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

[gukcnt]

۶ৎ FLAVORS OF DESIRE —

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he says, his voice low, almost a growl, thick with emotion. “Every time you walk in here, all quiet and shy, I lose my fucking mind. I’ve been trying so hard to keep my distance, but you… you’re under my skin.”

pairing: boss dom!seokjin x employee sub!femreader

genre: workplace romance, restaurant owner!jin, chef!jin, shy!reader, waitress!reader, professinol setting, candlelit ambiance, storm setting, pining, forced proximity, romance, smut, fluff

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, angry!jin, desperate!jin, possessive!jin, tension and attraction, subtle touches, weather build up, power outrage, emotional vulnerability, confessions, seokjins revelations, intimate dialogue, storm induced isolation, slight mentions of blood, post storm calm, internal conflict, oral sex (f. receiving), eating out, tongue fucking, clit stimulation, face riding, face sitting, cum swallowing, hair fisting, making out, hickies/marking, praise kink, dirty talk, longing, desperation, semipublic sex, missionary sex on countertop, back shots, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, creampie, rough sex, tender sex, unprotected sex, partially clothed sex, breast play, nipple play, nipple sucking, fingering, power dynamics, desperate/passionate sex, emotional intimacy during sex, overstimulation, body worship, oral sex (m. receiving), cock palming, cock sucking, face fucking, cock worship, several physical and emotional reactions during sex, begging, crying, teasing, erotic vulnerability, post sex tenderness, emotional confessions and bonding, aftercare

wc: 10k

masterlist

۶ৎ

The restaurant, "Jin’s Table" throbs with a life of its own, a living organism fueled by the clatter of porcelain, the sizzle of pans, and the low hum of voices weaving through the air. The dining room is a tapestry of sensory overload: the sharp tang of roasted garlic mingles with the earthy richness of truffle oil, while the faint sweetness of caramelized onions curls like a whisper through the chaos. Candlelight flickers on polished tabletops, casting golden reflections that dance across wine glasses, their ruby and amber contents shimmering like liquid jewels. The walls, adorned with abstract art in muted golds and reds, seem to pulse with the rhythm of the evening rush, absorbing the laughter of diners and the clink of silverware into their very grain.

You stand at the edge of this orchestrated madness, a shy waitress in a crisp black uniform, your apron tied tightly around your waist as if it could anchor your fluttering nerves. Your name tag, a small silver rectangle pinned to your chest, reads “Y/N,” but you feel like a ghost, slipping through the vibrant chaos unnoticed—except by him. Your hands, clammy with anxiety, smooth the apron repeatedly, a nervous tic you can’t suppress. The fabric is slightly rough under your fingertips, grounding you as your heart races in the presence of the restaurant’s beating heart: Kim Seokjin.

Seokjin, the owner and head chef, is a force of nature, a storm contained in human form. He commands the kitchen with the precision of a general, his broad shoulders filling out his tailored chef’s coat, the white fabric stretched taut across his back. His dark hair, swept back under a black bandana, glistens faintly with sweat under the harsh kitchen lights, and his sharp jawline catches the glow as he moves. His voice, deep and authoritative, slices through the din of sizzling oil and clanging pots, barking orders with a clarity that demands obedience. “Faster on the garnish, Min! The risotto’s plating in two!” he calls, his tone brooking no argument. Yet, when he steps into the dining room to greet guests, his demeanor shifts like a chameleon. His smile is a weapon, disarming and warm, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he charms a table of regulars. You’ve seen women lean forward, their cheeks flushed, their laughter too bright, their gazes lingering on the way his lips curve or the confident tilt of his head.

You’ve been at "Jin’s Table" for six months, and every shift feels like walking a tightrope over a chasm of your own making. Seokjin—"Mr. Kim" to you—is both your anchor and your undoing. It’s not just his striking looks, though his high cheekbones, full lips, and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw are enough to make your breath catch. It’s the way he sees you, his gaze lingering a heartbeat too long when you approach the pass to collect an order, his voice softening imperceptibly when he says your name. “Y/N, table six is ready for their mains,” he’ll say, and the way his eyes hold yours, dark and unreadable, makes your skin prickle with heat.

Tonight, the restaurant is at its peak, the dinner rush a whirlwind of motion. You’re balancing a tray of delicate wine glasses, their stems cool and fragile in your hands, when his voice cuts through the noise like a blade. “Y/N, I need you at the pass. Now.” The command is sharp, urgent, and your stomach lurches, a mix of dread and anticipation. You set the tray down on a sideboard, the glasses clinking softly, and wipe your sweaty palms on your apron, the coarse fabric catching on your skin. Your pulse hammers in your throat as you weave through the bustling dining room, dodging a server carrying a steaming plate of osso buco, its rich, marrow-laden aroma trailing in her wake.

The kitchen is a furnace, a wall of heat slamming into you as you cross the threshold. The air is heavy with the metallic tang of seared meat, the bright zest of lemon, and the faint smokiness of charred herbs. Stainless steel counters gleam under fluorescent lights, littered with mise en place: tiny bowls of chopped parsley, slivers of garlic, and vibrant pools of olive oil catching the light like liquid gold. The sous-chefs move in a frenetic ballet, their knives flashing as they dice vegetables, their faces slick with sweat. Seokjin stands at the heart of it all, leaning against the pass with a towel slung over one shoulder, its white fabric stained with faint streaks of sauce. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with flour, the muscles flexing as he adjusts his stance. His presence is magnetic, drawing your gaze despite your efforts to focus on the task.

“You’re moving too slow out there,” he says, his tone firm but laced with something softer, a thread of concern that makes your chest tighten. His eyes, dark and piercing, flick over you, taking in the flush in your cheeks, the way your hands fidget at your sides. “Table twelve’s been waiting ten minutes for their appetizers. Pick up the pace, Y/N.”

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Kim,” you stammer, your voice barely audible over the hiss of a nearby sauté pan. Your cheeks burn, the heat of embarrassment mingling with the kitchen’s oppressive warmth. You step forward to collect the plates he’s prepared, your eyes darting to the food: a vibrant bruschetta, the tomatoes glistening with olive oil, their ruby hue vivid against the toasted bread; a seared scallop, its golden crust nestled in a pool of saffron cream, the aroma delicate yet intoxicating. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the plates, the porcelain warm from the kitchen’s heat, and his hand brushes yours as he steadies one before it tips.

The contact is fleeting but electric, a spark that shoots through your veins, making your breath catch. His skin is warm, slightly rough from hours of handling knives and pans, and the brief touch leaves your hand tingling. “Careful,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that feels meant for you alone. “I don’t want my food hitting the floor.” His lips curve into a half-smile, not quite a smirk but close, and his eyes hold yours for a moment too long, their depths glinting with something unreadable—amusement, curiosity, or perhaps something hungrier.

You nod, your throat too tight to form words, and clutch the plates to your chest like a shield. As you turn to leave, you feel his gaze on your back, a tangible weight that follows you through the swinging doors into the dining room. Your heart pounds, a wild rhythm that drowns out the chatter of the guests as you deliver the appetizers to table twelve. Their compliments—“This bruschetta is divine!” “The scallop melts in your mouth!”—barely register, your mind consumed by the memory of his touch, the way his voice wrapped around your name like a caress.

Back at the server station, you pause, pressing a hand to your chest as if you could slow your racing pulse. The dining room buzzes around you, but all you can see is Seokjin’s face, the intensity of his stare, the way his presence lingers like the aftertaste of one of his dishes—complex, unforgettable, and dangerously addictive.

“Y/N, you okay?” another server, Mina, asks, her brow furrowed as she refills a water pitcher. Her voice is kind, but it feels distant, like it’s coming from underwater.

