#hope you find your way back to this one and enjoy it again

[trashytracktales]

girl hi hi hi hi i am in love with your writing 😩😩

as someone who’s terrified by getting her driver license can i request boyfriend Lando giving you driving lessons and you know, good old soft dom lando giving you INSTRUCTIONS and praising you !! You know what i mean? 🥹🥹

and ofc throwing in a lil nice smut won’t be bad idk

Maybe this way i’ll feel inspired to finally get my license

(gorgeous gorgeous girls are obsessed with cars but scared to drive 🤩)

ily T!!

Fast learner | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── First of all, you got this, babe!! Getting your license can be scary, I remember being absolutely terrified. It definitely takes time and determination, but you can do it, I promise 🤞🏻 Also, so sorry it took me AGES, but I am struggling to finish my works lately *sad sounds idk*. I hope I did this one justice though. Fingers crossed and let me know when you get that license, queen. Enjoy 🤍✨

. ݁₊ ⊹ summary ──── Lando surprises his girlfriend with a gift she can’t say no to. Despite her fear, his guidance helps her gain confidence behind the wheel. But back home, the lessons continue in a much more intimate way, as Lando makes sure she knows just how good she is at following his instructions, both on and off the track.

. ݁₊ ⊹ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ rating ──── explicit

. ݁₊ ⊹ category ──── F/M

. ݁₊ ⊹ warnings ──── 18+, driving anxiety, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, swearing, sexual metaphors & euphemisms, light choking, soft dom!Lando.

. ݁₊ ⊹ word count ──── 5.6k

. ݁₊ ⊹ date ──── Feb. 28, 2025

WHEN SHE OPENS her eyes, the first thing she notices is that his familiar heat is pressing on her from every direction. With Lando’s arm resting like a sluggish weight around her waist and his fingertips brushing the exposed flesh beneath the hem of his hoodie, which she had stolen before bed, she feels secure in the warmth they’ve created.

His nose is buried in the crook of her neck, and the second thing she notices is the quiet, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against her back, his steady breathing blending with the morning silence, and the delicate, smooth kisses he’s planting on her skin.

The girl shifts slightly, only for him to tighten his grip, pulling her closer; she smiles, understanding he is already awake.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asks Lando, his voice languid.

Her body is melting back into his embrace, Lando’s slightly aggressive curiosity making her giggle. “Nowhere.”

“Good,” he presses a tender kiss to her shoulder, then another, trailing his lips back up the curve of her neck. “Because it’s your birthday, and I get to hold you for as long as I want.”

She smiles again, her heart swelling at the way he always makes her feel like she is most important thing in the world.

“That’s exactly what you said when it was your birthday,” she reminds him. “And last Friday, when it was… just Friday.”

“Still applies, as you can see,” he speaks softly against her skin. “Happy birthday, my love.”

A mellow hum leaves her as she turns in his arms, finally opening her eyes to meet his. They’re still laced with sleep, heavy-lidded and warm, the early, weak sunlight filtering through the curtains and cascading all over his face. His hair is a mess, his cheek faintly creased from the pillow, but she thinks he’s never looked more beautiful than he does in the mornings. Mostly because no one but her knows that his eyes are incredibly clear when he opens them for the first time. Or that his hands, still asleep, do not grasp her with the same strength they do at night, but have a tenderness she knows she will never find anywhere else, except their own bed.

“Thank you, pretty boy,” she whispers, running a gentle finger over his jaw, then following the pillow marks up his cheek. Lightly, she cups his face, her thumb pressing on his dimple, making Lando grin.

He leans in to nuzzle his nose against hers before capturing her lips in a sleepy, lazy kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that lingers, tender and sweet, the kind that makes her toes curl under the blanket. His hand skims up her side, slipping beneath the hoodie, fingers brushing against warm skin as he pulls her impossibly closer.

When they part, he sighs contentedly, resting his forehead against hers. “Sorry for waking you up.”

She hums, “You can wake me up like this everyday.”

“Yeah?” Lando giggles. “I actually had half a mind to let you sleep in, but I got too excited.”

She laughs softly. “Excited for what?”

Instead of answering, Lando reaches over to the nightstand to grab a small, beautifully wrapped box. He holds it out to her, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Her brows knit together as she pushes herself up onto her elbows. For a second, she thinks he’s about to propose, but he looks way too relaxed for that, which makes her question everything she knows about her boyfriend.

“What did you do, Lando?” she asks. “I told you no gifts this year.”

He smirks, nudging the box toward her. “It is not a gift. Think of it as an... investment. Come on, just open it.”

She hesitates, much more suspicious now, casting Lando a tamed look before carefully removing the ribbon. The paper falls away, revealing a sleek black velvet box. Her heart picks up its pace as she flicks it open and finds out that inside, resting against the dark fabric, is a car key.

She blinks, confused.

The logo gleams up at her, adding to her state.

“Lan…” she stares at the key, then back at him, as if waiting for him to laugh and tell her it’s all a joke. “This is a car key.”

Lando nods, biting his lip to keep from bursting into laughter. “Your dream car’s key,” he corrects her.

Her stomach flips violently. “No way. No. Lando, no. Absolutely not,” she keeps saying, shaking her head. “That’s too much,” she adds, shoving the box toward him as if it burns to touch. “You did not buy me a car for my stupid birthday.”

Incapable to hold his laugh any further, Lando lets out a little giggle. His voice is light, but there’s nothing but sincerity in his expression when he speaks again, “It’s not stupid. I wanted to. I’ve been planning this for a while now.”

She gapes at him, her brain struggling to process. “You bought me a Porsche.”

He shrugs, reaching for her hand and intertwining his fingers with hers. “I bought you your Porsche. The exact one you’ve been obsessing since forever,” he leans in, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “Don’t make me beg you to accept it. You deserve it and I can afford it, so just—”

“It’s not about deserving, Lando,” her heart swells, but panic creeps in. “I appreciate you for doing this, but I don’t even have a driver’s license. And I’m definitely not ready to get it any time soon. So please, can you take it back?”

His facial expression turns mischievous, raising a finger in the air, “Oh, no. You are ready. Which brings us to the second part of your present,” he says, tapping her nose playfully before throwing the covers off and getting up. “Get a comfy pair of shoes on. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

She looks at him warily. “Where exactly?”

Lando smirks, stretching before tugging a hoodie over his head. “Driving lessons,” he says, pointing at himself, “With me.”

Her stomach drops. “Lando, no.”

“Lando, yes,” he winks, crossing the room to where she sits on the bed, still in shock. “Baby, I know you’re terrified, but I wanna show you it’s not as scary as you think. It’ll be fun, I promise. And if not, we can stop at any time.”

Her lips part, but no words come out, only a strangled noise that makes Lando chuckle. He crouches in front of her, taking her hands in his, looking up at her. Sometimes, she thinks that the way he does it is so annoying, because she can’t say no when he gives her those puppy eyes. She realizes, looking back at him, that chances are Lando is even more excited than she is, which makes her feel a little guilty.

“Look, it’s okay to be nervous,” he says gently, pressing a kiss to her palm, “But I’ll be right there with you.”

Her chest tightens — not from anxiety this time, but from the sheer love she feels for this man, and for the way he always knows how to push her while making her feel safe.

She ends up nodding and, with that, Lando pulls her into a lingering kiss, as if sealing the promise between them.

WHEN LANDO SAID driving lessons, she thought he meant a quiet, empty parking lot somewhere in the city. Or maybe a back road with little to no traffic. What she did not expect was an entire race track at their disposal.

It’s February, and the cold still bites through the air, the kind of chill that seeps into her bones despite the heat blasting inside the car. The sky is now a heavy shade of gray, fluffy clouds stretching endlessly above the open space of the Silverstone Circuit. The grandstands stand empty, ghostly in their silence, the wind whistling through the steel framework.

Her hands tighten into fists as she stares at the massive expanse of the track. She’s been here before, sure, but she’s never seen this place so devoid of people and so lifeless. What strikes her, though, is that it doesn’t even matter, because the circuit has the same beauty — perhaps even more alluring when it’s not animated by the roar of people and the deafening sound of engines. It’s almost haunting. She can’t shake the feeling that it’s the same place where world-class drivers push their limits at blinding speeds, where Lando himself has raced countless times. And just for tooday, it belongs entirely to them.

Her heart pounds harder in her chest as she’s turning to look at him, “You got me Silverstone for my first driving lesson?”

Lando smirks, shutting the engine off. “Had to pull some strings, no biggie.” He looks back at her, his eyes gleaming with excitement under the thick, long lashes. “I didn’t want anything to distract you or to feel any external pressure. Just us, and your car.”

Her car.

She still hasn’t fully processed it. She spent the entire two-hour drive here just staring at it, running her fingers over the pristine leather seat when Lando wasn’t looking, and tracing the sleek dashboard, memorizing every detail. It smells brand new, the engine purring under his control like a well-tamed beast. But now, as he opens his door and steps out, the reality of what comes next hits her, and panic creeps up her spine once again.

She grips the seatbelt tightly, her fingers going numb, as she watches Lando walk around the car. He looks so at ease, so effortlessly confident as he gestures for her to switch places. Meanwhile, she feels like she could throw up in T minus five seconds.

“Come on, baby,” he calls, grinning as he taps the roof of the car. “Time to make you a driver.”

Yes, that sounds good. And yes, she wants this. She really does. But the moment she steps out into the cold air and faces the car from the driver’s side, the same doubt settles deep in her chest. It’s not that she’s scared of driving — well, she is. But that’s not the only reason why she postoned getting her license for so long. The simple thought makes her stomach flip, because she knows that the second she puts foot in a car, so many things can go wrong, especially if you’re afraid.

Lando notices her hesitance immediately, and his playful grin softens as he steps closer. “Hey,” he says, tilting his head. “What’s bothering you, hm? Talk to me.”

The girl exhales shakily. “I’m not sure about this, Lando. I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Of course you can,” says Lando in a determined voice.

She looks at the car, then at the track ahead of them. “It’s...” her voice trails off, trying to come up with the best excuse and go back home to nestle between their warm sheets.

“It’s just tarmac, baby,” Lando’s tone is calm and reassuring. “It’s no different than any other road. Just bigger. Safer, actually.”

Her arms wrap around herself instinctively, bracing against the cold, but mostly against her own emotions. “What if I mess up?”

“Then you mess up,” he shrugs, “That’s what learning is, isn’t it?”

She knows he’s right, but the fear still lingers, coiling tight in her stomach. “And if I crash?”

“You won’t crash,” he answers with the same determination yet slightly amused, taking her by surprise, because Lando uses that voice only when he is sure of what he’s saying.

She scoffs, “Sure, how do you know that?”

Lando smiles, reaching for her hands, rubbing warmth into her fingers before bringing them up to his lips. “Because I am here.”

Ha.

She nods slowly, suddenly realizing that there’s no going back — not when Lando is so committed to show her a side of herself that even she’s not aware of. And the fact that he believes in her does something to her brain; it gives her a bit more confidence and courage. She’s seen Lando drive countless of times before. She watched him, his movements instinctive, so measured and smooth that it’s become second nature to him. Maybe she can try to replicate that to a certain degree.

For her own sake, she owes him that.

“Alright,” she manages to say, her voice much tamer than expected.

“That’s my girl,” he presses one last kiss to her knuckles before stepping back, gesturing to the driver’s seat. “Get in there.”

With a deep breath, she finally slides into the driver’s seat, and her entire body tense as she grips the steering wheel; it feels hard under her touch, yet delicate at the same time. Lando follows, settling into his place effortlessly, like this is just another normal day at the track for him.

“Okay,” Lando starts, his voice patient. “First, get comfortable. Adjust your seat, mirrors, whatever you need. Make sure you see everything and, most importantly, make sure you feel everything. All the points where your body makes contact with the car, yeah?” he watches her nodding, swallowing the lump in her throat, then adds, “There is no rush, so take your time. We’ve got plenty.”

Her movements are stiff and mechanical as she reaches for the seat adjustment; she can feel her pulse in her fingertips while she does it. Then, she places her hands on the steering wheel, feeling it firm under her grip, and she suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how tight her fingers become around it.

“Babe,” says Lando, noticing she’s still fighting on the inside. “Relax your hands. You don’t need to strangle it.”

She forces herself to loosen her grip, but her fingers still tremble slightly.

“That’s better,” Lando reaches over, placing a hand on her knee to ground her.

She inhales sharply, then exhales, trying to shake the nerves. Lando waits until she goes through everythig he’s just instructed her, without rushing or teasing at her hesitation. He’s just there, a constant presence that makes her feel more comfortable.

And then, “Think of it like when you’re on top,” he continues casually.

Her head whips toward him, eyes wide. “What?”

Lando’s expression changes, looking like he’s just mentally high-fived himself for the comparison. “When you’re on top, you’re in control,” he reminds her. “You set the pace. You decide how fast or slow you wanna go,” his fingers tighten on her thigh as he leans in slightly, his voice dipping lower. “The car will respond to everything you do. Try it. I’m here to guide you.”

“Lando.”

He keeps going, completely undeterred, “Baby, I know you know how to move. It’s all about finding that rhythm,” he says, his fingers tapping against her thigh for emphasis. “It’s literally the same thing. Smooth, steady, no sudden jerks. And when you’re ready to pick up speed…” Lando grins, his eyes darkening just slightly. “Well. You know what happens then.”

A laugh bursts from her chest, all the tension snapping like a rubber band. She slaps his arm away, her face heating at his ridiculous but so on-brand analogy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he teases, laying back in his chair, “You’re finally breathing properly now.”

She blinks, realizing he’s right. The tightness in her chest has eased, her grip on the wheel no longer desperate. Her shoulders have dropped, her muscles loosening bit by bit. Lando sees the realization settling over her, content that he managed to put other images inside her head in order to make it easier to handle.

He chuckles, then gestures toward the track in front of them, “Alright, birthday girl. Ready to take me for a ride?”

She groans, covering her face with one hand. “You just can’t stop, can you?”

“Nope,” he says after a moment. “Foot on the brake.”

Instinctively, her foot finds the pedal, pressing down tentatively.

“Now, start the car.”

She swallows hard and reaches for the ignition button. The engine roars to life beneath her fingertips, smooth and powerful, vibrating through her entire body.

At the sound, Lando grins proudly. “There she is.” His hands go to rest on the armrest, his thumb brushing the fabric lightly. He watches carefully as she moves to adjust the mirrors with a focused look in her eyes. “Good,” he continues, his voice a soft command that she knows so well. “Now, keep the wheel steady, just like we talked about. Look ahead. Your eyes should be on the next corner, not the one you just passed.”

She nods, keeping her focus on the track.

“So, this car is rear-engined, which means most of the weight is at the back. That makes it a little trickier to handle if you throw it into a corner too fast. But,” Lando pauses, looking at her intently to assure her there’s nothings to be afraid of, “I’m here to make sure you drive it right.”

She scoffs nervously, “Is there a wrong way to drive it?”

“Plenty, actually. Relax your hold I said,” he instructs her again, “Baby, if it’s too tight, you won’t feel what the car is telling you.”

“Telling me?” she echoes, glancing at him with furrowed brows.

Lando nods, “Yeah. The car talks to you, just not with words. It tells you when it wants to rotate, when it has grip, when you need to be gentle or when you can push,” he says, gesturing toward the long straight. “Speaking of. Go on, give it some gas.”

Her heart jumps into her throat, but she listens, pressing down on the accelerator tentatively. The car responds instantly, surging forward with smooth, controlled aggression. She gasps, the force pressing her back against the seat, and Lando chuckles beside her.

“That’s it,” he praises. “A lot of power, hm?”

She lets out a breathy laugh, still nervous but slowly melting into the feeling of it all.

“Next, the corners,” Lando adds, eyes locked on the road as they approach one. “You want to brake before you turn, not while you’re turning. That’s how you keep it stable.”

She follows his words, pressing down on the brakes a little too early, but the car slows smoothly.

“Good,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Turn in,” he pauses, lips quirking into a smirk. “Like the way you move your hips when you ride me. Controlled, but with intention.”

Her foot nearly slips off the pedal. “Lando, stop that!” she squeaks, turning her head for a second, just to glare at him.

She feels the tires gripping the asphalt in a way that sends a thrill through her, despite the nerves still buzzing beneath the surface.

“I’m trying to speak your language,” he laughs, “Ease off the throttle and prepare to brake again,” Lando’s voice is smooth, “Yes, keep your foot light on the brake. Feel it?”

She does. While following his instructions, gently, she eases her foot off the gas, then applies just the right pressure to the brake, her heart racing with each turn. Lando watches her closely, but she can tell he’s holding back, not overloading her with instructions but guiding her just enough so she feels the car’s movements.

“Perfection,” he praises as she hits the apex of the corner, the car hugging the track with a controlled grace. “Accelerate again, gently. Let the car do the work for you. Don’t overthink it.”

She hesitates for a moment, her fingers adjusting their grip on the wheel, before she picks up speed, feeling the engine roaring beneath her. Despite the fear gnawing at her, there’s a strange thrill beginning to bubble inside, a sense of freedom she’s never felt before. She can feel the car responding to her, listening to her movements, exactly like Lando told her it will. Which makes her eager to go faster, to push.

But as she rounds another corner, a new wave of uncertainty floods her chest, and she glances over at her boyfriend again. “Lando, I don’t know…”

“You do,” Lando’s voice is almost a growl, “Bury your foot on the pedal. See what this car is capable of.”

Her pulse quickens, but there’s more excitement behind it now. With Lando’s words echoing in her mind, she takes a deep breath, presses her foot into the pedal, and feels the car surge beneath her. For a moment, he senses her hesitation, but then the car roars to life, and she feels the pull and the adrenaline racing through her veins. The acceleration is immediate and, before she knows it, the world outside blurs, the track stretching out before her like an endless ribbon.

To her surprise, she loves the feeling.

Next time he speaks, Lando’s words sound like a whisper over the roar of the engine, “That’s it, baby,” his eyes sparkle with approval, and she can hear the pride in his voice all over again. “You did it!”

THERE IS A faint smell of leftover takeout that lingers in the air, blending with the sweet vanilla of the birthday muffins he insisted on getting as dessert. There will be a cake and they’ll get to properly celebrate with her friends at the end of the week but, until then, her birthday was a success, topped with adrenaline and excitement, which she never thought she would ever enjoy.

Now, she stands by the full-length closet mirror, running a brush through her hair, the weight of the day settling into her body. It was terrifying yet thrilling in ways she hadn’t expected. What surprises her even more is her sudden desire to get back in the driver’s seat. She’s slowly realizing how addictive the feeling she experienced on the track is, and even though she knows that driving around the city won’t compare to what Lando offered her today, she feels — perhaps for the first time in her life — ready to take that step.

Lando moves behind her right after she puts the brush down, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his chest against her back.

“So, when can I drive again?” he hears her asking in a teasing voice, though there’s a genuine spark of nervousness behind it.

He smirks against the curve of her neck, lips barely brushing her skin. “You can give me another ride now, since you insist,” Lando suggests, his voice dripping with smugness.

She rolls her eyes and, twisting in his hold, she faces him, her hands sliding up his chest, fingertips tracing the contours of his collarbones. “Sounds good, but aren’t you afraid that too much control will get to my head?”

“Not at all.”

Lando steps forward, kissing her with enough force to show her that he means every word. His hands are now everywhere — on her hips, up and down her back, in her hair, then gripping her thighs as he lifts her effortlessly. She lets a surprised gasp into his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist as he presses her back against the mirror. It’s hard against her skin, a stark contrast to the softness rolling off him in waves.

Her fingers end up tangling in his soft curls, tugging just enough to make Lando groan, a sound she’s never learned how to properly react to, since it drives her wild every single time she hears it. He tastes like the vanilla from the muffin that they shared earlier, so sweet and sinful.

When he comes back to his senses, Lando brushes his nose against hers, his voice hushed but firm, “I’m so proud of you, you know that?” he asks in a whispered voice. “You’re gonna do great.”

A shiver runs down her spine, not just from his words but from the unwavering belief behind them. Lando has always been her greatest cheerleader, the one who never let her doubt herself, even when she wanted to.

Her exhale is soft as a baby’s breath, fueled by the praise that sets her skin ablaze. “Lando,” she whispers, wrapping her arms tighter around his neck.

He chuckles, the sound of it full of want. “Right here, baby. What do you need?”

She can’t use her words at the moment. Instead, she just presses herself closer to him, silently telling him what she needs. And Lando gets the message loud and clear. With a firm grip, he walks them toward the bed, her body flush against his.

Clothes come off in a frenzy: her shirt lifted over her head, his sweatpants kicked away, her underwear dragged down her thighs in a rush. His lips are on her skin the entire time, trailing fire along her collarbones, down the valley between her breasts and over the curve of her stomach.

When she’s bare beneath him, he pulls back, drinking her in.

“Want on top?” asks Lando, a little smirk hanging in the corner of his mouth.

The girl shakes her head, “You first,” she teases, already breathless.

He doesn’t answer, but runs a hand down his face before gripping her thighs and flipping her onto her stomach. She gasps as he positions himself behind her, big hands spreading across her waist. Lando’s fingers flex, gripping her like she belongs to him in ways neither of them can describe, but both agree on.

Gently, he presses a kiss to her shoulder blade, then another, before dragging his teeth along her heated skin. “Let me show you how high confidence can get you, baby.”

And then, he pushes inside.

A muffled moan spills from her lips, her back arching hard into him as he bottoms out, filling her completely. He presses his lips in a thin line at the feeling, at the way she welcomes him so perfectly, clenching around him like she was made for this. It’s hard to keep quiet, yet he wants to give himself the priviledge of being able to feel her like this a little longer.

“God, you feel so good,” he mumbles, his hands sliding up to her shoulders, fingers curling around them.

“Move then,” she orders, managing to get a chuckle out of him.

Lando’s thrusts are calculated at first, dragging along every sensitive spot inside her, pulling sounds out of her that go straight to his cock. But then he shifts, picking up speed, pounding into her with a precision that leaves her gasping further more.

Before she knows it, she’s drowning in all of it. The feeling of him, the way he takes control, and how patient he is with her.

“Lando,” she whines, voice muffled against the sheets.

“I know, baby,” he breathes, bending over her, pressing a hand to the pillow beside her head. “Just take it.”

He switches between teasing strokes and deep, hard thrusts, keeping her on edge, making her feel every inch of is length. The air around them is charged, filled with the scent of skin and something intoxicatingly sweet. Heat clings to them, heavy and thick, as if the room itself is suddenly caught in the same fever they are.

When he feels her tightening around him way too soon, Lando doesn’t hesitate to flip her onto her back again, eyes locked onto hers as he slides home once more. She whimpers at the quick change, at the way he goes so deep in this new position, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him even closer. Lando whimpers, dropping his forehead to hers, breath ragged against her lips.

“Look at you,” he can barely speak, “So. Good.”

She shivers at the praise, nails raking down his back, grounding herself in the heat of his skin. He watches her, pupils blown wide, drinking in every expression that flits across her face, from the parted lips and the way her brows knit together as pleasure overwhelms her, to the sheer need burning in her gaze. It’s almost too much for him, but the desire to see her crumbling for him like that is stronger.

The roll of his hips, every stretch, and every inch of him pressing into her it’s enough to send shudders through her body. He feels her everywhere: surrounding him, clinging to him like she���s planning to never let him go. And fuck, he never wants her to.

His hands roam her body, admiring every soft dip of her skin. One traces the swell of her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple before his lips follow, dragging warm, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, her neck, and anywhere he can reach. She tilts her head back, offering more of herself to him, and he groans against her skin, nipping at her pulse just to feel the way she gasps.

“Harder,” she breathes in such wrecked manner that sends a bolt of heat straight through him.

His body tenses for a split second before a sudden hunger flickers in his eyes. No hesitation. No teasing. Just a low, guttural curse as he grips her hips and thrusts into her with purpose, each snap of his hips punishing in the best way possible.

“That good for you?” he rasps, voice tight with control, but his pace says he’s barely holding on. She nods, but it’s not enough for him. Lando grips her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Let me hear you.”

“Yes,” she moans, voice breaking as he drives into her harder. “Yes, you feel so good, baby. Don’t stop...”

Lando finds the strength to smile at her, watching her slowly coming undone beneath him, her body arching, legs tightening around his waist. “Won’t,” he assures her, “You take it so well, it drives me crazy,” he groans, his hand sliding between them, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling, teasing.

Her legs start trembling around his waist, and he knows she’s close. He can feel it in the way her body is betraying her, spasming around him, the way her breaths grow uneven, and how her hands tighten in his hair as if anchoring herself to him.

“Mhm,” he hums, his forehead pressed to hers. “Ready to come with me, love?”

She doesn’t have time to answer as she moans his name, a cry lost in their furtive kiss, just as her body tightens around him, pulling him over the edge right with her. His repetitive moans are maddening as he spills inside her, hips jerking, hands gripping her with a force that’s going to leave marks.

After that, he refuses to move. They just breathe, chests colliding against each other, bodies pressed so tightly together that it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Then, Lando tilts his head, pressing another lazy kiss to her lips before whispering against them. “Best student I’ve ever had.”

She laughs, smacking his shoulder, but she doesn’t deny it.

A shiver rolls down Lando’s spine as he pulls out, his body thrumming with aftershocks, oversensitive but still craving her. His eyes flutter shut for a second at the feeling — she’s still so tight, greedily clenching around nothing, the evidence of their release slick between them, a mess they should deal with but won’t. Not yet.

His cock, still heavy and slick, rests between them, twitching slightly as he leans down to kiss her again. It’s slow, languid, an extension of the pleasure still simmering in the air between them. His lips move against hers with a practiced ease, his body pressing into her as if he’s trying to mold them into one.

Then, his hand finds her neck. He squeezes lightly, just enough to make her breath hitch; his smirk against her lips is pure sin.

“Get on top,” he orders, voice thick with something commanding. His hands find her hips again, thumbs stroking the heated skin there. “I want you to reproduce every single thing I explained to you at the circuit today. Show me what you learned,” he provokes her, eyes dark with challenge.

She bites the inside of her cheek, chest burning at the way he looks at her — his lips parted, eyes filled with lust —, fueling her desire to show off.

Slowly, she sinks down onto him, gasping at the way he stretches her as if he wasn’t inside her not even two minutes ago. She lifts herself before easing back down, soon finding a rhythm that makes him curse under his breath.

“Keep your grip firm,” Lando instructs, trailing his fingers up her spine. “Don’t be afraid to push a little harder.”

She presses her hands to his chest and moves faster, earning a deep, satisfied moan from him.

“Fuck,” Lando swears under his breath, eyes flickering between her face and the way she moves on top of him. “Such a fast learner.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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© trashy track tales, 2025

[lubdubology]

Come A Long, Long Way

SYNOPSIS: His days are long and his nights are longer. He comes to you during those hours when the rest of the world stills, lured in by something almost like fate. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader 

WC: 12.2k

WARNINGS: smut 18+, mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, scars and healing; gratuitous sexual tension; mentions of alcohol/alcohol consumption; dirty talk; frottage; nipple play; surprise appearance by Charles; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected p in v; sex with feelings; cowgirl; mating press; creampie; brief mentions of Laura; happy ending because I said so

A/N: The idea for this story came to me through a song--My Fair Lady by Kaleo. I was struck by this verse: I'm weary from my travels // I've come a long, long way // I haven't felt a woman // Since last that I was here // Oh, won't you bring me whisky // And run your fingers through my hair? // Oh, won't you whisper sweet words // Oh, so softly in my ear? I thought, "Wow, that's so Old Man Logan" and this is what I birthed from that. This may be one of my favorite things I've ever written, and I sincerely hope you think so too. Huge, huge thank you to @yxtkiwiyxt for betaing this for me and making the final draft what it is; you helped end this in such a beautiful way. Thank you to @saradika for the use of her graphics. And as always, I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

He shouldn’t care about the car pulled over on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking as the rain pours down. 

