#and he still pulls the rug from under me all the time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pandapetals · 3 months ago

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Crush

logan howlett x fem!shy reader - slight angst, misunderstandings, struggle expressing feelings, crushes, introvert reader, x-men cameos, logan being jealous, fluff at end

You have a crush on Logan but being shy and introverted makes it hard for you to tell him that.

read on Ao3

You had a painfully obvious crush, at least to yourself. You kept it locked away, buried under layers of awkwardness and forced indifference. There was no point in admitting it, no point in setting yourself up for the kind of rejection that would leave you reeling for weeks. That’s why they called it a crush—it hurt. And you’d rather avoid the sting altogether.

Logan, of all people, would never look at you that way. Why would he? The man was a living embodiment of rugged confidence, the kind of guy who attracted the attention of bold, sexy women without even trying. Women who exuded confidence, who knew how to flirt without stumbling over their words or turning beet red at the slightest hint of interest.

You were not that woman.

You were awkward, sometimes downright clumsy with your words, and whenever Logan was nearby, you either avoided him completely or turned into a jittery mess. The few times you’d actually spoken to him, you’d kept it short, clipped even—anything to hide the way your heart raced whenever he was within arm’s reach.

But today? Today, fate was not on your side.

"Hey," Logan’s low, gravelly voice cut through the air, pulling you out of your swirling thoughts.

You jumped, nearly dropping the stack of books in your arms as his voice startled you. A squeal escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you cursed under your breath, feeling heat flood your cheeks.

"Hi!" you blurted out, avoiding his gaze as if your life depended on it. Your eyes darted anywhere but at him, settling on the wall, the floor, even the damn ceiling—anywhere but on Logan’s piercing hazel eyes.

You stood there, clutching the books like they were some kind of shield between you and him, your heart hammering in your chest. Logan stood in front of you, his hands casually in his jacket pockets, looking as effortlessly cool as ever. His brows furrowed slightly, probably trying to figure out why you were acting like a deer caught in headlights.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice gruff, though there was a hint of amusement in it.

You nodded quickly, a little too quickly, your palms suddenly sweaty. "Yep, fine," you muttered, shifting your weight from one foot to another. “Just busy.” You gestured vaguely to the books in your arms as if that explained your entire existence.

Logan's gaze lingered on you, those damn intense eyes scanning your face, trying to read something in your expression. You swallowed hard, willing yourself to act normal, but normal wasn't exactly your strong suit when he was around.

"Right," he said, his tone skeptical but not unkind. "You sure? You look like you’re about to bolt."

You forced a laugh, though it came out more like a strained chuckle. "No, no bolting," you lied, though the urge to flee was strong. Your nerves were screaming at you to make up some excuse and leave before you made an even bigger fool of yourself.

Logan didn’t move, didn’t let you off the hook that easily. He stood there, hands still in his pockets, watching you with that calm, unshakable presence that made him impossible to ignore.

"So, I was thinkin’," he started, his voice a little softer now, almost hesitant—something you weren’t used to hearing from him. "You and me, we should... hang out sometime."

Your heart nearly stopped. Hang out? Logan wanted to hang out with you?

Your brain went into overdrive, trying to process the words, but instead of the cool, collected response you wished you could give, you blurted out, “Why?”

The word came out sharper than you intended, and you immediately winced, mentally kicking yourself. Of all the ways you could’ve responded, why was probably the worst? It sounded rude, and defensive, like you couldn’t believe he would even suggest it.

Logan raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why not?”

You blinked, feeling your face grow even hotter. “I-I don’t know, I just—” You stumbled over your words, trying to backtrack but only making it worse. “I mean, you don’t usually talk to me, and I figured you’d rather—uh—hang out with someone else, you know?”

The smirk on Logan’s face softened, his eyes narrowing slightly in the way they did when he was trying to figure someone out. "I’d rather hang out with you," he said, his voice low and steady, without a hint of hesitation.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, your mind reeling. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking you. He was... serious and that realization only made you more nervous.

You shifted on your feet, clutching the books tighter. “I’m... not exactly the best company,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze again. “I’m awkward, and—well, I’m not really good at this kind of thing.”

Logan chuckled, the sound low and almost warm. “Darlin’, you think I’m lookin’ for someone perfect to hang out with? I’m about as rough around the edges as they come.”

You hesitated, sneaking a glance at him from under your lashes. He was still watching you, but there was something softer in his expression now, something that made the knots in your stomach loosen just a little.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, feeling your voice wobble under the weight of everything unsaid. Uncertainty hung in the air between you and Logan, thick and suffocating, making your chest tighten with every awkward breath.

Logan stepped closer, his usual gruffness softened by the unspoken question in his eyes. His hand moved toward your face, almost instinctively, but he stopped short, his fingers lingering just inches from your cheek, as if he was afraid to touch you—afraid of crossing a line. His jaw clenched the hard edge of frustration in his expression barely masked by the vulnerability he wasn’t used to showing.

“Do you hate me or somethin’?”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, so sudden and raw that they knocked the wind out of you. Hate him? Your throat tightened as you stared at him, the disbelief written all over your face. How could he think that? How could anyone hate Logan? The idea was so far from the truth that it left you speechless for a moment, caught between the shock of his question and the overwhelming desire to fix whatever misunderstanding had led him here.

“No—” You shook your head, the word falling out of your mouth clumsily, but it wasn’t enough to erase the hurt that flickered behind his eyes.

Logan’s face hardened, that familiar guarded look slipping back into place like armor, shielding him from whatever pain he thought you were hiding. He shifted his weight, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that felt more like a barrier than anything else. “Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered, his voice low, almost resigned. “You don’t talk to me. Hell, you barely look at me.”

You winced, feeling the truth in his words like a knife twisting in your gut. He wasn’t wrong. You had been avoiding him, dodging his gaze in hallways, keeping your conversations short, brushing him off whenever he tried to get close. But it wasn’t because you hated him—not even close. It was because every time he looked at you, your heart raced in a way that terrified you, a way that made you feel like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall.

The last thing you wanted was to fall for someone who could never want you the way you wanted him.

Logan took your silence as confirmation of his worst fears. His jaw clenched tighter, the hurt in his eyes hardening into something closer to anger, though not quite—more like frustration and resignation rolled into one. “Look, if I’ve done somethin’ to piss you off, just say it,” he said, his voice rough around the edges, but quieter now, like he was trying not to let the hurt show. “But this whole… act? This avoidin’ me all the damn time? I don’t get it. I ain’t done nothin’ to deserve this.”

His words cut deep, guilt gnawing at the edges of your heart. You could see it now—how your awkwardness, your fear, had been misread as rejection. How Logan, of all people, had been standing there, arms outstretched, only to be met with walls you didn’t even realize you were building.

You opened your mouth to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. You didn’t know how to explain the mess inside your head, the way you’d convinced yourself that keeping distance between you and him was safer, easier, than admitting how much he affected you. How much you wanted him, despite everything telling you it could never work.

Logan’s eyes flashed with frustration as the silence stretched between you. He ran a hand through his hair, his rough fingers tangling in the strands like he was trying to keep himself from saying something he’d regret. “You’re really not gonna say anything, huh?” His voice broke a little, rawer now, like the frustration had finally worn him down.

Your heart hammered in your chest, the weight of his words suffocating. The look on his face—the quiet hurt, the way his eyes flickered between anger and something far more vulnerable—was too much. It was too much to bear, too much to know that he’d spent all this time thinking you hated him when the truth was the exact opposite.

“I don’t hate you,” you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips, but they carried more weight than you realized.

Logan stilled, his eyes locking onto yours, searching for something—some hint of truth, some explanation that made sense of all the confusion that had built between you. “Then what the hell is it?” he asked. “’Cause I don’t get it, darlin’. One minute you’re actin’ like I don’t exist, and the next you’re—” He stopped himself, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to find the right words. “I just don’t know what the hell I did wrong.”

Your heart ached at the pain in his voice, at the way he seemed so sure he was the problem. The truth weighed heavy on your chest, but fear kept your mouth shut—fear that once you said it, once you admitted how you felt, there’d be no going back.

Logan wasn’t going to wait forever. He took a step back, pulling his hand away from where it had hovered near your face, his eyes flickering with something close to disappointment. “Forget it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna beg.”

He turned as if to walk away, and panic surged through you, your chest tightening with the fear that you’d let him leave without explaining, without fixing what you’d broken. Your hand shot out instinctively, grabbing his arm before you even realized what you were doing.

“Wait—Logan, please.” Your voice cracked, your grip on his arm tightening. He stopped, glancing down at your hand, then back up at you with those sharp hazel eyes, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

He waited. His silence a heavy, painful thing as you struggled to find the right words. “I don’t hate you,” you repeated, more firmly this time, your heart pounding in your ears. “I… I just—” You swallowed hard, your chest aching with the weight of what you were about to admit. “I didn’t know how to be around you.”

Logan frowned, his brow furrowing as he studied your face. “What d’you mean?”

You bit your lip, your mind racing for an escape, any way to pull yourself out of this vulnerable moment. You could feel the truth bubbling up inside you, threatening to spill out, but fear clenched around your chest like a vice. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t tell him.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, your voice tight, forced. Your eyes flickered to the floor, your stomach twisting as you scrambled for something, anything, to steer the conversation away from the truth. A lie formed on your tongue, half-formed and desperate, and you latched onto it before you could stop yourself. “I’ve just been... distracted.”

Logan’s frown deepened. “By what?” His voice was quiet, but there was a sharpness to it, a need to understand that made your stomach churn. He was getting too close, too damn close.

Panic surged through you, and before you knew what you were saying, the words tumbled out. “It’s... someone else.” You cringed inwardly as the lie left your lips, feeling the weight of it settle between you like a barrier.

Logan’s expression shifted, confusion flickering across his face, and then something darker. He tightened his jaw as his eyes hardened. “Someone else?” he repeated, his voice low, carefully controlled.

You nodded, your heart sinking. You couldn’t stop now. The lie was out, and you had to commit to it. “Yeah, um... it’s just—I’ve been kinda... into someone from the team.” The words felt foreign, clumsy like they didn’t belong to you. You hated how easily they fell from your lips, how they felt like a betrayal of everything you actually wanted to say.

Logan’s eyes narrowed, his arms crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he studied you. “Who?” The word was clipped, sharp, like he was bracing himself for something he didn’t want to hear.

You froze. Who? You hadn’t thought that far ahead. Your mind raced, and in your panic, you blurted out the first name that came to you. “Scott.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Logan’s reaction was immediate—his jaw clenched so tight you thought you could hear his teeth grind. His eyes flickered with something hot and dangerous before he quickly masked it. He took a step back, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his posture rigid. “Scott, huh?”

You nodded, swallowing the guilt that rose in your throat like bile. “Yeah,” you mumbled, hating yourself more with every second that passed. “I mean... I know he’s kinda, you know with Jean but...you can see why I didn’t want anyone knowing—”

Logan let out a sharp breath, cutting you off. His eyes, usually so intense but warm, were cold now, narrowed and unreadable. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me?” His voice was rough, edged with something that made your heart ache. “Because you’re into Scott?”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak. You just nodded, the lie sitting heavy on your chest, suffocating you.

Logan’s laugh was humorless, more of a bitter scoff than anything else. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, his movements tense, almost angry. “Well, should’ve seen it.”

You stood there, the room suddenly feeling too big, too empty, the weight of your lie pressing down on you like a heavy stone. Logan had left without looking back, his words still ringing in your ears—“Should’ve seen it”—and you wished, more than anything, that you could take it all back. But the damage was done, and now you were left with nothing but the bitter taste of regret.

You slumped into a chair, burying your face in your hands, replaying the moment repeatedly, wishing you’d had the courage to just tell him the truth.

Meanwhile, Logan was storming down the hallway, his mind a tangled mess of frustration, confusion, and something he couldn’t quite name. He wasn’t one for feelings—hell, he’d spent most of his life trying to bury them—but this? This hit him differently. The thought of you having a crush on Scott had thrown him, and for his life, he couldn’t figure out why. What the hell did you see in the guy?

His footsteps echoed through the mansion as he made a beeline for the training room, where he knew Scott would be. When he pushed through the door, the room was mostly empty, save for Scott, who was busy adjusting one of the control panels near the Danger Room entrance.

"Summers," Logan growled, his voice low and sharp as he approached.

Scott turned, eyebrows raised beneath his visor, clearly not expecting Logan to barge in like this. "Logan," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "What’s going on?"

Logan stalked closer, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Did you know she had a crush on you?" he demanded, his voice rough with barely contained frustration.

Scott blinked, clearly confused. "Know about what?"

"Her," Logan snapped. "She’s got a crush on you. You knew about that?"

Scott looked completely taken aback, his mouth slightly agape before quickly composing himself. "Wait, who are we talking about?" he asked, genuinely bewildered. "Are you talking about... her?"

Logan clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking beneath his stubble. "Yeah, her. She told me she’s been into you, and now I’m tryin’ to figure out what the hell’s goin’ on."

Scott’s confusion deepened, and he shook his head. "I had no idea," he admitted, sounding as baffled as Logan felt. "I thought she had a thing for Kurt."

Logan's scowl deepened. "Kurt?" he repeated, the name coming out like a low growl. "You’re sayin’ she’s into Nightcrawler?"

Scott shrugged. "That’s what I thought. I’ve seen them talk a few times, and she seemed... I don’t know, shy around him. Figured she liked him."

Logan’s frustration flared even higher, his temper fraying as the conversation spiraled further away from what he thought he knew. First, he’d thought you were into Scott, and now Scott was telling him you might have a crush on Kurt? None of it was making any sense, and the knot in Logan’s chest tightened.

"Thanks for nothin’, Summers," Logan grumbled, already turning on his heel and heading for the door.

Scott held up his hands, his visor catching the light. "Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling you what I saw."

Logan grunted in response, barely acknowledging Scott as he stormed out of the training room, his mind racing. If Scott didn’t know, and if you weren’t into him... then maybe Kurt had the answer. Logan’s jaw clenched at the thought, a surge of jealousy he hadn’t expected twisting in his gut. He needed to get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

Logan found Kurt in the garden, perched on a stone bench, lost in thought. The air around him was peaceful, the soft sound of birds chirping and the rustling of leaves in the wind providing a calm backdrop to the scene. But Logan wasn’t here for calm.

"Kurt," Logan called, his voice cutting through the serenity like a blade.

Kurt looked up, his yellow eyes widening slightly as Logan approached, clearly sensing the tension rolling off him. "Logan," he greeted cautiously, his tail twitching nervously. "Is something wrong?"

Logan stopped a few feet away from him, crossing his arms over his chest. "You and her," he said bluntly. "There somethin’ goin’ on there?"

Kurt’s brows furrowed in confusion, his tail curling around the leg of the bench as he tilted his head. "Her?" he echoed, trying to follow Logan’s line of thought. "Who are you talking about?"

Logan huffed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. "The girl," he growled. "You’ve been talkin’ to her. Scott thinks she’s into you. Is that true?"

Kurt blinked, completely thrown off by the accusation. "Into me?" He shook his head quickly, standing up from the bench. "No, Logan, that’s not true. We’ve spoken, yes, but nothing like that. She’s... well, she seems reserved around everyone."

Logan’s jaw tightened. "So you’re tellin’ me you haven’t noticed her actin’ strange around you?"

Kurt smiled gently, trying to diffuse the situation. "Everyone acts strange around me at first, Logan. But no, I don’t believe she has feelings for me. I think you might be mistaken."

Logan let out a frustrated sigh, feeling no closer to an answer than when he’d started this ridiculous search. "Great," he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "First Scott, now you... I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on."

Kurt watched him for a moment, his expression softening with understanding. "Perhaps," he began carefully, "you’re looking for answers in the wrong place. If you want to know who she cares about... maybe you should ask Ororo."

“Why would I ask her?” Logan growled, more to himself than anyone else. “What’s she got to do with this?”

Kurt, ever patient, tilted his head and gave Logan a knowing smile. “Because she and Ororo are friends. I’ve seen them spend a lot of time together. If anyone knows what’s going on, it’s her.”

Logan grunted, rolling his shoulders, his tension palpable. He didn’t want to involve Ororo—didn’t want to turn this into more of a thing than it already was. But if Kurt was right, and Ororo knew something… well, he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Thanks,” Logan muttered, already turning to leave.

Kurt nodded, watching Logan go, but his yellow eyes were filled with something more than amusement—something that hinted at the truth Logan was too stubborn to see for himself just yet.

Logan found Ororo in the greenhouse, tending to a row of plants that thrived under her careful touch. The humid air clung to him as he stepped inside, the smell of earth and rain filling the space. Ororo didn’t look up at first, her focus on the delicate leaves of a blooming flower, but she knew he was there. She always did.

“Logan,” she greeted calmly, her voice like the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. “What brings you here?”

Logan wasted no time, his frustration still simmering just below the surface. “I need to ask you somethin’,” he said, his tone gruff as usual.

Ororo finally looked up, her serene expression unwavering. “Go ahead.”

He hesitated for a second, feeling foolish now that he was standing in front of her. Ororo wasn’t the kind of person you grilled for answers, but he was desperate. “You and her,” he started, his eyes narrowing. “You two are close. Has she… said anythin’ to you about someone she’s into?”

Ororo raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Why do you ask?”

Logan’s jaw clenched. He hated this dance, hated feeling like he was walking into a trap he couldn’t see. “Kurt said you’d know. I’m tryin’ to figure out if what I heard is true, that she’s got feelings for Scott.” The name came out like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Ororo tilted her head, her expression softening. “Logan, what exactly are you trying to figure out?”