“Y-Yeah,” you lie, forcing a smile that feels brittle. “Just… busy.”

She nods, unconvinced, but doesn’t press. You turn back to your tasks, wiping down a table, the cloth gliding over the smooth wood, but your thoughts are in the kitchen, with him. You wonder if he’s watching you now, through the small window in the kitchen door, his eyes tracking your every move. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and longing that you don’t dare name.

“Get it together, Y/N,” you whisper to yourself, your voice swallowed by the restaurant’s pulse. But as you move through the rest of your shift, the weight of Seokjin’s gaze, the echo of his voice, and the ghost of his touch cling to you, a promise of something yet to come, simmering just beneath the surface.

The air carries a constant hum of life, a blend of sizzling butter, fragrant herbs, and the faint tang of red wine reductions that cling to the walls like a second skin. The dining room buzzes with the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter from a table of regulars. Your hands tremble slightly as you clear a table, stacking plates with meticulous care, the porcelain cool against your fingertips. Every movement feels scrutinized, not by the patrons, but by him, the man who commands this place like a king.

His presence is inescapable, his gaze a weight you feel even when you’re not looking. It’s in the way he watches you from the kitchen pass when you deliver an order, his eyes lingering on the curve of your wrist as you set down a plate. It’s in the way his voice softens when he says your name, a subtle shift that makes your pulse race. “Y/N, table six needs more water,” he’ll say, and the way his lips form the words feels like a secret meant only for you. You’re painfully aware of him, your body betraying you with every flushed cheek, every fumbled response.

Tonight, the restaurant is in full swing, the dinner rush a relentless tide. You’re wiping down a table, the rag damp and cool in your hand, when you feel it—that prickle at the back of your neck. You don’t need to turn to know he’s watching. Slowly, you glance over your shoulder, and there he is, leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his chef’s coat unbuttoned just enough to reveal a sliver of tanned skin at his collarbone. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but they pin you in place, a predator sizing up prey. Your breath catches, and you drop the rag, the soft thud loud in your ears. You bend to pick it up, your fingers brushing the polished wood floor, and when you straighten, he’s still watching, his gaze heavier now, tracing the line of your body as you rise.

Your cheeks burn, and you turn away, busying yourself with refilling a water pitcher. The glass is cold against your palms, the water sloshing softly, but it does nothing to cool the heat spreading through you. You’re shy, cripplingly so, and every interaction with him is a battle against your own nerves. Last week, he’d asked you to taste a new dish—a velvety butternut squash soup, the spoon warm from his hand as he held it out to you. The flavor had burst on your tongue, rich and earthy, but all you could manage was a stammered, “It’s… really good, Mr. Kim,” your eyes fixed on the floor. He’d chuckled, the sound low and warm, and said, “You’re too quiet, Y/N. I want to hear more from you.” The words had haunted you for days, replaying in your mind as you lay in bed, your heart racing at the memory of his voice.

Now, as you carry the pitcher to a table, you feel his eyes again, a caress that follows you across the room. You pour water for a couple, your hands steady despite the tremor in your chest, and when you turn, he’s closer, standing at the edge of the dining room, wiping his hands on a towel. The movement is casual, but there’s nothing casual about the way he looks at you, his gaze lingering on your lips before flicking back to your eyes. You freeze, the pitcher heavy in your hands, and he steps forward, closing the distance.

“You’re doing well tonight,” he says, his voice low, meant for you alone. The words are simple, but they land like a touch, sending a shiver down your spine. The dining room fades, the chatter and clatter dimming until it’s just him—his scent, a mix of cedar cologne and the faint smokiness of the kitchen; his warmth, radiating even from a foot away; his eyes, searching yours with an intensity that makes your throat dry.

“T-Thank you, Mr. Kim,” you mumble, your voice barely audible. You clutch the pitcher tighter, your knuckles whitening, and his lips twitch, not quite a smile but something sharper, hungrier.

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” he says, stepping closer still. The towel dangles from his hand, brushing your arm as he leans in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I’m not as intimidating as you think.” His breath grazes your ear, and you feel it in your core, a pulse of heat that makes your thighs press together instinctively.

You swallow, your mouth dry, and force yourself to meet his eyes. They’re molten, dark and deep, and for a moment, you’re drowning in them. “I… I just want to do a good job,” you say, the words shaky but honest. Your heart pounds, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it.

His gaze softens, but there’s an edge to it, a flicker of something raw. “You do,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “But I want more than that. I want to know you, Y/N. Not just the waitress who blushes every time I look at her.” His fingers brush your wrist, a fleeting touch that sears your skin, and you gasp softly, the sound swallowed by the noise of the restaurant.

“I’m… I’m not good at this,” you admit, your voice trembling with the weight of your confession. “Talking to you… it’s hard. You’re so…” You trail off, unable to find the words, but he doesn’t need them.

“Too much?” he asks, his tone laced with something like regret, but his eyes are still locked on you, unrelenting. “Or not enough?”

You shake your head, your cheeks flaming. “Too… everything,” you whisper, and it’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him. His expression shifts, a crack in his composure, and for a moment, you see it—the want, the frustration, the way he’s been holding himself back.

“Then let me make it easier,” he says, his voice rough with restraint. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… let me see you. Really see you.” His hand hovers near your face, as if he’s tempted to touch you again, but he pulls back, his jaw tightening. “Go back to your tables. But don’t think I’m done with you.”

The words are a promise, heavy with intent, and they linger as you nod, your legs unsteady as you turn away. The pitcher trembles in your hands, water sloshing over the rim, and you set it down before you drop it. The rest of your shift is a blur, your body moving on autopilot while your mind replays every word, every glance. You feel his eyes on you still, even when you’re not looking—when you’re serving dessert, when you’re clearing plates, when you’re wiping down the bar. It’s a tether, pulling you back to him, and the weight of it is both terrifying and thrilling.

Later, in the break room, you’re alone, sipping water from a plastic cup, the cool liquid doing little to soothe the fire in your chest. The room is small, the walls lined with lockers, the air smelling faintly of coffee and cleaning supplies. You’re leaning against the counter, your uniform slightly wrinkled, when the door swings open. Seokjin steps inside, and the space shrinks, the air thickening with his presence.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, his chef’s coat unbuttoned further now, revealing the taut lines of his chest. His hair is slightly mussed, the bandana gone, and he looks less like the untouchable chef and more like a man unraveling. “You’re hiding,” he says finally, his voice low, almost accusatory.

“I’m not,” you lie, your voice soft, your eyes fixed on the cup in your hands. The plastic crinkles as you grip it tighter.

He steps closer, and you feel the heat of him, the scent of him, wrapping around you. “You are,” he says, his tone softer now, but no less intense. “You’re always hiding. From me. From this.” He gestures vaguely, but you know what he means—the pull between you, the unspoken thing that’s been building for months.

“I don’t mean to,” you say, your voice breaking. You look up at him, and it’s a mistake—his eyes are too much, too raw, stripping you bare. “I just… I don’t know how to handle you.”

His laugh is low, bitter, and it cuts through you. “Handle me?” he echoes, stepping so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. “Y/N, I’m the one trying to handle you. Every time you walk by, every time you stammer my name, it takes everything in me not to—” He stops, his jaw clenching, his hands flexing at his sides.

“Not to what?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, but there’s a challenge in it, a spark of courage you didn’t know you had.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then he leans in, his voice a growl, his words dripping with need. “Not to pull you into my office and find out exactly how you taste. Not to make you say my name until you can’t stop.” His gaze drops to your lips, and you feel it like a touch, your body responding before your mind can catch up—your breath quickening, your nipples tightening against your bra, a pulse of heat between your thighs.

