#but it's okay only those who read the tags will know

[blackynsupremacy]

TEETHING TROUBLES

pairing: nicholas a. chavez x black!fem!reader

summary: baby noah is going through the dreadful time of teething. you and your husband, nicholas, are trying everything possible to ease your son’s pain until he finds his own solution.

inspo/dedication: @austeenbootler, they’re the one who has created the concept of noah, so for more context, check out their nac social media fic! it’s amazing.

contains: a bit short, fluffity fluff fluff, one swear word, reader and nicholas are married, reader is a famous singer, mom!reader, dad!nicholas, romance, beautiful family dynamics, uncle cooper and aunt billie will make a cameo, cute nickname for noah: nu-nu (new-new).

a/n: happy thanksgiving to those who celebrate!

tags: @austeenbootler @greengoblinswifey @hoffmansgirl @sabrinasopposite @venic-bxtch @thabiddie23 @oscarisaackissmykitty @motherismotheringggg @hnch33rios @xoxoglittergossip @sheydnni @supaprettyg @jkr820 @simply-the-best23 @tryingtograspctrl @elitesanjisimp @gxuxhdjdu

“c’mon, nu-nu! just try to suck on this for mommy, okay?” you sit on the couch and try to coax your crying five-month-old, noah, into taking his usual pacifier. he was wailing in pain due to his irritated gums as he squirmed on your lap. he was at that beautiful, yet dreadful milestone of a child’s life: teething. his cries pierce your ears as warm tears flow down his chubby face when he frantically turns his head away from the pacifier that’s ghosting over his lips. you knew that being a working mother wasn’t going to be an easy walk in the park and this was just one of those moments. not only did you have to find a solution to help noah, but you had a deadline to finish off your next album with one more song to write and record. your doting husband, nicholas chavez, ran to the store to get some fruit for noah’s new tool. you both saw online that a fruit teething pacifier could help with the issue along with a various assortment of teething toys, and a finger toothbrush. you were new parents, so you both thought there was no harm in testing out different options. you just wanted your son to get some sort of relief, so that he doesn’t keep crying all day and night.

“babe—m’back!” sighing in relief, you hear nicholas call out for you as he enters back into your home with a grocery bag in his hand. you perch noah on your side with your arms securely wrapped around him. as you walk towards your husband, you try to bounce and lightly pat the infant on his back in hopes to ease his wails. noah heaves and stammers then they shift to whimpers before he’s back to sobbing. nicholas understood the struggle as he looks upon you both with a sympathetic smile, he greets you both a kiss upon your heads before he leans down to speak to noah,

“naw, c’mere, buddy. it’ll get better, i promise! wanna come to daddy?” you take that as a cue to carefully hand noah off to his father while you take the grocery bag out of his hand. noah instantly rests his tiny arms on nicholas’ chest, instantly gripping the fabric of his shirt. you all journey to the kitchen, so you could prepare this teether and give your baby relief. you retrieve the newly packaged fruit teether from the table and promptly open it to read the instructions. nicholas paces around the room as he coos and converses with his son while you choose the correct size of the teat ring that was appropriate for noah’s age. you groan in annoyance as your phone buzzes out your ringtone within the back of your jeans while you’re trying to cut the fresh strawberries for the teether. you didn’t really want to answer it, but this could be work related and most moms should know how to multitask, right?

“don’t worry, sweetheart. i got it.”

before you could reach for it, nicholas has already took the device from your pocket, swiped with his thumb to answer, and put it on speaker. when he places it on the counter beside you, you mouth a “thank you” to him and you continue with your tasks when you hear a voice call out through the phone,

“WHAT’S UP, FUCKERS!?”

you and nicholas playfully shake your heads in disapproval, trying to hold in a chuckle.

“billie eilish pirate baird o’connell, how many times do i have to tell you to watch your mouth? i do not need my baby to cuss before he says ‘mama’—” you scold your best friend, who you deemed as the godmother of your son.

“or dada!” nicholas chimes in. you listen to billie’s chuckles resonate from the speaker as you gather the chopped strawberries into the teat ring and seal it back for noah’s use. you put it in the freezer to let it get cold and as you wait, you pick up the phone.

“first of all, he’s gonna say my name as his first words—and second, m’sorrryyy!” billie humbly apologized.

“it’s all good, b. what’re you up to?” you inquire, you absentmindedly approach the boys and shift a concerned gaze on the whimpering baby. nicholas doesn’t waste time to swipe away any fallen tears from his son’s face. the poor thing wasn’t crying as loud now, but he was still in agony nonetheless. billie’s voice reverberates in the room,

“nothing much. just wanted to check in—is that noah crying? who made my baby cry? i’ll hurt them!”

“if only you could fight the one responsible for teething, that would surely be a relief!” nicholas quips, walking past you with a still whining noah to the freezer and opening it to obtain the now frozen pacifier with cold strawberries. you watch as he gives noah the opportunity to observe the object before him.

“look what daddy’s got, noah. here you go, little man.” nicholas softly encouraged.

you both adore those round, curious eyes that are now slightly red from his crying earlier. nicholas inches the teat closer to noah’s lips and he nibbles on it for a few seconds before fully suckling on it. you both let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and billie’s voice startles you,

“aww, man. that blows, but hey, i don’t hear crying anymore. what’d you do?”

you happily explain the process of the fruit teether and other solutions to your friend. she gives you and nicholas kudos for making sure that if one thing doesn’t go right, you already have a back up just in case. you and nicholas couldn’t help to grin in satisfaction knowing that your baby will get some relief after all.

“well, i’m glad that worked out! now you can finally start working on that last—”

billie’s voice is cut off in an instant by the familiar, shrill sound of noah’s cries. you find out he just spit out the fruit pacifier. what went wrong? just a two minutes ago, he was going to town on it. now he doesn’t want it anymore? you and your husband nervously sigh as you’re back to square one.

“maybe i-uh, spoke too soon…i’ll leave you and nick to it, y/n. don’t be so hard on yourselves, you have a back up and you got this. hope noah feels better soon!”

you both thank her for the encouragement and bid her a farewell before she hangs up. you put the phone down and approach your wailing baby with a distressed expression.

“aw, nunu! i guess you didn’t really like that, huh? come to my mommy, baby.”

you reach your hands out and nicholas wastes no time to pass noah off into your embrace. you hold him close to you with his chin on your shoulder and your palm resting on the back of his head, your thumb caressing his sensitive scalp under his dark, thick coily hair. your husband approaches closer and wraps a strong, comforting arm around your side.

“it’s back to the drawing board, nick. i hate to see him like this. god, talk about growing pains—and this is only just the beginning of more to come.” you fret, lightly bouncing noah to ease his sorrow. with a reassuring grin, nicholas lays a kiss to your forehead,

“i know, baby, i hate it for him too. we may be new at this, but the best we can do is do the best we can—and that’s to keep trying until we eventually get it right. everything will work out for us, okay?” at his words, you simper. you love nicholas and noah so much that it hurts. this was your family. this wasn’t just a group of people who share vows, dna, and a house. this was life and you can’t imagine yourself living it without your boys.

“when you put it in perspective, you’re right. we can do this and this is only temporary! once we figure it out, he will feel better. babe, you always know what to say. i love you, nick.” you commend him and reach on your toes to give him a quick peck to his lips.

“i love you more—both of you. can i hold him again?” you giggle at his wholesomeness, “of course! nick, you ain’t even gotta ask.” once again, nicholas scoops his son within his grasp. he holds the baby up, so that they can be eye to eye. “hey, there’s my best boy.” he pauses to kiss his chubby cheek to which noah receives with a coo. it was so refreshing to hear a sound from him that wasn’t from a place of irritation. “mama and i got you, buddy. yes, we—oh, babe!”

you dissolve into laughter as you witness noah suckling on the bridge of his father’s nose and it appears that he didn’t want to let go. nicholas laughs at the fact that each time he tries to hide his face away, noah comes back stronger and more persistent to gum down his dad’s face. you take a video with your cellphone to send to your group chat with both billie and cooper koch, nick’s best friend and noah’s godfather. you’re in stitches when you receive their reactions, they never miss the opportunity to rag on nicholas as they’ve done in prior occasions. he just can’t catch a break!

“y/n, babe, help!—noah! please, aha!” he can barely manage a word as the baby takes a grip on nicholas’ collar and he becomes more relentless with each suckle to his skin. you playfully raise your hands in surrender and shake your head.

“sorry, nick, but it looks like you’re the answer to our problem!” you joke in hysteria. just like that, your anxiety melted into the sweet relief of a true family bond.

[gatheredfates]

WELCOME to Sea's Catch Up (For) Starlight Challenge! Also know as 'A FFIX Prompt?' (I just woke up), 'Is it Cosy or Cozy in Australia?' (Cosy) and bEANS (bEANS!).

Suffice it to say, there have been a lot of challenges this year—Gpose challenges, FFXIV Write, Down to Dawntrail and Seafloor Saints Wake (just to name ours)! I know from personal experience that I haven't had the time to get to every single prompt... but I've wanted to. I also know it can be really disheartening to miss out on prompts and feel like you're being weird for engaging with it later on in the year.

To that end, I wanted to open a challenge that encourages people to either tackle an existing prompt from any gpose/writing/art challenge that was hosted during the year (under the excuse of it being for this challenge) OR pick from one of the prompts above to make a Starlight-themed creative piece!

All of these words were chosen by various people within the SEAFLOOR Discord, and i have tried not to tie them too closely to Christmas so people who don't celebrate the holiday don't feel left out. If you want to change a word that is more applicable to your culture, but still embodies the same spirit of the holiday through family, humanity, spending time with your loved ones, etc. I highly encourage you to do so!

This challenge will run the entirety of the month of December and can be tackled in any way you see fit. If you want to do a prompt a day and mix in the words in amongst working on your old project(s), go for it! If you want to select some words and not others, cool! If you want to only work on your old stuff and leave this list in the dust, a okay! It's all about giving you a low-stakes way to engage with your creativity and an excuse to go back to stuff you might have missed, or take some time to celebrate the season and people who mean a lot to you (and your ocs)!

