#thank you for this! this was so good to answer! :)

[pucksandpower]

Fourth Time’s the Charm

Max Verstappen x Norris!Reader

Summary: it starts, as all the best things do, with a bet (“If I win the race tomorrow and take the championship, you owe me a favor. Anything I want.”)

Note: thank you so much to @altxanna for the fantastic idea

The lights of the Las Vegas strip pulse outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of Max’s penthouse, but neither of you cares. You’re both tangled up in each other under the covers, limbs lazily draped and intertwined. The TV is playing some action movie you both stopped paying attention to an hour ago, the volume low, serving as nothing more than background noise.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you say, your voice soft as you trace a finger along Max’s arm, admiring the way his muscles shift beneath his skin.

“Just thinking,” he murmurs, resting his head against the pillow. His accent wraps around the words in a way that feels so familiar it’s comforting.

“About the race?” You ask, already knowing the answer.

Max turns his head to look at you, his blue eyes catching the dim light from the window. “What else would I be thinking about?”

You hum, tilting your head in mock thought. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe about how your girlfriend is ridiculously good-looking? Or how lucky you are to have me?”

His lips quirk into a smile, the kind that’s as much in his eyes as it is on his face. “You’re right. I should focus on what really matters.” He shifts slightly, leaning closer to you. “You’re ridiculously good-looking, and I’m very lucky.”

You laugh and shove his shoulder lightly. “That’s better.”

He catches your hand before you can pull it away, his fingers lacing with yours. His expression grows more serious as he says, “But yes, I’m thinking about the race. I’m thinking about winning.”

You roll your eyes at the sheer confidence in his tone. “You think you’re going to win.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “Think? I know I’m going to win. You don’t believe in me?”

“Oh, I believe in you,” you say, smirking. “I just also believe in my brother. And if Lando finishes ahead of you, the title fight goes to Qatar.”

He groans dramatically, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “Don’t remind me. The idea of dragging this out another week …”

“What, scared Lando might pull it off?”

He narrows his eyes at you, feigning offense. “Scared? Me? No. I’m just saying it would be … inconvenient.”

“Uh-huh.” You grin, shifting onto your side to face him fully. “I don’t know, Max. Lando’s been looking pretty good lately. He might surprise you tomorrow.”

Max’s hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re really going to sit here, in my bed, and tell me your brother is going to beat me?”

“I’m just saying it’s possible,” you tease.

He shakes his head, but there’s a spark of amusement in his eyes. “Alright, then. If you’re so confident, let’s make it interesting.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Oh? What do you have in mind?”

“A bet,” he says simply.

You prop yourself up on your elbow, intrigued. “A bet?”

Max nods, his smirk growing. “If I win the race tomorrow and take the championship, you owe me a favor. Anything I want.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

You consider it for a moment, then ask, “And if Lando finishes ahead of you?”

“Then you get a favor. Anything you want.”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too broadly. “You really think you’re that unbeatable, huh?”

“I know I am,” he says, his confidence practically radiating off him.

“Alright, Verstappen,” you say, holding out your hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

He clasps your hand in his, his grip firm but warm. “Deal.”

You let your hand linger in his for a moment before pulling it away. “So, what’s this big favor you’re going to ask for if you win?”

He leans back against the pillows, his smirk turning devilish. “You’ll find out when I win.”

“If you win,” you correct, lying back down beside him.

“I’ll win,” he says confidently, his voice low as his hand trails down your back.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“And yet, here you are,” he says, pulling you closer until your head rests against his chest.

You can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and for a moment, the room falls quiet. It’s peaceful in a way you don’t get to experience often, and you savor it.

“You know,” you say after a while, your voice quiet, “if Lando does win tomorrow, it’s not because you’re not good enough. He’s just …”

“Your brother?” Max finishes, his tone teasing.

You laugh softly. “Yeah, that too. But he’s been working so hard for this, Max. You both have. It’s … complicated.”

He runs a hand through your hair, his touch gentle. “I know. But on the track, it’s not complicated. It’s just me, the car, and the finish line. No brothers, no girlfriends. Just racing.”

You tilt your head to look up at him. “And what about after the race?”

“After the race …” He pauses, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “After the race, I’m just me. And you’re just you. That doesn’t change, no matter what.”

You don’t respond right away, letting his words sink in. Then, with a small smile, you say, “You’re really not scared at all, are you?”

“Of Lando? No,” he says, his voice light. “Of you? A little.”

You laugh, shoving him lightly. “Good. You should be.”

He catches your hand again, this time pressing a kiss to your palm. “I’ll remember that.”

You let out a soft sigh, your body relaxing against his. “You’d better get some sleep, Verstappen. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

He hums in agreement, but instead of pulling away, he leans in, pressing his lips to your neck. “One more kiss,” he murmurs against your skin.

You close your eyes, your breath hitching slightly. “Just one?”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his smirk returning. “Maybe two.”

You shake your head, laughing softly as he pulls you back under the covers.

And for now, the world outside doesn’t matter.

***

The final lap of the Las Vegas Grand Prix feels endless. The crowd’s roar grows louder with every corner, drowning out even the hum of the engines. Your hands are clammy as you grip the edge of your seat in the Red Bull garage, your eyes glued to the screen. Max’s car slices through the neon-lit streets of Vegas, and Lando is right behind him.

It’s close. Too close.

“Come on, Lando,” you mutter under your breath, though your heart isn’t entirely in it.

Max is P5. Lando is P6. A single position apart. If it stays this way, the championship is Max’s.

You’re not sure who you’re rooting for anymore.

The chequered flag waves as Max crosses the line, and your both heart drops and soars. P5. It’s done.

“MAX VERSTAPPEN, YOU ARE THE 2024 WORLD CHAMPION!” GP’s voice explodes over the team radio, his excitement nearly incomprehensible.

Max’s laughter comes through the speakers, unrestrained and wild. It’s a sound you know all too well — relief, joy, triumph all rolled into one.

“Yessss!” Max shouts. “That was incredible! Thank you so much for this season!”

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips, even as the realization sinks in. He won. He really won.

The camera cuts to the Red Bull garage, where the team is in chaos — cheers, hugs, champagne spraying already. Christian adjusts his headset, leaning in to speak.

“Max, congratulations, mate. What an unbelievable season. You’ve done it again.”

“Thanks, Christian. Four in a row — unreal.”

You watch the screen as Max’s car slows on the cooldown lap, weaving slightly in celebration. You know him well enough to see it, even through the helmet — the ease in his shoulders, the grin he must be wearing.

Then his voice cuts through the radio again, this time steadier, more purposeful.

“And just so you know, I’m calling in my favor now.”

Christian’s confused laugh is audible even through the crackling radio. “Your favor? What are you talking about?”

You freeze, the air catching in your lungs.

Max chuckles, low and mischievous. “I had a bet with my girlfriend. I told her I’d win tonight. She owes me a favor, and I know exactly what I want.”

Your stomach flips, a mixture of dread and anticipation.

GP’s voice comes through, confused but amused. “Are we supposed to know what this favor is?”

“No, no,” Max says, his tone casual but firm. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”

Christian presses again, trying to pry it out of him. “Come on, Max. What’s the favor?”

There’s a pause, the kind that feels deliberate, like Max is savoring the moment.

“I want to marry her. Tonight. Right here in Vegas.”

The words hit you like a bolt of lightning, your pulse racing.

GP bursts out laughing. “Wait, what? Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Max replies, his voice steady, no hint of hesitation.

You sit frozen, your heart thundering in your chest. Did he just-

“Max,” Christian says, a mixture of disbelief and laughter in his tone, “does she even know about this?”

“She does now,” Max says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

The team radio falls silent for a moment, and the TV commentary fills the void as the podium finishers begin to line up. But you barely register any of it.

Max is proposing. No — not proposing. Declaring.

The camera pans to his car as he pulls into parc fermé, the four-time World Champion. The team swarms him, pulling him from the car, hoisting him into the air. The crowd’s cheers are deafening, but all you can think about is his voice in your head.

“I want to marry her. Tonight.”

You barely notice when someone taps your shoulder, Max’s PR officer. “You should get down to the celebrations,” she says, her voice brimming with excitement. “He’ll want you there.”

Your legs feel like jelly as you stand, weaving through the sea of Red Bull personnel to get to the barriers.

***

When you finally see him, his helmet is off, his face flushed from the race and grinning so wide it’s like he’s glowing. He spots you instantly, cutting through the crowd like no one else exists.

“Max,” you start, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“You heard me,” he says, his voice low but firm, his eyes locked on yours. “I want to marry you tonight.”

You stare at him, still trying to catch up. “You’re insane.”

He steps closer, his hand finding yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Probably. But I’m serious.”

“Max, you just won a world championship,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re supposed to be celebrating, not-”

“I am celebrating,” he interrupts, his voice softening. “With you. And I don’t want to wait anymore. I’ve known for years that I want you. Why wait?”

Your heart feels like it might burst out of your chest. “This is insane. People don’t just get married in Vegas on a whim.”

He tilts his head, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “People do it all the time, actually.”

“Max-”

“I love you,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “I love you, and I want to start the rest of my life with you. Tonight. Right now.”

You can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you — the team, the media, everyone waiting for your reaction. But in this moment, it’s just the two of you.

“Say yes,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “Say yes, and let me win you, too.”

You laugh, a shaky, breathless sound that comes out more like a sob. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it.”

You take a deep breath, your hand tightening around his. “Fine,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

The smile that breaks across his face is pure joy, unfiltered and blinding. He pulls you into his arms, lifting you off the ground as the team around you erupts into cheers.

“Alright, Verstappen,” you say, laughing as he spins you. “You’ve got your favor. Let’s get married.”

***

The wedding chapel is everything you expected it to be: over-the-top, tacky in the most endearing way, and bathed in flickering neon lights. A bright red Cadillac is parked out front, its headlights beaming into the frigid Vegas night. Inside, the carpet is a deep, gaudy red, and plastic flowers line the aisle. The faint smell of cigarettes lingers in the air, clinging to the cheap velvet curtains.

It’s surreal, to say the least.

“This is insane,” you mumble, standing in a side room with Lando, who’s staring at you like he’s still trying to process what’s happening.

“You think this is insane?” He replies, pointing vaguely toward the chapel. “What about the fact that you’re marrying Max Verstappen in a Vegas chapel at 3 a.m. with a guy dressed as Elvis officiating?”

You groan, adjusting the makeshift bouquet of roses someone from the Red Bull team had pulled together. “Don’t remind me.”

Lando smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t think I have to. This is going to live in my head rent-free for the rest of my life.”

You shoot him a look. “You don’t have to be here, you know.”

“Are you kidding?” He folds his arms, the grin never leaving his face. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Besides, who else is going to walk you down the aisle?”

Your stomach flips at the thought. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Lando softens a little, stepping closer. “Hey,” he says, his voice quieter now, “you sure about this? I mean, it’s Max. And Vegas. And Elvis.”

You bite your lip, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “I’m sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, meeting his eyes. “I love him, Lando. He’s ridiculous, and he drives me insane, but I love him.”

Lando watches you for a moment, then sighs dramatically. “Well, I guess if anyone’s crazy enough to keep up with Max, it’s you.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say dryly, but your smile betrays you.

There’s a knock on the door, and one of the chapel staff pokes their head in. “We’re ready for you.”

Your heart leaps into your throat.

Lando claps his hands together, his grin back in full force. “Alright, let’s do this.”

***

The chapel is even more ridiculous than you’d imagined. A man dressed as Elvis stands at the altar, adjusting his oversized sunglasses and strumming a guitar idly as he waits. Max is already there, looking completely at ease, as if this is just another podium ceremony.

When he sees you, his face lights up, and any lingering nerves you had melt away.

“You ready?” Lando whispers, offering his arm.

“As I’ll ever be,” you whisper back, looping your arm through his.

The music starts — a surprisingly heartfelt rendition of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” sung by Elvis — and you can’t help but laugh under your breath.

“You’re walking down the aisle to Elvis,” Lando says, shaking his head. “Unreal.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, though you’re smiling.

The walk feels like it takes forever and no time at all. Max’s gaze is fixed on you the entire time, his expression soft and unguarded in a way you don’t see often. By the time you reach him, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Lando hands you off with an exaggerated sigh. “Take care of her. She’s the only one who can put up with you.”

“Don’t worry,” Max says, smirking as he shakes Lando’s hand. “I plan to.”

Lando steps back, but not before whispering, “If you hurt her, I’ll crash you out next season.”

Max laughs, then turns back to you, his hands finding yours.

“You look amazing,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

“I look ridiculous,” you whisper back.

His grin widens. “Even better.”

Elvis clears his throat, drawing your attention. “Alright, folks, let’s get this show on the road!”

The ceremony is exactly as absurd as you’d expected, and yet somehow, it feels perfect.

“Dearly beloved,” Elvis begins, his voice smooth and practiced, “we are gathered here tonight to witness the union of Max and …” He pauses, looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

You realize no one ever told him your name.

“Uh,” you startle back to reality for a moment, “Y/N.”

“Max and Y/N,” Elvis continues smoothly, as if this sort of thing happens all the time.

He launches into the ceremony, peppering in car-themed metaphors and Elvis song references.

“Marriage,” he says at one point, “is a lot like a road trip. Sometimes it’s smooth sailing, sometimes you hit a few potholes, but as long as you’ve got each other, you’ll always find your way back to Graceland.”

You glance at Max, who’s barely holding back a laugh.

“Are you laughing at our wedding vows?” You whisper.

“I’m laughing at the potholes,” he whispers back.

Elvis continues, undeterred.

When it’s time for the personal vows, Max surprises you.

“I know this is all … unconventional,” he says, his hands still holding yours. “But that’s us, isn’t it? Unconventional. From the first time we met, I knew you were different. You don’t just keep up with me; you challenge me. You push me to be better, on and off the track. And you put up with all my nonsense, which is honestly impressive.”

You laugh, tears stinging your eyes.

“I promise to always be your biggest fan, even when you’re cheering for your brother,” Max continues, his voice softer now. “I promise to always fight for you, always support you, and always love you, no matter how crazy life gets.”

