#they’re used in more than just Friends sets

[orangeblossomsintheair]

ILLICIT AFFAIRS (3/3) | CS55

summary : You shouldn’t have said anything. You really shouldn’t have. But it’s too late now. “He sent me a dildo shaped like his cock,” you mutter under your breath, so fast you almost hope she didn’t hear you.

wc : 14k

an : This might be the end of the Illicit Affairs series! Honestly I might write another part (as I intended) but I realized it could also end here. I might work it alongside a few other fics on the back burner.

The thing about Carlos is that he doesn’t tiptoe. He doesn’t hesitate.

He’s the kind of guy who walks into your life, plops down, and acts like he’s always been there.

At first, you think he’s just passing through, like one of those tumbleweeds in old Westerns. Here for a moment, gone in another, leaving only a faint memory and maybe a little dust.

But Carlos is no tumbleweed.

He’s ivy. Creeping into the corners of your life, attaching himself with relentless charm and absolutely zero warning.

At first, it had just been sex.

Carlos calls, you pick up, and the two of you dive headfirst into whatever filthy scenario he’s cooked up for the evening.

It’s hot, it’s fun, and afterwards, you both lie there catching your breath while exchanging a few words like some half-hearted attempt at aftercare.

“Good for you?” he’ll ask, panting, his voice somehow managing to sound both teasing and sincere.

“Sure,” you say, rolling your eyes at the ceiling. “Top ten, at least.”

He laughs. Deep, warm, addictive. “I’ll aim for top five next time.”

It’s simple. Casual. Exactly what you signed up for.

Until it’s not.

Until the minutes start to stretch.

At first, it’s just an extra five. Then ten. Then before you know it, the two of you are sitting there, chatting about absolutely nothing long after the heat of the moment has faded.

Next thing you know Carlos is reaching out for the sake of company.

It’s easy to brush it off at first.

To pretend it’s harmless.

Carlos is just a guy who’s annoyingly good at making you laugh and has a voice so smooth it could probably negotiate world peace or at least a really good discount at a used car dealership.

But then, one afternoon, as you’re scrolling through your texts, you realize something horrifying:

You talk to Carlos more than you talk to your friends.

No, scratch that. You talk to Carlos more than you talk to anyone.

And it’s not just the sheer volume. It’s the content.

It’s the way his words sneak into your day, set up camp, and throw a block party. He texts you good morning before you’ve even had coffee, which is frankly criminal.

Carlos Rise and shine, baby. Did you dream about me again?

You I dreamed I hit you with my car

Carlos Hot. Was I shirtless?

You No, but you were crying. Freaked me out

Carlos Probably because I looked so good

You should block him.

You should delete his number.

You do neither, because somewhere deep down, you’re a masochist.

He doesn’t stop at morning texts either.

He sends unsolicited opinions all day, every day.

Carlos Do you think cows ever get tired of standing?

You They sit, Carlos. They sit all the time.

Carlos Yeah, but like, emotionally? What if they’re just pretending to like grass because they’re scared of change

You What would they change to, exactly? Chicken nuggets?

Carlos Maybe. Cows could be wild carnivores waiting for their moment. We don’t know what they’re capable of.

One day, while you're halfway through a bag of chips, your phone buzzes again.

Carlos Do you think birds ever judge us for not flying?

You You need therapy

Carlos So do you, but I don’t judge

You You judge me constantly 🤨

The banter becomes relentless.

Carlos If you had to pick one food to eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?

You Pasta

Carlos Predictable. You’re so basic it physically hurts

You Pretentious words from a man whose favorite snack is probably caviar

Carlos First of all, how dare you

You You’re trash

Carlos Trash that you text back btw

Then comes the random photos.

He sends you a blurry picture of his sneakers one afternoon.

Carlos Do these make me look fast? Be honest, but also lie

You Fast to embarrass yourself

Carlos Wow. Jealousy is a disease. Get well soon

Carlos Does it change anything if I say they’re limited edition

You Limited edition ugly

He sends you a picture of his dog another day, sprawled on the couch like he pays rent.

Carlos We’ve decided to boycott walkies today.

Solidarity with my guy.

You Tell him he’s lazy

Carlos He says those are bold words from someone who hasn’t hit the gym this week

You glare at the screen. It’s 7 a.m. How does he even know that?

You Your dog is illiterate. Don’t drag him into this

Carlos Rude. He’s very smart

You He licks his own butt

He becomes a fixture in your life without you even noticing.

Carlos Did you miss me while I was asleep?

One morning, you’re sipping your coffee when your phone buzzes.

You I slept better knowing you weren’t conscious

Carlos So, you’re saying you dreamt about me

You I dreamt I moved to a remote island where Wi-Fi doesn’t exist

Carlos Romantic getaway for two. Love that for us

You groan, but your fingers are already typing a response.

And somehow, without you realizing it, Carlos isn’t just a voice on the phone or a name on your screen.

He’s everywhere, weaving himself into your days with his relentless humor and absolute refusal to leave you alone.

That’s why when a day passes by without any contact, you’re tilted off balance.

The silence is unnerving.

You tell yourself it’s just one night.

One single night where Carlos doesn’t text or call, and you should be relieved.

Grateful, even, for the reprieve from his relentless antics.

But you’re not.

You spend the evening trying not to think about it.

You scroll through Instagram, open a book, binge half a season of some random series. But every few minutes, you find yourself glancing at your phone, waiting for it to light up.

It doesn’t.

The hours crawl by, and by the time you’re lying in bed, glaring at the ceiling, you’re starting to feel… itchy. Annoyed. Frustrated. And maybe just a little bit unreasonably hurt.

Then, finally, your phone buzzes.

You grab it so fast you nearly knock it off the nightstand.

Carlos Miss me?

Your stomach does a ridiculous little flip, but you type back quickly.

You Not even a little

Carlos Liar

Another message follows: a selfie of him holding the meerkat plushie you’d sent him as a joke a week ago.

Carlos He misses you too

You groan, but your cheeks ache from smiling.

Carlos By the way

Carlos I sent you a gift

You I didn’t get a package?

Carlos Wait

Carlos Call me when you get it

You shake your head, setting your phone down.

It’s probably something stupid. Knowing Carlos, it could be anything from a ridiculous gag gift to an actual penguin.

Two days later, a package arrives.

It’s sitting on your kitchen counter, deceptively normal-looking for something that Carlos sent.

You eye it warily, debating whether you should even bother opening it.

You stare at it for a good ten minutes, arms crossed, trying to decide whether you should call him first or just dump it straight into the trash.

Eventually, curiosity (and mild fear) wins out. You grab your phone and click the topmost contact.

It rings once before he picks up.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you,” Carlos says, his voice smooth and entirely too smug.

“What the hell did you send me?” you demand without preamble.

“Why don’t you open it and find out?”

“Carlos.”

“Yes?”

You groan, already regretting this decision. “I swear to God, if it’s alive-”

“It’s not alive,” he interrupts.

“Then what is it?”

“Open it.”

“No,” you snap. “Because if it’s something awful, I can’t unsee it. I’m preemptively traumatized. Just tell me what it is so I can mentally prepare.”

“That’s not how surprises work,” he replies, completely unbothered.

“It’s not a surprise if I hate it,” you point out.

“You won’t hate it.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You might be pleasantly surprised,” he insists, and there’s a tone in his voice, something too smug, too amused, that makes your stomach churn with suspicion.

“Carlos,” you warn.

“Yes?”

“If this is some kind of prank-”

“It’s not a prank,” he says, cutting you off again. “It’s a gift. A thoughtful, meaningful, deeply personal gift.”

“Deeply personal?” you echo, narrowing your eyes at the box like it’s about to explode. “That doesn’t sound reassuring.”

“It’s just a little something to remind you of me,” he adds, which is possibly the least reassuring thing he could have said.

You exhale sharply through your nose, setting your phone down on the counter so he can see.

His face lights up on the screen, all lazy smirks and overconfidence, and you hate the way your stomach flips at the sight of him.

Grabbing a pair of scissors, you slice through the tape with the caution of someone defusing a bomb.

Carlos watches you with rapt attention, his chin resting on his hand. “Excited?”

“I’m terrified,” you deadpan, peeling back the flaps of the box.

For a moment, you just stare.

Then, you shriek. Loudly.

“Carlos, what the fuck?!”

He leans closer to the camera, his grin widening. “You like it?”

“You sent me a dildo?!” you yell, your voice an octave higher than usual.

“Not just any dildo,” he says smugly, sitting back like he’s the king of the universe.

You stare at him, then at the object in the box, and back at him again.

It looks… normal, at first glance.

But then you notice the size. The veins. The shade.

The very specific details.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, horror dawning. “It’s your… your…”

“My cock,” he supplies helpfully. “Yep.”

“Carlos!” you screech, clutching the box like it’s cursed. “You’re a lunatic!”

“True,” he says, completely unfazed. “But admit it- you’re impressed.”

“Impressed?!” you repeat, your voice pitching even higher. “What is WRONG with you?!”

“A lot,” he admits, far too cheerfully. “But you already knew that.”

“How did you even- who does this?!”

“Visionaries,” he says smoothly. “Trendsetters. People who care deeply about customer satisfaction.”

“Customer?!”

“Well, you.”

“I am not your customer!” you yell, holding the replica aloft like it’s a cursed artifact.

Carlos is unbothered. “Technically, you are. You’ve been enjoying the original product for a while now. Or, well, the sight of it.”

You choke on air. “You’re insane.”

“Insanely thoughtful,” he corrects.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re flustered. It's very cute.”

Your jaw drops. “I am not-”

He cuts you off, grinning wider. “So, when’s the test drive?”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, setting the… thing down and burying your face in your hands. “This isn’t happening.”

“Take your time,” he says, magnanimous. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he adds, like this is a completely normal conversation.

“I didn’t ask for this!”

“I know. That’s what makes it such a great surprise,” he says, his grin practically splitting his face.

“Surprise?!” you echo. “I almost had a heart attack!”

“You’ll appreciate it later,” he says confidently.

“I will not!”

“Bet you will.”

“You need therapy,” you hiss, shoving the box away like it might explode.

“And you need lube,” he counters smoothly.

“You’re deranged!”

“Efficient,” he corrects, smirking. “In case you miss me.”

“I don’t!” you lie, your face burning.

Carlos watches you, entirely too pleased with himself. “You’re keeping it, though.”

“I am absolutely not-”

“Yes, you are,” he interrupts, his tone maddeningly smug.

“I am throwing it in the trash right now!” you declare, grabbing the box and stomping toward the trash can.

He leans closer to the camera, completely unbothered. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

You freeze, hand hovering over the trash.

“There it is,” he says smugly. “Knew you wouldn’t.”

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, stomping back to the counter and slamming the box down.

“And yet, here you are, calling me,” he points out.

“Because I needed to yell at you!”

“And now you’re smiling.”

“I am not smiling!” you yell, even as you turn away from the camera to hide the traitorous curl of your lips.

Carlos laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Admit it- you think it’s funny.”

“I think it’s horrifying!”

“You’re laughing on the inside.”

“I’m plotting your murder on the inside,” you snap.

“Sure, sure,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “So. Again. When are you trying it out?”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Liar,” he says again, his grin positively devilish.

Before you can come up with a response, he adds, “Just make sure to let me know how it compares to the real thing. For science.”

“You’re insane,” you mutter, grabbing your phone and ending the call with a vicious jab.

Seconds later, your phone buzzes with a text.

Carlos Don’t forget lube, babe. You’re gonna need it. ;)

You stare at the screen, your cheeks burning.

Carlos And batteries. Unless you want to do it the old-fashioned way. Your call.

You want to throw the phone, the box, and maybe yourself out the nearest window.

You Blocked

Carlos Bad girl.

—

Carlos has this way of getting under your skin. Not in an infuriating, "I can’t believe I’m dealing with this" kind of way, but more in the likes of "Why do I secretly enjoy this ridiculousness?"

It starts with a string of increasingly pathetic messages.

Carlos Please?

Carlos Just once?

Carlos I take that back.

Carlos Twice? Maybe even thrice

Carlos C’mon, I’ll be good

Carlos I’m literally begging here

Carlos On my knees

Carlos Pathetically btw

Carlos Do you need a photo for proof?

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head.

You Carlos, we are not doing this again

Carlos You say that

Carlos But I feel like deep down you want to. You’re just being stubborn

He replies instantly, because of course he’s sitting there, waiting for your response like his life depends on it.

“Stubborn,” you deadpan, fingers hovering over your phone. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”

And then he hits you with a voice note, because apparently texts alone can’t convey his desperation.

You don’t even mean to open it, but your thumb slips, and suddenly there he is, using that tone that he knows gets to you.

"Just once," he begs, words spilling out of your speakers like some lovesick fool. "I swear I’ll make it worth your time. Please. I just wanna watch you take me again."

You know you shouldn’t.

It’s ridiculous, bordering on embarrassing.

But then you picture his face, probably flushed, probably biting his lip in that way that always gets to you, and against your better judgment, you cave.

You Fine. But just this once

Carlos I love you

Carlos You’re the best

Carlos I’m naming my firstborn after you

You Just call me

Carlos Yes ma'am 🥰

When the call connects, you're met with the sight of Carlos lounging on his couch looking very much the part of a man who's won an impossible bet.

One arm is draped lazily over the backrest, laptop balanced on his thighs.

The soft glow from the screen highlights the sharp angles of his jawline and the shadow of stubble that you know feels just as delicious as it looks.

The smirk that he wears is devastating. An expression of smug satisfaction that makes your pulse race even as you curse him for it.

His shirt clings to his broad chest, the undone buttons teasing you with a glimpse of hard lines across tanned skin.

His eyes are locked onto you.

There’s heat in them, hunger.

He’s relaxed, but you can feel the tension rolling off him, the way he’s barely holding himself back.

And you?

You’re perched on your bed, knees tucked beneath you, completely bare.

The dildo lies heavy in your hand, the silicone cool against your flushed skin.

The sheer indecency of it sends a rush of heat through you, making your thighs clench.

Carlos smirks, his hand disappearing offscreen for a moment, only to return with a slow stroke along his already hard cock.

He leans forward slightly, the movement drawing your eyes to the way his length twitches in his hand.

For someone who was shamelessly begging just minutes ago, Carlos is playing it way too cool now.

“Naked on your bed, holding a mold of my dick,” he says, his voice smooth like it’s a damn sales pitch. “I mean, come on. That’s the kind of devotion poets write sonnets about.”

You snort, rolling your eyes even as your cheeks heat up. “Oh, yeah. Shakespeare totally had this in mind when he wrote, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day.’”

“Exactly. I’m a classic, baby. Timeless.”

“Delusional,” you counter, grabbing the bottle of lube with way more force than necessary.

His laugh is low and warm, the kind that annoyingly makes your stomach flip. “Call it what you want, but you didn’t say no to my ‘gift.’”

Your glare falters, just for a second, and he catches it immediately. Carlos thrives on cracks in your armor, and his smirk sharpens like a predator who just spotted its prey.

You glare at the bottle in your hand like it personally wronged you. "I hate you," you mutter, squeezing out a glob of lube.

Carlos's face lights up on the screen, all smug satisfaction and unearned charm. "Funny, because you're doing exactly what I asked. Almost like you want to."

"Don’t push your luck,”

He leans closer to his camera, his grin widening. "Oh, pushing my luck is my favorite hobby. You know this."

You level him with a deadpan stare. "And yet, here you are. Still single."

"Wow. Low blow. But fine, I'll allow it, because you're about to make my night."

"Make your night?" You scoff, dragging this out purely to annoy him. "I’m just trying to remember what this was called. A gag gift, right? Or was it just a waste of money?"

His jaw drops. "A gag gift? I can’t believe you’d say that. This is art."

"This is silicone," you reply flatly, holding up the toy with a disapproving shake of your head.

"Silicone art," he corrects, pointing at the screen like that changes anything. His grin sharpens. "And don’t pretend you weren’t curious the moment I sent it to you."

"You sent this to annoy me," you retort, spreading the lube over your fingers with dramatic flair. "And congratulations, it worked."

Carlos leans forward, his chin propped on his hand as he watches you, his dark eyes glittering with mischief.

"Oh, but look at you now. All lubed up and ready to go. Who's the real winner here, hmm?"

"Still me," you shoot back, though your fingers falter as you glance down at the toy.

Your grip tightens as if it’s a stress ball, and the obscene squelch it makes has you biting back a groan.

Carlos’s smirk grows. "Careful, sweetheart. You keep squeezing it like that, and I’ll think you’re practicing for something."

You let out a sharp breath through your nose, refusing to look at him. "You’re insufferable, you know that?"

He leans in even closer. "And you’re still here. Lube in hand. Ready to-"

"Don’t finish that sentence," you interrupt, finally looking up to glare at him. "I’ll block you."

Carlos snickers, leaning back like he’s won. "You’d never block me. I’m your favorite pain in the ass."

"No," you say, grabbing the toy with more force than necessary. "You're just a pain in the ass in general. Huge difference."

His brow arches as he watches you spread the lube along the length of the toy, the slick sound louder than your ego can handle. You freeze mid-motion, hyper-aware of his gaze tracking every movement.

Carlos’s grin falters for a moment, replaced by something darker, hungrier. His voice drops an octave. "Good girl."

The unexpected praise punches the air out of your lungs, and your hands falter, nearly dropping the toy.

"Keep going," he murmurs, his tone rich with satisfaction. His eyes don’t leave yours, the heat in them curling low in your stomach. "Let me see you do it."

Your pride flares, and you straighten your spine, lifting your chin as you resume your movements with exaggerated precision.

"You’re lucky I don’t throw this thing across the room," you grumble.

Carlos hums, his gaze shamelessly lingering. "You wouldn’t dare. That thing cost more than your dignity."

"Bold words for someone whose dignity died in 2016," you snap, but the banter feels more like a lifeline now, a way to distract yourself from the intensity of his gaze.

The corner of his mouth lifts, cocky and infuriating. "Touché."

You inhale sharply, your hands trembling slightly as you grip the toy.

You hate how your body reacts to him, how his voice, his laugh, his everything gets under your skin like this.

Carlos leans forward again, his smirk all-knowing. "Having fun yet?"

Your pride makes you glare at him. “Fuck you.”

His laugh is low, indulgent, the sound curling around you like smoke. "Soon, sweetheart. Very soon."

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” he fires back smoothly, his eyes gleaming with wicked intent.

His voice drops to a growl. "But you won’t, will you? You’ll do exactly what I say because you love being told what to do. Makes you wet just thinking about it, doesn’t it?"

Your lips part, but the sharp retort you’re trying to form dies as his gaze drops to your hands.

His smirk fades, replaced by a hunger so fierce it leaves you breathless.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rich with satisfaction.

The unexpected praise sends a rush of heat straight to your core. "Keep going. Let me see you do it."

Your fingers tremble as you continue spreading lube on the length of the toy, the silicone cool against your skin.

“Fuck,” Carlos breathes, his hand tightening around his cock. “Look at you, already so obedient. Knew you’d listen.”

He shifts slightly, his voice softening. “Now, spread those legs for me. Show me how wet you are. I want to see that pretty pussy you’ve been thinking about me filling.”

Your thighs part, the cool air brushing against your slick heat as you settle back against the pillows.

His sharp inhale through the speakers sends a jolt straight to your core.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice strained.

His hand pauses on his cock as he drinks in the sight of you, dark eyes dragging over every inch of exposed skin. "You’re so fucking perfect. Do you even realize how bad I want to bury myself in you right now?"

Your skin feels like it’s on fire, the heat spreading from your cheeks to your chest as the ache between your thighs sharpens with every passing second of his unrelenting stare.

Slowly, you drag the toy through your folds, the soft, slick sound of your arousal breaking the tense silence.

It’s obscene, the way the wetness clings, glistening on the head of the silicone.

Your arousal drips along your thighs, the skin glistening under the low light and you can feel how messy you’ve become, how utterly soaked you are.

"Oh, sweetheart," he rasps, his eyes fixed on the toy and the way it slides against your swollen folds. "That's it. Get it nice and wet for me. I want to see just how desperate you are to take it."

Your fingers tremble as you position the toy at your entrance, the blunt tip pressing against your slick heat. You hesitate, glancing up at him through the screen.

“Carlos…”

“Go on, baby,” he urges, his tone soft but insistent. “Don’t make me wait. I want to see you take it.”

You bite your lip, a soft whine escaping as you slide the tip between your folds again. His gaze darkens, his strokes faltering as he watches you hover above it.

The moment the dildo breaches the first ring of muscles, your head falls back with a moan that’s nothing short of sinful.

Carlos’s eyes burn through the screen, dark and wild, his fist sliding steadily up and down his cock as he watches you begin to move.

“Fuck, baby, look at you,” he groans, his voice rough and needy. “You’re so fucking tight. That little pussy is made for me, isn’t it?”

You whimper, your hips starting to bounce, your slick heat making it easier to slide up and down. The toy stretches you so perfectly, but it’s his words that send fire shooting through your veins.

“Yes,” you gasp, gripping the bed to keep your balance. “It’s yours, Carlos. Always yours.”

“Damn right it is,” he growls, stroking himself faster. “You'd rather have me inside you, stretching you out, making you scream my name, hm? Doesn't matter if it's a mold from my cock. Still can't compare, yeah?”

Your hips jerk at his filthy words, and you pick up the pace, grinding down harder until the toy presses right against that spot that makes you see stars.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice dripping with dominance. “Say how much you want my cock, baby. Tell me what you miss.”

“I miss you,” you cry out, each bounce making your voice tremble. “Miss the way you fill me up, how fucking deep you get- oh god, Carlos-”

“That’s my girl,” he groans, his jaw tightening as he watches the way your body moves, the slick sounds of the dildo sliding in and out of you driving him insane.

“You’d take me so good, wouldn’t you? Let me fuck you until you can’t even think, until you’re dripping all over my cock.”

“Please,” you whine, your fingers digging into the sheets as the pleasure builds, your body tightening around the toy with every bounce. “I need it. Need you to fuck me, Carlos. Need to feel you come inside me-”

“Shit,” he growls, his hips jerking up into his hand. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Feeling me stretch you open, filling you so full you’d still be dripping with me the next day.”

Your head is spinning, the combination of his words and the relentless drag of the dildo inside you sending you spiraling closer to the edge.

“You’d let me do whatever I want, wouldn’t you?” His voice is a low, dirty rasp now, his strokes frantic as he chases his release. “You’d let me bend you over, fuck you on every surface in the house, make you come over and over until you’re begging me to stop.”

You nod desperately.

“Go faster, baby” Carlos murmurs, his voice low and rough.

You whimper, obeying.

Each downward motion stretches you all over again, and the fullness makes your eyes flutter shut as a moan spills from your lips.

Carlos’s growl cuts through the speakers, low and rough. “You look so pretty fucking yourself on it like that.”

You lift yourself just enough for the toy to drag along your walls, the friction igniting sparks of pleasure that ripple through you.

When you sink back down, the stretch feels even deeper. Your thighs tremble, your pace picking up as the need builds inside you.

“Fuck,” Carlos groans. “Your tits are bouncing so perfectly. Keep going, baby, let me see them move while you ride it.”

Your breasts sway with each bounce, the motion only adding to the heat pooling low in your belly.

The way his eyes lock onto you, dark, hungry, devouring, makes your nipples pebble, the cool air only amplifying the sensation.

“You look so fucking good,” Carlos murmurs, half mindless, his strokes on his cock quickening as he watches you. “Look at how deep it’s stretching you. Look at the way your tits bounce every time you take it. Fuck, you’re so perfect.”

You can’t stop now, the pleasure too much to ignore.

Your hips grind down harder, rolling in small circles as you press yourself against the base of the toy.

Each motion sends shocks of ecstasy through you, your slick heat gripping the silicone like you never want it to leave.

“Bounce on it harder,” he says.

Your hands grip the sheets tightly as you obey, your hips lifting and dropping with more urgency.

The wet, obscene sound of the toy sliding in and out of you fills the room, mixing with your soft gasps and moans. Your breasts bounce with every movement, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

“Baby,” Carlos groans, his fist tightening around his cock as he watches you ride the toy. “You’re so fucking perfect. You’d ride me just like that, wouldn’t you? Taking every inch, letting me stretch you open until you can’t handle it.”

Your breath catches, your body arching as you grind down harder, the toy hitting that perfect spot deep inside you. “Carlos,” you gasp, your voice trembling. “It feels so good- so fucking full-”

“That’s it,” he growls, his strokes turning frantic as he watches you lose yourself. “Take it all, baby. Keep bouncing. I want to see you come while you’re stretched out like that.”

“Yes,” you gasp, your body trembling as you grind harder, your cries turning into broken moans. “Carlos, I’m- fuck, I’m gonna come-”

“Do it,” he growls, his eyes locked on you, his voice pure command. “Come for me, baby. I want to see it. Show me how fucking good I make you feel.”

Your body shatters at his words, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your walls clench around the toy, your cries spilling out uncontrollably as pleasure courses through you.

“Fucking hell,” Carlos groans, his own release hitting him hard as he watches you fall apart. His hand jerks wildly as he spills over himself, his groans mixing with your whimpers through the screen.

As you both come down, the air is thick and charged, your bodies still trembling from the intensity of it all. Carlos grins at you, looking like the devil himself, his chest still heaving.

“Pretty girl.”

—-

Carlos’s phone is propped up against his water bottle, the screen showing you on the other end of the line as the two of you talk over lunch.

He’s at a small café near the gym, picking at a plate of grilled chicken and rice while you sit on the terrace of a restaurant somewhere near the Monaco Marina.

He can’t tell which restaurant exactly, but it doesn’t matter. He’s too focused on the way the sunlight catches in your hair, how you’re picking at a croissant with absentminded precision.

“So, wait,” you say, mid-bite. “You’re telling me you thought you could just wing the French?”

Carlos grins, popping a spoonful into his mouth. “I did wing it. The waiter understood me perfectly.”

“Sure,” you deadpan. “Because pointing at the menu is such a skill.”

He chuckles, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Why complicate things? A man’s gotta eat.”

You shake your head, your exasperation half-hearted at best. “You’re hopeless.”

“Worked, didn't it?” he counters smoothly, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

You roll your eyes but don’t argue, which feels like a victory.

For a moment, the conversation drifts to lighter topics.

Where you’d want to travel next, the chaos of his morning workout, and whether or not croissants count as dessert.

It’s easy, effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that feels like second nature.

But then you glance down, suddenly fidgeting with your sleeve, and Carlos picks up on the shift immediately.

“What’s that face?” he asks, leaning forward, curiosity laced in his tone.

You pause, debating, then sigh. “Can I tell my friends about this?”

Carlos blinks. “This?”

“Us,” you say, casually, but the word lands heavier than you probably realize.

He freezes for a split second, his mind stalling like a rookie stalling a car on the grid.

Us.

You don't mean it in the way that’s currently making his chest feel too tight, but it doesn’t stop the word from echoing in his head.

You take another bite of your croissant like you haven’t just derailed his entire thought process.

“Legally? No.” he says, recovering with a smirk. “You’re under NDA. You can’t even mention I exist.”

Your eyes narrow. “Carlos, no one cares that much about you.”

“Ouch,” he says, clutching his chest dramatically.

You shake your head, your expression flat. “Be serious. Is it okay or not?”

He leans back, draping an arm over his chair and studying you with an unreadable expression.

The truth is, he should say no. He should remind you how much he values his privacy, how careful he has to be.

But the thought of you talking about him, to your friends, no less, makes him feel... proud. Like he’s somehow made it onto a list of people who matter to you.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice casual. “Go ahead.”

“Really?”

“Why not?”

You narrow your eyes, clearly suspicious. “You’re not going to show up at my door with legal threats if I say something stupid?”

“Not unless it’s really stupid,” he teases.

Your unimpressed stare makes him grin wider. “You’re annoying,” you mutter, but your tone lacks any real bite.

“You love me though,” he counters easily.

He watches as your face softens, just for a moment, and something about it makes his heart stutter in a way he’d never admit.

“You’re impossible,” you say, shaking your head.

“And you like it,” he fires back, his voice light, though there’s a trace of sincerity underneath it.

The conversation shifts again, and by the time you glance at your watch, he’s already dreading the inevitable.

“I should go,” you say, reaching for your coffee cup.

“Busy?”

“Not really,” you admit, but you’re already sitting straighter, ready to leave.

Carlos hesitates, leaning forward slightly. “Hey.”

You pause, looking up at him expectantly.

“Call me again tomorrow,” he says, softer this time.

Your brow lifts, a flicker of curiosity crossing your face. “Why?”

He shrugs, fighting the grin threatening to take over. “I like hearing your voice.”

For a moment, you just stare at him, and he thinks maybe, just maybe, you’re about to call him out on it.

But then you roll your eyes, hiding a smile that he doesn’t miss.

“Goodbye, Carlos,” you say, shaking your head as you reach for the screen.

The call ends, and Carlos sits back in his chair, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he stares at the now-empty screen.

Us.

—-

It’s the bimonthly girlfriend meet-up, and Kika’s already locked onto you like a heat-seeking missile.

“So, there’s this guy,” you say casually, swirling your wine like this isn’t about to become the most chaotic conversation of your week.

Her brow arches, her smirk appearing like she’s just been handed premium-grade gossip.

“Oh?” she says, leaning in.

“Yes,” you reply, taking a slow sip from your glass, because wine is courage, and you need a lot of it right now.

“Tell me more,” she says, her tone deceptively sweet, like a predator coaxing its prey closer.

You hesitate. There’s no way you’re telling her the guy in question is Carlos Sainz.

That would be insane. Absolutely unhinged.

One, because it’s Carlos Sainz.

Two, because it’s Carlos fucking Sainz.

“We’ve been… hooking up,” you say vaguely, hoping to skate by with minimal detail.

Kika narrows her eyes. “Hooking up? Where? I haven’t seen you at the club scene lately, and I definitely haven’t heard from Charles about you sneaking out.”

You blink at her. “Why would Charles know- wait. Are you spying on me?”

“No,” she says breezily, waving a hand. “But Charles knows everything about you. If you were sneaking around Monaco with a guy, I’d know by now.”

Kika tilts her head, studying you. “So if it’s not a local guy…”

She pauses. Then her eyes widen. “Oh my God. Is it a long-distance thing? Is this why you’ve been all ‘mysterious vibes’ lately?”

You sigh, realizing you’re caught. “It’s phone sex, okay?”

Kika blinks. “Phone sex?”

“Yes,” you say, downing the rest of your wine in one gulp. “We’re doing… phone stuff.”

She hums, sitting back, her gaze calculating. “It’s a famous guy, isn’t it?”

“What?!” you sputter. “How did you- why would you even-”

“Ma’am, look at you.” She gestures at you like you’re an exhibit at the Louvre. “You’re gorgeous. You’re you. Why would you ever settle for phone sex unless it’s, like, some Vogue model or an A-lister who’s too busy jet-setting to see you in person?”

“That’s ridiculous,” you say, trying to laugh her off, but it sounds more like a dying animal.

Her grin turns absolutely wicked, the kind of wicked that makes you instantly regret ever letting her into your life. “Oh, so it is a famous guy. You just gave yourself away. Who is it? Spill.”

“I did not!” you protest, but it’s weak. Too weak.

Kika hums, tapping a finger on her chin as she tilts her head. “Hmm. Let me think. Is it an actor? A musician? Oh my God, is it Harry Styles? Blink once for yes.”

“Kika-”

“Wait!” She gasps, cutting you off and slapping the table. “Is it a prince? Are you pulling a Meghan Markle? Are we about to be royalty by proxy?”

“Kika!” you hiss, glaring at her as a nearby table turns to look at the commotion.

“Okay, okay, fine. I'll behave.”

“But,” she adds, holding up a finger and wagging it at you, “you can’t just stop there. I want details. Stories. Anecdotes. What have you two done other than, like, phone sex? That can’t be it, right? Kick it up a notch. Spice things up.”

Your face burns, and you take a long, slow sip of your drink, desperately trying to buy time. “We… talk.”

Kika stares at you, unimpressed. “Talk? Oh, please. You’re telling me a man calls you up just to talk?”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Sometimes.”

Her grin turns sharper. “And the other times?”

You look away, pretending to be fascinated by the texture of the tablecloth.

“Oh no,” she says, leaning in like a predator cornering its prey. “You’re not getting out of this. What does he say? What does he do? Don’t make me guess because I will make it a thousand times worse.”

You groan, your head falling into your hands. “Why are you like this?”

“Because I care about you,” she says sweetly, patting your hand before grinning again. “Now spill. What’s the wildest thing he’s done so far? Flown you out to a private island? Sent you a love letter written in champagne? What are we working with here?”

You hesitate. You know telling her anything will only fuel her chaos, but at this point, it feels like you don’t have a choice.

“Fine,” you mumble. “He, um… he sent me a… package.”

You take a long sip of your wine, trying to ignore Kika’s razor-sharp gaze burning into the side of your face.

You shouldn’t have said anything. You really shouldn’t have.

But it’s too late now.

“He sent me a dildo shaped like his cock,” you mutter under your breath, so fast you almost hope she didn’t hear you.

Kika chokes on her wine. Full-on chokes. She’s sputtering, clutching her chest as her eyes go wide.

Meanwhile, you calmly sip your drink, staring at some random painting on the wall like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.

“WHAT?!” she finally manages, her voice about three octaves higher than usual.

“I’m not saying it again,” you reply coolly, refusing to meet her gaze.

“He sent you a-” she starts, and then bursts into laughter so loud half the restaurant turns to look at your table.

You shoot her a glare, shushing her. “Could you not announce it to the entire world?”

“Oh my God,” she wheezes, clutching her stomach. “Mr. Mystery sent you a dildo shaped like his cock?!”

You take another sip of wine, your cheeks burning. “It was… thoughtful.”

“THOUGHTFUL?!” she howls. “He’s out here like, ‘What’s a practical gift? Ah, yes, my dick!’”

“It’s not a big deal,” you mumble into your hands, praying the floor will swallow you whole.

“Not a big- ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” She’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

“Kika,” you hiss, kicking her under the table.

“That’s so romantic,” she says, ignoring you entirely. “Forget flowers. Forget jewelry. Nothing says love like, ‘Here’s my dick. In case you miss me.’”

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Are you kidding? This is the best thing you��ve ever told me,” she says, still grinning like a lunatic.

She leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do you… do you keep it on your nightstand? Like, right next to your lamp? Is it displayed like a trophy? Maybe on one of those little velvet stands?”

“Kika!” you hiss, glancing around the café as if someone might overhear this absolute chaos.

Her laughter crescendos, attracting a few curious stares from nearby tables. She waves them off with a flick of her wrist, too far gone to care.

“No, seriously, I need to know. Oh God, imagine if you lose it. Like, it’s just missing one day and you’re crawling around under your couch yelling, ‘Mr. Mystery, where’s your dick?!’”

You groan, your head dropping into your hands. “Can you be serious for one second?”

She sucks in a breath, fanning herself like she’s about to faint. “Okay, okay. Serious. Totally serious. I’m done. Promise.”

You peek at her through your fingers, skeptical. “You sure?”

She nods, biting her lip to stifle another laugh. “Totally. Except… I have one more question.”

You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling like it might grant you patience. “What now?”

She leans in closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is it… accurate?”

You freeze, horrified. “I’m leaving.”

“No, wait!” she cries, grabbing your arm before you can stand. She’s laughing again, her grip on your sleeve shaking with the force of it. “Come on, I’m kidding! Mostly. But seriously. Is it accurate? Like, should we call MythBusters?”

You gape at her, flabbergasted. “Why would I answer that?”

“Because I’m dying to know!” she says, eyes gleaming.

You shake her off and reach for your bag. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re avoiding the question,” she fires back, wagging a finger at you like a smug prosecutor. “Which makes me think it’s very accurate.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I haven’t thrown this glass of wine at you.”

“Please,” she scoffs, twirling her straw. “You’d never waste good wine. Now, answer me. Did he measure it himself, or do you think there was a mold involved? Like, did he sit there in some science lab with a team of experts, being all, ‘Make sure you get the angle right!’?”

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face again.

The two of you quiet down as a waiter approaches your little corner.

It’s quiet for a moment—mercifully quiet.

Kika is vibrating with barely restrained laughter, and you’re praying she doesn’t lose it while he’s standing there.

The waiter sets down your plates, refills your glasses, and gives Kika a quick, confused glance because she’s shaking like a malfunctioning washing machine.

You smile at him—tight, polite, please don’t ask questions, I beg you—and he wisely scurries off.

The second he’s out of earshot, Kika slams her hands on the table, rattling the cutlery. “Let me see it.”

You nearly choke on your own saliva. “What?! No!”

“Why not?” she demands, like this is a perfectly reasonable request.

“Why not? Because we’re in a crowded restaurant, that’s why!” you hiss, clutching your purse like it’s a medieval chastity belt.

She leans forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “So you’re saying there’s a non-crowded situation where you’d show me?”

“That’s not what I said!”

She smirks. “Sure, but you didn’t not say it.”

“Kika, I swear to God-”

“Just one peek,” she pleads, like she’s asking for a bite of your dessert. “Under the table. No one will even notice!”

“Under the- what are you, a contraband dealer?” you whisper-yell. “This is not a shady back-alley dildo exchange!”

She grins, undeterred. “So, what does it look like? Is it… metallic?”

You freeze. “Why would it be metallic?!”

“I don’t know! Maybe it’s fancy. Maybe it’s, like, a collector’s item.”

“It’s not a lightsaber, Kika!”

She gasps, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh my God. Does it light up?!”

“No!”

“Are you sure?” she presses, narrowing her eyes. “Maybe it has LEDs. You know, for… ambiance.”

—

Kika’s obsession with the whole thing also refuses to let up. She knows, and worse, she loves knowing.

It starts small: innocent comments here and there, teasing questions she doesn’t expect you to answer.

But over time, her nosiness evolves into full-blown meddling. She’s not just curious. She’s invested.

And one day, it all comes to a head.

Kika cracks.

Or rather, her big mouth does.

“This is too good,” she hisses over the phone like she’s smuggling state secrets. “I can’t keep it to myself any longer.”

You drop your sandwich mid-bite, the mayo squelching onto the table. “What the hell do you mean you can’t keep it to yourself?”

“This secret,” she says, as if it’s physically weighing her down. “It’s eating me alive. I can’t keep it anymore.”

You groan. “Kika, we’ve talked about this. It’s not your secret to keep.”

“Which is exactly why I need to tell someone!” she snaps, like that’s a logical leap. “It’s not mine! It’s yours! I’m just... borrowing it, and now I’m returning it to the universe.”

“That’s not how secrets work,” you deadpan, rubbing your temples.

“I need to tell someone! Please, let me tell Alex,” she begs, her voice desperate, like she’s asking for kidney donation approval.

You choke. You actually choke, sputtering on your words like a broken engine. “Are you insane? Have you lost what little is left of your mind?”

“She’s so cool! She won’t tell anyone, I swear.” Kika’s tone is sunny, like she’s campaigning for Alex to win Best Confidant of the Year. “She loves secrets! She’s a vault!”

“She’s my brother’s girlfriend! My. Brother’s. Girlfriend.” You emphasize each word like you’re explaining calculus to a toddler.

“And a great secret keeper regardless of who she’s dating!” She chirps, undeterred.

“She’s dating my brother,” you hiss, as if saying it will drive the point home in her thick skull, pacing across your room like a caged animal. “Do you not see the problem here?”

“I see no problem,” she says brightly. “Alex is the Fort Knox of secrets. She’ll take this to her grave.”

“She’ll take it to my brother,” you counter, jabbing the air with your finger even though she can’t see you. “And then my brother will take it to my mom, and then my mom will take it to church, and next thing you know, I’m being exorcised for sins of the phone!”

Kika laughs, the kind of laugh that means she’s not taking you seriously at all. “Don’t be dramatic. Your mom would faint.”

“Kika!” you hiss, lowering your voice even though no one else is in the room. “If you tell her, I swear to God, I’ll... I’ll-”

“You’ll what? Call Mr. Mystery and complain about me?” Her grin is practically audible.

“Yes, and he’ll agree with me!” you snap, clutching your phone so tightly it’s a miracle it doesn’t crack. “Because this is not a group project!”

“Okay, okay!” She gasps, wheezing like she just finished a marathon. “I won’t tell her! I swear!”

