#25 without even studying | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelsgoldrush · 9 months ago

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“guilty pleasure” | 8.6k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader. reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes. age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age). oral sex (f receiving). fingering. finger sucking. soft dom!logan. wade being the funniest asshole. logan calls reader "kiddo/kid”.

A/N: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you.

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.”

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend.

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison

Allison:

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss.

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.”

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features.

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules.

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up.

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail.

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients.

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment.

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you.

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him.

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his.

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat.

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic.

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on.

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?”

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days.

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you.

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble.

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

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

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phoenixyfriend · 6 months ago

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Ko-fi prompt from @liberwolf:

Could you explain Tariff's , like who pays them and what they do to a country?

Well, I can definitely guess where this question is coming from.

Honestly, I was pretty excited to get this prompt, because it's one I can answer and was part of my studies focus in college. International business was my thing, and the issues of comparative advantage (along with Power Purchasing Parity) were one of the things I liked to explore.

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

At their simplest, tariffs are an import tax. The United States has had tariffs as low as 5%, and at other times as high as 44% on most goods, such as during the Civil War. The purpose of a tariff is in two parts: generating revenue for the government, and protectionism.

Let's first explore how a tariff works. If you want to be confused, then you need to have never taken an economics class, and look at this graph:

(src)

So let's undo that confusion.

The simplest examples are raw or basic materials such as steel, cotton, or wine.

First, without tariffs:

Let us say that Country A and Country B both produce steel, and it is of similar quality, and in both cases cost $100 per unit. Transportation from one country to the other is $50/unit, so you can either buy domestically for $100, or internationally for $150. So you buy domestically.

Now, Country B discovers a new place to mine iron very easily, and so their cost for steel drops to $60/unit due to increased ease of access. Country A can either purchase domestically for $100, or internationally for $110 (incl. shipping), which is much more even. Still, it is more cost-effective to purchase domestically, and so Country A isn't worried.

Transportation technology is improved, dropping the shipping costs to $30/unit. A person from Country A can buy: Domestic: $100 International: $60+$30 = $90 Purchasing steel from Country B is now cheaper than purchasing it from Country A, regardless of where you live.

Citizens in Country A, in order to reduce costs for domestic construction, begin to purchase their steel from Country B. As a result, money flows from Country A to B, and the domestic steel industry in Country A begins to feel the strain as demand dwindles.

In this scenario, with no tariffs, Country A begins to rely on B for their steel, which causes a loss of jobs (steelworkers, miners), loss of infrastructure (closing of mines and factories), and an outflow of funds to another country. As a result, Country A sees itself as losing money to B, while also growing increasingly reliant on their trading partner for the crucial good that is steel. If something happens to drive up the price of B's steel again, like political upheaval or a natural disaster, it will be difficult to quickly ramp up the production of steel in Country A's domestic facilities again.

What if a tariff is introduced early?

Alternately, the dropping of complete costs for purchase of steel from Country B could be counteracted with tariffs. Let's say we do a 25% tariff on that steel. This tariff is placed on the value of the steel, not the end cost, so:

$60 + (0.25 x $60) + $30 = $105/unit

Suddenly, with the implementation of a 25% tariff on steel from Country B, the domestic market is once again competitive. People can still buy from Country B if they would like, but Country A is less worried about the potential impacts to the domestic market.

The above example is done in regards to a mature market that has not yet begun to dwindle. The infrastructure and labor is still present, and is being preemptively protected against possible loss of industry to purchasing abroad.

What happens if the tariff is not implemented until after the market has dwindled?

Let's say that the domestic market was not protected by the tariff until several decades on. Country A's domestic production, in response to increased purchasing from abroad, has dwindled to one third of what it was before the change in pricing incentivized purchase from B. Prices have, for the sake of keeping this example simple, remained at $100(A) and $60(B) in that time. However, transportation has likely become better, so transportation is down to $20, meaning that total cost for steel from B is $80, accelerating the turn from domestic steel to international.

So, what happens if you suddenly implement a tariff on international steel? Shall we say, 40%?

$60 + (0.4 x 60) + 20 = $104

It's more expensive to order from abroad! Wow! Let's purchase domestically instead, because these prices add up!

But the production is only a third of what it used to be, and domestic mines and factories for refining the iron into steel can't keep up. They're scaling, sure, but that takes time. Because demand is suddenly triple of the supply, the cost skyrockets, and so steel in Country A is now $150/unit! The price will hopefully come down eventually, as factories and mines get back in gear, but will the people setting prices let that happen?

So industries that have begun to rely on international steel, which had come to $80/unit prior to the tariff, are facing the sudden impact of a cost increase of at least $25/unit (B with tariff) or the demand-driven price increase of domestic (nearly double the pre-tariff cost of steel from B), which is an increase of at least 30% what they were paying prior to the tariff.

There are possible other aspects here, such as government subsidies to buoy the domestic steel industry until it catches back up, or possibly Country B eating some of the costs so that people still buy from them (selling for $50 instead of $60 to mitigate some of the price hike, and maintain a loyal customer base), but that's not a direct impact of the tariff.

Who pays for tariffs?

Ultimately, this is a tax on a product (as opposed to a tax on profits or capital themselves, which has other effects), which means the majority of the cost is passed on directly to the consume.

As I said, we could see the producers in Country B cut their costs a little bit to maintain a loyal customer base, but depending on their trade relationships with other countries, they are just as likely to stop trading with Country A altogether in order to focus on more profitable markets.

So why do we not put tariffs on everything?

Well... for that, we get into the question of production efficiency, or in this case, comparative advantage.

Let's say we have two small, neighboring countries, C and D, that have negligible transportation costs and similar industries. Both have extensive farmland, and both have a history of growing grapes for wine, and goats for wool. Country C is a little further north than D, so it has more rocky grasses that are good for goats, while D has more fertile plains that are good for growing grapes.

Let's say that they have an equal workforce of 500,000 of people. I'm going to say that 10,000 people working full time for a year is 1 unit of labor. So, Country C and Country D have between the 100 units of labor, and 50 each.

The cost of 1 unit of wool = the cost of 1 unit of wine

Country C, having better land for goats, can produce 4 units of wool for every unit of labor, and 2 units of wine for every unit of labor.

Meanwhile, Country D, having better land for grapes, can produce 2 units of wool per unit of labor, and 4 units of wine per unit of labor.

If they each devote exactly half their workforce to each product, then:

Country C: 100 units of wool, 50 units of wine Country D: 50 units of wool, 100 units of wine

Totaling 150 units of each product.

However, if each devotes all of their workforce to the product they're better at...

Country C: 200 units of wool, no wine Country D: no wool, 200 units of wine

and when they trade with each other, they each end up with 100 units of each product, which is a doubling of what their less-efficient labor would have resulted in!

The real world is obviously much more complicated, but in this example, we can see the pros of outsourcing some of your production to another country to focus on your own specialties.

Extreme examples of this IRL are countries where most of the economy rests on one product, such as middle-eastern petro-states that are now struggling to diversify their economies in order to not get left behind in the transition to green energy, or Taiwan's role as the world's primary producer of semiconductors being its 'silicon shield' against China.

Comparative advantage can be used well, such as our Unnamed Countries (that are definitely not the classic example of England and Portugal, with goats instead of sheep) up in the example. With each economy focusing on its specialty, there is a greater yield of both products, meaning a greater bounty for both countries.

However, should something happen to Country C up there, like an earthquake that kills half the goats, they are suddenly left with barely enough wool to clothe themselves, and nothing for Country D, which now has a surplus of wine and no wool.

So you do have to keep some domestic industry, because Bad Things Can Happen. And if we want to avoid the steel example of a collapse in the given industry, tariffs might be needed.

Are export tariffs a thing?

Yes, but they are much rarer, and can largely be defined as "oh my god, everyone please stop getting rid of this really important resource by selling it to foreigners for a big buck, we are depleting this crucial resource."

So what's the big confusion right now?

Donald Trump has, on a number of occasions, talked about 'making China pay' tariffs on the goods they import into the US. This has led to a belief that is not entirely unreasonable, that China would be the side paying the tariffs.

The view this statement engenders is that a tariff is a bit like paying a rental fee for a seller's table at an event: the producer or merchant pays the host (or landlord or what have you) a fee to sell their product on the premises. This could be a farmer's market, a renaissance faire, a comic book convention, whatever. If you want to sell at the event, you have to pay a fee to get a space to set up your table.

In the eyes of the people who listened to Trump, the tariff is that fee. China is paying the United States for access to the market.

And, technically, that's not entirely wrong. China is thus paying to enter the US market. It's just the money to pay that fee needs to come from somewhere, and like most taxes on goods, that fee comes from the consumer.

So... what now?

Well, a lot of smaller US companies that rely on cheap goods made in China are buying up non-perishables while they can, before the tariffs hit. Long-term, manufacturers in the US that rely on parts and tools manufactured in China are going to feel the squeeze once that frontloaded stock is depleted.

Some companies are large enough to take the hit on their own end, still selling at cheap rates to the consumer, because they can offset those costs with other parts of their empire... at least until smaller competitors are driven out of business, at which point they can start jacking up their prices since there are no options left. You may look at that and think, "huh, isn't that the modus operandi for Walmart and Amazon already?" and yes. It is. We are very much anticipating a 'rich get richer, poor go out of business' situation with these tariffs.

The tariffs will also impact larger companies, including non-US ones like Zara (Spanish) and H&M (Swedish), if they have a huge reliance on Chinese production to supply their huge market in the United States.

If you're interested in the repercussions that people expect from these proposed tariffs on Chinese goods, I'd suggest listening to or watching the November 8th, 2024 episode of Morning Brew Daily (I linked to YouTube, but it's also available on Spotify, Nebula, the Morning Brew website, and other podcast platforms).

