#i just realized i wrote ''at the beginning'' twice

[trasho-pando2011]

YESSSSSS HE HAS A MASK

[kinkymcbutweasel]

Somebody take me camping so we can make s'mores and fuck in the woods

[ienjoywritingfilth]

the wedding night

hi: i wrote this in an afternoon on the bus and barely edited this. it only exists because seeing that photo of General Acacius made me feel hornee things®. I don't know shit about roman gladiator times, this is just a debauched excuse to be railed by the man.

trope: forced marriage

pedro character: Marcus Acacius x female reader (you)

warnings: innocence kink, age gap (not specified, but he an old peepaw just how we like him) , names like whore because i am one, forced marriage, Au as fuck because i have no idea what happens in the movie, virgin bullshit, eating out, pp in vv, dubconish, i think that's everything.

RATED 18+

"Take to the bed," the muscular man tells you in a raspy voice as you enter the bedroom, wishing you had your fur. "I leave early for battle at dawn." 

He makes no move to leave and so you glance from the waiting bed back over to the imposing figure standing by the fire. His tousled, greying curls are touched by the flickering reflection of the flames behind him. 

This is all new to you and almost surreal. You've been taken from your modest home and brought here to a lavish home in Rome. You glance over at your new husband timidly. 

"Are you to remain here all night?"

"We are wed," he replies with a wry grin. "Of course we shall spend the night together." 

You've been shipped here under your father's greedy love for coin. And now you stand here in the bed chambers of the man who became your husband only hours ago. 

General Marcus Acacius; a man double your age with the kind of quiet strength that made you anxious when you first laid eyes on him today, only moments before he slipped the ring onto your finger and you were announced as his. 

He drank only a bit of wine at the wedding, a stark contrast to the family of yours that acted like the animals in Marcus' stables with every glass poured. Of course they would celebrate; they'd made a small fortune on your marriage, having sold you off like cattle.

And you now stand across the room from him, your husband, General Acacius, Marcus. A man who served under the infamous Maximus. He cuts a fearsome figure both on and off the battlefield with his broad, muscled frame and serious countenance.  

You wear the traditional wedding night garment, a thin dress that is practically see-through. You pull your arms over your chest, hiding your nipples that poke through the thin fabric.

When you'd come to the room you'd been surprised to see Marcus there waiting for you, stoking the fire. You'd been told by the servants that your new husband would be preparing for battle all night. It had brought you some comfort.

But Marcus is here in nothing but his tunic cinched at the waist. His armour is in a pile by the door, his sword there as well. Without it he's still terrifying. 

Marcus notes the arms you hold over your chest for modesty and he feels arousal begin to drip lazily into his veins. 

"Undress," he says plainly, his dark eyes trailing over your body. 

You make no move to follow his orders. If anything you seem angry with him. His fingers twitch next to his thigh as he waits for your compliance. It doesn't come. 

The dark grey tunic he wears hangs just above his knees so when he walks over to you you're able to see his muscled legs rippling with power. You quiver as he finally stands in front of you. One thick forearm goes to rest against the wall above your head, his neck craning so he can look you in the face.  

"I said undress."

"You will not order me about as if I were your slave," you seethe, your head craning away from him. "I am your wife."  

"I am twice widowed," Marcus murmurs as his wide finger traces the curve of your delicate collarbone. "I have come to realize I have little need for a wife."

"Then why bring me here away from my family and my homeland? Why marry me at all if you have no need of me?"

"I have no need for a wife," Marcus repeats roughly, his exhalation landing over your face like a wine-soaked cloud. "But a man always has need for a ready cunt."

You rear back and your hand flies through the air so quickly he's clearly not expecting it. The slap you deliver to his bronzed cheek is so hard that he flinches back at the sensation, but his head remains facing you. 

"I am no whore," you hiss. You've never been spoken to like this. "Nor a hole for you to fill at your leisure." 

You're horrified when you see him lengthen under his tunic, thick and fearsome looking to your inexperienced eye. He smiles at you when you gaze back up at his face, a feral, ugly grin that has you backing against the stone wall as he advances, his pelvis nudging yours. 

"You will be fucked well," Marcus whispers. "So well you will happily call yourself my whore." 

You push at his broad chest, free of his usual armour and yet hard to the touch like iron. He doesn't budge, he just presses his pelvis into yours, pinning you to the wall. You feel him there between your legs, warm and waiting and large. 

His hand comes to grip your jaw, forcing your unwilling mouth to his. He kisses you fiercely, like he owns you. It disgusts you. He pries your lips open with his own and as he licks into your mouth his tongue tastes of sweet wine. 

You wince, trying to wrench from his grip. He only smiles, hands coming to meet at the collar of your nightdress.  You shriek as he begins tearing the delicate fabric down the middle and exposing your breasts to the chilled air. 

"I desire to see what is now mine," he murmurs, a hand coming to palm your breast. 

You bat his hand away, slipping sideways from him into the centre of the room near the bed. He doesn't look upset; he looks amused, as if he were playing a game. 

You hold the torn fabric of your dress at your chest, covering yourself as you back away from his advancing figure.  

"I am not your anything," you grimace. "Leave at once." 

Though your voice is strong you back away, a shuffled step for each strong stride of his until you feel the bed hit the back of your calves. 

"This is our wedding night," Marcus says silkily. "And we must consummate."

Before you can deny him he jabs his strong fingers on either side of your clavicle, causing you to fall backwards onto the bed. You gasp when he follows after you, lifting the hem of your dress. 

His head is thrust under, making you kick out your legs in fear. What is he doing under there? Fear has you convinced he may bite you. 

You go to pull away further when you feel him starting to part your thighs. You squeal anxiously, twisting. 

"Get off!"

"Calm yourself, wife," he orders gruffly from beneath your nightgown. He's stronger than you, his hands wide and it's only seconds before he's got your legs hinged over his shoulders. 

You continue to cry out, desperate for escape. You're terrified of this brute of a man. 

His mouth finds your cunt swollen and wet and when he lays his wide tongue flat and licks a stripe up the seam you suddenly go quiet. You can feel him smile against the lips of your pussy. 

"So soft," he murmurs, kissing your sex reverentially before his tongue darts out to sample you again. It's been so long since he had a cunt this soft and sweet against his tongue. 

Your hips jump and Marcus can't help but smirk. Under your nightgown all he can see and smell is your sex, open widely thanks to his hands, glistening with his saliva and your own arousal. He feasts on you, groaning as he gets swept away by the sensations your whimpers create in him. 

 You're on your back, looking up at the beautifully painted ceiling. A celestial pattern that mimics the night outside your window. Your chest heaves, nipples pert and straining as his mouth works against your cunt, making you tingle everywhere.

He's on his knees beside the bed, you're thighs hinged on his broad shoulders, the cream of your skin against his ears. He doesn't care that tomorrow his knees will ache because devouring you as you thrash for him on the bed has him feeling like a young man again. 

He sucks the lips of your pussy into his mouth with relish, his hips grinding into the edge of the bed when you cry out. You hear him chuckle before he continues and the sound reminds you that you don't want him touching you like this and bringing out these feelings you've only heard whispers about. Not a man who has decided you're nothing more than a thing to fill. 

"Ssstop," you slur above him, unable to focus as your vision blurs.  

"No."

You keen breathily, your hands scrabbling to grip the bed. His broad hands cup your ass, forcing your sex harshly against his mouth. You hear vulgar slurping noises coming from underneath your nightgown and your eyes roll back. 

You've never had a man before. Your mother warned you about husbands and their selfish desires in the bedroom. But this doesn't feel like what she warned you about. This feels good. 

You feel a pressure beginning between your legs and you panic, trying to force Marcus' head from between your thighs but he just grips stronger, tilting his head from side to side as he drinks you down, his tongue wide and stuffing your cunt. 

When be begins to suck brutally at your clit, bliss overtakes you, causing your back to arch and a shuddering scream to leave your throat. 

Your hips undulate as he continues to fuck you with his tongue, stopping only when you begin to whine that it is too much. He licks you gently after that, cleaning the evidence of your orgasm with relish. 

With a creak he stands beside the bed and removes his tunic. In a daze you lay on your elbows, gazing up at his broad, muscular body knowing that if he wanted to he could snap you like a twig. His cock rests heavily between his legs, just as thick and long as you thought. Despite the pleasure he brought you there's still that glint in his dark eyes, a mockery that you can't stand.

"Get away from me."

Your cunt pulses, drooling with your previous release. You try to curl into a ball, facing away from him. 

You think he may leave you be but you feel his hand grip your waist. You thrash as he rips the rest of the nightdress off your body before forcing you onto your hands and knees. 

"It is now my turn to take, wife. Ready yourself." 

He pushes you down onto your belly, curving your ass up to the sky. Then he crawls over you, his hands pinning yours to the bed under his.  You feel him there at your entrance and you feel terrified tears stream over your cheeks. 

"No need for fearful tears," he assures you as his mouth meets your neck. "You will be crying for more of my cock soon enough."

You cry out as he pushes the head of his length between your dripping folds. He's much too big, the intrusion too great. 

"I will make this quick," he grunts. "For your benefit."

Marcus can hardly believe how good the velvet clench of your cunt feels sliding along his cock as he pushes through your virginal barrier. Not since his first wife has he come close to anything this divine.

His teeth come to grip at your shoulder, biting there, marking you as he feeds his cock into your pussy from behind. 

Your cries are muted, your pain ignored, because all Marcus can feel is bliss. Bliss as he marks you forever as his. Bliss as his thick cock stretches your walls, bliss as your pussy stings straining to take him all. 

And by the time he's buried with his hips against your ass, your shoulder is bruised with the indents of his teeth. 

"No more," you beg as he begins to move within you. "Let it be done." 

"We have only started," he muses, kissing your damp cheek. "The best is yet to come."

His frame is so broad it covers you entirely, like you're wearing him as a robe draped over your curved body. He rocks into you as his massive hands press yours into the bed.  

You feel him pull slightly out before buying himself within your womb. You cry out, head falling forward as the slick feel of his cock buries itself deeper and deeper with every subsequent thrust. With every pump he moves the both of you forward before pulling you back. 

And just when the pain is too great, you feel it morph into pleasure. The feel of him thrusting in and out going from sharp to a pleasurable throb. 

Marcus senses the change in you when your back starts to arch and your hips start to lean back to meet his. You're enjoying it now, just as he knew you would. 

"You like this."

He grins to himself when you don't answer and instead let your head hang between your shoulders. 

He continues to tease you, never letting up, waiting until your noises become breathless and needy and then he recedes, chuckling when you whimper his name. 

What feels like eternity later the two of you are slick with sweat, your limbs shaking as Marcus watches you from above. His hands are on your hips now, pulling you against him. 

He spreads your cheeks wide, groaning when he watches his thick cock filling your tight pussy to the brim. 

You're begging for him to give you the same pleasure as before, nearly sobbing with how cock-drunk you are. He feels so good buried between your thighs. 

Marcus only smirks down at you, a hand pressed on your lower back, urging your ass up higher for him. He thinks about all the things he's going to do with you before leaving for battle. 

The thought is exciting him, sending him erratically pumping as he tilts you back, hand coming to strum your clit as your spine kisses his front. He holds you on his thighs, spread wide and bouncing.  

"What are you?" He pants, his lips squished against your cheek, his fingers curling, making you see stars. 

"You're. . . You're wife," you manage to croak out, your hands gripping his forearm slung over your chest. 

He fucks harder into you, his cock hitting the spot your own fingers can never manage. It's causing more stars behind your eyes, your body limp in his grip like a doll. 

"What are you?" Marcus demands again, only now he punctuates his question with a firm slap to your cunt.  

You ache where he slapped, but a pleasurable one that sends you closer and closer to falling off the edge of bliss once more. Only this feels so much bigger, so much more intense than when his mouth was on you. 

"Say it." 

You writhe on his cock, held by one arm around your middle, the other fucking you with his thick fingers over your clit and his thicker cock splitting you with every upward thrust. 

"Please, Marcus."

Marcus is so sweaty, his muscles gleaming in the low firelight. He moans lowly, the sound making your toes curl. Then his warm breath is hot on the side of your face. 

"Say it and I will give you all that you desire." 

You're so close, that pleasure ebbing and coming back stronger with every swipe and thrust. You try to sound it out, but the shame overtakes you again.

"I am you. . . I am your. . ."

Marcus is groaning into your ear again, his thighs twitching as your arousal soaks down his length. But he doesn't stop filling you over and over, his eyes closing as he revels in the pleasure of your milking cunt. 

