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strawberry-nugget · 1 month ago

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Katsuki does his own Calvin Klein ad and the comments you see all over TikTok make you jealous!

Pairing: Bakugo x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, top! reader, oral (m receiving), cumflation(?), jealousy, a little fighting, LOADS of comfort, Jungkook mentioned ig? All characters are 20+

You're mad.

Extremely mad.

Ac/dc’s TNT plays on repeat from the speaker of your phone, your laptop, your TV, the Main Street screen from the building across your apartment a few stories below. And truly, every single time a replay goes on and on, each screen unsynced, your anger grows even worse inside your already too tight chest.

The reason?

Your boyfriend’s Calvin Klein ad has actually broke the internet.

It’s fucking ridiculous—The whole thing is worse than what happened with Bad Bunny a few months ago.

The comments are all over the place. Messy. Too messy. Too thirsty. Too delirious. Too fucking disrespectful.

You've scrolled through way too many edits. No scratch that. You've only scrolled through edits. With millions of likes, hundreds thousands of comments—that you've spent hours reading to their entirety. The actual video from the official Calvin Klein account has thirty, no forty million likes. Almost as many saves and shares too.

You’re naturally jealous. You knew you were bound to be even if you were the one who practically begged him to say yes to the offer and you definitely knew your boyfriend was the cause of thirst for many people worldwide.

It’s never been a problem until now. You've usually encountered the occasional ‘congratulations to whoever is bouncing on it’ edit, hell you’ve even smiled like an idiot at it, but now? After digging through comments that explicitly say ‘his girlfriend aint even deserve all that’ and ‘damn Dynamight’s gf i said LET GO’ you want to scream. Yell. Get back at him.

You can’t even bear to witness the video anymore. Only because when looking at it out of context, you feel like you can forgive him because of how hot he just looks!

It’s all over your screen; Katsuki flexing his muscles, biceps, forearms, back, thighs, torso. Letting off explosions, pulling the waistband of his boxers down just enough to tease, stomping his hero boots before he kneels completely. All while being extremely sweaty.

Seriously, fuck him and that hero work durability underwear line.

You’ve now unliked the original post out of pure spite. Then re-liked it. Then unliked it again because it felt like you were feeding the beast that's unleashing negativity and pumps jealousy throughout your whole body

You’ve closed the app, deleted it, redownloaded it, and then ended up stalking your own boyfriend like you were a crazed fan girl and not the person who literally shares a bathroom with him, only to be met with the same ten posts on TikTok—yes the one where he does push ups with you on his back and the other edit he has posted of you, even the one and only repost he has that’s of your ‘somebody point me to the best ass eater’ TikTok, where he acted like a feral beast and actually tried to bend you over.

And then his instagram, where there are only a few yearly hero chart posts that have him as a co creator and like, three actual posts that he made himself. One from his agency, one from a school reunion and one with you smiling next to him, both bloody and bruised after a villain attack with the caption ‘you should see the other guy’.

Back to TikTok now, you take one last look at the ad before you ultimately close it, yes, for real this time, fists clenched like you’re about to march straight to Calvin Klein Japan HQ and file a formal complaint about emotional damages.

Instead, you exhale sharp through your nose and storm into the kitchen like a woman on a mission.

Fine.

If the internet wants to thirst over your man like they’ve never seen shoulders before, then so be it. You’re not threatened.

Not really. Not even a little.

You’re the one he comes home to. You’re the one who knows the exact way he likes his coffee in the morning, the brand of muscle balm he’ll pretend he doesn’t need, the scar on his side he never talks about.

They don’t know him.

But you do.

And tonight, you’re going to prove it. Prove that you’re the most perfect girlfriend for him, that you won’t let go because someone on the internet begs you to.

You slam the fridge door shut with the kind of force that makes the condiments rattle. Chicken breast. Garlic. Thyme. That expensive parmesan he rolls his eyes at but always eats the fastest. You’ve got all the ingredients for the dumb TikTok “marry me chicken” and honestly, yeah—maybe it’s manipulative. Maybe it’s desperate.

You don’t care. You've made it before and he adores it.

If the competition is public thirst, then your counterattack is a home-cooked seduction plan followed by a bath with that weird overpriced salt soak that smells like cedarwood, cocoa and sex. Let them drool behind screens—you’re setting the mood with candles and your favorite playlist and maybe even the nice satin robe with nothing underneath if it’s clean.

And it almost works.

It almost makes you feel better. Like maybe you’ve got the upper hand again. Like maybe you’re not going insane over a stupid fucking ad where he literally flexes his thighs and kneels and sweats on purpose. And flexes again.

Until you start chopping the garlic and realize your hands are shaking.

You stop abruptly.

You stare down at the cutting board, knife hovering mid-air, and realize your throat’s a little tight. Your chest’s a little too hollow.

Because the truth is—deep down, like deep deep deep down, where all the ugliest thoughts live—you’re not mad.

You’re scared that you’re not enough. Insecure. Like youve got any right to when you've literally grown up with him. When he’s never even bat an eye to anyone but you.

But you feel like a high school girl again. Standing in the hallway outside your class, so mad and sick of jealousy that fangirls from year one are swamping your boyfriend that you drag him by the ear into the classroom and shove your tongue down his throat.

And damn, was that punishment from Aizawa worth it when he caught you.

No, now, it’s even worse. It’s not just the girls at school. Not just Japan. It’s the whole world.

And you're so scared that the world seeing him like that is going to remind him of what he could have. Of what else is out there. Of how easily people fall to their knees for him—not in ad campaigns, but in real life.

And what are you?

Somebody who gets overwhelmed easily. Somebody who overthinks. Somebody who can’t even watch a thirty-second ad without spiraling into a meltdown that tastes like garlic seeped deeply into fingernails and salt and the distinct flavor of not enough.

What if ‘animemencracker22’ could cook better for him or what if ‘Dynamightsleftbicep’ could massage his head better when they run him a bath? If ‘gymratgirl4life’ wanted to go out with him more and if ‘corrrrruptedlvr’ wasn’t throwing jealousy fits?

You’re not the girl in the comments. You’re not the fantasy.

You’re just you.

And even when you’re holding the knife and planning the perfect welcome-home meal and pretending like the bath you’re running later isn’t strategic—you still wonder if that’s going to be enough to keep a man like Katsuki Bakugou.

Worse, you wonder if he knows you’re trying this hard, because of your overwhelming need to feel like you deserve someone like him.

You let the knife drop and suddenly, you’re not hungry anymore. You were never even hungry to begin with. Your fucking eyes are welling up with stupid tears that you dont want to shed.

You’re not even a jealous person. Save for two or three times, you don’t feel like this over him. And it’s not because you’ve taken him for granted, but it’s been years that you two are together that have worked you into not thinking Katsuki could want anyone else other than you. You don’t want anyone else other than him.

But what if he’s tired. What if he feels youre the same old song stuck on repeat when he could have anyone. 30 million people in the world and you included.

The silence in the kitchen hums louder than any song on loop, only broken by the sound of your choking as you’re trying not to violently sob. The garlic’s sharp sting still clings to your fingers. The oven’s preheat light blinks like a mocking little eye. Your playlist, the one reserved for special nights, is halfway into some sultry R&B Aaliyah track that now feels like a joke.

Your arms go slack at your sides.

This was supposed to feel empowering. Sexy. A big middle finger to the comment section and the edited thirst traps and the “she doesn’t even deserve him” discourse that’s been hijacking your feed all damn day.

Instead, you feel small. Stupid. Still so embarrassingly in love.

You rub your eyes with the backs of your hands like that’ll somehow push the thoughts back in. Like that’ll make you forget the way your chest aches with that special kind of loneliness that only shows up when you’re still physically close to someone but emotionally spiraling into the trenches of your own insecurity.

You glance at the clock. Patrol should end in twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. And you push your lips together, scrunching the corners of your mouth in, pursing your lips and squint your eyes.

You’ll push through, because even if you’re so extremely jealous, Katsuki still deserves a nice home cooked meal and a hot bath, even more often than every other day, when you stay home to handle the agency paperwork, because of your latest injury after a villain attack.

He really hasn’t done anything wrong, you tell yourself, other than being extremely hot.

So you end up cooking, with tears in your eyes and the most pouty expression and by the time you finish, setting the pan on a part of the stove that isn't hot and curl down in front of the fridge, dropping to your knees to cry your heart out—The door clicks open.

Oh. Shit.

Weighty boots make contact with the floor first. The heavy stomp of post-patrol exhaustion. Then the groan of his back hitting the door frame. You hear the soft rustle of his gloves coming off, his keys clinking in the ceramic dish by the entry.

You freeze—You can’t let him see you like this. You can’t let him be the one who finds you curled on the tile like some lovesick idiot who lost a battle to TikTok.

“Heyy I’m home” you hear and you grunt to yourself, trying not to let it be known you sniffle right after.

“…Smells fuckin’ good,” his voice calls out—gruff, like he’s trying not to yawn. “You cookin’ somethin’?”

You grunt again.

He doesn’t see you right away. But his voice gets closer. Each step across the hardwood is loud and certain and distinctly him. The kind of sound that always used to make you feel safe.

Now it just makes your stomach twist.

You force yourself to stand, too fast, too suddenly, brushing your hands on your thighs then your apron and you try to act normal when your chest is about to cave in again.

