#this was the second drawing I was talking about

[heeluvv]

UR FICS R GEN SO GOOD IM ASCENDING ONE OF MY FAVE WRITERS AAAAA ohmygod i have a req im sorry if its vague i lowkey just need more sunoo fics🙏🙏🙏🙏

so like sunoo and reader r like bsfs and lowkey reader has a crush on him but shes like gaslighting herself nd being like nah im not his type and then sunoo overhears her talking abt him to her friend and saying she likes him so then sunoo goes insane the whole week trying to figure out how to bring it up cuz he likes her too and then he loses control at the end of the week and just ROUGH SUNOO LIKE PLEASEE THIS MANS DUALITY IS INSANEEE

ty ohmygod that was long

omggg that is so sweet ���� and i totally agree with you, so i'm here to deliver them 🙂‍↕️

𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 *ੈ✩‧₊˚

pairing ☆ bsf! kim sunoo x reader

genre ☆ smut

warnings ☆ oral (f), fingering, nipple play, unprotected sex, dom! sun, etc.

natty's notes ☆ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

days passed, but sunoo couldn’t get you out of his head. every moment alone was consumed by the weight of what he had overheard, by the confession you had unknowingly laid at his feet. he wasn’t supposed to hear it, wasn’t supposed to be standing outside your bedroom that night, frozen in place as your voice cracked with uncertainty over feelings that mirrored his own. but he had, and now, every second he spent without you felt like time wasted. the knowledge sat heavy in his chest, swelling with the need to do something about it, to act. no more late-night thoughts of what if? no more lying next to you, pretending he wasn’t falling apart every time your fingers brushed against his.

so now, as he stood outside your apartment door, fingers gripping the spare key you had given him long ago, he felt his resolve solidify. there was no hesitation this time, no second-guessing. he slid the key into the lock, twisting it smoothly, stepping inside with quiet purpose. the soft glow of the television illuminated the dim room, casting a hazy light over you as you curled up on the couch, lost in whatever played on the screen. you didn’t notice him at first, too focused, too at ease. but then the door clicked shut behind him, and your head turned, your gaze locking onto his.

“sunoo?” your voice was soft, laced with curiosity as your brows furrowed at the expression on his face. he looked different, darker, his usual lighthearted demeanor replaced with something unreadable, something intent. you sat up slightly, your posture shifting as you took him in fully. the sharp set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes roamed over you like he was memorizing the sight before him. your stomach twisted with something between anticipation and uncertainty.

“what’s wrong?” you asked, voice quieter now, like you already knew something was about to happen but couldn’t put it into words.

he didn’t respond. there was no need for words, not when his body was already moving, closing the space between you in a matter of seconds. he dropped his things onto the coffee table carelessly, his focus solely on you, on the way your lips parted slightly as you watched him approach. then, without hesitation, his hands found your face, cradling it gently but firmly, fingers pressing against your jaw as he tilted your head up toward him. before you could react, before you could fully register the moment, his lips crashed onto yours.

the kiss was desperate yet controlled, slow yet overwhelming. his lips molded against yours perfectly, moving with a purpose that sent shivers through your body. your fingers clutched at his shirt instinctively, gripping the fabric as he pressed further into you, deepening the kiss as if he had been starving for this—for you. the heat of his body was intoxicating, surrounding you, drawing you in until nothing else existed beyond the feeling of his mouth on yours.

he pushed you back against the couch, but not fully—he kept you upright, his hands slipping down to your waist, fingers tightening just enough to make you feel the strength behind them. the kiss didn’t falter, didn’t slow, his lips parting just enough for his tongue to swipe along your bottom lip, teasing, tasting. the softest sound escaped you, a mix between a sigh and a gasp, and he swallowed it eagerly, his breath heavy against your skin.

his fingers twitched where they rested on your waist, holding back, resisting the urge to explore further. but there was something restrained in the way he touched you, something raw hidden beneath the careful movements. he was savoring you, memorizing the way your body responded, the way your lips pressed back against his just as hungrily, like you had been waiting for this just as long as he had.

but this was just the beginning.

because now that he knew, now that he had you—he wasn’t about to let you go.

“sunoo…” your voice is barely above a whisper, breathless against his lips, but it’s lost between the heat of the moment, swallowed by the way his mouth moves against yours. he only hums in response, the sound low and deep, vibrating in his chest as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

his lips work against yours with an intensity that leaves you dizzy, your thoughts dissolving into nothing but the feeling of him—his warmth, his taste, the way his body presses closer, fitting against yours like he belongs there. you barely register the way his hands slip from your waist, fingers trailing up your sides, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs before he reaches the hem of your shirt.

he tugs at the fabric, a silent command, but he doesn’t pull away just yet. instead, his fingers curl into the material, gathering it slowly, teasingly, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin as he lifts it higher. the sensation sends shivers through you, your breath hitching slightly as his hands roam, his touch warm and deliberate.

finally, he breaks the kiss, just long enough to drag your shirt over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. his gaze flickers down, lingering over your newly exposed skin, his eyes darkening with something unreadable—something hungry.

his lips are swollen, flushed a deeper red from the intensity of his kisses, slightly parted as he takes in the sight of you. the air between you is thick, charged, electric. but rather than hesitate, rather than give you a moment to process, you move—your hands reaching up, snaking around his neck, pulling him back in.

your lips find his again, just as eager, just as desperate, the fire between you reigniting in an instant. the kiss is messier this time, less controlled, fueled by something raw, something needy.

his hands find your waist again, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you firmly in place as he leans in further, deepening the kiss like he wants to consume you, like he wants to ruin you.

and you let him.

his hands slide down the curve of your waist, past the dip of your hips, until they find purchase on the swell of your ass. his grip is firm, possessive, squeezing just enough to make you gasp softly against his lips. but he doesn’t stop there—his fingers trail further down, grazing over the back of your thighs before hooking under them.

without hesitation, he lifts you effortlessly, your body molding against his as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. the motion presses you flush against him, your core rubbing against the hard outline of his arousal, drawing a sharp inhale from both of you.

but even as he moves, carrying you toward your room, the kiss doesn’t break—not once.

it stays heated, desperate, his lips moving against yours with an urgency that makes your head spin. his breath is warm, ragged, mixing with yours as he walks, his hold on you tightening, like he doesn’t want to let go for even a second.

by the time he reaches the bed, he wastes no time.

he drops you onto the mattress, the sudden loss of his body heat making you whimper as your back bounces slightly against the plush surface. but sunoo is already on you, already leaning over, his hands slipping beneath you in one fluid motion.

before you can even process it, you feel the soft snap of your bra coming undone, the straps falling from your shoulders as he peels it away, tossing it onto the floor without a second thought.

his breath catches the moment your bare chest is exposed to him.

his eyes darken, his jaw tightening slightly as his hands move immediately—palms cupping your breasts, squeezing, kneading with a roughness that sends sparks of pleasure coursing through you.

a deep grunt rumbles in his throat as his thumbs brush over your nipples, teasing them into stiff peaks, his fingers flexing, relishing the way you react under his touch.

“sunoo…” your voice is a breathy whimper, barely able to escape past your lips.

he leans down, lips parting as he attaches his mouth to one of your nipples, the heat of his tongue sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight through your body. his mouth moves with purpose, sucking deeply, his tongue swirling before he bites down ever so slightly, tugging at the sensitive bud with his teeth. the sensation sends a shudder through you, a broken moan spilling past your lips.

his free hand isn’t idle—his fingers find your other breast, pinching and rolling the neglected nipple between his fingertips, the dual stimulation making your back arch off the mattress. the pleasure is sharp, overwhelming, your body reacting instinctively to every movement, every calculated flick of his tongue.

“s-sunoo…” your voice is barely coherent, breathy and desperate, your fingers threading into his soft hair, tugging as if grounding yourself.

but if you think pulling his hair will slow him down, you’re wrong.

instead, it only fuels him further, a deep, guttural moan vibrating against your skin, sending another wave of pleasure rippling through you. he sucks harder, the wet sounds of his mouth working over you filling the space between your heavy breaths. his grip on your waist tightens, like he wants to pin you down, keep you from squirming under his touch.

he pulls away from your nipple with a soft pop, lips glistening as he drags his mouth lower, his tongue trailing hot, wet kisses down the valley of your breasts. his breath is ragged, his voice husky, dripping with something raw, something needy.

“waited so long for this, baby…” he murmurs, his lips grazing against your skin, every word punctuated with another lingering kiss.

his hands slide lower, fingers ghosting over your ribs, your stomach, mapping out every inch of you.

“so fucking long…”

his voice is quiet, almost like he’s speaking more to himself than to you, but the weight of his words settles deep in your core, making your entire body burn with anticipation.

“please, sunoo…” your voice is barely above a whisper, trembling with need as you look up at him through half-lidded eyes. desperation laces every syllable, your body burning with anticipation as you widen your legs, offering yourself to him.

your fingers move on their own, hooking into the waistband of your pants, dragging them down your thighs before kicking them off completely. the cool air brushes against your heated skin, only making the ache between your legs more unbearable.

sunoo lets out a soft chuckle, his expression unreadable as he reaches for your wrists, wrapping his hands around them with ease.

“keep them up here, baby,” he murmurs, guiding your hands above your head, pressing them into the mattress as he settles between your legs.

the sight of him kneeling before you, his dark gaze locked onto the damp patch of your panties, makes your stomach tighten, anticipation coiling deep in your core.

before you can even register his movements, his tongue darts out, dragging a slow, deliberate stripe up the center of your panties, licking the slick arousal that has already soaked through the thin fabric.

the sensation is light, teasing, but it’s enough to rip a needy whimper from your throat. your thighs twitch, your hips jerking slightly, instinctively seeking more.

“so fucking wet…” he breathes against you, his voice laced with amusement, with satisfaction.

your breath stutters, your entire body trembling under his gaze as his fingers trail up your inner thigh, featherlight, barely touching where you need him most.

then, without warning, he hooks a finger into the fabric of your panties and rips them away with a single, effortless tug.

the sound of the fabric tearing is drowned out by the sharp gasp that escapes you, your head tilting back as your thighs instinctively try to clamp shut, but sunoo is faster.

he parts your legs again, his grip firm but gentle, his free hand tossing the ruined scrap of fabric to the side before finally, finally dragging his fingers through your soaked folds.

“for me, no?” his voice is dark, teasing, his breath hot against your exposed skin.

he strokes you once, slow and deliberate, spreading your slick, his fingers gliding effortlessly against your heat.

“this fucking desperate… only for me, baby?”

his words make your entire body shudder, your hips rolling into his touch as you let out a desperate whimper—because yes, only for him. always for him.

he doesn’t wait for a response—doesn’t need one. instead, he dives in, his tongue dragging a slow, deliberate path down your folds before sweeping back up, gathering every drop of your slick. a deep, satisfied grunt vibrates against your core as he tastes you, savoring the sweetness of your arousal.

his fingers follow soon after, trailing up your thigh before slipping between your legs, the pads of his fingertips barely brushing over your swollen clit. the teasing flick sends a sharp jolt of pleasure through you, making your back arch, a loud whimper spilling from your lips.

your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut as your hands fist the sheets beside you. the way his tongue moves—lapping at you, slow and purposeful, before pressing firmer, licking you clean—has your body trembling beneath him.

but he doesn’t stop there.

his mouth moves with precision, alternating between licking and sucking, his lips wrapping around your sensitive bundle of nerves, pulling it into his mouth before releasing it just as quickly. the sensation is overwhelming, the rhythm relentless, and when he finally presses his tongue inside you, your breath catches in your throat, your vision going hazy.

the pleasure is all-consuming, leaving you breathless, barely coherent, reduced to nothing but the sensation of his mouth devouring you.

just when you think you can’t take any more, he pulls away—just enough to replace his tongue with his fingers.

the stretch is sudden, unexpected, and a sharp, needy moan rips from your throat as his fingers push inside you, deep and unyielding.

his lips brush against your cheek, warm and teasing, his breath hot against your skin as he murmurs, “fuck, look at you…”

his voice is thick with hunger, his hooded eyes never leaving your face, watching every reaction as his fingers pump in and out of you, curling just right, finding that spot inside you that has your entire body tensing.

his thumb finds your clit again, circling in slow, deliberate motions, his touch both gentle and devastating.

“s-sunoo! goddd—”

your cry is broken, desperate, your body arching into his touch, chasing the high that’s building rapidly inside you.

his smirk presses against the shell of your ear as he nibbles at the delicate skin, his voice low, taunting.

“hm? feels good, baby?”

his words alone send another shiver through you, your hands flying to grip onto his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you nod frantically.

he chuckles, his pace quickening, his fingers thrusting harder, deeper.

your legs begin to tremble, muscles tightening as sunoo’s fingers work you open with merciless precision. every calculated thrust, every curl of his fingers inside you sends another sharp wave of pleasure rolling through your body, leaving you breathless and shaking.

the wet sounds of his fingers plunging into you mix with the quiet, broken gasps that fall from his lips whenever you clench around him. his mouth stays close to your ear, feeding you small, taunting whispers, his breath hot against your flushed skin.

“so tight, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement, with hunger. “you keep squeezing my fingers like that—fuck—you really want to come that bad, huh?”

your body jerks in response, your hands flying to grip his forearms, nails digging into the taut muscle as you struggle to ground yourself.

“please! s-sunoo, m’gonna—gonna cum…” you whimper, your voice breaking, high-pitched with desperation.

his pace never falters. if anything, your pleading only spurs him on, his fingers thrusting harder, deeper, hitting that spot inside you that has your entire body tensing.

“aw, you are?” he coos mockingly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. his tone is teasing, dripping with false sympathy, but his fingers remain ruthless.

“gonna cum on my fingers, baby?” he goads, his free hand slipping down to press against your lower stomach, amplifying the pressure, making your toes curl as the pleasure becomes unbearable.

your moans grow louder, higher, your thighs squeezing around his wrist, but he doesn’t stop—doesn’t even slow down.

“then do it, baby,” he commands, his voice suddenly firmer, more demanding. “be my fucking good girl and cum for me.”

his words push you over the edge.

your entire body tenses before unraveling, a cry ripping from your throat as you come undone around his fingers. your walls clamp down on him, pulsing, the pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense they leave you shaking in his hold.

sunoo groans softly, feeling you fall apart beneath him, his fingers slowing just slightly, working you through the aftershocks, milking every last bit of your release.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, voice softer now, almost proud. “such a good girl for me…”

you lay completely boneless, limbs heavy as aftershocks ripple through your body, your chest rising and falling in uneven pants. your thighs still tremble, your nerves overstimulated, but sunoo doesn’t give you a moment to recover.

before you can even catch your breath, he withdraws his fingers from your soaked heat, only to bring them straight to your lips.

“open,” he murmurs, his voice deep, expectant.

your lips part instinctively, wrapping around his fingers as he slides them past your tongue. the taste of yourself coats your mouth, warm and slick, as you suck obediently, your tongue swirling around his digits. he watches you with dark, hooded eyes, his breath catching slightly at the sight.

“my good girl…” he praises, his voice barely above a whisper, more to himself than to you. his fingers flex against your tongue, feeling the way you suck them clean, completely compliant, completely his.

he pulls them out with a soft pop, his hand trailing down your cheek, his thumb pressing against your swollen bottom lip, smearing the remnants of your arousal across it.

“you’re my good girl, right, baby?” he asks, his voice softer now, but still laced with something dark, something possessive.

you nod weakly, unable to form words, your mind still foggy from the intensity of your orgasm.

he smirks at your fucked-out expression, shifting his weight as he leans back slightly, his knees pressing beneath your thighs, spreading you open effortlessly.

“then you’ll cum for me again,” he murmurs, more of a statement than a request.

your hazy mind barely registers the sound of fabric shifting, the rustle of his pants being shoved down, but your attention snaps back when you hear it—his moan.

low, breathy, raw.

your half-lidded gaze drops to where his hand wraps around his cock, so hard and sensitive that he shudders the moment he touches himself.

“fuck,” he groans, his head tilting forward as he strokes himself once, twice, his breath coming out shaky.

his free hand moves to your thigh, fingers pressing into your soft skin as he spreads you further, his cock dragging against your slick folds, teasing, rubbing, coating himself in your arousal.

your body twitches at the sensation, a gasp escaping your lips as the head of his cock nudges against your entrance.

and then—he pushes in.

the stretch is slow, deliberate, his cock sinking into you inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you completely.

his head falls back, his mouth parting in a sharp gasp, his fingers tightening against your thigh as he bottoms out, fully sheathed inside you.

“fuck, baby…” he exhales, his voice trembling slightly, wrecked by the feeling of you wrapped around him, tight, warm, perfect.

he stays still for a moment, savoring it, savoring you—before his hips pull back, only to thrust in again, deep and slow.

it only lasts for a second—that brief moment of stillness where he lets you adjust, lets you feel just how full he’s stretching you—before his restraint shatters completely.

his hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. his cock fills you perfectly, each deep, punishing thrust pushing you further into the mattress. the sounds between you are filthy—the wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin, the breathless moans that spill from your lips with every movement.

your legs tighten around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back as you try to ground yourself, try to keep yourself from falling apart too quickly. but sunoo doesn’t let up.

he fucks into you mercilessly, his pace unrelenting, each stroke deeper than the last, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you with devastating accuracy.

“uh—fuck, baby!” he groans, his voice breaking into something almost desperate, almost wrecked.

his hands leave your thighs, coming up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward him. his fingers press into your cheeks, forcing your lips to part slightly, his gaze dark and burning as he watches your expression twist in pleasure.

“taking me so fucking good,” he grunts, his breath hot against your skin, his words punctuated by the sharp snap of his hips.

and then—his lips crash onto yours.

he kisses you fiercely, swallowing every moan, every gasp, every breathless whimper that escapes you. his tongue slides against yours, deepening the kiss, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before soothing the bite with another slow, searing stroke of his tongue.

his pace never falters. if anything, the kiss only spurs him on, his thrusts growing rougher, needier, like he’s trying to claim every part of you at once.

his grip on your jaw tightens, keeping you exactly where he wants you, his mouth devouring yours like he’s starving—like he can’t get enough.

“fuck, baby,” he groans against your lips, his breath heavy, uneven. “you feel so fucking good—so perfect—”

his words dissolve into another moan as your walls clench around him, drawing him in even deeper.

and from the way his rhythm stutters slightly, from the way his fingers flex against your skin—

you know he’s just as close to breaking as you are.

“you love me, baby?”

his voice comes out in harsh, ragged breaths, each word fractured by the force of his thrusts, but you hear him clear as day.

the question slams into you harder than he does, your heart lurching in your chest, a tight, breathless feeling coiling in your ribs. your hands clutch at his back, your nails digging into his skin, because you know what he’s asking. you know he’s not just playing anymore.

sunoo knows.

he knows.

his lips are still close to yours, his breath hot against your skin, and though your mind is hazy from pleasure, from the overwhelming sensation of him inside you, you can’t ignore the weight of his words—the way they settle deep in your stomach, heavy and consuming.

“i know you do, baby…”

his voice drops lower, rougher, laced with something dark, something possessive. his cock twitches inside you, the sheer thought of you loving him—wanting him—making his pace stutter for just a second before he regains control, before he slams into you even harder.

his grip on your waist tightens, fingers pressing deep enough to leave bruises, his body leaning into yours, crowding you, owning you.

