#LIKE...WAS IT SOMETHING WITH THE VOICE ACTING???

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

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

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

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

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

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

One month. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

“Want some help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just trust me,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

“You find this amusing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

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

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

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pain hits you like a freight train.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

+++

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

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

You want to hear it again. But not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re home, too.

[creamflix]

the first time sukuna fell in love, he was but a boy of ten. 

he’d been running barefoot by the riverside, clutching a half-eaten apple he’d swiped from a vendor’s stall.

there, among the reeds, he saw you. 

a girl not much older than him, giggling as you played with a pair of bunnies. you smiled as one hopped into your lap, the sunlight catching in your hair like strands of spun gold. 

for the first time, he felt a pang in his chest — an ache so foreign it startled him. he wanted to walk closer, to hear your laughter up close, but the distant shouts of palace guards reminded him of his plight.

with a scowl and a heavy heart, he turned and disappeared into the forest.

the second time sukuna fell in love, he was twenty-nine. 

a hardened king by then, his hands stained with the blood of countless battles. he was unstoppable, a force of nature, until he met you on the battlefield. 

you were the opposing leader, a woman who commanded armies with fire in her veins. your sword clashed against his with unyielding strength, your eyes defiant even as the tides of war turned against you. he admired the way you held your head high, even in defeat. 

when his blade finally struck true, he found no triumph in his victory — only the hollow echo of your last breath and the unshakable image of your bravery.

the third time sukuna fell in love, he was sixty. 

his body had grown stronger, his face lined with the scars of battles and time, yet untouched by age. at a temple celebrating his birthday — his subjects oblivious to his immortality — he spotted you again. 

you knelt at the altar, your hands clasped in prayer, tears streaming down your face. your whispered words were for the departed, a plea for their peace, not for yourself. your unselfishness struck him like lightning. he lingered in the shadows, unable to tear his eyes away. 

but once again, he left without speaking.

decades blurred into centuries, and sukuna continued to see you — again and again. 

once, you were a nurse during a plague, tirelessly tending to the sick, your hands blistered but your resolve unwavering. 

another time, you were a dancer, spinning under the moonlight with a joy so infectious that even his dark soul felt lighter. 

then, you were a bandit, reckless and daring, stealing from the rich to feed the poor, your grin daring the world to challenge you.

each time, he loved you more fiercely, each time more convinced that you were the universe’s cruel joke on him — a fleeting glimpse of something he could never hold.

until today.

he hadn’t expected anything remarkable when he walked into the café, drawn by the rich aroma of coffee and the warmth of the afternoon sun. his mind was wandering, memories of his past lives and past loves swirling like a storm, when your voice shattered his reverie.

“welcome in! what can i get for you?”

his heart stopped.

it was you.

this time, there was no battlefield, no temple, no grand act of heroism. you stood behind the counter in a simple apron, your hair tied back, a pen tucked behind your ear.

yet you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“uh, sir?” you tilted your head, offering a polite smile when he didn’t respond right away.

“coffee,” he managed, his voice rough. “black.”

you nodded, punching it into the register. “sure thing. anything else?”

“your name,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

your eyebrows lifted in surprise, but you laughed softly. “it’s y/n. do you need that on the cup?”

he stared at you, stunned by how casual you were, how close he was to everything he’d yearned for across lifetimes. 

“no,” he said, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “i just wanted to know.”

you laughed again, handing him his coffee once it was ready. “well, enjoy, mystery man.”

he lingered by the counter, holding the cup like it was an anchor to this moment. he didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to miss the chance he’d always let slip through his fingers. 

this time, he swore, he wouldn’t run away.

“how long have you worked here?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

“a few months. why, thinking of applying?” you teased, wiping down the counter.

“no,” he said, his voice softer now. “just wondering how long it took for the universe to bring me here.”

you blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his words. but before you could reply, the door jingled as another customer entered, pulling your attention away.

sukuna stepped back, letting you go about your work. for now. 

he’d waited centuries to speak to you, to know you. he could wait a little longer. but this time, he wouldn’t let you slip away.

not again.

the concept of the cafe was inspired by my pookie @curtins's recent post on jjk men in cafes, go show her some looveee <3 produced by creamflix on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, modify, repost — support your writers by liking and reblogging. ♡

[readwritealldayallnight]

I would love a take on boyfriend Ghost coming home to surprise you, but he finds your bed empty and doesn't realize that you are in his room in his bed. Thanks.

The placebo effect, was what he kept trying to convince you it had to be, no matter how many times you rolled your eyes and told him he was wrong

How else could one explain your insistence that Simon’s bed smelled so much like him, becoming your safe space when he was away on long deployments, when he only ever slept with you in your bed most nights to begin with

Hard to believe it was nearly three years ago now that you’d told your friend since childhood, Johnny, about how your search for a new flat was going miserably. You remember how he’d perked up and recounted with a mischievous glint in his eye about how his Lieutenant was apparently searching for a flat mate at the moment, someone who’d be looking after the place while he was away for work

Unsure about living with a strange man you’d never met before, but trusting Johnny’s judgement (though the way he seemed just a bit too eager about this meeting did kind of throw you off-) you had reluctantly agreed to meet with him and at least give the flat a glance before you simply turned him down

It wasn’t until you were knocking at the door of the address Johnny had written down for you, that you’d realized he’d never even given you the man’s goddamn name, only ever referring to him at Lieutenant or LT

Johnny apparently also failed to mention the absolute SIZE of the guy, his huge frame blocking nearly all of the light from behind him as he had swung the door open and stood in the doorway before you

In a slight panic, thrown off by the massive man before you and the way the butterflies in your stomach suddenly began to flutter at the sight of him, you had greeted him for the first time with a squeaky, unsure voice saying ‘Um, hi, are you the Mr Lieutenant?’ (something he has never let you live down since)

He knew then and there that you would be the one

Not just his flatmate (though what a generous flatmate he was when he offered insisted on moving all your boxes out of your old place and into his that very same day), but the one, something he reluctantly had to give Soap credit for, seeing as he was the one who wouldn’t stop talking his ear off about you

You would be his other half, his better half

And all these years later, the two bedroom flat truly only acted as a one bedroom, considering that from the start Simon was always falling into your bed with you at the end of each night, limbs tangled together under the warmth of a lovers embrace a thousand times more comforting than an actual comforter

Still though, that first time Simon had to be gone for work longer than a few weeks, you found the lingering odor of him clinging to his bedsheets to be one of the few things keeping you sane in his absence, taking to sleeping in his room for the time being, imagining that the pillow you cling to your front was a strong muscular arm instead, littered in scars and tattoos you feel confident you could recognize from touch alone

And when his long awaited flight back home to you landed a few hours earlier than expected, tires touching down in the dark, stillness of late night hour, he decided he’d surprise you and come straight home, rather than calling you to meet him at the base like you’d insisted, not wanting to wake you

Barely able to contain himself, he decided the elevator ride up to the seventh floor would take too long, take away precious seconds that brought him closer to you, and so up the flight of stairs he went, taking them two or three at a time, rushing to see the face etched behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes, to hear the voice that haunted his dreams each night

Quietly as a man his size could, he crept into the flat, snuck his way into your room, expecting to see your sweet, sleeping form cuddled up amongst the blankets and pillows. But his heart dropped when he noticed the bed was still perfectly made, not a thread out of place.

Trying to remain calm, though his mind was instantly swarming with every possible scenario that could have taken place, he knew he saw your shoes and jacket by the door, you couldn’t have gone far… but where were you?

He glanced into the living room, wondering if he missed you sleeping on the couch after a long day, he poked his head into the bathroom, even went so far as to check the small balcony, but finally there was only one door left to open.

And there you were, safe and sound, a tiny ball curled up into the center of his huge bed, clinging to one of his old masks and holding it close to your chest as though it were a security blanket (you’d been sleeping in his bed so much you needed something that still smelled strongly of him, you were getting desperate)

Stripping himself down to only his boxers, he tiptoed towards the side of the bed, his mind finally feeling more at peace than he ever had, gently pulling the sheets back just enough for him to slip in behind you, his strong arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you into his muscular chest

Though it should be alarming to suddenly feel a pair of hands roaming over your skin, a body holding you firmly against their own, it’s as though your body knows who it is before your mind does

Any tension you were still holding onto during his absence instantly melts away, your own hands coming to land over top of his, giving a slight squeeze of acknowledgment, not yet willing to fully leave your half asleep state, but needing to touch him, to confirm he really is here

“Hmm,” You hum, voice groggy with sleep and a smile slowly stretching across your lips, snuggling further into his embrace. “You’re home.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, breathing you in, wishing he could bottle up the scent of your shampoo and lotions and perfumes, if only to have something to hold onto while he’s away, understanding now why he found you in this bed rather than your own

“I am.” He whispers into your hair, sensing that you’re already drifting back into dream land, safe in his arms and his bed, knowing he’ll be there when you wake. He feels his chest tighten when he knows that you weren’t talking about the fact that he’s physically home, in the flat, but something more, something much more, because he means the same thing when he tells you, “You’re my home too, love.”

[chrissturnsfav]

⋆.˚✮ rapper!chris is just too hot

ᰔᩚ requested from @anonymous: need a blurb of her arresting him for being too hot just like sabrina did in the sns tour

the music is swelling around you—fans screaming your name as you skip around the stage. as you flash the audience a sexy smirk at the start of one of your most popular songs, you let the rhythm take over.

as you perform the suggestive song, you can see chris up in the private box, his tall figure leaning against the railing, his eyes locked on you with a cocky smirk on his lips nodding to the beat of your song.

that’s all it takes. the moment you spot him, something lustful shifts inside you. he knows every side of you, even the parts no one else sees. and right now, you can’t resist having a little fun with him.

the song comes to an end, and it's time for the arrest—a fun little game you do with the audience at the end of this song every time you perform it.

they already know what's coming, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. your eyes land on chris once again and you see him chuckling in disbelief, making you giggle through your suggestive smirk.

"uh, guys?" you speak into the microphone, your eyes darting from chris to the crowd repeatedly with the same smirk on your lips.

the audience laughs and yells in response, clearly eager to know who you've picked to be under arrest tonight as you beckon your backup dancers towards you, "guys, come, come here!"

they emerge from the darkness of the stage at your demand, and you huddle into a little circle with them. you turn your head to look back at chris up in the private box, "is it hot in here, or is it just him?" you say seductively into the microphone, pointing up on the private box.

chris shakes his head in amusement, and you can see him chuckling under his breath as all the cameras begin to point at him in the box along with a spotlight.

as the arena fills with siren noises, you look around, acting as if you don't know what's happening. you've mastered this little game, having done it countless times on tour.

the sea of people's screams get louder, clearly not expecting you to do this to chris. "chris, is it?" you giggle into the microphone, your stare at your boyfriend filling with desire.

"thas' me," he shouts back as a bodyguard escorts him down from the box to stand at the bottom of the stage.

"well, chris..." you begin into the microphone, smirking through your suggestive voice as you walk towards him on the stage to which he returns with his own cocky look. "i'm so sorry, but...i'm going to have to place you under arrest for being too hot."

chris stares up at you from the floor, his expression filled with awe but also a playful sense of desire and his eyes widen at your next action.

"wait a second..." you gasp dramatically into the mic, staring down at your sparkly costume as your silver, long skirt drops into a short one. "my clothes are just...falling off my body! good thing it's not cold in here..." you giggle.

the audience erupts into cheer, all eyes on the two of you as chris laughs up at you, holding his wrists out as a backup dancer hands you a pair of hot pink, fluffy handcuffs encrusted in rhinestones.

you take the handcuffs, stepping out of your skirt as chris smirks up at you with his eyes widened eyes and a clearly wicked, needy smirk on his lips.

"chris, baby, will you be my juno boy?" you say into the microphone, leaning down to handcuff chris as the audience screams with cheer, the romantic melody of your next song softly booming throughout the arena.

"y'can arrest me any day, mama," he mumbles back up at you over the music, prodding the inside of his cheek with that same smirk that makes your knees weak.

"ugh, i'll be waiting for you tonight, chris," you say into the microphone, securing the handcuffs with a click.

"i'll be wearing something pretty for you," you smirk, licking your lips at him as you stand back up, turning around and swaying your hips as you walk to the center of the stage.

chris raises his eyebrows at you as you walk away, his tongue sliding across his bottom lip while he watches your ass move in rhythm with each step you take.

as the audience continues to roar with unexpected cheer and screams at your seductive words, chris is escorted back to the private box, knowing one thing for certain.

and that is: he'll be holding you to what you just said after your show is over.

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: i hope i explained this properly if you don't know what the "under arrest" game is at sabrina carpenter's concerts LMAO. if not, def look it up on tiktok!

thank you for reading!! <3

@chrissturnsfav ™

[vanillamatt]

vanillamatt .. talkingstage!chris & reader

matt trying to convince chris to get out of the talking stage - based on their recent ‘suspect’ tiktok

you’ve been in the “talking stage” with chris for what feels like forever. casual texts, hanging out here and there, but nothing more serious. sometimes you catch him looking at you a little too long, or he gets all soft when you laugh, but when it comes to making things official, he never quite takes that step. it’s like he’s stuck in neutral, and you’re starting to wonder if you’re the only one actually waiting for more.

matt notices, of course. he always does. one night, after chris had been texting you for what felt like hours, matt had had enough. he plops down next to chris on the couch, arms crossed, eyeing his brother with a look that says he knows exactly what’s going on.

