#and every single time its gone in seconds

[lilacxquartz]

Those Late Summer Nights | Chapter 20

satoru gojo x f!reader x suguru geto

plot: moving to the city from a small town was no easy feat, especially to start teaching as a jujutsu sorcerer.

a/n: part 2, aka the continuation is now in process. warning for newcomers: this is a yandere story with dark (non-con, violence) themes. read on with caution. this story does not romanticise either concept.

masterlist • ao3 • chapter directory • < previous chapter • next chapter >

20. Promise

[3 months later]

You have never been one for goodbyes, but life as it had turned out, had already forced you to do so not once, but twice already.

The first time was voluntary; when you had left your sleepy hometown and the long-haunting corrupt influence far behind. It seemed like such a good decision back then, when you at long last, had obtained that prized referral to work at one of the country’s most prestigious Jujutsu institutions. It almost seemed too good to be true, and maybe that’s because it was, because, just like everything else in your life—all of the highs had to come down—inviting the lows to linger, to fester, to… rot.

The second time wasn’t by your own choice, however, but something far, far worse. If you were being honest, you couldn’t have made sense of your situation if you tried. Forced to flee from Tokyo following an obsession that went too far, the ever-lasting consequences of summer had consumed your life to the point where you were once again left a victim of an unrequited influence out of your control.

You’ve had plenty of time to think about just how exactly it all went wrong, too, and just for a while, you were happy to appoint the self-blame. In a twisted sense, you believed that it was your fault for trying to naively infiltrate a jaded world with such fresh hope. Maybe it was wrong of you to have dreamt of a better life; maybe you should never have tried with Jujutsu to begin with. Perhaps you should have taught the ordinary future generations of today because, it wasn’t like they didn’t matter, too. They were more responsible for future cursed energy than they even knew.

…But then again, how were you supposed to know that you were going to be so entangled between… them?

It wasn’t as though you set out to ruin your own life, after all. It was out of your control from the very second you let your guard down—from the moment that you placed your trust in the two people you shouldn’t have. That couldn’t have been on you, though. Surely not.

You did suppose, however, that in some sort of twisted sense, that your return to the city (albeit against your will) could have been considered a reunion of sorts when you were met with those chilling blue eyes once more. What was once a calm blue sea guiding the way now turned out to be a violent storm—its waves dragging you into the murky depths, anchoring you within it—but not quite letting you drown, at least not yet. You instead were trapped. Imprisoned in a floating limbo, forced to endure whatever… this… all was. It was humiliating, perhaps even insulting and you berated yourself mentally every single passing day for not fighting back against Satoru fucking Gojo when he confronted you back in Osaka, but then again, that same pressing question begged your rationality once more; how exactly were you ever supposed to go against someone like him to begin with?

Someone like him, who had the entire world of Jujutsu wrapped right around his finger.

As bleak as it all sounded, as harsh as the reality reigned true; you never had a chance to begin with, did you? Whether you ran away or stayed behind—it would have likely gone this way, because… after a summer of getting to know him, you of all people knew the truth (from learning it the hard way), that Satoru Gojo always got what he wanted.

You sighed as your eyes rolled back to glare at the fluorescent-lit ceiling, the pale flickering glow straining against your eyes. It was almost comedic with how dramatically it all came undone, like it was some sort of sick joke and you were the unsuspecting punchline right at the very end. Tokyo was supposed to be your fresh start away from the monotonous flow of small-town politics and its corrupt influence, so why on earth did it follow you here, too? You did everything right, after all, you studied hard and you persevered, you earned your place in the world, and just as it all finally began to fall into place… it unraveled. It was truly as though the string that you delicately wove through the passage of life was on its last thread, destined to snap from the moment it all connected.

(There was never a chance. There was always something in the way.)

You sat up, trying to avoid the light only to catch a flash of it reflected in the sleek black tiled floors. Closing your eyes in frustration, you tried to think back to the good times. You did suppose that the city was technically everything you had otherwise fantasised it to be; loud, noisy, and bustling with endless life. It was a far cry from the watchful and prying eyes of your quaint town. There was something… special about Tokyo because you were able to simply just… disappear, as one fleeting face of many, a living ghost blurring in and out of the crowd as you had pleased, free at last.

For it to have been taken away just from the introduction of three people, was almost hilarious. It was funny how that all worked. Just three people. Three.

Shoko, bless her heart, was your first real friend who guided you into the person that you desperately yearned to be. Someone both caring yet unrestricted from the confines of a sheltered former adolescence and then, guiding you into the further depths of it all, was… them.

Ah, Suguru Geto. If only you knew, huh? You laid back down with your head now slightly throbbing with a faint aura; the beginning of a migraine. These damned lights. So brooding and mysterious he was—it was a shame that he had to turn out the way that he did—a nightmare disguised as a dream. Was it your fault for admiring him from a distance initially? Did you somehow fall victim to some sort of manipulative act, when you found his calm, almost contemplative personality to be a comfort? His suffocating presence wasn’t something you could quite predict, after all, so possessive and longing, yet somehow subtly so. To have eluded the perceptive gaze of Shoko and even Satoru was almost impressive, but unsurprising because even he managed to fool you at times. Oh, how crazy he made you feel, even for just doubting him at all.

Then there was Satoru Gojo. Ah, Satoru, Satoru, Satoru… Oh, so ever loud and energetic, Satoru… Truth be told, you found him overwhelming at first, but there was a certain quality of his that drew you in. He was good at both carrying the conversation as well as involving you within it, making you feel special when the attention landed on you for just a second and dare you say, even… validated. Just like Suguru however, he couldn’t keep up the act for very long, though, even if he did crumble last. In some ways, he was the most volatile one out of both of them, because beyond that playful facade that he let on, was something else that bubbled and simmered beneath the surface. It was hard to tell at times, but it was certainly there.

Something that wasn’t quite calm, but maybe tender. Something that was… vulnerable and whatever it was, it made him dangerous to be around.

So in the end, if you had to truly reflect, then maybe it was all three of you that were at fault.

All three of you were that were victims of losing yourself in an attempt to look for something meaningful in that endless, unforgiving city. All three of you were subjected to the quickly fleeting addiction that you could never quite hold onto, of being both seen and understood. It was no wonder that you opened up too quickly and too soon, slipping on that pair of rose-tinted glasses longer than you should have. Maybe if you took them off when you had the chance, then you too, could have been yet another passing soul in and out of their lives, but you weren’t.

You got attached and so did they, and now, for a lack of better words, it wasn’t just your life that was ruined, but theirs too. All together, the three of you floated around in an unending, aimless drift, leaving Shoko to pick up the pieces (as usual).

The migraine faded and never thankfully developed, but you still grimaced at the light that flickered all the same. He was home, but not close just yet. All of those riches that lined his pockets and he couldn’t afford to screw in a better bulb for the lights or at least opt for something warmer and less clinical. You wanted to punch that light, to let it shatter and paint the room in a much-needed night, but you couldn’t. So instead, you were illuminated and exposed, plunged into the spotlight, forced to look at the pretty little cell he had confined you to.

Such continuous misery left you wondering if your life could have been… maybe… better if you followed Suguru. In a way, you missed his pretty lies because he at least tried to offer you comfort and see you for who you truly were, but he also hurt you, so you couldn’t forgive him. Twice. He hurt you twice and yet, your mind still drifted to him at times. Why? You couldn’t make sense of it—of him—of the very same man who despite forcing you to bury your past behind and move on—surely had an issue with never letting you go, with never letting anything that ever happened to you… go.

Did this therefore make Satoru better or worse? You didn’t even know anymore. They were both equal runner-ups for the worst human being, that much was for certain. Suguru may have been involved from the start, but he was nothing like Satoru, who was always watching right from the start, more closely than you, or anyone else had ever known. Those burning blue eyes so focused yet serene, locked on you in a way that almost felt invasive. If Suguru was the storm, then Satoru must have been the cataclysm itself.

Devastating. Consequential. Unforgiving.

Indeed, you were never free.

All of the hope, all of the dreams—everything else that fell in between—none of it was ever real.

The only thing that had ever remained consistent throughout this whole experience was the part where Satoru told you that he would never, ever let you go.

The lights above you were now starting to buzz and crackle, fading in and out with every muffled thud. He was approaching. Suddenly, you regretted spending so much time reflecting on the aftermath of your life yet again, knowing that you had spent yet another day moping around, thinking of them, of him… knowing fully well that you were never truly alone.

Satoru would reunite with you every night, on clockwork, never late and always on time.

His voice was calm, always welcoming yet never inviting. You always found yourself flinching as he greeted you, wanting nothing more than to be left alone for the night. Just one night was all you asked him for—it was all you begged for at one point—for him to not talk to you, for him to not… touch you. A single night was all that you asked for, a break from having to play pretend.

“Ah, [name],” Satoru cooed, lowering an unwinding staircase that revealed a mocking glimpse of the room just above. A faint reminder of just how close the surface was, yet so inaccessible. The entrance operated on a motor, using some sort of secret code. There was a dial pad inside of the basement he kept you in as a failsafe just in case it locked him in, but try as you might to crack the code, you never guessed it right and every time you failed, it sent an alert to him. “You haven’t moved an inch from where I left you last! Didn’t I tell you about the importance of needing to stretch, even if it’s just for a minute or two a day?”

“Please just let me go,” you croaked out weakly, knowing that he wasn’t going to oblige, let alone even humour you.

Predictably ignoring your request, he walked over to you, setting down a plain white plastic bag right where you lay, strategically positioning it so that you could spot your favourite snacks and drinks poking out.

“It’s been a hell of a long day, you know,” he continued, adopting a softer tone that almost sounded hopeful, “did you miss me?”

You closed your eyes in an attempt to block him out. “You already know the answer to that one, don’t you?”

Satoru snorted a half-laugh, seeming annoyed but also amused. “You’ll have to admit it one day, [name],” he reminded, “the sooner you learn to… adapt, the sooner it’ll start to look up for you, and maybe, just maybe…” he trailed off, letting the beginning of a promise hang, “I’ll let you see your friends again, maybe I’d even let you see… him,” he paused as he said that last word, his composed demeanour ever so slightly faltering at the indirect mention of Suguru, “so, what do you say?”

You repeated the same answer you always did, “Never, Gojo,” you sighed, already expecting the worst as he took up the free seat next to you on the sofa, settling right where your head lay.

You felt a cold shocking jolt run through your body as his cold hands cupped your face, tilting your head up to meet with his longing yet intense stare. He would do such a thing on occasion, hoping that you would return even a hint of the way you once looked at Suguru before, and yet you didn’t. In your eyes, there was resentment but also, if he looked hard enough, fear.

“What have I told you about being so formal, huh?” he murmured, scoffing a little, “we’ve been over this, you’ll call me Satoru and we’re… we’re going to make this work,” he reminded you, trying to maintain his composure, “I’m not letting you go either way, so you’re going to have to drop that at some point, because like it or not, it’s not up to you how it all goes… it never has been.”

You blinked, unable to reply.

Satoru’s eyes softened for a moment, revealing a hint of internally conflicting vulnerability, maybe even traces of guilt glinting in his stare. “We’ll play pretend for as long as we have to, yeah? We’ll make all of it feel real one day.”

His words cut sharp even if it was just a reminder of something you already knew, that there was some sort of unseen force meddling in the sidelines of your life, forcing you to endure whatever life had in store for you, even if it meant pretending that it was all okay.

One thing did bother you, though.

A question that you looped over and over in the back of your mind and yet you never did dare ask him, as if afraid to hear the answer.

If he was simply fulfilling his promise to never let you go…

…Then why was he punishing you for being here?

[badger-tales]

potion of persuasion// J.P x Reader

a/n: should i do a love potion series ???

request: Hellooo I'm usually too shy to request anything but after seeing your post and reading some of your fics I just thought; 'eeeeh why not' so here I am! (might be a lil' crackfic-y hope thats okay :3)

I'd like to request a james potter x reader fic where remus and sirius have gotten tired seeing the two awkwardly tip toe around each other so they planned to put a sort of love/confidence boost (?) potion into his drink so he'd finally be done with it! But uh oh, pads accidently bought one with really strong effects that have our prongsie standing up on tables in his socks and underwear as he professes his love to the reader. Chaos ensues basically..

hope this wasn't too long, also don't forget to take breaks and drink lots of water! ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)

word count: 5.2k

The Gryffindor Common Room was alive with its usual evening chatter, the glow from the fireplace casting a warm, golden light over the red-and-gold tapestries. The laughter of your friends filled the cozy space as you sat cross-legged on one of the worn-out couches, listening to Marlene's latest exaggerated tale about a Quidditch practice gone wrong. 

Across the room, James Potter sat hunched in a velvet armchair, his eyes darting from the book in his lap to you every few seconds. He had chosen a random Transfiguration text as a flimsy excuse to be near you, but it was clear he hadn’t read a single word. Every time your laughter rang out, he stiffened, pretending to adjust his glasses while sneaking another glance in your direction. 

You could feel his gaze like a warm breeze tickling the back of your neck. It sent a flutter through your stomach every time you dared to look back at him—only to find him hastily redirecting his eyes to his book, cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink. The air between you both was charged, electric with unsaid words and shy, stolen glances.

Meanwhile, at a table nearby, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were deep in conversation, but their attention kept drifting toward you and James. Sirius leaned back in his chair, a cocky grin playing on his lips, arms crossed over his chest as he watched his best friend struggle. 

Sirius tilted his head toward James, letting out a low, amused chuckle.  

"Prongs is never going to get his act together, is he?" he drawled, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table. 

Remus sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His book lay open, but like James, he hadn't absorbed a single word.  

"Honestly, I've been watching this dance for weeks," Remus replied, voice low enough to avoid being overheard. "They’re driving me mad. He’s hopeless."

Sirius let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head in mock despair.  

"You’d think the great James Potter, star Seeker and Head Boy, would have the courage to ask her out by now," Sirius mused, eyes glinting with mischief. 

James chose that moment to sneak another glance at you, only to lock eyes with you unexpectedly. Your breath hitched, and you quickly turned back to your friends, pretending to listen to Dorcas Meadowes' story. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest, and you prayed no one noticed the heat creeping up your neck.

Sirius barked out a laugh as he caught James turning back to his book, looking like he'd just been caught doing something he shouldn't.  

"Pathetic," Sirius muttered under his breath. He glanced at Remus, eyebrows raised. "We may need to intervene, Moony. At this rate, they'll be married with three kids before he works up the nerve to say a word."

Remus chuckled softly but nodded in agreement, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  

"As much as I’d enjoy watching him suffer," Remus said with a teasing grin, "this is getting painful. For all our sakes, we might have to give them a nudge."

Sirius's grin widened as an idea began to form. He leaned in closer, voice lowered conspiratorially.  

"Alright, Moony. But if we’re going to play matchmaker, we better do it in style."

The two of them exchanged a look that could only mean trouble—the kind of look that usually preceded a night of pranks and mayhem. Remus shook his head with a fond smile, but there was a glint in his eye that suggested he was fully on board.

Unaware of the scheming happening just a few feet away, you peeked at James again, catching him glancing at you for what felt like the hundredth time. This time, he didn’t look away, his hazel eyes softening with something unspoken. The moment hung suspended in the air like a delicate charm—fragile, fleeting, and full of possibility.

But just as you opened your mouth to say something, Sirius’s voice rang out across the common room.  

"Oi, Prongs!" he called with a wicked grin. "You do realize books aren’t edible, right? You’ve been staring at that one like it’s a steak dinner."

James’s head snapped up, his face turning beet red. Your friends turned to look, giggling, and you hid your smile behind your hand, eyes twinkling with amusement. 

James shot Sirius a glare, but there was a hint of a grateful smile lurking at the corner of his lips. Maybe, just maybe, this would be the push he needed.

The Gryffindor Common Room gradually quieted down as the evening wore on, with students either heading to bed or settling into more relaxed conversations. The fire crackled gently, casting dancing shadows on the walls. James had finally managed to bury his nose back in his book, though his eyes kept flickering up to you every few moments. You had shifted to a quieter spot by the window, pretending to read a novel but stealing glances at James just as often.

Meanwhile, Sirius and Remus had retreated to a secluded corner of the common room, where the firelight flickered just dimly enough to keep them hidden from prying eyes. Sirius was rummaging through his school bag, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he pulled out a small vial filled with shimmering, pinkish liquid.

"Padfoot, what’s that?" Remus asked, arching a suspicious eyebrow.

Sirius held the vial up triumphantly, the liquid inside catching the light and swirling like liquid starlight.  

"My dear Moony, this," he declared in a hushed tone, "is the solution to our lovesick friend’s dilemma."

Remus’s eyes narrowed.  

"Please tell me you haven’t gone and brewed some ridiculous potion."

Sirius shook his head, looking positively offended.  

"I didn't brew it—picked it up from Zonko’s," he corrected with a smug grin. "It’s called the ‘Love and Confidence Elixir.’ Just a tiny sip, and our dear Prongs will have all the courage he needs to finally confess his undying love."

Remus’s expression was skeptical, as always.  

"Love and confidence, you say?" he asked, crossing his arms. "Sirius, you can’t just spike James’s drink. What if it’s not as harmless as you think?"

But Sirius was undeterred, rolling his eyes dramatically.  

"Oh, come on, Moony. It’s just a bit of fun. The bloke’s been mooning over her for months, and all it’ll do is give him a little... push." He gave Remus a cheeky grin, wiggling his eyebrows. "No harm done. Besides, you saw him tonight—he’s hopeless."

Remus hesitated, glancing over at James, who was currently pretending to listen to something Peter was saying but was clearly distracted by the sight of you by the window. Remus sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair.  

"Fine," he relented, albeit reluctantly. "But if this backfires, Padfoot, it’s on your head. And you’ll be the one explaining it to McGonagall."

Sirius beamed triumphantly, already pulling a flask of Butterbeer from his bag.  

"Relax, Moony. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s just a confidence boost, nothing more."

However, what Sirius didn’t realize—and Remus didn’t catch either—was that the vial he’d grabbed wasn’t a simple “Love and Confidence Elixir” but something far stronger. In his rush to purchase the potion, Sirius had accidentally picked up a mislabeled “Passion Potion”, notorious for making the drinker act on their deepest feelings with absolutely no inhibitions.

The common room was quieter now, most students having either gone to bed or become absorbed in their own conversations. It was the perfect opportunity. With a sly glance at Remus, Sirius uncorked the vial and quickly poured a generous splash into James’s Butterbeer, the pink potion swirling and dissolving seamlessly into the amber liquid.

"Keep watch, Moony," Sirius whispered. Remus, despite his reservations, did as instructed, glancing around to ensure no one was paying attention to them. 

Satisfied with his handiwork, Sirius slid the Butterbeer back into place just as James turned back to their table.  