“should’ve told me sooner instead of me finding out like that,” he growls, his lips ghosting over your jaw before nipping at the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

you shudder, a sharp gasp escaping you as his hips snap forward again, relentless and punishing, dragging you closer and closer to the edge.

“but don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point before sucking hard enough to make you whimper.

his tongue flicks over the mark, soothing it, before he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. his eyes burn into yours, dark and intent, his expression a mix of raw hunger and something deeper—something dangerous.

“i’ll just mark you up,” he promises, his pace never slowing, his cock driving into you like he’s staking a claim, like he’s branding himself into you.

“because you were always mine.”

just as the last word leaves his lips, the coil in your stomach snaps, shattering into pure, unfiltered pleasure that crashes over you in overwhelming waves. your entire body seizes, your muscles locking up for a split second before unraveling completely, pleasure crackling through every nerve in your body.

your pussy clenches around him impossibly tight, gripping him like a vice, milking him as you come undone beneath him. your back arches off the mattress, pressing your chest flush against his as your head tilts back, mouth falling open in a loud, broken moan of his name.

“sunoo—!”

his hands grip your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin as he watches you unravel, his breathing erratic, ragged. the way you convulse beneath him, body trembling, walls fluttering around his cock, has his own release slamming into him without warning.

“oh my fucking god, baby—”

his voice is strained, almost desperate, his jaw clenching as his hips stutter, losing rhythm completely. he barely manages a few more shallow thrusts before his cock twitches one last time, and then he’s gone—tipping over the edge with you.

a deep, guttural groan rips from his throat as he buries himself inside you, his grip tightening, keeping you exactly where he wants you as he spills into you, filling you to the brim with his release.

“fuuuck—oh, shit!”

his head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and heavy against your sweat-slicked skin, his body trembling as he rides out the last waves of his orgasm. his arms tighten around you, like he needs to feel you, all of you, as the pleasure pulses through him, leaving him utterly wrecked.

his hips give one last, lazy roll before he stills completely, chest heaving, his lips brushing over your collarbone in a mix of exhaustion and silent reverence.

your bodies remain tangled, the only sounds in the room being your combined heavy breaths, the lingering echoes of pleasure still humming between you.

natty's notes ☆ i hope you liked it !!

[luveline]

Jade I’ve entered my Fred Weasley era and a special friend owns me. Almost finished with my second read through and will probably immediately roll into my third. From the bottom of my heart, it hits different. I was wondering if you’d do one where ghostie gets overwhelmed in the shop and spontaneously decides to take a walk to clear her head. And Fred assumes she’s just stepping out for a moment to get air and promptly freaks out when he sees she’s gone? Doting, overprotective Fred makes me melt 🥹

The Weasley’s do three for two on Thursdays, drawing a large crowd without fail and despite a sore lack of their most common demographic. The school kids, often too overwhelmed with their schoolwork to mail in, and too far away to come in person, send their parental gophers with lists and good intent. 

“And, uh…  Genovian powder,” the white-haired woman says, peering at you through a pair of wonky glasses. Behind one green half moon and a purple star lense, spider-leg lashes blink slowly. 

“Peruvian?” you offer nervously. 

“No, don’t think so.” 

“We have Peruvian Darkness Powder, or there’s Calesthian Dragon Powder, but if there’s a Genovian one here I haven’t seen it,” you say with an apologetic frown. “But I can ask George.” 

“Who’s that?” 

“One of the Weasley’s. I’ll be right back, okay?” 

Working like this as someone to help and appease customers makes you cringe at yourself. Hearing how you talk to people. It’s not as though there’s shame in giving the customers patience or working, but there’s definitely something to be said about how fake it feels on you. Your poor attempts at being easy-going can make your chest ache in slow, overdue regret hours after you’ve turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED. You’re still worrying at your cheek when you find George where you’d suspected him, demonstrating firecracker poppers disguised as hair ties to a crowd of frowning parents. 

He thankfully abandons the task quickly when he notices you waiting. “What, ghost?” 

The nickname is said without thought. Anyone listening won’t get it, but it doesn’t matter. You feel a little bit better when he says it because getting it marked the first time anyone ever noticed you enough to care, and whenever they use it now, it’s reinforcement. Like a reminder that you’re their ghost, whatever that is (a too long definition). 

“Genovian powder?” you ask. 

“No, not us. Calesthian–”

“I asked her, she’s sure it was Genovian–”

“They’re all bloody sure until you show them the box–”

“I know, but I don’t think she’ll believe me–”

“She’ll bloody well believe me, then,” George says, giving your arm a shake before he rounds you. He spots the woman and her Technicolor glasses immediately, jumping into a spiel they give about the Darkness Powder as he goes. 

“Can you show us the Pygmies?” someone asks you. 

Pygmy puffs, fake love love potions that explode in your face when you try to use them, help with a return, bathroom break, tight jeans with a stiff zipper, bruise on your elbow from the back door, customer doesn’t know where the stairs are to get to the second floor, you’re on the second floor, a flash of lovely Fred by the till, his loving smile, encouraging, his huff and the hair on his forehead ruffling about. 

You nod toward the door. Fred nods back, hurried, It’s fine. 

The second you’re through the door you can take a breath. The further you get from the shop, the looser your chest feels. You hurry down the alley past the dragon popcorn machine and just keep walking. Some of the other shopkeepers are around and greet you quickly, but there’s barely anyone to see. Everyone must be in the Weasleys’. 

You spot a few sturdy looking boxes down the side of the Magician’s Tree pub and sit down hard. Your face feels greasy and itchy, your hands are aching from the Pygmies, a scratch running in a road line down your wrist. You feel at it with your thumb nail. It looks like you could’ve done it on purpose. 

What if Fred thinks you did it on purpose? 

You scratch at the thickest part, which isn’t any wider than the edge of a nail, not even deep enough to scab. It’s just two lines one after the other where whatever hurt you must’ve been jagged. It’s a scratch. It isn’t– you couldn’t have done it with intent, and Fred will know that. You picture his worrying and feel sick to your stomach suddenly, dropping your head back against the wall to take deep, cold breaths. He won’t mind the scratch, and he’ll believe you when you tell him it wasn’t you, but he’ll worry first. 

You aren’t sure where you are for a little while. Eyes slipped shut, someone else’s hand on the wheel. 

He’ll worry, you think insistently, standing up. 

You make your way back to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and shoulder open the door. 

The displays are a mess. A stack of potions that promise to turn your skin a modern, appealing green have come down. Ones come unstoppered, leaking a bright yellow liquid in an oval across the floor. You think vaguely that you should clean it and kneel beside it, pulling the slight of your wand from your back pocket. “Tergeo,” you whisper, curling your wrist. 

The potion disappears. 

Standing, you hold your arm wide and pull, thinking a meagre moving spell that deigns to work, upping the display and shuffling each potion back onto its shelves. 

You hadn’t thought you were gone so long as for it to be closing time, but perhaps it was nearly the end of the day. You give most things a clean with quick magic or elbow grease, closing the shutters and locking the door. You go up the staircase to the second level and do the same, before retreating back to the ground floor and heading past the tills to the stairs to the flat. Fred and George will be making dinner, or George might’ve gone home already, though he usually says bye first. Yesterday he stole a sideways hug and disappeared a half a step away from you, clothes whipping in his wake. Fred called him a prat, and a few seconds later George had apparated back, sure that Fred had said something cruel. I know you were, brother mine. Their freaky twin sense knows no bounds. 

The boys aren’t in the flat. The door to the bedroom is open wide and there’s an obvious lack of them —if Fred were here, you’d hear him. Humming or mumbling or making the bed. 

A slip of white fog slams its way into the room in a swoop from the kitchen, a hurried magpie curling around your shoulders to hold itself, flapping pearly wings an inch from your face. GHOST, it whispers, WHERE ARE YOU? MEET ME AT THE FLAT, NOW. 

You blink at it. “I’m here,” you say, startled again when it disappears in a burst like sand. 

A minute later and there are footsteps barrelling up the stairs. You let your wand fall back into your hand and point it at the entrance through doorways, not actually sure what you’d do if it were an intruder. 

The logical part of you knows that it’s Fred, but the relief doesn’t come until he’s opening the door and stopping short. “Oh,” he says, sounding as cracked in half as he can be while still physically whole. His lips part again as though he’s got more to say, but he crosses the flat to you in four big strides and wraps his arms around you instead. He squeezes you hard enough to make the bones in your back click. 

“What happened?” you ask worriedly. “Are you okay?” 

He says your name, again like he means to keep on. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, pulling away to take your face into cold hands, missing nearly all of his usual tenderness. This is the touch of lingering panic, slowly melding itself into love. “Are you? Where did you go?” 

“I went– just went past the Magic Tree. Did you close?” 

“When I couldn’t find you, yes, I closed. I looked up and down the alley twice, I didn’t see you.” 

“I– sorry–”

“No, it’s okay, it’s fine if you’re alright.” He gazes at you imploringly. “Are you?” 

“I don’t know,” you admit, a little diffident in the face of all this worry. You hadn’t thought of whether you were alright or not, you’d just walked off, and now you’re not sure you were fully you when you came back. The longer he holds you in his palms, the worse you feel. The pinch of his mouth brings tears to your eyes. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks quietly. 

Obviously you aren’t. You show him the scratch anyway. 

“Ow,” he murmurs, sympathetic as his hands fall from your face to hold your elbow and wrist instead. It seems deeper while he looks, longer, and it stings as he presses his thumb to an edge. “Shall I mend it?” 

“Yeah. Yes.” 

Fred pulls your arm to kiss the crook of your elbow, and then the cut is healing, from red to pink to purple to white, a second and then gone, his non-verbal cut-mending charm practised, perfect. Tomorrow, you won’t be able to see the scar. 

He smiles at you. “See that? Magic kiss.”

“That was good.” 

“They’re all like that, you know,” he says, which is as much warning as you want or need as he ducks in to kiss you. Kisses twice, a third time, nose tapped into yours and breath warm as it skims your lips, your Cupid’s bow, and your soft cheek. 

“Fred.”

“Ghost, I thought you were going to have a sit down outside of the shop like you do, but you– why’d you go all the way to Magic Tree?” 

“I didn’t mean to walk that far.” 

You can see his tongue behind his lips, running against the line of his teeth. He’s frowning without meaning to, deeply, his eyebrows drawn and his usually gentle eyes dark, like he’s angry, or he could be, but it never turns itself on you. 

“No?” Fred asks, his voice dropping in register, “Where’d you mean to go?”

“I didn’t mean to go anywhere.” 

“You don’t have to cry,” he says under his breath. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m not,” you say back, because you don’t want him to worry, because you’re not sure if you’re gonna cry or not and it wouldn’t matter if you did, only you don’t think you can stand the look on his face now, like you’ve accidentally hurt yourself and he feels sorry for you, like you could be sitting in the hospital wing at school right now waiting for a verdict. 

“What happened?” he asks. 

“The scratch?” 

“Everything, lovely.” 

“I cleaned up downstairs.” 

He nods. “Okay. Thank you.” 

Fred guides you wordlessly to the sofa and waits for you to sit before sitting right next to you, not a lick of space between you as he bunches an arm around you and presses your forehead to his mouth, but he doesn’t kiss it. He hugs you, occasionally adjusting against you like you’re slippery, and he doesn’t speak. 

“I scared you,” you croak. 

“Yeah, you did.” 

You feel a sob like a bubble in your throat. You squeeze your mouth shut and press your face into Fred’s shoulder, nonplussed by your own emotion, hating to make a show of things. Fred shushes you gently, already waiting to rub your back as the tears start, and when they won’t end. “It’s okay,” he says, twice, three times, until it’s one word. “S’okay, you’re okay, it’s alright, Y/N. It is.” 

You don’t make a sound that isn’t sucking in air or the worst kind of whine at the back of your throat. You don’t sob out loud. You don’t try to say sorry. 

Eventually, you scare Fred worse. “Baby,” he says into your forehead, more touch than sound, “you need to calm down. You’re gonna make yourself sick.” 

You nod emphatically and cling to him, worried he’ll move. He stays where he is, humming approvingly when your tears begin to slow. You must sniffle into his shoulder for a quarter of an hour without his complaint, an odd relief in his hand as he rubs circles against your upper back, like this is a good thing. A part of you thinks he must be furious and annoyed to have to do it, but the reality, and that you’re familiar with, is that Fred just loves you, so he doesn’t mind. 

You don’t say sorry. You won’t try. It’ll upset him more. 

“Alright?” he asks. 

“Yeah.” 

“Want a drink or something?” 

“No.” 

“Sure you’re okay?” 

“I don’t know what’s wrong.” 

“You don’t have to know,” he says, pulling away to rub a nice finger down your cheek. He dries salt tracks and carefully, carefully brushes the last of your tears from your eyelashes with a pale fingertips. His cheeks are blushed from your hugging. His freckles are like paint flecks wet against his skin. “We can have a cup of tea, or hot chocolate or coffee. I can make you cream of chicken, if you want. It’s about dinner time.” 

“I don’t want anything. Do you want something?” 

He smiles. Endeared. 

“No,” —he follows the bridge of your nose with a fingertip— “I don’t need anything.” 

“Okay,” you say, more to yourself than him, paying a great deal of interest to your lap. 

“Are you feeling at all better?” 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” 

He draws a line across your jaw, past your chin to shy of your ear. “It’s okay if you don’t feel better.”

“Do you want me to?” 

“Feel better? Of course I do.” 

You let yourself sink into his lap. Shuffling and collapsing, his hand falling to the small of your back.

Fred holds you for a long time. After, he makes dinner, and you get misty eyed at the table, and he can’t pretend he doesn’t notice, and you struggle through every bite and ask him if he was really, truly scared, and he says he was. He doesn't protest when you ask to go to bed while the sun is still up, only closes the curtains and casts a charm to keep the light out, only tucks you in, only rests his weight against you with his hand held lightly across the bottom of your face. You kiss his palm. He lets his index finger brush under your nose, like he’s looking for a seam.

[th3mrskory]

Lessons in Desire- Part 2

Pairing: fem!Reader x Professor!Logan

Warning: 18+ MDNI, SMUT, explicit language.

Part 1

Summary: In the classroom, their power dynamics shift, drawing them closer to the edge of what’s acceptable. Caught between desire and the threat of scandal, they push past boundaries, each unable to deny the magnetic pull between them. But with stakes this high, the real question is: how much will they sacrifice for a forbidden passion they can’t control?

Word count: 7.8 k

A/N: Alright, folks, I hear you. Loud and clear. Consider this my formal apology for the emotional torment, the tension, and, yes, the blatant blue-balling of Part 1. I know some of you were ready to throw hands. But fear not—redemption is here. Enjoy.

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

The morning air was crisp, but the moment Y/N stepped into the lecture hall, a slow, suffocating heat curled around her skin.

She knew why.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she moved toward her usual seat, keeping her movements smooth, unbothered. If she hesitated, even for a second, she knew he’d notice. And she refused to give him that satisfaction.

He was already there, of course he was, leaning against his desk, arms crossed in that effortlessly relaxed way of his, watching students filter in like he wasn’t waiting for someone specific.

Like he wasn’t waiting for her.

Y/N did not look at him.

Instead, she pulled out her laptop, her fingers poised over the keys, eyes on the screen as if she were already deep in thought. A buffer. A shield. A blatant avoidance.

She felt him smirk. Didn’t have to look to know it was there.

God, he was insufferable.

The noise in the room settled, conversations dying down as Logan finally straightened, stepping forward with the kind of slow, deliberate ease that had no right being so compelling.

“All right,” he began, voice low and steady, filling the room like it belonged to him. Because it did. “Power and consequence, a delicate balance—one often dictated by impulse rather than reason.”

Y/N exhaled sharply through her nose, already bracing herself.

“In every era, power dictates action. It shapes choices, defines relationships.” Logan’s hands slid into his pockets, his stance casual, his expression unreadable. But his voice—his voice was a loaded gun. “History is littered with stories of rulers and revolutionaries, leaders and subordinates. And in many cases—” his head tilted slightly, “—power is at its most dangerous when both sides refuse to admit what they want.”

A muscle in Y/N’s jaw ticked.

She didn’t shift in her seat. Didn’t move.

She knew what he was doing.

It was the same thing he’d done in their last encounter—teasing, testing, pushing.

He was talking about his syllabus. But he was also talking about them.

“Take Rome, for example.” Logan continued, walking along the front of the classroom, hands still in his pockets. “Julius Caesar consolidates power, and suddenly, the Senate is restless. They don’t trust him. Why?”

Silence.

Logan’s eyes flicked over the class, lingering—too long—when they landed on her.

Y/N refused to look up.

“Because they knew,” he continued, voice dipping slightly, “that once someone has a taste of power, they don’t let it go so easily.”

His words settled heavy in the air.

“And yet,” he went on, “some of the greatest conflicts in history weren’t about power itself.” His gaze swept the room. “They were about control.”

Y/N’s fingers curled into her palm, nails pressing into skin.

A few seats away, a student finally spoke up. “Didn’t power and control kind of go hand in hand?”

Logan’s lips twitched.

“Not always,” he said smoothly. “Power can be taken. Control has to be given.”

A shiver coiled down Y/N’s spine, heat pooling low in her stomach.

And Logan knew it.

His voice had dipped just enough to slip under her skin, just enough to force her to sit with the words—his words. And yet, he didn’t look at her. Not directly.

Instead, his eyes flickered across the room, casual, detached, as if he hadn’t just set fire to her nerve endings and left her to smother the flames on her own.

Another student, oblivious to the tension lacing the air, chimed in. “But doesn’t control imply restraint?”

Logan hummed, tapping his fingers idly against the desk.

“In some cases,” he admitted. “But true control—” he let the words hang for a moment, deliberate, sharp “—is knowing exactly how far you can go before you cross the line.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, her grip tightening around her pen.

 Because that? That wasn’t about Rome.

“Caesar, for example.” Logan pushed off the desk, his movements unhurried, purposeful. “He understood that power was fleeting. He took what he could, pushed where he had to, but in the end?” He paused, tilting his head. “Even he wasn’t immune to the consequences.”

A few students chuckled under their breath.

Y/N didn’t.

Because she knew Logan. Knew how he played these games.

This wasn’t just a history lesson.

It was a reminder.

A reminder of that night, of the way she had let herself slip—just for a moment. The way she had let him touch her, pull her under, take something she had never intended to give.

And now?

Now, she was here, pretending to be unaffected while he stood at the front of the room, speaking in riddles that only she could decipher.

Logan finally glanced her way, just for a second.

Not long enough for anyone else to notice.

But long enough for her to see the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Long enough for her to realize that he was enjoying this.

Motherfucker

The discussion shifted, students bouncing theories back and forth about leadership, strategy, the fine line between control and collapse.

Y/N forced herself to focus, to stare at the screen of her laptop as though the glowing words of her notes were actually sinking in.

They weren’t.

Not when she could still feel Logan’s gaze grazing her skin like the edge of a blade, deliberate in its absence, cutting in the way he looked everywhere but at her.

A girl two seats down—Emily, maybe?—leaned forward, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “So, Professor, would you say Caesar’s downfall was inevitable?”

Logan leaned against the desk, arms crossed, head tilting as if considering.