You’re not sure when the tears started falling, but they’re there, hot and fast.

“Your turn,” Elvis says, nodding at you.

You take a shaky breath, your voice trembling. “Max, you drive me crazy. You’re stubborn, competitive, and impossible to argue with. But you’re also kind, loyal, and the most passionate person I’ve ever met. You make me laugh when I don’t want to, and you make me believe in things I never thought I could.”

His eyes soften, and you squeeze his hands tighter.

“I promise to always stand by your side, even when you’re impossible. I promise to love you, challenge you, and never let you win a bet without a fight.”

Max grins, and the rest of the room seems to fade away.

When Elvis finally declares you husband and wife, it feels like the world stops.

“You may now kiss your bride,” he says with a flourish.

Max doesn’t hesitate, pulling you close and kissing you like the world outside doesn’t exist. The room erupts into cheers, Lando’s voice loudest among them.

When you finally pull away, Max leans his forehead against yours, his voice barely a whisper.

“We did it.”

You smile, your hands resting on his chest. “Yeah. We did.”

And just like that, Max Verstappen is your husband.

***

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughter, chaos, and an overwhelming sense of unreality. The “reception” is cobbled together on the fly, with Red Bull team members and an assortment of drivers spilling out of limos and taxis into a nearby lounge they commandeer for the celebration.

Max stays close to you the entire time, his hand resting on your lower back or entwined with yours. Every time you glance at him, he’s already looking at you, his expression so full of love it makes your chest ache.

Eventually, you both slip away from the commotion, winding your way back to Max’s penthouse. The city hums below, the neon lights still pulsing with energy, but inside, everything feels quiet. Peaceful.

You’re curled up together in bed, the chaos of the night left behind, when Max finally speaks. “So,” he says, breaking the comfortable silence, “are you going to tell me what your favor would’ve been if you had won the bet?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I don’t think you’re ready for that, Verstappen.”

His brows lift, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Oh, now you have to tell me.”

You tilt your head, feigning deep thought. “Well, it would’ve been something big. Something life-changing.”

His grin widens, and he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Life-changing, huh? What, were you going to make me switch teams? Retire early?”

You smirk, letting the pause hang in the air just long enough for him to grow impatient. “A ring.”

Max blinks, caught off guard for a split second. “A ring?”

“Mm-hmm.” You trace lazy circles on his chest, pretending not to notice his stunned expression. “I was going to ask for a ring. But you, being Max Verstappen, had to be a few laps ahead and beat me to it. Like usual.”

His laughter bursts out, warm and unrestrained. “You’re telling me you were going to propose to me?”

You shrug, unable to keep the playful smile off your face. “What can I say? I wanted to beat you at your own game.”

Max shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you fully. His grin is impossibly wide, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement and something deeper. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You married me,” you point out, grinning back.

“I did,” he agrees, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “And I’d do it again. But I have to say, I think I prefer this version. Me proposing. You saying yes. Vegas. Elvis.”

You laugh, swatting his chest lightly. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance.” He’s still smiling, but his voice softens, turning serious. “I love you, you know. And I don’t care if it’s Vegas or a ten-minute ceremony or some ridiculous bet. This — us — feels right. It always has.”

Your teasing expression falters, replaced by something softer. “I love you, too. Even if you are insufferable.”

He chuckles, pulling you closer. “Insufferable and married. To you. Forever.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. “Forever, huh?”

“Forever,” he repeats firmly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And just for the record, I would’ve said yes if you’d proposed first.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His lips brush against yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m glad I won this time.”

You laugh against his mouth, your arms winding around his neck as you pull him closer. “Don’t get used to it, Verstappen.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs. Verstappen.”

The name catches you off guard, and your heart stutters in your chest. Mrs. Verstappen. It’s ridiculous and perfect and makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“You like that?” He asks, clearly noticing your reaction.

You bite your lip, nodding. “I think I could get used to it.”

His grin returns, smug and full of mischief. “Good. Because you don’t have a choice now.”

You shake your head, laughing as you lean into him, letting the weight of the night settle around you. The city lights outside keep shining, the noise of Las Vegas carrying on far below, but in this moment, it’s just the two of you.

And that’s all that matters.

[jo-com]

⋆🍨｡𖦹 °✩ ➛ The little Things

CEO!Max Verstappen x Fem!reader

Summary: Gestures that Max does for you.

Genre: Hardcore fluff cause why not

Note: There are some grammatical errors and this is definitely not proofread so... Hope you guys enjoy 🤞🏻

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ➛ My Masterlist

─────── ─ 𐙚 ˚🍰 ⋆｡─ ───────

Engraved Jewelries

"Oh my god Max! You seriously didn't have to" you beamed happily─ gently taking the small box from his hands and transferring it to yours.

You then rested the box to your lap and opened it at ease. As soon as you saw the content inside, you felt your whole body freeze for a second. Your eyes widened in disbelief and mouth slightly hung open from shock.

Max got you this diamond necklace. Real diamonds might i add, that had the two of your’s picture carved in it.

Your gaze shifted from the present and then to his standing figure─ only to see him have this satisfied smug look on his face.

It was another casual day so you didn't expect to be given such priceless gift. Max always does these things where he gives you expensive stuff without needing to have an occasion attached.

Most of the time he gives you jewelries that are somehow connected to him. It’s either bracelets that has his initials, rings with your carved nicknames, or earrings that has a small number on it. The number on his racing jacket of course.

For Max those expensive gifts that he had given you are just “small trinkets” to show everyone that you are his and only his.

The price doesn’t matter— nothing is expensive when it comes to spending things for his lady.

You settled the gift on the table and hurriedly went to him— hugging him tight as a sign of your appreciation and gratitude.

“Thank you so much love” you spoke. Slowly leaning in on him and closing the gap between you two.

Max leaned in and reciprocated your kiss, “Anything to make my girl happy.”

…

Leaves meeting early

It was a busy afternoon for max. He had a tons of meeting scheduled one after the other.

Right now, Max was currently in his fifth for the day.

He was bored and tired to say the least— seeing how his mind was occupied with nothing else but you. He wanted nothing more but to stay and lay down beside you.

As he stared off the distance, his phone suddenly rang out loud; causing his employees to stop mid conversation and shift their focus to the ringing.

Max took notice and grabbed his phone infront of him. He looked at the screen and saw your number calling. His once bored demeanor changed into an excited one.

One of the employees coughed making Max stare back at them. All their eyes fixiated on him.

Max quickly answered the call and put his phone near his ear. He then flickered his hands— signaling for them to continue.

“Hi pretty, how are you?” Max answered gently over the phone.

To which one of his employees heard and was shock as hell to hear something that his cold boss would never even dare mutter in their workplace.

You coughed over the other end with a hint of sniffle, “i am good baby, just caught a little cold.”

Max hurriedly asked you a bunch of questions— bombarding you with endless concerns that made your head throb a little.

…

After calling and talking back and forth for about 10 minutes; you answered back at him.

“It’s fine hon, i’ll be better in no time i promise. You should get back to work. Call you later okay? I love you” and with that, max ended the call, but not before saying i love you back.

He then took his attention back to the meeting at hand and swiftly corrected the position of his tie. “I think that would be all, let’s rain check this, shall we?”

His secretary was stunned and was quick to react, “but sir, we need to get this report done by tomorrow”

Max only rolled his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. “I have other important matters to attend to, you’ll just have to handle this one.”

The secretary was too afraid to answer back and just nodded in agreement.

He stood up and left the meeting room and drove over to your apartment— showering you with endless love and care.

…

Knowing you well

It was your time of the month— your lower area hurts so bad that you had to compress your stomach with your pillow.

As if on cue; Max had held on a mini tray that has all the essentials you need. (Heating pad, sweets, and coffee).

“Here my love, put this there” max spoke— handing the hot compress over to you.

You then took it and smiled weekly at him; having no energy to move your whole body and reflex.

Max went over to your side and settled the tray to your side table. Then nestled between your pillows— snuggling you closer to him.

You let out a hum and scooted even closer, “Hmm thank you baby”

“Always here for you beautiful, by the way i have your favorite movie set up. Should i play it?”

You shook your head a no and just closed your eyes, “Maybe in a minute, i want to stay like this for a while.”

Max only snuggled closer in response— kissing your head to the side. Making the two of you as comfortable in each others embrace.

Even though max is cold and scary looking, you love this side of him that you can only see. How he makes you feel so special without him knowing. It’s just those little things that make you happy and content.

…

Thats all!! Hope you liked that guys. Sorry for not posting for a while, senior high made my life hell for the past few months. But i’ll be updating again!! 💕💕

[shawtuzi]

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹cw include: plug!geto, drug usage (weed), pussyjob, some sloppy kissing, geto cums on her pussy <3

“spread em.”

you took a hit of the blunt you were holding, blowing the smoke in suguru’s face as you slowly spread your legs. suguru let out a deep exhale through his nose, his nostrils flaring when he saw the outline of your pussy over your panties. his dick twitched in his sweats when you pulled your panties to the side, strings of wetness clinging to the cotton fabric as you did so.

“she’s so pretty,” he hummed, his low, red eyes practically forming hearts at just how breath taking your cunt really was. you mumbled out a quiet ‘thank you’, your thighs closing together the tiniest bit in shyness. suguru chuckled, now pulling his sweats down his thighs until his dick sprung free, the angry red tip leaking translucent pearls of pre.

you let out a tiny gasp when your felt him begin to slap the tip against your clit, a dewy wet sound echoing throughout the room. suguru nibbled on his bottom lip, eyes fluttering shut when he finally slipped his dick between the oh so soft, stickiness of your folds. each time his tip bumped against your clit you let out a tiny ‘ah!’ which only made him lose his composure even more. “mmph you’re so soft baby—fuck, and so wet. you hear that?”

you were in a trance, teeth latched onto your bottom lip as you took in the man before you. it wasn’t until you heard suguru whimper that you were snapped out of you trance like state. “y-you can slip it in if you want sugu,” you set the blunt aside, your hand now reaching down to help geto put his dick in but my mans was very quick to stop you. “nah nah don’t—this shit feels so fuckin’ good, you feel good baby?” you didn’t even have time to answer, suguru’s tongue invading your mouth the second your lips parted.

maybe it was the two and a half blunts you both smoked back to back but sugu just couldn’t fathom that you were real. so perfect in every way it made his head spin and his chest tight. “s’good sugu,” you sighed dreamily against his lips, your manicured fingers touching every inch of his toned body. suguru’s abs clenched when he felt your nails trail down his thighs—his thighs were always so sensitive.

sugu pulled your panties to the side, a glob of spit falling from his lips, right onto your sensitive clit. he circled the tip around your clit, giving it a few more taps before enveloping himself once more in the sweet warmth that was you. “m’gonna cum already f-fuck, pull em to the side for me one more time baby,” you wasted no time yanking your panties to the side, allowing suguru to cover your pussy in his milky white essence.

his breathing was heavy as he examined his work, his dick already getting hard at the sight of your ruined panties. suguru’s tongue swiped against his bottom lip as he scooped some of his cum on his fingers, quickly bringing the digits to your mouth for you to suck on. you parted your lips, a moan bubbling in your throat as you sucked on geto’s fingers.

it happened so suddenly—one minute you were happily drooling over suguru’s fingers, the next your breath was practically knocked out of your lungs as geto fully sheathed himself inside your pussy, a drawn out moan slipping past his swollen lips. “that was fun,” he grunted, tatted hands gripping onto the backs of your thighs to push them damn near to your ears. he pressed his forehead against yours, his large body pushing impossibly close against yours.

“but nothing—and i mean nothing will compare to this. ain’t that right princess?” his hips slowly rolled into yours, his pelvis now rubbing deliciously against your clit. you didn’t respond, well, more like couldn’t respond but the fucked out look in your bloodshot eyes was more than enough for your sugu.

[suffering-asthmatic-tifosi]

Your fictions are amazing (English isn’t my first language sorry)

can u do a lando fanfiction like where he and her have a baby?

IM SO FREAKING SORRY I DIDN'T ANSWER THIS SOONER

the burnout is getting me IM SORRYY

Lazy Sundays

Pairing: Lando Norris x pregnant!reader

Warnings: pregnancy, pregnancy sickness, vomiting

Summary: Lazy Sundays with Lando are your favorite, but with a baby on the way they can get tricky, or just a little sweeter.

“Baby, the food’s ready” You called Lando from the kitchen for lunch.

Soft November Sundays were your favorite, The days when Lando didn't have any races or pr things programmed, it was just you and your man. 

Lando walked into the kitchen, shirtless, in only basketball shorts and SpongeBob socks. 

“I'm cooking dinner, ok babe?’ He said as he came behind you and wrapped his arms, holding your 7-month-old belly.

“Fine, but dont burn down my kitchen” You gigged and kissed him on the cheek as you plated the chicken alfredo pasta you made.

“It looks so good Y/n” Lando said as he sat down on the kitchen table, lit with small tea candles and small flowers from your garden.

You both sat down and enjoyed the meal, sharing conversations ranging from F1 politics to the color of the walls.

“Babe you ok? You barely ate anything” Lando put his hand on yours when he asked you this.  

“Im ok don’t worry Lan,” You said as you shoved food in your moth, showing how you were eating.

Five minutes after the forced eating you excused yourself to go to the bathroom.

You felt the burning in your throat as you leaned over the toilet, ready for the disaster to come.

It felt like everything you've ever eaten came out of you in that moment. A few seconds later, running footsteps charge into the bathroom. 

Lando quickly kneels and pulls your hair back as a second round comes up.

You began to cry at the realization of how hard all this was. The baby in you was healthy, but it was taxing on your body. 

“Shhhhhh baby its ok, lemme get you all cleaned up mhm” Lando spoke softly in your ear as he lifted you up, wiped your mouth with a towel and began stripping you of your clothes.

“Lemme get you all cleaned up, ok baby”

You nodded, wiping away your tears as he started the bath.

He threw in some bubbles and bath salts, picked you up, and placed you in the bath.

He caressed your face as you smiled at him, placing a kiss on his hand and whispering thanks and soft “I love you”s. 