Please use the tag #catch up (for) starlight if you participate and consider joining our community! A more comprehensive FAQ is contained in the read more below. ☃️

But also:

Is the use of mods/shades/tools okay? Yes, of course! Whatever works for you to make your creative dreams come true.

What about NSFW (gore, sexual or otherwise)? Use common sense and appropriate tags as necessary, especially for common fears and phobias. I obviously cannot control what Tumblr sees as being too much, but the general rules for SEAFLOOR apply where possible. If your conservative boss wouldn't like to see it, consider tagging and content warning were necessary.

Where do I post works? Hopefully your Tumblr blog, silly, but you can also reblog them to the SEAFLOOR Tumblr Community or join us on Discord! If someone posts their work in either of those spaces, consider reacting with a wintery-themed emoji! It just lets people know you enjoyed it. ❄️ I am going to do my best to reblog prompts when I see them, but I am going away during the Christmas period so I may not be contactable in that time.

Is there a prize? There might be this time around, though I haven't given it much thought. Seafloor members will get a fancy cosmetic title.

[theostrophywife]

in my head.

take me closer, take my clothes off—oh, i fantasize if i’m honest, it's more fun when you can't read my mind

author's note: oh, this was so much fun to write. big thanks to @azsazz for listening to me rant about this concept and giving me the idea of the daydream montage. consider this as my gift to everyone for hitting 2k! you are all lil cuties and ily mwah 💋 song inspiration: fu in my head by cloudy june

You knew that it was wrong to fantasize about Azriel. 

You knew that as you sat across from him in the private library at the House of Wind, poring over the most recent reports, debriefing on your latest mission, and exchanging valuable information that you’ve gleaned from spying and scheming, that you should be focusing on the task at hand rather than imagining the shadowsinger bending you over the ornate wooden desk and pulling your hair as he fucked you from behind. 

“What are you thinking about?” Azriel asked, his handsome face illuminated by the crackling hearth. 

“Nothing,” you responded, hiding your blush behind a book. 

Scarred fingers curled around your wrist, taking the tome from your shaking hands. The shadowsinger pulled you into his lap, fisting the hem of your cotton dress around your waist. 

You swallowed as the sound of his belt hitting the carpeted floor echoed in the library. Azriel bent you over the desk and gripped your hair in one hand, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned down to whisper in your ear. 

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart. I’ve seen you looking at me all night.” You whimpered as he traced the curve of your ass, teasing his tip against your slick folds. “Is this what you want? For me to fuck you against this desk until you’re nothing but a pathetic, whining mess?” 

“Yes,” you breathed. “That’s what I want.”

Azriel chuckled, dark and low and all too seductive. He kissed the base of your spine. “Then that’s what you’ll get, princess.”

The shadowsinger thrust his cock into your pussy, eyes rolling back from how tight you felt, nearly making him come right then and there. Tears leaked from the corner of your eyes and Azriel gently wiped them away with his thumb before sliding out just to ram himself back in again. 

“That’s right, sweetheart.” Azriel declared, cupping your cheek. “Take it. Take all of me.”

You knew that you should be enjoying the company of your friends during your night out in the city, joining in on their drinking and dancing at Rita’s instead of slowly sipping your wine, discretely ogling the shadowsinger over the rim of your glass, taking in his soft, raven hair that you were convinced would feel like silk underneath your fingertips, tracing down the elegant planes of his face, those high cheekbones, the aquiline nose, the sensual, pouty lips making you bite down on your own lip as you daydreamed about what he’d taste like, how rough his hands would feel against your skin, how dominant and demanding he’d be as he kissed you. 

The shadowsinger growled into your mouth as he pressed you up against the bathroom wall. He kissed you—rough and hard and demanding as though his immortal life depended on it. 

“You’ve got such a smart mouth,” Azriel breathed, capturing your lips in his. You moaned as he bit down, hard enough that your bottom lip already felt swollen from the effort. “I wonder if all that sass will hold up with your lips wrapped around my cock.”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Azriel groaned as you knelt before him, impatiently unbuckling his trousers. You palmed him through the fabric and his head tipped back against the wall, that molten gaze burning with desire as he fisted your hair in his hand. You looked up at him through your lashes as you gripped his cock, your hand smooth and silky as you pumped him, licking the bead of precum gathered on the tip with a flick of your wicked tongue. 

The shadowsinger shuddered and his wings flared at his back as you took him into your mouth. 

“Fuck, baby.” Azriel said, his voice husky and full of gravel as you bobbed up and down his length. “Yeah, that’s it. Just like that.”

You knew that you should be paying attention to the spymaster’s directions as the two of you trained together, your back pressed flush against his chest as he corrected your form, spreading your feet apart and placing his arms around your shoulders, scarred hand wrapping around your own as he demonstrated the proper way to deflect a dagger, but technique and training was the last thing on your mind as his scent clouded your senses, awakening that familiar ache in your core that had everything to do with the way he was holding you rather than the hours you’d spent mastering the move. 

“Try it now,” Azriel challenged. He crooked a finger at you and smirked. 

You lunged, but the shadowsinger was gone in a flash. Azriel disappeared within his shadows only to reappear a few feet to your left. Truth-teller slammed down against your own dagger as you darted underneath his legs. 

Again, Azriel was swallowed into a swath of darkness. Your eyes roamed over the empty training ring, trying to predict the shadowsinger’s next move. He already attempted to attack the blind spot on your left side, but you’d expected that. Had trained over and over again to make sure you were no longer vulnerable there. 

While Azriel was skilled, you sparred with him enough to familiarize yourself with his fighting pattern. He was cool and calculated, often defaulting to the defensive as he toyed with his opponent. 

But he wouldn’t be gentle with you. 

No—Azriel knew all too well that you’d go on the offensive. So he’d place himself in the best position to strike first, which meant he’d pick his strongest point. 

Flight. 

Azriel materialized above you, his dark wings swallowing up every bit of sunlight. He slammed down hard, but met nothing but sand. You had already moved out of the way, sneaking up behind him and cutting him off at the legs. 

You were fast, but not as fast as the shadowsinger. Azriel pinned you down on the red sand, his beloved dagger inches away from your throat. 

“It was a valiant effort,” he said with a slight smirk. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that if you hope to beat me.”

You grinned. “It’s not over yet, shadowsinger.”

His confused expression served as a signal to employ the last trick up your sleeve. You tilted your chin up towards him, your face mere inches away from his. Azriel faltered as his gaze dipped down to your lips. 

You could see his throat work as you wrapped your legs around him. The shadowsinger let out a sharp intake of breath as you flipped him over. This little manuever of yours placed you right on top of Azriel, your ass pressed firmly against his groin. 

His hands found your hips, a soft groan escaping his lips as you pressed his own dagger against his throat. Something like awe and admiration washed over the male as he gazed up at you.

Azriel’s laugh was smoky and gruff when he realized he’d been bested. “Good girl.”

Cauldron fucking boil you. 

Your grip on the weapon slipped and Azriel tossed the blade to the side before pinning you down once more. The soft sand shifted around you as the shadowsinger kissed your jaw, trailing kisses along the hollow of your throat, nipping at your collarbones as his hand slipped down the front of your leathers. 

“I’m impressed,” Azriel hummed as he teased two fingers along your soaking folds. “I think you deserve a reward for that, sweetheart.”

You whimpered as his thumb circled your clit. “What if someone hears?” 

The shadowsinger smirked. “Well I guess you’ll just have to be quiet, angel.”

As he plunged two fingers inside of you, Azriel’s mouth covered your own to swallow your loud moan.

“Y/N?” Cassian’s voice called out from across the room. “What do you think?” 

You blinked, suddenly finding yourself seated in the game room at the House of Wind. Cassian, Nesta, and Azriel were all looking at you expectantly. The Illyrian general’s hand hovered over the stack of chips on the table as he raised a brow. 

Right. 

You were playing cards before you’d lost yourself to another ridiculous, embarrassing, dirty daydream about one of your closest friends. A blush crept up your cheeks as you shook the thought away. This had been happening more often than not and usually at the most inopportune times.

You truly needed to get a hold of yourself. 

Beside you, the shadowsinger stirred. He looked over at you in concern and lightly touched your knee under the table. 

“You alright?” he asked, low enough so only you could hear. 

You swallowed, nodding way too fast for the movement to be perceived as normal. You clenched your thighs together as Azriel squeezed you playfully. 

Gods, that really wasn’t fucking helping. 

“I’m fine. Just got distracted.” You averted your gaze from the shadowsinger and faced Cassian instead. “Go big or go home, Cas.”

“See!” The Illyrian general exclaimed, “I knew Y/N would have my back. She’s a risk taker, unlike you two old snores.” He pushed his mountain of chips to the center of the table. “I’m all in.” 

Azriel and Nesta exchanged an amused look before the latter snorted, fondly rolling her eyes at her mate. 

“Let’s see your hand, then.” 

Cassian proudly slammed down his cards. It was a good hand. 

“Not bad,” Azriel mused. Cassian smirked at his brother, but his expression faltered when the shadowsinger’s lips quirked. “But mine’s better.”

Azriel revealed his hand, which, as always, beat every single hand.

Cassian crossed his arms, grumbling as his brother claimed his winnings. “That’s three games in a row! You have to be using your shadows to win.”

You giggled. As much as you loved Cas, the male did not take well to losing. 

“Or I’m just that good.” Azriel smirked, catching your eye. He winked and you nearly choked on your drink. 

Cassian rolled his eyes. “I need another drink,” he clinked his glass against yours. “Want a refill, Y/N?”

You shook your head, feigning a yawn. “I’m feeling a bit tired, actually. I think I’ll head to bed.”

The Illyrian general scowled again. “Leaving me with these vipers,” he mumbled under his breath. “If all my money is gone tomorrow, just know that you could’ve prevented it.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re a big boy, Cas.” You teased, patting your friend on the back as you passed him on the stairs. “I’m sure you can manage.”

Lowly, you elbowed your friend. “Watch out for Az’s shadows. They always curl to the right when he’s got a good hand.”

Your friend grinned in conspiracy. The intel on his brother’s tell seemed to brighten up his mood a notch. 

“I heard that!” Azriel called after you. 

“No idea what you’re talking about.” You winked at Cassian and waved back at your friends. “Good night!”