“Depends,” he mused. “Was it the betrayal that killed him?” A beat. “Or was it his arrogance?”

His words settled over the room, thoughtful. Almost careless.

But Y/N felt the weight of them like a hand at her throat.

Because that night had been arrogant.

She had known better. She had drawn her lines, kept her distance, resisted every damn pull he had on her. And yet, one moment—one misstep—had changed everything.

And now?

Now she was the one paying for it.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips as she tapped at her keyboard, forcing herself to take notes. She could feel her pulse in her throat, steady and insistent, but she pushed it down, locked it away.

She just had to make it through the next twenty minutes.

Then—mercifully—Logan moved on. The lesson drifted towards logistics, strategy, the mechanics of an empire’s rise and fall.

Y/N let herself breathe.

Until—

“Before we wrap up—” Logan straightened, flipping through a stack of papers before holding them up between two fingers. “Your midterms.”

A few groans rippled through the class. Some students slumped lower in their seats. Others sat up straighter, eyes flickering with expectation.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. She hadn’t graded those.

Her stomach turned slightly.

She had spent the past few days avoiding him—on purpose. Dodging his glances, his emails, taking the long way around campus just to make sure she didn’t have to face him. She had expected him to push back, to try and catch her alone.

But this?

This was unexpected.

She frowned, shifting in her seat as Logan started handing them back, his expression unreadable.

She had aced that exam. She knew she had.

And yet, when Logan finally reached her desk, sliding the paper toward her with an infuriating ease, she felt something cold slither down her spine.

Red ink slashed across the top corner.

C

Her head snapped up.

Logan didn’t stop.

Didn’t look at her.

Didn’t acknowledge her at all as he moved past, handing the next paper to the student behind her.

Her fingers curled around the edges of her midterm, heart hammering against her ribs.

This wasn’t a mistake.

It was a message.

She scoffed, quiet but sharp, barely more than an exhale.

Very well.

This was not going to end here.

She could feel the heat creeping up her spine, pooling low in her stomach—not just from anger, but from something darker, something thrilling.

He wanted to play?

Fine.

She would play.

For the rest of class, Y/N barely moved, barely breathed, fingers gripping the edge of her desk, her jaw locked so tight it ached.

Logan, of course, was unbothered. Completely composed. He carried on as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t just tossed a match into an open field and walked away.

She didn’t react. Not then.

But when class ended, when the other students stood, stretching and gathering their things, when she heard Logan dismiss them with a low, even, “See you all next week,”—

She didn’t move.

Didn’t even pretend to pack up.

Instead, she sat perfectly still, one hand smoothing over the graded paper, staring down at the lie written in red ink.

She waited.

Listened.

And when the last of her classmates filtered out, when the door finally clicked shut behind them—

Only then did she rise.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Logan was still at his desk, flipping through papers, pretending to be unaware of her presence.

She took a breath. Stepped forward.

And when she spoke, her voice was sweet. Too sweet.

“You’re awfully generous, Professor.”

Logan didn’t look up.

“Am I?”

She hummed, holding the exam between two fingers, twirling it slightly.

“I mean, a C?” A pause, tilting her head. “You could’ve at least failed me. That would’ve been more convincing.”

That got him.

The edge of Logan’s mouth twitched—just barely, just enough for her to see.

But he still didn’t look up.

“Maybe I went easy on you,” he mused, voice low, dragging as he flipped to another page in his papers. “Maybe I thought you deserved a little mercy.”

Y/N let out a soft, breathy laugh, stepping closer, just enough that she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against the desk.

“Mercy?” she echoed. “Is that what you call it?”

Then, because she couldn’t help herself—because he had started this—

She leaned in.

Not enough to touch.

But enough for her next words to slide between them like a blade.

“Seems a little desperate, Professor.”

That got his attention.

Logan’s head finally lifted, darkened eyes locking onto hers, sharp and unreadable.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The air between them crackled.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, flipping the page in front of him. “I have a meeting.”

Y/N blinked.

For a second, just a second, her breath caught in her throat.

Then, slowly, she smiled. Sharp. Cold.

“Of course you do.”

Y/N lifted her paper slightly, the red mark on it almost taunting.

Then, with a slow smirk, she pressed it against his chest.

“Enjoy your meeting,” she murmured.

And then—before he could say a thing—

She turned and walked out.

******

The restaurant hummed with warmth, a mix of clinking glasses, low conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter rising above the noise. The scent of charred steak, garlic butter, and freshly baked bread filled the air, making the already cozy space feel even richer.

At their table, tucked near the window, the girls were deep into their second—or was it third?—bottle of wine. Plates sat half-empty, dessert forks clinking as they passed around bites of Leah’s birthday cake.

“To another year of surviving this godforsaken institution,” Leah declared, lifting her glass high, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“And looking hot while doing it,” someone added.

“To Leah,” Y/N smirked, clinking her glass against hers.

“To all of us,” Leah corrected. “Because, honestly, we deserve it.”

Laughter rippled through the group. The drinks kept flowing, the conversation weaving between weekend plans, internship gossip, and the ever-evolving drama of their university’s social scene. It was easy, normal.

Y/N leaned into it, letting herself get lost in the rhythm of her friends’ voices, letting herself forget about—

“Oh, speaking of school,” one of the girls piped up, tipping her glass in Y/N’s direction. “How’s the TA life treating you?”

Y/N blinked, the shift in topic jolting her for half a second.

Leah turned to her, lips twitching. “Yeah, how is our dear Professor Howlett?”

Y/N kept her expression even, swirling her wine. “Fine.”

One of the other girls snorted, raising a brow. “That’s it?”

Y/N arched a brow back. “Would you like a full dissertation?”

“No, but I’d like a little more detail,” Leah cut in, leaning forward. “Because, from what I heard—” she paused, grinning like she had something good, “—you’ve fallen from grace.”

Y/N frowned, feigning nonchalance as she took a sip of her drink. “What are you talking about?”

“You tell me.” Leah smirked. “A month ago, you were his golden child. He actually smiled at you. Now?” She let out an exaggerated sigh. “He looks at you like you personally set his car on fire.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she could feel the way they were watching her.

“Oh my God, you totally pissed him off,” another girl cackled.

“I did not,” Y/N said smoothly.

“Uh-huh.”

“No, seriously, what did you do?” Leah pressed.

Y/N tapped her fingers against her wine glass, tilting her head. “Maybe he just finally realized he’s an asshole.”

A few of the girls laughed, but Leah just squinted at her, too perceptive for her own good.

Y/N held her gaze, unfazed.

“Whatever you did,” Leah drawled, sitting back, “he’s been pissed. He even started handing out graded exams himself.”

Y/N stilled, barely a flicker of reaction, but Leah caught it.

Bingo.

“Oh, so that’s what this is about.”

“Leah,” Y/N warned.

“No, no, no. Wait.” Leah grinned like she was piecing together the most delicious gossip of the year. “You’ve been helping him grade for months. And now, all of a sudden, you’re out of a job?” She let out a slow, dramatic gasp. “You did piss him off.”

Y/N rolled her eyes again, sitting back in her chair.

“Oh, babe,” Leah continued, her voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. “Do you need a new professor to suck up to?”

Y/N smirked, unbothered. “No, but you might, considering your last paper was absolute shit.”

Leah gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “I am the victim here.”

“Oh, sure,” Y/N deadpanned.

The conversation carried on, laughter spilling over the table as Leah launched into a dramatic retelling of her latest attempt at flirting with her philosophy TA. Something about eye contact, Nietzsche, and an existential crisis mid-hookup.

Y/N smirked, sipping her drink, letting herself relax into the warmth of the evening. The wine hummed pleasantly in her veins, the weight of everything momentarily pushed to the edges of her mind.

Until Leah, still mid-rant, suddenly froze.

Her eyes flicked past Y/N’s shoulder, widening slightly before she smirked, slow and sharp.

“Well, well,” she murmured, swirling her drink. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, the coolness of it grounding her, anchoring her in place. Logan.

Logan, leaning back like he had all the time in the world, one arm draped over the back of the booth, fingers absently rolling his whiskey glass. His body language was relaxed, easy. But his eyes?

His eyes were locked onto hers.

And he wasn’t alone.

The woman across from him was gorgeous, her red-painted lips curved into something lazy, knowing. She leaned in just enough to make a point, her hand brushing against Logan’s forearm as she whispered something in his ear.

Y/N didn’t hear Logan’s response.

She didn’t need to.

She saw the smirk that followed. The tilt of his head. The way his lips parted slightly, like he was amused.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Damn,” Maya murmured, her brows lifting as she took a sip of her drink. “Guess Mr. Howlett’s got a life outside of terrorizing students after all.”

Leah snorted. “And it looks like he’s got good taste.”

Y/N hummed, her expression unreadable, her blood thrumming with something sharp and tight and unbearable.

He was doing it on purpose.

Because, of course, he was.

Y/N refused to look away first.

If he wanted to play this game, fine.

She lifted her glass, taking a slow, deliberate sip, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. Then, just as Logan lifted his own glass in some silent, taunting toast—

She turned away.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Leah exhaled, shaking her head. “Must be nice,” she muttered, tipping her glass toward Logan’s date. “Imagine being wined and dined by that.”

Y/N just smiled, feigning boredom, indifference.

But she could still feel his eyes on her.

Still feel the weight of his gaze, burning against the side of her face.

It was subtle—calculated. The way his deep, rough laugh suddenly cut through the restaurant’s hum, just loud enough for her to hear. The way his fingers traced absent circles against the table’s edge, slow, deliberate. The way he leaned in just a fraction closer to the woman across from him, speaking low, lips almost brushing her ear—

Almost.

She let her friends’ conversation wash over her, grounding herself in their presence, their laughter, their easy, carefree energy. She refused to let Logan pull her into whatever game he was playing.

It was almost amusing.

Almost.

Maya gestured to the waiter for another round of drinks, grinning. “Alright, I say we hit a club after this.”

Leah groaned. “I have a quiz tomorrow.”

“And?”

“And I’m not trying to fail.”

“God, you’re so responsible,” Maya sighed, rolling her eyes before turning back to Y/N. “What about you? You coming?”

Y/N took another sip of her drink, letting the question linger before answering, “Why not?”

Logan stiffened.

It was brief, nearly imperceptible. But she caught it.

And so did he.

Y/N turned, meeting his gaze head-on.

His jaw tightened.

Her lips twitched.

And then, as if he was nothing more than a fleeting thought, she rose from her seat, gathering her things.

“Alright,” she said to Maya, tossing a few bills onto the table for the check. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

Because as she walked away, she felt it—the weight of his stare, the frustration rolling off him in waves, thick and heavy and burning with something he hadn’t quite tamed yet.

Good.

Let him simmer.

******

Logan was late.

A rare thing. An unacceptable thing.

And it was because of his damn car, which decided this morning—of all mornings—that it wasn’t going to start. He’d wasted fifteen minutes trying to fix it himself, another five debating if he should just put his fist through the hood, and another ten waiting for a uber to show up.

Annoyance curled hot in his chest, pressing against his ribs like a vice.

Fine.

It wasn’t the first time the universe threw obstacles in his way.

At least he had someone reliable to handle things.

So as he sat in the back of the uber, Logan pulled out his phone and sent a quick, no-nonsense text.

Tell them I’ll be late. Start the lecture.

Short. Clear. He didn’t need to say more. Y/N would handle it.

Except—

She didn’t.

The second he stepped into the lecture hall, his mood went from bad to worse.

The room was chaos. Conversations rang out unchecked, students still standing, still filing in, notebooks tossed onto desks with all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning.

Logan’s gaze flicked toward her usual seat.

Empty.

His jaw tightened.

He let the pause stretch, let his frustration settle in his bones, before he strode down the steps to the front of the class.

When he spoke, his voice cut through the noise like a blade.

“Sit.”

The command landed with immediate effect. Conversations died. Chairs scraped against the floor.

A few students exchanged wary glances, picking up on the fact that their professor was in no mood for patience.

Logan set his bag down on the desk a little harder than necessary. The silence stretched, thick and expectant, but he didn’t give them anything—not yet.

Instead, he rolled up his sleeves with slow, deliberate movements, exhaling through his nose before finally speaking.

"Last class, we talked about power. About control.”

He turned to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker, and dragged the words across the surface in sharp, precise strokes.

“Today,” he continued, voice smooth, “we’re shifting to influence.”

Another slow line drawn beneath the word.

“How it’s used. How it’s abused. And—” his voice dipped lower, his gaze cutting through the room— “how those who think they have it often don’t.”

A beat of silence.

Logan let it linger, let the weight of his words settle over the students before he turned back to face them.

“Influence,” he went on, stepping forward, “isn’t about brute strength. It’s not about who yells the loudest or who has the biggest army.”

His hands slipped into his pockets as he paced.

“Real influence is quieter. Subtler. It’s knowing exactly what someone wants—” he tilted his head slightly, “—and deciding whether or not you’re going to give it to them.”

He caught a few students exchanging glances, intrigued.

They had no idea.

Because Logan wasn’t talking about history. Not really.

He was talking about something else entirely.

Something sharp. Something frustrating. Something that had the nerve to not show up today.

Y/N.

His fingers flexed at his sides.

She had never missed a class before. Not once. Not even when she had every reason to.

And yet—here he was, staring at an empty seat.

His grip on the marker tightened as he forced himself to keep going.

"History is full of people who thought they had influence,” he said, dragging his attention back to the class. “People who assumed their power was absolute. That they had control over those beneath them.”

A slow, measured breath.

“But control is a fickle thing.”

He turned back to the whiteboard, scrawling another word beneath Influence.

“Perception.”

“The truth is,” he continued, “most of history’s so-called ‘great leaders’ weren’t actually in control. They were at the mercy of perception. The illusion of power. And illusions—” he capped the marker with an audible click, “—can be shattered.”

A few students scribbled in their notebooks, nodding along. Others sat back, watching him with quiet focus.

But Logan wasn’t watching them.

He was watching the damn clock.

Waiting.

Expecting.

The door never opened.

She never walked in.

His jaw ticked.

Fine.

If she wanted to play games, she’d have to try harder than this.

Logan finished the lecture with practiced ease, but his patience had thinned to a knife’s edge. By the time class ended, he was done pretending.

As students packed up their things, Logan leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, gaze sharp as it swept over the room.

Then his eyes landed on her friend.

She was taking her time, slow in the way only someone deliberately avoiding something could be. Flipping through her notebook, adjusting the strap of her bag—stalling.

Logan wasn’t in the mood for patience.

“Where’s Y/N?”

It wasn’t a casual question, no matter how level his tone was.

The friend stilled for half a second before flicking her eyes up to him. A knowing look. Curious. Wary.

“She didn’t say much last night,” she said eventually, shutting her notebook. “We left the club, and then… she was gone.”

Logan’s jaw ticked.

Gone.

He didn’t like the sound of that.

Didn’t like that they hadn’t seen her after.

Didn’t like the way the friend was looking at him now, sharp and assessing, as if putting pieces together.

“I let her know I’d be late this morning.” His voice was calm, but the words had an edge. A reminder. A fact.

The friend tilted her head, considering him. Then, with something just shy of a smirk, she said, “Guess she had more important things to do.”

A slow exhale through his nose.

Logan held her gaze for a beat longer before pushing off the desk, his movements controlled, precise.

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

If she was trying to make a point—

Message fucking received.

******

Logan didn’t leave the classroom right away.

He lingered.

The students had cleared out, their chatter fading down the hall, but he stood by the desk, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the empty chair where she should have been.

She hadn’t shown up.

Not for class. Not for him.

His jaw ticked.

The room was still, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights. He exhaled sharply, reaching for his coffee. The cup was empty.

Great.

With a muttered curse, he grabbed his things and strode toward the door. The sound of his own footsteps echoed in the now-empty hallway, steady, controlled.

Controlled.

Power can be taken. Control has to be given.

The words from his own damn lecture slithered back to him, unwanted. He scowled, pushing through the building’s heavy front doors and stepping outside. The air had cooled, the lingering heat of the day fading into a crisp breeze.

He barely noticed.

His mind kept circling back to her absence, to the night before. To the moment she had downed her drink, barely even looking at him as she walked away.

She knew he saw her. She knew he was watching.

And yet she hadn’t given him the satisfaction of even a reaction.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag as he made his way across campus, past clusters of students, past the coffee cart where she sometimes stopped between classes.

The cup he usually found sitting on his desk—her order, slid across with an offhand comment about him needing it more than her—hadn’t been there today.

It was nothing.

So why the fuck did it feel like something?

By the time he reached his office, his patience was worn thin. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet thud, and he dropped his things onto the desk, rolling his shoulders back.

A heavy exhale.

He should be grading. Preparing for the next lecture.

Instead, he reached for his phone.

No messages.

Nothing.

His jaw clenched.

Fine.

He leaned back, rubbing a hand along his jaw before pulling out a test paper—the one she should’ve been helping him grade. The one he had deliberately marked lower than it deserved, just to watch her reaction.

Except there hadn’t been one.

He scoffed under his breath, tossing the paper aside.

This is ridiculous.

His gaze flickered to his laptop, fingers already moving before he fully decided.

If she wouldn’t come to him—

Maybe it was time he sent for her.

Logan wasn’t the type to chase.

Not students. Not women. Not anyone.

And yet—

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the email cursor blinking like it was mocking him.

Subject: Need Your Assistance

Y/N,

I need help reviewing the material for next week’s class. See me in my office in an hour.

He stared at it, jaw tight, his other hand gripping the armrest of his chair.

It was a weak excuse. He knew it. She would know it.

But it was better than nothing.

With a quiet exhale, he hit send—and sat back, arms crossed, waiting.

One hour.

Two.

Nothing.

He scowled, checking his inbox again like the email would magically appear.

His hand moved to his phone before he could think better of it.

She had never ignored him before. Not really. Not like this.

He tapped her contact. Called.

No answer.

Logan exhaled through his nose, setting the phone down with more force than necessary.

Fuck this.

She wanted to play games?

He pushed back from his desk, grabbed his keys, and left without another thought.

Why did this bother him so much?

Was it the fact that she had ignored his email? His call?

Or was it the way she had walked out of that restaurant without a second glance—without giving him the satisfaction of a reaction?

His fingers curled around the steering wheel.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he was done waiting.

******

The hallway was quiet, the fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly. Logan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back as he knocked. Once. Twice.

A pause. Then, soft footsteps on the other side of the door.

When it finally opened—

He didn’t know what he was expecting.

But it sure as hell wasn’t this.

Y/N stood there looking… put together.

Not sick. Not disheveled from a long night. Not the wreck he had pictured, curled up in bed nursing a hangover.

No.

She looked like she had just come from a class—not his, obviously, but somewhere.

Somewhere else.

His fingers curled slightly against his palm.

Her brows furrowed just a little, eyes flickering over his face. Like she wasn’t expecting him.

“…Professor?”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. “You didn’t show up.”

Y/N blinked, adjusting her bag strap. “I know.”

His jaw tightened. She wasn’t even offering an excuse. No flimsy I wasn’t feeling well, no Sorry, I lost track of time.

Just—I know.

He stared at her for a beat before tilting his head. “You’re my TA.”

She nodded. “I’m aware.”

Logan let a slow exhale drag through his teeth. “Then you should also be aware that skipping your job isn’t an option.”

