#it smells too smell. and has not been refrigerated

[yatgb]

I am officially second guessing the room temperature ukrops chicken salad

[shellshocklove]

moanin' & groanin' | logan howlett

pairing/AU: lumberjack!logan howlett/wolverine x inexperienced!female!reader

summery: working for your father's timber business isn't what you saw yourself doing, but when the wolverine comes looking for work it's suddenly not so bad – especially when he can teach you a thing or two.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! age gap (in the way that his mutant abilities prolongs his life), swearing, use of pet names, smut, car sex, praise, a little dacryphilia, logan's got a dirty mouth, soft dom!logan, a little size kink (basically logan has a big dick), handjob, fingering, a little manhandling, unprotected sex (don't do it!!), no use of y/n

a/n: um hi! this is my first ever logan fic. i really hope i got him right! not beta read, and barely edited so any mistakes are my own. happy reading! <3

main masterlist / ao3

The pages crinkled under your fingertips as you turned another page. Over the top of your book you could see your father's men milling about, getting the timber ready for another outgoing truck. Day in and day out they worked like flannel-covered ants. 

He wasn't here, your father, leaving you to hold down the fort, or office to be precise, as he  ran errands. "I'll be back before lunch," he'd told you, a hand passing through the sleeve of his tan Carhartt.

The office felt bigger when he wasn't here, like his neuroticism took up twice as much space as he did himself. You looked around the room. It was small, more like a hut than anything else, raised up on cinderblocks. A tiny kitchen lined the front wall, the refrigerator had given out once this month already and something smelled like it had died in there, the white florescent light under the wall cabinets gave you a headache, and the tap drip drip dripped. The table and the mismatched chairs, your father had found at a fleamarked years ago, before you were born most likely, and they wore the wear and tear of years of use. 

Every available surface was covered in papers, and the wooden shelves on the wall dipped in the middle from the weight of the binders. When you were little you'd been afraid the wood would break in two, but they were still standing (hanging?) – maybe they'd stay like that for the rest of eternity for all you knew. Your father's office had only one desk, which made your job as occasional office manager and full-time problem solver, problematic. 

Your father would sit in his chair on one side, while you'd steal one of the mismatched chairs and occupy the other end. If you'd had your way, you wouldn't be working here. The timber business interested you just as much as your father was interested in the disco they played on the radio. "If it ain't the king of rock I don't want to hear it," he usually said and switched the channel. 

But the town was small, and no one was hiring. The summer after you'd finished high school you'd dreamt of moving to the city, but the money had been tight and your father needed you. At least the work, if your father didn't meddle, was relatively easy: answer the phone, type out the invoices and salaries, keep an eye on logistics, and make sure whatever breaks gets fixed. 

The radio hummed at a low volume, one of the singles from Tapestry, as you turned another page of your book. Leaning back in your father's office chair, you glanced at the clock over the door. He should be back by now. Just as the thought crossed your mind, the door swung open.

"Did you need something?" you asked, your book dipping down in your lap. 

Logan raised an eyebrow at you as he walked into the office on heavy steps, that damn cigar hanging out the side of his mouth. "Nice to see you too, princess," he poked jokingly, tugging at his gloves, one finger at a time, and tucking them into his leather belt. 

He sported the same outfit he usually wore; bootcut jeans, a white t-shirt under his flannel and a thicker wool-lined jacket. He must've been sweating in here with that on.

Autumn had claimed the trees and ground months ago, but this morning the frost had covered the ground and bit at the apples of your cheeks. Your breath had come out in swirling plumes when you'd locked yourself in this morning; the first glints of the sun peeking through the windows as it rose over the mountains. The first thing you'd done was crank the heater, and now as you approached midday, you'd shed your sweater long ago while the windows had fogged with condensation. 

The smallest of frowns tugged at your brows, as a heat prickled up your neck to your cheeks. Logan made you a little nervous– not in a bad way, but in a way where your thoughts would wander in his presence, conjuring up scenarios of him and yourself in… comprising positions. Okay, maybe it was in a bad way. But who could blame you when he walked around like that?

He'd arrived only a few months ago, at the tail end of the summer, looking for work. He was strong, stronger than any of the other men working for your father, and although the work was hard, it seemed like he never tired. You didn't know much about him and he kept mostly to himself, hidden away in a cabin up in the mountain, but sometimes you'd see him down at the local bar, nursing a glass of whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in the other. More than once you'd seen him chatting up Kayla Silverfox, and more than once you'd wished it was you in her place.

"Oof," Logan groaned as he opened the fridge, grabbing his packed lunch and closing it as fast as he could. You appreciated him for that; whatever had died in there should stay in there.

"Yeah," you said, "I'm not cleaning that again, not even for a million bucks."

"Can't blame ya." 

He looked to the table for a second where the guys usually ate their lunches, before he decided to take your usual chair at your father's desk. As he sat down, you pushed the ash tray to his side of the desk, earning you a short smile in thanks as he rested his cigar. It wasn't unusual for him to talk to you on his breaks. 

So, why did you heart beat so fast in your chest?

Because it was the first time you'd been alone.

"So, where's your old man?" he asked and bit into the sandwich he'd packed in an old newspaper.

"Running errands– he should be back soon…" you trailed off.

Logan hummed non-committedly. "So, you're in here sittin' pretty readin' your book while we're out in the cold slavin' away– maybe I should become the boss' daughter."

"Well, it's not easy," you sighed, feigning confidence, "and you gotta be pretty first of all," you front teeth dug into your bottom lip as you tried to hide your nervousness.

"That's true," he grinned, "I ain't got nothin' on you, princess."

Logan held your gaze with intent, and it was like something in the air shifted. It happened sometimes with Logan, like he had this power beaming from him that sucked you in. Erratic wings fluttered in your stomach, and you had to drop your gaze.

"So, how's the book?" he asked, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Eh," you shrugged, dog-earing the page your were on, before throwing the beat-up paperback on the table. "Too many plot twists– first they're on earth, then there's this virus spreading– so they have to move all of humanity to the moon, but then there's this species that lives under the surface of the moon who they start a war with, but one of the main characters are in love with a moonie– that's what they call them– so, now they're in love and trying to stop the war and…" you shrugged again.

Logan chewed slowly as he nodded his head. "Sounds complicated," he decided, making you let out a small laugh.

"I guess so."

A grin washed over Logan's face at your small laugh, and you felt his gaze roll over you, over your exposed skin. When he looked at you like that, like a predator drooling for a meal, you felt a small damp spot stick to your panties. You watched as his nostrils widened, his jaw clenching shut as a pulsing vein protruded from his neck.

"So, science fiction," he started, clearing his throat, "Didn't know you liked that," he continued between the last bites of his sandwich

"Some kid at the library recommended it," you shrugged, "so I thought I'd try it out. And it's not like it's that far from the truth– we've got mutants."

Logan crumbled the newspaper hard and quick, the sharp sound making you jump. "Yeah," he said, and stood to his feet, "That's true."

He grabbed his burnt out cigar, and threw the ball of newspaper in the trash. You started to wonder if you'd said something wrong, but then he said, "Your father's back," and not even a second later you could see your dad's old truck pull up outside the window.

How did he even know that? 

"Logan– wait," the words just fell out of your mouth before you could even think them through. He hovered by the door, raising a questioning eyebrow at you. 

You could be brave– Just say it! 

"Come by later would you? Before you leave for the day– I have something for you."

A gush of cold air blew in with the arrival of your father. He almost crashed right into Logan on his way out, nearly knocking him down the wooden steps. You thought you could glimpse a small nod from Logan, but he was out the door so fast you couldn't be sure. 

The rest of the day went by slowly as a growing anxiety gnawed at your neck. With your dad back you slipped out to borrow the car, driving into town to pick up some lunch at the local diner. It was routine at this point, something you did without thinking, but today your thoughts couldn't stay still. You were pulling up outside the office when you realized you'd driven the whole way with the radio off.

What was even your plan? 

You wished you were better at this. You could pretend, sure, put on a brave face to hide the nerves from surfacing, but how do you get a man like that to go for a girl like you?

You felt non the wiser when the sun had dipped below the mountains and he finally knocked on the office door. Your dad had left thirty-minutes earlier, stranding you at work with no way to get home. 

If this didn't go well, you didn't look forward to walking home.

"What 's it you wanted, princess," Logan asked, leaning against the frame of the door with one knee popped. Your eyes couldn't help but run down the length of him – his broad shoulders, the bulge hidden below his big belt buckle, and the veins of his exposed arms as he slung his jacket over his shoulder.

"Oh, um," you tried to shake your thoughts, and you rummaged the desk for the envelope. "Here," you said as you found it, stretching your hand out for him to take it.

He pushed off the door frame with a raised eyebrow, the cold air from the open door taking with it the warmth of the office. "What's this?" he questioned, taking the envelope from your hand. 

"It's your check– for this month's work," you explained.

His raised eyebrow pulled into a frown, "This is a week early," he questioned, "and I usually get these sent in the mail."

"Oh, I-I just thought I'd give it to you personally this time," you lied, fitting a shrug at the end for good measure, trying to sell how completely normal and nonchalant you were.

Logan raised a skeptic eyebrow at you, and you suddenly felt really really stupid. In your chest your heart could compete with a hummingbird's.

"Really?" he said with a smile before he dropped his chin, "Can I appreciate a little extra something in here, or…?" he trailed off, waving the envelope.

Letting out a shaky inaudible breath, you tried in your flirtiest voice, "Maybe if you give me a ride home…"

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

The lights from the town below looked like stars scattered over the night sky, the yellow light of the roads connected them like on a string. You knew that Logan knew where you lived; the town was small, and even with the short time he'd spent here, it wasn't hard to get familiar. He'd stopped at the lookout point, about half-way up the mountain road. It was nice in the daytime, with a nice view of the town, the mountain and rivers, but at night it attracted a different kind of crowd: lovers. It was cheesy, and cliché, but clichés were clichés for a reason. 

The Led Zeppelin tape whirled, and the music stopped. 

Suddenly you felt nervous, fingers picking at a loose tread on your sweater. Logan leaned forward to flip the cassette, and his truck filled with a sound of organ, like you were back in church. When he leaned back he slung his arm over your seat. You watched how he spread his legs, getting comfortable, as his eyes found your face.

Under the wool, your heart picked up its beat.

In a brave move you shifted closer, the leather seat moaning under you, as a pleased smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His big palm snaked around your shoulder, curling you closer to him until his lips caught your own. You only hesitated for a second before your hand found his neck, where your fingers tugged lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck. 

A low growl huffed against your lips, and he deepened the kiss, pressing himself roughly against you as he licked into your mouth. You couldn't help the small whimper escaping you. His touch was rough, almost impatient, but tender all at the same time, and you felt yourself fall apart.

The air stuck to your skin, clammy and sticky with arousal and now you started to get impatient. With a loud smack you broke apart, your lips raw and spent from use as you caught your breath. A rough hand cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb skated gently over your skin as he tilted your head towards him.

"Such a pretty little thing," he mused. His eyes had gone dark, pupils huge and filled with lust; yours must've looked about the same as they rolled down his body. He shifted closer to you, pushing you closer to the door, and you got a better view of the bulge hidden behind his jeans.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, clogging up the sounds around you like you were underwater, pushing at your thoughts at the back of your mind. Logan moved with such ease, each touch natural and easy, like he'd done them a thousand times. Not like you, with only your short-lived high school boyfriend under your belt. 

"Hey," he shook your head gently, "Where you goin', bub?"

"I'm sorry," you whispered, a heat coating the apples of your cheeks. 

He shook his head, his face surprisingly tender for someone so rough, "Tell me, baby."

"I'm just…" you trailed of, trying to find your words, "I'm a little nervous– I haven't done this much," you said, avoiding his gaze.

"That's sweet, bub." The pad of his thumb rubbed the pet name into your skin as he leaned forward to catch your lips in a soft kiss, "But I wouldn't worry that pretty little head of yours 'bout it."

His breath was hot against your own, and an ache started to spread between your legs. The hand on your cheek travelled downwards to tug at your jacket, and you parted only for a second to rid yourself of it, but before you could lock your lips with his again he grabbed at your hands.

"I'll teach ya," he told you and guided your hands to his broad form. 

He let you touch him as he shucked off his jacket, your fingers dancing over the soft flannel. He was solid beneath your fingers, hard muscles from hard work. A patch of dark hair curled at his chest, peeking out beneath his white shirt, and you found yourself wondering where it lead.

Curling his hand around your wrist, he guided your hand lower; down over his chest where you could feel the solid form of him. His bronze belt buckle burned you like ice, but the heat of him as he pressed your hand to the hard bulge beneath the buckle burned even brighter.

"You feel that?" He looked you straight in the eyes. He pressed your hand down harder and you could feel the shape of him against your hand, hard and thick, and big. You barely managed a nod through the wave of heat coating your cheeks. 

"That's because of you, princess." His voice was low, almost like a growl, as he started to guide your hand to rub over the thick length.

"Me?" you questioned, breathless. 

"Yes, you," he chuckled, a heavy hand petting at your head. "D'you want to take it out? Stroke it f'me?"

"Please," you begged, looking at him with moony eyes through your lashes.

"So polite f'me," he mused, his hands tugging at his belt before he popped the button on his jeans. Slipping off your shoes, you crawled up into the seat, sitting back on your knees as you watched him pull at his jeans. Peeking out from under the denim, you could see a dark patch of hair.

Logan was in no rush, revealing only an inch at a time of the base of his cock, making a show of it as the tension rose. A wave of tickling arousal washed over you, and it made you brave, reaching a trembling hand forward, you helped him tug at the fabric.

At last his cock sprung free.

You felt your eyes widen at the sight, as you involuntarily squeezed your thighs together. Even with your limited experience, you knew he was bigger than most. The thick length of his cock bobbed from the weight, hanging heavy between his legs. At the tip of his fat head, a drop of precum pearled, almost invisible in the dark truck. 

"Come here, bub." He widened his legs as he reached out a strong arm for you, curling you into his shoulder. 

"Put your hand on it," he ordered, "like this," he grabbed at your wrist and guided you hand towards his mouth. You let him move you around, eyes blown out and wide as you couldn't take your eyes off his impressive cock. 

A wet blob of spit pulled you from your thoughts, it drew the slightest frown over your face until he guided your palm, now coated in his spit, to his cock.

Under your palm his skin was silky soft, but hard and firm at the same time. You found yourself mesmerized at the sight of your hand around him as you familiarized yourself with the heaviness of him in your hand. 

"There ya go–" he cut himself off with a groan as you formed a fist around the head of him. Your fingers struggled to reach around him, but it didn't seem like Logan minded much when you moved downwards smearing his spit over his shaft in an experimental tug. 

"That's it, good girl, just like that."

A warmth bloomed in your chest at the praise, wrapping itself around your heart. You wanted him to say it again– to be good for him. So, you reached forward with your other hand, wrapping it around the base as the other formed a fist around the head. Another pearl of precum beaded at the tip, and you took the opportunity to skate your thumb over it, massaging it into his spit.

A growl seemed to get caught in Logan's throat, and still riding off your high that the praise had sown in you, you started to pump his cock in slow strokes. A slick sound escaped under your fists with each stroke, and you watched how his head fell back in pleasure.

"Am-am I doing it right?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

At the sound of your voice, Logan sat up straighter, a heavy hand falling over your back to pull you closer. "You're a natural, princess."  

You couldn't contain the smile from coating your lips as he brought you in for another searing kiss. It was hot, and suffocating, and all-consuming, all at the same time. It clouded your mind, and you forgot what your hands were supposed to be doing. 

Logan's hand travelled down your body, his big palm grabbing at your ass. "Take of your pants," he ordered against your lips, "Panties too," underlining his order with a couple of light slaps to the flesh.

Shuffling out of his hold, you fingered at the button of your pants, pulling at them and your panties as quickly as you could. Goosebumps prickled over your exposed skin, the air suddenly frosty without Logan's touch – but that didn't last long.

The calloused pads of his fingers trailed up your thighs, pressing down into the flesh as he pulled you closer to him. "Come sit in my lap, princess."

He didn't wait for you to move, instead he manhandled you how he wanted. Spreading his legs wide apart he fit you between his legs, your back pressed against his hot chest with his hard and leaking cock caged against your ass. 

"I'm gonna touch you now, baby, okay?" his deep voice whispered in your ear.

"Okay," you peeped, heart pounding in your ears at this new proximity. 

He spread your legs, putting your wet and neglected cunt on display, hooking them over his knees. When his palms danced over your inner thighs, you felt yourself sink deeper into his chest, deeper into the safe scent of pine and man. 

"Need to get you ready f'me, bub– stretch this tight cunt out for my big cock," he cooed.

You ached for him, a sticky wet feeling between your legs as you wished so badly for him to finally touch you. His touch was light, but teasing, drawing circles along the thin flesh, circling closer and closer to where you needed his touch the most, before he pulled away. 

"Please," you whined, grabbing at his arm.

His breath felt hot against your neck, and you could feel the grin he pressed against your skin. He let you guide him upwards to hover his large palm over your mound, but he wouldn't let you have it. Instead, he pushed at your sweater. His hand spread across the skin beneath your belly button as prickled goosebumps followed the rough pads as they ran across your skin.

"Y'gonna feel me right here, bub?" he teased, "So deep inside your tummy?"

A whine caught in your throat and you felt like an exposed nerve. Arousal pulsated throughout your body, threatening to pull you apart unless he did something soon. Your neglected cunt dripped with an ache only he could sooth. 

"Yes, please, Logan," you whined, tears threatening to spill.

His thick beard scraped against your cheek, and you almost trembled from anticipation as he slid his hands downwards. He raked his fingers through the curls of your mound, and a gasp fell from your lips when he finally pushed at your clit.

A wide smile reached across your face when he started to circle his fingers, tight with the perfect amount of pressure. Your hips bucked to meet his touch, your cunt eager and dripping for more of him. His other arm clasped around your middle, keeping your still and steady in his lap as he had his way with you.

A bold finger dipped lower, running through your folds and teasing at you entrance. A slick sound filled the car as he played with your cunt, circling his fingers around your hole, dipping a teasing finger inside you just to the first knuckle, before withdrawing it just as quickly. 

"Such a messy pussy," Logan murmured in your ear, the deep bass of his voice vibrating into your skin. "Listen."

The sound as he played with your pussy was obscene, lewd, and so dirty you felt a heat crawl up your chest. A breathy gasp escaped you when he finally split you on his finger, and a satisfied smile coated your lips as he started to move it inside in a steady rhythm, prodding every so often at that spongy spot inside, the spot your own finger couldn't reach.

"F-feels s-so good," you managed to stutter out. 

The heel of his palm pressed against your clit with every thrust, teasing at your insides and conjuring moan after breathy moan from your lips. He guided you closer and closer to the edge, and you wanted so badly to fall. When he pulled out to slide another finger inside you, you felt a tear roll down your cheek with satisfaction.

"I can feel that pussy clenching me– you close, bub?" he poked, never stopping his fingers.

Your head rolled back, resting heavy on his shoulder as you nodded franticly, mouth parted slightly, humming out small breathy whines. You were so close, the tension in your stomach twisting and aching for release.

But then he pulled his fingers, dragging them up over your mound leaving a wet trail in your curls. You couldn't help the disappointed sigh as more tears pressed their way down your cheeks.

"Shh," he hushed you, "you're okay, bub." 

Under you, you felt him move, his strong muscles flexing as he shifted you on his lap. When you felt the blunt head of his cock slide between your folds, an eagerness came upon you. You grinded against him, making a small chuckle rumble from his chest. Logan slapped his heavy cock against your folds, coating his big cock in your slick arousal. 

The first stretch of him knocked the breath right out of you, the fat tip of him splitting you in half as he helped you guide yourself down on him. You had to remember to breathe, your hand fumbling for something to hold on to. 

"Fuck," you whimpered, eyes wide, "I-it's so big– it's t-too big."

His hand wrapped around your middle held you in place, keeping you still on his cock as you adjusted to the first inches of him inside you. 

"It's not too big, princess, you're doing so well f'me," he praised, "just a little more, bub– you can do it."

With a wet whimper you lowered yourself, taking a couple more inches of him, as Logan pressed more fluttering praise into your skin. He let you take your time, easing yourself down on him at your own pace. When your thighs were finally flushed with his, he was so deep inside you, you jolted, trying to move back up, but Logan's hands held you down. You felt him in your tummy, like he'd said, his cock reaching so deep you were shaking.

"Sit still, get used to it," he told you, as you tried to catch your breath, "You're being so good f'me."

And somehow the burning stretch of him soothed away into a pleasurable pressure, one you couldn't help but chase. With an experimental rock of your hips, you felt the fat head of him prod at your spot, making you mewl. And when you started to swivel your hips, Logan groaned in satisfaction, meeting your movement with small thrusts.

Slowly, he picked up his rhythm, strong hands shifted to dig into your hips, holding you in place for him to move you as he wished. In your ear, you heard him growl, deep and animalistic as he fucked up into you.

It didn't take long until your breath came out fast between moans as the pressure built, and built, and built. 

"Logan," you moaned, tethering right on the edge.

Another growl escaped his chest, as his strong arms hooked under your legs. He pressed them tightly to your body as he picked up his pace, bucking wildly into your eager cunt. You could feel him throb inside of you, and you couldn't help but clench at the thought of feeling him spill inside you, claiming you.

"Don't stop, please, don't stop," you begged, tears streaming down your face like two winding rivers, "I-I'm gonna come."

A hand slid between your legs to rub at your puffy clit, coaxing you closer and closer with winding circles. 

"Come on my cock, baby, come all over that big cock."

It was hot, and blinding. Euphoric shocks pulsed through your body, as you fluttered and gushed around his cock. Logan's grip on your legs tightened as you shook violently with your orgasm – a million stars exploded behind your eyes.

"Oh, that's it, bub, such a good girl," he praised between heavy wet pants against your ear.    

Fucking you through your ecstasy, Logan chased his own high at a relentless pace, and all you could do was take it, reduced to a ragdoll in his hands. In your ear he muttered nonsense interlaced with praise, telling you how good you felt, and how perfect you were for him.

With a deep groan he pulled out quickly, tugging at himself until he spilled his thick spend on the truck floor. With bleary eyes you watched how it pumped in quick spurts, dripping down his hand and soiled the knuckles in his own sticky cum. 

Behind you, Logan breathed hard, nudging his nose against the column of your neck to press soft kisses to the hot skin. 

A pair of bright headlights beamed down the road, pulling you from the moment with its blinding light. Logan helped you shift off his lap, reaching to hand you your discarded clothes before he tucked himself back into his jeans. 

The cassette whirled in the car radio, and you couldn't remember when the music had stopped. Logan shifted back behind the wheel and an eerie silence grew in the distance between you.

"How 'bout I take you somewhere to eat?" he posed.

You smiled, "I could eat."

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

hopefully this was okay? a comment telling me your favorite part is always welcome, and my ask box is always open to chat <3 and thank you for reading!!

© shellshocklove, 2024 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[nouearth]

red right hand.

pairing. henry cavill x male reader.

word count. 7.3k.

summary. if there was one thing to give your dad credit for (other than helping create your very existence), it was that he has an insanely hot best friend. it was a universal admiration your neighborhood shared with one another. though, how many actively feasted upon their fantasies regarding that hunk of a man? probably only you, because mr. cavill was more than a crush, he was an addiction. and on one summer day, mr. cavill realized that so were you.

content warning. college!reader, dad's best friend!henry, neighbor!henry, age gap, blowjob (r!giving), degrading, throat-fucking, choking, gagging, spitting, kissing, humiliation, body and muscle worship, rough-play, size difference, dirty talk, verbal, praising, size kink.

The warm wind fanned the sweat off your forehead when you slid your window open. The ledge stained your fingers with particles of dust. Grimacing at the fuzz and simultaneous stickiness, it also provoked a storm of laziness as steel reminders from your dad got caught up in the commotion: CLEAN THE HOUSE.

CAR MAINTENANCE.

STOP ORDERING TAKE-OUT AND COOK.

SORT THE ATTIC.

TIDY GARAGE.

CHECK STOVE IGNITIONS BEFORE LEAVING THE HOUSE.

LOCK THE DOORS.

Ya-dah, ya-dah…

Honestly, how could you check-off any of these tasks with this heatwave currently going on? You were sweating bullets, been sweating enough to bathe in your own salt for days now—which you technically were already doing. It was summer, the long-awaited season after the agony of allergies. A temporary relief to your studies as well, until the humidity hit you like a truck and made you realize that living back in a dorm wasn’t so bad. 

At least the building had a functional air-conditioner. 

“Uh-huh, yep.” Your dad’s voice was going in one ear and out the other as you rummaged through your cabinets for a snack. Cereal; stale. Canned meat; too heavy. Potato chips; not heavy enough. “Dad, you know you’ve gone on business trips before, right? This isn’t the first time I’ve been alone.”

“I know, but I’m just making sure. It’s a new house, and I’ve been watching these true crime documentaries about men leaving clubs and—“

“Well, the first mistake was going to a sketchy club in the first place…” You muttered, peering into the fridge, and then lingering, because refrigerator air has never felt so cooling against your skin. You duck your head to puzzle yourself into the cold box, dumbfounded that the heat had gotten you irritated enough to claim a bag of deli meat as your bunkmate for the time being. The sound of your dad’s frustrated sigh on the other line curled your frown into a smile, and you laughed, “I’m a big boy. Stop worrying, and go enjoy—Ow!“ You bumped your head against the door on your way out.

“How can I not worry when you just referred to yourself as a ‘big boy?’ Not even a man?!” You never realized how theatric the man was. It was like his presence never left the house, exaggerated hand movements and all wafting the smell of his homemade meals whenever he would scold you in his favorite place: the kitchen. You smiled at the fond memories.

“Good point—“ Though they were made at your old house, you were sure that once he’d returned, your dad wouldn’t be opposed to creating new memories of scolding your ass off on whatever trouble you’d get into. If you do, that is. You’ve grown since then, finding yourself too tired to socialize.

“Remember, spare key’s in the birdhouse. There’s a compartment at the side of it. Hopefully birds haven’t evolved enough to pick it open.”

“If they have, they’d be picking at our locks right now to kidnap me and probably feast on my body.” Luckily, the fridge was stocked before your dad had left. You crucified him for being overly-prepared at times, but for this month, it was an exception. You picked at a slice of deli meat and cheese, and stuffed it down your mouth.

“Not funny, (M/N).”

“I’m kidding, Dad. Lighten up! I know you’re nervous about presenting, but they invited you to talk to an audience for a reason. They like you. Just be yourself, and remember not to speak so fast. Have some water on standby too.” And speaking of the devil, you gulped down a glass of iced water to cool down your body as your dad chuckled in your ear.

“I know, I know, thanks.” A muffled sound on the other end filled the silence, sounds of people passing and cars honking passing through your ear. “Alright, my ride’s here. I’ll call as soon as I get to the hotel, okay? You better answer—Oh! I forgot to tell you! Henry’s coming over later to look at the car.”

“Henry—Oh, Mr. Cavill? He’s in the neighborhood?” The name rattled a familiar feeling inside of your stomach. Something rather warm, suddenly ravenous when you thought about the last time you saw him.

“Actually, he was the one that told me about this house! He lives down the street. But tool’s in the garage if he asks for them, okay?” 

“Y-yeah, okay. Got it.” You hadn’t seen him many times. Only when you’d come home from semester breaks, yet the mere mention of his name had you flustered as if he was a long-lost friend or something. 

“Okay, gotta go. Love you, and remember, lock your doors! Bye!”

“I will! Bye…” Your phone blinked back to your previous app after ending the call.

You knew he was your dad’s best friend; a divorced father and a bachelor unsurprisngly made a match in heaven.

He was someone that shared your father’s interest in tabletop games and comic books. A replacement for yourself you thought earlier on, but he was way more knowledgeable about those interest than you ever were. You grew up on your dad’s nostalgia. For Mr. Cavill and your dad? These memories altered them who they would be in the future.

He was a friend that would help your dad out on building projects, like that birdhouse he had mentioned. He was a charming man that built the PC you currently use after hearing you complain about the previous laptop you had. And best of all, his looks were as abundant as his kindness. Standing over six feet tall, with a chiseled face that matched an equally sculpted body; he’d been a little crush since you first met him, being the only man who was capable of rendering you utterly speechless.

And in present, the only man who had the power to tighten your briefs and shorts with only a passing thought of his body; muscular and athletic in all the right places. If only your dad could somehow muster up a beach day before summer ended. Either way, the image of his bare body excited you, the blood flow immediately rushing south in agreement. Your dick kissed your shorts at the thought water cascading off his hulking body like meltwater over an ice shelf, freezing you in your place to not-so-subtly gawk.

“Jesus…” Your body couldn’t catch a break, could it? With the ramping heat and the constant sweating, your erection only added fuel to the bonfire that was the pores of your skin. Your cock pulsed madly within the constraint of your briefs, teasing yet begging to be released, to be sheathed from its slick, because it knew you had the key to its relief.

Or rather, Mr. Cavill did.

It was pathetic. You’d been at this for a year now. As much as you were unfamiliar with Mr. Cavill’s disposition, it was certainly the opposite regarding his physical appearance. Though it hadn’t exactly occur to you when this crush of yours had been tiptoeing along the lines of obsession. 

Wait, was it an obsession..? No, no, it was just a crush. 

You hadn’t done anything wrong. All you had done was browse through his social media—he did follow you, and you mutually pursued—and stalked—no—scrolled through his posts. Thank god, he was an avid poster. Pictures of his selfies, his knack for grilling, his love for his pet dogs, his pride over his geeky hobbies, his friendship with your dad and mutual buddies—all of these pieces attributed to allowing you to get to know him more as you were rotting away on campus, missing life back at home. Like clockwork, looking at his feed brought a sense of comfort, a hope that maybe you could be part of his life as well.

“God, what I’d do to ride that mustache…” You blurted out your thoughts, hyper-aware that you were alone in the house. You’d been waiting for this. You’d been surrounded by your roommates 24/7, and then once break started, your dad wanted to insert himself into your schedules as much as he could before the next semester starts. 

As much as you loved them, you needed space. A space bigger than the privacy of your own room. You deserved the whole house to yourself after enduring months of agony from overdue assignments; stress from bickering roommates that led to chaos within the dorm. You haven’t jerked off properly in months, often resorting to a quick session that comforted you on the occasions you’d have to pull multiple all-nighters to get a project done.

You needed relief.

You needed pleasure.

“Fuck,” Your eyes had been fixated on Mr. Cavill’s social media feed as you stripped yourself free of clothing. On one hand, it helped your body cool off from the heat building in the house. On the other, you felt vulnerable, like someone could walk in on you any second, and god, was that a turn-on. 

A grid of his life displayed happily before you, and your thumb scrolled aimlessly in pursuit of multiple pictures ingrained in your brain that had your cock throbbing in your palm. You laid flat on the couch, earbuds fit snug in the canals after briefly switching apps to play your favorite porn in the background of your search. Your stomach sunk deep when the man began moaning in your ears. Hot like the blistering sun outside; you can imagine Mr. Cavill breathing against you like that, as you took his cock in like the video you had playing. Your balls pulled when the man grunted, “Right there,” and you couldn’t help but pull at the ache of your cock, then at your balls to fondle at the loose stretch of skin.

“Right there,” you repeated when your thumb paused at the desired video of Mr. Cavill. Another major part of his lifestyle was working out. Strength training, cardio, marathons. You name it, Mr. Cavill did it all, exceptionally well, and the crème de la crème of it all was that he bared his torso for most of his videos. “Fuck, you’re so big… Fuck, fuck…” 

It was like watching a warrior prepare for battle. Sweat dripped off the holiest parts of his body as he pumped his muscles with heavy weights. Grunts, heavy and lewd sounds filled your ears while Mr. Cavill powered through his body’s resistance. You wondered to yourself if he could take you like that. Force you to take him with brute strength like the weights in his muscular, veiny hands. You were stroking yourself to him, every part of him, palm slick with sweat and spit. Two fingers would get the job done, stretching you out in preparation for his cock. Though, you knew deep down that it would take more than that. Three, or maybe even four, considering the hunk of a man was seemingly built from metal. The video replayed multiple times before you remembered that he had more than enough content for you to jerk off to. You were barely five minutes in, but this was already more pleasurable than whatever you had endured back at the dorms. Your cock felt pleased, spitting out dribbles of thick pre-cum that loosened the stick of your palm as donation to your generosity.

“Fuck, Henry…” You rarely referred to him by his first name. It felt unusual. You were much younger than him. Addressing someone closer to your dad’s age felt rude, like you were trying to assert your dominance despite your age difference. You were many things, but disobedient was not one of them. However, you couldn’t lie. His name felt polishing to your tongue, something that could improve the taste of dreadful meals if one were to whisper it before taking a spoonful.

His name felt like a miracle.

Your sexual appetite was nourished by the frames of Mr Cavill’s second video. He was completely unaware he was bulging, free-balling in his sweaty shorts while he pursued his vitality through jumping jacks, lunges, toe-touches—cardio galore that made his heavy cock bounce in rhythm. You could tell he was large, gifted with insane girth to the point where you could make out the shape of his cock just from him stretching. And the smell; sweat sticking on thick curly hairs on his chest, and a happy trail that seemed to promise a world of musk if you ever had an opportunity to endeavor upon your curiosities. You were practically salivating for him, saliva pooling where your tongue sank, while your cock leaked. You pumped yourself quicker and harder at the frustration that your desire to taste Mr. Cavill’s cock would remain a pipe dream.

All that left you was your imagination, and your own musk. Pulling up at your glans, you squeezed out thick loads of pre-cum before swiping it with your thumb and tasting it off with a suck. Salty, bitterly pleasant on your tongue, and satiated enough to not let your libido falter at the disappointment that it wasn’t Mr. Cavill’s pre-cum, but rather smolder.

“Oh, fuck my mouth… I need that cock, Mr. Cavill. Please—“ The frames of the third video showcased him flexing his arms and torso. His body bursted with pride, veins surging through every fiber of muscle like they were charging him and his very existence. It was veiny too, wasn’t it? His cock. Large and veiny, like how you’d like it. You would struggle fitting him inside of your mouth while his cock veins pulsed with great pleasure knowing that it was Mr. Cavill’s kink that you couldn’t take him. 

No one could.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—“ Your eyes rolled back. The slurping sounds from the porn increased by tenfold as you pumped the volume by a few decibels. Lewd, slick sounds you wished you could perform on Mr. Cavill himself violated your ear drums. Pleasure him. Thank him on your knees for being so kind to your father. For building your PC without compensation. For providing you temporarily relief while you were away on campus, and could only jerk off under the blanket. You were grateful for him. For Mr. Cavill. For his thick arms. For his veiny forearms. For his dashing good-looks. For his muscles. For his strong cock. You’d give yourself to him if you could. Worship every inch of his step, every inch of his body, and that still wouldn’t be enough to show your appreciation towards him. 

Your fist tightened. Your other hand had grown limp by now, dropping your phone to the floor by mistake, but you were too fixated on the pleasure your cock was receiving to retrieve it back. You could watch it from where you were laying, just like this, slickly twisting and pumping your cock to the sound of the porn, to the sound of Mr. Cavill grunting simultaneously as if his thick cock was being feasted on like a hungry beast. “Mr. Cavill, please—I’m going to—“

One earbud slipped from the sweat building on your body, but you were close. So fucking close to coming. And when you do, you’d come on your phone.

All over Mr Cavill’s pecs. His abs. His crotch. His face. Anywhere, as long as it was your friendly neighbor, because—

“Enjoying yourself, (M/N)?”

A voice from behind you alerted your body to jolt and whip around upon instinct to defend yourself. Naked or not, you weren’t going to die, not in the hands of a burglar.

Though, as soon as you did, you regretted it. You felt like stone. Cold, hard stone as all signs of life seemingly felt like it had been sucked dry out of your body, with your erection taking up most of the produce surprisingly as you confronted the intruder.

The six-feet, muscular, handsome, and familiar man of an intruder. 

“M-Mr. Cavill?! What—When did you—“ You were flustered. Radiant heat blooming like the season of Spring across several patches of your naked body. It also didn’t help that your porn could be heard from earbuds once you took the remaining one out, albeit a bit muffled. And your phone, it was facing the ceiling, looping the video of Mr. Cavill training over and over again. Right before him.

Your body was shaking, physically evident despite your efforts to conceal the tremors as the man stared you down, unfazed by the drama of it all. “Fuck—“ You didn’t know what to turn off first. The porn? The video of him working out? Or maybe dressing yourself should be a priority because—Mr. Cavill was still staring, blues lingering on your naked body, seemingly outlining every drop of sweat that followed the contours of your figure. There was movement that naturally caught your attention. 

It was his hand, large and muscular over the center of his shorts. Rubbing, squeezing, fondling at an evidently large mass that made you dry-swallow. You mustered up the courage to finally pause the porn, then clicked your phone off. “H-how long have you been watching?”

“Since the beginning.” He chuckled, stating matter-of-factly. “Your dad told me to come look at your car. Your garage was open. Thought you did that for me, but I guess you really just forgot about closing it considering…” He nodded towards your cock, licking his lips when it acknowledged him with a throb. “Was coming to get you, and I found you like this.”

“And you just watched?!” You sputtered out in distress, hastily dressing yourself back into your clothes, stumbling over your feet in the process. Sweat always made it more difficult to put on clothes.

“Well, I did call you for while I was coming in. You didn’t hear me over your video, and…me, I suppose.” It was smug. Amusing to him that you were in this state of embarrassment after being caught red-handed. You groaned, burying your head into your knees after sitting back down on the couch. The heat was unbearable, but to face Mr. Cavill after being caught jerking off to his videos, you were overcome with horror at the ghastly spectacle of the situation.

“Don’t tell my dad about this,” Your fingers scraped through your scalp out of frustration, but also to keep your head pressed to your knees as they interlaced around you. You refused to even spare one more glance at the man when you felt him practically hovering over you, a gentle smile riding along the coattails of his composure. “…please.”

“I won’t,” Mr. Cavill’s voice sounded clearer, closer than before. Right above you, but still, you maintained your position despite the pleasant scent of his cologne almost breaking away your focus. “Just as long as you suck me off.”

Those final words hit you like a truck. 

You were astounded, confused by the turn of the situation. It felt like a taunt, and it was treated as such because it worked. You whipped your head up upon Mr. Cavill’s demand, almost insulted because it was how guys on campus used to taunt you.

What you expected to grace your eyes with was his face; charming as ever with a mustache that was reliable in stirring immense feelings inside of you.

Instead, you were met with a face full of flesh, Mr Cavill’s heavy and large cock. It sported a strong curve, throbbing veins to prove its accelerating lust, with thick balls swinging low to entice you into a hypnotic state. If someone was to grade you upon your predictions, you’d score a perfect mark, because god damn, he was huge. Hairier than you’d expected, though just as arousing, if not more, because this was unexpected for Mr. Cavill as well. He would’ve cleaned himself a bit if he had a plan to meet you under these circumstances.

“I—You’re serious?” With the string of thick pre-cum dripping from the very slit of his head, it seemed like your question was answered. You could smell him. The musk of his pre-cum. It tingled your nostrils, enchanting you akin to what fresh pastries would’ve done for you on normal, non-libido provoking circumstances.

“Does it look like I’m kidding? Come on, I’m waiting. You didn’t even say ‘thank you’ to me in person when I built you that PC for Christmas. It’s the least you could do, right?” Without warning, he took ahold of his cock and tapped the center of your lips with it. Your orbs shook as you looked up at him, hesitant through the tremor of your lips as Mr. Cavill stared back, determined for you to accept his plea offer with some kind of answer—with your mouth preferably. “Been teasing me for so long… Think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me whenever I came over? How you kept massaging your cock under the table during dinner? Always in those shorts too… God, you were begging to be fucked with your thighs showing like that.”

“No—I-You’re my dad’s friend, I can’t—“ Your hand said otherwise with your fingers taking initiative on their own, wrapping over his large cock, right above Mr. Cavill’s fist. It was a two-hander, a fucking two-hander, yet your fingers struggled to close around his girth. “Fuck, you’re so…”

“Your dad doesn’t have to know, right? I won’t tell. You won’t either. We don’t want to hurt him, right?” One of his hands found its way to the back of your head while he took a step closer, bringing his cock closer to your face. Before you could pull away, there was true grit to the palm of Mr Cavill’s hand as he applied pressure to the back of your head, pressing your cheek flush to the underside of his cock. “Look at you, you don’t have the heart to say no, do you? You’re obsessed with my cock, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes, Mr. Cavill…” You were under his control. Locks of your hair bundled under a grip while he ground his cock against your supple skin, making you smell him; his musky cock, the sweat buried in the deep hairs of his pubic area. It was a glorious scene that returned your cock back to its original state of arousal by tenfold. 

“You’re going to be a good boy and suck my cock off, right?” Almost in your mouth. You parted your lips open to trap his cock into your mouth with the way he maneuvered your head like a rag doll, a brute strength your nape now, pulling and pushing your head as his cock rubbed against your face, but Mr. Cavill pulled at the last minute, right when you were one lick away from tasting meaty flesh. “Close your mouth. You will open your mouth when I tell you so.”

“I—I—Yes, please...” You were pathetic. He held you still, head tilted upwards to face the ceiling and his towering body while his cock and balls laid over your face like a table runner, a perfect heater to warm his meat. A t-shirt remained on his body, and that was a true testament to his appeal, being able to get you off like this half-naked. You reached down, back to fondling at your sore cock, at the blue balls you’d given yourself earlier, sniffing, inhaling the heavy delightful scent of his sweaty cock. Guess his house was having air-conditioning difficulties too.

“I can use your mouth however I want?” He dragged his cock over your face, the head leaking out pre-cum in midst of its journey to introducing itself to every one of your facial features, saving your lips for last. 

“Yes,” You gulped at his rousing speech, breathing in the drying musky pre-cum on the perimeter of your skin. “Please fuck my mouth, please—“

“If you’re good, then this can be a regular occurrence, yeah?” You slipped your shorts and briefs off again, jerking yourself off to simply the teasing taunt of his cock, tapping at your skin, brushing over your eyelids, pushing up against your nose. You felt humiliated. You’d been marked by Mr. Cavill, pathetically as it only took his huge cock to make you submit to him. “You’d like that? Sucking your dad’s best friend off?”

