#and all the other shitty tabloids

[not-neverland06]

forgotten promises

pt two of broken promises (I know I'm so creative with names)

bodyguard!logan howlett x fem!runaway reader

a/n: SMUT 18+ MDNI they, like, never use protection (don't be silly, sheathe your willy) but I’d like to make it 100% clear now that she has a magic uterus and there will be absolutely NO baby-making. Just rocking unprotected sex 😎👍 If you’re tagged in this, it does not mean that I am permanently adding you to my taglist. It just means I saw you in my comments/reblogs/inbox asking for a part two and this was the easiest way to let you know I made one. If you would like to be added to the taglist, feel free to ask.  Summary: Life on the road isn't exactly glamorous. Cramped spaces and too many cheap motels have you and Logan at each other's throats. You feel eyes tracking you everywhere you go but you're afraid to tell him, afraid it will be the end of the road for the both of you. One cheap bar and an explosion later and your whole life is flipped upside down.

“What are you doing?”

You glance over Logan’s shoulder at the register. The man behind it isn’t looking at either of you, just disinterestedly scrolling through his phone. 

“Isn’t this what you do?” You ask, motioning to the pack of beef jerky you’re stuffing down your jacket. 

Logan scoffs and shakes his head. “No, kid.” He takes the bag from you and rolls his eyes. 

“Well, then how do you pay for this stuff?”

“Normally, with the money I get from my jobs. But your dad wasn’t too forthcoming with my last paycheck.”

You feel that familiar burning churn of guilt roiling around in your gut. You’ve definitely added another complication to his life and it makes you feel like nothing more than a burden sometimes. “Oh, Logan, I’m sorry.”

Logan glances down at you. He gives you that familiar appeasing look, squeezing you closer, and drags you towards the register. He tosses the snacks and drinks onto the counter. The guy just barely glances up at you both. 

“Will that be all?” He asks in a tone that says he could care less. 

“Yeah,” you answer, eyes drifting towards the magazine rack. Your face is plastered on the cover of a cheap tabloid. 

LOCAL POLITICIANS DAUGHTER STILL MISSING

Exclusive interview with family on PG. 6

Your eyes go wide and you turn your face further into Logan’s chest. He gives you a confused look before his eyes are snagged by the same thing that caught your attention. 

“Why don’t you go wait in the truck?” You nod and slip out of his hold, being mindful to keep your face away from the security camera near the front. 

That keeps happening. You hadn’t thought you would have made news, but your father was making this a part of his campaign. Claiming you’d been taken by a mutant bodyguard and that he’s been praying for your safe return. “Experts” have been claiming that with no ransom demanded you’re being turned into a message for anyone who goes against mutants. 

Now, mutants despise you and everyone else thinks you’re a martyr. In a few years, you’re sure you’ll be turned into some true crime documentary where people you’ve never met before are crying over your disappearance. 

You slide into the truck and let out a deep sigh. You’d thought running away would be freeing. But even a hundred miles from him, you can still feel the cold grip of your father’s hand around your throat. 

“Twenty on pump seven,” Logan tosses the cash on the counter, eyes drifting to you in the truck. It was instinct at this point, always keeping an eye on you. Especially since one of your father’s more fanatic supporters had spotted you in a shitty diner a week ago. They’d called the cops and tried to bar you and Logan from leaving. 

It hadn’t gone over well for him. 

He’d been trying to keep you a little more hidden since then, but it left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d gotten you out of that house to show you what real life was like, to give you a taste of freedom. 

He felt like he was no better than your father, keeping you cooped up and covered constantly. 

When the kid in front of him doesn’t say anything, Logan clears his throat. He gives him a quizzical look but the boy’s eyes are stuck on the door. 

“I swear I know her,” he mutters. Logan’s eyes drift towards the TV behind the counter and he sees an old news story of you. They’re using the footage of the acid attack, claiming you’ve always been the mutant movement’s target. 

“Can I get twenty on pump seven,” Logan repeats, voice firm. The kid finally looks at him and whatever expression Logan is wearing is enough for him to finally start moving. 

The second the receipt is in his hand he’s rushing out the door. He doesn’t know how long it’s going to take that dumbass to piece two and two together but he can’t risk dawdling. 

He fills the tank up, eyes scanning the gas station the entire time. He’s had a cloying sense of paranoia ever since the incident in the diner. He knows that at some point this little run of yours is going to come to an end. 

He doesn’t know if it’ll end with cops finding the two of you. Or if you’re going to realize the real world isn’t all that fun and leave him behind. He knows that a girl like you, one who's used to the finer things, is never going to be satisfied by the life he can offer. 

But he’s hoping that you come to your senses later rather than sooner. He’s enjoying traveling with you a lot more than he wants to admit. 

He gets in the truck, starts it up, and glances over at you. You smile, the smile that makes him feel things he doesn’t like admitting to himself or you. 

“All good?” You ask. 

He nods, driving off without a word because he doesn’t want to tell you the truth. Doesn’t want to admit what you both know to be a fact. The time you have together has an expiration date and he’s worried it’s creeping closer. 

Logan’s inside some shitty roadside motel. Whatever he’s talking about with the owner is clearly getting heated. You can see the way the anger’s growing on his face. His body is tensed up and he looks like he’s five seconds away from leaping over the counter and taking the greasy man leering at him down. 

There’s a final word exchanged between them and then Logan is storming back towards the truck. He slams the door closed so hard you’re surprised the windows don’t shatter. Normally, you sleep in the trailer. It’s not always the warmest or coziest, but you make it work. 

It’s too cold out tonight to do that and Logan doesn’t have a spare tank for the heating. He’d thought he’d had enough for a cheap room for tonight, but clearly, he doesn’t. There’s a tense silence in the truck as you mentally debate saying anything to him. 

His fists are wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel you can hear it creaking. You shift, sitting up straighter in your seat and uncurling your legs. There’s a stiffness to your joints that has you groaning. It’s involuntary, ripped out of you simply because you’ve been sitting for too long. 

It catches Logan’s attention and he glances over at you. There’s a resigned sort of guilt on his face and it makes you feel sick to your stomach. He’s used to this type of lifestyle, and sometimes you think he’s embarrassed to share it with you. 

You’d never judge him for roadside motels or living off cheap gas station meals. You know you were privileged living up with the wealth you did. But there is something infinitely more satisfying about being poor and happy than there ever was being rich and miserable.

“Look, kid,” he lets out a heavy sigh and you mentally prepare yourself for what you’ve been expecting. You were a fun time, a nice ride, but you’re becoming a burden and he can’t deal with it anymore. 

You let your nails dig into the thin skin of your palms so you can attempt to ground yourself. “I need to make some money tonight, so I just need you to bear with me for a while.”

Like there is every time he doesn’t boot you to the curb, a relieved rush of air expels from your chest almost violently.  “Okay,” you say tentatively, the word dragging out while you try and understand his meaning. 

“I just,” he stops and it looks like he’s struggling to find the words to say to you. You wait patiently for him to finish, or try to at least. “There’s a bar nearby. I’ll find some work there,” his words are ominous. They give you nothing and convey so much. 

Clearly, he’s hiding something from you. You can tell that much from the way he’s avoiding eye contact with you. He pulls out of the motel’s parking lot and turns the radio on. You’ve learned that's his way of telling you he doesn’t want to talk without being a dick about it. 

You want to respect his space because you still feel like an imposter. But it’s hard. He’s being oddly cagey about this. 

The drive is short but it feels like you’ve been transported to an entirely different town than the one you were in before. He takes only backroads and middle-class homes turn into shady shops with barbed fences. Caged dogs bark at the truck as it drives by and you get a sinking feeling in your gut. 

Perhaps it’s a little classist of you to automatically assume a few low-end homes equate to a bad neighborhood. But instinctually you know something is off about this place. 

He parks in front of a run-down bar. Even from here, you can hear loud shouts and jeering coming from inside. You don’t know what’s being said but they’re certainly passionate. Logan turns towards you, the expression on his face so serious you feel like you’re about to be scolded. 

“I need you to stay here. I won’t be gone long, just an hour at most. But you need to stay in the truck.”

Your jaw gapes and you scoff at him. “Logan, an hour that’s rid-”

He cuts you off with a stern call of your name. Your mouth snaps shut and you narrow your eyes at him, teeth gritting together to keep your tongue at bay. “Stay here, I mean it. Got it?”

You nod and he repeats your name, sounding aggrieved. “Fine,” you huff. “I got it.” He lingers for a moment. You don’t know if he doesn’t trust you or is just reluctant to leave you alone. You’re reluctant to be left alone, especially in a shady dark parking lot like this. But clearly whatever is going on inside is worse than whatever could happen to you out here. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he makes this whole thing sound so grave. It makes your brows furrow and doubt churn in your gut. What could he be doing in there that’s so awful?

He gets out and you watch his form under the flickering street lamps until you can’t see him anymore. You sit quietly in the truck for at least three minutes before you already feel the boredom set in. 

You’d thought you’d be able to last longer. You used to go for hours dissociating at your father’s galas. This is different, though. You’re a little afraid to let your guard down here. 

You try to listen to music but you feel bad wasting his gas so you just turn the truck off and huddle under a blanket in the trailer. You try and let yourself fall asleep but you don’t last long. 

It’s too cold outside to really get a good rest and you can hear people moving around outside the trailer. After about an hour of rolling around and frozen limbs, you figure enough is enough. 

As much as you don’t want to provoke Logan or give him any reason to get rid of you, you can’t stay in here all night. Besides, Logan said he wouldn’t be long, you can always just lie and say you were worried about him. 

Satisfied with your excuse you leave the comfort of your blanket behind and slip into Logan’s jacket. You tuck the truck keys in your pocket and walk out into the snowy night. It’s less cold outside than it was in the trailer, you can see why he wanted a motel room for the night. 

A few people linger by the cars, smoking and muttering to themselves. You slip past them, ignoring the feeling of their eyes burning into your skin. You’re sure it's because you look like you don’t belong here. 

The noise in the bar gets louder the closer you get and it reminds you of the night Logan had snuck you out of the house. But you’d had him to lean on, right now, until you find him, you’re on your own. For all the noise coming from the building, the bar is surprisingly empty. 

Only a few old men are sitting around, drinking beers in silence. The bartender cleans glasses behind the counter, sparing you an odd look before getting back to work. There’s not very far for you to look before you figure out that Logan isn’t anywhere nearby. 

“Excuse me?” The bartender spares you a fleeting glance before barely grunting in greeting. 

The floor underneath you tremors and you glance down at it in surprise. You can hear something going on underneath. You figure that has to be where all the noises are coming from. “I’m looking for someone. Tall, mean as hell, he’s got this hair,” you swoop your hands up by the sides of your head, trying to mimic the odd fluff of Logan’s hair. 

“Downstairs.” You nod and move around the bar, trying to get to the door behind him. He reaches out, grabbing your bicep and stopping you before you can get far. “It's a forty-dollar entrance fee, sweetheart.”

Your brow furrows in confusion and you frown as you dig around in your jacket pockets. You’ve come too far to be deterred now. Ignoring the moral implications, you slip Logan’s wallet out of his jacket and give the man forty dollars. 

He nods towards the door and you give him a weak thank you as you slip past him. Opening the door is like breaking a seal. The noises bombard you almost immediately, so much clearer than they were before. 

You still can’t understand what they’re screaming but there’s a violent atmosphere slipping around you as you head down the stairs. The heady smell of cigars and cigarettes threatens to suffocate you. Your eyes water at the smoke in the air. 

You’d think you’d have gotten used to secondhand smoking after being around Logan, but he’s less inclined to hotbox the car if you’re beside him. The second your feet hit the floor you’re being jostled to the side violently by the people around you. 

It’s nearly impossible to elbow your way through the crowd, but you’re determined to figure out what’s in the middle of the cage that’s got them all excited. You can hear the people around you screaming out bets and numbers you don’t understand. 

For one nauseating moment, you think this might be a dog fighting ring, that Logan gambles on it to earn his money. It makes you want to turn around, to shield yourself from the truth. But this is something he tried to keep hidden from you and you need to know the truth about whoever you’re traveling with. 

You can hear the announcer, but you can’t get close enough to see anything yet. “Are you gonna let this man walk away with your money?” There’s a resounding NO! from the crowd that makes you jump. 

A booming voice shouts over the throng of voices, “I’ll take him!” 

“Our savior ladies and gentlemen!” You shove through two men, ignoring the way they complain about how their beer sloshes on their sleeves. 

“Hey-” You glance over your shoulder as one of them reaches for you.  You flick your wrist, sending him and his friend tumbling back into the crowd. You roll your eyes and turn back towards the cage. 

Your eyes widen and so do Logan’s as you finally see what exactly is going on. He’s cage fighting, this is what he’d been so secretive about. Honestly, it’s a relief compared to the brutality you were bracing yourself for. 

You can see his lips starting to form the shape of your name but the man from before is barrelling into his side as the bell goes off. You wince, jumping away from the cage as you hear the meaty impact of his fist against Logan’s face. 

The people near you scream, shouting for Logan’s blood. It’s easy to figure out that he’s been beating everyone he’s gone up against based on some bloody faces in the crowd. It’s smart, easy money. He can always heal, and can never really be beaten, not when he’s literally got fists of steel. 

You’re surprised that no one’s ever caught onto this scam of his. You also wonder why he had been so adamant about you not seeing this. Sure, it’s brutal watching blood spray against the mat. But you don’t care. Besides, he’s ridiculously attractive in just his jeans as he pummels into some guy. 

Maybe that’s not a normal line of thinking. 

You shake your head, shelving that for later as the fight dies down. The man is limp on the mat of the cage and Logan is leaning against the wall, smoking a cigar and pointedly not looking at you. 

You feel that familiar twisting feeling in your stomach and wonder if this was a horrible idea. You should have just stayed in the car like he asked. You’re sure it would have only been another hour of tirelessly rolling around before he came back. But you couldn’t help yourself. 

He tells you so little about himself. If you get a chance to learn more, you’re going to pounce on the opportunity. Maybe it was a violation of his trust. You sincerely doubt that he would ever willingly have revealed this sort of lifestyle to you, though. 

He seems to be under the same misguided intention that you need to be sheltered. It reminds you a little of your father. That might be a cruel comparison but it’s the same suffocating feeling of being kept in the dark to suit their needs. 

The guilt you’d been holding unfurls and blossoms into anger. You find yourself retreating away from the cage and rushing back up the stairs of the bar. You don’t want to watch him fight any longer. You don’t want to look at him. 

You just want him to treat you like an equal. Not like some little girl who’s going to run at the first sign of things getting hard. 

You burst through the door of the bar, ignoring the cold laughter of the bartender behind you. He clearly seemed to think you couldn’t handle a little blood. He wasn’t the only one. 

You’re only a couple of feet from the truck when you hear footsteps loudly stomping through the snow behind you. “What the hell were you doing?” You scoff, unbelieving that he would have the gall to shout at you. 

You whirl around on him and it catches him off guard. His right foot slides against the slush as he tries to stop himself from ramming into you. “I’m not a little girl, Logan! You don’t need to hide stuff like that from me.”

He crosses his arms and glares down at you. “I wasn’t hiding anything,�� he insists. But the tone of his voice gives him away. He doesn’t like that he was caught. “I don’t need to tell you jackshit about what I do for money.”

You can’t believe how he sounds right now. Why is he getting so defensive about this? “I don’t care what you do for money, alright. I just don’t get why you felt like I couldn’t know about this.” You hate the way the hurt is audible in your voice. You wear your heart on your sleeve, even when you try and cover it. 

In the same way, he’s masking his feelings with anger, so are you. Just with less success. Something draws across his face, some emotion you can’t discern. His voice goes cold and quiet as he shoves an envelope full of cash into your hands. 

“Go back to the motel. Get a room.”

He storms past you and walks towards the trailer. You follow after him, slightly dumbfounded by how he’s behaving. He rips his motorcycle out from the back and rolls it into a parking spot. You watch him do all this with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth. 

It’s only when he starts to head back towards the bar that you realize he’s not coming with you. “Logan!” You call out, trailing after him slightly. He barely turns back to face you. “Are you,” the words die on your tongue and you can’t find it in yourself to finish. 

Are you angry?

Are you leaving?

Are you going to ditch me at the next bus stop?

Instead of asking any of your ridiculously pining questions, you turn on your heel and storm towards the truck. You rip the door open with more force than necessary and drive off without looking back at him. But you know he watches, know he keeps an eye on you until he can’t see you anymore. 

Your rides with him are normally silent, but this one feels painfully so. 

You nearly get a room with two beds. But you feel like if you do it will be a horrendous mistake. Reluctantly, you give the man behind the counter enough for a room with one bed large enough for the both of you. 

You’re not exactly excited about sharing a bed with him, not after how he behaved tonight. You grumble to yourself as you drag your bag inside and toss it on the ground. You picture putting up a wall of pillows between the two of you, just to be petty. 

It’s as you’re showering that you realize you might not even have to. He might not come to join you tonight. He won’t know what room you’re in. And he’d made it pretty clear how pissed he was at you for sneaking into the bar. 

Maybe you’ve finally pushed him too far. You’ve been toying with the boundaries of his patience for a while. Little tests to determine whether he truly wants you around simply to have a warm body ready beside him. Or if he wants you because he genuinely cares for you. 

You suppose tonight, whether you want it or not, you’ll finally have the truth. 

The thought keeps you awake. You toss and you turn for hours, fighting with yourself. You should be happy, finally figuring out what’s been haunting you. But you’re not. You’re petrified. You’d rather keep living a lie than finally accept that he truly doesn’t want you. 

You throw the covers off, the scratchy material only further adding to your irritation. You stomp into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind you. You turn on the sink splashing some cool water over your face to try and rid yourself of the warmth lingering under your skin. You don’t know if this feeling of being uncomfortable in your own body is from pent-up anger or anxiety. 

You don’t care. You just want to sleep this night away and pretend it never happened. But, of course, the universe has other plans. The motel door creaks open as you’re hovering over the sink, debating whether or not you’re nauseous enough to throw up. 

You tilt your head slightly towards the sound. Growing up in your house, filtering through rooms like an unheard ghost, allowed you to get good at recognizing footsteps. Logan has finally decided to grace you with his presence. 

You listen to him as he creeps silently across the room, landing on the squeaky bed. You press your ear against the door and can hear the way the sheets rustle and he cusses under his breath. There’s worry staining his voice and you figure you shouldn’t drag this on much longer. 

You open the bathroom door and flip the switch, turning the lamps on like a disappointed mother waiting up for her teenager. You cross your arms mutely and lean against the doorframe as he winces under the sudden light. 

He jumps, just slightly, and glares over at you. “Thought you weren’t here,” he accuses. He tries sounding angry, but you have a sudden rush of clarity in that moment. Where you would normally focus only on him being upset with you, you can see the truth of his concern.

Same as you, he doesn’t know where he stands in this whole situation. You doubt he had a clear plan when he rescued you from your tower like some ridiculous storybook knight. He most likely thought that you left, the same way you thought he would. 

You remain silent, though, still a little too flustered to speak coherently. Instead, you examine him. There are cuts and blood all over his shirt. Splatters of it on his face. Though, you know if you looked there would be no physical evidence of him ever being hurt. 

His brows furrow the longer you stare, a wall building between the two of you. “Kid?” He questions, equal parts worried and defensive. Does he really think you actually give a fuck about him fighting?

You shake your head and walk back into the bathroom. You rustle around in the cabinet underneath the sink until you find a washcloth. Wetting it, you bring it back out to him. You station yourself between his spread legs, holding the cloth between you like a peace offering. 

He looks doubtful as he glances between you and it. Finally, he lets out a rough sigh and simply nods his head. But when he reaches for it you snatch it back, much to his chagrin. You offer him a small smile and tilt his chin up towards you, gently wiping some of the dried blood off his cheeks. 

He doesn’t flinch or hiss away from the less-than-gentle fabric. He stares at you unblinkingly, like if he closes his eyes for a moment he’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream. “You don’t have to do this, kid.”

You roll your eyes and crane your neck to get a better look at him. “Would you shut up?” You whisper teasingly. 

His lips quirk slightly and you can see his shoulder slump in relief at the sound of your voice. “So, she can talk.” You can’t help the little laugh that comes out of you. He grins fully at that and his hands come up to rest on your hips. 

His thumbs rub soothing circles along the sides of your waist as his hands dip a little lower. “What are you doing?” Your hand drifts down to his neck to wipe some blood off there as well. 

He shakes his head and shrugs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You lift your gaze to his and your lips fall flat, “Logan-”

He cuts you off before you can finish. In one smooth motion, his hands drop to wrap around your thighs. He lifts you slightly and drops you onto his lap. He grins at the slight huff of surprise that rushes out of you. 

His arms go back to your waist, pulling you closer to him and grinding you a little against him. You bite your lip to stop any noises from escaping. As much as you wouldn’t mind what he’s thinking, you need to talk. 

“Logan,” you scold. 

He smirks and tilts his head patronizingly, “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

“It’s not happening,” you tell him firmly, hand still working on cleaning him. 

He sighs and one of his arms drops away from you. He cups your hand in his, stilling your movements and forcing you to meet his gaze. Gently, he takes the cloth from you and tosses it somewhere you can’t see. “I’m fine,” he whispers, eyes searching yours. 

It’s hard meeting his gaze. The worry and anxiety from the night still weigh heavily on your shoulders. He repeats himself, fingers tilting your chin up to face him. “Alright?”

“I don’t care,” the words come rushing out of you before you can stop them. His brows raise in shock and he gives a slight chuckle of amusement. A lump grows in your throat and your eyes grow wide. “Wait, I don’t mean-”

You cut yourself off and rub your hands over your face, trying to get your head on right. Logan’s patient, rubbing your back and clearly trying not to laugh at you. You finally take in a deep breath and face him again. 

“I don’t care about the fighting,” you can see his shoulders tense slightly like he doesn’t believe you. “I don’t care, Logan. You do what you have to survive and I’m not gonna judge you for that.”

“What if I enjoy it?” He cuts you off, tone harsh as he glares down at you. There's experience in how quickly he doubts you, how quickly he tries to get you to change your mind about him.

You wonder how many times he’s been rejected just for being a mutant. You’ve only ever been rejected by one person because only he ever knew. Your father. And that hurt enough for one lifetime. 

