#this has been spurred on by the game that has come out

[panthermouthh]

I’ve started reading ‘Journey to the West’ and I love this stupid monkey

[joelsgoldrush]

“never is a promise” | 12.4k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ mentions of drinking. angst. some fluff. old man!logan x caregiver!reader. implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties). miscommunication. slow burn. pining. reader is shorter than logan and has long hair. charles in his cupid era. petnames. minor injuries. wound tending. mentions of blood. virgin!reader. dirty talk. cum shots. fingering. handjobs. oral sex (m receiving). loving sex. sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?). unprotected p in v.

A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)

No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him. 

“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”

“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”

“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces. 

“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet.” He hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.

His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”

Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.

That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”

Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.

He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”

You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."

Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” He reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them.” He relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."

“Damn.” You blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.

He leans back with a satisfied grin. “That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy.”

“Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though.” You stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”

“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he says, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize.

Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices it, but says nothing in return.

It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.

Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.

What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere.

In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—

Alright. You don’t need this either.

Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life.

But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.

“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.

You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.

When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”

“Don’t say that.” You squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different.” You place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”

He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”

“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” You rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.

After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support.

You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”

If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”

“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”

His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”

“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe.” You glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” His voice falters, overcome by his own emotions. 

That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.

“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”

These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.

“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I.” You stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”

Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.

You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry.

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat. Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread.

Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.

“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”

You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.

Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.

“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?”

“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”

The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.

“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”

Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you?  “I just—I want to be of help.”

“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.

When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.

Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.

It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers.

As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.

And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.

He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.

It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.

Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.

You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.

Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.

To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.

The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present.

Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.

It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips.

Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.

During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.

One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby.” He pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”

His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order.

While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest.

Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.

An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation.

Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”

“How about with a kiss, huh?” He inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot.

As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”

“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”

The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine.

Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.

There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.

“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.

Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”

“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”

“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”

The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.

“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”

He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.

You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.

The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—

Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs.

The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos. 

You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was The Wolverine.

The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.

“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.

You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.

Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.

He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow.

Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.

“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.

Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself.

The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.

Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”

“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.

Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. Warmth crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.

“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”

Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?” 

Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”

“Ninety-somethin’.”

You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”

“Then I suppose there is somethin’ you can help me with.”

And so began a new chapter in your life.

The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence.

Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.

“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.

“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”

Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.

Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your humid breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night.

The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.

There goes another piece of you.

You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.

He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto.

On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite.

But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.

Logan hasn’t come back home yet.

It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.

You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.

After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides.

All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?

Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.

He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower.

Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”

“They were followin’ me. Had been doin’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.

“Did you kill them?” you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.

Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”

You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.

“I thought—I was so scared, and I—” your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—”

He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”

“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.” 

“I don’t—”

”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”

He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks.

Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.

“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time. 

“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.

Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—”

You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”

“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.

“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface.

Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”

You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind.

Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.

That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”

If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds. 

He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored.

You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.

“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes. 

Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”

You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you struggle to put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.

Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.

You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.

You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented.

Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.

Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.

Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.

“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”

You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.

“Was it a nightmare?” you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.

Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.” 

“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early.” You stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” You prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.

He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”

So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.

Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.

You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” You decide to ask him, straightening your back.

“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”

“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.

“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.

“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”

His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” You pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected.

Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know.

���When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”

Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.

“You never had a boyfriend?” He gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.

A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.

“How could they not want you?”

“They didn’t think like you do.”

“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”

Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. “I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”

There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”

You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Come sit with me, doll.”

Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him.

Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.

His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.

“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.

This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.

“I asked you something.” His teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.

“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.

“Why?”

Goddamn.

“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down.” You obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side.

He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”

You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—

With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips.

“So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” He edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”

It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”

“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt.

Logan’s on the verge of drooling all over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”

“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”

“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”

The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”

You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm.

The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.

Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”

A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples.

“It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.

“Just nice?” One of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” You can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this.

Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”

He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”

It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.

“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?” 

“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God.” He slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”

“In a minute.” He begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.

Tears threaten to swell in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”

“I can tell.” He curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax.

Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily.

You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.

“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”

Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.

“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”

Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest.

He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.

“Like what?” 

“Like you want to see right through me.” He adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t. 

Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.

You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.

He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers. 

You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.

“Good.” He looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.

This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog.

Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.

Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation. 

“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs. 

As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him.

“That lie’s older than me.” He slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. Gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”

Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.

By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise, and you hate how determined he is. 

“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off. 

“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”

“How did you get this one?” You trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.

He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” He laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?” It’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.

His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him.

You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.

You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” Your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.

Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”

So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you.

Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization. “He looks happier, doesn’t he?” he asks says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you. 

“Logan, you mean?”

“Yes, my dear.”

You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“

“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are. 

A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.

One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.

“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”

There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”

Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.

A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”

Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school.

You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to. 

“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”

Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.

Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home.

He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.

“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.

“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”

Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.

You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”

Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head.

Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.

So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.

“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”

Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”

“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?

Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.

It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.

Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”

“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent.

You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.

When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up.

But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.

You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever.

He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.

And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.

This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps.

You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.

After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

The shit I’d for you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

Not now.

The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts.

It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.

But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.

Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?

Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.

Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.

“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.

As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.

“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”

Red. You’re seeing red.

“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”

“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—”

Before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.

There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake.

His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.

“What where you doing with my phone?” It’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm.

Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you somethin’. Why did you answer?”

“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.

“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”

The nerve of this man.

“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?”

You search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”

“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan.” You throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“And you are testing mine.” You rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”

Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”

“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”

“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”

Oh.

You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.

Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?

“Then why do you keep running?” You edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”

His arms surround your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.

You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place.

Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.

This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.

“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”

You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”

“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” You retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”

His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best.” He presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”

Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually.

The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.

He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip. 

“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”

“I’m all ears.”

Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to.” You cup his cheek, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”

If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room.

Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you.” He trails his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”

Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.

He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”

At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you.

You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.

For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open. 

Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughin’?”

“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”

As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts.

He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length. 

Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.

“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”

His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.

With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?

When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge.

“That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”

Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.

Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound.

You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while. 

Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.

“So this is what it feels like.” His voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, baby. Just thinkin’ aloud.”

You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.

This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.

And God, is he feeling it.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[uzurakis]

THEIR ACT OF INTIMACY!

featuring: geto suguru. megumi fushiguro. itadori yuuji. nanami kento.

n. a sign of them being very comfortable with you. slighty suggestive in itadori’s part. PART 2 HERE :0

GETO SUGURU. suguru finds it aggravating when the others try to mess up his hair, with the exception of you. after the relationship evolved, you'd sit on the bed with him after he showered and brush the large tangles out of his hair. other times, you might put it up in a bun or another style when he isn't looking. you spend that quiet time talking and enjoying one other's company.

in the quiet of your shared space, suguru sat on the edge of the bed, fresh from the shower, his damp hair a tangle of knots. you approached him with a gentle smile, brush in hand. “you know the rule," suguru said with a hint of playfulness, though his eyes softened at the sight of you. “i know, i know," you replied, taking a seat beside him. "this is a condition comes with me being your girlfriend. i got to brush your hair and you get to play mine.”

as you carefully detangled his hair, the room filled with the sound of your voices, sharing stories and laughter. with each stroke of the brush, suguru felt a sense of calm wash over him, grateful for this quiet moment with you.

once his hair was finally smooth and manageable, you surprised him by styling it into a loose bun, eliciting a surprised gasp from suguru as he caught sight of his reflection. “you did it again, didn't you?" he said, pretending to scold you, though his eyes twinkled with affection. you simply smiled and leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "i can't help it. i love making you look even more handsome."

ITADORI YUUJI. itadori enjoys lying and lounging about naked together. it feels like complete vulnerability, with no walls between you, resyncing your relationship as you melt into each other's body. he has a habit of writing something on your skin as a game in which you have to guess what he wrote down. other times, he simply likes to nap in the afternoon while you tell him a story in bed.

lounging comfortably in your bed, naked and unguarded, itadori traced lazy patterns on your skin with his touch sending shivers down your spine. "guess what i wrote this time," he whispered, his finger leaving a trail of invisible words on your back. you chuckled softly, leaning into his touch. "hmm, let me think..."

as you concentrated, trying to decipher his secret message, itadori pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his warmth enveloping you entirely. then finally, you ventured a guess, feeling his smile against your skin as you spoke the words aloud.

"wrong," he teased, his laughter mingling with yours. “you gotta get it right next time, babe. or else i’ll bite your thighs again.”

with each lighthearted round of the game, the barriers between you appeared to dissolve, leaving only the raw, unfiltered connection to be felt.

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO. megumi has a difficult time opening up to others, and you were the one who showed him that it is acceptable to talk about what he feels together. you understood that him speaking meaningful words in a serious manner to you puts a toll on his ego; not that he doesn’t care, he just wasn't used to it. what surprises you is how effortlessly he drops those words only in the spur of the moment, as if he hasn't been fighting to say them all along. he also brings up topics you've already discussed and gives every single penny of thought to conversations that deepen feelings between the both of you.

in the quiet of the evening, megumi sat beside you, his expression guarded as always. you both were doing your homework together and then, in a moment that took you by surprise, he spoke, his words flowing effortlessly.

"i care about you," he said softly, his eyes meeting yours with a depth of emotion that took your breath away. "more than i can put into words."

"why so suddenly?" you asked, surprised by the unexpected confession. the man paused, his expression earnest as he searched for the right words. "i.. just feel you need to hear them from me." he replied, his voice gentle yet resolute. “sorry..”

you could feel your heart swelling with emotion, touched by the sincerity in his words. "thank you, i care about you too, ‘gumi” you whispered, feeling the weight of his feelings enveloping you like a warm embrace. "i like it when you talk about what you're feeling, you know.” you said gently, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from his face.

you knew that megumi's words had transcended the barriers he had once struggled to break through. and as you leaned in to press a tender kiss to his lips, you realized that sometimes, the most meaningful words are the ones spoken from the heart, even if they come unexpectedly.

NANAMI KENTO. nanami believes there is nothing better than a massage after a long and tiring day. he believes that the best massages are those that he earns without having to ask for them; you just knew he needed one and vice versa.

nanami trudged through the door, weary from the demands of the day. you greeted him with a warm smile, sensing the weight on his shoulders without a word spoken. "rough day?" you asked, already moving towards him with a knowing look. nanami nodded, sinking into their embrace. "you have no idea."

without hesitation, you guided him to the couch and began to knead away the tension that had settled in his muscles. "this is exactly what i needed," the man sighed, feeling the knots slowly unraveling beneath your touch.

you smiled softly, your fingers working with practiced ease. "i could tell. you always carry so much on your shoulders."

as the stress of the day melted away, he found himself falling even more deeply in love with the one who cared for him so effortlessly.

@uzurakis

[puckinghischier]

so hi.. i keep thinking about how hot (and probably hopefully rough) sex would’ve been after last night’s game. you do with that information what you’d like.. i just thought i’d share my thoughts y’know completely and utterly innocent like.

✶ hope you had the best day alli, baby!! ‹𝟹

oh harls, my beautiful, beautiful quinn lover.

of course quinn would be in the need of some…rage activities once he got home. he’d be seething the entire bus ride back to the hotel, thinking about how cocky those assholes on the kings were all night. i mean, the hit on brock? the multiple intentional penalties? the cheap move from clarke?

it was all he could do to contain himself until his penalty, finally having had enough of the nasty plays. and while he was letting himself seethe and stew in his hatred, all he could think about is the fact you’re going to be waiting in his hotel room for him.

when he walks through the door, you’re laying on the king sized bed, having received his text he sent you from the locker room directly after the game.

naked. on the bed. now. absolutely no touching yourself (trust me, i’ll fucking know). don’t move until i say so.

he made you send him a picture for confirmation, wanting to know you’ll be so worked up in anticipation by the time he walks through that door you’ll be putty in his hands.

and while he’s already worked up and agitated from the game, the sight of your hand snaked between your legs, head thrown back onto his pillow, soft pants falling from your lips, has him seeing red.

he drops his bag loudly, seeing as you were so lost in the feeling of your own fingers you didn’t hear the heavy door open and shut.

the sound finally startles you out of your blissful state, arms flying up to cover yourself in a panic, dropping them to rest on your stomach when you realize it’s just quinn. the look on his face, however, does nothing to calm your racing heart.

“thought i told you specifically not to touch yourself,” he grits out, clenching his jaw so tightly he could barely speak.

you still, having been so ready and needy you completely forgot about the rule. sitting there, bare pussy exposed to the chill of the room, was torturous in the best way. you could feel yourself drip onto the freshly made bed, so the initial contact was simply the swipe of a finger to try and prevent any further mess. but the warm contrast of your finger on the cold slick of your cunt felt too good, spurring you to give your clit just a brief touch. just enough to hold you over.

before you knew it, you heard the thud of quinn’s bag and clearing of his throat, not even remembering how you ended up knuckle deep in your own core.

“i-i’m so sorry. it’s just, it was cold, and i was so wet, so i tried to clean myself up a bit, but my finger was so warm, and then i thought just one touch wouldn’t hurt,” you ramble out one long run-on sentence trying to plead your case.

“oh, i see” he starts walking towards you, quickly stripping himself of his t-shirt. “you were so ready for me, that you couldn’t wait on me, is that it?”

your face heats, realizing how pathetic it all is, really.

“well, when you put it like that…” you can’t even make eye contact with him, looking down at his hands instead.

quinn starts to untie the string on his sweatpants, letting them drop and walking right out of them as he comes to a stop at the end of the large bed.

“yeah…that’s what i thought,” he smacks his teeth at you in disapproval, shaking his head back and forth.

you take in the sight of him before you. toned body, pale skin, and my god, the hair. you’ve always been one to love body hair on a man, but seeing his large, exposed thighs, and the perfect dusting of the thick, dark hairs all over them, has your hand itching to find its way back between your slick folds.

he starts to palm himself over his boxers, earning a whimper from you in return. the noise piques his interest, eyebrow raising as he looks down at you.

“oh…you want this?” he reaches down to free his thick cock, sighing at the relief of the cloth restriction.

you don’t know if you should respond or not, scared of the consequences either way. you decide on an eager nod, mouth nearly watering at the sight.

“yeah, figured you did. always so needy, so ready to be whatever i need you be,” he says dismissively. “and lucky for you, i need this tonight, too. or i’d make you sit here and watch me stroke myself until i couldn’t take anymore, spewing everything i have all over you and this bed before making you go to sleep needy and unsatisfied. your punishment for touching yourself before i could get here.”

he must be able to see the panic in your eyes at the possibility, knowing he’s upset but surely he’s not that upset with you.

“but,” he starts, rubbing his thumb over his pink tip, “i think what i have planned is punishment enough. plus, i need you tonight, my sweet girl. need you to be my vice, my cure for all these…feelings i have pent up.”

you feel the physical jolt your core does, causing your body to flinch.

quinn discards his underwear entirely, placing one knee on the plush bed to start making his way to your body. you’re still sprawled out, skin buzzing at the thought of his touching yours.

once he’s hovering above you on all fours, he brings his head down to place a feather light kiss to your lips. when he pulls away, you chase him, pouting at the barely there contact.

