#so like this is a message to anyone who makes that stuff to get better labels))

[1d1195]

Pucking Rookie II

Read Pucking Rookie here | ~8k words

From me: sloooooowwwwww burrrrrrrnnnnnnnn

Warnings: angsty, fluffy, douchey ex-boyfriend, a little violent

Summary: Harry is one of the most annoying people she's ever met. It's unfair he's talented, hot, and way nicer than her ex.

“So getting to the side of the ice before the puck is there is offsides?” Marc asked.

She nodded watching the Warriors center faceoff against the Bears on her TV screen. They were in the third period with only five minutes to go and the defenseman from the Bears was in the penalty box for a foul against the center. She thought it was a death sentence. “Correct.”

“They have that in other sports,” he sounded like a child remembering a fact from preschool. She smirked.

“Yes,” she laughed. “Are you sure you want to date this guy?”

“I want to date his dick,” Marc shrugged. She snorted and shook her head.

“Fair enough.”

Her phone lit with a message from Kael. He wanted to see her when she was in town with The Chargers. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but it would have been nice to get some of her stuff back. If he kept it.

“Are you speaking to Harry again?” Marc asked.

It was impossible to keep the smile from growing on her face. She rubbed a hand over her mouth to hide it. “Yeah...” she nodded. “It’s kind of hard not to talk to anyone on the team.”

“The fact you went a whole week without talking to that hot as hell man is beyond me. You’re a better woman than me.”

She snorted. They were coming down to the final two minutes and the goalie skated to the bench and another player glided across the ice. “So, when the team is down by a goal or two, they send the goalie off the ice so they can get another scorer in position. But it leaves the goal open. It’s risky.”

“You are seriously doing that team a disservice by not dating them,” he murmured. “If I was into women I wouldn’t let you out in public. You’re so perfect.”

She laughed. “I am not perfect.”

“Babe, you are stunning, you know hockey, and you make the best cookies I’ve ever tasted.”

“It’s not enough,” she told him sipping her water and standing up. But sure enough, The Warriors scored without their goalie in the next. She had to get to the rink for the night game. She smirked, wiggled eyebrows at Marc, and turned off her TV.

“You should bet money on these things.”

She put on her regular outfit for a night of taking pictures at the rink. Her hands had to be free (and yes, they would freeze) but she wore a thick sweatshirt below the jersey. It had Niall’s name on the back. She figured he was the least likely to make a big deal of wearing someone’s name on her back. She honestly hoped no one noticed that she picked it. She didn’t want to make it seem like she had a favorite on the team. Because she didn’t. And it definitely wasn’t Harry Styles.  

Truthfully, she stole Niall’s old jersey out of the bin in the locker room. It got ripped in a game where someone got a little too irritated with Niall’s good goal tending. There was a significant tear along the seam because Harry was the first one to get to Niall when the incident occurred. Harry accidentally tore at it while trying to get his hands on the opponent and wound up in the penalty box for two minutes because of it.

She spent part of the following evening sewing it carefully back together while watching a movie on Netflix.

Once her winter boots were on, she slipped her camera bag and press pass over her shoulder and neck respectively. She was ready for the evening. Marc walked her down to her car. They both waved at Michael who was pacing outside while smoking a cigarette. “Hey Sweetheart,” he called. Michael was about five years younger than her and way too grumpy for his own good. But he often perked up on her behalf. “Good luck to the team.”

“Thanks!” She smiled as if she had any responsibility for how well they did.

Marc made sure she got in the car safely and winced when her car took two turns to start because of the cold. Once assured her car would remain running, Marc went to Michael’s side and bummed a cigarette from him as she pulled out of the lot in front of the building. What a weird little family she was creating in a weird part of town.

Her car seemed angry that it was being asked to do its job, and she worried that one day it was going to die on her way there. If it did, she was nervous it would be a thing and Uncle Charlie would be pissed. She could see it now. But instead, she listened to her music, stopped to splurge for a coffee made by someone else, and headed to the rink.

At the very least, she was happier than she had been in a very long time. There was no weight around her worrying she wasn’t the perfect girlfriend, the perfect arm candy for her hockey boyfriend. She didn’t worry about looking weird or awkward. She felt more like herself behind the lens, at the rink, and at The Locker Room, and at her apartment with her new friends than she had in years.

Maybe she didn’t need any of her stuff back from Kael. If she never spoke to him again, then she would be okay.

*

“Niall you lucky motherfucker!” Asher yelled.

She wasn’t paying much attention as the boys finally arrived for their game. She was in the middle of a conversation with Uncle Charlie as she went over the pictures she was planning to submit to the news outlets, looking over the tiny screen in her hands. She showed off her non-athletic photography skills. This included the senior pictures she took of her cousin (Charlie’s daughter), and she told him which ones she thought were best. This naturally led to discussing the holidays. Her hope was he was willing to carpool to her parents’ house. It was selfish, mainly because she didn’t think her car would make it the three-hour drive out of the city. Not that she was going to tell him that.

But the boys interrupted before she could get that far. She turned, smiled brightly at her team of restless twenty-something-year-old puppies. She set her coffee on the ledge of the window of an office for one of the team assistants and gave the boys a proper wave. “Are you all ready for gameday?” She asked.

But no one was paying any attention to her greeting. Instead, their gazes were focused on the number on her body. The black-and-silver-lettering and logo was riveting it seemed even though it was on all their own jerseys as well.

So much for it not being a thing. “Sweetheart, I’m honored,” Niall chuckled. Were his cheeks pink in embarrassment? That was cute—he looked so nervous. Niall was adorable. She could see why Harry was so protective of him. In the time she had gotten to know him, she seriously didn’t know how someone so sweet and nice could be roped into a rough and tumble sport like hockey.

“What?” She asked curiously, hoping that if she acted confused, they wouldn’t make it a bigger deal than it needed to be.

It seemed there was little chance of such a thing. “You’re wearing my jersey,” his grin remained shy and so, so adorable.

Well, maybe she could use it to her advantage. “Well, don’t tell the others but you’re my favorite,” she winked.

But it wasn’t quiet and everyone heard it. The gasps and scoffs of disbelief echoed loudly as they entered the locker room to drop some of their stuff. First there would be game day entrance photos, the boys looking dressed in not quite formal but not so casual attire. The stuff that made hearts throb to look at them (and other organs throb if she was honest). They would pose as if they hadn’t already walked in, and no one would know except for them.

Niall turned a shade redder and headed in. “Don’t break my goalie,” Charlie warned.

“I would never break Niall!” She pouted petulantly at her uncle. “Why are they all up and arms about the jersey? It was free and I fixed it. Is it not allowed?”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, Sweetheart,” he chuckled. “It’s just a dumb hockey-guy thing,” he patted her on the back and headed into the locker room.

“Harry’s running late,” Lang said as he returned with just a duffle bag and an overpriced water bottle that was part of his sponsorship deal. “Hit some traffic or something. So, you might not get his game day entrance,” he told her with a shrug.

She nodded. “That’s fine,” she shrugged and snapped a picture of him while he wasn’t really focused, testing the lighting and frame once more now that she had a subject. “There’s enough of you guys to suffice as eye candy for the day we probably won’t need everyone’s picture.”

Lang laughed, covering his mouth. “Sweetheart, please say that in front of Harry while I’m around and you’re wearing that jersey,” he begged. She frowned unsure what he meant by that specifically. Instead, she shook her head and began ordering the captain and his teammates around to get the first part of her evening’s tasks done.

*

Harry showed up just as she took the last shot of the team walking into the locker room. He was pouring the last bit of his protein shake into his mouth while she examined her camera once more and sipped her coffee that she left on the ledge of the window. There was so much more activity back by the locker room as game time approached. There were team doctors, athletic trainers, assistants, and more milling around.

Harry hated being late. It messed with his pre-game rituals. But there wasn’t anything he could do about traffic. Plus, Hayden lived on the exact opposite side of the city. He really shouldn’t have bothered with trying to sneak a quick hook-up in before the game. But he needed something to take the edge off and nothing was working.

Granted the hook-up left him feeling unsatisfied as well. Although it wasn’t Hayden’s fault. She was lovely, truly. It was all Harry’s brain. Something was off and he couldn’t quite place it.

But one look at the pretty photographer wearing the number thirty-one on her body reminded him that he was much more aware of the issue than he was willing to admit. He blinked hoping his eyes were mistaken. But no, the name Horan was on her back.

“Rookie!” He called.

What the fuck was he going to say? It didn’t even make sense for him to be mad. She didn’t do anything wrong. God, Harry was an idiot. She was off limits. For all he knew she had one of everyone’s jersey and was going to rotate through.

It was probably not a good sign that she looked up when she heard that nickname, right? It wasn’t good to get used to knowing it was Harry calling her the moment she heard his teasing. But right then, Harry didn’t look teasing. His gaze was laser-focused on her torso (and not the way she would expect him to be focused on her chest). “Hi Harry,” she smiled, sweetly; hoping vehemently that this wasn’t about the jersey. “Do you want a game day photo?” She asked gently holding her camera up.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” He snapped.

This hoping thing ain’t shit. She thought. Glancing down at her outfit once more, she frowned. “I thought I looked cute,” she pouted.

Harry was all but half a foot in front of her. “You’re wearing Niall’s jersey.”

“It’s from the locker room, it was going to get thrown out, so I just sewed it,” she shrugged. “Is that not allowed? No one said anything.”

He seemed to bristle but settled at the same time. She really didn’t get what the big deal was. “S’fine,” he grumbled. “Y’do look cute. You always look cute,” he rolled his eyes and pushed the locker room door open with a little too much power. She shook her head and heard laughter from behind the door.

“Boys are weird,” she sighed and headed for the tunnel to get to the ice.

*

She texted Michael from her car when she got back to the apartment at one in the morning. It was dark, cold, and she had a weird feeling as she pulled into the small lot. He hurried out yawning as he did. He was wearing only shorts, a t-shirt, and slippers. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she frowned and hurried to the front of the building. He waited patiently for her to lock her car.

“S’fine, Sweetheart,” he shrugged and yawned.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. She really needed to find a new place, so she didn’t have to bother them. But she swore she could feel someone’s eyes following her as she closed the entry door to her building. Michael headed down the first-floor hall to his place without another word. She stopped at her small little mailbox, locked on the inside. Only a slit in the wall from the outside to get in. It was all junk and bills. She didn’t give her address to anyone. Not even Uncle Charlie had her real address. She mentioned some apartment complex on the good side of town. But when pressed, she immediately diverted and asked if he would be okay with shipping her Amazon packages to his house. It did the trick, fortunately. Her parents didn’t think much of it either because they knew Charlie was keeping an eye on her.

It was all she could afford after not working much because of Kael and his weird obsession with making sure she played the proper part of picture-perfect hockey girlfriend. This was a sketchy part of town, and she knew it and didn’t like living here either. But what could she really do? Making friends with Michael and Marc was easy and she was lucky. So very lucky to have people keep an eye out for her when she got home late and felt like she was being followed.

So, when she turned to the stairwell behind the little mail room and saw the very angry hockey player outside the door of her building peering through the glass, she practically jumped back a foot and immediately and nearly screamed.

She clamped a hand over her mouth and pressed the other one to her heart, dropping her mail in the process. “What the fuck are you doing?!” She whisper-screamed opening the door.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Harry hissed stepping inside. He gathered up her mail handing it to her. He continued glaring as he took in the run-down place. “Do you live here?”

“Yes!”

“Rookie, this is not a safe area. Why are y’living here?”

“Because I can afford it? What kind of fucking question is that?”

Harry looked so good having just played a grueling game that included overtime and a shootout. His hair was still damp from his shower. His face glowing that way he managed to do in the dead of winter that was so unfair to her. He smelled good—too good. He wore a black hoodie, black pants, and black sneakers. Like he was trying to blend in with the night. The only not good-looking thing about him at the moment was the sour expression on his otherwise extremely pretty features. The furrow between his eyebrows looked angry. The green of his eyes appeared darker, almost black to match his clothes. His mouth was pressed in a flat line.

But even angry, Harry looked hot. He had been angry all evening. Since he set foot in the arena. He didn’t relax when they all went to The Locker Room either. He hardly spoke to Niall and barely acknowledged his good goal tending. “Does coach know you live here?”

She shook her head. “Harry, shut the fuck up. Why did you follow me home like a creep!?”

“Because s’one in the morning and y’said y’were exhausted and that your car was a piece of shit! I was making sure y’made it home. I didn’t know home was even scarier!”

“Hey babe, everything alright? Michael texted you would be on your way up and to keep an ear out.” Marc called as he approached them descending the stairs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she whispered and rubbed her temples.

“Holy shit,” Marc gaped.

“Harry, this is Marc,” she introduced the pair, but lacked any enthusiasm. “He’s my neighbor.”

Harry glared at him—even though he didn’t deserve it. “Hi,” he said curtly.

“I’m fine,” she told Marc. “Harry followed me home.”

“Great game today, man,” he looked awestruck; no longer concerned about her well-being at all and entirely concerned about the beautiful man in front of him. “That was a bogus penalty in the second period.”

“I said the same thing,” she nodded in agreement hoping it would remind Harry that she made her own little place here and he didn’t need to worry. That he was her friend.

Harry softened just a little. His shoulders untensed ever so slightly. “Thanks,” he nodded curtly, trying to remain polite to a fan when he wanted to shake the sweet photographer. “Rookie, show me your place,” he ordered.

“Michael and I keep an eye on her,” Marc offered sensing there was a deeper issue.

Harry eyed him up and down and then turned back to her. “Show me your place,” he repeated.

“No!”

“Jesus, babe, show the hot man your apartment!”

She pressed her fingers to her forehead and slid them down her nose and over her lips as she spoke. “Marc,” she sighed. “Go away.”

“Huge fan,” he held his hands up in surrender and made his way upstairs.

Harry was staring at her in disbelief. “You’re not living here.”

“Harry,” she sighed.

“I’ve had a shit day, Rookie. Don’t fucking test it,” he snapped and headed up the stairs figuring he would find it on his own because he would just know? She shook her head.

“Third floor,” she mumbled following behind him. He sighed with relief from ahead of her.

“Take that stupid fucking shirt off,” he said once the door was shut.

“Why are you so angry today?” She shed her camera carefully setting it on the small table. Then her badge. She dropped her keys on the table too. Quickly, before he could get angrier, she rid herself of the jersey and her hoodie.

Harry sighed again, relieved it seemed of what she didn’t know. Without broiling in irritation over his friend’s name all over the girl he had a massive crush on, he was able to focus a little more. Glancing around he inspected the small place. It was cute, adorable even. Just like her.

She bent to take her shoes off. “Do you want water or something? You’re so keyed up... Maybe you want a sedative?” She rolled her eyes at him.

He snorted. “Pass,” he continued looking around. “S’nice, really,” he murmured

“It is,” she agreed. “I don’t plan on staying here forever, but it’s what’s affordable right now. Not all of us make seven figures a year for their talent.”

He ignored her and wandered around the little rooms she had. On all of her walls were more photos she had clearly taken. It didn’t take much for him to figure out her style. It was natural and lovely. “S’cold in here.”

“Heat’s expensive,” she remarked. “Do you want some tea?” She asked.

He shook his head. “No, thank you, Rookie,” he mumbled relaxing more as he inhaled deeply. Everything was so intoxicatingly her in this room. It smelled so good. She smelled so good. “Is Marc in love with you?” He asked offhandedly.

“Not unless I identify as a man, which I don’t.”

He smirked, unable to hide the amusement. She was so funny, it was unfair. Beautiful, talented, kind, and funny. She was made in a lab and meant to tempt every one of Harry’s desires. “What ‘bout the guy that walked y’in?” He picked up the book that was on her coffee table and read the back of it, wondering what kind of books she was into and if she liked the same things as him. He set the book down carefully.

“Michael? No. He’s a baby.”

“He’s taller than you,” he murmured.

“He’s not in love with me. Well, actually, I do make him cookies. So maybe,” she shrugged.

He shook his head wishing he could focus on his own questions. But she was too quick and Harry was too tired.

On the wall of her living room was an array of small frames. Probably fifteen or so four by six photos that his mom would have put in a photo album. He recognized Charlie and Ray. A man he could only assume was Charlie’s brother and her dad as they looked like twins with different hair and eye coloring. Girls in their teens, a dog that never seemed to age even though the family around it did, and her gorgeous smile.

There was also a stupid fucking picture of Niall on her wall beside a team photo which made him want to yank it down and stomp on it like a psychopath.

Poor Niall did nothing to deserve Harry’s wrath. The team teased him the moment he went into the locker room telling him all about how she said Niall was his favorite. It wasn’t surprising. Niall was nice and sweet. He didn’t hook up with a bunch of girls nor did he go from city to city hoping to be entertained by a different girl. He was a nice guy. Probably the kind of guy she did deserve. Especially after whatever it was that Kael did to arguably ruin his life by losing her. He barely congratulated him on his saves in the game. Didn’t even buy him a drink at the bar either. To Niall’s credit, he didn’t take it too harshly. Merely smirked at him as he glared. Knowing it really had nothing to do with him at the heart of it.

But the picture of his best friend on her wall just made him grumpier all over again. It didn’t help that Harry was exhausted. He dreaded having to drive home this late. Especially when he was mad on top of everything else. But having seen where she lived, he was glad he followed her home. Didn’t care that it was creepy. It would have made him insane to know she wasn’t safe.

There wasn’t much he could do but turn his attention to her kitchen so he could avoid the stupid picture of his stupid friend who he didn’t like very much at present.

Right there on the fridge door was one of her family photos—clearly taken at a wedding or something. A quick glance showed she wasn’t in it which made him sad. How often was she left out of pictures because she was always the one taking them? Beside her family was the side-by-side duo picture of herself that he saw on her website. A photo of her parents’ dog next to that. A couple landscapes of the ocean and sun.

Right in the middle of all her photos was a picture of Harry.

He swore time stopped. All his anger towards Niall disappeared. Why was he on her fridge? It was the picture of when he scored a goal, from one of the first games she photographed this year. The one she sent him the first time she texted him. “Why’s this on the fridge?” He asked, straightening it alongside the others it. There was a magnet on the back and Harry felt his chest constrict a bit knowing he wasn’t on the wall, but he was in her house. She cared in some way enough to put him among her pictures of family and friends.

She shrugged. “I put all of my favorite pictures on the fridge,” she said it so simply. It wasn’t a big deal to her. The pictures belonged there and that was it. It just was.

His heart sincerely skipped a beat. Like if he were a cartoon, a graphic of a little heart monitor would appear in a cloud bubble, and it would show an irregular rhythm representing the way she made him feel. His gaze flickered to her briefly, but he was worried he would stare and never look away. He cleared his throat and looked toward her wall of photos. “What ‘bout the wall over there?”

“Those are nice pictures too, but I don’t really look at the wall much. It’s behind me when I sit on the couch, you know...? The fridge however,” she had a smile in her voice. “I love snacks and cooking and baking. So, I’m in the kitchen a lot. So, I like to look at my favorites.”

Harry felt softer. Relieved. Less mad and annoyed than he’d been in hours. Maybe even days if he was honest. Harry was one of her favorites. Even if she didn’t mean he was her favorite and merely the photo.

“Bunny?” He asked softly staring at the other half dozen or so of her favorites.

She didn’t miss a beat answering to the nickname that she didn’t really like. But she did really like the way it sounded when Harry said it. “Yeah?”

“Would y’ever wear my jersey?” His voice was quiet, he felt stupid for asking. The question wouldn’t leave his brain until he said it. Whatever the answer was, he had to ask it.

She frowned and sighed. Harry hated that. It seemed like a terrible question, and he was dreading her answer immediately. “I hate to say it, Harry, but I can’t afford a Styles jersey.”

He rolled his eyes. “Would y’wear it?”

“Of course I would, Harry. You’re my friend just like Niall is. And Asher, Callie, and Lang. I really only wore it because you guys were throwing it out.”

Harry rubbed a hand on the side of his face. He could live with that. “Alright.”

“Did I miss something?” She asked. But he knew how perceptive she was. She had to know how much it bothered him that she wore his friend’s name and number on her body today and not his. She had to know he had a crush on her. Even if he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Nope,” he shook his head not wanting to get into it further.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?” She asked again. “You seem really out of sorts...maybe you need something without alcohol?”

“Sure,” he sighed. She could give him whatever she wanted. She wouldn’t be able to tell, but he was relieved now. He didn’t need anything else. “Tea would be nice...” She nodded, gently nudging him out of the way to get a pitcher of water from her fridge. “Can I stay here?”

“You want to stay in my crappy little apartment? After you went on and on about how unsafe it is?” She questioned filling the kettle on her stove.

Fair point, Bunny. “M’exhausted, Rookie. I told you I had a bad day.”

“I see that,” she pouted and scanned him up and down. “Of course you can. You have to take my bed though; the couch is too small for you.”

He shook his head. “M’not kicking y’out of your bed when I barged in.”

“Well... it was... kind of nice that you made sure I got home safely. I’m glad it was you, but I was pretty nervous... so if it wasn’t you...” she shook her head and looked at her hands wringing them awkwardly. “I’m sorry you got stuck here,” she pouted.

More of him softened somehow. It seemed impossible that she could make him feel any softer. He was certain he never felt softer than when she said that his picture was one of her favorites. The way she spoke was so gentle.

“I fall asleep most nights on the sofa anyway,” she shrugged, unaware of the thoughts rolling through Harry’s head. She probably hadn’t a clue how she made him imagine her adorable body curled into the small sofa with a blanket around her. What it would be like for him to come home from a game and find her snuggled into a sweatshirt with his cologne on it, the TV playing the post-game highlights, and her hands tucked under her cheek. Did she snore? Harry ached to know.

God he was fucked. How did she walk into the arena and do that? Harry thought of nothing but hockey and hookups. Now he wondered if she snored at night.

She carefully poured the hot water into a mug with The Charger’s logo on the outside and dipped the tea bag in and out a few times letting the water do its thing. She slid it across the small counter before she poured her own mug. They stood silently for a moment, sipping tea.

“I might have something of Kael’s for you to sleep in.”

“I’d rather die than sleep in that piece of shit’s clothes.”

She smirked around the edge of her mug and shook her head. “Are you cold?” She asked.

He shook his head. It was cold but he wasn’t cold. He would be fine with a few blankets. A warm body beside him would be good too, but he wasn’t sure he could convince her.

She put her mug in the sink and went to the bathroom without warning. After a few minutes, she returned. Her face was washed of makeup, her hair pulled back, and she wore a pair of sweatpants instead. She grabbed a pillow off her bed. “Normally I’d change your sheets, but... It’s too late. I hope you don’t mind.”

Wrapped up in sheets, blankets, and pillows that smelled like her? Fine by him. “S’fine, Rookie. Thank you.”

She grabbed more blankets from under her sofa cushion; a space for storage hiding in plain sight. She placed them at the end of her bed and then went to the sofa. “Make yourself at home,” she offered. “Night, Harry,” she yawned and settled into her pillow and blanket, nuzzling into the warmth just as he imagined, her hands tucked under her cheek.

“Night, Rookie,” he mumbled and climbed into her bed. He was practically asleep before he was fully settled.

*

It couldn’t have been more than a couple hours later—it was still very dark out. Her bed was warm, soft, and smelled so fucking good he thought he might sew himself into the sheets just so he never had to leave. But it was undeniably cold. Even in his hoodie and sweats.

He glanced across the room and could barely make out the shadow of his pretty crush curled into the sofa. She looked chilled and Harry felt so immensely guilty. He got out of bed, his feet nearly stinging on the cold floor. Without more thought he scooped her up. His arms looping around the back of her knees and the other around her waist. He tried to move her without jostling her too much. Her head fell toward him, pressing into his chest as he carried her back to the bed. He settled her under her sheets and blankets. He wanted nothing more than to cozy up to her, but he wasn’t going to ruin the progress he made that night. Instead, he slipped between the sheet and blanket, draped the pair of them in the other blankets.

She sighed loudly in her sleep. Like she was comfortable.

Harry didn’t think there was anyone cuter than her.

*

Harry woke up to her burrowed into his side. He didn’t dare move. If she wanted out, she would have to make the move. There wasn’t anything that would get Harry to remove himself from her warm body in the same bed as him. It was almost too warm, but well worth it.