"Say it." 

And now he presses the heel of his palm against your sex, holding you by the throat under your chin as your head snaps back onto his shoulder. Exposed like an animal Marcus stakes his claim, latching his mouth onto your neck and sucking. 

"I am . . . I am. . ." 

His thrusting continues and now he forces you back onto your hands and knees, draping his body over yours, fingers and cock never stopping, only drilling you from a new angle. He watches your sweet ass ripple for him as he pounds into your cunt, marvelling at how puffy and shiny and perfect she is. 

"Say it," he booms and you can feel his thrusting growing staggered, his body fucking into you with all that he has.

And you can't hold the words back any longer, not when it feels like your very ecstasy hinges on them being said out loud. It tears from you, ripped from your very vocal chords as he sinks into you, your voice shrill and cracked as you scream it.

"I am your whore!" 

The answering groan of Marcus in your ear makes you cry out loudly, coating his stroking fingers with hot arousal as you cum. 

“My whore,” he hisses as you buck against him.

You shake the entire time, confused at how everything in you burst like a ripe berry on the vine and yet you remain outwardly unchanged. Surely you very soul must have left you at that pinnacle of pleasure. You've never felt anything like it. 

And yet here you remain, in his arms in his bed, human and alive. You both pant heavily, the room smelling of sex and sweat and the oils in your hair. 

Marcus tugs you against him and you roll towards his body, pliant and willing. His mouth finds yours but it's soft and delicate. Your hands run through his soft, greying curls. 

"Are you satisfied?" 

You ask it quietly, almost afraid to know his true thoughts. He's experienced in so many ways, twice your age, strong and capable. And yet the kiss he gives you is gentle. It curves as he smiles against your waiting mouth. 

"I am, wife." 

[wannabespacesmuggler]

L.H. | Like a Moth to a Flame

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Logan Howlett is a dangerous man; at least, that's what he wants you to think when he first meets you during your shift at Lucky's. However, he only seems to prove the opposite as he becomes a more constant presence in your life. After learning his true identity in a dark back alley, he's certain you want nothing to do with him. But against your better judgment, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Pairing: Lumberjack!Logan Howlett x Bartender!Reader

Warnings: canon typical violence, men being creepy in an alley, canon divergent (because fuck the timelines), mutual pining, miscommunication

Word Count: 3.4K

Author’s Note: I am overwhelmed with the love and support for my first Logan fic. This man has taken over my ever waking thought. I wrote this while picturing lumberjack Logan from X-Men Origins: Wolverine and listening to Hozier (this man is so "Too Sweet" and "NFWMB" coded). Super proud of how this turned out, hope you enjoy it.

You’re used to a rough-and-tumble, rough-around-the-edges kind of crowd — blue-collar workers, committed hunters, down-on-their-luck drifters. Maybe that’s why you don’t think twice when he enters the tiny dive bar. He’s clad in a deep maroon flannel tucked into a tattered pair of jeans. You don’t even look in his direction as he sidles into a seat at the end of the bar. He looks like any other patron you’ve met while bartending at Lucky’s. 

“Hey there, what can I get for you?”

He leans forward, forearms flexing against the counter. A shiver runs down your spine as your eyes linger on the deep scars etched in between his knuckles before traveling up his broad frame. It’s as if your fight or flight response kicks in, and suddenly, a voice in your head tells you to run. But as you finally meet his hazel eyes, you freeze. There’s a hollowness in how he looks at you — a profound sadness that makes your heart ache for the man sitting before you.

“Whiskey, neat.”

You simply nod at his request before turning to pour him a glass. As you place the drink before him, a flash of metal across his chest grabs your attention. The man follows your gaze, and his features harden at the realization of what caught your interest. He quickly shoves the dog tags hanging loosely around his neck under his shirt — out of your line of sight. Your cheeks instantly flush, humiliation washing over your body. You begin to apologize, but the man downs his glass of whiskey and slaps some cash on the table.

“Thanks for the drink.”

With that, he grabs his leather jacket off the back of his chair and stalks out of the bar. You watch him leave in stunned silence. You hadn’t meant to invade his privacy in any way. You’re used to the anonymity that some men around here need to survive — hell, you don’t even know the names of some of your regulars. Before you can get swallowed up by embarrassment, one of your other patrons calls for another drink. Shaking off your previous interaction, you return your attention to your job.

After work, you couldn’t stop thinking about the encounter. With a deep sigh, you pour yourself a drink and collapse into your couch. You don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about it. In reality, you probably won’t ever see the man again, which should relieve you; however, the thought only disappoints you.

To your surprise, he walks back into the bar three days later during your shift. You try to ignore his presence as he moves to sit at the same spot at the end of the bar. To make amends, you pour a glass of whiskey and set it in front of him.

“This one’s on the house.”

The man looks up, giving you a confused expression. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off.

“Don’t. It’s just an apology for the other night.”

He gives you a nod before grabbing the glass and taking a long drink. You turn away from him, but his deep voice cuts through the rowdy Friday night crowd before you can take a step.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I still expect a tip, though.”

A chuckle reverberates in his chest. The sound of it causes your face to light up. The man’s lips pull up into a small, gentle smile. You force yourself to return to work before you get further drawn into him. Unlike the other night, he sits at the bar for the rest of your shift, ordering several glasses of whiskey and keeping his eyes trained on the television above your head.

“It’s the end of my shift. Ready to close out with me?”

Logan nods, downing the rest of his whiskey and then placing several bills on the counter.

“Keep the change.”

“Wow, thank you…” 

You trail off, realizing you still haven’t learned his name. Looking down at the money he placed before you, you notice he’s tipped you at least fifty percent. You don’t want to invade his privacy again, but a part of you wishes you knew his name so that you could thank him properly.

“Logan.”

“Thank you, Logan.”

He stands up from his seat before clearing his throat awkwardly.

“You working tomorrow?”

You bite your lip at his words, trying to stop yourself from grinning like an idiot. Trying to ground yourself back into reality, you remind yourself that you don’t fraternize with your clientele. While working at Lucky’s, you’ve learned one thing about the men who frequent the establishment — they’re bad news. But then you look back up at him. He’s got to be over six feet tall; his simple white t-shirt accentuates just how broad his body is, and yet this sturdy, well-built man looks almost nervous standing before you. Your body responds before your brain can catch up.

“My shift starts at 6:00.”

Logan slides his leather jacket on, and a slight smirk spreads across his features. He’s a devastatingly handsome man, and you’re no better than a moth to a flame — irresistibly attracted to that which you know will hurt you. 

“See you then.”

And you do see him during your shift the next day, and your shift after that, and the one after that. Logan’s there in his seat at the end of the bar during all of your shifts, ordering whiskeys and making polite conversation until he’s become a constant presence in your life. 

Today is no different. You have a glass of whiskey ready for Logan when he enters the bar. His schedule with the town’s logging company is pretty consistent. Logan accepts the glass graciously as you slide it in front of him. 

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

You ignore how nonchalantly the term of endearment slips past his lips — and how your heart lurches as he says it. Instead, you focus on his features, which somehow look more exhausted than usual today. His work is hard, long, and labor-intensive; however, throughout your conversations with the hardened lumberjack, you’ve also learned that Logan’s sleep schedule is abysmal.  He’s a grown man; he can decide what he wants to do — or doesn’t want to do — but a part of you can’t help but want to care for him.

“You gotta get some sleep, Logan.”

He scoffs in response, looking up at you with tired eyes. You know he isn’t angry at your suggestion, but the pointed look he gives you is a warning. He’s opened up quite a bit throughout his frequent visits to the bar, but there is still an air of mystery about the man sitting before you. You know better than to push him, so you raise your hands defeatedly.

“All I’m saying is that those dark circles do nothing for that handsome face.”

A warm laugh reverberates in Logan’s chest. He takes a long drink from his glass before responding, downing a considerable amount of whiskey with absolutely no reaction.

“You think I’m handsome?”

You roll your eyes at the man, trying to keep your cool. Logan is an enigma to you — simultaneously socially awkward and overly flirtatious. It’s as if he has two personalities — two completely different sides of himself — fighting for dominance at all times. And yet, it works because he’s catastrophically charming. 

“Shut up.”

A smug smirk spreads across Logan’s face, and you decide it’s getting a little too stuffy in the small dive bar. You grab the pack of cigarettes you keep stashed under the bar and turn back to Logan. He already knows what you’re about to ask. It’s become routine for Logan to join you during your fifteen-minute break, sharing cigarettes in the secluded alley behind the bar.

“I’m going for a smoke. You coming?”

“Let me finish my drink. I’ll be right out.”

You nod at him before moving towards the back door. As you step out into the alley, you’re met with a much-appreciated, cool breeze. It causes a shiver to run down your spine as your body adjusts to the sudden difference in temperature. After placing a cigarette between your lips, you pull a small silver lighter out of your back pocket. You slide your thumb over the engraving on the side: L.H. Logan had given you the lighter after yours burnt out about a month ago. You tried to give it back, but he insisted you keep it. You bring the lighter up to your face, but a voice surprises you before you can light your cigarette. 

“Those things’ll kill you, sweetheart.”

A man you’ve never seen before emerges from the darkness and approaches you with an uncomfortable air of familiarity. The way this man says Logan’s term of endearment makes you sick to your stomach. It sounds sweet coming from Logan’s lips — grounded in a deep respect and laced with affection. 

You were simply going to ignore him, knowing Logan’s presence would deter him in a matter of minutes; however, your body bristles as two more figures join him from the darkness of the alley. Your body moves on its own accord, seeking the comfort and safety of the bar — of Logan. But the man closest to you grabs your arm before you can step out of their reach.

“Where you going, sweetheart? The party’s out here.”

His voice is sickly sweet and dripping with venom — a stark contrast to Logan’s low, warm timbre. The two men behind him laugh at his words. Your fight or flight response kicks in, and you struggle against the man’s hold as you’re hit with the gravity of your situation.

“Just let me go.”

Your voice is stern as you rip your arm away from the man’s grip. You rush to get away, but he’s quicker. He places both hands on the brick wall behind you, caging you in. Now you’re panicking. A threatening growl interrupts the encounter before the man in front of you can say anything else, and Logan emerges from the darkness. His features are menacing in the dim light of the alley, but you’re met with a sense of relief rather than fear.

“You heard her. Let her go.”

The tiny hairs on the back of your neck raise at the sound of his voice; however, the stranger in front of you doesn’t seem to find him as frightening. Instead of backing down, the man lets out a dry, unamused laugh at Logan’s words.

“We’re just having some fun here.”

Bile rises in your throat at the insinuation in his tone. Logan seems equally displeased by his response as another animalistic growl rips through his body. He takes an intimidating step forward before speaking.

“You don’t want to do this, bub.”

It’s almost as if he’s pleading with them — begging them to stop so that he doesn’t have to act first. Your eyes find those dog tags hanging around his neck again. Your heart breaks as you realize Logan doesn’t want to fight, but he will — for you. Based on the look in his eyes, he’ll rip these men apart limb from limb if they lay a hand on you. 

“No, buddy, you don’t want to do this. You’re outnumbered — three to one. You don’t stand a chance.”

The man’s tone is amused but impatient. He’s itching for Logan to either leave them be or throw the first punch, but he does neither. Instead, Logan squares his shoulders and extends his arms out at his sides.

“You sure about that?”

Your brow furrows at an unfamiliar sound — a strange, metallic snikt. You’re surprised when the man’s arms fall from either side of your shoulders. You take the opportunity to create distance between yourself and the group of men who are all staring at Logan. Not understanding what caused their sudden hesitation, you also look over at Logan. Your body tenses at the sight of him standing in the middle of the alley with long, metal claws protruding from his fists. He takes another step forward, and the men scatter, running for their lives. 

Logan waits a few moments, ensuring that the men are actually gone. Then he lets out a deep sigh as his metal claws retract back into his hands. Your hands meet the cool brick behind you, grounding you in this incredibly unreal moment. You blink, expecting to wake up from whatever dream you’re having right now — but you’re not dreaming.

Logan finally turns to face you, and his features soften. His eyes scan your body, checking you over for injuries. He takes a step toward you but stops as you take a step toward the bar's back door. You can’t seem to look away from his hands — at those deep, pronounced scars between his knuckles. His eyes follow yours, and you’re met with instant regret as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. You finally look up at his face and are anguished at the sight of his hardened features.

You want to tell him a million things. Your body moved on its own accord. You didn’t mean to stare at his scars. You’re just confused. You’re grateful for his help. You’re not afraid of him.