You’re trembling, your shyness warring with the want coursing through you. “Seokjin…” you breathe, and it’s the first time you’ve said his name like that, soft and desperate, and it breaks something in him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his hand raking through his hair. “You can’t say my name like that and expect me to stay calm.” He steps back, putting space between you, but the air is still charged, crackling with what neither of you will fully say.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, your default response, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t be,” he says, his voice softer now, laced with something like pain. “Just… don’t hide from me anymore. I can’t stand it.”

You nod, unable to speak, and he turns to leave, his shoulders tense. The door swings shut behind him, and you’re alone again, the cup still in your hands, now crumpled from your grip. Your heart pounds, your body alive with the memory of his words, his closeness. The break room feels too small, too quiet, and you know nothing will be the same after this—not your shifts, not your thoughts, not the way you look at him. He’s seen you, and now, you’re not sure you can ever hide again.

The night is heavy with the weight of an approaching storm, the air thick and charged as if the world itself is holding its breath. "Jin’s Table" is a ghost of its usual vibrancy, the dining room nearly deserted, its polished wooden tables gleaming faintly under the dim glow of the overhead lights. The last patrons, a couple sharing a bottle of merlot, hurry out into the night, their coats pulled tight against the first sharp gusts of wind. You watch them go, your hands nervously wiping a damp cloth over an already spotless table, the faint scent of lemon polish clinging to your fingers. Outside, the sky is a bruised purple, clouds roiling like a restless sea, and the distant rumble of thunder sends a shiver down your spine.

You’re alone in the dining room, the other staff dismissed early due to the slow night and the looming weather. The restaurant feels too big, too quiet, the only sounds the soft creak of the floorboards and the occasional clatter from the kitchen where Mr. Kim—is still at work. Your heart skitters at the thought of him, as it always does. He’s been a constant presence in your mind since you started working here, his commanding presence and piercing gaze unraveling you in ways you can’t articulate. You’re shy, painfully so, and every interaction with him leaves you flushed and fumbling, your words tripping over themselves under the weight of his attention.

“Y/N!” His voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and authoritative, yet laced with a warmth that makes your stomach flip. “Get in here. I need you to help close up.”

You drop the cloth, your hands trembling as you smooth your apron, the black fabric suddenly feeling too tight against your skin. The kitchen door looms like a threshold to another world, and you push through it, the heat hitting you like a physical force. The air is thick with the lingering scents of the night’s service—roasted garlic, seared herbs, the faint tang of reduced wine. The stoves are off, but the residual warmth clings to the stainless steel counters, and the space hums with the faint buzz of appliances. Seokjin stands at the center of it all, a towering figure in his chef’s coat, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms dusted with flour. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, a few strands falling across his forehead, and his bandana is loosened, giving him a rugged, almost dangerous edge.

“Everyone’s gone,” he says, not looking up from the skillet he’s scrubbing, the muscles in his arms flexing with each vigorous motion. “It’s just us. Start stacking those plates.” His tone is clipped, professional, but there’s an undercurrent to it, something that makes your pulse race.

“Yes, Mr. Kim,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the growing howl of the wind outside. You move to the stack of dirty plates, your fingers brushing against the smooth porcelain, still warm from the dishwasher’s heat. The kitchen feels smaller with just the two of you, the space shrinking under the weight of his presence. You’re hyper-aware of every sound—his steady breaths, the soft scrape of his sponge, the drip of water from the faucet. Your skin prickles, and you keep your eyes fixed on the plates, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what you might see there.

The storm outside grows louder, the wind rattling the windows, rain beginning to lash against the glass in sharp, staccato bursts. Thunder rolls, closer now, a deep growl that vibrates through the floor. You stack the plates carefully, your hands unsteady, your heart a wild thing in your chest. You can feel him watching you, his gaze a tangible weight, and it makes your movements clumsy, your fingers fumbling.

And then, with a sudden flicker, the lights stutter. A loud pop echoes through the kitchen, and the world plunges into darkness. You gasp, the plate in your hands slipping from your grip. It hits the floor with a shattering crash, the sound sharp and jarring in the suffocating silence. Your breath catches, your body freezing as the darkness swallows you whole. The air feels heavier now, charged with the electric hum of the storm and something else—something alive and pulsing between you and Seokjin.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, Mr. Kim,” you stammer, your voice high and panicked, your hands fluttering uselessly in the air. The darkness is disorienting, the kitchen a maze of shadows, and you feel exposed, vulnerable, like the night has stripped away your defenses. “I-I didn’t mean to—”

“Easy,” Seokjin’s voice cuts through your panic, calm but closer than you expect, a low rumble that grounds you. You feel the heat of him before you see him, his presence looming as he steps nearer, his hand brushing your arm in the dark. The contact is brief but searing, a spark that ignites your nerves, sending a jolt through your body. “It’s just a plate. Stay still.”

His voice is steady, but there’s a roughness to it, an edge that makes your heart stutter. You hear the rustle of fabric, the soft scrape of his boots against the tile, and then a faint click. A tiny flame flares to life as he lights a match, the glow illuminating his face in sharp relief. His features are striking in the flickering light—his sharp jawline, the curve of his lips, the intensity in his eyes as they lock onto yours. He moves to a candle from the dining room’s stock, one of the heavy glass votives used for ambiance, and sets it on the counter. The flame steadies, casting a warm, golden glow that dances across the stainless steel surfaces, painting the kitchen in shifting shadows.

The candlelight softens the harsh lines of the room but does nothing to ease the tension coiling in your chest. Seokjin’s eyes are still on you, dark and unreadable, and you feel like prey caught in a predator’s gaze. Your cheeks burn, your breath shallow, and you kneel to pick up the broken pieces of the plate, desperate for something to do with your hands. The shards are sharp, glinting in the candlelight, and you wince as one pricks your finger, a tiny bead of blood welling up.

“Leave it,” Seokjin says, his voice low and commanding, almost a growl. He crouches beside you, his body close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint musk of his sweat mixed with the clean scent of his cologne. His hand closes over yours, firm but gentle, stopping you from touching the shards. “You’ll cut yourself.”

You freeze, your hand trapped in his, the roughness of his calloused fingers a stark contrast to your soft skin. The candlelight flickers, casting shadows that dance across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes, the slight part of his lips. Your heart pounds, the sound loud in your ears, drowning out the storm. The air between you crackles, thick with unspoken words, unacknowledged desire. You meet his gaze, and for the first time, you don’t look away, drawn into the depths of his eyes like a moth to a flame.

“Mr. Kim…” you whisper, your voice trembling, barely audible over the rain’s relentless drumming. You don’t know what you’re trying to say, only that his name feels like a plea, a confession, a surrender.

“Seokjin,” he corrects, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a slow, deliberate caress that sends a shiver down your spine. “Call me Seokjin.”

You swallow, your throat dry, your lips parting as you try to form the word. “Seokjin,” you repeat, and it feels intimate, forbidden, like crossing a line you can’t uncross. His eyes darken, a storm of their own brewing in their depths, and his grip on your hand tightens, his breath hitching.

“You’re shaking,” he says, his voice softer now, laced with something tender yet possessive. He shifts closer, his knee brushing yours, the contact sending a spark through you. “Are you scared?”

You shake your head, your voice caught in your throat. “No,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s… it’s not that.”

“Then what?” he presses, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your cheek. The candlelight catches the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the sharp angle of his cheekbone. “Tell me, Y/N. What’s got you trembling like this?”

Your heart lurches, the weight of his question pressing against the fragile walls you’ve built around your feelings. The storm outside mirrors the chaos inside you, the wind howling, the rain pounding, urging you to let go. “It’s you,” you admit, your voice breaking, raw with vulnerability. “You make me nervous. You… you make me feel things I don’t know how to handle.”