You pause, narrowing your eyes even though she can’t see you. “Wait. Really?”

“No,” she says flatly, so matter-of-fact you feel your brain short-circuit. “I’m absolutely telling her. She’s going to lose her mind.”

You let out a shriek so loud your upstairs neighbor thumps on the floor in retaliation. “Kika, if you even breathe a word”

“Just picture it!” she interrupts, steamrolling over your protest. You can hear her bouncing on her bed. “I’ll text her right now. Something casual, like, ‘Hey Alex, you’re never going to believe-’”

“Fine!” you snap, throwing yourself onto the bed so hard the mattress squeaks in protest. “Fine, just tell her! But we do it in the next meet-up! I have to be present to keep your unruly mouth shut!”

Kika lets out an unholy squeal, the kind that makes dogs two blocks over start barking. You yank the phone away from your ear, grimacing.

“This is the best day of my life,” she announces, and you can practically hear her smirk.

“This is the worst day of mine,” you counter, dragging a pillow over your face and screaming into it.

“Relax,” she says breezily. You hear the telltale sound of typing. “Alex is going to eat this up. She loves a little drama.”

You lower the pillow just enough to breathe. “This isn’t drama. This is my life unraveling because you can’t keep your mouth shut.”

“Oh, please. You’re being dramatic,” she says, her tone so casual you almost throw your phone across the room. “It’s not like we're sending the story to Charles. That would be a scandal.”

You sit bolt upright. “Kika, I swear to all that is holy, if this gets back to him-”

“It won’t!” she chirps. “Unless Alex tells him. But she won’t. Probably.”

“Probably?!” Your voice cracks, and you claw at your scalp like you’re trying to yank out the stress by the roots.

“She’s trustworthy! You trust her, right?” Kika says, still typing away.

“No! I don’t trust anyone!” you shout, rolling onto your stomach and pounding your fists into the mattress. “Least of all you!”

Kika laughs so hard she starts coughing. “Oh, you’ll thank me for this one day,” she chokes out between wheezes.

“Unlikely,” you mutter.

“Anyway, gotta go! I’ll let you know if Alex is available next week,” Kika says brightly, and then the call ends before you can respond.

You stare at your phone in silence, a deep sense of dread pooling in your stomach.

Mistakes were made. By you. Specifically by trusting Kika with anything.

—

The restaurant is stupidly fancy, the kind of place where the bread basket comes with a backstory and the waiters judge you if you butter too enthusiastically.

You sit on the terrace, the Mediterranean sparkling behind you like a postcard that refuses to let you forget how expensive everything is.

Your table has a perfect view of the marina, where billionaires are essentially playing a game of “whose yacht is bigger.”

Not that you’re paying attention.

Alex and Kika are too busy ruining your life for you to focus on anything else.

Alex is halfway through her sea bass when you drop the bomb.

She freezes, her knife poised mid-cut, before her hand falls to the table.

Her fork clatters onto the porcelain plate, loud enough to make a few patrons turn their heads.

You wince, sinking lower in your chair.

Across from you, Kika sips her champagne, completely unbothered. She smirks, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

“You’re kidding,” Alex says, eyes wide with disbelief.

Kika doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, she’s not kidding,” she says, swirling her glass lazily. “She’s dead serious.”

You squirm under Alex’s gaze, picking at your lobster ravioli like it might swallow you whole if you wish hard enough. “It’s not a big deal,” you mumble.

Alex snorts, an uncharacteristically undignified sound for someone who normally looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue.

“Not a big deal?” she repeats, her voice rising just enough to make you glance nervously at the tables around you.

“Shut it. People are going to hear,” you hiss.

“Oh, darling,” Kika cuts in, her grin widening. “If people heard, they’d ask for more details. Probably start taking notes.”

Alex ignores her, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table, etiquette be damned.

“You’re telling me you’ve been having phone sex with some elite celebrity and it’s ‘not a big deal?’”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Can we not call it that?”

“What would you prefer?” Kika asks, her eyes practically sparkling. “Verbal intimacy? Oral storytelling?”

“I hate you both,” you mutter.

Alex waves her off, laser-focused on you. “And the… gift?” she asks, voice dripping with disbelief. “Are we glossing over the fact that he sent you a dildo?”

“It was thoughtful,” Kika offers, deadpan, before taking another sip of champagne.

“Stop helping,” you snap at her.

“I mean, really,” Alex continues, ignoring the interruption. “The man is rich, probably gorgeous to somehow convince you to give him a chance, could maybe have anyone he wants- and he’s doing phone sex with you?”

You glare at her. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You know what I mean,” she says, brushing off your sarcasm. “Why would he go through all this effort unless-” She stops, her eyes narrowing slightly like she’s just cracked the Da Vinci Code.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” you ask, already dreading whatever is coming next.

“That man is in love with you,” Alex declares, her tone final, like she’s just announced a royal decree.

You choke on air, coughing so violently that Kika reaches over to thump your back, more amused than concerned. “He is not in love with me!” you wheeze.

“He absolutely is,” Alex insists, sitting back and crossing her arms.

“That’s a huge leap,” you argue, waving your hands in front of you. “How do you get ‘in love’ from… from phone sex and-” You gesture vaguely. “Other things?”

Alex doesn’t blink. “He’s a famous athlete, right?”

“Sure,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “So?”

“So,” she says, leaning forward, “he’s settling for phone sex instead of hooking up with someone in person? That doesn’t happen unless he’s in love.”

“It’s not settling!” you argue, flailing slightly. “It’s convenient! We have an NDA; it’s low effort!”

“Low effort?” Alex raises an eyebrow. “More low effort than walking into a club and taking his pick of willing women?”

“Well… yeah!”

Kika cackles, nearly spilling her drink. “Oh, babe. You really think you’re less effort? That’s adorable.”

You glare at her, but Alex presses on, relentless. “Does he do this with anyone else?”

“How would I know that?” you snap.

“Ask him,” Alex says simply, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.

“Absolutely not!”

“Oh, come on,” Kika says, grinning. “Just casually drop it into conversation. ‘Hey, Mr. Mystery, quick question: am I your only long-distance dirty talk partner, or is this a group activity?’”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m not asking him that.”

“Why not?” Alex demands, cutting into her sea bass like this conversation isn’t actively ruining your life. “If it’s no big deal, he won’t mind. And if he does mind, well…” She trails off, her smirk infuriatingly smug.

“Then you’ll know he’s in love with you!” Kika chimes in, practically bouncing in her seat.

“Or he’ll think I’m insane,” you shoot back.

Alex shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Either way, it’s good information to have.”

You sit back in your chair, glaring at the two of them as they sip their champagne like this is the most entertaining lunch they’ve ever had.

“You two are the worst,” you mutter.

Kika raises her glass in a mock toast. “To Mr. Mystery and his poor, emotionally repressed heart.”

Alex clinks her glass against Kika’s with a soft laugh. “And to you,” she adds, “the object of his inconvenient affections.”

You consider grabbing their glasses and chucking them into the marina, but that would only prove their point.

Instead, you stab your ravioli with far more force than necessary, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks.

Mistakes. So many mistakes.

—

You can’t stop thinking about it.

Carlos. In love with you.

The concept is so utterly ridiculous you actually laugh to yourself, out loud, like a complete maniac.

Because Carlos isn’t in love with you.

That’s not how this works. Carlos doesn’t do “love.” Carlos doesn’t do you.

Well, okay, he does you in certain… contexts, but that’s beside the point.

The point is, Carlos is like a human golden retriever with too much charm for his own good.

He’s nice to everyone. He flirts with everyone. He probably gives everyone those stupid lingering looks that make your knees go weak.

He doesn’t fall in love. And if he did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be with you.

But the thought won’t leave your brain. It’s set up camp there, pitching a tent and roasting marshmallows over the fire of your own self-doubt.

And then the photo happens.

It’s a normal day.

Quiet. Peaceful, even.

You’re in bed scrolling through your phone, feeling pretty good about life.

You’ve got coffee on the nightstand, a blanket wrapped around you, and a vague sense of superiority because you haven’t thought about Carlos in at least six hours.

Then his face pops up on your feed.

Carlos, golden and gorgeous, lounging on a yacht like he’s auditioning for a Bond movie. He’s shirtless, of course. Because of course he is. The sun catches in his hair, and his jawline looks so sharp it could cut glass.

You don’t even blink.

You’re too used to this by now. This is just Carlos being Carlos.

But then you see her.

The girl.

She’s pressed up against him, all long legs and glossy hair and perfect teeth. She’s laughing, her hand resting casually, possessively, on his chest like it’s hers to touch.

Your stomach does something horrifying, like it’s trying to fold in on itself.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. This is normal. Carlos is always surrounded by beautiful women. This means nothing.

But the way he’s looking at her…

You throw your phone across the bed like it just personally insulted you.

Then you lie back and stare at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself you’re not spiraling.

Spoiler alert: you’re totally spiraling.

Which is how you end up calling Kika and Alex.

Because misery loves company, and also because you’re desperate for someone to tell you you’re not crazy.

“Hello?” Kika answers, far too cheerful for your current mood.

“I need help,” you blurt out.

“What kind of help?” she asks cautiously.

“Emotional help,” you say dramatically. “I’m having an existential crisis.”

“Of course you are,” she says. “Hang on, I’m adding Alex.”

“No, don’t-”

Too late. Alex’s voice cuts in, already exasperated. “What happened now?”

“He posted a photo,” you mumble, already regretting this.

“Okay…” Alex says slowly. “And?”

“And there was a girl in it,” you say, your voice climbing an octave.

“Oh my God,” Kika groans.

Alex sighs. “Let me guess. Hot girl, hand on his chest, looking like she just stepped out of a magazine?”

“Exactly!” you exclaim, sitting up. “How do you always know?”

“Because this happens every time,” he says dryly. “It’s cliche at this point. You're a walking cliche.”

You whine. “He looked… happy.”

There’s a beat of silence before Kika asks, “Are you drunk?”

“No!”

“Okay, just checking,” she says. “Because you sound drunk. Or insane. Possibly both.”

“I’m being serious!” you say, flopping back onto the bed. “What if he actually likes her?”

“Then he’s an idiot,” Alex says without hesitation.

“You don’t even know who she is!”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “No one’s better than you.”

You groan. “That’s not helpful.”

“Look,” Kika cuts in, her tone gentler now. “You’ve got two options. One, you ask him about it. Two, you do what you always do and overthink yourself into oblivion.”

“Three,” Alex adds, “you block him, move to a remote island, and live off coconuts for the rest of your life.”

“I hate both of you,” you mutter.

“No, you don’t,” Kika says sweetly. “Now, are you going to talk to him or not?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “What if I ask and he laughs at me? Or worse, what if he doesn’t care?”

“Then you’ll know,” Alex says simply.

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?

Knowing.

Because right now, as painful as it is, not knowing still feels safer than finding out the truth.

“Thanks, guys,” you say finally.

“Anytime,” Kika says. “Now go stalk his Instagram and cry into your coffee like a normal person.”

“Bye,” you grumble, hanging up.

You stare at the ceiling for a long time after that, the ache in your chest refusing to fade.

—

So, you cut him off.

Not all at once, because that would be too obvious, and God forbid Carlos Sainz think you’re actually affected by anything he does.

No, you do it slowly, carefully, like easing out of a party you didn’t really want to attend in the first place.

At first, it’s just a delay in your replies. Not anything dramatic, just enough to make it seem like you’ve got better things to do than hang on his every word.

When he sends a text, you leave it unread for an hour. Maybe two.

(Okay, fine, sometimes you read it immediately and then stare at your phone for thirty minutes trying not to reply, but that’s beside the point.)

When you do respond, you keep it short. Curt, even. No emojis, no playful banter, just cold, functional sentences.

Carlos How’s your day going?

You Busy

Carlos Busy with what?

You Work

He doesn’t push, which is somehow worse.

You want him to notice, to ask what’s wrong, to demand answers you’re not prepared to give. But he doesn’t.

He just keeps texting you, the same way he always has, like nothing’s changed.

When he asks to call, you tell him you’re busy. Which is technically true, if “busy” includes reorganizing your spice rack and watching sad movies while eating ice cream straight out of the tub.

It’s not immediate, but it’s different.

The rhythm of your conversations shifts, the easy flow replaced by stilted exchanges that feel like wading through molasses.

The worst part is how much it hurts.

Because cutting him off isn’t supposed to hurt you. It’s supposed to make things better. Easier. Less messy.

But instead, you’re walking around like some tragic romantic hero, clutching your metaphorical wounds and waiting for someone to ask why you look so miserable.

You try to distract yourself.

You download a meditation app, but the soothing voice telling you to “release your tension” only makes you think about how Carlos used to tease you for clenching your jaw when you were stressed.

You go out with friends, laughing too loud and drinking too much, but every time your phone buzzes, you can’t stop yourself from hoping it’s him.

It usually is.

Carlos Did I do something

You Just busy

Carlos Are you mad at me

You No

You toss your phone onto the couch and stare at it like it’s personally betrayed you. He’s starting to notice, which is both validating and soul-crushing.

Because if he notices, then maybe, just maybe, he actually cares.

And if he actually cares, then maybe cutting him off isn’t the answer.

But then you remember the photo. The girl. The way he looked at her.

And you remind yourself that Carlos Sainz isn’t yours. He never was.

So you keep going.

You tell yourself it’ll get easier. That eventually, his texts will stop coming, and the ache in your chest will fade, and you’ll finally be free of whatever this is.

But for now, you’re just sad and tired and watching Pride & Prejudice for the third time this week, convincing yourself you’re Elizabeth Bennet and he’s Mr. Darcy, except there’s no grand declaration at the end.

There’s just silence.

—

It's one of those times where you answer Carlos' call so he doesn't think you're actively avoiding him.

You’re stretched out on your couch, half-listening as Carlos narrates the chaos of his day, his voice flitting between amusement and exaggerated frustration.

“…and then they tell me the setup’s wrong, again, so I had to sit there, listening to engineers argue for an hour. An hour! I’m telling you, I deserve a medal just for staying awake.”

“Tragic,” you reply, dry as ever. “Truly, you’re the unsung hero of motorsport.”

“Exactly!” he exclaims, his tone shifting as if you’ve validated some grand injustice. “Finally, someone understands.”

You hear the faint rustle of fabric, the soft creak of leather, and you know he’s probably leaning back in one of those expensive chairs he likes so much, the ones you tease him about.

It’s a scene you’ve imagined a thousand times—so familiar it borders on comforting.

“So,” he says, drawing out the word like he’s gearing up for something. “Guess where I am right now?”

“Let me think,” you say. “Some glamorous location with a ridiculous view and an overpriced minibar?”

“Close,” he says, and you can hear the grin tugging at his words. “I’m in Monaco.”

Your heart stumbles, just a little, just enough to be annoying, but you keep your voice casual. “Oh, the usual playground of the rich and famous. How very you.”

“Hey, it’s practically home,” he teases, and the warmth in his tone makes your stomach twist. “And speaking of home… aren’t you supposed to be here too? Isn’t that, like, the whole point of being Monegasque?”

You hesitate, just for a beat, but it’s long enough.

“…Wait,” he says, his voice sharpening with suspicion. “You’re not here, are you?”

“I’m in Italy,” you admit, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere closer to forced.

There’s a pause, the kind of silence that feels heavier than it should. “Italy?” he repeats, his voice carefully light, like he’s trying not to make something of it. “What are you doing there?”

“Just am,” you say, shrugging even though he can’t see it.

“Right,” he says slowly, and you can feel the weight of his thoughts pressing through the line.

He doesn’t push it, though, because Carlos is a lot of things, but he’s not the kind of person who asks questions he’s not ready to hear the answers to.

He shifts the conversation after that, steering it back to safer waters.

He tells you about a restaurant he tried, about the ridiculous amount of traffic on his way to the track.

You laugh in the right places, make snarky comments when it’s expected, and for a while, it feels almost normal.

But it’s not.

The photo lingers in the back of your mind like a ghost. Her hand on his chest, his easy grin, the effortless way they fit together.

You thought you could handle it. Thought you could keep things light and easy, pretend that the photo didn’t bother you, that you hadn’t spent an embarrassing amount of time dissecting every pixel like it held some kind of secret truth.

But now, sitting here, listening to him ramble on about his day like everything’s fine, you’re not so sure.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, breaking the flow of his own story. His voice is quieter now, more thoughtful. “You’ve been kind of… off lately. Is everything okay?”

Your breath catches, just for a second.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

There’s a pause, just long enough for you to know he doesn’t believe you.

But he doesn’t call you on it. He just hums softly, like he’s letting you have this one.

The conversation winds down after that. He says something about an early meeting, and you use it as an excuse to end the call.

—

Carlos has a suspicion you’re avoiding him.

Or maybe, just maybe, Charles Leclerc has turned into some kind of shadowy mastermind, meticulously coordinating Carlos’s travel schedule just so he can keep you two apart.

It’s ridiculous, sure, but how else do you explain it?

When Carlos is in Monaco, you’re in Italy. When he’s in Italy, you’re in Mallorca. When he’s in Mallorca, you’ve suddenly jetted off to Switzerland, of all places.

It’s like you’ve taken on the role of “Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?” with unsettling precision, a game he didn’t even know he was playing until now.

At first, he tried to laugh it off.

Told himself it was just bad timing, a string of coincidences that would eventually break in his favor.

But now? Now it feels deliberate. Calculated. And the worst part is, he knows you. Knows you well enough to feel the subtle shift in the air between you, like a storm quietly gathering on the horizon.

He’s tried to tell himself he’s overthinking it.

That you’ve just been busy, that your life doesn’t revolve around him and his schedule.

But the excuses are starting to ring hollow, even to his own ears.

The delayed responses to his texts. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes when he finally does manage to catch you available for a call.

And now, sitting alone in his Monaco apartment, his phone resting on the coffee table in front of him like a lifeline you’ve left dangling just out of reach, Carlos can’t shake the weight that’s settled in his chest.

You’re pulling away.

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, sudden and brutal.

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands running through his hair as he stares at the floor.

His heart feels heavy, tangled up in a mess of confusion and hurt and something he doesn’t want to name.

Why? That’s the question that keeps circling back.

Why are you doing this? Why now, when he feels like he’s finally starting to understand just how much you mean to him?

His mind races, replaying every interaction, every conversation, searching for the moment he might’ve pushed you away without realizing it.

Did he say something? Did he not say enough?

“Dios,” he mutters under his breath, his voice thick with frustration.

He doesn’t want to think it, doesn’t want to believe it, but the thought won’t leave him alone: maybe you’ve finally gotten tired of him.

The idea makes his chest ache, a dull, hollow pain that spreads until it feels like it’s consuming him.

He doesn’t want to lose you, doesn’t want to let go of the quiet moments, the shared laughs, the way you make him feel like he can just be for once.

But what can he do? He can’t force you to stay, can’t make you want him if you don’t.

He picks up his phone, his thumb hovering over your name in his messages and sends a message before he chickens out.

Carlos Where are you right now?

You Still hoping for that coffee date, huh?

Carlos Always

You …Paris

Carlos frowns at his phone, and you can almost hear the mental gears grinding in his head. Paris. Of course, it’s Paris. Because why wouldn’t it be?

Carlos Okay, I’m going there.

Your phone buzzes immediately, the boldness of his response catching you off guard.

You What?

You ARE YOU SERIOUS???

Carlos Yes.

You Carlos, you can’t just drop everything and fly to Paris.

Carlos Watch me.

You stare at your phone, torn between laughing and rolling your eyes. This is insane. You text him back, unsure if you want to be mad or amused.

You This is insane.

Carlos No, it’s determination.

You It’s bordering on stalker behavior.

Carlos Then stop running from me.

You I’m not running!

Carlos You’re in a different country every time I blink. Sounds like running.

You It’s called having a life.

Carlos A life that conveniently never overlaps with mine. Carlos Got it.

You Carlos, I swear to God if you actually come here

He doesn’t reply. The silence settles in, and you think that’s the end of it. Carlos is too sensible to drop everything and fly to Paris, right? Right?

Wrong.

Three hours later, you’re in your hotel room, scrolling through your phone while you regret the third croissant you scarfed down earlier, when you hear a knock at the door.

You frown, setting your phone down. You weren’t expecting anyone.

Another knock, this time more insistent.

Curious, you peek through the peephole. And there he is.

Carlos Sainz.

Standing in the hallway, casually leaning against the doorframe, holding a bouquet of flowers like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Your jaw drops.

You swing the door open before you can think better of it. “What are you doing here?”

Carlos shrugs, flowers in hand. “You said Paris.”

“That wasn’t an invitation!” you hiss, your eyes darting up and down the hallway as if expecting paparazzi to jump out from behind the elevator.

“Seemed like one to me,” he says, unfazed, like he’s the most logical person in the universe. “Besides, I brought flowers. That makes it okay.”

You stand there, staring at him, completely caught between laughing and slamming the door in his face. “This is… I don’t even have words.”

“‘Thank you’ works,” he suggests, stepping past you as if he has every right to be there, dropping onto the armchair with the ease of someone who’s been invited to stay.

“Excuse me-” you splutter, still holding the flowers, but too stunned to do anything with them.

Carlos stretches his legs out in front of him like he’s planning to stay a while. “Nice room. Cozy.”

“You can’t just-” You gesture wildly at him, still holding the flowers like they’re some kind of shield. “Carlos, this is insane!”

“What’s insane,” Carlos says, his voice slicing through the heavy silence, “is how hard you’ve been avoiding me.”

The words hit you like a sharp slap, cutting through the thin armor you’ve been clinging to.

You wince, his accusation landing squarely on the truth you’ve been trying so desperately to bury.

“I’m not avoiding you,” you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, they feel hollow.

A poor, pathetic attempt to cover up the obvious.

His eyes narrow. “Yes, you are,” he replies, his voice edged with a kind of raw frustration you’ve never heard from him before. “You’ve been avoiding me, pulling away like I’ve done something-”

He leans forward, his knuckles white from how hard he’s clenching them. “Did I do something? Tell me, please.”

You shake your head quickly, your chest tightening. “No, Carlos, you didn’t-”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice cracks, rising just enough to make you flinch. There’s a tremor in his tone, something that tells you this isn’t just frustration- it’s pain.

Your mind races, heart pounding against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape. You can’t look at him.

You can’t meet his eyes because you know what you’ll see there: vulnerability. A rawness you’re too afraid to face.

“I told you, I’m not avoiding you,” you say again, but your voice wavers. The lie cracks as it leaves your lips.

Carlos exhales sharply, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping him. “Really? That’s what you’re going with? You’re not avoiding me? Because from where I’m standing, it sure as hell feels like you are.”

His voice lowers, softer now but no less piercing. “You’ve been ignoring my calls, dodging my texts. You won’t even look at me right now.”

He pauses, his voice dropping even further, his words so quiet they’re barely a whisper. “It’s like you’re disappearing right in front of me.”

“I’ve been busy,” you mumble weakly, knowing even as you say it how ridiculous it sounds.

“Busy,” he repeats, dragging the word out like it physically pains him to say it. “Right. Busy. Of course. That’s your excuse? That’s all you’ve got?”

You open your mouth to respond, but he steamrolls ahead, his voice rising in disbelief. “Do you think I’m stupid? Is that it? Like I haven’t noticed you pulling some kind of secret agent disappearing act every time I’m within a five-mile radius?”

“I’m not-”

“Oh, please!” he cuts you off, throwing his hands up dramatically. “When I was in Monaco, you were in Italy. When I was in Italy, you were in Mallorca. When I was in Mallorca, you went to Paris. I thought you cared about the planet!”

“I had a reason!” you defend weakly.

“Oh, sure. Let me guess. You were ‘busy.’” He uses air quotes this time, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Busy doing what? Hiding in the catacombs so I wouldn’t find you?”

“Carlos-”

“No, seriously! Are you Carmen Sandiego? Did you take on a secret job as an international spy and forget to tell me? Because at this point, that’s the only explanation that makes any sense!”

You can’t help it.

A small, nervous laugh escapes you, but it’s swallowed by the look he gives you, a mix of exasperation and something rawer, something vulnerable that wipes the humor from your face instantly.

“I’m serious,” he says, his voice quieter now, though no less intense. “Why are you doing this? What happened? Did I do something?”

“No!” you blurt out, the word rushing out of you like a reflex. “You didn’t do anything-”

“Then what?” he demands, stepping closer, his brows furrowed. “Why does it feel like every time I try to get close to you, you’re already halfway out the door? What is it? Did I say something? Did I forget something important? Did I-”

“Stop!” you snap, your voice louder than you intended, cutting him off mid-spiral. “You didn’t do anything, okay? It’s me!”

He freezes, his hands hovering in the air like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “What do you mean, it’s you?”

You take a deep, shaky breath, your heart pounding in your chest. “I can’t do this anymore, Carlos. I can’t keep pretending like this, like we, don’t mean more to me than it should.”

His brows knit together, confusion flashing across his face. “What are you talking about? What does that even mean?”

“It means I’m in love with you, okay?” you blurt out, the words tumbling out of you before you can stop them.

Your hands fly to your face, your voice shaking as you add, “Not as a joke. Not as a friend. Not in some ‘haha, Carlos is cute, what if’ kind of way. I’m in love with you, and it’s ruining me, and now I’ve said it, and- oh my God- I’m going to vomit-”

“Wait, what?” Carlos interrupts, his voice a mix of shock and something dangerously close to hope.

“You heard me!” you snap, your hands still covering your face as you pace in frantic little circles. “I’m in love with you, and now I’ve ruined everything, and you’re going to freak out and leave, and then I’ll have to fake my death and move to Antarctica and befriend a penguin colony-”

“Will you stop?” he cuts in, grabbing your arm to stop your pacing. “Just- stop for a second, okay?”

You yank your arm back instinctively, shaking your head. “No, I can’t stop! Because if I stop, I’m going to have to look at you, and if I look at you, I’m going to see the exact moment you decide this is too much, and you walk out of my life forever, and I’m not emotionally equipped for that-”

“Would you listen to me?” he shouts, his voice startling you into silence.

His hands fall to his sides, his eyes locking on yours with a desperate kind of intensity. “I’m not walking out of your life, okay? I’m not going anywhere. Jesus, do you really think so little of me?”

Your lip wobbles, your voice breaking. “You don’t get it. You’ll leave.”

He lets out a laugh. Sharp, exasperated, and a little unhinged. “I’m in love with you, you absolute idiot.”

You freeze. Your brain is refusing to process what he just said. “What?”

“I said I’m in love with you,” he repeats, louder this time, as if yelling the words will hammer them into your skull.

“Have been since the first night, I think. Do you honestly believe I’d fly halfway across the world, lose sleep, and spam you with dog pictures because I don’t love you?”

You stare at him, mouth agape. “You- what?”

“Yes!” he throws his hands up, pacing like he’s been holding this in for years and it’s physically painful to let it out. “God, how do you not see it? I thought I was being so obvious!”

Your brain is scrambling for any coherent thought, but instead, all you manage is: “Then who was that girl?”

Carlos blinks at you, mid-rant. “What girl?”

You fumble for your phone like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment to catch him red-handed.

Opening Instagram with trembling fingers, you shove the screen in his face, pointing at the offending photo. “This girl. The one on the yacht!”

He squints at the screen, then back at you, his brow furrowing.

“That’s my cousin, Marina.”

Your heart stops. “What?”

“My cousin,” he says again, slower this time, as though you might be hard of hearing. “She’s married to a guy named Tomás. I was literally holding her bag while she FaceTimed her kids.”

You gape at him, the ground beneath you threatening to swallow you whole. “Oh.”

Carlos stares at you, his mouth falling open. Then it clicks. “Oh my God. Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were ghosting me because you thought I was on a yacht with my cousin?” he demands, his voice climbing into incredulous territory.

“It looked bad!” you squeak, the heat in your face making it impossible to look him in the eye. “I didn’t know she was your cousin! She was all- touchy!”

“She was showing me pictures of her dog!” he cries, like he can’t believe he’s having this conversation.

You clutch your head, feeling both humiliated and mildly hysterical. “I’m an idiot. I’m the biggest idiot alive.”

“No arguments there,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, then fixing you with a look that’s somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You honestly thought I’d just…what? Post my side chick on Instagram for you to see?”

“I didn’t know what to think!” you snap, burying your face in your hands. “I panicked, okay? My brain spiraled!”

Carlos lets out a disbelieving laugh, pacing a tight circle like he’s trying to figure out how he got here. “So instead of asking me, you just…decided to ignore me? For weeks?”

“I said I panicked!” you groan, peeking at him through your fingers, mortified.

He stares at you for a beat, then pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath in Spanish. “You’re lucky I love you, you know that?”

Your heart lurches, but you’re still too mortified to fully process it. “You can’t possibly still love me after this.”

“Oh, I can,” he says dryly, crossing his arms. “But I’m definitely telling Marina about this. She’s going to think it’s hilarious.”

“No!” you cry, lunging forward and grabbing his arm. “Carlos, I swear to God, if you tell your cousin-”

He grins, all smug amusement now, his earlier frustration melting away. “I’ll think about keeping it a secret. On one condition.”

“What condition?” you ask warily.

“You stop ghosting me,” he says simply, his voice softening as his eyes meet yours. “And maybe…start trusting me a little more?”

You let out a shaky breath, the weight of your own stupidity pressing down on you. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, looking at the floor. “I really messed this up.”

“Yeah, you did,” he agrees, but there’s no bite to his words. He tilts your chin up so you have no choice but to look at him. “But you can make it up to me. Dinner tomorrow?”

You nod, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at your lips. “Okay.”

“And for the record,” he adds, smirking, “if you ever ghost me again, I’m showing up with a mariachi band.”

You groan, shoving him lightly as he laughs, but you can’t help the warmth spreading through your chest. Somehow, against all odds, he’s still yours.

---

@lilorose25 @widow-cevans @mderby03 @zyklion @papichulomacy @irisesinthegarden @leclercdream @moonvr @ilovemeni @iamdedsthingz @shwnirwin @softhecreator @claimingharrystigertattoo @5sospenguinqueen @wadupppdylan-blog @waytooobsessedwithlife @weekendlusting

[occamstfs]

Conjuration: The Call

Ozzie begrudgingly plays a thinly disguised trading card game and finds some fun teaching his meathead friend a lesson.

Something between a role reversal and devolution! Jock -> Twink and Nerd -> Brute! Hope you enjoy this tale of a wishful role-player growing to dominate a try hard, Best! -Occam

Ozzie absolutely hated trading card games, he missed the boat and loathed being made to feel stupid like they always end up doing. Perhaps some self-reflection could see him giving Conjuration: the Call a fair shake, when a game of CTC was thrust on him instead of the DND session he was coming to play, the man was in not so charitable a mood.

Prepped to play his Druid all night, Ozzie is sulking in the kitchen when his friend Lily, patient zero of getting their group playing CTC again, brings over a proxy deck she made for him. “Heyyy babe~ Sorry about the bait and switch, I thought we were going to play DND too but apparently Mark’s sick and Alex thought this would be a great chance for you to learn how to play!”

His scowl quickly shifts between Lily, her half-hearted olive branch, and their friend group’s surly Adonis, Alex, who winks before returning to set up the table for their game. Ozzie sighs, not wanting to make a scene, he reaches out to inspect the printed deck in her hands. She perks up, “perfect! You’re gonna love it I swear!

The hitherto hater sighs, “ughh. You guys are just going to steamroll me like always! Is the deck too complicated to learn on the fly?” Her eyes glimmer as she slyly makes sure Alex can’t hear, “Not at all! I’ll be right there if you need any help and-“ 

Before she can explain, the man at the table interrupts, “you ladies done yet?” In their running campaign the impatient Alex plays a barbarian which mimics both his stature and nature out of game quite well, in Conjuration however he’s emerged as quite the rival to Lucy. Which Ozzie knows as she begins to explain, now at a whisper, “okay so it’s actually a deck to counter Alex’s.”

She immediately goes to defend her ulterior motives as Ozzie’s scowl returns with a vengeance, “oh c’mooon Ozz, I made this whole deck for you! I found the commander in the bulk bin and thought it sounded like your thing!” Shuffling through the box he checks it out, Loggan the Brain, nice and holographic. He pauses to appreciate how it feels in his hands, heavier than expected and almost warm to the touch. After a moment he looks up to find Lily has already gone to join the rest of the party at the table.

Finishing up his huffing, Ozzie sits opposite Alex who performatively flexes as he shuffles his deck, “Ready to get schooled by the man?” They’re friends at the end of the day so Ozzie doesn’t try to hide his irritation as he responds, “oh I’m sure there’s nothing you love more than beating newbies huh”

Alex takes a few seconds trying to think of some clever reply but after a few playful jibes from Lily and Tim, their fourth player, he decides to save any further taunts for the game. It’s not Ozzie’s first time playing Conjuration, how else would he hold it in such blatant disregard. Resolutely he refuses a tutorial from Alex and Lily. The pair make eye contact as they try to push down the urge to take candy from the new player and instead scheme how they can both use his inexperience to their advantage.

The first couple rounds go by in a flash, the other three begin setting up decks they are clearly incredibly familiar with while Ozzie races to read the little cheat sheet Lily made for the deck before performing a decent opening few rounds himself. Ozzie figures Alex must be running some kind of counterspell deck as Lily’s notes make it very clear that this proxy is a counter-counterspell deck, as it were. 

Lily would never be able to play this deck as it relies on someone counterspelling the Loggan the Brain without checking the specifics, and Alex would never do so to someone with as firm a grasp as her. When Ozzie goes to summon his commander though there's a glimmer in the jock’s eyes as his fingers go to counter the summon before Ozzie even announces, and in doing so he falls into the trap of the deck. 

Alex reaches over to push Loggan back off the board only to be stopped by Lily, almost shaking from excitement as she bursts out into laughter and explains the situation. She points to the ability text Drain: Start of the round gains one “Devolution” spell card. When “Devolution” is used to counter an offensive spell on yourself, put a token on Loggan the Brain. After ten tokens are placed on Loggan the Brain, replace him with Ogg the Brawn.

Hearing his opponent groan from an easily averted own goal he finishes his turn to see Alex scratching his chest and complaining, “I’ve never seen these stupid cards before, are you sure these are legal?” His eyes narrow at Lily who shrugs and tries to taunt him into casting a spell at Ozzie, “Who knows man, maybe it’s not even that good? You should cast a spell at him to see what it does!” With a wry grin she meets Alex’s scowl. For now he stills his hand as they prepare to deal with the quiet Tim as he quickly becomes the biggest threat on the board.

When it comes back to Ozzie’s turn the fun begins at last, launching a spell at Alex who has no choice but to counter, which is of course met with the new player’s own “Devolution” counter. Ozzie and Alex both open their mouths to complain, about the game being convoluted and unfair respectively. Before they can lash out however both men see a token appear on Loggan the Brain without anyone reaching to put it there. 

Only Alex and Ozzie seem to notice the board changing without any human aid, before they can react however they are both filled with an alien warmth. Alex’s hands shoot to his crotch and his face flares with embarrassment. All eyes fall to him as he almost squeaks as his meaty hands struggle to hide the fact that he’s getting obscenely hard at the CTC table, “GrheEEK! AH- hEM” the macho man tries to hide the voice crack from the table, failing to do so they all incredulously stare.

“Psh jeez- can’t a dude sneeze? Fuck!” Knowing they have most of a game still ahead of them no one goes in too hard on Alex, even as his complaints sound decidedly whinier to their ears. Were they to look even a smidge closer at the sscowling man’s face they’d surely see its hard edges begin to soften as his scratchy perma-stubble starts thinning. Alex flips through his bulky hand wondering how he’s going to overcome the pair of opponents, ignorant as his arms are slowly drained of the strength he has honed for over a decade at the gym.

oes Ozzie fail to see how he too begins to shift over the next round. When all hands go to counter a spell cast once more the situation ends once more with Alex being rebuffed by a Devolution card Ozzie drew. Thin fingers go to cover his mouth as he tries to quiet his laughter at Alex’s lips pulling into a pout, looking plumper than usual. Ozzie ignores the flitter at finding that exciting to instead taunt the man looking mousier but is distracted as he scratches his cheek, “Ah c’mon there Aluh- hm.” 

Ozzie pauses as he hears his fingers scratching at, well it sounds like stubble? After a few more strokes he speaks up again, “Uhh guys did I need to shave when I came in?” The party is focussed on his question so they take no heed of his voice sagging deeper with every word. Instead they narrow their eyes at his jawline. It takes him quite a while to grow any kind of facial hair so it’s not like it just sprouted up all of a sudden? Right? Alex laughs and rubs his own face, “Ah Hah! Followin’ the lead of your favorite role model huh! Heehee! Er-”

All laugh as Alex giggles uncharacteristically, cuing him up to go all out and defend his fragile masculinity. Ozzie sits back and watches as him and Lily tag team their fourth player into an early knock-out. All the while though he begins to feel odd? His palms are sweaty, upon closer inspection he realizes his whole form is sweaty. 

Eyes off him he airs out his chest and yelps as he accidentally grabs a tuft of chest hair. He looks down his shirt, slightly obscured by a stubbly little mustache poking out of his upper lip and barely quiets a gasp from shock as he sees a few curls sticking out the center of his bony chest. His inspection then falls onto the hand still grasping at his tee, almost imperceptible blond hairs that have humbly decorated his wrist have lengthened, darkened, and spread into a truly thick jungle on his forearms.

Needing to draw a few more cards to get his target out, Alex can’t help but shoot a couple more spells out at Lily who then redirects them to Ozz. Returning his focus to the board he grunts and prepares to take the hit before checking his hand to find two more copies of Devolution in his hand. He tosses them clumsily on the table and guffaws and shouts in his gruffer voice, “Hah! When’re you gonna learn to not target the man, fucker!” Ozzie reclines once more as Alex ignores his taunts and continues to take his turn.

Half-way to switching out his commander for a card he hasn’t read yet he tugs down his shirt as he feels a breeze on his exposed midriff. There seems to be a volley of new curls stretching above his waistline, briefly making sure no one’s watching he scratches at the pubes slowly inching into a dense treasure trail and almost moans at the distracting pleasure. With each quivering new sensation the blonde curls he has long been proud of darken and recede to something choppy and brown, shrinking back as from every inch of his form curls of the same pervasive brown race to assert his primal masculinity.

With each drag into the growing garden of hair on his waist the urge to vocalize his pleasure grows more difficult to ignore. The stubble on his face continues to thicken, growing into something more than five o’clock shadow that would put Alex’s to shame at its best. Speaking of, as his usual ungroomed stubble continues to fade and shrink into a face shifting as smooth as porcelain he can’t help but stare at Ozzie’s face with jealousy, his cock pulsing once more in his gym shorts and he grits his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the game and not on how Ozzie’s sleeves almost seem to be hugging his arms.

Ozzie similarly doesn’t see as his eyes are closed to be almost obscenely lost in the fulfillment of scratching his itch. Though he feels it. His arms slowly edging larger, straining his sleeves almost to tearing with each meagre movement. He feels stubble slowly growing up past his neckline, giving him a few stray curls that would need a turtleneck to hide as his chest begins to amass new weight and muscle itself.

In his death throes Tim follows Lily’s lead and forces Alex to toss a few more spells that will hopefully be blocked at Ozzie. Still lost in the reverie of his changing form, Ozzie doesn’t even check his cards as his hand quickly shoots up from his crotch and tosses two cards onto the table. Without looking two more tokens appear on Loggan the Brain and both Alex and Ozz clench the table as they are struck with another wave of changes. 

The other two players at the table are suddenly engrossed in checking their hands, as if compelled to not notice as Alex is suddenly swimming in clothes that he chose explicitly to highlight how built he was looking today, his neckline droops low enough that it should expose his burly-hair covered chest. The only thing it shows now however are two spray-tanned pecs that seem to be shrinking.

Alex doesn’t notice as his shoes almost fall off of his feet as they drop a few sizes, no instead he bites his lip and stares hungrily at the man who was supposed to be his quarry. His cock feels wanting his balls blue, more than that though for the first time in his life his ass almost feels empty, in need of something- or someone. He doesn’t put two and two together as he continues to stare at Ozzie growing hairier. 