"There you are, Prongs," Sirius said with a disarming smile. "You look parched, mate. Have a drink."

James, unaware of the potion-infused Butterbeer, shot Sirius a grateful smile before taking a long gulp.  

"Thanks, Padfoot," he mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Remus and Sirius exchanged a look, holding their breaths as they waited for the potion to take effect. At first, nothing seemed to happen. James continued chatting with Peter, appearing no different than before. Sirius was starting to wonder if the potion had even worked when, all of a sudden, James’s gaze snapped back to you across the room. 

The change was almost instantaneous—his hazel eyes darkened, his usual hesitant demeanor melting away, replaced with an intensity neither Remus nor Sirius had ever seen before.

"Uh oh," Remus muttered under his breath, his stomach twisting with unease as James got up from his seat, his book abandoned. Sirius, however, was too busy stifling a triumphant laugh to notice Remus’s worried expression.

"Looks like it’s working perfectly," Sirius whispered, elbowing Remus. But as James began making a beeline toward you, his confident strides more determined than usual, Remus couldn’t shake the feeling that something was seriously off.

The Gryffindor Common Room continued to hum softly with conversations and the occasional crackle from the fireplace, but for Sirius and Remus, everything was suspended in a tense bubble as they watched James from their corner. 

Sirius leaned back, crossing his arms and frowning.  

"Honestly, Moony, I think we got swindled," he muttered under his breath. "Should’ve known Zonko’s was selling rubbish. I told you it was a waste of time."

Remus, however, wasn’t so sure. He was keeping a careful eye on James, who had just downed the last of his potion-laced Butterbeer. For a moment, James seemed completely normal—leaning back in his chair, laughing at something Peter said. But then, Remus noticed it: a sudden, almost imperceptible change. James’s eyes snapped up, locking onto you from across the room with an intensity that was almost unnerving.

"Uh, Padfoot..." Remus began, nudging Sirius and nodding toward their friend.

James’s usual shy, hesitant demeanor was gone in an instant. His hazel eyes widened, as if he’d just had the most brilliant revelation of his life. The corners of his lips twitched upward into a wild grin, and before anyone could make sense of it, he stood up abruptly, sending his chair clattering to the floor behind him.

Sirius’s eyes went wide with surprise.  

"Merlin’s beard, it’s working!" he whispered, half in awe, half in panic.

But this was no subtle boost of confidence. James was on a mission—one driven by the potion that now coursed through his veins, amplifying his emotions to the point of reckless abandon. He began making his way toward you with a determined stride, bumping into a few scattered chairs and narrowly avoiding colliding with a group of younger students playing Exploding Snap. 

Sirius and Remus exchanged a panicked look. This was definitely not the effect they were expecting.

"Prongs, wait—", Remus started to call out, but it was too late. James was already halfway across the room, moving with a speed that had you blinking in confusion.

You’d been absorbed in a conversation with Lily and Marlene, trying to distract yourself from the warmth that had spread through your cheeks after exchanging glances with James earlier. But the moment you heard the loud clatter, you looked up to see him striding straight toward you—eyes wide, grinning like a madman, and moving with a kind of confidence that was utterly foreign to the James Potter you knew.

"James?" you asked, your brow furrowing. Something about his expression seemed... off. You tried to read the intent behind his wild gaze, but before you could even register what was happening, he was standing directly in front of you, almost uncomfortably close.

The entire common room seemed to fall into a stunned silence, all eyes now glued to the two of you.

"There you are!" James practically shouted, his grin impossibly wide. His voice carried an uncharacteristic enthusiasm that had your friends exchanging confused looks behind you.  

"I’ve been wanting to talk to you all night!"

You blinked, caught completely off guard. This was not the shy, stammering James you were used to. Your heart pounded in your chest, partly from the sheer bewilderment of it all and partly from the intensity of his gaze.  

"Oh, uh, really?" you managed, your voice wavering. "What did you want to talk about?"

But instead of answering, James leaned in even closer, his breath warm against your ear.  

"I’ve been thinking..." he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sent shivers down your spine. "You’re absolutely brilliant, you know that? And I... well, I just couldn’t hold it in any longer."

The sudden proximity and the fervor in his words left you momentarily speechless. James Potter, the boy who usually turned red at the mere thought of a compliment, was now standing inches away, looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

Behind him, Remus was frantically mouthing something to Sirius, who was trying (and failing) to suppress his laughter.  

"Okay, maybe I gave him a bit too much," Sirius muttered, though he couldn’t quite wipe the grin off his face. 

"Sirius, this isn’t funny," Remus hissed, watching as James practically vibrated with the need to say more. "We have to do something before he embarrasses himself... or worse."

But before they could intervene, James, still under the potion’s influence, reached out to gently cup your cheek, his eyes softening as they locked with yours.  

"I’ve liked you for ages," he confessed, the words tumbling out of his mouth like he couldn’t stop them even if he tried. "You’re brilliant, and beautiful, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why I haven’t told you sooner."

Your heart felt like it was going to burst out of your chest. Part of you wanted to laugh, thinking this had to be some elaborate prank. But the look in his eyes was so earnest, so raw, that it made your breath catch.

Suddenly, the room erupted in gasps and stifled giggles as Sirius and Remus finally sprang into action, darting forward to grab James by the shoulders and pull him back before he could blurt out anything else.

"Alright, Prongs, I think that’s enough honesty for one night," Sirius said, half-laughing as he tried to steer James away.

But James, still grinning like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup, waved them off with an exaggerated flourish.  

"No, no, I’m not done! I need to tell her—"

"Yes, you are," Remus insisted, giving Sirius a panicked look. "Come on, mate, let’s get you some fresh air."

As the two of them practically dragged a protesting James out of the common room, you were left standing there, cheeks flushed, heart racing, and mind whirling with what had just transpired. Around you, your friends erupted into laughter and teasing whispers, but all you could do was stare after James’s retreating form, wondering what on earth had just happened—and if, maybe, there was a hint of truth behind his unexpected confession.

The chaos that ensued after James’s sudden declaration hadn’t even begun to settle when he suddenly broke free from Sirius and Remus’s grasp, stumbling back toward the center of the Gryffindor Common Room. A wild grin still plastered on his face, he leapt onto one of the tables, nearly knocking over a stack of textbooks.

"Prongs, no—!" Sirius hissed, his voice urgent as he scrambled after him. But it was too late.

James threw his arms wide, eyes glinting with mischief, the potion clearly pushing him to act on every impulse without a shred of hesitation. He stood there like a performer taking center stage, chest heaving as if preparing for the grandest of confessions.

"Alright, fine, you lot want a show?!" he shouted to the room, which had now gone completely silent except for a few barely stifled giggles. His eyes found you once more, his gaze so intense it felt like he was staring straight into your soul.

Remus, who had momentarily been caught in the whirlwind of it all, finally snapped into action.  

"Sirius, do something!" he urged, voice tight with panic as he flipped open the Potions textbook he’d snatched from the nearby table. His fingers flew over the pages, trying to find something—anything—that would reverse whatever chaos Sirius had unleashed.

But Sirius was having his own struggles.  

"Alright, Prongs, let’s just... quiet you down a bit, yeah?" he muttered to himself, wand already in hand. He aimed it at James, intent on casting a silencing spell. 

Unfortunately, the spell backfired spectacularly. Instead of quieting James, it seemed to amplify his voice, and before anyone could stop him, he launched into a passionate serenade:

"Oh, the way you smile, it lights up the night,  

Brighter than a thousand stars so bright—"

James’s voice echoed through the common room, shockingly clear and shockingly loud. He had one hand over his heart and the other dramatically extended toward you, as if you were the only one in the room. 

You couldn’t help but bury your face in your hands, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and—admittedly—a bit of flattery. The whole room was roaring with laughter now, students doubled over, tears streaming down their faces. Even Lily Evans, who had been quietly reading by the fire, was shaking with laughter.

"Merlin’s beard, this is a disaster!" Remus muttered, frantically flipping through the Potions textbook. "Why did you have to give him the whole bloody vial, Sirius?"

"I didn’t know it would turn him into a bloody Shakespeare!" Sirius retorted, wincing as James hit an impressively high note. "This is Zonko’s fault, not mine!"

Meanwhile, James, entirely lost in the throes of the potion, began to loosen his tie with one hand while continuing his off-key serenade.  

"For you, my love, I’d dance through fire!  

Your beauty, your wit—I’ll never tire!"

"Oh no, no, no, no," Sirius groaned as James began unbuttoning his shirt. "Prongs, stop it! You’re going to scar these poor children for life!" He leapt forward, grabbing James by the waistband and trying to wrestle him back down to earth.

But James was surprisingly strong under the influence of the potion. He twisted out of Sirius’s grasp, managing to lose a couple more buttons in the process, revealing the faint outline of his Quidditch-toned abs. A few younger Gryffindors shrieked in shock, while others cheered him on, treating this like the best entertainment they’d had all term.

Remus’s frustration grew more palpable by the second as he scanned the Potions book, muttering curses under his breath. His eyes finally landed on a section that seemed promising.  

"Aha! The antidote—it’s a mix of powdered moonstone and syrup of hellebore," he said, turning to Sirius with a desperate look. "But we need to get him to calm down first, or it won’t work."

"Calm him down?!" Sirius shouted, dodging James’s flailing arm as he tried to pull the boy’s shirt back over his shoulders. "We can’t even get him off the bloody table!"

James, now with half his shirt hanging off one shoulder, raised his arms for a grand finale.  

"Oh, my darling, my heart is yours!  

Now and forever, through any wars!"

You were torn between wanting to laugh and wishing you could simply vanish into thin air. But despite the mortification of being the target of James’s wild serenade, a tiny, fluttering part of you couldn’t help but feel... touched? The way he was looking at you, even if it was because of a potion, held a sincerity that made your heart stutter.

"That’s it," Remus said through gritted teeth, closing the book with a snap. "We’re doing this the hard way." He pulled out his wand, ready to attempt a counter-spell to at least calm James down enough to administer the antidote.

But before Remus could cast anything, Sirius finally managed to grab James around the middle, yanking him off the table. The two of them crashed to the floor in a heap, tangled limbs and laughter echoing through the room. 

"Remus, now!" Sirius yelled, struggling to keep James pinned. "Before he breaks into an encore!"

Amidst the chaos, all you could do was watch, your heart racing for reasons you couldn’t quite untangle. Part of you wanted to run over and help them—another part just wanted to keep watching James make a fool of himself, because somehow, in the midst of all this madness, he looked impossibly, endearingly charming.

The Gryffindor Common Room had turned into absolute pandemonium, with students shouting encouragements, laughing, and clapping along as James continued his wild serenade. Remus and Sirius were still struggling to contain him, and every failed attempt only seemed to fuel James’s increasingly unhinged performance.

But then, just when it seemed like there was no end in sight, Remus’s eyes lit up as he finally found the counter-spell.  

"This better work," he muttered under his breath, raising his wand with determination. He sent a quick incantation into the air, releasing a stream of calming blue sparks that cascaded like gentle raindrops over James.

The effect was almost instantaneous. James froze mid-verse, one arm still outstretched dramatically toward you, his voice dying in his throat as the potion’s influence melted away. For a heartbeat, the entire room seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

Then, clarity returned to James’s hazel eyes. He blinked several times, looking around the room as if waking from a dream, only to realize that he was standing on a table... wearing nothing but his underwear and an unbuttoned shirt. 

The color drained from his face as the full weight of what he’d just done hit him.  

"Bloody hell," he whispered, his voice cracking. He stumbled down from the table, desperately trying to pull his shirt closed, cheeks flaming so brightly they almost matched the Gryffindor colors.

"I—uh—", he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood awkwardly in front of you. The entire common room was still buzzing with laughter and whispers, but James only had eyes for you. "I... I’m so sorry. I don’t know what��"

Before he could finish his apology, you surprised everyone by bursting into laughter. You tried to cover your mouth with your hands, but the giggles kept spilling out, your eyes shining with genuine amusement. 

"Oh, James," you managed between laughs, "I think that was the most... creative confession I’ve ever seen."

James’s eyes widened in disbelief. He’d expected you to be furious, embarrassed, or even disgusted, but instead, you were laughing—really laughing. The tension that had wound tight in his chest began to loosen, and though his face was still beet red, he couldn’t help the small, relieved smile that tugged at his lips.

"Y-You’re not... angry?" he asked, still bewildered, glancing down at his disheveled state. 

You shook your head, stepping closer and lowering your voice so only he could hear, the laughter in your eyes softening into something warmer.  

"Honestly, I’ve never been serenaded before," you teased, "especially not by someone standing on a table in their underwear." You couldn’t resist adding with a playful grin, "I think I might even be flattered."

James let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his shoulders finally relaxing.  

"Well... that’s good," he said with a crooked smile, his confidence slowly creeping back now that he knew you weren’t mortified. "Because I think I just set a record for the world’s most embarrassing declaration of feelings."

You laughed again, your cheeks tinged pink as you replied,  

"Definitely unforgettable, Potter."

Behind you, Sirius and Remus exchanged relieved grins, both of them panting slightly from their efforts. Sirius punched Remus lightly on the shoulder.  

"See, Moony? Told you it would all work out," he said with a wink. 

Remus rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile.  

"Yes, but next time, maybe we use our words instead of potions?"

As the laughter in the common room slowly died down and students began to drift away, content with the evening’s unexpected entertainment, James took a tentative step closer to you.  

"I, uh... I meant what I said, you know," he murmured, his voice low and earnest now that the chaos had settled. "Even if it came out in the most ridiculous way possible."

You felt your heart flutter at the sincerity in his eyes. The bravado, the showmanship—all of that had faded, leaving just James standing there, looking at you with that earnest, slightly sheepish expression that had always made your heart skip a beat.

"I know," you said softly, smiling up at him. "And... for what it’s worth, I’m glad you finally told me."

James’s eyes lit up, a boyish grin spreading across his face.  

"Well, maybe next time, I’ll do it without the theatrics," he teased, scratching the back of his head.

You couldn’t help but laugh again, shaking your head.  

"Oh, please, Potter. Like you could ever resist making a scene."

And with that, the tension between you two seemed to melt away entirely, replaced with a newfound ease. As the common room emptied out, Sirius threw an arm around James’s shoulders, winking at you.  

"Come on, Prongs. Let’s get you some proper clothes before you catch a cold."

As they walked away, James turned back to look at you one last time, his eyes filled with a soft, unspoken promise. And for the first time, you found yourself looking forward to what tomorrow might bring—now that the air was finally clear.

The common room had finally quieted down, the raucous laughter and excited whispers fading as students slowly trickled out, heading to their dormitories with wide grins and lingering glances back at James. The fire had burned lower, casting a warm, flickering glow that painted the room in soft, amber tones.

By now, most of the chaos had settled, but James Potter remained by the fireplace, staring into the dancing flames with a look that was uncharacteristically solemn. He was now fully dressed, though his shirt was still slightly askew, and his hair—if possible—looked even messier than usual. 

You approached quietly, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the thick rug underfoot. As you drew closer, you could see the slight furrow in his brow, the way he absently chewed on his lower lip, clearly lost in thought. The bravado and wild confidence that the potion had given him had evaporated, leaving him looking... vulnerable.

"Hey, Potter," you said softly, stopping just a few feet away.

He jumped slightly at the sound of your voice, turning to face you with wide eyes.  

"Oh, hey," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding your gaze. "I... uh... didn’t think you’d want to talk to me after that whole... spectacle."

You couldn’t help but smile at how shy he suddenly seemed, so different from the overly confident boy who had just serenaded you in front of half of Gryffindor House. Taking a seat beside him on the couch, you nudged him playfully with your shoulder.

"You know," you began, your voice soft, "you didn’t need a potion to win me over."

James’s head snapped up, his eyes searching yours, hope flickering in them like the flames in the hearth.  

"Wait... what?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

You nodded, feeling your cheeks heat under his intense gaze.  

"Yeah," you said with a small, shy smile. "I’ve... liked you for a while too. You’ve just never seemed to notice."

A mix of relief and disbelief washed over James’s face. He let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.  

"Merlin, I’ve been such an idiot, haven’t I?" he muttered. "All this time, I thought you were out of my league."

You laughed softly, shaking your head.  

"James, you didn’t need to drink some ridiculous potion to tell me how you felt," you said, your voice turning a bit gentler. "I would’ve said yes if you’d just asked me... without all the theatrics."

He let out a breath, his shoulders finally relaxing, and a genuine, heartfelt smile spread across his lips—a stark contrast to the wild, potion-induced grin from earlier.  

"In that case," he said, leaning in slightly, his voice low and sincere, "would you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend? No potions, no serenades—just us?"

Your heart fluttered at the warmth in his eyes, and you nodded, returning his smile.  

"I’d love that, James," you said softly.

James’s smile grew even brighter, his hazel eyes shining with a happiness that was entirely unguarded. Without the potion, without the chaos, he was just James—sweet, earnest, and charmingly awkward. 

As the two of you shared a quiet, lingering moment, the sound of muffled laughter drifted over from the other side of the room. Turning your heads, you spotted Sirius and Remus lounging casually at a nearby table, watching the two of you with smug grins.

Sirius gave Remus an exaggerated clap on the back.  

"See, Moony? What did I tell you? Our plan worked perfectly!" he declared, his voice low enough not to disturb your conversation but loud enough for you both to hear.

Remus shook his head, though he was smiling.  

"You mean your accidental plan," he corrected, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the effect you were aiming for."

But Sirius just shrugged, flashing a triumphant grin.  

"Details, details. The point is, it worked," he insisted. "Now Prongs has a date, and we’ve provided the entertainment of the year. I’d call that a success."

James groaned but couldn’t quite hide his smile as he turned back to you.  

"I suppose I owe them a thank you," he said, his tone begrudging but playful. 

"Or a very, very stern lecture," you teased, giggling softly.

He laughed, his eyes twinkling as he reached for your hand, his touch warm and reassuring.  

"I think I’ll settle for just focusing on next weekend," he said, squeezing your hand gently. "No potions this time. Just you and me."

And as you sat there, the warmth of the fire enveloping you both, it felt like the start of something new—something that had been brewing for a long time, even if it had taken a wild potion-induced serenade to bring it to the surface.

In the background, Remus and Sirius watched with satisfied grins, Remus leaning back in his chair with a soft sigh.  

"Alright, Padfoot, you were right... this time," Remus admitted.

"Of course I was!" Sirius crowed, throwing an arm around Remus’s shoulders. "Now, what do you say we get some Butterbeer to celebrate my brilliance?"

As they made their way toward the portrait hole, the two of you shared a look, both shaking your heads fondly at your friends' antics. But as James’s hand tightened around yours, you realized you wouldn’t change a single thing about how this night had unfolded.

