#i will mention this every time i post art of him

[kaira-diaries]

Release: Request

Warning: (Fluff)(comfort) (brief mention of gun usage)

Word Count: 4k

A/N: okay so I fuckeddd up and didn't post this with the request itself, my bad, so this is me trying to fix that lmao. I loveddddd this request!!!

Request: @fluid-joe : Hi! I really like your writings! Can i request a Frontman x femreader? The prompt idea is kinda like a "hotel room for 2, only 1 bed" type of situation after a long day of work ( the reader is an assistant of the Frontman ). Thanks :)

Masterlist <-

____________________________

It had been one of those days—one that seemed to stretch on forever, dragging every second behind it like a stubborn weight. A day so exhausting, so unrelenting, that all you wanted was to escape. To close the door, shut out the noise of the world, and sink into the kind of silence that wraps around you like a thick, comforting blanket. Your body ached, your mind buzzed with a thousand unresolved thoughts, and the idea of human interaction felt impossibly heavy. You didn't want to speak, to listen, or to even exist in the same space as anyone else. All you craved was stillness, solitude, and a moment to simply breathe.

You'd spent the entire day immersed in a whirlwind of spectacle and scrutiny, sitting through four different games that seemed to blur into one endless cacophony of cheers, whistles, and distant gunshots. In-ho, ever the picture of control and precision, had been laser-focused, his sharp eyes dissecting every move, every interaction, every cog in the intricate machine of this international event. The grandeur of it all was lost on you, though—you were far from home, stranded halfway across the world, juggling the delicate art of serving booze, running errands, and fulfilling every whim and demand he tossed your way.

His orders had been crystal clear this morning, delivered with the kind of authority that left no room for interpretation. "You will stay within my sight at all times" There was no softness in his tone, no trace of flexibility. Why would there be? You were his assistant—his shadow, his tool, his extension—and only his. You bowed to no one else, took orders from no one else. That was the unspoken rule etched into the foundation of your position.

And so, you had followed him through the day like a silent ghost, your presence unnoticed by the crowds but vital to him. Even as your feet throbbed and your patience wore thin, you knew better than to falter. You were there to ensure his needs were met, to anticipate his desires before he voiced them, and to remain firmly anchored at his side. No complaints, no questions—just obedience.

The hotel was nothing short of magnificent, a masterpiece of modern luxury. Towering ceilings adorned with sparkling chandeliers reflected the soft glow of golden lights onto marble floors so polished they could have doubled as mirrors. The air was perfumed with a subtle blend of fresh-cut flowers and something faintly exotic, almost otherworldly. As the two of you stepped through the grand revolving doors, the bustling murmur of the lobby seemed to hush, if only for a moment.

He walked beside you, maskless, as if he owned not just the hotel but the very air within it. His presence demanded attention, though he didn't seek it—his sharp jawline, perfectly sculpted cheekbones, and piercing eyes were enough to turn heads effortlessly. You'd worked for him long enough to know that this reaction was standard, but still, it was hard not to be struck by his sheer perfection. He wasn't just handsome; he was unearthly, immaculate, as though he'd been carved from marble and brought to life.

And yet, for all his physical allure, he remained a mystery. Your conversations were short, clipped, and strictly business, like carefully choreographed exchanges in a dance you hadn't mastered but couldn't afford to stumble in. You knew better than to ask about the man beneath the surface—the life he lived outside of the games, the things that made him tick. Questions like that would have been a breach of the invisible wall he kept firmly in place.

You'd already handled the arrangements earlier that day, securing the room and picking up the key in advance, just as you always did—efficiently, seamlessly, without error. It was a double king-size suite, one of the finest in the hotel, complete with a sprawling balcony that promised a breathtaking view of the city's skyline, now glowing faintly against the encroaching twilight.

Pressed tightly against your chest were three hefty binders stuffed with player information, the edges of the pages worn from frequent use. Their weight was a constant reminder of the day's endless demands. Your shoes echoed sharply against the gleaming marble floor as you hurried toward the elevator, the sound swallowed by the luxurious quiet of the space. When the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, you stepped in beside him, clutching the binders like a lifeline.

He moved with his usual ease, his long, purposeful strides effortlessly carrying him forward, while you, in contrast, struggled to match his pace without breaking into an undignified jog. Your legs burned with the effort, but you said nothing—it wasn't worth the risk of slowing him down or, worse, irritating him.

When you finally reached the suite, you fumbled slightly as you retrieved the key, tapping it against the door's sensor until it blinked green. The door clicked open, and you pushed it inward, stepping across the threshold with a practiced confidence.

The room was beautiful, exactly as you'd expected—sleek modern design, polished floors, and a wall of glass that framed the glittering city skyline like a painting. But your breath hitched as your eyes scanned the suite and landed on the bed. One bed. Just one. And God, was it small. It wasn't the sprawling double king you had meticulously reserved, but a modest queen at best.

You froze for a moment, the binders still clutched in your arms like a shield. The air between you seemed to thicken as you carefully placed the binders down on the nearest surface, your movements stiff and deliberate, as though any sudden motion might make the situation worse. Turning toward him, you swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a boulder.

"This… this isn't what I had reserved," you stammered, your voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. "I swear, I—"

But the look on his face stopped you cold. His expression was a perfect storm of irritation and restrained disbelief, his sharp features even more cutting in the dim light of the suite. It was the kind of look that silenced any further attempts at explanation. You knew better than to keep talking. Zip it, your mind screamed, and you obeyed, pressing your lips together tightly.

You stood there awkwardly, the tension in the room discernible as his piercing eyes swept over you, then the bed, and back again. Your heart pounded as you waited for him to speak, to issue a command, to say something—but the silence stretched, heavy and unrelenting, leaving you feeling small and exposed.

"It's fine," he said at last, his voice low and steady, though there was a trace of something softer there—resignation, perhaps. "I don't have the energy to make this into a thing."

He strode toward the bed without another glance at you, his movements slower than usual, as though the weight of the day was finally catching up with him. Sitting down, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head drop for a moment. "We'll survive one night."

You hesitated, the apology on the tip of your tongue, but the way he waved a hand in your direction made you stop. "Just… don't stress about it," he said, his tone carrying an edge of finality. "It's not worth the argument right now."

His exhaustion was evident in the slump of his shoulders, in the way his usual sharp edges seemed dulled for the moment. It wasn���t forgiveness exactly, but it was close enough to leave you rooted in place, unsure how to respond.

------

The silence between you was dense, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of sheets. The bed was softer than you’d expected, the covers warm and inviting, but comfort was the last thing you felt. Laying under the heavy blanket, your heart raced despite the stillness of the room. The darkness pressed in around you, save for the faint glow spilling from the cracked bathroom door, a soft, golden light that stretched across the floor and climbed the walls.

You kept your gaze fixed on the ceiling, willing yourself to stay calm. You were telling the truth—this wasn’t your fault. It was an oversight, a mistake by the hotel staff. But no matter how many times you repeated that in your head, you couldn’t shake the nerves coiling tightly in your chest. You’d thought about apologizing again, but the idea of babbling, of stumbling over your words and making yourself look foolish, kept your lips sealed. Silence felt safer, even if it left the air between you unbearably heavy.

As you lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, a flicker of movement caught your eye. Turning your head slightly, you noticed his shadow cast on the far wall, long and fluid against the faint glow of the bathroom light. He must’ve just stepped out of the shower. You could see the silhouette of him wrapping a towel around his waist, the sharp lines of his shoulders and the curve of his muscles etched in perfect detail. His broad chest tapered into a narrow waist, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

Your breath hitched when his shadow shifted again, his hand dragging through his damp hair. You could almost imagine the droplets of water running down his skin, tracing paths over those impossibly defined contours.

