#I was going to do some more but wow this was long

[lubdubology]

Come A Long, Long Way

SYNOPSIS: His days are long and his nights are longer. He comes to you during those hours when the rest of the world stills, lured in by something almost like fate. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader 

WC: 12.2k

WARNINGS: smut 18+, mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, scars and healing; gratuitous sexual tension; mentions of alcohol/alcohol consumption; dirty talk; frottage; nipple play; surprise appearance by Charles; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected p in v; sex with feelings; cowgirl; mating press; creampie; brief mentions of Laura; happy ending because I said so

A/N: The idea for this story came to me through a song--My Fair Lady by Kaleo. I was struck by this verse: I'm weary from my travels // I've come a long, long way // I haven't felt a woman // Since last that I was here // Oh, won't you bring me whisky // And run your fingers through my hair? // Oh, won't you whisper sweet words // Oh, so softly in my ear? I thought, "Wow, that's so Old Man Logan" and this is what I birthed from that. This may be one of my favorite things I've ever written, and I sincerely hope you think so too. Huge, huge thank you to @yxtkiwiyxt for betaing this for me and making the final draft what it is; you helped end this in such a beautiful way. Thank you to @saradika for the use of her graphics. And as always, I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

He shouldn’t care about the car pulled over on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking as the rain pours down. 

For three days, Logan’s entertained a rowdy bachelorette party, chauffeuring them from bar to bar, dinner to dinner. The scent of cheap perfume and desperation still linger inside the limo, the drunken, whispered advances still burn against his skin. 

He’s tired. Exhausted down to his very marrow and he wants nothing more than to crawl onto his sagging mattress and steal whatever amount of sleep his shattered mind will give him. 

So, no. He shouldn’t care about the car. 

But he finds himself easing off the gas, the limo starting to slow as he nears. He feels drawn, like a month to a flame, as if some unseen force has wound itself around his sternum and is pulling him forward. 

Pulling him to you. 

As the limo approaches, he spots you crouched down by the front left tire, struggling with a lug wrench, the tool slipping in your rain-soaked fingers. He can almost hear the curses spilling from your lips as you glance up and look towards where he’s sitting. 

Logan knows you can’t see him, not well anyway with the headlights shining directly upon you and the rain pouring down in sheets, but he swears you find his gaze, your eyes seeming to pierce down directly to his soul. He feels the flutter of something deep in his chest and he feels exposed, like a raw wound that hasn’t quite healed. 

For a moment, he hesitates, and wonders if you’re a siren, out here in your element to lure him to his death. Then your gaze drops and the thought dissolves but only just. Before he can talk himself out of it, Logan’s throwing the car in park and opening the door. 

The rain is frigid, the cold biting at his skin as the downpour soaks him down to the bone. You glance up at him as he approaches, your fingers loosening around the wench but still keeping it firmly in your grasp. Straightening up, you push wet strands of hair out of your face, your fingers trembling from the cold. 

“Need a lift?”

He doesn’t know why he asks. What he should do is swap out the old tire for the spare and let you go on your way. But those eyes of yours are piercing him again, the hook you’ve sunk deep in his sinew pulling taut once more and Logan feels compelled to take you home. 

For a few moments, you continue to silently assess him, your gaze flitting between your car, the limo behind him and back to his now soaked frame. Then, you stand and open the driver’s side door, tossing in the wrench and pulling your purse close to your chest. You follow him to the limo and climb into the backseat as Logan slips back in behind the wheel. 

He glances back at you through the rearview mirror, watching as you lean back into the seat, your wet clothes clinging to every curve of your body. Which is another thing he shouldn’t care about and yet…

Clearing his throat, he turns up the heat. “Where you headed?”

“North. About twenty miles or so.”

Logan nods and shifts the car into drive, heading back down the road as the rain continues to come down. Several minutes pass in silence, save for the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers. Finally, your voice breaks through the silence, soft and lilting. 

“Got a name?”

“Who’s asking?”

A half smile tugs at your lips as you slide from the seat and slip into the row directly behind the partition. Logan can feel the damp of your skin as you lean into his space, the scent of rain flooding his nostrils almost intoxicating. You say your name and wait for him to respond in kind.

“Logan,” he answers, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Life hasn’t been kind to you, has it, Logan?” you ask, his name dripping from your lips like honey and just as sweet.

Logan stiffens, his grip tightening on the wheel as your words cut through the night. There’s no pity in your tone, which he’s silently grateful for, but an unsettling mixture of curiosity and understanding.

At the best of times, he doesn’t like anyone trying to scratch below the surface, to worm themselves into all the soft and vulnerable bits he tries so desperately to hide away. Now that he’s older and feeling every bit of his age, the weight of his bones threatening to drag him down with each step, he likes it even less.

“It’s not kind to anyone,” he answers, turning his head just enough to glance sideways at you. 

You tilt your head slightly, a wordless noise humming in your throat. “Maybe,” you concede, voice soft, like you’re mulling over his words. “Except your life has carved itself into you a little more than most.”

He wants to be annoyed, to slam his foot on the brake and send the limo careening into reverse back towards your broken down car. But something stirs in him, thrumming in time with the pulse beating in his veins—a spark of irritation mixed with that pull that’s been gnawing at him since he first saw you. 

“You a therapist or somethin’?”

You chuckle softly, the sound low and intimate, as you lean back into the seat, finally putting some space between you. “No. Just intuitive.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at you through the rearview mirror with a scowl. “Intuit less. Just tell me where I’m goin’.”

A soft, chiding “tsk” falls from your lips and you shake your head, but Logan doesn’t miss the smile playing on your lips. You give him directions to your house and for moment you both sit in silence but the air remains heavy with unspoken tension. 

Logan pulls off the highway, beginning to wind through the smaller streets of the town as he gets closer to your place. The thought of this ride ending, of you leaving this car, both thrill and disappoint him. 

“You believe in fate?”

The question cuts through the silence, pulling Logan’s focus back to you. He glances at you briefly, your expression thoughtful as you wait for him to answer. 

“No,” he finally says, voice flat. 

A soft hum escapes your throat. “Unsurprising. But don’t you think, Logan,” you begin, leaning back into his space, “that maybe fate is what brought us together?”

You have that knowing look in your eye again, a sly smile tugging at your lips. As if you’re in on some cosmic secret he’s not privy to. It unnerves him. 

But it intrigues him, too. 

“I think a broken down car brought us together.”

“Or maybe life decided to be kind to you,” you challenge. “To bring me to you.”

Logan turns into a quiet subdivision as your words rattle around in his brain. The rain has mostly subsided, but is still falling in a gentle drizzle as he pulls up in front of your house, a single porch light illuminated in welcome. It looks small, yet homey, the kind of place he could have seen himself in once if life had been kinder to him. 

“You should come in,” you say as you gather your belongings. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

Your eyes meet his again through the review mirror, a mischievous glint in your gaze and an even more sinful smile on your lips. 

It’s been a while since he’s been with anyone. The thrill of finding a partner for the night having lost its luster around the time his bones started to ache. More often than not, his sexual escapades involve his own calloused hands and memories from when he was a younger man. 

“Think about it,” you offer as you open the door and slip out of the limo. “Door’ll be open.” 

Logan sits, hands gripping the steering wheel, contemplating whether or not to follow you into the house.

Your offer is tantalizing, ripe for the picking, and the baser part of himself wants to accept—follow you into sin. You’ve already injected yourself into his veins, he might as well see the high through. 

The rational part of his brain knows he should leave, throw the limo in reverse and tail it back to the life he’s carved out for himself in the desert. Experience has hardened him, left him unable to, or maybe unwilling to, open himself to others. He doesn’t need whatever it is you think you can offer him, no matter how alluring and sweet your words may be. 

The weight of his wet clothes against his skin begins to feel almost suffocating and with a low curse under his breath, Logan steps from the limo and follows the path you took up the porch and into the house.

A trail of water leads from the front door to a small laundry room just off the foyer and then damp footprints lead deeper into the house. He can hear the low rumble of a dryer as he steps further into the space, the squeak of his shoes against the hardwood doing nothing to hide his approach. 

Logan finds you in the kitchen, lights dimmed low, standing in only a pair of mismatched underwear, the damp fabric barely concealing what’s underneath as you gently swirl a glass of whiskey. A second, untouched glass sits next to your hip on the counter. 

“You seem like a whiskey man,” you say, your smile curving around the glass as you take a slow sip. “Did I get it right?”

Stopping in the doorway, he flexes his hands at his sides, and wills himself to move—forward, backward, he’s not quite sure. The muted light catches along your curves, the damp sheen of your skin enticing, the dark outline of your nipples and curls between your thighs acting like a beacon. Logan can feel himself hardening against his slacks. 

He can smell you—bright and earthy and wholly intoxicating. Your heartbeat echoes in his ears, quick, but steady, betraying no fear. 

“If you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it by now,” you say and he has half a thought to wonder if you can read his mind. 

A sly smile spreads across your face as his eyes finally meet yours, a knowing edge to your expression that further sets him off balance. 

“What’s happenin’ here?” Logan finally rasps, his voice low and rough. 

You give a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders as you grab the glass next to you and take a step towards him, your movements slow yet deliberate. He doesn’t move, rooted to the spot as you approach him. 

“That’s up to you,” you reply, handing him the glass. “You can get out of those wet clothes and enjoy this whiskey with me, or,” you pause to step closer, “you can walk back out that door and pretend like you weren’t curious about what’s waiting for you here.”

Logan’s fingers grip the glass in his hands just a little too tight as you stare up at him, holding his gaze a beat longer than necessary. You’re challenging him, daring him to act, and he knows the minute he breaks, he’s done for. He won’t be able to stop. 

You risk another step closer, leaving barely a breadth of space between you. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, can smell the rain on your skin, as your closeness overwhelms his senses. He wants to drown in you. 

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask in a whisper, your fingers trailing along the edge of his belt buckle. 

Your touch and proximity ignites something primal in him, something he thought long extinguished. Logan can feel pure want, need, surge through his veins and lick flames along his skin. His free hand moves on instinct, wrapping around your wrist, halting your teasing fingers before they venture any further. His restraint is hanging by a thread, fraying and threatening to snap.

“You sure this is what you want?” His voice is low, all gravel and grit as he stares down at you, his eyes darkened by a hunger begging to be fed.

Your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as you press yourself fully against him, soft and warm. Rising up onto the balls of your feet, you drop your gaze to his lips before flicking your eyes back up to his and ghosting your mouth along his jawline. “Stay with me,” you whisper, sliding your hand up his chest. “Just this once.”

Logan’s restraint snaps. The glass tumbles from his hand, shattering against the floor, but neither of you seem to notice. His hand moves to the small of your back, wanting to press you impossibly closer as his lips crash into yours, hot and demanding. 

You respond in kind, a whimper dying in your throat as your fingers tangle in his damp hair, urging him closer. A growl tumbles from his lips as he trails his mouth down your neck, nipping and tasting as he goes, his tongue finding your pulse point and sucking. His hands roam freely, his calloused fingers sliding over your smooth flesh, palming your hips and gripping you as if you’re the only thing grounding him to earth.

He feels alive. Every cell in his body hums beneath your touch, the constant aches and pains temporarily erased. You’re a balm to his very soul, smoothing the ever deepening cracks and making him feel whole. 

You gasp as he nips at a spot just below your ear and he smirks against your skin, the sound spurring him on. “Tell me where your room is, or I’m fuckin’ you right here on the table,” he husks, his voice thick with desire, breath fanning over the shell of your ear.

Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your lips swollen and eyes dark, you reach for his hand and wordlessly lead him past the living room and down the small hallway to your room. Once inside, he pulls you back towards him, mouth slanting back over yours, stealing the very air from your lungs. 

His cock is almost painfully hard as he walks you towards the bed, only pulling his mouth away from yours as your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Instead of sitting back on the bed, you reach for the buttons on his shirt, easing them open before sliding the fabric from his shoulders. There’s an eagerness to your movements, your fingers fumbling with his belt buckle as he sheds his undershirt and tosses it somewhere behind him. 

Logan watches with a hooded gaze, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, as you shove his pants down his legs, barely getting them past his knees before you’re reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

His fingers curl around your wrist, halting your movements and you gaze up at him, licking your lips. “Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We have all night.”

A shiver runs through you and then his mouth is on you again, hungry and all-consuming. He drinks you in like a man parched, lips and teeth mapping the curve of your jaw, the solid edge of your collarbone as your pretty little moans and gasps fill the air. You tilt your head back and offer yourself to him, your hands grasping at his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle to keep him close.

His hands are rough against your skin as he slides them up your sides, tracing the soft, damp skin below the band of your bra. Unfastening the clasps, he trails the fabric down your arms, his eyes darkening as he finally takes in your bare breasts.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice dripping with raw want.

Any final restraint he has evaporates and he kicks the last of his clothes off before tightening his hands around your waist and setting you down on the bed. Logan steals the gasp from your mouth as his body covers yours, easing himself between your thighs and thrusting once against your clothed cunt.

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to wet the skin. “Last chance,” he husks, his breath fanning across your lips. “Last chance to stop before I ruin you.” 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to elicit a growl, his teeth bared. A sinful smile spreads across your face. “Oh, Logan,” you coo, “who says I’m not going to ruin you?”

Logan lets out a deep, guttural sound, something between a growl and a groan before he slots his mouth back over yours and follows you into temptation.  

“Figured you’d try and sneak out.”

Logan whirls around at the sound of your voice, claws slowly unsheathing from between his knuckles. Blood wells up from the wounds, dripping between his fingers as he finds you dressed in an oversized shirt, the hem just concealing the edge of your panties. Your expression belies no fear as you take in the metal jutting out between his skin, your eyes alight with an acceptance he’s not use to. 

Fear, disgust, repulsion, but rarely acceptance. 

Slowly, he retracts his claws as you move further into the kitchen, stopping at the sink to grab and moisten a washcloth before coming to stand in front of him. Logan instinctively pulls away from your touch, but you’re undeterred, taking his hands in yours and wiping the blood away from his skin. Your movements are gentle, taking care to avoid the still healing slits.

Washed of blood, you finally glance up at him. “You can stay, you know.”

“I’m not the stayin’ kind, sweetheart,” he mutters.

One of those slow, knowing smiles tugs at your lips as you release his hands and Logan actually mourns the loss. “We’ll see,” you say with a shrug, stepping back just enough to put space between you. “I don’t think fate is done with us yet.”

Your words hang in the air like smoke, curling around him and pressing into his skin. He wants to argue, the words burning on his tongue, but he doesn’t. Because despite his earlier claims that he didn’t believe in fate, he can’t deny the unnatural pull you have on him. A pull Logan doesn’t necessarily dislike.

At his silence, you lean up and press the faintest of kisses to the corner of his jaw. “I’ll leave the light on for you,” you whisper into his skin.

It’s then he knows—he won’t be able to stay away. 

Logan shows up at your door again two weeks later. 

He’s been driving around some bigwig CEO, chauffeuring him from conference to conference during the day and dropping him off at random hotels during the night. When he gives Logan the address to tonight’s hotel, Logan knows instantly he’s in trouble. Just his luck the hotel is in your town. 

Pulling off the freeway, he feels that familiar tug behind his ribs. His hands itch with the want, the need, to turn the wheel towards you instead of the address on his GPS. Since that night, you’ve haunted him, your face showing up in his dreams, waking with the sensation of your softness burning into his skin. 

Logan knows he could stay at the hotel or sleep in the back of the limo like he’s done so many times before. But as he slowly inhales at his cigar and waits for Mr. CEO to stop fingering his mistress in the back seat and get the fuck out, the need to be near you only grows stronger. 

And damned if he knows why. 

He doesn’t need a relationship, or whatever the hell this is. Enough of him has been spread to others, for better or worse, and he’s already worn thin. The last remnants of any family he has are hanging off a very precarious ledge and he can’t bear the heartache of more loss if he opens himself to you. 

But as much as Logan keeps telling himself he’s closed off, fortified against anything new, he can feel himself bleeding through the cracks. 

By the time he finally turns down your street, it’s well past a respectable visiting hour. Most houses are dark for the night, but not yours. The front porch light illuminates just like it did two weeks ago and the dim lights of the kitchen shine through the pulled blinds. You’re up and a frisson of anticipation shoots through him. 

He parks the limo and stamps out the cigar before walking up your driveway. As he approaches the door, he hesitates. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. While your final words to him were open ended, did that give him the right to just show up in the middle of the night? 

You open the door as he contemplates and when his gaze finally focuses on you, he relaxes. A well worn robe is tied around your waist, your hair tied up in a messy bun, your face cleaned of makeup and yet you’re more alluring to him than you were that night in the rain. 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he confesses, stepping just a bit closer towards you. 

A slow, soft smile spreads across your face. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” you reply. You open the door to allow him entrance and he steps in after you. 

Logan follows you into the kitchen, where you already have a glass of whiskey ready for him. Handing him the glass, you nod your head towards the living room. “Come. Relax for a bit.”

He follows you into he living room, the single lamp casting a soft glow within the space. You settle onto the sectional, tucking your legs beneath you and turning yourself towards him as he joins you. For a moment, neither of you speak, but the silence isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable, like it always is around you. 

“You look tired,” you say, finally breaking the quiet. Your voice is soft, a sense of familiarity laced in with your words, as if you understand the magnitude of his fatigue.

Logan huffs as he swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Honey, I’m always tired,” he replies. “Comes with the territory.”

You give a small hum, your head tilting to the side as you assess him. “You’re in pain, too.”

Logan freezes at your words, his eyes flicking up to your face. His gaze locks with yours, sharp and guarded, like you’ve peeled back a layer he wasn’t ready to expose. And yet, you’ve been doing this since the beginning. Finding the cracks in his facade and wedging yourself in until the gap widens, uncovering the raw nerves underneath.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, his tone challenging.

You gaze remains steady and calm, holding a softness that unnerves him more than the question itself. “Because it’s written all over you,” you say simply. “I see it in your scars, in the way your hands are always clenched, as if steeling yourself against a blow that’ll never come.”

Logan exhales a low, humorless laugh before taking a long sip of whiskey, relishing the burn as it slides down his throat. “Don’t even notice it anymore,” he lies, shifting in his seat. 

Your mouth tugs into a gentle frown as you shift, crawling closer to where he sits. You pluck the glass from his fingers, swallowing down the rest of the whiskey before setting it on the coffee table. Logan watches as you swing your legs over his lap, your robe riding up to reveal the smooth expanse of your thighs. 

The weight of you against his lap sends a rush of arousal down his spine and he can feel his cock stir in his slacks. If you notice, you ignore it, instead reaching for a small bottle of lotion on the end table and squeezing a dollop into your palm. You rub your hands together twice before reaching for his right hand. 

Your thumbs dig into the meat of his palm, a low groan slipping from his throat before he can stop himself. You bite your lip, but Logan can see the sly smile beneath. 

“You help take care of everyone else,” you begin, rubbing the lotion further into his calloused palms. “Who helps care for you?”

Logan feels flayed open, that pull that spins him into your orbit only growing stronger as you see down to his very soul. Caliban swore you weren’t a mutant but Logan still couldn’t shake the idea that you were something more. 

“What are you?” he asks, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, watching you concentrate on his hand. 

You slide your fingers along the pink, puffy lines between his knuckles, a slow hiss escaping between his teeth as you massage the tender flesh. He wonders if you know how sensitive his skin is now, how each time his claws come out it hurts just a little bit more than the last time. 

“I’m human,” you reply, positioning his hand to focus on the back, tracing the fine scars there. “Same as you.”

“I ain’t human.”

Your eyes flick to his as you drop his right hand and reach for his left. “You’re human where it counts,” you say, beginning to massage his hand. 

Logan scoffs. “Yeah? And where’s that?”

You release his hand and place your palm in the center of his chest, your fingers splayed over his heart. “In here.”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where your fingers are resting against him. You touch him like you’re unafraid, undeterred by the metal in his bones and the sometimes primal rage that courses through his blood. His killed—for the sake of war, self preservation, and for reasons not so innocent—but you can somehow still see past that, to some soft part of him that still lingers. 

Logan itches to touch you, to pull you closer and—

“You can touch me,” you say, as if pulling the thought from his head. “I like when you touch me.”

Logan slides his palms up your thighs and around your hips, pulling you flush against his lap, your clothed center pressing against the fly of his slacks. He doesn’t miss the gasp that falls from your lips or the shift of your hips as you try and press closer. 

That thrum of aliveness begins to churn in his veins as he slowly unties the sash of your robe, allowing the fabric to fall to the side. You’re bare underneath and Logan can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to the center of your chest. 

“You dress like this jus’ for me?” he asks, dragging his lips towards your breast and pulling a nipple into his mouth, working into a taut peak beneath his tongue.

Your fingers wind themselves into his hair, holding him close. “Yes,” you breathe, a whimper falling from your lips as he moves to your other breast. “Only for you.”

A surge of possessiveness rushes through his veins and Logan can feel the prickle between his knuckles, his claws threatening to unsheathe at the thought of you with another man. Instead, he doubles his focus onto you, his beard scraping against your skin as he licks a hot stripe across your nipple. “Damn right, only for me,” he growls. 

You shift your hips in response, seeking more friction against the hard length of his cock pressing against you. Logan groans, his fingers digging deeper into the flesh of your hips, urging you to move against him. The soft, wet heat of your cunt through the thin fabric of your panties and his slacks sets his control on a razors edge. 

Logan leans back slightly to lock eyes with you, your pupils blown wide with want, your skin flushed with desire. You find his gaze, hazy with pleasure, but focused and then you smile at him, bottom lip pinned between your teeth. 

“And you, Logan,” you whisper, your hands sliding down the column of his neck, “you’re only for me.” 

That hook you’ve lodged in him sinks deeper and he’s too far gone to care. The mystery behind your presence in his life is one he’s willing to spend the rest of his days unraveling so long as you stay right here, continuing to bewitch him with the beauty of your soul. 

Your allure was more potent than any pheromone, more intoxicating than any aphrodisiac. In his waking moments, Logan found his thoughts drifting to you more often than not and the frequency between his visits grew shorter and shorter until he found himself lured into your embrace almost every night. 