#id in alt text #id in alt #economics #tariffs #import tax #customs #customs duties #ko fi prompts #capitalism #phoenix talks #ko fi #taxes #taxation

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glowettee · 2 months ago

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✧˖° studying without suffering: how to actually enjoy learning (yes, it’s possible)

✧˖° let’s talk.

hey angels, it's mindy!

most people treat studying like a punishment. something to be endured, not enjoyed. it’s that thing you force yourself to do, like taking bitter medicine or running a mile in gym class. but what if that’s the reason you struggle with it?

the secret? you were never meant to hate learning.

somewhere along the way, school made it boring. maybe you had teachers who sucked the fun out of it. maybe you associate studying with stress, deadlines, and exhaustion. but learning is supposed to be exciting. when you actually enjoy it, everything changes. you focus longer, retain more, and (ironically) spend less time studying because your brain actually absorbs the information.

so, let’s fix it. let’s make studying something you want to do instead of something you suffer through.

✧˖° ➼ step 1: detach learning from school

(school & learning are not the same thing. stop letting school ruin your curiosity.)

the first mindset shift? realize that school does not own learning.

➼ school is about structure, deadlines, and tests. it’s designed to measure performance. ➼ learning is about curiosity, deep thinking, and exploration. it’s designed to expand your mind. and help you grow as a person.

if you’ve only ever studied because you had to, your brain associates it with pressure. break that pattern. find something outside of school that you actually like learning about. philosophy, psychology, art history, neuroscience, fashion design, whatever makes you curious.

even if it’s unrelated to your classes, it rewires your brain to see learning as an intrinsic activity, not just an obligation. once you enjoy learning in general, you can transfer that energy back into your studies.

✧˖° ➼ step 2: romanticize the process (but actually make it feel good)

("romanticizing studying" doesn’t mean just buying cute stationery. let’s go deeper.)

sensory association is everything. your brain links experiences to the way they feel physically. so if studying feels uncomfortable, you’ll avoid it. the solution? make it a luxurious experience for your senses.

✧ visuals → clean, minimalist desk, soft lighting, aesthetic study materials ✧ sound → rain sounds, classical piano, lo-fi beats (music that enhances focus) ✧ touch → cozy blankets, warm tea, smooth pens gliding over paper ✧ scent → vanilla candles, fresh coffee, the pages of an old book

this isn’t just about aesthetics. it’s neuroscience. when studying feels pleasurable, your brain stops resisting it.

✧˖° ➼ step 3: use high-dopamine study techniques

(forcing yourself to study the “normal” way is why you hate it.)

some study methods are literally designed to be boring. ditch them.

instead, try:

➼ blurting method: instead of passively reading, close your book and write down everything you remember. then check what you missed. (way more engaging than just re-reading notes.) ➼ dual-coding: mix visuals with text. draw tiny sketches next to your notes. turn concepts into mind maps. watch a video explaining a topic right after reading about it. ➼ pomodoro stacking: instead of the typical 25-minute study sprints, customize it. (ex: 50 min deep focus + 10 min break with an actual reward.) ➼ interleaving technique: mix subjects instead of block studying. it forces your brain to stay engaged.

stop making studying harder than it needs to be. find what works for you, and your brain will stop fighting it.

✧˖° ➼ step 4: make studying social (but in a smart way)

(because you’re not supposed to do this alone.)

studying alone for hours? miserable. but studying with others who are just as serious as you? instant motivation boost.

but instead of chaotic group study sessions where no one gets anything done, try:

✧ parallel studying: hop on facetime or join a study livestream. silent, focused, but together. ✧ teaching method: explain concepts to a friend. if you can teach it, you truly understand it. ✧ study accountability: check in with someone daily. send each other your study goals, no excuses.

even just knowing someone else is studying at the same time can trick your brain into feeling more engaged.

✧˖° ➼ step 5: shift your identity

("i hate studying" isn’t a personality trait. it’s a mindset problem.)

if you keep saying “i hate studying,” your brain will never enjoy it. change the narrative.

➼ instead of “i suck at studying,” try → “i’m learning how to study in a way that works for me.” ➼ instead of “i can’t focus,” try → “i’m training my brain to focus longer every day.” ➼ instead of “i don’t feel like it,” try → “i’m someone who gets things done, whether i feel like it or not.”

become the type of person who enjoys learning. once that becomes your identity, everything else follows.

✧˖° ➼ step 6: create emotional attachment to your goals

motivation dies when your goals feel distant and impersonal. if you’re studying just because you “have to,” it’s easy to procrastinate. but if you link it to something deeply personal, it becomes non-negotiable.

try this: visualize your future self. imagine the version of you who already achieved everything you want. who is she? what does she do? how does she study?

then, make it emotional. ✧ if you dream of getting into your dream school, print pictures of it. make a vision board. ✧ if you want financial freedom, imagine the luxury of never stressing over money. ✧ if you want to be respected in your field, remind yourself that your knowledge is your power.

when you make studying personal, it stops being a chore. it becomes a commitment.

✧˖° ➼ step 7: stop making everything harder than it needs to be

(struggling doesn’t mean you’re working harder. it just means you’re struggling.)

too many people study inefficiently because they think suffering = productivity. but studying smarter is always better than studying longer.

some ways to make it easier on yourself: ➼ use study apps → quizlet, pomdoro apps for focus, notion for organization ➼ summarize like you’re texting a friend → rewrite notes in your own words, no unnecessary fluff ➼ study in “levels” → don’t jump straight into deep studying. warm up with light review, then increase intensity ➼ take advantage of spaced repetition → stop cramming, your brain retains more when you review over time

efficiency = less stress, better results. don’t work harder than necessary.

✧˖° ➼ step 8: replace toxic productivity with high-performance habits

studying 10 hours in one night ≠ academic excellence. true high-achievers prioritize sustainability.

➼ quit glorifying exhaustion. taking breaks improves focus. it’s not laziness. ➼ learn when to walk away. if you’re zoning out, step away. 10 minutes of real focus > 2 hours of fake studying. ➼ protect your sleep. all-nighters don’t make you hardcore, they make you ineffective. your brain processes info while you sleep.

the goal isn’t to study the longest. it’s to study in a way that keeps your mind sharp and focused.

✧˖° ➼ step 9: master the “dopamine pull” method

instead of forcing motivation, use dopamine to your advantage.

➼ habit stacking → pair studying with something enjoyable (ex: study while drinking your favorite matcha) ➼ mini rewards → after finishing a chapter, reward yourself with something small but satisfying ➼ gamification → track progress like a video game. every completed task = a “level up”

your brain loves dopamine. give it reasons to associate studying with good feelings.

✧˖° ➼ step 10: let go of perfectionism (but keep high standards)

perfectionism leads to procrastination and burnout. instead of striving for flawless, aim for consistent excellence.

✧ done is better than perfect. stop rewriting notes 5 times. ✧ progress is the goal. each study session should move you forward, even if it’s small. ✧ your worth is not your grades. strive for success, but don’t let school define you.

when you release perfectionism, you actually start achieving more. keep your standards high, but don’t let them paralyze you.

✧˖° mindy’s personal tips

(things that helped me romanticize studying & actually make it enjoyable:)

➼ set a 5-minute timer. just start. most of the time, your brain stops resisting once you begin. ➼ don’t let study guilt ruin your breaks. rest is productive. ➼ have a “study fit.” i swear, dressing up just a little makes a difference. ➼ invest in one high-quality pen. something that glides effortlessly. small detail, huge difference. ➼ study in cafés, libraries, parks. switch locations to keep it interesting. ➼ make it ✧ cozy ✧. fuzzy socks, oversized sweaters, soft blankets. your comfort matters.

✧˖° homework: rewire your study experience

➼ for one of your study sessions this week, try at least two of the techniques above. ➼ write a short journal entry: how do you want to feel while studying? how can you make that happen? ➼ change just one thing about your study setup that makes it more enjoyable.

then come back & tell me. did studying feel better? (you can always message me or send me an ask in my inbox)

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cosmosluckycharms · 13 days ago

Text

Super Rich Kids

A/N: hey guys warning this is sosososo bad im tryna get out of writers block by forcinf myself to write help

reader is loosly based off haruhi fujioka but not that much (you dont have to know anything about ohshc to understand this)

reader is gender neutral

ugh sorry this is so bad

After your mom died at an early age, around when you were 5. you and your father were by yourselves.

At first, it was difficult, you kept yourself company most of the time due to your father working hard to keep you both afloat.

You lived in an okay apartment, one that was in the middle of an area that was cheap, but dangerous to live in.

Gotham.

You knew how to cook and do chores around the house due to your mother teaching you before she passed.

In middle school, you threw yourself into your studies to be able to have a better life in the future.

You barely went out with friends, and when you did you'd leave early.

It wasn't that you didn't like or care for them, you were just busy trying to get into higher education.

It worked out for you. You were able to get a scholarship into a high school you used to dream of entering.

Gotham prep.

It wasnt the best, but it was better.

You had to leave your old high school midway through 9th grade.

It meant that you had to leave all your friends and teachers.

youd miss them, but a scholarship is a scholarship.

Plus, maybe you could still see them around?

You couldn't afford to get the fancy uniforms that cost almost as much as your rent, so you decided to procrastinate on getting one.

Your teachers would understand, right?

Your teachers did not understand.

They refused to let you go around the school without a uniform, so you had to use an old uniform from the lost and found.

It was dusty and had a couple of holes, but it'd have to do.

You also somehow kept managing to get lost, so whenever you walked into your classroom, you were usually 10 minutes late.

So much for a good first impression.

As you got to your 4th class of the day, you fumbled around with the doorknob, trying to open the classroom door without dropping your books and supplies.

You struggled a bit until a black-haired boy saw you looking a little stupid out the small window on the door.

He got up and unlocked it for you, and you almost dropped your pencil case

Thankfully, he picked it up and gave it to you before it hit the ground.

"Be careful next time," he smirked and held the door open for you.

As you were about to thank him, you heard the teacher clear her throat.