The casual way he pushed his fingers through his hair made the muscles in his arm flex, the movement mesmerizing in its simplicity.

You quickly averted your eyes, heat blooming in your cheeks as you stared back up at the ceiling. The room suddenly felt too warm, the covers too heavy, and you found yourself wishing for sleep to come quickly—to escape the weight of the moment and the unrelenting awareness of his presence just a few feet away.

The light flickered off, plunging the room into near-total darkness, save for the faint glow of the city skyline sneaking through the edges of the curtains. You turned onto your side swiftly, your back to him, not wanting to seem suspicious—as though you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Your heart thudded against your ribs as you pressed your head deeper into the pillow, eyes clamped shut in an effort to feign sleep.

The room was silent save for the soft sounds of his movements. You could hear the muffled thud of footsteps against the carpet, the faint creak of the nightstand drawer, and then the gentle rustle of fabric. Each sound seemed louder in the quiet, every subtle noise pulling your focus as though your senses had heightened just for him.

The bed shifted beneath you as he climbed in, the mattress dipping under his weight. He moved with a surprising care, settling beside you in a way that felt almost cautious. Then you felt it—the nearness of him.

He was close. So close that the warmth of his body seemed to radiate through the covers, threading its way to you. And then there was his breath. Soft, steady, and impossibly near, it brushed against the tip of your nose, warming the skin there. You resisted the urge to shift, to move, to do anything that might reveal how acutely aware you were of the intimate proximity.

“We’ll need to stop by the facility once more tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice low and laced with a tired edge. “You know, say our goodbyes, show gratitude, or whatever the fuck.”

The words caught you off guard, pulling you from the precarious edge of sleep. Your eyes fluttered open, disoriented for half a second before they met his gaze. He was already watching you, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

For a moment, you froze. The weight of his stare was enough to pin you in place, and you were acutely aware of just how close he was. You’d almost forgotten—almost—that reading people wasn’t just a skill of his. It was second nature. He could read the subtlest shift in your body, the tiniest change in your breath, and right now, you felt entirely exposed under his scrutiny.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, his tone neutral, though his eyes stayed locked on yours as if testing the truth of your reaction.

You swallowed hard, unsure how to respond, the heat from his breath still brushing faintly against your skin. “I wasn’t asleep,” you murmured, though your voice felt too soft, too uncertain.

His lips curved into the barest hint of a smirk, almost imperceptible. “You were trying to be.”

It wasn’t a question. He knew. Of course, he knew.

You shifted onto your back, the movement pulling the covers tighter around you. The soft fabric of your tank top clung to your body, the rise and fall of your chest matching the slow rhythm of your breath. As you shifted, your pendant tilted to the side, its ruby gleaming softly in the dim light.

He noticed it immediately. Without a word, his hand reached out, the fingers of his long, deft hand brushing lightly against the chain before carefully taking hold of the pendant. He turned it between his fingers, his touch deliberate and slow, as if studying it, feeling the coolness of the stone, tracing its edges.

You couldn’t help but watch him, feeling a strange mix of vulnerability and curiosity churn in your stomach. His gaze was fixed on the ruby, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed distant, absorbed in the weight of it.

“It’s a ruby,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “My birthstone.”

He didn’t respond right away, just continued to rub the stone gently between his fingers. There was something in his expression now—a shift, subtle but noticeable. The usual distance, the usual coldness, seemed to have faded slightly, replaced with something more curious, something more... attentive.

For the first time, you wondered if he actually wanted to know, if the stone had sparked something more than just idle interest in him. Something about the way he held the pendant so carefully, almost reverently, felt different from his usual detached demeanor.

You didn’t know why it unsettled you, this sudden change in his behavior. Maybe it was because he hadn’t spoken much about anything personal, not even once in all the time you’d worked together. And now here he was, paying attention to the smallest detail, a shift in his presence that almost felt like an invitation to talk. The air between you seemed charged, like the quiet moment had ripened with the possibility of something more, though you couldn’t tell what.

As he released your necklace, the chain slipping softly through his fingers, you felt an unspoken tension hang in the air between you. You bit your lip, uncertainty swirling inside you like a storm. But then, almost impulsively, you took a deep breath, deciding to take the leap of faith you’d been contemplating for what felt like forever.

“Mind if I ask you something?” The words left your mouth before you could second-guess yourself, and you immediately regretted the way your voice sounded—hesitant, fragile, like a plea for something you weren’t sure you could handle.

For a moment, his gaze flickered to you, and you could see the glint of weariness in his eyes. The usual sharpness that defined his expression softened, but only slightly. You could tell he was tired—exhausted, even—and the weight of the day seemed to hang on his shoulders like an anchor. Still, he met your gaze, his eyes steady, and gave a small nod.

“Sure,” he said, his voice low, though there was a hint of something unreadable beneath the simplicity of the word.

You swallowed, the words feeling heavier now that you had his attention. "Why do you do this," you began, carefully choosing each word. "I mean this business. This life."

It was a question you’d asked yourself in passing many times over the years, but now, with him so close, it felt like a raw, exposed piece of your curiosity—an inquiry into the thing that defined him, the thing that kept him in motion, kept him so relentlessly focused.

The moment you finished speaking, the air between you thickened, a tension invading the space as you waited for his response. You could hear your pulse in your ears, the beat steady but quick, the uncertainty making your breath catch in your chest. Would he answer? Would he brush it off like so many other things? Or would this be different?

His eyes remained locked on you, unreadable. His lips pressed into a thin line as he seemed to weigh the question, considering it in a way you hadn’t expected. The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of his thoughts, and you held your breath, hoping for a glimpse into the man you’d only ever seen from the outside.

He shifted slightly, the tension in the room growing as he processed your question. The usual control, the polished exterior that he wore so effortlessly, seemed to crack just a little—just enough for you to catch a glimpse of something deeper, something far darker. His jaw tightened as he sat up straighter, his gaze narrowing.

"You think I do this because I want to?" His voice was low, rough, like it had been scraped raw. His words were sharp, almost biting, but there was something in his eyes—something chillingly intense. "You think this is a choice? That any of this is a choice?"

He let out a slow, frustrated breath, his gaze flicking away from you, as if searching for the right words, or perhaps for some escape from the question itself. His hand moved, almost unconsciously, to rub at his temple, like the weight of the day had suddenly come crashing down.

"This life—this business—it's a cage," he muttered, his voice carrying a quiet venom. "One you can’t escape. You think you can just walk away from it, but you can’t. Not when you’re in it, not when it’s inside of you. People like me, we don't choose it. It chooses us. It never lets go."

He paused for a long moment, his gaze flickering back to you. There was a flicker of something—pain, maybe, or regret—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. His face hardened once more, the mask snapping back into place.

"That's why. Because there's nothing else. There never was."

The silence that followed his words felt suffocating, as if his truth had hung in the air, thick and inescapable. You could feel the weight of his answer settle between you, and for a moment, the room seemed impossibly small, the distance between you and him suddenly very real.

Your breath caught in youe throat as his words landed, heavy and final. The room felt as if it had shrunk, the space between you thick with the intensity of his response. You didn’t know what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t that—the rawness in his voice, the sharp bitterness laced into each word. It left you unsettled, as though you had touched something fragile, something dangerous, and the moment was far too real.