But you don’t mutter a single word. It’s as if you’re frozen in place. 

“Alright.”

Your heart almost breaks in two at the pained sound of his voice. Logan meets your eyes one last time, disappointment evident in his gaze. Finally, your body shakes out of its paralysis, but it’s too late — the damage has already been done. You watch helplessly as he begins walking away from you. 

“Logan, wait.”

But he doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking until he vanishes into the darkness. Tears begin rolling down your cheeks as you slide down against the brick wall — partly because of what could have happened and partly because of what did happen. And just like the first day you met Logan, you fear you may never see him again. 

But once again, you were wrong. 

Eight unbearably long days later, Logan enters Lucky’s again. You watch his bated breath as he approaches, hoping he’ll sit at his usual spot at the end of the bar. Instead, Logan places a few bills on the counter before meeting your gaze. You draw in a shaky breath as you look into his hazel eyes — the hollowness is back, and our heart aches as you realize you’re now the reason behind that sadness. 

“Didn’t feel right not closing out last time.”

You almost laugh at his words — the free glass of whiskey was the last thing on your mind. He rolls his shoulders back nervously, his muscles flexing under his black t-shirt. You reach out and grab his hand before he can pull it away from the counter. His eyes instantly widen, but the physical contact seems to make him relax ever so slightly.

“Can we talk, please?”

Your hand tightens around his, physically begging him to just stay. Logan nods in silent agreement. You pull your hand away from his and try to push down the sudden disappointment caused by the loss of his touch. You move toward the back door, and Logan follows you into the alley from a safe distance. For a moment, you’re lost in a bout of deja vu as you lean against the brick wall, and Logan stands before you. Your hands nervously find Logan’s lighter in your pocket, looking for something to occupy yourself with. The movement catches Logan’s eyes, and you swear the corners of his lips twitch up into a small smile at the sight of his lighter in your hands. 

“I’m sorry.”

The words tumble out of you clumsily. Logan’s brow furrows, and you watch as his head tilts slightly to the side. 

“What?”

“I’m so sorry, Logan.”

Logan’s lips pull into a small frown as he considers your apology. He takes a cautious step forward, watching you intently. He’s waiting for you to pull away, but you stand your ground.

“Why are you apologizing, sweetheart?” 

You can’t help the small smile that spreads across your face. Hearing him say that name — the word that’s been keeping you up at night — you realize just how much you missed the sound of his voice.

“I made you think I’m afraid of you.”

Logan takes another step forward, testing you. You know what he’s trying to do — he’s giving you an out. Pull away, and he’ll stop, but you lock eyes with the man before you. His movements might be cautious, but his eyes are wild with unspoken emotion.

“Well, are you?”

“No.”

Another step forward. He’s now standing within arm’s length. You could reach out and touch him. God, you want to reach out and touch him. Logan looks down at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. No man has ever looked at you like this, but then again, Logan certainly isn’t like any other man. 

“You should be.”

That voice from the first day you met him appears yet again, telling you to run. But you stay put. You don’t need to run from him. You don’t need to fear him. He protected you from those men. He was prepared to fight for you. He revealed his true identity to keep you safe. And once again, you’re like a moth to his flame — gravitating towards him.

“I’m not afraid of you, Logan. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s a breath away, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off his body. You wonder if he can hear your heart pounding in your chest as his gaze moves from your eyes to your lips. His hand covers yours, stopping your anxious fidgeting with his lighter. You watch in awe as he takes it from your grasp and places it into your jacket pocket. He moves his hand out of your pocket; his fingers leave a scorching sensation behind in their absence as they slide across your skin until they reach your waist. His other hand comes up and tenderly caresses the side of your face.

“Say it again.”

Your breath hitches at his request, but you do what he asks — hell, you’d do anything for him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Logan shakes his head. His hand moves to take hold of the other side of your waist. The grip he has on you is secure but gentle.

“No, sweetheart. Not that part.”

Oh. Oh.

You could cry at the realization — at his need to feel wanted and appreciated. You move your hands to either side of his face. He melts into your touch before meeting your eyes again. A part of you wonders if anyone has ever touched Logan like this — if he’s ever known what physical contact feels like outside of a fight.

“I’m not afraid of you, Logan. I trust you.”

And suddenly, Logan is pulling you into him. His lips desperately find yours. Your fingers thread through his hair as his body pushes you into the brick wall. His movements are rooted in a deep hunger — not driven by lust, but in a need to be known and loved and touched. So that’s just what you do. Your hands move through his hair, down his neck, across his chest, over his back. You attempt to touch every bit of Logan to prove that you want this — that you want him. 

A low growl reverberates in his chest as he pulls away from your lips. Unlike the night before, this growl isn’t rooted in anger but, instead, the result of a deep desire. His hands move away from your body and find the wall behind you. Your brow furrows at the loss of his touch until you hear a familiar sound on either side of you — a sharp, metallic snikt. He leans down, forehead resting against yours as his short, rapid breaths fan over your face.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t control it sometimes.”

You shake your head at his admission. He did control himself — he purposely removed his hands from your body before his claws extended. He protects you as if it’s just his second nature — something he doesn’t even need to take the time to consider. You run your hands up his chest, feeling the tense muscles under his t-shirt, before gently grabbing his face.

“Hey. Hey.”

You pull away slightly so you can look him in the eye. Your words grab his attention, grounding him.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I trust you.”

His breaths gradually even out, and eventually, you hear his claws retract and feel the familiar warmth of his touch against your skin again. As Logan maintains eye contact, looking at you as if you’re the answer to some unspoken prayer, you begin to think you’ve gotten this all wrong: maybe you’re not the moth, but the flame.

[chiikasevennn]

Ironically Horny

Sung Jinwoo x Fem!Reader

Warning(s): SMUT, 18+, YK THE DRILL 🙄😠 (i hate writing but woowoo x reader/oc writers are not that many and it kills me), ugly writing i did not proofread anything, aphrodisiac, no plot just porn, belly bulge, lmk if I'm missing smth else! Thanks

A/N: guys, idk what i'm doing /srs, so please beware—I might be insane as I wrote this. I'M LOOKING AT YOU. This ain't canon ok? Also, [N. Name] means nickname!! Guys, pls comment....

"Hu… angh!" You clenched the bedsheets abrasively as you realized that indulging feeling kick in your lower belly again.

A bulge continuously vanished and reappeared with each thrust this bastard, Sung Jinwoo, gave you. With a numb mind, you looked at the headboard with your eyes remained moist with tears as the raven haired man ruin you completely with his cock.

He was big. A bit too big.

"Jin'oo, ah… hic," your head attempted to raise but failed and fell flat against the pillow. The sound of his grunting made you weak although you knew this sort of act wasn't romantic at all.

Jinwoo flipped your body, making you view his rock-hard and impressive abs—but he realized that it was completely useless as you clearly couldn't even see it properly as your mind had gone blank long ago because of his relentless pounding.

In the stillness of the night, his rough shoving echoed through your bedroom. Jinwoo watched you cry, you, who was always tough-looking.

Jinwoo traced his fingers along your neck and placed a hickey there. He did it once, twice, and before he knew it, he couldn't stop until he realized he finally came again for the nth time.

So, how did you guys end up like this? Well—

"What the—I-I'm poisoned?" Your displeasure was clear as Jinwoo looked at you, and it appeared that you were looking at your system albeit not visible in his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"System said ordinary potions wouldn't work, not to mention, I'm no healer either."

"What?"

You contemplated the words written on the blue screen despite the multiple times you've analyzed it. When new words began to appear and soon you understood, your face went pale.

"[Name]?" Jinwoo had never seen you like this before. He felt a knot of worry twisting in his stomach. It was so unlike you to be this troubled.

"Jinwoo, please kill me."

"What???"

He saw your lifeless eyes, as if you failed to accept something too deep. "Kill me. Living is already humiliating enough."

"What's wrong with you? What did the system say, anyway?"

"I'd…" cheeks burning in mortification, you ended up crouching. "Oh, Lords, this is so fucking embarrassing. The hell." You whispered the last part.

You cursed like a mantara and Jinwoo watched as you slowly lost your mind.

"Just—" he almost sighed. "What does it say?"

"I… I have to…" The other player had never once witnessed you falter with your words nor look as if you wanted to disappear right this instant. "Sex… Do intimate shit. Oh…? …! Fuck, it also told me it's not poison, but an aphrodisiac!"

Jinwoo was speechless.

"... Where in the world am I gonna find a sex partner?"

That was a problem, until he offered himself.

He was just being… helpful.

Your body trembled. Letting out a strangled moan, your eyes began to be coated with tears as you recognized Jinwoo's hot spill inside of you beginning to form.

He was a quick learner, once he grasped how much touching your clit and hitting that sweet spot slightly above pleasured you, he didn't back down. No, not after he was told that possible complications might arise if he didn't help you sooner. Not to mention, there was a time limit. A time limit that he had to cum inside you (he was given 2 hours to spill his seed inside for at least 7 times, just what the fuck?) to cure whatever dilemma that monster had thrown at you. It was ridiculous.

Initially, he didn't think it'd work in one hundred and twenty minutes, but after he'd made you cum and squirt for the first time, God knew how much he wanted you right then and there.

One more to go. Jinwoo pulled you closer to his pelvis, not daring to pull his cock out. Sweat was all over the two of you, but he had no time to stop, for he only had 10 minutes left to finish this.

He unexpectedly stopped his plan momentarily when you whined. What? Had he lost track? Maybe you were starting to get uncomfortable since he'd been rough on you for almost two hours. He should stop—

"Jin'oo…" you sobbed softly. He swore he'd never seen anything so beautiful before. "'t hurts… Hurry… D-don't stop… Please."

He looked down at you like a predator and breathed heavily at the sight of you. He sat up, shoulders broad as he held your waist, his dick twitching inside you. Was he getting worked up? Fuck.

Ablush crept up to his face at your adorable begging, but he knew you were out of consciousness as we speak. If you keep nicely pleading him to fuck you, then he might not be able to stop.

He scrutinized your gorgeous body that he secured in his hold. Jinwoo tried to push his dick deeper to which you cried at—and seeing that bulge on your lower stomach made him slightly (so) proud. It was nice that he could touch something that could stand as a proof that he was inside you.

"You…" He leaned down and kissed your temple. You grabbed his cheek and caught his lips into a deep kiss. Jinwoo wasn't able to help himself but return the gesture with equal reason.

The raven haired man didn't pull away until he felt your breath running out and again, he blushed red as he gazed at your panting situation.

He ruined you in a good way.

"Let's finish this, all right?" He kissed your temple so sweetly. "I'm sorry, I have to go rougher since we only have a few minutes left, but I can't risk any future difficulty happening to you, [N. Name]."

You nodded eagerly, and before you knew it, you were being pounded into oblivion again.

[wizardwomenwisdom]

steve and eddie pre-season 4 doing divorced parent swaps of dustin after hellfire meetings.

at first, when steve hears dustin’s becoming friends with eddie, he doesn’t really care. it’s not his business, honestly, and if his friendship with robin’s taught him anything it’s that cliques in high school mean so little.

it’s only when dustin’s mom pulls him aside one day, when he drops dustin off, that he begins to worry. because dustin’s the last on the list of hellfire members to get dropped off in eddie’s van, and there aren’t seats back there, and honestly eddie’s driving is bad on a good day.

so at first, steve offers to start driving dustin home from the high school. and the way dustin acts, well, steve feels like he just offered to take out an armed russian guard again. after a bit of arguing, he gets to the bottom of it: dustin likes hanging out with everyone on the ride. and since the way to his place passes the closest micky-d’s, eddie and garath always take him to get dinner.

so they make a deal: steve’ll meet them at mcdonald’s, pick dustin up, and take him home so his mom stops stressing. it’ll be a quick weekly hand off.

only every friday, when he pulls into the lot, eddie’s standing outside waiting with a few sarcastic quips. steve and he almost always argue about dustin while dustin finishes eating (“if it were a sports car you wouldn’t give a shit about seatbelts” “that’s why i don’t drive a fucking sports car to pick him up, dick.”) (“you’re late.” “i had a date.” “and he has a bed time.”) (“i get that your campaign is important, but he has a c in latin right now.” “i can’t make him do homework if he doesn’t want to.” “you most certainly can.”)

the first time robin comes with him, she spends the whole ride to the hendersons giggling. when dustin’s finally out of the car, steve turns in the driver’s seat and crosses his arms.