“Jesus,” she whispered suddenly and scooched back in the bed. “Harry!” She hissed.

He smirked. “Good morning, Rookie,” he yawned. “Sleep well?”

“How did I get here?”

“Y’must have tucked yourself in with me,” he smiled.

She rolled her eyes, shook her head. “Shut up,” she mumbled.

“Y’jus’ looked cold,” he shrugged. “S’plenty of room.”

She sighed. “Well thanks, it was cozy,” her cheeks turned red. “Do you want something to eat?” She asked, immediately pivoting from their little late-night cuddle.

“Y’make breakfast too?”

“It’s actually my favorite meal...” she trailed off pushing the covers off. “I love going out to breakfast,” she got out of bed and grabbed a sweatshirt from her dresser. Harry sensed there was more to that, but as soon as he saw her sweatshirt, all previous thoughts left his mind.

Niall’s number and name on her body made him mad.

The words Glacier Wolves across the front in it’s hideous font was going to send him to an early grave.

“No,” he shook his head immediately. “Take it off.”

“You’re awfully bossy about my outfits, Harry,” she rolled her eyes. “It’s cold. I need a sweatshirt.”

Harry pulled the one he was wearing off. “Here.”

For a moment she eyed it. Harry couldn’t figure out her expression or the pause that lasted as she examined it. “Harry it’s like ten degrees out,” she pulled the hem down and walked toward her bathroom again.

He pouted, grumbling to himself as he put his clothing back on. “M’burning that,” he mumbled.

“I heard that!”

*

Harry left after breakfast. He didn’t bug her about her sweatshirt. But he did beg her to turn the heat on for a little bit. He helped her with dishes and not once did the conversation feel forced, awkward, or like there was a lull that lasted too long. He watched her take pictures of her food, then the way the light streamed in through the window, so it hit her coffee table just so. She adjusted her book to an open page and set a hot cup of tea beside it.

With a couple of snaps, Harry watched her while biting into his toast. “Can I see?” He asked.

“It’s nothing special. I just take random pictures sometimes for practice,” she explained.

He wiped his hand on his leg and held it out expectantly for the priceless equipment. It felt weird, awkward. Tentatively, she handed it to him. Not only had she captured the beauty of the early morning in her little place, she took another picture of Harry drinking tea in between bites.

He smiled. “Aw, Rookie, me?” He teased. She didn’t say anything, looked anywhere but him while her pink cheeks spoke for the emotions she was feeling. “M’not sure why but m’still really impressed,” he tabbed through the pictures she took on the little screen.

She must have faced the camera backwards because her pretty smiling face with the ice rink as back drop behind her illuminated the screen. Harry loved everything about the photo. It had her and his beloved hockey rink. “Can I have this one?” He asked.

“I was going to delete that,” she blushed. Harry frowned.

“No way, Rookie, y’look adorable. Let me have it, y’got me on your fridge.”

She looked away shyly, nodded silently. “I’ll text it to you.”

Harry was unbelievably talented and attractive. He could outthink his opponents on the ice and he was sweet enough to make sure she got home safe. Carried her to bed in the middle of the night to keep her warm.

It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t have him. Even if it was her own doing.

Around ten or so, Harry had to head out and she hated to admit it, but she really missed him almost the moment he left.

*

The following day she headed to practice taking pictures for the team’s social media posts. Ray and Charlie were at the center of the ice waiting for the team to file out of the locker room. She took a picture of her uncle and surrogate uncle. Then she setup for some detail shots while waiting. The score book and pen on the bench. A stick propped up behind the bench. She laid flat on the ice and got a shot of the coach’s shoes on the center of the ice.

“Hey Sweetheart!” Callie called from across the rink—first one on the ice. Ray threw a puck at him, and he shot it into the net. Charlie threw another and he pushed the puck back and forth near him. “Laying down on the job?”

She snorted, shook her head with a smile. “Come here!” He glided over and stopped in front of her without getting ice all over her and her equipment. “Put your stick flat on the ground,” she ordered. She reached out and touched the puck and pushed it in front of the slight bend at the end of his stick. “Take your helmet off, and your gloves.”

“You gonna tell me to take more of my uniform off, Sweetheart?” He teased but followed her directions.

“You wish.”

“I do wish, Sweetheart, I do.”

She shook her head while centering her view on the shot she wanted. “Don’t move.”

“Yes ma’am,” he sighed dreamily. He was enjoying her bossing him around too much and she couldn’t help but smile while she clicked the shutter taking several of the same photo.

“Okay, thank you,” she carefully maneuvered so she would flop awkwardly back on the ice. Callie immediately grabbed her camera and then took hold of her arm to help her up. Once righted, she brushed the ice off the front of her body. She was quite chilled from lying on the ground for so long. Plus her apartment was cold, naturally her car’s heater was chilly, and it felt like she never quite got out of the cold ever because of it.

“Can I see?” He said excitedly.

She turned the camera to show him. Her teeth chattered a little more than usual. Callie put an arm around her shoulders to add some warmth. He was tall and lean like most other hockey players. And undoubtedly attractive too. “You’re pushing it, Kian,” she shook her head but didn’t mind how warm he felt.

“No one calls me Kian except my mother, Sweetheart,” he reminded her. “You’re cold. Don’t read into it,” he took the camera from her and thumbed through the photos pressing the buttons beside the screen to view them. “Wow,” he murmured. “That’s so cool, Sweetheart. It looks really beautiful.”

She blushed with pride and ducked her face. “Thank you.”

“You know... I’m not sure what he did, but Kael is an idiot to lose you,” he affirmed clicking through more of the photos. “Can we take one?” He asked.

“Yeah, sure,” she turned the camera around and pointed where Callie needed to look. He squeezed around her a little tighter as she clicked the shutter. He immediately took the camera back and examined the photo. “Cute, Sweetheart,” he grinned and continued flipping through all her photos. Including the ones from her breakfast with Harry the day before. “Ooh... what’s this?” He cooed. “Did you and Styles have a sleepover?!” He gaped.

She took her camera back. “No,” she didn’t even blush. It wasn’t his business. She didn’t want Charlie to hear.

And she definitely didn’t want Harry to hear.

Harry slid onto the ice his eyes zeroing in on his teammate’s arm wrapped around her almost immediately. She felt a little awkward knowing that he seemed to be a bit territorial about her even though it wasn’t really within his right. He glowered at the puck that Charlie tossed to him, and it sailed almost immediately into the net from where he stood. “I can’t compete with him, Sweetheart,” Callie frowned. “Please tell me you don’t actually like Styles.”

“I like all of you, Kian,” she rolled her eyes, tearing her eyes away from his broody skating.

“But you like me most, right?” Asher appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“She likes you least,” Lang said assuredly skating by just as quick. She laughed and shook her head.

“I like you all equally,” she promised.

“Bull shit, you can’t sell a twenty-way-tie!” Asher frowned.

She loved her little family away from her real one. This team made her feel more loved and appreciated than Kael ever did. It was eye-opening in so many ways. Was it just because she took pictures on the team? Would they behave this way if she was just a girlfriend? Or the coach’s niece without special treatment? She got special treatment from the other girlfriends and wives of the Glacier Wolves simply because she was Kael’s girlfriend.

At about the same time she started to feel drained by her relationship (the last six months before it ended), she overheard two of the significant others talking about her in the bathroom. While she was using the bathroom... They said Kael was an idiot to stay with her. She was a leech and nothing more. For three years she had been nothing but a good girlfriend. She attended every game, catered to Kael’s workout schedules, practice schedules. She monitored his calendar and made sure his stunning, penthouse apartment was cleaned. She hosted parties for his teammates. For three years post-graduation she didn’t take photography gigs, skipped family parties, and let her degree sit on a shelf unused to it’s full potential.

Maybe The Chargers boys were just being kind because she was the coach’s niece. Maybe her skill really was subpar. Wasn’t she really just a leech in a new way now? Her uncle got her this job and they didn’t really need her.

Kael fucked her up good. Made her feel worthless. He didn’t value her skill and made her believe she wasn’t good enough in any part of her life. “Hey Sweetheart?” Callie asked, giving her a squeeze, bringing her mind back to the present. “You good?”

She nodded. “Sorry, just daydreaming.”

“About me?!” Asher grinned. She smiled. At least for now, this family she had was sweet. She wanted to believe they valued her for her and savor it for however long she could.

*

While the boys practiced, she went to the locker room and tidied up, brought the dirty uniform hamper to the laundry room, and brought the clean laundry back. She took more detail shots without the boys around. It was fun to get them in the shots, like the ones she took with Callie. But ever-like puppies, it was easier to get pictures without them milling around eagerly. She took some really nice shots of their locker space. With the right lighting, it would look like they were ready for battle—she could see it in her head, and she couldn’t wait to get the shots of their numbers alongside equipment on her computer to play with the settings.

But after about an hour of that, she ran out of things to do. She sauntered back to the rink and watched from the bench. Ray and Charlie stood at the center dictating where they should go and what to do next. It was mesmerizing. The beauty and graceful agility these tall, lean, padded men exuded was incredible.

“Take a picture it will last longer!”

The team burst into laughter as Callie called out to her. She shook her head but certainly did just that.

“Hey Sweetheart,” Niall grinned coming over during another break. “Heard you had Harry over. Hope he wasn’t too much trouble.”

She smiled. “No, he was good,” she assured him. “It was nice he followed me home. To make sure I was safe.”

“Yeah, he’s decent like that. His sister Gemma made him a real gentleman,” he agreed. “He didn’t like you wearing my jersey,” he told her.

“I’m well aware.”

“I won’t say no if you wear it again.”

She laughed. “Will do.”

“Want to make him madder taking a picture?”

“Maybe tomorrow, Kian made him pretty mad today with that one already.”

“Who?” Niall furrowed his eyebrows. She shook her head and silently laughed. “Is that what the silent treatment was for?” Niall asked with a laugh and skated off to rejoin his team.

*

At the end of practice, she took shots of them leaving the ice, the empty net. In her head she had a series of photos. The sequence of a hockey game and maybe she would put it into motion one day. She sat on the bench looking at her camera screen and sifted through some of the multiples she didn’t need.

“Hey Rookie,” Harry said softly.

She looked up and smiled. “Hi, Harry.”

Dangling from his fingers were a pair of figure skates. All white, pink guards, pink anterior cushioning, and pink laces.

“I got you these.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“To practice.”

“Harry, I cannot accept that. I know how much ice skates cost. Those have to be close to 400 dollars.”

He shrugged. “That’s what a good pair cost.”

“Harry, I can’t even stand on the ice. Return them. I’m not taking a 400-dollar pair to ruin because I can’t even stand still while wearing them... And they’re practically giving me blisters from just looking at them. I don’t have the right socks..." Harry looked disappointed and he frowned. "But... that... that was very sweet of you,” she added. Because she hadn’t said thank you yet, and it was sweet. It was extremely thoughtful of him. “Thank you,” she added gratefully. “That was so nice of you.”

“Do you like Callie?” He blurted.

“Do you think I’m in love with every man I meet?” She countered.

“You two looked cozy,” he mumbled.

“I was cold,” she admitted. “He offered his jersey, but I didn’t want a repeat of the other night,” she quipped. Harry smirked and looked away from her. “I’m not dating hockey players, remember?” She grabbed her camera and bag ready to leave the rink.

“Yeah...” he sighed, rubbed the back of his head. “I know, Rookie.”

*

There was a knock on her door later that evening. She assumed it was Michael asking if she had baked anything after feeling a bit on the munchier side of life. It probably wasn’t Marc because he had a date with the hockey lover. But maybe it was an early night for them, so who knew.

Instead, Harry was there. A pair of skates dangling from his fingers once more. The guards were still pink, there were scuffs on the toes and heels. The interior was cushioning was a light brown. “They’re a good brand. Used, so they didn’t cost a lot. But full disclosure, they were the most expensive used pair I could find because m’not gonna let y’skirt on the quality because of the cost. They won’t hurt your feet with blisters being brand new.”

Harry, with used ice skates, was the last person she expected to see. There was a tug in her chest where her heart would have melted for Kael to do something as kind as that. But she couldn’t fall in love with Harry. It was just a bad idea. He was a celebrity. There were millions of women he could choose from.

“Have you had it with dragging me around the ice or something?” She asked.

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, but... I want t’help you, Rookie. Y’should know how t’skate. Think of the pictures y’could take even if y’jus’ learn t’skate a little,” he shrugged.

That tug in her chest felt an awful lot like Harry worming his way into the center of her universe. But she didn’t want to do that again. Not really. She didn’t want to dote on Harry the way she did only for it to backfire on her. She still had a lot of time, but she felt behind. Kael made it so she didn’t have tons of money. She ‘didn’t have to worry about it’ because he made plenty. But it wasn’t about money. It was about her independence and now she felt like she literally paid the price. “I got y’some socks too,” Harry added.

Goddammit.

She was going to fall in love with him.

--

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[ticklethentopple]

I want to talk about something that happened to me a while ago. I just need to get this off my chest. It's been in the back of my mind for a while and I finally sat down and made this post.

This is a huge reminder that you should never be afraid to use your safeword and make your boundaries clear. Your comfort is important. There will always be more oppertunities for meetups, it's better to make no memory than making a bad one.

Mainly bc I have been struggeling more again and often trying to draw tkls will end up triggering me so there has barely been new art lately. So I want to talk what happened to me during a session.

🔞minors dni🔞

TW for: boundaries being crossed, genitals being touched, mentions of SA/past abuse

A while ago I meet up with friends from the community. During that time there were about 4 ticklefights that turned into something I would consider a sessions (there was pinning involved and teasing and I didn't really get anyone so it had more session characteristics than a ticklefight).

And during all four I had a specific boundary overstepped. The boundary was that I didn't want to be touched on the areas around and on my genitals.

The way this came to be was that they were sitting above me and trying to get the spot that is the crevice between your leg and your upper area of the genitals. The position made it so that their thump in the little crevice between leg and genitals and their other fingers were between my legs pressed against my private parts.

The first time it happened I stopped everything, explained why and what my boundary was, showed the area (mind you the boundary of not wanting my genitals touched was established far far before meeting due to past trauma) and everyone agreed to it and things moved on.

The next time things turned into a me being pinned and tickled, it happened again, so I again stopped everything, explained my boundary and we just moved on.

Things were okay for a while (nothing tkl related happened) and once things started up again, the same thing happened, again. Again explained everything etc.

The fourth time it happened the other person involved shut everything down and until they left nothing tkl related happened between the person and me.

Now people might wonder why I didn't stop this earlier and why I let this happen again and again. And honestly I mostly thought, since the person is ace and has no interest in s/ex that it wasn't a huge deal.

Except it was, well became a huge deal to me. I started struggeling with my mental health.

I am not getting too deep into anything that happened after that bc things got quite messy. They alpologized, bu I ultimately felt like I had to go no contact/block them(also on advice of my therapist and psychiatrist) bc I was in a really bad place and trying to work on getting into trauma therapy.

I understand that me blocking them was hurtful, but honestly I just felt like my trust was gone. They had contact me after I went no contact with them and I really was feeling like I couldn't safely place a boundary and be sure that it was respected.

Some might point at me and say I overreacted, but truthfully, I have horrific trauma involving my boundaries being crossed, and honestly there were points during the year after this where I thought this had fully broken me to a point where I was unable to heal.

I still dream about this, I still get triggered and have panic attacks over this, frequently. Sometimes I still have to stop my partner in the middle of tickling me bc I get triggered and will start crying.

Sometimes I feel bad about the way I reacted, I feel like I overeacted but it felt like all my trust was gone. There kept being this nagging feeling of "What if it wasn't an accident" and I just couldn't shake it. I had expirienced SA in a relationship years ago and I just felt like there was no way I could ever get back to how things used to be.

I feel like a failure for not speaking out sooner or being more stern with my boundary, sometimes I wish I did do things differently. I don't understand why I didn't fully stop things after the second time it happened, or the third.

I know some people might look at this and think this is silly, bc for all I know this was an accident. But it actually had a huge impact on my life and I am still trying to figure out how to live normal again. I want to talk about this partly bc it is a comfort to hear I am not the only one who had an expirience like this.

But it also just kept being in my head lately and I just was struggeling more again the past weeks. I am honestly tired and I just wish the anxiety and panic attacks would fully die down. I know time will help but I wish it would help quicker.

[starfilledsky2810]

damn I yap a lot

tldr; im alive, sadly im still on hiatus, other stuff is fine now I just have new [physical] problems, you'll know when I'm fully back (give it another couple months) and comfortable, I'm in a [technically well-over] 3-month long ongoing depressive episode [not tryna do trauma olympics or make anyone feel bad btw it's all chill]

so sorry if I've left you hanging [with art or smth], I'll get to it in time, I promise [I may have unwillingly forgotten, likely not but there's a chance]

Hey, I'm alive, I have been for the.. almost 6 months I've been gone. Holy shit, I didn't even realise that it's been that long. I figured I should at least say something in case anyone is worried or wondering even though everything isn't solved yet, so, here. [under the read more so it's not flooding or anything]

Also, I figure I should apologise for venting on main and just leaving it up - this is all going to stay up because I need to keep it somewhere to aid with my memory issues - but, still, must've been a little weird

Absolutely not a good time to say all this [for me bc I haven't thought this message through] but I'm kinda half-back, just on hiatus from socials due to declining physical health. Really badly declining, I need help honestly

Originally, as you know, I was gone because I had a really bad fall out with my mother, but things pertaining to that have been solved now [except me not feeling 100% safe and trusting to my mother, that will never change. She's tried hard, I just wish I could find her reliable emotionally as well]. It's just that, since then, basically, all these physical problems that I don't understand have been royally fucking me up and messing with my mental too. It's messed with everything I love. I don't know what to do anymore.

Oh wait, where I was actually going with this, so

OK nvm I forgot but you'll see me around bc I've been talking to certain people trying to pretend like nothing's happened and I've made the kinda-silly decision to not fully come off hiatus or talk to other certain people before I'm okay again.

[petrichorium]

Happy anniversary of the time I wrote 20k words in a week and got ghosted by the artist who was supposed to make art for the fic lol

[slowlyfoggydestiny]

Soo it happen again huh

[pearlywritings]

Intimacy records

synopsis: what kinds of horny stuff they have in their phones and which is the favorite?

pairing and characters: Aventurine, Blade, Boothill, Dr Ratio, Gallagher, Gepard, Jing Yuan, Loucha, Sampo, Sunday (separately) x fem!reader

tw: SMUT, established relationship (marriage/dating), consensual recording of lovemaking, nudes, oral, lingerie, fingering, masturbation, public sex, breast play, shibari/blindfold, sex machine, creampie

word count: 4.3k+ words

Aventurine

Undoubtedly this man has a whole separate folder for intimate stuff. Of course, he demands you send him something on a daily basis - doesn’t matter if it’s a quick snap of your choice of lingerie in the morning, or recordings of touching yourself - but never enough to cum, it’s his job. Naturally he loves having reminders of you being at his mercy - thus there are also videos of you both (with primarily established consent). All that to say - he has quite the collection, so it’s really hard to pick a favorite, the most desire-arising one.

Maybe it’s a category actually - self-made media created out of bet. Who’ll cum first? Can you keep going without tearing up from pleasure for longer than 10 minutes? Is he patient enough not to touch your sexy self, while you masturbate in front of him? Who is going to be louder this time? These kinds.

”I hope you are ready to lose,” your lover smirks, making himself comfortable between your legs. Camera floats a little, as you chuckle behind it. With a momentary adjustment, the focus is on his face again and he winks, before turning to trail a little path of kisses across your thigh. The image jumps, when he sucks on the skin, and slightly trembles as you let out a sigh. Then it’s firm, as Aventurine wraps his arms around your thighs, his nose teasingly rubbing against your clit. Suddenly there is a lick, then your breath hitches…. And then he buries his mouth into your pussy. It doesn’t take much time for the image to begin shaking wildly, almost matching your debauched noises. There is squelching, there are award-winning male moans, muffled by your heat, soon there is a hand, your hand, reaching down and grabbing his hair. Phone strangely angles, hardly supported by just one hand, until it falls camera down onto the sheets. After that, there are just delicious screams of yours, chanting the name of your lover and begging him to stop, while he doesn’t listen, taking his reward for yet another win.

Yeah, he proved you can’t keep the camera focused while he is eating you out in that one. It’s truly a pity, that more than a half of what was going on, didn’t get recorded in image. Maybe next time you'll do better - oh... That's actually not a bad idea at all… Looks like you are in for another bet.

Blade

His situation is… quite peculiar. First of all, he has so little care for his own phone outside using it to get info for the mission, to the point ANYONE from the Stellaron Hunters can just take it and do whatever with it (Silver Wolf and Kafka practice it a lot). Even your relationship doesn’t change it much, he messages you rarely and quite shortly, preferring to save the conversation for personal interaction. 

However recently, Kafka has been putting a plan into action - the first step of which was banning everyone from getting into his phone (herself excluded). Then she’d start sending her colleague an occasional picture of a set of lingerie she’s oh so sure would look wonderful on you. Blade never answers, but he doesn’t tell her off either, and by the snooping she knows that the pictures get bookmarked, the links for the shops she attaches are visited, and sums of money are being spent.

Oh, and by checking the chat… She knows you get them delivered. Does she text you to shower you with compliments? She does. At first it was a little embarrassing and you asked Blade if he could, maybe, pay better attention to his phone??? But soon, when your lover started showing the telltale signs of jealousy... It became pretty hot (plus praise from THE Kafka? Ego-boosting).

Blade doesn’t voice it, but more than seeing you all pretty for him, he loves seeing you ruined for him, and doesn’t complain when you ask him to take a picture with your phone of whatever part of you, focusing on the marks, or the torn crotch of your panties, or something alike… There are times when he would text you with a simple ‘send me pictures with torn stockings’ or ‘yesterday. open nipples bra. now’ , because he knows you have them, and you deliver, because you know he loves them. 

Has his favorites:

Depicts your thighs, bitten and opened wide, while the black panties are pushed aside to let two thick, scar-covered fingers dive into your pussy.

Your body after one of the sessions - bra roughly pushed down under the mark-covered breasts, panties missing, one stocking still on the leg, but with multiple holes in it, and the other tying your wrists above your head.

A small video you insisted on recording of the man tugging onto your garter belt whenever he wanted your hips to push towards his thrust, threatening for the thin elastic material to snap.

Even though he doesn’t save them, he knows how to get an easy access to them, so for Blade it works quite fine (and Kafka’s plan does too, making Blade look less intimacy-repulsed and spicing up your relationship).

Boothill

A cyborg, whose only human part of the body is the head, and sex life… How can this be possible? 

Oh, trust me, it can. Sure, his bodily reaction differs, but he still is excited to get nudes from you, finally able to express through the text what he really thinks with that foul mouth of his. A voice recording of you dirty talking to him? Awesome. A video? You can bet his engine is overheating and vents are whirring.

But in all honesty, the ones he truly loves and returns to are the recordings of him doing stuff to you. Call him self-conscious, it’s not like he can bite back with a swear, but the reminder that he can bring you pleasure even now is sometimes necessary.

The lights are intimately dimmed, not enough to bring the room into utter darkness. Two bodies are lying almost intertwined with your back turned to the camera. The metal arm of your lover has sneaked under your side and around your waist, fingers digging into the plush glob of your ass, tugging on it, to further the spread which is created by your leg thrown over his hip. Your pussy is perfectly presented to the camera, puffy and slick, with two gray plated fingers massaging it. Digits slide up and down your labia, occasionally staying on the clit, to rub tight circles on it and elicit some sweet moans out of you, only to return to their previous ministrations, dipping the tips juuust a little bit into the quivering hole. Your back arches and body deliciously shivers from the contrast of his cool and your heat, and you softly whine, when he releases your ass cheek to give it a spank and then grab it again, unwilling to let the sight of your cunt escape his phone’s camera. You whimper something, muffled by his chest, but he remembers by heart what you were begging for. ‘Please, put your mouth on me.’ He will, in a minute, but right now he pushes both fingers to the second knuckle in, making you jolt in his hold, but not letting you go anywhere.