You sat up, the covers slipping off her shoulders as you pulled your knees toward your chest, your mind racing for something to say. The weight of his words pressed on you, but you knew you couldn’t remain silent—not now.

"That’s... that’s a lot," you murmured, your voice quieter than usual, softened by the unexpected weight of his confession. You weren't sure what you were feeling—sympathy, fear, something else—but the look in his eyes made you want to reach out, to offer something, anything. You couldn’t erase the tension in his voice, couldn’t take back the things he’d just revealed, but you couldn’t ignore it, either.

"I didn’t know," you said, your words tentative but sincere. "I didn’t know it was like that. I didn’t know you felt like that."

Your fingers curled slightly around the edge of the blanket, feeling the cool fabric against your skin as you looked at him, trying to read the deeper layers behind his walls. "I thought..." You trailed off, unsure of what you thought. You wanted to say you thought he had control, that he chose this life, but the words felt wrong now. You could see how damaged he was beneath the surface—how the very thing he tried so hard to hide was eating him alive.

"I don’t know what to say," you admitted, your voice small, vulnerable.

"But... I can’t imagine being in that place. Feeling like you don’t have a choice."

The weight of his silence was crushing, but you refused to back down. You had asked the question, had exposed that curiosity inside you, and now you had to deal with the consequences of it. He wasn’t the kind of man to open up easily, and you understood that.

The room seemed to hold its breath, the silence between you stretching, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. His gaze softened for just a moment, and you caught it—something raw and fleeting in his eyes that made your heart stir. You couldn’t name it, but it pulled you closer, made you feel something more than just curiosity.

You watched him, his movements slow and deliberate as his hand ran through his damp hair again, but this time there was no mask. He wasn’t the same man who had controlled every conversation, every interaction. This was someone else—a man who was letting go, if only for a moment.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said quietly, the words rough, like he was speaking a truth he rarely allowed anyone to hear. “But it’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

Your chest tightened as the weight of his confession settled over you. You could see it now, that vulnerability he so desperately kept hidden, the cracks in the armor he wore every day. And though you hadn’t expected it, it made you want to close the distance between you, to reach out and pull him out of that dark place. But you didn’t know how.

Everything between you had shifted, the air filled with something unspoken. You didn’t know if it was the closeness of the moment, or the rawness of his words, but your body moved before your mind could stop it. Slowly, you reached out, your hand trembling slightly as you extended it toward him. The space between you felt so small now, and for the first time in a long while, you didn’t want to let it remain.

His eyes flicked to your hand, and for a moment, everything stopped. Neither of you moved. Then, without a word, he took your hand in his, his fingers warm against yours. The slightest pressure, and the air between you thickened further, the connection undeniable.

You didn’t pull away. You leaned in instead, your face tilting slightly as your gazes met again, this time with an understanding that neither of you had voiced, but both of you felt. The silence seemed to hum with expectation. Without a word, there was a sense of understanding in his eyes, as he he sat up, moving closer, his lips barely grazing yours as his breath faltered.

Then, he kissed you.

It was urgent. Intense. There was no hesitation, no gentleness—just the overwhelming need to connect, to close the space between you that had always felt too wide. His lips were firm against yours, claiming, demanding. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling you even closer, as if he couldn’t get enough of you, as if the distance between you had never existed.

You felt yourself melt into the kiss, everything else fading away. The questions, the doubts, the uncertainty—all of it was forgotten in the heat of the moment. It was just you and him, tangled up in the urgency of the kiss, in the shared, unspoken need to be close, to feel something other than the weight of everything else in your lives.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, nothing else mattered.

[scover-va]

Technically late valentines themed oc art i made yesterday. This is definitely how they became partners in crime guys trust me

[paintedcrows]

Preparing for your first holiday season with your griblings is hard. Especially when your grand niece insists on celebrating Every. Single. Holiday.

[echo-starflower]

I FINISHED THE GUY!!!!!!

(Pattern by @ghost-cinnamon)

He’s perfect and I love him

But Echo! some of you might ask, isn’t the body supposed to be red like his bones? To that I say! 1: I’m impressed you saw it under the layers of clothes! /silly and 2!

BAH BAM

Embroidery!!!!! (I’m so proud of this hehe it turned out way better than I expected. Also faceless doll jumpscare>:3)

And of course, credit must be given to my amazing little sibling whose immediate reaction to seeing my doll was “ooo he’s spooky! He needs a top hat!!!!”

(She proceeded to make not one but two top hats hehe)

[al-luviec]

id like to thank ninjago episode snake jaguar for everything but nothing all at the same time

[itissadbutitsmy-artblog]

i wanted this comic digitalized so bad that i used max's birthday as an excuse. :)

this is the true ending. if im insane enough ill show you the alternate ending though

bonus because i just. it just kinda peters out. longggg post yayyye

[volfoss]

i think honestly what irritates me about yoshidas work SO much is that people will tell you that banana fish is THE gay manga (ignoring the many things that came before it and were more groundbreaking, ie MW literally having on screen (or like. on panel but still.) gay sex in it and that came out like a decade before BF did) when there really isn't barely any gay rep outside of the pedophiles and the one time ash drops the f slur. like im sorry but somehow yasha, a work she wrote in 1996, has more gay rep in it but also has the same issues.

i truly do not get how people can enjoy banana fish with the rampant racism every 2 pages or the rampant sexual assault plotlines (on women and ash bc he is just... written like how yoshida writes women lmao) that are handled IMPOSSIBLY bad and sincerely i hoped yasha would be better because it had been like a decade or so between works. and then it proceeds to continue with the heres our blonde genius protagonist who everyone is weird as fuck to and will sexually harrass and everyone finds it a VERY funny joke to point out how feminine he is when theres barely any women in the work (if you exclude the ones that are being raped/killed/creepy to minors. which to be fair yasha has toned down the sa a LOT) and that its funny that hes kind of gay except not really!! and its just absurd to me how it just persists in all of her stuff because she is not an author that handles gay stuff well. like the scene in banana fish where ash is completely ok getting gang raped and did it solely to get into the hospital when its been SHOWN that he has a lot of trauma with that. and then right after his friend makes a joke at ash's expense about that. like sincerely and genuinely is this what we are hyping up as the old retro gay manga. go read some tezuka and stop reading shit that the most the main characters do is share a kiss in a nonromantic sense and is obsessed w making every gay person be evil!!

[strawberrysweater]

i was talking on discord about kiibo wearing sweaters and joked about him learning to knit or crochet to make his own bc i think that would be silly and he'd enjoy it AND I WAS REMINDED by a friend of the fact that crochet can't be replicated by machines and now i'm sooooo soft about this hc oh my god

kiibo taking up a hobby postgame that gives him something to do during those long quiet nights when everyone else is sleeping... he is all about learning and doing stuff and crochet is so methodical.... he hangs out with kaito or himiko to crochet together, makes a blanket for kaede and shuichi and they're like "hey um this is your blanket too.... <3"

a hobby that only human hands can do but here he is... and sure it's because he's a robot with human-shaped hands but it's still something he's doing because he wants to

[silverior968]

Ghastly used to be like my 3rd favorite character but nowadays he's not even in my top 5. The reason is simple:

one can only look at "omg it was so sad when Erskine killed Ghastly and absolutely no-one else of note whatsoever!!!" So many times before growing somewhat bitter.