He was good at lying to himself, writing off these visits as nothing more than comfort—the need to find warmth in a world that so seldom offered him that luxury. But that lie grew bitter, warped in the liminal space between midnight and dawn where you stripped him down to his very bones, saw through the gruff and grit he wrapped himself in. Saw him as something more than the sum of his sins. 

Logan couldn’t hide from you and he didn’t know if he wanted to. Those carefully crafted walls that surrounded him cracked and crumbled, turning to dust at his feet. In that mysterious way of yours, you always knew what he needed—a warm meal; your tender, healing touch as you helped him stitch the worst of his wounds; the soft, pliant feel of your skin on his as you kissed him deep, the kind of kiss that burned like wildfire and whiskey.

God help him as your gravity pulled him in closer, your orbits circling tighter and tighter, destined for an inevitable crash. 

“What am I to you?”

Those five words root him where he stands, flaying him down to his very marrow. Logan should have expected this question, should have known that eventually you’d ask. 

He wants to tell you the truth, speak those words that burn against his tongue, begging to be said.

He wants to tell you of his need to find you when the days are long and the nights are longer. When the weariness he feels in his bones aches more than usual and seems to bleed into his very soul. 

When he needs to feel something more than the hollowness that seems to grow inside his chest. The slow carving away of his humanity that’s been scraping closer and closer to emptiness for years. 

When he needs to be wrapped in warmth and set afire by something almost like love. Like home. 

But he says none of this as he gazes over at you sitting at the kitchen table, one knee pulled up to your chest. You look small sitting there, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

And instead, he remains silent, praying you’ll let the conversation slide. But he knows better. 

You glance up at him, your gaze piercing straight through the heart of him and then you devastate him with three simple words. 

“I love you.”

The air punches from his lungs and for a moment it feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Your words tear through him, cutting deeper than any knife, and his hands curl into fists as you slice him open. 

“Don’t,” Logan rasps, his voice rough, barely more than whisper. He avoids your eyes, knowing that if he looks and sees the sincerity in your gaze, it’ll be his undoing. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Your voice cracks with emotion as you push away from the table, your arms wrapping around yourself. “What about those words can’t you hear?”

His jaw clenches and for every step you take closer him, he takes a half step back, as if he’s trying to distance himself from the truth beginning to swirl between you. You can’t love him. Loving someone has brought him nothing but misery and pain, loss and suffering and he’ll be damned if he drags you down that road. 

So, instead he lies, the words bitter in his mouth. 

“This ain’t love, sweatheart,” he says, gesturing between the two of you, “This is fuckin’.”

You inhale sharply between your teeth and your expression twists into disbelief, the beginning of tears welling in your eyes. “Fucking?” you bite back, your voice trembling but still firm. “You think after all these months that this is just fucking?”

Logan doesn’t answer. And he doesn’t move. He simply stands there, jaw clenched so tightly he could shatter bones. He can’t say yes. If he does that, if he voices that lie into existence, he’ll have to spend the rest of his days remembering the look in your eyes right now—destroyed. 

Your breath starts to shudder as you continue to step closer towards him. And he can feel you, warm and comforting, even though you shake with barely contained anger. “Look me in the eye and tell me that’s all this is,” you demand, your voice thick with emotion. “Tell me that when you come to me in the middle of the night, broken down, bloody and bruised, it’s just fucking. Tell me that when I touch you, hold you, love you, that it means nothing.” 

He remain silent. 

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “God, for someone with heightened senses, you’re blind to what’s right in front of you.” Your trembling voice matches the shake to your hands, your fury pouring off you in waves. “You really are a coward, aren’t you?”

Logan nostrils flare at the insult and he can feel the prickle of his claws between his knuckles. He knows his rage isn’t with you, but himself. And yet he can still feel his lips curl into a snarl. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he growls. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you seethe, your voice now raw, pain bleeding through every syllable. “You can’t even look me in the eye when you lie.”

His jaw clenches impossibly harder and he swears he can taste bone. Then, he finally meets your gaze head on, eyes flashing. “You think this ends well between us? You think I get to have somethin’ like this? Like you?” Logan’s voice cracks in a way that he loathes. “I can’t—”

The crack of your palm against his face is deafening. He barely moves from the impact, but emotionally you’ve landed him on his ass. Your eyes are wide as you stare up at him, unblinking.

Logan stands there, immobile, as he processes the sting of your slap. It doesn’t hurt, not physically. It’s the fact that you did it, the fact that you’re standing in front of him, chest heaving from the effort of your breathing as if you just ripped yourself open for him.

“Get out of my house,” you seethe, your voice softer than before, deflated.

Your words shouldn’t sting as much as they do. They shouldn’t wreck him and make him feel like he’s been ripped apart limb from limb. He should relish them, the push, the shove. He should revel in the confirmation that you’re finally seeing him for what he truly is—something undeserving of all the warmth and love you’ve given him. A stray animal that never should have been fed.

Logan swallows, his throat tight as he gives you a small nod. And then he does the only thing he knows how to do. 

He turns. And he walks.

His legs feel like lead, each step a feat and his brain is screaming at him to turn around. To fight. To beg. To plead. To say something, anything. 

But he doesn’t.

Logan exits the house, the front door slamming shut behind him. As he steps off the front step, the porch light above him clicks off, plunging the house into darkness. Your guiding light is gone, lost in the storm of his destruction.

Of all the wounds he’s ever taken, of all the scars that mar his skin, nothing has ever bled quite like this.

Charles watches with sharp eyes as Logan enters the old water tank and shuts the door behind him. The older man is in his wheelchair, tending to his plants as Logan walks around the place, picking up random bits of trash and the tray from breakfast. 

A soft “tsk” falls from Charles’ lips and echos in the small space. “Will you ever learn, Logan?” Charles’ voice seems tired, weary. 

Logan pauses and looks over at him, irritation already prickling along his skin. “Stay outta my head,” he snaps, slamming the tray down on a nearby table. 

He doesn’t need this, doesn’t want Charles sifting through his mind, seeing those pieces of you he so deeply cherishes. Pieces he doesn’t deserve. Pieces he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have within his grasp again. 

“She loves you,” Charles continues, seeming to ignore his request. 

Logan strides over to where Charles is sitting, unable to keep the ire from boiling over. He wants to sweep all the plants to the floor, destroy the one creative outlet Charles has, retaliate for the way he presses into the fresh bruises on his mind. “I’m begging you, just—”

Charles lifts the spray bottle beside him and directs the spray in Logan’s face, showering him in a fine mist of water. Logan freezes, water dripping from his face as his lips tighten in a thin line. He grits his teeth, an ache already blooming in his jaw. 

“What the fuck was that for?” he growls. 

“Are you a cat?” Charles asks, lowering the bottle. “No? Then stop being such a pussy.”

Logan stares at Charles, the vulgarity of the of man’s words leaving him temporarily speechless. He scrubs a hand down his face, wiping the rest of the water off with the sleeve of his shirt, scowl deepening. 

“You’re pushin’ it,” Logan warns. 

Charles simply smirks, finally setting the bottle down on the table. “Someone should. God knows you won’t push yourself. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Logan sucks in a sharp breath and steps back from Charles, sitting down on the bed across from him. The old metal springs groan beneath his weight. He wants a bottle of whiskey, to quiet the thoughts in his head, at least temporarily, and fall into a drunken stupor. Anything but flaying open his feelings, especially his feelings about you. 

“What are you so afraid of?” Charles asks gently. “That she’ll see all your broken pieces?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charles raises his eyebrow. “No? Logan, she’s already seen them. She knows what you are and she’s still here.”

“That’s not the point!” Logan roars, his voice echoing off the metal walls. His breathing comes out in short gasps and he knows he needs to rein himself in. Not only for himself but for Charles. It doesn’t take much to trigger a seizure these days and he doesn’t need the stress of this conversation to become a catalyst. 

Charles remains quiet, expression calm and Logan hangs his head, his voice softening into something raw. “It’s not about what she knows. It’s about who, about what, I am. I don’t deserve her.”

Bracing his elbows on his legs, Charles leans forward, a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. “She knows all that, Logan. And she chooses you. Every night you come to her, she chooses you. How can you not see that?”

Logan doesn’t respond, but the weight of Charles’ words hang heavy against his shoulders. He looks down at his hands, seeing the callouses and crisscrossing scars. His body is a physical map of violence, each faded pink line a story of pain, regret and death. 

But you’ve never seen them that way. You’ve only ever looked at them with reverence, traced your fingertips along each one and wondered about their stories. Made him feel whole instead of broken and used. 

“You have a choice to make, Logan,” Charles says, interrupting the silence. “Let her in…or keep running. Don’t make her choose for you.” 

For days, Logan’s mind is plagued by replays of his last moments with you and his conversation with Charles. His already sleepless nights are further tormented by dreams of you, the devastated expression on your face haunting him.

The memory of your face, the crack in your usually steadfast voice, the tremor in your hand after you struck him. They all play in a nauseating loop in his brain, punishing him in a way he’s never felt before.

His life reverts to autopilot—drink, fight, drive, but nothing quells the gnawing ache in his chest. He couldn’t stay in the smelting plant with both Caliban and Charles staring at him, watching his every move as if he were a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Charles was running out of medications, a few days supply left at most, and Logan knew he was better off leaving Charles in Caliban’s care than his own.

Now, he sits on the edge of a dingy motel bed, the scent of cheap whiskey and cigar smoke clinging to his clothes. His eyes are dry and heavy with exhaustion and his skin is itching with that familiar want to be near you. It started as an annoying tug, but has now grown into a maddening want.

He knows he should ignore it. But he was never that strong.

Before he can talk himself out of it, convince himself that this is an astronomically stupid fucking idea, he’s on his feet, keys in hand and driving down those lonely roads towards you.

It’s late when he reaches your house, like it usually is, and he half expects the porch light to remain dark, a cold, bleak reminder of how badly he’s fucked up. Instead, he finds that single porch light illuminated, shining like a beacon of hope. Logan walks up onto the porch, but you don’t open the door like you’ve done so many times before. 

He contemplates leaving, turning around and getting back in the car and drinking himself into a semblance of sleep. But then he hears you, your heartbeat echoing beyond the wooden frame, as steady and as comforting as it’s always been. Logan pauses, wondering if he should try the knob and come inside—if you’ll even let him.

If you even should.

With a sigh, he lowers himself to the ground, his joints aching in protest as he rests his back against the door. “I’m not good at this,” he finally says, hoping you’re listening. “I’ve been alive for too long. Seen too much shit.” Logan pauses, his words burning in his throat. “I’ve lost too many people.”

He hears you shift behind him, your head thudding softly against the door as you listen. His relief is almost palpable knowing you’re there, that you’re at least willing to listen to him. Leaning back, Logan closes his eyes and exhales a heavy breath. “The only way I know how to keep people safe is to push ‘em away. And I need to keep you safe.”

The words feel foreign leaving his mouth, as if they’re uncovering a truth he’s long kept secret. He feels exposed in a way he’s not used to, raw and honest, and the truth of his words burns. Logan can still hear you on the other side of the door, your breathing slow and steady, yet laced with something—hesitation, maybe, or hurt. It makes his chest ache in a new and unfamiliar way. 

“I’m tired,” he continues, his voice softer. “I’m so fuckin’ tired, sweetheart. Tired of fightin’ when all I want—” Logan swallows hard. “All I want is you.”

The porch light hums above him, the night is alive with the chirping of crickets, but the silence that follows is almost deafening. 

Logan doesn’t deserve you, he knows that. You should turn him away, tell him to leave, to kick him back to the desert to lick his wounds alone. He doesn’t know how to be someone’s partner, their lover. He’s not sure if he ever has, really, too hung up on all the ways he paints himself as a bad man. Someone unworthy. 

Except with you, he finds himself wanting to fight. To prove he’s not as hard and unyielding as the metal bones inside him. That somewhere deep inside him there still lingers warmth and affection and the capacity to love. 

He’s bracing himself for the worst when he hears the faint sounds of the lock turning. The door creaks open and he shifts to look up at you. One of your well used blankets is wrapped around your shoulders, your hair tousled from sleep and your eyes are red and wet with unshed tears. Logan’s heart thuds heavily in his chest as you stand there and he turns to face you, pushing up onto his knees. Your expression is carefully masked, betraying little of your underlying emotions, and he carefully crawls forward, testing the waters of how close you’ll let him get.

His knees ache as he kneels on the hard concrete, but he’d crawl through glass if you asked him to. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to him as he nuzzles his face into the softness and warmth of your belly. Your comforting scent floods his senses as he waits for your anger, your rejection.

Instead, you sigh, a long pent up breath released in a steady exhale and your fingers sink into the disheveled hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close to you. “You’re an asshole,” you finally say, though your tone lacks any venom or spite.

Logan feels it then, the tension slowly easing from your body as you allow him to sink further into your frame. His heart lurches his chest, the faintest flicker of hope fluttering against his ribs.

“Yes,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“You hurt me.”

He pulls back as you gently push at his shoulders and sink down to the ground in front of him. But you don’t push him away any further and instead, lace your fingers through his. “I should tell you to fuck off,” you continue, your eyes focused on where you’re touching him. “But I can’t.”

His voice comes out in a whisper. “Why?”

Your eyes meet his and your gaze pierces straight through his soul. “You know why.”

And he does. In truth, he thinks he’s always known, long before you ever spoke those three little words out loud. Words so simple, yet so profound. Words he rarely speaks, while others casually toss them around. Words he has rarely felt, but with you feel as natural as breathing, as the sun rising in east.

Words he’s still afraid to say, despite everything, despite every cell in his body screaming at him.

You look at him like you know, because of course you do. You’ve always known him, in that uncanny way of yours since he first saw you standing in the rain. So instead of ire or disappointment at his lack of response, you simply squeeze his hand, grounding him to your reality. 

“You don’t have to say it,” you whisper, your voice soft and steady. “Not yet.”

Logan looks at you, his brows furrowed. He can’t fathom what he’s done in this life to deserve you, your patience, your unwavering belief in him. “You make it hard not to,” he finally rasps, his voice rough and uneven. “Love you, I mean.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air, raw and jagged, much like him. It’s close to what you want to hear, but not quite. And yet he sees something warm and bright blossom on your face. 

You lean in, raising your free hand to lightly trace the curve of his jaw, scratching at the scruff there. “You’re a man of action, Logan,” you say, pressing in closer, your breath mingling with his. “Wanna show me instead?”

This—this is a language he’s fluent in. 

Using his lips, tongue, hands and cock to write on your body all the words he cannot say. He’s mastered your shape, the way your hips curve beneath his palm, the softness of your belly and breasts, the heat between your thighs stoked hotter only by him. He knows exactly where to press, where to nip and suck and tease to elicit all those pretty little moans and gasps of pleasure. 

Logan’s already drawn one orgasm out of you, his fingers still thrusting against you as you ride out your high, your thighs shuddering against his forearm. You’re flushed and breathy as you reach for him, urging him up from between your thighs.  

You pull him close, fingers sinking into his hair as you lick into his mouth, not caring that your slick still stains his beard and lingers against his tongue. He swallows your gasp as he knocks your knees apart and slots himself between your legs, his cock heavy against your belly. 

He wants you. In all the ways he can think of and not just like this, naked and pliant beneath him. He wants your sleepily whispered hellos each morning and your softly murmured goodnights each evening. He wants the warm, weighty press of your body against his as you sit on the couch beside him sipping whiskey. 

He wants, he wants, he wants. 

As his kisses grow more fervent, you grow impatient and push at his chest, urging him back. “Lie back,” you command softly, your breath damp against his lips, “Let me take care of you.”

He wants to protest, deny you this request. This is supposed to be about you, about using his body to show you all the things his words can’t say. He’d spend the whole night between your thighs, using his mouth, tongue and fingers to worship if you’d let him. But there’s something in your gaze that forces him to comply and he gives in, rolling onto his back. 

You straddle his thighs, your slick cunt sliding along the length of his cock. Logan groans and his hands reach for your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh as he encourages you to move. “This is s’pose to be about you,” he husks as you slowly begin to rock your hips back and forth. 

“Oh, it is,” you answer, licking your lips as you brace your hands on his chest. “Who else can get you hard and needy beneath them?”

A low growl escapes from his throat. “No one.”

A wicked smile curls at your lips as you drag your heat along him, the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit with every slow, deliberate rock of your hips. The sensation has his control unraveling and he slides his hands along your thighs to palm the curve of your ass. 

You press into his touch, continuing to roll your hips as you lean forward to press an open mouthed kiss to the corner of his jaw. “You see,” you murmur, “this is for me.”

Reaching between your bodies, you grasp him in your hand and line him up. Slowly, almost tortuously slow, you sink down on his cock, taking him inch by inch until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. A sharp inhale escapes him as your warm, tight walls surround him and Logan knows this feels different. 

This isn’t merely fucking anymore, the melding of flesh for the pure sake of pleasure, of briefly escaping the nightmare of his life, of finding solace in sin. You’ve somehow managed to bleed yourself into him, to wrap yourself around his heart. 

You feel as if you’re a part of him, lodged deep between his ribs and that if he were to try to remove you, he’d kill himself in the process. A part of him knows this feeling has always been there, back when you first entered his limo. The feeling threatens to choke him, to fill his love soaked lungs until all he can breathe is you. 

He loves you. 

Pure and unfiltered and it terrifies him. 

“I—fuck, I,” he chokes out, the words caught in his throat. “I feel—”

Your hands run over his chest, up along his collarbones, your fingers blazing a trail over his skin. “I know, Logan,” you whisper, your hips rocking languidly against his. 

He grips your thighs, almost tight enough to bruise, helping guide your movements, but also prove to himself you’re real. Logan’s chest heaves as he watches you ride him, your hips rocking harder, faster, dragging moans out of both of you. You lean back just enough to change the angle, driving him deeper and he bucks his hips, meeting your thrusts with a force that has you crying out his name.

And yet it’s not enough. He needs to wrap himself around you, twine his fingers through your hair and hold your mouth to his until he’s completely consumed you. His hands slide up your back towards your waist and he pulls you down against him, mouth hot and insistent against your neck as he continues to fuck up into you. 

In one fluid motion, Logan grips your thighs and flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, cock still sheathed deep within your cunt. You arch beneath him as he sets a brutal, devastating pace, the raw intensity of his movements stealing short, gasps breaths from your lips with each thrust. A shiver ripples through you as he draws a nipple into his mouth, his name tumbling from you like a prayer.

“Fuck, there it is,” he growls. “I love all those little sounds you make.”

His choice of word isn’t lost on either of you and your eyes meet his as your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving faint red crescents as you cling to him. “Logan,” you gasp, your voice trembling as he hits that soft spot deep inside you. “More.”

“You want more?” he rasps, gripping your thighs and pulling them higher around his waist. The new angle has you crying out, the sound echoing in the room as he continues to slam into you with a force that has the bed creaking beneath you.

“Ah, fuck, yes,” you moan, your head tipping back. 

Logan takes advantage of your offering, his lips and teeth marking a path down your neck, his beard scraping against your skin in a way that’s sure to leave a burn come the morning. There’s a possessiveness to his touch, a need to claim you, to prove to you that this is all he needs—your embrace, your warmth, your love.

“You’re so fuckin’ good to me,” he growls against your skin, his hand sliding down between your bodies and finding where you’re joined. He can feel himself pounding into you, your combined arousal coating his fingers as he finds your clit and begins to rub in tight circles. “So goddamn perfect. You were made for me, sweetheart, you know that?”

Your cunt flutters around him and he knows you’re close, your thrusts against him growing erratic. He feels his own impending release, but he needs you to come first, needs to feel you shatter against him. His fingers press more firmly against your clit and with a breathy moan, your body tenses, back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashes into you.

“That’s it,” Logan groans, his own thrusts faltering as he feels you tighten around him, pulling him in deeper. “Look at you, comin’ so pretty for me.” He slows just enough to prolong your release, his thrusts deliberate as he draws out every ounces of pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him. 

It’s overwhelming—the sensation of you beneath him, around him; the cling of your fingers to his shoulders; the warm, damp breath against his neck; the absolute perfection of this moment right now. In all his years on this earth, he’s never experienced anything like this. The desire to completely consume someone, body and soul, and be consumed return. He wants his dying breath to be your name.

Something inside of Logan snaps, and as you try and catch your breath as you come down from your high, he presses your legs higher, folding you beneath him in a way that has his cock pressing deeper than before. The change has you whimpering and he looks down to find your expression as wrecked as he feels. He pauses his thrusts just long enough to grasp both your wrists and pin them above your head before he picks up his pace again, fucking into you with an almost ruthless intensity.

“I love you,” he growls, his thrusts growing erratic, his control quickly unraveling with every whimper and cry of his name. “God, I fucking love you.”

For a few moments, he doesn’t even realized what he’s said. Then he looks down at you, your gaze trained on his face and that soft, knowing smile of yours on your lips. “Logan,” you gasp, “I know. I’ve always known.”

Logan lets out a rough, shuddering breath, his entire body trembling with the weight of his confession. Any response he has dies in his throat as he presses his forehead to yours, his entire body wound tight. He’s so fucking close, can feel his orgasm coiling hot and tight in his gut, but it’s more than your warm heat drawing him in—it’s everything. 

“Tell me,” he grits out, his hips chasing, chasing, chasing that release.

You lean up as much as you can with your hands still pinned above you and lick an open mouthed kiss against his lips. “I love you, Logan.”

And that’s all it takes. He groans into your mouth as he finally lets go, his body tensing as his release crashes into him. He spills himself deep inside you, shallowly thrusting into your cunt as his rhythm slows.

Logan releases your hands, and for a long moment, there’s only the sound of heavy breathing, of heartbeats slowing, the two of you tangled in the aftermath.

Logan’s restless and unable to sleep despite your smaller frame tucked alongside him, the weight of your head resting against his chest. From his periphery, he can see his phone illuminating with unread texts, no doubt from Caliban urging his return. Charles has been deteriorating faster than Logan cares to admit, his mind gone more often than not, raving about new mutants. He needs drugs faster than Logan can procure them.