"And who might you be?"

"I'm Y/n," you spoke, trying not to look stupid in front of a class of 25 people.

She checked her attendance roster. "Last name?"

"L/n."

"you aren't on the roster. Are you sure you're in this class? You aren't skipping, are you?" she raised an eyebrow at you.

"I moved here like, two days ago. I have my schedule, though." you handed her your paper schedule, making sure not to drop anything.

Once the whole attendance thing was sorted out, you were sat down next to the blue-eyed boy.

You kept glancing at him through the corner of your eye.

He took notice and looked at you fully, catching you off guard.

You straightened your posture and looked at the board, making him chuckle.

"Why are you staring so hard?"

"Sorry, I don't know." you looked away in embarrassment.

The truth is, you didn't even notice you were staring. You were just taking notice of your surroundings.

Plus, he looked familiar

"You're Y/n, right?"

"Yep."

"I'm Tim." he put his hand out so you could shake it.

"Quiet you two." the teacher yelled, shutting you both up.

The class went by slowly. Luckily for you, the class was easy to pay attention to.

Most of the kids had their heads down and were asleep, including the boy next to you.

Sucks for him.

That was your last class of the day, and you started to make your way back to your apartment.

You had your slightly mangled wired headphones in, and didn't hear footsteps behind you.

You didn't notice the presence of a certain someone until you felt the tap of someone on your shoulder.

You turned around and saw Tim, and a blonde girl right next to him.

"Hey," Tim spoke

You took your earbud out "..Hey?"

"This is Steph, she's one of my friends. She's coming with us." Tim said, pointing to the blonde.

"To where?" you questioned, tilting your head.

"To his house, duh," Steph stated.

"I'm not coming." you tried walking ahead of them, only for Steph to hold your wrist.

"Why?" Tim questioned

"Because I have things to do." you had to start working on your resume to get a job.

"C'mon, just come over!" Steph insisted

"I'm fine."

"c'mon, we're your friends!" Tim spoke

You rolled your eyes ".. I just met you guys.."

"Whatever!" Steph dragged you by the wrist and started dragging you to Alfred's car.

You had to be pulled into the car by both Tim and Steph as you all made your way to the manor.

You didn't want to go, but you had no choice.

Both of them were insistent.

You didn't take notice of the driver and how surprised he looked to see you. You were spaced out looking at the window beside you thinking about how you could've avoided all of this.

"And who might you be?" the older man spoke

You jumped at his words. "I'm y/n— one of Tim's classmates."

"That's quite strange, he's never mentioned you."

"yeah, I just moved here like, two days ago. We just met like an hour ago."

"Oh, that's alright."

You pulled out your phone and texted your dad to let him know you wouldn't be getting home until later.

You knew he wouldn't see the text until later.

He was at work.

You looked out the window and spaced out on your way over to the manor.

Once you felt the car stop, you noticed how big the manor was.

You were surprised at how someone could live in it or even afford it.

It seemed that Tim could sense your shock.

He nudged your shoulder and snapped you out of it.

You, Steph, and Tim all made your way inside.

They knew their way around, so you had to follow behind them like a lost puppy.

You all made your way to the kitchen and sat down on the island.

The entire manor looked too fancy, like that fake house set at Ikea.

The countertops glimmered and shined in a way you've never seen before.

"Do you want something?" Tim asked

"I want to go home." you your your head down on the cold marble island.

Tim rolled his eyes "I meant like to drink or eat."

"Oh, uh, could I get some water?"

"Coming right up." he started making his way to get water.

You and Steph both went on your phones.

Steph liked talking, a lot.

It was sort of overwhelming for you, especially since you weren't used to talking to a lot of people.

You liked the quiet.

About around 5 minutes of being on your phone, you felt a gust of wind pass by you, and you saw what looked like an 11-year-old boy arguing with an older boy who had a tuft of white hair.

You put little to no mind to it as you continued to scroll on your phone.

Three seconds later Tim made his way back to the dining room.

You looked up from your phone to see Tim looking at the boys.

"Could you guys cut it out? We have company." Tim handed you a bottle of water

"My bad." the boy with the white tuft of hair walked up to you "I'm Jason."

You shook his hand. "Y/n."

"I will not apologize to them." the green-eyed boy spoke.

"Damian–" Tim tried to reprimand him

"that's fine." you got up from your chair "Do you know where the bathroom is?"

"Yeah, it's past that hallway." Jason pointed

"Thanks."

As you made your way to the bathroom, you could hear Damian getting scolded by Tim.

You checked your phone and noticed how your father still hadn't seen your messages.

You sighed and made your way back to the kitchen, not noticing the guy in front of you.

You accidentally bumped into him

"Sorry, my bad," you said.

"It's okay." you watched as the man scratched his head in confusion "I don't think I've seen you around, did Bruce just adopt you?"

"huh?" you tilted your head in confusion. "I'm just visiting, Tim and Steph invited me over."

"Oh, that makes sense."

"im Y/n."

"I'm Richard, most people call me Dick, though."

You snickered at the nickname, and Dick pretended to dramatically look offended.

You both made small talk as you made your way to the kitchen.

You sat back down on a seat and went back to scrolling on your phone, ignoring the ever-growing chaos of the siblings fighting.

Steph sat up and grabbed her bag, making her way out the door and waving goodbye to you.

You waved back.

After a minute or two of getting bored of your phone, you got up and grabbed your bag, ready to walk home.

"Y/n!" Jason called

"Hm?"

"Tell Damian to let go of my book!"

"I refuse, Todd!"

The name gave you deja vu like you've heard it before.

Wait a second.

You locked eyes with Jason, and you noticed how much he looked like Bruce Wayne's dead son.

From his eyes, to his nose, to his ears.

He had the same name too.

You gasped quietly.

How did you not notice sooner?

"You–you're Bruce Wayne's dead son!"

"What?" Jason's eyes widened

Jason started walking towards you, trying to intimidate you.

You started backing up in fear, not taking notice of the vase behind you.

You bumped into it, making it shatter onto the floor.

You looked at it and noticed how expensive everything looked.

Damn, rich people.

"Shoot, I'm so sorry! I can pay you guys back!" You tried putting the pieces back together but there was no use.

It was shattered.

You just had to hope that it wasn't too expensive–

Dick interrupted your train of thought "That vase was around a million dollars, I think."

You turned around to look at him, hoping he was lying ".. You're joking."

"I'm serious. We got it at an auction. One of a kind, you know." Tim spoke

"Shoot." you were visibly sweating "I cant afford that! I couldnt even afford a school uniform!"

"I have a way you could pay it back." Alfred spoke up from the shadows (how did you not notice him?"

"How?"

"Working as my apprentice."

this was so ass im sorry omg

yay this reader is NOT neglected 🥳🥳🥳 slightly better childhood 🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

this is so ass omg

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gukcnt · 12 days ago

Text

۶ৎ BROKEN CHORDS AND MENDED HEARTS —

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m yours, baby. Always. Don’t leave me. I can’t—I can’t breathe without you.”

pairing: dom!yoongi x sub!femreader

genre: established relationship, producer!yoongi, artist!reader, domestic life, lots of angst, conflict in relationship, fluff, smut

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, emotional distress, mental health discussions, hurt/comfort, reconciliation, career pressures, arguments, saying hurtful words to each other, they love each other so much but are literally idiots, yoongi loves her so much he cries, neglect, ignorance, miscommunication, love confessions, crying due to love and heartbreak, make up sex, emotional sex, passionate and intense sex, oral sex (f. receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, breast play, nipple play, dirty talk, tearful intimacy, body worship, making out, hickies/marking, fingering, clit play, tongue fucking, eating out, face riding, cum swallowing, oral sex (m. receiving), cock sucking, face fucking, missionary, passionate sex, riding, creampie, praise kink, aftercare

wc: 7.08k

a/n: dont hate me for making this emotional but trust me it has a happy ending ! i also wrote this one because i miss my yoongi boongi, come home baby :((

masterlist

۶ৎ

The autumn of 2018 in Seoul was a canvas of crimson and gold, the air crisp with the promise of change. You were 24, a freelance graphic designer with a penchant for capturing the world’s quiet beauty in your sketchbook. Your life was a delicate balance of late-night coffee runs, client deadlines, and solitary evenings in your cramped Hongdae apartment, where you’d lose yourself in charcoal and ink. Min Yoongi, 25, was a rising star in the music industry, a producer whose haunting melodies and razor-sharp lyricism were beginning to ripple through Seoul’s underground scene. His name, whispered in dimly lit studios, was synonymous with raw talent, though he carried himself with a quiet intensity that kept the world at arm’s length.

You met him in a cozy café tucked away in a narrow alley, its walls lined with mismatched bookshelves and fairy lights that cast a warm glow. The scent of roasted coffee beans mingled with the faint musk of old paper, and an indie playlist hummed softly in the background. You sat by the window, your sketchbook splayed open, fingers smudged with charcoal as you traced the silhouette of a stranger across the room. That stranger was Yoongi, slouched in a corner booth, his black hoodie pulled low, earphones dangling loosely around his neck. His pale fingers danced across a tattered notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration, as if he were unraveling the universe one word at a time.

You didn’t know who he was, only that his presence was magnetic—a quiet storm in human form. His sharp jawline, the faint scar slicing through his left eyebrow, the way his lips pursed slightly as he wrote—it all drew you in. You sketched him instinctively, your pencil capturing the curve of his cheek, the shadow of his lashes. When he glanced up, catching you staring, his dark eyes pinned you in place. They were cold at first, assessing, but then a flicker of curiosity softened them. You flushed, dropping your gaze, but he was already moving, his sneakers silent on the wooden floor.

“You’re sketching me without permission,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, as he slid into the seat across from you. Your heart stuttered, but you managed a nervous laugh, flipping the sketchbook to show him. He studied it, his expression unreadable, his long fingers brushing the edge of the page. “Not bad,” he said finally, leaning back. “But you missed the scar on my eyebrow.” His lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk, and that was the moment you knew you were in trouble.

