#I think I'm about to rewatch it for the third time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hiraiologist · 23 days ago

Text

i don't know why i like you (but i do)

minatozaki sana x f!reader

8.7k words

synopsis: maybe there’s a reason they tell you not to mix business with pleasure. but with a coworker like minatozaki sana, you can’t find it in yourself to care.

tags/warnings: set very loosely in tdoong ent universe/office setting, smut (cunnilingus, fingering, begging, restraints), fluff, super super mild angst like its so brief it barely counts as angst, miscommunication, not actually unrequited feelings, lowkey switch!sana, coworkers with benefits to friends with benefits to lovers

a/n: i’ve been rewatching TTT quite a bit and tdoong ent office worker sana is too cute. i combined her character here with sha rich bc i'm a sucker for her ngl like okayyy shes serving high femme realness….. anyway this is not my best & i lowkey hate it SAWRY but i just wanted write Anything to get myself back into the groove again :p i'm trying to find motivation to finish some other works too!! next up is gonna be either a short halloween thing for momo (if i finish it in time) orrr what ive been working on for tzuyu ^-^ title from i don’t know why i like you but i do by the wombats.

you don’t know your newest coworker, minatozaki sana—not really. but there are a few things about her that you’ve started to learn.

for one, she is one of the loudest people in the entire office. it doesn’t bother you—after all, your close circle of friends includes plenty of other loud people from the office, like nayeon and jihyo and momo—and it normally wouldn’t even cross your radar. and yet, every time you hear sana’s high pitched giggle from across the room, you can’t help but lift your head from behind your computer.

another thing you’ve learned is that she is, to put it plainly, a brat. the second she showed up at the office bragging about how her father owns the company, always reminding you that it’s her family name controlling your future, you knew this about her. she’s spoiled, privileged, pretentious, condescending, lazy, richer than anyone should be allowed to be—

nearly a month after sana’s first day, you’d grumpily proclaimed to some of your coworkers that sana was the most irritating person you’d ever met in your life.

chaeyoung told you that you were being unreasonable and you should just talk to sana. tzuyu told you that you were being insufferable and you needed to get laid.

naturally, you’d decided to kill two birds with one stone.

two months after sana joined the company—her father’s company, as she always reminds everyone—you found yourself in her massive apartment, her pink lips hot and wet against your throat as her hands fumbled with your top. “this is pretty,” she’d said when she greeted you at the door, fingers playing with the fabric.

not ten minutes later, that same top was thrown carelessly on her bedroom floor, followed immediately by sana’s prada skirt.

which brings you to now, in sana’s enormous bedroom, where there is a third thing you’ve learned about minatozaki sana: she’s the most attractive person you’ve ever seen.

maybe you already knew that.

but you don’t have time to think about anything beyond that before plush lips brush against your collarbone, and you let your mind go blank as her mouth moves down, down, down—

maybe minatozaki sana has learned a few things about you, too.

the two of you make a habit of late-night meetings at her apartment.

it’s nice. the sex is incredible—mind-blowing, actually, you must admit—and you learn a fourth thing about sana, which is that she’s actually not nearly as annoying as you once believed. at the office, sana’s rambling has become less migraine-inducing commotion and more mildly tolerable background noise. you almost listen for it now, actually, just to know she’s around—not that you’d let any of your coworkers know.

because when your whole arrangement starts, you ask sana if she could keep things on the low, giving a sheepish explanation about not wanting your nosy coworkers to ask questions. you tell her you want this to be a no-strings-attached situation, just casual sex between two people who happen to be coworkers, and you don’t want anyone else knowing about it. sana agrees easily, giggling about how quickly it had gotten around the office that one of the interns had a crush on your department manager mina, and, to your relief, you figure that’s probably the end of that discussion.

you take it a little too seriously, maybe. truthfully, you sort of ignore her. at work, you both operate directly under dahyun, though you work with everyone on coordinated projects—“work” being a loose term; sana never does anything she’s supposed to do, mostly spending her days just chatting with whoever’s willing to engage in a conversation or be distracted for more than two minutes (typically momo—though chaeyoung, nayeon, and jeongyeon are common targets too) or watching an absurd amount of youtube videos whenever she’s meant to be doing something useful. regardless, you act like there’s nothing between the two of you; you don’t acknowledge her unless it’s absolutely necessary and only exchange words about work-related topics. everyone else constantly talks to her or invites her to hang out, but you attempt to keep your contact to a minimum. whenever you join the girls for a drink after work, if sana shows up, you find an excuse to leave as quickly as you can. if sana’s already in the cafeteria, you find a place at another table on the other side of the room (even if you’d really wanted to sit where momo and chaeyoung are chatting animatedly across from sana). you try as hard as possible to ensure that there’s minimal interaction between the two of you when you’re in public.

but sometimes, sana stares at you a bit too long when she’s standing by the printer, or she greets you a little too comfortably when she bumbles towards her desk in the morning. you don’t necessarily say anything to discourage her, but you think about it—especially when momo smirks knowingly at you as you watch sana bend over to pick up a stack of papers she’d clumsily dropped—when nayeon glances meaningfully at you for half a second as sana starts to whine and complain at lunch about being single and bored—when jihyo approaches you on your birthday and gifts you two tickets to a concert for an artist you’d shown to sana (while wrapped around each other under her sheets) but never mentioned to anyone else before.

whenever they ask, you say to your coworkers that you barely know sana. it’s sort of a lie, but sort of a truth, too.

“maybe you’d know her more if you weren’t always avoiding her,” jeongyeon says one night while you’re grabbing some drinks from the bar together. “i think you’re being dramatic. sana is perfectly sweet, really. i don’t know why you run away every time she looks at you.”

you shake your head. “i’m not avoiding her. but i don’t have to be friends with everyone in the office.”

“well, i think she wants to be friends with you,” jeongyeon responds casually. “just talk to her. i have a feeling you two would get along really well.”

“you know, you should try minding your own business.” you ignore jeongyeon’s eye roll. “whatever. if she wants to be friends with me, maybe she should be more obvious about it.”

if you think too long about being friends with sana—or just about sana—your heart starts to beat a little faster in your chest.

you don’t know minatozaki sana, not really. but you can’t help but think you’d really like to.

about a month after your first night together, sana starts sending you random photos and videos—cute animals, most of the time, or just simple things—usually followed by a short message. this reminded me of you! hehe, she types. you typically respond with emojis—the smiley with the halo usually, or a butterfly sometimes—always non-committal and vague, just enough to let her know you’ve seen her messages. sometimes you send a couple words—so cute!! you say. your texts aren’t long or particularly engaging—still, the frequency of her messages never decreases. there’s a fifth thing you learn about sana: she’s addicted to texting. you don’t know if you prefer that or not.

it’s at this point that you stop putting in so much effort to avoid her. if she happens to sit next to you at lunch, you don’t look at her, but you don’t get up and leave anymore either. whenever she greets you in the morning, instead of responding with silence, you give her a small nod. you let her sit with you any time you meet the girls for drinks, staying the entire time without giving an excuse to go home.

when dahyun asks if you’re friends with sana now, you shrug. “i don’t know. not really? still just coworkers.”

the words feel wrong, taste acrid in your mouth. but they’re also half true, because you’re not friends—not really.

after all, you barely know five things about her.

sometimes, when you have sex with sana, it’s a game. sana says or red light green light, maybe. tonight is one of those nights—lie down, sana says, so you comply. no touching, sana says, so you nod. you’re lying on the bed, wrists and ankles restrained, gaze following sana as she struts towards you, a dangerous glint in her dark eyes. the cool air of the room has you shivering lightly, although it might just be from the hungry look sana’s sending you, lips curled into a proud smirk as she watches you tug a little at your cuffs. she’s spent the last hour teasing you, touching you everywhere except where you hopelessly crave, working you up until you’re dizzy with lust.

“please, sana,” you whine softly. “i need you.” you watch as she crawls towards you on the bed, stops at your chest.

and here’s one more thing you’ve come to learn about sana—sana likes it like this: when she’s in complete and total control, with you begging for her permission for everything. she delights in the way your voice cracks and breaks, too consumed with desire to be embarrassed at your desperation soaking the bed sheets.

“need me how?” she tilts her head teasingly, glancing at your glistening slit and grinning. “use your words.”

“need your fingers,” you whimper. “need you inside me, please.” you yank at the cuffs around your wrists again, impatient. sana hums and leans down to capture your lips in a deep kiss, her tongue moving against your own.

“cute. ask properly,” sana murmurs against your lips, “and maybe i’ll give you what you want.” her mouth moves down to your collarbone and you can feel yourself dripping onto the sheets as she sucks a hickey there.

shuddering, you manage to croak out, “will you please fuck me with your fingers? please, i need you so bad, sana.” she lets out a satisfied chuckle and brushes her lips against yours again, nipping at your bottom lip. a second later, she runs two fingers along your entrance, gathering your wetness before pushing one finger inside. you moan in delight as she begins to pump in and out. “will you add another, please sana?”

“my good girl,” she purrs, “asking so politely.” she crooks another finger inside you and starts to fuck you deeper, faster. you moan louder, gasp and whine when she curls her fingers into your g-spot, struggle against your cuffs as pleasure spreads throughout your body. sana snickers smugly, lowers her head to your chest, wraps her lips around your sensitive nipple. her teeth graze lightly against the peak. “does it feel good, baby?” she uses her thumb to rub at your clit—she’d teased too much, and now you’re positively overwhelmed with desire at every touch.

you try to answer, you do—your mouth opens, but all that slips out are more moans. sana doesn’t berate you this time, just giggles and continues to draw you closer and closer to the edge, fingers moving deep inside you, eventually moving to tease her tongue against your other nipple.

it’s not long before you’re tearfully confessing, “sana, fuck, i’m so close. please, i’m gonna cum.” she circles your clit more intensely then, and you gasp. “sana!” she nips playfully at your breast before letting go and looking down at you.

“what do you say, baby?” her dark eyes bore into your own and you whimper knowingly.

“can i cum, please?” you beg, breath catching in your throat as you watch sana bite her lip, fingers still pumping inside you. you have only moments before you might just explode. tonight she has mercy on you, gives you what you want without a fight.

“cum for me.”

at her soft command, you cum instantly on her fingers, sana moaning at the feeling and fucking you through your orgasm. “oh, fuck, i—fuck, sana,” you cry out, twitching, pulling at your restraints, tears leaking from your eyes as you finally come down from your high and settle into the bed with an exhale. sana slips her fingers out, kisses you tenderly.

there’s a brief moment where both of you just lie there, breathing heavily. you close your eyes, feel her press a kiss against your jaw, hum at the gesture. then she’s moving once more, spreading your legs, kissing along your thighs, biting playfully at the soft flesh there before you feel her warm tongue licking into your slit, lips wrapping around your clit and—

sana uses her tongue to lick up all your cum, looks up at you with lust-filled eyes. she sucks at your bud, fucks into you with her tongue. “sana,” you moan wantonly. you’re still not really recovered from your first orgasm, but that doesn’t deter sana, and you don’t tell her to stop. she suddenly fills you with two fingers again and you whimper as she picks up the speed, mouth moving to your clit once more. the suction is incredible. “oh fuck, yes, sana, just like that.” you grind down against her mouth subconsciously.

she angles her fingers like she had before, presses into your g-spot, flicks her tongue against your clit. “you taste good,” she mumbles before taking your clit into her mouth again. you let out a low groan in response, unable to form words—all you can focus on is sana, her mouth and fingers bringing you closer to your peak with every thrust, every lick, every movement.

she lets you cum two more times that night before she’s undoing your restraints, her own juices sticky on your thigh, then using a damp towel to clean you, offering you water and sweet kisses as she checks in on you.

“as always, you were so good for me tonight,” sana praises you with a bright grin as you sip at your water, your eyes half closed. her fingers trail lightly over the hickeys she’d marked along your thighs, breasts, chest. so maybe that’s another thing you’ve learned about sana—she has somewhat of a possessive streak. “so perfect.”

hours later, as sana sleeps next to you, you watch her chest rising and falling evenly, peacefully, before you collect your things and glance at her one last time, slipping out of her apartment with your stomach filled with butterflies.

it’s going on three months since you’d first slept with sana—and something shifts.

she starts messaging you things that both makes your heart flutter and your stomach flip—things like this is so us underneath a video of two dogs cuddling—a picture of her having a small picnic by the river followed by the words wish you were here.

half the time she doesn’t even add pictures or videos to her messages anymore—i miss you baby, she sends. or just good morning! with some variant of heart emojis. sometimes you get something a little more lengthy—watching the drama you mentioned the other day. have you seen the latest episode? maybe we can watch it together!

you think this means you’re probably actually friends now. the thought makes you grin.

eventually, sana begins leaving little gifts at your desk: your favorite iced coffee, packets of gummies, even a delicate—and expensive—necklace.

you hide the necklace underneath your shirt when mina pulls you aside to gently remind you about the company policy for disclosing personal relationships between employees. you insist you have nothing to say and look away with red cheeks when mina’s eyes drift towards sana’s desk.

it burns against your chest when you wear it, but you can’t bring yourself to take it off, either.

a month passes by, sana’s present never leaving your neck. you meet chaeyoung for coffee one morning over the weekend.

“i’ve been meaning to tell you, but i like your necklace,” she remarks, her thin fingers gesturing towards said piece of jewelry. “it’s really pretty. where’d you get it?”

you fight off a blush. “thanks. uh, someone gave it to me as a gift.”

“someone?” chaeyoung looks at you and notices the pink dusting your cheeks, her eyebrows shooting up. “hold on. you mean like a special someone?” she looks at your necklace then at you again, curious.

“well…” you look away awkwardly for a moment. “i don't know.”

“you've worn it every day for a few weeks now,” she points out. “must be someone at least a little special for you to wear that so often, yeah?”

a small frown starts to form on your lips. “maybe i just really like the necklace.”

chaeyoung hums. “maybe. it does look like something you’d pick out yourself.” she glances appreciatively at it once more before a mischievous grin tugs at her mouth. “but i know you. you like the necklace, sure, but you like the fact that it came from”—she pauses like she’s about to say a name—“this person more.”

and, well. she might have a point.

you’ve learned a few more things about sana over the past few months—like that she tries really hard to do things for you before you even consider asking for them, says things that make you melt and smile softly, giggles at even your worst jokes and talks to you when you’re lonely or upset. it’s all very sweet. sana is sweet. truthfully, you do like knowing she spent time picking out a necklace she thought you might like. the mental image of sana browsing through multiple shops with a cute little pout on her face until she finds the perfect gift for you makes you want to grin like an idiot.

you like sana. a lot, you realize.

but you’re not sure where she stands, because you’ve seen her gift mina and momo things before too. maybe it doesn’t mean anything special to her. that’s something you haven’t learned about her. so you simply scoff and shove chaeyoung in the shoulder, hiding your scowl in your cup of coffee, ignoring the way your heartbeat quickens at the thought of sana, sana, sana.

sana’s wearing that same cute little prada skirt today, the one she wore the day you’d first slept together. there’s one more thing you’d learned about sana: the woman loves her prada. you watch her walk in, greeting everybody with a charming smile and enthusiastic wave.

sana has really nice legs—not that you needed a reminder.

for a few moments, you let yourself stare at her and think about her smooth skin, her breathy whines, her long legs spread open just for you, her soft thighs quivering as you lower your mouth—

“have you already started on that presentation for new concepts for the upcoming quarter?”

dahyun’s voice breaks you from your reverie. you manage to drag your eyes away from sana and look up at dahyun. she seems tired, looking at her computer with her brows furrowed as she taps at her keyboard. you blink.

“uh—no, not yet. i was going to start on it later, though.”

she nods, still staring intently at her screen. “work on it with sana,” she requests. you open your mouth to respond, but she speaks again before you can say anything. “it’ll be better to have both of you coming up with ideas. i know you haven’t really worked with her before, but she’s not a bad worker, really. she usually has quite a few good ideas if you can get her to focus for long enough. but right now she needs something to do, and i can’t get her to work for more than ten minutes. maybe you’ll have better luck getting somewhere with sana.” she exhales loudly then and finally glances at you with pleading eyes, looking worn out despite the day just starting.

you sigh. “okay. i’ll see if there’s a conference room available to book today and grab sana.”

two hours later, you drag sana into one of the smaller conference rooms in the hallway next to your desks so you can speak a little louder with her, hoping to brainstorm together.

you’re wildly unsuccessful, of course.

sana spends the first thirty minutes of your two reserved hours playing papa's freezeria on her laptop while you try to work on your own. eventually, you can’t take it anymore. you look up from your laptop and clear your throat. sana glances at you.

“what are you doing?”

sana angles her laptop towards you a little so you can clearly see her sundae platter on the screen. it’s overflowing with toppings. her customer frowns, gives her zero stars and no tip. sana whines and turns the laptop back towards her, pouting a little before shooting a bright grin at you. “mina showed me this game,” she chirps. “have you played it before? it’s actually pretty fun.” she clicks a few more times, taking a new customer’s order. immediately, she begins creating another ice cream monstrosity. you just blink at her.

“seriously, do you ever do anything productive around here?” you try to sound serious, but you can hear the fondness in your voice, a small smile forming on your face.