[deadbeandrop]

i Do think it's funny how much dead bean drop has specifically like... been such a starting point of everything that's been going on in my mind but they really did just manage to hit a bullseye being all like "oh yeah and lumpus and slinkman went to camp together as kids" like Ugh. You can't just say that to me. Come on. look at this Stupid thing

"and there's so much potential there" - ME ABOUT PRETTY MUCH ANYTHING I'VE EVER GOTTEN MY HANDS ON

[sparkspropaganda]

I also have to say that now that i'm over halfway done w season 2 i loveeee armand. I liked him in the book too but i just keep thinking abt him he and claudia might be my two favorites idk. "Is that what makes you fascinating" like fuck dude lol

[thedrotter]

have y'all ever had this one song that reminds you so strongly of a character in such a sad way you become almost physically unable to listen to it. like you try and bawl like a baby to the point it seems completely unreasonable

bringing this up so i can share a song that strongly reminds me of my son. of course im referring to yuuichi because ... of course i am it'd be weird if it was anyone that wasn't the kid from the media i draw every 5 seconds !!! (/lh)

anyway it's Skeleton Orchestra and Lilia (骸骨楽団とリリア) by Tohma !! and i have no idea how i can convey how i associate this song with yuu SOMETHING ABOUT THE LYRICS... SOMETHING... i do not know how to express this concept

do you all have a song like this too LET ME KNOW IN THE COMMENTS DOWN BELLOW!!! (/hj)

[ekingston]

SO HERE IS THE WHOLE STORY (SO FAR).

I am on my knees begging you to reblog this post and to stop reblogging the original ones I sent out yesterday. This is the complete account with all the most recent info; the other one is just sending people down senselessly panicked avenues that no longer lead anywhere.

IN SHORT

Cliff Weitzman, CEO of Speechify and (aspiring?) voice actor, used AI to scrape thousands of popular, finished works off AO3 to list them on his own for-profit website and in his attached app. He did this without getting any kind of permission from the authors of said work or informing AO3. Obviously.

When fandom at large was made aware of his theft and started pushing back, Weitzman issued a non-apology on the original social media posts—using 

his dyslexia; 

his intent to implement a tip-system for the plagiarized authors; and 

a sudden willingness to take down the work of every author who saw my original social media posts and emailed him individually with a ‘valid’ claim,

as reasons we should allow him to continue monetizing fanwork for his own financial gain.

When we less-than-kindly refused, he took down his ‘apologies’ as well as his website (allegedly—it’s possible that our complaints to his web host, the deluge of emails he received or the unanticipated traffic brought it down, since there wasn’t any sort of official statement made about it), and when it came back up several hours later, all of the work formerly listed in the fan fiction category was no longer there. 

THE TAKEAWAYS

1. Cliff Weitzman (aka Ofek Weitzman) is a scumbag with no qualms about taking fanwork without permission, feeding it to AI and monetizing it for his own financial gain; 

2. Fandom can really get things done when it wants to, and 

3. Our fanworks appear to be hidden, but they’re NOT DELETED from Weitzman’s servers, and independently published, original works are still listed without the authors' permission. We need to hold this man responsible for his theft, keep an eye on both his current and future endeavors, and take action immediately when he crosses the line again. 

THE TIMELINE, THE DETAILS, THE SCREENSHOTS (behind the cut)

Sunday night, December 22nd 2024, I noticed an influx in visitors to my fic You & Me & Holiday Wine. When I searched the title online, hoping to find out where they came from, a new listing popped up (third one down, no less):

This listing is still up today, by the way, though now when you follow the link to word-stream, it just brings you to the main site. (Also, to be clear, this was not the cause for the influx of traffic to my fic; word-stream did not link back to the original work anywhere.)

I followed the link to word-stream, where to my horror Y&M&HW was listed in its entirety—though, beyond the first half of the first chapter, behind a paywall—along with a link promising to take me—through an app downloadable on the Apple Store—to an AI-narrated audiobook version. When I searched word-stream itself for my ao3 handle I found both of my multi-chapter fics were listed this way:

Because the tags on my fics (which included genres* and characters, but never the original IPs**) weren’t working, I put ‘Kara Danvers’ into the search bar and discovered that many more supercorp fics (Supergirl TV fandom, Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor pairing) were listed.

I went looking online for any mention of word-stream and AI plagiarism (the covers—as well as the ridiculously inflated number of reviews and ratings—made it immediately obvious that AI fuckery was involved), but found almost nothing: only one single Reddit post had been made, and it received (at that time) only a handful of upvotes and no advice. 

I decided to make a tumblr post to bring the supercorp fandom up to speed about the theft. I draw as well as write for fandom and I’ve only ever had to deal with art theft—which has a clear set of steps to take depending on where said art was reposted—and I was at a loss regarding where to start in this situation.

After my post went up I remembered Project Copy Knight, which is worth commending for the work they’ve done to get fic stolen from AO3 taken down from monetized AI 'audiobook’ YouTube accounts. I reached out to @echoekhi, asking if they’d heard of this site and whether they could advise me on how to get our works taken down.

While waiting for a reply I looked into Copy Knight’s methods and decided to contact OTW’s legal department:

And then I went to bed.

By morning, tumblr friends @makicarn and @fazedlight as well as a very helpful tumblr anon had seen my post and done some very productive sleuthing:

@echoekhi had also gotten back to me, advising me, as expected, to contact the OTW. So I decided to sit tight until I got a response from them.

That response came only an hour or so later: 

Which was 100% understandable, but still disappointing—I doubted a handful of individual takedown requests would accomplish much, and I wasn’t eager to share my given name and personal information with Cliff Weitzman himself, which is unavoidable if you want to file a DMCA.

I decided to take it to Reddit, hoping it would gain traction in the wider fanfic community, considering so many fandoms were affected. My Reddit posts (with the updates at the bottom as they were emerging) can be found here and here.

A helpful Reddit user posted a guide on how users could go about filing a DMCA against word-stream here (to wobbly-at-best results)

A different helpful Reddit user signed up to access insight into word-streams pricing. Comment is here.

Smells unbelievably scammy, right? In addition to those audacious prices—though in all fairness any amount of money would be audacious considering every work listed is accessible elsewhere for free—my dyscalculia is screaming silently at the sight of that completely unnecessary amount of intentionally obscured numbers.

Speaking of which! As soon as the post on r/AO3—and, as a result, my original tumblr post—began taking off properly, sometime around 1 pm, jumpscare! A notification that a tumblr account named @cliffweitzman had commented on my post, and I got a bit mad about the gist of his message :

Fortunately he caught plenty of flack in the comments from other users (truly you should check out the comment section, it is extremely gratifying and people are making tremendously good points), in response to which, of course, he first tried to both reiterate and renegotiate his point in a second, longer comment (which I didn’t screenshot in time so I’m sorry for the crappy notification email formatting):

which he then proceeded to also post to Reddit (this is another Reddit user’s screenshot, I didn’t see it at all, the notifications were moving too fast for me to follow by then)

... where he got a roughly equal amount of righteously furious replies. (Check downthread, they're still there, all the way at the bottom.)

After which Cliff went ahead & deleted his messages altogether. 

It’s not entirely clear whether his account was suspended by Reddit soon after or whether he deleted it himself, but considering his tumblr account is still intact, I assume it’s the former. He made a handful of sock puppet accounts to play around with for a while, both on Reddit and Tumblr, only one of which I have a screenshot of, but since they all say roughly the same thing, you’re not missing much:

And then word-stream started throwing a DNS error.