Logan scowled, feeling the question cut too close to something he hadn’t fully confronted. “I just… need to know if she’s into someone. That’s all.” His words were clipped, defensive.

Ororo’s eyes sparkled with quiet understanding. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched him with that unnerving calm that made him feel like she could see right through him.

When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle but firm. “Logan, if you’re so concerned about who she’s interested in, perhaps you should ask yourself why.”

Logan stiffened, his muscles coiled tight. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Ororo’s smile softened, but she didn’t back down. “You’re chasing answers about her feelings, but I think the real question is about yours.”

He blinked, thrown off by her words, but before he could snap back with his usual gruffness, something clicked—something that made his heart tighten in his chest. Jealousy.

Was that what this was? All this running around, demanding to know who you were interested in, snapping at the thought of you liking someone else… it wasn’t about figuring out the truth. It was about him. It was about the way his heart twisted at the thought of you being with anyone but him. The way he couldn’t shake the anger, the gnawing insecurity, because deep down, he wanted to be the one you were looking at, thinking about.

Ororo watched the realization settle over him, her gaze steady but compassionate. “You’ve been chasing the wrong answers, Logan,” she said softly. “If you want to know how she feels, ask her. But first, figure out how you feel.”

Logan stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, the weight of her words sinking in. He didn’t respond, didn’t know how to. Instead, he gave a curt nod, turning on his heel and stalking out of the greenhouse, his mind a mess of conflicting emotions.

The rest of the day, Logan couldn’t get Ororo’s words out of his head. Jealousy. He wasn’t the type to get jealous. He’d lived too long and seen too much to get caught up in feelings like that. But damn it, whenever he thought about you with someone else—Scott, Kurt, anyone—it made his blood boil in a way he couldn’t explain.

By the time night fell Logan had had enough. He needed answers. He needed to know the truth, not just about you, but about himself.

With a deep breath, he made his way to your room, his pulse thrumming with a mix of frustration, confusion, and something he wasn’t quite ready to name yet.

When he knocked on your door, he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps inside. A moment later, you opened the door, looking surprised to see him standing there. The expression on your face quickly turned to confusion when you saw the intensity in his eyes.

“Logan? What’s going on?”

He didn’t waste any time. “We need to talk.”

You frowned, your hand tightening on the doorknob. “About what?”

Logan stepped closer, his voice low and rough. “About you. Who the hell you’re really into?”

Your eyes widened, panic flashing across your face. “W-what are you talking about? I already told you—”

Logan cut you off with a growl, his frustration boiling over. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve been runnin’ around all day trying to figure this out—askin’ Scott, Kurt, even Ororo. And you know what? None of them know a damn thing. So I’m done with the guessin’. You’re gonna tell me the truth. Right now.”

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure Logan could hear it. The weight of his words, the raw frustration in his voice, wrapped around your chest like a vise. This was it—the moment you’d been running from, the one that made you feel exposed, vulnerable, and terrified.

You couldn’t run now.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “Logan... I don’t like Scott. Or Kurt. That was just—I panicked,” you confessed, the lie sitting heavy between you both, a truth finally dragging itself into the light.

Logan’s eyes, usually so unreadable and guarded, were stormy with confusion and something sharper, something closer to hurt. He stared at you for a moment, trying to make sense of what you’d just said. “Why did you lie?” His voice was rough, almost accusing. “If you hate me, then just admit it.”

The way he said it—the bitterness in his tone—cut through you like a knife. Hate him? The idea was ridiculous, absurd, and yet it was clear Logan had convinced himself of it as if you avoiding him, your awkwardness, could only be explained by disgust.

“I don’t hate you!” you blurted, more forcefully than you intended. Your voice cracked with the weight of your own emotions, and you immediately took a step back, trying to gather yourself, but Logan wasn’t letting you go that easily.

“Then why does your heart race every time you see me?” Logan pressed, his voice low but intense. He took a step toward you, the space between you growing smaller, the air thick with tension. “I must scare you, right? You must be terrified of me because you hate me.”

The words hit like a wave, your breath catching as his eyes bore into yours, a mix of frustration, vulnerability, and anger swirling in his gaze. He was waiting for you to confirm it, to say what he thought was the truth—that you couldn’t stand to be around him.

Your throat tightened, your pulse hammering in your ears as you struggled to find the right words. How could you explain what you felt when even you didn’t fully understand it? The confusion, the fear of rejection, the way being near him made you feel so exposed like he could see through every wall you’d ever put up.

“You don’t scare me,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Logan, it’s not that.”

“Then what?” His voice was still rough, but there was a flicker of something softer underneath—like he was holding on to the hope that maybe there was more to this than he thought.

“I don’t hate you,” you said again, your voice steadier this time, though your chest still felt tight. “I just... I didn’t know how to act around you. Because every time I see you, every time you’re near me, I—”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. Logan didn’t move, his eyes still locked on yours, waiting, watching, almost daring you to finish.

“I feel something,” you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “And it scares me.”

Logan’s expression shifted, the anger fading as something else settled in—something that made your stomach twist in anticipation. His jaw clenched, his fists relaxing at his sides, and for a moment, he just looked at you, really looked at you, like he was seeing you for the first time.

“What’re you sayin’?” he asked quietly, almost hesitant like he didn’t trust himself to believe what he thought he was hearing.

Your breath hitched as his question hung between you, the truth teetering on the edge of your tongue. You had been running from this moment for so long, hiding behind your awkwardness and your fear. But now? Now you had to say it.

“I’m saying...” you began, your heart pounding as the words finally came, “that I could never hate you because I don’t know how to handle…you.”

Logan’s eyes softened, the frustration melting away as the truth hit him. He took another step closer, his presence almost overwhelming, but not in the way you feared. It was grounding, steady, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like running.

“I make your heart race because... you like me?” he asked, his voice low, the disbelief in it unmistakable.

You nodded, your chest tight with anticipation, your eyes locked on his. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I do.”

Logan exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again, softer, more open than you’d ever seen it.

“All this time,” he murmured, his voice rough and full of something raw, something you weren’t used to seeing in him. “You’ve been drivin’ me crazy, and I thought—” He stopped himself, his lips curving into a small, rueful smile. “I thought you couldn’t stand me.”

You felt a wave of relief crash over you, the weight of your unspoken feelings finally lifting. “I couldn’t stand being around you,” you admitted with a nervous laugh, “because every time I was, I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

Logan chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, like a quiet rumble from deep in his chest. He took another step closer, his hand reaching up, this time closing the distance and gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch was warm, his fingers rough but careful as they lingered there.

“Well, now I know why you kept avoiding me,” he muttered, his smirk softening into something more tender. “Guess I should’ve figured it out sooner.”

You smiled, feeling your heart flutter in your chest as you looked up at him, the tension between you shifting into something deeper, something that felt like it had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to come to light.

“So... what now?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s eyes darkened with something unreadable, but his smile stayed, slow and easy. “Now?” he murmured, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “Now…I would really like to kiss you.”

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours for a heartbeat, waiting, giving you the chance to pull away—but you didn’t. Instead, you leaned in, your heart racing as his lips finally pressed against yours, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment he thought he’d never have.

The kiss was gentle at first, cautious, but it didn’t take long for the heat between you to build, the months of longing and tension finally breaking through. When you pulled away, your breath shaky, Logan’s forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Should’ve told me sooner,” he muttered, his voice low, teasing but soft.

You laughed softly, still catching your breath. “Yeah, well... better late than never, right?”

Logan smirked, his fingers brushing through your hair. “Right.”

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redflagshipwriter · 8 months ago

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Snitches the cat and his favorite bat

I wrote up dpxdc fics based off of prompts I happened to see in the last day to add to the reading pile for anyone who didn't prep for the archive down time today.

EDIT

The idea for Danny as a cat came from @shycorvid, thank you so much for correcting me and letting me play in your sandbox!

Snitches the cat comes from @garbagewith-a-cherryontop (I think??? I couldn't find a definite first post!) but the fantastic linked post is the one with how I think Snitches the cat looks here.

Word count is 1053.

Tumblr reference

masterpost for my AO3 downtime fics

“Ugh- that's not- did we just summon a demon cat?”

“It's so messed up looking. Ew.”

Danny blinked and swayed on his feet. He'd had a tail a minute ago, speeding across the GZ to check in on Walker. There had been an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. And now he was on his feet. All four of them.

Wait, what?

“You fucked this up.”

His ears twitched at the sound of a slap. Danny swiveled towards the sound and then got distracted by the feeling of his ears swiveling back. Whaaaaat?

He looked down at his precious little feeties. They were adorable paws.

“Oh, you motherfuckers,” he said. It came out as a conversational yowl.

The humans looked at him from about ten feet away and five feet up. “Annoying…”

He was pretty sure they were high schoolers. There were five of them, two girls and three boys. They were all bigger than him. High schoolers were usually bigger than he was, but this was just ridiculous.

“Count yourself lucky, dimwits,” one of the older kids said. He took a step towards Danny. Danny pressed his ears flat against his head and hissed at the approach. “If you managed to sacrifice Patches to a demon, your Mom would straight up murder you.” He laughed when he said it, like anything about that was remotely funny.

Uh- what now?

Only now, Danny noticed a very distressed calico cat underneath a laundry basket on the other side of the room. There was a stack of textbooks weighing the basket down. A large rug had been rolled up and- he sneezed rapidly, eyes watering. Chalk! They'd drawn on the floor with chalk!

‘This is some incompetent summoning,’ Danny realized, way too late. ‘Did they- how did they turn me into a cat?’ He looked at his unfortunate brethren under the laundry basket. Her ears were flat against her skull and she looked scared.

He remembered the word “sacrifice” and his blood flushed hit with fury. They'd wanted him to eat her! They'd wanted something to eat miss Patches!

The teenagers froze and looked at him, aghast at the angry sounds that were coming out of his throat.

“Shut up!” One hissed. She took off her shoe and threw it at him. Danny dodged and then threw his head back to yowl even louder. Sonic attack! Aural damage, you big jerks!

“The neighbors are going to- make it shut up!”

Danny had to run, dashing over furniture and tearing his way across a crowded table to avoid being grabbed. He screamed the whole time, eager to alert whoever they were so afraid of. Someone should see!

The window burst in.

Danny stopped running, shocked. He hadn't actually expected-

Someone snatched him up from behind and smacked him on the face with a palm. His jaw exploded with pain. It cut off his yowling.

Stunned. He was still for a moment and then he struggled for his life. The grip on his ribs was way too tight-

He looked over at the sound of a sword being pulled from a sheath. Holy shit, that was bomb as hell. His eyes went wide at the sight of a heavily armored small child crouched on the windowsill. The boy's eyes were covered, but Danny could still see him look at Danny and the poor calico under the laundry basket. He sneered.

“Unhand the cat or lose your hands at the wrist, you wretch.”

Danny loved him.

The teenager dropped him. Danny caught himself with a stumble. He let out a sad mraow before he could stop himself.

Fight club baby was enraged. “What have you done to this animal?” He hopped down into the room, revealing he was at least a foot shorter than the smallest girl in the room.

Danny trotted to him and started winding around his ankles admiringly. What a good kid! He purred.

“I will be taking both of your cats with me. If you ever harm an animal again, it will be your head that is found in a chalk-”

“Robin.” A hugeass grown man squeezed himself through the window that the kid had broken. Danny craned his head up, up, up, to see him case the joint.

The older man radiated incredible judgment. “I see that you require education on animal welfare and demonic summoning. Go on, Robin.”

“That's my Mom's cat!” One of the teenagers protested. “You can't take her!”

Robin growled at her. Danny jumped in his skin at the sound.

“Then we shall return it to your Mother and her alone, when we explain what you've done.” Danny let murder baby scoop him up and purred at full volume. Hell yeah. He looked at the cowering teenagers with condescension.

“Not that fugly thing.”

Danny blinked. He ended up making an inquisitive mraow. Why was a finger being pointed at him? He was baby.

“That thing showed up, you can get rid of it. But Patches is Mom's cat, and you can't steal a cat because-”

“Batman can steal any cat!” Robin bit out, gathered up Patches, and jumped out the window with both cats in an expert grip.

That didn't sound right, but Danny just enjoyed the night air as a line pulled Robin up to where yet another masked vigilante was waiting, cackling himself to tears.

“Batman can steal any cat,” he wheezed. “Brilliant. Good detour, Robin. Can I hold one?” He held out his blue-striped palms expectantly.

He faltered when he saw Danny, visibly surprised.

Danny… was starting to feel bad. He curled into Robin, hurt. He wasn't ugly. Why did people keep reacting to him weird?

“No,” Robin said curtly. “You have damaged his pride, and Patches is still reeling from her shock.”

The man let out a sigh but let the topic go. “That's Patches, and this is…?”

Robin hesitated. “He is the Snitch.”

That unlocked cooing. “Snitches? Snitchy Snitch Sni- ow!”

Danny snapped at the hand that came way too close and he let out a warning growl. No baby talk!

Robin seemed very pleased. He rubbed behind Danny's ears. “Snitch… I suppose that Snitches will suffice. We are taking him home.”

“....Maybe, just for fun, we should take him to get treated for mange first!” The guy made jazz hands to go with his statement.

Robin and Danny both growled that time.

#snitches the cat au #dp x dc #dc x dp

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osarina · 5 days ago

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ᡣ𐭩 MAYBE I JUST WANNA BE YOURS

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai does not get jealous. he especially doesn't get jealous over someone he's not even dating. because he's not dating you. he doesn't want to date you... right?

(wordcount: 5k; fem!reader, nsfw, lots of smut LOL idk what got into me this is the first fic ive written with more smut than plot in ages. but anyway: jealous!dazai, fingering, oral (f->m), semi-public/public sex. whiplash from dazai's thoughts (as always). unedited.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: hihi. SO this actually wasn't going to be connected to anything, but i decided like mid-fic that i wanted to make it a continuation to the adareader universe ive been considering building. i was too lazy to go check for inconsistencies, so if there's any dihfausihdfsudf just ignore them LOL. when i eventually make the masterlist for it and officially connect them all, ill go thru and double check for them. first i need to write them something with actual substance and not just horny posting LOLLLL.

Dazai is not a jealous man.

He’s not.

In fact, he’s the most un-jealous person in the whole world. He has no reason to be jealous, especially over you. He’s not dating you. Dazai never asked you to be his girlfriend, and that was intentional because Dazai doesn’t want a girlfriend. More specifically, he doesn’t want to be someone’s boyfriend. You’re just a friend—a friend that he sometimes fucks and occasionally seeks out to spend time with. He doesn’t want someone relying on him in a way a girlfriend would, and he certainly doesn’t want to rely on someone in the way a boyfriend would, because he doesn’t want the rug pulled out from under him when it inevitably goes to shit.

The thought is suffocating, it makes his skin crawl.

Almost as much as the realization that the cop the two of you are assigned to be coordinating with is clearly head over heels enamored by you. Dazai scowls from where he’s standing a few steps behind you, watching as you go over the details of the file that the man brought to you—Dazai didn’t care to learn his name. And yes, Dazai means you because when the officer came over with the file, he didn’t even acknowledge Dazai’s existence and walked right over to you.

He still hasn’t acknowledged Dazai’s presence, staring at you with an adoring expression as you read through the file. Dazai thinks if this were some sort of cartoon, the officer would quite literally have hearts in his eyes—it’s disgusting, Dazai can hardly stand to watch it.

“Dazai,” you finally say, voice a soft hum. He likes the way you say his name—it rolls off your tongue prettily, and it makes his chest oddly warm. He’s not used to people saying his name with such softness; he’s used to anger, irritation, fear, but never this. He’s wondered how his given name would sound, he’s spent many nights imagining it, one hand pressed to his mouth and the other wrapped around his cock, but he hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask you to call him by it. That’s a step too close to actual intimacy and he’s not willing to take it.

You raise your eyebrows at him, and Dazai realizes you must have said something after you said his name, but he didn’t catch it because he was too absorbed in the way you said his name to notice.

“Come here,” you say again, nodding your head for him to drag himself out of the corner he’s sulking in to come to you. He feels a bit too gleeful watching the way the officer’s expression shifts in surprise as he turns to look at Dazai, finally noticing him.

Dazai pushes himself off of the wall to take a few steps closer to you, and he may or may not stand a bit too close on purpose just to see the other man frown. He stands behind you, chest brushing your back as he looks over your shoulder to scan through the file you’ve been reading. It takes him twice as long as it usually does because he didn’t realize that being in such close proximity to you would make him as dizzy as it did, and he’s too stubborn to back off now.

Your hair smells like vanilla, and Dazai can smell the faint scent of your favorite perfume dabbed on your neck, worn off throughout the long day. His attention strays from the file to you, tracing the smooth curve of your neck, dipping down to your collarbone and swallowing when he realizes that the top three buttons of your dress shirt are undone, the stuffiness of the tiny room and the lack of air conditioning causing small, visible beads of sweat to form on your skin. His breath catches as his gaze lowers just a bit more and-

You turn to look at him and his gaze snaps up before it can drop to dangerous territories, and Dazai catches the amused look in your eyes—you know exactly what he was looking at. Instead of having some shame, because Dazai has no shame, he shifts just an inch closer to you, one of his hands resting on your hip. He watches the way your lashes flutter the same way they always do when you’re trying to pretend you’re not affected by his touch, and his lips curl up into a small smirk.

“What do you think?” you ask after a second.

To your credit, your voice isn’t as strained as he expected, so Dazai ups it a notch, fingers sliding from where they’re caressing your hip to trail across your inner thigh. All out of sight from the officer on your left, but Dazai can tell he’s aware that something is going on from the way his enamored expression starts shifting into a more awkward one.