It’s captivating, how his inhuman digits disappear and reappear with every thrust he makes; slick-covered they look shiny, as if you polished them, and the cyborg shudders, imagining your tongue running around them. That’s one dangerous video, he may just give in to his want to see you and abandon the mission he was assigned to…

Dr Veritas Ratio

Unsurprisingly, Veritas’ phone doesn’t contain that much stuff in general. Maybe some downloaded articles, notes to put down later, if he doesn’t have a piece of paper at the moment, and very few pictures, mainly of his writings on the chalkboard. Don’t be discouraged though, of course he has pictures of you. Some selfies you took after “borrowing” his phone and ones he doesn’t have a heart to delete (but he will scoff at you, should you decide to tease him), and some very well-thought images he took on his own accord - he needs reference for when he decides to let his mind rest from research and focus on sculpting.

And one might think that such a reserved and cold man will not entertain storing anything explicit on his phone. Well, he indeed does not have any pictures and videos saved - if he wants, he can either find what you sent him via your chat or just demand your assistance. However… There is something that strangely became his way of concentrating when doing his research…

”Oh! Mh- *thrust* Veri- ohmygod! *thrust*”

“Wait- Aaah! I can’t! I’m sore! MmmmMMM!” “No, you can and you will. Now hold still, I can’t eat you out if you keep thrashing around.” “Oh Aeons!”

*Slick sounds of you going down on him, gurgling and choking on his girth, occasionally gasping to catch your breath, only to have his cock buried in your throat again*

“Baaaby… I miss you so much… Can I come to your office? I promise to be good… Just need to cockwarm you - nothing else I swear. Let me keep you company pleeease. Imagine how nicely it'd be to have your cock buried in my pussy, while you are working… Need to help you with stress-relief, it's gonna feel so-so good.”

“Oh fuck, o-oh, love, I'm cumming, I'm cumming, I’mcumMIN-” “Ngh, s-so…tight…” “Aaaaaaah~!”

“Veritas Ratio, if you come home in ten minutes, I will give you a nice massage and then ride you damn cock, till the only thing you can think about is not your work, but me. If you fail to do so though… I wonder if my threat to use some toys instead will work. Just know that your wife is very mad. And horny.”

It doesn't matter if the audio was taken while you were intimate or it was something you sent to him and he saved - he thoroughly enjoys everything your voice has to offer to him. And if instead of concentrated it accidentally makes him horny - he'll just play the next one, while undoing his pants.

Gallagher

Oh, this man is a menace. And a huge ass-lover. His gallery is full of pictures of your booty: clothed, just panty-clad or bare. There are shots with your body clearly being bent, ass up and back covered in his load. Videos of him fucking you from behind, with cock sliding in and out of your pussy? Obviously. Recordings of it jiggling as he spanks you? Would’ve been strange if they weren’t there.

However, in that vast collection of his, there is a video that’s most peculiar - one might say scandalous. It was one of those nights when he took over the bar for Siobhan and you came over at some point, all enticing and so sexy in that little dress of yours… He could not resist taking you right there once the establishment was closed. And it got on security camera...

Moans so loud, that they are reaching the recording device, are still of the delicious kind. Your back is arched over the bar counter, arms lifted and wrists tied by none other but Gallagher’s wine-red tie, and held by his own hand for good measure. The front of your dress is pushed down, revealing your pretty breasts, jiggling with every thrust of the man’s hips, and the hem of it has ridden up, baring your stomach and mark-covered thighs. Your lover is barely unclothed, pants and boxers pushed down just enough to free his cock and the tie, obviously, missing. The hand that is not holding your wrists, is grabbing onto your leg, under the knee, lifting it for a better angle, and showing off a lewd detail - your black lace panties hanging on your shin. You are looking positively debauched, and he is no better, groaning and cursing, with an occasional exceptionally rough trust that makes you scream and whine. There are teeth-gritted ‘slut’s and huskily chuckled ‘bad girl’s with your pleading ‘sir’s and ‘Gal’s, all of that deliciously seasoned with the clapping of the wet skin colliding. But nothing beats the moment of you cumming, depicted by no less than three cameras from all of the hottest angles…

Of course this footage was ‘confiscated’ by him with some dumb excuse for Siobhan (he doubts she believed it, given the knowing look and shit-eating grin she gave him), with all traces destroyed except just one copy thoroughly hidden on his phone. He thinks you two should repeat that - this time, however, he’d love to bend you over the counter with your back facing him…

Gepard Landau

Gepard would die if someone took his phone and got into his gallery. Poor man has to change the password weekly to throw Serval off his case (she was only teasing, but that made her brother paranoid). There is a reason for such behavior - while he is way too sweet and gentlemanly to suggest making sexy pics or, Supreme Guardian forgive, videos, he can't help but to be too whipped for you. 

This man dutifully saves every single photo and video of yours - nudes included.

You don't send them very often - you don't want to kill your darling husband. But sometimes the yearning is unbearable, and there is a suffocating need to show Gepard what he is missing while away on duty (you always leave a warning message though, so he could check it while alone and undisturbed).

No matter how red and embarrassed he gets, the man timidly admits that he enjoys this kind of attention. He is not beyond the earthly pleasures - he too has a favorite theme, that recently became more present in what you send him…

At first you looked so absolutely cute and domestic with his huge sweater on, the one you personally knitted for him - the beginning of the video didn’t look all that different from the photos you sent him just minutes before. But soon it becomes clear why you asked if he was alone, because once you position the phone and climb onto the bed, your full attire gets revealed. White stockings are replacing your usual home pants, and as your fingers grab the hem of the sweater and tug it up, the white panties from a matching set start peaking. The view is both pure and alluring, with the way your legs are spreading wide, and the sweater being pushed further up, baring your braless breasts. The hem gets secured between your teeth and both hands teasingly run down your sides, index fingers drawing circles around the tits, before squeezing them; as one remains right there, the other slowly slides down your stomach, disappearing under the hem of those flimsy panties. Imagination paints wild images - every next is hotter than the previous, and only your muffled moans of his name and rapidly rising chest are indicators of how good you feel with fingers pushing in and out of your pussy. And that damn sweater… You are not taking it off.

The Captain of the Silvermane Guards has one guilty pleasure - you, wearing his clothes. Domesticity, longing, finding comfort in something of his touches his heart and heightens his love and desire for you, almost making him consider taking a regular day off.

Jing Yuan

This man literally worships the ground his wife is walking on, so OF COURSE he wants to have as many pictures and videos of you as possible. It gets so boring and lonely when he is at work, after all. But don’t be fooled by his sweet and innocent smile, there are not only cute shots of you both or just you, he has sexy stuff too.

Man is obsessed with your chest. It’s his favorite pillow (thus so many pictures of him snuggling his face right between your breasts), his best stress-relief (photos and short videos of his big veiny hands cupping and squeezing your girls, with an occasional swipe of the thumbs over the erect nipples), his favorite place to leave marks on (no one can see them under the clothes, but just one tug of his finger on your collar and he is met with a delicious sight. Plus the photos he asks to send occasionally).

Loves, loves, loves, purchasing lingerie for you and when you demonstrate your bra-clad tits. He immediately wants them in his face, but there is the phone screen keeping him away.

But oh does he love recordings of playing with them.

Your body is steadily bouncing on your husband’s lap, creating a beautiful melody of skin slapping against skin. There is an occasional peak of his thick cock, covered in your juices, that immediately disappears again, undoubtedly swallowed by your pussy. One strong arm is wrapped around your waist, supporting you, while the other hand is palming at your left breast. The right one has fallen victim to his eager mouth, lips wrapped around the nipple, sucking on it tenderly, tongue toying with the overstimulated nub. His eyes are half-lidded when he looks up at you, moaning around your breast, when you tug on his luscious locks, trying to push him away, to give you a small rest. He is drawing back indeed, planting a soft kiss to the valley between the jiggling globes, and you sigh in relief, deceived by his affectionate action. Only for you back to arch and mouth hang in a loud moan, when Jing Yuan brings your other breast to his awaiting tongue, dropping both hands to your hips to aid you in speeding up your riding, sensing your nearing orgasm.

Maybe next time you should try recording him making you cum by playing with your chest only… Ah, just the thought makes his cock swell.

Loucha

As much as Loucha enjoys your company and more often than not allows you to accompany him in his journeys, there are times when he can’t take you with him. Which means he leaves for weeks, or sometimes a couple of months, going through the days without a single touch from you. Before getting into a relationship with you, he could survive without intimacy just fine, but now, since he knows the taste of affection and being spoiled by you, it’s getting hard.

That’s when recordings on his phone come in handy, especially when there is no opportunity of a video call to indulge. And there is one he most frequently returns to…

Your chest is rising and falling, pretty breasts with perky nipples brought together by a wrap of a rope. Red and purple marks bloom on your skin akin flowers, some fresh, some from days before. Sweat shines on your hot skin, indicating just for how long the blonde has been torturing you with pleasure and denial. There is a small shake of the video, as your lover is establishing his phone, having just started the recording, and softly making you aware of how good you look - you wouldn’t know with that blindfold covering your eyes. Once the angle is perfect - capturing your arms, tied above the head, the arch of your back and thighs pushed together for stimulation, the man is joining you on the bed. It is cock-hardening, how you lift your head to find his lips, when you sense him leaning down, needily allowing him to indulge in a kiss before the game of orgasm denial continues. His hand meanwhile is creeping down your body, starting with caressing your cheek, fingers sliding down your neck, over the swell of your breast, thumb pushing against the nipple, eliciting a moan out of you right into his mouth, and then palm splaying on your stomach, traveling even lower, before it disappears between your thighs.

Loucha is a man of foreplay. There is nothing more satisfying to him, than indulging into your body before sinking his cock into your warmth. He loves making you squirm, completely at his mercy, drawing you right to the edge, and then denying you the sweet release, just to make you yearn, just to stretch the process out.

Sampo Koski

Sampo is nasty and that is not a secret. I am sure, if you were up for it, he’d suggest filming porn just for the giggles (and extra cash, come on, you both are fucking hot). There are teasing nudes and intimate videos, and it’s not a rare occasion of either of you texting the other with some found porn with a caption ‘let’s try it?’ and you do, frequently recording the process to compare later, and claiming that your performance is better.

However, sometimes it tends to not go according to the script (not like you usually have one). Sampo is chaotic and it’s not hard to lose focus with a lover like him, and these exact moments are Koski’s favorite. Despite being a Masked Fool, during these times he himself looks so sincere, it’s as unnerving, as it is exciting. Rewatching such videos and seeing how you mirror the look in his eyes, giggle with him, even crack a joke, all without ruining the mood - makes him believe he’s found his soulmate (and if you did film porn with him, he’d never share this level of intimacy with your viewers, it solely belongs to you two).

You are giggling, shaking your head with a wide smile, all the while lying on your stomach between his toned mark-covered thighs and leisurely fisting his hard, leaking cock with an angrily red tip. 

‘Sampo, please, be a little serious, we are trying to be sexy here.’

‘We are sexy! What’s not hot in shaping my and your pubic hairs into the lips?? They could kiss, when we fuck!’

‘You are unbelievable,’ you snort, trying to save the last bits of your composure, and leaning forward to mouth at his tight balls. This makes your lover pornographically (how ironic) moan, throwing his head back.

‘Mmm, yes, right there~ Oooh… If am soooo unbelievable, it must mean I am dreamy? How about I bring you to a Penacony, to a Dreamscape? I bet in your dream I’d be as good in bed as I am in reality.’

Your resolve snaps and you burst out laughing, letting go of his sack and pressing your face to his thigh, shaking, dropping the hand from around his cock. Sampo whines.

‘Come ooooon, I was so close!’

‘Shu-ah-ha-t-ah-uh-p,’ you manage through your laughter. The man pouts, but the gaze of mint green is summer-warm as he is looking down at your trembling form. Your voice is pretty, your cackles are pretty, and oh damn he is laughing too.

And these are just the first few minutes of the last video, the thing has a duration of half an hour, so, obviously, you didn’t stop there. That’s what Sampo Koski loves - no matter how cringe you become, it’s never a reason to stop the whole process. If anything it’s something to spark an even longer and intimacy-filled one.

Sunday

Keeping personal stuff on his phone is quite dangerous, given Sunday’s position. That’s why he owns two phones - his work one, and one to mainly contact you, his sister, and a small circle of the most trusted people. He is extremely good at handling the owning of two separate devices, never mistaking one for another, that people are often convinced he has only one.

But it’s his personal cellphone that interests us. Oh, does he have a whole collection of photos and videos of you, one folder in particular hidden just for good measure. Sunday is a collected and regal man, yet it doesn’t mean he has a hard time enjoying your teasing. Quite contrary, sometimes he welcomes it, loving the photos you send him from an outing, shopping for clothes, or better yet, lingerie, sending him multiple shots of different sets and asking him which he loves most, and which he’d like to see on you tonight. 

There are videos too, especially when he’s been extremely busy, and you are oh so needy, sending him short recordings of touching yourself, sighing out his name, begging him to come and help you. However, there is one he particularly likes…

Big silicone cock is being pushed in and out by the machine he purchased for you to quell your need when your husband can’t be there for you. You are on your stomach, with hips slightly raised and pushed backwards, chasing the toy, and he can see the perfect outline of your pussy, outer lips swollen and puffy, covered in a sticky substance, opening and constricting in attempts to accommodate the girth. Your moans are sweet, so-so sweet, hitting a high pitch, when the dildo falls out and a thick glob of cum substitute escapes your pussy. And then another, and another, messing your thighs even more, ruining the towel underneath you. Yet you don’t stop, reaching behind, and pushing the tip back into your tight warmth, making the toy pick its pace again. It’s squelching, it’s so dirty, but it’s so hard to look away. You give yourself creampie, after creampie, sometimes stopping to collect the substance and push it inside with your digits, fingering, moaning and whining for your husband, wishing it’s his cum sploshing between your walls, breeding you.

Yes, it’s his favorite, almost 4-minute video. Ever the neat freak, he can’t deny you look heavenly when ruined, on an equally ruined bed, begging for his attention and semen. You have to forget about the machine for some time, however, because since then Sunday has been truly devoted to breeding you.

[kurominiiiz]

The amount of incest, noncon, and pedophilic jjk smut content is getting out of hand.

"Just scroll if you don't like it!" - this doesn't negate the fact they're posting disgusting scenarios. They're targeting an audience of people who should seek therapy. That kind of shit is not okay.

It's like saying "scroll part a zoophile account on Twitter if u don't like it." See how stupid it sounds?

This Fandom is slowly becoming one i regret being in because of just how disgusting people are becoming. Come on guys, do better.

It's okay to have kinks and fetishes, but that doesn't mean they're okay. It's not okay to sexualize minors, it's not okay to sexualizw little space, it's not okay to sexualize r//pe! I get dubcon, but noncon? That's literally just nonconsensual sex.

Anyways. Rant over. Do better, people.

---

Edit: I have MUCH more to say on this now that I've read some other inputs:

The problem isn't "block and move on" or "ur arguing for fiction..." it's the fact people are exposing minors and already mentally ill people to VERY REAL and DISGUSTING scenarios. It doesn't matter that they're fictional, what they're writing about is a real issue. Blocking tags doesn't work most of the time, so stop saying to shut up and just use that feature.

Another thing is that people are making these writings so normal that they are making others think it's okay. When I was younger, I had unsupervised internet access and was exposed to smut like this. It messed me up and got me institutionalized because I didn't know it wasn't okay to talk about. Minors nowadays are also very unsupervised and will come across your stuff. I'm worried for the next generation.

Last thing, the excuse "they're just fiction" is flawed because you're ignoring the PSA! You wouldn't say this if it was about something else, right? If someone was saying: "I love lolicon!" You wouldn't block and move on. You would call their asses out and comment bomb them. It's the same concept, except on a broader spectrum. You're enabling the behavior of these vile creatures that need serious help. You're not doing anyone any good by saying "this is so unnecessary" or "they're fictional..."

(Update: read this post about my asks if you plan on sending a hate message or threat lol)

[acid-ixx]

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

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[alexanderwales]

"I don't think I could have the relationship with you that you have with me," she said. She was very casual about it, and I was immediately on the defensive.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

She put the book she'd been reading down. "It's just, the way you've described it, and the vibe that I get, I don't think I could do it how you do it."

"I still don't know what that means," I said.

"You're always doing this like ... micro calculation thing," she said. "You weigh your words. You try to time things. You have never once called me up while I was at work, or asked me for something when it was inconvenient for me, and you check and double check that you're not being a nuisance."

"And ... that's bad?" I asked.

"No, I love that about you," she said. "It's very kind and considerate. I know that if I tell you I'm not in the mood to hang out, you'll apologize and not push it. If you suggest that we get pizza and I say I'd rather have Korean BBQ, you fold instantly and we get Korean BBQ. I like that. I get the things I want. But it seems like an exhausting way to deal with people."

"I want you to be happy," I said with a small voice.

"I am happy," she replied. "You're great. You remember when we first got together I was like 'hey, look, if you want pizza, we can get pizza, it's just not what I'm in the mood for', and you kept insisting that you didn't care, that you would rather have me follow my needs? And I just thought, 'you know, maybe I should just trust that's what they actually feel'. And it is, as far as I can tell. There's not some secret part of you that wants me to break your way."

"You think I'm ... a simpering coward?" I asked. Even as I said it, it felt too accusatory, the wrong thing to say in the situation.

"Whoa, no, not at all," she laughed. "I think you do all that stuff because ... I don't know, you want to? Because otherwise why would you do it? It's how you are with every aspect of your life, you're a tryhard. I mean you said to me that you wanted to reclaim the term. Your relationship with me is that you're a tryhard (affectionate)."

"And you're ... not?" I asked.

"I'm not that way with anyone," she replied. "You know why I hang out with you so much? It's 'cause I like you. Most days, I am very much in the mood for you, and if you ask for a meetup, I'll say yes, and if you don't ask for one, then I'll ask you first. And for you ..."

"What?" I asked.

"It's like ... you're keeping track," she said. "You want to make sure that you're not sending me more messages than I'm sending you. You're balancing social micro stuff that I don't pay attention to. You're consciously monitoring how much each of us has said and making sure it's the right number of words or whatever."

"It's really not about the number of words," I replied. "It's more ... making sure that social and emotional labor is equitable, that there's a good rhythm to the conversation. I don't think you'd get good results by tracking word count."

"But see, I don't do any of that," she said. "I talk because I feel like talking. I listen when you need to vent because I like you and it feels good to give you an outlet. I mean you are undoubtedly putting in a bunch of work, and for me, there's no work. That's all I meant, really."

"You've thought about it," I said.

"Oh, I'm just reading this book, and there are two characters like us in it, and I was like 'yes, exactly', and then 'that would not work for me'." She shrugged.

"And if I stopped 'putting in the work'?" I asked. "Would we still be ... friends?"

"See, I don't know," she said. "Because that's never who you've been. You're asking me if I would still be friends with you if you changed your personality and how we interact with each other. Maybe? Probably? Who knows? Maybe we'd be better friends somehow. Maybe we're just two basically compatible people, and every time you've ever worried about anything it would actually have been completely fine."

"Or maybe it's load-bearing," I said.

"Maybe!" she replied with a smile that slowly faded. "You okay?"

"I'm thinking," I said. I didn't know if I could verbalize what I was thinking in a way that would be palatable.

"Do you not like being this way with me?" she asked. "Because I have never asked you to. I've made my preferences known, but if you've been bending yourself into knots and feeling a burden, then ..."

"No," I said, because I knew it was what she wanted to hear. "No, I like the way things are between us."

"Good," she smiled. "I do too."

[beloveds-embrace]

More poly!141 please and thank you my dear 🥰🤗

Anon is banished to the timeout corner to ponder on their grievances

That trope of roommates reader x poly 141…

Imagine you are Desperate with a capital D. Things aren’t lookinh bright for you, broke and stressed college student, right now in general, you need a new place quickly, and as it happens, you see an all-too-good offer while apartment searching on Craigslist. Rent is within your budget and god, the place looks really good, but…

You’ll have to share with four men. Four polyamorous men apparently, but still- men. More than one. That alone should’ve made you give up on it, not even think about considering it. It’s dangerous, incredibly so. No one within their right mind would agree to it, especially when you read that they are asking for someone who is willing to take up a good bulk of taking care of the place while they travel.

It’s clearly a scam. A front to a dangerous group.

But the apartment is even better when you actually, stupidly, agree to it. The (military, you learn soon enough) men so very handsome, helping you move in your stuff- the way Price commanded them actually made your knees tremble just a little, but you are not about to get between anyone’s relationship(s).

Moreover; you really like them. Soap is funny but he’s also the one who tries to stay up with you during your late exam studies. Keyword tries because he falls asleep anyways, head lolling on your shoulder only to end up getting carried by Ghost later.

Gaz is also funny, and he often forces you to go out when you hole up yourself for long lengths of time, get some fresh air on a walk that almost always leads to him treating you to coffee and sandwiches in the little corner bakery. Also the only one to share your love for horror movies so he’s your designated partner for whenever you wanna go to the cinemas.

Ghost and Price are your unofficial guard dogs. Grocery shopping? One or both of them tags along, carrying everything without letting you touch a single thing-

“What kind of man would let a lady carry groceries? I’m not weak, sweetheart. Let go of that bag, just see what else we’ll need.”

Ghost just stares straight down at you; no balaclava, but a black surgical mask and his hood drawn up. “Don’t even think about it.”

-and they are both bulky. They don’t even have to try to appear intimidating, everyone almost subconsciously makes way for them. Never in your entire life have you had easier shopping trips. And you’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve stirred awake to find yourself carried to your bed after accidentally falling asleep on the couch.

They were not lying about the lengths of time they are gone, and you understand why they had put in that ad that landed you here in the first place. Once, they were away for months, and they have no contact with you. You always worry for them, regularly checking for any possible texts and sending them updates even when no reply comes.

(You have no ideaaa they have you saved as ‘lil missus’, ‘wifey’, ‘the madame’, ‘darlin’ in their phones. Or how much they cling to your texts even when they can’t reply yet. You don’t suspect shit, but the longer the mission drags on, the more resolved they are to just come home to you as soon as possible.

The second John checks his phone and sees your text about getting stood up on a date, his jaw clenches so tightly that Soap glances over, immediately concerned. The others quickly catch on, a tension settling over the group as he reads the message aloud.

Got stood up on that date lol

Guess its just me nd a frozen pizza tonight 🤷‍♀️ yes ik u hate frozen foods but ur not here sooo

If he wasn’t so incredibly angered by the thought of you going on a date that is not with them, getting stood up, he would have focused on your little disobedience. Would have thought of making you repeat why he hates having them in the flat while you sniffle and whine, the result of him taking his palm to your ass a few dozen times for doing this behind his back, but he can’t focus on that now.

“Let’s finish this and get home,” He hisses out at last, pocketing his phone. “Missus needs a reminder who she belongs to.”

All he gets, unsurprisingly, is approving nods.)

Back in the flat, you sneeze. How strange; you had just recently finished dusting, and everything should be clean.

It’s probably nothing.

a bit more

[evieelyzabethh]

"lacy"

⭒"i see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear"⭒ Arcane characters when jealous {fem reader}

cast ✧ Vi, Ekko, Jayce, Viktor, Mel

cw ☞ slight angst but they all have a happy ending, kissing, and the usual stuff (slightly pervy Jayce)

♞Vi♞

♞Making Vi jealous is a terrible game. She is about that action and absolutely loves to fight, nothing beats that flow of adrenaline as she chases someone down to bash their face in. I feel like she would also get a bit mean. Jealousy is a nasty thing, it bites, and she bites back harder. The pit it creates in her stomach tries to swallow her whole and sometimes she wants to bring you down with her

♞She doesn't understand why you would want or need the attention of anyone else when you have her. Chiefly at the beginning of your relationship, it would cause a rift, intention or not. Vi doesn't have a proper education, she’s constantly guilt ridden about her childhood and her sister, she's broke, and an absolute hot mess. She's already constantly questioning why you're with her in the first place and the last thing she needs is some random coming up and flirting with you and you even bothering to dignify their presence with a response.