“F-fuck, yes…” His cock was a wand to your body. Every time Mr. Cavill was seemingly about to push into your mouth, you willingly opened it to no avail, even if it was obvious that he’d pull away. You could only get off on his scent for so long. He’d draw your tongue out when he squeezed pre-cum out the tip of his cock, right above your pink flesh. It would sink, drip, slowly like syrup, in thick strings, until it wasn’t anymore with the sudden obstruction of Mr. Cavill’s finger swooping in to nick the sticky web, and letting it waste away on the carpet. “Please, Mr. Cavill… I-I’ll be good…”

It was amusing to him, watching you desperately try to taste and watch him in any way you can, to the point of going cross-eyed as he would center his cock in your vision. He waved his cock like a flag as if he had conquered you. Humiliated you with several heavy slaps to your face, thick smacks that you took in whimpering grace because Mr. Cavill had stolen the resources to your insanity.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Mr. Cavill didn’t waste a single second for you to prepare yourself. The pressure on your nape steeled, bruising to make you open your mouth and whimper, and maybe that was the point, because he seized the opportunity to charge his cock inside of your mouth without warning, making you gag on your own desperation. It was a forewarning. A brief prologue on how you should take his cock as he quickly pulled himself out to properly prepare yourself. In the meantime, he slapped your cheek multiple times with the spit you had already layered him with, cooing at how incredible hard and big he was against your dazed face.

“Fuck, your mouth is so warm. That’s it, you can take it. Good boy.” Saliva spilled out of your mouth like a popped water balloon when he pushed himself inside of your mouth again. You couldn’t control it. You couldn’t control what Mr. Cavill had stripped away from you with the strength he had on your neck. Not to mention, the mass of flesh gagging you into oblivion, leaving you completely incapable of stopping him, as if you wanted him to. “Come on, use your hands too. Don’t be lazy.”

“Mm-mmf…” A compliance that was muffled by a slur of slick sounds, but Mr. Cavill knew what you meant. Amusement played on the corner of his lips as you struggled to fit a hand around the base of his sticky cock, sloppily stroking what was left neglected by your mouth, or rather your inability to take in. You suckled on the head of his cock, plump and heavy on your tongue as it throbbed with every lick you provided him. Stroking its slit with the tip of your tongue, you then dug and slobbered over the salty taste of his pre-cum. “So big… Just like I’d imagined.”

You pulled away to marvel at the size of his cock, taking your time to lube his cock with your spit from tip to shaft before your fist flushed to his pelvis to slap his meaty cock on the pouch of your tongue, lewdly flinging your spit in the air. It was your favorite move, often reliable in coercing a reaction out of the men you’d sucked off previously. The roll of his eyes, the flex of his muscles, the grunt from his gut; you slobbered all over his cock, worshipping every inch with your mouth, polishing the cock knob clean with your tongue and stroking what you couldn’t with two deft hands. Mr. Cavill was no different, he was a man with needs like you, with needs like the rest of the men you’d given head to, and you exploited the hell out of it. You loved making them feel in power, making them feel like you were worth time out of their day, despite their original pleas to use your mouth.

He briefly pulled back to rest a kiss on your lips, one that you’d treasure for the rest of your life. Not only was it because it was your first kiss was him, but because of how delicate he was with you. Warm and inviting like he usually was, his large hands cupped at the end of your jaw, holding you as if you were made of porcelain. “Making me so proud right now, fuck. Take in more of my cock, would you? I like it when you gag.”

“Mm-hmm…” They always do. You mumbled against his lips, no longer needing his guidance to finish what you’d started. Your eyes were glued to Mr. Cavill, aroused by the look he was giving you. A famished stare that demanded to be satiated, by means of sheer persistence as you knew it was going to be difficult to down him with your throat.

Mr. Cavill drove a hand into your hair, cuffing the strands to keep you still, to keep you from pulling away, to dominate you. He watched you without an ounce of kindness, muscles flexing, cock and balls hanging obscenely as you found a better position on your knees with a throw pillow guarding you from bruising. “Want you to throat-fuck me, Mr. Cavill.”

“Fuck, who knew you had such a mouth on you…” He sturdied his stance, spreading his strong legs while manhandling your head between them. You licked a stripe over his balls, then the underside of his cock until your tongue reached the scorching skin of his precum-slicked tip. Approaching the end of the journey, your mouth opened wide to welcome Mr. Cavill back into your mouth, and like tugging on a loose knot, you drew out moans from within his gut, his body loosening in turn of your hot mouth. “Fuck, just like that…”

With a thundering heart, and a building pleasure so morbidly big, you sunk and lowered your head lower, taking in Mr. Cavill’s horse-cock like a fleshlight. Crimson rose to your cheeks, to your neck, as you strained to maintain him inside of your mouth. He was too big. You’ve utilized all the tactics you’ve learned on campus, on a few buddies, on your roommates. Breathe through your nose, relax your tongue and jaw, let your saliva drip out. Yet you’d barely taken a few inches more than you had done prior before a couple of gags alerted you to take a breather. Your head pulled back, but it was met with violent opposition as Mr. Cavill brought your head back down to further shove himself down your throat.

“Mmm—gggrgh!” Your body jolted in defense, stiffening your body into an upright position when you couldn’t refrain from gagging on his cock. Your hands braced on his strong thighs for balance, squeezing at the muscly flesh of skin to distract yourself from the uncomfortable stretch your mouth was receiving.

“Fuck, yeah. Fuck, fuck, just like that. You’re taking it like a good boy.” You were making him proud, so fucking proud. You coughed, gagging, almost choked on your own spit, but the stuffing of Mr. Cavill’s large cock simultaneously emptied your mouth of saliva as it all came flooding down your mouth in lewd webs. “Shit, look at that. I’m making your mouth water, aren’t I? Fuck, what a waste.”

He yanked your head back, pulling him out of your throat, and you had never felt such relief. Breathing, exhaling and inhaling deep to compensate for the prediction that Mr. Cavill wasn’t going to let you spare a second of abandoning his cock like that. Your eyes watered, reddened from straining your muscles to make him fit inside of your mouth. You knew there was a shift in the room when you looked up at him like that, glossy in the eyes, tremors involuntarily making your knees unsteady, coughing as you held onto his thighs. He towered over you, you were beneath him, beneath the ravenous gaze he simultaneously terrified and seduced you with. You couldn’t complain now. You did your job. You made him feel powerful like you’d wanted. Dominating, as his cock leaked in your spit, and spit your saliva back onto your face.

“You were fucking hungry for my cock, weren’t you? Look at you. You’re a bloody mess…” With one swipe, he gathered the layers of spit you had generously supplemented his cock with, and smeared it across your face. You took his humiliation with good grace, moaning at your loss of pride with every smear. It deducted the more he messily layered your face with your own spit, but as demeaning as it was, there was immense merit to the satisfaction on Mr. Cavill’s face. “Open up.”

“M-mm, ah—“ Your mouth opened with a vulgar sound. If Mr. Cavill had something to compare it to, it would be like sticking a spoon into a cup of jello, and then scooping its content out. Sweet and glorious to his ears, salty to your mouth as he bought your head forward again, and plunged his cock back down your throat, deeper, and further within the confines of your throat. You squeezed around him, eyes clenched tight while he brought your face flushed to his pelvis, the hairy bush of his public area gentle abrasive against your nose. He smelled as delectable as he tasted. A hint of spice, sweat, salt, you could lick at it if it was made into a popsicle, lap it up if it was in a bowl and you were on all fours, bowing to his feet.

Your cheeks bulged as your mouth churned internally to produce more slime to seemingly ease the slide of Mr. Cavill’s cock thrusting inside of you now. He was careless, half-bent over your head to lock you into a tight embrace while his spit-polished cock rubbed at either side of your cheeks, rut against the roof of your mouth, then thrust himself into the depth of your warm throat. You couldn’t have escaped if you had wanted to. He was too strong. Two hands unrelenting around your head while he packed his large cock deep into your mouth, pelting into your gags and whimpers with fast, sharp thrusts, the sound of his wet dick choking you mutually turning you and Mr. Cavill on. You want to quit, yet he was choking you too good. Water streamed down your cheeks. Whether it was your own spit, sweat, or tears, you couldn’t comprehend it because Mr. Cavill was uncompromising, refusing to yield for your comfort.

You were fucking grateful. That was what had been missing from your college experience. A man. Someone taking charge for once. Someone utilizing you like the whore you made yourself out to be. Mr. Cavill saw right through you, through your taunts from several breaks ago, and he was fucking furious for making him wait.

“Shit, I’m close,” Fucking your mouth furiously. You could get off like this. Fuck, no. You were getting off to this. Fucking your cock with your fist, doing your best to match the pace of Mr. Cavill’s hips. You wanted to look up, to watch his face morph from admiration to animalistic desire as he utilized your throat at his own disposal.

You blinked away your tears, even if they had stung, and gawked at how captivating Mr. Cavill was for being selfish, thrusting into your mouth with one hand keeping your face free of your hair from obstructing his view. A frown permanently framed his mustache, and his dark brows furrowed at the approaching climax. He wasn’t looking at you. Rather, he was scrutinizing your wet mouth as it was jam-packed with his cock. How could a mouth look so pretty while doing something absolutely obscene? How could a throat feel so tight, so addictive, even after piping his cock down its drain several times? How could you let him treat you like this, a complete stranger, completely violate and humiliate you on your knees, like a broken doll whose purpose was to fulfill a man’s deepest desires? Maybe he needed to have a talk with your father. Talk about how broken you were, and that you needed fixing. Spend a nights with him at his house, and he would help you rewire your brain. He’d fix you. Fix you with his cock. With his lips. With his hands. With his body. Your eyes rolled back at the thought, fisting your cock faster, twisting to his heavy grunts as he was nearing closer and closer to the edge of his insanity.

“Mfghm!” Your throat felt raw, the subtlest whimper scratching at your throat like claws on chalkboard. But you persisted, pumping your shaft vigorously, your ears lapping up Mr. Cavill’s constant appraisal for your performance. Good boy. That’s it. You’re taking my cock like how I want it. You want your reward? Fuck, sloppier. Spit on it. Spit on my dick. I like it sloppy. 

Sweat pebbled every inch of your skin. You couldn’t take it. It was coming. Your stomach sank and steeled upon the sudden rise of fulfillment, and you quickly released your grip after a final stroke before coming into the air. Thick ropes catapulted upwards, your cock throbbing with every pulse, and your balls emptying itself more and more with a bounce, a twitch, and a jolt. “F-fuck, ugh…”

“Fuck, yeah. Look at all of that cum. Fuck. You came that much just from my cock, look at that…“ Your body spasmed as the carpet soaked up your semen. His voice gruff yet gentle at the same time, making your cock twitch once more before softening. 

“Come on, not done yet. Suck me off.” He spat out, tugging your head forward after a quick breather.

Something in you clicked, and you began sucking his cock off like it was your job. Twisting, stroking at the slick shaft while nipping at the head while you caught up to your breath. Suddenly saltier on your tongue as some of your cum had landed on your hand before it was smeared across Mr. Cavill’s dick. You’ve never tasted yourself before, but it was a found contentment you didn’t expect to turn you on.

Then, you took one last breath, cleared your throat, and charged forward. Long, thick inches slid into your throat once more, and you’d hold yourself there upon his final warning, mouth agape, lips pressed into the fur of his pubic hair. Your tongue flattened at the underside of his veiny cock, and your nails dug into the back of his thighs as you felt a thick warmth rush down and coat the inside of your throat. His cock throbbed, and Mr. Cavill’s grunts emptied from his gut with every spill. You could feel every heavy pulse as Mr. Cavill came down your throat in heavy, creamy spurts. You didn’t want to swallow. Not yet. You wanted to savor him. Savor the taste of his cum. You’d pined for it for so long, for all you could know, this could be your last opportunity to properly taste him. Slowly, but surely, his loads rose and pooled in the back of your throat upon barricading it with a tighten of your trachea. The rest of his spurts emptied on your tongue as he pulled himself out, and milked himself to completion. 

“Don’t swallow yet.”

You nodded, panting, awaiting for his nuts to be emptied as he flung his cock a few times, hurling drips of cum and your spit over your tongue and face. When he was seemingly emptied out, his gaze fixated on his cum pooled in the back of your throat; semi-translucent and filthily swimming with your own spit, and then Mr. Cavill’s own saliva, as he then spat into your crowded mouth. 

“Now swallow.”

You whimpered at the vulgarity of this affair, yet you were highly-aroused by this shame you were feeling. Mr. Cavill’s gaze stilled, anticipating with calm amusement while petting at your cheek. With one clean gulp, you downed your guilt, scrunching your nose when the salty taste of his spunk throttled your tastebuds, and sighed in satisfaction.

“Does your throat hurt?” He was on his haunches, carefully examining your throat as if he had his hand around you from the outside. It was a surprising return to his normal self, at least, the man that you knew as your dad’s best friend. Caring and patient, as he tended to your neck with apologetic kisses, and a gentle massage around your nape, where he must’ve gripped too hard upon your jolted reaction.

“A little… Didn’t take you were one to be rough like that.” Your knees gave out, letting yourself fall back onto your butt knowing that the couch would catch your position.

“Not usually, no… You just… happen to rile me up for some reason.” He was smiling, joining you on the floor, and nuzzling his furry mustache into the crook of your neck as if he wasn’t choking you with his cock a few minutes ago. It was unusual, yet charming. “Seriously, don’t tell your dad, okay?” He whispered into your ear before turning your cheek to look deep in his eyes.

A meaningful stare, a beat of silence, before you spoke, “Only if you promise me something.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Cavill pressed a kiss to your swollen lips, another apology for stretching your mouth without much warning.

“You really meant it that this would be a regular thing if I did a good job?” Mr. Cavill scoffed at first. It was almost embarrassing. Were you being naive? Was this too good to be true? Your cheeks flushed red, and you solemnly casted your gaze downwards, defeated because that was that it felt like. The sound of rejection always came with a scoff, everyone knew that. 

“Well, it was going to be a regular thing even if you had accidentally bit my dick off.” He suddenly laughed at how susceptible you were by the smallest actions, and at this moment, you were surprised that maybe this crush wasn’t so one-sided after all. He teased at your frown, kissing the corner of your mouth until it was a smile, and then prodding at your sides when you resisted. “Come on, you couldn’t possibly think this was a one-time thing.” 

“Tempting…” You snuck a head in between his thighs, reaching for a certain tool that had brought in so much pleasure and pain to your body. “I don’t know… we don’t talk much. I don’t know you that well.” 

“Don’t.” Mr. Cavill teasingly warned, stopping you by taking ahold of your wrist. Though, one step too late, as you already cupped his flaccid cock, tormenting his balls with a few tugs and squeeze of your palm as an act of revenge for your throat. “Well… then let’s get to know each other. No problem doing that, right?”

“Mm-mm, guess not.” Pursing your lips, you nodded, feeling placated by his words.

He sighed into your mouth, kissing you again, licking at the inside of your mouth, tasting your tongue and then your cheek, to soothe his selfish stain on your body with the work of his mouth. 

“First, I want to hear you say ‘thank you’ for building that PC of yours before I promise you anything.”

“Jesus, we’re still on this?”

“Yes! Do you know how long that took me?”

“I didn’t ask you to build me one—“

“God, you’re an ungrateful brat.”

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[mahowaga]

A COOKBOOK OF QUIET DEVOTIONS | N.K.

SUMMARY: a shared apartment. a quiet kitchen. an overworked man who never asks for anything. and someone who cooks, because love needs somewhere to go.

PAIRING: nanami kento x fem!reader CONTAINS: fluff and comfort, romance, slow-burn, roommates to lovers au, alcohol consumption, honestly just nanami being a gentleman (and a little bit emotionally constipated) NOW PLAYING: infatuated by rangga jones WC: 16.0k WARNINGS: none!

Your apartment always feels like it’s holding its breath.

Not in fear, but in careful, hopeful anticipation–like a heart paused mid-beat, waiting softly for something to change. It’s quiet most nights, filled only with the gentle humming of an old refrigerator, the distant murmur of traffic from the main road two blocks down, and the sound of rain, if the weather is terrible, tapping on the windows, as if politely asking to come in.

You share a third-floor walk-up with Nanami Kento, tucked between a bakery that opens too early and a bookstore that rarely closes. The floors creak with age and memory, the walls are too thin to keep secrets, and the kitchen smells faintly of green onions no matter how often you scrub the stovetop. It’s not perfect, not large, but it holds two lives in parallel–yours and his–carefully balanced like plates in a drying rack. Close, but never quite touching.

You’ve been living together for a while now, a slow accumulation of days into months, forming a routine built more on silent understanding than explicit arrangement. It wasn’t intended to be permanent, this sharing of spaces and bills and quiet evenings–but now, it’s become the only thing you know how to want. The mundane intimacy of shared dish soap, a favorite mug left rinsed and upside down, the way he folds the blanket on the couch after falling asleep under it–all of it lingers.

Nanami Kento is not a loud man. He moves through life with a purpose, his expressions subtle, muted–a quiet storm behind eyes often shadowed by exhaustion. He rises early, showers briskly, ties his tie with measured precision, and slips quietly into the morning fog to become a salaryman whose days blur into overtime evenings. When he returns, often long after twilight has faded into midnight, he carries the weight of the day like a physical burden, one you can see settled squarely between his shoulders, bending him slightly forward, just enough to ache.

He doesn’t talk about his work. You never ask. The rhythm of your cohabitation has become a kind of silent choreography: you cook, he eats. You clean one week, he cleans the other. He brews coffee in the morning, you leave a slice of fruit beside it. He brings home the occasional bakery bag, leaves it on the counter for you to find. Everything is quiet. Everything is delicate.

You never speak about how your heart clenches each time you hear the soft click of the front door, the quiet exhale of a tired breath, the rustling of his jacket being hung by the door. Instead, you’ve learned to say it differently: in the careful adjustments to his shoes lined neatly beside yours; in the way you set out fresh towels for him before dawn; in the subtle shifting of your schedule so you can be awake, somehow, when he comes home. Sometimes you pretend to still be up reading. Sometimes you are.

He eats whatever you cook without complaint, sometimes with low murmurs of appreciation, sometimes with nothing but the scrape of his chopsticks against the bottom of the bowl. He’s not ungrateful. Just quiet. As if he’s still trying to remember how to speak for pleasure instead of obligation.

You often wonder if he even notices these small gestures of yours, these invisible love letters you write without pen or paper. But he is Kento–practical, reserved, gentle in ways that aren’t always visible. And you’re you, someone who’s learned to express love quietly, in ways that don’t always need recognition, only presence. It’s enough, you tell yourself, most nights.

But not always.

Lately, there’s something restless inside of you. A longing you can’t name that simmers below the surface when he brushes past you in the hallway or lingers at the dinner table longer than usual. You find yourself spending more time in the kitchen, choosing ingredients more deliberately, plating things with intention. As if the setting of sauteed scallions might say what you cannot. As if the heat of broth might carry your meaning than your voice ever could.

And so, tonight, as you walk home beneath the gentle sigh of autumn rain, your umbrella dripping, your hands chilled but steady, you decide to try.

Not with words, perhaps, not yet. But with something warmer, softer, richer–something that tastes unmistakably like care. Like yearning. Like a question waiting to be answered.

RICE PORRIDGE WITH PICKLED PLUM AND WHITE PEPPER (let me carry the weight tonight)

The apartment is oddly still when you step inside. Not empty–but still, like it’s biding its time, the hush of late night wrapped around the walls like a blanket. The sound of your key sliding into the lock is quiet, reverent. You toe off your shoes with slow movements, as though even the floorboards might be sleeping. The air smells faintly of worn paper and wool–something like him. Like rain that hasn’t quite touched the skin.

You set your bag down gently by the door and listen, making your way into the living room.

The television is off. The overhead lights are dark. The only illumination comes from the pale glow of his laptop screen, still open on the coffee table. It casts a bluish shimmer across the hardwood floor and the low line of the sofa.

And he’s there, just where you suspected. 

Kento, asleep in the unkind angles of a couch never meant for comfort. His back is curled slightly, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other still draped loosely over a thin stack of documents. His glasses have slipped down his nose. The buttons of his shirt are undone at the collar, his tie tossed carelessly to one side like a flag lowered at half-mast. There’s an exhaustion in him that never seems to sleep, but now–he looks less like a man at war with the clock and more like a boy who forgot how to rest.

The sight squeezes something soft in your chest.

You don’t move toward him. Not yet. There’s an intimacy to watching someone sleep–one you haven’t quite earned the right to claim. Instead, you stand there for a while, quiet as breath, letting your eyes trace the slight twitch of his fingertips against the paper, the slow rise and fall of his chest. You memorize it like scripture.

The silence clicks in your chest like a metronome. You don’t speak. You don’t touch him. You slip into the kitchen without a word.

The hour is late–later than it should be for anyone to be awake, let alone making a meal. But this isn’t about necessity. This is something else entirely. The act itself is a kind of offering, one you don’t have the language to name. You move through the narrow kitchen space on instinct, bare feet whispering against the linoleum. The light above the stove hums softly to life when you flick it on, casting a halo around the counter. You like to imagine it’s your own little sanctuary.

The fridge creaks open, then closes with a muted hush. You rinse the rice in cold water, watching the cloudy starch bloom like breath on glass. The silence around you stretches wide, punctuated only by the soft tick of the wall clock and the distant shiver of rain against the windowpane.

You fill the pot. Set it to boil.

The okayu doesn’t ask much of you–just patience. You stir slowly, spoon scraping gently along the bottom of the pot in a quiet rhythm. You add white pepper. A hint of ginger. You let the rice soften, melt. Let it become something warm and nourishing, something forgiving. It’s a dish meant for the sick, the weary, the lost. You’ve made it before, but never quite like this.

Tonight, you press your heart into it.

You half a pickled plum and place it gently in the center of the bowl when it’s done, like a seal on a letter never written. Something delicate and red, bright against the pale backdrop of the porridge. You stir a little more white pepper into the surface, just the way he prefers–not too strong, just enough for heat to linger on the tongue.

You don’t garnish. You don’t attempt to go above and beyond with the plating. There’s something sacred about this kind of simplicity. A quiet declaration.

You reach for a post-it and the pen you keep in the drawer–you keep these in the kitchen in case you get inspiration for a new recipe. The words come out small.

Eat this when you wake up. You don’t have to do everything.

You place the bowl on the coffee table, just beside his sleeping elbow, and cover it with a small plate to keep it warm. You don’t touch him. You don’t wake him. You just stand there, for a moment. Let your eyes drink in the sight of him–creased shirt, worn lines beneath his eyes, fingers still curled around the life he never seems able to put down.

He looks impossibly breakable. But more than that, he looks lonely.

You wonder what it would feel like to lay a hand on his shoulder, just once. To brush a knuckle down the curve of his cheek and whisper, You don’t have to do this alone. But your love lives in quieter places.

So instead, you turn off the light and let the moon spill silver through the curtains. You leave the bowl behind, steaming softly in the dark, and walk back to your own room with the scent of ginger clinging to your sleeves and a thousand unspoken things tucked beneath your ribs.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. It never does when your heart is too full.

By morning, the bowl is gone. Washed. Dried. Put back in its place. The plate too.

The post-it is missing. You don’t ask. He doesn’t mention it.

But when you come into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you find him already dressed for work–tie straight, shirt crisp, his mug of coffee half-empty. He doesn’t look at you right away, but you notice that the tension in his shoulders has eased. He rolls them once as he stirs in his sugar, then glances your way–just a flick of his eyes. Just for a moment.

But in that glance, there is something. Not gratitude, not quite. Not love, either. But recognition. Something softened.

You hold onto that look all day like warmth cupped in two hands. You don’t need more. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

SCALLION PANCAKES AND SOY SAUCE WITH GARLIC (you still make me laugh)

There’s a different kind of silence in the apartment tonight. Not the soft, comforting kind that folds around two people sharing space in tired harmony–but something sharper, hollower. A silence with too many corners. It buzzes faintly around the edges, like a lightbulb that’s been left on too long.

Kento is home, though you only know that from the sound of the front door closing half an hour ago, followed by the soft rustle of his coat being hung by the entrance. He didn’t say anything when he came in. Not even the customary hum of acknowledgement. Just the steady rhythm of his steps, a brief pause in the kitchen for water, and then the low creak of the couch under his weight.

You glance over from your place at the small dining table. He’s sitting there now, laptop open again, glasses perched low on his nose, brows drawn together like storm clouds that have forgotten how to pass. His hand moves the mouse absently. He scrolls, clicks, scrolls again. Every so often he exhales through his nose–quiet, sharp, almost irritated, but mostly just tired.

You realize you haven’t seen him laugh in weeks. Not that he ever laughed easily. Kento’s smiles were rare, but not impossible. You’ve seen them before–in the corners of his mouth over morning coffee, in the tilt of his shoulders when he finds something mildly amusing. You’ve even seen him chuckle once, low and startled, when you dropped an entire bag of rice and tried to pretend it was performance art.

But lately, even those have vanished. Worn thin by the hours, the weight, the silence he keeps dragging home.

You don’t ask what’s wrong. That’s never been your role in this quaint little world you share. No, instead, you rise from your seat, move into the kitchen, and begin pulling ingredients from the fridge like you’re collecting pieces of something long forgotten.

Scallions. Flour. Oil.

It’s not a fancy dish. It’s not meant to impress. It’s one of those things that carries the memory of laughter inside its layers–crispy and chewy, crackling and golden, green onions seared into soft pockets of dough like secret messages. Something you grew up with. Something you remember eating on slow weekends with grease-stained napkins and fingers you weren’t supposed to lick.

The dough is warm under your palms, pliant. You roll it flat, sprinkle chopped scallions across the surface like confetti, then roll it again and flatten it back into circles, round and imperfect. The pan sizzles to life under your hand. Oil blooms in little golden pools. You press each pancake down gently, letting the heat coax its shape into crispiness.

The smell creeps through the apartment slowly.

You see him glance up from his screen, barely perceptible, then look back down. His shoulders are still tense, but one knee bounces slightly, tapping against the coffee table. You pretend not to notice.

While the pancakes cool just enough to touch, you make the dipping sauce: soy, garlic, sesame oil, a dash of rice vinegar. Stirred together with care. You drizzle a little over one slice, tuck the rest into a shallow dish beside it.

You plate it all on a small tray–no ceremony, just softness. The kind that says, I noticed you’re hurting, and I can’t fix it, but I can make this. You walk it over, setting it gently on the table beside his laptop. He blinks, then lifts his eyes to yours, slow and slightly startled.

You don’t say anything. Just smile. Not a big one. Just enough to say: I’m still here.

He studies the plate for a moment, then closes the lid of his laptop with a small sigh. The air feels less brittle as he sets it aside.

He takes a bite without much fanfare. The crunch echoes softly in the room. Then he pauses.

His eyes flick toward you again, this time longer. He chews slowly, swallows. You watch his expression shift–just a little. Something about the way his jaw eases. The way his brows smooth. His next bite is quicker. He doesn’t dip it into the sauce this time, just eats it straight, like the memory of the flavor is already stitched into him.

“I haven’t had this since college,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse from disuse.

You don’t respond right away. There’s something delicate in this moment–fragile, like lace, easily torn. You let it settle in the quiet. Then, you purse your lips and say, “It’s not perfect.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just finishes another piece, the grease glossing his fingertips, the corners of his mouth lifting just barely–more like a memory of a smile than the real thing. But it’s enough. It’s something.

He eats everything you’ve given him. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t leave crumbs.

When he finishes, he wipes his hands on a napkin with uncharacteristic slowness, then leans back into the couch. You catch him glancing toward the empty plate once, like he’s surprised it’s gone. Like he wasn’t expecting to enjoy it.

You leave the plate where it is. Go back to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water you don’t drink.

From the corner of your eye, you see him push the laptop farther away. He sits back, exhales, closes his eyes–not in exhaustion, but in something quieter. Not peace, perhaps, but something very near to it.

You don’t need him to laugh. Not really. Just this–this moment where something inside him loosened. Where the weight shifted.

You clean up the oil. Wash the pan. Fold the towel beside the sink with care. It smells like scallions and sesame and a little bit like him somehow, and you find yourself holding it for a second too long before setting it aside.

When you pass behind the couch on your way to your room, you pause. Not for long. Just long enough for him to crack one eye open and say, so softly you almost miss it, “Thank you.”

It’s the first time he’s thanked you for a meal outright.

You carry the sound of it to bed like a treasure. Like the start of something you’re not ready to name–but already know the flavor of it by heart.

SILKEN TOMATO SOUP WITH BASIL AND TOASTED CHEESE SANDWICHES (you don’t have to be alone to be strong)

The rain has come again, steady and mellow, brushing against the windowpanes like fingers drumming a lullaby. The world outside is a blur of deep gray and softened light, and inside, your apartment folds itself smaller, cozier, like it’s trying to offer shelter from something that can’t be seen but can still be felt.

Kento comes home earlier than usual.

Not early by most standards–it’s still past ten–but for him, it’s a rare kindness. You hear the familiar cadence of his footsteps up the stairs, the brief pause before he keys the lock, the small, exhausted breath as he slips inside. His umbrella is slick with rainwater, his coat shoulders damp, a faint halo of wetness darkening the beige fabric. He peels it off with care and drapes it over the hook near the door, then pauses.

You’re already in the kitchen. He doesn’t call out. He never does. His presence enters the space before he does, a quiet gravity that shifts the air.

You stir the soup again, letting the scent of tomatoes and basil warm the room. You made it creamy this time, letting the olive oil blend with soft-roasted garlic and sweet shallots before folding in the crushed San Marzano tomatoes. You stirred in cream slowly, like folding in pardon. It’s smooth now, red as memory, glossy and rich. A little sweet, a little tangy. A comfort food you only ever make when the world feels too sharp.

You don’t turn around when he walks past the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. You just keep stirring.

When he reemerges fifteen minutes later, he’s barefoot and in a soft navy t-shirt you’ve seen before, one of the few things he wears that actually looks comfortable. His hair is damp from a quick shower. He moves more quietly than usual–not like he’s avoiding you, but like he’s trying not to break something in the air between you.

You ladle the soup into two wide bowls. Steam curls upward in gentle spirals. On the side, you’ve already plated two grilled cheese sandwiches, sliced diagonally, the crusts just browned, the cheddar melting slightly at the corners. The scent of butter and toasting bread lingers in the air like nostalgia.

He pauses when he sees it.

“This looks,” he says, and then stops. Blinks once. “Like home.”

You look at him over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Not immediately. “It reminds me of rainy days in my grandmother’s kitchen,” he says. “She always insisted soup tasted better when it was made while listening to the rain.”

You don’t smile, but something in your chest melts. “I didn’t know that,” you say.

He hums. “I didn’t think I remembered it until now.”

You place the bowls down on the table. Slide one toward him.

He sits across from you, fingers curling around the spoon in his usual precise way. He stirs the soup once, then tastes it. He doesn’t speak for a while. Just eats.

And you eat too, spoon by spoon, pausing every now and then to wipe your mouth, to breathe, to steal small glances over the rim of your bowl. His eyes are tired, yes, but less tight. His mouth is set in a line, but not a hard one.

Halfway through the bowl, he speaks again.

“This is different from the food you usually make.”

You pause, spoon mid-air. “Bad different?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, just–softer.”

You tilt your head. “I wanted something gentle.”

He nods. Looks down into his soup again.

“Did something happen today?” you ask, not pushing. Just asking.

He hesitates, then sets his spoon down with a quiet clink. His hands fold in front of him. His shoulders shift like he’s trying to figure out how to carry something invisible.

“Nothing unusual,” he says, but his voice is quieter than before. “Just… a long day.”

You nod. That’s enough. You don’t need the details.

“You’re allowed to have those,” you say. “The long ones.”

He looks up at that. His eyes meet yours, and for once, they don’t look away.

“I know,” he murmurs, and after a moment, “You’re always here when I come home.”

You take a bite of your sandwich. It’s warm against your lips, the cheese stretching just enough to remind you of childhood. You chew, swallow, then say, “Of course I am.”

He stares at you.

There’s something about the way he holds your gaze this time. Not searching. Not confused. Just watching. Like he’s looking for something he’s already found but doesn’t know how to name.

The rain outside deepens, drumming lightly against the glass. You shift in your seat. The warmth from the soup is settling into your bones now, melting something slow and aching beneath your ribs.

“You don’t always have to hold everything on your own,” you say, voice soft. “You don’t have to always be the strong one.”

He doesn’t answer, but he finishes his soup.

When he stands to clear the dishes, he does it gently. He takes your bowl, too. You watch his hands as he rinses them in the sink–steady, clean, precise. There’s a reverence to the way he sets them on the drying rack. Like he knows they hold something fragile.

You’re still at the table when he comes back, drying his hands on a cloth. He hesitates for a moment, then leans against the kitchen counter.

“I don’t know how to say thank you in the way this deserves.”

You meet his eyes. “You don’t have to.”

His breath hitches like he’s about to speak again, but instead, he nods once, slow. Thoughtful.

You rise from your chair. Walk to the sink. Wash your hands and your cup. It’s all easy, familiar choreography now–the quiet ritual of two people in a space too full of unspoken things to ever really be quiet.

When you brush past him on the way out, your fingers accidentally graze his.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t say anything.

The brief brush of your fingers is nothing. A whisper. A passing thread. But the contact hums in your skin long after it’s gone. You don’t look at him. You keep walking–slow, steady–to the hallway, to the soft hum of your room, but your heart beats too loudly in your ears, muffling the rain and the quiet and everything else.

Behind you, he doesn’t follow. You hear his breath shift. Not a sigh. Not quite. It’s more private, like the sound one makes when they are standing at the edge of something they’ve never dared to name.

You stop just past the frame of your door, letting your palm rest on the wood. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Maybe you don’t want the moment to end. Maybe part of you wants to turn back, just to see if he’s still watching. You don’t. You let the air between you cool slowly, the way soup does when no one touches it–full of everything it was meant to give, still warm even when it goes still.

Later, after you’ve slipped into your pajamas and lit the small bedside lamp, you hear him moving. Muted, cautious footsteps. The clink of glass, the brush of the kitchen towel against the counter. The lights shut off one by one. The door to his room creaks open, then closed again.

It’s silent after that. Not empty. Not cold. Just… filled. Saturated with something delicate. Like the air has been steeped in understanding, even if no one has said the words.

You settle beneath your covers, and the scent of roasted tomatoes still lingers faintly in your skin. Your fingers curl under the pillow, and you close your eyes with the smallest smile–one no one will see but you.

There was no leftover food tonight. Only the memory of him, eating beside you like he belonged there. Like coming home meant something. Like your presence was a given and not a grace.

It’s not love yet. Not quite. But it’s something. And it’s beginning.

CURRY UDON WITH SOFT-BOILED EGG (let me be the soft place you land)

There are kinds of hunger that have nothing to do with food.

You know them well by now. The ache in the chest when he closes his bedroom door without a word. The subtle hunch of his shoulders when he steps out of his shoes like he’s trying to fold himself small enough not to spill over the edges. The way his voice, when he does speak, sometimes stirs nothing more than air–thin, careful, restrained like a flame trimmed too low.

You watch him from the kitchen, half-shadowed by the cabinets and the low glow of the stove light. It’s late again. But not as late as it could be. The city still hums faintly outside the window, lights flickering in quiet syncopation. Your shared apartment smells like heat and starch and warmth, and your hands are moving on muscle memory now–mincing garlic, slicing scallions, pressing the heel of your palm into the dough of your patience.

You’re making curry udon tonight.

Something thicker. Something that sticks to the ribs, heavy and steady and full of flavor you don’t have to search for. A meal that doesn’t whisper but wraps itself around the bones and holds. You start by blooming the spices in oil–curry powder, grated ginger, the quick hiss of garlic hitting the pan. You let them open slowly, like trust. Then come the onions, caramelizing until soft and golden, like they’ve remembered a sweet memory. The broth follows, poured in carefully, steadily. You stir it all together and watch the steam rise in swirls that look like thoughts you haven’t spoken yet.

A dish like this has a certain honesty about it. Nothing special. No performance. Just deep heat and soft noodles, the kind of food that says, I know the world outside is cold. Come in anyway.

The soft-boiled egg is the final touch–nestled on top, trembling slightly, yolk the color of late afternoon sun. You add scallions, a dash of shichimi. You don’t think too hard about it–actually, you do. You always do.

When Kento walks in, his sleeves are already rolled up, his tie nowhere in sight. His eyes are tired, but not faraway. He’s more grounded tonight, you think–like he didn’t let the day devour him whole this time.

“Smells good,” he murmurs, stopping just short of the table.

“It’s a bit spicy,” you say. “But it’s warm.”

He sits down without prompting. That’s new. You place the bowl in front of him, careful not to let the broth spill over the lip. When you hand him chopsticks, your fingers brush again. This time, neither of you pulls away.

He looks down at the dish. Studies it for a moment, brows faintly raised.

“Is the egg supposed to look like that?” he asks.

You tilt your head, leaning closer to look. “Like what?”

“Like it’s trying to hold itself together but might fall apart if you breathe too close.”

You blink. He blinks back.

Then–just barely–he smiles.

“I guess that’s the point,” he says, quieter now. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Not right away. Your chest, however, warms in a way that has nothing to do with the stove.

You sit across from him and take your own bowl in your hands. The broth is fragrant, the steam curling up against your cheeks like something affectionate. You slurp the noodles, let the spice but your tongue just enough to remind you that you’re still here. Still feeling. Still waiting, in your own way, for something to change.

Across from you, Kento is eating slowly, deliberately. You watch him break the egg, the yolk blooming into the broth, golden and rich, the kind of thing you have to chase with your spoon before it disappears.

“This reminds me of something,” he says between bites, voice low. “A place I used to go during exam season in university. They served this with green tea and never judged if you ordered seconds.”

“Did you?”

He nods. “Every time. Finals made me hungrier than I thought possible.”

You smile, amused. “Were you the kind of student who studied until you passed out?”

“No,” he says. “I studied until I could forget everything else.”

The words are simple, yet they land heavy.

You don’t pry. You never do. Something in your chest folds softly anyways, like dough resting after being worked too hard.

He sets his chopsticks down and takes a sip of water. His fingers are slightly red from the heat of the bowl. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“I like when you cook things like this,” he says eventually. “It’s grounding.”

You glance up from your noodles. “Grounding?”

“Like I’m being told I can stop running. Just for a while.”

Your throat tightens. You look back down at your bowl and pretend to stir the noodles, even though they’ve already loosened, already taken in everything they can.

You wonder if this is what love feels like in a place like this–not fireworks, not declarations, but two bowls of curry udon shared under a single kitchen light, and a man telling you, in his own way, that he trusts you enough to stop pretending he’s not tired.

The silence between you now isn’t empty. It’s warm, filled with the clink of ceramic and the occasional sound of breath. The kind of quiet that comes after something has been understood, not explained.

You finish eating. He does too.

When he stands, he takes both bowls again. Washes them without being asked. He hums under his breath while he rinses the pot–a low, thoughtful sound, like the kind someone makes when the storm in their chest has calmed just enough to notice the raindrops on the windows.

You go to wipe your hands with the towel by the sink, and when you reach for the dishcloth, he hands it to you before you can ask.

Your fingers touch. He doesn’t flinch. You don’t let go right away. And he doesn’t make you.

CHICKEN KATSU CURRY WITH APPLE-HONEY ROUX (you deserve something that tastes like care)

There are some meals you don’t rush.

You start this one before he gets home, long before. You’re slicing onions in your softest shirt, humming beneath your breath, the sleeves pushed up your arms as the pan hisses and steams. You’ve peeled and grated the apples already–one sweet, one tart–and set them beside a small cup of honey, waiting like punctuation at the end of a sentence you haven’t yet spoken aloud.

You let the onions brown until they give in completely, until they become silk, then add the curry paste, coaxing the color darker, richer. It’s not from a box tonight. You made it from scratch. Stirred it gently. Layered it like a confession. A little cinnamon. A little clove. The apples melt when you add them. The honey follows, slow, like a final promise.

It simmers. You let it.

Outside, the streetlights flicker on, and the sky turns the color of cooled tea. The apartment smells like warmth. Like spice and sugar and something waiting to be named.

You fry the katsu last.

The oil crackles, sharp and alive, but you don’t flinch. You know how to handle this heat now. You bread the cutlets with care, dredging them through flour, egg, then panko, listening to the sizzle as they slip into the pan. The golden crispness blooms almost instantly, and you watch it, thinking, This is what it means to want someone gently. To give them something beautiful without needing to be seen.

He comes home just as you’re plating–quiet steps, a faint sigh at the door. You hear the rustle of his jacket, the thunk of his shoes being set side by side. He doesn’t speak right away, but he lingers in the doorway longer than usual.

“You made curry,” he says, soft.

You glance up. “The real kind.”

His eyes scan the kitchen–the golden crust of the chicken, the sheen of the roux, the way you’ve fanned the rice just slightly with the back of a spoon.

He smiles. Just a little. “Special occasion?”

You shrug. “You made it to Friday. I’d call that a miracle.”

He chuckles, low and brief, and moves to wash his hands.

The table is set when he sits down. You’ve even added two bowls of amazake, sweating gently against the wood. He notices. Nods once. No thank you. You see it in the way his posture melts.

He takes the first bite slowly, as he always does. Fork and knife this time–ever precise, ever restrained. The moment the curry hits his tongue, however, he pauses.

You don’t look up. You want him to speak first.

“This is…” he says, then stops. Swallows. “You made the sauce from scratch.”

“Is it too sweet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just unexpected.”

You glance up then. “Good unexpected?”

His mouth quirks at the edge, not quite a smile, but close enough to one. “Yes.”

You eat together like you’ve done a hundred times before. The difference tonight is in the tempo–how he speaks more, how you lean in with your elbow on the table, how the lamplight glows just a bit warmer than usual.