His mind churns, the reality of the outside world looming closer and he contemplates slipping from your grasp when you shift, curling yourself further into him. You don’t speak, not yet, but he can tell you’re alert, floating somewhere in that space between sleep and full wakefulness. Your fingers start to move of their own accord, the gentle pressure of your fingertips tracing over an old scar along his ribs, mapping out an old battle he no longer remembers. 

Beside him, his phone buzzes again and Logan sighs.

“Sounds important,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep.

He wants to keep ignoring it, stay wrapped in the quiet cocoon you’ve thrown around him, but Logan knows he can’t. It’s a cruel reminder of the chaos that plagues him beyond the sanctuary of your embrace. 

“You can go to him, Logan,” you continue, fingers never stopping their slow path along his skin. “I know you’ll be back.”

“How,” he starts, licking his dry lips, “how do you always know?”

Logan’s asked versions of this question before. You’ve always brushed him off, given a coy answer and steered the conversation towards something else. For a moment, he thinks tonight will be the same.

But then you answer.

“I can feel you,” you answer softly, your breath warm and damp against his skin. “I just—” You pause and turn to look up at him and then disentangle yourself from his embrace. “Stand up,” you urge, nudging at his side until he complies.

He blinks at you in confusion, but you just smile at him, soft and sleepy, and gently cup the side of his face. “Now, close your eyes.”

Logan does as he’s told, chasing after your touch as you step back from him, settling somewhere beyond him on the bed. “I’m going to move and you tell me where I am.”

The soft rustle of bedsheets follows and then, stillness. You’re quiet, but he can sense you, just off to his right, but too far away to touch. “My right, but farther back in the room.”

You move again, keeping your movements light. Again, he pinpoints you, this time towards his left, closer, but still too far away to grasp. “Left.”

A final movement, this time even closer, your proximity flooding his senses, sending a rush of warmth down his spine. Logan reaches out, finding the curve of your hips, hands tucking underneath the shirt you had slipped on earlier in the night, splaying his palms against your back. He opens his eyes and meets your gaze, alive in the predawn glow.

“How did you know?” you ask, looping your arms around his neck.

Understanding dawns on him, the answer so simple, yet so profound. Pinpointing where you were had nothing to do with his heightened senses and everything to do with just you—the way you’ve molded yourself to him like a second skin. “I could feel you,” he answers. “I could—I just knew.”

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. Logan sighs into your mouth, his eyes fluttering close as you press your forehead to his. “It’s like that,” you whisper. “This undeniable pull, an invisible string that connects me to you and it tug, tug, tugs, until…there you are.”

His phone continues to buzz, growing more insistent as the soft blues and grays of the morning bleed into more golden hues. With a reluctance you both feel, Logan peels himself away, finally answering the phone with an irritation he doesn’t bother hiding. 

You watch him go, standing on the porch with the light casting a halo around your head. Your smile is gentle, but stained with worry and yet you remain stoic, the steady pillar holding up the fractured remains of his life.

As he drives away, he catches one last look at you in the rearview mirror and he’ll spend the next few months wishing he told you—he feels you too. 

The last one hundred miles have dragged on for eons, the road before him stretching into an almost infinite distance. Logan finds himself darting his eyes towards the dashboard clock, growing increasingly frustrated when the numbers move only a few minutes at a time, the slow passage of time seeming to taunt him. 

It’s been months since he saw you last, though no fault of his own. His memories are hazy—a swirling fog of confusion, pain and burning fever. He’s not even sure how he survived, whether it was modern medicine or sheer stubbornness. Or something more. 

You believe in fate?

Your words echo in his mind, soft and sweet, and he feels a familiar pang of longing in his chest. 

Fate or not, something kept a spark alive in him, pulsing through his veins with each sluggish beat as he slowly and painfully healed. His wounds are still pink and tender to the touch, more of his skin marred by death and destruction. 

As he turns into your subdivision, the night quiet, a cold, creeping anxiety snakes along his spine. What if you’ve given up on him? Figured this last absence was the real deal, all his idle promises of staying away finally coming to fruition. 

But as Logan drives down your street, he sees it—the single porch light illuminating in the night. Acting like the beacon it’s always been, leading him safely to land. 

To you. 

Logan pulls into the driveway and shifts the truck into park. Turning in his seat, he glances back towards the young girl curled up on the backseat. Laura’s face is relaxed in sleep, her hands tucked protectively under her chin. She fell asleep several hours ago, the soft rhythm of the tires against pavement lulling her to sleep. 

Logan’s been many things in his life. Son, brother, fighter, friend. Lover. He never thought he’d add father to that list. While he can’t quite find it in him to call himself that just yet—even though Laura readily and easily calls him dad—he no longer denies the protectiveness he feels towards her.

Easing the door to the truck open, Logan steps out and gently shuts it behind him, loathe to disturb her just yet. 

Here he is showing up at your door like he always has—late, quiet, and carrying a heavy weight he feels only he can shoulder. His hand is poised to knock, knuckles clenched, but he pauses, unsure if he even has the right to be here. 

But then there you are, the front door opening to reveal your tired but relieved face, months of worry etched into your skin, your eyes already brimming with unshed tears. 

“Logan,” you breathe, pulling him gently by the wrist and leading him inside. You don’t ask why he’s there. He suspects you already know. 

The air inside the house is just as he remembers. Warm and inviting and laced with the faint, comforting smell of you. Logan inhales deeply, letting the scent settle somewhere in the parts of him that still feel alive, that thrum with the memory of your touch. 

Your fingers still linger against his wrist and he can feel the heat radiating from your body, but you’re not close enough. And yet, he’s afraid to reach out, pull you into his arms. Afraid of the pity or obligation you’ll feel to comfort him, to allay all his fears.

As if reading his thoughts, you gently cup the side of his face, your nails scratching along his jaw. Logan flinches slightly, his body so used to pain these past months he’s almost forgotten the tenderness of your touch. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he closes his eyes, a ragged breath falling from his lips and his head dips forward. 

“C’mere,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his waist. 

For a moment, he doesn’t move, but then he slides his arms along your back, pulling you against him. You feel real and solid and alive pressed this close. Never one for overt physical touch, Logan’s surprised by how much he missed this—the simple act of just holding you. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he inhales deeply, his breath warm and damp against your skin. 

He doesn’t say anything, unsure where to even begin. The weight of his grief, his weariness, feels heavier than any burden he’s ever shouldered before and it’s almost desperate the way he clings to you. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. If you were to let go, he’d fall apart. 

Logan doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the hot trail of tears against his cheeks. You run your fingers through his hair, murmuring soft reassurances as you hold him. 

“I couldn’t feel you, Logan,” you whisper into his neck. “Several days of just…nothing. I thought that—”

The words lodge themselves in your throat, but he knows what they are just the same. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, your eyes glistening with tears that match the ones rolling down his weathered face. Your expression is marred with pain, raw and unfiltered, but also with a bright flicker of relief. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice rough with emotion. “I got dragged into some bad fuckin’ shit. I almost…we—”

You quiet him with a soft brush of your fingers against his lips. “It’s okay, Logan,” you whisper. “Tell me about it later. I’m just happy you’re home.”

Home. 

Logan gaze softens at your words, but guilt gnaws at him. He doesn’t deserve this—your unwavering faith in him, the patience you’ve shown him, the light you’ve been in his dark, endless nights. But here you are, giving him everything he’s never asked for but so desperately craved. 

“C’mon,” you murmur, dragging him from his thoughts, “Let’s get you settled.”

It’s well past two in the morning by the time Logan finally carries Laura into the house, tucking her comfortably into the guest bedroom. Turning from the bed, he finds you there, leaning against the doorframe. You reach for him, in that soft, gentle way you always do, and lead him into your bedroom. 

He doesn’t protest when you sit him down at the edge of the bed and begin undressing him. Kneeling before him, you unlace his boots and peel off his socks, setting them aside. With a slight press to his knees, you force his legs wider, slotting yourself between them. 

Despite the late hour, the weariness and fatigue tugging at his bones, Logan feels his cock twitch as your fingers brush underneath the hem of his shirt. 

It’s been so long since he’s felt you. 

He dreamt of you, in those fevered moments where he didn’t know where one part of his body began or ended. When his entire existence had been boiled down to raw nerves and sluggishly knitting flesh. Through the haze of pain, he wondered if he’d ever feel your kiss again, feel the frantic press of your fingers into his shoulders, feel the warm, wet heat of your cunt stretching around him. 

You toss the shirt aside and he can feel your gaze lingering over the new scars, the pink, raised lines of flesh that are still healing. With a reverence he’s not worthy of, you trace your fingertips along the three jagged scars from where X-24 had ripped into him. 

“What happened to you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper as you move to trace more of his scars. 

Logan tells you then about Pierce and the Reavers, about Laura and the other mutant children. His throat grows tight as he continues, relaying the loss of Caliban, Charles and the Munsons, and the final confrontation between himself and his clone. 

He tells you how Laura saved him. How her and the other children brought him to safety over the Canadian border. How he spent the next months fighting with every fiber of his being to knit himself whole. 

For you. 

You lean into him as he looks away, jaw tightening as he tries to shove down the memories of everything he’s lost. Your touch is light against his face as you trace the angle of his jaw, and reach up to press the lightest of kisses against his lips. 

Logan exhales into your mouth as you kiss him again, soft and tender and warm. You seem to breathe him in, imbue life into his weary flesh and reignite the spark he’s kept alive for you. 

He wants to do more—to pull you into his arms, to taste you, to fuck into you until he can’t breathe. But exhaustion pulls heavily on his bones, threatening to sink him. 

Logan knows you can feel his hesitancy because you keep kissing him softly, punctuating each press of your lips with whispered reassurance. Your fingers card through his hair as you lean back. “Just let me hold you?” 

Your voice cracks at your request and Logan can only nod, unable to deny you. You help him shuffle out of his pants before coaxing him further into the bed. He moves slowly and he knows you don’t miss the creaking of his joints, the soft groan of discomfort. 

Coming to rest on his side, you tuck into him, throwing a leg over his hips and pulling him close. He sighs into your touch, the weight of the last few months pressing just a little bit less as you press a kiss to the hollow of his throat. 

“Don’t leave me,” you whisper into his skin, soft and damp. 

Logan feels his heart clench at your words. He’s hurt you. He knows that. Not just inadvertently with his most recent disappearance, but all the other times, too. Those times when he ran, afraid of what your words and touch meant. Afraid to accept what you’ve always so freely given. 

His hand slips under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your back. “You kept the light on,” he husks, unable to keep the break out of his voice.”

Your lips quirk into a soft smile. “I always will, Logan.”

[liliesdiary]

➢Body Of A Porn Star

SYNOPSIS → After a long day of stalking you, his Valentine—Ghostface captures the infamous porn star, Soft Angel, and you're going to be the star of his porno.

PART ONE → Face Of An Angel

WORDS → (3.4k words)

CONTENT WARNING: 18+ ONLY → this porno contains mature themes, graphic content, and disturbing imagery. Viewer deception is strongly advised. Specific warnings include › pornstar!reader, dubcon, yandere!ghostface, blackmail, power play, porn addict!ghostface, porn mentioned, obsessive!ghostface, love struck!ghostface, hyperfem!reader, soft angel porn name, obsessive thoughts, face fucking, knife play, violent threats, voyeurism, ownership obsession, possessive!ghostface, yandere themes, forced porno!

AUTHOR’S NOTE → enjoy the porno my perverted angels <3 @babysbreathbabes @tooloudarts @dollfacemay @love-me-satoru @smoooth-buttercup @taylormarieee @loveryoushouldcomeoverr

「 🖱️CLICK TO PRESS PLAY 🖱️ 」

꧁ᬊᬁ LOVESICK ANONYMOUS ᬊ᭄꧂

"You look so dolled up for me, angel. The face of an angel and the body of a porn star."

Your heartbeat pounds like a dove trying to escape her cage once again as you read that message. Your eyes scanned around the room, searching for the masked man.

Your cunt started to throb once again, drenching those delicate pink panties that he so adores when you wear them during your livestreams.

꧁ᬊᬁ LOVESICK ANONYMOUS ᬊ᭄꧂

“Are those pink panties meant just for me, my doll?”

His text arrives, each word laced with a seductive intoxication that wraps around your pretty body.

Your eyes look down at your phone once again, reading the pink glowing screen that shows more messages from him. He wouldn't stop messaging you. It was valentine's day and he wanted to slowly consume you.

꧁ᬊᬁ LOVESICK ANONYMOUS ᬊ᭄꧂

“I think we can have some fun today, doll. I fantasized about you all night long. Let's do something special today, something that I've been thinking about for months.”

Your heart stops as you think about the vile things he could have planned for you, yet your cunt yet you couldn't deny that the thought of being his trapped victim once again excited you as much as it scared you.

You kept choosing to not respond, pissing him off and making him lose his patience. You put your phone back in the pocket of your short skirt. You tried to concentrate on the boring lecture but messages overflowed the screen of your laptop, love sick threats and confessions from him.

He was like a fucking virus, a lovestruck ghost that kept haunting you. The lovesick attention made your heart throb, maybe this was just real romance.

Your gaze wanders once more as you hear a gentle knock on the classroom door. A student enters, carrying a stack of anonymous love letters in celebration of Valentine's Day. You find yourself holding your breath as the student approaches, their smile widening at the sight of the numerous letters you have received. An overwhelming wave of surprise washes over you—your lovesick admirer has penned an astonishing number of letters for you. Your cheeks flush with warmth as the chatter of your classmates fills the air, all gossiping about the amount you received.

"Wow, you must have a stalker," the student who delivered the letters quips, their tone lighthearted. You respond with a soft, feigned laugh that betrays a deeper sense of anxiety lurking beneath the surface.

You open your lovesick letters one by one, reading the obsessive writing. The pink letters were filled with rape threats, heartfelt love confessions and numerous of photos of your sleeping pretty face at night. It felt like he had twisted a knife in you once again.

You feel violated as you look at the photos of him in that infamous mask, that same mask he wore when he violated you and murdered your friends. In the photos, he posed next to your sleeping face, pulling your hair and forcing you to take a selfie as you lay unconscious.

But the next photo made you feel sick to your stomach, a picture of him holding his big cock against your sleeping face, the pink tip of his cock kissing your slightly parted plump lips.

You feel completely violated as you feel your body freeze. Why did your heart flutter at that? The thought of his dick being that close to your lips, the haunting reality of his invasion during the night, sends shivers through your heart, both trembling and fluttering in confusion.

Your eyes gaze upon one of his love letters and you read the bone chilling words.

“From the moment I stabbed you with my knife was the moment I knew that I wanted those pretty pathetic eyes to be mine. I stained your pretty body and I let you go. I couldn't seem to get you off my mind after that moment. I watched you from that very moment and stained you ever since.

You're my little trapped dove, you entered my cage the moment you started your little porn blog. That only fueled my obsession with you, I've been in your walls ever since. I've been watching you everyday, spoiling my little angel with gifts and money.

I want to film you. I want to hurt you. I want to love you. I want to hear you scream. I just want to make you mine. Keep being a good little slut for me like you've always been, and maybe I won't mutilate you by the time I'm done with you, soft angel. Love, your lovesick anonymous.”

Your face goes pale as your soft eyes tremble, you feel trapped as you read the letter. He had completely owned you. He always had.

The lecture is over and you're glued to your seat, your eyes trembling as you feel like a prey waiting to be mauled if you go back to your dorm room.

As you exit the classroom, an unsettling sensation washes over you; his predatory aura seems to envelop you once more, relentlessly pursuing your every step. You can’t shake the feeling of being his helpless prey, hunted by a relentless predator. Your legs quiver as you fasten your pace, the delicate pink heels of your shoes trembling with each hurried step.

You feel paranoid, your wide eyes trembling as you see someone hunting you down in the crowd of people. You try to get someone's attention but no one looks at you.

Your heart races uncontrollably as you catch sight of him, donning that mask—the very mask that has haunted your dreams—drawing closer with each passing moment as you sprint back toward your dorm room.

You reached your building and it was completely empty, everyone else was occupied with their classes. A surge of fear coursed through you as he pursued you to the room, seizing your hair with a rough grip and overpowering you as he secured the door behind you. Painful memories surged forth, causing your breath to quicken as he pinned you down.

It was him. It was him with a knife pressed against your throat, he compelled you into a kiss that was both sweet and long overdue. You whimpered, instinctively attempting to resist him, your teeth grazing his lip, but he retaliated with a fiercer bite. His obsession was palpable; he raised his mask slightly, forcing his tongue into your mouth, groaning at the taste of your soft tongue. The sensation was overwhelming, leaving you feeling violated and powerless.

He then pulls away from your soft trembling body, “Happy Valentine's Day, my doll."

He found himself unable to pull his hands away from your trembling form, the scent of your fear intoxicating him. For what felt like an eternity, he had obsessively yearned for you. His gloved hands tightened around you, a clear indication that he had no intention of releasing you.

He was determined to compel you to love him, to cherish the way he violently yearned for you. His desire was to possess you, to leave an indelible mark upon you.

You tremble and feel the urge to run away but you can't move your body. The sight of him with that same exact knife that took your friend's life, it made you sick to your stomach.

He reveled in your broken expression, akin to a deer caught in the headlights, and seized you roughly, drawing you closer. In a low, intimate whisper, he remarked, “You truly live up to your name when you tremble like that, soft angel.” With a sinister grace, he traced the razor-sharp blade—the same one that had inflicted pain upon you long ago—along your cleavage.

Your body quivered under his touch, reduced to a mere plaything in his hands, as he manipulated you like a lifeless doll.

“N-No! Stop!” You screamed but your voice was muffled against his rough hand. He lets out a sadistic chuckle as he looks at your old scar, the one he created. You had attempted to cover it up with the soft angel tattoo, which made him extremely jealous.

He then pressed the knife against your skin, locking his gaze with yours as he etched his mark upon your soft angel tattoo. Once again, he branded you, tainting your body anew. Painful memories surged, leaving you feeling utterly defeated as you collapsed into his awaiting arms once more.

He had carved his name into you, the brand on your infamous tattoo, replacing your identity. You felt completely owned by him. He then bent down and overwhelmed you with his perverted hands as he manhandled you into the bed. You feel the blood dripping down your body as he lays you down on the bed.

With a subtle lift of his mask, he revealed his lips to you, crashing them against yours with a fervor that claimed your mouth as his own. “You belong to me.” he repeated, his grip tightening around your throat while his lips wandered across your soft body.

“You look so pretty to me, doll. Such a good little doll for me, making me feel fucking lovesick for you.” He said with his predatory voice, sending a shiver down your spine. His hands roamed around your doll-like outfit, he feels a sense of ownership as he sees the outfit you put on specifically for him.

He then raised his sharp knife to your pretty face and threatened you, “Now be a good porn star and sit on your chair, or I'll stab you again.”

You quickly sit on your pink streaming chair trembling at his threat. He was so sweet to you.

You tremble as you wait for his next command. He goes on your computer and clicks on your porn blog, thousands of people already lining up in your live queue that he set up an hour before.

He looks at you, “My sweet angel, put your hands behind your back, let's give your fans a well deserved Valentine's gift.” He said as he tied your pretty body to the chair, binding you and completely restraining your naked body.

You were extremely vulnerable with him, your wet holes exposed to him and the ready webcam in front of you.

The pink restraints and ropes traveled along your bambi body, your body helpless as your predator’s eyes roamed around your blood stained body. His hands tied your weak ankles covered in the dripping blood to your chair, making sure you can't escape him.

“I've always fantasized about this very moment, the moment where I have my little angel trapped and vulnerable, easier to violate and break.”

Your eyes tremble as you look up at him as you finally speak, “Please be gentle, Mr Ghostface.”

He lets out a dark chuckle and caresses your glossy lips, “I'll be gentle as long as you're a good doll for me.”

Before he gags you, he gives you a rough passionate kiss, ruining your lipgloss as he claimed you. He pulled your infamous pink mask over your face, hiding your identity as you were both wearing infamous masks. He stared into your eyes so sweetly, caressing your masked face as he took time to cherish this long awaited moment.

“Are you ready, soft angel?”

「 Press Start 」

“Happy Valentine's Day” He says darkly as the chat starts to load. He forces you to face the webcam, spinning the chair and forcing your mouth open with a spider gag.

The chat was excited to see you violated on camera by who they assumed was just a porn actor. He groped your perfect round tits as he watched people join the live. What the chat didn't expect to see was the infamous Ghostface on their screen along with their tied up angel.

➢ [◉°] LIVE | ꧁ᬊᬁ ᴀɴɢᴇʟᬊ᭄꧂ ANGELSOFTPORN.COM [ ▸ 58.8k LIVE VIEWERS ]

➢ [◉°] [ ▸ 58.8k LIVE VIEWERS ]

LIVE CHAT ▶SLOWED

♡ ︎ ChristianJay44 » you look so pretty tied up

♡ ︎ taintbj » soft angel has her first guest?

♡ ︎ icky_brat » ghostface??

♡ ︎ martindilf » I see you've got a Valentine.

♡ ︎SoftLover » is she bleeding?

♡ ︎maxxdirector » is ghostface going to make her his next stabbing victim? i'm looking forward to that

♡ ︎Brat_Tamer » fucking slut

♡ ︎psychokiller88 » pathetic little angel, getting fucked by a serial killer?

The chat erupted with excitement, thousands flocking to witness your first guest, the notorious serial killer. Your face flushed a deep pink, mirroring the hue of your mask. A wave of shame washed over you as you felt utterly exposed, the audience bearing witness to their infamous porn star, the soft angel, surrendering her virginity to a psychopath.

Everyone thought you were truly pathetic yet they couldn't stop watching. You were gagged and forced to stare at the camera, your wide heart eyes making the chat fall in love with your Valentine's gift for them.

The mask man behind you caressed your tied up body as you trembled in your seat. He traced the pink ropes with the tip of his sharp knife causing your body to flinch with each sharp touch. It felt so fucking thrilling for you. His trapped little angel at his mercy, broadcasted on your soft porn blog.