You can’t imagine going for as long as he has and constantly being called a monster for something he can’t control. Your brows furrow and you lean into him until your lips are brushing. He remains stiff beneath you but you don’t let it deter you. 

“I don’t care,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his before slowly pulling back. You wait for him to respond, physically or verbally, but he’s still looking at you with that cold unfamiliar gaze. 

You wonder if maybe it was a mistake, to bring it up at all. But just as the thought comes he’s surging forward. His lips catch yours, his hands digging so desperately into your shirt you know it rips. 

Your arms go to his neck, holding onto him so you don’t slip off his lap. You haven't been this close for a few days. You think it might have made you both feel on edge. There’s a relief that comes from not just having sex with him, but also just being intimate and close to one another. 

It’s a reminder that you’re not alone, that there’s someone here beside you to be a partner and a pillar of stability. You’ve never had that before. Someone that you can rely on and trust fully. You don’t think he has either. 

He craves you the same way you do him. Each kiss, every shared breath, is treated like it will be your last. You don’t know when your father will finally catch up to the two of you. You don’t know when the police might finally recognize Logan. 

There’s no definitive future for either of you. It’s a real possibility that this could be your last night together. And neither of you wants to be upset with each other. Because you were never truly mad. You were always just worried. 

Your hands drop to his shirt, dipping to find the holes in it from his fight and ripping at the flimsy fabric until you can just yank it off. He smiles against your lips at the eager way you move atop him. But he can’t tease you, he’s already annoyed with the buttons on your shirt. 

He pulls back, glaring down at the fabric like it's insulting him. Without another word, he slices through it, leaving it in tatters on your shoulder. You grin, shrugging the rest of it off. “That was yours.”

He grips your hips tightly and leaves marks where his fingers are as a reminder that he was here. He flips you over, leaves you breathless as he hovers over you. “I really don’t give a fuck, sweetheart.”

You’re addicted to his voice. How breathy and desperate it is when he’s with you. It’s a level of vulnerability you rarely get to see from him. He can’t hide himself when he’s with you like this. He wants you just as badly as you do him. 

It gives you a confidence rush like no other, makes your ego grow ten times its size. If you can make a man like this fall to his knees from nothing more than a kiss, then you’re capable of a lot more than you give yourself credit for. 

But you don’t want that tonight. You reach for him before he can go much further, grabbing him by his hair and tugging until you know it stings. He nearly fucking moans at your rough touch, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. The green of them has been wholly consumed by his desire for you and it makes you ache for him. 

“Not tonight,” you tell him. There’s no room for argument in your tone. As much as he might want to taste you, devour you, all you want is to be as close to him as possible. You want to be covered and filled by him in every way you can be. 

His head falls against your thigh, a rough groan tumbling from his throat at your words. You drag him towards you, pulling him up your body until you’re face to face. You smile softly up at him, lifting your head so you can meet his lips again. 

You’ll never get enough of kissing him, of tasting him. Sometimes you have to stop yourself from reaching across the seats and kissing him while he drives. You’ve nearly made him wreck a few times and forced him to pull over so you could both have some fun in the back. 

Addiction isn’t the right word for what you feel for him. It brings along its own negative connotations. The taint of dependency and toxicity. With addiction, it’s a parasitic relationship, hurts you but makes you feel good. 

This is just goodness. This is a kind touch for the first time in your life and finally feeling safe in someone elses arms. This is opening yourself up to him fully and not once feeling like you need to mold yourself into something else to make him happy. It’s accepting him as he is, a broken dog who likes to fight to punish himself. You don’t want to change him or make him “better.” You just want him to be happy. 

You use your powers to help yourself, flipping him over and straddling his hips. You drag his jeans down his legs and flick your wrist, sending them flying somewhere across the room. He watches you with eyes filled with awe, hands drifting over your curves like something to be worshipped. 

You know he’s waiting for it, for you to sink yourself down on him and finally be filled. But you wait, hover over him even as the muscles of your thighs tremor. “You don’t hide things from me anymore,” you warn him. You’re not asking, for once, you’re demanding what you want. 

He doesn’t look angry like you’d been expecting. Instead, it only seems to turn him on more. “Ya know,” his hands drift to your hips, dragging you down and over his cock until it’s wet with your want. Your nails dig into his chest until there’s blood beading under them and you’re trying not to let your noises slip out. 

“I kinda like it when you’re all bossy like this.” 

“Logan,” you grit his name out. It takes everything in you not to look as affected by him as you feel. “No more hiding shit.”

He leans up on his elbows. His hand drifts to the nape of your neck and drags you down until your lips are nearly touching his. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”

Like a taut rope being cut, you sink into him, your hips finally drop and he guides you down every inch of him until you feel like you’re so full you can’t breathe. He lets you linger for a moment, and get used to this feeling while he steals the very air from your lungs. 

He’s greedy with the way he touches you. His hands always moving like he’ll never fully be satisfied with how much of you he can feel. He’s always reaching for you like he needs to make sure you’re actually real and not just something he’s dreamt up. 

Even with how impatient he is, you’re always the one that moves first. You roll your hips over him, moaning at how he feels inside you. It’s like he’s perfectly molded you around him. He always manages to brush against the spots that make your eyes roll into the back of your head. 

The second your hips begin to roll, he’s wrapping his heavy arms around you, grinding you down into him. He keeps you trapped in place, using you like a toy as he bounces you on his lap. Your mind is fuzzy, every bad thought and feeling shoved out while he makes you go dumb on his dick.

You love how boneless you go. You don’t have to think now, don’t have to worry. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, shifting yourself further on top of him until you're practically burying yourself under his skin. 

Not thinking always comes with its own consequences, though. Your powers slip a little out of your grasp. The walls trembling and the drawers and cabinets opening and closing. The both of you have gotten used to the noise, know how to drown it out, and just focus on each other. 

One of these days, you’ll need to figure out a way to have sex with him without bringing the room down around you. That’s a problem for later though. His whispered praises and grunts of your name filter through your mind until there’s nothing left inside you but him. 

“Fuck,” he hisses in your ear, “you’re so fucking tight around me. You close?” He grunts, hand drifting down to rub tight circles on your clit. You dig your nails into his shoulders, nodding your head frantically against his neck. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Shit,” you can barely think of your own damn name. Let alone what you want from him. “Fuck off,” you hiss. He chuckles at the attitude and you almost expect him to stop, just to be a dick because you were a brat. 

But he’s just as close as you are and he’s too selfish to tease. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes down on you as your body shakes against his. He follows quickly after you, warmth shooting up inside you and almost leaking down your thighs. You feel stuffed, like your body’s been pushed to the limit and further. 

You both sit together in silence for a while. You ignore the way your skin sticks to his uncomfortably, instead reveling in the warmth he provides you. Anyone else, and you’d be rushing to get away from them. 

You’re always extra sensitive after sex, every little thing setting you off. But there’s a comfort to the way his hairy ass chest brushes against your breasts and his arms squeeze around you. It’s a nice grounding feeling. 

The tips of your fingers drift over his arms, following the path of his veins and brushing against his fingers lazily. He flips his palm over, encasing your hand in his own wordlessly. Little things like that ease your worries. Makes you feel like something more than just a quick fuck. 

He breaks the silence first, which is rare for him. “I’m sorry about tonight.”

You frown and peer up at him. “I told you, I don’t care about the fighting.”

He sighs and shakes his head, “Not that. I shouldn’t have gotten so fucking mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You want to interrupt him, assure him that you both acted pretty childishly. 

But you understand it’s difficult for him to express himself verbally. He usually prefers silent acts of apologies and expression, you don’t want to mess him up before he can get out what he wants to say. 

“I don’t want to be like your father.” Your face screws up a little and you shift uncomfortably on his lap. He loosens his grip, giving you room to leave if you want to, but you stay put. “I’m trying not to coddle you, sweetheart, or hide you away from the world. But I don’t like you seeing that shit.”

“You’re not my dad, Logan. He wouldn’t give me a choice,” you try and joke but it just seems to make him more irritated. Sighing you straighten up, bracing yourself on his chest and staring down at him. 

Your head tilts to the side in contemplation and he almost looks uncomfortable under the attention. “I’m not so fragile or sheltered that I’m going to shatter at the first taste of the real world, Logan. I mean, for god’s sake, I’ve had acid thrown at me and bodyguards since I could walk. I know how dangerous it is. Whatever you want to hide from me, I’ve seen worse.”

You let your words sink in for a moment and he looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You know that it’s odd for him, to comprehend a girl who was afraid to go into a bar swallowing down an illegal fighting ring like it’s nothing. But you’re not lying. Everyday little things are what you’re unused to. But you’ve lived alongside violence your whole life. 

“Look, fighting, sleeping in shitty motels, and your truck, that doesn't bother me. But I don’t like when you hide things and I don’t,” you take in a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the worst. This is what you’ve been trying to tell him for weeks. 

A few little words have your tongue tied and make you desperate to cover yourself up again. He can see the shift in your expression, and feel how tense you get. He sits up a little more, thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand. 

“I don’t want to just be someone to fuck you, Logan. I didn’t come with you so you’d have easy access pussy,” he looks thoroughly amused at your crude words, but there’s something else lingering in his expression. Something like hurt. 

“Is that what you think?” He asks, tone distant. You can’t find the words so you simply nod. He sighs and shakes his head. He eases you off his lap and you worry you’ve truly fucked this up somehow. 

He goes into the bathroom, returns with a wet washcloth. He still doesn’t speak and you’re on edge the entire time he cleans the both of you up. You can see he’s thinking, biting his tongue, and trying to figure out what it is that he wants to say to you. 

You’re impatient, five seconds away from just demanding a response from him. He tosses the cloth and drops into bed beside you. You draw the sheets up to your chest, glaring down at him while he rubs his hands over his face with a tired sigh. 

When he opens his eyes again he laughs at how close you are. “Jesus,” he wraps an arm around your waist, dragging you down into his chest even though you fight him. It must be easier for him to speak when you’re not staring at him. 

“I didn’t go back for you so I could fuck you, kid. I… care about you,” there’s a long pause before he says the word care. You think it’s funny, that he can’t bring himself to admit what he actually feels. But you’ll take it, you’ll give him the time he needs to come to terms with the truth. 

For now, you let yourself fall asleep, feeling just a little bit better about the road ahead. 

Things get easier between the two of you. And somehow harder at the same time. You don’t walk on eggshells around each other, no longer afraid of scaring the other off now. Which also means that you find it easier to bicker with him about little things. Like, not just tossing his trash everywhere in the truck. You’re practically living out of the trailer, the least he could do is help you keep it tidy. 

You know it’s weird for him. Suddenly having someone nag at him not to be a slob or to take breaks in between driving so he doesn’t wear himself out. It’s an adjustment you see him struggle with sometimes. 

You try not to be too pushy, but there’s only so many times you can flick crumbs from his burgers off your seat before you lose it. “Logan!” You snap, glaring at him as you stand up only to find chip crumbs squished into the fabric of your leggings. 

He glances over at you and shrugs, “What?” 

You glance between the crumbs and him with a glare but he doesn’t seem to be connecting the dots. “Fucks sake,” you grumble, passive-aggressively wiping the truck seat off before you slam the door and storm towards the diner. 

You’re sick of being cramped in the truck. You’re sick of the greasy food. You’ve begun to crave salads lately. Which is beyond weird. But the novelty of shitty food and milkshakes wore off a hundred miles ago. 

Logan catches up to you, huffing with irritation as he swings the door open for you. You take a seat in the booth near the corner, snatching up the menu and pointedly staring at it and not him. “Really?” He demands. When you don’t answer he tips the menu down, forcing you to meet his gaze. “What is your problem?” He hisses, trying not to draw attention to you both. 

You lean in, voice a harsh whisper. “How hard is it to just not make a mess? We live out of that damn truck, the least you could do is keep your crumbs on your side.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back in the booth. You’re both sick of having the same fight. But there’s really nothing else to do anymore. When you’re stuck together for so long, it’s the small things that get to you. 

You’re going to say more but the waitress pops in front of you out of nowhere. “Hi!” She beams and gives you her name, the bows in her hair trembling at how hyper she is. “What can I get you both today?”

You and Logan place your orders, and he shoots you an odd look when you only order the salad. “We’ve got a couple more hours ahead of us, you’re gonna get hungry.”

You cross your arms and shrug, “No, I won’t.”

He licks his lips, sucking on his teeth and leaning against the table. “Yes, you will,” he argues with a stern voice. 

You narrow your eyes at him and give him a bitter smile. “Kiss. My. Ass.”

Your stomach grumbles for the third time and you know that Logan can hear it. You’re pointedly not making eye contact with him. It feels like it's louder than the music at this point and you really don’t want to prove him right. 

Without a word, he begins to dig around in the center console. You glance towards him, confused, “What’re you doing?”

He doesn’t say anything, just tosses whatever he’s grabbed onto your lap. You glance down at it and frown. It’s somehow cold as you unwrap it. You pull the parchment paper away and let out a relieved sigh. 

He ordered you a wrap from the diner without you realizing. You take a bite, your hunger steadily easing away. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, pointedly looking out the window. 

He glances over at you and scoffs. “What was that? Couldn’t hear ya, kid.” 

You roll your eyes and turn to glare at him. He’s already looking at you, a teasing tilt to his lips. “I said I’m sorry,” you snap. “I shouldn’t have been a bitch.”

He shakes his head and waves you off. “I haven’t exactly been pleasant myself. I’ll,” he huffs lowly and forces the words out, “clean up more.”  

“I think we’ve just been stuck on the road too long. We’re gonna end up driving each other insane.”

His eyes glance along the signs on the highway. There’s a notice for food and shopping at the next exit and he nods towards it. “We’ll stop at a motel for a few nights. Take a break.” You want to ask him if he’s sure that’s smart. 

It seems risky, to slow down for so long. But you need to walk around, breathe fresh air, and stretch your legs. You’re too selfish to tell him not to stop and keep going. Instead, you nod and smile at him. “That sounds really nice.”

He gives you a slight smile that’s gone as quickly as it came, reaching over and resting his hand on your thigh. You move closer to him and he turns the radio up. You wonder why he doesn’t want to talk anymore but you don’t push it. You’re too excited to finally get out of the truck again. 

The town is nice enough. It’s small, with only a few shops where you buy some new shirts to replace one’s that Logan has torn up. The motel you’re staying at doesn’t have a washing machine so you have to use the laundromat to wash your clothes. 

Logan says he’s going to see if he can find a quick job nearby. You wonder if that means a real job or a more bloody one. You decide not to ask questions, instead taking the little change you have and figuring you’ll try to get the smell of grease out of all your clothes. 

As you load the machine up and put your quarters in you can’t escape the feeling of someone watching you. You’ve been on high alert ever since Logan stole you away from the house. But this is different. 

You’ve gotten used to your own paranoia, you know when it’s real or not. You walk away from the machine, glancing out at the glass walls near the front and trying to see if there’s someone out there. This, oddly enough, doesn’t feel like a police stakeout where they’re going to track you back to the motel and bust Logan. 

This is something different. There is a deep-seated primal fear in you that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Your heart races as your eyes search the dark street outside. What little glow comes from the streetlights isn’t enough for you to clearly make anything out. 

But you feel them, tracking your every move. They’re somewhere nearby, you can’t see them but they see you. You feel sick to your stomach. You glance at the door before racing towards it. You turn the lock, slowly backing away and keeping your eyes trained on the street. 

You look into the shadows and find shapes and movements where there are none. Your eyes spin as your brain crafts a horrible image of some monster waiting outside for you. When the timer for the washer goes off you let out a sharp scream, spinning around and clutching your chest as you glare at it. 

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter, angrily running your hand over your face and trying to catch your breath. You put the clothes in the dryer and by the time you're done, the feeling is gone. You don’t know if they were never there to begin with, or if they got bored and left. 

You’d told Logan that you didn’t need a ride, you’d just walk the short distance back to the motel. Now, you use the phone on the front counter and call him, telling him you’ve changed your mind after all. 

By the time he picks you up, he looks incredibly concerned. You know you sounded panicked when you called him. You still feel upset about the whole thing. But when he asks what’s wrong you just tell him you got a little scared walking back in the dark. 

You don’t tell him someone was watching you because you know he’ll make you pack up and leave again. You want some stability. Even if it's just for a week. So, as stupid as it is, you lie to him and say everything’s fine. 

When you try to go to sleep that night you feel like you’re being watched again. Even with the curtains closed their eyes burn into you. You toss and turn under the heavy weight of the sheets, struggling to get comfortable. 

There’s a low grumble behind you before Logan throws his arm over your waist and tugs you back into his chest. “Stop movin’ around,” he demands, his voice barely audible. You smile a little at how tired he sounds before forcing yourself to settle down. 

He doesn’t give you much choice, using his body as a weight to keep you pinned. You still feel their gaze, even more now, but his proximity brings you enough comfort to get a little bit of restless sleep. 

Logan’s up before you, he always is. He comes in with cheap coffee and free breakfast from the lounge. You push the sheets off your legs, your shirt sticking to your back from the cold sweat of your nervous sleeping. You feel a little more at ease this morning. 

You wonder if you’re developing some late-in-life fear of the dark. You don’t know why you were so upset last night, you feel perfectly fine now. It’s almost like it was all one bad dream. Logan walks over, handing you the coffee wordlessly and rustling around in your bag for something. 

He pulls out the envelope of cash you keep stashed away and frowns at the contents. “Found a job,” he mutters, stuffing the envelope away and turning back towards you. He leans against the desk, face pensive. 

You rub your eyes, trying to wake yourself up a bit more so you sound coherent. “What is it?” You take a sip of the coffee and your face screws up at the aftertaste. 

“Fighting,” his tone is clipped and you wonder what’s got him up in arms. He walks past you, heading into the bathroom, and closing the door behind him. You tilt your head, gaze following him curiously. He doesn’t normally close the door, he usually likes to invite you to join him. 

Something happened and you wonder if he’s hiding the same thing you are. You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath and closing your mind off to the fear from last night. 

By the time Logan is done in the bathroom, you’re feeling more awake. You can’t just dismiss what happened last night. You’ve never gotten scared like that before. You refuse to ignore your instincts, but you’re also not going to let whoever that was terrify you into going back on the road. 

You don’t want things between you and Logan to grow more tense than they already are. The time away from each other yesterday helped a lot. You no longer want to strangle him when you hear him breathe. You’ll just stick closer to him today and see if you feel the eyes on you again tonight. 

“So,” you start, testing the waters to see if he’s still in a bad mood. He glances over at you, eyebrows quirked in curiosity but you’re tongue-tied as you stare at him. However many weeks you’ve been with him and you’re never gonna get used to seeing him straight out of the shower. 

The towel is draped low on his hips, giving you a taunting look at what lies underneath the white cloth. Droplets drip down his abs and you’ve never wanted to be water more than you do right now. It’s unfair, just how attractive he is. 

You always forget what you’re going to say. You can’t think when he has a shirt off, it’s infuriating. Scoffing, you turn away from him and shake your head. You hear him chuckle, you know he knows what you’re thinking about. 

“What’s wrong?” He creeps up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist and tugging you back into his chest. 

“Logan, dammit,” water soaks into the back of your shirt uncomfortably and you tilt your head to glare at him. 

He smirks down at you, “Cat got your tongue, kid?”

You roll your eyes and push away from him. “I can’t even remember what I was going to say.” You snatch a shirt from the dresser and shove it into his hands. “Put this on.”

He scoffs and gives you a disbelieving look. “Are you serious?” You wait for him, gaze expectant. You’re not gonna be able to think when he looks like this. Sighing, he acquieses and tugs the shirt on. His lips fall into a sarcastic line, “Happy?”

Like a switch being flipped you finally remember what you were going to ask him. “The job you told me about. Where is it?”

You can see on his face how little he wants to divulge that information to you. But you know he’s going to tell you. You two made a deal not to hide things, although, you might be breaking your side of that right now. 

“Some shitty bar a few miles from here. Listen-”

You’re not gonna like it. 

I don’t want you tagging along. 

You should just stay here and read or some shit.

You wonder which one he’ll pick today. “You wouldn’t like it, it’s just a shitty little place where I can make some quick cash.” Look at that, it’s rarely ever your first pick excuse. You must be getting better at reading him. 

“I’ll come with you,” you tell him because you’re not asking. You’re not staying by yourself tonight and you both need the money. You grin at him even as his face falls in disappointment. “Maybe I’ll fight.”

He doesn’t even say anything and you immediately regret what you said. The look he’s giving you would put you six feet under if it could. “It was just a joke,” you mutter.

“Wasn’t funny, kid,” he tells you, tone clipped as he moves around you to grab his jeans. “I don’t even want you in those places, let alone fuckin’ fighting.”

You purse your lips and take a seat on the bed, handing him his jacket when he begins looking for it. “I have abilities too, you know. Maybe I could win a fight.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “I win because I can take the hits people deal me. You can’t,” you don’t bother arguing with him that you heal too. You understand what he means. You might be able to recover physically, but there’s a mental aspect to being knocked on the ground. There’s humiliation and fear in cage fights, you probably wouldn’t be able to handle that side of it. 

He waits for you to say anything else but when he realizes you’ve dropped the subject he lets out a relieved sigh. “You’ll stay in the truck,” he tries. 

You give him a deadpan look, slipping the keys out of your purse and handing them to him. “No way in hell, but I’ll stay by the bar if it makes you feel better.” He stays silent and nods but you know he’ll try and convince you otherwise when you actually get to the place. Tough luck, though, you don’t think it’s safe for either of you to be apart tonight. Even if it’s just staying in the truck. 

The setup of these places is always the same. Though, this bar seems to be particularly disgusting in comparison to other ones you’ve been to. You position yourself near the corner, your back to the wall so you’re less likely to be noticed in the crowd. 

The fights never last more than a few minutes. And that’s if Logan is feeling generous. Most of the time you only need to be here an hour before people get pissed off and go home. Someone bumps into you and you hear a small, “I’m sorry,” before they rush to claim a stool. 

The crowd’s already begun to die out. Most leave while they still have a little money left in their pockets. You duck your head down, catching the eye of the girl who’d bumped into you. She looks young and incredibly skittish. Her eyes keep darting to the tip jar near the bartender. 

She quietly asks for water but the bartender just shakes his head, tugging the jar closer to him. You don’t know why you’re drawn to her, maybe it’s because she looks like one of those sad pound puppies, but you take a seat beside her. 