“nope. only kiss you’ll get tonight, i’m afraid,” he sits up on his knees, in-between your open legs.

you whine out, always loving the hot, open-mouth kisses you two share while he’s inside of you.

“ehh, no more whining, either. should’ve thought about that before you broke the rules,” he scolds you, bringing his hands down to move your legs up, bending both of your knees so your feet rest flat on the bed.

once your knees are bent, he takes your hands that were resting on your stomach and splay them out on their respective sides.

“now, since you didn’t do like i asked you to so nicely, even though i’m so, so mad tonight, no touching me,” he looks down into your eyes as he says it, making sure you understand his rules.

“so, no kissing, no touching, no whining? what, i’m basically your sex doll tonight?” you sass him, rolling your eyes.

now, you expected a reaction out of him. it was your intent, actually. you expected a small smack to the leg, or a wagging finger with a stern look.

what you didn’t expect was to feel his hand come up and grasp your face, squishing your cheeks together so hard you’re forced to bite them just to allow any sort of give from the pressure.

he jerks your face to look at him, bringing his own so close you can feel his hot, angry breath on your face.

“that’s exactly right. you’re my doll tonight. mine to use as i see fit. however i want. you know why?” he pauses, heaving breaths in and out as he waits, as if you’d actually be able to answer him. “because i’m mad. i’m mad that the stupid kings thought they could beat up on my team tonight and get away with it. i’m mad that brock was taken out during the first period because of a purposeful hit. i’m mad, because the one thing i asked you to do, you couldn’t fucking do it.”

he’s seething at this point, an animalistic kind of anger radiating through his body.

your heart races in both fear and excitement. you hardly ever get to see this side of quinn, and you don’t know exactly what all was said or done on that ice tonight, but you’re sure you’re going to be able to feel the effects of it all for the next few days to come.

he releases your cheeks roughly, standing tall on his knees.

“since you claim you were so wet earlier you just couldn’t resist starting without me, too drunk on your own fingers to know what you were doing, you shouldn’t need any help then, should you?” he asks, reaching down to feel the arousal pooling in your exposed heat.

you want to whine. you want to whine and protest and complain, but before you can even think about breaking another rule of his, your breath is knocked from your lungs.

without any warning whatsoever, quinn slams into you completely, leaving no inch of your canal untouched. on instinct, you start to reach your arms up to grasp onto him, needing to ground yourself to him.

“i wouldn’t, if i was you,” he growls out, pulling out completely before slamming into you again, gripping one of your hips for stability.

dropping them back down to the mattress, you grasp the sheets so tightly you worry you’ll rip them.

your body jolts with each slam of his rigid cock into your hole, completely removing himself each time before snapping his hips so forcefully you swear you can feel it in your throat.

“god, have no clue how fucking angry i’ve been tonight”, he huffs out, not faltering his pace. “all night, watched those smug goons think they could do whatever they wanted, to whoever they wanted. then the refs wouldn’t even let me return the favor when given the chance. it’s bullshit,” he spits with a particularly harsh thrust.

you’re trying your best to lay there, unmoving, occupying your hands with the soft cotton underneath you. a choked sob of pleasure makes its way out when he hits a spot so deep inside of you, you had no clue it existed until this moment.

“but knew i was gonna get to come home to you,” he continues, distracted momentarily by the bounce of your tits with each thrust. “my sweet, sweet girl who always listens to what i say. who’s always so ready to do what i need her to do for me.”

he reaches up to pinch one of your hard nipples. you flinch, but remember to keep your hands down.

“and imagine my surprise, when i walk in the door to see you already making yourself feel good after i told you to wait on me,” he switches his hand to your other nipple, show it some attention. “made me so fucking angry all over again. was so prepared to come in and take care of you, low and slow all night. a treat for you and for me. but you just had to go and ruin it, didn’t you?”

at this point, even if you wanted to speak you couldn’t. you’re quite literally being fucked dumb right now. the effort of keeping your body still isn’t even a challenge anymore, limbs so heavy with pleasure you’re basically his to manipulate and use as he wishes.

you don’t even feel your orgasm approaching. one second you’re listening to his frustrations, the next you’re half deaf and seeing stars.

quinn stutters only slightly, abandoning his touch on your tits to move his hand to your throbbing clit.

“god, this was so fucking easy. this turn you on? me mad at you, not letting you do what you want, just like i didn’t get to do what i wanted?” he talks you through your bliss, watching your body shake and shiver while he continues his deep thrusts.

his fast circles on your clit don’t ease up, even after you’ve come down from your high. you try to wiggle your body away, your sensitivity making you squirm.

quinn’s grip on your hip tightens, halting your movement.

“don’t fucking move,” growls at you, basking at how easy it is for him to glide in and out of you, his dick covered in your release. “you’re gonna give me another one, i don’t care how sensitive you are. know you can do it. my own little slut.”

the name surprises you, quinn never really has been one for using stuff like that in the bedroom. you’d be lying if you said it didn’t cause the feelings of another release to start swirling again, though.

his resolve starts to deteriorate, but he’s determined to milk one more from you before he enjoys his own release.

“c’mon. it’s the least you can do f’me, really,” he grunts, somehow rubbing even faster circles on your swollen bundle of nerves. “after no one at the game would let me retaliate, and after i had to sit in the fucking box for two minutes for just returning a little bit of what they dished out all night, giving me all you’ve got isn’t a lot to ask, is it?”

you try to shake your head, but the increased pace of his forceful thrusts causes your head to bob all over the place.

he can feel your walls starting to flutter again already, knowing it won’t take much to send you over the edge.

keeping his hand in between your legs, applying both pressure and friction to your clit now, he bends his body over to attach his mouth to your tit, showing the the area attention once again. he swirls his tongue around your sensitive nub.

the feeling alone is delectable, causing you to writhe in pleasure. but the second you feel his teeth encase the delicate bud, biting down, you explode yet again.

you don’t think you’ve ever come so hard in your life. you cry out, so loud and so pornographic quinn worries someone will complain, but loving every second of the sound.

you’re convulsing underneath him, tears leaking from your closed eyes at the intensity of the pleasure radiating throughout your body.

“fuck, that’s it. swear your pussy’s trying to trap me in there, doesn’t want me to leave,” quinn groans, feeling like his dick is literally being suctioned into your body.

after a few more sloppy thrusts, his balls tighten and he coats your walls with his release. he moans out, mixing with your perfect whimpers and whines as the shocks of his own orgasm cause you to twitch.

after he’s sure your body has sucked him dry, quinn pulls out of you, pushing your knees down so he can roll over to the side of you, throwing his own tired body in the mattress.

you both lay beside one another, panting and letting your bodies catch back up to you. he reaches over to grab your hand, every ounce of anger having left his body through his orgasm.

he’s back to being his usual, soft self, as he rolls over to place a kiss to your temple.

you’ve come to a little bit, turning your head to look over at his smiling face.

“maybe…maybe i should start a pact with these teams you play each week to make you mad and rile you up during games more often,” you softly speak, voice slightly hoarse from your orgasmic screaming. “if this is what i get in return, think it’d be worth the price,” you smirk at quinn.

he lets out a quiet chuckle at your words, bringing a hand to brush some hair out of your face, finally placing a real kiss to your lips.

when he pulls back you open your eyes to admire him, but are met with a serious, stern expression.

“don’t push it.”

[novemberheart]

{overview} You get answers for Simon’s behavior

{warnings} fem reader, poly 141, a/b/o dynamics, mentions of fighting, cursing, mentions of heat cycles and marking

Chapter 31 <- Chapter 32 -> Chapter 33

“He has the flu,” the doctor spoke. John growled, not in the mood for games. “Alpha flu,” The doctor clarified.

“Bloody stupid name,” Kyle mumbled.

“What does that mean?” You urged.

“Has he been away for a while?” The doctor questioned. Her glasses had become foggy. She was nervous. John growled again. They had already answered that.

“Yes,” you answered. You wrapped your arm around John’s bicep giving him a small squeeze. His shoulders fell slightly.

“Have you been marked yet?” she asked, turning her full attention to you. You quickly shook your head.

“That would be why. His alpha already considers you his omega and being away from you without marking you”- she cut herself off with a sigh. “It would be like if you left your car with the keys in it in a bad neighborhood- for lack of a better analogy,” She explained. You weren't sure you loved the comparison.

“So his alpha is losing it because she's his omega but doesn't have the claim to prove it?” John clarified. The doctor nodded her head.

“Being away could've caused paranoia, especially if his alpha felt she wasn't well protected- or it could just be because deeper bonds have formed,” She continued.

Could be both.

You were by yourself with Kyle, who wouldn't be in the best position to protect you. Plus the two of you have grown closer.

“How come I haven't experienced this?” John voiced what you were thinking.

“It depends on a lot of different factors,” she started. “Could be biological, genetic, outside factors, so many things,”

John nodded his head.

“What do we do now?” Kyle questioned.

“Well, the best thing would be claiming. When's your next heat?”

“About three to four weeks,” John spoke for you. You were happy he was keeping track.

“Well then our next option would be sedation”-

“No,” John interjected. “She’s not being marked while sedated. Simon wouldn't want it to be that way and neither do I,”

“I’m fine with it,” you assured. You lied. No one wanted to be marked while sedated- besides betas. It was traumatizing, even though it wouldn't be painful. When you woke up you had to work through every emotion sober- unclouded by your heat. It scared you.

“No,” John pressed again. You breathed a sigh of relief. John’s hand rested on the back of your head, pulling you towards him. You whined, burying yourself into his side. “Is there a way we can spur on her heat?” John suggested.

“I suggest talking to an omega specialist,” she offered. John sucked in through his teeth nodding his head.

“Thank you, doctor,” He extended his arms towards the door. He showed her out. “Come here, pretty girl,” John soothed. You clawed at your eyes, quickly finding comfort against his chest. “I'm sorry that happened,” he whispered, his own throat growing tight at the lingering scent of your fear.

“We can talk to an omega specialist,” you mumbled, once your tears had finally died down.

“You sure, lovie?” Kyle spoke up.

“Could just lock the bastard in Johnny’s room till he snaps out of it,” John jested. You chuckled dryly, still refusing to remove your face from his chest. The two men sighed, sharing a glance with each other.

This wasn't how they wanted this to go down.

“If there is something we could do, would you be open to being marked?” John hummed, pressing you even further against him.

You were ready.

You had been during your heat.

You had waited longer than most omegas to be marked, not that that's saying much. It was more of a privilege than anything. Your pack was letting you consent to it on your own.

“Yes,” you agreed aloud. “I’d want you to mark me too though,” you added. John quirked his brow, an almost amused look on his face.

“That’s a lot, sweetheart,” he reminded. “Besides I’m not sure Simon’ll let me that close to his omega,” John purred. You grumbled, shooting him an angry look.

“I don't want to just belong to one of you. I want to belong to all of you,” you pressed. A flame sparked in the bellies of both men, their hearts skipping a beat.

“You already do,” John hushed, brushing your hair away from your forehead. “All ours. Which is why we have to take care of you. I'll schedule an appointment with an omega specialist today and you go write down all the questions you have, yes?”

“Yes, alpha,” You agreed.

Simon groaned causing Johnny to sit up in his seat.

“Morning, L.T.” Johnny yawned. Simon groaned again, a familiar ache and neediness in his body, along with a deep ache in his already bruised jaw. “How ya feelin’?” Johnny pressed.

“What happened?” he groaned. He could hardly open his eyes.

“Cap knocked you out. Right hook,” Johnny responded. That would explain it. The captain had a deadly hook. He was lucky his head was still attached to his neck.

Simon suddenly snapped awake, causing Johnny to throw himself forward.

“Pup?” Simon questioned, his eyes bearing into Johnny’s for assurance. He could still smell you against the sheets. His stomach twisted with a painful groan.

“She’s alright,” Johnny responded quickly. He didn't believe him. Johnny could tell. His eyes still searching for any signs that he had fucked up beyond repair. While it wasn't a good situation to be in, it wasn't Simon's fault.

Johnny knew why this happened to Simon. Simon’s walls were still up. Granted, you had shortened them quite a few feet, yet he was still holding himself back. Johnny could see it. He could see the way Simon stopped himself from letting his alpha take care of you. The way he’d whisper to Johnny to get you seconds once you cleared your plate instead of getting it for you himself. The way he always put your raincoat in plain view so you wouldn't forget it- instead of just reminding you.

It was only natural that his alpha wanted credit for these acts. He wanted to be seen as a worthy mate.

“She was a bit shaken, but she won’t hold it against ya,” Johnny assured. Simon's back flattened against the mattress, not in ease but in defeat. “Wanna hear what the doctor said about you?” Johnny's tone was too teasing for Simon's mood. “She said your alphas pitchin’ a fit because you were away from our girl,” Johnny smirked. “You wanna mark her,” Johnny whispered. The gravel in his voice usually sent a tingle up Simon’s spine, this time it made Simon kick him off the bed. “Bastard,” Johnny grumbled. The thud alerted John.

“Find my tooth while you're down there,” Simon requested of Johnny, shooting a glare at John.

“Don’t hold that against me, honey,” John soothed. Simon flushed at the name, rolling over onto his stomach. “I’d want you to do the same to me if I was in your position,” John added. Simon felt a wave of sickness wash over him again.

“How is she?”

“I just told you ho”- John held up his hand to cut-off the Scot.

“Go cuddle with you omega,” John directed, nodding his head towards the door. Johnny huffed at the cut-off, but would rather be doing that anyway. “She was scared,” John said once the door had shut. “Had all of us scared,” John continued. Simon whined low in his throat. He was with his alpha- his captain, he didn't need to be strong anymore. “None of that,” John soothed. His hand grabbed Simon by the scruff so his head was in his lap. “Wasn't your fault. She’s sitting at the kitchen counter writing questions to ask the omega specialist. She wants you to mark her,” John explained. A pleased rumble echoed in Simon’s chest at the idea- but stopped due to another.

“She’s not being sedated,” Simon snarled.

“Course not,” John assured. “Kyle’s been talking to one over the computer, apparently there is a pill that can spur on a heat. We’re looking into that,” John explained.

“I can wait till her heat,” Simon assured. “I can pick up a mission till her heat”-

“That's not feasible Simon,” John sighed. “First of all, we can't send you out there in this condition. Second, who knows when our girl will even get her heat. Third, your being away will only make the symptoms worse.”

“She gonna hate me after this?” Simon asked, mostly to himself.

“Do you want to mark her?” John asked suddenly.

Yes.

He's been biting back the urge to sink his teeth into you since Inverness.

Simon settled for a grunt.

“Then she won’t hate you, Simon,”

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Johnny thanked, peeling off your raincoat for you. The doctor smiled at the interaction.

“Of course. The situation, as it has been described to me, isn't one that should be taken lightly or pushed back,” she responded. “How are you doing?” She asked softly, turning towards you. She had eyes that looked exactly like Kyles. It instantly calmed you.