Dazai gives him a smug, sardonic smile before saying, “I think our friend over here should go get us the CCTV tapes—that’ll be much more useful to us then a bunch of reports.”

The other man’s face shifts in confusion, brows furrowing and lips curving down, but before he can say no, you speak up and agree, “That would be great.”

Dazai rolls his eyes when it makes the man straighten and nod, “I’ll get it right away.”

Before he steps out of the room, Dazai tosses another look over his shoulder, this one colder than it is smug, and he says maybe a bit too snidely, “Don’t come back until you have them.”

The officer doesn’t reply as he leaves the room, and as soon as the door clicks shut, Dazai is pulling away from you to walk over to it. He locks it quickly and then turns to face you, tilting his head to the side as his gaze roves over your body. You’re leaning back against the table, eyebrows raised, and Dazai doesn’t stop himself this time when his gaze lowers to the swell of your breasts just barely made visible by your partially unbuttoned shirt.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, motioning for you to come over to him.

You don’t budge. Instead, you raise your eyebrows and say dryly, “There are cameras in here, Dazai.”

He pointedly looks up to the two corners of the room that they’re in and then back down to where he’s standing, silently telling you that this is a blind spot. After a moment’s hesitation, you push yourself off the table and make your way over to him. Dazai tilts his head back against the wall, looking down at you through his lashes as you come to stand directly in front of him. He pretends that his throat doesn’t bob when he feels your fingers slip into his belt loops.

“What’s gotten into you?” you ask, but your eyes are glittering so he knows you know exactly what the problem is—and to think he thought you weren’t cruel, you might just be the worst type of cruel there is, hiding it behind pretty smiles and sweet words. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous because that cop has a crush.”

“I don’t get jealous,” Dazai replies with a simpering smile, lifting one hand to cradle your cheek, breath catching as your eyes flutter shut, pressing your face into his hand. “I just didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

Dazai thinks that you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen—he’s thought it since the day he met you, but he thinks it especially now when you’re leaning into his touch like it isn’t poisonous, like his hands aren’t stained with blood and his soul isn’t black and rotten. You deserve better than him, and that’s another reason why he refuses to take that next step: he knows one day you’ll realize it too. You’ll realize that you’ve fallen for a mask, that the man you care about doesn’t actually exist, it’s a thing that can barely call itself human pretending to be him.

He wonders if you know. He wonders if you know that something is wrong with him—he thinks that you must have some inkling after the bout of paranoia he had a few weeks ago when he was at your apartment, but he doubts you know the extent of it. He doubts you know that thoughts running through his head whenever that officer looked at you were anything but just casual jealousy; that every time he leaned in closer to you, Dazai’s fingers twitched in the direction of the gun given to him by the Agency that he’s only supposed to use in emergencies.

Old habits die hard, Dazai has always been quite trigger happy. They never should’ve put a gun in his general vicinity.

He leans down to ghost his lips below your ear, savoring in the way he feels you take in a sharp breath. His fingers tangle in your hair as he pulls your head back just enough to kiss the spot beneath your jaw that makes you writhe, and just as he expects, you let out a breathy moan against his ear that makes his head dizzy, your hands darting up to cling at the sleeves of his jacket.

“Dazai,” you gasp as he kisses down your neck. He hums in response, his free hand resting on your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Are you sure…”

“I’m sure,” he says, and then adds smugly, “When am I ever wrong?”

He doesn’t have to see your face to know that you’re probably rolling your eyes at him, but he doesn’t give you the chance to make a witty remark about the first time the two of you met. His grip tightens on your waist as he flips you around so that your back is to his chest.

His hands immediately work to unbutton your slacks, lips finding their way back to your neck to pepper kisses up and down your skin as he watches the rapid rise and fall of your chest. He lets out a low groan against your skin when he slides his hand into your pants and feels just how damp your panties are.

“This better be for me,” he mutters more to himself than to you, nipping at the skin of your neck. His voice is a bit more rough now as he asks you, “Lace?”

He lifts his face from your neck to look at you. Your eyes are half lidded as the pads of his fingers trace the cloth of your panties, head lolled back against his shoulder, breath ragged and lips parted, but there’s something teasing in your gaze as it flickers up to meet his.

“The ones you like,” you breathe out, and Dazai swallows thickly. “I was gonna see if you wanted to come over after this.”

“Shit,” he whispers, putting pressure right over where your clit is hidden, watching the way your thighs tremble. “Look at you, only I make you feel this good, yeah?”

“Don’t tease.” The whine that clings to your words makes Dazai’s head spin. He can already feel his cock straining against his pants and tries to ease some of the friction by pressing you back into him, rolling his hips against your ass. “Dazai-”

“Shhhh,” Dazai soothes with a grin, kissing up your neck to your ear when he hears the distress in your tone. “I’ve got you.”

With practiced ease, he slides his fingers beneath your panties, middle finger dipping between your folds. He inhales sharply, immediately losing his grin when he feels how wet you are.

“This better be for me,” he repeats, a bit more seriously this time as he slides his finger between your folds, putting pressure on your entrance but not quite pushing in. “Hm?”

He waits for a response, relishing in the way your whole body trembles against him. He doesn’t even know if you know what he asked, you already seem so fucked out—lips wet and parted as you breathe in and out shakily, lashes fluttering and chest heaving.

“Tell me,” he presses, his free hand sliding up your body, untucking your shirt so he can slip his hand beneath it to feel your skin.

“‘course it’s for you, Dazai,” you say after a few seconds of confusion, like you were trying to remember what he asked. “What kind of question is that?”

Dazai doesn’t respond to that, letting out a pleased hum as he kisses your jaw again. He also doesn’t give you the chance to say anything else, quickly plunging his middle finger deep inside of you. The sudden intrusion has your hand flying to your mouth to muffle the cry that escapes your lips—he almost wants to pull your hand away, but decides against it because he doesn’t want anyone else hearing you like this.

You try to rock your hips to get him moving, but Dazai’s hand flattens against your stomach, holding you still against him.

“Dazai-” you gasp his name again, this time your voice is more pitched, caught between a whine and a complaint.

“Patience,” he coos, but his voice is strained and his breath is heavier as your tight walls hug his finger, imagining that it’s his cock instead. He drags his finger out until only the tip remains inside of you. He teases your entrance again, tracing a gentle circle but not pushing back in. “Bet you could already take two fingers for me, yeah?”

“What if he comes back?” you suddenly ask panic flying through your eyes as if you’ve only just remembered where you are. Dazai is distinctly displeased by the thought of another man crossing your mind while his fingers are inside of you. “Dazai, what if-”

“He won’t,” Dazai answers you, making his displeasure known as he nips your neck.

“How do you-”

“The corner that the disappearance took place on—it’s a blind spot for the CCTV cameras,” he answers before you can finish. Dazai knows this because he killed a target in that exact same spot two and a half years ago. “He’ll be gone for a while. He won’t want to come back empty handed to you.”

Dazai doesn’t give you the chance to question him anymore, sliding his middle and ring fingers inside of you and watching as your jaw falls slack. To make up for the displeasure he felt at you bringing up that irritating cop, he fucks you hard with his fingers—you barely have time to bite the palm of your hand before his fingers are stretching your walls.

He thinks he might be pushing his luck—he doesn’t know if the cameras in the corners of the room pick up sound, and if they do, he doesn’t know how well they pick it up. Even if you’re doing your very best at muffling your moans, there’s no hiding the sloppy sound of his fingers driving in and out of your cunt—it’s wet and filthy, and it has Dazai’s head dizzy.

His eyes drag up from where his fingers are plunging in and out of you back up to your face. Your pretty eyes are almost fully rolled back as he fucks you closer and closer to the edge and your lashes are wet. One particularly rough snap of his wrist has your hand falling limp from your mouth to your side and your lips parting in a moan that Dazai doesn’t dare allow anyone else to hear. Quickly, his free hand darts up to grab your jaw hard, turning your face toward him so he can press his lips to yours messily, swallowing the keening moan before you can let it out.

He kisses you deeply, tongue tracing the inside of your mouth gently in contrast to the rapid thrusts of his fingers. You try to kiss him back, but you can hardly even breathe with how deep his fingers fuck into you. He knows you're close—he can feel it in the way your whole body is trembling, and how your pussy flutters around his fingers, so he picks up the pace, just as desperate to bring you over the edge as you are to get there.

He’s the only one that can make you feel like this. He’s the only one that can make your body shudder and writhe, he’s the only one that can make your eyes roll back in pleasure, he’s the only one and he needs to prove it.

“C’mon, baby,” he pleads against your lips. The pet name that spills from his lips is not the teasing bella he likes to hit you with like he intended—it comes out strained, breathy, just as desperate as he feels. The lack of control scares him a bit, but he’s too out of it for it to take hold. “C’mon, once on my fingers, then as many times as you want on my cock when we get home, alright?”

He doesn’t know what you’re trying to say, the noise that spills from your lips, muffled against his mouth, is a moan, caught between his name and a please and something else he can’t make out. Distantly, he thinks that the bandages on his forearm must be ruined, he can feel your slickness dripping down his hand to his wrist and he can hear the lewd sounds of his fingers pushing in and out of you. He doesn’t care—in fact, the thought only makes his lower abdomen tighter.

“I’m gonna-” you gasp, the only word she can make out and Dazai grins.

“Yeah, you are,” he rasps, scissoring his fingers inside of you and rubbing his index finger over your clit, and you’re gone.

Dazai groans when he feels you moan his name against his lips, hand dropping from your face to your waist to hold you upright as your knees buckle. You cum hard on his fingers, hips stuttering and stilling, and he can feel tears spilling over your cheeks. His cock is painfully hard now and he wants nothing more than to unbuckle his pants and replace his fingers with it, but he thinks that would be pushing his luck—he’s never had any semblance of control once his cock is inside you and he needs to keep an ear out for footsteps approaching the conference room.

He rides out your high, pace slowing as he continues to fuck his fingers into your sensitive cunt, wiping your tears with his free hand once you’ve steadied yourself. You tremble, reeling from the intensity of your orgasm, and Dazai only removes his fingers when you claw at his wrist for him to stop.

His fingers are dripping with your cum, and though Dazai is aching for a taste himself, he instead lifts them to your lips. You’re still trying to get ahold of yourself, leaning back against his chest and breathing heavily, but you instinctually part your lips for him. His breath catches when you take both of his fingers into your mouth, lashes fluttering shut and tongue swirling around his digits as you taste yourself off of him.

“Fuck,” he groans, hand dropping down to rub the heel of his hand against his cock, desperately trying to alleviate the pressure. He has no idea how he’s going to hide this before the officer gets back and…

His thoughts trail off when you finally push off of him, your legs are still trembling, and your eyes are still a little hazy, but your gaze drops from his face to his rapidly rising and falling chest down to where he’s rubbing his cock through his pants. And then, you lower yourself to your knees in front of him.

“Oh, fuck,” he repeats, voice breathy this time and pupils blown wide as he watches your fingers work at the buckle of his belt.

Dazai almost wishes that the officer would come back soon, just so he could walk in on you with a faceful of Dazai’s cock. But if that happens, all of Ango’s work will go out the window because there’s no way he’s letting someone see you like this and walk out alive.

Dazai’s cock twitches as soon as you free it from its confines. He’s already leaking an embarrassing amount of precum, and his tip is flushed red, but you waste no time before ghosting your lips across his length, suckling gently at the vein running along the underside of his cock before wrapping your lips around his tip.

Dazai chews at his lower lip, thighs tensing as he resists the urge to thrust his hips forward and shove his cock down your throat. Instead, his throat spasms as he swallows, reaching out to cradle the back of your head gently, carding his fingers through your hair soothingly.

“Lookit you,” he breathes out, voice wavering as he swallows another low groan. His fingers tighten in your hair just a bit, but he doesn’t push your face down on his cock, head falling back against the door as you work his cock further down your throat. His breath is ragged and heavy as your tight muscles spasm around him, desperately trying to adjust to the intrusion, and he can feel your nails digging into the bandages wrapped around his hips. “That’s my girl.”

Another loss of control that should probably concern him, but you’re quick to take his mind off of it with the way he can feel you let out a whine around him, nails digging a little bit deeper into skin as you take him fully into your mouth, lips flush to his pelvis and nose buried in his pubic hair.

His head falls forward as he pants, watching your throat struggle to adjust to him. He strokes your hair gently, silently beckoning you to look up at him because he worries that if he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll let out a pornographic moan, one that will be impossible to deny if anyone over hears.

Your lashes flutter as you look up at him, eyes wide and glassy with fat tears that roll steadily over your cheeks.

Beautiful, he thinks hazily, and his—all his. No one else gets to see you like this, no one else gets to imagine you like this—you’re his.

He chokes over air, free hand coming up to cover his mouth and hips jerking forward. He feels you gag around him and his hand drops to caress your cheek in apology, trying to wipe away your tears, but it’s clumsy and frantic—the sight of you on your knees for him, tears streaming down you face as you take him down your throat, is enough to send him spiraling over the edge.

His vision spots with black dots, the taut cord in his abdomen tightens and then snaps. He’s hardly able to muffle the moan that spills from his lips as his eyes knock back and his head falls against the metal of the door. His whole body tenses and spasms as he cums down your throat, he gasps for air, thumb still stroking your cheek as you struggle to swallow all of his cum.

It takes a minute for Dazai to regain some semblance of control over himself. By the time he has, you’re standing on shaky legs and tucking his sensitive cock back into his pants. His hazy gaze focuses on your face—your lips are wet and swollen, your eyes are still glassy, and this time Dazai doesn’t have an excuse as he lifts his hands to cradle your face and says quietly, “Mine.”

Your smile is teasing. “‘I don’t get jealous,’” you mock lightly, leaning in to press your lips against his. Dazai’s eyes flutter shut as his hand slinks around your body to your back, pulling your body flush to his as he deepens the kiss, sinking into the familiar feeling of your lips sliding against his.

“I don’t have reason to be jealous,” Dazai murmurs, this time with a different meaning. He pulls back slightly so he can button your pants back up and tuck your dress shirt back into them, making sure you look presentable before the officer gets back.

Instead of teasing him again, your smile softens and you affirm, “You don’t,” and Dazai’s throat tightens.

The thought of being in an actual relationship has always been suffocating to Dazai. Imagining having to spend the rest of his life with one person, having someone rely on him when his will to live is fickle at best and nonexistent at worst, becoming dependent on someone who could leave him on a moment’s notice… It makes his stomach churn with disgust, his chest tight with anxiety.

But when that faceless someone turns into you, Dazai realizes that the thought of a relationship is not quite as unappealing as it’s always been to him. Does it still make him skittish? Sure, but does it outweigh the green hue that colors his vision whenever someone looks at you and thinks you’re not his? Does it outweigh the bolt of fear he feels whenever he sees someone display interest in you, wondering if maybe you’ll get sick of his flighty behavior and give them a chance?

Absolutely not.

Dazai hears footsteps approaching the door he’s leaning on, and quickly unlocks it, motioning for you to stand back by the conference table. When the officer opens the door, the two of you are standing there casually like you never moved.

The officer gives you an apologetic smile that makes Dazai’s eyes twitch. “It doesn’t seem like there’s any CCTV footage from the area.”

Before you can respond, Dazai smiles tightly and says, “Wow, and it took almost twenty minutes for you to realize that—no wonder the police keep coming to us for help.”

You elbow Dazai, but he’s unrepentant, giving you a sweet smile before turning a cooler one back onto the officer. “If you don’t mind, we can finish the rest back at our office tomorrow now that we have the files. We have a date to get to.”

He doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re raising your eyebrows at him, but he keeps his gaze trained on the officer, finding sick satisfaction in the way the man’s eyes dart between the two of you, a dawning expression crossing his face.

“A… date?”

“A date,” Dazai confirms, picking up the file and motioning for you to leave. He pointedly ignores the amused expression on your face as you make your way out of the room, walking past the officer who dumbly steps out of the way. “Thanks for the help… or, well, lack thereof.”

It’s only when the door slams shut behind the two of you, do you finally echo, “… A date?”

Hesitantly, Dazai confirms, “A date?”

When you don’t immediately respond, Dazai’s smile starts to freeze, considering that maybe you don’t want to date him and he read all of this wrong. You want to keep things casual, no strings attached. But after a few agonizing moments, you hook your arm around his and lean into him.

“Where are you taking me then, hm?”

“… It’s a surprise,” he replied.

A surprise for both of you, because Dazai hasn’t thought that far ahead yet.

A tenseness that he hadn’t even realized was in his shoulders dissipates when you laugh and press your lips to his upper arm before resting your head against it.

“Alright,” you agree, although he’s pretty sure you know damn well this is all spur of the moment. “Let’s go then.”

Though Dazai tries to rifle through all of the options of places you like to go, when the two of you step outside, all coherent thought washes right out of the window when you turn to look up at him, the setting sun casting an ethereal glow over your face.

“What is it?” you ask when he freezes in his tracks to admire you. “Dazai?”

For just a split second, Dazai can imagine it. He can imagine a life with you, and there’s no sign of any of the suffocation or discomfort he usually feels when he thinks of long term commitment too hard. He imagines waking up to you in the morning and falling asleep to you at night, he imagines spending his days laid up in bed with you sharing kisses and sweet nothings and he imagines dragging you around the city to show you off to anyone and everyone. His thoughts start to spiral out of control, and he’s glancing down at your ring finger, wondering-

“Dazai?”

Dazai’s thoughts come to an abrupt halt, and he swallows thickly when a more realistic image comes to mind—the expression on your face when you find out about his past, the disgust, the fear, the realization that he’s just not who he made himself out to be, that he’s been lying to you since day one.