“Water,” you order, slipping him some change. When he gives it to you, you pass it off to her, spotting the greedy way she eyes it. You know a runaway when you see one, she clearly needs a little help. But Logan’s got enough on his shoulders, you’re not gonna bug him with adding another person to the mix. 

“Thank you,” she gulps it down like she hasn’t drunk anything in days. You feel your stomach twist with empathy. What little cash you have in your wallet, you slip into her bag as you pass by her. Logan will have made enough for it to be spared and it's the least you can do. 

Not everyone is as lucky as you to have someone help them navigate a new life. 

Logan grabs his jacket, wiping blood off from under his nose and heading towards you. You know he’ll want a drink before you go, he always does. Before he can say anything someone’s shouting the name he uses in the cage. “Hey, Wolverine! I want my fucking money back.”

The big man he’d knocked down earlier takes a step towards him. His friend tries to hold him back, but there’s no stopping him. He’s already had his ass kicked once, what makes him think this is going to be any different?

“Not your money anymore, bub.” Logan scoffs and turns back towards you. You just want to leave now. You don’t want to stay for a drink or go get something to eat. You feel the eyes on you again, but when you turn to find them there’s no one there but the girl. 

And she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are wide and staring at something else. “Behind you!” She screeches, and both you and Logan whirl around to find the man barreling towards him with a knife outstretched. 

Logan moves so quickly that you stumble back slightly. He grabs the guy's arm, twisting his wrist until the knife drops to the ground. He shoves him back against the wall, claws out and pinning him there.

“Shit,” you whisper, glancing around as the few patrons of the bar stare in horror at Logan. The people counting his money stop and tuck it back into the cash box. You clench your eyes shut in irritation, he’s not gonna be getting paid tonight, that’s for sure. 

There’s a strange noise behind you, like someone cocking a gun. You turn around slowly, gasping when you see the bartender pointing the barrel of his shotgun at your chest. He’s not aiming it at Logan, he’s aiming it at you. Like he somehow knows that’s the only way to get him to back off. 

It’s not like he was going to kill the guy, besides, he came at him with a knife first. What’s the difference if Logan’s a mutant? He’s defending himself. Why does no one understand that?

“Get out of my bar,” the old man warns lowly, taking a step closer to you. Logan turns around and finally spots what’s going on. 

“Pay me and I’ll be on my way.” You know you’d be able to heal from the shotgun blast, but you don’t exactly want to go through it. 

The old man laughs and shakes his head. “You’re not getting paid, buddy. Get the fuck out of my bar before I put a hole in your little girlfriend.”

Your eyes narrow in disbelief. You debate with yourself for a moment, if this is smart or not. But the guy’s being a prick and you’re sick of people treating mutants like they’re less than nothing. You flick your wrist and the shotgun goes flying out of his hand. 

You glance over at the cashbox and it comes floating towards you, landing easily in your outstretched palm. “Be thankful I’m not blowing a hole in you,” you warn, glaring at the cowering man. You walk forward and he stumbles back and you try not to focus on the sick feeling of satisfaction it brings you. You grab the tip jar and shove it towards the girl at the end of the bar. “Good luck, kid.”

Logan releases the man from the before, taking a step towards you. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and rush towards the exit of the bar. You need to just get the fuck out of this town as quickly as possible, you’re not safe here anymore. 

Logan seems to agree with you. He gets into the truck and doesn’t turn back to the motel. Instead, he turns onto the highway while you keep your eyes peeled on the trees outside your window. There’s someone out there, still following you. 

“Something’s wrong with the suspension,” you glance up from where you’d been working on breaking open the cashbox and frown. Logan’s glaring down at the steering wheel, it seems like he’s struggling to get it to turn properly. 

“What?”

He scoffs and glares at you, “How should I know?” He pulls over to the side of the road, opens his door, and lets in a rush of cool air and snow. You toss the cashbox to the back of the trailer and follow after him. 

He goes to where he’s pulling his motorcycle and you feel like you notice an extra bump under the tarp. “What’s that?” You take a step towards it just as Logan pulls it back. You have to bite back a laugh when you see the girl from last night curled up next to his motorcycle. 

She gives you both guilty looks and slowly sits up. “I’m sorry,” Logan offers her a hand and she gets out of the trailer. He grabs her bag and drops it at her feet. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Find a different ride,” he growls, already heading back to the truck. You open your mouth, prepared to argue, but you can’t force her on him. As much as you might want to help her. She’s better off away from the two of you.

“You’re just gonna leave me here?” She snaps at him, a little attitude finally showing through. 

“Yep!” He gets in the truck and you know he wants to drive off immediately but he has to wait for you. You shoot her an apologetic look as you follow after him, slipping into the seat beside him. He starts the engine, driving off slowly, eyes drifting towards the rearview mirror. 

You bite your tongue, trying not to point out how cruel he is leaving her on a snowy highway in the middle of nowhere. He glances over at you, “What?” He snaps. 

You shake your head and shrug. “Nothing.” You’ve barely finished speaking before he’s slamming on his brakes. 

“God dammit,” he mutters, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw. You can’t help the grin on your face, reaching over to open your door. It doesn’t take long for the girl to catch on, scooping up her bag and chasing after you. 

“You’re such a softie,” you tease him. 

“Shut the hell up.”

Rogue is nice, if not a little odd. She claims to be a mutant too but doesn’t want to give specifics on her abilities. You don’t want to push her but you are curious about the gloves she wears. “What kind of name is Wolverine?” She asks, spotting Logan’s tags. 

He glances over at her and smiles slightly, “What kind of a name is Rogue?”

She goes to say something but you throw your arm out, holding her back as you shout, “Logan, watch out!” He tries to hit his brakes in time but the tree’s already coming down. The truck slams into it and it’s like time slows down, only for a moment. 

You can feel the impact of your body against the windshield, the glass dragging along your scalp and skin. It’s like a million razors each slicing into you. And then, you’re flying through the air, head snapping so hard against the ground you can’t see anything. 

You hear something happening around you, a roar that doesn’t sound human echoing through the air. There’s the sound of metal crunching and someone is screaming in the distance but you can’t see. It’s not like a total void of darkness, there’s just nothing. 

You feel the blood slowly leaking down the back of your skull and something lands harshly against your head. You don’t think much time has passed. When your eyes finally open, however, you’re not lying on the pavement. 

The world around you is foreign. It smells like a hospital but it’s not like any you’ve ever seen. X-rays are hanging on the wall and paperwork is scattered on a desk near the bed you’re lying on. 

Your mind is blank for a moment. Slowly turning back on while you process the sudden change of scenery. You don’t even remember closing your eyes, you don’t know when your vision came back to you or how long you’ve been here. 

The terror sets in quickly. You throw the blankets off your legs, staring down at the pajamas you wear in disgust. Someone had changed you. They’d run tests and done X-rays on you and you don’t remember a second of it. 

You rip the needle out of your arm, tossing it to the floor and running towards the door. Your feet slip on the metal floors as you run but you’re afraid to stop. Everything around you looks more and more like a lab. 

Did someone from the bar call some government agency? You’ve heard horror stories from your father about the tests the military has run on mutants. You’re starting to worry that’s what's happening to you. 

But you doubt the military would make it so easy for you to escape. This has to be something else. You’d heard other voices when you’d been lying on the ground. People who had been trying to help. Could that be who took you?

“You caught on quicker than your friend.” You nearly fall flat on your face, flipping around to see who spoke. But no one’s there. You’re completely alone. “I’m just grateful you didn’t choke out one of my associates.” it’s coming from beside you now. 

It’s all around you, the voice floating through the walls until you think he might be in your mind. “Much faster than your friend,” he sounds gleeful and it makes you even more anxious. “I’m a telepath, darling, nothing to fear. If you’d just take that elevator and come up to meet me.”

You’d have to be an idiot to actually listen to the voices in your head. But you don’t see another way out of here. So, reluctantly, you follow the floating voice’s instructions and slip inside the elevator. 

When the door opens up again you don’t have a chance to step inside before someone’s pushing you back. Logan stands in front of you, hands clamped tightly around your shoulders while he looks you over. 

You sink into his arms, hugging him tightly to you. You’d been terrified you were all alone here. It’s more than a relief to see him again. “You’re okay?” He asks, pulling back to look at you one last time. 

You nod, throat too dry to try and form a coherent sentence. You glance over his shoulders brows furrowed at the people awkwardly watching you reunite. There’s a man in a wheelchair smiling at you, “Ah, glad you could make it.” The floating voice, of course. “Logan here was quite worried about you.”

Logan turns to glare at the man and you offer a slight smile. There is something comforting about him. You’re not exactly threatened by an old guy in a wheelchair. The redhead behind him, however, is bugging you. Something about the way she’s looking at Logan doesn’t sit right with you. 

“Welcome to my school for the exceptionally gifted,” something about the way he says that makes you tilt your head in confusion. You don’t know what he means until there’s a puff of smoke behind him and some kid is walking by with their hair on fire like it’s nothing. 

Mutants. It’s an entire school for mutants. You think you could pass out again. 

“It’s the best place we could have ended up, Logan. This is amazing.” You’ve been going back and forth for an hour. He won’t see reason. He keeps saying you need to leave. That you don’t know these people and it could all be one big trap. 

You don’t understand him, why he’s so desperate to get away from people like the both of you.  You’re rejected in every other corner of society. You could have something real here. 

It hits you at once. That’s the problem. He’s not ready for something real. He’s not used to it because he’s never had it before. At least you could pretend at a sense of normalcy living at home. It’s an entirely new concept to him, sticking to one place for so long. 

“We don’t know these people,” he hisses, leaning over the bed to argue with you. You narrow your eyes but your conversation is cut off by a knock on the door. You sigh, walking away from him and swinging the door open. 

Jean is on the other side, a surprised look on her face when she sees you. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was trying to drop these off to Logan.” You glance down at the towels in your hand and give her a strained smile. That’s a flimsy excuse if you’ve ever seen one. “I must have the wrong room.”

You step to the side, opening the door wider so she can see him. He doesn’t even look at her, too busy angrily unmaking the bed. “No, you have the right one.” You hold your hands out expectantly, “I can just take those for you.”

The look on her face is priceless and finally causes a real smile to grow on your lips. She wordlessly hands you the towels, looking disappointed. You don’t know if it's because of what she was trying to do, or because she couldn’t do it. 

Before she leaves you call out a quick, “Tell Scott I said thank you again. Wouldn’t be here without him, after all.” Her shoulders tense and she rushes back down the hall. Whatever little crush or interest she has with Logan is going to need to be dealt with on her own. 

You’ve got enough shit going on without having to worry about her too. You shake your head and slam the door shut, tossing the towels on the desk. Logan sits on the bed, watching you with an odd look. 

“What was that about?”

“She’s into you,” you tell him bluntly, waiting for his reaction. He doesn’t even blink, just glances between the towels and you before shrugging. 

“Not interested.” You don’t want to admit that you feel any relief. There was never any real doubt. But it’s still nice to be reassured. 

You slip into bed beside him, taking his hand and forcing him to meet your gaze. “I know that this isn’t what either of us was expecting, but this is good, Logan. We don’t have to worry about pretending we’re something we’re not. We don’t have to worry about my dad or anyone finding us.”

He doesn’t look entirely convinced. But he lets out a heavy sigh and drags you closer to him. He tucks your head under his chin, placing a brief kiss against your forehead. “If you want to stay, we’ll stay. But I’m not putting on that fucking costume.”

You laugh a little, peering up at him with a grin, “Deal.” 

There’s a place for you here, even if there isn’t in the rest of the world. You can be safe here, you don’t have to worry anymore. You don’t have to fear the eyes on the back of your head because they can’t get you here. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Taglist: @evasmlp ♡ 

Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte  

@mrs-ephemeral @wolviesgirl @allilium @insomniachox  ♡ 

Asked for part two: @enchantedbutterflies @strawberrylore @ittoscumdump @enananawoah @wotcherboo

@cali0101 @fluffy-b33z @pcrushinnerd @izbelross @saltwaterburns

@likeficsinthewnd ♡ 

[quarterlifekitty]

net meet cute

aka: how they start cyberstalking you. Some of these are more on the innocent side, some are slightly more intense.

Gaz sees you pop up in the people you may know section. He most certainly doesn't know you, but you are his type. As it turns out, you have some ridiculously distant relation of people that leads to his circle of connections (you're like his sister's college roommate's wedding photographer's cousin or something). But that one little tether is enough to make him feel tugged.

Soap started following you for your artwork. He follows anyone who even remotely interests him, and he liked what you made. You become a name he looks forward to on his feed-- he feels a bit parasocial about it, he knows your body of work so well now. And one day, he sees you share a post you were tagged in: It's a photo of you with another artist, both holding up the pieces you'd made to trade each other at a convention. He'd known you were talented, he didn't realize you were gorgeous as well.

Ghost sees you in the background of a video Soap shows him. Some disgusting display where people are trying to identify liquids they're drinking. When it's your turn, your face twists and you stick out your tongue, a little patch dyed umber from the soy sauce you'd sipped. He does a little detective work, finds you have a tiny little channel of your own. Nothing with a consistent schedule, clearly just a hobby, but there are a few videos of you restoring old toys, repainting dolls faces and things like that-- usually just showing your hands, but he finds your voice so soothing and you work with such delicate precision. Pretty soon he's obsessed with you, and fantasizing about ending up on your work table.

Price has very few reasons to surf online, but he does have a guilty pleasure: r/AITA. He loves a bit of tabloid level gossip now and again, and its the perfect place for it. He can see the world's most delusional people hard at work. His favorite ones are when both sides are clearly deranged and meant for each other. But then he sees you, posting about your shitty boyfriend, and all too willing to take the blame for the sorry state of things. And he finds himself rather keen on showing you how girls like you ought to be treated, as well as kicking your current man in the teeth.

I've mentioned this before, but I think König meets you in an online game. At first, you never speak on the microphone, and he doesn't either, but you're quite good, and your playstyle compliments his rather well. So he sends you a friend request on a whim, you accept it, playing a few rounds before turning on the party-only voice chat. And once he can hear you when you thank him for tanking damage, or targeting a player who'd been flanking, or pinging a pick-up for you, he's cooked. Looking you up on every social, trying desperately to find pictures of you, because he's sure you'll be as pretty as you sound.

Nikolai find you on a movie review website. He watches movies by the dozen when he gets some time off, but he's admittedly a little bereft of discussion partners, so review suit him fine. He typically disagrees with most of them, partially because he's naturally a contrarian, partially because the majority of online reviews are made by casual watchers and not lifelong cinephiles. And he comes across you, having written one of the only full, multiple-paragraph reviews for the obscure little number he'd just watched. And it straight up made him smile. Your review was punchy, funny, addressed multiple areas including the score, cinematography, casting, and costuming, and he agreed with a surprising portion of it. What he didn't agree with, he was intrigued by. He looks at your page to see what else you've written. You've seen and shared thoughts on many of his favorites, but quite a few things he's never seen, as well. He ends up watching them all, and feels a certain perverse excitement when it comes time to read another review, like he's a teenager taking you on a third date. Before long he's wondering where you are, if you go to the cinema. If they have non-hostile airspace.

Nikto finds you on the staff of some insanely obscure wiki/ID forum. Like, you help run a website/blog that's devoted exclusively to soviet era stuffed animals produced in Sergiev Posad (formerly known as Zagorsk). You help people identify them from pictures, from vague descriptions sent in to you of something from their childhood. He doesn't know why, but he ends up searching up images from others, often from unpopular and defunct listings on marketplace/bidding sites just to send to you. Just to read what you have to say about the stitch markings and stylistic eyes and the little tab of fabric on the leg seam from where the tag was cut. Maybe he'll take it further, maybe he won't. Maybe he'll find out where you are, just to make sure you're safe. Maybe he'll have to keep you safe. People with hearts like yours don't last in this world.

[loguine-linguine]

Ok hear me out!!!

Steve is a musician who sings pop music and posts on TikTok. He’s kind of a C-ish list celebrity (definitely a bit of a nepo baby) and his music is poppy and catchy. It’s the kinda stuff that you can immediately tell is coming from someone who is actively holding things back/ isn’t writing from any truth. Mall music at its purest form. Then one day with no announcement Steve drops a double sided album that is like GOOD GOOD pop music. It’s also noted very quickly that the pronouns in all the songs have definitely switched to he/him. People freak out and he starts charting for the first time in his career. Kinda Chappell Roan-esque situation where he skyrockets to being a queer pop icon very very quickly.

He starts doing interviews. He shows up to these interviews in outfits aren’t dramatically changed from what he usually wore (polos, jeans, bomber jackets, 80s jock vibes) but it’s all just much more camp. The cropped shirts are shorter, the jeans are tighter, and the colors are all suddenly pastel. He has also started wearing makeup (not heavy makeup but it’s definitely a lipgloss, eyeliner, mascara, highlight/blush on the tip of his nose type situation). He shares that he dropped his old producer (who he had been set up with by his father) and that he’s now working with his best friend Robin. He comes out as gay, talks about his struggle with comp-het, and proudly shares that he is super excited to contribute to the growing movement of music that is being written by queer people, for queer people. His TikTok also blows up.

This is when Tommy Hagan first starts showing up. Tommy is an actor who is pretty well known for doing teen drama TV shows (like Riverdale type deals). He introduces himself to Steve at some sort of industry event right after Steve gets big and pretty quickly starts showing up in his TikTok videos. It comes out that the two are dating pretty quickly after that. They date off and on for about a year and a half. Tommy is a shitty enough boyfriend that even Steve’s fans don’t like him. He stands him up for dates, embarrasses him at events, says rude and dismissive things about his music, etc. Robin (who is also kinda famous by proxy/writes her own music now similar to Billie Eilish and Finneas) absolutely hates his guts. Publicly. They finally break up officially after Tommy cheats on Steve with an actress named Carol who is on a show with him. It gets exposed by the tabloids and Steve finds out by seeing a photo of them making out on one of those celebrity drama TikTok accounts.

Eddie is also getting famous around this same time. He’s the lead for Corroded Coffin and also starts acting occasionally in horror films. He doesn’t really pay much attention to other celebrities or the drama that goes on. He was never into that kind of thing before the band took off so he doesn’t see why he should now. Eddie and the rest of the band are at an awards show of some sort and the others make fun of him the whole time. He can’t stop staring at this absolutely beautiful man sitting at a table near them. “The guy is wearing a slutty little lace shirt, the tightest pants in existence, and has skin that looks like honey and caramel had a child Gareth you really can’t blame me honestly.” Steve and Eddie don’t officially meet until the after party where they immediately hit it off.

A few months later Steve announces a new album and releases a single. It’s just Please Please Please by Sabrina Carpenter but gay and clearly about Tommy.

The music video comes out and people loose their minds. It’s the same sort of video as what Sabrina Carpenter just released for Please Please Please with the stunning outfits and the whole bad boy thing. Steve spends the whole video in dresses and skirts. There’s even a corset at one point. The bigger freak out is the fact that the Barry Keoghan equivalent is Eddie and its a hard launch of their relationship that fans had absolutely zero clue was even a possibility because why would horror/metal man Eddie Munson even know Steve Harrington???? Robin and the Corroded Coffin guys think the whole thing is hilarious. Eddie and Steve are so so happy :)

[dcxdpdabbles]

Always the bridesmaid never the bride

I'm not going to lie. I forgot if this was a prompt or a response to something I posted since I got it back before Thanksgiving. But if it's the former then:

Danny says this to Bruce at Clark and Lois' wedding. He is convinced Bruce is in love- or in lust, at the least- with Clark because the wealthy man constantly popped up at their office for important "business" and "private exclusive" interviews.

Now, Danny won't lie and say he's a better journalist than Clark or Lois- those two are the top two of the Daily Planet. There is a reason almost all Superman stories are covered by them- but he's darn good himself. After retiring from protecting his town from Ghosts, he's only ever used his powers scarcely, but they have helped him with a few articles here or there.

His career as a reporting journalist was mainly made by his ability to stumble across trouble alone! Danny had won awards for his articles. He has been included in a city time capsule project.

Danny got the scoop on Jason Todd being alive story way before everyone else. After realizing the boy was in witness protection, he hadn't even exposed it without speaking to Mr.Wayne first. The man was nothing like the tabloids had one believe. Danny found him a severely intelligent man with a deep love for his family and city. He just distracted people with his razzle and dazzle, hiding his beautiful soul in plain sight.

It had been an eye-opening conversation. The duo made a deal to wait until Jason was safe to be announced; Danny waited three whole months before he was greenlighted to release his story. Jason Todd had officially "returned" from the dead with an exclusive interview with Danny Fenton.

Danny honored and protected his dignity by writing a story that made the public love the returned young man. He hated reporters who only dragged people's names through the mud because that wasn't real investigation; that was just accepting the latest gossip on the streets.

Bruce was so grateful that Danny hadn't put his son in danger that he even gave Danny a business card that went to his home office!

And yeah, okay, Clark had Bruce's personal cellphone, but Danny just couldn't understand why the billionaire was so hung up on Clark Kent. It wasn't like the guy was Superman!

And maybe he was overly happy to find out Clark and Lois were an item. Sure that someone as good as Bruce, for all his facade of being a party boy who never grew up, would never chase a taken man. Danny had been right, too, because Bruce Wayne appeared less and less around the Daily Plant office.

It was.....sad not to see him, but Danny was a very busy journalist. He was grateful that the distraction had finally taken the hint and scurried off somewhere. What irked him in the following year and a half of Clark and Lois dating was how often Perry signed the two to cover Gotham News.

Mostly at one of Bruce Wayne's extravagant parties! Yeah, it was sort of cool that most of Bruce's parties were charity events. He had checked the numbers himself, finding that Bruce's efforts were honest and working to better his city. How many billionaires actually kept their word when wanting to be a philanthropist?

Of course, Danny had to write a piece on it. The people needed to see the positive change Bruce was making. Sometimes, it felt like people forgot how much he gave to the city. The article went viral, and people on the other side of the world were praising the good man Bruce.

Perry had given Danny a raise for it.

Clark had ruined that significant mark on his record by placing a wrap present on his desk with a wide grin. Apparently, the two had gone on a yacht trip together without Lois or Bruce's significant other. Whoever that was. "Bruce wanted me to give you this as a thanks."

Ugh, the smug asshole was just rubbing it in Danny's face that he was still friends with his ex. The present had been a shitty ship in a bottle that Danny had placed beside his writing awards in his living room. You know it would be a waste to just throw it out.