It was, in fact, not a good night. After excusing yourself from the game, you laid in bed for a good hour before realizing that sleep was not coming any time soon. 

You were too wound up from fantasizing about Azriel. A part of you knew that it was wrong. Azriel was your friend. If he ever found out about your filthy fantasies, you’d be mortified. 

But…that’s all they were, right?

Just fantasies. Harmless as long as they stayed in your head. 

You closed your eyes, letting your imagination take over. That golden brown skin covered in dark intricate tattoos. Those strong muscles, honed by centuries of combat and training, rippling in the light as he spared against you. The cocky smirk that pulled at his lips, making his handsome face light up with mischief. 

Azriel was so beautiful it almost hurt. 

More importantly, he was kind and good and patient. The type of friend who noticed all the little details. Who listened and learned without passing judgment. Who made you feel seen and known. 

For months, you’ve had a sneaking suspicion that whatever you felt for Azriel was more than just physical attraction. It might have started off that way with all your daydreams, but even those seemingly benign thoughts that you attributed to Azriel’s obvious attractiveness and close proximity had turned into something more. 

As of late, you found yourself delving into more innocent imaginations. Holding his hand. Brushing back his hair. Kissing him softly. 

But you never let yourself think about those thoughts any further. You were afraid of what they meant. 

So here you were, tossing and turning in bed as the thought of Azriel haunted your subconscious for what seemed like the millionth night in a row. You sighed in defeat. 

There was only one way to get the shadowsinger out of your head. 

A soft sigh escaped your lips as your hand trailed down your torso, sliding underneath the sheets until you reached the waistband of your lace panties. This would be it. You could pleasure yourself to the thought of him to erase the truth that you were too afraid to face. It would be the last time—or so you told yourself. Repeatedly for months on end. 

Pushing all other pesky little feelings aside, you focused on getting yourself off, which would hopefully get your mind off of the shadowsinger altogether. 

The shadowsinger stared down the empty hallway, his attention snagging on your closed door. After beating Cassian and Nesta three more times, the trio had decided to call it a night. His brother more disgruntled than his mate. 

Azriel smirked. He���d wiped the floor with Cassian, despite the information you’d given his brother about his tell. The shadowsinger hadn’t even known about it himself. He’d have to find a way to correct that, but for now…

The Illyrian warrior paused as his feet took him directly in front of your door. His shadows swarmed around him, snaking through his wings and curling against his ears, whispering one thing and one thing only. 

Your name. 

“She’s sleeping,” he said quietly. One of his shadows poked his cheek in irritation to which Azriel responded with an eye roll. 

They wanted to play with you. To be near you. Azriel knew the feeling all too well, but still, you had looked a little frazzled and distracted earlier and he briefly wondered if the rigorous training he was putting you through was to blame. He hoped not. The shadowsinger liked sparring with you. 

You were feisty, wild, and unpredictable. Azriel never knew which side of you he was going to get. The sweet and sassy friend or the deadly lethal spy that made Rhysand hire you in the first place. You challenged the shadowsinger and he loved every second of it.

Azriel smiled quietly to himself and as he was prone to do for the past couple of months, he hovered near your door and though he was sure you had long fallen asleep, he still leaned in and whispered. 

“Good night.”

He was perfectly prepared to retire to his own room, his scarred hand already twisting the doorknob across the hall when he heard it. 

The rustling of sheets. The restless tossing and turning. And then—a soft moan that made the shadowsinger freeze in place. 

Azriel took a deep breath, desperately trying to shake the desire to come closer to your door. But there it was again. That breathy crescendo that ensnared his attention. 

Even his shadows tugged him closer—pulling and pushing in the direction of your room. Azriel was vaguely aware that it was wrong to eavesdrop on a friend, but he couldn’t help it. 

The shadowsinger pressed his ear against the wooden door, listening intently for that sweet, smooth voice. 

“Azriel.”

His hand flew off the handle of your door as though it were on fire. There was no way you knew he was out here, listening. Azriel was far too silent and stealthy for that. 

But you’d said his name all the same. 

No, you moaned it. 

Before he could truly comprehend what he was doing, Azriel pushed the door open and crossed the threshold of your bedchambers. 

He wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him. 

You were laying in bed, your hair unbound and cascading around your shoulders, your eyes squeezed tight as little pants and whines slipped past those always bitten lips. 

“Az, please.”

He inhaled sharply as his gaze zeroed in on your hand nestled between your legs, rubbing back and forth with increasing pace as your back arched off the bed. 

How many times has he found himself in the same position? How many times had he pleasured himself to the thought of you right across the hall, picturing this exact image in his mind, imagining the soft breaths and sensuous sighs that were now coming out of your pretty little lips? 

A shadow curled around your wrist, startling you out of your daze. You shot up in bed, panic and alarm flooding your features as you watched Azriel step out of the darkness. Inky shadows wafted off of him, curling around your other wrist and both ankles as they pulled you to the edge of the bed towards the shadowsinger. 

“Say it again.”

“Who—I—what are you doing here?”

Azriel stalked towards you like a predator tracking its prey, his golden eyes burning with a hunger that made the air in the room crackle with electricity. 

“Say. It. Again,” Azriel growled. 

“Azriel,” you breathed softly as his hand came up to brush against your cheek. 

You held your breath as Azriel traced the curve of your cupid’s bow, his rough, calloused thumb dragging your bottom lip down. 

“When you were touching yourself,” he said, his voice low and dark and dangerous. “What were you thinking about?” 

Blush bloomed high upon your cheeks. It was bad enough that he’d caught you in the midst of pleasuring yourself. You didn’t want to admit that it was his hand you were imagining between your thighs, those slender, scarred fingers working you towards release. 

The shadowsinger spread your legs apart and you inhaled sharply, eyes fluttering involuntarily as his hand crept up your thigh. “Were you imagining this?” he asked, dipping his head down to place a soft kiss against the hollow of your throat. 

Azriel caressed your skin, teasing, testing, taunting as he drew patterns along your bare legs. “Do you fantasize about me doing dirty, filthy things to you? Do you moan my name in the night as you get yourself off on the thought of me?” 

His teeth grazed your jaw, sucking harshly as you released a shaky breath. Azriel looked at you expectantly and you nodded, confirming his suspicions. 

“Tell me,” he breathed. “Tell me every dark fantasy that crosses that beautiful mind of yours.”

“I think about you touching me. I think about you kissing me. I think about you fucking me,” you confessed. Azriel’s eyes were dark, bottomless pits of desire as you continued to speak. “When we’re alone in the library, I fantasize about you bending me over the desk and fucking me until I’m hoarse. When we’re out in the city, I dream of breaking away from our friends and letting you have your way with me in the bathroom. And when we’re training, I think about you pinning me down and using me whichever way you desire.”

“Fuck,” Azriel groaned. “How long? How long have you wanted this? Wanted me?” 

“For as long as I could remember.”

The shadowsinger was quiet as he appraised you. “I’m sorry.” Your throat worked, dread filling your core. ”Are you mad?” 

“No,” Azriel said decisively. “I have wanted this since the moment I laid eyes on you.” He tilted your chin up, kissing your jaw. “I’ve thought about all the things you’ve thought about and more. Filthier, dirtier, and kinkier than anything you could ever imagine.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, your voice breathy as he continued peppering your neck with kisses. 

“Because,” Azriel snarled, nipping at your ear lobe. “I like you and I didn’t want to fuck this up. But now that I know you feel the same…” He grabbed your wrist, fingers still glistening with your own arousal. 

You watched with rapt attention as the shadowsinger took your fingers in his mouth and licked away every drop of your juices. 

Azriel moaned. “Gods, you taste even better than what I imagined.”

He pushed you into the mattress, his lean body hovering above yours. “We’ll do everything you fantasized about, sweetheart. Every single dark, depraved daydream. But first, I want to taste you.”

You shivered as the shadowsinger buried his head between your legs. His cool breath fanned against the inside of your thighs, his soft, wet mouth placing kisses along your mound. Then, he started devouring you. 

With his tongue flicking wickedly past your soaked folds, you moaned and writhed off the bed. Whatever you were imagining, whatever fantasies you may have had, shattered into pieces as reality slammed into you. Azriel’s lips worked you better than your fingers ever could, sucking and prodding, his expert movements making you come undone with each stroke.

Your breathy moans echoed off the walls as the shadowsinger gripped your thighs. Azriel was kneeling at the edge of the bed, one hand moving to hold your hips down while the other squeezed your breasts. He looked up at you as one of his shadows tilted your head down.

“Look at me, kitten.” Azriel said, your slick juices dripping from his mouth. “I want to watch you come.”

Cauldron fry and fucking boil you.

As he sucked harshly on your clit, you came fast and hard, your mind a blank canvas as white noise rang in your ears. Azriel held your hips down as the orgasm racked through your body. He didn’t stop feasting on you, devouring every last drop, and heightening your pleasure until you were coming a second time. 

The shadowsinger glanced up at you, kissing the side of your ankle as your legs fell slack behind his shoulders. You didn’t even notice when you’d wrapped them around his neck. 

Azriel brushed stray strands of hair away from your face. He leaned down and pressed his lips against yours. Softly as though he hadn’t spent the past few minutes making you come in record time. 

He hummed, savoring the taste of you, exploring every inch that you yield to him. Despite the back to back orgasms, you were insatiable, pulling Azriel’s head down so you could kiss him deeper. He smiled, pulling away briefly to catch his breath. 

Golden eyes trapped you in place, making you feel like you were swimming through honey and sunlight. “Beautiful,” Azriel murmured in appreciation. “You’re beautiful.”

You grinned. “So are you,” you declare shyly, caressing his cheek and sighing dreamily. “You’re so pretty, Az.”

His lips quirked. “I’d prefer devastatingly handsome, but I’ll take what I can get.” 

Azriel winked, making you blush furiously. He kissed your cheeks, your neck, your jaw, taking the time to commit all your little moles and freckles to memory. Gathering your wrists in one hand, he looked down at you through his dark lashes. 

Shadows snaked through your skin and gently removed your nightgown until you were completely bare before Azriel. You watched as he palmed himself in his large hands, his cock hard and thick against your stomach. You strained against his hold, wanting to touch him. To feel him. 