Katsuki rounds the corner, still in uniform, gauntlets off, sweat clinging to his hairline, a little dirt smudged near his jaw, where some blond scruff is starting to grow. His eyes find you instantly—and narrow.

“Babe? You okay? Say hi back”

You hate how quick he notices. How easy it is for him to read you. You’ve never been good at hiding from him, especially not when it comes to shit like this.

“Oh—uh, hey. I was,” you say, eyes glued to the counter. “Got distracted.” Still, you force a smile “im fine”

“You don’t look fine.”

You flinch. “Can we—can we not do this right now?”

The silence stretches.

Katsuki exhales through his nose, tilting his head like a puppy, eyes big with inquiry boring in yours as if he’s debating whether to let it go or push. You know which one he’ll pick. He’s never, ever been the let it go type.

“You saw the ad.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even said with guilt or amusement or defensiveness. Just certainty.

You look away. Embarrassed. “Everyone and their mama saw the ad Katsuki.”

A pause. Then a sigh. Then he rubs a tired hand over his jaw.

He walks over, slow and careful like you’re a spooked animal, and you hate it. You hate that he’s being gentle when all you want is to yell at him and fall into his arms and scream into his chest all at once.

His hand lands on your waist. Warm. Familiar. Real.

“You mad at me?” he murmurs, lips pouty in the way you just love.

You shake your head up and down. A silent yes.

“I’m mad at me too tho.”

His brows furrow. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I shouldn’t care this much,” you mumble. “I shouldn’t be jealous of a bunch of people who don’t even know you. I shouldn’t be chopping garlic like it’s a last-ditch attempt to prove I deserve you, but I—I just—”

Your voice cracks.

Katsuki’s eyes soften, his lips too.

“You think I’d wanna be with anybody else?” he asks, so blunt it hits like a punch.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He lifts your chin with two fingers, thumb softly brushing lines across your bottom lip— he makes you look him in the eye.

“I did that ad ‘cause you told me to. ‘Cause you said I should. And I ain’t think it’d piss you off—but even if it did, I’d still be comin’ home to you.”

You swallow hard.

“They can watch,” he adds. “They can comment. They can make all the stupid fuckin’ edits they want. But you think I give a shit about any of ‘em when I’ve got you runnin’ me a bath?”

You blink. “…You knew I was running you a bath?”

“You only play that playlist when you’re tryna seduce me.” He snorts.

Your face burns, but your chest still burns hotter, tighter. Tight-est. You’re not ready to let go of this just yet. A hug and no kiss yet are already making your head spin back to that awful insecure state. You hate overthinking every little thing, but you can’t help getting caught up in it.

“Chicken smells good,” he adds casually. “Wanna feed it to me naked?”

You shove his chest gently. Though when you look up at him, you realise you're still greatly mad at him. “Shut up. No”

“C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you into his arms again. You go willingly, burying your face in his neck, nuzzling your nose too deep into his skin. “I love you,” he says into your hair. “All of them can choke.”

“They’re your fans, Katsuki”

“Yeah yeah. They can choke on my dick”

Oh that—that makes you snap.

“Im sure they’d love to” you hiss, lurching back away from him, too mad at how willingly his arms let you go.

You want to jab, hurt him just a little. Make him jealous just a tad. Make yourself look like you've got better options than plain old ‘_narutoswife’ in his IG comment section.

He doesn’t deserve it. No, not at all. He just came back home from work and you want to catch a toxic attitude instead of communicating. You just want to make him a little mad over you too.

“Fyi, if you remember, Jungkook did say in an interview that im his type! He called me a strong female hero! Choi San also follows me on instagram” you say, crossing your arms, your eyes shut closed and lips pursed.

Unfortunately, you end up making him mad at you. That was so foul. Especially when he was about to sue Jeon freaking Jungkook for what he said in that interview. When the fuck did you become his type even? And why would he say that on national TV about some other man’s girlfriend?

His eye twitches. Just barely. But it definitely twitches. Great!

“…The fuck did you just say? You wanna start somethin’ now?” Katsuki says, voice low, sharp, practically growling, mouth pushed to the side of his face, one brow raised in desbelief,

Your arms are crossed like a petty little shield but it’s not enough to protect you from the instant shift in the air—his energy changing the moment those names leave your mouth. You can see it, feel it, in the sudden tension between his brows and the twitch of his jaw, in the way he takes one step back just so he can plant his hands on his hips and fully absorb the ridiculous thing you just said.

“Well I am his type,” you mutter, fake-casual, even adding a dramatic upward move of your chin for flair. “He literally said so. On record.”

You double down when you shouldn’t. Because now you’ve committed, and if you take it back, it’ll only make you look desperate. You tilt your head, faux-casual, all sugar and venom.

Katsuki blinks once—slow. Like he’s buffering. Like you’ve just spoken a dialect of petty he never expected to hear from your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet in that scary way, “are we talkin’ about Jeon fucking Jungkook right now?”

“I mean, he’s not the worst,” you say, airily. “He’s cute. Built. Has manners and a Calvin Klein ad too! Like you”

“You are not fuckin’ doin this with me—” His voice spikes as he takes a step forward, fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from hurling the rice cooker across the room. “You’re mad at me for a promo gig and now you’re bringin’ up some K-pop bastard—?!”

You bite your lip to stop the smirk. It’s immature. Childish. And so, so satisfying—ah the sweet feeling of getting your lick back.

His hands fly up and immediately start doing that panicked, half-feral gesture thing he does when he’s so mad he doesn’t even know where to put his anger. “You think that’s cute? You think throwin’ other guys in my face is what’s gonna make this better? You want me to start listin’ all the bitches in my DMs right now? ‘Cause I will. I fuckin’ will—”

“Oh so now it’s bitches plural—”

“They don’t matter!” he barks. But you don’t seem like you believe him. “You’re just mad and you’re not telling me the actual reason”

Your face goes hot, tears rising again. “I’m mad because you don’t get it!”

“Then tell me! Tell me what I’m not gettin’!”

“I want you to care!” you explode. “I want you to see that this hurts! That I don’t feel good enough half the damn time, and now I’ve got people with 800k followers stitching your photos sayin’ how they’d treat you right while I’m in our kitchen trying to figure out if I’m even the one you’d want anymore if you realise there’s someone better out th—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ finish that sentence.”

His voice goes deadly low.

You glare at him, eyes blazing. “Why not? Afraid I’m gonna be right?”

“No. Because you’re not.”

His chest is rising now, jaw clenched tight. You’ve both crossed the line, bleeding all over the tile floor with your words.

“None of them matter. Just like Jungkook doesn’t matter. I don’t care about anyone else on TikTok and I definitely don’t give a shit if he writes you a song and a marriage proposal and names his next album ‘Strong Female Hero I Wanna Wife’—you’re mine. You hear me?”

You’re stunned into silence. Half because of the outburst. Half because of the fact he just said you’re his with the kind of conviction that makes your skin burn and tingles run up your back.

“…You gonna tattoo that somewhere?” you murmur, trying to deflect your way out of being completely swept off your feet.

He steps closer, wraps a hand around your waist, nose nearly brushing yours, eyes blazing. “Gonna put a ring on it. Don’t tempt me.”

You blink at him, wide-eyed. His palm feels hot, too quirk charged against your clothed skin “What if I’m not joking?”

He narrows his eyes. “You are.”

You shrug, then whisper just slightly. “…Maybe.”

Next thing you know, Katsuki’s scooping you up like a caveman—no warning, no prep, just two strong arms under your ass, your back colliding with his chest, and your feet dangling uselessly as he stalks toward the bathroom.

“Put me down! I haven’t even plated the chicken!”

“We’ll eat it later.”

“I— but—”

“You’re so mine, and I’m about to prove it.”

He kicks the door open like a man on a mission. Your bathwater is already perfectly hot and steamy, the playlist still humming from the speaker in the corner. You barely notice it because you’re too busy clinging to his shoulders like you’re about to be ravished.

“I can’t believe you got mad at me over a Calvin Klein ad,” he mutters against your neck, lips hot and dragging lower as he sets you down only to start untying your apron, aggressive and purposeful.

“It was a very public ad, and you were nearly naked” you argue, squirming, trying to twist out of his grasp—but he’s already unlooping the neck strap, already tossing the apron somewhere over his shoulder, not even watching where it lands on the bathroom floor “Katsuki, no—”

“Sex isn’t gonna fix everything, you know,” you say, breath hitching when his mouth finds that spot just below your jaw, the one he knows makes your knees buckle. He’s too fast to start pressing hot open mouthed kisses on your neck.

“Then let’s talk about it” he says, calm as hell. He sinks onto the edge of the bathtub like a menace, eyes smoldering, hands still locked around your waist like you might run. “You said you don’t feel enough, why’s that? What part of us did I neglect that made you feel like this?”

You blink, thinking. Well he didn’t really do anything wrong, he just. Exists. And he’s gorgeous and amazing at everything he does.

Oh god? Do you resent him for being good at everything?

“You’re deranged.” You finally respond, pouting but refusing to look at him while you say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

Katsuki’s palms rub soothingly up and down your thighs, head tilted back to look up at you ever so slightly. He's trying to pull you in closer, get you loose, comfortable. He wants you to drop this ‘being difficult’ act you've got on right now.

You follow his lead, come in closer, until your knees scrape the edge of the bathtub and your thighs the inside of his.