“you still doing this, huh?” matt says, his voice light but there’s an edge to it.

“doing what?” chris replies, not even looking up from his phone as his thumb swipes over the screen.

“playing it safe. with y/n.” matt leans forward, poking chris in the side. “dude this whole ‘talking stage’ is getting old.”

chris shifts uncomfortably, setting his phone down like he wasn’t just glued to it. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“come on,” matt says, rolling his eyes. “you like her. i see how you act when her name pops up on your phone. you’re basically glued to your texts with her, and whenever shes around, you act all weird, like you’re trying to hide it, but it’s obvious, man.”

chris looks at him, slightly defensive but also a little lost. “it’s just… i don’t know. i don’t wanna rush things, you know?”

matt shakes his head, leaning back. “you’ve been not rushing for months now. she’s probably waiting for you to do something, but you’re just sitting there like a bitch, acting like everything’s fine. if you don’t make a move, you’re gonna lose your shot.”

chris looks conflicted, glancing at his phone again. he’s silent for a moment, clearly thinking about what matt said, but there’s still that hesitation in his eyes. matt sighs.

“you’ve got to stop being scared, man. if you keep playing it safe, you’re never gonna get anywhere. either you take the risk and find out, or you keep pretending like you’re not into her.”

there’s a long pause, the tension between them thick, before chris finally groans, running a hand through his hair. “you really think i should just… text her? tell her how i feel?”

matt smirks, leaning back against the couch. “hell yeah. if you don’t, i’m gonna do it for you.”

“alright, alright,” chris mutters, picking up his phone. “but you better not say anything to her.”

“promise,” matt says, grinning. “just make sure you don’t screw it up.”

chris lets out a small laugh and starts typing, his fingers moving slow at first, then faster, as if he’s convincing himself more than anyone else. matt watches, arms folded, a look of satisfaction on his face.

it’s about time.

a/n - i feel this is something that would happen

[bloggerspam]

Prompt: Against Danny's wishes, Bruce attempts to gain custody of him. Danny responds by fleeing.

Found in the @haunting-heroes-creative-games discord server. Rabbit, I don't know your tumblr, but this one goes out to you.

===

"I am not homeless." Danny petulantly mutters. He's a runaway. There is a difference, even if Danny is smart enough not to voice that out loud.

Bruce Wayne, for some god forsaken reason, does not listen.

"Okay, I understand, but your parents—"

"Do not talk about my parents." Danny grits his teeth, struggles to keep his fangs in check.

Bruce puts his hands up in surrender, placating. "Amity Park authorities say that Vlad is your new guardian, because he was named your godfather."

Danny just about stops himself from growling. "Vlad is full of shit."

Bruce ignores him. "But the documents were shoddy at best, and as Jack's—your father's cousin and a registered foster parent, your teacher thought it was pertinent that I was at least informed."

At that, Danny stills. Mr. Lancer? He would be the only one…

"And I want to help you, Daniel."

"Danny." Danny unthinkingly corrects, before he scowls. He was too distracted by thoughts of Lancer to keep himself in check.

"Danny," Bruce smiles, "Will you come to Wayne Manor? The other kids would be happy to have you around. The more the merrier I say!"

Danny eyes the hand offered to him. One one hand, anyone is better than Vlad. On the other hand, billionaire to billionaire isn't exactly and upgrade. Plus, Sam has always said that there was something off about the Waynes.

The rich always had a facade, but Sam was never sure why they would hide the preferable (in her opinion) part. Being seen as a smart businessman would be good for Wayne Enterprises. It's fishy that he would act so dopey, it reeks of tricking people into letting their guards down.

As far as Tuck knew, it wasn't like they were making shadey deals, so why the subterfuge?

Speaking of his friends. His chest vibrates. It's unnoticeable to the outside, but to Danny it buzzes through him. His "chest of holding" as Tucker calls it, has the burner phone Sam had gotten him ages ago, when they couldn't deny it anymore and had to make plans for Danny to flee the city.

Getting CPS called on him was not in the plan.

But then again, it's better than Vlad or the GIW.

Danny forces himself to relax, minutely and slowly, it would be suspicious if he were suddenly amiable, and takes a deep breath. He feigns having to war with himself, to weigh his pride and safety.

He reaches over begrudgingly, to Bruce's soft smile and firm handshake.

He just needs a moment. A single, solitary moment. He lets himself be led out of the room, stiff as Bruce gently guides him with a hand on his back.

The man smells of leather and machine oil. Through Danny's senses, he gets ghosts of bats in a well, in a cave, of comradery in space, of kevlar and—

Flashes of Val, smiling bright enough to match her ever present yellow tanktop, growling through the blackened visor of a red suit, sitting next to him in borrowed clothes and showing him her hoverboard as a sign of truce.

Billionaires, Danny thinks, smell of cologne and money.

They do not, Danny thinks, have polite ghosts waiting for them in the hallway, following them like silent bodyguards, tugging on their expensive shirt sleeves and smiling as if they have saved them, even in death.

Bruce Wayne, Danny thinks, is not all that he claims to be.

But it's not Danny's business if Batman wants to take Danny into his home.

What Batman wants, what Bruce Wayne wants, is irrelevant.

Danny gets in the car and watches through his periphery as a white car silently follows them to the airport.

The seatbelt sign dims with a soft ding as the plane cruises at altitude. Danny wordlessly gets up to use the bathroom, pointing towards it when Bruce hums a questioning tune.

Danny disappears the second he gets the bathroom door closed.

[acourtofchaos]

I SWEAR THE DAY I DON'T HAVE HEART PALPITATIONS AND WITNESS MY SOUL ASCENDING OVER YOUR WORK IS THE DAY I HAVE PASSED FROM THIS WORLD.

HOPE YOU'RE READY FOR MY MANY SILLY RAMBLINGS UNDER THE CUT

FIRSTLY THIS,

So when you pushed open the door to the room of requirement a little over ten-minutes later, you hadn't been sure what you were expecting to find. Something darker, maybe. More foreboding. But when the room revealed itself before you—silent, draped in soft moonlight that pooled over the bed with a window wide and open, spilling that pale silver fog across the floor—you almost laughed.

IS GORGEOUS. I LOVE THE EXPECTING OF SOMETHING DARK AND IT BEING SO LIGHT INSTEAD. AND LIKE IT BEING A PERFECT MIRROR OF MATTHEO AND HOW THE EXPECTATION OF THIS NIGHT BETWEEN THEM COULD BE. JUST HONESTLY BEAUTIFUL.

SECONDLY, YOU KNOW I ALWAYS ADORE YOUR CHARACTERISATION OF MATTHEO AND THIS IS NO DIFFERENT.

He turned, finally. His eyes met yours and you saw it—the hesitation, the way his gaze moved over you, slow, cautious. He took in the way the light draped itself over your shoulders, moving lower—and it was as if for the first time, he allowed himself to see you fully, all the details he had so tried to ignore, now right in front of him. He drank them in.

AND

He moved closer, but not close enough. Not yet. His breath was tight, chest rising and falling too fast. The space between you felt like a chasm, though it was barely there at all.

I LOVE THAT HE'S NERVOUS, THAT DESPITE HIM BEING ESSENTIALLY IN CONTROL OF THIS SITUATION GIVEN THAT HE HAS THE EXPERIENCE, HE'S NOT ACTING CONFIDENT OR SMUG. HE'S UNSURE AND I LOVE THE SENSE OF VULNERABILITY.

"I'm not hesitating," he muttered, though the roughness in his voice betrayed him. He knew he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this with you. His best friend's little sister. He wanted to give you every chance to stop this, to walk away. "Just trying not to rush this—rush you."

I JUST WANT TO HOLD HIS PRETTY FACE. I LOVE PATIENT MATTHEO.

His hand caught your wrist, intending to stop you, but his fingers lingered against your skin. Frozen.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, the words thick in his throat. "Your first time should be—"

"My choice," you interrupted, pressing closer, your body flush against his, your lips brushing his jaw as your hand slid lower, teasing the edge of his belt. "My virginity is mine to give, Mattheo. And I want to give it to you."

He shuddered, your words settling, sinking into the dark space that held you both captive. His hand found your hip, the other threading through your hair, gently tugging your head back to expose the soft skin of your neck."You’re not thinking straight," he rasped. "You'll regret this..."

But even as he said it, his hands tightened, pulling you impossibly closer.

I AM OBSESSED OVER THE WAR WITHIN MATTHEO, THE WAY HIS BODY AND HIS ACTIONS DISREGARD HIS WORDS AND HIS FEAR. I LOVE HER CONFIDENCE IN HER DECISION AND HOW MUCH IT EFFECTS HIM TO HEAR IT.. AAAAAAA SLDKFJDJS GOD I WANT TO MARRY YOU'RE WRITING (and you)

—his brain was struggling to catch up, like he couldn't believe the sudden shift, couldn't quite fathom the boldness with which you undid him.

Until—his hands were on you, spinning you around, your back hitting the desk with a thud.

THE FUCKING SWITCH HERE OMG

You shuddered—you'd never seen him like this before—there was something feral in the way he moved, now, something sharp in the way his hands worked.

His presence consumed the room, and for a moment, it was all you could focus on—the intensity of him, the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes.

FERAL MATTHEO. FERAL MATTHEO. FERAL MATTHEO. I'M SCREAMING. HOWLING. CLAWING AT THE WALLS. I'D LET THIS MAN TEAR ME TO PIECES WITHOUT HESITATION.

"That's all you think about, isn't it?" He smirked, lips falling to your neck, tongue tracing the places he knew would wreck you, each soft, wet press making you whimper despite yourself. "You don't care about anything else..." his fingers slipped lower, dipping between your folds—and you cried out, shameless, the sensation unlike any other you'd ever felt. "…not the consequences, not the risk...you just want me…”

I FEEL CALLED OUT.

"You—" you panted, trying to find your voice. Blinking through the haze of lingering bliss. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" He chuckled your name against your neck, lips brushing a path to your ear. "Because you might fall in love with me?" His teeth grazed the sensitive spot under your lobe, along your jawline. "Oh wait...you already have."

DAMN FUCKING RIGHT I HAVE YOU SEXY BITCH. GODDDD I KNOW I'VE ALREADY SAID IT BUT YOU JUST WRITE MATTHEO SO PERFECTLY. TO HAVE HIM BE SO FUCKING COCKY DURING SUCH AN OVERWHELMING MOMENT. HE'S A LITTLE SHIT AND I LOVE HIM FOR IT.

His face was a storm—flushed, eyes half-shut—but at your voice they opened and flicked down to yours, and for once, there was no arrogance, no mockery in that stare. Just raw, primal need, burning so fiercely it made you ache. His hips rocked, desperate for more. Painfully. A hole in his chest torn wide open for you to see, and he didn't care. Couldn't care.

THIS!!!!!!! THE IMAGERY!!!!! JUST ALL OF HIS DEFENCES BLOWN AWAY, I LOVE IT SO MUCH

His voice dropped, eyes dark and soft at once as he pushed another finger inside. "You know you’ve always had me wrapped around your fucking finger. You know I care about you—“

His words were too much, pressing on something fragile inside you, and you pulled him into a kiss to shut him up—deep, desperate, drowning.

I'M SOBBING, THE INTENSITY BETWEEN THEM. I CANT BREATHE.

"You've got me," he rasped, hips grinding involuntarily against your hand. "Just—fuck—don't hate me after this."

JUST PUNCH ME IN THE HEART WHY DONT YOU.

His eyes were locked onto yours, all that self-assurance gone, melted into something more human—something raw, unguarded.

You could feel it; the vulnerability of this moment stretched between you both—the distance you'd maintained for so long, the careful walls you'd built, were nothing now. He was in too deep, and so were you.

"Stop me at any time," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp, eyes meeting yours. "Just breathe.”

He leaned down until his lips ghosted over yours, and you kissed him like the world might collapse if you didn't.

EM WHAT THE HELL, I DIDNT EXPECT TO BE AN EMOTIONAL WRECK OVER A VIRGINITY LOSS FIC AT 11AM. GOD THE SOFTNESS IS MAKING ME ACHE.

It was overwhelming—the fullness, the ache that felt like it might split you in two. And yet, beneath the pain, something else stirred. His words, soft and rough all at once, made the sensation bearable, turned the hurt into something else. You focused on his voice, on the way he stroked your hair, the way he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

OKAY I'M GOING TO STOP THERE OTHERWISE I'M JUST GOING TO BE PUTTING THE WHOLE FIC IN THIS REBLOG WITH MY SILLY LITTLE ANNOTATIONS. I'M OBSESSED WITH THIS, I LOVE THAT DURING IT HAPPENING THERE'S BARELY A SENTENCE WITHOUT THEM NEEDING TO GASP FOR BREATH, THE INTENSITY OF IT IS JUST PORTRAYED SO WELL. YOU REALLY ARE A MASTER OF YOUR CRAFT AND I'LL BE WORSHIPPING THIS FIC IN MY HEAD FOR WEEKS.

LOVE IT AND LOVE YOU 🖤

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 4th. mattheo - virginity loss / corruption kink.

PART TWO | kinktober masterlist. | 2024.

summary: pls read part one first for a lil buildup. also. im laughing at myself bc there was a perfectly good bed…right there…

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, virginity loss, PIV, so much dirty talk, so much patience from mattheo, (more of a realistic virginity loss bc it’s not always easy), praise!!!!, slight degradation, fingering, multiorgasm, handjob, best friends lil sister trope.