“No,” he said softly. “I want you to watch. I want you to see how desperate you make me.” He tugged at his proud length, his breaths ragged as he groaned. “This is what I think about when I’m alone in the middle of the night. After restraining myself from touching you, kissing you, fucking you. This is what I have to do to keep myself from yanking your door open and taking what I want.”

The arousal pulsing through your veins drowned out every other sensation. You watched as Azriel continued to stroke himself, feeling the bead of precum sliding against your stomach as he pleasured himself to the sight of you. A heady sort of rush blurred out all the rest as his moans increased. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist, rubbing your slick core against the underside of his cock. Azriel jolted from the friction and his movements turned frantic as he worked towards release. His head dropped down to yours as he kissed you roughly, all teeth and tongue and tension while the orgasm tore through him. 

The sound that ripped through his chest was animalistic. You’ve never heard such filthy sounds come out of anyone’s mouth like this before. It was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. 

“I need to be inside of you, now.” 

“Gods, yes,” you breathed. “Please.”

There was no preamble of shyness or hesitation between you as Azriel guided his cock into your slick folds. The two of you had been waiting for this moment for too long to feel a hint of apprehension. 

The shadowsinger pushed and pushed, his cock stretching your silky walls as he buried himself inside of you. When Azriel was finally fully sheathed inside of your pussy, you both released a satisfied sigh.

“You’re so tight, baby,” he grunted, relishing the way you hugged around him. “It feels like fucking heaven.”

You whimpered as he slowly slid in and out, building your pleasure with slow strokes. Despite the steady pace, it felt like the sheer size of him was splitting you apart in the best way possible. 

You raked your fingernails over his back, inhaling sharply as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. “You feel so good, Azriel. My imagination is shit compared to this.” 

He chuckled, kissing the hollow of your throat. “I aim to please, angel.” 

Azriel’s lips found yours in the darkness. As he deepened the kiss, his thrusts turned sharper and faster, his hips snapping to yours at a relentless pace. He held you throughout it, kissing you, intertwining your fingers, pulling away every once in a while to make sure you were comfortable. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Azriel asked gently, the soft tone of his voice providing a sharp contrast to his punishing pace. 

You nod, smiling up at him. “Better than alright.” Wrapping your legs around him, you squeezed your walls and Azriel released a string of curses under his breath, making you chuckle. “Don’t go easy on me. I want you to ruin me, Azriel.”

The shadowsinger’s wings flared behind him. Those giant, mighty wings swallowed you whole and plunged you into darkness. Your words flicked a switch on within him that he hadn’t even known was there. 

Electricity crackled between you as Azriel hiked your legs over his shoulders, pushing you into the mattress until the back of your legs were pressed against the front of his thighs. He was a male unleashed—restrained be damned, Azriel fucked you rough and hard, digging his fingers into your hips as he rutted into you, leaving half moon bruises on your skin as he made a mess of you. 

“Fuck, Az,” you whimpered, tightening your grip around his trim waist. Your head lolled to the side as he fucked you dumb. All thoughts vanished from your mind and the only thing you could focus on was that familiar feeling budding in your core. “That’s it—right there. So close.”

“Open your eyes, angel.” Azriel murmured, locking your fingers together. You peered up at him, a prince of shadows and darkness, perfect and beautiful in every way. “Together, baby.”

You nodded and as he kissed you again, you succumbed together. Your bodies melted into one, limbs locked and lips fused in heated embrace as the force of the joined orgasm wiped the world away. At that moment, it was only you and Azriel. 

The shadowsinger moaned your name, his head falling slack against your shoulder as his teeth grazed your collarbone. You held him against you, panting while the two of you came down from the high.

Azriel sighed softly as you played with his hair, twining your fingers in his dark locks as he slowly opened his eyes. 

“Az?” you murmured shyly.

He looked up at you, his eyes full of earnest desire. “Yes, angel?”

“When you thought about this…what did we do? After, I mean.”

The shadowsinger smiled. “You asked me to stay and we cuddled and I told you how adorable you are when you get shy around me.” He kissed your shoulder. “It was always the best part of the fantasy.” 

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I think I’d like that,” you whispered, smiling. “I think I like you.”

“Good, because I have no plans of letting you go.”

You smiled and for once, you didn’t drift off into a daydream because the reality of Azriel was better than the fantasy.

taglist: @viradeity @moony-thoughts @i-opened-the-chamber-of-secrets @demirunner @swansworth @heart-defendor @momlo @mali22 @roselensage @searchingford@nessianxgwynriel@azriels-angels@brekkershadowsinger@morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @mattte-black @marina468 @lillithathecathecat @highladyofillyria

[carouselunique]

They had a bit of a chance encounter on a day where Blueblood was dealing with something that was very difficult and was so caught up in his emotions he didn’t even care that he was in the garden getting grass stans on his coat and Ditzy, with her natural impulse to cheer ponies up, didn’t even notice or care that she was flying into the palace gardens when she saw someone sat in the rain.

At first he was definitely going to call the castle guards to come apprehend this strange filly with the odd eyes who was intruding when this was the last moment he’d want to entertain any desperate debutantes, however she surprised him by not fawning or anything, not even caring about his status, just putting one of her fluffy wings up and asking if he needed somepony to lend an ear.

“Don’t let my eyes fool you, my ears work just fine!”

She was incredibly disarming and while he didn’t reveal everything about why he was upset, he found himself talking about his feelings to her. And she made such cheerful remarks, and was very comforting. In the end, he felt better and she came to check on him the next day, even sharing a blueberry muffin with him. He remarked that he’d never seen her around before, and that he wouldn’t mind terribly seeing her more often.

The rest, as they say, is history.

[bethanyactually]

if you are a person who rambles in the tags of posts you reblog

Thank you very much *・ﾟ✧

[buttercup-barf]

Under the cut are mostly self-insert doodles of decreasing quality. Again, not much directly tied to Team Fortress 2. Might as well toss these out while I have no access to my puter. Much yapping under the cut and in the tags incoming.

Another self-insert, this time less of a "here's me as a tenth class" and more of a "here's my game experiences translated into the class I would take the place of". The Cleaner. Although I guess they could still be wearing either suit. It doesn't matter that much.

That one Convict's Case taunt with Backup would be extremely funny, because the man would be on the verge of a breakdown (he does not want to go to jail so bad you have no idea). The second image- I owe no explanation. You know what I am. You see the pattern with my favourites.

The duality of the man. Resting face versus "just heard you express interest in religion/Russian folklore" face. He's not that hard to make friends with, when you pull him away from all the explosions.

Some doodles of trying to figure his face out. Unfortunately, the more I stare at him, the more I worry that he looks like A Certain Guy With The Last Name "Kazarin", and the fear of never being original in my life caught up to me.

Don't look at me, don't perceive me, I refuse to explain any of my actions to you.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Apparently I can meet my goal of roughly 400,000 words in 6 months if I just somehow write at least 2,200 words a day ghbjh... Almost 2,500 today... huzzah...

[spacespore]

HI TUMBLRR it’s me

[horsemage]

I think we should bring back basic etiquette lessons such as shutting the fuck up when you’re watching a movie in a group that is not exclusively your friend group 🙂

[sonknuxadow]

they werent lying that knuckles series barely has knuckles in it

[helianskies]

ugly maths.

i hate maths, right. i don't usually like numbers, and if i do like numbers it's gotta be an 8 or a 48 and nothing else.

thing is, i've recently caught myself doing maths again. ugly maths. the kind of maths that, really, i've been trying to avoid as much as possible because, well, it's ugly!

you... wanna see?

okay, fine... but don't say i didn't warn you!

ugly, see? look at all those numbers! not a 48 in sight!

huh? what's that? you don't see what i'm on about? oh... oh! hang on, lemme just—

better? yes? no? no? okay, what if i—

mmh, yes. ugly numbers. see it now? can you see why they're ugly?

here, i can make it worse.

these numbers are ugly. the maths they make me do is ugly.

now i'll level with you: the worst ones by far are the yellow numbers. the maths they make me do it the ugliest.

why ugly?

because it makes me ugly.

those numbers turn me into not only a suddenly number-obsessed fool, but a fool who also cannot understand these numbers and what they mean and why i feel like they reflect on me and my ability.

87, 75.

the thoughts are as follows:

• the orange numbers are big, so why are you being ugly about the yellow ones? you should be happy with what you have. so many nice big numbers! not everyone receives that.

• is it that there are two different audiences for these two different fics? perhaps. they are quite different works, with different appeals, and different themes. maybe you are reading too much into it.

• why are you obsessing over numbers anyway? you don't like maths! you left maths behind when you were 16, put it down!

okay, okay, fine! i'll put the maths down. right here, in fact!:

that 87 was an 83 at the start of the year. the 6161 it is attached to was a 5453.

4, 708.

ugly maths.

the 75 is a nice number. in fact, compared to 87, it is beautiful, radiant, enchanting. at the start of the year, 75 was 48. wow. now that is one sexy number!

27.

mmmm.

6161, 1061.

5100.

87, 75.

12.

mmmm.

you know, my most favourite comment left recently on a fic of mine was 2 characters long: :(

it made me :)

well, actually, it made me >:) because it was left in response, presumably, to one of the key scenes in a new chapter which left the exact impression on someone that i hoped it would.

they must be the only one who reacted like that, though.

1.

have i mentioned that that 87 and 75 include author responses?

i won't try to do more maths, there. it might not end well for me. the maths is making me tired enough as it is, and i have an early start tomorrow.

oh! but, that being said, i have another set of ugly numbers to show you, so keep 87 and 75 in mind.

ready?

838, 245.

(want a hint? the green numbers!)

838, 87. 245, 75.

9.6, 3.3.

ugly maths. it's ugly again, see? i don't like it. i'm seeing numbers within numbers within numbers, and i can't seem to stop!

the numbers make me ask new questions:

• why is it not good enough?

• people seem to engage more with one fic over the other, so shouldn't you prioritise?