“This was my favorite thing as a kid,” you tell him, breaking the quiet. “Not because it was fancy. Just because my mom only made it when she wasn’t too tired to cook. It meant she had energy left. It meant she thought we were worth that.”

He looks at you, carefully. “She sounds like someone who loved with her hands.”

“She was,” you say. “I think I inherited that part.”

His eyes dip to your plate. Then rise to your mouth–your lips. Then flick away, polite, always polite. But you see it. The way his fingers still on the fork. The way his breathing shifts, barely. The way something he’s been holding back curls against the inside of his ribs and stays there, warm and unspoken.

You set your utensil down. “Kento,” you say, and your voice is softer now. Not bold, but close.

His eyes lift immediately.

“You don’t have to be grateful.”

He blinks.

“For the food,” you add. “For any of it.”

“I know,” he says, after a moment.

“I’m not doing it to get anything back.”

He studies you. Long enough that you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

“I know,” he says again. “But I think I want to.”

You tilt your head, brows furrowed.

“Reciprocate,” he says, and this time his voice is clearer. “Even if I don’t know how.”

You smile. Not teasing. Not pitying. Just soft.

“Start with finishing your curry,” you say.

And he does. He eats every last bite, even sops a little sauce from the edge of the plate with a spoon, something he’s never done in front of you before. He’s unguarded now. Like heat rising from the inside out. Like the way spice lingers even after the dish is long gone.

When the meal is done, you stand to clear the plates, but he stops you.

“I’ll do it,” he says, and you let him.

You sit at the table and sip the rest of your amazake while he rinses the dishes, sleeves rolled, the soft skin of his forearms exposed beneath lamplight. His hands move slower than usual. Not mechanical. Present.

When he turns off the tap and turns back toward you, he leans against the sink and says nothing. The look in his eyes is different now, you notice. Less guarded. Less distant. Like he’s wondering what it would feel like to say more. To reach across the table next time. To taste the next thing not for flavor, but for what it might mean.

“I liked this one,” he says, finally.

You hum. “What did it taste like?”

He’s quiet. Then, “Like someone decided I was worth the effort.”

Your heart stutters. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

You don’t look away. And this time, neither does he.

SOY-MARINATED SOFT-BOILED EGGS OVER RICE (i think about you even when i don’t see you)

The light on Saturday mornings is different.

It doesn’t creep–it lingers, patient and golden, curling into the corners of the apartment like it belongs here. You’ve slept in. Not much, but enough that the world feels a little slower, a little softer around the edges. The air is cool. The silence is kind.

You tie your hair up with a loose hand and pad into the kitchen in socks and the soft sweatshirt you forgot you were still wearing. There’s no urgency today. No schedules to brace against. The world is quiet, and so are you.

You start the water boiling, reaching for the eggs with still-sleepy hands. They rest cool against your palm–whole, uncracked, waiting. You lower them gently into the pot, six minutes on the timer. Just long enough for the whites to hold, the yolks to tremble. You’ve made this dish a dozen times before, but today, everything feels a little different.

You think about how he looked at you last night. Not startled. Not confused. Just open.

You think about how his voice sounded when he said he wanted to give something back.

You think about the pause before he let himself say it.

The soy sauce mixture is already made–light and dark shoyu, mirin, a little sugar, the scent sharp and umami-rich. You pour it into the jar and leave the lid off for now. When the eggs are done, you cool them in an ice bath, fingers numb with the cold as you peel the shells away in slow spirals, careful not to tear the softness beneath.

You’re plating rice when he walks in. You don’t hear the door. Just feel him. Like gravity, like a shift in temperature. A presence that folds into the room like it always meant to be there.

His voice is still rough from sleep. “You’re up early.”

You smile without turning. “It’s nearly ten.”

“That’s early for a weekend.”

You hear the sound of his steps, the way he hesitates near the counter. Then, softly, “Do you want help?”

You glance at him.

Kento in a t-shirt and lounge pants is a rarer sight than a solar eclipse. His hair is damp from a shower, pushed back in a way that softens his whole face. He looks peaceful. Or at least trying to be.

“You can plate the rice,” you offer.

He steps closer, and for the first time, you watch him move through the kitchen not as a guest, but like it’s part of him. He finds the rice scoop, opens the container, moves with confidence. Not perfect, not effortless–but sincere.

You halve the eggs carefully, the yolks holding in just barely, golden centers that shiver when touched. He sets the bowls beside you and you place the eggs gently on top, two per bowl. You drizzle the soy marinade over everything. It sinks into the rice slowly, disappearing like breath into snow.

“Looks good,” he says, and you can hear the warmth in his voice.

You both sit at the table, elbows near, bowls steaming between you.

The first bite is silence.

“This tastes like something you think about before you fall asleep,” he says, breaking the thread of hush.

You blink, surprised. “What?”

He’s looking into his bowl, chopsticks paused mid-air. “I mean.” He clears his throat. “It tastes like comfort. But not just that. Intention. Like you planned it.”

“I did,” you reply. “Last night.”

He looks up.

“I woke up wanting you to have something easy,” you continue. “Something that didn’t ask anything of you.”

He’s quiet again, though it isn’t the same kind of quiet he used to carry. This one feels heavy with thought. Like his mouth is full of things he hasn’t yet translated into words.

You don’t press. You just eat beside him, the way you always have, letting the flavors say what you’re not ready to.

The marinade soaks into the rice, salt and sweet, familiar and soft. You wonder, for a moment, if you’ve made yourself too visible. If he can taste your heart tucked into the yolk, bright and fragile. If he’ll pretend not to notice.

Instead, he sets down his bowl and leans back in his chair.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says, and your breath stills.

You glance at him, heart pounding, unsure. “Since when?”

“A while.” He runs a hand through his golden hair. “I didn’t realize how often until you weren’t in the kitchen when I got home last week.”

You remember that day. You were late. You’d left something cold in the fridge with a note that morning.

“I missed hearing you moving around,” he says, quieter now. More introspective. “The sounds. The smells. The light under the door.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t know I’d grown used to it. How much I looked forward to it.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know what to say. So you eat another bite.

It tastes like morning sun and secrets. Like the first breath after holding it too long. You meet his eyes over your bowl.

“Then I won’t stop.”

“I’m glad,” he says.

He finishes the last of the rice. Picks up a small piece of egg with his chopsticks and looks at it for a moment before eating it. When it’s gone, he sets his chopsticks down and says, “This tastes like being seen.”

You nod. It’s all you need to say.

HOTPOT FOR TWO (WITH NAPA CABBAGE, FISH BALLS AND GLASS NOODLES) (please let me stay)

There is something sacred about preparation.

You’ve always felt it. The peeling, the slicing, the lining up of ingredients in tidy bowls like offerings. The way broth is coaxed into being–not made, but invited. This is not just food, not just dinner. It is ritual. It is a way to say, I see you. I have saved a place for you. Please sit with me a little longer.

It’s colder today. The sky dim, the streets tranquil under a pale hush of wind. You spend the morning setting everything out: napa cabbage, sliced diagonally; tofu cut into perfect rectangles; fish balls, thawed and nestled in a shallow dish. The glass noodles wait in their package, coiled like the slow ache of a heart waiting impatiently to soften.

The electric hotpot sits at the center of the table, patient and unassuming. You tuck everything around it like a halo. Small dipping bowls. A little dish of raw egg to swirl into the broth. Soy, vinegar, sesame oil, chili crisp. The meal doesn’t announce itself–but it waits.

You don’t text him. You don’t call.

But he comes home earlier than usual, as though he’s learned how to read the scent of dinner from the hallway. He opens the door with that familiar quiet, shoulders relaxing almost immediately when he sees the lights low, the table set, steam curling faintly in the kitchen like an invitation.

“You made hotpot,” he says. Not surprised. More like a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

You nod, still at the stove, checking the broth one last time. “I thought it might warm you up.”

“It already does.”

You blink. Look up. He’s hanging his coat on the hook, glancing over his shoulder toward the table with something like wonder in his eyes. It’s the way people look at things they never thought they deserved but were given anyway.

He steps into the kitchen and reaches for the last bowl without being asked.

“What can I help with?”

“You can carry this,” you say, handing him the pot of broth. “Careful. It’s hot.”

He takes it without hesitation, hands steady, arms strong. You follow behind with the ladle and a soft smile you try not to let him see.

When everything is on the table, when the water hums to a near boil, you both sit. Side by side this time, not across. A closeness born of familiarity. Of comfort.

He looks at the spread, then at you. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“It’s all about pacing,” you say. “Hotpot’s not about rushing. It’s about waiting. Letting things come together slowly.”

He nods. “Like us.”

You freeze, but he’s already reaching for the cabbage, laying it into the pot like it’s something precious. The tofu goes in next. He glances toward you–silent permission–and then adds the fish balls, one by one. They bob in the broth like lanterns on a dark lake.

You add the noodles last, watching them sink and curl, transparent and slow. Steam lifts gently between you.

And then, like it’s nothing, like he’s always done it, Kento picks up your bowl and begins to serve you. He plucks a piece of tofu, gently presses it to the edge of your bowl to drain the broth, and places it down. Then a slice of cabbage. A fish ball, steaming and soft. The rhythm of it is careful. Intimate.

“Try this one,” he says, setting a piece of enoki mushroom in your bowl next. “It soaked up more flavor.”

You pick it up without a word. Eat. Chew. Swallow. He watches you the whole time.

“You were right,” you murmur. “It tastes like the broth has a memory.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Is that how you describe food?”

“Sometimes.”

“It’s beautiful.”

You look at him. His eyes are warmer than usual. Lit from within.

“I used to eat hotpot with friends,” you tell him, your voice quiet, spoon swirling in your bowl. “But it always felt rushed. Like something you did to fill space. Here, it feels like time is folding.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then he says, “That’s how it feels when I come home.”

You look down. The broth has fogged your spoon.

“I think about that,” he continues, gently. “When I’m at work. Not the meals–well, yes, the meals. But mostly the way it feels here. The quiet. The warmth. The way you look at me like I’m allowed to be tired.”

You’re not sure you’re breathing.

Kento picks up another piece of tofu from the broth and places it in your bowl. Then he adds one to his own. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t speak again right away. Just lets the silence fill with steam and the occasional sound of noodles being slurped, broth being ladled, the low hum of the city through the window.

“I used to think I needed solitude to survive,” he says eventually. “That people–good people–were rare. And being alone was safer than being disappointed.”

You wait.

“But you don’t feel like noise. You feel like relief.”

The words settle like broth in your belly. Hot. Rich. Real.

You set your chopsticks down. Fold your hands in your lap. “I don’t want to be a temporary kindness,” you whisper. “I want to be the place you go when it all gets too loud.”

He turns to you then. Fully. His hand reaches across the table–not to touch, but to set down your dipping bowl, now full. He’s filled it for you without asking. Soy sauce. A little chili. A sprinkle of sesame.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain how much you already are.”

You meet his gaze. There’s no mistaking the way he’s looking at you now. Not with confusion. Not with hesitation. But with clarity. As if this, the two of you here, steam rising between you, mouths tinged with heat and memory–this is what he’s been trying to return to his entire life.

You take the bowl he’s filled. Dip a piece of fish ball. Eat it slowly.

“It’s perfect,” you say.

He nods. “So are you.”

The broth simmers. The window fogs. And between the sound of two hearts slowing just slightly–matching, perhaps, at last–he adds more cabbage to the pot. Not because it’s needed.

But because he wants to stay.

CHICKEN AND CHIVE DUMPLINGS (PAN-FRIED, HAND-WRAPPED) (i love the shape of your silence)

There is something luxurious about the slow hours of a day you didn’t expect to have together.

You wake up late, later than usual, later than him–only to find he hasn’t left.

The apartment is still. But the kind of stillness that feels full, not empty. There’s soft jazz playing from the speaker in the living room, something without words. The floorboards are warm from the sun filtering through the window. You stretch and rise slowly, footsteps light as you pad into the hallways, and there he is–sitting on the couch in a plain black t-shirt, his glasses perched low on his nose, the newspaper open on his lap like a prop from another time.

You blink, bleary. “You’re home.”

He looks up at you and smiles, gentle and real. “I took the day off.”

You pause, frowning. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” he says. “I just… wanted to be here today.”

The words are simple, but they fold something inside you open like warm dough. You nod, pretend your heart isn’t doing a strange, slow somersault, and walk into the kitchen to pour yourself tea.

He joins you a little later, sleeves pushed up, hair just slightly tousled in that way that feels more intimate than a touch. He moves easily today, less like a man trying to disappear and more like someone learning how to stay.

You decide to make dumplings. Not the frozen kind. Not the rushed kind. The slow, handmade, soul-fed kind–filled with chopped chicken, fresh chives, garlic, ginger, soy, a little sesame oil, and a pinch of white pepper, just enough to wake the tongue. You plan it in your head while washing the cutting board, while boiling water for blanching, while cracking your back softly over the sink.

“Could you grab chives for me?” you ask when he appears again, already pulling a clean mug from the cabinet.

He turns to you without hesitation. “Anything else?”

“No,” you say. Then, with a smile, “Unless you see something interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

“Just, I don’t know, what looks good to you.”

He hums, thoughtful. “I’ll do my best.”

He leaves with his keys and wallet, and the kitchen feels like it’s waiting for him to return.

You prepare everything while he’s gone–the dough, the chicken, the seasoning. The chives are the last piece. You roll out the wrappers by hand, flour dusting your fingertips, the counters, even your shirt when you lean too close. It’s a quiet, tactile kind of joy. Your love has always lived in this place–in the space between your palms, the pressure of a fold, the symmetry of something meant to be shared.

When he returns, the door creaks softly open and you hear the rustle of the paper bag.

“I hope I chose correctly,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. “The produce guy said these were the freshest.”

You look at the chives–vivid green, still cool from the fridge section–and nod. “Perfect.”

He leans over your shoulder as you chop. “You’re very precise.”

You smile. “You have to be, with dumplings. They remember everything you do.”

He raises an eyebrow. “They remember?”

“Every fold. Every careless edge. They hold it in the way they cook. A good dumpling always tells the truth.”

He watches you work for a moment longer before speaking again. “Then I’m glad I’m not the one folding them.”

You glance at him. “You could be.”

“Would you trust me?”

You nod, placing the bowl of filling in front of him. “Here’s the test.”

You guide him through the first one–how to hold the wrapper, where to place the filling, how to wet the edge with water and pleat it shut. His first attempt is clumsy, but not hopeless. His second is better. By the third, he’s concentrating, brows furrowed.

You watch him instead of folding your own. The way his fingers move–slow, deliberate. The way he bites the inside of his cheek when the pleats don’t line up. The way he glances at your hands, quietly mimicking your motions.

“I’m better at deconstructing things,” he murmurs. “This is the opposite.”

You shake your head. “You’re building something.”

He looks up, and you feel the warmth in his gaze settle across your chest like a second skin.

You work in tandem after that. Slowly. Not speaking much, but not needing to. The silence is shaped now, not empty–a vessel you both fill with motion, glances, small smiles passed like secret ingredients. You finish the last of the dumplings just as the light begins to slant through the windows, golden and low.

You pan-fry the first batch. He helps you oil the pan. Watches the bottoms crisp to a perfect, golden brown. You add water, cover it with a lid, and steam them until the wrappers turn translucent at the edges.

When you plate them–fifteen dumplings, perfectly imperfect–he carries the dish to the table like something fragile.

You sit side by side again.

He lifts his chopsticks, pauses, and then reaches for one of the dumplings you folded. He dips it lightly into the sauce–black vinegar, soy, chili oil–and takes a bite.

He closes his eyes. Chews slowly. “This tastes like being trusted.”

You look at him, startled.

He sets the dumpling down. “You let me help. You let me make something with you. Even though I’m still learning.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. Then you pick up your own and take a bite. The filling is just right–savory and warm, the chives sharp but softened, the wrapper crisp on the bottom, tender on top. You taste the hours in it. The folding. The togetherness.

“You did good,” you say, your voice quiet.

He hums, and reaches forward again–not for another dumpling, but for your bowl. He lifts a second dumpling with care, turns it so the crisp edge is facing up, and places it gently on your plate.

“Try this one,” he says. “I folded it for you.”

You bite into it. It’s slightly uneven, the seal thick in one corner, but it’s full of intent. Full of trying. Full of him.

“I like it,” you murmur.

He watches your mouth. You see the shift–the glance that lingers. The breath he takes just a second too late. He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t need to. The heat of him is already here, pooling in the space between your knees under the table, in the way his thigh brushes yours when he leans forward to grab another dumpling.

“Do you ever miss the days before this?” you ask suddenly.

He looks at you. Tilts his head.

“When it was just… quiet. Separate. When we didn’t touch.”

He considers it. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“I think,” he says, “I’ve been touching you in small ways for longer than you realize.”

Your heart folds in on itself like the wrappers under your thumbs. You reach for another dumpling. This one, you don’t dip. You eat it plain, just to feel the texture–each fold still intact.

Beside you, he doesn’t move away. He leans in. Not enough to close the space between you, but enough to promise he’s not going anywhere.

GARLIC SHRIMP PASTA WITH CHOPPED PARSLEY AND LEMON ZEST (i want to make your life taste better)

There are days when garlic tastes like courage.

It doesn’t whisper. It doesn’t wait. It announces itself with sizzle and perfume, blooming bold and unapologetic in the pan, clinging to fingertips, hair, fabric. It lingers. Leaves evidence. You can’t cook with garlic and pretend it never happened.

You start dinner in the late afternoon. Not out of necessity, but instinct. Something about the way the light spills gold across the countertops makes you want to fill the room with scent and sound. The windows are cracked. The breeze brings in the trace of faraway warmth. It feels like the kind of evening meant to carry new things in.

So you bring out the pasta.

You mince the garlic. Thin, even slices. Let it sit in olive oil while the shrimp defrost on the counter, curled and pale like commas between thoughts. You zest a lemon into a little dish and leave it beside the stove, the rind’s redolence clinging to your knuckles. You’re moving with purpose now, like cooking isn’t just about the food, but about the space it creates–steam rising in spirals, heat humming low in your belly, air thick with promise.

When Kento walks in, he pauses in the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to step into something this golden. He’s still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled, tie in his hand. His eyes take in the scene–pan on the burner, the shrimp lined like soldiers on a cutting board, your bare feet on the tile.

He leans against the frame. Watches you.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

“What thing?”

“Cooking like you’re trying to seduce the silence.”

You laugh, startled. “That’s a new one.”

He steps closer, voice warm. “You do. Everything you make fills the room before you say a word.”

You turn back to the pan, hiding the way your lips twitch. “You’re home early,” you say, hoping to change the topic.

“I left early. On purpose.”

You glance over your shoulder.

“I wanted to be here before dinner started,” he says. “I didn’t want to miss it. Or you.”

You swallow and drop the shrimp into the pan. The sizzle rises instantly–sharp, fragrant, alive. It fills the kitchen like a heartbeat. Kento watches you toss them in the oil, garlic clinging to the pink edges as they turn opaque, curling tighter.

“You can sit,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’ll be ready soon.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he walks up beside you and reaches for a clove of garlic from the cutting board. “May I?”

You nod, handing him your paring knife.

He slices carefully, slower than you but no less precise. You finish the shrimp, turn off the heat, and toss the pasta in a bowl with lemon juice and the reserved zest. A dash of chili flakes. Salt, pepper. A few torn basil leaves from the plant on the sill.

When you plate the food, he helps–without being asked.

He brings over the glasses. Opens a bottle of white wine from the fridge. Pours without comment. It’s all easy now. You’ve become a choreography, the two of you. No missed steps.

When you sit down, he pulls his chair a little closer to yours. Not enough to brush knees. But close.

The first bite is gold–garlic and citrus, briny sweetness from the shrimp, heat bloom softly in the back of your mouth. You exhale.

“This is good,” he murmurs, mouth half-full. “Too good.”

You scoff. “It was supposed to be impressive.”

“It is.”

He swirls another forkful and pauses before lifting it. “I had a terrible meeting today,” he says.

You glance at him, surprised.

“Three hours,” he adds. “The kind of meeting where no one listens and everyone speaks. The kind that makes you want to vanish into your own skin.”

“I hate those.”

“I know.”

You eat in quiet for a few minutes. It isn’t distance, just breath. Just room. Then he says, softly, “Sometimes I think I’ve built a life so structured it doesn’t know what to do with softness.”

You look at him. Really look. His profile in the lamplight. The tired slope of his shoulders, loosened now. The curve of his wrist as he sets his fork down.

“I know how to work,” he says. “I know how to survive. But I don’t always know how to make things better.”

You tilt your head. “Better?”

“For someone else.”

You blink.

“I don’t want you to be the only one cooking.”

Your breath catches. He goes on.

“You give so much. Night after night. And I sit here, grateful, but silent. I don’t want that to be the shape of us.”

You set your glass down. Us.

“You never asked me to give,” you say.

“But you do,” he replies. “With every dish. With every detail. And I–” He stops. Looks at you. “I want to give back.”

You don’t speak. Not yet. And so he does something bolder.

He reaches across the table–slow, sure–and brushes a thumb beneath your bottom lip.

You freeze.

“You had lemon,” he murmurs. “Here.”

His skin is warm. His touch is featherlight. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t let it turn into something heavier. But he doesn’t pull away fast either.

When your breath finally returns to you, it’s soft.

“I didn’t notice,” you say.

“I did.”

Your eyes meet. The moment stretches. You let it. You let him.

Eventually, he leans back–only slightly. He finishes his wine. Eats another shrimp. Then he says, “Tomorrow night, I’m cooking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You cook?”

“Not like you do. But I want to learn. I want to try.”

You smile. “What’ll you make?”

He shrugs. “Something edible, I hope.”

You laugh, and his eyes stay on your mouth a moment too long again.

When dinner ends, he helps you clean. He hums while rinsing, shoulders relaxed, gaze gentle. You dry the plates and hang the dish towel side by side with his. When you part for the night, you both linger.

Not at the edge of something, but in the middle of it.

Neither of you says goodnight. You just look. You just know.

This is what it feels like when someone decides they want your life to taste good too.

NAPA CABBAGE AND TOFU STEW (SIMMERED, NOT RUSHED) (made by him: i would wait for you, always)

Weekends aren’t often slow for you. Not like they are for most.

The world doesn’t soften its edges just because it’s Saturday, and your work doesn’t fold itself neatly into weekday boxes. Sometimes it spills over–bleeds into days that should smell like sleep and toast and morning sun. Today is one of those days. Your shoulders ache from standing too long, and the quiet hum of fluorescent lighting still rings faintly behind your ears. The city feels too loud, too fast, too full.

You unlock the door with tired hands, already thinking about what to cook–something simple, something silent. Maybe miso soup. Maybe just cereal. Maybe nothing at all.

The lights in the apartment are dim, low and golden, like someone thought to make it gentle before you returned. Your bag slips from your shoulder to the floor with a soft thud. You toe off your shoes, roll your neck, and listen.

The apartment smells like warmth. Not takeout. Not leftovers. Something savory and honest, something that clings to the air like memory.

You blink. Straighten. Because he’s cooking. You’d almost forgotten. He’d said it yesterday, voice low but sure, “Tomorrow night, I’m cooking.”

You had raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You cook?”

“Not like you do. But I want to learn. I want to try.”

But that was last night, and you’ve learned that despite him being home, his work steals promises sometimes. You’d assumed he’d be too tired. That he’d forget. That he’d eat early, alone. Maybe order something. Maybe fall asleep in front of the TV. You didn’t expect anything waiting for you now–not really.

You walk into the kitchen. And stop.

The counter’s been wiped down, the stovetop clean except for one pot, steaming gently. The table is set–only two bowls, two spoons, water poured, a cloth napkin folded the way you always fold yours.

He’s standing at the stove, back to you, sleeves rolled to the elbows, towel slung over one shoulder like a habit he picked up just for today. His hair’s a little messy. He looks up when he hears you and offers a smile that’s too quiet to be proud but too warm to be unsure.

“I kept it on low,” he says. “So it wouldn’t be cold when you got in.”

Your heart stutters. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. I said I would.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already reaching for the bowls. His movements are slow, deliberate. He ladles the stew out carefully, making sure every bowl gets a little of everything–napa cabbage wilted just enough, soft blocks of tofu steeped in flavor, a few slices of shiitake mushroom, a piece of kombu pushed gently to the side.

“I read your notebook,” he says, almost sheepish. “The one you keep next to the spice rack.”

Your eyes widen, heart jumping in your chest. “You read my–?”

“Only the food parts,” he says quickly. “Not the margins.”

You exhale slowly. The margins. Where you write notes to yourself. Quiet hopes. Stray thoughts.

He clears his throat. “I looked up the recipe. Watched a few videos. Yours still sounded better.”

You sit down, stunned. He sets your bowl in front of you. The aroma is deep–miso, ginger, a whisper of sesame. The kind of smell that says you’re home without needing to say anything at all.

“I know it’s simple,” he says. “But I remembered you made this when I got sick last winter.”

You nod. You remember, too. It was the first time he let you stay near him longer than a moment. The first time he let you see the quiet in his hands. He slept the whole day, and you changed the towel on his forehead every hour, stirring the pot between each breath.

“It tasted like safety,” he murmurs now. “Like someone decided I was still worth something even when I couldn’t do anything back.”

Your fingers tighten around your spoon.

He doesn’t sit just yet. Just stands there, looking at you like the bowl is only half of what he wanted to give.

“I thought maybe,” he says, “if I could make something even half as good, you might know how much I…” He stops. Starts again. “How much I notice.”

You take a bite. The broth is slightly off–he added too much ginger, or not enough miso, maybe let it simmer too long–but none of that matters. It tastes like effort. Like time. Like someone stirring and tasting and waiting. For you.

It tastes like him–a little restrained, a little careful, but open now. Earnest. Hoping.

“It’s good,” you whisper. “It’s really good.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief. Finally, he sits beside you.

You eat in silence for a few minutes. The kind that’s less about not speaking and more about letting the food speak first.

When your bowl is half-empty, you look over at him. His gaze is fixed on his own, but his hand is near yours now. Closer than usual. His pinky brushes your knuckle when he sets down his spoon.

“I didn’t know when you’d get back,” he says softly. “But I wanted this to be warm when you did.”

You stare at him.

“I would’ve waited longer,” he adds. “If I had to.”

Your breath catches. He turns his hand, just slightly, so the backs of your fingers touch.

“You don’t have to always be the one who stays up. Who waits. Who gives.”

“I don’t mind,” you say. “You’re worth it.”

He turns to you fully then. And for the first time in all these quiet nights, all these shared meals and unspoken things, you see it–bare and unhidden.

He reaches for your hand. You let him.

His fingers are warm. Just slightly calloused. He holds your hand like he holds the spoon, like he stirs broth, like he speaks when he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. Gently. Carefully. With all his weight.

“Let me do this more,” he says. “Let me try. Even if I mess it up.”

You nod. You can’t speak. Not with your heart pressing so hard against your ribs.

He smiles, thumb brushing your palm once.

“I’d wait for you,” he says, softer now. “Even if the stew burned. Even if it all went cold. I’d still be here.”

Outside, the night deepens. Inside, the steam curls gently above the pot. You lean your head against his shoulder, just for a moment, and neither of you moves to break it.

There’s still half a bowl left. And you know–he’ll wait until you’re ready to finish it.

STRAWBERRY MILLE-FEUILLE WITH VANILLA CREAM (you’ve made my life sweeter just by being in it)

There are days where sweetness lingers in the air before anything is even said.

It’s in the way the morning light curves through the window, kissing your face while you’re still in bed. It’s in the softness of your spine when you stretch, the way you hear him humming faintly from the kitchen–off-key, barely audible, and strangely endearing.

It’s a Saturday that feels like a Sunday. You don’t have to work today.

When you wander into the kitchen, Kento’s already there, halfway through making tea–not coffee. He looks up as you enter, and you catch a glimpse of the way his mouth softens when he sees you. You’re still wearing sleep in your eyes, a sweatshirt too big for you, and socks that don’t match.

“Morning,” you mumble, voice still tangled in dreams.

“Afternoon, technically,” he says, passing you a mug. “But I’ll allow it.”

You roll your eyes and grin into the rim of your cup.

It’s easy these days. Easy to fall into the rhythm of him. Easy to let your shoulder brush his as you stand beside him at the counter. Easy to let the silence stretch, not because you don’t know what to say, but because it no longer demands to be filled.

You lean into the counter, sipping, and glance sideways.

“What’s your favorite dessert?”

He blinks at you. “That’s random.”

You shrug. “Humor me.”

He thinks about it for a moment, expression softening into something thoughtful. “When I was younger, it was strawberry shortcake. My grandmother used to buy it for me on my birthday. But lately…”

“Lately?”

He looks at you then–really looks at you. “I think I’m starting to like the kind that takes a little more time.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Cryptic.”

He smirks, rare and quiet. “You’re the dessert expert. What do you think that means?”

You try not to blush. Fail a little. “It means you’re going to the grocery store with me.”

He pauses. “Am I?”

“Yes. And you’re carrying the heavy things.”

“That sounds about right.”

He finishes his tea and grabs his coat without protest. You throw on yours, still half-buttoned, and soon you’re both out in the sunlight, the city murmuring around you, alive but not in a rush.

At the market, he follows behind you like he always does–silent, alert, keeping pace. He carries the basket. Refuses to let you hold it.

You hand him heavy things with a sly grin–flour, butter, a carton of cream, a box of fresh strawberries–and watch him accept each item like it’s a love letter sealed in glass.

“Is this a test?" he asks at one point, eyeing the puff pastry sheets with suspicion.

“Absolutely,” you say. “You fail if you complain.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re doing very well so far.”

“That’s because you’re bossy in a way I find oddly reassuring.”

You bump your shoulder into him lightly. He doesn’t move away.

At the checkout line, he reaches for your hand. Just reaches. No hesitation, no pretext. His fingers slide between yours like they were meant to be there. Warm. Calloused. Steady.

You look at him, startled by the casual intimacy of it. He just shrugs, thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“We’ve touched every part of each other’s lives but this,” he murmurs. “Felt overdue.”

You don’t speak. Just squeeze back.

Back home, the kitchen fills with the scent of butter and sugar, of sliced strawberries and warm vanilla. You let him help. He whisks the cream while you lay out the pastry. He’s not good at it–his rhythm too stiff, too precise–but you don’t correct him. You just watch the way his brow furrows, the way his arm tenses, the way he peeks at you out of the corner of his eye, waiting for praise he’ll pretend he doesn’t need.

When you finally assemble the layers–pastry, cream, strawberries, more pastry–you both hover over it like you’ve made something sacred. In a way, you have.

You hand him a knife. “You get the first cut.”

He eyes it. “This is a trap.”

“Maybe.”

But he cuts it anyway, cautiously, and the pastry cracks just enough to remind you that not all beautiful things stay intact.

You plate two slices. He takes his bite first. Chews. Blinks. Brows raised.

“Okay,” he says. “I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“Why you make things that take time.”

You look at him over your fork. “Yeah?”

He nods. “It tastes like someone thought about you all day.”

You pause. Your chest goes soft and heavy and too full all at once. You set your fork down.

He watches you. “What?”

You shake your head, laughing quietly. “You keep saying things like that.”

“Because they’re true.”

“I’m not used to it.”

“I know.”

He reaches across the table, fingers brushing your wrist. “But I want you to be.”

You look down at his hand. The way it settles over yours now like it’s been there forever. Like it belongs.

“I want you to expect it,” he adds. “From me.”

You swallow. “Why?”

He leans in, expression open, unflinching. “Because everything you’ve done has tasted like love. And I don’t want to just consume that. I want to offer it back.”

You breathe in sharply. The kitchen smells like sugar. And strawberries. And something new. Something not afraid.

“You’re really not good at flirting,” you murmur.

He smiles. “Good thing I’m not flirting.”

“No?”

“I’m just telling you,” he says, “what it’s going to be like from now on.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

“Slow,” he continues. “Warm. Sweet. Worth the time.”

Outside, the sky has begun to turn rose gold, clouds edged with light. Inside, your hands are sticky with powdered sugar, and the mille-feuille is leaning to one side on the plate, imperfect but real. Cracking, collapsing a little, but still holding.

You lean over and kiss the corner of his mouth. Not a full kiss. Not yet. Just enough. Just a taste.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his fingers tighten around yours. And that is more than enough. For now.

CREAM STEW WITH ROOT VEGETABLES AND CHICKEN (i want to be what you come home to)

You’ve always measured your days in flavor.

Sweet, when you rise to the scent of something warm, the memory of laughter still clinging to your dreams. Salty, when you let the weight of the world sit on your shoulders for too long without rest. Bitter, when the loneliness creeps in around the edges like smoke from an unattended pan. And savory–deep, grounding, enduring–that’s when someone sits beside you at the table, even if they don’t say a word.

Lately, your days have been savory. Not perfect, but full.

Like a meal with substance. Like something slow-cooked. Like you’re not just feeding someone anymore–you’re building a life in the pauses between bites.

You think about this as you stir the roux, wooden spoon tracing a circle through butter and flour. A thickening. A deepening. You add the milk in slow streams, letting the texture bloom creamy and golden. You season it without thought now. A pinch of salt. A crack of pepper. A single bay leaf, just because you like the way it makes the kitchen smell like someone is waiting for you.

Even if, tonight, you’re the one waiting.

Kento’s running late.

You don’t mind. Or rather–you try not to. You don’t worry. Not like you used to. Now, the space he leaves behind in the apartment isn’t emptiness. It’s anticipation. It’s steam rising from the stovetop. It’s your body moving through the kitchen like someone building a place for him to return to.

You set the chicken to simmer–tender, thigh pieces, browned and seasoned, now swimming in a stew of potatoes, carrots and onion, all softened to something comforting. Something that doesn’t ask to be chewed, only understood.

When he walks in, you don’t turn around. You hear the door open. The gentle click. The exhale. The way his footsteps shift when he sees you–slower, warmer.

“Smells like a promise in here,” he says.

You glance back, smiling. “The edible kind.”

He drops his bag by the door, rolls up his sleeves, and walks toward you like it’s instinct. You’re standing by the stove. He comes up behind you. Places his hand–just one–on your waist.

You freeze. Not because you’re scared, but because something in your chest flutters like fresh herbs being dropped into hot broth.

“You didn’t text,” you murmur.

“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he replies, and then presses a kiss–soft, brief–to your temple.

He’s been doing that lately. Little touches. Little claims. A hand at your back. A brush of his fingers along yours when he passes you the soy sauce. Knees that knock beneath the table and don’t pull away. And that kiss last week–his thumb brushing your knuckles, your mouth grazing the corner of his like you were still learning the weight of your own bravery.

Tonight, though, it feels different. Like the air is thickening again, like a gravy left uncovered. Like something is about to spill over.

You hand him a bowl. He takes it with both hands, reverent. You both sit. Side by side, again. Always.

You eat together in a quiet so warm it could be mistaken for music. Then he says, “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

You look at him. “What did I say?”

He lifts his gaze to yours. “That you’re always here when I come home.”

You don’t speak. Your throat is full of chicken and cream and longing.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,” he continues. “Not just the words. The way you said them. Like you weren’t sure you were allowed to.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You are.”

He sets his spoon down. You do the same.

The kitchen smells like warmth. Like something full of body and heart. Like food that would keep through a winter storm. All you can feel, however, is the way his knee is brushing yours now, insistently. All you can hear is the sound of his breath, close and certain.

“You’ve fed me so many things,” he says. “Meals, yes. But also, patience. Time. Space. Safety.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Your hands tremble, just slightly, under the table.

“I want to feed you, too,” he says.

You blink.

“I don’t just mean food.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“I want to be the thing that warms you. The thing you come home to. The reason the apartment smells like something worth staying for.”

You don’t think. You just reach across the table and take his hand in yours. And this time, he brings your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them. Slowly. Softly.

He stands. You look up at him.

“Come here,” he says.

You do. You round the table, heart in your throat, mouth already tingling. When you reach him, he cups your cheek with one hand, his thumb grazing the skin just beneath your eye.

“You kissed me first,” he says. “But I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a very long time.”

You smile. “So kiss me properly.”

And he does.

It’s not a whisper. It’s not a question. It’s an answer. He kisses you like the first bite of something long-simmered. Like the taste of butter melting on the back of the tongue. Like something learned, not rushed. Familiar, and brand new.

He pulls back only when breath becomes necessary, and when he rests his forehead against yours, you close your eyes.

“I don’t want to leave this kitchen,” he says.

“Then don’t.”

You’re both still holding each other. The stew on the table is going cold. Neither of you care.

“I like the way your food tastes,” he murmurs. “But I like the way your life tastes more.”

You laugh, shaking your head against his chest. “That was corny.”

“I’ve been spending too much time around you.”

“I hope so.”

You stay there, arms around each other, the scent of cream and chicken and thyme wrapping around you like a second skin.

Later, when you reheat the stew and eat the rest of it curled into one another on the couch, you know–this isn’t the last dish, but it’s the first meal you finish not as roommates, not as friends, not even as two people who almost loved each other–but as something else.

Something with seasoning. With heat. Something simmered. And kept warm.

LEMON BUTTER SALMON WITH HERB RICE AND A SINGLE GLASS OF WHITE WINE (i love you. i always have)

The kitchen is no longer just yours.

There are two aprons hanging on the back of the pantry door now–one you’ve always worn, and one he bought last week, simple and navy blue, with a tiny oil stain already blooming near the pocket. The fridge has doubled its collection of post-it notes–your handwriting still the majority, but his are now peppered between them like little bites of citrus: “Out of ginger.” “You looked beautiful this morning.” “Don’t forget to eat.”

He’s in the kitchen with you now, barefoot, hair slightly damp from a shower, with that look he’s been wearing lately–soft eyes, sleeves rolled, mouth already tilted toward a smile. He moves through the space like he belongs in it, because he does. Because he learned it slowly, respectfully, over the course of several months, endless dishes and one unwavering heart.

He’s watching you slice lemons when you turn to him with a grin.

“You’re on prep duty.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Again?”

“You’re the one who said you wanted to know how to make the salmon.”

“I also said I’d rather kiss the cook.”

“You can do both,” you agree. “But write this down first.”

You hand him a little notebook from the drawer–your notebook–the one you’ve scribbled recipes in for years and love letters in the margins, pages stained with oil and sugar and emotion. You flip it to a blank one, and he takes it like it’s holy. He uncaps the pen and settles at the table, eyes up and waiting.

“Ready?” you ask without looking.

“Ready.”

“Two fillets of salmon,” you begin, “skin-on, pat them dry.”

He writes it down, word for word.

“A pinch of salt and pepper–don’t be stingy. Garlic powder, just a little. And lemon zest, fine, not thick.”

He glances up. “Do I write down that you zest it with your eyes closed and your mouth moving like you’re talking to the fish?”

You smirk. “Yes. That’s the most important part.”

He chuckles, scribbles it in. You keep going, step by step, and he writes it all–meticulous, dutiful, like he’s learning the structure of you.

Outside, the sky is the color of old gold. It’s quiet in the city. A Friday evening with nothing to chase. The only thing rising is the scent of rice on the stove, infused with herbs–dill, parsley, a bit of thyme. You’d tossed in a bay leaf too, just because. You always do.

When the salmon hits the pan, it sings. The butter melts around it, foaming golden and fragrant, and Kento stands behind you, hands warm on your hips.

“You’re crowding me,” you murmur.

“I’m admiring.”

“You’re distracting.”

“I’m in love.”

You flip the salmon, the skin crisp, the flesh pink and barely touched by heat. He leans in and kisses the back of your neck.

“You keep doing that,” you say, cheeks flushed.

“I keep wanting to.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth this time. You tilt your head, chasing him, catching him full this time–soft, slow, inevitable.

You finish the salmon together. Plate it over the herbed rice, a wedge of lemon on each side. He only pours one glass of wine, and gives it to you.

“I’ll steal sips,” he says, and you believe him.

At the table, you both eat slowly. He closes his eyes after the first bite. “This is stupid good.”

You beam. “Stupid good?”

“I’m trying to speak your language.”

“You’ve always spoken it,” you say, cutting into your fillet. “You just didn’t know.”

He hums. “Tell me something.”

“Mm?”

“Do you remember the scallion pancakes?”

You look up at him. “I do.”

He smiles, soft, a dulled edge. “You were tired. I could see it. You didn’t say anything. But you still made something that cracked when I bit into it. And I remember thinking–someone is trying to remind me what it feels like to smile. To laugh.”

You set your fork down.

“I think I fell for you then,” he says. “Maybe earlier. Maybe it was the porridge.”

“You didn’t even eat that one hot.”

“But I read the note.”

You take a breath. It comes out slow. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t know how,” he admits. “You gave me everything in bowls and plates and spoons. And I just–ate. Because I was starving, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

Your eyes sting, but it’s not sadness. It’s fullness. It’s years of hunger answered.

“And now?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

He reaches across the table and takes your hand. “Now I want to feed you,” he replies. “In every way.”

You lean in. So does he.

There are no fireworks, no orchestral swells, no grand epiphanies–just his thumb brushing the back of your hand, and the warm weight of his knee against yours, and the memory of all the dishes you’ve made curled up between your bodies like a language you both learned by accident and never stopped speaking.

You eat the rest of the meal in quiet, but not silence. There are soft jokes. A few shared bites. His fingers brushing your jaw when he reaches for your glass. Your toes pressing his under the table. His laugh, easier now, effortless.

And when the plates are empty, and you stand to clean, he wraps his arms around you from behind.

“Leave it,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “Stay here with me.”

“I am here.”

“No,” he says. “I mean here. Like this.”

You turn. Look up at him. He cups your face like it’s the last dish he’ll ever learn to make. Like it’s delicate. Like it’s worth every burnt pan and failed fold and oversalted soup that came before it.

“I love you,” he says. “And I’m going to keep saying it. Over and over. Until you believe I’ve known it since the beginning.”

“I already believe it,” you say, voice shaking.

He kisses you again, and it’s not a question. It’s the answer to every one you never asked out loud.

That night, you fall asleep with your back to his chest and his arm curled around your stomach. His breath is warm on your neck. His fingers are tucked between yours.

