#x future reader

[hotheadedhero]

Ok.. so this is for rise. Imagine, like future reader having comed back with CJ, but they only appears after the fight. And reader is just f/caked up, compared to the current reader. Idk if I’m making sense.

This could be platonic, or romantic but it’s just basically. How would the present turtles react to their future best friend/SO from future looking so scard and mentally and physically exhausted and so “out of character”, their personality has completely changed, they are just, grieving, and grumpy.

Sorry if this doesn’t make sense 😭

AN: I think I just puked from excitement, holy cheese. I've wanted to write something related to the movie but wasn't sure what, so thank you Anon 🙏 I hope I got the right idea. I've also only seen the movie once so apologies for any inaccuracies :')

Past Days, Future Pain

Rise Turtles x Reader

Warnings: contains spoilers for the ROTTMNT Movie, angst

Premise: 

You knew that Michelangelo opening a portal into the past would be a gamble. You knew there was a chance that there would be complications. You just didn't expect to get separated from Casey Jr upon entry. In actuality, you hadn't anticipated to be joining him in his journey at all. The fight with the Kraang was meant to continue with you in it but Leonardo just had to push you into the portal. There's no telling what negative developments could arise with you being here and bumping into your old friends and, more importantly, your younger self. A worn laugh breaches your lips in a huff. Donatello would have a field day with this last-minute decision made by his brother. 

From atop a building, you gaze over the pristine city, untouched by the nearing destruction you have grown so used to. It would be nice to say that everything is just as you remember it but this peace is a luxury you have long forgotten. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath in. The air is so clean - a statement you never thought you would use to describe New York of all places. Voices dance all around, engaging in their idle chatter, obliviously free. 

You frown. No time. There's no time to get nostalgic. Doomsday is just around the corner and there's no telling if that ball's already running in motion. Casey may have been born in ruin but you'll be damned if he witnesses apocalypse's birth.

Hours later, you would find out that, yes, doomsday is ripening into a poisonous fruit. Kraang minions are littered around the city, gravitating around the tall building where, just above it, Pandora’s box is open. It's too late, isn't it? The one chance you had. Gone. Your bleak reality is returning to fruition. As monstrous beings come at you left and right, your world darkens in tandem with all around you. Hope is lost for a second time. All the same, you continue to fight. Every breath, every swing, could be your last but still, you fight in the hope of at least finding Casey. You need to find him. 

By the time you do, all is vanquished. You could cry from joy if part of you didn’t believe it was all a dream. There, you see all your old friends. Some you would have seen just hours ago, others you haven’t seen in many years. You pull the goggles from your face and rest them on your head for a better look. 

“Sorry, I’m late. Did I miss the grand finale?”

They all turn when they hear the new voice and each goes wide-eyed. The turtles look between you and… you! Present you. Future you. Young. Old. The space-time continuum isn’t going to like this one. It’s one thing to meet the son of Cassandra but a future (Y/n)? Wild. Looks like they’ll be getting to know you. Again.

There's no way to return home. Your home is gone. Now that the timeline has changed, the only thing to do is to get comfortable. It'll be difficult. The only comfort you know is terrorised screams and running for your life. Adjusting to the world from which you came is going to be no easy feat and the turtles adjusting to this version of you is… well…

Raphael

The Wounded Warrior

To a fault, it’s always been Raph’s mission to protect you, ever since you first met. It saddens him to know that his future self couldn’t do that for you. From head to toe, you’re practically littered with scars. He doesn’t want to seem rude by staring but he can’t help it. He’s ridden with guilt for events that haven’t even happened. Events that won’t happen now thanks to them but that doesn’t change the fact that they’ve still happened to you. He notices how you avoid mirrors, how you avoid reflective surfaces altogether.

His fingers absentmindedly glide beneath his right eye. To an extent, he can understand what you’re going through. His experience doesn’t dare compare to what nightmares you’ve endured but it’s the ownership of a wound from said experiences. The memory associated with it and being reminded of those horrors every time you so much as look at yourself. It’s tiring. You look so tired; worn, broken, and beat.

Raphael frowns at himself. It would be hypocritical of him to preach tribute to your valour when he struggles to acknowledge his own. He could try all he wants to make you feel better but you’d likely call him out on the irony. That doesn’t stop Casey Jr and his brothers from psyching you both up when they recount stories from your ventures. It lumps the two of you into a corner but a corner you share nonetheless. As the others share their tales, he looks down at you, noting the way you fidget and avoid the praise. When he pulls you in for a side hug, you look up at him and he flashes a coy smile, making you do the same. There’s not much he can do for your physical scars but he can be there to share in the mild awkwardness of being glorified at least. 

Leonardo

The Tortured Trooper

He tries many times to get a laugh out of you, just as he would with the (Y/n) he’s grown to cherish but no dice. Nothing he does works and it’s such a harrowing disparity. He himself has had a life-changing revelation because of all that’s happened but he couldn’t imagine what 20 years of that could do to a person. Well, he doesn’t need to imagine it. The result is right in front of him and translated through your future self. When he isn’t trying to put on some show for your amusement, he watches you. He notices how you stare off into dead space. Your eyes pale and glass over and he doesn’t need to think hard about where you disappear off to. 

One night, he’s unable to sleep, pondering ways to get you out of your funk. His thinking would get cut short, however, when he hears a shrill cry come from your quarters. Sword in hand, he bolts for your room, expecting to find a threat but it’s just you. You’re hunched over, shaking and struggling for air, drenched in sweat. He carefully drops his sword and crawls out in front of you, trying to get you to calm down. You latch onto him with a deathly grip as if your life depended on it. 

"I saw you die b-before coming here,” you sob out in broken breaths.

These are rare moments for Leo but it’s the kind of time where he doesn’t know what to say. No quip, no bad joke, no charming motivation. Nothing. All he can think to do is hold you and let you cry into his shoulder. It’s not much but if he can at least be there for these dark hours, that’s enough.

Donatello

The Hateful Hero

He's so used to fighting your present self's hug attempts that your chosen isolation throws him off course. Any attempt to even breathe in your direction is met with a raised weapon and a second-nature standoffishness. The laser-focused glare in your eyes for the short second you’re ready for battle is enough to give Donnie chills. He knows you’ve been through a lot but himself and everyone else included are your friends, aren’t they? They’re the one group of people guaranteed that you’re safe around.

Hypothesis: you’re so used to fighting for your life, that your body doesn’t know how to readjust to a more peaceful setting. As peaceful as you can get in this place, anyway. Your fight or flight response must be fried, constantly geared in combat mode. He tries to make the lair as hospitable as possible, filling it with things he knows his version of you likes. This only enrages you further and he has to believe that his initial theory may have been slightly off. When he tries to get an answer as to why, you just sit back in your corner and scowl off.

“How do I know this won’t all go away, too?” you ask bitterly.

Donnie stares down at you and slowly joins your side with no response. He dislikes questions he can’t answer with his usual certainty but he doubts any reassurance could put you at ease right now. It’s clear to him now. You’re scared to get close in case you lose it all again. He can’t guarantee that another doomsday won’t arise but he can say that they’ll be ready, at least. Until you’re soothed of your worries, he’ll let that be known every day if he has to.

Michelangelo

The Sullen Soldier

Mikey has always valued togetherness with his family and friends. He’s always cherished the joy that comes with unity, the memories that you make together. That’s why it’s so heartbreaking to see you shy away from the entire group. The only person who can get more than a few words out of you is Casey Jr but that’s understandable given all of what you’ve been through together. What happened to his fun-loving (Y/n) to turn you into this husk of a person? In hindsight, he and his brothers only caught a glimpse of the disastrous future from whence you came and that’ll be enough to last him a lifetime.

That makes this all the more terrible in his eyes. The world has been saved, the threat vanquished, and everyone is happy except for you - the one person who, outside of his family, means the most to him. He knows that deep down inside that gloomy shell you want to be a part of the household. You just need a gentle push in the right direction. 

What’s the one thing that fixes everything? Pizza! That’ll do the trick for sure! It may not necessarily fix everything but it’ll get a smile out of you. That’s all he wants. You take that first bite and he sits at the ready. Even a little smirk would be good enough. Your lips move and then they start wobbling. Before he knows it, they’re scrunched up and silent tears run down your cheeks. He assumes he’s done more damage than good but, then, you smile up at him sadly with watery eyes and quietly thank him. Mikey can feel tears of his own blur his vision as he joins you. He’ll know the world is right when you can spend time together without crying over each other.

Bonus:

The Knowledgable Knight

You don’t even recognise the person you’re looking at despite it being you. This young dear, so bright-eyed and so unknowing to the terrors you carry with you. A version of you long bypassed from the two decades of war. They have so many questions they wish to ask - you can tell - but they hold back in fear of seeming insensitive. You almost find it funny given who they are.

When there is a moment alone, you only have one thing to say, “Life is precious, so lead yours reasonably and to the fullest, okay?” 

They smile sadly and nod in understanding. They don’t need to know all of what you’ve gone through to know that life shouldn’t be taken advantage of. It’s a lesson to learn from yourself and, funny enough, yourself.

“And one other thing,” you continue, playfulness hinted with the light smirk on your face. “For the love of God, just tell him how you feel already. You never know if you might end up losing your chance.”

Your younger self goes wide-eyed and there’s practically steam coming off their face but they give you their promise with a raised thumb. You do the same and wish them all the best. Even if you’ve had a life of lost opportunities and lost love, that doesn’t mean the same needs to be true for you again. You watch them run off and glance around the room. Whilst you hold the pain of a future no longer to be, you can take solace in the fact that it won’t be repeated. The apocalypse can’t lay its wretched hands on anyone else. You sit down and let your weary bones rest, well and truly for the first time in years. A long breath washes out of you and, finally, you feel a sense of ease. 

Maybe there is such a thing as second chances.

____________________

Hey! Hey, you! Yeah, you. Got a little message for ya!

There's no telling where life is going to go, what challenges it'll throw your way. We may be left with scars, or feeling hopeless. Sometimes our pain comes back to haunt us, or we lash out. Just know that it gets easier. We are all heroes of our own battles. We've lived to tell the tale and we are strong. Don't ever forget that. Keep your head held high and keep your loved ones close, whether that be family, friends, pets, or four awesome turtles <3

[followmybadreligion]

thinking about your blue-collar!husband who just can’t tell you no…

it's almost as if the word isn't in his vocabulary when it comes to you.

while he doesn't meant to over-do it, there's always something in him that just wants to make things happen, you know? wants to make you happy.

he blames his years of southern living. the culture and family that taught him that his woman should never have to work a day in her life. that all she should worry about is enjoying life— the life he provides for her as a labor of his love.

he watched his daddy do it; deliver his mother fresh flowers in the morning with a kiss on her head and his wallet on the table. before that, it was his grandfather and the ranch he built from scratch to appease his picky woman. even saw some of the chivalry his great grandfather showed in the little ways he still could, like with a new pearl necklace or fur coat on an occasion.

it was their duty as men to provide. especially as men smitten with their wives.

this is how you found yourself with boxes and boxes of gifts underneath the christmas tree, each one wrapped was with delicate touches and care. the gifts consisted of things you’d obsessed over once upon a time or maybe mentioned once in passing. it was all the same to him, though. you wanted it? he got it.

it was how you found yourself on your knees on a sunday, passing him tools as he installed new shelves and displays in your walk-in closet. you already had a vanity, a wardrobe, and as many dressers as one could imagine, but you’ve never been a light shopper. once your bags started collecting in neat piles along your room, he’d gotten a clue. all it took was a simple “honey, do you think you could do this for me?” and he’d clear his schedule.

it was how you tried nearly every restaurant in your fast-paced city. the high-brow, low-brow, and hole in the wall places, too. if he thought you’d like it then that’s exactly where he’d take you. he loved seeing you melt as you found a new dish you enjoyed. he loved how you always gathered some of your food and brought it to his lips in an effort to get him to try it. so what if the two of you ordered the same thing? your’s tastes a little different!

it was how he winded up with your name tattooed across his chest, the word carved into him in a way he simply relished in. you didn’t even have to ask for it, no, and he was in no rush to tell you either. but, he wears it as proudly as he does his wedding band— just another reminder of his devotion to you.

it was how, in the midst of a heated moment of passion, you saw that tattoo. how you halted your grinding on top of him with a racing mind and hooded eyes, locked in on the black, beautiful cursive your name rested in. how your left hand came to rest on it, and for a few short seconds, it met your wedding ring. how you really, truly came to believe that your man is so much more than head over heels for you.

[madamechrissy]

Stripper! Satoru

Pairings- Stripper! Satoru x Bride! reader

Summary- You've been promised your entire life to Naoya Zenin, and now there's just one night left. Never having a choice, or any freedom, raised to be his perfect bride- your friends throw a party with the hottest male revue show there is, and that's where you meet him - Satoru.

Warnings - MDNI- Satoru is basically Magic Mike, angstyyy, explicit sex, loss of virginity, oral ( f receiving) sweet/whipped Satoru, sheltered reader, kissing, drinking, reader is engaged (arranged marriage) so morally gray but it's Naoya so fuck him, emotional asff , open end for now! (story will wrap it up) <3

This will be a FULL length multichapter fic after I finish a cpl wips, it's been eating me up to write so I want to show you at least a preview of it! tag list open for when it's released, drop a comment if you wanna get added! it's a long one <3

Stripper! Satoru who is the star of the biggest male revue in the nation, he's always showing off his well oiled, defined abs, and making every girl there feel so good. He loves watching how they tremble as they touch his abdomen, loves the way they giggle when he dances, straddling them in their chair, brushing their cheeks with his fingers, a wink that makes them melt.

Stripper! Satoru oils his toned, muscular body before each show until it's gleaming under the lights, hips undulating as he tossed that cowboy hat into the air, clad in assless chaps and a thin tie, with some black silk on his cock that shows his entire outline. And God was he packing, the other dancers of the review get the oohs and ahs, but he is always center stage and thrives in it, in the looks of everyone dying to bring him home.

Stripper! Satoru and his crew have an exclusive party tonight, for a bride to be - and she must be wealthy, because they're walking right into a mansion, dressed up as cops tonight, Satoru loves to put on a good show for these women, his white hair tucked under a police cap, as he rings the doorbell, which opens with what he assumes are the bride's friends. They're already giggling and rushing the men in, one pulls Gojo aside, whispering in his ear - 'please, make her smile tonight... she's really...' he doesn't need the rest of the answer when he sees your face, so lost and broken, and it makes him falter.

Stripper! Satoru has never seen a bride not giggling and excited, once or twice he absolutely saw them nervous or worried, some of them would want to sleep with him or the crew as their 'last night' of freedom, and most of them were usually fine giving it to them. Not Satoru however, although he has hooked up with his fair share of women, he does not sleep with brides to be, as much as they have tried, he does have a couple small boundaries and that is one.

Stripper! Satoru still gave them a good show, he still licked across their skin and let them touch his body, he put a smile on their faces, made them blush, he made them all soaking wet. But he's never encountered the sad eyes that meet his now, the nervous biting of your lower lip as you look around in utter confusion. Your friend sighs, tugging Satoru down now. 'Arranged marriage, and he's... fucking horrible. Please, help her forget for one night?' he sees now why they paid so much, it's clear your friends love you, as the lights turn off and the LEDs turn on, your face is illuminated with red light, haunting him as he almost forgets the routine.

Stripper! Satoru and the crew begin to 'pretend' to arrest you and the girls, fake handcuffs on their wrists while the men press the girls down on the chairs, beginning their 'pat down'. But as Satoru approaches you, and touches your skin with the toy, fake metal of the cuffs, you just sigh, making him pause. The music continues, but he instead gently presses you on the seat, getting on his knees now, as your eyes drink the prettiest man you've seen once he takes off those dark shades. Your breath catches when he gently brushes your hair off your shoulder, and asks - 'Are you even okay with this, sweetheart?'

Stripper! Satoru doesn't realize, you've never been asked if you're okay with anything, your whole life was just made so you can marry the leader of the Zenin clan, so that you were a pristine, perfect and untouched wife. You take a shaky breath, easing in his presence, finally having someone ask if you were okay was something you didn't even have growing up. To come from a stripper dressed like a cop was surprising, but you instantly relax, thighs spreading just a bit, which his insane blue eyes dart to. 'I'm sorry, yes, I want to, please...'

Stripper! Satoru has never felt whatever the fuck it was when he touches your skin, the sensations shooting through him, he watches goosebumps rise on your skin when his crew grabs his attention. He smiles, looking at you once more. 'I'll give you the funnest night, I promise' you giggle, you don't think you've ever giggled, nodding as he steps back, and the men play that music and rip off the fake outfits bit by bit. That's when your tummy clenches, heat pooling, watching Satoru's body revealed as he rolls his hips, and your friends all smile at you, seeing you actually happy for the first time since you heard the wedding was impending.

Stripper! Satoru is insanely talented, not just his ripped, perfect body, but how he moves it, so clearly the leader of them all, surely they all had gorgeous bodies, but something about him drew your avid attention. You get flustered and shift as you study his movements, and his eyes just won't leave yours, they kept glancing at you, a smile on plump lips while they all strip down, and then step close to each of you, you're the only one without the cuffs, they sit on your lap instead. Satoru braces his arms on either side of you, breath trailing across your neck when he dances between your thighs, abs flexing right in front of your face. Your breath dances on his skin as you nervously exhale, feeling your heart pounding in your chest.

Stripper! Satoru runs the most famous male revue for a reason, he's about as charming and confident as it gets, it's enigmatic his pull, but mostly you keep looking at those eyes, getting lost in them - for a moment forgetting your wedding to Naoya tomorrow - a man you've known bits and pieces of for a long time, long enough to be terrified of him. For a moment you let go and smile nervously, you touch his slick muscles when he puts your fingers on his chest, and the laughter carries through the room. As their set ends, an entire party begins, with shots everywhere and dancing, you see your friends stealing little kisses, envying their freedom, but the blue eyed man with slicked back white hair seems to focus on you, taking your hand and bringing you into a dance then. You giggle again, shaking your head. 'I can't dance... what's your name? The real one, not the stage name' you say, looking up at him then, and he tugs you closer against him. 'It's Satoru'

Stripper! Satoru uses a stage name, but for some reason he wants you to have that name, a hand sliding down your body over your pretty white dress, addling his mind. 'Anyone can dance, you've just never tried, sweetheart' you shake your head again, but he's already moving your hips for you, turning you so that your back presses against him, and that's when he feels it, your sweet body against his making him ache in ways he hasn't in a long time. 'See, you're dancing now' you lean back against him, shutting your eyes then, just feeling him. 'My friend set you up to cheer me up, huh?' he sighs against your ear, aching to press a kiss against your neck, but knowing he shouldn't. 'You do have good friends, but I just like dancing with you'

Stripper! Satoru has you downing another shot, the atmosphere is intense- these parties get this way, frequently, another perk of being the most famous male revue was endless beautiful women, and making bank on top of it. Satoru notices the dilation of your eyes when you take one more shot, licking your lips before peering around so shyly. 'Everything okay, these parties get a little...' he's asking about you again, the mere thoughtfulness pushes you to step forward, pulling him down by the black bow tie he's got on, nothing else but a black speedo at this point, revealing the body carved out like a statue, but he lets you yank him down, eyes lowering to your lips. 'If I could, have a kiss, a real one before I... don't get a choice anymore' your whisper ends him, his heart breaking for a girl he doesn't know, even in a haze of liquor and undulating bodies, everything fades but you.

Stripper! Satoru can't help but ask in surprise - 'you've never kissed?' and you see the surprise in his eyes, you look around, the music still blaring, overwhelming your senses. 'No, never, um... I shouldn't-' Satoru breaks his own rule then, slamming his lips down on yours, your first kiss, one you will think upon when it's just that cruel man looking down at you instead. You gasp against his lips, inviting his tongue to dance inside your mouth, yours dances along his, messy and clumsy but following every movement like a dance itself. He feels it then, his cock throbbing from a kiss, you don't seem to notice or maybe don't even want to say something as it presses high up on your tummy, while his hands slip up your body, for all eyes to see. But your friends clearly are pleased- they wanted you to have one night of fun, even if it wasn't what you were 'supposed' to do.

Stripper! Satoru has you against a wall before you can blink, like a switch went off in his mind and all that turns on is you. His hands are on either side of you when he pulls back, taking a breath, cursing softly, your breasts are rising and falling as you look up at him, desire for the first time in your life overtaking you. 'Thank you, Satoru' you smile sadly, was it better to not kiss at all than to have this? 'Is it that bad, the guy?' he murmurs then, and you look down, trembling just a bit, and his instinct is to protect you when he doesn't even know you. Satoru is protective of those he loves, but this feeling makes no sense. Tears fill your eyes and you sniffle, looking away, but he tilts your chin up, swiping one off with a thumb now. 'Thank you for tonight, I see why you're so popular...' he tries to smirk then, raising a brow. 'Because I'm so sexy?' you giggle even through your tears, you've never laughed so much in your life, shaking your head, making him pout. 'You're kinda mean, you're saying I'm not?'

Stripper! Satoru is trying to tease it off, the feelings throbbing though his body, but you're too much when you say - 'no, it's because you're really something special' another tear falls despite tremulous lips, swollen from his kiss, he feels the eyes on him, this isn't what he does, never ever the bride, but it's like he can't drag himself away from your gravity. Kissing you again is too easy, lifting you like it's nothing is even easier, the way you cling to him and lose yourself as the two of you are now locked in a room is even easier. Your dress slips up your hips with a silky whisper, his big hands gripping your hips and dragging you against him, you whine out as you feel it, the sweat dripping against your skin while he barely holds it together, ignoring the fact that he knows better, forgetting that you're not his, and how badly that for some reason feels to him, while he's got your back on a bed, kissing down your breasts and tugging at your dress now.

Stripper! Satoru has his mouth devouring every pretty inch of skin you allow him to, hot and hungry while you melt under him, clothes dissolving with gentle tugs, baring you to his vision, his fingers dance across your skin like you're a canvas and they're delicate paint brushes at first, then they're more insistent, more pressure, hungrier and hungrier for you. 'Fuck, you're beautiful...' he doesn't say that either, of course he compliments, but he's never seen someone earn that title quite like you, when he frees your breasts and they gently bounce from your bra, when your nipples perk up just for his mouth to suck on. When your hands entwine in his silky white hair, and he's pulling one into his mouth, while the other hand twists your other bud taut, and your cunt starts drooling, throbbing, one that's never been touched, even by yourself. Sheltered and taught it's all terrible, your friends had shown you some things but you're mostly lost to anything Satoru is doing, just lost in how good it all feels.