The once mousy man finally fills his nerdy tee enough that it begins to fray and tear. Similarly do the slacks he threw on for game day find themselves more than filled with meaty thighs and a package that has blossomed into an absolute veiny beast. His eyes widen in wonder as he takes it in for the first time. His thicker, rougher hands reach downward and with the slightest touch his hips buck and his zipper blows out as his cock strains it to the breaking point. Barely contained in his briefs Ozzie has to ignore the wet patch of pre staining through them and put all his energy towards not cumming then and there in front of his friends as the game remains ongoing.

While the two were distracted by their changing tastes and bodies, Tim was officially knocked out of the game leaving everyone worse for wear. Though after another couple rounds it becomes clear that Alex is very much off his game. His white teeth continue to chew at his plumper lips as he’s lost in thought. 

Ozzie similarly chews his lip, champing at the bit as he stares at the shrinking man. Fuuuck, he’s real cute when he works himself up. His inner monologue sinks deeper in tone to match his new voice as his thoughts grow rougher, simpler. Under the table his hand can’t help but go to his crotch as images of some massive beast of a man dominating the twink push to the front of his mind. Drool dripping from teeth bared onto Alex’s back as he arches up into heavy pecs, as if he were made to be under the man, if he were made to be under Ozz- Fuck.

Alex shivers as the table shakes from Ozzie rutting into it, gasping as his own ass fills out. He’d never really spent dedicated time crafting the perfect butt, or no- is that true? His phone suddenly fills with nudes taken of his sculpted, smooth butt and sent to- Ozzie’s bearded face forces itself to the front of his mind. Alex can almost feel his sweaty muscular chest against his own, his fingers curling around hair that inches up from his ass and down from his shoulders. He can almost feel the phantom cock he’s bouncing on before across the table the only player not lost to their lusts clears her throat.

“What is up with you guys?” There’s forced confidence but something is clearly throwing her off her game. Something’s not right. Is it? Oggie- Er, Ozzie? He’s always been a tank, it’s why he’s been so against playing right? And Alex, well shoot that twink is obsessed with Conjuration since it’s the only game or sport that he can beat his- She clenches at her head as she’s seized by a migraine. Perhaps that’s how she falls into the trap that Alex has been setting since turn one.

“Ah HA! Finally biitch! You played right into my hands!” His voice cracks higher, something in the back of her mind swears she’d never let Alex call her a bitch but as she looks at the twink she can’t imagine why. The cocky sneer remains on Alex's face as his hair lengthens into a floppy garden of dirty blonde curls, after looking at the board it fades a little as he struggles to recall how exactly he’s supposed to finish her, “Uhm?”

He scratches at his head and the sleeve hanging on his thin bicep slides back, revealing his pit as the last few hairs remaining of his once proud tuft fall away, leaving behind a fruity scent that will never quite fade instead of the heady musk that could never be quenched. Ozzie didn’t realize he was staring at the twinks pits as they finished smoothing. Looking to his own pit stains on a shirt that seems moments from bursting off his form, he grins toothily and figures he produces well enough stink for the both of them. His canines almost feel larger in his mouth.

 After the song and dance of Lily walking Alex through her own defeat, accompanied by a fair share of giggles from a man who wouldn’t be caught dead speaking even vaguely ‘like a chick’ before the game, Lily heads off with Tim to go grab pizza before the next game. Leaving behind Alex and Ozzie as the game nears its close. Both men struggle to decide on their next moves, or rather if they care enough to even make them, as the other players depart. Ozzie scratches the back of his head like an ape, apathetic to his arm finally bursting free from its sleeve and exposing a hairy pit that Alex eyes hungrily. 

Drooling and wanting to be done with the game as soon as possible the once jock eyes his hand filled with spells and wonders why he has so many? Was there a reason he wasn’t using them? He hesitantly throws one down and is immediately met by a counter. Ozzie grunts as his form bulges larger, brow jutting slightly over blue eyes that don’t quite look so bright any more. He tears off his shirt with one meaty fist before moving to scratch at the carpet of hair covering his torso as if it were a shirt itself.

Ozzie’s own eyes glaze over as he drops his cards on the table, he want game over. His underwear is filled to breaking and he grimaces before going to tear them off just like his shirt. Grunting he punches the table in shock as the elastic band snaps back against him. Veins bulge everywhere across his form as rage fills him enough to rival his hunger for the twink sitting across from him. Struggling to control his breathing as he sits stewing in lust and anger he speaks in a gravely town as his stomach begins to bloat, “Your turn,”

Alex similarly is lacking the focus to continue the game, tossing his hand down his eyes flash as the remaining tokens stack onto Ozzie’s card. Neither man notices as a final line of text appears at the end of the dense paragraph, “If you lack a copy of Ogg the Brawn in your deck, become one.” He doesn’t read the card of course, nor will he chase the urge to read much of anything anymore, but as the ability is activated OzzOgg obeys the instructions to a tee.

Spit drips between gnashing teeth as Ogg stands to his new height. Waist filling out as he pounds onto the table and he grows into a true brute. The elastic band digging into his waist acts like a flank belt as he glowers at Alex and bucks into the table, making a mess of the organized decks as he feels his mind unable to focus on any pursuit other than chasing his hunger.

Alex stands and his pants fall to the floor, unable to remain on his thinned waist, “O-Ogg?” he squeaks out, what was was a tight muscle tee now hangs off a shoulder, perfectly framing a hard nipple and hiding the noticeably smaller bulge where his dick must be. Ogg knocks the table over and tackles the twink with power he never imagined or desired to have. 

Grunting, Ogg can’t control his hips as they continue to rock and thrust as he struggles to position his twitching cock over Alex who endeavors to roll over and present his perky ass. Ogg forces his face down into the nape of Alex’s neck, breathing in his scent, magically alluring and the diametric opposed to the bestial musk that steams off the man whose eyes dull to a dark brown as his stomach bulges into a massive muscle gut.

Underneath, the twink’s mental faculties grow similarly vacant as he feels the hairy stomach scratching against his back, as Ogg’s massive cock finds purchase and fills him with far more powerful pleasure than what Alex has inflicted on many a partner throughout the years. His moans fill the air, rivalling Ogg’s grunts as the pair leave sweat and cum stains on the cold tile. 

The air of the apartment is filled with Ogg’s primal, almost proto-human musk which only makes Alex hungrier for the man he is evermore to be obsessed with. When his face is shoved into Ogg’s jungle of pit hair he wonders how he lived before now as his cock is pressed up against Ogg’s bulky, curl-covered torso.

Eventually their preternatural lusts absolve themselves and in a brief refractory period Alex rushes to clean up the worst of their mess before the other two return with pizza. Ogg of course is no help as he throws on a pair of boxers Alex would’ve sworn were his own and goes to sit on the couch, arm behind his head to air out his steaming pit and continue to rile Alex up. After righting the table and wiping away all the stains he could see the twink indeed goes to nestle up alongside the man on the couch as he throws on some nature documentary.

Alex doesn’t notice as his head finds itself almost immediately in the man’s crotch as his cock starts to poke out the leg of his boxers. Well, when in Rome- Before they can get up to too much fun, they hear the door being jostled. Alex jolts up and swallows the pool of pre-cum filling his mouth before doing a poor job of hiding the rock hard rod in Ogg’s boxers. The brute grunts in irritation and grasps at his needy balls, apathetic to the return of the other platers.

Setting down the pizzas Tim looks over at the clearly worked up pair and rolls his eyes as if this is normal, “Well are you two horndogs up for another game?” Eying both Alex and Tim something besides the Id in Ogg rears up, still seems like there’s a lot left he can drain from the two men. Bulge already inching larger, he stands and goes to pick up Loggan from the floor. Time for round two-

[tthoroughfare]

garden daisy (part 2) // ellie williams

*･゜ﾟ･* summary: ellie makes a new friend, and you feel all weird about it.

*･゜ﾟ･* pairing: modern!ellie x reader

*･゜ﾟ･* content: sfw

*･゜ﾟ･* length: 1.6k

this is part two of this series! find part one here

okay so i feel like the way i've organized this series is kind of confusing as it started as a random blurb... technically part one is this blurb however the real story starts in the xmas fic! the blurb just kind of exists floating around somewhere before the events of that and sets up the dynamic. call it part 0.5 i guess. also i'm so sorry if ur name is haley it was genuinely the first name i thought of hahaha

after christmas, once you’re all settled back into life at college, ellie gets a new job. it’s just a few shifts a week at a music store, but she seems to be enjoying it. you’re happy for her; it’s nice to see her getting out of the apartment more, doing something that allows her to be in her element.

but then she starts mentioning a girl she works with. like, a lot.

“dude, look at what haley sent me today, i was dying.”

“haley had, like, the coolest shirt on at work.”

“oh my god, so i found out haley likes comics, too.”

at first, it doesn’t really bother you. then, it’s a case of you trying not to let it bother you. why even should it? she’s allowed to make new friends; her life doesn’t revolve around you.

still, you don’t like the way your chest starts to twist every time she gets mentioned, every time you see ellie smiling at her phone. you can hear them on facetime frequently through the thin walls of your apartment, and you more often than not end up shoving your headphones in to drown it out.

they start spending time together outside of work, too. she mentions that they’re going to see an exhibit together on a shared day off, and it takes everything for you to look up from your laptop, give her a tight smile and utter, “cool.”

you can tell she’s a bit dispirited by your reaction, like she’s debating saying something. she leaves it, though, just nodding once and pursing her lips before walking away. you kick yourself for it immediately — wishing you’d tried harder to appear enthusiastic for her. you’re worried it could be the seed of a wedge being driven.

it’s not like she’s completely neglected your friendship. you live together. you see her every day. she still gently knocks at your ajar door, poking her head around and asking if you want to watch a movie with her. you make dinner together on friday nights, something you’d done since you moved out of the dorms and got a semi-decent place.

you’re just so used to it being the two of you. sure, you both have other friends, but you’re best friends. you can’t help but feel a little uneasy all of a sudden someone new is making their way up the ladder, ellie not having quite as much time for you anymore.

at least, that’s what you tell yourself the reason is. you know the real one.

you eventually meet the esteemed haley when she comes over to hang out, and to your petty dismay she well and truly lives up to the boasting. you’ve seen pictures of her (as in, you found her on instagram and stalked her at two in the morning), but she’s even prettier in person. she’s sweet, too, giving you a hug and saying how great it is to finally meet you. ellie talks about you all the time, apparently.

the evening’s spent with the tv on, a few drinks sipped. you’re on one side of the couch, ellie on the other, new friend in the middle. you hate how genuinely likeable she is; she goes out of her way to speak to you, asking you questions about yourself and chatting jovially when you find common ground. she’s cool, smart, witty — it’s impossible not to compare yourself, and feel subpar. like old news.

and you wish you weren’t, but you’re reading into every little thing. the way the two of them easily bounce off of each other’s jokes, the way you can see even where you’re from how ellie’s eyes light up when she looks at her. deciding three’s a crowd and you’re just hurting your own feelings, you call it pretty early.

when you stand after finishing your drink and announce that you’re going to bed, you note the way that ellie’s face drops. “oh… really?”

you scrunch your nose, trying to sound untroubled. “yeah, i’m kinda tired, so…”

“m’kay,” she replies, chewing slightly at the inside of her cheek. she knows you better than that. since you first met, you’ve never been ‘kinda tired’ by nine.

after a pause and a quick look back and forth between the two of you, haley gives you a smile, reiterating her earlier statement. “well, it was so nice to meet you, anyway.”

you return it, nodding. your eyes flit to ellie for a split-second. “yeah, you too. see you both later.”

with that, you place your glass in the sink across the room and head off down the hall.

you change and get ready for bed, although the plan was never to sleep. you’re nestled under a blanket, lights dim and a candle burning as you keep your eyes trained on the bullshit stream of youtube videos you’d put on. you’re not really paying attention, mind well and truly elsewhere; simultaneously feeling sorry for yourself, and like the most petty, mean person in the world.

you feel pathetic for wishing ellie’s new friend wasn’t so easy to get along with. she came off as a nice person, and not in a sickly, fabricated way. you could understand how she’d easily tugged ellie out of her shell. a part of yourself had been secretly hoping she was irritating, or bitchy, or weird towards you — you just wanted something to latch onto, something to validate all the uncomfortable emotions that had been swirling ever since she became prominent.

but there was nothing. now all you’re left with is a weird bitterness towards a perfectly normal, sweet girl, her only crime being fetching up a childish possessiveness within you.

you don’t even understand why you’re like this over her in particular; ellie was always an introvert, but it wasn’t like she was a complete recluse. she’d had a serious girlfriend in high school, seen a couple of girls your first year of college, and you don’t remember feeling anywhere near how you are right now. you just guessed you didn’t have as much understanding of how you looked at her back then, combined with the domesticity of now having your own real place luring you into a warped way of thinking.

you hear haley leave around an hour and a half after you’d taken yourself to bed, followed by ellie shuffling around the kitchen space. the tap runs and there are a few clinks as she washes then places the three glasses to dry, hitting the lights off. her room’s further down the hall from yours, and she hesitates as she’s making her way there.

a few light taps sound from the other side of the door. “you asleep?”

“… no,” you call out softly, watching as it cracks open and ellie picks her way in. wordlessly, she plops herself onto the bed next to you, arm behind her head. you shift away a little, offering her more room.

“what’re you watching?”

“uh…” grabbing the remote, you pause the video for a beat so the title shows. you’re not even sure; you’d just selected the first you saw, then let the rest autoplay. “… ‘six most disturbing forest encounters caught on camera’.”

she chuckles. “spooky.”

“eh… they’re all fake.” you look up at her, smiling a little.

“could’ve fooled me.”

“i’m sure,” you laugh lightly, feeling the need to turn away when she goes to meet your eyes.

it’s quiet for a while, but you can sense she wants to say something. it’s not like one of the times she waltzes into your room simply to hang out, sit at the side of one another peacefully.

���you okay?” she eventually asks gently, turning her head to regard you. you don’t meet it.

“yeah, i’m fine.”

“you sure? ‘cause… i don’t know. you seem a little…”

“i’m all good.” glancing up, you offer an unconvincing, flickery smile. “don’t worry.”

“… okay.”

you can tell it offers no comfort, but she doesn’t push it. just settles further into the bed, scratching at her chin.

her eyes dart from the tv screen to the wall, then back to you. “haley’s cool, right? guessed you guys would get along.”

“yeah, she seems nice.”

she’s really not being subtle; but then again, neither are you. you’d been perfectly friendly while you were all together, but the way you’d disappeared coupled with your increasingly half-hearted responses whenever she was brought up pointed elsewhere.

“seriously, what’s up?” she turns onto her side to face you, resting her head on her arm. “i don’t like this.”

you roll your eyes, sighing as you turn, mirroring her. “it’s stupid.”

“what’s stupid?”

your mind flashes with a million ways you can get an overview of your feelings out, without having to tell her the root cause. “i don’t know, i’m just… like, used to it being… y’know, me and you.”

she pulls a face, letting out a fond scoff and furrowing her brow. “what do you mean?”

a tiny groan sounds from your throat, fingertips rubbing at your eye. “i’m just being stupid. fuckin’ embarrassing.”

laughing quietly again, she narrows her eyes a little. “what, are you, like… jealous?”

“no, i just… i don’t know. ignore me.” you’re trying to ignore the way you can feel your cheeks heat up when she says that word. you’d known all along that’s what you were, but being confronted with it is a whole other sensation entirely.

she doesn’t say anything for a moment, just keeps a small smirk on her face and looks down. “that is stupid.”

“right. thanks.”

“no, like…” subconsciously shuffling closer, her leg brushes yours. she quickly moves it. “dude, i can have other friends, but no-one’s gonna be you.”

you blink, thrown by her sincerity. you’d half-expected her to poke a little fun, call you a dumbass. she continues, your eyes meeting hers as she settles her head into the palm of her hand. “you’re always gonna be my best friend.”

yeah, i know, you think. that’s the problem.

[trinlovessoobin]

unintentional

{wonwoo x fem! y/n}

quick description: friends to lovers. you and wonwoo both get accepted into the same collage. you both have been friends for a long time and decide to room together for collage after wonwoo gets a girlfriend he starts ignoring you, but why?

word count 5.1k

18+

[warning of content] smut, jerking off, self pleasure, drinking, oral sex, unprotected sex, pet names (baby, princess) profanity, creampie.

College dorms were a topic you didn’t want to talk about. You hated the idea of them having to share a room with a stranger?? When you got accepted into your dream college there was no way you could afford to rent a place without facing the same problem….strangers, that was until your best friend Wonwoo got accepted too. You and him have been friends since middle school he was the quiet lid and you were a nerd but you saw his Pokémon backpack and immediately knew you needed to be his friend. You both decided to take a gap year before going to college, you didn’t have financial help from your parents so you worked hard.

After jumping up and down with excitement when he told you he had been accepted too the idea sparked that maybe you won’t have to live with a stranger he wasn’t too sure about the idea since he was unemployed but that could change! And you knew his social anxiety was bad, almost worse than yours.

“A one-bedroom apartment would be the cheapest, one of us could take the bedroom and we can turn the living room into a bedroom and if we both get jobs within walking distance of the university we could take the bus to school and walk to work I believe that this is a perfectly thought out plan that would work in both of our favors. Wonwoo please please please”

Wonwoo was very smart like smart so he did the math on if this would work and we wouldn’t drown in debt lucky for you it would be cutting it close with groceries and extra spending money but it can work. You held in your pure excitement and whipped out your laptop to look at apartments.

“hey y/n. This one looks like what you were looking for except better it has a loft and a bedroom so we would still have a living room the loft goes above the kitchen, and the kitchen looks pretty nice too, not that you would be cooking since you’re terrible at it”

You punch him in the arm and take the laptop to look at the price.

“Hey, this is lower than our max price too!! Did you look at the surrounding shops or any place that would hire college students?”

Wonwoo takes back the laptop and adjusts his glasses while looking on Google Maps at the surrounding buildings.

“There are a few restaurants a tea shop and what looks like a coffee and bake shop”

“Bro they’re gonna so want me with my espresso experience, maybe they’ll hire you too! but I don’t know if I want to live and work with you that might be too much for me I might O.D from too much Wonwoo y-know?”

He gives you a side eye that sends a chill down your spine

“or we could work together because I could never get enough of you��

You give him a sarcastic smile.

“anyways… we should start saving now you have the money from your parents and I’ve been saving from work lets send an application for the apartment”

You both send in a few more applications for other places as well a month goes by you receive emails for the confirmation of tours Wonwoo goes to half while you go to the others in the end you both fall in love with the first apartment you look at the one with the loft and a bedroom it was so cheap and perfect up in the loft there was a whole wall of outlets so Wonwoo takes the loft for his gaming set up (thank god because you wanted your full privacy the loft was cute but the open walls made it feel too out in the open)

Time flew by and just like that you both were moving in together, you were a little nervous since you hear horror stories about friendships being ruined while moving in together where the two end up hating each other from seeing them so much but you had a feeling that wouldn’t happen Wonwoo and you both liked your alone time with the two separate rooms and getting jobs at separate places things seemed to be looking perfect you worked at the cafe and Wonwoo is working as a waiter for a nicer restaurant he has to take the bus but it pays well so it’s worth the journey.

———————————————————————

“Wonwoo please can we host a housewarming party it doesn’t even have to be a lot of people just my close friends and your close friends more of a get-together than a party. I KNOW that Jeonghan has been dying to see this place since we moved in and since we’re all unpacked and-“

Wonwoo cuts you off.

“forget it y/n you know how I hate social gatherings. Jeonghan can come over eventually, we don’t need a bunch of people in our apartment to trash the place and make our neighbors hate us right away”

You cross your arms and pout, but after seeing that stern look on your arms pull your victim card.

“I was going to invite my girls anyway because I miss them. I was offering the party so you would have your friends too. I was just trying to be nice so you wouldn’t feel awkward I know you don’t talk to them. But when they come over we can just be in my room and not disturb you it’s okay”

Wonwoo huffs and pinches his nose bridge.

“fine”

You start jittering with excitement.

“thank you thank you thank you. I’m gonna text the girls.”

———————————————————————

The morning of the party you and Wonwoo went to the store you get alcohol he turned 21 a few months ago and you were turning 21 soon but you weren’t there yet so he had to go in alone but you gave him a list.

1. 2x bottles of pink Whitney

2. 3x packs of mikes hard lemonade

3. 1x bottle of Smirnoff vodka (raspberry)

While he was getting the alcohol you went to the grocery store for snacks and cups.

When everyone was there you and Wonwoo gave them a very professional tour it was very short since the apartment is very small. But made things easier for you two. You all start playing drinking games when you hear a knock on the door, you open it to see DK one of Wonwoo’s friends he is late but he is also holding two bags full of Chinese take-out.

“dk you are an angel sent from heaven”

“sorry for being late, thought I’d bring some food”

He said with a big smile while walking in.

After lots of eating and lots of drinking DK and Jeonghan went home, Mingyu stayed over, they played video games up in his loft and you and your friends all went to your room. Soyeon and Yuqi get comfortable on the floor while you and Yeji decide to share your bed it was a queen so there was more than enough room.

“hey y/n”

You hear Yuqi say from the floor.

“what’s up?”

“don’t you think it’s a little weird moving in with a boy? I mean I know you guys are just friends but at the end of the day you are a straight single woman and he’s a straight single man who knows when animal instincts kick in” They all start giggling at her comment.

“oh my god I can’t even think about doing something like that with him, I've known him for so long his this gamer nerd and I'm positive he sees me as a geek”

You turn over so your back faces them giving off the ‘im done with this conversation’ energy but Yeji had a comment.

“yeah except you’re both hot now”

“Yeji oh my god you did not just call Wonwoo hot”

“he is though!? Girl are you blind???”

“I’m going to bed goodnight, no more of this stupid talk”

The next morning all the girls went home super early you slept in a little but woke up to the smell of food, your nose followed you to the kitchen and found two tall tan beefy shirtless men in your kitchen cooking.

“what the fuck?”

They turn around and it’s Mingyu and Wonwoo, you knew Mingyu was buff because he’s constantly showing it off with his muscle tee’s and tank tops but you swear Wonwoo lives in hoodies and crewnecks it’s like they’re attached to him.

“oh good morning y/n”

Mingyu says with a smile. Wonwoo looks a little shocked to see you like he knows you’ve never seen him like this, like he’s been hiding he even gets a little flustered looking away and back to the food, Mingyu walks over to you.

“sleep well? We’re making breakfast do you want some?”

“oh um yeah I slept good and breakfast sounds great, thank you”

Mingyu was standing very close to you but you never felt intimidated by him his eyes are just so soft and it’s like there’s an imaginary tail wagging behind him at all times.

You went and sat on the couch and saw Wonwoo walk up to his loft and come back down fully clothed he was embarrassed you couldn’t help but wonder why he would be though like if you have a body like that show it off!! When Mingyu brought you over breakfast you paused him from leaving.

“hey wait, do you and Wonwoo go to the gym together or something? Because how come I had no idea he was built? I did notice that when I punch his arm when he's pissing me off it does hurt my fist but I didn’t think anything of it”

“oh yeah! We go all the time. He didn’t tell you?”

“no…. he didn’t. This whole time I thought he was a bit chubby. Like not in a bad way in a cute way but not in a cute way like like him yk but kind of endearing I guess?? That’s not the point he’s always wearing those oversized hoodies and sweats how was I supposed to know?? He was a chubby kid too”

Mingyu suppresses his laughter and walks back to the kitchen.

You can’t help but still stare at Wonwoo, for so long you had no idea he had been going to the gym, his back was so perfectly sculpted and when he turned around his abs were so defined, it was just so shocking.

———————————————————————

When school started you and Wonwoo barely saw each other, you’re classes started early and he went late and on the weekends you both worked, sometimes you would see each other in passing but it was always just a small “hey” or “how are you” never an actual conversation. You were just about to leave for work when Wonwoo came down from his loft, you didn’t even know he was home.

“hey Wonwoo, we should go get dinner i haven’t been able to talk to you in so long, like I live with you, I go to school with you, but I never see you. I miss you”

“oh. yeah, I can look at my schedule probably not till next week I have a date for my one day off this week”

“a date? You have a date!!?”

“is it that surprising y/n?”

“n-no of course not I mean-, I’m just hurt you didn’t tell me sooner”

“well I’m telling you now”

“I guess, just text me when you have a day we’ll figure it out”

It makes sense that Wonwoo has a date he’s sweet, respectful, and surprisingly built. I don’t know why I'm upset about this date that he has. You dated a guy in high school for a while maybe it’s because he’s never dated anyone or maybe he has and just didn’t tell you would have even told me if it wasn’t for today?? “fuck why am I so upset.”

You and Wonwoo never ended up having that dinner, your schedules never aligned and he ended up going on more dates with that girl he even asked you to spend the night at a friend's so he could bring her home!? if you weren’t pissed about this before you’re pissed now. When you came home she was still over.

“oh sorry, I thought you’d be gone by now, I’m y/n”

She was pretty. You take your time examining her, she is shorter than you, slimmer too.

“oh my god, Wonwoo told me about you! You’re so pretty and tall. I would hug you but sorry I'm a little sweaty right now”

You stare at her in shock, why is she sweaty!? Wonwoo walks in wearing a muscle tee and sweats.

“oh hey y/n we just got back from the gym”

Oh, thank god. Wait they’re close enough to be going to the gym together? You and Wonwoo never go to the gym together.

Another month went by without seeing Wonwoo he was completely occupied with her. until he out of nowhere Wonwoo started staying home doing nothing but eat sleep and games, your winter break was coming up and you hadn’t talked about going home in fact you still haven’t talked at all even though he’s home all the time now.

It was a Saturday night both of you were off work it was fairly late and you were pacing your room “I’m tired of his silent treatment I'm gonna go talk to him” You storm out of your room and climb up to the loft, there he was in his gaming chair like always.

“Wonwoo”

He doesn’t answer.

“Wonwoo!!”

Still, no answer so you walk over to him and tap him on the shoulder he jumps a little under your touch, so he doesn’t hear you…he takes off his headphones and pauses his game.

“what’s up y/n?”

He looks up at you completely blank-minded.

“Are you serious right now”

“huh?”

“Wonwoo what is wrong with you, we live together, we go to school together, but I haven’t seen you in months did something happen and where did your girlfriend go i mean you were with her all the time so that was a good excuse for not seeing me but now there’s no excuse you’re just avoiding me”

You feel like you are about to cry his emotionless face while you’re expressing your feelings to him and all he does is just look at you.

“well say something Wonwoo don’t just stare at me”

He stands up out of his chair and moves over to his bed and takes a deep breath,

“I’m sorry y/n”

The apology was unexpected.

“the girl I was seeing…… she uh cheated on me so that’s why she’s not around anymore”

He puts his head down like he cannot look you in the eyes while saying this, you cannot believe she cheated on him.

“Wonwoo-“

He cuts you off.

“Please don’t feel bad, please. That’s why I didn’t say anything, I feel like it was my fault like I didn’t give her enough I didn’t satisfy her”

You crouch done onto your knees in front of him so you can look him in the eyes.

“Wonwoo don’t say that you’re so much better than any man I’ve ever met you’re kind, respectful, loyal, and fuck you are hot okay. So don’t you ever doubt yourself because any girl you’re with is lucky to have you she just doesn’t see that”

He looks at you his, eyes glossy. You place your hand on his cheek

“you’re wrong,” he says a tear streaming down his cheek.

“What?”

“you’re wrong, I wasn’t giving her my all when my mind was on another girl”

You take your hands off of his face taken back.

“oh” is all you manage to say.

“fuck, y/n I can explain”

“it’s fine you don’t need to you have your feelings I mean she still cheated on you that’s her fault, she could have talked to you about her emotions instead of going out and fucking some guy… so um who’s the girl who owns your heart.”

Wonwoo holds his breath you can tell he’s thinking hard and thinking for a while.

“I- it’s unimportant”

“Wonwoo you need to talk to me more you keep pushing me away. We’ve been friends forever i know you’re not the most comfortable all the time with me but you’ve always been able to tell me if something’s wrong, that’s why I’m here”

Wonwoo stands up off the bed.

“I can’t tell you this”

He tries to walk away but you grab ahold of his leg and wrap your arms and legs around his leg to hold him in place

“NO!!”

“y/n what are you doing”

“I’m not going to let you ignore me anymore i can’t we haven’t talked in months i won’t let you get away from me I won't let you shut me out again”

“This isn’t about that I'm not shutting you out i just can’t tell you this”

Wonwoo tries to get away from you grunting and struggling and dragging you while you still latched onto his leg. he try’s to take your hands off of his leg but he trips and falls over you, you lay beneath him his hands on opposite sides of you, you notice how flustered he gets and heavy his breath is you look at him in the eyes looking back and forth between each eye you two are so close you’ve never been this close to him you can see each line on his skin. You wrap your arms around his neck and wrap your legs around his waist clinging to him like a monkey.

“you’re insane what are you doing?”

“I’m not letting go till you tell me.

“fuck.”

“why is it so hard for you to open up” your voice is muffled since your face is pushed into his arm from clinging to him.

“I’ll tell you if you let go I can’t think the way you latched onto me”

“promise you won’t run away”

“Promise”

You let go and you’re beneath him again so you move out from under him and lean against the bed and he sits on the floor cris-crossed.

“so who is she? Is it someone I know? Is that why it’s so hard I promise I won't tell”

“y/n you’re so stupid”

“well that’s rude”

He bites his bottom lip and just stares at you.

“y/n… I like you, now please don’t say anything that you don’t mean because I’m only telling you since you’re relentless for an answer I couldn’t lie, I know you don’t feel the same way and our friendship means so much to me truly”

You were shocked, this was the last thing you thought he was gonna say, but you were confused you’d never thought about him like that but every time he was with that girl you were jealous and it made you think. He is an amazing person and he is everything you look for in a man… so why not him?

“okay but at least say something because now I’m nervous”

“I don’t know what to say Wonwoo. I love you I do, I've just never thought about being anything more than friends, it’s so cliché girls and guys can’t be friends i was always so focused on beating the stereotypes. But when you were with her I admit I was jealous. She got to see you in ways I’ve never seen you, she was taking you from me. But again that could be only platonic for me. I’m a little confused right now I need to think okay?”

You stand up and he stands up too, you give him a small hug then walk away. You go to your room to think. You stay up super late just thinking and thinking and thinking. And think some more you try and picture yourself with him what would it be like? Going on dates, holding hands, kissing… your face gets flushed just thinking about him in that way. You think about doing more things with him what it would feel like to have your bodies together warm and sweaty in dark rooms, how he would touch you how his large frame would tower over you. Turns you on just thinking about him like that. You lock your door and crawl into bed pulling down your pj shorts and underwear circling your clit, you were so wet just thinking about him you place two of your fingers into yourself imagining him hey we’re Wonwoos imagining his large dominant hands you let out a moan without even realizing. If just thinking about him got you off this much you were sure you liked him more than just a friend. You needed him.

———————————————————————

It was the last week of school before winter break and so you were both cramming for exams you didn’t see each other till Friday night. He was in the kitchen making ramen when you got home he noticed you and smiled.

“want some?”

“yeah that would be great I’m starving”

You both eat in silence the only noise being the clinking of the chopsticks against the bowels. Till you clear your throat when you are finished.

“so, how were your finals?”

Wonwoo says breaking the silence.

“stressful but I think I did well”

“that’s good i think I did okay, so um we never talked about the break do we want to go home?”

“I was going to go down the 23rd wait a bit, what were you thinking?”

It was strange being able to talk to him so normally after your last talk together you wanted to tell him so bad how you felt but you were scared what if the relationship doesn’t last will you be able to go back to how it used to be? You’re more than just friends now you live together. A breakup could ruin everything.

“y/n. you look lost in thought you didn’t answer my question”

“oh! Right, I was planning on going down the 21st, are you finished with your bowl?”

“yeah I'm done”

You take your bowl and his and walk over to the sink to wash them the room grows awkward the sense of waiting is present you can tell he is waiting for your answer. You finished washing the bowls and put them to the side, let out a small sign and turned around to face him.

“Wonwoo.”

“hmm?”

“I didn’t have to think too hard about my feelings for you, they were clear that I like you, you’re everything I’ve ever looked for in a man and more you’ve always been by my side but my only worry is this, how close we are right now. You’re my best friend, we’ve gone through so much together and I would never want to ruin what we have. We live together for fuck sake.”

All he does is grin and walk over to you.

“you like me?”

“didn’t you hear the rest of what I said this is something we need to seriously think about”

He walks closer to you and puts his hands on your waist.

“I’ve thought about it. Many times, all the time”

He slowly walks you to the back of the counter hands still on your waist. You’re heart is pounding his eyes are stern not his usual soft doe eyes they’re cat-like and focused you’ve never seen him like this, it was so hot.

“Wonwoo,” you say in a soft voice you don’t even know why you said his name maybe you weren’t sure if this was real or not.

“yeah?”

You don’t respond you can feel him getting close to you trapping your body beneath him one of his hands move from your waist onto the counter him peering down at you was so intimidating yet you felt safe.

“I want you to say it again but with more meaning, tell me how you feel”

Wonwoo was so close you could feel his breath as he spoke.

“I- Wonwoo I like you a lot”

“yeah?” he says with a smile then leaning in and kissing you softly and pulling away leaving you wanting more.

“you know, the night after our talk I heard this noise it was a little loud I wasn’t sure what it was though so I climbed down my loft and saw you were in your room when I heard the noise again”

His hand moves to the side of your neck grazing your chin with his thumb.

“do you want to tell me what you were doing or who you were thinking about while doing it?”

You bite your lip and look up at him and look away flushed feeling embarrassed.

“aw don’t be embarrassed baby I’m just sad I couldn’t help you. All you could do was think about me when I was just outside your room”

He leans in and whispers.

“your moans are so pretty, I bet they’re prettier when I’m fucking you for real though”

His voice was so deep and smooth it’s never like this it sounded like it was just melting. All you could do was stare at him and listen to him.

“cat caught your tongue?”

He goes into another kiss this time more passionate and possessive his hand still on your waist and the other on your neck his tongue meets your lips asking for permission to enter, and you give it to him. Your tongues intertwining with each other both getting desperate he pulls away and you whine at the sudden stop of contact. he only stops to take off his glasses and put them on the counter beside you then lifts you onto the counter grabbing ahold of your thigh and squeezing while going back into the kiss. You place your hand beneath his shirt and a groan from the back of his throat reacts to your touch. He moves your legs to either side of him so now he’s fully pressed up against you. You tug on his shirt wanting him to take it off, he pulls away again and takes off his shirt. When going back into the kiss he goes to your neck this time leaving soft wet kisses down your neck then takes off your sleep shirt, since it was your sleep shirt you didn’t have a bra on underneath. Wonwoo places his hand on your breast and softly brushes his thumb over your hard sensitive nipple, you moan quietly from his touch.

“so sensitive and we haven’t even gotten to the good part yet”

Both his hands are now on your thighs he strokes them up and down while what looks like he’s thinking.

“my bed? Or your bed?”

You’re still a little out of breath and you think for a moment.

“my bed is closer”

Wonwoo smiles picks you up off the counter and throws you over his shoulder as if you weigh nothing and walks into your bedroom gets onto your bed them places you down. You start to take off your shorts when he stops you.

“patience”

Is all he says before leaning down on top of you and kissing you again, your fingers slide into his hair slightly pulling each time he pinches your nipple. he leaves a kiss trail down your neck onto your stomach and the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them off and spreads your legs you suddenly feel very bare. He kisses your folds then slides his index and middle finger into you, a gasp leaves your lips while he slowly pumping them in and out.

“is this what I was doing when you were touching yourself thinking about me?”

“it’s better-“ is all you managed to get out before he picks up his pace fucking you with his fingers.

You notice the bulge in his pants while it slightly rubs against your leg while he continues to do wonders with his fingers, he slightly curls them hitting your G spot and causing you to moan orgasm

“Wonwoo, take off your pants. I want to feel your dick inside me”

He pauses and grins taking his fingers out of you linking them clean and taking off his sweats along with his briefs, it was big and had girth, a drip of pre-cum on his tip, it’s not like you were a virgin you had a boyfriend your last two years of high school but this was different you’ve never wanted it this bad.

He pulls your legs closer to him and teases you, circling his tip around your hole.

“so wet for me princess”

He fully inserts himself into you as before he starts slow, one hand ahold of your leg while the other beside you keeping him up while he towers over you.

“fuck, you feel so good”

He picks up his pace leaning over you burying his face into your neck breathing heavily groaning and curing under his breath every time you pull his hair. he goes even faster thrusting into you, and the sound of moaning, clapping, and bed squeaks filling the room, wonwoo was so desperate for you your body’s were so close they were practically molding together.

“Wonu,” you say in between breaths “I’m close”

“me too princess, where do you want me to cum”

“in me….. I want you to cum in me”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m on the pill, I need you to fill me”

He smiles into your neck and bites down leaving a hickey, thrusting even faster than before a loud moan leaves your mouth as your walls clench around him cumming down his cock, he quickly cums right after you riding out his high fucking the cum right back into you. After pulling out he moves to the side of you, the room is hot and you are both sticky. You both lay on your bed panting.

“you can shower first,” Wonwoo says already standing.

You get up and give him a quick kiss on the cheek before walking out of your bedroom still fully naked and into the bathroom. You could feel his eyes on you until you were completely out of his sight.

The bathroom quickly steams up from the hot water and you hop in and start rinsing off your body, your eyes were closed you didn’t even notice the presence behind you until you felt soapy hands down your back. You jump at first and quickly turn around to face him.

“oh my god Wonwoo you scared me”

After the fear leaves you realize that Wonwoo is in the shower with you Wonwoo is in the shower with you…

“I didn’t mean to scare you, but I wasn’t quite done with you yet. I’ve waited so long for this I’m not waisting a second”

He grabs your chin and pulls you into a kiss this was rougher and more intense he was hungry for you, humming into the kiss, your bodies pressed together and you feel his cock harden and pull away for a moment. Licking your lips you kiss his neck, putting your hands on his hips and walking him to the wall of the shower, you slick your hair back with the water before getting onto your knees in front of him. Kitten licking his tip before pulling your mouth over it you only take a third of him in sucking on his tip and stroking the rest with your hands.

“fuck y/n, you’re so hot”

His comment made you want to please him even more so you take in more of him a little over half bobbing your head slightly sucking, causing him to groan and tilt his head back. So you take even more taking in all of him his tip hits the back of your throat causing you to gag, which causes him to groan even louder and grab your hair.

“Jesus fucking Christ y/n if you keep up with that I’m already gonna cum”

And so you do. Taking his full length down your throat, wonwoo holds the back of your hair slightly for support, his head is now fully tilted back against the shower wall you can tell he’s close so you pick up your pace a little bobbing up and down his cock.

“I’m gonna cum” Wonwoo says basically out of breath.

You go back to the third of it being in your mouth and jerk off his high with your hands while his seed spills into your mouth and down your throat. After taking his cock out of your mouth you stick out your tongue to show him that you swallowed, then you stand up keeping eye contact while licking your lips and the corners of your mouth making sure not to miss a single drop of him. You give him a small smile and go back to washing your body and hair while he’s still slightly leaning against the wall panting. He watches you finish showering and step out blowing him a kiss before leaving the bathroom, Wonwoo then finishes up his shower.

Once he finishes up and is all dressed he finds you lying on your stomach in bed on your phone. He jumps in and lays beside you.

“You changed the sheets”

“I had to…”

Wonwoo leans in and kisses you on the cheek.

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” Wonwoo says wrapping his arms around you.

“If you turn off the lights I'm too lazy”

Wonwoo quickly jumps up, turns off the lights and snuggles under the covers.

“We should go down the 23rd,” you say getting beneath the covers.

“I fully one hundred percent agree,” Wonwoo says hugging you tightly.

“Goodnight Wonwoo.”

“Goodnight y/n”

—————————————————————————

Thank you so much for reading! I really enjoyed writing this and out a lot of time into it so I hope you enjoy 💟

[mothlau]

hello, for the kink meme, could i humbly ask you for leztappen and watersports/piss kink please? (and, if possible, with little to no desperation/humiliation?)

also, i wish you a happy new year, may it be filled with joy and good things for you!

hiii beloved!!! this one got out of control and also I hope it has enough humiliation. I tried to tone it down but honestly, it's piss play, you need the humiliation. anyway, happy new year to you too! 10 days too late but oh well! enjoy the piss play, puppy play, daddy kink and gp!max combo friends:3 (kink meme here)

6451 words :3

Most of their friends assume that it's Charles who's wrapped around Max’s finger. That she cannot say no to Max no matter how extravagant the demand may be, that whatever Max says or wants is final. To an extent, they're right. After all, she’s the femme, and according to people’s heteronormative minds, the one who is more feminine in the relationship is the one who cares more, who’s more attentive. 