“out with it, buckley. what’s so funny?”

she blinks twice, and then starts laughing again. “what’s the custody agreement look like between the two of you?” she manages.

“what?”

“do you not realize it?”

“realize what?”

“you and eddie ‘the freak’ munson have spent the last three months doing a quintessential divorced parent drop.”

“wait, wait-“

“the arguing? the mcdonald’s parking lot? the weird pseudo-flirting?”

“i do not flirt with eddie.”

“does that make me dustin’s shitty step-mom?”

“robin!”

“oh my god.” she’s laughing so hard at this point that she can’t breathe.

steve shifts back into the driver’s seat. he doesn’t say anything until they’re back on the road, and robin calms down, and his face is sufficiently red. finally, he manages a “fuck you, buckley.” which starts robin into another laughing fit.

steve’s extra aware of how eddie calls him sweetheart next time they meet up.

edit: wrote a fic of this lowkey.

[rottenomelet]

yandere jjk thoughts

warning:: nsfw! i’m eighteen and you should be too! hints of kidnapping, non-con, and coercion. nothing is ever really explicitly stated but - still.

a/n: there’s no real rhyme or reason behind this - winter is just my favorite time to snuggle up and read about crazy ppl. also i wrote this in lowercase originally so u see a spot i missed, no u didnt. u can leave requests for different characters if u wanna

Gojo Satoru

In no world could I ever imagine Gojo Satoru treating you like a real human being.

He is the strongest. There is no one who could destroy him. He can see all. And the issue isn’t just that he’s the best, it’s that he’s been told that since the day he opened his bright eyes. He has a big ego and it’s justified because there is no one better than him.

And sure he’ll indulge you. He'll laugh at your jokes and console you when you cry. But in the back of his mind, in every kiss to your forehead, in every smile, there will always be a domineering aspect. Because he knows that you are insignificant in the grand scheme of the world. you are only important because he deemed you worth something.

You’re not quite a toy or a pet to him. You’re more like - an indoor plant to him. Something that needs nurturing from his caring hands, watering and sunlight granted to you by him. You adapt and grow according to his needs and his conditions. But at the same time, you are to be cherished. never handled too roughly, case you begin to wilt. You don’t have to do much but sit and be nurtured and be pretty while he gives you whatever he deems necessary for your survival.

It fascinates him, really, how simple your little life is. How much you don’t know and never will know because as a flower, all you need to understand is that water and sunlight and love are given to you before you’ll even realize that you need it.

But you still have a job to be pretty and sometimes that’s sitting on the bed, still, as he observes you or bouncing on his cock. It just depends on the day.

Geto Suguru

Suguru is a calm man, a quiet man. He makes decisions based on logic. He is not exactly one for emotional outbursts, and even at his angriest, he rarely raises his voice.

But you.

A little non-sorcerer that can’t even see curses somehow made him look twice. Little unimportant you constantly runs through his mind. What you’re doing, what you’ve eaten, what places you’ve gone to. Who you’ve talked to, who your friends are. Your hobbies, your interests. Your lips and your eyes and that special something between your legs.

Just thinking about you, even innocently, makes him harden. It’s uncomfortable, it’s infuriating, it’s maddening.

He thought, surely someone in your family was a sorcerer, a powerful one at that. But no, your family is normal. You are, genetically, as average as they come.

He doesn’t treat you softly at first, doesn’t have a mind to. You’re a filthy little nothing, after all. When he fucks, he fucks without care. Suguru treats you like a doll, not made of porcelain but made of cloth, one he can throw around and still be in decent condition. He keeps a hand pressed to your mouth, to keep your voice down. A blindfold around your eyes so he doesn’t have to look into them. Your hands are bound behind your back so you don't touch him even by accident. Flat on your stomach, unable to see or feel or say anything is how you find yourself every time. He doesn’t even come inside of you, the only thing you’re grateful for.

It’s scary, how roughly he treats you. But it’s downright terrifying when he begins to lay softer hands upon you, begins to kiss instead of bite, caress instead of pinch.

Nanami Kento

He is a very traditional and stern man.

You are, silly, to him. stumbling and bumping and in general, unsure of yourself and what to do. But he sees potential. Even when you’ve tripped over thin air or broken something by accident, there’s a certain grace to your movements. A grace he wants to harvest and invest in.

And while he wants to give you direction, he also doesn’t have the patience or time to teach you like he wants. So, it’s best to ‘learn on the job’ when it comes to Kento.

Learn how to cook his favorite meals and bake the sweets he loves just right. When he’s okay with speaking and when he needs quiet. Remembering to kiss him goodbye every morning and remove his coat for him every night.

Learn how to suck his cock right - which vein is most sensitive, when to suckle and gag and slurp, what noises to make, and remember to always always swallow. He hates messes after all.

Learn his favorite positions. The lingerie sets he like best. How loudly he wants you to be. Accept his cum in your tummy with a smile.

It’s not hard - please him and you will be rewarded. Rewarded with pleasure, with time outside, with gentle hands.

And if you stumble or forget, he will easily remind you of your job.

Mahito

You’re his personal entertainment. You’re an experiment.

Mahito is incredibly laid-back, even lazy to an extent. He lets you roam and explore and fall. He doesn’t care what you do as long as you stay within the four walls he’s placed you in.

It's hard to understand him. For a curse, he’s always laughing, finding almost child-like joy in the most odd things. Whether that’s watching an animal documentary or wondering if a human’s neck can extend like the turtles on TV.

One thing you do know is that he likes games and he likes playing with you. The only problem is you don’t when the game starts and ends, the rules or even if you’re playing right. Oftentimes, you find yourself playing a game that you don’t know the rules of and Mahito has named himself the gamekeeper.

He usually starts by asking a question. Something simple like “What time did you wake up?” or “What did you eat today?”. You find out the hard way that no matter what you say, you’re always wrong.

Say you woke up at ten? Then you’ll find yourself pressing into the mattress, drooling on your pillow as he drills you, punishing you for waking so late in the day. You had a slice of cake earlier? Then don’t be surprised when you’re in the kitchen licking icing off his cock as punishment for an unhealthy lunch.

Itadori Yuuji

He's the jock that gave you a chance. That made you feel special and pretty and popular.

He's sweet. He gives you his hoodie when you’re cold. He drives you home after school. Buys you lunch when you can’t afford it. Takes you on nice dates.

He wants you sitting front row at all his games, wearing his varsity jacket so everyone knows you’re his girl. He twirls you and kisses you in front of the whole school when he wins, the whole thing right of a cheesy rom-com.

But, surely, you didn’t think he was doing all that for free? No, he wants compensation. He deserves a reward for treating you so sweetly. It's only fair.

It doesn’t matter if you’re ‘not ready’. No, no, you’re just nervous, sweetheart. But he’ll be gentle with you so calm down. Yeah, calm down when he slides a hand up your skirt on a date to the movies. Be quiet when he asks you for head in the janitor’s closet between classes. And don’t make a fuss when he slips his cock inside of you, raw, even though you begged him to use a condom.

‘Rubbers hurt,’ he says. ‘It feels better raw’,’ he pleads. ‘Don’t worry - I'll pull out.,’ he promises.

And you better be understanding when he comes inside of you. Afterall, he’ll buy you a plan b.

Choso

Whatever you do, do not stress this man.

He’s going through enough as is. The last thing he needs from you is any attitude or ungratefulness. Even an upset face will have you with your knees pushed beside your head and Choso making you scream, all while watching you with that same tired expression.

Choso is the oldest of ten siblings. He is used to dealing with bratty behavior. He handles your tantrums with grace - once you’ve finished throwing things and screaming, he’ll only ask if you're finished. And then he will be upon you.

But, beyond punishment, he is caring and quiet. He prefers it when you speak, likes it when you prattle on about your day or your favorite show. He likes it when you’re happy.

[crazyyluvr]

Hello! I have a request if that's okay? Could you maybe do a James Potter x male!reader (with the reader being Ravenclaw) where they end up being partnered together in potions and afterwards James is like 'shit. I think I might be gay.'

Basically where the reader is his gay awakening haha

A Revelation in Potions (Not Through Amortentia, That's too Generic)

pairing: james potter x male!ravenclaw!reader

summary: in which James never knew men could be so attractive until he gets paired up with you in a Potions activity.

genre: fluff, gay awakening, crushing

wc: 2.1k

warning/s: cursing, reader is a little taller than james, he/him pronouns, gay panic, james is a lil shy here, potion nonsense that i made up on the spot, reader is good in potions, mention of boobs lmao

note: oooh, interesting request anon. i like it. i hope you enjoy!!

oneshot under the cut :: not edited :: part 1 | part 2

James Potter was dying.

No, not literally. But he did feel like he was literally dying.

This is what a painful death felt like, didn't it? The inability to properly take in air, the painful pounding of his racing heart, the stumble of his tongue as he tried and failed to properly speak.

On the contrary, James Potter was not just dying. He was dying of embarrassment.

Let's rewind a little bit for some context.

Gryffindor and Ravenclaw were stuck in the dungeons of a double Potions class together. As usual, James sat beside his friend Sirius Black, and as usual, they were noisy with sniggers and poorly muted whispers.

"Black, Potter, do you have something that you'd like to share?" Professor Slughorn called to the two boys sitting in the back after a wheeze from Sirius was too loud for the professor to ignore.

"No sir, we're — we're fine," James said, sounding slightly out if breath from containing his laughter at a joke Sirius had made. "Just a little hot in here, isn't it?"

Slughorn sighed. "It's less hot here in the front, Potter, so why don't you switch with Shelby here?"

The girl sitting beside you perked up at the mention of her name, looking back and blushing when she realized that she was going to be sitting beside Sirius Black.

"On the contrary sir, I think I feel slightly colder already," James grinned. "I'm fine with staying at the back."

"I insist, Potter," Slughorn held a strained smile, displaying the fact that James had no choice but to follow.

The boy sighed, giving Sirius an exaggerated mournful look before picking up his things and walking over to the now vacant seat in the front, messing up his hair along the way out of habit.

He set his things down beside his chair and slumped into it, sparing a glance at his new seatmate. "Hello. I guess you're stuck with me for today," James said quietly, not wanting to disrupt Slughorn's lesson again.

You turned to face him, giving him a small smile. "I guess so. Nice to meet you."

James nodded, and you looked away to jot down some notes as Slughorn wrote on the board.

James did a double take, his brain just processing the face he saw.

Woah, he's handsome.

He couldn't stop himself from looking at you again, taking in your features from the side; your focused eyes, your cheeks, your jawline, your lips.

James had to make himself blink twice to snap himself out of his trance. I'm straight. So what if he's handsome? I'm handsome too.

"Now that we're done with our lesson, you will use the rest of the period to brew a simple Sleeping Draught with your seatmate," Slughorn announced. "Go through your books for the procedure, and don't hesitate to ask me any questions you may have."

With a wave of his wand, a cauldron appeared on the side of each pair's table. "The ingredients are in the cupboard behind me," he continued, waving his wand once more to open the cupboard doors. "You may begin."

James went to stand up, but you put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He looked at you and saw that you got to your feet. "I'll go get the ingredients. Can you partially fill the cauldron with water and heat it up please?" You asked.

"Uh — sure," James responded, making you smile and pat his shoulder twice before leaving with you Potions book in hand.

James stared after you, shook his head to focus. You gave him a task, and he had the weird goal to not let you down. He muttered “aguamenti” under his breath and water spilled out of the tip of his wand, filling the the cauldron. He flicked his wand upward to stop the flow once the water was halfway.

He ignited a fire under the cauldron and stayed standing over it, watching bubbles appear in the water.

“I’m back,” you greeted, gently putting down the ingredients on the empty part of their table.

James turned his head to look at you, his breath hitching when he noticed that you had a few inches over him, the top of his head reaching a little bit above your eyebrows.

He watched you pull the sleeves of your uniform upwards to your elbows, revealing your forearms. He swallowed with difficulty.

Get your head in the game, Potter, James thought, mentally slapping himself. He’s just a random boy from Ravenclaw whose taller than you and has really nice arms. Big deal.

“I’ll cut the ingredients up, you put them in the cauldron and follow the stirring. Is that okay?” You asked, giving him a glance before you put the ingredients on the cutting board in front of you.

“You’re doing an awful lot of work, huh?” James said, chuckling breathily, making you laugh slightly in response.

“Stirring properly and putting the ingredients in is also important, is it not?” You smiled teasingly, cutting the plant root with as much accuracy as possible.