For three days, Logan’s entertained a rowdy bachelorette party, chauffeuring them from bar to bar, dinner to dinner. The scent of cheap perfume and desperation still linger inside the limo, the drunken, whispered advances still burn against his skin. 

He’s tired. Exhausted down to his very marrow and he wants nothing more than to crawl onto his sagging mattress and steal whatever amount of sleep his shattered mind will give him. 

So, no. He shouldn’t care about the car. 

But he finds himself easing off the gas, the limo starting to slow as he nears. He feels drawn, like a month to a flame, as if some unseen force has wound itself around his sternum and is pulling him forward. 

Pulling him to you. 

As the limo approaches, he spots you crouched down by the front left tire, struggling with a lug wrench, the tool slipping in your rain-soaked fingers. He can almost hear the curses spilling from your lips as you glance up and look towards where he’s sitting. 

Logan knows you can’t see him, not well anyway with the headlights shining directly upon you and the rain pouring down in sheets, but he swears you find his gaze, your eyes seeming to pierce down directly to his soul. He feels the flutter of something deep in his chest and he feels exposed, like a raw wound that hasn’t quite healed. 

For a moment, he hesitates, and wonders if you’re a siren, out here in your element to lure him to his death. Then your gaze drops and the thought dissolves but only just. Before he can talk himself out of it, Logan’s throwing the car in park and opening the door. 

The rain is frigid, the cold biting at his skin as the downpour soaks him down to the bone. You glance up at him as he approaches, your fingers loosening around the wench but still keeping it firmly in your grasp. Straightening up, you push wet strands of hair out of your face, your fingers trembling from the cold. 

“Need a lift?”

He doesn’t know why he asks. What he should do is swap out the old tire for the spare and let you go on your way. But those eyes of yours are piercing him again, the hook you’ve sunk deep in his sinew pulling taut once more and Logan feels compelled to take you home. 

For a few moments, you continue to silently assess him, your gaze flitting between your car, the limo behind him and back to his now soaked frame. Then, you stand and open the driver’s side door, tossing in the wrench and pulling your purse close to your chest. You follow him to the limo and climb into the backseat as Logan slips back in behind the wheel. 

He glances back at you through the rearview mirror, watching as you lean back into the seat, your wet clothes clinging to every curve of your body. Which is another thing he shouldn’t care about and yet…

Clearing his throat, he turns up the heat. “Where you headed?”

“North. About twenty miles or so.”

Logan nods and shifts the car into drive, heading back down the road as the rain continues to come down. Several minutes pass in silence, save for the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers. Finally, your voice breaks through the silence, soft and lilting. 

“Got a name?”

“Who’s asking?”

A half smile tugs at your lips as you slide from the seat and slip into the row directly behind the partition. Logan can feel the damp of your skin as you lean into his space, the scent of rain flooding his nostrils almost intoxicating. You say your name and wait for him to respond in kind.

“Logan,” he answers, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Life hasn’t been kind to you, has it, Logan?” you ask, his name dripping from your lips like honey and just as sweet.

Logan stiffens, his grip tightening on the wheel as your words cut through the night. There’s no pity in your tone, which he’s silently grateful for, but an unsettling mixture of curiosity and understanding.

At the best of times, he doesn’t like anyone trying to scratch below the surface, to worm themselves into all the soft and vulnerable bits he tries so desperately to hide away. Now that he’s older and feeling every bit of his age, the weight of his bones threatening to drag him down with each step, he likes it even less.

“It’s not kind to anyone,” he answers, turning his head just enough to glance sideways at you. 

You tilt your head slightly, a wordless noise humming in your throat. “Maybe,” you concede, voice soft, like you’re mulling over his words. “Except your life has carved itself into you a little more than most.”

He wants to be annoyed, to slam his foot on the brake and send the limo careening into reverse back towards your broken down car. But something stirs in him, thrumming in time with the pulse beating in his veins—a spark of irritation mixed with that pull that’s been gnawing at him since he first saw you. 

“You a therapist or somethin’?”

You chuckle softly, the sound low and intimate, as you lean back into the seat, finally putting some space between you. “No. Just intuitive.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at you through the rearview mirror with a scowl. “Intuit less. Just tell me where I’m goin’.”

A soft, chiding “tsk” falls from your lips and you shake your head, but Logan doesn’t miss the smile playing on your lips. You give him directions to your house and for moment you both sit in silence but the air remains heavy with unspoken tension. 

Logan pulls off the highway, beginning to wind through the smaller streets of the town as he gets closer to your place. The thought of this ride ending, of you leaving this car, both thrill and disappoint him. 

“You believe in fate?”

The question cuts through the silence, pulling Logan’s focus back to you. He glances at you briefly, your expression thoughtful as you wait for him to answer. 

“No,” he finally says, voice flat. 

A soft hum escapes your throat. “Unsurprising. But don’t you think, Logan,” you begin, leaning back into his space, “that maybe fate is what brought us together?”

You have that knowing look in your eye again, a sly smile tugging at your lips. As if you’re in on some cosmic secret he’s not privy to. It unnerves him. 

But it intrigues him, too. 

“I think a broken down car brought us together.”

“Or maybe life decided to be kind to you,” you challenge. “To bring me to you.”

Logan turns into a quiet subdivision as your words rattle around in his brain. The rain has mostly subsided, but is still falling in a gentle drizzle as he pulls up in front of your house, a single porch light illuminated in welcome. It looks small, yet homey, the kind of place he could have seen himself in once if life had been kinder to him. 

“You should come in,” you say as you gather your belongings. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

Your eyes meet his again through the review mirror, a mischievous glint in your gaze and an even more sinful smile on your lips. 

It’s been a while since he’s been with anyone. The thrill of finding a partner for the night having lost its luster around the time his bones started to ache. More often than not, his sexual escapades involve his own calloused hands and memories from when he was a younger man. 

“Think about it,” you offer as you open the door and slip out of the limo. “Door’ll be open.” 

Logan sits, hands gripping the steering wheel, contemplating whether or not to follow you into the house.

Your offer is tantalizing, ripe for the picking, and the baser part of himself wants to accept—follow you into sin. You’ve already injected yourself into his veins, he might as well see the high through. 

The rational part of his brain knows he should leave, throw the limo in reverse and tail it back to the life he’s carved out for himself in the desert. Experience has hardened him, left him unable to, or maybe unwilling to, open himself to others. He doesn’t need whatever it is you think you can offer him, no matter how alluring and sweet your words may be. 

The weight of his wet clothes against his skin begins to feel almost suffocating and with a low curse under his breath, Logan steps from the limo and follows the path you took up the porch and into the house.

A trail of water leads from the front door to a small laundry room just off the foyer and then damp footprints lead deeper into the house. He can hear the low rumble of a dryer as he steps further into the space, the squeak of his shoes against the hardwood doing nothing to hide his approach. 

Logan finds you in the kitchen, lights dimmed low, standing in only a pair of mismatched underwear, the damp fabric barely concealing what’s underneath as you gently swirl a glass of whiskey. A second, untouched glass sits next to your hip on the counter. 

“You seem like a whiskey man,” you say, your smile curving around the glass as you take a slow sip. “Did I get it right?”

Stopping in the doorway, he flexes his hands at his sides, and wills himself to move—forward, backward, he’s not quite sure. The muted light catches along your curves, the damp sheen of your skin enticing, the dark outline of your nipples and curls between your thighs acting like a beacon. Logan can feel himself hardening against his slacks. 

He can smell you—bright and earthy and wholly intoxicating. Your heartbeat echoes in his ears, quick, but steady, betraying no fear. 

“If you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it by now,” you say and he has half a thought to wonder if you can read his mind. 

A sly smile spreads across your face as his eyes finally meet yours, a knowing edge to your expression that further sets him off balance. 

“What’s happenin’ here?” Logan finally rasps, his voice low and rough. 

You give a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders as you grab the glass next to you and take a step towards him, your movements slow yet deliberate. He doesn’t move, rooted to the spot as you approach him. 

“That’s up to you,” you reply, handing him the glass. “You can get out of those wet clothes and enjoy this whiskey with me, or,” you pause to step closer, “you can walk back out that door and pretend like you weren’t curious about what’s waiting for you here.”

Logan’s fingers grip the glass in his hands just a little too tight as you stare up at him, holding his gaze a beat longer than necessary. You’re challenging him, daring him to act, and he knows the minute he breaks, he’s done for. He won’t be able to stop. 

You risk another step closer, leaving barely a breadth of space between you. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, can smell the rain on your skin, as your closeness overwhelms his senses. He wants to drown in you. 

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask in a whisper, your fingers trailing along the edge of his belt buckle. 

Your touch and proximity ignites something primal in him, something he thought long extinguished. Logan can feel pure want, need, surge through his veins and lick flames along his skin. His free hand moves on instinct, wrapping around your wrist, halting your teasing fingers before they venture any further. His restraint is hanging by a thread, fraying and threatening to snap.

“You sure this is what you want?” His voice is low, all gravel and grit as he stares down at you, his eyes darkened by a hunger begging to be fed.

Your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as you press yourself fully against him, soft and warm. Rising up onto the balls of your feet, you drop your gaze to his lips before flicking your eyes back up to his and ghosting your mouth along his jawline. “Stay with me,” you whisper, sliding your hand up his chest. “Just this once.”

Logan’s restraint snaps. The glass tumbles from his hand, shattering against the floor, but neither of you seem to notice. His hand moves to the small of your back, wanting to press you impossibly closer as his lips crash into yours, hot and demanding. 

You respond in kind, a whimper dying in your throat as your fingers tangle in his damp hair, urging him closer. A growl tumbles from his lips as he trails his mouth down your neck, nipping and tasting as he goes, his tongue finding your pulse point and sucking. His hands roam freely, his calloused fingers sliding over your smooth flesh, palming your hips and gripping you as if you’re the only thing grounding him to earth.

He feels alive. Every cell in his body hums beneath your touch, the constant aches and pains temporarily erased. You’re a balm to his very soul, smoothing the ever deepening cracks and making him feel whole. 

You gasp as he nips at a spot just below your ear and he smirks against your skin, the sound spurring him on. “Tell me where your room is, or I’m fuckin’ you right here on the table,” he husks, his voice thick with desire, breath fanning over the shell of your ear.

Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your lips swollen and eyes dark, you reach for his hand and wordlessly lead him past the living room and down the small hallway to your room. Once inside, he pulls you back towards him, mouth slanting back over yours, stealing the very air from your lungs. 

His cock is almost painfully hard as he walks you towards the bed, only pulling his mouth away from yours as your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Instead of sitting back on the bed, you reach for the buttons on his shirt, easing them open before sliding the fabric from his shoulders. There’s an eagerness to your movements, your fingers fumbling with his belt buckle as he sheds his undershirt and tosses it somewhere behind him. 

Logan watches with a hooded gaze, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, as you shove his pants down his legs, barely getting them past his knees before you’re reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

His fingers curl around your wrist, halting your movements and you gaze up at him, licking your lips. “Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We have all night.”

A shiver runs through you and then his mouth is on you again, hungry and all-consuming. He drinks you in like a man parched, lips and teeth mapping the curve of your jaw, the solid edge of your collarbone as your pretty little moans and gasps fill the air. You tilt your head back and offer yourself to him, your hands grasping at his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle to keep him close.

His hands are rough against your skin as he slides them up your sides, tracing the soft, damp skin below the band of your bra. Unfastening the clasps, he trails the fabric down your arms, his eyes darkening as he finally takes in your bare breasts.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice dripping with raw want.

Any final restraint he has evaporates and he kicks the last of his clothes off before tightening his hands around your waist and setting you down on the bed. Logan steals the gasp from your mouth as his body covers yours, easing himself between your thighs and thrusting once against your clothed cunt.

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to wet the skin. “Last chance,” he husks, his breath fanning across your lips. “Last chance to stop before I ruin you.” 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to elicit a growl, his teeth bared. A sinful smile spreads across your face. “Oh, Logan,” you coo, “who says I’m not going to ruin you?”

Logan lets out a deep, guttural sound, something between a growl and a groan before he slots his mouth back over yours and follows you into temptation.  

“Figured you’d try and sneak out.”

Logan whirls around at the sound of your voice, claws slowly unsheathing from between his knuckles. Blood wells up from the wounds, dripping between his fingers as he finds you dressed in an oversized shirt, the hem just concealing the edge of your panties. Your expression belies no fear as you take in the metal jutting out between his skin, your eyes alight with an acceptance he’s not use to. 

Fear, disgust, repulsion, but rarely acceptance. 

Slowly, he retracts his claws as you move further into the kitchen, stopping at the sink to grab and moisten a washcloth before coming to stand in front of him. Logan instinctively pulls away from your touch, but you’re undeterred, taking his hands in yours and wiping the blood away from his skin. Your movements are gentle, taking care to avoid the still healing slits.

Washed of blood, you finally glance up at him. “You can stay, you know.”

“I’m not the stayin’ kind, sweetheart,” he mutters.

One of those slow, knowing smiles tugs at your lips as you release his hands and Logan actually mourns the loss. “We’ll see,” you say with a shrug, stepping back just enough to put space between you. “I don’t think fate is done with us yet.”

Your words hang in the air like smoke, curling around him and pressing into his skin. He wants to argue, the words burning on his tongue, but he doesn’t. Because despite his earlier claims that he didn’t believe in fate, he can’t deny the unnatural pull you have on him. A pull Logan doesn’t necessarily dislike.

At his silence, you lean up and press the faintest of kisses to the corner of his jaw. “I’ll leave the light on for you,” you whisper into his skin.

It’s then he knows—he won’t be able to stay away. 

Logan shows up at your door again two weeks later. 

He’s been driving around some bigwig CEO, chauffeuring him from conference to conference during the day and dropping him off at random hotels during the night. When he gives Logan the address to tonight’s hotel, Logan knows instantly he’s in trouble. Just his luck the hotel is in your town. 

Pulling off the freeway, he feels that familiar tug behind his ribs. His hands itch with the want, the need, to turn the wheel towards you instead of the address on his GPS. Since that night, you’ve haunted him, your face showing up in his dreams, waking with the sensation of your softness burning into his skin. 

Logan knows he could stay at the hotel or sleep in the back of the limo like he’s done so many times before. But as he slowly inhales at his cigar and waits for Mr. CEO to stop fingering his mistress in the back seat and get the fuck out, the need to be near you only grows stronger. 

And damned if he knows why. 

He doesn’t need a relationship, or whatever the hell this is. Enough of him has been spread to others, for better or worse, and he’s already worn thin. The last remnants of any family he has are hanging off a very precarious ledge and he can’t bear the heartache of more loss if he opens himself to you. 

But as much as Logan keeps telling himself he’s closed off, fortified against anything new, he can feel himself bleeding through the cracks. 

By the time he finally turns down your street, it’s well past a respectable visiting hour. Most houses are dark for the night, but not yours. The front porch light illuminates just like it did two weeks ago and the dim lights of the kitchen shine through the pulled blinds. You’re up and a frisson of anticipation shoots through him. 

He parks the limo and stamps out the cigar before walking up your driveway. As he approaches the door, he hesitates. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. While your final words to him were open ended, did that give him the right to just show up in the middle of the night? 

You open the door as he contemplates and when his gaze finally focuses on you, he relaxes. A well worn robe is tied around your waist, your hair tied up in a messy bun, your face cleaned of makeup and yet you’re more alluring to him than you were that night in the rain. 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he confesses, stepping just a bit closer towards you. 

A slow, soft smile spreads across your face. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” you reply. You open the door to allow him entrance and he steps in after you. 

Logan follows you into the kitchen, where you already have a glass of whiskey ready for him. Handing him the glass, you nod your head towards the living room. “Come. Relax for a bit.”

He follows you into he living room, the single lamp casting a soft glow within the space. You settle onto the sectional, tucking your legs beneath you and turning yourself towards him as he joins you. For a moment, neither of you speak, but the silence isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable, like it always is around you. 

“You look tired,” you say, finally breaking the quiet. Your voice is soft, a sense of familiarity laced in with your words, as if you understand the magnitude of his fatigue.

Logan huffs as he swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Honey, I’m always tired,” he replies. “Comes with the territory.”

You give a small hum, your head tilting to the side as you assess him. “You’re in pain, too.”

Logan freezes at your words, his eyes flicking up to your face. His gaze locks with yours, sharp and guarded, like you’ve peeled back a layer he wasn’t ready to expose. And yet, you’ve been doing this since the beginning. Finding the cracks in his facade and wedging yourself in until the gap widens, uncovering the raw nerves underneath.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, his tone challenging.

You gaze remains steady and calm, holding a softness that unnerves him more than the question itself. “Because it’s written all over you,” you say simply. “I see it in your scars, in the way your hands are always clenched, as if steeling yourself against a blow that’ll never come.”

Logan exhales a low, humorless laugh before taking a long sip of whiskey, relishing the burn as it slides down his throat. “Don’t even notice it anymore,” he lies, shifting in his seat. 

Your mouth tugs into a gentle frown as you shift, crawling closer to where he sits. You pluck the glass from his fingers, swallowing down the rest of the whiskey before setting it on the coffee table. Logan watches as you swing your legs over his lap, your robe riding up to reveal the smooth expanse of your thighs. 

The weight of you against his lap sends a rush of arousal down his spine and he can feel his cock stir in his slacks. If you notice, you ignore it, instead reaching for a small bottle of lotion on the end table and squeezing a dollop into your palm. You rub your hands together twice before reaching for his right hand. 

Your thumbs dig into the meat of his palm, a low groan slipping from his throat before he can stop himself. You bite your lip, but Logan can see the sly smile beneath. 

“You help take care of everyone else,” you begin, rubbing the lotion further into his calloused palms. “Who helps care for you?”

Logan feels flayed open, that pull that spins him into your orbit only growing stronger as you see down to his very soul. Caliban swore you weren’t a mutant but Logan still couldn’t shake the idea that you were something more. 

“What are you?” he asks, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, watching you concentrate on his hand. 

You slide your fingers along the pink, puffy lines between his knuckles, a slow hiss escaping between his teeth as you massage the tender flesh. He wonders if you know how sensitive his skin is now, how each time his claws come out it hurts just a little bit more than the last time. 

“I’m human,” you reply, positioning his hand to focus on the back, tracing the fine scars there. “Same as you.”

“I ain’t human.”

Your eyes flick to his as you drop his right hand and reach for his left. “You’re human where it counts,” you say, beginning to massage his hand. 

Logan scoffs. “Yeah? And where’s that?”

You release his hand and place your palm in the center of his chest, your fingers splayed over his heart. “In here.”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where your fingers are resting against him. You touch him like you’re unafraid, undeterred by the metal in his bones and the sometimes primal rage that courses through his blood. His killed—for the sake of war, self preservation, and for reasons not so innocent—but you can somehow still see past that, to some soft part of him that still lingers. 

Logan itches to touch you, to pull you closer and—

“You can touch me,” you say, as if pulling the thought from his head. “I like when you touch me.”

Logan slides his palms up your thighs and around your hips, pulling you flush against his lap, your clothed center pressing against the fly of his slacks. He doesn’t miss the gasp that falls from your lips or the shift of your hips as you try and press closer. 

That thrum of aliveness begins to churn in his veins as he slowly unties the sash of your robe, allowing the fabric to fall to the side. You’re bare underneath and Logan can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to the center of your chest. 

“You dress like this jus’ for me?” he asks, dragging his lips towards your breast and pulling a nipple into his mouth, working into a taut peak beneath his tongue.

Your fingers wind themselves into his hair, holding him close. “Yes,” you breathe, a whimper falling from your lips as he moves to your other breast. “Only for you.”

A surge of possessiveness rushes through his veins and Logan can feel the prickle between his knuckles, his claws threatening to unsheathe at the thought of you with another man. Instead, he doubles his focus onto you, his beard scraping against your skin as he licks a hot stripe across your nipple. “Damn right, only for me,” he growls. 

You shift your hips in response, seeking more friction against the hard length of his cock pressing against you. Logan groans, his fingers digging deeper into the flesh of your hips, urging you to move against him. The soft, wet heat of your cunt through the thin fabric of your panties and his slacks sets his control on a razors edge. 

Logan leans back slightly to lock eyes with you, your pupils blown wide with want, your skin flushed with desire. You find his gaze, hazy with pleasure, but focused and then you smile at him, bottom lip pinned between your teeth. 

“And you, Logan,” you whisper, your hands sliding down the column of his neck, “you’re only for me.” 

That hook you’ve lodged in him sinks deeper and he’s too far gone to care. The mystery behind your presence in his life is one he’s willing to spend the rest of his days unraveling so long as you stay right here, continuing to bewitch him with the beauty of your soul. 

Your allure was more potent than any pheromone, more intoxicating than any aphrodisiac. In his waking moments, Logan found his thoughts drifting to you more often than not and the frequency between his visits grew shorter and shorter until he found himself lured into your embrace almost every night. 

He was good at lying to himself, writing off these visits as nothing more than comfort—the need to find warmth in a world that so seldom offered him that luxury. But that lie grew bitter, warped in the liminal space between midnight and dawn where you stripped him down to his very bones, saw through the gruff and grit he wrapped himself in. Saw him as something more than the sum of his sins. 

Logan couldn’t hide from you and he didn’t know if he wanted to. Those carefully crafted walls that surrounded him cracked and crumbled, turning to dust at his feet. In that mysterious way of yours, you always knew what he needed—a warm meal; your tender, healing touch as you helped him stitch the worst of his wounds; the soft, pliant feel of your skin on his as you kissed him deep, the kind of kiss that burned like wildfire and whiskey.

God help him as your gravity pulled him in closer, your orbits circling tighter and tighter, destined for an inevitable crash. 

“What am I to you?”

Those five words root him where he stands, flaying him down to his very marrow. Logan should have expected this question, should have known that eventually you’d ask. 

He wants to tell you the truth, speak those words that burn against his tongue, begging to be said.

He wants to tell you of his need to find you when the days are long and the nights are longer. When the weariness he feels in his bones aches more than usual and seems to bleed into his very soul. 

When he needs to feel something more than the hollowness that seems to grow inside his chest. The slow carving away of his humanity that’s been scraping closer and closer to emptiness for years. 

When he needs to be wrapped in warmth and set afire by something almost like love. Like home. 

But he says none of this as he gazes over at you sitting at the kitchen table, one knee pulled up to your chest. You look small sitting there, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

And instead, he remains silent, praying you’ll let the conversation slide. But he knows better. 

You glance up at him, your gaze piercing straight through the heart of him and then you devastate him with three simple words. 

“I love you.”

The air punches from his lungs and for a moment it feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Your words tear through him, cutting deeper than any knife, and his hands curl into fists as you slice him open. 

“Don’t,” Logan rasps, his voice rough, barely more than whisper. He avoids your eyes, knowing that if he looks and sees the sincerity in your gaze, it’ll be his undoing. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Your voice cracks with emotion as you push away from the table, your arms wrapping around yourself. “What about those words can’t you hear?”

His jaw clenches and for every step you take closer him, he takes a half step back, as if he’s trying to distance himself from the truth beginning to swirl between you. You can’t love him. Loving someone has brought him nothing but misery and pain, loss and suffering and he’ll be damned if he drags you down that road. 

So, instead he lies, the words bitter in his mouth. 

“This ain’t love, sweatheart,” he says, gesturing between the two of you, “This is fuckin’.”

You inhale sharply between your teeth and your expression twists into disbelief, the beginning of tears welling in your eyes. “Fucking?” you bite back, your voice trembling but still firm. “You think after all these months that this is just fucking?”

Logan doesn’t answer. And he doesn’t move. He simply stands there, jaw clenched so tightly he could shatter bones. He can’t say yes. If he does that, if he voices that lie into existence, he’ll have to spend the rest of his days remembering the look in your eyes right now—destroyed. 

Your breath starts to shudder as you continue to step closer towards him. And he can feel you, warm and comforting, even though you shake with barely contained anger. “Look me in the eye and tell me that’s all this is,” you demand, your voice thick with emotion. “Tell me that when you come to me in the middle of the night, broken down, bloody and bruised, it’s just fucking. Tell me that when I touch you, hold you, love you, that it means nothing.” 

He remain silent. 

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “God, for someone with heightened senses, you’re blind to what’s right in front of you.” Your trembling voice matches the shake to your hands, your fury pouring off you in waves. “You really are a coward, aren’t you?”

Logan nostrils flare at the insult and he can feel the prickle of his claws between his knuckles. He knows his rage isn’t with you, but himself. And yet he can still feel his lips curl into a snarl. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he growls. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you seethe, your voice now raw, pain bleeding through every syllable. “You can’t even look me in the eye when you lie.”

His jaw clenches impossibly harder and he swears he can taste bone. Then, he finally meets your gaze head on, eyes flashing. “You think this ends well between us? You think I get to have somethin’ like this? Like you?” Logan’s voice cracks in a way that he loathes. “I can’t—”

The crack of your palm against his face is deafening. He barely moves from the impact, but emotionally you’ve landed him on his ass. Your eyes are wide as you stare up at him, unblinking.

Logan stands there, immobile, as he processes the sting of your slap. It doesn’t hurt, not physically. It’s the fact that you did it, the fact that you’re standing in front of him, chest heaving from the effort of your breathing as if you just ripped yourself open for him.

“Get out of my house,” you seethe, your voice softer than before, deflated.

Your words shouldn’t sting as much as they do. They shouldn’t wreck him and make him feel like he’s been ripped apart limb from limb. He should relish them, the push, the shove. He should revel in the confirmation that you’re finally seeing him for what he truly is—something undeserving of all the warmth and love you’ve given him. A stray animal that never should have been fed.

Logan swallows, his throat tight as he gives you a small nod. And then he does the only thing he knows how to do. 

He turns. And he walks.

His legs feel like lead, each step a feat and his brain is screaming at him to turn around. To fight. To beg. To plead. To say something, anything. 

But he doesn’t.

Logan exits the house, the front door slamming shut behind him. As he steps off the front step, the porch light above him clicks off, plunging the house into darkness. Your guiding light is gone, lost in the storm of his destruction.

Of all the wounds he’s ever taken, of all the scars that mar his skin, nothing has ever bled quite like this.

Charles watches with sharp eyes as Logan enters the old water tank and shuts the door behind him. The older man is in his wheelchair, tending to his plants as Logan walks around the place, picking up random bits of trash and the tray from breakfast. 

A soft “tsk” falls from Charles’ lips and echos in the small space. “Will you ever learn, Logan?” Charles’ voice seems tired, weary. 

Logan pauses and looks over at him, irritation already prickling along his skin. “Stay outta my head,” he snaps, slamming the tray down on a nearby table. 

He doesn’t need this, doesn’t want Charles sifting through his mind, seeing those pieces of you he so deeply cherishes. Pieces he doesn’t deserve. Pieces he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have within his grasp again. 

“She loves you,” Charles continues, seeming to ignore his request. 