“nope,” sana responds cheerily, looking up from her game. “well, i talk to momo. that seems pretty productive to me.”

you roll your eyes good-naturedly at her serious expression. “sana, that’s not productive. that’s distracting.” you tap her lightly on the wrist. “come on, we need to finish this.” you get up from your chair and make your way to the whiteboard on the wall, getting ready to note the major ideas you’d already thought of on your own.

she smiles brightly at you and closes out of her game. “okay, whatever you need.”

twenty more minutes go by, and you’re actually starting to get somewhere. just as dahyun had mentioned, sana’s a good worker when she puts her mind to it, creative and thoughtful. that was something pleasant to learn about her. she’d even gotten up to write a few notes of her own on the board. you’re in the middle of jotting down a few more details on the whiteboard when sana sets a hand on your shoulder, leans in a little closer next to you to peer at your handwriting and you can smell her perfume. you inhale a little, squeeze your eyes shut, try to retain your focus. it doesn't work.

“you smell good.” you don’t even really register your voice relaying the words to sana until you open your eyes and find that she’s looking at you, honey dripping from her eyes. instantly, you blush.

“cute,” sana whispers, gaze dropping to your mouth. she leans in then, brings your lips together in a slow kiss. you drop the whiteboard marker and your hands instantly fall to her waist while she curls one hand around your jaw, the other playing with your necklace and resting lightly against your chest.

kissing sana is familiar, easy, but it’s the first time you’re kissing her like this: in public, outside of the comfort of her apartment, where, theoretically, anyone could see you. the thought makes your heart race rapidly. maybe you should be more concerned about the fact that you’re kissing sana not even ten feet away from your coworkers, barely concealed by the translucent door of the conference room, but the swipe of her tongue against your lips pushes every thought out of your head. you grip her waist tighter, trying to fight back a whine and failing.

she makes a sweet sound against your lips in return. “sana,” you say hoarsely, pulling back just enough to take a breath, resting your forehead against hers. she just hums. “we—we need to finish this.”

“okay,” she replies easily, drawing back and giving you an innocent smile. your eyes drop to her lips. she smirks.

“okay,” you repeat, unable to look away from her mouth. she bites her lip. you stare.

“i thought you said we need to finish this?” she cocks her head, blinks at you. but she’s leaning in again, her breath fanning against your lips.

“uh huh,” you say dumbly. “yeah. we should… finish this…” you close the gap, kiss her deeply, let out a quiet gasp when she sticks a hand up your shirt and rests it against your stomach, stroking your skin. your back hits the wall, and it’s only then that you realize sana had been gently pushing you backwards. “sana…”

sana presses you into the wall, licks into your mouth. your thoughts become hazy as she kisses you languidly. the hand she has under your shirt brushes against your bra and you shiver. her other hand rests on your waist, warm and firm. you whimper into her mouth and she pulls away, giggling. “you’re too cute,” she whispers against your lips. she drops her hand from your bra so she’s grabbing at both sides of your waist, then pushes you against the wall once more as she leans in to kiss you again. all too soon, she pulls away again, shooting you a playful smile as she sits back down in front of her laptop. you stare at her, breath catching in your throat. “back to work!” she says with a teasing wink.

you ignore her triumphant grin when you impatiently drag her out of her chair and lay her on top of the conference table, not caring that anyone could walk in on you at any moment.

the soft adoring look sana gives you when you help her pull her skirt back on is worth the embarrassment you feel when dahyun winks at you later and tells you she knew you’d get somewhere with sana.

you’re at the office one morning, on your way to the bathroom, when you overhear it.

“you’re so good at this,” a muffled voice groans out behind the corner of the hallway.

“mmm.” another voice. this one is familiar to you—extremely so. “does it feel good?”

it’s sana.

“yes, feels so good,” the other voice whimpers. they gasp and moan. you hear sana giggle.

you briskly turn back around.

well.

it seems like you aren’t sana’s only plaything.

(that’s something you didn’t really want to learn about sana.)

six months.

half a year since the first time you’d let sana’s hands roam all over your body, let her bring you to the edge again and again and again.

you finally stop sneaking out of her apartment, instead starting your days with her arm thrown over your waist, legs tangled in her overpriced sheets. you also find yourself spending entire weekends at her place. you’d taken to going over to her place every friday night and staying until sunday. sometimes you even spend most of the week there, making sure to go to work in separate vehicles. it’s a little more domestic than you’d imagined things would be when this had all started, but you like it—maybe a little more than you should.

it’s dangerous for your heart.

as it turns out, sana’s an awful chef; on one occasion, she starts a small fire in her kitchen attempting to make your favorite breakfast. to ensure you don’t starve, you put yourself in charge of all cooking related activities, lightly swatting at her whenever she hovers around you in the kitchen. but you always give in when she slips her arms around you from behind, rests her chin on your shoulder, croons appreciatively in your ear when you feed her small bites here and there.

she’s annoying.

she’s lovely.

it’s terrifying, because you know you’re falling for sana. you know her now, and you like everything you’ve gotten to know. but what you don’t know is how sana feels. you know you’re friends by now. but sana hasn’t said anything and, based on what you’d heard that one day at the office, clearly she’s not exclusive with you, so you begrudgingly admit to yourself that she doesn’t think it’s become anything deeper than that. it hurts, and you’re sort of embarrassed. of course you’d fall for someone who only sees you as a friend.

it’s this fact that prompts you to shut down sana’s request to tell even just one person about your private time together. she insists that momo can keep a secret, but you give her a firm refusal, almost bordering on hostile. you can tell she’s disappointed, maybe even a little surprised at your aggression, but she quickly presses a kiss to your lips and assures you she’s still okay with keeping things secret. you think maybe you overreacted—it was just one question, after all.

“i’m sorry, sana,” you murmur as you pull her closer. “i just really don't want to risk everyone being all up in our business, you know?” it’s more like you don't want to give anyone a reason to analyze your unrequited feelings for sana, but what sana doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

“i understand,” she mumbles into your ear. “i suppose the girls are sort of gossipy, huh?” you’re grateful for the olive branch, and you accept it quickly.

“more than just sort of. i’ve learned more about nayeon’s favorite sex positions than i’ve ever wanted to know,” you joke with a grimace, and sana giggles and hits your shoulder lightly.

later that night, you try not to pay attention to the churning in your stomach when you think about your gossipy friends dissecting how you’d fallen for the company’s daughter all while she’d been making some other girl moan just ten feet away from your desk.

you wouldn’t be able to handle the humiliation of everyone knowing you’d been dumb enough to break your own boundaries and fall for your fuck buddy, only for her to not feel the same.

sana shifts in her sleep, cuddles closer into you.

it’s enough for now. it has to be.

the next weekend, you find yourself getting lunch with tzuyu. you’re sipping at your water when your phone lights up with a text.

it’s sana. can we have tteokbokki for dinner tonight? i’ve been craving it all day!! i’ll even be your sous chef!!!

you grin as you type back a response. sure. but as my sous chef, you should know that if you blow anything up, you’re fired immediately…

you go back to eating when tzuyu speaks. “who are you texting?”

“huh?” you look up at her. “oh, nobody.”

her eyebrows go up. “you’re an awful liar, you know.” she shrugs, watching you blush. “but whatever. keep your secrets. something tells me i might already know the answer anyway.”

you can’t tell if the feeling spreading through your veins is nausea or relief.

the following monday, sana sits next to you at lunch, and when her hand brushes against your wrist, your breath catches in your throat. you act like you don’t see the smug, pleased look she sends you. she stares at you with a grin—something bright sparks in your chest.

you fiddle with your necklace and try not to think about sana, but you find it’s next to impossible when every other thing reminds you of the woman.

you let your pinky rest against her hand for the rest of lunch. a confession. momo has the decency to pretend she doesn’t notice.

on tuesday, you walk into the office with a cheerful smile on your face. you log onto your computer, work on a few assignments, collaborate with nayeon and jeongyeon on a presentation for the upcoming quarterly report.

during lunch, you sit with tzuyu and chaeyoung and pretend like you aren’t staring at sana across the room—like you aren’t watching how momo’s leg brushes against sana’s, pinky fingers innocently laid across each other atop the table—like you aren’t following how jihyo’s hand reaches across the table to gently fix sana’s hair, tucking it behind her ear neatly—like you aren’t wondering what it might be like to really touch sana in public, to interact with her so easily, to love her freely, loudly.

later, when you’re reporting to mina that you’ve finished your department’s presentation, you try not to stare beyond her shoulder at dahyun and sana giggling together over some sort of inside joke of theirs. you barely manage to push the giddiness down enough to keep your focus on mina, and you falter when sana catches your eye from across the room, her playful grin momentarily turning sultry when she notices your heavy gaze. you pretend it doesn’t affect you and give mina a half-hearted apology before you continue to review the contents of your presentation, sana and dahyun disappearing around the corner as mina nods approvingly at your words.

a few hours later, you’re making your way over to a meeting to discuss the upcoming quarterly budget when you hear it again.

“oh sana,” you hear a breathy voice groan out.

sana and… whoever else she’s hooking up with who isn’t you. they’re in one of the conference rooms. you avoid looking at the door.

“is this good? or do you want it harder?”

“this is perfect.”

sana hums. “that’s what i like to hear.”

you rush towards your meeting, holding back tears as you speed away.

later that night, as you watch sana wash the dishes after dinner, you feel your heart breaking but you know what you need to do. “hey sana?”

she puts the last dish away and turns to you with a little grin. “yeah? what’s up?”

“i think maybe…” you look at sana. “maybe we should… stop.”

“stop?” sana starts to frown.

“you know… stop. this.” you gesture between the two of you half-heartedly. “us.”

sana just stares at you, standing stiffly in the middle of the kitchen. her lip wobbles. “but… why?”

you try to keep a neutral expression. “i just think it’s for the best.”

she’s silent for a long moment. then she looks up at you, eyes hardened. “okay. then i think you should go.”

“oh. uh, okay.” you gather your things as she stares at you harshly. you make your way to the door, then look back at sana. “wait. we’re still okay, right?”

sana just looks at you. she scoffs and turns back around, heading to her room. you try to take a step to follow her, but she puts her hand out. “leave. please.”

so you do.

you text her a few hours later. are we okay?

she doesn’t respond.

you do, however, receive a text from momo a few minutes later. it simply reads give her space.

it’s better than nothing.

(you still cry yourself to sleep that night, not knowing that on the other side of the city, momo simply holds sana in her arms as she does the same.)

the rest of the week goes by slowly. it’s awful. you’re not sleeping, not eating, not functioning.

during your lunch break on friday, tzuyu stares as you shovel rice into your mouth, unimpressed. you ignore her, but eventually her silence makes you shift uncomfortably. you glance around the room, looking for sana. you find her at a table across the room with jihyo and momo. you stare at her as subtly as you can.

by the brokenhearted expression on sana’s face and the uncomfortable frown jihyo gives you—not to mention the way momo is openly making eye contact with you—you’re sure it wasn’t subtle at all.

you look away and catch tzuyu’s eye. “what?”

she blinks at you, shrugging almost imperceptibly. “is there something going on with you?”

you freeze before scooping up another bite of rice. “no.” you try to sound unaffected. “why?”

tzuyu hums. “no reason. it’s just that both you and sana have seemed a little… strange the past few days. i thought something might have happened between you two.”

“and why would you think anything’s happening between sana and me?” it comes out a little less convincing than you’d intended. tzuyu’s brows furrow slightly and she leans back into her seat.

“well… you’re…” tzuyu pauses, clears her throat as she eyes you carefully. “you’re… friends, right?” you don’t answer and tzuyu stares at you again. “come on. i’m not blind. you clearly have something going on with her. why won’t you tell me?”

there’s a flash of movement in front of you and momo suddenly plops down into the seat next to tzuyu. “what are you two talking about?” she takes out her food, immediately biting into her lunch.

“nothing,” you grumble.

“we’re talking about how someone here is in love with sana and is really awful at pretending like she’s not.”

“tzuyu!” you glare at her, then look down at your food, shy. “that’s not exactly what we were talking about.”

in between bites of her sandwich, momo hums. “oh, right.” momo’s next words make you frown. “i heard you guys broke up.” the expression on her face is anything but innocent. you glance over to where she’d been sitting before with sana. sana and jihyo are pointedly not looking in your direction. you look back at momo, who’s trying a little too hard to act nonchalant.

“are you spying on me for sana? also, we weren’t dating. i don’t—what did sana tell you?”

“uh, it’s not spying if i’m speaking to you in front of your face. but i did maybe tell sana i’d come over here and see what you were talking about. also, she didn’t have to tell me anything.” momo snickers, takes another bite. you stare at her as she chews. “you guys aren’t that great at hiding when you’re hooking up in the conference rooms. plus, i know the code to her place. you really shouldn’t leave your panties on the couch so often.” she grins crookedly. you squeak in embarrassment.

tzuyu grimaces. “didn’t need that mental image, thanks.”

momo finally realizes something. “hold on. you weren’t dating?” momo’s next words make you frown. “wait, but you know she thought this whole time that you were dating, though, right?”

you shake your head. “no, that can’t be right. the other week i heard her and someone else hooking up in the hallway. she was doing something right, because they just kept moaning and telling her it felt good. and i heard them again on tuesday in one of the conference rooms. sana was asking them if they wanted it harder, and…” you trail off.

tzuyu tilts her head. “uh, actually.” you look at her and she coughs a little. “i don’t think she was hooking up with anyone.”

“what do you mean?” you frown.

“one of the A&R interns just had surgery on their shoulder. sana’s been giving her massages to help with the pain every now and then.”

your heart stops. what?

momo nods. “oh yeah. sana’s pretty good at giving massages. did you seriously think she was hooking up with someone else? aren’t you, like, practically living at her place?”

you groan, drop your head to the table. guilt washes over you and you swallow roughly. “oh my god. i really fucked up. what should i do?” your voice comes out a whisper. “i… i’m in love with her.”

momo shrugs, shoves the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth. she chews thoughtfully, swallows down her food, then takes a sip of her lemonade. “i know i told you to give her space, but as her best friend, i know for a fact that she misses you. i have a feeling that if you went to her place and explained why you did what you did, she’d probably be willing to hear you out.”

you exhale. “really? you don’t think she’d be mad if i just showed up?”

“nah. well, the other day she did mention wanting to stab you with a steak knife.”

“momo!”

she bursts out laughing. “i’m just kidding. she’ll want to have a mature conversation. she just needed time to think about things. i’m sure she won’t stab you and she’ll hear you out.”

“you’re not very helpful,” you grumble. momo grins at you.

“oh, one more thing. if you ever hurt sana again, she won’t need a steak knife, because i will kill you myself. you’d make an excellent stew, i think.”

“momo!”

you decide to follow momo’s advice, despite the slight worry of sana pulling a knife on you, and find yourself outside sana’s apartment on saturday morning.

deep breaths, you think. sana is a reasonable person. she won’t stab you. she’ll talk to you.

you ring the bell.

a few moments pass.

“what are you doing here?” sana’s voice comes through the speaker. you glance at the doorbell camera.

“i wanted to talk,” you say slowly, “and apologize. and clear some things up. if you’ll let me.”

silence.

then sana’s buzzing you in, and you nearly shed a tear at the sight of sana opening her door for you, wearing one of your worn-out t-shirts and her too-short sleep shorts.

“okay.” she sighs. “come in.”

you give her a soft smile and step inside. she closes the door behind you and turns to face you.

“hi,” you say dumbly, playing with your fingers nervously.

sana cracks a small grin. “hi,” she replies. “want some coffee?”

you can’t help but brighten and smile wider at her. “i’d love some, thanks.”

sana walks towards the kitchen and you follow her. you stand behind her as she pours coffee into your favorite mug. her fingers brush against yours when she hands it to you and you inhale sharply. you look at her and her cheeks redden slightly. “let’s sit down, yeah?” you nod at her words and make your way to her living room, sitting gently on her couch and sipping at your coffee before setting it on the small table in front of you.

“thank you,” you begin, “for letting me in and for hearing me out. i know you could tell me to go away and i’d have no right to complain. so thank you again. but i really want to make things right between us and explain myself.”

sana nods. “okay.”

“i guess i should start with saying i’m sorry. i really didn’t mean to hurt you. to be honest, i didn’t think me ending things would even matter to you.”

“oh.” sana frowns. “why wouldn’t it?”

“i…” you sigh. “i honestly thought you didn’t see me as anything more than a friend. like, a fuck buddy. but i was okay with that because i thought maybe… if we spent more time together… anyway. yeah. but then a couple months ago, i heard what i thought was you and someone else hooking up at work. and that hurt so much—to think i wasn’t the only one getting to spend that kind of time with you, you know? and then i heard the same thing again a few days ago on tuesday, and that was just. you know. all i could take. so… i thought it would be better for my heart to make a clean break.”

sana’s quiet. then she looks at you in confusion and says, “okay, sorry, but—what? i haven’t been hooking up with anyone else since, you know, our first time.”

you blush. “i know. or, well, momo and tzuyu told me literally just yesterday that i’d grossly misheard things. they told me you were just giving an intern a massage for their shoulder surgery recovery. but yeah. i’d already ended things with you when i found out that i was mistaken. so. here i am.”