“Nothing,” he says after a moment, voice a little raspy, so he shakes his head, giving you a disarming smile and clearing his throat. “You’re just so stunning that it leaves me at a loss for words, sweet bella.”

You don’t seem to buy it, but you don’t press, arm tightening around his as you make your way back over to your car.

As soon as you look away, his expression shifts into a more downcast one as his gaze tracks back over to you. It’s only a matter of time, he remembers. His past will catch up with him sooner rather than later, and no matter what you may insist about the past being in the past, he knows everything will change when you finally realize what all he’s been hiding from you.

… but maybe there’s not too much harm in indulging while he still can. He just has to keep reminding himself that he can’t get too attached.

“You should let me drive,” Dazai says sweetly. “So I can drive us to the place and keep it a surprise for you.”

You laugh in his face. “As if.”

You usher him over to the passenger seat before making your way back over to the driver’s side, and Dazai finds a genuine smile unconsciously curling at the corners of his lips. One that quickly falls when his fingers wrap around the handle of the car door.

He thinks, maybe, it might be far too late to stop himself from getting attached.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu smut #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bungo stray dogs smut

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oldsoul007 · 13 days ago

Text

wicked game

older!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: A magnetic, off-limits fling between you and your rugged, older neighbor Joel turns into something deeper as you both struggle with unspoken feelings, stolen moments, and the weight of reality.

a/n: 20 year age gap, wholesome, fluff, suggestive scenes

joel miller masterlist

I stepped out of the house into the crisp morning air, my purse slung over my shoulder and a mental checklist of errands already playing on repeat in my head. The sun was still low enough to cast a soft, golden light over the neighborhood, making everything feel calm and picturesque. I was halfway down my front steps when a familiar melody stopped me in my tracks.

“The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you…”

I froze, my fingers tightening on the strap of my bag. Wicked Game. That song always hit me in the chest, like a gentle nudge from the past, stirring emotions I didn’t even know I was still carrying. But it wasn’t just the music that caught my attention. Across the street, someone was working on a car, and it was hard not to notice him.

He had his back to me, bent over the open hood, his hands moving with practiced ease. He wore a faded flannel with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that were strong and dusted with just the right amount of hair. His salt-and-pepper hair looked perfectly unkempt, like it belonged to someone who didn’t care too much but somehow always pulled off the look.

I told myself not to stare. I really did. But the way the golden light caught the broad lines of his shoulders, the subtle flex of his muscles as he worked… it was impossible to look away.

The song drifted through the air like it was soundtracking the whole moment, making it feel too cinematic to be real. I shifted awkwardly, my steps faltering. Just then, as if he could sense my presence, he straightened, wiping his hands on a grease-smudged rag.

When he turned and his eyes met mine, my breath hitched. His gaze was dark and intense, cutting through the cool morning air like a warm breeze. He had a rugged, weathered face—handsome in the way only experience and age could make someone. His stubble was a little thicker than a five o’clock shadow, and his mouth curved into a crooked smile, like he knew exactly why I’d stopped.

“Morning,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, sending a flutter through my chest.

“Morning,” I replied, my voice higher than I intended, betraying just how off guard I felt.

He nodded toward the car, his smile widening slightly. “Sorry about the noise,” he said, his tone casual, like we’d done this a hundred times before. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” I said quickly, hoping I didn’t sound too eager. “I like the song.”

He cocked his head slightly, like he was trying to gauge if I was just being polite or if I really meant it. “Chris Isaak, huh?” His smile deepened, a flicker of something playful crossing his face. “Not bad.”

“Yeah,” I said, forcing myself to sound normal even though my pulse was anything but. “Classic.”

He stepped closer, just enough that I could see the grease on his hands and the faint lines around his eyes that only made him more attractive. He held out a hand, grease and all. “I’m Joel,” he said, his voice warm and unhurried.

I hesitated for half a second before shaking his hand. His grip was firm, his skin rough, and somehow it felt more grounding than intimidating. “Y/n,” I said, trying not to notice the way my cheeks flushed under his gaze.

“Well, y/n,” he said, drawing back and tossing the rag onto the hood of the car, “nice to meet a neighbor who appreciates good music. I hope to see you around.”

I nodded, managing a small smile before turning away, though I could still feel his eyes on me as I walked down the sidewalk. The music faded into the background as I moved farther away, but the moment stayed with me, warm and lingering, like sunlight clinging to my skin.

As I reached the corner, I realized I hadn’t checked my list once. And suddenly, I wasn’t in such a rush to finish my errands after all.

It started out small, almost imperceptible. The first few times I saw Joel, it was nothing more than a casual glance—him working on his car, me watering my plants. He’d nod, give me a polite, “Morning,” or “Evenin’,” and I’d nod back, my stomach fluttering for no good reason.

At first, I chalked it up to curiosity. He was new to the neighborhood, and Joel wasn’t the kind of guy you didn’t notice. Broad-shouldered and quiet, with those deep brown eyes that always seemed to carry a weight he didn’t talk about, he exuded a ruggedness that felt out of place on our quiet little street.

But the more I saw him, the harder it became to ignore the way my eyes lingered. Whether he was fixing something in his garage, leaning over that damn car of his, or sitting on his porch with a beer in hand, I couldn’t help but watch him. And sometimes—more often than I expected—I’d catch him watching me too.

It wasn’t obvious, not at first. A glance held a second too long. A shift in his posture when I walked by. But over time, it became undeniable. The way his eyes would follow me when I stepped out to water the flowers, or the way I’d find excuses to linger outside just a little longer, hoping for a moment to cross paths with him.

One evening, as I was locking up my car, I felt his gaze on me. I turned, and sure enough, he was standing by his car, a rag in his hands, watching me. His expression wasn’t overtly flirty—if anything, it was unreadable—but the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down my spine.

I gave him a small wave, trying to act casual, and he nodded, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile.

After that, it felt like every time I stepped outside, he was there. Fixing something, tinkering with his car, or just mowing the lawn. I’d try not to stare, but it was a losing battle. And every time I caught him looking back, it felt like a silent conversation was happening between us, one neither of us dared to speak aloud.

It was subtle, this dance we were doing, but it was there—undeniable, electric. And it was only a matter of time before one of us made a move.

It was a Friday night when everything shifted. I was sitting on my front steps with a beer, the summer air warm and heavy, when I noticed Joel crossing the street toward me. He had a toolbox in one hand and a look of determination on his face.

“Your porch light’s out,” he said as he stopped in front of me, nodding toward the darkened bulb above my door. “Figured I’d come fix it before you trip over somethin’ out here.”

I blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard, then glanced at the light. “Oh, I didn’t even notice. But you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, his voice firm but kind. He set the toolbox down and looked at me, his lips curving into a small, easy smile. “Unless you’re gonna send me packin’.”

I shook my head, smiling back. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Want a drink while you play handyman?”

He chuckled, low and deep. “Sure, why not?”

Two cold beers were clutched in my hands, the bottles slick with condensation, and by the time I returned, he’d already swapped the old bulb for a new one. The soft glow illuminated his face as he turned to me, brushing his hands off on his jeans.

“All done,” he said, taking the bottle I offered. “You’re safe now.”

“Guess I owe you one,” I teased, sitting on the step.

“Nah,” he replied, settling next to me. “I like keepin’ busy.”

I didn’t know when it had started, this thing between us. It wasn’t outright flirting—not yet—but there was a magnetism to Joel that made it impossible not to feel drawn in. He was older, quieter, but there was something about the way he carried himself, steady and unshakable, that made me feel safe. And curious.

“So,” I started, swirling my beer, “you’ve been here, what, a few weeks now?”

“’Bout a month,” he replied, leaning back on the step with that relaxed, effortless posture that always seemed to belong to him.

“And I still don’t know much about you,” I said, giving him a small smile.

He glanced over at me, his eyes catching the soft glow of the porch light. “What d’you wanna know?”

I hesitated, not wanting to pry too much, but the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “I don’t know… why’d you move here? What’s your story?”

Joel’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He took a sip of his beer, staring out at the darkened street before answering.

“Well, I’m divorced,” he said simply, his voice low and even, like he’d said it a hundred times before.

I blinked, caught off guard by how casually he said it. “Oh,” I said softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted gently, turning to look at me. “Trust me, best decision of my life and it was a long time ago. Been on my own for… hell, must be close to fifteen years now.”

Fifteen years. I tried to imagine what that would feel like—building a life with someone only for it to fall apart, then starting over again. Joel didn’t seem bitter about it, though. Just… resolved.

“Do you have kids?” I asked, leaning forward slightly, unable to hide my curiosity.

His face softened at that, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. Two girls.”

“Really?” I asked, my eyebrows lifting.

He nodded, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of pride in his expression. “Sarah’s the older one. She’s in med school. Ellie’s still in undergrad—astromony major. Both of ’em are smarter than I’ll ever be.”

The way he talked about them made my chest tighten, like he was letting me see a piece of himself he didn’t share often. There was so much warmth in his voice when he said their names, like they were the best parts of his life.

“You must be so proud,” I said softly.

“More than you could know,” he replied, his voice quiet.

I smiled, leaning back against the porch railing. “So, two daughters, huh? That explains a lot.”

Joel’s brow furrowed slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just… you have that dad energy,” I teased, grinning at him.

“Dad energy?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“You know,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “The whole rugged, protective, slightly grumpy thing. It fits.”

He laughed at that, a low, rumbling sound that made my stomach flutter. “Grumpy, huh?”

I shrugged, my grin widening. “If the shoe fits.”

Joel shook his head, still chuckling as he took another sip of his beer. But there was something in his expression—something lighter, more open—that made me feel like I’d broken through a wall I hadn’t even known was there.

And as we sat there in the quiet of the night, our conversation drifting back to safer, lighter topics, I couldn’t help but wonder how someone like Joel, with all his layers and contradictions, had ended up here—just across the street from me.

And why I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

We talked for hours—about everything and nothing. He told me about his work, about his daughters, Sarah, and Ellie and the things he used to do before life got complicated. I told him about my job, my friends, and the reasons I’d moved here.

At some point, the conversation drifted into quieter territory. The night was still, the air thick with something unspoken. Joel leaned back against the railing, his arm brushing mine, and I felt my pulse quicken.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he said softly, his voice low and rough.

I turned to look at him, my heart thudding in my chest. His eyes were on mine, dark and intense, the space between us feeling smaller than it should have.

“Joel…” I started, but before I could finish, he leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed or tentative—it was deliberate. His lips met mine, firm and warm, and I forgot how to breathe. My glass slipped from my hand, forgotten, as I leaned into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

His hands found my waist, pulling me closer, and I let myself sink into the kiss, into him. He tasted like beer and something darker, something that made my head spin. When we finally broke apart, his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing heavily.

“Y/n,” he murmured, his voice husky and raw, “tell me to stop if this ain’t what you want.”

I shook my head, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I don’t want you to stop.”

That was all it took. He pulled me into his lap, his hands roaming up my back as our lips met again, hungrier this time. My mind was a blur of heat and sensation as his touch ignited something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Somehow, we ended up inside my house, the door clicking shut behind us. I barely had time to take in my surroundings before his lips were on mine again, his hands pulling at my shirt as I fumbled with the buttons on his.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he muttered against my skin, his voice thick with want.

We stumbled into my bedroom, clothes disappearing in a flurry of hands and whispered words.

When we finally came together, it was everything—tender and passionate, slow and consuming. He held me like I was the only thing that mattered, his touch reverent but possessive.

Afterward, we lay tangled in my sheets, the room dark and quiet except for the sound of our breathing. His arm was draped over me, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin.

“I shouldn’t have waited so long,” he murmured, his voice soft and low.

I smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "It was worth the wait."

And as I drifted off to sleep in his arms, I couldn't help but feel like something had shifted. Like maybe, just maybe, l'd found something-or someone-I wasn't ready to let go of.

What began as stolen moments quickly intensified. Some nights, I’d hear the rumble of his car pulling into the driveway and find myself slipping into something casual yet enticing. He’d knock softly on my door, and I’d let him in without a word, his hands finding my waist almost immediately.

Other times, Joel would invite me over under the pretense of needing help with something—though neither of us was fooled. We’d end up tangled together on his couch, my fingers threading through his hair as his lips traced the curve of my neck.

It was never more than the two of us sharing our time and bodies, but it worked. Joel was guarded, reluctant to open up about his past, and I respected that. I didn’t ask for more than he could give, content with the way he made me feel in the moment—desired, cherished, even if only temporarily.

And Joel? He couldn’t seem to stay away. There was something about him—the way he laughed, the way he didn’t push me to be more than I was ready to be. It felt easy, natural.

But as effortless as it seemed, there were nights when he lingered a little longer, his fingers brushing my skin softly as if memorizing me. And there were mornings when I woke to find him still there, his arm draped over my waist, his breathing steady in the early light.

We both knew it was a fling, but neither of us could deny the way it was starting to feel like something more.

After that first time, it became a rhythm. A pattern.

It was never planned, not really. Joel and I never talked about what we were doing or set expectations. But somehow, it kept happening.

A knock on my door late at night. A quiet, unspoken agreement in the way his eyes lingered on mine, the way his hand would find my waist as soon as the door closed behind him.

Sometimes it was me crossing the street, catching him in his garage working on that car of his. The way he'd straighten up, wiping his hands on a rag and giving me that slow, crooked smile-it made my chest tighten every time.

"You need somethin'?" he'd ask, his tone easy, casual, but his eyes told a different story.

"Always," I'd reply, tilting my head, my lips already curving into a smile.

It was always like that. Quiet. Unrushed. No promises.

It wasn't every night, but it was often enough that it started to feel like a routine.

The nights with Joel were magnetic, impossible to resist.

Sometimes it started slow, like a smoldering fire. He’d show up at my door, leaning against the frame, his dark eyes holding mine like he knew exactly what I was thinking. I’d step aside to let him in, the faint scent of leather and soap drifting past as he walked by. He wouldn’t say much—he never did—but the way he looked at me, the way his gaze lingered on my lips, said everything.

The door would barely click shut before his hands found my waist, pulling me to him with a quiet urgency. His lips would capture mine, firm and deliberate, his calloused hands sliding under the hem of my shirt, fingers rough against my skin.

He kissed like he didn’t know when he’d get the chance again, his lips devouring mine with a hunger that left me breathless. My back would hit the wall, and he’d pin me there, his body pressed against mine, warm and solid, making it impossible to think about anything but him.

Other times, it wasn’t so rushed.

I’d wander across the street under the cover of darkness, my heart pounding even though we’d done this so many times before. I’d find him in the garage, his hands deep in some repair, grease smudged across his arms. He’d glance up when I walked in, his expression softening into that crooked, lazy smile that made my stomach twist.

“You work too much,” I’d tease, leaning against the workbench as he wiped his hands on a rag.

Joel would smirk, tossing the rag aside before closing the distance between us. “And you think I should take a break?”

“Maybe,” I’d reply, my voice lighter than I felt.

And then his hands would slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him. He’d kiss me slow, like we had all the time in the world, his lips soft but insistent, teasing me until I was gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

When his hands roamed lower, gripping my thighs, he’d lift me effortlessly onto the workbench, stepping between my legs, his body fitting perfectly against mine. His kisses would grow deeper, more possessive, until I was arching into him, the tools and the world around us forgotten.

The nights he stayed over were different.

He’d let himself into my house, the quiet creak of the door waking me, and I’d turn to see him standing there, his hair messy from the ride, his flannel hanging loose over a plain shirt.

“You’re late,” I’d whisper, pretending to be annoyed, but the grin pulling at my lips gave me away.

Joel would shrug, his voice low and gravelly. “Had to finish somethin’. But I’m here now.”

And then he’d crawl into bed beside me, his hand trailing over my hip, pulling me close. His lips would skim the side of my neck, soft and deliberate, his breath warm against my skin. It always started gentle on those nights, his hands slow as they explored me, his touch careful, like he wanted to memorize every inch of me.

I’d lose myself in the way his mouth moved against mine, the way he murmured my name like it was a prayer. The room would fill with the sound of our breaths, the quiet creak of the bed as he pressed me into the mattress, his weight grounding me in the moment.

It wasn’t just the way he touched me or the way he made my body hum with anticipation—it was the way he made me feel seen. Like I wasn’t just someone he wanted for the night but someone he couldn't seem to stay away from, no matter how hard he tried.

And as much as I wanted to keep pretending it was nothing, that it was just two people finding comfort in each other, I couldn't deny the way he was starting to feel like more.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, as I stretched under the covers. Joel was already up, sitting on the edge of the bed with his boots half on, the laces dangling as he reached down to tie them.

I watched him quietly for a moment, taking in the way his shoulders hunched slightly, the way his hair was still a little messy from the night before. He must have felt my gaze because he turned, his eyes meeting mine, and his lips quirked into that crooked smile that never failed to disarm me.

“You’re up early,” he said, his voice low and rough from sleep.

“Could say the same about you,” I replied, my voice soft as I sat up, pulling the sheet around me.

Joel shook his head, finishing his boots before standing. “Got a lot to do today.”

I hated this part—the goodbye. Even though I knew he’d be back, it always felt like the space between us stretched further than it should.

Joel must have noticed the flicker of disappointment in my face because he crossed the room in just a few steps, his presence warm and solid as he stood in front of me.

“Hey,” he murmured, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light, though my chest tightened.

He didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he leaned down, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that was softer than I expected. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was deliberate, slow, like he wanted to make every second count.

Then, without a word, he shifted lower, his lips finding the curve of my jaw. He kissed a line down my neck, lingering there for a moment as his hands slid to my waist, holding me gently.