In the kitchen, the wine glass is still half full. The stove is cool. The plates are clean. And in your notebook–under a page titled Lemon Butter Salmon–is a line he added just before bed:

The first meal we made after we stopped pretending.

MISO SOUP WITH ASPARAGUS AND ENOKI MUSHROOMS (made by him)

You wake up to the scent of toasting rice. Not sharp, not burnt–just golden. Soft. A little nutty. The kind of scent that makes you smile into your pillow before you even open your eyes.

The bedroom is warm with late morning light, your limbs slow, your mind still fogged with sleep. You stretch. Blink. Reach over. The other side of the bed is empty, but only just. The sheet is still warm.

You hear him in the kitchen–quiet movement, the click of a stove knob, the low scrape of something wooden on metal. You smile again, push the blanket off your legs, and shuffle toward the doorway barefoot.

He’s muttering to himself. You stand there for a moment, half-hidden by the frame, watching him.

Kento is shirtless, still in his pajamas, blond hair rumpled from sleep. He’s squinting at the notebook on the counter–your notebook, which has now been converted into ours, the pages gradually filling with his neat handwriting alongside your sprawling, chaotic notes. He has a pencil tucked behind one ear and smudge of miso paste on his wrist.

He’s stirring a pot like it contains the answer to something. Talking under his breath as he moves.

“Simmer, not boil,” he mutters. “Simmer. Don’t break the tofu again, idiot.”

You press a knuckle to your mouth to muffle your laugh. He glances up. Sees you. Smiles.

“Morning.”

“You’re cooking again?” you ask, stepping in.

He kisses you before you can say anything else. One hand on your hip, the other cupping your face. Slow. Unhurried. Like you’re part of the recipe.

“I said I would,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You sigh into him, then nuzzle your face into his shoulder, catching the faint scent of sesame oil clinging to his skin. He rests his chin on your head for a moment before pulling away just enough to gesture toward the stove.

“I’m making miso soup.”

“I can tell.”

“With enoki mushrooms and asparagus.”

“Gourmet,” you tease.

“And a little tofu,” he says. “If I don’t ruin it.”

You move closer to peek into the pot. “You’re doing fine.”

“I watched three videos last night while you were asleep.”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips twitching. “You could’ve just asked me.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

Your chest folds softly around the warmth blooming there.

“And,” he adds, lifting the spoon toward you, “I wanted to make something that would sit in your stomach all day and remind you that you’re loved.”

You taste it. You close your eyes.

“Okay,” you say. “You win.”

He smirks, steps aside, and begins ladling the soup into bowls. “Sit,” he tells you. “I’ll do everything.”

“Even pour the tea?”

He gives you a flat look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You laugh softly and settle at the table as he finishes plating. He sets down your bowl with reverence. Sits beside you with his own. You both pick up your chopsticks. There’s no ceremony. No need. Just the quiet clink of bowls. The scent of dashi and ginger. A comforting rhythm of eating that feels more like breath than routine.

“You didn’t burn anything this time,” you say.

He chews, swallows. “Progress.”

“You didn’t break the tofu.”

“A miracle.”

“You didn’t start a small fire like you did with the curry.”

“That was one time.”

You grin. “It was charred.”

“I thought you liked smoky flavors.”

You throw a napkin at him. He catches it, laughing. And God–he laughs more now. Real laughter. Not polite exhalations. Not sharp little scoffs. Full, genuine joy. You live for it. You live with it.

“Work’s been awful,” he says after a while. “My boss keeps suggesting we pivot toward client-facing strategy development.”

You raise a brow, lost. “That sounds like gibberish.”

“It is.”

“Do you have to?”

He shakes his head. “Not if I pretend not to understand.”

You reach for him, run your fingers over his wrist, feel the tension there. “You’re too good at pretending.”

“Not anymore,” he says. “At least not at home.”

You both eat in silence for a while after that. Comfortable. Close. He tucks his foot around yours beneath the table. You let your knee rest against his.

Eventually, he stands. Rinses the bowls. You move to help. He swats your hand away with a dishtowel. “Sit.”

“You can’t stop me from loving you,” you say.

“I would never try.”

He places the bowls in the drying rack. You rise anyway, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, tucking your face between his shoulder blades. He leans into you.

“I’m writing down the recipe,” he says softly. “It’s not perfect. But I think it says what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns in your arms. Faces you. “I mean,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “that you’ve always fed me. In every way. And I want to feed you back.”

You look at him, heart thudding gently. “You already do.”

“Not enough.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“I know.” He smiles. “It’s just a meal, yes. But I want to make sure you stay full every time.”

You kiss him. He pulls you closer.

Outside, the morning has shifted into noon. The light is bright now, spilling across the kitchen floor, warming your toes. There’s nothing urgent waiting. No deadlines. Just the quiet steam rising from the pot, and the scent of broth in the air, and the feel of his hands splayed over your lower back like he never wants to let go.

He doesn’t. He won’t.

Later, you find your notebook open on the table, turned to a new page in his handwriting.

NANAMI’S MISO SOUP (FOR HER) dashi stock (enough to comfort) enoke enoki mushrooms (delicate like her laugh) tofu (firm but gentle, like her hands and her) asparagus (for bite–she likes it a little sharp) white miso (two heaping spoonfuls of everything I never learned to say) a little sesame oil (for warmth that lingers) simmer until it tastes like safety serve with love

You don’t say anything when you find it. You just trace the ink with your finger, the way you once stirred soup in silence and hoped he’d taste the message. Now the message writes itself.

Just beneath his last word–love–you add a line in your own script, smaller, slanted, like a secret you no longer need to keep:

I’ve never gone hungry since you came home.

And you close the book–not as an end, but as a pause. A breath between bites. A space between courses.

In the kitchen, the air still smells faintly of broth. The sun turns the sink, always glinting silver, into gold. Somewhere between the soft boil and the stir of your two spoons in two bowls, you built something you can stay inside. A place made of cracked egg yolks and congee steam, scallion oil and stolen glances, dumplings with uneven folds and kisses with shaky hands. A home with no doors. Just warmth. Just flavor. Just him.

And you.

Two lovers at the stove.

A thousand meals ahead.

No longer asking–only offering.

No longer waiting–only full.

NOTE: thank you so much for reading! i wrote this fic in a haze over the span of two days. there's just something about domesticity with nanami kento that gets my brain worms acting up (and no, i am not a chef by any professional standards so if one of these dishes doesn't make sense, we can fight in the parking lot of a dennys /j). (art by riritzu on X)

[miniseokminnies]

the subtle art of stirring the pot —- l.sm

⭑.ᐟ pairing: lee seokmin x fem!reader ⭑.ᐟ theme: coworkers to lovers, annoyances to lovers, sous chef!seokmin ⭑.ᐟ w/c: 9k ⭑.ᐟ warnings: 18+ MDNI, mentions of food, stressful work environment, insults, jealousy, switch!seokmin, switch!reader, semi public make outs, protected sex (that's a yes yes), marking, fingering, multiple orgasms, slight angst, miscommunications ⭑.ᐟ a/n: written as part of the Lonely Hearts Café collab put on by @camandemstudios - make sure to check out the full collab masterlist here send over some love! (haha get it) thanks a million to my lovely beta readers: @tomodachiii and @lovetaroandtaemin and a special shoutout to @seungkw1 for betaing and overall keeping me sane

Ring ring ring

The chaos of a kitchen is only aided by the sound of orders being put in.  Saturdays are statistically the busiest days of the week, and being a restaurant in New York City, Quartz and Serenity is no exception.  You had been frantically chopping carrots for the better part of an hour.  

“Y/N!” The head chef called out to you, “Go get more mushrooms, chicken, and sherry for me please.”  Without another word you jogged toward the walk in refrigerator to retrieve the ingredients.  The last few years you’ve spent in this kitchen has allowed you to map it all out to a science, which in a way it was.  You felt like a part of this well oiled machine and you handled the pressure with ease.  

You piled the ingredients in your arms and pushed out of the walk in.  You began to unpack the items on the counter next to the chef.  He instructed you to take them out of their packages and begin chopping them for him.  While the dinner service ran smoothly, there was an air of stress that always comes with being short staffed. You always pulled it off though, and tonight was no different.    

The moment you crossed from the hallway into your apartment, you dropped your bag to the floor and kicked off your shoes. You smelled like grease and sweat.  The apartment was bathed in the yellow light above your stove you left on this morning.  There were dishes in the sink and cook books stacked up around the kitchen.  

Sighing, you dragged yourself to the bathroom.  You dropped your chef’s coat into the laundry pile and waited for the water to get warm.  Once hot, the water ran over you, loosening your tight muscles.  You stood in the stall staring at the wall for several minutes, mind wandering to what ingredients you had in your refrigerator and whether or not you should just order something.  

The water sputtered and threatened to turn cold all too quickly.  You rushed through your routine, savoring the last few drops of warm water.  It went straight from warm to ice cold in seconds as you were rinsing your conditioner out of your hair.  

Clad in pajamas, you stared into the boiling water on the stove.  You dumped probably too much pasta into the water and turned to the other burner.  You mixed together ingredients in a pan over the fire to make a sauce. This was a typical meal for you after manning the kitchen at Quartz and Serenity because it was easy and not on the menu.  

No matter how much you enjoyed cooking, you always tended to get tired of the food that you worked around all day.  Customer complaints and repetitive pressure did that to you.  You wouldn’t change a thing though, this is what you loved.  

“Everyone!” You heard the booming voice of the head chef call through the kitchen, “I have someone to introduce you to!” The staff and yourself meandered to the center of the kitchen where Chef Choi was standing with a man you didn’t recognize.  He was around your age, maybe a bit older.  His features were so striking, you almost missed the chef’s coat he was wearing.   

“This is Chef Lee,” your boss smiled, clapping the man on the back, “He is our new sous chef!” You didn’t hear anything he said after that, you felt like the walls were closing in on you.  You could feel eyes on you but you stared straight ahead.  You could feel your jaw tighten as you bored a hole into Chef Lee’s stupid head with your eyes.  

Once you were dismissed back to your stations to prepare for dinner service you saw him hovering near your station out of the corner of your eye.  

“Can I help you?” 

“Oh!” He smiled sheepishly.  “I just wanted to introduce myself to everyone individually! You can call me Seokmin.” “Okay, can I get back to what I need to do, Chef Lee?” You looked back to your knife.  

“Uh, sure…what is your name first?”

“Y/N.” You gestured to the nametag pinned to your coat.  He nodded and wandered away towards the wait staff.  You rolled your eyes.  

Throughout the night you were tasked with showing your new coworker the way things run at Quartz and Serenity and much to your displeasure, he was very excited to be there.  Every so often he gave you room to breathe by floating around the kitchen, observing everything.  However, everytime he returned to your side you thought you might punch him.  

Somehow you made it through the dinner service.  It wasn’t your turn to clean up the kitchen tonight so you bolted to the bus station as fast as possible.  You didn’t say goodbye to anyone, knowing that you might get sucked into doing something with your coworkers.  

Once on the bus you check your class schedule on your phone, only to realize with horror that you have a test tomorrow.  Your stomach turned with the dread of having to be up all night studying, again.  

—-

“Need any help with anything?” Seokmin’s sickly sweet voice offered at your side.  

“No.” You were already on edge today, you made it through your test by the skin of your teeth and your professor made that abundantly clear.  You had no time, or patience, for him right now.  

“I saw you prep yesterday, I could do part of that for you,” he pushed.  

“No thank you, Chef Lee.” You asserted through gritted teeth.  “I would ask Chef Choi if I were you.” He slinked away like a kicked puppy while you continued chopping vegetables.  It’s not your fault that he is completely out of his element and didn’t know what he was doing.  

However, when orders came pouring in you noticed that his confidence seemed to double from last night.  He was able to keep up with different elements, even without knowing the recipes very well yet.  

The kitchen was louder than it had been in months, the new addition to your team taking it upon himself to fill the room with music, from his own mouth, to your dismay.  You weren’t sure how much of his relentless optimism you could take, especially today.  He floated around the kitchen with a carelessness that you would never be able to comprehend.  

To your horror, at the end of the night Chef Choi announced that tonight was the most efficient night the restaurant has had in several weeks.  

“You’re singing.” You deadpanned without looking up from the vegetables on your cutting board.  

“Y/NNNNN” Seokmin mused, “How was your dayyy?”

“Don’t ask me how I’ve been.” You forced your knife through a carrot, “Just do your job, and stop singing.” There were exactly three seconds of silence before Seokmin moved from singing to humming.  You slammed your knife down onto the cutting board.  “I’m taking a five!” You huffed and turned toward the walk-in. Seokmin stopped humming.  

The tears started as soon as the door closed behind you. Your back slid down the wall, the coldness biting through your clothes.  It was stupid to cry, but you couldn’t help it; he was so infuriating.  You had no idea what Chef Choi saw in him.  The tears sliding down your cheeks smudged the swipe of mascara you put on this morning? Yesterday? Couldn’t have been more than two days ago…

The door opened. 

“So, what’s up?” Seokmin asked softly, leaning against the wall next to you.

“Oh my god!” You cried, “Can’t you leave me alone for a single second?”        

“I did,” he blinked at you, “If I had it my way, I would’ve followed right away.”

“I’m in here because of you!” Your voice cracked, a new bout of tears threatening to spill, “I would have loved it if you didn’t come in at all!” 

“Well….technically, I’m…kind of your boss.”

“God, ew, no not really,” you scrunched your face in a look of disgust, “Chef Choi is our boss.” 

“Y/N, what did I ever do to you?”

“The kitchen ran smoothly without you!” You informed him, “Everything was fine without you!” 

“Now wait a minute,” there was an edge to his voice that you had never heard before, “I have never messed anything up.” 

“Well–” 

“No,” he cut you off, “Seriously, you may not like how I operate, that’s fine, but you aren’t going to sit here and tell me that I’m a problem in this kitchen.”  His words were firm but it was hard to miss the tears swelling in his eyes. 

“This is serious to me.” You hardened your gaze.  

“And it isn’t to me?”   

“Doesn’t seem like it.” 

“God,” He sighed.  “Y/N, maybe this can be a lesson for you.  No one is ever going to do things exactly as you expect them to.  That doesn’t mean they’re wrong.” He stood up to leave.

“You can’t just walk away after you talked down to me!” You shot to your feet. “You think I’m some dumb kid!” He turned to look at you, you chose to ignore the glimmer of a tear on his cheek. “I’m at the top of my class! I know what I’m doing!” 

“What are you trying to prove?” His voice rose now too, “I never said you didn’t know what you were doing! Do you want me to?” You blinked at him.  “You couldn’t even julienne the carrots today! Why? All because I was singing?”  He wiped the tear away from his skin angrily.  He moved toward you and crowded you against the wall.  The proximity forced you to look up at him, his face was stone.  “What’s your problem with me, Y/N?” He whispered, looking down his nose at you.  The cold of the refrigerator made the warm breath fanning across your cheeks even harder to ignore.

“We have a kitchen to get back to…” You tried to avoid looking at his lips.   

“You don’t think I’m serious about this,” he planted his hand on the wall next to your head, “So does it matter if I get back to that kitchen?” 

“You said I didn’t know what I’m doing! So I guess the kitchen doesn’t need either of us at this point!” You jutted your chin up defiantly.  He chuckled sarcastically.  

“You’re being so ridiculous right now, are you like this with every new hire?”   

“No, only the ones I find irritating,” and incredibly attractive, your thoughts wandered.  Rookie mistake, your eyes flit to his lips before you had time to think.  When your eyes returned to his he was looking at you, absolutely bewildered.  Then, in one swift motion he smashed his lips to yours.  The way he kissed you was just as angry as the way he was talking to you moments ago; his lips moved with a fervor that was almost malicious.  

Your fingers found the front of his chef’s coat, you attempted to pull him closer.  He whined into your mouth at the feeling of being wanted.  The sound awakened something in you and heat settled in your stomach.  You shifted your weight trying to ignore it.  Seokmin nudged you with his knee until you parted your legs slightly for him to slot his thigh between.  He was firm and muscular pressed against your core and it took everything in you to not rock against it.  

With a jolt you remembered where you were and who you were with.  You pushed against his chest until he moved away from you.  Eyes wide and cheeks flushed, Seokmin seemed as though he realized the same thing.  

“Come out when you're ready,” he nodded and left the walk-in without looking back.  You tightened your ponytail and took a deep breath before following him out.  You returned to your station and picked up the knife you abandoned before the ordeal.  “Thin as matchsticks, Y/N.” Seokmin reminded you through kiss-bruised lips.   

“Table 13 sends its compliments to the chef!” Soonyoung comes barreling into the kitchen carrying plates to deposit into the wash.  

“That was the last table right?” Seokmin breathed a sigh of relief.  

“Yup!” Soonyoung popped the “P” and punctuated the exclamation by dumping the dishes he was carrying into the sink.  You had the day off and Seokmin felt the pressure of your absence throughout the entire day.  

The encounter he had with you was heavy on his mind all day, the first day he’s spent in this kitchen without you by his side.  He still couldn’t figure out what it was that he could have possibly done to you in the short time you’ve worked together.  

“Hey Soonyoung?” He called without thinking.  Soonyoung turned to him with a questioning look on his face.  “You’ve been here a while right?” “Yeah, why?” Soonyoung reached around Seokmin and grabbed at the carrots, earning him a slap on the hand.  He winced and pulled his hand to his chest.  

“Can you think of any reason Y/N would dislike me?” 

“Hm? Y/N?” Soonyoung mumbled, “Oh! The scary one.  Yeah I try not to talk to her much.” 

“Because she scares you?” “Because she scares me.” Soonyoung nodded.  

“She wanted your job.” One of the waitresses, Jeongyeon, asserted from the doorway.  Seokmin switched his attention to her, almost begging her to clarify.  She sighed and adjusted her bag on her shoulder.  “She’s about to graduate, the position was vacant for so long that she was under the impression that Chef Choi had decided to hold it for her.” Seokmin moved across the kitchen to beg her to tell him everything.  

“Why would she assume that?” He pleaded.  

“You have no idea how long your position was vacant, do you?” She turned to leave, “She was acting as unofficial sous chef for almost a year.  In her opinion there’s no reason she shouldn’t have your job by now, diploma or not.”  He looked down at the floor. "Oh, and stop looking at her with those puppy dog eyes, she'll chop your fingers off."

Eventually, Seokmin dragged himself home.  His apartment felt too big, too empty.  He wished he could stop thinking about you, if he was honest.  He stared into his pantry and quickly decided he had no desire to actually cook.  He popped an instant ramen into the microwave and went to go change his clothes.  

The microwave was beeping four minutes later, he pulled the cup out and narrowly avoided burning his hand on the outside.  He set the ramen on the counter and dug through the refrigerator in search of something to drink.  There was not a lot to be found, besides a full pack of wine coolers he bought weeks ago in hopes he could invite some people from work over to celebrate working together, clearly that never happened.  

About two hours later, Seokmin was crying to the credits of Dear Evan Hansen with five empty wine coolers on his coffee table and a sixth to his lips.  Whether he was crying over the movie or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure.  

He still couldn’t stop his mind from wandering to you, he had new information to mull over, but he still couldn’t understand why you hated him.  He would’ve talked it over with you if you just came to him with the issue instead of giving him the silent treatment.  Even worse, he couldn’t stop thinking about the feeling of your lips on his.  

Your lips and the warmth of your body against his had been running through his mind since it happened.  He continued to sip from the bottle as he thought about you.  He admired you in a way, so headstrong and willing to go after what you wanted, even if that got him yelled at.  He didn’t really care, he realized you were pretty even when you were insulting him.  

Soon the bottle was empty and Seokmin’s eyes were closed thinking about your mouth.  He knew he would never live it down if you knew, but that didn’t stop him from delivering the soft initial touches over his shorts.  Eventually pulling them down, letting his semi hard cock spring free, and pumping himself until he was stiff.  

His voice surprised him, sounding foreign to his ears, whispering your name to his empty apartment. Everything became muffled as he heard the blood rushing in his ears, he felt his own hips sputter and he picked up his pace, fucking up into his hand.  He thought about the pretty way you said his name with an edge to your voice and he was quickly undone.       

You pushed the french fries around in the basket, the parchment paper soaking up the grease they left behind.  You barely got three bites into your burger before you felt sick again and resorted to just pretending to eat.  Maybe an entire bottle of wine to yourself last night and sleeping until 1 pm was not your best idea, but desperate times call for desperate measures.  

You checked the time, you have to be at work in a little over an hour, and you knew you had to eat something for your stomach to stop swirling.  You sighed and picked up the burger again, and took a bite.  Your body tried to protest but eventually you felt your stomach calming, thankful to have food.  You laid your head back onto the back of the booth and closed your eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths.  

“Rough night?” You cracked an eye open to see Seokmin standing over you, a basket matching yours in hand.  “Me too,” he lifted his basket in a gesture of comradery.  “May I sit?” You nodded, not having the energy to argue with him over it.  You sat up and studied his face briefly.  He had bags under his eyes like you, his hair was more askew than normal, and he was wearing the biggest hoodie you had ever seen.  

“What got you so hung up?” You asked, selecting another fry from your basket.  

“Oh,” he didn’t look at you, “I just have a lot on my mind, you?”

“You.” His eyes snapped to you, clearly surprised by your boldness.  

“What?” He sputtered around a mouthful of his burger.  

“I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve annoyed someone to the point of drowning in alcohol.” 

“I mean, maybe,” he dropped the burger into the basket, “but no one has ever been so bold as to tell me outright…” 

“Are you pouting right now?” Seokmin crossed his arms over his chest at your words, once again refusing to look at you.  “See!” You scoff, “this is what I mean, you get everything you want and when someone calls you out on your bullshit you can’t handle it!” You pushed your food away from you with a huff.  

“I get everything I want?” He raised an eyebrow at you.  “You know I graduated from culinary school, just like you’re about to?” He leaned his elbows on the table, getting closer to you.  “I worked hard to get where I am, and I was hired because I come highly complimented from previous bosses.” 

“What is this? Your resume?” 

“Let me show you, come to dinner with me on Thursday, we both have the day off” 

“So you can brag?”

“No,” he cracked a smile. “So we can get to know each other better, and maybe put this behind us.”

You stared up at the facade of the restaurant.  This building had been your dream for years, since you moved to the city.  Now, because of Seokmin, you were able to dine here? It almost doesn't seem fair. 

“Hey!” Seokmin’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “Sorry I’m late; I hope you weren’t waiting long!” You turned to him and shook your head.  “Oh good, shall we?” He ushered you inside, lightly touching the small of your back.  You tried to ignore the feeling in your stomach at the small gesture.   

Once inside, he let his hand drop but stayed close to you.  He leaned around you to speak to the man at the host stand.  “Table for two, the name Lee should be on your list?” The man flipped through a few sheets of paper before stopping to read through a short list of names. Seokmin’s hand returned to your back, pushing you to follow the man through the restaurant.  

The decor was almost enough to distract you from the warmth of Seokmin spreading through your body as he pressed his hand against you more firmly.  The ornate light fixtures bathed the room in a soft light, making everything feel more dreamlike and romantic.  

Seokmin pulled out your chair for you as the host was informing the two of you that a waiter would be with you soon.  As Seokmin took his seat, you had a moment to take him in.  You had never seen him wearing anything besides his chef’s coat.  He had the sleeves of his collared shirt rolled up, showing off his watch and his toned arms.  

“See anything you like?” 

“What?” Your eyes widened, and a blush creeped up your cheeks.  He pushes a menu towards you.  

“Anything?” He smiles, choosing not to bring attention to your obvious staring.  You shoved your face into the menu and began to study it intently.   After a few minutes of silence the waiter provided glasses of water and a promise to return in a few minutes to take your orders.  You laid your menu flat on the table and looked up at Seokmin.  

“What do you like?” You asked sheepishly.  He chuckled to himself and set his menu down.  

“Well,” he pointed at the wine selection, “I was going to order us wine. Do you like white or red?” 

“White, usually,” 

“Okay, so,” he looked at you over his glasses, “you know enough about wine pairings to know what dishes a white wine rules out.” You nodded. “They have a lovely creamy pumpkin penne dish that pairs nicely with chardonnay, and we could share a brie sampler for an appetizer?”  

“Honestly, that sounds wonderful,” you smile at him. You let him order everything for the two of you.  He lets the silence linger for a few minutes while you wait for your wine.  Once the glasses are poured, and he’s confident no one will bother you for a while, he breaks the silence he crafted.  

“You’re much more shy outside of the kitchen,” he observed.  

“I’m out of my depth,” you admitted quietly.  He raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his wine, inviting you to go on.  “I’ve been waiting to eat here since I moved to New York, and you just happen to have your name permanently on the list?”  

“I know the chef,” he muttered into his wine.  

“I know how highly qualified you are,” you informed him, “you’re experienced out of the ears and I’m just some kid in culinary school.” 

“Well,” he tipped his glass forward to clink it with yours, “you can legally drink, so you’re not a kid.” He watched you smile, “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re really talented.” 

“Oh don’t say stuff like that to me,” you rolled your eyes and picked up your wine glass, “You might get me to come around to you.”

“Oh God forbid, we can’t have that.”

“Where’s Y/N?” Seokmin was frantically moving through the kitchen.  “Dinner service starts in 40 minutes, why aren’t any of you telling me where Y/N is?” 

“She’s in the dining room, damn…” 

Seokmin knew that you closed the restaurant last night, opened this morning, and the two of you were closing together tonight.  So, when he found you asleep in a booth in the dining room, he wasn’t surprised.  You often used the few hours Quartz and Serenity was closed between breakfast and dinner to catch up on studying.  

Your head was resting on your arms, your ponytail was loose and strands of hair were falling in your face.  He reached to brush them away from your eyes but stopped short when he read the papers under your hand.  Application for Employment. He read it over and over with his hand hovering above your head.  He felt his stomach drop so fast he was afraid it would fall out of his ass.  

Taking a deep breath he let his hand settle on top of your head. He rubbed your hair softly with his thumb for a few moments, hoping that you would wake up.  When you didn’t stir, he moved his hand to your shoulder and shook you lightly.  

“Y/N,” he leaned closer to you.  Your eyes opened slowly.  “Hey,” he smiled, “dinner service starts in 30. I would let you sleep, but we need the table.” You jolted upright at his words, knocking his hand back to his side.  

“In 30?!” You began to shuffle your papers back into the folder and snapped your book closed, “why didn’t anyone grab me sooner?”  Seokmin didn’t have time to answer before you were breezing past him toward the kitchen.  He watched you until you disappeared into the back room, agonizing over what he would do if you actually left Quartz and Serenity.  

The entire dinner service was spent the same way, Seokmin becoming flustered when you assisted him.  If he was being honest with himself, he would be impressed with how easily you were able to bounce back to routine.  It was almost as if the hiccup from before didn’t even happen. 

You moved through this kitchen like you’ve been in it your entire life, Seokmin truly could not imagine this place without you.  He didn’t want to think about the fact that he didn’t want this kitchen to run without you.  But you deserved to run a restaurant in his opinion.  He wanted you to call the shots and to be successful, even if that meant he and Chef Choi would be competing against you after your graduation.  Then it hit him; he also wanted to be selfish and hide you away for himself.  

“Can’t you move any faster?” You shoved a soapy dish towards Seokmin.  The two of you were the only people left in the building after a successful Sunday.  You were eager to get home and sleep after the worst lineup of shifts.  You picked up a shift from a coworker because you desperately needed the money, but you didn’t think ahead to how your bones would ache after it all.  

“If you would rinse the soap off I could,” he sighed.  He pulled the faucet head toward the dish in your hand, spraying you lightly with the water.  

“Seokmin!” You squealed in annoyance. Grabbing the faucet back from him, you angled it towards him.  The water rolled off his exposed forearms, his coat sleeves long pushed up over his elbows.  He raised an eyebrow at you, almost like a challenge.   He plunged his hands into the sink filled with soapy water and splashed it up onto your coat. 

It wasn’t like you to sink to his level. Any other day, you would put a stop to this, get the dishes done, and go straight home.  However, you’re not stupid and didn’t miss a single look in your direction through the entire day.  Seokmin looked at you like a lovesick puppy everytime.  Something about those looks lit a fire in your belly, and you didn’t care to find out if it was anger or interest. 

So, you followed suit. You cupped your hands around a gaggle of bubbles, lifted it high above your head and smoothed the soap into his dark hair.  He stood motionless for a moment, looking down at you in disbelief as his hair dripped onto the floor.  Finally, he swiped his hands through his wet hair, slicking it back and exposing his forehead.  Somehow it seemed like his features became more sharp and striking with his hair pushed away.  Your eyes followed the sharp slope of his nose down to his lips and back to his dark eyes.  

He moved toward you quietly.  The tension hung thick in the air. He cupped your jaw with his wet hands, eventually moving to thread suds through your ponytail.  Any part of him that thought he might kiss you was dampened by the water you suddenly hurled out of the sink at that exact moment.  He yelped and moved away from you. 

“We have dishes to finish, Chef Lee.” You smirked.  The dishes in question were finished and dried in complete silence.  The water and the clattering of the glass were the only sounds in the room.  

“Let me take you home,” Seokmin broke the silence.  

“What?” You gaped at him.  

“No…” A blush creeped up his neck, “not like that.  You take the bus, right?” You nodded at him.  “You’re all wet, just let me drive you to your place.” 

“You don’t have to do that…” 

“I know,” he smiled sheepishly, “but I want to, please?” 

Somehow, he convinced you.  You were panicked, too panicked to even make fun of him for being the kind of person who lived in New York City and owned a car.  He passed his phone over to you and instructed you to put your address into the maps app.

The ride was silent, your leg bounced as you watched the location get closer and closer. You nearly threw yourself out of the car when he parked in front of the building.  

“Bye! See you Tuesday!” You blurted as you ran towards the lobby of the building.  Seokmin waved, confused, at the back of your head. 

“You need to stop telling people you live here.” The front desk attendant deadpanned.  

“I know, Jane,” you ducked to spy out the window.  

“Who is it this time? Bad date?” Jane was used to you showing up in her lobby every few weeks at this point.  You were lucky that she loved to gossip or else she would have banned you from the building months ago. 

“Ugh, no,” you watched Seokmin’s car pull away from the curb, “My coworker.”

“Why do you care if your coworker knows where you live?” 

“Honestly?” You stood up and moved toward her desk, “I’m not sure…”

“Hm,” she holds out a lollipop to you, “might want to unpack that.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you unwrap the candy and pop it into your mouth, “whatever.” You exit the building with a wave and begin the short walk to your actual apartment.       

“Red wine this time.” Seokmin declared as you slid into your chair.  

“Feeling bold today are we?” 

“Well,” he chuckled, “It’s a steakhouse, so we have to pair correctly!” This was the second installment of what Seokmin had started calling Seokmin's Surely Spectacular Suggestions .  You were starting to realize that he knows a lot more than you thought he did.  He always seemed to know someone at every restaurant, if not multiple people.   

“Oh my god!” A woman’s voice pulled you from your thoughts.  You looked up and the waitress was smiling at Seokmin. “It is so nice to see you!” 

“Oh!” Seokmin smiled widely at her, “I didn’t think you worked on Thursdays!” 

“Ugh!” She put her hand on her hip, “I don’t usually! Dosie needed the day off and as a good friend I took the shift.” She laughed and rolled her eyes.  You watched Seokmin’s face contort into a laugh.  Something panged in your chest watching them laugh together.  Suddenly, you were extremely interested in the menu in front of you as you tried not to think about what that could possibly mean.  Seokmin and the waitress chatted for several more minutes before she bounced away.  She never looked in your direction the entire time she was at the table.  

“Ordered us wine, hope that’s okay.” Seokmin knocked on the table in front of you to get your attention.  You hummed affirmatively. “What’s wrong? Have you decided you hate me again?”

“No,” You didn’t look at him.  You felt him stare at you from across the table, you held strong and did not look up from the menu.  It didn’t matter that you had read the words 8 oz wagyu beef steak and garlic potatoes six times, you couldn’t look at him.

The same waitress from earlier came back with your wine and a basket of bread. She placed everything down on the table and turned to Seokmin again.  

“Are you ready to order?” She smiled.  

“No, we need a few minutes.” You snapped before you had time to stop yourself. Seokmin shifted his gaze to you.  

“Oh, uh…okay.” The waitress blinked at you and turned on her heel without a second look.  

“What was that?” Seokmin was looking at you like you had grown a second head at some point in the last thirty seconds.  

“Nothing, she was pushy.” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance.  

“No she wasn’t.”

“She was!” You finally looked at him, he looked like a confused puppy, “You just didn’t see it because she was flirting with you.”   

“What are you talking abo–” His face contorted into a smirk, “Are you jealous?” He dropped his voice to a whisper.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” You declared, pushing out of your chair.  You all but stomped all the way to the bathroom, mentally cursing yourself for being jealous in the first place. A hand encircled your wrist as you turned the corner to the hallway that housed the bathrooms.  You turned to find Seokmin latched on to you.  He pulled you into the bathroom and locked the door behind you.  Looking him up and down he looked almost as shocked at his own actions as you felt.   

“Were you jealous?” He whispered, “I have to know, because if you don’t tell me it’ll eat me alive for the rest of my life.” You couldn’t help but think he was being just a little dramatic. You slotted your hand into the hair on the back of his head and pulled his lips to yours anyway.  

It took him a few moments to respond properly.  When his brain caught up to what was happening he kissed you back hungrily.  His lips moved roughly and he wrapped his arms around your waist. He pulled you as close as possible and swiped his tongue along your bottom lip.  You deepened the kiss and allowed him to explore further with his tongue.  

Seokmin had a way of putting every emotion he was feeling into his actions, it was evident when he kissed you angrily weeks ago, and it was evident now.  It felt like weeks of anger and bickering had melted off the two of you and now what was left was want and attraction that was left unsaid.  

He detached himself from your mouth and moved to kiss over your pulse point.  You squeezed your eyes shut and threw your head back to give him better access.  Experimentally, he sucked gently on the skin below your ear, earning him a quiet moan.  He did it again. 

“Let’s go home,” he panted into your skin. “Please.”  

“Seokmin we’ve only had wine,” you whispered  

“I’ll make you pizza at home, I don’t care, I just need you.” He whined.  

—-

Seokmin fumbled with the key to his apartment, his thoughts were elsewhere at the moment.  Finally, he unlocked the door and ushered you inside.  You tried not to think about the fact that his apartment was about double the size of yours.  He kissed you again once he had the door locked and you both inside.  His hands found your hips and he pulled you closer as he was licking into your mouth.  He tasted like wine, the same one you knew was on your lips as well.  

“You owe me pizza, Chef Lee..” You whispered, breaking away from his desperate mouth. 

“Oh my god, Y/N,” he groaned, “I can make pizza with my eyes closed.” His confidence was attractive, it was rare for him to be cocky like that.  

“You didn’t buy me dinner, and I’m a lady.” He scoffed and rolled his eyes before grabbing and lifting you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around his trim waist.  You yelped in surprise, you had no idea he could do that.  He plopped you down on the kitchen island and moved to the other countertop.  You watched as he rolled out pizza dough.  His arm muscles bulged as he put in effort to flatten it.  “Not even homemade dough?” You teased, “Some chef!” 

He sent you a glare out of the corner of his eye, but the blush creeping up his neck gave him away.  Suddenly it clicked, “oh my god, do you get turned on when I’m mean to you?” You smirked.  

“Shut up…” Seokmin muttered while opening the pizza sauce.  

“Well…better hurry that prep…” You smiled wickedly, spreading your legs.  Seokmin glanced over at you and nearly moaned at the sight of your panties under your dress.  He frantically pressed the buttons to preheat the oven.  Once the pizzas were ready to be put in the oven he slotted himself between your legs and captured your lips once more.  

You guided his hand to your breast and encouraged him to squeeze.  He placed his other hand on your exposed thigh.  He trailed his fingers slowly up and up towards your center until the oven beeped.  He groaned and ran over to place the pans in the oven and set the timer. 

“Take your pants off.” You stated simply when he turned back to you.  He nodded and stumbled out of his jeans, the thin fabric of his briefs left little to the imagination as he was hard by this point.  He moved toward you and you ran a hand over his clothed cock, he hissed at the contact.  

“One second,” He blurted before disappearing down the hall.  You contemplated touching yourself while he was gone, but he returned in a rush before you had the chance.  He wiggled a small foil package in his fingers to show you why he left.  

“Who said you could hit?” 

“I–well I just figured…”

“I was about to start without you just now, I could still do that.” You could tell that Seokmin was weighing his options, knowing it would be so hot to see you get yourself off, but needing the feeling of being inside you.  

“No, no!” He sputtered, “I got you!” You grabbed his wrist and moved his hand to your clothed cunt.  

“Prove it.” 

He started slowly, the pads of his fingers circling your clit through your panties. His lips attached to the sensitive skin below your ear.  He kissed the skin slowly, letting his teeth graze your neck every so often.  He hooked his thumbs under your underwear and pulled them off gingerly, letting them flutter to the floor.  

He ran his fingers through your folds, savoring the wetness there just for him.  Experimentally he slipped a finger inside, earning him an arch of your back and a sound so delicious it could be the only thing he heard for the rest of his life and he would be happy.  

“C’mere,” he grunted, his voice deeper than you had ever heard it.  He moved you to the edge of the counter and inserted a second finger.  You couldn’t help but rock your hips against his ruminations.  He reached that delicious spot inside of you and you felt yourself hurtling off the cliff.  “You talk a big game, but you’re so desperate for me.” Seokmin snaked his free hand over his cock, teasing himself as he finger fucked you into an orgasm.  

Once you came back to Earth he slowly removed his fingers.  Before he had the chance to wash them off, you took his hand and guided his fingers into your mouth.  He watched with wonder as your tongue swirled around his digits, cleaning them.  You pulled them out, a string of saliva connecting you to him.  

“Who’s desperate now?” You breathed watching him continue to tease himself over his briefs.  

“Can I please fuck you?” He whined.  You helped him out of his briefs, you watched his cock spring free, the tip red and angry.  You leaned down and thumbed his leaking slit, earning you a delicious moan.  You spread the mess down his shaft.  

He opened the condom with his teeth, you watched as he rolled it down.  He pulled you to the edge of the counter again and lined himself up with your entrance.  He pushed himself inside of you slowly, allowing you time to adjust.  The stretch was delicious.  He slowly began to thrust, whining in the process.  

“You’re so warm,” he cried.  You felt every inch of him as he slid in and out of you. His hands anchored you to the countertop as you draped your arms across his back.  Seokmin found his rhythm once you wrapped your legs around his waist, he felt so surrounded by you.  He swore he could live with you wrapped around him for the rest of his life.  

“Why didn’t you fuck me in the restaurant?” You breathed.  His hips stuttered for a moment.  

“In public?” He bit his lip.  

“Yeah?” You swiped a hand through his hair and gave it a tug.  He moaned into the crook of your neck.  

“I uh-” He whined, “I didn’t think-I don’t know?” “Oh you really can’t think when your dick’s busy, huh?”  He whined into your neck again, the vibrations and the warm air fanning against your skin left goosebumps behind. Seokmin’s hands trailed down from your hips to your thighs and he began to knead your soft skin with his nimble fingers.  

You leaned your head back, enjoying the feeling of him all over you, inside of you.  With better access to you he experimentally captured your skin between his teeth.  Your sounds spurred him on and encouraged him to begin sucking and biting a bruise into your skin.  With this your hips bucked up to meet his thrusts.  

The idea of being marked by Seokmin would have appalled you just a few weeks ago, but now you couldn’t bring yourself to hate the idea of people knowing you have had him like this.  Like that stupid waitress.  “She wanted you.” You muttered between moans.  

“What?” Seokmin breathed into your skin.  

“That waitress, she wanted you.” 

“Oh well.” Seokmin bit you again.  He was marking you, even after you told him that another woman wanted him like this.  The coil in your stomach threatened to snap at that alone.  You could envision yourself falling off the edge soon.  Seokmin was still massaging the underside of your thighs, pinning your legs around his waist.  Suddenly everything was overwhelming, everything was him.  You felt like fireworks were setting off inside you.  He continued rolling his hips into you through your orgasm.  Shortly after he was releasing into the condom, moans rattled your throat the entire time.

He pulled back to look at you, his eyelids were heavy over his eyes, his lips puffy.  Before either of you had the chance to say anything the oven beeped.  Seokmin’s eyes grew wide, both of you obviously forgot about the pizza.  

“Get your dick out of me and turn that off!” You laughed.  He nodded and slowly pulled out of you.  You watched him slap the off button on the oven, trying not to laugh at him being naked from the waist down.  

Once both of you were cleaned up and clothed, Seokmin cut the pizza and put it on plates.  You were waiting on his couch, dressed head to toe in his clothes.  To him you looked like a dream.  

“Stay the night.” He handed you your plate and sat down next to you.  

“No.” You stated simply, picking up a piece of pizza.  After several seconds of silence you looked up at him, he was looking at you dumbfounded.  “We have work tomorrow.” 

“I’ll drive you!” 

“And walk past Jeongyeon after showing up with you and smelling like sex? No thanks.” 

“You can shower here, I’ll even walk in ten minutes later, please?” He looked like a puppy again.  

“I don’t have my work clothes, and no yours won’t fit me.” You gestured towards his clothes that were far too big on you.  

“There’s extras, you know that.” 

“Fine…” You wouldn’t mind showering in a nice apartment for a change. “You walk in fifteen minutes after me, and you shower with me.” “You have a deal!”               

Finals week was upon you.  The only week out of the year that work came second to school, you were so close to graduation you just had to make it through a week of practical exams.  You were confident in your ability to pass but your mind was elsewhere most of the time.  

You wondered how the kitchen was fairing without you, how Seokmin was doing without you.  As much as you hated to admit it, he did know what he was doing, but being absent was eating at you.  You flipped through the pages of your textbook without reading a single word wishing you could pick up your phone and hear about the days you’ve missed.  