Mattheo Riddle was so accustomed to this. The pulse of adrenaline in the dead of night, the quiet hum of anticipation stretching every second longer than it needed to be. You weren't naive to that, not to him, nor the danger he carried so effortlessly in his stride. He wore it like a second skin.

But you—you were not accustomed to it. Not to any of this.

So when you pushed open the door to the room of requirement a little over ten-minutes later, you hadn't been sure what you were expecting to find. Something darker, maybe. More foreboding. But when the room revealed itself before you—silent, draped in soft moonlight that pooled over the bed with a window wide and open, spilling that pale silver fog across the floor—you almost laughed.

Too perfect. Too on the nose, like the castle itself had been watching you both for months and had decided this was the moment it would indulge you.

"You're late." Mattheo's voice cut through the quiet.

His back was to you, suit jacket discarded on an old oak desk against the wall, dark curls falling just above his collar as he stood by the window, eyes fixed on the lake. The moonlight made the ripples dance, just like the tension in the room.

You took a step toward him, silent.

He turned, finally. His eyes met yours and you saw it—the hesitation, the way his gaze moved over you, slow, cautious. He took in the way the light draped itself over your shoulders, moving lower—and it was as if for the first time, he allowed himself to see you fully, all the details he had so tried to ignore, now right in front of him. He drank them in.

You gave him a small, nervous smile, hoping it would ease the weight of his stare. "I didn't realize you were the type to keep track of time."

He moved closer, but not close enough. Not yet. His breath was tight, chest rising and falling too fast. The space between you felt like a chasm, though it was barely there at all.

"You've a lot to learn, little girl," he teased, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it did nothing to mask the conflict in his eyes. It was meant to disarm you, but it only made the air heavier. His jaw tightened. "You're sure about this?"

"Quite sure," you breathed, stepping closer, close enough to admire the sharp line of his jaw, the soft stubble. "You're the one who's hesitating."

"I'm not hesitating," he muttered, though the roughness in his voice betrayed him. He knew he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this with you. His best friend's little sister. He wanted to give you every chance to stop this, to walk away. "Just trying not to rush this—rush you."

You let out a small huff, your hand moving up to find his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Mattheo Riddle was nervous.

"You've been making me wait for months," you whispered. "I don't think a little rushing would hurt."

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on your hand as it trailed over his chest, lower, teasing. Every touch was a flame against his skin, every breath between you a match struck in the dark. He wanted you, more than anything, but the weight of it—the wrongness, the danger—clawed at his conscience.

His hand caught your wrist, intending to stop you, but his fingers lingered against your skin. Frozen.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, the words thick in his throat. "Your first time should be—"

"My choice," you interrupted, pressing closer, your body flush against his, your lips brushing his jaw as your hand slid lower, teasing the edge of his belt. "My virginity is mine to give, Mattheo. And I want to give it to you."

He shuddered, your words settling, sinking into the dark space that held you both captive. His hand found your hip, the other threading through your hair, gently tugging your head back to expose the soft skin of your neck.

"You’re not thinking straight," he rasped. "You'll regret this..."

But even as he said it, his hands tightened, pulling you impossibly closer.

"I'll regret nothing." Your fingers slipped lower, grazing his crotch, moving with nothing but instinct and need. Biting your lip, you felt the outline of him, hard and aching under your palm, and squeezed—he grunted, snapping his hips, and you throbbed. "Shit, Mattheo..."

"You are—fuck..." Mattheo's voice was a ragged breath, the words drawn out like he'd been holding them back for months. "...such a little tease."

You let go as quickly as you'd squeezed, and he growled against your skin, fingers tightening in your hair. Your hands found his face, pulling him in, crushing your lips to his. You moved with intent, pushing him back until his thighs hit the edge of the desk, and he groaned again—this low, guttural sound that sent a thrill through you.

You smirked into the kiss, tasting his frustration, savouring the way his defences cracked open. When you pulled back, his chest was heaving, lips swollen, eyes dark with want.

"I learned from the best," you whispered, teasing as your fingers slid down, finding the buckle of his belt. He watched you, every breath uneven, as you worked at the latch, pulling the leather free. "You've had months of fun tormenting me," you continued, moving to the button, the zipper. "Kissing me, only to say it was a mistake. Grabbing my ass every chance you could. Talking sweet when my brother wasn't looking..." your smirk deepened, and you looked up at him through your lashes. "...it's my turn now."

His pants sagged around his hips as you undid them and he cursed under his breath—his brain was struggling to catch up, like he couldn't believe the sudden shift, couldn't quite fathom the boldness with which you undid him.

Until—his hands were on you, spinning you around, your back hitting the desk with a thud.

"You think you're in control here?" His fingers slid up your hips, dragging your dress along with them, baring your skin to the cool air. "You think you have any goddamn idea what you're doing?"

You shuddered—you'd never seen him like this before—there was something feral in the way he moved, now, something sharp in the way his hands worked. His thumbs hooked around your panties and in one swift motion, they were gone—torn down your thighs before he urged you back onto the desk, parting your legs with his torso.

You were breathless, chest heaving, pulse thrumming wildly. His presence consumed the room, and for a moment, it was all you could focus on—the intensity of him, the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes.

You stared up at him, mind empty, until—

Smack.

His palm came down on your inner thigh, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a jolt of sensation straight to your cunt. Your skin stung from the contact, but that wasn't the part that made you gasp. It was the heat, the way it surged through your veins, flooding your abdomen in a slow, aching pulse. You liked that.

"I asked you a question." His lips brushed against your ear, breath warm as he leaned in. "Two, actually."

You couldn't think, mind swimming—the press of his body, the rough timber of his voice, the weight of his hands as his fingers teased, climbing higher, brushing closer to the ache between your thighs. You sucked in a breath, trying to recall what he'd asked, trying to focus anything but the fire he was lighting in you—

But then, his fingers slipped further, closer, just barely brushing your slit, and your hips jerked involuntarily, chasing that touch.

"No—I don’t—“ the shame in the answer barely mattered. His fingers were so close, so close. "Gods—I just know I want you—"

"That's all you think about, isn't it?" He smirked, lips falling to your neck, tongue tracing the places he knew would wreck you, each soft, wet press making you whimper despite yourself. "You don't care about anything else..." his fingers slipped lower, dipping between your folds—and you cried out, shameless, the sensation unlike any other you'd ever felt. "…not the consequences, not the risk...you just want me…”

Your nails dug into his back and he sucked in a breath through his teeth, wetting his fingers in your arousal before gliding back up to your clit and tracing over it.

"Oh—Gods—" you whinged, moaning into his shoulder.

Mattheo’s hands were experienced—that much was certain. Those fingers knew exactly how to move, precisely how to trace light, delicate circles over your clit that made you twitch, squirm— nerves stripped as you took in the new sensation. It wracked every inch of you, and you could feel him savouring your helplessness, drawing out every ounce of tension that had been building between you for months.

“You’re soaked.” You could hear the disbelief in his voice. “...filthy little thing for me, aren't you?"

"Gods, Mattheo, yes—" your eyes rolled, thighs twitching against his hand. "I am—ohh—"

"Yeah?" His tongue traced a slow, wet path up the side of your neck, teeth dragging over your pulse. "You like this?"

His words were enough to make you want to scream, but no sound formed—just a low, broken moan that spilled from your throat, raw and shameless.

"Answer me," he murmured. "You ever orgasm from this before? Hm?"

"No—" your voice choked, trembling as you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to look at him, something like shame pooling in your stomach. "Oh, fuck—"

"No, what?" His fingers pressed harder, circles growing faster, more insistent, and his voice—Christ, his voice— "I asked you two questions, little slut. Keep up. You wanted this."

"Yes—mmf—I like it—" you whined, the words a desperate spill from your lips, too flustered to form anything coherent. "And no—Gods—you're the first to...to touch me like this..."

He figured as much but the admission tore through him nonetheless, his teeth sinking into your shoulder with a groan—not enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, a bruise, a reminder. His hand dipped lower, a finger pushing inside you without warning, pressing deep into your slick heat, and you cried out, your body tightening, pulsing around him, vision swimming.

"And this?" His voice was a smirk against your skin. "You let anyone else inside you like this?"

You knew he already knew the answer. You both did. He was reveling in it—the way he had you, trembling, helpless. You'd never heard him like this, never heard him so crass, so unfiltered, and the way he spoke made your whole body flush with heat.

"No." The word was a strangled moan, barely a breath. "Gods—Mattheo—you already knew that—"

He crooked his finger inside you, and your back arched, the stretch unfamiliar yet mindnumbing, his thumb working your clit. You felt teeth nipping at your earlobe, a hum into your eardrum—his body thrumming with the satisfaction of finally, finally letting himself have you where he wanted.

"Perhaps I did." He added another finger, curling them inside you, his teeth scraping along your neck in a smile. The groan that slipped from your lips was desperate, pained in its pleasure, your body reacting to every new inch of him. "Fucking hell—you can barely take two..."

Your head shook, words failing you. "Gods—Mattheo—I...fuck..."

A low grunt rumbled from his chest, his fingers moving quicker, slick with the evidence of your desire. "Feels good?"

"Yes—" you moaned, breath hitching, vision blurring as he pumped his fingers in and out, building something inside you that you couldn't name, something new, something overwhelming. "I feel—oh, gods—something...happening—"

"You feel something?" His voice was mocking, drenched in that innocent, teasing tone that had you falling apart. "Yeah? What's happening, princess?"

You couldn't find breath, couldn't form the words to answer him. The pressure inside you was mounting, intensity unbearable, your body tense and straining toward an edge. You clung to him, breathless, desperate for more, desperate for something, anything—

"I don't—" your voice broke as his fingers curled deeper, wetness flooding between your thighs, his thumb relentless. "Pressure—fuck—so much—"

He nodded. "Yeah? Pressure in that pretty stomach? Feels fucking good, doesn't it?"

"Fuck—yes, yes," your lids fluttered. "S’good—"

"You're so close." He watched you, drunk on your downfall, and smirked as you neared the edge. "You're going to cum for me."

Sanity shattered in your throat—words trapped, swallowed by the tension, leaving only the soft, unbridled whimpers you once might've once found embarrassing. But there was no shame now, not when you were this close, the pressure coiling tighter in your core, ready to burst.

"Ohh—" you managed, lungs sputtering, head tipping back. The sound of your voice, the way you moaned, was foreign, unfamiliar to your own ears. "Gods—oh fuck-"

"I know," he cooed, sweet like sugar. "I know."

You were a mess. Too close, too overwhelmed—everything was him. His scent, the heat of his skin, the feel of his fingers working that magic that had your body convulsing before you could even cry out, before you could process the way your vision blurred with the force of it. The climax hit like a wave crashing over you, and your moans were swallowed by his kiss, his lips on yours the second your body tightened, shaking against his hand.

He was relentless, rough and insistent, kissing you like he wanted to devour you whole—drowning out the world as your body pulsed around his fingers. You’d never felt such an intense sensation, lava coursing, replacing the blood in your veins. His breath stuttered against your mouth, a low groan vibrating through him, the sound making your spine tingle.

"F-fuck," he muttered, pulling his fingers from you, glistening and wet. "Messy little thing."

The words sent a shiver through you, not just from their meaning but from the way he said them, like something perverse, intimate. Your chest tightened with the warmth of them.

"You—" you panted, trying to find your voice. Blinking through the haze of lingering bliss. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" He chuckled your name against your neck, lips brushing a path to your ear. "Because you might fall in love with me?" His teeth grazed the sensitive spot under your lobe, along your jawline. "Oh wait...you already have."

"Shut up," you whispered, stomach flipping at the way he said your name, the way it dripped from his mouth like honey. "Have not."

"I've known for a while, you know," he mused, his voice so low, so quiet. "Don't think I haven't seen it—the way you look at me." He kissed your skin again, working his way up, each press of his lips something sacred, moving closer to your mouth. "The way you can't get enough of me."

You could kill him for it, for the way his words sunk into your bones, making all the feelings you've buried rise to the surface, pulling you under. He just had to go there—had to milk every inch of your composure out of you, because it's not enough for him to have you disarmed physically—sexually—he needed to have you disarmed emotionally, too.

Perhaps the worst part of it all is how right he was. Arrogant bastard.

"Stop talking," your hand drifted down, grazing the bulge in his pants, your fingers slipping under the waistband, rubbing him through the thin fabric of his boxers. It was reckless. You've never done this before, but God, you wanted to. "Stop talking and teach me."

The room tilted—the world off its axis. His breath caught, choked in his lungs as he grabbed your face and pulled your lips to his—his kiss wild, his tongue insistent, running along your gums and wrestling with yours for control.

"Fuck," he groaned into your mouth as you tugged his boxers down, freeing him, your hand wrapping around him. Hot. Hard. "Wrap your fingers around it, princess. Gentle strokes. Just like that."

Your heart stumbled at the sound of his voice, thick, raw and open. You tightened your grip, stroking him slowly, experimentally, and he hissed through his teeth, a groan vibrating through his chest.

"You're so big," you murmured, forehead against his, the words spilling out without thought. "So thick..."

"Fucking minx," he moaned. "Stroking me and telling me how big I am—fuck—you're not as innocent as everyone thinks."

"Only you know this," you whispered, your hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes, pulse soaring as he groaned. "Does it feel good, Matty?"