“Yeah but,” you pause for a second, debating on whether this is the right thing to say. “why me”

Finally, you kneel between his legs. Your eyes are locked into his, trying to study him, his expression, trying to find a glimpse of hesitation behind his gaze, even if there’s none.

Katsuki catches the insecurity in your head, with a simple bore of his eyes into yours. And it’s bad. How he can read you so well, like he isn't confused and insecure at times too.

“Is it cause we grew up together?”

“Well that’s why your dear to me, but no”

“Then why?”

“Cause you’re you. Simply. You’re kind and fair. Too smart and you’re too pretty. You stand your ground and stand up for what’s right. I knew damn well who I hunched on my back and tried to set off with explosions at five years old”

He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tips your face toward him until you’re locked in his orbit again.

You want to cry again. Be it the memory, or the fact that you've pushed him to say this much about why he’s in love with you. You've got no reason to get jealous over people on the internet. They don’t know Katsuki like you do. They never could. Fate chose you to be the one to grow up a few blocks away from him. All your shared memories together, no one on TikTok could live them out.

No matter any Vogue cover, any Calvin Klein ad, or late night show interview, you and Katsuki are two human beings who grew up together, beat the odds of death together. Fell in love with each other to top it. So many humans in history have had this storyline, they’ve shared their first time with each other the night before setting off to war, kissed for the first time behind the bleachers in middle school.

“I was so scared back then” you sob. Just one violent sob after another “‘m sorry babe. I'm so sorry for how I acted right now. You're just so hot that I can’t handle it. Can you like, be that bratty little five year old again?”

Katsuki huffs a breath, mouth twitching like he wants to smirk but knows better. His hands stay firm around your waist, grounding you while leaning towards you.

“Well I can’t be five again,” he says, voice rough but fond, lips already pursing as his forehead sticks to yours “but I can give you a small brand new Bakugo”

You let out a choked, watery laugh, but he’s already shifting closer, his thighs spreading so you fit better between them. One of his hands, followed by his eyes, slides up to your chest, and with exaggerated slowness, he taps a finger just above your sternum.

Tap. Then a little higher. Tap.

Then again—until two fingers are softly “walking” their way up, up, up your chest like little boots. You blink at him.

“Katsukiiii”

Tap.

The pads of his fingers rest at the hollow of your throat for a beat before lifting to your chin, tipping your face toward him like you’re fragile glass he’s been carrying his whole life.

He’s pouting. You can see it clearly now—the petulant pull of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows, like he’s upset you made him feel things and doesn’t know how to ask for reassurance without being difficult.

“You sayin’ shit like that,” he mutters, eyes flickering down to your mouth, then back up, “makes me feel like I’m not doin’ enough. Like I ain’t sayin’ it right. And I already suck at this.”

You open your mouth to protest, say you didn’t really mean it when you said that you don’t feel enough, that it was a moment of weakness, just like when you tried to tell him you’ve got options, but he presses his thumb gently against your bottom lip, quieting you, you’ve already apologised. He hasn’t.

“Lemme show you instead,” he says.

His voice isn’t cocky. Not quite. It’s soft—almost shy. Like how it was when you asked him to walk you home a week into UA, like he knows now, sex won’t fix anything, for sure, but the humanity of it, the lack of personal space between you as you groan in each other's open mouths, will help, just a little to ease the pain of your words.

“You’re my soft spot,” he adds under his breath, kissing the corner of your mouth like he’s afraid you’ll vanish off to some hot idol that does fanservice for a living, before he finishes the sentence. “Always been. N’ I don’t want you forgettin’ it. I ain’t leaving you for no one”

His fingers trace the line of your jaw now, slow and reverent. The pout still hasn’t left. You’re not sure it ever will. But now it’s paired with heat, and a pull between your legs that starts low and deep as he finally—finally—brushes his mouth against yours.

Just a whisper of a kiss. All pout. All need. All Katsuki.

You wouldn’t really trade him for anyone, either.

You can feel how badly he wants to be touched back. He always wants to be physical and touchy after an argument. You know how grounded and real it makes him feel, how reassuring it is to him to know he is still loved enough to be touched, despite words that are meant to sting.

You make a move to peck him, only right as this was your fault, and he slowly moves his lips against your own, soft, smooth. Slipping between every hollow space until you can't pull away. Seems like the chapstick you got for him last week has done wonders to make his lips so soft and plump, when they’re usually so chapped; his mouth glides against yours with practiced ease.

“M sorry” he whispers, so faint against your lips, but you still catch it.

His voice stays in your skin long after it’s said, like steam caught between your ribs, not ready to evaporate just yet.

You don’t say anything at first—just lift your hand to cradle the back of his neck, drawing tiny circles at his nape with your thumb. His eyes flutter a little at the touch, and it’s so Katsuki the way he tries not to lean into it. Still pouting, still pretending he’s not craving softness like it’s the only thing that could save him, but you know him better.

You let your other hand wander, trailing along the hem of his work top, your fingertips skating just beneath the fabric—slow, just the way he likes it. And when your hands drift to the button of his pants, you catch that tiny hitch in his breath. Barely audible. But it’s there. His lashes drop, golden. Sun-kissed. His grip on your waist tightens, not to stop you, just to hold on.

“You said you’d show me,” you murmur, your voice dipping low, warm against the shell of his ear. “But maybe I show you first.”

He doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard. And you skip the rest of the sentence ‘how much better I am than those TikTok bitches who want you’.

The button of his work cargos clicks open beneath your fingers.

It’s intimate, the quiet that settles between you. Not awkward. Not even heated yet. Just close. Bathwater is still steaming behind him. The scent of your shared home in the air—sandalwood, white musk soap, the thick smell of chicken being cooked—him.

His cologne, faded but still clinging to the collar of his shirt. The playlist hums something slow and familiar in the background—Hot like fire, because maybe Aaliyah wasn’t mocking you a while ago—like this moment has its own soundtrack and the world outside doesn’t exist.

Your fingers fiddle with his zipper, slow and smooth. He looks down at you—heavy-lidded, and all vermillion, lips slightly parted, like he’s already halfway gone from just being touched with intention for pleasure.

“You looked so confident in the ad” you whisper as your fingers brush just below his waistband, teasing. “But this is better. This right here. When you’re a little shy for me.”

He exhales shakily, like you cracked something open inside him. And you feel it—something primal and possessive bloom in your chest.

“No one gets to see you like this but me”

“You’re tryin’ to kill me” he mutters.

You smile up at him, biting your lower lip. “No, Katsuki. I’m just trying to blow you away with my insane head skills”

He laughs, a breathy little sound, as his hands move to take off his shirt, softly ungluing his eyes from yours for only a second. You lick your lips at the way his muscles flex, so thick and bulky and by all means yours.

Suddenly, the ad pops back into your head, every shot, every zoom in. You’re overtaken by lust driven jealousy again.

No one on fucking TikTok gets to see the way his abs flex when he cums. You do.

So you work to lower his pants in fast movements, pushing the heavy fabric down until it hits the floor in shuffling sounds.

Your hands slide lower, palms flattening against his calves, then his hips as you stick your cheek to his thigh. He watches you like you’re a sunrise—warm and tender, grazing where his skin ends with where your skin begins, or running tender, teasing circles all over his tip through his boxers.

His fingers twitch against his thighs, unsure of where to go—if he should cup your cheek, fist your hair, or just hold on to the edge of the tub before he slides down into something desperate.

And when you look up at him from where you’re knelt, his breath catches. His hand finds the top of your head, like he needs the grounding contact, thumb brushing a gentle path through your hair, and his eyes are wide with something soft and so, so red and open.

“Yesssss” he says hoarsely, half-laughing, half-moan “im about to get the best head of my life”

You quirk your brow and pucker your lips as if it’s your turn to pout now, then, you jab “Was it bad before?”

He shakes his head, cheeks already pink. “It’s always damn perfect”

His breathing catches in his chest but by now, your lips catch onto the skin of his thigh, placing a kiss there while still looking at him. It makes him go completely red now, face ears and chest flustered.

You kiss higher on his inner thigh, barely missing where he’s straining against the fabric of his boxers. Katsuki’s knuckles press into the edge of the tub now, trying to keep himself grounded, but his hips twitch when your lips ghost just beneath the band of his boxers.

He looks like he might fall apart already. Lower lip caught between his teeth, lashes fluttering low, cheeks warm and pink in the bathroom light.

Your fingers tug at the elastic slowly—like a question. And he nods, fast, almost frantic.

You hum, and finally pull the waistband down, freeing him.

He’s already hard, tip flushed and leaking, twitching a little in the cool air. And the way he watches you—mouth parted, chest rising and falling quick—is nothing short of irrelevant. He looks at you with hunger, full blown everywhere on his face, like it burns just to feel it. His hand hovers near your cheek, and you guide it up into your hair with your own.

“Keep it here,” you murmur. “I want you to touch.”

Katsuki’s thumb brushes your scalp, tender, trembling.

His thumb twitches as it strokes your scalp.

You press your lips softly to the base of his cock. Not rushing. Just placing open mouthed kisses over his length. Letting the heat of your mouth register on every kiss before you move to the next one. Then again, higher this time. Then again—closer to the tip, where he shudders and grips your hair a little tighter. Your lips wrap tenderly around half of his tip, your tongue storming out for a circular lick before you give him a little suck.