Or let it get dusty. Or not stare at and wonder if Bruce knew he liked pirate movies, so the fact he had a model replica of Captain Jack Sparrow's Black Pearl made for Danny was really no big deal.

Then Bruce came by the office after buying out the Daily Planet, giving Clark a month's vacation paid due to some "family emergency."

Danny had been worried about Ma Kent and Pa Kent- the pair had visited the Daily Planet and were the nicest people to ever walk the planet- so like the well-mannered man his mother raised, he had gone to the farm with some of his Dad's famous fudge. Only to find the Kents unaware there was an emergency in the family until Danny reminded them.

He had been a journalist long enough to call bull on their meaningful glances. Danny knew that neither Bruce nor Clark would dare cheat on Lois. They were both too good for something as sleazy as that- and honestly, Lois would kill them- but that didn't stop Bruce from obviously still carrying around a torch for Clark.

Which meant he gave him unfairly favorable treatment in the workplace. Ugh! Perry didn't even seem to care, stating that Bruce had signed their paychecks, and as long as he wasn't forcing Clark into anything harassment-worthy, Danny just had to deal with his coworkers having friends in high places.

That meant they got away with different things. He just had to suck it up and accept it.

But now, Clark and Lois tied the knot. Bruce had to back off. He would never overstep a friend's relationship like this. Danny might have seen him sneak a few glances at the dancing couple- not that he was staring at Bruce Wayne! But the man was one of the hottest topics to write about, and he never knew when a good story would pop up.

It was rather sad, really. How Bruce forced himself to come to a celebration of the man he loved marrying and choosing someone else. Danny had dedicated a drink to his heartbreak- from clear across the room.

He wasn't on a personal cellphone number basis with Bruce Wayne, let's allow a "Drink your broken heart sorrow away with me" basis. And maybe Danny had a few too many. Perhaps he lost count after realizing it was an open bar because, surprise surprise, Bruce was footing the drink bill for all guests.

Danny doesn't remember what made him think he could cross the room to Bruce or why he found the courage to point a finger in his face before slurring, "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, eh Brucie?"

He does remember those piecing blue eyes locking him in place, brow folding in concern as Bruce replied. "Mr. Fenton, are you alright?"

"Me? Oh yeah! Just enjoying the party." He throws his arm up, spilling some of the alcohol out of the cup. He doesn't mind since the DJ starts to play one of his favorite songs, and he just has to sway to the beat. "This is a fun party. Are you having fun? I'm having fun!"

"I think you've had a little too much," Bruce says, helping Danny to his feet. When did he fall? Oh, right, when he was dancing. He laughs again, curling up on Bruce's chest. He feels it shift with the vibrations of the other man's voice. It's rather nice. "Did you come alone? Is there someone I can call for you?"

"Can I tell you a secret, Brucie?" Danny mutters, leaning forward to whisper into the man's ear before he can respond. "I live alone. I have no one to take care of me. I can't even drive."

"I see. I can have my driver take you home then. Can I see your wallet? I want to read the address-"

Danny has a second to think Oh no before his stomach lurches, and vomit falls out of his mouth all over Bruce Wayne's fancy suit that probably costs more than his house. Danny's eyes water. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't usually drink, and I feel terrible, and I-"

"It's alright. " Bruce says, smile still perfectly kind, understanding, and slightly dizzy. Danny knows he's lying, though- his reporter eyes can see right through that facade. He's pissed that Danny threw up on him. Understandably.

He starts sobbing, apologizing even more, and pointing out how he knows Bruce is actually upset.

Bruce looks mildly surprised before throwing one of his arms over his shoulder and helping him out of the hotel ballroom. The reception had started hours ago, and despite it not being anywhere near over, no one would bat an eye at them leaving early.

They were walking down the hallway. Danny found himself leaning on a counter, laughing into his hands about a potted plant, while Bruce chatted up the lady at a computer. He told the pair that Bruce should rebound with a man instead of a woman if he wanted to get over Clark but was ignored by them.

Rude.

Then suddenly, Danny was being pressed into a soft mattress on his back while someone was taking off his shoes and losing his tie. When did he get home? How had he moved that quickly?

This didn't feel like his pillow. Danny has a special one. He can't sleep with it. He packs his pillow when he travels, even if it's just one night he plans to stay. Danny has used the same pillow for years now.

"I'm sorry, I can't get your special pillow, but I can give you lots of water." A man says, making Danny blink and open his eyes. His eyelids feel so heavy that it takes him a moment to stay open.

Above him, Bruce is carefully unbuttoning his suit jacket. The billionaire had removed his own coat, but the vomit-covered white shirt remains. Danny feels ashamed at the sight even as Bruce pulls his arms out of the jacket sleeves.

"Sorry," He whimpers. "About the vomit."

"It's alright. You needed to throw up. Do you feel better?"

Danny nods, closing his eyes and feeling a warm towel run along his face. He sighed as the sticky, gross feeling around his mouth was gone, and he sank further into the Not Right But Comfty pillow.

"Sleep well, Mr. Fenton," Bruce says, tucking the blankets around Danny once he finishes cleaning him up. Danny hums, already half gone, when he whispers.

"You're a good man. No matter what you present to the world. No matter if you believe you're not, I know you're good."

There is a moment of silence before Bruce replies. "I paid for the hotel room. It comes with a free breakfast, so when you're feeling up to it, come down for food tomorrow. Have a good night, Mr. Fenton."

"Stay?"

"I'm sorry. I never intended to stay; I just wanted to get you somewhere safe. Going home in your state would have been a bad idea."

Danny's words are nearly too slurried to be understood as he slowly slips away: "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, Fenton. Bruce would never want you."

He wakes up with a killer hangover, confused about where the hell he is, and almost has a heart attack when he realizes he crumpled up the suit pants he rented. All that is so hard to process in thirty seconds that he nearly missed the written note on the nightstand.

Call me xxx-xxx-xxxx

XOXO

Bruce Wayne

What in the world happened at Clark's and Lois's wedding!?

[lovecla]

TAKE YOUR PAIN AWAY | quinn hughes.

chapter eleven:

<last chapter> <next chapter>

➴ chapter warnings: mentions of losing weight, mentions of drug use, mentions of toxic family and sad thoughts, hurt/comfort.

➴ word count: 3.1k

💌 from me to you: and, somehow, the world starts spinning again for our little madison. thank u all for reading and i promise, no more tears from now on!

౨ৎ

2024, JUNE.

“MADISON, RELAX your shoulders and give me a soft smile. Let your eyes do the talking, imagine you're sharing a secret.”

You do as the photographer— you didn’t bother to learn his name— says, posting for what felt like the hundredth time that evening.

Going to work now felt more like a chore than something you actually enjoyed doing, and you hated every second. People constantly looking at your body and talking about it made you feel terrible, your mom’s harsh words still wandering around your head like one would do at a park.

The medicine bottle sitting heavy inside your purse, just the thought of it making its purpose work: all your hunger vanished, leaving you with a pounding headache and tears in your eyes.

Your semi-fight with your mom happened exactly three weeks ago, basically when you’d just arrived from Newark, and everyday for three weeks straight you have been swallowing these pills, once a day like clockwork.

No one beside your mom knew, and you would like to keep it that way. It was already enough to have the tabloids talking about your body all the time, and you’d much rather keep all of this to yourself than to share it with the whole world.

People would know about how shitty your life actually is, and then it’d be over.

Quinn would know the truth about you.

The last time you saw Quinn was also three weeks ago, and God knows how much it hurts you to say this. You wanted nothing more than to be near him, kissing his lips and drowning in his hugs. You are now sure that Quinn Hughes is the love of your life and no one would ever be like him.

And it hurt whenever you had to turn down one of his invites, or when he called you and you gave him excuse after excuse for not picking up.

But you didn’t want to drag him into this mess that you called life. You didn’t want your mom to see you together and end up doing something to him or his family, because your dad’s still a powerful man inside the NHL, and you knew your mom had her way of getting things done.

And you would never do something like that to him. Or his brothers, for that matter. You loved them way too much and sometimes, loving also means letting go.

“That’s perfect, Mads. I think we’re good to go,” the man smiles, raising his camera for the last time before nodding at you, releasing you from posing, like you’d been doing for the past four hours straight.

“Thank you,” you breathe, leaving the room so you could change into something more comfortable and go home quickly, because you missed Bella a lot and wanted nothing more than to cuddle with her.

As you put on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt, you thought about how much your life changed in such a small amount of time. It was summer now, the days were getting longer, and what was supposed to be your favorite season, turned into your least favorite one. You watched as people walked around the city with smiles on their faces, hands intertwined with their significant others, laughing at everything, and you couldn’t help but feel jealous of them.

Jealous of people and their normal lives and normal relationships. Jealous of the daughters who have loving parents, and of the sisters who have real brothers. Jealous of people who have never looked at a mirror and hated what they saw.

And feeling like that, all day, everyday, was tiring. Exhausting, even. You felt like the worst person to ever exist, because you had everything a girl could want, yet still, at the end of the day, you’d always end up crying alone in your bedroom, silently so Bella wouldn’t notice.

“Bye, guys, have a nice weekend,” you wish to the workers, receiving a bunch of smiles and “you too” as you walk past them. You were so glad Victoria was away for Buenos Aires’ fashion week, because that way you didn’t have to explain to her why you never ate lunch anymore.

You walked towards the front of the building, waiting for the driver to come pick you up, since you didn’t bother getting a car.

“Thought I’d never see you again,” Quinn’s cologne reaches your nose before his voice reaches your ear, making you freeze in place, not daring to turn around. “Madison.”

You could hear his steps getting closer, and you mentally curse the driver for not being punctual, ever.

“Madison.” He calls you again, making you finally look at him, losing all your breath in the process.

Quinn looked unreal. He had a faint summer tan on his cheeks, his blue eyes so blue that they reminded you of the ocean. His white, dress shirt had the sleeves rolled up and the first two buttons open, and he wore a silver chain around his neck. His hair looking fluffy and long, the curls finally making their comeback after an entire season hidden behind his helmet.

“Quinn,” you hear yourself say, licking your dry lips afterwards. Saying his name out loud after weeks felt weird, and it reminded you of the seven years you spent without even thinking of saying it out loud. “What… what are you doing here?”

“I came to check on you, since you don’t reply to my texts or calls anymore, and the only thing I got from your apartment was Bella’s howls.” He puts his hands inside his pockets.

“You went to my house?” You ask, shaking your head. “What if someone saw you? Or worse, what if someone saw you and snapped a picture of you there? What were you going to do?”

He frowns, the sight of it making your heart hurt. “What do you mean? People have seen us together before and it didn’t bother you. Why are you bringing this up now?”

You were about to answer, when Christian, your driver who looked old enough to be your grandad, beeped, parking in front of La Vie en Rose’s building.

“I have to go—”

“You’re not running away again, Madison,” he hisses, walking towards the expensive vehicle. “She’s coming home with me. You can go now.”

“Quinn—”

“Yeah, she’ll be fine, promise. Have a nice weekend.” He smiles at the driver, and you watch as Christian nods at you and drives away, leaving you alone on the sidewalk with Quinn. “You should probably ask for a new driver, this one would watch you get kidnapped and not do anything.”

“You’re crazy,” you whisper, stepping back. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Quinn, people will—”

Quinn interrupts you, stepping closer and standing toe to toe with you. He looks down, staring at you with dark eyes. “I don’t care about them, and you already know it. I care about you. So you either tell me the reason for all of this, or I swear, baby, I’m not leaving you alone ever again.”

I don’t want you to, you yell at him inside your head, fighting back the stupid, stubborn tears who fell down more and more lately. I don’t want you to ever leave me alone. I want you to stay with me until our time is up, and then some more after that.

“I’m not having this conversation with you on the sidewalk,” you give in, knowing it was better this way. Rip off the bandage at once.

“It’s alright. I know the way to your house.” He smirks before turning around, waiting for you to be by his side so he could walk you both to his car.

The drive had been silent, the only sounds coming from Quinn’s expensive radio, some playful, pop song playing in the background. You stare at the view in front of you, realising that Vancouver’s traffic is always the worst at night; but at least it gave you extra time to think about how you were going to tell him that you couldn’t see him again.

You made up at least thirty scenarios in your head, and all of them ended entirely wrong. It was like you were reliving that day in September, seven years ago, when you saw Quinn for the last time before he moved.

You opened the door for him, watching as Bella jumped on Quinn like he was her Lord and Savior, licking his hands and barking at him, asking for nose boops as she always did whenever she saw him.

“Hey, cutie, I missed you too,” he whispered to her, as you placed your purse on the coffee table and watched the two of them together.

As Quinn pats Bella’s tummy, you feel your heart shrinking inside your chest, so small it could be compared to a pea.

I’m going to lose all of this forever, you remind yourself, feeling sick to your stomach.

Lost in thoughts, you didn’t notice that Quinn had stopped caressing Bella’s fur and was now standing in front of you, leaning against your wall.

“You lost weight.”

His statement takes you by surprise, making you arch your brows. “Yeah, I did.”

“Are you eating enough?”

“I— why are you asking me this?” you frown. “You never asked questions about my body before.”

“Because I didn’t feel the need to. But it’s clear that you have lost a decent amount of weight in a short period of time.”

“Three weeks isn’t a short period of time, Quinn,” you roll your eyes.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “You can’t be serious, Maddie.”

You sigh, choosing to remove the band-aid at once. It was better to hurt him once, than continue to hurt him again and again with your actions. “Quinn, we can’t— we can’t keep seeing each other like this.”

It was like he lost all of his emotions in a second.

“What do you mean?”

“It won’t do us any good. I’m leaving Vancouver in three months and it’s better if we stop seeing each other now than later.” You try getting away from him, only to feel his hand gently grab your arm over your sweatshirt. “Quinn—”

“No, Madison, you won’t say shit like that and then run away. You’re going to explain what happened to me, now.”

“I can’t—”

“Was it Luke? Was it someone at Jack’s party?” He asks, blue eyes making you regret all of your life choices. “Did someone, anyone, tell you anything? Maddie, talk to me, for God’s sake!”

“What difference would it make, Quinn, tell me?” you laugh, not finding anything funny at all. “We can’t be together. I’m leaving, which part of that didn’t you understand—”

“I’m not fucking losing you again, Madison,” he says through his teeth, tightening his hold on your arm. “You’ll have to say to my face that you don’t want me anymore to make me leave.”

“Don’t make this harder than it already is,” you plead, trying to free yourself from his hold. Unsuccessful. “Quinn, please.”

“It doesn’t have to be hard, baby, just tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll try to make it right,” he says, voice so soft you almost felt like he was telling the truth.

“You can’t do anything about the problem if the problem’s me.”

Your eyes were stinging, and you finally got yourself out of his hold. Quinn’s face portrayed the most beautiful shade of pain, and you wanted nothing more than to yank it out of his face.

“Maddie—”

“I don’t know how it took you so long to realize this, but it’s the truth,” you sob, covering your eyes with your hands. “I’m not the kind, good person you think I am, and I don’t think I’ve ever been one.”

He shakes his head, ready to interrupt, only for you to start talking again.

“I only hurt the ones I–” you swallowed dry, once again confirming that Luke was right. “I only hurt the people I love, and I won’t do that with you or your brothers too.”

“Baby, what are you talking about?” He steps closer to you, knocking your purse on his way to you.

And you watch it all unfold in front of you, everything happening in slow motion— your things scattered on the floor, the pill bottle comically rolling around until it stopped at Quinn’s feet. You watch as he bends down, grabbing the half empty bottle carefully before reading its label. The realization on his face when he connected the dots.

And you’re sure that, as long as you live, you’ll never forget the devastated way he looked at you. You’ll never forget how his eyes, so shiny earlier that night, turned into a shade of blue so dark it was almost black.

“Madison,” he whispers, holding the little orange bottle tightly between his fingers. “What… what are you… why do you have this?”

“I– I need it,” you stutter, fidgeting with your fingers, the turmoil inside you growing like waves did during a storm. “Quinn—”

“This is how you lost all that weight so fast,” he mumbles, looking at the bottle again. “Are you taking these?”

“Quinn, it wasn’t my first choice, I swear—“

“What are you doing to yourself, Madison?” He looks at you again, and you can see that his eyes are starting to get wet, just like yours. And you hated yourself for making him cry. “What have you been doing to yourself all these years?”

You once asked yourself the same thing, but when you couldn’t find an answer, you just gave up. It wasn’t that serious anyway.

But it seems like that for Quinn, it was.

“This isn’t okay, Madison, why the hell would you do this?”

You looked at the floor, feeling a new wave of tears forming in your eyes.

You were so tired.

“I don’t have to explain it to you,” you chuckle, not bothering to wipe your tears. It’d be pointless. “Someone like you would never understand why I did this.”

“Someone like me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He spats, throwing the bottle on the floor, the sound of it making you flinch.

“Someone who always had people who loved you for what you are!” You yell, finally giving Quinn what he wanted: an answer. “Someone who grew up with parents who loved each other, someone who has two brothers who would die and kill for you without asking for anything back!”

“Madison—”

“No, Quinn, now you’ll have to listen to me. Isn’t that what you wanted?” You scoff, pacing around the room. “My family hates me. My brother hasn’t spoken to me in ages, my dad doesn’t even care if I’m alive or not and my mom—” you gasp, trying to even your breathing. “My mom was the one who gave me those pills. She said I’d make her so happy and proud if I took those things and I did, because I wanted her to finally feel something for me that isn’t just disgust!”

Your head was pounding and your body reminded you that the last time you had eaten something had been more than twelve hours ago.

“I wanted her to finally love me, I wanted someone to see that I’m fucking trying, but I’m so tired, Quinn,” you lowered your voice, hiding your face between your hands. “I’m so tired of feeling tired all the time, I’m tired of feeling like what I do isn’t enough, and I’m tired of starving myself just to have people to look at me the way they do,” you sniff, hating yourself for breaking out like this in front of him. But what else could you do? “I’m tired of those fucking pills. I can’t stand them anymore. I promised my mom that I’d go to her gala next week, and that I’d be perfect for her but I’m so. Fucking. Tired.”

You could hear Quinn’s steps around the living room and you felt yourself panicking, your mind tricking you, like it often did, making you think that he was going to leave. But as soon as you felt his strong, warm arms around you, hugging you tight, you were reminded of why you loved him so much.

You cried in his arms, hugging him back like your life depended on it. Because, at the moment, it felt like it did.

“Shh, sh, it’s okay, baby,” he softly says, placing your head on his chest, gently brushing your hair with his fingers. “My sweet girl. I’m so sorry.”

You sniff, holding him tighter before opening your mouth again. “W–Why are you sorry?” Your voice sounds hoarse and confused.

“Because I didn’t do anything sooner,” he whispers, kissing your head. “I saw all the signs and I still stood there without moving a finger, and I’m so, so sorry, my love.”

“Quinn—”

“You mean so much to me, baby. I’ve been looking for someone like you my entire life and when I finally found you, I let you go away, and I’m not making the same mistake twice,” he slowly separated you from his body, but still kept you close. He lifts your chin, wiping your cheeks with his thumb. “Let me take care of you, Maddie. Let me show you how perfect you are, let me make you stop treating yourself like this.”

“This is the only life I know,” you tell him, losing yourself in his cologne. He smelled like home. “They’re the only family I have. It’s not that simple—”

“You know that’s not true, baby,” he kisses your cheek, lips touching your skin carefully. “You have my family. My parents love you, and so do my brothers. And I do too. I love you so fucking much, Maddie. You’re it for me.”

It’s like the broken pieces of your heart finally find their way back together. It’s like you came home after months sailing in the ocean, lost between the waves and your helpless thoughts.

“I may not be what you want.”

You feel his chest moving at the same time you hear his chuckle. “Can’t you see, baby? You’re the only thing I want. So if you’ll have me, I’m yours to keep.”

You look up at his eyes, softening your features, the tiniest smile to ever exist adorning your face. You finally kiss his lips, the saltiness of your tears mixing with the taste of his minty toothpaste, and you could swear you almost melted.

“I want to keep you,” you mumble against his lips. “I want you all to myself. I don’t care if I sound selfish or not but I’m tired of not doing what I want. I’ve been in love with you for eight years now and I can’t— I don’t want to hold back anymore. I’m not perfect, I have tons of flaws and I’m not easy but I swear, baby, I’ll never love anyone as much as I love you.”

He kisses you again, pillowy lips briefly touching yours.

“I love you, Maddie. So much. Thank you for coming back to me.”

Thank you for getting me back again.

taglist: @hischierswhore @ru-kru @alwaysclassyeagle @he6rtshaker @nope-i-am-done @nngkay 🤎

[thespineoftherighteous]

watch tsc be Nora's revenge. like she's just leading us on and then she's going to absolutely wreck everything, take a sledgehammer to all the things that everyone loves, as retaliation for people being so shitty to her online for so many years. it's all a ruse, she's biding her time, being nice to us online while quietly pouring gasoline over everything and then we crack open tsc1 and boom. Andrew and Neil broken up. Kevin with a career-ending injury, will never play exy again. Coach ditched the Foxes to go get married to some fling and now lives in Mexico. Dan and Matt both cheated on each other with Jeremy and the exy tabloids are losing their minds. Renee ditched the Foxes to join a sorority. Matt died. I'm not saying it's what she will do I'm saying maybe it's what she SHOULD do (and also what I would probably do)

[holyprincenerd]

yes yes rigged this cha cha that but please let’s not ignore this right now:

https://www.aftonbladet.se/podcasts/ab/episode/355975 Swedish “eurovision expert” Tobbe Ek (for those of you who aren’t Swedish, this is the same guy who accused Måneskin of doing coke on live tv back in 2021) and his posse of minions decided that it was time to spread some absolutely hateful rhetoric against the people of Finland by calling them shitty, idiotic, telling them they should be ashamed of not voting for Sweden (??? literally what???) etc etc, while also dragging in other contestants like Lord of the Lost and insulting them as a means of questioning why the Finnish public voted for them but not for Sweden. (You know. Because it totally doesn’t make any sense at all that a country known for having the most metal bands per capita in the world would vote for Lord of the Lost. Not at all.) 

As the cherry on top of this xenophobic shit cake, they started to go on about how “There’s no way there were ten contestants who were better than Sweden this year.” (Again. Not only disrespecting the other contestants, but them pretending not to grasp the concept of a country known for preferring heavier music choosing to vote mostly for bands this year... Yeah... Couldn’t be their preferences...)