♞She would go dead silent, brushing you off for what feels like weeks, stewing in her increasingly negative thoughts. She doesn't even think you're cheating, but she feels like it's only a moment of time before you realize there's something better out there. Always the one to make the wrong decision, she pushes you away for a bit. She's very short with you, brushing off your attempts to make peace, playing a mean game to see if you're gonna give up on her so she can use it against you. This is definitely her biggest red flag.

It's dark and rainy out, rain pelting at the ground, seeping and sliding into its cracks to rehydrate the already soft foundation. It was supposed to be a calm night out at the Last Drop involving a few drinks to get Vi out of her current terrible mood, bookended by an unstable walk home as you both barely support each other under your weight and constant fit of giggles. Instead, Vi was a few paces ahead of you, hands shoved into her pockets, her head down rather than putting her hood up to keep her head dry from the rain. Every time you approach her, she slightly leans away. At first you thought it was an accident, maybe she was trying to avoid stepping on a rock or into a puddle, but after the umpteenth time it happens, the message becomes clear. She's avoiding you. As argumentative as she is, you may even be worse. "What the fuck is your, problem?", you bark, the alcohol in your veins curving the embarrassment of passersby clearly tuning into the argument they think is about to break out. "You've said some choice things and have been awfully rude these past few days, and I really don't appreciate it, Violet." But she doesn't have it in her to make a big scene. It's definitely the alcohol, because she's genuinely scared that if she starts a screaming match with you right now, she'll cry. She turns to you swiftly, hair dripping wet, stray dye rolling down her cheeks and down the slope of her nose. You had just dyed it together a few days ago, back before she decided to be mad at you for who knows what reason. "Look at me", she grabs your chin before you even get the chance to break eye contact with her. Petty, pissed, and unable to jerk your face out of her grip without giving yourself whiplash, you close your eyes. This pisses her off even more. "What, you don't have any more charity work left in you? You can giggle with what-his-face for hours, but you can't even look at your girlfriend?" That gets you to open your eyes, at first confused as to what the hell she was talking about then glittering with amusement that causes her to immediately let go and continue her fast paced walk back home. She isn't far enough to escape your light voice, cheery with the realization that you finally broke her down and occupied with what you think is the silliest thing in the world. "Oh, my gods, you're jealous about that guy from last night! Vi, you're so ridiculous, I don't even remember his name." And she is still teeming with anger, but that anger will dissipate soon after that last admission. Once you sober up, you don't find it as funny, but she's at your every beck and call trying to convince you it won't happen again.

♞After a little while together, she feels more stable in the relationship. Trust, she still gets jealous, but it usually looks like a smirk on her face before she pulls you into a heated kiss in front of whoever is bothering her. She makes a real show of it too, prying open your mouth to slip her tongue inside, her hands squeezing your sides and hiking up your dress, knee pressed firmly in between your legs. She continues long after the person leaves, before shrugging and sarcastically wondering where they possibly could've gone off to. You often scold her for this. You've never been to jail, and you'd hate to go for a public indecency charge.

★Ekko★

★Ekko doesn't really get jealous, like out of everyone I think he would get the least jealous so most of this section would be about his complete lack of jealousy. He doesn't believe in getting into relationships without trust first and it's because of this confident trust that he wouldn't get jealous. If anything, he wouldn't be jealous as in feeling like your relationship was in danger but jealous when it comes to your time. Like he would get slightly pouty if he felt like you were spending too much time with your friends, and it was significantly cutting out of your time together. Even then, he wouldn't really act on it.

★Ekko would be a "I don't care what my girlfriend wears, I can fight" kinda guy. Especially because he likes picking out your outfits, he does it with the intention of showing off the goods. He likes looking at you, he knows the world likes looking at you, he sees it as doing a favor to society. He is the first to tell you your tits look scrumptious in that top.

★Same concept with you being approached or flirted with. If they have the gall to do it in his direct presence, he has a great many words to say about it, but if he's watching it go down, he likes to watch it happen. He'll get involved as soon as he gets the feeling you are uncomfortable, but for the most part he sits amused a few feet away laughing at the glances you give him as the conversation goes on.

★I feel like if anyone was to get jealous, it would be you. Ekko spends a lot of time with a lot of different people which leaves space for certain people to not know that he's spoken for. I think he would be less aware of this than you. You are always at the forefront of his mind; he cannot fathom giving his attention to other people. Especially because he talks about you so often, he makes it quite clear that he is not single and when people choose to ignore that fact, he doesn't notice.

Warm light flitters into your shared room through half open blinds that reveal the orange and yellow that the blue sky had faded into. Ekko had just gotten home eager to strip down into some old, tattered tee shirt and some boxer shirts. Instead, he was met with a slightly agitated girlfriend, and he notices this immediately. He gives you space at first, greeting you at the door and asking you how you were and listening to your expectedly short answer. He only lasts a few minutes of this passive aggression before sliding beside you on the couch, sliding his arm around you and pulling you in close. You reluctantly lean in, trying to ignore how inviting he smells and how warm he feels. "Baby," he draws out, scooping you completely into his arms to straddling your thighs over his waist, his large palms remaining on your upper thigh. He's trying to whittle down your resolve and it is working. "Don't you wanna tell me what's wrong?" You rolled your eyes. "I've already told you what's wrong." He thinks it's cute that you're jealous. He likes the way your arms cross over your puffed chest, and you furrow your brow to try and appear serious but all you look like to him is a rabbit about to thump its foot. "And I have already told you, I am completely yours." It's cheesy and he knows it and he amps it up by scattering kiss all over your face, even as you try to evade his touch. "I don't doubt that, it's just..." He derails your sentences as his kisses move lower and his hands get more adventurous, exploring your upper thigh and the curve of your ass and the small of your back from underneath your shirt. "Hey!", you snap, "I'm being serious, Ekko." He pauses, withdrawing his hands to the fat of your hips and, reluctantly, his lips from your neck. "I'm listening, baby." "I've told you I don't know how many times that I do not like that girl. She is all over you." His mouth opens to try and protest, but you cut him off. "I can literally smell her perfume on you." He gets slightly defensive at this. "You don't think I'm cheating on you, do you?" A look of hurt flashes across his eyes. "Of course, I don't, Ekko. I'm not questioning you; I'm questioning her. I know she knows we're together and she just doesn't care, and you don't shut it down. Why else do you think she kept you out this late? What were you two doing?" Nothing. A whole lot of nothing, actually. The girl you were referring to, Thalara, had been a topic of conversation before. She was new to the commune, which landed her the benefit of the doubt with you, but it's been months now and she still hasn't laid off. Ekko, ever trusting of his people, never assumed malintent, but you saw right through her. You cup his head in between your hands, looking him in his eyes to make sure that the message is clear. "I love you, and I'm not mad at you, but she's pissing me off. You need to make it very clear that she needs to leave you alone or I will send the message for you." And you meant that. He makes it very clear to her the next day that he has absolutely no interest and comes back to you the next day beaming in accomplishment.

★Jealous you turns him on so incredibly much. Whatever you say goes, he is not one to turn you down when you're in a jealous mood.

❂Jayce❂

❂I feel like you would both get jealous, but he would get far more jealous than you do. While he is far from someone who would tell you to change what you're wearing, he does try and tag along with you when you're wearing something low cut. Like babe, what do you mean you don't want him to join girls night? Are you sure you're not cold?? You must be cold; your ass is hanging out, why won't you take his jacket?? Please take his jacket!!! Because of this he walks behind you, making it much harder for those undeserving to stare at you like he does.

❂While he loves showing you off at fancy events, ain't shit funny if you look too good. If you're lucky enough to make it out the house on time (he insists on helping you zip up but then gets confused which way zippers go), being there is a struggle. He likes staring at you and did not have the forethought to think other people would enjoy staring at you too. Let someone make a comment too, he is glued to your hip for the rest of the night.

He waits anxiously for the stupid gala to be over. Had he been more of a drinker, he would've been content to have a few glasses of the fancy champagne they brought around, but he hates the ethanol aftertaste it leaves behind and that is the last thing he needed after already feeling nauseous. He was trying so hard for you, he knew he had to give you your space, and he knew you were excited to go out to his Hextech showcase to show your support. He's being bitter and he hates it, he hates biting his tongue while watching you giggle with a councilman and the fact that he feels like a petulant child watching some other kid play with his toy He's been getting better with his jealousy, honest! That's why he's self-aware enough to know that his urge to go after you, sling you over his shoulder, and carry you home himself is childsh and silly and that you would chastise him over it as he looked at you like a kicked puppy. Gods, this was stupid. But he puts a smile on his face anyway, making his way over to you from the balcony he was just standing on, and sliding his hand on your shoulder. You look over at him, startled for a second, but relax when you see his amber eyes and slightly gapped smile. And then you say the magic words. "Oh, I was just about to go looking for you. Are you ready to go?" He cannot say yes fast enough. After he has you all to himself, he is insatiable, kissing you deeply as soon as you step foot in the carriage taking you home, losing balance and nearly sending you both toppling onto the floor of the moving vehicle. The seats are awkward and not long enough to properly lay you down, but he's too desperate to care about the discomfort, his hand cradling the back of your neck to make sure you are as comfortable as you can be. He's ruthless, the force of his kisses knocking the breath out of you and you can never catch up. You're almost dizzy, his desperate whispers nearly going through one ear and out the other. "You love me, right? Me and only me? You don't need anyone else.", and he's trying to find your zipper again, but his hands are clumsy and cold, and it only serves to arch your back further into him, not that he's complaining. When you do come to your senses, you giggle, running your nails through his hair as he looks up at you with wide eyes. "How long have you been holding that in." He looks at you sheepishly, fighting the urge to hide his embarrassment in the crook of your neck. "All night." You shake your head at his ridiculousness, pulling him in for a slower kiss, properly savoring the moment, before pulled away to peck his nose. "You are the only one for me, handsome, I don't know how many times I have to say it." He shrugs his broad shoulders. "A few more times wouldn't hurt." You roll your eyes and ask if he wants a collar, and he does not look as adverse as you expected.

❂He is so incredibly unhinged when it comes to jealousy. He doesn't act on it, but his mind goes to wild places. In a modern AU, if you dare not reply to a text in ten minutes he's asking, "What position he got you in?" Even worse, he knows he's being senseless, it's his way of asking for reassurance in a joking way. It's so absurd, you don't take him seriously which slightly frustrates him because he wants you to reaffirm him on what he already knows.

❂He gets really pouty when jealous too. He'll usually try and thrust himself into his work to occupy his mind and get it back to a rational place. Viktor calls you immediately because he ends up talking to him about it and he thinks the entire ordeal is unreasonable and doesn't have time to be asked at the ass crack of dawn "I know she loves me, but what if (insert insane scenario here)." He is a chronic overthinker and sometimes you just have to shut his brain off.

☽Viktor☾

☽Viktor is another one who doesn't get super jealous, but when he does, it usually stems from insecurities surrounding his leg. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes, especially as his condition gets worse, he gets frustrated that he can't do the things as easy as he used to be able to. However, he is entirely too proud to admit it or act on it. You probably wouldn't even notice, to be honest, and he wouldn't want you to.

☽I think he would absolutely throw himself into work when jealous. He's already at the lab damn near day and night, but unlike usual when he'll try for conversation here and there and be more lively, he's throwing himself into it out of necessity. It is one of his pride and joys, when his ego takes a hit, work is his refuge. This, of course, hardly ever works because he does not get good work done when it's being forced. He'll usually end up staring at the photo he keeps of you at your desk and feel lonely.

☽He'll invite you around to his lab more, though he is uncharacteristically stiff and rigid. He's trying too hard to focus but he just can't. His leg is tapping furiously beneath the table, he's biting the inside of his cheek, his hand is running through his hair every couple minutes. Things just aren't computing like how he wants them to and he hates it. His pride is a double-edged sword here, jealously is Jayce's thing. He thinks he is leagues above it and he gets frustrated with himself when he feels that green sickness in his heart.

☽He would be the type to address it head on. Once again, he's very analytical. He will tell you what exactly got him upset, why exactly it upset him, be very clear that he isn't blaming or upset at you, and silently hope you go overboard with affection for the next few weeks for the sake of his ego. After he does, he likes to ignore it even happened. Him? Jealous? You must have him confused with another ridiculously attractive, impaired, Czech-accented man. Jealous isn't even in his very extensive vocabulary, he has no idea when or why you dreamed of this completely fictitious scenario. He wouldn't try and gaslight you that it never happened, but he is petty enough to get selective hearing when it comes to mentions of it

For the first time since...ever, Viktor is home before the sun goes down. To say it catches you off guard is an understatement, so unused to the doorknob jiggling before the wee hours of the morning, you had a knife in your hand before you heard his keys in the door. You had been making dinner, and the smell alone makes his heart skip a beat. He hardly ever gets a warm dinner and for a minute, he deeply regrets being in his lab all the time. He slides off his shoes and loosens his tie as he pads over to you in the kitchen, wrapping one hand around your waist and the other gripping the counter for support. "You're home early.", you chirp, turning around to face him to peck his lips. "I was just making dinner, you want a taste?" Though he would never say no to that, you already have the spoon to his lips with a hand under to catch anything that might fall before he can even answer. He indulges, of course, and as the warm liquid soothes his throat, he hates that lab even more. Soup is one thing; but warm soup is to die for. "It's delicious, tchotchke." You smile as you turn back around. "Any reason you're home so early." He looks back the new ceiling fan you called Jayce over to put up and lets out a sardonic chuckle. He understands why you called him; he'd need to get on a ladder to put it up and have to abandon his cane for however long it took to hold the thing up and take care of the wiring. He wouldn't be able to balance himself and if he came down, the fan was coming down with him, probably on top of him. And yet, he still would've rather done it himself than you call Jayce to do it. "Yes, but it's admittedly a very stupid reason." You cannot fathom this. You remove the pot from the stove and onto a folded cloth on your counter and desert the stove. "Did something happen?" And he can't handle the look of concern on your face over something he knows to be trivial. "It's just that..." when he realizes he can't put it off any longer, he sighs. "I got jealous of Jayce." Had it not been for the serious look on your face, you would've burst into laughter. Those words had never fallen out of his mouth in that order before. "I know it's absurd, but it started when he put the fan up and it bothered me more than it should. I don't like that there are some things I can't do around the house, and it's been this way my whole life, but it's different with him. He's just always "the guy" and I hate the thought of him being "the guy" to you. It's irrational and a leap in logic, I know, but I hate it." And even better than pity, you just smile at him. In a way it's better that you want to laugh at him, he wants to laugh at him too. The thought of Jayce replacing him is maybe even more of an impossibility for you than it is for him. "So, next time I should just call a guy." He chuckles. "Yes, please."

☼Mel☼

☼I feel like she would be very calm about her jealousy, but also have a slight inclination to anger, albeit a silent one. She doesn't fear the betrayal of a potential cheating, but rather the embarrassment. If she were to see you get too chummy with someone, rather than approach you, she would watch from afar to see what you'd do. This is also a big reason why she usually doesn't take action herself; you never disappoint her when it comes to letting people know you're taken.

☼She is a bit clingier when jealous, but more than that she would insist on doing more couple things together. If she feels it is not known enough, she will make it known that the two of you are together. This often means gifts like expensive jewelry that only she could afford you, a new outfit that conveniently matches with one of hers, or even just letting you borrow bags or earrings of hers. It's her way of scenting you almost. She's too classy to try and "stake her claim" in a more showy way, so she does it in a more inconspicuous way.

Waking up alone wasn't something you were completely unused to. Mel was a very busy woman, and you were content with the nights you had together and rare mornings. These mornings were made extra bearable when you woke to a box on your nightstand, wrapped in a silk ribbon with a note in your girlfriend's handwriting slipped under the bow. 'From my heart, to my darling', it read, a lipstick mark beneath where she had signed her name with an elegant flick of her wrist. Perhaps just as eager to be opened as you were to open it, the ribbon fell loose as you gently picked up the box. It was too small to be a dress and too large to be a ring but large enough to contain maybe a fancy watch or a necklace, but judging by her unusually clingy demeanor last night, you had a feeling you could pretty accurately guess what was inside the ornate jewelry box. Unsurprisingly, within it lay a gold and pearl necklace, pearls that must’ve been rare due to their black hue rather than their usually pale pearlescent coloring.  The chain felt light in your hand, the heaviest part sinking into your palm as you stared at. Your first initial and an M. No matter which way it was taken, the M to be her first name or her last, the possessive message was clear, not that you minded. Mels smile was bright when she saw you for the first time that day, and even brighter when she saw what decorated your neck. She excused herself from the councilmember she was talking to before walking over to you, practically gliding on air. She takes your hand, kissing the inside of your wrist then your knuckles then pulls you by your hand into her. "I take it you're enjoying your gift?" Your hand still in hers, she spins you, taking you in at all angles for the first time that day. "It's beautiful, but I can't help but wonder what inspired the decision." She knows you know exactly how she works, and she doesn't mind admitting she's jealous. "Am I wrong to give my pretty girl a gift?", she says, mocking the comment you received last night. She rolls her eyes and her face gives away her impending rant. "Am I wrong to give a pretty girl a compliment? I still can't believe he said that to you last night. He only did it to piss me off, you know." You bite your lip to hide your laughter, but it eventually slips from you. "I hope I'm more entertaining than Salo was last night." She can't even feign annoyance, not with the sound of your laughter filling her ears and her name around your neck. She laughs herself, with how much the two of you talk shit about the man, you'd think anything he did could never affect her, but she had been biting her tongue since last night. "Shall I list to you all the ways you're better than Salo?" She waves the idea off nonchalantly. "No, my darling, I should hope I never need an ego boost that desperately."

☼You would definitely get jealous far more often than she does. She's gorgeous, smart, well spoken, rich and affluent, and perfection embodied in a person, there is much to be jealous of. Especially as someone who is on the council where part of the job is being great at sweet talk, I feel like you would get your feelings hurt sometimes. You catch more flies with honey, and she may be the sweetest honey there is. She does tease you for your jealousy though, she finds it utterly adorable.

☼She wouldn't allow you to be jealous long. She is very good at reading you and your emotions, she seems to always know exactly how you're feeling. You couldn't even hide it from her if you tried, she'll always find a way to corner you and help you talk your feelings through. She tries very hard to make sure that you can never question who she loves the most.  

[not-neverland06]

forgotten promises

pt two of broken promises (I know I'm so creative with names)

bodyguard!logan howlett x fem!runaway reader

a/n: SMUT 18+ MDNI they, like, never use protection (don't be silly, sheathe your willy) but I’d like to make it 100% clear now that she has a magic uterus and there will be absolutely NO baby-making. Just rocking unprotected sex 😎👍 If you’re tagged in this, it does not mean that I am permanently adding you to my taglist. It just means I saw you in my comments/reblogs/inbox asking for a part two and this was the easiest way to let you know I made one. If you would like to be added to the taglist, feel free to ask.  Summary: Life on the road isn't exactly glamorous. Cramped spaces and too many cheap motels have you and Logan at each other's throats. You feel eyes tracking you everywhere you go but you're afraid to tell him, afraid it will be the end of the road for the both of you. One cheap bar and an explosion later and your whole life is flipped upside down.

“What are you doing?”

You glance over Logan’s shoulder at the register. The man behind it isn’t looking at either of you, just disinterestedly scrolling through his phone. 

“Isn’t this what you do?” You ask, motioning to the pack of beef jerky you’re stuffing down your jacket. 

Logan scoffs and shakes his head. “No, kid.” He takes the bag from you and rolls his eyes. 

“Well, then how do you pay for this stuff?”

“Normally, with the money I get from my jobs. But your dad wasn’t too forthcoming with my last paycheck.”

You feel that familiar burning churn of guilt roiling around in your gut. You’ve definitely added another complication to his life and it makes you feel like nothing more than a burden sometimes. “Oh, Logan, I’m sorry.”

Logan glances down at you. He gives you that familiar appeasing look, squeezing you closer, and drags you towards the register. He tosses the snacks and drinks onto the counter. The guy just barely glances up at you both. 

“Will that be all?” He asks in a tone that says he could care less. 

“Yeah,” you answer, eyes drifting towards the magazine rack. Your face is plastered on the cover of a cheap tabloid. 

LOCAL POLITICIANS DAUGHTER STILL MISSING

Exclusive interview with family on PG. 6

Your eyes go wide and you turn your face further into Logan’s chest. He gives you a confused look before his eyes are snagged by the same thing that caught your attention. 

“Why don’t you go wait in the truck?” You nod and slip out of his hold, being mindful to keep your face away from the security camera near the front. 

That keeps happening. You hadn’t thought you would have made news, but your father was making this a part of his campaign. Claiming you’d been taken by a mutant bodyguard and that he’s been praying for your safe return. “Experts” have been claiming that with no ransom demanded you’re being turned into a message for anyone who goes against mutants. 

Now, mutants despise you and everyone else thinks you’re a martyr. In a few years, you’re sure you’ll be turned into some true crime documentary where people you’ve never met before are crying over your disappearance. 

You slide into the truck and let out a deep sigh. You’d thought running away would be freeing. But even a hundred miles from him, you can still feel the cold grip of your father’s hand around your throat. 

“Twenty on pump seven,” Logan tosses the cash on the counter, eyes drifting to you in the truck. It was instinct at this point, always keeping an eye on you. Especially since one of your father’s more fanatic supporters had spotted you in a shitty diner a week ago. They’d called the cops and tried to bar you and Logan from leaving. 

It hadn’t gone over well for him. 

He’d been trying to keep you a little more hidden since then, but it left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d gotten you out of that house to show you what real life was like, to give you a taste of freedom. 

He felt like he was no better than your father, keeping you cooped up and covered constantly. 

When the kid in front of him doesn’t say anything, Logan clears his throat. He gives him a quizzical look but the boy’s eyes are stuck on the door. 

“I swear I know her,” he mutters. Logan’s eyes drift towards the TV behind the counter and he sees an old news story of you. They’re using the footage of the acid attack, claiming you’ve always been the mutant movement’s target. 

“Can I get twenty on pump seven,” Logan repeats, voice firm. The kid finally looks at him and whatever expression Logan is wearing is enough for him to finally start moving. 

The second the receipt is in his hand he’s rushing out the door. He doesn’t know how long it’s going to take that dumbass to piece two and two together but he can’t risk dawdling. 

He fills the tank up, eyes scanning the gas station the entire time. He’s had a cloying sense of paranoia ever since the incident in the diner. He knows that at some point this little run of yours is going to come to an end. 

He doesn’t know if it’ll end with cops finding the two of you. Or if you’re going to realize the real world isn’t all that fun and leave him behind. He knows that a girl like you, one who's used to the finer things, is never going to be satisfied by the life he can offer. 

But he’s hoping that you come to your senses later rather than sooner. He’s enjoying traveling with you a lot more than he wants to admit. 

He gets in the truck, starts it up, and glances over at you. You smile, the smile that makes him feel things he doesn’t like admitting to himself or you. 

“All good?” You ask. 

He nods, driving off without a word because he doesn’t want to tell you the truth. Doesn’t want to admit what you both know to be a fact. The time you have together has an expiration date and he’s worried it’s creeping closer. 

Logan’s inside some shitty roadside motel. Whatever he’s talking about with the owner is clearly getting heated. You can see the way the anger’s growing on his face. His body is tensed up and he looks like he’s five seconds away from leaping over the counter and taking the greasy man leering at him down. 

There’s a final word exchanged between them and then Logan is storming back towards the truck. He slams the door closed so hard you’re surprised the windows don’t shatter. Normally, you sleep in the trailer. It’s not always the warmest or coziest, but you make it work. 

It’s too cold out tonight to do that and Logan doesn’t have a spare tank for the heating. He’d thought he’d had enough for a cheap room for tonight, but clearly, he doesn’t. There’s a tense silence in the truck as you mentally debate saying anything to him. 

His fists are wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel you can hear it creaking. You shift, sitting up straighter in your seat and uncurling your legs. There’s a stiffness to your joints that has you groaning. It’s involuntary, ripped out of you simply because you’ve been sitting for too long. 

It catches Logan’s attention and he glances over at you. There’s a resigned sort of guilt on his face and it makes you feel sick to your stomach. He’s used to this type of lifestyle, and sometimes you think he’s embarrassed to share it with you. 