That lasted for a good number of hours, which was unfortunately right around the time that a lot of authors first heard about the situation and started asking me individually how to find out whether their work was stolen too. I do not have that information and I am unclear on the perimeters Weitzman set for his AI scraper, so this is all conjecture: it LOOKS like the fics that were lifted had three things in common:

They were completed works;

They had over several thousand kudos on AO3; and

They were written by authors who had actively posted or updated work over the past year.

If anyone knows more about these perimeters or has info that counters my observation, please let me know!

I finally thought to check/alert evil Twitter during this time, and found out that the news was doing the rounds there already. I made a quick thread summarizing everything that had happened just in case. You can find it here.

I went to Bluesky too, where fandom was doing all the heavy lifting for me already, so I just reskeeted, as you do, and carried on.

Sometime in the very early evening, word-stream went back up—but the fan fiction category was nowhere to be seen. Tentative joy and celebration!***

That’s when several users—the ones who had signed up for accounts to gain intel and had accessed their own fics that way—reported that their work could still be accessed through their history. Relevant Reddit post here.

Sooo—

We’re obviously not done. The fanwork that was stolen by Weitzman may be inaccessible through his website right now, but they aren’t actually gone. And the fact that Weitzman wasn’t willing to get rid of them altogether means he still has plans for them. 

This was my final edit on my Reddit post before turning off notifications, and it's pretty much where my head will be at for at least the foreseeable future:

Please feel free to add info in the comments, make your own posts, take whatever action you want to take to protect your work. I only beg you—seriously, I’m on my knees here—to not give up like I saw a handful of people express the urge to do. Keep sharing your creative work and remain vigilant and stay active to make sure we can continue to do so freely. Visit your favorite fics, and the ones you’ve kept in your ‘marked for later’ lists but never made time to read, and leave kudos, leave comments, support your fandom creatives, celebrate podficcers and support AO3. We created this place and it’s our responsibility to keep it alive and thriving for as long as we possibly can.

Also FUCK generative AI. It has NO place in fandom spaces.

THE 'SMALL' PRINT (some of it in all caps):

*Weitzman knew what he was doing and can NOT claim ignorance. One, it’s pretty basic kindergarten stuff that you don’t steal some other kid’s art project and present it as your own only to act surprised when they protest and then tell the victim that they should have told you sooner that they didn’t want their project stolen. And two, he was very careful never to list the IPs these fanworks were based on, so it’s clear he was at least familiar enough with the legalities to not get himself in hot water with corporate lawyers. Fucking over fans, though, he figured he could get away with that. 

**A note about the AI that Weitzman used to steal our work: it’s even greasier than it looks at first glance. It’s not just the method he used to lift works off AO3 and then regurgitate onto his own website and app. Looking beyond the untold horrors of his AI-generated cover ‘art’, in many cases these covers attempt to depict something from the fics in question that can’t be gleaned from their summaries alone. In addition, my fics (and I assume the others, as well) were listed with generated genres; tags that did not appear anywhere in or on my fic on AO3 and were sometimes scarily accurate and sometimes way off the mark. I remember You & Me & Holiday Wine had ‘found family’ (100% correct, but not tagged by me as such) and I believe The Shape of Soup was listed as, among others, ‘enemies to friends to lovers’ and ‘love triangle’ (both wildly inaccurate). Even worse, not all the fic listed (as authors on Reddit pointed out) came with their original summaries at all. Often the entire summary was AI-generated. All of these things make it very clear that it was an all-encompassing scrape—not only were our fics stolen, they were also fed word-for-word into the AI Weitzman used and then analyzed to suit Weitzman’s needs. This means our work was literally fed to this AI to basically do with whatever its other users want, including (one assumes) text generation. 

***Fan fiction appears to have been made (largely) inaccessible on word-stream at this time, but I’m hearing from several authors that their original, independently published work, which is listed at places like Kindle Unlimited, DOES still appear in word-stream’s search engine. This obviously hurts writers, especially independent ones, who depend on these works for income and, as a rule, don’t have a huge budget or a legal team with oceans of time to fight these battles for them. If you consider yourself an author in the broader sense, beyond merely existing online as a fandom author, beyond concerns that your own work is immediately at risk, DO NOT STOP MAKING NOISE ABOUT THIS.

PLEASE check my later versions of this post via my main page to make sure you have the latest version of this post before you reblog. All the information I’ve been able to gather is in my reblogs below, and it's frustrating to see the old version getting passed around, sending people on wild goose chases.

Thank you all so much!

[s1llybug]

trying to process and heal from the trauma that a certain someone caused me and trying to talk myself through it (while being plural and mentally unstable) is currently going somewhere along these lines

(warning: some pretty triggering and very personal discussions from me in the tags however feel free to just relate to the funny pitture)

[catgirlkirigiri]

Slash was my first guy to be attacked this year which reminded me his ref is three years old and ugly so. Made him some new ones

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

ROOM FOR RENT

PAIRING: logan howlett x female reader

RATING: explicit (18+) | WORD COUNT: 5.3k

SUMMARY: logan finds a new roommate.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i have logan howlett brain rot and i’m not sorry. big smooch to everyone who let me yell about this to them including @eupheme @pedgito @wannab-urs @chaotic-mystery @kedsandtubesocks @undrthelights and @murder-wife 💕

WARNINGS: post deadpool & wolverine, variant!logan howlett, able bodied reader, reader being picked up (enhanced strength babyyyy), roommates to lovers trope, meddlesome pet cat, a splash of canon typical violence - mentions of blood and knife wounds, wade wilson/deadpool appearances, mild angst, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact) - dirty talk, pain kink, biting, pet names, praise kink, oral sex - m & f receiving, a little dacryphilia during a blowjob, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, begging, size kink. if i’ve missed any, please let me know!

LINKS: masterlists | support for palestine

If Logan has to wake up to Wade's constant yapping for the rest of his life, he's going to go insane. Every morning he's jolted awake by Wade singing in the kitchen. When he notices Logan is awake, the singing stops and the one-sided conversation begins and doesn't end until Logan finally gets up from the couch and leaves the apartment with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Today, with some money in his pocket from a few odd jobs he's picked up, he finds solace in a quiet coffee shop. Sat beside a bulletin board, he scans the postings.

Art show, art show, yard sale, job opening, roommate wanted, art show--

Roommate wanted? Logan tears the paper from the pin.

Room for rent in 2 bedroom/1 bathroom apartment. One cat. Laundry on site.

He folds the ad up and stuffs the paper in the pocket of his jacket before gathering his empty coffee cup and tossing it in the trash on the way out the door, an uncharacteristic spring in his step.

Your phone rings with a number you don't recognize. You consider sending it to voicemail, already exhausted from fielding similar calls about your room for rent, but ultimately decide to answer.

"Hello?"

A man clears his throat on the other end of the line before responding with, "This the number for the rental?"

"Yep," you reply. "Were you interested in seeing it or have any questions?"

"How much is it?"

"Your half would be $950.”

"And it's a whole bedroom?"

"As opposed to a half bedroom?" You laugh at your joke but the man remains quiet and you wince. "I mean, yes. It's a whole bedroom."

"I'd like to come see it, if you've got the time."

"Sure, how's this Friday sound?" You suggest. "What's your full name?"

"Why do you need to know that?" The man's tone grows defensive and alarm bells ring in your head.

"Well, I'd like to make sure you're not, like, a wanted criminal or something," you tell him with an awkward laugh. He's quiet and for a moment you think that he may have hung up on you. "Hello?"

"Yeah, 'm still here," he sighs. "Name's Logan Howlett."