Logan strides over to where Charles is sitting, unable to keep the ire from boiling over. He wants to sweep all the plants to the floor, destroy the one creative outlet Charles has, retaliate for the way he presses into the fresh bruises on his mind. “I’m begging you, just—”

Charles lifts the spray bottle beside him and directs the spray in Logan’s face, showering him in a fine mist of water. Logan freezes, water dripping from his face as his lips tighten in a thin line. He grits his teeth, an ache already blooming in his jaw. 

“What the fuck was that for?” he growls. 

“Are you a cat?” Charles asks, lowering the bottle. “No? Then stop being such a pussy.”

Logan stares at Charles, the vulgarity of the of man’s words leaving him temporarily speechless. He scrubs a hand down his face, wiping the rest of the water off with the sleeve of his shirt, scowl deepening. 

“You’re pushin’ it,” Logan warns. 

Charles simply smirks, finally setting the bottle down on the table. “Someone should. God knows you won’t push yourself. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Logan sucks in a sharp breath and steps back from Charles, sitting down on the bed across from him. The old metal springs groan beneath his weight. He wants a bottle of whiskey, to quiet the thoughts in his head, at least temporarily, and fall into a drunken stupor. Anything but flaying open his feelings, especially his feelings about you. 

“What are you so afraid of?” Charles asks gently. “That she’ll see all your broken pieces?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charles raises his eyebrow. “No? Logan, she’s already seen them. She knows what you are and she’s still here.”

“That’s not the point!” Logan roars, his voice echoing off the metal walls. His breathing comes out in short gasps and he knows he needs to rein himself in. Not only for himself but for Charles. It doesn’t take much to trigger a seizure these days and he doesn’t need the stress of this conversation to become a catalyst. 

Charles remains quiet, expression calm and Logan hangs his head, his voice softening into something raw. “It’s not about what she knows. It’s about who, about what, I am. I don’t deserve her.”

Bracing his elbows on his legs, Charles leans forward, a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. “She knows all that, Logan. And she chooses you. Every night you come to her, she chooses you. How can you not see that?”

Logan doesn’t respond, but the weight of Charles’ words hang heavy against his shoulders. He looks down at his hands, seeing the callouses and crisscrossing scars. His body is a physical map of violence, each faded pink line a story of pain, regret and death. 

But you’ve never seen them that way. You’ve only ever looked at them with reverence, traced your fingertips along each one and wondered about their stories. Made him feel whole instead of broken and used. 

“You have a choice to make, Logan,” Charles says, interrupting the silence. “Let her in…or keep running. Don’t make her choose for you.” 

For days, Logan’s mind is plagued by replays of his last moments with you and his conversation with Charles. His already sleepless nights are further tormented by dreams of you, the devastated expression on your face haunting him.

The memory of your face, the crack in your usually steadfast voice, the tremor in your hand after you struck him. They all play in a nauseating loop in his brain, punishing him in a way he’s never felt before.

His life reverts to autopilot—drink, fight, drive, but nothing quells the gnawing ache in his chest. He couldn’t stay in the smelting plant with both Caliban and Charles staring at him, watching his every move as if he were a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Charles was running out of medications, a few days supply left at most, and Logan knew he was better off leaving Charles in Caliban’s care than his own.

Now, he sits on the edge of a dingy motel bed, the scent of cheap whiskey and cigar smoke clinging to his clothes. His eyes are dry and heavy with exhaustion and his skin is itching with that familiar want to be near you. It started as an annoying tug, but has now grown into a maddening want.

He knows he should ignore it. But he was never that strong.

Before he can talk himself out of it, convince himself that this is an astronomically stupid fucking idea, he’s on his feet, keys in hand and driving down those lonely roads towards you.

It’s late when he reaches your house, like it usually is, and he half expects the porch light to remain dark, a cold, bleak reminder of how badly he’s fucked up. Instead, he finds that single porch light illuminated, shining like a beacon of hope. Logan walks up onto the porch, but you don’t open the door like you’ve done so many times before. 

He contemplates leaving, turning around and getting back in the car and drinking himself into a semblance of sleep. But then he hears you, your heartbeat echoing beyond the wooden frame, as steady and as comforting as it’s always been. Logan pauses, wondering if he should try the knob and come inside—if you’ll even let him.

If you even should.

With a sigh, he lowers himself to the ground, his joints aching in protest as he rests his back against the door. “I’m not good at this,” he finally says, hoping you’re listening. “I’ve been alive for too long. Seen too much shit.” Logan pauses, his words burning in his throat. “I’ve lost too many people.”

He hears you shift behind him, your head thudding softly against the door as you listen. His relief is almost palpable knowing you’re there, that you’re at least willing to listen to him. Leaning back, Logan closes his eyes and exhales a heavy breath. “The only way I know how to keep people safe is to push ‘em away. And I need to keep you safe.”

The words feel foreign leaving his mouth, as if they’re uncovering a truth he’s long kept secret. He feels exposed in a way he’s not used to, raw and honest, and the truth of his words burns. Logan can still hear you on the other side of the door, your breathing slow and steady, yet laced with something—hesitation, maybe, or hurt. It makes his chest ache in a new and unfamiliar way. 

“I’m tired,” he continues, his voice softer. “I’m so fuckin’ tired, sweetheart. Tired of fightin’ when all I want—” Logan swallows hard. “All I want is you.”

The porch light hums above him, the night is alive with the chirping of crickets, but the silence that follows is almost deafening. 

Logan doesn’t deserve you, he knows that. You should turn him away, tell him to leave, to kick him back to the desert to lick his wounds alone. He doesn’t know how to be someone’s partner, their lover. He’s not sure if he ever has, really, too hung up on all the ways he paints himself as a bad man. Someone unworthy. 

Except with you, he finds himself wanting to fight. To prove he’s not as hard and unyielding as the metal bones inside him. That somewhere deep inside him there still lingers warmth and affection and the capacity to love. 

He’s bracing himself for the worst when he hears the faint sounds of the lock turning. The door creaks open and he shifts to look up at you. One of your well used blankets is wrapped around your shoulders, your hair tousled from sleep and your eyes are red and wet with unshed tears. Logan’s heart thuds heavily in his chest as you stand there and he turns to face you, pushing up onto his knees. Your expression is carefully masked, betraying little of your underlying emotions, and he carefully crawls forward, testing the waters of how close you’ll let him get.

His knees ache as he kneels on the hard concrete, but he’d crawl through glass if you asked him to. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to him as he nuzzles his face into the softness and warmth of your belly. Your comforting scent floods his senses as he waits for your anger, your rejection.

Instead, you sigh, a long pent up breath released in a steady exhale and your fingers sink into the disheveled hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close to you. “You’re an asshole,” you finally say, though your tone lacks any venom or spite.

Logan feels it then, the tension slowly easing from your body as you allow him to sink further into your frame. His heart lurches his chest, the faintest flicker of hope fluttering against his ribs.

“Yes,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“You hurt me.”

He pulls back as you gently push at his shoulders and sink down to the ground in front of him. But you don’t push him away any further and instead, lace your fingers through his. “I should tell you to fuck off,” you continue, your eyes focused on where you’re touching him. “But I can’t.”

His voice comes out in a whisper. “Why?”

Your eyes meet his and your gaze pierces straight through his soul. “You know why.”

And he does. In truth, he thinks he’s always known, long before you ever spoke those three little words out loud. Words so simple, yet so profound. Words he rarely speaks, while others casually toss them around. Words he has rarely felt, but with you feel as natural as breathing, as the sun rising in east.

Words he’s still afraid to say, despite everything, despite every cell in his body screaming at him.

You look at him like you know, because of course you do. You’ve always known him, in that uncanny way of yours since he first saw you standing in the rain. So instead of ire or disappointment at his lack of response, you simply squeeze his hand, grounding him to your reality. 

“You don’t have to say it,” you whisper, your voice soft and steady. “Not yet.”

Logan looks at you, his brows furrowed. He can’t fathom what he’s done in this life to deserve you, your patience, your unwavering belief in him. “You make it hard not to,” he finally rasps, his voice rough and uneven. “Love you, I mean.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air, raw and jagged, much like him. It’s close to what you want to hear, but not quite. And yet he sees something warm and bright blossom on your face. 

You lean in, raising your free hand to lightly trace the curve of his jaw, scratching at the scruff there. “You’re a man of action, Logan,” you say, pressing in closer, your breath mingling with his. “Wanna show me instead?”

This—this is a language he’s fluent in. 

Using his lips, tongue, hands and cock to write on your body all the words he cannot say. He’s mastered your shape, the way your hips curve beneath his palm, the softness of your belly and breasts, the heat between your thighs stoked hotter only by him. He knows exactly where to press, where to nip and suck and tease to elicit all those pretty little moans and gasps of pleasure. 

Logan’s already drawn one orgasm out of you, his fingers still thrusting against you as you ride out your high, your thighs shuddering against his forearm. You’re flushed and breathy as you reach for him, urging him up from between your thighs.  

You pull him close, fingers sinking into his hair as you lick into his mouth, not caring that your slick still stains his beard and lingers against his tongue. He swallows your gasp as he knocks your knees apart and slots himself between your legs, his cock heavy against your belly. 

He wants you. In all the ways he can think of and not just like this, naked and pliant beneath him. He wants your sleepily whispered hellos each morning and your softly murmured goodnights each evening. He wants the warm, weighty press of your body against his as you sit on the couch beside him sipping whiskey. 

He wants, he wants, he wants. 

As his kisses grow more fervent, you grow impatient and push at his chest, urging him back. “Lie back,” you command softly, your breath damp against his lips, “Let me take care of you.”

He wants to protest, deny you this request. This is supposed to be about you, about using his body to show you all the things his words can’t say. He’d spend the whole night between your thighs, using his mouth, tongue and fingers to worship if you’d let him. But there’s something in your gaze that forces him to comply and he gives in, rolling onto his back. 

You straddle his thighs, your slick cunt sliding along the length of his cock. Logan groans and his hands reach for your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh as he encourages you to move. “This is s’pose to be about you,” he husks as you slowly begin to rock your hips back and forth. 

“Oh, it is,” you answer, licking your lips as you brace your hands on his chest. “Who else can get you hard and needy beneath them?”

A low growl escapes from his throat. “No one.”

A wicked smile curls at your lips as you drag your heat along him, the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit with every slow, deliberate rock of your hips. The sensation has his control unraveling and he slides his hands along your thighs to palm the curve of your ass. 

You press into his touch, continuing to roll your hips as you lean forward to press an open mouthed kiss to the corner of his jaw. “You see,” you murmur, “this is for me.”

Reaching between your bodies, you grasp him in your hand and line him up. Slowly, almost tortuously slow, you sink down on his cock, taking him inch by inch until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. A sharp inhale escapes him as your warm, tight walls surround him and Logan knows this feels different. 

This isn’t merely fucking anymore, the melding of flesh for the pure sake of pleasure, of briefly escaping the nightmare of his life, of finding solace in sin. You’ve somehow managed to bleed yourself into him, to wrap yourself around his heart. 

You feel as if you’re a part of him, lodged deep between his ribs and that if he were to try to remove you, he’d kill himself in the process. A part of him knows this feeling has always been there, back when you first entered his limo. The feeling threatens to choke him, to fill his love soaked lungs until all he can breathe is you. 

He loves you. 

Pure and unfiltered and it terrifies him. 

“I—fuck, I,” he chokes out, the words caught in his throat. “I feel—”

Your hands run over his chest, up along his collarbones, your fingers blazing a trail over his skin. “I know, Logan,” you whisper, your hips rocking languidly against his. 

He grips your thighs, almost tight enough to bruise, helping guide your movements, but also prove to himself you’re real. Logan’s chest heaves as he watches you ride him, your hips rocking harder, faster, dragging moans out of both of you. You lean back just enough to change the angle, driving him deeper and he bucks his hips, meeting your thrusts with a force that has you crying out his name.

And yet it’s not enough. He needs to wrap himself around you, twine his fingers through your hair and hold your mouth to his until he’s completely consumed you. His hands slide up your back towards your waist and he pulls you down against him, mouth hot and insistent against your neck as he continues to fuck up into you. 

In one fluid motion, Logan grips your thighs and flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, cock still sheathed deep within your cunt. You arch beneath him as he sets a brutal, devastating pace, the raw intensity of his movements stealing short, gasps breaths from your lips with each thrust. A shiver ripples through you as he draws a nipple into his mouth, his name tumbling from you like a prayer.

“Fuck, there it is,” he growls. “I love all those little sounds you make.”

His choice of word isn’t lost on either of you and your eyes meet his as your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving faint red crescents as you cling to him. “Logan,” you gasp, your voice trembling as he hits that soft spot deep inside you. “More.”

“You want more?” he rasps, gripping your thighs and pulling them higher around his waist. The new angle has you crying out, the sound echoing in the room as he continues to slam into you with a force that has the bed creaking beneath you.

“Ah, fuck, yes,” you moan, your head tipping back. 

Logan takes advantage of your offering, his lips and teeth marking a path down your neck, his beard scraping against your skin in a way that’s sure to leave a burn come the morning. There’s a possessiveness to his touch, a need to claim you, to prove to you that this is all he needs—your embrace, your warmth, your love.

“You’re so fuckin’ good to me,” he growls against your skin, his hand sliding down between your bodies and finding where you’re joined. He can feel himself pounding into you, your combined arousal coating his fingers as he finds your clit and begins to rub in tight circles. “So goddamn perfect. You were made for me, sweetheart, you know that?”

Your cunt flutters around him and he knows you’re close, your thrusts against him growing erratic. He feels his own impending release, but he needs you to come first, needs to feel you shatter against him. His fingers press more firmly against your clit and with a breathy moan, your body tenses, back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashes into you.

“That’s it,” Logan groans, his own thrusts faltering as he feels you tighten around him, pulling him in deeper. “Look at you, comin’ so pretty for me.” He slows just enough to prolong your release, his thrusts deliberate as he draws out every ounces of pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him. 

It’s overwhelming—the sensation of you beneath him, around him; the cling of your fingers to his shoulders; the warm, damp breath against his neck; the absolute perfection of this moment right now. In all his years on this earth, he’s never experienced anything like this. The desire to completely consume someone, body and soul, and be consumed return. He wants his dying breath to be your name.

Something inside of Logan snaps, and as you try and catch your breath as you come down from your high, he presses your legs higher, folding you beneath him in a way that has his cock pressing deeper than before. The change has you whimpering and he looks down to find your expression as wrecked as he feels. He pauses his thrusts just long enough to grasp both your wrists and pin them above your head before he picks up his pace again, fucking into you with an almost ruthless intensity.

“I love you,” he growls, his thrusts growing erratic, his control quickly unraveling with every whimper and cry of his name. “God, I fucking love you.”

For a few moments, he doesn’t even realized what he’s said. Then he looks down at you, your gaze trained on his face and that soft, knowing smile of yours on your lips. “Logan,” you gasp, “I know. I’ve always known.”

Logan lets out a rough, shuddering breath, his entire body trembling with the weight of his confession. Any response he has dies in his throat as he presses his forehead to yours, his entire body wound tight. He’s so fucking close, can feel his orgasm coiling hot and tight in his gut, but it’s more than your warm heat drawing him in—it’s everything. 

“Tell me,” he grits out, his hips chasing, chasing, chasing that release.

You lean up as much as you can with your hands still pinned above you and lick an open mouthed kiss against his lips. “I love you, Logan.”

And that’s all it takes. He groans into your mouth as he finally lets go, his body tensing as his release crashes into him. He spills himself deep inside you, shallowly thrusting into your cunt as his rhythm slows.

Logan releases your hands, and for a long moment, there’s only the sound of heavy breathing, of heartbeats slowing, the two of you tangled in the aftermath.

Logan’s restless and unable to sleep despite your smaller frame tucked alongside him, the weight of your head resting against his chest. From his periphery, he can see his phone illuminating with unread texts, no doubt from Caliban urging his return. Charles has been deteriorating faster than Logan cares to admit, his mind gone more often than not, raving about new mutants. He needs drugs faster than Logan can procure them.

His mind churns, the reality of the outside world looming closer and he contemplates slipping from your grasp when you shift, curling yourself further into him. You don’t speak, not yet, but he can tell you’re alert, floating somewhere in that space between sleep and full wakefulness. Your fingers start to move of their own accord, the gentle pressure of your fingertips tracing over an old scar along his ribs, mapping out an old battle he no longer remembers. 

Beside him, his phone buzzes again and Logan sighs.

“Sounds important,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep.

He wants to keep ignoring it, stay wrapped in the quiet cocoon you’ve thrown around him, but Logan knows he can’t. It’s a cruel reminder of the chaos that plagues him beyond the sanctuary of your embrace. 

“You can go to him, Logan,” you continue, fingers never stopping their slow path along his skin. “I know you’ll be back.”

“How,” he starts, licking his dry lips, “how do you always know?”

Logan’s asked versions of this question before. You’ve always brushed him off, given a coy answer and steered the conversation towards something else. For a moment, he thinks tonight will be the same.

But then you answer.

“I can feel you,” you answer softly, your breath warm and damp against his skin. “I just—” You pause and turn to look up at him and then disentangle yourself from his embrace. “Stand up,” you urge, nudging at his side until he complies.

He blinks at you in confusion, but you just smile at him, soft and sleepy, and gently cup the side of his face. “Now, close your eyes.”

Logan does as he’s told, chasing after your touch as you step back from him, settling somewhere beyond him on the bed. “I’m going to move and you tell me where I am.”

The soft rustle of bedsheets follows and then, stillness. You’re quiet, but he can sense you, just off to his right, but too far away to touch. “My right, but farther back in the room.”

You move again, keeping your movements light. Again, he pinpoints you, this time towards his left, closer, but still too far away to grasp. “Left.”

A final movement, this time even closer, your proximity flooding his senses, sending a rush of warmth down his spine. Logan reaches out, finding the curve of your hips, hands tucking underneath the shirt you had slipped on earlier in the night, splaying his palms against your back. He opens his eyes and meets your gaze, alive in the predawn glow.

“How did you know?” you ask, looping your arms around his neck.

Understanding dawns on him, the answer so simple, yet so profound. Pinpointing where you were had nothing to do with his heightened senses and everything to do with just you—the way you’ve molded yourself to him like a second skin. “I could feel you,” he answers. “I could—I just knew.”

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. Logan sighs into your mouth, his eyes fluttering close as you press your forehead to his. “It’s like that,” you whisper. “This undeniable pull, an invisible string that connects me to you and it tug, tug, tugs, until…there you are.”

His phone continues to buzz, growing more insistent as the soft blues and grays of the morning bleed into more golden hues. With a reluctance you both feel, Logan peels himself away, finally answering the phone with an irritation he doesn’t bother hiding. 

You watch him go, standing on the porch with the light casting a halo around your head. Your smile is gentle, but stained with worry and yet you remain stoic, the steady pillar holding up the fractured remains of his life.

As he drives away, he catches one last look at you in the rearview mirror and he’ll spend the next few months wishing he told you—he feels you too. 

The last one hundred miles have dragged on for eons, the road before him stretching into an almost infinite distance. Logan finds himself darting his eyes towards the dashboard clock, growing increasingly frustrated when the numbers move only a few minutes at a time, the slow passage of time seeming to taunt him. 

It’s been months since he saw you last, though no fault of his own. His memories are hazy—a swirling fog of confusion, pain and burning fever. He’s not even sure how he survived, whether it was modern medicine or sheer stubbornness. Or something more. 

You believe in fate?

Your words echo in his mind, soft and sweet, and he feels a familiar pang of longing in his chest. 

Fate or not, something kept a spark alive in him, pulsing through his veins with each sluggish beat as he slowly and painfully healed. His wounds are still pink and tender to the touch, more of his skin marred by death and destruction. 

As he turns into your subdivision, the night quiet, a cold, creeping anxiety snakes along his spine. What if you’ve given up on him? Figured this last absence was the real deal, all his idle promises of staying away finally coming to fruition. 

But as Logan drives down your street, he sees it—the single porch light illuminating in the night. Acting like the beacon it’s always been, leading him safely to land. 

To you. 

Logan pulls into the driveway and shifts the truck into park. Turning in his seat, he glances back towards the young girl curled up on the backseat. Laura’s face is relaxed in sleep, her hands tucked protectively under her chin. She fell asleep several hours ago, the soft rhythm of the tires against pavement lulling her to sleep. 

Logan’s been many things in his life. Son, brother, fighter, friend. Lover. He never thought he’d add father to that list. While he can’t quite find it in him to call himself that just yet—even though Laura readily and easily calls him dad—he no longer denies the protectiveness he feels towards her.

Easing the door to the truck open, Logan steps out and gently shuts it behind him, loathe to disturb her just yet. 

Here he is showing up at your door like he always has—late, quiet, and carrying a heavy weight he feels only he can shoulder. His hand is poised to knock, knuckles clenched, but he pauses, unsure if he even has the right to be here. 

But then there you are, the front door opening to reveal your tired but relieved face, months of worry etched into your skin, your eyes already brimming with unshed tears. 

“Logan,” you breathe, pulling him gently by the wrist and leading him inside. You don’t ask why he’s there. He suspects you already know. 

The air inside the house is just as he remembers. Warm and inviting and laced with the faint, comforting smell of you. Logan inhales deeply, letting the scent settle somewhere in the parts of him that still feel alive, that thrum with the memory of your touch. 

Your fingers still linger against his wrist and he can feel the heat radiating from your body, but you’re not close enough. And yet, he’s afraid to reach out, pull you into his arms. Afraid of the pity or obligation you’ll feel to comfort him, to allay all his fears.

As if reading his thoughts, you gently cup the side of his face, your nails scratching along his jaw. Logan flinches slightly, his body so used to pain these past months he’s almost forgotten the tenderness of your touch. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he closes his eyes, a ragged breath falling from his lips and his head dips forward. 

“C’mere,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his waist. 

For a moment, he doesn’t move, but then he slides his arms along your back, pulling you against him. You feel real and solid and alive pressed this close. Never one for overt physical touch, Logan’s surprised by how much he missed this—the simple act of just holding you. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he inhales deeply, his breath warm and damp against your skin. 

He doesn’t say anything, unsure where to even begin. The weight of his grief, his weariness, feels heavier than any burden he’s ever shouldered before and it’s almost desperate the way he clings to you. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. If you were to let go, he’d fall apart. 

Logan doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the hot trail of tears against his cheeks. You run your fingers through his hair, murmuring soft reassurances as you hold him. 

“I couldn’t feel you, Logan,” you whisper into his neck. “Several days of just…nothing. I thought that—”

The words lodge themselves in your throat, but he knows what they are just the same. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, your eyes glistening with tears that match the ones rolling down his weathered face. Your expression is marred with pain, raw and unfiltered, but also with a bright flicker of relief. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice rough with emotion. “I got dragged into some bad fuckin’ shit. I almost…we—”

You quiet him with a soft brush of your fingers against his lips. “It’s okay, Logan,” you whisper. “Tell me about it later. I’m just happy you’re home.”

Home. 

Logan gaze softens at your words, but guilt gnaws at him. He doesn’t deserve this—your unwavering faith in him, the patience you’ve shown him, the light you’ve been in his dark, endless nights. But here you are, giving him everything he’s never asked for but so desperately craved. 

“C’mon,” you murmur, dragging him from his thoughts, “Let’s get you settled.”

It’s well past two in the morning by the time Logan finally carries Laura into the house, tucking her comfortably into the guest bedroom. Turning from the bed, he finds you there, leaning against the doorframe. You reach for him, in that soft, gentle way you always do, and lead him into your bedroom. 

He doesn’t protest when you sit him down at the edge of the bed and begin undressing him. Kneeling before him, you unlace his boots and peel off his socks, setting them aside. With a slight press to his knees, you force his legs wider, slotting yourself between them. 

Despite the late hour, the weariness and fatigue tugging at his bones, Logan feels his cock twitch as your fingers brush underneath the hem of his shirt. 

It’s been so long since he’s felt you. 

He dreamt of you, in those fevered moments where he didn’t know where one part of his body began or ended. When his entire existence had been boiled down to raw nerves and sluggishly knitting flesh. Through the haze of pain, he wondered if he’d ever feel your kiss again, feel the frantic press of your fingers into his shoulders, feel the warm, wet heat of your cunt stretching around him. 

You toss the shirt aside and he can feel your gaze lingering over the new scars, the pink, raised lines of flesh that are still healing. With a reverence he’s not worthy of, you trace your fingertips along the three jagged scars from where X-24 had ripped into him. 

“What happened to you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper as you move to trace more of his scars. 

Logan tells you then about Pierce and the Reavers, about Laura and the other mutant children. His throat grows tight as he continues, relaying the loss of Caliban, Charles and the Munsons, and the final confrontation between himself and his clone. 

He tells you how Laura saved him. How her and the other children brought him to safety over the Canadian border. How he spent the next months fighting with every fiber of his being to knit himself whole. 

For you. 

You lean into him as he looks away, jaw tightening as he tries to shove down the memories of everything he’s lost. Your touch is light against his face as you trace the angle of his jaw, and reach up to press the lightest of kisses against his lips. 

Logan exhales into your mouth as you kiss him again, soft and tender and warm. You seem to breathe him in, imbue life into his weary flesh and reignite the spark he’s kept alive for you. 

He wants to do more—to pull you into his arms, to taste you, to fuck into you until he can’t breathe. But exhaustion pulls heavily on his bones, threatening to sink him. 

Logan knows you can feel his hesitancy because you keep kissing him softly, punctuating each press of your lips with whispered reassurance. Your fingers card through his hair as you lean back. “Just let me hold you?” 

Your voice cracks at your request and Logan can only nod, unable to deny you. You help him shuffle out of his pants before coaxing him further into the bed. He moves slowly and he knows you don’t miss the creaking of his joints, the soft groan of discomfort. 

Coming to rest on his side, you tuck into him, throwing a leg over his hips and pulling him close. He sighs into your touch, the weight of the last few months pressing just a little bit less as you press a kiss to the hollow of his throat. 

“Don’t leave me,” you whisper into his skin, soft and damp. 

Logan feels his heart clench at your words. He’s hurt you. He knows that. Not just inadvertently with his most recent disappearance, but all the other times, too. Those times when he ran, afraid of what your words and touch meant. Afraid to accept what you’ve always so freely given. 

His hand slips under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your back. “You kept the light on,” he husks, unable to keep the break out of his voice.”

Your lips quirk into a soft smile. “I always will, Logan.”

[jisungiesvzz]

Hii I absolutely loves ur fanfic!! Would u mind doing a jeongin version on unexpected?

I'm sorry this took so long to write! I’ve been having heavy workloads from school and I've also had writers block ugh. Anyways, I hope you enjoy :).

Crossing Lines

Idol!Jeongin x fem!reader

Warnings: kissing lessons, making out, neck kissing

Word Count: 2.7k

Author's Note: please let me know if I missed warnings, otherwise enjoy :)

Versions: Hyunjin // Han // Jeongin

—

The afternoon sun streams through Jeongin's apartment windows, casting golden hues across the living room. You sit cross-legged on the floor, a small velvet pouch between your fingers as you rummage through its contents.

"I still can't believe I forgot my jewelry," you sigh, carefully examining a silver chain with a small fox pendant. "You sure you don't mind me borrowing yours?"

Jeongin smiles from his position on the couch, phone in hand as he scrolls through his social media feed, hoping to run across a good hang out spot near you. "What's mine is yours, y/n. Three years of friendship earns you jewelry-borrowing privileges."

Giving him a soft smile, you hold up one of his earrings to the light, a simple silver hoop that catches the sunbeam and sparkles.

"It's scary how well you know me," you laugh, sorting through more pieces. "Like, you knew I'd forget something tonight."