You’d never judge him for roadside motels or living off cheap gas station meals. You know you were privileged living up with the wealth you did. But there is something infinitely more satisfying about being poor and happy than there ever was being rich and miserable.

“Look, kid,” he lets out a heavy sigh and you mentally prepare yourself for what you’ve been expecting. You were a fun time, a nice ride, but you’re becoming a burden and he can’t deal with it anymore. 

You let your nails dig into the thin skin of your palms so you can attempt to ground yourself. “I need to make some money tonight, so I just need you to bear with me for a while.”

Like there is every time he doesn’t boot you to the curb, a relieved rush of air expels from your chest almost violently.  “Okay,” you say tentatively, the word dragging out while you try and understand his meaning. 

“I just,” he stops and it looks like he’s struggling to find the words to say to you. You wait patiently for him to finish, or try to at least. “There’s a bar nearby. I’ll find some work there,” his words are ominous. They give you nothing and convey so much. 

Clearly, he’s hiding something from you. You can tell that much from the way he’s avoiding eye contact with you. He pulls out of the motel’s parking lot and turns the radio on. You’ve learned that's his way of telling you he doesn’t want to talk without being a dick about it. 

You want to respect his space because you still feel like an imposter. But it’s hard. He’s being oddly cagey about this. 

The drive is short but it feels like you’ve been transported to an entirely different town than the one you were in before. He takes only backroads and middle-class homes turn into shady shops with barbed fences. Caged dogs bark at the truck as it drives by and you get a sinking feeling in your gut. 

Perhaps it’s a little classist of you to automatically assume a few low-end homes equate to a bad neighborhood. But instinctually you know something is off about this place. 

He parks in front of a run-down bar. Even from here, you can hear loud shouts and jeering coming from inside. You don’t know what’s being said but they’re certainly passionate. Logan turns towards you, the expression on his face so serious you feel like you’re about to be scolded. 

“I need you to stay here. I won’t be gone long, just an hour at most. But you need to stay in the truck.”

Your jaw gapes and you scoff at him. “Logan, an hour that’s rid-”

He cuts you off with a stern call of your name. Your mouth snaps shut and you narrow your eyes at him, teeth gritting together to keep your tongue at bay. “Stay here, I mean it. Got it?”

You nod and he repeats your name, sounding aggrieved. “Fine,” you huff. “I got it.” He lingers for a moment. You don’t know if he doesn’t trust you or is just reluctant to leave you alone. You’re reluctant to be left alone, especially in a shady dark parking lot like this. But clearly whatever is going on inside is worse than whatever could happen to you out here. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he makes this whole thing sound so grave. It makes your brows furrow and doubt churn in your gut. What could he be doing in there that’s so awful?

He gets out and you watch his form under the flickering street lamps until you can’t see him anymore. You sit quietly in the truck for at least three minutes before you already feel the boredom set in. 

You’d thought you’d be able to last longer. You used to go for hours dissociating at your father’s galas. This is different, though. You’re a little afraid to let your guard down here. 

You try to listen to music but you feel bad wasting his gas so you just turn the truck off and huddle under a blanket in the trailer. You try and let yourself fall asleep but you don’t last long. 

It’s too cold outside to really get a good rest and you can hear people moving around outside the trailer. After about an hour of rolling around and frozen limbs, you figure enough is enough. 

As much as you don’t want to provoke Logan or give him any reason to get rid of you, you can’t stay in here all night. Besides, Logan said he wouldn’t be long, you can always just lie and say you were worried about him. 

Satisfied with your excuse you leave the comfort of your blanket behind and slip into Logan’s jacket. You tuck the truck keys in your pocket and walk out into the snowy night. It’s less cold outside than it was in the trailer, you can see why he wanted a motel room for the night. 

A few people linger by the cars, smoking and muttering to themselves. You slip past them, ignoring the feeling of their eyes burning into your skin. You’re sure it's because you look like you don’t belong here. 

The noise in the bar gets louder the closer you get and it reminds you of the night Logan had snuck you out of the house. But you’d had him to lean on, right now, until you find him, you’re on your own. For all the noise coming from the building, the bar is surprisingly empty. 

Only a few old men are sitting around, drinking beers in silence. The bartender cleans glasses behind the counter, sparing you an odd look before getting back to work. There’s not very far for you to look before you figure out that Logan isn’t anywhere nearby. 

“Excuse me?” The bartender spares you a fleeting glance before barely grunting in greeting. 

The floor underneath you tremors and you glance down at it in surprise. You can hear something going on underneath. You figure that has to be where all the noises are coming from. “I’m looking for someone. Tall, mean as hell, he’s got this hair,” you swoop your hands up by the sides of your head, trying to mimic the odd fluff of Logan’s hair. 

“Downstairs.” You nod and move around the bar, trying to get to the door behind him. He reaches out, grabbing your bicep and stopping you before you can get far. “It's a forty-dollar entrance fee, sweetheart.”

Your brow furrows in confusion and you frown as you dig around in your jacket pockets. You’ve come too far to be deterred now. Ignoring the moral implications, you slip Logan’s wallet out of his jacket and give the man forty dollars. 

He nods towards the door and you give him a weak thank you as you slip past him. Opening the door is like breaking a seal. The noises bombard you almost immediately, so much clearer than they were before. 

You still can’t understand what they’re screaming but there’s a violent atmosphere slipping around you as you head down the stairs. The heady smell of cigars and cigarettes threatens to suffocate you. Your eyes water at the smoke in the air. 

You’d think you’d have gotten used to secondhand smoking after being around Logan, but he’s less inclined to hotbox the car if you’re beside him. The second your feet hit the floor you’re being jostled to the side violently by the people around you. 

It’s nearly impossible to elbow your way through the crowd, but you’re determined to figure out what’s in the middle of the cage that’s got them all excited. You can hear the people around you screaming out bets and numbers you don’t understand. 

For one nauseating moment, you think this might be a dog fighting ring, that Logan gambles on it to earn his money. It makes you want to turn around, to shield yourself from the truth. But this is something he tried to keep hidden from you and you need to know the truth about whoever you’re traveling with. 

You can hear the announcer, but you can’t get close enough to see anything yet. “Are you gonna let this man walk away with your money?” There’s a resounding NO! from the crowd that makes you jump. 

A booming voice shouts over the throng of voices, “I’ll take him!” 

“Our savior ladies and gentlemen!” You shove through two men, ignoring the way they complain about how their beer sloshes on their sleeves. 

“Hey-” You glance over your shoulder as one of them reaches for you.  You flick your wrist, sending him and his friend tumbling back into the crowd. You roll your eyes and turn back towards the cage. 

Your eyes widen and so do Logan’s as you finally see what exactly is going on. He’s cage fighting, this is what he’d been so secretive about. Honestly, it’s a relief compared to the brutality you were bracing yourself for. 

You can see his lips starting to form the shape of your name but the man from before is barrelling into his side as the bell goes off. You wince, jumping away from the cage as you hear the meaty impact of his fist against Logan’s face. 

The people near you scream, shouting for Logan’s blood. It’s easy to figure out that he’s been beating everyone he’s gone up against based on some bloody faces in the crowd. It’s smart, easy money. He can always heal, and can never really be beaten, not when he’s literally got fists of steel. 

You’re surprised that no one’s ever caught onto this scam of his. You also wonder why he had been so adamant about you not seeing this. Sure, it’s brutal watching blood spray against the mat. But you don’t care. Besides, he’s ridiculously attractive in just his jeans as he pummels into some guy. 

Maybe that’s not a normal line of thinking. 

You shake your head, shelving that for later as the fight dies down. The man is limp on the mat of the cage and Logan is leaning against the wall, smoking a cigar and pointedly not looking at you. 

You feel that familiar twisting feeling in your stomach and wonder if this was a horrible idea. You should have just stayed in the car like he asked. You’re sure it would have only been another hour of tirelessly rolling around before he came back. But you couldn’t help yourself. 

He tells you so little about himself. If you get a chance to learn more, you’re going to pounce on the opportunity. Maybe it was a violation of his trust. You sincerely doubt that he would ever willingly have revealed this sort of lifestyle to you, though. 

He seems to be under the same misguided intention that you need to be sheltered. It reminds you a little of your father. That might be a cruel comparison but it’s the same suffocating feeling of being kept in the dark to suit their needs. 

The guilt you’d been holding unfurls and blossoms into anger. You find yourself retreating away from the cage and rushing back up the stairs of the bar. You don’t want to watch him fight any longer. You don’t want to look at him. 

You just want him to treat you like an equal. Not like some little girl who’s going to run at the first sign of things getting hard. 

You burst through the door of the bar, ignoring the cold laughter of the bartender behind you. He clearly seemed to think you couldn’t handle a little blood. He wasn’t the only one. 

You’re only a couple of feet from the truck when you hear footsteps loudly stomping through the snow behind you. “What the hell were you doing?” You scoff, unbelieving that he would have the gall to shout at you. 

You whirl around on him and it catches him off guard. His right foot slides against the slush as he tries to stop himself from ramming into you. “I’m not a little girl, Logan! You don’t need to hide stuff like that from me.”

He crosses his arms and glares down at you. “I wasn’t hiding anything,” he insists. But the tone of his voice gives him away. He doesn’t like that he was caught. “I don’t need to tell you jackshit about what I do for money.”

You can’t believe how he sounds right now. Why is he getting so defensive about this? “I don’t care what you do for money, alright. I just don’t get why you felt like I couldn’t know about this.” You hate the way the hurt is audible in your voice. You wear your heart on your sleeve, even when you try and cover it. 

In the same way, he’s masking his feelings with anger, so are you. Just with less success. Something draws across his face, some emotion you can’t discern. His voice goes cold and quiet as he shoves an envelope full of cash into your hands. 

“Go back to the motel. Get a room.”

He storms past you and walks towards the trailer. You follow after him, slightly dumbfounded by how he’s behaving. He rips his motorcycle out from the back and rolls it into a parking spot. You watch him do all this with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth. 

It’s only when he starts to head back towards the bar that you realize he’s not coming with you. “Logan!” You call out, trailing after him slightly. He barely turns back to face you. “Are you,” the words die on your tongue and you can’t find it in yourself to finish. 

Are you angry?

Are you leaving?

Are you going to ditch me at the next bus stop?

Instead of asking any of your ridiculously pining questions, you turn on your heel and storm towards the truck. You rip the door open with more force than necessary and drive off without looking back at him. But you know he watches, know he keeps an eye on you until he can’t see you anymore. 

Your rides with him are normally silent, but this one feels painfully so. 

You nearly get a room with two beds. But you feel like if you do it will be a horrendous mistake. Reluctantly, you give the man behind the counter enough for a room with one bed large enough for the both of you. 

You’re not exactly excited about sharing a bed with him, not after how he behaved tonight. You grumble to yourself as you drag your bag inside and toss it on the ground. You picture putting up a wall of pillows between the two of you, just to be petty. 

It’s as you’re showering that you realize you might not even have to. He might not come to join you tonight. He won’t know what room you’re in. And he’d made it pretty clear how pissed he was at you for sneaking into the bar. 

Maybe you’ve finally pushed him too far. You’ve been toying with the boundaries of his patience for a while. Little tests to determine whether he truly wants you around simply to have a warm body ready beside him. Or if he wants you because he genuinely cares for you. 

You suppose tonight, whether you want it or not, you’ll finally have the truth. 

The thought keeps you awake. You toss and you turn for hours, fighting with yourself. You should be happy, finally figuring out what’s been haunting you. But you’re not. You’re petrified. You’d rather keep living a lie than finally accept that he truly doesn’t want you. 

You throw the covers off, the scratchy material only further adding to your irritation. You stomp into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind you. You turn on the sink splashing some cool water over your face to try and rid yourself of the warmth lingering under your skin. You don’t know if this feeling of being uncomfortable in your own body is from pent-up anger or anxiety. 

You don’t care. You just want to sleep this night away and pretend it never happened. But, of course, the universe has other plans. The motel door creaks open as you’re hovering over the sink, debating whether or not you’re nauseous enough to throw up. 

You tilt your head slightly towards the sound. Growing up in your house, filtering through rooms like an unheard ghost, allowed you to get good at recognizing footsteps. Logan has finally decided to grace you with his presence. 

You listen to him as he creeps silently across the room, landing on the squeaky bed. You press your ear against the door and can hear the way the sheets rustle and he cusses under his breath. There’s worry staining his voice and you figure you shouldn’t drag this on much longer. 

You open the bathroom door and flip the switch, turning the lamps on like a disappointed mother waiting up for her teenager. You cross your arms mutely and lean against the doorframe as he winces under the sudden light. 

He jumps, just slightly, and glares over at you. “Thought you weren’t here,” he accuses. He tries sounding angry, but you have a sudden rush of clarity in that moment. Where you would normally focus only on him being upset with you, you can see the truth of his concern.

Same as you, he doesn’t know where he stands in this whole situation. You doubt he had a clear plan when he rescued you from your tower like some ridiculous storybook knight. He most likely thought that you left, the same way you thought he would. 

You remain silent, though, still a little too flustered to speak coherently. Instead, you examine him. There are cuts and blood all over his shirt. Splatters of it on his face. Though, you know if you looked there would be no physical evidence of him ever being hurt. 

His brows furrow the longer you stare, a wall building between the two of you. “Kid?” He questions, equal parts worried and defensive. Does he really think you actually give a fuck about him fighting?

You shake your head and walk back into the bathroom. You rustle around in the cabinet underneath the sink until you find a washcloth. Wetting it, you bring it back out to him. You station yourself between his spread legs, holding the cloth between you like a peace offering. 

He looks doubtful as he glances between you and it. Finally, he lets out a rough sigh and simply nods his head. But when he reaches for it you snatch it back, much to his chagrin. You offer him a small smile and tilt his chin up towards you, gently wiping some of the dried blood off his cheeks. 

He doesn’t flinch or hiss away from the less-than-gentle fabric. He stares at you unblinkingly, like if he closes his eyes for a moment he’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream. “You don’t have to do this, kid.”

You roll your eyes and crane your neck to get a better look at him. “Would you shut up?” You whisper teasingly. 

His lips quirk slightly and you can see his shoulder slump in relief at the sound of your voice. “So, she can talk.” You can’t help the little laugh that comes out of you. He grins fully at that and his hands come up to rest on your hips. 

His thumbs rub soothing circles along the sides of your waist as his hands dip a little lower. “What are you doing?” Your hand drifts down to his neck to wipe some blood off there as well. 

He shakes his head and shrugs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You lift your gaze to his and your lips fall flat, “Logan-”

He cuts you off before you can finish. In one smooth motion, his hands drop to wrap around your thighs. He lifts you slightly and drops you onto his lap. He grins at the slight huff of surprise that rushes out of you. 

His arms go back to your waist, pulling you closer to him and grinding you a little against him. You bite your lip to stop any noises from escaping. As much as you wouldn’t mind what he’s thinking, you need to talk. 

“Logan,” you scold. 

He smirks and tilts his head patronizingly, “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

“It’s not happening,” you tell him firmly, hand still working on cleaning him. 

He sighs and one of his arms drops away from you. He cups your hand in his, stilling your movements and forcing you to meet his gaze. Gently, he takes the cloth from you and tosses it somewhere you can’t see. “I’m fine,” he whispers, eyes searching yours. 

It’s hard meeting his gaze. The worry and anxiety from the night still weigh heavily on your shoulders. He repeats himself, fingers tilting your chin up to face him. “Alright?”

“I don’t care,” the words come rushing out of you before you can stop them. His brows raise in shock and he gives a slight chuckle of amusement. A lump grows in your throat and your eyes grow wide. “Wait, I don’t mean-”

You cut yourself off and rub your hands over your face, trying to get your head on right. Logan’s patient, rubbing your back and clearly trying not to laugh at you. You finally take in a deep breath and face him again. 

“I don’t care about the fighting,” you can see his shoulders tense slightly like he doesn’t believe you. “I don’t care, Logan. You do what you have to survive and I’m not gonna judge you for that.”

“What if I enjoy it?” He cuts you off, tone harsh as he glares down at you. There's experience in how quickly he doubts you, how quickly he tries to get you to change your mind about him.

You wonder how many times he’s been rejected just for being a mutant. You’ve only ever been rejected by one person because only he ever knew. Your father. And that hurt enough for one lifetime. 

You can’t imagine going for as long as he has and constantly being called a monster for something he can’t control. Your brows furrow and you lean into him until your lips are brushing. He remains stiff beneath you but you don’t let it deter you. 

“I don’t care,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his before slowly pulling back. You wait for him to respond, physically or verbally, but he’s still looking at you with that cold unfamiliar gaze. 

You wonder if maybe it was a mistake, to bring it up at all. But just as the thought comes he’s surging forward. His lips catch yours, his hands digging so desperately into your shirt you know it rips. 

Your arms go to his neck, holding onto him so you don’t slip off his lap. You haven't been this close for a few days. You think it might have made you both feel on edge. There’s a relief that comes from not just having sex with him, but also just being intimate and close to one another. 

It’s a reminder that you’re not alone, that there’s someone here beside you to be a partner and a pillar of stability. You’ve never had that before. Someone that you can rely on and trust fully. You don’t think he has either. 

He craves you the same way you do him. Each kiss, every shared breath, is treated like it will be your last. You don’t know when your father will finally catch up to the two of you. You don’t know when the police might finally recognize Logan. 

There’s no definitive future for either of you. It’s a real possibility that this could be your last night together. And neither of you wants to be upset with each other. Because you were never truly mad. You were always just worried. 

Your hands drop to his shirt, dipping to find the holes in it from his fight and ripping at the flimsy fabric until you can just yank it off. He smiles against your lips at the eager way you move atop him. But he can’t tease you, he’s already annoyed with the buttons on your shirt. 

He pulls back, glaring down at the fabric like it's insulting him. Without another word, he slices through it, leaving it in tatters on your shoulder. You grin, shrugging the rest of it off. “That was yours.”

He grips your hips tightly and leaves marks where his fingers are as a reminder that he was here. He flips you over, leaves you breathless as he hovers over you. “I really don’t give a fuck, sweetheart.”

You’re addicted to his voice. How breathy and desperate it is when he’s with you. It’s a level of vulnerability you rarely get to see from him. He can’t hide himself when he’s with you like this. He wants you just as badly as you do him. 

It gives you a confidence rush like no other, makes your ego grow ten times its size. If you can make a man like this fall to his knees from nothing more than a kiss, then you’re capable of a lot more than you give yourself credit for. 

But you don’t want that tonight. You reach for him before he can go much further, grabbing him by his hair and tugging until you know it stings. He nearly fucking moans at your rough touch, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. The green of them has been wholly consumed by his desire for you and it makes you ache for him. 

“Not tonight,” you tell him. There’s no room for argument in your tone. As much as he might want to taste you, devour you, all you want is to be as close to him as possible. You want to be covered and filled by him in every way you can be. 

His head falls against your thigh, a rough groan tumbling from his throat at your words. You drag him towards you, pulling him up your body until you’re face to face. You smile softly up at him, lifting your head so you can meet his lips again. 

You’ll never get enough of kissing him, of tasting him. Sometimes you have to stop yourself from reaching across the seats and kissing him while he drives. You’ve nearly made him wreck a few times and forced him to pull over so you could both have some fun in the back. 

Addiction isn’t the right word for what you feel for him. It brings along its own negative connotations. The taint of dependency and toxicity. With addiction, it’s a parasitic relationship, hurts you but makes you feel good. 

This is just goodness. This is a kind touch for the first time in your life and finally feeling safe in someone elses arms. This is opening yourself up to him fully and not once feeling like you need to mold yourself into something else to make him happy. It’s accepting him as he is, a broken dog who likes to fight to punish himself. You don’t want to change him or make him “better.” You just want him to be happy. 

You use your powers to help yourself, flipping him over and straddling his hips. You drag his jeans down his legs and flick your wrist, sending them flying somewhere across the room. He watches you with eyes filled with awe, hands drifting over your curves like something to be worshipped. 

You know he’s waiting for it, for you to sink yourself down on him and finally be filled. But you wait, hover over him even as the muscles of your thighs tremor. “You don’t hide things from me anymore,” you warn him. You’re not asking, for once, you’re demanding what you want. 

He doesn’t look angry like you’d been expecting. Instead, it only seems to turn him on more. “Ya know,” his hands drift to your hips, dragging you down and over his cock until it’s wet with your want. Your nails dig into his chest until there’s blood beading under them and you’re trying not to let your noises slip out. 

“I kinda like it when you’re all bossy like this.” 

“Logan,” you grit his name out. It takes everything in you not to look as affected by him as you feel. “No more hiding shit.”

He leans up on his elbows. His hand drifts to the nape of your neck and drags you down until your lips are nearly touching his. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”

Like a taut rope being cut, you sink into him, your hips finally drop and he guides you down every inch of him until you feel like you’re so full you can’t breathe. He lets you linger for a moment, and get used to this feeling while he steals the very air from your lungs. 

He’s greedy with the way he touches you. His hands always moving like he’ll never fully be satisfied with how much of you he can feel. He’s always reaching for you like he needs to make sure you’re actually real and not just something he’s dreamt up. 

Even with how impatient he is, you’re always the one that moves first. You roll your hips over him, moaning at how he feels inside you. It’s like he’s perfectly molded you around him. He always manages to brush against the spots that make your eyes roll into the back of your head. 

The second your hips begin to roll, he’s wrapping his heavy arms around you, grinding you down into him. He keeps you trapped in place, using you like a toy as he bounces you on his lap. Your mind is fuzzy, every bad thought and feeling shoved out while he makes you go dumb on his dick.

You love how boneless you go. You don’t have to think now, don’t have to worry. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, shifting yourself further on top of him until you're practically burying yourself under his skin. 

Not thinking always comes with its own consequences, though. Your powers slip a little out of your grasp. The walls trembling and the drawers and cabinets opening and closing. The both of you have gotten used to the noise, know how to drown it out, and just focus on each other. 

One of these days, you’ll need to figure out a way to have sex with him without bringing the room down around you. That’s a problem for later though. His whispered praises and grunts of your name filter through your mind until there’s nothing left inside you but him. 

“Fuck,” he hisses in your ear, “you’re so fucking tight around me. You close?” He grunts, hand drifting down to rub tight circles on your clit. You dig your nails into his shoulders, nodding your head frantically against his neck. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Shit,” you can barely think of your own damn name. Let alone what you want from him. “Fuck off,” you hiss. He chuckles at the attitude and you almost expect him to stop, just to be a dick because you were a brat. 

But he’s just as close as you are and he’s too selfish to tease. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes down on you as your body shakes against his. He follows quickly after you, warmth shooting up inside you and almost leaking down your thighs. You feel stuffed, like your body’s been pushed to the limit and further. 

You both sit together in silence for a while. You ignore the way your skin sticks to his uncomfortably, instead reveling in the warmth he provides you. Anyone else, and you’d be rushing to get away from them. 

You’re always extra sensitive after sex, every little thing setting you off. But there’s a comfort to the way his hairy ass chest brushes against your breasts and his arms squeeze around you. It’s a nice grounding feeling. 

The tips of your fingers drift over his arms, following the path of his veins and brushing against his fingers lazily. He flips his palm over, encasing your hand in his own wordlessly. Little things like that ease your worries. Makes you feel like something more than just a quick fuck. 

He breaks the silence first, which is rare for him. “I’m sorry about tonight.”

You frown and peer up at him. “I told you, I don’t care about the fighting.”

He sighs and shakes his head, “Not that. I shouldn’t have gotten so fucking mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You want to interrupt him, assure him that you both acted pretty childishly. 

But you understand it’s difficult for him to express himself verbally. He usually prefers silent acts of apologies and expression, you don’t want to mess him up before he can get out what he wants to say. 

“I don’t want to be like your father.” Your face screws up a little and you shift uncomfortably on his lap. He loosens his grip, giving you room to leave if you want to, but you stay put. “I’m trying not to coddle you, sweetheart, or hide you away from the world. But I don’t like you seeing that shit.”

“You’re not my dad, Logan. He wouldn’t give me a choice,” you try and joke but it just seems to make him more irritated. Sighing you straighten up, bracing yourself on his chest and staring down at him. 