“i…” sana blinks. “okay. so… you ended things with me because you don’t want me to hook up with anybody else. well, i’m not. so… is that all?”

“actually, there’s something else i need to tell you.”

sana slowly nods, her eyes shining with something you recognize as hope. you take a deep breath.

“i like you—i love you. i'm so in love with you, sana, and i've been falling for you for months and i just—you're all i think about. when i'm with you, i'm the happiest i've ever been, and when i'm not with you, i'm just thinking about the next time i can be with you. it's like… it’s like my life is just measured in moments of with sana and waiting to be with sana. and i’m terrified. because i—i thought you were hooking up with someone else, that you didn’t like me the way i like you. or, well. the way i love you.”

sana lets out a breath, leans forward into your space. you blink and before you can register what's happening, she’s kissing you.

the kiss is—different. it's wet, for one, because someone’s crying. in the back of your mind, you register it's probably you. but this kiss is also all-consuming, like sana’s been holding back every time you’d kissed before this, like this is the first time she’s really kissing you the way she’s always wanted. this kiss is full of love, you realize. sana pulls back slightly and you subconsciously chase her lips, blushing and looking down when she lets out a laugh. she gently leans back in and rests her forehead against yours.

“you’re an idiot,” sana breathes out against your lips. you can feel her smile.

“i am?” you pull back to look at her. she just smiles at you and brings you in for another kiss before sighing.

“you’re so stupid,” sana murmurs, pressing a small kiss against your lips once more. “i…” she trails off.

“you…?” it’s hard to form words with her lips gently brushing against your own. she pulls back again and takes a deep breath.

“i’ve been in love with you,” she says quietly, “ever since you agreed to come over to my place for the first time.”

“wow, okay, i am an idiot,” you whisper. sana just nods, lips twitching playfully into a smirk.

“it’s okay though.” she sighs, leans back in to give you another soft kiss. “because i love you, and you love me.”

when you walk into the office on monday morning, it’s with sana’s hand in your own and matching smiles on your faces. you can see all of your friends gawking at the sight.

mina spots you as you round the corner and purses her lips slightly when her eyes land on your fingers tangled with sana’s. “good morning, you two. anything you’d like to tell me?” she fights back a smile at your bashful expression.

sana wrinkles her nose. “mina, i’m pretty sure you sort of work for me. do i really need to tell you that my girlfriend’s your employee?”

mina’s grin only widens when seven voices start yelling excitedly from around the office.

you roll your eyes as sana giggles. your friends are stupid.

you’ve never been happier.

sometimes, when you have sex with sana, it’s a sanctuary. long-awaited touches and whispered praises. tonight is one of those nights—you’re so beautiful, she says, so you kiss her neck. i missed you, she says, so you lay her down on the bed. you’re settled between her legs, one hand in her own warm grasp while your other hand caresses her skin where you’re pushing her leg up. you kiss along her thighs before you press a kiss against her wetness and hum as she shivers lightly. you squeeze her hand then lick against her slit once, slightly tangy slick coating your tongue instantly. she lets out a breathy moan as you lick again, tongue brushing against her clit. you’ve learned that sana likes it like this, too: when she surrenders to you, lays herself bare for you to adore, attentive and loving and intimate.

you wrap your lips around her bud and suck. she clenches your hand so hard it turns white. you dip your tongue between her folds, lick and suck and lose yourself in her heat.

“fuck,” sana sighs. “just like that, baby. you’re so perfect.” distractedly, you think about how sexy she truly is. skin slightly sweaty, girlish moans and whines slipping past her lips every few moments, body heaving with uncontrolled gasps and breaths every time your tongue swirls around her sensitive clit. you moan into her cunt and feel how she squirms and shivers.

you push her leg up more, hook it around your shoulder to make her more comfortable. as you dip your tongue inside her, you feel her use one hand to reach down and grasp at your hair. she tugs a little and you smirk, knowing she’s enjoying herself.

her slick is all over your mouth and chin. it’s intoxicating, being surrounded by sana’s presence, being covered in it. you pull your mouth away momentarily and use your hand not currently being squeezed by sana’s to lightly drag down along her skin before running it between her folds, teasing her. “shit, sana, you taste so good.” then you kiss her clit, ease two fingers into her, marvel at how easily they slip into her wetness. “oh baby,” you simper. “you must’ve wanted this so badly, hm?”

you bring your mouth back to her pussy, savoring her taste. sana lets out a strangled noise as you find the right angle inside her, curl your fingers slightly, lick against her mound. you bring her clit into your mouth again and suck the way you know she likes. you keep fucking her with your fingers as you eat her out enthusiastically, never wanting to stop.

after a while, sana starts twitching around you. her breathing gets even heavier as she gasps and grinds down onto your tongue. she opens her mouth to say something, but instead she releases a long, drawn-out groan. pleased, you suck a little harder at her clit knowingly, wait for her to speak.

“i’m gonna—fuck,” she gasps. “fuck, you’re gonna make me cum, baby.” her voice is deeper than usual, thick with desire. it sends a thrill down your spine. you hum, don’t stop what you’re doing, finger her a little deeper and keep licking at her.

a few moments later, sana’s letting out a cry and cumming hard on your fingers and tongue. you continue to pump your fingers in and out, slowing down a little, swallowing her juices and lapping at her clit until she’s gently laying a hand on your collarbone. you pull away and take your fingers out and stare up at her, pupils completely blown.

she’s no different—her eyes are unfocused, totally black. she pants and bites her lip as she watches you take the fingers that were inside her into your mouth and suck her release off them. you grin at her. “i love the way you taste,” you say casually. “and i love making you cum. you look so pretty when you do, you know?

sana blushes all the way down to her chest. “yeah?”

“well, actually, i don't know,” you say, tapping at your chin. “i might need to see it again, just to make sure.”

she squeals and giggles when you kiss her, sighs adoringly when you bring a hand down between her legs again.

you spend hours after that watching her body and expressions when she cums—on your tongue, your fingers, your thigh, your stomach—and each time, she looks impossibly prettier than the last.

after you both become too exhausted to keep going, you clean up, get ready for bed together, showering and going through your nightly routine. it’s soothing, and you finally flop into her bed and start to drift off. sana’s still in the bathroom. everything starts to fade as you begin to succumb to your fatigue.

you don’t even register sana coming to bed, pulling the sheets over the both of you, turning off the lights. time passes; you’re not sure how much, but it must be a while, because you keep drifting and waking slightly, on the very edge of finally letting yourself fall asleep. sana seems to be in the same boat. her body has relaxed to the point that you know she’s about to pass out in the next ten seconds. you’re barely conscious, nearly fully asleep, also seconds from slipping into a deep slumber when—

“good night, baby. i love you,” sana whispers into your neck, so low you almost don’t hear her—but you do.

sana settles her arm around your torso, pulls you impossibly closer to her body before all her muscles slump and she enters a deep sleep.

your eyes start to close as her words replay softly in the back of your head.

i love you.

sana’s gentle murmur, soft lips pressing the syllables into your flesh. i love you.

when you finally fall asleep, you dream of warm skin and sweet lips, of lithe hands and wide eyes, of sana and love.

i love you, i love you, i love you.

of all the things you know about sana, this is your favorite.

#kpop x reader #kpop imagines #twice x reader #twice imagines #twice sana x reader #twice sana imagines #sana x reader #sana imagines #girl group imagines #twice smut

686 notes · View notes

lizzyiii · 27 days ago

Note

Can I make a request? Homelander falling for a reader who is completely unaware of it. Not because he's good at hiding it but because, they genuinely can't fathom the thought of someone being that intense with their feelings about THEM of all people👀 but their the only person who's genuinely kind to him.

I'm sooooo sorry this took so long

Love and Devotion

pairing | homelander x supe!reader

word count | 5.8k words

summary | homelander becomes increasingly obsessed with the new kind and unsuspecting supe, and fixates on her as his perfect match, believing she belongs to him. his possessiveness reaches new heights after discovering intimate details about her powers, pushing him to claim her as his own, regardless of her obliviousness to his feelings.

tags | canon homelander??? obsession, possessiveness, season 4 timeline, major fluff, tell me if you think it ooc homelander, lactating kink

a/n | first homelander fic, this was sooooo fun to write and yes I did rewatch season 4 for this

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You were perfect from the moment he laid eyes on you.

"Her?"

Homelander’s voice dripped with disdain as he watched Firecracker spewing her rant about family values and patriotism, all while waving her hands around. She reminded him of a third-rate talk show host. He grimaced, turning to Sage.

"Yeah," Sage responded, standing at his side.

"Really?" he sneered, barely able to mask his disgust.

"Mhm," Sage hummed in affirmation.

"Seems like she fell off her Jet Ski one too many times," Homelander muttered, his lip curling.

Sage, unbothered by his sarcasm, simply shook her head. "No, now that Starlight’s back leading the Starlighters, we need someone like her."

Homelander raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Mm. And that’s gonna shut them up?" He knew exactly what "them" meant: the endless critics, social media commentators, all the noise that clawed at his mind.

"No," Sage replied, her voice low and cryptic. "She’s going to make them louder."

He shot her a look. "You gonna trust me or not?" she added before he could question it further.

Rolling his eyes, he turned his gaze elsewhere. He was growing tired of these briefings, the endless parade of new supes Vought was parading through. But then, his eyes landed on you.

You were surrounded by a group of eager reporters, microphones pushed into your face. Unlike Firecracker, who couldn't stop her loud, brash performance, you were different. You weren't reciting hollow slogans or pandering to anyone. You stood there with an almost serene composure, answering each question softly, with a gentle smile. There was something…sincere in the way you spoke, like you actually cared about the answers, not just the headlines they’d create.

"And what about her?" Homelander murmured, his gaze locked on you as if he were seeing something unexpected for the first time.

"The Pink Dahlia," Sage said, repeating your supe name as though it was obvious. "She’s going to be the new Starlight."

Homelander frowned, feeling a flicker of confusion. The new Starlight? That seemed impossible. No one could ever replace that bitch's popularity, her…adoring fanbase. But Sage seemed to sense his thoughts, elaborating with an almost bored tone.

"The only reason Starlight is liked is because of her sincerity. Her kindness," Sage explained, nodding towards you. "Pink Dahlia is going to be America’s next sweetheart supe."

Homelander hummed, though his mind was elsewhere, distracted by the sight of you. Sage was talking, but he was no longer listening. Instead, he watched as the cameras captured your every move. For a moment, you glanced in his direction. Not out of fear or awe, but with that same quiet softness you gave to everyone. It unnerved him how unaffected you seemed by his presence, by who he was.

He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

Sage dragged him into yet another pointless debate, but his attention was only half there. He knew she’d eventually let it go once she realized his disinterest, and sure enough, she did. He was quick to pass her along to the vultures—photographers desperate to get the next "supe girl" in their lenses.

As Homelander turned, his gaze landed on Ryan, sulking in one of the chairs at the back of the room. Frustration boiled inside him. He couldn’t stand seeing his son like that, so withdrawn, when the whole world was theirs.

But then, his brow furrowed. You had walked over, leaving the cameras behind. Quietly, you sat beside Ryan, the two of you almost invisible in the flurry of the room. He watched as you offered your hand to Ryan, a gentle smile on your face. His son, who had been lost in his own thoughts, blinked in surprise before hesitantly shaking your hand.

For the first time in hours, Homelander saw the tension leave Ryan’s shoulders. His usual sulk was replaced with something lighter. He listened to whatever you were saying, nodding slowly. Homelanders listened carefully to your sweet words, and watched how they were clearly having an effect on Ryan.

Interesting.

Homelander had too many fucking things going on for his mind to keep circling back to you. It irritated him, gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

First, the rage that boiled up every time he saw those goddamn Starlighter protests. He could hardly walk outside without hearing people chant for Starlight’s bullshit message, waving their signs, spewing their anti-Homelander garbage. It infuriated him. Then there was the constant frustration in dealing with Neuman. She was slippery, always too clever, too calm, and it made every negotiation with her feel like wading through quicksand.

But every time his temper cooled, his thoughts went back to you. You. That sweet, unassuming smile that you flashed so casually, like it wasn’t the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. And then there was your body—tight and perfect in that small pink and green suit, looking like you belonged on a magazine cover instead of here, in this hellhole with people like him.

It made him furious.

How could he let himself be distracted by you, when everything else around him was crumbling? He was supposed to be in control, but instead, he was falling apart. First he let that fucking loser Hughie get away. Then, Ryan—his own son—had the nerve to run off to see Butcher after everything Homelander had given him. After all the time and care he’d put into Ryan, after showing him the world, how was he still not good enough?

It made him sick.

And then... and then there was the other thing. His reflection. The part of him that never shut up, that always knew where to strike. His other self had looked at him and sneered. Told him he was weak, that he was a joke. That no matter how much power he had, no matter how feared he was, he was still nothing.

And maybe it was right. Maybe he was losing it.

So he decided to visit home. The lab. Where they had made him. Where he had been molded into the strongest supe to ever walk the earth. He’d slaughtered every single one of the scientists who had "raised" him. He stood in the sterile halls, the faint hum of the machines still active around him. The silence made him feel grounded, like this was the only place in the world where he could truly be himself.

But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

Not when the image of you—your smile, your soft gaze, your kindness—kept seeping into his mind. You were a weakness he couldn’t afford. And that filled him with even more rage.

And yet the moment he saw your face, all that rage he had been holding onto evaporated like steam. The blood, the anger, the frustration—it all seemed distant as he took in the worried expression on your face.

He had strolled back into Vought Tower like nothing was wrong, though his suit was still soaked in the blood and viscera of the scientists he’d butchered in the lab. It didn’t matter—he was Homelander, after all. No one would dare question him. But fate must have been laughing at him because, of all people, he ran straight into you.

You froze when you saw him, your eyes widening in pure shock at the sight of him covered in carnage. Anyone else would have been horrified, would have run or screamed, but not you. Instead, your lips parted and, with that same quiet softness he had come to expect, you said, “Would you like some help?”

Homelander just stared, his mind slowing to a crawl as the words sank in. He was a god, covered in the blood of men, and here you were, offering help. Something inside him shifted in that moment. He nodded, feeling strangely empty and vulnerable, like a child waiting for instructions. In the back of his mind, he realized this was the first time you had actually spoken to him directly.

His chest tightened as you stepped closer, your eyes flicking up to his with cautious concern. You reached out and gently placed your pink-gloved hand into his red, blood-stained one. Homelander nearly closed his eyes, focusing intently on the warmth of your touch. That warmth—it spread through him, melting away the sharp edges of his anger. No one touched him like that, without fear or calculation.

You led him silently into the elevator, your hand still in his, guiding him like he was something fragile. He couldn't help but glance down at your hand in his, his mind spinning as he tried to commit the sensation to memory. The touch wasn’t just physical—it felt like a lifeline, something pulling him out of the darkness he had been sinking into.

As the elevator doors slid shut, the quiet hum of the building surrounded them, and Homelander found himself focusing solely on you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t recoil. You just held his hand, gently, as if leading him somewhere safe. He didn’t feel like a monster in that moment, not in your presence.

The elevator dinged softly, and you led him down the hall to your floor. The sight was unlike anything in Vought Tower—lush greenery, vibrant pinks and soft petals blooming everywhere. It felt alive, warm. This was your power after all, to bend nature to your will. And it was a reflection of you, full of life, soft but powerful. He was surprised it was even still Vought Tower.

He hadn’t expected you to bring him here. You could’ve taken him to his own floor, left him in one of the pristine, sterile bathrooms of his suite. But no—you’d brought him to your space, a sanctuary. It was so unlike the cold, artificial world of Vought. And so much like you.

Slowly, you guided him to the bathroom. The plants trailed along the walls, the air fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers. You looked up at him, blinking those wide, soft eyes of yours. A single word entered his mind: Fawn. You looked like a fawn, delicate and innocent, standing before something dangerous without any idea of what it could do to you.

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, unable to find the words to speak. Still entranced by you, he wondered how you could be so kind, so gentle, to someone like him. Anyone else would have left him to clean himself up in cold silence, but you…you stayed.

You nodded quietly, as if you understood, then turned to the bath, filling it with warm water. He watched you bite your lip in thought, and all he could think about was biting your lip himself. His gaze lingered on your mouth, and for a split second, he imagined pulling you close, feeling that softness against his own. But instead, he remained silent, his breath heavy as you carefully and gently began to undress him.

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him with such care. You didn’t fumble or stare, didn’t sneak a lustful glance as you removed his suit piece by piece. You were entirely respectful, your touch light, focused on the task. And when you led him to sink into the bath, your hands still guiding him, he realized that you weren’t treating him like Homelander. You weren’t treating him like a god. You were treating him like…a person.

The warm water surrounded him, washing away the blood and grime. But what made him feel truly clean was your touch. You knelt by the tub, peeling off your pink gloves, and began washing him with your bare hands. He could feel your skin against his, the warmth of your palms gliding over his body.

He had to fight to keep from shivering. The sensation of your skin on his—bare and vulnerable—sent a wave of euphoria through him. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt. This wasn’t lust. This was something deeper, something far more dangerous. He was intoxicated by you, not because of what you were doing, but because of who you were. The softness, the care, the genuine kindness…it was all so foreign to him.