Across town Seokmin was doing just about as well, he knew your name wasn’t on the schedule and he was dying to know where you were.  He was chopping carrots to have for dinner service when he decided to go straight to your apartment tonight.  He didn’t care if he had to get on his knees and beg the woman at the desk to tell him your apartment number.  

He all but sprinted out to his car once the kitchen was clean for the following day.  He parked on the curb in front of the building after the short drive.  He practiced what he was going to say to the woman at the desk on his way into the lobby.  He took a deep breath and approached her.  

“Can I help you?” 

“I’m looking for Y/F/N Y/L/N!” He blurted.  “She hasn’t been to work in a few days, she isn’t scheduled but she didn’t tell me she wouldn’t be here and I wanted to make sure I didn’t do anything wrong and I–” The woman was laughing.  Sure he went off script, but how would she know? He looked at her, confused.  

“She doesn’t live here.” Now he wasn’t expecting that.  

“What?” 

“I told her this would happen eventually, somebody would come looking for her and I would have to be the one to break it to them.” She sighed.  

“She just…lies to people?” 

“Yeah all the time.” She began digging in her desk for something.  “You said you worked with her?” “Yeah, I dropped her off here after work once…so I just thought..” Seokmin rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.  

“Oh you’re the one she was weird about!” “What?” “What? Nothing.” She began scribbling something on a slip of paper. “Here, this is her address, tell her Jane sent you.”  She handed him the paper and two lollipops.  

—-

A cautious knock rang through your apartment, which was confusing considering no one knew where you lived.  You unfolded yourself from the couch and padded to the door.  Seokmin was standing in the hallway and you almost slammed the door in his face.  

“What are you doing here?” You almost shrieked.  He held up two lollipops silently.  “Fuck, okay, uh…come in.” You stepped to the side allowing him entrance.  He shuffled past you, seeing another person standing in your tiny apartment was odd to say the least.  

“Hi,” Seokmin offered quietly while you were intently staring at the ground.  “It’s nice to see you.”

“I’m sorry my apartment is gross and cluttered and small.”  You muttered.  Seokmin looked around the apartment.  The cookbooks in the kitchen were piled almost as high as the refrigerator, the pink throw blanket on the couch made him smile, seeing a softness that no one else gets to see.  The living room was bathed in lamp light that made the shadows in the room look exaggerated and long.  The apartment was uniquely you and he loved it.  

“What?” He chuckled, “I don’t care what your apartment looks like, is this why you lied?” Your head snapped up at him calling you out so directly.  

“I never lied, I told you to drop me off there, not that I lived there.” You pointed out.  He gave you a look.  “I didn’t lie.”   

“Sure, maybe not,” he sighed.  

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, Seokmin had never seen you at a loss for words like this.  

“Look,” he took your hand, “that’s not why I’m here, it doesn’t matter.” You led him to the couch, moving the open textbook so that he could sit down.  Seeing him sitting on your couch was strange, seeing him here was not something you thought you would ever see.  “Are you okay?” He blurted out.  

“What?” You were taken aback, “of course, I’m fine.”

“You just haven’t been to work in a few days and after…the activities at my apartment I thought maybe you hated me, and–” “Woah!” You smiled, “why would I hate you? Seokmin, I took the week off to focus on finals week.”

“Oh.” He looked at you sheepishly. “Uh, well, how are they going?” You rolled your eyes.  

“Fine, I’ll pass, I miss work though.” You shrugged.  

“Just work?” “No, I miss the way Soonyoung runs out of the kitchen when he sees me.”

“Oh…” He dropped his gaze dejectedly.  “Hey!” He exclaimed as your fist connected with his arm.  

“I miss you, dumb ass.” “So you didn’t quit?” “No,” you looked at him, confused.  “You know you could have asked literally anyone where I was, right?”

“No one was talking about it! I thought we were all super sad about you quitting! I don’t know!” He gestured wildly with his hands.  “And…ugh, okay, you remember that one day like a month ago? When you were asleep in the dining room and I woke you up?”

“Yeah?” “I, uh, I saw what you were working on…the job applications.” He lowered his volume as if he was afraid you would explode.  “I thought you might’ve just up and left, you never liked me anyway, so you didn’t really have any reason to let me know.” 

“Oh,” you sighed.  “I’m sorry…” “Tell me you’ve changed your mind, you’re not leaving us.” “Seokmin….” 

“Is it because of me?”

“Maybe at first,” You started, you could see the tears well up in his eyes. “But now…if anything you’ve made it harder to leave.” 

“Where are you going?” He met your eyes again.  You reached out to swipe the tears that managed to escape.  

“I have a few offers, I don’t know yet.” 

“Of course you do,” he laughed sadly, took hold of your wrists,and rubbed the back of your hands with his thumbs.  “You’re so talented any restaurant would be stupid to not offer you a job.” 

“That’s not what you said a few months ago.” You pointed out. 

“Well, you know how to julienne the carrots now.” 

“Hey!” You tried to push him away but he held you in place.  He glanced at your lips before leaning in to kiss you.  He kissed you softly, his lips tasted vaguely of salt and honey chapstick.  He let himself linger without deepening the kiss until he suddenly pulled back, looking panicked.  

“Those offers are for sous chef positions right?” 

“Of course they are, watch out, Chef Lee.”    

Three years later

You stretch out on your couch after making the most of your day off.  With your recent promotion to head chef at Diamond you haven’t had a lot of time to relax.  With your new hectic schedule you were shocked that you were able to make it the entire day without getting a single call about the restaurant.  

A hand squeezed your calf gently.  You hummed at the contact.  

“I’ll make dinner tonight, love.” Seokmin mumbled sleepily from the other end of the couch.  

“No.” You stated simply.  

“Um, why not?” 

“‘The only thing worse than the tacky decor at Quartz and Serenity is the incompetence of the kitchen. If you’re looking for the exact opposite of what you asked for, this is the restaurant for you.’” You rattled off.  

“What are you doing?” Seokmin sat up, knocking your legs off the couch. 

“‘I would give them zero stars if I could!’” You stared at him, “‘I ordered a steak and it came out barely cooked at all! Will not be returning!’”

“Okay! In my defense on that one, she ordered a well done steak!” He threw his hands up.  “Who does that?” 

“MichelleJo1965, obviously.” You deadpanned.  

“When did you have time to dig through our Yelp reviews?” Seokmin scoffed, “I didn’t realize dating the competition meant I would have to defend myself at home.” 

“Step up your game, Head Chef Lee.” You shrugged.  “But seriously? She ordered a well done steak?” 

“She did! It’s not my fault she has no taste.” He shrugged.  “By the way I have plenty of great reviews, and I seem to remember my girlfriend really liking my cooking.” “You’re alright, I guess.” You shrugged.  “When are you going to ask me by the way?” 

“What?” He tried to stay calm, you could be talking about anything, certainly not the ring that has been staring at him from under his underwear for the last six months.  

“You really need to figure out where to hide things where I won’t find them” Wordlessly Seokmin got up from the couch and stomped into your shared bedroom.  For a split second you thought you might have pushed too far until he returned with the small velvet box.  

“I hope you at least left me one secret, you didn’t look at it did you?” He smiled sheepishly.  

“No, Min, I have no idea what it looks like, swear.” 

“Good,” to your surprise he sank down to one knee, right there in the living room. “You never were good at leaving well enough alone, I had a grander plan, but this seems much more our speed, huh?” You laughed.  “Will you marry me, even if my Yelp reviews suck sometimes?” He popped the small box open to reveal a ring.  

“Of course I will, you idiot.”   

[burning-omen]

OKAY. LET ME COOK. Can I request abo with Omega Wolverine (💀) and he is going into heat. And he needs his alpha to come take care of him and leads to wolverine and reader taking care of him to make sure his omega is okay.am fucking dying 💀 -😉

Logan Howlett x Male Reader

Word count: 5,841

Warnings: Smut, A/B/O/ Omegaverse, !!Deadpool and Wolverine spoilers!!, mentions of Wade and Logan figting (Logan repetedly breaking Wade's jaw, Logan has a knife in his shoulder, Ect..), Bottom! Logan, Omega! Logan, Top!Male!Reader, Alpha!Male!Reader, Marking, scenting, regular A/B/O stuff, Breeding, heat inducing wet dreams, breaking and entering.

(A/N: First fic back Hooray! I haven't written for Wolvie in years so bear with me)

Finding a man passed out drunk in your living room wasn’t something you planned for. You were actually planning to use your day off to catch up on some sleep, but this man- you recognized him as your neighbor, Logan, after taking a closer look- was really preventing that from happening. Your unexpected guest had taken over your couch and smelled very heavily of alcohol, you pushed him onto the floor so the smell wouldn't soak into your couch. You knew Logan was tough, and that he slept like a fucking 300 pound brick according to Wade, pushing him off the couch felt like you were trying to push a car with a dead battery but you were able to move the man onto the floor in an unceremonious heap after a couple of minutes of trying. A heavy thud followed his fall, but he didn’t so much as grunt when he hit the floor, and for a moment you wondered if he was actually dead, but the slight twitch in his hand told you he was fine, probably.

You weren’t going to let this ruin your day off, taking another look at the man, you did feel a little bad leaving him on the floor, not enough to put him back on your couch- no you paid way to much for it to do that- but bad enough for you to grab a spare pillow and blanket for the man. It felt a little weird, tucking in your intruder rather than calling the police on him, but you knew Logan well enough to know that he almost definitely meant to break into his own apartment and got a little mixed up. Being drunk will do that.

Moving away from him and into the kitchen, you decided to make breakfast, as your plans of sleeping had been completely ruined at- you looked at the clock on your stove- 6:37 in the morning. You just wanted to get some water before you went back to sleep, but no, now your making breakfast because even though you knew that Logan was relatively friendly- in his own way- waking up to him in your living room was fucking nerve wrecking and you falling back asleep wasn’t likely.

Opening your refrigerator, you took out a couple of eggs, then remembered that Logan was an absolutely massive man and promptly took out a couple more. You figured that eggs and bacon was an ok impromptu breakfast. Pans clinging together as you try to find the right one in the cabinet, trying to light your shitty gas stove without starting a fire, finally beginning to cook the bacon in the pan. 

When Logan walked in a couple minutes later, seemingly still asleep as he nearly reached into the pan to grab the bacon that wasn’t even done cooking yet, you grabbed his wrist, nearly dropping your spatula as you yanked the man's hand away from the pan.

“Dammit, be careful!”

Your voice seemingly woke him up, eyes opening wide as he stared at you, then his face morphed into one of confusion as he looked around, realizing that he definitely wasn’t in his own apartment.

“Good morning, could you please get out of my kitchen, you smell like beer.”

He blinked, “How the hell did I get here?”

Releasing his wrist and turning back to the stove, flipping the bacon as you said, “You broke in.”

You heard him groan, probably in embarrassment or annoyance, you’d be pretty embarrassed if you broke into your super nice neighbor’s apartment too.

“Fuck..” He muttered under his breath. 

“It’s fine, Logan, just let me finish cooking- and don’t sit on my couch!”

He left the kitchen almost immediately, but slowly. You figured he was hungover- you weren’t sure if that could happen with a healing factor like his but with the way he held his head in his hand, you figured something had to be happening. 

Wade had pretty much filled you in on his little multidimensional adventure. He also had a tendency to break into your apartment, (which is probably why you had a relatively calm reaction to Logan) he basically just declared that you were friends one day, it was pretty unceremonious actually. He told you everything, usually things you didn’t want to know, but you didn’t mind his company.

A couple more minutes passed and you finished cooking, making plates and grabbing forks before leaving the kitchen to find Logan. It took you a second, but you found him back in the living room, sitting on the floor, in front of the TV, cover draped over his shoulders. You sat down next to him, silently handing him a plate- he looked a little surprised, but took it with a quick, “Thanks.”

You ate quietly, you could tell Logan appreciated his sizable plate. When he was finished he sat it on the ground next to him. Hesitating for a moment before speaking,

“Sorry about breaking in,”

You hummed, “It’s fine, really, you’re not the first person to break in.”

He grunted, “I know Wade comes over sometimes.”

“Yeah, he’s bought me at least five new doorknobs in the past year, he acts like knocking will kill him.”

The irony made Logan snort, “Yeah, I wish.”

You sat your now empty plate on top of his.

“No you don't, you think Al will let you stay with her if he dies?”

“I’ll get my own place” 

“Uh Huh,” you hummed, “With what money?”

That made him laugh, even if it was a small one.

A moment passed and neither of you spoke, the house grew quiet and the space between the two of you became awkward.

Another moment passed and he pushed himself up off the floor, “I better get going.”

You followed behind him, to the front door where your door was left slightly open and what remains of the handle laid on the floor. You both paused at the sight, Logan glanced over at you, a bit of worry on his face.

You let out a sigh, “I'll get Wade to pay for it.”

The soft, humorous smile on your face made Logan relax as you kicked the sliced metal that used to be your doorknob to the side. 

“Thank you- for breakfast..and not calling the police.”

You laughed before saying, “Anytime, really. Just..call next time.”

He smiled as he left, deciding, deep in his subconscious, that he liked you.

~~~~~~~

You didn’t see him for another month after that, you’ve caught glances of him in passing, but nothing quite as friendly as your first meeting. Until one day, at about two in the morning, you could hear fighting next door. It woke you up out of your sleep as something was thrown against the wall over and over and over, then there was the yelling and growling and snarling. You knew Logan and Wade fought a lot in a mostly unserious way, but it was way to fucking early for DIY WWE. You knew better than to get involved in one of their fights. They were mutants, you weren’t, and you were not about to get in the middle of whatever they had going on. It’s kinda funny, considering what you’ve been told your whole life- the typical Alpha propaganda, being the strongest, the fastest, the leader. Your sure it worked on some people, but you were very fortunate to not fall down the aggressive uber dominate typical male alpha rabbit hole- you knew you wouldn’t always be the fastest, the strongest, or the most eligible leader just because you were an alpha (which most alphas should have figured out by now, considering that, like, half of the fucking Avenger are omegas- it was really funny trying to see people grabble with that fact when it came out.)

Pulling yourself out of your thoughts, you realized that the fighting had stopped, and now it was eerily quiet. You decided that it wasn’t your problem and rolled over to finally get some sleep. Your eyes were closed for maybe thirty seconds when a rapid banging on your door forced you out of bed.

Your door had long since been fixed, unlocking the door and swinging it open, a deeply tired look on your face.

Logan stood in front of you, covered in more blood that you’ve seen on a person in your entire life. A large gash on his face sealing itself right before your eyes. 

“Are you two done?” You asked tiredly.

He nodded, you stepped aside to let him in, only to look down and notice the trail of blood left by his boots. You grabbed him by the back of his shirt like you’d grab an unruly cat by its scruff.

“Take your shoes off, go shower.” He paused, turning around with a questioning look on his face, but he obeyed anyway.

Taking off his bloodied boots and tossing them out the door. You could smell something different in the air, but you were too tired to care- it wasn’t smoke or gas, so you weren’t worried about it, but it was something- something distinctly sweet.

You pointed Logan to the bathroom, flicking the light on with him trailing behind you. You could feel the energy practically draining out of your body every second you were conscious.

Muttering, “All the towels in the cabinet are clean-” you paused for a moment, really taking in the state of the man clothes, torn and bloodied- you noticed the small knife sticking out of his shoulder and didn’t even bother panicking, “You can leave you clothes on the counter, put the knife in the sink though. I’ll bring you something to wear.”

He listened well, you figured he must be tired too, his half-lidded expression and general obedience was surprising, but welcome at 2 in the morning.

You walked past him, turning the shower on before leaving without saying a word, closing the door behind you.

You left out a spare pillow and cover for the man, the same ones as last time, washed, of course, because Logan left them smelling like alcohol and you really didn’t want that stinking up your apartment. You moved on to half heartedly cleaning the blood off the floor with a couple of paper towels- cleaning may have been too strong a phrase, you really just threw them over the bloody footprints and moved on for the night. 

Finding Logan some clothes was really a guessing game, you couldn't really ask the man what size he wore, and it took you an embarrassingly long time to find something you thought would fit him. 

~~~~~~~

A sudden waft of cold air that filled the bathroom when you swung the door open, Logan could hear you moving around. Hot water cascaded down his body, washing away any evidence of the fight he’d had with Wade- really he needed to learn to shut the fuck up sometimes, that clearly wasn’t happening anytime soon, so Logan would settle for breaking his jaw over and over again until he got the point. It never stuck through, not with Wade, even after breaking his spine at least twice the man kept talking. The fight ended when Al woke up, not that Wade really cared, because even then he wouldn’t leave Logan alone. Because he likes Al, and to prove Wade wrong, he headed over to your house.

Despite what Wade had heavily insisted, he’s not avoiding you, and he’s not suppressing any feelings for you because there weren’t any to be had in the first place.

“‘Left you some clothes, i'm gonna wash yours, I’ll try and fix them in the morning but they’re pretty beat up.” He could hear how tired you were, and if he was anybody else he might have felt guilty for keeping you up this late. Surprisingly, he was enjoying the attention.

You were gone before he could respond, by the time he got out of the shower he couldn’t hear any movement around your apartment, so he figured you went to bed. Cracking the bathroom door to let some of the steam out and wiping his hand on the fogged over mirror, his body had healed completely, no longer bruised or caked with blood. Rubbing his hand over his face, suddenly feeling just as tired as you had looked, looking down at the neatly folded pile of clothes replacing his old ones. A large black Superman t-shirt and a gray hoodie, long, red checkered pajama pants, and navy blue underwear, folded right on top. The clothes smelled like you, and not just like the detergent you used, no, they had your natural scent on them. Logan wasn’t going to not wear them, considering he had nothing else to wear and he really didn’t want to walk over to his place to get clothes. He thought back to what happened last time he was here- when he broke in. He doesn’t really remember much of that night, but he does remember his dream. It started off as nothing, the usual black void that kept him calm as he slept, then an unfamiliar scent changed that- he had what he considered an under-active imagination, but that scent kicked it into hyperdrive. He dreamed of being held and loved, but most prominently of getting fucked. Logan would be the first to say that it’s been a long time for him, and that was partially his own fault, chronic self isolation did that, and partially because the only people he’d ever wanted to fuck him were dead. Not all of them, apparently, because whoever scent it was driving him insane. He’s been called feral before, along with other things, but it made him feel like his heat was about to start at that very second. It was miracle he didn’t wake up covered in his own slick that moring- or worse, start his heat in your fucking living room- and that was just from having a cover on him, actually wearing your clothes might put him in a coma.

He figured the strong scent of alcohol covered any of his lingering arousal, or maybe you were too nice to say anything. And you cooked for him- he broke into your house, damaged your property and you fucking cooked for him.

Wade swore he has a crush on you- which led to them fighting, of course, but they fought most days over any little thing. This wasn’t anything new.

He put on the clothes more hesitantly than he’d ever admit- and it was almost overwhelming, but he pushed through it, cutting off the light in the bathroom and navigating through your dark apartment. The light in the living room was on, as well as the TV, the remote was sat on top of the folded cover you left out for him. He quickly settled, he didn’t usually watch TV when he went to sleep, but he needed something to distract from your scent right now. Finding some shitty home improvement show and settling on the couch, keeping his mind as blank as he could, he had Jean to thank for that skill because it was really useful right now. Couldn’t think of sex if he wasn’t thinking at all. Letting the mind numbingly boring show be the white noise as he drifts off.

Logan, however, could not control his thoughts while he was asleep. His subconscious was working overtime, now, with a face and a voice to put to the alpha whose scent had effortlessly disarmed him and brought him to his knees.

It was such an easy image to conjure, you sitting in front of him as he rested his head on your thigh, running your hands through his hair as he stared up at you with pleading eyes, you smiled down at him, a small, warm smile, swearing lightly as he slowly unzipped your pants, already hard and waiting for him, you’d grab him by the hair and he’d let out a slow purr as you pulled him closer. Taking the tip of your cock in his mouth, sliding his tongue over it a few times, finally getting a taste of what he so desperately craves. He took as much as he could in his mouth, feeling it hit the back of his throat. Looking up at you again, a string of moans fell from your open mouth, your eyes just barely open, staring down at him. Your grip on his hair tightened for a moment, the shot of pain coursing through his scalp for a short moment, a muffled moan left him, before settling as you released him. Using his tongue to feel every little vein in your cock, moving slowly as you ran your fingers through his hair again. Feeling no need to rush as the heat in his chest and in his stomach grew hotter and hotter.

His own cock throbbed between his legs but he didn’t touch it, even as it leaked and mixed with the mess of slick in the boxer you gave him, he had no doubt that you would handle it. Letting your cock prod his throat and push past the barrier. Almost all his airflow was blocked but he didn’t pull back, trying to take you as deep as he could only to be yanked back by his hair. Pulled completely off your cock, he looked up at you, confused.

“What?” He said, his voice rough and deep.

You didn’t respond, instead, you stood, still holding onto him- and practically dragged him to your bedroom. He tried to keep up on all fours, panting and moaning at the pain and at how much this turned him on.

He was practically purring in your hand as you guided him onto your bed.

“You look so good like this,”

Your voice was sweet and genuine, quiet praises fell from your mouth as you slowly removed his clothes piece by piece. He only got hotter the more you revealed of him, the burning under his skin reaching an all time high. Once he was completely bare in front of you, you ran your hands across his body, starting at his chest, moving all the way down to his stomach and the thick trail of hair leading down to his cock, then back up again.

“Tell me what you want sweetheart.” You muttered, leaning down and pressing a kiss on his collar.

“I-” he breathed out, vision slightly blurred, “I want you.”

You smiled, kissing his neck, his jaw, his lips, “I want you, too.”

~~~~~~~

The almost overbearing smell of burning oak and honey pulled you out of your sleep, checking your phone, you saw that it’s been less that three hours since you let Logan in, and his scent, which was usually calm and almost unnoticeable, was filling your bedroom, even with him nowhere in sight. Running your hand over your face with a tired groan, then you took a deep breath, and any irritation you felt rising at being woken up again melted away. You enjoyed the scent longer than you should have- it made you feel warm on an otherwise cold night.

For a second you considered opening the window- you were practically drowning in his scent and you aren’t even in the same room- but a sudden and overwhelming feeling of possessiveness kept you from doing it. Logan was vulnerable right now, what kind of friend would you be if you let just anyone encounter him like this- god, what if Wade of all people found out, you nor Logan would ever hear the end of it. A small part of your brain that wasn’t completely clouded by Logan’s utterly intoxicating scent wondered why he suddenly decided to present so strongly, a louder, more primal part of your brain screamed “Heat!” until it's all you could think of. The thought made a shiver shoot through your spine as blood pooled straight downward.

You tried to think of what could have started his heat so suddenly, but any detective work would have to wait until you didn’t feel like breeding him anymore. That quiet, logical part of your brain was telling you to stay in your room- but it was too quiet and you ended up leaving your room and heading into the pitch black darkness that was the rest of your house. You moved completely out of muscle memory, heading straight to the living room. You could feel the heat radiating off the man the second you entered, reaching for the light on the wall, missing it twice before flipping the switch. The room lit up immediately. Logan was truly something out of your wildest fantasies, face buried in a pillow, cover completely discarded on the floor, his shirt rode up while his pants were riding down in an attempt to relieve the heat burning in his skin. Hips rolling against the couch cushion as soft, almost inaudible moans escaped the man. You just stared for a long moment, frozen in shock at the sight.

You were fully aware you shouldn’t be watching this, your heart was pounding it your chest, and your dick was throbbing in your pants. 

Your breath caught in your throat when he stopped, a long groan emitting from him as he rolled onto his back.

Fully hard and straining against the pajama pants you gave him, taking a deep breath in through his nose, then his body tensed, a second later his eyes snapped open and he stared you down, just a few feet away from him, just as flustered, heart pounding just as hard as his, pants just as tight and straining. He pushed himself up, swinging his legs over so he was sitting upright. He gave you a small challenging look. That’s all it took for any bit of resolve you had to be thrown out the window.

It was a messy, desperate first kiss, your hands practically clawing at each other's bodies as you pressed your lip to his- Logan decided that you were definitely a better kisser in real life than you were in his dream. It left both of you hot and gasping for air. Pushing Logan back down onto the couch, pushing his legs open and slotting yourself between them. He pulled back with a winded laugh and a smirk.

“Mhh, what’s so funny?” you asked, not waiting for him to answer before you continued kissing any exposed bit of skin you could find, leaving a hickey on his collar bone- only to watch it disappear seconds later.

He craned his neck back almost instinctively, giving you as much space as he could.

“Didn’t think I’d actually ever want an alpha,’ thought that was a bunch of bullshit.”

You hummed, your hands finding their way under his shirt, feeling his skin against yours, the searing heat of it. Feeling what Wade had called on numerous occasions ‘fucking massive tits’. You had to say he was right, watching as a shudder ran through Logan's body. 

“And now?” You asked, a small smirk on your face.

He hissed quietly, rolling his hips against yours, “I’m fucking burning for you.”

You felt the nearly unsuppressable urge to mark him rise. He wanted you, he was burning for you. 

Not any other alpha out there- He could have gone anywhere tonight, you're sure he knew every late night bar in a 50 mile radius, and he still came to you.

You pulled back, nearly ripping his pants in a desperate attempt to get them off- your frantic, ecstatic state made a small laugh rise in Logan’s chest, he didn’t even consider helping you. He let you do all the work, if you were that desperate for him then you wouldn’t complain- and you didn’t. (He was a considerable amount more desperate than you were, considering he was just humping your couch like a damn dog 5 minutes ago and he just started what was more than likely going to be a very, very bad heat.)

When you were finally able to get his pants off, you could feel just how wet he was. The navy boxer you gave him were drenched in slick, clinging to him, showing off the hard outline of his cock. Logan sunk farther into the couch, a low purr emitting from deep in his chest.

“Don’t just look.” he panted.

His body reacted so strongly every time you took your hands off of him, even if it was just for a moment, his body would ache and writhe the second they were away from him. He let out a low breath when you finally touched him again, one hand wrapped around his cock, the other holding his face as you kissed him. He moaned unapologetically, loud, but muffled by your lips as you kissed him. His hips bucked up into your hands as you rubbed him through his boxer. Logan's head fell back against the cushions, eyes squeezed shut as a babble of swears fell from his lips, almost indistinguishable from his moans and low growls.

You tease him for what, to Logan, felt like hours. Sensitive and so pent up, he clung to you, holding your body against his, his face buried in your neck, taking in as much of your scent as he could. The burning in his skin didn’t stop, but it felt a lot cooler with you against him.

Logan was scenting you- you realized that the two of you would be smelling like each other and sex for at least a week- a part of you wished it was longer. That he’d walk around and have everyone in his vicinity know he was yours.

Your hand slipped under his boxers, pulling them down until they were about mid thigh. Moving past his hard, twitching cock and straight down to his hole. Soaking wet, you barely touched it before he squirted more slick onto your hand. Still with your face pressed to his neck, you chuckled.

“I barely even touched you..” you muttered.

With a growl, he said, “fuck off.”

You kissed his neck, right over the scent gland, making it flare up again.

“Make me, cowboy.”

You didn't give him time to respond, pushing two fingers into his hole, feeling him clench around them. His hips shifted against yours as you massaged his walls, listening to him grunt, and purr, and moan. Rubbing his cock against your still clothed one. Little sits of pre-cum beading at the tip and smearing on your pants.

He could feel pressure building in his stomach, it was sudden and unstoppable- not like he’d want it to-  with little warning to you, his body tensed hard, his legs closing around your body and his arms holding you in an almost crushing grip. He whined, bucking hard and fast against you- trying to fuck your fingers deeper into him as cum short from his cock, staining your pants and both your shirts. 

Fuck, that only made things worse. Once his arms were loose enough around you, you pulled back, sitting up and looking at the mess between the two of you. His legs were wide open, one hooked on the back of the couch, the other hanging off the side. He stared at you, pupils blown wide, thrusting his hips against nothing in a desperate attempt to feel something.

“More.”  He growled out.

“You want more?” You asked in a teasing tone, moving your hands to rest on his thighs.

He nodded.

You hummed softly, leaning down and kissing his cheek, “Ok sweetheart, I’ll give you more.”

He purred at the nickname. Letting his eyes close he listened to you move, hearing each article of clothes hit the floor, your scent got stronger and he breathed it in as deeply as he could.

Logan gasped when you pressed the tip of your cock against his hole, trying to press against it only for you to pull back.

“Relax.” You said, running your hands over his thighs I what he figured was supposed to be a soothing motion be it only made things worse

-you were right there, just a little bit more, please-

“You’d think after being alive for 200 years you’d learn some patients.” You pushed in slowly, watching as his mouth fell open in a silent moan. Pushing in inch by inch, feeling how hot he was around you, squeezing you tight. Finally, you were fully pushed inside him. His hands grinned the couch cushions so tight you thought they might tear.

Teeth clenched hard and chest heaving, he nearly shouted, “fucking move!”, after a second, “please.”

You abided, pulling half way out, giving him a shallow thrust. Over and over, pulling out farther and farther, then burying your cock back into his hole until you were slamming into him burying you cock deep inside him every time.

Shame seemed to stop existing for him as he moaned your name loud and clear, then,

“More Alpha, come on- please.”

He said it so easily that he almost didn’t realize it until you paused, looking down at him, a nearly unreadable expression in your face.

Panting, you said, “say that again.”

So gone, so beyond horny that his mind had slipped away from him, catching up moments later.

“More, y/n-“ you pinched his side, a wide grin on your face.

“That’s not what you said.”

He huffed, “fuck you.”

You gave him a slow, soft thrust, “come on, you already said it, it just wanna hear it again.”.

He glared up at you, resisting the urge to tell you to get to hell.

“Please..Alpha.”

The look on your face made it worth it, you pulled back until just the tip of your cock remained inside. Logan knew you weren’t going to pull out now, so he braces himself for the hard pounding he knew was inevitable. When it did come he put a couple claw shaped holes in your couch.

His body bounced hard with every thrust. Listening to you growl and pant as you hammered into him. This was miles better than any dream or fantasy. Holding on to the couch for dear life.

Minutes passed and you showed no sign of slowing down, even as another orgasm shot through Logan’s body, you didn’t stop, looking down at the cum splattered across his chest.

“My pretty omega-“ you panted, you felt Logan tighten around you, “want me to fill you with my cum, huh?”

Logan, covered in his own sweat, slick, and cum, barely able to think, nodded.

He could feel your knot starting to swell, it took more and more force to push into him- it made you slower, but you still slammed into him just as hard. Your pre-cum leaked into his hole, your own orgasm moments away and Logan could tell.

A little dizzy, he put his hands on your shoulder, trying to guide you down but you wouldn't go- even though he was dazed and ,for the most part, satiated, there was still something he wanted.

“Y/n, mhhm- Alpha- mark me-”

It wasn't a request, it was an order, and you couldn't find it in yourself to deny him.

You couldn't think of the repercussions, what this would mean for either of your futures, what it would do to your still extremely new relationship, not because you didn't want to, but you physically couldn't, the idea of making him yours was too strong.

You leaned down and pressed your teeth into his bare skin. You could only taste his blood for a short moment, the skin healed as fast as it broke- instead of perfectly clear skin being left there was a scar. Before you could even begin to wonder how that could happen you came hard, knot swelling, keeping you locked deep inside of Logan as you finished inside of him. 

You pressed a kiss on his cheek, he blinked tiredly, a small grin on his face.

“What?” you yawned, feeling exhausted.

“I owe Wade an apology..”

You groaned, flopping down onto his chest.

“Don't bring him up now,”

He laughed, “‘ thought you liked him?”

“Yeah, just not while my dick is still in you, you can talk all you want about Wade in 30 to 40 minutes when my knot goes down.” you said, wrapping your arms around you to the best of your ability. 

He did the same, “Fine.”

~~~~~~~

Logan’s heat lasted about a week, he stayed with you the whole time, partially because he really didn’t want to deal with Wade, but mostly because the two of you could not stop fucking. He was your mate after all, what were you supposed to do, let him suffer? In the past 6 days you and Logan have fucked a total of 9 times- 

-10 if he didn’t stop kissing you neck right fucking down.

“Logan, I have to go to work,” You said in a stern tone that only made him want you more.

“Call off.”

“I’ve already been off for six days because of you.”

He really didn’t care- you could feel him leave a hickey on your neck- as though you weren’t already covered in hundreds of bites and bruises because of him.

“I’m going to lose my job-”

“Come on, please?” He said quietly.

You took a deep breath in-

“What the fuck, I leave for a couple of days and you house break my roommate!”

Oh god, it's entirely too early for this.

You don’t know where Wade came from, but now he’s in your kitchen with you and Logan.

“Kidding, I’ve been listening to you two fuck all week. You-” He puts a finger in your chest, “-are a real freak. And I thought I was a dirty dog, you are really something else.”

“Fuck off, Wade.” Logan said, seems like the mere presence of Wade turned him off.

“And you, I don’t even know what to say to you- You think you know a guy, live with him for a year and he just doesn’t tell you he’s an omega, that's considered extremely rude in most places. You don’t have to worry about anyone else being surprised, I’m pretty sure they heard you begging for Y/n sweet, succulent dick all the way in Europe.”

You stood, grabbing your keys off the counter- you were not staying and watching Wade get torn to shreds.

You turned to Logan to see that he was thoroughly pissed off.

“Don't get blood on my floor.” You kissed his cheek, knowing it was very likely  that he was going to get blood on every surface. “Have fun.”

You walked away, hearing a loud thump behind you and deciding that you weren’t going to pay it any attention, even as Wade’s high pitched screams met your ears. Reaching the front door you saw it in pieces again. That was a problem for later, for now you needed to get to work and attempt to explain to your manager why you’ve been MIA.

Request are closed

[agathasfamiliar]

hi!! I just found your blog, can I request g!p detective!agatha railing reader in a missionary position and has a bulge kink (poking the bear🤭🏃‍♀️)

thank you so much for this request it was very fun to write, i hope you enjoy it!

fuck the police:

detective agnes o'connor x fem!reader

You fucked up and finally got caught for your long-running streak of graffiti artistry. What's worse than being arrested, however? Being interrogated by the one detective in town who causes you to question your all out hatred for the profession.

word count: 6.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, agnes is trans/intersex/has a penis, penis in vagina sex, power bottom!reader, service top!agnes (but agnes still needs a little control of course), handcuffs, breeding kink, bulge kink, agnes loves reader's tits, smut

author's note: trans butch agnes, my beloved. also i probably could've done more research into a more realistic set up/i know this isn't how someone being arrested/interrogated would work but it's porn so...hopefully you can look past that

You never thought you’d find yourself here, arrested and waiting to be questioned for your crimes. Perhaps you should’ve seen it coming, your graffiti art has steadily risen in popularity over the last few months, ever since one particularly evocative piece got featured on the local news and allegedly inspired a number of protests throughout the city of Westview.

Not that you had anything to do with that.

The police department has issued several requests for information on you, even offering a pretty handsome reward for the proven identity of “Hex”, the name you tag every piece with. A rumor has even reached your ears about a copycat artist getting arrested over in Eastview. Serves them right for using your signature, but it at least has kept the feds off your trail for a bit. 

Admittedly, you’d gotten cocky thinking you could get away with tagging the squad car stationed at the busiest intersection in town. In your defense, it had looked empty. How were you supposed to know the deputy on duty was napping in the back seat? You’d made it halfway through the looping pink pig face you were sprawling across the windshield before he woke up and chased you down four blocks.

If you were wearing your usual running shoes instead of having slipped on an old pair of slides in your rush out of the house, you probably would’ve outrun the middle-aged cop chasing you, another mistake you won’t make again.

  Now, you sit shivering in nothing but a sheer white tank top and sweatpants so spattered in all the vibrant colors of your, now confiscated, cans of spray paint, that you can’t even remember what color the pants originally were. You weren’t an idiot, you had a black hoodie on when you went out to do your work, but the rookie cop that booked you at the station also insisted on taking your sweatshirt for “evidence”.

You’re pretty sure he just wanted to see you suffer in the refrigerator-like temperature they keep the precinct at, clearly only recently having graduated the academy and already taking a shine to abusing his power. Pigs, indeed. 

The interrogation room they brought you to well over 30 minutes ago sits at the very back of the building, a windowless box that somehow looks and smells both musty and sterile. A large one-way mirror covers the wall opposite the door, the only noise in the confined space being the tick-tick-tick of the clock above it that reads just past midnight.

You rattle the short chain connecting your handcuffed wrists to a bar on the heavy metal table in front of you, just to disrupt the suffocating silence. Have you seriously been forgotten here?

Just as you have that thought, as if summoning another person into existence with it, the door, opposite the corner where you sit, opens briskly. 

Twin sighs of irritation drop from both your mouth and the supposed detective’s as she enters. You can’t make out too many details of her appearance at first because of the dim lighting that mostly just illuminates the table you sit at, as well as the fact that she has her head down looking over what you assume is your intake forms. 

“I want a lawyer.” Are the first words out of your mouth once the woman has turned to shut the door behind her.

“Ha!” She laughs dryly and it has you simmering with rage already, but something about it also sounds familiar.

 “Well, sweetie,” The still concealed detective continues as she finally steps into the light, “not likely to find a public defender that’s available at this hour, but if you insist on staying overnight…” She trails off amusedly, finally stepping into the light and causing your prepared reply to die in your throat as you connect the recognition of the voice with the blue eyes that meet yours.

“Detective O’Connor.” You greet, trying to keep your tone even. 

Fuck.

Of fucking course, of all the detectives in the goddamn city, this is who had to come question you. The same detective you’ve served coffee to every morning for the better part of three years at your shitty cafe day job. The same detective who barely acknowledges your existence, but when her fingers brush yours as you pass her usual over the counter, you think about it for the rest of the day. The detective you berate yourself for fantasizing about, because she’s everything you despise and your friends would never let you hear the end of it if they found out, especially with how often you’re spouting your “radical” political beliefs (not that you see them that way.)

Detective Agnes fucking O’Connor…

This is not how you imagined it would look if you ever got her in a room alone.

“Huh? Do I know you?” She questions, almost offended, and now you’re the one to let out a dry laugh.

“Here, let me help jog your memory.” You say, picking up the small, paper cup of water that had been left on the table for you in one bound hand, holding it aloft and reciting her order.

 “One large hot coffee with two sugars and half a pump of vanilla.”

She looks unaffected at your display, only raising both eyebrows once in sudden recognition before sauntering over to the chair on the other side of the table and sitting down casually. 

“Impressive, that how you’ve avoided custody so long? Charming Westview’s finest by memorizing their coffee orders?” Her questions are laced with condescension.

“Nope, just yours. Why? Is it working?” You smirk despite your better judgment. You hadn’t planned to try the flirting route to get out your charges, but hey, the best schemes have an element of truth to them. Plus, if this is the only chase you’ll have to speak to the detective alone, you might as well make the most of it. 

She doesn’t answer, instead leaning back in the rickety metal chair that lets out a squeal at the motion. Her long brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail that’s tied low at the base of her skull. Blue flannel sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and it’s all you can do not to think about tracing your tongue over the veins that snake over her strong forearms.

The jeans she’s wearing strain with the way she sits, legs spread apart, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop from letting out a gasp when you notice how it puts the delicious outline of what’s beneath the denim on display. Fuck, you do not need to be thinking about straddling the woman where she sits and grinding down against her bulge right now, but you are anyway.

Mercifully, she leans forward again in the seat to ask another question and the view is gone. You need to focus if you’re going to get out of this without incriminating yourself.

“What were you doing tonight?” She asks flatly, getting down to business. You know better than to provide anything resembling an answer, true or false.

“This whole thing seems pretty excessive, all things considered. I mean, an interrogation? Really, Agnes?” Her first name slips out before you can catch it, but you don’t really care.

“Just answer the question. And it’s Detective.” The flare of anger in her eyes only spurs you on.

“Sorry, Detective Agnes,” you correct yourself, purposefully using her name this time, just to see that flash of heat again. 

“If you were so curious about where I was tonight you could’ve just asked me out.” Now that you’ve opened the floodgates, the suggestive remarks just keep coming out.

For Agnes’ part, she remains still and draws in an angry breath. Her blue eyes blaze with irritation at your lack of cooperation more than the intrigue you were hoping for, but that just means you’ll have to turn up the dial on this improvised plan you’ve laid out for yourself. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

“Listen, if you’re going to keep wasting my time I’ll just lock you up now and wait ‘til morning.” She threatens with a glowering expression, voice raising every few words in an attempt to intimidate. It’s kind of cute, actually. 

You think she might hear just how her phrasing comes out and anticipate your next response, because she almost looks remorseful. The slightest pink tone that rises to her cheeks and the way she pokes her tongue out to wet her bottom lip when her eyes flick down to your barely covered chest don’t escape your careful observations either. 

“Ooo,” you start, falsely scandalized, “now you want me to spend the night?” A slight giggle escaping you at your own words and the way you lift your handcuffed wrists in front of you playfully. 

With the action, you’re sure to press your biceps against either side of your body to even more obviously display your tits, and she can’t help but look down with the movement, eyes raking over your nipples that stand at attention beneath the thin fabric in the cold space.

Heat is practically rolling off her in waves and you can’t tell for sure if it’s arousal or fury that is threatening to boil over, or what will happen when it does, but you have always been the type to take risks. Why stop now?

“Can’t you just get me off with a warning? I mean- let me off…” You ask before she can recover from your last question, attempting a simper at the intentional slip up in your speech. 

It seems that this is what finally pushes her over the edge as she slams her hands loudly against the metal table and stands up, causing it to vibrate with the impact. Her chair goes clattering to the ground behind her, but she doesn’t seem to care. The satisfied expression you wear drops for a second at the forceful display, maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

“Alright, that’s enough!” She shouts, leaning over so you can practically feel her breath on your face before she rounds the table quickly.

“Do you really wanna keep poking the bear?!” She asks, furious, now standing at your right side and heavily folding at the waist to shout into your ear. 

You have to lean away slightly at the volume that threatens to burst your eardrum and it provides just enough space to look the detective up and down where she stands. 

That’s when you see it. 

Unmistakable and pressing against the zipper of her jeans so forcefully that it’s a wonder they haven’t burst; Detective O’Connor is hard. 