It had been chaotic, ridiculous, and more than a little embarrassing, but it had also brought you closer than you’d ever thought possible. And that, you decided, was entirely worth it.

[umgeorge]

The Pressure of the Podium: Interview With George Russell

While British success stories in Formula 1 tend to centre around Lewis Hamilton-as well they should; he's a legend-George Russell has quietly been making a serious name for himself. At a fresh-faced 26 years old, he’s one of the younger racers on the grid and, when we caught up with him ahead of the Hungarian Grand Prix back in the summer, was still revelling in the best season of his career. So, how was he finding the season so far? "Its been... I wouldn't say a rollercoaster, but it's been one that we've been climbing," says Russell. "At the start we were at the bottom of the mountain and been steadily getting closer to the top. There's so much excitement and motivation when you're on a team like this, like we have a visible return on everything we've been putting in, that momentum we've been building up."

We were talking shortly after his second F1 victory in Austria, which was a bit of a hairy one. After spending most of the race in third, still a respectable podium finish, Lando Norris and Max Verstappen ahead of him got a little too close to one another, crashing to take them both out the race. It was a far cry from Russell's incredibly convincing first win. But was there a difference to him? "Each win is incomparable. Every race is a completely different scenario. My first, in Brazil, was where I was ahead every lap. I'd done fantastically the day before and the pressure was there. Near the end I had Lewis on my tail and it was a relief to get across that finish line. In Austria I was happy to be in third, and then it all kicked off ahead and the opportunity arose. Every race is different and you never really know how it's going to go, even when you're behind the wheel." With that kind of uncertainty, it has to be hard to prepare yourself for racing at this level. There's the danger, of course, as that crash in Austria and a multitude of other times shows, but none of these guys would be racing if that put them off. Instead, we were more interested to find out if the pressure ever got to him - and, more importantly, what Russell did to cope with it.

"I'm a little obsessive. I try to make sure I've gone through all the preparation possible with my engineers, taken a look at last year's data, gone over the car, the weather conditions; anything I feel I need to be looking for. Once I've ticked them all off I'm at peace, mentally. I know I'm at my peak physical condition. I know every race is going to be tough. But there are nineteen other drivers and hopefully they'll find it tougher than I will. After that, what will happen, will happen. It's out of your control." With that huge amount of pressure every single week, the intense training regime to stay in that physical condition, and the sheer hectic nature of a globe-trotting racing competition, decompression seems like a necessity. Russell, though, seems to want to take decompressing very literally.

"I love being by the sea so I've started free diving, which is a bit of a random hobby, but when I'm out in the water I'm just so focused on my breathing, on being underwater, that I just disconnect from the world. Once beneath the sea, down there with the fish and coral, you're not thinking about anything else except having enough breath to get back to the top!" Russell isn't the only British racing legend around. We've had a long, illustrious line of champions of which Hamilton is only the latest and Russell could potentially be next. For Russell, there's something in the inspiration of champions of old, and having seven of the ten Formula 1 teams based in the UK helps. But for him, the key to British racing success is British racing's green grass roots.

"I remember racing with Lando and Alex, and alongside other racers who didn't make it to Formula 1 but have made professional racing careers. There's definitely something about the grass roots level here that works. But it needs to stay at that level. This isn't the most economical sport in the world, so we need to make sure that we can give kids that don't have the opportunity, otherwise, the funding they need to get behind the wheel and try go-karting." That said, go-karting is never going to be cheap for most would-be podium contenders, and whether it's that or sheer pace, it's an opportunity sadly few kids have. E-sports, on the other hand, is different. "Simulators have advanced so much now. The Formula 1 game is fantastic and there should be ways we can identify talent sooner, instead of just having financial backing to push you through the ranks."

Whether coming from the classic karting angle or from killing it online with photorealistic driving games, kids are going to need to have to contend with one of the most intensely competitive sports in the world - if not the most. According to Russell, though, they shouldn't be afraid of making mistakes; quite the opposite. "The one piece of advice that I try to embrace, myself, is: don’t be afraid to fail. The times I've failed have been the times I've progressed the most, the times I've really pushed my limits. It doesn't matter what you do; failure is necessary. It's how we grow, how we learn about ourselves. There's so much pressure not to let people down, especially with younger people, but you don't want to go through life never making a mistake or knowing where your ceiling is."

And any advice for those of us not thinking of a career in racing? Even shaving a few seconds off a track day would help for a few more bragging rights. "No matter what you're driving, stay relaxed. I've driven with people that have never been on a track before. They tense up, hunch over, and it makes everything erratic. Smooth is fast - smooth with the steering, throttle, and brake. It's not necessarily how we drive in Formula 1, but if you want to speed up on a track day, stay relaxed." Obviously, it’s not lost on Russell just how many kids and F1 fans alike look up to him as a sportsman. He's young, he's hungry, and his experience is starting to pay off. But for Russell, there are other sportspeople in other sports, and one in his own who I'm sure you can guess, that he looks up to.

"I have a huge amount of respect for Ronaldo. He's without a doubt the leader in his field. The same with Djokovic - they're fighters that push their physical performance. Then there's Lewis, obviously. He puts his platform to great use and I admire him for that as much as his wins and what he's doing off the track. I hope to be one of those leaders in years to come." Now he may well get a chance as Lewis will, in 2025, be moving from Mercedes, as Russell's teammate, over to Ferrari. It's a bold move, but on the other hand it means that Russell will soon be able to race his former teammate as an actual rival. Will that be weird? "He'll be wearing a different suit, but I'll still recognise him! We're at different stages in our career, but we have massive respect for one another. For now, I'll see him on the track."

[kanasbinwriting]

lawrence oleander with plus size reader please? :) sfw or nsfw is okay. or law with obsessive reader that’s already been kidnapped or maybe stalker reader :0! anyway, thank you. just silly ideas 🌨️

LAWRENCE X OBSESSIVE READER

Thank you so much for your request and sorry for the long wait!!! I will definitely write your other ideas too someday, so don't you worry ^^ I REALLY enjoyed writing this and I hope you're happy with the result!!!

- !It's mentioned once that Lawrence's taller than the reader!

TW: self-harm

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You don't know the odds of getting kidnapped; you’ve never bothered to look up the percentage. But one thing seems certain: you're pretty damn unlucky if it happened twice.

You never thought that you'd end up tied in a chair... again. You were quite a loner, so you thought that no one would even think about kidnapping you, but you got proved wrong. Twice.

Maybe you should've gone to therapy after the first time—or taken it more seriously and actually attended the sessions you skipped. Maybe, if you had, you would see how wrong it was that your heart beat in excitement as you watched the man with blonde hair tending his flowers. His back was turned to you, oblivious to your gawking. That is until he turned around and caught your gaze. His eyes widened when he noticed that you were awake and watching him rather intently. You felt your heart skip a beat when his eyes met yours, his blue eyes widening and his expression shifting nervously. You remember that day as if it were yesterday. From that day, you knew that Lawrence's special. You didn't even think about begging him to let you go. He was just so much more captivating than any other.

As sick as it sounds, you can't help but admire each cut he's given you, every single drop of your blood proof of your unending devotion. You wouldn't want to bleed for anyone else. You've lost track of how long you've been here. He seemed to like you in his own strange way since he hasn't killed you yet. You've managed to gain his trust and are no longer bound to that chair anymore, which you couldn't be more grateful for, as it was getting boring to be bound to that chair for hours. You got used to the coldness of his room. However, Lawrence allowed you to wear his hoodie if you were ever to feel cold, and you gladly used that privilege to its fullest.

Now, lying on his bed and holding his hoodie close, you take a deep breath, inhaling his scent.

It's been a few hours since he left to go work at the warehouse and you missed him dearly. Everything felt numb without him. There wasn't much you could do without him. He was thoughtful enough to buy you a few books, but you've already finished reading them, so they're of no help now. Oh, how you wish he were here with you. Maybe he'll let you style his hair again. Then again, he might be too drained from work, so he might just let you admire him as he does his own thing. Either way, you'd be grateful. You looked at the clock. Your eyes widened as you realized that he should have been at home by now. You stare at the clock for a few more seconds before shifting your attention outside. You felt your skin begin to itch as you looked at the night sky. Life can be so cruel sometimes. You missed how he would rant about plants and the awkward way he'd wrap his hands around you when you hugged him. A sense of unease builds as you begin scratching your arm, tears welling up in your eyes. How much longer must you suffer? You wrap your arms around yourself as your breathing gets heavier. You sulk, lost in your longing until you hear the front door unlocking. Your troubled expression instantly turned into one of joy. You didn't waste any time and sprung to your feet, practically running toward the front door.

Lawrence closed the door behind him and before he could greet you, you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him. You nuzzled your face against his neck, taking a deep breath and inhaling his scent. You felt his body going stiff as you did. The smell of sweat overwhelmed you, but you didn't back away, indulging in the feeling of having him in your arms. "Hey..." he greeted you quietly, but didn't wrap his arms around you. Work must've been more tiring today. You hesitantly let him go when he puts a hand on your shoulder to softly push you away. He looked down at you with an expression you couldn't decipher. You already knew what was going to happen and you couldn't contain your excitement. "I want you to sit down on the chair." He demanded quietly and made his way past you to his kitchen. A smile appeared on your face as you made your way to the chair in the middle of his apartment and sat down obediently without saying a word. He rummaged through one of the drawers in the kitchen before looking back at you, his gaze meeting yours once more. His breath hitched and he quickly looked back down. He didn't know what your problem was. He's heard of Stockholm syndrome before, but he never would've thought that it would kick in as soon as it did. He felt your gaze linger on him. He used to feel uncomfortable whenever you stared at him this intensely, but after time's passed, he somehow grew quite fond of the attention you gave him. Maybe that's why he hasn't killed you yet. He grabbed a freshly sharpened knife and silently made his way toward you. Standing in front of you with the knife clutched in his hand, he gave you a smile you could only describe as kind of disturbing but fond in some way.

You felt your cheeks heat up as you shifted nervously under his watchful gaze. He held out the knife beckoning you to take it. "I want you to do it yourself this time." He had a sickenly sweet expression on his face as he said that oh-so-casually. You let out a shaky, uncertain breath, but took the knife from his hand nonetheless. You lined up the sharp end of the knife against your wrist and pressed it into your skin, letting out a quiet hiss at the feeling.

You looked up at him once more, only to see that his attention was solely on your wrist. A thin line of crimson appeared, widening as blood began to slowly seep out. Your breathing got heavier as you sunk the knife once more, taking in his every reaction. "Am I doing good?" Your voice was soft and meek as you sliced your skin deeper this time. He took his time before replying with just a simple hum, not bothering to look at your face and seeming to be in his own world as he watched the blood stain your skin. You let out a shaky breath as a smile spread across your face at his praise. You could've sworn that you almost felt dizzy just by the way he was looking at you. The way he quietly observed you made your head spin and your breath quicken. Or it was due to the woozy haze of blood loss. You felt your vision darken as you felt the knife slip from your grasp and hit the floor with a sharp clink, the sound echoing through the empty room. Everything felt so warm as if someone pulled you into a tight hug.

Suddenly, Lawrence's scent surrounded you; you felt at ease and closed your eyes.

You let yourself drift, breathing in the warmth, the scent, as everything gently faded to black.

[lokh]

i do have a drink that disappears the moment it's set in front of me and it's that fucking slim reaper drink

[kyuala]

SOOOOOO hard to go through everyday life trying to ignore the never-ending feeling that im just irreparably fucked up and therefore should just give up on everything

[frecklystars]

Wow, 32 asks. Thank you guys so much 😭😭 last night was one of the worst shifts I ever had at work. I feel like i keep reverting back to a year ago when everything was fresh. it's been extraordinarily difficult the past couple of months but it always eases the ache when I read nice messages. it genuinely calms me down a lot when other people tell me it's gonna be ok. so thank you to everyone who took the time to do that for me ;-;

I'm gonna be honest, I feel super hopeless. I am not getting joy from anything right now. Drawing, socializing, watching movies, listening to music, I'm feeling *absolutely nothing*. I am triggered by the SMALLEST fucking things that I thought I was getting better at handling. I'm having trouble wearing skirts again. I'm flinching around the color pink when I was doing SO much better with it. For the last nine days, I haven't gone three hours without having a panic attack. I'm not sleeping. My flashbacks are lasting longer. I'm having out of body experiences again for the first time in almost a year. I feel so hopeless. I told myself one year ago "hey I feel like I'm dying right now my ptsd is so fucking bad but! hey! one year from now, I'll feel better! this will feel so far away from me!" but I don't. I don't feel better. I don't think it's possible to feel better bc I'm too broken. It's been over a year and I don't feel like it's possible for me to make progress.

My Barbie/Ken anniversary is coming up and I was excited for the first couple of weeks, but right now I just... feel absolutely nothing. I am so, so, so severely depressed and my anxiety is getting worse every day. I need help out of my unsafe situation so fucking bad dude it's just gonna kill me. I'm so scared this whole thing is gonna genuinely kill me. I wish I could talk about it but I don't want to scare people but at the same time, it's so bad and it's weighing on me so heavily and I am so fuckign tired of dealing with this every single day

I don't know if I'm gonna go offline or not, bc my problem isn't even online. so... I don't see how being offline would help much. I just feel like I'm supposed to do SOMETHING, literally ANYTHING to feel something. Going offline last time made me feel significantly worse, so maybe that shouldn't be my next step. But I feel nothing when I'm blogging right now. I tried making a Jacob edit the other day and I felt no joy. I want to be filling up my queue for the 21st, all of my Barbie and Ken photos and gifsets. I should be writing Barbie and Ken love notes. I should be making video edits again! but I feel nothing!!! This is the one and only anniversary that actually matters to me this year - sorry to the other 12 Ryan F/Os who have anniversaries but THIS ONE is THE most important one, because these two characters are the F/Os that have helped me the most with my abuse trauma/cptsd. They're the whole reason why I started self shipping again. I want to celebrate that. I want to be excited about it. I am just so fucking numb.

I NEED to feel something for this anniversary, I miss celebrating F/O anniversaries! I don't get to do that anymore since self shipping was ruined for me! Since my main F/Os were ruined for me! I deserve to have a good time with my new F/Os!! I am a good person and I am kind despite all the bullshit I've been through and I work really hard to try to heal from shit! I try to stay positive and I try to help people and I!!! Deserve!! To have a day where I feel good with my F/Os without reliving every single horrifying vile thing that someone did to me! but I feel so empty right now and it hurts! I was excited a couple of weeks ago when I was planning all the activities i was gonna do on the 21st, like a restaurant and a movie and baking and throwing a party with my friends, but now?? Nothing. Absolutely NOTHING in my heart. I feel so goddamn empty. I am so depressed. I really really feel like I can't get better. It's been over a year and I am incapable of healing from my trauma and I don't know what to do about it. I am trying so many things to heal!! I'm going walking, I'm eating way healthier and cutting sugar to see if that helps clear my head a bit more, I'm getting sun, I'm drinking so much water, I'm exercising, I've cut my screen time significantly and reading more often, I'm hanging out with my friends as much as I can, I am trying everything in the book and I feel like a zombie just sitting here and rotting to death, going through the motions and reliving my trauma in my head over and over and over and over and over and over again and I can't get any fucking peace. It's like everybody in the world is living their days while the planet is spinning but I am stuck in the same spot reliving the most horrific bullshit imaginable over and over and over. I feel like I've lost almost 2 years of my life to trauma. I don't feel like I've aged, I feel like everything happened yesterday. I feel like I'm stuck in one spot while everybody else is walking forward and I can't move.

Sorry to ramble I didn't mean to turn this into a vent post but idk what else to do. I don't know if I should go offline on my actual anniversary or maybe a couple of days leading up to it?? Or maybe I'm supposed to BE online and blog about the F/Os to see if that helps me feel better?? Being offline made me feel worse. But being online isn't helping me either. Dude I don't fucking know. I need to work on some crafts or something. I need to make a BarbieLand diorama and paint it. I'm gonna bake heart shaped cookies for the first time this weekend. I'm gonna invite my friends over and we're gonna have a party on Sunday and watch the Barbie movie together. I don't know what else to do but I have to just... keep trying I guess even though I feel nothing while doing these things, it's better than doing nothing

If anyone has advice or something, it's more than welcome. Or even just a "wow, that's rough, buddy". I'm sorry for being negative, I try to remain positive on this hellsite but it's so hard right now. Thank you again to everyone who wrote me a nice message last night when I was hurting. I'm sorry I'm gonna probably be asking for encouraging messages a few more times in the next few weeks bc supportive messages are the only things that have been effectively (affectively?) helping me lately

[theodore-lasso]

.

[s4pphoiduser]

sometimes the only place you can still get the snacks you've loved since you were five is the department store that hasn't gotten an upgrade since 2010 and still stocks the same things it always has with only a handful of new additions

[sceletaflores]

I COULD PLAY THE DOCTOR (I CAN CURE YOUR DISEASE)

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, logan's pov, written with origins!logan in mind, nat veering dangerously closer to a/b/o territory with every passing day, rut cycles, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, gratuitous amounts of dirty talk, p in v, rough sex, biting, hair pulling, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, one (1) single use of the word daddy, scent kink, pain kink, breeding kink ofc, knotting (don’t look at me…), squirting, porn w/ plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: don’t look at me…i don’t know how many times i swore up and down i’d never write something like this but i’m a confirmed liar apparently so…here. i mean i just figured i'm in a rut artistically so therefore the only answer is writing logan in a rut physically...i can do what i want and i don't need to explain myself or my horny thoughts. also, i debated posting this in the wake of everything that's gone down over the past two days that is still escalating and will continue to escalate in the coming weeks, but i think everyone could use a little escape from how scary things may seem right now. take a break from all the terrifying news sites and read about logan wanting to breed you :) kisses!

divider by angel @saradika-graphics!

it's been another six months, and logan needs your help...

The burn starts on the walk home from work, a pulse of heat deep in Logan's gut that grows with every step.

It spreads slowly, sinking into his muscles and seeping up his spine as he rounds the last corner, your place less than a block away now.

It caught him off guard this time, an itch burying itself under his skin earlier in the day only to get worse and worse as he worked.

He usually knew the signs well enough to feel them start creeping in, and he was dead sure it wasn't for another few weeks.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Logan’s jaw clenches as he picks up his pace, every nerve ending in his body straining to break into a full blown sprint at the thought of you, all alone and waiting for him.

His fingers curl into tight fists, nails pressing into his palms to ground himself, though it’s hardly enough. The faint scent of you drifts up from his shirt, not even a long day at the lumberyard enough to drown it out.

By the time he reaches your door, his heartbeat is a heavy thud in his ears, syncing with the building ache of desire wracking through his body like the earth rattling boom of a raging thunder storm.

He fumbles through getting his key into the lock, hands unsteady as he tugs the door open with a little more force than necessary and finally steps inside.