His eyes widen, a flicker of surprise breaking through the intensity. For a moment, he’s silent, the only sound the storm’s relentless assault and the soft crackle of the candle. Then he exhales, a shaky breath that betrays the control he’s been holding onto. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he says, his voice low, almost a growl, thick with emotion. “Every time you walk in here, all quiet and shy, I lose my fucking mind. I’ve been trying so hard to keep my distance, but you… you’re under my skin.”

Your breath catches, your body trembling not from the cold but from the raw honesty in his words, the hunger in his eyes. The candlelight flickers, casting fleeting shadows that make the moment feel surreal, like a dream you’re afraid to wake from. “I didn’t know,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. “I thought… I thought you didn’t see me like that.”

He laughs, a low, bitter sound that cuts through the tension. “Not see you? Y/N, I can’t stop seeing you. Every time you smile, every time you blush, it’s like a punch to the gut. I’ve wanted you since the day you walked in here, and it’s been killing me to hold back.”

The confession hangs between you, heavy and electric, the air crackling with the weight of it. You’re still crouched together, the broken plate forgotten, the storm raging outside a distant echo compared to the storm within. His hand is still on yours, his touch an anchor, and you feel the pull of him, the inevitable gravity drawing you closer.

“Seokjin,” you say again, his name a prayer on your lips, and it’s like a dam breaking. His eyes flare with something wild, something desperate, and he leans closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath mingling with yours in the candlelit dark.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, his voice a plea and a command, raw with need. “Say my name.”

“Seokjin,” you breathe, and it’s the last word you manage before the space between you collapses, the storm outside fading into nothingness as the real tempest begins.

The air crackles, the storm outside a mere echo of the tempest between you. You’re still crouched together, but the space feels smaller, the world narrowing to the heat of his body, the scent of his skin, the intensity of his gaze. Your hand is still in his, but now your fingers curl around his, a silent acceptance, a bridge crossed.

He moves first, a sudden, decisive shift, his hands releasing yours to cup your face, his palms warm and rough against your cheeks. His touch is firm, possessive, but there’s a tenderness in the way his thumbs brush your skin, like he’s memorizing you. His eyes search yours, a final question, and then his lips crash into yours, a kiss that’s all hunger and heat, a dam breaking after months of restraint.

The kiss is a revelation, a collision of need and desperation. His lips are soft but demanding, moving against yours with a rhythm that steals your breath. You taste salt, a hint of the wine he sipped earlier, and the raw edge of his desire. His tongue teases the seam of your lips, and you open for him, a soft whimper escaping as he deepens the kiss, claiming you with every stroke. Your hands clutch his chef’s coat, the fabric coarse under your fingers, anchoring you as the world tilts.

He pulls you to your feet, his hands sliding to your waist, pressing you against the counter. The edge digs into your lower back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body, the way his chest presses against yours. His lips leave yours to trail along your jaw, down your neck, and you gasp as he nips the sensitive skin just below your ear, his teeth grazing, his breath hot and ragged. The sensation is electric, your body arching into him, your hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls, his voice thick with need, vibrating against your skin. “Tell me, Y/N, and I’ll walk away right now. I’ll let you go, I swear.”

The words are a plea, a last thread of control, but you hear the strain in them, the way he’s fighting himself. His hands tighten on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, and you feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against you, a hard promise that makes your core ache.

“Don’t,” you breathe, your voice a desperate thread, your hands pulling him closer, your nails scraping his scalp as you tangle your fingers in his hair. “Don’t stop, Seokjin. Please, I want this. I want you.”

His groan is raw, a sound of surrender, and he kisses you again, fiercer this time, his hands roaming with purpose. One slides up your side, brushing the curve of your breast, and you moan into his mouth, your body trembling with need. The candle flickers, its light a fragile witness to the storm breaking between you, and the kitchen fades, the world reduced to the heat of his touch, the taste of his lips, the sound of his voice whispering your name like a prayer.

The kitchen is a crucible of heat and shadow, the air heavy with the mingled scents of rain-soaked earth seeping through the windows and the sharp tang of arousal that clings to your skin. The single candle on the counter burns low, its flame a trembling pulse of gold that casts flickering shadows across the stainless steel surfaces, painting Seokjin’s face in stark contrasts of light and dark. His eyes, molten with hunger, hold you captive as he lifts you onto the counter, the cold steel biting into the backs of your thighs, a sharp counterpoint to the fire racing through your veins. Your uniform skirt rides up, the fabric bunching around your hips, exposing the soft expanse of your skin to his gaze. His hands, calloused from years of wielding knives and searing pans, find your thighs, his touch both possessive and reverent, as though he’s claiming you and worshiping you in the same breath.

Your blouse hangs open, the buttons undone by his deft fingers, and the lace of your bra is a fragile barrier against the heat of his stare. Your nipples, already hard, strain against the fabric, aching for his touch, and when his thumbs brush over them, the sensation is a lightning strike, a jolt that arches your back and draws a soft whimper from your lips. The sound seems to unravel something in him, his breath hitching as he leans closer, his lips hovering just above yours. “Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl, thick with need and something deeper, something that feels like longing. “You’re so responsive. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

Your cheeks burn, your shyness warring with the desire that coils tight in your core. “I… I feel it too,” you whisper, your voice trembling but honest, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “I’ve always felt it, Seokjin.”

His eyes darken, a storm brewing behind them, and he cups your face, his thumbs tracing the curve of your jaw. “You’ve been hiding from me,” he says, his tone a mix of accusation and awe. “All this time, you’ve been right here, and I’ve been losing my mind trying to keep my hands off you.” His voice cracks on the last word, and the vulnerability in it pierces you, stripping away the last of your defenses.

“I was scared,” you admit, your hands clutching the front of his chef’s coat, the fabric rough under your fingers, grounding you in the moment. “You’re… you’re you. And I’m just—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, his voice sharp, almost commanding. “Don’t you dare say you’re just anything. You’re everything I’ve been wanting, Y/N. Every shy smile, every nervous glance—it’s been driving me fucking insane.” He kisses you then, his lips crashing into yours with a desperation that steals your breath, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming every inch of you. The kiss is a storm, all heat and hunger, his teeth grazing your lower lip, drawing a moan that he swallows greedily.

His hands roam, sliding under your blouse to cup your breasts, his fingers teasing your nipples through the lace. The sensation is overwhelming, a sweet ache that radiates through you, making your pussy clench with need. He groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and when he pulls the bra down, exposing your breasts to the cool air, you gasp, your skin prickling with goosebumps. “Beautiful,” he breathes, his voice reverent, his eyes drinking in the sight of you like you’re a feast laid out just for him. He dips his head, his lips closing over one nipple, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak. The wet heat of his mouth is a shock, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle beneath his shirt as you arch into him, a cry spilling from your lips.

“Seokjin,” you gasp, your voice breaking, and he hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks straight to your core. His other hand kneads your breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers, and the dual assault has you trembling, your thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to ease the ache between them. He notices, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin, and he pulls back, his eyes glinting with mischief and promise.

“Needy, aren’t you?” he teases, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. His hands slide down your sides, leaving trails of heat, and grip your thighs, spreading them wider. Your skirt is a crumpled afterthought, your panties damp and clinging to your folds, and when his fingers brush over the fabric, you jolt, a whimper escaping you. “So fucking wet,” he growls, his voice thick with approval, and the sound alone makes your pussy pulse, slick with want. He slips a finger beneath the fabric, tracing the seam of your folds, and the slow, deliberate touch is torture, your hips bucking to chase his hand.

“Please,” you beg, your voice raw, your shyness burned away by the fire in your blood. “Seokjin, I need you.”