Lando left for a moment to get some water for you to drink. He came back, guided you to drink, and began washing your hair. 

He wet your hair, added shampoo, and combed it. He slowly massaged the shampoo and conditioner into your hair, braiding it up when he was done. 

He washed your shoulders, back, chest, and belly, leaving kisses wherever the washcloth went. 

After he rinsed you off with soft, warm water, he lifted you again and wrapped you in a fresh, fluffy towel. He then dressed you in soft pajamas and spread lavender-scented lotion all over and Brasilian stretch mark oil on your belly and chest. All while whispering sweet nothings in your ears over and over again.

He lifted you once more and took you to the bed where he wrapped you up in blankets and made you all comfy.

“You comfy mama?” He asked you while stacking pillows to rest your swollen feet. 

“Mhm,” You let out a soft moan as he rubbed your feet.

“I love you, Lan, so much thank you” You smiled 

“Of course baby, I love you so much” He kissed your cute little toes as he finished his massaged, then came over to cuddle. 

How you loved your free Sundays with Lando

[fleurvi]

Sick!S/O | Arcane Women

request for arcane women with a sick gf

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characters: ambessa, caitlyn, grayson, mel, sevika, vi

cw: fem!reader

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Ambessa Medarda

Ambessa doesn't really take care of you when you're sick. She's a warrior, not a doctor. But we're delusional here, so I'll go with it.

You are not allowed to lift a finger. You need to recover properly so she'll have guards around you at all times so you can order them to get things for you. She visits you regularly to check up on your health and make sure you're being doted on. In a rare occurrence, she offers you a massage to relax you.

“How are you feeling?” Ambessa asks, heavy hands working against your shoulders and neck. You nod, thanking her for her service. “Maybe a bath would do you good.”

✩♬ ₊˚.✂️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Caitlyn Kiramman

Cait panics. She can't think rationally at all. You cough once, and she's writing a eulogy. When she's sure it's not super serious, she's diligent in her care. She makes sure you stay hydrated and get plenty of rest.

“What are you doing? You should be resting,” says Cait as she notices you getting out of bed.

“Babe, c'mon”

“No. Don't you ‘babe’ me. You should be taking care of yourself,” She fusses, ushering you back to your bed.

✩♬ ₊˚.✂️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Grayson

Grayson believes that if you mope around In bed, you'll just make it worse. She lets you rest when you need it, but she encourages you just to take some painkillers, hydrate adequately and go about your work.

“Here you go,” Grayson says, handing you medication and water. “We've got a busy day. If it gets too much, just let me know, and I'll send you home to rest,” She says, pulling you into a hug and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

✩♬ ₊˚.✂️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Mel Medarda

She just wants you to get better. Mel checks up on you but doesn't spend much time with you because she doesn't want to catch whatever you have. When she does visit you, she makes sure to ask if you're getting what you need and making sure you get it. She's mostly concerned about you resting, so she stays with you, talking softly with you until you fall asleep.

“Are you sure you're okay, my love?” She asks, running her hands over your back.

“Yeah, I think I need to sleep off. Thank you for coming to visit,” you say, closing your eyes.

“You're welcome, My Love”

✩♬ ₊˚.✂️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Sevika

Sevika loves you, but she's not going to baby you. She'll ask you if you're on your deathbed, and if the answer is no, then you can get off your ass and help her with whatever business she's been called on.

If you want Sevika to help you with anything, you've got to turn on the whining. She likes being useful, so if you really need it, she'll sit with you until you fall asleep, but she won't wait for you to wake up. You're tough, like her, so she leaves you to it until you wake up and are ready to get back to work.

✩♬ ₊˚.✂️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Vi

Vi thinks her immune system is “built different”, and she's not entirely wrong. She'll stay with you, hold you while you sleep, and make sure you eat as well as you can in Zaun. If you tell her you're not really hungry, she will lecture you until you give in and at least try to eat.

“C'mon, pretty girl,” Vi says, leaning in to kiss you. You feel gross and push her head away.

“You'll get sick”

“Babe. My immune system is made of steel. I've never gotten sick in my life. Now come here and give me a proper kiss,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Fine. If you get sick, I'm not gonna baby you.”

“Yes, you will”, she laughs, and you know she's right.

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Thank you for reading!

This was a request! My main interests right now are arcane and attack on titan so please keep dropping in my inbox!

[eupheme]

ahhh I’m in love with the way you write oldman!logan! Lately I’ve been thinking about dom!logan bending his girl over his knee and giving her a couple spankings, and of course rewarding her for her good behavior later ;) love ur page so much!

oh! 😳💖 dom!old man logan has my heart and he for sure wouldn’t hesitate to put you over his knee - I love this so much!! I hope this little blurb did your idea justice because I am obsessed!! (and thank you so so much!! for the kind words and this awesome ask! 💕)

lessons | old man logan x f!reader

550 words | impact play, spanking, sub/dom vibes, teasing, begging, fingering

He can hear each sound that slips from you. Every gasp and whine. The sharp, inhaled breath you hold, with the twist of his wrist.

Bracing for impact.

If his eyes were to shut, he thinks he’d hear more. The hammering of your heart beneath your ribs, the creak of your fingers as they fist in the fabric of his trousers.

Feel more - the hot exhale of your breath, buried against his thigh. The shift of your knees as they inch wider.

Your scent rolls off you in waves. So much of him has diminished over the years - the once-sharp shine of his claws now dulled. That silver gleam now scuffed up, matted.

But not his senses. Helpless with the way you overwhelm him, all that want and desire building to a crescendo.

It’s supposed to be a punishment, and he can’t pretend it’s not torture.

“How many left?”

It’s more gruff than he means to be. Demanding - a hard edge to the words.

A breath, before you’re answering, “F-five.”

“And you got it through that head of yours?”

“Yes.”

The syllables draw out - the slightest flinch in anticipation, when his hand lifts from the armrest. The cool roll of his now-empty whisky glass against a cheek, the liquor now faded from his tongue.

Followed up the cup of a broad palm. The skin warm beneath, where he’s already begun. Ten, placed swiftly.

Resisting the urge to twist his wrist once more. Let his fingers drift against your seam, knowing they’d come back slick. Tilt his head down enough to drag his tongue against the glossy ring of condensation left against your skin.

But, you’d never learn that way.

“Good,” He rasps, “Gonna finish them out.”

Fingers curling, unable to help the slightest squeeze. You clench with your sigh, his thumb stroking skin just above where your leggings are tugged down, framing the pretty curve of your ass.

“Not gonna take it easy on you, just ‘cause you said yes.”

You nod. An arch to your back, as you breathe out a, “Thank you.”

His jaw ticks. A curse bitten back as his cock throbs, where it presses against his trousers - your hip rubbing against him each time you jolt forward.

It’s enough that his hand is swinging again. A sharp crack, punctuated by the gasp as the air is pushed from your lungs.

“Count ‘em, sweetheart.”

“Five.” You pant.

Then four. Then three, two. One.

Logan’s rougher than he needs to be. A real cry pulled on the last one, a punctuation to the lesson he’s certain you won’t soon forget.

Your thighs flex, where you’re bend over his knees. Eyes half-lidded and tear-rimmed, when your head turns - cheek pressed against a thigh.

His own admiring his work. Unable to help the drift of his hand, now. Thumb denting your skin, tugging.

“Please.” You squirm - always wanting, “Logan-”

His own name, whined out. None of the pretty names you call him, dripping with submission. Forgetting yourself with your need, and it does something to him.

He sinks into heat. Two fingers tucked together, burying between your slick thighs. Feeling how you give around him, a pitched-high moan that has the edge of his lips twitching.

Giving you what you need, once more. A reward, for how well you took him.

Because along with the rest -

Maybe he’s grown a little less patient over the years, as well.

thank you so much for reading! 💕

[goldfades]

I feel like we need to have a TikTok trend blurbs I just love the ones you did already.

Like when the reader and Luke is going to bed and he says “goodnight I love you and she says thank you”that one can be good

i love these sm HAHAHHAHAA

the apartment is quiet, the kind of stillness that settles over everything once the day is officially over. you’re in bed, tucked under the covers with the bedside lamp casting a warm glow across the room. luke’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth—you can hear the faint sound of the faucet running and the occasional shuffle of his feet against the tiles.

you’re scrolling through your phone, aimlessly thumbing through videos, when you hear him pad into the room. he’s shirtless, wearing the same old pair of gray sweatpants you always threaten to steal, and his hair’s still slightly damp from his shower. it’s a sight you’ve seen a hundred times, but it still makes your chest do that stupid little flip.

“you on tiktok again?” he teases, climbing into bed and nudging your shoulder with his.

“maybe,” you reply, locking your phone and setting it on the nightstand. “what’s it to you?”

he smirks, leaning back against the pillows and pulling you closer so your head rests against his chest. “just wondering what you’re plotting this time. you’ve been suspiciously quiet lately.”

you roll your eyes, poking his side until he squirms. “not everything’s a scheme, hughes.”

“uh-huh,” he says, voice laced with skepticism but too sleepy to argue further. instead, he wraps an arm around you, his palm warm against your shoulder.

there’s a long stretch of silence, the kind that’s comfortable and familiar. his breathing starts to even out, his hand absently tracing patterns on your arm, and you think he’s on the brink of sleep when he speaks up. your phone is already recording, showing half of your face and the curls behind you.

“goodnight,” he murmurs softly, voice low and drowsy. “i love you.”

you pause for just a second—just enough to be noticeable—before answering in the most nonchalant tone you can muster:

“thank you.”

the room goes still.

his hand stops moving, and you feel his chest rise as he takes a slow, deliberate breath.

“...what?” he asks, his voice sharper now, tinged with confusion.

you shift slightly, pretending to adjust the blankets. “i said thank you.”

he pulls back, just enough to tilt his head and look down at you. “that’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

you blink up at him, feigning innocence. “what do you mean? it’s polite to say thank you when someone says something nice.”

his brows furrow, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. “but—but that’s not how this works,” he argues, his tone half exasperated, half bewildered. “i say ‘i love you,’ and you’re supposed to say it back!”

“huh,” you say, tapping your chin like you’re deep in thought. “weird. i don’t think that’s a rule.”

“it is a rule,” he insists, sitting up now, the sleepiness completely gone from his face. “it’s literally, like, the rule.”

you bite back a grin, watching as he spirals into full-on disbelief. “are you saying you don’t love me?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly at the end.

“no, i didn’t say that,” you reply, stretching the words out.

“then why didn’t you say it back?!”

you shrug, trying to keep a straight face. “felt like switching things up.”

“switching things up?” he repeats, his voice going higher, and you have to physically turn your head to avoid laughing in his face.

“yeah, keeps the relationship interesting,” you explain, patting his hand like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“oh, my god,” he groans, flopping back against the pillows dramatically. “you’re actually evil. you’re trying to kill me. this is emotional warfare.”

you finally let out the laugh you’ve been holding in, and he turns his head to glare at you, though the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a smile.

“i hate you,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite to it.

you lean over, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “love you too, babe.”

he groans again, but this time he pulls you back into his arms, his chin resting on the top of your head. “you’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbles.

you grin, snuggling closer. “thanks, love you too.”

“stop saying thank you!”

[thousandyearphantombunker]

Unlike Namaari King Magnifico deserved redemption. He might have been narcissistic and a bit of a control freak but he also felt like he was burnt out and underappreciated/misunderstood (imagine hearing "why can't you grant my wish please help me!' and being unable to explain yourself without breaking that person's heart- the frustration irritation and guilt from those reactions would kill me) and people want to help him for selfish reasons. Imagine meeting someone you think could lighten your load of work and become a friend or confidant only for them to tell you they're helping solely for selfish reasons. That's crushing. and he's not wrong that granting everyone's wish is a bad idea- why waste a wish on becoming a talented pianist if you could just practice on your own and get good? Why ask for a wish to become a doctor when you could just study and become one on your own? Are the people here that lazy? What moral questions would you have to face if someone asks for their child's disability to be cured or for them to have their lover return their affections or if they ask to be eternally happy or get rid of bad but needed realities like death? What ills could those wishes cause (this is giving me flashbacks to the 'board of governors' song from Jekyll and Hyde - very important good questions that got ignored by the protagonist but atleast Jekyll faced actual consequences for being a dumb ass and not answering them) And then there are wishes that are outright dangerous- ill intent unto others.

King Magnifico isn't evil he was under stupid amounts of pressure from his duties to his kingdom, his duties as a wizard who had to contend with these questions and all the work he had to do- on top of all that he has trauma specifically related to this stuff. He's got a thankless shitty job but still pushes through until he can't anymore. He was being selfless until the stupid plot picked up and he had his PTSD triggered and out of fear (which the audience sympathized with for obvious reasons) and after the whole book thing he was possessed and didn't have control over his actions. He deserved some consequences for picking up the book but nothing as harsh as the mirror imprisonment. He deserved to have people point out his fears were valid and that granting everyone's wish isn't a good idea and in some cases it's not even his responsibility. Sometimes you have to make your wish come true on your own and ask yourself the heavy questions- he deserved to be portrayed as sympathetic- He's like genie from Aladdin shackled down by his powers and that he was handling that work load alone with zero thanks and all the frustration of people depending on him more! He wasn't planning to do bad the whole movie! The worst thing he did was open an evil book when the pressure finally got to him

the movie should have let him be right in some aspects "okay maybe granting everyone's wish is bad, and maybe we should appreciate your work more but the only way for us to stop relying on you is if you let us grant our wishes on our own, even if you think it'll hurt" and having Asha, her friends and his wife take on more responsibilities. Maybe he has to share half of his magic with them and it weakens him and he's no longer the sole ruler and basically having him have to confront being a control freak. Having to trust others with his power and chill out. Him and Asha having to let others be disappointed angry and ungrateful and not let it bother them but also having to check themselves and their sense of superiority and Magnifico again would have to check if he was being too harsh etc.