“Joel,” I whispered, my voice catching as he continued his path, his mouth pressing soft, warm kisses across my collarbone, then down my arm.

When he reached my wrist, he paused, turning my hand over to press a kiss to my palm, then to the tips of my fingers.

It wasn’t just physical—it felt like something more. Like he was trying to say something he couldn’t put into words.

When he finally straightened, his dark eyes met mine, and I felt like he could see straight through me. “I’ll see you later,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

I nodded, my throat tight as I watched him grab his jacket and head for the door. He paused in the doorway, glancing back at me one more time before he left, and I couldn’t help but smile.

Joel didn’t have to say goodbye like that—but he did. And it was those little things, those quiet moments that told me more than any words ever could.

My mom called me three times that morning to remind me about dinner, as if I’d forgotten the weekly ritual of overcooked chicken and her latest gossip updates. By the time I pulled into my parents’ driveway, the sun was setting, casting a soft orange glow over the neighborhood. I smoothed down my dress, grabbed the bottle of wine I’d brought, and headed inside.

“Y/n! You’re just in time,” my mom called from the kitchen, her voice bright and cheerful. The smell of rosemary and garlic wafted through the air.

“Hey, Mom,” I called back, setting the wine on the counter.

I could hear my dad laughing with someone in the dining room, his deep voice carrying through the house. A guest, maybe? Mom hadn’t mentioned anyone else joining us.

I walked into the dining room, my casual smile freezing on my face when I saw him.

Joel.

He was standing next to my dad, holding a beer, his flannel rolled up at the sleeves like always. He turned at the sound of my footsteps, and for a split second, I saw the same shock mirrored in his eyes before he quickly masked it.

“Y/n!” My dad grinned, clapping Joel on the shoulder. “This is Joel, my buddy from the hardware store. We got to talking the other day, and I figured I’d invite him over. Thought you two might’ve crossed paths in the neighborhood!”

Joel’s lips curved into a polite smile, but I could see the tension in his jaw. “Good to meet you, y/n,” he said, his voice perfectly even, his hand extended.

I stared at him for a second too long before snapping out of it and shaking his hand. His touch lingered for just a moment, his thumb brushing against mine in a way that made my stomach twist.

“Nice to meet you,” I managed, forcing a polite smile, my voice tighter than I intended.

“Joel just moved in a few weeks ago,” my dad continued, oblivious to the storm brewing between us. “Seems like a good guy. Figured we’d make him feel welcome.”

“Oh, he’s definitely that,” I said, my tone a little sharper than I meant. Joel raised an eyebrow at me, but he didn’t say a word.

Dinner was a blur of awkward silences and stolen glances. Joel was calm and collected, answering my parents’ questions with ease, like he hadn’t been in my bed less than 24 hours ago. I, on the other hand, felt like I was about to combust.

“Mom,” I said sharply, nearly choking on my wine. My face burned as I glanced at Joel, who was watching me with an infuriatingly calm expression.

“Oh, come on,” she said with a laugh, waving a hand. “I’m just joking! But seriously, sweetie, you’ve had…what? A handful of boyfriends?”

“More than a handful,” my dad chimed in with a chuckle. “You’d think we were running a speed-dating service out of the house at one point.”

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. “Okay, that’s enough,” I said quickly, forcing a tight smile as I stared daggers at my parents. “We don’t need to go down memory lane right now.”

“Oh, lighten up, y/n,” my mom teased, clearly oblivious to the tension in the room.

I dared a glance at Joel, expecting him to look awkward or uncomfortable. Instead, he was hiding a smirk, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. I shot him a glare, silently daring him to say anything, but he just shrugged innocently.

Dinner couldn’t end fast enough.

When my mom asked me to grab dessert from the kitchen, I jumped at the excuse to escape. But as I reached for the pie on the counter, I heard footsteps behind me.

“Y/n.”

I turned to see Joel standing in the doorway, his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed, keeping my voice low.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he shot back, leaning against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world.

“This is my parents’ house, Joel. What are you doing here?”

“Your dad invited me,” he said simply, his dark eyes scanning my face. “Didn’t think it’d be a problem.”

“A problem?” I repeated, my voice rising slightly before I forced it back down. “You didn’t think to maybe mention that you’re best buddies with my dad?”

“Didn’t know it was your dad,” he said, his voice low and steady, though there was a flicker of something like amusement in his eyes. “Until I walked in and saw you.”

I stared at him, my cheeks burning. “So what, we just pretend we don’t know each other?”

“Seems like the best option,” he said, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Unless you wanna tell your parents the whole story.”

I glared at him, hating how calm he was. “This isn’t funny, Joel.”

“Never said it was,” he said, stepping closer, his voice softening. “But you’re the one who’s gotta decide how to handle it.”

Before I could respond, my mom’s voice called out from the dining room. “Y/n! Everything okay in there?”

I swallowed hard, grabbing the pie and pushing past him. “This isn’t over,” I muttered under my breath.

“Looking forward to it,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing as I brushed past him.

As I walked back into the dining room, my face carefully neutral, I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder. Joel followed a moment later, cool and composed, like nothing had happened.

But when our eyes met across the table, I knew this was only the beginning of a much more complicated mess.

Later, after we’d finished and everyone was saying their goodbyes, Joel and I stepped out into the warm night air together. My parents stood at the door, still chatting about something, so Joel and I started walking toward our cars, the silence between us heavy.

Once we were far enough away, Joel glanced at me, his voice low and teasing. “So… how many guys?”

I stopped in my tracks, my mouth dropping open. “Excuse me?”

He turned to face me, a lopsided grin on his face, the kind that made my stomach flip no matter how annoyed I was. “Your mom brought it up,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “I’m just curious.”

I crossed my arms, glaring at him. “I am not answering that.”

“Why not?” His grin widened. “You embarrassed or something?”

“No,” I shot back, even though my face was practically on fire. “It’s just none of your business.”

Joel chuckled, stepping closer. “Fair enough. But if you’re not telling, then I guess it’s only fair you ask me.”

“Oh, really?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Fine. How many women have you been with?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Two.”

I blinked. “Two?”

“Yeah,” he said casually, slipping his hands into his pockets.

I stared at him, completely baffled. “Two? That’s it?”

Joel’s brow furrowed slightly, as if he didn’t understand why I was so surprised. “Yeah. Why’s that so hard to believe?”

I laughed, the sound escaping before I could stop it. “Joel, have they seen you? You look like that, and you’re telling me only two women?”

He smirked, leaning slightly closer. “What can I say? I’ve always been a quality over quantity kinda guy.”

The way he said it, his voice low and laced with humor, sent a shiver down my spine. I quickly looked away, trying to collect myself.

“Well,” I muttered, still trying to process his answer. “I guess that makes you… selective.”

“You could say that,” he said, his smirk softening into something warmer, something that made my chest tighten.

I shook my head, refusing to let him get the upper hand in this conversation. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

He chuckled. “And you’re dodgin’ the question. But I’ll let it slide… for now.”

As we reached our cars, I could still feel the heat of his gaze on me, that teasing smile lingering on his lips. And as much as I hated to admit it, I knew I’d be thinking about this conversation long after he drove away.

The air was thick with the lingering heat of the day as I stepped onto my porch that night, a glass of wine in hand, hoping the cool breeze would clear my head. Running into Joel at my parents' house earlier had thrown me. I hadn't expected to see him there, standing in their kitchen like he belonged, casually sipping a beer while talking to my dad like they were old friends.

It had been almost too much-the way his eyes found mine across the room, the flicker of something unreadable passing over his face.

The way my mother had smiled, oblivious, as she chatted away, completely unaware of the tension humming between us.

I had barely spoken to him then, just a brief exchange, a nod, a polite smile. But it had been enough.

Now, as I sat in the quiet of my porch, the cicadas buzzing in the trees, I heard it-the unmistakable rumble of his truck pulling into his driveway.

I should've looked away, should've ignored the way my pulse jumped at the sound. But I didn't.

Instead, I watched as he stepped out, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn't go inside. He stood there for a second, hands on his hips, looking over at me like he was debating something.

Then, without hesitation, he crossed the street.

I didn't move, didn't say anything as he walked up the steps, stopping just in front of me. His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.

"You left fast earlier," he said, his voice low, rough.

I swallowed, gripping my glass a little tighter.

"Didn't expect to see you there."

"Yeah, well," he exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Didn't expect to see you either."

There was something else in his voice, something unspoken.

A question. A challenge.

I should've told him to go home. That whatever this thing between us was, it didn't need to spill over into the rest of my life. But I didn't.

Instead, I stood, stepping closer, letting the space between us disappear. His gaze dropped to my lips, and that was all it took.

Joel reached for me, his hands firm but careful as he pulled me to him, his lips crashing into mine like he'd been holding back all damn day.

I sighed against his mouth, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt, anchoring myself as his hands slid to my hips, pressing me flush against him.

The kiss was different tonight-deeper, more desperate, like the sight of me earlier had unraveled something in him. He groaned softly when I tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck, his hands gripping tighter as he walked me backward, until my back hit the wall beside the front door.

"Joel," I murmured against his lips, my voice barely there, but he didn't stop. Didn't pull away.

"Mm?" He hummed, his lips trailing down my jaw, my throat, his hands slipping under the hem of my shirt, fingers warm and rough against my skin.

I shivered, tilting my head to give him more, to let him take whatever he wanted, because God, I wanted this, wanted him.

"We should go inside," I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.

Joel exhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against mine for the briefest second before he pulled back, grabbing my hand and leading me inside, the door clicking shut behind us.

The second we were alone, it was like we couldn't get close enough. Clothes were pushed aside, hands roaming, mouths meeting over and over like we were making up for the time lost earlier.

He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me through the dark toward my bedroom, his lips never leaving my skin. When he laid me down, his body pressing into mine, I knew this wouldn't be like the other nights.

Tonight, it felt different.

Tonight, it felt inevitable.

The room was quiet except for the steady hum of the ceiling fan and the sound of our breathing, still heavy from the way we’d just spent the last hour tangled together.

Joel lay beside me, one arm resting behind his head, his bare chest rising and falling in the dim light. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the scent of him—woodsmoke, leather, and something distinctly Joel—lingering in the sheets.

I turned onto my side, propping myself up on my elbow as I trailed my fingers along his arm. His eyes were closed, but I knew he wasn’t asleep.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked softly, watching as his brows furrowed just slightly.

Joel let out a slow breath before finally opening his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “Nothin’,” he muttered.

I didn’t buy it. “You sure about that?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, he shifted, rolling onto his side to face me. His dark eyes held something I couldn’t quite place, something heavier than usual.

He hesitated, then ran a hand over his face. “I’m too old for you, y/n.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden confession. A slow smirk tugged at my lips. “That didn’t seem to stop you before.”

Joel exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That was different.”

“Different how?” I challenged, pushing myself up slightly, looking down at him. “Because I don’t remember you thinking twice about it when you were kissing me against my front door.”

His jaw tightened, and I could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he was wrestling with something.

I softened, reaching out to trace a finger along the scar on his shoulder. “Joel,” I murmured, “what’s this really about?”

He let out a humorless chuckle, shifting onto his back again. “Your parents.”

That made me pause. “What about them?”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his chest. “I sat in their kitchen, y/n. Drank a damn beer with your old man, listened to your mom talk about how she just wants you to be happy.” He shook his head. “Felt like I was lyin’ straight to their faces.”

I stared at him, my heart tightening. “You weren’t lying.”

“Ain’t that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” I argued, sitting up fully now, the sheets pooling around my waist. “You think they’d hate you if they knew?”

Joel didn’t answer right away, just looked at me, his gaze heavy, unreadable. “I think they’d wonder why a man like me is in their daughter’s bed.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. “You think too much.”

Joel huffed, shaking his head. “And you don’t think enough.”

That stung, but I refused to back down. “You act like this is something I just fell into, like I didn’t make this choice. I know what I want, Joel.”

His eyes searched mine, like he was trying to figure out if he could believe that. If he could believe me.

After a long pause, he sighed, sitting up beside me. His hand reached out, fingertips grazing my knee before curling into a loose fist. “I don’t wanna be the reason you regret anything.”

I stared at him, my chest tightening at the way he said it—so serious, so damn certain that he was the problem. That he was something I’d one day wish I could undo.

I reached for his hand, lacing my fingers through his, squeezing tight. “If I regret anything, it’ll be not seeing where this goes.”

Joel let out a breath, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. His eyes softened just slightly, but there was still hesitation there, still that damn weight he always carried.

I shifted closer, leaning in until my lips brushed against his. “You gonna kiss me, or keep thinking yourself out of it?”

He sighed against my mouth, shaking his head, but then his hand was at my waist, pulling me into his lap, and all that hesitation melted away as he kissed me slow and deep—like he knew this was a bad idea but couldn’t stop himself.

And I had no plans to stop him, either.

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arkhamsbrat · 8 days ago

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jason todd is never going to admit that he is an extremely jealous man. that’d scare you off and he knows it. but he cant help that his left eye twitches when your friend calls you. he hears a deep voice on the line and he just stares.

its not that he doesnt trust you, but he does fear the day that you realize he isnt enough for you. too damaged, too brooding, too mean. it all boils down to not wanting to be replaced.

the jealousy calms down (slightly) when you turn to him with an smile and roll your eyes playfully. “drama queen!” you mouth while pointing at your phone. jason chuckles silently and lays his head in your lap, studying you while you speak.

your hands instinctively move to comb through his hair, finding your own comfort in the movement. his feelings are well hidden, he thinks. but you can see it in his eyes. the pretty blue orbs cloud over, wheels turning behind them at a speed you couldn’t match.

when your friend finally hangs up, you set your phone to the side and cup his cheeks with both hands. “y’okay?” he grumbled as his arms snaked around your waist. “nothin’ you gotta worry about.” there it was. “i’m your girlfriend, that’s like the whole point.”

if he was honest with you, you may run. hide from him somewhere he’d never pull you back out of. he couldn’t lose this, lose you. after years he’s finally found something to feel safe in- someone. but he couldn’t keep pushing you. he could see it in your eyes any time he swept his own feelings under the rug and locked you out of his mind.

he huffed, pausing for a moment before finally opening up with a mumble. “i dont like sharin’… just wanna keep y’to myself.” you hum and nod, waiting for him to continue. “‘s hard. everyone loves you, everyone wants your attention. just wanna keep you in my pocket.”

he scans over you, waiting for the snap- for you to get up and run. it doesn’t come. you kiss his forehead and shoot him a comforting smile.“thank you for telling me that, baby… am i doing enough for you?” it was just like you to start trying to fix it for the both of you. what else was he supposed to expect from you other than kindness?

“you’re doin’ enough, don’t worry about that, it’s just…” he drones off, not sure how to explain it. your finger taps his forehead gently. “all up here?” he nods once. “y’aren’t the only one who gets jealous, jayce.”

“it’s different.” he pouts, its adorable. “you… you’re not-” your hands cup his cheeks, forcing him to look up at you. “gonna stop you there. isnt different, and you don’t get to keep playing the ‘you aren’t broken’ card. you’re allowed to feel jealous and not feel like a monster.” he gives you a silent nod, still moping. “should i feel like a monster every time some girl looks at you while we’re out?” that was the first time you’ve admitted it, and honestly? you’d prefer he got cocky over you being jealous. he shook his head. “when it comes to us, if you wouldn’t be pissed at me doing it, don’t be pissed at yourself.”

there was a long road ahead, but he’s worth it. he’s worth it all.

#— bambi posting #jason todd #red hood #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #i want to communicate with him… i yearn for healthy communication with jason…….#fucking him about being jealous? NO. communicating like an adult………. slowly working towards making him feel more comfortable…..#but also jealousy sex

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nhlclover · 2 months ago

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CHRISTMAS MORNING JACK HUGHES

— event masterlist !

pairing: fem!reader x jack hughes

summary: a cozy christmas morning unfolds for yours and jacks family.

warnings: established relationship + family, you and jack having two kids, brief mention (blink and you miss it) of sex, kissing

wc: 2.59k

notes: final fic of my twelve days of christmas series!! so normally i don't like writing dad fics but this was too cute to not write and i got a little carried away with the world building lol

The first whispers of daylight nudged at the frost-tinged windows, and the faint glow of a winter sunrise spilled into the corners of your bedroom. Sleep was elusive for you and Jack last night. The excitement of Christmas kept your two little ones wide awake, and it took a while to finally coax them into bed. Once they were peacefully asleep, you and Jack spent the next hour arranging presents under the tree, carefully crafting the illusion that Santa had visited your living room in the quiet hours of the night.

The dim light of dawn filtered in, teasing the edges of consciousness. Everything was peacefully silent… until it wasn’t. A cacophony of squeals and laughter accompanies the patter of small feet that gets louder and louder. Before you can even form a coherent thought, the sound of your bedroom door bursting open and hitting the wall pierces the quiet, followed by two bodies hurtling onto the bed with unbridled glee.

“Santa came! Santa came!” Ellie’s voice, sharp and jubilant, rings out like a bell, while Grayson’s higher-pitched laughter trails behind her declaration. Their small hands tug at the covers, and with them, any last shred of warmth and sleep you hoped to cling to.

Jack stirred beside you, his groggy groan muffled by a pillow he had instinctively tried to use as a shield. You glanced at the side table, the digital clock reading 7:28. You squint against the dim light and see Elliott bouncing on her knees, her strawberry-blonde curls wild from sleep, her eyes wide with the wonder of a five-year-old on Christmas morning. Beside her, Grayson is less coordinated but no less enthusiastic, flopping down on Jack’s chest before scrambling up again to pull at his arm.