He watched your fingers glide over the root and how the veins on the back of your palm popped to life when you gripped the knife.

Holy shit, James, control yourself, the messy-haired boy scolded himself. Think boobs. Boobs!

“Are you ready for the Quidditch match tomorrow?” You asked, attempting to break the semi-awkward silence between you two.

“Ah,” James remembered that Gryffindor had a match against Hufflepuff. In truth, he wasn't all that worried about it, since he's seen their Seeker and he isn't much (NO HATE ON HUFFLEPUFF, I LOVE HUFFLEPUFF <33).

"I think I'm ready," James said after a moment of silence. "I don't feel all that worried about it," he grinned, sending the boy a wink. Why he did that when he normally only did it to girls (with the exception of his own friend group) he had no idea why. I guess being with you made him full of even more surprises.

You rolled your eyes playfully at him. "Sure." You handed him the chopping board with your evenly cut plant roots on it. "Time for you to shine, Mister Potter. Pour it and stir it properly."

James took the board with an exaggerated bow. "It's my pleasure, good sir." He tossed the roots in the boiling cauldron almost carelessly, some of the water splashing onto the back of his hand.

You, who was supposed to be grinding some mineral to powder, immediately set down your mortar and pestle to check on the boy who winced in pain as the hot water made contact with his skin.

"Be careful!" You scolded, gently grabbing his hand and examining it. "It's not that bad of a burn, but we're gonna have to rinse it with warm water."

James nodded dumbly, the pain numbing slightly as soon as his hand made contact with yours.

Soft hands, he noted.

You dragged him over to the sink on the other side of the room and let the faucet run for a little while before guiding his hand under the running water, your focus blinding you from James's stare.

I'm straight. I'm straight. Straight as a wand.

"Does it hurt, Potter?"

"James," He answered absentmindedly.

"What?"

"Call me James. Not Potter."

You looked up, his big brown eyes staring at you behind round, silver-rimmed glasses. "Okay, James," he totally did not shiver at the sound of his first name rolling off your tongue, "does it hurt?"

James shook his head. "It feels way better now."

"Are you sure?" You questioned, brows creasing in concern.

"Yeah — yep, I'm fine," he answered, his eyes unblinking as he maintained eye contact with you despite his small stumble over his own words. "We can just continue brewing the potion, yeah?"

Which brings us to the present moment, where he felt like he was dying.

"Okay, as long as you're sure..." You said, not entirely convinced but letting it slide for now.

You pulled down your sleeve on one arm to use it to wipe the extra water that lingered on his hand before letting it go entirely. James was already missing the warmth.

"Let's head back," you said, checking your watch as you turned around to return to your table and to resume your tasks of preparing the ingredients.

Your work commenced in silence. Your potion was a little messed up from the lack of stirring and addition of the other ingredients, but it wasn't unsalvageable. You just added some bark and leaves to balance it out a little.

You hesitantly handed the ingredients to James, worried that he was going to hurt himself again, but this time he was gentle, smiling at you victoriously as if not getting burned again was an accomplishment — which it was, you guess.

"You're stirring too quickly, James," you said, laughing slightly at his somewhat aggressive stirring.

"It didn't say that speed mattered," he replied cheekily, continuing his ministrations.

You sighed, shaking your head slightly with a smile on your face as you took a step towards him and grabbed his stirring hand, the one that wasn't burned. James eyes widened a fraction at the contact, but said nothing.

"Slow down," you murmured, guiding his hand to a much slower pace compared to the one he had set moments before. "No need to rush."

James didn't reply, too busy trying to tame the redness of his cheeks. In order to guide him, you had to stand close behind him, your chest grazing his back and your breath fanning his ear and part of his neck. Goosebumps trailed over the skin that your hot breath caressed.

"'Stir clockwise until potion turns a light shade of blue,'" you read from the instructions in your book. "What do you think, James? Is our potion ready yet?" You hummed the question almost directly in his ear.

This damn man. No way is he not doing this on purpose.

"It — No, not yet," He said, mentally whacking himself in the back of his head for his stammering.

"Alright, we keep stirring then."

You could have let go of his hand already and let him stir on his own, but you didn't. You kept your hand over his, clutching it in a gentle grip, until your potion turned from purple into a light blue.

You smiled. James, for some reason, could feel that smile despite not seeing it. It tingled in the back of his brain.

"Okay, we're done."

You let go of his hand, moving to the side to grab a dropper and a vial. James pulled the stirrer out of the cauldron and set it aside, watching you collect some of your potion and putting it in the vial.

"The Sleeping Draught can be deadly in large amounts," you said, collecting more of the potion as a bit of your Ravenclaw brain slipped out. "If you take too much of it, your calming sleep will also turn into an endless one."

You put down the dropped and took a stopper to seal the vial. You looked up at James with a smile that James could only interpret as mischievous. "Everything can kill you if you have too much of it, don't you agree?"

You don't wait for him to reply before going to the front and placing your vial in the empty rack on Slughorn's table, holding a small conversation with Slughorn before returning to get your things.

"We can leave early," you informed James, grinning. You shouldered your bag and adjusted your blue tie to not choke you as much, the hot atmosphere of the Potions room getting to you a little. "See you around, James."

You left him staring at your back, mouth slightly open and eyes wide.

Sirius passed him to get some ingredients his partner forgot to retrieve earlier and noticed his dumbfounded expression. "You good, Prongs? What happened to your hand?" He asked, looking at James's hand as he raised it to ruffle his own hair.

"Pads," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "Pads, I think I'm in love."

"Huh?" He followed his best mate's gaze, catching a glimpse of your uniform before you disappeared completely. Sirius looked back at the bespectacled boy with a cheeky grin on his face.

"Nah mate, I think you just got your gay awakening. Welcome to the club, Prongs."

"Yeah..." James's eyes were still fixed on the doorway where you once were, before his eyes snapped to Sirius's when his words fully processed in his brain. "Wait, you're gay??"

Sirius shrugged. "I'd be disappointed in myself if I wasn't," he joked, clapping James on the back. "You got good taste for your first boy crush," Sirius said before leaving James to his unpacked things and his own thoughts.

Can't argue with Padfoot about that: I definitely got good taste in men for my first guy crush...

[scoops-aboy86]

Twice Shy

For the April @steddiemicrofic prompt 'fool'!

wc: 454 | rated: G | cw: none | tags: referenced recreational drug use, brief angst with a happy ending, Nancy really messed Steve up, chubby Steve Harrington if you squint

Steve’s been fooled by Eddie plenty of times. When they were in school together, the guy once sold him literal grass clippings as weed and was an off-putting ass at every opportunity. Some of that could be explained by shit Tommy or the other jocks pulled, but mostly it was part of the bit. If Eddie was going to be cast as a freak, he’d be The Freak and become untouchable. 

Spring Break dropped Eddie straight into a bucket of trauma and rinsed that bravado away. And Steve had bought into the idea that only cowardice was left—not judging him for it, because Steve had almost run too, back in the very beginning. 

Until the idiot shocked them all by standing his ground against the demobats, saving Dustin’s life. 

Being shoved against a wall one day and called “big boy” another have weaseled their way into Steve’s head. So, once the doctors clear Eddie to go home, Steve offers his because… the guy no longer has one. Wayne moves in too, and for a while it feels like having family around. Less like family when Eddie kisses him on the couch one night during an impromptu Star Wars marathon, but, yeah. Eddie’s shit starts gradually migrating up into Steve’s room until, a month or two later, he’s basically moved in. 

So it hurts when Steve, who just wanted to surprise Eddie at Corroded Coffin’s first show back at the Hideout, after they played the song Eddie  wrote for him, watches his supposed boyfriend sidle up to some guy at the bar and lean in to say something with that smile. The one Steve thought was just for him. 

Someone drops their drink, spattering Steve’s shoes with glass shards and beer. He doesn’t realize until Eddie looks up that it was him, and, well. Of all the times he’s been fooled into thinking Eddie’s something he’s not, this one is the worst. So Steve does what he did when Nancy called him bullshit; he turns and shoves his way out the door. 

Only this time, he’s followed. Can’t help thinking I used to be faster than this when Eddie catches up.

“Steve—He asked about your song!”

Pride keeps Steve moving, but his thoughts hesitate. When they’re even with the van he lets Eddie pull him alongside it, less visible between cars, relatively safe. 

“Baby,” Eddie says, eyes huge and close. He smells like sweat and smoke, but thankfully not booze. “I know how that must’ve looked, but I love you. You’re it for me.”

Steve has always been the first to say it… but not this time. Feeling like a fool for jumping to conclusions, he hugs Eddie close. “Shit, Eds, I love you too.”

Permanent tag list: @hotluncheddie

[glass--beach]

i wouldn’t have gotten into music without her. i wouldn’t have realized i was trans without her. not at all an exaggeration. we started our first band way back in high school so we could spend time with each other. she was the first person i’d send demos to because she knew what mattered and what didn’t and gave me confidence when i was insecure. hell, she’s even the one who came up with the name “glass beach”. she was among the first people i came out to and one of the first trans and queer people i met, when we were both about 12, though neither of us were aware of it til way later.

we could ride the highs and lows together - she had an incredible sense of humor and always brought positive energy to a group but was not afraid to talk about the darkness either. we could get through any pain together by transmuting it into humor and art. she wrote some of the most beautiful songs i have ever heard in my life and it’s a shame she never got the appreciation she deserved for it. she was shy about her music but i would never hesitate to tell her how incredible it was.

i could go on and on for hours and not even begin to get across how much she meant to me. i’ve lost a piece of my heart, of my home. i loved her so much and i just wish i’d said it more. i wish i’d reached out just a couple days earlier. but i know if she were here she wouldn’t let me wallow in guilt. she would show me a way through it, give me something to hold onto, something to laugh about. i have a lot to process in private. i have a lot to process with my friends who knew her well. but it is obvious to me above all else that i need to express the love i have for all of those i still have in my life. to all my friends on this platform, no matter how close, even if we’ve only talked once or twice, i love you, i appreciate you, you are important, you are loved, thank you for being in my life.

[8lyme]

"Why do I have to lose you?" pt.2

Part 1 <-

Logan Howlett x Reader (afab pronouns used a few times)

Warnings: very sad, a little graphic, mentions of blood/gore, grown man brought to tears, TW didn't get to describe how sexy logan is sorry

a/n: ate my cheerios locked in to gossip girl and then wrote the saddest shit i could. also idk how to do a taglist but to my one fan heres ur shoutout xoxo @corvusmorte 🫶🏼

You tugged at the clips of your harness, trying not to hyperventilate. Sporadically swiping the heels of your hands across your eyes between each tug made your hands slick with tears. After a little bit, you couldn't even grip the buckles anymore.

Damn Logan's stupid metal bones, locking you into the chair.

You reached behind you to try and release the spring of the chair. If you could just pop it up, you would slide over to the console and could turn off the autopilot.

You hoped Logan survived the fall from the jet as you painfully leaned over the arm of the seat.

"Please, please, pleaseplease, please!" you whispered to yourself. The chair dug into your ribcage too much, and you couldn't reach the clip. You straightened up and let out a few panicked cries before trying to reach behind the chair from the other side.

You strained your neck to peak around the chair, shoulder straps tight to your chest. There has to be an emergency unlock or eject button on the chair for this harness, you thought before panickedly feeling all over the sides of the chair with your hands.

After running your hands over the metal to no avail, you resulted to sticking you legs out to try and reach the console. You groaned as you stretched your leg as far toward the controls as possible. When that didn't work, you tried to swing your legs behind the base of the seat. The straps and the curve of the seat prevented your foot from going very far, causing you to straighten with a frustrated cry.

You yanked again at the straps, somehow managing to get your heels onto the seat lip. You gripped the chair arms and pushed up in an attempt to snap the strap between your thighs. It was stuck fast.

You angrily swung your arms in an attempt to hit something. The straps under your shoulder shifted, and you immediately began to wiggle yourself out. Painstakingly, your right shoulder was freed.

You ripped your other arm out of the harness and again extended your hand to the clip behind the chair. Through the reflection of the windshield, your hand looked just close enough to the clip, but you couldn't feel it.

Readjusting, you took a deep breath. The cabin was nearly dark, and the loud sputtering of the engine made it hard to think. You couldn't turn the chair around and there was nothing in reach to grab.

Far from giving up, you tucked your ankles back to the chair lip and reached behind you again, still just barely too far away.

"Oh, yes!" you said, realizing your boots were high enough for you to take off and reach behind you with.