Charles is wrapped around Max’s finger. But just as much, Max is whipped for Charles. If someone were to compare the amount of fondness they have for each other, people will quickly realize that it's not Charles who's wrapped around a little finger 24/7. 

It's Max. 

Max cannot deny Charles’ wishes; Max bends the whole world to give her lover the happiness she deserves. It's Max who spends nights upon nights to plan perfect getaways for their anniversaries, it's Max who gave into her wishes and got Charles the Steinway and placed the piano directly in their living room.

And, at the end of the day, it's Max who does everything in her power to make sure Charles enjoys herself. 

Whenever she notices something that Charles may find pleasure in, she stores the information away, making sure to bring it up when they're discussing scenes or new interests that may have sparked. Even with Charles’ overbearing eagerness to try new things with her, she  rarely initiates ideas. 

She's still shy, in spite of the time they've been together. It's endearing to Max, that Charles still blushes bright red when Max takes her bra off, that she’s still a mess when Max slides her hands down her thighs.

The list of things she wants to try is getting long, something that Max doesn't mind, per se. She doesn't, because in the end she can twist Charles into the perfect little puppet for her to toy with. They don't mind, because they’re certain Charles will like whatever they propose to her. 

He's toyed with an idea before, almost put it into action too, but in the end it didn't seem fit to make Charles piss herself without any rules set in stone yet. There's no doubt that the woman won't agree with it, but Max will rather postpone their play than do something that may make Charles even a little bit uncomfortable. 

So, despite her wishes and desires to break Charles, Max keeps everything under wraps. 

Whatever thoughts Charles shares with them during heated sessions and foggy mindsets, Max notes all in their head, safe to be used later on. Where to hit Charles, how to press her buttons theoretically, when to push, when to pull. Every little idea, all of them organised in Max’s brain, nicely and orderly. 

The last thing Charles told them about seemed easy enough when she first uttered her fantasy. Slap Charles’ pussy until she was cumming and begging for mercy. Simple, Max's done worse in her relationships. 

But with Charles, it wasn't as simple. She’s hit her lover before, tied her up and used whatever she fancied to break her, but it was always kept under an invisible, unspoken line. 

In spite of his cruel hands and words, Max can never truly hurt her beloved Charles. As much as it turns Max on, it pains her to cause her harm, even when Charles begs for that torture. Unless she's positive, one hundred percent and then some more, that at the end Charles will be drunk on pleasure. 

It's not unusual for their plays to be hit or miss, but Max prides herself in them being hits most of the time. 

They mention wanting to try new things during a relaxed dinner, when they’re almost sure Charles forgot about the things she's babbled on during a previous scene. And, of course, Charles agrees readily, albeit a bit timid and flushed. 

After that, it's smooth sailing on Max's side, at least. Charles is stuck with anticipation bubbling under her skin and the fear of uncertainty tearing at her conscience. 

To Max, who likes the waiting game, it's beautiful. To Charles, who is used to getting whatever she desires with minimum effort, it's hell. 

Every other day he makes Charles drink more than she can usually handle, slowly but surely trying to train the woman into holding her piss longer and longer. Most days it's a hassle which ends up with Charles whining and rushing to the bathroom, Max not bothering to stop her. But then there are some days, rare and in between, when Charles manages to go hours upon hours without running from Max's hold. 

The praise Charles gets also helps her, no matter how much she's trying to deny the humiliating claims. 

Almost a week later, Charles pushes a full bottle of water into Max's hands, making her look away from the laptop. Max doesn't need any clarification as to why she does this, nor does he need any pleas or guilty looks to nod at Charles' silent request. 

She trusts Max enough for the blonde to gain complete control over her bodily needs. Max can't help but smile fondly at it as they let the bottle rest on their thigh. Charles sits on the ground, head thrown back on the edge of the couch, minding the poorly balanced laptop. 

"Whenever you're ready," Max whispers, hand reaching out to tug at a few matted strands. Charles simply nods and allows herself to fall, Max's soothing touch being the only thing keeping her afloat. 

It takes Charles only an hour to finish the water, drinking obediently every time Max urges her to. She's even quicker to bring Max another one and one more, all whilst finishing them without any fuss. 

And then, as Max closes his laptop and opens his arms for Charles to crawl into, it only takes a few minutes for Charles' eyes to get cloudy and for her touch to get needier. The sight before her makes Max euphoric, an undeniable call to protect and please the withering woman in her lap. 

"You still with me, darling?" The words are barely above a whisper, but even so they grasp at Charles' conscience and pull her in just enough for the brunette to nod against Max's chest. All pliant and soft in their hands, Max isn't sure whether or not to move their play away from the couch and into their bedroom, where towels and mats lie specifically for what's to happen next. 

"Hurts a bit, Maxie," Charles says, voice all hushed and feeble. The hand resting on Max's bicep tugs and squeezes, a poor attempt for Charles to regain control over herself. 

"Colour, pretty?" 

It takes Charles a moment, already gone and drifting, but soon, she mumbles a simple and clear, "Green." 

"Do you want me to carry you to the bedroom, angel? I don't think we'll like our couch smelling like piss after this." 

Despite how embarrassing the words should be, Max doesn't find them shameful anymore. She’s been fantasising about this for months now, the idea of watching Charles crumble under her orders and hands, her lover losing whatever ounce of self-control she still has and letting it all loose. That's enough for Max to push away any shame that might've been left inside. 

With Charles, it's not the same. The woman’s face flushes a bright red, the color travelling under the collar of her shirt, painting the hidden skin in beautiful hues of reds and pinks. Almost as beautiful as the marks they flush over. 

Almost. 

When there's no answer coming from Charles, Max gets the unspoken message. As always, Charles wants Max to carry her, manhandle her as if she's nothing but a lightweight in Max's hold. Which, undoubtedly, she is. 

With a quick movement, Max stands, gentle hands reaching out to lift Charles with ease. Her perfect little girl whines and squirms, the sudden change already too much for her sensitive state. 

"This ok?" Max asks, voice full of worry. 

Charles can only nod again, words lost somewhere in her head, muddled by thoughts full of desire, lust, animalistic instincts. After the quick answer, Max takes her time getting them to the bedroom, mostly because with each sickeningly slow step she takes out of the living room and down the hallway, Charles becomes that much more responsive to Max's cold touch. 

In preparation for their scene, Charles spread out the puppy mats they’ve gotten, while Max took his time to make sure that nothing of value could be ruined. The pillows were all sitting on the reading nook next to the window, towels have been placed close enough to the bed that Max didn’t have to look around for them and amid the whole mess of colorful cotton and stark white paper, now lies Charles. 

Charles, her perfect girl, who looks up at Max as if she’d hung the stars in the sky and then proceeded to create a whole universe just for Charles. Charles, her lovely girl, who is barely able to hold back tears as Max refuses to touch her just yet. Charles, her divine lover, whose back arches off the puppy mats when Max's knees hit the mattress, wanton moans and whined pleas falling from between bitten lips. 

"Puppy," Max bites back a smile. "Puppy, can you sit up a bit?" They crawl on the bed, remaining above Charles without their knees touching the woman’s sides. "I want you to drink some more, can you?" 

"Yes," Charles breathes out, fingers tightening around the puppy mat underneath. "Yes, daddy. Anything for you, Maxie." 

Max's face fills with love and adoration for the woman writhing beneath. Such a perfect, responsive being, all belonging to Max alone. He couldn't be happier. 

Helping Charles sit up, back leaning on the hardboard, Max reaches for the bottle left on the bedside table. Another thing Charles prepared, in hopes that Max would make her drink it and push her to the edge. 

"You're being so good for me, Charlie. Making me so proud right now." 

"I am?" Charles asks, a look full of hope blooming on her face. 

Max kisses the smile off her face, gentle and careful. "You are. My best girl, perfect little one. That's what you are, Charlie."

"Maxie–" the human whines, pressing her face into their open palms. "Need you." 

Unable to stop herself, Max pushes with her malevolent teasing, a vicious smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “You need me? How? Need me to touch your greedy cunt? Need me to slap it? Want me to press here?” Max's fingers push on the swollen bladder, light enough to simply make Charles cry out. “Or maybe you need me to fuck your dumb hole until you’re pissing all over yourself.” The woman sobs again, nodding along with Max's words mindlessly. “Which one is it, puppy?” 

“Yes,” she answers, muffled by her own hand.

“Dumb puppy,” Max smiles, feeling his chest overflow with butterflies and flowers. “Let’s finish the water first, then I’ll decide what you deserve.”

The silence that fills the room feels deafening as Max watches Charles. She is struggling to twist the cap off, fingers white with how hard she’s gripping the bottle. Max makes no move to help her, smirk still plastered on their face, eyes ranking up and down Charles' shaking body as she gets more and more annoyed. 

She lets out an exasperated whine, head hitting the wood behind him, “Max.”

“Yes, pup?”

Suddenly she has a handful of plastic to deal with, all while Charles stares at her with the same hurt expression she abuses whenever Max refuses to immediately give in. He can’t say no to her, no matter how much he’d like to watch her struggle some more. One simple twist later, the warmed liquid spills onto Charles shorts, seeping into the cotton and making Charles tremble.

Without uttering a word, Max grabs Charles face, fingers digging into the woman’s flushed cheeks to hold her mouth open. Charles tongue lolls out, expecting Max to spit on top of it, to push their finger past her lips and fuck her mouth ruthlessly. 

From her place above Charles, Max laughs. Her weight falls atop of Charles thighs, sweatpants clinging to her legs, making the restrictive touch feel worse. If he could, he’d take the pants off in an instant, but right now Max has to focus on Charles and Charles alone. 

Pink lips attempt to close around Max's fleeting forefinger, but the force Max has stops Charles before she can even whine. The water bottle feels heavy in her hand, and though it would feel rewarding to dump it over Charles' head, humiliate her further, Max knows that what’s to happen next will be even sweeter. 

“Charles,” she says, tone icy cold. Max sees her lover swallow, fear budding in her eyes. “Tilt your head back for me, mutt.”

That’s all the woman needs. Eyes fall shut, mouth slips open with little resistance and her head falls back. Max's hand still resides on top of Charles’ cheeks. She can’t stop herself from moving it lower, enticed with the beauty presented so effortlessly in front of her. It rests on the column of his neck, barely touching the trashed skin. 

Underneath him, shudders run down Charles’ spine, lips agape in a soundless moan. They’ve never seen something as beautiful before, not once in their lifetime have they witnessed such perfection falling apart mere centimeters away from them. 

Bright red spreads down Charles neck, skin hot beneath Max's hold. The woman’s cheeks, dusted scarlet and covered by a thin layer of sweat, invite Max to press kisses on the crimson expanse of her face. A promise of being able to do so after he breaks Charles consoles Max's urge to revere the angel. Her pretty girl shifts under her touch, eyes opening slightly to see why Max is not painting her skin in hues of purple and red. 

“Daddy…” Charles sounds wrecked already. “Why aren’t you touching me?”

“I am, silly,” Max answers simply, hand tightening around the brunette’s neck. “See?”

A pathetic whine rips through Charles sobs, fingers closing around Max’s wrist. It is so unbelievably easy to toy with Charles’ feelings, to push her buttons until she’s begging like a mindless, broken mutt. Max loves it, almost as much as she loves the gentleness that engulfs them after. 

“Let’s drink the water and then I promise to touch you however you wish.” His thumb presses in the neck juncture, eliciting a pitiful moan from his beautiful lover. “Colour, Charlie? You still with me?”

“Green, daddy,” Charles breathes out, her hold on Max's wrist relaxing. “Please, Maxie… Please ruin me. Need-- Need it s’ bad, baby. S’te plait”

Something about the slurred speech, the glazed look in Charles’ eyes when she pins Max under a lustful glance, the slight tremble in Charles’ hands and shoulders stops Max from pulling the woman’s head back. He’s never had Charles this far gone before they even started. Part of them wants to stop, pull their lover out and make sure she’s alright and coherent enough to know what’s happening to her. 

Reluctantly, she lets go of Charles, scooting back enough to loom over her while still presenting a form of comfort for her shaking lover. 

“Charlie, I need you to check in one more time. Can you do that for me, please?”

“‘M green, Maxie. Promise.”

The look that Charles fixes Max with is one of pure lust, undeniable desire burning hot in molten emerald. It sets Max back a few steps, a carnal desire spreading in her blood, wrapping around each and every organ inside of her. It tugs painfully at the ravenous wish to destroy Charles. 

Holding back those sinful impulses, Max leans back in, hand on Charles shoulder as she carefully presses a kiss on the woman’s nose. Soft and gentle, exactly the opposite of what Charles asked for. 

Charles mewls, fingers tightening around the material of Max's shirt. “Max. Fucking fuck me, you idiot.”

He moves without thinking, the ear splitting sound of a slap resonating in the room. “Impatient mutt, you have to wait for what you want or else I’ll leave you. Do you want to be here alone, without my help or permission to touch your pathetic pussy?”

“No!” Charles all but cries, thrashing under Max's weight. “‘M sorry, daddy, didn’t mean to be rude. Please don’t leave me.” 

The tears streaming down Charles’ cheeks ignite the fire further. Their body feels aflame, possessiveness spiraling inside their chest. Max is the only one who can make Charles cry like this, the only one who can light her body a bright vermillion with few and in between touches and stares. He is the only one who will never leave Charles, not in a time of need, not in a time of sickness. 

Never. 

“I’d never leave you, darling,” Max reminds her, voice dripping in honey. “I’ll stay with you for as long as you’ll have me.” 

“Forever?” Charles asks, gaze shy, yet hopeful. 

“Forever,” Max easily agrees, sealing the deal with a short lived kiss. 

The tenderness is just as short lived, mean fingers wrapping around Charles locks and finally, finally pulling her head back. The woman’s lips fall open as she swallows dryly at what’s to come. 

Max wishes she could capture the work of art unraveling in front of her, keep it forever with her, tucked into her phone for her to enjoy when apart from her lover. Shaking her head, Max pushes those thoughts aside. 

“I’m going to make you drink all of this water, Charlie. Gonna make you drown on it until you’re sobbing and pissing all over yourself, understood?” Her voice leaves no room for argument and Charles can sense the strictness. She nods, attempts to despite the hand holding her head still. 

Not a single breath escapes Max while he pours the water past Charles parted lips. Mesmerized, he watches the woman struggle to swallow, her Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp she manages to take. Tears fall from her closed eyes, breathing becomes more erratic. Still, Max doesn’t stop pouring. Not when water leaks down the sides of Charles face and onto the mats, not when Charles closes her mouth to calm herself, the two simple taps the woman places on his bicep fueling Max's sadism. 

The last few drops fall on top of her closed lips, running down heated skin with ease. Flushed skin seems to make the water evaporate, heating it up and leaving Charles hot and bothered before Max. Her eyes, though shut tight, twitch with every momentary touch. 

What a sight Max made of Charles. What a beautiful masterpiece he had created, all for himself to marvel at. This angel, this holy being that’s at Max's mercy is the embodiment of deadly sins. Lust and gluttony and pride and greed, all paint the insides of Max's chest in shades of green and bleeding red. 

Hypnotized, Max stares. 

She is so in love with this woman, so in love that no one could understand her devotion. No other can compare to Charles, no other can even come close to how dear Max holds this woman.

A whimpered whisper of his name breaks him out of his day dreaming. Their eyes focus on Charles’ face, red and blotchy with dried tears, trails of water and saliva going down her chin. She’s splendid, perfect in each and every way imaginable. She’s more than Max deserves, more than what she could’ve asked for. 

In any way, shape and form, Charles is her God, her angel and muse. 

“Max, please.” And despite not knowing what Charles is begging for, what she’s holding onto Max for, he cannot deny her precious love. When she’s pleading and sobbing for Max's touch, she’d have to be mad to ignore such saccharine requests. 

“Yes, my love, I know. You want me to touch you and make you cum. Your greediness never fails to impress me,” she sighs mournfully, putting on an act to rile her pretty girl up even more. “Say, you think you deserve to cum? You really think you’ve been good?”

“Yes!” Charles sobs, digging her fingernails into Max's shoulders. “I’ve been s’ good for you, daddy! Drank everything and-- and held my piss like a good girl.” She’s crying again, choking on her own sobs and spit. It’s a pitiful image, but Max relishes in the loud weeps. 

Charles is just so bewitching when she’s reduced to nothing but a sobbing mess. 

Max hums, deep in thought as she pretends to weigh the limited options she has. They don’t want to tease Charles for much longer, doubts they even can do it without giving themself blue balls, but God, they want to. Briefly, she thinks back to the list of things she’d planned out to do with Charles today and suddenly she doesn’t care about teasing Charles. She’d rather overstimulate her until she’s blabbering nonsense and shaking. 

“Colour?” 

Charles frowns at him, pout tugging at her lips. “Green,” she mumbles, chin tucked into her chest. “Please, daddy. It hurts!”

“Oh?” Max quirks her eyebrow, smirking down at the corrupted little thing. “Where does it hurt, baby girl?”

Her hand flies from Max's shoulder, resting gently above her own bladder, careful as to not press on it. Max can’t have this. Without much care, she moves Charles hand aside, pressing her thumb into the woman’s swollen abdomen. 

Charles’ sobs rip through her body, writhing as she tries to get away from the pressure Max is putting on her. In one swift move, she pulls her lover down, shirt riding up along with the mats. He moves from his place atop Charles’ thighs, momentarily sitting on the mattress while observing her. 

Without the weight on top of her, Charles lifts his head, confused and dazzled. She spots Max quickly, and without much thought she gives Max her best puppy eyes, bottom lip jutted out to effectively pull on Max's heartstrings. 

“Daddy, please come back and touch me,” her girl demands, face smushed into the pillow. “Wanna cum, please.”

Gods, Max will never tire of hearing her beg. 

He doesn’t utter a single sound while maneuvering Charles to sit between her legs. Doesn’t sprinkle any mean comments in when Charles wraps them around Max's waist, ankles crossed behind her back to hold Max close. Even when Charles buries her face deeper into the pillow, Max doesn’t say a word. 

They’re observing, committing every detail unfolding in front of them to memory, tucking away the pictures for later. 

Charles whimpers into the cotton covers, holding back another sob. “Hurts, daddy.”

“Does it?” Max asks. Her fingers itch to touch, to claim what’s hers with dark bruises in the form of Max's palms. “Should I make the pain go away, puppy?” The woman nods minutely. Had Max not been paying attention, he might’ve missed it. “Alright, darling. I’m gonna take your shorts off now, ok?” Another easy to miss nod. “Can you check in with me real fast, angel?”

“You can take them off, daddy. I’m green, j’st really hurts. Wan’ cum but it’s too much.”

As soon as the shorts and soiled panties are off, Max holds Charles’ foot gently, bringing it to his lips. She presses a single kiss in the middle of her sole, making the woman giggle despite the discomfort she is in. It brings a smile on Max's face, hearing her pretty girl laugh like this, all shy and soft. Charles covers her face, hands hiding the beautiful blush Max's put on her cheeks. 

Still, she can’t hide her pretty pussy, bruising red and leaking down her thighs, making for the most unholy view, nor can she conceal the flush on his neck, going under the shirt and coming back on her hips and thighs. Charles blushes beautifully, Max has come to know. Her whole body turns the loveliest shade of red, from the tips of her ears when Max leans in to whisper sweet I love you’s in public, to her thighs, burning red under Max's ministrations. 

It’s truly and absolutely fascinating, to say the least. 

“How do you want this, Charlie? On your back or on your stomach?”

“Back,” Charles answers eagerly. 

Max chuckles darkly, amused by the woman’s enthusiasm to piss all over herself. “Well, pup, go ahead. Wet yourself like the dumb mutt you are.” 

It’s an interesting progression, what happens next. Charles’ eyes shut tight, a deep frown creasing her forehead. She’s silent, panting while she struggles to let go. Under Max's loving gaze, Charles breaks. Frustrated sobs wreck through her, fists balling into the mats. The image is enough to make possessiveness spark underneath Max's skin, igniting their desires to keep these moments safe and away from anyone else. To keep Charles to themself. 

“Max, I can’t.” 

In a way, Max understands her pain and frustrations. She can imagine how hard it must be to let go, how humiliating the idea of pissing herself must be for Charles. Worry seeps into her bones again. 

“What can’t you do, angel?”

“I can’t--” Charles cuts herself off with a loud mewl. “Can’t go, daddy!”

“Can’t?” The fingers rubbing soothing circles on Charles' ankle ghost over her leg, moving to her hip, touch cold and brief, before stopping on the woman’s abdomen. “Or won’t?” The press is just a brief, a green ticket for Charles to call it quits in case she changes her mind. 

She doesn’t. 

“Can’t, daddy! It’s too ‘mbarrassing,” she mumbles into her hands, hiding behind them as a form of faux-comfort. “Help, Maxie…” The hushed and broken tone makes Max blink at his lover. 

Realization floods him. “Oh, you’re such a naughty thing, love,” he says with a laugh. Her previous gentleness is gone, thumb pressing roughly into Charles bladder, making the woman squirm in discomfort and pain. “Needing me to make you piss,” Max tuts, shaking her head at the crying beauty laid before her. “Naughty, messy little one. You never fail to impress me.”

Back arching off the mattress, Charles thrusts her hips in the air, oh so close to Max, yet so far away. She humps the air, ivory teeth biting the back of her hand, canines digging into tanned skin without an ounce of self-control. And yet, she’s still not letting go. 

It’s a wonder, how she’s managed to keep it in for so long, despite Max's continuous teasing. It makes Max just that more hungry, craving to see Charles come apart at his hand. 

“Daddy--” Charles stutters, the frown on her face only deepening with each second in which Max tortures her slowly. “Can’t do it, Maxie. Need your hand on my clit, daddy! Hurts too much!” She sounds so completely and utterly broken, so distressed and in this moment, Max swears she’s never been more in love with the sounds someone makes, let alone with the person letting them out. 

“Since you’ve asked so nicely,” she agrees without a fuss, right hand moving between Charles’ thighs, finger pressing into her swollen clit, squeezing it harshly to draw out more needy noises from Charles. 

“Thank you, thank--” Charles whines loudly, teeth pulling at her fingers, bitemarks imprinted on them. Desperate sounds bleeding into the room plague Max's mind. “I’m gonna--”

But Charles doesn’t get to finish her warning. With Max's hand moving faster and faster over Charles’ clit, she finally comes undone. Her whole body goes rigid, before relaxing into the sheets as a hot stream of piss leaks down her thighs, soaking the sheets, the mats, Max’s sweatpants, everything. 

Max didn’t know what to expect when he was planning this. Piss, surely; a mess, of course. But she didn’t expect for it to be so… enticing. The idea of Charles pissing herself did fascinate her, but she never thought it will be this hot. Watching Charles break turns her on more than she’d like to admit; it’s maddening, intoxicating. 

The stream doesn’t seem to be ending, liquid glistening atop Charles skin, seeping into his shirt, the mats absorbing as much as they can. Max is surprised that not much gets on his own clothes, only his knees wet with how he’s standing on the bed, the shirt he’s wearing remaining dry, safe for the edges pooling around his waist. 

She’s impossibly hard in her sweats and the sinfully erotic image of Charles panting, eyes shut tight, pussy spasming and leaking, piss drenching her clothes and the bed she’s resting on… It takes everything out of her to not devour the woman, but despite her best efforts she can’t stop her fingers from twitching with need, moving from Charles abdomen down her thigh, squeezing the fat with brute force. 

“Charles,” Max breathes out, voice strained. “Can I fuck your thighs?”

Charles legs tighten around her waist, hands gripping at Max's forearms. They’re bound to be bruised the next day, but neither care. Max loves being marked and purple just as much as she adores putting them across Charles' perfect body. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Charles chants, head thrown back in pure bliss. “Please touch me, daddy. Wanna cum now, daddy.”

Laughing to herself, Max reaches into their bedside table for the lube, fingers still massaging and squeezing at Charles thighs. “What, pissing yourself wasn’t enough to make you cum?” There’s no time to wait for the woman’s response. Max needs to cum just as badly as her sweet girl. 

The pretty blush spreading across Charles' body stops them for just a moment. A moment they uses to gawk at Charles, put some more images away in their head for later. She’s gorgeous. Thoroughly and unconditionally so. 

And Max, Max whose heart beats faster each time she steals a glance at her beautiful girl, Max whose stomach fills with butterflies and whose organs are wrapped in flowers and crystals and vines so thick they're making it hard to breathe, Max who cannot do anything but fall deeper in love with Charles, falls. She falls again and again, until she’s bruised and her knees are bleeding, yet she cannot stop. She wants this perfect woman, her perfect girl forever. Wants to fall for her more and more as their bones grow weak and the soil reclaims what belongs to it. 

The lube is cold when it hits Charles’ thighs, if the hiss she lets out is any form of indication of it. Not even the hotness that Charles emanates is enough to warm it up while Max sheds her sweatpants, cock springing free. He’s redder than Charles, untouched and begging to be buried in between Charles thighs. They’re both silent as Max guides Charles to squeeze her legs together, feet thrown over Max's shoulder to make it easier for her. 

Soft moans fill the room, Charles saccharine noises coating Max's dazed mind with a thick fog. Charles is a fuel, a fuel for unprompted decisions leading to handprints bruised on a tanned neck and fingerprints atop wide hips. Charles burns her, her touch burns deep into Max's skin, melting hardened walls with ease. It feels like she's boiling alive, underneath her skin. 

All because of Charles. 

His cock aches as he pushes its head past Charles' thighs. The press is astonishingly tight, so much so that Max feels the air being knocked from her lungs the more she pushes. God, she loves Charles’ thighs; she cannot get enough of feeling them around her, squeezing her, pulling her cock farther in. They want them wrapped around their head, their waist, their cock. Everywhere. 

“Angel,” Max moans, grip on Charles hips more secure with each shallow thrust. “You feel so good around me, angel. Your thighs were made to be fucked.” As an answer, Charles whimpers, biting on her bottom lip to keep the loudest noises away. “Made entirely for me to use, isn’t that right--” Max prides herself for the amount of self-restraint she has, but once she’s touching Charles, it all dissipates. 

“Yours, daddy. Only belong to you,” the woman agrees mindlessly. 

The drag across hot skin is rough, even with the amounts of lube and piss still on Charles legs. It’s mind numbing, uncomfortable enough to make Max hiss in pleasure as he increases the speed minutely. 

Charles' eyes are glued to her own legs, watching Max's cock poke out between them hungrily. If Max didn’t know any better she’d even say she’s salivating, mouth slightly open, tongue sticking out. But she’s not, because in moments like this, when Charles gets so focused on something that she doesn’t even blink, it’s almost like all her bodily functions shut down. All but her ability to stare and burn each detail into her retina. 

“You like watching your thighs swallow me whole, baby girl?" Max asks with a soft chuckle. “You have no idea how good you feel, love,” his words get stuck in his throat, another frail whine escaping Max. 

“Want you to touch me, daddy,” Charles whispers into thick air. It takes Max a moment to realize she’s spoken and then another one to take in what Charles said, but once she does her hand immediately moves to rest against Charles' clit. 

He doesn’t move it yet, waiting for Charles to break once again and beg for Max to make her cum. The thrusts don’t slow down, each one pulling Max closer to the edge. Volatile reds bloom across Charles' body, tainting Max's pale skin in its progress. She’d rather have the woman’s teeth stain her ruby and violet instead, but this will do. 

The sight of her beautiful lover alone can make Max cum. Seeing her so transfixed on the part where her cock peeks out, eyes glazed with want and lust only adds to the carnal effect she has on Max. 

Max is close, thrusts coming to a halt every time her navel touches the back of Charles’ thighs. He’s close and Charles is surprisingly quiet, yet just as spellbound. Without hrt own accord, Max's fingers rub over the woman’s clit, drawing out a series of rich whines and sobs, each more delicious than the other. 

She swallows them all with a hungry, starved kiss. 

In a flurry of chasing their own orgasm, Max's hand begins moving faster over Charles, sweet noises escaping the woman with each thrust and every press. The position is uncomfortable, Max's neck hurting as she leans down to press kisses on Charles face. She doubts the way Charles is folded is any better, but her lover’s only complaints are about needing to cum faster and harder. 

“Max, Maxie--” Charles chokes on her own spit. “Can I cum? Please, let me, daddy!” She’s sobbing again, beautifully so. Face red, with streaks of tears upon streaks of tears, saliva dripping down the corners of her mouth. 

Max almost doesn’t manage to give her permission, voice dying in her throat before she can get the words out on the first try. Their movements get that more clumsy with every pull back, the hand on Charles’ pussy stopping its strokes for a brief moment.  “Yes, sweetheart,” she says after her hips still enough for Max to recompose herself. 

That is all Charles needs. The granted permission, the grazing kissing Max continues to press all over her face, the hand that resumes its fast paced stroking. All of them tilt Charles over and with a single, loud keen, she cums all over Max's hand. 

Max isn't far behind. The woman brings her legs closer, impossibly tight, wishing to have Max's cum mix with hers. Max can barely breathe, air coming out in short puffs as he struggles to keep himself above Charles, lest he wants to collapse on top of his lovely girl. 

Charles' thighs are Heavenly around him. 

"Maxie," Charles moans, a quiet sob coming out of her. "Cum for me." 

With a whimper, Max goes still, spilling all over Charles' perfect thighs. The room is silent, safe for their heavy breathing and occasional whine Charles lets out. 

Blissful afterglow seeps into Charles' features, red bleeding out and leaving only coral pink behind. She's breathtaking, basking in her own orgasm, eyes closed and head tilted back. She's breathtaking, thighs still shaking around Max, hands letting go, without meaning to, of Max's arms.

Max's hand pulls away, moving up towards the woman’s mouth. The cum is already drying on her fingers, but that doesn't stop her from pushing two of them past Charles lips, watching with so much love as she sucks them into her mouth without a single complaint. 

God, Max just keeps on falling. 

"You're so pretty, Charlie. Been so good for me today," Max's tone is quieter, scared of breaking the moment they've created. Charles stays silent, only smiling up at her lover, completely blissed out with the fingers slowly pushing in and out of her mouth, resting on the brunette’s tongue every now and again. 

“Thanks, mate,” she whispers around Max's fingers. 

Max stops altogether, a stunned expression on his face. “Did you… just call me mate after I made you piss yourself and fucked your thighs?”

The smile Charles offers him is so stupidly endearing that Max can’t even find it in her to be upset by the absurdity of it all. 

“Alright, pretty girl, let’s get you in the shower. You reek of piss and I’m too tired to do anything else tonight,” Max says with a soft laugh. Her fingers leave Charles mouth, and though the whine the woman gives her does tug at her heartstrings, Max doesn’t give in. Charles can always fall asleep sucking on their fingers if she really does want that, but right now they’d rather take a long, hot shower and not think about the smell seeping into their mattress. 

“You have to carry me, though,” Charles informs him, matter of factly. 

Max scoffs, but nonetheless she stands and picks the woman up, throwing her over her shoulder. “I always carry you, idiot.”

“Yes, because it turns you on that you can manhandle me,” Charles scoffs back. “I’ll blow you in the morning if you wash my hair.”

Max sighs. “Fine,” she agrees, not bothering to tell Charles that she would’ve taken care of that without the promise of a blowjob. Charles doesn’t need her ego inflated any more than it already is. “It better be the best blowjob of my life, though.”

“Oh, you’ll love it, mon chou,” Charles laughs. 

Max doesn’t doubt it, but it’s nice to play the role sometimes. 

After all, Charles still hasn’t caught up on the fact that Max is so in love with her she’d give up everything to make her happy.

[immobulusmalfoy]

From Molly, With Love // George Weasley x F!Reader

Summary: Molly picks her family, no matter who they are, through the sweaters she makes. She's already picked George's SO, you! Warnings: Incredible amounts of fluff, like tooth-rotting. And Percy. A/N: Not sure why it's Christmas all the time in my fics. Just go with it. __________________________________________

Christmas morning was always a conundrum. Especially with the twins involved. I’d planned to sleep without setting an alarm, but I hadn’t expressed that to my two best friends and that had been my big mistake.

“Wake up, sleepy head!” they chorused, jumping on the bed.

I groaned, cracking open an eye to see both boys nearly on top of me, effectively pinning me beneath my blankets.

“Happy Christmas!” they shouted.

“Shhhh. ‘S too early. How’d you get in here this time?”

“That’s for us to know,” Fred started, “and you to find out.” George finished with a grin.

“Alright then, Happy Christmas to you lot, as well.”

I finally opened your eyes completely and sat up, trying to tame my hair and wipe my eyes from sleep. The twins had settled down at the end of my bed and were currently weighing the pile of presents they’d discovered there, attempting to figure out what was in each one. A lumpy one near the bottom was definitely one from Mrs. Weasley, but I knew I had a few from my parents as well as something from the twins.

They didn’t even allow me to get dressed or do anything else before they shoved the small pile of parcels in my lap and stared excitedly. I narrowed my eyes at them, daring them to have done anything remotely prank-related to my things. They looked the picture of innocence, though, in their blue sweaters knitted by their mum.

I opened my parents’ gifts first, the first being three muggle books I’d asked for and the second being a custom-made holster for my wand since my pockets never seemed big enough to hold it. I had a new set of quills from my aunt and uncle in France, too. Then I opened the one Molly had sent me, discovering a lovely emerald sweater with my first initial on it. I ran my hands lovingly over the yarn. Last year I’d gotten a pretty blue one, but I was happier with this green one. Beneath the sweater was a package of homemade fudge that I knew was going to be hidden for a later date. And finally, the twins had gotten me a whole package of my favorite candies and some sachets of tea.

I thanked them both and hugged them, then tugged on my sweater over my pajamas. I’d barely had a chance to run to the bathroom before the boys were dragging me over to the boys dorms to harass their brothers, both Percy and Ron.

“Merry Christmas!” George shouted.

“Hey look—Harry’s got a Weasley sweater, too!” Fred called attention to the sweater Harry had in his possession, one that was the exact same color as my own sweater. I smiled at the boy who looked up at me a bit shyly as Fred snatched the sweater out of his hands.

“Harry’s is better than ours, though.” Fred observed. “She obviously makes more of an effort if you’re not family.” He looked pointedly over at me, but I just shrugged.

I’d met Molly at the end of our first year when the twins and I got off the train. My parents hadn’t been there to meet me at the station, so Molly offered to wait until they got there. I’d felt horrible since they hadn’t shown up for another hour, but Molly and her husband and the boys had all made me feel like I hadn’t been a burden at all and I’d so appreciated it.

To this day, Molly sent me letters every once and awhile to check in, even more than my own parents and I loved the fact that she’d taken the time to knit me a sweater for the last three years. It made me feel special.

“Why aren’t you wearing yours, Ron?” George demanded. “Come on, get it on, they’re lovely and warm.”

I knew George was just trying to get a rise out of Ron, but I did feel bad that Ron didn’t like the sweaters his mum made. I knew he would be more upset if we kept pushing, but George didn’t let up and chucked the sweater at Ron’s head.

“I hate maroon,” the boy moaned, but he did put the sweater on and I beamed at him.

“You haven’t got a letter on yours,” George observed once the sweater was safely donned by Ron. “I suppose she thinks you don’t forget your name. But we’re not stupid—we know we’re called Gred and Forge.” George grinned, his eyes twinkling as he winked at me. I snorted.

“What’s all this noise?” A voice broke through the din we were making and I sighed, knowing exactly who was coming to spoil all the fun. Percy. It’s not that I didn’t like the third eldest Weasley, but he was usually a stick in the mud and he found great joy in ruining our fun.

He’d stuck his head through Ron and Harry’s dorm room door, looking disapproving. It took all that was in me not to laugh at his disheveled curly hair and his smudged glasses. He looked like he’d just gotten up, something I usually didn’t see from “Mr. Perfect Prefect Percy.” Percy was carrying a knitted sweater too and I brightened immediately once I noticed it. I was curious what color he’d get and I was surprised to see that it was a gold color with a maroon ‘P’ sewn in, but it did match his prefect’s badge.

“P is for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on. We’re all wearing ours. Even Harry got one.” Fred said impatiently as he snatched Percy’s sweater from his arms and allowed George to take the other side, forcing it over Percy’s head while he protested.

After they’d shoved it over his head and trapped his arms in the body part since they hadn’t allowed him to get his arms in, I did laugh because he just looked so funny. His glasses were knocked sideways and his hair was even more of a mess.

“And you’re not sitting with the prefects today, either,” said George. “Christmas is a time for family.”

And then we marched Percy into the Great Hall where we all sat at the table and consumed as much food as we were able, the Christmas feast making me feel like I wouldn’t be able to eat anything else for a week with how much I’d eaten. Fred and George kept swapping sweets on their plates and dumping extra peas in my mashed potatoes, but I couldn’t even be angry at them.

Three years later, Molly was still making all of us sweaters and other knitted things and I happily donned a maroon sweater the same shade as Ron’s usual one, my first initial on it in gold again. It was perfectly comfortable and I mooned over it to George as we sat on one of the couches in the common room.

With the Triwizard cup happening this year, mine and the twins’ sixth year, we’d all decided to stay at the castle for Christmas yet again. As much as I loved celebrating Christmas with my family, there was something special about celebrating it at Hogwarts with my friends.

George was sitting back on the couch while I laid my head on his legs, a book over my stomach that I’d honestly forgotten.

“Are you nervous about tonight?” George asked as he brushed a piece of my hair off my forehead. I looked up into his deep eyes and smiled.

“No, I’m not nervous. Are you?” I asked.

George had asked me to the Yule Ball that was happening tonight and I was thrilled. Though I wasn’t sure how George was feeling about it.

“I’m more nervous that I’ll break your foot by stepping on it.” George laughed, poking me in the side. I squirmed away from his touch, slapping his hands away as he continued his ticklish assault.

“I’ll wear bigger shoes to account for the swelling then, shall I?” I teased, causing him to turn a pink color. “Anyway, I did promise Angelina that I’d get ready with her and Katie, so I probably should be off.”

“You, worrying about appearances?” George gasped, “What has the world come to?”

“Hush, you. I’ve got to make sure you don’t outshine me all the time.”

I flashed him another grin and rolled off the couch to head up to the sixth year girls’ room where Angie and Katie were already arguing over makeup colors and whether or not their dates would really care. Considering that Angie was going with Fred, I remarked that he would care. Despite the boys not appearing like they care about things like that, I happened to know that Fred wanted to put on a show at the ball. And Katie was going as “friends” with Cormac McLaggen, a wizard I happened to hate for his bad attitude and pompous behavior.

“Hey!” Angelina protested as I disappeared into our shared bathroom.

“Yes?” I asked, popping my head back into our room. I was sure the others would be there soon and I wanted to get a shower before going through the hassle of hair and makeup, even though Katie had already offered to fix up my hair for me.

“Are you going to have enough time to get ready? You haven’t even started and the ball starts at eight.”

“I’ve got three hours. That should be more than enough time.” I said, and I was right. It didn’t take me more than two to take a shower, change into my dress robes which happened to be maroon just like my sweater, and have Katie do my hair in some elaborate braided crown around my head. Once I’d finished my makeup and donned some gold jewelry, I snagged my cape and headed downstairs before the other girls even thought of it.

And there George was at the bottom of the stairs, lounging on one of the couches beside Fred and Lee Jordan. He looked fantastic in his dress robes and I smiled once he looked up and saw me.

“Blimey, you look gorgeous.” George said as he stood up and met me at the bottom of the steps.

“What, this old thing?” I teased him, “Just something I had lying around waiting for a special occasion. You look spiffy!”

George flushed again and brought me over to the couch. I collapsed between him and Fred, bringing my arms around the two of them.

“Look at my boys! Aren’t they beautiful?” I gushed to Lee, and he laughed at the twins’ expressions, knowing I was giving them grief for no reason besides the fact that it was fun. I smacked kisses to both of their cheeks, Fred wiping it off immediately with a halfway-disgusted look.