Your head tilts to the side in contemplation and he almost looks uncomfortable under the attention. “I’m not so fragile or sheltered that I’m going to shatter at the first taste of the real world, Logan. I mean, for god’s sake, I’ve had acid thrown at me and bodyguards since I could walk. I know how dangerous it is. Whatever you want to hide from me, I’ve seen worse.”

You let your words sink in for a moment and he looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You know that it’s odd for him, to comprehend a girl who was afraid to go into a bar swallowing down an illegal fighting ring like it’s nothing. But you’re not lying. Everyday little things are what you’re unused to. But you’ve lived alongside violence your whole life. 

“Look, fighting, sleeping in shitty motels, and your truck, that doesn't bother me. But I don’t like when you hide things and I don’t,” you take in a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the worst. This is what you’ve been trying to tell him for weeks. 

A few little words have your tongue tied and make you desperate to cover yourself up again. He can see the shift in your expression, and feel how tense you get. He sits up a little more, thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand. 

“I don’t want to just be someone to fuck you, Logan. I didn’t come with you so you’d have easy access pussy,” he looks thoroughly amused at your crude words, but there’s something else lingering in his expression. Something like hurt. 

“Is that what you think?” He asks, tone distant. You can’t find the words so you simply nod. He sighs and shakes his head. He eases you off his lap and you worry you’ve truly fucked this up somehow. 

He goes into the bathroom, returns with a wet washcloth. He still doesn’t speak and you’re on edge the entire time he cleans the both of you up. You can see he’s thinking, biting his tongue, and trying to figure out what it is that he wants to say to you. 

You’re impatient, five seconds away from just demanding a response from him. He tosses the cloth and drops into bed beside you. You draw the sheets up to your chest, glaring down at him while he rubs his hands over his face with a tired sigh. 

When he opens his eyes again he laughs at how close you are. “Jesus,” he wraps an arm around your waist, dragging you down into his chest even though you fight him. It must be easier for him to speak when you’re not staring at him. 

“I didn’t go back for you so I could fuck you, kid. I… care about you,” there’s a long pause before he says the word care. You think it’s funny, that he can’t bring himself to admit what he actually feels. But you’ll take it, you’ll give him the time he needs to come to terms with the truth. 

For now, you let yourself fall asleep, feeling just a little bit better about the road ahead. 

Things get easier between the two of you. And somehow harder at the same time. You don’t walk on eggshells around each other, no longer afraid of scaring the other off now. Which also means that you find it easier to bicker with him about little things. Like, not just tossing his trash everywhere in the truck. You’re practically living out of the trailer, the least he could do is help you keep it tidy. 

You know it’s weird for him. Suddenly having someone nag at him not to be a slob or to take breaks in between driving so he doesn’t wear himself out. It’s an adjustment you see him struggle with sometimes. 

You try not to be too pushy, but there’s only so many times you can flick crumbs from his burgers off your seat before you lose it. “Logan!” You snap, glaring at him as you stand up only to find chip crumbs squished into the fabric of your leggings. 

He glances over at you and shrugs, “What?” 

You glance between the crumbs and him with a glare but he doesn’t seem to be connecting the dots. “Fucks sake,” you grumble, passive-aggressively wiping the truck seat off before you slam the door and storm towards the diner. 

You’re sick of being cramped in the truck. You’re sick of the greasy food. You’ve begun to crave salads lately. Which is beyond weird. But the novelty of shitty food and milkshakes wore off a hundred miles ago. 

Logan catches up to you, huffing with irritation as he swings the door open for you. You take a seat in the booth near the corner, snatching up the menu and pointedly staring at it and not him. “Really?” He demands. When you don’t answer he tips the menu down, forcing you to meet his gaze. “What is your problem?” He hisses, trying not to draw attention to you both. 

You lean in, voice a harsh whisper. “How hard is it to just not make a mess? We live out of that damn truck, the least you could do is keep your crumbs on your side.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back in the booth. You’re both sick of having the same fight. But there’s really nothing else to do anymore. When you’re stuck together for so long, it’s the small things that get to you. 

You’re going to say more but the waitress pops in front of you out of nowhere. “Hi!” She beams and gives you her name, the bows in her hair trembling at how hyper she is. “What can I get you both today?”

You and Logan place your orders, and he shoots you an odd look when you only order the salad. “We’ve got a couple more hours ahead of us, you’re gonna get hungry.”

You cross your arms and shrug, “No, I won’t.”

He licks his lips, sucking on his teeth and leaning against the table. “Yes, you will,” he argues with a stern voice. 

You narrow your eyes at him and give him a bitter smile. “Kiss. My. Ass.”

Your stomach grumbles for the third time and you know that Logan can hear it. You’re pointedly not making eye contact with him. It feels like it's louder than the music at this point and you really don’t want to prove him right. 

Without a word, he begins to dig around in the center console. You glance towards him, confused, “What’re you doing?”

He doesn’t say anything, just tosses whatever he’s grabbed onto your lap. You glance down at it and frown. It’s somehow cold as you unwrap it. You pull the parchment paper away and let out a relieved sigh. 

He ordered you a wrap from the diner without you realizing. You take a bite, your hunger steadily easing away. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, pointedly looking out the window. 

He glances over at you and scoffs. “What was that? Couldn’t hear ya, kid.” 

You roll your eyes and turn to glare at him. He’s already looking at you, a teasing tilt to his lips. “I said I’m sorry,” you snap. “I shouldn’t have been a bitch.”

He shakes his head and waves you off. “I haven’t exactly been pleasant myself. I’ll,” he huffs lowly and forces the words out, “clean up more.”  

“I think we’ve just been stuck on the road too long. We’re gonna end up driving each other insane.”

His eyes glance along the signs on the highway. There’s a notice for food and shopping at the next exit and he nods towards it. “We’ll stop at a motel for a few nights. Take a break.” You want to ask him if he’s sure that’s smart. 

It seems risky, to slow down for so long. But you need to walk around, breathe fresh air, and stretch your legs. You’re too selfish to tell him not to stop and keep going. Instead, you nod and smile at him. “That sounds really nice.”

He gives you a slight smile that’s gone as quickly as it came, reaching over and resting his hand on your thigh. You move closer to him and he turns the radio up. You wonder why he doesn’t want to talk anymore but you don’t push it. You’re too excited to finally get out of the truck again. 

The town is nice enough. It’s small, with only a few shops where you buy some new shirts to replace one’s that Logan has torn up. The motel you’re staying at doesn’t have a washing machine so you have to use the laundromat to wash your clothes. 

Logan says he’s going to see if he can find a quick job nearby. You wonder if that means a real job or a more bloody one. You decide not to ask questions, instead taking the little change you have and figuring you’ll try to get the smell of grease out of all your clothes. 

As you load the machine up and put your quarters in you can’t escape the feeling of someone watching you. You’ve been on high alert ever since Logan stole you away from the house. But this is different. 

You’ve gotten used to your own paranoia, you know when it’s real or not. You walk away from the machine, glancing out at the glass walls near the front and trying to see if there’s someone out there. This, oddly enough, doesn’t feel like a police stakeout where they’re going to track you back to the motel and bust Logan. 

This is something different. There is a deep-seated primal fear in you that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Your heart races as your eyes search the dark street outside. What little glow comes from the streetlights isn’t enough for you to clearly make anything out. 

But you feel them, tracking your every move. They’re somewhere nearby, you can’t see them but they see you. You feel sick to your stomach. You glance at the door before racing towards it. You turn the lock, slowly backing away and keeping your eyes trained on the street. 

You look into the shadows and find shapes and movements where there are none. Your eyes spin as your brain crafts a horrible image of some monster waiting outside for you. When the timer for the washer goes off you let out a sharp scream, spinning around and clutching your chest as you glare at it. 

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter, angrily running your hand over your face and trying to catch your breath. You put the clothes in the dryer and by the time you're done, the feeling is gone. You don’t know if they were never there to begin with, or if they got bored and left. 

You’d told Logan that you didn’t need a ride, you’d just walk the short distance back to the motel. Now, you use the phone on the front counter and call him, telling him you’ve changed your mind after all. 

By the time he picks you up, he looks incredibly concerned. You know you sounded panicked when you called him. You still feel upset about the whole thing. But when he asks what’s wrong you just tell him you got a little scared walking back in the dark. 

You don’t tell him someone was watching you because you know he’ll make you pack up and leave again. You want some stability. Even if it's just for a week. So, as stupid as it is, you lie to him and say everything’s fine. 

When you try to go to sleep that night you feel like you’re being watched again. Even with the curtains closed their eyes burn into you. You toss and turn under the heavy weight of the sheets, struggling to get comfortable. 

There’s a low grumble behind you before Logan throws his arm over your waist and tugs you back into his chest. “Stop movin’ around,” he demands, his voice barely audible. You smile a little at how tired he sounds before forcing yourself to settle down. 

He doesn’t give you much choice, using his body as a weight to keep you pinned. You still feel their gaze, even more now, but his proximity brings you enough comfort to get a little bit of restless sleep. 

Logan’s up before you, he always is. He comes in with cheap coffee and free breakfast from the lounge. You push the sheets off your legs, your shirt sticking to your back from the cold sweat of your nervous sleeping. You feel a little more at ease this morning. 

You wonder if you’re developing some late-in-life fear of the dark. You don’t know why you were so upset last night, you feel perfectly fine now. It’s almost like it was all one bad dream. Logan walks over, handing you the coffee wordlessly and rustling around in your bag for something. 

He pulls out the envelope of cash you keep stashed away and frowns at the contents. “Found a job,” he mutters, stuffing the envelope away and turning back towards you. He leans against the desk, face pensive. 

You rub your eyes, trying to wake yourself up a bit more so you sound coherent. “What is it?” You take a sip of the coffee and your face screws up at the aftertaste. 

“Fighting,” his tone is clipped and you wonder what’s got him up in arms. He walks past you, heading into the bathroom, and closing the door behind him. You tilt your head, gaze following him curiously. He doesn’t normally close the door, he usually likes to invite you to join him. 

Something happened and you wonder if he’s hiding the same thing you are. You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath and closing your mind off to the fear from last night. 

By the time Logan is done in the bathroom, you’re feeling more awake. You can’t just dismiss what happened last night. You’ve never gotten scared like that before. You refuse to ignore your instincts, but you’re also not going to let whoever that was terrify you into going back on the road. 

You don’t want things between you and Logan to grow more tense than they already are. The time away from each other yesterday helped a lot. You no longer want to strangle him when you hear him breathe. You’ll just stick closer to him today and see if you feel the eyes on you again tonight. 

“So,” you start, testing the waters to see if he’s still in a bad mood. He glances over at you, eyebrows quirked in curiosity but you’re tongue-tied as you stare at him. However many weeks you’ve been with him and you’re never gonna get used to seeing him straight out of the shower. 

The towel is draped low on his hips, giving you a taunting look at what lies underneath the white cloth. Droplets drip down his abs and you’ve never wanted to be water more than you do right now. It’s unfair, just how attractive he is. 

You always forget what you’re going to say. You can’t think when he has a shirt off, it’s infuriating. Scoffing, you turn away from him and shake your head. You hear him chuckle, you know he knows what you’re thinking about. 

“What’s wrong?” He creeps up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist and tugging you back into his chest. 

“Logan, dammit,” water soaks into the back of your shirt uncomfortably and you tilt your head to glare at him. 

He smirks down at you, “Cat got your tongue, kid?”

You roll your eyes and push away from him. “I can’t even remember what I was going to say.” You snatch a shirt from the dresser and shove it into his hands. “Put this on.”

He scoffs and gives you a disbelieving look. “Are you serious?” You wait for him, gaze expectant. You’re not gonna be able to think when he looks like this. Sighing, he acquieses and tugs the shirt on. His lips fall into a sarcastic line, “Happy?”

Like a switch being flipped you finally remember what you were going to ask him. “The job you told me about. Where is it?”

You can see on his face how little he wants to divulge that information to you. But you know he’s going to tell you. You two made a deal not to hide things, although, you might be breaking your side of that right now. 

“Some shitty bar a few miles from here. Listen-”

You’re not gonna like it. 

I don’t want you tagging along. 

You should just stay here and read or some shit.

You wonder which one he’ll pick today. “You wouldn’t like it, it’s just a shitty little place where I can make some quick cash.” Look at that, it’s rarely ever your first pick excuse. You must be getting better at reading him. 

“I’ll come with you,” you tell him because you’re not asking. You’re not staying by yourself tonight and you both need the money. You grin at him even as his face falls in disappointment. “Maybe I’ll fight.”

He doesn’t even say anything and you immediately regret what you said. The look he’s giving you would put you six feet under if it could. “It was just a joke,” you mutter.

“Wasn’t funny, kid,” he tells you, tone clipped as he moves around you to grab his jeans. “I don’t even want you in those places, let alone fuckin’ fighting.”

You purse your lips and take a seat on the bed, handing him his jacket when he begins looking for it. “I have abilities too, you know. Maybe I could win a fight.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “I win because I can take the hits people deal me. You can’t,” you don’t bother arguing with him that you heal too. You understand what he means. You might be able to recover physically, but there’s a mental aspect to being knocked on the ground. There’s humiliation and fear in cage fights, you probably wouldn’t be able to handle that side of it. 

He waits for you to say anything else but when he realizes you’ve dropped the subject he lets out a relieved sigh. “You’ll stay in the truck,” he tries. 

You give him a deadpan look, slipping the keys out of your purse and handing them to him. “No way in hell, but I’ll stay by the bar if it makes you feel better.” He stays silent and nods but you know he’ll try and convince you otherwise when you actually get to the place. Tough luck, though, you don’t think it’s safe for either of you to be apart tonight. Even if it’s just staying in the truck. 

The setup of these places is always the same. Though, this bar seems to be particularly disgusting in comparison to other ones you’ve been to. You position yourself near the corner, your back to the wall so you’re less likely to be noticed in the crowd. 

The fights never last more than a few minutes. And that’s if Logan is feeling generous. Most of the time you only need to be here an hour before people get pissed off and go home. Someone bumps into you and you hear a small, “I’m sorry,” before they rush to claim a stool. 

The crowd’s already begun to die out. Most leave while they still have a little money left in their pockets. You duck your head down, catching the eye of the girl who’d bumped into you. She looks young and incredibly skittish. Her eyes keep darting to the tip jar near the bartender. 

She quietly asks for water but the bartender just shakes his head, tugging the jar closer to him. You don’t know why you’re drawn to her, maybe it’s because she looks like one of those sad pound puppies, but you take a seat beside her. 

“Water,” you order, slipping him some change. When he gives it to you, you pass it off to her, spotting the greedy way she eyes it. You know a runaway when you see one, she clearly needs a little help. But Logan’s got enough on his shoulders, you’re not gonna bug him with adding another person to the mix. 

“Thank you,” she gulps it down like she hasn’t drunk anything in days. You feel your stomach twist with empathy. What little cash you have in your wallet, you slip into her bag as you pass by her. Logan will have made enough for it to be spared and it's the least you can do. 

Not everyone is as lucky as you to have someone help them navigate a new life. 

Logan grabs his jacket, wiping blood off from under his nose and heading towards you. You know he’ll want a drink before you go, he always does. Before he can say anything someone’s shouting the name he uses in the cage. “Hey, Wolverine! I want my fucking money back.”

The big man he’d knocked down earlier takes a step towards him. His friend tries to hold him back, but there’s no stopping him. He’s already had his ass kicked once, what makes him think this is going to be any different?

“Not your money anymore, bub.” Logan scoffs and turns back towards you. You just want to leave now. You don’t want to stay for a drink or go get something to eat. You feel the eyes on you again, but when you turn to find them there’s no one there but the girl. 

And she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are wide and staring at something else. “Behind you!” She screeches, and both you and Logan whirl around to find the man barreling towards him with a knife outstretched. 

Logan moves so quickly that you stumble back slightly. He grabs the guy's arm, twisting his wrist until the knife drops to the ground. He shoves him back against the wall, claws out and pinning him there.

“Shit,” you whisper, glancing around as the few patrons of the bar stare in horror at Logan. The people counting his money stop and tuck it back into the cash box. You clench your eyes shut in irritation, he’s not gonna be getting paid tonight, that’s for sure. 

There’s a strange noise behind you, like someone cocking a gun. You turn around slowly, gasping when you see the bartender pointing the barrel of his shotgun at your chest. He’s not aiming it at Logan, he’s aiming it at you. Like he somehow knows that’s the only way to get him to back off. 

It’s not like he was going to kill the guy, besides, he came at him with a knife first. What’s the difference if Logan’s a mutant? He’s defending himself. Why does no one understand that?

“Get out of my bar,” the old man warns lowly, taking a step closer to you. Logan turns around and finally spots what’s going on. 

“Pay me and I’ll be on my way.” You know you’d be able to heal from the shotgun blast, but you don’t exactly want to go through it. 

The old man laughs and shakes his head. “You’re not getting paid, buddy. Get the fuck out of my bar before I put a hole in your little girlfriend.”

Your eyes narrow in disbelief. You debate with yourself for a moment, if this is smart or not. But the guy’s being a prick and you’re sick of people treating mutants like they’re less than nothing. You flick your wrist and the shotgun goes flying out of his hand. 

You glance over at the cashbox and it comes floating towards you, landing easily in your outstretched palm. “Be thankful I’m not blowing a hole in you,” you warn, glaring at the cowering man. You walk forward and he stumbles back and you try not to focus on the sick feeling of satisfaction it brings you. You grab the tip jar and shove it towards the girl at the end of the bar. “Good luck, kid.”

Logan releases the man from the before, taking a step towards you. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and rush towards the exit of the bar. You need to just get the fuck out of this town as quickly as possible, you’re not safe here anymore. 

Logan seems to agree with you. He gets into the truck and doesn’t turn back to the motel. Instead, he turns onto the highway while you keep your eyes peeled on the trees outside your window. There’s someone out there, still following you. 

“Something’s wrong with the suspension,” you glance up from where you’d been working on breaking open the cashbox and frown. Logan’s glaring down at the steering wheel, it seems like he’s struggling to get it to turn properly. 

“What?”

He scoffs and glares at you, “How should I know?” He pulls over to the side of the road, opens his door, and lets in a rush of cool air and snow. You toss the cashbox to the back of the trailer and follow after him. 

He goes to where he’s pulling his motorcycle and you feel like you notice an extra bump under the tarp. “What’s that?” You take a step towards it just as Logan pulls it back. You have to bite back a laugh when you see the girl from last night curled up next to his motorcycle. 

She gives you both guilty looks and slowly sits up. “I’m sorry,” Logan offers her a hand and she gets out of the trailer. He grabs her bag and drops it at her feet. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Find a different ride,” he growls, already heading back to the truck. You open your mouth, prepared to argue, but you can’t force her on him. As much as you might want to help her. She’s better off away from the two of you.

“You’re just gonna leave me here?” She snaps at him, a little attitude finally showing through. 

“Yep!” He gets in the truck and you know he wants to drive off immediately but he has to wait for you. You shoot her an apologetic look as you follow after him, slipping into the seat beside him. He starts the engine, driving off slowly, eyes drifting towards the rearview mirror. 

You bite your tongue, trying not to point out how cruel he is leaving her on a snowy highway in the middle of nowhere. He glances over at you, “What?” He snaps. 

You shake your head and shrug. “Nothing.” You’ve barely finished speaking before he’s slamming on his brakes. 

“God dammit,” he mutters, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw. You can’t help the grin on your face, reaching over to open your door. It doesn’t take long for the girl to catch on, scooping up her bag and chasing after you. 

“You’re such a softie,” you tease him. 

“Shut the hell up.”

Rogue is nice, if not a little odd. She claims to be a mutant too but doesn’t want to give specifics on her abilities. You don’t want to push her but you are curious about the gloves she wears. “What kind of name is Wolverine?” She asks, spotting Logan’s tags. 

He glances over at her and smiles slightly, “What kind of a name is Rogue?”

She goes to say something but you throw your arm out, holding her back as you shout, “Logan, watch out!” He tries to hit his brakes in time but the tree’s already coming down. The truck slams into it and it’s like time slows down, only for a moment. 

You can feel the impact of your body against the windshield, the glass dragging along your scalp and skin. It’s like a million razors each slicing into you. And then, you’re flying through the air, head snapping so hard against the ground you can’t see anything. 

You hear something happening around you, a roar that doesn’t sound human echoing through the air. There’s the sound of metal crunching and someone is screaming in the distance but you can’t see. It’s not like a total void of darkness, there’s just nothing. 

You feel the blood slowly leaking down the back of your skull and something lands harshly against your head. You don’t think much time has passed. When your eyes finally open, however, you’re not lying on the pavement. 

The world around you is foreign. It smells like a hospital but it’s not like any you’ve ever seen. X-rays are hanging on the wall and paperwork is scattered on a desk near the bed you’re lying on. 

Your mind is blank for a moment. Slowly turning back on while you process the sudden change of scenery. You don’t even remember closing your eyes, you don’t know when your vision came back to you or how long you’ve been here. 

The terror sets in quickly. You throw the blankets off your legs, staring down at the pajamas you wear in disgust. Someone had changed you. They’d run tests and done X-rays on you and you don’t remember a second of it. 

You rip the needle out of your arm, tossing it to the floor and running towards the door. Your feet slip on the metal floors as you run but you’re afraid to stop. Everything around you looks more and more like a lab. 

Did someone from the bar call some government agency? You’ve heard horror stories from your father about the tests the military has run on mutants. You’re starting to worry that’s what's happening to you. 

But you doubt the military would make it so easy for you to escape. This has to be something else. You’d heard other voices when you’d been lying on the ground. People who had been trying to help. Could that be who took you?

“You caught on quicker than your friend.” You nearly fall flat on your face, flipping around to see who spoke. But no one’s there. You’re completely alone. “I’m just grateful you didn’t choke out one of my associates.” it’s coming from beside you now. 

It’s all around you, the voice floating through the walls until you think he might be in your mind. “Much faster than your friend,” he sounds gleeful and it makes you even more anxious. “I’m a telepath, darling, nothing to fear. If you’d just take that elevator and come up to meet me.”

You’d have to be an idiot to actually listen to the voices in your head. But you don’t see another way out of here. So, reluctantly, you follow the floating voice’s instructions and slip inside the elevator. 

When the door opens up again you don’t have a chance to step inside before someone’s pushing you back. Logan stands in front of you, hands clamped tightly around your shoulders while he looks you over. 

You sink into his arms, hugging him tightly to you. You’d been terrified you were all alone here. It’s more than a relief to see him again. “You’re okay?” He asks, pulling back to look at you one last time. 

You nod, throat too dry to try and form a coherent sentence. You glance over his shoulders brows furrowed at the people awkwardly watching you reunite. There’s a man in a wheelchair smiling at you, “Ah, glad you could make it.” The floating voice, of course. “Logan here was quite worried about you.”

Logan turns to glare at the man and you offer a slight smile. There is something comforting about him. You’re not exactly threatened by an old guy in a wheelchair. The redhead behind him, however, is bugging you. Something about the way she’s looking at Logan doesn’t sit right with you. 

“Welcome to my school for the exceptionally gifted,” something about the way he says that makes you tilt your head in confusion. You don’t know what he means until there’s a puff of smoke behind him and some kid is walking by with their hair on fire like it’s nothing. 

Mutants. It’s an entire school for mutants. You think you could pass out again. 

“It’s the best place we could have ended up, Logan. This is amazing.” You’ve been going back and forth for an hour. He won’t see reason. He keeps saying you need to leave. That you don’t know these people and it could all be one big trap. 

You don’t understand him, why he’s so desperate to get away from people like the both of you.  You’re rejected in every other corner of society. You could have something real here. 

It hits you at once. That’s the problem. He’s not ready for something real. He’s not used to it because he’s never had it before. At least you could pretend at a sense of normalcy living at home. It’s an entirely new concept to him, sticking to one place for so long. 

“We don’t know these people,” he hisses, leaning over the bed to argue with you. You narrow your eyes but your conversation is cut off by a knock on the door. You sigh, walking away from him and swinging the door open. 