And as you worked in silence, cleaning away the blood, he realized with a start that he never wanted this feeling to end.

Homelander couldn’t take his eyes off you as you washed him. Every gentle stroke of your hands sent a ripple of pleasure through him, and though his eyes begged to close, he refused. He needed to see you. To watch you, to take in every movement, every touch. Your fingers slid through his hair, and for a moment, he almost gave in—almost let his eyes flutter shut and just melt into the sensation. But his gaze stayed locked on you, intense and unyielding.

You could feel his stare, that much was clear, yet you didn’t say a word. You just kept working, silent and serene. And it started to bother him, gnawing at him. How could you be so quiet, so unaffected by his presence? He needed to hear your voice again. He craved it, like a drug, something to soothe the irritation building inside him.

“Talk to me,” he said, the words slipping out in a petulant tone he hadn’t meant to use. But he didn’t care. He wanted your attention, your words, your everything.

Your eyes met his, wide and curious, like you were studying him, trying to figure him out. You tilted your head, and once again, the thought struck him—fawn. That was what you reminded him of. A fawn, delicate and gentle, standing before a predator without realizing the danger.

You pursed your lips, thinking carefully about what to say, and for just a second, Homelander finally closed his eyes. He wanted to focus solely on your voice. Nothing else mattered. Just you.

“I named myself Pink Dahlia because my favorite color is pink,” you began, your sweet voice filling the room like music, “and dahlias symbolize love and devotion.”

His eyes snapped open.

Love and devotion. The words echoed in his mind like a gunshot, shattering every other thought. You kept talking, explaining something about flower meanings and other potential supe names you’d considered, but Homelander didn’t give a fuck about that. None of that mattered. All he could focus on was love and devotion.

It was a sign. It had to be. You were made for him. There was no other explanation. How could it be a coincidence that the one person who treated him with kindness, who looked at him without fear, had chosen a name that embodied exactly what he wanted from you? Exactly what he needed. Love and devotion.

His chest tightened with the realization, his mind spinning with the possibilities. You would love him. You would be devoted to him completely. It was inevitable. Fate had brought you into his life for a reason.

As you continued to speak, your voice soft and calming, he stared at you, consumed by the thought of it—how perfect it would be. You, by his side, loyal and loving, filling the void that no one else could. The world would bow before him, but you…you would worship him in the way he craved, in a way no one ever had.

You were starting to seriously piss him off. The way you acted, pretending like nothing had happened between you, like the connection between you wasn’t so strong it practically vibrated in the air. You carried on as if the two of you didn’t share something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable. It was infuriating.

Then again, if you had acknowledged it—if you’d brought it up and confronted him about it—he probably would’ve blown a fucking gasket. His control was fragile enough as it was.

But trying to talk to you? That was a whole other level of frustration. Every time you looked up at him with those soft, gentle eyes, and gave him that sweet, unassuming smile, all the words in his head vanished. Just gone. Like you had some kind of power over him that even he didn’t understand.

So, he did the only thing he could think of to get you closer—he forced The Deep to move, ordering him to sit somewhere else, so that you could sit right next to him. He wasn’t subtle about it, either. He didn’t care if anyone noticed. As long as you were close, that was all that mattered.

Then came the Vought V52 Expo, and Homelander could feel the agitation building inside him. He needed to talk to you, to make you see what was right in front of you, but the timing was never right. On the bright side, things were going well with Ryan. He was bonding with his son, teaching him to stand up for himself, to say no when he needed to. It felt…good, like he was finally getting through to him.

But by the time they got to the V52 Expo, the agitation had grown into something much sharper. His eyes tracked you across the stage, watching as you announced your new environmental awareness project—the Dahlia Project. Fans were cheering for you, screaming your name, and you looked so damn perfect up there.

You were smiling, waving to the crowd, talking passionately about your cause, and the noise of the crowd was deafening. But all Homelander could think about was how you hadn’t even looked at him once. Not a glance. Not a dedication. Nothing.

He watched you with cold, calculated eyes, trying to keep the growing frustration in check. You were good at this, at drawing people in, making them adore you. But how could you not see that you already had him? That no one else in the crowd mattered compared to him?

And as the fans continued to cheer, his grip tightened around the milkshake he’d bought for you. He needed to speak to you. To make you understand. And the longer you went on, the more he realized—this wasn’t just about getting closer to you anymore. It was about making sure you knew that you belonged to him.

Homelander was standing with Ryan, guiding him through yet another lesson in asserting control. Ryan had been eager to "help" people, to really understand what that meant. So, when Homelander saw an opportunity, he called over Adam—the Vought employee who had been making his assistant visibly uncomfortable with inappropriate advances.

Ryan’s eyes narrowed skeptically, his young face twisting in uncertainty as he looked at the assistant. “Um… is he making you uncomfortable? You can tell me. You won’t get in trouble.”

The assistant bit her lip nervously before nodding, her voice hesitant but honest. “Kind of… yeah.”

Homelander raised an eyebrow, turning his attention to Ryan. “Ryan, what do you think we should do about that?”

Ryan hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He still hadn’t fully grasped the power he held, and Homelander could sense his uncertainty, the hesitation that made his own patience wear thin. With a sigh, he glanced away—only for his eyes to land on you, walking past with that usual air of calm about you.

“Dahlia,” he called, his voice a little sharper than he intended. “Come over here.”

You looked up at him, eyebrows raised in that sweet, expectant way that only made him more agitated, and walked over without hesitation, your eyes scanning the scene as you assessed the situation.

“What’s up?” you asked simply.

Homelander smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and gestured to Adam. “Adam here has been making some inappropriate advances toward his assistant. What do you have to say about that?”

Even Ryan turned to you, waiting for your response. Homelander watched you closely, studying the way you furrowed your brows in genuine concern as you looked at Adam.

“I think,” you said carefully, “that there’s no excuse for making someone else uncomfortable. And it’s even worse when you know you’re doing it.”

Homelander’s smile widened at your answer. It was perfect—clear, direct, and moral, just like he expected from you. There was a subtle pride in the way you spoke, and it fed into his own sense of approval. You were playing right into his hands without even realizing it.

Your words seemed to be the push Ryan needed, as he turned to Adam, his voice gaining confidence. “Apologize,” Ryan commanded, the hint of authority in his tone surprising even himself. When Adam hesitated, Ryan’s jaw tightened. “Now.”

Adam stated an obviously insincere apology, and Ryan, growing bolder by the second, looked at the assistant. “I want you to slap him.”

Homelander’s gaze snapped to you, watching intently for your reaction. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you seemed to consider the situation with a quiet thoughtfulness, your expression showing no sign of discomfort. You didn’t object or look shocked—in fact, there was a hint of agreement in the way you nodded lightly. You understood the need to make a point, to assert control.

Homelander couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not just in Ryan, but in you. The way you navigated the situation with clarity, how you stood by his side and reinforced his lessons without even realizing it—it only confirmed what he already knew.

You belonged with him.

The moment his resolve truly snapped was at Tek Knight’s party. Everything had already spiraled out of control. A-Train and Firecracker were nowhere to be found, MIA at a critical time. And when it was time for the big speech to the GOP donors, Sage was acting as if she’d had a fucking lobotomy, leaving Homelander to take over.

The minute he started speaking, they questioned him. Him. They criticized him as if he wasn’t the most powerful man in the room, as if he wasn’t Homelander. His hand twitched, and he was one second away from lasering through every single one of those smug, entitled bastards. But then Neuman stepped in, pulling the conversation back on track and rallying the support he was seconds from obliterating.

He stalked away, seething. And that’s when he saw it—him—one of the donor’s sons talking to you. But it wasn’t just talking. He recognized the look in that guy’s eyes, the casual leaning in, the way his hand brushed against your arm like it was nothing.

Homelander’s chest tightened with a slow, burning jealousy, the kind that clawed at him from the inside. His grip on the glass tightened, but for the moment, he held himself in check. Barely. When that loser touched your arm, though, that’s when it snapped. His entire facade shattered.

In his mind, that small touch was a violation. You belonged to him. Whether you knew it yet or not, it was already decided. And this idiot was crossing a line no one should ever have the nerve to approach.

His reaction started subtly—at first. His smile stiffened, his eyes narrowed with an icy focus. He moved toward you with the kind of charm that made people believe he was still in control, but inside, he was already a storm waiting to break.

Homelander slid smoothly between you and the man, a calculated smile plastered on his friendly. “Everything alright here?” His voice was polite, but there was an edge, a tension simmering just beneath the surface.

You blinked up at him, surprised but unsuspecting, nodding lightly. “Yeah, of course. This is Jason Wilson, the District Attorney’s son. We’re just talking.”

Just talking. Homelander’s smile grew tighter. Logically, he knew that. But logic had no place here. The jealousy gnawed at him, irrational, violent, and all-consuming. Without hesitation, he slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer in a way that left no room for doubt. “We wouldn’t want things to get inappropriate, now would we?”

Jason froze, his eyes widening slightly, clearly unnerved by the sudden shift. Homelander’s stare bore into him, a silent warning not to take another step, not to even breathe in your direction. Jason stammered an awkward excuse and quickly retreated, leaving you and Homelander alone.

You frowned up at him, clearly confused by the sudden shift in his mood. “What was that about?”

Homelander didn’t answer right away. Instead, his grip on your waist tightened, enough that you’d feel the strength behind it—enough that you couldn’t pull away easily. He quietly steered you toward a more secluded corner of the room, away from prying eyes. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone, his lips close to your ear. “You shouldn’t let people touch you like that,” he said, barely keeping his rage in check. “Not when you’re with me.”

You blinked, utterly confused, your brows knitting together in that way he both adored and despised. “I don’t understand. I’m not… with you.”

His jaw clenched. The words stung, hitting him harder than any physical blow could. You didn’t understand yet. You didn’t see what he saw, didn’t feel what he felt. But you would. You had to.

Homelander let out a hollow chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You don’t understand. It’s fine, I’ll forgive you for that.” His tone dripped with condescension as if he were talking to a child. He then pointed between the two of you, his expression hardening. “You and me—we belong together. Which makes you mine.”

You stared at him, completely lost, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. The confusion in your eyes only seemed to amuse him further. You were so oblivious, so innocent, and it both frustrated and thrilled him. Finally, you managed to speak, your voice soft and uncertain. “I thought you were interested in Firecracker.”

Homelander’s face scrunched up in pure disgust, his lip curling as if you had just said something vile. “What? No. Ew. No.”

“Oh,” you mumbled, looking around as if there were hidden cameras capturing this bizarre moment, half-expecting this to be some kind of elaborate joke. “Oh.”

Then you turned back to him, your wide eyes filled with genuine surprise, lips pouting slightly as you asked, “You… like me?”

The way you said it—so innocent, so utterly unaware—made his chest tighten. Like wasn’t even close to what he felt for you. He needed you. You were everything he’d been waiting for, the one pure thing in a world full of filth and betrayal. But the fact that you couldn’t even comprehend why someone like him would be interested in you… It only made his obsession stronger.

He smiled, soft and almost tender, his previous irritation and jealousy melting away in the face of your cluelessness. “Like doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he murmured, his voice lower now, dripping with an intensity that sent a shiver through the air. He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto yours with an unsettling focus. “You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture intimate but laced with possessiveness. “You just don’t see it yet. But you will.”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, still confused, your mind struggling to process what was happening. But in his mind, it was already decided. You were his—had been from the moment he laid eyes on you. And soon enough, you’d understand that too.

Homelander cupped your face as though you were the most delicate thing in existence, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone capable of such monstrous strength. His heart raced as he leaned in, finally close enough to taste the softness of your lips—something he’d craved for what felt like an eternity. He could already imagine how perfect you’d feel, how right it would be.

But before his lips could meet yours, your hand quickly covered his mouth. "Wait," you said, eyes wide with sudden embarrassment.

His eyes snapped open, irritation flashing in them, his impatience barely concealed. "What?" he grunted, his voice muffled by your hand.

You hesitated, biting your lip nervously, avoiding his intense gaze as you finally explained, “My lips… they’re poisonous.”

His brows furrowed in confusion, and you removed your hand, looking even more embarrassed. “They contain a toxin,” you said softly, as if confessing a dark secret. “It gives anyone who kisses me a high, raises their heart rate until they get a heart attack… and die.”

A heavy silence followed as you waited for his reaction, expecting rejection or disgust. But Homelander’s eyes gleamed with something entirely different. Instead of pulling away, he just shrugged as if the danger you posed was trivial to him. "Fuck it," he muttered with a smirk, his hands tightening around your cheeks.

Before you could protest again, he pulled you into a kiss, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that bordered on madness.

The moment your lips met, Homelander let out a low, primal groan of pleasure. The sensation of your mouth against his was everything he’d imagined—and more. He could feel the toxin you had warned him about seeping into his bloodstream, but instead of fear, it only fueled the euphoria rushing through him. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, deepening the kiss, his desire consuming every rational thought.

The high from your poison made him feel invincible, like every dark, twisted part of him was being set free. The world outside—its chaos, its disappointments, its endless betrayals—faded into nothing. All that mattered was you. He felt light, weightless, as though he could fly to the edge of the universe with you in his arms.

And as the toxin worked its way through his system, the sensation of bliss became all-consuming. He didn’t just want to kiss you—he wanted to devour you, to possess you completely, body and soul. Every kiss, every taste of you, made the thought of losing you unbearable.

He deepened the kiss, his grip on your face tightening, every muscle in his body screaming with pleasure. He didn’t care about the risk, didn’t care that you could kill him. In that moment, he belonged to you, utterly and completely, and he’d die a thousand deaths for this feeling. The darkness inside him surged, but for once, it didn’t feel like a curse. With you, it felt like freedom.

Homelander had never been high in his entire existence, but if this was what it felt like—well, it was fucking spectacular. Every nerve in his body buzzed with euphoria, his muscles relaxed in a way that felt almost foreign to him, and everything around him suddenly seemed amusing, even absurd. He laughed—really laughed—as he flew the two of you back to Vought Tower, the wind whipping through his hair as if the world itself couldn’t touch him.

When he landed on your balcony, a wide grin stretched across his face, a rare glint of pure joy in his eyes. You looked up at him, bemused, as he stumbled slightly, his usually poised demeanor replaced with a boyish charm. He couldn��t stop smiling. “How long does this last?” he asked, his voice light with the toxin’s effects.

You chuckled softly as you led him inside, your touch warm and steady while his hands wandered over you, unable to keep still. “Max? Maybe two hours before the average human dies,” you murmured with a teasing smile.

He let out a breathless laugh, his hand still brushing against your waist, intoxicated not just by the toxin but by you. “How many people have you done this to?” he asked, voice low as he buried his nose in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. It was almost possessive, his need to absorb every part of you.

You leaned back slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “Two… high school boyfriends.”

Homelander’s hands slid over your body, but then something caught his eye—a small jar on the kitchen island. His gaze sharpened instantly, curiosity piqued. “What’s that?” he asked, tone suddenly playful but underlined with a dangerous edge as his fingers drifted toward the jar.

He could feel the tension in your body before he even turned to face you fully, sensing the shift in the air. His smile twisted into something more predatory as he turned to you, eyes glinting with amusement and a hint of menace. “Look here,” he started, his voice low and smooth, “since we’re now officially together—”

“Officially?” you murmured, your eyes slightly hazy from his intoxicating presence, a dreamy smile playing on your lips.

He scrunched his nose in a mock expression of annoyance. “Yeah, officially. And there’s one thing you should know about me—I hate secrets. Can’t fucking stand 'em.”

You flushed, your face heating with embarrassment as you shifted on your feet, clearly reluctant to answer. “It’s… nipple cream,” you mumbled.

Homelander raised an eyebrow, his expression uncharacteristically patient, though the intensity in his eyes never wavered. “I can see that,” he said, his voice slow, almost mocking. He leaned closer, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But why do you need it?”

You hesitated, then looked away shyly before finally answering, “I lactate.”

For the first time in a long time, pure shock crossed Homelander’s face. His smile faded, replaced by an unreadable expression as your words sank in. Lactate? He couldn’t process it at first, the information almost short-circuiting his mind. “What?” he asked, his voice lower now, the question almost a growl.

You swallowed, explaining softly, “Just like how some plants and fruits produce milk… ever since I got my first cycle, I’ve been producing milk too.”

Homelander’s throat went dry, his eyes dropping instinctively to your breasts as his thoughts spun wildly. “Only during your cycle?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

“No,” you admitted, your voice softer still. “Every single day since I got my cycle.”

A long pause hung in the air between you, the weight of your revelation settling in. Homelander’s heart pounded, and for a moment, the effects of the toxin couldn’t compare to the sheer awe and hunger he felt. His gaze drifted back up to meet yours, and something primal flickered in his eyes.

“Oh,” he murmured, a slow smile creeping back onto his face, but this time, it wasn’t just euphoria driving it. No, this—this was something deeper.

Somehow, impossibly, you had just become even more perfect in his eyes.

Reader's Aesthetic

(only her supe name is Pink Dahlia)

Hope you enjoyed!