• is all this maths this really good for you?

no, it isn't.

i want to avoid ugly maths. ugly maths makes me want to tear my hair out. it makes me want to start from scratch. it makes me want to grab someone and scream. it makes me want to cry and press a button that has tempted me many times before when the numbers become too ugly to bear.

ugly maths turn me into an ugly person.

ugly maths make me obsessive, paranoid, anxious, regretful, vindictive, spiteful, alone.

i hate maths. i hate numbers, just like, it feels, the numbers hate me.

[zymstarz]

how many variations of "x reader" does a man have to blacklist and users to block before tumblr stops giving him almost exclusively those posts

[everybodysaycbx]

Tag people you'd like to know better

i was tagged by @chogiwah 😙💕 thanks bestie

Last Song: Before the Dawn by Infinite

Currently Watching: Boss-dol Mart (i only just started last night bc ive been busy but its super fun i love it so far)

Currently Reading: Seize the Time by Bobby Seale (i mostly read non fiction so im boring lol but this is a great read esp if you need more knowledge of the black panthers which ofc more people do need)

Current Obsession: my sister is replaying Corpse Party for the first time in years since its spooky season and i havent thought about it since Corpse Party: Blood Drive came out (which was absolute garbage) so ive been thinking about all of it (the characters, the themes, how it could be improved, how i wish i could fight the creator bc hes such a creep (if you know the game and manga you know what im talking about), all that jazz)

tagging @littlesunshinedae @cxsmicmyeon @baldyeosang @chaelinsbitch @saintloey @his-mochi-cheeks @amaranth @queenrendezvous @jonginnation @colognedecigarette and ofc anyone else who wants to just say that i tagged you thats just who i thought of while im on break at work lol

[whilomm]

just bc of stuff going around i was suddenly reminded of one of the stupidest bits of bi discourse i saw, no idea if it was widespread at all or if it was just a few very loud and adamant ppl, where ppl were so angry about pan stuff again that they decided that the best way to defeat the evil pans was to make bisexuality The Most Inclusive and said that it was biphobic+nbphobic to define bi as ANYTHING BUT "attraction regardless of gender". no "attraction to multiple genders" thats NOT ALLOWED ANYMORE bc of course sexualities are basically just markers of How Inclusive You Are™ and not like. guidelines for what sorta ppl ur into right.

so it was like. okay im nonbinary and attracted to men a lot and women a good bit and other nonbinary ppl a lil less usually so im bi an-

"dont you mean you are attracted to people REGARDLESS OF GENDER? because that is the ONE TRUE DEFINITION OF BI"

Uhh. no gender is. definitely a factor, not in a full stop way or nothin its a lil wibbly but its not regardles-

"then you arent bi and its kinda biphobic and nbphobic that u are insinuating bi is anything but The Most Inclusive with full attraction equality for All Gender :/"

...okay then uh. what i am, a nonbinary person attracted to multiple genders, but not REGARDLESS of gender, supposed to call myself?

"idk just die ig"

[joelsgoldrush]

“crawl home to her” | 7.5k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: Will he be able to control himself once he's near you? In this moment, he feels more animal than human. Creeping, on the verge of crawling, back to you. OR Like a sinner seeking absolution, he finds his way back to you after every absence, as if you're the only salvation he's ever known.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. dirty talk. some fluff. comfort. feelings. self-deprecation. miscommunication. sort of established relationship. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). petnames. religious imagery. logan's POV. chauffeur!logan. dom!logan. reader wears logan's dog tags and clothes. pussy pronouns. phone sex. oral sex (f and m receiving). 69. fingering. masturbation (he jerks off in the limo). one (1) single spank. sort of rough sex. unprotected p in v. creampie.

A/N: i wrote this as a part 2 of this story, but still, it can be read as a standalone (i'd recommend that you also read the first part as well 👀 you'll understand their relationship better). hope you like this one! <3

Logan is tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired.

He takes a slow, deliberate drag from his cigar, letting the smoke curl inside his chest, teasing his lungs. Doesn’t even bother to crack the window open—why would he?—before exhaling, the haze lingering inside the limo like a fog.

One quick glance at his phone screen just to make sure his vision isn’t screwing him over—no older notifications. A pang of disillusionment settles in his being.

Not only is he fighting to keep his eyes open, exhausted from driving the same family around for the past few days while they enjoy their quality time, but he’s also bored out of his mind. 

Where the hell are you?

He adjusts his glasses, pushing them higher up on the bridge of his nose, preventing them from sliding down to his lap. When his phone buzzes, he jolts, nearly hitting his head on the roof of the limo due to his excitement.

His poor heart gallops as he fumbles with the screen, unlocking it with the same urgency as a man starved for contact.

But it’s not you. It’s one of his passengers.

We’re getting out in half an hour, the message reads. By we, she means herself, her husband, and their two kids.

Logan can’t bring himself to type an actual reply, so he leaves her on read. She knows he’s not going anywhere, parked outside the arcade as if he’s rooted in place with no way out.

Family after family enters that hell on earth, kids of all ages bouncing on their heels, voices shrill with enthusiasm. He watches, half-heartedly, as parents get dragged by their little ones, who negotiate how much money they are allowed to spend tonight.

He almost feels bad for those parents. Almost. He hopes that at least they know how to say ‘No’.

All in all, he’s got another thirty minutes of solitude ahead. The radio has long since ceased to entertain him. He’s been parked here for two hours, and his mind is starting to drift. He could stretch his legs, walk around, or maybe grab a drink—but damn it.

He wants to talk to you.

You’d said he could call you after dropping the family off. That was three hours ago. The last message he received from you was still stuck in his head, replaying over and over like a lifeline. Logan knows you must be busy, probably taking care of Charles and—

Okay, he’ll get back to that later. 

You: Just got out of the shower. Call me in five?

Right now, he could die a happy man. Were he a dog, his tail would be wagging furiously, anticipation already building for the simple joy of hearing you.

Logan: Got it.

The next five minutes feel like an eternity. He finishes his cigar, flicking the stub beneath the seat without giving it a second thought. For now, he doesn’t care about being a messy fucker. He’ll deal with the mess some other time.

Priorities.

A quick spritz of some cheap air freshener he picked up from a gas station fills the car, masking the distinctive scent of smoke. God forbid the kids start whining about how ‘weird’ it smells in the limo.

With a grimace, he sprays a little more—floral, of all scents? It feels insulting.

How kind of him to still be this considerate.

His thumb hovers over your contact, and he presses the call button with an agility he hasn’t had in years (thanks to you).

One, two, three rings, and then—

“Logan,” you say softly, your voice a little breathless, like you’ve been hurrying all over the place.

He stops grinding his jaw, the tension in his shoulders easing. He unclenches his fists, fingers uncurling one by one, as if letting go of some invisible burden.

Outside the vehicle, people stop dying, babies stop being born, and the world itself pauses just for him to listen to you.

You can’t see him, but he smiles either way. “Hey, baby.”

“Gosh, I’m so sorry. I lost track of time talking to Charles. We had dinner, and then I just—I felt so gross, you know? From cooking and all that. Took a shower, and it got pretty late.”

You end with a sigh, and he imagines you rubbing a hand over your face. “Please tell me you weren’t sleeping when I texted you.”

“Not even close. Still waiting for them.”

“They’re really taking their time, huh?”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” he murmurs, his fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the steering wheel. “How was your day?”

“Great! I’m already in bed.”

“My bed.”

You laugh, that sweet sound making his heart stutter. “Well, yeah. Where else do you want me to sleep if I’m at your place? On the floor?”

If someone had told Logan a year ago that he’d let someone live in his space, let alone take care of Charles, he’d have scoffed. "Pathetic," he’d have said, rolling his eyes with that familiar growl in his throat. Pretty sure he’d also puffed his chest while saying so.

Because Logan Howlett wasn’t one for accepting help. He’s been on his own since the earth was still cooling down.

But for you? He made exceptions. Plenty of them. And if it weren’t for your altruism, he wouldn’t have accepted this job—a job that pays well enough to cover Charles’ meds and put food on the table. He needs this rich family’s money.

“You’ve got a girlfriend now?” Charles had asked, when Logan explained he’d be staying with you while he went away for a few days.

“Big word you’re using there,” Logan had replied, placing two pills into Charles’ palm. The old man gave him a death stare. “Don’t play dumb. It’s not like you don’t know the drill.”

Mumbling something incoherent before swallowing the pills, Charles had taken slow sips of water between each one, sinking back into the mattress with a weary sigh. “If she’s not your girlfriend, then what is she?”

“A friend.”

“That’s nice. Is that what they’re calling it now?”

He shakes that memory away, forcing his mind back to the call. “Try not to be so kind to him. What if he falls in love with you?” he inquires, a mocking tone weaving through his words. 

And that’s when you drop the bombshell. “You mean like you did?” 

You laugh, but Logan… doesn’t. He can’t do it. He makes sure he’s breathing on command: in and out, in and out, in and out. 

The mention of love unsettles him. He doesn’t feel safe anymore, doesn’t know what game you’re playing. Where’s the rulebook?

Is he—could he be—falling in love with you? Is that what you’re implying? And if so, do you feel the same?

In the long run, you mumble: “It was a joke.” Only then do his lungs fill with fresh air, untainted by the weight of his unease. But he can’t let it pass, the fact you sound disappointed. Defeated.

He promised himself he’d never hurt you. Though he doesn’t intend to, it feels as if he’s just stabbed you in the back, twisting the knife further into your frame—unwillingly.

“Remember the—” he pauses a moment, throwing his head back in frustration, silently cursing himself. “The pills. You’ve been giving them to him, right?”

“Yes, Logan.”

“Please, remember it’s only—”

“Logan,” you try again, cutting through the wave of his spiraling thoughts. He can picture you behind closed lids, looking at him through your lashes, your hand resting gently on his chest. “I have it under control, okay? He’s doing alright. I swear I’m taking good care of him.”

“I don’t doubt that, honey.” Casting a glance at the rearview mirror, he feels an unexpected sense of longing for your presence there, like a ghost haunting his every move, confined to the limits of his brain. “Can’t help but worry. That’s all.”

A soft hum reverberates through the line. He hears the rustle of sheets, the sound of you tossing around in his bed, and his pulse quickens at the thought.

“You said you’re sleepin’ on my bed.”

“Good memory you have.”

“You wearin’ my clothes as well?”