"Logan Howlett," you repeat. You give him your name in return, though he doesn't do much but grunt in acknowledgment. "Alright, well, do you have something to write down the address?"

"Just tell me, I'll remember."

After listing off the address, he ends the call with a rough goodbye. You get to work on your personal research, entering his name into a search engine.

No results.

You refresh the page, thinking that must be an error, but the same message appears.

No results.

You try spelling his name differently.

No results.

You set the phone down, anxiety starting to creep up your spine. It's hard to believe that there's absolutely nothing online about this man, who now has your full address, name, and phone number.

A sharp meow shakes you from your thoughts and you find that your cat has taken up residence on your lap, staring at you intently as his tail flicks back and forth. You run your hand over his head, scratching beneath his chin.

"You'll protect me, right?" You ask.

He leaps from your lap and struts away, fluffy tail disappearing down the hall that leads to your bedroom. You sigh.

Hopefully you haven’t just done something stupid.

Logan's attempt to leave the apartment unnoticed does not go as planned. Althea is sitting on the couch, a re-run of a talk show playing loudly, when he tries to make a run for it. He's distracted, watching her too carefully that he doesn't realize Wade has just returned from god-knows-where.

"Whatcha doin', twinkle toes?" Wade asks, startling Logan, who slams into the kitchen table with a curse.

"Fucking hell," Logan curses, rubbing his hip. "When did you get in here?"

Wade shrugs. "Sometime around the start of your 007 impression."

"My what?"

"Nevermind," Wade sighs. "You look snazzy. Got a hot date?"

"No," Logan grunts.

"A cold date, then?"

Logan pinches his nose. "No."

"Well, care to share, sugar plum? What's got you sneaking around like the Black Widow?"

"The who?"

"May she rest in peace," Wade says, tone suddenly somber.

"He's tryin' to move out," Althea chimes in. Wade's mouth drops open in shock.

"You're abandoning us?!" he exclaims. "After all we've been through?"

"Let the man do what he wants," Althea says. "Damn co-dependent freak."

"Harsh," - Wade places a hand over his chest, -"you know I have daddy issues. And mommy issues. And abandonment issues. And--"

"Enough," Logan snaps. "Yes, alright? I'm looking for a new place. I can't sleep on that couch forever."

"Is it because it smells like old people?" Wade whispers, pointing an accusatory finger to Althea, who flips him off.

"Look, this is your universe. Your timeline. Mine is gone and it's time I start making this whole thing less temporary."

Wade tilts his head and places a hand on Logan's shoulder. "My little Wolvie, all grown up," he says, wiping at a fake tear. Logan shoves his hand away, storming past him for the door.

"Remember to smile! Give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle!" Wade shouts as he slams the door behind him.

You pace your small living room and check the stove clock for the hundredth time in the past five minutes. Logan is due to see the apartment and your nerves have gone from a simmer to a full blown boil waiting for the mysterious man with no digital footprint to show up. Your cat is lounging on the windowsill, blissfully unaware of your inner panic.

Three sharp knocks at the door cause your pulse to skyrocket. You take a deep breath before crossing the short distance to the door, pulling it open with a smile.

"Hi! You must be--“

Your greeting dies on your tongue as you take in the man crowding your hallway. He's wearing a leather jacket over a white tank top that stretches tightly across a broad chest and jeans that highlight thick thighs. His dark hair is cut shorter on the sides than on the top of his head, the ends fanning out in a manner that reminds you of a cat's ears and he's sporting an impressively thick beard.

"'m Logan," he says in the same deep voice you heard over the phone, holding a hand out towards you. You slip your palm against his much larger one and you're surprised by how warm his touch is.

"H-hi," you stutter, shaking his hand. You clear your throat. "Sorry, hi. Uh, come on in."

You move aside to let him through the doorway, not missing the fact that his shoulders practically brush the frame as he steps inside. Your apartment opens up directly into the living room and kitchen with a small dining area set in between and you gesture around.

"Well, this is most of it, to be honest. I know it's not much but--"

"It's quiet," Logan interrupts. "Ain't used to quiet."

"Where, uh," -- you twist the hem of your shirt -- "where are you coming from? Exactly?"

"Kind of a long story. Right now I sleep on a couch in a shitty one bedroom apartment shared by an asshole who doesn't shut the fuck up and a blind cocaine addict."

"Oh," you reply, nodding despite your lack of understanding. "Yeah, it's just me here. Well, and Dumpling."

"Dumpling?"

As if summoned by his name, your cat appears, making a swift beeline for the newcomer. He twists around Logan's legs, butting his head against his shins. You bend down, scooping him up in your arms.

"This is Dumpling. He's cute, but he'll knock over any plants so I wouldn't recommend you take up indoor gardening if you decide to live here." Logan eyes Dumpling warily before holding a hand out. Dumpling sniffs his fingers daintily and rubs head against his palm. "I think he likes you."

Logan huffs, the sound close to a laugh, and it makes you smile. He looks up at you and for a moment you forget that you're complete strangers who have just met. He feels inexplicably familiar, his presence comforting, and you're surprised by it.

"Let's look at the bedroom," you finally say, breaking the moment. You turn, heading for the hall and he follows behind you, steps surprisingly light for such a large man. You take him to the last door at the end of the hall and enter the empty room. "This is it. It's kind of small, but all the rooms in New York are pretty much shoe boxes. It's got a closet and access to the fire escape, though.”

"Better than the couch," he says, looking around the room. "You said $950?"

"Plus half of the utilities," you add. He nods.

"Look, I'll be honest. I'm...between jobs right now." He sighs. "And my schedule can be...unpredictable."

"Oh," you mumble. You think about it for a moment. Renting the apartment to Logan would be a risk but...you can't help but notice that exhaustion in his eyes, how it's clear he's trying to get back on his feet in one way or another. "That's okay. We can work something out."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "Really? You sure about that?"

Were you?

"Yeah," you reply. "I'm sure."

Having a roommate is...an adjustment.

Logan is great. He does his dishes in a timely manner, doesn't leave any clothes on the bathroom floor, and even cleans Dumpling's litter box from time to time.

But he drives you insane and it has nothing to do with his qualities as a roommate and everything to do with how unbearably attractive he is. He could be doing the most mundane activity and suddenly you're more turned on than a faucet on full blast. On top of it all, he's surprisingly sweet for such a gruff man.

Currently, you're watching him pour himself a glass of whiskey. You know he's probably preparing to take the drink to his room so that he can have a cigar on the fire escape, but you find yourself wanting his company.

"Logan?" you ask. He looks at you over his shoulder.

"Yeah, bub?"

"Would you...want to watch a movie? With me?"

He turns to fully face you, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his drink, dark eyes on you over the rim of the glass. You swallow nervously, prepared to retract your offer and hide out in your room for the rest of eternity, but he puts you out of your misery.

"Sure." He comes over to the couch, taking a seat that's a respectable distance away. "What are we watching?"

"Have you seen The Greatest Showman?"

A musical. He's sitting through a goddamn musical.

"You kinda look like that guy," you say from beside him. Logan tilts his head.

"I don't see it."

"It's the bone structure."

"I'm bigger than him." You mumble something under your breath that he doesn't quite catch, though he thinks it sounded suspiciously like yeah, you are. "You say somethin'?"

"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, nope. Didn't say anything."

Logan relaxes against the back of the couch, settling in. You're curled up against the armrest, a blanket covering your legs and your arms wrapped around a throw pillow. You look relaxed, at ease, a stark contrast to how you had been when he first moved in. You spent more of your time hidden in your room and he's happy to see you're getting more comfortable around him.