King Magnifico wasn't evil. He's was right that granting everyone's wish is bad and dumb. he was in the right. The story should have shown that he was in the right without making him the good guy and had Asha be an actual character with an arc but instead of actually writing that story Disney decided to make him pure evil out of nowhere so you wouldn't think about how terrible the moral was (which would still earn my ire but I digress) but the thing is Magnifico became evil cause he was possessed- so while not totally innocent it instead emphasized the bigger problem with the movie

He genuinely is selfless and because of his trauma believes what he's doing is right- that can work for a villain but you have to be a real good writer to make it work- you have to make his actions more irrational and selfish and cruel inorder for people to recognize him as a villain (as a rule of thumb if your villain isn't doing something irrationally cruel and is fully in the right then you probably fucked up. If your writing a well intentioned extremist- you either have to make their methods insane or their motive- selfless but irrational or something- something has to be wrong with their mindset or rationale and something definitely has to be wrong with their actions) but clearly the writers can't pull that shit off. They made him completely rational and sympathetic on top of it all

And again he was possessed.

He did nothing wrong prior to that.

Not every villain has to be redeemed and have a son story attached. But for fucks sake if anyone deserves better it's him. The problem isn't that every villain is redeemed the problem is that the villains who get redeemed/get to be sympathetic anti heros don't deserve it and the baddies who do deserve better get treated like garbo

I just watched Wish (2023) and it made me realize something kind of sad about Disney’s treatment of villains.

So Disney has a long history of villainy from the OG Evil Queen who is willing to murder a girl just for being pretty to the misguided like Auto thinking he’s protecting humanity in Wall-E. They are mean, jealous, prideful, vain, and many relish in just being the worst of the worst. However every now and then we get a glimpse of more complexity. Zootopia’s Bellwether dealing with years of racism and mistreatment, Gantu trying to stop what he thinks is a monster in Lilo and Stitch, Up’s Muntz being a heroic explorer before paranoia consumed him, etc. The thing that makes me sad about these villains is that not one of them has ever had a chance at redemption or change in Disney’s eyes and nowhere is that sadder to me than their latest villain, King Magnifico.

(Spoilers below)

King Magnifico is the magical founder of a utopian society that accepts people of all races, religions, and backgrounds. Who created this wonderful place after what is heavily implied to be a violent invasion destroyed his homeland when he was but a child. This past trauma led him to study magic and become a powerful sorcerer so that nothing could hurt him or the people he cared about ever again. His magic is a protection that he extends to all who choose to live in the city. The city is vibrant with a colorful community full of artisans, musicians, and dancers. He takes no taxes from them, but does take their one true wish upon joining this society.

When given these wishes it is understood that he will ensure their safety and possibly grant them one day. Something important to note about the physical manifestations of the wishes is that they give off a warm and comforting aura as they represent some of the purest parts of a person’s soul. Magnifico has been surrounding himself with this magical comfort for a very very long time by himself and I don’t think it’s unfair to say he has become addicted to their presence. The wishes are giving him a magical comfort through the kind souls within them, a feeling he could’ve probably also gotten if he had spent more time with his people.

It doesn’t look like he ever really got the chance to commune with his people properly because somehow the society kicked off on his wish granting abilities. People had to give him their wishes if they wanted them granted and eventually the ones that he couldn’t grant in good conscience or out of fear started adding up so he began locking them away. Keeping them safe so no harm came to the people. The rare occasions that anyone else interacts with these wishes is during wish granting ceremonies that the people are borderline rabid for. With good reason, it is their souls they’re thirsting for after all even if they don’t really know it.

However, Magnifico clearly doesn’t see it that way. He sees it as he’s given these people a wonderful safe haven from the horrors of the outside world where they can be whoever they want to be, do what they want to do, make what they want to make, and still all they see in him is a tool to fastpass to something else they want even more than the peace he’s given them.

This is clearly shown early on, before any of his evil behavior starts to take root, in relation to his assistants. We get a expo dump after the first song telling us that Asha wants to become one of his assistant to increase the odds of her grandfather’s wish being granted as there is a correlation between past assistants and having wishes granted. Something important here is that there have clearly been many assistants, suggesting that it’s a revolving door position without really explaining why. Who would want to keep finding assistants over and over again, when really you should find someone who could do the job long term right? Well we get to find out the likely reason when Asha steps up for the role.

When Asha comes to interview for his assistant position he sees she is nervous, he tries to calm her down, and he even manages to relate to her through fond memories of her kindly father who he clearly knew. After seeing her true resolve to do good he decides to trust her with something few people in the entire kingdom get to see, the vault of wishes. To which Asha doesn’t even hesitate to ask, after politely being told not to prior, if he’ll grant her grandfather’s wish.

Magnifico is blatantly stricken by her request, sadly remarking that most people at least wait a few months before doing so a.k.a pretend to be interested in helping him rather than trying to use him to grant a wish. This is likely why the assistant job is a revolving door. Magnifico tries to find someone who he thinks will truly and selflessly fulfill the role only to discover time and again that people are just using it to get direct access to him to ask for a wish. Then he can’t trust their true intentions anymore and moves them along.

After Asha makes her request he does take the time to look at her grandfather’s wish but dismisses it as too dangerous because it is the vague desire to inspire the next generation. Clearly we as the audience know that her grandfather means to inspire them to do good, but we have to remember Magnifico has seen the worst of society. He has seen the darkest wishes and desires of mankind and survived them. He brushes Asha off telling her she’s too young to understand, which is honestly true. She’s lived her entire life cloistered in peace and comfort thanks to him and the rules he has made. She has never had to know war, strife, or hardship thanks to him, yet she doubts his decision without understanding the trauma that guides it. This is what I believe pushes Magnifico into his villain arc, something that I don’t think we’ve ever really witnessed in a Disney movie.

Usually a villain already is the villain by the time the film rolls around, even the twist villains. Lotso had already been deliberately sentencing other toys to torture. Prince Hans was already planning to murder his way to a throne. Evelyn was already plotting her revenge. Magnifico wasn’t though. He was the hero. He had saved his wife and a whole city’s worth of people from whatever drove them from the mainlands. He wasn’t physically abusing/mistreating people like Gaston even if he was vainly basking in their adoration.

When Asha pushes him on the wishes he pulls back from her, identifying her in his mind as a threat and treats her as one. He dismisses her and tells her that her family’s wishes will never be granted by him, but he will still keep them safe as he has been doing. Essentially meaning nothing will change for her from what it has been. You know a happy loving existence of complete acceptance and wholesome family life or as Asha interprets it, a fate worse than death.

His interaction with Asha triggers him, as she’s pushed at the flaws in his reasoning for holding onto the wishes. The flaws are true, but his mind is clouded by fear of a lack of control, likely stemming from the horrors he witnessed in his childhood when he had no control. He also likely has a bit of an addiction to the warm fuzzies that the wishes give on top of his fears. While he’s ruminating on that some massive wave of magic blows through the kingdom and messes with the thing he’s already stressed beyond reason about, the wishes.

Magnifico frantically searches for any answer, even considering a dangerous tome of forbidden magic that he knows is trouble before his wife manages to talk him down.

The fact that he could even be talked down rather than ignoring her outright shows that Magnifico does have good in him. He’s just reacting out of a genuine panic. His panic is only worsened by huge mob continuing to beg him for wishes in exchange for doing what should be the selfless act of defending their kingdom from what is essentially perceived as an attack. Not having any faith left in his people he turns back to the evil book to give him the key to stopping this perceived attack.

Just to be clear King Magnifico goes to the big bad evil book not to gain more power for funsies, but to try to find a way to stop a perceived threat. Everything he does from this point on, such as threatening his wife, can no longer be fairly tied to him, because as the movie repeatedly tells us he is under the EVIL book’s influence. His wife even looks through the same book to try and see if there is a way to break the sway she knows it has over him, but says she can’t because the EVIL book said no.

Yada yada yada and Magnifico is sealed inside a magic mirror and smugly told to rot in the dungeon by his previously loving wife.

Seriously?! What the heck?! This guy was the perfect candidate for rehabilitation. He wasn’t flawless, but he wasn’t a murderous psycho like most of the other Disney villains. Disney loves to preach kindness, acceptance, and good will with their heroes, but never does it allow the message of change.

I was shocked going back through the catalogue and slowly realizing none of their villains, regardless of how tragic their origins are, are ever truly allowed a second chance. The hero may offer it, but the baddy never is truly expected to change or reform. Which is honestly super messed up to me. People make mistakes. Some can be small/insignificant, but some are big and do hurt people sometimes. That doesn’t mean they can’t change for the better.

Now I’m not saying every villain is redeemable or good, it’s just a bit surprising that for all the messages of kindness and acceptance we haven’t really gotten forgiveness in 100 years. Seeing the “bad guy’s punishment” just deeply bothered me this time. Probably because so much of the bad that Magnifico does is clearly a trauma response and as a punishment for not acting appropriately to said response he gets sentenced to eternity is magical cell.

[hgfictionwriter]

Self Control: Part Thirteen - Arrival

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: After months of waiting, the moment is finally here. You and Jessie welcome your newborn daughter into the world.

Warnings: Difficult labour. Graphic birth. Language.

A/N: Thank you to everyone for sticking with me so long on this journey. And thank you to everyone who answered the poll about the baby's name weeks ago!

The final whistles blew and Jessie braced her hands on her knees as she took a moment to breathe. She looked up in disappointment at the scoreboard, but soon rallied and began high fiving her teammates.

She did her rounds around the pitch with the team to thank and greet the fans and the stadium lights shone brightly by the time she and the team started filtering into the tunnel.

She walked over to her cubby and retrieved her phone first thing. You were days away from your due date and knew to call the staff if you went into labour - they’d get Jessie off the pitch right away - still, she worried.

Two texts from you. No missed phone calls though. That was a good sign.

Jess. Contractions have started.

The midwife’s on her way. Don’t panic. My water hasn’t broken and we know this could be hours and hours. I’ll call if things escalate.

Jessie stood frozen. Her eyes were wide and her phone sat idle in her hand. She didn’t even think she was breathing.

Then, all of a sudden, she snapped back to the moment and spun on her heels in a rush to start gathering her things, inadvertently tripping over the bench and careening into Janine who was standing nearby.

“Hey!” Janine complained as she rubbed her shoulder. Jessie was already scrambling back to her cubby by the time the blonde even turned around.

“I-I’ve gotta go,” Jessie stammered as she shakily threw belongings into her backpack. She rushed towards the exit, belatedly realizing she didn’t have shoes on and cursed, running back.

“Whoa,” Janine frowned as Jessie tried to stomp into her shoes and soon haphazardly tried to guide them on with trembling hands. “Everything good?”

Jessie was short of breath as her eyes darted across the floor absently as she now palmed at her pockets.

“Where are my keys…,” she mumbled as she spun on the spot looking around wildly.

“Jess,” Janine spoke firmly as she waved in the girl’s face, belatedly drawing Jessie’s attention up to her. Janine spoke measuredly. “What’s going on?”

Jessie’s mouth was dry as she opened it to speak, nothing coming out initially. “Y/N-Y/N’s in labour.”

“Oh shit,” Janine said, her own eyes growing wide before more shock settled in. “Wait. When?!”

“I-I don’t know!” Jessie replied, voice and emotions rising. “During the game sometime?” Her words tapered as she absently fetched her phone in an attempt to check the timestamp of your message, but fumbled it onto the floor instead. “Fuck.”

“Okay, hold on,” Janine said holding up both hands. Jessie dodged around her and started tearing her bag apart looking for her keys.

“I have to go,” she said curtly.

“I will drive you,” Janine told her. “You’re…frazzled. Let me drive you home. You can reset on the drive.”

Jessie opened her mouth to speak as she tried to process the offer and the consequences of it. She found herself shaking her head before she could find the words.

“No. I - we need the car. If something goes wrong…,” she trailed off, now digging in her pockets again in vain.

Janine reached out and calmly grabbed keys off the shelf of her cubby.

“Looking for these?” She gave her a pointed look. “I’m driving you. I will drive your car and I can get a ride from one of the girls back to my place. Now let’s go.”

The blonde had Jessie by the arm as soon as she finished speaking and began calmly ushering her out of the locker room, quickly speaking to Sam and communicating the plan as she walked out. The locker room immediately erupted into a buzz of activity at the news, and Janine held up her arm to keep them at bay.

“You’ll get updates soon, I’m sure,” she called over her shoulder. “Baby Fleming will be here soon, everyone. But not too soon!”

Jessie’s heart raced and she peered over her shoulder to see the team wishing her and you luck and to call if you needed anything.

She felt jittery and like her limbs were numb as they walked briskly to her car. As she was getting in she saw Sam running out to her own car saying she’d follow so she could drive Janine back.

“Baby convoy!” Janine announced brightly as she started the car. Meanwhile, Jessie was still short of breath as she fumbled with the seatbelt.

She closed her eyes momentarily and took a deep breath, finally getting her seatbelt on and feeling her pulse start to even out.

“I can’t believe she didn’t call,” Jessie breathed as she pushed her head back into the headrest, palms braced on her thighs and eyes closed as she worked to steady her nerves.

Janine snickered slightly as she manoeuvred them towards the house.

“Sounds like you’re more panicked than her,” she teased, drawing a dark glare from Jessie.

“Or,” she drew out her word in emphasis, “she’s not taking this seriously enough. How can she be so nonchalant? What the fuck.”

“Get it out of your system, because you’re going to have to be calm and supportive from here on it,” Janine told her. She gave her friend a purposeful look as she drove. "And I know you - when shit gets crazy and there's chaos, you are the calm in all of that."

Jessie gave a shaky exhale before accepting with a few nods, trying to let Janine's words sink in and reassure her. She took one more steadying breath before bringing the phone up to her ear to call you.

The phone rang several times before you picked up. You'd hardly greeted her before Jessie spoke over you.

"Babe, why didn't you call me? Are you okay? Is the midwife there yet? How far apart the contractions? Are you alright?"

So much for calm.

"Jess." You spoke firmly, but patiently waiting her out and forcing a lull before continuing. "I am fine. No, Theresa's not here. Contractions are still 20 minutes apart and only lasting about 40 seconds. I talked to her though. It's just early labour. She'll come when I'm between 5 and 10 minutes, and that could be hours away."