"That's why I always keep extra stuff around for you," he replies, setting his phone down. "I am fully prepared for Hurricane Y/N."

You playfully throw a small cushion at him, which he catches effortlessly. You can't imagine your life without these little moments—the casual hang outs in his apartment, the inside jokes, the way he always seems to understand exactly what you need.

"Hey, remember that truth or dare game at Chan's party last week?" Jeongin suddenly asks, a tint of curiosity in his voice.

You groan, instantly knowing where this was heading. "Please, not this again."

"I'm just saying," he continues, sitting up straighter, "I was surprised when you said you've never been kissed. I mean, you're twenty-two!"

You feel your cheeks warm, lowering your voice to a near mumble. "So? Some people are late bloomers..."

"It's not a bad thing," Jeongin says quickly. "I just... I don't know, I just assumed you had."

You shrug, suddenly finding the jewelry in your hands incredibly fascinating. "I guess I've just never found the right person... or the right moment."

A weighted silence settles between you, unusual in its intensity. You can feel Jeongin's eyes on you, but you can't bring yourself to meet his gaze.

"I could teach you."

The words hang in the air, simple yet earth-shattering. Your head snaps up, certain you've misheard.

"Teach me what?"

Jeongin's expression is unreadable, a mix of nervousness and something else you can't quite place. "How to kiss. If you want."

You feel like the air has been sucked from the room. This is Jeongin—your best friend, the person who holds your hair back when you're sick and who can make you laugh until your sides hurt.

"That would be weird, wouldn't it?" you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, attempting nonchalance though you can see the tips of his ears turning pink. "Only if we make it weird. It's just a skill, like teaching someone to drive or cook."

"A skill," you repeat skeptically.

"Yeah," he says, sliding down from the couch to sit across from you on the floor. "And then when you meet someone you actually want to kiss, you'll be ready."

You bite your lip, considering the possibility. The idea sends butterflies swarming through your stomach, but there's also a strange sense of... curiosity.

"Nothing would change between us?" you ask cautiously.

Jeongin shakes his head firmly. "Nothing. We're best friends first, always. This would just be me helping you out."

You take a deep breath. "Okay."

"Okay?" His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Yes. Teach me." You confirm, your heart pounding through your chest.

Jeongin moves closer, his movements careful and deliberate. "So first, it helps if you face each other," he explains, his voice lower than usual.

You readjust your position, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between you and him. The jewelry laying forgotten on the floor beside you.

"Usually there's eye contact," he continues, and you force yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes—those familiar eyes you've looked into a thousand times—now seem different, deeper somehow.

You tried convincing yourself that it’s just kissing lessons but something about kissing him feels more intimate than it should.

"Then what?" you whisper.

"Then, one person usually leans in. Sometimes both." His hand comes up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face, and you feel your breath catch. "Sometimes there's touching. Like this."

His fingers trace a feather-light path along your jawline, coming to rest at the nape of your neck. The sensation sends shivers down your spine.

"And then?" Your voice is barely audible now.

Instead of answering, Jeongin leans forward, closing the distance between you. His lips press against yours, gentle and questioning. Your eyes flutter closed instinctively, your hand tentatively reaching up to rest on his shoulder.

The kiss is soft, a brief moment of connection that ends almost as quickly as it began. Jeongin pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours.

"That's the basics," he says, his voice rough around the edges. "A simple first kiss."

You nod, unable to form words. Your lips tingle where his had been, and you find yourself wanting more—a realization that both thrills and terrifies you.

He's your best friend. Right…?

As if reading your thoughts, Jeongin speaks again. "Then there are... deeper kisses."

"S-show me..." you whisper, surprising yourself with your boldness.

This time when he leans in, there's an urgency that wasn't there before. His lips capture yours more confidently, one hand cradling your face while the other slides around your waist, drawing you closer. You respond instinctively, your fingers tangling in his hair, gently tugging at the strands.

What started as a lesson quickly transformed into something neither of you anticipated. The kiss deepened and you feel yourself being gently guided backward until you're lying on the floor, Jeongin hovering above you, your lips never parting.

When you finally break apart, both breathing heavily, you stare up at him in wonder. His hair is disheveled where your fingers have been, his eyes dark and intense.

"Innie…" you breathe, not knowing what else to say.

Without a word, he dives right back in, capturing your lips with a newfound hunger. There's no hesitation now, his movements filled with a hunger you’ve never seen before — his body pressing down against yours making you gasp into his mouth. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, any thoughts of keeping distance between you long forgotten.

"There's more I can teach you," he murmurs against your lips, his voice husky with want. Before you can respond, his mouth begins to trail along your jawline, leaving a path of fire in its wake.

"Different types of kisses," he explains between soft pecks along your skin, "are for different sensations."

Your breath hitches as his lips reach the sensitive spot just below your ear. Instinctively, your head tilts to give him better access, your fingers tightening in his hair.

"Like here," he whispers, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. Then his lips press against your neck, gentle at first, then with increasing pressure. The sensation is entirely new to you, electric pulses shooting through your body with each kiss.

"Innie," you gasp, overwhelmed by the feeling.

His hand slides up to cradle the other side of your neck, a small smile forming on his lips at the nick name as his thumb gently strokes your cheek, his kisses become more intense. You feel the gentle graze of his teeth, followed by the soothing warmth of his tongue against your pulse point, a soft moan falling from your lips as he repeated the action.

"Some people," he murmurs against your skin, "are more sensitive here than on their lips." As if to demonstrate, he places an open-mouthed kiss at the space where your neck meets your shoulder, causing you to arch involuntarily against him.

You're lost in sensation, any remaining thoughts about this being just a lesson completely gone. Your hands roam across his back, pulling him closer as he continues his thorough exploration of your neck.

When he finally returns to your lips, the kiss is different—deeper, more confident, as though he's staking a claim. You respond with equal fervor, the taste of him now familiar yet intoxicating.

As Jeongin pulls back slightly to look into your eyes, a small smile plays at his lips. "So," he says softly, "how was your first lesson?"

"I- I don't know what to say," you softly gasped, still recovering your breath.

Placing a soft peck on your lips, he sits up off the ground, gently taking your hand in his. "Come on. Let's go finish our original plans for the day."

Heart beating through your chest, you let him guide you off the ground and through the front door — the heated moment hanging in the air. A small part of you wishing it hadn't ended.

—

The next evening, you were in Stray Kids' dorm, squeezed comfortably between Jeongin and Hyunjin on the large sectional sofa. Chan had insisted on a movie night—something about needing to unwind after their intense practice schedule—and naturally, as Jeongin's best friend, you were included in the invitation.

What the others don't know is how everything changed between you and Jeongin just twenty-four hours ago.

The memory of his lips on yours, on your neck, makes your cheeks flush even now. You've spent most of today exchanging knowing glances, the anticipation of seeing him again had your stomach in knots all day.

"Everyone good with the movie choice?" Chan asks, remote in hand as he navigates through Netflix.

You barely register what film he selected—some action thriller the group has been wanting to watch. All you can focus on is Jeongin's proximity; the subtle scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from his body next to yours.

"Y/N, want some?" Felix offers you the bowl of popcorn from across the coffee table.

"Thanks," you murmur, reaching for it. As you settle back with the bowl, Jeongin shifts closer, his thigh now pressed firmly against yours.

The lights dim as Chan starts the movie. Under the cover of darkness, Jeongin's hand finds yours, his fingers intertwining with yours between your bodies where no one else can see. Such a simple touch shouldn't send your heart racing, but after last night, everything is different.

Twenty minutes into the film, you're not following the plot at all. How could you, when Jeongin's thumb is tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand? When his breath occasionally tickles your ear as he leans over to whisper some joke about the movie?

By the thirty-minute mark, his hand had moved to your knee, resting there casually as though it belongs. The weight of it burns through the fabric of your jeans.

Halfway through the movie, during a particularly intense action sequence that has everyone's attention fixed on the screen, Jeongin's hand begins to move. Slowly, torturously, his fingers trace upward along your thigh, just far enough to make your breath hitch, gently squeezing the flesh.

You shoot him a warning glance, but the innocent smile he gives you in return is betrayed by the mischievous glint in his eyes. He knows exactly what he's doing.

His hand retreats momentarily when Changbin gets up to refill drinks, but as soon as everyone is settled again, it returns—this time sliding to your inner thigh, his touch feather-light but unmistakably close to where you could feel yourself growing needy. Your body responds immediately, heat pooling low in your abdomen, his hand now venturing into territory that makes your pulse quicken and your thoughts get jumbled up.

When his fingers inch higher, gently squeezing your thigh, you nearly jump. It's too much—the darkened room, his members just feet away, completely oblivious, and Jeongin's touch threatening to unravel you entirely.

"Bathroom," you whisper, standing abruptly. Jisung pauses the movie, looking up at you questioningly.

"Just need a quick bathroom break," you explain, forcing a casual smile. "Don't wait up, I've seen this part."

You slip away from the living room, heart hammering against your ribs as you make your way down the hallway. The cool bathroom tiles are a relief under your feet as you close the door behind you, leaning against it and exhaling slowly.

"Get it together," you mutter to yourself, turning to face the mirror — your reflection showing flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

Splashing cold water on your face, you hear a soft knock at the door.

"Y/N?" Jeongin's voice is low, just audible enough for you to hear. "You okay?"

Taking a deep breath, you open the door just enough to see him standing there, concern etched across his features—though the darkness of his eyes tells another story.

"I'm fine," you whisper. "We should get back before they—"

Before you can finish, Jeongin has slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The bathroom suddenly feeling much smaller with him in it, the air between you charged with tension.

"What are you doing?" you ask, voice sounding small.

"I couldn't help myself," he admits, closing the distance between you. "Sitting next to you, not being able to really touch you... it's driving me crazy."

"Your members are right outside," you remind him, even as your body betrays you by leaning toward his.

"They're absorbed in the movie," he counters, his hands finding your waist. "Besides, I told them you weren't feeling well and I was checking on you."

"And they believed that?"

A small smile plays at his lips. "Felix gave me a knowing look, but the others are clueless."

Your protest dies in your throat as Jeongin presses you gently against the wall, his body flush against yours. Any restraints from before evaporated into thin air as his lips capture yours in a kiss that's hungry and desperate.

Your hands immediately find their way into his hair, pulling him closer as his tongue meets yours. This isn't the careful instructional kiss from yesterday—this is raw need, months of pent-up desire finally breaking free.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmurs against your lips, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt to touch and squeeze the bare skin at your waist. "About you."

Your response is lost as his mouth moves to your neck, finding the sensitive spots he discovered yesterday. The sensation pulls a soft moan from you, which Jeongin quickly silences with another kiss.

"Quiet," he whispers, a teasing glint in his eye. "Unless you want everyone to hear."

The thought of being caught should terrify you, but instead, it only heightens everything—the racing of your pulse, the heat of his touch, the urgency of your kisses.

His hand slides back to your thigh, higher than he dared in the living room, his fingers tracing patterns that make your breath catch. When he presses his hips against yours, you can feel exactly how much he wants you.

"Innie," you gasp as his lips find a particularly sensitive spot below your ear.

“Fuck, y/n.” he grumbles against your neck, softly nipping and licking at the skin there, eliciting more moans from you.

“Innie, ngh, you’re gonna l-leave marks,” you whined, your defiance falling short as you arched into him.

“We should stop,” he mumbles between open mouthed kisses.

You both knew you should, but neither of you make an effort to move.

A sudden knock on the door makes you both freeze.

"Y/N? Jeongin?" It's Chan's voice. "Everything okay in there? Movie's almost over."

Removing himself from your neck, Jeongin clears his throat. "We're fine, hyung. Y/N just felt a little dizzy. We'll be out in a minute."

"Okay," Chan replies, though you can hear the question in his tone. "We're thinking of ordering food after."

Footsteps retreat down the hallway, and you both release the breath you've been holding.

Jeongin's forehead drops to yours, a small laugh escaping him. "That was close."

"Yeah," you let out breathy laugh. "We should get back."

He nods, stepping back reluctantly, but not before pressing one more lingering kiss to your lips. "This isn't over yet," he promises, his voice low with intention.

As you straighten your clothes and Jeongin attempts to fix his hair, you catch his eye in the mirror. The boy who was just your best friend yesterday now looks at you with an intensity that makes your knees weak.

"Ready?" he asks, hand on the doorknob.

You nod, knowing that while you're about to return to a room full of his members and pretend nothing has changed, everything has. The line you crossed yesterday isn't just crossed—it's been erased entirely, replaced by something new and thrilling and completely uncharted.

As Jeongin opens the door, his hand finds yours for just a moment, giving it a squeeze before letting go. It's a promise of what's to come, once you're alone again.

And suddenly, you can't wait for this movie night to end.

[saturnbellfromhell]

RANDOM ASTRO OBSERVATIONS

Welcome back! I hope you relished my roasting series as much as I did. I can’t wait to create another one and laugh all over again. But for now, we’re returning to the heart of my account—my favorite kind of post. I love observing the people around me and capturing the psychological traits they all seem to share. I'm excited to see all of your feedback and hope you enjoy reading this post as much as I loved creating it! So let's begin, shall we...

▫️CAPRICORN SUN

I believe the perfect match for a Capricorn is an incredible Scorpio. Both signs carry a certain darkness and mystery, each in their own unique way. They share a sharp edge, a love for a little cynicism, and a reputation for being pessimistic—when in reality, they’re just deeply realistic. They both understand the isolating feeling of being surrounded by people yet still feeling alone. They’re keenly aware of how time can crawl and race all at once. More than anything, they need a partner who will stand by them unwaveringly—someone who would go to the ends of the earth for them.

They have a deep love for all animals, but while they may get along well with dogs, I believe Capricorns are naturally more drawn to cats. They appreciate the quiet companionship of a solitary, independent creature rather than one that is constantly energetic and demanding. A cat’s reserved yet loyal nature aligns perfectly with a Capricorn’s own sense of self.

Capricorns may sometimes be seen as boring—after all, they prioritize stability and practicality—but beneath that exterior lies a wise, spiritual, and introspective soul. They crave meaningful connections, thoughtful conversations, and depth that go beyond surface-level interactions. Shallow exchanges bore them; they seek substance, authenticity, and a bond that truly resonates.

▫️AQUARIUS SUN

Another Saturn-ruled sign, but this time with a more high-spirited and free-spirited nature than our dear Capricorn. What I find so amusing is that every Aquarius I know seems almost indifferent to their own birthday—not in a sad or melancholic way, but with a casual, “Oh, thanks, I guess” kind of attitude. It’s as if they view celebrations of themselves as unnecessary, yet they’ll happily go all out for others.

Aquarius and Capricorn have an undeniable pull toward each other. Capricorns admire Aquarius’s visionary mind, while Aquarius respects Capricorn’s quiet strength and determination. Though they approach life differently, they both share a deep sense of independence and an appreciation for intellect, making their bond very close.

▫️MOON IN 12th HOUSE

There’s so much to unpack in this observation. Highly psychic, intuitive, and almost otherworldly, they navigate the unseen realm as if it were their personal gateway to deeper self-awareness. They don’t just sense energy—they absorb it, making them incredibly empathetic yet easily drained by those who feel too "normal" or disconnected from the deeper layers of existence. Their intuition is sharp; they can read a room and spot a bad vibe from miles away. It’s less of a skill and more of a knowing.

Life for them rarely feels steady—there’s always another transformation, another shift, making a "normal" week or year feel almost impossible.

With the Moon in the 12th house, isolation isn’t just a preference—it becomes a necessary refuge, a way to process the overwhelming energies they absorb. It’s not just about wanting to be alone; it’s about needing to retreat to protect their own spirit. However, their biggest lesson is learning when to disconnect—stepping away before they become completely drained. If they fall into the trap of constant people-pleasing, they risk deeper isolation and, eventually, emotional exhaustion. To truly thrive, they must prioritize their own energy just as much as they do for others.

They are the empaths of society, the caregivers, the spiritual teachers, the mothers, the fathers, and much more. They are all of the above wrapped up. They have lived and outlived many lives before choosing this one. Always on a journey to complete an invisible mission.

▫️CANCER MOON

Often looked down upon for their love of solitude, these individuals are actually some of the most comforting souls to exist. They don’t ask for much—just a cozy room, dim lighting, and a lover by their side. You can already picture the kind of person they are: someone who finds joy in life’s simplest pleasures. They appreciate good food, tend to be naturally sleepy, and have a soft spot for people who are often misunderstood by others.

They’re always eager to help when needed, but when overstimulated, their mood shifts quickly—becoming grumpy, distant, or even off-putting. And when deeply hurt, they may resort to manipulation or cunning behavior. Angels become devils quickly if not attended to correctly.

▫️NEPTUNE IN THE 11th HOUSE

Neptune, the planet that embodies Piscean energy, isn’t concerned with reality. Instead, it drifts into dreams and the abyss. In your birth chart, Neptune reveals the areas where clarity can become clouded over time, where rose-colored glasses are often worn, distorting one’s perception. When Neptune resides in the 11th house, the realm of groups and friendships, it can make it difficult to see situations clearly, especially when it comes to choosing friends.

Those with this placement often find themselves losing friends, trusting too easily, or losing their sense of self in their relationships. They tend to see the best in others, which can lead to heartbreak when they realize too late that their trust was misplaced. What’s right in front of them can go unnoticed, and by the time the truth reveals itself, it’s often already too late. Keep a steady eye when having this placemnet. Sometimes, your biggest enemy is sitting right next to you.

▫️LIBRA SUN

Libras can be seen as the “popular girl” who effortlessly draws attention without needing to try too hard, unlike a Leo who thrives on being the center of the spotlight. They naturally shine, but they don’t need to vocalize or flaunt it—there's a quiet confidence to them. Their need to always appear at their best can sometimes come off as superficial or a bit fake, creating a sense of distance. However, what many overlook about Libra is the deeper, darker energy they carry beneath the surface—something that often remains hidden.

What you see with a Libra is typically what you get—99% of the time. They rarely let anyone see the depths of who they truly are. While their gorgeous exterior and enthusiastic demeanor attract many, most people don’t stick around long enough to see past the façade. Though they draw the interest of signs like Scorpio, Cancer, and Capricorn, these connections often fall short of the emotional depth and loyalty they seek.

Capricorns, for instance, are always a bit wary and never fully trust a Libra. There’s something about them that just doesn’t sit right, though they can’t quite pinpoint it. Cancers, on the other hand, may feel neglected and unappreciated, often leaving when they sense their efforts to care for Libra aren’t reciprocated. Scorpios, despite their initial attraction, get frustrated with Libra’s seemingly indifferent attitude—an attitude that, deep down, they know is a mask for vulnerability and insecurity. Though all three signs can sense the hidden layers, they often end up walking away when they realize they’re not getting the emotional connection they hoped for.

▫️MOON IN THE 8th HOUSE

Moon in the 8th house holds immense power, one that can be both a gift and a challenge. People with this placement have the potential to undergo profound transformations, constantly evolving and reshaping themselves. However, these transformations are rarely easy. They often come through deep emotional upheaval, and navigating these intense shifts can be draining and difficult.

The 8th house Moon individuals are deeply connected to the unseen and unconscious realms, making them highly sensitive to emotions, often to the point of becoming overwhelmed. If they don't learn to channel their emotional depth constructively, they can become disconnected from their true selves and find it hard to navigate their inner world.

Because they feel so much and often don’t have the tools or outlets to process these intense emotions, they can fall into coping mechanisms like substance abuse as a way to numb the emotional overload. This is especially true if the individual’s emotional needs are neglected, and the heavy energy of transformation becomes too much to bear. Without support, people with this placement can become trapped in their own emotional cycles.

However, when these individuals do unlock the potential of their Moon in the 8th house, they have an incredible ability to heal themselves and others. Their emotional depth can lead to profound self-awareness, transformation, and even a powerful ability to guide others through their own emotional challenges. The key is self-acceptance and learning how to process those intense emotions in healthy ways, avoiding the temptation to numb them.

As always, thank you for being here. Sending lots of love!

xoxo NK❤️

[ssentimentals]

Hi Nini! Thank you for doing prompts again! I loved reading them and enjoyed getting notifications when you did the last one. 🩵

Can I please request Prompt 40: Arranged Marriage with Wonwoo x Reader. He absolutely hates the idea of marrying reader, his cold standoffish and doesn’t want to get to know her at all as he thinks she’s like all the other Chaebol daughters his encountered. (Snobby, high maintenance, just wants fame, etc..) but a situation happens and he finds out she’s the total opposite of what he thought she was.

Thank you!!!

hi lovely! ah, this is so nice, thank you so much 💜 of course you can request, thank you for doing so, hopefully you'll like it!

prompt: arranged marriage

wonwoo has no hope, sadly. future with arranged marriage never looked bright for him and the fact that he's supposed to meet his future bride in an hour makes him annoyed at best and angry at worst. he doesn't want to act all high and mighty, but he lived his whole life in the chaebol society and he knows exactly what kind of person his future wife is. she probably has a very nice smile but it's fake and there's nothing behind it. she probably is intelligent, snobby and has perfect manners. she probably spends money like there's no tomorrow and knows everything about new fashion trends and nothing about any economical/societal matter. she probably is ignorant and shallow - she probably is nothing wonwoo can possibly fall in love with. and yes, looking for love in an arranged marriage is a naive thing, but is it so bad to wish to at least not hate the person you're going to tie your life with?

there's a small playground not far from the designated place of meeting and wonwoo goes there. it's around noon on sunday, sun is shining bright and plenty of kids are there, but he finds himself a quiet corner on the nearby bench. annoyance swims in his mind and he tries to calm down, watching kids; their carefree spirits never failed to put him in a better mood. he tries not to think of his future bride, tries not to picture how miserable his life is about to get and instead focuses on looking around. some boys are building sand castles, others are playing tag and then he notices one little girl standing at the top of the slide. even from this distance wonwoo can see how tight she's holding the railings, can feel how nervous she is. before he knows it he's up on his feet with an aim to help little out but someone is quicker than him. wonwoo pauses, watches as girl who's probably around his age walks over. he comes closer and listens to the gentle conversation, smiling at sincere kindness display in front of him.

'it's alright, sweetheart, i'm going to be right here. i will catch you, you don't have to worry about it,' the girl says in a warm tone.

'i will help her catch you,' wonwoo steps closer, smiling to the little girl who still looks hesitant. 'so don't be scared.'

'or you can always turn back,' you offer after few seconds, when the girl doesn't reply. 'it's okay if you don't want to-'

'i want to,' little girl interrupts, puffing her cheeks in the cutest way.

wonwoo chuckles and turns to you right when you also turn to him. beautiful eyes, he thinks. beautiful smile. you take few steps back, standing now right at the end of the slide. wordlessly you reach out to wonwoo, who readily takes your offered hand and also moves to the end of the slide. you smile at wonwoo and then turn back to the girl: 'look, we are both here. we will catch you, darling. we will never let you fall.'

beautiful soul. in the end, you both cheer when you get an armful of a happy squealing girl. she does it again and again and all the times you both catch her, laughing along. it's the happiest wonwoo felt in months and when girl's mother comes to get her daughter, he's almost disappointed. time flew quickly too, he's got only ten minutes to not be late for the meeting and- he doesn't want to go. he also doesn't want to lose you just like that- 'um, sorry, wait,' he calls, when you turn to go. 'i just- i was wondering if we could maybe-'

'i'm so sorry but i can't,' you reply hurriedly, looking sad.

oh. of course someone like you is already taken, what was he thinking? wonwoo nods and wishes you well... only to walk in the same direction as you. when you enter the same building, he realizes that it looks like he's some freaking stalker. 'i promise i also need to be here,' he mutters, when you both enter the same elevator. 'i'm not, like, stalking you.'

you let out a nervous laugh. 'uh-huh. i hope so.'

god, you two are even going to the same floor. it's a rather popular business center so wonwoo doesn't think much off it but when you both turn in the same direction, he slowly realizes that-

'oh my god,' you pauses, looking at him with wide eyes. 'you're- you are jeon wonwoo. the one i'm-'

'supposed to marry? yeah.' wonwoo finishes, knowing that he is smiling like a fool. 'that's me.'

it's crazy. feels like a dream or something straight out of the movies. you both laugh in disblief and when wonwoo opens the door and holds it for you, when you both enter the room with your lawyers already present, when you smile at him timidly and blush, looking away- wonwoo realizes that this is not a dream. it's all real. and maybe future with arranged marriage can be bright if it will have you in it.

a/n: this trope truly is my kryptonite.. hopefully you liked it! - nini

request your own here

my other seventeen work is here

[gnohomotho]

May I play with you? 「✦Pt.1✦」

Pairing: The Recruiter // The Salesman x fem!reader Summary: Responding to my prompts, just a little start to something I hope you'll enjoy. Warnings: General Salesman warnings, though no NSFW yet. Fowl language. Implied very bad things™. Word count: 2.4k A/N: Truly trying this out, if you like it, I'll gladly dive straight into the angst/smut/fluff but I do like to flesh out my stories and characters. (ᵕ—ᴗ—) He is a very novel character for me to write, so I'm trying. ฅ^._.^ฅ Link to next If you like my writing, I appreciate every like // reblog // follow // message // request! <3

Isn’t it funny how one can keep running into the same people?

The subway. Each and every day. You learned to scan your surroundings, wherever you were.

Just a little proclivity you adopted along the way.

Head, face, count, danger, normal.

You avoided sitting down but today, you were tired. Your grants didn’t work out. Your family needed money. You wouldn’t care, you tried not to, but your little sister meant everything to you.

Moving away so far was never something you wanted. And their ways of getting back at you, or even trying to find you (by accident, of course) never let you rest.

Head count. All normal. A few errant people on their way to work. A group of girls obviously on their way to school, laughing together. A group of older men. A well-dressed lady in her late 40s.

Gosh, you were tired. You sat down and ran a hand through your hair which fell past your face with utter indifference. Knees together, straightening your skirt, you notice your shoes are on their last legs.

“Damn it.”

You forgot the head count as the minutes went by.

Damn it!

There go the obsessive-compulsive allegations, you can almost hear them sauntering down on you. No. Your shoes get quite literally outshined by a pair of incredibly posh black spades too close for comfort.

“Excuse me, miss, I’m sorry to bother you.”

Oh no…not this again.

You lift your head and gaze to firmly tell whoever is there to kindly leave you alone. Yet your eyes meet a beaming pair themselves, accompanied by a quietly radiant smile like that of a very glad reptile.

The man was a tad leaned forward, very unassuming, with hair too perfect for the subway – come to think of it, his entire attire and demeanour did not belong here one bit.

You say nothing. Perhaps he was just apologising for sitting so close when there are, as you scanned, enough free benches elsewhere.

“I couldn’t help but notice you sitting all alone while most of the carriages already went by.”

How did you not notice him? How did he know?!

Your alarm bells are swinging off their hinges and you blink, averting his gaze immediately. You still see him smiling that unassuming, almost innocent smile from the corner of your eye – truly reminding you of a snake who has zoned in on a particularly slow mouse.

“I’m…waiting for someone. My…friend. Should be here any minute!” You smile with your eyes firmly closed.

That was stupid.

“Boyfriend. Yes. That.” My 6-foot-5 boyfriend whose hobbies include kickboxing, day-drinking, LARP wrestling and very long swords. Who certainly exists.

“Oh?” His voice is full of curious intrigue now, your plan backfiring spectacularly. You try not to look at the line of his perfectly ironed trousers revealing the very elegant ankles too close to your shoes.