His eyes flash, and he yanks your panties down, the fabric tearing slightly as he tosses it aside. The cool air hits your heated core, and you moan, your pussy glistening in the candlelight, exposed and aching for him. He kneels between your legs, his broad shoulders filling the space, and the sight of him there, his face inches from your most intimate place, is almost too much. His breath is hot against your folds, and when his tongue flicks out, lapping at your clit, you cry out, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He devours you, his tongue swirling over your clit, sucking gently, then dipping lower to taste your slick heat. The sensation is a tidal wave, pleasure crashing over you with every stroke, every curl of his tongue. His fingers join in, two sliding inside you, stretching you, curling against that sweet spot that makes your vision blur. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers fill the kitchen, mingling with your moans and the distant rumble of thunder, a symphony of want and surrender. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, desperate for more, and he groans, the sound vibrating against your clit, pushing you closer to the edge.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against you, his voice muffled but fervent, and the words are a spark, igniting the coil of tension in your core. “I could eat you all night, Y/N. But I want you to come for me first.”

“Seokjin, I’m—” Your words dissolve into a moan as he sucks hard on your clit, his fingers thrusting faster, relentless. Your orgasm builds, a white-hot wave, and when it breaks, it’s shattering, your body convulsing, your pussy pulsing around his fingers, your cries echoing in the empty kitchen. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through the aftershocks, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until you’re boneless, trembling, your hands limp in his hair.

He stands, his lips glistening with your release, and kisses you, deep and possessive, letting you taste the tang of yourself on his tongue. The kiss is a promise, a claim, and you cling to him, your hands fumbling with his belt, desperate to feel him. “I need you inside me,” you whisper, your voice raw with need, and he groans, his hands helping you free his cock.

It’s thick, hard, the skin velvet-soft under your fingers as you stroke him, marveling at the weight, the heat. Pre-cum beads at the tip, and you swipe your thumb over it, making him hiss, his hips jerking. “Fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, his voice breaking, and the sound of his need fuels your own. You sink to your knees, the tile cold against your skin, and take him in your mouth, your tongue swirling over the tip, tasting the salt of him. His hands grip your hair, guiding you, his breaths ragged as you take him deeper, your lips stretching around him, your throat relaxing to accommodate his size.

“You’re so good,” he groans, his voice a mix of awe and desperation. “So fucking perfect.” You hum around him, the vibration making him curse, his hips thrusting gently, testing your limits. You take him as deep as you can, your hands stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and his control frays, his grip tightening, his voice a litany of praise and need.

He pulls you up before he loses it, kissing you fiercely, his hands lifting you back onto the counter. “I need to be inside you,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, his eyes searching yours. “I’ve waited too fucking long for this.”

“Then don’t wait anymore,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremble.

The storm outside rages, rain lashing the windows in a relentless tattoo, but inside, the world narrows to the space between you and Seokjin. The flickering candlelight bathes the stainless-steel counters in a warm, amber glow, casting shadows that dance across your skin like whispered secrets. Your body hums with anticipation, every nerve alight as Seokjin stands between your thighs, his cock brushing your entrance, a teasing promise of what’s to come.

His eyes, dark and molten, lock onto yours, searching, questioning. The intensity in his gaze is almost too much, a raw hunger tempered by something softer, something that makes your heart ache. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, grounding you in the moment. The counter beneath you is cold, a stark contrast to the heat of his body, the roughness of his chef’s coat brushing against your bare thighs where your skirt has ridden up.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low and rough, laced with a vulnerability that catches you off guard. His breath is warm against your lips, carrying the faint taste of the wine he sipped earlier. “I need to hear it, Y/N. I need to know you want this as much as I do.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling—desire, fear, and a desperate need to be seen by him. “Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling but resolute. Your hands slide up his arms, feeling the taut muscle beneath the fabric, and you pull him closer, your fingers curling into his shoulders. “I want you, Seokjin. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

His breath hitches, a low groan escaping his throat, and the sound sends a shiver through you, your pussy clenching with need. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours for a fleeting moment, his breath mingling with yours. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “Every fucking day, watching you, wanting you… it’s been torture.”

Before you can respond, he pushes inside you, slow and deliberate, stretching you with a delicious burn that makes you gasp. The sensation is overwhelming, his cock thick and heavy, filling you completely. Your walls flutter around him, slick with your arousal, and you clutch at his shirt, your nails scraping the fabric. The fullness is exquisite, a perfect blend of pleasure and pressure, and you tilt your hips, urging him deeper.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice a ragged growl as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours. “You feel so good, Y/N. So tight, so fucking perfect.” His words are a litany, each one stoking the fire in your core. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. The tenderness in his touch contrasts with the raw need in his eyes, and it makes your heart stutter.

Then he moves, his thrusts deep and measured, each one driving him deeper, claiming you in a way that feels both primal and sacred. The counter creaks beneath you, the sound mingling with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Your pussy is soaked, the slickness easing his movements, and every thrust sends a jolt of pleasure through you, your clit throbbing with need. The candlelight catches the sheen of sweat on his brow, the sharp line of his jaw as he grits his teeth, fighting to maintain control.

“Seokjin,” you moan, your voice breaking, your head falling back as the pleasure builds. The air is heavy with the scent of your arousal, the faint spice of his cologne, the lingering aroma of roasted herbs from the kitchen. Your nipples are hard, straining against the lace of your bra, and he notices, his hand slipping beneath your blouse to pinch one gently, rolling it between his fingers. The sensation is electric, a direct line to your core, and you arch into him, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a low rumble, laced with a dominance that makes your toes curl. You obey, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes nearly undoes you. “I want to see you when you come. I want to see every fucking thing.”

You nod, unable to speak, your body trembling as he picks up the pace, his thrusts harder now, more urgent. Each one hits that sweet spot inside you, the pressure building, coiling tight in your belly. His hand slides between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, precise circles that make you cry out. The pleasure is blinding, a white-hot wave that threatens to consume you, and you grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, leaving crescent marks.

“Seokjin, I’m so close,” you gasp, your voice raw, your body shaking with the effort to hold on. “Please, I need—”

“Come for me,” he growls, his voice thick with need, his fingers relentless on your clit. “Let go, Y/N. Let me feel you.”

The command tips you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clenches around him, pulsing wildly, and you scream his name, the sound echoing in the empty kitchen. Your vision blurs, stars bursting behind your eyelids, and your body shakes, every muscle taut as the pleasure wracks you. The sensation is overwhelming, your slick walls gripping him, pulling him deeper, and he groans, his control fraying.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasps, his thrusts erratic now, his cock throbbing inside you. “You’re so tight, I can’t—” His words break off as he comes, his release hot and fierce, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing waves. His groan is primal, a raw sound of surrender, and his hips jerk, driving himself as deep as he can go. You feel every pulse, every shudder, your pussy milking him, drawing out his pleasure as your own lingers, a soft, tingling aftershock.

But he’s not done. Before you can catch your breath, he pulls out, his cock still hard, glistening with your combined release. He flips you over with a swift, commanding motion, bending you over the counter. The steel is cold against your breasts, your nipples scraping the surface through your bra, and you moan, your body still buzzing. Your hands grip the edge, knuckles white, as he spreads your legs, his hands rough on your thighs.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice a low, reverent growl as he runs a hand over your ass, squeezing gently. “So fucking beautiful, dripping for me.” His fingers brush your pussy, teasing your oversensitive folds, and you whimper, your hips bucking involuntarily. You’re soaked, your arousal coating your thighs, and he groans at the sight, his cock twitching against you.

He enters you again, this time from behind, and the angle is devastating, his cock hitting deeper, stretching you in a way that makes you see stars. The sensation is almost too much, your pussy clenching around him, still sensitive from your orgasm. He thrusts hard, fast, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force, and the sound of his skin slapping yours fills the room, raw and unfiltered.