“I’m alright. Nervous. Thank you for asking,” you tried to smile.

“Your alpha- John, sent me over your medical history and I think the best option will be Camilcotazine. Are you familiar with that drug in any way?” She asked.

You were. One of the doctors at the omega holding house wanted to put you on that to regulate your heats. You declined because of the side effects. Instant two-week heat.

You nodded your head, explaining why you chose not to go on it at the time.

“Well, that's exactly why I want to prescribe it to you,” was her response.

“How long will she have to take it?” Johnny asked. You suddenly realized you left your paper with questions at home.

“For about three months,” she said, making both of you wince. “We can't tell if the medication is a good fit for you during the first month, because it will throw you into a heat regardless. The second month is to see if your heat begins to regulate itself and the third month is to see if it matches the second month,” she explained. It made sense, unfortunately.

“That’s fine,” you spoke up. “What if my heat lasts longer than it is supposed to?”

“The good thing about Camilcotazine is that it's a very commonly used medication. It has gone through thousands of tests and has been used for omegas for over fifty years. 1/7 omegas are on or have been on it. I am very confident in its ability,” she explained.

You looked over at Johnny.

“When do I start?” you breathed.

Hi friends!!! The next few chapters are going to be veryyy spicy! Hopefully that is something you enjoy…… see you in three days! 🧡

[beenbaanbuun]

cupboard door w/ choi san

words - when do i ever know the word count…

genre - smut/fluff

warnings - dom!san, making out, fingering, big cock san, cockwarming (kind of at the end), unprotected sex, i think that’s it 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

——————————————————————————

your eyesight goes blurry, just for a second or two. it makes your head spin and you can’t help but take a few stumbling steps backwards, away from the open cupboard door. the pain of the whole ordeal is pretty slow to kick in, and for just a moment you’re not even sure if it will. but just as quickly as that thought comes to mind, it’s there, splitting and harsh as it shoots through your skull. you groan as your hands fly up to cup at your forehead, catching the attention of the other resident of the flat.

“shit,” you hear movement from the living room; the sound of a game pausing on the playstation followed by someone scrambling to their feet. the thud of his feet hitting the floorboards is loud as he rushes towards you, moving quicker than you think you’ve ever heard the gentle giant move before. “what happened?” he sounds concerned, “what did you do?”

warm hands grab your face and tilt it up until all you can see is him; san. he’s pretty, even when his expression is scrunched up into one of concern. it’s strange, you note, for someone so carefree, it’s hardly taken anything for him to fall into a panic. you’ve seen him calmer than this in much more stressful situations, so why now is he holding you in his hands like some fractured vase that could shatter at any moment? you’re sure it’s nothing; at least that’s what you tell yourself to stop your heart from jumping to any conclusions.

“you left the cupboard door open,” a habit of his that you’ve been trying to work him out of since the first day the two of you moved in with one another, “and i wasn’t paying attention and walked into it,” just like your clumsiness is something that he’s been trying to cure you of. not too long ago you asked him why he cared so much about your susceptibility to bruises; he answered with ‘i worry about you,’ which you could only assume was a joke.

san hums, letting your face slip from his gentle hands. they fall back to his sides and it’s only now that you realise just how close he’s standing. a sigh tumbles from his lips and you feel it on your face, his chest rises as he pulls in a deep breath and it brushes every so slightly against your own. if things were different, you could quite easily lean forward and press your lips to his own. it’s just a silly fantasy, but you can’t help but let the idea echo around your mind like a voice in a cavern.

if things were different, you could kiss him.

you could kiss him.

kiss hi—

“you’re such an idiot,” he purrs with something akin to affection in his voice. it doesn’t help calm your overactive thoughts at all, spurring them on until they’re frenzied and begging you to close the gap between your lips and his. it’s no surprise when you feel your face heat up and a shiver of electricity trail it’s way slowly up your spine. “i’m going to have to wrap you in bubble wrap one day, just to stop me from worrying every time i let you out of my sight.”

there it is again, that cruel joke that has every part of you tingling with glee. you want him to mean it; reminding yourself that he doesn’t hurts your heart far too much. it’s so much effort to recover from your mini-heartbreak quick enough for him to not notice anything wrong, and even more effort to think up some equally flirtatious joke that means so much more to you than it ever will to him. it’s tiring, unrequited love.

“i guess you’ll just have to keep me by your side forever, then,” a fake giggle leaves your lips, just realistic enough to keep him from thinking something is wrong. you want him to laugh too, to bask in this joke with you before going back to whatever he was doing and leaving you to wallow in the heartache of being so painfully close to the man you’ve been in love with since the very day you met him. you want him to rejoice in the thin veil of humour you’ve plastered over the top of your pain. you want him to not care enough to look into your eyes and see exactly what you’re so desperate to hide from him.

but he doesn’t laugh, and the smile that was already there slips from his expression like it wasn’t even supposed to be there in the first place. have you said something wrong?

your own giggles come to a halt, the two of you being thrust into an abrupt silence. you watch his expression nervously, scanning for some sort of sign that everything is actually okay, but the way san holds his face is almost statuesque. if it weren’t for his slow blinks and hard gaze flitting around your face, you’d maybe think he was one.

“san?” you can’t raise your voice above a whisper, scared it might break. the sound still makes him flinch out of whatever trance he’d found himself in, and you’re grateful to see just the tiniest bit of life flicker across his expression once more. “san, have i said something wrong? i’m sorry if i offended you, i didn’t m—”

the words are cut off when a pair of lips come crashing down on your own. the speed of it all pulls a squeak from your throat, your shoulders tensing as san’s large hand snakes around the back of your skull to hold you in place. its not that you don’t want it, it’s just that it’s the very last thing you were expecting to come from hitting your head against an open cupboard door. fate works in mysterious ways, you suppose.

it only takes a moment before san is pulling away again, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he lazily blinks at you. there’s a fog covering his pupils, making him look as though he’s lost in a haze. you feel the very same way; dizzy and full of some sort of fuzzy warmth that now you’ve tasted it, you’re not sure you’ll be able to live without.

“sorry,” he whispers as he slips his hand away from the back of your head. he doesn’t look it, nor is his tone remorseful in any way, shape or form, but you don’t really care. you don’t need an apology, anyway; why would you when he’s just given you everything you never knew you needed? you’re on top of the world, right now, thoughts buzzing through your mind too fast to grab hold of one and focus on it. “i wasn’t thinking,” he adds, just as insincere as his apology.

you don’t really care about the insincerity of it all; you just want more.

“i don’t care,” you murmur as you lean in closer, just enough so that he can see your intentions. a wandering hand finds its way to his bicep, squeezing the oversized muscle once before inching its way up to his shoulder, and then his neck. your fingers tug at the short hairs at the nape of his neck as you stare into his eyes with need. if this doesn’t tell him that you want him to kiss you again then you don’t know what will. “i liked it,” you say for good measure.

a few seconds of silence pass you by, san’s vacant gaze flickering around your face as if to search for signs that you’re lying. that for some reason you’re being untruthful about the fact that you liked it. while yes, ‘liked it’ may be a bit of an understatement, it certainly wasn’t a lie. you’ll be replaying that barely-there kiss in your brain for years to come. it was short and weak, and yet it’s left your lips tingling with a desire for more. you need san’s lips on you more than you need air right now; you need him to kiss you again.

and while it takes a little longer than you would’ve liked, he seems to get the message, lips parting in a small smile before he leans down to close the gap. his lips barely brush against yours when they meet; you can’t help but chase them. the chuckle san lets out goes straight to your core, tightening a knot in your stomach that you didn’t even know had been tied. you need him. mind, body and soul, you need him. it’s not hard to tell him as such with a pleading whine against his lips, to which he responds by conceding—he presses his lips to yours once more.

just like that you’re in heaven, floating on a cloud as san gives you the kiss you crave so badly. it’s slow and meaningful, as if he’s been waiting to do this for almost as long as you’ve been waiting to receive it. if that is the case, you regret not showing him how much you need him sooner. it would’ve been so easy to drop a few hints here and there, to tempt him and tease him until eventually, he’d snap. you guess you got there in the long run, and you suppose the wait has made this kiss even sweeter; it doesn’t help quell the what-if’s that float around your brain like fallen cherry-blossoms atop a lake.

you dive in deeper, hoping that it will silence the questions you can’t help but ask yourself. as your lips move against his, breathless moans falling from them each time you part to suck in a much needed gasp of air, your thoughts shift to silence. a fog settles over your mind, blocking out anything that isn’t the complete and utter desire for san to do more. you want his hands all over you, touching and squeezing at every inch of skin you own. you want his arm around your waist, his tongue down your throat, his fingers in your pussy. your thighs squeeze together of their own accord; a desperate attempt to apply pressure to a clit aching with need.

“san,” you whisper as you pull away briefly. he follows your lips, barely letting his name slip out of them before they’re caught in a desperate whirlwind if want once more. it only last a few seconds before you pull away again, but it’s enough to send you into a dizzy stupor. “san,” you repeat his name, “touch me, please.”

another kiss, just as hot and heavy as the others, and equally as short as the last. before you know it he’s pulling away again so he can slip a hand between you to meet with the waistband of your sweats. your breath hitches in your throat as his warm fingers slip beneath the elasticated fabric, brushing against your stomach so softly that you barely feel it. it sends shivers through your body and you find yourself unable to stop your hips bucking forwards in a search for more. he chuckles again, but the humiliation that you should feel is nowhere to be found.

“you’re needy,” he purrs as he slips his hand south, bypassing the waistband of your panties and heading straight to your leaking core. no time is wasted before he’s tapping a finger against your clit, a high pitched keen echoing through the kitchen as he applies pressure to the bud. “i should’ve known, huh baby? you’ve always been this way,” he gives your clit one last kiss with his fingertip before pulling his hand completely free from your sweats.

“san,” you whine, to which he rolls his eyes in jest.

“give me a second, baby,” he grins as he wraps his hands around your waist and hoists you onto the counter behind you. it seems like it takes almost no effort at all for him; a thought that sends your already clouded mind into a frenzy. it makes you feel so small, so insignificant, like a human at the side of a god. if that’s the case then you’re more than prepared to be the head of his temple. you’ll worship him every day, if he lets you. you’ll give him your everything as an offering if he wants.

“san, please,” you pray. he listens with mercy, parting your legs and stepping between them until his pelvis slots against your own. he’s hard, you note as his cock rubs up against your clothed core—big too, it seems. you wonder how it’ll feel stuffed inside of you, dragging deliciously in and out of your dripping hole. it’s all you can think about as you connect your lips with his once more.

only this time you don’t pull away to say anything, or to take a breather. why would you when san already seems to understand exactly what you want? his hands are on you in seconds, tugging at the waistband of your sweats, lifting you up slightly to drag them under the curve of your ass, groping at your newly exposed flesh with hands heavy enough to bruise. the counter is cold against your skin but you can barely feel it amongst the trails of fire his fingertips leave against your skin. they burn you, etching invisible scars against you. you might not be able to see them, but you’ll know they’re there. you’ll feel san’s touch until the end of time.

“want me to touch you?” he growls against your lips, “want my fingers? i’m gonna need to stretch you out for my cock, sweet thing.”

you don’t answer straight away, simply delving in for another kiss. he’s more than happy to comply, devouring any answers that rest upon your tongue. when you pull away seconds later, he’s already panting like a dog.

“i want your cock,” you sigh, “need it inside of me, sannie.”

he chuckles as he trails his lips against your jawline.

“fingers first,” they shift to your core once more, one of them experimentally delving into your weeping core, “don’t want to hurt you.” he pushes it in to its hilt, bending it slightly in a way that rips every shred of lucidity from your mind for just a few seconds. every thought is just him; choi san, choi san, choi san. it’s louder than the moan you let out, your thoughts blocking it from your ears with ease. it’s only when san whispers, “that feel good?” into your ear that you sink back down to earth, nodding fervently in response. he smiles against your ear, teeth softly nipping at your earlobe before pulling back.

he tests the waters with a second finger, barely dipping the tip in before his eyes meet yours for confirmation. “please, sannie,” you whine, bucking your hips a little, “i want you inside of me.” it’s all it takes for him to finish pushing his fingers in, the stretch making your body melt. you’d never taken notice of how thick his fingers are until now, but as they drag against your walls it’s all you can focus on.

he works diligently, pumping them in and out at a fast pace to get you used to the stretch. every so often he pauses, scissoring them open and pushing them against your gummy walls. your whines become less coherent as he works, but he shushes each of them with a kiss, stealing your pretty sounds for himself.

“so noisy,” he breaks away with a grin as his fingers continue to open you up, “if the neighbours put in a noise complaint, i hope you know i’m not taking the fall for you.” if you weren’t drunk on lust, perhaps you would’ve given a snarky response, but as his fingers hammer away at your most sensitive spot, all you can do is take it.

“shut up,” you mewl as he moves in for another kiss, a mocking giggle on his lips.

“you first, baby.”

he draws his fingers from your pussy, wiping them on his shorts before moving to take hold of his waistband. you hold your breath as he pushes them down, his cock springing free and standing to attention. it looks bigger than it felt, and you almost feel nervous as you watch him give it a few pumps with his fist. the way his fingers only just connect around the circumference is daunting, and you can almost feel the ache of it inside of you already.

“can i?” he purrs as he taps the head gently against your folds. precum smears against them, mixing in with your own slick that drips from you like a faucet. you nod, silently begging for him to hurry up and fill the hole his fingers left within you. he hums disapprovingly, “your words, baby; give me your consent.”

words are hard when you’re so needy. “please, sannie,” comes out as a desperate whimper, and your cry of “i want you inside of me,” sounds utterly pathetic even to your own ears. it doesn’t really matter as long as you get what you want from him, and as he lines himself up with your waiting hole, you relax in the knowledge that are. you tip your head back against the recently closed cabinet door and stare him down with half lidded eyes, watching how his face shifts to pleasure as he slips just the tip in.

even that is thick enough to have your eyes rolling to the back of your head, already feeling fuller than you did with his fingers despite having next to nothing inside of you. a hand flies to his shoulder, nails biting the skin as he slowly pushed forward. it burns a little as his cock bullies it’s way inside of you, stretching you open uncomfortably. it isn’t all pain, a wall of pleasure hiding behind the thin veil of pain; you can’t help but moan a little as his cock drags deliciously along your sensitive walls.

“sannie,” you whimper as his tip brushes up against your cervix and causes you to flinch. part of him is still unsheathed, but he halts before he can even try to fit it in. there’s a look of understanding in his eyes as he leans in to press his lips against your forehead and you know that you’re safe with him.

“is it okay?” he murmurs between pressing small kisses to your face, “does it hurt?” you find yourself whispering an affirmative. san pulls back just enough for him to study your face. “too much?” absolutely not, “i can pull out and make you cum a different way, if that’s what you want?”