With his dark guttural voice he spoke to your fans, “Welcome to the stream everyone, doesn't our soft angel look so pretty today? Doesn't she have the body of a porn star?”

He then roughly pulled your hair, “Today I have planned a beloved valentine's gift for her fans.”

Your chat flooded with mixed reactions, some of your loyal admirers felt a twinge of jealousy, while others were undeniably captivated, their sweet donations pouring in relentlessly.

You gaze up at him with wide, trembling eyes, silently pleading for gentleness as he asserts his claim over your body, yet his firm grip on your hair instills a sense of fear. He perceives your quivering state, a smirk playing beneath his mask—a mask you utterly despise. “It’s alright, my sweet doll. I promise to be gentle, just continue to look lovely for the camera,” He says, fixing your pink ribbons in your nicely done braids that he'll use as handles.

He gently tilted your head slightly towards the camera, positioning you perfectly to be his plaything, making you look like his doll for the camera. Your mouth was forced open with the gag, you were reduced to a sex doll for him, and you loved it.

His member was large and veined, the tip brushing against your full lips. You were angelic, your eyes gently yielding to your captor, a submissive look that stirred his obsession even more deeply within him.

Your pretty pink blow job lips stretched obscenely around his thick cock, tears leaking from your eyes as he forced himself deeper, using your mouth like a cheap fuck toy. your tongue feels repulsed as you let the man who killed your friends use you like this, yet your cunt couldn't stop throbbing at the sweet way he treated you.

He used your head gently, gripping it possessively as he fucked your soft throat. He fantasized about this moment for so long, his fantasies could never truly compare to reality though. He felt so pleased as he used you like this, he thought you were so fucking pathetic, but you were his pathetic little angel.

You were completely helpless, your mouth forced open as he used you so sweetly in front of thousands. He caressed your cunt gently, his arousal growing as he felt how drenched you are. He gripped your hair and leaned in, his dark sinister voice sending a cold chill down your delicate spine, “You’re so fucking wet, you're enjoying this so much.”

And fuck, he was right. You were enjoying this so much. Your face was flustered as you were broadcasted live, showing everyone how much of a slut you were. You glanced at your screen and saw the amount of people watching the live, your glass heart shattered.

➢ [◉°] LIVE | ꧁ᬊᬁ ᴀɴɢᴇʟᬊ᭄꧂ ANGELSOFTPORN.COM [ ▸ 89.8k LIVE VIEWERS ]

──── ୨୧ ────

LIVE CHAT ▶SLOWED

♡ Oldperv » overfill her mouth with cum

♡ Fauxxx4 » she's a fucking slut, look at the way she's enjoying this

♡ Dsxirex » fuckkk

♡ Bunnny25 » never take that gag off of her

♡ Wolfsbane » the hottest thing I've ever watched

♡ LittleAngel33 » she looks so helpless

♡ Red lights_728 » fucking pathetic

♡ Sluttyporn » fuck her mouth harder

The masked man saw the amount of people watching your live and let out a dark chuckle, tightening his grip on your braided hair as he fucked your mouth, “How do you feel about thousands of your fans watching me fuck your pretty mouth?”

Your heart trembles as you stare at the webcam like a helpless victim. The amount of people watching you being defiled by your attacker made your heart shatter. Your wide trembling eyes only made him fuck your mouth harder. “You have no idea how much I love your pretty eyes, you look like an angel when they tremble like that.”

He then violently gripped your aching throat and forced his cock deeper into your pretty mouth. You let out a loud gag that made your face flushed under your mask. You whimper around his cock as he obsessively thrusted into your mouth. He'd been craving your mouth for so long, the feeling of being inside of you made his heart beat violently over you. He loved the way you couldn't resist his cock, he could feel your tongue wrapping around his cock trying to pleasure him as he assaulted your mouth, it made him fall in love with how pathetic you were.

His dark obsessive eyes beneath that mask made you sick. You hated how he knew how pathetic you were for him. You belonged to him, even if you denied it, your body could never forget his stain on you.

He then quickly grabbed his knife and held it to your soft throat, “You belong to me.”

He was insane and consumed with obsession, fucking your forced open mouth with increasing intensity. He made sure to get you on camera, gagging and struggling to take his big cock as your plump lips wrapped around his cock.

Your delicate glass heart raced as he humiliated you before thousands of your viewers. Tears threatened to spill from your trembling eyes, for he was not as gentle as he had promised; yet, he tenderly wiped them away, leaving your heart in a tumult of conflicting emotions. You looked like a broken little dove and he reveled in that.

The way he gently caressed your masked face as he violated you made your heart flutter, you felt so filthy for loving the way he violated you. You could feel your heart racing faster with each violent thrust, you could feel your cunt matching its rhythm.

He could feel the way your filthy body is reacting to your defilement, he could tell that you were enjoying this. He lets out a dark psychotic chuckle, “Did I break you already, pretty little dove?”

He then started to roughly rub his boot into your drenched cunt, making you drool on his cock more as he obsessively desired to defile your angelic body even more.

“You're enjoying this so much. I think I'm falling deeper in love with you.”

With one last violent thrust, he overfilled your pretty mouth with his cum, staining your lips and forcing you to open your mouth to the fans.

➢ [◉°] LIVE | ꧁ᬊᬁ ᴀɴɢᴇʟᬊ᭄꧂ ANGELSOFTPORN.COM [ ▸ 93.5k LIVE VIEWERS ]

──── ୨୧ ────

LIVE CHAT ▶SLOWED

♡ Drugged Brat » fuck..her mouth is overfilling with cum

♡ Mollymydrinnk » fucking cumslut

♡ Tamer61 » never stop

♡ Anonymous_Reaper » she was born to be used like that

♡ Yourstalker » make her cry more

♡ daddyslittleslut » she's so pretty when she cries

♡ Chainedx91 » fuck her overfilling mouth

♡ DerrangedIndividual » getting fucked by a serial killer in front of thousands, the perfect valentine's date

You force yourself to swallow as he commanded you to, he read the comments out loud to you and chuckled at the way your fans degraded you. You fucking hated his deep chuckle, it always filled you with a blood curling fear.

“How does it feel to be watched and defiled like this? Does it feel humiliating?” He said so cruelly.

Of course it felt fucking humiliating. You felt so exposed and vulnerable as thousands witnessed and masturbated to your defilement. Tears threatened to spill, yet his tender caress against your lips ignited a flutter in your heart once more. He was both gentle and arousingly cruel to you.

“Shh..it's okay, my delicate angel.” He said as he took the tight gag off of you, your jaw felt so relieved as you could finally close your mouth.

He then repositioned you onto the bed as your delicate body trembled. He groped your body pervertedly, the camera capturing every moment. He kept whispering into your ear and praising you, making you flinch as he kept touching your reopened scar.

His hands and eyes could never leave the bleeding scar he inflicted upon you, it was like he was proud of himself but ruining your soft skin once again. He was like a man starved for your defilement.

He then hastily tore away your pink panties, the ones he had admired for such a long time. Setting them aside, he intended to take them later. With a roughness that made you whimper, he forcefully spread your legs apart.

"You’re a virgin, aren’t you, sweet angel?" he said, his grip on your jaw firm as he compelled you to meet his masked gaze. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded obediently, fear keeping you from uttering a falsehood.

With a sinister smile hidden beneath his mask, “Let me violate you and finally claim your body then.”

[Let Him Pop Your Cherry?]

「 YES 」 OR 「 NO 」

[satsugacafe]

𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐀𝐔: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞

➳❥ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: Jugram Haschwalth, Ishida Uryu, Aizen Sosuke

➳❥ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: Hello! If it isnt too much trouble could you do a soulmate au for jugram, uryu, and aizen(separately)? Thank you❤️

➳❥ 𝐀/𝐍: I did not expect to write so much for this, but then again, I was deeply invested in this AU >.< I love these types of AUs. Round star dividers were from my dear friend @/edensrose

➳❥ ��𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭: How each character meet or connect with you, their soulmate, through the unique bond you share.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾ Jugram Haschwalth — Colourblind

He didn’t believe in soulmates. The idea of being bound and destined to a stranger was fickle, not when he had more pressing matters at hand, like tending to His Majesty. Giving himself to someone else and dedicating his life to be devoted was unheard of—there was only one person he was devoted to, and it belonged to the man who saved his life and gave him purpose. Not you. Not some random person who would enter his life in a sweeping moment and flip everything upside down.

And you did. When he saw the world in black and white, how else was he to perform his duties to the fullest? He needed you as his other half to be that addition to his bleak life—no matter how hard he refused to accept, he needed you.

There you were, standing atop a hill, overseeing the city below like a sentinel with a look on concentration on your face. One moment he staring at the muted tones of you, and the next, he was staring at the shade your hair flickered under the sun and the colour of your shocked eyes when they landed on him. He felt disoriented at the sudden sharpness of the world around him, especially you.

He knew it meant. Part of him wanted to reject, the other part wanted to keep you to himself, like some sacred treasure that gave him his sight back.

“Quincy, huh?” Came your first words to him. They weren’t filled with disgust or animosity like he expected, instead, interest—pure, genuine interest. “Would have never guess it.”

You were his soulmate. The person meant to complete him. The one thing he was supposed to cherish above all else. And you were a Shinigami.

His enemy.

His duty was to Yhwach had always bee absolute. The Quincies had waged war against the Shinigami for centuries, and now fate had bound him to you—tied his very sigh, his very world, to your existence. It was cruel. And yet…

He did not want to let you go. That realisation sent a sharp pang through his chest. His hand twitched at his side, fingers aching to reach for you despite himself. He opened his mouth to speak, shut it, then opened it again, hand curling around the hilt of his sword as if waiting for the inevitable. “You do not appear displeased?”

You scoffed at his hesitation. “You could have been an Espada—didn’t matter. You’re my soulmate, clear as daylight, no pun intended.” Strolling down the hill to stand a few feet away from him, you folded your arms. “And I’ve been waiting a damn long time for you to give me my sight.”

He felt himself smiling, the corners of his lips twitching slightly. Your words clearly struck a cord of similarity within. Slackening his hand on his sword, he let it fall at his side, his fingers twitching at the lack of holding something. “Now that it has returned, what do you want?”

You blinked, brows lifting at his directness. A beat passed, then—

“Wow,” you exhaled, shaking your head. “You really aren’t the romantic type, huh?”

He stiffened slightly. “I don’t see how—”

“Not even a ‘where have you been all my life’ or a ‘you’re my missing half’?” you cut in with a teasing grin. “No sweeping me off my feet? No dramatic declaration of undying love? Nothing? Damn…”

“This is not a game,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“Never said it was,” You tilted your head, studying him with an intensity that sent a shiver through him. Then, after a pause, you exhaled in defeat. “But if you’re the brooding type—the whole ‘my duty comes first, I can’t have a soulmate’ thing—then just say so.”

His fingers curled into fist. Yous saw right through him.

Your gaze searched his, patient, waiting. But Jugram had no answer to give. He didn’t know what he wanted. You were an impossibility, something he should reject, something he should let go.

And yet—

You took his silence for your answer and slumped your shoulders with an almost saddened look in your eyes. “Got it,” you murmured and slowly turned on your heel to depart. “I’ll, uh—I’ll take my leave then. No hard feelings.”

But something twisted violently in him. His hand shot out before he could stop himself, fingers curling around your wrist. The warmth of your skin against his was nearly scorching. His heartbeat roared in his ears, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should let you go. But he couldn’t.

“…Don’t go,” he whispered with a mix of a command and plea. “I…”

You smiled at him, reassuring and understanding. You saw the internal conflict. Lifting your free hand to brush lightly over the back of his where he still held your wrist, he tightened his hold, not wanting to let go.

“Why don’t we start off simple if you’re unsure, then?” you suggested and turned to face him, chest to chest. “A name wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’m Y’N.”

His hold on your wrist tightened as he took an unconscious step forward, closing the gap. Before he could stop himself, his lips parted to respond to your simple call—a response that would spiral him into your world. “…Jugram.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jugram. I’ve been waiting for you for quite a while.”

He gulped, feeling his heart fluttering erratically, because deep down, so was he.

☾ Ishida Uryu — Shared Pain & Skin-writing

Uryu winched, his fingers tightening around the book he had been reading, the sudden sharp sting in his knee jolting him from his thoughts. It was a familiar pain, one he had felt countless times before, but this time, after months of silence, it struck him like an accusation.

You had done that on purpose.

For the past three months, he had managed to push down the instinct to reach for you. To pick up a pen and scrawl something against his skin just to see you answer. He had been trying—struggling—to keep his distance. Not because he wanted to, but because his world had become more dangerous than ever. He had been thrown into the midst of something you had no right to be involved in, something he didn’t want to lose you to. And yet, even after all this time, you still wanted to talk to him. Still reached for him, even when he had made no effort to reach back.

His hand twitched toward the pen on his desk. He hesitated for only a second before reaching for it, his movements hesitant, as if testing whether he had the right to do this after so long. Then, pressing the cool tip to his forearm, he finally let himself write:

What do you want?

Seconds passed, then, before the could second-guess himself, the ink began to fade, the letters disappearing as your skin absorbed the message. Then, just as quickly, a reply followed with familiar, messy strokes that made his chest ache with something he wasn’t ready to name.

Oh, so now you answer.

His lips twitched. He practically heard your irritated voice, your frustration that barely concealed the relied underneath. You weren’t really angry, just hurt that he had ignored you.

You stopped writing first, he countered. It wasn’t entirely true, but he couldn’t admit to his reasons yet.

There was a pregnant pause before letters appeared on his skin again. Three months Uryu. Three! I thought you died or something.

His fingers tightened around the pen. You weren’t far off. A part of him had died in these past months. The moment he had stepped into Yhwach’s world, everything had changed. But you didn’t know that. You didn’t know what he had become. What he had chosen.

He took a deep breath, forcing the thought away and allowed his pen to move. Responding with something safer, not yet a confession.

I’m fine.

A pause and then.

Bullshit.

You were perceptive—always had been, even without knowledge of his world.

I mean, he wrote. I’ve been…busy.

Then came another pause. An even longer one. Long enough that he almost wondered if you had decided to stop replying. Then, finally—

Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or keep lying to me?

His grip on his pen tightened before he tossed himself onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. What could he possibly tell you? He really wanted to pout everything out, explaining his silence, but he would hate himself for burdening you with his troubles. This was his choice, and he wasn’t going to drag you into this.

With his hesitation, you took his silence as an answer and scribbled on your hand once more as words appeared on his skin.

I miss talking to you.

You missed talking to him. His heart clenched and felt caught in his throat the longer he stared at the message. After everything, you still missed him, after the silence you still—

Me too, he replied. The first honest response for the night.

Good. Now explain why you’re ignoring your soulmate.

Soulmate. The words weren’t foreign to him, and it make his pulse hammer each time you used it. He still remembered when he fought the idea at first. Rejecting it outright, the concept itself had felt too irrational, too binding, too…dangerous. But over time, he had stopped fighting it because despite everything, there was something undeniably…comforting about the connection you shared.

…It wasn’t personal, he scribbled slowly.

But your response was immediate.

Then why?

He clenched his jaw. You weren’t going to let this go.

Because my life is complicated.

So is mine, smarty pants. But that didn’t stop me from talking to you.

You had a point, but it wasn’t the same. You didn’t understand what he was caught in, what he had been forced to do. If you knew—if you even had an inkling of what he had become—you wouldn’t be writing to him like this.

I didn’t want to drag you into my mess.

Boo hoo, that’s not you’re choice to make, buddy.

You were right, but it didn’t change anything.

He pressed the pen against his skin again, but before he could write, more words appeared.

Uryu, please…I don’t need to know everything. I just…don’t disappear again. Don’t leave me, please.

For a fraction of a second, his heart stopped. His fingers curled around the pen, gripping it like a lifeline.

I won’t.

Okay. He could tell that your reply was softer this time.

Silence stretched between you after that, neither of you writing anything for a long moment, but for once, it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t heavy with unspoke words or the weight of his choices.

It just was.

Can’t sleep? He wrote on impulse without thinking them through.

I could ask you the same thing.

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Then we’re even.

We could play a game. Like old times.

His fingers hovered over his skin, as he fought to enjoy this moment, not knowing what tomorrow would bring.

Alright, just like old times.

☾ Aizen Sosuke — Red String

The red string of fate had always been a concept that Aizen found…amusing. It was whispered about in the hushed concerns of Seireitei, a myth spoken of in quiet reverence by those who still believed in destiny. Even among Shinigami, the idea of an unbreakable connection binding two souls together was seen as little more than an old wives’ tale. And yet, here he was, following the near-invisible thread tied around his finger through the streets of Rukongai.

Curiosity had stirred within him, an unfamiliar sensation tugging at the edges of his m ind. It was not often that something escaped his notice, and yet, here was proof of something he had overlooked, was not according to his plan—his own soulmate. The notion should have been laughable. He was a Captain of the Gotei 13, a man who had long since abandoned the confines of simple belief in fate. And yet, the strong remained, unyielding, leading him to an unknown destination.

As he stepped past the worn dirt paths and into the bustling districts, the scent of sake and cooked food mingled with the crisp evening air. lanterns flickered in warm hues, casting long shadows against wooden buildings. The sound of laughter and conversation drifted through the streets as citizens lost themselves in the ordinary pleasures of their lives. Yet Aizen’s gaze remained fixated on the red string, watching as it wove through the crows with ease, guiding him forward to a tavern.

The moment he entered, the tavern was filled with workers and travellers, all too occupied with their own affairs to pay attention to the newcomer. His gaze flickered across the room, scanning faces with an unreadable expression, until—

There you were.

There was nothing remarkable about you in the way that nobles or warriors were deemed. You were not adorned in fine silks, nor did you carry the weight of power upon your shoulders. And yet, Aizen found himself unable to look away.

“Welcome,” you greeted as you approached, noticing that he was standing without a seat. “Would you like something to drink, eat or a seat?”

For a moment, he did not answer, merely observing, taking in the way your eyes flickered with warmth, the way you stood with a quiet confidence despite the bustling atmosphere. Then, he smiled. “Jasmine tea. Warm.” When you nodded and turned away to prepare his order, he found a sit at the counter.

He had expected something…different. A noble, perhaps a fellow Shinigami. Someone who already resided within his world, who shared the burdens and ambitions that came with it. Instead, he found you—simple soul, untouched by the ridge structures of Seireiei, existing within a life entirely separate from his own. And yet, the string did not waver.

When you returned, setting the small ceramic cup before him, he tilted his head slightly. “I haven’t seen you before,” he remarked.

You blinked, clearly caught off guard by the statement. “Oh? Are you a regular?”

“No quite,” he admitted, fingers grazing the rim of his cup. “I don’t frequent the Rukongai often. But even so, I feel as though I would have remembered someone like you.”

A small chuckle escaped you as you leaned against the counter, setting your tray aside. “You say that like I’m someone important.”

Aizen took a slow sip of his tea, savouring the warmth before placing his cup down. His eyes never left yours once. “Perhaps. Importance is a matter of perspective.”

You frowned at his words, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind them. There was something about him—unsettlingly enigmatic. His presence was commanding yet effortless, his gaze holding an intensity that made your skin prickle. He was unlike anyone you had met before, and yet, you had no reason to fear him.

“Are you a noble?” you asked, unable to suppress your curiosity, while taking in his simple garb. “Or maybe a merchant? You don’t seem like the kind to wander these parts without reason.”

His lips curled slightly at your statement. “No, nothing of the sort.”

“Then what do you do?”

“If I told you, it might change the way you see me.” He titled his head, watching you with a soft delight.

You huffed a small laugh, leaning away from the counter and placing a hand on your waist. “That sounds awfully suspicious.”

“Does it?”

“A little,” you admitted. “But I guess it doesn’t matter. You’re here now, and you seem…strange from most people who pass through.”

To Aizen’s astonishment, he found himself engaging—not manipulating, not strategising, but in something startlingly genuine. You did not know who he was. You had no need to fear him, no reason to treat him with the deference he had grown accustomed to in Seireitei. You spoke to him as an equal, unburdened by knowledge of his power or rank.

And perhaps that was why despite the sheer improbability of it all, he found himself drawn to you. 

At some point, you paused, turning toward him with a contemplative look. “You never told me you name.”

For a moment, he considered lying—giving you an alias, keeping a distance between the truth and the delicate illusion of this night. But then, he met your gaze and spoke.

“Aizen Sosuke.”

The name meant nothing to you. There was no flicker of recognition, no shift in demeanour. You simply smiled.

“Well, Aizen,” you warmly spoke, “it was nice talking to you. You should come by again sometime.”

He stared at you, his mind lingering on the invisible thread that connected you both. A thread that had led him here, to a moment that should not have existed in the grand scheme of his plans. And despite himself—despite everything—he found himself returning a smile.

“Perhaps I will.”

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @edensrose @stygianoir @spellboundsuguru @cactimorada @cookielovesbook-akie @kennys-partner

©satsugacafé 2025: no permission to repost, plagiarise, copy or translate my work onto any other platform or this one.

[teal-fiend]

misbehaving

Summary: a pred is annoyed at their observer, so they take matters into their own hands

Content: vore, ambiguous ending, digestion mention, hunger, foodplay, pred pov

the predator sprawled on the couch.

"Ughhh," they groan, pressing both hands to their stomach like a wounded soldier. "I'm starving." A dramatic sigh.

their stomach visibly concaving as they suck in a breath, only to release it with a miserable huff.

"How could you just sit there while I waste away like this?"

You ate yesterday," the observer points out.

The predator whines, stretching out a foot to nudge their shin.

"And? That was so long ago. Do you have any idea how fast my body works through prey? I'm practically hollow inside."

"You're fine."

The predator tips their head back, groaning again, like some forlorn beast on the edge of death.

"Noooo, I’m not fine. My stomach’s literally caving in on itself. You’re so cruel for letting me suffer."

The observer watches, unimpressed.

"If you’re really that hungry, go get your own meal."

The predator pouts, curling in on themselves like a cat.

"I hate hunting. It’s so much effort. Why can’t they just come to me?" Their voice drops into a sulky grumble.

"What do you want from me?"

The predator's eyes gleam "A meal. Obviously."