“In that case, I shouldn’t keep a lady waiting.” He gets up just as fast, playfully patting his knees as he does – why does this feel so…odd? Like you’re getting played? – “I wouldn’t wish to be rude.” He begins to walk away, and you notice his full height, the briefcase, the persona itself leaving you safe once more. An exhale escapes your lips. Enough slimy businessmen for one day.

“Oh, but miss…” He turns around, that charming, far too kind smile hitting you right between the eyes.

“…when he does show, do tell him how lucky he is to exist.”

❥❥❥

DAMN. IT.

You tried your best to focus that day. You really did. But in the back of your mind. There he was. That tall, weird, creepy, incredibly handsome mother---

“Hey, it’s ok, Y/N. Just a weirdo at a subway station. As if that’s never happened to you before.” You smile into the phone hearing your sister’s voice.

“Did you use the fake boyfriend?” She asks pointedly.

“Yes. And it didn’t really work.” You don’t wish to worry her.

“Ok, next time try the fake Instagram, fake number, and just use one of the people who didn’t like your research! Boom!” You could hear her smiling into the phone and you smiled too, warmth growing in your chest.

“You’re such a darling, you know that? I miss you…”

“I miss you too, big sis, I really do. Mom and dad can’t shut up about you.”

You massage your temples. Of course they can’t. The disappointment of the family needs to be taken into account at least thrice a day.

Her voice grows quieter. “Pretty sure they didn’t send someone this time; I’ve been keeping track.”

She read your mind, and it doesn’t calm you down. But you truly do not wish to worry her.

“It’s ok, lovely, really. Have you got everything you need?”

“Of course!”

The talk winds down into logistics and her school day, you patiently nod and laugh and wish her a sincere goodbye as you check the phone for her to hang up first.

As if by clockwork you notice your shoes are no longer alone. A pair of shining black spades rest beside them, too close for comfort.

You breathe out an exasperated breath which shakes at it last few steps.

“Can I help you?” You look up, summoning the bitchiest of bitch faces and stare into a jovially smiling pair of eyes that have sized you up three times over.

“Oh? What a lovely offer from such a lovely lady.” The words seemed to roll off his tongue as if he had practiced each and every one of them.

Nonchalant yet polite. Polite yet intrusive. Intrusive yet unassuming. Unassuming yet so very…volatile underneath.

Creepy, affluent, and pedantic? Wonderful. Just wonderful. Your sister was right, the weirdos really do tend to zone in on you.

“I thought I would keep you company since your boyfriend doesn’t seem too punctual.” His lips curl into a momentary frown, playing with you.

Even his voice is exaggerated in its faux sympathy.

“Such a rude man, letting you wait all evening. All morning. And all evening once more.” He cranes his neck to one side to be closer to your gaze, arms resting on his slightly outspread knees and hands closed into each other. You feel ice run through your back all the way down your spine.

“Do you have nothing better to do than patronise random women on the subway?”

His eyebrows lift in a combination of admiration and intrigue, hair still perfectly in place underlining those dark eyes staring right through you yet revealing nothing. The man is a walking one-way mirror, you think.

“Oh, definitely.” He looks up, shifts his gaze to the other side, as if mimicking thinking very hard upon his answer, but rests back in your eyes with a small knowing smile playing in the corner of his lips.

“I’m a busy man; I prefer to watch a specific woman on the subway. And would never wish to patronise her.”

You’re too tired for this.

“Oh? Who is she? Is she in the room with us?”

“Oh…” His entertained smile grows, fully lifting to his one cheek as he leans in even closer.

You don’t pull away for fear of letting him know you do feel fear. He leans in so close you can hear him whispering, as if trying not to be heard. He really is weird. And not in a very charming way.

Moreso in a “I wonder where the rest of the body is scattered” kind of way.

“She’s very specific,” he continues, “I hear she waits here in the morning, for a 7:00 carriage, sometimes, she lets that one leave and boards the 7:10 instead. She then, probably, based on a rumour, comes back at 20:00 but doesn’t take the immediate train – it’s been said she can be seen walking until 21:57, marking the very last train. And…”

He lets his head fall even further to the side getting very close to your line of sight, hands still clasped together, smile growing to the entirety of his mouth, “I’m rather sure she’s been seen missing that one a few times, too.”

What. In the ever-loving. Fuck.

“She rarely sits down, so it was quite hard to get all this information – classified sources, I’m sure you understand.” He straightens, but his eyes are piercing you even if you aren’t looking.

“And this particular woman seems very fond of her younger sister, [sister’s name], who loves her very much. So, so, so sweet.”

'Patronising' is a very weak word for the tone and facial expression his slightly closed, smiling eyes conveyed. His words felt like cyanide ice-cream must taste.

“What exactly is your endgame, before I call the police.” Your voice is level, your eyes missing his, your hands…shivering. You feel utterly exposed and the ice on your back has ossified into a glacier.

“I don’t think I have just one specific game in mind, miss Y/N.”

He looks fondly into the crowd boarding the current train.

“I just enjoy her company.”

❥❥❥

It became a bit of a game in the following weeks.

You changed stations, he was there, pretending to be a stranger in the crowd.

A subtle smile above the heads of all other onlookers.

You changed times, it took him a few minutes, but he was there.

Sitting on a bench in that knee-outstretched leisurely yet elegant pose, nonchalant smile finding your eyes.

You changed your favourite coffee spot; he was a few people behind in line.

Catching the corner of your eye and giving a small glimmer of a narrowed look, smile never missing.

In the end, you thought a very silly thought:

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

❥❥❥

Your shoes were once more joined by a pair of perfectly shined spades, resting too close for comfort.

“Would you like to play a game with me, miss Y/N?”

Your eyebrows lift at him, you’ve grown quite accustomed to his presence over the weeks. Though this was a change in routine.

“A game? Why?”

“I think it could be quite…beneficial to the both of us.” He smiles that charming smile and leans in closer. “I missed our little meetings, to be quite honest…the lady seemed to prefer the company of someone else over me in the last few days.”

Were those puppy eyes? An upside-down frown? Maybe your silly thought was sillier than you thought. There was something very dark in those eyes hiding behind the playfully innocent expression.

And you were spending time with your colleague, mostly working, but you cherished the presence of someone you didn’t feel would stab you in the eye the moment you looked at him the wrong way. And yes, he was clingy, and no, you didn’t feel that way about him, but at least he was transparent about it.

“Late nights spent around another man, you can imagine how lonely the station could get as she enjoyed his company.” The end of the sentence seemed to lose its usual jovial tone and made way for something far more genuine – and very worrisome to you.

“Or should I say, as he enjoyed hers?”

Was this man, with his ostentatiously perfect slick black hair, cheerful yet foreboding smile, truly accusing you of what you think he was, after everything he put you through?

“So, I think a game could cheer the atmosphere up a bit,” he purred, back to the ever-sweet persona, “and give us both an opportunity to have some fun.”

You are not particularly amused, but find it warily harmless so far. You shift away a bit, straightening your back, pulling your knees together.

“What happens to the winner?”

“Aaah, a woman after my own heart,” he exhales into a grin, steadying himself, though you can see it’s already all a game to him. It has been all along.

He unnoticeably shifts towards you, closing your newly gained distance and laying a hand between the two of you. Just close enough to not touch you. Too close for comfort.

He then leans into you, so close you can smell his perfectly chosen cologne. You feel his breath on your ear as he whispers:

“The winner gets to the location of a certain young man first.”

❥❥❥

You never really played Ddakji before. And it showed.

“Oh, miss Y/N, you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Please stop enjoying this so much, I’m trying to concentrate.”

As he hands you the envelope once more, he uses the lack of distance between you to brush your hand and lean into you, once more clouding your mind with his cologne and presence far too close for comfort.

“I am enjoying this, but I’m afraid time is growing short for your little acquaintance. And I would delight in playing with you a little more.”

He pulls away from you as if he said nothing at all, smiling still.

Yet his free hand lingers close, taking its time to brush the hair from your shoulders and place it around your neck.

You pull away with the speed of a startled bird.

“Do excuse me, just making sure the view isn’t obstructed,” his lips purse into the tone as if he were doing you a favour; he points his head towards the envelopes, yet ends up looking at you as the sentence concludes:

“I prefer my games fair.”    

❥❥❥

You have no idea how, but you managed the best of three. The man doesn’t look displeased nor too amused, merely smiles and hands you a piece of paper.

Coordinates.

Holding his briefcase in both hands, once more looking more like a suave salesman, he merely leans towards you, eyes firmly holding your gaze. His face is almost plastic in its unbothered expression, but once more, something very dark seems to lurk just below the surface. He speaks as if having your very best interests at heart.

“I suggest you hurry.”

[thefairiesinthegarden]

This was me trying

———————————————————

Heyyyyy this is my first post soo im seeing if this is something I want to do!!!!!! This is angstyyyy so enjoy!!!

Azriel x reader

About 1000 words

———————————————————

Azriel had never been one for grand displays of emotion, not in all the centuries he had lived. His shadows were often enough to mask the turmoil that constantly swirled within him, the doubts and insecurities he carried as silently as the wind. But the tension between him and you had been building for weeks now, and it was clear even to his shadows. They whispered to him of the cracks in your once unshakable bond, but he ignored them, refusing to face the truth.

He was tired. Tired of the endless fights, of the misunderstandings that left him feeling more alone than he ever thought possible. You were always so bright, so full of life and hope. It had been the reason he fell for you in the first place—your light drew him in like a moth to a flame. But now that very light felt like it was suffocating him, highlighting every flaw, every mistake, every failure he couldn’t outrun.

Tonight, the argument had escalated beyond either of your control.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just be honest with me!” you had shouted, voice breaking under the weight of frustration. “I feel like I’m fighting for this relationship alone, Azriel!”

He stood there, jaw clenched, shadows swirling around his feet in a frenzy. His wings twitched, itching for flight, for escape. His eyes, usually so calm and calculating, burned with something darker, something ugly.

“I never asked you to fight for me,” he snapped back, the words slipping from his tongue before he could stop them.

You flinched, and he immediately regretted it. But instead of apologizing, instead of softening like he should have, he doubled down.

“Maybe if you stopped trying so hard, it wouldn’t be so difficult,” he continued, his tone cutting and cruel. “You’re suffocating me with your constant need for reassurance. I don’t need it, and I certainly don’t want it.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick and heavy with the weight of his words. His shadows recoiled, retreating as if they, too, were horrified by what he had just said.

You stood there, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. He could see the way his words had wounded you, deeper than any physical blow could have. And yet, you didn’t cry. You didn’t yell. You just… stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time, as if the person standing in front of you was a stranger.

“I see,” you said quietly, your voice hollow.

Azriel took a step forward, regret flooding his chest, but you held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, don’t come closer. I can’t—” You swallowed, your throat working as you tried to find the words. “I can’t do this anymore, Azriel. I’ve been trying so hard to make this work, but it’s clear that it’s not enough. I’m not enough.”

He wanted to argue, to tell you that wasn’t true, that you were more than enough for him, that you were everything. But the words got caught in his throat, tangled up in the anger and frustration that had been boiling under his skin for weeks now.

You took a deep breath, your hands trembling as you ran them through your hair, pulling it back from your face. “I just need some space,” you said, your voice wavering. “I need to figure out what I want, what I deserve. And I can’t do that with you right now.”

Azriel’s heart clenched painfully in his chest as he watched you turn and walk toward the door. His wings twitched again, his body screaming at him to stop you, to beg for your forgiveness. But he stayed rooted to the spot, too stunned, too angry with himself to move.

You paused at the threshold, your hand resting on the doorframe as you turned to look at him one last time. “I love you,” you said softly, “but I can’t keep giving and giving when it’s never going to be enough. Not for you.”

Then you were gone, the door closing softly behind you, leaving Azriel alone in the deafening silence of the room. His shadows crept back toward him, hesitant, as if even they weren’t sure how to comfort him now.

He collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands as the weight of his words, of his actions, came crashing down around him. He had driven you away. The one person who had ever truly seen him, who had loved him despite all his flaws, was gone. And it was his fault.

For hours, Azriel sat there, replaying the argument over and over in his head, wondering where it had all gone so wrong. How had he let his own insecurities, his own fears, push you away? You had been trying—he knew that now, could see it so clearly in the aftermath. You had been fighting for him, for the relationship, and he had thrown it back in your face.

When he finally rose from the couch, the sky outside had darkened, the stars twinkling faintly in the distance. He moved to the bedroom, hoping to find some semblance of peace in sleep, but as he entered, his eyes landed on something that stopped him in his tracks.

A note, folded neatly, resting on the pillow where you used to sleep.

With trembling hands, he picked it up, unfolding the paper to reveal your delicate handwriting.

Azriel,

I just wanted you to know that this was me trying. I tried to be everything you needed, but it was never enough, and I’ve come to realize that it never will be. I love you, but I can’t stay in a relationship where I feel like I’m constantly failing. I hope one day you understand that I didn’t leave because I stopped caring. I left because I had to start caring about myself.

Goodbye.

The words blurred as his vision clouded with tears. He clutched the note tightly in his hand, his heart shattering into a million pieces.

He had lost you.

And this time, there was no fixing it. No amount of apologies or promises could undo the damage he had caused. You had given him everything, and in return, he had pushed you away.

Azriel sank to his knees, the weight of the empty room pressing down on him like a vice. His shadows curled around him, as if trying to comfort him, but they couldn’t reach the part of him that was broken beyond repair.

You were gone.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

———————————————————

Theehhehehehehee hoped you enjoyed that, lemme know if we want moreeee

[celestiallystella]

can you do a fluff fic where reader is turned into a bunny and legend has to help them understand what's going on? No beastiality just helping understand things like urges to run and things diffrent from their hylian forms? -J

Im hyped to write this, tysm fr requesting!

Legend/Link × GN Reader

This one can be read as platonic OR romantic for your guys' relationship, though I personally envision romantic. Fair warning, he does laugh at you at least once </3

also, i dont know much about bunny instincts beyond dig?? burrow???? hop??? so.. 💀

Hope you enjoy!!

Legend is in quiet disbelief.

You're a bunny. A cute, fluffy bunny. Suddenly, he understands why Sky had been so quick to scoop Legend himself up and coo at him that one time, though he'll never admit that.

Honestly, if you weren't hyperventilating, Legend would be doing just that. As it was, you are hyperventilating, and Legend doesn't really want to find out how quickly a bunny passes out when it's hyperventilating.

Bending down, Legend reaches a hand out to you.

"...Hey," He says softly, glad none of the others are around right now. He'd rather not deal with teasing. He also isn't sure how you'd react to the teasing right now.

He remembers how startling it was for him to be forced into the wrong body, of a different species.

He's relieved to see your eyes pin to him, big, round eyes. He has a feeling if you were in Hylian form, you'd be crying.

"Can I pick you up?" Legend asks, voice quiet, and an inexplicable sense of relief washes over him as he watches you stumble forward, panicking more as you fall over yourself.

He scoops you up carefully, "You're okay," He says, chin placed on your fluffy little head.

"I can't..." He sighs, "We've gotta get you calmed down. You're okay. I've got you," Legend says quietly, "You're safe, we'll get you turned back. You're okay." He repeats.

His hand gently runs through the fur of your side in short little bursts, gentle and slow. It works, slowly, and you're breathing stutters into something more normal for bunnies.

"There you go," Legend says, "There you go.." Legend sighs softly, and a small smile appears as you press your fluffy little face against his neck.

"Can you speak?" He asks, trying to figure out if you were like Twilight in that sense or more like him.

A little squeak is his response, and he takes that as a resounding no.

He refuses to sigh. Instead, he hums, "Well, don't worry. We've just got to make our way back to camp and I can give you a moon pearl. I.." He does sigh this time, "I've been turned into a rabbit before too, and that turns me back."

You squeak again, and he pulls you away from his chest. He holds you out at arms length, sees you aren't panicking, and lets a shit eating grin appear on his face.

"Fuckin' bunny," He teases, and watches as you kick your legs, "Floppy ears." He says, huffing out a laugh before tucking you close, "Least you aren't pink."

You squeak again, near inquisitively, and Legend rolls his eyes, "Yeah, I was a pink rabbit." He confirms, before scowling, "Don't go telling anyone, I don't want them to know."

You headbutt his chin gently, and Legend moves his head to kiss in between your ears gently. He'd be embarrassed about it if it wasn't for the fact that you were just so cute.

"You wanna keep this a secret?" He asks, not at all able to judge.

You nod, and he hums, "...Want me to set you outside of camp and go get my bag?"

You don't nod again, but you don't shake your head. You're still for a moment, thinking it over, Legend is sure.

In the end, you shake your head, and Legend huffs, "How do you want me to get my bag and keep this a secret at the same time, huh?" He asks, despite knowing damn well you can't answer it. You know it too, given the dramatic little sigh you let out.

Legend hesitates, "..Listen," He starts, "I know it's scary, being this defenseless, but you'll be okay on the edges of camp for a moment. I'll make it quick, okay?" He assures, voice near a murmur.

It takes a while for you to respond, and in the meantime he starts walking back towards camp. You guys weren't that far away from camp, so he made sure to drag his feet while you thought.

You squeaked eventually to get his attention, and gestured with your little hand (aww!) to a tree. Legend blinks, frowns, and looks between you and the tree. It dawns on him after a moment.

"...Are you asking me to put you in a tree?" He asks incredulously.

You nod.

Legend caves.

He ends up setting you on a branch you near cling to, little tail twitching. Legend has to bite back a laugh at you, before walking back into camp.

He's careful to act relaxed as he crouches by his bedroll and grabs his smaller pouch.

No one pays him any mind, just as he figured they wouldn't, and he walks back out of camp without issue. He does feel eyes tracking him, though he ignores it easily enough. The others know if there was a serious issue he'd just tell them most of the time, so whoever it was shouldn't follow him.

Legend pauses beneath the tree, looks up at you, and holds his arms out.

You squeak, a terrified little noise, and Legend huffs. "You'll be fine. I'll catch you." He promises.

You shake your head, tail twitching, and Legend rolls his eyes, "So what? You don't trust me now?"

He watches as you pause, blinking at him. He can almost imagine the offended look you'd have on your face before you jump at him. Legend makes good on his promise, catching the fluff ball you now are.

"See?" He says, crouching to set you in the grass. He digs through his bag, "Told ya I'd catch you."

You shuffle closer, and he absentmindedly pats your head. Pulling out the moon pearl, he sets it in front of you.

In no time at all, you're back in Hylian form, shuddering a bit.

"That was awful," You complain, and Legend snorts.

"Tell me about it."

Your eyes narrow a bit, amusement growing and slowly lessening the quiet unease clear on your face, "Pink bunny?" You tease.

Legend's face flames and he gently shoves you, "Oh, shut it. Let's go tell everyone to avoid over there since there's dark magic over there."

Your quiet laughter threatens to make a smile appear on his own cheeks as you two make quick work of ducking back into camp to tell the others.

----

The next time you end up as a bunny, Legend doesn't laugh at you as much and you don't panic as much either. He's grateful for that at least.

On the plus side, the two of you have been separated from the others in Legend's own Hyrule, so Legend's a lot more comfortable fucking around and helping you figure some stuff out.

You are, also, much more comfortable it seems the second time around. That's even more relieving to see, if he's being honest. He hates how much your anxiety affects him and causes him anxiety, but it's not too surprising. Despite his claims, he really is awfully empathetic and he cares a lot.

...Anyway, once making sure that everything was a-okay, he's tossing a moon pearl in your general direction.

The silence is loud, before a little squeak makes him look over at you properly. You shake your head, and Legend frowns a bit.

"What do you mean no? You've gotta turn back."

You nod, but then shake your head, leaving Legend all the more confused.

Huffing, he walks over and crouches down in front of you, "Okay, listen here," He says, flicking your forehead as gently as he could, "You can't stay as a bunny, weirdo."

You squeak, loud and followed by a few more little sounds, sounding angry. He laughs a bit, finding himself endlessly amused.

You hop over to an area that had more dirt than grass, and started drawing what he could recognize as a clock. He frowns as he watches you circle a time and tap your foot.

"...So, that's now?" He asks, and you nod before drawing a line inside the clock along the curvature of it. You tapped that part of the clock.

Legend frowns, trying to figure this out. It'd be easier if you were human, but you aren't.

"...Later?" He asks with a frown, that quickly deepens when you nod, "You want to turn back later?" You nod again, and hop over to him.

Legend scowls, "No way, I'm no-" You cut him off by jumping up at him. It wasn't like you were heavy, you were a bunny, but it did catch him off guard and result in him sitting on the ground holding you up.

"Why?"

You look over at the clock you drew, and Legend scowls, "You'll tell me later, then?"

You nod, and he sighs, setting you down. You twitch a bit, sitting back on your hind legs. You mime digging, and Legend has a general idea of what you're getting at.

He stands up, scooping you up as he goes, and walks into the woods. They were safe, he knew that much, which is really all he needed at the moment. Setting you down, Legend hesitates a moment before sighing.

"Okay, so, you wanna dig, right?" He asks, humming at your nod. "You should be okay to start digging here," He explains, before his cheeks flush a bit and he sighs, "I.. well, it'll probably turn into you wanting to dig out a full den, so we'll be here a while."

You tilt your head at him, and a small smile appears on his face at the cute action. "I did it one of the first times I ended up as a rabbit." He explains simply, before leaning against a tree.

--

He doesn't know when he fell asleep, but he isn't upset about it. Legend didn't have any dreams, thankfully, so it was a peaceful little nap.

He comes face to face with a dirt covered bunny, curled up on his lap. He laughs quietly, and it seems to startle you, because the next thing he knows you're jumping off of him. Your eyes are wide as you blink up at him, and Legend laughs louder this time.

You don't seem bothered by this at all, and instead start jumping around him. He rolls his eyes, groaning as he pulls himself to stand up. You're clearly in an energetic mood, hopping ahead before zig zagging a bit so he can catch up without having to run.

How considerate, he thinks, amused.

Legend catches up, and then blinks as you kick yourself forward quickly towards him. You pause afterwards, blinking, and Legend's smile isn't able to be contained, amused and teasing.

He crouches in front of you, back yelling at him, though he ignores that. "Awh, you're so happy," He says, half teasing but entirely amused. Thrilled, one might even say. Legend's hand pick you up gently, and he's (for once) not at all ashamed to admit he's just cuddling you close.

You squirm a bit after a moment, and he sets you down again. You stand on your hind legs for half a second to make a vague gesture at his hip, and he understands immediately.

Legend takes out the moon pearl, dropping it down for you to grab, and then watches as Hylian you makes a reappearance.

His shit eating smile doesn't fade, only growing a bit brighter at the red on the tips of your ears.

I really did enjoy writing this, so again thank you for requesting this! I envision any future stunts pulled as a bunny for either of you include plenty of obligatory snuggles before you help the other turn back.

was half tempted to make legend a bunny for the second half there, but if i did that i wouldve struggled to find an ending point, i wont lie, so </3

(if youre wondering what the jump was, according to my rabbit/bunny obsessed friend: "buns do this specific jump when theyre really happy, here look! it's called a binky!" and then she showed me this video. is it true? idk, but it got used here, shrug)

hope you enjoyed!! <3

[celestialgallaghers]

Double Dare Ya pt 2 [18+]

Part 1

I’m sorry this took so long I kept changing my mind on where I wanted it to go. I hope you enjoy <3

Summary: Still reeling from your encounter with Noel, you find yourself not wanting to see him again. That is, until you run into him in a place you really should've expected, now face to face with the memory that’s been haunting you.

Word count: 7.6k

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You paced the length of your flat, chewing at your thumbnail. You weren’t entirely sure why you felt this way. 

Well, maybe a little. 

Jo already knew, obviously. She’d guessed as much. But that wasn’t what had you on edge.

It was what came next.

She’d want to talk about it. Pick it apart. Ask you how you felt. And a week after the incident, you still didn’t have an answer.

What you did know was that you felt guilty. You’d been avoiding her calls for days and it was starting to weigh on you.

Soon after she’d caught you, she had her little "told you so" moment, but the second she started prying, you shut down. You’d barely been able to process it yourself, let alone talk about it. Instead, you mumbled a half-assed promise to talk soon and basically ran all the way home without saying another word to anyone.

But now, after days of radio silence, you had no excuse.

Taking a deep breath, you picked up the receiver and dialed her number. 

"Finally," Jo answered on the first ring, exasperation evident. "I was about to send a search and rescue team to make sure you were still alive."

You winced. "I know, I know. I’m sorry. I should've called sooner, I just… didn’t really know what to say. And I still don’t, so don’t expect much," you warned.

You could practically hear the smug smile in her voice as she waited for you to continue.

Then, a sudden realization struck, sending a wave of panic over you. You weren’t her only source of information in this situation. 

"You… uh, didn’t talk to him about this, did you?" you asked hesitantly.

"Noel?" she half-laughed. "No, I trust you way more to tell me the truth."

Your pulse slowed, but only slightly. At least that was one less thing to worry about.

"But," she continued, "I did see him briefly, a few hours after you left. Completely off his head with some other bird, doing god knows what." She huffed. "Sorry." 

She added it as an afterthought, as if you’d be hurt by this information.

"No, no, it’s not like that at all," you said quickly. "This was just a one-time thing. I really couldn’t care less who he’s screwing."

It was easier that way. Knowing it wasn’t a big deal to him. And yet, somewhere deep in the back of your mind, there was a flicker of something that you didn’t want to name. It was quickly smothered.

"I think I just want to put the whole thing behind me," you said, hoping to make it sound final. "Chalk it up to a moment of weakness."

She was quiet for a moment. "Really? Well that’s a shame. I think you two would get on well."

You huffed out a laugh, trying hard to downplay her words. "I think I’ve had enough of your matchmaking, thanks."

Silence stretched between you. She was obviously waiting for you to continue.

You twirled the phone cord between your fingers anxiously. "So, um, I guess you already know what happened, but I don’t really know where to start and I know you have questions so—" 

"You sucked him off, right?" she cut in bluntly.

You choked. "Well, no, I—"

She gasped. "Oh my God, you fucked him? Right in that dirty field? You little slut!"

"Christ, let me finish," you groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. "I just gave him a handy. That’s all."

God, what was happening? You weren’t a prude by any means, but just saying the words out loud made your face burn like you were confessing some deep, filthy secret.

"Oh, that’s all is it?" she teased, amused by your flusteredness. "Must not have been a good one if he was fishing for more after."

"Oh, shut up," you shot back. "It was good enough."

"Was it?" she prodded, clearly fishing for more.

You hesitated. "Yes it was." 

Flashes of Noel’s trembling body beneath you surfaced in your mind, unbidden. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing them away.

"And that’s all you’re getting," you added firmly.

She tsked. "What’s the point of having girlfriends if we can’t talk about how men are in the sack?"

You sighed. "This is different, and you know it. He’s… well, him. And you’re friends with him too. It doesn’t feel right."

And while you knew Noel didn’t exactly shy away from bragging about his sex romps, something told you that whatever happened in that field wasn’t exactly routine for him. Or at least you thought so. Although you could be entirely wrong. You barely knew him for fucks sake. 

Either way, the idea of sharing the details didn’t sit right with you. Jo could keep a secret, sure. But still… you didn’t want to tell her.

"Then what’s the point of even calling me?" she grumbled.

"Fine," you huffed. You had to placate her in some way. "All you’re getting is that he’s a good kisser. Spread the word I’m sure it’d inflate his ego even more," you said dryly.