“no,” you whine, saddened at just the thought of losing that feeling of fullness, “i just need to get used to it. you’re fucking huge, sannie.”

he giggles at that comment, a blush making its way up to his ears. you’ve seen a similar look on his face when the two of you have been drinking, though you suppose right now he’s equally as drunk, just on you as oppose to alcohol. it’s cute, and if it weren’t for the fact that you want to get fucked sometime soon, you’d be more than happy to just sit here and watch him.

“i’ve seen bigger,” he shrugs humbly as his face gets pinker; he looks so pretty with a dusting of salmon across his nose, “but if you need to get used to it then that’s okay. we have all the time in the world, sweetheart. there’s no rush.”

[kiatheinsomniac]

──── 𝐇𝐘𝐏𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐀 ˊˎ - ☾ ⋆ ﾟ𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 / 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: Sol's been living in my head rent free so here's a lil brain rot I had about him. Also if you haven't played his source game but like yandere things, I 100% recommend you try it out (there's a free version!) and consider supporting the creator! 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Sol Brugmansia x Reader 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 0.9k 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: MDNI, NSFW content, source media rated 18+, implied somnophilia (dubcon), yandere-typical themes

Hypnopompia:

Noun, Psychology

The semiconscious state prior to complete wakefulness.

Your breath comes out in heated puffs as your head tips to the side, cheek warm against the soft pillow beneath you. There’s yet another pillow propped under your hips too that you’re being pushed into each time Sol’s hips smack needily into yours. 

His dark, green-streaked hair tickles against your cheek and shoulder as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, nibbling at your skin and then soothing it with kisses and little licks. He’s hunched over you, completely engulfing your frame with his much larger one, like he wants to block out the rest of the world so that only he can exist to you and you to him. 

“You’re so warm…” He breathes out, an edge of a whine in his voice. He’s leaning up with one of his elbows beside you, the other hand roaming the curve of your hip and waist, anchoring you in place. He leans up a little to look down at you beneath him. His fiery eyes are lidded, a blush blooming across his cheeks as he takes in the sight of you with your hair splayed around your head like a halo and he truly feels he’s found heaven tangled up in the sheets with you like this. “And so soft…”

He cups his hand beneath your knee and pushes it outwards to spread you wider for him. His breath catches and he lets out a moan at the sight of his cock splitting your sweet pussy open, a ring of your cream having formed at the base as he sinks into you again, and again, and again. If not for his body’s physical limits, he’s sure he’d spend an eternity doing this with you, his soulmate. 

His hand gently drags over your tummy, black-painted nails faintly tickling you and then pausing to press on your abdomen for a few strokes, watching how it makes you moan in pleasure, your lashes fluttering hypnotically under his enamoured gaze. His hand resumes its journey downwards until it reaches its desired destination, rubbing sticky hearts against your puffy clit, smearing your slick over the sensitive pearl. Your hips buck into his and it causes a moan to tumble past his lips. You’re so warm and soft everywhere and he feels blessed to be able to have you in his arms, wrapped around him, like this. 

He’s not sure if he could ever bring himself to admit it to you but he’s scrolled through different forums to find the perfect tips on how to bring you to bliss like this, what women like. But you look like a damn deity as you whimper and moan beneath him, rolling your hips to meet his. You’re the blood in his veins, the air in his lungs, and he can’t live without you, without his soul. 

He adds a little more pressure with his thumb on your clit, leaning back on his calves so that he has a free hand to grab your hip, angling them so that the head of his cock can drag against your spongy sweet spot with each thrust. He may be inexperienced but he’s a very attentive lover. Each positive reaction from you spurs him on and a part of him is sure he’s actually getting more pleasure from making you feel good than the actual physical sensations you’re giving him. 

Your spine arches up sweetly at the liquid electricity that’s sluicing through your veins at all of his attentive touches. He leans over you again, his tempo faltering a little as he gets quicker, firmer, a whimper leaving his lips before they wrap around your earlobe and bite gently. 

“Are you close…?” He asks breathlessly as your thighs squeeze his hips and tremble. You let out a needy moan and nod your head, looping your arms around his neck and tangling your fingers in his long hair, tugging and you search for a means to ground yourself while your head begins to swim with a foggy pleasure. “Come for me, pumpkin… Let it all go.” There’s a pleading tone laced into his voice and he pulls you closer as the two of you begin tumbling towards your end. Sol whimpers at feeling how you tighten around him, like begging him to cum with you. He hooks an arm under the arch of your spine to cradle you to his chest, feeling your pert nipples rub against him, the softness of your breasts too. 

“Sol… Sol…” His name spills past your lips in whimpers, his name still on your tongue when you open your eyes and you’re alone in your dim room. Illumination creeps in from the streetlamp near your flat’s window. Your heart is fluttering erratically in your chest and you’re sweating despite the room being cold where the broken lock on your window has caused the wind to blow it open ajar again. 

You sit up groggily, cheeks still warm from the memory of the intimate dream you had of your friend. You curse at your sticky panties and feel that your wetness has made its way to your inner thighs too where you’ve only been sleeping in an oversized t-shirt and panties. 

You curse Hyugo for putting these sorts of ideas in your head, always dropping teasing little comments about you and Sol getting together. You shake your head to try and rid yourself of the dream as you get up to properly close your window, oblivious to the fiery coloured eyes watching you from the shadows down on the street. 

☾ ⋆ ﾟlike my work? why not: ∘ buy me a coffee? ∘ comms. ∘ taglist ∘ follow/reblog

🏷️Sol now added to taglist!

[on-the-clear-blue]

So you know how there is a common fan theory that ghosts go through their death again on their death day? What about Jason going through it?

Feeling angsty crew, prepare yourselves

Trigger warnings: Jason death and all that comes with that, SA implications.

---

The first time it had happened it was in a LOA base, still catatonic and barely speaking, Jason was forced to train through the dark bruises that slowly appeared on his body, from his ribs and chest, to his fingers getting bent and crooked.

His trainers watched, not filled with concern but curiosity, an effect such a this had not been seen in the leauge in some time

As smoke was coughed up from his lungs and as bits of his flesh turned the same ghastly green as the pits, they watched, documenting it, unable to look away as the man boy seized and went still, finally.

---

The second time it happened, Jason was in Gotham, set up in a safe house, sirens and gun shots ringing out into the night, the sounds of his childhood.

He hadn't planned to stay long, only stopping by the safe house to grab a restock of ammo

Then came the phantom pains, tightness around his wrists, a deep, ever increasing sense of dread.

Jason staggered at the first ghostly strike to his head, hands flashing to his guns, scanning the room for what ever invisible foe that had struck him.

The next blow brought Jason to his knees, it hurt, oh God did it hurt, his head was pounding in a way that he barely remembered.

The feeling of his ribs crack robbed him of breath, a bone spur puncturing his lung, then came his hands, finger bones broke one at a time.

Jason curled himself up in a ball, just as he tired to years ago, tears streaming down his face under the metallic hood. The ticking demination of a clock ringing cruelly in his ears.

Then came the explosion, leaving his ears bleeding, eardrums ruptured, brain addled even more than the blunt force trauma caused.

With broken hands, Jason struggled to take off his helmet, as smoke poured out of his already damaged lungs. Smoke that clogged the helmet filters, that trapped it all around his face.

Jason Todd died a third time, the same way as the first two time that night.

---

It was a few years after the first time (that he remembered), that he found himself on a very bad day, he had found out that it always happened on the day he died, and he still didn't know what God had cursed him to relive it over and over again.

To add even more crap to his shittiest day, he was stuck in Wayne Manor.

The sense of dread was running though him, his hands were shaking terribly as he tried to just get away but his body wouldnt listen, he needed to leave get to his room, any room, hid away from his family, he didnt want them to see him like this didnt need them to be worried for him, he was so stupid, so idiotic to have forgotten what day it was, so wrapped up in having his family again that he forgot his curse.

---

Dick had a smile on his lips as he was about to jokingly throw a gaming controller at Jason, knowing he would likely start something to get his gaggle of siblings to do something together.

Yet it never left his hands, as he noticed Jason's eyes had gone glassy, a distant look in them, and a dull green sheen emanating from them.

Fear wormed it's way through him, Pit episodes had become less and less of a thing with his brother, something he was more than happy to see, but...this didn't seem to be the same thing.

Sending a concerned look to Tim, who has just walked into the room, even though he hoped (he thought they were over these, that Jason was getting better) Dick waved him back, if this was actually a Pit episode, he didnt need Jason to go off on Tim anymore than he had in the past.

Slowly approached his brother, Dick saw his eyes look into the middle distance, lost in his own head, "Littlewing? Jay I-I didnt..." His hand moved cautiously, coming into Jason's space and-

He flinched...Hard. Eyes flashing up at Dick but not seeing him, stuck deep in something else

Dicks heart dropped, Jason hadn't flinched when he had tried to touch him in years, not since a small boy in a ratty red hoodie was in Dicks old room, crying as he begged to not be sent back to the streets for them to "P-please don't t-touch me...I-Im sorry I-ill be good I promise"

But the words that came from Jason were far more haunting than what he uttered in fear, a voice hoarse and small came from him, slurred and heady with pain "Just...just let her go...C-can do anything to me...j-just let mom go..."

Bile, that was all Dick could taste as he held back what wanted to come up, he knew in a second what Jason was seeing, who Dick was to Jason's mind, trapped in memories.

He didn't know when he took a step back, didn't know when he had pulled away from his little brother until his back hit the wall, taking a shaky breath he forced himself back, He needed to be there, be there for his brother unlike...unlike last time.

"Jaybird it's me, Dickie? Jason..." he reached out agian, only to cringe back as his little brother flinch back, curling in on himself, his head tucked between his legs.

Dick didn't know Jason could look so small still, a distant thought bubbling up about maybe that's why he got so big, so he could never be that small again...but yet he was...

And Dick Hated It.

His hands fumbled for his phone, his fingers felt like lead, and all he could do is dial Ina number.

"Dad? Jason needs you..."

---

Bruce tore through the halls of his home with a fervor, his mind spinning with thoughts, from Dick’s description of what was happening this was a Pit episode of some sort, far different than any he had seen before.

The halls of his home never felt so long and never felt so claustrophobic.

Old demons in his mind cackled, bringing back the doubts of himself...if only he was just a little faster, a little less prideful...

Coming into the den, Bruce scanned the room, seeing his eldest kneeling by Jason, trying to be soothing while not touching him.

Dick face was hard and worried when he looked up at Bruce.

They shared a silent conversation, ending with Bruce taking Dick place on the floor, Dick in turn leaving to try and figure what was happening.

"Jaylad, Sweetheart, you have to breath, Jason?" It hurt to see his son flinch as he reached out, but Bruce pressed on, his fingers softly pressing against his son's pulse point on his wrist.

Dread spreads across Bruce's mind as he can hardly find a pulse, pulling his hand back the dread turns to horror as he see red and deep blue bruises start to from across Jason's face.

His eyes were open, dull instead of the bright they should be, his breathing sounded forced and-

It was his nightmares all over again.

Pushing past the fear, Bruce forced himself to pick Jason up, holding his dear boy so...so close to his chest, jaw shaking as he rushed through the halls once again.

He can't let his son die in his arms yet again.

---

Hours later, Bruce watches as Leslie called time of death, they did everything they could but it wasnt enough...his mind is disconnected from his body, a deep dark numbness burns within him and he just can't understand why...

Why the world seems to determined to make his family suffer? What had he done other than try and help, to cure the throbbing cancer that is Gotham? To help his fellow man live better and be happy...

His numbly looks around the med area, his children gathered, Dick is crying onto Cass's shoulder, Cass herself has tears but she refuses to shed them, Duke held his head in his hands, small shakings in his shoulders could only be crying, Stephanie was by Leslie, demanding answers and what happened with emotions think in her voice

Tim wasn't there, he was on the other side of the cave, running through data files, looking for anything that could cure this...Bruce would need to tell him to stop, that it was already over.

And Damian...his youngest just stood there, arms crossed and...politely blank was all Bruce could see, no mourning as the others. Just...waiting.

He was the only one not shocked when Jason groaned, sat up, cursed and promptly fell back onto the bed.

---

Damian sauntered over to where they had placed Todd, all of them still so careful with him, as if he would up and fall dead if someone was to as much as sneeze in his direction.

"Tt, Honestly it is as if they don't know this happens every year..." His own reliving of his deaths was far less dramatic.

Todd had the gall to look at him with confusion, and it took a moment for Damian to realize what his look ment "You never told them did you, Tt...Typical" shaking his head, Damian sat next to Jason's has-been death bed.

"Not all of us brought back from the dead suffer so spectacularly as you do Todd, as Jon would say...I believe this is a *Skill Issue*? Hashtag get good?" He didn't use the lingo lightly,

And of course, instead of being offended as he should, Todd just stared dumbly at him "This is when you banter, or has your repeated blunt force truama to the head bludgeoned you into stupidity?"

Shaking his head, Damian tutted "Clearly I have to do everything in this poor excuse for a social interaction" clearing his throat Damian put on a deeper voice as to mimic Jason "Shut it Demon Brat. I do truly hate that nickname. Oh woe is me why am i just a little bitch that can only suffer. Worry not dearest fuck up of a human being I can help you. Oh glory be you, you turly the greatest Robin. Oh only you say it now~"

Damian gave a dead pan stare at Todds slackjawed look, "Shut it, Jon is rubbing off and me and i cant for the life of me make it stop...but honestly if you wish to know more, seek out Phantom, though...you look pathetic enough that he might just find you first."

[attapullman]

Bob From Stats | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: College is a wild time, but absolutely nothing could prepare you for the quiet guy from Stats riding around campus as a cowboy. Or what a good kisser he is.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: f!reader, smut, 18+ ONLY as always, dry humping, alcohol, drunken party games, mentions of studying because that gives me PTSD, semi-exaggerated Greek life for theatrical reasons

A Note From Mo: Somehow my frat!Bob, drunk Bob is Rhett, and 7 minutes in heaven ideas all rolled into one fic - wild! Massive shoutout to everyone who listened to me talk about Stats Bob (who is now officially my #2 Bob, I love him) and for supporting this here lil blog. May you find a hobby-horse-wielding future WSO to sweep you off your feet too!

If you liked this, you may also enjoy on our syllabus Bob From Pi Kapp.

“I hate this. I’m going to quit school and become a stripper.”

Anna gives you a wry look. “That joke was only funny the first time you said it.”

“So you admit I’m funny!”

The two of you have been spread out in the library the majority of the evening. Textbooks, snacks, and highlighters littering the glossy dark wood. You’re on hour five of assignments and your brain is pounding against the front of your skull. Your other classes aren’t too bad, a bit time consuming, but Statistics is a foreign language. Thinking in probable numbers? It was one thing when the nice guy who sat behind you helped explain concepts, but Anna does not have quite the same analytical mind.

The sky outside is an inky black and the library is quiet except for your frustrated huffs. It’s Saturday night. The rest of campus is indulging in cheap beers at Barney’s, slinking along Greek Row, or enjoying tonight’s episode of Saturday Night Live. It’s time to get out of here and crawl into your soft bed. Torturing yourself with Stats homework will be just as painful on Sunday.