You apologized, stumbling over your words, but he waved it off, his eyes lingering on you. “What’s your name?” he asked, and when you told him, he repeated it softly, like he was testing how it felt on his tongue. You learned his name—Min Yoongi—and that he was a producer, though he downplayed it, shrugging as if it were no big deal. You exchanged numbers, a casual “maybe we’ll talk” hanging in the air, but the spark was undeniable.

What began as sporadic texts about art and music bloomed into something deeper. Yoongi was guarded, his messages short and clipped at first, but he warmed over time. Late-night calls became your ritual, his voice a soothing anchor as he shared fragments of his life: his childhood in Daegu, where he’d sneak into his father’s study to play old jazz records; his teenage years grappling with anxiety and ambition; his relentless drive to create music that mattered. You opened up too, telling him about your dream of designing album covers, your love for capturing fleeting moments in your sketches, the way you found solace in the chaos of creation. He listened, his silences thoughtful, his rare replies piercingly insightful. “You see the world differently,” he said once, his voice soft. “I like that.”

Your first date was at a vinyl record store in Itaewon, Yoongi’s choice. The shop was a labyrinth of crates, the air thick with the scent of aged vinyl and dust. Yoongi moved through the aisles with purpose, his slim frame weaving between stacks, pulling out records. He spoke with a quiet passion, explaining how each artist shaped his sound, his hands animated, his eyes alight. You watched, captivated, as he handed you a record. “Listen to this tonight,” he said, his voice low. “Tell me what you see.”

That night, you played the record, the soulful trumpet filling your apartment. You sketched as you listened, your pencil tracing swirling blues and purples, abstract shapes of longing and melancholy. You sent him the images, your heart pounding. He called immediately, his voice husky. “You get it,” he said. “You get me.” The words felt like a confession, and you knew then that you were falling.

Yoongi’s love was subtle but consuming. He wasn’t one for grand gestures; his affection was in the details. He’d leave sticky notes on your sketchbooks, his slanted handwriting scrawling things like, “Your art is my favorite song,” or “Don’t forget to eat, baby.” He’d memorize your coffee order—black, no sugar, with a pinch of cinnamon—and bring it to you unprompted, his fingers brushing yours as he handed you the cup. When you were stressed, he’d pull you into his lap, his arms a fortress, his lips grazing your temple. “Breathe, baby,” he’d murmur. “I’ve got you.”

His pet name for you, “baby,” was a melody, soft and reverent, a word he used only for you. It slipped from his lips naturally, whether he was whispering it in the dark or saying it casually over breakfast. It was a claim, a promise, and it made your heart flutter every time.

Your relationship with Yoongi evolved into a dynamic of dominance and submission, a balance that felt as natural as breathing. Yoongi was protective, possessive in a way that thrilled you. On crowded streets, he’d grip your wrist, his touch firm but gentle, guiding you through the chaos. In private, he was commanding, his voice dropping to a low growl when he told you what he wanted. “Come here, baby,” he’d say, patting his thigh, and you’d obey, your body humming with anticipation. His dominance was never harsh; it was rooted in love, in his need to care for you, to make you feel safe.

“You’re mine,” he’d whisper, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands mapping your body with reverence. “But I’m yours too.” You trusted him completely, surrendering to his control because you knew he’d never push you beyond your limits. He’d check in, his eyes searching yours—“Is this okay, baby?”—and your soft nods were enough to spur him on. The dynamic deepened your bond, a silent language of trust and desire.

By 2019, you’d moved in together into a sleek apartment, a space that married Yoongi’s minimalist aesthetic with your vibrant touches. The living room was stark—black leather couch, glass coffee table, a grand piano in the corner where Yoongi would play late at night, his fingers coaxing melodies from the keys. Your influence was everywhere: colorful throw pillows, framed sketches of cityscapes and abstract emotions, potted plants spilling over every surface, their green leaves softening the room’s edges. Yoongi’s home studio was his sanctuary, a soundproofed haven filled with monitors, keyboards, and stacks of notebooks. He left the door open for you, a silent invitation. You’d curl up on the couch inside, sketching while he worked, the hum of his equipment a comforting pulse.

Life together was a rhythm of shared moments. Mornings were slow, Yoongi brewing coffee while you scrambled eggs, his arms slipping around your waist as he kissed the back of your neck. “Smells good, baby,” he’d murmur, his voice still rough with sleep. Evenings were for music and art, you sketching at the dining table while he played rough demos, asking for your thoughts. “What’s the vibe of this one?” he’d say, and you’d describe colors and shapes, your words guiding his edits.

Yoongi’s love was a constant, a quiet devotion that anchored you. He was cold to the world, his face a mask of indifference, but with you, he was soft, vulnerable. His rare smiles—gummy, unguarded—were yours alone, blooming when you danced around the kitchen, singing off-key to his tracks. He’d pull you close in the dead of night, his breath warm against your neck, whispering, “You’re my everything, baby.” He’d listen to you ramble about your day, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your thigh, his eyes never straying from your face.

Your life with Yoongi was punctuated by moments of pure romance, each one etched into your memory like a painting. One summer night, he surprised you with a picnic in a secluded park, the city skyline glittering in the distance. He’d packed your favorite foods—kimchi fried rice, spicy tteokbokki, mango sorbet—and spread a blanket under a canopy of stars. He played a playlist he’d made for you, soft R&B tracks that felt like a caress. When you danced, his arms around you, he swayed slowly, his lips brushing your ear. “I don’t say it enough,” he said, his voice low, “but I love you more than anything.” You cried, overwhelmed, and he kissed your tears away, his touch grounding you.

Another memory was a rainy afternoon in 2020, when you were stuck indoors, the windows streaked with water. You’d been sketching, frustrated with a client’s revisions, when Yoongi pulled you from your chair. “Enough of that,” he said, his voice firm. He put on a jazz record, the saxophone filling the room, and danced with you in the living room, his hands guiding your hips. When you tripped, laughing, he caught you, his eyes warm. “You’re perfect, baby,” he said, kissing you deeply, the rain a soft symphony outside.

Then there was the winter of 2021, when Seoul was blanketed in snow. You’d dragged Yoongi outside at midnight, insisting on building a snowman. He’d grumbled, his breath visible in the cold, his scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but when you pouted, he relented, helping you roll snowballs, his gloved hands brushing yours. When you slipped on ice, he caught you, his laugh—a rare, bright sound—echoing in the quiet night. He kissed you right there, snowflakes catching in his dark hair, his lips cold but soft. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby,” he said, but his eyes were full of adoration.

At industry events, Yoongi was Min Yoongi, the untouchable producer, his demeanor icy, his words clipped. But with you by his side, he softened. His hand would rest on your lower back, a possessive touch that sent shivers down your spine. If someone flirted with you, his eyes would darken, his voice cutting like a blade when he spoke to them. “She’s taken,” he’d say, his tone final. The moment they were gone, he’d turn to you, his expression melting. “You okay, baby?” he’d ask, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

By 2024, Yoongi’s career had soared to dizzying heights. He was producing for global artists, his name a staple in award show credits, his tracks dominating charts. But success came at a cost. His days were consumed by studio sessions, international Zoom calls, and late-night meetings with executives. He’d leave the apartment before dawn, his side of the bed cold when you woke, the faint scent of his cologne the only trace of him. He’d return past midnight, collapsing beside you, his body heavy with exhaustion. You’d reach for him, hoping for a moment of connection, but he’d be asleep within seconds, his breathing uneven, his brow still creased with stress.

His home office became his fortress, the door often closed now, the glow of his computer screen seeping under it. You’d knock softly, bringing him coffee or a plate of kimbap, but he’d barely look up, muttering, “Thanks, baby,” before diving back into his work. His touches grew fleeting—a quick kiss on your forehead as he rushed out, a distracted “I love you” over his shoulder. You missed him, the Yoongi who’d hold you for hours, who’d look at you like you were his entire universe.

The distance grew like a weed, subtle at first but choking over time. You’d wake to an empty apartment, the silence deafening. You’d eat breakfast alone, the clink of your spoon against the bowl a lonely sound. You’d text him, asking how his day was, and his replies were short, delayed: “Busy. Love you.” You’d linger outside his office, hesitating, then walk away, the rejection stinging even though he hadn’t said a word.

You tried to be supportive. His work was his passion, his legacy, and you’d always admired his drive. But the loneliness was a slow poison, seeping into your bones. You felt like a ghost in your own home, unseen, unheard. You stopped waiting up for him, stopped knocking on his office door. You threw yourself into your own work, designing album covers for indie bands, but the joy was dimmed by the ache in your chest. You’d sketch late into the night, your pencil tracing images of longing—empty beds, shadowed figures, broken hearts.

You began mirroring his distance, pulling back to protect yourself. You’d eat dinner alone, the TV on to fill the silence. You’d sleep on your side of the bed, not reaching for him when he slipped in. Your conversations dwindled to brief exchanges. “How was your day?” you’d ask, your voice flat. “Busy,” he’d say, eyes on his phone. “You?” You’d shrug, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Fine.” The silence between you was heavy, suffocating, a chasm neither of you knew how to bridge.

One evening, you’d planned a special dinner, hoping to reclaim a piece of your old intimacy. You’d spent hours cooking—bulgogi, japchae, a strawberry cake you’d baked from scratch. You set the table with candles, your heart fluttering with nervous hope. But Yoongi texted at 7 p.m.: “Stuck at the studio. Don’t wait up.” You sat at the table alone, the food growing cold, the candles burning low. When he came home at 2 a.m., you were asleep, the table untouched. He didn’t mention it the next day, and you didn’t bring it up, the hurt too raw to voice.