Stripper! Satoru pauses for a moment, as he's licking a trail between your breasts, eyeing you under snowy lashes, watching as you breasts rise and fall. 'We should stop now, before... I can't stop' his husky declaration is filled with need, your hand rushes through his hair, taking a shaky breath and whispering - 'would you be my first?' he pulls back, terrified at the statement, his mouth wide open, he knows it's too far to do, his morals grey enough, just hovering. 'He's cruel and he's... awful to women, it won't be happy for me. I just want once, to be my choice...' Satoru swallows nervously, lifting one of your thighs now, pressing his cock against your heat, watching your head fall back. 'You're really stuck in this? there's no way to get out of it?' you shake your head, trying to focus as your body responds to him. 'N-no, there's no way, y-you don't have to just I-' he moans then, internally cursing himself, because he's already intoxicated off you. 'Your choice' he repeats softly, you nod quickly, taking shaky breaths and gripping his shoulders. 'My choice'

Stripper! Satoru has his long pink tongue slipping across your panties, hot and wet against your cunt, the material pressed tighter and tighter, you're whining out, uncaring of any noise you make, the first time any one has touched you and it's with his mouth. Satoru moans against you, vibrations making your cunt throb when he yanks your panties to the side, baring your perfect, pretty pussy to his hungry gaze, glistening already with your slick. You cry out now, hips raising up for more, when he places a lewd kiss on it, honeyed arousal pouring from your little hole. You should be more nervous right? Afraid of a stranger seeing you? But you're not, you're so ready the moment his mouth latches you're screaming out, hips bucking, whining out at how good it feels.

Stripper! Satoru loses it once he tastes you, those panties slipped down your thighs, torn between leisurely teasing you and straight up devouring you. He opts for the latter, slipping panties down your thighs and gripping you by the fat of your ass, bringing your cunt flush so he can bury himself. He drowns in your cunt as his tongue lavished your walls, while you are rolling your eyes back, breaths coming in little pants while he licks every part of you, tastebuds soaking in your flavor. He has you falling apart under him in moments, your gummy little walls gripping his wet muscle, feeling you tremble underneath him as your first orgasm rocks you so hard you can't see.

Stripper! Satoru presses one more kiss, leaning over you and slipping down that thin satin layer between you, revealing a thick, long cock, you gasp when you see how huge it is, for one moment wondering how it would fit, when he kisses you so messy and desperate, hot heavy cock slapping your skin. 'Satoru!' Your cry makes him leak precum against your inner thigh, as he looks down at you, sighing. 'Are you sure, sweets? We can stop here' again, he gives you the choice, despite speaking through gritted teeth, as if he's in pain, holding his breath and just watching you. You shock him then, hand sliding down to touch his cock, a featherlight brush that almost makes him cum, eyes meeting his now. 'I want it, please'

Stripper! Satoru isn't going to turn down your sweet plea, your desperate ask under him, asking him to take something so special, but he understands you, he knows you need to have a choice without even knowing you. He kisses you then, more intimate in moments than he has been with women before ever. His cock teases and dips against your soppy little hole then, pressing slightly and feeling your tight resistance, moaning as he does. 'It will hurt just a sec, okay sweetheart?' You nod then, and the pain hits, sharp and sweet and addictive, he pauses, letting you adjust, trying not to bust from how fucking right you feel, how perfect. Instead he holds back, watching you with bright blue eyes. 'You okay honey?' - and making you relax under him, the burn and stretch mixing with pleasure the further he presses, nodding eagerly, dragging him back down for a kiss, which he whimpers into as he thrusts inside.

Stripper! Satoru hardly holds back, knowing it's your first time, shaking with the effort not to fold you in a mating press and fuck you to the hilt like he wants. 'Perfect, fuck you feel s'good, mnh...' he's muttering those words as he pulls back and thrusts further, stretching you out impossibly, she's soaking down his veiny length to accommodate, while she pulses from her aftershocks, and you feel that fullness, you're so full. Satoru shoves in harder, deeper, seeing what you can take, your head falls to the side to be littered with kisses, careful not to mark you, though God he wants to, to bite and bruise every inch of skin with his teeth. He wants to leave bruises on your hips, fill you with so much cum you drip him when that man comes near you - but he knows that's fucking stupid.

Stripper! Satoru is pussy drunk so fast, as you open for him, as you loosen your hold, arching your hips up to meet his thrusts, unleashed as you scratch his back, leaving your marks, marks he'll wish will never leave in the coming days. You kiss across his neck, teeth sinking into it and leaving your bite, as he bottoms out in your perfect cunt, the echoes of the squelching wetness and your cries mixing with the smacking of skin, as he loses his control, and you fall off the edge with him. Moans and sighs, gasps and cries, all while he's filling you over and over, bringing you closer to the brink, losing anything and everything all under his long, lithe body, the shadows casting and stretching across the wall, of him over you, of your thighs wrapped around his narrow waist.

Stripper! Satoru has never felt anything like you gripping him, never tasted anything like that honey lingering on his lips, fucking you and dragging his tip on your spot just so, until you shatter, cumming blindingly, crying out his name as you do. He quiets you with a kiss, your cunt spasming around his cock and gushing down further, making a mess of the bed, of him, of you. You're blinking back your vision as you gasp and he leans up, dragging you all the way down his length, his whine so sexy while his head falls back, veins in his arms bulging as he grips you so tight, watching the bulge in your tummy as he slowly moves in and out. 'cum once more, please, wanna feel her again' his whisper is met with a jerky nod, when he finds your clit with the pad of his thumb, running in circles and shoving in so deep he slams your cervix.

Stripper! Satoru watches the pretty bride - not his, how are you not his? - cum for him then, thighs shaking, your head falling back into the soft pillows, and he's done for, leaning forward to pump a few more times, fucking you through that orgasm, before he pulls out with a gasp, wishing he could finish in you, instead pumping that cum on your tummy, white networks of ropes decorating it as it moves up and down with your heavy breaths. You start to come to, when he's cleaning you up, when he's wiping the soreness between your thighs, when he's holding you and kissing you. You feel the emotions hit, the overwhelming pleasure can't override this one singular feeling - dread - and moreso now that you felt this, that you know what it is, to feel so perfect and cherished by a stranger.

Stripper! Satoru panics when you cry, 'was it too much, are you hurt sweetheart or-' you shake your head, hugging him to you tightly, sweet kisses on his neck and cheek then. 'No, it was perfect, so perfect Satoru. Thank you' you shouldn't be thanking him, he musees to himself, letting you kiss him as the knocks finally sound on the door. He gently helps you get dressed, the party is clearly still going on but your friend wanted to check on you, to see your disheveled state she just smiles, rushing off and apologizing, but your skin is decorated in your blush, and he sees it, the fear in your gaze. 'Am I horrible?' he shakes his head then, kissing you again. 'No, you're perfect' and it just leads to more, he can't stop kissing your skin, he can't stop fucking into you, each time hurting less and just feeling better, letting you ride him tentatively, holding you from behind as he fucks you, until the two of you fall asleep, against each other.

Stripper! Satoru overslept clearly, as you're all ready to leave - for a wedding to a monster - and most of the men are hungover, sipping coffee and ready to go home. When he does get dressed in the normal clothes he brought with, you hold his hand, looking down and swallowing, not knowing what to say - that you think in one night you fell for a man - that you'll never be available. It sounds too cruel to say to someone, when there's no future, so instead you hug him tightly, and he holds you against him, trying to hold back everything he wants to say and do. 'Are you gonna be okay?' he asks softly before he leaves, and you smile as brightly as you can, nodding. 'I will be. Thank you for... everything.' one more sweet kiss, and Satoru has to let your hand go, knowing he will never have you again eats at him and he was just inside you, he can't even speak or answer a question, all he can think of is you.

Stripper! Satoru seems like a fantasy, as you walk down the aisle, seeing the bored and cruel gaze staring right at you, dark brown eyes with murderous intent, a nasty smirk as he assessed you. Tousled blond hair, he looks instead at a few of the women sitting in the benches waiting, winking at them instead, before turning back and setting his jaw. When you stand in front of him he yanks back your veil, eyes narrowing and humming to himself. 'Suppose you'll do' he says then, leaving you to feel sick as he grips your wrist, unceremoniously putting a glittery ring on it. 'that hurts...' you whisper weakly, and he squeezes harder, glaring now. 'Keep your mouth shut, little bitch, got it? you're my property now' you sink back, knowing then, the pit in your stomach had been correct, the rumors must be true- he is horrible.

As you sit through the ceremony, as your friends try to comfort you are sent home, as your entire world crumbles and ends, you try to cling to the memory of feeling special, beautiful, you feel his touch, you feel his caress - his gaze. You cling to it as your eyes fill with tears, as your stomach fills with nausea, as he's yanking you onto his lap and laughing cruelly at you. You think of him...

Satoru

Soooo yes this will be a long one, and dw it will end happy somehow! Comment for tags of you're interested in their story <3

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[lunasblunt]

70s logan moodboard

[briarscreek]

mafia boss price in the 40’s and how you both meet

you moved to the city to get away from a toxic family and start a new life. becoming a career woman, that they chastised you for. you attend a new church because the ones back home were full of hate but you wanted to at least give this one a try.

it’s not a big one, probably has more seat rows than people on a busy sunday service but it’s incredibly welcoming. a pack of four old ladies come up to welcome you to the church, ask to take you to lunch and ponder more about your life.

no husband? that’s alright dear. you are an exceptionally intelligent young woman who they can’t wait to see flourish in her career. you start to grab lunch with them more throughout the next few weeks after sunday service; a new routine for you while they gossip about their sons. something about the family business but you never understood what that particular business was.

you ran into mary on a late wednesday evening at the grocery store, running out of a cooking ingredient you forgot to grab earlier in the week. she had as well, claiming that she’s baking a large batch of cookies for the youth center with a 25 lb bag of flour in her hands (that you tried to help her with while she almost scolded you about it). you’re both making small talk as you hear a deep voice from behind her.

“there you are, mum. you can’t go wandering off like tha’.”

a bulking man of 6’2 with a mutton chop beard and bright blue eyes came right around behind mary and took the large sack of flour from her hands onto his shoulders.

“darling, i’d like you to meet my son john.”

it was like sparks between you but you couldn’t be sure if he felt them too.

“hello, love.”

smooth man. just like the playful mirth in his eyes and the grin on his lips.

“john? mary, is this the same john who actually slipped on a banana peel and ruined his grandmother’s birthday cake, right?”

the grin dropped and the tips of his ears turned red.

“mum! you told her that yet i don’t know anything about her?”

“then get to know her john”

he turned back to you as he heard you quiet giggles.

“would you like to go to dinner with me, love?”

“i would love to.”

“i’ll pick you up at 7 on Friday.”

“wait, you don’t know where i live.”

“no but my mum does, i’ll ask her for directions.”

mary and john had both walked out of ear shot before you could say anything else.

“thanks for helping me find my wife, mum.”

“of course dear. anything to help get me my grandchildren!”

[shotmrmiller]

simon who is the town's executioner. he's accustomed to the weight of justice— or vengeance— delivered by his own hand. when he hangs your husband, it's just another day's work, flesh made rent. but then there's you. you stand there, hands folded neatly even as your world crumbles, posture straight, collected despite the grief that must be clawing at your insides. you don't plead, don't beg for clemency and that, to simon, is curious. interesting.

he vaguely remembers the bailiff muttering about the prisoner not having any next of kin, blood wanting nothing to do with an ignominious wretch like him, and by the way you stand there alone, the crowd having long dispersed, enduring—

you've no one either. so he makes his decision.

simon leads you away, his grip just shy of painful around your wrist, toward his horse, and you don't resist, which is good. patience isn't in his nature. he doesn't pause before helping you up, his large hands sure and efficient, and then swings up behind you.

his home has been in dire need of a goodwife.

(the blood on his hands doesn't bother him; it never has. he'll make sure it won't bother you for long.)

[artemiss0629]

Logan in Days of Future Past is just..🤤

[silverskyeline]

'bad idea, right?' 18+ dofp!logan x f!reader

summary: your father hired him to protect you, not to fuck you. but logan never really liked playing by the rules. (1.7k) tags: set in the 70s, logan goes down on reader, fingering, squirting, lots of dirty talk, messy, overstimulation if you squint, logan calls the reader 'princess, babygirl' etc, for the 'timetravel' prompt for logan promptober.

"that's it, there we go. . ." logan hums, his voice muffled as he eagerly laps at you with his large tongue, "daddy never let you have any fun, babygirl?"

he grins, ". . . but, daddy ain't here right now though, is he?"

you know this is a bad idea, know you shouldn't be doing this. your father's vengeance upon the stranger between your thighs would be so swift and cruel, but you find yourself unable to care.

his tongue expertly drifts through your wet folds as he groans, sending reverberations right to your core. those large, calloused paws of his grip at your thighs, his thick digits pressing into your soft flesh deeply. he's messy, the best kind of messy, lapping at you like an animal, like a man deprived.

"taste so fuckin' good," he grumbles against your pussy, deep hazel eyes finally opening to look up at you. they're glazed, and so is he, his chin dripping with your slick. but he's not done with you yet, "look how fuckin' wet you are already, you're literally dripping. . ."

your cheeks flush at his almost mocking tone, fingers threading through his hair as if to encourage him. you're not sure how you got here, except you are. the moment he walked through that door, sent by your father to protect you, you felt an ache build between your legs.

you could tell he sensed it too, the way his words and sentences were crafted almost expertly to have you wet and wanting all within twenty minutes of first laying eyes on him. no other guard has ever had you moaning like this, soaked like this, splayed out on your back like this.

but you're pulled from your thoughts when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently. your head falls back, moans spilling out into the apartment your father had rented as the man your father had rented devours you.

"such pretty sounds," logan growls against you, tongue flicking before pressing flat against you, "you're gonna wake the neighbours. c'mon, let 'em hear what i'm doin' to you."

your head is spinning, his words causing heat to pool low in your belly. he nuzzles against you, nose brushing against your swollen clit before he dives back down to your entrance, tongue dipping back inside to fuck you. it's almost too much, the way he makes light work of you as if it's so easy, as if he knows your body better than you know it, without even knowing more than just your name.

"that's it," he coos, grinning between your thighs as he kisses his way back up to your swollen bud once more, "moan for me, wanna hear you scream. i told you, want them to hear how good i'm fuckin' you." that's when you feel them, his thick fingers circling against your hole, teasing you, almost warning you.

but it's not a warning, it's a promise. one that you want - no, fuck that, one that you need. you roll your hips a little in response, moaning and whimpering beneath him, pleading without words.

logan smirks, he knows what you need, of course he knows. he saw the way you eyed his hands, the way you watched him flex them subconsciously - he knew you wanted them buried inside of your begging cunt as soon as he entered the apartment, could smell your want, your hunger.

he was paid to protect you, after all, and how better to protect you than to keep you fucked out in his hands at all times?

just one, at first. one finger slides inside, testing you. it's tight, really tight, and wet, a soft slick sound filling the air as his finger slides inside of you. "oh, been a good girl have you?" logan teases, but it's not like he cares how many people you've been with before him. he's the only one who's ever going to matter, anyway.

then another, you're gasping and moaning at the feeling of him filling you. his fingers are pretty big, much bigger than your own. his tongue dances across your clit, urging you to relax as he stretches you, and you do. he feels you settling, a groan rumbling from his throat as he eases into you.

but when a third finger enters on the next thrust, you're gripping the sheets and calling his name. it's thick, his three fingers filling you almost completely. you wonder how big he actually is and how he compares to his fingers, but your thoughts dissipate as he begins pumping them in and out of you steadily.

"that's it, there we go. . ." logan hums, his voice muffled as he eagerly laps at you with his large tongue, "daddy never let you have any fun, babygirl?"

he grins, ". . . but, daddy ain't here right now though, is he?"

your breath catches in your throat, looking down at him through hooded lids as he fucks his fingers into you faster. his eyes are locked on yours, lips and tongue lavishing your clit with the attention he knows it deserves.

"never had a man like me before, have ya?" logan mumbles, mouth half full with you, "never had a man to really show you how it's done."

you'd answer if you could, but your mind feels like liquid, unable to form or grip any solid coherent thought other than you don't want this to stop, don't want it to ever stop. instead, you tug at his hair, moaning his name over and over like a prayer. his name tastes sweet on your lips, a name you know you'll be calling out in a lust-filled haze on nights when you're particularly lonely. nights where you want, crave the touch from that stranger who nestled between your thighs and lapped like you were a fresh spring and he, a desperate parched man.

he feels you flutter around his fingers and he smirks against your clit. the sweet symphony of your moans reverberating against his ears has his dick twitching in his jeans, aching for release, aching to replace his fingers.

but not now, not while you're writhing so perfectly for him, coming undone at just a few strokes. you wonder how you would handle his cock when you're already close to bursting with his fingers, but who could blame you? the way he curls and pumps and glides them in and out of your tight pussy, you'd think he already knew all of your sweet spots, knew you inside out, without knowing you at all.

logan is just a stranger, but you know the memory of him will be burned between your thighs, making you throb, forever.

"gonna cum, aren't you?" he growls against you, picking up the pace. his fingers curl just slightly, enough to brush against your spongey g-spot on the next thrust, just enough for you to tense up and gasp.

you can't deny it either, there's a tidal wave coming that threatens to destroy you. it's rising slowly. you can't stop it. and it's crafted by him, by the man between your thighs. but you don't want to stop it, you just worry about who you'll be when you resurface on the other side, gasping for air, lost at sea, changed forever.

nodding, you let a whine slip from your lips, feeling a sensation build, your breathing ragged. it's coming, you're cumming. and instead of taking it easy on you, calming the waters, logan encourages the overwhelming waves with a curl of his fingers.

that's all it takes, all it takes for you to cum harder than you've ever cum before. you feel a gush, hot liquid coating your thighs and along his face as he fucks his three fingers into you deeper, hitting that same spot in every thrust. you're screaming his name, fist clenching in his hair in an iron grip as you roll your hips against his face. he's taking it too, tongue assaulting your clit in all the right ways to increase the pitch of your desperate screams.

and he loves it, loves the way you become so messy for him, coating those fresh sheets and his skin. he's moaning too, not that you can hear it over your ecstasy, but it's there, low like a growl beneath every cry.

"good girl. . ." he groans, pumping his fingers in and out of you relentlessly as you clench around him rhythmically, feeling his cock throb in his jeans at the sensation. he just knows you'll take him so well, knows you'll sound even better when it's his fat cock you're cumming around instead of his fingers.

it's almost too much, feeling yourself come apart at the seams as he stitches you back together with those calloused fingers of his through each thrust. and just as quickly as the waves come, they calm all at once, washing over you slowly, sending goosebumps rippling across your soft, supple skin. logan slows too, licking stripes along your cunt to catch the remnants of your release.

"holy shit," he grins wolfishly, proudly as he presses a few kisses to the inside of your thigh, "don't need to introduce myself to the neighbours anymore, i guess, already know me by name."

you flush deeply, running your fingers through your hair as you release his, resting back against the bed fully. there's a witty quip on the tip of your tongue, but it melts away at the feeling of him pulling his fingers out of you.

"this. . . can't happen again," you whisper, shaking your head as your eyes fix on the ceiling above you.

but logan smirks, he knows you don't really mean that. knows you're just trying to convince yourself that you won't crave him in your core, that he won't flash in your mind when another person finds their home between your thighs.

"whatever you say, princess," he shrugs, sitting up as he wipes your delicious slick from his beard and chin.

you glance up at him, his bare chest, muscles tensing coupled with those pretty blue jeans. fuck. fuck. this wasn't happening. dad would kill him, kill you too probably.

"but," you find yourself beginning to speak, unable to stop the words from fighting their way out, "suppose it could be our secret. . . if it did."

ah, there it is. there's the admission logan knew was coming. he knew it was gonna come the second he wrapped his lips around that swollen little clit of yours. you just needed someone to fuck you right, fuck you proper, fuck you dirty like you deserve.

besides, logan never really liked playing by the rules, anyway.

[wlwloverwrites]

Future Boyfriend

Pairing: 70s!Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: fem reader, calling reader darlin’, reader is wearing a dress, sweat kink?, panty sniffing, squirting, brief handjob, cum play, nipple play, car sex (again) smut (18+) no minors

Summary: Logan, a man supposedly from the future, claims he is your boyfriend, so you ask him to prove it.

A/N: California’s heat wave in September is killing me. No one look at me. This fic just kept getting dirtier and dirtier.

Main Masterlist

DO NOT STEAL, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ON OTHER SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORMS

“So you’re from the future, huh?” You ask looking at the gruff man sitting in the driver’s seat.

“A little more complicated than that, Darlin, but you can say that,” the man reassures.

You hum sarcastically. Choosing to ignore the nickname he gives, which only makes him laugh under his breath. There’s a soft breeze that makes its way into the 1972 Buick Riviera and suddenly you’re hit with the smell of cigars. The smell, no doubt, coming from - “Wait, what’s your name again?”

It’s silent for a second, the only thing that fills your ears is the car’s roar when he hurrily pulls under a shady tree on the side of the road.

“My name’s Logan,” he huffs playfully as he puts the car in park.

“Logan,” you feel yourself mimicking with a smile on your face.

He looks up at you with a sly smile, his sunglasses are now sitting on the dashboard, which gives you more of him to study.

Your eyes take in his sharp nose, soft eyes, and grown out facial hair before they drop to the three undone buttons on his collared shirt. The hair on his chest makes your fingers itch to undo the last few buttons and tug off his brown leather jacket. You’d be doing him a favor too.

The summer heat is criminal.

As if he read your mind, Logan tugs off his leather jacket, throwing it over his shoulder to the back seat. You expect him to stop, but his thick fingers work to undo the rest of his buttons as he pulls off his shirt. His shirt falls on top of his leather jacket, leaving him in his low rise jeans held by a thick brown belt and white undershirt.

“So I’m just supposed to believe that you,” you point at Logan, then yourself. “And me end up together?”

“Is it that hard to believe?” He asks raising his eyebrows.

The man is sex on legs. If anything you should be applauding your future-self for fucking and tying the man down.

“Kind of, yeah,” you lie.

“Liar.”

Before you could reply Logan readjusts himself in the driver’s seat. The sight of him widening his legs and throwing his arm over your shoulder has your mind thinking maybe the man isn’t crazy. Words are stuck in your throat when his lips dips to meet the sticky skin on your collarbone.

“Had you wrapped around my finger,” his breath is hot against the junction of your neck as he whispers against your skin.

His flirtatious tone makes you squirm on the leather seats and you find it’s getting harder to ignore the building heat between your thighs. The leather from the bench styles seats sticks to your skin. Your brightly patterned dress does little to separate you from the leather, instead it clings to you body where sweat forms on your skin.

“Prove it.”

Maybe Logan isn’t talking out of his ass or trying to use some lame pick up line. He could be telling the truth.

It’s only fair you give him a chance.

Connecting your lips, the kiss is messy which has you opening your legs and welcoming the left hand that’s gripping your thigh. The arm over your shoulder pushes you closer to him and your hands find his face. Pulling away, you cup his cheeks in your hands as you angle his head to the left. This time when you lips meet, you’re stifling a moan. The hand between your thigh expertly finds your clit over your cotton panties. He pays no mind at the sweat between your thighs, instead he rubs small circles that has you rolling your hips against his hand, begging for more.