#homelander x reader #homelander #the boys #homelander x you #homelander x y/n #antony starr #the boys x reader #homelander fanfiction

452 notes · View notes

rhaenyratargcryen · 3 months ago

Text

i want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight | logan howlett/wolverine

masterlist ❈

summary: drifting from town to town and never lingering in one place for too long has served you well since you began to realize something might be...different, about you. you've never been able to put a finger on what exactly that difference is, until you end up at the same bar as a mysterious, albeit deeply captivating, stranger. author's note: this literally came from an idea of a reader that could share their own feelings through touch, which then snowballed into an arguably too long one shot (if i'm not careful, that's what i'm going to become known for hahaha) i recently rewatched x-men (2000) after seeing dp&w (twice) and haven't had time to rewatch the others. i know at the end of the first movie, logan leaves the school - so i feel like this would take place, hypothetically, either after he returns/before x2, or between x2 and x-men 3. idk it's not that deep seriously just imagine early 30-something year old hugh jackman's wolverine while you read this <3 kind of still a shithead, not yet entirely traumatized lol!!!

pairing: logan howlett/wolverine x f!reader word count: 10,353 (uhhhh hahaha next question) warnings/tags: pWp (with, y'all!), sloooow burn, user rhaenyratargcryen had to google everyone's powers multiple times just. be warned

18+/mdni i am sooooo serious and please don't repost with or without asking for permission. i'm not into that kind of thing, if you want to share pls reblog!!!!

title is from she wants revenge's "tear you apart"

It’s a Sunday, when Logan finds you. Or, you’d soon come to find, perhaps it was you who had been the one to find him.

You’ve grown accustomed to becoming a familiar face at every shitty bar in every small town your drifter lifestyle drags you to, and this hole-in-the-wall in the Hudson Valley that smells slightly of piss and even more of cigarettes is no different.

The motel down the street that you’d unpacked your menial possessions into is the perfect distance from the dive — you could walk home at the end of the night, and not worry you’d find yourself in trouble with a stranger. Well, the wrong kind of stranger.

Sitting at the end of the bar, you’re nursing your third drink in the fading light of the afternoon as it comes through the row of windows to your right when the light blinks out, abruptly, and you look up to find yourself face to face with a very ruggedly-handsome man with…mutton chops, you think? You snort. They haven’t been in style for centuries.

Your gaze drags across his face, down to his torso, then rests for a beat too long to be appropriate on the way his jeans sit low on his hips, a bit too tight on his thighs if he was to ask you. He stiffens under your wandering eye, watching you carefully as your attention returns to his — begrudgingly, considering he’s disturbing your peace — beautiful face.

He’s hot, you’ll give him that, but you try your best to glare and look unapproachable; it’s a Sunday and you’re drunk on bottom-shelf whiskey, trying desperately to communicate that you’re not quite in the mood for conversation with a stranger at the moment.

This man will not take a fucking hint.

He gestures to the seat directly to your right. “Mind if I sit here?”

You glance pointedly at the rest of the seats at the bar, which are all notably empty, but you say nothing and grunt your indifference. This guy doesn’t look the talkative type, but you really hope he isn’t looking for a chat. Luckily, he sits down silently and gestures to the bartender, who seems to recognize him and pours him a finger of whatever you’ve also been drinking.

From the corner of your eye, you can see that he’s picked up the glass and swirled the liquor around in it, but before he can take a swig, he opens his mouth with the glass practically pressed to it and mutters, “You know what you are?”

“That’s an odd fucking thing to say,” you remark, pulling your glass closer to you and closing both fists around it, turning to look directly at him. Your heart stutters as you watch the left side of his mouth curl slightly into a smirk. “Wanna explain to me what the fuck you mean by that, dude?”

The man grunts and throws back his whiskey, swallowing it in one go. Before you can get another word in, he lifts his left hand up, flexing his forearm, and you watch as three shiny, silver pieces of metal pierce through the skin between his knuckles with a sharp snikt sound.

“What the fuck,” you rasp, pressing a hand flat down on the bartop to push yourself up and away from him in the seat next to you, knocking your own drink over in the process. No one else in the bar seems fazed, like he comes in here and does this — whatever this is — often. He doesn’t move, doesn’t make an attempt to come closer to you than he is, and eventually your heartbeat calms down, and your flight response becomes a fight response. You bristle, a bit pissed off at what you read as an attempt to scare the shit out of you for fun.

“What’s your problem?”

“Ain’t got a problem, bub,” the man murmurs, leaning against the bar and grinning, the claws retracting. He wipes the backs on his knuckles off onto the thighs of his jeans, blood staining the denim red. “Was just trying to get you to do whatever it is you can do.”

You thank the bartender, who has dropped a rag in front of you to clean your spilled liquor and replaced your empty glass with a full one.

“Sweetheart, I could smell you the second I stepped foot through that door. I haven’t seen you around here before, you new in town?”

Smell you? You’re about one more strange statement from him away from losing your goddamn mind. “I’m gonna need you to elaborate on what you mean by smell. Please.”

He leans closer to you, that smirk on his mouth a provocation, so close that you can practically taste the whiskey on his breath. “You ever heard of mutants, dollface?”

—————

Now, seeing as that wasn’t the kind of conversation you wanted to have in public, you had tried to push him — Logan, his name is, you learn — back by his chest, but the man was an immovable object. Probably a good thing you’d ultimately decided it wasn’t worth trying to hit him.

“Excuse me,” you’d uttered, slapping a twenty dollar bill down on the bar top and slipping out of your seat carefully, quickly realizing how drunk you really are. When you right yourself, you turn to him and angle your head to the door behind you.

“We can have this talk somewhere else, yeah?”

Logan had looked up at the bartender, muttered, “Add hers to my tab?” and palmed your money to give back to you, following you across the room. When you’d tried to object, Logan had held his hand up and told you your money wasn’t good here anymore.

Now, you lead him through the door to your room, stripping yourself of your jacket and kicking at the dirty laundry on the floor at the end of the bed at the same time.

“Want to tell me what the fuck that was all about? Do I know you or something?”

“No, sweetheart,” Logan says, unzipping his moto jacket and slipping his arms from the sleeves, revealing a crisp white t-shirt and biceps thicker than your neck. You subtly try to shake your head, snap your attention away from them, but he smirks, catching your eye. “You don’t know me. But I think you’re like me. We’re drawn to each other, you know. It’s like some sort of…beacon, a homing device. I was coming to the bar anyway. I knew what you were, second I saw you.”

“And you think I’m…also a, what, a mutant?”

“Not think. Know. You seriously can’t think of a single thing recently that might have felt a little, I don’t know, off? Can you see things you couldn’t before? Have you been hungrier? Felt more on edge?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying and failing to think of any big change, but you come up short. Shaking your head, you glance back up at him. “No. No, everything’s been the same. I’ve been on the road a bit, moving from place to place, but that isn’t unusual for me.”

“Any particular reason you chose Westchester County to land on?”

“I don’t know…I just,” you blanch, realizing he’s right, except it hasn’t been one big change – it’s been little by little. “I felt drawn east.”

Logan considers this for a moment; you can see the ditch between his eyebrows deepen with thought, before he seems to come to some sort of conclusion.

“I think you been in fight or flight for a long time, trying to survive on scraps and strangers’ generosity. Let me guess. No family left? Nowhere to call home? Somethin’ big and bad happen to you?”

You say nothing and he watches a scowl slip across your face, humming when he realizes he’s cut deep, to the bone.

“C’mere,” Logan murmurs, and you take steps backward as he comes toward you, the backs of your calves meeting the bed. He holds his hands up, palms facing you. “Hey, okay. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I’m not in the business of scaring little girls.”

“I’m not a little girl,” you scoff, staring at him out of the corner of your eye as he advances, albeit a little more slowly, on you.

Logan shakes his head. “You’re still much younger than me, sweetheart.”

“What? You don’t look older than 31, maybe 32.”

“Yeah, well. Looks aren’t everything, okay? I’m just — I’m not in the business of scaring girls. I wouldn’t’a let you bring me back here if I was going to hurt you; that’s not who I am.”

You suppose you don’t have much choice but to trust him.

“I wanted you to come here,” Logan breathes, hands returning to his sides. He gives you a look, asking permission to move closer to you, to touch you, and you tip your head forward in a slight nod. “So I can do this.”

He grasps your forearm in his hand, places your palm on his bicep, and immediately winces. White flashes in front of your eyes, and a sharp pain nearly splits your head in half. You gasp his name, beg him to stop. When he pulls your hand from him, it almost looks like the print of it has been burned into his skin.

“I have a friend who’s an empath,” Logan murmurs, pupils blown, once his heartbeat has recovered to its resting rate. “She has to touch someone, to affect the way they feel. It’s good for, you know, calming people down in situations where they might be worked up. You, on the other hand…”

Logan trails off and you shake your head, bringing your arms up to fold across your torso, shivering gently. “What? I’m what?”

“I think, when you touched me, you made me feel what you were feeling. You were scared of me, huh? I could feel it, immediately. I could taste copper in my mouth, I started sweating.” Logan laughs softly, running his fingers across the skin of his right hand. “My palms are still sweaty.”

He’s still staring down at his hands, at the stretch of skin on his arm that still stings with the feeling of you. Your eyes rove over his handsome profile, at his strong nose. His jaw ticks when he looks back over to you, one eyebrow curled.

”Sorry,” he adds. “I didn’t know it would hurt you.”

Already walking past you, Logan gestures toward the bed. “Sit,” he orders, and you blanch and do as he says. He digs a cellular phone out of the front pocket of his jeans and ducks his head, disappearing wordlessly into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Groaning, you fall back onto the bedspread. Fuck, this whole ordeal has sobered you up, and quick. Why is there a strange man in your bathroom? You could make people feel what you’re feeling? What was going to happen now?

You run through every possibility — you could leave before he comes back, abandon your stuff, take your car and run — but by the time you come to any sort of conclusion, Logan emerges from the bathroom.

“C’mon,” he says, sliding his jacket back over his arms, zipping it up and gesturing toward the door with his head. “Got somebody who wants to meet you.”

You sit up straight and look around at your belongings. Logan seems to take this hint and starts gathering the articles of clothing strewn across the room, along with those still somehow neatly folded in the motel dresser, ignoring your protests and stuffing them in the suitcase open on the floor against the wall. After a few moments of watching Logan pull together your worldly belongings, you fumble with the drawer on the bedside table, open the bible, and pull out your passport and an indeterminate, but large, amount of cash. Logan eyes it but says nothing, and when you zip your suitcase closed, he picks it up for you without a word.

“You won’t need to come back here,” Logan mutters as you slam the tailgate on your truck closed. He points to the room you’d just left, then rounds to the driver’s side of your truck and starts walking across the parking lot, looking over his shoulder to shout, “You can leave your key in the room. There’s plenty of empty beds where we’re headed.”

“And if I don’t want to go?”

Logan stops and turns back to face you, his jaw set. “Pretty soon, people’ll figure out what you are, sweetheart. And they won’t take to you as nicely as I have.”

You snort. Nicely. But you know he’s right. It seems like things are a little different around here, for people like you. But you know that now you know what you are, that will change. As you’re trying to figure out what to say to him, Logan starts backing up.

You’re still unsure of how to talk to this man you’d only recently met, who’d already had a hand in changing your life fundamentally, but you hold a hand up, asking him to stop. He does. He watches you carefully, probably trying to decide whether or not you’re going to run away. You’re still not sure yourself.

“How did you know that you needed me to touch you?”

“Call it gut instinct.”

“It didn’t hurt, by the way,” you murmur, turning to look at him. A few paces away from you, one of Logan’s eyebrows arches, and you wring your hands together.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It felt good.”

—————

The place you’re headed — plenty of empty beds, he’d said — is less than a ten minute drive from the motel you’d been staying at, it turns out. Logan had told you to wait by your truck while he went back to the bar to pick up his bike, then drove ahead of you all the way there, your headlights illuminating the back of his body. Wrought iron gates await you, and they ease open as you pull up the long gravel drive.

Logan drops his kickstand and leaves his motorcycle directly in front of a large set of wooden doors, and you slow nearly to a stop, trying to decide where’s best for your truck. Logan’s one step ahead of you and dismounts the bike, pointing you toward a line of cars on the other side of the little lot, following you on foot as you shift into park and turn the vehicle off.

“What is this place?”

Logan is popping your tailgate open when you open your door and he pulls your suitcase from the bed — the act takes him little effort, you notice. You thank him and try to take the case from him, but he shakes you off and leads you to the building.

“It’s a school,” Logan says, pushing through the front door. Immediately you’re greeted with the sound of children’s laughter, of feet running on wooden floors, of voices echoing off walls in the distance. You catch the door as it closes behind Logan, trying your best not to be distracted by the subtle opulence of just the foyer.

Logan drops your suitcase by the front window, then unzips his coat, removes it, and hangs it on the coatrack to his right. “We’ll figure out your room situation soon, but I wanna take you down to meet Charles first.”

“Charles?”

“He owns the place,” Logan mutters, crooking a finger to indicate for you to follow him. “He’ll want to see what you can do.”

Pursing your lips, you decide to press your luck with Logan. “What about what you can do? Is it just the claws?”

Logan smirks, coming to an abrupt stop in the dark hallway. He turns to face you, and you can see his teeth shine as he smiles. “What? You hoping for somethin’ else, a bigger show than I gave you earlier?”

You stand your ground with him, but your heart is racing, and he cocks an eyebrow like he can tell. He relents, shrugging.

“I heal pretty fast, too.”

Charles’ office is behind the last door on the left, at the end of the hall, and you’re shocked when Logan knocks, rather than entering the room like he belongs there.

“Come in,” you hear, then realize you hadn’t actually heard it. It’s more like you’d felt it knocking around the inside of your skull. Your heartbeat picks up again.

“It’s okay,” Logan says out of the corner of his mouth. “He does that sometimes.”

The door opens, and you’re met with an almost-empty office — only a bald man sat behind a large wooden desk.

“So,” the man says, folding his hands upon the tabletop. No hello. No, it’s lovely to meet you. “You’re an empath, are you?”

“I — I guess?”

“Hm,” he murmurs, glancing at Logan, who stands behind you and to the left, slightly.

“She is, Chuck,” Logan assures Charles. “I felt it myself. She can show others her emotions, make them feel what she feels. She was scared when she met me — had my heart racin’. I could see myself through her eyes.”

He hadn’t told you that part, and you worry he’d noticed that your heart hadn’t only been racing because you were afraid. Charles clicks his tongue, and surveys you, your dirty shoes, the wild look in your eye, and clears his throat.

“If you wouldn’t mind, young lady, I’d quite like to feel for myself, as well.”

A blush heats up your face and you step forward, throwing a tentative look at Logan over your shoulder. He nods, dispelling any fears, and you step forward until you’re standing at the edge of Charles’s desk. You reach across, shaking, and take the man’s hand in yours.

“Oh,” Charles murmurs, his pupils dilated. “That’s certainly new. You’ve no need to be afraid, dear, we only want to help you. As I’m sure Logan told you, it’s a dangerous world out there, for our kind.”

“And we’re safe here?”

“Yes.”

Logan brushes past you and rounds Charles’s desk, leaning down to murmur something in the man’s ear. You can hear their hushed, hurried voices, but can’t make out what they’re saying, and the longer you stand there as an onlooker, the more out of place you feel. You shift your weight from your left foot to your right foot and look out the window as they talk.

The sun is setting outside — the late summer glow illuminating the office, warming your face — and you decide to clear your throat, drawing the men’s attention back to you.

“If it’s alright, I’d like to be alone for the night. I think.”

“That’s alright, yes,” Charles smiles, raising a hand and curling his fingers inward. The door opens behind you, and you jump. “This is a lot for one day, I understand. Logan, if you would show our guest to a spare room? One in your wing, perhaps, in case she is in need of anything.”

You glance at Logan and watch him nod, then turn and wink at you. You roll your eyes at him. He doesn’t know you, and the familiarity with which he interacts with you is unnerving, but at the same time, you find him intriguing.

It’s almost like the man you met at the bar and the man guiding you out of this room are two entirely separate people. The man from the dive was overeager, compensating for being the one thing there that was out of place. This man is relaxed. This is his home.

You wonder as you watch him if this is who he really is.

“Charles is telepathic,” Logan murmurs, almost as if he can also hear your thoughts racing. He glances over at you, holding your eye a beat too long. “He’s also telekinetic.”

“Hence the door opening on its own.” You pause. “And the creepy voice inside my head.”

Logan chuckles, shrugging and bending down to retrieve your suitcase from where it now sits at the bottom of the staircase. You watch the muscles in his biceps flex, your mouth suddenly going very dry. “You get used to it. People say he can read every mind within a two-hundred-and-fifty-mile radius of wherever he sits. Can’t imagine all that noise all the time.”

Humming your consensus, you follow him, gaze trapped between his broad shoulders. Even the back of his neck is enticing. “If he could read my mind, why wouldn’t that have been enough for him to know?”

“There’s something different about what you do,” he says, guiding you up the stairs to the second floor and down a long, carpeted hall. “It requires touch. Charles can read your mind, sure, but there’s more to your influence than just your thoughts. It’s baser, more animalistic.”

Finally, the two of you come to a dead end, and Logan opens the nondescript wooden door to your left. He walks inside without waiting to see if you’ll follow and places your suitcase down on the end of the twin-sized bed against the farthest wall.