Y/N’s expression remained infuriatingly unreadable. “I’ll make up the hours.”

He huffed a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Not how it works, sweetheart.”

Something flickered in her eyes at that—something sharp—but she didn’t take the bait.

Instead, she lifted a brow, crossing her arms. “Would you like me to submit an official apology?”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line.

She was playing with him.

“I’d like you to do your damn job,” he said evenly.

Silence.

She held his gaze, unwavering.

Then, slowly, she leaned against the doorframe, tilting her head. “You’re upset.”

His fingers twitched. “I’m annoyed.”

“Because I missed class?”

His jaw clenched.

Yes. No. Maybe.

Logan inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “Because you didn’t even have the decency to let me know.”

Y/N’s expression remained infuriatingly calm. “I didn’t realize I had to report my every move to you.”

Logan stared at her, eyes dark.

That tone. That dismissive little tone.

Like he was just another professor. Like he was someone who could be ignored without consequence.

Like she hadn’t walked away from him last night without a second glance.

His grip on the doorframe tightened.

“Fine,” he said, voice low, smooth. “I’ll just make sure the department knows you’re too busy for this position.”

It was an empty threat. They both knew it.

Still—her brows lifted slightly, like she was finally paying attention.

She exhaled slowly, tilting her head. “I’ll be there next class.”

Logan held her gaze for a second longer.

“Make sure you are.”

They just stood there, neither moving, neither speaking.

Y/N’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the doorframe, but her expression remained unreadable. Logan’s jaw was tight, his eyes dark, unmoving.

She should’ve closed the door. Should’ve ended this.

But she didn’t.

And neither did he.

The hallway was too quiet, the seconds stretching thin between them. Something unspoken hung in the air, thick and heavy, like a breath held just before a storm.

Then, slowly, Y/N exhaled, tilting her head.

“…Is there something else you wanna say?”

Logan didn’t blink.

Did he?

Maybe.

Maybe he wanted to ask if she had gone to that damn club just to make a point.

Maybe he wanted to say that she should never ignore his calls again.

Maybe he wanted to take a step forward, close the space between them, just to see if she would move.

But he did none of those things.

Instead, Y/N let out a quiet hum, eyes flickering over his face. “Or can we renegotiate my grade?”

Logan’s fingers twitched.

That smart mouth. That fucking attitude.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Watch it.”

Y/N only lifted a brow.

And for a second, just a fraction of a second, his gaze dropped—to her mouth, to the curve of it, the way her lips almost parted like she had caught the motion and dared him to look again.

But Logan forced his eyes back up, breathing slow through his nose.

“I’ll see you next class,” she said smoothly.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t move.Neither of them moved.

Y/N stood there, her chin tipped just slightly, the sharp glint in her eyes something between defiance and amusement. She knew exactly what she was doing. Exactly what kind of fire she was playing with.

And Logan—Logan was this close to forgetting every goddamn rule.

His fingers flexed at his sides, jaw tight, breath slow and measured. The logical part of his mind, the one that still had a grip on reality, told him to leave. Turn around, walk back down that hallway, pretend this conversation had never happened.

But the other part—the part that had spent the last week stewing in frustration, in her absence, in the way she had looked right through him at the restaurant and walked away like he was nothing—wasn’t listening.

His eyes dragged over her, slow, deliberate.

She looked perfect. Effortless. Put together. Like she hadn’t ignored his calls, his emails. Like she hadn’t left him waiting.

That got under his skin more than it should have.

“I’ll see you next class,” she repeated, voice smooth, tilting her head like she was dismissing him.

Logan didn’t fucking move.

Something in the air shifted.

Tension thickened, curling, twisting, stretching taut like a wire about to snap.

She didn’t step back. Didn’t shut the door.

And Logan—Logan didn’t walk away.

Instead, he took a slow step forward.

Just one.

Her breath hitched. Not much. Just a fraction of a second. But he caught it.

His head tilted, studying her.

Waiting.

Daring.

Logan exhaled, slow and steady.

He should go. He should.

His lips parted, but whatever he meant to say—whatever line he still thought he could hold—

It disappeared.

Because Y/N took a step too.

Closer.

Not much, but enough.

Enough that he could smell her perfume, light but intoxicating. Enough that the heat of her skin seemed to seep into him. Enough that her lips—soft, parted, waiting—were just there.

And Logan—Logan wasn’t a man of patience.

Not when it came to her.

His hand moved before he could stop it.

Fingers curling around her wrist, tugging—just slightly, just enough.

And Y/N—Y/N didn’t pull away.

Didn’t protest.

Didn’t do a goddamn thing except look at him, pulse fluttering under his grip, her lips parting as her breath caught—

And that was it.

That was all it took.

His mouth was on hers in a second, rough, desperate, furious, like he had been holding himself back for too long and finally let the dam break.

And fuck, she kissed him back.

She met him, matched him, fingers threading into his hair as she tugged, mouth opening under his like she had been waiting for this just as much as he had.

The heat of her burned.

Logan pressed her back against the doorframe, fingers digging into her waist, tasting the sharp bite of her earlier smirk on his tongue.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft.

It was frustration and tension and a week’s worth of unspoken words spilling between them in gasps and teeth and heat.

And fuck, she wanted.

He could feel it in the way her hands clenched in his shirt, the way her hips tilted toward him without thinking, the way she let out the smallest, breathiest sound against his lips—

A sound that almost made him lose it.

Logan’s mouth crashed against hers like he was done holding back, done pretending this didn’t matter. His hands were already on her, fingers gripping her waist, sliding beneath her sweater to touch bare skin, hot and possessive.

Y/N gasped against his lips, but she didn’t stop him—wouldn’t stop him. Not when she had wanted this just as much.

Not when she had spent nights replaying every look, every touch, every moment he had gotten too close and then pulled away.

Not this time.

Her fingers tangled in his shirt, fisting the fabric as she yanked him closer, drinking in the low, needy sound he made in the back of his throat. His body pressed into hers, hard and unyielding, like he wanted to cage her in completely, like he wanted to remind her exactly who had been in control this whole time.

But she wasn’t about to make this easy for him.

She tugged at his lower lip with her teeth, just enough to make him groan, just enough to push him further, and fuck, she felt the way his fingers dug into her hips in response.

She had never seen him like this.

Never seen him lose control.

And it was intoxicating.

"Shit," Logan growled against her mouth before his lips left hers, dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat. His teeth grazed the delicate skin there, and Y/N sucked in a sharp breath, nails raking over his shoulders.

“You just gonna stand there, professor?” she murmured, breathless, teasing. “Or are you actually gonna—”

Logan lifted her.

Just—effortless, like she weighed nothing, like he was done listening to her mouth. Her back hit the door, her legs wrapping around his waist as his hands slid beneath her thighs, fingers flexing against bare skin.

“I warned you to watch it,” he muttered, voice rough, barely restrained.

Y/N smirked, dragging her fingers up into his hair, tugging just enough to make his jaw clench. “Or what?”

Logan growled.

And then he tore her sweater off.

Just—over her head, tossed somewhere behind them, forgotten the second his hands were back on her, mouth covering every inch of exposed skin.

And Y/N—

Fuck.

She was gone.

She barely had the presence of mind to kick the door shut behind them before Logan was moving, walking them deeper into the room without ever letting her go.

It was desperate. Messy. Clothes lost between touches, gasps swallowed between kisses that grew rougher, hungrier.

By the time they hit the bed, she was already his.

And neither of them had any intention of stopping.

Logan wasn’t gentle.

Didn’t ease into it.

Didn’t give her time to think, to second-guess, to do anything but feel.

Because fuck, he had held back for too long.

His mouth was on her again before she could catch her breath, rough hands roaming, sliding over bare skin like he was starving—like he wanted to commit every inch of her to memory.

Y/N arched beneath him, body humming with something raw and electric as his lips dragged down, down, teeth scraping, tongue soothing—leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

“Logan,” she breathed, fingers fisting in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp.

He groaned, deep and rough, his grip tightening on her hips as he pressed her deeper into the mattress.

She felt him everywhere.

Overpowering. Unyielding. A fucking force of nature.

Her breath hitched when he slid lower, lips teasing, testing, eyes flicking up to meet hers—dark, hungry, wild.

Then he smirked.

And ruined her.

Logan was all rough edges and raw hunger.

No hesitation. No pretense. Just heat.

His mouth was everywhere—dragging down the column of her throat, teeth grazing, lips soothing, hands gripping like he owned her. Like he’d finally snapped that last thread of restraint and was making up for lost time.

Y/N gasped as he pushed her back against the mattress, his weight pressing into her, solid and hot and relentless.

Her shirt was gone before she could blink.

So were his.

He wasn’t gentle when he kissed her—didn’t take his time, didn’t tease. He kissed her like he was trying to consume her, like he wanted to taste every breath she took.

His hands were rough, calloused, dragging over soft skin, fingers tracing, kneading, gripping as he slid lower.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her skin, voice gravelly, thick with something dark and needy.

Y/N barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on her again, trailing down, teeth scraping, tongue flicking—until she was whimpering, fingers tugging at his hair, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

Then he groaned, deep and guttural, hands tightening on her hips as he dragged her closer, mouth hot and wet and sinful against her skin.

“Logan—” Her voice broke, back arching, pleasure coiling tight in her stomach, dizzying and overwhelming.

He didn’t slow down.

Didn’t let up.

Didn’t stop until she was shattering, nails digging into his shoulders, gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

And when she finally collapsed against the sheets, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths—

He smirked.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?”

Y/N blinked up at him, dazed, lips swollen, body still buzzing.

Then—slowly—she smirked back.

“Oh, I’m just getting started.”

Logan’s eyes darkened.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

And then he was kissing her again—hungry, desperate—like he wasn’t done with her yet.

Because he wasn’t.

Not even close.

Logan didn’t take his time.

Didn’t waste a second.

The moment Y/N smirked up at him, all challenge and temptation, he was on her again—his mouth claiming hers, his hands gripping, sliding, possessive.

She gasped when he flipped them, her thighs straddling his hips, hands braced against his chest. His skin was hot under her fingertips, muscles shifting, tensing—barely restrained strength, coiled and waiting to snap.

She felt the hard press of him against her, thick and heavy through his jeans, and fuck—the way he was looking at her, all dark eyes and barely controlled hunger, like he was going to ruin her—

Her breath hitched.

“You gonna sit there all night?” Logan drawled, voice low, rough. His hands settled on her hips, fingers digging in just enough to make her feel it. “Or are you finally done playin’ games?”

Y/N tilted her head, nails dragging down his chest, slow and teasing.

“You’re the one who showed up at my door, Professor.”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose, something dangerous flashing in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he muttered, flipping them again until she was under him, caged in, no escape. “And look where that got us.”

Then his mouth was on her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast, tongue flicking over a peaked nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, nails scraping, and he groaned, pressing his hips into hers, letting her feel exactly what she was doing to him.

“Logan—”

Her voice broke, pleasure coiling tight, anticipation thrumming under her skin.

Logan lifted his head, gaze locking onto hers—dark, heavy, unreadable.

“Tell me you want this.” His voice was low, rough, but his grip on her waist gentled, thumbs stroking slow circles against her skin. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Y/N stared up at him, heart hammering.

She should say no.

Should tell him this was a mistake.

That this could never happen.

But then he rolled his hips against hers, slow, deliberate—

And she broke.

“Don’t stop.”

Logan cursed under his breath, something in his expression cracking—then he was moving, shedding the last barriers between them, pressing her into the mattress as he lined himself up, the thick head of him teasing her entrance.

Y/N gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, aching for more.

And Logan—

Logan just grinned, sharp and wicked.

“Hope you know what you’re askin’ for, sweetheart.”

Logan buried himself deep, a guttural sound ripping from his throat as Y/N arched beneath him, fingers clawing at his back. Heat coiled tight, sharp and electric, every nerve in her body lighting up as he set a ruthless pace—one that left no room for hesitation, no space for second thoughts.

She gasped, nails biting into his shoulders, but Logan only groaned in response, dragging his teeth over the curve of her throat, sucking a mark into her skin like he wanted to brand himself into her.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice raw, strained. His hands slid beneath her thighs, hitching them higher around his waist, and the shift had her choking on a moan, her body bowing into him.

The smirk that curled his lips was devastating. “That good, huh?”

Y/N barely had the presence of mind to glare. “Shut up.”

Logan fucked her like he was making up for every moment he’d held back. Like he was claiming something that had always been his, something he’d spent too long pretending he didn’t want.

And Y/N—she let him.

Let him grip her thighs, spread her open, thrust deep until she couldn’t do anything but take it, body writhing under him, breath stolen from her lungs.

“Logan—” His name slipped out like a prayer, like a plea, her fingers fisting in his hair, dragging, desperate.

Logan chuckled—dark, low, smug as hell. But the amusement didn’t last. Not when she clenched around him, not when she rolled her hips just enough to have his breath stuttering against her skin. His grip on her tightened, bruising, grounding.

Then he was moving again, relentless, dragging her right to the edge and keeping her there, teasing, playing, testing just how much she could take before she broke.

Y/N’s head tipped back against the pillows, lips parted, breath shaky. “You’re—” She swallowed hard, a moan slipping out before she could stop it. “You’re such an asshole.”

Logan huffed out a laugh, pressing his forehead to hers, breath warm against her lips. “Yeah?” His hips snapped forward, hitting just right, and she gasped, hands fisting in his hair.

The cocky bastard smiled. “Say that again.”

She would’ve. Really. But then his fingers slid between them, pressing against that sweet spot, circling, teasing, relentless—

Y/N shattered.

It tore through her like wildfire, pleasure rolling through her in waves so intense her vision blurred, her body shuddering, nails biting into his back as she clenched around him.

Logan groaned deep in his chest, a curse slipping from his lips as he followed her down, thrusting once, twice—then stilling, his entire body going taut as he came with a sharp, wrecked gasp against her skin.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, the only sound in the room their uneven breaths, the heavy pound of their heartbeats still echoing between them.

Then—slowly, carefully—Logan shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling her with him, his arm heavy around her waist, grounding her.

Y/N swallowed, still catching her breath, and when she glanced up, Logan was already watching her—eyes dark, unreadable.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t smirk, didn’t gloat, didn’t try to fill the silence with something meaningless.

And maybe that was worse.

Because it left room for reality to settle.

For the weight of what they’d done to creep in.

For the dangerous, quiet truth to curl between them, thick as smoke.

Neither of them had any regrets.

And that?

That was fucking dangerous.

© th3mrskory 2025 — all rights reserved.

[asterafroditis]

Hey there !

Hope you have a great day/afternoon/night.

I was wondering if you could write how floyd, rook and jamil would react to a reader that is caring and playful but can be stubborn and impulsive when frustrated or angry, acting on her strong will without always thinking ahead.

You can add things if you feel like it too.

Thanks ❤️

𐔌 . ⋮ reckless resolve .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆Floyd, Rook, & Jamil x gn! reader (separate)

𓏵 823 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, fluff

hope this exactly caters to your request! feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Floyd would find your stubbornness hilarious—at least, at first. He’s the type to get a kick out of watching you dig your heels in, especially when you’re arguing with someone. If it’s a harmless situation, he’ll egg you on, adding fuel to the fire just to see how far you’ll go. He might even purposefully annoy you, pushing your buttons until you snap just because he enjoys seeing that spark of determination in your eyes.

But the second your impulsiveness leads to actual trouble? That’s when his amusement shifts to irritation. If you try to pick a fight, rush headfirst into danger, or ignore warnings, Floyd won’t hesitate to physically stop you. He’s freakishly strong, so all it takes is one arm slung around your shoulders—or throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—to completely ruin whatever reckless plan you had.

Still, Floyd isn’t the type to sit you down for a serious talk. If you’re getting too worked up, he’s more likely to distract you than lecture you, using teasing, nicknames, or even just dragging you away for a "fun detour." But if things get really bad? If you actually get hurt because you weren’t thinking ahead? His usual playful demeanor disappears, replaced by something more dangerous—something angry.

“Ehehe, Shrimpy, you’re real funny when you get all mad like that~ But if you go bitin’ off more than you can chew, I will have to step in, ‘kay?”

"Hah? You’re not listenin’ to me? Fine then~ But don’t start cryin’ when I gotta carry ya outta trouble."

─────────────────────────

Rook adores your fiery spirit. He finds beauty in the way you stand your ground, in the passion that fuels your playful and caring nature. Even when your stubbornness makes you act without thinking, he doesn’t get frustrated—rather, he sees it as another fascinating layer of your character. You remind him of a wild creature, untamed and free, and he takes great delight in observing how you handle challenges.

That being said, Rook is not blind to the dangers of impulsiveness. He knows there are times when acting on raw emotion can backfire, and when that happens, he’s always nearby—watching, waiting. He doesn’t interfere immediately. Instead, he lets you handle things on your own, stepping in only at the last possible moment to prevent catastrophe. And when he does step in, it’s always with an air of effortless grace, as if he had predicted the outcome all along.

Rather than scolding you, Rook prefers to guide you with poetic wisdom and strategic redirection. He won’t tell you outright to stop being reckless, but he will make you think about your choices, presenting them in a way that turns your own stubbornness into a strength rather than a flaw. He enjoys challenging you, pushing you to grow—not by force, but by intrigue.

“Ah, ma chérie/mon chéri, such fire! Such spirit! But do not let your passion burn so brightly that it blinds you to the dangers ahead, non?”

"Do you know what makes a true hunter? Not just passion, but patience. Strategy. Foresight. And you, my dear, have all the makings of a formidable one—if only you learn when to pause and take aim."

─────────────────────────

Jamil finds your impulsiveness exhausting. He’s spent his entire life carefully planning, always thinking two steps ahead, ensuring everything runs smoothly without drawing too much attention. So when he sees you completely disregarding consequences and diving headfirst into trouble? It stresses him out.

At first, he tries to handle it logically. He warns you, explains the risks, tries to reason with you. But the more you brush off his concerns, the more irritated he becomes. Jamil doesn’t like dealing with unnecessary problems, and your recklessness is a perfect recipe for disaster. If you insist on charging forward without thinking, he’ll force you to stop—either by physically restraining you or by outsmarting you so that you have no choice but to listen.

However, deep down, Jamil understands you more than he lets on. There’s a part of him that respects your determination, your strong will—after all, he knows what it’s like to want to break free, to refuse to be controlled. He just wishes you’d be more careful about it. He hates seeing you get hurt, even if he’d never admit how much it bothers him.

"Honestly, do you ever stop to think before jumping into things? …Tch. Fine. If you’re going to be reckless, at least let me make sure you don’t get yourself killed."

“You’re stubborn. I get that. But if you must act on impulse, at least have the sense to cover your own weaknesses. No one’s going to save you if you don’t think ahead.”

