.

"Vibrant and whole," she whispers like a promise, turning back to the fight with a piece of the sword in her shaking fists. "For you, cara mia."

===+++===

well that was sad... anyways more happy stuff coming next time

[idol-fan-eve]

1 out 1,000 babies can be born with one kidney. That is a 0.001% chance of that happening.

about 2 to3 % of Americans have scoliosis

I have both of these and I didn’t find out about having one kidney until I was 14 after a trip to the hospital with really bad gas in my stomach.

I also have a family line of thyroid problems on my mother side

both side of family has a history of cancer

had terrible period cramps only to find out at 18 that I had higher testosterone and estrogen, meaning I had PCOS

had an extra 3rd canine tooth in my mouth so I needed to lose my secound one in order for that to grow in

I swallowed a quarter once when I was a child and went to the hospital to make sure nothing got stuck

One year I got sick every month for god knows what reason

I had a migraine for the first time in my last year of high and didn’t go away for an entire day and pretty much Ed put me out of commission and just get the bad headaches on the side of my head sometimes

A few months ago, I went to the hospital again to be diagnosed with upper respiratory infection, causing me to stay home for the rest of the week since I work with kids and didn’t want them to get sick and am now using an inhaler whenever I get bad chest pain from that thing

and I’m addicted to nasal spray, but I can’t stop because I can’t spend days stugglijg to breath through my nose.

Don’t know who to tag in this so I’ll pick someone that I follow

@callilemon no pressure tags

it's so weird to me that everyone on this website is a human person outside of their weird internet niche so rb this with a random bit of your lore

[goldfades]

CINDERELLA───JOE BURROW

request: "Reader is going out with girlies and dressed sexy that joe almost got mad at reader cuz he doesn’t want reader going out with that dress and suddenly obsessed with boobies and told reader they cant breath in that dress" for @crispppykreme

The dress wasn’t new, but it might as well have been, given how long it had languished at the back of your closet. A slinky little thing, sleek black with a neckline that danced on the edge of scandal and just enough shimmer to catch the light in all the right places. It was the kind of dress that didn’t just suggest confidence—it demanded it.

You were proud of how you looked, admiring yourself in the full-length mirror, twisting slightly to check every angle. The effort had paid off: hair done, makeup sharp, heels that made your legs look miles long. Tonight was about the girlies, a rare night out that wasn’t dinner and wine but cocktails and dancing, the kind of carefree, late-night escapades you hadn’t had in months.

Joe had been fine about it earlier, or at least you thought he had. There was an absentminded “Have fun, baby,” thrown your way when you’d mentioned your plans this morning. But now, as his eyes scanned you from head to toe like he was taking inventory, you could feel the tension radiating off him from across the room.

“You’re really wearing that?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an edge that made you freeze mid-reach for your clutch. You turned slowly, eyebrow raised, trying to read the expression on his face.

“Uh, yeah? What’s wrong with it?” You kept your tone light, playful, even though the way he was looking at you made your skin prickle. Joe wasn’t one to throw around his opinions about your outfits, and honestly, you appreciated that about him. He knew you had your own style, your own vibe. But tonight? Something about tonight had apparently made him forget that.

He stepped closer, his hand running down his face as he let out a slow, deliberate sigh. “It’s not that it’s bad. It’s just…” His gaze dropped to your chest, and he gestured vaguely in that direction. “That dress. I mean, are you sure it’s comfortable? They—uh, you—don’t look like you can even breathe in it.”

For a second, you just blinked at him, your brain scrambling to catch up. Then it hit you, and the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself.

“Oh,” you said, the teasing lilt unmistakable. “That’s what this is about.”

Joe crossed his arms, clearly trying to play it cool, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “I’m just saying. It’s kind of… tight, don’t you think?”

You couldn't stop the grin spreading across your face, even as Joe tried—and failed—to keep his cool. He was too easy to read, the faint crease between his brows giving him away completely.

“Oh, come on,” you teased, grabbing your clutch and turning back toward the mirror. “You’ve seen me wear tighter.”