"Fuck—Christ—" his breath was jagged, words ripped from his throat like they barely wanted to come out, hips jerking mindlessly. "Tighter, mm—little tighter—"

Your cunt throbbed—each whispered invocation of a god not his own, of something he didn't believe in, forced a shudder through you. That's how you knew. Knew how lost he was. He’d no mind left at all if he was muttering muggle gods.

"Like that?" Your fingers squeezed around him, your gaze burning into his as you looked up through fluttering lashes.

His face was a storm—flushed, eyes half-shut—but at your voice they opened and flicked down to yours, and for once, there was no arrogance, no mockery in that stare. Just raw, primal need, burning so fiercely it made you ache. His hips rocked, desperate for more. Painfully. A hole in his chest torn wide open for you to see, and he didn't care. Couldn't care.

"Yeah—shit—just like that," he gritted out, grip on your hips bruising, but you welcomed it. Needed it. "Fast learner, aren't you?"

"You're a good teacher," you whimpered, a sound that was barely yours as his fingers slipped between your thighs, finding your slit, teasing you open again. "Oh—"

"You've always been a little teacher's pet," he groaned, thrusting into your hand as he slipped a finger inside you. The stretch made you wince, pleasure and pain blurring into something that sent sparks behind your eyes. He watched you, gaze molten. "Fuck—it’s gonna hurt, you know that, right?"

The ache spread through you, but you didn't flinch. "I know," you whispered as his thumb found your clit, making you gasp. "I trust you."

"I know you do." His voice dropped, eyes dark and soft at once as he pushed another finger inside. "You know you’ve always had me wrapped around your fucking finger. You know I care about you—“

His words were too much, pressing on something fragile inside you, and you pulled him into a kiss to shut him up—deep, desperate, drowning. Your hand tightened on his length, the heat between you flaring, and you moaned against his mouth, shaking with the need for more.

"I want you," you breathed, each syllable shivering on your lips as you clenched around his fingers. "I've wanted you for months—"

Months? No, it had been years. Years of wanting, needing, watching from afar, heart in your throat. Years of avoiding anyone else because no one was him. You knew he’d felt the same and it killed him. It wasn't logical, wasn't supposed to be like this—not with you, not now, not his best friend's little sister, not him whispering sweet, dangerous things while knuckle-deep inside your virgin cunt.

It was as if you both shook those thoughts from your minds at once. You’ll think about the implications later.

"You've got me," he rasped, hips grinding involuntarily against your hand. "Just—fuck—don't hate me after this."

Hate him? The very idea was laughable, absurd. You could never hate him. Not even in those moments you tried, not even when he deserved it.

"I could never hate you," you murmured, drawing him closer, lips trembling against his. "Just—please—"

Something shifted in his eyes, and he knew. Knew what you needed. What you both needed. You were vulnerable, trembling, but you trusted him—completely. You’d been in his life for so long. You knew he’d never hurt you. He could see it your eyes, the trust, the in the way your body bent to his touch.

"Alright," he said softly, a hand running up your body to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "Alright."

His fingers slid out of you, leaving you bare and breathless, and you swallowed. This was really about to happen.

"Lay back," his voice cut through your haze. "Legs to your chest."

The command wrapped around you like a vice, tightening the anticipation, and you fell back on your elbows, staring up at him as you raised your legs. Vulnerability crept in, making your thighs tense, but Mattheo was there, spreading you open with firm hands, pressing himself against your slick. His eyes were locked onto yours, all that self-assurance gone, melted into something more human—something raw, unguarded.

You could feel it; the vulnerability of this moment stretched between you both—the distance you'd maintained for so long, the careful walls you'd built, were nothing now. He was in too deep, and so were you.

"Stop me at any time," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp, eyes meeting yours. "Just breathe.”

He leaned down until his lips ghosted over yours, and you kissed him like the world might collapse if you didn't. He guided himself against you, the press of him at your entrance an unbearable ache. He was hot, hard, huge—and despite the wetness slicking down your thighs, your body resisted, too tight, too unsure of this.

You whimpered, instinctively trying to pull away, but he stayed, pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, whispering something that sounded like comfort but burned like fire. It hurt more than you expected, more than any of the fantasies you had dared to entertain.

Doubt curled through your chest, what if you couldn't take him? What if—

"M-Mattheo..." his name broke in your throat as you clutched his arm, nails digging into his skin. He tried to push in again, but your body resisted. "It—you—you can't fit..."

"Shh," his lips ghosted over yours, his hand slipping through your hair, trying again, moving slow, controlled. "You're just—so goddamn tight—"

The way he said it sent a spark through your veins. It was filthy, shameless, and it lit you up from the inside, despite the pain. No one had ever spoken to you like this. You swallowed the lump in your throat, tears pricking as he tried to work you open.

And then—he was in.

"I-it hurts," you hissed—pain lighting up your spine as he worked his cockhead inside you, pushing against the resistance of your walls. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, each inch a battle. The pressure was unbearable, the sting so sharp it was paralyzing. "Oh, fuck, Mattheo—"

He groaned, a sound from deep within his chest, his head bowing, sweat creeping over his brow.

"Shhh, I know—I know..." he murmured through shredded cords, fighting to maintain control as his hips paused, barely halfway in, just enough to make you feel like you might break. "S'okay...you're doing so good..."

It was overwhelming—the fullness, the ache that felt like it might split you in two. And yet, beneath the pain, something else stirred. His words, soft and rough all at once, made the sensation bearable, turned the hurt into something else. You focused on his voice, on the way he stroked your hair, the way he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"Why—mmff—gods..." you could barely speak, the words tangled in your throat. "Why do you have to be so big—"

A strangled laugh escaped him, though his eyes stayed shut tight, his jaw clenched—cock twitching inside you.

"I don't—fuck—know." His fingers brushed your lips, covering your mouth gently. "Don't go talking like that—not right now—"

You might have laughed, too, if your body wasn't so taut, strung tight with tension and pain and something far more profound. He was barely inside you, his words making your insides clench, drawing another groan from his lips at the squeeze.

His hand held your jaw, palm pressing lightly over your mouth, enough to breathe, to speak—

"Why—" you knew what he meant, knew the warning in his eyes, but you couldn't stop yourself. "—not?"

His breath hitched. "Because—" he swallowed hard, words coming through gritted teeth, his fingers tightening around your jaw, a warning in his grip. "Because—fuck—your mouth will get you in trouble."

Oh. That was what he meant.

"But—oh fuck—you're so...big..." the words slipped out before you could catch them, a disgruntled moan falling from your lips as he sank all the way in, filling you so completely it was dizzying. The pressure, the heat, the sensation of being pried open—it was all too much, and you cried out, unable to stop the sound from spilling out. "Ohhh—so big—"

"I said, fuck," he cursed, hand clamping firm over your mouth now as his body shuddered, as he ground his hips gently into yours. "—don't say that."

It was too late. You didn't need to say anything further. He could feel it—he could feel everything in the way you clenched around him, barely letting him move—so goddamn tight it was almost painful—he could feel it in the look in your eyes, in the trembling of your body beneath his.

"I can feel you thinking it," he grunted as you squirmed beneath him, every movement making him twitch inside you, drawing another choked groan from his throat. "Merlin sakes—"

You knew he wasn't used to this. To slowing down, to drawing out the tension like this, to the maddening slowness of every motion. He wanted to lose himself, to break you open hard and fast, to take and give and take again until both of you shattered into something unrecognizable. But he couldn't—not with the way your eyes glistened, not with the way you gasped and whimpered as he filled you.

"No talking," he sucked in a breath against your neck, his hips rolling into yours in slow, unbearable waves. "Only if you need me to stop."

He was breaking. So were you. Every thrust was an exquisite kind of torture—an ache that twisted and stretched, dulled only by the flick of his fingers against your clit. His lips pressed along your neck, kissed along the line of your jaw, groaning with each deep, patient push, carving his way into you as you clung to him, your mind floating through the fog of pain into something different—something overwhelming.

Your head fell back. “Oh—Oh gods—“

Each gasp felt like it might be your last as that something built deep inside you, tight and unfamiliar, an ache that didn't hurt but begged to be released. And he felt it too—Mattheo felt it, the way your body pulsed beneath his, the way you tightened around him like you couldn't bear to let him go.

"Bloody fuck—are you—are you going to—" his words were ragged, broken. He couldn't finish the thought, couldn't hold himself together. "Are you—"

“Mattheo—” your voice trembled, a breathless moan as your back arched, pressing into him, your body seeking more. The pain was null now, replaced by an overwhelming pressure, something tight and aching and good—you felt every inch of him inside you, every pulse of his cock as he moved, slow but relentless. “Mattheo—oh gods—”

"Fuck—" he bit down, teeth sinking into your neck as his fingers swirled your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. "You're gonna make me—"

You choked because there was no space for words, no breath for anything but the raw sound of your bodies—moans, gasps, ragged inhales tangled together as you both hurtled towards something inevitable. The light of the moon radiated the man above you and that was all you could register other than the rising crescendo of your climax—something so intense it scared you, almost broke you apart—your body seizing, trembling, as his fingers pressed harder against your clit, as he thrust deeper.

And then, there was only one more blink until you shattered beneath him, the orgasm tearing through you in oceanic motion, muscles clenching around him so tightly he could barely move—and then he was there, too, his body jerking as he groaned into your skin, his release ripped from him in jagged gasps as you milked him without mercy. He slumped on top of you, fingers digging into your skin, the two of you pulsing together in the aftermath, the room spinning, your bodies still trembling from the force of it.

The world was slow to return, the roar of sensations fading into something quieter, softer. The weight of him on top of you was grounding—his forehead pressed against the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Neither of you moved for a long while, just basked in the silence, kind that settled in after something irrevocable had passed between two people.

And then, Mattheo pushed up, enough to meet your eyes. Your chest ached at the softness inside his own.

“Are you—” he swallowed as he drank you in, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the flushed cheeks. His words hung in the air as if he didn’t know how to finish the question.

“I’m okay,” you nodded, voice hoarse. “I’m good.”

Mattheo nodded too but didn’t move, still buried inside you, just taking you in. Then, gently, he shifted, pulling back with a slow, careful movement that made you wince slightly. The second he’d pulled out, you felt different—more aware of the vulnerability you’d just laid bare, more aware of the line you two had just obliterated into absolute shambles.

“You sure?” he asked, a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—

You nodded again, the smallest smile pulling at your lips, though your heart was still racing, the enormity of it all sinking in.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”

His jaw tightened, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” His voice was barely audible, like he didn’t want to admit it out loud.

Of course he was thinking it too—how could he not? This was no longer something you could pretend didn’t exist, no longer something you could hide behind banter and stolen glances and secret kisses.

“Yeah,” you breathed, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there, the heat still radiating from his skin. “It does.”

[sheloveschai]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ no longer a jinx

alternate universe! powder x fem! reader

nothing but pure unadulterated fluff slight arcane act III spoilers

act III of arcane made me sick to my stomach arcane writers when i catch you..

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . .₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

music bumped loudly against the walls of the building. dancing bodies- lovers, friends, and strangers alike- intertwined with one another as laughter and cheers filled the air. a song, though in another language, communicates its truth of two lovers. despite the hardships of the lives they were given and toxicity within themselves, they cannot be separated.

a lover herself, you, roam the dance floor- a drink clasped tightly between clammy hands as you search for something throughout the crowd- for someone. beginning to gnaw at your lower lip as you pause amongst the partygoers; you stretch your neck to try to get a look over the zaunites.

it is nothing more than a sea of your fellow people adorned in their best suits and dresses- a continuous wave of colors, bright smiles, and shared joy. when balloons suddenly erupt from the open work ceiling above with the push of a lever, cheers boom from the crowd as the people are rained on by an array of colored confetti.

though, no shade of the floating pieces of paper quite compared to the vivid, glistening, baby blue eyes of a girl finally making her approach through the crowd.

it’s as though time itself had somehow slowed down and the existence of others fade out as she came closer. the metallic workings of her boots reflects the colors of the fallen confetti now laid to waste on the floor; her cream colored dress that is trimmed with the most delicate, intricate pattern of lace intertwines between her knobby knees as she walks- it contradicts the worn, but well-loved black leather of her cropped jacket.

but her eyes, adorned with the colorful workings of carefully placed, glittering eyeshadow, practically gleamed in jubilation as she comes to a stop in front of your skittish form.

“thought i’d never find you, space girl” the zaunite, powder, teases. she takes a quick glance at the cup between your hands before swiping it out of your grasp. ignoring your protested ‘hey!’ she downs the rest of what was in the cup and sets it on the counter behind you as her face grimaces.

you practically watch in disbelief as she straightens back out in front of you- wiping the back of her hand on her mouth. “eugh! i do not know how you can drink that stuff” she says, smacking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as if to rid it of the flavor.

you let out a huff of laughter and shake your head. “sorry that not all of us want our drinks to just be maraschino cherries” you taunt, as your eyes roam her outfit- a giddy smile gracing your face at a familiar article of clothing. “don’t i know that dress from somewhere?”

the blue-haired girl smiles almost sickeningly sweet as she twists her torso causing the dress to flow gracefully side-to-side. “i may have had to take a detour through your closet” she says with a tilt to her voice, not a true feeling of guilt found anywhere in her body. “can i make it up to you with a dance?”

you’re given no time to respond as she pulls your fiddling hands apart and drags you out to the middle of the dance floor. music still thumps throughout the building and powder takes a few steps back, leaving an empty space between the two of you.

she takes initiative and lets the music control her body. she spins and floats around the floor- twirling like the confetti pieces around her. you watch in awe as she closes her eyes and feels the beat, and almost hypnotized by her movements, you let your body be dragged alongside her.

giggles bubble out of the both your chests as powder grabs one of your hands and twirls herself around with it- her hair bounding around her face. you twist and spin around one another with smiles so big it feels as though your faces may split. she snatches you by the waist and a hand, and spins you around with her- her eyes softening as she watches intently as your head fall back with a laugh.

her dress brushes between your calves as she twirls once more before pushing her back to your chest; both of your hands intertwined with hers as she pulls them to rest above her fast beating heart; gentle thumbs brushing over your knuckles. your laughter begins to dissipate as a wave of surrealness overswepts you two- allowing you to float amongst the riptide surrounding.

powder rests the back of her head on your shoulder and tilts her gaze to look longingly at your face. the look of love as vander like to say. ‘it’s the same way your mother looked at your old man’ he would explain after catching her staring at you doing even the most minut of tasks.