“Up, Daddy!” Grayson exclaims, his chubby toddler hands gripping Jack’s wrist as if sheer determination will pull his father from the depths of exhaustion.

Jack tossed the pillow shielding his face to the side, turning towards you. His hair tousled in a way that made him look effortlessly boyish despite the years. Jack’s voice, thick with sleep but carrying a soft smile, rumbled through the early-morning chaos. “You hear that? Santa came,” he murmured, his breath warm against your temple.

“Mommy, you have to come see!” Ellie insisted, her excitement bubbling over as she crawled up the bed, clambering over your body. She leaned perilously close to your face, her freckled nose inches from yours. “There’s a HUGE one under the tree! It’s got a gold bow and red wrapping and I think it’s for me!”

Grayson, not to be outdone, shifted his efforts from Jack to you. He pulled the duvet off of your torso, the air outside the bed’s cocoon biting against your skin where the covers had been yanked away. “Come, Mommy, hurry!” His blue eyes, so much like Jack’s, sparkled with the kind of joy that only a three-year-old could summon.

You sighed, a mixture of amusement and resignation, and began to prop yourself up on your elbows. Jack, catching the motion out of the corner of his eye, placed a hand lightly on your shoulder, his warm fingertips a contrast to cold air outside the bed. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice still heavy with sleep but carrying an undercurrent of tenderness. “You stay, I’ll get the coffee going. You can take your time.”

The thought was tempting, but Ellie’s insistent tugging had grown more urgent. “Mommy, pleeease! You have to see it! Santa ate all the cookies, and—” she paused for dramatic effect, her eyes widening. “—there are glittery reindeer footprints on the rug!”

“Okay, okay,” Jack said, his tone halfway between indulgence and resignation. “How about a deal? You two go check under the tree — make sure Santa didn’t leave anything behind — and I’ll start making breakfast.” He glanced at you, his blue eyes soft with a silent promise of a few stolen moments of peace. “Mommy will be right behind you. Deal?”

Elliott pouted for half a second before nodding solemnly, the gravity of the proposal weighing on her like a proper contract. “Deal! Come on, Gray!” She scrambled off the bed with impressive speed, dragging her brother by the hand as they bolted for the door, their laughter echoing down the hall.

The sudden quiet was almost deafening. Jack sighed, rubbing a hand across his stubbled jaw as he glanced at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. “That bought us, what — five minutes?” he joked, leaving the warmth of the bed with a reluctant groan. The sheets slipped away to reveal the lean, sleep-warm lines of his torso.

Your gaze lingered on him as he stretched, his movements slow and fluid, the soft light tracing the sharp lines of his shoulders and the taut planes of his back. There was something about the unguarded ease of mornings like these — the way his hair stuck up slightly at odd angles, the curve of his mouth as he let out a contented sigh, and the way his skin held the remnants of sleep’s warmth.

Jack reached for the pair of sweats draped over the chair by the window, the muscles in his arms shifting as he stepped into them. You felt a familiar tug in your chest, that quiet, magnetic pull of affection mixed with admiration. It wasn’t just his physicality, though that certainly caught your attention—it was the unassuming way he carried himself, the effortlessness with which he balanced the roles of husband and father, and somehow still managed to look like a scene from a romantic film first thing in the morning.

As he tossed on a hoodie, Jack caught you watching, a corner of his mouth quirking into a knowing smile as he brushed a hand through his hair.

“See something you like?” he teased, his voice low and playful.

You rolled your eyes, though the curve of your lips betrayed you. “Just wondering how you manage to look that good on no sleep,” you said, your tone light but honest.

He chuckled, crossing the room to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat. “Must be a Christmas miracle.” he joked.

Jack crossed the room, shutting the door softly behind him. You sank back into the pillows for a moment, listening to the distant sound of childish giggles and screeches as your kids no doubt were scanning the bags and boxes to figure out which gifts were for them. The corner of your lips lifted as you pictured the scene awaiting you—a tree lit with soft, golden lights, stockings bursting with trinkets, and two wide-eyed children tearing into the carefully wrapped gifts with all the patience of a wild storm.

Pulling yourself from the cozy embrace of the duvet, you slipped your legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing against the cool hardwood. You reached for the flannel Christmas pajamas Jack had tugged off you last night in a quiet moment of intimacy when the house finally stilled, the soft fabric a buffer against the morning chill. You padded to the bathroom, running a brush through your hair until it framed your face in somewhat manageable waves. A quick splash of water on your face, teeth brushed, and you were as ready as you could be for the whirlwind downstairs.

The air smelled faintly of coffee as you descended the stairs, the creak of the wooden steps masked by the symphony of excited whispers and the occasional shriek of joy. Peering into the living room, you caught sight of Elliott and Grayson darting around the tree like two joyful fireflies, their small hands flipping over tags on the presents.

“Gray! This one says ‘To Grayson, Love Santa!’” Ellie shouted, holding up a package wrapped in bright red paper adorned with tiny reindeer.

Grayson’s eyes widened as he reached for it, though Jack, stepping in with his mug of coffee, quickly intercepted. “Not yet, buddy. Stockings first. Rules are rules.”

He glanced up as you entered, his face softening into that effortless smile you loved so much. “Just in time, your mugs on the counter.”

You swiped the mug from the island, indulging in the bitterness. “Mommy, hurry!” Ellie called from the living room, already tugging at the corner of her stocking. Grayson was next to her, arms deep in his own stocking, pulling out a small car with a delighted squeal.

You joined them, sitting cross-legged on the floor as you helped the kids unpack their stockings. Small toys, chocolates, and even a few practical gifts — like socks — were met with equal excitement.

After stockings, you and Jack quickly whipped up pancakes, eggs, and bacon while the kids played with the toys they’d received in their stockings. At the table, the kids barely sat still, vibrating with excitement as they ate just enough to be excused. The table was cleared quickly, plates rinsed and stacked, and then it was time for the main event.

You and Jack settled onto the couch, mugs in hand, as Elliott and Grayson dove headfirst into the pile of presents under the tree. Wrapping paper flew in all directions, accompanied by shrieks of joy as each wish list item was uncovered. A Barbie dreamhouse for Ellie. A set of dinosaur figurines for Grayson. A remote-controlled car. A glittery art kit. You and Jack exchanged amused glances, your hearts full as you watched their unfiltered joy.

Jack leaned close, his arm brushing against yours as he whispered, “This is my favorite part.”

“Mine too,” you replied softly, watching the kids with a warmth that spread through your chest.

After what felt like hours of watching the kids revel in their treasures, Jack stood and walked over to the tree. He crouched down, sifting through the remaining gifts before pulling out a small box wrapped in silver paper. Turning to you with a boyish grin, he said, “This one’s for you. From me.”

You raised an eyebrow, setting your coffee aside as you accepted the box. “Is this something I can open in front of the kids?” you teased, giving him a playful smirk.

Jack laughed, shaking his head. “Yes, you can open it in front of the kids. I promise.”

The kids crowded around you, their faces alight with curiosity. You peeled back the paper, revealing a plain black jewelry box. Your heart skipped as you flipped it open — only to reveal not a necklace or earrings, but a single car key. Your eyes widened, disbelief etched across your face as you glanced from the key to Jack. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Jack said, his grin widening as he motioned towards the front door. “Go look in the driveway.”

The kids were on their feet before you, racing to the door with cries of “What is it? What is it?” trailing behind them. You followed, your heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. You slipped on your uggs, opened the door and stepped on the porch, the cold morning air rushing against your cheeks, though you didn’t really notice.

Because there, in your driveway, was a brand-new Cadillac Escalade parked in the driveway, its polished black exterior gleaming in the sunlight. A massive red bow sat proudly on the hood, the ribbon fluttering slightly in the breeze.

You froze, your brain struggling to process what your eyes were telling you. Jack was at your side now, his hands resting casually in his pockets, his expression one of quiet pride. “Jack,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, “did you seriously buy me a new car?”

He grinned, his gaze steady. “You were due for an upgrade. And you deserve the best, always.”

You turned to him, your heart so full it threatened to burst. “I — Jack, this is too much. It’s gorgeous.”

He shrugged, his tone light. “It’s got room for the kids, especially since they’re growing and Ellie just started hockey… And, y’know…” He paused, his eyes sparkling with a teasing glint. “Extra space. In case we want to expand the roster.”

The implication hung in the crisp air for a moment before you burst into laughter, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re welcome,” he replied, leaning in to kiss your temple.

Jack intercepted both Ellie and Grayson before they ran out in their socks, helping them into their winter boots. The kids’ squeals of excitement broke the moment as they darted down the steps of the porch toward the car, their tiny boots crunching against the frost-dusted driveway.

Ellie, impatient as ever, tugged at the door handle but stopped short when she realized it was locked. “Mommy, you have the key!” she hollered, hopping up and down in place.

You hurried down the steps, the car key still clutched in your hand. With a click of the key fob, the Escalade’s lights flashed and the doors unlocked. Ellie let out a triumphant cheer, yanking the door open with all the strength her five-year-old frame could muster. “It’s HUGE!” she exclaimed, climbing inside and sprawling across the back seat.

Grayson toddled after her, his shorter legs struggling to hoist him into the car. Jack reached down and gave him a boost, settling him beside Ellie.

Jack turned to you with a raised brow. “What do you think? Roomy enough?” His tone was casual, but you could see the hope in his expression, the eagerness to hear your thoughts.

You took a slow step forward, running your hand over the smooth, glossy paint. “Jack… it’s incredible. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you love it,” he replied, leaning casually against the car with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. His smile was easy, but there was a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes that told you how much thought he’d put into this moment.

“I love it,” you said, your voice soft with sincerity. “But I love you more.”

His smile deepened, and he pulled you into a quick hug, his arms warm and steady around you. “Good,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Ellie’s voice interrupted the moment as she leaned into the front of the car. “Daddy! It has a screen! And buttons!” She pointed to the touch screen in the center console, her small fingers hovering over it like it was a treasure chest of untold riches. “Can I push one?”

“Not yet, El,” Jack said with a laugh. “Let’s figure out what they do first, okay?”

Grayson clambered into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “I drive!” he announced, his voice filled with authority.

“Oh no you don’t, buddy,” you said, opening the driver's seat door and scooping him up before he could start pressing buttons. He giggled as you twirled him in the air, placing him in the back beside Ellie.

Jack leaned against the car, watching the kids explore with the fascination only children could bring to something new. “I can already see this thing covered in crumbs and sticky fingerprints by the end of the week,” he joked, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You laughed, leaning into him. “Probably.”

Jack wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as you both watched the kids giggle and chatter excitedly. The car was beautiful, but it was this moment — the shared joy, the love that radiated from your little family — that made it priceless.

You turned to Jack, resting a hand against his chest. “You spoil me, you know that?”

“Just giving you what you deserve,” he replied, his voice soft with affection.

“Careful,” you teased, “you’re setting the bar pretty high for next Christmas.”

Jack grinned, leaning in to press a soft but loving kiss to your lips. “Good thing I like a challenge.”

#jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagine #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagine #new jersey devils #jh86 #`✦ˑ ✒️ 𓂃⊹ my works #clover's twelve days of christmas!

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tacticaldiary · 1 year ago

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A Fighting Chance

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

Part 2, Masterlist,

"What're those?"

"Papers."

Ghost pauses halfway through opening the document, glancing up at the curtness of her voice. "Papers? She doesn't meet his eyes, gaze fixed on the table of the little booth they're sitting in.

The ice in her drink is long gone, watering down her coffee into something that tastes as bitter as her heart.

It had taken months for her to finally make this decision. Days of talking with her lawyer, crying alone at night and coming to the gruelling acceptance that this was for the best. It was best for both of them.

There's not many things that unsettle Simon. He's had blood stain his hands; his own, his comrades, and his enemies. Had almost any injury you could think of marring his skin, been prodded and ripped into, been the one on the opposite end of the knife.

But as he slides out the documents, turns them over, Simon's never felt more apprehensive.

He stills, reading the first few lines, clenching his jaw. "What is this?"

"I want a divorce."

And something in him crumbles at her defeated tone. Like she's already decided. Like he doesn't even have a chance to ask why or talk it through.

"No." He says tightly, putting them down and crossing his arms.

Her gaze shoots to his. "You can't just say that."

"I did. I won't sign them."

"I want this." She argues, and Simon swallows back the lump in his throat at how utterly tired she looks.

"I don't."

She's the light of his life, the one good, untouched piece of joy he gets to see. Something other than the bloodshed and violence he lives in.

"Simon," She says, shoulders sagging forward. "I can't do this anymore."

"This isn't the solution, love." He feels like his skin is crawling, the beginnings of unfamiliar panic clawing at his chest when she doesn't react to the pet name.

Doesn't smile, doesn't flush that beautiful red, doesn't squirm.

When she doesn't respond again, tight-lipped and clammed up and so determined to not look at him, he asks the question burning a hole through his tongue.

"Why?"

Deep down he knows. Knew this was coming but that part of him is buried under the thudding of his heart, and the rush of blood in his ears. Everything feels deathly still and moving too fast at the same time.

"Why?" She repeats, something in her stirring at the question. Her brow furrows and she switches from a cautious indifference to disbelief and frustration quicker than Simon can process. "Are you serious?" She huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You're away for months at a time and I'm supposed to what? Wait for you at our doorstep and wag my tail all happy when you finally come back to me?" Her grip tightens on her drink.

"Even when you are home, it's never about us. Never about me and you. You lock yourself in your study with your work, don't talk to me unless you come out for dinner or lunch. When was the last time we went out?" She demands. "When was the last time we went on a date? The last time we slept at the same time in the same bed?"

Simon clenches his jaw but says nothing, at a loss for words. It only encourages her to keep going, spewing thoughts that have been boiling over for the past few years.

"You barely look at me when we're home, I had to drag you out of the house to get here! You left halfway through our anniversary dinner last year because work called you in. Sometimes...sometimes I feel like you're only with me because it's easier than leaving and starting over, and that fucking hurts. It hurts when you can't bear to spend five minutes with me away from work. I've been telling you this for ages but you just...you don't listen to me." She leans forward, drink completely forgotten and hits the final nail in the coffin.

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

"I never even know if you're coming home to me." Her voice cracks, and she hugs her middle, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "So yes, Simon, I want to separate. I'm not happy, not like I was when I met you." A sheen of tears she refuses to let fall.

"You can focus on work like you love to, and I can...I can move on."

It was so good when they started out. She found him endearing, dry humour and brooding and all. It was special, those first few years, and she'll always care about him but this...this waiting, this hurting, laying in bed at night alone and cold and crying...it wasn't right. It wasn't what she wanted and she wouldn't force Simon to want it when he clearly didn't want to.

"Fucking hell, I love you." Simon says quickly, stumbling over what to say. He reaches out for her hand on the table, but she pulls it away before he can grab it. It stings more than he can convey, makes the reality crashes down onto him.

He's about to lose her.

Because he couldn't fucking bear to pull himself out of being 'Ghost'.

It was always a rough couple of weeks during his leave. The adjustment to civilian life was a slow one for him, but that's not really an excuse at all.

"I don't think you do."

Simon blinks at her like she's slapped him. "You...you don't think so?" He repeats, running a hand through his hair. She nods, one nod, quick and so sure that it makes his chest ache.

Fuck. He's absolutely messed up.

"Everything's finalised on my end." She says. "You just need to sign them." Her voice is soft, almost like she's coaxing him.

If there's one thing he knows, it's that he's not touching those fucking papers. He's not losing someone he loves again.

"I'll take time off." He says, the intensity of his gaze makes a shiver run down her spine. "We can work through it, yeah? You can't spring this on me and not give me a chance to protest."

She shakes her head, "You're only taking time off because I'm upset." She tries to explain. "What do you think is going to happen? We spend a month together doing what we used to, and when everything's a little more stable you leave again. Distance yourself. Shut me out. Then we're back to square one."

"Won't happen." He says like he hasn't been doing it for the past few years already. "You...I can't lose you, darling." He leans forward. "Let me make it better. Give me a few months-"

"Simon-"

"A week."

"A week?" Her eyes widen. "A week to...what, prove that you'll change?"

"One week."

She worries her lip between her teeth, considering. One week wasn't a long time, but hope was dangerous in a situation like this.

"I'm not letting you go over something like this." Simon says. "I can't."

"This isn't about you." She crosses her arms. "You really think you can turn just...reverse the past few years in a week?" Maybe it's foolish of her to want him to say yes, to fight for her and realise that she's been hurting, but goddamn doesn't a small part of her scream at him to do it anyway.

"Not trying to reverse it." He folds his arms, and she can see the tense line of his shoulders as he takes in the situation, gears turning in his head as he plans how he's going to work his way out of a situation so precious and daunting as this.

Part of him didn't think it would ever come to this. Yes, he can be cold and aloof but Simon thought she knew that he loved her through it all. No matter what.

When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?

Fuck if that doesn't tear through his chest more painfully than any caliber bullet ever could.

He takes her in quietly for a moment.

The woman he fell in love with. The person that gave him a reason to keep going, a motive to feel anything other than the cold efficientness of loading a gun and firing. Soft touches and warm smiles, something so at odds with the rough life he's used to.

Sitting there in front of him, she looks more beautiful than he remembers, and it only proves to make his stomach sink like a stone at the notion of seeding any doubt about his feelings in her heart.

A right fucking bastard he was for it.

"I'm sorry." He breathes out, much softer than the gruff voice he's been using with her. "I'll do better. Just give me a chance, yeah?"

For one horrible moment, Simon thinks she'll decline. That she'll slide over the papers again and demand he sign them.

But she considers his words for a moment before nodding once.

And it's all he needs.

A fighting chance.