[butchhamlet]

"One big question about Hamlet focuses on what a Catholic ghost talking about a Catholic purgatory is doing in an apparently Protestant play. After the religious turmoil of the middle years of the 1550s, Elizabeth's accession marked the establishment of Protestantism as the religion of England: Catholicism was outlawed and driven underground. Two particular doctrinal differences are often used to focus the theological disagreements between Catholicism and Protestantism. The first is the question of transubstantiation and the physical presence of Christ in the Eucharist. The second is more obviously stageworthy: the presence, provenance, and reliability of ghosts. In Hamlet, the ghost's description of his imprisonment 'confined to fast in fires / Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature / Are burnt and purged away' (1.5.11-13) describes the outlawed theology of purgatory, just as the ghost's very presence is anathema to Protestant doctrine, which could not allow that anyone returned from the dead. Horatio, alumnus of a distinctly Protestant university in Wittenberg, a place indelibly associated with Martin Luther's radical challenge to the Catholic Church in 1517, expresses more orthodox reformed views. He questions what the ghost intends, warning Hamlet not to follow: it 'might deprive your sovereignty of reason / And draw you into madness' (1.4.54-5)."

—Dr. Emma Smith, This is Shakespeare (emphasis mine; this sums up pretty well what i couldn't cover about religion in my post on why hamlet isn't dithering. the fact that the ghost is clearly catholic and yet hamlet has been going to THEE martin luther university... either the catholics are right or The Devil Is Here)

[aspenmissing]

Hi there~ First off, just wanna say I absolutely love your writing — I have notifications set up so I can read everything you post! ❤️

Second, I’d love to submit a request for something a little specific. Please feel free to ignore it if you aren’t feeling it! Apologies for the incoming ramble as well. Just wanted to give a little context. 😅

I am, unfortunately, highly genetically predisposed to cancer — most of my family members have developed some type of it. My luck of the draw has been skin cancer, which is luckily something that’s highly treatable and mostly preventable. The good thing is that I’m a goth introvert who doesn’t mind avoiding the sun, so I haven’t gotten a positive diagnosis yet! (Little wins, lol.)

That being said, I’ve had to have several abnormal moles fully removed as preventative care. And while I’m grateful that doing so catches the issue before it fully develops and spreads, each surgery requires several stitches and leaves some fairly big and ugly scars. Most have been on my back, out of my sight. But this last removal was on my chest, and seeing it has definitely been a blow to my self confidence and body image. There’s a high likelihood that the next one will be on my face, too.

I was hoping I could maybe read something about Arcane characters reassuring a self-conscious reader over their medical scars? Something along the lines of telling them they’re still beautiful and loved? I would enjoy reading any characters you feel open to writing, but my favorites are Jayce, Viktor, and Silco.

If anything, thanks for reading my long message! You’re amazing at what you do. ❤️

ᴍᴀʀᴋꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ || 4135 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴄᴏɴꜱᴄɪᴏᴜꜱ, ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ, ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴡᴇʟʟ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ɪ'ᴍ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴍʙʟɪɴɢ (ᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ). ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴏɴ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ɪꜱ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ꜱᴀʏꜱ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ, ᴀʀᴇ ᴀꜱꜱʜᴏʟᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ

JAYCE

The candlelight flickered softly in the dimly lit bedroom, casting golden hues over the walls as the sound of rain pattered gently against the windowpane. You sat on the edge of the bed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing over the scars that lined your arms—silent reminders of surgeries, of painful recoveries, of the battle your body had waged against illness. The faint, raised lines told a story of resilience, but in moments like these, they only reminded you of what had been taken.

You hated how your mind spiraled in these moments, how the weight of insecurity wrapped around your chest like a vice. You had tried to push past it, to pretend that you didn't care. But some days were harder than others.

Jayce noticed, of course he did. He always did.

"Y/N?" His voice was gentle, laced with concern as he approached, kneeling in front of you. His large hands found yours, warm and grounding. "Talk to me."

You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "It’s nothing," you murmured, eyes fixated on the floor.

Jayce wasn’t having it. He carefully loosened your fingers from their grip around your wrist, his gaze following the scars you tried to hide. He traced them lightly, his touch reverent rather than hesitant. There was no pity in his expression—only warmth, only love.

"You don’t have to pretend with me," he said softly. "I see you, Y/N. Every part of you. And I love you."

Your throat tightened at his words, emotions welling up before you could stop them. "They make me feel…less," you admitted in a whisper. "Like I’ll never be beautiful again. Like my body is ruined."

Jayce exhaled softly, shaking his head as his hands came to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing gently against your skin. "No, Y/N. You're not ‘less’ because of them. They don’t take anything away from you. If anything, they show how strong you are. How much you've been through. They’re a part of you, but they don’t define you. And they sure as hell don’t make you any less beautiful."

Your breath hitched as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss against each mark with slow, deliberate care. His lips whispered love into every line, every faded wound, as if willing away your pain with every gentle touch.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "I see someone who has fought battles I can only imagine. Someone who faced fear, pain, and uncertainty and still found the strength to keep going. That’s beauty, Y/N. That’s the kind of beauty that never fades."

Your chest ached at his words, the tightness loosening as warmth flooded in its place. "But what if I never feel that way about myself?" you asked, voice small.

Jayce smiled softly, resting his forehead against yours. "Then I'll remind you. Every single day, for as long as it takes."

A shaky breath escaped you, the weight in your chest easing as you let yourself lean into his touch. Jayce had always had a way of making you feel safe, seen—loved.

"You really mean that?" your voice wavered, and he chuckled softly, his grip on you tightening just slightly as if anchoring you to the truth in his words.

"With everything I have."

You closed your eyes, letting his warmth surround you, letting yourself believe him. Because with Jayce, love was never anything less than whole.

VIKTOR

The sun hung high over Piltover, casting shimmering waves of heat along the stone streets. The city bustled with life, citizens fanning themselves with delicate lace and folded paper as they sought respite from the sweltering day. Even in the Academy, where thick walls and towering shelves provided some relief, the air remained heavy.

Viktor leaned against his cane as he wiped the sweat from his brow, sighing before looking over at you. His sharp eyes lingered on the long sleeves covering your arms, fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin despite the oppressive warmth.

"You must be boiling in that," he remarked, voice light but laced with concern.

You forced a small smile, gripping your sleeve as if to hold it in place. "I'm fine. Just… comfortable like this."

Viktor frowned, his sharp mind already piecing things together. He had noticed it before—how you flinched when someone brushed against your arm, how you tugged at your sleeves when passing reflective surfaces. He knew all too well the silent battles fought in the mirror, the way old wounds whispered insecurities long after they had healed.

His gaze softened as he exhaled, shifting his weight to lean closer. His cane tapped against the floor with each slow step before he settled beside you. His fingers, calloused from hours of invention, brushed against your wrist—a silent request rather than a demand.

"May I?"

You hesitated. Even with him—even with Viktor, who bore his own scars, who knew pain as intimately as you did—the thought of revealing them made your stomach twist. But his touch was patient, steady, warm. Slowly, you let go of your sleeve.

The fabric slid down, exposing the scars beneath. Jagged, uneven lines stretched across your skin—some faded to a soft silver, others still pink, as if whispering the pain they once held. These were not simple scrapes or childhood accidents. No, they were the remnants of something deeper. Something medical.

Viktor's gaze traced over them, not in horror or pity, but in reverence.

"How did this happen?" His voice was quiet, careful, as though he feared pushing too hard.

You swallowed, the memory thick on your tongue. "I was sick. When I was younger. There were… surgeries. Treatments. Some of them worked, some of them didn’t. These—" You glanced down at your arms, tracing one of the scars yourself. "These are what’s left of it."

Viktor was silent for a moment, his golden eyes studying every inch of the marks you had spent years hiding. Then, without hesitation, he reached for your hand, threading his fingers with yours.

"You are not hiding something ugly," he murmured, voice thick with emotion. "These marks, they tell stories of what you have endured. They are part of you. And I love every part of you."

Your throat tightened. "But—"

"No," he interrupted gently, his eyes meeting yours with unwavering certainty. "I know what it is to feel like your body betrays you. To think others might see weakness where you feel strength. But you are not weak. You are…" His fingers curled over yours, holding you steady. "You are breathtaking."

You blinked, feeling the sting of unshed tears. "You really think that?"

Viktor exhaled a soft chuckle, his thumb running absentmindedly over your knuckles. "Of course I do. Do you think I would love you any less because of these?" He motioned toward your arm. "I have scars too, you know."

You looked at him then, really looked. At the way he carried himself, the way he leaned on his cane, the way his own body bore the marks of battles fought—not with swords, but with time and toil. You had always admired him for his mind, his relentless drive, but in this moment, you saw him as something more. Someone who understood.

"You don't have to cover yourself for my sake," he continued, squeezing your hand. "Not ever."

A warm breeze drifted through the open window, shifting the light against the room's walls. You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the summer heat. Maybe, just maybe, you could start believing him.

And as Viktor leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to one of your scars, you felt, for the first time in a long while, something like peace.

JAYVIK

The dim light from the bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the room as you stood in front of the mirror, clad only in your underwear. Your fingers traced over the scars, following the paths left behind by each removed mole. Your back, your arms, your stomach—all bore evidence of battles fought before they could begin. Rationally, you knew they were victories, but each one felt like a reminder of something stolen from you. The thought of more, especially on your face, sent a shiver down your spine, an uneasy weight settling in your chest.

You let out a slow breath, willing yourself to see past the imperfections your mind magnified, but it was difficult. The scars were a testament to resilience, to survival, and yet, all you could feel was loss. The soft hum of the night filled the space around you, the quiet almost suffocating as you stood there, trapped in your own thoughts.

The quiet click of the door and the familiar creak of the floorboards pulled you from your thoughts. Viktor entered first, his gaze immediately finding yours in the reflection. He approached with careful steps, resting his cane against the dresser before standing behind you. Jayce followed moments later, his larger frame warm and solid as he moved to your side, his presence an immediate comfort.

Neither of them spoke at first. Instead, Viktor’s fingers brushed against yours, coaxing them away from your scars. His golden eyes, always sharp and filled with thought, softened as they roamed over you. Jayce’s hands found your shoulders, rubbing gentle circles before one slid down to rest over your heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his palm.

“You’re doing it again,” Viktor murmured, his voice thick with warmth. “Worrying about things that do not lessen you in the slightest.” His breath was gentle against your neck, the weight of his words sinking into your skin.

Jayce hummed in agreement, his lips pressing to your temple. “He’s right, you know. You’re still the same incredible woman we love.” His voice carried certainty, a deep warmth that settled into your bones.

Your throat tightened. “I just… I don’t feel like myself,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I look at them, all I see is—”

Viktor silenced you with a kiss to your shoulder, his lips gentle against the scarred skin, his hands coming to rest on your arms, grounding you. “Strength,” he interrupted, firm but kind. “Proof that you are fighting, that you are winning.” His hands ran down your arms in slow, reverent strokes, a silent reminder that every mark was something he cherished.

Jayce followed his lead, dipping his head to press a kiss over a mark on your collarbone, lingering there as if to soak in every part of you. “Do you think so little of us that we would see anything less?” His voice was almost teasing, but the seriousness in his gaze as he pulled back told you just how much he meant it.

Your breath hitched as their hands and lips continued to trace the places you had been so self-conscious about. Viktor kissed the curve of your spine, the scars dotting your back like constellations only they could read, a map of survival painted across your skin.

Jayce knelt, pressing reverent kisses along your thigh, your knee, your calf, his hands stroking up and down your legs in slow, soothing patterns. Their touch wasn’t just reassurance—it was worship, devotion, an unspoken promise that they would always love you, no matter what.

Viktor’s voice was a whisper against your skin, a warmth that seeped into you. “Your scars are not imperfections, můj drahý. They are simply another part of you—one we cherish as much as the rest.” (My Dear)

Jayce stood again, his strong arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest as Viktor followed suit until you were enveloped in them, in their warmth, their certainty, their unwavering love. You felt the steady beat of their hearts against you, solid and real.

“We love you,” Jayce murmured into your hair, his lips brushing against your forehead. “All of you.”

And, for the first time since seeing your reflection, you believed them.

And maybe, just maybe, you could begin to love yourself the way they did.

VANDER

The warm, amber glow of the Last Drop cast soft shadows across the wooden walls, the scent of ale and faint smoke lingering in the air. It was a slow evening, and Vander relished the rare moment of quiet. He leaned against the counter, polishing a glass absently, his sharp blue eyes flicking over to where you sat by the fireplace, lost in thought.

Your fingers ghosted over the scar tracing down your cheek, a mark left behind from one of your many mole removals—an act of precaution, but still a reminder of battles fought against your own body. You weren’t new to scars. The ones beneath your clothes, hidden from view, told their own stories. But this one, out in the open for all to see, felt different. It made you different.

Your thoughts were pulled away when a small voice piped up.

“Why does your face have that line?” Powder, ever curious, tilted her head, her large, expressive eyes locked onto you. She had no malice in her question, only genuine wonder. Still, your stomach tightened as you lowered your hand from your face.

“Powder,” Vander warned gently, setting the glass down, but you shook your head. You knew the child meant no harm.

“It’s... a scar,” you answered softly, forcing a small smile. “Something that had to be done to keep me safe.”

“Oh.” Powder considered this for a moment, then her little face scrunched up in thought. “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

Vi, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her sister, eyed you with a look far too knowing for someone her age. “Does it bother you?”

You hesitated, caught between wanting to reassure the girls and the raw honesty of your own insecurities. “Sometimes,” you admitted, looking away. “People stare.”

A warm, heavy hand settled over yours, grounding you. You hadn’t even noticed Vander moving, but there he was, standing beside you with that steady, reassuring presence that always made you feel safe.

“Let ‘em stare,” he rumbled, his voice firm but gentle. “What do they know? You’ve got more strength in you than they could dream of.”

Your throat tightened at his words, but you let him continue.

He knelt slightly to catch your gaze, his hand lifting to brush his knuckles tenderly along the length of your scar. “You think this changes how I see you? How much I love you?” His voice dropped to something meant only for you. “Nothing could.”

Your eyes stung with unshed tears. He always had a way of saying exactly what you needed to hear, as if he could read your heart without you speaking a word.

Powder grinned suddenly, hopping up onto the chair beside you. “I think it makes you look cool! Like you fought a beast and won.”

Vi nodded in agreement. “Yeah, like a warrior.”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, the tightness in your chest easing. You glanced up at Vander, who was already watching you with a soft smile, his thumb now idly tracing circles on the back of your hand.

“See?” he murmured. “Even the kids know what I do.”

You sighed, leaning slightly into his warmth. Maybe he was right. Maybe, just maybe, there was nothing about you that needed to be hidden.

Vander pressed a lingering kiss to your temple before pulling you into his arms, wrapping you in an embrace that made the world outside seem small and insignificant. His arms around you were solid, unyielding, a fortress you could always retreat into. You let yourself relax against him, breathing in the familiar scent of leather, smoke, and the faintest hint of ale.

“I don’t get why people would stare,” Powder mused, tilting her head again. “It’s just a part of you. Like how I’ve got freckles.”

Vi smirked. “Or how Vander’s got that big ol’ beard.”

Vander let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. “That so? My beard’s just a part of me, huh?”

The girls giggled, and you couldn’t help but join in, the sound light and unburdened. The fire crackled, casting a comforting warmth over the room, and for the first time in a long while, you felt at ease.

Vander squeezed your hand again, a silent promise that no matter what, you would always have a place here. With him. With them.

Because in their eyes—in Vander’s eyes—you were already enough.

SILCO

The dim lantern light flickered against the water-stained walls of his office. The scent of cigar smoke and whiskey clung to the air, mingling with the sharper tang of chemicals from the Shimmer vials stacked along the desk. Silco sat in his leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, mismatched eyes tracing over you as you stood near the edge of the room—hesitant, withdrawn, guarded.

He noticed, of course. Silco always noticed.

His sharp gaze flickered to the pile of your discarded clothing, then back to you, wrapped in one of his silk sheets, clinging to the fabric like armor. You should have been glowing in the dim light, reveling in the aftermath of passion, but instead… there was a weight in your eyes. A flicker of something you tried to hide.

"You’re thinking too much." His voice was smooth, laced with authority.

You swallowed, gripping the sheet tighter, the fabric bunched between your fingers. Don’t do this. Don’t ruin the moment. But still, you couldn't shake the creeping insecurity wrapping around your mind.

His gaze narrowed. "Come here."

You hesitated. Silco was not a man you disobeyed, but…

"Now, darling" he coaxed, his voice lower, dangerous—yet still patient.

Your breath hitched as you stepped forward, the sheet slipping lower with each movement, baring more of your skin—and the scars that littered it. Marks of past removals, of flesh cut away in the name of preservation. You’d long since stopped counting them, but they were there, a roadmap of battles fought against something lurking beneath your skin.

You watched as Silco’s expression darkened—not with disgust, but with something deeper. Something possessive.

The scarred side of his face twitched as he exhaled, long fingers reaching for your wrist, tugging you forward until you stood between his legs, so close you could smell the whiskey on his breath.

"Let me see," he murmured, gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin, over every line, every imperfection. Devouring. Reverent.

You flinched, moving to pull away, but his grip tightened—not painful, just firm.

"Don’t hide from me," he commanded, his voice almost a whisper. "I want to see all of you."

Your lips parted, your breath uneven. "They’re—"

"Beautiful," Silco interrupted, his other hand moving to trace the scar that ran across your collarbone, fingertips feather-light. "Like maps carved into flesh. Like proof that you still stand despite what tried to consume you."

Your throat tightened, emotion welling up. "You don’t have to say that."

Silco scoffed, lips twitching in amusement. "You think me a liar, darling?"

His hand slid lower, ghosting over your ribs, then your waist, fingers tracing each mark with the kind of reverence usually reserved for worship.

"You speak as if I don’t understand," he murmured, tilting his head, his own scar catching the lantern light. "As if I don’t know what it is to be reshaped by pain."

Your breath hitched when he leaned forward, lips brushing against the line of a particularly deep scar along your stomach. Heat pooled low in your belly, your skin prickling under his attention.

"Yet here you are," he continued, voice dropping, turning molten. "Still mine. Still exquisite."

A shiver rolled through you, his touch no longer gentle but possessive, demanding. Fingers sliding over bare skin, tracing the dips of your hips, the curve of your thighs.

"You think this makes you less desirable?" he rasped, eyes flicking up, dark and hungry. "Then let me remind you—properly."

His fingers hooked into the silk, pulling it away, leaving you bare before him. You gasped, but before you could protest, his lips pressed to your scars, his tongue following, slow and deliberate.

Silco had never seen flaws. Only devotion to be carved into flesh.

And he would spend all night proving it.

MEL

Golden candlelight flickered across the opulent room, painting warmth across silk sheets and marble floors. Mel lay beside you, her golden skin glowing beneath the soft light, her dark eyes tracing over you with a gaze so intense it felt like a caress. You couldn’t meet it.

You had turned away, arms curled around yourself, fingers ghosting over the ridges of scars that marred your skin. Old reminders—each one a moment of caution, of necessity. But reminders, too, that you were not like her.

Mel Medarda was exquisite. A painting given breath, carved from gold and power. There was not a single imperfection on her. And you—

"You are quiet tonight," she murmured, reaching out. Her fingertips brushed your shoulder, featherlight, before trailing down your back. Her touch followed the path of your scars, tracing them with the kind of reverence you couldn't understand.

You shivered but said nothing.

"You think I do not see you, don’t you?" Mel's voice was soft, carrying the weight of understanding.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. "It’s not that. It’s just..." You exhaled. "When I look at you, I see someone so perfect, so untouchable. And then I look at myself, and all I see are—" You hesitated, unable to say the word aloud.