A mixture of relief and apprehension flooded Jessie's system. You were fine. But at the same time, your contractions had started. It was time. And she wasn't there.

"Okay," she managed to say as she forced a smile and hoped it filtered into her voice as well. "I'm on my way right now. I'm probably 10 minutes away."

"Alright," you said. "Drive safe. You don't need to rush - just get here safely."

"Oh, well, Janine-"

"Oh fuck."

"What?" Jessie cut in, alarm cresting inside of her as she sat forward in her seat and her breath caught.

"Um," you said, "my water just broke."

"Oh fuck," Jessie echoed. She held out her hand to calm herself more than anything. "Okay. Okay - I'll be there right away, Y/N."

"Mmnh," she heard you grimace into the phone as a contraction hit you.

"Babe," Jessie said helplessly, leaning her elbow on her thigh and cupping her face. The line was silent and it was killing her. "How bad is it? Are you okay?"

"...Yep," you said through grit teeth. Jessie sighed in frustration.

"Baby, why didn't you call me?" She implored weakly. "I should be there right now. It's just a stupid football game. I love you and I should've been there this whole time with you."

"Mm, if it’s alright with you we can fight about this later. I’m trying to have your baby right about now," you said.

"Fuck. I'm sorry," Jessie said, her nerves immediately settling as she recentered herself. "We're only a few streets away. I'll be there soon, babe."

"I know, love," you said with an audible, drawn out breath. "Okay. It's over."

Jessie found herself exhaling along with you. She kept you company on the phone and soon pulled up to the front of your house.

"Call if you need anything," Janine told her as she got out of the car to give her a hug and give her the keys. "I'm serious."

"Yes, of course," Jessie said distractedly, her eyes focused on the front door and hurriedly drawing herself out of her friend's embrace to get to you. She was halfway down the walk when she turned, walking backwards still towards the door. "You're good to get home?"

"My ride's right here," Janine assured her as she pointed to Sam pulling around the corner. "You've got this! Give us updates when you can!"

"Alright," Jessie said with a series of rapid nods as she turned back around. She gave a vague wave and fumbled with the keys before opening the door. She swung it open and threw her bag down in the entryway.

"Y/N!" She called as she began to search the house.

“In here!”

Jessie spun around and jogged towards your voice. She rounded a corner to see you sitting on the couch, apparently in a fresh set of shorts, a hand on your stomach.

A rush of relief and adoration went through her just upon seeing you. She felt a calm rush over her despite everything. Now she was where she was supposed to be. No matter what happened, you were together and would navigate it all with one another.

She walked over and dropped to her knees in front of you. She hugged your middle as far as her arms would let her and peppered your face with kisses. She jostled as you chuckled and ran your fingers through her hair.

“Hi baby,” you greeted.

“Hi,” she said gently, eyes bright and almost teary as she pulled back to look up at you and take you in. She gave a slow shake of her head. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I-”

“Jessie. It’s okay. If I was worried or needed you to rush I would’ve called. We are perfectly okay,” you assured her, holding her gaze. “You know we could be going through this for a long time before something really happens.”

Jessie nodded reluctantly. It was true, but still.

“I just wanted to be here for you through all of it,” she went on before holding up her hands, palms out. “But, let’s move on.” You gave her a grateful look. “I’m here. And I’m not leaving your side. I’m here to do anything and everything you need while you do this incredible work to bring our baby into the world,” she said as she sat back enough to tenderly caress your taut stomach.

Just like their midwife and classes said, early labour was long and tedious. Movies and shows made it seem so sudden and fast, but in reality, at least for you, it was hours and hours of ever increasing pain.

You’d barely slept all night and she knew you were exhausted already, but things were poised to only escalate further; a cycle that would continue to close in and worsen.

As your contractions increased, she felt desperate to help, but was entirely powerless. It broke her heart to see you in so much pain, knowing it was her fault in a way and she couldn’t share the burden at all.

“Ooo,” you breathed steadily and audibly, your hands on your back and eyes closed as you walked in a slow circle in the living room, trying to walk through the pain and discomfort. Jessie trailed behind you, eyes trained on you, watching vigilantly for an opportunity to help or support.

Your steps stilled and your face screwed up in pain. You doubled over slightly, bracing your hands on your thighs and Jessie had her arm around you in a second, supporting your weight to hold you up.

“Mm,” you ground out, eyes still tightly shut and body tense as you rode out a wave of pain.

Jessie rubbed your lower back in an effort to provide some reprieve, however small. “Try not to forget to breathe,” she coached gently, not wanting to dictate things for you or discredit your efforts, but also still try to keep the coping strategies as forefront as possible to hopefully help you.

“Yes, dear,” you said tightly, your irritation not entirely veiled, as you let your head fall back. You breathed despite your complaint and she saw its effects as your body relaxed subtly.

When you’d finally rode out the contraction you went over and sat down on the yoga ball in the room with a heavy sigh and a small groan. Jessie came up behind you immediately and began massaging your back once more, earning a soft moan of appreciation as you rolled your hips back and forth.

“Oh my gosh,” you said. “She’s so low in my pelvis. It’s so much pressure.”

“That contraction was only five minutes apart. I’m going to call Theresa,” she told you as you distractedly nodded. She retrieved her phone and stood to walk a few feet away.

"Please don't go far," you beseeched as you peered over your shoulder at her retreating form. "I need you here."

Jessie turned around right away and returned to your side, placed her hand between your shoulders and began massaging your sore muscles there. "I'm right here, baby," she assured you and you immediately brought a hand up to her wrist, clinging to her and not letting go.

Jessie hung up a couple of minutes later and tucked the phone away in her pocket.

"She's on her way," she told you and you merely nodded again, eyes now trained on the ceiling in focus. "I'll go get you some more water," she went on and cracked a smile for you. "I'll be a minute tops. And I'll make sure it has lots of ice."

When she returned, you took the cup from her gratefully and Jessie knelt in front of you. Your arms came up around her shoulders right away and you leaned heavily on her, moaning and resting your head against hers. Her chest filled with warmth and she kissed your cheek.

You began to wince, another contraction coming on, your arms tightening around her. Jessie leaned up into you to better support your weight.

"Distract me," you told her, voice faintly strained. "Tell me something."

"Um, okay," she said as reached up around you to rub your back as best she could. She wracked her brain, annoyed that it was suddenly blank. Eventually she lit up as a thought popped up.

"Okay. Did you know that mangrove forests are incredibly effective at storing carbon? Up to four times more per hectare than tropical rainforests?" She asked.

You chuckled softly despite your discomfort. "You are such a nerd. I love you." Whatever moment of relief you had quickly dissipated and she felt your face fill with tension once more against her own. "Okay, that kind of worked. Tell me something else."

"Hmm. Alright. Um, in university Teagan and I were in her dorm and - I don't know how it started - but we were competing to see who could balance longer on a basketball. She couldn't even fully stand up, so I, of course, was like, 'Yeah, I can absolutely do that' - I stood up, but went flying a moment later, like feet flying right out under me, the ball shot across the room and and busted this floor lamp and, I just ricocheted off the nearby bed, arms flailing and hitting the floor. So I won - but at what cost," she finished with a short laugh.

"Oh my god," you laughed, before clutching the underside of your stomach with a heightened wince. "Oh shit - that hurts. Okay, nothing funny," you said, though a smile still lingered despite the pain.

"Oh shit," Jessie said with an apologetic smile as she caressed your stomach and kissed your head once more. Her smile shifted into a smirk. "Well, if you didn't want anything funny, you shouldn't have gotten engaged to such a jokester."

You laughed again, wincing once more and nudging her. "Oh yeah, you're a regular comic."

"Um, okay. How about this? Remember how your team invited me to that sustainability event - long before our first date. And I came and we had some drinks and we started talking about [y/favourite show]?"

"Mhmm." You nodded against her.

"And remember how I said I loved that show?"

You nodded once more, still clinging to her.

"I kind of lied," Jessie admitted. She felt your grip on her change and she went on quickly. "I loved it! But I'd just overheard you gushing about it with your coworker on that call we all had a week before, so I binged it and read up on it before the event so I'd be able to talk to you about it. I was only like a season and half in by the event though - so I just read all the spoilers so we could talk at length about it. I was just so nervous and I wanted to make sure I could keep our conversation going and I'd have something interesting that you wanted to talk about!"

By the time Jessie finished your contraction had waned and you leaned back to give her a scrutinizing look that dissolved into a laugh.

"You're ridiculous. I enjoyed talking with you about so many things. Still do. Like when you talk about freakin mangroves." You smirked. "Well, since we're confessing. I did an awful lot of Googling about soccer after I met you the first time. Didn't want you to think I was completely clueless."

Jessie beamed, but it transformed into a mischievous grin a moment later. She shrugged her shoulder teasingly. "I could kinda tell."

"Hey!" You complained as you swatted playfully at her. "I'm in labour," you declared dramatically. "I'm having your baby! You're supposed to be nice to me right now."

Jessie laughed and kissed you. "You know I'd do absolutely anything for you."

------------------------

The midwife arrived and your labour continued. More hours wore on and there were moments where exhaustion threatened Jessie as well, especially coming right off of a game last night, but she pushed it aside to focus on and tend to you. Theresa did force her to take a few breaks here and there, but as far as Jessie was concerned, you didn't really have the choice to take breaks, so neither would she.

"Oh fuck," you breathed as another contraction hit you. The last one had only ended a few short minutes ago and you'd barely had a chance to recover before another washed over you.

You had your hands clasped around the back of Jessie's neck, both of you standing as she supported you while you hung down off of her. You grimaced in pain and your body trembled despite her holding you up. Sweat beaded across your forehead and you were pale.

She held you steady as you rocked, suspended from her shoulders, trying to find any ounce of relief as you rode out the wave.

"I need to lay down," you said in a shuddering voice as the contraction ended. You were weak, struggling to stand up in her arms now and leaned heavily on her as she ushered you towards the bed. She set you gently down on the edge and grabbed a towel to dab at the sweat on your brow.

She and the midwife got you settled onto the bed, a wall of pillows behind you to help you sit up. Your chest heaved up and down as you struggled.

"There's so much pressure," you winced. "Mmh. I feel like I need to push."

"Let's check your progress," Theresa said. Your legs were spread already, the only remotely comfortable position for you right now. "9 centimeters still," she said as she drew back a gloved hand and looked to you both. "Your contractions are getting closer and closer though. You'll be able to push soon."

You groaned heavily, nearly sobbing as your head rest listless against the pillows behind you. "Jessie," you cried her name feebly and she climbed up next to you on the bed in a flash, grasping your hand and holding it tightly.

"I'm too hot," you panted, hand clutching hers and the other clutching the sheets repeatedly in visible discomfort.

"Okay, baby," Jessie said with a series of dutiful nods and went to go grab you a cold, wet cloth, but you tightened your grip on her urgently.

"No, please don't go. Don't leave me," you whined and not even able to open your eyes as you fought through the relentless pain.

"I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere. I'm with you," Jessie assured you without hesitation. A strange feeling came over her at seeing you, this woman who was so stubborn and independent, brought to this point where you were unabashedly clingy and desperate. It made sense and she was happy to cater to you, but it spoke to the level of distress you were in.

She looked to Theresa and the woman waved her off immediately, silently assuring her to stay and leave the task to her.

A clipped cry fell from your lips as a new contraction hit you. You tensed up and all Jessie could do was knead your tired muscles and do her best to serve as an anchor for you in this flurry of physical agony.

Your breathing was rapid and shallow and tears pricked at the corner of your eyes. You writhed in place and Jessie could see how you ground your teeth together. She reached up with her free hand to slowly, but firmly rub the center of your chest, hoping to subtly steady your breathing.

It was torture for her to see you like this. Grimacing in increasing pain for hours on end and knowing it was going to get worse before it would get better.

Your whole relationship, her only goal was to make your life easier, softer, more comfortable. And here you were in the greatest pain of your life and it was all her fault. She felt horrible.

"Oh fuck," you eventually whimpered as the contraction seemingly faded. Theresa returned with the cold compress and Jessie took it as she moved in closer to you and pressed it to your forehead. You turned into her and whimpered further.

"You're doing so good, baby," she said as she kissed the top of your head and held a cup of ice chips up to your mouth. You chewed a couple before pushing her hand away.

"Remember how I said I can’t wait until she’s here? I changed my mind.”

Jessie spied the faintest hint of a smirk on your lips. She kissed your head again, amazed that you could find the capacity for some kind of humour during such a time.

You pushed yourself up on the bed further and grimaced again. "Oh fuck." You doubled over in pain once more, clutching your rounded stomach. "I really feel like I need to push."

"You can't just yet, sweetie," Theresa said gently.

You groaned and you tugged on Jessie's arm to pull yourself forward. She watched the movements you were telegraphing and helped you onto your hands and knees. You immediately leaned your head down onto your folded arms, your legs spread wide, belly pressing into the bed as you moaned into the contraction.

Jessie rubbed your lower back and leaned forward to kiss your shoulder. You whimpered in response as you continued to labour on all fours.

You rocked subtly back and forth for several more waves of contractions until you let out a low, muffled yell.

"Jess. Jess - I can feel her. She's moving down," you panted.

She looked to Theresa in concern and the midwife checked your progress once more.

"Okay, sweetie. It's time - you're at 10 cm. When you feel the urge, you can go ahead and push."

You let out a small whimper and straightened your arms as you breathed heavily, preparing yourself. Jessie kissed the side of your head, lips lingering.

"You've got this, my love. You're amazing. You're so strong. I'm right here with you," Jessie said, ignoring the way her own pulse quickened at the prospect of what was to come.

You panted, eyes closed and still in such pain as you awaited the opportunity to push. She leaned forward slightly to keep watch of your face as she continued to knead your back and hips. Only a few seconds passed before your features screwed up and you tensed up, starting to push.

Jessie's nerves were beginning to fray as she realized what was happening.

You moaned as you bore down. Jessie shifted her attention to your entrance, though knowing it would be too early for any signs of your daughter appearing.

"Oh fuck," you cursed. You panted and your arms began to tremble. "S-she's coming Jess. Oh my God."