His hips shift like he’s trying to stay still and failing. Then you kiss just beneath the tip, so close your breath makes him hiss.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching once more. “You’re—baby, you’re—”

You wrap your hand around the base of him and drag your tongue along the underside, slow, teasing, drawing a whimper from him so small and raw that your thighs clench just hearing it.

“You gonna beg?” you ask softly, glancing up.

His head falls back against the tiled wall for a second, mouth parted, so red in the face. “Don’t make me—fuck—‘m already losin’ it.”

You take him into your mouth inch by inch, slow and careful, tongue flat underneath, eyes still locked on him. You feel his thighs shake.

He moans—a rough, broken sound—and his hand fists harder your hair. You pull back with a wet pop and stroke him slowly, thumb brushing over his leaking tip. “You’re so easy to ruin, Katsuki. One suck and you’re falling apart.”

“You—you're evil,” he pants, biting his knuckle. “You can’t say shit like that when your fuckin’ mouth is on me.”

You grin, licking your lips. “It’s on you again now.”

You take him deeper this time, hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue drag in deliberate patterns. He groans, head tipping down again to watch, jaw slack. His voice is wrecked. Raw. Low in his throat.

“Katsuki–” you pause, you murmur, pulling off again, cupping him with both hands now. ogling your eyes into his “Tell me i'm the only one who’s ever gonna make you feel this good’

Every movement you make is intentional—little flicks of your tongue, your hand twisting at the base, your lips tight around him. You don’t let him cum yet. Every time you feel him start to twitch harder, you ease back, sucking gently on just the tip.

“Babe,’s all you—” he chokes out, voice ragged. “Never gonna be anyone else but you”

“Yeah?” you breathe. “No thirsty fangirl, no fantasy, no fuckin’ ad? Just me?”

His eyes lock on yours—glassy, wild. He nods hard. “Just you.”

You glance up again. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown. He looks desperate. Like he’s holding onto the last threads of sanity. But this moment is bathed in vulnerability, raw love that makes you want to claim again and again. Katsuki’s had his moments like this, way more than you. He lets you go through with it, he even likes how jealous you are right now, but this doesn’t mean he’s not utterly and completely ruined and under your spell right now.

You kiss his head again, so sweet, and finally wrap your mouth around him once more—this time faster, deeper, your hand working in tandem. He lets out a strangled cry, almost panicked with how hard he’s trying to hold on.

“You’re mine, Katsuki. You know that, right? Doesn’t matter how many people thirst over you online.” You press your lips around him again, drag your mouth up slow, just to the tip. “They don’t get this. They don’t get you like I do.”

He looks down at you again, eyes still glassy. So red. So wrecked.

You take him deeper, your cheeks hollowed, your tongue gliding in slow circles, teasing him at every sensitive spot. The veins on the underside of his cock, the base, as he hits the back of your throat. Katsuki moans, raw and shaky and his hips stutter forward before he forces himself still. The inside of your mouth is so slippery, so warm, he’s literally going crazy with each movement.

“Don’t even fuckin’ want anyone else.” He sounds destroyed now, ruined into a slurring mess as your hand is sliding along his thigh.

“Let me—let me cum, shit—please, let me—”

His tip kisses the back of your throat, and you gag around him, just a little—just enough for him to choke on a moan that sounds like he’s dying.

You don’t let up. You feel the way he twitches, the way his thighs tense, the way his grip in your hair tightens. He’s close. So close. You hum against him, nodding just a little, eyes locked into his in such an intimate, tender way. You take him all the way in one last time, his tip hitting the back of your throat, eliciting just a small choking sound from you, letting him fall apart in your mouth, with every soft roll of his hips into you.

He grunts. Head lolling back again, so hard that is adam’s apple protrudes enough even for you to see. His hips stutter, and he tries to hold back—but his thighs are trembling, breath breaking. He snaps his head again, desperate to look at you and he swallows now, bites his lower lip in concentration before he clenches his legs, to buck his hips into your mouth.

His hands come to cradle your head, your cheeks, like he’s afraid to let go, like you’re the one keeping him from falling through the floor. And the way you keep eye contact with him while swallowing him down your pretty little throat–It’s a killer.

You back up, worrying his tip between your soft, plump lips and that's it–He shatters. Violently and way faster than he thought he would. Clawing at your face to make you take him in once again; he bottoms out, and you… you take him in easily, like a champ.

Katsuki falls apart in your mouth with a raw, choked moan, hips bucking just once as you hold him steady, taking every twitch, every pulse, every broken sound he makes as his cum spills in ropes down your throat. You try to swallow as much as you can, eyes tearing up at the amount of cum that’s making you choke– Katsuki’s favorite sounds when you’re giving him a blowjob. He’s only urged to spill more, but this time you back up a little, letting him fill your mouth until it spills down the sides of your lips.

“F-fuck. Baby. Fuck.” He gasps like you’ve already stolen the air from his lungs, and he spasms. His hips jerk forward once, like instinct takes over.

Your eyes well up again, tears beading on your lashes from the stretch, from the pressure, from the sheer force of him.

He groans again at the sight—his cock buried in your mouth, cum spilling out the corners of your lips, glistening. His hands cradle your cheeks like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the feel of your skin under his thumbs.

You swallow again, letting him ride it out with one last soft suck, and he moans like he’s unraveling from the inside out. His knees almost buckle.

And still, you don’t stop touching him. Your hand strokes slow at his base as you pull back with the loudest pop, letting some of the mess trail down lower at your chin, your lips swollen and glistening as you tilt your head up.

“You came so much,” you murmur, licking a drop from your bottom lip. “Were you that needy for me, baby?”

He groans as he’s still recovering, hips twitching slightly as your breath ghosts over him. His hands finally leave your cheeks, fumbling around, still shaky, down to where his pants are.

“Where the fuck’s my phone?” he rasps, breath catching on the tail end.

You blink up at him, mock-innocent. “Why do you want it, hmm?”

His gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving as he glares like you’ve just personally offended him by being too hot to handle yourself.

“First, I’m taking a fuckin’ photo of you like this,” he grits out, voice still rough and low, “with your mouth all messy, lookin’ proud of yourself like that.”

You smirk, tilting your head as cum still drips slowly down your chin, your fingers catching it just to suck them clean. “So you can jerk off to it later?”

“So I can frame it,” he mutters darkly, eyes dragging over every inch of your face. “And then you’re watchin’ the ad again. Every second of it.”

You blink slowly. “But it makes me mad”

He nods. “Yeah exactly. Youre watching it.‘Til you get so fuckin’ riled up you suck me off meaner than this.”

Your lips curl. “Meaner? Baby… I was being sweet to you.”

“Exactly,” he pants, reaching for your wrist to drag you up into his lap. “I wanna see you do it when you're pissed.”

You climb into his space, knees bracketing his thighs, grinning into his mouth as you kiss him—messy, deep, still tasting like him. “Careful what you wish for, Katsuki. I might make your dick fall off”

His voice is just a whisper now and wrecked against your lips.

“Fuck yes”

Yeah… maybe the Calvin Klein ad was a good idea.

______

The water’s somehow still warm, barely steaming, and smells like cocoa and the shea butter soap he always pretends he doesn’t use until you catch him stealing it.

You’re settled between his legs, your back against his chest, and he’s folded around you—arms over your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath soft and steady against your skin. You sink into him, muscles loosening all at once.

The bathwater laps at your collarbones. His thumbs trace slow circles into your stomach. And for a while, the only sound is your breathing, synced. The occasional soft swish of water when one of you shifts. The playlist outside still hums faintly, muffled through the bathroom door. Just gentle vocals and low drums. Like the score to this quiet little world you’ve made.

“Sorry I was a dick,” he mutters. His voice remains unsure of what to say in a situation like this, yet muffled against your neck. “I just—y’know…”

“Yeah. Me too. I should not have mentioned Jungkook because people online are asking how I handle all of that” you chuckle, tenderly placing a kiss at the back of Katsuki’s hands when you lift it from the water.

He frowns, letting off a sound of annoyance “asshole, he can shove that seven song up his ass”

“Oop— you listening to him now?”

“No, it’s all over the radio though” Katsuki kisses your shoulder in response. Then again, higher this time. “But I don’t care about nobody. Just you. Always you.”

You tilt your head and press a kiss into his damp hair from the side, catching just a little bit of his ear in the process. “I know, baby. I know.”

And you do. Deep in your bones. The same way you know how his eyes soften and he whines when he’s sleepy, how his jaw ticks to the right when he’s embarrassed, how his voice drops an octave when he wants to be taken seriously. You know him. Not the whored out Calvin Klein version the world sees.

You curl your hands around his forearm and let yourself melt back into him completely, the bathwater swaying at the peak of your chest now. Safe. Soothed. Held.

He squeezes you a little tighter and rests his chin on your shoulder, finally quiet. And if you listen close, you can feel it: the rise and fall of him. The warmth of his skin. The steady thrum of his heartbeat under your back.

“So” you murmur “wanna talk about that little mini Bakugo you mentioned earlier?”

Katsuki mumbles something under his breath, eyes closed against your skin. He’s mellowed out in the split of a second, but you’re riled up at the thought when your mind returns to it.