The second he closes the door behind him, the heat surges, thrumming through his veins and flooding his chest. Your scent fills the air completely, stronger now, wrapping around him so thick and sweet.

"Darlin'?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, but he's beyond caring.

Your voice floats from the other room, casual, warm enough to send a jolt through him. Logan drops his axe from his shoulder, leaning it against the door as he starts down the familiar path to your bedroom.

You're spread out on his side of the bed—oblivious, curled up with a book, wrapped in one of the flannels he must have left the last time he stayed over.

Just the sight of you does something to him, like a match dragged against a strike pad, damned on setting everything ablaze.

You glance up, and the soft smile on your lips falters as you catch sight of him.

Logan knows what he must look like, his eyes all dark and predatory, chest heaving as he rakes his hungry gaze over you like a wolf watches a lamb grazing too close to its den.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stalks toward you with a purpose that’s as undeniable as the heat pouring off him in waves.

The book slips from your fingers, forgotten, as you lean back, the small sound of your breath hitching under the weight of his gaze is music to his ears.

Logan pauses at the edge of the bed, towering over you, letting himself drink in the way you look. So soft and serene, like some kind of invitation that begs him closer. His flannel draped loosely over your shoulders–shrouding you in his scent. 

The urge to pounce on you fights against his normal instinct to savor every second, to draw it out until the heat pooling in his gut becomes downright unbearable.

“Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he mutters, voice thick and dark as molasses, rough from restraint he’s quickly losing. His knuckles brush against your thigh, then tighten, holding you in place as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. “Thinkin’ about what I was gonna when I finally got my hands on you.”

Your skin blooms with warmth beneath his touch, and he grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm. He growls low in his throat, that itch he’s been fighting nearly all day clawing its way up to the surface with a vengeance.

The primal urge inside of him screaming to claim claim claim take take take mate mate mate breed breed breed.

You tilt your head to the side with a soft sigh, freeing up more space for him to nose along your skin. “Is it time?”

Logan's breath catches as your question hangs in the air, thick with anticipation. The soft simplicity of it ignites the wildfire burning in his gut, every ounce of restraint slipping away like sand through his fingers.

“Yeah, baby,” he growls, slipping his fingers under the worn cotton of your shorts, feeling the bare skin beneath. “It’s time.”

You shift, hands going to the buttons of his flannel like you’re going to take it off. Logan stops you, taking your wrists in his free hand.

“Don’t,” he breathes, shaking his head hard enough that his hair flows with it. “Leave it on.”

The thought of you covered in his scent, of his scent mixing with yours to claim you on a level only he can discern sends his mind buzzing.

You look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and something in him cracks wide open. The tenderness of your gaze pulls at him, like a tether pulling him back from the edge, but that heat still smolders in his blood, fierce and unyielding.

Logan runs his thumb along the racing pulse of your wrist before he drops them. His hands venture lower, fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, tracing a deliberate path that makes your body tremble under his touch.

You let out a shuddering breath, the scent of your arousal swirling through the air is enough to make him crave more.

In one rough tug, Logan yanks you towards the edge of the bed as he falls to his knees. Your hips held tight in his hands as he lurches forward, burying his nose in the soft junction where your leg and inner thigh meet.

He inhales deep, greedy lungfuls of your scent. A guttural growl rumbles through his chest, his eyes screwing shut at the sheer amount of too much that courses through him. He feels dizzy with it, high on the pheromones pumping from you in waves.

You’re soaked already, the wet fabric of your shorts melded to the shape of your cunt. He can’t help but run his nose along the slick seam of you, reveling in the way your legs twitch on either side of his head, in the short gasp you let out.

“Logan.” Your voice is nothing but a mewl, pleading and desperate.

“Missed you,” he rasps, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable. The edge of need in him makes his hands shake, sliding up your thighs, urging them even further apart as he settles between them.

Logan’s fingers dig into your skin, he lets his thumbs brush up, hooking them into the waistband of your shorts to tug them down your legs in one sharp yank. He groans at the sight of you completely bare, no underwear.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grates, his thumb coming down to slip through your dripping cunt. Your hole flutters desperately around him, needy little clenches like it’s trying to suck him in. “She’s all ready for me, huh? Been waiting for me to come home and give her some attention?”

“Please,” you whimper, your voice thick with longing, the sound going straight to his head, clouding his thoughts. 

Logan’s pulse races as he watches your body arch instinctively toward his touch, the desperate need in your eyes igniting the raw urges coursing through him.

He can’t deny you; he never could. You’re a feast laid out before him, and he’s starving.

Logan leans closer, letting his tongue flick out to taste you like he’s wanted to since he left for work this morning. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment. He licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the way your body responds, the way your legs tremble and your hips twitch against his mouth, seeking more. “Tastes like fuckin’ heaven, sweetheart.”

The taste of you is intoxicating—sweet and tangy, flooding his senses with every drag and swirl of his tongue.

Logan can’t help but moan against you, the sound vibrating through your body as he dives deeper, his nose nudging against your slick entrance as he shakes his head back and forth like an animal—rubbing the plush skin of your inner thighs red and raw with each rough drag of his coarse beard.

Every flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through you, and he revels in the sounds you make—each whimper, each moan, a siren’s call urging him deeper. He laves his tongue around your clit, sucking it gently, pulling at it with his lips as you writhe beneath him, begging for more. 

He keeps your thighs spread wide, two strong hands pinning them to the mattress so he can devour you just the way you deserve, the sharp dig of your heels into his shoulders only spurs him on.

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging him closer, and he groans into you, letting his tongue delve deeper, seeking out every bit of sweetness he can coax from you. 

It’s pure sin, each sound you make, each shiver that runs through you as he takes his time, drinking you down like a man starved. 

The ache in him intensifies, his own need growing, pulsing. He’s hard, has been hard since he walked through the front door.

His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, need pulsing in time with each pump of his blood through his shaft, circling around the base, threatening to expand even without the tight grip of your pussy surrounding him. His hips jerk up on their own volition, desperate for any friction.

“Just like that, Logan,” you gasp, voice breathy and trembling with pleasure. 

The way you say his name—raw, desperate—makes his blood run hotter. He grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to the bed as he drinks you in, wanting to lose himself in you completely.

Logan pulls away just long enough to catch his breath, looking up at you with lust-drunk eyes, drinking in the sight of your sweaty cheeks, your heavy-lidded gaze, the way your chest rises and falls with each shuddering breath.

The pulse of his cock intensifies, urging him to speed things along. The base desire of his own instincts is getting harder and harder to ignore under your adoring stare.

He feeds his fingers into your clenching hole with no warning, a satisfied smirk tugging his lips up at your sharp gasp. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, the entire lower half of his face still shining with your essence.

Your cunt swallows him, two thick fingers sinking into the velvety heat like it’s nothing.

Logan groans as he feels you clench around him, your walls fluttering and drawing him in deeper. “That’s it, baby,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with need. “So fuckin’ ready for me, so ready for daddy’s fingers in your pussy.”

Your mouth drops open in another devastatingly desperate noise, your hands twist his hair roughly, soft breasts rising and falling each time you gasp for air. The dim light of the sunset filters in through the blinds, highlighting the curves of your body, slick and shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

Every clench of your walls around his fingers shoots a thrill straight to his cock, making him ache with the urge to bury himself inside you. The overwhelming need to take you completely, to mark you and fill you, pulses through his veins until he feels like he might explode.

But he’s not done tasting you yet. Not until you’re practically dripping onto the sheets.

He lowers his mouth back to your core, sucking your clit into his mouth as his fingers pump faster. The sudden intensity makes your thighs shake around his head, and he grins against you. He wants to see you fall apart—wants to feel it.

“Logan—please, I…” You can barely get the words out, voice breaking as your whole body strains against him, desperate and needy.

The wet slap of his palm against your spit soaked cunt is loud in the quiet of your bedroom, blending with the loud keens that fall from your parted lips. He crooks his fingers, rubbing at that soft, spongy spot inside of you.

“Come on,” he mutters, slick lips brushing against your clit as he speaks. “Give it to me, baby. Show me you're ready for my cock."

He drags the sharp edge of his canine against your pulsing clit with barely any pressure, and you're coming.

Your whole body tenses, back bowing off the mattress as you let out a broken cry of his name. The bite of your nails digging into his scalp feels harsh enough to draw blood, a feeble attempt at grounding yourself against the onslaught of pleasure. 

Your trembling thighs tighten around his shoulders, gripping him like a vice as your shaking cunt gushes around his fingers. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as you drench his wrist and chin in your juices.

Even then, he doesn’t let up, fingers pumping relentlessly as he draws out every pulse, every aftershock of your climax, every tiny spray of your release splashing against his wrist. 

He’s lost in the feel of you—slick and trembling under his hands, the scent of your release filling his lungs, thick and intoxicating.

You slump back against the bed, body limp and spent. His own need is a driving, aching force now, clawing at his insides, demanding more.

He slips his fingers free from your dripping heat, dragging them through the wetness coating his chin as he licks them clean with a growl, savoring every taste.

“Good girl,” he purrs, voice thick with pride and satisfaction as he pulls back, leaving your thighs twitching in the wake of his touch. But he still isn’t finished. Not even close.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Logan crawls up the bed, his eyes locked on you, pupils blown with need. He looms over you, hands planting on either side of your head. His cock grinds against you through the rough denim, and you can feel just how thick and hard he is, throbbing through the fabric, demanding to be freed.

With a low groan, he shifts his hips, dragging his bulge along your soaked cunt, sending another jolt of pleasure racing through you. His hands are all over you, gripping your waist, hot and possessive.

“Feel that?” he asks, pressing his lips the wild flutter of your pulse, the need to sink his teeth in the soft skin of your neck raises the hair on the back of his neck. “That’s what you do to me baby. Got me hard as a fuckin’ rock, just aching to be inside you.”

Your arms circle his shoulders, clawing at the fabric off his shirt. “Need you inside me, Logan. Please, want it so bad.”

The pure need lacing your words, your scent calling out to him, the way he can feel the front of his jeans getting soaked through with the slick pouring from your cunt all pull him deeper into the recesses of his hind-brain. 

The mounting desperation to stuff you full of his cock finally reaches a fever pitch.

With a deep growl, Logan rears back as far as he can bear, just enough to tear his shirt over his head before he fumbles with the heavy buckle of his belt to free his aching cock.

He shoves his jeans down, boxers quickly following until there’s nothing separating him from the cool air of your bedroom. His cock springs free, hot and flushed an angry red color, drooling from the tip enough that it drips down to stain the pretty floral sheets of your bed.

Your eyes zero in on him, mouth dropping open at the sight. His cock so heavy it doesn’t curve upward to slap against his stomach, instead it hangs down to sway between his thighs as he moves closer. 

Your legs spread as he nears, slick covered thighs parting to make room for him to slot between them. So obedient, so good, so well trained.

Logan takes himself in his hand, nearly wincing at the blazing temperature of his skin. He secures his hand around the base, squeezing where his knot threatens to pop before he’s even got in you.

He slips the angry head through the folds of your cunt, slapping it against your clit with a wet ‘thwack’ sound. He can feel the way it twitches and shakes, just as desperate as him.

“Look at that,” he mutters darkly, eyes glued to where he’s laid his cock flat against your stomach, leaking pre-come all over your soft skin. “How’s it gonna fit, baby?” He shifts his hips, sawing his length back and forth to see just how deep in you he’ll be.

Your glassy eyes drop, a broken moan passing through your slack lips when you take in the sight. Your hips rise off the bed, grinding your cunt along the seam of his heavy balls, along the prominent vein trailing up the underside.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Logan grits out, eyes hooded and dark as he watches you grind against him. “You’re gonna take it all. Gonna make you feel every last fuckin’ bit of me.”

He groans, gritting his teeth as he presses in further, each inch a battle against the tight, molten heat that grips him like a vice. Your body shudders as he fills you, your slick warmth pulling him deeper and deeper, and he sinks down until he’s fully seated, his hips flush with yours. 

The pressure is mind-numbing, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that make his vision blur. He stills for just a second, savoring the way your body stretches around him, hugging him in a way that feels like it was made for him alone.

Logan watches your face as you adjust to the stretch, your brows pinched together, each breath coming fast and shallow, your eyes glazed with pleasure.

Then, your hands come to his shoulders, nails digging little crescent moons into his skin as you nod your head, ready.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. His hips pull back before he slams in again, the force of it jolting your whole body. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, teeth bared as he muffles a snarl against your skin.

Logan thrusts again, and again, and again, hips setting a merciless pace as he watches the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, each little shudder.

His mouth waters with the need to taste, to sink his teeth into your supple skin hard enough to pierce clean through, hard enough to scar.

Sweat drips down the length of his spine, across his brow. It mats down the hair scattered over his chest, his dog tags slick with it when they bounce off his skin with each thrust. The grip of his hands tightens on your hips, it’s taking everything in him to hold back and yet he knows you’ll still bruise tomorrow. 

Pretty hues of dark purples and yellows in the shape of his fingers, ones he’ll catch you admiring in the bathroom mirror, pressing your own fingertips into them to feel the dull ache—to remember this moment.

“Made for this, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice dark and possessive. “Made to take me, to be mine.”

The words barely leave his mouth before he’s bending down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives into you, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge.

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp, breaking the kiss as your body trembles under him. “Can–ah!–can feel you in my stomach…”

Your hand drops from his shoulder, slipping between your bodies to rest over the sweaty expanse of your belly. Logan’s eyes follow your path, a feral growl bursting from his chest before he can stop it.

He’s transfixed by it, sure that if he pressed his hand to the soft skin of your lower stomach right over your own, that he’d feel it. Feel the way his cock punches up against your insides, so deep it's like he’s rearranging your guts to make room.

“Fuck.” His voice is nothing but a gravelly rumble, hoarse and dark as midnight. His hips speed up impossibly faster, chasing the feeling of your clenching walls choking the length of his cock so tight he thinks it might snap off at the base.

The flimsy headboard of your bed slams against the wall, creaky mattress springs screaming under his ministrations.

You feel like salvation, like the first rays of light after too many years spent in the dark.

He feels it with each kiss of his cock against your cervix, in the way your lips fit in the junction of his neck, in the red welts your nails leave on the skin of his back. He feels alive, truly alive, for the first time in decades.

“Say my name,” he grates, his hand cupping the back of your neck, coaxing you to look up at him, lips close enough to taste the heat radiating from his skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”

"Logan," you gasp, your voice breathy, edged with desperation as he pushes you closer to the brink. "Yours. Only yours."

A broken, shaky noise falls from his lips as he buries his face in your neck. He mouths at your skin desperately, presses his nose to where your scent is the strongest. 

Flashes of his release spraying your insides play behind his closed eyes, thoughts of drenching you so thoroughly that it has to take only forcing his hips to slam against the rippling muscle of your ass like you have your own magnetic pull. He feels it building, the slow swell of his knot presses against your folds, ready to burst.

“Come on, honey,” he begs, thumb coming down to rub slow circles over your slick clit. “Come with me, soak my cock. Show me how much you love it, how much you love me.”

Pathetic little uh uh uh’s fall from you with every thrust, broken up only by the breathy whines of his name as he pounds into you hard enough to push your body higher up the mattress. Finally, with a loud roar, he stuffs his growing knot inside of your cunt. 

Logan’s teeth sink into your neck before he can even think twice about it, the thick spray of his come filling you as his hands pull your hips down even further over his cock. He needs to be as deep in you as possible, to press forward until he can’t anymore, until his aching balls are flush with your gushing cunt.

He watches with rapt attention as you come with a loud wail, just from the feeling of his knot slotting into place. The clamp of your thighs over his hips is nearly as tight as the way your cunt seizes around him like it’s scared he’ll leave.

He groans at the over stimulation of your cunt milking his cock. Your slick leaks around the base of him, your shaking hole plugged so full it can only slip along the creamy ring to splash weakly against his thighs and hips.

Logan licks along the spot where his teeth pierced your skin, planting one last kiss before he’s taking you in his arms and rolling onto his back atop the mattress. The plush comforter sticks to his skin, your own sweaty body slipping against his as he tries his best to not jostle you too much while keeping you stuffed full of his cock.

He holds you to his chest until your breathing evens out, until your body stops trembling on top of his, until you’re nosing along the column of his neck.

“Logan?” Your voice is tiny, hoarse and scratchy. He feels your hand drawing absent minded shapes along the skin of his stomach. A circle, a star, a figure eight, a heart.

“Yeah baby?” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, eyes slipping shut at the content feeling that spreads through him.

“Love you,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, the words slipping out without hesitation.

It’s the first time you’ve said it today, and hearing those three words from you sends warmth flooding through him.

Logan shifts slightly, pulling you even closer, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you with a kind of tenderness he used to think he’d never be capable of. “I love you too, darlin’. More than you know.”

Your body relaxes against him, the lingering effects of your shared intimacy still buzzing through your limbs, but now there’s a sense of peace, of safety, and a deeper connection.

He can feel the way your fingers curl lightly against his skin, the quiet smile that must be tugging at your lips as you press a kiss to the side of his neck.