Jessie found herself smiling for some reason. She looked back up to you, "You're making it happen. You're incredible."

You continued to push until the contraction waned and your body grew limp, Jessie reaching out to help support you.

"That was great, Y/N. Just like that again next time, okay? You've got this. And if you need to change positions you tell us - we're here," Theresa said and you nodded faintly.

The next contraction came and you bore down once more. When it ended, you shook your head. "I need to sit back," you said, palming around looking for Jessie's hand. She reached out quickly to grasp your hand and began guiding you back. "I want you behind me." Jessie nodded and sat back against the pillows and nestled you in between her legs and you leaned back against her chest.

"This okay?" She asked as she pulled you tighter against her. You nodded rapidly, turning your head against her shoulder and burrowing against her as you pulled her arm across your chest and gripped her forearm with one hand, the other hand gripping her thigh.

Another groan fell from your lips as you began to push once more, your fingers digging into Jessie's arm and leg. Jessie sat up with you to help you push.

"You're doing so good," she whispered over your grunts as she gently thumbed your shoulder.

When the contraction ended you melted into Jessie's embrace and she continued to gently caress you. She steadied her breathing as she encouraged you to try to do the same and was pleased when your chest went from rapidly rising and falling to something calmer.

"Oh, Jess. She feels so big. Oh my God," you whimpered as you burrowed your face into her further. Jessie kissed the side of your head and Theresa spoke up.

"You're having a big baby, Y/N. It's going to be a lot of work, but you are prepared, you're doing amazing, and Jessie is here with you to help you every step of the way. You're making progress."

Jessie watched as your face fell and your rolled your head against her shoulder.

"Mmh, how did someone so small put such a big baby in me?" You complained. Jessie could do nothing other than apologize, but to her surprise you managed a feeble chuckle. "She's healthy. She has to be healthy." Your face fell again and Jessie saw emotions taking over.

"She's healthy, babe. You've done an amazing job of growing and caring for her. That's all you," Jessie told you. She was going to assure you further when your hand came up behind her head and you curled inward to start pushing again, pulling her with you as you grimaced and tried to move your baby down.

This time, your groan evolved into a strained yell.

"Incredible, Y/N. She's right there, I can start to see her. You are doing so great, momma," Theresa said.

Your eyes opened and you looked back at Jessie in wonder as soon as the contraction ended.

"Do you want me to still...," Jessie trailed off, uncertainty taking her as she tried to anticipate what you wanted. You'd talked during birthing classes about her being the one to deliver your baby - with the help of Theresa, of course - but if you needed her to hold you, that's exactly what she'd do.

"Yes, yes," you answered quickly as you shifted slightly, wordlessly indicating for her to move. Jessie carefully moved out from behind you, kissing your shoulder as she went and hurriedly propping up the pillows behind you to better support you. Theresa moved aside slightly, giving Jessie an affirming nod as she positioned herself between your spread legs.

She looked at your entrance, lips still closed and the head not yet visible between pushes.

"Here, make sure she's lubricated," Theresa said as she handed the oil over to Jessie. She took it silently and began to massage your lips and perineum with the oil to help your baby move down and reduce the risk of you tearing.

She was continuing to massage you until you sat forward once more and began pushing. Jessie held your leg and you reached forward gripping her shoulder and leaning on her as you grunted.

Her eyes grew wide as suddenly a small teardrop began to form at your entrance and the first glimpses of your baby together began to appear. A rush of elation and trepidation ran through her.

"S-she has hair," Jessie told you excitedly as she looked up at you. Despite your concentration and effort, you opened your eyes to look at her and a feeble smile crossed your face before you grimaced once more and continued pushing.

"Oh my God. Y/N - you're doing it - you're moving her down. I can see more of her. You're doing so amazing," Jessie praised, tears suddenly pricking at her eyes.

"Oh God," you panted, fingers digging painfully into Jessie's shoulder. "Oh fuck, it hurts, Jess. Oh my God," you said as your lips began to slowly bulge and stretch around the burgeoning head. Jessie gently braced your entrance in support at the instruction of Theresa.

"I know, baby, but you're doing so good," Jessie coached you and you fell back, collapsing against the pillows again during a brief reprieve from the rolling onslaught of contractions. She looked down between your legs to see the baby's head had retracted completely within your tunnel again.

"Jessie," you whimpered in exhaustion and frustration.

"I know, love," she said gently as she kissed your knee and then quickly dabbed your forehead with another cold compress again.

Almost as soon as the last contraction ended, a new one started and you leaned against Jessie's shoulder again as you bore down. She watched as the head reappeared, much quicker this time and soon stretching you wider and anew. She applied more oil to your lips and supported them as they pulled tightly around the head as it crowned.

"Oh it's burns!" You cried as your lips were stretched taut around the large head of your baby.

"You're so close, Y/N," Jessie tried to sooth you. "I can see so much of her."

This time, the head didn't retract as your contraction faded. The progress remained, but that also meant that the head was lodged at your entrance, stuck in a crown and stretching you unbelievably wide. Jessie was absolutely in awe of what your body was doing and achieving right now.

During birth class, many of the partners were squeamish and tentative, but Jessie was curious and attentive. She wanted to know what to expect so she could support you as unwaveringly as possible. She wanted to be ready for this moment so she could be present and be there for you in any way you needed.

And here you were, the woman she loved most in the world, the one she wanted to spend the rest of her days with. The moment was here - you were finally delivering your baby here in your bed, the same one she was conceived in all those months ago.

Jessie massaged your thighs as you groaned in pain, legs quivering.

"I-I can't," you panted as you gave a weak shake of your head.

"You can. You're doing so incredible. You are so, so strong. I know it's hard, but you are almost there, I promise," Jessie told you as she leaned up to give you a kiss on the forehead. Your hand shot up to cup the back of her neck and hold her there. She kissed you again. "I love you so much. Thank you. Thank you for bringing our baby into the world. You are the most incredible woman. I love you so, so much."

You grunted, leaning forward and curling into yourself in another push.

To Jessie's shock and amazement, she saw your lips stretching impossibly further, the skin now white and bloodless from the tension.

"It hurts so much," you cried helplessly. "It's burning so bad."

The stretching continued until you released a scream and the head popped out with a rush of fluid. You gasped, body jolting at the momentary reprieve.

"Oh my gosh," Jessie nearly cried, hand out supporting the head of her baby and seeing her for the first time. She reached out and grabbed your hand to bring it down to the head as well. You began whimpering, tears forming in your eyes as you felt her and looked at Jessie. "She's almost here."

"One or two more good pushes and your baby will be here," Theresa said with a smile.

When it was time, Jessie saw a new level of focus cross your face and you began to push. She held her hands out, guiding her baby as a slow yell filtered up your throat as the shoulders began to stretch your entrance out.

"You're almost there," she encouraged, ignoring the way your fingers dug painfully into her shoulder.

The shoulders appeared and with a final push, Jessie caught your baby in her hands, a scream coming from you and a gasp from her.

Suddenly, a new cry filled the room. Jessie's eyes were absolutely transfixed on this small, brand new being, wriggling and crying in her hands.

"Oh my God," she breathed as she stared at her daughter. She was here. Finally here. Something that started off as a wish so many months ago was now entirely real. A permanent, physical manifestation of the love you and her had for one another; a perfect mix of herself and you. 10 fingers, 10 toes, a cute little face and a head of dark wispy hair.

"She's here, baby," she said in awe, belatedly aware of the tears streaming down her face as she very gingerly lifted your daughter and oh so carefully laid her on your chest.

You sobbed as you took her and Jessie cuddled in with you both, eyes still not leaving your little girl.

"Oh my God, she's beautiful," you said as you gently caressed her cheek as her strong cries filled the room. "Riley Fleming - we love you so much."

Jessie felt like her heart could burst as she took in every little detail about your daughter. She gave the easiest smile of her life.

"She's absolutely perfect."

A/N: This is not the conclusion of the series; however we are very close. I have two more chapters for you.

[sequinsandfins]

Oh. So you’re saying Daniel would have definitely been Max’s ICE contact for the many years before this year? @saapphicx and I being one brain cell again had the same thought and so I wrote it into existence.

Five times Daniel is a very good emergency contact and one time Max isn’t.

1 - It’s 2:38am and Daniel’s phone rings. He groggily reaches for it because he’d set it to silent before bed and there are only a handful of people who would break that.

It’s Max.

“Max?” Daniel answers, trying to wake himself up.

“Daniel! Can you please help!” His younger teammate whispers through the phone.

“Uh, sure. Why are you whispering?”

“Because it’s late?”

Daniel scrunches up his face trying to make sense of what Max is saying.

“I locked myself out.” Max says quietly and Daniel snorts even as he’s reaching for shorts to pull on.

“Hold your horses Maxy, I’m on my way.”

Daniel stops by his kitchen to grab the spare key that Max had given him one he realised they lived in the same building, ‘For Emergency Only Daniel!’ Is on the keyring attached to the key.

Daniel sleepily makes his way upstairs to find Max sitting on the floor outside his door. He’s too tired to register Max’s eyes widening at his half undressed state. He unlocks the door and immediately retreats, heading back to bed.

“Thank you Daniel,” Max says and Daniel stops, turning around and smiling.

“Anytime Maxy, you can count on me!”

Daniel gives a silly salute and heads back to bed, throwing Max’s key on his side table and falling asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

2 - Daniel is posing for a photo with a fan when his phone starts ringing. He throws a huge smile and then apologetically pulls his phone out of his pocket to see that it’s Max.

“MaxEmilian!” Daniel shouts happily.

“Daniel, are you still near the track?”

“Yessir, what’s up?”

“I have forgotten my wallet and this stupid restaurant will not let me go until I have paid. Please tell me you have money?”

Daniel laughs, “Even better, I have a credit card. Send me your location and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Daniel is happy to see that Max isn’t far and it only takes him 5 minutes on foot, miraculously no one stops him for a selfie.

“Your knight in shining armor has arrived!” Daniel announces loudly and obnoxiously to the restaurant.

Max rolls his eyes but smiles in thanks when Daniel pays.

“You know what this means now?”

Max gives him a suspicious look.

“I think you owe me dinner.”

“Yes of course Daniel.” Max just shakes his head and rolls his eyes again.

3 - Daniel is lazing about by the pool of his LA home when his phone rings.

He frowns. It’s Max.

Daniel tries to work out the time difference between LA and Monaco but gives up, deciding that it’s probably not a reasonable time to be awake but he answers all the same.

“Daniel!” Max yells down the line, “Please tell me you have your laptop with you!”

“Uh, yes?”

“Good! I need you to join our game! We are getting destroyed. Some fucker keeps killing me every time I respawn!”

“Uh, Max, are you sure you meant to call me? Wouldn’t Lando be–”

“DANIEL ARE YOU GOING TO SAVE ME OR NOT?!”

Daniel rolls his eyes and heads indoors to try and work out what game Max is talking about.

Daniel is shit at gaming, but who is he to ignore Max in his time of need?

4 - Daniel isn’t sure that this is an emergency. Not that he’s complaining, but watching Max model his latest ‘Unleash the Lion’ merchandise isn’t exactly what he would consider a pressing issue.

“What do you think Daniel?”

“I dunno, it looks good?”

“But what do you think?” Max is frowning at him, “you of course know how much work goes into a release, I would like your help.”

Daniel isn’t sure that Max would like to know what he thinks, which is that the t-shirt he’s got on would look much better strewn across the floor of his bedroom. Max in his bed, and Daniel wanting to find out if this lion has claws.

He coughs, adjusting himself slightly and tries to focus on the different fabric samples Max had presented him with.

Surely he has a whole team working on this. Daniel loves Max, but who thought it would be a good idea leaving these kinds of decisions in his hands.

“Okay, then go with this one.” He points to the 95% Cotton, 5% Elastane/Jersey fabric.

“Thank you Daniel! What would I do without you?” Max smiles, and twists his body around looking at his reflection in the mirror.

“Dunno mate, hope we never have to find out.”

5 - “Maxy?” Daniel says between kisses

“Hmmm?”

“How is this exactly an emergency?”

“I was thinking I would die if I could not kiss you soon.” Max answers matter of factly before pushing Daniel back on the bed and straddling him.

“Well we don’t want that.” Daniel pulls Max down and letting their lips meet once more, can’t help but smile into it. He can’t believe he loves how much of a dork his boyfriend is.

+1

Max is cuddled up to Daniel on the couch. Jimmy and Sassy have each claimed a side and are curled up next to them as some nature documentary is playing on the tv.

Daniel has fallen asleep and Max is scrolling his phone, not wanting to force them to move just yet.

A phone call interrupts his focus and Max frowns. He rejects the call, and then watches as he’s notified of a live voicemail.

‘Max It’s Liam I’m somehow locked in the Red Bull factory can you call someone for me I don’t have anyone else’s numbers’

Max swipes away the message and looks at Daniel.

He's not going to risk waking him. Liam is a big boy. He can work out how to get out of there himself.

[biteyoubiteme]

thicc thigh obsessed gyu 😵‍💫 he loves how squishy and plush they are, touches them all the time, rests his head, inner thigh kisses and wearing pretty thigh highs and stockings has him hard and drooling

beomgyu x thighs

beomgyu x fem!reader

warnings: 🔞!!! chubby reader implied, thigh fucking, marking, prob forgot some sorry

wc: 0.6k

an: okay I want to say I love that you sent me this and it was stuck in my head forever and im just now answering it but omfg- gyu IS A THIGH LOVER I'll take it to the grave/ die on that hill bc YES. and specifically the gyu I wrote in bubblegum flavored- so if you see beomiebear mentioned here thats why bc it’s so him coded pls I love it thank you for this. [m.list]

He would so buy you thigh highs, little sets of garter belts that clip to the top of them. He loves the marks it leaves on your thighs if you’ve been lying down with them on. Likes to snap the bands to make you jump. He loves when you’re in a skirt, and loves it even more when you wear tights, he ruins every pair you’ve ever had and loves to rip them just enough to suck hickeys on your inner thigh. Will take the time to suck them Into the shape of a heart, spending as much time between your legs as possible. Gets you fishnets a size too small, still stretchy enough to feel comfortable but tight enough to let your skin dimple, the marks left after you've taken them off turning him on just as much. 