 Thick silence, the kind he relishes.

“Yeah,” you finally reply, shifting the phone from side to side. You take a deep breath, and add: “I forgot to bring mine.”

He hates how you easily find a way to get him riled up despite being miles away. It must be the power of words.

“I don’t believe you.” He knows he shouldn’t, hates himself for doing it, but one of his hands palms the half-hard bulge in his black slacks, suppressing a low groan. “Think you did it on purpose.”

A rush of heat, sharp and urgent, washes over him. Is he really about to do this? Get himself off in the very car he uses for work? Twisted, incredibly sick of him, he thinks.

Still, he craves more. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”

You laugh at his demanding tone, fanning the flames of his desperation. “When did you turn into a horny teenager?”

“Always been, baby,” Logan purrs, undoing the button of his pants, followed by the fly. His eyes flick upwards for just a moment—no cars, no one in sight. He’s presumably alone. It’s all the confirmation he needs to say: “C’mon. Tell your old man what clothes you stole from him.”

He’s never done this before—phone sex. He’s heard about it, sure, but never imagined he’d fall so hard for the idea. The thrill of it sinks into him, electrifying.

What are you doing? Is your lip caught between your teeth? Do your eyes wander down your own body? Maybe your fingers are already skimming over your skin.

“It’s just a random shirt,” you murmur. “Plain, white.”

“What else?”

“There’s nothing else.”

Logan’s breath hitches as his hand moves to his cock, spotting the damp patch on his briefs where the tip has already started to leak. The moment he slides the elastic down past his balls, he fists his shaft in a slow stroke, going from the base to the head. “No panties? And you expect me t’believe this wasn’t planned?”

Your muffled whimper is like molten lava spilling into his ear, bringing him to full hardness. More shuffling follows on your end, driving him wild with the anticipation. “Why do you do this to me if you’re not here?”

“‘Cause I want you touchin’ yourself just like I’m doin’.” He thumbs the head, hips jerking involuntarily at the sensation. He aches to feel your mouth there instead. “Bet that pussy’s been cryin’ out for me, huh? Must’ve got used to me fillin’ her every other night.”

Your breathing grows more uneven, small gasps filtering through the speaker. “I need you here with me. This is—ugh—not enough.”

“What’s not enough, sweetheart?”

There’s a pause as the sound of your phone shifts again, and then he hears it clearly—the wet, needy sound of your fingers working between your legs, filling the silence with the loud squelching of your cunt. “My fingers,” you blurt out, more distant than before, like you’re merging with the bed, dissolving with every touch.

Logan spits roughly into his palm, the slickness of his saliva easing the drag of his calloused hand along his length, good enough to make the movement more satisfying.

He moans aloud, eyes shut tight, your name slipping from his lips, a whispered prayer, as if saying it could somehow summon you to his side. “I spoil you too much,” he rasps, wedging his phone between his ear and shoulder, using every resource available to him, anything to feel something real. “Seems like you’ve forgotten how to make yourself come.”

Your moans follow his, the breathy sounds a clear sign of how close you are, hanging on the edge, your release just a heartbeat away. But it’s not enough, and you need him. He wonders if you can feel his thoughts from miles away, because— “Want your cock so bad, Lo. I m-miss you.”

He has to stop jerking himself to hold off his orgasm, stomping his foot against the pedals. “Fuck, darlin’. You keep sayin’ those things and I swear I’ll be back with you by morning.”

His sole focus now is you—getting you to come. Driven by his growing frenzy, it’s the only coherent thought that claws through the haze in his mind. “Keep talking, please,” you plead, fingers still lost in the heat of your body. “Tell me what you’ll do to me when you see me.”

Logan picks up the rhythm again, his movements faltering as his chest heaves, ragged breaths spilling out while his hand works faster. “Gonna fuck you slow and deep, just how you like it. Face to face, so you can kiss me as much as you want, ‘cause I know my girl loves that, am I right?”

My girl. He’ll regret that one the second the high fades and clarity sets in.

Word after word falls from his lips without thought, uncontrollable, as though he’s surrendered to the storm of desire raging in his being—a storm in which your name is the eye of it all.

You are everywhere, and you take up all the empty spaces he thought were impossible to fill, sinking into the depths of his unconsciousness.

Not a single part of him is left untouched by you, by the power of your presence in his life, consuming him in ways he never imagined.

Your airy mewls ripple through the line, feeding his ravenousness, adding to the tightening knot of pleasure coiling low in his abdomen. His muscles strain, thighs tensing. Each stroke of his hand prolongs this sweet torture. 

“Come for me, princess. You’d make me so h-happy if you came right now.”

And you do, because it’s not just his touch anymore—it’s his voice, and the way he commands you without force. How you’ve become accustomed to him, nodding along to each instruction he mutters.

Beneath your fingers, your swollen clit pulses, and though he can’t see it, he imagines it perfectly, having spent enough time worshiping it.

He knows, even from a distance, what your body must be doing. Your back arching off the bed, thighs quivering and clenching tight around your own hand. Those perfect legs of yours trembling as you reach your so-desired climax.

Loud and unrestrained, you moan, and for a moment, he wants to be with you so badly that he ponders if the theory of traveling across time and space sounds that far-fetched after all.

Logan doesn't need much after that for the thread to snap at long last, his groans dying on his lips as he stares in awe at the spurts of his seed landing wherever his eyes fall: a bit on the top of his pants, on his hand, his briefs. His cock twitches in his grip as he continues stroking himself through the aftershocks, gulping when it becomes too much to handle.

So phone sex is off the list now. Great.

“Miss you, too,” he mumbles once he’s caught his breath, tossing his glasses onto the passenger seat. His forehead feels damp to the touch, and he contemplates when was the last time he came this hard.

The elephant in the room hasn’t been addressed yet. He knows you expect him to say more, something deeper and rawer, but that’s all he can force himself to spit out.

Sometimes, he forgets that you can’t read him all the time. Although you know him better than anyone else, there are certain thoughts and memories locked tightly inside him, things you'd never discover on your own. Secrets he admits he should share with you, but he’s at a loss for how. Words aren’t doable when he needs them the most.

Maybe it's a matter of age—you’re a natural at voicing your feelings.

At some point, you ask: “When did you say you were returning?”

One thing’s clear: he can’t afford to lose you. He’d be an idiot if he let that happen.

“In five days, I think.” Were he with you, he'd hold you in his arms, kissing your lips. God, how he misses kissing you. All of you. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“It’s okay,” you respond, and in his mind, a blank canvas fills with the familiar image of you lying on your side, curling into a ball the way you always do. “I should go to sleep. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Thank you for everything. “Get some rest.” Are you still in love with me? “Bye.” I’m coming back. You know how I feel about you, do you?

So much left unsaid, words he lacks the strength to speak. That, along with his come-stained clothes. And, of course, the limousine now perfumed like a flower shop.

Exhaustion clings to him again.

His luck has never been this good.

The next afternoon, one of the couple’s kids falls ill. Must be something he ate, the woman tells Logan, her voice light, though he can hear the shuffle of urgency behind her words.

Her husband packs their bags in the background, the muted thuds of luggage hitting the floor. You know how children are. Their hands are always filthy!

What she doesn’t realize is that Logan, in fact, doesn’t know how children are, because how could he?

He’s holed up in the hotel across the street, his only responsibility being to wait on their call, ready to drive whenever they needed him. Needless to say, his accommodations are nothing like theirs. Not that he minds it—he’s not one for luxury, has never needed it.

Truth be told, he’s no stranger to beds that groan if you shift slightly, clogged toilets that spit back water like they’re alive.

Joy rushes through him when he hears the news. He’s coming back earlier than expected, a thrill building in his chest. Twelve days he’s been away, his greed growing with each second in that desolate hotel room.

Now, the beating of his heart quickens, a faint thrumming as he stares out the window. He debates whether to let you know about his early return or keep it as a surprise. Would it be better if he just showed up?

How would you feel, knowing that, by the time the lights are out, he’ll be yours again?

He knows he should feel sorry for the poor kid, but all he can muster is a look of concern that barely reaches his eyes. Each time they pull into a gas station, he listens to the hurried slap of footsteps as the boy rushes for the bathroom to empty his insides.

He watches in the rearview as the kid’s father shakes his head, clicking his tongue with disapproval. “Do you have kids?” he asks, his voice forced into a casual tone, like he’s trying to break the silence that’s settled between them. 

Logan’s only response is to turn up the radio, some pop song he’s never heard spilling from the speakers. The lyrics are a blur of nonsense to him, but it’s enough to drown out the man’s words and the boy’s misery.

Some things never change.

As the sun dips below the horizon, he’s finally free, no longer at anyone’s beck and call. He contemplates the possibility of getting a speeding ticket, weighing his options. It hardly matters. The pull to see you, to feel you, is stronger than anything else.

Even though he tries to think of another time in his life when he felt such a raw need, no memory comes close.

When he does pull up to his place, he does it quietly. Parking the limo, he doesn’t honk, doesn’t announce himself. Fumbling with the keys ever so lightly so as not to wake you up, fitting them into the lock.

His wrist twists, and the door gives way with a soft creak.

Anxiety ripples through him as he steps inside. The smell of freshly cooked food hits him, but it only tightens the knot in his stomach, reminding him of how long it’s been since he last ate.

Later, he tells himself. After. Once he’s sated his true hunger—the kind of hunger that can only be satisfied by sinking his fingers into something real, fleshy, malleable. 

Hunger—yes, it’s animalistic, feral even. Will he be able to control himself once he’s near you? In moments like this, he feels more animal than human. Creeping, on the verge of crawling, back to you.

His feet take him to his bedroom, knowing the path to it very well. Fingers hovering over the knob, he takes a deep breath.

It’s already late, past midnight, yet energy courses through his veins as though he’s just woken from a long, ethereal dream.

He finds you asleep, your body wrapped snugly in the sheets, clutching a pillow close to your chest. Your cheek is pressed into it, breathing soft and steady, lulling him in. Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he kicks off his shoes, then slips in beside you, mirroring your position. 

A lamp sits on his nightstand, one that isn’t his, and he figures you must have brought it from your apartment. There has to be a symbolism for that.

It’s incredible how his entire world can fit into such a narrow bed.