“Get off, you big lump.” Fred snorted good-naturedly. “Angie coming down soon?”

“Hold your horses, mister. She’ll come down when she’s good and ready. You reckon Ron figured out who Hermione’s date is yet?” I asked once I noticed the younger girl coming downstairs in her blue dress robes. She’d shown them to me a few weeks ago when she’d gotten them and I had to admit that they looked better on her than I thought, and I’d known she would be gorgeous in them.

“I bet you a galleon he throws a massive fit once he sees.” Fred remarked as Hermione escaped through the portrait hole with a wave back towards us.

“You’re on.” Lee grinned, twiddling his wand between his fingers. The more he did it, the more sparks flew from the end of it and I instinctively turned farther into George to make sure they didn’t fall on my dress. He wrapped an arm around me and tucked me into his chest, causing my heart to start beating a little more erratically. His laugh felt like a rumble underneath me and I hoped he couldn’t feel the change in my heartbeat.

I didn’t know when it had started, really. One day I was with the twins and I realized that, as much as I love them together, I had a major soft spot for George. I’d pretty quickly figured out how to tell them apart when we were younger and the more time I’d spent with them that first year had ensured I never got them confused, so I knew my feelings for George were genuine. He was just so sweet and passionate about his interests, and I realized very soon that my crush was maybe more than a crush. Well, definitely more than a crush. I was pretty sure I’d fallen in love with him. But I didn’t know how George felt.

Sometimes I fancied that I caught him looking at me with a different expression, one that screamed “I like you,” but then I second-guessed myself and told myself it was only a look that a friend would give. But I wanted to know how he felt more than anything, even just so I could move on if he would never feel the same. But, oh, how I wish he did feel the same way.

And then he’d asked me to the Yule Ball, confusing me even more. Fred had asked Angie because he liked her, a fact he’d admitted one night after a few too many spiked butterbeers. I knew Ron had tried asking Hermione, but he hadn’t listened to my advice and he’d asked too late when she’d already gotten another date. I knew Ron hadn’t noticed, but it was pretty clear to quite a few of us that Ron and Hermione had it bad for each other and were completely oblivious to the other’s feelings on the matter. I was sure it was going to blow up in their faces tonight and had put a galleon on it.

Most of the other people I knew who were going were either going strictly as friends or in the relationship mindset, but George had never specified what exactly we were doing. Fred had called out to Angie one night while studying in the common room, asking her to go. I hadn’t been asked yet and I’d voiced how nice it was that Fred was getting a move-on by asking her to go. But then the next day, George had handed me a library book I’d been searching for and promptly pulled me aside and asked me to go to the ball with him. It was quiet and simple and I’d loved him even more for it.

Deep down, I’d been hoping he’d ask me and I’d been thrilled that he had. But his face was saying something totally different and it scared me. I didn’t want to be his pity date, but I’d rather be his date than worry about going to the ball alone.

George broke me from my thoughts by rubbing his thumb over my shoulder and causing goosebumps to form where he’d touched my bare skin. I shivered and looked into his face.

“You ready to head down to the hall?” he asked.

“I don’t mind waiting if you want to go down together.” I murmured, bringing my hand up to still his on my shoulder. He froze at my touch. “But we can go down now if you want to.”

“Let’s go down and scope out the place.” George smiled, getting up and helping me to my feet. “Lads, we’re going to scope out the place. I’m starving, so we’re gonna scheme our ways into getting snacks.”

“Why don’t you just sneak into the kitchens?” Lee asked, looking up at us. I snorted, because way to go Lee for using his brain.

“That’s brilliant. Let’s do that.” I dragged George along for the ride as we made our way to the portrait that would let us into the kitchens. George did the honors of tickling the pear and then we were in the kitchens faster than you could say ‘charm.’

The room was full of amazing treats and the house elves smiled at us as I waved at them. They knew who we were and I’d chatted with loads of them since the twins and I figured out how to get in here. Sometimes I wondered if the twins missed the magic map we’d pilfered from Filch’s office as much as I did on occasion. It was such a wonderful piece of magic, though I was glad Harry seemed to be putting it to good use now since we’d given it to him last year.

Armed with snacks that we carried in our hands for easy access, we exited the kitchens and made our way to the Great Hall, which had been transformed like never before for the ball. McGonagall gave George and I a surly look once she saw what we were carrying, but she didn’t say a word to us about it. I was sure she had more important things to worry about than us stealing snacks from the kitchens, especially since this event wasn’t just for us, but also for the two wizarding schools whose students were currently staying with us.

I spotted Hermione with her date, grinning away as they moved towards the table where they’d be sitting with the other Triwizard Cup champions. It was no surprise that we had assigned seats and I thanked my lucky stars that George and I would be sharing the table with most of the other Gryffindor sixth years.

“Is Hermione here with Krum?” I heard Katie ask, and I was startled since I hadn't even heard her come up behind me. I nodded and she smiled, “Good for her! I wish he was my date.” She tossed a grumpy look at McLaggen who was looking even oilier than usual. To his credit, he pretended not to hear her and instead said hello to George and a few of the other people milling about.

George and I took our seats and watched as other witches and wizards from all three schools entered the room, their reactions the same as ours as they surveyed the room in all its splendor. It was wonderful charm work to convert the room this spectacularly.

I absolutely loved sitting at the table, hearing all the conversations going on around us and admiring everyone’s outfits. George sat as close to me as acceptably allowed, but I didn’t mind it because I’d made up my mind.

At the end of the night, once the dancing was done and we’d eaten as much as we wanted, I was going to tell George how I felt. The thought almost made me sick, but I knew I had to do it. I had to. Otherwise, the feeling was going to eat me alive and I couldn’t keep it a secret anymore, even if he rejected me. At least I’d still have him as a friend, I hoped.

As the night dragged on, especially after Harry’s disastrous dance with one of the Patil sisters, I grew tired. Only George noticed. We’d been out on the dance floor for hours, only taking breaks to down lemonade and pumpkin juice and some sort of punch the house elves had created. I’d probably eaten at least five mince pies and George was well on his way to eating the whole table full of sweets. But after the Weird Sisters had left and the party started dying down, George pulled me aside.

“Wanna take a walk before we go to bed? I bet the third floor is empty. Well, except for Mrs. Norris who’s probably roaming about looking for students making out.” he laughed in my ear, his arm wrapped around my waist.

I shivered at his touch, but nodded, my grin infectious. George grinned back, grabbing both of our cloaks as he told Fred we were leaving. In between him yelling back and forth with Angie about something, of course.

The third floor was empty, just like George said, and we settled into comfortable silence as we walked down the hallways. The paintings watched us as we went, but I chose to ignore them as I tried to settle my rapid heartbeat. Was now my chance?

My thoughts were interrupted as I felt George settle his hand in mine, our fingers now intertwined between us. I looked up at him to find him already looking down at me.

“You’re really special, y’know that?” George broke the silence. I felt a hot flush extending up my neck as I smiled at him.

“Is that your way of saying you’re happy to have me as your weird best friend?”

“Oh no, that spot is reserved for Lee.” he joked. I slapped his arm softly with my other hand as he laughed at me. “Only kidding, lovey. Promise.”

“Good. Lee has nothing on me.” I sniffed.

But that was my last coherent thought as George yanked on our entwined hands and pulled me right in front of him. And then, most wonderful of all, reached his other hand over to cup the back of my head and kissed me. Kissed me! George was kissing me! I was screaming internally.

The kiss didn’t last long before George broke away to gauge my reaction, his eyes searching my face for any sign of disgust. But how could I be disgusted when the boy I was in love with had just done the one thing I’d been waiting for for over a year?

“George?” I whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Is it silly if I say I love you?”

His eyes widened with surprise before he started grinning uncontrollably.

“Nope! Say it as loudly as you like because, love, I adore you. Godric, I thought you were gonna slap me. I never thought you’d like me too, let alone love me.”

“I could still slap you, but I’d much rather kiss you.” I laughed before leaning up to kiss him again.

“Blimey, mum’s gonna be ecstatic. She loves you.” He whispered, and then he kissed me over and over again until I was nearly drunk with it, the feeling indescribable. But I was happy, oh so happy. And so was he.

[spanktony]

GOT HER OWN. — karina. (part one)

“𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗶𝘁. 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵, 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁.”

pairing ! —streamer!karina x streamer!gn!reader

genre ! — smau w a little bit of written text, enemies to lovers, comedy

warnings ! — kys/kms jokes, swearing, this is very bad 😕

featuring ! — aespa, yunjin (le sserafim), keeho (p1harmony), minji (newjeanz), and more

a/n: this isn’t a long series just a 2 part (maybe) series

it was a routine you followed every month: react to the top 10 valorant clutches of the month video, hope to see one of your clips make the cut, and play it cool if it didn’t. at this point, it was less about the recognition and more about the banter with your chat.

you weren’t the most well known valorant pro out there—your channel had a decent amount of subscribers, but it was nowhere near the top 100. you had a pretty loyal following that you had worked hard to build since your first few days on youtube and twitch.

and as the months passed, your fan base was only getting bigger.

today was no exception. you had set a stream up for your regular wednesday afternoon time slot. you were going to try and squeeze in a few rounds with a few friends before you had to get ready for your night classes.

but first, you needed to react to the new list. it had dropped the night before, and your notifications had been buzzing ever since.

your fans loved hyping you up every time these compilations came out, spamming your inbox with messages like “this has to be your month!” or “if you’re not on this list, we riot.” it was all in good fun, but deep down, you couldn’t lie—it’d be nice to finally see your name make the cut.

“alright, chat,” you said as the stream went live, your usual intro music playing softly in the background. “you know the drill. top 10 valorant clutches of the month. place your bets now: am i finally on this one, or are we adding another ‘rigged’ tally to the scoreboard?”

username: no way they missed that icebox play last week right?

username Manifesting y/n at #1 this time!

username if you don’t make it we ride at dawn

username 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

username they’re saving your clip for a ‘top fails’ compilation 😭

you chuckled, rolling your eyes. “hilarious. let’s just get into it, yeah?”

you pulled up the video and hit play. as the countdown began, your commentary started up right away.

clip #10 was decent, a 1v4 clutch with some clean sheriff shots. “not bad,” you admitted, nodding approvingly. “but let’s be real, chat. i’ve done better.”

clip #9 featured an insane operator flick. “okay, now that’s spicy,” you said, impressed. “still waiting for my clip, though.”

by the time it got to the top three, you hadn’t seen your name, but you weren’t surprised. “alright, here’s the moment of truth. if i’m not in the top three, i’m officially calling this list a scam.”

then, the #1 clip began to play. the name on the screen caught your eye immediately: katarinabluu.

your face froze for a second as the clip began—an ace on icebox, clean headshots, and a flick with an operator that sealed the round. it was an undeniably impressive play, but your competitive streak refused to give in.

“that’s it?” you said, pausing the video. you shrugged. “but let’s be real—if that’s #1, this list is definitely rigged.”

username who the hell is that

username y/n who???

username: HELLO??? KARINA’S GONNA SEE THIS

username not you dragging her when she’s literally better than you ☠️

username 😭😭

you leaned back in your chair, smirking at the chat’s chaos as the messages flew by faster than you could read.

“what? i’m just saying!” you said, raising your hands in mock defense. “she’s good, but if that’s the best clutch of the month, then clearly the editors need to broaden their horizons. my icebox clip was cleaner.”

the chat exploded even more.

username oh you’re done for

username: why are you here starting beef w karina i can’tttttt

username: Plz she’s gonna roast you so bad

username 100% she’s gonna watch this later and go feral

username you done fucked up 💀

you laughed at their reactions, brushing it off as just another day of trolling with your viewers.

a/n: lolll idk how i feel about this 😔

[universe-of-peoples]

I’m not usually one to call people fake fans, and I’m generally against the whole “fake fan” idea… but if you’re a LEGO fan and you feel the need to push down any figure type that’s not a minifigure, are you even a real LEGO fan?

Minidolls are very pretty and allow for types of creativity that minifigures lack. That’s not to say that minifigures are bad (not at all!), just that minifigures and minidolls each have their benefits and drawbacks, and I think they complement each other’s strengths and weaknesses very well.

Brick-build figures allow for figures to be built in any size and shape, with TONS of customizability that standard figure and doll types lack. The limit of a brick-built figure is the limit of your imagination.

Older figure and doll types have come and gone (such as Belville, Scala, Bionicle, Technic, etc), and (some more than others) may have gone for good reason, but they’re still really cool and interesting. Personally, I’m fascinated by all the weird and obscure stuff LEGO has tried over the years.

In my experience, to love LEGO is to appreciate all of LEGO, even if your preference is in one specific area. Don’t yuck other people’s yum, and don’t criticize LEGO for using figure types that aren’t your preference! (Esp if your preference is minifigures. Your preference has been the norm for literal decades. You don’t need to complain about other people finally getting their preference used more. Fr reads like privileged kids complaining ngl. Insert Gravity Falls meme “you’re only getting ONE pony this year 😭😭😭”)

[tempestmothstorm]

Ok since Monika still has her admin powers in the side stories you think she could just discover them accidentally or use them without realizing

Anyways au where Monika and friends discover her admin powers but dont know about the wider context of what it means. So they just go around thinking Monika has magic and try practicing with a bunch of silly fun shenanigans because they figure it’s some chosen one bloodline stuff and not like. A product of their reality being a constricted digital science experiment.

This au will not end well

[enfinizatics]

dear americans,

as a polish queer woman and human rights activist, i know exactly how you're feeling right now and what to expect from these elections. i lived through the 2015-2023 regime of pis, a right-wing populist party that divided families in the same way trump did. i’ve experienced the rise of fascism in poland, the influence of far-right parties like konfederacja, and their “santa’s little helpers”—ordo iuris, an ultra-conservative catholic organization (banned in many countries, mind you) that helped enforce a near-total abortion ban and runs anti-queer campaigns in public spaces. i supported the black protests in 2016 as a middle schooler when they first tried to ban abortion. as an adult, i actively participated in the 2020 women’s strike, running from police tear gas daily after they finally passed the ban. i supported friends who faced charges.

i’ve lived through intense homophobia in poland as a queer teen and adult. i survived the first pride march in my hometown, where far-right extremists threw stones and glass at us. i endured the anti-queer propaganda spread by the ruling party in state-owned media. i survived the “rainbow night,” poland’s own stonewall moment in summer 2020, when police arrested around 50 queer activists following the arrest of margo, a nonbinary activist. i survived the "lgbt-free zones," the targeted violence, the slurs from strangers on the street, and the protests i held against queerphobia. it was hard as fuck, but i survived.

but just because i survived, it doesn’t mean others did. many women died because of the abortion ban—marta, justyna, izabela, dorota, joanna, maria, and many others who didn’t survive pis’s draconian anti-abortion laws. milo, kacper, michał, zuzia (she was 12), wiktor, and other queer and trans kids and young adults took their own lives because of the relentless queerphobia.

despite all of this, our experience in poland can serve as a guide now. here are some tips for staying safe and how we, polish queers and women, organized under the regime:

safety first, always. if you know someone who’s had an abortion, no you don’t. if you know someone is trans, no you don’t. if you know people who help with safe abortions, no you don’t—at least not until you know it’s 100% safe to share. if you are queer or have had an abortion, only share this with people you trust fully. most importantly, not everyone has to be an activist just because they’re part of a minority. if it feels unsafe to share that you're queer, trans, etc., then don’t. it doesn’t make you any less queer.

use secure, encrypted messaging like signal for conversations on potentially risky topics, such as queerness, abortion, organizing counter-actions, protests—anything that might be used against you.

stay anonymous online. if you want to research or report something without surveillance, do not use regular internet. get a vpn (mullvad is affordable and reliable), download the tor browser (for both onion and standard links), and if you plan to whistleblow, consider using a riseup email account.

organize and build networks. community is everything now. support each other, foster independence, because your government won’t have your back. set up collectives, grassroots movements. create lists of trusted professionals—lawyers, doctors, etc.—who can offer support.

to lawyers and doctors: please consider pro-bono work. this is what got us through poland’s hardest times. your work will be needed now more than ever.

for protests or risky actions: always write a pro-bono lawyer’s number on your arm with a permanent marker.

get to know the anarchist black cross federation and other resources on safety culture: "Starting an anarchist black cross group: A guide"; Still We Rise - A resource pack for transgender and non-gender conforming people in prison; Safe OUTside the system by the Audre Lorde Project;

for safe abortion info or involvement: get familiar with womenhelpwomen.

stay radical, stay strong, stay informed: The Anarchist Library

if i forgot to (or didn't) include something, don't hesitate to reblog this post with other resources.

[joelsgoldrush]

“epiphany” | 21k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: Superheroes and mutants weren’t enough. No—the universe had to throw in soulmates who share scars. Fantastic, right? Except yours had vanished, only to mysteriously reappear with the arrival of a new face: the “Worst” Logan Howlett, fresh from another earth.

OR What happens when a hopeless romantic crosses paths with the ultimate soulmate skeptic?

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ strangers to lovers. drinking. cursing. slow burn. angst. pining. mentions of alcohol. fluff. reflecting on the art of writing/poems/books. dual POV. takes place after the events of “deadpool & wolverine”. TW: multiple descriptions of scars. worst/variant!logan. implied age gap (reader’s in her late 20s). they’re both touch starved. wade’s everyone’s friend. miscommunication/misunderstandings. oral sex (f and m receiving). fingering, grinding. some slight hair pulling. unprotected p in v, creampie. sex with feelings.

A/N: HOPELESS ROMANTICS RISE! here we go again with another long ass fic. this is a soulmates AU in which you get your soulmate’s scars. if you feel triggered by this topic, please refrain from reading. i had a lot of fun writing this even though it took me a while to get it done. thanks to @lubdubology for being my beta and allowing me to share my work with you. and also thanks to @brushworth for giving me the chance to write this. having said this, enjoy the story! i’d love to know your thoughts on it <3

Love giveth and love taketh away.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

If it weren’t for love, you wouldn’t be here. No one would, actually. Human beings are the result of billions of people who loved each other just enough—or at least long enough to bring life into the world.

But isn’t it in the name of love that people act in bad faith? Why would something so pure be used in vain?

You don’t get it, but as the years go by, you slowly come to terms with the idea that perhaps you never will. Not because there isn’t a reason, but because you’re in love with the idea of love.

How could you not be? It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up.

Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

It had always been a relentless race, your only worry being to catch it before time ran out. But with each day that passed, the finish line only stretched further and further away. Now, they all blur together, to the point where you live and breathe on autopilot. 

In a Jane Austen novel, you’d be considered a lone woman. That character who’s nice, and kind, and loved by some, but not in the way she yearns for. Every time she’s mentioned, you go “Oh, the poor girl,” until the slow realization dawns.

In reality, she’s you, and it’s you who you feel sorry for, not a fictional character. You.

All in all, love giveth. And love also taketh away. 

Love maketh you miserable.

Soulmates—a nine-letter word that holds so much meaning.

It’s one of those words that you learn early in your life, one you hear at home or on the TV. Your parents never fail to mention it if given the chance. The first time you’re introduced to the topic is at school when you're older, a bit more self-conscious, and no longer preoccupied with picking your nose.

“Everybody has a soulmate. And no,” your teacher had added after a pause, already anticipating the inevitable questions from any curious 10-year-old, “there isn’t such a thing as not having one. We all do. You just have to search for them.”

Back then, that had been your favorite game—always keeping an eye open, scanning the crowd more than once in new places. You knew for sure that more than one person probably thought you’d strained your neck from all the times you glanced over your shoulder.

It must be pretty obvious now, the fact that you’re—well, alone. Saying ‘without a companion’ sounds quite outdated. They can’t see through you, but something in the way you walk or speak must give it away. 

Or is it the fact that you always ask for a table for one?

“Are you expecting someone else?” A waitress approaches you, her tone gentle as she makes sure you’re on your own. A small notebook dangles from her slender fingers, and your eyes catch the name stitched onto her apron: Emily.

The response you give her is on the verge of sounding automatic, robotic even, like one of those prerecorded messages busy people leave on their phones. “No. Just me.”

She nods, and you feel the sympathy in her gaze. You’ve mastered the art of recognizing that look—the one hovering between concern and pity.

Of course, people rarely voice it, but they’ll never know their eyes sometimes say more than they think.

As she jots down your order, you’re met with the ring on her left hand. Very pretty, very shiny. Very expensive as well. Your attention must linger on it a little too long, because she catches you staring, making you feel exposed.

Emily—you decide to call her that way from now on, because once you know her name, it feels odd to address her as the waitress—offers you a shy smile.

“I’m getting married next month,” she blurts out, happiness radiating from her pores. Her eyes glint like two lanterns in a starless night. She also looks younger than you, and the abrupt silence forces you to pinch your wrist, a reminder of the fact that this is a conversation, and not just something you're overhearing.

“Congratulations,” you manage to reply, returning the smile. If she saw how your expression faltered the second she walked away, you wonder if she’d still think you were so amiable.

Sometimes, your façade slips—you can’t help it. That’s what the ‘hopeless’ in ‘hopeless romantic’ stands for.

Some minutes later, she comes back with your coffee, and you catch another glimpse of the ring as it twinkles in front of you. Envy doesn’t suit you, so you shift your focus.

Taking out your laptop, you scroll through the latest headlines. This is your attempt at acting more like an adult and less like a girl in her mid-twenties who has no clue what she’s doing.

One article stands out from the rest: Hollywood Actress Divorces Loving Husband of 25 Years to Pursue Presumed Soulmate. “I saw his scars and knew he was the one.”

Interesting. You can’t help but feel sorry for the displaced husband, though.

“Good for you,” you mutter under your breath, clicking the link to read more. There’s a picture of the actress and her new boyfriend that makes you stop dead in your tracks: they’re smiling at each other, their faces close, noses almost touching, while they show off their matching scars—the unmistakable sign that they’re, in fact, soulmates.

Soulmates, superheroes, mutants. It all sounds like a whole lot, doesn’t it? Overwhelming, to say the least. One thing’s for sure—you’ll never get bored in this world.

But, hey! Don’t forget that there are multiple universes out there. Maybe in one of them, you’re not this pathetic.

Why are you being so hard on yourself? That’s not even the point. Shaking your head, you keep glancing at their scars—they’re identical, perfect mirrors of one another. The kind of scars that only two destined souls share.

Their happiness is evident, tangible. You can feel it by just eyeing the image. It’s a bitter sensation that metamorphoses into a warmth, which heavily spreads through your chest, filling up every empty space it finds. 

To say you understand that feeling would be a downright lie. And you may be many things, but a pathological liar is not one of them.

As if on cue, you duck your head, rolling up the sleeves of your jacket. You do the same with your shirt, foolishly hoping to find something other than smooth, unmarked skin.

No scars. No marks. No sign of a soulmate, of a lover. In the world you inhabit—this universe full of the most inexplicable things—you’re alone. 

Without a second thought, you pack your things, shoving them rapidly into your bag. The cafe feels too little and too large all at once, the walls closing on you.

The rest of the customers are looking at you. Fuck, they already noticed it—you can’t escape it.

Have they? Do you think they see you like you see yourself? The lone woman who writes poems for an addressee who will never read them?

In silence, you hand Emily the money for your coffee. You fear that if you open your mouth, a cry will come out, and that’s the last thing you need today. She gives you that look again—pity laced with sorrow, the one you despise. It burns.

At that moment, a man walks in, passing right by you. You see his face, his green eyes, and the way his lips curl into a grin as he greets Emily.

The scar on her forehead, which you'd missed before, mirrors the one on his.

They are soulmates. 

It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is.

She wishes you a nice morning as you leave the cafe. Little does she know you’ll spend the rest of the day locked in your apartment, mourning someone you never even met.

Until the day you lost them, you wore your scars with pride.

They were scattered across your stomach, back, chest, and even your legs and arms. Some were shallow, others deep. It never occurred to you—the thought that they belonged in the shadows, hidden.

Everyone has them, you thought as you stood in front of the mirror, running your fingers along their jagged paths. I just seem to have more than most people.

Over the years, you might have changed your hairstyle or the way you dressed, but your scars never did—they’d always been there, and they were yours.

Partly yours, of course, since you knew they belonged to your soulmate as well.

The older you grew, the more you realized having a good memory was both a gift and a curse. You still remembered that moment so vividly—when you found out that somebody out there was meant for you and only you.

A point of no return, that’s what it’d been. From that day on, not a single one went by without you imagining the first encounter with your Prince Charming. 

In the meantime, you dated. A few boyfriends came and went during and after high school, mostly as practice for the real thing, you’d told yourself.

God, you were determined to know everything. To be the best girlfriend ever, so that when you finally met him, he’d be over the moon.

At the age of seventeen, it sounded like a brilliant plan.

You never knew how, but your life became that meantime. All your friends began to find their soulmates: in the supermarket, while traveling, at the goddamn doctor’s office.

Everybody was fulfilling the purpose you’d been taught humans were made for—everyone but you.

The scars multiplied, yet he was nowhere to be seen, remaining out of reach. Your soulmate’s whereabouts were a mystery. What the hell does he do in his free time? was something you used to often ponder. Is he suffering? Does he need help?

“Be patient, give it some time. The less you seek, the more you’ll find,” your mother would say, trying to sound encouraging. Although she was trying to do her best, that phrase alone had the power to make you go nuts.

Be patient? Waiting was all you’d been doing. What was so wrong with you that he seemed to be hiding from you? You didn’t want to wait any longer, no—you wanted to find him. If it meant traveling to Italy like your cousin had to meet her husband, then so fucking be it.

Many nights, sleep eluded you. Lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, you’d imagine what life with him would be like. What he would look like. You were certain that no matter his appearance, you’d think he was beautiful.

Wasn’t that the whole point of soulmates—that the bond you two shared transcended physical attraction?

Nevertheless, you secretly wished he’d have brown hair. He didn’t need to know, but you had a weakness for brunettes.

On the night of your twenty-second birthday, you were getting ready for the big event when every trace of your scars disappeared.

The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower’s stream, and as you wiped it clean with the palm of your hand, the image you saw reflected on the glass made your stomach do a flip.

There were no scars. No marks. Nothing. At first, you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you—it couldn’t be. Scars didn’t just vanish. It was impossible.

But as you lowered your gaze, tracing your limbs again and again, the truth hit you. The marks you knew by heart, the ones that reminded you, He’s out there, somewhere, were gone.

You felt it deep in your chest, too. Every sound seemed louder and clearer: the blood rushing through your veins, each shaky breath you took. Where are they? Your fingers dug into your flesh, intending to ground yourself.

Is he… dead? It was the only reasonable explanation, the rule you’d known all along. You’d read it countless times, memorizing the principles about scars.

The scream that tore from your throat brought your mother running upstairs, and she entered the bathroom with a horrified expression on her face.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” she asked, but your mind was already far away. Your whole body shuddered in her arms, a sob slipping past your lips as you crumbled to the floor, desperately hoping it was all a nightmare. “It must be a mistake, honey. I’m sure he’s okay.”

But he’s not, you wanted to tell her. The words, however, never formed—only a broken whimper escaped your lips. Isn’t that what we were taught? Our scars belong to our soulmates; they bind us to them in a way that simple words can’t explain.

It goes deeper than the skin. It delves into our bodies, our minds, reaching into the very essence of who we are. What was once his is also mine, but they’re gone.

He’s gone. He must be, because otherwise, how would you explain this void?

When one’s soulmate passes away, that person will notice the disappearance of their scars. The physical marks that once symbolized their connection fade, leaving no trace. This absence is accompanied by a distinct, unsettling sensation—an awareness of loss that goes beyond the physical, signaling the end of the bond.

A part of you died with him that day.

The first time you exchanged words with Wade Wilson, you thought he was a total dick.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t know him—not when he was so infamous for that mouth of his. Deadpool: the self-proclaimed superhero with a vocabulary that was 90% profanity, who made cracking jokes while fighting the bad guys look easy.

Super funny? Sure. But not exactly your cup of tea when all you wanted was to crawl into bed and forget the world existed.

He was apparently long retired from superheroing. No one had seen that red, sex-toy-looking suit in ages, which was why you were only mildly surprised as you spotted him hauling boxes into your building on a Tuesday afternoon.

It was late, and you weren’t in the mood for small talk. He’d been there barely a week, yet somehow, he’d already managed to fuck things up. 

You let out a deep sigh, rubbing the crease between your brows. “Look, Wally—”

“It’s pronounced Wade,” he corrected you, trying to edge his face further into the gap between the door and its frame, though you didn’t let your guard down. “You’re pretty rude, you know that?”

“I’ve been up for twenty-four hours, and I need to sleep,” you groaned, trying to push him away with one hand. Technically, he wasn’t even asking for something that complicated—he wanted to use your microwave to heat his dinner, since his had decided to stop working out of the blue.

The thing was that you’d had the kind of week that felt like a one-way trip to hell, an important detail he wasn’t aware of. “Go ask someone else. I can’t do charity tonight.”

“You’re the only one who answered,” he said, pressing his palms together in a pleading gesture, his lips curling into a heartbreaking pout. “Please, my lovely neighbor, whose name I don’t know. You wouldn’t want me to starve to death, would you?

“I thought you couldn’t die.” You raised an eyebrow, half-interested.

Wade’s arms dropped to his sides, his eyes drifting downward. “And I thought kindness wasn’t extinct, but here we are.” He spun on his heel, acting defeated and dragging his feet like a scolded puppy. “Can’t believe this is what the world’s come to. I’m sure the Bible says something about treating others how you’d want to be treated.”

Why. Just… why? Some cosmic, divine force from beyond might have been testing you that night.

“Wait,” you croaked just as he was about to step into his apartment—which was literally three meters from yours. His face lit up, expecting you to continue, and you moved aside slightly, signaling him in. “Five minutes and you’re out, okay? I really need to get some rest.”

The rest was history. Wade was just standing there, mesmerized by your microwave as if he’d never seen one before.

You could only hear the faint buzzing sound of the gadget, punctuated by the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the counter. He was humming a tune while shaking his head to the beat.

You tried to focus, replaying the guided meditation you sometimes followed to sleep in your mind.

Allow yourself to feel the stillness of this moment. Notice your breath slowing as your body begins to calm. Be the observer of your breath, flowing in and out naturally, as your lungs—

Yeah, it wasn’t working.

“Please, stop it,” you eventually told Wade, whose gaze shifted from the microwave to you, brows furrowed.

“And why’s that?”

“They say it’s bad for your eyes,” you explained, recalling a half-forgotten news report you’d heard on the TV. Whether it was a myth or not, you’d never know. “I believe it’s because of the radiation exposure.”

Leaning back on the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest. “At this point, I think I’m safe. You, on the other hand… maybe not so much,” he nearly whispered that last part, and your desire to strangle him grew stronger.

Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.

He jerked his thumb toward the pile of papers and books you had on your kitchen table. “So, you’re a writer?” 

“Editor, in reality,” you snapped, your eyelids twitching as you watched him leaf through your stuff. “Wade, don’t touch my things.”

“Sorry, can’t help myself. I’m very curious.” Flashing you a quick grin, he opened your notebook, squinting his eyes as he went through the pages. “But you write too, huh? I’m discovering plenty of material here.”

The bastard. “Give. It. Back,” you snarled, lunging at him and trying to snatch the notebook from his hands, but he was faster, raising it out of reach. “I hope your food explodes in that microwave, asshole.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about it,” he snorted, tossing the notebook onto the couch and retrieving his dinner instead. You stared at him in disbelief, opening your mouth to scold him, but nothing came out. Then, there he was, standing in front of you with his plate and a fork.

Wait. Was that your fork?

“It’s hot, I’ll give you that.” He blew on his food to cool it down, and as he glanced up, he was met with your murderous glare. “Whoa. Want some? You could’ve just asked me. No need to get so angry.”

Calling it a desire to kill him would’ve been an understatement. And the worst part? He couldn’t die. “You’ve got what you needed. Now, can you leave?”

“How long’s it been since you talked to another human being?”

You blinked, feeling the sudden urge to look around, half expecting a hidden camera. “Why do you always answer with another question?”

“All I’m saying is I’ve been meaning to talk to you for days now, but you’re practically living the hermit life,” he said between bites of chicken, excusing himself briefly to chew. “That robe you’re wearing? It’s had the same stain on it since I moved in. Also, your doormat’s buried under a mountain of newspapers, so either you really love trees, or you’ve been avoiding any sort of social interaction.”

If he had been wrong, you would’ve felt much better. But he… wasn’t, and it sucked.

“I feel like I should be scared,” you mumbled after a long stretch of silence, your eyes going round.

Wade did no more than laugh at your troubled expression. “Scared of me? That’s cute. I’m a nice guy, sweet pea. Persistent, sure, but I’ve got a knack for getting under people’s skin,” he said, grinning through a mouthful of food—which, for the sake of your sanity, you chose to ignore.

After he had finished eating, he let the fork fall into the sink, the metal striking against the surface with a piercing echo, making you jump. He stretched his arms with a satisfied yawn, and he seemed determined to leave you alone. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, following his movements as he ambled toward the door. “Are you telling me your microwave does work?”

“Oh, you’re a smart one, aren’t you?” Wade patted your head, ruffling your hair like you were a puppy who had just learned a new trick. “Good night, peanut.”

From that moment on, the two of you became inseparable. Your personalities clicked in a way you’d never experienced before with any other friend. Wade was loyal to a fault, and he treated you like the little sister he had never had. 

Most importantly, he didn’t pity you—he saw you for who you were, not just someone marked by a lost soulmate. You never told him how much that meant to you, but deep down, you were grateful.

Which brings you to the present day. You’ve been friends with him for over a year, and he’s taken every chance to introduce you to his “weird but lovable” (his words, not yours) group of friends.

“Check your social anxiety at the door, thank you,” he’d tell you every time he hosted a get-together and you were invited.

Somehow, you had managed to bond with them—especially Althea, his elderly roommate, who occasionally forgets who you are despite living next door.

“Remind me of your name again, sweetie? All this disco dust must be affecting my memory,” she’d ask, leaning in close so you’d practically have to shout it into her ear. Then she’d nod, smirking knowingly. “Ah, yes. I thought so. Just making sure.”

She’s quite the character. A real sweetheart if you leave aside the number of times she’s offered you more types of drugs than you knew existed.

Tonight, you’re throwing Wade a surprise birthday party. Among all the party tasks, you’ve handled the decorations and the cake. The room’s a riot of color, with balloons floating lazily from the ceiling and a cascade of streamers draping over the furniture.

Guests start arriving, greeting you warmly, a feeling you once thought impossible. They’re Wade’s friends, sure, but on some level, you like to think they’re your friends now too: Vanessa, Dopinder, Buck, Shatterstar, Colossus, Negasonic Teenage Warhead, and Yukio.

As you hear footsteps approaching the door, Wade’s voice filters through the hallway. Panicking, you whirl around to the group. “He’s here! Everyone shut up!” you whisper urgently, turning off the lights and pressing your back flat against the wall next to the door.

Seconds later, the sound of keys jingling fills the air as both Wade and Peter step into the apartment.

You flip the lights back on just as Dopinder pops his much-anticipated party popper. “Surprise!” you all scream in unison, and Wade’s face splits into a grin, unsure of whom to hug first.

“You guys are lucky I’m not armed,” he quips, slinging an arm around Dopinder’s shoulders. “Six years ago, you’d all be dead!”

And you giggle, because… well, what else are you supposed to do?

As you expected, the night unfolds smoothly. You’re having fun, engaging in conversations despite yesterday’s emotional meltdown at the cafe. It’ll be okay—it always is. The food is amazing, the company even better. You remind yourself that romantic love isn’t the only kind that matters—that’s what friends are for, after all, to teach you that lesson.

The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses, creating a lively symphony that wraps around you like a warm blanket. Yukio calls your name, waving her head in front of your eyes, trying to snap you out of your thoughts. “Everything okay?” she wonders, concern flickering in her voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, tightening your grip on your beer bottle. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

You all gather around the cake when Wade’s about to blow the candles. You know he’s preparing himself for a speech. “Another year of spinning around the moon, huh?”

“Sun, you dumbass,” Al corrects him, and you have to bite your lip to keep your laughter to yourself.

“Okay, flat-earther,” Wade shoots back, giving her a playful side-eye. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, right—I can’t thank you all enough for being here. These past few years have been... well, rough on me, to say the least,” he says, glancing down at the cake with a small, crooked smile. “But I’m happy now. We’ve got each other’s back, like a team!”

“Like The Avengers, you mean?” Dopinder pipes up, eyes sparkling with excitement. There’s a moment of silence in which you swear you’d be able to hear a hairpin drop.

It’s still a sensitive topic.

“Next time, give me a trigger warning before you mention them,” Wade mutters in a hushed tone, and Dopinder shrinks sheepishly. “I guess what I wanted to tell you was…” he trails off, his palm covering the place where his heart is, “that I'm glad you’re all here. Being surrounded by the people I love most is the best birthday gift ever.”

His words stir something inside you. Vanessa gently nudges his arm, smiling up at him. “Why don’t you make your wish?”

Wade dramatically drops to his knees in front of the cake, eyes fluttering shut before blowing out the candles, whistles and cheers erupting all around.

Just then, you hear the unmistakable sound of the doorbell ringing through the air. You exchange a curious glance with Wade, raising your eyebrows. “That’s weird. Want me to get it?”

“Nah, I got it,” he says, excusing himself to answer the door. He slips outside, shutting it behind him, and everything returns to normal. For a while, you assume he’s chatting with someone who dropped by to say hi—but that doesn’t really make sense.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s been out there so long?” Vanessa inquires, her worry starting to creep in.

“I’ll go check on him,” you tell her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before heading to the door.

But when you open it, there’s no Wade in sight. Just… his toupee—or “hair system” as he insists on calling it, lying on the floor.

Kneeling down, you gingerly pick it up, a strange sensation settling in your chest.

Where the hell did he go?

After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.

Completely out of character, right? He thought so too. The number of times he'd stepped foot inside a church could be counted on one hand, so why would a man like him resort to religion?

In the past, he had been told he was part of God’s plan, but somewhere along the way, he felt like he had become God’s mistake.

After living a life plagued with loss and constantly in hiding, he wasn’t shocked that his self-worth was in the gutter.

Things only spiraled after letting everyone down, especially after that particular day when things took a turn for the worse. He had prayed, asking God to make him forget.

When that didn’t work, he just drank harder and smoked more. But not even drowning in alcohol and clouds of nicotine could put an end to his struggles—he was condemned to suffer.

In spite of everyone’s wishes, he’s still going strong, stuck with no defined purpose. It’s almost impossible not to fall into a routine that seeks to numb him, to put him under anesthesia—waking up after passing out who-knows-where, finding the nearest bar, sinking into whiskey and the haze of ashtrays.

Then he does it all over again, a never-ending cycle. His self-destructive habits don’t lead him to oblivion; instead, they intensify every sensation, making each memory and emotion painfully vivid. 

Day after day, he convinces himself he’s got it under control. Logan may be tough as fuck, and he may heal faster than anyone else, but his pride is in pieces.

No amount of strength or supernatural abilities can stop the decay he feels inside, the slow rot creeping deeper within him the longer he remains trapped in this life.

He slams the empty glass onto the counter with a heavy thud, tapping two fingers against it. “Again,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

The bartender looks at him like he's the reincarnation of all things vile. “I told you—you’re not welcome here. You’re not welcome anywhere. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

Oh, yes. Music to his ears. If he had a nickel for every time he heard that, he’d be rich. “Just give me one more drink and then I’ll leave.”

“That’s not how it works,” the bartender replies, and Logan knows he’s screwed. Another public establishment he’s been banned from—fucking perfect.

Will there ever be a day where he’s not treated like garbage?

“It does now,” an unknown voice joins the conversation, and Logan glances to his side, arching a brow. The masked man doesn’t let his stare falter. “Leave the bottle.”

“Do I know you, bub?” 

“You don’t, but I know you.”

This serves as evidence of how pliant he’s become. Years ago, he would’ve already wiped the floor with this guy. They didn’t call him Logan “short fuse” Howlett for nothing. But now? He just can’t bring himself to do it.

“Everybody does. I’m the—”

Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.

“—Wolverine.” Once he finishes the sentence, his words taste bitter. Perhaps it’s the venom on his tongue, or maybe it’s just the alcohol from yesterday kicking him again. Either way, both hit hard.