“That’s not the point,” he shot back, his voice firmer now, enough to make you glance at him in the mirror. He was standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe like some kind of judgmental Greek statue, all broad shoulders and furrowed brows.

“Then what is the point, Joe?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because I’m getting the vibe that it’s not about how tight this dress is.”

He huffed, running a hand through his hair in that way he always did when he was trying to sort through his words. “The point is,” he said slowly, “you’re going out looking like… like that. And I know exactly how guys are gonna act when they see you.”

You turned around now, giving him your full attention. “Guys? Plural? Is that what this is about?”

“It’s not about guys,” he said quickly, but the words came out too rushed, too defensive. He shifted his weight, unfolding his arms, clearly trying to walk the line between annoyed and reasonable. “It’s about… I don’t know. I just don’t want anyone thinking they can look at you like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, stepping closer, biting back a laugh as you pressed your palm to his chest. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your hand, but you could feel the tension in him.

“Like… like you’re up for grabs or something.” His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted away from yours, like saying it out loud embarrassed him.

You blinked, genuinely taken aback for a moment. “Joey,” you said, softening your tone, “you realize that’s not how this works, right? Just because I look good doesn’t mean I’m inviting attention. And even if someone does look—so what? I’m coming home to you.”

His eyes flicked back to yours at that, softening slightly, but his lips pressed into a stubborn line. “Yeah, but you’re mine,” he muttered, the words barely audible but so pointed they hung heavy in the air.

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing. “Yours?” you repeated, shaking your head in disbelief. “What, are you going to put a sticker on me that says ‘Property of Joe Burrow’?”

He groaned, his hand raking through his hair again. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Do I?” you shot back, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “Because it kinda sounds like you’re saying I can’t wear what I want unless it gets your approval.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all!” he said quickly, but the way his ears were turning pink made you think he was second-guessing himself.

“Then what?” you asked, crossing your arms now, mirroring his earlier stance. “Because, if you think I’m changing out of this dress just because it makes you nervous, you’ve got another thing coming.”

He stared at you for a moment, his jaw working, clearly torn between frustration and surrender. “It’s not nervous,” he mumbled finally. “It’s just… look, you’re too damn sexy, okay? There. I said it. And I'm not there to make sure nobody thinks they can have you.”

You raised an eyebrow, your grin growing wider. “Ohhh, I see,” you said, dragging out the words. “So, this isn’t about the dress at all. It’s about you being jealous.”

His face scrunched like he wanted to deny it, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he settled for muttering, “I’m not jealous.”

“Right,” you said, stepping closer to him again. “Because you’re totally fine with me going out looking like a ‘damn goddess,’ as I’m sure some guy at the bar is going to say.”

Joe groaned again, tipping his head back against the doorframe. “Do you have to do this?”

“Yes,” you said brightly, standing on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Because it’s fun watching you squirm.”

He sighed, his hands finally coming to rest on your hips, pulling you in closer. “I’m serious, though,” he said, his voice lower now, quieter. “You look amazing. Too amazing. And I trust you—I do—but that doesn’t mean I trust every drunk guy who’s gonna see you tonight.”

“I can handle drunk guys,” you said softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “And besides, you know I’d never let anyone get too close.”

“I know,” he admitted, resting his forehead against yours. “I just hate the idea of someone thinking they even have a chance.”

“Well, they don’t,” you said simply, smiling up at him. “You’re the only one who gets to peel me out of this dress later.”

His lips twitched into a smirk at that, and you could feel some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah, you’re damn right I am.”

You grinned, giving him another quick peck on the lips before stepping back. “Now, are you done being dramatic, or do I need to remind you that this is my night out?”

He sighed, letting his arms drop but not stepping back. “Fine,” he said, though his tone still had a hint of reluctance. “But if you’re not home by midnight, I’m calling.”

You laughed, grabbing your Chanel clutch and heading for the door. “Sure, Cinderella. Whatever you say.”

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