The smart thing would be to let you sleep, to simply watch you for a moment longer. But he can’t help himself.

His thumb lingers near your face before gently cupping your cheek, and the very first contact with your skin sends a shudder through him, the warmth of your skin grounding him. He trails his fingers down to your chin, holding it with just enough pressure to remind himself that he’s here.

Leaning in, he presses his lips softly against your forehead, your typical perfume wrapping around him like a welcome.

Welcome home, Logan.

For the first time, he feels that someone’s been counting down the minutes until his return. He’d always believed a person like him didn’t deserve this. That he just wasn’t built for it.

Countless years had he spent convincing himself he’d never be the kind of man who could inspire love. His life had already been written long ago—predetermined by some cruel hand in the sky.

Destiny, fate, call it what you want—once the cards are laid out, there’s no escaping them. Or so he used to think.

You had taken that pen into your own hands, rewriting his future. You, of all people, had changed his life. No matter what the future held for the two of you, he’d always be grateful. Grateful that you’d seen the dim spark in him that others had chosen to ignore.

Thoughtlessly, his fingers continue their gentle strokes along your cheek, your hair. You stir beside him, shifting in your sleep. Your eyes flutter open, close again, and then open once more, blinking in confusion.

“Logan?” you croak, voice still groggy and thick with sleep, coming to your senses. Before he can respond, you throw yourself on top of him, smothering his face with kisses. “Why—how—”

“Sweetheart,” he says, attempting to hide his grin, but failing when your kisses shift to his neck, your nose nuzzling against his skin. A laugh slips out, warmth flooding his chest.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming home early!”

Home. Had he heard right? Had you used that word knowingly?

Peering into your eyes, he catches his reflection in your pupils, tiredness etched into his features. “Wanted it to be a surprise.”

“You could’ve told me,” you reply, fingers threading through his greying locks, massaging his scalp. You place a tender kiss on the tip of his nose. “I would’ve waited up for you at least.”

“Well, I’m here now,” he whispers back, gaze drifting to your lips, and you close the space between you, his sigh mingling with yours as one hand cradles the small of your back, fisting the fabric of his shirt. His other hand tilts your head, inviting your tongues to greet each other in an unhurried dance.

You move languidly on top of him, and he notices, breaking the kiss and pulling back. “You’re gonna fall asleep on me, are you?”

The way your lashes flutter in response should be illegal. “I could use a human-size pillow.”

“I should shower first.”

“No.”

“Baby, I smell like gas.”

“So?”

A smirk tugs at his lips at your insistence, and he gently lays you back against the mattress. Drawn to your charm once again, he licks into your mouth, mentally scolding himself when he gets carried away, letting the kiss linger longer than intended.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, pulling the sheets over your body. Resigned, you simply nod, settling on your side.

Ten minutes later, you’re dozing off, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when he slips into bed, wrapping himself around you from behind. One arm drapes over your waist, the other cushions your head, and there’s not a patch of skin between you left untouched.

Fatigue begins to delve deeper into his bones the longer he stays curled around you, but before the weight of sleep takes him, and the silence steals his chance, he huffs: “I missed you.” His beard grazes your skin in a soft, unintentional caress.

You pull his wrist to your lips, pressing a short-lived kiss to the inside of it. “Missed you, too.”

How the roles have reversed.

In the quietness of this starless night, you leave him no other choice but to believe you.

3:34 a.m. Still hostage to the lack of light outside. The world remains submerged in the gentle tides of sleep, undulating between dreams, except for him.

Logan wakes up at 3:34 a.m. because he’s rock hard, and being flushed against your back wasn’t helping him with his situation at all. If anything, it only heightened it.

He sits at the edge of the bed, his mind running in circles, debating whether he should jump to his feet and head to the bathroom for another shower—this time, a cold one. Returning to sleep, at least in this moment, is not a viable option.

His gaze drifts to the moonlight spilling through the window, casting its pale glow across the room. Is this your doing? The question lingers, unshakable, in his thoughts. It remains as just that: a question.

When you quietly rest your chin on his shoulder, he stifles a sigh, biting the inside of his cheek. Your voice breaks through the quiet.

“What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?” Wrapping your arms around him from behind, you circle his frame, in an effort to persuade him to sink back into the mattress.

“It’s nothing,” he says, pulse accelerating. Please, don’t look down. “I’ll be back in a second.”

“But what is—”

He doesn’t get to hear the rest of your sentence. You do look down, finding the outline of his hardened cock straining against his briefs, stealing your full attention.

“Wow.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“And leave you like this?” One hand creeps toward his waistband, your breath warm against his ear. “Wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.”

Your nails trace a path through the coarse hair at his navel, and Logan tenses. His legs feel like jelly as you cup his balls, fondling them gently between your fingers.

Behind him, your low chuckle stirs something primal in him, making his blood thrum hot beneath his skin. He should be the one doing this to you, not the other way around.

“Darlin’, I don’t—” He’s cut off by his own guttural groan when you fist his length, pumping him in rhythm with his uneven breaths. “I don’t need this.”

“Seems like you do,” you whisper, momentarily halting your ministrations to place your palm in front of his face, hoping he takes the hint. You kiss his stubble, pausing just short of his mouth. “I want to take care of you. Always do.”

Your palm hovers before him, inviting. Grabbing your wrist, he licks it, coating it in his spit and guiding you back down to him. Together, your hands glide along his length, and his gaze locks onto yours, the intensity of it making his neck tense.

You beam with delight under his stare. That red organ caged within his ribs—a blood-pumping machine of passion—surges back to life as he sees you.

He had won the battle. He had triumphed over his past; had lived enough lives, endured enough years, to arrive at this moment.

This had to be the purpose of his existence: to share this part of his stay on earth with you.

“You’re so hard,” you say, twisting your wrist at the tip of his cock, reveling in every buck of his hips, each movement a reflection of his exaltation. “Guess you did miss me.”

With a quiet growl, he reaches behind, nudging your thighs apart until they find your mound, cupping you through your underwear. “I’m not the only one who’s been missin’ someone.” He pulls the fabric aside, sliding his fingers through your wet folds. His nostrils flare as he feels how ready you are. “Why am I not surprised?”

Your breath hitches, and you press yourself closer against him, your tits against his back, mouth teasing at his neck. “That’s what happens when you’re gone.” Another kiss on his nape. “You could take me with you next time.”

“Can’t do that,” he answers, teasing your entrance. “No work would get done.”

His movements cease to a stop. Yours do too. Turning his head just enough to glance over his shoulder, he scrutinizes your expression, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in your affected state.

“You’re not goin’ back to sleep, are you?”

There’s the shake of your head. A single word escapes your lips, imbued with pure fervor: “Please.”

He captures your mouth in an ardent kiss, tugging at your shirt (which is, in fact, his) to undress you, his wandering hands roaming beneath it.

As his mouth meets your neck, something cold brushes against his lips, drawing his gaze down to what’s hanging from your neck.

His dog tags. The ones he had given you before leaving for that job, as his way of telling you I’m coming back without having to say it aloud. And you, as always, understood; had even promised to keep them safe, though he hadn’t expected you to actually wear them.

Now, with your shirt discarded, they lay against your bare skin, his name resting in the valley between your breasts.

“You like ‘em?” His fingers grip the chain and give it a gentle tug, drawing you closer so he can breathe over your lips, his breath mingling with yours. “Like knowing you’re mine? You get off on it?”

You nod in agreement. Of course, you do. Though emotionally constipated and not the most expressive, Logan is a lover who knows how to awaken desire—a good lover, indeed. A decent one.

Which is why he agrees to any idea that crosses your mind, like the one you just whispered in his ear.

He may be older than you, but he’s always been more on the traditional side. You, on the other hand, are continually searching for new ways to innovate.

The round globes of your ass jiggle over his face as he spreads you apart, entrenched by how your skin moves above him, your glistening hole clenching around nothing, as if your body itself is calling to him.

With his head propped against the headboard, he watches you take him deeper, your saliva dripping down the wiry hairs of his cock. The slick heat of your tongue traces over his slit, back and forth, driving him to the edge.

When he hears you gag, it stirs something inside him—a deep need to return the favor, to match your devotion.

At the end of the day, he’s a man on a mission, and right now, that mission is you.

Right there, with his nose and mouth buried in you, he wonders why he hadn't thought of this sooner. If he could choose a natural end like any other man, he'd wish for it to be by suffocation—your body his last breath.

Logan inhales deeply, like a man starved, working two of his fingers inside your throbbing center, his tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit, punching moan after moan out of you. Each thrust of his fingers, each stroke of his tongue, sends waves of pleasure coursing through you.

His beard, streaked with gray, leaves a trail of fire wherever your hips meet his face, pushing back against him. Every so often, you pull off his cock just to ramble, panting, about how good he's making you feel.

From where he lies, you’re a sight to behold, nothing short of divine. “Just what I needed, doll. You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he blurts out, your frantic cries pouring into his ears as he sucks the swollen bud between his lips. “Can’t believe you let me do this to you. You love makin’ your old man happy, don’t you?”

He used to think he'd burn in hell for indulging in the desire to know you like this—raw, ungraceful.

His judgment must be fucked up, because now, all he sees in you is heaven incarnate. You must be the closest thing to it he’ll ever find.

“Shit, I…” you trail off, gasping as he replaces his fingers with his tongue, drinking from your arousal and tasting every bit of you. “I thought about you every day.”

“Bet you did, just like that night I called you. You know how I felt when you told me you were wearing my clothes?” His hand comes down with a firm slap on your right asscheek, drawing a whine from you as your movements falter. “Can smell you all over these sheets. Makes me wonder how many times you made yourself come while I was away.”

You slip the tip of his cock back in your mouth, your hands and lips working in sync. His nose brushes against the plush skin of your thighs before his teeth graze your flesh, biting down just enough to leave a sting. His fingers curl inside you, hitting that perfect spot again and again, and you moan around him, your throat vibrating against his length.

He makes you come like this, knuckles deep inside you while his thumb circles your clit. Overwhelmed by pleasure, you let go of his dick, and it hits Logan’s stomach with a wet pop. His strong arms tug you closer to his face, eyes falling closed as you ride the wave of your orgasm against his mouth, palms pressed flat on his chest.