Again, this man is considered a Eurovision expert here in Sweden, yet this is the type of behaviour he and his coworkers display over a nonissue like the Finnish public not voting for Sweden this year. If there’s something shameful here, it’s this.

To reiterate: These are three grown-ass well past 40-year old people having a genuine meltdown over one (1) singular country not voting for them.

Why are we giving Tobbe Ek (and his irrelevant coworkers) a platform, again?

EDIT:

Hoo boy, there’s more. Because of course there is.

ALRIGHT here’s an article from one of our tabloids using quite suspiciously colonialistic sounding rhetoric about Finland being “the kingdom’s previous eastern half”.

https://www.expressen.se/noje/finska-sveket-mot-sverige-gav-noll-poang-efter-uppmaningen-rosta-taktiskt/

The specific quote in Swedish: “Tv-tittarna i tidigare östra rikshalvan gav nämligen Sverige noll(!) poäng under Eurovisionfinalen på lördagen.”

Translation: “TV viewers in [our] kingdom’s previous eastern half gave namely zero(!) points to Sweden during the Eurovision finale on Saturday.”

Yeah, Johan Bratell (the writer of the article) is technically not wrong about Finland having been a part of Sweden. But why bring this up now? This was so clearly meant as a condescending insult.

The article also talks about a throwaway comment that the Finnish commentator Mikko Silvennoinen made about tactical voting (or more specifically, an anonymous comment he read out loud about tactical voting). From my understanding this was a joke reference to the previous elections which took place recently in Finland and forced a portion of the Finnish public to vote tactically as an attempt to block a far-right party from getting into the parliament. It’s embarrassing how much these people are reaching.

And even if they were voting tactically, so what? Sweden won. Why are we so focused on the public vote of one (1) country, Jesus Christ this is embarrassing.

EDIT 2: WHY THIS MATTERS. A LOT.

For those of you who are not in the know about Swedish politics, these statements are reflecting some far-right political views that have their roots all the way back in the times when Sweden ruled over Finland. In recent memory, our far-right political party Sverigedemokraterna claimed that the Swedish minority group Tornedalians are not Swedish, because they may speak local dialects that blend Finnish into Swedish, or speak the minority language Meänkieli. Coincidentally, Meänkieli just so happens to be a minority language that blends Finnish and Swedish, as it is mostly spoken by people who live by the Torneå river, i.e. the Finnish-Swedish border. Here’s an article about this controversy (however you may not be able to read it unless you’re subscribed to said newspaper): https://www.dn.se/asikt/orimligt-att-tornedalingar-inte-skulle-vara-svenskar/?fbclid=IwAR33K_UVRhXlJhyPd3gY7GDXN_lotUdrtM1AeL-nRzWE26Tmq5BFE0lIUzw

Sverigedemokraterna also believe that the Swedish minority group of Sweden Finns should essentially cut their ties to their Finnish roots and that they should not be able to be citizens of both Finland and Sweden. https://aip.nu/sverigedemokraterna-och-de-dubbla-medborgarskapen/

This sort of rhetoric is ridiculously common here, and in situations like the ones that have occurred in light of the ESC, they almost never get called out. Because it’s common. Because it’s okay to call Finnish people names and to use colonial rhetoric against all Finns, both those who live in Finland and those who live in Sweden. Because this is “friendly banter.” Mind you, as someone who technically belongs to both of the aforementioned minority groups I’m completely fine with the actually friendly banter and piss taking that we usually partake in, because it is just that. Friendly. But this is not it. This is actually harmful. I have never seen so many Swedish people attacking Finns on social media as I’ve seen these past few days. The usual colonialistic and fennophobic insults have started to rear their ugly heads: People have started to insult the Finnish language (a fennophobic sentiment that goes way back to the days when Finland was under Swedish rule and the Swedish tried to get rid of the language), they have started to insult the way Finns look (goes back to fennophobic rhetoric of Finns essentially not being “white enough”), etcetera. For more information on how the Swedish government treated the Sweden Finns and Tornedalians (the fact that they tried to abolish both the Meänkieli language and the Finnish language from Sweden and have even done skull measurements as an attempt to prove that these minority groups are not equal to Swedes), here’s another article: https://www.svt.se/nyheter/lokalt/norrbotten/regeringen-tillsatter-sanningskommission

For those of you who speak Finnish and are interested in the topic, the book Kansankodin pimeämpi puoli by Tapio Tamminen goes into both issues, with photographic evidence of skull measurement incidents among other things. Meanwhile, the Finnish media is mostly just reporting on the tomfoolery of these “journalists.” Sure, there are a lot of Finns who are acting out as well and spreading hateful rhetoric against Swedes, but the difference here is that one group is punching up, while the other is punching down.

Whether Tobbe Ek, Jenny Ågren, Markus Larsson and Johan Bratell meant to cause this does not matter. They’ve still done it, in the case of the former group, they’ve even dragged other Europeans (and Australians!) into this mess.

They’ve gone ahead and spread fennophobic rhetoric on huge platforms: Sweden’s biggest national tabloids. They should be held accountable for this.

To reiterate: ALL THIS OVER THE FINNISH PUBLIC “NOT VOTING FOR SWEDEN” DURING THE EUROVISION SONG CONTEST OF 2023.

Edit 3: Just in case we need a bit of clarification:

I know this whole post may come across quite negatively. So let me make this clear: There is an issue with the Swedish culture and its normalisation of fennophobia, however, that doesn’t mean every Swede is maliciously fennophobic. It’s literally just so normalised here, that sometimes people don’t even notice when they’re partaking in it, and because of said normalisation, for many these fennophobic and colonialist insults have become a sort of knee jerk reaction to when there’s “actual beef” with Finland. (Which, obviously, is a fucking problem, because look who has to bear the brunt of that.) 

Moreover, many Swedes aren’t even familiar with their shared history with Finland, and the discrimination Finland was put through during the Swedish rule (not to mention the discrimination the Sweden Finns and Tornedalians have had to face and still face). That part of our shared history simply isn’t taught in schools here, so a regular person would have to know to go out and look for the information. Heck, the only reason I’m aware of this is because at the end of the day, despite having been born and raised in Sweden, I am ethnically Finnish, and grew up by the border with very strong ties to the Finnish culture because of it. But less about me, and more about this issue. Most Swedes (and Swedish journalists who have any sort of sense in them and who work for respectable publications) have expressed their dissatisfaction with this years results as well. There’s a reason Cha Cha Cha is charting so well on Swedish Spotify. There’s a reason for why the Swedish jury and the public gave Finland 12 points.

So, Tl;dr:

1. Swedish tabloids are trash.

2. We have an undeniable problem with how normalised fennophobia is here, and it’s absolutely bizarre that this is how it’s getting exposed.

3. Most regular Swedes aren’t happy with this either, and are in fact not Finland’s and the Finnish people’s greatest haters in the world.

4. Tobbe Ek should get fired. At the bare minimun, he and his coworkers should probably issue some sort of apology for spreading this, seeing how it is actually hurting a lot of people.

Anyway, please don’t hate on the Swedes because of this lol, think about what Jere from Vantaa would think about that. 💚

[f1byjessie]

A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS ━━ LN4.

sometimes the right words are hard to come across, and sometimes everything you need to say can be captured in an image.

( lando norris x photographer!reader )

━━ part two.

Friday evenings are typically spent in the comfort of your flat. Normally, you’re half paying attention to reruns of whatever shitty reality TV happens to be on and half scrolling through social media to keep up with the ever-fluctuating trends of content as per your job requirements, all the while eating your body’s weight in takeaway. It’s not the dream, but it’s certainly a dream.

Tonight, you plan on amending things to include going through the pictures of Bali’s stunning beaches that Lando’s been spamming you with throughout the day, but beyond that, you have no intentions of deviating further from your norm.

You’re actually really looking forward to it. Though you’d rather cut off your own hand than admit it to his face and give him new ammunitions to tease you with, you miss Lando during the winter breaks. So much of your year is spent having him nearby━ a near-constant presence buzzing with the inability to slow down let alone stop━ and when he isn’t around, the silence seems louder. There’s no one else who manages to annoy you the way he does, and it’s just not the same without him.

To make matters worse, between your new job, Lando’s travels, and the scheduling conflicts that have arisen in turn, you haven’t had a chance to catch up with him beyond a few back-and-forth messages about his current escapades. So you really, genuinely, truly are looking forward to it.

Garrett Ward throws a wrench into things.

You have mixed opinions of Garrett. He can be very sweet, and he’s gone out of his way to make you feel incredibly welcome in your first week with the Manchester City team. He makes good conversation and seems genuinely interested in what it is you’re doing, often asking questions about your equipment and process, which is a nice change of pace from most other clients you’ve worked with in the past who rarely give two shits about anything beyond the final product. But his reputation is… concerning.

Garrett Ward is infamous in English tabloids for being a notorious womanizer.

There are several articles that come to mind, but the most damning of which is from 2019, before his trade to Manchester City, detailing with very incriminating photos how he’d been seen entering a club with two women and then leaving just a few hours later with a completely different pair. You don’t want to assume he’s the same man now as he was back then, nearly a full five years ago, but you’ve been working in the sports industry long enough to know that athletes can have anyone and if they want then they will have anyone━ there is no shortage of temptation.

And you are not arrogant enough to assume you would be the outlier.

Which makes his interest in you feel less like friendly curiosity and more like something you need to be wary of.

It’s also why━ as you make the trek through the Etihad Campus car park━ you feel dread begin to pool in your stomach as you answer your ringing phone. “Hi, Garrett.”

“Y/N!” He exclaims excitedly, sounding like he hadn’t just seen you barely ten minutes ago in the weight room. “I meant to catch you before you left, but you were outta there so fast I wasn’t able to.”

And there’s probably a reason for that, you want to say, but you hold your tongue. “Yeah, I usually try to be pretty quick about it.”

There’s an awkward pause left open as if he expects you to say more, and when you don’t he clears his throat. “Erm, well, I was actually just calling to see if, perhaps, you would like to grab dinner with me this evening.”

You don’t. At all. It’s one of the last things you would like to do. There are plenty of other hellish things you would willingly rather subject yourself to before sitting down and sharing a private meal with this man━ jumping into the Thames is one of them, and letting Lando drive you around on the autobahn in his Spider is another. Both could very easily result in death, permanent disfigurement, or any other number of horrible outcomes, but neither includes Garrett.

Your hesitating silence must be an answer enough for him, because he chuckles again and adds on quickly, “No strings attached, I promise. It’ll just be two friends getting dinner.”

All you want to do is get cozy on your couch in your pajamas with a kebab from the place down the street and watch pretty people deal with their pretty people problems on TV. You don’t think that’s too much to ask for, but apparently, some higher power does.

“I suppose that’d be alright then,” you agree tentatively, speeding through the stages of grief as you mourn the initial plans of your Friday evening━ the easy, simple, comfortable plans. “Shoot me a message with the time and place and I’ll meet you there.”

“Awesome!” Garrett cheers. “See you later then.”

The peaceful silence that awaits you after you hang up feels like it’s mocking you. Too bad you can’t flip off silence.

“Look, the truth is, City is looking at trading me at the end of the season if I can’t clean my act up.” Garrett’s voice is quiet as he admits the reality of his future to you, but it breaks the silence of the world around you like a gunshot. “And not just loaning me out━” he adds, a twinge of something akin to anger noting his tone, “━but fully trading me. They’re saying that my image makes things too hard for them and the only way they’ll consider re-signing me is if I can either keep my name out of the tabloids or try to clean myself up.”

In Garrett’s defense, he technically did hold true to his promise of just two friends getting dinner. Things were actually going quite well, too. The restaurant was a little more high profile than you would’ve expected for a casual meal, but that can easily be passed off as the luxurious lifestyle and expensive tastes of a pro athlete who can certainly afford it. Expenses of your meal aside, he’d been good company, asking after the ways of working in Formula One and then finding similarities in his football career that made it easy to chat about the struggles and stressors of professional sports.

But you can recognize that this is where it’s all beginning to go downhill.

He’s announced it completely out of the blue as you’re walking back to the garage where you’ve both parked your cars. On top of that, his pace slows and you’re forced to slow down as well to match it until you both eventually come to a halt in the middle of the pavement.

You feel for him, in all honesty. You understand the difficulties of contract negotiations and how easily they can fall apart. The fragility of Formula One contracts is its own special brand of tricky and you’ve seen many friends move on to other teams in the blink of an eye just as they’ve begun to settle down and make their mark where they are. You can’t say for certainty that you understand the mechanics of football contracts to the same degree, but you can imagine they have their own fragile fine print.

But the chill of a January night in Manchester is brutal, and you’ll be the first to admit that your outfit does not protect against it. You don’t really want to be having this conversation in general, because you’ve known Garrett for all of a week which makes you acquaintances at best, but you especially don’t want to be having it now, out here in the cold when all you want to do━ all you’ve wanted to do since this afternoon━ is curl up in something warm and comfortable and pretend the world outside your flat doesn’t exist for a few days.

“I’m not sure what this has to do with me if I’m being honest, Garrett.”

He shrugs. “I just thought you might be able to help.”

You shove your hands in your pockets in a desperate attempt to keep your fingers from going more numb than they already are and shake your head at him. “I don’t know how exactly you think I can help you with that. I’m a photographer, not a PR officer.”

“My agent thinks it would be a good idea if I showed the media that I could hold down a steady relationship. Prove to them that I’ve changed my ways, and have matured.” He shrugs again, nonchalant despite being the one to bring this up in the first place.

“Have you?”

He makes a face, something between a flirty smirk and a suggestive wink, “Well, I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Garrett.”

“Look,” he crosses his arms and levels you with a look that fills you simultaneously with more rage and annoyance than a single person has ever made you feel before. “It would just be for a couple of months, and then we could stage an amicable breakup and that would be that! It just has to be long enough to show everyone that I’m not the same as I used to be.”

You give him a look right back, hoping it conveys how appalled you are by his audacity. “Okay, but why me of all people? Christ knows you probably have a list of women in your contacts who would jump at the chance to pretend to date you for a few months.”

His face pinches up in disgust. “Yeah, but they’re all former hookups, and I mean, they’re kinda psycho about me to be fair. If I tried to end things, they’d probably go to the tabloids themselves and smear my name with the worst things they could come up with.” He shrugs again, and you’re starting to find that you hate it when he does so. “I need someone willing to just play along for the time being and who will be discreet when things are over.”

“And you think I’m that person?” You scoff. “You’ve known me for a week!”

Your voice echoes and it reminds you once again that you’re having this conversation in the middle of a random street in Manchester. It’s cold and dark, and you’ve been attempting to bite back your frustration since the moment Garrett called you. You’ve been as nice as you possibly can be for this man, shy of bending over backward to worship the very ground he walks on, and you’re so close to your limit that you think if he shrugs one more fucking time━

He shrugs. “Well, yeah, but you know how this industry works. So I know you can be trusted.”

You take a deep breath to try and retain what’s left of your quickly slipping composure, before you say, “Garrett, this goes beyond unprofessional. I could potentially get into a lot of trouble for this. You’re technically my co-worker, if not my client by proxy. It’s not a good look for me to be getting with the athletes I work with, considering my entire career is based on working with athletes.”

He makes a befuddled face as if asking what that has to do with anything. It occurs to you that he’s probably never had to worry about the ethics of hooking up with someone when most of the women who are interested in him would do everything in their power to spend a night by his side whether it’s morally just━ or legal, for that matter━ or not.

“That doesn’t seem to stop you from being all cozy with that Nor-whatever guy,” he grumbles.

“What?”

“That driver,” he repeats. “You post him all over your socials, like, all the time.”

You tear your hands from your pockets and throw them up in the air, “Because that’s my job?!” The stupidity of the man before you is genuinely baffling. He’s been asking about your job all week long but the way he’s talking now makes it seem like he didn’t catch onto the fact that your entire career is centered around media and the creation of content made with the explicit intention of being shared.

“I am quite literally paid to take and post pictures of him per my contract with McLaren,” you continue. “And even if I wasn’t, he’s my best friend?! I’ve been working and traveling and spending the majority of my time with Lando since 2019 so of course I’m going to be close with him. Do you not post your mates every once in a while?”

“Yeah, but it’s different. All my mates are guys, so nobody thinks I’m dating any of them when I do it.”

You scoff in disbelief. “I cannot believe this right now. You know, for a moment, I briefly considered helping you. But you’re actually exactly the type of prick the tabloids say you are.”

He takes an intimidating step closer, and his voice drops an octave lower. “I would reconsider if I was you.” You’re not short, but Garrett isn’t either. He’s one of the tallest players on the Manchester City team, and the way you feel now with him staring you down makes you wonder if this is what it feels like to be his opponent on the pitch.

It’s fucking terrifying.

But you’re fucking livid, too.

Your jaw clenches and you bite out sharply, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What it means,” he starts, “is that if you don’t help me, maybe I slip a word about something or other to my boss who slips a word to his boss who is, also, your boss, and suddenly, whoops!” He gives you a cocky smirk, so sure of himself that it makes you feel like your blood is literally boiling. “He’s not your boss anymore. In fact, nobody is your boss anymore, because your ‘slip in conduct’ was very inappropriate and made several players uncomfortable, which doesn’t look very good when trying to get jobs elsewhere in the industry.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Well,” he fucking shrugs. “When you say it like that, yeah. I guess I am.”

You cross your arms, your hands clenched into fists so tightly that you can feel your nails digging painfully into the flesh of your palms. “You’re a real bastard, you know.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that, love.”

If only it were legal to kill a man━ Garrett Ward would be six feet under and picking worms from between his teeth.

You weigh your options, though. You’re not sure how much weight his word actually carries. For all you know, he could tell his boss, they could bring you in to discuss things, and then you could explain it all from your point of view. Garrett is a notorious flirt and you doubt it’s the first time he’s tried to pursue someone who isn’t interested in him. You doubt it happens very often, but it has to have happened at some point. Not to mention, his reputation regarding women is bad enough that Manchester City is already giving him an ultimatum, so you probably have a chance, and the worst-case scenario is that you amicably part ways with the team and that’s that.

But realistically there is a worse worst-case scenario, and it’s pretty damn close to what Garrett is threatening. Losing this side gig wouldn’t really be too much trouble. It would put a dent in your savings, and you’d have to be a bit better about how you ration out your groceries and other necessities around the flat, but losing your job at McLaren? Being blacklisted from the industry entirely? That’s life-destroying. You would lose everything━ all the blood, sweat, and tears you shed to get where you are would be for nothing.

All because of a prick in sky blue.

“Fine,” you utter from between gritted teeth. “I’ll help you. But I won’t post you on my account. I won’t bring you home to my parents. I won’t go round to your flat and I certainly will not have you round to mind. You get one kiss to make it official to the paps, and then nothing more.” You take your own threatening step toward him, and a vindictive part inside you shines with malicious glee when he shifts ever so slightly backward. “If you try anything else, I will run to the papers and drag you through the mud worse than any of your little psycho groupies ever could.”

He scoffs, “You’d ruin your career.”

“But I’d tear you down with me,” you reply.

He takes a moment to think, staring into your eyes and weighing how serious you are. Whatever he sees staring back at him must be convincing enough because he sniffs, nods, and smirks.

“Deal.” He leans down, “I think I’ll be taking that kiss now. Make sure to really sell it, yeah?”

━━ tags: @maih23 @urfavnoirette @leclercsluv @f1luvur @formulaal @a-disturbing-self-reflection @starlightpierre

━━ a/n: i feel like i say this every time, but i am seriously blown away by how well the first part of this was received! like, seriously, thank you so much for the kind words everyone said about it! hopefully this second part lives up to the hype of the first, it's a little denser, but the events are important to establish for the rest of the story so it needed to happen!

[forsoobado137]

Do you have England nation revealed headcanons too? My tsundere babe needs love

I do. I think England is a bit more reclusive with his fame. He just wants to live a normal life, so he's not accepting deals or interviews left and right. He only really appears in documentaries or serious interviews, but he'll go on a casual talk show like once or twice a year at most.

I'd say his public reputation is fairly good. A lot of the older generations hold him in high regard and see him as an absolute gentleman. But I think the younger generations are more aware of his messier side. He always conceals his feelings with a mask of stoicism and politeness. He wants to keep his reputation in tact, but sometimes he slips up. Whether it be a moment of drunkenness or a negative remark about a public figure, Legacy media always makes a big deal out of any mistake he's made. People on social media don't really care about that, and they're a bit tired of all the manufactured drama.

England isn't really on social media all the time. He usually only uses it to either post things for tourism or to critique and react to stuff. Like half of his posts across all accounts are him talking about some shitty movie/show/book. He also likes to comment on all the crazy shit America does. A lot of his Instagram is just him taking pictures of America and being like "guys wtf". He's gotten into quite a few petty internet arguments on twitter (especially with a certain Frenchman). His internet beef with France is infamous, but a bit one sided. France sees it as playful banter while England is genuinely annoyed.

He gets followed around a lot by paparazzi, especially due to his relationship with the crown. It's died down a little, but it used to be way worse before they days of social media. But there are still a lot of stalkers who search for every detail about him, including his personal records. His own staff have gathered information to sell it off.

Tabloids love to stir up drama about him, especially with his brothers. Modern day, their relationship with each other is fine/neutral, but they love to milk every argument and interview the brothers like "oh, what are you going to do after he said this?" and stuff to drive a wedge in between them. England has personal beef with the Daily Mail that goes back a century, and he'll clock them at every turn.

[eddiesghxst]

PRICE OF FAME (PART 1/12)

yes i have eighty different rockstar!eddie's now, pls don't look at me, i rewatched almost famous and had a moment, k bye, enjoy!

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: you're a writer for rolling stone magazine and eddie hates the media so... he hates you

contains: enemies to lover trope, themes of sexism/misogyny, smoking, drug and alcohol use, sexual themes, and eddie being an asshole <3

word count: 4.5k

| next part |

| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

You love your job more than anything.

You love that it allows you to travel, that it’s centered around music, and that you get to meet people and make friends and do extravagant things you would’ve never imagined you’d be doing. You love your job.

“I love my job.” It’s starting to taste like a lie when it reaches your tongue.

You mutter it to yourself again, looking around the bright hallway and searching for any fucking door with the words ‘CORRODED COFFIN’ written on it.