He loves it when he lays on your plush thighs and you play with his hair. Loves it more when you wear thighs highs when he does it, finger tucked under the elastic, running back and forth. Loves when you sit and it makes a little roll right where the end is, peppers kisses all along the seam. Will use his teeth to pull them down enough to kiss the indents on your skin. 

Insatiable when you casually walk in wearing anything that highlights your thighs. But it’s always the first thing he notices anyway. You could be spending dinner with all your friends and he’s got his hand shoved between your thighs under the table, not necessarily touching you but just resting his hand between your legs for the comfort. 

Gets you specific stockings to wear during sex, the lace lining on top the perfect spot for him to kiss along. The sheer gauzy fabric is just the right texture for him to run his teeth over while he looks up at you from his knees. dons so many kisses to your lower half you have to remind him your mouth exists, pushing his hair back from his eyes, “beomie if you’re good I’ll let you fuck them,” 

and he’s putty in your hands, his weakness so easily exploited when it came to you. Because he loved to push his cock between your plushy thighs. His hands holding your squishy flesh hard enough to leave red hand prints all over. 

Laying you back against the mattress and lifting your legs up, pushed together and slathered with lube, your ankles over his shoulder, arms wrapped around your knees as he pushes his cock in and out between your thighs. 

He’s a whiny mess kissing at your legs, begging for release as you squeeze your legs together for him. You watch the way the tip of cock pokes through the seam of your legs with every thrust. His hair in his eyes as he loses himself, “Oh god- you feel so perfect-“ his fingers digging in harder as he orgasm gets closer, and watching the way you look laid out before him, your body reverberating with every hash slap of him against you. 

He always cums so much when fucking your thighs, the hot streams pulsing out and coating your stomach. cock jerking as he gives lazy thrusts, his whimpers so sweet to your ears as you praise him, “You came so good for me beomiebear, if you clean me up I’ll let you go another round,” and he will comply licking you clean and burying himself between your legs to properly devour your wetness; a reward within this request itself just before he’s hard again and ready to do it all over.

taglist 🏷: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @seungfl0wer @lunesdesire want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join! want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask!

[keepingitformyself]

especially for tender ones like us

A/N: hehehehehehehehehehehehe synopsis: humor, anxiety, and the salvation of love.

pairings: natasha romanoff x reader

genre: fluff.

warnings: no?

MASTERLIST

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

natasha tries not to stumble over her words when she suggests staying in, instead of going out. she does not mean to, but she does. 

how could she not? could you really blame her for wanting a quiet night? something that isn’t so public. she wanted to see you, of course, but she wanted to see you in a space you could be comfortable in, without any of the outside world and free from any distractions.  

you listen intently through the other line, you fight the giggle at catching her little stutter. she can’t see, but you smile widely at the whole thing.

“yeah, we can stay in. i can cook us dinner,” you nod. natasha’s shoulders drop in a quiet sense of relief at your words. her lips curl into a smile. “i’d like that. i can’t wait.”

although this would only be the fourth time you had met up together, to natasha, it felt like the first every single time. 

you continue talking for a little while more. natasha shares details about her day, work, and what she ate during lunch. she tells you how on her way to grab her usual coffee order, an americano, she decided she’d switch her order to a matcha latte after having had you recommend it to her. she tells you, 

“it was good, but not nearly enough caffeine for me to keep up with,” she said, her tone light but teasing. and while it hadn’t become her new favorite drink, just knowing she’d tried it for you was more than enough. her words sent your thoughts spiraling, a warmth blooming in your chest. you were certain that if she were standing next to you, you wouldn’t hesitate to kiss her right then and there.

but you can’t do that so instead, you just fall back on your bed like a high schooler talking to her crush. 

when you finally do meet up the following evening, natasha is buzzing with nerves she doesn't understand. she has taken down whole regimes and has fought aliens from space, yet she seems to draw the line when it comes to facing you. 

she knocks on your door, her other arm clutching a brown bag containing wine and flowers. a reasonable offering if you’re having dinner with someone you want to impress. 

when you answer the door, you're wearing a cream-colored knit sweater. 

“i thought i heard pacing out there.” you joke. 

natasha’s cheeks flush as she tries—and ultimately fails—to fight the smile tugging at her lips. “i wasn’t pacing,” she says, though the slight crack in her voice gives her away.

you step aside and invite her in, and neither of you acknowledges the quiet intimacy of the moment. it feels like more than just dinner, more than just a simple evening in your apartment.

you’re about to cook for her, and somehow, that feels monumental.

natasha’s nerves are a mess, though she can’t quite figure out why—or maybe she can. maybe it’s the way your presence makes her feel unsteady, as though the ground beneath her shifts whenever you’re near.

but natasha doesn’t want to be nervous.

she saw once—a penguin mistaking a sleeping walrus for a rock. the penguin had been caught completely off guard when the walrus stirred, nearly crushing it before it scurried away just in time.

natasha had found it funny at the time, the way surprises can sneak up on you. but now, thinking about it, it doesn’t feel so funny. it feels… unnerving.

surprises are bad for the heart, she thinks. she’s been taught her whole life to avoid them, to anticipate every possibility before it unfolds.

but knowing too much, being too prepared—that can hurt, too.

her thoughts are interrupted by your laughter, light and unburdened, as you guide her toward the kitchen. your smile is so easy, so genuine, and she can’t help but feel how good it is to exist in this space with you.

she offers to help you cook, but you shoo her away instead. you make her watch.

she sits there, with her hands on her lap, and just stares. and she can’t help the look of longing on her face. the kind of thing that suggests she wouldn’t mind this being a constant. 

you made pasta for the evening. nothing too spectacular, but natasha had treated it like you were a top chef and had spent hours crafting everything with your bare hands. 

and then once you’ve plated food for you both and you’ve gotten down to a few bites, you notice the small sigh natasha lets out. the flutter of her eyes as she takes in the meal. 

you smile at her reaction as you move some of the food with your fork. 

“do you like it?”

she looks at you, mid-chew, her mouth stuffed with the food, but she manages a smile. 

“yeah, uh, yes it’s good. it’s so good,” she says, hand over her mouth. 

you continue eating, talking about everything and anything. the night was filled with small moments that would bleed into much deeper ones. you laughed, she smiled, you smiled, she laughed. the kind of things one feels they become when around those who make you tender. 

and you don’t know how or when but you try not to notice how little by little natasha seems to retract a little. 

you decide maybe she needs a small moment for herself and start cleaning up the table. she offers to help, but you wave her off, insisting she relaxes. 

she tries to, but realistically, natasha doesn’t know how to relax. so she sits back and stares at you like she isn’t sure what to do with herself. she isn’t used to this at all. spaces like this–warm, cozy, comfortable.

the impending guilt comes. it’s all so layered. she feels so much at once. the nervousness, the anxiety, the fear of loss, the fear of not being present enough. 

natasha doesn’t know how to be here without sacrificing so much. 

after a while, natasha speaks up. 

“i should probably get going.” her voice too casual to sound like she meant it. she tries not to notice the look of disappointment on your face when you turn around to face her. 

“you don’t have to.” you find yourself saying, not wanting her to leave. 

she hums, something that says she’s already made up her mind. she gets up and gathers her things. 

you follow her to the door, or at least try to—but you pause at the end of the hall when you see her linger near the door, uncomfortably. unsure if she should leave. 

you call her out on it. “you can stay longer if you want.”

natasha wrestles with herself because she really wants to. she looks at the door as if it’d answer for her. 

you’re letting her know. 

natasha feels awkward, clammy hands. she doesn't know what she’s doing. and it’s hard to think of anything else when your eyes are screaming, don't actually leave, at her. 

you look at her carefully, trying to see if you can find any clear indication of what she may be feeling, but it isn’t hard to figure out the redhead in front of you. 

you’ve noted quite quickly how easy it comes for her walls to lower when you’re around. and if there’s anything you’ve learned from that, it’s that natasha romanoff isn’t the trained killer everyone thinks she is. 

sure we all have certain versions we show to certain people. but the natasha you know is anything but rough-edged. the natasha you’ve come to know is actually quite the opposite of what everyone else perceives. 

she’s tender, in her own silent way. too afraid to ever let too much slip away that she’s so painfully aware of everything around her. 

natasha is tenderness wrapped in quiet strength, a paradox of someone who feels deeply but guards herself fiercely. she sees the world clearly—the beauty and the harm—and carries that weight like a constant ache.

like she knows the world hurts more for those most aware of hurt. 

her tenderness isn’t soft; it’s sharp, vigilant, always bracing for the pain that comes with letting others in. you can see it in the flicker of her gaze, the way she hesitates as if expecting the world to hurt her.

and yet, she doesn’t harden. she holds onto that fragile, open part of herself, even when it would be easier not to. it’s beautiful and a little heartbreaking.

natasha looks up at you, then back down at her hands. just above a whisper, she says, 

“i don't know what i’m doing.” 

“that’s the most fun part.” you joke. she smiles, she doesn’t know how to say she wants more time. 

how could she say she feels greedy at this moment? she wants to protect being here with you. we have such little time, she thinks. 

bashfully, she steps closer to you, “i don't want to go.” she says. 

“then don’t.” and natasha almost complies. instead, she takes a step closer, her hand lifting towards your cheek. she’s so close now. 

she kisses you, soft, and shy, but you make her feel sure when your arm circles her neck, deepening the kiss altogether. when she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours, she lets out a shaky breath. 

“maybe i’ll forget my scarf,” she murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

“please do,” you replied. please leave your scarf, please linger near the door uncomfortably instead of leaving. please always come back. “that way you’ll have to come back later for it.”  

and just like that, her quiet uncertainty washes away. 

she takes her scarf off and drops it near the door. you follow her actions, you smile, amusement in your eyes. 

later that night, when natasha gets home, she texts you. 

i forgot my scarf. 

you reply, you’ll have to come get it then. 

[mossyscavern]

Not spies, just a bit incompetent.

_________________________

“Now, are you spies? Or just incompetent! Lackeys!”

The winged bot asked, leaning forward with a harsh yell as red optics flared. “Whoa, we’re not spies.” Orion ushered, servos up. “But he is incompetent.” Elita adds.

“Scanning electrical impulses: he speaks, the truth.” The bot with the face guard and yellow visor states after scanning-. ‘Is that bee?! Why’s that mech holding bee?!’ Orion thought, worry coursing through him.

“That just means he believes himself, like any spy would.” He states, leaning against the other armrest of the throne. “Hmh! M! M! Mh!” Bee tries to say, kicking his peds excitedly, but thanks to the treat he’s eating, he can’t talk.

Orion’s glad that he’s alright.. but he still can’t help but worry about the young sparkling. “Uhm.. Why is he holding him..? Is that an energon treat?” Elita-1 asks, pointing and threatening.

And from the looks of it, D really doesn’t like how they’re holding bee, judging by the obvious death stare. “He wouldn’t stop talking.” The one eyed mech explains. “Even when he was unconscious?” She wondered, optic ridge raise-.

“WE DIDN’T KNOCK OUT A SPARKLING!!!” He shouts stomping his ped, sounding offended by her question.

“Enough. Two options for you, 1: we slowly dismantle each of you, one bolt and screw at a time! And really make sure you feel it for potential kidnapping.” He says, listing off one of the two options with a scowl.

“Or 2: in exchange for a quick death, you give us intel on the energon trains, access to the mines or anything else that could hurt your boss, Sentinel Prime.” He threatens, darkening his optics more towards the three.

D-16 darkens his optics, not entirely trusting any of them.. especially with the sparkling in their arms. “Who exactly are you?” Elita asks.

Bee ate the energon treat more quickly now, trying to finish it in 20 seconds. “Wait!! Not too quickly!” The one eyed mech warned, too little too late by the time bee finished the cube.

“The cybertronian! *hic* high *hic* guard!” Bee says, hiccuping as he spoke. “*sighs* I told him not to eat it quickly.” The mech sighs, shaking his hexagonal helm fondly, handing an energon drink to the sparkling.

“Prestigious *hic* defenders of *hic* Iacon. *hic* prest-*hic*-igious?” Bee asks, hiccuping each word, then drank the energon and thanked them.

“Right. I read all about you in the archives. You were the most legendary warriors in all of Cybertron.” Orion exclaims, pointedly before remembering a very important detail about them. ‘They’ll always protect our young.’ He thought.

“Look, look! There’s starscream! Shockwave! The bot carrying me is Soundwave!” he exclaims, pointing to each main three before raising his hand.

“Hey, are all of you named wave? There’s a lot of waves” bee asked, getting an answer from shockwave’s shaking head.

“Silence!” Starscream shouts. “The young spark is correct.” The seeker states, giving bee a smile when he celebrated. “We were once the High Guard,” he starts, leaning back on the throne.

“We witnessed Sentinel’s Betrayal, saw the Primes fall. Ever since then, we’ve been fighting from the shadows to sabotage Sentinel.”

“That’s great! We’re also-.” Orion was about to stand before a multitude of weapons are levelled to his face. “Woah, okay! We’re good, relax, we’re all friends here. I just wanted to say that we’re all allies here.”

“Hah! Yeah right, like we’d believe the bots that probably kidnap the sparkling.” Starscream stood up, screaming in rage at the last bit, making everybot quiet… all but a small voice broke the silence.

“… what?”

_________________________

I’m… making this one a 2 parter.

1: I like to make these things short and sweet so it’s not too overwhelming. 2: … I can’t fit in some of moments from the movie and pair it with the baby au.. like that fight scene between D-16 and starscream.

I got permission to write this from @yuukirita … and here’s their art and writing for the inspiration -> high guard and the baby please go check it out.

[pickingupmymercedes]

Ageless wonder - Lewis Hamilton

warnings: mentions of alcohol, Toto being an ass (himself)

genre: fluff and teasy Lewis

wordcount: +1k

a/n: I had to, 'shelf life' my ass

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

Waking up with a hangover wasn’t new to me, Lewis was the one non-alcoholic Tequila master in the relationship after all. But waking up feeling like my skull is auditioning for the lead role in Crash: The Musical, though? That’s special.