Boot one was undone and in your hands in seconds, dangling by the clip. You smack once, twice, and then three times before hitting the clip. The chair unlocked and started to slide forward, but a loud clang followed by the screech of tearing metal tipped the jet and locked you back in place. Your boot flew out of your hand to the back of the cabin.

Wind instantly roared behind you, and you turned to the hanger door falling open. Whatever hit you did damage. Realistically, this jet didn't have much more flying time left in it. You had half a heart to let the autopilot land.

However, you caught a glimpse of the army beginning to bunch itself up. If you could unclip the chair and turn off the autopilot, you could swing the jet around, steer towards towards the grouping troops, and ideally eject yourself out of the hangar before the jet exploded into the ground and took out the trucks and soldiers.

"Okay, okay" you reassured yourself, untying your other boot. You reached behind the seat. Before you could even think to hesitate, a glimpse of the school caught your attention.

The grounds were in flames and a large chunk of one corner had been blown off. You instantly smacked your shoe down, unclipping the chair's safety lock.

In an instant you shot forward to the controls. You smacked the autopilot switch and gripped the handles, jet dipping before you regained control. You angled the handles down and pushed the jet into a nose-dive. The ground came rushing at you fast and you felt your ears pop with the pressure change. Your vision blurred while you flailed for the eject button.

-

Logan hit the ground with a sickening crack. He blinked awake after a minute of regenerating, the familiar buzz of his limbs waking up starting to fade.

He unsheathed his claws before glancing up at the sky to watch the jet you were in begin to fly away. Relief was quickly replaced with urgency as the boom of a tank went off near him.

He stood just in time to watch a corner of the school crumble to dust. Rage bubbled up inside him, and he sprinted toward the source of the explosion.

Before he managed to get halfway to the clumping group of tanks and soldiers, the roar of the jet shoots over him. He skids to a halt as the jet barrels into the center of army.

The ricochet from impact knocks Logan onto his back. He groans while lifting himself off the grass, short circuiting at the sight of thick black smoke coiling from the crash.

He scours the sky for a sign of you, panic and anguish settling into him when he sees nothing. He clambors up and sprints to the smoldering jet.

Logan tries to shut his mind off as he rips away at the metal of the jet. The bay door is jammed shut awkwardly, and he can only slash through it so much.

He's able to get a grip of an opening, brute strength bending the metal away. He climbs through, sliding down the angled floor and into the crushed cockpit.

There's no sign of you inside. Logan has shredded through the controls and interior walls in panic. He doesn't want to hear himself say it, but he knows anything that happens to you is his fault.

"Logan!" He hears, and through the hole he ripped open in the jet is Scott.

"We found her."

-

When Hank had found you, you were gasping for air. You'd shot out of the back of the jet at the last second, flying through the smoke. The straps that clung to you may as well have saved your life, the metal of the chair breaking most of your impact.

Not all, however, as your landing caused you to roll harshly against the ground. You narrowly dodged a rock smacking you clear in the head, but the bounce of the seat slammed your leg into something very hard, and you felt it break.

The feeling of hands roused you from your daze, and you managed to blink your eyes open.

"Can you hear me?" You hear. "Hey, open your eyes. Can you hear me?"

You could blurrily make out Hank's face against the contrast of the trees. The warmth of his hand reaches your face, and you try to offer him a pained smile.

"Hey," you manage, not noticing the drop in Hank's expression when blood pools out of your mouth.

"Keep listening to me," He says to you, pulling on the straps of your harness. "I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?"

" 'Kay," you whisper, head lolling to the side when Hank lets go to rip the straps out from the back of the seat.

He slides his hand under your shoulders, pulling you up and tilting your head down against his chest.

"You still hear me, right?" He slides his other arm under your knees. "Still with me?"

"Uh-huh," you answer. Hank pulls up on you and begins to stand, but you cry out in pain. Your leg is on fire as it hangs loose in the air.

"What happened? Where are you hurt?" He panics, setting you flat onto the ground, arm still around your back.

"My leg," you gasp out, arms shaking violently as you bend to grip your calf. "Broken."

"Fuck," Hank says. "Hold on."

You hear a loud snap and feel pressure on both sides of your shin. He's taken two branches and braced your leg, using the broken straps of your harness to makeshift a splint.

"Best I can do," He says, moving to scoop you up again. "Ready?"

You nod, still trembling from the pain. He stands, and the pain in your leg makes you lightheaded. Hank is still talking to you, asking you questions that you can only answer with single syllables.

You're lucky you can't see his face. He isn't wearing his concern well. Blood outlined your teeth and cracked into your lips. The color had been drained from your face and your breaths were shallow. He wasn't sure if you were aware of your shredded uniform sleeves or the blood seeping from them staining his shirt.

Your breaths turned into wheezes, and Hank picked up his pace. The courtyard of the damaged school coming closer into view.

"Hey, keep talking to me. We're almost at the school, ok?" He shifts you gently, hoping the movement rouses you more.

"Huh," you wheeze, the whistling in your voice making Hank more nervous. Your ribs were definitely bruised if not broken. Your uncontrollable shakes alluded to a severe head injury - one he prayed wasn't worse than a bad concussion.

The two of you broke through the tree line. Surrounding sounds started to fade out of your hearing, but you tried hard to focus on Hank's voice.

He shouted out to someone, but you stopped making sense of voices.

"Hey, open your eyes," Hank says, careful not to jostle you too much as he scraps for your attention.

You tilt your head up slowly, trying desperately to keep your lidded eyes open.

"Can't," you mutter out. You feel sick and hot, each breath accompanied by an increase and then decrease of the dull pain in your chest. Everything hurt so much it almost began to cancel itself out. The effort you made trying to stay cognisant suckng the energy out of your body.

You don't hear him try to rouse you again, or the panic in his voice when he realizes you aren't responding.

You don't hear Ororo screaming across the grass at Scott to get Logan. You don't feel her hands against your neck as she checks your pulse.

You don't hear Jean shouting at Hank to take you to the lab. You don't hear Scott calling out to Logan. And you don't hear Logan calling out for you in a broken roar.

-

Logan stares at the floor outside of the lab. A dark cloud of fear and anguish settles over him. He has a way of thickening the air with negativity in these moments.

He can't look Hank in the eye knowing your blood is soaked through his shirt. Knowing he trapped you in that harness.

He counts himself lucky that he didn't find you crushed to the console of the jet, but that doesn't mean he isn't fighting off how very real that could have been.

Scott and Kurt had to hold him away from the doors when he raced after you. They later had to hold him up when he collapsed to his knees in despair.

He didn't look up when the hiss of the glass doors sounded or when Jean called Hank in to swap with her. They'd been at this for hours. Hank was terrified of you sustaining a significant brain injury, Jean more concerned about the hairline fractures in the ribs of your chest, caused by the harnesses Logan crushed to your body.

Jean sank in the seat next to him, letting out a shaky breath.

"Logan," She tried gently, knowing he wasn't capable of a response. "I know how you're feeling right now-"

"You don't," he cuts her off. The shake in his voice cuts through the air and he rubs at his eyes, hoping Jean can't tell that he's trying to rid the sensation of stinging behind his eyes.

"Logan, we know you crushed the buckles of her harness," she says gently. The breath he lets out is shaky and filled with a somber acknowledgement. He feels so guilty he might be sick.

"If you hadn't done that, she most likely would have died," Jean tells him, knowing this won't change anything besides offering him an ounce of peace of mind. "If she'd unclasped herself at any point, she would've flown out of the jet when the hangar was hit open. The clasps are designed to unhook on impact after ejection, and since her chute didn't activate she would've hit the ground much harder. I know you feel at fault here, but she's only bruised."

"If'd I'd just let her land the damn thing," he choked out, looking up to blink back the wetness in his eyes.

The door slid open again, Hank moving through slowly.

"Her eyes are open," he says, relief not present in his tone. "She might respond to you."

Logan meets Hank's eyes. He looks tired and defeated.

He looks away as he slowly pushes up from his chair, slowly and shakily passing Hank through the doors. Logan feels Hank's eyes burning into the back of his head. He gains no solace from knowing whatever Hank is thinking about him, Logan is thinking much worse.

He's afraid to step closer when he sees you. Your leg has been casted properly, resting over two white pillows. Your tattered uniform has been replaced with a grey t-shirt and shorts, a thin blanket laying over your one fully-exposed leg. He can see wires from EKG electrodes poking out from the bottom hem and collar of your shirt. An IV of saline is attached to the vein of your arm. Both have gause peaking out from your shirt sleeves, and Logan didn't have to see the blood soaking through them - he could smell it. A nasal cannula rested above your upper lip, blood still crusted between the cracks of your lips. You had two unbandaged scrapes on your face, one on your jaw and the other on your forehead.

You blinked and just barely turned your head to him. Immediately, he rushed over, gingerly touching your fingertips.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered to you, terrified to place his hands anywhere on your body. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

He covered his eyes with his hand, breathing in a sniffle as he turned his head away from you. His thumb stroked over one of your fingers.

He felt you move and quickly faced you, eyes rimmed with redness. He watched you blink slowly, opening your mouth to try and speak.

You said his name in a raspy whisper. Logan clenched his jaw and hung his head, slipping his palm under yours. He felt the gentle squeeze of your hand and sunk to his knees in pain, head resting against the side of the bed. Guilt was corroding away at his insides. He felt the crushing weight of his actions in his neck and shoulders. The inside of his body felt weak and his stomach churned.

You turned your hand and stretched your fingers back, gently stroking at his forehead. He squeezed your hand and stood back up, bringing his other hand to the side of your face.

"I don't know how to protect you," he whispered, voice breaking.

"That's okay," you say back, eyes beginning to close again. You pull his hand to your stomach and thread your fingers together, his pinkie resting between your middle and ring finger.

Logan gently threads his fingertips through your hair, wanting so desperately to hold you in his arms.

"Don't go," you mutter, eyes closed. Your breath evens as you fall back asleep. Logan's breath remains shaky, the stinging returning to his eyes.

"I won't," he says softly, voice raw. He slides the chair from the end of your bed over to himself, sitting down. He rests his head between his arms, looking up at the rise and fall of your chest.

He won't leave, not anytime soon. If you wake up and want him gone, then he'll disappear. For now, he'll allow himself to relish in the fact that you're still alive.

[void-wolfie]

It's Hard When I Hate Myself

summary: those bad thoughts in your head get a little too loud one day, and you can't take it anymore...

pairing: Jenna Ortega x gn!Reader

tw: self-harm, depression, suicide attempt (if any of these topics are triggering for you, please do not read)

words: 1.88k

a/n: i wrote this for @nofreakinglooseends, hope this lives up to your expectations bub...

*** if you have experience with depression or suicidal thoughts, or if you find any of the above topics triggering in any way - please do not read, these topics are written about in detail below (you have been warned) ***

No one cares.

No one likes you.

You're just a burden.

You paced the bedroom floor, hands gripping the sides of your head as you wondered why your brain hated you so much. You knew the thoughts weren’t true, your friends really did care, they had told you so themselves. Yet, it all felt like one big lie.

In the midst of your pacing, something caught your eye. You looked up only to spot yourself in the bedroom mirror. For a moment, you were caught off guard; you didn’t look like yourself anymore. Dark circles under your eyes, hair that hadn’t been brushed in days, pale skin, and lifeless eyes. You looked like a shell of your former self, barely even recognizable.

When had it gotten this bad?

The floodgates opened. The thoughts came barreling back. Too loud to ignore this time.

Stupid.

Mistake.

Failure.

No one cares.

No one gives a shit.

Better off dead…

You started pacing again, a bit faster this time, praying that the voices would all just go away.

Your mind slipped to your girlfriend. She always seemed to know how to help. What would she say right now? Your mind was blank, you couldn’t think of anything. Then again, it was impossible to think at all with the voices shouting in your head, screaming about what a burden you were.

Jenna doesn’t even care. Why would she?

She only stays with you out of pity.

She doesn't care.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” you muttered to yourself, tears beginning to slip down your face, “Just shut up already!”

Call me if you need anything. That’s what Jenna told you earlier before leaving for work. You could sense the full-blown breakdown on the horizon, just minutes away. But you shouldn’t call her, right? She doesn’t need your problems right now. She already has enough to deal with at work as it is, she doesn’t need you making things worse…

She doesn’t love you.

She probably wouldn’t even pick up the phone if you called.

Lies. It was all lies. Jenna told you she loved you every morning and every night. She was there for you all the time. Of course, she cared… right?

“Fuck it,” you grabbed your phone from the nightstand, finding her contact and hitting the call button.