You glance at the watch on your wrist, teeth digging into the soft skin of your cheek as you keep walking down the corridor. 

You feel as if you’ve been walking down this hall for years, miles of white stone wall and shiny gray cement floors, equipment littered here and there with staff walking through doors and yelling commands.

You follow the echo of chatter and soft giggles, the sound getting closer and closer until a group of girls meets you. A red-headed girl lazily chews gum and stands against the wall, glaring at you from behind her blood-red shades. You take the chance to ask them your pressing question, “Do you know where I could find the dressing room for Corroded Coffin?” You ask.

The girls glare at you and giggle, eyeing you and, without a doubt judging your lack of fishnets and leather clothing. Brown leather boots, flared jeans, and a white long sleeve— you don’t belong here. “You a reporter or something?” 

You look at the redheaded girl, pursing your lips and taking a steady breath, reaching up to grasp the strap of your crossbody bag. “I’m a writer for Rolling Stone Magazine,” you explain, ignoring the snickering girls on the side. You clench the leather band of your bag in your palm, “I’m doing a piece on the band.”

The girl silently studies you; a ghost of a smile passes her lips, “Rolling Stone Magazine?”

You shift on your feet, eyebrows furrowing, “Yeah um… they’re big on music and—“ “I know what Rolling Stone Magazine is.”

You love your job.

You steadily breathe, clenching your bag once again. Your feet ache in these boots, and your jeans are teetering on the cusp of too tight after you ate a quick dinner— you want to go home. “The boys won’t speak with Rolling Stone.”

It falls silent between the two of you, and you glance at the other three girls, huddled together and passing a joint. “They don’t like watered-down shitty tabloids like yours. They won’t want to see you.” The redhead explains, silently reaching over to accept her turn with the joint.

You watch as she brings the burning paper to her lips, taking a long drag and smirking at you. She expects you to take her word and leave, but you’ve dealt with enough people like her to know she’s bullshitting you.

“Could you please point me toward their dressing room?” You ask, reconstructing your previous question because you now understand that, without a doubt, these women know where the dressing room is.

She laughs and points across the hall, some feet from where you’re all standing. You can see the first few letters of the band's name from your angle, and you internally rejoice. You thank her and walk over to the door, mentally reviewing your introduction a few times before laying a few knocks on the heavy black door.

There’s no response for a moment, and you try not to let the snickering sound of the girls tick you off. You lift your hand to knock again, but the door swings open before you can do it. A tall, muscular man glares down at you, dressed in black with a scowl. He must be security.

“Hi, I’m a writer for—“ “Groupies aren’t coming in yet; wait out in the back.” 

Your face twists in offense, glaring at the man as you, yet again, clench your fist in annoyance, “I’m not a fucking group—“ The door slams shut before you can finish your sentence. 

“Fuckin’ asshole.” You mutter to yourself. 

You love your job.

The girls snicker behind you, and you feel your face heat in embarrassment and annoyance. Why is nearly everybody in this industry just a bunch of assholes? You figure you’ll just have to wait for the band members to come out, leaning back to press your back against the wall and patiently wait.

From outside, you can hear the chaotic noise of yelling and loud banter from inside the room— the clatter of furniture breaking and thuds against the wall. You remember when behavior like this used to shock you, but artists seem to have reckless behavior nowadays.

The group of girls chatter amongst themselves, and you busy yourself with following the cracks in the floor. You stand there with aching feet and a mental ticking clock for what feels like hours, and you almost give up until the door flies open and three boys stumble out, reeking of alcohol and weed and musk. 

You watch as they all brush past you, ignoring you for the group of girls standing across the hallway, cheering their names and draping their arms across their shoulders. 

“And who might you be?”

You turn around at the gravelly voice, locking eyes with a glazed pool of brown. The last of the group, the fourth member— and, by what you can piece together given the notorious long dark brown locks dusting his shoulders, Eddie Munson. You clear your throat, stepping forward and telling him your name. You extend a hand for him to shake and ignore how his gaze rolls over every inch of your body.

“I’m a writer for Rolling Stone Magazine,” you explain, retracting your hand when he only glances at the kind gesture. He stands before you, an uninterested smirk dancing against his lips. He’s dressed in black jeans and black leather boots that look worn to hell despite his bottomless pit of a wallet. A black sheer button-down top, fully open to expose his sweat-glistened chest, shiny chains hanging from his neck and kissing his collarbones. His ringed fingers are wrapped around the neck of a half-empty bottle of whiskey, tiny sticky streams of spilled alcohol coating the bottle.

“I’m here to interview your band.” You add. 

He laughs, spit-slick lips forming a mocking smile as he speaks, “My band?” 

You blink, “Yes, you’re all a band, right?” You motion to the boys, still chatting with the girls across from where you stand, ignoring the sight of one of the members groping a girl as she giggles. “Heavy metal band, Corroded Coffin?”

Eddie snickers, “Yeah, toots, we’re a band,” he lifts the bottle to his lips, speaking over the rim, “But this isn’t my band.” He tips the drink back and gulps down the bitter drink.

You watch as he takes it down without a single twitch of displeasure. You take a deep breath, shifting on your feet as you ignore his smart response, “Okay, well, it won’t be long,” you try to reason, reaching for your bag to dig out your notepad.

“Just a few questions; I won’t take much of your time—” Eddie cuts you off with a wave of his hand, “Listen, princess,” he presses his hand against the wall beside you, using the hand wrapped around the whiskey to gesture as he speaks. “While I’d love to sit and chitchat like a couple of teenage girls, we’ve got two issues here, sweetheart.”

“One,” he raises his index finger, “We don’t do interviews before shows.” He explains as if it’s common knowledge. He lifts another finger, “And two,” he steps closer, a sickening grin spreading across his lips when you step back. “We want nothing to do with your shitty dick-sucking career-crushing poor excuse of a magazine.”

You stare at him, a million different responses churning in your head, and you so badly want to read him to filth, but you really fucking love your job.

“Mr. Munson, I promise you—” “Where are you from?”

What is it with these assholes and cutting you off mid-sentence? 

You swallow your pride and answer, “Michigan.” Eddie hums, nodding his head, clicking his teeth as if tasting the state on his tongue. “I’ll tell you this, Michigan,” he bumps the bottle against your shoulder, and you grimace at the drop of liquor that seeps into your shirt. “We’re not doing your shitty piece of a story, but we’ll graciously give you a nice view of the show from the side stage.” He grins, patting your shoulder once and winking.

A staff member passes by you, alerting the band that they have less than a minute to be on stage. You open your mouth to object to his offer, but the boy is downing the rest of the bottle and shoving the bottle into your chest, “Enjoy the show, Michigan.” 

You watch in disbelief as he walks off with his band members, the other members not even glancing your way as they holler and cheer down the corridor of the venue. For the 80th time tonight, you clutch the band of your bag and curse to yourself.

Fuckin’ dipshit rockstars.

Against your better judgment, you, again, swallow your pride and watch the show from the side of the stage. You decline any drinks offers, wanting to stay as sober as possible for the interview after the show (if you can weasel one out of them). 

Corroded Coffin knows how to put on a show. Each band member works the crowd in ways you have rarely witnessed in this industry— it’s not difficult to see their appeal to the younger generation of music listeners.

None of the members outshine the other; they are all equally in the spotlight, playing their part to create a well-oiled machine of an act. Granted, most of the show is concerningly chaotic; Gareth kicked his foot into his drum set near the end, Jeff smashed the fret of his guitar over the side of an amp, Eddie made out with a fan and Gareth, and the other member you can’t seem to name for the life of you sprayed the front row with multiple bottles of liquor.

It’s chaotic, an endless list of violations without a doubt, but the fans eat it out of the palm of their hands.

You don’t even bother trying to get their attention when they run off the stage, quietly watching from afar as they’re cheered on by VIP fans, managers, and staff. Security rushes them to the green room, where a line of fans waits with various pieces of merchandise to be signed.

You follow, silently taking in the busy scene, saying nothing when you catch a few members stealthily swiping tiny bags of party favors from fans. It’s a movie of never-ending noise and movement, and you’re wondering how they put up with this every night.

You glance at your watch and grunt in annoyance, half past midnight, well past the time you’d hoped to be back in your hotel room.

You stand aside and watch the room as the squealing fans go to each boy, getting autographs and Polaroids to commemorate the moment. Gareth is a flirt, shakes every girl's hand and only lingers for the ones he fancies, gazes into their eyes like they’re the only girl in the room, and smirks when they giggle and lean into his touch. Tells them they’re pretty, compliments their dresses and tops, and gazes at their chest for too long until staff breaks the moment and tells the girls to ‘keep the line moving, ladies’. 

Jeff is almost the same, except he’s less performative with it. He’s got a hint of a gentleman in him, thanks each fan for coming, and asks how they liked the show with a sneaky glint in his eyes and a sly smirk. Winks at one of the girls and leans in to whisper something in her ear, something you can’t read from his lips, but later on, you will see them step onto the tour bus together, snickering like sneaky teenagers.

The bass player, the one whose name always slips your mind, has gone off somewhere with a groupie; you watched them slip away from the madness the second he stepped off stage. 

And Eddie— Eddie can’t stop glaring at you. Can’t stop looking at you and making you squirm because he wants you gone. He’s got an arm draped around a girl's shoulder, neck craned down to hear what she whispers, and through the chaos of the room and the pretty girl practically pawing at his chest and giggling in his ear, Eddie still manages to find the time to look at you. Curly bangs wet with sweat sticking to his forehead, cheeks rosy and flushed with adrenaline, wide eyes diminished beneath smudged black eyeliner. He looks like an animal, damp and matted, searing gaze dripping with malice. 

You almost take the bait and cower.

A hand is placed on your shoulder, breaking your silent staring contest with Eddie as a man steps into your view. He is taller than you, older with lines of age sinking into his skin, glaring down at you over the end of his cigarette as he speaks, “Rolling Stone Magazine?”

You wonder how he was able to pick you out, but your itchy jeans and suffocating boots quickly remind you that you don’t exactly fit into the crowd. You nod, sticking a hand out and telling him your name. “You must be Richie, the manager?” You assume, kindly smiling when he takes your hand with a friendly grip in greeting.

“I’m here to interview your boys. We called this morning,” you remind him. He nods, puffs out a cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth as he speaks, “Yeah, uh… The thing with that is,” he tilts his head to scratch at the stubble on his chin, “I’m not so sure the boys’ll be up for that.” 

You breathily laugh, glancing at the boys behind him, ignoring when Eddie glances your way, “Yeah, I gathered that already.”

The man hums, reaching up to pluck the burning paper from his lip, blowing the smoke away from your face before speaking, “Yeah, Eddie’s not too keen on big media. Bad run-in from the past.” He explains. You nod understandingly, “The Face?”

The man nods, taking another hit, “Tore ‘em to shreds.” You nod, crossing your arms over your chest with a breath, “I remember.” He offers you a hit, and you shake your head, kindly waving him off.

“Shitty, you came all this way, though. Where you from?”

You don’t look at him as you respond, too focused on the man across the room, his attention locked in on the fans now that he sees you’re being taken care of— like an unwanted intruder being exterminated. But you’re not an intruder. You’re a journalist, a writer, a listener— and you’re damn good at it. 

Before you can thoroughly think about the repercussions, your mouth is running, gaze still locked on Eddie, “I can get them on the cover.”

Richie pauses his rambling at that, pauses the lift of his cigarette to his lips, and looks at you, waiting for you to say it was a joke or something— but it’s not. Your gaze flitters to him, your expression unwavering as you wait for him to respond. “The cover?”

You nod once, watching as he takes one long drag of his cigarette. “We can do one big interview with them all,” you begin, “I’ll tag along for a few shows to gather more on the experience, get a photoshoot booked and have them on the cover for the July issue.” You’re pulling strings, tugging at what sounds enticing and will get you where you need to be. You’re good at your job, you’ve done this before, and you know how to bend things to your will because the rockstars— the rockstars are always easy to break.

Richie glances over his shoulder and grunts, rubbing a hand over his face before turning back to you, “Okay, um,” he sighs and curses under his breath, “Let me see if I can talk them into it, yeah?” He sticks the cigarette between his lips and starts searching his pockets. “We’ve got a residency tour in New York next,” he announces, finally fishing out his wallet and sifting through cards until he finds what he needs. He offers the card to you, “Think you can meet us there?”

You take the card and glance over it before glancing at the boy once again. You nod, and he smiles, “Give me a call when you land; I’ll let you know if it’s a go.”

He leaves without another word, and you stay standing for a bit, rubbing the card between your fingers as you watch the boys meet the last of their fans tonight, Eddie no longer looks your way, and you hope he does for just a split second so he can know— so he can realize that he lost.

You give up when he seems too preoccupied with the girls, stuffing the card in your purse and making your way toward the exit. You’ll have to settle for rubbing it in when you see them in New York.

You spent the better part of your week convincing Anna, your manager, to give you the benefit of the doubt and allow you to pull through with a cover story. Anna wasn’t so excited when you told her you offered them a cover, but Anna is never excited by your ideas; she’s always worried until the final product comes out like a fine piece of gold. Treasure. You create treasure, and Anna knows this, so she finally relents and lets you go through with it— “You better get me the biggest story ever made. Bigger than Madonna.”

You can do bigger than Madonna— and seeing as your subject is four young men at the peak of worldwide fame, ‘bigger than Madonna’ will be a piece of cake.

You grab the hotel phone the second you get in, dialing the number on the creased business card you’d fished out from your bag. Your knee bounces in anticipation, teeth digging into your lip as you listen to each agonizing ring, almost thinking Richie gave you a fake card before finally, the phone picks up, “Hello?” It’s groggy, like he’d just woke up.

“Hi, it’s Rolling Stone Magazine,”

He groans on the other end, and you can hear the rustling of sheets, and you assume he’s sitting up in bed, “Rolling Stone Magazine… Oh— oh, uh… are you here?” He asks. You nod before answering with a short yes. 

“Are we on for today?” You ask. He’s silent for a few moments, nothing but sleepy, distant grunts filtering through the speaker. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, we’re on just uh,” you pick at the seam of your jeans as you wait for him to finish his thought, “Come to the garden at around three; they’ve got rehearsals, and you can try to squeeze in after.”

You thank him and end the call, placing the phone back on the stand and sighing as you glance around the room. This will be your home for the next month; Anna advised you to stay for the entire residency tour despite your reassurance that you can complete the story in a week— “A big story, birdie. A massive one. A good one. That doesn’t happen in a week.”

So, one month. Twelve shows and thirty days. One month.

Eddie doesn’t like rehearsals. 

He thinks they’re stupid and useless and take up too much time of the day when he could spend it doing something else. Could be writing, could be out having fun with the boys and getting high as a kite, could be fucking that redheaded groupie, Lany. He could be doing so many things, but instead, he’s up on stage in an empty arena listening for feedback in the mic and testing the amps for the guitars. 

“Let’s do that last track one more time; I think I’m picking up a bit of feedback on you, Gareth.”

Eddie sits down on the edge of the drum riser, sticking a cigarette between his lips and lighting it up. He tilts his head back and blows up toward the beaming lights, squinting at the bright rays and imagining them enveloping him. He closes his eyes and imagines it’s the sun, thinking about Hawkins and the last summers he spent with the gang. Thinks about Dustin and Lucas and Max and Mike. Steve, Nance, and Robin. Thinks about how he hasn’t called or visited in a while, even though he got their card on his birthday.

He feels shitty for not calling home; he itches to make the call now and let them know that he misses them and wishes they could fly out more often to watch the band play. They’re all busy, though; the kids are about to start college— dusted the shit out of high school, which Eddie obviously flew in to watch them walk the stage— and the older half of them are all getting jobs, looking for their next big step in life, and Eddie misses them.

His reminiscent thoughts are cut through with the sharp and loud slamming of the arena door, grasping his attention in seconds. He blinks a few times to get the light out of his eyes, squinting at where the noise came from— and Eddie’s mind is fresh off a joint, so he’s not a hundred percent sure if he’s just envisioning that journalist from the other day or she’s actually here.

He stands up from the drum riser, stepping further into the stage as he watches you walk down the rows of seats; barely acknowledges the stage manager when he asks him to play the riff from track four until Jeff walks into his line of sight, “Come on, man, I wanna get this over with.”

Eddie situates his fingers over the frets of his guitar, watching as you find a seat in the third row and settle in, settling your bag in your lap and holding it to you as you silently watch the crew work the stage. He plays the riff a few times, until they can fix that god-awful ringing noise behind the higher notes, and when they finally wrap up rehearsals, Eddie makes a beeline to the front row where Richie is standing, quietly chatting with a staff member about where he wants the road cases to go. Eddie doesn’t care much for their conversation, steps in, and promptly interrupts, “Why the fuck is that journalist here?”

Richard turns to him and raises his eyebrows, “Sir?”

The staff member leaves as Eddie leans in and points over Richard's shoulder to where you sit, still quietly watching the stage, bright lights illuminating your face like you’re some god-sent fucking angel— and you’re not. Eddie knows you’re not. He sees straight through your friendly act. “The journalist, Richie. Why is she here?” He slowly repeats.

Richie glances at you and looks back at Eddie, “She’s doing a story on the band—” “No, she’s fucking not.”

Richie stares at Eddie, blinks for a silent moment before speaking, “Son,” —and sometimes Richie reminds Eddie of Wayne, and it scares him, “She’s gonna put you on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine.” Richie points your way. Eddie falters momentarily, mindlessly blinking and shaking his head, “Cover?”

Richie laughs and pats Eddie on the shoulder, “Yeah. The fucking cover,” he says, “so, whether you like it or not, you’re doing the interview. This is what the band needs.”

Eddie shakes his head, curly strands brushing the muscles of his shoulders, “We don’t need a goddamn cover, Richie. We’re not doing a fucking story—” “Yes, you are.” Richie doesn’t mean to make his voice boom through the arena, but it attracts attention either way, and he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose before clapping a hand onto the back of Eddie’s shoulder, turning both away from the stage.

“You’re putting out an album in a few months. You want it to sell, don’t you?”

Eddie clenches his jaw, teeth grinding against each other as he glances over his shoulder, annoyed when he catches you watching— almost smirks when you quickly look away as if you’d been caught red-handed. Despite Eddie’s strong will, he nods because fucking obviously he wants the album to sell— but at what cost?

Richie nods and squeezes Eddie’s shoulder, “Good. Then you’ll do the interview. She’ll be with us for all of New York, so play nice. We need a good piece.” and leaves Eddie with a pat on his shoulder. 

Eddie stands there for a moment, gathering himself and trying to cope with the fact that some fucking narc will be on their back for the next month. He doesn’t see or hear you walk up to him until you say his name. The barricade separates you, your fingers gripping the black railing as you stand before him. Eddie’s hands are on his hips, not moving an inch as he looks at you.

“I know you don’t want me here, but I… I’m just doing my job, and if you can cooperate, this will be easier for the both of us.”

And Eddie— god, Eddie can’t fucking believe the audacity.

“Did you fuck Richie?”

He watches you pull back, blinking at him as you stare silently. Eddie tilts his head, eyebrows raising to push the answer from you, “No, I didn’t—” You shake your head and blink hard in confusion, “Why would I—” “Because you want a good story.” Eddie snaps, “Right?”

Because that’s all anybody ever wants from him. A good story. A tale to tell their friends about. Tell them the secrets they pulled from Eddie Munson, tell them about the famous rockstar that fucked them backstage, tell them they know what makes him crack. A good story.

You gape at him, lost and shocked by the sudden confrontation. 

You straighten up and tilt your head, eyes growing harsh with anger as you respond, “No. I didn’t fuck Richie. I don’t fuck to get where I want, I pull strings, and I make it work,” you snap, “I treat people with the respect they deserve, and I get what I want. You could learn a few things from that.”

And with that, you’re gone. Leaving Eddie behind with a twisted face of annoyance. He watches you walk over to where Richie is and greet him, but he doesn’t stick around long enough to watch or tune in to the conversation, storming through the arena and grabbing his coat to get in the car and tell the driver to take him to his hotel.

One month. Twelve shows and thirty days. One month.

Eddie can play along, he thinks. How hard can it be?

————

part two

[kingkatsuki]

There’s just something about Bakugou needing you so desperately.

Warnings: 18+, no prep, spit, creampies.

Word Count: 1k

You weren’t naive to the horrors that Dynamight experienced as a Pro-Hero, no matter how much your boyfriend tried to hide them from you. Tabloids, news stations and social media splashed pictures and headlines of the terrible disasters or attacks that he faced when he was out in the field. But somehow these accounts could never quite depict just how morbid it was firsthand.

No matter how hard a person tries, you can never quite harden yourself to these horrors— no matter how hard you try. The first time Bakugou failed a mission and arrived on the scene too late, he had to watch a building collapse on a family of civilians. No matter how many times you told him that it wasn’t his fault, there was nothing he could’ve done, the weight of it still laid a heavy burden on his shoulders.

Some days were better than others. Sometimes he just needed to release the stress and frustration of a shitty fucking day.

Finding you in the kitchen by the kettle, one of his Dynamight Agency shirts drowning your body. The fabric hanging around your thighs as his adam’s apple bobbed, the stress and tension at breaking point as he moved towards you like a hungry tiger stalking it’s prey.

“Fuck,” You gasped, a sharp clink sounding when it hit the ground. The poor porcelain quaking on impact as it broke into multiple pieces.

Rough, warm palms clung to your hips as Bakugou pulled you back against him. The stench of sweaty musk laced with soot mingled in the air as you relaxed at the comforting scent. The fear you’d had that it had been an intruder short-lived as you reached back to stroke your fingers through his matted hair, with no chance to chastise him for hugging you filthy as he bit down on your neck hard.

“Fuck, Katsu.” You whined, a mixture of pain and pleasure as you rolled your hips to feel his hard cock prodding against the swell of your ass, “What’s gotten into you?”

If Bakugou heard you, he doesn’t respond. Rough hands tug at the fabric of your shirt to bunch it around your hips. Laying his palm against your spine to push you flat against the counter as you gasp in surprise.

You wanted to ask about the dried blood that coated his skin, soaked into the material of his ripped hero costume and the dirt that was probably infecting the wounds but Bakugou didn’t give you a chance. Fingertips gripping you that much harder as he rut his clothed pelvis against your rear.