And in that moment, with everything settled around him, Logan knows that this, right here, is everything.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[saetoru]

AGE IS NOTHING BUT A NUMBER — GETO SUGURU.

kinktober day two — overstimulation ; find masterlist here

synopsis. befriending nanako and mimiko has its perks—like fucking their father, for example. suguru might have aged over the years, but that doesn't mean he's lost his touch. don't believe him? that's okay—he can always just show you instead

length. 5.3k words (bro this fic was agonizing)

contents. minors do not interact, fem! reader, dilf! suguru, college au (reader is a student), age gaps (20+ difference), jealous suguru, teasing, cunnilingus, fingering, edging, nipple play, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie, pet names (baby, sweetheart, princess, angel)

notes. this took me so long bc i hate it so im posting it and running away to play genshin to slave away for primos

most people can tell their best friends everything. not you, though—you have a secret. a dirty, shameful, horrible little secret, in fact.

no one knows that every chance you get, every small little moment you can possibly squeeze in, you fuck your two best friends’ father—and it’s going to stay that way, unknown and forever hidden. suguru is young as far as parents go, just barely in his twenties when he’s found himself a single father of two, but that doesn’t mean he’s not too old for you. and it especially doesn’t mean that it’s not inappropriate to fuck the man that raised your two closest friends.

you meet nanako and mimiko during your freshman year of college—the rest is history. the first time you spend the night at their place, suguru (he insists you call him that on your first meeting) is overjoyed that his girls have someone as lovely as you.

who wouldn’t be? you’re smart, well-mannered, respectable, and incredibly studious. what a perfect role model for his girls—after all, every father’s worst nightmare is his sweet, precious daughters venturing off to the real world. men are dogs—suguru should know. they’re sleazy and prey on young women who are naive and unsuspecting, taking advantage of their hopefulness before completely destroying their innocence. suguru can’t bear the idea of his perfect little girls becoming victims of such sinister behavior—but that’s all quelled when he meets you.

but he never thought, not even for one second, that he’d become one of those men.

those older men who fuck girls half their age—the girls that are barely in their twenties and still don’t even really understand how taxes work. the girls that have just started to learn how to hold their alcohol and can only recently buy it legally. the girls who don’t realize how complicated adulthood can be, just barely spreading their wings and learning what it’s like to be free.

suguru has always found those men deplorable. they’re the awful, disgusting, untamed vermin of society—women must be protected from them at all costs.

but now? well….now he’s one of them—and he finds, even as disgusted with himself as he is from time to time, he has little regrets.

not when you’re sprawled under him, hands tracing over his bare chest, feeling the soft skin under your palms in wonder. suguru, though he’s not let himself go by any means, is past his prime—he still frequents the gym, and he has more time to go now that the girls are gone most of the day, but he’s not immune to the effects of aging.

his hair has more than a few strands of white sprinkled in now; nanako makes sure to remind him not to pull them out unless he wants more. he’s still managed to keep the abs he was once so proud of in his youth, but they’re still not as hard—layered over a slight belly that he can’t seem to get rid of no matter what he tries. his skin is a bit looser, and his eyes have slight wrinkles in the corners of them, but despite it all, suguru still looks as handsome as ever.

he’s aged well, still looks remarkably young for men his age, and still looks like that dashing young man he once was who stole hearts. in fact, he still hears about his looks, especially from nanako and mimiko’s friends—he’s always chuckled to himself and shook his head in amusement.

that’s your dad? god, he’s so hot.

what? he’s single? oh my gosh, do you need a mom?

i can’t believe he’s never been married—women in his generation don’t deserve him. i’ll take him off their hands.

wait, do you have pictures of him when he was younger?

oh my god, he’s so fine. are you sure he’s in his forties?

nanako and mimiko, bless their hearts, have always crinkled their noses at the…less than proper comments they’ve had to witness about their father. in fact, they’ve watched teachers practically throw themselves onto suguru at parent-teacher conferences. it’s bothersome—a little disturbing to hear their friends talk about all the things they’d let their dad, of all people, do to them.

but you? you don’t make unhinged comments. they appreciate that.

but if only they knew…

if only they knew that sometimes, like right now, when you’re spending the night, you don’t actually sleep—instead, you sneak off to their father’s room, lay on his mattress under his body, and feel his touch. you can feel him, hard and throbbing in his sweats as his clothed cock presses against your thigh—but he takes his time with you, and doesn’t do anything about the clear arousal pooling between your legs just yet. 

instead, he focuses on remembering your body—it’s been a while, after all. he hasn’t felt your hips, hasn’t tasted your skin, hasn’t heard your voice. 

“missed you,” suguru breathes, hovering over you as you hum, nipping at your skin as his nose brushes along your neck. your hand is playing with his hair, twisting long, black and white strands along your fingers. “haven’t seen you in a bit, angel.”

“i’ve had midterms,” you murmur.

suguru knows—nanako and mimiko have been studying for them themselves. he’s more than a little disappointed that you haven’t come over to study with them yet. but then, just the other night, mimiko mentions you’ve been spending your time with a boy at the library, sharing a table as you lean over his shoulder to look at his laptop. nanako giggles that you might have finally gotten yourself a boyfriend. mimiko hums and nods as she murmurs it’s about time.

suguru swallows down every bite of dinner with an aftertaste of bile that night.

a boy—a boy? you’ve been skipping coming over to study with the girls (and, by default, seeing him) just to study with some boy? what’s got your attention on the guy so badly? why would you break the routine you’ve had for the last few semesters for someone you just recently met? have you finally started to realize that this is a mistake? is suguru a mistake?

he thinks maybe not, now that you’re back in his bed—but he still has too many unanswered questions. 

“so i’ve heard,” he says lowly, “i’ve also heard there’s a certain boy on your radar.” he smiles bitterly, pulling away from your neck to stare at you with those dark, sharp eyes of his. “a much younger, and fitting match for you, i suppose.”

you roll your eyes, snorting.

“is that what nanako and mimiko have told you? honestly, those two,” you huff fondly, “i told them already. he’s just my partner for a presentation. we’re practicing.”

“oh?” suguru raises a brow—and then he shivers lightly when you lean up and kiss his jaw, eyes fluttering shut at your touch.

“yes,” you giggle, “no need to be jealous of someone half your age, you know.”

“that’s exactly why i’m jealous,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss you softly.

your lips taste like honey—probably sweeter, in fact. they drip with that decadent, saccharine taste of youth. he feels twenty again every time he kisses you, feels not a day older than his glory days.

“oh, you poor thing,” you grin, cupping his face as you scatter kisses along his cheeks and nose, thumb tracing the skin. fuck, is this what it feels like to be in love? it makes him feel so young, so free, and hopeful for the future. when was the last time he felt this way? “have you been losing sleep over my nonexistent college boyfriend?”

“well, kids your age fool around quite a bit,” he says in that father tone that he uses on nanako and mimiko, “what was i supposed to think?”

you’ve heard that tone so many times before; the one where he talks like he knows better, like he’s wiser, like he’s aware of something you’re not. 

girls, make sure you share your location with me—i need to find you in case anything happens. it’s for your own safety, end of discussion.

make sure you watch over your drinks, okay? men these days take every chance they get to spike them when you’re not looking. mimiko, i was your age once, too. i’ve seen this happen plenty.

don’t walk alone in the streets at night. call me. i’ll pick you up—no, nanako, it’s not lame. the streets are dangerous at night. there are creeps, you know.

don’t get into any boy’s cars, girls. you never know what’ll happen; one mistake is all it takes to ruin your life—hey, don’t roll your eyes at me. one day, you’ll understand i’m right.

“i’m not a kid,” you pout, and then, smugly this time, you wiggle your brows. “did’ya lose sleep over my imaginary boyfriend? you need plenty of sleep at your age, y’know.”

“no, you’re not a kid,” suguru agrees, “you’re a brat.” and then he’s back to pressing those hot, open-mouthed, hungry kisses along your jaw, humming in delight when you angle your head to give him better access. 

sometimes, it’s fun to get under suguru’s skin—it’s fun to break that carefully built, mature patience of his, pulling a twitch of his eye and a furrow of his brow from him. so, you grin widely as you murmur, “who knows? maybe he’d fuck better—more stamina, y’know?”

it’s supposed to just tease him, to make him glare at you unimpressed so you can giggle and kiss between his brows—but suguru stills at that, painfully stiff for a moment before he bites at your skin. hard. 

“oh yeah?” he hisses, his voice low and dangerous as he pulls away to glare down at you, “you think so? what, you think an old man like me can’t fuck you long enough?”

you don’t get a chance to reply—not before he pulls your pants down your waist to reveal your soaked panties, pulling a hum from him as he grins at the damp patch of fabric. his fingers circle over your clit for a moment, right over the cloth, making your breath hitch as you buck into his touch. 

“suguru—”

“look at that,” he chuckles, “wearing my favorite one, huh? can’t fuck you that bad if you try your best to impress me. isn’t that what you wanted? is that what you were thinking when you put these on before coming over? how precious,” he murmurs—he speaks so condescending, so knowingly, as if he’s read your mind just by looking at the red lace covering your dripping cunt. you cover your face in humiliation, but he grabs your wrists and pins them over your head, clicking his teeth in disapproval. 

part of you knows you should quit while you can—the other part? well…it wants to test the limits a bit longer. suguru has never been so easy to rile up, you want to indulge in it for just a bit longer if you can help it. 

“well,” you huff, “what’re you waiting for, then? don’t tell me the age has slowed you down—”

“you really don’t know when to quit, do you?” he says in a low snarl, “fine, you want me to hurry up? you got it, princess.”

it all happens before you can even register—one moment, you’re grinning at him with mischief in your eyes; the next second, he has you in nothing but your bra, bare in his bed as he pulls your legs apart and leans close to your pussy.

“you know the thing about guys your age,” he hums, toying with your clit lazily as you gasp with a twitch, “is that they really don’t know how to take care of anyone but themselves. guess they just don’t have enough experience to really figure it out.”

his lips latch onto your clit, sucking before he rolls his tongue over the sensitive bud as his fingers sink into your core, pushing past your folds and stretching you open. it’s slow—deliberately so, in fact. it makes your head spin, and your fingers curl into the bed sheets as you pant. 

“suguru, m-more—”

“don’t worry,” he coos, pulling away from you to grin up at your glossy eyes, “you’ll get plenty, baby. we’ll see if you’ve got the stamina. y’know, since you’re so young.”

his lips are back to wrap around your clit, fingers sinking and curling exactly where you’re most sensitive—suguru finds your sweet spots instantly the first time he has you sprawled under him. didn’t even take a moment of trial, just knew where to touch and kiss to have you unravel in his hold. that much still hasn’t changed—his fingertips press against the sensitive spot in the back of your walls, pulling pretty little whines from you as his tongue flicks over your clit. 

it’s always been a blessing that nanako and mimiko’s room is across the house—had they been closer, they might hear the mewl you let out as his fingers bully into you faster, unforgiving as they brush against your walls and build the ache up between your legs until it’s about to burst. 

“s-suguru, ‘m close, so, so close—”

“already?” he gasps, chuckling as he presses a kiss to your clit with a sly grin, “thought you had more in you than that, baby. so youthful—figured you’d last a bit longer.”

he’s mean about it—rubs it in your face some more that you’re so close so fast before he pulls his fingers away and doesn’t even give you the satisfaction of falling apart on his digits. it makes you sob, hips bucking up to chase the friction of his fingers, but he’s already gone, leaving your walls empty and fluttering around nothing.

“no,” your voice breaks, “n-no, so close, please. i want—”

“that’s what he would’ve done,” suguru hums, “pulled out before you even finished. that’s what guys your age always do—they don’t know how to make girls finish. you ever had that problem with me?”

“no,” you say quickly, shaking your head. you’re a pretty little thing, he thinks—pouty, wobbly lips and those glossy eyes as you sniffle. “no, you always make me cum—please, i wanna cum, sugu.”

“yeah?” he pouts with faux sympathy, “didn’t feel good, huh? feels better when i take care of you, doesn’t it?”

“uh huh,” you nod—you’re still panting through the aftershocks of having your orgasm ripped from you, chest rising and falling harsh enough that it fills him with pride he can pull such drastic reactions from you. no one knows your body like suguru—he’s too good at giving it what it wants for anyone else to compare. 

“think that boy—” he spits the last word like it’s poison on his tongue, “—can take care of you?”

“no,” you whimper, “no, he can’t. not like you, never like you.”

“that’s a good girl,” he nods approvingly, rubbing his slick-coated finger over your clit, toying with it teasingly as you writhe, whining for more. “you know something else about men your age? they don’t care to please a woman—don’t bother to appreciate them enough to make them feel good. you think that boy would be here—” he pauses to motion between your legs, where he’s currently situated, “—willingly? taste you willingly? let you cum on his tongue willingly?”

“i-i don’t…i never asked someone to—”

“did you ever ask me?” he interrupts, raising a brow at you, “you ever have to ask me? i just do it. wanna know why? because i know what i’m doing—know how to treat you right, how to give you what you need. isn’t that right?” 

“yes, yes—you always give me what i want—”

“what you need,” he corrects, “and you know what i think you need right now? this.”

his tongue licks a stripe along your entrances before you can say anything else, pulling a gasp out of you as your hands find his hair and tug—suguru groans at that, feels his pants get impossibly tighter as the aching erection he sports throbs between his legs at the way you pull at the strands so desperately, so needy. for him. only ever him. 

his tongue fucks into you, messy with the way he devours you, the slick arousal pooling from your cunt coating his lips, his cheeks, his chin. you moan—and really, it’s almost a squeal—when his fingers are sinking back into you, tongue flicking away at your clit mercilessly as he thrusts his digits in and out of your pussy. you’re close, painfully so, the pressure steadily building and building until you just can’t hold it back anymore. 

“sugu—’m c-cumming. god ‘s so good—feels good,” you babble, thighs closing around his head as his fingers curl into your sweet spot over and over again, not stopping for even a second as he helps you ride out your high. your walls spasm around his fingers, tight as they flutter around him and make him groan at the thought of being inside you. 

he watches, hungry and in awe, as your back arches off the mattress and your mouth parts, broken little wails of his name rolling off your tongue in a sweet melody. 

“i bet he’s never seen someone look like this,” suguru murmurs, watching the way the ecstasy takes over your features as your face falls slack from pleasure, “so pretty when falling apart. bet he’d never even get close to making you look so fucked from just his tongue.”

your orgasm ripples through you—it’s not new, the way he makes you feel so good, but it’s definitely nothing to get used to either. your body slumps back onto the mattress as you finish, panting harshly while he climbs up to hover over you once again. 

“that felt good?” he asks, nosing at your cheek as you nod breathlessly.

“yeah,” you breathe, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“hope you’re not tired out just yet,” he says smugly, eyeing the way sweat clings to your forehead and huffs of air exhale from your lungs with each labored breath, “because we’re nowhere near done, baby. not even close.”

just like that, your bra is unclasped and pulled off, freeing your tits for his mouth to latch onto a nipple, sucking and lightly grazing his teeth along the bud while his fingers tease at the other, pinching and rubbing over it with his thumb. you whine, eyes squeezing shut as your hand cups the back of his head and keeps him in place. 

“bet i could make you cum just from this,” he says with a laugh, “i don’t even need to fuck you.”

“please,” you dig your nails into his shoulder, moaning as he switches to wrap his lips around the other nipple, “please, sugu—n-need more.”

“be more specific,” he says lowly, looking up at you in amusement, “gonna need more than that, princess. you gotta help me out here—i’m afraid i don’t know what i’m doing.”

suguru is doing everything he can to drag this out—if you’d known one small comment would have him riled up like this…well, truthfully, you can’t say you wouldn’t have made it anyway. it’s exciting in its own right when he’s so determined to show you why you need him, why no one else but him is meant to see you like this, make you fall apart like this, have you sprawled under them like this. 

no one can know about you and suguru—not nanako and mimiko, not your other friends, not your family. you know what they’d say, how they’d feel. 

disgust—shame, even. he’s far too old for you, you know they’d say; he’s a red flag for getting with someone so young. no one can know that you come here, dead in the middle of the night when your friends are asleep, and fuck their father. not only that—lay with their father, talk about your hopes and dreams for the future with their father, giggle as you gossip with their father, fall in love with their father. 

something tells you the feeling is not unreciprocated—that suguru feels the same, that he loves holding you in his arms just as much as you love laying in them. maybe it wasn’t a joke, what you’d said. not to him, at least—maybe deep down, it stung; maybe he had something to prove. that boy might be closer to you in age, but he’ll never, ever treat you the way suguru does—no one will, for that matter. perhaps he has to show it so you really know. 

so you look him in the eye, pull him closer until his forehead is pressed against yours and you can press a delicate kiss to his lips before you murmur against them, “fuck me, suguru. please—need you.”

he groans at that, closes his eyes before his hips move to press the thick tip of his cock against your folds, dragging it along your entrance as he coats his head with your slick. it’s flushed a deep pink—it’s been neglected for so long that he shudders at the way it aches, at the way even the slightest friction along the sensitive tip pulls a soft gasp from him. 

for a moment, he wonders if he really will last long enough to fuck you properly—he might not, with the way your walls always squeeze around him, always have him ready to fuck his load into you just as soon as he’s inside you. the thought alone almost makes his cock twitch—but suguru is a man of patience, so he slowly pushes into you, inch by inch, looking down and watching as his girth disappears inside you. 

“look at that,” he coos, grinning wide as he looks back up at you, “took me so easily. ‘s cause when you do it right, it doesn’t take much, does it?”

“f-fuck—” your head presses back against the pillow, mouth hung open as you breathe heavily, trying to squirm and get even the slightest bit of friction from him as he stays painfully still. “move, suguru—please, c-can’t wait anymore. jus’ wanna feel you.”

“i know,” he chuckles, “patience is a virtue, sweetheart.”

despite it all, suguru is not feeling very patient anymore—it’s been long enough. his hips roll slowly at first, a shallow thrust of his hips that makes you both moan lowly before he all but pulls out and slams back in, hard. you can feel the burning stretch of his girth practically splitting you open, every thick vein dragging along your cunt and every brush of his tip against the back of your walls. it’s loud—the sound of skin slapping against skin, the sound of his deep groans and your breathless whines, the sound of the headboard hitting the wall as he fucks you into his mattress. 

“god—fuck, suguru—th-there,” you mewl as he slams into you right where you need him. 

you’ve lost count of how many times suguru has fucked you like you’re his. in his bed at night, in his shower in the mornings, on the couch when you drop by when the girls aren’t home, in his car that one time he drove you home when it rained, in your apartment that one time he dropped off your laptop because you forgot it. there’s one common denominator—the way he makes you feel, not just from the way his cock ruts into you, but from the way his fingers tangle with yours, from the way his mouth finds your jaw to kiss, from the way his forehead presses into your shoulder with warmth. 

it’s exciting, maybe. at first, it’s scandalous and a little thrilling in its own right. by now, it’s something much more than that—you don’t think anyone could make you feel the way he does, fuck you like he does, even if they tried. even if they knew where to touch and where to kiss. even if they knew what you liked and what you didn’t. 

they couldn’t be suguru—would never be suguru. 

“there, huh?” he pants, moaning softly as he feels your walls flutter around him tightly, “i know. i know how to fuck this pussy—my pussy. you think some boy you hardly know would know? think he’d care to learn? think he’d even try?”

“no,” you gasp, shaking your head as your hips buck up to meet his sharp thrusts, “no. no one would make me feel this good. make me feel so good, sugu.”

“ngh—sh-shit,” he hisses at your words, cock almost swelling harder at the way you praise him, at the way your words are almost slurred with no real thought behind him. it’s a little pride-inducing, the way you’re still able to sing his praises without having to really think about it first. he can hear it, the way you’re lost in the drag of his cock, drunk in the haze of pleasure, unfocused on everything else besides the way he bullies his thick girth into your abused cunt.

it’s a mess, it’s filthy the way there’s a mix of pre cum and your slick at the base of his cock, along your inner thighs, coating your skin as the squelching sound of him nudging past your folds fills the room.

it’s good, the way he makes you feel—he can hear it in your voice as you wail his name.

“s-suguru—oh.”

“what, you gettin’ all fucked out on me? ‘m not even close yet, princess,” he hums, leaning down to kiss your neck as he sucks softly into your sweet spot. you throw your head back, rasping out a cry of his name again as his balls slap against your ass with a harsh roll of his hips. 

and then his hand makes its way between your bodies, thumb attaching itself to your clit before rubbing punishing circles into the bundle of nerves—you sob at that, back arching up as your chest presses against his, nipples hard as they brush along his skin.