“Just like that,” you praise.

His hand doesn’t even flinch.

“I know, Darlin.”

He knows what you like.

“Cause you’re from the future?” You can barely spit out your words and whine when Logan pulls your panties to the side. Your brain only comprehends the way his fingers glide through your folds. He nods as he gathers your slick and uses it to rub your clit again.

“I know your body. Had years of practice.”

His words have you whimpering and hiding your face in his neck. The hands that were holding his face fall and greedily grab at his biceps. The muscles are firm in your hands and call for your teeth. Everything about the man makes your mouth water. The carnivorous ache in your teeth makes you feel silly, but you settle for moaning his name instead.

His fingers rub your clit and occasionally tease at your entrance where you’re dripping; however, despite your whines, Logan doesn’t give in. Squirming against his hand, unsure if you’re running to or from him, Logan keeps you in place causing your panties to scratch at your skin. Focusing on his fingers, you try your best to ignore the uncomfortable friction scratching your right inner thigh. Your eyes fall shut and suddenly your nose is hyperaware of the man’s scent. The smell of cheap cigars tickles your nose, but it’s the smell of his sweat that makes your head spin.

His scent makes you widen your legs. The shift allows for more friction on your sensitive skin, but you still choose to ignore it. Distracting yourself with his scent, you bury your nose in his neck and inhale; the way you breathe him in is animalistic. The loud sniff makes Logan laugh, making his fingers pick up their pace. You shift once one, this time a painful whine escapes your lips.

“W-What’s wrong?”

It isn’t his scared question that brings you back to reality, but the halt to his fingers. Your mouth falls shut and you open your eyes to see a very concerned Logan staring down at you.

Worried eyes jump all over your face and body, looking for your pain making your heart skip a beat. His free hand caresses the side of your face and tilts it to face him. He’s so concerned that your blood starts to feel hot.

Did his stare have to be this instense?

Shaking your head you reassure, “It’s nothing.”

Your attempt to comfort him is cut off by his lips. Expecting his teeth to clash with yours, your heads spins once more. Instead his kiss is soft and has you melting into the leather seat beneath you. Wet tongues taste each other, his tongue is romantic while yours is curious.

To him, your taste is comforting. His kiss is making up for lost time. Soft lips are desperate to commit every inch of your mouth to memory.

To you, his taste is addicting. You crave his entire being, his smell, touch, words, and lips. He reels you in with claws.

“Tell me, Darlin,” he begs as his lips travel down to your neck.

Shyly, your hands slip beneath the skirt of your dress and hook your underwear on your fingers and pull them off. Awkwardly you lift your hips to pull off the scratchy, grey material, but Logan is quick to take over.

“I was chafing,” you whisper, clearly embarrassed.

His body visibly relaxes before he shakes his head at the material in a disapproving manner. Meanwhile, his hand between your thighs searches for the irritated skin. Your sharp inhale tells him he’s found it before he gently kneads at your skin, a silent apology.

Careful not to irritate your skin more, Logan goes back to tug off your panties hugging at your thighs. His voice is taunting as he coos, “Don’t worry, I’ll take them off your hands.”

You nod at his words and expect him to toss your panties in the back seat the same way he did his shirt and jacket, but your jaw drops when he brings the cotton up to his nose. The sound of him breathing in the grey cotton fills the car and suddenly your bottom lip stings from the force of your teeth. You watch as his eyes roll back and you swear you see pink reach out and taste the wet cotton.

Pride builds in the bottom of your stomach as your body moves before you can stop it. You climb on his lap, thighs trapping the both of his, similar to the way your arms trap his neck. The steering wheel digs into the small of your back, but the bulge on Logan’s jeans brushing against your pussy does a great job in distracting you. Playfully, Logan jerks his hips upward, bouncing you on his lap, but you watch as his carefully stuffs the grey cotton into his back pocket.

“My future boyfriend is such a pervert,” you giggle.

“You like it,” he smirks as his hand finds its way between your thighs.

A gasp escapes your lips when two fingers shove themselves inside you, no longer playing the teasing game. Your pussy clenches, struggling to accommodate the thickness of his fingers. Logan wastes no time and ignores your pleads for a an extra second. His fingers, wet with your arousal, curl and hit the spongy spot inside you that has you cursing his name against his neck.

Your hips ride his hand, eager for more despite your whines. His fingers curl expertly and have you hiding your face in his neck. Sweat builds at your hairline, your spine, and the back of your neck, but you don’t care. The growing pleasure between your thighs captures your full attention and you pathetically cry Logan’s name, but he shushes you with his lips.

He whispers soft praises against your lips, letting you know it’s okay. The steering wheel digs into your back and the leather seats stick to your shines, holding you in place. With no where to escape, a loud gasp of Logan’s name is his only warning before your pussy gushes on his fingers and onto his jeans. Your heart races as the pressure in your lower tummy releases. Squeezing Logan’s fingers so tight it has him cursing as he watches your eyes roll back. He groans as a familiar, sweet scent, one only he can smell, fills his nostrils.

“Smell like my favorite candy.”

Your ears barely register Logan’s praises on how sweet you smell or the way he tucks the skirt of your dress so he can see the wet mess between your thighs and his jeans. Slipping his fingers out of your pussy, it’s not long after wet fingers find their way to your parted lips and push past your teeth.

“Come on. Taste it.”

His fingers press on your lips, egging you to lick them clean. His dark eyes meet yours and watch as your tongue peeks out and drools over his glistening fingers. Your subtle sweet taste lingers on your tongue and the way he’s looking at you is making you want to swallow down his fingers. Rather than feeding you his fingers, he smears your remaining juices on your lips. Your slick coats your lips like a cheap lip gloss, tricking your mind to rub your lips together.

“My turn,” Logan groans before his lips kiss yours.

The kiss is filthy.

His tongue licks your lips clean, almost like a dog. It should gross you out, the way he’s licking you, as if he’s eating you from the source, but it doesn’t. He groans at your familiar taste as your blind, impatient hands reach to tug off the thick, brown belt trapping his cock.

“Taste so good,” Logan moans, his hands reaching down to help you when a frustrated whine falls past your lips.

The metal clinks and the sound of his zipper makes your ears perk up. Taking over, your fingers hook on his belt loops and tug off his jeans. Your eyes widen when they are immediately rewarded with the sight of dark, wiry hairs leading up to his thick and veiny cock instead of underwear.

“Fuck me,” the curse escapes you before you can even think. It’s quiet so Logan lets you think he didn’t catch it. His thighs flex, a silent beg for your touch and you’re quick to comply. Without wasting time, your hand wraps around his thick cock.

“You’re big,” you whisper. Not as a praise or compliment, but a fact.

Bigger than you expected.

“You can take it,” he nods like he’s talking from experience.

His cock is heavy in your hand and mind races with dirty thoughts. Before you can reply, his hand traps the hand wrapped around his cock. He squeezes your hand as he guides your hand up and down his cock. His thumb pushes yours to circle the tip of his cock. Despite him being the one that guided your hand, despite him expecting the pleasure, his hips shudder beneath you and your name falls past his lips. You watch, memorizing the way his eyes flutter shut.

This time you fist his cock without his help, slapping his hand away.

The head of his cock glisten with precome that makes your mouth water. Your face feels hot when your eyes watch Logan curse under his breath and leak onto your hand. Adjusting yourself on his lap, you decide to use both your hands. Your left hand grabs the base of his cock, while your right hand jerks the rest of his cock.

“You’re so leaky,” you giggle and then some more when his cock spits out onto your hand.

He scoffs at you, but moans your name when your thumb swipes over the tip of his cock. His come piles on your thumb and he groans when it presses against his lips. You smirk when you repeat his words, “Come on. Taste it.”

Shamelessly, Logan’s lips wrap around over your thumb. His tongue licks your thumb clean so when you pop your thumb out of his mouth, it glistens with his spit. His eyes lock with yours and the overwhelming feeling of needing to be full takes over.

Logan sees it in your eyes. There’s a cloudy and dazed look in your eyes when you grab the base of his cock and line him up to your entrance. His rough hands hold your hips as you sit on his cock, gasping at every inch. Logan’s stare where the both of you meet has you drooling on his cock. Despite your slick, he watches as you struggle to take his cock.

“Know you can do, Darlin, you used to do it all the time,” he praises.

Your hands reach out to his shoulders. You pout as you take another inch, “That’s future me though.”

Logan lets out a hearty laugh. His laugh makes your heart flutter. The flutter travels down to your pussy and suddenly the laugh is cut short when your walls squeeze around him. His nails dig into the meat of your hips as he tugs at your skin, encouraging you to ease the burn in your thighs and just sit on his lap.

Aching with need, you furrow your brows as you sink further on his cock. Crying out his name when he slides deeper into your cunt. The head of his cock brushing past the spongy spot inside you.

Drunken with pleasure, Logan’s fingers grip your hips and moans, “Knew I had to find you.”

The pressure in your lower stomach builds as your skin’s temperature begins to rise. Your walls squeeze around his cock, adjusting to the stretch. His cock wet with your slick makes it easier for you to take the last inch of his cock.

“I’m so full,” you whine, cloudy eyes stare up at Logan’s soft stare.

Taking a moment to adjust, your lips find his as your fingers bury themselves in his hair. Tugging at the dark roots and smiling against the beads of sweats that pile on the back of his neck.

The hands that were on your hips rise to the small of your back, pushing your body closer. Forcing you leaning onto his body, your clit rests on the wet, wiry hairs on his pelvis. The hairs tickling your clit every time he nudges your body closer.

His left hand cups the side of your face and groans into your mouth when you carefully lift your hips. Pulling away, a line of spit connect the both of you for a second before it falls onto your chin. With a shaky breath, you work your hips down and sit on his cock with a soft bounce.

“That’s it, Darlin,” he praises, his eyes falling to the plunging neckline of your dress.

His lips kiss down your neck, teeth tugging at the neckline of your dress. Your hands slip from his hair when he yanks your dress to expose your breasts. You gasp as his lips wrap around your nipple, while he rolls the other between his fingers.

“Fuck.”

Logan’s mouth is desperate as he mouths at your nipple, occasionally, groaning into your skin when you grind your hips against his. Holding his head to your chest you focus on bouncing yourself on his cock, setting an even pace while chasing your high.

Your slick drips down his length and he can feel it dripping down his balls. A creamy ring decorates the base of his cock that only gets creamier with each bounce.

“Missed you so much,” Logan groans out on your chest, his mouth pulling away, only to give the same treatment to your other nipple.

Your pussy spasms over his cock trying to commit every vein to memory. The ache in your hips and the pain building from the steering wheel digging into your back is ignored as you mumble Logan’s name like a mantra.

“I’m close.” You cry out, as a weak warning.

You smile when you feel him nod against your chest, his silent way of letting you know that he knows. The roll of your hips get messy and the way your leaking on his cock gives him more than enough to figure you’re close to coming on his cock. You just need that extra push and he’s more than willing to give you that.

“Come on, Darlin,” he hums, slipping a hand between the both of you. The toothy smile he gives you when his fingers find your puffy clit has you whining his name. His eyes drop to your chest again, watching as your tits bounce with every attempt of chasing your orgasm. His fingers are soaked with your sweet slick as he rubs even circles on your clit. Your jaw drops as your body tenses.

“That’s it, darlin. Let go.”

Your walls squeeze his cock as he fights the urge to come inside you. He smiles at your bunched up dress that does little to cover you. Your entire body glistens with sweat and the sweet smell of your pussy fills Logan’s nose. He’s memorized as he watches your head fall back, exposing your neck and feels your walls clench uncontrollably around his cock.

“Ah! Lo-”

Gasping for air, you try to warn him, you really do, but it’s too late. Trying to run away from his fingers and cock, your lift your hips, unintentionally causing his cock to hit that spongy spot inside you before it slaps against his stomach. The lingering feeling of his cock spreading you open has you squirting on his cock with a cry.

“Logan!”

Overstimulated, Logan’s fingers pet your clit softly, smiling when your tired body jerks on his lap. His abs underneath his tank top flex when he sees a wet mess between your thighs, no doubt adding to the puddle on the leather seats. Chasing his orgasm, Logan’s hand reaches down to fist his soaked cock.

“F-fuck,” he stutters as the lewd sounds of Logan fisting his cock fill your ears. His hips flex as moans slip out of his mouth.

Slowly, you become more aware of your surroundings and help Logan finish. Eager to both see and hear how Logan comes, your hand replaces his. Shaky fingers wrap around his cock as your work a tight grip up and down his cock.

“Gonna come for me?”

Your sweet tone makes him throw his head back. A smile creeping on his face when you give him a playful and loud kiss on his cheek.

“Come on, I’m your future girlfriend,” you tease as your flick your wrist and swipe your thumb over the tip of his leaky cock. “You know you want to.”

The giggly banter, the banter he missed so much, has him choking out your name and spilling onto your hand. Spurts of his come land on your dress, on his shirt, and onto your hand. You watch as Logan’s chest rises and falls with every deep breath. His flushed skin glistens with sweat, similar to yours.

The silence is comfortable for a couple minutes as the both of your fix on your clothes onto your sticky skin. Huffing out loud as the heat suddenly begins to hit you, you shift on Logan’s lap. Looking up at him only to find his eyes already looking at you. Suddenly shy, you lower your gaze and look out the car window.

“You’re the first person I looked for.”

His confession is quiet and has you pulling your attention from the swaying trees to the soft eyes staring at you.

“Why?” You ask just as soft. “Why didn’t you wait to meet me how you’re suppose to?”

A part of you wants to bring up the way his fingertips dug into your skin, holding you down as if he was scared you were going to disappear. Maybe bring up the way his kiss press onto your skin just a tad too harsh, desperate with love. You most definitely want to bring up the salty tears that slipped down his cheeks when his cried out your name as he came.

“Just wanted more time with you,” he admits, avoiding eye contact for the first time since he first convinced you to get in his car.

“What do you mean?” You ask with a nervous laugh.

In attempt to comfort you, or maybe it’s for his own comfort, Logan’s rough hands find yours, intertwining your fingers together. His throat feels like its closing, but he still manages to spit out his selfish words.

“I needed more time with you.”

No pressure tags: @eupheme @mrsimpurity @joelsgoldrush @djarins-riduur @superhoeva @d1stalker @moonlight-prose @ozarkthedog @sunsburns @inkedells i love yall !!! Each and every single one of you are so talented and have individually inspired me to write for Logan! So thank you :)

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[theresatzu]

Blue Lock characters and the pretty interviewer

Pairings. Blue Lock character x reader

Starring.//Isagi Yoichi//Bachira Meguru //Itoshi Rin//Michael Kaiser//

Tags. fluff//future fic//interview

Isagi Yoichi

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗Nervous mess all the way

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗Stammers when asked questions

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗Keeps stealing glances at you, but it's literally so obvious, it's painful

"So, Isagi-san, what did you think of today's match's outcome?" You asked, turning to him.

Isagi , who had been silently glancing at you, flinched, his eyebrows shooting upwards, cheeks turning an adorable pink.

"Uh... me?" He pointed at himself, looking very much like a dear caught in clear daylight.

"Yes, you." You chuckled.

At your slight laughter, Isagi went even more red.

"Oh... uh, it was great. Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you.

When you inclined your head to continue, Isagi 's mind went blank.

He blurted, "I think you're really pretty."

You shot him a confused look.

"UH, I mean, the match went pretty. Pretty well." He poorly corrected himself.

You eyed him amusedly. "Oh? Care to share some of your insight for your adoring fans?"

"My... insight?" Isagi repeated, a little breathless.

Because it was warm. Because he was warm. From the match.

(The match had already concluded three hours prior).

"Uhm... there were some really good... uh... plays." Isagi answered, stealing a glance at you, only to see that you were already looking at him.

His eyes widened, darting away. "And... uh..." What the hell was he even talking about? "Rin had some nice saves."

"Rin?" You tilted your head, "He wasn't in today's match, was he?"

"Oh! Oh." Isagi's lips parted, his eyes flicking from left to right to come up with an answer.

"Uh... I meant... he would have made a few good saves if he were in the game. You know... with uhm..." He faltered.

You nodded at him, beckoning him to continue, eyes attentively set on him. Isagi swallowed arduously.

His throat ran dry. Isagi coughed.

The silence stretched on.

He had to answer, now.

But with what? Rin with... with what?!

You were still looking at him, eyes expectant and so pretty-

"Pretty eyes." Isagi blurted out.

You frowned, confusion on your face. "Pretty eyes?"

Isagi went bright red. He could hear Bachira next to him shaking, doing a poor job of concealing his gleeful cackles at Isagi's predicament.

"Uh... did I say pretty eyes?" Isagi chuckled. It was strained and awkward.

"What I meant to say was... uh... predator's vision? Like when... when your vision of the field becomes really limited, you know?" He finished rather lamely.

"...Yeah." You slowly nodded your head, eyeing him with a mix of befuddlement and concern.

Then you turned to Bachira next to him, and Isagi could breathe a little bit easier. Though, his heartbeat didn't settle down, his cheeks felt like they were on fire.

Keep it together, Isagi. He said to himself. He was a goddamn world class footballer. He didn't do nervosity.

He had faced off Itoshi Rin and survived.

He had led Japan to the World Cup and carved his name in the football world.

He had become the top striker of his generation.

There was no way he was going to start being nervous now.

But he still felt his heart doing a little jump every time you looked at him.

Bachira Meguru

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Just sits close to you, his eyes barely leaving you

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗Thinks every question is directed at him

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗Is just one ball of sunshine, especially when your attention is on him

"So... Isagi-san, what is your opinion about how Japan has thus far fared in the World Cup?"

"Oh, well I think--"

"We're doing amazing! Did you see my super special dribble?" Bachira excitedly interjected.

"Dude." Isagi nudged him, an unimpressed expression on his face. "That was my question."

"Oh! Oh." Bachira deflated, sitting back again.

You chuckled. "Don't worry Bachira-san, you'll get the next one."

Bachira's eyes lit up at that, but they dwindled when you directed your attention on Isagi again.

Isagi began talking again. Bachira leaned back in his seat.

He bounced his leg impatiently, Isagi's thorough analysis on Japan's performance fading into the background.

Bachira's eyes flicked to yours, his bottom lip jutting out a little when you actually seemed captivated in Isagi's story.

Bachira eyed the two of you suspiciously, noting that Isagi was also sitting the closest to you.

Pursing his lips, Bachira stood up.

Isagi shot him a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"This seat is uncomfortable. Can I sit there?"

Bachira pointed at Isagi.

You let out a snort. "You want to sit on Isagi's lap?"

Isagi guffawed, going bright red. "PR, PR!" He hissed at Bachira. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Move!" Bachira whispered back.

"Wait, what? Wha--" Isagi yelped as Bachira shoved him aside.

With a straight face, Bachira sat down, not even looking at Isagi, who was on the ground, mouth hanging wide open.

"Dude."

Bachira tactfully ignored Isagi, flashing you a bright grin, as if nothing had occurred in the past few seconds.

"You wanted to ask me a question?"

Itoshi Rin

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ He's really quiet during the interview, like, he'll answer questions, but just the bare minimum.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Avoids eye contact like the plague, but he'll try to steal a look at you the moment your gaze is elsewhere

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ When he's caught looking, he'll freeze up, scowl fixed on his face. But if you look closely, you can see that the tips of his ears have turned a handsome red

"So, Rin-san, how did you think the match went?"

Rin's face was stoic, looking at the cement wall behind you.

"...It went well."

"You've scored a magnificent goal during the game, how did you pull that off?"

"...Just predicting the game and being in the right position."

Rin sighed, glancing to the side. Looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

A tense silence fell.

You coughed, forcing a strained smile on your face.

"Rin." Isagi made a face at him. Rin raised an eyebrow.

You chuckled awkwardly, shuffling your cards. Were there any questions left?

With the way Rin had curtly and concisely answered the questions, you had rushed through the interview, with no more inquiries at hand.

It was clear Rin wasn't in the mood to field any questions: clear avoidance of direct eye contact, standoffish demeanour, and closed-off answers.

They were all tell-tale signs that Rin was itching to just leave.

You sighed, heart sinking in your chest.

You had been hoping to hold this interview with Rin since months now, being an avid admirer of his intricate playstyle and his tactics on the field.

However, it seemed that the sentiment wasn't returned.

"Well, I guess we'll wrap it up for today," You said, hiding the disappointment in your voice.

You looked up from your cards to say goodbye to both Isagi and Rin.

Your eyes met teal, irridescent ones.

Rin's eyes were dazed, a soft edge to them. A stark contrast to the cold look in them during the interview.

You tilted your head curiously.

Noticing you looking, Rin's eyebrows rose. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flustered look flashing in them, lips parting slightly.

He looked away, jaw tensed, and the moment was over.

Your eyebrows went high, intrigue welling up.

...Or maybe the sentiment was returned.

It was in the minute details, you assumed.

When Isagi nudged Rin playfully, shooting a knowing grin his way, which maybe meant Rin tolerated you, that was only an assumption.

When Rin's ears turned a lovely red when he looked at you, that was also only an assumption.

But when you shook Rin's hand, and looked him in the eye, that was only confirmation.

Michael Kaiser

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Flirts. Charms. Is not professional at all. "Accidentally" lets diminutives slip.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Either answers questions about himself in a cocky manner, or is the one asking you the questions.

"So, Kaiser, in the last match, you managed to pull off a move called the "Magnus Impact", how did you do that?"

"Well..." Kaiser said, a confident quirk to his lips, "It's an unparalleled move of mine, and it paid off." He answered simply.

Then, he shifted, leaning his head on his arm, his eyes shooting to yours. "But what about you? How did you pull off that good look of yours?"

You choked.

"Wha--?" Your eyes went wide, spluttering.

Excuse me?"

Kaiser leaned in, his finger brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch leaving goosebumps on your skin.

"I know that my Magnus Impact is based off on my pure talent. I'm guessing your lovely look is natural, too, no?"

"Oh-- uhm..." You didn't know what to say. "I... guess?"

Kaiser hummed, leaning back in his seat again. "Thought so."

When the proximity between you two lessened, you let out a breath, quickly fixing your eyes on your question paper.

However, unbeknownst to you, Kaiser was still looking at you, eyes roaming over your features, a pensive expression on his face.

"Though, why did you choose to pursue this interview career of yours? You could've easily made the highway, Schätzchen."

"Huh?" Your head shot up from your cards.

"Mhm... lovely smile, natural blush, mesmerising eyes. And above all, a charming personality." Kaiser winked at you.

"Oh... uhm, I--" Didn't know what to answer. "Thanks?"

Kaiser let out a handsome chuckle, pushing the bangs out of his face. "Liebe, no need to thank me for your attractiveness, I'm only calling attention to the objective facts."

Your face went red.

"Though, if I might share my subjective opinion," Kaiser said, voice teetering on low.