“you know; you’re starting to freak me out with the starin-”

“i love you” she interrupts, her gaze unwavering. “i just- i just thought i should remind you” she explains impassively watching as you finally look at her. a gentle grin spreads across your face; the kind where the apples of your cheeks push up against your lower lids and the points of your canines just barely peaking through- powder’s favorite kind of smile on you.

“i know” you whisper, almost scared to break the quiet moment. “how could i ever forget?”

“and so you better not” she quickly retorts before she pulls away from you, but rather than fully leaving your embrace, she turns around to face you and laces her arms behind your head.

your arms immediately loop around her waist and your bodies are once more pressed against one another. heartbeats becoming one, bodies merging into one another; this is undoubtedly the feeling of fate. of two souls who were meant to find one another. and powder, she too must’ve felt the same with the way she was looking at you. as if you were the one who so gratefully hung the stars and moon themselves. as if you were the one who traveled through the galaxy just to get to her.

you didn’t need any other confirmation of this when she has so sweetly brought a hand up to cradle the side of your face, thumb dragging over a smear of glitter under your eye.

your fingertips drag up her spine over the dress until they disappear under her jacket. it’s a slow intimate move and that’s all she needs before she’s pulling you in, and pressing your parted lips to hers.

an exhale of pleasure, or be it relief, escapes your nose as the two of you practically melt into one another’s embrace- breathing in each others air.

it’s a constant push and pull- tide against the shore as your lips dance across one another. not a battle of dominance of who can overpower the other, but a confession; a whisper of affection between two lovers.

a thank you to the universe for bringing them together- at least in this timeline.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . .₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

i’ve never written before and if that’s obvious do not tell me or i will cry 😋

[starkeyslibrary]

FALLING OUT OF FRAME | Part 3

pairing: you x drew starkey

The night Drew came back from his so-called “night out with the boys”, the tension was thick in the apartment. The sound of the front door creaking open felt like a bomb going off. You had been sitting on the couch for the last hour, alternatives between staring at your phone and looking out the window, hoping that something – anything – would make the ache in your chest fade. But the pain only deepened, and as the door clicked closed behind him, your stomach churned in a mix for dread and anger.

Drew walked in, his usual confident stride slowing when he saw you sitting there. There was a slight hesitation in his step, a quiet sign that he knew something was off. His eyes immediately darted to you, a mix of concern and something else that you couldn’t quite read. But the moment he stepped further into the room, your frustration broke free.

You didn’t even give him a chance to greet you, the words spilling out before he could say a word. “You’re late,” you said, your voice flat but filled with an edge he hadn’t heard in a long time.

Drew stopped in his tracks, glancing at his watch. “I told you, it was just a night out with the guys. Nothing big.” He said, his tone light, almost too casual. But you saw right through it. His words didn’t feel genuine anymore. You had heard the excuses before, and they were getting old.

You stood up, not wanting to be so passive about it anymore. “A night out with the guys? Really? That’s what you’re going with?” The bitterness in your voice caught you off guard, but there was no going back now.

Drew looked taken aback by the sharpness in your voice. “What’s going on, y/n?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “You’ve been acting strange ever since you saw those photos.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, unable to contain the words that had been bubbling up inside for days. “Yeah, I saw the photos, Drew. You and Odessa. Out in public again. Walking around like everything is fine. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He opened his mouth to explain, but you didn’t give him the chance.

“No. Don’t you dare try to explain it away. I’m not stupid. I can see exactly what’s going on.” You could feel the anger rising in your chest, a mix of hurt and frustration that you couldn’t keep bottled up any longer. “You’re out with her, looking all cozy, like she’s the one you want. Not me. And I just … I don’t get it. You told me it was all fake, just for the cameras, but I can’t keep pretending that I believe you.”

Drew’s face hardened, and the disappointment in his eyes stung more than anything. He took a deep breath, clearly trying to keep his cool, but you saw the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clenched into fists.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re making something out of nothing. It’s just part of the job, I swear. She’s just a co-star, and this is all for publicity. You know that. I thought you understood that.”

“Understand?” you laughed bitterly, but the sound came out more like a sob. “You think I understand? You think I’m supposed to just sit here and watch you with her while pretending like everything is fine? No, Drew. I can’t do that. I can’t keep pretending that this isn’t hurting me. That I’m not losing you, piece by piece.”

Drew stepped closer to you, his expression softening as if trying to reach you, but you were too far gone. Too far past the point of no return.

“I’m trying okay?” His voice cracked slightly, and for a moment, you thought he was being honest, but it didn’t change anything. “I’m trying to make this work, but this whole thing is a mess. I never wanted it to be like this.”

You shook your head, feeling the sting of his words like a slap across your face. “Make it work? How do you expect me to trust you when I see you out there with her, smiling like nothing’s wrong? How do you expect me to keep believing you when I know that every word you’ve said about us was just...  just a lie?”

Drew’s face darkened at your accusation, his voice rising as the frustration that had been simmering inside him for days boiled over. “I’m not lying to you, Y/N! I never wanted this to happen either, but this is the way things are right now. I’m doing what I have to do, for both of us.”

“For both of us?” you scoffed, the tears that had been building in your eyes finally breaking free. “This is for you, Drew. It’s always been for you. For your career, for your image. And I’m just supposed to sit here and be okay with it? You’re asking me to pretend like I’m okay with being second to her, to everything you’re doing for the cameras. You know what, Drew? I can’t do that anymore. I’m done pretending.”

There was a long, tense silence between you, both of you staring at each other as if trying to make sense of the chaos you had created. Drew ran a hand through his hair, his expression pained but you were beyond caring. You had tried so hard to hold on, to believe him and in what you had, but every day felt like a betrayal.

You stepped back, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t trust you anymore, Drew. Not after everything. You’ve lied to me over and over, and I don’t even know who you are anymore. I’m not going to keep living in this lie, this lie that both of you have created for the world.”

Drew looked like he was about to say something, but instead, he just closed his eyes, the weight of your words crashing over him. He didn’t speak for a long moment, and for the first time, you realized he was just as lost as you were. But that didn’t change the fact it was too late.

Without another word, you grabbed your jacket, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t know where you were going, but you couldn’t stay in that apartment with him. Not like this. You needed space, you needed to breathe.

You walked the streets aimlessly, tears still wet on your cheeks as the cold air bit at your skin. Every step felt like a weight, each one dragging you further from the man you thought you knew. The city lights flickered in the distance, but they did nothing to brighten the darkness in your heart.

You didn’t even know how far you had walked until you found yourself standing in front of a quiet park by the water. The silence felt both comforting and unbearable, as if the world around you had completely disappeared. You collapsed onto a bench, hugging your arms to your chest to stave off the cold, but it did little to ease the storm inside of you.

The moments from earlier replayed in your mind – the fight, Drew’s words, your own pain – and all you could do was sit there and feel the weight of it all.

That’s when the flash of camera lights caught your attention.

At first, you didn’t react, too numb to care about the photographers who had followed you. But then, the flashes intensified. You wiped your face quickly, but it didn’t stop them. The tears you had tried to hide were now on full display, and you felt like your privacy, your pain was being exposed to the world.

“Y/N! Over here! A little smile for us!” A photographer called out, but you couldn’t. You didn’t have the strength to smile, not when everything felt so broken.

Your heart thudded in your chest as more flashes went off, capturing the raw emotion on your face – the hurt, the betrayal, the confusion. You could hear their voices, the jarring sound of camera clicks, as they shouted for you to look at the camera. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t bring yourself to perform for them. Not anymore.

You turned away, trying to escape their prying eyes, but you knew it was futile. The pictures will be everywhere tomorrow. The world would see you in this vulnerable state, and it felt like another punch to the gut.

You couldn’t stop the tears now. You couldn’t stop the feeling of being exposed, of being broke, of being so utterly alone in a world that seemed to move on without you.

A/N: please don’t hate me LOL😭

TAGLIST: @princesspeach124 @idiotussupremus @eitaababe @13tter @drewsephrry @drewstarkeyzwhore @cooper8224 @maybankslover @elyseesarchive @ietss @esquivelbianca @josephandrewstarkey @willowpains @wtfdudesblog @purplerose291

[archiebaldo1414]

Picture it with me people

Season 16. Opens with Dean realizing Heaven isn’t good. He’s having these memories of him and Cas through the years and is just like ‘if this was heaven he’d be here’ type shit you know

Supportive Sam and him break out and try to go rescue Sam from the empty. Dean is depressed as hell as always, but he has a purpose now so he’s compartmentalizing, but we continue to see memories. At first, they were all bro-like shit (as much as Destiel ever can be so still romantic lmao) but it starts transferring into stuff we’ve never seen before.

A night in the Dean Cave just them and they keep just looking at each other. [the audience can’t tell if it’s sweet or if they are getting second hand embarrassment since Dean’s fucking 40 and Cas is billions of years old]

A time where Cas heard about the kiss it better thing and fucking DID IT when he cut his hand or some shit. We begin to realize they might have been slightly more aware of things that we were led to believe.

There’s more chill domestic stuff but the kiss it better thing comes up once or twice more. Enough to show us that’s one of their weird little rituals that no one knows about; but ITS A THING!!!

Cas is saved. There’s hugging and intense eye contact. Sam is there. He gets a hug too and suddenly they are having trouble looking at each other. Dean is distraught. He’s fucked up about feelings, he can’t voice this shit! He tried in purgatory but Cas didn’t let him, but now, now he can’t. He keeps trying to talk to him; Cas is sure to remind him he is okay and knows Dean doesn’t feel a certain way.

He’s frustrated. Why is Cas making this so difficult?? How does he have no clue? Surely he’s aware how he acts with Cas is VERY different to how he acts with everyone else/how everyone else acts with him?

It comes to him suddenly when he bangs his hip on the counter. As he swears (loudly) a little voice in his head is saying ‘Cas needs to kiss it better’. And then he knows. Since he was rescued, they’re little rituals have gotten infrequent and awkward. Cas doesn’t want to make Dean uncomfortable after all! He knows now!

Dean runs. Bangs on Sam’s door. Sam opens it, it’s late, he’s annoyed. “What, Dean, why do you look so excited?” He’s doing his bitch face

“Sammy, punch me in the mouth” he prepares himself for the punch, he can hardly stop grinning. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, the freak.

“Dean? What? Why would I punch you?” Sam is perplexed. He’s concerned. He would love to punch Dean (lol)

“I need you to. It’s important, please, Sam”

Eileen hears them and comes to the door as well. Sam explains what’s going on while Dean looks at her and pleads to punch him. She clearly realizes something Sam doesn’t becuase she starts cackling before winding back and punching him. Hard. His lip splits, and he grins around slightly bloody teeth before waving goofily and turning to go while Sam throws up his hands in frustration because What! The! Fuck!

Anyways. Dean marches down the hall. He’s nervous. He knocks. Cas answers. He looks down at Dean’s fucked up bloody mouth and is like Dean! What happened! Who must I kill! And Dean’s like it’s all good man but 😔👉👈it hurts

Cas is all; let me heal you…and Dean’s like OKAY THAT’S FINE WITH ME HA HA

There’s a bit of staring while Cas tries to figure out what’s going on and he slowly raises two fingers before Dean slowly pushes his hand down. He doesn’t let go of the loose grip on his wrist. His hands are shaking a bit. Cas is feeling a little rejected, he can’t even heal Dean now? But Dean is so close, and he’s still holding his wrist? Why is he shaking a bit? What’s go- oh. Oh oh oh oh

Cas very tentatively leans forward and presses tiny little delicate to Deans mouth as he heals him and cdjrjgfjejficsjtjvisjtv

Anyways they kiss a lot yay the end

dean: ow, fuck. i cut my finger.

cas: here, let me kiss it better.

dean, blushing furiously: oh- uh- okay.

[later]

dean: sammy, i need you to punch me in the mouth.

sam, already winding up: done.

[gravegoer]

Hello, how about a part 2 of being Sevika's boss maybe when they got together or something like that thankyouuu and i love all of your ficss thank you making them hehe

Sevika's Boss ꩜ part 2

hi anon, sevikas boss fanfic got a lot of love a while ago so im happy to write part 2 !! let me know if you enjoyed i threw in some misunderstandings for fun here..maybe kind of angst?? its okay tho you make up very quickly PART 1 , masterlist

You and Sevika hung around eachother a lot, I mean that was normal right? She is your second in command afterall.

Personally, you didn't see a problem with it, and nor did Sevika.

She had grown accustomed to your presence and didn't mind all your small, loving touches and annoying jokes.