The final straw was a weekend you’d planned to spend together, a rare break in his schedule. You’d booked a cabin in the countryside, dreaming of quiet walks and late-night talks by a fire. But at the last minute, he canceled, saying a client needed an emergency revision. “We’ll go another time,” he said, his voice distracted. You didn’t argue, just nodded, your heart sinking.

The tension erupted on a rainy evening in April 2025. Yoongi had been home for barely an hour, his jacket dripping from the downpour, when you snapped. You’d spent the day spiraling, your heart raw from weeks of neglect. He was in the kitchen, scrolling through emails on his phone, his shoulders hunched, when you stormed in, your voice trembling.

“Do you even see me anymore, Yoongi?” you demanded, your hands shaking. He looked up, startled, his brows furrowing. “What are you talking about, Y/N?”

“You’re never here!” you shouted, tears welling. “You leave before I wake up, you come home when I’m asleep. You’re always in that fucking office, and when you’re not, you’re glued to your phone. I’m right here, Yoongi, and you don’t even look at me!”

His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “I’m working, Y/N. You know how important this is. I’m doing this for us.”

“For us?” you laughed bitterly, your voice cracking. “When was the last time there was an ‘us’? You don’t talk to me, you don’t touch me. I feel like I’m living with a ghost! I’m not your baby anymore—I’m nothing to you!”

His face hardened, but his eyes flickered with hurt. “That’s not fair,” he said, his voice low, controlled. “I’m killing myself to provide for us, to build something. You think I want to be this busy? You think I don’t miss you?”

“Then why don’t you stop?” you cried, your voice rising. “Why don’t you choose me for once? Or am I not worth it anymore? Maybe you don’t even love me anymore, Yoongi. Maybe you never did!”

His expression cracked, pain flashing across his face. “Don’t say that,” he said, his voice shaking. “You know I love you. I’ve chosen you every damn day since we met. You’re my whole world, Y/N, but I can’t just drop everything because you’re feeling neglected.”

“Neglected?” you spat, tears streaming down your face. “That’s exactly what I am! You treat me like I’m invisible. I bet you’d be happier if I was gone, wouldn’t you? Maybe you’d rather be alone with your precious music than deal with me!”

His eyes widened, his breath hitching. “Y/N, stop,” he said, his voice breaking. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do!” you shouted, your voice raw. “I’m done being your afterthought, Yoongi. I deserve better than this. I deserve someone who actually gives a shit about me, not some selfish man who only cares about his career!”

His face paled, his hands trembling as he stepped toward you. “You’re breaking my heart, Y/N,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying so hard, and you’re twisting it into something it’s not. Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t care, throwing all this in my face like my love means nothing.”

His words stung, but yours had been crueler, each one a dagger aimed at his heart. You saw the hurt in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped, but your anger was a wildfire, consuming reason. “Maybe it doesn’t,” you whispered, your voice venomous. “Maybe I should just leave and make it easier for you.”

His eyes filled with panic, but before he could respond, you turned and ran to the bedroom, slamming the door and locking it. You collapsed against it, sobs wracking your body, your words echoing in your mind. You hated yourself for what you’d said, for wounding him so deeply, but the pain was too raw, too overwhelming.

Yoongi’s voice came through the door, soft and desperate. “Y/N, open the door. Please, baby.” You didn’t answer, curling into yourself, your tears soaking the carpet. He knocked, harder now. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean it. Let’s talk, please. I love you.” His voice cracked, raw with emotion. “Don’t shut me out like this.”

He knocked for hours, his pleas growing quieter, more broken. “I’m not leaving,” he said finally, his voice hoarse. “I’ll stay right here until you’re ready. I love you, baby. I’m so sorry.” You heard him slide down the door, his breathing ragged, and you knew he was sitting there, his body pressed against the wood, his love for you keeping him anchored despite the cold, hard floor.

You cried yourself to sleep, the sound of his presence outside a bittersweet torment. He spent the night there, curled up in the hallway, his devotion unwavering even as your words tore at his heart.

You woke at dawn, your eyes swollen, your throat raw. The fight replayed in your mind, each word a fresh wound. You couldn’t stay, not like this. The loneliness, the hurt—it was too much. You needed space, time to heal. You packed a small bag, your hands trembling as you folded clothes, each item a reminder of the life you’d built with Yoongi. Your favorite sweater, the one he’d bought you on a whim; the scarf he’d wrapped around you during a winter walk; the sketchbook filled with drawings of him. It all felt like a betrayal to pack them away.

When you opened the door, you found Yoongi slumped against the wall, his head resting on his knees, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed. He scrambled to his feet, panic flashing across his features as he saw the bag. “Y/N, no,” he said, his voice hoarse, raw from a night of pleading. “What are you doing?”

“I need a break,” you said, your voice shaking but firm. “I’m going to my parents’ place. I can’t do this anymore, Yoongi.”

His eyes widened, his hands reaching for you, gripping your arms. “No, baby, please,” he said, his voice trembling. “Don’t leave me. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’ve been distant, I know I’ve fucked up, but I’ll fix this. I swear I will.”

You shook your head, tears falling. “It’s not just about last night, Yoongi. It’s everything. I don’t feel like I matter to you anymore. I’m tired of begging for your attention, tired of feeling like I’m nothing.”

“You’re not nothing,” he said, his voice breaking. “You’re everything, Y/N. You’re my heart, my home. I’ve been an idiot, I know, but I can’t lose you. I love you more than anything. Please, baby, give me a chance to make this right.”

His words shattered you, and for the first time, you saw tears in his eyes, glistening on his lashes, streaming down his cheeks. Yoongi, the man who never cried, who hid his pain behind a stoic mask, was breaking before you. “I’m begging you,” he whispered, his hands sliding to your face, cupping your cheeks. “Don’t go. I’ll do anything, Y/N. I’ll quit if I have to. I’d rather die than live without you.”

You sobbed, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his desperation. “I don’t know if you can fix this,” you said, your voice wavering. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he said, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here. I’ll prove it to you, every day, for the rest of my life. Just don’t walk away. Please.”

He pulled you into his arms, his body trembling, his lips pressing frantic kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m yours, baby. Always. Don’t leave me. I can’t—I can’t breathe without you.”

You clung to him, your tears soaking his shirt, your heart torn between pain and love. His desperation, his vulnerability, chipped away at your walls. “Yoongi,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I’m so tired.”

“I know,” he said, his arms tightening around you. “I know, baby. Let me carry it for you. Let me make it right.” He kissed you then, hard and desperate, his lips tasting of salt and regret. The kiss was a plea, a promise, and you felt yourself melting into him, your bag slipping from your shoulder to the floor.

The kiss deepened, a collision of longing, apology, and raw need. Yoongi’s hands tangled in your hair, his body pressing against yours as if he could fuse you together, keep you from slipping away. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve been so fucking stupid, baby. Let me show you how much I love you.”

You nodded, tears still falling, as he lifted you, carrying you to the bed. His touch was both tender and urgent, his fingers trembling as he undressed you, peeling away your clothes like he was unwrapping something sacred. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his lips brushing your collarbone, your shoulder, the curve of your breast. “My baby. My everything.”

He kissed every inch of your skin, worshiping you with a reverence that made your heart ache. His lips found your nipples, sucking gently, his tongue swirling, drawing soft moans from you. “So perfect,” he murmured, his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing the sensitive peaks. He moved lower, his kisses trailing down your stomach, his breath hot against your skin.

When he reached your pussy, he paused, his eyes meeting yours, dark with desire but soft with love. “I’ve neglected you,” he said, his voice low. “I’m so sorry, baby. Let me make it up to you.” He kissed you there, his lips soft at first, then hungry, his tongue exploring you with a devotion that sent shivers through your body. He licked and sucked, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you open for him. “You taste so good,” he groaned, his voice muffled against you. “I could stay here forever.”

You moaned, your hands fisting the sheets, your body arching into his mouth. He worshiped you, his tongue circling your clit, his lips sucking gently, until you were trembling, your breath hitching. “Yoongi,” you gasped, and he hummed, the vibration pushing you closer to the edge. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me, baby,” he said, his voice a low command. “Let me feel you.” You did, your body shuddering, your cries filling the room as pleasure crashed over you. He didn’t stop, his tongue coaxing every aftershock from you, his hands stroking your thighs soothingly.

When you were spent, he kissed his way back up your body, his lips finding yours. “I love you,” he said, his voice raw. “I’m never letting you go.” You reached for him, your hands tugging at his shirt, and he helped you, stripping quickly until he was bare before you. You took him in, the lean lines of his body, the faint scars from old injuries, the hardness of his cock, already leaking with need.

You pushed him onto his back, straddling him, your hands roaming his chest. You kissed down his body, your lips tracing the planes of his stomach, the sharp jut of his hipbones. When you reached his cock, you took him in your hand, stroking slowly, watching his face. His eyes fluttered shut, his lips parting, a low groan escaping him.

“Baby,” he breathed, as you took him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip. You sucked him deep, your hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, your eyes locked on his. He watched you, his gaze heavy with lust and love, his hands tangling in your hair. “Fuck, you’re so good,” he groaned, his hips twitching. “So perfect for me.”

You hummed, the vibration making him curse softly, his grip tightening. You worked him until he was panting, his control fraying, then pulled back, kissing his thigh. “Not yet,” you said, smiling, and he laughed, a rough, desperate sound.

“Come here,” he said, pulling you up, flipping you onto your back. He settled between your legs, his cock brushing your entrance, his eyes searching yours. “Is this okay?” he asked, his voice soft, and you nodded, your heart swelling.

“I need you,” you said, and he kissed you, deep and slow, as he pushed inside you. You gasped, the stretch delicious, his cock filling you perfectly. He moved slowly at first, his thrusts deep and deliberate, each one pulling a moan from your lips. “Yoongi,” you whimpered, your nails digging into his back.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he said, his voice low, his lips brushing your ear. “I’m right here.” His pace quickened, his hips snapping, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. He fucked you with a desperation that spoke of weeks apart, of love and longing, of apologies unspoken. “You’re mine,” he growled, his hand slipping between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. “My baby. My everything.”