"No."

The predator groans, flopping back down onto the couch like they’ve been shot.

"You’re the worst. you know that."

"Yeah, yeah." The observer crosses their arms, watching the predator curl around themselves, sulking. "You’ll live."

The predator watches the observer for a moment, an idea forming in their hungry brain

---

"-urp"

they moan, stretching out on the couch, their now-distended belly rising and falling with deep, contented breaths. They press a hand to their gut, giving it a slow, indulgent rub.

"That’s so much better."

"You ate me."

"Uh-huh." The predator’s voice is syrupy with satisfaction.

"You ate me," they repeat, more accusatory this time, pressing a hand to the fleshy walls around them.

The predator burps loudly in response, barely bothering to stifle it.

"Oops."

"Oops?" The observer shoves against the stomach lining, feeling it squish under their palms.

"Told you I was starving." They give their belly a pleased little pat, which jostles the observer inside, making them grunt.

The observer scowls, bracing themselves as the stomach lazily moves around them.

"Spit me out."

The predator just burps again, then smacks their lips.

"Nah."

"You’re the worst."

The predator just smirks, rubbing lazy circles over their gut, listening to the sounds of their stomach working.

"Well," they murmur, sinking deeper into the couch, "guess you'll live."

Frustrated, the observer kicks the preds gut, and tries in vain to wriggle their way out.

"You’re so squirmy," they remark, voice syrupy with amusement. They give their gut a little shake, making the observer jolt as the stomach sloshes around them. "Mmm, I like it. Feels nice."

"And you're so cozy in there. Bet you'd digest real easy."

The observer stiffens, pressing back against the stomach walls.

"You wouldn't."

The predator moans dramatically, shifting their belly so the observer is jostled again.

"But I might," they tease, their voice tinged with playfulness. Their stomach lets out another slow, heavy gurgle, and they press their fingers into a particularly loud spot, rubbing deep.

"Mmm, you hear that? My stomach’s already thinking about it…"

The observer struggles, but the pred simply rises to their feet, their gait lanky as they slink over towards the bedroom mirror, full gut in tow.

They lean close to the mirror, tilting their head, running their hands over the round curve of their belly. Their reflection grins back, sharp teeth flashing, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Wow," the predator purrs, pressing their hands into their gut, feeling the way it squishes under their touch.

"You look good on me."

The observer growls from inside, their muffled voice vibrating through the predator’s stomach.

"You’re insufferable."

The predator laughs, giving their belly a little bounce, watching the motion ripple in the mirror.

"And you’re in my stomach. Funny how that works, huh?"

Their fingers trail down their middle, tracing slow, teasing circles.

"I mean, usually you’re the one bossing me around, but now..." They sway their gut from left to right, making the observer slosh back and forth.

"Now you’re just a nice, heavy little lump, right here."

"You’re so much easier to deal with like this. No barking orders, no nagging—just all warm, tucked away where you belong."

"I don’t—" The observer kicks, but the stomach glorps in response, shifting around them, gripping tight.

"Oof." The predator grins, rubbing the spot where they felt the kick. "Feisty, huh?"

The predator is having too much fun. They take out their phone from their pocket.

They adjust the phone, tilting it slightly to capture the best angle in the mirror.

Their stomach juts out in a smooth, round curve, shifting subtly as the observer squirms inside.

The pred lets their fingers glide over the swell of their gut, smirking.

"Ohhh, these are coming out great," they purr.

"What are you doing?" The observer's voice is muffled, edged with suspicion.

The predator hums innocently, snapping another shot.

"Oh, nothing, just documenting."

They flick through the photos, grinning. "Wow, you make such a cute stomach bulge."

The observer squirms in protest.

The pred laughs, "Ohhh, I should post these on my story." They shift their weight, pushing out their stomach, exaggerating the curve of their belly. "'Hey oomfies, look at who I just had for dinner!' Yeah? Should I tag you?"

"You better not-"

The pred chuckles as the observer thrashes.

Grglll…

Their stomach lets out a slow, deep gurgle. The observer stiffens inside.

The predator blinks, rubbing at their gut as warmth starts to pool in their middle.

"Ooh…"

They press their fingers in slightly, feeling the way their stomach tightens—a slow, creeping heat building inside them.

Their body, always so eager to take what it's given, is starting to digest.

"Hey—" the observer snaps. "What was that?"

The predator swallows, their smug grin faltering slightly as another glorp echoes from within. Their belly tightens around the observer, the heat thickening under their skin.

"Uh… nothing," they lie, rubbing at the side of their stomach, trying to soothe it. Hoping it'll calm down.

"That was your stomach," the observer accuses.

"That was your stomach deciding I look like food."

"noooo," the predator says, even as a slow warmth spreads deeper through their gut. "I mean, kinda? But like— casually."

They shuffle, trying to ignore the slow, syrupy way their belly is kneading around its meal. The observer feels like a thick ball of honey inside them. Their predator brain wants to turn them soft, squishy.

The observer pushes against the walls.

"You better not digest me."

The predator lets out a slow, contented breath, rubbing lazy circles into their belly. "Mmm…"

"HEY."

"If I do digest you, I’m totally posting a before-and-after." They grin, tapping their stomach. "You might just be a flat tummy by morning."

The observer kicks. Hard.

"Ow—okay, okay," the predator laughs, pressing their fingers into their gut to calm the movement. "Geez, relax, you know you'll only make it worse doing that."

Of course the observer knows that. They still immediately.

The predator swallows, a shiver running down their spine that has nothing to do with digestion. Oh, they are so dead when they let the observer out.

The thought sends a flutter through their chest, excitement mingling with dread.

They drag their hands over the swell of their gut, smoothing over the tight curve of their skin, feeling the subtle shifts as the observer squirms. "Mmm, better enjoy this while I can..."

the pred had another idea. They went to the kitchen, and grabbed a soda bottle

The predator gulps down a mouthful, feeling the cool carbonated liquid rush down their throat before splashing into their already-packed stomach.

The pred burped, carbonation getting to them, and giggled.

"That'll..... uurp~ that will help stop digestion...haha"

Glorp. Blorrrp.

The observer kicks inside.

"Help?! You’re drowning me in here!"

"dramatic much?" The predator leans against the counter, swirling their belly like a big, living water balloon, listening to the sloshing sounds.

"Ooooh, listen to that."

They squeeze their gut gently, making the liquid slosh inside. "You hear that? It’s like an ocean in there."

"LET ME OUT."

The pred just laughs, rubbing their gut in lazy circles. "Ohhh, but I’m not done yet."

They turn toward the fridge, eyes scanning for something to really distract their stomach. Something to keep their gut busy so it doesn’t focus on, well… turning the observer into dinner.

Left over pizza. Perfect

"Mmmf, you don’t mind, right? Just a little snack. Gotta make sure my stomach stays distracted."

Food lands on the observer's head. The pred smirks as they feel them stir

They give their gut another slow slosh, feeling the mixture of water, food, and their very angry occupant shift inside them. Their stomach lets out a long, drawn-out glorp.

They decide to top it off with the rest of the soda. They guzzle it down, feeling the fizz in their throat, stomach

And then—

"UrrRRRAAAP!"

The predator lurches forward, gripping their belly as a massive burp forces its way out.

They exhale heavily, blinking in surprise before breaking into laughter. "Oh my god—"

Inside, the observer is seething. "I SWEAR TO GOD—"

"Hoooh," the pred groans, pressing a hand to their overfilled belly. "Okay, now I’m just waiting for all this to settle."

They stagger over to the couch, flopping down dramatically, their stomach bouncing slightly with the motion. Another deep gurgle rolls through them, and they sigh.

They feel their observer churning, angrily fighting with their stomach, and the food they are sharing the space with

They smirk, giving their belly a teasing shake.

"I like carrying you around. You make a great food baby."

A kick presses back against their hand, and they snicker.

"Aww, someone’s feisty," they coo, "Too bad there’s nothing you can do about it~"

Another slow, bubbly belch rolls out of them, and they sigh, stretching back against the cushions.

The predator lazily pulls out their phone, flipping it to video mode as they settle deeper into the couch.

Their belly is loud—constant, bubbling gurgles, wet glorps, and the occasional thump from inside as the observer squirms in frustration.

They smirk, angling the camera down.

A long, drawn-out groan rolls through their gut, thick and heavy, like the churning of a washing machine.

The pred grins wider, rubbing slow circles over the dome of their stomach, pushing down just enough to make the liquid inside slosh audibly.

They let out a slow, bubbling burp, their stomach sloshing in response.

They couldnt wait to show this to the observer later.

[stellewriites]

cw: soft & sweet, stud gaz, ace gaz

thank you to woolie who practically wrote half of this fic with me on discord and to birdy who continues to get me hyped and inspired about butch 141 as a whole <3 ily guys

the bar wasn’t new, but you’d never been inside despite how your friends had raved about it in the group chat over the last few months.

you weren’t one to go out late often, your work kept you busy and tired more often than not, and the rest of the time you just didn’t like to have to explain that you don’t drink.

but it was a gay bar, a good gay bar from what you’d heard, and your friends had reassured you that the alcohol-free menu was more than just a glass of oj or a can of coke. so you went.

it didn’t take them long to recognise other regulars there, each of your friends nipping off one by one with a quick, “i’ll be right back, i just want to say hi,” until you were stood alone. you debated joining one of them, making new friends with any of the numerous people they knew already, but ultimately decided to head to the bar first and grab yourself a drink before joining whoever was nearest when you turned around.

the place was smoky, low lit, like something out of an old movie; and with its live band and carefully curated secondhand furniture, you’d have been tempted to call it pretentious if the authenticity wasn’t really working for the vibes of the place.

you hopped onto a barstool and picked up a little menu, humming in disappointment when you couldn’t find the alcohol free section. you noticed the lack of prices on the other drinks however and sucked your teeth, recognising it as a sign of an expensive establishment; you knew your pockets would be woefully empty by the end of the night.

“can i help you with a recommendation?” a smooth voice had you looking up into gorgeous, deep brown eyes. even the bartender looked like she belonged on the big screen with the way her locs framed her slim face. your breath caught. “i bet you like something sweet,” she continued now that she had your attention. “fruity?”

“do you have a non alcoholic beer?” you asked. you’d be paying through the nose for it in comparison to the other dives you usually haunt, but it’d give you a baseline for how much anything else would be costing.

the bartender winced. “sorry, honey, we’ve only got a local brewery’s ipa on tap.”

you looked back to the menu as if it will have suddenly spawned the information you wanted.

“prefer something earthy then? hint of spice?” she asked you. “we have a few non alcoholic gins.”

it was your turn to wince. “i like something with a bit of bite,” you admitted.

she grinned. “i’ve got just the thing,” she said and turned to start making your drink. “i’m gaz, by the way.”

you introduced yourself and she grinned over her shoulder, her attitude was infectious and you felt yourself relax as you sat there.

“did you come alone tonight?”

“no, i came with some friends but they’re just saying hi to a few people so i figured i’d check out the menu while they were busy,” you said.

“there you go,” she placed your drink down in front of you. it was a deep red that faded in to orange, garnished with a slice of lemon. “clean whiskey sour.”

you took a sip and felt your eyes widen. she laughed at your expression and dusted her hands off exaggeratedly.

“wow, that’s amazing. how much was that? think i’ve found my drink for the night,” you chuckled.

“mocktail so it’s cheaper than the real stuff,” she said and gave you the price. you ordered a second as you pulled out your purse and handed her a note.

you turned to see if you could locate one of your friends and pursed your lips as you saw them all engaged midway through their conversations. it’s maybe be a little awkward to go and interrupt to join now, but you didn’t want to sit alone all night either.

“hey, honey,” gaz called gently. you turned back to her and she reached forward with an empty hand towards your ear, you didn’t have time to frown or flinch before she was pulling it back in front of your face, a £2 coin suddenly perched between her fingers.

you blinked before you processed that the hot bartender had just given you your change via sleight of hand magic.

fucking hell. as if you weren’t already interested in her.

you bit back your budding smile and gently took your change, your grin breaking free when you made eye contact with her and she waggled her eyebrows.

“that part of the usual service or does it come with the ‘sour?” you asked as she placed the second glass in front of you.

she moved to clean up what she’d used to make your drink with a casual shrug. “reserved for my more interesting customers.”

you hummed.

her eyes flickered to the booths dotted around, the thin crowd sat at your back.

“i know you probably have your friends to go find soon,” she started coyly. “but if you don’t think they’ll miss you too much, i’d enjoy having some good company for once.”

she came to stand in front of you again, placing her palms on the bar-top and broadening her already impressive, toned shoulders. you were glad it was warm inside and that she’d decided to go sleeveless for her shift if only for the current view of her as she leant ever so closer into your space. “it’s a slow night; if you’re willing to stick around here with me it might keep me from going stir crazy.”

“we can’t have that,” you said, playing along. “who would make me another one of these if you started climbing the walls?”

“exactly,” she agreed. “it’s a public service you’d be doing really. without me, the bar would close.”

“oh is that so? your boss know you have such a high opinion of your drink making skills?” you joked.

“i own the bar, babes,” she said with a gloating grin. “and you don’t think i deserve to talk big?” she nodded to your almost empty glass and you pursed your lips.

“ok, yeah,” you admitted. “and it’s pretty impressive that this place is yours too.”

“yeah?” she asked with a teasing grin.

“i think i need to test your knowledge, though, to see if it’s all for show or not,” you pushed back, not letting her gain the upper hand in the flirty conversation.

“go ahead, honey, i’m ready,” she curved her fingers in a bring it on motion.

“ok, how do you make a mojito?” you asked pulling your phone out.

she reeled off the ingredients one by one confidently and you checked she was correct via google as she laughed.

“ok, that was an easy one.” you sniffed, squinting your eyes jokingly. “now the real challenge begins.”

you continued to quiz her in between the orders made further down the bar until one of your friends tapped you on the shoulder.

“hey, i came to collect you, you strayed from the group for a while there,” vanessa teased.

“oh i was just having fun with gaz,” you said and grinned at the bartender. “keeping each other company.”

“making sure i know my stuff,” gaz added with a wink sent your way. “i think i convinced you enough for one night. go have fun with your friends, honey.”

you reluctantly stood from your stool, but when you grabbed your drink - a non-alcoholic mai tai gaz had made without hesitation when you said the recipe had sounded yummy - you realised you’d not paid for your last two drinks. turning back to the bar you moved to pull out your card but gaz was already at the other side, serving someone else.

you sat down with your friends and made a note to pay later in the evening, but when time came to corral your drunk group into the taxi, the thought never crossed your mind and you didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to her.

——

next time you go, it’s a weekend and a lot busier.

your plan to sit with gaz, reacquaint yourself and pay her back for the drinks goes out the window.

by a stroke of luck you manage to get to the bar as she’s serving instead of her colleague mixing drinks at the other end.

“hey,” she greeted you happily, tipping the brim of her cap up an inch to better see you looking up through her lashes as she half-focused on the drink in her hands. “same as last time?”

you glowed at the idea of her remembering what you’d had over a week ago, but you shook your head.

“surprise me,” you offered, felling butterflies run rampant when she grinned in return.

“take a seat,” she offered before setting to work. you pulled out one of the stools that had been tucked beneath the bar and sat patiently as she mixed your drink. it was a deep blue when she brought it over but she poured the final ingredient in and the top half turned a shimmery purple. she plopped in a straw for you and you took a sip, pleased to find that she’d stuck to non-alcoholic for you again.

“mm, that might be my favourite so far,” you gushed, biting your lip when she grinned at you. her upper lip glinted in the low light and you paused, noticing the new philtrum piercing. “you got a piercing? it’s cute.”

gaz raised a cocky eyebrow and licked her plush lips. “noticed that quick. did you spend that long staring at my lips last time you were in here, babes? cute.”

you flushed, unable to deny it, and took a flustered sip of your drink to give you time to gather your thoughts.

she chuckled and went to deal with another customer, talking to you over the raised voices of the busy bar as she started fixing the drink.

“it’s still healing but i’ll be swapping it to a gold sun when i can,” she said as she came closer again to grab a slice of lime.

“oh? we’ll be matching, look!” you said without a second thought. grinning, you pulled up a moon shaped necklace from beneath your shirt. “bought it on a whim the other day, must be fate,” you teased and snorted a quiet laugh. gaz weakly laughed along.

“must be,” she said softly, her deep eyes heavy and focused solely on you. she cleared her throat before moving to finish up the drink, leaving you alone again for a moment.

your eyes followed her along until you heard a mean snicker from your left, a muttered, unbelievable. you turned and saw another woman clearing her throat and covering her mouth with her palm, her eyes darting away from yours when you turned your head.

a bout of self-consciousness hit and you faced back towards your drink with hot cheeks. you’d not thought twice before speaking to gaz, it was second nature to be genuine with her since it’s what she gave back, but thinking back on it you could see why calling your jewellery matching would be cringey. possibly even seen as desperate on your end.

you swallowed and stood from the stool and separated from the crowd around the bar with your drink in hand. you found a small table near the edge of the room and took a seat, watched gaz from afar instead as she made the orders proficiently.

it didn’t take you long to notice how gaz didn’t linger with the other customers like she did with you; she knocked back clear flirty attempts for her attention and turned away other gorgeous women.

you watched the lemon slice go around and around as you stirred the melting ice in your cup. the fact that gaz’s gaze didn’t linger for a moment on those beautiful women had a stray thought that maybe she wasn’t interested in women flicker to life in the back of your head.

“refill?” you looked up from your glass to see gaz hovering by your table. she put down a second drink and took the first from your hands. “on the house, my treat.”

“oh, thanks,” you said with a shy smile. “busy night.”

“mm.” her hum was noncommittal. “is that why you moved seats?”

“felt like i was getting in the way,” you shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “i was thinking of leaving soon anyway, i’ll finish this off and probably head home.”

her free hand rose to pet your cheek. “i’ll save you a seat next time. i prefer it when you’re smiling at me while i work.”

“even when i make it awkward?” you couldn’t help but ask.

she frowned. putting her serving tray on the table between you, she pulled a chair close to yours and sat. “when have you made things awkward, babes?”

“that thing i said about fate, it was silly.” you tried to move past it, rolling your eyes at yourself.

“i liked it.” that shut you up quick. “a pretty girl calling me her soulmate? you think i’m letting you take that back now?” she joked, leaning in so that your shoulders knocked. “me and you are like this, now.” she crossed her fingers in front of you. “whether you like it or not.”

you snorted. “i can deal with that,” you hummed. “thanks for the drink, gaz.”

she nodded and stood reluctantly to go back to the bar, noticing her coworker growing flustered on their own. “i need to get back, but enjoy. stay as long as you want.”

though you appreciated her offer, you left soon after. you made sure to pause where she could see you and wave to her on your way out and she held up her crossed fingers again with a grin. you felt a giddy feeling bubble at the back of your throat as you headed home.

——

you started to tag along with your friends more and more often when they mentioned gaz’s, always spending a good portion of the evenings sat at the bar with gaz.

and she kept her promise, saving a barstool for you in the corner on even the busiest nights with a fierce scowl and well placed coughs to anyone that tried to sneak into it.

anyone that didn’t get the message would be ignored, no drinks made, until they’d moved again.

on a slow night, when she rolled a pound over her knuckles back and forth you asked her about her magic tricks.

“what even got you into all of that?” you gestured to the coin and then vaguely at her as a whole.

“magic?” you nodded. gaz smiled and looked down at the coin before placing it flat on the bartop between you. “my nan. she was an magician’s assistant when she was younger. she could’ve been the main star with how much she knew, but it was the 50’s. people weren’t willing to bank on the main talent being a black woman,” she scoffed and you nodded along with a sympathetic hum.

“she taught you?” you asked.

“everything i know. i’ve loved it ever since.”

her hand hovered over the pound coin, snapping her fingers on her other hand. your eyes darted away for a split second and when you looked back she was moving her hand away to reveal a penny.

you laughed and picked it up, turning it around as if it would reveal the real coin when it was in your own hand again.

“you’ll have to tell me how you do it,” you said.

she sucked her teeth. “a good magician doesn’t reveal her tricks,” she sing-songed and took the penny back from you, letting her hand hold yours for a second too long to be casual.

“aren’t you two cosy in this corner?” gaz’s coworker asked from over her shoulder. gaz turned and rolled her eyes at chris as he smirked at the two of you. he leant by to grab a chopping board before leaving the pair of you alone. as he left, he spoke, “i’m sure our gaz could show you a trick or two,” he said with heavy innuendo.

you snorted and didn’t notice how gaz stiffened.

“it’s a work night,” she said to you suddenly. “getting late. you’ll be wanting to go home soon, won’t you?”

you blinked at the sudden change in tone and nodded. with only half a drink left, you downed the bitter drink in one and stood from the bar.

“i think the girls are planning on coming in sometime soon again so i’ll see you then?”

gaz’s smile grew less shaky and she wiggled her fingers back at you as you headed out to the carpark.

——

sat at home, cross legged on the couch, you leant over the coffee table and practiced the rudimentary card trick you’d found from an online video.

“and then use the heel of your palm and the pad of your thumb to flip the correct card over the top,” the video said and you bit your lip as you tried it. you huffed when it didn’t work and tried again until the card moved how you wanted it to.

it was far from smooth and the other cards fell to the floor, but you were slowly getting the actions down. it just had to become muscle memory.

it’d take over two more months of practicing before you’d finally feel confident enough to show gaz.

——

you sat at the bar and grinned when she set down your drink. when you sniffed at it, gaz chuckled and answered your question.

“prickly pear flavour, i think you’ll like it,” she said.

you were inclined to agree, she’d not been wrong once so far. taking a sip, you hummed and took a bigger drink. you palmed the pack of cards in your jacket pocket nervously before pulling it out.

“ok don’t laugh, i’ve been practicing.” you spread the pack out in your hands as gaz stared with wide eyes, slowly growing more amused by the second as you fanned the cards out towards her. “pick a card.”

your showmanship was stiff, the words you’d memorised the man on the video saying coming across a little less flamboyant, and you fumbled the trick a little. nerves left your grip a little sweaty, but gaz reached out in time to keep the pack from falling out of your grasp. she cupped your hands and adjusted your fingers, smiling sweetly when she pulled back again and nodded for you to go on.

you cleared your throat and remembered the next step for the trick, pulling out the card fourth from the bottom and presenting it with a little more flourish.