“Need you.” He rasps, the smoke and ash have his voice hoarse, crying out for water. But he doesn’t want water right now, he wants you.

He scratches you with blunt nails as he drags your panties down your thighs. Letting them rest around your knees as he spreads your ass apart, revealing your soft mound and tight rim to his prying eyes. You’re not wet, not even close as he caught you so unaware. Home hours earlier than he should’ve been, an indication of how his night had gone.

“Baby, fuck—” You gasp.

The crude sound of him spitting has your clit throbbing, the wetness splatters between your cheeks as he uses all four fingers to rub it into your mound, the sudden harshness has you gasping as he roughly thumbs your clit.

“I’ll make it up to you later, Sweetheart,” He rasps as he reaches for his belt, hearing him unbuckle it as he lets the material sag around the swell of his ass. Moving the fabric down just enough to free his thick cock, the swollen tip an angry red as he practically oozes pre, “Promise. I’ll make you feel so good.”

There’s no time for prep, not when the tension is at breaking point inside him. Wrapping his spit-soaked hand around himself as he pushes forward, the pre leaking from him smears against your slit as he prods your tight hole. Missing it’s mark as the fat tip catches against your clit instead, causing you to gasp as you push your hips back.

“Fuck,” He grunts, his hand tightens it’s brushing grip against your ass, certain to leave a mark as he holds you steady. Bending his knees to line himself up with your entrance again as both eyes focus on your sex as he pushes his hips forward.

Bakugou doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, stealing the air from your lungs as your cunt swallows him whole. The dull ache from his thick cock entering you with no prep has you feeling completely full, a pleasurable throb as your walls begin to clench around him.

“So fuckin’ tight.” A deep, guttural groan sounds beside your ear as he snarls. Starting a brutal pace that has you pressed into the counter.

Chasing his own release, selfish, borderline cruel.

The only sounds in the room are the sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with his sharp, gruff breaths and your saccharine moans. His brows are furrowed, focused as he uses your body for his own pleasure.

You know the days where he’s like this haven’t been good ones. Someone lost their life, something went wrong. He just needs safe haven, absolution in your cunt.

“‘m gonna cum.” Bakugou groans. He already knew he wouldn’t last long, too pent up and frustrated as he drives his hips forward.

And you can feel it too, the way his grip tightens as he grunts. A low rumble from deep in his chest as he bruises your hips, a small price to pay for whatever he’s experienced tonight.

“Cum for me, baby.” You coo.

And he does. Spilling his warm, sticky spend inside your tight walls as he gives a few more sloppy thrusts. Fucking it deeper inside you as he comes down from his high, grounding himself as your laboured breaths fill the room.

Immediately after Bakugou moves to pepper your neck and cheek in soft kisses, nose nuzzling against the soft skin as he holds you tight against him. Cherishing the warmth of your tight walls as his cock begins to soften inside you, adrenaline slowly seeping from his pent up body.

He smooths a palm along your spine as you whine from the loss of contact, feeling his spend trickle down your inner thighs as you turn to face him. Getting a proper look at his filthy face, his mask pulled up over his forehead as blackened smudges of eyeliner smear across his cheekbones.

“You gonna tell me what that was about, Kats?” You murmur, turning to face your boyfriend as warm palms move to grip your hips.

“Just really fuckin’ needed you tonight, sweetheart.”

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A Desperate Fool - Part 4

Part 3

Eddie gets settled on his usual kitchen barstool and watches Nancy make a pot of coffee, which is great considering he showed up at the ass crack of dawn, too anxious to wait. Well, and a day early, but sue him, he missed her. 

Nancy and Jonathan’s house is just as cozy as he remembers, while also serving as a solid reminder he’s not the only successful Wheeler. Original hardwood floors complimented with arched entryways and wainscoting. Cream and sage fill the living space, dotted with drops of gold accents. Low, soft lighting illuminates every room with warmth. It’s clean and modern, yet comforting in a way The Harrington’s eggshell minimalism estate and his own dark industrial penthouse have always lacked. 

It’s quiet and domestic and everything he’s missed about having a home. The glow in his chest doesn’t outweigh the thread of tension thrumming through him, but it does ease slightly when she hands him coffee in his favorite Garfield mug.

They catch up for hours as she fills him in on everything he’s missed. Mom and Ted finally retired down to Clearwater after Holly moved out for college. Mike and Will’s adoption went through, after working on it for years– and jesus christ, he’s an uncle now. Will’s still publishing his YA fantasy graphic novels. Mike’s a happy house-husband now stay at home dad. 

El finally quit her shitty government research job and decided she’d rather work full-time at Argyle’s pizza shop learning the ins and outs of the business. She’s better suited for it, he thinks, she’s always loved being around people and working with her hands.

She tells him about her and Jon settling into their new posts at The Chicago Times. Nancy’s managed to make friends with people outside of the Politics department. Jon’s moved from photographing for tabloids to local events like concerts and festivals, currently out of town for the weekend at a festival in Rockford. She says he’s happier now, with a job more his speed, and Eddie has to agree. Although they apparently just missed each other last fall when he’d started the job only a month after Corroded Coffin’s concert at Wrigley.

As Nancy goes on, talking about the rest of the kids while they lounge around the house, moving from the kitchen, to the living room, to the snow covered balcony so he can smoke, he tries to listen– he does. But he’s close to snapping, forced to wait so long for answers. He needs to know everything that’s happened, and why she’s the one who has to tell him. Her and Steve dated in high-school almost ten years ago, and granted they stayed close, but she’s not Robin or Max. She’s one of the few people Eddie’s closest to, except for Dustin, who could easily give him more answers than Nancy probably could.

He’s spiralling. He’s biting his nails, picking his lips raw. His leg is bouncing erratically and the only thing that helps is pacing whatever room they’re in. Nancy’s still talking about Argyle’s newest pizza recipe when he finally breaks.

“Nancy, for fuck’s sake please just tell me what’s going on with Steve.” He reaches down for his smokes but his hand’s shaking, the pack gets caught on his pocket and falls to the ground. When he bends to pick them up, the lighter follows suit and bounces under the couch Nancy’s perched on. 

A manic laugh bubbles from the pit of his stomach as he drops to his knees. Eddie briefly wonders if he even wants answers or if he’s just punishing himself. He bends forward, letting his forehead rest against the hardwood floor, cool and grounding. 

Grabbing the smokes and lighter, he looks up to find Nancy’s eyebrows and nose all scrunched up, lips pursed. She’s looking at him exactly how he knew she would, full of pity and disappointment.

There’s something underneath the expression though that Eddie can’t quite pick out– anxiety, maybe. He wouldn’t have such a hard time reading her if he hadn’t been gone for almost a year. Another reminder added to the long list of his life-altering mistakes.

Eddie stands on unsteady legs, moving to the balcony for another smoke, with Nancy hot on his heels when there’s a knock on the front door. She shoots him an apologetic look, but he waves her off. He’s waited this long for answers, what’s another minute in misery.

When Eddie’s finished his smoke, he does his best to sneak back inside without being noticed. An unfamiliar voice calls him out.

“Oh, Nancy I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had company!”

Eddie pokes his head around the corner to find Nancy standing next to a petite woman with dirty brown hair and thick platinum highlights, who’s dressed in an uncoordinated riot of colors and textures. Knee-high navy blue socks, tucked into tan polka dot flats, end just below the hem of her corduroy skirt. It’s a deep brown, matching the polka dots on her shoes, and the material’s so stiff it moves around her like a hoop skirt. She’s layered a puffy-sleeved periwinkle button up underneath a teal sweater vest.

It’s an odd assortment of colors, patterns, and textures that’s not quite artistic enough to be considered eclectic or interesting. Just bizarre and– if he’s being bitchy about it– a little boring. Eddie’s worn enough dramatic getups in his life, but beige isn’t doing this girl any favors.

The petite woman is blushing, eyebrow cocked in question, and Eddie realizes she’s been holding out her hand to him in greeting while he’s standing her silently judging her, like an asshole.

“Hi, you must be Nancy’s brother Eddie,” she says. Her voice is a light soprano, tonally off in an overly polite, customer service way. “I’m Becky.”

“Nice to meet you.” He finally manages to shake her hand, noticing they’re both wearing rings on each finger topped with chipped nail polish: his black and hers a sparkly baby blue. But while his rings are chunky and silver, hers are delicate gold bands stacked to varying thicknesses. “Umm how do you know Nance?”

“Oh, we met at work,” Becky says, smile widening. “Nancy’s told me all about you.”

“Hopefully just the good stuff.” Eddie tries for a joke, but her eyes tighten for the briefest moment.

“Yeah, she told me you were going to be back in town for a little while, I just thought you were coming tomorrow, otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you.” She glances toward Nancy, her smile straining further.

“No it’s alright, Nance and I were just catching up.” Nancy’s shuffling her feet, eyes darting between Becky, the floor, then Eddie, and back again. Becky is staring at her too, and Eddie’s not sure he’s ever seen Nancy this anxious. She looks completely checked out of the conversation.

He’s always suspected she’s been a bit embarrassed by him. Throughout school, he was the loud obnoxious troublemaker, and Nancy the wholesome straight A student. Every new school year, Nancy spent the first few weeks convincing her teachers that no, she’s not like her brother at all, thank you. Eddie played it off when he could, and has most of his life. But to see it now, so plainly written on her face, hurts more than he expected.

“She said you’re in a rock band?” Becky asks, attempting to fill the silence left in the wake of Nancy’s awkwardness. “Very glamorous.”

It sounds slightly sarcastic, but Eddie’s not sure if he’s just feeling overly defensive. “Playing and songwriting are by far the best part. The rest is just missing out on what’s waiting at home.”

“Mmm, so that’s why you’re in town then? Missing Chicago?” She seems genuinely sympathetic, but he can’t help puffing up like an angry cat at the drip of pity hanging from her lips.

“More like the people,” Eddie snaps. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. God forbid he has a panic attack in front of the first person Nancy introduces him to when he comes home. He’d really be living up to the nightmare older brother stereotype Nancy’s dealt with her entire life.

“Well then,” Nancy interrupts, clapping her hands together loudly causing both Becky and Eddie to flinch. “Thanks for dropping off my laptop, Becky, I really appreciate it.”

“Umm, no problem, Nance.” Becky eyes her warily, but takes the cue. She turns to Eddie to say their goodbyes as Nancy sees her out.

He heads towards the kitchen to get dinner started for the two of them. It’s almost ten minutes by the time Nancy makes her way back and her entire demeanor’s changed. Her spine’s straight with shoulders back, head held high, eyes steeled with resolve. A classic Nancy Wheeler I’m going to tackle this problem head on attitude, except it’s directed at him. Which is seriously not great.

But instead of saying anything, she pulls out the same kitchen stool Eddie had been perched on earlier and plops herself down, all without breaking eye contact. He assumes she’s got something to say, he can spot a Nancy lecture coming a mile away.

Once again, anxiety’s filling out space in his chest as he finishes cooking. They sit in relative silence on the living room couch while they eat, and all he can do is wait. Eddie wants to hear what she has to say, he wants answers, but he’s dreading it all the same. She’s upset with him, which he can’t hold against her. He deserves all of his family’s rage. That doesn’t mean he’s necessarily looking forward to it.

“Ok, ask me,” she states, setting the empty bowl down on the coffee table, turning fully face him. Leaning against the the armrest, she pulls one knee up to her chest while sticking her other foot right in Eddie’s lap. He matches her position, grabbing her ankle and plopping his own foot down beside her, hoping the small amount of contact will keep him grounded.

“Ask you, what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Eddie,” she says, “the entire reason you’re in Chicago isn’t to catch up with Jonathan or Mike or me.” Nancy’s chest deflates with a sigh, and Eddie’s heart breaks at the fact that she’s right. He hates himself for it, one more way he’s disappointed her. “He’s completely offline, the kids don’t post about him even though half of them have you blocked anyways. I know you probably did as much digging as you could and even though you hired a fucking private investigator– jesus christ Eddie–”

“That was only to find out where he lived, I swear.”

She scoffs, “Like that makes it any better.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, lifting one hand from her ankle to rub his eyes. “I’m sorry, keep going. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s ok,” she says, squeezing his leg. The small gesture loosens some of the building tension, and he relaxes his shoulders.

“The point is, you probably don’t know anything about what’s happened with over the thirteen months you’ve been gone. But, I just thought, if you’re going around looking for answers, it’s probably best for everyone if they come from me.”

She looks away from him then to stare out the window next to them, and Eddie can’t help but follow her gaze. The sun has long since set, the only light coming from the end table lamps on either side of them, and the street light across the way. Dark winter nights always left Eddie feeling a little hollow, a chill even the warmest blankets couldn’t chase away. A feeling only Steve could ease out of him. 

When he looks back at Nancy, she’s already looking back like she can read his mind. Except she’s chewing on her bottom lip, and when he meets her eyes, she can’t hold his gaze.

“Nance,” he says, confused at the sinking of his stomach, “why is it best if it comes from you? No offense, but you’re not necessarily as close to him as Max or Lucas, and they seemed pretty clammed up when they came around. Especially when they mentioned the fiance.” Eddie chokes around the word. Swallows around the dry bitterness coating his throat.

She squeezes his ankle again, except this time it’s too tight, her nails digging little moons into his skin. Like whatever she has to say will send him running, because everyone knows he’s a coward, will disappear exactly the same as before. It’s how he knows he’s still the same person as before– undeserving of the people he loves most– when her next words send a small shock through his system.