“s-sugu—close, ‘m gonna cum a-again—so close,” you pant brokenly, every sentence cut off with a sharp gasp as he thrusts into you. 

you’re close—you can’t fight back the way the coil in your belly snaps as he teases your clit. it’s still sensitive from the last orgasm, every nerve still burning up from before as he gives you more, gives you too much, almost. you cum harder this time—your second high creeping up on you when you least expect it. 

it makes your eyes roll back, makes your thighs quiver, and tears stream down your cheeks as you chant his name over and over. suguru, ‘s so good. suguru, ‘m cumming. suguru, ‘s all for you.

every sentence makes his cock drill into you faster, sloppier in rhythm, maybe, but faster. needier. bordering on desperate. 

“f-fuck, baby,” he grunts, “squeezin’ me so tight—such a tight fuckin’ cunt. you think just anyone deserves this? think you can just walk around and let anyone fuck this? ‘s bullshit—ngh.”

you don’t answer—can’t answer, in fact. it’s all teary eyes and soft sniffles as you mewl with every thrust, voice breaking between every pretty little sound you make. he’s still fucking into you, still dragging his cock against those sensitive walls, still bumping against your clit with his navel, still nudging against your sweet spot with his thick, swollen tip. it’s almost too much—it is too much, making you writhe under his body as you try to form the words. 

“‘s t-too much, sugu—c-can’t anymore,” you try, “can’t.”

“what?” he gasps, furrowing his brows in mock confusion, “you’re tappin’ out on me already? but ‘m not even done yet, sweetheart. haven’t even finished yet—don’t tell me you’re already spent. how will you keep up with your little boyfriend’s stamina if you can’t even take an old man like me?”

“c-can’t take anyone but you,” you sob, “jus’ you—only you. promise.”

“yeah? you swear?”

“uh huh. jus’ you, sugu—don’ want anyone else. won’t fuck me the same.”

“atta girl,” he coos, chuckling as he leans down to kiss your jaw, trailing soft pecks until he meets your lips, “that’s what i thought. make sure you don’t forget, okay?”

“fuck, suguru—’m…g-gonna…”

“gonna what? cum? you’re cumming again?” you nod at that—he grins wide, pride settling into the crinkles of his eyes before his thumb rubs harsh circles into your swollen clit once more. he looks pretty like that—hair framing his face, the mix of black and white strands sticking to the damp skin of his forehead. his skin is flushed, abs flexing as he pants over you. sometimes you feel guilty that half of why you come over to visit nanako and mimiko is to fuck suguru—the guilt is quickly extinguished when you see him like this, bottom lip caught between his teeth as his arms barely hold him over you, eyes shut tight as he groans. 

“i-i’m—fuck, fuck, fuck,” you can’t form sentences anymore as you cum—again. not that you really could before that, but now all you can offer is croaked half-syllables and shaky sobs. your walls squeeze around him, tight as they hug around his throbbing cock. 

it takes one, two, three more sloppy rolls of his hips before he lets out at a low, “baby, fuck—’m gonna fill you up. want that? want me to cum in you? make you mine? always been mine, haven’t you?”

“yes, yes—yours, sugu. yours, yours, yours,” you babble, words slurred between breathy moans and broken sobs. “wanna be yours.”

you can feel him—feel the way his cock twitches in you, the way he grinds into you to ride out his high, the way sticky, hot ropes of cum fill your walls, the way he fucks his load deeper into you with every sloppy thrust of his hips. his arms quiver as he holds himself over you—just barely, though. you can hear the way his voice cracks as he gasps your name over and over, as he mutters lowly about how you’re his, how you’ll always only be his. 

“mine,” he grits, “you’re fuckin’ mine—see how you’re suckin’ me in? see how i fit in this pussy like it was made for me? ‘s cause you’re mine.”

his body slumps onto yours as he finishes, head pressed into the crook of your neck as he kisses the skin while you both catch your breaths. you whimper, still sensitive, as he pulls out of you, a soft chuckle falling past his lips as he pulls his head up to look at you and press a kiss to your cheek. 

“so,” he starts, eyes laced with amusement as he takes in the fucked out look on your face, the tears still drying your cheeks, the swollen flush of your bottom lip, “still think you need someone with more stamina? someone who’ll fuck you better—”

“god,” you groan, slapping his shoulder, “will you drop it already? you got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

“no,” he murmurs, pecking your lips, “still wanna hear it some more.”

“your ego needs a reality check,” you huff as you brush a strand of hair from his forehead, “think i’ve fed it plenty all night.”

“actually, i think you crushed it,” he pouts theatrically, “talking about some asshole who doesn’t care about you right in front of me. after i take such good care of you, too. the girls already think you should date him,” he adds the last part with a slightly bitter roll of his eyes, pulling a giggle out of you.

“they think i don’t know how to talk to men,” you snort, “imagine they knew i was talking to men old enough to be my father.”

“hey,” he clicks his teeth, falling onto the mattress beside you—he pulls you into his chest, letting your cheek rest on his bare skin. it’s so wrong—lying in bed with the father of your best friends. but somehow, suguru feels like the only thing you’ve ever done right. “age is nothing but a number, sweetheart.”

if i have to see the word cock one more time im going to eradicate all humans that have them

do not comment about a part 2 !!!!!!!!!!

[hoonatic]

emergency contact | park sunghoon x reader

prompt: weeks after your breakup, sunghoon finds out that he’s still your emergency contact. pairing: non-idol sunghoon x implied female reader genre: angst with hopeful/happy? ending; second chance romance??; exes to lovers??? word count: 2800 note: i’ve had a cute fic idea that i wanted to write forever…but this is not it. the sad demons have visited me once again. hope y’all enjoy nevertheless and any feedback is much appreciated <3

sunghoon was miserable. 

it had been three weeks, five days, two hours, and thirty-two minutes since the two of you had gone no contact.

he wished he could say he was happy to be single, that he was no longer “locked down” and “whipped” as his friends had always called him. but the so-called “freedom” felt like hell since it meant losing you.

at first, he kept telling himself that time would heal the pain. “it’s natural,” he had repeated like a mantra, “she was your best friend and lover for years.” but no, this heartbreak was inhumane. his desire to see you, apologize endlessly, and spend days holding you until you could feel every ounce of his love was gnawing at his soul. if anything, it got worse by the minute.

he had tried so hard to balance work and the rest of his life, using the excuse several times that he was securing this future for your shared life with him. that one day, you’d be able to reap the rewards of his efforts and live comfortably together without stress.

but what was the use of all of that now? the future he had worked so hard to create was ripped out from his hands by no one other than himself. 

you had accused him of being too busy for you. dates canceled at the last minute, a birthday forgotten, and all the texts left on read had built up to the argument that ended it all. he was always good at fighting, a little too good. he had retorted that you weren’t being supportive, and he was never one to sugarcoat his words. his tongue was sharp, and he did nothing to dull its blade.

but there wasn’t too much yelling on your part, and he thought that that hurt more. he wanted you to fight back, to stand your ground because he knew deep down that he was being the asshole. his toxic thought was that by you fighting back, this meant that you were still fighting for your relationship. but instead, you just stared with silent tears and a blank expression. seeing the indifference in eyes that had previously held so much love was a sight that would stay with him forever. so, in fear of you leaving, he ran instead.

he was a coward, leaving your shared home to run back to the apartment he had still technically owned but hadn’t lived in for more than a year. he locked himself away for a few days, but the realization that you hadn’t attempted to contact him burned more than he could put into words. you were done with him. he had hurt you, had the audacity to be the one to run, and now he had lost you.

he had even run from his job. he couldn’t stand to walk into the same building he stayed in when he forgot dates with you. his coworkers wouldn’t stop asking what happened to him, why he looked so rough. he even found an empty container that had once held lunch you made for him. but his final straw was getting promoted. his first instinct was to call you, but he remembered the sad truth before he could dial. any ounce of pride was washed away with shame in that moment. that same day, he quit without notice.

so there he was: miserable, alone, and unemployed with nothing left to run from but memories. he had spent the last week going through his phone and saving your pictures together in a locked album. he wouldn’t dare delete them, but he couldn’t stomach looking at you either.

he wished he could get drunk and sleep away the pain. he had tried, he definitely did - but that night, he dreamt of you. you were smiling at first, eyes ever full of love. you were speaking, yet he couldn’t hear you. but he could see how your words started to gradually look sadder, and slowly, tears started to fall as your grin dropped. he woke up that next morning crying with the conclusion that he would have to face this heartbreak sober.

but another day of scrolling through albums had stopped abruptly when he saw the notification that changed everything.

SOS i called emergency services from this approximate location after my watch detected a hard fall. you are receiving this message because i have you listed as my emergency contact.

sunghoon had to remind himself to breathe.

he had purchased that watch for you as a “just because” present months ago. you had complained of bad sleep and he wanted you to use it as a way to track your slumber. he hated seeing you tired. he knew that the watch had a fall detection function, but it had never been used before.

his heart was in his stomach as he went to his favorite contacts page and selected your name for the first time in weeks.

“please,” he begged, all notion of running away from you leaving his brain, “pick up please.”

but you just weren’t answering. so he tried again and again and again.

for a moment while the line attempted to connect, he wondered if this was how he had made you feel for months - desperate for a sliver of attention from him. but instead, he was desperate for a sign of life.

finally, after about two minutes of trying to reach you, his body moved of its own accord. before he knew it, his car keys were in his hands and he was out the door.

the car ride there might have been the worst part. the speed at which he drove at almost defied the laws of physics. other drivers were cursing at him but he wasn’t registering anything except the thought of your safety. he just needed to get to you.

why did he run? why didn’t he try to talk it out? if he was so afraid of losing you, why did he do the one thing that would guarantee that? he should have been there like he promised to be from the beginning. you would have been safe with him.

when he pulled up to the house you had shared for so long, he suddenly felt the world slow down. why were emergency services there? you should’ve canceled them by now.

he had to double park as the ambulance was blocking the driveway. why were they here?

the emts and police had arrived at the same time as him, which both increased his anxiety and soothed him. for one, that meant he had been quick enough. but why did you need them?

“sir, do you know–” an officer had approached him as he stumbled to the front door. all he could understand was your name. why were they asking if he knew you? of course he knew you. you, the love of his life. you, his soulmate by every meaning of the word. you were you. and you were safe.

as if sensing his distress, he felt an emt worker pull him to the side as the same officer prepared to break down the door. seeing this, sunghoon finally returned to his senses.

“w-wait! sorry, i have a key.” sunghoon’s hands were shaking. the only way that door had unlocked was by pure muscle memory because he didn’t understand what he was doing at all.

as soon as the door opened, sunghoon tried to step in. finally, he was close to you. 

the officer, however, pulled him back.

“sir, you should wait here. we need to make an initial search before you can go in.”

“what, why? if she’s in there, i want to see–”

“sir, it’s just in case we find something we wouldn’t want you to see.”

all of sunghoon’s hesitation and fear went out the window at those words. his body flew automatically as he ran inside.

he screamed your name as he rushed in, ignoring the yells of the police officers who followed him in. as it had been for almost four weeks, his only thought was you. he just needed you.

he checked the ground floor first, eyes scanning the open space in less than a second as his body avoided an officer trying to grab him. sunghoon then moved to the staircase, long legs prepared to skip steps to reach you. then suddenly, he heard the voice his ears had been longing for,

“sunghoon?!”

his head shot up. there you were, finally. he saw the sadness, confusion, and fear all flash your face as you registered the emergency workers behind him. you looked exhausted and unruly, but he had never felt more in love.

he didn’t even remember climbing the steps, but suddenly he was at the top of the staircase and you were in his arms. 

you could feel him trembling as he held you. you took his face into your hands to look at him, “sunghoon? what’s wrong? why are you here? is it my parents? is someone hurt?” you watched as his mouth opened but no words came out. after a few seconds, one of the officers spoke from the bottom of the steps,

“ma’am, we received an alert from your device that a hard fall had occurred.”

suddenly, you understood everything. taking sunghoon’s hand gently, you led him down the stairs, afraid he’d fall from shock. he followed you silently, but his grip tightened seemingly with every step.

that’s when you noticed your shattered watch on the third step.

you let sunghoon go and you could hear his deep breath when you did. you picked up the watch and offered it up to the officer as an explanation, “i’m sorry officer, it looks like there’s been a misunderstanding…”

the officer nodded in understanding, and dismissed the emts, “got it, ma’am. we will still need a formal report for our records since this was registered as an emergency call.” he motioned to your couch as he took out a pen and paper.

you reached for sunghoon’s hand once more and led him to sit with you. in the moment, you knew he needed you more than you would ever understand. so, as you explained to the officer, you held his trembling hand, rubbing soothing circles with your thumb.

“i was doing laundry here downstairs and had taken off my watch to prevent it from getting wet,” you recounted, “i put it on top of the basket of clothes that i took upstairs. i remember tripping a little going up the stairs - i didn’t fall, but that must’ve been when the watch fell."

"what about your phone, where is it? i'm sure your boyfriend must've tried to call you."

sunghoon slowly nodded at that, turning to look at you. you smiled sheepishly, "i left it upstairs and it was on silent while i folded the clothes. i’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”

after finishing up your statement, the remaining officer prepared to leave. as he walked out the door, he gave a soft smile to the both of you,

“glad to see it was a false alarm, ma’am. you had this gentleman quite worried - ran so fast i couldn’t even grab him!” the officer laughed, “you two have a nice day now! sorry about your watch, though!”

after he shut your door, the silence enveloped your home. you closed your eyes and breathed deeply to prepare to speak to your ex-boyfriend. but as soon as you opened them, sunghoon started to cry softly.

he hugged you tighter than he ever had, and soon enough, his face was buried in your neck. his cries were silent, but you could feel his body shaking as his tears soaked your shirt.

“sunghoon…” you started, stroking his back, “i’m sorry i worried you, honey.”

you knew you shouldn’t be calling your ex pet names, especially an ex that had run from you without properly ending the relationship. but your heart still held so much love for him that it flowed out naturally. and you knew he was crying from more than just worry, so you doubt he minded at all in the moment.

his crying slowed down as his arms took to loosely wrapping around your waist instead. he pulled away from your neck to rest his forehead on yours. from this angle, you could see his swollen eyes and red nose - a sight so rare in all the years you had dated. he was never a crier after all.

but memories of several late-night conversations rushed your mind. he always said his number one fear was your death, and now you could see he had never lied about that.

he could see your mind go elsewhere so he called your name softly, “don’t say you’re sorry. i’m so happy, these are relieved tears. and i just really, really missed you.” he croaked out. you knew he had more to say, so you just nodded, letting him go on.

“and i’m sorry, baby. for everything. i shouldn’t have run, i shouldn’t have tried to egg you on to fight me back. i shouldn’t have even fought anything you said that night. you were right. i didn’t prioritize you. in my attempt to secure you for life, i let you go instead. i’m so sorry, i never wanted to break up.” he was rambling in earnest now, afraid that no words would make you take him back.

you listened quietly as he went on for a few minutes after that, hand continuing to rub his back, “i know honey, i know.”

“baby, you need to understand that i almost died thinking you almost died today,” you could’ve laughed at how dramatically he spoke, “i couldn’t breathe right thinking that our last conversation could’ve been an argument. that you wouldn't have ever known just how deeply i love you and need you. i have so much regret for how i treated you, but if you’d give me the chance, i have all the time in the world to make it up to you…let’s go on that vacation i promised you. we can leave tomorrow if you’d like.” he smiled hopefully at you.

“hoon,” his heart soared at the use of his beloved nickname, “what do you mean? don’t you have work? can you really leave with such short notice?”

“i quit my job.”

“excuse me?”

“no job that made me work that much is worth it. i’ll find one with better work-life balance…after our vacation. if that’s what you still want of course…” he spoke more quietly, as if afraid of rejection.

you sighed. you really should be realistic with this - you two had been broken up for a few weeks at that point. you knew the love was still there, but was this a good decision?

while there was still some hesitation on your part, you couldn't help but notice how gingerly he held you. his arms were still around your waist loosely, yet there was something desperate about their hold. you knew he was holding back from hurting you - you could tell how tightly he wanted to hug you.

he was so shaken up at the idea of you being hurt that he rushed over there despite the two of you not being on speaking terms. for someone who had trouble communicating how he felt sometimes, you knew his actions spoke louder than words. he always acted brave, but there was so much he feared. and you knew losing you was always at the top of this list.

you could also feel how he was simply soaking in the sight of your face. his eyes were shy, yet determined. he wasn't going to risk missing another second of staring at you. a part of you grew conscious, but you knew he was just taking in what he had missed for weeks.

“what about…” you started and almost giggled at how he perked up, “we take it slow - another two weeks or so to talk everything out and relax? to get us to a good place again before you hold me hostage in some foreign country?”

sunghoon smiled softly, kissing your forehead. you leaned in naturally to his warmth, to his touch that you missed so much. “that sounds like a great idea, love.” he spoke, “we’ll get you a new watch too. and i’ll do all the itinerary planning and packing whenever you’re ready, okay? i love you.”

“okay. and i love you too. can’t wait to enjoy your unemployment with you for now!”

one smile and nod from you had him taking you into his arms once more, relishing in your being. he was back where he belonged. he had experienced the scariest reminder ever that he needed you, and sunghoon was never letting you go now.

[peachesofteal]

Deckhand Simon Riley / female reader 18+ mdni, dubcon. Simon is very no good terrible and kind of mean. Predator/prey. Excessive alcohol consumption, manipulation. Spitting, size, praise, a little bit of breeding/daddy - kink.

Simon arrives to town on the last summer wind. 

It’s cold for the shoulder of the season. Not the coldest he’s ever felt, but cold enough his scars become rigid, inflexible swaths of skin littered across his body pinching at every hinge. 

He can already feel the burn. The stretch and strain of his upper back, his arms, his legs. Can already feel the weight of the pots, sharp metal slamming and crashing, teeming with things that look more like creatures than they do delicacies.

Hook. String. Pull. Block.

The people stare at him, wide, wind whipped eyes peeking out underneath knit wool hems, gagged and confused, whispers passed back and forth like children with a lolly. 

Did you see him? 

Look at the size of ‘im- 

Is that Ernest’s new deckhand? 

Fucking monster of a man, I tell you. 

He keeps his head down. Eyes fixed to the floor, old instinct still churning in his blood, shoulders stiff and squared. Captains are all the same, whether on land or at sea. Says “yes sir” as Ernest sizes him up, asks about his previous two seasons, and then sends him away with a perfunctory nod and a departure date. 

The Old Man leaves in two weeks. See you then.