She sighed dramatically. "Fine. D’you think you want to see him again?"

You bit your lip. You didn’t really know the answer to that. 

The logical answer was no. You should avoid him. Avoid every place he might be. The idea of facing him again made your stomach churn. Would it be awkward? Would he act smug about it? Or worse—would he brush it off completely?

And yet another part of you was saying yes. Because what if he wanted more? The thought had never fully formed before now, but the moment it did, it burrowed deep. The whole thing had been amusing and incredibly filthy. 

But would he want it again?

Would you?

It seemed impossible. He was famous. He did this all the time, didn’t he? It was meaningless. That’s what you should believe.

And yet, that glimmer of vulnerability, of realness, it had enthralled you much more than you would've liked to admit. 

Not that you’d ever admit that to Jo.

"I don’t know," you admitted. "I don’t think so."

"Why not?"

"It’s…too confusing. Like I said, it was just a one-time thing." 

She was quiet for a moment. Like she was holding back her disappointment. 

"Well, I’m not gonna force you," she said, "but I think you should reconsider."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Jo."

"All I’m saying is that you guys would—"

"Jo, I’m hanging up now."

"Wait!" was all you heard before you slammed the phone back onto the receiver, exhaling sharply.

Fucking hell what had you gotten yourself into.

❦ ❦ ❦

True to your word, you became hyper-aware of everywhere you went. 

The city was massive yet it suddenly felt suffocating, like you were navigating a minefield. No matter how much you tried to avoid him, Oasis was inescapable. Their songs followed you into every shop, their faces stared back at you from every magazine stand. It was maddening. Everywhere you turned, there he was. A reminder of that night. It was like the universe was playing some cruel joke on you.

One night, you flicked on the telly only to be met with Noel’s face. He was on some late-night interview show, sprawled lazily in his seat, exuding that signature self-assurance. Your thumb hovered over the remote, hesitating. Watching him now, it almost felt like you knew something about him that no one else did. Because for all his bravado, for all his sharp words and easy smirks, he was actually quite malleable. Quick to break if you knew where to apply the right pressure. 

Then, as if on cue, he flashed the camera a crooked smile, and for a moment all you could think about were the broken moans that had fallen from that very mouth. The weight of him in your hand. The way he had unraveled beneath you. 

A flush of heat curled in your stomach, creeping lower before you could stop it. 

With a sharp inhale, you grabbed the remote and switched off the TV, tossing it aside like it had burned you.

You needed to get a fucking grip.

Nights out had become a hassle too. 

Jo kept trying to drag you along, promising Noel wouldn’t be there, but you didn’t want to tempt fate. No matter how much you didn’t want to, you spent night after night in your flat, drinking alone, watching trashy TV with a scowl on your face. You knew you couldn’t keep this up forever, but it needed to blow over before you were less on edge. 

Yesterday, though, Jo had finally lost her patience.

"I don’t understand what’s so bad about what happened that you won’t even face him. This is starting to get a bit ridiculous. You're gonna have to come out of hiding at some point."

She was right of course. What was so bad about it? You were starting to feel too much like a coward. 

Her words still rang in your mind tonight. And after one too many glasses of wine, irritation was starting to creep in.

Why the hell were you letting him dictate your life like this? You’d spent weeks holed up like some estranged recluse, avoiding places you used to love. And for what? Noel fucking Gallagher?

It was pathetic really. And you were over it. 

Before you could overthink it, you were rifling through your closet, yanking out the most flattering dress you owned. Twenty minutes later, you were out on the streets, feeling lighter than you had in weeks. Like shedding an old skin. A rebirth. A good fuck would be just the thing to snap you out of this.

You hadn’t even registered where your feet were taking you until you found yourself outside the same club where this whole mess with Noel had started. 

Well. If there was ever a place to begin again, this was as good as any.

The fleeting thought that he might be inside entered your mind, but you ignored it. You were too determined to care. And besides fuck him. You didn’t owe him anything.

It didn’t take long before a man approached you. He was attractive enough, at least for what you needed tonight. When he offered to buy you a drink, you let him. You laid it on thick—laughing at his mediocre jokes, brushing your knees together, a coy smile curving your lips.

When he asked you to dance, you didn’t hesitate. This new version of you liked dancing. For a while, you let yourself melt into the music, let the bass vibrate through your bones, let the alcohol dull the edges of everything sharp.

His body was pressed against yours, radiating heat and hands roaming. It was making you feel alive. Letting yourself revel in the heady mix of sweat, liquor, and fleeting affection. It felt good. It felt easy. 

You were breathless and flushed, and when he leaned down and asked if you wanted to get out of there, you agreed without a second thought.

The two of you stumbled through the club, laughter bubbling in your throat as you leaned into him, ready to disappear into the night. But the moment shattered when you rounded the corner and collided heavily with another pair of bodies.

"Watch it, cunt," he voice was sharp, impatient. Familiar.

Your stomach plummeted.

Noel.

His eyes locked onto yours, and you felt rooted to the spot. Your mind was suddenly infuriatingly blank. For all the time you’d spent avoiding him, you hadn’t once considered what you’d say if you actually saw him again.

For a fleeting second, something unreadable flickered across his face. Was he thinking the same thing? Or had you not even crossed his mind since that night?

"Sorry mate," the man beside you muttered, breaking you out of your sudden trance. You’d nearly forgotten he was there. His arm slipped around your waist, and the touch suddenly felt like acid burning your skin. 

Noel’s gaze flicked down, tracking the movement. His jaw tightened just slightly, just enough for you to see it if you were looking. And you were looking.

You forced yourself to look elsewhere. That’s when you noticed he wasn’t alone. A brunette clung to him. Not the same one as last time, but close enough. 

Right. 

This was what he did. Moved from one woman to the next like it meant nothing.

Again the irritation flared hot in your chest. Now you remembered why you were avoiding him.

"Noel," you greeted smoothly, summoning every ounce of detachment you had.

His lips curled into something smug, his usual arrogance snapping back into place. "Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again, love."

"Yeah, well," you tilted your head, mirroring his smugness. "Let’s hope this is the last time."

His eyebrows lifted slightly, amusement glinting in his eyes as his gaze dragged over you before flicking dismissively to the man at your side.

"Enjoy her, mate," he said, voice light but laced with something else. "She’s a right good time."

Then he winked at you and sauntered off, pulling his brunette along with him.

You exhaled sharply, tempted to grab the nearest object and hurl it at the back of his head. 

So that was it then.

"Was that Noel Gallagher?" The guy beside you squinted after him. "Do you know him?"

You clenched your jaw. "Not really."

He studied you for a moment before adding, almost absently, "Y’know, you kinda look like that girl he was with."

Something twisted violently inside you. Without another word, you turned on your heel and walked away.

"Hey, wait! Where are you going?"

You ignored him. His voice sharpened behind you, something ugly creeping into his tone, but you didn’t stop. You just kept moving, his thick Mancunian accent you hadn’t noticed before faded into background noise.

This had been a stupid idea. A really, really stupid idea. 

Gripping the edges of the sink, you stared at yourself in the club’s bathroom mirror, swaying slightly. The fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows across your face, making you look as wrecked as you suddenly felt.

You exhaled hard, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. The night had gone sideways. Now you were just drunk and alone. Again.

You reckoned you should probably go home, but your limbs felt restless, skin too hot, mind buzzing with unspent frustration.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed open the door and stepped back into the hallway. 

As you passed the exit leading to the alley, your eyes caught on it for a moment.

What the hell might as well. It was hallowed ground now.

You pushed the door open, welcoming the rush of cool air. You had just wrapped your fingers around your pack when a voice cut through the quiet.

"Where’d your man go?"

You froze. 

No fucking way. 

Sure enough, Noel emerged from the shadows, cigarette perched between his lips, the ember casting a faint glow over his face.

You scoffed, shaking your head as you tried to suppress the aggravation rising in your chest. "Where’s your model?"

"Sent her home." he replied easily, smoke curling from his lips.

You considered walking away. That would be the smart thing to do. You didn’t need to stand here and entertain his bullshit. But there was just enough alcohol in your system, just enough lingering frustration in your chest, to make you stay. To push back.

"Were you waiting out here for me?" you accused, narrowing your eyes at him.

A slow smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe." He shrugged, taking another drag. "Thought it was worth a shot."

Oh. You hadn’t expected him to be upfront about it. Something about the way he said it so casually made it worse. Like he already knew you wouldn’t walk away. And you knew it too.

His gaze dragged down your body, eyes lingering in a way that sent a prickle of heat across your skin. 

"S’nice dress."

"Thanks, I was dying for your approval," you deadpanned.

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, unfazed. "So, what brings you back here tonight?"

"Same thing as you, I presume."

His brows lifted. "What, him?" He jerked his head toward the club. "C’mon. You can do much better than that."

"Oh yeah? Like what, you?" you said, not even considering the implications until the words were out of your mouth. 

His grin widened, all teeth, all ego. He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, you said it. Not me."

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. "Jesus, do you ever stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Deflecting. Acting like nothing ever gets to you," you said, folding your arms. "Like you're untouchable."

His smirk didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes.

"And what, you think you’ve got me all figured out, yeah?"

"I think you're exhausting."

He let out a low chuckle. "Yeah, well. Can’t win ‘em all."

You narrowed your eyes. "So that’s it? That’s the whole act?"

"Dunno what you mean."

"Yes, you do," you pressed. "This little performance you put on is bullshit. You always go on about how real you are, but this—this is fake as fuck. And I can’t believe more people don’t see through it."

Something flashed in his gaze. It was subtle, but it was there. He took a slow drag, exhaling through his nose, like he was buying himself time.

"And what if there’s nothin’ to see through?" His voice was even, but there was an edge to it now. "What if this is just who I am? Arrogant cunt."

You studied him, trying to pick apart the layers he kept so tightly wound. He was good at this. Keeping people at arm’s length, at never letting anyone see past the smirk.

But you'd seen something else.

You tilted your head slightly, voice quieter now. "No. I know that’s not entirely true."

His amusement faltered, just slightly. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I happened to really like the version of Noel I met in that field."

His expression flickered again. And for the first time since this conversation started, he didn’t have a response ready.

His mouth opened slightly, then shut. He inhaled deeply, tapping ash from his cigarette, gaze flicking away for just a second.

"And which version was that?" His voice was different now. Lower. Cautious.

Your stomach flipped.

There were two versions, weren’t there? The one who had been laid-back, at ease, warm in a way that had caught you off guard. And then the other one. The one who had let you undo him completely. The one you couldn’t stop thinking about, no matter how hard you tried.

The silence between you was tight, buzzing. A question waiting to be answered.

You weren’t sure if he wanted to go there. If he wanted to acknowledge what had happened. Or if he’d rather let it fade into nothing.

There was really only one way to find out. 

You swallowed before speaking. "You know which one." Your voice was lower now. Careful. Calculated. Just in case he chose to pretend he didn’t hear the subtext.

His gaze flitted away for the briefest moment, like he was considering his next move, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to acknowledge it. When he looked back at you, something in his expression had shifted. Less cocky, more guarded.

You grinned. "What? No witty comeback?" You stepped closer, emboldened by his silence. The longer he stayed quiet, the bigger your smile grew.

The cigarette between his fingers hung idly, forgotten. You reached out, plucking it from his hand before bringing it to your lips, dragging slowly. Your fingers barely brushed, but the contact sent a spark skittering up your arm.

He watched you silently, his expression unreadable. Even as you blew the smoke directly into his face, he barely reacted. He just kept his eyes on you, like he was working something out in his head. 

Then, like he’d been holding it in for too long, he asked, "Why’d you run off?"

Now it was your turn to be thrown. You hadn’t expected him to confront you on that. 

Why had you run? Because staying had felt like stepping off a ledge. Because the weight of the moment had pressed too hard against your ribs, and the uncertainty had been suffocating. 

What would he have said afterward? Would he have just rolled over, lit a cigarette, and acted like it was nothing? The fear of the unknown had sent you running before he had the chance to make you regret staying.

But you weren’t about to tell him that.

You took another drag, letting the smoke linger in your lungs, buying yourself a few extra seconds before responding. 

"Look, I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of groupies overstay their welcome. I just figured I’d make things easier for you by leaving before you had to ask me to, okay?"

He stared at you for a long moment. 

"I don’t think of you as a groupie," he said finally.

You narrowed your eyes. "Don’t you?"

He exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. "No groupies don’t usually make me work this hard."

You raised a brow. "Is that what this is? Work?"

He tilted his head slightly, considering you. "Let’s just say you’re not making it easy for me."

You weren’t sure why, but that response sent something sharp and unexpected through you. Maybe because it felt dangerously close to admitting something.

Silence settled between you, thick with something unspoken. The air between you had become charged and neither of you seemed to know where to go from here.

You took one final drag on his cigarette before flicking it away, the ember sparking briefly against the pavement.

At some point the space between you had shrunk, unconsciously drifting toward each other. It was like he had some sort of magnetic field that you’d gotten pulled into. And now you were now stuck in it. 

Your gaze lifted to his. He was already watching you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

You parted your lips slightly, but no words came out.

His gaze dipped to your mouth. Then back up. 

Your heart pounded.

Oh, fuck it. 

You closed the shrinking gap and kissed him.

He responded instantly. His hand slid to your back, pulling you against him, the heat of his body searing through the thin layers of fabric between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, and the noise it pulled from him, deep and needy, sent something sharp and electric surging through you.

He tasted just like you remembered. Or maybe better. Just as intoxicating, just as addictive.

At first he seemed tentative, unsure. But then he melted into it, kissing you back with a quiet urgency that made your knees weak.

"I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you," he gasped against your lips.

Heat flared in your chest. And something else. Something akin to pride.

"Me either," you admitted, voice just above a whisper.

You felt him smirk. "Oh really?"

"Yeah." Your fingers tightened around his waist, pulling him closer. "But don’t let it go to your head."

You deepened the kiss, swallowing the groan that slipped from him. The sound sent a shiver straight through you, and fuck you wanted more of it. More of him.

You nipped at his lower lip just to hear him again. Another soft noise escaped him, and you drank it in greedily.

Now you knew. Knew where you could take him. And god you wanted to see it again.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your grip on his waist tightening. "Come back to mine."

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face before you turned, making your way down the alley.

He followed.

The ride back to your flat had been…eventful. 

Noel had called his driver, and the two of you had slipped into the backseat, your legs brushing together. Neither of you spoke at first, but the silence was thick, pulsing with something electric, something inevitable.

Then his hand found your knee.

His touch was barely there, but you felt the weight of it hit you hard. A jolt of heat shot through you as he began rubbing small circles against you.

That was it.

Before you could stop yourself, you turned to him, capturing his mouth with yours in a kiss that sent him back against the seat.

He barely had a second to react before you were climbing into his lap, fingers diving into his hair. His hands shot to your waist, gripping hard. The feel of him beneath you again was dizzying, sending heat rushing straight to your core.

A low moan slipped from his throat as your weight settled over him. His fingers tightened, digging into your ass, pulling you flush against him. 

"This dress," he groaned against your lips. "God."

You smirked, lips brushing his as you teased, "You like it?"

His breath was ragged as he rasped, "So much."

You leaned in, dragging open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down the column of his throat. His skin was warm against your lips, his pulse wild beneath your touch. He shuddered when you reached the spot where his neck met his shoulder, grinning to yourself before biting down, just enough to make him gasp.

His grip on you tightened. His body tensed.

And then—

The car jerked to a stop, sending you both lurching forward.

You let out a quiet curse, quickly sliding off his lap as the driver cleared his throat from the front. 

Face burning, you smoothed down your dress, stealing a glance at Noel. He was still slumped back, breathing heavily, hair a mess, lips wet and parted.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes dark as they watched you.

Neither of you spoke as you stumbled out of the car and into your building, the silence thick with anticipation, charged with everything you hadn’t said.

Now, standing in the middle of your flat, the reality of the moment sank in. The mess you’d left behind suddenly felt glaring—clothes draped over chairs, an empty wine glass perched precariously on the coffee table.

But Noel didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

His eyes were on you. Watching. Taking you in.

Then they lifted, met yours, and held.

"Hi," you breathed, suddenly shy in a way that felt ridiculous after everything that had just happened.

"Hi," he murmured back.

And then he was on you again, pulling you into a slow, deliberate kiss. It was different from before. Less frantic, more controlled. Like he wanted to take his time.

You let him take the lead this time, curious to see where it would go.

He backed you against the wall, his hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek, while the other found its way to your waist. His grip was firm, grounding. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself as he deepened the kiss, tongue brushing over yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

He seemed much less overwhelmed this time. More sure of himself. And, god, it was sexy.

Not that the other version of him wasn’t, but you were beginning to understand why he had a reputation for this. 

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. "So… is this your move then?" you teased, though your voice was slightly uneven.

His lips ghosted over your jaw as he hummed, "What move would that be, love?"

You swallowed, heartbeat unsteady. "Oh, come on. You know. The one that drives all the girls mad with desire." You tried to sound mocking, but it barely landed.

He chuckled, low and knowing. "Depends." His thumb stroked idly along your cheek. "Do you feel mad with desire?"

Your pulse stuttered. You hated how good he was at this.

"I bet you’d just love for me to say yes, wouldn’t you?" you challenged.

"You will," he said, completely self-assured.

Then, he dipped his head, lips grazing over the curve of your neck.

You sucked in a sharp breath, body tensing as he found a particularly sensitive spot. He lingered there, lips warm, tongue darting out just slightly. Testing. Teasing.

You could feel his smirk against your skin.

And then he bit down. Not hard, but just enough. Enough to send a shock straight through you.

A strangled sound tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Noel pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes, a smug look settling on his face.

"Bastard," you muttered, though there was no real heat behind it.

He only grinned, unbothered, before moving to the other side of your neck, continuing his slow, torturous assault.

You pressed your lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of another noise. But then, one particularly well-placed kiss just below your ear had a soft whine slipping out before you could stop it.

Noel pulled back again, eyes dark, lips wet.

"Feeling mad yet?"

You exhaled sharply, realization hitting you. This was payback. For last time. You were going to have to admit to something if this was going to continue. And god you wanted it to continue. 

"Absolutely barmy," you muttered, conceding just this once.

His smirk widened before his lips crashed onto yours again, this time with a heated urgency that made you lightheaded. Your hands roamed him, desperate to feel as much as you could.

You weren’t sure how this would end, but right now you didn’t care. You just wanted more.

You pulled him toward your bed, kicking off your shoes, heat pooling low in your stomach as he pressed his body flush against yours. His breath was heavy, lips brushing along your jaw as his hands skimmed down your sides.

He exhaled a quiet laugh. "I haven’t been able to stop thinking about touching you. You didn’t let me get a turn last time." 

Your stomach tightened, heat licking up your spine. You tilted your head, lips grazing the shell of his ear. "Then you’d better make the most of it, yeah?"

A low sound rumbled in his chest, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushed you back onto the mattress, covering you with his body. His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, his gaze dark and searching.

"You always such a tease?" His voice was low, almost accusing.

You smirked, fingers threading through his hair. "You always so easy?"

For a second, you let yourself soak in the weight of him, the heat rolling off his skin, the way his breathing had shifted. Then, with a slow grin, you flipped him onto his back and straddled his hips.

A surprised sound escaped him, low and unguarded. His hands instinctively found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. The shift left only the thin barrier of your underwear between your aching core and the rough denim of his jeans. The friction sent a delicious shiver up your spine, your breath catching in your throat.

Noel shuddered beneath you. For a moment you wondered if he wasn’t comfortable with this dynamic again. But when you met his gaze, you searched his eyes for any hint. There was no sign of hesitation, no resistance—just raw, unfiltered desire. The realization sent a fresh wave of heat surging through you. 

You leaned down, pressing slow kisses along his jaw, trailing down his neck as your fingers worked open the buttons of his shirt. When it fell open, you let your nails drag lightly up his chest, reveling in the way his breath stuttered.

Then, unable to help yourself, you brushed a thumb over one of his nipples just to see what he’d do.

A strangled groan tore from his throat, his head tipping back against the pillows. The sound, deep and wrecked, sent a sharp pulse straight between your legs.

You were mesmerized. You needed to hear more. You moved to the other, teasing it with the same deliberate touch.

This time, the noise that left him was broken, raw, coming from somewhere deep inside him. The sound sent sharp heat twisting through you, your clit jumping at the noise. The need was possessing you, urging you to draw more out. 

You bent to kiss down his heaving chest. You couldn’t resist flicking your tongue over the hardened bud. This time his hand flew to your hair, and a breathless, high-pitched noise escaped him.

"Fuck—" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Please, I... I can't—"

"I know you can," you spoke against his skin, trailing your lips lower, down his stomach.

He shivered beneath you, body taut with tension. His breath came in uneven, shallow gasps, and you relished every single one.

You traced your fingers over the sensitive skin just above his belt, feeling him tense beneath you. Then, dazedly, you murmured against his stomach, "Do you let other people see you like this?"

His breath hitched. "Not often," he admitted, voice strained. "Doesn’t fit the image."

"Shame." You pressed an open-mouthed kiss just above his waistband. "You’re so pretty like this."

A weak laugh escaped him, breathless. "Pretty. That’s a new one."

You glanced up at him, your fingers toying with his belt. "But you are. And the noises you make are also so, so pretty."

He exhaled sharply, like your words had knocked the wind out of him.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me," he muttered, voice wrecked, desperate.

You grinned, trailing your fingers lower. "Oh, I think I have some idea."

You pressed your palm against the bulge beneath his jeans, feeling him jolt beneath you.

You reached for his zipper, hands eager, impatient. The rasp of metal sounded loud in the quiet room as you shoved his jeans down, dragging them off with no pretense.

Then your eyes landed on him.

The thick strain against his boxers, the way a damp patch was spreading at the front. Your mouth went completely dry.

Noel was panting now, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. "Love, you need to—"

His words were cut off by a strangled moan the second your fingers traced over him, pressing just enough to make him twitch beneath your touch.

You exhaled sharply, warmth pooling low in your stomach. He was right there in front of you, already leaking through the fabric, the evidence of his need making you lightheaded. Your breath ghosted over him before you leaned in, brushing your lips over the damp spot.

Then, with a slow pull, you closed your mouth around it, sucking gently through the fabric.

Noel let out a ragged curse, his hips jerking up against you. "Fuck."

The desperation in his voice sent a fresh wave of arousal straight through you.

Hooking your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, you dragged them down, drinking in the sight of him. The way his cock bobbed, standing heavy against his stomach, had something hot and primal unraveling inside you.

A small, unguarded whimper escaped him, his hands clenching into the sheets so tightly his knuckles went white.

You flicked your tongue over the bead of precum gathering at his tip, tasting the saltiness of him.

His entire body shuddered and a broken moan tore from his throat, raw and wrecked. He seemed to be struggling to form words, his lips parting, closing again, as if searching for something to say.

But he didn’t need to. You could see the silent pleading in his eyes.

And christ it undid you.

The heat coiling low in your stomach was nearing a breaking point, the relentless throb between your legs getting to be too much. You wanted to keep tasting him, wanted to hear more of those breathless, ruined sounds. But if you did, you knew he wasn’t going to last. And you needed him inside you.

Now.

Without a word, you spun, moving your hair over your shoulder. "Help me out."

His hands were shaking as he reached for you, dragging the zipper of your dress down in one slow, trembling motion, exposing every inch of you. His fingers traced along your spine, and goosebumps skittered across your skin in response.

You let the rest of the dress slip off, stepping out of your underwear in one fluid movement before turning back to him.

Noel’s gaze swept over you, his jaw tight, hands clenching into fists as if he were holding himself back.

Not for long.

You captured his mouth in a slow, deep kiss, guiding him back onto the bed, settling over him once again.

His hands grasped at your body, touch hot and desperate, sending wave after wave of need crashing through you. Your bodies were flush, nothing between you now, and the feeling of him hard against you sent a helpless moan tumbling from your lips.

You grasped him, positioning yourself over him, your breath coming in shallow, uneven pants.

"Can I?" you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

Noel’s pupils were blown wide, his lips parted as he looked up at you, utterly wrecked. He nodded, unable to form a single word.

Slowly, you began to sink down onto him, gasping at the stretch, at the heat, the way he filled you completely. Your fingers dug into his chest as you took him inch by inch, your thighs shaking from how overwhelming it felt.

His hands shot to your hips, gripping you like a lifeline as a strangled moan tore from his throat.

You could feel him deep inside you as you finally seated yourself against him. You took a moment to adjust, shivering at the contact. The white-hot heat in your veins was everywhere.

"Fuck," he choked out, his voice breaking. His body trembled beneath you, every muscle tensed, struggling to hold on.

You glanced down at him, and his dark, desperate gaze met yours.

"Christ, you feel so incredible," he rasped, voice wrecked and rough. "Need you—fuck, I need—" His words dissolved into a sharp gasp as you shifted slightly, searching for the right angle.

You settled a hand against his chest and rolled your hips experimentally. The reaction was immediate.

A guttural moan tore from his throat, his hands tightening on your hips, guiding you into a rhythm he clearly needed just as badly as you did.

Your body was drowning in sensation. Every nerve alight, every muscle quivering, every inch of you focused on where you were joined. You rocked against him, getting lost in the pleasure. 

You barely registered when he planted his heels into the mattress, bracing himself. But you felt it the second he used all his force to thrust up to meet you.

A sharp, helpless cry ripped from your lips.

The force of it would have knocked you off balance if he hadn’t been gripping you so tightly, keeping you flush against him as he snapped his hips upward again.

"Fuck—Noel." His name broke from your lips as another surge of pleasure hit you like a shockwave.

Each thrust sent lightning shooting down your spine, pleasure so intense it was almost unbearable. You tried to meet him, to match his rhythm, but the way he was hitting so deep, so perfectly, made it nearly impossible to keep control.

You felt him everywhere. Filling you, consuming you. It was dizzying.

His grip on your hips tightened suddenly, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you down onto him harder, deeper. His own hips surged up to meet you with every thrust, dragging you into the frantic, unrelenting pace he so badly needed.

The sounds filling the room were obscene—skin meeting skin, ragged breaths, broken moans spilling from both of you.

Your mind had gone completely blank, overtaken by pleasure, your body running purely on instinct. The only thought was ‘Noel Noel Noel’. Your own moans were getting higher, more desperate, your broken off sounds of "No-el" between each thrust spilling out. 

"Fuck—" his breath came in ragged, labored gasps, his words shattered. "You feel—so fucking—good—don’t stop—"

Your thighs were trembling from exertion, but stopping wasn’t an option. Not when you were this close. Not when every nerve was buzzing, your entire body tightening around him, the telltale buildup coiling inside you like a live wire ready to snap.

"You’re so close, love," he groaned, his grip tightening. "I can feel it—I need you to—please—I can’t hold on much longer—"

His plea sent another wave of heat crashing through you, tipping you closer to the edge.

Desperate, you moved a hand between you, flicking his nipple again, watching as he arched into your touch with a helpless, ruined moan.

"Fuck—" His voice broke. His hips stuttered, losing rhythm. "You’re gonna make me—fuck—I can’t—"

Then one deep, perfectly-angled thrust sent you spiraling.

Pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body seizing as you cried out his name. Your walls clenched around him, dragging him over the edge with you.

A strangled moan ripped from his throat as he came, his hands gripping you so hard you were sure there would be bruises. His release flooded inside you in sharp, pulsing waves.

You collapsed against him, body giving out entirely. Every muscle felt spent, useless, like you’d been wrung dry. His chest rose and fell beneath you in quick, uneven bursts, both of you still gasping for air.