“Yes, you are,” the stranger says, continuing to stare at him, as if Logan’s worth the effort. “And I’m going to need you to come with me. Right now.”

Logan holds his breath. The worst part of it all is that his day’s just getting started. He has no clue who this guy is or why he’s claiming to need him.

But he’s got the wrong man—Logan doesn’t know him, and he sure as hell doesn’t have anything good to offer.

Or so he believed five minutes ago. Life seems to have its own way of surprising him.

Knowing he’ll regret it later, he closes his fingers around the whiskey bottle, chugging the liquor until darkness takes over his senses.

Nighty-night, Logan.

I'm aware that you're not mine, and nor will you ever be.

I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out

where this need to call you mine stems from. 

You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed

in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.

I’m aware that you're not mine

because I haven't bought you yet;

I hold no claim over you,

nor can I control who touches you and who doesn't.

I want you to be mine,

but no amount of money would buy your soul.

You're beyond reach—someone has already marked you.

I’m aware that you’re not mine, 

and I guess maybe that’s how life is meant to be.

“Bullshit,” you mutter softly into the quiet of your apartment, where the only sound is the echo of your own voice.

Chewing the end of your pen, your eyes narrow as they skim over the poem you’d written over a month ago.

Since then, you’ve been working on refining the details, but something is missing—that you can feel. The flow is awkward, the choice of words stiff. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit together. 

You take a long sip from your coffee, tucking both knees up onto the chair you're sitting in. 7:30 a.m., and already, your mind is spinning, diving headfirst into a poem when countless other things are demanding your attention—like, a hundred things, really.

Right now, cracking this piece feels more important than any other task on your list.

Who do you write to? That part is easy—your soulmate. That deceased, probably buried, long-gone soulmate of yours.

It shouldn’t be funny, but there’s an absurdity to it.

Without warning, a memory slips into your thoughts—one girl you used to work with once advising you to change the subject of your writing.

“You should go for some self-love crap. People usually eat that up,” she said, not even bothering to look up from her nails, red polish smeared over the edges.

Her fingers were a mess, coated in that fiery hue, but she didn’t seem to care as she tapped your notebook with her lacquered index finger. “This is repetitive. Keep writing about the same thing, and people will get bored of you.”

“I haven’t published them yet,” you answered, your voice coming out more high-pitched than usual, betraying the doubt you intended to suppress. Her blue eyes flicked up, studying your face as you slid the now red-stained notebook back into your bag, away from her careless, messy fingers. “I thought… I thought we were supposed to write about what we feel passionate about.”

That managed to catch her attention. Passionate. She let out a laugh—sharp and cold, like something straight out of a villain’s script in a children’s movie. It grated against your ears.

“Sweetie, you call that passionate?” She waved her hand dismissively, standing up from the table.

Taller, older, and more secure—just the fact that she gave you her time should’ve made you feel grateful. “Not to be a bitch, but what you showed me is kind of depressing.” 

Kind of depressing. From that moment on, you kind of hated her. Small victories, though—the agency fired her a year later. You like to think you kind of won that battle.

Still, she might’ve been right about one thing: your writing does fall into patterns. It’s predictable, to say the least—the rhythm, the themes. Even the metaphors you include can be found in several of your poems.

Are you… lazy? Has someone revealed the way to break out of it? If there is, you figure you're fine without it.

You don’t want to write the kind of articles she’d churn out about the latest trends or the five best positions to get pregnant faster. Nor do you want to pick apart celebrities' lives for a flashy headline.

What you do want is to write about love. Real love. Even if you are not the most qualified person to do it. Even if nobody wants to read the words from someone who has never experienced it in the flesh.

And you’ll get there—how? You’re still figuring that out.

As long as you live and breathe, love will remain in your thoughts, haunting you—especially with your muse being the fleeting dream of a soulmate you never got to meet in the first place.

But it’s time to start your day—the real one. The one where you have to step outside the safety of your four walls and deal with reality.

The to-do list assembles in your mind: groceries, that book you’ve been meaning to pick up, emails you need to answer.

You let your mind take over, guiding you through the motions without a second thought. As you head back to your room, you get rid of the comfortable robe you love so much.

Next, your shirt comes off, tossed carelessly onto the bed. Just as you're about to step out of your pajama pants, you notice them.

The scars.

They’re not the same, not the faded lines etched into your skin that you could see every night behind your eyelids. New marks glow against your flesh, each one a map of something you don’t yet understand, standing out like new brushstrokes on an old canvas.

You can’t help but freeze, your breath faltering for a moment, and you nearly trip over yourself. Kicking your pants to the side, you stare down at your hips, thighs, the hollow of your ribcage. 

Tentatively, you press your fingers into the lines, expecting them to fade, to disappear under your touch like some peculiar illusion.

But they don’t. They remain. You can feel the raised edges, the subtle roughness, the heat beneath your touch.

These scars are different from the ones you had before. Under no circumstances are they the faint memories you once carried. No—these are fresh and vibrant. Marks that shouldn’t exist, the stories they’ve witnessed unfamiliar to you.

Within seconds, you’re sobbing, and you blink through the wetness clouding your vision, wiping your tears of disbelief (and maybe hope?) away with the back of your hand.

Nothing changes. They’re still there.

You've never heard of scars returning like this. It goes against everything in the manual on your shelf. Scars vanish when a soulmate dies, but they don’t come back. Not like this. And they certainly don’t change. 

Barely able to stand without stumbling, you scramble to your phone. The first person you call is your mom, your fingers shaking as you press the buttons. She screams into the phone, and all you can do is laugh through the tears.

What doesn’t sit right with her is the change in the scars. She mentions something about reaching out to a specialist, insisting that your case is rare—one in a million.

Almost immediately, you think of Wade, knowing he’d want to hear this. God, he’d be ecstatic. Before you even realize it, you’re standing in front of his door, finger hovering over the bell.

That’s when the realization hits you: he’s been gone for nearly three days, off doing whatever it is he does.

Ringing the bell, a smile tugs at your lips. News like these are meant to be shared.

“Althea, it’s me!” you call out, hoping she’ll hear you. You press your forehead against the door, fidgeting with your fingers. “I have something to tell you.”

Logan has had better days. Days that didn’t involve escaping The Void, fighting a hundred Wades, or saving an earth that wasn’t even his to begin with.

You know, normal days—of being sneered at while drinking to forget and, fuck, how many hours has he been sober? It feels like an eternity.

When the adrenaline wears off and the heroism fades, he’s back to being just Logan again. If he had a watch, he’d probably tap the glass and fake impatience to Wade, pretending he’s got somewhere else to be.

He should leave. That’s his first impulse: to escape before it’s too late, but a question arises in his mind: does he truly want to?

Wade watches as Logan rises to his feet, planning to walk away. Pretty stupid, Logan thinks, considering he knows no one else in this universe—apart from the scarred man he’s become friends with against his will.

“Logan!” Wade yells his name, his voice light but firm enough to halt him in his tracks. Logan turns to face him, greeted by Wade’s familiar, infuriating smile.

It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.

Nothing’s holding him back, so why not accept it? The odds of being the target of hateful glares are lower here, and that’s reason enough for Logan to give a small tilt of his head and return to the bench where Wade remains seated.

“We’re gonna be roommates!” the latter exclaims, a wide grin stretching across his face as they head toward the building. “Can you imagine all the fun we’ll have?”

Logan presses his lips into a thin line. “Looking forward to it,” he murmurs, a small glimmer of sarcasm slipping into his tone, although Wade takes his words at face value.

“Me too, roomie. Me too.”

“Let’s not use that word.”

Wade holds the door open for Logan with an exaggerated bow. “Why not? It’s the truth. We can even share my bed if that’s—”

The sound of Logan’s claws succeeds in silencing him. Wade recoils and covers his crotch, no doubt remembering past close calls.

“You know what? You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. No problem.”

Was moving in with Wade the worst idea he’s had in a while? Absolutely. The reason? Althea, the elderly woman he lives with, isn’t answering the door, and he doesn’t have his keys.

Logan covers his eyes with a hand, silently questioning all of his life choices. And it’s only been ten minutes.

“This doesn’t happen often,” Wade reassures him, rubbing his neck.

“Hard to believe,” Logan mutters, some unknown muscle in his jaw beginning to ache from how hard he’s gritting his teeth. “You just leave the house without your fucking keys?”

Wade huffs, jutting out a hip in mock offense. “Those TVA guys didn’t exactly send a ‘We’re here to ruin your day’ memo. I was ambushed, okay?” he retorts, keeping a finger glued to the doorbell, its shrill ring gnawing at Logan’s already thin patience. “Al, I swear to God, I’m replacing your blood pressure pills with laxatives if you don’t wake up!”

“How old is she?” Logan asks, searching for anything to keep him from snapping the other man’s neck. Peaceful thoughts.

“Compared to you, she’s basically a newborn,” Wade replies, rocking back and forth on his heels. He’s having the time of his life—meanwhile, Logan’s self-control is reaching its limit.

His claws twitch in his knuckles. He’s had enough, and with a jerk of his left hand, they gleam as they slide out, ready to break the damn door. 

But then Wade jumps in front of him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there, buddy! I’m not letting you turn my door into a strainer.”

“Move,” Logan barks, not an ounce of friendliness in his tone. His stare is flat, unfazed.

“I’d rather not. You can’t just go around breaking people’s doors, man. Not cool,” Wade blurts quickly, placing both hands on Logan’s chest, pushing him away. “How about I ask my neighbor, huh? I gave her a spare set of keys for situations like these.”

“I thought you said this didn’t happen often.”

“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”

Before Logan can answer back, Wade rushes to the door next to his, slamming his fist on it like a madman, his finger hammering the doorbell simultaneously.

The devil’s orchestra—a symphony straight from hell.

Logan grabs Wade’s wrist before he can knock again, hissing: “Have some manners, will you?” 

Wade tries to shake his arm free from Logan’s tight grip. “She’s in there. I know it,” he replies in the same tone, but now he uses his other hand to ring the doorbell with greater feeling.

After a pause, he stamps his foot on the floor, throwing his head back. “Come on! Is this how you treat me after being away? Shame on you, Missy!”

This neighbor must be very patient, Logan thinks, to keep up with a guy like Wade without often seeing red.

As the door finally swings open, his grip on Wade loosens, and his hand falls limply to his side.

“What… the fuck?”

The sound of your voice—soft, slightly groggy from sleep—pulls his attention away from the door incident. His gaze is fixed entirely on you—you look as if you’ve just rolled out of bed, which makes sense since it’s still early.

Back in The Void, Wade had rambled on about all his friends, you included. Logan recalls how he had described you: a book editor who lived on her own and loved reading. You were younger—but then again, who wasn’t younger than him?

The picture Wade had shown him, with you standing in the background, hadn’t done you justice. He had found you attractive then, but seeing you in person?

You’re… far more than he expected.

More beautiful, for starters.

Fuck. Why is he even thinking about that? He must’ve been staring at you for quite a while—you glance at him like a startled lamb, clearly feeling self-conscious under his unwavering stare.

“May I know,” you start, tightening your robe, “why you were banging on my door like that? I thought I was getting robbed for a minute.” You direct your question at Wade, avoiding Logan’s presence, which makes something tighten in his chest.

He finds the way you stifle a yawn endearing, though.

Okay, that’s enough, he tells his mind. Let it go.

Wade steps in first, dropping his mask on the nearest surface. “Hello, my dear. Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just a few scratches. No, I wasn’t partying—I was kidnapped. Thanks for asking.”

You draw in a long breath, rubbing your eyes to wake up once and for all, and then you proceed to gesture for Logan to enter. Even now, you find it difficult to maintain eye contact with him. “Do you—would you like to come in?”

Not only are you pretty, but also polite. He nods, muttering a gruff: “Yeah, thank you.”

As he walks past you, your shoulders brush briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through him. A tingling sensation on the verge of being electrifying that has him knitting his brows.

His gaze finds yours, searching your expression to see if you felt it too. But you look away, closing the door to go after Wade.

Great. You must think he’s a weirdo. 

“I’m always up for company, but why so early?” you ask your friend, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. “And are you going to tell me what happened the other day? You left without saying anything.”

Wade hops onto a stool at the kitchen counter, swinging his legs like a child. “You know Al. When it comes to sleeping, she’s like a much older version of Sleeping Beauty,” he replies with a grin, snatching the mug you were about to use for your morning coffee. “Thanks, you’re such a doll.”

“That was—mine,” you sigh, hitting him in the thigh, and Wade winces with a fake whine. “I don’t think I’ve missed you that much. Go back to being missing in action,” you say, grabbing another mug and filling it before raising it toward Logan. “Coffee?”

Logan hesitates. You’re treating him like you’ve known him for years, not minutes. “I’m… good.”

“You sure? I made it fresh, just before you guys arrived.”

“Don’t worry, I’m—”

“I love the chemistry here,” Wade interrupts your conversation, drawing your attention back to him, “but you still got the keys I gave you, right?”

You roll your eyes, blowing on your steamy coffee before answering. “I do, but I want answers first. And I want them now.”

Twenty minutes and a rambling, half-coherent story later, your drink has gone cold, and Logan’s patience is wearing thin… again.

Will he survive sleeping under the same roof as Wade? Stay tuned for more.

“And then I told Paradox ‘He has risen, babygirl’—”

“I think you’re being too specific,” Logan interjects, noting how you’re staring into space with wide eyes. “She seems confused.”

“I am,” you admit, rubbing your temples. He doesn’t blame you: Wade’s a terrible storyteller. You offer him a weak smile as you turn to him. “So… you’re from another universe.”

“Last time I checked.” His back collapses against the couch, groaning softly. He sits beside you, and the way your eyes sweep over him, taking in his disheveled and sweaty appearance, doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”

“I’m public enemy number one.”

Too harsh, idiot.

“Oh. That’s… good to know.”

Wade says your name, and you look to your right, lifting your brows. “Do you mind if I grab the keys myself? I need a shower. I’ve been marinating in sweat and blood for way too long.”

You grimace, pointing toward your room. “Top drawer of my nightstand.”

With that, he embarks on a quest to find them, leaving Logan alone with you. Silence stretches between you two.

He doesn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything. Casual conversation isn’t his forte.

“You and Wade…?”

Letting out a giggle, you lean back on the couch. “God, no. We’re just friends,” you explain, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. For a fleeting moment, your eyes bore into his, and then you return to burning holes in the floor. “I’m single. Haven’t found my soulmate yet.”

It’s his turn to chuckle now—a dark, humorless sound rumbling in his chest. You chew on a cuticle, Logan’s gesture igniting a sense of curiosity in you.

“What?” you ask him, puzzled.

“Do you really believe in that? Soulmates who share scars?” If he were to think carefully, he’d watch his tone. It’s too late, anyway—you straighten your posture, your face contorting with each passing second. “I can tell you do.”

“And I can tell you don’t.”

“Why would I? Those are lies,” he retorts, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

His opinion is anything but objective, totally biased, given that every time he dove into love’s arms, he was met with the crude reality: not everyone’s meant to be loved, himself included.

The look you give him is enough to wipe the smirk off his face. 

“Soulmates exist, Logan. We all have one.” There’s a certainty in your tone, marked by the subtle way in which you say his name, that he finds alluring. He shouldn’t, especially when you seem angry above all. 

“And where is yours, then?”

He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your expression becomes inscrutable. You could be either disappointed, frustrated, or even exasperated—sad, perhaps?

Logan feels as though a weight has settled on his shoulders just from staring into your eyes.

You strike back with silence. Plain, pure, dreadful silence that has him wondering if he’s breathing properly.

At long last, Wade comes back from his expedition, keys dangling from his fingers. “It was quite the treasure hunt, you know? You’ve got a lot of garbage in there.” He sticks his face between Logan’s and yours when you don't answer him. “Guys, is there something wrong? Are you doing a staring contest? If so, can I join?”

“I need to start getting ready for work,” you announce, standing up from the couch. Logan mimics you, and you open the door, your fingers curling around the knob. “You should get going. And Wade,” you pause, acknowledging only him, “I need to talk to you later. In private.”

Without Logan. That’s what you wanted to say but didn’t.

“Sure, my queen. I live to serve,” Wade says in rejoinder, and he kisses your forehead briefly, which forces Logan to avert his gaze the whole time his lips are on you, feeling uncomfortable watching. “Take care, alright?” 

You give Wade a small nod, waiting until he’s outside your apartment to glance at Logan.

“Goodbye,” you croak, and he knows he should say something, that he—

The door almost closes on his nose.

Had he been an asshole? He was merely expressing his thoughts. The idea of soulmates didn’t sit well with him.

Once settled into Wade’s apartment, Logan steps into the shower, water rinsing off his body. Yet he finds himself unable to stop thinking about you.

The disappointment in your eyes when he asked about your soulmate.

The coldness in your tone at the end, so different from the warmth you initially offered.

He feels drawn to you, as if some sort of invisible string is tying the two of you. Were it possible, he would use his own claws to cut it, but he can’t discern where it begins or ends. Instead, he prefers to blame his touch-starved state for this reaction. 

He’s already hating this earth. So much for a man whose skin refuses to scar.

And where is yours, then?

His words shouldn’t have stung the way they did. All the charm—the gruff exterior, the mysterious personality—had vanished.

The guy from another universe, with the claws, the healing abilities, and the raspy voice, is a moron.

A ridiculously good-looking moron? Yes, but a moron nonetheless.

There is something about him you can’t quite place. A chill creeps down your spine as you replay the instant your eyes first locked. Your body had reacted in ways it never had before, drawn to him like metal to a magnet.

Why? You’d seen handsome men before, even been with some. Yet, you’ve never felt this—this gravitational pull, this inexplicable pull to invade someone’s personal space.

How would your soulmate feel if he saw you like this, lusting after another man?

You shudder at the thought. This isn’t like you. You pride yourself on loyalty—perhaps a little too much. You don’t read two books at the same time, and you’ve been buying the same brand of shampoo for the past five years.

So why now? Why him? It feels like a betrayal of your own mind, your conscience turned against you.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

That afternoon, as you take a nap on the couch, he invades your dreams. It’s not even a wet dream, but he’s there, staking a claim on a part of you he has no right to.

You wake up with your hand clutching your chest, a frustrated punch landing on the nearest cushion.

The next day, you drop by Wade’s place for a quick visit, your eyes darting around the room every few seconds, half-expecting Logan to appear out of nowhere.

“I told you, he’s sleeping. That guy’s got a fucked up sleep schedule,” Wade says, urging you to take a seat beside him at the table. “Why don’t you wanna see him?”

Because he’s messing with your sanity. Your brain cells are practically disintegrating at the mere thought of breathing the same air as him.

“I just—I need to tell you something.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“What? Wade, no! You’ve been gone for three days—pregnancies take months.”

“I’d make an amazing uncle, though.” He grabs your hand between his, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Babies are so adorable at that—”

“My scars are back,” you cut him off, putting an end to his nonsense. Pulling the neck of your sweater to the side, you show him the thin lines etched into your collarbone. “But they are different this time.”

“Different? You mean they changed?” His disbelief is clear as he reaches for your arm, frowning while he inspects more of your scars. Wade’s jaw slackens, color draining out of his face. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“Fuck?”

“Yeah, fuck!” His strong arms envelop you, and you lean into the embrace, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Is this good news? Are we happy? Does this mean I have a shot at becoming an uncle after all?”

You laugh a little at his eagerness, rubbing gentle circles into his back. “I am happy. I just—I don’t know what these changes mean yet.”

Althea steps out of the bathroom, her cane tapping the floor in rhythmic beats. “I already told you what they mean.”

Wade pulls away from you, glaring at her. “You meddler! Haven’t we talked about not eavesdropping? Hasn’t life taught you anything after all these decades?”

“Upside of being blind: I’ve never seen this motherfucker in Crocs,” she says, pointing her cane at you, though you know her aim is Wade. “Downside of being blind: I hear everything in this apartment. And you, kid, have a new soulmate.”

“I know what we talked about the other day, but... it doesn’t make sense, Al. You only get one soulmate,” you protest, feeling the tension grow as you pace around the table. “Why can’t it just be simple? My friends are getting engaged, years are flying by, and I’m still out here chasing this… this idiot who no one can even find!”

That’s when Logan appears, emerging from his room, holding several empty beer cans. He rolls his eyes and walks straight into the kitchen. “Great. Who else is coming tonight?”

Wade smirks, clapping a hand on Logan’s shoulder as he looks at you. “Sweetie, Logan’s going through his second puberty at the ripe old age of two hundred. The pediatrician said it’s just hormones, nothing to worry about. Excuse his shitty attitude.”

With a low groan, Logan shrugs off Wade’s hand, scowling. If anything, the younger man’s grin just grows bigger. “Wolvie, I gotta admit that whole ‘Don’t fall in love with me or I’ll break your heart’ personality shouldn’t turn me on, but here we are.”

You decide to take that as your cue to leave. You grab your bag, muttering a quick goodbye to Althea as you head for the door.

But Logan calls after you. “Can we talk?”

You freeze, your back to him. “How much did you hear?” you ask, not daring—not being able—to meet his gaze.

“All of it,” he admits after a beat, and you curse under your breath. “But it doesn’t—Hey!” He follows you into the hallway. “I’m talking to you!”

“No, you’re not.” You fumble for your keys, fingers shaking as you try to unlock your door. “Leave me alone.”

“I won’t,” he mumbles behind you, his voice softer now. “Come on. Don’t be so harsh.”

“I can’t believe you,” you whisper, finally finding the right key and jiggling it into the lock. The door swings open, and you step into the safety of your apartment. But when you try to close it, Logan’s foot wedges into the gap, blocking it. “Get out.”

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, me neither. But I owe you an apology.”

You wonder if he realizes the hold he has on you. No matter how hard you try to mask it, the unbearable pounding of your heart betrays you.

Scanning his features, you trace the rugged contours of his face with your eyes, lingering on the lines on his forehead—the aftermath of what it looks like a life lived through bitterness and pain.

“Can I come in?” he insists, his tone on the verge of sounding pleading.

You hesitate. The sensible part of you screams to send him away. Thinking that avoiding him would be as easy as stealing candy from a baby is a long-forgotten idea now: you’d been naïve to even consider it possible.

He’s going to find a way to sneak into your space, your home—and you’ll let him in. You’ll grant him a chance to cross a boundary that should’ve been already drawn.

It feels like you’re fifteen again, infatuated with the guy you know you shouldn’t get close to. Paul from high school wasn’t your soulmate back then—Logan isn’t now.

The smart thing would be to take a step back, accept his apology, and ask him to leave. That’s how you preserve what little remains of your sanity and protect your heart, which is already hanging by a thread.

But God, it feels so good to be near him.

You step aside. He walks in. Something tells you this won’t be the last time.

“I’m waiting.” You stay near the counter, pressing your back against it, and keeping your distance. Logan sits awkwardly on the edge of your couch, unsure of where to begin.

“Look, about what I said yesterday…I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere, earnest. “I didn’t know you believed in soulmates.”

“It’s not a matter of believing in them or not, Logan. My soulmate is out there—yours too.”

Your words coax a grin from him, and he shakes his head. “I guess we’ll never see eye to eye on that.” In a fluid motion, he crosses the room, and you find his unexpected proximity a bit exasperating. “Do you forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Give me a break, darlin’. I’m trying my best.”

“Well, you were an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“The first time we exchanged words.”

“Also yes.”

“And now you’re apologizing.”

“Positive. I just did.”

It’s not that you’re easy—it’s Logan’s persuasive allure that gets to you.

“What else can I do to win your forgiveness?” he wonders aloud, his syrupy voice making you tighten your grip on the counter.

An idea sparks in your mind. You move toward the pile of books next to the TV, eyeing the titles, until one catches your attention: your copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, one of the first novels you’d read when you were younger.

It’s adorned with colorful post-its, and the pages, sort of rough to the touch, are marked with handwritten notes in the margins.

“How do you feel about reading?”

“Not my strongest suit,” he answers, arching a brow as he takes in your enthusiasm. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“You want me to believe you’re sorry for what you said? Then read this,” you say, wiggling the book in front of him, “and we can start over.”

“What is it about? Let me guess: love and soulmates. Did I get it right?” he asks, playfulness lacing his tone. His breath hitches as you press the book against his chest, silently urging him to take it. His pinky grazes your hand, feeling your skin and sending a jolt through you.

Logan watches you with half-lidded eyes, and it takes every ounce of willpower to tear yourself away from him and his maddening touch.

You clear your throat. “Open it to page one hundred fifty-three.”

“Do you—you remember specific pages?”

“And read what’s underlined in black,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed for an instant. “Please.”

Logan must mutter something along the lines of ‘You’ve got to be kidding me’ before searching for it. It’s only then that he begins to recite the passage:

He is not to them what he is to me. He is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine; – I am sure he is – I feel akin to him – I understand the language of his countenance and movements; though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered: – and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.

You’ve chosen a damn good page.

Logan looks up from the book, his mouth slightly parted, as if he’s about to speak. You interject before he can find the words.

“You’ve got a week to read it.”

“How long is it again?”

“Four hundred pages.”

He surrenders, sighing in defeat. “You’re killing me here, y’know?”

“Write an opinion essay if possible.”

Right there, Logan offers you a mock laugh. “Haha. That’s so funny.”

“It is for me,” you talk back, unable to hide your smile from him, and soon he mirrors your expression. 

As Logan steps toward the door, he hesitates and glances back. “We’re all good then?”

Leaning against the doorframe, you raise your chin defiantly. “We’ll be when you finish the book.”

What he says next has your stomach turning into knots. “You’re trouble.” His tone shifts—no longer teasing, but grounded in truth. Gone are the jokes; he seems to mean every word.

For the rest of the night, one line from the book doesn’t stop echoing in your mind—the line about soulmates: I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. 

You’re trouble for him, and he’s trouble for you. You hope he knows it too.

He thought that not seeing you for a week would snuff out his feelings. That by next Wednesday, every thought tied to your name, every urge to uncover the last of your secrets, would be extinguished.

That's what time usually did: it diminished dangerous desires that couldn't afford to be voiced, and buried those longings that had no place in the light of day.

Logan now figures he’s been underestimating the spell you cast on him with just a few glances and the intensity of your eyes. He’s seen you animated, angry—both defiant and vulnerable.

Each of your gestures feels like a memory he can’t quite place.

The way you laugh, the right corner of your mouth lifting just slightly higher than the left—he swears it isn’t the first time he's seen a smile brighter than the sun.

Still, he convinces himself it’s all in his head. He must be the one losing his mind, the years finally catching up to him. It’s the only reasonable explanation for the thoughts that consume his every waking moment.

He’s wrong—you’re right. He’s seeing things where there are none—you’re simply too kind.

Too kind. Too young. Too damn clever for your own good, with your books and that sharp mind of yours. He wonders how you see yourself.

Do you like the reflection in the mirror? Are you content with the way your life has turned out?

Do you, too, lie awake at night, the bed stretching endlessly, aching for a touch that never comes?

The walls in this place are paper-thin. When darkness falls, and the moon rises, the big, scary Wolverine can’t close his eyes.

Instead, he listens.

Some nights, you play the same movie on repeat—a romantic comedy that lasts exactly one hundred and twenty minutes. For two hours straight, he’s privy to your laughter, your commentary at the characters on the screen.

He hears you cry when the lead couple drifts apart after a terrible argument, but they always find their way back to each other, and you watch every second until the credits roll.

None of the other films you pick ever ends in heartbreak, he realizes. They all have happy endings—the kind you wish for yourself.

One way or another, there must be a way to get you out of his system. He knows, without a doubt, that you wouldn’t want him. He’s not your soulmate, and it’s clear that finding that person has become the center of your existence.

Logan can’t allow himself to be the moron who derails your purpose.

Sure, he’s done bad things, but he likes to believe that at least a part of him—some small fraction—hasn’t been lost yet. That there’s a piece of him that can be saved, which is the reason why he stayed here: to be a better man than the one he was in his universe.

But it’s hard. Harder still because it’s you who disrupts his quest for redemption. How is he supposed to go on with his life when every thought circles back to you? The idea of holding you, kissing you—sleeping beside you haunts him.

And so the images blur, new dreams twisting with his usual nightmares.

Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.

One afternoon, while deliberately steering clear of Jane Eyre, he reluctantly turns to Wade in search of answers. “Tell me more about her.”

Wade, lounging on the couch, stops scrolling on his phone and drops it onto his chest, drawing his eyebrows together.

“Her? Who do you mean?” His tone oozes with feigned innocence, barely containing a shit-eating grin when Logan grits out your name, his tone rough, almost pained. “Oh, Romeo. You’ve got it bad.”

Intending to maintain some semblance of control, Logan strides into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and the last bottle of whiskey. As he tips it, only a few drops fall into the glass.

“No, I don’t,” he says, extending his arm and holding the bottle up. “We’re out of whiskey.”

“You keep saying we, but you’re the only alcoholic in this apartment.” Wade kicks off his shoes, propping his feet on the coffee table. “So, why the sudden interest in the lady? She getting through that tough exterior of yours? I’ll give her points for that.”

“And you wonder why I don’t talk to you.”

“I saw the book,” the younger man replies, lacing his fingers behind his head, watching as Logan rummages through the fridge with increasing frustration. “You never told me you were into classics. If I’d known, I’d have gotten you a copy of Pride and Prejudice.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who came to me, looking for the essential oil of truth?”

The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable, mood-killing.

“See what I just did there?” he adds, and Logan feels forced to shake his head from side to side, appearing conflicted. Wade lets out a low huff. “That was Virginia Woolf. Add her to your reading list.”

“Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”

“More times than I can count. I’m just not everyone’s cup of coffee.”

“Tea, Wade. Not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“Whatever.” Wade simpers, as though Logan’s correction is the punchline to a joke only he gets. He sets his palms flat on the table, looming closer with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, what would you like to know about my dear friend?”

Logan hesitates, the weight of his question heavy on his tongue. “What’s the deal with her scars?”

The air shifts. Wade’s playful expression fades and he tilts his head, his tone turning serious. “I don’t think it’s my story to tell,” he begins, gaze dropping to the floor. “But she lost them years ago. She was living a normal life, and one day, they were just—gone, like they were never there. It broke her. We didn’t know each other back then, but you’ve seen her.”

Wade’s eyes flick back up, while Logan stands there, tongue-tied. “You even know the kind of books she reads—nothing can shake that belief in real love, in soulmates being destined. Imagine how she must’ve felt when she found out her presumed soulmate was dead… without a single warning.”

From what he had heard, that sense of loss was impossible to put into words. Those who’d gone through it described the experience as if half of you—your body, your soul, your very essence—was being ripped away.

The pain was excruciating, and the only way to survive it was by means of tolerating it—no remedy, just the endurance to outlast the agony.

It wasn’t just a momentary hurt. It was the kind of torment that lingered, making you question who you were and what little remained of you.

You and Logan had more in common than he’s willing to admit.

“She’s a good person,” he mutters absent-mindedly, his thumb grazing the cover of the book. He had carried it everywhere for a week now, without even cracking it open.

“Oh, you dirty pig…” Wade whispers, his eyes lighting up as if a lightbulb suddenly went off in his mind. “Now I get it. You wanna know her. Like, really know her!”

“I don’t—”

“Your sex life is none of my business. I’m all up for you putting your mutant dick to work, otherwise it’s just wasted potential. But it’s my friend we’re talking about.”

Logan’s jaw tightens, and he snaps. “Drop the speech, alright? I’m not trying to get into her pants. I just want to be nice. That’s all.”

“Nice, huh? What’s your version of nice? Starting a two-person book club?” Wade stifles a laugh, pressing a finger to Logan’s chest. “Look, if you want to sleep with her, and the feeling’s mutual, then go for it. Just tell me this—how long’s it been since you visited Pussy Village? Was it before or after the Big Bang?”

Things are never truly serious with Wade Wilson. “I’m not answering that.”

Wade raises both hands in surrender, still chuckling. “Fine, fine. But if you’re really interested, just be clear about it. She doesn’t need a half-assed situationship.”

By now, it’s like a mantra he repeats again and again, hoping that eventually both Wade and he will start to believe it. “I don’t want to have sex with her.”

As he heads back to his (now Wade’s old) room, Wade adds, “I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you underlined some quotes you like.”

Much to his dismay, that’s exactly what Logan does.

His handwriting isn’t the most legible, but he tries his best, leaving notes in the margins of some pages, such as:

I hate this John kid.

Her aunt is a cunt.

This is too cheesy.

Mr. Rochester’s married?

St. John—what a prick.

He finishes the book at 7 a.m. A long-ass book—just for you. While getting ready for work, Wade calls him an unemployed fucker, and Logan knows nothing better than to shoot back a similar insult, stretching his arms as the first rays of sunlight creep through the curtains.

Wade was right about something, even if Logan himself doesn’t wish to admit it: he’s behaving like a teenager—staying up until dawn, practically chained to the bed without daring to go out. Falling for a girl he didn’t know a week ago.

Learning to control his impulses has been a hard task, especially with his temperament. Over the years, Logan thought he’d mastered the art of self-restraint, long past the point where his body moved without his mind’s permission.

As his feet carry him down the hall toward your apartment, he recognizes how wrong he is.

This is a terrible idea, he thinks. And yet, his fist knocks on the wood. Three times.

Fuck.

The door opens just a crack. You peek out, your face barely visible, eyes puffy from sleep. “Logan?”

His name isn’t a fancy one. It’s pretty normal, pretty standard. There must be a thousand other guys named like him—yet it’s only when you say it, your voice turning it into something rare and unique, that it feels different, like it’s only his.

The tone you use with him isn’t the one he’s used to: Logan, you’re a disappointment. Logan, how dare you turn your back on your friends? Logan, they’re all dead. Logan, it’s your fault.

Yours is inviting, and warm, and new. He likes new.

“I just finished it,” he answers, holding up the book, mindful not to grip it too tight as not to crumple the pages.

You scratch the back of your head, blinking at him. “You just finished it… at 7 a.m.?

Yeah, it sounds stupid now that you say it out loud, but it’s true. Hoping his reaction is enough to explain what he can’t put into words, he gives you a slow nod.

This time, you don’t wait for him to say more. “Come in?”

Yes, this is what he’s been looking forward all week. This moment, this interaction.

This Come in. This Yes, thank you. You’re so kind.

His quiet acceptance of your invitation, the unpronounced thought of I don’t deserve this, but I can’t back off now, because how could I ever say no to you?

He follows you into the kitchen as you move to make tea. “Want some?” you ask, but he declines the offer. If he were to drink anything right now, it would be something much stronger, not tea, despite the early hour. “You’re here to talk about the book?”

“Well, you told me I could come back after reading it.”

“I did,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips as you hide it behind your mug. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so punctual.”

You don’t need to know that he’s been counting down the seconds, marking each minute in his mind since the last time he saw you. That’s a detail he’ll keep to himself. “It’s a good story.”

“Tell me about it.” You smile even wider, and he takes a moment to absorb the details of your face—the crinkles by your eyes, the way your nose scrunches when you’re amused. “I lent you my most precious book. Fell in love with it years ago.”

“I can see why you liked it,” he explains, flipping through the pages to find the one he marked. “All the romance and the yearning—”

“Hey, it’s also good for other reasons,” you try to defend yourself, but any other argument dies on your lips when he finds the passage he was looking for and begins to read aloud.

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now,” he recites, his voice lower, almost reverent, as he looks up from the page to meet your gaze. ���It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.”

You seem startled by the sharp sound of him closing the book. He’s sort of breathless, and from where he stands, he can tell you are too. “That’s one of my favorite passages.”

“I can’t blame you for believing in soulmates if this is the kind of thing you read growing up,” he teases, handing the book back to you.

Though a part of him almost wishes he didn’t have to—so that it would still be a reason, a tether, pulling him back to you again and again.

Grinning, you take it, your eyes remaining trained on his. “I happen to notice it hasn’t changed your perspective on soulmates.”

“It’ll take more than a book.”

“This is, in my opinion, one of the best love stories ever written. How else will I convince you?”

“Why do you feel like you need to convince me?” He takes a step forward—you take a step back. “Why can’t it be the other way around? I might end up being the one who convinces you.”

“You could never,” you respond, clasping your hands behind your back. “It would be like convincing me the sky is green instead of blue.”

Logan retreats slightly. “Don’t you get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Of waiting. Of always being on the lookout.”

You don’t react badly to his question. You’re not even shaken, not fazed in the slightest. “When I meet him, I’ll know all the waiting was worth it.”

“And in the meantime?” Logan inquires, pressing himself further into your intimacy, edging closer as if testing the boundaries you’re willing to cross. His words are a subtle request for more, for answers. “What will you do until you find him?”

If you ever do, he thinks, but it’s left unsaid, lingering in his thoughts. He’s getting better at not saying the things that sit heavy in his chest without thinking.

“I think you misunderstand, Logan.” You study him through your lashes, and he feels he’s become the keeper of your most sacred secrets. “It’s not about waiting as if my life’s on pause. I’ve been with other people. But in the end, I want to choose him.”

That casual admission strikes him like a wave of cold water. A flicker of jealousy burns at the edges of his composure, though he tries to smother it.

I’ve been with other people, you say, your tone so nonchalant, and yet the mental images that flood his mind are anything but comfortable.

He imagines someone else standing in your kitchen. Perhaps in five minutes, there will be another man knocking on your door, here to discuss a book, and it won’t be him.

Perhaps this isn’t rare for you—all this come in, grab something to drink, let’s talk when you’re done reading.

Perhaps he’s not as important as you make him feel.

His thoughts spiral until your voice pulls him back from the brink.

“Don’t you understand how beautiful it is?” There’s a dazzling glint in your expression, a light in your eyes that makes him ache. “Outside of these four walls, there’s a person who’s waiting to meet me, in the same way I expect to meet him. I can’t grant myself the choice not to believe in something like this.”

Far from easing the martyr in his mind, this conversation only deepens his internal struggle. The questions overlap each other: what happens if you never find him? Would you ever consider settling for somebody else?

He rephrases that last one—would you ever consider being with him?

“He’s a lucky guy,” Logan murmurs, and just like that, he feels himself slipping deeper, falling into the rabbit hole with you guiding him through the madness.

For a moment, he can pretend—pretend that matching scars and bonds that defy the rules of his principles make sense.

Maybe, just for you, he’ll allow himself to believe it.

Your eyes soften with sudden emotion, glistening with the beginnings of tears. He feels the primal urge to reach out, to cup your cheek, to be there when the first tear falls. “You think so?” you ask, your voice fragile.

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now.

“Of course I do,” he replies, his tone quiet but laden with a strange, undeniable truth.

It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.

Whatever this is between you—it’s messed up. He’s messed up. And you… you’re just as tangled in this chaos for indulging it, for looking at him in that way that calls out to him.

The more time he spends with you, the less he feels like himself. Everything he’s done lately—reading that damn book, standing in your apartment at 7 a.m.—none of it feels like something he’d do.

It’s not just his mind you’re messing with: it’s his very sense of self.

Logan’s smart mouth had always been a liability, getting him into trouble either by saying too much or by choosing the wrong words. Bad things had always followed in the wake of his tongue.

Somehow, when it comes to you, he’s the most careful he’s ever been. He doesn’t want to upset you, nor does he want to be the cause of any sorrow that might affect your heart.

When the two of you stand at the threshold once more, just as you have other times before, you softly say: “I feel like I’m experiencing a déjà vu.”

He laughs, because it sounds ridiculous. “Care to explain why?”

“You come, we talk, you leave.” You lean against the wall, your hand ghosting over the handle. “But you never stay that long.”

There’s no mistaking the layered meaning in your words. You, who work with language and its peculiarities for a living, never speak by chance—every phrase, every pause, carries an assigned weight. The double meaning in your statement doesn’t escape either of you.

You’re a natural at this madness, diving headfirst into it. You must be losing it, too, because your actions don’t match what you said before.

Slowly, his fingers brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the perfect excuse to feel your skin, to close the distance without saying what he actually wants.

They say food and shelter are the basic human needs, but Logan chooses to believe they forgot to include the longing to reach out and just feel you.

“I can’t stay,” he finally responds to your earlier comment, his hand still lingering against your skin.

His strength—the only thing saving him from completely giving in—helps him pull himself away.

Before the impulse to kiss you becomes too overwhelming to resist, Logan leaves.