You can’t drag your eyes away from the tented fabric, so obvious that it nearly casts a shadow onto the denim in the odd light of the room. As you are still seated, you’re practically at the perfect level to just lean over and mouth the length through her pants. It’s all you can do not to let your head dip where it wants to most, as if you’re a magnet being drawn by its opposite charge.

“I- uh.” You stutter, unsure of your words for the first time since she walked in. The amount of saliva that has accumulated in your mouth at the sight in front of you forces you to swallow before you speak again.

“I think I’d rather have the bear poke me.” You breathe, sounding wrecked just at the thought.

When you finally drag your gaze back up to hers, her face is burning red, but this time you can tell it is much more out of embarrassment than anger. She looks self conscious in a way you’ve never seen and it’s so, so pretty. 

“It’s okay I c-” You start, reaching out uselessly in your confines, but you’re cut off from your attempt at a rare comforting word when Agnes seizes your right shoulder and lifts you to your feet. She then immediately folds you over and presses you against the table on your stomach, handcuffed hands pinned beneath your chest. You let out a grunt at the forceful action as well as the freezing cold metal that almost stings your skin that has warmed at your flirting.

The position is much like the one you were put in a few hours ago upon your arrest, only now it causes you to ache with desire instead of seeth with fury. 

“You think this is funny?!” She questions, but it sounds strained and unsure. Your own hesitance at her intentions keeps you from muttering out that it’s actually not funny, it’s really fucking hot.

It dawns on you then that she probably turned you over like this so you aren’t able to see the blush that’s probably still spreading over her skin, or the bulge in her pants that’s no doubt only getting worse, especially with how you purposefully arch your back in her grasp.

She has you pinned beneath her hands, one still on your shoulder and the other holding your waist, the perfect placement for her to pull you back against her. Instead, a shaky breath sounds from behind you. It seems like she’s deciding what to do next and you can almost feel the heat radiating from between her hips that begs her to choose the option you’re hoping for too.

You start pressing back yourself, impatient and using any amount of leverage possible to reach your destination. To help her decide.

“Come on, detective. Let me help you out.” You nearly whisper in the most convincing and sweet voice you can muster. Her hands loosen ever so slightly at the soft sound and you use the opportunity to slide the last inch backwards, your ass just barely brushing her front, aware also that if she had wanted to stop you she would’ve easily been able to.

You feel the hardness and heat of her cock against you through both your clothing and nearly release a whimper at the sensation, at the idea of her finally being inside you like you’ve fantasized about so many times. 

Just as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again. Her hands release you entirely and she steps away without a word, leaving you feeling even colder than the steel table you’re slumped against. You drop your head to the metal in defeat. That’s it, you think. Your efforts haven't worked and you’re not only going to spend the night in a cell, but you’re going to do so while very uncomfortably wet and wound up. Plus, she’s probably going to try to add attempted bribery or harassment to your charge sheet. God, this was a dumb idea. Why couldn’t you have just gotten some old guy detective whose questions you would have dodged coldly and without a second thought?

All these thoughts flash through your head in the few seconds it takes Agnes to step away from the table and turn you by the hips to face her, the chain keeping you there being just long enough to allow such movement. 

You look down immediately, as if out of instinct, to find the large bulge still present, possibly even more so somehow. A bolt of desire strikes through your core at the small dark spot you notice has formed on the crotch of the already dark jeans. The evidence of your effect threatens to turn your legs to jelly. Finally, your eyes raise to meet Agnes’ with a curiosity, who stands less than a foot from you, hands still holding your hips loosely. The thrill of not knowing what she’ll do next makes your already racing heart beat even faster.

You find that she looks as weak as you feel, drinking you in like you’re an ice cold glass of water she’s found in the middle of the sahara. It’s clear that she’s used up every last thread of restraint she has to resist your offer, and it still has proven to be insufficient. Her blue irises have nearly been swallowed by blown black pupils that bore into you as she speaks her resignation to her rapturous fate.

“If I’m gonna fuck you,” she breathes the words out like she’s just run a marathon, “it’s gonna be while looking at those pretty tits.”

You lean back into the table in favor of collapsing straight to the floor at those words. How is this actually happening?

Seeing you stumble into the table, her right hand shifts down to your thigh and lifts, helping you to sit on the ledge as she steps closer to let your knees bracket her body. She looks so much more confident in this moment, and not in the same stone-faced way she had while you prodded at her before. It brings a soft smile to your lips and she looks away, somewhat coyly, at your noticing. It’s hard to decide if you prefer her shy or assertive.  

Blunt nails graze gently over your covered thighs, to your hips, then your waist, before finally settling over your scarcely contained breasts. Your own sharp intake of breath meets your ears as you lean into the warm touch and she squeezes them with a smirk playing on her lips.

  “I might not remember your face…” she rasps, leaning to speak directly into your right ear, “but I definitely remember these.” Both thumbs move to brush over your already pebbled nipples, causing them to harden further. You roll your eyes, both at the comment and at the thread of pleasure that tugs right from where she touches you all the way down to your pulsing clit.

For all the humor in it, you can’t help but notice just how sincere her comment sounds and flashes run through your mind of every low cut top you’ve ever worn to work, wondering which one’s are her favorite.

“Shut up and fuck me already.” You exhale with a chuckle against her cheek, momentarily forgetting your binds and trying to reach around her shoulders to pull her closer. The chain rattles loudly and you jerk with the reminder of your limited movement.

Agnes shakes her head and laughs at your needy but firm command as well as your inability to move.

“Here, let me.” She continues laughing gently as she reaches for the key ring you somehow hadn’t yet noticed swinging from her hip. 

“No.” You blurt before you can think better of it. 

“Leave them.” 

It’s a daring statement and you run your tongue across your teeth mischievously while the implication works its way through the woman’s mind. Her lower lip disappears into her mouth with how hard she bites into it, looking at you in disbelief and utter need. 

“Fuck,” is all she says, dropping the keys back to her side and moving instead to undo her belt with a clumsy haste. 

You would be scrambling to remove your own pants as well, not wanting to waste anymore time, but your own request has left you unable to do so. Instead, you’re left in awe as the black leather belt is unlatched and left hanging loosely open while Agnes works at her zipper. Even less is left to the imagination when denim is pulled aside to reveal cotton boxer briefs protruding with the tension of her arousal.

Her cock is pressing tautly against the soft, grey material and the way the underwear clings to her body causes you to gape at the implication of how much the secure garment is still concealing. 

The dark spot you’d noticed on her jeans is even darker and more centralized to its origin on the grey cloth. Saliva fills your mouth again at the sight, the only thing better than seeing her from beneath that last layer of clothing will be when it is finally removed.

As if reading your mind and wanting you to suffer a moment long, she pauses her motions of undressing any further. Before you can argue or make a snide remark, her hands are on your own waistband, tugging the paint-covered article down as much as she can while you’re still seated. You can’t very well lift yourself with your hands at the moment, so you slip off the table quickly to help get them the rest of the way down, hopping back up just as swiftly and letting her pull them off your legs, shoes falling to the floor one by one in the process. 

The cold table under your mostly bare ass draws the breath from you momentarily, only a black pair of boyshorts now protecting you from the metal.

“Do you ever wash these?” Agnes asks down at the rainbow vomit littering your clothing before dropping the pants to the floor, a real dry humor in her voice replacing the stern, mocking one from when she first entered the room.

“What’s the point?” You ask, because seriously, why would you wash them if you’re just going to get paint all over them again?

“Do you answer every question with a question?” She fires back, moving back between your knees from where she’d stepped back to help undress you. Her fingers play again at her own waistband, dipping into them slightly before meeting your eyes, waiting for your answer.

“Do you always stall like this when a girl wants you to fill her pussy?” You ask with an exaggerated expression of curiosity, as if you are genuinely awaiting the answer and not just communicating your impatience. 

Her cheeks pink again at the response, any clever comebacks quickly forgotten. You remove your gaze from her face and shift it back to her arousal to allow her to blush in private.

In your peripheral vision, you see her eyes flick up to watch your face as she dips her left hand into her underwear and grasps herself so gently, right hand pushing the material down to reveal what you’ve been waiting for.

You’re first met with a mess of dark curls that trail all the way up to her belly button, which you only catch a quick glimpse of with the way her shirt momentarily gets caught by her arm. You stifle a moan at the reveal of her thick cock; rock hard, reddened and still beading pre-cum, as you saw evidenced on the front of her jeans and underwear.

Now you slightly regret having her leave the cuffs on, as you long to reach out and take the length in your hands, or better yet, your mouth. Heat takes your face at the idea of getting on your knees before the detective and gagging on her length, and now you’re the one blushing and biting your lip.

Painfully tearing your eyes from the beautiful sight to catch Agnes’ expression, you find her still looking for your reaction. She finds exactly what she’s looking for in the way your eyes soften and you use one finger, your hands still bound at the wrists and settled in front of your chest, to beckon her forward.

Loose strands of brown hair that have escaped her messily tied back tendrils brush the side of your face as she leans in close to catch your message.

“I need your cock inside me, detective.” You husk, more than speak, into her ear, the lust dripping from the title she insisted on minutes ago causing a physical and auditory shudder through the woman. Looking back down, you see Agnes stroke herself once, as if your words have rendered her unable to resist.

Maybe she notices that you’re about to make a comment about it, because in one swift motion Agnes’ right hand flies up to your left shoulder, shifting you fully to your back on the table. You let out a gasp at the sudden movement, metal tabletop clattering at the impact and drowning out the sound. Just as quickly as you’ve adjusted to your new position, you’re being pulled by the thighs to the very edge of the table and towards exactly what you want, Agnes then guiding you to wrap your spread legs around her hips for support.

“You need this, huh?” She asks, hungrily looking over your body from her new perspective. You’re about to answer her question with your own when she slowly and teasingly drags the head of her cock from your clit to your entrance, over your underwear. Her timing is getting a little too convenient.

You groan at the feeling of your own wetness being pressed against you by her hardness. It makes you ache knowing it’s so close to being consumed by your heat, only a thin shield of fabric left between you. If you had full range of motion of your hands, you would have already ripped the rest of your clothing off, but the quick and dirty way you’re both still mostly clothed almost turns you on more. 

Desperate to maintain the dizzying contact, your hips grind upward as your legs become a vice, pulling her ever closer. The clear enthusiasm only spurs her on, gliding back up and down again, circling your clit three times with her cock on the last pass until you're squirming beneath her and hopelessly trying to contain your whimpering. You would rather wait a lifetime for your orgasm than beg a cop.

You’re so sopping wet, though, that when you look down between your bodies you can see the way her cock shines with your arousal despite not having yet made full contact. It’s almost too much to bear, your clit throbbing in time with your pounding pulse. Something has to give or you’re soon going to be a blabbering mess. 

“Just fuck me, Agnes!” You bark out, hips rising insistently and your voice verging on a whine.

The room goes still for a moment, even the clock ticking away on the wall seems to pause for dramatic effect as she quirks an eyebrow and tilts her head dangerously at your outburst. That same feeling from before washes over you, when you thought you might’ve really fucked up, but it only lasts for half a second before a hand is shoving your ruined underwear to one side and you feel the tip of her resting at your entrance.

Your eyes meet her blue ones, which are actually still mostly black, especially in this light. They burn into you like before and you don’t know whether her silence is a good or bad thing. 

You draw in your own shaky breath, waiting for her next move, and on the exhale she sheathes herself to the hilt inside of you.

Even she can’t contain her half of the guttural growl that comes from both of you at the perfect feeling. You don’t even have the wherewithal to feel embarrassed about just how fucking soaked you are that she was able to slide all the way in with one thrust, because the way her cock is filling you up so completely has rendered every other thought irrelevant.

A moment passes where you both breathe, adjusting to the stretch and squeeze respectively. You feel her throb once within you and think, at this point, with enough determination, you could come just from that small amount of friction.

You don’t need that determination, though. As if mocking that passing thought, Agnes skips any unnecessary build up and starts at a positively bruising pace. Just one moment ago she was panting over you, looking like she might not even make it two thrusts in before unraveling, and now she’s slamming into you with a literally breathtaking force.

No intelligible noises are able to come out of your throat at first, only broken, reedy gasps. Your eyes roll back in your head as the glorious, slapping sounds of your joining sexes fill your ears. Her length jabs over and over again at the perfect spot inside you, just where you need her. 

Doing your best to focus your vision, you look up to see the red face of a woman clearly holding on to her composure for dear life. Her finger nails are short, but still able to bite into your hips ever so slightly as she practically slides you up and down along the table while also moving against you herself, which deepens her thrusts even more.

This also seemingly provides quite the show for Agnes, who you observe is splitting her time between watching your face contorting with pleasure, her cock sliding in and out of your pussy, and most of all, the way your tits are bouncing considerably with her every movement.

“You like these? You should fuck them.” You make out between gasping breaths, nodding down at your own chest.

Agnes takes a moment to respond, her laser focus causing her to not even register your words at first. When she does however, and notices your gesturing, her thrusting falters only for a moment, as if the idea alone has made her nearly swoon with desire. Crystal irises scan you over again and you can tell she’s thinking about it by the way her eyebrows knit together in a desperate sort of way.

“Maybe next time.” She decides, smirking down at you and ramming herself into you particularly hard once before returning to her rhythm, while her left hand comes up to grip your right breast greedily.

“Mmn- next time?” You ask around a moan, trying not to sound too hopeful, but it’s also such an unexpected sentiment from the detective you can’t help but question her further.

“I’d bet good money this won’t be your last arrest,” is all she says to satisfy your curiosity. While it’s also a subtle dig at your evading skills, your imagination still runs wild with the unspoken promise of how a future slip-up might turn out for you. It almost makes you want to get caught again.

“Right, because you’d love to f-fuck, fuck! Oh my god!” Your response turns into a moaning curse when her hand shoots down from playing with your tits so her thumb can land firmly on your clit and press down with flawless pressure, never letting up consistently filling you in the process. 

“Oh fuck! Don’t stop! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..” The mantra spills from your lips while your orgasm mounts within you and you know you’ll be toppling over the edge any minute now.

If your hands were free you would be locking your fingers behind her neck and pulling her even closer to you to ensure you get what you want, but the burn of the metal chafing your wrists is a delicious alternative. The pain only sharpens the pleasure you’re feeling everywhere else and you throb at the idea of waking up tomorrow and seeing angry red and purple bracelets of evidence.

At your emphatic request, she doesn’t stop. You’ve never been so full before and when Agnes’ cock throbs within you after every couple of pumps, stars explode behind your eyes. There’d better be a next time because you’re pretty sure nothing and nobody has or will ever make you feel like this.

“I’m so, so close. Fuck!” You shout, unsure what possesses you to tell her, but her response only drives you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, yeah, fucking come for me. Come on my cock, come on my c-cock…” She huffs, the exertion that you were already impressed with her maintaining finally shows in her voice, but she still never lets up. It almost sounds like she’s begging, a “please” barely contained behind her lips, and that’s what makes you really want to come for her.

Chasing your orgasm, you redouble your efforts of rocking your hips up and it makes her length press even more fully against your front wall until you’re practically screaming with pleasure. The new angle caused by your rocking coupled with the way your walls are tightening around her in anticipation of your release is also clearly doing something for Agnes.

Her breaths are coming in short puffs and she is completely unable to stifle the loud whimper that bursts out of her when you clench around her even harder, your orgasm just seconds away.

That’s what finally does it, that mewl that you were able to pull from the tough detective. It sends you flying, every muscle tenses and wave after wave of pleasure causes you to buck against the table and Agnes, but she holds you firmly in place, fucking you through it and moaning herself the whole time as she marvels at your release. The aftershocks go on for what feels like forever while you float in your euphoria, never wanting it to end.

After your release, Agnes’ thrusts quickly become short and frantic, almost rutting into you with a fervor. The throbs you’ve felt are coming on every pump and you’re content to lie back in your blissed out state and let her take whatever she wants, until she starts to pull out of you, one trembling hand releasing your hip and clearly intent on finishing herself off. 

You’re suddenly more lucid than ever, quickly locking your ankles behind her from where they’d fallen limp, and shoving her back into you until she bottoms out. A surprised breath leaves her at the action, a sheen of sweat breaking across her forehead as she stutters out her reasoning.

“I-I’m gonna-” She can’t even get the words out and it’s the second time in so many minutes that you feel your heart squeeze at just how adorable this usually grave woman is. 

“I know, I know. Come inside me, baby.” Your voice is thick with desire and you’re still lingering bliss, the pet name slipping out like water, but you need her to know just how badly you want it.

Her eyes widen slightly as a deeper blush somehow takes over her already red face, unsure but so very full of want. You feel her twitch within you despite herself and her hips roll just at the words. 

You don’t break eye contact, making clear how serious you are to quell her doubt.

Tentatively, after a beat, she starts up a slower pace, pulling almost out of you before thrusting all the way back in, like she’s giving herself time to think again.

“You can do it baby, I know you want to. Fuck, you feel so good inside me.” You gasp out the words while she fucks back into your pussy and you think you could come again just from the way she looks at you when you say them.

You repeat your cooing encouragements and it doesn’t even take three more of those slow thrusts before she falters and stays sheathed inside you, rutting weakly. 

“Come on, baby.” You repeat, and you know she’s done.

More of those beautiful whimpers fall from her lips as you feel one stronger throb and then warmth explodes into your walls. You can’t help but moan yourself at the feeling of being filled by her. Spurt after spurt of her cum coats your insides while she holds you tighter and tighter, as if you’ll float away if she lets go. Her desperate moans die down eventually and she slumps against you, still inside, and draws in one big breath before releasing it slowly. Her eyes are screwed shut and her head is now resting against your restrained hands on your chest. 

It’s probably good they're restrained, you think, because if they weren’t you’d be having a very hard time resisting running your fingers through her long hair, tenderly scratching your nails against the nape of her neck.

Another beat passes where the two of you breath against one another and come down from your respective highs. The delicious mix of your and Agnes’ cum has started to drip out of you onto the table below and it’s a hot enough thought that your sensitive clit gives a weak twitch and you clench around Agnes unintentionally, causing her to crane her neck to look up at you.

Her eyes are clear again and softer than you’ve ever seen them; you let your coursing endorphins carry you away on a cloud of imagining leaning the six inches it would take to capture her lips in yours, but you don’t dare actually do it.

She starts to shift, maybe shaking herself from some similar thought, you can’t tell. Her soft sex pulls out of you slowly as she pushes up on her hands and waits for you to release her from the grip your legs still have her in. You unsteadily unravel yourself from her, shuddering slightly at the loss and trying not to think about how empty you feel without her.

Now free, she tucks herself back into her briefs and makes quick work of finally undoing your cuffs. Her hands rub at the raw skin absently, using her hold there to pull you into a seated position. She then reaches down for the balled-up mess you call a pair of pants and slides them back onto your trembling legs easily. After you’re relatively put back together, cum still leaking out and coating your already ruined underwear, she looks you over once more with hunger along with something else you can’t place. 

She looks thoughtful, like she wants to say something else but thinks better of it, instead letting a sly smile pull at her mouth and a different comment sneak through with a soft laugh.

“Consider that your warning.”

[lolxdswag123]

Talk it Out.

Bucky Barnes x ex-avengers!Reader & Bob Reynolds x platonic!reader

a/n: had to make my contribution

Warnings: mature themes, suggestive language, mentions of grief, John Walker, slight angst, fluffyyy

I finished my jog around the track, concluding my morning training. I took a towel to wipe the sweat off my face before standing to exit the gym. 

"Done already?" Walker calls out from the other side of the gym. 

"Shut up, Walker," I call back, rolling my eyes. As if I need more training. 

I've been living with the 'New Avengers' group now for a couple months. Before, I had vowed to work alone for the rest of my life after Thanos... and yet within seconds of my old friend Bucky Barnes calling me, I was in the car and heading to live in this tower again. It didn't feel the same as when it was the Avengers tower. I knew it never would. 

Bucky has been my best friend and confidant ever since we turned into dust together, then immediately after- lost our friends together. It had been a miserable period of time, and I thought that he would never come back to the Avengers life after what we had been through. The day I saw him on the news with this group of misfits, calling themselves the 'New Avengers', I nearly threw up on my shoes. 

It was a couple weeks after that when he to ask me to live with them. He knew how hard it would be for me- for both of us- to move back into that tower and call it home again. It had too many memories, too many ghosts. And yet, he was still my safe place after all this time.

That's how I ended up dealing with the outrageous flirting and taunting from John Walker every. single. day. 

"Walker, worry about your own training. Your form is sloppy," I heard a voice approaching from behind me, interrupting my glaring match with Walker.

I turned to lock eyes with Bucky, who wore an irritated look on his face. He wore a tight fitting black t-shirt and sweatpants. I nearly had to catch my breath as he entered the room. His hair hung over his face and he smelled like a dream. He nodded to me, then shot a look back at Walker as he entered the gym.

"You heading out, doll?" Bucky asked quietly in my direction.

I immediately felt a swarm of butterflies attacking the lining of my stomach, as I always did when he addressed me by this name. I swore sometimes he said it just to mess with my head. He knew exactly how it made me feel.

I nodded hastily, "Yeah, I'm tired today."

He sighed, scanning my face with skepticism, "Alright, I think someone was making breakfast. You should eat."

I pursed my lips, turning back to the exit and starting to leave, "Got it, thanks."

I knew better now than to mistake his concern for any feelings beyond friendship. I had been very forward with the man on multiple occasions- and he has shown no reciprocation of feelings. It was my mistake to think that our bond was anything other than shared trauma and a casual friendship, but to him, that was all it seemed to be. 

As I headed up to the kitchen, I could smell a faint scent of something burning. Bob must have been cooking again. I shook my head and laughed, wondering why nobody has taught him to cook by now.

"Bob?" I called as soon as I stepped into the kitchen, searching for my other teammates. 

"H-hi," he stuttered, scrambling to rinse a smoking pan in the sink.

I walked over to the counter, seeing a plate of burnt eggs and bacon sitting next to the stove. "Everything okay?" I asked, walking around the counter to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

"Just b-burnt the food again," Bob said shyly, red slowly creeping up his neck. I shrugged, closing the fridge and turning to face him. He gave up on the smoking pan and shrugged bashfully. 

"Is that for everyone?" I asked, pointing at the plate of burnt food. 

He nodded dejectedly. 

"I like it better burnt anyway," I shrugged, walking over to grab a piece of bacon. I could see his eyes brighten just a fraction of the way out of the side of my vision as I ate the bacon.

When I first met Bob, I had no idea that he was the one responsible for the whole 'New York City Void Incident.' He was too soft, too gentle- always trying to help everyone as much as he could. 

I had been living in the tower again for three days, and had already met the rest of the team. After a particularly rough nightmare, I had awoken and decided to head to the living room to get a glass of water. My nightmares had started getting worse again after the Void Incident. They hadn't been that bad since after everything went down with Thanos. 

After we lost Tony, Steve, and Nat, I struggled a lot. So did Bucky. We stayed together at Sam's for a few weeks, trying to put the pieces of our lives back together. Every night I woke up from a nightmare, I ended up in Bucky's room. He would hold my hand and tell me happy stories until I fell asleep. At that time, I realized that I would do anything for him, and that I wanted to always be around him. It hurt when we moved back to our respective homes and stopped spending this time together, and it hurt even more when I found out from Sam that he was on dating apps just days after.

I was confused, and so lost. Since then, nothing has been the same.

I startled when I heard movement from behind me, and was one millisecond away from throwing a kitchen knife at the intruder before I heard Bob speak.

"W-wait, it's just me," I heard the voice say and quickly turned to face him. He looked sweet, and innocent. The man in front of me was dressed in a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and an oversized long sleeved shirt. He looked adorable. 

I kept the knife in my hand, but instantly knew that he would be no threat, "Who are you?" I asked, still observing him.

"Um, I'm Bob," The man said, tugging at the end of one of his sleeves. "Ar-are you Bucky's girl?" he asked, looking nervously at the knife.

"You're Bob?" I asked, subconsciously allowing my shock to seep into my words as I gently set the knife down on the counter. He nodded quickly, avoiding eye contact.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Bob," I said, extending a hand for him to shake. He looked nervously at it- like I might change my mind and punch him instead.

"I'm Y/N," I said, still holding my hand out for him, "And no... Not Bucky's girl, but he did ask me to come live here with everyone..."

Bob reached out, taking my hand and shaking it gently. He sighed quietly when he pulled away- almost as if he was relieved that I had ultimately decided not to punch him. I took a step back, grabbing my water again, taking a sip before speaking again.

"What are you doing up so late?"

He shrugged, looking away, "This is th-the only time I get any peace and quiet..."

I nodded, "I understand, it seems chaotic around here."

He takes a shake breath in, but nods in silent agreement. "What about you?" he asks quietly, before quickly adding, "I-I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I just haven't seen you up this late before."

I let a breath escape my lips, shaking my head, "It's okay... I just get nightmares sometimes. Didn't want to go back to sleep."

Bob nodded, seeming to understand. "Well... I wouldn't mind some company. I-I mean, if you feel like staying out here with me. If not, that's okay too."

I let a smile trace my lips, and began walking over to the couch. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Since that night, Bob has been nothing but a shy ball of sunshine in my life. When I get nightmares, we spend the nights sitting in the living room, talking about anything and everything until the sun starts to rise. I help him with training, and he makes sure I don't fall asleep in team meetings. None of the team knew how we got so close, but they didn't ask. They seem to respect Bob's boundaries more than anyone else's. Well, everyone except for Walker.

After breakfast, I headed back to my room to take a long shower and call Pepper. It was early afternoon before I ended up in the living room again. 

"Well look who decided to join us," I heard as soon as I entered the room. I looked up and meet eyes with Walker, of course. Dude doesn't know how to mind his own business. 

I rolled my eyes, taking my seat on the couch next to Bob. He nodded shyly at me, and gave a gentle smile which I returned. 

"You okay?" I asked quietly enough so that nobody else would hear.

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, looking at me with concern, "Are you? I know you didn't s-sleep much last night." 

I smiled gently at him, appreciating his care for me, and patted the back of his hand with mine, "I'm okay," I whispered.

We sat there, studying each other with a careful affection, before an agitating voice broke our peace.

"Wow, didn't see that coming," Walker announced, a pointed gaze resting over Bob and myself.

"Wh-what?" Bob asks defensively.

"You two," Walker shrugged like it was common sense.

"What do you mean?" I asked sharply, wanting to protect Bob from any taunts I suspected Walker was preparing to throw at us.

Walker opened his mouth with an antagonizing smirk, but was hastily cut off by a voice in the kitchen.

"Lay off, Walker."

I whipped my head around to see if it was really him who spoke, but quickly turned back again as I felt a blush cover my cheeks. Bucky was grabbing food from the pantry, not even looking in our direction when he chimed in, but I still felt a twist in my gut at the situation. His hair was wet– he must’ve just showered– and he was in a red long sleeve shirt and grey sweatpants. My face was steaming. It wasn't that I was embarrassed– because I definitely wasn't embarrassed. He was the one who distanced from me. I wasn't doing anything wrong by finding comfort in another person. 

What bothered me was how he was defending the fact that I might be with someone else. Not bothered by it in the slightest, but defending it. Bob seemed to sense my discomfort and took my hand in his gently, squeezing to let me know that he could tell something was bothering me. My heart swelled.

"But- see- this is what I'm talking about," Walker continued, now pointing to our hands. 

I could see Bucky approaching the living room out of the corner of my eye and tensed. He made quick eye contact with me, trying to read my expression before glancing quickly down at our hands. I wasn't sure, but I swore I could almost see his right eyebrow raise just a tiny bit.

He pursed his lips and turned back to Walker, "I said. Lay. Off."

Walker rolled his eyes, but was clearly intimidated by Bucky's tone as he decided to shut up after that. 

I had never outwardly mentioned my feelings for Bucky to Bob before, but I had a feeling he might’ve figured it out on his own. After getting so close with him, I quickly learned that he is always analyzing the people around him. He knows a lot more about the team than probably anyone else– except for me. I get the honor of listening to all of his observations in the late hours we spend together. 

With the look Bob gave me as Bucky sat on the couch opposite to us, I immediately could tell that he had it figured out. He gave me a questioning look– almost imperceptible– if I hadn’t been paying close attention. I nodded in response, to which he gave me a shy smile back. He knew. Of course he did. 

Bucky’s gaze returned to us, and I could see his eyes flicker again between us, then down to our joined hands. He turned his head away from us and began watching some old movie that Alexei put on. I don’t know why I thought he would care after all this time. I should have gotten used to the fact that he had been keeping me at an arm’s distance for months now, but my heart must not have gotten the memo. I shook my head, attempting to clear my mind of the disappointment before it started to show.

Alexei laughed at a scene in the movie, then announced, “We should do a movie night tonight. Team bonding or whatever the Winter Soldier is always talking to us about. Yes?”

Yelena sighed from the opposite side of the living room, rolling her eyes, “Dad, no one wants to have a movie night. Especially if you make us watch with Russian subtitles again.”

“I’m with Alexei on this one,” Bucky said, “We need to continue to learn how to coexist together– as a team. It’ll make it easier for us to coexist on the battlefield.”

“The battlefield?” Walker says with a scoff, “Dude thinks he’s still in World War II.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, shooting a sharp look at Walker before saying, “You know what I meant, dipshit.”

I decided to pitch into the conversation, having a brief memory of a similar conversation years ago. “No, no. He’s right. We used to do these stupid team bonding exercises back in the day with the team–” I paused for a second, trying to void my voice of the thick emotions I felt as I spoke. The memories of the special time we spent together before our fight with Thanos never failed to choke me up. I missed them. I missed the old me.

Before I could continue, Bucky took over, “See? And that helped us coordinate better together when we fought– right doll?”

I nodded, and felt a light squeeze on my hand as Bob looked at me encouragingly. “Right,” I managed to get out, “Right. It helped a lot.”

Bucky met my eyes briefly with an understanding expression, then glanced back at Bob and raised his eyebrows at me, asking a silent question. I turned my head.

Yelena stood, stretching her arms out and announced, “I will go get Ava to tell her we are watching a movie.” Everyone nodded or grumbled in acknowledgment as she exited the room.

After Yelena returned with Ava, it was a quiet, relaxing night. We watched ‘Red Dawn’ by suggestion of Alexei, of course, but it wasn’t too bad. I started nodding off about halfway through, feeling the weight of my lack of sleep starting to push through the surface. I leaned onto Bob’s shoulder and closed my eyes.

“You okay?” I heard him whisper in my ear a couple minutes later.

I nodded, too tired to speak.

“H-he keeps looking over here,” he whispered, and I blinked my eyes open to see what he was talking about. Straight in front of me, Bucky was staring right at us. When we made eye contact he pursed his lips, and I could see his eyebrows pinching together in the light from the TV. He shook his head lightly and turned back his attention to the movie.

I dozed off again, and when I woke up the credits were rolling. The only people left in the living room were myself, Bob— who looked like he could fall asleep himself— Alexei, and Bucky.

I sat up from where I had been leaning on Bob and stretched, getting ready to head to bed myself.

“Y-you going to bed?” Bob asked, sitting up to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

I reached out to his hand, gave it a squeeze and nodded, “Might be back out here in a few hours, though.”

Bob smiled gently, nodding and waved goodnight to me.

“Goodnight, Bucky.” I said, “Night Alexei, see you both tomorrow,” I waved to them, starting to exit the room.

As soon as I entered the elevator my heart stopped as I heard a, “Hey, wait up,” coming from outside. Of course. A metal hand stopped the doors from closing as Bucky entered the elevator with me.

“I’m turning in, too,” he said, yawning.

I nodded, not letting myself speak.

“You like the movie?” He asked casually, turning to face me. I stayed facing the elevator doors.

I shrugged, “I kind of fell asleep… so I missed most of it.”

I could see him nodding in the corner of my eye. “Yeah…” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

The elevator dinged, the doors opening as we reached our floor. I was the first to exit.

“Well, goodnight, Bucky.” I said, already walking toward my room.

I felt a cold grip on my hand, and was pulled back from my quick steps.

“Hang on,” he said softly, looking down at me, running his flesh hand over his face. He said nothing.

“What’s up?” I asked, trying to ignore the feelings that were overtaking me from the moment he stepped into the elevator.

He shuffled, letting go of my hand, and nodded to my door, “Can we talk?”

I sighed, considering what it would feel like to have him in my room, at this hour, talking alone. I shuddered, but nodded, opening the door to my bedroom. He followed me in.

I closed the door behind us, staring up at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

“Let’s sit down,” he said, strolling over to my bedroom and taking a seat. I joined him.

“What’s up?” I asked again, kicking off my shoes and avoiding eye contact. I knew as soon as I looked into those steel blue eyes that I would be a goner.

He sighed, and took my hand in his, instantly rubbing circles on the back of it. “Look at me,” he breathed. I hesitated, taking a deep breath to compose myself.

“Doll…” he said. I looked up.

As soon as we made eye contact I could see a sadness behind his eyes. One that made me feel guilty, for some reason. Guilty that I hadn’t noticed before— guilty that I hadn’t taken care of him. But then I remembered— we don’t do that anymore.

“Hey,” he said, sensing that I’d started to lose focus, “Are you okay?” He asked gently, still rubbing circles on the back of my hand.

“Yeah,” I said quickly, “I’m fine. Sorry, just tired.”

He nodded, taking a breath and running his metal hand through his hair. “I know, you haven’t slept much at all lately. But that’s not what I meant.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, completely taken aback by his statement. I didn’t think anyone in the tower was aware of my arrangement with Bob, especially not him.

He ignored my question. “What I meant was— are you okay after tonight? I know you were thinking of them. I was too. I just had to check on you, doll.”

There it was again. His tender words and actions had me falling deeply— madly— but I pushed those feelings down. I couldn’t deal with them tonight. Not again.

“I’m fine. Thanks for checking,” I said, almost believing my own lie. I seemed to be the only one.

Bucky sighed again, scooting closer to me. He slowly reached up with his metal hand, brushing a hair out of my face as he examined my expression. I shivered at the cold touch, but held eye contact.

“Okay,” he resigned, “Okay…” he pulled his hand out of mine, moving further away from me and I instantly felt more on edge. I frowned, looking back down at his hands. The hands that I used to hold to fall asleep, as he whispered happy thoughts in my ear. The hands that I always wished would do more than just hold my own, but never did.

He shifted, and I could sense a change in his demeanor before he spoke again, “I wasn’t going to ask… but after today, I just want to know. I can keep Walker off your back, I just want you to tell me the truth. Are you and Bob together?”

His voice sounded tight when he said it. It warmed my heart that he is still looking out for me, but for all of the wrong reasons.

I shrugged, already on edge, “That isn’t any of your business.”

He rolled his eyes, visibly getting irritated, “Come on, doll. You know you can tell me. What happened? It’s like you put a wall up and you won’t let me through anymore.”

I felt something snap inside me, “You put the wall up, Buck. You moved away. You are the one who stopped answering my calls. You are the one who left. Not me. So yeah, it’s none of your business who I might be seeing.”

He sighed, standing up from the bed and throwing his arms to his sides, “So you are seeing him?”

I stood up in front of him, raising my voice slightly, but keeping it low enough to not wake the others. “No, Bucky. I’m not seeing him. He’s just been the only person who’s been there for me. That should’ve been you, but you left.”

Bucky’s face fell, his eyes reflecting that deep sadness that they held earlier. “Sweetheart, will you just relax?”

I shook my head, looking away, trying to blink away the hot tears that were burning in my eyes. He took a step toward me, slowly extending an arm. His hand met my cheek, gently, and he turned my face to look at his own. When he saw the tears in my eyes his shoulders sagged. He took a step back and sat on the bed with his shoulders on his knees, and his palms rubbing his head.

“I’m sorry, doll. I didn’t know.” He said, looking at the floor. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so instead just shook my head.

“Sweetheart, please. Will you come here so I can apologize properly?” He asked softly, extending one of his hands to me. I hesitantly took it and sat on the bed, a few feet away from him.

He held my hand and looked into my eyes. “I’m sorry, doll. I had no idea. All this time— all this time I thought you had moved on. I saw you with Bob one of your first nights here. I thought you and him were… well— it doesn’t matter. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

I stared at him, unsure of what to say. It was weird— having a conversation like this with him after so long. It felt nice. It felt refreshing, like I’d been away for months and I was finally coming home— but I didn’t say that.

“Oh, baby,” Bucky said, taking my other hand in his metal one, looking down at them sadly, “When I was distant… I wasn’t trying to be. It was such a weird time. I was so caught up with the Valentina bullshit… then I had to save all of their asses,” he cocked his head to the side, gesturing to the other bedrooms. I let out a small laugh, and I saw his eyes soften for just a millisecond.

He squeezed my hands, looking deeply into my eyes, “Doll, you know I would’ve been with you every day if I could’ve… that’s why I asked you to move in here with me. I thought things were going to be—“ he paused, looking back down at our hands, before starting again, “I thought we were going to be like how we were. Then I saw you with Bob… and gosh, sweetheart, I just wanted you to be happy. It broke my heart but I just wanted you to be happy…”

I closed my eyes, feeling incredibly stupid. I breathed out a long breath, before I trusted myself to speak.

“Buck…” my voice came out small, but steady, “I didn’t know. I wish you would’ve came to me after you saw that…” I paused, getting my thoughts together as I shifted my weight on the mattress.

“But…” I continued, “You could’ve called. You could’ve just filled me in on your life— instead of shutting me out— instead of making me feel so alone.”

He inched forward, reaching out to cup my face so that I looked right into his eyes. He looked so devastated and I was starting to crack— slowly— one piece of me falling right back into his arms at a time.

“Doll, I wish you knew how much I wanted to. Really…” he shook his head, “After I left, I started focusing on work. I was trying to save up— I wanted to—“ he stopped, sighing out, “Oh, doll, I was trying to get us a place… then I found out we were moving into the tower… you were the first call I made.”

I was speechless. I was standing there like a fish, opening and closing my mouth— a million things that I wanted to say— but none of them seeming right.

“So…” I said, unsure of what would come out of my mouth next. “You… you wanted…” I trailed off, too overwhelmed with this information.

“I wanted you to move in with me,” Bucky finished for me, “When I asked you to move into the tower— of course I wanted you to join the team— but most importantly I wanted you to move in with me. To be…”

He looked straight into my eyes when he said the last part. “To be mine, doll. That’s what I wanted.”

I melted in his hands, completely wrecked by his confession. Finally, after all of this time, I allowed my gaze to flicker between his eyes and his lips. Without saying a word out loud he nodded, pulling me in.

Our lips met softly, but I quickly pulled away, shaking my head again. “N-no,” I choked out, “but… but what about the dating apps? Sam told me you joined them right after you moved out. Right after everything happened with us.”

Bucky leaned back, sighing and rolling his eyes. He looked at me and said, “Sam orchestrated all of that. I didn’t— I didn’t know if you wanted me to tell him about us— Doll, I didn’t even know if there was an us yet,” he sighed again, rubbing a palm to his forehead, “I never used them, just downloaded them to shut him up. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t know you knew about that.”

I nodded, breathing out shakily. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Bucky breathed, reaching out to my hand with his own, “So what are you thinking?”

I paused for a second, before letting out a breathy laugh, “That I need to talk to Bob.”

His expression turned confused, then hurt, so I quickly said, “He is the only one who knew about my feelings for you. And— he’s kind of my best friend. I need to fill him in on everything.”

Bucky nodded, sighing again and stood up from my bed, letting go of my hand. “I’m glad we had that talk. It was long overdue.”

“I agree, very long overdue,” I replied, nodding.

He smiled down at me, pausing for a moment, then shifted, “Alright, I’ll let you get to bed, doll. You need the sleep.”

I nodded, looking back up at him. He slowly leaned down, carefully taking my face in his hands and placed a soft kiss on my forehead, before standing and turning to leave.

“Wait—“ I called out before I could stop myself. He turned back, looking at me expectantly. “I will,” I said with no further explanation.

He paused, a confused look crossing his face, “You will, what?”

“I’ll move in with you. To your room,” I said, nodding— feeling confident in my words.

A smile instantly covered his face, reaching his eyes. He looked away, like we was afraid I might take it back.

“And I want you. I want to be yours,” I nodded, feeling a smile overtaking my own face.

He crouched down, immediately taking my face in his hands, giving me a slow, gentle kiss that I’ve been longing for forever. His cold hand on my face made me shiver. I wrapped my arms around the back of his neck, drawing him closer to me and deepening the kiss. He moved to sit on the bed next to me, pulling away for just a moment and searching my eyes desperately.

He reached out again, and hastily took my face in his hands and kissed me hard. I felt every nerve in my body ignite, responding to every move he made. I reciprocated, running my fingers through his hair.

He tugged me closer, drawing me to throw one leg over his own, our chests aligning. I gasped, but didn’t break the kiss. He gripped the back of my legs, pulling me impossibly close until there was no more room between us. He broke the kiss, traveling down to my neck, tilting my jaw up gently with his metal hand. I shivered at the cold metal pressing against me.

“You don’t— know how— long I’ve— wanted to have you— like this,” he said between kisses, trailing down to my collarbone.

I gripped his hair, tilting my head back even further to allow access. “I’ve wanted it since the first time we shared a bed,” I breathlessly confessed in the heat of the moment.

He pulled away for a moment, resting his hand on my chin, running his thumb over my bottom lip. “Oh, doll,” he breathed, looking at me intensely, “I’ve wanted you since the day I met you.”

My heart fluttered at his words, and I had to fight back the tears burning in my eyes at his confession.

“Buck…” I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. “You mean everything to me.”

“Will you come stay tonight? In my room?” He asked, suddenly sounded shy.

I nodded fiercely, “I’ll come stay every night. Always.”

He breathed a sigh of happiness, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, doll.”

“Wait,” I said, pulling away abruptly, “I have one condition.”

He smiled at me lovingly, “Anything.”

“I still have to go see Bob. At least some nights.”

“Deal.” He leaned in, giving me a quick kiss before lifting me up and carrying me to his room for the night.

The next morning, we walked to training together. Everyone’s heads turned when we entered the gym, but nobody said a word. Bob waved at me from the bench he was sitting on, giving me a small thumbs up when Bucky wasn’t looking.