And yes, sometimes she went a little overboard for you, like what kind of subordinate stays at their bosses house to tend to them whilst they are injured? Or goes out for drinks every weekend? But maybe your relationship was starting to exceed the bounds of boss and employee.

She has definitely warmed up to you more than she did with Silco. She thinks it was your charming personality, or cute outfits, your smile...

Some people might say you sitting in Sevikas lap while you fixed up her arm might be indecency in the workplace, but you found it to be a simple and innocent task.

But this begs the question, what exactly is your relationship?

This is also a question Jinx was starting to ask herself.

"So uh...whats with you and Sevika?" Jinx asked in an almost singsongy voice.

She flipped her gun around in her hand haphazardly while she was sprawled out on your (Silcos) desk.

"What do you mean whats with us..?" You shook your head, mimicking her movements with your pen.

"I meaaan, you guys act like a married couple or something!" She threw her two hands in the air with a 'duh' kind of look plastered on her face.

You pushed one of her braids to the side to pull out a paper from under it. One of Sevikas reports from a recent trip. Her handwriting was an imperfect cursive. Sighing, you put your face in your hand while you held the paper, staring at it diligently.

Jinx looked at you quizically at your lack of an answer. She sharply pushes the paper down with the tip of her gun, "Hey, are you— Oh," She let out a nasally laugh at the paper, "Damn, you got it bad, huh, toots?"

"What? I have what bad?" You slid the paper away and tilted your head at her.

The blue-haired girl sat up and rested a spindly arm on her knee, "You're so in L word with her." She snickered at you.

"Im in—" Your face flushed at your realization. "I am not in 'L word' with her." You raised your hands to do finger quotes around 'L word.'

"Hmmmm, are you sure?" She teased, putting her gun to her chin and looking up in mock thought "I mean, you practically cling to her, you always walk home with her, and plus you talk about her all the time– hell! You talk to her all the time."

You stared at Jinx, now zoning out in thought. What were you supposed to tell Sevika? Does Sevika even think the same way about you? Would that relationship even be appropriate?

"You know what?" You stood up and pointed in Jinx' face, "Im going to do it—"

She attempted to cut you off with a meek,

"Sevikas—"

"Im going to tell her I love her," You continued, Jinx' half attempt to save your ass fell on deaf ears.

You looked up, finger still in the girls face to make eye contact with a very familiar set of grey eyes. Fuck.

Sevikas gaze faltered, and she cleared her throat, bringing a fist to her mouth, "Um. I came to ask you if you wanted to grab a drink, but it seems like you have better plans."

Holy shit. She didn't know it was about her. Is that good or bad? You only felt a few seconds of relief before Sevika just turned around and walked out. That was bad.

Jinx whistled, still under the pressure of your pointing finger, "You have some explaining to do."

You fumbled over your words before pushing Jinx' forehead back with your finger. "Ughh.. This is your fault."

You drooped back down into the large chair, putting your head in your hand and heaving a sigh.

"Just go tell her while you still have a chance. She's probably going to be moping around the Last Drop," Jinx got up from her spot on the desk, and some papers fell with her.

"That's my queue to leave, though," She hopped out of the office with a little too much energy, probably on her way to cause more mischief.

You sighed and packed up your stuff, picking up stray papers and shoving them into a random drawer on your desk.

Grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder, you pushed open the double doors to your office. It was time to go to the last drop.

poor sevika

Your entrance was signified with the ding of a bell atop the door. Music was playing loudly, and people were swarmed around the bar. Your eyes scanned the nearest areas for Sevika, but as you figures she was nowhere in sight.

She was most definitely in her usual gambling spot. You didn't want to approach her while she was in the middle of a game, so you waited at a nearby table, making sure to stay out of her sight.

You could hear the groans of the men at her table, most definitely losing. Chuckling at this, you watched as a waiter came up to your table asking for your order.

You just asked for a simple whiskey sour, hanging your bag on the back of your chair.

Several minutes (and a few drinks later), you felt someone's eyes on the back of your head. Turning around, you, once again, were met with steely grey eyes. Sevika stood near behind you with her arms crossed. The game had finished.

"You get rejected or something." She deadpanned.

"No—well.. not yet." You turned around in your chair to face her, the metal back of the chair was now settled between your legs.

You held what you thought was your sixth whiskey sour in between your fingers, chin resting on the top of the chair back.

She scoffed at this, turning her head to avoid eye contact. You could have sworn a small blush coated her cheeks. But her frown made you think otherwise, her large forearms tensed before she spoke.

"Oh, so you're waiting for her here."

How cruel of you to profess your love to someone in the place you knew Sevika would be. You probably wanted her to see it, right?

"Yeah, shes already here." You said, still staring at her side profile, tracing the scar on her cheek with your eyes.

The neon lights illuminated her face and brought out every curve and angle. But your thoughts were interrupted by her stern and almost angry voice.

"I should leave then," she started to walk away, but you reached out quickly.

(I dont know why you would do that when she wasn't even in arms length to begin with.) You started to fall forward, you let out a small yelp and held onto the chair, your drink falling onto the ground. You awaited impact, but it never came.

Instead, you were met with strong arms holding the back of your chair up. Sevika was bent over slightly, both mechanical arm and human arm on the metal of the chair. And for the third time, you made eye contact with now very close grey eyes. Her eyebrows were furrowed in shock or frustration- you couldn't tell.

Without another thought, you grabbed her by the collar and pulled her lips into yours. At first, she tried to pull away but eventually melted into the heat of the kiss. She sat your chair back up on four legs, and her elbows lean on the top of the chair, encircling you.

Almost as soon and she relented she pulled away, "What the hell are you doing," She rasped, wiping her mouth with the back of a large hand.

Her lips were still puffy from the kiss, but almost more downturned than before. When you didn't respond she offered a question, "Are you drunk?"

Your lopsided grin told her all she needed to know. She knew she needed to take you home, but she was going to do so reluctantly. Afterall you were going to become someone else's girl, couldn't have her hands all over you like she usually did.

She grabbed you (almost roughly) by the arms and pulled you out of the chair, "How are you going to profess your love now?" She scoffed.

"I just did, was that not enough?" Your words were slurred and you helped her by stepping up with heavy legs.

She furrowed her brows until she came to a not-so-shocking realization. Cursing under her breath she smirked at you. You could almost see the relief wash over her face.

Her thick arm held you by your upper torso as she almost carried you to the doors. She sighed at your stupidness, why not just tell her right away, then you wouldn't have to have gone through all the trouble.

She eyed your glossed over eyes, shaking her head at the dumb smirk that held its place on your face. She could feel the quiver of your body against the cold night wind.

At that she lifted you into her arms, covering you with her cloak. You looked up at her with wide eyes, burying your face in the material. God she wanted to kiss you so bad. But she'd save that for the awkward talk in the morning.

thank you for reading ! yes i see your asks all your fics are on the way I swear !!!! much love

[mcrveilles]

just this once // ln4

still overwhelmed, still can't believe this this is getting to much attention 😭 ❤️🫶 THANK YOU FOR YOUR FEEDBACK AND YOUR RESPONSES I LOVE EVERY BIT OF IT

also why are my WORDS LIMITED???? I want to write MORE wtf tumblr

word count: 3.7k with some extras in the form of social media posts warnings: casual intimacy themes, secrecy, conflicts of loyalty, romantic tension and suggestive content includes: friends to lovers, fluff, best friends little sister, brothers best friend summary: after things cooled down for a little while, you have to face lando and your feelings once again... this time with consequences.

tag list: @sltwins @sarx164 @hadesnumber1daughter @fullmugwolffish @willowsnook @sageskiesf1 @f1fantasys @cmleitora @rawr-123s-stuff @leclercdream @chezmardybum @landossainz @cloud-55 @sillyfreakfanparty @harrysdimple05 @mwuaferrari @milkysoop

PART FOUR/2 previous part - next part

The sun dips low over the sky, painting it in shades of amber and rose as you finish getting ready. You’ve been pacing your hotel room for the last twenty minutes, debating whether you should even go to this dinner. Max made it sound casual, just friends and some of Lando’s crew, but the way your stomach twists tells you it’s anything but simple.

Since Monaco, things with Lando have been... complicated. He stayed over after Qualifying, the two of you wrapped in an unspoken agreement to keep things platonic. But nothing about the way he looked at you, the way his presence filled your space, felt friendly. Then there was the race—his P4 finish—and the small get-together afterward, where you both acted like nothing had happened. Since then, his schedule’s relentless pace kept you apart, exchanging only a few texts that danced around anything real. Just keeping in touch.

And now, this dinner.

You change into your favorite outfit, something understated but flattering, and force yourself to take a deep breath. It’s just a dinner. You’re friends, you tell yourself.

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yourusername London, United Kingdom

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The restaurant hums with life as you step inside, trailing Max and Pietra. Warm light glints off polished wood and delicate glassware, and the buzz of conversation wraps around you like a soft blanket. You glance at the private room Max mentioned earlier, feeling your pulse quicken. You know who’s waiting there.

When you walk in, the first person you see is him. He’s tipped back in his chair at the head of the table, laughing at something someone said, his grin so easy and familiar it makes your chest ache. Then his eyes land on you, and for a moment, everything else in the room seems to blur.

“About time,” he says, standing up in one smooth motion. His voice is light, teasing, but there’s something in his gaze that sends a spark down your spine. He greets Max with an effortless handshake-hug, Pietra with a peck on the cheek, and then his attention falls to you.

“Stranger,” he says. “Lando,” you reply, keeping your voice even as you raise an eyebrow. His grin tilts, just a little lopsided, and the look in his eyes feels like a challenge.

The dinner is exactly what you expected—good food, great wine, and laughter that fills the space like it’s been waiting for all of you to show up. Max, seated on your right, is in big-brother mode, making sure you try everything and nudging your glass whenever it’s even close to empty. Across from you, Pietra chats animatedly with one of Lando’s friends, and you smile along, but your attention keeps drifting. Lando is at the far end of the table, surrounded by people who hang onto his every word. He’s effortlessly charismatic, telling some story you can’t quite hear, but that has everyone laughing. Except every now and then, his eyes meet yours, just for a second. It’s like he’s checking in, or maybe daring you to look away first.

You don’t.

When he gets up to refill his drink, he passes behind you, his hand brushing lightly over your shoulder. The touch is so brief, so casual, that no one else notices. But it sends a shiver through you anyway. “Having fun?” he murmurs, his voice low and private, meant just for you. “Loads,” you reply, trying to sound unimpressed even as heat rises to your cheeks.

His chuckle is soft, almost affectionate, before he moves away. You tell yourself to focus, to ignore the way your heart is beating just a little too fast.

Later, the table splits into smaller conversations, and somehow, Lando ends up next to you. Max is too busy laughing at something Pietra said to notice when Lando leans in, his shoulder brushing yours. “This is torture,” he says under his breath, his knee knocking lightly against yours under the table. Your throat goes dry. “What is?” “You. Wearing this dress.” His voice is teasing, but there’s an edge to it that makes you hold your breath.

You don’t know how to respond, and for a moment, you just sit there, the noise of the room fading into the background. Then Max glances over, and Lando straightens, all easy charm again. “What are you two whispering about?” Max asks, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. Lando doesn’t miss a beat. “Just telling your sister she has terrible taste in wine.”

“Hey!” you protest, and the table laughs. Max shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Don’t listen to him. He drinks that sparkling stuff like it’s water.” The conversation moves on, and you pretend everything is normal, even as Lando’s knee stays pressed against yours under the table. And you don’t move away.

As the laughter around the table flows easily, your own chuckle gets caught in your throat when Lando leans back in his chair, stretching casually, but you don’t miss the way his knee once again brushes against yours under the table. It’s subtle, almost as if he’s testing to see how long he can get away with it without anyone noticing. Your pulse quickens, and you do your best to focus on Pietra, who’s telling an animated story about a mishap at her last work event.

But Lando is… distracting. His words replay in your head on an endless loop—”this is torture”—and you swear you can still feel the ghost of his knee against yours under the table. It’s maddening, really. The ease with which he teases you under Max’s nose, how effortlessly he switches back to joking with the group like he didn’t just upend your entire sense of composure.

You glance his way and catch him smirking, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. His focus shifts back to his drink, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—playful yet deliberate—that makes it impossible to ignore him. You try to shake it off. You tell yourself that it’s just Lando being Lando: cheeky, teasing, good at making people feel... something. Just like always. Except this doesn’t feel like always, and that’s the problem. You’re trying to focus on the ongoing conversation. Something about summer plans, maybe? You’re not even sure anymore. Lando is leaning back in his chair again now, one arm draped lazily over the back of his seat, looking every bit like someone who hasn’t a care in the world. But he keeps glancing at you when he thinks no one else will notice.

“Alright,” Max announces suddenly, clapping his hands together as if he’s about to make a grand proclamation. “Drinks back at mine?” There’s a chorus of agreement around the table as chairs start scraping against the floor and people gather their things. You hesitate, glancing at your phone like you might have an excuse to slip away. But before you can concoct some half-hearted reason to head back to the hotel, Pietra loops an arm through yours, effectively trapping you. “You’re coming, right?” although she forms it as a question, you know it’s really not.