Some time later, you’re making lunch, music playing softly in the background at the same time the city’s distinct noise finds a way to break through your tranquility.

You rely greatly on the knowledge that you’re good at multitasking—now more than ever, with a book in one hand and the other stirring the pasta on the stove.

The warmth from the pot rises around you, but you trust yourself not to be careless. Not to be stupid enough to burn yourself with the boiling water.

This time, you miscalculate. Not only do you dip the wooden spoon into the pot, but your fingertips too.

Though it only lasts a second, and the voice in your head instantly screams Hot! Hot! Hot!, the shock makes you drop the book to the floor. You yank your hand back, racing to the sink to run it under cold water.

“Fuck,” you grumble, watching the skin redden in protest. “Lesson learned: no more multitasking.”

The funny thing is, just a door away, Logan’s watching a movie with Wade when he feels a sting in the tips of his fingers.

It’s barely there, practically faint, but he looks down, inspecting his hand like it doesn’t belong to his own body. His skin briefly flushes with irritation before returning to its normal state.

Wade notices his distraction. “Hey, you okay?”

Logan pays no mind to it. “Sure. Just felt something strange.”

Is it still called avoiding if you’re both doing it? You’d like to think so.

For the sake of clarity, let’s say you’ve been actively avoiding Logan, but truth be told—he’s been avoiding you too. That last encounter in your apartment didn’t help matters at all.

If anything, it made everything worse.

You’ve been down this road before, knowing men like him too well: they’re everywhere, until they’re not.

One day, they vanish without a trace, leaving you staring at the empty space they used to occupy, asking yourself ‘What happened to my Prince Charming in disguise?’

They disappear as though they never existed, and not even the best detective can track them down.

So far, your avoidance strategy has worked wonders. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s a distraction—an undeniably attractive one, the kind anyone would want to trip over.

Yet you miss him, which is dumb: why are you missing someone you were never supposed to care about in the first place?

You return home after a long trip to the grocery store, arms laden with bags. It’s the kind of errand that exhausts you, though you keep telling yourself it’s better than thinking about him.

As you struggle to get through the building's exit, you resign yourself to the fact that it’ll take several trips to bring everything up to your apartment.

Then the elevator doors slide open, and you drop everything to the floor.

You should’ve known better than to assume victory so soon. After days of successfully avoiding him, there he is.

And of course, it’s when you look your worst—tired from running around, weighed down by groceries, barely holding it together.

“Hey,” he greets you, standing just outside the elevator, like he’s not sure if he should step inside or stay where he is. He’s dressed in a red-and-black flannel shirt, layered over a white vest, a leather jacket tossed over his shoulders, and a pair of jeans that seem made for him.

He looks... ridiculously good.

“Hi,” you manage to answer after a beat, scrambling to collect the bags you’d dropped. “Just—give me a second.”

“Let me help you,” Logan says, ducking down to gather the groceries, but you pull them away.

“I’ve got it. Are you going out? On a date, maybe?” You nod toward his clothes, trying to keep things light, teasing even.

Glancing down at himself, a crease appears between his brows, and in one swoop, he gathers all the bags with a single hand. “I’m supposed to meet Wade at a bar, but he’ll survive without me.”

“Logan, you don’t—”

But he’s already moving, one hand tugging you out of the elevator, the other gesturing toward your apartment.

“Not up for debate,” he mutters. Then, without waiting for permission, he holds out his hand. “Keys.”

Sighing, you dig into your pocket and drop them into his open palm. He unlocks the door with practiced ease, stepping inside and placing the bags on your kitchen counter.

As he starts to unpack them, you stop him. “You really don’t need to do that.”

That seems to catch his attention. He pauses, turning toward you with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the counter.

His unrelenting stare sizes you up, and he cocks his head to the side. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

He thinks he’s so discreet, so smooth. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you explain, fiddling with the frayed edge of your sweater, tugging at it like it might unravel your nerves.

You hear him click his tongue. “Been busy too.” His words hang in the air, thickening the atmosphere. Your body tenses, and you stare at his shoes, until— “Sweetheart,” he calls you softly, and your eyes snap shut for a moment, your chin almost pressing against your chest. “My eyes are up here.”

A quick flutter of your lashes brings you back to him, and your chest tightens with the effort it takes to look into his eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you ask, praying he’ll let this go.

You watch as his mouth twitches with something halfway between a smile and a smirk. “You already want me to leave?”

“If you have plans, then yeah.”

He huffs out a laugh, inhaling a shallow breath like you’ve missed something obvious. “Wade can wait. He’ll be fine.” His expression shifts, and the playful tone in his voice falls away, replaced by something more raw. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You can’t help but snort. “Oh, please. Like you haven’t been doing the same.” You walk over to the couch, feeling your legs wobble beneath you. You collapse into one corner, hoping the distance will help you breathe.

Like a shadow, Logan follows after you, sitting far too close. His legs splay wide, so wide they’re almost grazing yours.

“At least I have a reason for it. What about you?” His hand reaches out, fingers closing around yours in a grip that’s both firm and gentle, enhancing your anxiety. Your throat tightens, the room shrinking around you. “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy,” he says, his voice rough and low. “I need you to tell me you feel it too.”

Panic flares in your chest, and you scramble for time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, but your voice cracks, the uncertainty leaking through the cracks in your bravado.

He doesn’t buy your acting. “You do. We can’t keep playing dumb. You’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind one of these days.”

It’s not just his words—it’s the way he stands so close, heat radiating from his body, the roughness of his hand gripping yours like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.

The intensity of it all weighs on you in ways you can’t even begin to describe, leaving you breathless, caught between denial and desire.

“Logan, this isn’t—”

“What? Okay?” There’s a glimpse of mirthlessness in his tone as he speaks, his forehead furrowing. “I can’t stay away from you, don’t you see it? It feels too good to be wrong,” he utters, inching forward. You know you should take a step back, tell him to stop. Nothing good can come from this. “It takes two to feel these things. It can’t be just me.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to give in.” Blood pounds in your ears, your pulse racing as your heart hammers unpleasantly. Little shivers of ice run through your spine, and yet, your stomach burns with desire.

More than ever, you feel yourself slipping, your sanity at risk.

Logan runs his eyes up and down your face, agitated, almost going cross-eyed. “Earlier you asked if I was going on a date. Would you like that? Me being with other people? Kissing another woman?” His hot breath caresses your cheek, and you avert your gaze momentarily. “Answer me.”

Don’t do it. For the love of God, don’t. “I can’t—I don’t—”

“Come on, baby.”

“I don’t want you to be with other people,” you mumble, your lips almost grazing his, and that’s all he needs to grip your chin and pull you into a kiss.

His mouth moves hungrily over yours, pushing you back until the armrest digs into your lower back. A choked whimper gets lost in your throat, and you bring him closer by grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, your chest pressing against his.

Logan bites down on your lip, soothing the sting with his tongue, and the moan you let out reverberates in the apartment.

“This is what you were hiding from me?” he rasps, his forehead bumping against yours. “These sweet sounds you make?”

You end up perched in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. He’s hard beneath you, and as you shift, your center makes contact with his erection through the layers of fabric.

Both of you sigh into each other’s mouths, your hips moving on their own accord, rocking slightly against his clothed cock. He hooks one of his arms around your waist, guiding your movements.

Everything seems to fall into place. Outside your window, birds chirp. The world feels lighter, like a better place. The beast inside you quiets, and for once, your mind is blissfully blank.

Logic? Error 404—not found.

You tug at his hair, and Logan growls, breaking the kiss. “Do that again.” He jerks under your touch, bucking up into you. Encouraged, you pull his hair again, fingers wrapping around a strand at the nape of his neck, and you’re rewarded with a deep groan.

He’s dizzy for it, but you’re no better, not when he trails his kisses down your neck, his mouth latching onto your skin, tasting the sweat and salt.

“I can’t control myself around you,” he murmurs, groping your tits, and you wail, the ache between your legs becoming intolerable. His hands slip under your sweater, caressing the scars on your back.

That’s when recognition settles over you.

What are you doing? And why are you doing it?

He ceases sucking your flesh when you go rigid on top of him. Pecking your lips once again, Logan’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs rubbing circles on your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t understand how he does it, how he can remain so calm. Doesn’t he realize the gravity of this? “We have to stop.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me something you already know the answer to.”

His arms drop to his sides, releasing you from his hold. You push yourself off him, away from the couch, putting as much distance between you as you can.

Pressing your palms to your eyes, you shake your head. “God, I’m stupid. This is stupid.”

Your reaction seems to get on his nerves, his frustration somehow increasing. Logan stands, towering over you. “Was it stupid when you were dry humping me?”

“Fuck you, Logan.”

“I’m not the bad guy here. You kissed me back.” He doesn’t let up, trailing behind you as you try to escape. “You want me as much as I want you.”

“Will you stop saying that?” you bark, throwing your arms in the air. Your chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. “Yeah, we like each other. So? Does that make it right? How can you just ignore how wrong this is?”

His expression hardens, anger flashing in his eyes. “Forget your idea of what's good and bad. You're just upset you can't control what you feel.”

“He’s closer than ever.”

Logan gawks at you, his voice bitter as he goes on with his rambling. “That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.”

“You wish you were him, don’t you?” You jab your finger into his chest, feeling his heartbeat, a flutter you choose to ignore. “You want to be my soulmate.”

“Damn right I do,” he practically spits his words, narrowing his eyes at you. “But I’m not him.”

“No. You’re not.”

Everything seems to fall out of place. Outside your window, birds don’t chirp—they scream for mercy. The world doesn’t feel lighter, but heavier. The beast inside you roars back to life, restless and louder than ever, while your mind spins in chaos.

“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.” Your voice pierces through the thick silence in the room, and you swallow down the lump forming in your throat.

“If that’s what you want,” he replies, his jaw clenched tight, irritation radiating off him in waves.

“It’s what we both need.”

“Speak for yourself. I don’t have a soulmate.” His tone is biting, but you don’t miss the undercurrent of longing in his words. “But if in any other universe I do, I hope it’s you.”

Your hand turns the knob, and then he’s halfway out the door, sparing you one last glance before he turns his back to you.

No more visits. No more books. No more bruising kisses that leave you questioning your mere existence.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

It didn’t go well in the end.

You remember your first heartbreak—seventeen, fresh out of high school. One of your hands clutched a million dreams, and the other, a pillow soaked with your tears.

Your mother remained by your side, caressing your back, attempting to soothe the sobs that racked your body. She murmured that it’d pass, that you wouldn’t feel like this forever. You believed her then, and trusted that things would eventually be okay.

Almost ten years later, another heartbreak shouldn’t come as a surprise. By now, you thought you would’ve developed the tools to survive it. You should be able to piece yourself back together by instinct.

But life, as it turns out, has a peculiar way of catching you off guard.

Whether it’s pent-up horniness, touch-starvation, or genuine affection—it doesn't change the fact that your pseudo-relationship with Logan fell apart.

Though you’re not the one who’s suffering the most. Neither is Logan.

Wade, the third party in this tangled mess, has somehow taken it the hardest.

“I feel like a child of divorce,” he says, his head resting on your lap, eyes distant as they fixate on the peeling wallpaper. “You need to do something about that.”

“I’ll take care of it next month.”

He’s supposed to be the one supporting you, but it feels like the roles are reversed—you’re comforting him, letting him vent.

“My two favorite people now can’t even be in the same room. What are we gonna do for Christmas? New Year's Eve?” Straightening up, he grabs the nearest cushion and buries his face into it to muffle a defeated scream. “Damn it, Cupid! You had one job!”

All in all, Wade’s emotionally unavailable at the moment, grieving your separation from Logan as if it were his own loss, too caught up in his melodrama to be of any real help.

Meanwhile, you fill your days with work, books, anything to keep your mind occupied.

You go to bed too late, you wake up too early. Sleep too little, cry too much.

One thing stays constant—you and Logan don’t talk. Stolen glances in the hallway, awkward elevator rides—those are the only remnants of whatever you once were. Back to being strangers again. 

Well, not really. Strangers don’t know the route to your mouth the way he does.

The ache lingers every day. Missing him when you’re awake is a common occurrence. At night, as you toss and turn beneath the sheets, he stars in your dreams. You can’t recall the last time he wasn’t lodged in your thoughts. 

Where there used to be ideas, creativity, and plots worth scribbling down, there’s now only Logan—a man destined to problematize your stay on earth.

That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.

And yet, despite all of it, you continue to prioritize someone else. Someone who isn’t even here. Clung to the idea of a soulmate, you chose him over Logan.

What did he expect? For you to abandon your principles, your belief in destiny? It’s who you are. Nearly thirty years of life guided by one belief can’t just be discarded like trash.

You liked to separate things into categories: good and bad, right and wrong. A simple method to structure everything, to make sense of your world, and it has worked most of the time.

But now? The limits of those sacred categories look blurred. Your judgment feels unreliable, and you wonder if the choices you’ve made lately have been the correct ones.

Each of your decisions seems to be leading you further down a path you can’t recognize. 

What’s the goal? Finding your soulmate, the voice in your head mockingly answers for the hundredth time, rolling its imaginary eyes. And where is he?

You’ve shut Logan out, a man who’s made it clear he has feelings for you, for this elusive person. Isn’t it time he steps into the light at long last?

This is what you fear the most: loneliness.

You don’t want to be the lone woman who sits by herself in a cafe, drawing pity from waitresses who discuss her solitude. By no means do you wish to be that friend who dispenses wise dating advice, but goes home to an empty bed. You refuse to become the godmother whose hand no one holds when her time comes.

No, this can’t be all fate has to offer to you. There must be more. If your life were a book, you’d be flipping through the pages to the last chapter, desperate to see how it ends.

Or, better yet, you’d grab a pen and rewrite it yourself. What kind of ending you’ll have—you’re not so sure about that.

It’s Sunday, one of those endless weekends where the only way to survive is by rearranging your entire apartment. You could manage it alone, but help would be nice—Wade’s help, to be more precise, would be perfect for this kind of task, and you find yourself knocking on his door. 

No answer. Deciding to dial his number to see if he’s fallen asleep, you try calling him, waiting through the rings until he finally picks up. “Hey.”

Except it’s not Wade’s voice that answers. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

The door swings open, and Logan appears right behind it, holding Wade’s phone to his ear.

He narrows his eyes, leaning against the frame, a single eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “How sad. You don’t remember what I sound like.”

You feel foolish for still being on the call, so you lock your phone, ending it. “Where’s Wade?” you ask, frowning as you hold your breath, your voice sharper than intended.

“Out and about. Didn’t tell me where he was going,” Logan replies, glaring at you as he raises the phone to your face. “He left without this.”

Abort mission! Nodding in agreement, you begin to step back. “Great, I’ll look for him later.”

You’re close to being locked up once again in the safety of your apartment when you hear him: “You need anything?”

It’s the most he’s said to you in weeks. You hesitate, keeping your back turned. “I’m moving some heavy stuff around. Thought I could use the help.”

“I could do it.”

No. Not really. He’s doing that thing again—offering help when you know you shouldn’t accept it. You shake your head.

“It’s not necessary,” you say, forcing a casual tone.

“Doesn’t have to mean anything,” he retorts, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as they draw closer. With each passing second, your options shrink, leaving you no room for retreat. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to kiss you again if that’s what’s got you all worked up.”

“I’m not worked up,” you hiss, and he sidesteps you easily, his arm nudging yours.

The electricity is still there, undeniable, but neither of you has the courage to acknowledge it, acting as though it’s an ordinary occurrence.

His eyes roam the room, like he’s forgotten what your apartment looked like. He pauses by the bookshelf, his fingers gliding over the spine of Jane Eyre, and a low whistle escapes him as he slips it back into place. 

You, frozen at the threshold, feel your irritation simmering just beneath the surface, and the urge to hide in your bedroom only becomes stronger.

After this, you’ll have to burn your favorite book. What a pity.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the loops of his jeans, his posture both confident and annoyingly relaxed.

There’s a challenge in his tone, and he acts as if you’re the one who pulled him into this situation—like he didn’t worm his way in here.

You gesture toward the couch. “Can you put it by the window?”

He sets to work, moving the smaller pieces of furniture aside to make space for the couch. Under no circumstances are you going to just stand there and watch him sweat.

Instead, you busy yourself with the long-forgotten glasses and cups gathering dust in one of the kitchen cabinets, each one glinting with past disappointments.

Wetting a towel, you start by wiping the rims. The air feels heavily charged with uneasiness, but you're relieved that for once, you can breathe without feeling like you’re on the brink of a heart attack.

You can already imagine Wade’s face when you tell him—

“So,” Logan’s voice cuts through the silence, startling you, “how’s the search going? Got any luck?”

His words have the desired effect on you, and the glass slips from your grasp, shattering against the floor in a crash that mirrors the jump of your heart. You curse under your breath, stepping back from the mess, taking in the shards sprawled around your shoes.

“Be careful,” he says from the other side of the room, still dragging the furniture into place, and you scrutinize him over your shoulder, your brows knitted.

“I don’t need your advice,” you murmur through gritted teeth as you crouch to pick up the larger shards. His attention returns to the couch, but you guess he’s not technically thinking how nice of a person you are.

As you kneel, your hands tremble slightly, and you wonder when that started. You fumble for a larger shard of glass, bracing your hand against the floor for balance, unaware of the smaller piece lying dangerously close to your fingers.

The sting comes fast, slicing through the skin of your pinky. You flinch, raising your hand, and Logan, hearing the faint wince, abandons his task and crosses the room to you.

"I don’t need your advice," he echoes, mocking your tone as he squats beside you, his hand closing around yours to inspect the wound. "You’re bleeding."

“Brilliant observation, Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed—” The words die in your throat, your eyes widening as you take a closer look at his hand. “Wait, why are you bleeding?”

He snorts, diverting his attention to his own hand. “What do you mean I’m—” Whatever it is he intended to shoot back remains unsaid as both of you stare down at the small cut in his pinky.

Driven by instinct, you place your hands side by side, your finger grazing his. The cuts are identical: same place, same width, same depth. The only difference is his vanishes within seconds, leaving only a few droplets of crimson blood as evidence.

Logan couldn’t have cut himself. He was nowhere near the glass. “Are you…?” You swallow thickly, trying to string together a coherent thought, dizziness making its triumphant appearance. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that—”

“I need a drink.”

“Can you stop acting like a dick for one second?” You peer into his glossy eyes, watching him try to avoid your gaze, though he can’t seem to resist. “Please, Logan. Look at me.”

When he does, his mouth parts as if to speak, then closes again. “I don’t understand. I thought I didn’t have a soulmate.” His gruff tone slows even further, like he's straining to push the words from his lungs. “I thought—I thought I was alone.”

It explains so much: how your scars had reappeared once he and Wade returned from The Void. 

The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.

The dread that washed over you each time he walked away.

The dreams that plagued your nights, and the tightness in your chest these past few weeks that made you wonder if you could ever coexist in the same space as him without breaking apart.

All those times you felt he was getting closer weren’t just a figment of your imagination—he was, in fact, right there.

But he wasn’t just anyone—it was him. Logan is your soulmate. You two are meant to be together. How long would it take for you to truly believe it? Until it no longer sounded like something too good to be true?

Without uttering a sound, Logan gazes at you, silently pleading to see them. To see your scars. You extend your arm, and with a gentle motion, he rolls up the sleeve of your shirt, revealing the marks etched into your skin.

He runs his fingers along the lines, trying to understand the bond you now share—both his and yours.

In a sense, you’re his. You carry his scars, the physical manifestation of the life he has lived. Even though he may not bear any of his own, you do, and that’s more than enough.

He belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

“There are more,” you tell him. your voice barely above a whisper. He stands, offering you his hand, and you take it, rising to your feet. Logan inches closer, his mouth hovering just above yours, his large hand coming up to cup your cheek.

The look he gives you is one reserved for those he loves, a look filled with such warmth and affection that it almost feels dreamlike.

“Do you want me to see them?” he inquires, and all he needs is a nod from you to gently tug your shirt up your chest and over your head.

He lets out a dry chuckle when you attempt to tame your hair, the effort proving to be in vain. The clock on the wall seems to pause its ticking the moment his fingers begin to trail each of the scars that captures his gaze.

You can’t even begin to fathom what thoughts might be swirling in his mind, but if the flicker of lust and desire you catch in his expression is anything to go by, you’re not so worried.

Logan’s touch carries an unexpected softness, a tenderness you never imagined a man like him could possess.

Deep down, you wish he understood that these scars don’t hurt, that they never have. “I’m okay,” you reassure him, prompting him to explore more of your skin, to claim you as his.

“Do you… like them?” he asks without meeting your eyes.

Do you like my scars? is the real question hidden underneath.

Do you like me? is the one he can’t bring himself to pronounce.

“They’re yours. I could never not like them.” 

Before you stands a man you once believed was meant to be your burden, your trial. Logan had been the earthquake sent to test your endurance, to see how much you could withstand before surrendering and waving the white flag.

The same fingers that once imprinted his mark on you now linger on the strap of your bra, waiting for you to decide whether to let him go further or stop.

Desire has a limit before it overwhelms. There’s only so much need a person can contain before it spills over, uncontrollable and raw.

This game, one you never learned how to play, feels as foreign to him as it does to you—neither of you knows the rules.

“Can I see more?” He’s still talking about the scars, still fumbling with the strap, and you nod, your eyelids growing droopier as you take his free hand and direct it to the front of your jeans.

He catches the hint, undoing the button with ease, allowing you to shed the last layers of restraint.

Bare, moments away from being completely naked, standing in stark contrast to Logan, who remains fully clothed, your stomach does a flip as he rubs his thumb along the sides of your underwear.

Leaning your forehead against his shoulder, you stifle a sigh when he splays his hand across your lower back, pulling you closer.

His rough grip tightens on your ass, testing the feel of you, while your breathing becomes shallow, erratic.

“What is it, honey?” He slides his fingers your stomach, just below your belly button, brushing a small scar in there. “Want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” you croak, the plea slipping out involuntarily, throwing your arms around his neck. He buries his face against your jaw, his lips parting against your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

You tilt your head back, exposing more of your throat to him, breathless as you whisper: “I’ve waited so long.”

He moves toward the couch, and you follow, trying to anticipate what he’s got planned for you. “I know, baby. I know. You’ve waited long enough.” Guiding your body down, he has you lying horizontally on the sofa. He unhooks your bra, kneading your breasts with both hands, eliciting a ragged gasp from you. “But I’m here now. You don’t have to wait any longer,” he huffs by your ear, rolling your nipples between his fingers, his breath mingling with yours, each exhale warm and inviting. “Gonna let me make you feel good? Show you how much I’ve been thinkin’ about you?”

Instead of answering with real words, you surge forward, crashing your lips against with his, reveling in the way he cages you with his biceps, locking you up in a prison of desire from which you never wish to break free. He tries not to settle his full weight on top of you, attentive not to crush you.

As he nips at the column of your throat, you squirm beneath him, canting your hips up to seek the friction you crave.

He presses his knee against your center and you push back, grinding against him with an animalistic urgency.

You can’t recall ever feeling this desperate, this overwhelmed by a man. But then again, he’s unlike any other you’ve encountered in your array of momentary hookups.

His kisses grow even more insistent as breathy moans roll off to your tongue, merging with the occasional creak of the couch beneath your movements.

Logan spreads your thighs wider, sinking to his knees on the floor to tug your lower half forward until your ass is almost hanging in the air. He places your thighs on his shoulders, supporting you as he leans in to pepper your soft flesh with kisses.

One can be certain that he’s marking your inner thighs with a hickey or two, the scratch of his beard feeling magnificent against your sensitive skin, and you can hardly bring yourself to think about the potential burn he’ll leave behind. Logan inhales your scent, the tip of his nose dangerously close to your cunt, and you tangle a hand in his hair as he continues to test your patience.

“Eager?” he wonders aloud, looking at you through his lashes. While maintaining eye contact, he presses a kiss to your clit through the fabric of your panties.

He does it again, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, his fingers deftly pulling your underwear down your legs.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds has you scrunching your eyebrows in pleasure, tightening your grip on his hair. Logan moans against you, the sound muffled as he dips the tip of his tongue into your entrance, lapping at your arousal with an insatiable hunger.

The way you purr his name—a soft caress, a pat on his back that says Yeah, you’re doing fine—only spurs him on, infusing every one of his ministrations with fervor.

His longing for you radiates in the intensity of his touch, sending shivers through you, making you writhe because of his hands alone.

Your core throbs. Your skin prickles with electricity. Your legs quake on either side of his face. He’s hungry and you’re his feast. He’s parched and you’re the last bottle of water in an arid world.

Logan eats you out like this will be the only time he’ll have the privilege—each movement calculated, pushing all the right buttons, pulling out every trick he knows to make you think No, it doesn’t get any better than this. This is as much as one can get.

Then his fingers join the symphony of pleasure, pumping in and out of you as he keeps flicking your clit with expert precision, and your back arches from the couch, following his pace with your hips. He pushes back, you push forward—he pushes forward, you push back.

Who is enjoying this more: him or you?

His pointed tongue teases your bud, matched with the persistent hammering of his fingers plunged into your wet heat. The combination has you coming on his mouth, falling over the precipice while you struggle to keep yourself together.

Your walls flutter around his digits, and your cries fuse with his groans, both overshadowed by his insatiable desire to savor until the last drop of your release.

Shockwaves ripple through your body and you prop your weight on your arms to capture his lips in a fervent kiss, your eyes rolling rolling back in ecstasy as you taste yourself, a mix of sour and sweet.

In a frenzy, he sheds his clothes, practically tearing them away, and you wrap your hand around his length, stroking him in time with your kisses. Logan pulls back, panting against you, and you steal a glance at him.

Your gaze travels down to his hard cock, the tip a furious red, and he seizes your wrist.

“Why don’t you kiss it better?” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave. In this moment, you’re taken aback by his beauty, and the urge to express it rises within you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against his thigh, showering his skin with heated kisses. You stare in disbelief at the trail of hair leading to his girth, mouth watering at the sight.

A kiss on the tip, followed by a broad lick along a prominent vein—Logan’s grip on the armrest tightens, his knuckles turning white. “So perfect.”

“Shut up,” he retorts breathlessly, but you revel in the strangled noise that escapes him as you take him deeper, his head disappearing between your lips. His palm rests on your nape, anchoring you in place. “Goddammit. The fuckin’—mouth you have on you.”

You try to take him in further once you’re feeling more confident, while Logan fights with all his might against the need to thrust his hips up into your warmth. He can’t stay still, grunting and smothering you with lavish praise that heightens your arousal, slick pouring out of you in waves.

“Pretty thing you are. Don’t even know how to function around you. You got me all—fuck, actin’ all stupid.”

At one point, he tells you to stop, because he doesn’t want to come just yet. You know what comes next as he rubs his cock along your folds, blending your wetness with his precum.

It’s sloppy, and dirty, and messy—and God, do you love it.

He sinks into you and the world collides in a way you never expected. Everything you thought you knew falls apart, leaving you stranded in unfamiliar territory.

You can’t comprehend how you’ve spent so many years without him. Without this.

Your lips find his, and he swallows every sound he punches out of your lungs. His thrusts grow harder and faster as you adjust to his size, how big he feels inside you.

He digs his fingers into the globes of your ass, yanking you towards his shaft every time he fucks into you. You feel the brush of his balls against your skin, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

You come to understand it fully as his eyes flicker to yours, checking for any signs of discomfort in your features.

You understand why people write books and songs about love when he breathes your name in the shell of your ear, chanting how good you’re taking him, how tight and wet you are for him.

You understand the place love occupies in your life as the sound of your bodies slapping together creates a melody which has never been played before.

You understand why you’ve searched for this your entire life, lifting every carpet in hopes of uncovering the love you’ve pined for.

In the past, it had always felt like a race—finding your soulmate before the clock struck twelve. Now that you have him, you wonder what the future holds for you, how this connection will evolve.

For now, you can allow yourself the possibility of relishing the drag of his cock in your interior. His pace doesn’t falter for a second—something about mutants and their non-stop stamina, no doubt. He shoves a hand between your sweaty bodies, rubbing circles on your already swollen bud.

Each time he fills you to the brim, you have to ground yourself, resisting the pull of an altered reality.

“So full,” you blurt out, mewling with a specially hard thrust, a chocked sob lodged in your throat. “Please, stay.”

It could mean many things: Please, keep fucking me. Please, don’t leave after this. Please, remain by my side form this moment onward, because I don’t know how to go on with my life now that I’ve experienced this closeness.

Whatever meaning he ascribes to your words is of little importance. He tightens his arms around you, kissing you deeply, tongue and teeth clashing as they compete to see who wins the battle. “Never. I’m never lettin’ you go, y’hear me?”

Heat pools in your lower back, a coiling tension radiating through your limbs. “You’re mine, princess. Can’t afford to lose you now that I found you. Gonna remind you every day.”

His rambling pushes you over the edge, your dripping cunt spasming around him as you reach your climax, moaning his name against his shoulder. You cling to him, convulsing beneath his body, and he grinds his hips into yours, his chest rumbling as he growls.

“Inside,” you mumble, extending your hand to press it to his waist. “Need you inside me. Please, I want it so bad.”

Logan stutters against you, his forehead falling against your collarbone as he finishes with one powerful thrust, his cock pulsing warm ropes of come within your cunt. You clench around him, whining as he prolongs both your pleasure and his, milking the last drop of his seed. His voice is a constant murmur, filling every space in the room until he slumps against you.

Night has fallen. The cut on your pinky no longer stings. Your scars, after all, are still there, nestled against Logan’s unmarked skin. You caress his back, sighing contentedly as a wave of peace washes over you.

You’ve never felt this relaxed.

Logan grasps your chin and tilts it up, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey,” he mutters, his gaze roaming all over your face.

You cup his cheek, his rough stubble grazing your palm. “Hey, stranger. Long time no see.”

A genuine laugh pierces through the silence. the kind he rarely allows himself. Crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, his brow furrowing as he glances at you with love.

Love—hadn’t you pondered its existence for so long? Your fuel for living, the muse behind your best poems, a recurring motif in your fantasies.

Love now has Logan’s name written in ink, no longer a blank canvas awaiting its unknown owner. No—it’s all his now.

You’d do it all over again if it meant ending up like this, tangled and intertwined, with the promise of a future together. He has many stories to share—about his past universe, about himself. You have secrets to unveil, too. There’s so much you both have yet to discover about each other.

But time isn’t up. This isn’t a race, you remind yourself: things are just getting started.

Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up. Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[5sospenguinqueen]

Papaya Rules | Oscar Piastri x Driver! Reader

Summary: From on-track rivals to reluctant teammates, the trauma of team orders issued by Mclaren bond you and Oscar in a way you never expected. 

Warnings: mentions of papaya rules, swearing

Requested: Yes by @1800-love-me (a while ago. oops)

F1 Masterlist

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2023 

f1 posted a new story

itsyn_ln replied and that’s community service for piastri  → f1 girl, aren’t you supposed to be in the media pen → itsyn_ln five more minutes → i’m in no rush 

mclaren replied no time to explain but we need you to delete this before oscar sees → we need them to get along

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mclaren just posted

liked by landonorris, jackdoohan and others

mclaren breaking news mclaren f1 racing is pleased to announce that yn ln will be joining the team in 2024, alongside oscar piastri, on a multi-year contract. we cannot wait to see what she can achieve with us

33,814 comments

itsyn_ln thank you for this opportunity! now i need to figure out how to make orange look good on me 

→ mclaren everything looks good on you

username1 wait, what? she’s oscar’s public enemy #1 and now she’ll be his teammate?

oscarpiastri and this is how i find out?

→ mclaren we didn’t want to give you a chance to protest

→ pierregasly i knew before oscar did? ha! 

→ oscarpiastri don’t make me still target the pink car next year

→ itsyn_ln i’m feeling unwanted 

jackdoohan @/itsyn_ln thanks for the seat 

→ itsyn_ln i hope i kept it warm for you! 

username2 poor osc is going to have to learn to manage this oddness

→ username3 poor osc is probably more focused on having to learn not to strangle her

alpinef1team losing another driver to the sinister evil and orange team 

→ itsyn_ln at least you’ll miss me. i’m starting to think pierre lied when he said he would

→ pierregasly of course i did. you were staring straight at me without blinking

username4 don’t get me wrong, i can’t wait to see yn in a better car but i fear this was poor planning on mclaren’s part. they’re going to struggle with managing their drivers 

landonorris i’m sorry, osco. i didn’t know me leaving was going to lead to this

→ oscarpiastri you’re not forgiven. 

username5 i fear mclaren are not going to have the dream team they were expecting

→ username6 they need to prepare to see both papaya cars dnf’ing all the time next year

username7 i need that jacket! 

→ mclaren all yn merch coming soon! 

→ username8 they move fast. they’ve already got her in papaya and prepared to release her papaya merch 

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2024

mclaren just posted

liked by patriciooward, gabrielbortoleto_ and others

mclaren and it’s a papaya 1-2 what a race! a phenomenal display of teamwork from oscar and yn

55,098 comments

username9 wtf was that 

username10 i can’t decide which one of them was robbed more 

username11 so they want them to become friends but then force them to concede wins???

username12 i never want to hear the phrase ‘papaya rules’ again. idk what it means but i know it was shit

username13 the fact that neither of them have interacted with this post shows that they’re not happy with their 1-2

username14 you guys need to chill. they were coming under fire from max, and yn was faster. oscar was holding her up and if they hadn’t have switched, max could’ve had them both 

→ username15 there was two laps left. i’m sure they could’ve managed it

→ username14 did you not see all the purple sectors max was setting 

username16 i hope oscar doesn’t blame yn for this

username17 unrelated but i love how much shorter yn is than osc in this pic. they’re so cute

→ username18 they’re mortal enemies. don’t start romanticising them

→ username19 they are so enemies to lovers coded 

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oscarpiastri just posted

liked by itsyn_ln, arthur_leclerc and others

oscarpiastri enjoying a week off

44,287 comments

mclaren does this mean we’re friends again

→ oscarpiastri not yet

username1 mr piastri, sir, um, is that a WOMAN?

username2 look, it’s very nice to see that you’re alive and well but we no longer care about that because who is that in the last pic?! 

charles_leclerc son, you didn’t tell me about this 

landonorris a new teammate and a new partner. i see i’m being fully replaced

→ oscarpiastri don’t fuel the rumours about us

username3 oh so this is why twitter is freaking out

username4 the linked hands

username5 yn liked this? are they friends now??

itsyn_ln just posted

liked by mclaren, landonorris and others

itsyn_ln my boyfriend just won a grand prix, bitches! 

73,220 comments

pierregasly was this meant to be posted on the burner account??

→ itsyn_ln oh shit

→ oscarpiastri oh, sweetheart

→ charles_leclerc and everyone thought i would tell! 

itsyn_ln well, no point deleting it now. enjoy

→ username6 yn and oscar are dating?!!?

→ username7 and he calls her sweetheart?!?!?

username8 no one understands how precious these two are to me

username9 enemies to lovers come true

username10 these two were written by a wattpad user

alpinef1team sometimes we think we miss you and then you do stuff like this 

→ mclaren sure you don’t want her back 

→ username11 noooo don’t take our papaya partners away from us 

username12 i’ve only had ynoscar for five minutes but if anything happens to them, i will kill everyone

username13 they said i was crazy but i knew! i knew there was passion between their feud

landonorris and you did so good to not kiss him in front of the cameras

→ oscarpiastri she’s more annoyed that now she shouldn’t have bothered

→ itsyn_ln want to smooch you for the world to see

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requests open

coming soon; max taste part 3 and franco x driver! reader

[tomboy014]

But if Batman won't adopt Danny... who will?

Starfire, and she is all over her new little brother!

Shortly after establishing the Teen Titans, Robin (Dick) introduces “Phantom” to the group, because seriously, he’s not introducing him as “Danny.”  Kinda defeats the purpose of a secret identity when you use your name in your superhero moniker.  And shows Phantom his room.

Robin’s actual goal is to get Phantom to join the Titans, but even taking short cuts through the Ghost Zone, Jump City is still a good ways away from Amity Park, and he has parents, so… It’s still a nice gesture and all, and Phantom will come visit, but no.

Still, he’s never met other teens who are heroes in their own right like he is, so he’s excited to meet Robin’s new team.  The other Titans think it’s a little weird for this not-member to have his own room in the Tower, but the place is huge, and Robin trusts him, so it’s fine.  It’s a bit awkward at first as they’re all still getting used to each other, but Phantom quickly makes friends with all of them.

But it’s his friendship with Starfire that grows first and fastest.  As soon as he finds out she’s an alien from another planet, he latches on and must know everything.  Starfire more than welcomes the attention. While she knows the Titans care for her, they’re not always… receptive to the traditions and customs of her culture. Phantom, on the other hand, is enraptured as she tells him about her culture, her holidays, the planets she’s been to, everything.

So she asks if he’d be interested in learning Tamaranean? Yes! 100%! Absolutely! Phantom picks up the language quickly and returns the favor by helping Starfire with her English. While the ability to absorb language through lips is handy, it’s by no means perfect, and Phantom helps her with things like contractions, slang, idioms, etc.

It also helps that after a couple sparring sessions with each other, Phantom and Starfire realize just how durable their partner is.  For Starfire, the people and things on Earth can be so delicate. And for Phantom, if he doesn’t watch himself and hurts a human too badly, it’s just more justification to call him an “evil ghost” that should be ripped apart molecule by molecule. Both are thrilled to finally be able to fight all out again without worrying about the consequences if they lose. And Starfire also uses it to teach Phantom some Tamaranean martial arts for aerial combat so maybe he’ll stop crashing into so many walls.

But what really changes the relationship is the Body Swap incident (not to be confused with the Freaky Friday incident). Similar to what happened with the Puppet King in Switched, Phantom and Starfire switch bodies while fighting an enemy.  Unlike what happened in Switched, Phantom and Starfire and two teen powerhouses with green energy powers triggered by emotions. And the emotional triggers they use are in the same ballpark. Starfire’s “unbridled joy of flight” to fly is very similar to how Phantom revels in the pure freedom of flight he feels. Both get angry when they use blasts. It’s very much a “if you believe in it, you can do it” kind of power set. Starfire can’t really figure out Phantom’s more ghostly abilities like invisibility or intangibility, but they very quickly adapt to each other’s shared powers on the fly during battle.  But there’s one power Starfire wants to use against the hordes of minions that Phantom won’t share the trigger for: the Ghostly Wail.  He tries to tell her it’s not a good move, that it’ll use up too much power, it should only be used as a last resort, it’ll cause too much collateral damage, etc., but Starfire wants to know, and eventually he tells her.

“T-terror… and desperation.”

Starfire rushes to give Phantom the biggest hug ever because those are such horrible feelings, and she doesn’t want to imagine what conditions must have led to him developing such a power because no one should have to feel such feelings. He is right; and that is not a power she needs to use to win this battle.  The minions are defeated, the villain is forced into a temporary retreat, and the Teen Titans return to the Tower to regroup and plan.

However, Starfire doesn’t know how to power through and hold onto Phantom’s ghostly form, and as soon as the adrenaline from the fight wears off, rings of white light spread out of her middle, and Phantom turns back into Danny in the middle of the living room.

But more importantly, everyone needs to get out of the way RIGHT NOW because while Phantom can ignore his biological needs for days, Danny can’t, and Starfire has never had to pee this badly ever in her whole life and everyone needs to MOVE, PLEASE! as she rushes into the nearest bathroom.

Phantom/Danny is now panicking, because even as an alien, he’s pretty sure she’s bound to notice that some bits of male anatomy that should be there are… missing.  He’s begging her, through the door in Tamaranean, not to tell anyone about his secret.  He’s not ready to come out yet, and he’s honestly pretty scared he’s about to lose her friendship, too.  Starfire doesn’t really care. So long as you’re a strong warrior, Tamaraneans don’t care what’s going on in someone’s pants, and she’s just relieved she didn’t have to figure out different plumbing while in his body.  Starfire opens the door.  While she knows that the people of Earth are not always as understanding, Danny need not fear her.  She will not tell anyone he's trans until he is ready to tell them himself and supports him and goes in for a hug.