“You need anything, I’m two doors down across the hall, okay? Seriously. Anything.”

You haven’t moved from where you stopped in the doorway to watch him, one fist pressed against the frame you’re leant up against. He brushes past you, so close you can smell his cheap aftershave, the whiskey on his breath still lingering, though he hasn’t once seemed drunk. The hint of something more pungent. You open your mouth — before he gets too far, you want to ask him the question you haven’t yet had the courage to voice.

“Logan?”

The man pauses, his face inches from yours. Your gaze flicks between his eyes, then down across mouth, to where his throat moves as he swallows. “Hm?”

“Why are you helping me?”

What you mean is, You don’t seem like a generous man. What you mean is, I’m not afraid of you, but I haven’t yet decided if I can trust you. What you mean is, Why me?

He pauses, considering your question, then places one hand on your bicep and squeezes. His eyes are wet, like someone who remembers too much and not enough. Before you can catch your breath, he’s moved on, that same hand now wrapped around the doorknob of his own room. A small smile graces the lower half of his face. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I got a habit a’ pickin’ up strays.”

—————

The days pass by quickly, and they’re exhausting. There’s a war brewing, they all say. A war none of you had ever asked to be a part of, but have no choice in joining. You wake daily before the sun rises, called downstairs to do endless exercises to strengthen your control over your ability, you’ve come to think of it as. The problem is that you’re not sure you’re capable of the things they need you to be capable of.

“Can we stop, for today?”

You’re bent at the waist, arms dangling, both hands clutching the opposite elbow. It helps you decompress. This isn’t physically tiring work, necessarily, but the mental strain is undeniable. You’re avoiding Charles’s gaze, which you know will have a disappointed glean to them.

“What, can’t handle it already?”

You perk up at the sound of Logan’s voice, and when you turn your head towards it, you see him walking towards you across the yard, light wash jeans slung low on his hips once again. The sleeves of his white tee are rolled up, straining against the corded muscle of his biceps, the collar cut into a V at the front.

Since you first met him, you’ve learned a few things about Logan: one, he’s Canadian. Two, he can drink you under the table, and he will absolutely let you drink yourself to sleep, but he always makes sure you end up in your own bed at the end of every night. And three, his powers are more than just the claws: he has a regenerative healing power, alongside superhuman strength, and superhuman stamina. The thought of that last one makes you blush.

You spend most evenings with him on the floor of your room, drinking cheap whiskey while he chain smokes and deals you in after every round of cards he kicks your ass at.

“Need to work on your poker face, darlin’,” he always says, smirking and shuffling the cards again with his lithe, thick fingers.

And on the nights when you can’t find sleep, he sits up with you in your room, reading Hemingway and Steinbeck and Fitzgerald, even some Stephen King, while you curl up on your side and let the even sound of his breathing lull you unconscious.

You get used to each other’s presence. You don’t talk much while you sit together – is there really anything more to say? He’d clocked you that very first day. You were alone in the world, before, but not anymore.

He doesn’t do this with anyone else, you notice. Allow them into his small circle of trust, or whatever this is. You’re friends, you think. He hasn’t let himself have many of those.

You’ve also learned a few things about yourself, the most important being that with some practice you no longer get a splitting headache using your ability; that you can control when and how you use it; and that you’ve been meditating on some other, perhaps more enjoyable and creative ways, to make use of it.

Although you’d tried to deny it from the start, unfortunately — mostly for yourself — the attraction you feel toward Logan is unshakable. He’s rough, and sharp, and impermeable, but he seems to have a soft spot for you. You can’t tell if it’s the circumstances under which the two of you met that have him feeling that way, but you’ve developed a fun back and forth over the last few weeks.

“What, sweet cheeks,” Logan pokes at you, left hand on his cocked hip. “Is it that hard for you, still?”

Shaking your head, you grin at him, one hand cupped over your eyes to block the sun behind him. You turn to glance at the back of Charles’s chair, already heading away from the two of you. Your attention falls back on Logan.

“C’mere, then,” you murmur, standing up straight and mirroring his body language. One of his eyebrows arches and his canine teeth appear as his smile widens. “I’ll show you how easy I can get it goin’.”

As he crosses the remaining bit of yard between you, that smug look on his face, you channel fury. You push every ounce of attraction and good will you feel toward Logan out of your mind, and you think: anger. I’m angry. At my circumstances. At what the world does to people like me. At how much I’m underestimated — at how much I underestimate myself.

By the time Logan has made it to your side, hand already outstretched, you’ve made up your mind. And you place one hand on the side of his face.

Immediately, you feel heat, but the cracking headache from that first day you’d met never comes. Instead, you feel an ache deep in your gut, a wave of want, of assurance that you’re where you need to be, with exactly the right person. You hold your palm against him for another minute and his face falls forward, towards your chin, before he wraps his hand around your wrist and pulls it away, gasping with relief when you let him go.

Logan’s cheeks are flushed, and when he looks back up at you, chest heaving, you realize he hadn’t felt your anger. You didn’t have much to be angry about — sad, sure; scared, yes — so anger must have been the wrong emotion to pull from. You’d wanted to get him worked up, but not like this.

Instead, you worry you’ve just ruined any ounce of trust the two of you had built between you. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leans away from you, his eyes running from the top of your head, down to where your own hands now sit at your sides.

“I’ll talk to you later, kid, okay?”

Logan doesn’t let you respond, instead turning to leave you standing, heart falling, lost in your head in the middle of the yard, while all around you birds chirp and children play.

—————

“Well, well.”

You jump, the back of your head snapping against the top of the inside of the fridge, and you groan, pressing the heel of your hand to the now-tender spot, pulling it away to see if you’ve made yourself bleed.

“Burning the midnight oil?” Logan laughs, padding across the kitchen and rubbing a hand against the top of your head where you knocked it. “Sorry, bub. You okay?”

“I don’t know. Ask me in a few minutes when my eyes uncross.”

You’re too focused on the feeling of his fingers against your scalp to think about anything else. You glance down at Logan’s flannel pajama pants and his bare feet. He grabs you by the shoulders and steers you against the kitchen island behind you.

“Lemme get you some ice.”

You watch, back pressed to the edge of the counter, as Logan pulls a tea towel from one of the kitchen drawers and a tray of ice from the freezer, popping them out onto the towel and folding it into itself, wrapping the tail to give you something to hold onto. You prop it against your skull — instant relief. You eye him warily, accusatory.

“What are you down here for anyway?”

“Same thing as you, I think.”

Logan refills the tray with water and places it back into the freezer, and this thoughtfulness surprises you, you’re embarrassed to admit. You wouldn’t have thought him to be so considerate. Then again, he had just handmade an ice pack for you. Your eyes glaze over and your mouth goes dry just watching his fingers work.

You haven’t seen him for days, not since you’d accidentally let him feel…whatever it is you feel for him. Every day when you’d gotten out of bed, even when that was before the sun rose, he would always already be gone from his room, the door open and his duvet cover tucked neatly underneath his mattress. He hadn’t taken any of his meals in the dining room with the rest of your peers, hadn’t joined in on any sparring sessions like he usually loved to do. His bike had stayed parked outside — you’d kept an eye out for it every day. You’d begun to worry that something had happened to him.

The silence starts to dig into you. You can’t help it; you have to break it.

“Thought you died, I didn’t see you for so long.”

“Yeah, well. I had some shit to take care of.”

You scoff at that. “I saw your bike outside, Logan, you never left the school. What kind of shit did you have to take care of?”

Another beat of awkward silence, and you can’t stand whatever wall has come up between you. You want to knock it down.

“You remember what you said to me in that bar?”

“What’s that?” Logan looks up at you, a sharp look in his eye. A warning, almost, but unfortunately, you’re feeling a little bolder than usual. Perhaps you’re concussed.

“You said that we were drawn to each other because of our abilities. I think maybe that wasn’t the only reason we found each other.”

He leans back against the freezer and stands quiet for a moment, his chest rising and falling with each steady breath. His dark eyes regard you in the dim light of the kitchen.

You step forward into his space, one hand coming up to press against his chest, through his shirt. The other, the one holding his makeshift ice pack, lands at your side.

Logan’s breath catches in his throat at your touch and he swallows around it, his heart stuttering under your palm. He’s waiting for the feeling to rush into and overwhelm him. It never comes.

Logan exhales, then reaches up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your cheeks flush a furious red and he chuckles at the feeling of it against his fingers. You’re tempted to shift your hand over to touch his skin, to fill him with this rush of unexpected desire you feel, but you can’t quell your thoughts that that would be a bad idea. Even though the position you’re in right now might be regarded as a bad idea, too.

Since you met, he’s made it abundantly clear he doesn’t see you as anything more than a friend — if that. But you’ve been replaying the other day in the training yard in your mind, and you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he’s got the same desire you do.

“You know, you’re right,” Logan murmurs, and you cock your head, looking to his face for an explanation. He takes the towel full of ice from your hand by your side and holds it against your head for you. “What you think about me, it’s all true. I’m not a nice man.”

“I don’t know. You say that, but you seem pretty nice to me. You took me in. You’re helping me understand what I am, what I can do. Logan, fuck’s sake, you tuck me into bed when I drink too much.”

Logan laughs softly, tilting his chin to take you in from a different angle. Your heart squeezes in your chest.

“I just can’t figure you out. You act all mean and tough and scary, but I see the way you look at me, and I’ve only known you, what, a handful of weeks? I see how you are with some of the students. I see how you are with Charles. You got some deep, dark past you don’t want anyone knowin’ about, sure, but you’re a nice man, Logan. You’re soft on me. I can tell.”

Considering you for a moment, Logan’s lips parts to respond, then he thinks better of it. His eyes fall from yours to the way your chest expands with every breath. You’ve wondered about you and him, and that one look gives you all the courage you need to say it.

“Since I got here I’ve had this feeling, that with you and me, there’s something bigger. Tell me you feel it too, that I’m not goin’ crazy. And if you don’t, Logan, tell me that, then. Anything to stop this awful, sick feeling I get whenever you walk into the room.”

You wait to see if he’ll tell you to fuck off, that he doesn’t see you that way. That he’s soft on you, sure, but this is as far as it can go. Instead of saying anything at all, he surges forward to claim your mouth with his.

The kiss is hesitant, at first, before Logan can figure out whether you’re going to push him away or not, but when you open your mouth to deepen it, it turns furious. It’s all teeth, tongue, Logan’s hips caging you in and driving you back against the counter behind you. He’s got one hand wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the countertop, and when you carelessly bring a hand up to rest a hand against his cheek, Logan gasps against your mouth. The towel full of ice finds its way into the sink.

Shocked, he peels himself from you, panting. You hadn’t thought about whether you’d project or not when you’d touched him — and if his blown-out pupils are any indication, he’d felt it. All of it. The ache deep in your gut and the clench of your thighs. The flare of your nostrils as his scent hits you, heavy and earthy and masculine. The undeniable way you fit against him, your chest pressed to his, the shock of his hips aligned with yours, like you were made for one another. You want him to have you, have all of you, and with your palm still pressed to his skin, he knows.

“Is that really what you want?”

It’s practically a growl, and you pull your hand from him, allowing him to recover, but only slightly. He’s got himself worked up all on his own.

You can see in his face that he wants you, too. You nod, bring one hand down to clutch the waistband of his pants and tug him forward against you again. He groans, gathering some of your hair in one hand and gripping it tight.

“Sweetheart, I’m not exactly a — a gentle guy.”

“Somehow I don’t believe you.”

Logan laughs, breathy, and tilts his head back to take you in. He throws a glance down at your hand tucked into his pants, the backs of your knuckles pressed against the swell of his stomach. “I didn’t have you pegged for the fuck-me-in-the-kitchen type.”

“I’ll let you take me back to your bedroom, if you want.”

Whistling lowly, Logan leans his face in close to yours, the tip of his nose nudging against your cheekbone. “And if I told you I wanted to take you right here?”

“I’d tell you that’s fine, too,” you swallow, angling your face up to try to press your lips to his, but his grip on your hair stops you. He grunts, tugging a little harder, so you have to look into his eyes. They’re soft, wary. For all the talk he talks, he’s a man of few words when it matters, and you can tell he can’t believe you’d want a guy like him. You’re not exactly a gentle girl, either, but he sees how much more the world has gotten to him than it has to you. You’ve still got the potential to be someone who wouldn’t want him.

“You really want me?” You hear the unspoken emphasis. You could have anyone else, and I can’t see why you’d pick me.

“Since the day we met,” you mutter, his breath against your mouth driving you insane. “Logan, please kiss me.”

He brings his other hand, the one that’s been holding your hips in place this whole time, up to press against your cheek, and he closes the distance between you once again. The hand still gripping his pants tugs them forward, and you can feel his insistent cock where it’s now pressing against you. You moan into Logan’s mouth and this seems to drive him mad, holding your head in his hands like you’ll float away and driving his tongue against yours, languid and fluid but at the same time persistent.

“C’mon, doll,” he says when you break away to gulp down a breath, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I got a queen bed in my room.”

As Logan drags you out of the kitchen and to the wing of the mansion where the two of you live, practically a world of your own, you trace your fingers down his back over the top of his shirt. His body shivers under your touch and he laughs, turning to look at you as he pushes through into his bedroom.

“Hey, yeah,” you murmur, watching him drag his shirt up and over his head, exposing his bare chest and the patches of short, wiry hair growing there, the vein on his lower stomach that leads your gaze down to wonder at the bulge in his pajama pants. You tear your eyes away and meet his smug stare. “How come I gotta sleep in a twin?”

He laughs at you, reaching out to curl his fingers around the bottom of your sweater and lead you closer to him. He hums, muttering, “Don’t worry about it.”

Then he’s kissing you again, your eyes closing at the sensation of his mouth against yours. His hands are underneath your shirt, skirting across your bare back and now you’re the one shivering under his touch. His fingernails scratch gently against your skin and you moan again, sighing into his open mouth. He smiles before pulling away, only slightly.

“Feels good?”

You nod, flexing your fingers at your sides. You can’t remember the last time someone touched you so sweetly. He catches sight of your hands and runs the tips of his own fingers down your arms.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says, mouth close to the shell of your ear. He tucks his teeth around it, too, gently, but you cry out at the surprising sensation. “You can touch me.”

You nod and place an open palm against his sternum, his bare skin heating beneath your hand. You want him to feel the way your mouth has dried at the thought of being beneath him in his bed. You want him to know just how far you’ll let him go. When you open your eyes to look at him, a different beast entirely has crossed his face. His mouth curls into a self-satisfied smile.

“Hm,” Logan grunts, nostrils flaring, teeth baring further. “I can smell how bad you want me, baby. Could down in the kitchen, too. I can feel how tense I make you. Do I still scare you? Huh?”

You shake your head, whisper, “No,” your voice hoarse. “You don’t scare me, Logan.”

“No, I didn’t think so. I don’t even think it scares you, how much you want this. I think it excites you. Think you been wonderin’ what it’d be like for a while, huh?”

Logan’s arm tightens around your waist and pulls you flush against him, your hand trapped between your chests. You gasp, the warmth of his body flooding yours, filling you with heat, with want, which then rushes into Logan, his eyes rolling back at the sensation.

“I wasn’t sure about you when I first met you,” he bites out, tilting his head to meet your eye again. “But fuck if I wouldn’t move heaven and earth for you now.”

Your heart stutters at the admission, the reassurance that you’re not alone in the way you feel about him. You peel your palm from his skin and sigh in relief when his gaze softens. Logan pushes his face into your neck, lips pressing tenderly to your pulse point, forcing a soft groan from your mouth. You feel him smile against you and when his teeth graze that same spot, your knees buckle beneath you.

Tucking your hands back between your chests, you push Logan gently away from you and he goes willingly, a sharp contrast to the man who was rooted to his barstool the first time you’d tried to touch him. The look on his face would frighten you if he hadn’t spent so much time convincing you he wouldn’t hurt you. His expression is dark, contemplative.

Logan’s eyes watch, hooded with desire, as you back away from him, your knees buckling when the backs of them hit the edge of his bed. As soon as you sit, he begins stalking toward you, your heart racing against your sternum, and you meet his eye just as he reaches you. Taking your cheek in his hand, he angles your face up and watches as your eyelids flutter closed. His hand travels down, fingers running over the side of your neck and cupping the warm flesh where it meets your shoulder.

“I can feel your pulse,” he murmurs into the warm air between you. “It’s racing.”

You gasp when you feel his hand search out your heartbeat through your chest. Opening your eyes to meet his again, you see that the desire in his face has been replaced with something that looks frighteningly close to affection.

He grasps your wrist, thumb rubbing against the soft, sensitive skin above your pulse there, and guides your hand to press against his own heartbeat, a mirror to yours, thundering in his chest, too.

“You do this to me. Not because you want me to know what you’re feeling, sweetheart, because this is how I feel.” He swallows, voice thick in his throat. “I want you so bad.”

The confession comes out rasping, like the words had been ripped from his chest. Your hand trails down his bare stomach, the backs of your knuckles dancing along the planed ridges there. The skin beneath your fingers jumps when you skirt across it. Pushing your fingers into the waistband of the flannel pants, you groan at the sensation of the heat coming off of his skin. “This okay?”