“‘S no use.” He whines, finally, like he’s annoyed “Our kid’s gonna look like you”

“So you'll get a mini me all over again and I won’t get the same? Un-faiiiir! Booooooo” you groan, leaning your head back against his shoulder dramatically. The water sloshes with the motion, and he huffs a tired laugh into your neck, chest vibrating behind you.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, lips brushing your skin. “Like I wouldn’t be fuckin’ obsessed with either version.”

You smile. Small. Soft. Let your thumb glide along the scar on his wrist and then you swallow. Blink a few times. Then nod once, slowly, before you speak.

“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it? A little baby with your temper and my sweet tooth?”

He lets out a real laugh now, low and gruff and warm against your back. “Fuckin’ menace. Our apartment wouldn’t survive.”

“Your PR team wouldn’t survive.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

You both laugh, muffled and close, and when it quiets again, you let your fingers lace through his under the water. His grip tightens like a reflex.

And then, just above a whisper:

“You really think about it sometimes?”

“…Yeah.”

“Me too.”

He kisses your shoulder again. No jokes this time. Just silence and warm water and cocoa steam. The both of you holding that dream quietly, like something sacred.

In his arms, now, today, midst June, after feeling threatened that strangers online will ever do better than you when it comes to him, you think of you and him, back in his childhood room, watching Spirited Away as Mitsuki would fetch you cookies and milk before Katsuki would try to shove her away and she’d pretend to be knocked over.

“Hey…We’re still naming the baby Chihiro like we promised back then, right?”

He goes still behind you. Like, dead quiet. Like you’d short-circuited something in his brain.

You almost think he didn’t hear you until you feel the deep inhale against your spine, his arms tightening just a little more around you like he’s trying to fuse your body to his.

“…You remember that?” His voice is hoarse now, barely more than a breath.

You smile, eyes still half-lidded, watching the water ripple at the edges of the tub. “Of course I do. You made me pinky swear on it, when Mitsuki said we’d get married and have kids too!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but it’s soft, affectionate—almost embarrassed. His nose nudges your jaw like he’s trying to hide the warmth in his face. “Was a fuckin’ loser.”

“No,” you say gently. “You were just sweet. Always were.”

There’s a beat. He swallows. You feel it in his throat against your shoulder.

“…Chihiro, huh?” he murmurs, finally. “Still want that? Even now?”

You nod, and his hand floats up from beneath the water, trailing along your stomach, resting just under your ribs. Protective. Hopeful. Like something unspoken is blooming there.

“I always loved that promise,” you whisper, throat a little tight. He doesn’t answer. At least not with words.

Katsuki grins against your neck, and the sound of it, the way he breathes in like he’s grounding himself in the smell of your skin—it’s everything. It’s homely. Warm water. Summer steam. A shared name from a shared childhood.

Take that ‘tojissecondworm222’, not only do you handle all that, but everything the world’s fantasy driven Dynamight has to offer, is yours.

Always has been.

Always will be.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

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theonottsbxtch · 3 months ago

Text

SOMETHING LIKE LOVE | OP81

an: to all of those who believe you aren't worthy of love. you truly are, it'll come xx this is apart of my 2k celly, requested!!

wc: 5.3k

summary: she’s f1’s rising star. fierce, fast, and convinced she’s not made for love. oscar is the sarcastic softie who's been falling for her since day one. when one press conference cracks her walls, he makes it his mission to prove her wrong.

THE PADDOCK WASN'T BUILT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. It reeked of burnt rubber, adrenaline, and the sort of manufactured glamour that barely hid the pressure underneath. Flashing cameras. PR smiles. Men in pristine team gear pretending the world didn’t hang on lap times and tenths of a second.

She walked through it like she belonged, because she did, but never without the weight of proving it.

Two seasons in Formula 1 hadn’t made things easier. If anything, the stares lingered longer, the whispers just quiet enough to still be heard. Her VCARB rarely made it to the top ten unless she dragged it there herself. But she didn’t complain. She drove. She fought. And when they underestimated her, she made them regret it.

She was sharp. Quick-witted. Sassy, some said. A “media darling” with a bite. The kind who could deliver a one-liner that left even the most seasoned interviewer blinking.

And Oscar knew it from the start.

Oscar Piastri, McLaren’s golden boy, all easy charm and restless ambition. Three years into his career and finally, finally, he looked like he might be on track for a proper championship run. Two wins in four races, and the papaya car was back in the fight.

To the public, he was the perfect mix of cheeky and clean-cut, messy brown hair that refused to stay slicked back, a soft Australian accent that turned heads in press conferences, and eyes that didn’t give much away unless he wanted them to.

But around her, he never quite managed to keep his composure.

They were the same age. Entered F1 within a year of each other. She arrived a storm; he remembered watching her first race from the McLaren garage, muttering “bloody hell” under his breath when she overtook three cars in two laps like it was nothing.

He’d been intrigued ever since.

But she didn’t let people in. Not really. She joked, flirted, rolled her eyes at dumb questions, but the walls stayed up. And Oscar couldn’t help but want to know what was behind them.

He didn’t push. Not yet.

Until that interview.

The sun beat down on the pit lane, heat shimmering off the tarmac as engineers scurried and photographers prowled like vultures with lanyards. Just another Saturday. Quali was done, data collected, and everyone was pretending to be relaxed when they were actually wound tighter than the bolts on the front wing.

She was sitting on the edge of her garage wall, swinging one leg like a schoolgirl on break, water bottle tucked between her hands. Her helmet sat beside her, visor up, reflecting the bustle. She watched it all with that same expression she always had post-session. Ccalm, but calculating. Like she’d already rewound and replayed every corner in her head.

Oscar spotted her before she saw him. Not that he was looking. Not exactly.

He’d just finished his debrief, race suit zipped halfway, hair doing its usual floppy rebellion. He could’ve turned into hospitality. Could’ve headed for the ice bath. But instead, his feet took him across the paddock, like they always did when she was around.

"Enjoying the view?" he asked, voice casual as he stopped beside her.

She glanced up, squinting into the sun. "If by ‘view’ you mean watching your pit crew nearly drop your front jack, then yeah. Thrilling stuff."

Oscar smirked, teeth flashing. “It’s all part of the drama. Keeps the fans on their toes.”

“Right. That, or McLaren’s just allergic to calm pit stops.”

She said it with a grin, but Oscar swore there was something else behind it — amusement, yeah, but also that spark she always had when she was comfortable. Which wasn’t often. Not properly. Not unless she trusted someone.

He perched on the wall next to her, not too close. Just enough. She didn’t move away.

"You were quick today," he said, more genuine now.

"So were you," she replied. "P2 in Quali? Showing off for the cameras?"

Oscar shrugged. "Just trying to impress the VCARB girl."

She arched a brow, smile twitching like she was trying not to let it grow. "You’re three years too late for that.”

“Reckon I’ve still got time,” he said lightly, but it landed heavier between them.

She didn’t reply, just took a sip from her bottle, eyes on the track. A mechanic shouted something in Italian nearby. Her leg kept swinging.

"Tell me something, Piastri," she said eventually. "Do you ever get tired of being the fan favourite?"

He looked at her then. Really looked. “Do you ever get tired of proving everyone wrong?”

That made her go still for a beat. Then she exhaled, soft and slow.

“All the time.”

Before he could decipher what she meant, a voice cut through the buzz of the pit lane, clipped, PR-perfect, and far too chipper for the afternoon.

“Right, you two. They’re ready for you in the media pen. Sofa set-up. You know the drill.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath as she stood, twisting the top back on her bottle.

Oscar stood too, brushing imaginary dust off his fireproofs. “Do I at least get to sit next to you?”

She gave him a look, all raised brows and mock pity. “That desperate for moral support?”

“Obviously.”

They walked side by side, weaving through crew and cables, eventually emerging into the small, overly lit press area. The sofa, that cursed faux-leather monstrosity in sponsor-friendly grey, sat in front of a wall plastered with logos. Lance was already sitting there, on the edge, smiling at them when they walked past.

Oscar dropped onto one end, she slid into the middle, Lance on her other side. The flashes started immediately.

Questions came quick. Routine stuff. Lance was asked about his lap time, Oscar about the McLaren upgrades.

Then, someone aimed their mic toward her.

“Question for you,” the reporter said, polite smile not quite reaching his eyes. “You’ve had a strong start to the season considering the car you’re in. P7 in the standings. You seem sharper than ever. Do you think that drive, that edge, comes from not having distractions? You’ve said before you keep your circle tight.”

She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head slightly, fingers laced in her lap. “If by distractions you mean relationships, then yeah. Probably.”

The reporter pushed, as they always did. “So... nothing on the horizon? Love life completely off the table?”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that hung too long to be comfortable. Her eyes flicked briefly to the floor, then back up.

“I don’t think I’m made for love,” she said, simply. Like it was a fact. “Not the way people want it. Doesn’t really fit with everything else.”

A few awkward chuckles. Lance looked down at his shoes. The journalist nodded, clearly satisfied with his viral soundbite.

But Oscar?

Oscar hadn’t moved. He was still angled slightly toward her, lips parted just a little. Because something about the way she’d said it. Not bitter, not flippant, just... tired, it punched the air clean out of his lungs.

Not made for love?

He wanted to shake her. Tell her she was wrong. That whoever made her feel that way had clearly been a coward, because she was all sharp edges and fire, yeah but there was something soft in her, too. Something no one had ever bothered to stay long enough to understand.