Mel didn’t let you. Instead, she shifted, pressing closer until her warmth enveloped you. "Strength," she whispered against your shoulder. "I see strength. I see resilience. I see a body that has carried you through more than anyone should ever have to endure. And that is beautiful."

Your breath hitched as she tilted your chin up, finally making you meet her gaze. Her expression was tender, but there was steel in her eyes—fierce and unwavering.

"Do you know what true beauty is, my love?" She traced the curve of your jaw, her thumb brushing over your cheek with aching gentleness. "It is not flawlessness. It is not perfection. It is the way someone endures and still dares to love, to be loved. And you, my darling, are beautiful beyond measure."

You felt your throat tighten, something inside you cracking open at her words.

Mel smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering as if she could pour all her devotion into you. "You do not need to compare yourself to me, because I have already decided—there is no one else in this world who could be more perfect for me than you."

A shaky breath left your lips, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe her.

Mel moved then, slipping from the bed with the grace of royalty. You watched as she walked towards her ornate vanity, reaching for something small and delicate. When she returned, her hands held a tiny jar of gold pigment, its surface shimmering beneath the candlelight.

"What is that?" you asked, puzzled as she settled beside you again.

"A tradition," she murmured, dipping two fingers into the rich, golden paint. "In my home, we do not discard things that are broken. We mend them with gold. We honour the cracks, because they tell a story of resilience."

Slowly, carefully, she touched your skin. The cool paint met the warmth of your scars, her fingers tracing each one with deliberate reverence. She painted along the ridges, following the paths they carved across your body like rivers of history.

She worked in silence, her expression focused, yet soft with affection. The gold shimmered as it dried, a gilded map of the battles you had fought and survived.

When she was done, she leaned back, admiring her work with a quiet satisfaction. "Now," she whispered, cupping your cheek, "you are even more radiant than before."

You looked down at yourself, at the way the gold caught the light, transforming each scar into something beautiful, something cherished. The weight of self-consciousness did not vanish entirely—but it shifted, just enough.

"You always do this," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion.

Mel arched an elegant brow. "Do what?"

"Turn the things I hate into something precious."

Her lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. "That’s because they already are."

You exhaled a soft laugh, letting your forehead rest against hers. And when Mel kissed you next, slow and deep, you let yourself be loved. Scars and all.

And this time, you let yourself believe you were worthy of it.

[starpoweredv1b]

HELLO!!! HI!!! YOU'RE ALIVE AND WELL :3!!!

This is not-freaky-anon speaking nonsensical 0 freaky stuff again :333 (I went through the horrors this week (sudden exams, my uncle literally died???, missed exams because I attended his funeral, etc etc) I think I'm well as long as I eat fish tbh) and I've come to u to give heavenly weird girl pussy ask!! (and to ask for the l&d angsty fwb ask I sent few weeks prior teehee)

So! Imagine this; you're the widely known weird girl, all nerdy and stupidly inept at socializing, staring at two old men not thirsting over them, but rejoicing upon old man yaoi (based on the 'viva el old man yaoi' pin I got :3). Your grades are average, surprisingly you survive at sincostan, you're absolutely hellish to interact with once someone mentioned the slightest hint of your interests, and you stare at men so pervertedly from behind your book it almost feels like sexual harassment and makes boys stop harassing girls because they've been through the ringer with your stares.

You're the type of girl who daydreams at the very back of the class, music blasting off of your earbuds to the point your deskmate could hear it, Mitski and beabadobee playing while you're awake and "Yummy"/"I'll do it" by Ayesha Erotica or "Government Hooker"/"Judas" by Lady Gaga playing while you're asleep.

The LLs are freaked the FUCK out. They're especially handsome in your eyes and you constantly ship them together. Lord knows if you have a smidgen of talent in drawing you would've been rich in name and in yaoi by now..

But your pussy is so, so, tight yet soft, all gummy-like and warm and it feels like melting into a puddle of oobleck and your moans are not helping and oh my fucking god he's addicted to this weird girl's pussy—

So while you're very, abhorrently strange, they can't let go of the heavenly weird girl cunt..

YES I AM!! also my condolences man please give yourself time and hydrate and eat well. love you not freaky anon 🫶

also i see this happening with Caleb and Zayne like my beloved moot @losermuse sent me this tweet about Caleb finding mc's fics about him and Zayne and how he'd be devastated LOL!! but if it's old man yaoi...the cannonically it would be Xavier and Sylus?? hm...

fujoshi cucks unite! (2)

tw. zayne x caleb, boys kissing :o, vaginal, oral, fujoshi reader

anyway, they'd literally be rearranging your guts. one from below and the other pumping down your throat. this had to be heaven! and as you're laying there watching two of the hottest men just grunting and whimpering on top of you, you'd pull away from Zayne's cock and flutter your teary lashes at them.

"could you both...maybe...uhm...kiss each other?"

you'd ask in the sweetest breathless voice, your chest heaving as Caleb continued to rock into you. you felt him stutter to a stop, panting and looking all confused. Zayne blinked, his face red as he caught his breath.

"why don't you stop talking weird, and keep your mouth here, hm? you were doing so well..."

Zayne murmurs, cock throbbing from how you were unintentionally edging him by talking and not sucking. his hands gently tugged your hair that he was holding in a fist to guide you back towards his leaky, spit slick cock. but typical you, pouting and blinking so cutely up at Caleb because you knew just when he'd tick (when he was all pussy drunk and worshipping every intake of breath that you take).

you watched as Caleb firmly pulls Zayne closer with one hanf, smashing their lips together with a soft moan. Zayne froze up, cock hardening even more from both shock and the unexpected passion of it. their tongues slid around in each other's mouth and you could've sworn you felt Caleb popping a second wind of a stiffy deep inside you. you moaned and slid Zayne's cock back into your snug throat. you watched with inceasing arousal as the two men made out sloppily on top of you, all while thrusting in sync. like you were nothing but a shared fleshlight that with maybe a bit more effort would allow their tips to touch in the soft of your stomach.

your moans and the feel of you teetering closer to the edge went almost entirely unheard as the two continued to kiss. their drool pooling at the dip of your stomach. it was the best seat ever in your opinion. you came with a muffled moan against zayne's cock, both of them stuttering and groaning into each other's mouth as they came inside.

you slowly pulled yourself away as they continued to make out, pullinh you in for a three people kiss. your fingers reach down to your sensitive clit, rubbing it yourself since the two were too busy jerking each other off. wanting to cover your pretty pussy lips with both their cum. team effort style, or however the saying goes. no complaints of course.

after all, you were living the fujoshi cuckquean dream.

[written-and-readen]

How I feel after requesting for like the fifth time since I need anaxa smut to survive💃💃💃💃 anyways please write general smut headcannons since when he came in screen I came

ALL HIS CUTSCENES WERE SO HOT

Warnings: nsfw (18+), fem!reader, penetrative sex and some fingering, honestly this one isn’t that graphic, 3.1 spoilers (just surrounding Anaxa’s character but no plot stuff)

a/n: Longer than I thought it would be but I was in it if you know what I mean.

I can’t stop thinking about soft sex with this man. He has literally shattered his soul and seems to be on the brink of death. Also, with so much talk about him cracking/being a corpse, I had to throw some body worship in there.

Stripping out of your clothes is a moment in and of itself. Your lips move against his as you push his jacket off. The soft kisses don’t stop as you each take turns removing garments from the other, hands or lips going to explore the newly exposed skin. If you pay attention, you'll notice the slight catch of his breath whenever he finally pushes your bra off your shoulders or slides your underwear down your legs. Your fingers touch his cheek, brushing against the edge of his eyepatch. He prefers that you not take it off, distracting you by taking your hand to kiss the tips of your fingers.

In general, he loves kissing you everywhere, no matter what position you're in. You're splayed out underneath him, and he kisses around your breasts and down your stomach. Before eating you out, he kisses your thighs, and after getting to taste your cum on his tongue, you twitch slightly from the fleeting touch of his lips against your clit. He takes you from behind and leaves kisses down your spine. He lets you ride him, and he's kissing around your neck and shoulders, feeling your pulse against his lips.

“Silence is golden” as he says, and likewise, few words are spoken between you. If there are, they’re fleeting whispers of him telling you how good you feel that he can’t hold back or checking in to make sure you’re alright. His moans are breathy and light but still make your pussy clench because he always seems to let out the noises right next to your ear.

Anaxa also loves your touch more than he would like to admit. The way you run your finger along his jawline, cup his face, or card through his hair when you kiss him. When your chest is flush against his or when your legs hook around his waist while he has his entire length enveloped by your pussy. Every trace you leave against his skin has him instinctively leaning closer, wordlessly searching for more. Not to mention the look of adoration in your eyes as you take in his features.

He can’t just give you one orgasm. The first can be the one where he takes his time, moving in long, smooth strokes with either his fingers or cock. He takes in and relishes every part of you. The second is the one where you’re both trembling from the overstimulation yet still desperate to reach your respective highs. Your thighs quiver and his hips stutter as he continues to thrust into you. He relishes both scenarios.

After you both clean up after the deed, naked cuddles are the go to. Sometimes, he’ll read while you lay your head on his chest half asleep. Other times, he’s the one resting on your chest, taking in its rise and fall as you breathe or the beat of your heart. Or maybe, he has you in his arms, hands running up and down your back or mindlessly drawing shapes/writing words.

[steddiehyperfixation]

@steddiebingo prompts: lecture + skull rock | 1.2k words | G/T |

Eddie closes his locker to find Nancy suddenly standing right beside him. “Jesus!” he startles, hand pressed to his chest. He hadn't even heard her approach.

“Sorry.” She has the decency to look apologetic. “I didn't mean to sneak up on you, I just wanted to talk to you for a sec. I hear you and Steve are...together?” She says it carefully, with the inflection of a question, and Eddie has a vague feeling like she's testing him but he has no idea what for.

“Um.” He doesn't know what the right answer is. “Well, I don't know exactly- I mean, kind of? It's not really anything, we've just...made out a couple times.”

Nancy raises her eyebrows. “You just...made out a couple times,” she repeats.

Eddie shrugs, getting a little nervous that he's failing her test. He really cannot get a read on her right now. “Yeah, um, I mean, it was probably just like a one time, two time thing…”

A tiny scrunch flickers across her face and she mutters to herself, “God, is that what I sounded like?”

“What?”

“Nothing, sorry, I just got major deja vu.” She shakes her head and then looks back up at him with those big, serious eyes. “Anyways. Look, you might not think it's anything, but I know Steve and I guarantee you he already thinks you guys are something. So if you only wanted it to be just a one time, two time thing, then you better tell him quick before he gets too deeply attached. He falls fast and he falls hard, don't let him get too serious if you're not.”

She reminds him vaguely of a teacher lecturing some clueless kid, but Eddie feels less chastised and more like he's just been punched in the chest. “Wait, you really think-?”

“He wants something real, he always has,” Nancy continues, “and if you guys haven't talked about it, he's just going to assume that's what you are. He's a hopelessly hopeful romantic, Eddie, he can't help it. He's all in already, I'm sure, so if that's not what you wanted out of whatever you two have got going on, then don't waste his time - don't waste your time. Don't play along and break his heart if you already know you don't feel the same.”

“No, I wouldn't-” Eddie finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, can't do much more than give her a sort of deer-in-headlights stare.

“I'm not judging you,” she reassures him in a slightly softer tone now, clearly misinterpreting something in his expression. “I'm not upset with you. I'm just trying to give a little advice, from my own experience. Just make sure you two are on the same page, alright? That's all I'm saying. For both of your sakes.”

“Right- yeah, thanks,” he stammers. He points his thumb awkwardly over his shoulder. “I, uh, I gotta go…”

He doesn't wait for a response before he turns and hurries down the hall to get outside. A deep breath of fresh air to shake off the weird suffocating feeling Nancy's lecture had given him, and then Eddie's heading straight for the nearest phone. He has to talk to Steve, has to see him.

“Hey, Stevie,” he says the second the other line picks up. “I'm ditching class right now, wanna hang out?”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve agrees immediately, a smile in his voice. “I can meet you at our usual spot in, like, 20 minutes?”

'Our usual spot', aka Skull Rock, the make-out spot--their spot now apparently since that's where it started, since that's where they've met the last three times they've hung out alone, the last three times they've kissed and kissed and not talked. But Eddie can't think of anywhere else to suggest, so he says, “Yeah, sounds good. See you soon.”

He hangs up the phone and heads for Skull Rock.

A short drive and a longer hike and he's leaning against the side of that infamous skull-shaped boulder, watching the surrounding foliage for signs of Steve. He doesn't have to wait long before Steve steps out from the brush in all his gorgeous glory, face lit up in a beautiful smile just at the sight of Eddie.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Steve walks up to him and draws him straight into a kiss, because that's what they do here, at Skull Rock, the make-out spot, their spot. His lips are soft and warm and Eddie melts right into it, draping his arms over Steve's shoulders and kissing back before he remembers that he'd meant to use his mouth for talking instead.

“Wait, Steve.” It takes all Eddie’s willpower to break the kiss and pull back enough to speak. “Is this real to you?”

“Hmm, feels pretty real, but I don’t know, I could be dreaming. I never can tell around you,” Steve flirts easily, voice a smooth murmur as he brushes some of Eddie’s hair out of his face, caressing his cheek. “Might need to pinch me just to be sure.”

“No, I mean-” Eddie ducks out from between Steve and the rock, putting a little more space between them before he can give in to the ever-growing urge to give up on talking and go back to kissing. “Um, Nancy kind of ambushed me in the hall earlier, gave me this whole lecture about how you get attached really quick and how if I only wanted this to be something casual I should tell you fast before you get too serious, because she thinks you're probably already serious and that you want something real,” he provides context in an awkward, nervous rush, not even pausing for a breath, “and I just- I need to know, is that true?”

“Oh.” The previous playful flirtatiousness drains from Steve’s expression and his face falls. “Um.” He shakes his head, more like he's trying to clear his thoughts than anything. “Shit- I’m sorry if she freaked you out. She had absolutely no right to try to speak for me like that. I mean, I really am fine if you just want this to be casual...”

“I don't, I just thought that's what you wanted,” Eddie says. He hasn't been explaining this right. “Because that's all we've been doing - we come here and we make out and that’s it, casual, so this whole time I just assumed that's all it was to you. But then Nancy said all that stuff about you and it gave me this hope I hadn't let myself have before, so can you please just tell me if she was right?” He looks at Steve, eyes big and earnest. “Because I really, really want her to be right.”

Steve just stares at him for a moment, then softens with a sigh. “Yeah,” he admits, a tentative smile tugging at his lips, “she was right. I definitely don't just feel casual about you - it's real; I want real.”

Eddie’s face bursts into a grin. He throws his arms around Steve and pulls him into another kiss. “Then let’s get out of this casual fucking place.” He takes Steve by the hand and starts dragging him away from Skull Rock. “Come on, let me buy you some lunch.”

[societyfolklore]

Dangerous Notes – Part 6

Title: Dangerous Notes – Part 6

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Singer!Female Reader

Fic Summary: Reluctantly agreeing to fill in for her sick friend at a prestigious jazz club, The Armoury, Reader finds herself thrust into a world of old- world glamour and unknown danger. The club’s enigmatic owner, Bucky Barnes, has set his sights on making her a permanent fixture on his stage- and in his life.

Chapter Summary:  Caught in a storm of jealousy and possessiveness when Bucky Barnes finally snaps. Tension erupts into an unrestrained confrontation backstage.

Word Count: 3.7K

Fic Warnings: // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI,Dark Romance, Slow Burn, Possessive/Obsessive behaviour, Violence, Smut (eventually)  Chapter Warnings:  Possessive/obsessive behaviour, jealousy, physical tension, emotional manipulation, strong language, fear of implied violence, intense confrontation.

A/N: Updates Thursday bi Weekly  (Probably will be throwing up an extra update in March sine it’s Bucky Barnes birthday month!)   You knew something felt off the moment you arrived at The Armoury.

Maybe it was the lingering tension from the flowers Bucky had sent the day before, the way their presence in your apartment had unsettled you rather than reassured you. Maybe it was the way your mind kept circling back to his words from Sunday night-the way he had pressed you, watched you, tested you. It didn’t help that your coworkers had noticed, teasing you about your supposed 'secret admirer' You had dodged their questions, offering half-hearted shrugs, but the feeling had clung to you like a second skin.

Or maybe it was the way you were starting to feel the lines between your real life and this place begin to blur in ways you didn’t like. The Armoury had a way of drawing people in, wrapping them up in its shadowy embrace, and you were starting to wonder if you were letting it pull you in further than you ever intended. It was dangerous, feeling like this-like you belonged in a world that you knew you shouldn’t be a part of. But the thrill, the intoxicating pull of the stage, the whispers of curiosity that danced through your veins-it was getting harder to ignore.

Shaking off the unease, you made your way through the side entrance, the low hum of the band warming up drifting from the main room. The familiar scent of aged whiskey and faint cigar smoke greeted you, mingling with the subtle spice of expensive colognes and perfumes. You adjusted your bag over your shoulder, exhaling slowly as if the simple act of breathing could help steady your nerves. As you passed the bar, Yelena caught your eye, handing off a tray to one of the servers before leaning toward you.

“You look tense.”

You scoffed lightly, trying to keep your voice casual. “I think Barnes is trying to ruin my life.”

Yelena smirked. “You’re not the first to think that.” She tilted her head, studying you a little too closely. You didn't want to talk about it, but Yelena might have a better understanding, some insight.

"He sent flowers to my school. I was hoping to get out of telling anyone there I was here. You know? Keep things separate."

Yelena’s eyebrow went up. “Most women like flowers.”

Your stomach twisted. “I don’t know what they mean.”

Yelena hummed, pouring herself a short glass of vodka. “Barnes doesn’t do things without a reason.” She took a sip, setting the glass down. “But that doesn’t mean he knows what the hell he’s doing either.”

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Yelena leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “These guys? They don’t do emotions the way normal people do. Emotionally constipated.” She let the words settle before continuing, her tone lighter but still edged with knowing. "Maybe you've ruffled his ‘eathers, now he's trying to do it back?"

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “Well, that’s unhelpful.”

Yelena just chuckled, shaking her head. “I didn't say I was goin’ to be. But maybe you should start thinking less about what he meant and more a‘bout why you care?"

Bucky was watching. Again.

He could feel Sam was watching him with the kind of knowing smirk that made Bucky want to tell him to mind his own damn business as he got closer to the table Bucky had put himself at. 

Sam slid into the seat next to him with a low exhale, setting his drink down on the table. "It's quiet out there tonight. No movement from Stark’s people. Everything’s as it should be. Steve decided to stay up at the pool hall for the night with some of the commandos. Just to be safe. It’s the closest outpost we’ve got to Queens."

Bucky gave a small nod, still staring at you on stage. "Good."

Sam took a slow sip of his drink, following Bucky’s gaze before smirking. "You’re staring again."

Bucky didn’t respond, swirling the whiskey in his glass, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the stage. He was sure you weren’t looking anywhere near him on purpose. That annoyed him more than it should.

"She’s good for business," he muttered.

Sam scoffed. "That’s your excuse for glaring like she owes you money." 

Bucky’s jaw ticked. "She’s why we’ve got this many people here on a Tuesday."

Sam leaned in, voice dropping. "Sure. But I bet your can think of all sorts of uses for her right now outside of business."