"I'd say you're the prettiest girl I've ever met." His voice was barely above a whisper, a teasing edge to it.

The air was punched out of your lungs.

What in the Wattpad was happening?

"Uhm..." You cleared your throat. "While I do appreciate your compliments about my... looks, let's keep it professional, shall we?"

Kaiser smiled slightly, before nodding. "Whatever the lady wants. Fire away any questions you want to ask." The corners of his lips quirked upwards.

You inclined your head, shuffling through your cards.

Kaiser tilted his head,chancing a glance at your cards, an amused undertone to his voice. "Though, only professional ones."

A flush overtook your features.

The rest of the interview went swimmingly.

Kaiser expressed in detailed display his opinion and was consistent in his answers, so it came as no surprise that you could wrap up your interview early.

"Well, that went fast." You said in a surprised tone.

You stuck out your hand. "Thank you so much for your time, Kaiser."

A smile played on Kaiser's lips. "The pleasure was all mine."

You turned around to leave, but fingers gently clasped around your wrist, lightly tugging you back.

You came face to face with Kaiser.

"Oh... hi?"

"Hi." He said softly. "You have some time left?"

You checked your watch. You had a break scheduled now, so yeah.

You nodded.

Kaiser sat back down, gesturing for you to do the same.

Obliging, you retook your seat, a confused look in your eyes.

Kaiser leaned back in his chair.

You eyed him, puzzled.

"Well?" Kaiser tilted one eyebrow. "Don't tell me you don't have any questions for me, miss Journalist."

"...questions?" You repeated.

A handsome grin flitted on Kaiser's lips, he raised his eyebrows, his eyes falling on your cards.

"I... alright, but I'll have to go in an hour." You conceded, not wanting to pass up on this opportunity.

Kaiser tilted his head. "Whatever the lady wants. Fire away any question you have."

Your eyes widened, giving him an inquiring look.

"...unproffesional ones are allowed, too." Kaiser drawled.

Your face went up in flames.

© DON'T COPY MY WORK, PUT IT IN AI OR CHATGPT OR USE IT FOR OTHER NEFARIOUS MEANS

Masterlist

[nymphoniah]

lessons learned | logan howlett

AN: here's a little drabble about logan fucking you from behind, keeping you in a headlock, squished between his biceps <3 and also some dirty talk here and there!

pairing: mean!logan x afab!reader

content/tags: NSFW, minors DNI (18+ only), dom!logan, choking, dacryphilia, name calling, porn without plot, dirty talk, creampies, unprotected sex, pet names (princess, doll, etc.), size kink, mark leaving (ie. hickeys), breeding kink, brat taming, rough sex

logan sees the way you watch his arms hungrily, your lust blown pupils observing the way his muscles twitch when he's feeling tired. he knows the chokehold he has on you.

just a poor little thing, wrapped around his finger.

"i see the way you look at my arms, darlin", he grunts, manhandling you so your back presses against his chest, his toned arms snaking around your waist, keeping you locked in place.

"you don't even try to hide it," logan adds, pressing kisses against your shoulder, his hands working at the straps of your tank top, slowly sliding them down to reveal your tits.

"such a dirty girl, hm?" he teases, rolling the sensitive buds between his thumb and index finger.

"were you ever taught that it was rude to stare?" he hisses, tugging at your nipples, making you wince out in pain. logan smirks at your audible displeasure, now turning his attention from your tits to your neck.

"i’m gonna mark you up doll, ‘oughta teach you a lesson somehow," he growls. logan presses a kiss against the shell of your ear, making his way down to your nape, planting wet kisses along the way.

you lean forwards, giving him easier access to your neck—and when you give him an inch, he takes a mile.

his kisses get more erratic, sloppier, messier, hungrier. he can’t hold himself back, he needs to mark you, and absolutely wants to show the whole world that you’re his.

and so he sinks his teeth into the supple skin of your neck, paying sweet attention to how your weak moans escaped from your lips. he’d nip and suck at your skin, hard enough to leave those love bites you both oh-so carnally desire.

your brain is all fuzzy from the stinging pain you felt on your neck, mixed alongside the growing pleasure you felt between your legs as he simultaneously paws at your tits.

“i can’t take it lo, s’too much,” you whine, shutting your eyes tight. tears start forming around your waterline as he continues his assault on your neck.

just as your vision starts to get hazy, he wraps his left arm around your neck, keeping your face snug between his forearm and bicep.

“be a good girl and fuckin’ take it,” he commands, a singular claw popping out of his right hand, slicing through your mini-skirt to reveal your lacy black pair of panties.

sheathing his claw, he hastily pulls them down to reveal your sopping wet cunt. “fuck me…” he hisses, admiring your cunt in all its glory.

“such a dirty fuckin’ whore, you getting off on this?” he says smugly, slipping a finger between your folds, observing the way your pussy sucks him in.

you weakly nod as you remain sandwiched in his headlock. teetering between the lines of passing out and losing consciousness, you mumble out a string of words—something along the lines of “i need you to fuck me,” or “fuckin’ put it in”; they both mean the same thing to logan anyways.

he obliges, with one arm wrapped around your neck, and the other hastily working at the belt of his jeans. in one swift motion, his boxers and jeans hit the floor in tandem, freeing his cock from the confines of the tight denim.

he spits in his hand, pumping his cock a couple times before he finally lines himself up, and slides himself in, down to the hilt. your pussy sucks him in like a vice, the two of you moaning in unison.

“you’re so tight for me, princess.” he groans, thrusting into you at a rapid pace, fully sheathing himself out, and pushing his full length back into you.

the sound of his balls slapping against your ass fills the room. the pace of which he fucked you made you dizzy, the grip around your neck adding to the immense pleasure you felt in your cunt.

you attempt to press kisses against his bicep as the muscle secures you in place, but you fail to do so, as shown by your wine red lip stick smudged all over his arm.

“such a naughty whore, suckin’ me in like this” he teases, his free hand pressing against the bulge on your stomach, disappearing and reappearing with every thrust of his. “need this dick to fill you up, huh?”

and you whine as much as your parched voice allowed you to. “want you so bad, lo” you mumble incoherently. “need you stuff me with your cum.”

“such a filthy mouth for a sweet little girl like you,” logan grunts, the movement of his hips getting sloppier. “beg for it.”

“need you to fuckin’ breed me,” you moan, “make me yours,” you cry out— and that’s what makes logan snap.

with a few final deep thrusts, he finishes inside you. his hot ropes of cum fill your cunt to the brim; your arousal mixed with his cum leaks out of your sopping hole before he even pulls out.

he keeps his cock inside you for a minute, pumping whatever he has left inside of you, and finally pulls out. he winces, already missing the way your gummy walls wrapped tightly around his cock.

“need to keep that in you…” he says playfully, plugging your cunt with his thumb, the calloused pad making sure that his cum is stuffed deep inside you.

“now let that be a lesson for you, doll,” he quips, removing his thumb, slipping it into his mouth to taste the mixture of the two of you.

he then brings his thumb to your bottom lip, inviting you to have a taste for yourself. the heady taste of his cum combined with your slick had you moan around him.

he pulls his thumb away from your mouth with a pop, and you look up at him with your fucked-out eyes. you simply nod your head and give him a lazy smile.

surely it wouldn’t hurt to stare at him every now and then.

[flowersforbucky]

where the lines overlap

logan howlett x reader (dofp!logan x mutant!reader)

word count: 8.7k

summary: no one gets under your skin quite as much as logan howlett - and he knows it, too. sex pollen trope.

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, sex pollen so dub con, frenemies to lovers? they aren't enemies but logan and reader don't really get along, reader is a mutant with pyrokinesis, reader is afab, reader is described as being smaller than logan, no use of y/n, wet dream, fuck or die situation, oral, pet names (bub, princess), brief pain kink for logan, unprotected p in v, cream pie

author's note: takes place after the events of days of future past - so everyone's alive, charles is old af, and logan has a pretty streak of silver in his hair. not proofread super well so please ignore any errors.

There's certain things that you like to think about when you're pissed off. It’s a coping mechanism that you learned in therapy at the ripe age of eleven.

Go to your happy place or whatever.

For you, that's the mansion's courtyard after a fresh snowfall, and having the library all to yourself on a rainy day, and the comfort of your bedroom on one of the rare days that you aren’t teaching, or training, or on a mission.

At this point in your life, you’ve forgotten just about everything you were taught in that therapist's office. It's not like you had wanted to be there, but your parents had been worried and scared – and rightfully so. With the unexpected emergence of your pyrokinetic abilities came multiple accidental house fires born out of preteen angst.

So they did the only thing they knew to do at the time – stick you in therapy in hopes you would acquire some anger management techniques.

These days, you have a pretty good handle on your powers. With a lot of time and effort, you learned to control them – and not just control them, but yield them in a beneficial and productive way.

All of that progress comes dangerously close to going out the window anytime you're in close proximity to Logan Howlett.

Maybe all is an exaggeration – but no one else makes your fingertips burn hot with fire that threatens to break through the barrier of your skin quite like him. From his bossiness to his arrogance and attitude, you’ve clashed heads since the first day you met him.

Today is no different.

“Don’t use so much force.”

You curse as the tip of the blade impales the target a whopping three inches from the center. By far your worst throw yet, though this one isn’t entirely your fault.

You snap your head towards the unexpected but familiar voice, pulling your last dagger from the holster secured around your thigh before chucking it in his general direction. It flies past him, bouncing off the wall behind him.

You knew that it wouldn’t actually hit him. And if by some miracle it had, he’d heal in two seconds and then go right back to being a pain in your ass.

A good looking pain in your ass, admittedly. But a pain in your ass nonetheless.

He looks at you with an amused expression. “See? Too much force.”

“I didn’t know that having giant forks for hands made you an expert on throwing knives.”

He exhales a breathy laugh, staring at you for several seconds before turning to pick the dagger up from the ground. He then proceeds to collect the rest of the knives that you had previously thrown from the body of the practice target.

In heavy silence, he struts over to you with the daggers in hand. He turns to face a wooden target board, finding the balance point of the knife before sending it flying through the air.

Bullseye.

“A long time ago, when I first joined this team, Charles made me practice a non-power related method of self-defense, too.” He pauses, lining the second dagger up with the practice dummy. To no surprise, it’s another perfect throw.

“Wanna guess what I chose?”

You snatch the remaining knife out of his hand.

“How to annoy someone by sneaking up on them and giving them unsolicited advice while they are minding their own business?”

You position your feet once again, holding the knife up in preparation to take aim. Your eyes dart back and forth between the blade and the target ahead of you. You hesitate, feeling nervous under his gaze.

Logan moves from standing beside you, to standing behind you. Your breath catches in your throat as his large figure looms over you. If he were to took a step forward, his chest would brush against your back.

He uses the tip of his boot to nudge your heel forward half an inch, adjusting your stance. He takes your right hand in his, and you have to consciously remind yourself to breathe.

A wave of annoyance washes over you that he’s able to fluster you so easily. It makes you as pissed at yourself as it does him. He’s barely touching you – his hand dwarfing yours is the only point of physical contact, but you’d think that he were pinning you up against a wall with his body.

You tell yourself the sudden light-headedness and increased heartrate is because of the newfound closeness, and nothing more. You’re used to being around Logan – the two of you live together and work together. His general presence is nothing new. But the intimacy of your current predicament is.

And maybe the fact that notes of tobacco and bourbon are infiltrating your senses doesn’t help.

“As unsolicited as my advice may be,” he says lowly as he pulls your hand back slightly, “I give it because if there is ever a situation where someone's trying to hurt you, and you’re unable to light them on fire for some reason, I would really hope that you could at least impale them.”

He tightens his hold on your hand, and then snaps both of your wrists forward. Surprisingly, your brain registers to release your grip just in time. When the tip of the blade impales the center of the target perfectly, he drops your hand.

But he doesn’t move from behind you.

“Much better. Now come back upstairs. Charles needs to see all of us in his office.”

••••••

You and Logan are the last people to enter Charles’ office.

Storm, Scott, Jean, Marie, and Bobby have all found places to sit throughout the small room. Logan chooses to lean against the door that clicks shut behind him, while you exhale in relief at the sight of an empty chair on the opposite side of the room, next to Marie.

“Ah, how nice of you two to join us,” Charles greets. “I was starting to think that Logan got lost on his way to retrieve you.”

You force out a laugh, earning a side-eye from Marie as Charles launches back into whatever he had been in the middle of before you two interrupted.

“Everything okay?” Marie murmurs to you. “You looked a little sick when you walked in.”

“Oh, yeah,” you shrug her off without looking at her. You keep your eyes on Charles. “Yeah, I'm just tired. Been training all morning.”

What were you supposed to tell her? That you were thankful to be wearing a tactical suit so that Logan couldn’t see all of the goosebumps that bloomed across your skin when he was practically breathing down your neck less than five minutes ago? Or that the walk back up to Charles’ office was filled with a loaded silence in place of your usual bickering and banter?

Marie might be one of your closest friends, and you trust her, but Logan is something of a fatherly figure to her. There’s no way you’re letting her hear those words come from your mouth.

You try your hardest to focus on all of the information that Charles throws at you. You’re all to leave on a mission early tomorrow morning. When he explains where you’re going and why, chills run down your spine.

Alberta, Canada – more specifically, Alkali Lake. All of your friends seem to tense up at the mere mention of the place.

You dig your teeth into your lower lip, fighting the urge to sneak a glance to try to gauge Logan's reaction. You’ve never been to Alkali Lake before, and you’re far from excited about going – you can only imagine how he feels, given his history with the abandoned military base.

After no word of any activity surrounding the base for years, Charles had been made aware that the recent disappearance of a group of young adult humans had been traced back to Alkali Lake – to a modern day subsidiary of the group Weapon X.

The same group responsible for Logan’s skeleton being made from adamantium.

This, of course, is where all of you come in.

After a detailed rundown of the goals for tomorrow – the main one being safe extraction of the humans – Charles dismisses all of you to rest for the remainder of the day.

When everyone stands up, you finally risk glancing at Logan, but he’s already opening the door to Charles’ office and strutting away.

••••••

Thick stubble scratches your innermost thighs as sharp teeth and soft lips alternate between kissing and biting the sensitive flesh between your legs.

His face is covered in your slick from the three orgasms he’s already pulled from you with his tongue. He lays nestled between your legs, pinning you to the mattress beneath you. Your thighs rest across his shoulders, his hands splayed across your belly.

You're putty in his hands.

“I've gotta say, the sounds you make when you cum are way cuter than the sounds I'm used to hearing from you,” Logan muses against your cunt. His voice sends a vibration over your already overstimulated core.

You can only guess that the sounds he’s referring to are annoyed sighs and you telling him to shut the fuck up, but right now, you don't care enough to ask for any clarification.

“Yeah?” You yelp when his tongue flicks against your swollen clit. “Maybe if you spent less time pissing me off you’d get to—”

You're cut off by him plunging the tip of his index finger inside you. You writhe against him, your walls constricting around the digit.

“Less time pissing you off, more time letting you fuck my fingers and face. Got it.”

The slamming of a door somewhere outside of your room causes you to bolt upright in your bed.

You open your eyes to darkness except for the red glow of the numbers on your digital alarm clock that read 12:26 in the morning. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and your skin is clammy with a thin layer of sweat. You throw your covers away from you in an attempt to cool yourself off.

“What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck—”

You whisper the three words to yourself over and over again until your breathing resumes a normal pattern.

You’re alone, of course. In the comfort of your private room, where you had fallen asleep several hours ago. The difference between now and then is an uncomfortable pool of wetness between your legs, soaking your underwear.

You can’t even recall the last time you had such a vivid sex dream. It felt utterly lifelike – you reach down between your legs, trailing your fingers over the skin of your inner thighs where you had felt his beard tickle and tease you.

How the fuck are you supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow, when you’re having to work together to rescue humans from Alkali Lake? How are you supposed to come up with smart-ass remarks for his endless taunting and teasing when you’re going to be trying your hardest to not replay the images of his hazel eyes looking up at from between your thighs?

“Get a fucking grip,” you whisper hiss to yourself.

It’s Logan. The same Logan who acted like he was too good to say more than ten words to you the first half a year that you were with the team. The same Logan that tries to get you benched for the dumbest, smallest reasons he can think of. The same Logan that condescendingly calls you kid or princess every chance he gets because he knows it gets under your skin.

You need a glass of water. And some fresh air, and a cold shower—

You start by picking up the pair of sweatpants that you’d discarded before falling asleep a few hours ago. You step back into them, deciding to trek to the kitchen for some ice water. Your mouth feels as dry as cotton.

As you approach the end of the hallway that leads from the team member's bedrooms to the kitchen, you hear the soft shuffling of footsteps and see low lighting that spills from the refrigerator.

As soon as you step into the kitchen, you come to a halt. You recognize the large frame standing in front of the open fridge right away.

Of fucking course it would be him. And of fucking course he wouldn’t be wearing a shirt.

You clear your throat to announce your presence, not quite trusting your voice to speak. He looks at you over his shoulder, a bottle of beer pressed to his lips.

You walk over to the cabinet beside him, keeping your eyes off of him entirely as you get a glass.

“What's got you awake at this hour?” He closes the fridge, leaning back against the edge of the countertop. The only light in the room now comes from the small, dim bulb above the sink.

If he only fucking knew, you think. If he only knew that the real reason you are out of bed right now is because you’d just woken up from an extremely graphic, jarring dream of you riding his face.

You fill the cup up with cold water from the kitchen sink and take a large swig before once again turning to face him.

“Could ask you the same thing,” you answer with a vague gesture to his half-dressed form and beer bottle.

He takes in your appearance, too. His eyes trail from your exposed feet, to your baggy sweatpants, and up to your even baggier t-shirt before settling on your face. You feel particularly vulnerable under his gaze right now. You compare how you look to how he looks – with his stupid abs that look like God himself chiseled them from stone and his sweatpants that hang just a little too comfortably.

You sip on your water just to keep from biting your lip.

“Guess we were both thirsty,” he shrugs as he takes another sip of his beer.

“Guess so,” you hum, and because you don’t want to fall into an awkward silence and it’s the only thing you can think to add, you say, “Nervous about the mission?”

His expression darkens and posture tenses at your question. “I am,” he admits. “And if you knew as much as I do about that place, you’d be nervous, too.”

You huff. Your grip tightens around the glass in your hand at the mere insinuation that he knows your feelings. “Who says that I’m not?”

“If you’re going, you’re not nervous enough.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. You take a deep breath, knowing damn well the direction that this conversation is headed. You’d heard it all from him before – anything to keep you as far away from him as possible.

“Of course I’m going, Logan. Whether you think I’m good at it or not, it’s my job.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re good at your job. It’s about experience—”

You laugh, cutting him off. You can feel the telltale warmth of fire beginning to form beneath the tips of your fingers, your irritation threatening to bubble over.

“Experience?” you exclaim. “Do I need to remind you that I’ve been with this team for three years now? Just because I’m not two hundred years old like you doesn’t mean that I don’t have experience.”

“I’m very aware of how long you’ve been with this team, bub,” he says calmly, which makes you all the more heated.

“For three years you’ve spewed every bullshit reason you can think of to keep me on the sidelines,” you laugh. “I wish you’d fucking admit that you just don’t like me. It’d be a lot more respectable than acting like you’re worried about—”

Logan’s gaze drops to the glass in your hand, making you come to an abrupt pause. You follow his stare, realizing that you’ve managed to melt the glass where your fingertips grip the glass. Water begins to leak out from the holes, spilling onto your sweatpants and the floor below you.

There’s no visible flames emanating from your fingertips. Your anger hadn’t progressed to full on fire, just intense heat, but still. No one else makes you come as close to losing control as him.

No one. And he seems to know it, too. You can tell by the smug look on his face.

You dump what little liquid is left into the sink before chucking the distorted glass into the garbage.

You start to storm past him, to get away from him and go back to your room without another word, when he grabs you by the wrist. You look at him in bewilderment – this is the second time in the last twenty-four hours that he has held your hand in his.

“Didn’t know you were so hot and bothered over me,” he says with an amused smirk.

You rip your hand away from him, an exaggerated look of disgust on your face. Your recent dream pops into your head and you have to remind yourself that he’s not Jean or Charles – he can’t read your mind.

“You're lucky that you've got those handy healing powers,” you spit as you once again begin exiting the kitchen. “If I thought there was a chance of it actually shutting you up, I’d burn more than just Charles’ vintage glassware.”

You hear him say your name, but you’re already speed walking back to your room and playing your list of happy place thoughts on a loop in your head.

The soup that Storm makes when everyone at the school seems to get sick at the same time. One of your younger students picking you a flower. The smell of fresh laundry, the crisp pages of a new book.

Finally, your bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

You would have been better off just enduring the discomfort of a dry throat, you think. You don't know what's worse – not being able to sleep because you're rattled from a wet dream about him, or not being able to sleep because you've once again allowed him to get under your skin.

You crawl back under your covers, hoping that when you close your eyes, you don't see his face again.

••••••

Logan doesn’t make any more appearances in your dreams for the rest of the night, but that doesn’t stop him from being the first thing you think of when you open your eyes in the morning.

And as much as you hate to admit it to yourself, the only thing on your mind the entire flight from New York to Alberta.

From the tension that filled the air when he corrected your knife throwing technique yesterday morning to the warmth of his calloused hand when he grabbed you by the wrist in the kitchen last night, you're fighting a losing battle with no one but yourself.

As far as you can tell, he’s utterly unaffected. The fact that he chose to sit directly in front of you on the jet instead of any of the other empty seats says as much.

Not even ten minutes into the flight, you're staring at the tufts of his hair and his broad shoulders when you have to remind yourself that there's two telepaths occupying this jet with you. Though you trust both Charles and Jean to not read your mind without cause, the mere possibility of either one of them accidentally tuning into your thoughts and seeing a replay of your most recent dream or hearing you think about what it would be like to tug on those stupid fucking tufts of hair that resemble kitten ears is enough to mortify you.

You find yourself grateful that you brought a book and headphones with you to distract yourself for the duration of the trip.

An eerie feeling creeps into your bones as soon as you step onto the hanger of the jet. You can’t deny that the scenery surrounding the military base is beautiful – from the snowcapped mountains to the frost covered lake, it’s picturesque. But then your gaze settles on the large dam, and you remember what lies beneath.

“Can't say that I've missed this place,” Logan grunts, drawing your attention to him. His face is impassive other than his mouth being set in a hard, straight line as he stares out towards the water.

It's rare for Logan to elicit feelings outside of burning irritation (and maybe, possibly, sometimes arousal) from you – but right now, there’s a part of you that wishes the dynamic between the two of you were different.

As much as he infuriates you, you still care about him. You wish you could say that you didn’t, but the fact that you feel the urge to reach out and give his hand a reassuring squeeze makes that pretty hard to deny.

That urge dissipates as quickly as it comes over you. The bitter chill of the mountain wind and your teammates voices pull you back to reality. You awkwardly fiddle with one of the daggers strapped to your thigh instead.