You cried out, your body tightening, pleasure building to a crescendo. “I love you,” you gasped, tears spilling down your cheeks, not from pain but from the overwhelming love, the pleasure mingling with the ache of reconciliation. “I’m sorry, Yoongi. I didn’t mean those things.”

“I know,” he said, his voice breaking, his thrusts growing erratic. “I’m sorry too, baby. I love you so much.” You came undone together, your cries mingling, your bodies trembling as pleasure and emotion crashed over you. He fucked you through it, his movements slowing, his lips kissing away your tears.

Yoongi held you close after, his arms tight around you, his heart beating against yours. “I love you,” he whispered, over and over, like a mantra, his lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. You clung to him, your tears drying, your apologies spilling out.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. “I didn’t mean it, Yoongi. I was just so hurt.”

“I know, baby,” he said, his hand stroking your hair. “I hurt you, and I’m so sorry. I’ll never let it get that bad again. You’re my priority, always.”

He pulled away only to run a warm bath, the bathroom filling with the scent of lavender from the bath oil he added. He carried you to the tub, settling in behind you, his arms encircling you as he washed your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp. “Relax,” he murmured, his voice soothing. “Let me take care of you.”

He washed your body with care, his hands gentle, his touch a silent apology. He kissed your shoulder, your neck, whispering soft words of love. “You’re so precious to me,” he said. “I don’t deserve you, but I’m never letting you go.”

When the water cooled, he dried you off, wrapping you in his oversized hoodie, the scent of him enveloping you. He carried you back to bed, tucking you against his side, his hand stroking your back. “Sleep, baby,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m right here.”

You fell asleep in his arms, the weight of the fight lifting, replaced by the certainty of his love. He stayed awake, watching you, his fingers tracing your features, his heart full.

The weeks following your reconciliation with Yoongi were a testament to the resilience of your love, a delicate yet powerful rebirth that transformed your relationship into something even stronger. Yoongi, true to his promise, restructured his life to place you at its center, his actions a living apology for the distance that had once threatened to tear you apart. He scaled back his studio hours, delegating tasks to junior producers and setting firm boundaries with clients. “No more late nights unless it’s with you,” he’d said one morning, his voice low and resolute, as he kissed your knuckles across the breakfast table. His dark eyes held yours, unwavering, his thumb lingering on your hand, tracing the curve of your fingers, and the sincerity in his gaze sparked a warmth in your chest that felt like coming home.

Your apartment, once a silent battlefield of unspoken hurts, was reborn as a sanctuary of shared moments. Evenings became sacred, filled with rituals that wove your lives back together. Yoongi took up cooking, his slim fingers deftly chopping vegetables, his brow furrowed in concentration as he perfected dishes like spicy kimchi jjigae or delicate japchae. “Gotta keep my baby fed,” he’d say, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, though his eyes glowed with quiet pride when you hummed in delight at the first bite. You’d perch at the kitchen counter, sketching him as he worked, your pencil capturing the way his dark hair fell into his eyes, the subtle intensity of his focus, the faint scar on his eyebrow that you loved to trace. He’d catch you staring, leaning over to steal a kiss, his lips warm and tasting faintly of garlic, murmuring, “You’re distracting me, baby,” against your mouth.

Weekends were your haven, a time to rediscover each other. Yoongi insisted on reclaiming the countryside cabin trip you’d missed, booking a long weekend in a secluded retreat nestled among pine trees and rolling hills. The drive there was a journey of reconnection, his hand resting possessively on your thigh as he drove, his fingers occasionally squeezing gently, a silent reminder of his presence. A playlist of your favorite songs filled the car—soft R&B, soulful jazz, and a few of his own tracks—and you sang along, off-key and unapologetic, your voice cracking on the high notes. Yoongi laughed, a bright, gummy smile that made your heart ache with joy. “You’re terrible,” he teased, but his fingers tightened on your thigh, his eyes soft with adoration as he glanced at you, the sunlight catching the sharp planes of his face.

At the cabin, time seemed to slow, each moment a brushstroke on the canvas of your renewed love. Mornings were spent wrapped in blankets on the porch, sipping coffee as the mist curled over the hills, Yoongi’s arm around you, his chin resting on your head. His warmth enveloped you, the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and cedar—mingling with the crisp air. “This is what I want,” he said one morning, his voice low, almost reverent, his lips brushing your temple. “You, me, this quiet. I was an idiot to forget it.” You turned to kiss him, your lips lingering, the heat of his breath chasing away the morning chill, his hand slipping under your sweater to rest against the small of your back, grounding you in his love.

Afternoons were for exploration, hand in hand, through forest trails, your laughter echoing as you chased each other through the trees, pine needles crunching underfoot. He’d catch you, spinning you around, his kisses playful but possessive, his hands firm on your hips. “Got you, baby,” he’d murmur, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine, his lips finding the sensitive spot below your ear. Nights were intimate, a blend of passion and tenderness, the cabin’s wooden walls a cocoon for your love.

One such night, under the soft glow of a lantern, Yoongi’s touch became a language of its own, speaking of longing and devotion. You were curled up by the fireplace, the crackling flames casting shadows across the room, when he pulled you into his lap, his hands slipping under your sweater, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine. “You’re my home, baby,” he whispered, his lips grazing your neck, his voice thick with emotion. The air between you thickened, charged with a need that had been simmering since your reconciliation.

You turned to face him, straddling his thighs, your hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes were dark, heavy with desire, but softened by love, the firelight dancing in their depths. “I want you,” you said, your voice husky, and he groaned softly, his hands tightening on your hips. “You have me,” he replied, his lips crashing into yours, the kiss deep and hungry, tasting of coffee and unspoken promises.

Your fingers tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head, revealing the lean planes of his chest, the faint scars from old injuries that you’d memorized with your lips. He undressed you with reverence, his hands trembling slightly as he peeled away your sweater, your jeans, until you were bare before him, the firelight painting your skin in warm hues. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his hands roaming your body, his touch both possessive and tender, as if he were afraid you might vanish.

You pushed him back onto the plush rug, the heat of the fire warming your skin as you climbed over him, your hands splaying across his chest. His cock was hard, straining against his sweatpants, and you tugged them down, freeing him. He was thick, the tip glistening with need, and you felt a rush of heat between your thighs. “Baby,” he breathed, his hands gripping your hips as you positioned yourself above him, your pussy hovering over his length. “Ride me,” he said, his voice a low command, his eyes locked on yours, dark with lust and love.

You sank onto him slowly, gasping as his cock stretched you, filling you completely. The sensation was overwhelming, a delicious burn that made your breath hitch, your hands bracing against his chest. Yoongi groaned, his head falling back, his lips parting as he felt you envelop him. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he said, his voice rough, his hands guiding your hips as you began to move.

You rode him with a rhythm that was both desperate and deliberate, your hips rolling, your pussy clenching around him with every thrust. His cock hit deep, brushing that spot inside you that made your toes curl, sparks of pleasure shooting through you. Yoongi’s hands roamed your body, one sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, the other gripping your ass, urging you faster. “That’s it, baby,” he growled, his voice low and commanding. “Take what you need. You’re mine.”

You moaned, your head tipping back, your hair spilling down your back as you moved, the firelight catching the sweat on your skin. “Yoongi,” you gasped, your nails digging into his chest, leaving faint red marks. He hissed, his hips bucking up to meet your thrusts, driving himself deeper. “Fuck, say my name again,” he said, his voice raw, his eyes burning into yours.

“Yoongi,” you whimpered, your movements growing erratic, pleasure building like a storm inside you. He sat up suddenly, his arms wrapping around you, his lips finding your nipple, sucking hard as he thrust up into you. The sensation was electric, your body trembling, your pussy fluttering around his cock. “I love you,” you cried, tears pricking your eyes, not from pain but from the overwhelming connection, the love that pulsed between you.

“I love you too, baby,” he said, his voice breaking, his lips crashing into yours as he fucked you harder, his cock relentless, his hands anchoring you to him. “You’re everything. My fucking everything.” The words were a vow, each thrust a promise, and you felt yourself spiraling, your orgasm cresting.

“Yoongi, I’m—I’m gonna come,” you gasped, your body tightening, your pussy clenching around him. “Come for me, baby,” he growled, his fingers slipping between you, finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles. The pleasure was blinding, a wave that crashed over you, your cries filling the room as you came, your body shuddering, your pussy pulsing around his cock. Yoongi groaned, his thrusts growing erratic, and he followed you, his cock throbbing as he spilled inside you, his hands gripping you tightly, his lips murmuring your name like a prayer.

You collapsed against him, your bodies slick with sweat, the fire’s warmth enveloping you. He held you close, his hands stroking your back, his lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your forehead. “My baby,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m never letting you go again.”

Back in Seoul, Yoongi’s commitment deepened. He started leaving his office door open, inviting you into his creative world. One night, he called you in, his voice tinged with excitement. “Listen to this,” he said, playing a new track, a soulful melody of soft piano and subtle beats. You closed your eyes, the music painting deep blues and warm golds in your mind. When you opened them, he was watching you, his expression vulnerable. “It’s for you,” he said. “I wrote it thinking of you, of us.” You cried, pulling him into a kiss, your heart swelling with the knowledge that you were his muse, his anchor.

He attended your freelance showcases, his presence a quiet pillar of support. At one event, as you nervously presented your album cover designs, he stood in the back, his eyes fixed on you, a proud smile softening his stoic face. Afterward, he pulled you aside, his hands cupping your face. “You’re incredible, baby,” he said, his voice low, meant only for you. “I’m so fucking proud of you.” His kiss was fierce, possessive, and you felt invincible with him by your side.