Bucky said nothing, just took another slow sip of whiskey.

Sam let out a knowing chuckle. "I mean, I get it. She’s a fine-looking bird… soft, got that voice that makes a man wanna sit back and let her sing all night. Can’t blame the crowd for coming back. Can’t blame you either."

Bucky’s grip on his glass tightened. "You’re enjoying this too much."

"A little." Sam grinned. "I just like watching you squirm. It’s funny."

Bucky finally tore his gaze away from the stage long enough to shoot him a glare. "I don’t squirm."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you absolutely squirm. I’d put money on it. Just go talk to her after." 

Bucky huffed, shaking his head and looking back at you. "I talk to her."

Sam leaned back, stretching lazily. "Like a person, Buck. You remember how to be one of those dontcha?"

“Shut up and let me listen.” Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes still locked on the stage, jaw tightening ever so slightly. He took another slow sip of whiskey, but it did nothing to cool the heat simmering just beneath his skin. He could hear Sam smirking beside him, the smug bastard enjoying this way too much.

“You’re really not gonna admit it, huh?” Sam pressed, stretching lazily in his seat. “That she’s got you twisted up.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, rolling the whiskey in his glass. “You done?”

Sam chuckled. “Alright, alright. Keep your shirt on."  Bucky ignored him, eyes following the slow movement of your fingers as they skimmed the mic stand. Every note that left your lips settled in his chest like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He clenched his jaw.

Sam leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You ever think about what you’re gonna do if she finds out?”

Bucky’s grip tightened on his glass. “Finds out what?”

Sam’s grin widened. “That you’re not just watching for business.”

Bucky shot him a glare, his voice coming out lower, rougher. “I said shut up and let me listen.”

Bucky walked through the backstage section heading for your dressing room. He told himself it was just a routine pass, making sure things were running smoothly. But he wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t lying to himself very well.

Sam had gotten into his head. For once, he’d actually listened. Just talk to her, Sam had said. Maybe he was right-maybe this was all in Bucky’s head. The paranoia, the constant years of looking over his shoulder, had made him see threats where there weren’t any. Maybe he was turning her into something she wasn’t-a variable to control, a potential risk to assess.

Then there were the flowers.

He hadn’t even been sure why he’d sent them. Maybe to make sure she came back. Maybe because he’d caught that flicker of hurt on her face when he’d questioned her integrity, the way her lips had pressed together, like she’d been about to say something but changed her mind. And that had done something to him.

It had made him feel like an ass.

There was a difference between being cautious, protecting what was his, and just being a prick. Maybe he’d overstepped. Maybe if he just talked to her, he’d be able to put this whole thing to bed. Hear her voice, confirm she wasn’t a threat-not to him, not to the club, not to his peace of mind.

Because despite the way she had his stomach knotted, he did like hearing her voice. He was so deep in his own thoughts that he didn't notice the sound of another's voice in your dressing room till he got to the open door and stopped. 

Pietro.

The bastard was standing too close. Too relaxed, too comfortable in your space. Bucky saw the way his arm rested behind your back, the way he leaned in just a little too much, fingers drumming along the back of the chair to whatever tune was coming out of your phone. He like he belonged there, next to you. Like you belonged there, tucked into the space he made for you.

"No! I like it."  Pietro was nodding along, his head. Your face lit up at his compliment, the slight blush in your cheek.    Bucky’s fist clenched before he even realized it, nails biting into his palm. He told himself to stay put, to observe a little longer, to let logic dictate his reaction. Maybe there was nothing to react to. Maybe Pietro was just being his usual flirtatious charming self. But then-

"So, coffee tomorrow?” Pietro asked, flashing his usual cocky grin.

You smiled. Smiled. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Bucky saw red.

His chest tightened, his jaw locked so hard it ached. Before he could even think, he was moving, his voice cutting through the air like a blade, low and dangerous. “Maximoff.”

Pietro turned lazily, entirely unbothered. “Boss.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to you, then back to Pietro. His gut churned, the possessive, ugly feeling twisting like a knife in his ribs. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like the way Pietro had settled so easily into your space. Didn’t like the way you let him, the way you smiled at him. 

“Get lost,” Bucky bit out, his voice even but laced with something lethal.

Pietro smirked, ever unfazed. “Relax, Barnes. It’s just music talk.” He turned to you, tossing a wink. “Call me.”

Bucky barely held himself back from putting Pietro through the damn wall as the white haired man stepped widely around him. 

Instead, he let out a slow, controlled breath, his jaw tightening as he turned to you. His voice was sharp, quieter but no less commanding. “Since when do you get coffee with him?”

You blinked at him, thrown by the intensity in his tone. “What? We're just going to talk about some new pieces, for here. Would of thought you'd-  Why is it a problem?" 

Bucky didn’t have an answer for that. At least not one he wanted to admit.

His fists remained clenched at his sides, his whole body rigid with something he couldn’t name. This wasn’t just about business. Wasn’t just about keeping things in check. It was something else, something deeper, something that made his pulse hammer against his ribs.

You barely had time to react before Bucky was in your space, radiating anger like heat off pavement. It wasn’t just anger-it was something unrestrained, something that felt too big for the room, too overwhelming for you to process. His chest heaved with each rough breath, his body taut, every muscle coiled like a predator ready to strike. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers twitching as if they ached to grab, to possess.

You had never seen him like this. Never seen any one like this. 

“What is your problem?” you managed, voice steadier than you felt, even as your back hit the dressing table.

Bucky’s eyes burned into yours, pupils blown wide, his expression twisted between rage and something else-something deeper, something raw. His chest heaved, breath sharp and uneven, his fists clenching at his sides before flexing open again like he couldn’t decide whether to grab you or hold himself back. The controlled, calculating man you had seen before was gone-this was something different. His movements were sharp, restless, his energy barely contained, each twitch of his fingers betraying the struggle to stay in control. His fingers twitched, his shoulders tense, and when his gaze snapped back to yours, there was nothing composed about it-just raw, unchecked possession. He looked like a man on the edge of something dangerous, like he had already lost whatever grip on control he had left. His jaw worked, muscles tense, his nostrils flaring slightly as if even breathing around you was difficult. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough around the edges, barely controlled. Like he was a second away from snapping. You swore he almost looked unhinged.

“You.” His voice was low, jagged, but it wavered, just slightly, like even saying it out loud made something inside him crack. “You’re in my head, even when you’re not here. I hear you in my sleep. I hear you when I’m alone. I hear you when I should be thinking about anything else. But it’s always you. Like a song I can’t turn off, like a ghost haunting every damn part of my life and you've only been here a few days!”

His fingers twitched, his stance shifting as if torn between pacing, seizing you, or forcing himself to leave before saying something he couldn’t take back. His breaths came uneven, rough, like he was struggling to force them out between clenched teeth. “I can’t turn it off. I can’t fucking stop thinking about you. You don’t just go away. You’re a song I on replay, a distraction I can’t afford. And it’s-fuck-it’s driving me insane.”

Your breath hitched, stomach twisting. Was it the break in his voice that rattled you, or the weight of his confession itself?

“Excuse me?” you whispered, stunned, pulse spiking in your throat.

His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck working beneath his skin, like he was really trying to hold himself together. “It’s like you and that damn voice of yours are haunting me. Since you got here!” His voice was sharp, biting. “You’re making my life impossible. I hear you everywhere-when I’m in my office, when I try to sleep. You don’t fucking leave.”

Your heart pounded so hard it was dizzying. Me? You're saying this is my fault? I’m just here to do my job.”

Bucky let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. It was a stark contrast to the man who always appeared so in control, so calculated. His breath came uneven, sharp, as if his own words had unsettled him. The mask he wore so well-calm, cold, untouchable-was slipping, cracking apart right in front of you, and it left something raw, something unfiltered in its place. His hand raked through his hair too roughly, like he was trying to shake you out of his skull. His jaw clenched even tighter, eyes flickering with something raw, something bordering on unhinged.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me. Then I come in, and your both... Standing there, letting him touch you, letting him sit too close... Like he had any right to. Like he could just take what's mine and I’d be fine with it." 

Your stomach twisted. "It’s just coffee, to go over." Then your brain process what he'd said "Min- What?" Your voice trailed off, because you weren’t sure what else to say. It felt ridiculous. This didn’t make sense. None of it did. Why was he talking to you like this? Why was he this angry? You had seen Bucky cold, calculated, always in control. But this? This was something else entirely.

His fixation wasn’t about business. This was about you.

But why?

His presence felt suffocating, his eyes too sharp, too dark, filled with something you didn’t understand. Something you weren’t sure you wanted to understand.

“It’s not just coffee,” he ground out, voice dark, each word slow and deliberate. “It’s him looking at you like you’re something he can have. It’s your letting him.”

Your pulse stuttered, caught between fear and something more-something you couldn’t name, didn’t dare to. His voice, raw and unfiltered, wasn’t just laced with fury. It unsettled you, sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine. You wanted to move, to push back, to speak, but your body refused, frozen under the sheer weight of his presence.

“Letting him?” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, but there was no masking the disbelief threading through it. Who talked like this? Who acted like this? "I wasn't-" 

Bucky’s throat worked, his whole body coiled tight, like he was a second away from snapping. His breathing was ragged, uneven.

“Say that all you want.” His voice came out like a growl, low and dangerous. You watched his jaw tick, his muscles flexing like he was fighting some inner battle, one he was rapidly losing. “This is my place. These are my people. And I decide what happens here.”

Every syllable was laced with something possessive, something raw and untamed. “Everything in here is because of me.”

His blue eyes burned into you, demanding something you weren’t sure you could give. Did he want submission? Did he want you to agree with him, to acknowledge his insanity? Or was it something deeper-something unspoken that neither of you were ready to admit? Understanding? Acceptance? Something else entirely? You weren’t sure, but you knew one thing-this was no longer about business.

This was something else.

Something dangerous.

Your actions had set off something deep, something that had been lurking beneath the surface, just waiting for a reason to escape.

For a second, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. The space between you felt electric, charged with something volatile, something on the edge of detonating. His gaze flickered to your lips, and for a breath, it felt like the entire world had gone still.

The silence stretched unbearably between you, thick and charged with something you didn't know how to name. His breathing was unsteady, his fingers flexing at his sides as if struggling against the urge to reach for you. The weight of his stare felt suffocating, his pupils blown wide, dark with something far more dangerous than a tempers edge he was riding. 

“If you’re going to start sleeping with someone around here, it’s going to be me.”

You barely had time to process before he added, voice rough, guttural, “Not some white-haired bastard.”

Then he was gone, storming out, leaving behind air so thick it felt like it was pressing down on you, suffocating, charged with something you didn’t dare name.

The silence in the room was deafening after he left.

You stood there for a few seconds, stunned, your breath still shallow, your heart hammering against your ribs. The space where Bucky had just been still felt charged, suffocating, as if his presence lingered in the very air around you.

Your hands trembled slightly as they pressed into the dressing table behind you, grounding yourself against the solid wood. What the hell had just happened? What had you just seen? That wasn’t the cold, calculated Bucky Barnes you’d come to expect, -the one who always seemed to be five steps ahead, who always played the long game with a smirk and a low, knowing chuckle. Where was the Bucky one who had tried to get under your skin in his office. The side you'd just seen wasn’t calculated at all. He had come apart, unravelling before you in a way you never thought possible.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. Why did he act like that with you? What weren’t you seeing? He didn't even like you. 

The door creaked open behind you, snapping you out of your spiralling thoughts. Pietro leaned against the frame, his usual smirk in place, but when he saw your face, his expression faltered, he looked worried. 

“Songbird?” he asked, his voice softer than usual. “You okay?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as if trying to shake off the weight of the last few minutes.

“I don’t know.”

Pietro stepped inside, his eyes scanning you, his usual cocky confidence dimmed with concern. “Did he-” he started, but you cut him off with a quick shake of your head.

“No,” you said, your voice quieter than you wanted it to be. “It wasn’t like that.”

But you didn’t know how to explain what it was like. Bucky hadn’t even touched you. But how do you explain someone unravelling in front of you? Someone like him?

Instead of processing it as anger, you felt something else creeping in-uncertainty, confusion, something you didn’t want to name.

Pietro shifted, stepping closer, his concern evident. "Let me get you home."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

If Bucky knew you had gotten in the car with Pietro after... You didn’t want to think about what would happen.

Pietro exhaled, holding his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay... just breathe. You're alright."

You swallowed, but the air still felt thick in your lungs. "He..."

Pietro ran a hand through his hair. "Sometimes the Boss gets... a little off his axis. Stress. Don't hold it against him. Just-let's get you into a cab and home, yeah? I'll get Yelena to call it for you." "Ok.." You felt weak now, drained and he got you into your chair. Pietro lingered for a second, watching you carefully like he wasn’t sure if you might fall apart the moment he left. You wished you could tell him something, anything to shake the feeling creeping over you, but you didn’t have the words.

Instead, you forced a small, tired smile. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t look convinced. “You sure?”

No. You weren’t. But you nodded anyway.

Pietro exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, I’ll get Yelena to call that cab.” He hesitated before stepping toward the door. “Look, Songbird… don’t let this get to you, alright?”

You swallowed. “Pietro…”

His smirk returned, but it was softer now. “Hey, it’s nothing you did. Just… sometimes, the Boss forgets we’re not all in his little world.” He tapped the doorframe, offering one last look before disappearing into the hallway.

Silence swallowed the room again.

You sank into your chair, legs suddenly too weak to hold you up any longer. The dressing room felt smaller now, suffocating, like the air had been pressed out of it by the sheer force of what had just happened.

What the hell were you supposed to do now?

Your fingers curled into your lap, gripping the fabric of your dress as if it could steady you. The memory of Bucky’s voice echoed in your mind, rough and unsteady-his words weren’t just an order, they were a claim.

You didn’t know what terrified you more-that he had said it…

Or that some part of you had wanted to hear it.

[noisytenant]

one of those things about viewing oneself as a system is that it's oftentimes just the only thing that makes sense.

like, you can go around thinking of yourself as one single person who just, inexplicably or through some divine fault, struggles to know what they want, shifts priorities on a dime, and always seems to fuck up the things they want in the last second, feeling some mix of disappointment and relief.

someone who always has the right reasons for doing things, except when they have no idea when they did something, which is always more often than they'd like.

or even someone who overtly and knowingly contradicts themself, never stopping to question how it can be so!

so you can be that one person. or you could say, without even putting a name to it: let's just look at the patterns here.

sometimes i feel this, sometimes i feel that. sometimes i value this, and other times that. in a perfect world, i might be able to integrate all these contradictions, but i'm obviously not doing that, because even when i do what i think is right, something always feels a little wrong.

when i split apart the threads, suddenly i can trace a line from past to present that tells me why i am the way i am... when i'm this. and oftentimes this story conveniently excludes many of the details that would lead me down the path to being that. things begin to untangle. you start to see what the whole was made of.

and it isn't even weird that we have these pockets of self-understanding in a world that throws so many contradictory requests upon us. follow all the rules... now know when to break them. don't fool around... now lighten up a little. be silent and listen... now talk and entertain.

so of course you have these forces inside you and of course they're opposing. when the world asks for one, they're often also asking for the absence of the other. they're forced to grow apart. but all of these pieces only have one source to draw from--your personal history, your life. so in that way they're all the same.

the point is--a lot of people are already fighting with themselves, they're just refusing to see it as a fight and to name the sides.

treating these sides as "that weird way i act sometimes" offers you no real options aside from "be less that" -- something nobody has ever fully succeeded in. and when you inevitably become that, all you can think is how you should actually be less this instead.

meanwhile, treating these opposing forces as something closer to a person means you can talk to them, get to know them, negotiate and compromise. and sometimes brawl, or fuck.

and none of this is easy! it happens slowly, confusingly, frustratingly. but once you understand it, you wonder what the hell you'd been doing the whole time. because you believe there is sense to be made, things start to make sense. and your world gets a little bigger.

[linksfunroadtrip]

Link's Fun Commentary - Prologue!

+ sailor design commentary. link's fun extra

Twilight Field, War of Eras...

Sailor starting in Hyrule Warriors and being dropped immediately into Shepherd's era is actually the second pitch for the beginning of the comic, the very First pitch being the first two pages of chapter 1.

More than anything we just wanted to get it done, but we didn't really know what we were doing . We cobbled together a custom font and got right to it. My Fun Facts: All the grass is the same image reused over and over except for when it isn't . Literally all of the smoke was just repeated/moved around. We didn't even really know how to use gradients effectively...

... Which can be seen in these next two panels. LOL.

The work split on this batch set a precedent for sure. @islandlobster took up lining and flat colors, and had the Hard Job of harmonizing our styles, processes, and experiments. Do you see a lot of small, long-form comics with grainy, textured line-art? Maybe no? Well we found out why.

These panels also feature the Only Two Triforces we remembered to draw !!! Oh My God!!!

As much as we struggled, things moved pretty quick from the get-go. Since the prologue is only a handful of pages we didn't really run into the issues we would with chapter 1, especially regarding our complete and utter lack of script. This went straight from thumbnailing to the final result!! (NOT A SUSTAINABLE WAY TO DO A GROUP PROJECT...!)

I wanted to mention though that when I wrote the line above, I wasn't sure if this was how you would spell it for like . a Soldier Troop or a Performance Troupe. Which I just looked up now and found out I Absolutely got them mixed up. so umm. Sorry. Sailor is not in the circus yet.

Cia was just defeated in the main campaign! I felt like such a smart cookie for this one.

She doesn't even know she wont be going home yet‼️ laughing and pointing ‼️

It was an Early idea that Sailor would conveniently miss the time portal transporting the field (with her in it!) back to its era. This was supposed to be a reoccurring bit, but we didn't commit to it too hard going forward, so who's to say if that'll be realized.

The pirate charm plays a big role in the prologue. A little funny because we were absolutely sick to death of drawing it by the end, as well as the fact that it is there in lieu of her red-gem necklace that we forgot to draw. it is Welcome and Unfortunate that it doesn't work anymore, especially because having the chance to name drop like this was very indulgent.

The era of twilight ! Including the locations and times was in the original sketches, but when we found out that our inexperience with backgrounds wasn't lending itself to establishing Where we were, it came in handy. We Agonized over placing the castle and argued* for like a week about how forested the area should be. Luckily we use noclip now, so things have improved as we've moved into chapter 2 :]

Either way, hopefully it wasn't too confusing, and as we introduce new characters the picture will be clearer. We've talked a little bit about returning to the prologue to spiff it up a bit, but we feel we aren't far enough into the comic to make it worthwhile.

and now over to Pea with the weather:

my name is pea islandlobster and you can't tell that it's me because we are writing on the same post but trust okay 🤞 I am here to talk about SAILOR!!!

Sailor has been my baby brainchild before LFRT was even a blip in our minds eye (my proof) and it has been a beautiful indulgence for me to both put her in AND have her be the first Link we meet. YAY!

I have two designs for her, for which I have helpfully made a diagram just for you..! Labeled and everything..!