“Jean and Scott, the two of you take the west side of the building,” Charles instructs when the group nears the discreet entrance. “Bobby and Rogue, clear the east wing. Storm and I will be keeping watch outside to make sure that no one tries to escape with the humans.”

“What about us?” you ask with a slight nod towards Logan. The fact that neither of you had been given instructions yet leaves it to be assumed that you’ll be paired up together.

You and Logan working as a pair was nothing out of the ordinary, and although that typically comes with a lot of annoyance, right now you can’t help but feel a little relieved by it.

Even if you are still irritated at him for his behavior and choice of words in the kitchen last night and even if you do think of him between your thighs every time you look at him for more than five seconds, he’s still more familiar with this place than anyone else here.

And no matter how much he makes you want to tear your hair out, there's never a time that you feel unsafe when he's near.

“You and Logan are to inspect the basement,” Charles answers. “I trust that you can refrain from melting any antique personal property until we are back at the mansion, my dear,” he adds with a knowing smirk.

“I was planning on paying you back for that,” you mumble.

“No,” Charles sighs. “You weren't. It was very expensive.”

Logan snorts, earning curious glances from everyone other than you and Charles. He does get a nasty side-eye from you – a silent promise to deliver on last night’s threat to find something to burn other than vintage glassware.

Your teammates split up into their respective groups upon entering the base, leaving you to follow Logan's lead towards the lower levels.

It’s unsettling just how silent it is. The only sounds are that of yours and Logan's boots against the ground. You'd be able to hear a pin drop from across the building.

And it's cold. The kind of cold that makes your bones ache. You instinctively flex your fingers, focusing on the warmth that radiates from the tips.

As the two of you make your way through the dark, seemingly endless basement, checking each room for signs of life, you can't help but think of Logan being here under much different circumstances.

You don't know the full extent of his time here – even he only remembers bits and pieces. But you know enough to know that this can’t be easy for him.

The fact that he's being uncharacteristically quiet only reaffirms that. He makes none of his typical taunts and jabs, only speaking when absolutely necessary.

You find yourself damn near wishing he’d make some snide comment about how you’re walking too loudly and how being partnered up with you feels like babysitting duty – if he did, maybe then you wouldn’t feel this annoying, persistent worry over his mental well-being.

“Logan,” you begin quietly as the two of you approach a large set of hospital style double doors at the end of a corridor. “I know being here can't be easy for you. I'm sorry that you have to be.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, not meeting your eyes as he slowly pushes one of the doors open, peaking into the room before stepping inside and holding the door open for you.

“Just part of the job, bub,” he sighs. “I know what I signed up for.”

You enter, walking past him into the dark room. You shine your flashlight around the cramped space. Right away, you can tell that it’s vacant, as all of the other rooms you’ve checked have been. But it’s different – whereas most of the rooms have been completely empty, this one contains multiple twin sized beds. No frames, no pillows, just plain white sheets on each one.

“I know you do. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and he shines his own flashlight around the room from right behind you.

“It’s okay, princess,” he snorts. “I’m a big boy. You don’t gotta pretend to be worried about me.”

Princess. Your fingertips tingle as soon as the pet name leaves his lips.

“I’m not pretend—”

The sudden, loud clicking of a deadbolt echoes through the room, silencing you. You and Logan stare at each other for a brief moment, startled and confused, before he turns around and pushes on the double doors to no avail.

He slams the full weight of his body against the metal, but it doesn't budge.

“What the fuck,” he growls in between repeated strikes against the doors.

“Logan and I are locked in a room in the basement,” you say as you click on the communication device in your left ear. “The door automatically locked after we came inside. We can’t get it open—”

You’re met with white noise.

“My fucking comm isn’t working.” Panic begins to set in as you yank the device out of your ear to inspect it. There’s a small green light indicating that it is on, but for whatever reason, it isn’t getting signal.

“Scott? Storm? Can anyone hear us?” Logan says as he messes with his own communication device. “Nothing,” he grunts after a moment of silence.

“Professor? Jean? If either of you are listening, now would be a great time to poke around in our brains and let us know.”

Nothing indeed.

“Okay,” Logan says as he backs away from the double doors. “Blast them.”

“Blast them?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “They’re industrial metal doors. They’re like two feet thick. These walls are made out of concrete.” You bang your first against the rock solid wall for emphasis. “What the fuck do you think fire is—”

“I don’t hear you suggesting anything!”

“How about not setting the room we are trapped in on fire? Only one of us has regenerative—”

A loud hissing noise sounds from above, causing you and Logan to both point your flashlights up towards the ceiling. You squint, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Large vents make up well over fifty percent of the ceiling, releasing what appears to be a fog like substance. It quickly transforms the air above you into one large, milky looking cloud.

“Charles! Storm! Scott – we need help. Quickly, we need help. I don’t know what’s going—”

You continue to shout into the communication device while Logan alternates between punching the door with his fists and throwing the full weight of his body against the metal, but all of your efforts are futile. The doors don’t budge, and you hear nothing but static from the comm.

You frantically glance around the room, looking for another escape route. There’s no other doors, and no windows. You’re completely enclosed by the four concrete walls and the impenetrable metal doors.

“Hold your breath!” Logan shouts as the fog descends upon the two of you, but it’s too late. The sickeningly sweet smelling mist encompasses you, making it impossible to see anything other than the thick silver vapor. It infiltrates your nostrils, causing you to gag. You cough, desperately trying to clear your airway of the substance.

It burns – your throat, your nostrils, your eyes and skin. Anywhere that it comes in contact with you feels like pins and needles.

You’re vaguely aware that Logan is somewhere to your left, asking if you’re okay in-between coughs and gags of his own. You can’t catch your breath well enough to answer him.

His hand clasps around the top of your arm. Your vision goes fuzzy and you collapse into him, light-headed from the profuse coughing.

“I think it’s dissipating,” Logan whispers in a strained voice, still supporting you so that you don’t fall to the floor. You risk cracking your eyes open the slightest bit, and realize that he’s right. There’s still a veil of mist surrounding you, but it’s no longer so opaque that you can’t see even two inches in front of your face.

You take deep breaths, making no effort to step away from him as you attempt to regain control of your breathing. Your lungs feel like they are on fire and your throat feels like you haven’t had any water in days.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out as a croak.

“Can you stand?” he asks you. You nod, reluctantly pulling away from his embrace.

As soon as he steps away from you to see if the doors are still locked, the momentary relief that you felt when the fog began to dissipate is replaced with renewed terror. The room, which was previously dark except for the light from your flashlights, suddenly glows a deep red color from the ceiling that now emits crimson fluorescence.

You open your mouth to call out for Charles or Jean again, when a throbbing sensation radiates throughout your gut. You clutch your hands over your abdomen, gasping at the sudden and awkward feeling.

Logan turns his attention away from the doors and back to you as soon as he notices how you’re hunched over. You stumble over to the bed that's closest to you, the world blurring around you in shades of red.

“Something is wrong,” you gasp out. You know you're stating the obvious – something has been wrong since the moment that the doors locked behind you.

He's next to you in two long strides, kneeling beside the bed and looking up at you in concern. The ache in your lower belly seems to worsen with his close proximity. Your skin feels feverish, making you want to peel your tactical suit off of your body.

“Tell me what you're feeling,” he demands. Other than obvious confusion and fear, he appears physically fine. You piece together that whatever that shit was, it’s effecting you much differently than it is him – undoubtedly due to his healing abilities.

You can't form a coherent sentence – all you can focus on is the way that the discomfort in your abdomen travels down to your groin, making you clench your thighs together. You have the inexplicable desire to reach out and pull him to you, as if having him as close as possible to you is the only solution for every uncomfortable thing happening to you.

“You gotta talk to me, bub. Tell me what’s going on,” he says when you don’t answer him. He puts a hand just above your knee and you have to hold back the whimper that threatens to break through your lips. He notices your pained expression and quickly withdraws his hand from your thigh.

“No!” you gasp, grabbing his hand in yours out of desperation to maintain some level of physical contact with him. “I – I don't know how to explain what’s happening. Just – I just need you to keep touching me. Please. Whatever that fog was, it’s making me feel like…”

You trail off, realizing that you must sound every bit as insane as you feel. You don’t know how to begin articulating what’s happening to you, because it makes no sense. When the silver mist first started to rain down from the ceiling, the last thing on your mind was Logan pinning you to one of these mattresses and railing you until you until you see stars. Now, you think that if he so much as stops holding your hand, you'll fucking die.

A look of clarity washes over Logan’s face – with a hint of something else that you can't quite pinpoint, too.

“I think I know what this is,” he murmurs. His stare is locked on one of the daggers strapped to your thigh. He squeezes your hand in his, though you don’t know if it’s to comfort you or himself.

“I’ve heard of this before. Didn’t know it actually exists. I came across it once when preparing a lesson on Alkali Lake—”

“What is it?” you implore.

His eyes finally flicker back up to yours. Images of last night’s dream flash through your mind again. Instead of his hand holding yours, you visualize his slender fingers pumping inside you. You stare at his lips, imaging the feeling of them sucking love bites into the meat of your inner thighs –

“It’s a chemical created for breeding experiments,” he answers after a pregnant pause. “They – Weapon X – wanted super mutants. Some of the subjects were… less than compliant. This made it so that they weren’t able to fight it.”

You let his words sink in. It’s not something you’ve ever heard of, but you don’t doubt that what he’s saying is true. How could you, with the way that your pussy is throbbing at the mere sound of his voice? Under normal circumstances, you might not read too far into that. But right now? On a mission, locked in a creepy basement, unable to get in contact with your teammates?

“Weren’t able to fight it,” you repeat slowly. “You're saying there’s only one way out of this.”

He doesn’t answer – just looks at you with sympathy. With pity.

“No,” you shake your head. You yank your hand from his grasp and move back across the mattress as the gravity of the situation hits you. To distance yourself from him feels like ripping air out of your own lungs, but the alternative is borderline unthinkable.

“I can’t – won’t ask that of you,” you declare. There’s a voice in the back of your mind that laughs at you, as if saying it’s cute that you think you have a choice. The pain and longing grow with each passing second, threatening to consume you from the inside out.

“You’re fine. It would be different if it was both of us. But you shouldn’t have to do this just because you're stuck here with me.”

“Have to? You make it sound like it would be a punishment for me,” he chuckles darkly. He finally rises from where he had been kneeling next to the bed. He stands beside the mattress, looming over you in the maroon lighting.

“Let’s not overcomplicate this, princess,” he murmurs. He grasps your face in his palm and tilts your head to look up at him. His touch is a balm – it feels like running a burn under a cold stream of water.

“I'm gonna take care of you, and then you can go right back to tolerating my existence.” He runs the calloused pad of his thumb over the swell of your bottom lip. Your eyes flutter shut, reveling in the sensation of the singular digit against your flesh.

“Besides, it’s not like you haven’t dreamed about this. Or were you moaning about someone else who just happens to have the same name as me last night?”

Your eyes shoot open at the revelation that not only had you said his name in your sleep, but he’d fucking heard you. And has the nerve to tease you about it at a time like this.

He's smirking down at you. His smugness irritates you often, but right now it’s enough to cause the tips of your fingers to burn hot. You jerk his hand away from your face, causing him to hiss when your fingers wrap around his wrist.

He chortles, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sensation. The reaction fills you with annoyance – of course he would have a fucking pain kink.

As much as it pisses you off, it also spurs you on. Blame the influence of the chemicals that you’re currently under, but the fact that he can so easily tolerate and even enjoy something that would have anyone else running in the opposite direction does something to you.

You’re past the point of finding it in you to care about consequences. You’re no longer thinking about how you’ll be able to look him in the eye when this is over, or how you’ll pretend like everything is perfectly normal when the two of you are back on the jet with your teammates.

Maybe you can fight this drug, or maybe he’s right and there’s no point in trying. Either way, you’ve decided that you're going to have him before you leave this room.

You drop his hand, bringing yours to the zipper at the neckline of your tactical suit. You slowly tug it downwards, gauging his expression as he watches you expose your chest and stomach.

For once, he’s all out of smart remarks.

A part of you feels a sense of satisfaction and wants to continue taking your time with undressing yourself, just to keep him looking at you like this – but every fiber of your being is screaming at you for more.

You waste no more time with shoving the restrictive Kevlar material down your arms, leaving you in only your bra from the waist up. Logan unfreezes at the sight, crawling onto the bed on his knees. You maneuver yourself so that you’re laying flat against the mattress, pulling him down with you.

He rips the fabric of your bra away from your breast, immediately attaching his mouth to your nipple. He rolls it between his tongue and teeth, causing you to arch your back into his touch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, pinning yourself to the mattress with his body. You mewl at the feeling of your pebbled nipple in his warm mouth.

His other hand attempts to free the opposite breast, but the fabric is too tight and restrictive. He let’s out an annoyed growl, pulling back to unsheathe his claws and snip the material in between your tits, letting them spill free.

“Hey! I loved that bra—”

Your complaint dies in your throat when he slates his lips over yours.

There’s nothing slow or sensual about the way that he kisses you. He slips his tongue past your lips, moving his lips with fervency and urgency – like he needs this as badly as you do.

You buck your hips up into him, desperate for any amount of friction. He grinds down against you, his erection evident even through the thick material of both of your tactical suits.

He pulls back, breaking the kiss to unzip your suit the rest of the way down. He peels it down your thighs, only stopping to discard your boots. When you’re left in only your underwear, he looks at you with a satisfied smirk.

“So, what exactly was I doing in your dream to have you saying my name like that, huh?” he asks as he toys with the waistband of your panties.

You roll your eyes, your patience growing thinner as the ache in your belly grows stronger. He can tease you about that all he wants when you’re back in the safety of the mansion, when you’re no longer under the influence of potentially life threatening chemicals and capable of thinking of a proper comeback.

“Shut up and eat me out.”

His smirk only grows, but he doesn’t tease you any further. He tugs your panties down your legs, tossing them to the floor. He lowers himself onto his stomach, still fully dressed. Under less dire circumstances, you would’ve been eager to get him out of his clothes, too – but right now, your highest priority is feeling his mouth on you.

No wet dream could have prepared you for how euphoric it actually feels for his teeth to nip at the tender flesh of your inner thighs, or the way that his tongue draws lazy circles at your hole before his lips lock around your clit.

You writhe against him, chasing the release that you’ve been desperate for since the second the vapor first came in contact with your skin. He’s more than generous, expertly nursing at your swollen bud as he eases a slender finger inside your cunt.

One finger – that’s all it takes to feel your climax building, the coil in your lower belly tightening. You feel your walls pulse around the digit as your orgasm washes over you. You don’t even try to hold back your cries and praises of pleasure, letting him know how good he’s making you feel.

When he sits back, his lips and beard glisten with your slick in the red glow that encases you both. You push yourself into a sitting position and reach for the zipper of his suit, antsy to shed his clothing now that your physical discomfort had been quelled – at least for the time being.

He helps you, shrugging out of his vest and tugging his undershirt over his head. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but never shirtless for you. You want to dig your nails into the planes of his chest, and run your tongue along the protruding vein that disappears beyond the waistline of his pants –

You undo his belt buckle and pop open the button of his pants before hastily yanking both his pants and boxers down in one movement. His cock springs free, bobbing inches before your face. You start to adjust your position on the bed – to get on your knees and take him in your mouth – when a low chuckle causes you to pause and look up at him.

“Nuh-uh,” he tuts, earning a confused pout from you.

“You don’t want me to suck your dick?” You ask with raised brows.

“S’not about me right now, bub. I said I was gonna take care of you, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Now lay back down for me.”

You aren’t going to argue with that.

You return to your original position on the mattress, pulling him down with you. He hovers above you, using one arm to support himself on the bed. He takes his cock in his free hand, stroking his length a few times before nudging his head through your folds until he’s lubricated in your juices.

“Don’t you worry, though,” he murmurs against your lips. He teases his tip at your hole. “If you still wanna suck my dick when we get out of here, I'll let you.”

“Oh, you’re so thoughtfu—”

He sheaths himself inside you, turning the end of your retort into a gasp. He fills you entirely, stilling to allow both of you time to adjust to the sensation. The stretch is damn near blinding, making your eyes roll back into your skull. You glance down between your bodies, halfway expecting to see him jutting out of your stomach.

He fucks you similarly to how he kisses you – like this is saving him as much as it is you. It's rough, and fast, and messy – and you dread the moment that it’s over.

No one has ever filled you as completely and perfectly as him. You don’t think anyone else ever will, again.

Each drag of his cock along your walls has you clenching around him, each time his head rams against your cervix you can’t help but cry his name.

He snakes his hand in between you, reaching down to where his body collides with yours. His thumb massages over your sensitive clit.

You rake your nails down his back and he hisses in approval, snapping his hips into you at a brutal pace.

“Fuckin’ ruinin’ me for anyone else, princess,” he grunts before kissing you again.

You don't have time to overthink the sentiment before your second orgasm is washing over you. Logan cums as soon as he feels your pussy pulsating around him, fucking you until he's spilled every last drop of his warm seed deep inside you. When you're both finished, he stills inside you and rests his sweat-slicked forehead against yours as he catches his breath.

“You think it worked?” he grunts.

As if on cue, you hear the deadbolt unlock from the other side of the room. A second later, Storm’s voice sounds from your communication device that had fallen to the floor at some point.

“I don't feel like there’s a ticking time bomb inside my vagina anymore. So, I’d say yeah, it worked.”

He huffs a laugh, and then pulls out of you with a sigh.

“Logan,” you say, stopping him before he can pull away from you entirely. He stares down at you, waiting for you to continue.

You aren’t even sure what to say. Truthfully, you just weren’t ready for the moment to end and for things to go back to normal between the two of you.

“Thank you,” you spit out after a moment of loaded silence. “For… helping me,” you finish lamely.

“Don’t thank me, bub,” he chuckles. “It’s far from the worst thing that's happened to me in this place.”

••••••

You sleep the entire flight back to New York.

And as soon as you've showered and your head hits the pillow after returning home to the mansion, you sleep for another ten hours. Every time you wake up and think that you're finally well-rested, your body says otherwise and you're asleep again within minutes.

You wish you could say it’s a dreamless sleep, but that would be a lie. You see Logan’s face every time you close your eyes.

But it's different than the last dream you had of him. It isn’t images of his head between your thighs or his fingers slipping in and out of you.

It’s just.. him. His presence. The lingering feeling of his lips on yours, the light flavor of tobacco and menthol.

And the echo of the words he spoke as he teased you with the head of his cock and made you cum around his length.

“Don’t you worry, though. If you still wanna suck my dick when we get out of here, I’ll let you.”

“Fuckin’ ruinin’ me for anyone else, princess.”

When you wake, the ache between your thighs for him remains, despite the fact that the effects of the drugs had long since faded.

You know you shouldn’t read too far into words spoken while the two of you were locked in that room. But you can’t help but keep thinking that he wasn’t under the influence of chemical subjugation. Which leaves you questioning if he meant the things he said, or if he was just trying to lighten a scary, impossible situation for both of you.

You suppose there’s only one way to find out.

When you finally gather the courage the knock on his door, the sun has set and everyone has retired to their bedrooms for the evening.

You almost dash back into your own room during the few seconds that it takes him to open his door. He wears sweatpants, a plain black t-shirt, and a surprised expression.

“Hey, bub,” he greets you apprehensively. You don't normally make a habit of stopping by his room for late night chats. “Was starting to worry that you’d fallen into a coma.”

He opens his door wider, motioning with his head for you to come inside.

“Felt like it,” you give a small laugh. “Whatever was in that shit wore me out.” You take a seat on the edge of his bed, nervously wringing your hands together.

“You feeling better now?” he asks as he leans against his dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes trail over the large muscles of his chest and shoulders. The memory of his body caging you to the twin sized mattress in the basement of the bunker flashes through your mind.

You nod, hoping that it’s convincing.

“All things considered,” you shrug. “I just wanted to check in with you. Has Charles… said anything?”

What you're actually trying to ask is if Charles interrogated him about where the two of you were during the mission, why no one was able to contact either of you, and why you have been so exhausted that you've done nothing but sleep for the last day, but you trust that he knows what you mean.

“He hasn’t said anything, but..” he trails off, eyes darting around the room to avoid your gaze. “It’s Charles. Safe to assume he knows and is just being decent by not saying anything.”

“Right,” you murmur.

If he doesn’t already know, it's only a matter of time before you slip up and imagine the feeling of his lips on yours or the sounds of his moans in the middle of a mission debriefing.

“And the humans..? They’re all okay?”

“They are,” he assures you with a soft smile. “They’re all receiving medical attention, and most have been reunited with their loved ones.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “No thanks to us, I guess.”

“No,” he laughs. “I suppose not.”

He pushes himself off the dresser, walking the few feet to where you perch at the edge of the mattress. He sits down beside you, his thigh brushing against yours. He smells of Old Spice deodorant and spearmint toothpaste, and it makes you the room spin around you.

“But everyone’s okay. They’re safe. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. He’s close enough that you can practically feel the heat from his body. You risk looking at his face, your gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.

“Yeah,” you finally agree. “You’re right. Well, I’ll let you get some rest. I just wanted to check in with—”

You start to stand up, when he cups your jaw in his hand and pulls your face to his. He’s hesitant in a way that he wasn’t yesterday – he gives you the opportunity to pull away before he sweeps his tongue across your bottom lip, as if asking for permission.

When you don’t give any kind of indication that you want him to stop, he pulls you flush against him and slips his tongue past your lips. You bring your hand to the back of his neck, twining your fingers through his hair.

He takes his time with you. Whereas yesterday’s kisses were filled with urgency and desperation, todays is tender and sensual. Now, you’re allowed the luxury of taking your time.

He lays down against the mattress, pulling you with him. You straddle his stomach, your lips never once breaking contact. His hands grip the globes of your ass, his fingers digging into the meat through your pajama pants.

You grind against the hard planes of his abdomen, earning a throaty growl from him.

He breaks away, nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth.

“I said something I didn’t entirely mean yesterday,” he whispers, out of breath.

“What?” you ask, sitting upright and looking down at him. “You aren’t going to let me suck your dick?”

“No,” he chuckles. “God, no. I meant that. If you still want to, that is—”

“What is it, then?” you interrupt with a playful nudge to his chest.

“I said you could go back to tolerating my existence. But I hope you wanna do a little bit more than just tolerate me.”

You laugh under your breath, leaning down to press your lips to his once more.