King crab fishing is the closest he’s felt to having a foot in the grave since he was actually in one. Opponents in a firefight are known, predictable. Monsters of their own kind, but ones he knows intimately. Minds of a killer, the lot of them, a certain subset of consciousness nearly shared. 

The ocean shares its mind with no one. Its secrets are its own, buried in the briny deep, never to be revealed. 

And the Bering-  

The Bering is its own horror. Savage and cruel to those who would tempt it, willing to swallow anything offered and pull it down into fathomless black water. Cold enough to kill a man in seconds. Violent enough to toss them all to sea. 

He’s seen it happen. More than once. The environment is uncontrollable, unpredictable, lethal, and the work is arduous. 

The company is tolerable at best. The season is short, yet taxing. Deckhands live dozens of years, in a few short months. They stare off into nothing, watching the horizon, long gone look in their eye. 

Still, he sees familiar flickers in them, same firelight he’s seen in the many men he’s killed, or worked alongside of. 

At the base of it, these types of men, his kind, are all the same. 

Rabid and dangerous in packs. 

The cove is nearly derelict. The town spills up into white and black spruce, houses nestled in the grove of tree trunks twice Simon’s size, all doors facing the warped and tilted wooden slats of a long-loved dock. 

There isn’t much here, a small grocery, a liquor store, a petrol station and of course- 

A pub. 

Aptly named The Wharf, the bar is as old hat as they come, seedy and sticky, sunken into the soft earth. It’s everything he’s come to expect in a fishing town this far up north, where the season is variable, and the money is too. Dark wood from floor to ceiling, over polished oak horseshoe, neglected stools and booths. Everything creaks, and The Wharf is no exception. The pub, the dock, the trees. Wind whistles and bark groans, a rasp you can only find here, in these places where time is too slow, and the world forgets. 

There are rooms above the bar, usually rented to his ilk, deckhands biding their time, greenhorns rattling with excitement. They all filter in weeks before the season opens, and when he checks into his, he’s not surprised when the woman at the desk tells him he’s got the last one. 

There are only ten, after all.

The Wharf’s side door swings open in a gust of blistering wind, yet not a single person turns their head. 

None except him, though he doesn’t need to look to know it’s you. 

He can smell you. Can feel you, clear across the floor. Sea salt and lavender, it whirls in your wake wherever you go, and when he lingers on the sidewalk outside of your little workshop, he swears he’s standing in a cloud of it. 

“If y’need jackets, bibs mended from last season, there’s a place on the corner, next to The Wharf. She’ll get ‘em done before season.” 

You’re the bloody seamstress. The tailor. Nimble fingers twisting and tying, threading and looping inside a faded light blue storefront, working into the small hours of the night. Your workspace is small, and overflowing with bright orange polyurethane covered clothes, long lengths of neoprene, socks, shirts, wristers. A mass of work, it seems, one that keeps your light on after all others have gone dark. 

Except The Wharf’s. 

It’s the second time he’s seen you here. 

He doesn’t count the times he’s seen you without you realizing it. Doesn’t count the times he’s finished a cigarette on the street at the perfect angle, a solid perch to peer right in through your window. He doesn’t count the times he’s watched you from The Wharf’s one dark window, when you step outside to take a long breath of air, stretching your back and shaking your arms out, rolling your head in a circle- 

and baring your throat for the slaughter.

The first was days ago, close to zero hundred, when you swung in to settle on a barstool with your back to the door. You look like you’re made from spools of silk, even underneath all of your winter layers, big coat, knit wool hat. There’s a coruscated dapple in your eye, one that manages to shimmer even in the darkest shadows of the bar, voice saccharine as he’s ever heard, dipping into a melody as you go back and forth with the bartender. 

He hears it now when he closes his eyes at night, awash in a sea of bourbon, cigarette stench sunken into his skin. A gentle rhythm, a syrupy voice, saying his name. 

Screaming it. 

You catch his gaze across the bar. Catch him watching you, peeling you, picking you apart, but you say nothing. Blink a few times, glance down at your beer, pretend to busy yourself with something else. It’s not a flinch, but close enough to it. 

He knows what you see. What you should see. 

A monster. Licking his lips at a girl. A fire breather bearing down on top of a princess. 

If he crossed this room right now and yanked you off that barstool, who would interrupt? Intervene? They’re all men of the same vein, born from different battlefields. The rules of engagement become status quo, regardless of whether you’re baptized by the Bering, or by fire.

Rabid, dangerous in packs.  

Eleven days left, and he’s finally found something worthwhile to occupy his time, besides lurking in the dingy corners of The Wharf like an old, decrepit sailor. 

You. 

You live above the shop, an old fire escape leads to a wooden door with a big window, one covered by a curtain hung from the inside. 

The Wharf’s rooms have a fire escape too. A metal catwalk. 

Metal. Who’s the idiot who decided metal anything would be good in a place like this? Iron nearly turned red, rusted to all hell. One shift, and it all falls down. 

He takes his watch there, at night. A gargoyle at his post, waiting for the flicker of your kitchen and bedroom lights, shapes and shadows dancing behind the thin drapes, a ballerina on stage for the masses. 

For him. 

He brings you his gear. Looms over you at the desk where your sewing machine is grinding out an industrial stitch thicker than what he’s seen on parachutes. 

“H-hi.” Hi. Aren’t you cute? A little lamb, alone in the woods.

He nods. Stays silent. Enjoys watching his catch twist herself up on his hook. 

You glance at the noxious orange pieces draped over his arm, and half timidly reach.

“Need those patched? Er, like… have any tears or rips?” Not really. He keeps his gear in good condition. Throws out his underclothes after every season- can never get the stench of fish out of em, but his outer gear is well cared for. 

It almost pained him to rip them apart last night. 

“Simon.” He gives it expectantly, jogging your manners to the forefront. You have the good grace to look embarrassed with how fast you spit out your own name.

“Bibs have a few holes. Big ones. Jacket’s got a rip under the armpit.” You reach, tiny little fingers stretching across the barren space between him and you, and he lashes down the urge to snatch your wrist out of midair and bring it to his teeth. 

Do you taste like lavender? Sea salt? Is your cunt briny like the Bering, slicked sweet and brackish? 

“Okay, well, I should have them done before-“ 

“You better.” You startle, eyes wide and confused, before they find your feet, cowed little girl before an awful man. “Jus’ need em, is all.” He softens the approach, not willing to cut you down just yet (that comes later), and you respond well, perfectly, pushing your glasses up onto the bridge of your nose with a genuine smile. 

Live bait on the line. Set, cast, hook.

“Got it.” 

His control is becoming a house of cards. 

You’re in The Wharf earlier tonight, asking Jimmy for a double, whiskey over ice and nearly to the brim of a rocks glass. Just one, you say. Neck is sore as hell.

He maintains a distance. More inclined to watch you devolve, fascinated by the way you unravel with each sip. Lightweight. Figures.

You pull your glasses off and rub your temples, hopping off the bar stool with a quick word over your shoulder, a request for another drink. “Just goin’ to the bathroom.” You explain, walking away with a hardly detectable sway in your step- 

directly into the side of the wall the bar juts out from. 

Someone, a woman who never so much as looks up the entire time she’s here, furrows her brow at where you’re rubbing your forehead and tsks. 

“Your glasses!” You turn, embarrassed, downright mortified, and sheepishly slide your fingers across the bar until you find them. 

“Oh, right. Thanks Laurie.” Laurie, says nothing. Not until you’ve turned away and almost disappeared into the bathroom. Then, she mutters to herself, into her fresh pint. 

“Damn girl is blind as bat without those things.” 

He buys Laurie another round before he leaves for the night. An eventual thanks. 

"Can I bum one?"

His neck nearly snaps. Where did you come from? You're timid in the mouth of the alley, lichen washed red brick flanking you on either side, your hands folded together at your navel.

"Little girls allowed to smoke 'round here?" Now your neck snaps.

"I- I'm not a little girl, thank you." It's like you're trying to turn your nose up at him, but he's a giant above, and it's hopeless.

"Sure you're not." He plucks the cigarette from his lips, and then holds it out to you. Your breath hitches, top teeth digging deep, an instigation, invitation. His hand whips forward, too fast for you to realize, gripping your chin, pressing his thumb into the flesh of your bottom lip. "Want a drag or not?"

"S-sure." He's got your cheeks squeezed together, just so, enough that the fat of them crowds your mouth and makes the s sound more like a whistle.

He doesn't let go as he feeds it to you, stopping just before the filter touches your teeth. "Go ‘head then." You draw, deep, eyes closing as that first hit of nicotine rushes your blood, undoubtedly making you light headed, and his cock thickens with dreams of his fat head pushing between your lips instead of this cigarette, dreams of you split open on him with a soaked pussy, neck bared for his teeth.

Hook. String. Pull.

He squeezes himself overtop his jeans, heavy weight pulsing between his legs, a dangerous affliction growing larger and larger with each second. He could rock against his palm, right here in front of you, and it would feel worlds better than the last measly meal he had, months and months ago. Nothing will compare to you, he already knows.

You see it all. Frozen like a deer in headlights, your lips part, transfixed, confused. Will you run? Will you shout? Will you tell?

"I uh, I better... get going. Have a lot of work t-to finish." Good girl. He nods, letting go of his aching cock, slipping the cigarette back in his mouth, searching for even a hint of lavender and sea salt lingering in the filter.

"Goodnight."

Four days left, and his gear is finished.

You leave a message for him, letting him know he can pick up whenever is convenient. During shop hours. Cash or card accepted. What a dutiful business owner.

You’re in the back when he arrives. It’s long past close, but no one locks their doors here. Anyone could walk right in.

“Be right out!” You yell, slightly muffled. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t opt to give himself away, just waits at the front desk, where a mug of fresh coffee sits, still hot, still steaming.

Desperation for claim, for possession, claws up his throat to his tongue, thrashing in a fit until saliva pools in his cheeks. He sucks through his teeth, rolling the pockets behind his molars forward, pulling as much as he can, his soul even, up and out, landing it in a glob on the surface of your evening caffeine fix.

It sits there, tiny bubbles and all, an island in endless ocean, unable to break apart or disappear. Blatant. Obvious.

So, he sticks his finger in it and gives a quick swirl. For good measure.

There’s rustling in the back, and then you pop through the doors, glasses sliding to your nose. “Hi! So sor-“

You grind to a halt, spine curling forward, as if you’re trying to protect your precious organs from his fingers, avoiding his grip around your ribs, his urge to rip you open and devour you whole.

He smirks. “Got a message my gear is done? Nick o’ time.”

“Yeah, it’s… it’s done. I’ve got it, one sec.” You fidget, gun shy and shuddering, flitting away on the turn of a heel, eager to escape where he hulks in front of your desk, no doubt.

When you come back, you’re a bit more put together. Polished. Glasses in their rightful place, you place his bib and jacket on the counter unceremoniously, lips pressed together. He hands you a wad of cash, and you count it carefully, keeping your eyes pinned on the bills as he inspects the stitching, taking stock in your sharp attention to detail. “Like new, great work. Thank you.”

You go doe eyed, demure, flattered, and then confused, trying to reconcile this man, this version with the one from last night. “T-thank you.”

It all comes to a head, two days out.

There’s a party of sorts, a gathering. Entire boat of deckhands crammed into The Wharf, plus others, town residents and even some from the next over.

Too many, for Simon’s tastes.

Too many, except for one.

You’re crammed between the wall and someone’s shoulder, occasionally saying hello, accepting thanks for work well done. You keep your idle hands busy, accepting drink after drink, a shot of tequila, another of rum.

You’re even dressed up, cute as a button. Sweet as cream, honey on the hive.

Your hiccups ring out from across the room directly to his ears, chest shaking with each one. The bar is at max volume, shouting, cheering, chattering, but he can hear you crystal clear. Can hear the high pitch echo of each one, can hear your throat bobbing, the long exhale singing from your nose after trying to hold your breath. “I need some air,” you say to your neighbor, “be right back.”

He downs the last of his bourbon, subtle fire in his throat, and then makes for the back door.

Your arms are crossed, leaning against the brick with your head tipped back, eyes closed. Wearing a knit sweater, a skirt, and wool leggings, for fucks sake. “Dangerous place to be, a little girl all alone.” Your eyes snap wide, startled.

“Simon,” you don’t stutter his name, liquor easing your nerves, sweetening you up to a slaughter like the little lamb you are. Your ability to assess risk is long gone, and when you peek over at him, head rolling, the usual skittish haunt of your gaze is nowhere to be found.

“Out for a smoke?”

“No, just some fresh air.”

“Poor lamb. Drink too much?” You shrug, steadying your balance against the wall. Trying to appear more with it than he knows you are.

He stalks closer, closer than you should be comfortable with, but you only sigh, wilted as the grass withered by the impending winter.

He tests. Probes. Brushes a hand against yours, watches how you tip a little to the side, his side, eyes glassy between hard blinks. “You’re so sweet, little lamb.”

“Oh,” you make an o with your lips when you say it, like you’re suprised. “T-thank you.”

“Do you taste sweet, you think?” You jolt, but he handles your hip like he’s afraid you’ll fall, though you have a better grasp on your balance than you think you do. “Hmm?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.” It’s a race now, one you’re desperate to catch up in, but falling behind faster and faster.

Hook. String. Pull.

“Open your mouth.” You do, on instinct, and he hums with approval. “Good girl.” He sticks his thumb inside, depressing your tongue, shoving back and to the side, hard enough he stretches the corner of your lip, and then tugs.

Hooked.

You’re too drunk to process it, not really. Enflamed with a rollercoaster of shock, shame and disgust. But beneath it all, something else rises, breaks at the surface for air. Desire.

He doesn’t waste the moment, hands splayed at your ribcage, shoving you back against the wall, your shoulders slamming into it. He’s on you, rabid, wolf at the throat of a lamb, tongue forcing its way between your teeth without permission. You jerk, tense, muscles shifting like you might put your arms up, but instead they fall limply to your sides, and you moan.

String.

The length of his torso, chest and stomach press against you, hold you in place, allowing him free rein to wrap his fingers into the fine fabric of your wool stockings and rip. The shocked little gasp falls from you as expected, but you’re too far gone to fight. Prize on the line, he tugs them aside and strokes over your folds, already wet for him, dipping into your cunt, tight and fluttering around his invasion.

“Si- Simon- stop.” You push at him shoulders, trying and failing, squirming and whining. He shoves deeper, one nearly too much, two an impossible fit.

“Why would I stop when you’re so wet f’me little girl?” He presses the swell of his cock against you, your walls clenching at the contact, and he chuckles darkly. “Gonna say you don’t want this, sweet lamb? Gonna lie when this little pussy is dripping all over my hand?” You’re scandalized. Ripped from your comfort and thrown ashore, a fish out of water, gasping on land. He breathes into your neck, biting and sucking his way back up to your mouth where he distracts you for a brief moment, long enough to tip your balance to the side, a stutter step disrupting your focus, and delivers an opportune strike to snatch your glasses off your face so fast you flinch backwards in the confusion. He manages to cup your head just in time and cushion its bounce against the brick.

Pull.

“My glasses.” Your voice trembles, and he’s surprised to feel a twinge of guilt. Don’t worry little one. He’ll pull you apart, but he’ll put you back together. Eventually. “Simon… my- my glasses, do you see my glasses?”

“No, sorry. It’s too dark, sweet thing.” You tear up, horrified, and they spill down your cheeks, fat and wet, leaving tracks all the way to your neck.

He licks them with glee.

“I need to-“ he pays you no mind, returning to his work, his meal, shoving your knee to the side and lifting you up the wall, until the smear of you cunt weeps all over his jeans. “I need-“

“Know what you need, little girl.” He shreds your leggings wider, tearing a hole big enough to expose your thighs, your lower belly. Later, when he has you pinned to his bed, he’ll eat you until you can’t speak or see, but for now, bludgeoning the entirety of his cock into this too tight space will have to do.

You hiccup again. It’s too sweet, rots his soul. He wonders if you’ll be here, when he gets back. If you’ll run, or if you’ll wait. Maybe he’ll give you something to remember him by, knock you up, nice and fat by summer, heavy with a piece of him. Maybe.

He slides his zipper now, pulling the weight of his cock free, sliding the head through your slit as you look down. You can’t see, how big, how thick, how impossible it looks, head trying to push into you, your body unyielding, spasming as he batters his way inside. You claw at his shoulders, spitting out a half moan, a half sob, and he taps his forehead to yours. “It’s too m-much, too- hurts-“

“Don’t fight it. You’ve got plenty of room, be good.” He soothes with a lie, probably. You’re so tight he can feel you in his bones, restricting, bearing down. He pushes, heat and slick closing in around him, making him dizzy, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Fuck- that’s it. Feel that?” He drags your hand to the root of his cock, splaying your fingers around the base. “Feel yourself splittin’ open on me?” You moan some nonsense, some sort of garbage mixed with a yes, and a no. “Perfect little pussy, stretchin’ for me, yeah?” Only for me.

He fucks you so hard you’re shoving higher and higher up the wall, cunt choking him with each thrust, your fingers twisted in his sweatshirt, clinging on for dear life, a sailor in a storm. Lost in the fuzzy, blurry world without your glasses, he gives you a port in the dark, a lighthouse calling you home. He spreads you wide, rolling over your clit, pinching, thumbing, finding the rhythm that makes your buzz, hips starting to jerk, swallow him up.

Unbelievably, you tighten up even more, eyes slamming shut, and he holds you steady at your hips, driving deep, mouth on your ear. “Gonna be good and cum? Gonna show daddy how good you can be and cum all over his cock?” You gasp, and he drags you to it, pushes you over, rolls your shoulders back against the brick when you curl forward, pussy so tight it tries to force him out. You scream with it, but he covers your mouth, palm to your tongue, elbow at your collarbone. He’s relentless now, shoving himself until there isn’t a space inside you not filled with him, as fast as possible, body like a ragdoll. When he’s on the edge, teetering so close, he pinches your cheeks. “Open up, little lamb.” Your brow furrows, but partially blind, you’re more trusting, and you do as you’re asked. His hips piston, a rough saw, chasing, sprinting towards the end, heat climbing down his spine and across every muscle until he’s shoved so deep inside you he thinks he’s in your belly, and rears back, sucking a glob of spit to his lips and launching it into your mouth, just as he floods your pussy with cum. He jerks inside you, slow strokes, and you hang limply against him, fucked out, still drunk, docile as a lamb.

You hiss when he pulls free and lurch forward against his chest, not able to stand on your own. “C’mon, let’s get you a bath.” He murmurs into your hair, and you protest weakly.

“My glasses.”

“I’ll find ‘em.” He vows, patting their safe spot in his front pocket. “Don’t worry.”

[landossnorriss]

i see you | ln x she.

Pairing: lando x she.