Yoongi’s cold, reserved demeanor remained for the world, but with you, he was transformed. At industry events, his hand rested on your lower back, a silent claim. If someone lingered too long in conversation with you, his eyes darkened, his voice cutting like ice. But alone, he softened, his fingers brushing your hair, his lips finding yours. “You’re mine,” he’d whisper, not with jealousy but with a love so deep it was etched into his soul.

Your dynamic as dominant and submissive deepened, rooted in trust and rediscovered intimacy. In the bedroom, Yoongi’s commands were firm but tender, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. “On your knees, baby,” he’d say, and you’d obey, your body humming, knowing he’d care for you completely. He’d check in, his eyes searching yours—“You good, baby?”—and your nods spurred him on, his touch both commanding and reverent. Outside the bedroom, his dominance was subtler: guiding you through crowds, his hand firm on your wrist; tilting your chin to meet his gaze when you were nervous, murmuring, “You’ve got this, baby.”

One memorable night, Yoongi surprised you with a rooftop dinner at home, the city skyline glittering below. He’d strung fairy lights across the balcony, a small table set with candles and your favorite foods—bulgogi, tteokbokki, a mango tart he’d attempted to bake himself, slightly lopsided but made with love. He played a soft jazz record, the saxophone weaving through the night air, and pulled you into a slow dance, his arms around you, his lips brushing your temple. “I almost lost you,” he said, his voice barely audible, his hands tightening on your waist. “I’ll never let that happen again.” You cried, not from pain but from the certainty of his love, and he kissed you deeply, the city fading until it was just you and him.

Your relationship wasn’t perfect—no love ever is—but it was stronger for its trials. The memory of your fight lingered, a reminder of love’s fragility, but also of how fiercely you’d both fight to protect it. Yoongi’s love was your constant, his presence your home. He’d wake you with soft kisses, his voice rough with sleep as he murmured, “Morning, baby.” He’d fall asleep with you in his arms, his breath warm against your neck, his whispered “I love you” the last thing you heard.

Years later, you’d look back on this time—the pain, the reconciliation, the rebirth—and know it was the moment your love became unbreakable. Yoongi was your muse, your protector, your heart, and you were his baby, his everything. Together, you faced the world, hand in hand, your love a melody that would never fade.

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reasonsforhope · 10 months ago

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"A large clinical trial in South Africa and Uganda has shown that a twice-yearly injection of a new pre-exposure prophylaxis drug gives young women total protection from HIV infection.

The trial tested whether the six-month injection of lenacapavir would provide better protection against HIV infection than two other drugs, both daily pills. All three medications are pre-exposure prophylaxis (or PrEP) drugs.

Physician-scientist Linda-Gail Bekker, principal investigator for the South African part of the study, tells Nadine Dreyer what makes this breakthough so significant and what to expect next.

Tell us about the trial and what it set out to achieve

The Purpose 1 trial with 5,000 participants took place at three sites in Uganda and 25 sites in South Africa to test the efficacy of lenacapavir and two other drugs.

Lenacapavir (Len LA) is a fusion capside inhibitor. It interferes with the HIV capsid, a protein shell that protects HIV’s genetic material and enzymes needed for replication. It is administered just under the skin, once every six months.

The randomised controlled trial, sponsored by the drug developers Gilead Sciences, tested several things.

The first was whether a six-monthly injection of lenacapavir was safe and would provide better protection against HIV infection as PrEP for women between the ages of 16 and 25 years than Truvada F/TDF, a daily PrEP pill in wide use that has been available for more than a decade.

Secondly, the trial also tested whether Descovy F/TAF, a newer daily pill, was as effective as F/TDF...

The trial had three arms. Young women were randomly assigned to one of the arms in a 2:2:1 ratio (Len LA: F/TAF oral: F/TDF oral) in a double blinded fashion. This means neither the participants nor the researchers knew which treatment participants were receiving until the clinical trial was over.

In eastern and southern Africa, young women are the population who bear the brunt of new HIV infections. They also find a daily PrEP regimen challenging to maintain, for a number of social and structural reasons.

During the randomised phase of the trial none of the 2,134 women who received lenacapavir contracted HIV. There was 100 percent efficiency.

By comparison, 16 of the 1,068 women (or 1.5%) who took Truvada (F/TDF) and 39 of 2,136 (1.8%) who received Descovy (F/TAF) contracted the HIV virus...

What is the significance of these trials?

This breakthrough gives great hope that we have a proven, highly effective prevention tool to protect people from HIV.

There were 1.3 million new HIV infections globally in the past year. Although that’s fewer than the 2 million infections seen in 2010, it is clear that at this rate we are not going to meet the HIV new infection target that UNAIDS set for 2025 (fewer than 500,000 globally) or potentially even the goal to end Aids by 2030...

For young people, the daily decision to take a pill or use a condom or take a pill at the time of sexual intercourse can be very challenging.

HIV scientists and activists hope that young people may find that having to make this “prevention decision” only twice a year may reduce unpredictability and barriers.

For a young woman who struggles to get to an appointment at a clinic in a town or who can’t keep pills without facing stigma or violence, an injection just twice a year is the option that could keep her free of HIV.

What happens now?

The plan is that the Purpose 1 trial will go on but now in an “open label” phase. This means that study participants will be “unblinded”: they will be told whether they have been in the “injectable” or oral TDF or oral TAF groups.

They will be offered the choice of PrEP they would prefer as the trial continues.

A sister trial is also under way: Purpose 2 is being conducted in a number of regions including some sites in Africa among cisgender men, and transgender and nonbinary people who have sex with men.

It’s important to conduct trials among different groups because we have seen differences in effectiveness. Whether the sex is anal or vaginal is important and may have an impact on effectiveness.

How long until the drug is rolled out?

We have read in a Gilead Sciences press statement that within the next couple of months [from July 2024] the company will submit the dossier with all the results to a number of country regulators, particularly the Ugandan and South African regulators.

The World Health Organization will also review the data and may issue recommendations.

We hope then that this new drug will be adopted into WHO and country guidelines.

We also hope we may begin to see the drug being tested in more studies to understand better how to incorporate it into real world settings.

Price is a critical factor to ensure access and distribution in the public sector where it is badly needed.

Gilead Sciences has said it will offer licences to companies that make generic drugs, which is another critical way to get prices down.

In an ideal world, governments will be able to purchase this affordably and it will be offered to all who want it and need protection against HIV."

-via The Conversation, July 3, 2024

#HOLY FUCKING SHIT #100% EFFECTIVE AGAINST HIV INFECTION #AND JUST TWO SHOTS PER YEAR HOLY FUCKING SHIT #THIS IS UNBELIEVABLY GAME-CHANGING #hiv #hiv aids #hiv awareness #lgbtq news #medical news #drug trials #hiv prevention #prep #uganda #south africa #aids #aids crisis #good news #hope

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sojumimi · 1 month ago

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又 : loving you again ──── 西村力 (니키)

SYNOPSIS : where two meet as strangers and then become friends, but then one leaves the other behind, and that they are strangers again... will they mend their relationship to become friends again or even something more, or would they leave everything as they had left it?

COUPLE : high school student!ni-ki x high school student!reader to ➤ ???!ni-ki x ???!reader

GENRE : romance, slice of life, reality check, and a sprinkle of angst [maybe a little more than a sprinkle, but you know what i mean], slow burn!!

BEFORE READING : the story starts out when both ni-ki and the fmc/fl [female lead/female main character] are in high school, it’s a bit of a long start before they meet again, cause like you need development and plot ㅠㅠ ⋮⋮ face claim of the fmc/fl [female lead/female main character] is only for imagery purposes only!! in no way shape or form am i shipping her with ni-ki!

WARNING : vulgar language, and kys/kms jokes will be made, and some maybe nsfw jokes

CAST : enhypen members, leehan [bnd], sungho [bnd], eunchae [lesserafim], myung jaehyun [bnd]

STATUS : on going

STARTED : 20250330 @ 23:11

ENDED :

ꜱᴏᴊᴜᴍɪᴍɪ : my first SMAU and I think my storage is dying 哈哈哈哈, and plot may not be plotting, please bear with me ㅠㅠ

chapters & profiles :

PROFLIES : [daisie.co] || [#popular] || [honorable mentions]

CHAPTERS :

01 im sorry what, now?!

02 why. why would you choose that-

03 research

04 group hangout (not)

05 fracture, dumb shit happened

06 who the hell is that?

07 planning?

08 cafe date!

09 disaster

10 looking after a man child, only for tutoring ofcourse

11 oh- she's mad

12 arcade

13 results, shedding happy tears

14 group study session?? and more injuries

15 all nighter #grumpy yn

16 exam season midterms, finals, and ap exams

17 more all nighters

18 extra circulars

19 collage aps

20 bowling? youre a bowl???

21 that’s gay

22 ate night gathering

23 crushes, teasing, getting love from hyungs

24 k-tv, #sunghoon and sungho embarrassing moment

25 summer plans

26 news

27 letters and sobs

28 did she delete her account?

29 gone, she’s gone?

30 graduation

31 starting again ( time jump second year of university)

more coming soon...

reminder all chapter titles are subject to change! <3

──── taglist : closed

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated !

do not copy, steal or repost my work without permission.

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gabriellessworldd · 10 months ago

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Do i make you nervous?

shy, nerdy Armin x bold black fem reader

wc- 1.4k!

☆ warnings ☆: js a lil smth for my armin girlies! very light smut nth too crazy 18+, oral (f receive, you sit on his face 😛), armin is obsessed with you, so when you asked him to be your tutor he thanked his lucky stars.

"Excuse me, Miss L/n, could you stay after class, there's a pressing matter." your chemistry professor Mrs. Clark announced whilst sending you a look after she graded your assignment. "Yea i'll stay." you mumbled opening up your macbook, checking the damage, '13% no. fucking. way.' sure you weren't the best student but it was never this bad.