For a brief moment, he can’t breathe, can’t feel anything but you, your scent, your taste filling his senses.

Later, he rolls you onto your back and climbs on top of you, uncertain of how much time he has spent lapping at your wetness. His hard length glides along your folds, and he lines himself up without pushing in, looking right into your eyes. 

“Remember what I told you that night over the phone?” he asks, his breath coming in quick bursts, and you nod, head lolling back as he pinches your lower lip between his fingers. “Repeat it.”

“Logan—”

“You say it, and I’ll make it happen.”

Perplexity clouds your features. “You said you’d fuck me slow and deep, just h-how I like it. Face to face, because—”. The words escape you, a sob tearing through your throat as he eases the first few inches of himself inside you, your walls instinctively making space to wrap around him.

He’s home.

“Go on. What else did I say?” he teases, relishing in it. He’s guilty as sin. “Or were you too lost in thought touchin’ yourself?”

“F-face to face,” you slur, nails digging into his scarred back, and he keeps plunging his length into your interior to the hilt. Your lips part slightly, craving the kiss that only he can give you. “You said you’d do it face to face so I could kiss you whenever I wanted.”

He hums, low in his throat, as he gives the first thrust of the night, taking great pleasure in your expression: open-mouthed, eyes scrunched, and a slight crease forming between your brows.

Smoothing his thumb over your forehead, he tsks, pausing his movements. “None of that, princess. Look at me, c’mon.”

You obey, forcing your eyes open, and in that instant, he swears he can feel every tremor coursing through you. “Logan,” you coo, your voice aching as you stretch your neck toward his mouth.

The way you say his name—seductively, charged with a fascination that riles him up—manages to ignite a fire only you can kindle. It’s all the invitation he needs.

“I know. Too much, huh?” His tone drips with condescension, teasing in a way that feels almost cruel. He can’t help it, though: it’s in very his nature. “Need to hear you say it. Need you to tell me how much you want this.”

Like everything else in your world, your patience begins to wither, hips instinctively bucking beneath him, seeking even the slightest bit of friction. But he still withholds the kiss you long for, dangling it just out of reach.

“Please,” you beg, voice breaking as you plead. “Fuck me, baby. Missed you so much while you were away. Please, please, please—”

Logan enjoys hearing you beg. He won’t pretend otherwise. There's a satisfaction in knowing he holds this power over you, that he's the only one who can unravel you this way, your body splayed open beneath him.

The thought of others who may have once been in his place, making you fall apart just like this, sets his blood on edge.

Jealousy, sharp and corrosive, crawls up his spine, and it spurs him on, guiding the tempo of his thrusts.

He wonders if he’s ever fucked you this fiercely before, with a passion that pulses from every part of him. You’re given no space for thought, no moment to catch your breath—just his unforgiving pace and the sounds spilling from your lips.

He has a way of breaking you down, turning you into a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him, and you surrender willingly, craving each second of it.

So fuckin’ tight. Can y’hear her? How badly she needs me?

Sex had never felt like this before. He’d grown accustomed to quick, meaningless fucks in poorly lit bars, fleeting encounters that left him questioning if this was all there was. If this wasn’t the best he’d ever know. 

For a while, he’d tried to solve that emptiness, searching in nameless lovers and hollow hearts for the very thing he feared most: love.

And yet, he wanted it, yearned it, guarding his desire like a secret he barely admitted to himself. Until one day, you stumbled into his life, and all the strength he thought he had wasn’t enough to push you away.

He presses deep into the back of your thighs, bringing your chests so close they're nearly brushing. Claiming your mouth in a maddening kiss, all teeth and tongue, leaving no space for softness. As he nibbles at your bottom lip, he feels you tighten around him, your cunt pulling him under, clouding his thoughts.

“Close?” he murmurs, hips snapping against you with an utterly obscene rhythm that drowns out the world, better than any song ever made. “Such a good girl. Gonna come, sweetheart? Let me see how gorgeous you look when you fall apart, making a mess just for me.”

The constant, steady drag of his cock doesn’t seem to get old for you. He’s leaving his mark within you, inside you, carving a space for himself. His tip keeps hitting all the right spots, prompting you to tilt your pelvis to meet him halfway, telling him there, yes, there. More, please.

His hand slides down, rubbing your clit with his fingers. Doesn’t need any extra help when doing so, your arousal providing all the slickness he needs. He feels like a runner on the final stretch, the finish line within reach, so close he can almost touch it, savoring the euphoria and bliss of crossing it.

The way you sing his name never loses its allure, despite all the times he’s heard it spill from your lips. Especially at this moment, with him buried deep inside you, every thrust a promise to make you feel good.

You shamelessly come while he keeps driving into you, vigorous and untamed—like a caged animal unleashed, tasting freedom for the very first time.

Ankles digging into his lower back, a trail of persistent kisses along his beard. You want him inside, that much he can tell.  It’s not like he ever finishes anywhere else, but the reminder doesn’t bother him. It only serves as a reassurance: that you still want this, want him. You haven’t changed your mind.

He sinks his teeth into your neck the instant he feels his orgasm tearing through him, hips stilling and sagging as a string of grunts abandons his being, dampening your skin even more.  He loves to fill you up, it consumes him entirely.

Such an intimate, visceral act, and then he gets to see his seed trickling down your thighs. He realizes that he doesn’t need much to be happy.

You keep kissing him, his neck, his face. It may seem absurd to say that every kiss feels like the first, yet it’s true.

Even after he’s traced all the contours of your mouth and committed every detail of your body to memory, he can’t help but feel that same thrill of excitement he experienced months ago when he dared to push beyond the boundaries he had set for himself.

Staring at each other, naked, all the love in the world seems to fill these four walls. The compassion and tenderness in your gaze remain unchanged. You’re a dream come true.

It can’t end like this. He can’t allow you to drift back into sleep without saying what needs to be said. Something has to happen, something only he can conjure.

“I think…” He hesitates. Starting with I think carries an air of uncertainty. “I don’t—”

“Logan,” you interrupt, your hand finding his. “I know.”

Yes, you do. You always seem to know everything, but that can’t be enough. He can’t lean on your unspoken understanding of his feelings.

“You still deserve to hear it.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“It is.”

More silence. The moon is the solitary spectator of his upcoming declaration. 

“You were right,” he begins, drawing your intertwined hands closer to his face, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours. His voice drops to a murmur. It’s not just his body that feels completely exposed anymore; something deeper within him stands bare. “I’m in love with you.”

You scrutinize him as if he’s revealing the secret to eternal life. Again, you kiss his cheek, cupping it gently with your palm.

“It won’t get any better than this. There are no more layers to peel away, okay?” He offers explanations you never even asked for in the first place. “This is what I am.” Much to his dismay, you overlook his choice of words: what instead of who.

He glances away, his gaze landing on the dog tags resting against your skin. The same old guilt threatens to engulf him, as it does each time without fail, and that seems to be your cue to lower yourself to his eye level, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not with you because I’m waiting for you to change. I like you just as you are, Logan. And I want all of you, both the good and bad stuff.” A gentle smile breaks across your face as you stretch your arm to retrieve his glasses from the nightstand. Placing them on your nose, your eyes twinkle with contentment. “Do they look good on me?”

“You don’t need them yet.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t pull them off.”

“Come here,” he mutters, sighing when you nuzzle his chest, cradling your head between his hands. He ponders what to say, what to do next, but no clear idea sounds promising.

And so it gives you the chance to speak up: “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

I hope I don’t, he thinks to himself as he brushes your hair away from your face, fingers caressing your temples. I hope I never do.

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[reverie-starlight]

okay that kuroo piece is still coming but have this small sakusa x MSBY!manager blurb that I just thought up and got so excited about!! I’m marking this down as fem!reader just for this specific little ramble. it can be read separately from the series !!

warnings: none, but probably a bit of a disconnect from what really happens at charity galas lmao

sakusa kiyoomi has a certain reputation for being very stoic and stand-offish in public- always polite but rather blunt in interviews. he’s tall, intimidating and not very personable around those who don’t know him, so it’s not a surprise people perceive him this way. his preference for wearing his mask most of the time only adds to this reputation, and he couldn’t care less. in fact, you would argue that he finds comfort in being perceived as unapproachable by strangers.

but when MSBY fans realize how horrifically down bad their favourite wing spiker is for the team manager, they have a field day with this absolutely drastic personality shift.

it starts with little jokes made by fan accounts about how much nicer he is to you in comparison to his teammates. they latch onto passing comments made by bokuto or atsumu about how when you’re at practice they feel at ease because they’re less likely to get obliterated by his sarcastic remarks.

no one has clued into the fact that you’re together yet, just that there’s some serious chemistry between you two.

it doesn’t go much further than that until the night of some charity event a lot of different teams are attending. of course managers are there, as well as coaches and trainers and JVA employees.

you’re doing the press/carpet walk before entering the event and in between photos and walking between journalists, one of the straps of your heels has come undone.

you frown a little and inspect it before realizing your dress restricts your ability to fix it yourself, so you nudge your boyfriend and stick your foot out to draw his attention to your predicament.

you don’t think twice about how there are no words are spoken. just a simple action and understanding between two lovers.

so people watch on as sakusa kiyoomi drops to his knees right then and there without protest and fixes your shoe. you take the opportunity to adjust the neckline of your dress (a deep, silky forest green to match his tie) and look around while you wait for him to finish.

you don’t realize the uproar this is bound to create, and you definitely don’t think twice about the fact that your boyfriend isn’t wearing a mask to this event.

…which means everyone is able to see the blush on his face and the tiny yet extremely lovesick smile on his lips as he gets up. you grin and pat sakusa on the cheek in thanks before walking to the next reporter, him trailing behind you dutifully.

you check twitter the next morning and your timeline is flooded with videos of that moment, captions gushing about how sweet and happy he looks. some fans go as far as to say he looks like a lost puppy following you around.

he doesn’t regret it one bit, but you have to comfort him when he loses his stand-offish reputation after that because he dreads the idea of more people possibly coming up to him in public.

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I literally sprinted here to write this lmao

not edited!!

tagging: @dira333 @emmyrosee