“I wouldn’t want to miss out,” you reply lightly, smiling at Pietra. Who, satisfied with your response, let’s go of you to join Max again. Your stomach twists again when you see Lando standing by the door, your coat in his hands, waiting like he has all the time in the world. His curls are a little messy, his grin lazy, yet sharp as his eyes meet yours in the dim light. It’s as if he can sense your hesitation and is daring you to pull away. “Come on, stranger,” he says softly, leaning just close enough that his voice feels like it’s wrapping around you. “Can’t bail now.” You narrow your eyes at him, trying to ignore the way your heart jumps at the way he towers ever so slightly over you. “I didn’t say I was bailing.” “No?” His gaze drops briefly to your phone in your hand, then flicks back up to catch yours. “Good,” he says, his voice dipping lower, quieter. “Because I wasn’t going to let you.”

It’s infuriating how easily he gets under your skin. With a huff of mock-annoyance—because genuine annoyance is impossible when he’s looking at you like that—you slide your arms into the coat he’s still holding and step away before the spark between you burns any brighter.

The group spills out into the cool night air, laughter echoing down the cobblestone street as everyone makes their way toward Max’s flat. Pietra loops her arm through yours again, chatting about some new café she wants to try tomorrow for breakfast. The walk to Max’s place is short, but it feels like an eternity with Lando so close behind you in the group. Every step feels charged, like there’s an invisible string stretched taut between the two of you. You try not to think about what he said earlier—or how his knee pressed against yours, or how warm his hand had been on your shoulder at dinner—but it’s useless. He’s inescapable, even when he isn’t touching you.

When you finally reach Max's apartment, everyone else appears calm and carefree. However, you have come to the realization that you can no longer let Lando do this to you. You don’t know if he isn’t aware of the drama it would cause if Max found out or if he just doesn’t care about the consequences—you however do care about the consequences. While never openly spoken about, you know how your brother would feel about this. He’d hate it. Lando is his best friend and you are his little sister. Two things that, frankly, shouldn’t mingle so close. So you make the decision to talk to Lando tonight.

It’s not like you don’t care or that you don’t feel things when you’re around him, but is acting on it really worth the pain it could and would cause?

Eventually everyone is spread across the living room, laughing and reminiscing, the buzz of good drinks and great music keeping the energy alive. You’re perched on the arm of the couch, balancing your drink as Pietra chats animatedly beside you. Across the room, Lando lounges in a chair, looking infuriatingly relaxed, his attention shifting to you every few minutes. It’s subtle, the way his gaze lingers just a fraction too long, but you feel it—like a spark skittering across your skin. You pretend not to notice, focusing on Pietra's story about her disastrous attempt at paddleboarding last summer. But when Lando catches your eye mid-sentence, raising his brow in a silent tease, your stomach flips.

Max comes in from the kitchen, holding a fresh beer, his presence immediately commanding attention. “Alright, whose idea was it to leave me in charge of snacks?” he announces. “I could barely find some crisps, let alone figure out this sweets situation.”

Pietra groans. “Max, it’s literally all in the cupboard. You just have to put it in some bowls.”

“But that’s where you put them!” Max protests, plopping down beside Pietra. His knee bumps yours, but his focus is on his girlfriend, who shakes her head fondly. Lando seizes the moment to move closer, taking the newly vacated spot on the couch next to you. “You okay there?” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. “Perfectly fine,” you shoot back, matching his tone with a pointed glare. But your attempt at indifference falters when his knee brushes yours—deliberately, you’re sure. “You’re really gonna keep your distance tonight, are you?” he asks, his voice light but carrying that edge of challenge that makes your heart race. “I am sitting next to you,” you counter, swirling your drink for effect. “You’re just mad I’m busy talking to everyone else tonight.” He chuckles softly, the sound brushing against your skin like velvet. “Give it time.”

Before you can respond, Max’s voice cuts through the room. “What are you two whispering about now?” His tone is joking, but there’s a hint of suspicion there that makes you stiffen. “Just telling your sister she needs to get some updated LN4 merch for the weekend,” Lando says smoothly, leaning back like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Excuse me?” you retort, feigning outrage. “That stuff is expensive, genius.” The group erupts into laughter, and Max shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Of course, it is. You should stick to the Quadrant merch anyhow.”

"Hey now," Lando protests with a grin, "I'm hurt, Max. Thought we were friends." The conversation shifts, but you can't shake the tension thrumming beneath your skin. Lando's presence beside you is electric, and you're acutely aware of every subtle movement he makes. You try to focus on the others, laughing at the right moments and nodding along, but your mind keeps drifting back to the man next to you. While Lando's quick thinking may have diffused the situation, it only reinforces your resolve to talk to him. You need to set things straight before they spiral out of control.

As the night wears on, you find yourself growing more and more restless. You've been careful to mingle with everyone, pointedly avoiding extended conversations with Lando. But his presence is a constant, hovering at the edge of your awareness. You catch his eye across the room more than once, and each time, that familiar spark ignites in your chest.

Finally, as the party begins to wind down, you see your chance. Lando slips out onto the balcony, and after a moment's hesitation, you follow. The cool night air is a relief after the warmth of the apartment, and for a moment, you just stand there, letting it wash over you. "Thought you might follow me out here," Lando says softly, not turning around. He's leaning against the railing, his profile illuminated by the city lights below. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Lando, we need to talk."

He turns to face you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "I was wondering when you'd say that," he says softly, a hint of resignation in his voice. You step closer, careful to keep some distance between you. The city sprawls below, a tapestry of twinkling lights and distant sounds, but your focus narrows to the man in front of you. The air feels thick with unspoken words and simmering tension.

"This... whatever this is," you begin, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, "it needs to stop." Lando's brow furrows, a flash of hurt crossing his features before he schools his expression. "What exactly are you referring to?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. "The touches. The looks. The... the way you've been pushing boundaries tonight. It's not fair, Lando." Your words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. Lando's jaw clenches, a muscle twitching as he processes what you've said. For a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of the city below and the muffled laughter from inside.

"Not fair?" Lando repeats, his voice low but charged with emotion. "What's not fair is pretending there's nothing between us." He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. "Do you really want to ignore this? To act like we don't feel anything when we're around each other?" You bite your lip, trying to ignore the way your heart races at his proximity. "Lando, it's not that simple. Max is your best friend, and he's my brother. We can't just—"

"Can't what?" he interrupts, his voice rising slightly. "Can't be honest about how we feel? Can't take a chance on something that could be amazing?"—"Shh!" you hiss, glancing nervously at the sliding glass door. "Keep your voice down. Do you want everyone to hear?" Lando runs a hand through his curls, frustration evident in every line of his body. "Maybe I do," he says, though he lowers his voice. "Maybe I'm tired of sneaking around, of pretending I don't want to be near you every second we're in the same room."

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you struggle to maintain your composure. "It's not just about us," you argue, your voice rising slightly. "What about Max? He's your best friend, Lando. How do you think he'd react?" Lando's eyes flash with a mix of frustration and determination. "I care about Max, you know I do. But I'm not going to let fear of his reaction dictate my life. Or my feelings." You glance nervously towards the sliding glass door, worried that your raised voices might carry inside. The last thing you need is for someone to come investigate. "Please, keep your voice down," you hiss, even as your own emotions threaten to overwhelm you. "No," Lando says, his tone firm but not unkind. "I'm tired of keeping quiet about this. About us." He takes another step closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne, a mixture of citrus and something woody that makes your head spin. His proximity is intoxicating, and you find yourself swaying towards him almost unconsciously.

"Lando," you breathe, your resolve weakening with every passing second. The city lights dance in his eyes, casting shadows across his face that only enhance his features. You can see the determination there, the longing, and it mirrors the ache in your own chest. But he's not listening. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and intense in the city lights. "I can't keep pretending," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "Can you?" And before you can answer, before you can even think, he closes the distance between you.

His lips crash against yours, urgent and desperate. For a heartbeat, you're frozen, caught between shock and desire. Then, as if a dam has broken, you're kissing him back with equal fervor. Your hands find their way to his curls, fingers tangling in the soft strands as his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The world narrows to this moment—the taste of him, the warmth of his body, the way your heart threatens to burst from your chest.

It's everything you've been trying to deny, everything you've been afraid to want, distilled into a single, burning instant.

But reality crashes back in like a bucket of ice water, and you jerk away, your eyes wide with panic, breathing hard, your lips tingling and your mind reeling. "We can't," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Lando, we can't do this." Even as every fiber of your being screams to pull him close again. Lando's eyes are wide, his chest heaving as he stares at you, looking as stunned as you feel.

Before he can respond, the sound of the balcony door sliding open makes you both freeze. You take a hasty step back, your heart pounding so loudly you're sure everyone can hear it. Max steps out onto the balcony, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene before him. You and Lando are standing suspiciously close, both of you looking flushed and slightly disheveled. The air between you crackles with tension, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of the city below.

"What's going on out here?" Max asks, his tone light but laced with suspicion. His gaze flicks between you and Lando, searching for answers in your expressions. Lando, ever quick on his feet, lets out a low whistle and gestures broadly at the cityscape. "Just admiring the view, mate," he says, his voice only slightly strained. "Can't beat a night like this, can you?" You nod enthusiastically, perhaps a bit too eagerly. "It's gorgeous," you agree, willing your racing heart to slow. "I was just telling Lando how I could stay out here all night."

Max leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. The look he gives you is one you've known since childhood—the one that says he's not quite buying what you're selling. "Really?" he drawls. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you two were having a pretty intense conversation."

You feel your face flush as Max's gaze bores into you, his expression a mixture of concern and growing suspicion. The air on the balcony suddenly feels thick, charged with an uncomfortable tension that even the cool night breeze can't dispel. The city lights twinkle innocently behind you, a stark contrast to the tension crackling in the air. You open your mouth to respond, but the words stick in your throat. Lando shifts beside you, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, a reminder of what just transpired.

"Max," Lando starts, his voice steady despite the circumstances. But Max holds up a hand, silencing him. "Max," Lando repeats, forcing a laugh that sounds hollow even to your ears. "Mate. We were just..."—"No," Max says, his tone sharp. "I want to hear it from my sister." His gaze locks onto you, and suddenly you feel like you're fifteen again, caught sneaking out to a party. Except this is so much worse.

You take a deep breath, willing your voice not to shake. "Max, it's not—"

"Don't," he interrupts, his eyes flashing. "Don't lie to me. I've seen the way you two have been acting all night. The whispers, the looks. And now I find you out here, alone, looking like..." He gestures vaguely at your disheveled appearance. Your stomach drops as you realize the jig is up. Max's eyes narrow as he looks between you and Lando, taking in your flushed faces, the slight dishevelment of Lando's curls where your fingers had been moments ago.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken truths. You can hear the muffled sounds of the party inside, laughter and music that seems to belong to another world entirely. A cool breeze ruffles your hair, carrying with it the scent of the city and the faintest trace of Lando's cologne.

"How long?" Max asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "How long has this been going on?" You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. Lando steps forward, his shoulder brushing yours in a gesture that feels both protective and defiant. "Max," he begins, his voice steady despite the tension thrumming through his body. "It's not what you think."

"Oh really?" Max's laugh is bitter, cutting through the night air like a knife. "Because what I think is that my best friend and my sister have been sneaking around behind my back. Am I wrong?"

[yoomiwrites]

We won²

Summary: The war is won, yet you lost too much. And well – how much can you still win? Read the first chapter here: We won

Note: I felt the rush and wrote more chapters for Ekko (5 or 6, depends on where I'll "cut" em). So yeah, more Arcane on my feed! I also wrote a Mel story which I'll probably post later.

Life after the war was a slow, aching process. The streets were littered with reminders of what they’d lost—buildings in ruins, empty spaces where loved ones once stood. Amid the chaos of rebuilding, you found purpose in small acts: patching walls, tending to wounds, and, most of all, looking after Ekko.

He threw himself into the work, determined to rebuild faster than his body could manage. You often found him at the break of dawn, still tinkering or sketching plans, dark circles under his eyes.

“Ekko, you need to sleep,” you’d say, gently prying tools from his hands.

He’d protest, insisting he was fine, but you didn’t budge. You made sure he ate enough, often sitting beside him with your own plate to ensure he didn’t skip meals. It was a rhythm you both fell into—one that kept him going and kept you close. Even if your heart ached to be more than his friend, you knew this was what he needed.

One morning, you found Vi at Powder’s grave. She stood there alone, her shoulders tense, her jaw tight. You hesitated before approaching, unsure if she wanted company. But when she glanced over and gave you a nod, you joined her.

The grave was simple, adorned with flowers that had started to wilt. Vi’s fingers traced the edge of the stone, her gaze distant.

“She was a mess, you know,” Vi said suddenly, her voice rough with emotion. “But she was still my sister.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. You thought of all the times you’d seen Powder and Vi together as kids—the way Vi had shielded her, protected her.

“I think she knew you loved her,” you said softly.

Vi scoffed, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “Maybe. But I spent so much time hating her, it’s hard to forgive myself for that.” She paused, then added, “But Cait… she helped me. Helped me forgive myself.”

Her words carried a weight you recognized—the struggle of moving forward when the past still clung so tightly. You swallowed hard, thinking of your own burden.

“I’m trying to move on too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “He… he doesn’t need me to love him like that. He needs a friend. And I want to be that for him.”

Vi turned to you, her sharp gaze softening. “You’ve been through hell and back for him. That counts for something, even if it’s not what you want.”

“I know,” you said, blinking back tears. “It’s just hard. Letting go.”

Vi’s hand landed on your shoulder, her grip firm but comforting. “You’re stronger than you think,” she said. “And if it gets too much, you know where to find me.”

Her words weren’t poetic or grand, but they were exactly what you needed.