It's also torture. You're like a drug that he can't get enough of, a high that doesn't last long enough. He clings desperately to every smile you grace him with and falls asleep with the sound of your voice echoing in his head. He wakes up looking forward to seeing you, even if it's just in passing before you head out for your very normal job as part of your very normal life.

That's what gives him pause. You're not like him, not built for violence, and he would never drag you into that life. He thinks about Vanessa and Wade and the wedge that was driven between them they're working to repair and he can't bear the thought of having you just to lose you.

Logan's so lost in his own thoughts he doesn't realize that the movie has ended and you haven't moved. Your head is angled in a way that has to be uncomfortable, your mouth dropped open as you breathe slowly and deeply. He grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off, plunging the room into darkness as he stands and quietly approaches you.

He slides one arm beneath your knees and using the other to support your back, lifts you from the couch. You settle your head against his chest but otherwise your sleep remains undisturbed as he carries you down the hall into your room.

It's not the first time he's been in your personal space. One time he woke up to Dumpling clawing at his chest and he marched the animal back to your room for the night, barging in on you while you had been up reading. He remembers the queen sized bed in a wooden frame and a dresser with a drawer that won't shut take up most of the space, the plain white of your walls replaced by a soft blue. You've installed what he first thought were regular shelves but later learned are meant for Dumpling to use for late night acrobatics that he can sometimes hear from his room.

Logan sets you gently on your bed and pulls the quilt up to your shoulders. Before he can think better of it, he reaches a hand toward your face, tracing his thumb over the high point of your cheek. You turn towards the sensation, chasing his touch, and his chest grows tight. He sighs, stepping back and turning for the door.

Dumpling sits in the doorway, flicking his tail. Logan steps around him into the hallway, the cat's gaze following him.

"Shut up," he whispers.

Dumpling meows in return.

You're disoriented when you wake the next morning. The last thing you remember is being on the couch with Logan and watching The Greatest Showman, but somehow you've ended up in your room. You turn over in bed to find Dumpling on your other pillow, curled in a ball.

"Morning, Dumpy," you murmur, scratching his head. "How'd we end up here?"

Dumpling blinks unhelpfully at you before uncurling from his spot and hopping from the bed, leaving through your open door. It's then that you notice that you can hear grunting noises coming from the living room.

You get up to investigate and stop dead in your tracks, mouth dropping open when you find the source of the noise is a shirtless Logan doing push ups on the living room floor. The broad muscles of his back ripple with each movement, each push accompanied by a small grunt that makes your thighs clench together, imagining him making that noise when--

Logan stops, jumping to his feet and you shake your head free of the salacious image it began to create. He turns, giving you an uninhibited view of his thick chest that's covered in dark hair that trails down over defined abs before disappearing beneath the elastic of his sweatpants. You have to say something, anything, but your brain is full of static, unable to operate when he's standing there looking like that.

"Morning," he says.

"Good morning!" you reply, voice pitched higher than usual. You walk past him in a way you hope is casual, heading for the kitchen and prepping the coffee machine. "You got any plans today?"

"Got a friend who needs my help with something. Don't know when I'll be back." His voice is much closer than you expected and you turn from the counter to find him right behind you, a scant few inches of space between your bodies.

"Oh?" you whisper, keeping your gaze firmly on his face. "Is everything okay?"

"It will be."

He drifts impossibly closer, chest nearly brushing yours. Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic rhythm that's become familiar ever since Logan entered your life. Reaching above your head, he grabs two mugs in one large hand, setting them on the counter behind you before taking a step back and turning to head for his room without another glance in your direction.

You sag against the counter, a wave of lust addled adrenaline crashing over you and leaving you breathless. The last thing you need to be doing is getting involved with your roommate, no matter how tempting he may be.

Dumpling jumps up on the counter beside the coffee pot and stares at you, likely waiting for food, but it feels more like judgment in his green eyes.

"Shut up," you whisper to him.

Dumpling meows, batting you with a paw.

You're sitting on the couch when there's an unexpected knock at your door. Logan is still gone, helping a friend and you're not expecting anyone, so you’re not sure who it could be. You check the peephole before opening the door and see the distorted image of a man in a red suit and mask supporting the weight of your roommate against his side.

"What the fuck?" you ask as you open the door in a panicked rush. The masked man waves his fingers at you.

"Hi there! I've got a very," -- he grunts, adjusting his grip on Logan -- "heavy delivery."

Logan's eyes are closed, head flopped back on the masked man's shoulder. Blood stains his t-shirt in spots that look suspiciously like knife wounds and you gasp.

"What happened to him?!" you shout. "Oh my god, he needs to go to the hospital--"

"He just needs a little power nap," the man says. "I'm Wade, by the way. You mind if I just--"

Wade drags Logan through the apartment, depositing him on your couch with a huff, wiping his hands together. He looks around and you're shocked when the eyes of the mask seem to move, as if mimicking his facial expressions.

"This is a nice place," he says. Dumpling meows and Wade gasps. "You have a cat?! I wish I could pet you, sweet kitty, but Dogpool would put me in the dog house. Ha! Get it?"

"I'm confused," you manage to say. "My roommate is bleeding out on my couch after being dropped off by some wanna-be Avenger--"

"Ouch!"

"And you're saying he doesn't need to go to the emergency room?"

"Nope." Wade lifts Logan's shirt. "See? Good as new."

Despite the blood and tears on his shirt, there's no wounds on Logan's body. He shifts, lifting an arm to smack Wade's hand away as he groans, eyes fluttering open. He glares at the man.

"Get out," he growls.

"Now, now, that's not being a very good host, Logi. What, were you raised by wolves?" Wade replies. Logan roars, a ferocious sound that's more animal than man. His hand curls into a fist and sharp metal blades extend from between his knuckles. "Okay, okay, I'm leaving, no need for the murder mittens." Wade looks at you. "You should come to Sunday dinner!"

"Wilson!" Logan shouts. Wade finally heeds the man's warnings, rushing for the door without another word, shutting it behind him. Logan sags against the couch, blades retracting into his hand. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes.

You stand there in shock, trying to make sense of everything you just witnessed. Logan should be halfway to dead by now, but he doesn't even have a scratch on him. He has claws. How does he have claws?

"Can hear you thinking," Logan says, eyes still shut. "Just say it."

"Say what?" you ask. He lifts his head.

"Tell me to get out, scream, whatever it is."

You sit down on the couch, facing him. "Why would I do that?"

"Because that's what you should be doing."

His hand rests on his thigh and you reach for it, lifting it to eye level for a closer look at his knuckles. You trace your thumb over the smooth skin, up over his strong forearm. He watches you, face almost pained.

"I'm not scared of you," you whisper. "You wouldn't hurt me."

"But I could," he bites back.

"You won't." You're certain of that. You set his hand back on his thigh and stand from the couch, intending to grab him a glass of water from the kitchen, but he stops you with a hand around your wrist. His grip is loose enough that you could break free, but you don't.

Logan looks up at you with an unreadable expression, something close to fear mixed with a conflicting emotion that you think -- or hope -- might be desire. He tugs your wrist, bringing you to stand between his legs.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

You place your hand on his cheek, the coarse hair of his beard scratching at your palm. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a sharp inhale.

"You're a good man, Logan Howlett," you murmur. He closes his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath.

His next movements are quick -- a hand on the back of your thigh, dragging you onto his lap, the other wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you close, his lips capturing yours in a savage kiss. You melt into him, meeting his urgency with your own desperation, tongues tangling together and fighting for dominance.