“I could see myself doing a little bit more than just tolerating you.”

oooops i accidentally wrote another fic where logan overhears something that he wasn't supposed to 😅🫠 did not originally plan for that to happen hahaha

check out some of my other logan fics -

by the end of the night

dog tags drabble

[kamaluhkhan]

LOVE, VIOLET

pairing: vi x fem!reader word count: 12.9k summary: history might say that you and vi were only best friends, but the real story is much more complicated. (or: you and vi celebrating valentine's day warning: friends to lovers arc, lots of sapphic yearning, brief mention of homophobia and bullying....but mostly cheesy domestic fluff and sappy lesbian monologues and lots of smut [oral (r! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), thigh riding, strap usage(r! receiving), needy+possessive! vi and slightly (?) dom! reader] (18+) ! a/n: happy (belated oops) valentine's day girls and gays <33 been working on this for a while and hoped to get it out like....actually in time for love day but such is life. ANYWAYS this is set in the same universe as this x-mas themed fic (and kinda a modern au of this one?? reader has the same nickname and there's a friends to lovers arc so....). hope y'all enjoy!!!!

♪: "glue song" by beabadoobee ft. clairo (sun); "home by now" by MUNA (moon); "love is a kaleidoscope" by chappell roan (rising)

also - header image was cropped from a gifset from @arcanegifs , pls check out their beautiful work !!!

track 1: “feeling you” by cat burns

(now)

"fuck, vi," you moan as her tongue splits your folds. "we don't have time for this...."

you have to get to studio and vi has to get to work, but the combination of the hot water hitting your skin and vi’s mouth on your cunt was something you did not want to give up just yet — even if you didn't want to admit it.

"baby," vi pouts, looking up at you innocently, as if she wasn't the one who decided to push you against the tile wall and get on her knees in front of you. "it was your idea to shower together this morning.”

"well, sorry for wanting to save water," you breathe, your grip tightening on her hair when she wraps her lips around your clit. "the planet is dying."

vi pulls away from you once more, lips shining with your slick. "well, excuse me for thinking you wanted to start today with a bit of romance. if all you care about is the environment...." she gets up and reaches behind you to turn off the water. "we better get going, pretty girl."

you whine at the sudden loss of warmth and clench your thighs together at the nickname, something that does not go unnoticed by vi. she licks her lips before leaning forward to kiss you, your back pushed against the cool tile once more and the taste of yourself faint on her tongue.

hearing your alarm go off reminds you that there are other responsibilities you each have to attend to. reluctantly, the two of you dry off and make your way to your shared bedroom. you put on a fuschia boyshort / bralette combo (your favorite set because, yes, it matches your girlfriend’s hair) before slipping on some dark jeans and a heart-printed turtleneck, and moving on to your makeup. in the meantime, vi had been in the kitchen making coffee, and reemerges now with two mismatched mugs. she sets one on the desk next to you, kisses the top of your head before getting herself ready for the day. 

you swipe some eyeliner on your waterline, watching in the mirror as vi searches in the closet for something to wear, still only dressed in black briefs and a sports bra. you smile as you see the stars tattooed on her upper thigh, sparkling with every movement she makes. once she picks out an outfit, her eyes catch yours.

"what?" she asks with a lazy grin, slipping on a tight black henley.

you smile, adding some pink glitter to your eyelids. 

it’s only been two weeks since you’ve moved into this new place. there are still plenty of unpacked boxes, and you still get a bit lost navigating around the neighbourhood, but otherwise, it’s been a dream. 

you love seeing your clothes woven together in the same closet; you love waking up with her arm around your waist, doing laundry together, and coming home to vi having tried a new recipe for dinner. you love how you sometimes wear each other’s rings because you keep them all in a pile on the nightstand, how she falls asleep with her head in your lap during movie night, how her skin smells like the rose body wash you picked out together at lush. 

you love this — this home you’re starting to build. you’ve known vi for so long, but your lives are intertwined now more than ever.

"nothing," you respond, finishing with a layer of vanilla lip gloss. "want me to do your eyeliner?”

it’s a familiar position: vi sits on the edge of the bed while you straddle her hips. she leans forward and presses a kiss to your sternum before you hold her chin between your thumb and pointer finger.

“so….tomorrow’s valentines day,” vi suddenly points out, though, really, you didn’t need the reminder.

you’d spent these past few years apart and this is your first valentine’s day since the break-up. 

you both agreed — no pressure — but…..there’s definitely a bit of pressure. you’d been working on your gift for her for weeks, and you’re really hoping that she likes what you’ve planned.

“i thought it would be nice to get dinner tonight at bacchus. i called earlier this morning and got us a reservation for 7:30.”

you hum in appreciation.

vi might be taking a break from the band, but she’s still the violet lanes, the pink-haired rockstar of every lesbian’s dreams who’s written award-winning songs and sold out entire football stadiums. there are new perks of being her girlfriend this time around, like a nice apartment in new york and getting a day-of-reservation at the most expensive italian restaurant in the city. 

“valentine’s day is tomorrow,” you repeat, a playful lilt to your words. you swipe your thumb near the corner of vi’s eye where you’d smudged an otherwise sharp wing of eyeliner. “someone’s eager to get a head start.” 

with that, you snap the tube closed, press a kiss to the tattoo on vi’s cheek, and get up to gather your things for studio. you’re tucking your sketchbook into your messenger bag when you feel vi’s strong arms wrap around your middle.

“you always said i was impatient,” she teases. you can feel her smirk against the star-shaped birthmark behind your ear before pressing a gentle kiss to your skin and whispering: “can you blame me, stargirl? for wanting to get dressed all fancy and go somewhere nice and romantic with the prettiest girl in the world?” 

“of course not.” you crane your neck back until your lips practically brush against hers as you speak. “except, you’re the prettiest in the world, baby.”

a beautiful blush spreads across vi’s freckled cheeks, the way it always has whenever you comment on vi’s beauty.  

she clears her throat, still a bit flustered. “agree to disagree?”

you pretend to think about it for a second, nudging your nose against hers. “agree to disagree,” you reply, teasing her by continuing to hover above her lips, just a sliver of air between you. 

yeah, vi’s impatient — but, sometimes, you love it. like, right now, when she turns you around to face her so she can close the gap, deepening the kiss by sliding her tongue into your mouth without any preamble.

vi groans as another alarm goes off from your phone. "i will never get used to how many alarms you set."

you giggle, and pull away slightly to swipe the cancel button. vi takes the opportunity to move your shirt slightly and leave bites on your exposed collarbone. you check the time on your phone.

you can spare a little more time. it is valentine’s day, after all. 

(age 13)

“vi, your precious stargirl is on the phone for you!”

at the mention of your nickname, vi flinches, inadvertently failing to dodge a lethal attack. green goblin crashed his glider into her spiderman avatar, and the words GAME OVER fill the screen in an angry red font. 

vi groans, throwing her playstation controller on the couch before heading to the kitchen.

powder is sitting on the counter, twirling the telephone cord around her finger and yapping away before vi takes her place.

“hey.” vi clears her throat, tries to sound casual. “what’s up?”

“so, my mom promised to make something for ekko’s valentine’s class party, but she just got called in for a shift….which means i’m stuck baking 30 rainbow confetti cupcakes, and hoping i don’t give any eight year olds food poisoning. you doing anything right now?”

“oh - i’m actually, uh, busy! i have homework, and….”

and she’s busy avoiding you, ever since she heard something about you — from drea, of all people — and wondered why you wouldn’t confide in her, your supposed best friend. 

“please, vi,” you coax. vi’s heart beats a bit quicker as she pictures your bottom lip jutting out into a pout. “can you come over and help me bake? it feels like forever since we’ve actually hung out. i miss you.”

vi is certainly not god’s strongest soldier when it comes to you, so of course, she caves. rainbow confetti cake is her favorite, so that’s a bonus. she and powder throw on their coats and head next door to yours; powder and ekko keep each other company in the living room while vi joins you in the kitchen.

“hey,” she greets. 

“there you are!” your face lights up with the sweetest smile, causing the butterflies in her stomach to flap up a storm. 

gods — do you realize the effect you have on her? 

there’s already flour dusting your cheek; vi has to resist the urge to brush it away with her thumb, wanting to feel how soft your skin must be. 

she snaps out of it though, as you instruct her on what needs to be done, and the two of you work in a comfortable silence, the sounds of your siblings watching cartoons in the other room filling the space between you. at one point, probably realizing that vi isn’t in the mood for talking, you switch on the radio. vi catches you smiling at her as she hums along to freddie mercury, but you’re quick to blink away and get back to work.

you’re sifting confectioner’s sugar into room temperature butter for the icing while vi slides the first batch of cupcakes in the oven, starts prepping the second, her mind starting to wander.

you and vi are playing the leads for your final english project, where you have to reenact scenes from romeo and juliet. powder caught the two of you rehearsing last week, and spent the whole night singing that stupid playground chant. now vi can’t get it out of her head: you and her, sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G — 

“the rumor’s not true, by the way,” 

vi looks at you as she pours batter into another cupcake liner, which accidentally overflows onto the counter. 

“shit,” she groans, but you slide over to the other side of the kitchen counter to bring her a towel. 

you don’t elaborate on what you’ve just brought up as you wipe up the thick batter. vi figures you’re waiting for her to say something.

“what rumor?”

it was never vi’s instinct to play pretend with you, but frankly she had no idea what else to do without letting her emotions burst into flames and inevitably burn you.  

“vi,” you sigh. “i know you’ve heard it. the whole school has. it’s not true, though. i wasn’t kissing james.”

oh. the spark of envy in her gut simmers down. 

“did he ask you to the sweetheart dance?”

you shake your head, and the spark extinguishes completely. “even if he did….i wouldn’t want to go with him.”

“why’s that? not your type?”

you finish wiping the counter, and vi takes the now-sticky towel from you to rinse it out in the sink. as she does this, you get back to frosting duty, stirring in some pink food colouring. 

“drea saw me kissing someone with dark brown hair,” you explain. “so isabel started told her that it was james, and that’s what she’s been telling everyone. but really….it was her.”

vi blinks at you. “her?”

“yeah, her,” you smile hesitantly. 

“you were kissing isabel?”

isabel was the prettiest girl in eighth grade — though, according to vi, you’d have that ranking, and it would go way beyond the scope of your middle school. you’re the prettiest girl in the world; not that vi would ever have the courage to tell you that.  

you nod. “you’re not, like, weirded out that i like kissing girls, are you?”

“what? no, of course not! especially since….i, uh, i like kissing girls too.”

in theory. vi likes to imagine kissing girls, especially when they look like korra from the legend of korra, or shego from kim possible, or hayley kiyoko in lemonade mouth.

or….you.

vi watches intently as you — a very pretty, very real girl — swipe your finger through the fluffy pink frosting and taste it, flashing her a sugary smile. 

“good to know.”

(age 16)

when josie asked her out, vi had completely neglected the fact that dinner on friday would mean dinner on february 14th. 

which is how vi finds herself getting ready for a date with someone she met during your short-lived attempt at starting an all female fight boxing club. josie is sweet and vi felt bad cancelling on her, so like the gentleman she is, vi promised to pick her up at 7:30pm. on friday, february 14th. 

it’s 6:44pm, and vi is in your room. you helped her pick out an outfit — something nice but not too formal — and you’ve moved on to makeup, carefully applying her eyeliner. 

vi tries not to stare at your lips — which are slightly red from the cinnamon hearts you’ve been eating — so she keeps squirming, and you keep gently guiding her chin towards you. her eyes wander to your decorated walls, filled with posters and photos and other things you’ve collected throughout the years. she’s featured in quite a few, and she catches a glimpse of an old valentine card she’d given you in elementary school.

“it’s weird that we won’t be spending valentine’s day together,” you comment as though reading her mind. 

you’d never spend the holiday as anything other than friends, but it does still feel strange, not spending it with someone she knows for sure she loves. 

(again — like a friend loves a friend.)

“yeah, definitely,” vi agrees. “do you have anything planned for tonight?”

“huge plans, actually.” you pop another cinnamon heart in your mouth. “i’ve got a super romantic date with the prettiest girl in the world.”

vi tilts her head in confusion — did you mention this to her? — which causes you to shake your head with a lighthearted laugh and guide her towards you once more.

“really? with who?”

you roll your eyes. “i’m kidding!” 

“oh.”

“it’s cute how gullible you are,” you whistle. by now, you’re done with her eyes and move on to dusting her cheeks with some sort of shimmery powder. “i’m probably just gonna put on a rom-com and finish — well, start — writing my english essay on romantic literature. lowercase ‘r,’ because ms. chavez was feeling festive. i’m leaning more modernist, but that’s only because i want to write about virginia woolf.”

it’s inching towards when vi should leave, but vi doesn’t care what time it is — she’d listen to you talk forever if she could.

“what’s it about?”

you pull away to examine vi’s makeup one last time.

“the movie, or my essay?” you nod once in approval and give the compact you’re holding to vi so she can take a look. “you look beautiful, by the way.”

vi watches her reflection blush, almost enhanced by the makeup you put on her. 

“thanks, stargirl.” vi clears her throat and decides to get back to your original conversation. “the movie and your essay, i guess.”

you offer vi a cinnamon heart, which she accepts, the candy burning sweet on her tongue. you then reach into your backpack, for the ring pop that vi had left in your locker this morning, just before you handed her a box of rainbow confetti cupcakes. you slip the candied jewellery onto your right ring finger before answering.

“i want to analyse the letters between virginia woolf and this other writer — vita sackville-west. they’re essentially love letters, but, you know.” you give an exaggerated shrug. “history says they were only best friends. at least, according to ms. chavez’s interpretations, along with most of the class.”

vi chuckles. “thankfully, you’re here to prove them all wrong.”

“exactly.” you nudge your shoulder against vi’s, the feeling of your body familiar next to hers. “and, for the movie, i’m thinking when harry met sally, which i remember watching with you for the first time.” 

vi definitely remembers watching that with you, too. the whole question of whether or not men and women can be friends without romance getting in the way brought up another, much more relevant question in vi’s mind: can two sapphic women be friends without any complicated feelings?

it’s definitely possible.

“so….you excited for this date?”

vi shrugs. “yeah.”

“wow. i totally believe that,” you say, words dripping with sarcasm. 

“it’s just….it’s valentine’s day,” vi whispers. she starts fiddling with one of her rings — you’d gotten it for her last valentine’s day, a silver thumb ring with a star in the middle. “what if she wants to kiss me tonight?”

“well, you kiss her back, if that’s what you want.” 

“that’s what i want,” she responds, way too quickly to be true. “it’s just — i’m not sure i’ll be any good.”

“you’ll be fine,” you assure. 

“but — i mean, i’ve never…..”

“oh.” your eyes widen and your lips part in shock, the blue-raspberry of the ring pop turning them from red to purple that’s intoxicatingly close to violet. “oh.”

“what! it’s not, like the end of the world.”

“of course not! it’s just — you’ve gone out with a bunch of girls, so i just figured….”

vi shakes her head, her cheeks heating up. “guess i never found the right one. i know it’s cliche, but i kinda wanted my first kiss to be —” 

“special?” you guess, and vi nods.

“and now, there’s all this pressure, i’m worried that i won’t be good.”

you clear your throat. “right. well, if it helps relieve the pressure….i could show you….how.”

“show me?”

“well — i mean, like teach you, i guess. plus, then i can let you know whether you’re, like, a good kisser or not.”

that’s how you find yourself practically in vi’s lap, slotting your lips between hers. it started off with a quick peck, but clearly, you’ve both decided that this lesson requires a bit more. 

every single one of vi’s senses is heightened: the stickiness of your glossed lips, the sugar on your tongue, the giggles rumbling through you and bouncing down vi’s throat. time seems to slow down — no, freeze entirely — which is a stark contrast to the burning in her lungs.

needing air, vi pulls away. 

“h-how was that?” she breathes, her words warming your mouth. 

“good.” you smile, almost shy. you’re so close together that vi can feel your heart pounding against your ribcage. “maybe….a bit gentler this time.”

“gentler?”

“slower,” you suggest. 

so, you kiss again. gentler, this time.

“your lips are a bit chapped,” is your next note. you reach for the tube of lip gloss in your pocket. “can i?”

“go ahead, stargirl,” vi whispers. “you’re the expert.”

you paint a layer of sticky vanilla glitter onto vi’s lips.

“there,” you sit back after swiping your thumb underneath vi’s bottom lip. 

vi blinks at you. her lips feel like they’re coated in honey. “how do i look?”

“really pretty,” you reply, with a small smile. you sigh, glancing at the scooby-doo alarm clock on your nightstand, the one you’ve had since you were six years old. “you better go. have a good time with josie, okay?”

“okay.” vi gets up and grabs her jacket, tugs on her shoes. “and, thanks again for, well, you know.”

you shrug. “that’s what best friends are for. happy valentine’s, vi.”

vi hesitates just as she’s about to climb out your window. “look, stargirl, i don’t have to – i mean, i’m perfectly happy canceling my, uh, date, and just hanging out with you.”

“you’re sweet, vi, but i’ll be fine. go — have fun.” you walk closer to her so you can slip your tube of lipgloss into vi’s button down shirt pocket. you pat her chest affectionately. “and remember to be gentle, yeah?” 

later, when she’s making out with josie in the backseat of her dad’s car, vi tries not to think about your soft voice guiding her through the movements, or the dizzying taste of your lips — cinnamon hearts and sour candy and sweet, sweet vanilla.

history might say that you and vi are only best friends, but the real story is much more complicated.

___

[image: a cartoon scooby-doo, holding a bouquet of hearts. the message reads: BE MY VALENTINE!]

to: stargirl <3

from: vi

___

track 2: “you’re my best friend” by queen 

(age 7)

“mom?”

“yeah, kiddo?”

“can you be in love with your best friend?”

her mom, felicia, smiles knowingly, the question hanging in the air until the end of song. it’s part of an old mixtape that felicia plays sometimes, mostly glam rock like queen and david bowie. she put it on this afternoon while her and vi get ready for the valentine’s class party tomorrow. vi scribbles names on cards while her mom fills clear heart-printed bags with candy. powder’s fallen asleep on her lap. 

“definitely,” felicia finally answers, reaching over to tap vi’s nose playfully. “love, violet, can be a million different things. that’s the fun part.” 

felicia pinches vi’s cheek affectionately. vi frowns, thinking about this whole love thing. 

love is definitely not the next classmate whose name she’s writing — drea, who always cheats during sports and teases vi for being a tomboy. she’s tempted to just leave her out, but the policy of ms. julie’s second grade class is that everyone needs to get a valentine. so, that’s not love, either. 

instead, vi thinks of her family — her mom, vander, powder, and even ekko; movie nights and lively dinners and warm hugs. she thinks of her friends — mylo and claggor; laughter and skinned knees and running so fast it feels like flying. 

when she thinks of you, though, her heart beats differently.

vi thinks about how you always carry around a spiderman bandaid because she always scrapes herself during recess, and the nurse only carries plain, boring bandages. she thinks about how you ‘accidentally’ spill paint on drea’s art project after she calls vi mean names.

she thinks about how you doodle on her arms during math or braid her hair as you watch cartoons and eat sugary cereal on saturday mornings. 

she thinks about the star-shaped birthmark behind your ear, the perpetual marker stains on your hands, the dimple on your cheek.

you’re her best friend, and your smile alone wakes up a million butterflies in her stomach.

vi’s mom suggested spiderman valentine’s cards, but vi wanted to pick out something that you’d like; vi knows that scooby-doo is your favorite show, so that’s what she went with. she adds a ring pop to your bag of candy, because she knows they’re your favorite candy. she adds a little heart by your nickname, too.  

the next day, everyone is decorating their shoeboxes, transforming them into mailboxes before exchanging valentines. vi’s hands are sticky with glitter glue when you walk over — ms. julie said that you and vi distracted each other, so she assigned you to desks on opposite sides of the room. 

“happy valentine’s day, vi,” you say, sliding a card into her mailbox and smiling ear to ear before moving on to the next person. vi eagerly reaches in for the valentine. 

it’s spiderman-themed, and there’s a heart next to her name. 

(now) 

when you walk through the door, you’re engulfed in the scent of warm garlic bread and sweet, ripe tomatoes. the restaurant is bustling with waiters delivering colourful dishes, everyone wearing crisp suits and silk dresses. someone’s playing piano, soft music dancing throughout the room, and the overhead lights are dimmed, with each table illuminated by a candle in the centre.

the maître d' greets you with a welcoming smile and settles you into a table. once they’re gone, vi reaches across the table for your hand. 

“you look beautiful, stargirl.”

vi’s skin is always warm, but the cool metal of her thumb ring sends a shiver through you as she brushes over your knuckles. the flame between you flickers, darkening vi’s powder blue eyes as she gazes at you lovingly.

“you let me borrow your clothes,” you point out. “i’m wearing one of your suits.”

“what can i say….” vi winks, releasing your hand so she can open the menu in front of her. “i have good taste. looks better on you, anyways.”

“were you always this much of a flirt?” you tease.

vi smirks. “like a fine wine, i just get better with age.”

“you are so corny,” you say with a slight laugh.

“well, some people do think my love songs are cheesy.”

“even the ones written about me?”

vi looks up from her menu, one eyebrow raised. “baby, they’re all about you.”

your cheeks heat up at vi’s confession, and you take a sip from your glass, ice water trickling down your throat, in hopes of steadying your heartbeat.

a waiter comes by; you each order pasta dishes and vi orders a bottle of wine for the table. the wine arrives quickly, but given how busy the restaurant is, you anticipate the food will take longer. 

you fill the time easily, catching each other up on the details of your lives since this morning. you start by telling her how hectic your art studio has been as you prepare for your big spring exhibition, but how excited everyone is. you’re especially excited since you get to explore different mediums along the way; these past few weeks, you’ve been learning how to use a pottery wheel. you went through the final step of the process today — glazing — and you’re happy at the end product. 

“i don’t think i’m gonna include it in my exhibit, though,” you conclude. 

“well, it’d be nice to have some of your art on display all the time.” vi smiles. “you should bring whatever you made home.” 

“that’s the idea,” you muse, a twinkle in your eyes as you take a sip of wine. “how was your day?”

vi started teaching guitar at the local community centre. some adults take lessons, but it’s mostly little kids with too much energy and too little patience. still, no matter how chaotic it can be, it’s clear that vi has been loving her job.

“i swear, this one girl, marceline, is a budding rockstar. i taught her a jimi hendrix song and she picked it up —” vi snaps her fingers, smiling proudly. “like that. such a talented kid.”

“you would know, pretty girl,” you praise.

your waiter arrives to bring plates full of pasta. you and vi thank them, your stomach grumbling at the delicious smell, a reminder that you had barely eaten all day. you’re so ready to dig into some quality fettuccine alfredo.

you and vi eat in a comfortable silence, until you hear an unfortunately familiar voice grate at your ears:

“oh my god, it is you! i saw you from the other side of the restaurant and just had to come over and say hi!”

you don’t need to glance to know who it is, but you do anyways, and so does vi. your stomach drops as you watch her bite back a scoff before turning back to her food.

“hi, drea,” vi clips before taking a big gulp of wine. she continues eating, barely sparing the woman another glance.

drea continues to hover. she’s wearing dark lipstick, her black hair cut into a classic bisexual bob, and her amber eyes silently pleading at you to break the ice. 