“is this your card?” you asked.

it wasn’t.

“it is,” gaz said with an excited smile and started clapping. too smitten to bring your mood down by telling you where exactly you’d gone wrong, not when you were smiling at her like that and not after you’d obviously put so much effort into this for her.

you grinned triumphantly, ignoring the few people that had looked over at gaz’s enthusiastic applause, and put the pack to the side. you leant over the bar and snatched the sharpie from her shirt pocket; you wrote your number on the back of the card she’d claimed was hers alongside a wonky moon and sun then presented it once more to her with a softer smile.

she laughed and pulled out her phone to add your number in straight away, adding a moon emoji after your name. she rang the number and you pretended to ignore the call with an eye roll to make her laugh.

snatching your phone from you gaz huffed and muttered, “guess i’ll have to add my own cutesy nickname, huh?”

“i can be cutesy,” you argued but didn’t change the name when you saw it. you snorted.

super sexy bartender (the one with the eyes and the smile and the arms and the…)

“would’ve been quicker to type ‘humble bartender’,” you said with a snicker.

“oh, babes has jokes now?”

“i’m a barrel of laughs,” you sniffed. you turned when you heard your friends call for you. “see? i’m missed already.”

“hmm, you’ll be missed here too,” gaz hummed. “go back to your friends, i’ll text you later.”

“promise?”

“‘course.” she smiled widely.

——

the next couple of weeks were filled with you messaging back and forth during your breaks at work and throughout the day on the weekends before the bar opened and gaz got busy until the late evening… or more accurately the early morning.

one day she offhandedly mentioned that her replies might be slow because it was stock day, and her coworker had called in sick so she wouldn’t have anyone to help until their cover arrived at opening time.

you’d quickly offered her a hand (claiming you may not have muscles like her, but you could carry a box or two without sweating) and headed down when she’d eagerly agreed and the pair of you spent the afternoon together just hanging out and fixing up the stock room, music playing tinnily from gaz’s phone.

it became a habit, you going by when she had stock taking to sort out and more often than not she let her staff come in a little later so she’d have the time with you to herself.

> if you’re not busy do you want to come down to the bar later? xx

> around 12? xx

> it’s kinda important xx

< yeah of course! what’s up? xx

> my mums are in town, wondered if you want to meet them? xx

< i’ll be there for 12 xxx

despite just being friends with gaz - though you were self-aware enough to know you’d like more - you were nervous to meet her mums. you wanted to make a good impression. in fact, you wanted to impress them; leave them wheezing with laughter and contemplating your intriguing and thoughtful insights on the hot topics of the afternoon for months to come.

however likely that would be.

gaz seemed nervous too from where she stood outside the bar smoking. she dropped the cig and stubbed it dead with her trainer when she saw you however, and a wide grin overtook her face, her nervous energy calming considerably as you got closer.

“you look gorgeous,” gaz said before you got a chance to say hello. you laughed, flattered and feeling less nervous yourself as she made you do a spin in front of her before you were allowed inside.

you weren’t wearing anything special, but you supposed the last few times you’d seen gaz you’d been dressed practically to help her lift heavy boxes or dressed for your own work. your short denim skirt was maybe a little more daring than you’d first thought, despite the casual way you’d styled it.

“come on in, they’re dying to meet you,” gaz said as she led you in finally. she rubbed a hand nervously over the back of her neck, tugging at two short locs as you got closer to the table her mothers were chatting at. “might’ve talked about you a fair bit.”

“a fair bit? try a hell of a lot,” one of her mum’s said and you turned to them.

they were like chalk and cheese to look at. one dressed head to toe in flowing light cotton - a dress or skirt, you couldn't tell with the way the layers folded and sat - dyed vivid colours that seeped into each other in no particular pattern and complemented her rich skin tone. her hands were adorned in gold rings and her arms rattled with the layers of beaded bracelets she wore up her forearms. her hair, styled in passion twists, was half tied back with what looked to be a scrap piece of glossy ribbon. "i'm jasmine, kyla's mum."

“nice to meet you,” you said cheerfully and shook her hand when she held it out. her returned smile was reserved and her eyes watched you sharply.

you nervously turned to the other woman. her pinstripe suit fit her like a glove, the trousers flaring at the bottom, and her short, natural curls highlighted her round cheeks. she was just as gorgeous as jasmine, but the stern frown she was sending her wife had your hand almost shaking as you reached out for another introduction. your plan to charm them both didn’t seem as realistic as you’d hoped all of a sudden.

she turned to you and her frown broke, a splitting grin like gaz’s spread to flash the gap between her front teeth and she used your hand to pull you close for a tight and warm hug; she cooed excitedly in your ear as she swayed side to side with you still pressed close.

“we’ve been wanting to meet you ever since kyla first mentioned her new friend,” she said and finally let you go to sit down.

“mama,” gaz groaned a little embarrassedly, sitting next to you. her arm slipped to rest on the back of your chair.

“oh calm down, kyla,” jasmine tutted teasingly, swatting a jingling hand over the table at her.

you turned to her and mouthed, ‘yeah, kyla.’

she pouted but managed to hold back a second groan. menace, she thought fondly, a bashful smile tugging her pout loose.

“we were eager to see who caught our baby’s attention enough to be pulling extra shifts,” jasmine said before turning to gaz. “even tho she should be taking more breaks instead,” she finished pointedly at her daughter.

“i tell her this all the time! she works so hard,” you agreed immediately, nudging gaz’s side as if to say, ‘see?’

“not you too, honey, please. i get enough of it from my mum, i don’t need you siding with them.” gaz shrunk in her seat slightly, her hand drifted from your chair back and closer to your neck.

“‘honey’?” imani hummed, eyes bright and flicking between the pair of you with a knowing smile. “mhm.”

it was easy to see how gaz had grown to be so confident given the women she’d been raised by and the community of loving, intelligent women back in her home town that imani and jasmine spoke so fondly of like they were family. they were, really.

you spent the afternoon listening avidly as they told you about how they came to buy the bar with gaz after she finished what would be her second and final tour in the military; their hurdles when getting it set up; how much they missed her at home but loved seeing her grow and thrive here.

kyla reached out and squeezed her mums’ hands at that and you rubbed her back when you saw the glassy shine to her eyes.

“you know i’ll come back to visit soon,” she promised them. “i’m not waiting ‘til christmas again this time,” she huffed.

“your aunties will give you hell if you do,” imani warned with a wink.

“i was thinking of getting a taper and line up since these have grown in a little more anyway, and ty would kill me if she found out i went to anyone else when i could’ve seen her for it,” gaz said with a chuckle, gesturing to her locs. “i won’t leave it long.”

satisfied with her promise of future plans, her mums took advantage of their small audience and for the rest of the conversation showed you photo after photo on their phones of gaz growing up. a photo of her open-mouth smiling with her front teeth missing as a child; dressed in a small, ill-fitting suit at her prom; stood with three men in uniform, her hair shorn shorter then but with the familiar cap on her head; a picture with her mums’, this one more recent, with jasmine wearing a graduation cap and gown stood, in between to the two masculine women.

even as gaz pretended to sigh and groan in embarrassment at the memories shared, you could tell she was enjoying herself. that even if you weren’t wowing her mums like you’d imagined, your first impression had still been a good one.

you spent the afternoon with them and it was only when your stomach grumbled, having only grabbed a small lunch before setting off to meet gaz so you weren’t late, that the conversation stopped. all three women turned to you in concern and you flushed hot under the heavy attention.

“oh kyla, you dragged the poor girl over here and now she’s starving to death,” imani tutted.

“take her out for an early dinner,” jasmine said, deciding your time together was finished. “we’ll meet you back home later, there’s a few things we wanted to do before the evening anyway.”

gaz turned to you with a hopeful glint in her eyes. “wanna go grab some food? my treat.”

you nodded.

“that settles it!” imani pulled you into another long, tight hug when she stood to leave, rubbing the tops of your arms and smiling at you. “it was lovely to meet you, i can see why she’s so smitten,” she said, causing your stomach to flip and your smile to falter momentarily before widening again bashfully.

gaz was too busy grinning at her mum to hear her mama gossip, and you smiled softly at the pair as jasmine cupped her daughters cheeks and pet the soft skin beneath her eyes gently. jasmine looked the gentlest she had all afternoon, her edges softened.

she turned to you and you expected her gaze to harden a little like it had when she’d sat opposite you across the table, but she stayed soft and took your hands in hers while imani pulled gaz down for a kiss on the cheek and the forehead.

“you’re not what i’d expected,” she admitted, then moved her hand to pull our your moon necklace from beneath your shirt. her smile became knowing and satisfied, like she’d confirmed what she’d already thought true. “have a lovely dinner.”

“thank you,” you said and let her pull you in for a quick hug. “you too.”

you waved as gaz led the pair out, lingering only for a moment at the door before turning back to you.

“got a place in mind?” you asked, grabbing your jacket and bag.

“how does thai sound?” gaz asked as she opened the door for you again.

“perfect.”

——

“so you were in the military?” you asked as you ate. gaz nodded and put her chopsticks down as she spoke about her time with the 141.

“they’re still in the service but they visit when they can,” she said with a shrug. “that’s reminded me actually, johnny should be down soon enough. pretty sure he mentioned having a few weeks of leave coming up. he’s a bit full on, like a puppy, but you’d get on with him.”

you snorted. “i can’t wait to meet him.”

gaz laughed along with you as a warm, gooey feeling spread in her chest.

you walked back to her bar afterwards and lingered outside for a moment.

“want to come in?”

you shook your head. “i shouldn’t. work night and i’ve got laundry to put away when i get back.”

“ooh exciting,” she teased.

you stubbed the toe of your trainer against hers with a roll of your eyes.

“i had fun, we should do this again,” you said.

“yeah, we should,” she stepped a little closer. “thanks for coming to meet my mums, they’ve been hounding me about it.”

“oh really?” you asked with raised eyebrows and an expectant smirk.

gaz licked her lips and nodded. “yeah.”

you noticed her lidded eyes and slow breathing and sucked up the courage to make a move. you lifted a hand to rest on her hip and began to lean in to kiss her, when her eyes widened and she stepped back.

your hand hung in the air for a damning second before dropping.

“sorry, i should get inside. people will be arriving soon and i’m behind on the opening procedure because of dinner, need to cut some lemons,” she joked weakly.

“right,” you agreed faintly. “uhm, of course. sorry. i’ll see you around then.”

“i’ll text,” she said before slipping inside.

you stood there for a moment, a heavy frown settling in as dread and regret pooled low in your stomach.

you turned on your feet and walked to where you’d parked your car and headed home with an uneasy feeling roiling in your gut.

had you read it all wrong? had gaz ever really given you a signal that she was into you or where you only suddenly confident in her interest after her mums mentioned it teasingly?

you spent the evening pissed off and frustrated at yourself, roughly folding your laundry and when you were still full of an anxious energy after you’d finished, you vacuumed, changed your bedding and wiped down all of your kitchen until it was sparkling.

you collapsed on your sofa hours later with an exhausted sigh but when you closed your eyes that nervous energy still buzzed under your skin. so much for an early night before work.

“fuuuuuck it,” you threw yourself back up onto your feet and stormed to the front door, shoving on your shoes, grabbing your jacket and your keys and leaving without a second thought to how sweaty and unkempt you looked after your manic cleaning spree.

you arrived at the bar and bit your lip when you saw how busy it was, unusual for a sunday night, but maybe there was a bank holiday you were unaware of. it wasn’t as if your work gave you them off.

you pushed through the crowd and leant against the bar, waiting for gaz to notice you.

her eyes widened and her lips twitched up in a smile, faltering when you only frowned back.

“what’s up?” she asked, concern slowly bleeding into her tone.

“have i been reading this wrong?” you asked bluntly, not wanting to skirt around the topic any longer. you gestured between the two of you. “have i been pushing for something you don’t want?”

gaz shook her head and put the glass bottle she was holding down on the bar top with a thunk. her eyes were sad as she swallowed and she looked at her coworker behind the bar serving the crowd before deciding she had a moment to spare.

“full disclosure? i’m ace,” she said with a shrug. “and i guess i’ve felt like i’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop with you.”

“oh.” you nodded. she nodded too, looking resigned. “‘waiting for the other shoe to drop’, you like me that much, huh?” you grinned and she looked taken aback. “does being ace mean you don’t like kissing?”

gaz blinked before stuttering out a reply. “n-no i do, i just— it’s the rest of it i could go without.”

you nodded again and tapped your fingers on the bar as you pushed closer, your stomach pressing into the wood.

“were you going to kiss me earlier? outside?” you gestured to the front door and bit your lip.

“yeah,” she said softly, her eyes dipping to you mouth before flitting between your eyes.

“because you like me?”

“yeah, babes,” she laughed.

“and i like you,” you confirmed eagerly, excitedly, as she leant in on her elbows.

she slowly grinned, her piercing shifting and glinting under the smoky lights. “yeah.”

“great. well. stop me if i’m wrong then.” you leant over the last few inches of the bar and kissed her, cupping her face with one hand and using the other to balance yourself. you felt her own hand trail along the back of your hand as she kissed back fervently.

“met your bloody mums and then you had me thinking i was going crazy for thinking you wanted this,” you grumbled when she pulled back for a second.

“i’ll make it up to you,” she promised with a peck to your lips again. “prickly pear?”

your eyes brightened and your pour was immediately replaced with a grin.

“oh, yes please!” you tapped your hands on the bar again, no longer full of an anxious energy but an excited one instead.

gaz leant in for another quick kiss, her lips twisting into a fond smile against yours. when she pulled back she lifted a hand to your ear and twisted it, revealing an orange slice held between her fingers.

“christ, it’s unfair how sexy that is,” you whined. “but that better not be the one going in my drink.”

butch/stud masterlist

and the moodboard!

[curly-fry-3]

hey curly would love to see dean's daughter and uncle sammy interact!! wholesome goodness galore please!!

𖦹Bad Day𖦹

summary𖦹 Sam helps you cheer up from a bad day

pairing𖦹 Sam Winchester x Niece!Reader

word count𖦹 1,066

notes𖦹 ok I totally nerded out in the last half sorry if you don't care about batman lol hope you like it

not proofread

You were having a bad day, and your uncle Sammy knew it. He knew it would be rough for you before you even woke up, Dean wasn't gonna be home in time for your “weekly shred bedrotting time”-as you liked to call it. In fact, your dad wasn't gonna be home till the next day, his hunt taking longer than expected. So, it was no surprise to Sam when you came home from school all dejected. 

When you walked through the door of the bunker you immediately put your bag down and slipped your shoes off, not caring if they were in the middle of the walkway. “Sammy” you call out searching for a response. When you're met with silence you head to the kitchen to find something sweet, what a year today has been. 

You have your head in the fridge when you hear movement behind you and turn around to find your uncle making his way into the room. “Hey sammy” you say while shutting the fridge behind you.

“Hey kid, how was school” Sam responds

You roll your eyes and huff in annoyance, “you know, the worst”

He smiles at your answer, “you know, I could think of a couple ways to make your day better”

You lean against the counter with a questioning look “What are you gonna do, cause I could really go for some pie right now” 

He smiles knowingly “Well it's not pie, but i got some cake and ice cream”

Your face lights up, “you better not be joking”

“Why would I joke about this? That would just be cruel” He asks “I also got out the DVDs, you can pick what movie we watch”

You jump up from your position against the counter in excitement “Omg girls night”

He crosses his arms and gives you a look of confusion “Girls night?”

“Shut up and accept it” Your expression shifts to a playful smirk “if it's girls night can I braid your hair”

Sam pauses for a second “what?”

“Pleeeasseeee” you beg “ it's so much easier to braid someone else's hair and yours is so soft and long” You eagerly explain

He pretends to think it over “fine” 

You clap your hands together in excitement “yay! Ok so you get the desert ready and i'll get the tv on and the hairbrush out”

He smiles fondly at your excitement then agrees to your plan with a nod. While you left to set up in the Dean cave, Sam got to work at plating your sweet treats. He also prepared some regular food cause he knew you would want something savory after. He was glad you were so excited and that he was able to lift your mood, that's the whole reason he planned this. Sam didn't want you to have such a bad week, he could tell that Dean's absence was taking its toll on you–usually you two were attached at the hip.  

When he walked into the Dean cave, balancing multiple plates in his arms, You were waiting for him with the TV already on. He hands you your cake, setting aside your dinner, and sits on the couch next to you, looking up at the TV. “Lego Batman?” He asks with a smile

You look at him with a fake hurt expression “it is a cinematic masterpiece. Also I'm literally batman.”

He chuckles lightly “you literally aren't”

“Oh really, you can test me on this, im literally him” You say while picking up your spoon to dig into your cake

He puts his hands up in defence “ wow you want me to test you ok….ummm…name five robins”

You roll your eyes “that's easy; Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Stephenie, and Duke. Boom that's more than five, it's all of them” you finish with triumphantly taking a bite

He smiles smugly “your forgot one”

You look at him confused “no I didn't” you say with a stuffed mouth.

“Bruce's clone” He corrects

You swallow your food “That totally doesn't count”

Sam shakes his head in disagreement “oh, it totally does”

You roll your eyes and start the movie, accepting that you won't win this one. He lightly smiles at your defeat and turns to watch the movie. Before you both could lock in to the TV you turn back to sam and say “you're a nerd, and i'm still batman”

He turns to you and smiles “ok”

After that you both were silent throughout the film. When you were done with your dessert you had moved on to the dinner Sam had brought, claiming that the cake was too sweet,  just as he suspected you would. When you were done eating you had cuddled closer to Sam on the couch for the remainder of the movie, your knees to your chest and your head on his shoulder as his arm wrapped around the back of the couch.

After the movie You decided it was time to do sams hair. You forced him to sit on the ground in front of the couch as you got to work, sitting on the firm cousins behind him. “Thanks for this sammy” You say while separating his hair into sections.

He tries to look back at you to respond but you force his head forward so you can continue working on his hair. “For what?” He asks.

“I know you planned this night for me cause Dad isn't here, it's really sweet and I really liked it so, thanks” You answer

“Of course kid…You know, I really liked it two–even though lego batman isn't comic accurate” He teases

You sigh and continue to work on his hair, “ok that gets me a little frustrated too but the humor and homoerratic relationship between the joker and batman makeup for that”

You can feel him roll his eyes as he responds “whatever you say”

The night ends with you and Sam asleep on the couch, his hair braided, the TV left on, And dirty dishes left out. When Dean comes home the next morning and finds the state that you two are in he takes a couple (dozen) photos before waking you up and leading you back to your bed. Dean was sad he wasn't able to see you yesterday but if it meant that he would find you and Sam cuddled up like that, he would be ok doing it again.

sorry if there are any typos

@areswasneverhere

[umlewis]

How Lewis Hamilton Finally Got His Ferrari Red

On Valentine’s Day, Lewis Hamilton enters a sprawling studio space in northwest London and intently stares at the magnificent creature standing off in the distance.

“Sh-t,” says Hamilton to no one in particular. “I’m nervous.”

Soon enough, however, the seven-time Formula One world champion overcomes his anxiety and is standing face-to-face with a shiny black stallion named Aroma. He pets his nose, massages his neck, generally spreads his hands all over Aroma’s thick coat. He is doing his allergies, the source of his initial fear, no favors. But Hamilton, a literal knight, is enamored, peppering the horse master with questions. Where’s Aroma from? (Portugal.) Can he sleep lying down? (Yes.) How much does he weigh? (About 1,300 lb. Only a few hundred less than Hamilton’s race car.)

He’s throwing health caution to the wind in order to commemorate his much ballyhooed move from Mercedes, where he won six of his seven F1 driver titles, to the venerated Scuderia Ferrari HP race team: a photo of himself positioned in front of an actual black horse standing on his hind legs, mimicking the Italian automaker’s famous logo. Like Hamilton, Aroma—who is retired but still does the occasional photo shoot—has an impressive resume, including appearances in Robin Hood and Maleficent, ads for Hermès and Burberry, and a Dua Lipa video; he is joined by Theo, a stunt horse you might recognize from Bridgerton, among other things. “This is going to be such an iconic picture,” says Hamilton while trying on outfits for the shoot. “Super timeless.”

That depends, of course, on what comes after. At 40, Hamilton is aiming to not only win a record eighth F1 driver title—cementing his status as the greatest F1 driver to ever live and ending the longest-ever championship drought for the most storied race team on the planet—but also fulfill a lifelong dream. His move to Ferrari, announced before the 2024 season, was shocking worldwide front-page news: he had suited up for Mercedes for more than a decade, helped build a more diverse workforce there, and hoped to someday acquire an ownership stake in the team. It seemed he would ride into the sunset with the Silver Arrows.

Hamilton had other ideas. “You can’t stand still for too long,” Hamilton tells TIME, in his first in-depth interview about his decision to leave Mercedes for Ferrari. “I needed to throw myself into something uncomfortable again. Honestly, I thought all my firsts were done. Your first car, your first crash, your first date, first day of school. The excitement I got by the idea of, ‘This is my first time in the red suit, the first time in the Ferrari.’ Wow. Honestly, I’ve never been so excited.”

During the 2024 F1 season, Hamilton, out of respect for Mercedes—with whom he was still under contract and racing—didn’t talk much about the switch. The situation was awkward and unprecedented. (Picture LeBron James suiting up for the Los Angeles Lakers knowing he’d be playing the following year for a rival, like the Boston Celtics. Exactly. It would never happen.) All sides appear to have handled it as professionally as possible: Hamilton ended a 945-day losing streak by winning his hometown race, at Silverstone in Britain, in July before winning again in Belgium three weeks later. Meanwhile Carlos Sainz, the Ferrari driver whom Hamilton is replacing this year, helped Scuderia finish second in the constructor, or team, standings, just a few points behind 2024 champion McLaren.