“Because I’m the one who set them up, Eddie. And I’m not sorry.”

~~~

Part 5

Tag List: @5ammi90

[mochinomnoms]

The day Yuu introduced any of Octavinelle trio as their mate (Let alone all 3 or just 2), a part of their soul dies 1. Beacuse he knows they mate for life and 2. Beacuse on the list of suitable suitors for his dear pup all of Octavinelle was on the bottom in the F tier. He has a slight heart attack and gives "the dad talk" to them.

"Them?"

"Yes"

"Them. Out of all the pups in the school you chose THEMMMM"

"Yeah."

*His soul rises out of his body for a moment* "Are you TRYING to make me go GREY!!!! I swear i will turn into Trien by the end of the year!"

Then on the complete Opposite end, if Yuu introduces Kalim as their partner Crewel is happy. He was in the A teir for suitors beacuse he is the goodness Boi.

S tier is Vil but he is happy his puppy ended up with someone who wasn't a criminal.

Ah, I love assigning Crewel as the dad against his will. I do believe that he and Trein out of the staff are the best parental figures to Yuu. Let's be honest, Sam is like an older cool brother, Vargas is your way too into sports uncle, and Crowley is the dad that you don't call your dad anymore cause he was a really shitty dad. I imagine his relationship with Yuu is closer to bickering siblings with a maaaaasive age gap.

Anyways, yes Crewel has a tier list:

His main priority is making sure that you end up with someone who has/will have a good foundation to take care of you, especially since you don't have any family (other than him now) to be your support if something goes wrong. Is other priorities are that they will be generally good to you, you'll be in no danger, and that they're responsible.

S tier is Vil, you're correct. Vil is one of his top students, is respectful, has a wonderful taste in fashion and makeup, makes good money even now, and comes from a good family. Crewel knows that with Vil, his pup will be taken care of! This is simialr with Trey, someone who is doting and kind and also comes from a good family), and Riddle. He thinks Riddle is good, hard worker that will be loyal and dedicated to you, as well as provide a solid home and family. Even if his mother's a bitch, he has a good background and lineage... plus you'd live near him over school breaks.

I actually don't think he'd have that much of an issue with Azul. Yes, he can be shady, but Azul does well in school, is very motivated to become a great business owner, and has a good family that owns a restaurant. The others in this section are also solid people who Crewel thinks would cherish and care for you. Deuce is probably the most surprising… but Deuce is very earnest and cares very deeply for his family. While he may not have the best track record, and doesn't have a rich family, Deuce cares very deeply and will make sure that his partner is happy no matter what. Thus, Crewel approves.

Neutral is pretty self-explanatory, but the “ooh, really?” is very interesting, as it's filled with arguably the richest and prominent students. Which is why he does not like them. Kalim regularly deals with assassination attempts, Leona is an arrogant second-born prince from a nation with numerous issues, and Malleus is the crown-prince of an isolated nation that is known to not like humans. He'd be worried about any sort of stress you'd be under, especially since you'd be publicized, and while he trusts Vil to keep a tight grip on the tabloids due to his career, he can't extend the same courtesy to what are quite frankly political figures. He knows that they have the means, family, and personality to love you. Arguably, these three are the type that once they fall, they fall hard and become devoted to their partner. But… still… are you sure you wanna get with them?

For the bottom tier…. Yeah. The twins are shady troublemakers, and while Azul at least has a good family, Crewel can figure nothing out about the Leech family or what they do. They enjoy scaring other students, and while Jade at least does well in school, he and Floyd are just not what he thinks you deserve. Ace is… well… Ace. Rook, as much as he enjoys having him in class and in the science club, is a bit too eccentric for his tastes. He'd be worried about Rook drawing the line between love and obsession. Finally, Idia is just a shut in who has little to no social skills, bad habits, and lives very far away. Crewel firmly believes that you'd become some sort of house spouse cleaning after a man-child, too busy with his games to help you out.

Overall, though, Crewel knows that he can't control who his pup falls for, but he can give a very solid shovel talk with a very solid warning about what happens to bad dogs that don't treat their partners right.

[elementroar]

Swain x LeBlanc becoming in-your-face canon after 15 years is so important to me

Look, I'm old. Over 35+ on Tumblr is ancient. I played League of Legends back on its shitty original client but had to be through the Garena client on top of that. Back when there was no ARAM, and Dominion was the only alternative mode and you better like it. Back when the actual League of Legends was an in-universe thing, the United Nations of Runeterra except it could actually enforce its edicts.

Swain and LeBlanc were basically created together at the same time. Swain was released first, and LeBlanc followed a month later. World-building back then was primarily through each champion's League Judgements which were basically providing their backstory, and the interrogations by the League to determine the champions' motivations. It's very telling then that Swain featured very prominently in LeBlanc's Judgement.

This was the first hint of the personal relationship between Swain and LeBlanc, and particularly LeBlanc's personal affection for Swain. These two would have a steady story progression from then on through events reported in the in-universe tabloid the Journal of Justice; with LeBlanc helping to pave the way for Swain to become Grand General. She has been his date, play-acted as Jarvan IV to 'duel' him to start a war, and even body-doubled for him in his final duel to become Grand General.

I can recall every single instance where LeBlanc and Swain were involved together in some event or major conflict, but it's irrelevant now. Cos all this? Non-canon since 2014. But I bring this up to show you that Swain and LeBlanc's relationship was a very real on-going mainstay of both their characters' arcs for 4-5 years.

But this relationship was actually taken into consideration by Riot when Swain underwent his visual graphic update and lore rework in 2018. See after the cut for the rest of my musing, developer and writer comments, and even some sneaky internal design notes that I happened to listen to.

So when Swain was being remade in his visual graphic update, it included his lore as well, including the major updates to what Noxus would be now.

And despite only LoL fans who read the lore that knew how connected Swain and LeBlanc actually are, their relationship was actually given a lot of special attention by Riot and Swain's then lead narrative writer, Riot Interlocutioner.

The major difference is in Swain's attitude to LeBlanc. In the old lore, it's heavily implied that the reason LeBlanc was doing so much for Swain because she had a deep personal affection for him. Swain on his part, was actually quite indifferent to her after her League Judgement, with their last interaction before the major retcons having her complain how he's been giving her the cold shoulder since he became Grand General (with her assistance), and him simply stating she "has (his) favor, and that is enough".

In current lore. Well. Let's just say Swain now clearly reciprocates LeBlanc's attention. If not hungry for it:

Players who knew their lore were able to ask Interlocutioner directly about how Swain and LeBlanc interact or regard each other now, and well:

I will say as someone who prefers some aspects of Swain's old design, I do appreciate how the new lore decouples LeBlanc from being entirely focused on Swain, gives her a higher overarching purpose in her own story, and also made her actually the older of the pair despite appearances.

Also, this was her man Swain back in the day. Yup, she was into this. Respect, actually. LeBlanc was all about appearances being deceiving, and her being into Swain despite his appearance was prolly part of the point.

That said, part of the lore update that was well-received was the exploration and additional depth given to Swain and LeBlanc's relationship, in whatever manner. They now have a clearer shared history - LeBlanc manipulated young Swain into thinking he killed her and the Black Rose, and got him sent on a suicide mission which she expected him to die in. But he returned and ended up stealing the demon she was aiming for to boot. Swain for his part was intrigued that she survived him killing her too. And both have 'intrigued' each other since then.

May be counter-intuitive to WANT your OTP to become 'enemies' and no longer openly cooperating with each other; but this is the infinitely spicier 'enemies and also lovers' upgrade.

You could say it's already canon that Swain and LeBlanc are a pairing, but a lot of things, like before, are implied and hinted. Heck the funny thing is in current lore, while Swain's affection for LeBlanc is obvious, we're not entirely sure how LeBlanc regards Swain, even though their writer confirms they are both enemies and lovers.

That's why with LeBlanc's VGU, and Fortiche's involvement and likely portraying Noxus in the next season in Arcane S3, I'm cautiously optimistic of seeing how they could be portrayed. There's a very sexually charged element between them. And obviously we see Fortiche is not prudish about portraying that element in relationships.

I've waited 15 years for my OTP to fuck. On-screen. In-canon. In glorious HD. I'm only upset that Swain doesn't have a true raven form anymore cos LeBlanc was totally a monsterfucker back in the day when Swain could transform into this.

Oh, and I have another little thing in my pocket. 8 years ago when Swain was getting his VGU, lore reworked etc. There was an official Riot dev podcast by their China team on Weibo. After airing, it was immediately pulled for saying too much ahead of the release. And it wasn't just the standard things, like revealing too much of his new abilities, or lines.

See I listened to that podcast and understand both English and Chinese. And I in fact still have that podcast downloaded. In that podcast the devs started talking about the internal design docket they were given to provide context and backstory as they translated lines that Swain would say to them and in what tone etc.

Naturally, I zeroed in on their section talking about his lines to LeBlanc. I needed to know post-VGU, what did LeBlanc mean to him.

Well, in a word, LeBlanc is his 对象. Meaning his girlfriend/significant other/intended, all the way up to romantic partner. While not as definite as 情人 and 爱人 , it does imply that Swain sees her as his romantic goal. This was further emphasized by them confirming the overall tone of Swain's interactions with LeBlanc is 'romantic'.

Original versions or post-VGU, Swain and LeBlanc are always conceived together as a character pair. I really just hope I get a satisfying payoff after 15 years of shipteasing.

I don't get involved much in League, game or lore, anymore. But this. This is important to me.

[valkierrie]

𝑪𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Warning(s): Swearing, (Damon Smut).

Plot: After a small outburst, Damon reassures Y/N of her place in their relationship.

Word count: 2.3K

A/N: Hope that the person who requested this enjoys it. I do apologise for the infrequent uploads. I have so many missing assignments, and my lack of proper time management makes it harder to keep up. Anyways, here the story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Being able to say that I was going out with Damon Albarn should have been something that brought me nothing but pure and utter joy, which to a large extent it did. With me, Damon wasn’t just Damon Albarn, lead singer of Blur; He was just Damon, the man who bought me flowers without being asked, stayed up late alongside me when I got sick, and a godsend in the bedroom. 

The ‘issues’ concerning our relationship had very little to do with him, he was basically as close to perfect as one could get.  

The ‘issue’ was that I couldn’t measure up. Financially and in other aspects. My job was as mundane as it could get, an assistant to a shitty boss who gave me more work than I got paid for. I didn’t want to rely on Damon for everything. Sure, he didn’t mind, but that didn’t stop the nagging feeling that I didn’t deserve it. I felt like a gold digger, but without all the looks to go with it.  

Damon had the likeness that resembled that of a Greek God. It wasn’t an exaggeration. With his short and unruly, light brown hair; and his electric yet, calming cobalt blue eyes, as soon as he gave you that irresistible smile, just know you were done for. His fans agreed, specifically his female fanbase. I held nothing against them. I was one of them before Damon and I started dating. They were made up of various women, each from different classes and different levels fame and appearance. I remember reading something the other day on some tabloid magazine about Kate Moss saying that she really liked Parklife. The Kate Moss. I knew it was harmless, but knowing that women like Kate Moss, her along with Noami Campbell, the absolute epitome of beauty, knowing that they were around that range of celebrities Damon could easily get access and get a hold of made me feel uneasy. 

It wasn’t helped by the fact that Damon and I were spending less and less time together. The amount was decreasing exponentially. With Blur on the constant rise, it was expected that Damon’d be spending more time with the lads in the studio. What I hadn’t anticipated was that the only time we’d see each other would be when we kissed before bed.  

It was constant, routine. I felt it lacked the feelings it did in the beginning. It felt more like some odd procedure in a dystopian book. It didn’t feel like we wanted to do it, it felt like we had to. 

Tonight was no different. Damon had come back to the flat after a long day of rehearsals. I had gotten back a while back, my boss had gone on early holiday, allowing to me to finally cut back on the unpaid overtime. I sat on our shared bed, my back on the headboard, an opened book in hand. Damon walked in the bedroom, his hair still wet from the shower he’d just taken; he didn’t bother fetching a shirt before pulling up the duvet and going under it. His face inched close to mine, the repetitive and humdrum step process in progress. I placed a finger over his lips, intercepting any and all attempts for his lips to reach mine.  

Damon’s eyes shot up, startled by the interruption. “What’s wrong?” 

I closed the book, placing it on the nightstand on my side of the bed, before turning fully to face Damon. “Aren’t you tired of this?” 

Damon cocked slightly askew; a brow rose. “Tired of what?” 

I sighed; I shouldn’t have been surprised. I wanted to be annoyed at him for not comprehending straight away, but the cryptic language wasn’t really much help. “This.” I gestured vaguely between the two of us, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Every night’s the same. I come home from work, you come back from the studio and all we do is kiss then sleep.” 

Damon sat up straighter. 

“I mean—I don’t even remember the last time we had dinner together, let alone a proper conversation; do you, Damon?” 

Damon turned his head, the words hitting him as he tried his hardest to think a time. There was a brief intermission before a finally spoke, saying on a succinct, “No.” 

“Damon, I’m spent.” I spoke slowly, heaving. “I wanna spend time with you.” 

“I didn’t know you felt that way, I’m sorry, love.” Damon placed both his hands on my cheeks, his soft, yet calloused thumbs, stroked my face gently.  

I felt a bit bad when he apologised, it wasn’t his fault.  

“Tell you what,” Damon’s fingers at the back of my hair gently played with my lower scalp. “I have rehearsals tomorrow—” 

I made a face at that.  

“—but,” he continued. “I think the band can manage one day without me.” 

A small smile appeared on my face before I could stop it.  

“How about we go out for dinner tomorrow evening, uh?” 

I nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.” 

“Great,” Damon grinned, “now, can I please kiss you?” 

I giggled, pulling Damon close until out lips locked. It felt great. I didn’t feel that sense of nothingness, instead, it felt pleasing, satisfying. 

The next day, work had gone by rather quickly, the excitement and eagerness were simply too much. By the time I got home, it was already a quatre past seven. Damon was sat in the living room, smoking beside the opened window in the living room. He placed a small kiss on my forehead before allowing me to get ready. I changed out of my work attire, opting to take a swift shower. 

When I zipped up the short black dress I chose, the third one I chose for the evening, standing in front of the restroom mirror, I could see my reflection glancing back at me. I felt disgusted, I did. I probed at my sides and curves, pinching my dress from the back, as if that would magically do something to pacify the thoughts racing through my head. The dress already clung to my body, pulling it added to an almost inability to breath. I wanted to say ‘fuck it’ and leave the restroom, but I couldn’t. When my hand reached for the knob, an almost instant feeling, almost like going into shock. My chest felt tight and my heart was racing, and the moisture growing on the palms my hand would be sure not to give me a very good grip. 

My eyes landed on a paper cover of a magazine laying haphazardly on the counter, likely left by Damon. The cover immediately caught my eye, it was a cover of her. Kate Moss. She looked as confident as ever, her attire as striking as her appearance. It didn’t even look like she was trying, she just looked so beautiful. So unlike me.  

I felt repulsed, the way Kate’s beauty stared back at me, like it was taunting me the way the magazine stared back at me. I didn’t look good and I didn’t feel good; I couldn’t leave the fuckin’ bathroom, my chest honestly felt like it was about to explode and I felt like barfing. Like it was at the end of my throat, ready to come out. This felt stupid. Something so simple, yet I couldn’t do it. 

Three knocks outside the door snapped me out of my thoughts. “Y/N, you alright? You’ve been in there for a while.” 

My body jumped slightly, startled. I took a deep breath, wiping the long, thin watery line that I hadn’t realised had fallen from my eyes before opening the door. “I’m fine, Damon.” My voice sounded far from convincing, a bit strained. It would have taken a really big idiot to believe what I had said. I gave him the best smile I could pull. 

Damon took one look at my face, one, a look of suspect on his face. “What’s wrong?” He asked again.  

“Nothing.” 

“You’re lying.” 

“Nothing’s wrong, Damon.” My voice unintentionally raised slightly.  

To me, it was nothing; To Damon, it was a tall tale sign that something was amiss. “Y/N, I know you.” He took one of his hands in mine. “I know when something’s bothering you, and I told you that you can always talk to me when something’s up. Now, what’s wrong?” 

My gaze fell to the floor. “I don’t think I wanna go to dinner anymore.” 

I didn’t need to look up at Damon to know the Englishman's brows were furrowed, a sign of his obvious confusion. “What’d you mean?” 

I sighed, my eyes briefly met his. I gave the mirror a look before turning back to Damon. “I’m not hungry.” 

“There it is again, you’re lying.” 

“Honestly, Damon, does it matter? I don’t want to go.” I tried to make my tone sound indifferent, but it wasn’t working. If I couldn’t convince myself, there was no way in hell Damon believed me. 

“It does matter. You were looking forward to this, and now all the sudden you don’t wanna go? Tell me what’s bothering you.” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” I spoke, in a hushed tone, almost like a whisper. “Look at you, then look at me.” 

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Damon blinked; cluelessness plastered on his face. 

“Damon, you’re beautiful, the 20th century’s Adonis.” My voice trembled, and my speech faltered. “I can’t be your Aphrodite. I’m not beautiful like—” My eyes fell back to the magazine on the counter. “—like her.” 

Damon’s eyes followed my gaze and he saw the magazine. With a long sigh, he picked it up, examining it before throwing it back on the counter. “That was what was bothering you?” 

My silence and inability to answer his question must have spoken volumes to him.  

Damon turned my body to face the mirror. His hand propping my chin up to make direct eye contact with him in the mirror. “You know what I see when I see this face every day?” He inquired; thought I could tell it was meant to be a rhetorical question.  

“I see the sexiest woman I have ever laid my eyes on.” He spoke lowly, his voice husky. His was mouth directly beside my ear. “You have never and will never be ‘not beautiful.’” 

His ocean blue eyes stared directly at my eyes through our reflection. “You have no idea, do? How incredible you are.” 

I felt my heat rising to my face, I could see it in the reflection turning red. I stared at his face, trying to catch a semblance of doubt. All I saw was Damon—my Damon. The patient, loving, and sincere man I fell for. 

“Let’s not go anywhere right now, let me show you just how perfect you are—just you and me.” Damon gently pushed me forward, placing my hands on the counter. His hand went on my thigh, slowly rising up, slowly pushing and bunching my dress up. I knew where this was going. 

“Damon, I —” 

“Shhh...” He pressed slow, sensual, wet kisses along my shoulder, pushing my hair aside to get a better angle.  

I hummed in pleasure. When Damon had the dress bunched above my hip, his lips found my ear again. “Let me show you how much I really love you.” 

His hand tugged at the hem of my underwear. “You want me to do that?” 

I bit my lower lip, nodding.  

Damon didn’t need to be told again. His hand went past the waist band and teased the side of my thigh before finding my core. An unintentional moan was released from my mouth when Damon teased my entrance.  

“You like that, uh?” Damon smirked. His hand stroked my folds, releasing more moans from me. When his finger found my clit, it was game over.  

“Damon —oh —” The pleasure was simply too much.  

Then he inserted a finger. I couldn’t think straight. I saw white, it wasn’t the type of white you saw when you were dying, it was the kind you saw when you were being absolutely fucked out of your mind. When his second finger went in, I knew I wouldn’t last long. Especially because he kept hitting that spot. 

“So tight...” Damon, using his other hand, turned my head, giving me a sloppy, wet, kiss. 

I tried my best effort to kiss him with as much strength as I could muster, but the thrusts of Damon’s fingers made it impossible. I felt myself clench around his fingers, my legs shaking sporadically. I was going to collapse. Damon moved his hand from my face and held me up with his free arm, wrapping it around me to keep me in place. With a final few strings of moans, my head tilted back, the feeling I'd been anticipating finally overcoming my body. My sounds filled the bathroom. When my body finally relaxed, I did my best to catch my breath. Damon kissed my cheek, he turned my around, placing both hands on my shoulders. 

“I don’t ever wanna hear you say that you’re anything but beautiful, you hear me?” His voice was stern, serious, with a gentle edge. 

“Yeah,” I laughed softly, “Gosh, I look like a mess, don’t I?” 

Damon grinned mischievously, a playful glint in his eyes. “You’re no model...but I reckon I’ll live.” 

I playful shoved his shoulder, a smile playing at my lips. 

Damon pressing a long kiss on my lips. It was full of passion; I felt my feelings being express through the kiss. I knew Damon felt the same way. His hands rested on my waist, while mine tried to pull him closer by the shirt. There was practically no more space between us, but that didn’t stop me from pulling him like there was. Then I felt it. It felt like a poke, something from Damon’s lower torso was poking at my thigh. I broke the kiss briefly, my eyes trailing low. Damon’s boner was in full view, protruding from his jeans. That was when I was certain we weren’t going to dinner that evening. 

[chelseachilly]

karma is my boyfriend

pairing: reader x mason mount summary: you face some backlash online after your relationship with mason goes public. he reminds you not to worry too much about the haters (with a little help from taylor swift) warnings: suggested smut (no actual smut though), mostly just fluff and some hurt/comfort ft. protective mason!! word count: 2.2k

author’s note: hi! this is my first mason fic, the idea for which came to me while listening to midnights (for the millionth time lol) pls let me know what you think!

There are a lot of things you have grown to love in your first few months dating Mason Mount.

You love his contagious smile and how his positivity improves the lives of everyone around him. You love waking up in his bed to him kissing your neck and murmuring “good morning, baby” in a hoarse, sleepy voice. You love watching him play football, his passion for the game so obvious and moving.

Mostly, you love him. You’ve known it from your second or third date, and it took everything in you not to admit it until he finally let those big three words slip while cuddling on his couch a few weeks ago. Now that you’ve both admitted it, telling him you love him is easier than breathing.

However, there are also things you don’t love about dating Mason Mount.

You’ve managed to keep your relationship under wraps for the first few months, with only your friends and family in on it. You haven’t posted each other on social media or taken many public outings together. When you have done for dinner or out with friends, you’ve been discreet in case there were any cameras around.

Until last week, when you were leaving a club with Ben and Kai and their girlfriends, both you and Mason too tipsy to care about potential paparazzi. The next morning, photos of the two of you kissing on the sidewalk were on the front page of the Sun. And the Daily Mail. And just about every other shitty tabloid in the country.

The Sun @TheSun ✔️- 6d Spotted: Chelsea star Mason Mount kissing possible new girlfriend Y/N Y/L/N outside popular Kensington nightclub!

You aren’t famous by any means, but because of your job in PR - Chelsea FC among your firm’s client base - the media was able to identify you. The fact that Mason and half the rest of the team follow you on social media made it fairly easy to confirm.

You’re well-versed in advising other people how to handle being in the public eye, but this is the first time you’ve had to deal with it yourself. So far, it’s been tougher than you expected.

Due to Mason’s ex-girlfriend being considerably more well-known than you, her fan base has taken to sending you death threats on social media, commenting on your old photos with digs at your appearance.

You know that you shouldn’t let these internet trolls get to you, but you can’t help yourself from scrolling through your socials, watching them continue to pour in.

You insist to Mason that you’re fine, and though it’s clear he doesn’t entirely believe you, you manage to convince him not to post about it or do anything rash. You tell him it will all blow over within a couple weeks.

It will blow over, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt right now. And when you come home from work one day, already tired and stressed and feeling low on self-esteem, only to read a tweet about how you’re an “ugly slag who doesn’t deserve Mason”, you reach a breaking point.

This is how Mason finds you when he gets to your place after training. You’re curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, scrolling on your phone and crying so hard you feel sick.

“Y/n, what happened?” he exclaims, running to your side and kneeling next to you. “Are you in pain?”

You shake your head, barely able to speak. You pass him your phone so he can read for himself - you’ve been trying to hide most of it from him thus far, but you don’t think you can anymore.

As he scrolls through the comments on your latest Instagram post - a simple picture of you and your sister - you can see visible anger on his face, his jaw clenched. Mason isn’t often angry, and you haven’t seen this level of rage on his face even after a bad ref call or a lost match.

“Mase…” you say quietly, attempting to calm him down, but he just shakes his head.

“This is ridiculous,” he says in disbelief, tossing your phone on the couch cushion next to you. “Why the fuck would they comment those things? They know nothing about you!”

“They’re just trolls, your ex has quite the fan base,” you explain, sitting up and wiping the tears from your cheeks. “I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, it’s just been a lot.”

“Of course it has, baby,” Mason says, his face softening as he climbs up onto the couch to pull you into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry.”

You immediately melt into his side, letting his touch comfort you. It’s amazing how quickly your negative thoughts fade away in his arms, how being with him makes everything better.

“It’s not your fault,” you mumble into his chest.

“I know, but I should still do something about it,” Mason sighs. “I’ll put out a statement asking them to back off.”

“Thanks, love, but that’s not necessary,” you tell him. “They’re mostly her fans, not yours, so you issuing a statement won’t have much impact.”

Mason sighs again in defeat - he knows that you’re the expert in this area, but it’s clear that he just wants to do something to help.

“Well, I can text her, ask if she’ll say something to her annoying fans.”

You know that he and his ex ended on somewhat okay terms, but you also know that he really would rather not contact her unless absolutely necessary.

“Mase, it’s really okay,” you say gently. “I’m not gonna ask you to do that. Us dating will be old news in a week, I’ll just keep a low profile on socials from now on or go private or something, and we can be more careful about being spotted-“

“You shouldn’t have to, though,” he grumbles, his hand squeezing your knee. “I hate this. We should be able to go out and do stuff and post pictures together without people sending you awful messages.”

“I know, babe, but this is just how it is,” you say, leaning in to peck his lips quickly. “It’s alright. I feel better already, I swear.”

It’s true - you do feel much better now that he’s home, and you decide to turn off both of your phones for the rest of the night.

You settle into the couch with a movie playing and order a bunch of takeaway and have a wonderful evening together. At some point, you even forget all about the haters on the internet, content to focus on your boyfriend.

-

The next morning, it’s Saturday, and Mason asks when you wake up if you feel like coming to the match today.

You’ve come to many of his matches before, both for Chelsea and England, but never since the public has known you’re his girlfriend. You know if you go today there will be people taking your picture and staring at you, even if they don’t mean any harm.

Given the toll this past week has taken, you just don’t have that in you right now.

“I’m so sorry, Mase,” you say, running a hand through his hair. “You know how badly I want to be there and support you, but I-“

“You don’t have to explain, baby, I completely understand,” he says, holding your waist. “I’ll miss having you there, but I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe and happy at home. Just call if you need anything.”

“Won’t you be a little busy, you know, playing football?” you tease, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his lips lightly.

Mason just chuckles. “They can sub me off for all I care.”

“Don’t say that!” you gasp, biting your lip to keep from smiling. “I’ll be watching on the telly, and I expect a goal from you, mister.”

“Anything for my girl,” Mason flashes you a cocky grin, which suddenly makes you desperately wish he didn’t have to leave right now so you could shove him back into bed and kiss it off him. “Alright, I’m gonna be late. One more kiss for luck?”

You oblige, leaning in to kiss him and running your hands through his hair. Once you pull back, he must sense your lingering disappointment at not being able to come today, because he gives you a reassuring look and cups your face in both hands.

“Try not to let those pricks online get to you, okay?” he reminds you. “It’s like that Taylor Swift song you always play. Karma’s on your side, baby.”

You laugh out loud - you’ve gone from Mason enduring you constantly playing Taylor songs when you started dating to him now requesting certain ones every time you get in the car. Not that he would ever let the boys find out, of course.

“Alright, now go before you miss warm-ups,” you smile, kissing him once more and then pushing him away.

A couple hours later, you settle in on your couch to watch the match against Tottenham. You know Chelsea are favoured to win, but you still let out a sigh of relief when Kai scores the first goal in the first twenty minutes.

In the second half, they maintain a strong defense, Kepa successfully blocking more than one strong attempt from the Spurs’ forwards.

With ten minutes to spare, Ben has possession and is moving quickly toward the goal. You assume he’s going to pass to Kai, and the other goalkeeper does too, as he’s on the entirely wrong end of the net when Ben passes to Mason. Mason shoots from a clearly onside position and scores in the top right corner of the net, resulting in thunderous applause at the Bridge.

You jump up from the couch, a huge grin on your face as you watch your boyfriend and his teammates huddle in celebration.

When the camera pans to Mason, he points right at the lens and blows a kiss with a small wink. Your heart soars in your chest as you realize he’s dedicating it to you.

Your chest full of pride and love for this man, you are suddenly reminded of why this is all worth it. It’s worth it to face any backlash that might come from being in the public eye because, at the end of the day, this wonderful guy who just scored a goal for his team on national television is coming home to you. And that’s all that matters.

The match ends with Chelsea winning 2-0. Barely over an hour later, you hear the key turning in your door, and you run to greet him.

The moment the door opens, you jump at him, wrapping your arms and legs around him. Mason catches you immediately and hugs you just as close, burying his face in your hair.

After a minute, you pull back to hold his face in both hands and kiss him senseless, making him moan slightly as you tug gently at his hair. You kiss until you’re out of breath, and then you slowly pull away and Mason eases you back down to your feet, remaining in each other’s arms.

“If this is what I get for scoring a goal, I think the club is going to be very happy with my performance this season,” he smiles, stroking your hair.

“I did love the goal, and I really loved the celebration,” you smile, running your thumb over the dimple in his cheek. “But the kiss is because I really love you.”

Mason grins even wider before sliding his hands down to your bum and lifting you up again, beginning to walk the both of you over to your bedroom.

After you’ve had an even better celebration in-between your sheets, you are laying on top of Mason’s chest, complete bliss washing over you as he traces circles on your back and presses kisses to your forehead.

You still can’t believe he’s yours - all yours, as you just very successfully reminded him. But he is, and you’re tired of hiding that.

“Hey, babe, I think I changed my mind about going private on Insta,” you say, propping your chin up on his chest. “I don’t want to hide anymore. I love you and we’re happy and I don’t care who knows that or what they have to say about it.”

Mason smiles and kisses your nose. “I’m all for that, love, but are you certain? I don’t want you getting any more hate.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking of trying a new strategy,” you smirk. “Like you said, karma will come for those internet trolls who have nothing better to do than comment on my pics. I can’t control that, but I can flaunt my super hot footballer boyfriend who scored a goal for me today.”

You grab your phone and show him the photo you took of the two of you a couple minutes ago, raising an eyebrow.

“Think it’s too much?”

Mason shakes his head, pulling you in for a kiss and grinning when you pull back. “It’s perfect. ‘Gram it, baby.”

You laugh and affectionately roll your eyes at him before opening the app and crafting your post, confidently sending it out into the world. Immediately after hitting post, you toss your phone aside and Mason pulls you in for another round, making you giggle with kisses to your neck.

You don’t check your phone until much later, and funnily enough, any hate is drowned out by many comments from both your friends and Mason’s fans, the majority of which are incredibly supportive.

You scroll through some of them together, laughing with your head still resting on Mason’s chest and his arm wrapped around you, and you know that you made the right call.

yourusername

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yourusername karma is the guy on the screen…coming straight home to me 💙😘

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masonmount 🥰🥰🥰

christianpulisic I am officially blaming you for Mase making us listen to this song in the locker room after the match

yourusername shhh Chris we know you’re a secret swiftie

mountfan19 ok I love this girl for Mason tbh

chelseagirl literally!! they’re so cute

thank you for reading!! 💙