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Part 2

(11/10/2023)

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thef1diary · 2 months ago

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Seeing Carlos talk about knowing it’d be him exiting at some point, that they’d always choose Charles… you’d always choose Carlos, and you’d let him know, sparking that possessive streak he hides not so well, that possessive streak that has you pinned underneath him and taken over and over until your body is marked and ruined enough to believe in his heart and soul that you’d always choose him 🤭

~🫠

Always Yours | C. Sainz

— hi nonnie! I love this idea! I see you coming through with the Carlos reqs 🫡 !! did i shed a tear or two while writing this? Yes, but the second half made it all worth it.

warnings: 18+ content, hurt/comfort (but the comfort is smut), unprotected sex, lots of emotions.

wc: 2.4k

masterlist

Carlos sat on the edge of the couch, the dim light from the setting sun casting long shadows across the room. He was soaking in the calm—the kind that felt more like stillness before a storm.

Four years. Four years at a team that had been both an opportunity and a struggle. He wasn’t blind to the reality of it; they hadn’t valued him the way they should’ve, not for his level of talent, not for the hours of work, the sacrifices. Yet, the end still came too quickly, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. One day he was a key player, and the next, he wasn’t. They’d found someone better.

He wasn’t mad about it. Not anymore. How could he be? They’d chosen someone better, and how do you argue with that? He couldn’t. But it didn’t stop the sting, the blunt reminder that there would always be someone better. That he’d always be the second choice, the safe option until something—or someone—shinier came along. Now, he was caught in that strange, hollow space between what had been and what would be. Not part of his team anymore, but not officially welcomed by the next. Just… nowhere.

You entered the house quietly, the familiar click of your heels on the hardwood breaking the stillness. Something felt off the moment you stepped inside. The air was heavy, the kind of silence that sat uneasily in your chest.

He barely noticed when you walked in, too caught up in the spiral of his thoughts. Your shadowed figure showed up in his peripherals, but even then, his mind lingered on the weight pressing down on his chest. His team, his career—it all felt like a reflection of something deeper, something that bled into everything else in his life.

Including you.

When he finally looked at you, standing by the doorway of the living room with concern etched across your face, his stomach twisted. How could he not think it? The fear that settled in him like a second skin whispered relentlessly. What if he wasn’t enough for you, either?

You were beautiful, brilliant—everything he’d dreamed of but never truly believed he deserved. And just like the team, you had a choice. There would always be someone better, someone who could…love you more. He hated the way the thought lingered, how the doubt stretched its tendrils from one part of his life to another, weaving itself into the cracks he couldn’t seem to seal.

“Carlos?” Your voice broke through his thoughts, soft yet steady, pulling his gaze to you. He forced a smile, but it felt brittle, ready to crumble under the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

You stepped closer, your heels muffled now by the rug. His chest tightened as you knelt in front of him, your eyes scanning his face with a kind of tenderness he didn’t feel he deserved in that moment. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, but even to his own ears, it sounded hollow.

“Carlos,” you pressed, your voice firmer this time. Your hand rested lightly on his knee, grounding him in a way that both soothed and terrified him. “Please talk to me.”

He let out a heavy sigh, his head tipping forward as he tried to find the words. His gaze dropped to your hand on his knee, your thumb brushing gently against the fabric of his jeans, and his chest ached. You were so close, so present, and yet the doubts still lingered.

“They’ll always choose someone else,” he murmured finally, his voice low, almost resigned.

You frowned, your head tilting slightly. “Who?”

He shrugged, his lips pressing into a thin line as his thoughts swirled. “The team. People. It doesn’t matter how hard I work. I’ll never be… enough.”

The way he said it, the way his voice cracked ever so slightly, sent a shiver through you. But you caught it—the hesitation, the subtle way his eyes flickered to yours before darting away. He wasn’t just talking about the team.

“Carlos,” you said softly, your fingers tightening slightly on his knee. He still wouldn’t look at you, and that only made your heart ache more. “You don’t believe that. Not really.”

His laugh was bitter, a sharp, humorless sound that made your chest tighten. “Maybe I do. It’s just how it is, isn’t it? There’s always someone better. Someone who’s the first choice.”

The words hung heavy between you, and you could see it now—how his doubts about the team had spilled over, tainting the way he saw himself in every part of his life. Including the life he has with you.

Without thinking, you reached up, cupping his cheek and forcing him to look at you. His eyes were glassy, filled with a storm of emotions you could barely stand to see. “Carlos, stop.”

He blinked at you, startled by the firmness in your voice.

“I’d always choose you,” you said, the words clear and unwavering.

He froze, his breath hitching as the meaning of your words sank in. His eyes searched yours, desperate and unsure, as if he was trying to find some hidden meaning, some loophole. “You don’t mean that,” he said quietly, his voice thick with doubt.

“I do,” you said, your thumb brushing softly against his cheek. “It’s always been you for me. I love you and only you.”

He exhaled sharply, the sound rough and almost broken. His hands moved on instinct, gripping your wrists as his gaze bore into yours. “Say it again,” he demanded, his voice raw, almost pleading.

“I’d always choose you,” you repeated, leaning closer. “Over and over, Carlos. I don’t want anyone else.”

Carlos pulled you onto his lap, his hands firm on your waist as he brought you closer, close enough that your breath mingled with his, and your forehead rested against his. His eyes closed for a moment, his jaw clenching as if trying to hold back the torrent of thoughts that still raged within him.

He wanted to believe you. He wanted to take your words and hold them close, let them silence the insecurities that had been clawing at him all evening. But those thoughts—the ones that whispered of inadequacy, of being second best, of not being enough—they were loud. Too loud.

You could see it in his eyes when he opened them again, the flicker of doubt that he couldn’t quite hide. His lips parted, as if he was going to speak, but no words came. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze heavy with longing, with uncertainty, with fear.

“I don’t…” he started, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t let him finish. You couldn’t. Instead, you leaned in, silencing him with a kiss. It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was everything you felt for him, all the love and devotion you couldn’t quite put into words. Your hands cupped his face, holding him steady as your lips moved against his, pouring everything you had into that single moment.

Carlos stilled at first, as if he wasn’t sure what to do, but then he kissed you back. Hard. Desperate. His hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between you. It was a kiss that begged for reassurance, for proof that your words weren’t just fleeting promises.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads still pressed together. His eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“I love you,” you said again, your voice steady despite the way your heart was racing. “Only you, Carlos. Always you.”

“I love you too,” he finally murmured, his voice thick with emotion and just a flicker of hope breaking through the doubt. His hands tightened on your waist as if anchoring himself, grounding his belief in your words. He blinked rapidly, as though trying to chase away the tears pooling in his eyes, but he didn’t look away. Instead, his gaze hardened, a fierce intensity burning there that hadn’t been before.

“You’re mine,” he said, the words soft but laced with something unyielding, something absolute. His grip on you shifted, his hands sliding up to your back and pulling you flush against him. His forehead pressed against yours again, but this time, there was no hesitation. The possessiveness he’d always tried to keep hidden was spilling out, raw and unapologetic.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, firmer now, as though saying it would make it undeniably true.

His hands slid under your thighs, gripping you firmly as he lifted you effortlessly into his arms. Hearing you say you were his wasn’t enough—not now, not when his doubts still lingered like shadows in the back of his mind. He needed more. He needed to feel it, to see it, to make it impossible for either of you to deny.

He carried you through the house with purpose, the soft creak of the floorboards and the faint sound of your uneven breaths the only noises breaking the silence. When he reached the bedroom, he kicked the door shut behind him, not bothering to turn on the light. The darkness wrapped around the two of you like a cocoon, intimate and isolating, leaving nothing but the sound of your heartbeats pounding in tandem.

Carlos lowered you onto the bed with a tenderness that contrasted the storm brewing in his eyes. He hovered above you for a moment, his gaze roaming over your face, his chest rising and falling as though he were trying to steady himself. But then his head dipped, and his lips crashed into yours again, urgent and unrelenting. This wasn’t just a kiss; it was a claim, one that left no room for doubt or hesitation.

His hands gripped your hips, anchoring you in place as his mouth moved against yours with a hunger that stole your breath. Every movement, every touch, was filled with a raw desperation that made your chest tighten. He was pouring everything into this moment—his doubts, his fears, his love—and you felt it all.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and unsteady, as though he needed to hear the words as much as he needed to say them. “Only mine. No one else gets to have you.”

“I’m yours, Carlos,” you whispered, your voice trembling but sure. “Always yours.”

Carlos didn’t need to hear anything else. The second the words left your lips, something inside him snapped. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them with enough force to leave faint impressions on your skin as he parted them, slotting himself in between.

His lips moved against yours with a renewed fervour, the kiss bruising, all-consuming, determined to leave no part of you untouched by him.

He pushed your dress up, his hands following every inch of skin he had committed to his memory for months. His mouth followed the path of his fingers, teeth grazing and tongue soothing as he left a trail of marks along your neck, your collarbone, your chest. Each one was a statement, a reminder of his place in your life, a way to silence the nagging voice in his head that told him he wasn’t enough.

His hands left your body for just a moment, long enough for him to pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. The sight of him—every ridge of muscle, every freckle that you’d traced with your eyes a hundred times before—made your breath hitch. He made quick work of the rest of his clothes, the urgency in his movements making it clear he couldn’t bear even a second longer without being inside you.

When he returned to you, his bare skin pressing against yours, the heat of him was almost overwhelming. His lips claimed yours again, and as he guided himself to your pussy, he paused only long enough to lock eyes with you, his gaze searing, his jaw clenched with the effort of holding himself back.

Then when you nodded, he thrusted into you, and everything else ceased to matter. The fullness of him stole the air from your lungs, the stretch of him pushing you to your limits, leaving no part of you untouched.

Carlos set a rhythm that was anything but gentle, his hips snapping against yours with an intensity that sent shivers through your body. Each thrust was deep, deliberate, as though he was determined to carve himself into you, to leave no room for doubt about who you belonged to.

“Look at me,” he groaned, his voice rough and unsteady as he leaned closer, his forehead brushing against yours. “I want to see it—see how you’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you clung to him, almost overwhelmed by the force of his love, his desperation. “Always yours, Carlos. Always.”

A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest at your words, and his pace quickened, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. His hands roamed your body, gripping your hips, your thighs, your waist—everywhere he could touch to remind himself that you were here, with him, for him.

His mouth found your neck again, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before sinking in lightly, leaving another mark to join the others. “Mine,” he growled, his voice hoarse as his lips moved down to your collarbone, then your chest, claiming every inch of you with his mouth, his hands, his body. “No one else gets this. No one else gets to touch you, to hear you like this, to feel you like this.”

The possessiveness in his tone, the way his body pressed into yours as though trying to meld you together, sent you spiraling. Your body tightened around him, your cries rising in pitch as you fell apart beneath him, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

Carlos didn’t stop, even as you trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. He needed more—needed to feel you come undone for him again and again until every part of you bore his mark, until there was no question in his mind or yours about who you belonged to, who you loved.

“Again,” he murmured against your skin, his voice dark, commanding. His hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, making you jolt, your body tightening around him once more. “I want to feel you again, mi amor. I want to feel you fall apart for me, just for me.”

And you did—again and again, until he was satisfied with the marks he left on your delicate skin, until the lingering shadows of doubt in his mind faded, and he could believe, without question, that you were his alone—that your love for him was unshakable, enduring, and meant to last forever.

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bunny-jpeg · 2 months ago

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hi bunny, just got broken up with so anything to fix a broken heart would be amazing but highly need Lando Norris to be the situation.

Maybe best friends to lovers, kinky kinky good shit

heartbreak heaven

lando norris

tags: smut & fluff, friends-to-lovers, jealousy, sweet talk, break ups

a/n: i'm so sorry about that anon! break-ups are always the hardest, but i promise it does get a lot better! i hope you love this fic and maybe it soothes some of the ache from the heartbreak! i gave it a mix of romantic, fluffy, smutty goodness! - word of advice: chocolate is a great medicine for a heartbreak!

"that's crazy! i can't believe he did that." lando said as he leaned over and grabbed another tissue from the box on the coffee table, "we should kill him."

you looked at him, unamused as you took the tissue from him, "not funny, lando." you remarked as you wiped your eyes, "i can't believe he did that. he just up and left, he said that he could do it anymore. do what? am i that bad of a catch?" you huffed as you balled up the tissue, "stupid prick."

"ah well, his loss." he remarked. he was comfortable next to you on the couch with his arm draped over the back of it, "you'll get 'em next time, tiger."

you leaned up against him and exhaled deeply, "thanks, lando. nice to have a friend like you." then let out a small chuckle.

lando let you lay up against him and threw an arm around you. he sighed, "yeah... friend."

you had known lando for a while, since the karting days. your older brother was a racer, and while he didn't make it pro, you still remained closed to lando. you two were the same age and it was a a simple friendship. except lando didn't see it that way, when he was younger he never thought about happily ever afters and marriage. but, when you were around, even when you cheered on your brother, lando thought about you being mrs. norris. but time wasn't kind to him and after what felt like a dozen boyfriends, you were once again in lando's arms with tears in your eyes.

"you can do better." he said lowly, "so much better, you have no idea." he leaned in a little closer, his arm snaked around you, "how about someone who knows what the hell they're doing. to make you feel special, to please you."

"like oscar?" you asked a little oblivious.

lando sighed before he looked you in the eyes, "no... like me." before he captured your lips in his and wrapped both arms around you shoulders.

when he pulled away, he looked at you once more. and you stared back at him with shocker, "what!?" you asked and he felt heat in his cheeks.

"i can explain-"

you pulled him in for a tight kiss once more before you held onto his shoulders tightly. you felt the excitement through both of your bodies, he pressed his forehead up against yours with his eyes closed before he asked, "bedroom?"

lando know the layout of your flat like the back of his hand. he took you by the hand and led you towards your bedroom. he flicked on the lights and you led him further into your domain. the white rug, the string lights, the soft bed with the stuffed animals on it, which included a stuffed dog that he picked up for you while overseas.

"you look good you know, even with all your runny make up." he joked, "in order to really love a girl you gotta see her in her most comfortable." it didn't help that you were in sleeping shorts and a mclaren t-shirt (another gift from lando). and then started to get his t-shirt off. you did the same to your own shirt, lando eyed the shape of your body under the t-shirt.

you looked away for a moment and asked, "does it look bad?"

lando shook his head, "oh, no way. you look.... beautiful. what the fuck were these guys thinking? obviously a waste of a beautiful woman." his hands went to the belt on his black jeans, "i have a theory, that when a guy sees a woman as beautiful as you. they get intimidated. scared little boys." he chuckled.

"because you were always scared to ask me out?"

lando nodded, "yeah, but... i can't help myself anymore. if i see you with one more guy, i'm going to crash my car into them... i want you." he practically fell to his knees in front of you while you sat on the bed. he placed a large hand on your thigh, "i can't take it anymore, i want you. i need you. i want to be with you."

you took him by the face and gazed into his beautiful eyes. you ran your thumb across his bottom lip and nodded, "then after this.. you show me all the other ways a proper man should treat a woman."

lando took you by the hand and pushed your wrist up against his face, he exhaled deeply and said, "of course... every way i can."

you both were soon up by the pillows, lando's large hands on you as he held onto your shoulders to kiss you. the kiss was heavy, near bruising on your lips. the bed shifted under the both of you as you stripped of your clothes. you were left bare for lando as he felt up your skin.

he took in the sight of you, enough distance to admire your face and body, you looked heavenly, like a divine being. laid out on the soft covers of your bed. the male species must be a bunch of goddamn idiots. he laid you out on the bed, he admired your beauty as he felt you up. he swallowed and said, "beautiful, you know that right? beauty beyond words." then laughed a little as he captured your lips with his once more.

"please, lando." you reached over into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out a condom, "no ifs, ands, or buts." and lando took it happily. it was quite erotic seeing lando put on a condom. it arose something in you, you couldn't quite put into words. and then when he was back between your legs once more. you smiled up at him and said, "you look good with one on."

"better safe than sorry." he remarked, "now, relax... i've been waiting for this for a long, long time." his childhood friend, his first crush, was now under him on her bed all spread out and perfect for him. one hand on his cock and another on your hip, he slowly sank into you and felt a shudder through his body. it felt hot, very hot.

"how does it feel?" you asked, for a moment you were self conscious. you knew that lando could have any woman he wanted, there were tons of grid bunnies, models and beyond who would die for a piece of lando. it made you feel a little self conscious in yourself.

"how does it feel? it feels amazing, fuck. you feel as good as you look. holy shit." he chuckled softly, "you have no idea what you do to me. all the times i thought about you. yearned for you. the longest crush i've ever had." he said as he held your hips and continued to move against you.

"no need to flatter me, lando. you already have me." then yelped when lando hiked your hips up a little bit.

lando chuckled as he moved against you faster, "i love when you say that, how that sounds on your tongue. your sweet voice telling me that i have you. but call me greedy, beautiful, because i want all of you." his pace quickened and he leaned in further towards you.

"fuck, lando." you groaned. you wondered where he learned those words. you felt the shudder through you as the pleasure continued to course through you, the patter of your heart grew as he continued to love you.

"that's it, angel. that's it." he groaned as he rutted against you, "jesus christ, you're beautiful. you have no idea what you do to me. fuck, i could name all the times i saw you and my jaw dropped."

"flirt." you moaned.