“Fuck, baby, you’re askin’ me if this is okay?” Logan’s hand comes up to cup your cheek once again, and you glance up at the grin on his face. It lights up his eyes. It’s like Logan’s fighting two different parts of himself: the very human desire to be gentle, to be careful, and the beast inside of him that wants to tear you apart.

Laughing, you tug down on the elastic, cheeks heating when you don’t feel another waistband. He’s bare beneath, and as you’re eye-level with his hips, you come face-to-face with his flushed, heavy cock as you strip the fabric from him. The tip of it weeps as you palm him, stroking him gently so his foreskin pulls back and reveals the crimson tint of it. You can’t say you’re shocked by the size of him, considering how large a man he actually is.

“Fuck, Logan,” you breathe, mouth watering, and you know the way you’re looking at him would be a bit embarrassing if he wasn’t looking at you the exact same way, his lashes fluttering as you push the adrenaline coursing through your veins into him. He wraps one big hand around yours and squeezes, groaning at the sensation.

“Here, baby,” he says, pulling your hand from his cock and placing it into your lap. He laughs when you whine in protest, stepping out of his pajama pants entirely and leaving himself naked. You’re still fully clothed and it almost pains you. “Plenty a’ time for me to stuff myself down your throat later.”

The way he says it has a low, fuzzy warmth rushing into your gut, but you quit your protesting when Logan kneels on the floor at your feet. “Lean back.”

You do as he says and inch yourself further up the bed, knees still hanging over the side of the mattress, anchoring yourself to his bedspread with your elbows. Logan crooks his fingers into your own pants, kissing the skin he exposes as he pulls them down, down, leaving you in only your tee shirt and soaked-through panties. He eyes them as you unconsciously angle your knees outward, but ignores your desire completely, instead leaning up to bite the hem of your shirt and drag it up and over your stomach.

Gasping, you rush to pull the fabric from the grip of his teeth and pull it over your head, tossing it to the floor beside the bed and cupping the back of his head in one hand, fingers tangling themselves in the hair at the base of his neck. You ease him upward, his palms pressed into the bed next to your waist, and pull him into a searing kiss, hoping to communicate how you feel without saying a word. Logan pants into your mouth and squirms out of your grip, pupils once again blown wide. He leans down to press his lips to the base of your throat, your elbow falling back to the bed to hold yourself up.

Your gaze follows his descent down your torso, watching as Logan drops a kiss to your breastbone, to the areola of your right breast, then to the one of your left. His lips engulf your nipple and you moan softly, biting your bottom lip when he flicks his tongue across it. He drags his lips down your stomach, settling against the knot of one soft peak of your hip bone. He bites gently and your stomach clenches at the feeling. When you place a hand against his cheek, his eyes flutter shut, his nostrils flaring at the feeling flooding his body. The pleased, humming warmth he’s making you feel.

“Logan,” you whisper, watching him continue down, mouthing at the skin on the inside of your thighs, kneading the soft flesh there. “Please.”

“Please what, honey?” You can feel him smirk against you. “Gotta use your words.”

“Please put your mouth on me.”

“Am putting my mouth on you,” he says, smug, and you gasp, tossing your head back when he bites you again, this time enough to make your delicate skin bruise. “Whaddaya want?”

“Want you to fuck me.”

“With my mouth?” Logan tuts, bringing one hand up to pull your panties to the side and expose your warm, wet flesh to the cool air of his bedroom. Your hips twitch. “You sure?”

You angle yourself up, trying desperately to find his mouth and claim it yourself. He laughs at the desperate want plastered across your face. “Oh, fuck off, you god damn tease, just fuck me.”

Logan shakes his head, leaning in to lick along your wet cunt and a sharp, bright cry rips itself from your chest. Your thighs try to close around his head as he presses his thumb into your pubic bone and holds you open, laps at your clit, but he growls and grips one in his hand, wrenching it away from him. His eyes shine up at you from between your legs.

“Why’d’ya wanna do that, huh, baby? You want me to fuck you so bad, don’t make it hard on me,” he murmurs, wrapping his lips around your clit and suckling gently while you cry out. He carries on like that for quite a bit – just his mouth against the most sensitive part of you, fingers pressing into your thighs. Your legs shake and you cover your mouth with your hand; you worry about coming too quickly until he eases up, pushing one finger inside of you to fuck you with.

Your hand grips the hair at the top of his head, and Logan groans at the pressure. Hissing, he presses his palms flat against the insides of your thighs to wrench them further open, encouraging you wordlessly to hook your feet across his back. When he’s satisfied, he crooks a finger around your panties and pulls until they tear, the shreds of fabric no longer an obstacle in the way of seeking out your pleasure.

“Want me to make you come?” The question is asked with his mouth pressed against your cunt, and you gasp, back arching, at the feeling of his words. “You wanna come on my tongue?”

You nod furiously, writhing as a second finger works itself inside of you, curling upward to meet head-on that spot inside of you that sends sparks behind your eyes. Your heels dig into the skin of his back and you reach down, blindly fumbling for Logan’s hand. He smiles wide and takes it, tangling his fingers with yours as your hips rut against his face.

He talks you through it between strokes of his tongue against your clit, his fingers pumping in and out as he tells you how good you are for him, how good you feel for him, how he can’t wait to feel you around his cock. You throw an arm across your eyes and whimper, hips twitching as you come down, pulling his hair and crying out for him to let up. He places one last kiss above your cunt, smiling as you gasp, and leans back to admire you.

Logan places your feet on the floor and plants his hands beside you, using the mattress as leverage to hoist himself up above you. He grins down at you and for however fucked out he already looks, you know you must look a thousand times worse.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss, giving you a taste of yourself by easing his tongue into your mouth. You can feel his cock, weeping and solid and insistent against your hip. Fuck.

You groan against him, your lips stretching into a smile as he kisses you languidly and reaches out to help you wrap your arms around his neck. “Here.”

Standing, Logan holds your body close to him. Your head notches into his neck and suckles there while he pulls you up the bed, settling you against the pillows underneath him. He props himself up on one hand as his knees push against the insides of your thighs, opening you up for him.

One hand on your flushed cheek, Logan fists his cock, smiling down at you. “Y’alright there, sweet cheeks?”

“Head’s fuzzy,” you murmur, reaching out to grip his hips with your hands. “Want you.”

Logan smirks, leaning back on his heels and running a hand through his hair, scalp sweaty. Your own fans out behind your head. He gawps down at you. “Look like a goddess like this, you know.”

Your blush deepens and you push a hand against his stomach. “Stop.”

“You do,” he smirks, leaning down to plant kisses across your face, down your jaw, to your neck. “Mm, so fucking pretty when I’ve just made you come. Smell so good.”

You gasp when he presses his mouth right behind your ear, gripping your hips. His cock drags across your stomach, a heavy reminder of his own neglected desire. You reach down to fist a hand around him and tug, pulling a groan from him.

“My girl want me to fuck her proper? Hm?”

Open-mouthed and with a heavy gaze, you watch as Logan sits back and fucks himself up into your fist, hips stuttering when you tighten your grip. His chest glistens with sweat, heaving as you push the burning feeling in your veins through to him. He gasps, stretching a hand down and holding your wrist still.

“Hey,” he growls, head thrown back. “Play fair.”

“Why should I?” He’s glaring down at you now, which only eggs you on. You shrug. “S’fun to watch you come apart like this, big strong man.”

Logan groans, pulling his hips back, and his cock falls from your grasp. “I’ll show you comin’ apart, baby.”

Sitting back on his heels, Logan wraps his hands around your hips and jerks them forward until your cunt is close enough to him that he would barely have to move his own hips to fuck his cock into you.

“You got a condom?”

“It’s okay,” you whimper, shaking your head. “Don’t need one. On the pill. I’m clean.”

Logan looks down at you, trying to gauge what headspace you’re in, if he should grab one anyway – and you shake your head. “Don’t need it, please.”

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” you repeat. He smiles, squeezes your hips tight. He nods, bringing one hand down to grip himself and ease toward you. Runs the head of his cock down your cunt, getting himself nice and slick, up and down and up again until you’re a panting mess, wiggling your hips. It’s torture. “Please, Logan.”

“Oh, now you’re askin’ nice?”

You groan, wild-eyed, and he wants to laugh at the look on your face but he chokes it back. You need him – bad – and he can’t say no to you.

“Alright, baby,” he says, hushed, gripping your thigh with the hand not currently around his cock. Guiding himself to your entrance, Logan pushes his hips forward, groaning as the head of his cock disappears inside of you. Despite how wet you are, the stretch burns, your body unattuned to his size. He presses forward, bit by bit, licking the tip of his thumb and pushing it against your clit to ease your discomfort, and you gasp at the feeling, eyes rolling back. “Shh, shh, it’s okay.”

Once he’s fully seated inside of you, he pulls your hips flush to his, leaning down to press himself to you completely. Hand still pressed to your clit between you, Logan circles his hips, watching your face, how you react. He watches your eyelids flutter, watches you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. He gives a shallow thrust to gauge your readiness, and you moan, low, in the back of your throat.

“S’okay,” you grunt out, hands braced against the outsides of his thighs, eyes trained on his lips. “Fuck, please. I’m so wet, Logan, please, please fuck me.”

Logan groans, your words going straight to his cock, twitching inside of you. He grips your waist in his hands and gives another exploratory rut, this time short, puncturing. Your breath is pushed out of your lungs. He rocks his hips back once again, pressing forward slow before punctuating the thrust with a sharp jolt, shocking the air from you once again.

Your nails dig into his thighs and he nods, his forehead rubbing against yours. “Okay baby, okay. I’ll fuck you, yeah. This what you want?”

His hips ease back, pulling his cock from your warmth almost all the way, before thrusting back in, deep, to the point. Then again, and again, and again. Your head has fallen back, Logan having to hook an arm around the back of your neck as you’re forced up the bed.

“You’re so warm, pulling me back in, sweetheart, so fucking wet for me. I’m gonna fuck you so good, you’re so tight, god, like you were made for me.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, mouth pressed to the side of his face. Your cunt tightens around him and you whine. “Already fuckin’ me so good.”

“You gonna come for me, baby? Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And you are. Again. You’re gonna come for him again. His cock is driving into you so fast you can’t escape the warm sensation in your gut – and you don’t want to. It feels so good, it’s like your whole body has turned to goo beneath him. You press a kiss to the underside of his chin, his beard scratching at your lips, but you don’t care.

“Yeah, baby? Can feel your cunt tight around me, can feel you ‘bout to come.”

“Gonna come, Logan,” you gasp, reaching one hand up and gripping the headboard as tight as you can, but your elbow still folds, your arm putty with the pleasure. He brings his other hand up from your hips to hold you by the top of your head, to keep you from slipping further up the bed, and your hands instinctively come around to clutch his shoulders.

Immediately the pleasure coursing through you lights every nerve ending in his body fucking alive. You feel him tense beneath your fingers, pulse quickening.

His hips snap down onto yours, his cock dragging up against that rough spot inside your cunt, as your orgasm floods through you. You hardly register the deep rumbling coming from his chest as you cling to him. Logan’s breath comes gasping as the feeling of your orgasm floods through him, too, hands gripping the flesh of your ass to hold you in place while he fucks down into you.

His eyes are closed tight, stomach clenching, and when you drag one hand down to rub circles on your clit, he buries his cock deep inside of you and holds himself there.

You scratch your nails gently down Logan’s back as he basically whimpers into the air between you, leaning up to catch his lips with yours as he rocks his hips, stuffing himself deeper, until you feel him come. He groans and spills himself into you, hips glued to yours, occasionally quavering with the aftershocks of his own orgasm.

“Fuck,” he huffs once he’s back in his body, one hand against your cheek, brushing your hair away from your mouth so he can press a kiss to them. His eyes search for yours, bright and enlivened. “You okay? Huh?”

You nod, your head loose on your neck, and he laughs. “Fuck,” he repeats. “That was fucking crazy. Is that how it feels every time?”

At that you sheepishly shake your head, eyes coming up to meet his. No, that’s not at all how it feels every time. You can tell by the look on his face he’s trying not to seem smug about that.

“That was good, though,” he murmurs, his face softening, “fuck, that was so good.”

He seems more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. You cry out when he pulls his cock from you, still holding your face and whispering sorry, baby, sorry. He presses a kiss to your mouth between apologies.

He unfolds himself from you and stands, running a hand through his hair. Pulling his pajamas back up over his legs and his shirt over his bare torso, he tells you he’ll be right back, and you must fall asleep after that because the next thing you know you’re curled up on your side while Logan runs a warm, wet washcloth across the inside of your thighs. You hiss at the sensation and he nudges a hand against your hip until you roll over onto your back.

“You sure you’re okay? I didn’t hurt you or nothin’?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, reaching for him and he obliges, dropping the cloth to the floor and crawling up the bed to wrap himself around you, slinging your leg over top of his. “You just wiped me out, s’all. And who thought you’d be so fuckin’ talkative in bed.”

He laughs and presses his lips to the end of your nose, his nose grazing your forehead.

You pull at his shirt and kiss him square on the mouth, a thank you for making you feel so good. So safe with him. Your bare chest is pressed to his, and you know he can probably feel how fast your pulse is racing, arms wrapped around your back. You still in his grip when you feel something pressing against your bare stomach.

He’s hard again. A fire reignites somewhere low in your belly, your mouth watering, and when you catch his eye, he grins, like he can read your thoughts.

“You wanna put that mouth to use now, sweetheart?”

396 notes · View notes

justlemmeadoreyou · 6 months ago

Text

the hot-for-teacher fantasy (ta!harry x student!y/n)**

summary: when y/n discovers her charming, handsome college teaching assistant harry styles is also a porn star, it awakens intense lust and longing. one day, harry calls her for a private study session. she wonders what he'll teach her, oblivious that harry knows everything.

words: 4k+

warnings: flirting, fluff, smut. p in v sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, kissing, dirty talk, creampie.

***

Y/N tried hard not to stare at her extremely good-looking teaching assistant during her Friday college lecture. But Harry Styles was just so hot, with his messy brown curls, bright green eyes, and perfect smile. His tight polo shirt clung to his muscular chest and shoulders. Y/N had to look away before she started imagining what he looked like without his shirt on.

"Girl, you're drooling again," her friend Liz teased in a whisper, nudging her.

Y/N blushed. "No, I'm not!"

Lately, she couldn't stop thinking dirty thoughts about the charming TA. His deep voice and confidence made it impossible for her to focus. There was something really familiar about Harry too, but she couldn't figure out what.

During the break, Harry passed back their graded essays. Y/N's breath caught when he got to her row.

"Nice work on this one," he rumbled, handing her the papers with a crooked grin and letting his fingers brush hers.

"T-thanks," she stammered, flustered by his touch and scent.

After class, Y/N rushed out, head spinning. Harry was just too much for her self-control sometimes. His flirty vibe and hints of his ripped body under his clothes made her imagination go wild.

Later that night, Y/N was scrolling online when she saw a weird tweet from her friend.

"'Who knew our former classmate had such an unexpected second career?'" she read out loud. "What does that mean?"

Curious, she clicked the link...and her jaw dropped. Short video clips played of a VERY naked Harry, putting on an X-rated show! He slowly stroked himself while staring intensely at the camera.

Y/N watched with wide eyes, feeling heated. So THAT'S why Harry seemed so familiar - he was a porn star!

For the next few weeks, Y/N tried to act normal around Harry in class while secretly reeling over his shocking second job. Every time he handed back papers or leaned across her desk, new fantasies popped into her mind of him in those porn videos.

Flashes of Harry's chiseled body and sexy pouts made Y/N shift in her seat, growing wet. She started touching herself at night while rewatching his videos, wishing his large hands were on her instead of himself.

"Hey, everything okay?" Harry asked after catching Y/N spacing out for the third time that lecture. "You seem...distracted."

Y/N snapped out of her daze, cheeks burning.

"What? Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just a little out of it today."

Harry's brow furrowed, but he let it go and continued his notes. Y/N scolded herself - she needed to be more careful or he'd suspect something!

The semester continued torturously, with Y/N longing for the sweet yet filthy TA. She devoured every new porn clip, imagining his deep groans were because of her. Harry remained perfectly charming and professional, driving Y/N crazy.

***

One evening, he asked Y/N to stay after for help studying. Her heart pounded as they were finally alone together. Harry was dressed casually in a soft t-shirt that clung to his biceps and tight jeans that left little to the imagination.

"So, what did you need help with?" Y/N asked, trying not to stare at the bulge in his crotch.

"Actually..." Harry shut the classroom door and turned to face her with a smirk. "I know what you've been up to."

Y/N paled. "W-what do you mean?"

In one swift move, Harry crowded her against the wall, hands braced on either side of her head.

"I mean, I know you've seen my...other job," he breathed, leaning so close she could smell his sandalwood cologne. "Judging by how distracted you've been, you must be a fan.I know what you've been up to," Harry said, his voice low. "In fact, I have proof."

Y/N felt her face flush. What could he possibly know? She racked her brain but came up empty.

Harry reached into his bag and pulled out Y/N's notebook from class. He flipped through the pages until he landed on one with "H ❤️" scribbled in the margins.