My tongue feels like I licked an old battery, my hair probably looks like I got electrocuted, and the sun streaming through the window is public enemy number one.

And still somewhere through the haze of pain, I catch a whiff of something heavenly: Lewis’s cologne.

Thank God. Home.

There’s a low chuckle near me, and the bed dips slightly. “Morning, superstar.”

I pry one eye open. Lewis is sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a grin that’s somewhere between amusement and concern, though he’s annoyingly chipper, like he hasn’t just watched me drag myself through hell disguised as a bottle of – real – tequila.

“Why are you so loud?” I croak, turning over to bury my face in the pillow.

“I’m not loud; you’re sensitive” he shoots back, that stupid chuckle rumbling again. “Rough night”

I flip him off without looking, which only makes him laugh harder. “Rough week actually.”

And it has been rough.

Toto, king of ominous sound bites, had suggested, in the newly launched Mercedes book, that Lewis might’ve been near his “shelf life.”

As if Lewis wasn’t out there fighting the excuse of a car they couldn’t understand how to work around, pulling phenomenal races from P10, setting twelve fastest laps, lapping four-tenths faster than his own teammate at some points.

And if there’d been more laps? Well, Toto might’ve had to eat his words on a very public stage.

I’d been at the race, of course. Watching from the garage, headphones clamped tight over my ears, my hands clasped together until they ached. I’d barely breathed until he crossed the line in P2, the garage erupting around me.

The relief was immediate, but it didn’t last.

I caught the frustration in his shoulders as he climbed out of the car, the way it clung to him during the cooldown drive to the podium interview and those mandatory interviews.

He’d wanted more.

He hadn’t said anything directly to me, of course—he never does when the sting is fresh. But I know the weight when I see it.

It’s in the way he’s still tense even as he waves to the fans, in the measured, overly polite answers he gives in interviews.

Watching him absorb the quiet digs, I wanted to storm the press room and defend him, consequences be damned. But what good would it do? Still, the knot in my chest wouldn’t loosen until I saw him smile again.

And then Toto had gone and made it worse. Of course. Lewis’s teammate was “from another planet,” while Lewis was just working with a “super strong car.”

I’d had to sit there and smile politely, even though every part of me wanted to grab Toto by the collar and shake him.

It wasn’t my fight, though—not really. It was Lewis’s. And Lewis, being Lewis, handled it like a pro. Calm. Measured.

Acknowledging his own faults while subtly calling out the micro-aggressions of all sorts he’s dealt with his whole career.

That’s my man. Too classy for this world.

But let’s be real: the post-race party in Vegas? That was for me. Not that I’d ever admit outside of our bedroom, but seeing him relaxed, smiling, surrounded by people who adore him? That was the real victory.

And the price for that? Me, nursing the world’s worst hangover and Lewis, laughing at my expense. Classic.

His voice broke through my thoughts. “You really went for it last night. Celebrating like you won something.”

“I did win something,” I mumble into the pillow.

“Oh yeah?” His tone is teasing, and I can feel his grin without even looking.

I finally roll onto my back, squinting at him like he’s the sun itself. “Bragging rights,” I said. “Because you…” I pointed vaguely in his direction, “…are a goddamn force of nature. And because everyone who said otherwise is a dumbass.”

He shakes his head, amused, but there’s a softness in his eyes now.

“And,” I add, smirking despite the pounding in my head, “I won tequila shots with Miles. That’s also worth celebrating.”

“Clearly.” He gestures vaguely at my disheveled state, and I kick at him weakly with one foot.

He dodges easily, then leans back, holding his phone up with a sly smile.

“Pot, meet kettle,” I muttered, rolling onto my stomach and burying my face in the pillow. Except that pillow smelled like him, which was entirely too distracting.

“What’s got you so chirpy this morning anyway?” I mumbled into the pillowcase, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

He had an uncanny ability to bounce back after days like these, his body apparently immune to exhaustion. I would’ve hated him for it if I didn’t love him so much.

“Just enjoying the comments on your last post,” he said nonchalantly.

That got my attention. I lifted my head to look at him. “What post?”

Lewis didn’t answer. Instead, he smirked and held up his phone, just out of my reach.

“Oh, come on,” I groaned, dragging myself upright. My head protested the movement, but curiosity outweighed the pain. “What did I do?”

“You don’t remember?” His grin widened. “It’s good. Really good.”

“Lewis.” I reached for his phone, but he leaned back, clearly enjoying this way too much.

“I think it’s fair to say the caption was… pointed,” he said, drawing the word out.

“Pointed at what?” My patience was wearing thin, and my curiosity was spiraling into mild panic.

He finally handed me the phone, and the moment I saw the screen, the haze of my hangover lifted just enough to make room for a new emotion: horror.

The photo was innocent enough—just me and Lewis at some ridiculous Vegas afterparty, his arm slung around my shoulders, both of us grinning like idiots. But the caption. Oh, the caption.

“All in on ageless wonder”

And my jaw drops. “Oh my God.”

Lewis is laughing now, low and warm and entirely too entertained. “You went all in, babe.”

I scroll through the comments, and my stomach flips. Hundreds of thousands of likes. Thousands of comments. Most are supportive—#GoatHamilton is trending, apparently—but a few are... less so.

I can’t help it but laugh. “Drunk me is bold.”

“Drunk you is sincere” he corrects, taking the phone back and locking the screen.

“Toto kinda deserves it.” I sit up, wincing as the motion sends my head spinning. “How long can I leave it up before PR calls me personally to tell me I’m banned from every Mercedes garage on Earth?”

Lewis checked his watch like he was genuinely considering it. “I’d say we’ve got a couple hours before the panic sets in. Maybe three if I keep ignoring my phone.”

I grin at him. “Reckless. I like it.”

He grins back, and for a moment, it’s just us. No hangovers, no drama, no shelf-life bullshit. Just Lewis and me, in sync as always.

He kissed me then, and for a moment, the lingering fog of tequila and regret melted away. All that mattered was him—his warmth, his steadiness, his love that he didn’t have to put into words because it was always there, in everything he did.

Lewis always had a way of grounding me, of silencing the noise in my head with something as simple as a kiss. It wasn’t just the feel of his lips—it was the way his hands cupped my face, anchoring me to him, the unspoken reassurance in the way he held me.

He didn’t need words to remind me that we were a team, that no matter how loud the world got, we’d always have this.

And I knew—I’d burn through a thousand hangovers just to feel this peace

“How much trouble are you when Toto sees that post?” I ask after a few moments of us studying each other.

He smirks. “Don’t worry.”

“Remind me to confiscate my phone next time I drink.” I lean back against the headboard, closing my eyes again.

“Not a chance,” he says, and there’s so much affection in his voice it makes my chest ache.

I peek at him through one eye. “You like chaos too much.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, still grinning. “Or maybe I just like you.���

Damn him.

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling now, the pain in my head fading to the background. Lewis has that effect on me. He always has.

And as much as I want to give him hell for waking me up, for teasing me, for letting me post that caption in the first place, I can’t bring myself to care.

Because at the end of the day, Lewis is Lewis. And he doesn’t need anyone to tell him who he is.

Although I’ll keep on shouting it from the rooftops if I have to.

Shelf life, my ass.

_____________________________________________________________

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[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[hoshifighting]

Hi. I love your writings. After I discovered Tumblr and your account... I don't know if I've had any day without coming back here... I had a request.

Bathroom sex with Minghao. It has been going on in my mind all day... Either bathtub or shower.

Even though he's not so masculine like others... I feel like he has an incredible core strength. So maybe putting the reader against the wall? Also if you're comfortable, could you add the reader as someone who's overweight and gets insecure from time to time.

It's like Minghao is comforting them through showing how beautiful they are through intimacy? Feels like something he would do.

Love your writing. Take care

bath sex with minghao

WARNINGS: bath sex, insecurities, praising, nipple sucking, penetrative sex, a tear dropping here or there...

a/n: thank you my love for making me part of your routine 😭🙏 I luv seeing you here, you are soooo sweet!! sorry for making u wait for so long 🥺 love you too, take care of yourself, and drink lots of water plsss

you’d been spiraling about it all damn day. the way minghao’s hands just felt—long fingers brushing your skin in passing, his touch so casual but also so intentional. it stuck to you like a tattoo, made your brain fuzzy. you didn’t even realize it, but the itch of your insecurities had been gnawing at you. maybe it was that girl in line earlier with the perfect ass and the confidence to match, or maybe it was just the mirror, the way it always reflected every single thing you couldn’t fix.

but minghao sees you, actually sees you, and it ruins you every time.

“you’ve been quiet all day,” he says from the bathroom doorway, his head tilted like he’s already piecing you apart, trying to read the shit you don’t say. “what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

you don’t answer right away—can’t, really—because he’s standing there in just his sweatpants, waistband hanging low, hair still damp from his post-workout shower. fucking unreal. and you hate it, the way you almost flinch at the word “pretty,” because yeah, he means it, but your brain won’t let you believe it.

“nothing,” you lie, but your voice cracks. his eyes narrow.

“bullshit.”

you huff, looking anywhere but him. “it’s not a big deal. just—ugh, i don’t know, okay? can we not do this tonight?”

but of course, minghao doesn’t take that. doesn’t let you slip into your head and drown in it. instead, he steps in, closing the door softly behind him, like he’s locking the world out. “you know you can’t bullshit me, baby. talk to me.”

and then he’s right in front of you, hands sliding over your arms, thumbs skimming your skin like he’s earthing you.

you mumble, “i just—i don’t feel good today, okay? like… about myself.”

his brows pull together, and you hate that he looks hurt on your behalf. “y/n,” he says, his voice softer now, “what the hell are you talking about?”

“you wouldn’t get it,” you mutter, but the words catch when he lifts your chin with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“try me.”

and fuck, he’s patient, doesn’t rush you, just waits while his thumbs start rubbing little circles on your hips. finally, you crack. “i just… sometimes it’s hard, okay? i see all these girls who look perfect, and then there’s me. i don’t even know why you—”

“don’t,” he cuts you off, firmly. “don’t finsh it, don’t do that. don’t talk about yourself like that. do you know how fucking beautiful you are? like, actually?”

you laugh, but it’s bitter, because it’s not something you believe. “hao—”

he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in to kiss you, like he’s trying to rewrite whatever nonsense’s looping in your head. his lips move with yours, one hand sliding up your back, the other curling around your waist, and it’s so easy to melt into him, to forget everything else.

“i’m serious,” he murmurs against your mouth. “you’re the most gorgeous person i’ve ever seen. i love every. fucking. inch. of you.”

you want to argue, but then his hands are tugging at your shirt, and the air shifts. he pulls back just enough to look at you. “can i?”

your nod is shaky, he peels your shirt off like it’s a ritual, and when he sees the hesitance in your eyes, he leans in to kiss your shoulder, your collarbone, every patch of skin he uncovers.

he’s backing you up against the shower wall, his breath hot against your neck as he trails kisses down your jaw.

“hao,” you whisper, barely able to get the word out before he’s hooking your legs around his waist, his strength catching you like it’s nothing. “wait, i’m—”

“you’re fucking stunning,” he says, cutting you off, his lips crashing into yours again. “and i’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

the sound of the water hitting the tile was loud, drowning out every thought in your head except him. minghao was everywhere—hands firm on your thighs, lips pressed to your chest, tongue teasing your nipples until you were squirming. the spray soaked through what little clothing you both had left, making the fabric cling before he shoved his pants and boxers down with one hand, the wet heap hitting the floor with an exaggerated plop.

“didn’t know your pants were that heavy,” you giggled. he smirked before leaning in to kiss you again.

“focus,” he murmured. his hips pressed forward, and you gasped when his cock brushed against your pussy—hard and ready, like it always was when it came to you. it was one of those things that made you feel… better, somehow. like maybe he really did mean all the things he said about how he wanted you, how he needed you. not that you’d ever admit it—god, no, he’d never let you live it down.

you squirmed against him, suddenly hyperaware of how high he had you hoisted. “hao, i—”

“relax,” he interrupted. “i’ve got you.”

“but what if—what if i fall?”

his jaw tensed, his hands tightened on you. “you won’t fall, y/n. do you trust me?”

you nodded, but it wasn’t enough for him. his eyes narrowed. “say it.”

your voice cracked. “i trust you.”

“good,” he said, but there was a shimmer of guilt in his expression when he saw the tears welling in your eyes. his voice softened immediately. “hey, baby—fuck, i’m sorry. didn’t mean to sound so harsh. you’re safe, okay? i promise.”

his lips brushed your cheek, catching the tear that spilled over, and you sniffled, clinging to him tighter. his forehead pressed to yours as he whispered, “you’re safe with me. i swear.”

and then he rolled his hips, sliding into you, and whatever insecurity you’d been holding onto was gone—just gone. all you could feel was him, thick and deep, stretching you until your head spun. he groaned, his breath hitching as he bottomed out. “you feel so fucking good, baby. perfect. perfect.”

your fingers dug into his shoulders, a whimper slipping past your lips as he pulled back and thrust again, deep. the angle made you gasp, made your whole body shake in his arms. “hao,” you choked out, overwhelmed, and he just smiled against your neck.

“that’s it babe,” he murmured, picking up his pace, his hips slapping against yours. “see? i told you, baby. you don’t have to worry about anything. i’ve got you. always.”

his words melted into the steam around you, and soon you weren’t sure if it was water or sweat trailing down your body. he fucked you, his grip on you steady and unrelenting, making it impossible to think about anything but the way he filled you, the way he made you feel like you were his.

“shit—fuck, hao, i’m gonna—”

“i know,” he cut in, his voice thick and breathless, but that smug grin never wavered. “let go for me, baby. you’re so fucking beautiful when you cum. let me see you.”

and when you did—when your body clenched around him and your moan echoed in the steam-filled space—he followed right after, his hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could go. his head fell to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin as he held you close, neither of you caring about the water still raining down around you.

“see?” he said after a moment, pulling back enough to look at you. his smile was soft now, tender. “told you I wouldn’t let you fall.”