You sat on the edge of the bed, knee bouncing up and down anxiously as you listened to the dial tone.

Once… Twice… Voicemail.

“Fuckkkkkk,”

You redialed the number, hoping Jenna would pick up.

She doesn’t love you.

You don’t deserve her.

She can do better.

“Come on, go faster…” you muttered, your knee bouncing faster as you waited for someone to pick up.

Voicemail. Again.

“Fuck!”

You shot up from the bed; anger and panic flooding your mind. Not even realizing what you were doing, you threw your phone across the room. You didn’t particularly care. Your mind was on autopilot.

Tears rolled down your face and you could barely see through the blurry vision.

Maybe the voices were right. Maybe your mind didn't hate you, maybe it was just telling you the ugly truth… Your friends don't care about you. Your girlfriend doesn't love you. You’re just a worthless nobody.

Maybe it would just be better if you weren’t around anymore. Maybe it would be better if you were dead.

Dead. It was terrifying how much the thought of being dead didn’t bother you. The idea was almost welcoming. You wouldn’t have to suffer anymore, just peace… Peace sounded nice.

"Fuck!" You couldn't take it anymore. The voices were too loud, you couldn't think. Everything hurt. You needed to do something.

You rushed to the bathroom, the tears running down your face made it hard to see. You yanked open the cabinet drawer, digging around for where you hid it. Your fingers brushed against the cool metal, you raced to grab it without caring how it dug into your hand, nearly drawing blood.

You sunk down to the tile floor, rolling up the edge of your shorts to see the fresh cuts. Red lines spanning an inch or so long, each one scabbed over and bruised. You eyed an untouched spot between two red lines, before you could think you pushed the blade in, dragging it across the skin.

Blood trickled down the side of your thigh and onto the tile floor below, but you didn't care. Your mind was finally at ease.

It hurt like a bitch. But at the same time, the pain was comforting. Just for a while, it distracted your mind, easing your racing thoughts.

You looked down, eyeing the cut, the long trail of blood that cascaded down the side of your thigh.

Looking at it seemed to make it hurt worse. It made the voices come back. The cut was just a looming reminder of what a failure you were. But that’s all you were anymore. A mistake. A failure. A nobody.

You eyed the razor blade in your hand. Part of you knew you shouldn’t, it was a bad idea. But the voices were so much louder, so much more convincing. Your head was spinning…

Fuck it.

You dug the knife into your wrist, dragging the blade up towards your elbow. It had to be close to three or four inches long, the blood seeping out nearly instantly. It hurt worse than the ones on your thigh, but you didn’t care. If you were lucky, you wouldn’t be able to feel it soon anyway.

You did it again, taking the blade and dragging it up the other arm. Blood was dripping all over the floor, all over yourself, but you couldn't care less.

Her stomach twisted into knots; her hands shook as they gripped the wheel. She only left her phone for like ten minutes, maybe twelve at most, and in that time, she somehow had two back-to-back missed calls from you. She tried calling you back but to no avail. That’s when the panic set in. You rarely ever called her, and you never missed her calls.

She drove like a madman trying to get home. She was definitely breaking more than one law. Other people were honking, even flipping her off as she drove past, but she paid them no mind. The only thing she could think about was you.

Jenna fumbled to unlock the door; her hands were shaking. It took her longer than she would’ve liked to admit to get the key into the lock. Her mind was a wreck, her head was spinning, and all she could think about was you.

The second she was over the threshold she was calling out for you, praying for some sign that she was crazy and that you were fine.

Unfortunately, her prayers went unanswered.

She checked the living room first; it was closest to the front door. No luck, you weren’t there.

Then she checked the bedroom. She immediately noticed the dent in the wall; your phone lying on the floor underneath it, the screen completely shattered.

Just as quickly as she found your shattered phone, she noticed the light from the bathroom. The door was wide open.

Her stomach dropped; her heart was in her throat. She just knew something was wrong.

The first thing she saw was you sitting on the bathroom floor, unconscious. Then she noticed all the blood. It was everywhere. You were practically sitting in a pool of it.

The razor blade was still lightly clutched in your hand, the cuts going up your arms were an angry shade of red. Your shorts were hiked up, showcasing a sea of white scars and a slew of new cuts.

She wanted to puke.

She knew you were struggling, but she never knew it was this bad.

She took a deep breath, swallowing down the bile in the back of her throat and suppressing the tears that threatened to break free.

Everything hurt. Your head was pounding, and the dim lights felt too bright against your eyes. The bed underneath you felt stiff and uncomfortable. All your muscles ached.

Despite the way your muscles protested, you pushed yourself up on the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows.

The first thing you noticed was that you weren’t home, you were in a hospital room. A rather small one. There was the bed you laid in, a small bathroom off to the side of the room, and a TV hanging on the wall. But most importantly, sitting in an armchair underneath the window, was Jenna.

She was lying sideways on the chair, her head draped uncomfortably over one arm of the chair while her legs dangled off the other, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Even from a distance, you could see the dark bags under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept in days.

What was more worrying to you though, was how you got here. Why the hospital? Did you get hurt? Was Jenna hurt? What happened? The last thing you could remember was going to sleep the other night, with Jenna curled up in your arms under the covers.

You looked down, trying to look for any obvious injuries. You quickly spotted the big gauze bandages covering the length of your forearms.

“Hey,”

You jumped. Your head shot up and over towards the window. You must’ve accidentally woken her up somehow.

Jenna was sitting up in the chair, looking over at you tired and worriedly. She looked exhausted.

“Hey,” Your voice was hoarse. Your throat was dry and sore, and it hurt to speak.

“How’re you feeling?”

“What happened?” You asked, dodging her question. You felt like shit, but you weren’t going to tell her that.

“You don’t remember?” Her eyebrows furrowed, confusion taking over her features.

“No…”

You had an idea of what might’ve happened. But you were hoping it wasn’t true.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You came home from work. We ordered takeout for dinner and watched a movie, then we went to bed.”

Her face dropped. A bad feeling washed over you.

“Babe, that was a week ago…” Her voice was soft and quiet. You couldn’t tell if she was sad or scared, maybe both… Most likely both.

“Oh.” You weren’t sure what to even say.

Silence filled the room. It was painfully loud, nearly suffocating you in the tiny room.

You didn’t want to ask the question sitting on the tip of your tongue. You didn’t really need to; you already knew the answer.

Before you knew it, tears started streaming down your cheeks. You’d actually done it. You couldn’t believe it. You tried to kill yourself… You were at a loss for words.

You felt the bed dip next to you, Jenna sliding onto the bed next to you. She gently wrapped her arm around you, bringing you closer to her. You rested your head on her shoulder, the tears streaming silently down your face.

Jenna didn’t say anything, she just held you close while you cried. Comforting you in the only way her tired mind could think of.

Neither of you knew what was going to happen next. But Jenna was sure of one thing; whatever it was, she was going to be there for you every step of the way.

[hurts2think]

HERE WITH SOME IDEAS FOR YOU!! Red x Chloe x reader w some sleepover shenanigans? W maybe some nice conversations and cuddling n such w read being slightly sleep deprived and suuuper affectionate <33 Hehe thank you 💞

♥️Red Hearts x Chloe Charming x Reader⚔️

Reader pronouns: She/her

Pairing: Red Hearts x Chloe Charming x Fem!Reader

Plot: It's officially summer vacation and what better way to spend the first night with your two amazing girlfriends? You three are disgustingly adorable, even just trying to pick a movie to watch leads to piling ontop of each other and sweet kisses.

Word Count: 1.6k

Extra: Hi I wrote this at 1 am because I forgot to write sooner. So this is very bad and I'm VERY tired. But this is all pure fluff, hardly any real plot :)

The last day of school was always better than the first day of summer. It was the one day of year where everyone was happy for a mutual reason. The one day you didn't have to tolerate stupid lectures and no one argued. No one was caught up in any of their issues because only one thing was on their mind—waiting for the clocks to strike 2:30 pm.

While you were excited for school to end and summer begin, you were more excited for what tonight held.

It wasn't very often you and your two girlfriends got to hangout all together. Usually at least one of you were busy so dates between all three of you got difficult to plan. But tonight was different. You all cleared your schedules for the first night of summer vacation and prepare for a sleepover in Chloe's and Red's dorm.

You were always a little jealous they got to have a dorm together while you were stuck with someone else. But you didn't mind too much, sometimes it was nice to not be around them 24/7.

But once that bell rang, everyone ran out of their classes. The halls had never been filled with so much laughter and chatter about summer plans, it was nice. Nice to see everyone getting along and no stupid drama.

As you walked down the hall, you scan the area for Chloe or Red but can't seem to find either. Luckily for you, they always seem to have a knack for finding you.

A pair of arms suddenly wrap around you from behind, making you jump a little before realizing who it was.

"Helloooo. Happy last day of school!" A girl with big curly blue hair grinned. Your girlfriend, Chloe.

She was always the type to surprise hug or kiss you and Red. Usually it startled you at first but it was always pleasantly surprising.

You smile back as she unwraps her arms and starts to walk beside you, "Hey, Chloe. Is Red not with you?" You ask. Usually Red and Chloe had last period together so they met up with you after but Red wasn't anywhere to be seen.

Chloe sighed and shrugged, "Well, you know her. She skipped last period since it's the last day. So she's probably already at the dorm." Chloe smiled brightly. Her smile always felt bright, almost blinding. It was the kind of smile that you'd only see once or twice in your life, the kind of smile that told you everything would be okay.

"Let's not waste anytime then, yeah?" You grin, taking Chloe's hand into yours. She gives a firm nod and the two of you head off the the dorms.

----

The once room that was kept neat and clean, mostly on Chloe's behalf, had looked like it got hit with a tornado in the matter of a couple hours.

Blankets and pillows everywhere, CDs of possible movie choices scattered in front of the TV, snacks and wrappers trailed around anywhere in the room you guys sat. It was a wreck to say the least, but you were having the time of your life.

The lights were out, a small nightlight that casted lights of the moon and little stars all over the wall was the only thing that lit the room.

The clock ticked to 1 am. You were sitting on the bed with Red, leaning your head on her shoulder as the two of you watched Chloe rant about her top two movie options.

"Because The Princess Bride is so good but I don't know if you guys will like it as much, but also it's such a classic! And Mamma Mia is good too, because obviously, it's a musical. But if you guys don't know all of the songs, what's the point if I'm the only one singing?" She crossed her arms, looking to you and Red as if wanting you to give her the right answer.

Red looked like she stopped listening 10 minutes ago and you really didn't care what you guys watched. In the end, none of you would be paying attention to the movie and would all just get wrapped up in the blankets while cuddling and giggling. You were also way too tired to make a real decision

"Let's just watch Mean Girls again."

Chloe groaned and flopped onto the bed with you and Red, clearly not satisfied with the answer.

"Just pick something. It's not like we're really going to watch it." Red pointed out. She was always the one who said the things you guys were thinking but you and Chloe wouldn't actually say.

Chloe huffed and decided to make herself comfortable, sitting next to you so you were in-between them.

Now you really felt like you were about to fall asleep with how comfortable you were, but you really wanted to stay up longer.

"Maybe we just don't need a movie." You suggest, letting out a yawn.

Red nodded in agreement, "Yeah, we can totally just hangout without doing something." She stated, shifting to her side and rested an arm over your torso.

Chloe frowned at this conclusion. She was the kind of girl who always had to be doing something. She got all antsy when she wasn't doing something, even if she was totally ignoring whatever that something was. Like a movie.

"I guess so."

Being so sleep deprived and stuck in between your two girlfriends was starting to make you a little giddy. So with a sudden topic switch, you announce, "Ya know, you two really are so wonderful and beautiful." With a grin slowly making it's way on your face.

Red smirked slightly, looking at you skeptically from the sudden compliment.

Chloe on the other hand smiled sweetly, shifting to face you and taking her hand into yours, "And you're just as wonderful and beautiful." She says in return.

This made you smile wider, "No. Not nearly as wonderful as you two." You rebut.

Red rolled her eyes playfully, "You guys are so cheesy, it's disgusting."

"Shut up, you love it." Chloe smirked at Red.

With a sigh, Red leaned further against you, "Yeah, I totally love how much you guys tell each other how much you love one another and how amazing you are." She sarcastically says.

You giggle and kiss Red on the cheek, "Don't be jealous. I said you were both wonderful."

Red narrows her eyes, trying to look serious but only ended up smiling again, "I am not jealous."