Jean is on the other side, a surprised look on her face when she sees you. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was trying to drop these off to Logan.” You glance down at the towels in your hand and give her a strained smile. That’s a flimsy excuse if you’ve ever seen one. “I must have the wrong room.”

You step to the side, opening the door wider so she can see him. He doesn’t even look at her, too busy angrily unmaking the bed. “No, you have the right one.” You hold your hands out expectantly, “I can just take those for you.”

The look on her face is priceless and finally causes a real smile to grow on your lips. She wordlessly hands you the towels, looking disappointed. You don’t know if it's because of what she was trying to do, or because she couldn’t do it. 

Before she leaves you call out a quick, “Tell Scott I said thank you again. Wouldn’t be here without him, after all.” Her shoulders tense and she rushes back down the hall. Whatever little crush or interest she has with Logan is going to need to be dealt with on her own. 

You’ve got enough shit going on without having to worry about her too. You shake your head and slam the door shut, tossing the towels on the desk. Logan sits on the bed, watching you with an odd look. 

“What was that about?”

“She’s into you,” you tell him bluntly, waiting for his reaction. He doesn’t even blink, just glances between the towels and you before shrugging. 

“Not interested.” You don’t want to admit that you feel any relief. There was never any real doubt. But it’s still nice to be reassured. 

You slip into bed beside him, taking his hand and forcing him to meet your gaze. “I know that this isn’t what either of us was expecting, but this is good, Logan. We don’t have to worry about pretending we’re something we’re not. We don’t have to worry about my dad or anyone finding us.”

He doesn’t look entirely convinced. But he lets out a heavy sigh and drags you closer to him. He tucks your head under his chin, placing a brief kiss against your forehead. “If you want to stay, we’ll stay. But I’m not putting on that fucking costume.”

You laugh a little, peering up at him with a grin, “Deal.” 

There’s a place for you here, even if there isn’t in the rest of the world. You can be safe here, you don’t have to worry anymore. You don’t have to fear the eyes on the back of your head because they can’t get you here. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Taglist: @evasmlp ♡ 

Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte  

@mrs-ephemeral @wolviesgirl @allilium @insomniachox  ♡ 

Asked for part two: @enchantedbutterflies @strawberrylore @ittoscumdump @enananawoah @wotcherboo

@cali0101 @fluffy-b33z @pcrushinnerd @izbelross @saltwaterburns

@likeficsinthewnd ♡ 

[xosamioo]

can you eo a fic where riki has a secret gf and the members find out, like they see a spicy picture of the two on his phone or something

freaky ass couple gets caught by Jake 🤓 wc: 500

… chaotic mild suggestive content and some swearing

Riki had been dating his secret girlfriend for a few months now, and he was determined to keep their relationship under wraps from the other Enhypen members. He knew they would tease him relentlessly if they found out, but he couldn't resist the thrill of sneaking around and keeping a secret. One night, while all the members were chilling in the living room together, Riki was lying on the couch, lazily scrolling through his phone.

He had an album of pictures of you and him, some innocent and some a bit more risqué, hidden in a folder on his phone. He was so engrossed in one of the recent pictures you sent him that he didn't notice Jake standing behind him until it was too late.

"What's that you got there, Riki?" Jake asked slyly, a grin spreading across his face as he leaned in closer.

Riki tensed up, quickly trying to hide the incriminating evidence, but it was too late. Jake had already seen a glimpse of the picture before Riki could close the app.

"It's nothing," he stammered, trying to act nonchalant. "Just, uh, some memes and stuff."

Jake raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "Sure, sure," he said, leaning back against the couch with a smirk. "That's why your face is turning beet red right?"

Riki felt a flush creeping up his ears

"Look, I just. I have a girlfriend, okay? But I haven't told you guys yet, and I'd appreciate it if you could keep it to yourself."

Jake whistled, pretending to be shocked.

"Wow, our little Riki has a girlfriend! Who would have guessed?" He playfully slapped Riki on the back. "Just you know don't be looking at that kind of stuff in the open".

Riki blushed even harder, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he muttered.

"I'll be more careful next time. Just, please, don't tell the others yet. I'm not ready for all the teasing and interrogation."

Jake chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't worry, I won't say anything yet," he promised, placing his hand on his heart. "But you better be prepared, because they're gonna be relentless when they find out. Especially Sunghoon and Jay."

Riki groaned, running a hand through his hair.

"Ugh, I know. They're gonna grill me for every little detail. But I can handle it. She's worth it."

Riki glanced down at his phone again, smiling softly at his home screen picture of you. Despite the initial embarrassment, he was so excited to have someone to talk about you with.

Jake raised his eyebrows and shook his head chuckling. "damn didn't think I would ever see your nonchalant ass be so whipped, man. But I get it. Love makes us do crazy things." He clapped Riki on the shoulder.

Riki playfully pushed him away, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, shut up. You better not tell anyone about this, or I'll beat your ass-" he threatened jokingly and he received a message

Riki's phone buzzed with a message from you, prompting him to quickly open it and type out a response before Jake could peek over his shoulder

"lemme?...wrap a..fruit roll up around it- WHAT? Jake screamed as he read the message you sent riki

Authors note: had fun writing this lol enjoy!! 😭 requests open!!

© xosamioo 2024 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[rene-darling]

WOULD- he send n00ds? And how?

...would these modern college AU genshin men send n00ds to you?...

...Xiao...wanderer...lyney...

Xiao

No.

Absolutely- not.

The very idea is preposterous and disgusting. And after all, he's heard wayyy too many stories of a person's nudes getting leaked, and he does not want his stuff all out there.

He trusts you, yes. But especially at the beginning of your relationship, there's not enough trust for him to do that.

Xiao doesn't usually go to frat parties, but his friend is the one throwing this one so he felt obliged to go. What could go wrong?

Xiao doesn't drink, nor does he party, but after chugging drink after drink and being sat in a circle playing truth or dare, his tipsy mind is feeling rather- ballsy.

So it goes as follows, he picks dare and gets dared into sending nudes to the last person he's messaged, Xiao's great at keeping secrets so no one knows that you're dating, truth be told- even in his drunken state if the last number he texted had been anyone else, he wouldn't have done it.

But it's you. So his drunken mind agrees. He takes a rather risky photo, some alcohol is dripping from his mouth, sweat runs down his forehead, his back is arched and he gives such a sultry look. Then, he presses sent. The rest of his night is spent partying and drinking more, so his memory of doing this fades into bliss- that is, until the next morning.

Accompanying his painful headache is a certain memory, that makes him physically gag in remembrance, he rushes to check his phone, hoping- praying that you didn't see it- he thinks he's gonna faint from embarrassment when he sees the little *seen* at the bottom of the text.

Fuck. You saw it. You didn't even respond- he shoves his head into the pillow screaming externally and internally- you fucking saw it! And-...you didn't even respond..does that mean you don't like it..? Wait. That's the least of his worries!!!

He's happy about the fact that he doesn't have to see you in his first few classes. But then, it's time for a class that you both have together.

He has half the mind just to skip, but eventually, he has to face you, better be it now than later right?

Whatever, it'll be fine, he'll just explain to you- that he didn't mean it, he was drunk n at a party he wasn't thinkin-

Suddenly Xiao hisses as he's pulled into the janitors closet on his way to class, he swiftly turns his head to glare at the person who did this- it's you.

"So, Xiao, about the pictures you sent. I called you at least 10 times after those, but..you didn't answer." He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, his whole plan goes out the window as he just meekly stares up at you. This wasn't what he expected, but it wasn't something he disliked-..perhaps...he should send some to you even when he has clarity of mind?

Wanderer

Far too skeptical to entertain such a thought.

If you mention it first he'll just scoff at you and give you a dirty glare "Do I look like one of your whores?" "But baby- you're my only whore not one of them-" expect to get a glare from him the whole lecture, in and out of the class. His stare is practically sending you a death threat

Later, if he catches himself thinking about what you asked of him he cringes at himself and the thought.

He's not one to trust people easily, he's been stabbed in the back, and betrayed far too much to be vulnerable enough and to trust you enough to send nudes.

His head runs wild, what if you didn't like what you saw? What if you decided he was so ugly you needed to share those photos with those around you? What if, what if what if.

It's only later on, deep into your relationship that the thought of sending pics crosses his mind once more.

He's tapping his foot harshly against the ground. He's sitting at his seat as students pour into the lecture hall, his eyes scan the room as he sees you walk in and wave at him, just like always. You sit next to him, but he just can't maintain eye contact.

He has his phone in his right hand, staring at the screen intently as the sound of the classroom processes as background noise for him. Should he? What if you don't like it? What if you just meant it as a joke and you'll actually get disgusted once you gaze upon the photos..?

He sighs resting his head on his desk in contemplation. 'I mean...I took some measures just in case, I'm sending it on snap so she can't save or look at it again..fuck-..it should be fine..right..?' his thoughts are jumbled but ultimately he- "fuck it." And he presses sent.

Now it's just a matter of waiting for you to check your phone, it's like the clock is ticking extra slowly and you're doing this on purpose, aren't you? You heard the ding so check the goddamn phone already- and then you picked up your phone, once you noticed it was your boyfriend who texted you, you glanced at him, a confused expression, he's sitting right next to you- so why would he- oh.

Almost immediately you duck your phone down under your desk, you don't want to share this sight with any eyes that aren't yours.

"..why now? Fuck- you look pretty..?" Your mumbling- he has you mumbling. That's a good thing right?

And- and you complimented him- that means you liked it right?

He's such a brat, sending you a photo of his back arched, his tongue sticking out as he was wearing a short skirt with thigh highs, you could catch a glimpse under it from the picture- in which you could tell he wasn't wearing anything.

Your boyfriend who loved baggy clothes and dark styles was wearing a pink flirry skirt!

Heats pooling in your pants as you glare at him,

He had a smug look on his face- looking oh so proud. Anyways- he thought you would wait and fuck him after class. But once he felt your hand creeping up his thigh his eyes widened in shock as he realized you had no plans to wait until after the lecture.

lyney

Agrees.

Well- he's definitely startled at your request, out of all things...this is what you desire most?

"mon amour- out of all things I- gulp didn't expect you to ask for n-...indecent photos." He's startled to say the least,

But he's not completely against the idea of it.

Your darling lyney is a magician, quick on his feet, he quite quickly puts that flustered face away to replace it for a rather cheeky one.

"Mon amour, I knew you missed me whenever I was busy practicing for my shows but to this extent! my-"

"forget it." His smug attitude is a turn off. At times.

Letting go of the idea you didn't really think he would go through with it anytime soon.

You don't expect anything unusual to happen today, like always you kiss lyney good luck for his show before heading to the audience to watch him perform from there.

Lyney's cheeky grin is noticed by you, but you just assume he's giddy for his show, heading into the audience to wait for your boyfriend,

you hear a ding. And as you open the message you drop your phone to the ground. It's a simple picture, it's of lyney, he sends you pictures of himself on the daily so what was so shocking about this one?

Well- for starters he's naked. Tied up with intricate red ropes, they look tight, especially around his thighs- wait. You recognize those ropes, they're the same ones he's gonna use for his performance today!-

And he does. Flaunting around those ropes in his performance, the same ones from the damn photos.

Lyney walks into his dressing room as usual- that is before he's pinned to the wall by none other than you.

"oh? Are you that excited to congratulate me on today's performance?" As your hand tightens around his wrist he starts to feel even more giddy

"what the fuck was that? " "Hm? Did you mind? It was a present." He's so smug.

"no- the ropes. You used the same ones from the performance didn't you- you cheeky fuck-"

"the ropes are over there, if you plan on doing something you should hurry, I have a fan meet n greet soon~" "oh I'll hurry alright."

You didn't hurry, for some reason unknown to his fans, the magician was unable to attend the meet n greet.

[allurilove]

Yandere Manager x singer you

Rated 18 + — mature short content !

Includes: yandere male manager x gender neutral singer reader, he’s secretly pining after you, your own little stalker, forbidden romance ig, male masturbation, takes pics of you sleeping, non con touching.

You met your yandere manager at the bar. You had been a part of a small band that never really made it big, but you always had shone brighter than the rest. You were magnetic, already having that star potential, and happened to sit right next to the man who worked for one of the best record companies. He just got off work, his sleeves pushed up above his elbow, and his glasses folded neatly next to him. He never really liked to drink, he was a different person when he did, but today was a special occasion. You were here. He already knew who you were, and he used a second low-key instagram account to see your stuff. He glanced at you. Your get-up was cute. He assumed that you came back from a concert or party, as there was a bit of confetti in your hair. You wore minimal and possibly sweat-proof makeup, and your eyes were striking with the black eyeliner.

Your manager sort of fell for you the first time he met you. It wasn’t easy to catch his attention, but you managed to do it. He had slid you his business card, paid for the rest of your drinks, and put on his best speech to convince you to sign with him. You became a solo artist in the blink of an eye, your singles and albums making it to the top forty, and you had the fame you wanted for so long. It just came with the price of having a stalker. As a manager, he had your location at all times. For safety purposes… of course. He threw a cap on, tiptoeing around the city to spy on you and your friends.

Your manager was responsible for your fan club. He would never tell you this, because it was simply embarrassing to admit, but he made a blog to gush about you. ‘A hundred reasons why you should stan y/n’ was the beginning of his secret outlet. He was the one that started the #manager and y/n would be cute hashtag on twitter, uploading a bunch of pictures of you and him having a ‘sweet’ moment. He spent hours scouring the internet to watch countless of edits of you, and he even made some himself. His cold and methodical demeanor would disappear the moment he was in the comfort of his home. He would lay in his bed, giggling and kicking his feet, twirling a piece of his hair as his eyes lit up at the sight of you on his screen.

Your manager acts like a helicopter parent. He’s always on your ass. He never texts you paragraphs or long sentences, so he could spam you and make sure you had definitely seen his messages.

“Where are you?”

“Out drinking again?”

“What happened to being responsible?”

“You have a show in two days.”

“I’ll be disappointed in you if you are drunk.”

“You better be at my house in two seconds.”

“Two seconds or I’m coming to get your ass.”

He liked you being drunk (only when you were around him). You would mumble and whine, his name on your lips constantly as you complained. And he got to be your hero for a while. He also forbids you from having any groupies. If you and him can’t fuck, then you can’t see anyone else. It was as simple as that. He couldn’t stomach the idea of you being with other people, and that’s why he had you at his apartment 24/7. When you were traveling for your shows, you best believe it that he was with you too. To him, it felt like you guys were practically married. Living together on the same bus, cooking together, sleeping near each other in close quarters. He would never cross the line when you were conscious; but when you were sleeping… it was free game.

The yandere manager took pictures of you. You were so worn out after your concerts, that you didn’t feel him moving your body. You trusted him because he gave you zero reasons not to. You trusted him enough that you didn’t expect him to start peeling off your clothes. He wanted his camera roll to be filled with your body. He gently put his hand on your thighs, squeezing the fat as he snapped a picture of you in your underwear. His fingers would sometimes find its way inside your mouth, subtly testing out your gag relax, and filming it for his pleasure. He flipped you onto your stomach, pushing your legs apart with his knee, and had his camera working hard to catch up with his thumb. He rapidly pressed against the button, trying to catch all the angles of your ass and sex.

Your manager touches his dick when you send him raw recordings of your voice. You were a night owl, your brain never shutting down until three a.m. and you sent him new songs you were working on. He plugged in his earbuds, lying back onto his bed, and hit play. He hummed the newest lyrics, his eyes closing as his hand slowly traveled down towards his crotch. He palmed himself, feeling his dick hardening in his grey sweatpants. He wanted you badly.

Your manager thought you were perfect, drop dead gorgeous and fucking hot. You have this sex appeal that makes his knees weak. He imagined you whispering the words to him: the heat of your voice warming the side of his face, your hand feeling up this tip, and wrapping around his long cock. Would you think that his dick was impressive? Would you be happy with how much cum that shoots out? Would you love it so much to gulp all of it down?

“Fuckin’ hell. Take it down your throat.”

“You love this don’t you? My big star.”

Your yandere manager wanted to sleep with you so badly. But he swore to himself to not get involved with another one of his clients. He groaned, his eyes opening to stare at his blank white ceiling, and his desperate cock softened in his hand. He hadn’t gotten any action lately, and he was oh so waiting to find the perfect moment to be with you.

Allure: extra stuff! idk i feel iffy about this fic

this is definitely reader and yandere managers text messages.

[eu-nicola]

the fastest driver part 3

summary: you are a young and talented driver, who begins your journey in Formula 1 with Ferrari. despite your undeniable ability, you are constantly relegated to the background due to the Scuderia's strategies, which always favor your teammate, Charles Leclerc

warnings: take of pills

word counter: 7364

author's note: english is not my first language, this is from an amazing request, thanks for the comments 🤍

tags: @ilovechickenwings @amortentiaaaa @ananyasribughead @supertrashbread @amalialeclerc @rawr-123s-stuff @wierdflowerpower @malvikareader @freyathehuntress @sweetmuffynsblog @vjbillno

Endless hours passed after the accident before the first clear update about your condition reached the media and the paddock. Everyone was anxiously waiting for news about your health. The uncertainty left fans, journalists, and especially those who truly knew you in a state of tense anticipation.

Finally, a statement from the hospital's medical team brought some relief: you were stable and conscious. While initial tests had ruled out serious spinal injuries or significant fractures, the impact had been severe, leaving you with a moderate concussion and several internal bruises that required monitoring. What concerned the doctors most were the potential psychological and emotional aftereffects: the nature of the crash, the impact, and all the built-up stress could take a toll later.

Hours later, you woke up in a hospital room softly lit by the afternoon light. Everything was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside your bed. Your body felt heavy, like it was filled with lead, and the headache was sharp and constant. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you noticed someone sitting nearby.

It was Charles. He was there, his hands clasped in front of his mouth, as if praying or just trying to calm his own nerves. When he saw you stir slightly, he lifted his head, and his expression changed a mix of relief and worry crossed his face.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, as if he didn’t want to scare you. “Thank God.”

You hadn’t expected to see him there. In fact, you hadn’t expected to see anyone. And yet, here he was.

“Charles…” you tried to speak, but your voice came out as barely a whisper.

“Shhh, don’t talk too much. The doctors said you need to rest.”

“What are you doing here?” you asked, ignoring his warning, even though just talking felt like needles stabbing your skull.

He shrugged, offering a light but sincere smile.  

“Someone had to make sure you were okay.”

Charles stayed by your side for hours, even when the doctors came in and out to check on you. He answered questions from the journalists crowding outside the hospital, desperate for a statement, and refused requests from photographers trying to get a shot of you. There was something unusually warm and protective about the way he acted.

As you lay back, eyes closed to avoid making the headache worse, you heard his voice.

“You scared me, you know? I’ve never seen anything so…” He paused, searching for the right word. “So violent. Not since Jules. And when I saw the crash on the screen, I thought the worst.”

You opened your eyes and looked at him. There was sincerity in his face, something you hadn’t expected.

“I’m okay… sort of.” You tried to joke, but the pain turned it into a grimace.

“No, you’re not okay. But you will be. You have to be.”

As Charles stayed with you, messages started pouring in. Your phone sat on the bedside table, just out of reach, and Charles offered to read some.

“Everyone’s worried about you. Here’s one from Lando… and even one from Toto. Seems like the entire F1 world is waiting for you to get better.”

“Who else?” you asked, almost dreading the answer.

Charles scrolled through, his expression hardening briefly before softening again.

“Max,” he said simply.

Your heart stopped for a moment. You didn’t know what to expect. Since the accident, you’d assumed Max was too caught up in his own world to care, but the fact that he’d written at all was enough to twist your stomach.

“What does it say?” you asked, trying to sound indifferent, though you knew Charles could see right through you.

He hesitated before answering.

“‘Hope you’re okay. Sorry I wasn’t there sooner. Let me know if you need anything.’”

The neutrality of the words didn’t match the intensity of what you felt hearing them. You closed your eyes, trying to process it all. What did that message even mean? Was it just courtesy, or was there something more behind those words?

Charles noticed your discomfort and set the phone aside.

“You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to.”

“I won’t,” you said quickly, though part of you knew that wasn’t true.

As night fell, Charles finally said goodbye, promising to return the next day. There was something comforting about his presence, how he’d set aside any competitiveness or formality just to be there for you. Yet, when you were left alone, the thoughts began to overwhelm you.

The crash, the messages, the worries it all tangled into a mess of emotions you couldn’t unravel. The only thing clear was that while you were physically stable, emotionally, you were far from okay.

After that day in the hospital, Charles became a constant presence in your life. His support wasn’t limited to encouraging messages or occasional visits. He went beyond that. Where others saw a moral obligation or an opportunity to score points with the media, he saw something else: a chance to show you that you weren’t alone.  

The medical team made it clear you could return to racing, but not without certain restrictions. You had to stick to a strict combination of medications after every race: anti-inflammatories, painkillers, and supplements to manage the physical and mental stress you still felt after the accident. Charles was the first person to offer to help you with this. It wasn’t his responsibility, but he seemed to take on the role without hesitation.  

The first race after the accident was a mental and physical challenge. As you prepared to get back in the cockpit, fear swirled in your chest. The accident was fresh in your memory, and even though you knew you were capable, there was a shadow of doubt you couldn’t shake.  

The day before the race, Charles showed up at your hotel. He had a small bag in hand and a calm expression, almost as if it was meant to soothe you.  

"I thought you might need this," he said, placing the bag on the table.  

Inside, there was a box of relaxing tea, a small book about mental strategies in sports, and a handwritten note. When you opened it, you found a simple phrase: "You’re stronger than you think."  

"Thank u," you said, moved by the gesture.  

"You don’t have to thank me. I just want you to know I’m here, okay? If you need to talk, if you need anything..."  

You nodded, grateful for his sincerity. For a long time, you’d felt alone in this world. It was strange to realize someone was willing to stand by your side without asking for anything in return.  

Race day was a whirlwind. Even though you tried to stay calm, every time you sat in the car, the memory of the crash resurfaced. You gripped the steering wheel tightly, reminding yourself you’d done this thousands of times before, that you were capable—one of the best.  

The race wasn’t easy, but you finished in a solid fifth place, a result any other driver would’ve considered a success under the circumstances. When you got out of the car, exhausted but relieved, Charles was the first to approach you.  

"Well done," he said, patting your shoulder.  

After every race, Charles made sure you followed the medical protocol. Sometimes, when you forgot the pills, he’d show up holding the box, reminding you that your health came first.  

"How do you even know I haven’t taken them?" you asked one day, half-joking.  

"Because I know you well enough to know you hate depending on this stuff," he said with a smile, handing you the water and pills.  

It was strange how his presence had gone from sporadic to constant. He wasn’t just there for the serious moments; he also found ways to make you laugh, to lighten the weight on your shoulders.  

It wasn’t something you’d planned or even imagined after everything you’d been through, but your friendship with Charles was good for you. So much so that you felt comfortable asking him something after noticing he’d been off for a while. You’d seen his behavior become quieter than usual, even in the paddock, where he usually managed to keep up appearances in front of the cameras.  

"Are you okay? You seem... off."  

His response came almost immediately.  

"Do you have time to talk?"  

You invited him to your place, where you saw a different side of Charles. He’d shed his usual composure and looked... vulnerable, almost like the facade he kept in public had cracked.  

"Thanks for this," he said, sitting on the small couch as you handed him a bottle of water.  

"You don’t have to thank me, Charles. What’s going on?"  

He sighed, fiddling with the cap of the bottle before speaking.  

"It’s... complicated. Ferrari doesn’t feel like my team anymore."  

You frowned, surprised by his words.  

"What do you mean?"  

"Since Lewis joined this year, everything changed. I knew it would be different, it’s Lewis Hamilton, of course but I didn’t think it’d be like this," he confessed, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I feel like everything revolves around him. The strategies, the resources, even the engineers’ attention... It’s like I’m a shadow in my own team."  

You felt a pang in your chest hearing that. It was almost an exact replica of what you’d felt when you shared a team with him at Ferrari.  

"Charles... you don’t know how much I get it," you said, sitting across from him. "That feeling of being invisible, like your efforts don’t matter... I went through the same thing with you."  

He looked up, surprised by your honesty.  

"Really?"  