“Seokjin,” you moan, your voice trembling, your body surrendering completely. “It’s so much, I—”

“You can take it,” he growls, his voice thick with possession, his hand sliding up your spine to grip your hair, pulling gently. The tug sends a jolt through you, your pussy tightening around him, and he curses, his thrusts faltering. “You’re mine, Y/N. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, the words spilling out, raw and desperate. “Only yours, Seokjin.” The confession feels like a release, a truth you’ve been holding back for months, and it sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your pussy dripping, coating his cock.

He groans, the sound almost pained, and his hand slips between you again, finding your clit. His fingers are relentless, rubbing in tight, frantic circles, and the pleasure is blinding, building too fast, too intense. “One more,” he commands, his voice rough with need. “Give me one more, baby.”

You can’t hold back, your body obeying before your mind catches up. Your second orgasm hits like a storm, your pussy spasming around him, your vision going white. You scream, your body collapsing against the counter, your legs shaking as the pleasure tears through you. The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve alight, your slick walls pulsing, gripping him so tightly he can barely move.

He follows, his release a hot, shuddering wave, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you again. His groan is raw, his body trembling against yours, his hands clutching your hips like a lifeline. “Y/N,” he gasps, his voice breaking, and the sound of your name on his lips, so raw and vulnerable, makes your heart ache.

You stay like that, breathless and entwined, the storm outside fading to a distant hum. The kitchen is warm, the air heavy with the scent of sex and sweat, the candlelight flickering weakly. Seokjin’s hands soften, sliding up your sides, and he pulls you upright, turning you to face him. His eyes are softer now, the hunger tempered by something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says, his voice low but firm, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Not after this.”

You nod, your throat tight with emotion, and lean into his touch, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. “I don’t want you to,” you whisper, and the words feel like a vow, sealing the night in the heat of the kitchen.

The storm has softened to a gentle murmur, the rain now a delicate patter against the restaurant’s windows, like a lullaby soothing the raw edges of the night. The kitchen, once a battleground of desire, is now a sanctuary, steeped in the lingering scents of melted candle wax, the faint musk of sex, and the earthy warmth of Seokjin’s skin. The single candle has flickered out, leaving only the dim glow of emergency lights casting long, soft shadows across the steel counters and tiled floor. The air feels heavy, not with tension but with something deeper—something unspoken yet profoundly felt.

You’re cradled in Seokjin’s arms, your body pressed against his, the heat of him grounding you in the aftermath of your shared surrender. His chef’s coat is unbuttoned, the fabric hanging loosely to reveal the smooth expanse of his chest, still glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. Your blouse is barely buttoned, your skirt still hiked up, but there’s no urgency to fix it. Your legs are tangled with his, your bare thighs brushing the rough denim of his jeans. The counter beneath you is cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of his hands, one resting possessively on your hip, the other tracing slow, absent circles along your spine. Every touch sends a shiver through you, not of arousal but of intimacy, raw and unguarded.

Your breaths are still uneven, your chest rising and falling as you try to anchor yourself in the moment. Seokjin’s heartbeat is steady under your cheek, a rhythmic thud that feels like a promise. His scent envelops you—salt and spice, the faint tang of his cologne mingling with the kitchen’s lingering aromas of garlic and thyme. It’s intoxicating, grounding, and you press closer, needing the reassurance of his solidity.

He shifts, his lips brushing your forehead, soft and reverent. The gesture is so tender it aches, a stark contrast to the fierce hunger of moments ago. His breath is warm against your skin, and when he speaks, his voice is low, rough with emotion, like he’s peeling back layers he’s kept hidden for too long. “I meant it, Y/N,” he says, each word deliberate, heavy with conviction. “I want you. Not just tonight. Not just like this. I want you—all of you.”

The words hit you like a wave, stirring something deep in your chest. You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. In the dim light, they’re endless, dark pools of sincerity, flecked with vulnerability you’ve never seen before. His jaw is set, but there’s a softness in his gaze, a quiet plea that makes your heart stutter. You swallow, your throat tight, the weight of his confession sinking in. “Seokjin…” you start, your voice trembling, not from fear but from the overwhelming truth of your own feelings. “I want you too. I’ve wanted you for so long, I just… I was scared. Scared you didn’t feel the same.”

His eyes widen, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it softens into something achingly tender. “Scared?” he repeats, his voice breaking on the word. He cups your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks, wiping away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. His touch is warm, calloused from years in the kitchen, but so gentle it feels like a vow. “Y/N, you’ve been under my skin since the day you walked in here. All those times I watched you, teased you, tried to get you to look at me… it was because I couldn’t stand the thought of you not seeing me the way I see you.”

Your breath catches, the raw honesty in his words unraveling you. “I saw you,” you whisper, your hands gripping his shirt, the fabric creasing under your fingers. “I always saw you. But you’re… you’re you. Mr. Kim, the chef, the owner, this larger-than-life man who makes everyone fall for him. I didn’t think I could ever be enough.”

He shakes his head, a low, frustrated sound escaping him. “Don’t say that,” he says, his voice firm but laced with pain. “You’re more than enough. You’re everything. You’re the one who makes this place feel alive, not just for the customers but for me. Every time you smile, every time you blush when I catch you staring, it’s like… fuck, it’s like the world makes sense again.”

His words are a lifeline, pulling you from the doubts that have held you back for months. You lean into him, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. The warmth of his skin, the faint stubble on his jaw, the steady rhythm of his breathing—it’s all so real, so overwhelming. “I’m yours,” you say, the words spilling out like a confession, raw and unguarded. “I’ve been yours for longer than I knew how to admit.”

Seokjin’s breath hitches, and for a moment, he’s still, like he’s savoring the weight of your words. Then he’s kissing you, slow and deep, not with the desperate hunger of before but with a tenderness that feels like worship. His lips are soft, tasting faintly of salt and you, and the way he moves against you is like he’s trying to memorize every second of this moment. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, and you melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers threading through his hair.

When he pulls back, his eyes are bright, a smile breaking across his face—not the cocky smirk you’re used to, but something genuine, unguarded, like he’s letting you see all of him. “Good,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Because I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever.”

You laugh, the sound light and free, bubbling up from a place you didn’t know existed. It’s a release, a shedding of the shyness that’s defined you for so long. “You’d better not,” you tease, your voice soft but steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, vibrating through you where your bodies touch. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. “Stay with me tonight,” he says, not a question but a quiet hope. “Not here, not like this. Come home with me. Let me hold you, wake up with you.”

Your heart swells, the invitation carrying more weight than the physical act. It’s a promise, a future. You nod, your smile soft but certain. “Okay,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”

He kisses you again, a brief, sweet press of lips, before helping you down from the counter. His hands are steady, guiding you as you adjust your clothes, your movements slow and languid in the afterglow. The kitchen feels different now, not just a place of work but a witness to something new, something sacred. The rain outside continues its soft song, and as Seokjin takes your hand, his fingers lacing with yours, you feel like you’re stepping into a new world—one where you’re no longer just the shy waitress, but the woman who holds his heart.

[paralleljoys]

So I saw this post on twitter and it inspired me to post this draft I’ve been hanging on to.

Because like, I wanna word vomit about Jade Leech. Or my non-exhaustive list of things that make him so cute. Mixed with headcanons.

I remember early in Twst he was seen as the calm tweel to Floyd’s chaos. All cool and composed, and it sounded insane to say that he’s anywhere near cute. But since the beginning he’s been crazy adorable. He’s not nice or kind, if anything he’s extremely self-centered to the point where he becomes a silly little guy. But I really hope this event expands on how cute Jade Leech is.

He has crazy ass shoujo-esque fantasies.

He likes to make people squirm.