Chloe laughs, "Really? Because you sound kiiinnd of jealous to me." She grins, looking between you and Red. The look in Chloe's eyes were full of admiration and absolutely love struck by her two perfect girlfriends.

Red rolled her eyes again, "Whatever, losers. You can go cuddle in the corner. I'm going to sleep." She said, rolling over away from the two of you.

You and Chloe gave each other a knowing look. It wasn't that Red was actually jealous, she just really loved attention from you guys. And she found out this was the best way to get it.

"Aww, don't be like that." You grin, wrapping your arms around Red from behind, pushing her long red strand of hair aside and kissing the back of her neck.

You couldn't see, probably because she didn't want you to see, but you could tell Red was smiling. "Nope. Gross, get off of me." She joked, trying to push you off and giggled in the process. But you were stubborn and just latched right back onto your princess.

Chloe came from the other side, now trapping Red in the middle instead, "Come on, you're so sweet, don't turn away." She teasingly poked at Red's cheek before trailing down her arm and taking her hand.

Red's face started to heat up, getting flustered by the attention from her two beautiful girlfriends, "You two are so gross."

"Nah, you love it." You say with a grin.

All three of you were practically piled on top of each other now, limbs all tangled and arms wrapped around each other. It was like being crushed but in a good way...? It was comfortable and safe. It felt like you could really just be you and love.

"Fine. Maybe I do. Just a little bit." Red admitted, leaning over and kissing you on the lips.

You didn't hesitate to kiss her back. Red's kisses were always much softer than you'd expect, but they were so sweet like candy.

Red then turned over and kissed Chloe on the lips too, smiling into the kiss.

After all of you were comfortable and quite honestly, about to fall asleep, Chloe suddenly sat up, "I'm hungry. We should make cookies."

Red seemed fond of the idea, but you were so so tired, "Oh my gosh, it is so late. Let's just go to sleep."

But Red and Chloe both give you the look they know you could never resist. So reluctantly, "...Fine..." The two girls cheer and hop out of the bed.

The three of you sneak your way down to the dormitory kitchen and get all the ingredients you need.

You put on your playlist and get to baking. None of you were necessarily the greatest bakers, so it was definitely an interesting experience.

Lots of giggling and throwing ingredients at each other while Girls Just Wanna Have Fun played.

By the end of it you were all covered in flour and ate most of the chocolate chips before when putting them in the dough. But it was still the most fun you'd had in awhile.

Even though the cookies did not turn out super great, being able to be with your two favorite people in the whole world was the only thing you ever needed.

Singing and dancing while making cookies, jumping around, laughing, it was something you wanted to last forever. And you were quite hopeful that it would always be this way. It was the first time you had felt truly content with your life.

[purplecoffee13]

im a sucker for morning sex like, almost half asleep, barely talking, just quiet moans 😋Maybe friends to lovers

Ooh, yes!!! Absolutely love this concept😮‍💨

It’s a bit short, but I wrote this blurb around it just now. It’s currently 2am, but the inspiration struck and I just had to write it down!! (srry not srry😎😋) I hope it meets your expectations!!!

Thank you for requesting!!!💘

************************************************

Your eyelids softly flutter open at the warmth of the sunlight shining on your face. The harsh light makes you squint, and it makes you realize where you are, and with who. The arm wrapped around you confirmed enough, and you smile as you look at the inked arm draping over your frame.

You and Harry had been friends for forever, and you would hold movie nights almost every week. It often got very late, and the two of you would fall asleep in the couch.

Last night was no different. You had had a busy day at work, and was absolutely exhausted. You fell asleep mid movie, and you realize that Harry must’ve carried you to bed. You smile at that revelation, filled with a surge of love for your best friend.

In order to get the sunlight out of your face, you shift around, moving backwards a bit so your eyes aren’t being bothered by the harsh light. Your eyes widen when you feel something brush against your ass. Something that you are 99% sure you should absolutely not be feeling.

There is an increasing heat between your legs that you don’t even know the exact logistics of. It is like your body is telling you something you haven’t dared to consider before.

You try to move your hips forward a bit, attempting to stop the awkwardness. After all, Harry’s asleep, so you can go back to sleep and act like this never happened on a couple of hours.

That’s when you feel Harry’s grip on your waist tightening as he pulls your body back into him, his hardness now firmly pressed between your ass cheeks. You softly gasp at the sudden motion, and your heat begins to ache at the imagination of what could be.

The sole image in your head of him putting that dick inside of you makes you subconsciously grind your hips against him a bit, hoping to relieve some of the frustration that has been starting to build.

You try to be subtle about it, but the pain of being untouched begins to be too unbearable. Your stomach tenses when Harry’s hand suddenly begins to inch lower and lower, going under the waist band of your underwear and shorts, and finding your clit.

Rubbing drawn out circles on your hot wet cunt makes you sigh out in relief. His touch feels far too good to even second guess what the fuck the two of you are doing. The hitched breaths slowly morph into hushed whimpers, the faster Harry’s fingers work your pussy.

When he starts to leave love bites on your neck, you explode. Moaning out his name, you come all over his fingers, letting the pleasure hit you in the waves like it always does.

Without another word, Harry pulls down your shorts and underwear, which you take off completely with the help of your own legs. Arching into him, you wait as Harry takes out his hard cock and rub the tip against your now soaking wet pussy.

“Y’sure?” Harry’s rough morning voice asks, and it is enough to almost have you orgasm again. The low baritone sound is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. You nod furiously.

“Yes, please. I need it.” You plead with him. Harry clearly doesn’t need to be asked twice, because he immediately pushes himself into you. You mewl at his long, deep thrusts. Each one hits just the right spot in a new, unexpected way.

There aren’t many words shared between the two of you, solely the sounds of your bodies intertwining with each other. His hand finds one of your breasts and fondles it as you both keep pushing into each other.

You bring your own fingers to your clit, working yourself closer to the second orgasm that is already brewing. Just the sounds of his heavy breathing and the beating of his heart would give you that wave of your euphoria.

Then a groan escapes Harry’s lips, but not just a groan. No, he groans your name, right in your ear, followed by a whispered profanity, as he drives himself deeper into you.

Forget the breaths and the heartbeat, the sound of your name rolling off his tongue in a situation like this is what brings you over the edge so quickly again. Your walls clench around him repeatedly as you softly cry out his name.

“F- fuck… shit.” Harry sighs after his thrusts come to a halt. With his face buried in your neck, he softly bites into your shoulder as he comes inside of you.

The feeling of his seed coating every bit of your walls drives your mind absolutely insane.

Harry stays inside of you as you both catch your breath. You can quite literally hear the pounding of your heartbeat ringing in your ear, and you can’t help but let out a breathy chuckle. Harry joins you in your soft, short-lived laughter.

You turn your head towards him, and Harry leans up a bit to meet your face as well. With a big smile, he looks you right in the eyes. No hint of regret, only a smug grin and a clear desire to repeat.

“Good morning.” You say in a joking tone. Harry observes the rest of your face, and pushes a strand of hair behind your ears before he responds.

“Very good morning.”

[grison-in-space]

You know, I've been reading things written by people on the internet for my whole life, or at least my whole life after I was about ten. I'm thirty three now. That means there are people whose words I read on the internet twenty years ago who are presumably still around and occupying the internet—sometimes using names I can recognize from back then, too. (hat tip to my fellow "changing usernames is unnatural actually" brethren; I've only changed one myself twice in the whole world since I was about fourteen or fifteen.)

Sometimes I think about a person I see around occasionally on the internet. That person wrote a story about a character in a rather silly fandom we shared, and I read it as a child just beginning to conceptualize being someone whose opinions might matter. And I remember reading that story at some point, because at that age I had a hyperfixation on that character in that fandom at that time and I read pretty much everything in the genre. I never really got to talk to anyone but the inside of my head about it. My friends didn't read fanfiction, and my parents viewed my reading fanfiction as some kind of depraved, shameful secret. Anyway, I read that story and I remember having some kind of deep realization about how adult humans work while I was reading it.

I learned something about the world from that story. (It was one of those insights that are now so molten alongside my core that it's difficult for me to disentangle them from myself, like "people outside you have their own perspective on your behaviors, but that doesn't mean they have to be right.") And I remember that they know it, because they taught it to me, without meaning to. One of the anonymous impacts on readers that writers never see unless they're extraordinarily lucky.

And I smile, because it's lovely to see them again, and they showed me a skill I still use today. We don't have a relationship of any kind—it would be very difficult to recognize me, I think—but they did me a favor a long time ago. And I remember. Now I get to be reminded that this person still exists, and is still a pretty cool human to be around today, at least for the specific circumstance of internet neighbor. Well, and our modern level of concern about once beloved elders from the distant past going terrifyingly cult-addled and bigoted on short notice.

That has not happened in the slightest. They're just still a pretty nice fandom person who is a bit older than me, who is recognizably the same person they have always been, but more intensely and thoughtfully—like a distilled brandy, not a sour vinegar left out on a countertop too long.

Weirdly, that's a thing I find comforting: this tiny, one way, invisible affection. Every so often I feel this intense affection for a person I've never spoken to or about, because I see them and I love them intensely for a moment and then we both go about our days.

Think about how many interactions you have with people as you go about your day. Wouldn't it be nice to imagine that other people feel like that about you?

I think I'm going to imagine that there's one person that read something I said and thinks that about me. I don't need to ever actually know if it's true: I can just imagine someone who happened to be at a formative moment when they learned something against the background of my words. We'll never know each other as our screennames are lost along the years and we move in and out of touch with parts of ourselves, but we still have that little fond impact on one another, those fingerprints in one another's clay.

It's a nicer world to imagine than the one where no one is paying attention to me, or the only people paying attention to me are mean. And there's really no way to ever know for sure, so why not inhabit the pleasant end of the imaginatory pool if you can?

[gatorbites-imagines]

Astarion Ancunín x Bard Tiefling Male reader

Headcanons

I’ve been playing Baldurs Gate 3 little by little, and I’ve fallen for this vamps’ charms. I blame Twilight. Reader is a Tiefling Bard cuz that’s what my player character is. I also have only played DnD like twice, so I know nothing about races or canon. If you guys have any cool dnd facts, let me know, id love to hear them.

Heres just some light and overall headcanons, there’s no specific theme.

In the beginning like any relationship started with Astarion, it wouldn’t be romantic from his part in the start. You, being a bard, have met and experienced a lot of people, so you can read between the lines in his actions though.

You aren’t cruel when it comes to helping others, not one to fit the stereotype some people seem to have for Tieflings and bards. You are just perspective, and you’ll need a reason to do something, having been burned so many times in the past by trying to be good.

Early on, before you knew he was a vampire, the two of you could regularly be found sitting a bit away from the fire at night as the others slept. You would play your instrument at a low volume, as the sound helped your allies sleep, and Astarion would stay nearby since you guys were allies.

Overtime it would develop into something more, you two would flirt, and feelings would actually bloom. It even reaches a point where you might start writing poems or songs about Astarion and your feelings for him, though you’d never show them to anyone, especially not Astarion, his ego is already big enough.

Astarion would struggle with the feelings he is developing for you, as we all know he would. In the beginning he would deny it, and try to convince himself that it was just something going hand in hand with lust, or something about being free and in the sun.

As the story goes on though, we all know that Astarion becomes softer and finally accepts his feelings for you. The two of you being shunned in ways from society, him being a vampire, and you being a Tiefling, probably helps build some solidarity too.

After you guys officially get together, hed start making jokes about you writing ballads about him and his excellence, and you’d joke there’s no need for that. In the end he would figure out the songs you wrote about him before you guys even got together, and of course he preens like a peacock.

I don’t know if Tiefling blood tastes different or has different properties, but to Astarion, the first time you let him feed on you, he would never be able to feed on anyone else. You are perfect to him, from the top of your horns to the tip of your tail.

When you guys cuddle your tail curls around him, and it even seems to do it without you realizing during the day. It becomes a joke amongst your friends, much to your embarrassment.

You being a Bard and Tiefling also means higher charisma, you two are probably lethal when it comes to persuasion or anything involving your charms and lies, especially when you work together.

I don’t know if Astarion plays any instruments, since he wouldn’t have been able to do so for all the years, he’s been under Cazador, or I assume so. But even if he did, I could imagine him asking you to teach him how to play your instrument.

You being a Tiefling also means you are warmer to the touch, and Astarion being a vampire means he doesn’t have any body heat. So, he’s like a big lizard or cat when you guys’ cuddle, just curling up in your arms or melting against your chest.