For a long, breathless moment, the only thing in the world was the two of you. Bodies tangled, limbs shaking, lungs fighting for air.

You figured you should get off him to allow him to fully breathe. You slid off and onto your stomach, melting into the mattress. You could feel him leaking out of you and onto the sheets, but you made no move to stop it. 

Then finally, finally, the world came back into focus.

Noel shifted onto his side as he caught his breath, his fingertips resting along your spine in slow, soothing strokes. The touch sent a shiver through you, but not from arousal this time. It was something softer, something more dangerous.

The intensity of what had just occurred was overwhelming, but unlike last time, you didn’t feel the need to run.

His voice broke the quiet, rough with exhaustion. "You alright?"

You forced yourself to lift your head, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded, searching yours.

"I think so," you murmured, still breathless.

His fingers brushed damp strands of hair back from your face, the gesture unexpectedly tender. "You’re shaking," he noted, voice softer now.

You blinked. You hadn’t even realized.

Something stirred inside you at his tone. It was unfamiliar—giddy, weightless. It felt like… affection. A small smile tugged at your lips before you even realized you were doing it.

"Yeah well that’s entirely your fault," you mumbled.

He huffed out a quiet laugh before tugging you closer. His fingers resumed their slow, steady circles, and the warmth of it seeped into you, easing some of the lingering tremors.

This kind of intimacy wasn’t something you were used to. Fucking him was one thing, but this… this was something else entirely. Something you weren’t sure you should allow. But you weren’t stopping him either.

If this was what the real Noel Gallagher was like then you were in trouble.

You laid there for a moment before a nagging thought entered your mind. "I’m sorry I left you in that field."

He stilled for half a second, body tensing before he relaxed again.

"I think I was scared," you admitted. "So I ran. I’m not even sure what I was scared of, really. But… I am sorry."

Noel exhaled through his nose, considering. "I get it," he said finally. "I’m sorry if I was being, uh… too much."

You let out a quiet laugh. "No, I liked it," you confessed, cheeks heating. "I think that’s what scared me. Everything changed so fast, and I wasn’t ready for it."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were warm. "Well I’ve been known to overwhelm people with emotions."

You nudged him playfully, laughing.

"Don’t deny it, love," he teased, his voice dipping into that cocky lilt again. "You know you can’t resist me. I’m magnetic."

"Don’t you start with that again," you warned, pushing up onto your elbows.

He let out a low chuckle, but his gaze flickered down, roaming over your body now that you weren’t caught up in the haze of lust. His expression shifted, less teasing, more appreciative.

"Oh, but it’s true," he replied, his tone cheeky and playful. "You’re completely captivated by me."

You pursed your lips, fighting back a smile. "That’s yet to be proven."

"Is that so?" he murmured. He closed the space between you with a soft kiss. "I think I’m more than capable of proving it to you."

Then, in one swift motion, he flipped you onto your back, drawing a startled laugh from your throat. He grinned against your skin, pressing playful kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your neck.

"See?" he said, punctuating his words with another kiss. "Captivated."

You laughed breathlessly, fingers tangling in his hair.

You were starting to think he might be right.

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

I know this is another Noel post but I pinky promise that I have concepts of a plan for a Liam post coming next. 

[axetivev]

— Summary: Y/N, Dick and Conner were best friends. Unlike them, Y/N was a civilian who just often helped both heros. But sometimes, he went curious about their patrol, and he asked them about it. Which went rather ugly at best.

— Warnings: Angst Hurt/Comfort, Dick, Conner, and Reader are best friends, you can see them as lovers if you want, civilian!reader, male!reader.

— Words: 1.4k.

— A/N: Okay! For the Anon. I don't really know if you want this to be a ship, or platonic. So I'll make it platonic but it's possible to be seen as poly if you want, I'll be on a hiatus for a while... I'll be on hiatus in March. Probably back in the end (30-31) I'll be back. But hey! Regardless, I hope everyone has a nice day and enjoyed this fic!!

— Pairing: Dick Grayson & Male!Reader & Conner Kent

That very day where Y/N met both of his friends, Dick Grayson and Conner Kent. Everything changed significantly about his life.

How he met them was odd, perhaps. Coming to Metropolis City for meeting a friend, Y/N find the Kryptonian bloody after a battle Y/N’s memory itself felt blurry. What he could recall was seeing Superboy being thrown roughly to one of the building on Metropolis after winning the battle. Perfectly next to Y/N who watched everything with widened eyes.

Feeling empathy—he did whatever he could to helped the hero, even after Superboy himself said there’s no need for. But Y/N insisted, cleaning every blood and wound like a doctor treating a patient, while the Kryptonian just watched every move, every wound.

“And… final wound.” Y/N muttered under his breath as he finished wrapping an injury around the Kryptonian’s arm.

As for Superboy, he took a look over the medical tape—covering the wounds which surprised him. Specially for some civilian who was dumbfounded seeing him just fighting. The Kryptonian nodded to himself before standing up.

“Thank you… erm…” Superboy gave Y/N a hand, which he took. “It’s… nothing. It’s M/N.” Y/N looked down to their hands while they shook hands.

“Ah, yeah. M/N, thank you.” Both male’s hand just, shook. Neither of them stop while they make eye contact. It’s awkward at most. “Are you a civilian from here?” Superboy added. “N–No. I’m from Blüdhaven. I’m just visiting a friend.” Y/N immediately spoke as their hands parted.

Superboy looked up, placing a finger to his chin as if he was thinking of something—a light bulb lit up, remembering the city name. He thanked Y/N again, before with a single blink, somehow the Kryptonian was gone. Y/N was looked around, he didn’t expect an half Kryptonian to just be gone with a single blink. Yet—he didn’t ask further, he just walked to his destination.

“Shit no way, you actually saves a superhero!?” One of Y/N’s friends spit his water with jaw dropped, while some where gasping silence.

“I mean, yeah. Why?” Y/N shrugged as one of his buddies slapped the back of his neck. Shaking his head while interject with a smirk. “Oh boy, you really helped an Kryptonian? No offense man but really!” His friend drunkly laughed while tapping his glass of alcohol to Y/N’s water.

How Y/N met Dick is like those stories in fanfictions he often read.

Living in Blüdhaven, the name “Nighwing” was known to be a hero. How Y/N actually met him? It was just a casually evening and a fight happened. He stayed inside of his apartment, knowing he cannot do much. He just chilled in his living room, do absolutely anything he could to kill time—when he heard his window was opened, Y/N nearly froze. Going to the kitchen to get a knife, he prepared himself for whatever what’s to come—only to find Blüdhaven’s hero, getting into your apartment from Y/N’s very window.

“HOLY—” Nighwing jolted, nearly falling. Just in time where Y/N helped him, preventing the Vigilante from falling.

After quick explanation, Nightwing said he mistaken Y/N’s apartment was his. A light chuckle escaped his lips, Y/N then eventually welcomed the Vigilante, until he saw a wound on Nightwing’s shoulder. Y/n raised an eyebrow.

“Are you alright there, sir—Night...Nightwing?” The Vigilante slightly jolted and looked at this left shoulder, his suit—somehow gets perfectly sliced, of course Nighwing brushed this off.

But Y/N isn’t having it.

Going to the bathroom to get his first aid kit. Y/N gently treated the wound, giving it alcohol—brushing and cleaning any dirt before giving it a bandage.

“You… seriously—you don’t have to.” Nightwing shook his head while smiling with amusement, turned his head to look at the bandage. He nodded. “Honestly, thank you a lot…”

Y/N just smiled, as Nightwing gave him a hand for a handshake—a gratitude. Which he accepted, and with that, Nightwing was off. Giving Y/N a wave.

And after that, Y/N with both males actually had a good relationship. Him and Conner would occasionally met, with the Kryptonian and Y/N talking about life, him and Dick often talked together on top of Y/N’s apartment complex—knowing both identities of both of his close friends. It was sure an unexpected—more to Y/N knowing both best friends of his were best friends themselves.

After patrol, He’ll met them on top of his apartment’s building. Y/n, Dick, and Conner would chat about life, talking over treats and drinks.

But sometimes, you just wanna know about their lives being a hero, saving many civilians—Y/N and many others might be curious. Especially Y/N would helped them with injuries, Y/N never asked—he kept every question to himself. But curiosity will eventually catch him.

One night, Y/N came with some treats like his usual. But he found Dick and Conner all clean without wounds he didn’t asked—he just placed the treats. Both male thanked him, Y/N smiled.

“Curious…” Y/N started. “How’s life being a hero? What happened in your guys’ patrol?” Dick paused biting his sandwich, Conner just froze. They both exchange glances. As If they were communicating on their minds as they don’t want Y/N wanting to know their life.

“It’s… nah! Nothing, it’s a hero thing y’know? You’d probably won’t get it as much.” Dick swallowed a lump after finishing his words, “Yeah. I mean, it’s not that easy to explain it to someone like you.” Conner let out an almost—awkward chuckle. Y/N? He just stood there hands on his sides—into fist. Looking at both heros. He smiled again.

“Is that so?” His voice was barely a whisper. Both heroes gave Y/N a nod. Processing to continue. Y/N was just beside them. Silent from the start and end, after Dick and Conner finished, they said their goodbyes then gone.

Y/N felt something—his heart twitched with something. He doesn’t knew, but the fact both of his friends—somehow he able to consider beat friends said he wouldn’t understand, hurt. It hurts in a way he cannot explain, Y/N knew he’s a strong man with emotions. But this? It felt… shattering.

After that, Y/N came to his apartment. Crying in silence—putting his phone in silent mode the whole day. As Dick’s words and Conner’s response stuck to his mind. “You’d probably won’t get it as much.”, “it’s not that easy to explain it to someone like you.” He kept thinking to himself; is this friendship just a lie? Or is it something else…?

Those words echoed like music—Y/N felt like those words and some music notes circled him each time he opened his phone to find neither Dick nor Conner texted him. But Y/N ignored all of them. They even called you in some point, making you answer them with a simple yet somehow make people asked more; “I’m fine.”

Dick and Conner would exchange glances with Y/N’s answer. There’s not elaboration. They hang out less, and both heroes missed that laugher and smile of their best friend. What should they do? They expect where their answer about the day Y/N finally asked about their patrol after what felt like an eternity.

And they took matters to their own hands.

Since Y/N barely came out from his apartment, or even if he did. He'll just came out quick and never to be seen again. Dick and Conner didn’t think coming to his house could put them to trouble. Their solution? Give Y/N gifts infront of his apartment door. Simple gifts but meant deep, even a small note they’ll left, usually filled with their apologies or just a small vent about patrol.

Weeks of neglected gifts. Eventually, the spot where the group would meet up for a hang out, Superboy came first to find a plate of treats, and a small cake. Superboy called Nightwing. Y/N isn’t out yet—but from this, they expect at least, there’s a small progress of change.

Soon—they’ll left small voice notes about patrol, not much in detail. But it was short and clear of their night, but if made Y/N felt better.

At night, Nightwing came to their usual spot. He still expect Y/N isn’t there. But there he was, with Conner with that smile felt so familiar it warmth Nightwing—as he goes down to met with them.

Y/N at first somewhat distant. Both heroes. Dick and Conner looked at each other, with the slow breath. They hugged Y/N—their bestfriend to a tight hug, nearly suffocating him. But Y/N chuckled as he tried to hugged his friends back.

[cloudyluun]

Under the Dining Table

Summary: A casual dinner with friends takes an unexpected turn when Harry’s hand finds its way under your dress. What starts as a teasing touch quickly escalates into a dangerous game, his fingers stroking you in slow, torturous movements while you struggle to keep your composure. The thrill of getting caught only fuels the fire between you, and when dinner finally ends, Harry wastes no time dragging you into a private space to finish what he started.

A/N: So, uh… I was supposed to be writing something wholesome, but my brain took a sharp left turn into filthville, and here we are. 🫣 Blame Harry, not me. (Actually, blame me—I had way too much fun writing this.) not proofread so sorry!!

Also, OMG?? I hit 500 followers?!? WHAT?!? Thank you all so much for being here, for reading my unhinged little stories, and for enabling my questionable life choices. As a token of my appreciation, here’s an extra post—filled with chaos, tension, and Harry being an absolute menace. Enjoy, you heathens. 😈🔥

P.S. If you get caught reading this in public, that’s on you. I take no responsibility. 👀

Word Count: 6k

Warnings:

Explicit Smut!

Public teasing (Harry has no shame, and neither do you)

Filthy behavior at the dinner table (do NOT try this at a family gathering)

The risk of getting caught (adds to the thrill, obviously)

Harry being an absolute menace (as usual)

Y/N struggling to keep a straight face (good luck with that)

Zero self-control (from both of you, let’s be honest)

Possible secondhand embarrassment (for the poor, unsuspecting dinner guests)

You will never look at dinner the same way again (hope it was worth it)

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The dinner starts off casually—wine is poured, conversations flow, and laughter fills the air. The restaurant hums with soft chatter, the low flicker of candlelight reflecting in the deep red of your wine glass. Plates clink, silverware scrapes, and the warm scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs lingers in the air.

It’s meant to be just another dinner with friends, nothing out of the ordinary. A night to unwind, to catch up after weeks of conflicting schedules. Harry’s bandmates are here—Mitch, Sarah, Ny, Pauli, Adam, and Elin. The whole crew, filling out the long table with easy conversation and shared memories from tour.

And yet… there’s an underlying charge.

It started small, like a current building beneath the surface. Harry had been seated beside you by chance—an open seat, a last-minute rearrangement. But now, everything about his presence feels intentional.

The way he sat just close enough for his knee to brush yours under the table.

The way his fingers toyed absentmindedly with the rim of his glass, his rings catching the low light.

The way his cologne—deep, woodsy, and devastatingly familiar—lingered between you every time he shifted in his seat.

You try to ignore it, try to focus on the conversation. Mitch is recounting a story from tour, something about a hotel mix-up that left him and Harry in the wrong rooms, and Sarah is already laughing before he even gets to the punchline.

You laugh too, swirling your wine in your glass, willing yourself to stay grounded in the moment.

But then, there’s him.

Harry leans back in his chair, one arm slung casually over the backrest, his fingers just barely grazing your exposed shoulder. He’s listening, engaging, but you catch the flicker of his gaze drifting—not to Mitch, not to anyone else at the table.

To you.

You don’t have to look to know he’s taking in every inch of your outfit. The silk of your dress—delicate, effortless. Thin straps, a neckline that just barely toes the line of appropriate, a hem that rides a little higher when you cross your legs.

And then, finally—finally—he speaks.

His lips brush your ear, voice smooth, controlled. Dangerous.

"You knew what you were doing when you put this on, didn’t you?"

It’s not really a question.

Your breath catches—just slightly—but you school your features, keeping them neutral as you bring your glass to your lips. The wine is rich, dry, but it does little to soothe the heat crawling up your spine.

"No idea what you’re talking about," you murmur, voice even.

A low hum rumbles in his throat, amused but unconvinced. His fingers—slow, calculated—skim the edge of your knee beneath the table, barely there.

You know it’s deliberate.

He knows you know.

"Right." He exhales softly, tilting his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "Just a coincidence, then?"

His fingers brush higher. The tiniest movement. Just enough to make your pulse stutter.

"That this dress is driving me absolutely fucking insane?"

It’s maddening.

The setting, the people, the complete normalcy of the moment contrasted with the way his words slip beneath your skin like a match to gasoline.

The conversation around you continues uninterrupted. Pauli is cracking a joke. Sarah is leaning into Mitch. Ny is scrolling through something on her phone, laughing under her breath.

No one notices the way Harry’s touch lingers.

No one hears the unspoken promise laced in his voice.

But you feel it.

And when his fingers—light as a whisper—drag another inch up your thigh, your breath hitches just enough for him to notice.

The smirk that spreads across his lips is slow, knowing. He doesn’t push further. Doesn’t need to.

You know exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It starts small—his pinky brushing against yours as he reaches for his drink. A small spark. A warning.

It could have been accidental, a mere slip of movement, but you both know better. The heat from his skin lingers even after the briefest touch, and your stomach clenches as your fingers flex against the stem of your wine glass.

You should pull away. Create distance. But you don’t.

Instead, you let the moment stretch, let it settle between you like the space between lightning and thunder. A crackling anticipation, thick and waiting to strike.

Then, his hand rests on your knee. Innocent at first. A casual gesture.

It would mean nothing if it were anyone else. A natural movement, a simple touch. But it’s Harry. And his hand—warm, heavy, deliberate—burns through the silk of your dress like an unspoken promise.

You keep your focus on the conversation around you. Mitch is talking about the festival lineup for next summer. Pauli and Adam are debating whether they should get another round of drinks. Sarah is laughing at something Elin said.

And Harry?

Harry is pretending he isn’t setting your body on fire under the table.

Then, his fingers slowly drag higher.

It’s subtle, measured, the kind of touch that feels unbearably slow because you’re already hyper-aware of it.

The first few inches are nothing—just the soft press of his fingertips against your bare skin. But then, he parts your legs just slightly. A silent question.

You inhale sharply, barely a sound, but enough for Harry to catch it. His lips twitch, amused.

Your brain is screaming at you to stop this before it goes too far. Before someone notices.

But instead, you let your legs fall further apart.

The moment you do, he exhales a quiet chuckle. Low, smug, so quiet only you can hear it. His fingertips dance along the inside of your thigh, teasing at the hem of your dress.

You can’t focus on anything else.

The conversation at the table continues as if nothing is happening. You nod along, force a small laugh at something Mitch says. But the second his fingers slip just beneath the fabric, pressing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, your grip on your wine glass tightens.

Your pulse is pounding in your ears.

You’re mid-sentence—mid-fucking-sentence—when you feel it. The softest graze of Harry’s fingers under the table.

Your body jolts in response.

It’s casual at first, almost innocent, as if he’s just adjusting his position. But then his fingers start tracing small, lazy circles over your bare skin.

You shoot him a look. A warning. A silent What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

But Harry? Harry doesn’t even glance at you.

His attention is fixed across the table, his expression easy, relaxed, engaged in conversation like he isn’t currently driving you absolutely insane.

The pads of his fingers press into your thigh, massaging slow, deliberate strokes.

You swallow hard, shifting in your seat, trying—failing—to pretend your body isn’t already reacting to his touch.

Then, he squeezes.

Firm. Just enough pressure to send a rush of heat down your spine.

And when his thumb drags up, up, up, pushing the silk of your dress just a little higher—

You realize you are completely and utterly fucked.

His fingers travel higher, skimming where you need him most, but he doesn’t give in. Instead, he taps his fingers—just barely touching over your underwear.

The teasing, the unbearable lightness of his touch, sends a slow, torturous ache through you. You let out the softest exhale, shifting slightly, but it only encourages him.

His breath is warm against your ear as he murmurs, “Keep still, sweetheart.”

Your pulse hammers. He’s playing a dangerous game, and you’re too far gone to stop him.

He keeps his touch featherlight, circling over your already damp panties, and your thighs clench involuntarily. He notices. Of course, he notices. The smug amusement radiates off him, the slight twitch of his lips betraying how much he enjoys this.

Across the table, someone calls your name, and you have to steady yourself before answering. Your voice is barely even, and Harry grins when he feels your body tense at the effort.

His fingers inch higher, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress. The shift is so small, so subtle, yet it sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath catches, but you try to remain still.

He leans in, lips just barely brushing your ear, voice low and teasing. “You’re so quiet. Something wrong, love?”

You glare at him, but it only makes him smirk. His fingers slide higher, the tips of them teasing the very edge of your underwear, and you fight the urge to squirm.

He resumes eating with his free hand, completely unbothered, while his fingers continue their slow exploration.

You try to focus on the conversation, to process whatever meaningless small talk is happening around you, but it’s impossible when he drags his fingertips along the inside of your thigh, getting dangerously close.

The heat between your legs is unbearable. The anticipation is excruciating. And worst of all—he knows it.

Harry’s fingers finally push your underwear aside, fingertips dipping between your folds, just enough to coat them in your arousal. The first contact makes your entire body jolt, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound.

His touch is light, exploratory. He’s taking his time, as if memorizing every slick detail, as if he has all night to play with you like this. A single finger traces over your clit, slow and deliberate, and you swallow hard, your grip tightening around your fork. You focus on the weight of it in your hand, anything to distract yourself from the way he’s barely moving, barely giving you enough, but somehow, it’s already making you dizzy.

Your body responds instinctively, hips tilting toward him, chasing more friction, but he denies you that, keeping his touch featherlight. The smug bastard. His lips part slightly as he watches you struggle, his amusement barely concealed beneath the practiced ease of his expression. He’s reveling in this, in you.

"So wet for me already," he whispers, voice so low only you can hear. His breath ghosts over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers twitch under the table, reaching for his wrist. Your nails dig into his skin, but you don’t push him away. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to. Instead, you squeeze your thighs around his hand, a silent, desperate plea for more. He chuckles, the sound deep and knowing, vibrating straight through you.

His smirk deepens. “Needy little thing.”

Before you can snap back at him—not that you can form words right now anyway—he finally gives you what you want. His finger dips inside, slow and unhurried, sinking into your heat with a teasing curl. The stretch is minimal, barely anything compared to what you need, but it still steals your breath. A small, sharp inhale betrays you, and Harry has to bite back a laugh.

You’re completely at his mercy, caught between maintaining composure and succumbing to the slow, torturous pleasure he’s giving you. He works you slowly, teasingly, his finger slipping in and out with an agonizing lack of urgency. Every now and then, he curls it just right, pressing against a spot that makes your toes curl inside your heels. Your thighs tremble as you struggle to keep yourself still, as if staying quiet and composed will keep you from fully unraveling.

Meanwhile, the conversation around you continues as if nothing is happening. You try to focus, try to pick up on any part of it, but the words slip past you, meaningless and distant. Your plate is in front of you, the food untouched. You attempt to lift your fork, to act normal, but the second he drags his fingertip along that spot again, your grip falters. The fork nearly clatters against your plate, and you stiffen.

Harry chuckles under his breath, entirely too pleased with himself.

You shoot him a glare from the corner of your eye, but it only fuels his amusement. He’s enjoying this, savoring the way you struggle, the way your body reacts despite your best efforts to fight it.

Then—just as you’re about to lose control, just as your body begins to tighten around him, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter—he pulls away.

You nearly whimper at the loss, at the way the heat between your legs turns into a dull, aching throb. Your chest rises and falls, breath unsteady, hands gripping the edge of your dress in frustration. You dare to glance at him, and he’s already looking at you, smug as ever. He lifts his hand, slipping his finger into his mouth, eyes locked on yours as he tastes you.

Then, as if nothing happened at all, he picks up his fork and resumes eating.

Then—just as you’re about to lose control, just as your body begins to tighten around him, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter—he pulls away.

You nearly whimper at the loss, at the way the heat between your legs turns into a dull, aching throb. Your chest rises and falls, breath unsteady, hands gripping the edge of your dress in frustration. You dare to glance at him, and he’s already looking at you, smug as ever. He lifts his hand, slipping his finger into his mouth, eyes locked on yours as he tastes you.

Then, as if nothing happened at all, he picks up his fork and resumes eating.

You shoot him a glare, but he just shrugs, sipping his wine like nothing happened.

"Be good," he mutters, adjusting himself in his seat. "I’ll take care of you properly when we get home."

But two can play that game. You shift in your seat, letting your hand casually drop under the table—right onto his thigh.

His jaw tightens, a quiet warning.

You lean in, lips grazing his ear. "Don’t start something you can’t finish, baby."

His eyes darken instantly.

The night just got a lot more interesting.

Your fingers move with a lazy purpose, tracing circles along the inside of his thigh. You can feel the tension in his muscles, how hard he’s fighting to keep his composure. But you don’t stop. If he wants to play, so will you.

His fingers flex around his fork, knuckles turning white as you inch higher, teasing him the same way he teased you. His chest rises in a slow, measured breath, but you know him too well—he’s struggling.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a quiet growl only meant for you. “You don’t want to test me, sweetheart.”

You smirk, pressing a little firmer, feeling how hard he is beneath the fabric. “Oh, but I do.”

The conversation carries on around you, oblivious to the war happening beneath the table. You keep your touches light, teasing, making sure no one notices. The power shift makes you bold. You lean in, lips brushing against his jaw as you whisper, “You started it.”

His jaw clenches, his entire body thrumming with restraint. He doesn’t respond, just downs the rest of his wine and places the glass back onto the table with slow, deliberate ease.

Eventually, the dinner winds down. Harry is quiet as you exchange goodbyes, polite and composed, but you can see the storm brewing in his eyes. You drag out the farewells just to see how far you can push him.

By the time you slide into the car, the air is thick with tension. The driver pulls away, and you barely have a second to process before Harry’s hand is on your thigh, his grip bruising.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” he mutters, low and dangerous.

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile. “A little.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to. The promise in his touch is enough.

The ride is painfully silent. His fingers remain on your thigh, possessive and unmoving, like a silent warning.

As soon as the front door shuts, Harry is on you.

His hands find your waist with ease, firm and possessive, and before you can even think of teasing him further, he spins you around, pressing you against the nearest wall. The air between you is thick with tension, the kind that had been simmering beneath the surface all evening, igniting fully the moment you stepped inside. Your breath hitches, chest rising and falling with anticipation as he cages you in with his body, broad and unyielding.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” His voice is low, rough—nothing like the teasing murmur he used over dinner, when he was playing along with your little game. Now, there’s no mistaking it; he’s done playing.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips despite the heat crawling up your neck. You love pushing him just to see how far he’ll go, love the way his patience snaps like a tight string pulled too far. “A little,” you hum, letting your voice drip with defiance.

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking in irritation—or maybe something darker. His fingers flex at your hips, gripping tighter, holding you still against the wall. He leans in, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, warm breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“You have no idea what you’ve just done, sweetheart.”

The words send a thrill straight through you, pooling heat in your stomach. He doesn’t wait for a response. His hands are already moving, one sliding around to the small of your back, the other dipping lower, skimming the hem of your dress. He tugs it up just enough to expose more of your thigh, his fingers teasing the bare skin there, deliberate and slow.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” he murmurs, his mouth trailing down, barely brushing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. A shiver racks through you when his teeth catch just slightly, enough to make you gasp. “You in this dress, looking at me like that all night? Saying all those things just to get a rise out of me?”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s impossible when he’s this close, when his presence alone makes your knees weak. “And what if I was?” you challenge, your voice barely above a whisper.

A sharp exhale leaves him, and then his hips press against yours, pinning you in place. There’s no mistaking the hard evidence of exactly what you’ve done to him. “Then you’re about to find out exactly what that does to me.”

His hand trails higher, fingertips ghosting over the inside of your thigh, making you arch into his touch instinctively. The anticipation alone is enough to have you breathless, every nerve in your body hyper-aware of his movements, his touch, his voice.

“Tell me, love,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up with his fingers so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. It’s dark, smoldering, filled with something just on the edge of restraint. “Did you wear this just for me?”

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you bite your lip. “Maybe.”

His eyes darken further, and the corner of his mouth lifts in something that isn’t quite a smile. “You like teasing me?” His grip tightens slightly, thumb stroking over your jaw before trailing down the column of your throat, a silent reminder of just how in control he is.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that, not when he’s so close, his lips hovering just over yours, waiting, daring you to break first.

“Because that little game you played at dinner?” His voice is lower now, thicker, dripping with the kind of promise that makes your stomach flip. “That’s going to cost you.”