He got hit in the face with a tree branch in Harveston because he was too tall, so did Idia and Sebek.

He blackmailed Idia with Floyd to get Ortho’s Athletic Gear.

He loves puns and tells them all the time.

He tells people the hair lock (that he curls himself!!) is like that because J stands for Jade.

“A highlight on your right means J for Jeido.” wtf??? thats so cute????

He eats his own paralytic mushroom and is amused to find it does indeed numb his tongue. He also fed it to Rook.

He made a villainous monologue to his tsum!self and then got betrayed by said tsum.

During Beans Day he tells the Prefect that he gets lonely easily, could he be lying? Possibly. But I’ve incoporated that into my belief system anyways.

He is the only member of his club. He will refer to the club as if there’s more members than just him. “We of the Mountain Lovers Club” It’s literally just you Jade.

He gave the ghost bride a poisonous flower and when called out, immediately admitted to it.

His laughs switch between a lil “hehe ^^” and a whole ass “BHU-FUUUUU”

He’s the handsome twin.

He fed Floyd so many mushrooms that Floyd has an aversion to them. The same Floyd who doesn’t like eating the same meal in a row was convinced to eat mushrooms for at least a week I believe.

He’s the misbehaving twin in the family, because he doesn’t listen to what others say but pretends he does.

He has a voice line where he mentions asking his parents for art supplies every time they call him. Which is fine till you learn that his parents call almost every day.

These are the same parents who sent Floyd so many presents that Floyd got mad AT THEM because they sent too much to store.

He told Kalim who was trapped in quicksand a story of how someone died in it then went “Okay you’re scared enough haha, I’ll pull you out now :)”

He annoyed Cater by infodumping the beauty of the mountains to him.

He watched his brother get blasted across the mirror chamber and laughed so hard it echoed through the room.

He’s fought Floyd almost to the death several times as a kid. And it’s “just brother things :)” to them

Messed with Azul once. ONCE. as a kid. And still remembered him up to middle school.

He realized exactly what Azul was after when he mentioned the Atlantica Museum Photo in book 3. Despite not being friends with him at the time.

A kid told him he was boring and he damn near had a mental break trying to prove him wrong.

He’s one hundred and ninety centimeters of a dangerous deep sea merman and a lil poopsie. He’s an adorable self-serving brat.

Anyways, I love Jade Leech

[sleepysheepytea]

When your art got me back into HP-

Also PLEASE infodump more headcanons, they give me life-

EHEHEHEHHEEEHEHEE IM OPENING THE FLOODGATES

*warning for footer tickles mentions and a bit more intense tickles mentions!!!* please skip this post if u don't like either of those <3

ALSO IF YALL HAVE ANY OF UR OWN PLS THROW THEM AT ME I WOULD LOVE TO HEAR EVERYTHING

OR IF U WANT ME TO YAP ABT ANY OTHER CHARACTER LMK

Harry:

VERY ticklish obv

tickle spot is probably his tummy and hips

like Draco, he isn't used to being tickled at all, unless it was in a mean way, so he's a little wary about being tickled

his friends made it better tho

he does the folding lawn chair thing when he's tickled when standing - he just collapses

super squirmy, even if he's not really trying to get away

has an adorable laugh, very giggly and a little on the quieter side

he's 50/50 with tickling, he likes it sometimes, while other times he'll whack the person repeatedly until they stop

he's often a target of the Weasley twins too, if he's with Ron when they go on a rampage they're absolutely both getting destroyed

he and Hermione were on the recieving end of a ticklish initiation done by the twins when they visited them over the summer - and nearly every day afterwards

he actually enjoys tickling others, he's not very good at it, but he likes to try!

he and Ron get into tickle fights disturbingly often - it usually ends with Ron winning, but there have been a few occasions where Harry is able to pin him down and just go ham on his feet

has tried to tickle Hermione a few times, and it never ends well for him

since finding out in their second year that Draco was ticklish, Harry likes to very discreetly tickle him whenever he gets the chance and then act like he's doing nothing of the sort

Ron complains to Harry a lot about how his brothers tickle him relentlessly, which accidentally has opened Harry to many effective ways to tickle him

Ron:

very experienced lee if that makes sense

he's pretty used to being tickled half to death by his brothers, so he knows exactly when to run away, where to hide, and how to defend himself if he's threatened with tickles

he is extremely ticklish, and probably most sensitive on his foots and sides

SO giggly, and he has the cutest boyish laugh ever - he also squeals and squeaks like crazy

doesn't usually mind being tickled by his friends, they're not as mean as his brothers

kicks like crazy even if his feet aren't being tickled

very wiggly, and it's very difficult to pin him down cuz he knows how to escape

def the type to scream bloody murder if he's poked

just because he attends Hogwarts does not in any way mean that his brothers let up on tickling him - if anything, they do it more since their parents aren't there to stop them

he is very often the victim of brutal tickle attacks from the twins, they'll chase him about the halls, catch him by suprise, magically tickle him in class so he gets in trouble, everything

he's also an incredible ler, but he doesn't usually use his skills often

being one of the youngest siblings means that he's picked up almost every tickle tactic known to man

he's not a malicious ler at all, so he usually backs away from tickling others, unless he's in the right mood, in which case… run

he will, however, give tips on how and where to tickle when others are tickling his friends (or Draco)

he very casually knows everyone's tickle spots and what gets them the most, he just knows what to look for

the only one he'll willingly tickle on a somewhat regular basis is Harry - he's too scared of Hermione

Hermione:

ehehehehee ticklish too

tk spots are knees and sides

she has a sophisticated demeanor, so it's a little hard to get her to actually laugh out loud, but if you do, she's LOUD MAN

her nose scrunches up when she laughs and it's the cutest thing

is kinda indifferent abt tickling, she likes having fun with her friends in a good ol tickle fight, but prefers to be more serious on a regular basis

the only one really bold enough to tickle her is Harry, sneaking a squeeze on her knee when they're studying (usually only to be blasted with rictusempra directly after)

is more of a kicker than a squirmer - she's definitely whacked both Harry and Ron in the face several times

as they got older, Ron began to fiddle around with her hair when they're hanging out and she'll let out a few squeaks if he accidentally brushes her neck

she's a mean ler - she's studied tickling spells and charms and stuff extensively to have in her back pocket in case her friends annoy her

she has absolutely shot a tickling charm at Draco during one of their classes to get him in trouble more than once - he's never been able to figure out who it is

she'll threaten Harry and Ron with tickles so that they study fjdshjkf

Draco:

ridiculously ticklish

SO dramatic

the physical embodiment of HAJKFHKDHSHDJFKHK

screams, slaps, kicks, flails, the whole shebang

he fr FLIPS OUT

like Harry, he's not really used to being tickled, so he really doesn't know what to do

he doesn't like being tickled, but not so much the feeling, more so him laughing and feeling weak in front of others

his tickle spots are under his arms and his sides

he has the most dorky laugh ever and it's so cute

it's so cackly, and he makes a bunch of weird noises when he's tickled

he SNORTS omg

hiccups too

threatens to tell all superiors if someone tries to tickle him, sometimes he's taken seriously, most of the time not

he's definitely given a few of the other Slytherins bloody noses when they've tried to tickle him

they often pull a move where they dangle him upside down off the back of a couch and tickle his feet from the other side so he can't hurt them, it usually leaves him in tears

is a very inexperienced ler

he doesn't really tickle others unless he's getting revenge for a wrecking (which happens to him a lot, but he usually just keeps silent about it out of embarrassment)

if he's going to tickle someone, he usually does it with magic, cuz he doesn't really know how to do it with his hands

[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)

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid I definitely didn't edit and cut this comp up myself I definitely didn't add the stupid ass music myself stupid stupid stupid I definitely found this online and just took it from there dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb I want to banish him to sitting in a corner permenatly he doesn't. Shouldn't. Get. Take him OUT of the driver seat of my brain he doesn't need to be there he d9esnt get a say in this take away his seat at the table gone removed out of this he doesn't get rent free, in fact he has to pay the most massive fee conceivable and I know that if I said this out loud I'd probably sound exasperated and a little breathless and fumble my words and groan and sigh and huff and make incoherent things to where I almost sounded upset but really with each muttering and long sigh there'd be a hint of .nof. of ....mfif8fifuidis soossssssssom.ssson.mthibg. something.mor.e.more. something more. Than that. The way someone sighs when walking past the bakery section of the grocery store and trying to pretend and act like they don't want it. They sigh and mutter that they don't need it but you can hear it and see it in their expression. Alas. This is over TEXT. And clearly I. Have been nothing but oh so the upmost convincing in my endeavors that. Scrolls back up. Scrolls back down quickly. Blankley stares at my keyboard. I want to slam a plank of wood sideways horizontal-motion across the back of his head.