He didn’t say anything. Not there. Not with a dozen cameras on them.

But inside, something locked into place.

He was going to prove her wrong.

The thing about F1 was that it never slowed down. Not really.

One weekend blurred into the next, a constant carousel of countries, circuits, press calls, qualifying stress and race-day nerves. But somewhere between Bahrain and Jeddah, something shifted.

It started with a cup of tea in Jeddah.

She’d had a hellish day, the VCARB car twitchy as hell through sector two, her engineer frustrated, and the media already foaming at the mouth for something to twist. By the time she stalked into hospitality, she barely noticed the cup waiting for her on the table.

Two sugars. Splash of milk. Her kind of tea, the sort no one in the team ever seemed to get quite right.

She paused.

Then saw the note, scribbled on a napkin in slanted handwriting:

Figured you’d need this after that press conference. — O

No fanfare. No performance.

Just… thoughtfulness. Simple and grounding.

She never mentioned it. But she started noticing things after that.

Miami was blistering.

Drivers’ parade meant being carted around the circuit in the back of an open-top truck like they were part of a royal procession. She hated it, the awkward wave, the sun in her eyes, and today, the fact she’d left her sunglasses back in the garage like an idiot, made it worse.

“Looking for these?” a voice said beside her.

Oscar, of course. Holding her black framed sunglasses by one arm, a smug little smirk on his face.

She stared. “Why do you have those?”

“Saw you left them by your bag. Figured I’d rescue them before someone else claimed them.”

She snatched them, slipping them on with a scoff. “Stalker.”

“Public service,” he replied, resting an arm casually behind her as the truck started to roll. “You’d owe me a favour, if you weren’t so stubborn.”

She glanced at him from behind the lenses. “I’ll add it to the imaginary tab you think I have.”

But her voice was softer. Less guarded.

Monaco, as always, was madness. She’d had a surprisingly strong quali. P7. But the grid was chaos, press everywhere, the tight streets of Monte Carlo offering no room to breathe.

She was trying to centre herself, leaning against her garage, helmet off but earplugs in. She liked that moment, just her and the buzz of a silent track.

Until someone tapped her shoulder.

She turned, expecting her engineer. Instead: Oscar.

He held something out.

Her blue lucky charm. A little rubber tag she’d had since her karting days. She hadn’t even realised it had fallen off.

“You dropped it in the paddock,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t want you going without it.”

She blinked, eyes flicking from his hand to his face. Then took it, fingers brushing his, unintentionally, of course.

“Thanks.”

He gave a half-shrug, stepping back. “Lucky charm for someone who doesn’t need luck.”

She didn’t respond. But she clipped it back onto her necklace and didn’t take it off as she slipped it under the fireproofs.

The pressure always peaked at Silverstone.

Her home race. Headlines were brutal. Fans were louder. Her mum was in the paddock, bless her, nerves practically seeping out of her pores as she tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified every time her daughter got in that car.

She was seconds away from getting into her car while her team faffed about with her car when Oscar walked up to her, helmet off.

She turned her head just slightly, visor still up.

He didn’t smile. Just looked at her like he saw her.

“Your mum said you always hated the crowd here,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the roar of the crowds. “So block ‘em out. Just you and the car. Show them why they should’ve put you in that Red Bull seat.”

Her breath caught, a flutter she couldn’t blame on nerves.

He winked, then turned and jogged back to his own car, slotting into P3 like he hadn’t just cracked something open in her chest.

She finished P4, right behind him. Best result of the year.

By Hungary, it wasn’t subtle anymore, at least not to her.

They were seated beside each other at some PR dinner, everyone playing polite for the cameras. She wore black, sleek and unbothered. He wore a shirt and shorts, as he always did.

Someone made a joke. She barely heard who it came from.

“All that attitude and no man to handle it,” he said to one of the F1 Academy girls, grinning. “You’ll end up like our princess here, all work, no play.”

The table chuckled. She didn’t flinch. She was used to it.

But Oscar leaned forward.

“Yeah,” he said. Calm. Cool. Deadly. “Because having standards is such a crime.”

The room shifted. No one knew what to say.

Except her. She just looked at him, eyes soft.

And he looked back.

Like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone in all this as she thought.

Something had changed.

He wasn’t just trying anymore.

He was showing her — in every touch, every look, every small act of care — that love wasn’t about grand gestures or promises shouted from rooftops. It was quiet. Steady. Gentle hands at your back when the world was shouting. Someone seeing you exactly as you are and staying anyway.

And little by little... she started to believe it.

She told herself she wasn’t keeping track.

Not of the way Oscar always found her in a crowd. Not of how he seemed to know when she needed to be distracted, or when silence was kinder. Not of the brief, shared glances across driver briefings, or how he never once looked at her the way the others sometimes did — like she was a story waiting to be twisted.

But she remembered it all.

Like in Monza, when her DRS failed mid-qualifying and she stormed back to the garage, helmet still on because she didn’t trust her face to hide how gutted she was. No one said a word. Not until she felt something cold press into her hand.

Oscar, offering her a can of apple juice. No words. Just a look as he took a sip out of his can.

“I hate apple juice,” she muttered.

“I know,” he said, sipping his own. “That one’s mine. Yours is in the other hand.”

She glanced down.

Peach iced tea. Her favourite.

She didn’t ask for any of it.

The sunglasses. The drink. The keyring. The silence. The noise.

But it kept coming. Him, quiet in his certainty. Like he’d already decided that she was worth showing up for, even when she wasn’t sure she’d earned it.

Especially when she wasn’t sure she’d earned it.

The next time something happened, it was in Singapore.

Hot. Humid. Heavy with expectation.

She’d just come P6 in a brutal race that chewed up tyres like paper and spat out dreams by lap thirty. Her fireproofs were soaked, her head pounding.

And Oscar was waiting by her team’s hospitality exit, arms folded, cap pulled low.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “Dinner.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

He shrugged. “Then sit with me and don’t eat.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue.

He ordered for her anyway. Didn’t ask what she wanted. Just remembered. Her favourite noodle place two blocks from the paddock.

She ate in silence, and when she finally looked up, he was already looking at her.

Not expecting anything.

Just… there.

Then came Mexico.

Two weeks of media frenzy. The first whispers of contract talks for next season. Her name was in headlines again, her seat not guaranteed, everyone treating her like she was a gamble.

She was pacing in her hotel room, phone in hand, brain buzzing with what-ifs.

A knock pulled her out of it.

She opened the door.

Oscar stood there. Hoodie and trainers. Not his usual post-race gloss.

“Hey,” he said, glancing down the hall. “My sister’s in town. We’re grabbing food. Thought you might wanna come.”

She blinked. “Why?”

He blinked right back. “Because you’ve barely eaten all day and you pace like a lunatic when you overthink.”

She stared at him. Quiet. Still.

Then: “Why do you keep doing this?”

His brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

She crossed her arms. Not angry. Just… tired.

“All of it. The tea in Australia. My sunglasses in Miami. The keyring. Silverstone. The way you stood up for me in Silverstone. The ice tea in Monza. Singapore noodles. Now this.”

He said nothing.

She stepped closer.

“You remember everything. You notice everything. You show up like you’ve got something to prove. So tell me, Oscar. What exactly are you trying to prove?”

Silence.

The hotel room was too quiet, just the buzz of a nearby light and the thrum of her heart.

He swallowed. Voice quiet.

“That you’re worthy of love.”

Her breath caught.

He looked at her then, really looked, eyes softer than she’d ever seen them, shoulders loose, like he’d been holding something for too long and was finally letting it drop.

“That day, in the media pen in Bahrain,” he said. “When you said you didn’t think you were made for it… I don’t know. It just stuck with me.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He kept going.

“Not because it was dramatic. You didn’t even say it like that. You just said it like it was true. Like it was fact. And I thought…” He paused. “I don’t know what kind of idiot made you believe that. But they were wrong.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re stubborn. And proud. And you act like you don’t need anyone, which is probably true most of the time. But you’re also… the kindest, most brilliant pain in the arse I’ve ever met.”

A breath. Then:

“And I guess I just wanted you to know you don’t have to go through this alone. Not if you don’t want to.”

Her throat was dry. She blinked once. Twice.

Then whispered, “You’re not very good at playing it cool, are you?”

He laughed — soft and low. “Not when it’s you.”

Oscar’s words had hit too hard, too deep. She couldn’t breathe properly now, couldn’t find her voice.

“Why do you think you’re not worthy?” he asked softly, the words almost lost in the air between them.

She looked at him then, eyes blurry and strained. There was so much she could say, but it was all knotted in her throat. His quiet intensity, the way he stood there with all that sincerity, it made it hard to keep up the walls.

“Because…” She paused, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. “Because I’m a woman in motorsport, Oscar. And that’s hard enough on its own. The pressure to prove myself is enough without having to deal with all the other stuff.” She shook her head, her voice faltering. “People don't see me. They see the seat I’m in. They see the fact that I have to fight for everything. And sometimes... sometimes, it feels like it’s never going to be enough. Like I’ll never be enough.”

She was rambling now, the words spilling out faster than she could control. “I’m constantly proving I belong. I have to keep up with men who think they’re better by default. I’ve had to do more, be more, just to be seen as equal. And for what? So some guy can come in, wave a magic wand, and tell me I’m worthy of... what? Love?”