“hey, drea,” you greet with a stiff smile, and drea relaxes her shoulders at your veil of friendliness.

“nice earrings,” she winks, reaching over to tap the dangling purple gem. “thought you might have gotten rid of them after we broke up.”

vi chokes on a sip of wine. “broke up?” vi coughs, reaches for her water glass. “since when did you two date?”

you open your mouth to respond, but drea beats you to it, clearly too focused on being the centre of attention.

“maybe like a year or so ago.” drea turns to you. “right, starlight?”

vi’s jaw clenches, and she drops her fork, metal clattering against the plate.

“starlight?”

“yeah, because of the star-shaped birthmark behind her —”

“i know,” vi snaps. her eyes are locked on you, and slightly glazed over. “you never told me you dated drea.”

“i-it was only 3 months,” you stutter.

“that hurts,” drea groans, clutching her heart. she always did have a flair for the dramatic. “it was 4 months, babe.”

“you dated for 4 months, and i’m just hearing about it now?” vi seethes, trying to keep her voice low. the tables around you have already taken note that something is happening, though, their conversations hushing down to an idle whisper. “did you somehow forget how much of an asshole she was in high school?”

“um, i’m right here?” drea chides, still not taking the hint that neither of you are interested in a happy reunion.

“we need a minute,” you and vi say simultaneously. drea rolls her eyes and mutters something you don’t care to hear; you’re too concerned with explaining yourself to vi, whose cheeks are burning with a deep shade of red. whether it’s jealousy, anger, or embarrassment, you’re not quite sure.

“vi, just let me —” 

you reach out for her hand, but as soon as you make contact, vi pulls away abruptly.

“i…i need….to not be here right now,” vi mutters. the last thing she wants is to make headlines tomorrow morning — violet lanes, caught having argument with girlfriend at upscale restaurant during on valentine’s eve. flip to page 6 for the full story! — so, she gets up and slips on her jacket. 

“please, baby, let’s talk about this —”

“order dessert, if you want. don’t rush home.”

her voice cracks at that last word before she storms out the door, leaving you with two unfinished meals and stomach heavy with regret. 

___

[image: notebook opened to a page filled with chaotic, scribbled writing]

FOR STARGIRL (FINAL DRAFT!!! COME UP WITH TITLE LATER!??!!)

i’m stuck on you, baby

you taught me what love is

sugary sweet kisses,

frosting on your lips;

first tattoos,

promises on our skin

i’m stuck on you, baby

have been since we were kids

you’re not just the sun or the moon

you’re all my stars

know that i’ll love you

wherever we are

___

track 3: “true romantic” by indigo girls

(age 18)

the auditorium is decorated with red and pink streamers, heart garlands and bouquets of roses. a red spotlight shines on the stage, painting each performer with a pink hue. there are small tables and chairs arranged to make the space feel more like a parisian cafe, instead of where drama club rehearses for the spring musical.

you’re sitting at one of the tables, inhaling all the free coffee and pastries you possibly can and chatting with viktor and jayce, like you’ve done for the past three years at your highschool’s annual valentine’s day coffeehouse. 

the first time vi performed, during your freshman year, she was all nerves, her fingers fumbling at chords and voice trembling through the lyrics of a joan jett song she had played for you perfectly that morning. when her eyes landed on yours in the crowd, you gave her a thumbs-up — you’d been just friends at the time, after all — and vi seemed to warm up, finishing to enthusiastic applause. 

now, vi walks on with confidence right away, electric guitar the same pink as her hair, with a constellation of stars scribbled on its body with black sharpie. she’s grown out her hair, still keeping it shorter on one side to display her growing collection of piercings. the newest addition is a silver loop in her nostril, which glints underneath the spotlight as she leans closer to the mic. she’s wearing lowrise jeans and showcasing a sliver of her hips; you can’t help but think about what’s hidden just a bit lower, the stars sparkling along her upper thigh, etched into her skin at the same time you got violets blooming between your ribs. 

“hey everyone. most of you know me as the captain of our hockey team —”

beside you, jayce whistles and there’s a scattering of applause for the team, who just made it to nationals. vi landed an athletic scholarship, too, to play at university of piltover. even though you have a hard time picturing your girlfriend as an enforcer, you’re so proud of her. plus, it’s only a twenty minute drive from zaun university, where you’ve decided to go so you could be close to your family.

“but, i’ve been writing songs, too,” vi continues. “i realized that i’ve gotten up here every year to sing someone else’s love song to a girl i’ve had a crush on since before i even knew what a crush was. but this is a song i’ve been writing, for and about her, for years. and now that we’re actually dating….well, i wanted to do something special for our first valentine’s day. ” vi looks at you with a toothy grin, and you blow her a kiss. “wait, actually, can we get a spotlight on my girlfriend? right there?”

vi gestures in your general direction, and suddenly you feel the heat of the spotlight and 50 pairs of eyes on you. your cheeks flush at the attention, but you play along and wave nonetheless.

“there she is,” vi gushes. “my beautiful stargirl. i wrote this song —”

“oh my god, we came here for music, not your sappy lesbian monologue!” drea, current goalie of  zaun high’s hockey team and perpetual pain in vi’s ass, groans. “hurry up and play the song already!”

one of the teachers hushes the bubbling laughter, and it dies down just as quickly as it emerged.

vi rolls her eyes. “as i was saying, i wrote this song-slash-sappy-lesbian-monologue for you, stargirl. i hope you like it. happy valentine’s day.”

you don’t know what makes your heart soar more — the sweet lyrics falling from the lips of the girl you love, or the girl herself. 

later, vi is falling asleep in the middle of chemistry class when she hears a light clink against the window. she glances outside and sees you waving at her, smile as bright as a shooting star. you have paint stains on your jeans that weren’t there earlier and you’re gesturing at her to follow you. vi just shrugs and nods her chin towards the front of the class. 

your bottom lip juts out into a pout, and you curve your hands into a heart before disconnecting them. vi snorts at your antics. 

“ms. lanes, are my slides on organic compounds amusing to you?” 

“uh, no mr. michaels. of course not.” vi clears her throat, whips her head back towards the smartboard. “may i, uh, go to the bathroom?”

vi checks her phone as soon as she closes the door behind her. 

stargirl

hurry UP!!!

dyke spiderman <3

easy romeo

i’m omw

where should i meet u???

stargirl

our spot

“wait!” you call as soon as vi reaches the bottom of the staircase and starts to turn the corner. “close your eyes!”

“how’d you know it was me?” vi laughs, but does as she’s told nonetheless.

“the axe body spray is a pretty dead giveaway,” you deadpan. 

“hey, i stopped using that in middle school. can i look now?”

you ask her to wait one more time. vi feels you shift behind her, wrap your arms around her waist. on instinct, vi reaches a hand down and laces her fingers through yours, your skin slick and cold. 

“okay,” you whisper, your breath hot against her ear. “open your eyes.”

and when she does, vi is glad that you’re holding her, because she’s suddenly weak in the knees at what’s gracing the wall before her: a small mural reminiscent of klimt’s famous painting, ‘the kiss’. except — it’s the two of you, surrounded by stars and violets.

“happy valentine’s day, vi.” 

you untangle yourself from her, but vi doesn’t let go of your hand, even when she realizes it’s wet with fresh paint. 

“you….you did this?”

“yeah.”

“wow….it’s amazing. beautiful.”

vi squeezes your hand, still in awe at how you beautifully swirled together each color, the loving expressions you managed to portray with each delicate stroke of your paintbrush. 

“i’m glad you like it.”

“like it? i love….” she turns to you. “i love it. you didn’t have to do all this though, it must have taken you forever.”

“you’re worth it,” you muse. “like you said — it’s our first valentine’s day. as a couple at least. i wanted to do something special. i made us a playlist, too.”  

so, even though it means she’s skipping chem and you’re skipping history, the two of you curl underneath the staircase, a pair of earbuds split between you. 

“i’m gonna miss seeing you every day after we graduate.”

vi hums in agreement. she gently lifts your head from her shoulder, holding your chin between her thumb and pointer finger. “you know i’ll love you wherever we are, right?”

“i know, i heard you early on stage,” you swoon, settling back against her shoulder. “seemed a bit dramatic for only being, like, 20 minutes away from each other. though, i guess that is the farthest apart we’ve ever been.”

vi takes a deep breath, as your fingers dance along the doodles decorating her skin, the ones you had drawn on in sharpie during calculus. “except…. it might be further than that, depending on how things go.”

your pointer finger pauses halfway through an outline of a heart. “what do you mean?”

“i’m, uh….i don’t want to go to university of piltover. actually, i don’t want to go to college at all. i turned down the scholarship; made the official decision two weeks ago after the big game.”

“you did what?”

“i wanna move to l.a. or london, pursue this whole music thing. i think it could really take me places.” 

“right,” you clip.“and why are you just bringing this up now? have you told vander? have you talked to anyone before making a huge, life-changing decision?”

you continue shaking your head in disbelief as you gather your backpack and turn the corner, emerging from underneath the staircase; vi follows you. 

“no, but it’s my life — and i know what i want.”

“and it’s always about what you want, right?” you scoff.

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it’s just — did you ever think about your family in all this? how powder might feel having her sister so far away just as she’s starting high school?”

“i’ve spent the past 13 years of my life worrying about powder, taking care of her especially after our mom died,” vi reasons, trying to keep her voice steady. “i need a break. my dreams are bigger than this town.”

“do you…” you trail off, hesitant to even speak the words aloud, but the coil in your gut tells you it’s unavoidable. “do you need a break from us?” 

“stargirl.” vi whispers your nickname like a promise itching to be broken. “i thought you’d love having a rockstar girlfriend,” she teases, trying to lighten the mood.

“don’t,” you grumble, brows furrowed. “if you wanted to make things work between us, you would have at least talked to me about this.”

“i am talking to you,” vi counters. she grabs her hands in yours. you pull away.

“but, you spent these past two weeks listening to me imagine our future together, while you had already made other plans. what does that say about our actual future?”

before vi can respond, someone clears their throat from the top of the staircase. your principal, looking down on you with an expression that can only be described as disinterested, addressing you by your last names. 

“pro tip,” she continues. “if you want to skip class and have a lover’s quarrel, make sure it’s not somewhere that carries sound directly to the office.”

you and vi get assigned detention that afternoon. you’re told to sit on opposite sides of the room, but that doesn’t stop vi from throwing a crumpled ball of paper your way. 

glancing over at your girlfriend, you have to admit that you find yourself melting at those puppy dog eyes of hers, pleading and so full of love as she waits for you to respond to her message.

even though the future feels uncertain, you scribble something back, then toss the paper towards her desk discreetly. it lands on the floor. vi unfolds it and smiles as she reads the note, cheeks tinted a light rose.

___

[image: a crumpled ball of paper. unfold it, and it reads….]

(in hot pink gel pen)

I WANT TO MAKE THINGS WORK BETWEEN US

I LOVE YOU

(in black sharpie)

I LOVE YOU TOO

OF COURSE WE’LL MAKE IT WORK

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A ROCK STAR GF, BTW

BUT ONLY IF SHE’S AS HOT AS YOU

___

track 4: “home by now” by MUNA 

(age 21)

“wait, hold on — what does that sign say?”

violet lanes, will you be my valentine?

“i’m flattered,” vi chuckles. “but, sorry ladies — i’m a happily taken woman. i’ve got a pretty girl waiting for me in the crowd.” 

“and, lemme just say, it’s a good thing we’ve all got separate hotel rooms this time,” caitlyn groans. 

vi rolls her eyes. “anyways. this is a very special night because it’s the first time my girlfriend is watching us perform live! she’s over there, looking as beautiful as ever. everyone, say hi!”

the spotlight shines on you, and you giggle shyly. the necklace she’d given you this morning practically glows between your collarbones, illuminates your skin with a violet hue. 

“isn’t she the cutest?” vi gushes. “the first time i performed this next song was to celebrate our first valentine’s day as a couple. and — fun little easter egg — when we released this as a single, the cover was a painting she had made for me on that same day. she’s just so talented, kicking ass at this fancy art program….she’s basically the frida kahlo to my joan jett…..and i’m just rambling, now, sorry guys. i could probably talk about my girl all day.” 

“oh, and she does,” maddie grumbles. 

“the fans love sappy-lesbian-monologues, don’t they?” the crowd roars, and vi flashes maddie a winning smirk. “so, yeah, i love my girlfriend every day, of course, but today it’s with roses and ring pops and those cheesy cards kids hand out to each other in elementary school. happy valentine’s day, stargirl. this one’s called — stuck on you.” 

when the show’s over, and the band’s played not one, but two encores, you’re flinging your arms around vi’s neck before she even has the chance to put down her guitar. she’s all sweaty, white tank top sticking to her torso. her ears are still ringing and her throat a bit sore, but all vi cares about is the feelings of your soft lips kissing across her cheeks. 

“you’re so fucking amazing,” you gush, pecking her lips delicately. “i mean, i’ve seen you play before, but never like this! vi, you’re….wow. electric, fucking radiant. you must be exhausted, though, ahh —”

vi kisses you, sweaty and breathless, until she’s practically sucked all the air from your lungs.

“not at all,” she replies with a cocky grin. “we’ve got all night and i’m not planning on getting any sleep.”

“ugh, gross. get a room,” caitlyn scoffs, playful but with a bit of an edge. 

“oh, we will,” you reply coolly. maybe you’re a bit jealous with how seamlessly caitlyn fits into vi’s new life, how much she’s able to see your girlfriend much more than you’re able to. she hasn’t been particularly friendly since you’ve gotten here, and she’s been a bit too touchy with vi in the tabloids lately. “i’m guessing you don’t have any valentine’s plans?”

caitlyn narrows her eyes at you.

vi laughs, probably about to make a lighthearted comment to diffuse the tension between you and caitlyn, but she’s called aside by their manager for a quick chat before she gets the chance. 

“i’ll be right back. cait, stargirl — play nice,” she advises, like you’re children fighting on the playground. 

once she’s gone, caitlyn’s frown turns into a smirk. 

“stargirl, huh? guess that explains her thigh tattoo. i didn’t think vi was that sentimental, though, so it must have been at your request.” 

you straighten your back, trying to mirror caitlyn’s combative confidence. “i think i know her better than you.”

“maybe before, when you were kids growing up in that nothing town. things change, darling. people change — who they are and what they want. if i were you, i’d accept that sooner rather than later,” caitlyn snarks as she finally walks away, bumping your shoulder just as vi returns to the pair of you.  

you don’t quite have the time to register the interaction, not with vi intertwining her fingers with yours and tugging you towards her body. 

“let’s get out of here, yeah?” she brushes some hair behind your ear. “we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

and, there was so much time to make up for — the days that have turned into weeks, turned into months, turned into years since you’d last seen each other in person, sometimes only speaking to each other once every month, for only two minutes at a time. 

you’d gotten so used to being apart that being together feels like a dream.

vi’s warm body presses against yours, barely making it to the bed. you just couldn’t resist pushing her against the door of the hotel room as soon as you were inside, lodging your thigh between her legs. 

“i, uh, i have a surprise for you,” vi breathes, groaning as you hum and start to suck bruises down her neck. 

“yeah? what is it, pretty girl?”

blushing and slightly flustered at the nickname, vi removes her shirt and sits back on the bed, gesturing at you to follow her. you hover on top of her and take in her naked form. 

“you…got your nipples pierced.”

vi grins. 

“can i touch them?” 

she nods enthusiastically. you brush your thumb over one and she shivers, causing you to pull away.

“no, it’s okay,” she assures, guiding your hand back towards her. “feels good.”

you start kissing her again. “you’re so fucking beautiful.” until you reach her chest. “can i?”

vi blinks up at you, eyes glazed over with honeyed want. “please. f-fuck,” vi moans when you latch your mouth to her nipple, rolling the cold, silver piercing along your tongue.

“you’re so sensitive,” you coo. you release her nipple with a pop, a string of saliva still connecting it to your wet lips. your fingers slip underneath vi’s underwear, gliding through her soft curls and down into her sticky heat. “so wet. you really missed me, yeah?”

“course i did, stargirl,” vi lets out a shaky laugh. “i want to show you just how much.”

you pout, and vi has the urge to capture that beautiful bottom lip of yours between her teeth. “but i wanted to show you how much i missed you.”

“well, like i said — we have all night.”

three orgasms later, and you’re nearing the point of exhaustion, but you’re determined to keep going, if anything because of how full you feel with vi’s fingers fucking into you at a truly impressive pace. the pads of her fingers are rougher than before, calluses from playing guitar so often, but she still knows exactly how to curl and curve them in every way that makes you unravel. her lips are shining with your cum, and you still taste her sweetness on your tongue. 

she grinds her bare cunt against the soft skin of your thigh as she brings you closer and closer to your peak while desperately chasing hers. 

“you close, pretty girl? gonna cum for me again?”

vi whines, nods eagerly. “i’m so fucking close. fuck — i don’t know what i’d do without you.” 

you groan when vi starts sucking at your pulsepoint, running her tongue over the chain of your new necklace. you reach a hand up to tug at her hair, gently coaxing her to look at you.

“don’t worry about that,” you promise. vi takes a deep breath as though inhaling your words and buries her face in the crook of your neck, butterfly lashes fluttering closed and tickling the skin behind your ear. “you’re being so good for me, so messy.”

“s-sorry,” vi sniffles, blood rushing to her cheeks. her body stills while she moves to meet your gaze, her puppy dog eyes shining with desire and desperation. 

you shake your head and dig your fingers into the plush of her hips, urging her to keep going.

“i love it,” you clarify, prompting vi’s face to brighten, her smile pure sunlight and sugar. 

you run your thumb over the scar on her lip that stretches with such familiarity, before crashing your lips against hers. vi welcomes your slick tongue into her mouth, swirling around every crevice until your tastes combine into one. the knot in your abdomen tightens and you, somewhat reluctantly, pull away to admire your girlfriend.

“i love how gorgeous you look on top of me, fucking me while using my body to get yourself off,” you continue, words flowing from your mouth like thick, sickly-sweet nectar. “i want you to cum with me one more time, yeah?”

vi whimpers into the crook of your neck, the vibrations intensifying the waves of pleasure crashing throughout your body. it doesn’t take long for vi to feel you clench around her fingers, and for you to feel her gush against your skin, staining the bedspread beneath your entangled bodies.

vi pulls away her fingers — you whimper this time at the sudden emptiness — but she places the softest kiss on your lips as an apology before adjusting to lay down on her side. she nestles into the curve between your neck and shoulder. her teeth graze your pulsepoint as you run your hand through her damp hair.

you should probably take a shower — the two of you drenched in each other’s sweat and saliva and cum — but all you want to do is to melt against her. maybe if you stay in bed, then time will slow down. 

“i wish you could stay longer.” 

“me too,” you whisper, idly tracing your fingers down her body. 

“you know, the art scene in this city is amazing,” she mumbles. “lot of galleries where you could show your work. nice, big apartments where you could have your own private studio space. you could move here after graduation.”

you laugh. “maybe in another life, where i could afford a place in new york. plus, at this point, i think it’d be best for me to move home after i graduate. but, hypothetically speaking — yeah, that would be cool.”

“well, hypothetically speaking, you would share rent with the pink-haired butch of your dreams.”

“you mean the one whose cum is drying on my thigh right now?”

“the very same,” vi nods with a cheeky grin. she throw her arm around your waist, pulling you in closer. 

you nudge your nose against hers. “paint me a picture — what does this dream life with my dream girl look like?”

“well, we get a place in an artsy neighbourhood, obviously, surrounded by a strong, welcoming community of queer artists, who are all quirky and colorful in their own way.”

“we’d actually be friends with our neighbours — host dinner parties and have movie nights and dance all night at gay bars. our apartment would have an open-floor plan, and we’d have big windows that give us a ton of light and a great view.”

“a beautiful kitchen, too. one that’s a little outdated, but we prefer the term charming,” vi adds. “and there are always fresh flowers on the counter, in a gorgeous vase.”

“we thrifted most of our stuff, so the furniture is all mismatched furniture and in every color of the rainbow —”

“but it works.”

“it works,” you echo, heart glowing. “we adopt a dog, too.” 

“and, the dog’s name?”

you think for a second. “scooby.”

“of course,” vi agrees, her smile suddenly sad. “sounds like a nice life we’d have together.”

“yeah. it does.”

you swallow down those dreams with a bitter dose of reality. you’ll be on a plane tomorrow, heading back to your childhood home, while vi continues travelling the world, performing to sold-out stadiums. 

i don’t know what i’d do without you.

the sad truth is that vi does know what to do without you, and you know what to do without her. that’s what this relationship has become: together, in theory, but growing into your adult selves and towards lives that don’t necessarily include the other. 

the vi beside you, hair a mess and eyeliner smudged, looks the same, give or take a few new tattoos and piercing. but, you wonder about all the little ways she’s changed that you might not ever have the chance to appreciate, about all the details of her day that you’ll never get to hear about. 

you wonder if, possibly, caitlyn is right. you know that people change — who they are, what they want. you want to believe that you and vi are the exception, that no matter how much you changed, you’d always be together. always. 

you then remember something else that caitlyn had said, and abruptly stop tracing designs onto vi’s skin, your eyes lingering on the stars on her upper thigh. vi must notice how you stiffen, because she cups your cheek, prompting you to meet her gaze.

“hey — are you okay?”

“i just — don’t take this the wrong way —  but….has anything ever happened between you and cait?”

vi freezes. “why….why would you ask that?”

“o-oh, it’s just….she mentioned something about your star tattoo and, i, uh, i don’t know. seems like the type of thing she’d only know if the two of you had —”

vi shuffles away from you beneath the sheets and sits up. “you think i’d cheat on you?”

“you aren’t answering the question,” you notice, watching carefully as a nervous blush blooms across her freckled cheeks. “did anything happen between you and caitlyn?”

“why does it matter? why are you asking?”

“i’m starting to think i have a good reason to.” you get out of bed in a huff and slip on her oversized graphic tee, starting to pace back and forth.

“i — look, i was going to tell you, at some point — we, uh….well, nothing actually happened.”

“well? what didn’t actually happen?”

“baby, just let me explain —” vi catches your arm to stop you. “we were both drunk and high and sharing a cigarette by the pool and….she….we….almost kissed.”

you scoff. “so that’s what this weekend was all about — you felt guilty, so you put on this heart-eyed romantic act to make yourself feel better. everything — this last minute trip, the shoutout at your concert, the fucking necklace you got me — was all because you felt guilty.”

“maybe that’s part of it,” vi admits. “but, mostly, i wanted to see you. i miss you.”

you don’t confess to missing her, too. instead, you say:

“maybe we don’t know each other as well as we used to. maybe….things are changing a bit too much.”

“what does that even — where is this going?” vi drops your arm like its a hot coal, red-hot and blistering. “do you wanna break up?”

the tension hangs in the air, a cloud of smoke and darkness between you and the girl you’ve always loved.