[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!

[master-k0hga]

P R I N C E - OC

[ Category: The Promised Land ]

" Prince of Golden Beauty "

Notice: I have loads of OCs but there are also sub categories.. Like OCs with "Important roles" and "side OCs" which are not entirely my "Main OCs" but still very much matter to the worlds I've created with them... This is //cough// In association with the Promised Land and the Frostclaw.

| Prince of the Golden Palace, son of King Aurelius. OR even known as " The Shimmering Prince "; Even though he's the son to one of the most powerful and intelligent beings within the Promised Land, Prince definitely did not inherit any of that... At least not yet... Although he does have some potential when he is eventually to take over as Queen, he is trained by the very best to not only keep up with his father's footsteps, but to also go further beyond to ensure safety and peace is forever maintained within the Promised Land.

Extra Info

Is classed as the "most beautiful thing" to ever exist within the Promised Land, however without fail whether unironically or purposefully; He is received with the most utmost disgust or fear in the eyes of everyone who ever glances at his face. This phenomenon is rather strange as Prince is actually a very gorgeous individual

He disguises as a wandering trader specially under the pretence that he is a very loyal customer to the Frostclaw's goods and hospitality; Even though he really is grateful for their services, he does actually visit regularly to see one of his favourite individuals (Janice, although I need to re-do his ref, Prince loves him a lot and would love to be the bearer of his children). A little lovestruck

Has almost been kidnapped by Kira and his henchmen on a few occasions when he was a baby; So when of word or warning that sketchy activity happens within the vicinity of the outskirts of the Golden Palace, Prince will be locked up in his private chambers with guards at almost every hallway and corridor to his bedrooms. He is terrified every time Kira is rumoured to be in or near the area

A big foodie; Loves food and enjoys trying out different cuisines from other provinces and civilizations, even has had his hand in trying out different kinds of recipes as well.. However is not permitted as they have servants and other personal services who are professional at handling their royal kitchens

The thought of settling down with someone of same or higher status as Prince is terrifying to him, only because he's terrified of pregnancy and birthing children and knows that's pretty much the reason why royalty follows this procedure, despite already having his eyes and thinking of a future with someone... So away with disguising as a trader he goes

Despite not really leaving form of impression on the Golden people and other provinces of the Promised Land, Prince is definitely of high demand by Kira for his hidden powerful life essence; So pray that the Lord of Deceit were to never get his hands on the young Prince of Gold. Prince is a very bright and energetic individual himself, he always likes to get out and about pretty much enjoying life while he is able to within the kingdom

He's not very clever though so disguising as a wandering loyal customer for the Frostclaw and trecking the same path almost everyday is not really a smart idea, someone's bound to find him out and get their hands on him eventually.. But until then, he will forever be a big fan of Jackson's bakery's fruitcake.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Anyways, besides the stuff already said there isn't really much else to mention or talk about with Prince.. Unlike his father, he's never had a "rough" design or was ever really an OC to happen, but if I wanted drama in the fantasy world I made and wanted more lore... Well I have some more random plots and stuff to hopefully help flesh out the Promised Land with and stuff ....

Hopefully I'll be able to at LEAST draw my OCs that only ever get shown once to make more of an appearance from now on.. Even though I'm the only person p much here and working on this stuff- I wanna try doing more for myself til I can safely say I am "done" with the basics....

............

Oh well, maybe some day....-

. Prince, Art © Me . DON’T RE-POST .

[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

[sketchtastrophee]

old art again!! this time a rough animation of sawyer and yarnaby 😎 (looks better if u click to view 😭)

im working on a short ppt animation rn. im thinking i should post it to my youtube channel, though im not sure if people here would see it. i think i can link videos on here?? idk

okay I'm gonna talk abt more chapter 4 stuff.. this time about prototype's previous identity.. ch4 spoilers and also a theory below..

hiding the solo yarnaby under here LOL

people theorized 1006 was elliot, which was recently disproven in the chapter 4 tape where poppy refers to elliot as her dad and wishes he were there. in the same tape she addresses prototype as a completely different person. also recall that elliot died in the 90s, meanwhile prototype met theo in 1989. so yeah, they aren't the same person

I've also seen people say rich is prototype, which cannot be true either. in a ch4 tape he speaks to one of the employees under his supervision. the kid mentions his coworkers joking about him going missing. before the bbi, it would not make sense for this to be a common rumor at the company, which means this tape had to happen after harley was hired in 1990; at a time when the company would have a reason to silence people

prototype existed in 1989 at the minimum, but considering he says "it's always been about you and me" to poppy, he's likely the prototype of HER. she's elliots daughter, she died in the 60s, meaning prototype was probably created around that time as well.

this means that rich can't be the prototype because he was human long after prototype was made

if you want my take on who prototype truly is, i'd say his identity doesn't necessarily matter. i don't mean to say his origins aren't important, just that his name and specific role in the past probably doesn't mean anything in the long run. i've never believed he was elliot or rich, and maybe in the future i'll be proven wrong but for now i'll tell you the theory i've had since june of last year

elliot's daughter dies in the 60s. he divorced his wife in 1930, so his daughter is probably in her 30s when she dies. she gets sick or injured, maybe she's actively dying or already dead by the time elliot begins his research. he looks for ways to bring her back, but it doesn't work on the rats (as he mentioned a note in the 2nd chapter)

so what does he do? he tries it on something bigger as he said he would: a human. of course he's not going to try this experimental method on his own daughter, even if she's already dead, so he finds someone else to use it on. we know that elliot wasn't evil or anything, so it's unlikely he killed anybody to use for the experiment. considering the orphanage isn't open yet (it opened in the 70s, not the 60s), prototype probably wasn't an orphan child either. if i run with my simple version of the theory, elliot may have dug up a body in a graveyard and used that. maybe a fresh one, who knows. he tried it, it worked, then he revived his daughter with the same method.

this is likely what harley wanted to know about in the chapter 3 tape (the "i learn something new about you every day" one), and also what prototype is asking harley to figure out in the ch4 tape they're both in. in that case, sawyer never actually figured out how to revive people with the poppy substance. sure, he can transfer people into the toys, but he can't bring anybody back to life

more reason to believe prototype and poppy are of the same "batch" is because it seems they are the only two who don't need food. it's outright stated about him in the ch1 trailer, and insinuated with her saying the "toys will starve otherwise" when she's talking about how nasty them eating humans is. she refers to them, not herself. her and prototype are probably the only 2 who were ever brought back from the dead, which circles back around to his monologue and gives meaning to the "it's always been about you and me, poppy. what we are". when i heard him say that i felt like my theory was lowk confirmed 😭😭

no guarantee this is right, but it's been my guess for a long time

[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!