“If I buy us a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, can we blow this off and hang out back at the dorms?” Anna is nodding before you’ve even finished. Stuffing notebooks into backpacks and capping pens low on ink, you’re strolling down the library stairs not even five minutes later.

As the balmy evening campus air hits your face, you already feel fresher. Campus is quiet, late enough that most people are settled into their Saturday night plans. As the two of you near Greek Row, there’s a comfortable silence as you appreciate the breeze through the trees and the warm glow of campus housing windows.

That is, until a low whoop rings out. An undercurrent of boisterous cheering and what sounds like stomping feet. You exchange eyes with your roommate. What is that?

As if summoned, a group comes galloping through the neatly trimmed cypress trees around the corner. They’re stomping their feet in a rhythm, hands held mid-air to imitate holding reigns. Drunken laughs ring out between cries of “Whoa!” and “Steady there, Lucky!” To round it off, the leader of their horse play (literally) is full-on cosplaying as a cowboy, his jeans tucked into boots and a Stetson perched atop his head. 

Wait, is he holding a hobby horse? It’s been decades since you’ve seen those horse heads stuck on a stick. The stuffed felt Appaloosa head is reigned in the cowboy’s hands, where he pretends to spur it back into action. 

Just when you think you’ve seen it all.

The group continues its way toward you and you’re equally secondhand embarrassed and amused. As they grow closer you recognize a few guys from the Pi Kapp house and wave. But it’s Anna who makes the most shocking discovery when Mr. Cowboy tilts his brim up.

"Is that Bob from Stats?" 

It takes a second to look past the brown felt hat and the hobby horse he's taking for a spin, but that's definitely the same pink-cheeked Bob Floyd who has lent you a pencil all semester. 

“Howdy, ladies.” He tips his hat to you, all toothy grin and droopy drunk eyes. "Can I offer you a ride?"

You stare open-mouthed. Shocked. That slow rancher drawl is new. The unbridled confidence is new. Actually, the entire getup is new. For nine weeks you’ve seen him in the same trucker hat and sweatshirt combo while going over homework answers together. What is going on?

He’s clearly in the middle of his house party crawl, bright blue eyes half open behind his metal frames. Just as gorgeous as ever as a tendril of sandy hair curls against his forehead. Normally your reaction to him is tender, a puppy dog crush. But this wild, inebriated version of him? You’re hot under the collar.

“You think there’s room on your horse?” Ever since that first Stats class he’s made your brain feel like it’s on RedBull. The way he noticed you missing a writing utensil and offering you his extra. His kind smile when you get a homework answer completely wrong. Anna hasn’t noticed your crush, but it feels obvious with the way you can barely keep eye contact with him yet are unable to look away. Especially with that stupid cowboy hat on.

He bites his lip, considering your response, and his buddies all razz him as he drawls out, “There will be if we squeeze in.”

The wink makes your mouth dry.

Someone from the back of the group complains of the cold and the group prepares their steeds to head back to Pi Kapp. Anna explains you’re headed back to the dorms, tone deaf to the sexual tension, and Bob nods with his brow furrowed. 

“Another time then.” His white tshirt practically glows in the moonlight. “Have a good night, chickadees. Get home safe!”

With another tip of his Stetson to you, Bob Floyd gallops away toward another keg. 

You’re sprinting across campus, cursing how late your meeting with your advisor went. There was ten minutes to get across campus and he had spent four of those questioning whether you really needed another semester of French. You make it into the lecture hall with a minute to spare, finding your preferred spot in the lower rows where you can actually see the board. Right in front of Bob.

“What? No cowboy hat for class?” His cheeks flame red, the hope you’ve forgotten about his Saturday antics lost. He looks like himself today, his signature trucker cap keeping the hair off his face. Those friendly ultramarine eyes shyly focusing on his notebook because god forbid he makes eye contact after you’ve seen him gallop across campus on a fake horse. 

He rubs the back of his neck over his soft-looking crewneck, an awkward smile playing on his lips. “It’s at the cleaners.”

You give him an amused grin before settling yourself into one of the classically uncomfortable lecture seats. Anna waves to you from where she’s rushing in, historically always late. The professor is shuffling notes at the podium as she collapses into the seat next to you, nodding her head in greeting to you and to Bob. She raises her eyebrows to you, a “remember when Bob was dressed as a cowboy” gesture, and your lips twist happily. 

“Alright, class, who’s ready to talk probability?” The collective groans and hollers mark the start of lecture. You flip open your notebook and start digging around for a writing instrument in your bag. Like usual, you seem to be missing a pen or pencil when you need one most.

A tap on your shoulder. You turn and lock eyes with the frat boy-turned-cowboy with the shy smile. He holds out a pencil to you. Taking it sheepishly, you mouth a thank you and turn back to lecture. After nine weeks it shouldn’t be this embarrassing, but every week he’s given you a pencil since you whispered shoot! a little too loud on Week 1.

Risking a quick glance back at him, engrossed in the Empirical Law of Averages while he twirls his pencil, you’re not sure you can survive the rest of the semester.

By the end of the Stats lecture on Thursday, you have one brain cell to your name and seven pages of notes. What a brutal class. Midterms were quickly approaching and not a single professor had any mercy. As you pack up your stuff - including the borrowed pencil that would promptly disappear before next class - you make a study plan with Anna for that evening. She brings the chips, you’ll supply the vodka.

“Are you two not hitting the houses tonight?” He looks uncomfortable having interrupted the two of you.

Bob shifts his backpack to his other shoulder, adjusting the collar of his navy blue sweatshirt. Other than when he’s kindly exchanged homework answers before class - or been drunkenly galloping across campus - the two of you don’t speak much. The odd quip here and there, but overall the two of you exist in pencil-sharing quiet. “Everyone’s having pre-midterm parties before buckling down to study.”

“Oh, that sounds fun!” You look at Anna encouragingly. As needed as a vodka-infused study session was, one night out couldn’t hurt. And it was Thursday. No classes tomorrow meant you had three days to buckle down and attempt to understand anything you’ve learned this semester. 

She eyes you warily, but agrees that Greek Row sounds like a better option than highlighting textbooks. Bob flashes you his timid smile beneath the brim of his cap. “It’ll be a fun night. Maybe I’ll see you? If not, have a good weekend!” 

As he starts to walk out, a feeling takes over you. “Bob?” You watch him slow down and turn, wide blue eyes watching you from behind those unconventionally cute glasses. “You’ll be at the Pi Kapp house, yeah?” He nods. “Cool. See you around!”

Despite standing next to it the entire conversation, neither of you notice the pencil sitting on the desk, left behind as you head out for your respective weekends.

“What did you say?” You’re practically yelling to be heard over the EDM that Sigma Chi is blaring. They’ve turned their house into a rave with glow sticks, body paint, and music so loud your eardrums must be burst. The beer is warm, your arm has supernaturally purple paint smeared across it, and Anna has been unsuccessfully telling you a story for ten minutes.

Huffing, she grabs your arm and drags you toward the entrance, tossing your cups onto a random hallway table where a heated makeout session is taking place. They move out of the way just enough so the two of you can slip out of the old colonial house and out into the cool night. The ringing in your ears subsides slowly as you lean against the columns of the front porch. 

“House number three? Also sucked. Three strikes and you’re out? Can we go home?” Anna grabs your wrist and pouts. She wanted movie night with vodka and a pizza from Pietro’s. You wanted to blow off steam.

But Alpha Sig had mostly been freshman and Phi Delt, while not a terrible party, had the most smarmy men on campus. The bleeding eardrums of Sigma Chi was preferable to pushing off men in polos just to grab another drink. You just wanted a semi-decently flavored alcoholic beverage - maybe three - while chatting with some friends. You weren’t asking for much.

Allowing Anna to drag you in the direction of the dorms, ready to admit defeat, you slow to a stop seeing the bricked entrance to Pi Kappa Phi. Bob’s fraternity. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, right?

It takes a little convincing, but soon you’re in the warmly lit foyer of the Pi Kapp house. The vibe is more relaxed than Sigma Chi, with a keg in the corner, an array of liquor bottles in the kitchen, and hip-hop softly filling the house. You’re impressed they’ve even gone the extra mile with multi-colored string lights across every surface to brighten up the otherwise dark house. 

“Yooooo, how’s it going?” A drunken loaf of snapback and Deep Eddy envelopes you in a hug. It’s Tyler, one of your freshman seminar PK friends. Exchanging pleasantries - the best you can with someone that far gone - he drags you further into the house. Miscellaneous groups of Greek and geed litter the hallways. Anna sees her friends from Delta Gamma and ditches you, promising to get home safe. Tyler continues on his mission to god knows where.

At least he’s considerate enough to stop in the kitchen so you can grab a whiskey lemonade to sip.

Eventually you’re spat into a sitting room of sorts, groups crowding the ring of sofas while drunkenly jeering at the game. You set yourself on the arm of one, trying to make sense of the theatrics. The latest victim laughs out a “Truth!” before everyone giggles wickedly. Are they playing truth or dare? 

Your eyes gloss over the group, trying to figure out who else you know. A few PK’s you recognize, a girl who smiles but looks unfamiliar, and…a cowboy hat that is a dead giveaway.

Standing up and walking around the group, you tap him on the shoulder. The biggest blue eyes meet yours, a surprised smile splitting his face. 

“You made it!” That deep drawl is back and that tingle reappears on your spine. Bob jumps up from the couch, beer bottle dwarfed in his hand, and comes to stand with you. “You having a good night?”

Ironically, your night is much better now that you’ve found him. He’s back in his cowboy gear, a worn denim shirt tucked into his jeans and those same cowboy boots scuff against the hardwood. You’re tempted to steal the felt hat from his head just so he looks a little bit more like Bob from Stats. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, letting the alcohol be an excuse, you succumb to the obvious question. “I need to know - what’s with the…cowboy?” You gesture up and down, drawing a chuckle from him.

He blushes under the felt brim. “You know I have a slight accent, yeah?” You attempt to stifle your laugh as he incidentally talks in a thicker accent. “When I was a pledge they started calling me cowboy. Saw the hat while I was in town one week, ended up leaning into the joke.”

“And the hobby horse?”

He beckons you closer, bringing his lips to your ear. “Stolen from my little sister over summer break.”

There’s that wink again making your knees weak. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and takes another sip from his beer. Despite the party raging around you, nothing else seems to exist past him asking about your night and if you want another drink. You’re wrapped in the warmth of his words, itching to snuggle into his broad chest. 

The spell is broken when “Cowboy Bob!” rings out from the crowd. The entire room is turned to you two. “Truth or dare, man?”

In the background of your intimate conversation with Bob, the truths and dares have reached full raunchiness. People have been stripped of clothes and dirty secrets. A bead of sweat gathers at Bob’s collar, aware that neither option is safe. 

His worried gaze flits to you, as if you hold the correct answer, before tipping his hat back and exhaling, “Dare?” 

It’s gutsy, but if there’s one thing you’re learning about the quiet guy from Stats, he’s full of surprises. The crowd bubbles with excitement, anticipating what dare will be dealt out. Next to you, the wannabe cowboy looks more annoyed than anything. He was enjoying talking to you not in a classroom and with a little liquid courage.

An evil smile crosses the dare-dealer’s face. He knows Bob and isn’t blind to what’s going on. He’s gonna help his buddy out on this one.

His arm stretches out and he points (with the red plastic cup in his hand) to the coat closet at the end of the hall. “Hmmmmm, I dare you to, hmm, play Seven Minutes in Heaven with…” It’s no surprise when the cup-turned-pointer lands on you.

Ice water down your back wouldn’t be as panic inducing. It’s hard to tell who swallows harder, you or Cowboy Bob. Every instinct is telling you to run, but that little voice in the back of your head wins out. As Bob starts to tell you it’s okay, they’re joking, you don’t have to, you grab his thick wrist and give him a nervous smile. You don’t even care what the punishment is for not completing a dare, this stupid drunken game has given you an opportunity.

The dealer of the dare follows the two of you down the hallway, leading the whoops and wolf whistles. Bob’s cheeks flame scarlet in the low light. You keep your chin high and eyes forward. He can definitely feel the way you’re trembling around his wrist.

Whether in anxiety or excitement it’s hard to tell.

The inside of the closet is dark, the faint light under the door casting only the faintest of shadows. Your heart is pounding, blood pulsing through your ears. Bob rubs his lips together nervously. It’s all you can do to not run your tongue along them. 

“We don’t have to do anything, we can just talk.” The way he prioritizes your comfort makes heat pool between your legs. The brim of his hat is as far back as it can go, his eyes tracing the lines of your face as he gauges your emotions. He’s welcome to figure them out, you’re unsure of them yourself. 

His large, warm hand rubs your forearm comfortingly, your skin too cold without his touch. You’re suffocating under his sweat-and-bergamot scent, citrusy and warm.

You bite the bullet. “What if I want to?”

His breath stops. Fingers find yours in the dark, interlocking on either side of your hips. Eyes you know are the deepest blue lock onto your gaze, a million emotions passing behind his irises. Face descending upon the space between you, tentatively showing his intentions. You meet him in the middle, caution out the window.

The kiss is gentle, puzzle pieces slotting together for the first time. He tastes like malt sugar and peppermint. Mouth warm and soft, enveloping you fully in his comfort. It’s even better than what you’ve imagined for the past nine weeks.

Bob begins to pull away, ever the gentleman. Your hand finds his collar, holding him in place. “Not yet, we still have, like, five and a half minutes.”

Despite the low light, his smile lights up the closet.

His lips return to yours in a rush, swallowing your mouth in a passionate heat. The press of his body to yours is delicious. Hands previously at your side meet your hips, lightly squeezing as you moan into his mouth. You reach up and hold the back of his neck, bringing him even closer as your lips toy with the tiniest bit of stubble along his jaw.

“You know,” he starts, holding the moan in the back of his throat. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since September.”

You pull back momentarily, a crinkle upon your brow. “Bob, we didn’t start Stats until January.”

He kisses the confusion from your face, his hands wrapping further around your body. “And you looked very pretty in that green dress at the homecoming barbecue.”

Bless your love of school spirit and free food. “Why didn’t you? Kiss me?”

“I don’t normally make a habit of kissing girls I don’t know. And clearly it takes an entire fraternity for me to get you alone.” The way his chuckle bounces against your skin has you squirming. Your schoolgirl crush on him wasn’t one-sided, and suddenly you’re hot for teacher. 

You capture him in another kiss, tongue searching the seam of his lips for entrance. He obliges immediately, groaning as you explore his taste. Four hands roam skin, finding purchase in anything and everything. Your body has a mind of its own as you press against him, chest heaving with your passion. The right shift of fabric on fabric reveals that he’s equally as affected by the chemistry.

Reluctantly, he pulls away once more, threading his fingers across the back of your neck. Takes a moment to capture his breath as he sees the lust in your eyes. A deep breath. “As much as I like you, I don’t want to do anything if you’re drunk.”

Soft fingers follow the line of his arm to where it wraps around your waist. How is he this impossibly sweet? Thoughtful, respectful, and looking hot as sin with swollen lips. It’s unfair.