"This looks an awful lot like the little doodles I've seen pop up in the chat during my streams," he said with a raised eyebrow.

Y/N's heart pounded. He knew about her watching his porn! She opened her mouth to protest, but Harry cut her off by capturing her lips in a searing kiss.

"Wanted to do this for ages," Harry growled between heated kisses down her neck. "Could feel you eye-fucking me every class."

"Harry..." she gasped as he palmed her breast. This had to be a dream!

Y/N instantly melted against him, whimpering into his mouth. They kissed hungrily, all the pent-up tension finally unleashing.

"You taste so fucking sweet," he groaned against her racing pulse in that smoky, ruined timbre that immediately flooded her core with fresh arousal. "Been driving me mad, pretty girl. Had to have you."

She had spent countless nights alone getting herself off to the fantasy of Harry - the casual acquaintance turned porn star she had established an embarrassingly strong fixation on. In those frenzied moments of pleasure chasing, her imagination had run wild with what it might feel like to have his large hands on her, to experience his undivided intensity and passion in the flesh.

But nothing could've prepared her for the reality. For this soft, reverent side of him she never could've pictured behind that dirty-mouthed and cocky boldness of his videos. Harry was watching her with those mossy green eyes, hooded but shining, his warm gaze flickering over her flushed face like she was the most precious thing in the world.

Y/N traced her fingertips over the sharp jut of his cheekbones, down the carved column of his throat, savouring the tickle of his rough stubble. She wanted to bottle the rich, woodsy scent of his cologne and sweat, to keep this moment perfectly preserved somehow. This exact pocket in time when Harry was focused solely on her, that made her heart swell and thighs quiver.

When she nodded mutely in response to his question, Harry leaned in to capture her lips in a slow, searing kiss. One large palm cradled the back of her skull, tilting her head for the perfect angle to lick into her mouth with slow and soft sweeps of his tongue. The other hand splayed over her ribs, fingertips trailing up to graze the underside of her breast, each pass lighting tiny sparks across her sensitive skin.

A soft keen parted Y/N's lips when Harry finally palmed her fully, the rough pads of his fingers finding her peaked nipple. His mouth instantly set to work soothing her desperate whimpers with deeper, more heated sweeps of his tongue. He continued paying homage to her breasts with laving kisses until she was writhing and panting.

"So pretty," murmured that devastatingly deep rumble. "So fucking soft and perfect for me, love."

Harry punctuated the dark praise with a sharp nip to the upper swell of one breast, soothing away the faint sting with rich swirls of his talented tongue. Y/N's back arched involuntarily, a strangled moan shuddering from her chest as the flare of pleasure echoed all the way to her clenching core which was already throbbing with need.

She grabbed at Harry's broad shoulders, tugging to seek out more delicious friction. But he seemed determined to drag this out as long as possible - their position putting her at his command as he mapped every inch of her squirming form in unhurried exploration.

His talented mouth continued blazing an open-mouthed path down her sternum, across the quivering plane of her belly, all while his callused palms held her hips in a firm, grounding hold. When his lips finally met the juncture of her parted thighs, Y/N let out a garbled keen, head thrashing against the hard floor.

Harry shushed her gently, nuzzling against her damp curls as his huge hands anchored her bucking hips in place.

"I've got you, sweetheart," he rumbled, hot breath ghosting over her sensitized flesh and dragging a desperate whine from her chest. "Be a good girl and let me take care of my pretty girl, okay?"

Y/N's chest felt fit to burst from the tangled storm of arousal, tenderness, and pure longing that seemingly came out of nowhere at Harry's husked promise to "take care of her properly."

She couldn't find the brainpower to formulate any response beyond a punched-out mewl, utterly spellbound already by the wicked promise in Harry's voice. She lay pliant and trembling as he hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, fully exposing her to the hot sweep of his piercing stare and the first scorching lap of his tongue against her aching slit.

What followed was a hazy, blissed-out oblivion of sensation as Harry set to work devouring her with so much focus. Focus she had only seen on him when he was in deep, grading papers. There were no more teasing licks or tantalizing nibbles - he dove in with determination, sucking at her slick folds and swirling his tongue in swirls around her throbbing bundle of nerves until Y/N was writhing and sobbing out his name like a prayer.

Her fingers twisted in those sweat-soaked chestnut curls, tugging and desperate for an anchor as the exquisite wash of sensation threatened to unravel her completely. Every breathless whine and whimper was duly rewarded with another purposeful flick of Harry's talented tongue, coaxing her higher and higher.

He lapped at her clit, one digit opening her quivering entrance to his assault. He pushed them in, while she arched her back, giving him a deeper angle. Wet noises erupted from between her legs, his two fingers perfectly anchoring inside, swiping against her sweet spot that had her whimpering like a muse.

He fucked his fingers in and out of her, the thick nerves on his arms seeming to be erupting to life. The same hands that she had imagined about, were now inside her cunt, wet and warm with how wet she was.

His other hand joined the slick heat of his mouth, cupping and kneading her bucking hips with possessive surety, it finally pushed her over the blissful edge. Y/N's whole body convulsed as her climax detonated with blinding intensity, keening gasps punched from her chest again and again on each bottomless wave of pleasure.

Through the whiteout ecstasy, she felt her hips being released. Then, powerful arms were scooping her up against Harry's solid chest, enveloping her entirely as aftershock tremors kept rippling through her frame. Her cries were instantly muffled as he kissed her, her taste lingering in their mouths as she drank him in.

"That's my girl," Harry praised, his voice almost low and aching with want. "So fucking gorgeous falling apart on my tongue like that, sweetheart."

Y/N could only whimper helplessly in response and manoeuvred herself closer to his sweat-slicked torso, shuddering at the raspiness of his voice. Large palms stroked soothingly up and down her back as she slowly came back to earth and rejoined gravity.

One calloused thumb caught a stray tear she hadn't even realised fell, swiping it away with tenderness. The gentle gesture finally focused Y/N's senses enough to really look up at Harry - and what she saw stole the breath from her lungs all over again.

His green eyes were molten and hooded, swirling with naked want but also something more profound. Harry gazed down at her with such adoration and protectiveness that another sob rose in her tight throat, heart spasming almost painfully.

"You're so beautiful," he rasped out. One large palm cradled the back of her skull as his lips found her swollen and panting mouth in a deep, searching kiss. "So fucking strong and brilliant and incredible. I've wanted you for so damn long, Y/N. Please let me..."

Y/N couldn't formulate a coherent reply. So instead she silently nodded, her assent between kissing him back with every ounce of frenetic passion burning through her and took Harry's full weight as he rolled them until she was cradled in his lap.

Their kiss turned searing and desperate as Harry skillfully discarded their remaining clothes. Y/N's strangled whimpers and whines were swallowed by his bruising mouth, her slick heat dragging against the hardness of his erection in tortuously light strokes.

Y/N instinctively sought out more of that maddening friction - rocking her hips up to meet Harry's in a desperate grind as she tangled her legs around his trim waist. The low, reverent rumble of approval he let out at her shamelessness made her entire body bloom with heat.

"So eager for me, aren't you love?" he husked against the swollen bow of her parted lips. Not waiting for a response, he sealed his mouth over hers in a lush, filthy kiss that left them both panting for air.

He teased her exactly to that tantalising edge of overwhelming bliss and sheer frustration until she was squirming and mewling into their heated embrace, nails scrabbling at the broad expanse of his sweat-dampened shoulders. At last, Harry tore away from her lips with a ragged groan, panting heavily as they pressed their foreheads together.

She was too far gone to feel self-conscious. The last threads of her self-restraint had snapped the second Harry palmed both cheeks of her ass in those huge, calloused hands and used his grip to pull her flush against the insistent jut of his straining cock.

"Wanted this for so long," he growled against her swollen lips before venturing down to scathe his stubbled jaw along the ultra-sensitive slope of her neck, leaving a stinging trail of fresh goosebumps in his wake. "Laid awake so many nights thinking about having you in my lap just like this..."

Y/N had no capacity to formulate a reply beyond a choked-off moan, hips canting of their own accord to chase that scorching friction. She wanted to whimper out, to beg him to stop teasing them both with this exquisite torment. But he didn't give her a chance, lush mouth finding her peaked nipple and suckling hard, stealing what little coherence she had left.

"Ah! ...H-Harry, please..." she panted out as sparks of both pleasure and sweetest pain lanced through her. She fisted those decadent chestnut curls tighter until he finally released her with a final teasing graze of teeth over her swollen, rosy bud.

He peered up at her with hooded, molten eyes, his pupils blown wide and inky with naked want. His mouth glistened obscenely in the low light. The sight alone nearly cleaved what little rational thought remained.

"Since you asked so sweetly..." he husked, gifting her one more searingly deep kiss before making a trail of open-mouthed licks and nibbles down the center line of her body once more. "My gorgeous girl deserves whatever she desires.Now look at me, love," he ordered, "Need to see those gorgeous eyes when I finally get to be inside my girl."

My girl.

Y/N's whole body locked up with need at his command. Their gazes crashed together in the space separating them - Harry peering down at her, mouth hanging open in blissful agony.

Holding that heated stare, he finally guided the slick blunt head of his cock to her entrance with one broad palm on her hip. They both exhaled harsh breaths in unison as he sank past that initial tight clutch, Harry's brows creasing with reverence while Y/N's mouth fell open on a choked off moan.

"You feel so good, baby, taking my cock like this," he groaned against her neck. "Wanted this pretty pussy for months."

The crude words somehow only turned Y/N on more. She matched Harry's thrusts, overwhelmed by how amazing he felt.

"You feel that, love?" he rumbled in that rasping timbre that immediately stoked the banked embers of her core back to feverish heat. "How fucking desperate you still are for me, even after falling apart so gorgeously?"

Y/N let out a helpless, pitchy noise of agreement muffled feverishly against the solid weight of his shoulder – nodding frantically as he kept up that slick, sinfully light rutting rhythm. Her entire body felt suspended in limbo, torn between too-much and not-enough with each deliberate slide of his cock spreading her wanting folds apart.

"Christ, you should see yourself right now," Harry practically purred in a haze of lust-drunk awe, swiping the pad of his thumb in a teasing circle around her revived, aching bud. When she arched into the contact with a strangled whimper, he let out a rumbling chuckle that reverberated through both their shuddering frames. "An absolute picture...and all for me."

On his final seismic stroke, the thick crown of his erection caught against Y/N's swollen, aching entrance - teasing her to the brink of shattering all over again. She let out a garbled noise that might have been Harry's name or just an incoherent plea, fingernails scrabbling at his back.

"Look at me," he ordered in a low rasp, drawing her hooded gaze up from where their damp bodies joined. Green eyes glittered with undisguised possession when their stares finally met - searing straight through her.

Holding that smoldering eye contact, Harry pressed forward with one inch at a time until Y/N thought she might combust from the sweet stretch and burn. Every shallow exhale punched from her lungs came out a choked whimper, matched by the fevered grunts rumbling from Harry's chest as he bottomed out, again and again.

Y/N's world had narrowed entirely to the joined point of their bodies, her fluttering internal walls struggling to accommodate the exquisite impalement even as fresh arousal flooded her with boneless surrender. She could only cling helplessly to Harry's sweat-slicked shoulders and lose herself in the intoxicating visuals before her - his arm muscles bunching with the strain, those ruddy, plump lips hanging open on ragged gasps.

"Fuck...f-feel so good, baby," he gritted out, words fracturing apart as his hips gave a minute involuntary roll. "Taking me so bloody well..."

A strangled cry escaped Y/N as that tiniest motion lit up every nerve-ending with bliss. Her heels dug into the small of Harry's back in a frantic bid for leverage, for friction, for anything to alleviate this keen edge between agony and rapture. He seemed to read her desperation, dropping his sweat-slicked brow to hers as he found her lips in a sloppy, uncoordinated clash of teeth and questing tongues.

Then he was pulling back in one sinuous torso-roll, finally giving Y/N what she craved as his initial retreat turned into a soul-shaking thrust that punched the air from her lungs anew. Somewhere in the spiraling vortex of sensation, she registered the harsh slam of his hips meeting her own, the strangled cry of gratification Harry loosed against her slack mouth as he set a steadily mounting cadence.

Any hope of finesse or coordination was swiftly abandoned as their shared need mounted inexorably higher. Y/N could only cling on and ride out the tide of Harry's sharp, bouncing strokes - bordering on too much even as every shuddering nerve ending begged for more, more, more...

Before long, his forehead had dropped to brace against her shuddering sternum, the rigid line of his body trembling with restrained power and exertion as his hips jackhammered with unchecked fervor. The slick, fiery noises of their joining felt loud enough to haunt Y/N's every thought from now until the end of time.

She could feel the heated pant of his breaths gusting across her neglected nipples with each punishing grind of their movements coming brutally unhinged. Every snap of his hips shoved impossibly deeper until she was seeing stars behind her screwed-shut lids, a high-pitched whine escaping with each narrow thrust mounting her up the cliff's edge.

Heat and tension built upon itself in a dizzying spiral, a thousand tingling points of rapture spiraling from Y/N's core until her entire being felt engulfed in the storm. Harry's large hand found her sweat-dampened nape and tangled in her hair, drawing her into a searing, wild kiss that only stoked things higher.

The groan he leaked into her mouth was utterly guttural and wrecked as she matched his hectic rhythm – nails dragging down the broad expanse of his quivering shoulders until her next orgasm suddenly crested with blinding force.

This time, there was no oblivion or sweet black voids of unknowing as Y/N came apart. Instead, she remained tethered to the blazing intensity coursing through every fiber, Harry's name escaping on a cracked litany as her release seemed to go on and on in pulsing waves. He swallowed each choked syllable, hips drilling her through the roaring tide until she arched clean off the desktop entirely.

Harry's broken cry of her name might have been reverent, might have been full of desperate adulation as he finally let go – thick spurts of wet heat joining the mess between their bodies as his tempo turned erratic and punishing. Y/N could only hang on with what little quavering strength remained, drifting in the bliss of euphoria.

Eventually, the high tides ebbed and they collapsed in a sweaty, ruined heap upon the desk's surface. Both of their chests heaved like they'd run a marathon, senses struggling to reboot as little aftershocks kept shuddering through their temporarily departed forms.

Incrementally, Y/N floated back into her body and surroundings – the achingly pleasant stretch and ticklish trickle of Harry's slowly softening length, the damp cling of their overheated skin, the stark scent of sweat and sex and desperation sated. She cracked heavy lids, momentarily stunned all over again at the debauched vision of the handsome man draped over and still sheathed inside her.

Harry's summer green gaze was already waiting, twin pools of blown pupils shining through a heavy-lidded swath of mussed chestnut curls. Enraptured affection and lust battled for prominence as he stared down at her, sucking in air like a drowned man breaching the surface. When she met his eyes, he opened his mouth only to release a choked exhalation – clearly as adrift in the tide of their passion as she was.

Y/N lifted one shaky hand to paw clumsily at the damp curls framing his face, caressing his flushed cheek in what she hoped came across as reassurance. Her other arm snaked around Harry's shoulders, anchoring him to her as he nuzzled into the gesture with a shuddering sigh.

This time when he found her mouth, the kiss was slow and deep and almost unbearably tender. Their heartbeats gradually realigned as they savored the languid exchange, prolonging the hazy afterglow for as long as possible.

Harry finally pulled back to mouth a reverent path along the curve of her jaw, words rasping low and ardent against the hammer of her pulse.

"You're so incredible, love," he murmured like a hallowed oath. Full of naked adoration and something deeper that made Y/N's newly reawakened heart clench and squeeze impossibly tighter. "Knew you would be...but god, you fucking ruined me just now."

His raspy chuckle carried an undercurrent of disbelief and familiar self-deprecation. Kiss-swollen lips trailed along the sloped curve of her neck and shoulder as he continued pouring out those hushed, awed confessions.

"Don't think I'll ever look at this bloody classroom the same way again...not after feeling you come apart around me so beautifully..."

After, they lay panting on the classroom floor, limbs tangled together. Y/N traced the bird tattoos on Harry's abdomen, unable to believe this had happened.

"If I had known this is what you wanted, I would've bent you over my desk ages ago," Harry laughed, still looking deliciously rumpled and debauched.

Whatever came next, whatever questions arose about the status of their relationship or the unorthodox circumstances that had brought them here, for now Y/N was content to simply bask in the warmth and connection she felt . Her wondering heart could wait until the morning.

♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡

tell me if you like this!

feedback | masterlist

taglist: @freedomfireflies @gurugirl @thechaoticjoy @styleslover-1994 @gem1712 @ellaorchard @bxbyysstuff @opheliaofficial07 @rafaaoli

@tchlamqtsgf @indierockgirrl @vrittivsanghavi @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @drewrry @me-undiscovered @tbsloneely

@whoreonmondays @kathb59 @avalentina @kittenhere @speedywritingharrystylesjudge @harryhitties

@mypolicemanharryyy @theendx888 @daphnesutton @youcan-nolonger-run @chesthairrry

@becauseheartsgetbroken-hs @hisparentsgallerryy @storyschanging @selluequestrian @swiftmendeshoran @princessaxoxo @tenaciousperfectionunknown @hermoinelove @chronicallybubbly

892 notes · View notes