Summary: a new voice appears on the radio to get lando through the end of the hungary race. part 2 here.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warning: we've taken some liberties on whose allowed on the team radio ok? i'm in mourning. this is also my first time writing for f1 or lando so >.>

-------------------------------

the small crackle in his ear was a sure sign that someone was about to patronise him again. for years, for years he had bled for mclaren. he'd turned down calls from horner and the men in red, he'd turned his nose to them every single time and now he finally had a chance to put a closer dent in his gap on the world championship and they just wanted him to give it up. it wasn't fair, oscar couldn't even keep up he was the fastes-

"lan?" the quiet voice that appeared in his ear shocked him, his frown forming in his helmet.

"love? now they're using you to get to me?" he scoffed at the thought, his foot on the throttle a little harder as he made his way around turn 11. fuck the team orders, they couldn't do this to him.

for her part, his girl could feel the guilt eating at her chest. "i think so." she'd wanted to smack will when he had looked at her pleadingly from the garage. "but you tell me right now, if you want this win and i'll fight will for the radio for the rest of the race, i'll be out of here so quick and i'll cut them off, give you the time you need." she offered and lando knew she meant it. his girl was quiet, preferred to stay out of the lime light and would always pick his jolly over the flash cars he had, but when it came down to it she was scrappy.

a small smile appeared on the racers face as he thought about the sight, honestly he hoped she managed to trip will and cause some momentary damage. noting he had gone quiet she let her head drop a little, eyes closing as she tried to imagine was going through his head. "my love...can you look at him in the morning if you don't let him past now?" she asked quietly, ignoring the glares that were surrounding her in the pit wall.

"it's a win baby, i need to prove that i can win on my own after miami and i need...i need those points for the championship."

"so drive, put your throttle down lan, drive and don't stop till the flag if you can live with being that man, but i know you and i love you and i'll love you regardless of what you chose right now but i also know you and this won't be winning on your own merit, this will haunt you my love and he'd do it for you, you know he'd do it for you."

lando paused again, swallowing as he rounded the corner. "you'd love me even if i took the win?"

"even then." and now she was pretty sure will was going to murder her if she ever surrendered this radio, at the very least, andreas was never letting her back in the garage.

"you'll love me more if i give osc the spot back?" he hated how unsure his voice sounded as he asked the question and her heart broke for him over how much she knew he would tare into himself later.

"no lando, my love for you isn't based on what you do in that car, not ever, its the man that comes home to me i care about." chewing on her lip she let her gaze flicker to the monitors. "the pit lane straight is coming up..." the comment hung in the air between them and she watched as it happened, 6 seconds, 5.3 seconds, 4 seconds - lando was letting him past.

"you're my winner lando." she whispered softly into the radio, silently wiping the tear that fell at his act. the look of relief around the pit wall was enough to make her guilt grow even more, at what they had cost lando today, what they had made her do. if they could just get their damn strategies right he wouldn't have been put in this position in the first place, he'd had been free to race as he came out behind oscar but instead she would piece together the pieces they threatened to break again as she took care of him tonight.

"i love you so much." lando urged as he watched oscar fly past him, his heart stopping for a moment before his foot found the throttle again. he didn't want to hear wills voice again, not right now and they could make it through two more laps without his help anyway. "will you stay with me for the rest of the race?" he asked because wins and races could come and go so long as he had her.

her eyes flickered to andreas on the wall from where she knew he was listening, watching as he nodded. "confirmed norris, i'm with you till the end." they didn't say much as he finished his race but she kept the line open with him. if the rest of the world would have something to say about the lovers simply existing together for the next two minutes then let them, she was the only one who saw him sometimes she was sure, the only one who knew what he had just done would be doing to him inside.

the chequered flag came and she checked the screens once more before making the call. "that's p2 baby, p2, you know what to do from here." sliding from her chair she didn't bother to take the head set off as she made her way through the garage and out through the pit lane to where she knew lando would soon be parking. she was easy to spot with the bright yellow merch she wore, forever a lando girl over mclaren and her eyes shiny as she watched her man move to congratulate oscar. it left a bitter taste in her mouth, that the win would be tainted by shitty team orders but she'd get to celebrating with oscar later once she knew her driver was ok.

she continued to chew at her lip as lando removed his helmet, the green eyes she knew so well looking around for her and she let her smile return at the way his shoulder visibly relaxed at the sight of her. lando was slow to move, not wanting to risk any more hate that he already knew he was going to get but there was only one thing he wanted right now. the hands he felt cupping his face, an instant sanctuary for the male. "i see you lan." the soft words that meant more to him than even love would.

leaning forward lando let the gap between them close, his lips find hers softly for a moment. normally she would pull away and scald him, knowing just how many cameras were in this pit lane to capture the moment but he needed her more now than she needed to shrink into the shadows. "i'm so damn proud of you." she whispered against his lips, fingers finding the damp curls at the back of his head and her chest settling now that she could hold him once more.

he'd never been as good with words as she had, always seemingly saying the same thing but he wanted to try, for her. "you mean more to me than all this you know?" he could already hear the people calling his name for media duties and as tempting as it was to just face the fines, grab his girl and vanish, lando knew that it would be better for the team if he saved them face. all the blood he'd lost for them still had to count for something right? taking a final second to lock in her face, lando lent forward for a final singular kiss. "i'll see you in my drivers room." he promised before he stepped away.

with a small nod she moved back, eyes filled with tears once more as he stepped up to take the mike from nico and he demonstrated once more why he was the man she adored. racing could continue to test him all it wanted, but she would be the anchor whilst he weathered any storm for as long as he needed her.

[just-your-average-supervillain]

DP x DC: The Rivalry

It's a little-known fact among the Watchtower residents that there is a fierce rivalry going on amongst its members. On one side, the Flash, a core member of the Justice League. On the other, Daniel "Danny" Fenton, Head of Engineering for the Watchtower.

Nobody knows when the rivalry started. Some rumors say that it began when, after hearing the Flash rant about how stupid it is to believe in ghosts, Danny took the effort to reroute all of his outgoing calls to the advice line of the JLD. Others say that after Danny doubled the max speed of one of the jets, Flash took it upon himself to have a joyride in it and then submit a complaint about it being too slow... twelve separate times, each one no more than 24 hours after Danny had finished the last speed improvements.

Ever since, the two have been taking potshots at each other with pranks large and small. Danny arranged a standard maintenance check to change room authorizations... resulting in the Flash being unable to access the kitchens for a week. In return, the Flash spent an entire week replacing every single cup of coffee Danny had with the cheapest, most watered-down decaf he could find - and he swapped out the mugs for Flash-branded ones as well. Danny's modification of the Flash's suit to change colors to randomized sets of the most eye-searingly-bright, clashing colors possible for exactly one second after being exposed to the Speed Force were met with "Kick Me!" signs taped to Danny's back.

But... surely this has gone too far, right? Flash... really can't think of what he can do to top this.

He stares as every single Watchtower engineer zips between tasks using the Speed Force as if it's nothing. It's not a permanent change, thank god, he can see the packs on them that apparently give them the Speed Force, but it's still ridiculous.

You know what, no. He's just... not gonna engage with that. He turns around and leaves the engineering department.

It becomes a lot harder to avoid engagement when, over the course of the day, he has to witness each and every member of the Justice League speed around with a Speed Force pack of their own. Shouldn't Batman and Wonder Woman be above this sort of thing? Why does Superman need to be faster?!

[goldenstring6123]

a quickie request LISTEN LISTEN HEAR ME OUT…… sylus fingering reader so so so hard and fast with his long ass fingers and you’re arching up in pleasure and he’s breathing into your mouth, hard against your thigh….. 🌚 (sometimes my own thoughts remind me i have no shame 🙏)

Sylus: Putting you to sleep

Warning: 2.3k word Smut, 18+ only! MDNI, AFAB!reader, reader may or may not be the mc, Fingering, Nipple play, slight begging, quickies (?)

Author's note: hehe, this ain't a full blown sex yet but here ya go!

"How long do you plan on staring, sweetie?" the tall silver-haired man lowered his balled fists to his hips, promptly turning towards your figure, which leaned by the doorpost. You dawned on messy hair, a tight black undershirt, and night shorts. It took him no less than a second to piece that you just woke up.

"Couldn't sleep." You stated.

Sylus shifted his weight to the other leg. "Would you like me to do something about it?" sincerely, he offered, yet his ruby red eyes flickering with roguish intent.

"Is there anything you can do?" You can't help but ask. With Sylus offering to aid your sleepless fatigue a million thoughts raced through your mind. He could knock you out to sleep, or maybe he'll ask you to spar with him. Whatever it was, you were ready to turn him down.

"Of course. What kind of lover would I be?" He took his sweet time undoing his wrist wrap; meanwhile, you took your sweet and ample time to approach the boxing ring. Everything else was by far dim apart from that platform.

It was silent. Any sound echoed in the combat room, reverberating against the metal posts and cement walls. It was 2 am, and not a single soul was in sight. You weren't sure if you were scared that you were both alone or at peace because Sylus was with you.

He took off his black undershirt and threw it aside shortly after; he hopped down with a large thud and stood before you, his broad figure looming ominously.

"Sylus?" you called. He moved his hand and flicked his fingers behind you. The only source of light that made you see is now gone. A few seconds more, as you feel Sylus' hands slither around your exposed waist, a silver moonlight peering through the windows turning red.

You wanted to say something, but you dared not do it.

His touch was warm as it dragged against your skin, leaving a stinging heat in its wake. Soon enough, another hand landed on your body and thighs, gliding like paper. Softly, Sylus' fingers traversed the top of your thighs, sliding lower and lower until he grasped the underside of your thigh.

Sylus yanked you closer, your thigh upwards. A muffled gasp erupted from your lips the moment your chest pressed against his torso. The heat that emanated from his body made yours tingle, yet to the touch, it was wet and slippery from the sweat of his workout.

"You're unusually quiet," He whispered against your ear. His teeth nibbled the lobe of your ears. A shiver traveled down your spine, sensitivity only then being realized. You didn't want to reply. You were on a thin thread between tiredness and lasciviousness; you no longer had the energy to deal with other feelings.

Once in a while, it was all right to let Sylus take the lead.

He grinded his body against yours, rubbing every surface of your body. The thin strap of your undershirt falls down to your shoulder as if taunting your partner to pull it off further. Sylus could feel your breasts against his abdomen. Supple and soft, your nipples slowly work themselves against the cloth.

You heard shifting from around you, and you could hear the clothes and cushions gather near your footing. Sylus buried his nose in the crook of your neck, placing a wet kiss near your collarbone. He pushed you back, and you fell onto the soft mattress and fabric. Sylus knelt in between your parted legs, one hand on your knee and one on the side near your waist.

Your chest heaved up and down, cleavage well exposed as your undershirt became more and more rumpled against your body. Your stomach was exposed, and your shorts were rendered practically useless with how you felt, as if you had nothing on. You couldn't help but blame it on your lover as well, his glowing eyes staring at every crevice of your body as he methodically planned on how to devour you.

Sylus didn't want to waste any more time. He took advantage of your parted lips and crashed it against his own. His tongue asked no permission and entered your mouth, the sluggish muscle probing, prodding against your tongue. He tasted like wine. You were intoxicated. He needed to explore you again. As if it was his first time. Grunts escaped his mouth, reverberating as he savored the taste of you.

Your chest burned. It yearned for air, yet the depraving sensation sent your body on edge, sending pulses to your very core. You let out moans as Sylus parted his lips from yours. His hands were back to where it was: on your body. Teasingly, his long fingers slid under the stretchy cloth of your cloth.

He was taking his sweet time. But you were impatient.

You hurriedly lifted your undershirt over your chest, the chilly yet dry air finally blowing on your breasts. You grabbed your lover's big hand and guided it to your left breast, the thing fitting in his grasp all too well. You could see him smile even in the dark. "Don't tease," you demanded.

His hands began to work, to knead. Sylus basked at the feeling of your lithe tits. He brought his mouth lower and lower through the sloppy and wet kisses, from your collarbone to your cleavage, and in one second, he suckled on your breast.

"haah…" You let out, arching your back at the electrifying cold of his tongue against your perked nipple. His tongue flicked up and down, threading lightly on your sensitive tip before sucking. That was enough to make you elicit another moan.

His spare hand traveled lower and lower, this time slipping underneath the garter of your shorts. He used his EVOL again, and the piece of apparel slipped off in one swift motion, leaving you in your underwear.

Two fingers danced on top of your lingerie, circling your pelvis before languidly trailing lower, just above your clit. "Hng…" you could feel the finger brush past it, pressing your entrance lightly through the cloth. "Why do you…Ah—" He flicked at your clit and nibbled at your nipple. "—Keep on teasing?"

He hummed, offering no form of response. His two fingers finally showed some generosity, fully pushing against your clit while ever so slightly rubbing left and right. Your muscles tensed every time he rubbed; you couldn't help but puff out your chest as well, feeding it onto his mouth more.

The rubbing turned circular, fast, rushed, meant to make you nearly scream from the electrical bolts of pressure that traversed from your pussy, down to your legs, up to your breasts, and to your neck. You were trying your best to keep still, but with Sylus playing with you, it seemed like a farfetched goal. "Ah…Mhn!" He pulled his finger away and tore off the last remaining cloth that covered your lower parts.

You felt his fingers glide up and down the inside of your folds, brushing lightly on your entrance while also hitting your clit. He was doing it lightly to slather your own slick across your cunt and let a thick coat of slimy translucent liquid form a thin sheet over it.

You twitched at every sensation— Sylus had always been good with his hands. Be it with a weapon or with you. His long fingers can make you heed his command; at times like these, you let yourself submit. Then, without warning, Sylus slipped his middle finger in your hole, burying it until his knuckles touched your entrance.

"AH?!" Long. His fingers were fucking long!

In some sort of way, when he pierced inside you, it rubbed your g spot, which made you arch your back once more. The finger inside you curled up, pressing against that overly tender and hot walls of flesh that hugged it tightly. Your lover was generous enough to start with shallow thrusts. Yet, you could still hear the crude, squelching noises. As a few seconds pass, his light, shallow thrusts become more and more aggressive, pulling in and out, stretching the ring of your entrance.

Mewls and moans escaped your throat no matter how hard you tried to swallow it in. It did not help that the sounds you were making echoed around the training room, making you hear how you sounded.

Another finger slipped in, and that's when you felt the stretch. Sylus' finger moved in sync, hooking onto that one sport that made you tremble. He scissored his fingers and opened them wide, stretching you out too. The palm of his hand slaps against your skin, imitating a weak slapping sound, yet with it comes the squelch of your juices, overflowing out of your womanhood and trickling down to the mattress.

You gripped the cloth and cushion, hoping it could anchor you down, and it did its job somehow. Waves of pleasure overcame you as he continued to thrust, occasionally rubbing your clit with his thumb. You twisted and turned, even threatening to close your thighs at the sheer pleasure, but Sylus wouldn't let you.

He kissed you in between actions, muffling out your cries and slipping in his tongue without consideration. You were on the verge of your own sanity, the only sensation left being the quick pooling of pleasure at the bottom of your stomach. You were nowhere near your climax when he pulled out of you quickly.

"No! Sylus!" You cried, pushing yourself up to look at him. Under the red light, you saw him move his hand again, and you were suddenly enveloped by the dark mist of his evil, pulling you up and settling you on Sylus's lap.

You rested your arms on his broad shoulders, placing your weight on your knees, which were spread to his side. Slowly, the discharge in your pussy began to trickle down your thigh as nothing was plugging it up.

"Sylus—fingers." You demanded, biting his ear. He happily obliged with your requests, and soon enough, three fingers were pumping up your hole. His movements were erratic, switching between shallow and deep thrusts while simultaneously applying pressure on the tip of his fingers against your G-spot.

Your body twitched, and your eyes watered. To hide your scandalous moans, you kissed Sylus over and over again, him breathing into your mouth as you cried out his name. You could feel his Cock tight against his boxing shorts, yet you didn't want to take it out.

You were more than sure that you couldn't take it. With the state of your body and what your lover was doing to you, you were going to pass out the moment you hit your peak.

Sylus wasn't slowing down. Rougher and rougher, his hands worked with a rigorous desire to help you come. His whole hand was slathered with your juices, his ears filled with your delightful moans, which you failed to hide. His mouth sucked on your breasts, and his nose savored the raw scent of your body. Sylus never gets enough of these, and as much as he would've wanted to pound into it, he was too entranced by the moment.

The tips of your fingers began to heat up, your muscles turning tense as a cold sweat scattered through the back of your neck. Hurriedly, the pleasure pooled in your stomach overwhelmed you, filling you up and churning your core, "Sylus…" You called, almost begging. "I'm close….Mhng!" You throw your head forward, your mouth against his ear, as you no longer hold back your cries of pleasure.

"Ah! Ahnm! Hnng!" You let out.

You felt his thumb rub your clit again, and you bucked your hips forward, his fingers ramming your beloved spot roughly, repeatedly, torturously. You feel yourself well up, the heat in your stomach growing larger and larger the more Sylus rubs your clit. "Sylus…Sylus, Please, Sylus— I'm almost there!" You grabbed onto his hair for dear life, yanking it back before sloppily kissing him.

An electrifying ripple bloomed out from your pussy, making your lower region jolt at his continuous movements. You throw your head back and let out a scream laced with pleasure and desire— You can only see white as your insides throb, clutching onto the fingers that made you feel full.

God, that felt fucking amazing.

As you savored the high of your orgasm, Sylus looked up at you as he pressed his own face against your breast, marveling at the sight of you reaching your peak, reveling the loud and unconcealable thumps of your chest. He kissed your breasts and then your heart, slowly supporting your weight as you come down from your high.

He laid you down on the mattress ever so gently, brushing the sweat-riddled hair that stuck onto your face. Your eyes can't help but flutter shut, still savoring the last remnants of your orgasm. Tiredness washed over your body like the sea crashing onto the shoreline; with it, it brought relaxation and ease.

"Thank you," you whisper as you finally fall asleep.

Using his EVOL for the last time, Sylus gathered the clothes scattered around you and chucked them with his own. His towel from the wooden benches floated, promptly spreading and covering your exposed body. He picked you up, disregarding his own stiff manhood tucked in his pants.

He can deal with that later. For now, he should bring you back to your room and clean you up. The last thing he wants is for you to get sick.

Of course, Sylus didn't do this for free. He never does anything for free. You'd be a fool if you think he did.

Whether you know it or not, he'll make you compensate, and just your luck: he's getting up early tomorrow and more than eager to hear your cries again in the morning.

Author footnotes: With the amount of Sylus smut that I read, I wanted to write him without speaking much, y'know? just focusing on you and not coming up with witty replies to every word you say.Layout by me, using canva premium | Do not repost | Dividers by cafekitsune & me!