"Yeah. Do you remember all those team orders? All those moments where no matter how fast I was, they always put me aside to favor you. It’s... frustrating. It makes you question everything you do."  

Charles nodded slowly, processing your words.  

"I guess I never saw it from your perspective. I always thought the team’s decisions were fair, but now... now I know what it feels like."  

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees.  

"Charles, I know how hard this is. But what you need to remember is that your talent doesn’t depend on them. Ferrari is just one team, one stage in your career—it doesn’t define who you are as a driver."  

"How did you deal with it?" he asked, genuinely curious.  

"At first, I didn’t," you admitted. "I kept everything inside, let the frustration eat me up... until I couldn’t take it anymore. But I learned something: you can’t let them take away what you love about this sport. If Ferrari doesn’t value you the way they should, then prove your worth on the track. Force them to see you."  

Charles nodded slowly, as if your words were beginning to sink in.  

"It’s easier said than done," he said, with a bitter smile.  

"I know. But I also know you have the talent to do it."  

The conversation went on for hours, shifting from serious topics to shared memories and stories from your days at Ferrari. It was strange, but comforting, to share that space with him. He’d gone from being the rival who overshadowed you at your lowest to someone you could fully trust.  

When he finally stood to leave, Charles paused at the door and looked at you with an expression you hadn’t seen before.  

"Thank you for this. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you."  

"I’m always here. You know that."  

As the door closed behind him, you couldn’t help but smile. Charles was so much more than you’d ever thought. And somehow, he’d brought out the best in you too.

While you were helping Charles find his way in a team that relegated him to second place, you couldn’t ignore the fact that your own demons were still lurking. And, as if that wasn’t enough, Max remained a constant presence both on the track and in your personal life.  

Since your move to McLaren, the rivalry with Max had reached a new level. If before you shared moments of camaraderie and confidences, now every interaction was loaded with tension. And not just on the track.  

The championship was on fire. You and Max were leading the standings, swapping first and second place race after race. On every circuit, every corner, and every straight, it felt like only the two of you existed. It didn’t matter who else made it to the podium; the battle was always between you and him.  

During qualifying, both of you pushed to the limit, but an incident in Q3 left Max without a lap time. As soon as he got out of the car, Max stormed straight toward you, visibly furious.  

“What the hell was that?” he snapped, his voice sharp as he closed the distance between you in the paddock.  

“What was what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, though you knew exactly what he was referring to.  

“You blocked me on my flying lap.”  

“Max, you were too far behind when I started my lap. I didn’t block you.”  

“Of course you did!” he insisted, stepping even closer. His blue eyes burned with a mix of frustration and something else you couldn’t quite place.  

The argument caught the attention of journalists and members of both teams. You knew that one wrong word could make headlines the next day, so you chose to stay calm.  

“If you have a problem, take it up with the stewards, not me,” you said before turning and walking away, leaving Max with the words stuck in his throat.  

But the tension wasn’t confined to the track. It had started to bleed into your personal lives. Even though both of you tried to avoid each other outside of race weekends, coincidences were inevitable especially at sponsor events or official meetings.  

At one of these events, an FIA gala in Monaco, Max couldn’t resist looking for you in the crowd. When he finally spotted you, you were talking to Charles, laughing at something he’d said. The sight seemed to ignite something in Max, and he couldn’t hold back as he approached.  

“Can we talk?” he asked, cutting into the conversation.  

Charles glanced at you, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution, before stepping back to let you decide.  

“What do you want, Max?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.  

“You and Charles, what’s going on between you two?” he asked quietly, though his tone carried an accusatory edge.  

“What kind of question is that?” you replied, crossing your arms.  

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing it, but… every time I see you two together, I can’t help thinking that…”  

“That what?” you interrupted, annoyed. “That maybe someone else can actually support me and understand me in this chaos that you chose to ignore?”  

Max pressed his lips together, clearly feeling the sting of your words. But instead of responding, he looked away and muttered:  

“You still know how to twist everything around.”  

The conversation was left unfinished, but the night didn’t end there. Later, as you tried to avoid him, you found Max alone on the terrace of the venue, staring out at the sea, his figure illuminated by the lights.  

“Why do you do this?” you asked, walking toward him. Your tone was no longer defiant but tired.  

“Do what?” he asked without looking at you.  

“Show up, disappear, demand things from me that you can’t even give yourself. You’re still with her, and yet…”  

Max closed his eyes, as if your words were too heavy to bear.  

“I don’t know how to handle this,” he admitted finally, turning to face you. “You and me… I don’t know how to handle it.”  

“Then maybe you should stop trying,” you said, though your voice cracked at the end.  

The silence between you was deafening. Too many unsaid emotions, too many decisions both of you refused to make. Finally, Max stepped back.  

“It’s easier said than done, isn’t it?”  

And with that, he left, leaving you alone on the terrace, feeling like the two of you were trapped in a vicious cycle neither of you knew how to escape.  

In the days that followed, you tried to focus on racing and your friendship with Charles, who had become a kind of refuge in the chaos. But every time you saw Max, every time your eyes met in the paddock, you felt the storm lingering, waiting for the right moment to break again.  

The rivalry on the track only grew more intense. Max and you raced as if every race was the last, as if the championship depended on who was stronger, more determined, more ruthless. But off the track, you both continued to grapple with the same internal conflict: what you felt for each other and what the world expected of you.  

You and Max were the top contenders for the title, and every race turned into a war. The media called it “the battle of the century,” comparing it to the legendary Senna-Prost rivalry. Every overtake, every strategy, every word in a press conference was scrutinized.  

At the Brazilian Grand Prix, things came to a head. From the first lap, the fight between you and Max was fierce. You knew every one of his tricks, every weakness, every strength. There were moments when the cars seemed to touch, pushing the limits of competition to the extreme.  

On lap 43, you attempted an overtake on the inside of Turn 1, but Max, in his trademark aggressive style, shut the door almost recklessly. Your front tires brushed his, and though both of you managed to maintain control, the incident was enough to set off commentators and social media.  

“This is unacceptable!” your engineer shouted over the radio. “We’re reporting it.”  

But you didn’t want to win the championship through a penalty.  

“Leave it. I’ll settle it on the track,” you said, with a determination that surprised even yourself.  

In the end, you finished second, behind Max, but the battle was epic. Fans were divided, some siding with you, others defending Max. But in your mind, one thought started to take root: maybe you’d had enough of this world.  

After that race, you decided to take a break. You flew back to your hometown to spend time with your family, seeking comfort in their presence. One night, sitting in the garden of your parents’ house, you opened up to your mom.  

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” you admitted, staring at the stars. “Every race feels like a battle not just on the track, but inside me, too.”  

Your mom, always wise and patient, looked at you with gentle understanding.  

“Then why do you keep going?”

You stayed silent for a moment, searching for the words.  

“Because it’s all I’ve ever known. Since I was a kid, my entire world has revolved around racing. But lately… lately, I feel like I want something more. I want a normal life, a family. I want to stop fighting all the time.”

“What’s stopping you?.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I don’t know what that life would look like, or who it would be with.”

It was the first time you’d said those words out loud. The idea of giving up Formula 1, of walking away from everything you’d worked so hard for, was terrifying but also freeing.  

You couldn’t help but think of Max. Even though your relationship was broken, and the rivalry had reached its peak, there was still something about him pulling you in. But the question that haunted you was: did he feel the same?  

Max was still with his partner, at least publicly. But his actions, his looks, even his comments during races, hinted at something more. Could you build a life with someone who seemed incapable of facing his own feelings?  

“Maybe it’s not Max,” you muttered to yourself that night, curled up on the couch in your childhood bedroom. “Maybe it’s someone else. Or maybe I just need to find myself first.”

When you returned to the paddock for the US Grand Prix, something had shifted inside you. You hadn’t made any final decisions, but you knew this chapter of your life was nearing its end. Still, as long as you were in F1, you were going to give it everything you had.  

In the pre-race interviews, journalists bombarded you with questions about your rivalry with Max.  

“Is it personal?,” one of them asked with a sly grin.  

“Everything in Formula 1 is personal,” you replied with a wry smile, offering no further explanation.  

Max, sitting next to you at the press conference, shot you a sideways glance but said nothing. The tension between you two was palpable, even in front of the cameras.  

That race turned into yet another head-to-head battle between the two of you. During the final laps, the radio chatter grew more intense.  

“He’s losing rear grip. Push him.”

“I already am!,” you snapped, pushing the car to its limit.  

In the last lap, you pulled off a risky overtake that left everyone stunned. You won the race, and as you stepped out of the car, you felt a mix of euphoria and exhaustion.  

While celebrating with your team, your thoughts drifted back to your conversation with your mom. Maybe this was the ending you’d been searching for, or maybe it was just the start of something new.  

Max watched you from the podium, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t decipher. In the crowd, you couldn’t help but wonder: could you ever leave it all behind, even him?  

The next race, under the scorching Qatar sun, felt heavier, both in the air and in the paddock. Everything about this second-to-last race of the season felt like a countdown to something inevitable. You and Max were tied in points, both neck and neck after a season of epic battles, controversies, and moments that had pushed you to the edge emotionally.  

The tension in the McLaren garage was palpable. Though your relationship with your team was excellent, you knew the pressure was on you. Lando tried to lighten the mood with his usual sense of humor, but even his energy couldn’t cut through the wall of your thoughts.  

“Come on, don’t be so serious. We could both use a win today,” he joked while adjusting his gloves.  

“Sure, but if you win, I won’t complain,” you replied with a faint smile, though you both knew that wasn’t true. This race meant everything to you.  

Meanwhile, Charles had sent a message that morning: ‘Remember, one race at a time. You can do this. You’ve already proven you’re the best.’ His unwavering support had become one of the few things keeping you mentally afloat during this emotional rollercoaster.  

From qualifying, it was clear this race would be another direct battle between you and Max. Both of you blocked every attempt the other made to set the fastest time, ending up on the front row: Max on pole, you in second.  

The start was clean but intense. From the first corner, Max showed his usual aggression, shutting you out in an attempt to stay ahead. But you knew this game; he had taught you how to play it. You used the slipstream on the main straight, and on lap five, you overtook him with a surgical move in turn 6.  

For a moment, the world seemed to stop as you led the race, but you knew the real battle had just begun.  

Midway through the race, things heated up. Teams began to play with strategies, and tire choices became crucial. On lap 32, as you exited the pits after a tire change, Max appeared beside you. The overtake that followed was so tight the two cars brushed slightly, sparking an explosion of shouting over the radio.  

“That was way too close!,” your engineer protested, but you were too focused to respond.  

Max didn’t back down. In the following laps, he kept relentless pressure on you, looking for any weakness in your defense. On lap 48, he attempted an inside overtake on a tight corner, but you managed to hold your position with a move that left everyone on the edge of their seats.  

In the final laps, your mind was torn between the adrenaline of the race and the mental exhaustion you’d been carrying all season. Max was glued to your diffuser, but he made a small mistake on the second-to-last corner, giving you just enough of a margin to cross the finish line first.  

Your team’s shout over the radio was deafening:  

“Victory! You’re incredible, what a race!.”

But you didn’t have time to celebrate. As you parked the car in parc fermé, reality hit you: this victory only meant you were still tied in points, and everything would come down to the final race.  

The journalists were in a frenzy. In the post-race press conference, the questions came at you like bullets.  

“How do you handle the pressure heading into the last race?.”

“Calmly. One race at a time.” you replied, echoing Charles’ words, even though calm was the last thing you felt.  

Max, sitting beside you, spoke after you.  

“I always knew this season would be decided in the end. I’m ready for it.”

His gaze met yours for a second, and in that brief moment, the tension between you two felt more personal than ever.  

Back at the hotel, you tried to disconnect, but it was impossible. Your mind raced, replaying every detail of the race and anticipating what was to come. Charles called to congratulate you but also to remind you to rest.  

“Don’t let this consume you, okay?,” he said, his tone serious but kind. “You’ve done an amazing job, and you have everything you need to win.”

“Thanks, Charles. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I don’t know what you’d do without me either,” he joked, managing to make you laugh.

However, when you hung up, you kept staring at the ceiling of your room, wondering if you were truly ready to face everything the final race was about to bring.  

Even though you hadn’t seen Max since the press conference, you knew he was just as restless as you. Despite everything that had happened between you two, you couldn’t help but think about him, about how this rivalry had consumed everything you once shared.  

Is this really what you wanted? To keep fighting, keep competing, keep losing yourself in the process?  

You closed your eyes, trying to calm your thoughts. Just one race left. One final battle. And after that, maybe you’d finally have the answers you’d been searching for.  

The last week of the season was a whirlwind of emotions, preparations, and a tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. The entire paddock was on edge. Everything would be decided in Abu Dhabi.  

Escaping the media’s attention was impossible. Cameras followed you everywhere, looking for any reaction that could turn into a headline. The atmosphere at McLaren was optimistic but tense. You’d brought the team to its highest point in years, and that was already a monumental achievement. But for you, it wasn’t enough. You wanted that title.  

During the press conferences, the questions were relentless. You and Max were the center of attention. Though both of you kept calm outwardly, the discomfort between you was obvious. Every word, every gesture was analyzed by the journalists.  

“How do you feel heading into this decisive race?” they asked you during one of the press rounds.  

“Focused. This is what we’ve worked for all year. I just want to do my job and see what happens,” you replied diplomatically, though inside your heart was racing.  

Max, sitting next to you, simply said:  

“I’m focused too. We both know what’s at stake. May the best win.”  

There was a moment when your eyes met, but it was fleeting. There were so many words left unsaid between you, and the weight of that silence felt unbearable.  

In the final strategy meeting with your team, the tension was palpable. You knew every decision would matter, every detail could be the difference between winning and losing. Your race engineer, always meticulous, reviewed the plans calmly, but even you could tell he was nervous.  

“I believe in you. You’ve proven you can do this,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder before you left the garage.  

Lando, on the other hand, tried to lighten the mood with a joke.  

“If you don’t win, can I keep the consolation trophy?” he said with a cheeky grin.  

“There won’t be a consolation trophy,” you replied with a smirk.  

That day, Yas Marina Circuit was lit up like a jewel in the desert, and the atmosphere was electric. Before getting in the car, you took a moment for yourself. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and visualized every corner, every move. You knew you had to give it everything.  

The anthem played, and the world seemed to pause for a moment. Max was beside you on the grid. Though you didn’t speak, you could feel his presence, his energy. You both knew this race wasn’t just about the championship but also everything that had happened between you.  

The start was flawless. From the first corner, you and Max were locked in an intense battle. Neither of you gave an inch. Every lap was a fight, every overtake a statement. The rest of the drivers might as well have been racing in a different category; it was as if this championship was meant to be decided between just the two of you.  

On lap 35, a slow pit stop almost cost you the race, but you quickly recovered, overtaking Max in a spectacular move on lap 42. The crowd went wild.  

But Max wasn’t going to give up. On lap 50, he took the lead back, forcing you slightly off the track. It was an aggressive move, but clean—classic Max.  

In the final five laps, both of you were at the limit. Your hands trembled slightly from the adrenaline, but your focus was unshakable. In the penultimate lap, you found a gap on the main straight and passed Max on the inside. This time, he had no answer.  

When you crossed the finish line, the world seemed to stop for a moment before exploding in celebration. You’d done it. You were a world champion.  

Your team screamed over the radio, their voices full of tears and joy.  

“You’re the world champion! You did it!”  

As you climbed out of the car, the emotions overwhelmed you. Your team surrounded you, celebrating. Lando was one of the first to hug you, shouting:  

“I told you! I knew you’d do it!”  

As you stood with your team, your eyes instinctively searched for Max. He was there, watching you from a distance. Slowly, he approached, his steps a mix of pride and resignation.  

When he reached you, he extended his hand.  

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with emotion.  

“Thanks, Max,” you replied, shaking his hand. For a moment, his eyes reflected something that looked like regret, but he said nothing more. He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.  

That night was magical. There was laughter, tears, toasts. The tension of the entire season melted away in a whirlwind of emotions. Charles called to congratulate you, and his genuine happiness was like a balm to your heart.  

“I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you,” he said, his voice full of sincerity.  

As the celebration went on, you took a moment to reflect. You’d reached the pinnacle of the world, but you knew this was just the beginning of a new chapter in your life. The future was full of uncertainty, but that night, you decided to enjoy the present, savoring every moment of your triumph.  

The emotional hangover the next day was overwhelming. It wasn’t physical, nor from the celebration, but a deep emptiness you hadn’t expected to feel after achieving the dream of your life. You’d won the Formula 1 World Championship, the peak of your career, but instead of feeling complete, you felt lost.

You woke up in your hotel room, sunlight streaming through the curtains. Around you, there were remnants of the celebration: a half-empty champagne glass on the table, the dress you wore last night carelessly thrown over a chair. The trophy, shiny and imposing, sat on the nightstand, but as you looked at it, you didn’t feel the euphoria you’d imagined for years.  

You got up and walked to the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was different from the one you were used to. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion from the season; it was something deeper a sense of disconnect with yourself.  

You spent the morning avoiding your phone, even though you knew the notifications had to be flooding in. Messages of congratulations, articles from the media, videos of the highlights... but you weren’t ready to face it yet. Instead of feeling celebrated, you felt isolated.  

The idea had been lingering in your mind for weeks, maybe even months. The crash, the endless emotional struggles, the pressure to always be the best... it had all left its mark. And now, after achieving what you’d always dreamed of, you realized something: you didn’t want to keep going anymore.  

During breakfast with your parents, you decided to share your thoughts. You’d avoided bringing it up before, afraid of their reactions, but now felt like the right time.  

“I’ve been thinking about something... important,” you said, breaking the silence while fiddling with your coffee mug.  

Your mom looked at you with concern.  

“Are you okay? Does this have to do with Formula 1?”  

You shook your head.  

“No… well, partly, yes. Like I said, I’ve been reflecting, and I think... I don’t want to keep racing anymore.”  

The silence that followed was heavy. Your dad, ever the pragmatic one, was the first to speak.  

“Are you sure? You’ve worked your whole life for this.”  

“I know, Dad. But I’ve also given it everything I had. And now I feel like if I keep going, it’ll just be out of habit, not because I really want to.”  

Your mom took your hand.  

“We’ve always wanted you to be happy, no matter what you do. If you feel this is the time to stop, we’ll support you.”  

That conversation was the turning point. Over the following days, you talked to your team, Lando, and even Charles, who, although surprised, understood your decision. Lando tried to convince you to stay for one more year.  

“Are you really going to leave me here alone? We were just starting to have fun!” he joked, though there was genuine sadness in his eyes.  

“It’s your time, Lando. I’m sure you’ll do amazing things,” you replied, hugging him.  

Charles, on the other hand, was more serious.  

“I didn’t see this coming, but I get it. Just… promise me you won’t disappear completely.”  

“I won’t. I’ll always be here, even if it’s just as a spectator.”  

That same night, after hours of figuring out how to word it, you sat in front of the camera in your room. You were nervous, not about the decision, but about how the world would react. You wore a simple t-shirt, your hair tied back. You wanted the message to be honest, without distractions.  

‘Hi, everyone. I know this isn’t the video you were expecting after the incredible season we just had, but I wanted to share something important with you...’

You took a deep breath before continuing.  

‘I’ve decided to retire from Formula 1. This year has been the most exciting but also the most exhausting of my life. Winning the championship was a dream come true, but it also made me realize it’s time to close this chapter and start a new one.’

You paused, letting your words sink in.  

‘This wasn’t an easy decision. Formula 1 has been my life for so many years that I barely remember what it was like before. But I also know I want other things. I want time for myself, for my family, to explore who I am outside of this sport.’

Your voice wavered slightly, but you kept going.  

‘I want to thank my team, my teammates, my rivals, and, of course, the fans. Without your support, none of this would’ve been possible.’

When you finished, you turned off the camera and fell onto the bed. It wasn’t immediate relief, but there was something freeing about putting an end to that chapter.  

The video was released the next day and, as expected, caused a storm. The media debated your decision, fans flooded social media with messages of support and gratitude, and some even expressed disbelief.  

Charles sent you a text:  

“I saw it. I’m proud of you. You’ll do amazing things, no matter where you go.”  

And Max, who had avoided talking to you since the last race, also sent a short message:  

“You were the best. I always knew it. I hope you find what you’re looking for and that you forgive me.”  

Even though his words were few, they left a lump in your throat.  

That night, while staring at the stars from your balcony, you realized that, even though the future was uncertain, you were ready to face it.  

Weeks passed since your decision, and life finally seemed to find its rhythm. The constant noise of racing and the pressure to be the best slowly faded. But deep down, you felt like something or someone was still missing.  

Your house, now quieter than ever, became your sanctuary. You spent those days focusing on yourself, resting, discovering what you truly liked outside the track. But even in the peace of your own thoughts, Max lingered in your mind. He wasn’t a constant thought, but you’d remember him, especially when news of his breakup with his girlfriend started circulating. That, unexpectedly, stirred something in you, a knot in your stomach.  

Late one night, your phone buzzed. The name on the screen made you hesitate for a second. Max.  

The message was short, direct.  

“Can I see you? I need to talk to you.”  

You didn’t think much about it. You knew this conversation needed to happen eventually. You’d been avoiding it, but now it felt like the universe was putting it in your path.  

You agreed to meet at your house the next day, and when the door opened, there he was. Max, with that intense, direct gaze that had known you for years. Now, though, there was something different something more vulnerable.  

“Hi,” he said, his voice softer than usual.  

You invited him in, and he settled on the couch like it was his own home. The silence between you was heavy, filled with unresolved emotions.  

“I don’t know where to start,” he began, with a nervous smile.  

“Neither do I,” you replied, sitting across from him.  

The two of you just sat there, watching each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Finally, Max spoke.  

“Breaking up with her... wasn’t easy. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t keep lying to myself. The truth is… I never stopped thinking about you.”  

Your heart skipped a beat, and a lump formed in your throat. You didn’t know what to say. Max, always so sure of himself, seemed completely different now.  

“Max... I don’t know what you want me to say. We’ve been on such different paths. You… always so focused on F1, on competing… and me too. Things were never easy between us, and now… I don’t know if any of this makes sense.”  

He nodded, understanding what you meant.  

“I know. I’ve been an idiot. I thought I could keep everything under control, but in the end… I lost what mattered most.”  

He looked at you intently, and in his eyes was a sincerity that made you question everything you’d been thinking until that moment.  

“But that doesn’t mean I forgot about you. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about what we had. If anything, it’s taken me time to realize that… maybe there’s something here we never really figured out.”  

You stayed silent, processing his words. The tension was thick, but something in his voice made you want to listen, even though you knew the situation was complicated.  

“And what is it that you want, Max?” you asked, your voice a bit shaky.  

“I don’t know,” he admitted with a small, sad smile. “I’m not asking you to forgive me or to go back to what we had. But I think… we should at least try. Not now, not right away, but… maybe we can see what happens, without the pressures of F1, without everything that kept us apart.”  

You got up and walked to the window, staring outside without really seeing anything. Max watched you from the couch, waiting for your response. The atmosphere between you had shifted somehow, and for the first time, it felt like you had both let go of the fight to always be the best.  

You turned to look at him.  

“I’m not sure I’m ready to start something new. After all, I made the decision to retire for a reason, Max. I’ve spent so much time on F1 that now I need to rediscover myself. And I don’t know what I want.”  

Max got up from the couch, slowly approaching you.  

“I get it. I’m not expecting it to be easy, or for everything to be resolved right now. But I want you to know I’m not pressuring you. I just… wanted you to know that, no matter what happens, I’ll be here. And if someday you decide what we had is worth another shot, I’ll be ready to try, no matter the past.”  

A deep silence followed his words. You knew there was still so much to figure out between the two of you, but something about his attitude, about his willingness to wait, struck a chord within you.  

You didn’t say anything else. You walked toward him, and for a moment, words weren’t necessary. The look in your eyes said it all. Still, there were no promises, no certainties just a silent understanding that, maybe, the future could be different. Maybe even together.  

“We’ll see what happens,” you finally said.  

Max nodded, not pushing, knowing that time would have to decide the course for both of you. And with that response, the future remained suspended between you, open, uncertain, but carrying a possibility that hadn’t existed before.