Except you haven’t washed your hands; gross!  They both laugh it off, but when Starfire goes to wash her hands, the water freezes.  The cold energy in Danny’s core is building, and Starfire doesn’t know how to let it out.  They need to switch back to their own bodies soon, or Danny’s body, and Starfire, might not survive.  A little more training so Starfire can turn back into Phantom, and the Titans are ready for the final act, take down the final villain and Starfire and Phantom are back in their own bodies. 

But after that, Phantom is no longer Starfire’s friend.  Danny is her little brother, and she tells him her name is Koriand’r, or Kor’i for short.

<<Prev Next>>

[valalice]

Hello there!! I really love your work! Could I request some older! gf caitlyn with some subtle and soft dominance? Doesnt need to be nsfw [but won’t complain if it is ;))]

It could just be about how she acts with the reader when in public, at home, etc. [i.e: cooking for reader when they’re busy for exams, putting her hand on reader’s thighs when sitting in public, or big spooning reader when they head to bed.]

That’s all. Please remember to stay hydrated and take frequent breaks! Keep being you and don’t overwork yourself :)).

— 🐢

ꪆৎ HEAVEN, HEAVEN. ft. 𝓬𝓪𝓲𝓽𝓵𝔂𝓷 𝓴𝓲𝓻𝓪𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓷.

ʚɞ summary. subtle ways your older girlfriend caitlyn shows dominance towards you.

warnings. fem!reader. reader is in college. age gap (10 years or more). no use of y/n. modern au! where cait is an office worker. fluff. in one headcanon there's a mention of curly hair (it's all for inclusivity and bias tbh—coming from a girl with curly hair). pet names ie: darling, love, baby, ect. smut nsfw. bottom!reader. dom!cait. hair pulling. mommy kink (reader calling cait mommy & cait calling herself mommy). squirting. cait had a bush. reader is a brat kinda. slight exhibition. fingering (r!receiving). orgasm denial. oral (c! receiving). strap (r!receiving). the strap is referred to as cait's cock. not proofread. wc. roughly 2k to 3k

an. thank you for the request, lovie! and i'm happy that you're enjoying my work ☺️ i decided to take this request and turn it into a headcanon format so i hope that's okay! you are too cute with your kind words and i hope you are taking care of yourself, drinking lots of water and eating yummy meals <3 i also decided to add some nsfw headcanons 🙈 so i hope you guys enjoy them. and for any of these headcanons i am willing to expand on them if you guys are interest :) remember to support your writers by reblogging & commenting !

m.list. | arcane m.list.

࣪ ˖ SAFE FOR WORK.

‣ straight away with caitlyn you notice her dominance. even before the two of you started dating and she was courting you, as she'd say when reminiscing with you or her friends on the early stages of you two, she exuded an air around her that's nothing less than confidence, pride, and dominance. she's already tall at 6 foot, but her posture is always upright, her appearance sleek, and she reveled in maintaining eye contact. and before her you usually didn't find people who were overtly dominant attractive, but when it comes to caitlyn it's completely different, natural. it's the way she carry's herself and it rubs off on you.

‣ the first subtle way of cait's dominance you noticed was her ability to make decisions. she's knows what she wants and how she wants it, and that's something you're relieved about, being too indecisive at times. so being able to let caitlyn reign free on decision making was something that gave you peace of mind. and it wasn't that she was a control freak (she kind of is, but that isn't the point), she helps level out the playing field when you're iffy.

"what would you like to eat for lunch, darling? my treat." she ask, clicking on her keys to unlock her car, taking the bag from off you shoulders to hold it in her hand.

"hm," breaking away from cait to walk around her car to the passenger seat, just before your slide in. "i don't really know." you cringe, you couldn't even count on your fingers how many times you've said this phrase in your relationship so far.

you hear caitlyn hum and the sound of her swinging open the back seat door and the shuffle of her setting your bag in the backseat before you enter your seat. she joins you in the driver's seat, clicking in her seat belt, her gaze settling upon you scrolling away on your phone. "would you like to eat out somewhere or pick up fast food and we can take it back to my place?"

your head darts up to look at your girlfriend, lips twisting up, thinking about your options. "i want something good."

that's earns a chuckle from cait, "i know that silly," her hand coming up to boop you on your noise, which caused you to scrunch it and giggle, swatting her hand away. "but what is exactly good?" she presses.

"well what do you think is good?"

"that wasn't the question."

you grumble, "you're so difficult."

"says you." she teases.

"'m always the one who picks. what would you like." you ask turning in your seat towards her as best as you can.

"i'm fine with whatever you'd like. you know that."

biting your lip you think about the choices she gave you earlier. "i think we should go back to your place."

"that's a start. do you have a taste for anything."

"i already answered that."

"darling." she sing songs in a tone similar to a warning.

she starts the engine, finally, and you immediately connect to the bluetooth.

"y'know we haven't had chinese in awhile." she proses, eyeing your expression from the corner of her eye.

"oh, that sounds really good actually."

cait perks up in the drivers seat, "you're usual?"

"yep!"

"alright," she stretches forward to twist the volume nob lower. "i'm going to call it in and we'll pick it up on the way home."

‣ cait also does the general dominate things; like opening up doors of any kind for you when she can, interlocking your fingers when the two of you walk together, walking slightly in front of you at all times as well as guiding you. you secretly love it though when instead of guiding you through a crowd by being in front of you, you love it when she does it by standing behind you, a hand or both hands securely on your hips as she leads you forward from behind. she's also a firm believer of switching places when walking, on the street and you're near the road? she's switching with you. in the parking lot and your facing the intersections? she's using her hand on your lower back to guide you to be the closest near the parked cars.

‣ she will also never let her girl look out of place, so she fixes anything that is "off" with your appearance. like fixing a certain stand of hair, taking that fallen eyelash off of your cheek and raising her finger with the piece of your fine hair on it in front of your lips so you could wish and blow it away, fixing your jacket so it's straight or the neckline of your shirt or dress, the straps of your bra will never be showing when you're wearing thin strapped items as long as caitlyn's around. holding your little compact mirror while you fix up your makeup or reapply your lipgloss. your necklaces will always be facing the correct way. picking off lint or stray hairs from your clothing. and she somehow always notices when your sneakers are starting to untie before your, pulling you aside so she can get on a knee and pat her propped up knee so you can place your foot there and allow her to tie your shoe, when she's done she pats your foot to let you know and she dust herself off before leaning down to give you a kiss.

‣ when out in public she'll usually always keep one hand on you at all times. in a comforting way for the both of you, especially if the two of you will be around her friends or people her age. she knows you get antsy around them and there's anxiety about being the youngest in a room full of older people. so, there will always be a comforting arm wrapped around your waist or a hand in or lap or on your thigh.

you look around the room, there's people you've met before. caitlyn's friends and a few colleagues, but for the most part a majority of them are new faces. and you can't help but feel like everyone is looking at you.

you've never been insecure about being with caitlyn. yes she's older than you, but it's never stopped you from feeling head over heels for her and that feeling overpowers any doubt or insecurity you could ever have. it's the fact that it seems like you're the youngest in the room, there's nothing inherently bad about that. but everyone here is successful, and you're well. . . a college student working a job that has nothing to do with what you're going to school for.

a warm hand snaps you out of your thoughts. lifting your head, caitlyn's already looking at you with a soft expression. "you're shaking your leg, love."

"oh," looking down at the leg with cait's hand on it, still shaking. you stop it on command, focusing your gaze back on your girlfriend.

"are you okay?" she tilts her head, her eyebrows furrowing and the ponytail her blue hair is in swishes behind her, cute.

you give her a tight smile, nodding your head. "hm." you hope you're convincing enough.

caitlyn takes in a breath, breaking her gaze from you to look around the room. "y'know that woman over there went for the same major as you." she points out.

"really?" observing the woman who's talking with a few of their colleagues before turning your wide gaze back to your girlfriend.

"hm. she doesn't do work with it," she pauses, turning her head back to you with soft eyes. "but, what she does now is something she loves."

her hand smoothing up and your thigh, comforting you. "what i'm trying to say is that don't worry about your path right now being different from others around you." she reassures. reaching out to take a hand from your lap to take it in hers, bringing your hand to her lips and pressing a kiss.

flushing at her gesture, "thank you, cait." your voice small enough for only her to hear in the chatter of the room. your hand stays up near her lips and she presses a few more kisses, causing you to giggle.

"there she is." she muses.

you bring her hand holding yours down down into your lap to clasp her hand in between yours. leaning forward, a few inches from her face.

"kiss?"

caitlyn leans forward to meet your lips, not connecting them just yet. "any thing for my darling." she whispers against your lips.

‣ it was also established pretty early that caitlyn is the big spoon in the relationship. she enjoys and you love it. caitlyn also finds it pretty cute whenever the two of you are laying anywhere whether it's the sofa or in bed that you turn your back to her and keep shifting until she notices your moving form, coming up to wrap herself around your backside. not really big spooning but caitlyn enjoys the feeling and pressure of your laying on top of her, always telling you how it grounds her whenever she pulls you along to the bed and flops you on top of her. but you never complain because you find it comforting too, the side of your head press against her soft chest, focusing on the steady rise and fall of it and the buh dumbs of her heartbeat, you usually fall asleep quickly like this.

‣ older gf!caitlyn knows how draining it is to be in college. you get so focused on your education by sainting grades or completing assignments, not to mention the exams. so, she's always doing her best to help you out and make sure that you keep yourself in check rather that be mentally or physically. during hard times where you have midterms or finals or just back to back exams caitlyn will always tell you to not worry about picking up shifts at your job, she already knows you're overworking yourself by studying and doesn't want you to exhaust yourself further by working long hours. because she knows you and that if you could study then work a shift and study some more afterwards you would, but she knows that isn't healthy for you. so she always reassures you by saying that she'll support you financially for a little bit, transfer sums of money into you bank account for rent, bills, groceries, ect. it gives her peace of mind to know that she able to take a weight off your shoulders and provide for you. cait is also an insanely amazing cook and you always rave about her cooking, so she began taking a day out of her week every week to cook you some premade meals. she always comes stocked and ready on a weekend to your place with her tote full of meals to pile into your fridge. and during exam season it became pretty common for you to send time at hers for a few days. she does it to watch over you to make sure you're not running on fumes, but you like to think of her as a built in study buddy for reviews. during these days cait will come home from work to most likely find you at the dinning table studying, she'll kiss you on your forehead, and she'll head straight to the kitchen to cook dinner. as much as you dread exam season you don't dread spending this time with cait, there's just something so inherently domestic about cait providing for you. coming home and cooking dinner for the both of you, it makes your mind go numb. and it makes her feel successful when at night when she drags you to bed and for her to wake up to begin getting ready for work that you're still in bed soundly sleeping and that you didn't sneak off somewhere to study.

"dinner's ready." caitlyn chims, poking her head into the dinning room where you sit.

you lift your head up from your notes to eye her. sniffing the aroma around you. "chicken alfredo?"

"hm. you said something about craving it last week, so when i went shopping i picked up the ingredients."

"you're so sweet, cait." you hum, watching as she exits back into the kitchen. you prop your elbow up the table to rest your head in your hand, eyes flicking back down to your notes. you needed to understand—no—absorb this material into your brain for your exam coming up in a few days. listing off multiple curses within your head for taking this course and major and your professor for being a difficult teacher.

there's crinkling of sheets of paper around you. cait's suddenly bending across the table to organize the scattered papers in her hands. "c'mon, love. you can study a little more later."

fixing your gaze back up causing your eyebrows to raise, dumbfounded as you watched her. releasing your head from your hand to reach it out for the papers. "but—"

"but?" her tone is questioning and harsh. blue eyes narrowing at you.

"just a few more minutes, please, baby. i almost have this down."

you watching her graceful figure walk to the edge of the table where the rest of your materials lie and she places the stack down. she stands tall, placing a hand on her hips. "you can always study some more afterwards," she begins to walk over towards where you sit. "your notes aren't going to miraculously grow legs and run away, love. they'll be here." she assures. you blink and look back down at the notes in front of you, then back up at caitlyn. and for the first time you notice her attire, her hairs in a messy ponytail, still in her work attire but she's discarded her blouse and is only in her under tank top and slacks, she too has has had a long day.

"okay." you agree.

caitlyn smiles, showing off her toothy grin and her front gap you adore. she takes the material in front of you and places it with the rest.

"we're eating at the island. i have a sneaky feeling your cute bum has been sat on that chair all day." she teases.

you stand, bones cracking. your eyes shoot straight to look at cait, the both of you bursting into laughter. the noise proving her suspicions correct.

she sways back towards you, "come before the food gets cold." she muffles out, taming her laughter.

beelining to the kitchen island you sit back down, but now on a high top chair. lifting yourself up by your hands on the counter to eye the dish of chicken alfredo on the other side of the counter.

"looks s'yummy, cait."

"hope it is."

"always is" you correct.

watching as she stands on the other side, empty plate in hand with tongs in the other, dishing up some pasta and chicken.

"good?"

you eye the plate, "hm" you nod.

she heads behind her to the stove where steamed broccoli lies, piling some onto you plate. opening a drawer next to the stove, grabbing a fork and slamming it shut with her hip. she turns around and walks around the island. the clank of the plate landing on the counter, placing the fork down next to it.

"dig in, darling." pressing a kiss into your hair before going to fix her plate.

‣ she takes care of you in softer domestic ways. such as taking off your makeup for you after a long day or a night out with friends. bathing you and carefully washing over you in the shower. washing your hair, even going as far to learn the type of products you use and buying spares for her place so she's always stocked if you happen to spend days at her place and it's a wash day. she even learns how to care for you hair type if you have curly hair, hearing you complain endlessly about the process of washing and styling it, so she'd take it upon herself to observe you and learn so that way she can help and maybe even completely take over the process to give your poor arms a break. a certain domestic thing she does is call her place home. not just her home but your home too. whenever you're spending the night and the two of you out she'll always say "alright, let's head home, love." at the end of it. and it never fails to make your heart skip a beat that she views her space as your guys's collective space. she makes it knows that she's ready for you to move in whenever you feel most comfortable, and the day that you announce that you're ready to live together she is beaming.

࣪ ˖ NOT SAFE FOR WORK.

‣ a subtle way she asserts dominance is maintaining eye contact with you. she relishes in being able to make you flustered from simple eye contact, watching you get all fidgety and stumble over your words. but it's also her silent cue whenever you're acting out in public. a tilt of her head, dark gaze, heavy lids and a narrowed eyes will usually set you in place.

‣ caitlyn knew a lot about herself before she met you, she kept a list of all things she liked and didn't like, and those things rarely changed. but what she didn't know is that she'd find being called mommy so attractive. she knows she can be assertive and demanding at times, always the one with the plan. she was even deemed the "mom friend" when she was younger, but not once in any of her other relationships had anyone called her mommy. and maybe it's because she's never dated anyone, before you, with a large age gap. but the first time the word escaped between your sweet lips it was when cait had you face down, ass up, drooling into a pillow. fucking you at a particular angle with her cock that caused you to go dumb and roll your eyes to the back of your skull. realization didn't strike you when it muttered out, you were too far gone, but of course caitlyn heard it, she hears everything. her hips stilling. "what was that?" you barely heard her question, only worrying about the fact that she stopped fucking you, pressing your hips back to gain her attention to begin thrusting again. "please—mommy." oh. she liked that.

‣ older gf!caitlyn expects nothing but the best behavior of her sweet darling. she finds it intolerable and disrespectful when you decide to be a brat and act out, and when you take it further and push her past her warnings? she's seething. but two can play that game.

cait lets out a laugh along with her friends. the two of you were where at this restaurant for hours now. you didn't mind your girlfriend's friends, you loved and enjoyed their company. but you didn't expect to be here for this long and it's getting antagonizing having to sit and pretend like your understanding anything any of them are saying, especially when cait looks like that, blue hair flowing down her back, dainty silver jewelry decorating her body, in that black silk dress the one with the modest (you don't think do) slit. you begged her to cancel the moment you saw her, but she persisted, and now you're suffering.

she's even been uptight today, shutting down your sly advances, saying something about acting out and wanting to enjoy a night with her friends in a long time when the two of you took a bathroom break. the bathroom break had backfired too, you prosed the question about going to the bathroom hoping she'd shuffle you into a stall and finger you, but that was a bust.

when you peak down to look at the time on your phone you catch something interesting from the corner of your eye. caitlyn's exposed thigh from the slit, her dress is bunched up a little at her waist so the amount of skin showing is more.

your nimble fingers trace down her thigh, smirking at the feel of goosebumps rising on her skin. settling your hand on her thigh, not too far low and not too high, just yet.

cait turns her head to peer down at the hand on her thigh, your pinky rubbing back and forth on the soft skin. then to your face, you flash her a smile and she does the same, pressing a quick peck to your lips before she turns her attention back to her friends. you feel as though a grey gloomy cloud was cast over you in that moment.

in a burst of inspiration you begin to inch your hand high, little by little until a few of your finger tips are dipping past the slit of that dress towards her clothed cunt.

her head instantly snaps towards you, eyes narrowed.

"what do you think you're doing?"

"i want to play." you shrug.

"and i told you not here."

"but i really want it," your gaze on caitlyn growing dark. "mommy." purring out the name so only the two of your could hear it

caitlyn's eyebrows raise in shock before they settle back down, turning her head to see her friends are still deep in conversation. her hand pulling yours from between her thighs. there isn't a harsh grip around your hand but it is tight, and with that hand she pulls you forward.

"fix your attitude and behave. maybe i'll think about touching you when we get back home."

you sit up straighter a grin forming on your face. nodding your head "m'kay." caitlyn squints her eyes at your sudden sudden change, releasing your hand.

a few moments pass by and you're already thinking of defying cait again. this time your hand finds her shoulder. you're bored so you begin to trace shapes on it, but then that gets boring so you start toying with her dress strap.

"stop that." her voice startles you.

you roll you eyes, confidently, because caitlyn isn't even looking at you.

"'m not even doing anything."

"yet." the pronunciation of the word is precise and harsh.

she turns back to you, "you're thinking of doing something. so i suggest before you do, that you don't."

"cait." you whine.

"what's going on with you, hm?"

"i told you."

"you're never this bad in public." that's true, but you've never had to wait this long for your girlfriend to touch you.

"you don't get it."

she eyes you. "no, i think i do," leaning forward her lips ghost yours. "seems as though i've spoiled you rotten which is causing you to act like a little slut in front of all my friends."

her voice dropped to an octive, enacting a reaction of chills down your body, wetness pooling between your thighs.

"be quiet or you won't cum for a week." she commands, pressing a kiss to your lips and refocusing herself.

"wha—"

suddenly caitlyn's hand dismisses the fabric of your skirt to between your thighs. fingers getting to work by rubbing at your clothes clit. you look up to see that cait now has her drink in her other hand, bringing it up to her lips to take a sip. her peripheral vision catching you and flicking her eyes to you, corking an eyebrow up at you.

as she is finished with her drink and sets it down her fingers push past your panties, spreading your legs a little wider to welcome her large hand. slow lazy circles on you clit was all you got for awhile, but it was enough to simmer your ache.

without warning cait bullies a finger into your sopping heat, causing you to let out a loud gasp. the entire table turning to you.

"are you okay?" one of her friends asks.

"yeah. you feeling alright, love?" her voice is laced in false concern. slipping another finger into your greedy cunt, observing your reaction.

you shuffle, looking around the table, then down at your empty plate. you can see cait's hand flexing as she pumps fingers in and out of you.

"uh— none of us has ordered dessert yet! it's not a dinner without dessert," you prose. "hm, right?"

the table agrees, and someone beckons the waiter over.

while everyone is occupied, caitlyn leans forward to your ear. "quick thinking, little one." she praises, watching as the waiter takes everyone's dessert orders. "order up, love."

"and what would you like?" the waiter asks.

biting down on your lip, hard. "hm, what's good?" there was an infliction on your voice from cait pressing her thumb against your clit as she fingers you.

"the molten lava cake is our most popular—"

you cut them off. "i'll take that!" a muffled moan escaped through your mouth, "hmm, sounds very delicious." hoping that saved yourself.

the waiter writes it down on their pad, turning their attention to caitlyn. "and for you ma'am?"

"oh, her and i will share." she confirms.

as the waiter walks off your head turns to cait, glossy eyes boring into her cold blue eyes. "cait—"

"i know" she shushes, she already knows you're close by the way you're desperate sucking her fingers back in. you're not sure if it's all in your head, but you swear cait fingering you underneath the table is causing the obscene squelches from your messy cunt to reverb and echo through the restaurant. to combat the noise you squeeze your thighs around cait's hand, but she persists.

flinging a hand down to grip at the hand between your thighs, you're so close that you don't even care if her friends caught on. not when her slender fingers that spot so deep within that only cait can reach.

just as you legs begin to shake uncontrollably, caitlyn whips her fingers from you needy cunt and between your thighs. grabbing the cloth napkin to wipe off your juices from her fingers, an icy glare is sent your way as she sets it back down, one that tells you everything.

brats don't get to cum.

‣ going back to spooning with caitlyn, she also loves to place you in her lap while the two of you watch tv. your head in the crook of her shoulder and a hand of hers in your hair, playing with it. until suddenly when she was innocently twirling a piece of your hair you'll feel a tug at it, causing you to gasp unexpectedly. or she'll get straight to it, so a her hand will find its way on the nape of your neck, slim fingers threading themselves through the underside of your hair before she yanks, now this will cause you to moan out, head falling back so she's cradling it in her hand. wet lips finding their way to your exposed neck, kissing and nipping away at the sensitive skin. you'll whine out, only for cait to shh you, "let me have my fun, love."

‣ there's something intoxicating about you being naked while caitlyn is completely clothed. the contrast between your crumbling figure and her composure. she also loves seeing how your sensitive body reacts to the feeling of her clothes on your body. her favorite is to press her clothed chest to your bare one while the two of you are messily making out, your nipples immediately hardening. even the way she can feel your slick soaking through her slack covered thigh, tainting the material. it drives her insane when she makes you squirt, your juices all over her button up making the material darker.

‣ when you're particularly needy and need something to shut you up she'll shove a few fingers in your mouth, watching the way your eyelids drop and you focus on sucking on her fingers. on other occasions she'll order you on your knees, grabbing a cushion for them. and she'll strip slowly and teasingly for you.

you watch her hips sway, raking in her naked body. her blue bush in your face and you feel drool pool into your mouth, gulping. a hand comes to your chin, pushing your head up to look up at her.

"you've been needy," she begins. "but, you've also been good. so i was thinking of putting your neediness to use, i want your mouth."

nodding your head aggressively, eyes dropping back down.

"words."

a hand still on your chin tips your head, peering up with wide doe eyes, cait's expression is cold as she stands over you. "yes, use me mommy, please."

her face relaxes and she smiles down at you, "good girl." your chin is released and her hand smooths over the back of your head, pushing it forward.

taking her clit in your mouth, you moan into her. lapping her up, you free your hands from your lap, placing them on her hips to burry yourself further between her pretty thighs. eyes fluttering shut, savoring the taste of the woman standing above you.

"ah, that's it. s'good." cait's noises of pleasure sounds like music to your ears. opening your eyes to view up her body, she truly is a stallion. her eyes are shut, her shirt long discarded on the floor as she toys with one of her breast, her hand still on your head keeping you pressed up close to her, and her mouth is agape.

your wet muscle working away at her, gliding through her sticky folds. slurping up all her arousal, not wasting a drop.

"so—" she begins. but gasp when you take her clit and suck on it. "shit. so," she gasp again, "so eager to please."

nodding into her, not wanting to let up. releasing a moan into her, causing the grasp in your hair to tighten.

"c'mon, love. make me cum," doe eyes staring back into her drowsy eyes as she lazily talks. "make mommy cum."

caitlyn addressing herself as mommy made you clench your thighs, the ache between your thighs becoming very apparent.

your pushed so far into her that your nose is up against her bush, her scent only enhancing your eagerness.

cait begin to slightly rock back and forth in your mouth maneuvering your head so she's practical long dragging her cunt against your face. your finger nails grip into her hips, adding to her movements. her juices dripping down your chin to dip down your neck.

"fuck!" she yelps, her sweet release washing over her shuttering body and you quickly slurp it up.

the grip in your hair releases. when your satisfied you let up, but quickly you place a kiss upon cait's clit, letting up with a mwah. a shiny sheen covering the bottom half of your face, even the tip of your nose.

cait's hand finds it's way on your face once again, but it cradles you jaw this time, thumb swiping over your plump, slick cover lips.

"my baby always knows how to care of me, doesn't she?" she purs, droopy eyes sparkling down at you with a dazzling smile to match.

‣ whenever cait is strapping you she prefers to be gentle with you. it'll take a lot of begging and or pressing your luck to get her to be really rough with you (like the first time you ever called her mommy). she also just prefers it. she likes taking it slow with you whenever she fucks you with her cock, in missionary so she's able to see your twisted up face from pleasure. she's also just a plain sucker for intimacy, the two of you so close that you're not even sharing space the space you two take up is its own completely new thing. everything of the outside world just washes away, and she gets to focus on you and only you. she loves being able to look you in your eye and dip her head in the crook of your neck to litter kisses and love bites across it and down your collarbones to your tits. and she really loves when you cum, your back arching off the bed your chest pressing further into hers, your head falling back, mouth agape and releasing pretty moans and whines of your climax, even your toes curling and uncurling. she eats it up. she loves it. she loves you.

[luveline]

hi!!! i have a request for roommate!spencer where he's injured during a case and reader show up at the hospital because she's his emergency contact but the team is really confused wondering who's this stranger fussing over spencer. hope you like it, love you!

thank you for requesting honey!! love you<3 fem!reader

“Close your eyes,” you command, voice all blown up and grand, already smiling. “Close your eyes, Spencer.” 

“No.” He squints groggily. “What are you doing?” 

“Close your eyes.” 

“No, Y/N, what are you doing?” he asks. 

You shake your spray bottle at him. He sighs a long-suffering sigh and finally admits defeat, his tired eyes shuttering closed all too easily. You rest your knee on the side of his bed and hear the metal squeaking at your added weight, your hand gentle as you cover his forehead. “You have greasy hair,” you say sympathetically. “This is gonna feel much nicer.” 

You blast him with dry shampoo, his brown hair turning white with powder. You drop the can in his lap and set about rubbing the powder into his hair until the grease is soaked up, and his hair feels less miserably lank. 

“When are they gonna let you shower again?” you ask quietly. 

You’re still touching his hair. More for him than you, you hope he feels comforted, but mostly you just wanna affirm to yourself that he’s all in one bruised piece. Your heart still aches as much as it did when you got the phone call in the first place —Spencer Reid’s next of kin? 

You suppose that’s you. 

“I don’t know.” 

You take his hair back into his current parting. “Well, let’s hope it’s soon. How are you liking the sponge baths? Are they awful?” 

“Humiliating.” 

Just outside of Spencer’s hospital room, Hotch and JJ stand together with a bag of essentials. They’d drawn to a sudden stop when they realised Spencer had company. “Who is that?” she asks. 

Hotch, used to knowing everything, frowns very deeply. He doesn’t know who you are, but from the way you’re touching Spencer’s hair and face, he should. 

JJ sounds a little put out. “She doesn’t work here.” 

“No, I don’t think so,” Hotch says. His frown lightens as you laugh and scratch Spencer’s hair back behind his ears. 

“Is it unkind of me to think he didn’t have any friends?” JJ asks. 

Hotch knows Spencer has friends. He’s summoned Spencer from chess games and fan clubs, picking him up occasionally on the way to the office on cafe sidewalks as he waved goodbye to a glasses-wearing bibliophile, often in coats too big for them or with hair in need of a trim. Spencer attracts the unconventional because he, as anybody in this line of work tends to be, is inordinary. So JJ probably is being unkind, but Hotch knows what she means. 

You look completely regular. You settle on one thigh on his bed while the other keeps you up and put your hand on his chest, chatting breezy words they can’t hear through the glass.

Spencer curls into you slowly. 

“You’ll be home soon,” you say, rubbing his shoulder, “don’t worry.” 

Hotch’s eyebrows rise of their own accord. He and JJ excuse themselves for coffee before they’re spotted, and when they return, you’re gone. “Spence, who was that girl?” JJ asks. Hotch notes the slightest line of jealousy tugging under her curiosity. 

He sounds as though he could use some more pain medication, and a good night's sleep, but he’s proud as he says, “That’s my roommate. I told you about her.” 

“Ah, your roommate,” Hotch says. 

“What’s that mean?” Spencer asks. 

“Nothing, Spencer,” Hotch says, using the young man’s first name in a rare show of affection. “That’s just an irregular word for it. I haven’t heard it in a while.” 

JJ laughs. Spencer hides his face with both hands, a smudge of lip balm on his hand shining under the stark hospital fluorescents. “I’m too tired,” he complains. 

Hotch hadn’t seen you kiss him, but he can imagine how it might have happened, how you’d leaned in for a kiss on the cheek goodbye and Spencer overwhelmed himself thinking about it. Or maybe it’s just an innocuous smudge. Maybe it’s nothing at all. 

“We live together,” Spencer mumbles. “I couldn’t afford to live by myself at first, it’s D.C.” 

“And now?” Hotch asks. He knows Spencer is on good enough money to afford an apartment by himself these days, a big one. He has no dependents. 

“Didn’t seem fair… She’s nice. She’s, like, my best friend.” 

“Don’t let Morgan hear you say that,” JJ laughs. 

Hotch isn’t sure she gets it, but he does. “Well, you can ask her to come back. We have work to do.” 

Spencer pretends he’s hesitant to pick up the phone. Your reply is an immediate beep. Hotch knows a good friend when he sees one. 

[chiscaralight]

locker room shenanigans!

includes: nsfw! semi public sex. continuation of college athlete!gojo. you don’t need to read it but makes more sense if you do. fem!reader, knee humping, use of ‘princess’ fingering, shower sex, p in v, unprotected sex, hair pulling, panty thief!gojo, don’t try this at home, they’re kinda cute aren’t they. can you tell i’m emotionally constipated

the air is warm as you make your way to the field. you're never here except for when your friends drag you to rallies and matches against your will. practice was over long ago, and you can see some of the regular team members walking off towards the campus. you're not even sure where you're supposed to go exactly, but you spot a familiar head of white hair sitting in the bleachers.

gojo greets you with a boyish smile as you walk over. you're a little nervous, seeing that the last time the two of you spoke, you were admitting how badly you wanted him. but you shake off the embarrassing memory as you close the distance between you.

he's as charming as ever when he greets you, voice silky smooth as he gets up. it's almost as if he didn't have you bent in almost every way possible a few days ago; he's speaking like he's known you for ages! to be honest, you're not paying too much attention to what he's saying. he's all huffy and sweaty from practice, and the way white strands are sprawled out and glued to his forehead is reminding you so much of how good he looked above you, icy blue eyes piercing into your soul as the two of you walk towards.. where are you walking to again?

"the locker rooms, duh."

"the male locker rooms? what do you need to do in there?"

"i need to take a shower. we need to take a shower."

when you finally reach the door, a little bit of dread settles in the pit of your stomach. was satoru gojo trying to tell you that you fucking stink? what the hell is he talking about? and should you even be there? there's probably a lot of naked men in there you're sure wouldn't be happy to see you. you're both just standing off to the side waiting for god-knows-what as you shift in your spot. you finally decide to ask why you're out here if the showers are in there. but before the words are out, you're being cut off by someone pushing the door open and sprinting out.

gojo explains that college athlete!choso is usually the last person in here, which means two things. one: he's going to run all the way to his girlfriend house now, and two: the locker room is completely empty.

the steam from the room throws you off a bit as he closes the door behind you. you're eyeing everything around you; setting your bag down on one of the benches as gojo pulls his shirt off. you try not to stare, but his frame is so mouth-watering that you can't even look away before he catches you staring. your cheeks flush and you decide one of the used towels on the ground is much more interesting than whatever he's doing. he thinks it's so cute just how shy you are. have you forgotten his dick was down your throat less than a week ago already?

of course, you haven't, but that doesn't change the fact that this is so awkward for you! clearly, he's enjoying this way more than you are, because he can't even hide that shit-eating grin that takes over his lips as he makes his way over to you. his hand is guiding your chin up to look at him warily, and your eyes are closing again as his lips find yours.

your body is practically melting against his when his fingers find your waist, and he hums into your mouth. you kiss so sweetly for someone with such a sharp tongue, but hell keep the snarky remarks for when you're too fucked out to retort. gojo is pulling away way too soon, and you pout as he avoids the way you chase his lips. he's softly pushing you towards one of the lockers, pressing your back against the cool metal; in heavy contrast to the heat dancing all over your body from the room and his touch. you gasp when he slides his knee between your legs and he uses the opportunity to lick into your mouth, wet tongue gliding against yours as you unconsciously grind onto him.

you're trapped between a rock and a hard place. the rock being his cock, because you can feel how hard he's getting from rubbing against you. that, coupled with the fact his knee is brushing your clothed cunt just right, and you're barely able to kiss back. your broken whimpers are making him twitch in his pants hard. he really did want to take his time, maybe tease you just a little, but everything about you is just so addicting. you whine as his warmth leaves your body, but you're quickly distracted by his fingers hooking the waistband of your pants. kicking them off, you're pulling his wrist to draw him closer again.

your breath hitches as his knuckles brush against the damp spot on your panties. they're soft, pale pink and he makes a mental note to pocket them when he gets them off you later. shifting them to the side, he makes quick work of circling around your sopping entrance, never fully dipping his finger past a few millimeters and it’s driving you insane.

“stop teasing, satoru.”

“oh, we’re on first-name basis now?” and he chortles at the way you lack a response. you can barely think of what to say before he’s flipping you over, and your face is now in close contact with.. not him. he’s too close for you to shift your head to see what he’s about to do, but he answers your mental question by plunging two fingers deep into your cunt fairly quickly.

you can’t catch the moan that rips from your throat as he starts to move, and you’re already a mess from his starting pace. gojo can feel you dripping down his palm and how desperately you’re trying to pull away, but his hand is locked between your body and the locker. not like he planned to stop anyway, but he’s a little offended seeing you struggle to get out of his grip. he’s sliding another finger in as his head dips down to your ear.

“if you stop movin’ around so much, it'll be much easier for the two of us.”

“i-it’s too much-“

“none of that. you took me so well last time, i'm sure you can do it again.”

he doesn’t even give you time to respond before he’s curling his fingers hard. he’s basically knuckles deep in you, and your cunt is starting to flutter hard around his digits. you’re using your free hand to grip his wrist, unable to form words as your orgasm crashes down over you. you’re going eyes are pressed shut as the waves of pleasure roll over you, and you swear the man above you is grinding against your exposed ass.

it’s his fingers pulling out of your cunt that has your eyesight returning, and you’re locking gaze with him as he slides those three fingers deep into his mouth. his mouth travels down his palm to his mid-forearm, just where your release stopped before he managed to catch up. gojo releases his mouth from his skin with a satisfying pop, and he sighs in relief while he licks his lips.

“now, you need a shower.”

one of gojo's greatest traits is how easy he is to talk to. it’s why so many people have such a good impression of him from just one conversation, and why the two of you are bantering like he didn’t just finger the shit out of you and then eat your cum before your very eyes.

you’re desperately trying to get away from him in this too-small space. he’s convinced you’re insanely ticklish from the way you react when he touches you, and what better way to check other than when you’re completely naked? the only thing saving you now is the fact that the floor is dry, otherwise you would have bashed your head into the ground trying to get out of there.

satoru is insanely offended you’re trying to escape from his grasp again, so instead he’s pulling your body flush against his just under the shower. he stretches an arm back towards the valves and you’re pressing your face into his chest to stop the water from getting into your eyes. it’s getting much warmer faster than you thought, and you’re melting in his hold once more.

he’s nudging your head away from the stream, so he can press his lips to yours. your hand trails up to the back of his head, and your fingers softly scratch his undercut. you’re coyly darting your tongue out to brush against his lip, and he parts them for you to go on. gojo is trying his hardest not to smile as you concentrate on working your tongue against his. those large hands of his are palming the fat of your ass as he pushes his own tongue into your mouth and you whine. he pays no mind to it though, continuing his actions until he’s sure you’re getting stupidly restless under his hold.

“do you trust me?”

you shake your head no. frantically.

“too bad. you’re gonna need a lot of faith in me for this.”

and he was right, you do need a lot of faith in him. because your hands are tightly holding the slim metal pipe of the shower as he raises your hips up.

this is way too risky. you could get really injured; or die! you’re not too keen on having ‘death by failed shower sex’ or your headstone, and the thought alone is enough for you to tell him to put you down.

but once his mind is made up, it’s made up. he just shushes you and tells you to close your eyes, imagine the body of the shower is his sheets! you were gripping onto those pretty hard last time, weren’t you? it’s all in your mind. you should tell him to fuck off right then and there, but his cockhead is already bullying its way into your cunt with an ease that should be illegal.

you’re putting the damn shower to shame compared to how wet you are. gojo is hissing at the warmth enveloping his cock when he finally bottoms out. honestly, he could stay like this forever, just nestled in the heat of your dizzying cunt. but he knows your arms will give out soon enough; so fuck you as best as he can for the time you can keep your body up, like a little reward.

the flow of water hitting your lower back is nothing in comparison to the way he’s pounding into your cunt. he’s holding you low and angling up, and his fat tip is painfully poking that one spongy spot that has your vision spotting. you’re almost glad you’re facing away from him because you look like a fucking mess; open mouth and cross-eyed from the sheer pleasure of it all. your noises are reverberating against the walls and you would usually be ashamed, but there’s nothing on your mind other than holding yourself up and the fat cock that’s currently stretching you out.

satoru is more than impressed, you’re lasting much longer than he thought. he’s resting his forearm against your belly so he can release his other hand and stretch up to pinch at your nipples. you’re sobbing at this point, and he’s feigning concern, asking if you’re okay. the only thing you can respond with is a broken noise. he’s content with how much that brain of yours is focused on him, so he taps your side with two fingers before speaking.

“gonna put you down real quick, okay?”

and you’re so quick to cry out a no, begging him not to stop.”

“relax, princess. just wanna switch positions. your arms hurt, don’t they?”

you don’t register the strain in your arms until after your feet hit the ground. you groan, massaging the fat of your upper arms until you’re getting hit in the face with the shower stream. you’re quickly shifting away, wiping at your eyes like a little kid.

“fuck you.”

“i’m trying.” he snorts, as he places his hands behind your knees. you place your arms on his shoulders and jump, and he mutters a there you go under his breath. you’re slightly higher than he is, but your faces are still so close. he’s fucking stunning, hooded eyes trained on your tits that he’s eye level with as he pushes up into you for the nth time today. your eyes are fluttering shut as his lips close around your nipple, and his hips start to move.

it’s hot, he’s hot, the water is hot and your entire body is on fire with bliss as he pistons in and out of you. his mouth is alternating between each of your sensitive buds, and you’re sighing in contentment at the delicious pace he’s set. he’s still finding a way to push against that sensitive spot over and over, and your orgasm is starting to brew in the pits of your belly.

gojo isn’t too far off himself, but he’s holding out, drinking up every little noise and twitch that you give him. he’s obsessed, mind solely focused on you, you, and you. you’ve been on his mind far long before he got to you that night, he’s going to enjoy every moment he has. whether it be bothering you out in public or milking your cunt on his cock, just like he’s about to do.

your fingers find his hair and pull back sharply as you smash your lips against his. your orgasm is quickly bubbling up and you’re moaning hard into his mouth when it comes. you’re barely able to kiss back, vision going white and voice cracking as you cum for the second time. your whole body is shaking, and just the feeling of you creaming around his cock is sending him over the edge, cum pouring into you in thick spurts.

you both just stay there for a bit, panting and catching your breaths until he puts you down. you grimace as his release leaks down your thigh, and he tuts in disappointment. what a waste.

it’s a comfortable silent walk out of there, different from how much you had to argue for him to give you back your underwear. which you didn’t get back by the way, you can see the edge of the pair sticking out of his pocket as he slings had bag over his broad shoulder. one of his clean shirts is hung around your neck, catching the water that’s dripping from your hair to prevent it from soaking your clothes, although you’re not too worried since the sun has mostly set and the number of students here have dwindled significantly.

you’re spacing out as the two of you walk, sticking your finger in one of the belt loops of his pants. you’re still looking forward when satoru smiles down at you, sliding his arm around your waist.

and you said you hated him. what a joke.