You pull back to trail kisses across his jaw until you reach his neck, sinking your teeth into the tan skin, just over his hammering pulse. Logan groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, pulling you tightly against him as his hips buck into yours.

"Fuck," Logan says, voice a deep rumble that you feel to your marrow. "Do that again."

"Do what?" you tease.

"Bite me," he demands. "Make it hurt."

You obey, biting down into his shoulder with greater effort, sinking your teeth in deep until he hisses from the pain of it and you let go, lifting your head to look at the mark you've left behind. It fades quickly, disappearing without a trace.

"Jesus," he says, pulling you in for another kiss, slow and deep, as his hands find the hem of your shirt. "Let me see you."

You allow him to lift your shirt up and over your head, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. His touch makes you shiver despite the heat of his hands as he traces the curve of your waist up to your chest, his thumbs finding your nipples and teasing them with slow circles. You drop your head back with a moan and he takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, your collarbone, moving down until his lips wrap around one taut bud.

"Logan," you whine, digging your fingers into his hair and holding tight. He hums, the sensation making your eyes roll.

"Thought about this," he murmurs, switching to your other breast. "Every time you'd wear those goddamn tight shirts of yours."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Wanna know what I thought about?" You tug his hair, pulling his head away from your chest. "Sucking your cock."

He raises his eyebrow at you and you take the opportunity to slide from his lap, settling on your knees between his spread thighs. You work his belt loose, followed by the fly of his jeans. He reaches past the waistband to free his cock and your mouth waters at the sight. You could tell he was big while you were on his lap, but he's even more glorious than you imagined. Thick, long, with prominent veins and a slight upward curve that you know will hit all the right places.

You take him in your hand, appreciating the weight of him in your palm as you hold him steady. With your eyes locked on his face, you open your mouth and stick out your tongue to lick from the top of your fingers to the flushed head. He groans, his hand curling into a fist that he presses to his forehead.

"Fuck," Logan hisses. You do it again, this time swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him into your mouth, moving down his length slowly. "God, look at you. Mouth stuffed so full you're drooling, huh?"

He's right. Spit gathers at the corners of your lips and runs down your chin as you use your mouth to pleasure him. The sounds he makes above you are downright filthy, deep moans and filthy praise that have you moving faster, taking him deeper, working to get as much of him in your mouth as you manage without gagging. He cups your cheek with one large palm, thumb tracing your stretched lips.

"Keep going, sweetheart. You can take a little more, can't you? That's it," he says. Tears burn your cheeks with the effort to obey, your throat tightening around the head of his cock. "Fuck, that's a good girl."

You breathe deeply through your nose, maintaining a steady pace and using your hand in tandem with your mouth for what you can't easily take. Logan's hips begin to flex beneath you, his words trailing off into guttural growls. His cock twitches in your grasp and he moans your name before his release floods your mouth and you swallow it down.

You pull off of him with a slick pop, gasping for breath. Before you can say anything, Logan is hauling you to your feet as he stands from the couch, lifting you up with one strong arm beneath your ass and urging your legs around his waist.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Just getting started."

Logan kicks the door open to your room, startling Dumpling from his perch. The cat races out the door, disappearing into the living area as the door clicks shut. He sets you down on your bed and quickly rids himself of his boots and rest of his clothing before returning his attention to you.

You're lying there in your little sleep shorts that drive him nuts. The fabric barely covers your ass and there's been more than one occasion where he's shuffled into the kitchen in the mornings to see you in them, all the blood in his body rushing south at the sight. He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your spread thighs, and extends a single claw. Your eyes widen, but you don't pull away. In fact, you start squirming, hips flexing minutely against the mattress.

"Scared yet?" he asks.

"I wouldn't say that.”

He carefully slips the blade beneath the hem of your shorts, inching it up until it peeks out above the elastic waistband before twisting his wrist and slicing through the fabric like it's nothing. Claw retracted, he removes your ruined shorts and takes a moment to appreciate the vision you make, legs spread wide and your dripping pussy on display.

"You're a mess," he says, smoothing his hands over the soft skin of your legs. He lifts one of your knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of it before resting it on his shoulder. "Gonna clean you up."

Logan dips his head to your center, dragging his tongue through your soaked sex, groaning when the taste of you blooms across his tongue. Your fingers curl against his scalp, a sharp point of pleasure-pain as he explores your body. He swirls his tongue over your clit, experimenting with broad circles and sharp flicks until you're writhing beneath him.

"Logan," you cry, hips bucking against his face. He dips his tongue into your cunt, nose brushing your clit as he does, and he hums in satisfaction as your thighs tense around his head.

He looks up at you and drinks in the picture you make, gorgeous skin glistening with sweat and your back arched from the bed, chest heaving with desperate breaths. He wants this exact moment burned into his memory, certain it could chase away the dark shadows that linger there.

Logan presses two fingers to your hole, sliding them in with little resistance. You're so warm and tight, squeezing his fingers beautifully, calling out his name as he curls them when he drags them from your body.

"I'm going to come," you gasp. "Oh, fuck, just like that!"

You pulse around his fingers and he slows his movements to work you through it until you collapse against the mattress with a deep sigh. He carefully removes his hand and sits up on his knees.

"Guess I made more of a mess," Logan says. Your eyes squeeze shut with a breathless giggle.

"I'll forgive you," you reply. You reach your arms up for him and he moves to hover over you to accept your embrace. "God, Logan," you murmur, tilting your chin up to kiss him.

In this position, he's able to drag his cock through the slick mess between your thighs and you shiver beneath him, gasping into his mouth. He does it again, more purposeful this time and it drags a moan from you both.

"Please," you murmur.

"Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you want," he replies. "What you need."

"Need you to fuck me."

Logan reaches between your bodies and positions the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pushing forward. The stretch of him is unreal, almost too much even with how wet you are for him.

"Relax," he says, holding himself steady above you. "You can take it."

You nod and he pushes forward another inch, letting you adjust, and repeating the process until the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickles your sensitive skin. You've never been so full, no other experience compares to this. No other man compares to Logan, in any way.

He starts moving slowly, dragging his hips back until you're nearly empty before plunging back inside. Each thrust puts stars in your vision, makes the knot of want and need coil tighter in your lower belly, until you're moaning his name and begging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

Logan obeys, thrusting into you with enough force that your head board collides with the wall. He sits back on heels, dragging you up with him until you're sitting in his lap and he's able to thrust up into you.

"Feel so fucking good," he says, lips against your neck. "Need you to come for me, baby."

You nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding him close, meeting each of his thrusts with a rock of your hips that drags your clit against him, your nerves buzzing with the friction and fullness. While the orgasm he wrenched from you with his mouth felt like a wildfire, this one builds and builds, a wave cresting until it finally crashes and you cry out his name.

Logan leans forward to drop you back onto the bed, reaching a hand up to grip your headboard as he continues to roll his hips into yours, chasing his own release. His thrusts begin to grow more desperate until he presses in deep and you're flooded with warmth as he growls, long and low. The sound of splintering wood breaks through your post-orgasmic haze and you tilt your head back to find that his claws have extended through your headboard, splitting the wood and embedding into the drywall.

"I can fix that," Logan says breathlessly, tugging his hand free, claws retracting. You grin at him.

"Later," you reply, pulling him in for a kiss.

You've got better things to do right now.

Thank you so much for reading! For more of my writing, check out my masterlists!