Her voice cracked at the last word.

The silence stretched between them. The tears that had been hanging just behind her eyes finally fell, one by one, streaking down her cheeks.

She felt weak. Like everything she’d fought to protect for years, her confidence, her strength, was slipping away with each tear that fell.

But Oscar... Oscar didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Instead, he took a step closer.

And then another.

She didn’t pull away.

He stopped right in front of her, barely an inch separating them now, the faint heat of his body seeping into hers.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Don’t you ever think that about yourself. You’re so much more than any of those idiots who don’t know what it’s like. You deserve love. Real love. Not the kind they pretend to give you because of your seat or because of how they see you. The kind that just… is. The kind that doesn’t expect anything in return.”

He reached up, his thumb brushing against her cheek, wiping away the tears that hadn’t even stopped falling yet.

Her breath hitched.

And then he did the most Oscar thing he could have done.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the closeness stealing the breath from her lungs.

“Don’t let them tell you you’re anything less than worthy. Don’t let anyone make you think you’re broken because you’ve had to be stronger than anyone else. You’re whole. You’re worth it, always. And if it takes me showing you every day, I’ll do it. I’ll spend every day reminding you.”

Her heart was pounding now, so loud she couldn’t hear anything but the blood rushing in her ears. She wanted to speak, but she couldn’t, the emotions were too raw, too intense. She could barely comprehend what he was saying, not through the haze of vulnerability that had opened up inside her.

He pulled back slightly, but not enough for their foreheads to part. His eyes were soft, searching hers for something. Maybe for permission. Maybe for the answers she hadn’t given yet.

And then, without warning, his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. It was... slow. Gentle. His lips brushing against hers in a tender, tentative kiss. A kiss full of everything unsaid, of all the moments he had cared for her in silence, of all the things he’d done and felt that had built up to this point.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

It was him proving, finally, that he’d meant every word.

Her hands moved instinctively, reaching up to touch his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as the kiss deepened. She felt the warmth of his body, the gentle pressure of his lips, the quiet way he held her like he was afraid she might break if he wasn’t careful.

The tears didn’t stop falling, but they were different now. Not from pain, not from frustration, but from something else. Something soft and tender, like she could finally exhale after holding her breath for far too long.

When they finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, her forehead leaned against his again. His hands were on her face now, cupping her cheeks, wiping away the last of the tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“See?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I told you. You’re worth it.”

She swallowed hard, her chest tight with everything she felt but couldn’t say.

Instead, she just nodded. “I never thought someone could love me for just… me. Not because I’m a driver. Not because of anything other than that.”

“You’re more than enough,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Always will be.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she believed him.

The kiss lingered in the air between them like a warm, unspoken promise. Neither of them moved. Neither of them needed to.

Her heart was still racing, but now there was a sense of calm, a quiet settling she hadn’t realised she needed until this very moment.

Oscar’s hands were still gently cupping her face, his thumbs brushing softly along her jawline as if he wanted to imprint the feel of her there in his memory. His gaze was soft but intense, still reading her like he’d always done. She could feel the weight of his words pressing against her, even now.

And she knew.

She knew that this wasn’t just a fleeting moment, a one-time gesture. This was something deeper. Something that had been building for a long time, maybe without either of them even realising it.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It was just right.

But then Oscar’s phone buzzed.

It broke the stillness, and his gaze shifted, momentarily pulling away from hers.

He glanced down at his screen, his fingers swiping it unlocked before he tapped out a quick reply.

But she couldn’t help herself.

Her eyes drifted to the message on his phone, just barely catching a glimpse of the text that had popped up.

"Did you finally tell her?!"

Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard. Her mind immediately started working overtime. Tell her? What did that mean?

She couldn’t stop herself. She leaned in just a little, trying to see if there was more.

Oscar noticed the shift in her attention, his thumb halting mid-type. He looked back up at her, eyes wary, lips pulling into a small, knowing smile.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice teasing but his eyes slightly guarded.

She frowned. “What was that about? ‘Did you finally tell her?’”

He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, a small chuckle escaping him.

“Look, I —” He stopped, biting his lip as if trying to find the right words. “I didn’t exactly want you to find out like this.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

His eyes flicked to the phone again, where the text from his sister still lingered on the screen.

“I’ve... kind of had a thing for you for a while, actually,” he said, his voice sheepish, like it was something that still surprised him. “And I guess, in a way, she’s been... waiting for me to actually do something about it.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed again, trying to process the words as they settled in.

“So, it wasn’t just me imagining all this?” she asked softly, her gaze searching his. “All the little things, it’s not because you wanted to prove a point but because you always liked me.”

He shook his head slowly, his lips curling into a small, genuine smile. “Nah. I’ve been a bit of an idiot, to be honest. She’s been telling me to just... tell you already. To stop being such a coward.”

Her eyes widened as she leaned back slightly, the weight of his confession landing on her.

“How long have you liked me then, Osc?” she asked, the words still foreign on her tongue.

He chuckled, eyes softening. “For a while now. Since we started racing against each other, actually. I just — I don’t know. You’ve always been so... independent. And I didn’t want to mess things up for you, you know? You’ve got enough on your plate without some guy making it more complicated.”

She could feel her chest tightening, her heart swelling with something she couldn’t quite name. “You really thought I wouldn’t want you? With all the times you’ve been there for me?”

He paused, his hand dropping, suddenly unsure. “I didn’t think I was the right kind of guy for you. You deserve someone who can... give you everything. And I didn’t know if I could.”

Her voice dropped to a soft whisper. “But you already have.”

He looked at her, a flicker of hope and disbelief in his eyes. “You mean it?”

She nodded slowly. “I do.”

A silence stretched between them once again. But this time, it was different. There was no more hesitation. No more fear.

She could feel the pull again. The one that had always been there, hidden beneath the surface. And this time, she was ready to admit it.

“I never thought anyone could feel this way about me,” she whispered. “I always thought... I was too much. Too loud. Too stubborn. Too everything.”

Oscar’s hand reached out again, his thumb gently brushing over her knuckles. “You’re not too much, love. You’re exactly what I’ve wanted.”

She met his eyes, and for the first time, it felt like the weight of everything — all the doubt, the fear, the loneliness — finally melted away.

His phone buzzed again, but this time, he didn’t even glance at it.

He just leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin.

“You’re so worthy,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Before she could say anything, before she could process the feeling overwhelming her, his lips were on hers again. Slow, tender, and full of everything he had been holding back.

This time, the kiss wasn’t just an expression of everything that had been unsaid.

It was a promise. A promise that, for once, she didn’t have to prove herself. Not to him. Not to anyone.

She was enough.

He was more than willing to remind her of that, every single day.

And he did.

He reminded her every day.

Every morning when the sun crept through the hotel curtains, he was the first thing she saw, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached out to pull her closer. Every time they woke up next to each other, whether in a hotel room after a race weekend or their small flat in Monaco in between races, Oscar was there. His hand in hers. His heart in his eyes.

There was no more second-guessing. No more wondering if she was enough. Because with him, she knew.

The world outside the bubble of their love kept moving, of course. The cars kept racing, the fans kept cheering, the pressure kept building. But with Oscar by her side, she felt like she could breathe. Like the weight of the world wasn’t too heavy to bear.

The year she got her promotion to Red Bull, she was already flying high with the confidence that came from the love she hadn’t known she needed.

She remembered how he’d been there, of course, always there. That morning, just before the announcement, she’d been pacing in her garage, waiting for the call. He had leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her with that patient, steady smile of his.

“You’ve earned this,” he had said quietly. “You’ve always earned this.”

She hadn’t believed it then, not fully. Not until she got the call. Until she stood in the team office, her name printed on the top of the contract for next season.

Red Bull.

It felt surreal. But when she went to call Oscar, to share the news, he’d already been there, waiting on the other end of the line.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “This is just the beginning, love.”

And she knew, right then, that it was.

Because then, there was that moment. The one that everyone had been waiting for.

The moment she became the first woman to win the World Drivers’ Championship.

It wasn’t easy. It was never easy. The battle with the other teams, the constant questions, the doubts. But through it all, Oscar had been there. Through every late-night debrief, every race weekend, every difficult practice session where she didn’t think she could do it, he had been her quiet strength.

He wasn’t the loudest supporter. He didn’t shout in front of the media. But when it was just the two of them, when they were alone in their little world, he was her unwavering pillar.

After the final race of the season, when she crossed the line and knew it was done, she was overwhelmed by emotion. But when she looked out into the crowd, the first person she saw wasn’t her manager, her family, or her teammates. It was Oscar. Standing in the paddock, arms spread wide as if he had been waiting for this moment just as much as she had.

The podium ceremony was a blur, but when they met backstage, before the interviews and the flashing cameras, he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.

“I told you,” he whispered into her ear. “I told you that you were worthy of everything. You just had to see it for yourself.”

She smiled, tears mixing with the sweat and champagne, and kissed him deeply, because no words could capture what they had between them. She knew he would never stop proving it, that she was worthy of all the love, all the victories, all the happiness in the world.

And he would keep proving it every day.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @luvstappen @obxstiles

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imaginedisish · 11 months ago

Text

Modern Love (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Hey y'all! Here's something short and sweet. This is based on a request, so I hope the requester enjoys :) No song references here, but "Modern Love" by David Bowie seems appropriate. It's 80s, New Wave-y, and we're in an arcade in this fic, so it fits.