And then his lips crash onto yours, all restraint snapping in an instant. His hands are everywhere—gripping, exploring, claiming—while his body presses you deeper against the wall, as if he can’t get close enough. You melt into him, into the heat, into the way his mouth moves against yours, demanding and desperate all at once.

He’s not just kissing you. He’s consuming you.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, bunching the fabric at your hips. His touch is searing, fingers dragging along your skin with purpose, igniting a fire beneath every inch they explore. The rough pads of his fingers contrast against the softness of your skin, teasing, pressing, exploring. His grip on your ass is firm, squeezing possessively before delivering a sharp slap that makes you gasp, the sting fading into a pulsing warmth that sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.

He chuckles darkly at your reaction, his knee pressing between your legs, forcing them further apart. The pressure is just enough to keep you aching for more, but not enough to satisfy the growing need inside you. "Look at you," he murmurs, his fingers grazing up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, slow and deliberate. "Still soaked for me. Such a desperate little thing, aren’t you?"

Heat surges through you at his words, your body betraying just how much his teasing affects you. His fingers skim over the damp fabric of your underwear, feeling the evidence of your arousal. He tuts, shaking his head as if disappointed. "I barely touched you at dinner, and you were ready to come undone right there in front of everyone." His voice is thick with amusement, but there’s something darker beneath it—something possessive, something that tells you he’s going to make you pay for every second of your teasing.

You shift against him, trying to grind against his knee, searching for any kind of relief, but his grip tightens instantly. "Uh-uh. You’re not in control, baby. I am."

With a quick, decisive movement, he hooks his fingers into your underwear and rips them down, the fabric sliding down your legs to pool at your ankles. The cool air against your exposed skin makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the way his fingers brush over your folds, spreading your wetness, teasing, never quite giving you what you need. His touch is maddening, featherlight strokes that keep you on edge, keep you trembling with anticipation.

"I should bend you over this table and fuck you right here," he muses, voice dripping with authority, with the promise of something utterly sinful. "But that would be too easy."

Instead, he sinks to his knees before you, his broad hands gripping your thighs, keeping them spread. The sight of him there, between your legs, dark curls falling over his forehead, eyes burning with hunger—it’s almost too much. He looks at you like you’re something to be worshipped, but also something to be broken apart, unraveled slowly, piece by piece.

His lips brush against your inner thigh, his breath warm and teasing. His tongue flicks out, barely grazing your clit, making you jolt, a whimper escaping before you can stop it. But just as quickly as you feel him—he’s gone, pulling back with a smirk. "No, not yet."

A desperate sound catches in your throat as he licks up your arousal but never gives you the pressure you’re desperate for. He drags it out, taking his time, teasing you mercilessly. Every time your hips buck, every time you try to chase his mouth, he pulls away, making you suffer in the best way possible.

"Told you, baby," he murmurs, his voice low and taunting. His lips hover just above where you need him most, his breath sending shivers through your body. "You don’t get to be greedy."

He waits, watching you tremble beneath his touch, watching your chest rise and fall in ragged breaths. He wants you on the edge, wants you desperate, wants you aching for him in a way that borders on unbearable. And he won’t give in—not yet.

Not until you’re completely undone for him.

And then, finally, he gives in.

His lips wrap around your clit, sucking it into his mouth with just the right amount of pressure. At the same time, two of his fingers slide inside you, stretching you open, filling you in a way that has your back arching off the surface behind you. The moan that rips from your throat is wrecked, raw, and needy, the sound of pure surrender.

He groans in response, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure through your body. His free hand grips your hip tightly, holding you in place as your thighs threaten to snap shut around his head. But he doesn’t let you—he keeps you open, keeps you exposed, keeps you right where he wants you.

His fingers move with precision, curling just right, pressing against that perfect spot deep inside you over and over. Every movement, every stroke, every flick of his tongue is deliberate, calculated to drive you closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck, you’re clenching so tight," he murmurs against you, his breath hot against your slick skin. "You gonna come for me, love?"

You nod frantically, your hands scrambling for something—anything—to hold on to. His hair, the edge of the table, the fabric of his shirt—none of it is enough to ground you as the pleasure builds, higher and higher, coiling tight in your stomach, threatening to snap.

And then—

He pulls away completely.

A choked, frustrated whimper leaves your lips, your body trembling, aching for release. But he only smirks, standing up slowly, towering over you as he watches you struggle to catch your breath.

"Did you think I’d let you come that easy?" he taunts, his voice dripping with amusement, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it. His hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes over your swollen bottom lip. "After the shit you pulled tonight?"

You barely have time to process the question before he reaches for his belt, unfastening it with slow, deliberate movements. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops sends a shiver down your spine, your thighs squeezing together instinctively.

"On your knees." His voice is dangerously low, dark and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

You obey instantly, your body reacting on pure instinct. Lust pools in your stomach as you watch him pull his cock free, thick and already leaking at the tip. The sight of him, flushed and hard, makes your mouth water, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as you look up at him with wide, wanting eyes.

He drags the head of his cock over your lips, smearing precum across them, teasing you just as much as he had been before. "Open up, baby," he murmurs, his tone deceptively soft, laced with something darker. "Since you wanna be a tease so bad, let’s see how well you use that mouth."

You part your lips obediently, your tongue flicking out to taste him before you take him in, inch by inch. You hollow your cheeks, sucking him in deeper, your throat stretching to accommodate his size. A low groan rumbles from his chest, his head tilting back slightly as his fingers tangle into your hair.

"Fuck—just like that, sweetheart," he rasps, his hand pressing lightly against the back of your head, guiding your movements. "Such a good little thing for me now, huh?"

He pulls you off with a slick pop, his hand shifting to your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to look at him. His thumb drags across your swollen lips, smearing the mess of saliva and precum. His gaze darkens, heat rolling off of him in waves. "Think you’re ready to take what I owe you?"

Your breath catches, anticipation coiling in your stomach as he helps you up, guiding you onto shaky legs. His grip is firm as he spins you around and bends you over the dining table, pressing your chest to the cool surface. He doesn’t hesitate, one large palm sliding up your back before retreating, only to come down hard against your ass. The sharp crack echoes through the room, a stinging warmth blossoming across your skin.

"That’s for making me hard in public," he growls, kneading the flesh before landing another slap, watching the way your body jolts in response.

Before you can even catch your breath, he lines himself up and thrusts forward, slamming into you in one deep, punishing stroke. The force of it knocks the air from your lungs, a wrecked moan spilling from your lips as he fills you completely, stretching you to the point of delicious discomfort. He doesn’t ease you into it, doesn’t give you time to adjust—not after the way you teased him all night.

His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he sets a relentless pace, each thrust deep and deliberate, pushing you further into the table with every snap of his hips. He’s merciless, his restraint completely shattered, taking exactly what he’s been aching for.

"You feel that, love?" he rasps, voice thick with lust. "That’s what happens when you tease me all night."

A whimper leaves you, nails scratching against the wooden surface as he presses a hand to your lower stomach. He groans when he feels himself moving inside you, the pressure making your walls flutter around him. "Right here, yeah? You feel me right here?"

You can barely think, let alone respond. Your head falls forward, breath coming in short, desperate pants as pleasure coils tighter and tighter. He’s everywhere—overwhelming, consuming, ruining you in the best possible way.

"You’re gonna come like this," he grits out, his rhythm unrelenting. "Stretched around my cock, taking every inch like a good girl."

His fingers slip between your legs, finding your clit with expert precision, rubbing tight, insistent circles that have you teetering on the edge almost instantly. The combination of it all—his deep, punishing thrusts, the way he’s stretching you, the possessive grip on your body—sends you spiraling.

Your orgasm slams into you, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your walls clenching around him as you fall apart. A strangled moan tears from your throat, your body trembling beneath him.

"That’s it, baby—fuck, that’s my girl," he groans, his thrusts growing erratic, deeper, rougher as he chases his own release. He buries himself to the hilt, his grip tightening as his hips stutter, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills deep, a broken moan escaping his lips.

For a moment, neither of you move, both of you breathless and spent. His hands glide over your back, soothing, grounding, before he leans down, pressing a lingering kiss between your shoulder blades.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he murmurs, his voice softer now, tinged with something warm.

You hum in response, a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. "More than okay."

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he stays inside you, his body pressed flush against yours, his breaths warm and uneven against your shoulder. His lips, still swollen from earlier kisses, brush over your spine—soft, reverent, like he’s memorizing you with every touch.

"You okay, love?" His voice is lower now, tender in a way that contrasts with the way he had just unraveled you. His hands move over your waist, slow and soothing, fingertips tracing lazy patterns along your skin as if grounding you both in the aftershocks.

You nod, a satisfied hum vibrating in your throat. "Better than okay."

A pleased sound rumbles in his chest before he finally pulls out, a groan slipping from his lips as he watches the way his release spills from you. His fingers brush over your inner thigh, as if resisting the urge to push it back inside. His jaw tightens, his pupils blown wide with something both possessive and enamored.

“Fuck—you look so pretty like this.”

Before you can respond, he scoops you up effortlessly, carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing. The mattress dips as he lays you down with care, his touch never leaving you. He disappears for only a moment, and when he returns, the cool press of a warm, damp cloth against your skin makes you shiver. He cleans you up gently, his fingers barely grazing over sensitive spots, his touch tender despite the wicked gleam still lingering in his eyes.

Once he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls you against him, tucking you into his chest. His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, one hand splaying over your lower back while the other tangles into your hair. His lips press against your temple, murmuring something too quiet to catch, but the warmth in his voice says enough.

"Next time, you behave at dinner," he mutters, amusement lacing his tone, though there’s an edge of warning beneath it.

A smirk tugs at your lips as you trail a teasing finger over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. "No promises."

His chuckle is low and dangerous, vibrating against your skin as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark with promise, his fingers tightening ever so slightly against your hip.

"Good," he murmurs, voice husky and laced with anticipation. "I like a challenge."

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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[hansmic]

𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁

felix x gn! reader

summary:

You are convinced that love isn’t for you , but a one of your closet friends insist on trying to set you up with someone. A match turns into an unexpected romance. What are the twists and turns that lead them to fall in love?

genre: fluff, romance

word count: 1.7k

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡

You've always been convinced that love wasn't meant for you. You've seen your friends go through their own relationship dramas, and you were perfectly content being single. But one of your closest friends was relentless in trying to set you up on a blind date with someone they claimed was "perfect" for you.

At first, you were hesitant, resisting their efforts to change your mind. You were used to your comfortable life alone. But your friend was determined, insisting that you at least give it a shot.

"Just one date, please?" they pleaded. "You might actually enjoy yourself, and who knows, this person might be the one for you."

You still weren't convinced, but their relentless persistence wore you down. Finally, you agreed to go on the date just to put an end to their nagging.

The day of the date arrives, and you're feeling a mix of nervousness and annoyance. You begrudgingly dress for the occasion, trying to look your best but still questioning why you're even doing this. You meet your friend who seems more excited for the date than you are.

As you arrive at the venue, your friend leads you inside and you notice a man sitting at a table, his back towards you. He's dressed neatly, his blonde hair contrasting against the crisp blue jacket he's wearing. Your friend whispers in your ear. "That's him. Don't blow it."

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves as you approach the table. The man looks up as you sit down, and you're taken aback by the soft, charming smile that spreads across his face. His eyes are a deep, rich brown, and they're currently locked onto yours.

"Hi, you must be y/n," he says, his voice warm and friendly. "I'm Felix."

You manage a small nod, still feeling a little overwhelmed by the situation. "Hi," you reply, your voice a little shaky.

Felix seems to sense your nerves and he gives you a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I'm just as nervous as you are," he says with a chuckle. "This whole blind date thing is a little awkward, huh?"

You can't help but let out a small laugh in response. His honesty and easy-going nature are putting you at ease. "Yeah, it is," you admit. "But I guess we just have to see where it goes, right?"

Felix nods in agreement. "Exactly. Let's just have a good time and get to know each other," he says. "So, tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun?"

The conversation continues and you find yourself opening up to him, despite the initial reservations you had about the date. He seems genuinely interested in getting to know you, and his charm and wit are making it hard to resist.

As the night goes on, the conversation flows effortlessly between you two. You find yourself laughing and enjoying his company, even catching yourself getting lost in his warm gaze.

Hours pass, and you realize that you haven't checked your phone once. Normally, you would be looking for a way out of the date, but with Felix, things feel different.

Finally, as the night comes to an end, Felix looks at you with a smile. "I had a really great time tonight," he says. "Can I see you again?"

You're taken aback by his directness, but there's a part of you that's hoping for this outcome. You nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I'd like that," you reply, surprised by your own words.

Felix's eyes light up at your response, and he leans in closer. "Good, because I was hoping you'd say that," he says. "There's something about you that I can't quite explain, but I really want to get to know you better."

As you say goodnight and part ways, you're left with a sense of excitement and anticipation. You thought that love wasn't meant for you, but this date has sparked something in you that you didn't expect.

The next few days pass by in a blur. You find yourself thinking about Felix more and more, his smile and his warmth lingering in your thoughts.

Your friend approaches you with a knowing glint in their eye, asking how the date went. You're hesitant to share your growing feelings, but ultimately, you can't keep it a secret. You tell them that you had a great time, and that you're actually considering seeing Felix again. Their eyes widen in surprise and they give you a sly grin. "I knew it!" they exclaim. "I knew he'd win you over."

Despite your initial reluctance, you find yourself eagerly anticipating the next time you'll see Felix. You message each other frequently, and each conversation fuels your growing feelings for him. You learn more about him, and every little detail only makes you like him more.

Your next date arrives, and as you meet up with Felix again, the chemistry between you two feels undeniable. You find yourselves falling into an easy rhythm, laughing and talking as if you've known each other for years. As the night wears on, you find your hand gently resting on his arm, and you feel a spark of electricity at the contact.

The night ends, but this time, there's no hesitation in saying goodbye. You can sense that Felix feels the same way you do. As he walks you to your car, he takes your hand in his, his thumb gently stroking yours. "I can't wait to see you again," he says, his eyes locked onto yours.

The days that follow are filled with excitement and nervousness as you count down the hours until you see Felix again. Your friends notice the change in you and tease you about it, but you don't mind. You're too caught up in the whirlwind of emotions that come with falling for someone unexpectedly.

Your third date comes around, and you find yourself spending the entire evening lost in conversation with Felix. The world around you seems to fade away as you laugh and joke, and as the night progresses, you start to notice the way he looks at you. There's a tenderness in his gaze that makes your heart race.

You find yourself wanting to be closer to him, to feel his touch and the warmth of his embrace. As the night comes to an end, you walk to your car, hand in hand. Felix stops and turns to face you, his hand gently lifting your chin so that your eyes meet. He gazes at you for a moment, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and desire.

"I have something to tell you," he says, his voice slightly hoarse with emotion. You feel your heart skip a beat, anticipating his words.

He takes a deep breath and continues, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. "I know we've only been on a few dates, but I can't deny how I feel about you. You're unlike anyone I've ever met, and I find myself falling for you more with every passing day."

Your heart swells, and butterflies dance in your chest at his confession. You've been feeling the same way, but hearing him say the words aloud somehow makes everything more real.

He takes a step closer, his hands moving to cup your face gently. "I don't want to rush things," he says softly. "But I need you to know how I feel. I want to be with you and see where this could go between us."

Your breath hitches in your throat, your mind overwhelmed by his words and the intensity of his gaze. You reach up, your hand finding its way to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

"I want that too," you find yourself saying, the words slipping out effortlessly. "I didn't think I'd ever feel this way about anyone, but there's just something about you that I can't resist."

A wide grin spreads across his face, and he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a warm embrace. "I'm so glad to hear that," he murmurs, his lips brushing gently against the top of your head.

You lean into his touch, feeling safe and at ease within the circle of his arms. The night air seems to grow warmer, and you both stand there for a moment, simply taking in the sensation of being wrapped up in each other's embrace.

You lift your head, your eyes meet his gaze, and you see a mixture of anticipation and desire mirrored in his expression. His hands slide up to cup your cheeks, his touch soft yet firm as he pulls you closer. The distance between you dissipates, and you feel the warmth of his breath skimming across your lips.

His lips brush softly against yours, gentle and tentative at first, almost as if he's testing the waters. But as the moment stretches on, the kiss deepens, and a current of electricity crackles between you.

His lips move over yours with a growing fervor, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. He pulls you flush against him, his body warm and solid against yours. Your heart races as you respond in kind, your own hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt, as if trying to anchor yourself to this moment.

The kiss goes on, the world around you fading into the background. All you can focus on is the sensation of his lips on yours, the sweet taste of him filling your senses, and the feeling of his body pressed against yours. Time seems to stand still, and for a while, it's just the two of you, caught up in an intimate connection that feels both natural and incredible.

Finally breaking the kiss, you both pull back, a little breathless and flushed, your faces just inches apart. You can see the same mixture of happiness and anticipation mirrored in his eyes, and a faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

You find yourself at a loss for words, unable to fully express the emotions swirling within you. Instead, you simply lean in, resting your head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His arms wrap around you once again, holding you close as if he never wants to let go.

Night surrounds you both as you stand there, embracing each other under the starry sky. The world seems to fade into the background, and all that matters is this moment - this connection that neither of you had expected to find but both of you now can't imagine living without.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡

hope you liked it!

masterlist is here

[andhumanslovedstories]

Do you know the Langston Hughes poem "Let America Be America Again"? I think you would enjoy reading it.

I know it's cool among leftists to hate America and wish it harm, and yes it's built on a LOT of harms, but your post resonated with me. It's the country we have, and it IS our duty to keep the freedoms we have and extend them to everyone.

god Langston Hughes is always hitting

Let America Be America Again

Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed— Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean— Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That's made America the land it has become. O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home— For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore, And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa's strand I came To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we've dreamed And all the songs we've sung And all the hopes we've held And all the flags we've hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay— Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again— The land that never has been yet— And yet must be—the land where every man is free. The land that's mine—the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME— Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose— The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people's lives, We must take back our land again, America!

O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath— America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain— All, all the stretch of these great green states— And make America again!

[buck-star]

For the drabble thing, if this speaks to your muse...

dark!Steve K. x dark!reader

Jealousy prompts #12

"Hey, look at me. I'm yours and no one else can change that."

All yours

You notice the dinner table ready for two people, but where’s Steve and who did he plan a dinner with?

Pairing: Soft!Dark!Steve Kemp x Soft!Dark!Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 697 Words

Warnings: dark content (if you know the movie), jealousy, fluff

Authors Note: Hope you enjoy. Divider made by me. @holylulusworld LOOK WHO WE HAVE HERE…🤭🤭

Masterlist | Steve Kemp Masterlist

Walking into the kitchen, you notice the glasses on the table, the plates in front of them, and the expensive wine already in the glasses. The house is filled with the wonderful smell of the noodles your boyfriend makes so perfectly. But there is no sign of him.

“Steve? Steve!” You shout through the hallway, looking around. His phone is placed on the kitchen counter next to the finished food, and you narrow your eyes. “Where are you, babe?”

You take another step into the kitchen, when suddenly a pair of strong arms wraps around your waist and pulls you back into a muscular chest. “Hi, my love.”

Steve’s familiar, musky scent surrounds you, and you relax in his embrace, letting yourself fall backwards. He leans forward, kissing down your neck and to your shoulder before he trails his lips upwards and nips at your earlobe.

“Missed you; got dinner ready,” he mumbles, but you’re skeptical. You’re not sure why, but usually he would fill the glasses once you’re seated, but now he does it already. Did he plan to eat with someone else and change his plans when you said you would come over?

“Where were you?”

“In the basement, finishing some orders,” he explains, his lips back on your neck before you push away from him with a low growl in your throat. Steve sighs, leaning against the kitchen counter next to him.

His ocean blue eyes look you up and down, taking in your tension. You turn to face him, looking back to the table, before you look at your boyfriend again.

“Why is the wine already in the glasses? You never do that before we sit. Did you have plans? Is there someone else?” You ask, your voice dropping to a dangerous growl.

Steve smiles softly, pushing himself off the counter, and takes a step closer to you. His big hands find their way to your hips, a tight grip to keep you in place and offer him to get closer to you. He shakes his head slightly, tilting it.

“The only person I have plans with is you, baby. There is no one else, sweetheart, you know that, don’t you?” He asks, but you still look unsure if you want to trust him or not. Of course, you love him, but the fear that he will find someone else and push you away is sometimes filling more of your mind than acknowledging that he loves you.

You turn your head to the side, looking at the dining table. Your boyfriend sighs softly; he keeps looking at you with a soft, loving expression. He might do a job that’s not considered a job, and he might do things most people wouldn’t consider as good or legal.

But there’s always you, who keeps the softness and light in the darkness, in the cold. He knows that he has always someone who loves him just as much as he loves you. Steve would give up his job, but he would never dare to even think about pushing you away.

“Look at me,” he mumbles, turning your face to make you look at him. A soft smile — one he reserves only for you — spreads on his lips. “I’m yours, and no one else can change that.”

Before you can answer him, he presses his lips on yours, devouring your sweet taste when his tongue pokes between your lips. You immediately bring your hands to his neck, pulling him closer. Steve grins into the kiss; even though he’s kissing you with such softness and tenderness, he slightly fights with you for dominance — something he loves to do because he just loves to feel you pulling his hair when you try to push his tongue down with yours.

“Nah… you know who’s in charge, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your lips when you tug his hair harshly. With a growl that leaves your lips, he kisses you once more, softer, sweeter. “The glasses are filled because I love when you get all jealous and possessive. Just love to kiss the attitude out of you before we have dinner and dessert. Sweet, filthy, delicious, but also a pleasurable dessert, sweetheart.”

Taglist: @rogersbarber @loki-laufeyson68 @etherealdisneyvillainness @winterschildren8 @pono-pura-vida @kimmie113080 @sergeantbarnessdoll @sebastianstanisahotmf @mercurial-chuckles @holylulusworld @randomawesomeperson102 @looking1016 @multiversefanfics @kpopgirlbtssvt @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @alexxavicry @gremlin-girly @grilledcheesewithjalapeno @casa-boiardi @blackhawkfanatic @mrsalexstan @thesarcasmqueen-22 @bamitzzsam @kandis-mom @hisredheadedgoddess28 @princesscore-angel [tag yourself]

[highbabyofthenightcourt]

Hey besties, I just found out that a lot of Elriels have left the community today because of the disheartening discourse surrounding Elain’s ability to bear children, and honestly… I’m devastated.

I had been worried about something like this happening as the fandom became more toxic, but seeing it unfold this way. Seeing people—good people who were just here to enjoy the characters they love—be pushed out of a space that’s supposed to be about love, is just heartbreaking.

As an Elriel myself, I have always known this community to be filled with some of the kindest, most compassionate people. The Elriels I know are not ones to offend, to spread hate, to cause harm. They found happiness in their own corner, cherishing the theories and artwork, simply enjoying the love they saw between two characters. They never deserved this.

To everyone affected, to those who felt like they had no choice but to leave: I am so sorry this happened. You are worthy. Your value is infinite. And you will be so, so missed. I hope that one day, when this space feels safe again, you’ll find your way back. But until then, we are holding you in our hearts. Be gentle with yourselves, and know that you are very loved. 🩷💙

[honey-on-your-tongue]

FWB

Part 8 Logan Howlett x fem!reader Series masterlist

two weeks ago

He’d run away. He’d disappeared. He’d turned his back on what scared him and he’d left.

He’d left you. There, in his bed, alone. He knew you’d probably wake up confused, unsure. You’d look for him, you’d call him. But he’d turned his phone off, he’d left no note, and he had absolutely no intention of going back.

It’s best if I just disappear, he convinces himself. It’s best if I’m not in her life. She’s better off…

He repeats that to himself, over and over again, until no amount of emotion could make him doubt it or wish it away.

But he misses you. Misses the scent of you, the way you’d look at him with eyes full of warmth, the way you’d bite down on his shoulder when he fucked you hard, the way your body fit against his while you cuddled. He misses everything about you, and it hurts. So bad. 

So he drowns it in alcohol, wills the world away.

He’s not exactly sure how or when or why he returns to the mansion. He just finds himself there again, standing in front of your bedroom door, his cock already hard just from the thought of fucking you.

He needs you so bad.

I’m not good for her. I should leave her be.

But, fuck, he can’t. He really, really wishes he was a better man. But he’s not. 

He bursts into your room, throws the door open and barges in just like he did in the beginning, just like his entire life has been. Him just barging in everywhere he’s not welcome, everywhere he hasn’t been invited, everywhere he doesn’t belong. Still, he does it and then he stays until he’s pushed past his welcome. 

Your sweet eyes find his and they light up. “Lo,” you say, and his resolve almost crumbles, his lust almost gives way to his heart. Almost. “Where’d you go? I woke up and—” 

“Yeah, I know,” he cuts in, shutting the door after himself. And I wasn’t there. And you were alone. And you realized you deserve better. And I know you’ll figure it out eventually. But, God, please, let me have one last moment with you. Please. 

It doesn’t take much convincing to get you into bed. In fact, it doesn’t take any convincing at all. You pretty thing, always so willing for him. He refuses to believe that you like him or, worse, that you love him. He tells himself he’s just good in bed, enough that you’re so enthusiastically giving yourself to him again. 

He ends up flipping you over, pushing your pretty face into the pillows and pulling your ass up. He fucks you hard and relentless, mind spinning as your warm, wet cunt accepts him in. 

I don’t deserve this.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans, fingers digging into your hips, as he tries to push his thoughts away and focus on you. 

Your body jerks forward with every deep thrust he delivers, and he hopes he’s not hurting you. Although you keep whining and moaning, pretty pussy clenching around his cock, so he assumes you’re enjoying yourself. 

I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve her love. I don’t deserve to love her. She deserves better.

Every time his orgasm comes close, he can feel his guilt get the best of him, and it retracts him from the brink of pleasure.

“C’mon, c’mon!” he growls, willing his mind to shut the fuck up for a second so he can get his release before his conscience gets the better of him. 

To his grand relief, his body seems to have had enough edging and his cock twitches in you, his thick load spurting into you and his mind goes into blissful blankness for a full minute.

But the second he comes down from his high, he realizes what he’s just done, realizes that he’s come back to you, realizes that he’s exposing you to the hurt and that he’s betraying Jean’s memory and everything comes crashing down on him until he feels like he can’t fucking breathe—

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing. It’s like he watches his body take control of his mind. He pulls out of you and leaves you there, on the bed, without you having finished too. He climbs off the bed and scrambles for his clothes, quickly pulling them back on.

You glance at him over your shoulder, those soft, innocent eyes full of confusion and uncertainty. “Logan?”

He almost flinches at the sound of his name on your lips. “Gotta go,” he manages, glancing at the floor, not wanting to see the disappointment in your expression. He doesn’t want to see how he hurts you. 

A frown creases your eyebrows and he has the urge to kiss it away. But he holds back. “What?” you ask. “What are you talking about?”

I’m not good enough for you. Don’t you understand? You’re better off without me.

“I’m leaving,” he says, wishing he could offer more.

“Wh—? Is something wrong?”

He hates the way you sound so vulnerable, so unsure, the way he knows you’ll wonder if you messed up.

But it’s not you. It’s him. He just can’t tell you that.

He gives you a look and you fall silent, pulling the rumpled bed sheets up around your naked body.

“I’ll see you around,” he grumbles and heads for your bedroom door. It takes all his self-control to pull away from you, to leave and not run back, kneel at your feet, kiss your thighs and beg for your forgiveness.

She’s better off without me. 

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