“Okay, so we’re all going to just pretend the walls here aren’t paper thin?” Walker finally spoke.

This time, instead of glaring daggers at him, Bucky just smiled and looked at me lovingly.

[avocado-writing]

being the worst wolverine’s wife and one day you get zapped by the TVA for whatever reason, and it looks like you completely disappeared, this is what leads logan to become depressed, start drinking and ultimately ignore the x men when they die etc etc

he goes with wade purely bc he would if you were alive- he couldn’t give less of a shit about wade’s universe but he can feel you over his shoulder like an angel telling him he needs to do this (i imagine it’s like the jean hallucinations he had in the wolverine movie)

what if you’re in the void and he finds you with the rest of the group, like being unable to believe you’re really here?

hehe i love angst and ily avo <3

I already did a “Logan meets you in the void” fic here so I didn’t wanna make this too long or I’d just end up hitting the same beats!

1.4k. rated m for excessive use of the word “fuck”

The day you disappeared you took his fucking soul with him. 

You had been out shopping. Nothing weird about that, he wasn’t some overbearing husband who demanded to know your location every single hour. But then afternoon had turned into evening had turned into night and nobody had heard from you. The unfamiliar sensation of panic had risen, queasy, from his stomach into his chest. They sent out a search party and looked for days. Not a trace of you to be found. Logan couldn’t smell you. Fuck, he’d never not been able to smell you before.

He would hunt for you every day, hoping to find you alive but trying to level with the idea of you being cold and dead because at least then he’d have closure; he’d stay awake for hours on end until he collapsed from exhaustion… then he’d wake up and repeat the whole horrible affair. Nothing. After weeks of searching, Charles had laid a hand on his arm. Logan can still remember the look of pity on his face, like a bomb to the gut. 

“I’m so sorry, Logan.”

They had to assume you were abducted and killed. Your body never turned up. And Logan just had to… keep going. How was he meant to keep going? You were his entire fucking life and then you were just…

Gone. 

To say he was left empty was the biggest understatement of his fucking life. He was a shell of the man he once was. He never laughed any more, never smiled, always trying to plug the hole your absence left in him with whatever alcohol he could get his hands on. Drink himself to a place where he could forget you.

It never really worked. At least it made him numb to the pain though. 

When he staggers home one evening, eyes bleary and head spinning, and finds the whole mansion torched? Everyone left that he loved fucking dead? Well, it takes the last vestiges of his existence and crushes them into dust. 

Oh, Logan, he hears in the back of his mind. Your voice. It breaks him. He falls to his knees, hands buried in the burning timbers, and wails. 

He survives. He does not live. Thinking about everyone he’s lost, with you haunting the corners of his consciousness, always reaching out to comfort him - but when he goes to nuzzle into the warmth of your palm he is overcome with rage and bitterness to find it’s just his own imagination playing tricks on him. 

Then a fucking idiot in red dragged him away from the shambles which was his life and forced him to be functional again, if only barely. He’s angry, so angry all of the goddamn time, even when in the back of his mind he can hear you speaking sweet, calming words to him. 

And then he hears your voice for real. 

Sees you standing across the base this pathetic resistance has made. You look older, sure, he does too - but there’s no mistaking the fire in those eyes. You’re even wearing the same fucking shirt you went missing in, he remembers it, it has a picture of your favourite band. 

His heart stops dead in his chest as you whisper his name. 

“Logan?”

“Oh shit!” says Wade, and Logan has never wanted to kill him more, “Oh shit! Is this your refrigeratored wife, coming back to throw in a third act character arc?”

Logan finishes the bourbon bottle and throws the empty at Wade’s head, where it shatters and knocks him flat. You wince at the violence and he feels like pure shit. 

“I’m fine,” Wade calls from the ground, sticking a thumbs-up into the air. 

“Logan, I…” you clearly want to say something, but you have not been met with the Logan you knew. That Logan would have spent no time running to pick you up and hold you in his arms. This one half-snarls at the man he bloodied on the floor. 

There is an agonising silence, both of you wanting to speak but not being sure how. You take a hesitant step forward. 

“I never thought I’d…”

“How do I know it’s you?”

You recoil like he’s stabbed you with his claws, confusion and hurt flooding your face. Goddamn. He is the worst man alive. He’s not sure if he’s saying it because he just wants to lash out at the nearest person, or…

… or if, because he gets his hopes up, it might just kill him to have them crash down again. 

“What?”

“All these fuckin’ timelines. How do I know? How can I be sure that you’re you?”

The sadness in your face melts away into anger. When you step forward this time, you’re on the warpath. He sees the others in the room cringe, trapped now in this caustic reunion. 

“How can you be sure it’s me? Fuck, Logan, I knew it was you, didn’t I? What do you want? You want me to show you the shitty tattoo I got after we first started dating and we were both drunk?” You lift your sleeve to reveal a little design on your shoulder. “Want me to tell you how an eighteen-year-old Marie was my bridesmaid and she cried because she didn’t think anyone would ever be that kind to her after living as a mutant again? Want me to fucking remind you that in my vows I said I would be by your side, for fucking ever, no matter what - and how when that TVA agent zapped me when I was out for the day and I ended up here, it was only the thought of fulfilling those vows which kept me going? How about all that, or do I fucking need to humiliate myself more?” At this, you gesture to the others who have lined up at the side of the room, trying to look scarce but utterly failing. 

Your shoulders are heaving with emotions, tears hot and heavy in your eyes but not yet spilling over. Logan grits his jaw. Yeah. It’s you. 

“I…” he starts, but trails off when he realises there’s nothing he can say. You shake your head, numb. 

“Fuck you, Logan Howlett,” you spit, words you’ve never ever thrown his way before, and run out of the room. 

“Wow. Aced that one, peanut,” says Wade, and Logan rips off one of his legs. 

He finds you several hours later at a campfire outside the rundown building which makes up headquarters. LeBeau has clearly been kind enough to part with some of his liquor, because you’re gulping down whiskey like it’s air. You stare at him, embers dancing in bitter eyes. 

“What do you want?” you snap. He grunts as he sits down opposite you, either from age or exertion. Stares into the flames. 

“I never stopped looking,” he manages. 

You blink. 

“What?”

“I never…” he shifts uncomfortably. It’s been a long time since he bared this much of his soul. “I never stopped. Even when the others told me to give up, that I would only make it worse for myself, I’d still search. Couldn’t face the idea you weren’t there any more.”

It’s true. If he was twelve bottles deep he’d be looking, if he was hungover as a dog he’d be looking. When the rest of the X-Men were still there and even after they weren’t. If he wasn’t sitting at a bar he was on the streets, ever a bloodhound trying to catch your scent again. 

For the first time you soften. 

“Oh.”

“So… when I asked if it was you… ah, fuck. I didn’t mean to come off as an asshole. Just couldn’t live with it if it wasn't true. Wasn’t real.”

When you stand he expects a slap. He deserves it. What he doesn’t count on is you sitting down - not on the log next to him, but in his lap. He hasn’t felt you do that for so long, and it’s so good. Your warmth on his thigh. You grab one of his hands, still larger than yours, and press it to your chest so he can feel your beating heart. 

“I’m real, Logan. I’m right here, baby,” you whisper, eyes dewy. Fuck. His are as well; he can’t help it. He’s overwhelmed by you, your feel, your gaze, your smell. He’d forgotten how much he loved it. 

Logan noses upwards against you, searching for your lips, and you let him find them. When you stroke his hair he can feel the wedding ring on your left hand. The kiss is desperate, longing, and the best one he’s ever had. 

“Right here,” you repeat, forehead against his. He grips you so tightly that it’s possible he’ll never let go again. 

[joelsbloodyhands]

Enjoy the Silence

SUMMARY: You come home from work and find yourself having sensory overload from everything. Joel comes home and takes care of you.

WARNINGS: no outbreak, no mention of Ellie 😭, established relationship with Joel, soft!Joel, descriptions of loud noises, reader gets big sad and unable to manage themselves, needs Joel for comfort, an overuse of terms of endearment (baby, sweetheart, honey), Joel is here to help with everything, sensory overload of touch, sounds, sensitive smell. Just absolute fluff (I need it so bad rn) 🤧 no use of y/n, gender neutral pronouns used, reader has hair long enough to tie up, reader has no visible disabilities. Reader loves Sarah. WE LOVE SARAH 🥺 but she’s unintentionally overwhelming us, sorry Babygirl 😭

Dividers by @nicodefresas 🎀

A/N: As I’m writing this, I’m currently having the worst sensory overload episode 😔 also I don’t think I should need to specify but everyone has different triggers and symptoms when dealing with overstimulation. A lot of this is based on my own personal experiences.

You don’t have the foggiest clue where it triggered from.

You just know that one minute you were grinding away at work, then you were driving home in the rain becoming all too aware of the blaring lights of other cars bothering your eyes more than they usually did.

If you could’ve worn sunglasses without crashing in the evening darkness, you would have. The sudden outburst of a car horn had you gripping the steering wheel tighter causing you to subconsciously flex your fingers, becoming all too aware of the rough leather of the steering wheel against your dry hands.

Dry hands. My lips are dry too.

You lick your lips.

My mouth tastes weird.

You’re becoming all too aware of your teeth grinding against each other.

Just tired, yeah…that’s all. Just tired. Long day at work. I’ll be fine once I get home.

So you keep driving.

Sarah was home when you got back. Her voice shaking you awake as soon as you passed the threshold of the house while she spoke to you about her day.

You look forward to these moments usually.

Coming back to Sarah and Joel.

Gossiping about the joys of working and all the drama of high school that you definitely don’t miss but enjoy hearing when Sarah gives you her best dramatic retelling of events.

Though as she followed you through the corridor to the kitchen, your ears rang.

Is she talking louder than normal?

You open the refrigerator, a sudden overwhelming scent of Thai green curry catching your senses and not in a good way.

But it’s your favourite?

Joel made it yesterday, putting the leftovers into three Tupperware boxes to eat for dinner today. The pounding of the washing machine and dryer causes you to close the refrigerator uneasily, your eyes glancing to it. Sarah’s voice joining the chorus of sounds echoing off the kitchen walls.

You don’t feel hungry all of a sudden.

“Are you okay?” Sarah voice breaks through and you come to realise you must have been staring at her for an awful long time, your eyes wide.

You nod and Sarah frowns ever so slightly.

“So what do you think?”

Your mind goes blank.

You didn’t even hear anything she said except yes you did but it was so loud, you didn’t take any of it in.

“About what?” You find yourself murmuring, your own voice startling you.

It sounds unfamiliar to you for some reason.

You’re worried you’ve upset her while Sarah takes a minute before a smile breaks out on her lips and she’s laughing and prodding you on the arm playfully. Your eyes drift there instinctively, her laughter making you wince.

You don’t laugh in return.

“Long day at work, huh?” She giggles and rolls her eyes before telling you she needs to go study and that you should eat dinner.

She leaves you then, your body standing in the same position in front of the refrigerator where she left you. The sound of her feet hitting against the staircase filling your head, the floorboards creaking harshly. You exhale a heavy breath.

As you stand there, eyes turning distastefully towards the washing machine and dryer singing their tune far too loud, your skin starts to itch. You tug at the sleeves of your work shirt, unbuckle the belt at your waist, the feeling too tight against your hips. You pull the hair tie from your wrist and put your hair up into a bun, the tickle of the hairs against the back of your neck bothering you.

You know what’s happening.

You’re just trying to refuse to accept that it is, hoping that for once you can just ignore it and go about the rest of your evening like you originally planned.

You just want to hear Joel’s voice, cuddle into him on the couch, eat your curry and go to bed.

Except when you hear the front door open and his voice is carrying through to the kitchen, you retract into yourself, carrying your feet away from the overwhelming sounds of mundane tasks and to the staircase. You want nothing more than to sit on the floor of your bedroom with your legs crossed and the lights off.

So you skip up the stairs, albeit with dramatic wide steps, trying not to trigger the creakiest of the floorboards. When you get to yours and Joel’s bedroom, flooded with darkness, you shut the door and allow yourself to crumble.

Ah you can’t take this. You need your shirt.

Where is it?!

You’re frantic, the tears falling down your cheeks as you continue to feel itchy in your work shirt, longing for the wide airy comfort t-shirt you keep for this very reason.

“Hey,” a whisper sounds behind you and you turn abruptly, eyes wide to see Joel stood, his eyes on you intently as he holds your oversized shirt by the shoulders in both hands.

Lost in all your distress, you hadn’t even heard him come in.

You realise you’re crying then.

“Joel, I-“

He watches you harshly rub at your face.

He knows you hate to be touched at times like this.

It feels like nails on a chalkboard but he ever so gently, puts two fingers to the wrist of your hand practically clawing at your face and you drop it immediately, your eyes meeting his again, pained and bloodshot.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you cry, “I’m just-“ you flail your arms in frustration, the intense sound of your sobs making your eyes twitch.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, moving towards you and taking the hem of your shirt in his fingers, careful not to graze any more skin as he starts to lift it from your body.

“You don’t need to apologise, baby,” he keeps whispering, “let’s get you more comfortable, hm?”

Joel knew all too well about your episodes.

In fact, it’s partly the reason of how he met you at Tommy’s house when you attended a barbecue and got overwhelmed by the music and sounds of neighbours, talking and getting louder the more drunk they got.

Joel had planned to leave early but was surprised when he found you curled in the bottom of a dark closet when he was retrieving his coat.

He froze when he saw you, your watery eyes lifting up at him, your arms wrapped around your knees pulled up against your chest.

Your cheeks had flushed dangerously, embarrassed about being found in this predicament but all Joel saw was a young woman clearly upset so he bent down to your level, his head turning this way and that scoping the corridor to make sure no one was around and asked you what was wrong and if he could help in any way.

You had shook your head so fast, the room span but Joel didn’t back away so easily.

Truth be told, you’d caught his attention all night and Tommy had nudged and smirked at him for noticing his eyes on you, encouraging him to go talk to you but he never did.

He couldn’t find a reason to.

Well, what more of a reason did he need than finding you sat with your back against a coat closet in his brothers house?

You had stood up so shakily that Joel found himself wanting to take you in his arms just to offer you some support to stand but you backed away when his hands instinctively held out to grab you if you fell.

He retracted them just as quick.

You told him you were fine and thanked him, saying you just needed to call an Uber and go home. You made the excuse that you’d had too much to drink and your head was spinning.

Dizzy and nauseous, you just needed somewhere dark to sit.

With the daunting thought in mind of having to sit in a stuffy taxi with a voice trying to make polite conversation with you, you didn’t catch Joel’s offer until you met his eyes again and he realised your blank expression, his back straightening and voice softening with a smile.

“If you need a dark closet, I got one at my place across the street if you need it?”

Somehow you laughed and even though your own voice hurt your ears, you found yourself saying, “if you’d said that to anyone else, you’d sound like a murderer,” and all it took was Joel’s pretty smile to take him up on his offer.

Except rather than a dark closet, he simply closed the curtains in his living room, offered you some chamomile tea, a blanket and sat in silence with you on the couch. And though your voices were silent, your mind was loud, finding it completely baffling that a man you just met and barely knew was being so incredibly sweet as to offer you a safe space. No questions asked.

Then he’d asked you out on a date and you were absolutely dumbfounded.

Later in your relationship, you had admitted what had happened and while he understood what it meant to feel overwhelmed (god did he feel it sometimes), sensory overload was a completely new term for him.

You explained as best you could, your cheeks the same shade of red he had seen when he found you in the closet. Joel took it upon himself when he was awake lying next to you, tangled up asleep in his bedsheets, to take his phone from his bedside and spend a good hour reading about what sensory overload was and how it can be eased.

You couldn’t believe your luck of finding this man. You practically thank that damn closet for it’s existence in Tommy’s house every time you visit.

So now you’re back in that predicament again and Joel is pulling back the covers from the bed, folding it up at the end knowing you just want a nice cool mattress to lay against.

Your heart twists at his care, tears falling from your eyes like rain, except Joel is the sun as warm and inviting as can be even when you want nothing more than to be left alone.

“Okay, honey,” he now whispers, knowing it’s easier to talk to you that way. His heart aches at the sight of you as he turns to face you, slowly walking so that his footsteps don’t make too much noise along the wooden floorboards.

“You wanna lie down? I’ll get you something to eat.”

“I don’t think I can eat, Joel,” you reply, your voice shaky as you lay down on the bed. Joel kneeling beside it, his palms flat on the mattress beside you while you lay on your side looking up at him.

“Usually liquids are best, right? Soup? Or I could make you a smoothie? And a cup of tea? Do you want your noise cancelling earphones, baby?” Your eyes are tearing again at his words and Joel’s face crumples at your glistening cheeks.

“It’s okay, honey,” he cooes, hand rubbing the mattress, pretending it’s your back.

“I feel bad,” you cry.

“No, no, no, sweetheart,” Joel shushes you, knowing all too well where this is leading and disallowing you to talk badly about yourself.

“But Sarah, she…she was trying to tell me about something and I couldn’t even concentrate on what she was saying-“

“Baby, you know Sarah understands,” Joel leans in closer, his breath on your face as he reassures you of your racing thoughts.

“She told me as soon as I came in that she thought you were having an episode. She knows, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widen, your crying stopping momentarily.

“Really?” You ask, your throat dry.

Joel nods, a small smile on his lips, “And she gets it, baby. She doesn’t judge. We’ve talked about it before. Just to make sure she always knew you might have a moment every now and again so if you need space, it doesn’t have anything to do with our relationship or the one you have with her. She loves you, honey and she knows you love her. Okay?”

You nod and Joel’s smile grows, glad to have consoled you.

“Now,” he starts again, “I’ll go get you what you need and you stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

You nod again, “thank you, Joel.”

Joel has to stifle his chuckle only a little, “how many times do I have to tell you? You don’t need to thank me, sweetheart. I’m your partner. It’s important that I take care of you. You do it for us plenty.”

You smile a little and it makes Joel swoon, happy to finally see your lips turn up, your dimples gracing the edges.

True to his word, he disappears but not before scoping the wardrobe and retrieving your earphones. You put them in and try to close your eyes and relax when he leaves. Trying to will your body to loosen up, your muscles to relax rather than freeze rigidly with every sensation. The mattress is cool, your long shirt light and airy and Joel left a cold glass of water with a straw on the bedside for when your mouth was feeling too dry.

He was one in a million and you smiled knowing you won the lottery when he found you that day in the wardrobe and then you became the richest person on the planet when you met Sarah and the connection you had to both of them grew stronger until he eventually asked you to move in.

Five years later and here you were. A family.

The best family you could’ve asked for.

“Hey baby,” you lift your head to see Joel wandering in, taking out one of your buds as he places a shaker bottle he normally uses for his protein shakes on the bedside full of a pink smoothie, joined by a cup of camomile and a bowl of your favourite soup.

“Thank you, baby,” you smile and Joel turns his head giving you a wink, seeing you that you seem to be gradually returning back to your normal self.

And luckily you are feeling a little more comfy now.

The sounds of the evening chores going on downstairs are becoming less aggravating.

You don’t feel like you need to tear your skin off your body. In fact you’re almost longing for a bath, feeling a little sweaty from being worked up so bad earlier.

“Joel?” You sit up, Joel turning to see the way your oversized shirt rides up over your underwear, his face flushing at the sight.

“You need something, baby?” He’s got that flirty smile on his face, the one that tells you he sees something he likes but you’re still not completely past your overwhelming senses.

If anything, you’re now bothered by the smell of sweat emitting from your body.

“You know how you love me so much?” You start and Joel’s eyes crease, his smile growing into a full grin.

He hums in response, awaiting your command.

“Pretty please could you run me a bath? You always make it feel so good.”

Joel kneels at the bottom of the bed, his flirty smirk returning at your words, his hands splaying out over the mattress, smoothing over it as you inch a bit closer to him.

“Is that right, sweetheart? You want a nice warm bath with all your rose petals and bubble bath? Is that what you need, baby?”

You nod with a pout, overplaying it a bit, watching his tongue poke into his cheek amused by your behaviour.

“If that’s what you need, I can do that for you but first I need you to eat some of your soup and drink some of your smoothie. Can you do that for me?”

You nod with a dimpled smile and as much as he longs to reach out and graze your knee with his fingertips, he reframes from doing so, continuing to respect your boundaries while you might still be working through your hypersensitivity.

True to his word, Joel ran the bathtub at just the right temperature, sprinkling rose scented petals and dropping a floral scented bath bomb into it. He’d even gone as far as to light some candles, set a fresh cup of tea on the side and stolen some chocolates from the last Halloween run you’d had with Sarah.

If you thought your lover couldn’t get any sweeter, he’d helped you out of your clothes and respectfully kept his hands away from you until you prompted him with a small smile to offer his hand and help you climb into the tub.

Joel left you to check on Sarah while you laid back, your senses mellowing out and coming back down from the heightened agitation you were experiencing earlier. Now finally you felt like a weight had been lifted. Your skin felt less itchy.

“So pretty…”

Your cheeks redden when Joel walks into the misty bathroom, stopping in his tracks at the doorframe and overlooking your soft skin peppered with fluffy soap.

“Have you washed your hair, honey?”

You shake your head, your smile slipping momentarily.

You would have done it if the room wasn’t a little cold. You were doing what you could to stay buried under the hot water, still feeling slightly sensitive to the temperature of the room. The aspect of lifting your bare wet arms out of the water to massage your scalp made you feel uneasy. You weren’t completely out of this episode yet and even if you were, the twinkle in Joel’s eyes told you he’d still offer up his services.

You watch him with bated breath as he kneels beside the tub, pushing up the sleeves of his favourite green plaid shirt, your eyes following the hardened muscles of his forearms up to his biceps peeking out under the flannel.

Though Joel may have a soft tummy, his arms were a statement to his hard work running a construction company with his brother, Tommy.

You rather adored your man being soft and a little hard around the edges.

“Want me to help you, sweetheart?” His voice captures you again, your eyes on his soft brown orbs.

You nod wordlessly, suddenly longing for his large hands and gentle fingers to work their way through your locks and massage your scalp deliciously.

You anticipate Joel’s touch anxiously when he leans over and reaches for your cherry scented shampoo, squeezing the red shiny liquid over his thick hands and lathering it together.

He offers you a smile, his head tilting in request to proceed in touching you. You nod and he moves behind you, his fingers sinking up into your hair from the back. You fight to suppress a shiver tickling up your spine when Joel works the product through your scalp, massaging and coating the ends of your hair with soft strokes.

It constantly amazed you how Joel’s strong hands that spent most the day throwing around heavy parts, growing calloused from checking wooden palettes during the day, could become so delicate and gentle when touching you.

You smiled to yourself, dropping your chin to your wet chest with a satisfied sigh.

Joel made sure not to massage too hard or tug harshly at your hair. He didn’t want to make you retreat back into your shell by triggering your hypersensitivity again.

He could see just from how your shoulders were gradually easing back down to normal level below your chin that your overstimulation was dissipating as the time passed.

He bites his inner gum when he hears a slight moan leave your lips at his movements.

“That feel okay?”

You hum in response, a short nod of your head.

“Good,” Joel whispers, even daring to lean forward, your damp soapy strands sticking to his cheek when he presses a slow soft kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your words caress the relaxed atmosphere.

Joel smiles.

Joel wanting nothing more than to strip back and join you, holding you against his chest under the warmth of the water but he continues to hold back.

Instead he greets your quiet intimacy with a whisper.

“I love you too, baby.”

You open your eyes to a light breeze, birds singing and a smoky cup of coffee on your bedside in your favourite mug.

You lay on your side for a good few minutes, blinking away sleep, your hands cradled under your cheek and buried against the pillow.

You don’t remember falling asleep but when you feel a shuffle behind you, large warm hands slipping under your nightshirt and tugging you against his bare body, the memories start flooding back.

You were so relaxed in the bathtub that it made you sleepy. So sleepy in fact that Joel leaned over the tub after emptying it, bundled you up in a fluffy towel and lifted you into his arms.

Your cheeks warm when you vaguely remember the slight groan of protest on Joel’s lips as his aching back retaliated but with you squashed nicely against his chest, Joel couldn’t complain.

He laid you down in your bed carefully and dried you as gently as he could before tucking you in.

You remember being alone in your half-asleep state that you heard the familiar murmur of father-daughter voices, the click of the door and padded footsteps before the mattress dipped.

A kiss pressed against your forehead and all went dark.

Now the world was brighter than ever before, the sounds of the birds and cars passing by doing nothing to disturb your hearing. Your bones no longer stiffening at the natural sounds of life.

More importantly, the sensation of your lovers thumbs brushing your naked hips was very much welcomed. So much so you groaned happily, rolling over to face those perfect brown eyes and plush lips quirked up into a tired smile.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You lean forward, meeting Joel half way and kissing him softly. You let your hands slip under his arms, cuddling into him while shuffling just below his chin.

Joel presses a lingering kiss against your head.

Distantly, you can hear Sarah’s record player and you sigh happily as the music carries through your home.

All I ever wanted…

All I ever needed is here…

In my arms…

You squeeze Joel tighter.

[earthsparked]

So you want to join the coterie, huh? And you want to know what you're getting yourself into.

You know I can’t take sides in command arguments, captain, you gently remind Rodimus for the fifth time this week. I have to honor my obligation to the entire crew.

Rodimus shoots you his best look that says “I’m very sad and betrayed despite having been the one to sign your contract in which this is stated,” and goes back to arguing with Megatron and Ultra Magnus.

Privately you think Megatron is in the right on this issue. Tragic realization: the mech who tried to murder your entire species on several occasions, actually has good leadership skills and knows what he’s doing. But when Rodimus manages to wheedle Magnus into seeing things his way, you can only sigh and double check that your little bag of tricks stored in your utility scraplet, Scrappy, is fully stocked.

It’s going to be one of those days.

It’s not all roaming the galaxy having fun. Sure, there’s plenty of that. You're going to see wonders that human eyes have never seen before. But it’s a lot more, too.

You wriggle backwards out of Brainstorm and Perceptor's mystery machine. You're covered in thick, black grease that’s making your skin itch; they didn't think to check for skin-safety before asking you to crawl into it and fix some finicky little part. You scramble to your feet, a stained shop towel in one hand and a half-used can of solvent in the other. The fumes in the enclosed space are making you a little high.

You kick the access hatch shut and stand back. Go on, Percy, try it now.

Perceptor frowns as the machine whirrs to life, but the screen still throws off an error message. You sigh and shake your head. Your sensitive ears that always made you hate the hum of ceiling lights and refrigerators, are telling you something still isn’t right.

Kill it, I can hear the pitch is still off. Fine, I’ll just take the whole damn gear assembly apart!

Don't touch any of the exposed wires! You'll undo all my work! Brainstorm demands. And adds, belatedly, Also it'll kill you. Why don't you humans have any decent insulation? Terrible design. I could do better if I created a species in my recharge.

You don't think you want to hear where this is going. Grabbing your tools, you crawl back in the mystery machine.

Don't worry about learning mechanical stuff, earth's systems are completely different to their engineering anyway. Besides, it doesn’t matter if you’ve never held a blowtorch in your life, you’ll pick the skills up along the way. A flexible mind and willingness to learn are the only real criteria for any potential coterie member.

You spring out in front of the big blue mech, making him very nearly step on you with one of his birdlike feet. You know he won’t - for all his jokes, there’s not a mech on this ship that would knowingly hurt you. (Knowingly being the operative word.)

I know what I smelled, Whirl. There’s no disguising it. You have a coolant leak. You got some of that guy’s windshield stuck under your plating when you threw him across the bar, didn’t you? And it’s punctured a line.

His single optic narrows in an expressive glare. So what, Crunchy? Why do you care? Move or I’m gonna have more than glass stuck in my mesh.

He slowly and pointedly brings his foot down toward you, humming the Jeopardy! theme music. You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow higher and higher the closer his foot gets, not moving. When it’s just within reach, you make a wild leap, grab for a safe handhold, and hang on for dear life. Whirl shrills an arpeggio of startled mech curses and tries to shake you off, but you cling like a burr.

If you don’t treat it, it’s going to get worse! It’s either me or Ratchet, Whirlybird, and I don’t throw things! I don't care that you got in a fight, I don't - whoa, watch the wall! - I just want you to not be in pain!

He decides after a few attempts that this is a fun game. You’re dizzy as hell by the time he announces Eight seconds! Fine, cowboy, if you want to be inside me THAT badly.

You roll your eyes and somehow manage not to lose your lunch as he sets his foot down and lets you climb off. Scrappy opens his mouth, letting you pull out your gloves and pliers from one of his compartments. You dig out the shards of glass and patch up his coolant line, feeling relieved as you wrap the punctures and clean away the dried coolant. Having one of your mechs hurt always bothers you.

Yeah, you’re gonna make the best friends you’ve ever had. The kind you’d do anything for. And I do mean, anything. They really overplay the whole "humans will pack bond with anything" stuff a little too much, because they don't quite get how our relationships work. But eventually you will find yourself pulling on wells of strength you didn't even know you had, doing things you never thought yourself capable of. Not for yourself, but for them.

You spit a mouthful of blood onto alien ground and try not to let the glowering mech see you shake. Adrenaline or fear, does it matter which? What matters is Tailgate’s down, hurt and in stasis. You got banged up, too, and stayed behind to guard him while the rest of the landing team pushed through the fighting. They wouldn't have left you or him if they'd thought any of the enemy mechs were still in this quadrant. But this one stomped out of the swirling fog, a hulking shape bristling with combat readiness.

He’s big, but so fucking what? You’ve been passed in the halls by mechs much scarier than this guy.

You flip the safety off your weapon - almost too big for you, but barely a pea shooter to a full-sized mech. At your side, Scrappy hisses and snarls, clacking his sharp metal teeth in threat. Just because he's been altered not to eat metal at random, doesn't mean he can't when given permission.

You're supposed to be a non-combatant, untouchable and marked as such by the coterie patch on your shoulder. At worst, you can be held hostage until your ship pays a ransom. But playing by those rules means standing aside and letting this guy do whatever the hell he wants to one of your mechs.

You glance at Tailgate and your heart hurts. When did this ten-foot-tall alien robot start to look so small and vulnerable to you?

Your eyes blur with furious, worried tears, before fixing on the approaching enemy. You step forward, as if your tiny body can shield the wounded mech lying behind you.

Whatever you came here for, you spit as more blood drips down your chin, you’re leaving without it. Go conjunx a belt sander, you torqueless wonder.

But it gets real when you get to the point where you understand, they’d do anything for you, too.

You’ve been cold forever. Can’t remember ever being warm. The endless white snows of the polar icecap of this godforsaken planet you’d come to investigate, was going to be the last thing you saw. One wrong step and the snowbank had collapsed, dumping you into a subterranean cavern. You’re trapped, alone, hypothermic. Your emergency transponder broken. You'd left your pet scraplet behind out of fear his thin armor wouldn't protect him against the cold. You're never going to see the little guy again.

Without him or the transponder, your mechs are never going to find you here. You’re never going to see earth again. They'll just add your name to the coterie's wall of remembrance, and some other human will be on your ship, caring for your mechs. You hope they'll understand how special they all are. That they'll learn Rung needs a listening ear sometimes, and Roddy's boasting often hides his insecurities, and Ratchet's got a soft spark under all that grumbling...

You think you’re hallucinating when you hear the voice. Wait. Is that a heat signature - it is! Hey, captains! We found them! Over here!

A few minutes or hours or ages later and Brainstorm, upside-down, lowers through the hole in the crust above. You blink muzzily. ‘m on the ceiling…?

Powerful hands pick you up, and you’re ascending. You don’t remember much after that, except the feel of being surrounded by titans that cared enough to come back. You came back for me.

Rodimus, warmest of them all, carries you to the ship himself. Tucked inside his armor, out of the wind and ice. Nestled right by his spark chamber. You dream of being pure energy, or of being wrapped in pure energy, or that you're one of two waves of energy dancing together with the joy of being alive. In a place where size doesn't matter, and metal and flesh don't matter, because deep down you're more alike than dissimilar.

You're as much theirs, as they are yours.

I wish I could tell you what to expect, but no one has the exact same experience. Not even within the same cohort. It’s going to be unlike anything you imagine it could be. Every day's going to bring new discoveries, new dreams. Sometimes, new nightmares. It's a big universe, and humans haven't even scratched the surface of what's out there. For better, or for worse.

The crate rattles again. Your breathing is loud inside your exo-suit. This bay is kept pressurized, but barely climate-controlled, and close to the ship's heat sinks so it's scorching hot in here.

Scrappy's cameras are transmitting every move you make to the mechs crowded around the monitors on the bridge. You've turned off audio, because between the scientists' incessant arguing and Swerve's fretting over you going into Cargo Hold 3 alone, you weren't able to pay proper attention to your surroundings.

Rattle-rattle. Shake. That container weighs several tons. It's bouncing around like it's a bouncy castle full of elementary schoolers.

No oxygen. Movement. It could be a scraplet infestation. Easily dealt with, for you. Which is why you're here and the mechs are on the bridge, or in lockdown in their quarters.

It could be scraplets. Intuition tells you it's not.

You touch the side of your helmet to activate your mic. Where did you say we picked this up from, again?

The arguing in the background dims as Ultra Magnus answers, disapprovingly, The records for the cargo manifest have been...misfiled. Ergo, we don't know.

You can see him in your mind's eye, glaring at Rodimus. Misfiled? More like Roddy lost them in the skyscraper stack of datapads in his office. If he didn't just set it down somewhere and forget where he put it. Can mechs have ADHD? Would some strategies that work for humans, be helpful for him? A thought to pursue at another time, when you're not maybe about to be eaten by a monster.

You click the mic back off before you can get drawn into the new argument that's starting over the co-captain's lack of organizational skills. And step closer to the shaking crate. No markings that you can read. No packing list on the outside. Does it look a little banged up? Rusted? Or is it the shaky light from Scrappy's headlamp as he hides behind your legs, making it look like that?

Every horror movie you've ever watched at Swerve's on movie night, comes back to haunt you. The aliens out in the dark have their own legends and myths. Some of them, you've learned the hard way, aren't only legends or myths.

Sweat drips into your eyes. Fuck it.

Are you going to play nice, or am I going to kick your ass off my ship?

You slam the augmented crowbar home and pry the lid off –

That's all I can say, really. The rest is up to you. Good luck. Maybe I'll see you out here in the stars. Lost Light ship's human, signing off.

[yukioos]

Hi!! I hope you accept requests.

So I was thinking like reader loving Logan and always doing stuff for him like make coffee in the morning, make him breakfast, but like Logan is in love with Jean. So reader stops doing all that and like tries to move on and gets closer w other xmen and Logan realises gets jealous and like BOOM CONFESSION?? (or angst too mueheheheh)

Anywayssss I love your writing!!! 💗💗 Hope u have a good dayyy

from the start — logan howlett x reader

warnings: cussing, jealousy, unrequited love (near the beginning), slight ororo x reader if u perceive their relationship as romantic, not proofread, sorta angst?? idk

summary: reader loves logan and shows it by acts of service, but she knows he’s in love with jean. reader stops trying to get him to love her and gets closer with the other x-men. logan realizes he’s jealous because he’s not getting attention from reader, causing a confession from him and reader.

authors note: sorry this took so long to post LMAO. i’m so glad you love my writing, im having fun posting all this stuff. hope u enjoy! ur so polite, may i add 🎀 also sorry if this writing is shitty i wrote this around midnight

word count: 1.5k

the smell of chicken and vegetables fills your nostrils. you’ve cooked dinner for logan, waiting for him to walk down to the kitchen as he said he would.

you sit on the counter, swinging your legs as you swipe through social media, seeing news about mutants everywhere. humans have been trying to get them locked up, away from society, for years.

you then hear footsteps approaching you, and you look up to see logan striding toward you. you smile at him and wave, blushing when he smiles back at you.

“hey, bub,” he greets you and smiles, sitting down on the island chair, “think you could give me some advice?”

he begins to eat his food, using utensils when he needs to. you turn around and grab a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. you turn and place it on the space in front of him. he quietly thanks you and takes a sip.

you place your hands on the counter and ask, “what d’ya need help with, lo?” and tilt your head.

“it’s about jean. can’t tell if she’s into me or not, i mean what am i doing wrong?” he shakes his head in disappointment.

your heart drops, though you’ve known he’s liked jean ever since he arrived at the school. you’ve always been the first to know about every interaction between them because logan would tell you all about it.

a heavy feeling seeps into your chest, the feeling of sadness. all of those actions and helping logan have gone nowhere. you’ve been debating whether or not you should stop trying to get him to love you.

the thing is, you know jean doesn’t love him back because she’s told you multiple times. of course, she loves the attention, she knows she’s an attractive woman but her heart belongs to scott. she’s loyal, and no matter how many times you’ve told logan she doesn’t love him back, he keeps pushing.

you’re taken from your headspace when logan suddenly asks, “y/n? you okay?” with a concerned look on his face, eyebrows furrowed upward as he paused eating.

you nod and state, “well, she’s taken, logan. i know you think scott is a prick but she doesn’t think that, and she won’t. you can’t change her mind because she’s loyal. she loves him. i don’t know how to give you advice about a girl who has a boyfriend. plus, you’d be a homewrecker if you were the one she cheated on scott with.” you cross your arms.

“it’d serve that asshole right.” he disagrees, returning to eating and looking down.

you sigh and roll your eyes, uncross your arms, and shake your head. you walk away, knowing you won’t get anywhere with how the conversation was going.

as you walk up the stairs, you hear heavy footsteps coming from in front of you. you look up to see colossus walking with ellie, who you know as negasonic teenage warhead and her girlfriend, yukio down the hallway.

the colossus greets you by giving a rough but polite, “y/n, what are you doing up so late? you should be going to bed soon.”

they all pause in the hallway, and before you can respond, yukio greets, looking up from her phone and waving, “hi y/n!”

“hi yukio!” you smile, greeting her with just as much energy as she greeted you, “i was just talking to logan, i guess. i’ll probably be heading to bed soon.” you sigh, now realizing how tired you are.

“logan’s a dick. why are you talking to him?” ellie scoffs, arm linked with yukio.

you stay quiet for a moment and fiddle with your hands before colossus states, “i hope you do not like him. he is strange, he is asshole. even wade would be better.”

“i don’t want to like him anymore. i’ve been trying so hard to get him to know that i like him, but he’s always talking about jean. i mean, fuck, we hardly talk about anything else. i always do shit for him and she hardly even spares him a glance.” you complain, eyes tired as you stare at the ground.

an hour goes by as you, colossus, yukio and ellie switch topics a few times. the whole conversation continues to take place in the hallway, and you’ve forgotten why you’re here in the first place.

“it’s getting late, and it’s been great talking with you guys, but i should be heading to bed,” you mumble.

“you should hang out with us more often than logan. you actually aren’t that bad.” ellie comments, a smile forming on your face.

you all say your goodbyes before you part ways, you walk to your room and think about what she said. maybe it would be better to take a break from logan, after all, he never returned your advances. his heart belongs to someone whose heart belongs to another.

as you lay in your bed, the soft sheets trap you in a comforting warmth. you decide you’ll stop showing logan affection and actions, it won’t lead you anywhere. you suppose even if years go by and you talk to him again, his heart will still be stuck on jean.

days go by and you and ellie, colossus and yukio have gotten closer. you’ve also taken more time out of your day to talk to prior more, who visibly enjoys your presence.

the one person who seems to be irritated by others being around you is logan. your friends have pointed out that he looks as if he’d slice them into pieces if he could.

you didn’t notice the stares until ellie trash-talked him, pointing it out. yukio claims you don’t notice his harsh glares because you’ve gotten rid of your feelings for him, but you’re not quite sure about that.

you run down the stairs, giggling alongside ororo as the two of you travel to the kitchen. she planned a movie night for the two of you because she believes you need to rest by spending time with her. she claims she’s the calmest person you can spend time with.

as the two of you giggle and share touches, waiting for the popcorn to pop in the microwave, you hear footsteps. you turn your head and stop laughing when you see logan approaching you with a stern look on his face.

the room goes silent and logan asks, loud and clear, “y/n, i need to talk to you.”

you worriedly look to ororo, who looks at you back, the same amount of worry in her expression. you nod and gesture that she can leave. she hesitantly walks away, squeezing your hand before leaving to the living room.

you turn around and sigh, not able to get a word out of your mouth, logan interrupts, “why have you been avoiding me?”

you laugh in disbelief, “i haven’t been avoiding you, logan—”

“yes, you have. you haven’t talked to me in days, haven’t looked at me in nearly a week. you’re hangin’ out with fuckin’ pinkie pie, emo girl and that metal guy. why?” he argues.

you scoff, “why the hell do you have a problem with me talking to other people? it’s not even romantic, you shouldn’t care. they’re my friends—”

“no, you’re not answering my question. why are you hanging out with them and why are you ignoring me?” he raises his voice, causing you to back up, almost hitting the counter.

you roll your eyes, “i’ve liked you, logan. like how you like jean, and i’ve liked you for months and you haven’t noticed. i did so much for you, i took literal fucking bullets for you even though both of us can regenerate because i didn’t want to take the risk. i helped you get things for jean and how to talk to her. i made you food, did your fucking laundry. who the fuck does that and doesn’t like the person they’re doing it for?”

he stays quiet for a moment, hesitating, “i only tried to like jean because you seemed so pissed off whenever i’d talk. i had to get my mind off you.”

blush still manages to make its way to your cheeks, “i was pissed off whenever you’d talk because all we’d fucking talk about was jean.”

you sit on the counter as logan leans against the island, he offers, “no more jean talk as long as you spend more time with me instead of whatever their names are.”

you smile and nod, “i’d like that a lot. but i do have a movie night to get to,” he furrows his eyebrows, “with ororo.”

his face visibly relaxes and he nods, you hop off the counter and state, “we can talk more tomorrow.”

he nods and smiles, watching you walk away, “night, y/n.”

[tacobacoyeet]

father's day with... dad bod!patrick

warnings: SMUT 18+, one use of daddy in a semi-sexual way but not really, he's just a cutie i love him so much, i want to have his babies

-----

The kids start begging the night before.