Summary: The team goes out to an arcade, and Logan is his usual grumpy self...but his soft spot for you is more clear than ever.

Warnings: Suggestive content (would totally write a second part with some true smut), tooth rotting fluff, friends to lovers, kissing, cursing, f!reader/afab!reader, grumpy!Logan, Jubilee is a cock block LOL, def some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 1,685 short and sweet indeed

“I do not want to be here,” Logan complains, rolling his eyes as the team strolls into the arcade.

Jubilee skips inside, twirling with excitement. “Well, that’s just too bad, Logan!” She calls, running over to the arcade’s version of Dance Dance Revolution. Kurt is laughing, following at her heels. “Because everyone else is going to have a great time!”

“Gambit’s winning big tonight,” Gambit says, taking Rogue’s hand in his. “Gambit’s winning chere a prize, he is.” Rogue blushes, letting Gambit pull her to one of the fake slot machines.

Jean and Scott walk over to an older machine—Pac-Man or something similar, probably. Storm and Charles head towards the seating area near the snack bar in the back, leaving you and Logan to yourselves. Of course. You’re alone with Logan. The person you want but you know you can’t have.

You’re friends—just friends. You’ve accepted that he’ll never see you as anything more, but it still hurts.

“So…” You say, trailing off as Logan looks around the arcade. “Not your kind of place, huh?”

“Not particularly,” he says back, his eyes finding yours. You can’t help but smile at that stupid, grumpy look on his face. “You like this shit?” He asks, smiling back at you.

You shrug your shoulders, noncommittal. “I think you’d have fun if you tried,” you say, nodding towards the crane machine, and walking over. You can hear Logan’s footsteps against the carpet, following you close behind.

You peer into the glass, looking at all the stuffed animals filling the machine. Your smile widens when you spot the cute little turtle in the back—green and brown, wide eyes, and extra plush and round. Logan leans against the machine, arms crossed tightly against his chest. “Which one are we going for?” He asks. We—you can’t help but replay the word in your head. There’s a “we” in this. You and Logan.

You point to the turtle in the back row. “We’re going for that one,” you say, and his eyes find the green little thing. “Isn’t he cute?”

He shakes his head, grinning ear to ear, his grumpiness seemingly gone now. “Sure, princess, sure he is.”

Your breath hitches in your throat at the sound of the familiar pet name. You lean down to put a quarter in the machine, trying your best not to overthink the situation. The crane starts up, whirring to life, giving you three tries to win the stuffy.

You maneuver the crane to the back row, just above the turtle. “Do you think that’s good?” You ask, looking towards Logan. But he isn’t looking at the machine; he’s looking at you, smirking. “What?” You ask, narrowing your eyes incredulously.

“You’re cute when you concentrate,” Logan says, his smirk unwavering. You can feel the heat rising to your chest as he peers into the machine. He nods, his eyes finding yours again, changing the subject before you can respond to his comment. “Looks good to me.”

You swallow nervously, pressing the button on the top of the stick, sending the crane down to the stuffy. It grabs the turtle, holding it up. It looks like it’s going to make it, but it falls in the center of the glass box. You groan, annoyed as the crane moves back to position. You try again, bringing the crane to the center of the machine, just above the turtle, and dropping it again. The silver claws grip the plushy, but it’s a bad grab—the turtle slipping right out of its grasp.

“Fucking rigged,” you mutter, moving the crane over the turtle for the final time. “This is it,” you say, looking at Logan. He’s suddenly shifting closer to you, standing behind you and pressing his front to your back. His arms rest on either side of the crane machine’s controls, caging you in.

“Much better view from here,” he whispers at the shell of your ear. You’re distracted by how close he is. You can smell him—tobacco and pine and musk. “Let’s see if it works, princess.” This is too much. Far more than you can possibly handle.

You take a deep breath, your eyes surveying the crane’s distance from the turtle carefully, and you press the button. The crane drops, grabbing the stuffy, and picking it up successfully. “Yes!” You say, looking back at Logan. His face is inches from yours. You can feel his breath fan across your lips. Your noses are so close, brushing together softly. He leans in, lips parted.

“Game over!” A robotic, automated voice rings out, the crane whirling back into position. It snaps you back to reality, and you look inside the machine. There, off to the side just next to the machine’s drop box, is the turtle.

“Shit,” you mumble, shoulders slumping with disappointment. You know it’s just a game, and you are an adult after all, but you can’t help the frown that forms across your face. “I really wanted him. I was gonna name him Bernie.”

Logan chuckles. “Bernie?” he asks, and you nod. He’s centimeters away from you again, leaning in. “Don’t sweat the loss, princess. You’re cuter than that little thing is anyw—"

“Look what Kurt and I got with our tickets!” Jubilee is suddenly in front of you, a stuffed, sparkly blue dinosaur in her hand. She’s tugging you away from Logan and across the arcade before you can protest. “You gotta dance with me!” You look back at Logan, who’s standing alone in front of the crane machine, arms tucked against his chest.

Have fun, he mouths. And good luck. He winks at you as Jubilee whisks you off to Dance Dance Revolution. You let her pick the song, and you struggle through the round, your feet tapping to the beat. You and Jubilee are a laughing mess. You know you look absolutely ridiculous, but it’s fun.

And yet, your mind still wanders to Logan. You think about how close he was to you, the way his lips practically brushed against yours—the ghost of a kiss. You think about the way he caged you in, pressed against your back. You’re so distracted that you don’t even realize how badly you’re fumbling all the moves; you don’t hear Jubilee calling your name.

“Hey!” She shouts, finally bringing you back to reality. The round is over; you missed the entire second half of the dance. “Where’d you go just there?” She asks, concern hidden within her smile.

You look over to the crane machine, expecting to see Logan, but he’s gone. In fact, you can’t find him anywhere. “Sorry Jubes, but I gotta go see about something,” you say, stepping off the platform.

Your eyes search the arcade. Gambit and Rogue are at the ticket redemption counter, picking out a big stuffed bear. Kurt is fooling around on one of those motorcycle racing games. Storm and Charles are—uncharacteristically—sharing a soft pretzel, while Jean and Scott share a milkshake. Everyone is here and accounted for except Logan.

That is, until you notice the puff of smoke in the corner of the glass door at the front of the arcade. You smirk, walking towards the entrance and pushing the door open.

Logan leans against the brick wall of the building, cigar in his mouth. His head turns towards you, and he immediately takes the cigar out, dropping it to the ground and extinguishing it with the heel of his boot.

“Hi,” you whisper, standing next to him.

He looks down at you, smiling widely. “Hi.” He’s leaning in again—so close—and a shiver runs up your spine. “Cold?” He asks, shrugging out of his leather jacket before you have a chance to answer. He helps you into the jacket one arm at a time, his eyes drinking you in once it’s on, trailing up and down your body. “Looks good on you,” he hums. “Way better than it does on me.”

You shake your head, letting your shoulder brush against his. You look over at him and suddenly notice something green and round in his hand. “What’s that?” You ask. But you already know. You recognize the little brown spots and the wide eyes.

Logan smirks, lifting the turtle up. “Couldn’t let you go home without him,” he says, holding it out towards you.

“No way!” You shout, ignoring the turtle and throwing your arms around Logan’s neck. It’s instinctive, natural. He tugs you in closer, his arms wrapping around your waist. “Thank you so much,” you mumble into the crook of his neck. “I can’t believe you ended up playing a game at an arcade.”

“I’d do anything for you,” he whispers against your temple. The sudden vulnerability of his words makes your heart tighten in your chest. You stay like that for a while, his lips ghosting your forehead, your chests pressed together. You finally lift your head, looking up at Logan.

“Lo?” You whisper, and his gaze meets yours, flitting between your eyes and your lips. He drops the plushy onto the bench next to him and walks you back into the brick wall, caging you in, hands on either side of your waist.

He leans in. “Yeah, pretty girl?” He brings one hand to your hip, gripping gently. “What do you need?”

“Y-you,” you stutter. “I need y—"

His lips swallow your words, fitting against yours like a puzzle piece. The kiss is slow, languid, but you can feel his need in the way he moves against you, hands slipping underneath the borrowed jacket and your shirt to explore your skin. His fingertips drag along your back, relaxing you into his touch.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” Logan mumbles against your lips.

Your heart flutters in your chest. “But what about the others?” You ask, nodding to the arcade.

Logan smirks, stealing another kiss. “All the more reason to get back to the mansion before they do.”

“But how are we going to—”

He grips your waist, tugging you towards the parking lot. “I took my bike, pretty girl.”

Oh?

Oh.

tags: @ilysmdovie12 @prettyseaveins @spiderset @figsnpassionfruits @silversprings-mp3 @movhoney @wittyjasontodd @theasiaabattoir @fanfic-writing-barbie @manipulatour @pedrohoe04 @derbygracie

#Logan Howlett x reader #Wolverine x reader #James Logan Howlett x reader #Logan Howlett x you #Wolverine x you #James Logan Howlett x you #Logan Howlett fluff #Wolverine fluff #James Logan Howlett fluff #Logan Howlett x reader fluff #Wolverine x reader fluff #James Logan Howlett x reader fluff #deadpool and wolverine #Logan Howlett imagine #Wolverine imagine #James Logan Howlett imagine

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