“I promise I’m not.” You stroke the back of his hand. “Please kiss me?”

His large hands unwrap from your waist and travel down, shifting behind your legs and pulling you up, resting your back against the wall. You tangle your legs around his waist as best you can in the small space, relishing his firm body pressed deliciously close, warm and solid. Kisses smeared across lips and jaws as noises crescendo. You’re panting as you trail down to his impossibly long neck, desperate to cover it in affection.

You’ve barely explored the expanse of skin when the door flies open, the boisterous party sounds flooding in. Reality strikes like a slap across the face. The truth-or-dare ringleader takes you in - legs wrapped around Bob and hands creeping toward your ass - and whoops in delight. Who knew Cowboy Bob had it in him!

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” He crows and reaches forward to slug Bob lightly on the shoulder. 

Not skipping a beat, Bob shoves his friend back and throws up his middle finger. “Fuck off, Milburn.” 

The closet door slams shut, blanketing you again in the intimacy of the moment. You’re looking at him with unsure eyes and he’s praying the moment hasn’t been ruined. He’s waited seven calendar months for this opportunity and his fingers are so close to enjoying the plump squeeze of your ass.

“We can go back to the party if you want?” Your voice is so small, nervous outside of those bold seven minutes. Tentative breaths exist between you. 

In lieu of an answer, he bows his head to give you a searing yet gentle kiss.

That cramped coat closet suddenly is an inferno, his tongue slipping inside your mouth and groaning at the burning sweetness of your taste. Your hands grip his shoulders as you fight for dominance, fingers tangling in denim. Hips brushing together, still clinging to the idea of this being innocent. 

An innocence immediately lost when Bob strikes up the courage and palms your ass. Soft and pliable and perfect to squeeze in his palms. He remembers the exact day you came to class in the tightest jeans known to man (laundry day) and the way he had dug his pencil in his palm to avoid a semi as your curved ass met the lecture seat. Something unavoidable now as you squirm against him, moaning your pleasure against the pulse in his neck.

Nothing has ever felt as good as rubbing against Bob Floyd’s clothed bulge. One glance down and you’re dizzy with arousal. Rutting yourself against him as best you can with your limited mobility, sloppy kisses exchanged as the two of you can barely keep your mouths closed. It feels so good, too good. 

Lost in the moment, one hand slips below the hem of your skirt, warm skin on skin. Any noise from outside the closet dims to a hum. Two hearts beating rapidly as desire fully consumes, directing lips to too hot exposed skin. You murmur your need in his ear. You don’t care where you are, you need him.

Bob tucks a finger under your thong, feeling the slick coating your folds. The whine that leaves him is desperate and gruff. He groans against your throat. “Shit, I don’t have a condom.”

Undeterred, your lip catches between your teeth, core muscles contracting as you grind your hips forward. “Doesn’t mean I can’t go for a ride.”

He’s immediately on board, teasing you briefly before extricating his hand to support you better against the wall. His hands practically swallow your ass, flooding you with lust. You thrust your chest against him, desperate to touch every spot on his handsome body as your hips begin to grind. 

His hands are sweltering as they trail down, effortlessly clutching the back of your thighs to give you leverage. Your clit finds friction against his jeans and your mouth hangs open as you buck frantically into him.

“Look at you move, cowgirl,” he breathes out, infatuated. The nickname spurrs you on, whimpering against his lips.

One hand clutching his bicep, holding on for desperate life, while the other snakes its way atop the damned cowboy hat that’s stayed on the entire encounter. Gripping the top of it and holding fast as you ride his clothed bulge with everything you’ve got. Denim and lace against your clit, rubbing deliciously as your brain fuzzes. His hot mouth focused at the hinge of your jaw, sucking soft bruises into the skin; moaning when you brush him just right. 

“I’m close,” you whisper against his cheek. Time has stood still, but it’s embarrassing how close he’s gotten you to orgasm with just his clothed cock and strong hands. 

He ruts his hips forward, meeting your thrusts in heavenly synchronization. You’re panting as the pressure on your clit catapults you, so close to the ultimate prize. Whispers of you can do it, cowgirl, cum for me, doing so good riding me, just a bit more, cowgirl fizzle your senses. 

“O-oh!”

It’s intense, the blinding pleasure coursing through your body. Prolonged by the thick bulge still rutting against you, ready to burst itself. Lips tickling your ear as he praises you. You want to live in this perfect moment of bliss. A moment only perfected when Bob’s fingers grip too hard and his hips stutter up into yours. His all-consuming orgasm only muffled by the skin of your shoulder as he rides it out. 

The rhythmic slowing of your breaths is all you can focus on. You breathe in, he breathes out. Small smiles and a blush barely visible in the low light. 

Delicately, like he knows you might break, he releases you back to the ground; taking his time to smooth down your skirt and straight out your top. Your own hands reach up to his chest, fixing the fabric that had bunched up in your passion. Adjusting his fogged glasses to look into his beautiful eyes.

It doesn’t matter how much you clean up, one look at you two and anyone would comment you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.

With one final kiss to your lips, you feel something land on your head. The brown cowboy hat with the rip along the edge. Cowboy Bob showing off his cowgirl.

You tentatively open the closet door, eyes adjusting to the normal light. Painfully aware of the wet splotch on the obvious front of his jeans, Bob holds your body against him as a human shield. The party is still going strong - your antics have not interrupted anything - and you slip toward the front door without notice. Well…mostly, as a few wolf whistles reach your ears.

“It’s not that late, you want to go back to mine? I’m just off Thornton. It’s quiet since everyone is here.” His eyes are so hopeful in the dark night. So desperate for you to say yes. For you to be his cowgirl beyond tonight.

You wrap your arms around him and pull him close, careful to avoid the spot where your bodily fluids have drenched his jeans. “I’m in.” Your smile is blinding. “We have about nine weeks of Stats to make up.”

The brick is uncomfortable behind your back, but it’s hard to care when his lips feel so good. Broad shoulders shielding you from the hallway, trucker hat turned around and glasses in his pocket so there’s not an inch between your faces. Agreeing to meet outside before lecture was such a good idea.

Despite spending most of the time between Thursday night and Tuesday afternoon in Bob’s apartment trying every position in the book (with teasing hollers from his Pi Kapp roommates adding to the soundtrack) you can’t help but steal these five minutes. He looks so cute, to not kiss him would be a crime.

Bob squeezes your hips, lips trailing down your jaw. “What’s on your mind, cowgirl?”

“I’m trying very hard to convince myself that we pay a lot of money to attend this school and should go learn about statistics. Even though I really only want to head back to my dorm and see how sturdy that loft bed is.”

From where his nose traces your ear, a guttural whine leaves him. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to go to class.”

You pull back to look at him, fingers tickling the close cropped hair at his neck. God, he makes it so hard to want to be responsible.

“Let’s make a deal, okay? We’ll go to class, learn, and tonight you come over and for every study guide question you get right I’ll take off a piece of clothing. Sound good?” He’s practically panting as he smothers your mouth in another kiss. He’s really good at Stats. A steady stream of students files past Bob’s back, a sign that class is about to start.

You press another kiss to his lips. “Let’s go or we’ll miss out on seats. Plus I need to dig through my bag for a pencil.”

“Do you think you actually have one today?” He smirks, amused. The eighteen pencils he’s lent you say otherwise.

Your cheeks are hot under where he kisses them. “Uh…if I don’t can I borrow one? If you have one, that is.”

He lets out a soft chuckle and holds you closer, rubbing your noses softly.

“You do realize I’ve been buying pencils all semester just to give to you, right?”

Turning his cap around - insides fully melted - you know you’re in this rodeo for the long run.

Want more Frat Cowboy Bob? Hang out with Bob From Pi Kapp!

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[leighsartworks216]

Kitty Cards

Sylus x gn!Reader

I will never ever win a game against this man istg

Warnings: losing, frustration

Word Count: 925

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

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You swear he’s cheating. He has to be. There’s no way he just happened to draw three 6-point kitty cards to start with.

You look down at your own hand. Ah, yes, what a fine selection of ones and twos. None of the colors even match the cups!

“Sweetie, if you glare any harder, the kitties will jump out of the cards and run away.”

You turn your glare on Sylus. He’s sitting casually in the cafe chair, as relaxed as if he were back home. And that stupid smug smile! Ugh, it infuriated you to no end.

“Honestly, why do I keep inviting you to play if I’m just gonna keep losing,” you groan. You draw another card. Wow. A three. With no color matching cup. Fantastic. You sigh.

He chuckles and plays a card, doubling his 5 points to 10. At this point, it’s just sad. You’ve got 3 points to your name and he has 30-something at least. Maybe playing with him wouldn’t be so bad if you were anywhere close in scores, if he had 23 and you had 22. Enough to feel like it’s anyone’s game and not decided before you’ve even shuffled the deck.

Or maybe that would make it worse.

You play your 3-point card to keep him from getting the last cup. He lays his cards on the table, face down.

“Relax, sweetie. I’ve had plenty of practice in games with much higher stakes.”

“How many 6-point cards do you have right now?” you demand.

He smirks as he lifts up the edges to check. You know he remembers. The salt is ground ever deeper into your wounds. “None.”

“Mhm. And 5-point cards?”

“None.”

You frown, seemingly even more frustrated now that you know he just got lucky. “Well, what do you have?”

He fans the cards out for you to see, long fingers holding them apart.

All ones.

He chuckles again as you huff and snatch them from his hand to pile on the deck. You don’t look up at him as you shuffle repeatedly. He flags down a waiter who replaces the cups with new ones with staggering efficiency. You cut the deck no less than 3 times, to ensure complete randomness, and place them back in the center. He goes to draw a card, but you’re setting it in front of him before he can.

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” he muses, picking up his two cards.

You ignore him, looking from your hand to the cups. You have an advantage by starting with three cards, but he could have the better hand regardless. The game really begins when he makes his move.

It’s not even 5 minutes later that your head is down on the table.

“I’m never gonna beat you, am I?” you mutter, not even caring if he does or doesn’t hear you.

He hums, quietly gathering your cards and organizing the deck. He sets it back in the center of the array without shuffling. “Don’t worry, you can practice with the twins.”

You laugh dryly. “They cheat like it’s the objective of the game.”

“All the better to practice against them.”

You don’t answer. Sylus drains the last dredges of his coffee. Your drink hasn’t been touched since the first round, two games ago.

As amusing as your pity-party is normally, he knows the failure runs a little deeper today. Usually, you sigh and moan and whine, but it only spurs you on to try harder next time. He’d never thought he’d see the day you succumb to defeat.

He sighs and stands up. “Wait here, kitten.”

You lift your head up. There’s a red mark on your forehead from where it rested on the table. “Why? Where are you going?”

“It’s a surprise.” He smiles as he hands you his card. “Get a new drink and something sweet, kitten. I won’t be long.”

You glower at the card in his hand, but take it anyway. You don’t watch him as he leaves.

-

When he comes back, the table has been cleared of cards and empty cups. A half-eaten slice of cake has been pushed to his side of the table. He wonders if you wanted to share with him, or if you feel too bad to indulge.

You’re taking a sip of your drink when something is set on the table in front of you. Sylus sits back down and picks up the fork on the plate.

You blink, because surely you’ve fallen asleep in the cafe and this is just a dream. But the big, full eyes of the crow plushie continue to stare back at you. You look up at Sylus for answers.

“I’m not heartless, kitten. Even I can only bear to see you sad for so long.” He cuts a bite off the cake with the side of the fork. “It loses its fun if you’re really upset.”

You flush, from embarrassment or from watching him eat off the same fork you’d used when a clean one sat next to him on a napkin. Maybe both. You set your drink down and grab the plushie.

Its ruffle is a bit uneven, so you idly adjust it so it sits better. The fabric of its body is soft. You boop its little beak.

You look back up at Sylus. He still has his eyes on you, like he’s still not sure if you like his little gift. You smile and hug it to your chest. “Thank you.”

He grins in return. “You’re welcome, sweetie.”

[hanbinics]

✧.* BINNIE'S BOO FEST | DAY 07.

HALLOWEEN '24 [based off these prompts]

!fratboy chris x !crybaby reader

⟶ warnings: 18+ MDNI. smut, oral (both m and f receiving), yes it's 69 position.

a weak mewl leaves your throat, your mouth stuffed with chris’s cock. you don’t know how, but you manage to leave your lips sealed around his shaft, although your rhythm falters when his teeth brush against your slick cunt. he’s using his entire fucking mouth to eat you out, the bet you’d made earlier only spurring on his competitive side, and while you had thought it was a good idea in the moment, now you’re on the brink of tears with just how good he’s eating your pussy.

only ten minutes earlier were you seated on chris’s lap, exchanging hot and heavy touches in the midst of your make-out session, but it didn’t last long. he’s never been a fan of just kissing, at least with no end game, and before you knew it, he was ridding you of your skirt and panties, your clothed core brushing over his erect cock as he fisted himself in one hand, ready to sink into you—only you had stopped him.

the brunette had looked up at you with his brows drawn together, an irritated tint to his expression. “what, kid? y’not wet enough?” he’d asked, but it had come laced with sarcasm, those furrowed brows then raising as he glanced down at your damp panties as if to accentuate his point.

your cheeks burned at his bluntness, shaking your head. “no,” you answered in a huff, hands tightening on his shoulders, “’jus don’t wanna be on top.” you shrug as you mumble your answer, but chris snorts from beneath you, mouth falling open a bit.

“you kiddin’ me?” he breathes out, but when you glower down at him, he scoffs. “and why do i always gotta do all the work, huh? think you don’t have to work for this dick, princess?” he asks you, but the name falls from his pink mouth sarcastically, and your glare narrows even more.

that’s where your compromise had come from—whoever stops giving first, is a loser. and the loser has to be on top. you’d been confident about it at first, accepting his little deal with a small smirk and bright eyes—chris loves getting his dick sucked—but you’d underestimated just how much you loved having the pretty boy between your thighs.

still, you try to concentrate on squeezing the base of his shaft with your fingers, gaining that momentum back as you ease him in and out of your mouth, quickening your pace as you listen to him grunt against your sticky cunt, a small smile of satisfaction quirking the corners of your mouth upwards. only, when his balls begin to tighten in your other hand, you suddenly feel chris’s stubbly chin graze over your clit, the feeling surprising you so much that you immediately gasp out a moan, his cock being released from your mouth with a slick pop that would make you blush in embarrassment if you weren’t reeling from the fact that you just lost.

immediately, chris’s glistening mouth parts from your fluttering pussy, a grin stretching across his mouth as he delivers a quick slap to your ass still sitting so pretty in his face. “that’s fuckin’ right baby—i won,” he celebrates from behind you, leaning forward to press a quick, open-mouthed kiss to your eager cunt before he’s helping you off of him, a smirk on his mouth when he takes note of your souring expression.