“do you?”

you get on a plane the next morning, bone-tired and heart-heavy with deja vu. 

you kiss each other goodbye, promise that you’ll make things work.

you don’t. can’t. 

a few months later, you’ll break up. 

___

[image: postcard reading GREETINGS FROM PARIS! messy handwriting and misspelled words on the other side]

stargirl,

i promised powder id send her a postcard from paris but im really really drunk rn and urs is the only address i can rememer 

they say this is the city of love and it’s the most romantic day of the yer but it means nothing without u. i miss u.

that mesage was 4 u not powder. just tell her i say hi.

xxx

vi

p.s. i know were not together anymore, but i still love u.

___

track 5: “i’ve loved you for so long” by the aces

(now)

“vi?” 

all the lights in the apartment are off, the only sign that vi is home being her discarded doc martens strewn by the door. there’s a chill in the air, too — the window to the fire escape is open, so you head outside.

the string lights twisted around the railing flicker like fallen stars, and the city sparkles in the late winter night. vi perches over the edge, her silk shirt unbuttoned at the top, her dark lipstick faded, and a cigarette smouldering between her ringed fingers. 

“i stopped at magnolia’s on my way home – got us a slice of confetti cake for dessert,” you try, keeping your voice light in hopes of avoiding a fight. you hoped that the sweet treat would be a welcomed peace offering; that maybe you could sit down in your shared kitchen and actually talk through the conflict like the well-adjusted adults you’re trying to be. 

instead, time collapses into itself; you’re both teenagers again, keeping secrets from each other in hopes to ease future pain, and you have a feeling you’re about to bicker like an old married couple, fall back into familiar patterns.

“sure you wouldn’t want to share it with drea, instead starlight?”

you don’t take the bait; you know vi wants to push your buttons, and you know that she knows exactly how. 

“didn’t realize you still smoked,” you say, moving to lean against the railing next to her. 

“whenever i get stressed.” she takes a drag to prove her point, exhaling smoke into the ink-black sky. “guess we don’t know each other as well as we used to.” 

“vi, please,” you sigh. “can we actually talk about this without you lashing out like a wounded dog?”

and, it’s true — vi’s instinct when she’s upset has always been rushing to sink her teeth into something to protect herself from more harm, or gnawing on old wounds until fresh blood emerges.

“what’s there to talk about?” she snarls, tapping her cigarette, ash falling down into the abyss below you. “how you lied about dating drea?”

“i didn’t lie,” you huff. the winter night shivers down to your bones, but you cross your arms over your chest to keep yourself steady. “i just didn’t tell you that i’d gone out with her, specifically. we each admitted to seeing other people after our break-up. you never gave me a list of every fangirl you took to bed.”

“i told you about caitlyn —”

“the tabloids told me about caitlyn,” you counter. 

“you knew how much i hated drea!” vi barks, finally whipping her head to look at you. “do you not remember how much of a homophobic asshole she was? how she told the entire hockey team that i cornered her in the showers one day and tried to kiss her?”

you bite down on the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste copper.

“vi, if you just let me explain — she meant nothing to me.”

vi laughs, cold and bitter as the winter air. “i mean, jesus christ, you still have and wear the earrings she got you. meanwhile, you never wear that necklace i’d gotten you. as soon as we broke up, you were perfectly happy getting rid of me.”

“please, vi —” 

vi’s eyes shine under the starlight, and she clenches her jaw so tight that you’re worried the bone might shatter. “did you not care about me at all, even after all that time, everything we’d been through?”

you uncross your arms and reach out to her, but she flinches away. 

“violet —”

“no — you stopped caring about me to the point that you dated someone who made my life a living hell.” vi takes a shaky breath, and she chokes out your name. “we were best friends first, and i thought….god, i thought that meant we’d always love each other.”

the words hang heavy in the air, your heart pierced by her icicle-sharp words. in a haste, you wipe away the cold tears burning on your skin, turn around on your heels, and storm back inside. 

vi finds you a few minutes later in the living room. you’re using the swiss army knife you usually keep clipped to your belt to tear through unpacked boxes. though she’s not sure what you’re looking for, vi turns on the lamp to help your search. 

“what are you —”

you finally pull something out and offer it to her without a single word. 

vi’s fingers are still slightly frozen as she holds it, her eyes following the precise swirls and crisp lines, designs similar to the tattoos on her back. you must have drawn them on the worn cardboard.

“what is this?”

“open it,” is all you say before sitting cross-legged on the velvety purple couch, which the two of you had lugged up three flights of stairs from the street corner just the other day. you pick at one of the tears in the fabric as you wait.

vi stays standing while she carefully cracks open the lid, well aware that it could disintegrate in her hands like sand through an hourglass. 

what looks like a forgotten, ready-to-be-recycled shoebox turns out to contain much more than old sneakers: 

valentine’s cards she’d given you in elementary school; notes you passed to each other during class or detention; her first songwriting notebook she must have left at your place; a jolly rancher lollipop wrapper from the halloween party where you first…you know. little trinkets vi had given you throughout the years. receipts, movie tickets, photobooth strips of your younger selves. so carefree and full of love.

her anger, her hurt, melts away into sappy affection; knees turning to jello, she slides onto the couch next to you. 

you watch through the corner of your eye as vi rustles through contents of the shoebox-turned-time capsule, teeth worrying at your bottom lip. 

“you….you kept all of this?” 

“i put this box together on the first valentine’s day after our break-up. i was going to set it on fire,” you timidly admit, rubbing the back of your neck. 

vi snorts. “seriously?”

“some sort of stupid ritual i read about in autostraddle, to get rid of your ex. but when it got to that point…all of this — all these memories — i couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them. i didn’t want to get rid of you.”

you reach into the box and pull out a faded, drunkenly-written postcard, chipped-polish nail fiddling with the french stamp in the corner. 

“what about the necklace?” vi can’t help but ask. she runs her fingers through the delicate, dried violets from your corsage, which your mom had helped vi pick out a week before prom. 

“ekko wanted new sneakers for his birthday, so i did the nobel big sister thing, and sold my most expensive piece of jewellery to pay for them,” you explain. you and vi had instinctively shuffled in closer together, the shoebox balanced on one leg from each of you, your knees touching. “plus — yeah, i was mad at you. god, i hated you — which probably was the reason i started going out with drea in the first place, and i’m really, really sorry that i did. but, i need you to know — i never stopped caring about you. i never stopped loving you, violet, and i don’t think i ever will. ”

silence stretches between you. vi stares at you in the warm living room light — how your eyes are darker, your lips parted, shoulders curling in to protect your bleeding heart. vi gently takes the postcard from you and places the shoebox on the floor. 

“i never stopped loving you, either,” she promises, placing her now thawed hands on your cheeks. “and i don’t think i ever will.” 

you smile softly as vi leans in closer, her eyes flickering between yours and your lips. you nod; vi presses her lips to yours, a tender vow that grows into something hungrier, something with teeth. 

“gentler,” you tell her as you pull away slightly. you want to take your time, inhale the dizzying nicotine in her lungs, savor the acidic red wine on her tongue. 

“gentler?” vi’s already eager, though, her hand inching up your thigh.

“slower, violet.”

vi shudders as you trail your fingers over the tattoo on her neck. “have i ever told you how much i love it when you say my name?” 

“drea definitely wasn’t a fan of that habit,” you confess with a guilty grin. “one of the reasons we broke up is because, well...i kept accidentally saying your name during sex.”

“really?” vi chuckles darkly, a lightning bolt of possessiveness striking through her. “fucked you so good that i ruin you for other girls, hm?”

you roll your eyes, then suck in a breath when vi dips her fingers beneath your underwear, finding you wet and waiting.

“oh, sweetheart, you’re soaking. all this, just for me?”

“hm, i don’t know. drea did look pretty good in that dress,” you tease — because you know how to push vi’s buttons, too. “i have to admit, she was a pretty decent fuck.”

“don’t,” she warns, but her eyes are burning with desire.

you smirk, slipping your hand underneath her shirt. her skin is always warm, but, right now, it’s electric. her abs are sculpted by the gods, pave way to a thick haven of curls between her legs.

“maybe you need to remind me why your name always fell from my lips whenever she’d make me cum.”

vi’s cheeks are red-hot, her heart pounding against your chest as she pushes you onto the couch, and presses her body into yours. 

“it would be my genuine pleasure.”

everything else to ash, and you’re left with this: your lace underwear dangling off your ankle as vi pushes your legs over her shoulders. her slick, skilled tongue sliding through your folds and her rough fingers squelching into your hole at an expert pace.

“f-fuck, vi,” you moan, running your fingers through her messy hair. you don’t miss how eagerly she grinds down onto the butter-soft velvet once you start tugging at the strands more firmly. 

“feels good, yeah?” she moans like you’re the one fucking her. “i’m the one making you feel good?”

“yes.” you exhale sharply when she sucks on your clit. “i’m close, vi.”

“i know, baby,” she drawls, smirking against your skin.

“don’t stop.” you plead as she sucks a bruise into your thigh, fingers curling into you. “don’t stop, don’t stop —”

and, she fucking stops. 

“vi,” you whine. 

“uh-uh, you don’t get to cum quite yet, pretty girl.”

she sucks her honey-soaked fingers into her mouth as she gets up from the couch.

you pout, licking your lips even though you wish you could lick hers. “why not?”

“i’m still mad at you,” vi states. “you really did hurt my feelings. how do you plan on making it up to me?”

vi tries to resist, play the part of the jealous, possessive girlfriend — but, god, it’s hard, with how fucked out, how beautiful you look right now: your lips the color of ripe plums, swollen and stained with vi’s lipstick; the curls between your legs twinkling with droplets of your desire; and your eyes glazed over with lust as you gaze up at her from the couch.

“that new strap we got,” you suggest, still breathless. your breasts strain against the now-wrinkled silk of the shirt you’re wearing. vi’s thankful that it’s hers, because she wants nothing more than to rip the fabric off your body. “you — you can fuck me with it.”

“is that what you want?” vi hums, fire burning in her abdomen as she watches you nod eagerly. usually, you’re the one who takes control, and that’s perfectly fine with vi, but tonight….

tonight, she has something to prove.

you’re both naked by the time you reach the bedroom, clothes thrown across the apartment floor as you take turns leaving bites and bruises on exposed areas of the other’s skin. you get down on your knees, the shag carpet shocking your skin as vi looms over you, gnawing at her scarred, kiss-swollen lips. you help her adjust the harness and attach everything accordingly, leaving a kiss on each star glittering across her thigh once you’re done. she makes you wait patiently as she coats the dildo with a healthy amount of lube.

vi offers you her hand, sticky with lube and your essence from earlier, and lifts you to your feet. she kisses you sweetly before pushing you onto the bed. 

"turn around," vi instructs. "on your knees."

you comply, already feeling yourself dripping onto the comforter in anticipation. vi kneels behind you on the bed, grasping the plush of your hips between her strong hands. you gasp when she spits onto your hole and starts to fuck into you, inch by inch. 

"you okay, baby?" vi asks once she’s halfway inside you.

"yes," you breathe. "keep going.”

so, vi continues gliding further into your silken heat, and once she’s nestled inside you completely, her thighs meeting your ass — that’s when she turns on the vibrations. vi moans, so loud that you’re sure the entire building can hear. she starts grinding into you, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“violet.” you snap your neck back as far as you can, appreciating how perfectly dishevelled vi looks behind you, eyes rolled up to heaven, drool trickling from the corner of her plump lips. “are you gonna keep fucking me any time soon?”

“it’s just so much,” she whines, and continues rutting against you.

it is so much — the waves of pleasure quivering from her body to yours, the subtle burn of her happy trail rubbing against your skin, the melodic timbre of her voice — but it’s not enough. 

“i know, baby. but i need more. if you don’t do something now….maybe there’s someone else i can call…”

your words effectively reignite that spark of jealousy, and she growls. vi slips out slightly, only to thrust back in, over and over, until you’re a moaning mess beneath her. your body starts to shake, but before you almost collapse onto your elbows, so vi reaches one hand to your neck and lifts you up so that her pierced nipples brushed against your back.

she kisses the back of your neck, trailing her hand down to pinch one of your nipples and you hiss, dizzy with pain and pleasure. she moves her other hand below the harness, rubbing her swollen clit in tight circles and gathering as much slick as she can. she brings those same fingers, glistening in the moonlight, to your lips, and you let her shove them into your mouth so you can finally taste her.

"this enough for you, greedy girl?" she taunts. 

you are greedy, when it comes to her, suckling on her digits like a lollipop while she stretches you open so deliciously, the obscene squelching of your pussy accompanying a symphony of moans and curses. 

"yes, violet. f-fuck, yes!" 

you feel vi groan against the crook of your neck, where her teeth had been nibbling at the sweat-soaked skin. 

“fuck — i need to watch you fall apart, knowing that i'm the one who makes you feel this good."

with that, vi flips you over, so she can watch you unravel. she hisses when your nails find purchase on her shoulders, digging down her tattooed back.

“you’re so fucking hot. so gorgeous. i’m so lucky that you’re mine.” vi’s voice is still rough and coarse with lust, but she’s looking at you all wonder-filled and soft-eyed, like you’re a work of art displayed at the louvre. “you….you are mine, right?”

the question is shockingly vulnerable from the woman who’s fucking you at a truly brutal speed, deep enough that you’re sure you’ll feel the lucious ache of her for days now. 

you bring your hands to gently cradle her face as you wrap your legs around her hips. vi snakes one of her hands down to rub at your throbbing clit, while the other rests lovingly on your tattooed ribs, where delicate violets bloom. 

“i’m yours,” you assure, and your heart glows when she beams above you. “you’re mine too, right?”

vi nods, damp strands of her hair tickling your forehead. 

“i’m yours.”

there’s a mess pooling underneath your entangled bodies by the time you’re both finished. 

for a few seconds, you both lay on your backs, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, until vi breaks the silence:

“did you say that you brought home a slice of cake?”

the two of you throw on some clothes, throw the sheets in the wash, and vi pulls you into her lap as you share the slice of cake at the kitchen table, chattering about everything and nothing for however long, until vi glances at the oven clock.

“shit — it’s midnight already. guess time flies when you’re having fun.” vi wraps her arms around your middle, and kisses your shoulder. “happy valentine’s day, stargirl.”

“happy valentine’s day, vi,” you smile, weaving your fingers through hers. you crane your neck back so you can feed her a bite of cake. “you’re the sweetest.”

“this cake’s pretty sweet, too,” vi jokes. she peppers kisses across your face until you’re giggling, skin sticky with frosting. 

“i’m glad you like it,” you laugh. “they do wedding cakes, too, but i think we should explore our options before settling on one for ours.”

vi’s lips pause just as she starts to kiss underneath your jaw. 

“do you mean for our wedding?” she smirks. “is there something you wanna ask me, stargirl?” 

“damn it —” you cough, almost choking on a mouthful of cake. “i - i had this whole thing planned - wait, let me —”

you disappear into the bedroom and reemerge with an intricately painted vase. you hand it to vi and sit in the chair next to her.

“this is what i made in my pottery seminar,” you explain. “it’s supposed to be like —”

“that mural you made of us senior year,” vi finishes, looking between the vase and you with stars in her eyes. 

“exactly. except we won’t have to spend saturday detention painting over it.” you chuckle at the memory as vi shakes her head with a small smile dancing across her lips knowingly. “i was gonna promise to bring my beautiful wife fresh flowers for this vase every week and then i was gonna ask you to look inside….” you gesture at vi to do so, and she reaches in to pull out a velvet box. “and then i was gonna get down on one knee —”

“it’s okay — you’ve already done plenty of that tonight,” vi laughs, and you bump her shoulder playfully. 

“and i was gonna tell you that i love you, that i have for basically my whole life, and that i want to spend the rest of it with you,” you finish, heart fluttering in your chest. 

“i can’t believe you were going to propose to me.” vi places the vase on the kitchen counter behind her, smiling at you softly. 

“is that a yes or….?”

instead of answering, vi walks over to the couch, reaches behind and pulls up a heart-printed gift bag, and hands it to you. she watches intently as you pull out a turquoise-blue collar. 

“damn, i did not know you were this kinky.” you raise an eyebrow at vi. “so, is this a yes to my proposal or….just something you just wanna try in the bedroom?”

“w-what? no!” vi stutters, her cheeks blooming pink. “i mean, yes! well – okay, i also had this plan for valentine’s day.” it’s very endearing, how vi’s scrambling to find the right words. your punk rock girlfriend, flustered and lovesick for you. “okay — there’s a dog at the shelter i thought we could adopt. i brought home the paperwork for us to fill out, if that’s what you want — it’s all in there. there’s a picture of him, too.” 

you reach in the bag again and find a printed photo of an adorable brown lab with the warmest eyes. 

“he’s adorable,” you squeal. “does he have a name?”

“scooby, of course.” vi grins. “so, do you wanna adopt a dog together?”

“i do.”

“i love the sound of that,” vi hums. “there’s one more thing in there for you….”

it’s a ring pop — and you’re not sure if it’s the sugar rush, or the woman getting down on one knee and asking you, so tenderly, so sweetly, to marry her, but your heart is absolutely soaring. 

“we might have to tell our kids a more pg version of the night we got engaged,” vi whispers later, when you’re back cuddling in bed under fresh sheets.

“kids?” you twist around in vi’s arms to find her grinning at you. “is there something you want to ask me?”

“is scooby not our first child?” vi guffaws and you poke her ribs at her cheekiness.

“true.”

“besides, you know what they say, stargirl,” she practically sings. “first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes —”

you cut her off with a sugary, confetti-flavored kiss, your smiles melting into one.

[dollyfetti]

🍮⠀⠀ notes: popular!bakugou x nerdy!reader, fluffy, college au ‿ ୧ 🍡⠀ word count: 839

everyone's either in love with bakugou or wants to be him. he always has people bombarding him with questions about his quirk or trying to get close to him. he doesnt mind the attention. bakugou carries a large amount of pride that comes along with his popularity. he's worshipped, always walking the halls with people following him.

but then theres you. a silent girl in most of his classes. you keep to yourself in your own little world for the most part with very few close friends. your seat is in front of bakugou in all of your shared lectures, and you never bothered him, not once. truth be told, he never really thought about you until a specific night.

slamming his friend's car door shut, bakugou grumbles, "you idiots." he wasted yet another good night for studying. he threw it away by partying with people he didn't even find interesting. gosh, it's already 10:30. he wouldn't be able to stay awake. but he can't just go to sleep! nono, exams are too close. he needs glue all of the information he can into his brain. kirishima had recommended getting a study buddy-- who the hell would want to actually study with bakugou?? the girls would be distracted by his "huge muscles" and "unique hair" while any guys would be begging to see his quirk in action.

fuck this! katsuki doesn't need anyones help.

that confident thought bubble changes as he walks up the stairs to the dormitories. he remembers that quiet dork in most of his classes.. you seem pretty normal for the most part. a bit of a nerd too, so he wouldn't be worried about you having the wrong shit written down. with an ashamed grunt, he decides to find your dorm.

you munch on freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, going over notes you'd gotten from yesterday's lecture. you tiredly lean back against your chair in a tiny tank top and shorts with your hair up in a claw clip. you're slightly bopping your head to the quiet music playing in the background when you hear heavy thuds of someone walking towards your room. you perk up when said person knocks on your door softly. you happily smile, thinking maybe one of your friends are stopping by. excited you made so many cookies, you hurry to the door and swing it open.

with his hands dug into his pockets and drained frown, the katsuki bakugou stands at your door.. odd. "oh!" you squealed, your hand covering your mouth. "sorry, just-- wasn't expecting you." you nervously rub your arm, leaning against the door frame.

he lazily raises an eyebrow in curiosity. "you expectin' someone?"

you shake your head. "nope.." you mutter with an awkward smile. bakugou eyes you up and down quickly, quietly clearing his throat at the small amount of clothing adorning your body. you bite your lip embarrassedly while averting your gaze. "you wanna come in?" you chirp, stepping to the side. he lets out a soft hum of confirmation, taking big strides into your dorm before you shut the door behind him. he walks over to your desk to observe your neatly written notes. "i need someone to study with-- you aren't stupid or anythin' right?" he cocks a brow, turning his head to look at you.

you hum lightly. "mm no, i dont think so.."

the scruffy boy plops down in your heart-shaped chair, flipping through the pages you had spent such precious time working on. you fiddle with your fingers shyly, biting the inside of your cheek as you watch bakugou. "..do you want a cookie?" you politely ask, pointing towards the plate on your desk, walking towards him. his head turned to where your finger was pointing.

his eyes flicker to the plate, hesitantly taking a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie and biting into it. it was soft and chewy-- and warm. his crimson eyes brighten a little, just a little. "'s not bad. would be better with coffee." he stares at the bitten cookie, cupping his other under the treat, careful not to make a mess. your bubbly self returns, offering a sweet smile. "coffee coming up!"

that day was the first of many of you and katsuki spending time together. you were never around people too often, yet alone someone as popular and liked as bakugou. and as for him, he thought you were decently likeable. you made him feel good about himself without talking about his quirk or giant pecs. you also never asked if he had a girlfriend or if he was free next friday night. you were just you.

you had talked more than he anticipated. that night, bakugou found himself quiet while you blabbed about whatever came into your head, and he didn't mind it at all. even after that study session and hanging out numerous times, you're still that one quiet nerd in the classroom. only he gets to see the chatty side of you-- and he likes that. makes him feel special.

[aquamarixx]

okay, hear me out, barou shouei meets you, fiercely independent woman and immediately declares to his Ubers teammates you're "his future wife".

but here's the kicker, he's all like "i can fix her". he's convinced that fixing you means turning you into a princess who’ll never have to lift a finger because he’ll do everything for you, making you completely dependent on him as his perfect little future wife.

his Ubers teammates, completely baffled and just looks at him weird because thats not how "fixing" her works.

check here for the fic!

[ruesol]

Ghost x reader, but it’s analog horror(ish)

HEAR ME OUT

You are an indie game programmer who designed an online ‘choose your own adventure’ style game where the player gets to go on a journey of learning how to exorcise their dead ex boyfriend who keeps haunting them. The boyfriend is lovingly named Ghost because he’s always wearing a mask to hide his rotting face. The game has ten chapters and if you play your cards right, then you can be free of his haunting and live your life peacefully. The ending screen has a final dialogue from him that says “I will wait for you.”

The game is sensational. The entire world is playing it, and you’re getting job offers left and right. It’s all overwhelming at first, but you decide to get comfortable with your newfound fame by giving a guest presentation at a local university.

Except, a week before your presentation, while you are playing the game all over again to check for any inconsistencies in the code or story, you notice that Ghost doesn’t say his usual line in the last chapter. You message one of your programmer friends who helped you develop the code for the game and they deny changing the final dialogue.

Your followers on your gaming forum don’t seem to have similar complaints so you try to go through the codes again, only to find that it has been untouched. Weird.

You feel static on the back of your neck as you reread the final dialogue in the last chapter: “I will find you.”