"only for you, angel." he said as he continued to move, his pace was rather feverish the more he needed you. you held onto his shoulders and he loved the feeling of your nails in his tanned shoulders. it only made him yearn for you more as he rutted against you. he could feel the heat in his cheeks and the pleasure cloud his thoughts.

it was hard to think of much else when he was buried in his sweet cunt. your cunt made him wild as he moved. he wanted more, no, he needed more. more of you, more of his first and only crush. no matter how many trophies he won, to have you in his arms was worth more than that.

he kissed you once more, and you held his face. you tried to meet his pace as his cock worked inside of you. it was hot between you two, you could feel the heat at your temples as you kept your legs up to keep him fucking you.

you tensed up at the feeling, at his words. when he pulled away from the kiss, you two gazed at one another. you didn't think that you'd ever be with lando, but there he was. he gazed at you with a heated want as the two of you continued to move against one another. it felt electric, hot in a way that made your core swirl.

he was erotic, painfully hot. you felt the pleasure grow in your body. it was something else, a totally different feeling. you groaned, "fucking hell, lando."

lando beamed down at you and continued to fuck you. the kisses continued soon after and he felt the fire in his gut from the want from you. you were beyond perfect, he knew that. the way your pussy took him left him hungry for more.

"you're amazing." he said lowly, "so perfect."

"not as perfect as you." you said as you kissed him on the cheek, your hands in his hair as the two of you fucked against one another with a heated passion. the fire between the both of you as you two rutted against one another.

the pleasure only bloomed in your gut as he moved against you and you moved against him. you moved together in a sort of harmony. a perfect pace of one another as the pleasure moved through both of you. it felt like heaven and it made your toes curl at the feeling.

it didn't take much longer before you held onto him and came around his cock. your cutn clenched around his cock and he rutted against you further. the two of you moved against one another heavily. the pleasure only crashed over you, and then soon after it crashed over him and he came inside of the condom. he groaned into your shoulder as he finished. you held onto him closely and the two of you continued to move against one another.

he groaned against your skin and felt the fire in his soul. it felt amazing, and as he slowed to a stop. he admired you. he saw the expression on your face and your features, the same features he loved growing up. the two of you kissed one another before lando laid in bed beside of you. he held your face when he kissed you again.

you giggled against him then pulled away. you two looked at one another and you wrapped an arm around him. you asked, "how was that?"

"oh perfect." he chuckled as he held your face, "beyond perfect." he looked at you closely and felt a sense of relief in his body. he kissed you once more then said, "i want you for the rest of my life."

and who were you say no? <3

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fxstpace · 3 months ago

Text

in the spirit of matrimony

summary: iwaizumi hajime is getting married and you and your ex, oikawa tooru, must pretend you’re still together to avoid ruining his big day. the charade, however, proves to be a lot more complicated than you thought.

⇢ pairing: oikawa tooru x fem!reader ⇢ genres: romance, angst, exes to lovers au, fake dating au ⇢ word count: 3.0k ⇢ warnings: profanity, alcohol consumption ⇢ a/n: reposted from my old blog (@/sokuroo).

Oikawa Tooru is currently using the shower in your hotel room, and you are running late for dinner with Iwaizumi Hajime because of this.

You sit on the plush armchair in the corner of the room, picking at the raised swirls and curlicues embroidered on the cushion. You’re supposed to be meeting with Iwaizumi for dinner in fifteen minutes, but Oikawa seems to be taking his own sweet time getting ready. You can’t say you’re surprised.

Irritated? Yes.

When he finally bursts out of the bathroom, looking like a Louis Vuitton model, you simply grab your purse and hotel card, and stride out the door without a second glance. Oikawa Tooru isn’t worth your time or energy—for now.

He catches up with you quickly—volleyball legs, and all that—and you can smell his perfume: Cremo spice and black vanilla. You hate the fact that you remember; you’d rather not, but he hasn’t changed the scent in five years and it’s always the little things that are the hardest to forget. In his black button down shirt and with his hair styled carefully with gel, Oikawa definitely looks attractive. He knows it, too, probably, and it gives you a twisted sort of satisfaction knowing that he can’t go about flirting with every person who catches his eye.

He simply cannot, because as far as Iwaizumi Hajime is concerned, you and Oikawa are still together.

“Don’t forget,” you mutter, just low enough that only he can hear you.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves his hand dismissively before tucking it back into his pocket. “It’s just Hajime. Don’t worry.”

You bite back a sigh. It would do you no good to appear so visibly vexed—and it would cause Hajime to worry unnecessarily, which does a lot more harm to everyone involved. The only thing you want him to be worried about is wedding preparations and becoming a husband in three days.

Your old friend meets you at the hotel lobby, right before Oikawa furtively slips his hand into yours. Iwaizumi looks tired—his clothes look rumpled and he has dark circles under his eyes—but he still smiles at you and Oikawa in the same way: boyish and crooked. You grin back at him.

“Hey, you two.” Iwaizumi opens his arms and pulls you in for a hug. His stubble brushes against your cheek, and you frown.

“You’re growing a beard?” you ask incredulously, when you pull away.

He chuckles. “I wish. I need to look handsome on the day of the wedding. Akari thinks it makes me look rugged.” He shrugs and adds, “Personally, I can’t tell the difference.”

“How’s Mrs. Iwaizumi doing?” Oikawa cuts in. He smiles at his best friend, a quick flash of his teeth that you haven’t seen in ages. It almost makes you wish he still smiled at you like that. Almost.

“Akari’s great,” Hajime answers, the edges of his smile turning fond. His fiancé is truly the sweetest, and she’s perfect for Iwaizumi in ways no one else ever could be. It’s difficult to doubt their love, and you consider yourself lucky to have witnessed them falling for each other in college. “Really great, actually. She told me to tell you she’s sorry she couldn’t make it today, but she can’t wait to see you both tomorrow.”

Your ex-boyfriend sighs dramatically. “Iwa-chan. The only entertaining person of the evening is missing. Whatever shall I do?”

“I’m sure your girlfriend will provide ample entertainment, Oikawa,” Hajime deadpans.

Your cheeks flood with heat at the implication. You’re the furthest thing from being Oikawa Tooru’s entertainment tonight, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s laughing internally at the predicament.

“She’s good at entertaining me with other things,” he retorts, waggling his eyebrows in that infuriating way of his. “Not funny enough, unfortunately.”

You bristle. “Uncalled for, Oikawa.”

He turns to you—the first time he’s looked at you properly since you arrived at the hotel in their hometown—and, taking your hand in his, rubs his thumb along the back of your palm. You nearly shiver; Oikawa used to do that all the time when you were still together, and the small gesture now makes a lump form in your throat.

“Just kidding, babe,” he says indulgently. “You know I make up for the lack of humour on your part.”

You have to give it to him. Oikawa Tooru is a magnificent actor.

The way he talks to you, as though both of you hadn’t walked out of the hotel room without saying a word to each other is a feat in itself. He speaks to you as though nothing has changed, as though everything about the way you’re projecting yourselves to your friend is completely natural. You close the hole in your chest where Oikawa used to reside; you will not fall for his little antics—not when he chose to leave you alone.

You roll your eyes, meeting Hajime’s fond—if exasperated—gaze. “Ignore him.”

“I’ve been doing it my entire life,” he responds.

“You are mean and I hate you both,” Oikawa whines. Both of you ignore him.

“Let’s go,” Hajime says. “The izakaya gets really crowded later in the night.”

You wipe your hands on the soft cotton of the oshibori, scanning the menu taped onto the wall. Next to you, Oikawa digs into the otoshi, and in front of you, Hajime sips on his glass of beer.

“Yakisoba noodles sounds good,” you murmur, “don’t you think?”

“I wan’ the chmmkn kraagh,” Oikawa says immediately through a mouthful of potato salad.

Iwaizumi sighs and translates, “He wants the chicken karaage.”

You scowl. You and Oikawa Tooru can never agree about things. You’re both too stubborn and hot-headed to budge from your opinions, and towards the end of your relationship, the number of petty arguments that were a result of your clashing personalities was high. At one point of time, you might have said that it was one of Oikawa’s qualities that you admired.

Right now, it just irks you to no end.

“We can order both,” you suggest. “Don’t talk with food in your mouth.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes. He makes a show of swallowing, exaggerating the bob of his throat, before he turns to you and states, “I want the chicken karaage, and I know Iwa-chan likes it more than yakisoba noodles.”

“Actually,” Hajime says mildly, “I kind of want the sashimi.”

“Let’s just order all three.” You bring your glass of beer to your lips and take a sip.

Iwaizumi looks curiously between you both. You take another sip of your beer, and you come to the realisation that for an outsider—like Hajime—you and Oikawa look absolutely nothing like a couple.

The fault is yours: You didn’t tell Hajime about your break up with Oikawa, and neither did he. Hajime still thinks you’re together. Neither you nor your ex-boyfriend are tactless enough to tell him that you aren’t dating anymore three days before he’s getting married. Iwaizumi is excited, and you aren’t about to dampen his happiness by telling him his two best friends haven’t spoken to each other in months.

That’s how, for the first time in ages, you and Oikawa Tooru decided that you couldn’t ruin Iwaizumi Hajime’s Big Day, and it was also how Operation: Pretend Like You’re Madly In Love So Your Surprisingly Intuitive Best Friend Doesn’t Feel Bad came about.

You set your beer down again, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Can I try some of that?” you ask, nudging Oikawa’s shoulder with yours.

He pauses mid-chew, chopsticks held high in the air. “Sure.”

You nudge his shoulder again, a little bit more forcefully this time. Oikawa glares at you. You narrow your eyes at him, trying to send him some sort of telepathic signal. His eyes widen.

“Here, babe,” he says, plastering a grin on his face. He picks up a chunk of the creamy potato salad that was served as the otoshi and holds it up. He uses his thumb and pointer finger to gently bring your face closer to his chopsticks. You fist your fingers, nails cutting crescents into your palms, and accept the mouthful he holds out to you.

“Good?” Oikawa murmurs, his eyes not leaving your face.

You hum. It is good, rich and tart with a touch of sweetness, but for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to verbalise it. Your gaze flits downwards as you gently pull away from his grasp. Your jaw tingles where he held it.

Iwaizumi grins at you—almost knowingly—when you pick up your beer again. He holds a hand up, calling for the waiter to take your orders.

The alcohol washes down the taste of the food, but your heart is about to leap out of your throat.

It is always alcohol that loosens your tongue, and it’s the same for Oikawa Tooru as well. The beer you had at the izakaya lowers the towering walls between you both somewhat. It’s easier to speak to him, now, and after you switch on the lights in the hotel room and kick off your sandals, you whirl around and face Oikawa.

“What the hell was that?” you seethe, glaring at your ex-boyfriend.

He pauses in the middle of taking off his shoes. “What the hell was what?”

“You almost blew our cover! Didn’t you see the way Hajime looked at us?”

Oikawa cocks his head to the side, and his cluelessness only infuriates you even more.

“God, you haven’t changed one bit!” you rant. Your chest heaves with emotion—you’re not sure what emotion, exactly. Anger? Resentment? Foolish hope? Or perhaps a cocktail of all three that causes you to feel nothing but confusion. “Hajime is getting married in two days, and I know you couldn’t care less, but for his sake, can’t you make this whole—whole act more believable?”

“You— What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” Oikawa’s eyebrows raise upwards incredulously. “You think I don’t care about Iwaizumi’s wedding? I met him before I even knew you existed.” He scoffs. “Of fucking course I care!”

“Then would it kill you to act like you still love me?” You take a step forward, eyes narrowed and index finger pointing at him. “Is that it? Is it so repulsive to pretend like you still have feelings for me, so that your best friend doesn’t worry about us?”

“That’s not it, and you know it,” Oikawa snarls, a frown marring his features. “We should’ve told him as soon as it happened.”

Hearing him refer to your relationship as it feels like a slap to the face. You falter, cursing yourself inwardly.

Of course he doesn’t care for you now. Why would he, after he decided that long-distance relationships were too much effort? I don’t see us working out in the long run, he’d explained over FaceTime. I’m sorry.

Two days later, you declared yourself officially single. You burrowed yourself in piles of work and forgot to tell Iwaizumi Hajime because talking to Hajime would remind you of Oikawa, and you weren’t ready for that yet. Eventually, you just… didn’t tell him.

That’s why it came as an unwelcome surprise to you when you walked into the hotel lobby and found Oikawa Tooru waiting there, with his arms crossed over his chest and his suitcase by his feet. You’re here, he’d said, and you wanted to punch yourself for the way your heart somersaulted in your chest.

You finally find your voice again. “But we didn’t, so would it kill you to just… not be so fucking obvious?”

Oikawa remains stoic, though you suspect he’s just as agitated as you are. “Yes. I don’t want to do this at all.”

Something in you breaks. How easy it is for Oikawa to break your heart. You’d given him the fragile thing, made of glass, and he had knocked it over like it was a house of cards more than once.

“Fine,” you grit out, bending down and picking up your footwear again. The alcohol buzzing in your head isn’t enough—you need to stop thinking, need to find some way to stop yourself from constantly imagining him. “See if I care.”

You shoulder past him and place your hand on the doorknob.

“Where are you going?”

If you really strained your ears, you could almost hear the imperceptible concern in Oikawa’s voice. You brush it off; he doesn’t have any feelings towards you, as he’s made so amply clear.

“Why do you care?” you retort, before pushing open the door and heading in the direction of the hotel restaurant’s bar.

The room is dark when you open the door.

It’s a little past one in the morning—or so one of the bellhops had said when he kindly escorted you back to your room. Your mind is swirling.

It seems even getting yourself batshit drunk isn’t enough to eradicate all thoughts of Oikawa.

The walls spin. You stumble inside. Your hip bumps against something solid—a table, probably—and you let out a startled yelp.

Oikawa’s voice is like a balm, soothing your feverish forehead, when he says your name.

How are you supposed to get over him? How are you supposed to go back to living alone when you’ve had this taste of what it could be like, regardless of how authentic it is?

The answer is clear as day: You cannot.

A pair of hands guides you by the shoulders to the bed. Oikawa is careful, gentle with his hold on you. You sprawl on the bed sheets, the fabric cool against your cheek. He appears like an outline in the darkness.

“Are you okay?”

“God,” you mumble, screwing your eyes shut. “You can’t keep doing this to me, Oikawa.”

He remains silent for a moment, before he clears his throat and says, “You asked me why I care about where you go.”

You don’t say anything.

“I just do,” he continues, “and I don’t know how to explain it. But I do care.”

His fingers are warm when he caresses your cheek. The last thing you do before succumbing to sleep is murmur his name—a curse, but somehow reverent.

When you wake up the next morning, the sheets next to you are rumpled. There is no sign of Oikawa anywhere in the room, but there is a tall glass of water placed on the bedside table.

Through the pounding of your head, you squint at the note written using the hotel stationery placed beside it.

Drink up. Hajime and Akari are bringing us breakfast.

Breakfast is a lively affair. You’re glad to see Akari again, happy to see the to-be-newlyweds so patently in love with each other.

Oikawa keeps his hand on your thigh, steady and comforting, and offers you golden smiles whenever you catch his eye, and you swallow down the awful lump in your throat.

The day passes by in a blur.

It’s on the day before Iwaizumi’s wedding that Oikawa Tooru kisses you.

Wedding photos are unnecessary, you think. After all, you’re not the one getting married. But Akari had been insistent that you and Oikawa take some pictures together, and you couldn’t refuse her beseeching gaze.

Oikawa, clad in his dapper suit, with his hair styled using copious amounts of hair gel, places his hands on your waist and draws you in. His fingers bunch up the material of your dress. The photographer asks you to place your hands on his chest. His heartbeat is a steady thrum underneath the pads of your fingertips.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, leaning in.

You nod.

His mouth tastes like spearmint and the chocolate muffins he’d shared with you at breakfast.

The afternoon passes by in a daze.

As you walk through the wedding venue, noting all the decorations and the flower arrangements, Oikawa slips his hand into yours.

“You don’t have to,” you say. “No one’s here to see us.”

“I want to,” he replies simply. He is serious now, not his usual boisterous self, the way he is around Hajime and Akari. “It’s a nice place, no?”

You press your lips together. His words are oddly reminiscent of what he said the night you were drunk. Your stomach twists into knots, but if you don’t ask him the one question that has been nagging at you since then, who will do it for you?

“Tooru,” you say.

He stiffens. It’s the first time you’ve used his first name since you broke up with him.

“Why didn’t you tell Hajime we broke up?” you ask.

His shoulders loosen and his mouth twists upwards in a crooked, sad sort of smile.

“Because I love you, and breaking up with you broke me in some way.”

Your voice is quiet when you ask, “Why did you?”

“I didn’t want to be the one holding you back,” he says, just as quietly. “I didn’t want you to be constantly worrying about someone who didn’t even live in the same country as you. You deserve someone who will be there for you. Someone you can come home to after work, and talk about your day, and cook dinner together with. I couldn’t give you that.”

You want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. What a stupid, idiotic fool you’re in love with.

“Silly,” you say. “I only want you.”

The wedding happens on a sunny afternoon, and it is beautiful. Akari is radiant, and Hajime tells her that he’s the luckiest man ever. They are in love, and looking at them doesn’t hurt anymore. Your ex-boyfriend turned current boyfriend presses his shoulder against yours and gives you a small, knowing smile when he catches you almost tearing up. You nudge him back, and his smile grows into a grin that envelops his face in gold.

(“You’re the golden one,” he’ll tell you later, pressing feather-light kisses to your collarbones and cheeks. You’ll say he’s wrong.)

Right before the crowd disperses, Oikawa takes your hand and brings it to his lips. He presses a soft kiss against the knuckle of your ring finger.

Later, he whispers to you that it’s all in the spirit of matrimony.

Oikawa Tooru is using the shower in your bedroom, and he’s running late to catch his flight back to Argentina, and everything is perfect.

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