“that’s—s’not fair!” you whine in response, your mouth hanging open indignantly for a second. “you never keep your facial hair.. you know how much i like it,” you huff out, but it’s just like him to use that to his advantage.

the brunette shrugs his shoulders smugly, kissing the back of his teeth with his tongue as he tuts, “didn’t say shit was gonna be fair, kid,” he chuckles, already leaning back against the pillows with one arm resting behind his head, the other finding your hip so that he can help guide you to his lap, a smirk on his face as you begin to sink down on him, clearly fighting against a whimper threatening to replace the pout on your puffy lips.

“now get to work, pretty girl.”

a/n. i randomly thought of this idea after seeing one of my other works had 69 notes lmao. inspiration really do be hitting at any time.

©hanbinics

: ̗̀➛ tag list: @blahbel668, @zayluvss

: ̗̀➛ divider by @/saradika-graphics

[starrynights-sunnyskies]

mine to save ⋆*·ﾟmisa x femreader

tension rises when you are tackled, right in front of misa’s nose. instead of yelling at her backline for getting them a penalty, misa is mad that her teammate has hurt her girlfriend.

Matches like these were both a blessing and a curse— for you’d finally have some time to see each other again after weeks of working for your designated clubs, but it also meant that one of you would be left disappointed with the results of the match. Still, to Misa, it was worth every defeat to see her favourite girl again in the flesh, preferably with the biggest grin on your face. That did not mean Misa would not give it her all while underneath the post for the entirety of the match, which was exactly why she needed no distractions. Misa never really had any problem to switch her focus on while stepping onto the field, and even if the sight of you running around near her was tempting to distract her, she still only had focus on the ball and the player making it move. She knew she had most of the next day to give you all the attention you deserved, but right now, that attention had to be focused elsewhere. That hadn’t stopped her from sneaking her usual mischievous grin your way when the two of you shook hands, though. The fact that it never failed to spur on some kind of blush on your face filled her with even more confidence. So as she ran up to her goal, she knew this was going to be a good day. Her girlfriend was in her line of sight, breathing the same air, and no longer only on her screen, the sun was out and she had a match to play, what could go wrong?

Well, she could lose said match, and she’d be pretty damn mad about it if she did, because she’d blame it on herself mostly, but she’d take the hit if that meant you would be sporting that big and beautiful grin of yours. Only, you weren't. Your bottom lip was curled inside and trapped beneath your teeth as your eyebrows were set in furious frustration. Misa would have found it adorable in any other situation, especially if she’d been the one to block your goal and then sent a wink your way, but the backline of Real Madrid just wouldn’t budge and let you through. Granted, that was their job. Misa was fine with that, if anything, it made her own job more easier and their win within reach, but she knew how frustrating a game could be when it did not go in your favour. That no matter the tactic that had been practised over and over, was not coming to fruition. It didn’t help that your team was mostly playing you long balls to surpass the midfield, leaving you standing isolated from the others and having to outwit Real’s defending wall by yourself. After the 39nth minute, Athenea’s shot hit the back of the net, heightening the stakes and the frustrations even more. It had become a physical match, consisting of shoves, tackles, pulls and harsh collisions. Just no cards yet, though that was waiting to happen next. It probably hadn’t happened yet because both teams could be equally blamed, and that would leave either team with little to no players left on the field.

Next, some through balls were intervened before they even reached you, and after glancing to the sidelines every so often and realising the coach had no plans of changing tactics yet, you balled your fists and disappeared off the pitch at halftime in lightning speed. 

This behaviour was not foreign to Misa, so she followed after her team to the locker room. Football was a passionate sport, one she could lose herself in in the same way you did, and you were a passionate player. It was one of the things she loved so deeply about you. Not that a lot of people knew, of course. She never really saw use in mixing work with pleasure and although, yes, dating a fellow futbolista was blurring those lines a bit, she would never give her girlfriend special treatment when on the pitch.

“Looks like she’s been missing you like crazy, the way she’s been bullying us to get to you.” Olga glanced at her, playfully raising an eyebrow, knowing of the couple.

“More like you're bullying her,” Misa raised her eyebrow in return, challenging her, but the grin on her face mirrored her lightheartedness.

“I’m not going to take it easy on her, if that’s what you mean.”

“She’s just another player on the pitch for me. Can’t have my career jeopardised because I froze on purpose to let my girlfriend score against me.”

“Ice cold, you are,” Olga laughed, “But that’s only if they get through us. We’re holding up well so far.”

Misa hummed while taking a sip from her bottle. She wiped her chin dry, “Hm, thank you for that. I’d rather you deny her a goal. I do not want to sleep on the couch tonight if I end up stopping their first attempt.”

Olga rolled her eyes, “That’s not going to happen and you know it.”

“Best to be safe.” 

“I mean, she does seem scary. The way she growled when she got smacked down or shoved against us! Girl has attitude.” Raso piped up from beside them, having heard bits from their conversation, “Just a bit, though…” She quickly added when she noticed Misa’s stare. 

But to Misa, passion was passion. And as much passion and love you had for the game, you also had in multitude for her. The goalie suddenly turned chipper, her expression brightening as she stood up to get back on the field.

“I know. Isn’t she the best?”

As the whistle blew again, Misa noticed the fury had only barely left your body— your shoulders still held tension and your gaze still spat fire. The sight shouldn’t have worked her up the way it had, but she couldn’t help it. There was something extremely alluring and, dare she say it- incredibly hot -  knowing that you had this side to you as well, in stark contrast to your usual soft and giddy demeanour off the pitch. It was normally the other way around, with her being the fiery one. She loved whenever you got like this. When you would fight, not flee. Whenever your looks could kill, albeit unknowingly. Misa had only seen it a handful of times before and each time it had left her feeling primal. But this was not the time to let that feeling take over. She was at work, there were eyes on her, and she’d already been tagged in the occasional post that suggested the two of you were a couple. It wasn’t like she was ashamed of herself or her relationship, no, quite the opposite. But Misa was protective over the small pink cloud she’d been on ever since being with you and, to be completely honest, she was too greedy and wanted no one to be let in on their love. It was all yours and yours only. Misa had never really been like that before. Granted, this was her first serious relationship, and if it were up to her, also her last.  Still, she could tell that this was special, nothing ordinary. The real deal. She was protective and dominate in the sense that her hand would always hover on your lower back, she'd hand you her jacket or have a bag with snacks and other necessities at the ready for you. She’d always drive the car and open a door or sent a nasty glare towards anyone making you uncomfortable. Since day one, she had promised herself to make life the best it could be for her girlfriend. She’d picked up on your tells, knew what you liked and hated simply by reading your face. She could tell when you needed her, or when you needed some space. Communication was hardly ever needed when Misa always already seemed to know what you thought or felt. It surprised you, at first, how considerate and caring she was. It also embarrassed you for ever thinking the girl didn't have it in her. In your defence, that side had only come out when the two of you had gotten closer. You'd quickly understood that Misa was a guarded person when it came to letting someone in further than surface level, and that made the roar of pride and love you held for her burn at the realisation that she'd let you in. Waters run deep, and Misa had been the deepest damn part of the ocean at first, but here you were now. You were hers, and she was yours.

Misa never really thought too much about it like that. She just loved you more than she ever knew she could love someone. It was a simple fact, not something she pulled apart to examine. She treated you like a princess, simply because that was exactly what you deserved. Treating you to the best of her capabilities wasn't even a chore. She loved it all. It had even been an ongoing joke within your shared group of friends that Misa mirrored the behaviour of that of a lion and her cubs, but that was just the way Misa was when in love. Fiercely protective, incredibly loyal and with an abundance of love and adoration to give to those she cared for. And just to your luck, there was only one name her heart was chanting over and over again. It was admirable, endearing even, that someone could love so hard. It had only ever gotten her in trouble once, when you had tagged along to a club with Misa’s national team friends and a guy had cornered you on your to the restroom. It had ended the night abruptly with a calm but firm warning to leave the club, but it had also kept you out of harms way. A fair deal, if you asked her. 

It was evident right from the start that your team had changed things up. The formation had changed, for starters. The gap between midfield and you had closed up and the defence seemed to stay behind more, guarding the wings. No more long balls, but quick-fire attacking play. With Real’s change to press more on the attack during this half, it left spaces between defending players large enough for the opposing team to work around. Misa’s voice bellowed across the field as she warned her backline to fall back, having seen through the next attack. They quickly did, and so your team retaliated a bit, passing and playing to find open spaces or to lure the defence out. A bad pass and Real was at play again, pushing forward and closing spaces to prevent a counter. But you hovered around, eyes squinted and focused on the ball and the placement of your teammates. You were closing in on Real Madrid, just as you’d practised. It was a surprise intercepted tackle that left Raso without the ball, looking backwards to see how it had gone back into play.

On her side of the pitch, with a little more overview, Misa saw before the rest how you ran in line with the ball flying through the air— eyes focused on it like a hawk to try and not fuck this up by being too eager and thus running off-side.

“Oye!” Misa yelled at her backline, who caught on just as quickly. She watched as your form neared and Misa tried to anticipate how to block out the goal. She was used to running out and taking the ball out of play the ballsy way, but also knew that you were unpredictable thanks to your broad skillset. If she ran out, she wouldn’t put it past you to not cheekily chip it over her head before she had a chance. If she stayed on the line, she knew that you’d just sent the ball flying into the far outer corner, just out of her reach. If she waited a little longer to try and use her gift to read you so effortlessly during football as well, then maybe the momentum would already be gone.

Then she saw it. Even if it was only the slightest inclination to your next movement, Misa knew— you were going to shoot it in the far corner, having felt the defenders of Real Madrid closely behind you and knowing they would not let you get any step closer to the goal if you didn’t act soon. Misa shuffled to the right side, anticipating your shot when she saw Olga appear behind you. She heard the thump of your body dropping against the ground like a bag of sand, the grunt that left your throat and the crowd that went haywire as you came to a nasty fall in the penalty box. The ref immediately ran over, the red card dooming high above Olga’s face. But that wasn’t the only red thing on the pitch.

Misa saw red. Seethed. Glared. Grind her teeth together and locked her jaw. Olga listened to the ref, while you were still on your stomach, turning your hands to see the burn marks of your fall and slowly pushing yourself up on your knees. A blur of bright green approached you in a flash and a large glove was protectively placed on your shoulder.

“I’m okay, only some burns.” You immediately reassured, having seen the painfully worried look on Misa’s face. She hated whenever you were hurt or sad, and if you didn't know any better, you'd say she'd usually feel just as sad or hurt whenever you did. If only such a thing was possible, you knew Misa would always swap places with you so you didn't have to feel it. She looked into your eyes to find the confirmation, her gaze soft and caring, until it hardened again when she looked back up at hearing the squabble happening behind you. She gave you a curt nod as she carefully helped you back to your feet. You shook out your limbs a bit and dusted the grass of your kit when that same flash of neon green whizzed by you in your peripheral. She put herself right within the circle of arguing players and the referee. But where other Real players where trying to get the ref on their side, Misa immediately turned to Olga, joining your teammates. 

“What was that?! Was that necessary?”

Olga, surprised at the sudden turn of conversation, took in Misa’s intimidating form looming over her. 

“That was mine to save, not yours.” Misa continued.

It was painfully clear that Misa's outburst was about the tackle with the amount of passion she spat her words and how she’d checked up on you earlier, not the penalty it had bestowed against her team. 

Olga put up her hands, knowing there was no calming Misa down right now. Not when she was in game-mode and, hells, not when she'd just hurt her girlfriend.

“Easy, alright, I’m sorry. I miscalculated.”

“Yeah, you did,” Misa felt the ref’s hand push her back, heard the warnings of getting a card, then another set of hands, Raso, who gently pulled her back, before a more familiar touch gently held onto her underarm. 

“It’s okay, shake it off, I’m okay.” She heard from behind her, your thumb grazing over her tattoos. Posing as a barrier, she stood in front of you, one of her gloved hands behind, careful to keep you there, watching with squinted eyes as the group of players dispersed when the ref blew the whistle and pointed to the penalty spot. 

“I’m not taking it,” She heard you say and she immediately whipped around. 

She knew you were only saying so as to not put Misa in even more of a mental predicament, but she didn’t want you tapping out of what could be an opportunity to put another goal behind your name.

“Que?! No, you were done wrong, so you’re taking it.” Immediately back into focus, she walked to the line, looking everywhere except at you, not wanting to heighten your nerves. Perhaps she’d been a little too harsh, but there were still eyes on her and she didn’t want to give anyone watching even more to gossip about— she’d simply make it up to you later. After all, on the pitch, you were just any other football player to her… even if she’d just yelled at her own teammate for taking you down, and not even for the right reasons. 

Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She reached her arms up, bounced on her toes and then clenched and unclenched her hands into fists. She was ready. But were you? Finally, she had to avert her eyes to you. Your chest expanded with the big breath you took, digging the points of your cleats into the grass to get more grip in your shoe. Four steps back. Hands beside your hips. Pulling your jersey down. Adjusting your right sock. Misa knew this by heart, even if she’d only ever had you in front of her goal for penalties during training on your time off together.

The shrill sound of the whistle rang across the pitch. 

She could practically see the strength amping up in your legs on your run to the ball. Your left hip was slightly off, the weight in your body more to the right and as you leaned back, even ever so slightly, she knew you were going for the far right corner, perhaps the same thing you'd had in mind before you had been taken down. You knew she'd know this, maybe you were trying to not give yourself the advantage over her by doing this, but Misa was not going to sit back and let it soar in.

Misa jumped, reached out, her fingertips grazing the ball before it hit the lower side of the bar and hit the net after an echoing clink. The crowd went haywire again, this time for a more positive outcome. 

Misa took the loss in stride and watched as you took your win in quite a similar way. Then, as everyone went back to their positions, she couldn’t help but have to bite back a cheeky grin— she’d almost gotten in trouble for you again, but once more, it had been a fair exchange for your happiness. 

⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ

© 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝘆.🖤

[bullet-prooflove]

Thrill of the Chase: Rip Wheeler x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging @kmc1989

Rip knows a horse thief when he sees one, especially when she’s riding John Dutton’s favourite mare, Starbuck. When he sees you up on the pasture astride the horse, he can’t believe the fucking audacity of it.

Most wranglers will wait until after dark, try and shuffle the horse into a truck but you, your brazen. It’s like you just climbed up on the damn thing and took it for a ride.

Rip won’t stand for it.

He’s after you in an instant, his heels digging into Marlowe’s sides as he spurs on the stallion. You see him coming, its impossible not to when you’re on top of that hill. You turn tail, run but Rip, he’s always been about the chase, he’ll dog you until the ends of the earth if you make him.

It takes him a couple of minutes to realise you’re fucking with him, when he starts to catch up you suddenly pull ahead, when he falls back too far you slow it down. It’s a game to you and it riles Rip, sends a flush of rage and adrenaline through his body.

He’s going to catch you, there’s no doubt in his mind because what you don’t know is that that horse has a stiff leg, it doesn’t go the distance. That’s why Starbuck was in that stall all alone, waiting for the vet’s assessment.