They’ve already made the card— a folded piece of printer paper covered in gluey macaroni and aggressive glitter, signed in various attempts at spelling "Love you Daddy." You’ve already picked up the gifts: a new grill spatula with a cheeky "Kiss the Chef" engraving, a framed photo of him passed out on the couch with both kids napping on top of him, and the socks. God, the socks— bright blue with "#1 DILF" stitched in obnoxious lettering. A joke, of course, but also not.

You were going to keep things simple. Give him the gifts over coffee, maybe let him sleep in. But then the kids start tugging at your hoodie, pleading like they’re about to be banished from the kingdom.

"Can we pleeeeease make him breakfast in bed?"

You raise a brow. "You mean you’re going to let me make breakfast while you lick batter and argue about who gets to carry the tray?"

"No! We're gonna make it."

That's a disaster waiting to happen. But your kids have Patrick's face and you can never resist. So you sigh, smile, and say, "Fine. But you’re waking up early, and we’re not telling him."

They squeal. They pinky promise. One of them tries to hide the card in the oven.

---

The next morning is a beautiful mess.

Pancake mix in hair. Syrup on pajamas. Someone spills orange juice and declares it a "kitchen emergency." They manage to burn only one piece of bacon. The kids decorate the tray with wildflowers from the yard and tuck the card underneath a napkin like it’s a secret treasure.

When you all tiptoe into the bedroom— tray wobbling, giggles barely contained— Patrick is already half-awake, blinking against the sunlight, hair matted to one side and shirtless beneath the covers.

"Happy Father’s Day!" they shout, and he flinches like he’s been tackled. Which, to be fair, he has been. They scramble onto the bed, and one plops a pancake directly on his chest.

"We made it all by ourselves!" they beam.

Patrick looks at you over their heads. Your face says, Don’t lie to them. His says, I’d eat raw eggs if it meant they stayed this happy.

He eats every bite. Kisses sticky cheeks. Reads the card out loud with his voice thick and fond. Later, he pulls you into the hallway and murmurs, "I don’t need anything else. This? This is everything."

And even though you’re covered in flour and your coffee’s cold, you believe him.

You always do.

---

The rest of the day is exactly what it should be: slow, easy, wrapped in love.

Patrick wears the handmade pasta necklace one of the kids gave him like it’s a medal of honor. They insist he keep it on all day— even when he’s manning the grill, even when he’s wrestling them into sunscreen, even when he falls asleep in the hammock with one kid draped across his chest and the other tracing hearts on his arm with a juice box straw.

You keep it simple, like he likes it. No fancy plans, no crowd. Just the four of you and a backyard that smells like smoke and honeysuckle.

The gifts come out after lunch. He gets a laugh out of the spatula. Nearly tears up at the framed photo. Gives you that soft, reverent look— the one that says he still can’t believe this is his life. That he gets to have this. That he gets to have you.

And as the sun starts to set and the kids wind down, sticky-fingered and sleep-drunk from too much watermelon and laughter, you both tuck them in. Kisses on cheeks. "Thank you for today, Daddy," whispered like a secret.

You find him later in the kitchen, backlit by the refrigerator light, eating the last pancake cold and shirtless.

"There’s one more gift," you say.

He turns, grinning. "Is it another photo of me drooling on the couch?"

"No," you murmur, and hand him a tiny wrapped box. "But it’s just for you. Now that the kids are asleep."

He opens it, curious— and then bursts out laughing.

Bright blue socks. Bold white letters: #1 DILF.

He lifts them like they’re sacred. "Oh my God."

"I had to," you say, biting your lip.

"These are incredible." He pauses. "You know I’m never taking these off now, right?"

"That’s fine," you say, stepping closer. Your fingers tug at the waistband of his sleep shorts, low and lazy. "But you might want to take everything else off."

He smirks. "You wanna fuck me in my new dad socks?"

You hum. "Not quite."

He raises a brow.

"I want to take care of you tonight," you say, voice soft. "You give so much to all of us— today, every day. Let me give something back. Let me make you feel how loved you are."

His smile falters just slightly. Goes softer. Deeper. His hands come to your waist like a question.

"Okay," he breathes. "Yeah. Please."

He kisses you like he’s grateful. Like he needs this— not just the sex, but the surrender. The quiet devotion of it. And when you pull him to the bedroom, when he lays back and lets you strip him down to nothing but those ridiculous socks, he doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect. Just watches you with wide, wet eyes.

You start slow. Kisses down his chest. Hands smoothing over his stomach like you love it (because you do). You praise every part of him— the arms that carry your babies, the hands that fix broken toys and rub your back at night, the belly that softens against yours when he holds you in the kitchen.

He looks like he might cry.

"You deserve this," you whisper, sinking down to kiss the crease where thigh meets hip. "Every second."

He moans when you take him in your mouth, already so sensitive he’s shaking. You work him slowly, lovingly, watching his stomach tense and relax beneath your touch. And when he finally can’t take anymore, when his fingers curl into the sheets and his voice cracks on your name, you pull back just long enough to climb on top and guide him inside.

He gasps. Chokes on it. His hands flutter up to your hips, barely holding on.

"I got you," you whisper, moving slow. Deliberate. Every roll of your hips meant to say I love you, I love you, I love you.

He breaks apart like he’s never been touched like this before. Like no one’s ever given him anything just to say thank you.

And when he comes— overwhelmed and whispering, tears clinging to his lashes— you kiss his forehead and stay close. Stay connected. Stay his.

And later, when you’re tangled up and breathless, his hand rests over your stomach without thinking. His voice is hoarse.

"This was the best Father’s Day."

"I know," you whisper, kissing the corner of his smile. "You earned it, Daddy."

And just like that, round two starts— socks still on.

-----

tagging:

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[loganficsonly]

an independent woman

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 2: cleaning up ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

worst!logan x fem!reader, 4.3k

SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.

SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes

CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: 1 SUGGESTIVE LINE, angst, mentions of alcoholism, many inner thoughts, descriptions of somatic release, laura <3

AUTHOR'S NOTE: very nervous about what you think, please let me know how i did

Logan wakes up with bleary eyes.

There is an uncharacteristic softness underneath him. Things smell different, too: a refreshing combination of musk and cedarwood, a whiff of pulp. They all betray a sense of gentleness that he most certainly isn’t accustomed to. Wade’s couch usually smells like burnt bacon and worn blankets—

Wade’s couch?

He blinks, focusing his hazel gaze on the unfamiliar plaster ceiling above him. Then he looks at the rest of the room.

Bare, save for an opened cardboard box the size of one and a half dishwashers sitting in a corner. Big enough for what little items he’s accumulated in the three months he’s been here.

Right. He officially moved in with you yesterday.

Spent the afternoon getting the place clean enough to live in. Ate pizza for dinner—his first meal with just you. Helped you unpack and move things around before deciding to call it a day. He lets out a soft grunt, slowly shaking off the sleep.

Everything smells… comfortable. You must’ve sprayed some kind of air freshener when you cleaned the bedrooms.

He knows the apartment is empty before he walks out into the short hallway. Your heartbeat isn’t home. No sounds from within the space, though there are plenty of them outside. Unlike him, the city has been awake for a while. 

There’s no clock on the wall yet, but by his estimates, it’s sometime around nine. You must’ve left for work.  

A rumbling hunger beckons him to the kitchen, his bare feet pattering on the hardwood flooring. He squints at the refrigerator light when opening the door. The only thing there is a box of leftover pizza from last night. You had the foresight to order more, something he’s endlessly thankful for right now. 

He places the pizza on a big plate—porcelain white with a bunch of flowers on its edges, one of yours—and into the microwave. The box buzzes alive at a press of a button. His mind turns slowly, just as the plate does. 

He doesn’t have work today, so he can go straight to the grocery store. Buy coffee. He grunts, feeling a little grumpier at the fact that there’s none around, putting in a mental note to text you about it later. He has no idea how you like your coffee.

That’s something he plans to fix quickly.

Because that’s what good roommates do, he quickly convinces himself.

You’ve been nothing but kind to him, so if he’s going to stock up the pantry, might as well pick stuff that you like. Right? No other reason to know your preferences. 

He abandons the thought process as he feels his heart rate hitch up slightly. Instead, he resorts to making a list in his head. He’s good at that.

Unpack. That’ll take fifteen minutes tops.

Take a shower, then go out to the grocery store. If the one he saw around the block is open, that’ll also be less than an hour.

Get a clock. 

That will leave him about six hours to kill until you come home. He can probably do some errands for you—he’ll have to ask. He frowns, thinking about what he should get exactly. You cook, so you’ll need spices, seasoning, oil… 

His brain mentally scans the imaginary aisles of the grocery store, window-shopping before he sets foot in it—a habit, so that he can be in and out of that overwhelming place as quickly as possible. He recalls the rows of soup, canned tuna, dried tomatoes, turning to a different aisle to beverages. Soft drinks, milk…     

He opens his eyes, as if broken away from his browsing, the space between his brows deeply creased. A jolt out of his musings, interrupted by a memory. Memories, rather.

Blurry flashes of his past, hazy blues and yellows and what looks like black but smears to bright red. Glimpses of faces he’ll never see again, people he’ll never be able to apologize to. Then the aftermath—nothingness and desperation, too gone to mind the jeers of heads turned towards him, scowling. The sounds of a glass bottle knocking against a wooden counter. One, then another, then another…

Until he doesn’t remember anything.

How this caustic string of thoughts surface while picturing grocery store aisles is beyond him. They were once tucked under the metaphorical rug of his consciousness, buried under busyness.

Always bigger fish to fry when it comes to making this universe a home. Had to earn money so he’s no longer squatting at Wade’s. Try to be in Laura’s life and help her adjust, though it seems like she’s taken to it like a duck to water, compared to himself.

But now, three months in? Now he hears what sounds like a small dog barking in the distance. Street chatter. Bicycle bells. 

Peace. He barely recognizes it. It’s disfigured, distorted. Maybe because he punches it in the face every time he sees a mere glimpse of it—mostly by getting himself hammered.

For the first time in a long time, he feels like there are no more bigger fish. No more excuses. Nowhere to run.

A lump in his throat at the thought of facing it, the thing he’s never allowed himself.

It’s intimidating. For a man who’s faced horrors like him, that means something. His jaw tightens.

He decides he’ll do it tonight, anyway.

As if on cue, the microwave dings.

It’s about 11am. You’re in the middle of reading a document when your phone pings with a text.

It’s from Logan.

Hey. Got a minute?

You realize it’s only, like, the fifth text in your conversation thread with him. The ones above it were ‘thanks for helping me carry the groceries’ from you and a simple ‘no problem’ from him.

Real life interactions with Logan are pretty limited. Group hangouts at Wade’s are one of the ways you’d see him, but you had to share him with other people—that sounded weird even in your head. And if you drop by at Wade’s, Logan’s not always there.

That, along with the fact that he was probably already a century old when the first iPhone came out, meant that he barely uses his phone, and therefore you don’t text often.

A warm feeling blooms in your chest. Now that you’re roommates, it’s safe to assume that you’ll be talking to each other more…

Fuck, woman, can you be normal about this? your brain scolds itself.

Of course you and Logan are going to communicate more often—you live under the same roof. Frequency does not equal intimacy. Especially if you’re most likely going to be talking about mundane things like ‘the detergent is running out’ or ‘can you help me get a bunch of triple-A batteries?’. 

Yeah, maybe living with your crush was not such a good idea.

Taking in a deep breath, you dial his number and put your phone up against your ear. Yes, you can talk, if it spares you from working even just a minute.

He picks up after the first tone.

A ‘hello’ grunted from the other end of the line. You realize this is the first time you’ve heard his voice over the phone.

“Hope I’m not botherin’ you at work,” he continues. It sounds like he’s outside—an overly cheerful piece of stock music is playing in the background. 

“Hey, not at all,” you reply, eyes glued to your screen but registering none of its contents. “What’s up?”

“I’m at the grocery store. Want anything?” 

You blink. He could have texted you that, but you’re not complaining about getting to talk to him. He’s probably just bad at it, his large hand cramping against the little touchscreen keyboard. Laura joked about that before. 

“What are you getting?”

A beat. “Coffee. Milk. Apples. You like apples?” 

“Yeah, I like ‘em.”

“What kind of coffee do you drink?” he asks, the question quickly following up your answer as if he had it locked and loaded.

“Any kind,” you answer easily. “I take mine with a bit of milk.”

“What about pasta shapes?”

There are static crinkles of plastic through the phone. You find yourself smiling, imagining Logan with a hand holding his phone, the other hovering a bag of linguine next to the spaghetti to see what the fuck the difference is.

“Honestly, Logan, I don’t mind most of them, you can get whatever you want,” you laugh lightly. 

“Which ones do you mind, then?” 

You feel a pleasant twinge in your chest. His voice sounded so low and warm and gentle just then, like he really cares. Swallowing, you find your voice again. 

“Angel hair. They’ve got no bite.” You murmur.

There’s a short chuckle that provokes butterflies to flutter around in your stomach, unbidden.

“What else d’ya need?”

For a good two minutes or so, the two of you ping-pong items back and forth. You list down some seasonings and condiments. He asks for your thoughts on brands. You smile at the way he pronounces some of them—“Graze-a? Grah-za. Whatever.”—and at the fact that he’s thoughtful enough to check with you on your preferences.

Quietly giving you a choice. You bite your inner cheek. How can something so simple make someone feel so special? 

By the end of going through the shopping list, it feels like you don’t want to hang up, and neither does he. There are beeps now, audible from the phone. He’s probably queueing at the checkout.

“Can I get a wall clock to hang in the living room?”

“Sure,” you reply softly.

Another silent beat. 

“I’m up. Talk to you later, sweetheart.” 

“See you later.”

The line is cut. You stare into your phone, slowly placing it facedown on your desk.

Did he just call you sweetheart? 

You blink, focusing back on your monitor, failing miserably. 

That nickname has to be a side effect of being alive for so long. He lived through, what, all the wars since the Civil War. It doesn’t mean anything, just a thing they called the ladies back then. Don’t read into it.

The echo of his voice remains, nevertheless. It takes you five minutes to lock back into the document you were reading.

There is an off-white wall clock hanging in the living room when you arrive home. Logan works fast.

You are in the midst of eating some apples—the ones in the fridge, no doubt the spoils from his grocery shopping trip earlier—when you hear the keys turn. The man in question walks through the threshold.

His simple presence made the space feel so much more comfortable, it’s almost scary.

“Hey,” you smile from your seat on the island, wondering what he did on his day off. “Did you go out for dinner?” 

The first concerning sign is that there is no sliver of acknowledgement: not a nod, a grunt, and certainly not the rare small smile. He doesn’t immediately reply to you, closing the door and just standing there. Gaze taking in the bare walnut floor, before it sweeps onto you.

The second sign is his eyes. There’s something unrecognizable in them, like he got hurt but he let it happen.

“Logan?” you call out softly, unease woven in your expression. You stand up from your seat.

He takes off his boots at the entryway before moving closer to you, though not quite close. His lips part, and you can tell he’s deliberating whether or not to speak. 

“I… went to AA,” he says, voice low. The words are hushed, void of his usual belligerence, a little scratchy from a dry throat. 

You look at him, surprise taking over your face.

Wade has made references to the monumental drinking problem he found Logan in when they first met, but from what you can tell, Logan’s been doing much better lately. In gatherings he mostly steers clear from wherever the bottle is. Asks if dessert’s gonna be boozy. Even declines offers for beer.

His relationship with alcohol is clearly a complicated one. And it’s Logan. The fact that he not only reached out for help but also told you about it…

There’s a moment of silence, and then your feet closes the distance, walking towards him until he’s an arm’s length away.  

You look up at him, almost timid. “Can I hug you?” 

The hard expression on his face melts. You wonder if he thought your reaction was going to be something else other than acceptance.

All it takes is a short nod for you to gently wrap your arms around him, hands settling at the center of his back. For a moment, he’s all you perceive: the warmth of his body, his breathing, his scent.

And then there’s a gentle sensation of his own arms reciprocating the gesture, his movements slow, as if wanting for you to stop him if you’re uncomfortable. You allow yourself to lean in, a signal that it’s okay.

His chin lands softly near the top of your head, arms tightening just the slightest, and your heart just about burst.

“I’m so proud of you,” you say, muffled by his flannel shirt.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he replies.

There it is again. The second time he’s called you that today, and this time, you can feel the rumble of those two syllables from deep within his chest. It shouldn’t intoxicate you the way it does, not when this moment is about him. 

You force yourself to pull away. 

“We should celebrate,” you suggest, smiling.

His face morphs into an amused look—a little kink in one eyebrow and the lightest lopsided pull of his lip. At least it doesn’t seem like he’s despondent.

“Save it for the coin,” he counters.

“You know people don’t just celebrate achievements, right?” you grin, letting go of the hug. “Come on. A nice meal. We can celebrate moving in, too, just… let me treat you to something.”

His jaw clenches playfully at your insistence, biting back his own smile.

“You’re a stubborn one.”

You take that as a win. Pleased with yourself, you saunter to the kitchen, looking for something to ingest as a commemorative treat. Perhaps a bag of potato chips will do for now.  

“There’s this Mexican place down the street, it looks nice—”

He calls your name, and you look over your shoulder. 

“Hm?”

There’s that deliberating look on his face again that makes you stop rummaging the cabinet. When he speaks this time, he sounds almost… bashful?

“Could you, uh, cook instead?” 

Your eyes widen. He wants you to cook?

“Are you sure you’d like that?” you stammer. 

He places a hand in one pocket, eyes still looking into yours. “The fried rice you brought to the potluck was good.”

The potluck last month for Al’s birthday. True, the container was cleaned out by the end of the night, but you didn’t think Logan particularly enjoyed it enough to remember it.

He shakes his head, looking away, voice tight. “Forget I asked, don’t wanna bother—”

Crap, you must’ve stayed stunned for a second too long.

“No please, it’s no bother! I just… I didn’t realize you liked it.” 

He looks at you sternly, pausing for a moment. “It was good.” 

You nod, convincing yourself that this is real and happening. “Okay. I’ll cook, then. We should invite Laura. Wade too—”

He looks away. You examine his face, registering a change.

“Have you told anyone else?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

You feel a dangerous warmth seep into your bloodstream, travelling to your hands and feet and god forbid your cheeks. How did you end up becoming the first person to know about this, this, this exceedingly vulnerable thing that he did? 

“I’ll tell Laura in a bit. Wade…” he falls silent for a moment. He hasn’t been vocal about his gratitude to the merc. It’s for a good reason, or at least that’s his excuse—a simple ‘thanks for everything’ would probably make Wade combust and blabber a series of orgasm-related jokes. 

Despite that, though, he really does owe everything to the damn motor mouth. Including the fact that he’s standing in your living room right now, as your roommate, asking you to cook for him—fuck, did he really ask you that?

“I’ll tell Wade when I get the coin,” he decides firmly. The last thing he wants to do is let down yet another important person in his life.

He puts his hand back in his pocket, clenching a fist. That being said, he doesn’t want to disappoint Laura either… and certainly not you. Funny how he finds himself caring about your opinion—the person he’s known for the least amount of time.

You nod, feeling a little overwhelmed from the conversation—the good kind of overwhelm.   

“Just Laura then. Can you ask her what food she’d like?” you say. “Something to go with your fried rice?”

He nods. 

“How’s Friday for dinner?” 

He nods again, pulling out his phone. Probably texting Laura.

“I’ll prep the stuff on Thursday then.”

“I’ll help,” he replies quickly, eyes meeting yours. When he speaks again, it’s a little softer. “I’ll buy the ingredients. And I ain’t a chef, but I can chop.”

“Please, there’s nothing much to do.”

“Then I’ll clean up,” he adds. 

You frown. “Logan, the dinner’s for you, remember?”

“Just let me clean up. Least I can do.”

You put a hand on your hip, shrugging. “Fine. Leave the food to me.”

A roguish smile on that handsome face almost makes you so weak, you have to steel your legs for a second. His voice is once again that smooth, guttural baritone.

“’preciate it, sweetheart.”

Third time’s the charm. You huff, trying to appear relaxed.

“I’m going to shower,” you announce, escaping the room.

It’s a little past ten.

Logan lies in bed. His hands are holding up his phone that looks too small for him. The light from the device is almost blinding, but he doesn’t bother—not like his eyesight can get ruined or anything.  

He has a text typed out. Staring at it for a few more seconds, he presses send.

Went to AA today.

There’s no immediate response, not that he expects one.

It’s really no surprise if Laura is busy.

She’s probably got it harder than him: young with a hunger to find her place in the world, mature beyond her years but still having so much to learn.

This new universe might not be that different from hers, but the struggles aren’t the same—because it’s her first time in community college. He doesn’t remember what it feels like being a student, but working and studying at the same time sure sounds like a hell of a life.

He blinks. A series of three animated dots appear on the screen as she types a response.

Just like that, they’re gone. He frowns. 

And then the dots are there again, only for a second, replaced by Laura’s reply.

i’m really proud of you

Another message.

seriously, i mean it

congratulations

He allows himself a smile in the privacy of his room, before resuming to text Laura about the celebratory dinner you insisted on having. When she’s free, what she wants to eat…

She turns out to be good with Friday—less resident assistant work and assignments for her to worry about.

The answer to the second question is pulled pork. Haven’t tasted a good one in a while.

i can bring the salsa

it’ll be like a deconstructed burrito but with fried rice

Your fried rice was not just good, it was excellent. God, he hopes he didn’t cross a line, blurting the request out of the blue like that.

It was instinctive. Completely unplanned. Why did he do that, anyway? The Mexican restaurant would’ve been nice, something Laura would like.

But it’s outside, it’ll be crowded and loud… He’d rather have a conversation without the background noise. Plus, you just moved into an apartment of your own. Wouldn’t dining outside be a waste of space? 

Maybe he should’ve suggested takeout instead of inconveniencing you. But you said it was your treat, and his stupid old heart betrayed himself by saying what it wanted without running it by his brain. 

And what a selfish thing to want, too. A kind of gluttony that torturously gnaws at him. It’s getting harder to ignore despite his special brand of stubbornness, honed by the long, long decades. He has a feeling it’s exactly the stubborn part of him that is making this feeling grow, too.

It wants more of you.

For now it’s content with little scraps: the glimpse of your shoes at the entrance, the sight of your toiletries in the bathroom, your scent lingering around the house…  

But who knows what it’ll demand next. A little more.

You, smiling at him, laughing at something he said.

Your thighs pressed against his on a crowded couch.

Your plush bottom lip between his teeth as he bites it, drinking in a small sound of pleasure that bubbles out your throat when his hand runs up your inner thigh— 

He locks his phone as the conversation with Laura concludes, a cue for him to snap out of it. His mind turns elsewhere, and decides to mull over the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting he attended earlier.

That meeting was about as difficult as a thousand and one sleepless nights. At least, it felt like that when he had to walk up to the library. Adamantium bones never felt heavier.

There were about seven of them when he finally walked in, and another seven arrived after. A mixed group. Reminded him of the family he used to know. There were almost a handful who were older than him—though he’s undoubtedly the oldest despite his looks—and others who looked like they barely hit twenty.

Amidst the chatter, they were polite, asking if it was his first time and giving him a rundown of what would happen. He wasn’t the only new face, which brought him slight relief, and they assured him he didn’t have to share if he didn’t want to.

Then they sat in a circle. The chair spoke the preamble smoothly from memory—just how many meetings has he been in?—and people began introducing themselves.

His eyes are half-lidded, recounting the memory with his head on a soft pillow, but the reality felt like hard concrete.

He remembers how dry his throat felt when the room looked at him, how clammy his palms were against the roughness of his jeans.

Tension.

And yet it was a kind that he wasn’t accustomed to. Instead of one that threatens to spring violence loose, it demands a calm release.

Above comfortable sheets, he can still hear his own voice battling shakiness as he spoke.

I’m Logan… and I’m an alcoholic.

Those few words were cathartic then, but somehow he felt it more intensely as he relives the moment through memory. Pressure builds behind his eyes and in his jaw.

He knows this feeling. Why now?  

Emotions wash over him in waves that build, growing stronger and taller—shame, guilt, rage, fatigue, hopelessness, the most damning anguish any man has ever experienced. Each of them sits heavy in his bloodstream, overcoming his body as his heart paces. It reminds him of that time he went back to the school, too late to save anyone.

Thump. Anger. Thump. Agony. His chest heaves.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Logan cries.

Did he cry for his friends when he saw their bodies in the mud?

Scott, Jean, Storm, Charles, Rogue, fuck, Rogue—

Or did he dive straight into the massacre, letting hatred blind him?

It’s patchy, his recollection, but the tears fall quietly into the sheets, and he allows them. He’s past the point of stopping himself.

There is no sound. Just a broken dam as he quietly shakes, tremors rushing through his body as the tears wet his cheeks and nose. He looks up at the ceiling.

Amidst the violent purge, there’s a heaviness deep in his gut, a sense of stability. The same feeling that prompted him in the morning, the little whisper of a disfigured sensation he’s long discarded. Maybe this time he’ll let peace take its place. 

The same feeling when he felt the matter and antimatter currents surged through his body, each cell in him screaming as they are killed and reborn over and over again, before it stops.

The same feeling when saving Wade’s little world.

The pillow is damp now, but he doesn’t mind, because the more he lets go, the lighter he feels. A knot unravelled slowly in his chest. The memories grow kinder. Dinners with Wade’s friends. Trading stories with Laura.

Ororo laughing at something Jean said. Scott looking at the redhead—even with the vizor, you can tell he’s in love.

Meeting you. Sharing that pizza together. 

He falls asleep at the memory of the hug you gave him earlier.    

When he comes home from work the next day, dust all over his heavyweight t-shirt, he notices something hanging on the back of the door.

A small whiteboard. To its side is a marker, affixed to the board with a magnet.

“Hey,” you greet from the kitchen. 

“What’s that?” he gestures with his chin.

“Oh.” You turn to the entryway to look at the whiteboard. You hung it up not ten minutes ago. “I thought we’d need it to write notes. Things to buy, chores to do, stuff like that.”

Heading towards the door, you grab the marker. “But I guess you can write whatever you want.”

He watches as you stand in front of him, the marker squeaking under your strokes.

You turn to him, smiling before walking away.

Logan’s heart clenches painfully—an occurrence far too often for his health, seeing that it’s barely three days since moving in with you.

He stares at your handwriting for the first time.

Have a great day ahead :)

taglist: @squishyfruitloop @britttzy267 @tezooks @ddwnghead @dear-detested @duckyyyx

next chapter

[rememberwren]

ex!bf simon ruining reader before she goes on a date with a new guy PLEASEE i lvoee ur writing <33

ignore if u wanttt

Thinking about this.

The two of you are over. Through. Finished. Well, as finished as two people can be who still live together—but you refuse to leave the apartment and Simon does everything in his own time (ie: slow). He seems in no rush to find a new place. Fine, then. After the break up you are both tense roommates, but there is some civility.

One afternoon, he comes home to find you dolled up at the kitchen island, holding yourself steady while you slip into heels, and he just knows. Knows there’s someone else. Knows you’re going to meet him right now. He could write it off as a manipulative tactic—a coincidence like him coming home to you just about to leave seems like too much—except he wasn’t meant to be home early at all. It was just a bit of the unhappiest happenstance. You weren’t trying to rub this new guy in his face. You were trying to hide it from him, which makes him abandon that cool exterior that you said you resented so much during the heat of your arguments.

He crowds you against the refrigerator close enough for your breasts to brush against him with your every breath, close enough to smell the perfume he bought you for your birthday. He tells you that one word from you would stop him—but that word never comes. He makes you slip down the fancy, lacy scrap you’d been wearing underneath your skirt and lets it flutter around your ankles as he works a hand to cup your sex and finds you wet already.

“That eager for this other guy?” he wonders. He takes his fingers away. “Should I go? Let you two have a nice night together?”

But instead of agreeing, you’re gripping his wrist pulling it back and riding his fingers. He slips the skirt up around your waist and fucks you there against the refrigerator, magnets rattling right off the goddamn thing, photos of the two of you and mutual friends fluttering to the floor.

When he’s done he slips your panties back up your legs like nothing has happened—let your new guy find that surprise if you let him between your legs—just in time to hear the knock of your date at the door.

Your legs are rendered into jelly as you try to frantically fix yourself into something presentable, but don’t worry, Simon will happily get it.

He just isn’t expecting Johnny on the other side.

[earpskeeper]

part 1 can be found here

trigger warning - car accident, death, funeral, guilt

It starts with an argument. A stupid, heat of the moment fight that Kyra will never forgive herself for.

Rain pelts the windows as voices rise in your shared flat, your voice shaking with frustration, hers tight with hurt. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one inside the room. The hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the wall clock, the occasional thunder, all background noise to the crumbling of something once solid.

“You never talk to me about how you're really feeling, Kyra! I can't keep guessing if I'm enough for you.”

Kyra stands near the kitchen counter, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her voice comes out sharper than she intends.

“You are! You always have been. I just… I'm tired. Everything’s been too much.”

“You think I’m not tired?” You pace near the front door, keys clenched in your fist. “I show up for you. I hold space for you. And you keep shutting me out like I’m a stranger.”

“I don’t know how to open up!” she snaps, her voice rising. “You think I like this? You think I don’t want to be better?”

The words hang in the air, venomous and heartbreaking. A silence falls, bitter and thick.

“I can't do this right now,” you mutter, shoving your coat on. “I’m going to Steph’s. I need to cool off.”

Kyra’s eyes flash with panic. She takes one step forward. “Wait, don’t…!”

But you’re already at the door. You don’t turn around.

She hesitates. Just for a moment.

She almost calls your name.

Almost runs after you.

But pride and pain win out. And then the door clicks shut.

She stares at it for a long time.

The kettle boils behind her. She doesn’t move.

An hour passes.

Then two.

She sends a text. No reply.

She tries calling. Straight to voicemail.

Another hour.

And then the phone rings.

A number she doesn’t recognize.

A quiet voice on the other end. An accident. Emergency services. A crash on Holloway Road. The rain. A loss of control.

You never made it to Stephs house.

You never made it anywhere.

Kyra drops the phone.

The world spins.

Her knees buckle.

Everything goes quiet.

The hospital room is sterile, lit too brightly. Kyra doesn’t remember how she got there. Caitlin’s hand is on her back. Katie is speaking softly with the doctors, both of them casting a gentle glance over her every so often. 

But Kyra doesn’t hear anything. Everyone’s voice sounds far away.

And when they tell her again when they say confirmed fatality and immediate, Kyra shakes her head.

“No,” she whispers. “No, that’s wrong. She just left. She’s mad at me. She… she just left to go to a friends house.”

“Let me go home, please! I’ll go home and she’ll be there, pacing. She always paces when she’s upset. I just need to get home.” Kyra all but begs the doctor but it is no use. You are gone and nobody corrects her. Caitlin just holds her tight and Katie has visible grief in her eyes. 

That night, Kyra sits in the guest room of Katies flat. Her phone buzzes once, then twice and then is silent again.

She clutches your hoodie to her chest. It still smells like you. Coconut shampoo and that soft, warm scent that used to feel like home.

She tries to sleep but all she sees is the last look on your face. The anger. The hurt. The slam of the door.

And the silence that followed.

She screams into the pillow. Bites her hand so hard she leaves teeth marks. Anything to not feel the weight of what she’s done.

You were right.

She never learned how to let you in.

And now you’re gone.

The day of the funeral came by far too quickly and Kyra stood at the front of the church clutching a piece of paper. A piece of paper that she had tried and attempted to cram her love and memories onto. 

“I met her on my first day. I turned up late, full of jetlag, stiff muscles and annoyance after the airline lost my suitcase. I was already so nervous being in a new country and joining a new team but she was already there, waiting outside for me. 

Flashback to first meeting 

It had been a shit morning. 

She had landed in London less than 24 hours earlier but everything that could’ve gone wrong, went wrong. The airline lost her suitcase, her phone charger stopped working mid-flight and to top it all off there was a screaming baby that seemed displeased about anything possible. 

And now, now Kyra was late. Of all things that could’ve happened, she was late for her first day at Arsenal. 

The taxi ride was a blur of grey motorways and random fields containing the odd cow. She barely registered the entrance of the training ground as the car pulled up.

Kyra checked the dashboard the moment the car stopped and she swore she felt her stomach drop.  

9:32 am

She was supposed to be there by 9:00 am and was halfway through trying to convince herself not to cry when she stepped out of the car, and then promptly tripped over her own foot. 

The pavement rushed up to meet her and before Kyra could even process the fall, she crashed into you. 

You had been waiting outside. No one had asked you too. No one expected you to. But you had seen the schedule and the name - Kyra Cooney Cross - and you had insisted on being there. 

Something about first impressions. Something about how hard it was to arrive in a new country alone. 

So there you were. Jacket zipped up to your chin, hands tucked up into your sleeves, leaning against the railing with a quiet kind of patience. You had been there a while, but you never left. Not even where you started to wonder whether this girl was actually going to turn up. 

But when a slightly dishevelled Kyra landed in your arms with a startled yelp, your first instinct wasn’t annoyance, it was laughter. 

A soft surprised laugh that cut right through the tension and stress that lingered in the air and Kyra’s chest. 

“Bit of a dramatic entrance, huh?”

Kyra scrambled off you, face flushed from both the cold and embarrassment. 

“Shit, sorry! I didn’t see you, I mean I was late and…”

You waved a hand, brushing imaginary dust off your hoodie. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t complain having a pretty girl fall head over heels for me!”

Kyra blinked. Then laughed, small and disbelieving.

“Right, yeah” she said (still catching her breath) “You must be?”

“Yeah,” you said, offering your hand out. “I’m the one who has been freezing her ass off for the past thirty minutes waiting for you” You spoke with a cheeky smirk adorning your face. 

Kyra took your hand. And somehow, that was it. 

The start of everything. 

Back to present day

“I was already so nervous being in a new country and joining a new team.” Kyra spoke with a sad smile and tears glistening in her eyes. “But she was already there, a cheeky smile plastered on her face and an overly enthusiastic handshake.” Kyra paused to wipe away the tears that were falling freely now. “And after that, the world didn’t seem so big.”

Kyra took a deep breath before continuing. She didn’t look at the crowd nor the framed photo of you by your coffin. She just looked down. Down somehow past her shoes and starts talking like you are still here. Like this is just another one of your long deep and meaningful chats after training. 

“The other day I went out to get some air.” She started.

“Didn’t even know where I was walking. Didn’t even realise I’d gone that far. But I turned the corner near that cafe you liked. “

Her voice cracks, just slightly. 

“The one with all the suncatchers in the windows and the terrible oat milk. And that’s when I saw them. This person selling roses right on the corner and I actually laughed. Right there in the street just because I could hear you in my head.”

Kyra closed her eyes, smiling now through a shaky breath. 

Flashback to last valentines day

Kyra barges through the front door, holding a bouquet of long stemmed red roses and a triumphant grin in hand. 

“Look what I got you!” Kyra says proudly, like she has just won the World Cup.

You barely offer a second glance away from the tv where you are currently trying, and failing, to fight off a creeper in your minecraft village. 

“Uhh… A takeaway?”

“Nope! Something even better” she states, still holding that cheeky grin as your village gets blown up. 

You look up from the couch, unimpressed. “Oh, oh no.”

Kyra’s face drops. “What?”

“Are those…” You squint like you are trying to identify a rare disease. “Roses?”

She blinks. “Yeah? It’s romantic.”

You groan like she has just kicked your dog. “Kyra. Babe. That’s peak valentines aisle cringe.”

Kyra’s brow furrows. “They were expensive!”

“And they look like they were grown in a factory that also makes sad greeting cards.”

“They are predictable” you shoot back. “You have been living in England way too long. Next thing, you will be bringing me a Tesco meal deal and calling it love!”

Kyra stares at you. “...Would you prefer peonies?”

You pause, “Peonies have character.”

She groans. “You are such high maintenance.”

“And you” you say, plucking one rose from the bouquet and dramatically sniffing it, “Are a walking pinterest board.”

Kyra rolls her eyes and mutters, “Remind me never to try and be romantic again!”

You snicker before saying “Oh no, please do” you say sweetly. “I love watching you fail!”

Back to present day

Kyra lets out a soft laugh, the kind that hurts on the way out. 

She made fun of me for days! She put them in a vase and labelled it ‘Kyra’s cringe corner’. Everytime I would pass them she would be like “Oop! There's that heterosexual energy again!”

Laughter echoes gently through the room, and Kyra’s eyes shine but she doesn’t pause to wipe the tears away.

“She hated roses. Thought they were a cliche, but she still kept every single one. Even dried them out and hand pressed each one to keep them forever. Called it ‘ironic’, but I think she secretly loved them. I think she secretly loved all the things she pretended to hate.”

Kyra swallows hard. Looking out at the many somber faces in the pews.

“I’d give anything to walk through that door again with the stupidest bouquet I could find, just to see her roll her eyes at me.”

Her voice drops to a whisper, as if Kyra was speaking to just herself and nobody else.

“And say something like, “God, you are lucky I’m hot.”

The church has now quieted down. All the laughter from Kyra’s earlier stories; the flowers, the pouting, the dramatic declarations of love. The way you would pout and cite psychological torture if you were left alone for more than 10 minutes.  

That's all gone now. 

What remains is a hush, heavy and waiting. 

Kyra grips the lectern tighter. She swallows hard, eyes red, voice quieter now. Lacking the usual light joviality it normally holds. 

“There’s one more thing” she says. “Something I haven’t really said out loud yet.”

She hesitates. Then takes a deep breath.

“We fought.”

Her hands tremble slightly as she folds the paper and places it flat on the podium.

“She thought I didn’t care. She thought I wasn’t trying. That I was shutting her out.”

A soft breath, sharp at the end like she’s holding something back.

“She was right, in a way. I was shutting her out. But not because I didn’t love her.”

She looks down. Her voice drops.

“It’s because I did.”

Flashback three weeks earlier

It started with something so small.

Kyra was late, again. She was out with a few of the aussie girls but was supposed to be back by now. You were waiting at home for her, pacing. Trying not to check the time for the third time in 5 minutes.

And then the door clicks and in walks Kyra. She walks in muttering something about an apology and a dead phone. You just look at her. 

Her eyes flick to yours, cautious and wary. 

“What?” she says, already bracing for the incoming argument. 

“You could’ve called” you say “You could’ve sent one text.”

Kyra sighs, taking off her shoes. “I said I was sorry.”

You sigh, incredulously, “It isn’t about the text Kyra! This” your hands flailing wildly around you. “It's not about the text.” 

Kyra’s shoulders go stiff, as if she already knows where this is going. 

“You’re not here even when you are here” you say. “You sit across from me and barely say a word. You hold my hand but your mind is somewhere else. I feel like I am dating someone else sometimes!”

Kyra opens her mouth, to argue? To defend herself? But you cut her off.

“Do you even want to be in this anymore?...”

That breaks something in Kyra. Her face crumples and she shakes her head and opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. 

So you try again, one more time. 

“Just talk to me. Please. Just tell me what is going on.” You plead with her. 

But Kyra can’t. It isn’t that she doesn’t want to, of course she does. 

She wants to tell you about the ring she has kept hidden in her gym bag for days. That she has been brainstorming location ideas with Steph, Katie and Caitlin. That she has been carrying it around with her. That every time she looks at you, laughing on the couch or brushing your teeth half asleep, she thinks ‘God! I want that forever.’

But she doesn’t say any of that. 

Instead, she says:

“I don’t know.”

You stare at her like that answer physically hurts you. Because it does. 

“Okay” you say, stepping back. “Okay.”

You grab your keys. You don’t even cast a second glance back over to Kyra. 

“I am going to steph’s, I need a break.” 

And then you are gone. Kyra lets you go, watching the door slam shut and thinks ‘ I will make it up when she gets back, I will explain everything and ask her to marry me. Everything will work out.’

But that never happened, and Kyra just lets you go.

Back to present day

“I thought we had time,” Kyra says softly.

“I thought I’d give her some space, wait for her to cool off. I thought I’d surprise her in the morning. Coffee in one hand, ring in the other. I even practised what I was going to say.”

She gives a watery laugh. It hurts.

“I was gonna say… ‘You drive me insane. You correct my Spotify playlists. You talk during movies. You never clean the coffee machine. And I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. Will you marry me?’”

Her voice cracks.

“But I never got the chance.”

“I got the call less than an hour later.”

The air in the room is sucked out.

“I thought it was her calling to say sorry. Or to tell me to come pick her up because she forgot her pillow. She never could sleep without her pillow.”

“But it wasn’t her.”

A pause.

“It was the police.”

Kyra reaches into her jacket pocket.

She pulls out a small, worn velvet box. It looks like it’s been opened and closed a hundred times. Because it has.

She flips it open.

Inside is a ring, delicate, classic, and quietly beautiful. The kind you’d say you hated because “It’s too normal,” but she knew you’d secretly love.

“I bought this a month ago,” she says, holding it up with trembling fingers. “I was just… I was waiting for the perfect moment.”

Her voice shakes.

“But the perfect moment never came. And then she was gone.”

“She died thinking I didn’t love her enough to try. But the truth is…”

Kyra closes her eyes.

“I loved her so much I couldn’t breathe.”

She swallows the lump in her throat.

“I wish I’d told her that. I wish I’d opened my mouth and said anything. I wish I hadn’t let her walk out that door thinking she was alone.”

A breath.

“I would’ve given her the world. I would’ve spent every morning for the rest of my life proving I could love her better.”

Her gaze lifts.

“I still talk to her, you know. When I come home. When I see her favourite flowers. When I open the fridge and find the stupid oat milk she always made me buy. When I hear a song she hated and pretend she’s next to me rolling her eyes.”

A faint smile trembles on her lips.

“She’s still everywhere.”

Her hand closes the ring box gently.

“And I never got to ask the question. But I know the answer.”

And then Kyra whispers quietly, intimately as if she is speaking to just herself again. 

“She would’ve said yes.”

And with that Kyra folds the piece of paper up, her voice breaking as she looks up. 

“I love you, still. Always.”