A: pheww my big one that I have been sitting on forever. Sailor's necklace was constructed over the course of her adventure, initially only having her red gem (given to her by King Daphnes, from his own crown). Four pearls were later added, parting gifts from Oshus and the three spirits. Also intended to mirror the three Goddess pearls from Wind Waker..! and an extra yellow one i guess. triforce? idk

B: Sailor's chipped tooth is a funny one that I will have to make a small comic about at some point. It's not even anything from her adventure. A couple years before WW, Aryll was pretty upset about losing her first tooth, and in typical Link fashion she thought the best way of comforting her was to ALSO lose a tooth. Grandma was not happy.

C: Most Links have a triforce mark, and each one we are giving a reason towards ^.^ Sailor's mark is entirely scar tissue, specifically it is hypertrophic. She held her triforce for only a few days and got it (maybe quite literally) ripped from her by Ganondorf, so take that as you will. Tetra and her are matching yayyy..!

D: Giving her hero outfit it's own section so I can tuck it out of the way lol. A modified version of her original hero outfit, courtesy of shipmate Nudge (guy in the top left). She was a little upset over having to alter Grandma's hard work, but she preserved it where she could. Like her seashell belt! ^_^

E: SIDEBURNS! Not present in the prologue because it has been a recent development but I figured it was worth bringing up. During WoE, as she grows her hair, her sideburns resemble little lobster claws. Cute! In LFRT as grown out as it is, I thought making them swirly as a reference to pretty much every cloud/wind effect used in WW lol.

From a combination of outgrowing stuff and missing home, Sailor was christened with Lobster Shirt 2.0 as we know and love today. Who made it for her? I dunnooo..... let's sit and think about this one.

Phewww. This was a long one - and no doubt the next will be longer - but this is all for now! Feel free to send any questions you might have ^.^ Thank you for all the support! Chapter 2 part 2 soon!

[oopsiedaisydeer]

ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ, ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ɴᴏᴛ… ᴀ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

emotional tension, social anxiety, one-sided attraction?, unresolved tension, self-doubt, slow burn, angst, fluff, coming-of-age, friends to lovers?, awkwardness

𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙣𝙚: 𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨, 𝘧𝘵. 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨!𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘺!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

series masterlist here.

word count - 1.5k

You weren’t really a party person, but when your classmate, Amelia, texted you, inviting you to her house, you felt like it was one of those rare chances you shouldn’t pass up. It wasn’t every day someone asked you to join in on something. Usually, you were watching from the sidelines, feeling left out, but also wishing you could be more social, more outgoing. So when the invitation came, you agreed, with only slight hesitation.

That was three hours ago.

Now, you were standing in the corner of a loud, crowded house, gripping your cup of soda and feeling incredibly out of place. You’d lost Amelia about fifteen minutes after arriving, she disappeared into the crowd, born for these kinds of events. You, on the other hand, found yourself on a dark corner of the couch, physical distance between you and everyone else. Watching people laugh too loud, too hard, you tried not to draw attention to the fact that you had no idea what to do with yourself.

You weren’t really good at starting conversations, especially in a crowd like this. You’d given it your best shot at first, made a few half-hearted attempts to engage with people. But everyone was too busy with their own groups. You found yourself retreating to quieter corners, waiting for something to change, to give you an excuse to leave without seeming rude. You’d probably end up doing an Irish goodbye anyway.

That’s when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turned around, startled, to find Matt Sturniolo standing there, his usual easy grin on his face. He looked effortlessly casual, leaning against the doorframe with his arms resting by his side.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice light. “You look like you’re plotting your escape, too.”

You blinked, shocked. Matt was that guy at school, the one everyone knew and liked, always the center of attention. He had a way of being effortlessly charming, surrounded by people all the time, always with something to say. Not popular, exactly, but likeable.

And yet, here he was, talking to you? Out of all the people in the room, you hadn’t expected him to come over. You felt your heart race a little. Why was he talking to you?

“I wasn’t planning on coming,” you admitted, feeling a little awkward. “But, you know, sometimes I think I should try new things.”

He tilted his head to the side, like he was considering your words. “Yeah, I get you,” he said with a small laugh. “I don’t even know why I keep coming to these, but it’s like... the social obligation to show up, you know?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at how casually he spoke about it. It was refreshing, almost. “Really? I’m just here because... well, I don’t really know.”

“Real,” he said simply, his eyes scanning the party for a second before settling back on you. “Not really vibing with the whole chaos thing either.”

You hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yeah, I’m more of a... stay up all night reading person.” You gave a small shrug, feeling the weight of the awkwardness lift a little.

Matt smiled, and he looks like he wants to ask you a question, but instead he says, “I like talking to people, but... I don’t know. Seems like everyone’s pretending to have a great time, but no one’s really connecting, you know? Maybe that’s just because I’m not drinking, for once.”

You blinked, surprised by his honesty. It wasn’t what you expected from him. Matt, the guy everyone liked, talking like this? It caught you off guard, but you found yourself nodding. “Yeah. S’all surface level.”

“Exactly.” He grinned at you, the weight in his voice lifting a bit. “Not really fucking with all this. At the moment, at least.” He waved a hand around, gesturing to the loud music and crowded living room behind him. “Not a fan of standing by myself in corners either.”

You laughed softly. “Your best option is just to disappear into a quiet corner and hope no one notices.”

“I think I might just start doing that,” he said, pushing himself off the doorframe. “You got a spot in mind?”

For a second, you just sat there, looking up at him. You could tell he wasn’t being sarcastic, and that, for some reason, he was genuinely interested in keeping the conversation going. You pointed toward the back door, which led out to an empty back garden. “Looks like it's quieter out there. We could explore?”

Matt followed you, his footsteps steady but casual. The two of you wandered out, stepping onto the porch, away from the chaos of the party. There, with less noise, the conversation immediately flowed.

“So, what do you usually do when you’re not... you know, pretending to enjoy parties?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the stairwell.

You smiled, relieved by how comfortable the conversation felt. “I read a lot. Write sometimes too. I can get lost in a good story for hours.”

Matt chuckling slightly, still looked intrigued. “Reading, I can definitely see for you. Writing, though?”

“Well, I don’t really talk about it much,” you said with a small laugh. “And we don’t exactly talk often.”

He chuckled. “Fair point. What kind of stories do you like?”

The question was so easy, so natural, that you didn’t hesitate. “Anything with people. Just like real human stories. Or stuff with magic or weird alternate worlds. I’m actually reading this book about... well, it’s a romance. You probably wouldn’t be into it, though.”

Matt smiled at your self-deprecating tone. “You’d be surprised. I recently read this epic historical fantasy trilogy, which had beautiful romantic and platonic elements. About this girl who studies to-”

“Wait, you?” you interrupted, surprised. “You like that kind of stuff?”

“Why not?” he asked with a grin. “I might look like a party guy, but I’ve got a lot of hobbies. Some might call me the hobby king.”

You laughed, feeling more comfortable by the second. You couldn’t believe how easy this conversation was. “Alright, now I’m curious. What other hobbies do you have?”

Matt paused, looking like he was weighing whether or not to share something a little more personal. “Well... I like to paint sometimes. I’m not the best at it, but it’s a fun release. And I go climbing basically every other day. Sometimes get down with a good craft too.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You’re definitely not what I expected.”

He laughed, a little sheepish. “I get that a lot. People don’t usually see the side of me that’s into this stuff. Except for my family.” He looked away for a second, almost as if he was debating something. Then he met your gaze again. “I guess I’m just... not what people assume I am.”

You studied him, noticing how his relaxed demeanor had shifted, just a little, into something more thoughtful. It was a side of him you hadn’t expected to see. He wasn’t just the charming, social guy everyone flocked to. There was more to him.

Before you could say anything else, a group of his friends appeared. As they called out to him, Matt hesitated, his smile faltering for just a second. He looked back at you, his eyes briefly holding yours as though wondering if you’d follow him back inside. But just as quickly, he masked it with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 'Be right back,' he said, before turning and walking toward the group, his voice suddenly louder, more animated.

Matt's easy-going demeanor became something more familiar, charming, effortless, but distant. His friends were like a wave crashing into the calm he'd created with you. ‘Hey, bro!’ one of his brothers shouted, slapping his back, and just like that, his focus was gone. He shot you another quick glance, a little too bright, too practiced, like he wasn’t sure if he should feel guilty for walking away, but he did anyway.

You stayed in your quiet spot, unsure of what to do next. Hugging your knees to your chest, you tried to enjoy the quiet breeze, before standing up, and walking through the crowd. You paused in the kitchen, observing him. He had his back to you, but his body language somehow radiated toward you in clear waves.

He laughed louder, gestured more broadly. It was like something had turned off in him, and the mask had clicked into place. It wasn’t that he was faking it. It was just... different. More performance than person. And for a moment, you felt a strange pull between wanting to stay hidden in your corner or step into the chaos he was now part of. 

Shaking the feeling off, you managed to make it out the front door in one piece. No goodbyes necessary. Checking your phone, you accepted it was still an okay time to walk home alone.

Matt lingered in your thoughts as you made your way home, a smile that seemed to tease its way onto your lips. You found yourself replaying the conversation, wondering if it had meant anything at all.

Maybe he was just being his usual charming self, effortlessly moving from person to person, like he always did.

A quiet thought slipped in. Had you gotten attached to the moment simply because he'd talked to you? Maybe it was just the rarity of someone actually taking notice, being interested. You probably shouldn't get too worked up about it.

It wasn’t something that happened often.

thank u @bernardsbendystraws for the dividers!! much much much love <3

a/n: oh i really hope u guys fw this bc i just spent three hours planning the whole series out <3 im working on a masterlist for this series also!

taglist: @backwardshatnick @sturnslutz @applecidersturniolo @kier-with-a-k @evansturn @bluestriips @55sturn @snoopychris @y3sterdaysproblem @cowboylikenat @throatgoat4u tagging most ppl who seem interested !! feel free to lmk if u want to be added or removed from the taglist though!

cya soon!!!!

[shirecorn]

this is kinda well in advance but I think your chibug drawings would be a perfect bday gift for someone and was wondering if I could commission (and pay for each ofc) 2 different bugs but in the same scene? Obviously this is a convo that would have to happen closer to the bday but I just want to know if it's even worth considering.

AbsoLUTELY ? I love to be paid to do whatever my current obsession is. You should order it now tho while I'm on a roll. That was I can get it done in 35 minutes 20 seconds instead of 8 months.

Here's my rates! There's no scenery included but we can talk about adding some minimalist scene that would work well with the style.

Things are cheapest when I'm obsessed. Get some bugs. Get a bug pair. Get a bug swarm.

Insect Sss

[elias-rights]

I'm a tma lover/hater and huuuge fan of your blog, I'd love to hear your takes on the fanon characterization/designs of the archive crew and why you hate them, cause they drive me up a wall every time I see them

TMA lover/hater is a great way to call it. I'm going to be saying this from now on.

I don't remember the last time I talked about fanon designs, but basically:

They are at work for most of the podcast. I get why they might get more lax with what they wear to work after it all starts to unravel, but Tim* isn't going to be wearing Hawaiian shirts from S1. (*who is a professional! He is meticulous about work and not, say, a himbo.)

They are employed adults in a realistic world (supernatural elements aside). Melanie I could see having a more alternative fashion since her line of work originally wasn't academic, but that's about it.

Elias. Elias Elias Elias. It's the most inaccurate fanon design out there. Why is this man, canonically described as "austere" and the Head of an Institute that subsists on donations, dressed like the Onceler. Why do you make him significantly more flamboyant than the rest of the cast (who are better people). Do you seriously not realise why Disney villains being way more effeminate than the heroes is a problematic trope? And don't you think this careful man who does not draw attention to himself, and plays the part of the boring bureaucrat, wouldn't wear flashy suits and eye-shaped jewellery (which could only garner him reactions of ??? even before any secrets came out)? I have a few posts about fandom homophobia and fanon Elias but it honestly drives me up the wall.

On the subject of homophobia, why is Daisy, one of the most physically violent and monstrous female characters, drawn as butch? Especially considering (as a post not by me that I'll reblog after I finish this) that she canonically chooses to call herself Daisy because of its soft femininity and how it contradicts her violence. It really does seem like the mental arithmetic is violent + female = butch.

This isn't Problematic but more so something that I disagree with: I just don't see Peter as a stereotypical old-timey sea captain. He projects salesman energy. He is the cold depersonalisation of capitalism in human form (not Elias). He wears suits and is clean-shaven. To me.

Michael is not an arcade carpet. He thrives on being subtly... off. Seeming off in reflections, on second glance, out of the corner of your eye. I have always associated him with sickly browns and yellows. But I'm starting to think the TMA fandom does not understand subtlety.

Jon is mostly fine in my book, but I am a bit uneasy about the correlation between the universal headcanon of him as brown and how infantilised and dehumanised he is by some of the fandom. I'd be interested to hear actual nonwhite people's thoughts on the matter.

[ihavesimpedovermanyfictionalmen]

Could I make a crazy fiction request? A bartender takes a music course at the local junior college. The instructor (harry styles) fancies her, but one of the clubhouse bikers (butler) gets seriously upset about the situation on a level she doesn't even realize.

Jealous Much?

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴀᴜꜱᴛɪɴ ʙᴜᴛʟᴇʀ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀʀʀʏ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇꜱ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ??

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: physically fighting, some sexual references I think

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: our lovely user above

A/N - I don't know if this is what you imagined but I hope I did you justice!! maybe I'll do one where she and harry have a moment? if y'all want both of them to be with her? Idk......

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。 °。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。

The smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke clung to the air, mingling with the low hum of rock music from the old jukebox in the corner. Y/N wiped down the counter, her fingers absently tracing the rim of an empty glass as she stole a glance at the far side of the room.

Austin Butler sat in his usual spot—a dark corner booth, back against the wall, beer in hand. He was watching. Not obviously, not in a way that anyone else would notice, but she felt it. The weight of his stare had been on her all night, just like it had been every night since she started that damn music class.

She wasn’t sure what his problem was. He wasn’t exactly the chatty type, but lately, he had been quieter. More brooding. More intense.

The bell above the door jingled, drawing her attention away.

Harry Styles walked in, his presence immediately at odds with the rough atmosphere of the bar. He wasn’t out of place, exactly—he had that effortless charm that made people like him anywhere—but he definitely didn’t belong. Dressed in a fitted button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, he carried himself with a confidence that was different from the men in the clubhouse.

"Y/N," he greeted her with that easy smile, sliding onto a stool at the bar. "Didn’t expect to find you working so late."

She smirked, tossing the rag over her shoulder. "Gotta pay for those classes somehow, professor."

"Just Harry, love," he corrected, resting his forearms on the counter. "I wanted to check in, see if you had any questions about the last assignment."

"Not unless you’ve got a way to make music theory less of a headache," she teased, pouring him a drink without asking. He didn’t usually stay long, just enough for a quick drink and some small talk before heading out.

Before she could slide his drink across the bar, a hand reached out, stopping her.

Austin.

Austin had been still up until that moment, watching, waiting. But the second Harry’s eyes lingered on Y/N a little too long, the second his voice dipped into something that sounded a little too familiar, Austin moved.

He had moved without her noticing, suddenly standing beside her, his grip firm around her wrist. His eyes weren’t on her, though. They were locked on Harry, cold and unreadable.

"Think you should find another place to drink, professor," Austin said, voice low, steady.

Harry’s easy demeanor faltered for a fraction of a second before he forced a chuckle. "Didn’t realize this was a members-only establishment."

Austin didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. His grip on her wrist tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make her pulse jump.

"It is now."

Y/N's breath hitched. Harry exhaled through his nose, clearly sensing the shift in the air. He wasn’t stupid. He knew Austin was dangerous. But he also wasn’t the type to back down from a challenge.

"Look, mate," Harry said, pushing his drink away. "I’m just here to talk to Y/N. No need for the caveman routine."

Wrong move.

The second the words left his mouth, Austin lunged.

Y/N barely had time to react before Austin grabbed Harry by the collar, yanking him clean off the barstool. The stool clattered to the floor as Austin shoved him backward, sending them both crashing into a nearby table.

"Hey!" Y/N shouted, scrambling around the bar.

Harry stumbled but recovered fast, shoving Austin off him with surprising strength. "The hell is your problem, man?"

Austin’s jaw clenched, eyes burning with something raw and dangerous. "You."

Harry scoffed, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his lip. "All this over a girl?" He glanced at Y/N, but before he could say another word, Austin swung.

His fist connected with Harry’s jaw, the sickening crack of bone against bone echoing through the empty bar. Harry reeled backward, knocking over another chair as he regained his footing.

"Jesus Christ!" Y/N rushed forward, grabbing Austin’s arm before he could go in for another hit. "Austin, stop!"

But Austin wasn’t listening. His chest was rising and falling heavily, knuckles flexing at his sides. Harry spat blood onto the floor, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

"You’ve got some serious issues, mate," Harry muttered, rubbing his jaw. "All this just because I talked to her?"

Austin’s lip curled. "No. Because you don’t know when to back off."

Harry gave a humorless chuckle. "Neither do you, apparently."

That was it.

Austin lunged again, this time grabbing Harry by the shirt and slamming him into the bar. Bottles rattled on the shelves as Austin pressed his forearm against Harry’s throat, eyes dark with something possessive and unforgiving.

"Y/N ain’t yours," Harry choked out, gripping Austin’s arm.

Austin didn’t even flinch. His voice was calm when he spoke, but it carried an edge that sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine.

"She’s not yours either."

Harry struggled for a second longer before finally going still. The fight wasn’t worth it. He knew when he was outmatched.

Austin let go, stepping back just enough to let him breathe. Harry took the opportunity, shoving him off as he straightened his shirt. He shot one last look at Y/N—something unreadable in his expression—before shaking his head.

"See you in class," he muttered, turning toward the door.

The second it slammed shut behind him, Y/N whirled on Austin, shoving at his chest.

Austin barely budged. His breathing was still heavy, the tension still rolling off him in waves. His hands twitched, like he wasn’t done yet—like he wanted to grab her, wanted to finish this a different way.

"You shouldn’t be around him," he said simply.

Y/N’s eyes flashed. "And why the hell not?"

Austin exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold himself back.

"You really need me to spell it out?"

Y/N huffed, crossing her arms. "Actually? Yeah, I do. Because while I’ll admit your jealousy riles me up in a way I didn’t think it would"—she stepped closer, tilting her head—"must you pick a fight with the only teacher I actually like?"

Austin’s lips twitched, like he almost wanted to smirk.

"Didn’t seem like you just liked him," he muttered.

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. You think every man who talks to me wants to fuck me?"

Austin’s gaze darkened. "I know when a man wants you."

That shut her up.

Her pulse jumped, but she refused to let him see her waver. "So what? You beat up every guy who looks at me the wrong way now?"

Austin’s jaw flexed. "Only the ones who don’t know how to back off."

Y/N inhaled, suddenly very aware of how close he was, of how the anger between them had twisted into something else. Something thick and electric.

Her voice dropped. "You were jealous."

Austin stepped closer, crowding her against the bar. "Not jealous," he murmured. "Just done waiting."

Y/N swallowed, her breath catching. "For what?"

Austin lifted a hand, fingers grazing her jaw—gentle, despite the fire still simmering beneath his skin. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, lingering.

"You already know, sweetheart."

Y/N should’ve pushed him away.

Should’ve reminded him that this wasn’t how things worked. That fighting someone for her wasn’t the way to get under her skin.

But the problem was—

He already was under her skin.

And she wasn’t sure she wanted him out.