When he cuts you off, it’s by the stream that winds through the furthest meadow. His stallion darts in front of yours and Starbuck rears almost throwing you. It’s by the grace of God you remain in the saddle. You’re off the horse in an instant and so is he.

He doesn’t realise how pretty you are until you’re in his face, cussing him out, shoving him. You have quite the mouth on you too, he’s surprised God doesn’t strike you down where you stand.

He grabs you under the arms, drawing you close against his body to stop you from hurting him and that’s when it happens, that’s when he feels that spark, and that spark it starts a fire. He knows you feel it too because suddenly your fingers are gripping his shirt and instead of hitting him, you’re kissing him.

It turns into a wildfire, raw, passionate and all consuming. He doesn’t know how he ends up pants down in the grass, fucking you but being inside you, it’s like nothing else he’s ever experienced.

It’s when he tugs your braid loose that he realises just how much you like your hair being pulled, so he yanks it a little harder and you make the sweetest fucking noise as you come on his cock. It doesn’t take him long after that, a few more thrusts and he’s coming with you, his mouth covering yours, drinking down your pleasure.

He thinks he dozes off in the aftermath, the warmth of your body pressed against his in the midst of spring. He’s drowsy, sated, relaxed, the sun high in the sky above him, the scent of the earth surrounding him.

The next thing he knows he’s waking up to the sound of galloping hooves. When he raises his head, he sees you riding away on his stallion Marlowe, leaving him with a lame horse and his dick in the wind.

He slams his head back into the ground and stares up at the cloudless sky.

His curse has always been to love wild women.

He trudges back to the stables with Starbuck in tow, his jeans grass stained and fury he hasn’t felt in a long time. The others must see the darkness in his expression because they don’t question the fact it looks like he’s taken a tumble. When he puts Starbuck back in her stall, he’s surprised to find Marlowe back in his, chomping on a bundle of fresh hay.

“Hi boy,” He says softly, his palm running over the stallion’s nose. “I didn’t think I was going to see you again.”

That’s the part that hurt, the idea he wouldn’t get to see Marlowe again. The two of them have been partners in crime ever since he started at Yellowstone.

When he steps inside the main house to tell John there’s a thief in their midst he’s surprised to find you sitting pretty on the couch, sipping from a mug of tea. You’ve re-braided your hair and when you look at him, it’s as if you haven’t just fucked the shit out of each other up on the pasture.

“Rip.” John greets him as he turns in his seat. “Imogen was just telling me about Starbuck.”

“The old girl just needed a little run, she’d been cooped up in the stable too long, that’s what was causing her stiffness.” You say as you set the cup down on the coffee table in front of you. You raise to your feet, holding out your hand to take his. “I’m the new vet, my friends call me Jen.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[puckinghischier]

hi!! first off, i just want to say that i really love your work. i’m so so glad i found your blog. i just reblogged this quinn blurb of yours (which i’m obsessed with btw)

i was wondering if you’d ever be up to expanding on any of the aspects of it. for example; quinn seeing a guy flirt with you in the stands while he’s playing.. when the game was over what do you think that looks like? would say something to his girl and/or show her more with actions than words? or when he sees how excited she is to see him when he’s ready to head home is he just going to let it go? <- y’know like her smile’s able to erase damn near any negative feelings he’s having. playing on when you said about his girl being able to turn him to mush 🥹

✶₊˚⊹ apologies for the length of this.. when i get excited about something i tend to ramble. also, feel free to ignore this or keep it for later if you’d want. no worries either way ‹𝟹

oh i would absolutely love to expand on that

i don’t think he would dwell on it too much, honestly. because he does trust you and he knows that when you come to his games you’re watching nothing but him, but i think he would be a lil smug about it and the fact you never give them attention like you do him.

his eyes would find you as soon as he walks out of the locker room, ready to take you home and order a post game dinner while watching whatever series the two of you get sucked into on netflix.

you’d be talking to conor, just chatting casually, always having been close with him since you started dating quinn.

too distracted to realize he’s walking towards you, he walks up and engulfs you in a hug from behind.

“Q!!” you’d squeal, laughing as conor takes that as his cue to leave, saying a short goodbye and offering a small wave.

turning around in his arms, you come face to face with your slightly damp and scruffy looking boyfriend, loving his post-shower appearance after every game.

“enjoy the game?” he asks, admiring the joy on your face that only he seems to bring out.

“duh! you scored twice, how could i not?”

quinn’s ego inflates three sizes, remembering what spurred the second goal.

“oh, speaking of, who was your new friend tonight? sure you don’t want me to just buy out the seats next to you every game?” he’d only half joke, not letting you know he has genuinely thought about it before.

you rolled your eyes at him, swatting his chest. “just some chad, brad, or whatever else people name their overly confident, dickish sons.”

your words cause alarm bells in quinn’s brain, his tone suddenly turning serious. “what do you mean by ‘dickish’? did he get handsy? say something to you? do i need to make a call to make sure he never steps foot in this arena again?”

“no! no, nothing like that. he was harmless, just thought he could impress the pretty girl next to him with all kinds of hockey talk,” you’re quick to explain, watching quinn’s jaw visibly relax. “most of which he had wrong, by the way,” you continue. “but then he asked if i was here alone, and i told him no, that my boyfriend was on the ice, but he didn’t believe me. especially not when i told him it was you, the captain of the team.”

it was quinn’s turn to roll his eyes. people never tend to believe you when you tell them he’s your boyfriend, considering you two have kept your relationship decently private. if anything, they shouldn’t believe you’re his girlfriend, still shocked at how he managed to snag someone so out of his league.

“then, after you scored he made some stupid comment about ‘aren’t you going to congratulate your boyfriend?’ as if i had a direct line to you on the ice or something,” you kept explaining to him, causing him to recall the sour look on your face when he was watching you from the bench.

he kept seeing the man turn to you and make comments, figuring he was trying to get you to engage with him. you ignored him, though, giving him side glances every few minutes with a look of annoyance.

“but, after you came over and did your ‘sweetheart’ celly, he finally shut up and left me alone,” you giggled, referencing the goal celebration quinn coined for you. he’ll skate over to the glass where you sit, pretending to lick all five of his fingers as if he’s cleaning ‘sugar’ off of them, then points to you and draws a heart in the air before skating away with a wink.

quinn smiles in triumph, happy that his plan worked.

after watching the scene you just explained play out, he knew he needed an excuse to show some big display of affection so your seat mate would get the hint. so, he turned the dial up to ten and was taking every shot he could.

he hopes the glare he gave the man as he skated away from you was partially to thank, too. even though the second he saw your excitement-filled cheering for him, the man beside of you was (mostly) forgotten.

“well, i hope he realizes you only go for guys who can score both on and off the ice,” he winks down at you, knowing his choice of words was corny, but they succeeded in coaxing out the sweet sound of your laughter that he wanted needed to hear.

he loves knowing that you only get this giggly and carefree with him; knowing that he’s the one that gets to take you home each night. the security he feels in your relationship is unlike anything he’s ever known, blown away at how fully and wholly you love him, always hearing you tell everyone who will listen to you when you think he’s not paying attention.

even if he does manage to get grumpy and annoyed when people flirt with you during games or when you’re out with the team, he knows you never even give them the time of day. every time he catches himself staring daggers at someone, all he finds when he looks at you is your pretty eyes already trained on him, making him forget about any ill feelings he has harbored in his chest, just like tonight.

“alright, captain jealousy, let’s get home so we can eat, i’m starving. i was thinking sushi and gilmore girls, what do you think?” you suggest, grabbing his hand and starting the familiar trek to the car garage.

quinn groans, hating how much you love the annoying mother daughter duo, mentally preparing himself for the hours of torture ahead of him, knowing he doesn’t stand a chance of changing your mind.

[murdrdocs]

Katniss and you a career victor from a previous year just fighting it out, between the sheets. I mean bumping each other until the other crying.

-🐜

it seems like lately, katniss has been slowly abandoning her morals. at least, to her. first, willingly taking a trip to the capitol. then indulging in all the luxuries she’d previously despised. and possibly the worst of all, fraternizing with you.

but what she’s doing now is much more than fraternization. she wishes she could blame her actions on the fizzy drinks she’d been sipping throughout the night. but they did nothing but upset her stomach, not having any effect on her happiness or walking pattern. this, was all her.

the grind of her cunt against yours was all her. the forced way she held your legs open with her hands was all her. the longing and determined way she stared into your eyes was all her.

yet, katniss refused to completely submit to the moment. because despite the euphoria the bump of your cunts together was giving her, she still disliked you.

your brazen attitude as you won your games. the confident and carless way you marched through the capitol, as if you were just some common celebrity and not a washed up victor just as her. as if you were one of them, and not district.

spurred by newly found anger, katniss increases the pressure of her grinds. harsh pushes forward and even harsher pulls back. her blunt nails dig into your skin, her other hand presses further on your inner thigh, increasing the distance between your two limbs until you’re wincing.

at first, you’re taking it. a little too well, in katniss’ mind. she expected you to fight back. to argue maybe or resist. your compliance naively makes her smile.

she doesn’t even get to complete the gesture before she’s on her back, the reigns taken out of her capable hands and put into yours as you change the pace completely. instead, slow, languid pushes and pulls that provide almost no friction. almost, as katniss still catches the occasional glide against her clit.

she groans, and it comes out as more like a growl.

your smile is completed, and it’s fucking triumphant. it makes katniss seethe.

she thrusts a hand out and wraps it around your throat. you don’t react negatively, instead letting your eyes roll back and your hips speed up. you wrap a hand around katniss’ wrist, not pulling our applying any pressure at all, just decorating her skin like a bracelet would.

she applies pressure and you whine. she cants her hips up a little more and you wince. she uses her other hands to tweak at your nipples and then you’re sniffling, and when katniss squints a little, she sees thin lines glide down your face.

she finds it interesting. she finds it even more interesting when you let her pull you down, your eyes opening when your noses are pressed together.

and the thing katniss finds most interesting, is the way she’s quick to obey you when you purr out, “kiss me.”

[onyourowndaisymae]

don't mind me... just thinking about the demon brothers slowly dropping the rest of their roster for you as they fall head over heels...

lucifer // mammon // levi // satan // asmo // beel (you are here) // belphie -- others coming soon, NSFW warning below, gn!reader

beelzebub, who doesn't have the capacity to get to know you in the way he should. it seems that every season of his life comes with heartbreaking turmoil, and he just has to get used to that feeling of emptiness in his stomach. first, with the celestial war, he lost lilith. now, as the exchange program began, he had to say goodbye to his twin brother for an entire year. he hopes you don't take it personally-- he just can't spare the mental or emotional energy to embrace your arrival like he should.

beelzebub, who can't thank you enough for the way you've repaired his family. he never would have suspected that you had been forming the pacts with his brothers to release belphie from the attic. a small, nervous part of him wonders if you had been nice to him just to get his pact, that you didn't mean all those things you said-- but he knows you. even if you had been lying, you did it for the right reasons. and after all, everything worked out, right? you're here, belphie's back, and the months since his twin's return have been nothing but happy. you have single-handedly stitched his patchwork family back together. beel can't find a way to show how important all you've done for his family really means, but he'll keep trying anyways.

beelzebub, who likes you a lot, actually. he's never been too keen romance. most of his interactions had been spurred on by the other party. he's been attracted to people who are kind yet self-assured, seeking him out first. all of his experiences in crushes, in romance, in bed, have all been a game of follow the leader-- not due to a lack of interest on his part, but because of trauma-ridden aloofness that caused him to focus on the things he still had. romance never topped the priority list... at least, not until it came to you. beel saw you as a member of the family for a long time, longer than he maybe should have. but there's something special about you. something about you that makes him love you differently than he does his brothers. he just wants to have you around, always, sharing meals and movies and glances across the dinner table that make his brothers squirm. he's finally found someone special in his life-- someone he's going to give romance a try for.

beelzebub, who has never been good at controlling his appetite. it hits him at the worst of times, constantly, gnawing at his insides until he can't ignore it. that was why he is stuck in this position. a hunger brews in him, all adrenaline from the latter half of the fangol game and lust, and-- fuck, he needs relief. water beats loudly against the tiles, disguising the deep growl in his throat as he tugs impatiently at his aching cock once, twice, listening hard to make sure no one else was still in the locker room. he listens until he couldn't anymore, until his hand began to move impatiently on its own, another growl rumbling in his chest before he relents and begins pleasuring himself. his mind wanders to you, on the railing of the bleachers, screaming your lungs out in support of his team, feet pounding against the metal steps as you jumped about. you were there for him, cheering for him, watching his every move. he imagines you creeping in to reward him after everyone else left, perched on your knees on the locker room floor, wide eyes watching him with so much love as you swallow his cock, plush lips wrapped around his shaft as you take him as far as you can. just the thought makes his cock throb in his hand. he didn't have long to finish himself off and head out, but his mind couldn't help but linger on the image a bit longer...

beelzebub, whose date night just got a whole lot better. the two of you had spent the evening at hell's kitchen eating your fill (or in beel's case, eating them out of stock) then coming back to the house of lamentation for a movie. but your hand began to wander during the movie-- not towards the snacks, which he offered you several times as your gaze began to wander, but to his upper thigh. your fingers creep in further, until you're brushing against the seam of his pants. he hardens at your touch, your gaze, the steady sound of your breathing next to him. he shoots you a curious look. he quietly warns you that yours fingers are touching him in a particular place-- surely you know that already? you nod. he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you onto his lap. his view of the screen may be obstructed, but it's obvious that the movie has fallen to the wayside for now. it's him that takes the initiative to guide your hips into a steady grind against his own, little gasps escaping yours lips as he watches you more intently than he ever did the screen. grinding turns to kissing and kissing turns to grabbing, his big hands grabbing at your sides, your ass, your thighs, spreading you open for him. his fingers slip past the waistline of your pants and begin to toy with your sex through your underwear. you begin to tug at his sweatpants, desperately reaching for his cock while rutting into his hand. his cock springs free-- fuck, he's massive-- and you whine for it. you tugged your pants off in a few hurried movements. he tries to warn you about needing more prep, but his words die in his throat as you whimper for it, tell him how much you need him. his eyes and mind both glaze over with lust as gathers your juices and scissors them inside of your entrance, reaching deeper and deeper as you grip his broad shoulders and moan. when you're ready, he lines you up over his cock and lets your sink onto his length. you're so tight and soft and his head is spinning. fuck. the drag of his cock through your insides makes him groan. he doesn't even realize he's pinned your back against the couch until you look up at him with wide eyes and murmur his name. he starts to pull back, but you repeat his name-- your tone is laced with lust, hands reaching for him to come closer, and he does. he hovers close enough to brush his lips against your ear and apologize. you're a strong human, right? you can handle a little roughness? his hips pull back then thrust roughly into you, making your vision blur for just a moment, before he begins a truly sinful pace. a new sort of appetite brews within him-- and you know he's never been good at resisting his gluttonous urges.

taglist for this series: @the-demonus-aunt // @scienceisfornerds // @hostilemakeover // @snow-fall1 // @kachan890 // @rphantom1 // @respitable