As the days turned into weeks, you found yourself letting go little by little. You stayed by Ekko’s side, but your heart began to heal. You threw yourself into the work, into helping Zaun rise from the ashes. And on the days when the weight of it all felt too heavy, Vi’s rough but steady presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone.

Ekko didn’t notice the shift in you, and that was okay. You didn’t need him to. It was enough to see him smile, to know he was still here, and to know you had a place in his life—even if it wasn’t the one you’d once dreamed of.

[thatonebirdwrites]

Generative AI absolutely horrifies me and angers me so much.

I write and write, even while in severe pain. Because I love the act of creating. I've written million of words, hashed out the plots and characters, dug into the themes, crafted fun character arcs through research and ridiculous dreams -- my hands ache from typing sometimes.

But that joy of creating and sharing is why I do it.

I am disabled. There's a lot of things I simply cannot do, but I will write despite my limitations and pain because I will not let anyone or any system take away my mind and creativity. Transcription software is often a helpful tool for when my hands won't cooperate; tools like that aid me in getting my thoughts into the document. Generative AI does not aid in that. It steals your ability to think. It stills away your creativity. It gives you a shadow of what could have been, and relying on it? And being proud of it?

That's not writing. That's a bastardization of it. It's shitting on writing, smearing the shit onto AO3, and then proudly proclaiming you wrote that shit. No, you actually did not write that shit. It was pooped out by generative AI, which steals from millions of creators (illegally in some countries in fact, and why lawsuits keep being drawn up against the makers of it), plus it degrades the environment with how much energy and water it needs to power its servers. So you have a hallucinatory, poopful, sludge stolen from millions of others and crammed together with words that end up melting from their own inadequacy and shit-stained pyres.

Sorry, but I will not ever read that.

And no, writing isn't crafting a prompt for a machine to regurgitate somewhat random things for you.

Writing is actually sitting down to write with your hands (or feet for some disabled folks) or with your voice (transcription software), and using your own body and brain to create something from your heart and soul.

A machine cannot do that for you. Only you can do that.

Trust in your own body and mind, trust that whatever you write with your own abilities will be good and a million times better than what a machine vomits out. You can write it yourself without the aid of a machine. I believe in you.

Anyway, that's my rant of the year I guess.

Thanks for reading. Be safe.

just saw a fanfic on ao3 have a dedication for chatgpt... that section is meant for your horny perverted mutual who proofread your work, you violated sacred law and you will be torn apart and laid bare btw

[dissapointu]

Could you write how Arcane character deal with reader who has angry issue please.

Jinx

Jinx isn’t fazed by your anger—it might even amuse her at times. She’s not afraid of your outbursts and often meets them with chaotic energy of her own. She might try to make you laugh or redirect your frustration by dragging you into some wild, destructive activity. If you’re seriously upset, she’ll throw out a haphazard “It’s okay to be mad! Blow something up with me, yeah?” She’s not great at calming you down but is always in your corner.

Vi

Vi gets it—she’s got a fiery temper herself. She’ll try to talk you down, stepping between you and whatever’s setting you off. Her approach is straightforward but compassionate: “Alright, take a deep breath, yeah? Let’s figure this out before someone gets decked.” If you’re lashing out at her, she’ll call you out on it but still give you space to cool off. Later, she’ll help you vent in healthier ways, like sparring or long walks through the Lanes.

Sevika

Sevika doesn’t take your anger personally. She’ll stand there, arms crossed, letting you get it out of your system. Her calm demeanor acts as a grounding force. “You done yet?” she’ll ask, raising an eyebrow. If your anger is justified, she’ll back you up without hesitation, even offering solutions in her blunt, no-nonsense way. If you’re out of line, she’ll tell you straight up: “Fix that attitude before you regret it.”

Silco

Silco has the patience of a saint—at least outwardly. He remains calm and composed while you vent, watching you with calculating eyes. He won’t interrupt until you’re finished, then he’ll address your anger with logic, offering solutions or asking pointed questions to make you reflect. If your anger gets in the way of something important, he’ll call it out firmly but not cruelly: “Control your emotions, or they’ll control you.”

Vander

Vander is incredibly patient with you. He knows anger can come from pain or frustration, so he focuses on understanding what’s behind your outburst. He doesn’t try to stop you from being angry, but he gently encourages you to talk it out instead of acting impulsively. “C’mon, let’s sit and talk this through,” he’ll say, offering you a drink to help you calm down. His steady presence is comforting and helps you feel safe to open up.

Ekko

Ekko respects your emotions and doesn’t judge you for getting angry. He’ll stand by you, letting you vent while keeping a watchful eye to ensure you don’t hurt yourself or others. “Hey, Firebug, what’s eating you?” he’ll ask, his tone light but concerned. If your anger spirals, he’ll gently redirect it, suggesting a project or activity to channel your energy. He’s supportive but will also call you out if your anger causes harm.

Jayce

Jayce tries to diffuse your anger with optimism and reassurance. He listens carefully, even if your outburst catches him off guard. “Okay, I hear you. Let’s figure this out together,” he’ll say, his tone earnest. If your anger is directed at him, he may get defensive at first but quickly realizes it’s better to stay calm. He’s a fixer by nature, so he’ll focus on helping you find a solution, though his enthusiasm can sometimes feel overbearing.

Viktor

Viktor approaches your anger with quiet understanding. He doesn’t interrupt your venting but observes carefully, trying to piece together what’s really bothering you. “Your anger is valid, but perhaps we can address it more constructively?” he’ll suggest in his calm, measured voice. He offers practical advice or distractions, like involving you in his work, to help you channel your emotions into something productive.

Caitlyn

Caitlyn remains composed and attentive, even when your anger is intense. She listens without interrupting and validates your feelings. “I understand why you’re upset,” she’ll say, her tone gentle but firm. She encourages you to take a step back and breathe, sometimes suggesting a walk or a quiet place to talk things through. If your anger becomes destructive, she’ll intervene with a steady hand, reminding you of your strength and resilience.

Mel Medarda

Mel handles your anger with grace and patience. She’s not rattled by your outbursts and instead approaches them with empathy and insight. “What has you so worked up, darling?” she’ll ask, her tone soothing. She helps you see the bigger picture, offering advice or solutions that align with your goals. Her refined demeanor acts as a grounding presence, reminding you to channel your energy into something meaningful.

Ambessa Medarda

Ambessa meets your anger with strength and authority. She doesn’t coddle you but respects your emotions, seeing them as a sign of passion and drive. “Good. Anger is a weapon—learn to wield it wisely,” she’ll say. If your anger gets out of hand, she’ll pull you back with a firm hand and sharp words. Despite her tough exterior, she admires your fire and encourages you to use it constructively.

Maddie Nolen

Maddie’s approach to your anger is a mix of humor and patience. She doesn’t take your outbursts too seriously and often tries to make you laugh or smile to break the tension. “Alright, let’s rage it out, then grab a drink after,” she’ll say with a grin. If things escalate, she’ll step in with a more serious tone, reminding you to focus on what really matters.

Lest

Lest approaches your anger with quiet empathy. She stays calm, letting you express yourself without judgment. “Take your time. I’m here,” she’ll say softly, her tail swishing as she gives you space to process. Her soothing presence and gentle encouragement help you find balance, reminding you that it’s okay to feel angry but not to let it consume you.

[goldfades]

CINDERELLA───JOE BURROW

request: "Reader is going out with girlies and dressed sexy that joe almost got mad at reader cuz he doesn’t want reader going out with that dress and suddenly obsessed with boobies and told reader they cant breath in that dress" for @crispppykreme

The dress wasn’t new, but it might as well have been, given how long it had languished at the back of your closet. A slinky little thing, sleek black with a neckline that danced on the edge of scandal and just enough shimmer to catch the light in all the right places. It was the kind of dress that didn’t just suggest confidence—it demanded it.

You were proud of how you looked, admiring yourself in the full-length mirror, twisting slightly to check every angle. The effort had paid off: hair done, makeup sharp, heels that made your legs look miles long. Tonight was about the girlies, a rare night out that wasn’t dinner and wine but cocktails and dancing, the kind of carefree, late-night escapades you hadn’t had in months.

Joe had been fine about it earlier, or at least you thought he had. There was an absentminded “Have fun, baby,” thrown your way when you’d mentioned your plans this morning. But now, as his eyes scanned you from head to toe like he was taking inventory, you could feel the tension radiating off him from across the room.

“You’re really wearing that?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an edge that made you freeze mid-reach for your clutch. You turned slowly, eyebrow raised, trying to read the expression on his face.

“Uh, yeah? What’s wrong with it?” You kept your tone light, playful, even though the way he was looking at you made your skin prickle. Joe wasn’t one to throw around his opinions about your outfits, and honestly, you appreciated that about him. He knew you had your own style, your own vibe. But tonight? Something about tonight had apparently made him forget that.

He stepped closer, his hand running down his face as he let out a slow, deliberate sigh. “It’s not that it’s bad. It’s just…” His gaze dropped to your chest, and he gestured vaguely in that direction. “That dress. I mean, are you sure it’s comfortable? They—uh, you—don’t look like you can even breathe in it.”

For a second, you just blinked at him, your brain scrambling to catch up. Then it hit you, and the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself.

“Oh,” you said, the teasing lilt unmistakable. “That’s what this is about.”

Joe crossed his arms, clearly trying to play it cool, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “I’m just saying. It’s kind of… tight, don’t you think?”

You couldn't stop the grin spreading across your face, even as Joe tried—and failed—to keep his cool. He was too easy to read, the faint crease between his brows giving him away completely.

“Oh, come on,” you teased, grabbing your clutch and turning back toward the mirror. “You’ve seen me wear tighter.”

“That’s not the point,” he shot back, his voice firmer now, enough to make you glance at him in the mirror. He was standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe like some kind of judgmental Greek statue, all broad shoulders and furrowed brows.

“Then what is the point, Joe?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because I’m getting the vibe that it’s not about how tight this dress is.”

He huffed, running a hand through his hair in that way he always did when he was trying to sort through his words. “The point is,” he said slowly, “you’re going out looking like… like that. And I know exactly how guys are gonna act when they see you.”

You turned around now, giving him your full attention. “Guys? Plural? Is that what this is about?”

“It’s not about guys,” he said quickly, but the words came out too rushed, too defensive. He shifted his weight, unfolding his arms, clearly trying to walk the line between annoyed and reasonable. “It’s about… I don’t know. I just don’t want anyone thinking they can look at you like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, stepping closer, biting back a laugh as you pressed your palm to his chest. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your hand, but you could feel the tension in him.

“Like… like you’re up for grabs or something.” His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted away from yours, like saying it out loud embarrassed him.

You blinked, genuinely taken aback for a moment. “Joey,” you said, softening your tone, “you realize that’s not how this works, right? Just because I look good doesn’t mean I’m inviting attention. And even if someone does look—so what? I’m coming home to you.”

His eyes flicked back to yours at that, softening slightly, but his lips pressed into a stubborn line. “Yeah, but you’re mine,” he muttered, the words barely audible but so pointed they hung heavy in the air.

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing. “Yours?” you repeated, shaking your head in disbelief. “What, are you going to put a sticker on me that says ‘Property of Joe Burrow’?”

He groaned, his hand raking through his hair again. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Do I?” you shot back, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “Because it kinda sounds like you’re saying I can’t wear what I want unless it gets your approval.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all!” he said quickly, but the way his ears were turning pink made you think he was second-guessing himself.

“Then what?” you asked, crossing your arms now, mirroring his earlier stance. “Because, if you think I’m changing out of this dress just because it makes you nervous, you’ve got another thing coming.”

He stared at you for a moment, his jaw working, clearly torn between frustration and surrender. “It’s not nervous,” he mumbled finally. “It’s just… look, you’re too damn sexy, okay? There. I said it. And I'm not there to make sure nobody thinks they can have you.”

You raised an eyebrow, your grin growing wider. “Ohhh, I see,” you said, dragging out the words. “So, this isn’t about the dress at all. It’s about you being jealous.”

His face scrunched like he wanted to deny it, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he settled for muttering, “I’m not jealous.”

“Right,” you said, stepping closer to him again. “Because you’re totally fine with me going out looking like a ‘damn goddess,’ as I’m sure some guy at the bar is going to say.”

Joe groaned again, tipping his head back against the doorframe. “Do you have to do this?”

“Yes,” you said brightly, standing on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Because it’s fun watching you squirm.”

He sighed, his hands finally coming to rest on your hips, pulling you in closer. “I’m serious, though,” he said, his voice lower now, quieter. “You look amazing. Too amazing. And I trust you—I do—but that doesn’t mean I trust every drunk guy who’s gonna see you tonight.”

“I can handle drunk guys,” you said softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “And besides, you know I’d never let anyone get too close.”

“I know,” he admitted, resting his forehead against yours. “I just hate the idea of someone thinking they even have a chance.”

“Well, they don’t,” you said simply, smiling up at him. “You’re the only one who gets to peel me out of this dress later.”

His lips twitched into a smirk at that, and you could feel some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah, you’re damn right I am.”

You grinned, giving him another quick peck on the lips before stepping back. “Now, are you done being dramatic, or do I need to remind you that this is my night out?”

He sighed, letting his arms drop but not stepping back. “Fine,” he said, though his tone still had a hint of reluctance. “But if you’re not home by midnight, I’m calling.”

You laughed, grabbing your Chanel clutch and heading for the door. “Sure, Cinderella. Whatever you say.”

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