Hamilton’s road to the title record won’t be easy. Some critics have questioned Ferrari’s strategy of signing an aging driver, whose best days could very well be in the rearview. They’ve wondered whether Ferrari’s more interested in marketing than winning—Hamilton is still F1’s most popular driver, by a mile, as well as an internationally known cultural figure with a hand in fashion, film, and business. (He’s co-chairing the Met Gala in May alongside Colman Domingo, Pharrell Williams, A$AP Rocky, and Anna Wintour; LeBron James is honorary chair.) Plus, a slew of younger drivers like reigning four-time champion Red Bull’s Max Verstappen, 27; McLaren’s Lando Norris, 25; and Hamilton’s new Ferrari teammate, Charles LeClerc, 27, could keep him off the top of the podium.

“The old man is a state of mind,” says Hamilton. “Of course your body ages. But I’m never going to be an old man.”

The 2025 F1 campaign, which kicks off in Australia on March 16, comes laced with intrigue. Hamilton sits at the epicenter. Ferrari is religion in Italy; when the team wins an F1 race, the bells of the Church of St. Blaise in Maranello, the small city near Bologna that houses Ferrari headquarters, ring in celebration. So Hamilton’s quest to end Ferrari’s agony, while breaking the individual title record set by Michael Schumacher—who won five straight titles with Ferrari from 2000 to 2004—will be appointment theater. Meanwhile, Hamilton is co-producing, along with Jerry Bruckheimer and others, an F1 movie, aptly called F1, that is almost literally a Brad Pitt vehicle. The film, which comes out in June, plus a competitive race for the championship, could deliver a jolt to the sport’s popularity, especially in the U.S., where F1 has boomed but flattened out a bit, given Verstappen’s predictable dominance.

A Hamilton championship in red, in the twilight of his racing life, would be nothing less than one of the greatest mic-drop moments in sports history. “I don’t know if I can find an adjective to describe that,” says American racing legend Mario Andretti, the 1978 F1 champion who raced for Ferrari in the early ’70s. “Nothing is missing in his career. But oh man, how better can you describe your career after that? Oh my God, he’d be the king of all kings.”

Two weeks before the stallion photo shoot, Hamilton is striking golf balls into a simulator at an indoor club on the banks of the Thames. (He has a pronounced slice.) He doesn’t golf much these days, but Hamilton being Hamilton—a man who has taken full advantage of this sport’s jet-setting ways to become one of the world’s most prominent collectors of influential people—he last played a round with actor Tom Holland, a.k.a. Spider-Man. His other golf partners have included Samuel L. Jackson and Kelly Slater, the surfing GOAT. He was once supposed to play with another GOAT, Michael Jordan, but when Hamilton got to the course, he says, Jordan “didn’t end up being there.”

As we’re taking swings, I ask Hamilton if he’s checked out TGL, the indoor golf competition founded by Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy that just launched its first season in the U.S. He hasn’t. I explain some of the particulars—it’s a team league, ESPN is showing it on weeknights—before it sounds familiar. But Hamilton is involved with so many projects—movies, art, fashion lines, the Denver Broncos, a pet-food company, a plant-based burger chain with Leonardo DiCaprio—that he can’t quite remember whether he poured some money into this new outfit. “I might have,” he says, with a laugh. (He did.)

Hamilton takes a break from golf, reclines on a couch, and orders a latte before sharing the story of how he arrived at this moment. It began a long time ago, when he was a kid growing up in public housing north of London. His first Ferrari memories have stuck with him. He would drive Schumacher’s car in racing video games. The Ferrari replica featured in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—the 1961 250 GT California Spyder—is still, to this day, Hamilton’s favorite. “That’s the ultimate retirement car,” he says. “I can just see myself with Roscoe, him with a scarf and goggles in the seat next to me, driving down the PCH.” (Roscoe, Hamilton’s pet bulldog—who, like his owner, is vegan—has an Instagram account with 1.1 million followers.)

McLaren signed Hamilton to a driver’s deal in 1998, when he was 13. In 2006, Hamilton won the championship in what is now known as Formula Two. “I did have the bit of red on my helmet,” he says. During that F2 season, and the one prior in F3, Hamilton raced for team principal Frédéric Vasseur, whose management style and ability to recruit top engineering talent to his lower-level operation impressed the young driver. Hamilton figured Vasseur would be a F1 leader one day.

Hamilton won his first F1 championship in 2008, his second season with McLaren. He competed there for four more seasons before jumping, in 2013, to Mercedes, a middling team that Hamilton lifted to championship heights. Through it all, Hamilton maintained cordial relations with Ferrari leadership. He’d walk past the Ferrari garage at races, say “ciao” to the mechanics, and hear them say “vieni Ferrari” (come to Ferrari). Around 2018, Hamilton met with Ferrari chairman John Elkann. Both sides expressed a desire to see Hamilton in red. But by the end of the 2020 season, Hamilton had four straight championships with Mercedes. He had no reason to jump ship. “If I’m really honest, I had accepted the fact that I’m probably not going to drive for Ferrari,” says Hamilton. “I was OK with that.”

After the 2021 season, Hamilton nearly walked away from racing. He—and millions of his fans—felt his record eighth driver title was stolen from him, when during the final race of the year, in Abu Dhabi, an official’s controversial decision allowed Verstappen to overtake Hamilton in the last lap and clinch his first title. Hamilton ultimately refused to quit without a fight, but he failed to win a single race as Verstappen cruised to another pair of championships. Hamilton signed a two-year extension with Mercedes in the summer of 2023, but the deal allowed him an option to leave after one year.

Meanwhile, true to Hamilton’s prediction, his de facto coach in the minors, Vasseur, took over an F1 team in 2016. Before the 2023 season, he was hired for a new team-principal gig—at Ferrari. Vasseur got wind of the loophole in Hamilton’s new deal—“He told me at one stage,” says Vasseur. “Good news”—and aimed to sign an agreement with Hamilton before the 2024 season. He wanted his drivers under contract last year, LeClerc and Sainz, to be free of whispers regarding their status. So while Hamilton was at his home in Colorado in December 2023, he got a call from Vasseur asking him to join Ferrari starting in 2025. “I remember getting off the phone and, like, almost shaking,” says Hamilton, who’s now almost shaking while recalling the moment. “I was like, Oh God!”

He told a friend who was with him about the call; they both sat in silence on a bathroom floor in shock. “I was like, Holy sh-t,” says Hamilton. “I literally just signed with Mercedes.” Breaking up with a team that felt like family was far from a no-brainer. And he didn’t have much time to decide. “It was a lot to take in, and my emotions were really high,” says Hamilton. “So I honestly had to go for a walk.” He left the house for an hour to decompress.

Hamilton then spent a few days meditating. He was leaning toward Ferrari. “My eyes felt really calm and present,” he says. “This is the right thing for me.” When he’d switched from McLaren to Mercedes all those years ago, he solicited too much advice. Here, he confided in just a few family members and trusted friends. “One cannot discount the Ferrari influence on the sport, especially through the eyes of a child,” says Mellody Hobson, co-CEO of Ariel Investments and the former chair of the Starbucks board, who’s very close to Hamilton. During negotiations, after every phone call with Ferrari, he’d jump around like a little kid.

“We’re in a time of reimagining the future, reimagining what really dreaming is about,” says Hamilton. “I’m going to Ferrari, man, and that’s the biggest dream.”

Not everyone is so thrilled. The day after he informed Mercedes team principal Toto Wolff of his decision was Hamilton’s annual paintball outing with his race-team mechanics. When he arrived, he was too nervous to get out of his car. “These are guys I’ve been with so many years,” says Hamilton. He eventually stood on top of a table to address his decision. His squad appeared understanding and supportive. But they let him have it in paintball. “They lit me up, hard,” says Hamilton. “It was so painful.” At one point, he was hiding behind a barrel shooting at the other team when he was struck from behind. A member of his own squadron had nailed him. “Freaking guy,” says Hamilton.

They laughed about it afterward and managed to get through the season. “There is no bad blood,” says Hamilton. “Absolutely not. We won so many championships.” (Mercedes declined to comment for this story.) Andrea Kimi Antonelli, an 18-year-old from Bologna, will take Hamilton’s place in the Mercedes lineup. “They have all the ingredients to win world championships, and they will win more world championships,” says Hamilton of Mercedes. “I have no doubt.”

In a book published in November—Inside Mercedes F1: Life in the Fast Lane—Wolff says Hamilton’s move “helps us because it avoids the moment where we need to tell the sport’s most iconic driver that we want to stop … We’re in a sport where cognitive sharpness is extremely important, and I believe everyone has a shelf life.” The comments caused a stir, and Wolff clarified that Hamilton is still “very sharp.”

Hamilton insists Wolff’s remark doesn’t bother him. He points to athletes like Tom Brady and LeBron James who’ve achieved success into their 40s. “Don’t ever compare me to anybody else,” says Hamilton. “I’m the first and only Black driver that’s ever been in this sport. I’m built different. I’ve been through a lot. I’ve had my own journey. You can’t compare me to another 40-year-old, past or present, Formula One driver in history. Because they are nothing like me. I’m hungry, driven, don’t have a wife and kids. I’m focused on one thing, and that’s winning. That’s my No. 1 priority.”

He also dismisses criticism from the broader racing community. Former F1 team owner Eddie Jordan said in a December podcast that it was “absolutely suicidal” for Ferrari to drop Sainz from its roster, given the strong working relationship between him and LeClerc. (Sainz will now race for Williams.) “I’ve always welcomed the negativity,” says Hamilton. “I never, ever reply to any of the older, ultimately, white men who have commented on my career and what they think I should be doing. How you show up, how you present yourself, how you perform slowly dispels that.”

Others, including former Ferrari driver Jacky Ickx, have suggested that Ferrari has signed Hamilton primarily for his commercial value. “I think it’s really unfair to Lewis, some of the comments saying, ‘This is a marketing operation,’” says Elkann, the Ferrari chairman. “Truth said, Lewis doesn’t need that. Ferrari doesn’t need that. What we need to do is win championships and do great things on the track. If that happens, what we can do outside of the track, in some ways, takes care of itself. There’s unlimited possibilities.”

The pressure, internal and external, Hamilton faces is immense. No F1 team owns more constructor titles than Ferrari, but they last won in 2008. Ferrari also owns the driver record, with 15, but the last Ferrari driver to win an individual crown was Kimi Raikkonen, in 2007. Ferrari fans are so passionate that they go by their own name, the tifosi. At the Ferrari museum, not far from the team’s 9.3 million-sq.-ft. campus in Maranello, Italy, pilgrims often start crying, or propose marriage, in the Hall of Victories, which showcases the team’s championship cars and more than 100 trophies.

One night in early February, at the Ristorante Montana, which displays a trove of Ferrari memorabilia in its dining room, Andrea Puttini, a seller of building materials from Naples, is outside enjoying a smoke. “In Italy, we say it’s not important if you speak bad or speak good about something,” says Puttini. “The importance is that you are talking about this. And Hamilton, just for being here, he lets us talk all over the world about Ferrari.”

Hamilton connected with as many of his new co-workers as possible during his first visit to Maranello in January, shaking hands until his arm was pulsating. “The amount of ciaos and grazies and piaceres I was saying, aye aye aye,” he says. After his first test run, he went out to greet the supporters lining a bridge that overlooks Ferrari’s private racetrack. A few weeks later, a fan decked out in a red Ferrari shirt and cowboy hat cut down a tree to allow the tifosi a better look at a Hamilton practice.

Hamilton first spotted himself in a Ferrari suit while in, of all places, the loo; he was washing his hands and looked up into the mirror. “I’m in red, I’m like, Whoa!” he says. He paused for a moment to take in the reflection. He liked what he saw. “The suit looked so good on me,” says Hamilton, laughing. “I’m like, Damn.” When seated in a Ferrari race car for the first time, he closed his eyes when the engine started and smiled. “The vibrations are different,” he says. He let them course through his body. “You just wonder how that feels,” Hamilton says. Now he knows. “It’s a really, really special moment.”

Still, Hamilton is well aware that Italian sports fans have not always been so welcoming of Black athletes like himself. He competed in karting races there in his younger days, starting at around 12, and experienced racist abuse, just as he had in England. He prefers not to go into details. “I don’t want to dwell,” he says. But he’s heard the racist chants directed at Black soccer players in particular. “I’m not going to lie, it definitely crossed my mind when I was thinking about my decision,” he says. “Like in so many things, it’s often such a small group of people that set that trend for many. I don’t think that it’s going to be a problem.”

Ferrari’s diversity—or lack thereof—was Hamilton’s more pressing concern. In the wake of George Floyd’s 2020 murder, as part of the worldwide sports protest movement against racial injustice, Hamilton started the Hamilton Commission to offer recommendations for more Black representation in U.K. motorsports. Mercedes launched its own diversity initiative in the months that followed and began hiring personnel from underrepresented groups, including Black engineers. “I did think, Oh my God, I’ve finally got a more diverse working environment that we’ve built over time,” says Hamilton. “And now I’m going back to the beginning of my time with Mercedes, where it wasn’t diverse.”

Along with every other F1 team, Ferrari signed a Diversity and Inclusion charter in November. While the new Trump Administration has made a point of attacking diversity—the President has signed a series of executive orders targeting diversity, equity, and inclusion programs—Hamilton, for one, remains locked in. “I’m not going to change what he does, or the government does. All I can do is try to make sure that in my space, in my environment, I’m trying to elevate people,” he says. “There’s going to be forces along the way that don’t want that, for whatever reason I can’t fathom. That doesn’t stop me. It is a fight that we’ll just keep fighting.” Hamilton is confident that Ferrari is committed to inclusion.

Vasseur, Hamilton’s new boss, agrees that it’s important, though as he fiddles with a binder clip in an office at Ferrari headquarters, where trade secrets are so closely guarded visitors must place stickers over their mobile-phone cameras (red ones, of course), he suggests that it may not be his top goal. “It’s not politically correct, but first is performance,” he says. “I’m keen to go into the direction of diversity and so on. We are doing our best effort. We are trying to push in this direction, but I want to build up the best team.”

I show Vasseur, who hails from France, a photo I found online: it’s him and Hamilton some 20 years ago, celebrating a win. He shows me some photos on his own phone, of his children, who are now grown, with Hamilton. He’s enjoying the walk down memory lane. But, he says, “We can’t be sentimental.”

Switching teams is difficult for any driver. The steering wheel, the cockpit, the terminology, they’re all different. “I’m literally learning a completely new book,” says Hamilton. F1 regulations allow limited practice time in the new car. He’s made strides in his Italian, thanks to lessons, but he’s by no means fluent. It took Hamilton more than four months to win a race in his first season with Mercedes. What gives Vasseur confidence that Hamilton will accelerate that learning curve?

“I could reply like a book and give you something that you want to write,” Vasseur replies. “But at the end of the day, at this part of the season, the feeling, the first time, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, will be nothing compared to race one in Australia. You will forget about everything that happened before. It’s all about pure performance.”

While Hamilton swears his devotion to Ferrari, his schedule has remained plenty full. A Fashion Week and red-carpet regular, he has his own production company, a Dior line, and other enterprises. He says he’s in the preliminary stages of developing scripts for a comedy—it doesn’t involve racing—and a film pertaining to pets. (That’s all he’ll offer.) But the biggest thing on the horizon, besides of course the 24 Grand Prix races in the season, is the upcoming F1 movie.

Tom Cruise had first connected Hamilton with director Joseph Kosinski because Hamilton was interested in an acting role in Top Gun: Maverick. Kosinski was ready to bring him on board, but Hamilton was still fighting for championships with Mercedes and couldn’t afford the time commitment. Cruise screened the movie, which grossed $1.5 billion worldwide upon its 2022 release, for Hamilton in London. “I was crying a bit inside,” Hamilton says. “Ah, that could have been me!”

So when Kosinski called Hamilton about his F1 project, Hamilton jumped at the chance to be a producer. Early in the process, he took Pitt, who plays a veteran F1 driver in the film, for a drive around a track near Los Angeles. “He gave Brad the scare of a lifetime in a lap,” says Kosinski. “Brad was clawing at the windows, begging to get out.” Hamilton was also part of the casting process and offered instructive feedback. “The notes are so detailed,” says Bruckheimer. “‘When you’re going into that next turn, you have the car in second gear, it should be in third. I can hear it. I can hear the sound of it.’” He pushed for Hans Zimmer, composer of The Lion King, Gladiator, Dune, and other hits, to score it. His close relationship with F1 CEO Stefano Domenicali, a former Ferrari team principal, helped the filmmakers gain access to F1 tracks and races to shoot scenes. “He opened all those doors for us into that world,” says Kosinski. “We would not have been able to do this without him.”

Hamilton is predicting box-office success. “It’s going to blow away anything that’s ever been done in Formula One before,” Hamilton says. The Netflix behind-the-scenes docuseries, Formula 1: Drive to Survive, has been properly credited for expanding F1’s popularity, especially in the U.S. Hamilton believes this movie will compel viewers from all different backgrounds to become fans, or even pursue a career in F1. “Netflix has been huge,” he says. “This is going to be even bigger, on more of a global scale.” While F1 might not count as art-house fare—“I don’t think we set out for it to be, like, an Oscar-winning movie,” says Hamilton—he’s promising a memorable experience. “The goal is to make people feel good, to bring people in, to inspire people,” he says. “We want you to leave the cinema and be like, ‘Wow, that was freaking wicked.’”

But even with his creative juices flowing, he’s as energized as ever to drive. In other words, unlike Aroma, whose presence does not seem to have triggered Hamilton’s allergies at all, he has no plans to slow down. “What I can tell you is, retirement is nowhere on my radar,” says Hamilton. “I could be here until I’m 50, who knows.”

Hamilton believes that he and LeClerc are the strongest team pairing in the sport and that Verstappen is “absolutely” beatable. “I know exactly where the North Star is,” says Hamilton. “I know where I need to go. I know how to get there. It’s far, and it’s going to be tough to get there, but I know I’ve got all the ingredients, all the people, an amazing team around me. So it’s how much you want it. And I can’t express to you how much I want it.”

[anika-ann]

It's heeeeere😍😍

Alright, alright. First let me say I already love it, even if you're breaking my heart🥺 then again the gorgeous art clued me on that.

If he had a partner maybe this wouldn't be so bad? Maybe people wouldn't constantly come up to talk to him because he'd be dancing himself, someone in his arms, looking at him lovingly...

Oh the opening is already so sad🥺 but I live for the longing for a partner and it's so understandable he'd like someone to share both joy and the recently found burden with🥺

They look cold, although he has a smile plastered on his face. Fake niceties like Steve has grown used to.

OUCH. But also yes, that's probably how it is with many people for him now😭

"Black isn't really your colour." Steve's brows furrow. What was that supposed to mean? "You know many families waited for the old crone to finally step down and let you be the king. Women shouldn't hold that much power, especially when there's no king at her side to keep her in check."

I really went from wow that's rude to THE F*** DID YOU JUST SAY-

"Whatever deal you're referring to will not stand with today's laws. So you can stop badmouthing my mom and trying to get me to marry your desperate granddaughter now." Steve spits.

#proud in fact, even if the crazy deal holds, he really should stop badmouthing the saint Sarah Rogers the former QUEEN mind you- but also if the grandfather throws Steve's words about reader on her later on I will throw hands☹

He wishes she was here... That he wouldn't need to mourn her so publicly while also keeping his tears in to not seem weak. He wishes he could wear the dark blue suits she got for him because according to her that's the colour he looks the most handsome in. He wishes she could brush his hair out of his face one more time. Just once more with that sweet smile that was reserved for him only.

MISS MA'AM HOW DARE YOU to portray his grief so well, missing his wonderful ma' in big things and small ones 🥺 (not to mention the ENDING, don't get me started)

How you wish you had someone to share a seat with... to share a life with. You wouldn't have a stranger next to you. You'd have a partner. You could cuddle and mind your own business at the same time... or play a game? Would you get upset at them winning Uno? Or would you love them too much to get frustrated?

Oh I adore how her longing mirrors his. That gives me a bit of hope🥰

"You visit your family that you never see and you show up dressed like some slob. You could wear something nice every now and then." (...) You greet everyone and listen to your siblings' judgments until your grandpa stops them.

They do not deserve her, period😤

"Well I recently met the young man and reminded him of this deal. He's more than eager to fulfill it and marry you. He'll collect you and bring you to Brooken tomorrow." He squeezes your arm, a smile plastered on his face. You can't do anything but stare at him and then burst out in laughter. They were messing with you. Or playing along with your grandpa's dementia... But no one else was laughing.

Love her reaction. Fuck the grandfather's lying ass.

“It's not all that bad… at least he's handsome!” Your friend tries to reason. “Plus you'd be a queen! No more shitty job that doesn't pay you enough. You'd live in a castle and wear pretty dresses.” She offers and is met with a heavy sigh.

The friend spitting facts 🤌

“Yeah that's great but at what cost? My freedom. I really love my one bedroom apartment. You know why? Because it's mine. I can do what I want."

Yeah this makes me super sad for her, because she broke away once from her shitty family to be free and now she's wrestled into their claws again AND a marriage.

“Who knows maybe your family had blackmail material on the royals.”

"Dating must be hard when you're a king.”

“Listen, I gotta go… but give it a chance? And if he's an asshole and you need out, you text me and we'll come to break you out ok?”

...again though, love her friend saying the real things🤭 and her standing her side. #friendshipgoals

Your eyes fall on the monstrosity of dress your mother picked out for you. Maybe if you truly wore that pink pile of whatever the seamstress had left over, he'd run for the hills and you'd still be free.

😂😂 I'm sorry😂😂 good for her, save some of her spite. But that also makes me wonder if Steve will think she's trying too hard and will think she really is desperate to marry him even if she is only forced to do it too🥺

Oh the feels😭 can't wait for you to murder my heart with next chapter🥲

Not the game they play

Steve Rogers x reader

Words: 4.1k

Summary: An arranged marriage flips your life upside down. What you thought you knew about your family doesn't seem to be true at all. How will Steve and you navigate your life together?

Warnings: angst, mentions of death, a swear word here and there, insulting of Sarah Rogers, yes that needed to be a warning, difficult family relationship, if I missed anything please let me know

A/N: This is the first part of a series. I had this idea for over two years with some scenes already written out or well thought through. Thank you all for encouraging me to finally do something with it. But don't come for me, you wanted this!

I promised to tag the lovely @ronearoundblindly 🩷

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Chapter One - Cannot stop the rain

The constant bustle of people and their conversations were a white noise like no other. One you can't concentrate on too long, especially when you have to hold conversation with whoever thought it was his turn to smooze a king.

Steve hates galas. He hates the pretentiousness that came with them and the people who attended but most of all he hates that he had no choice but to go. A king missing one of these was only excused when a serious matter arose. And those don't come by easily when you need them. He yearned for the times when he didn't need to attend these things, back when his mom still was the reigning queen and shielded him from this world. But with his mom gone he had to step up.

Gone where the days he travelled the world, studied art and made new friends. So easily replaced with duty and grief... and a stupid crown on his head. He was lucky enough he could hire his friends as staff, lucky enough his oldest friend was his right hand man and never left him alone for too long. James Bucky Barnes, his childhood defender, his best friend, his right hand and occasionally, much to Steve's dismay, his wingman. If only that would have worked out already. He seems to be casually watching people dance but in reality he watches the couples spend quality time together at a stuck up event. If he had a partner maybe this wouldn't be so bad? Maybe people wouldn't constantly come up to talk to him because he'd be dancing himself, someone in his arms, looking at him lovingly...

"Senator Lee is coming up next" a smooth voice mumbles over his shoulder, Sam Wilson. A friend he found in college, a politics major and his chief of staff. Steves eyes find the older gentleman approaching him. He's talked with him before, quite often actually, and he was always so kind and encouraging.

The small talk with senator Lee went by faster than Steve anticipated. Before the next person could swoop in to talk to him he excused himself to the restroom. Bucky, his honorary security detail for the evening since he refused to take his actual one, made to follow him. "It's just the bathroom Buck. I'll be fine and I'll come straight back here." he says lowly, his eyes rolling at the antics. He didn't need this much security before he became a king. Bucky hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering to Sam who looks a bit unsure himself. "I mean... It's just the bathroom... No danger there. Nat wouldn't go inside with him either right?" Steve lets out a sigh at Sam's statement. Natasha, the head of security, ruled with an iron fist. She had all of them so scared they wouldn't dare to disobey her orders... except maybe her husband Clint but he got free passes for life.

"Right... Just come right back here?" Bucky looks at him and with a sigh and a nod Steve agrees. Before they can say anything else and before whatever lady just seems to approach them can start to talk, Steve hurries to the restroom. He locks himself in a cabin just for a few moments alone. But even those aren't truly alone.

The door to the restroom opens up not too long after him and of course that person takes ages to do their business. With a silent grumble Steve finishes up and leaves the cabin to wash his hands. Just then the door to another cabin opens and an older gentleman with thinning grey hair, in a three piece suit steps out. His eyes meet Steve's in the mirror as he walks up to the sink area himself. They look cold, although he has a smile plastered on his face. Fake niceties like Steve has grown used to.

"King Rogers." He acknowledges and Steve simply gives a nod. He isn't even safe in the fucking bathroom!

"Black isn't really your colour." Steve's brows furrow. What was that supposed to mean? "You know many families waited for the old crone to finally step down and let you be the king. Women shouldn't hold that much power, especially when there's no king at her side to keep her in check. Who would have thought it would take her to die for you to finally step up." The man seems calm and collected as if he didn't just insult Steve's mother.

"What the fuck did you say about my mom? Old crone?!" His blood was boiling and he was this close to hitting the old man if it weren't for his manners. His mom raised him better but she wasn't here to keep him in check was she?

"Oh calm down Steven. No need to get all flustered and angry. Hold your tongue before you say something you'll regret. We'll be one happy family soon after all." The man smirked and calmly dried his hands. He teaches over and turns off Steve's tab, the blonde frozen from anger. What did he just say? He must be demented. "What?" Is all that Steve can bring out. Confused and angry and still so so close to punch that guy.

"Oh you don't know. Can't say I'm surprised, your mother shielded you a lot. Now I have to do all the explaining. That's why women should never be in charge.” he rolls his eyes. “Are you familiar with the Hastings family?" The man hands Steve one of the towels and casually leans against the sink. Hastings? Steve has heard that name before... Wasn't that the royal family that fell from grace three generations ago? His eyes flit to the man.

"Sounds familiar." Is all he can grid out. What is this man on about? Is he just here to gossip?

"Clever boy." The smirk on the old man's face is uncanny. As if he can read Steve all too well. "You know exactly who they are but instead of going off to gossip like all the other royals out there you keep your answer neutral. What a good king you make." Steve's confusion grows.

"What does the Hastings family have to do with us becoming one?" Steve bites out. "Ah straight to business. Just how I like it. You see the Hastings family and the Rogers family go way back. Many, many generations in fact. King Joseph Rogers the first and King George Hastings even made a little pact, that yes, still stands today." His eyes search Steve's face and his grin looks so satisfied. "That the families will unite as soon as there is a male and female heir born into the families. Now ever since then both families only bore strong sons with an occasional daughter that was out of the age range for marriage. That is until roughly 30 years ago. When you and my granddaughter were born just two years apart." Steve's brow lifts. The old man was a Hastings. Wanting to fulfill a deal that was made over a hundred years ago... Bullshit.

"Whatever deal you're referring to will not stand with today's laws. So you can stop badmouthing my mom and trying to get me to marry your desperate granddaughter now." Steve spits. The man just grins. "Oh, it will Steven. Here let your lawyers check this and then get back to me about when my granddaughter can move in with you. " He laughs and hands Steve an envelope before he walks out of the restroom and back into the gala.

Steve's eyes fall on the envelope, it's burning in his hands but he needs to get this checked. He can't marry someone because of an old deal. He can't marry someone with a grandfather daring to insult his mom that's not even been dead for a month. Steve's eyes start to burn with tears. His mom shielded him from so much while she also did her best to prepare him for this life... He wishes she was here... That he wouldn't need to mourn her so publicly while also keeping his tears in to not seem weak. He wishes he could wear the dark blue suits she got for him because according to her that's the colour he looks the most handsome in. He wishes she could brush his hair out of his face one more time. Just once more with that sweet smile that was reserved for him only.

He takes a shakey breath and swallows the lump in his throat. A brief look in the mirror, a deep breath, straightening his tie. He can't show weakness. Not here, not ever. 'Safe the tears for your bedroom, Rogers.' the voice in his head commands. He wipes away the stray tear that got caught in his lashes, pockets the envelope and with another deep breath makes his way back to his friends.

They're chatting, most likely teasing each other. As soon as Bucky sees him both heads turn to Steve with a concerned gaze swiping up and down. They seem to come to the conclusion that he's okay and relax. "We need to leave." he says as soon as he reaches them. His tone more urgent than he wanted to. "Why you got diarrhea? Took you pretty long in there... I told ya to lay it easy on the hors d'oeuvres." Bucky teases with a grin that immediately falls as soon as he sees Steves eyes. Sam can't even get his joke in before Bucky declares that they're leaving. He leads Steve to the host of the gala for a quick goodbye and then out to the car they came in.

Within 10 minutes they're on the road. For the first time with only the three of them in the car, Steve pulls up the divider for privacy. Shielded from Sam and Bucky, he allows himself to spill a few tears for his mother before he can make it to the safety of his bedroom. He knows that will be away for another few hours, especially with the envelope that's burning a hole into his pocket.

Ever since you were young your family hasn't cared much for you. The only thing that was important to them was that you did exactly what they wanted... in every aspect of your life. You got the education they wanted, you went to college for what they wanted and you hid your interests to make them like you. At the beginning of your twenties you finally broke out of that circle. You moved far away with your friend and only occasionally visited for important matters, much to their dismay. Just like you were now.

The train ride never isn't boring, even with a good book and music. The most thrilling plot or the most beautiful lyrics couldn't distract you from the stranger sitting next to you. Somehow you always had the luck of them eating something disgusting, talking loudly on the phone, constantly bumping into you or being a stranger to the concept of headphones.

Your eyes wander over to your friend and her husband for the millionth time. They were sitting together, cuddling, yet somehow each minding their own business. Her husband looking out of the window, headphones in, music on and daydreaming. Your friend reading the newest book from her favourite author. How you wish you had someone to share a seat with... to share a life with. You wouldn't have a stranger next to you. You'd have a partner. You could cuddle and mind your own business at the same time... or play a game? Would you get upset at them winning Uno? Or would you love them too much to get frustrated?

You let out a sigh. You've been single for so long... a partner was still written in the stars and wouldn't come by anytime soon. So you'd have to deal with strangers next to you on the train, the couch for yourself and your family constantly badgering you when you'd move back and find a partner. It's not like you planned being almost thirty and still single. As a child you dreamed about being married with children at this age. Maybe having a little house and a dog. You wanted to be surrounded by friends, leave your family out of it as much as you could. Just enjoy life with your partner. But here you were, still alone. Maybe wallowing in self pity at a life that could have been would be a good way to pass time till you were back at your family's place.

You pull your suitcase after you. The walk from the train station wasn't too long and you know better than to ask anyone to pick you up. You don't want to inconvenience them or owe them. Last time you asked your mother and she made you wash all the dishes from the family party by hand after you played waitress during the entirety of it. You'd rather choose walking 30 minutes to the house than do that again.

As you come closer you spot your grandpa's car in the driveway. He must be here to oversee the preparations for his birthday party tomorrow. You briefly look down at yourself, jeans and t-shirt. It looks good enough but you already know you'd be criticised left and right. Never enough for them.

With a deep breath you ring the doorbell and wait. It's not too long before the door opens to reveal your mother. She takes in your appearance and sneers before she greets you. She steps to the side to let you in. "You visit your family that you never see and you show up dressed like some slob. You could wear something nice every now and then." She grumbles before she goes to the living room to announce that you're here. Well if you knew your grandpa would be here a day early you would have tried to wear something nicer. You leave your suitcase next to the door and follow her into the living room. You greet everyone and listen to your siblings' judgments until your grandpa stops them.

"Enough. Let's not ruin this joyful day for our family." He announces before he gets up and stands next to you. Joyful day? What happened? Did he finally win the lottery? You look at him confused.

"You all need to learn to not criticise her so much anymore. After all it would be a bad image to her fiancé and the press." Everyone nods along as if what he said did make any sense. Even your father who usually only shows interest for the drink in front of him, nods along. Has he got dementia since the last time you visited? "What?" Is all you can bring out at which your mother scoffs.

"Well dear... It took you a long time to find a partner, which in hindsight I'm very grateful about. You know our family has a long history and its history and glory shall be restored soon enough.” Your grandpa declares like it's some victory. “Many hundred years ago our ancestors made a deal with the royal family of Brooken. The first heirs of opposite sex shall marry and unite our families. It just never worked out age wise until you came along. Born just two years after the now reigning King Steven Rogers." He explains and you're absolutely sure they all lost their damn minds. No royal family would make a deal with commoners, especially back then.

"Well I recently met the young man and reminded him of this deal. He's more than eager to fulfill it and marry you. He'll collect you and bring you to Brooken tomorrow." He squeezes your arm, a smile plastered on his face. You can't do anything but stare at him and then burst out in laughter. They were messing with you. Or playing along with your grandpa's dementia... But no one else was laughing. They all looked rather serious... And the house looked so clean... Was this not a joke?

"This... This has to be a joke...?" You say, looking at him with desperation. "Why would it be? You'll restore the Hasting family's glory and finally be of use to us.” your heart breaks a little more. Were you truly this worthless? Did nothing you did for them before count? You look up at them, desperate to find any sign that this wasn't true. That they were playing a prank. The stone faces of your parents and siblings look back at you. This... This wasn't a joke. They'd marry you off to some stranger. To a king? To gain what? What about your life? What about your place? Your job? You can't just leave that behind for some king who's probably a huge asshole... Your long fought for freedom taken by your family and that guy. Back under control, every move watched and criticised.

The rest of the day has been cruel. Your family was between joy at your engagement to a king and anger at you trying to refuse. In-between all the explaining, that really didn't give you any new information or any that would make sense of the situation, you texted your friend which promised to call you later.

“It's not all that bad… at least he's handsome!” Your friend tries to reason. “Plus you'd be a queen! No more shitty job that doesn't pay you enough. You'd live in a castle and wear pretty dresses.” She offers and is met with a heavy sigh.

“Yeah that's great but at what cost? My freedom. I really love my one bedroom apartment. You know why? Because it's mine. I can do what I want. And in his castle? I probably won't even be allowed to hang a picture on the wall. There'll be people watching my every move and reporting back to him. I'll be just as miserable as I used to be at my parents place.” The white of the ceiling starts to become blurry with the tears that are about to spill. “What if I can never see you again? What if he won't let me have any friends?” Your voice breaks at the thought.

“He doesn't look like he'd be such an asshole. He looks nice and the articles write nice things about him too.” She reasons. “Yeah and who has big influence on the press? Him. Of course they wouldn't write anything bad about him.” You complain. “They have written not so nice things about him. Especially with him grieving his mother…” that you do feel sorry for. They seemed to have a good relationship, losing a loving parent isn't easy. “Give him a chance. You never know maybe he's a prince charming.” Her voice sounds encouraging.

“What does a king even want with a commoner? Why would a king make a deal like that hundreds of years ago? I don't get it…” you question. “Who knows maybe your family had blackmail material on the royals.” At that you snort a bit. “Maybe… he seems eager to get married. My family is eager for this. Why am I the only one who thinks this is a bad idea?” Your hands pick on the scratchy blanket your mother put on the guest bed for you. “Because you're the one who loses a lot for this. Your family gains royalty… at least they'll be royal adjacent? I mean they do have the stick up their asses like royals already. And he gains a wife? Dating must be hard when you're a king.” She muses. “His last relationship was six years ago. His ex left him for another prince and got married like a year after.” You hum at the information she found. His whole life could be found on the internet which makes you wonder what he even knows about you? Your family didn't even know you so he couldn't even get something accurate from them.

“Listen, I gotta go… but give it a chance? And if he's an asshole and you need out, you text me and we'll come to break you out ok?” you sigh at your friends offer but ultimately agree. You'll try, it's not like you can leave the house and flee without your family noticing and coming for you anyways. You place your phone on the nightstand and cuddle up in bed. Your eyes fall on the monstrosity of dress your mother picked out for you. Maybe if you truly wore that pink pile of whatever the seamstress had left over, he'd run for the hills and you'd still be free.

"Sorry Steve... I can check a few more things but this is airtight... They can force you to marry that girl..." his lawyer says. Steve sighs and looks up from his desk to look at the brunette who meets him with a warm empathetic smile. Maria Hill, top of her class, badass in their softball team and brilliant lawyer. Steve recommended her to his mom when the old lawyer retired. Maria showed her wits and was hired within two hours of her interview.

"There's no way a deal from over a hundred years ago still holds up! You're telling me there was not a single occasion where this desk could have already been fulfilled? Aren't the Hastings fucking hornballs with so many family members? They're not even royal anymore! How does this hold up?" Bucky rants, clearly trying to protect his friend. Maria meets his eyes and lifts an eyebrow.

"Well if you want to go through the entire family trees and history to try and prove that be my guest. Matter of fact is that King Joseph and King George thought of everything in their agreement. Even the downfall of royalty... Or in this case the downfall of one royal family. This seems to be their way back. Making Steve marry the granddaughter so at least she is tuly royal." Maria says dryly. "I will check it over once more. I think we all should get as much rest as this night still offers but... don't get your hopes up Steve." She adds as she gets up and takes the contract that was in the envelope before. "What if we kill her. Can't marry someone that's dead" Bucky suggests and immediately gets a slap on the back of his head from Sam.

"As your lawyer I would advice against the murder of the future spouse of your best friend. You'd be one of the first suspects and I'm sorry to say this Barnes but your pokerface isn't as great as you'd like to think." Maria states before she looks at Steve. He's exhausted, his face in his hands, his hair ruffled. "Go to bed Steve." She says softly, worried about her friend.

Steve let's out a sigh and gets up. "Dismissed. Good night." Is all he can say before he drags himself out of his office and up the stairs. His mind is a flurry of thoughts that just won't shut up no matter how much he tries. He lets out a sigh as soon as he reaches the third floor. To the left is his room, to the right the room of his mother. His legs move on their own, carrying him to the portrait of her that's covered in a black veil. In the last month he often stood in front of it. He wished it good night before he'd get in bed. Just like he planned to do today.

"Night mom..." He whispers, the tears in his eyes returning once more. "This is all so hard without you… you would know what to do with this stupid deal… I wish you were here." his voice breaks at that. He gulps and tries to hold back his tears. He isn't in the safety of his own bedroom yet. But he isn't sure he's gonna make it till there. His eyes wander to his door, so far away, and back to the portrait. He gulps and moves towards her door. Her room is safe too. Even if it brings sad memories.

He softly closes the door behind him, his eyes falling onto her bed. He'd often sleep with her as a child. When he had nightmares, when he was upset about his father dying, when he was sick. Just one more time he tells himself and takes off his shoes. He can sleep in the sweatpants and shirt he put on earlier, he doesn't need a fancy pyjama set. Hesitantly he slips under the yellow covers. His nose immediately fills with her scent. Her favourite laundry detergent mixed with her perfume and he can't hold back the tears any longer. The dam breaks and he sobs into her pillow. After many minutes of crying he falls asleep enveloped by her one more time.

[br-disaster]

Happy belated birthday, Mingjue!

This year i wanted to draw the birthday boy on his special day over the years, surrounded by the people he loves, but I also wanted a little angst, because he barely got to celebrate thirty of those...

But I'm weak, so they get the happy ending too:

They might not know exactly what age Mingjue should be turning after he comes back, but it's alright as long as they're together.

[jasperthejester]

me: finally accepting theres a good chance im autistic and starting to work up the courage to ask my parents to see if i could get a diagnoses but being scared to

my mom: do you ever think you have adhd? if you want to do a screening for add next time your at the doctors you can

me:

[numberonetribble]

I got bit by the Sparkling bug and really wanted to give Bumblebee and Breakdown a child for my unnamed AU I'm working on but then I remembered I can't draw children :( big shout out to that post floating around here that's like "imagine a Sparkling but they come out full sized then what." traffic tickets and impound fees that's what

(pssst look at their knees)

[wickjump]

im gonna start posting fanfic recs btw whenever i find good ones. both here and my (awfully barren) 18+ account. because there are so many good fics out there with so few hits and fewer kudos and sometimes no comments period and it SUCKS because i REALLY LIKE THEM A LOT.. and i hope that by linking them here and yelling at everyone to COMMENT DAMMIT they might actually do it

seriously though any comment means a lot. most people who read a fic don’t even give a kudos. even if the fic wasn’t top tier, if you didn’t dislike it, hand over some kudos!! and if you liked it, comment!!!! even if the comment is one singular heart emoji it will be appreciated. if the comment just says “great fic!” the author will be happy. your comment doesn’t have to be this long winded gushing or analysis.

so many authors quit writing or lose motivation because the comments are few and far in between or just sometimes nonexistent. trust me when i say authors don’t care about how long or cool or smart sounding your comment is i promise!!!

i hope that mmmaybe recommending fics and telling people to comment might help fics i really like get more support maybe. and i, points at you reading this, hope that you will listen!!!at least a little….at least sum kudos….

[cak3iscake]

Henna not being back in any capacity in the second Mariposa movie gives me two impressions:

1). untapped potential for a 3rd movie where we get Henna reformation or some such.

2).

Mariposa: I wonder how Henna's doing out there.

Willa: ..... what if she's dead 😧

Mariposa: 😨

Honestly it's entirely possible that she IS dead; a lot of her control over the Skeezites hinged on the promise of invading Flutterfield, and we can see their patience wearing thin throughout the movie. It's possible her failure to follow through would be the final straw, and that her lights would only be able to carry her so far when her entire army is against her. I do like the potential for another sequel to tie up that loose end though, in no small part because "dramatic revenge declaration followed by offscreen death that's never mentioned" is just kind of anticlimactic. Even if it's been a decade and that ship has sailed at this point. We could've had it all. Two fairy trilogies. Also consider: The Skeezites don't seem to be a threat--or even present at all-- in Fairy Princess. They're not once brought up unless in past tense. Regellius brings up Flutterfield defeating them when that's not necessarily how it happens in the first movie(which she does point out but focuses more on the method than the outcome so it's still unclear). Yeah they succeed in driving them off, but if Mariposa's quest or the fact that they've been terrorizing the kingdom for centuries says anything, it's that there are probably way more hanging around than Henna's immediate army. I'm imagining a midquel where she manages to get the Skeezites to hold out for a little longer so she can get her Revenge Plan in, and Flutterfield deals with them for good.

[cuteniaarts]

@katkastrofa, circa 40-ish hours ago: Hey, what if our newest bunch of OCs adopted a baby from one of the other brothel girls who knew she couldn’t afford to raise one? That would make for some fun shenanigans :D

Me, with a notoriously non existent sleep schedule, instinct of self preservation or concern for my poor wrist: Alright, bet. Watch how fast I can make you fall in love with this hypothetical baby >:)

Daneli as a gentle and loving caretaker-turned-adoptive-mother is something that can be So Personal, actually, and originally I was going to leave it at this quick sketch, but then I got carried away thinking about what this child will grow up to be like raised by this little gang of misfits, so…

Here she is!! A little older and so, so beautiful, I need more of her in my life immediately, she’s way too precious

And, because I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t also add a sapphic element to this absolute cinnamon roll, a small crack ship that I’m only half serious about for when she’s a little older still:

All in all, we may be getting impossibly far from canon, but I for one already cannot get enough of sweet darling Kumisai <3

(I fully drew three pieces from scratch in 9 hours I cannot feel my brain or my hands anymore send help)

[teddybeartoji]

i think i mentioned that my dad let some guys put film on our windows so they'd reflect the sun a bit more or whatever right....... well they did that yesterday and everything was fine they washed my window and everything but now . i look out and there's a fucking CRACK IN THE GLASS????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????