Class was finally over and honestly you wanted nothing more than to go back to your apartment and take a long ass nap. "Miss L/n, don't keep me waiting! Come here please." honestly you didn't want to hear what she had to say, but if you wanted to pass this class you would have to work your ass off. "Yes ma'am, what's the matter?" you were trying to be polite and sweet so maybe she'd have mercy on you but, that plan didn't work.

After 25 minutes of her lecturing you about your grades, she finally offered some help. "I would suggest you get a tutor, it could give you that extra push you need. Hearing the same stuff from me everyday clearly isn't helping you." She looks at you and shrugs, "You can see yourself out now, enjoy your afternoon." As much as she annoyed you, your professor was right, and you had the perfect tutor in mind.

Armin Arlert. Not only was he smart as fuck but he also had a gorgeous face. It made perfect sense, if that pretty boy had been teaching you chemistry you probably would've had perfect attendance and 100's on all your assignments. You saw him walking off campus and rushed after him, you weren't sure if he would help, but what's the harm in asking?

"Hey Armin!" he turned around looking for who was calling him then he spotted you waving him down. 'is y/n looking for me?' he felt his stomach do an olympic level gymnastic routine (😜) and swallowed the lump in his throat. He was captivated by you, there was just something so perfect about you. The way you laughed, your voice, your beautiful eyes, your entire being had him enthralled.

He walked over to you, "h-hey y/n" he tried not to get too nervous but the small voice crack gave him away. "hi! i was wondering if you could do me a favor?" you batted your eyelashes and smiled brightly. "o-oh! y-yea of course, what's the matter?" he said it almost too quickly, Armin was just glad he could talk to you. You studied his face, it was perfect, the way his glasses sat on his face, the pink tint on his lightly freckled cheeks, even his pink plump lips. 'wait, why is he blushing?' you smiled at the thought, this would be so easy.

"s-so you need m-me to tutor y-you?" he stumbled over his words, an hour and thirty minutes alone with you, luck really was on his side today. "Yup, that's it! Think we could start today?" you checked the time, it was 3:47. "You could come to my house now if you're free! There aren't any distractions and it would be just me nd you!" There was no way Armin was turning this down, "yes that works for me." 'fuck yea i finally made it through a sentence without stuttering' he smiled softly showing his teeth, and your knees nearly buckled.

You opened your door, the scent of vanilla and strawberries clouded Armin. Your place was comfy nd clean, "You can sit at the table over there, I need to shower quickly if you don't mind!" He nodded his head 'i can't believe im in y/n's house right now' he pulled out his textbook nd laptop, not that he would really need it.

"Thank you so much for waiting!" you walked out of your room in your pj's and matching house slippers. "You want anything to drink? I've got dr pepper, pineapple fanta, nd water." Armin watched you walk to the kitchen, your small shorts shrinking with every step, "u-uhm dr pepper is fine. thanks." You sat back down with the two drinks, your boobs bounced slightly in your exposed cheetah print push up bra. you noticed Armin's face heat up and slightly turn pink, you decided to tease him.

you leaned over the table and showing more cleavage and placed your hand on his arm, "Do you mind explaining this to me? I don't get it" Armin tried not to make eye contact with you and took a sip of his drink, but when he finally gave in your seductive eyes almost killed him. He choked on the dr pepper, "um y-yea it's dea-" "Wait.. do i make you nervous?" you cut him off, not caring about chemistry anymore, that assignment could wait.

You scooted closer to Armin and leaned in close to his face, "you're a very pretty boy Armin, did you know that?" You looked at his lips and back at his eyes, "n-no I've ne-never-" You went to kiss him and he immediately took the chance. His soft hands instantly squeezed your tits, and you ran your fingers through his soft blonde hair. The kiss was sweet but it was also passionate, it felt desperate like you both needed more. Armin slid down the straps to your top and bra, freeing your boobs. His soft hands pinched and rolled your nipples, you softly moaned into his mouth and he slipped his tongue in. But he still wanted more.

Armin pulled away from the kiss, face flushed and cheeks red, with a light sheen on his lips from your lip gloss. He lowered his mouth to your right nipple, slipping it in while still playing with the left. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging at his locks. Armin left hickeys all over your chest, wanting to mark you, he needed to know that this wasn't a deluded dream and that you were right there letting him touch you. He looked up at you while sliding your tit out of his mouth with a pop, "c-can we go to your room?" his face was filled with lust, he looked so divine. "of course" you stood up and grabbed his hand, leading him to your room. Armin was anxious obviously, but the was something he needed.

You laid in your bed with your legs propped up on Armin's shoulders as he sloppily ate you out. "Fuck Armin! right there please!" He sucked on your clit, he needed you to cum, he wanted to taste how sweet you were. "o-oh fuck armin, mmhm, right there" He came up, his lips covered in your arousal, " I want you to cum in my mouth y/n." He went back to sucking your clit, you felt a familiar pressure build up in the lower half of your stomach,"a-ah mm armin. That feels soo good!" You could feel yourself about to unravel as he pushed his tongue in and out of your hole. "Cmon y/n, c-cum for me, please." he felt you pulse on his tongue and pull his hair, he started getting sloppier.

Your thighs squeezed his head as you felt your high coming. "ah Armin 'm gonna cum, fuck!" you moaned out as he sucked on your clit, making you throw your head back and squeeze your eyes closed, mouth dangling open. You felt yourself squirt and looked down at Armin watching him lick up everything.

"Can, can you s-sit on my f-face?" He wanted you to say yes, he needed you to say yes. You looked at him puzzled, "You want me, to sit on your face?" "Yes. please y/n." You nodded your head at the blonde, Armin quickly sat down, laying down fully when he saw you stand over him. You straddled his face, not fully sitting down all the way. "Y/n sit down all the way please, I promise I'll be alright." You listened and sat down.

"o-oh fuck armin, oh my god please!" his nose rubbed your sensitive clit as he continued tongue fucking you, his groans vibrated against your core. He loved the way you moaned, it sounded so heavenly, it was his new favorite sound. You needed more, you started to slowly grind on his face, "c-can you go faster y/n please." You picked up the pace, his tongue worked wonders, it was like Armin knew exactly what you liked. "a-ah Armin! 'm too sensitive, gonna cum again" You were on cloud nine, his tongue continued the ravaging pace. "c-cum for me sweetheart." The overstimulation and sloppy licks to your clit drove you over the edge "Fuck! ah Armin!" your vision went clouded as you came down from your high. Armin was satisfied, this was all he needed, to taste every bit of you.

a/n ☆: hiiii my lovebugs!! firstly i js wanna say i'm so grateful for all the interaction with "Never get yo bitch back!" also next part will be coming soon! lmk if y'all wanna get tagged in my future projects!! (y'all like the color switch for different characters or js keep pink?)

-with lots of love, gabrielle <3

#armin arlert #aot smut #armin x black reader #aot armin #armin x black y/n #armin x reader #x black y/n #aot x black reader #aot x black y/n #aot x female reader #x black fem reader

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lecramchan · 2 months ago

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In commemoration of Lara Tolosa Chaneton's birthday, here's her story:

Lara Tolosa was a teenager (15 years old) who was finishing her highschool studies at a school in La Plata.

Lara suffered constant bullying and harassment from her classmates, so she decided to create a post on an anonymous forum (voxed) announcing her suicide, as soon as she created the post, the anons did not pay attention to it. First because it was rare to see a woman on a forum of this style and second because it was a time when it was common to announce false suicides. A combination that made you easily doubt if it was real or not, so anons were making all kinds of jokes and saying this was false. What nobody expected was that the next day, Voxed was going to be the main focus not only of the government but of all Argentine television and media.

Lara, at fifteen years old, stole a .38 caliber weapon from her father (a police officer) and took it to school along with a letter, which was addressed to her classmates: "Bye you pieces of shit, I left a game in my backpack, whoever finds it keeps it :)”. Exactly at 7:50 AM, in her geography class her cell phone rang, it was the alarm she had set to remind her to commit suicide, in front of her geography teacher and all her classmates, Lara took the .38 caliber out of her backpack, put it in her mouth and fired the first and only shot of the event.

Immediately all the media pointed at the anon forum, blaming it for Lara's suicide, however, ALL her classmates (those responsible for her death) are free, living like normal human beings without any guilt, even the day after the event audios were leaked in which they were heard laughing at her, making fun of her, here's one of them:

Unfortunately, the suicide was not immediate but Lara was hospitalized in very sensitive conditions for four days.

The social media of her bullies are currently active, justice did not take any action on them.

7 years ago, the life of an innocent teenager was taken away by bullying. You will always stay in our heart Lara.

February 25, 2002 - August 3, 2017

#tcc tumblr #tcc columbine #tccblr #tcc fandom #tc community #teeceecee #true cringe community #suicideprevention #laratolosa #lara tolosa #lara #argentina #i miss her

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snowysosturn · 2 months ago

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Fire & Desire - Matt Sturniolo Part 25

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Finale

Pairing: Y/n x Matt Sturniolo

Summary: Y/n has always clashed with Matt. Despite working for Chris’s clothing brand and being close with Nick, her relationship with Matt has always been tense at best. While being forced to be around each other more, their animosity turns into something deeper. Can they overcome their differences, or will their fiery emotions tear them apart?

Warnings: Angst, tension, crashouts

Matt’s POV

“How long ago did she leave?!” I question Nick frantically.

“About a half hour ago.” Nick says, propping the last of the pillows up onto the bed.

I don’t even know why I’m still standing here. I feel like I’m losing control over everything. I don’t bother replying, my feet move before my brain can even catch up, and I turn toward my room, the sound of my bare feet hitting the floor feeling like thunder in the silence.

I close the door behind me with more force than necessary. I can’t think right now. I need to do something.

Anything.

I pull out my phone, hands shaking as I tap on the American Airlines app. The screen seems too bright, the white background almost blinding. I can’t focus on anything except the fact that she’s gone. I knew this was coming. I knew I screwed up, but somehow, knowing she actually left is worse than anything I imagined.

I scroll frantically, searching for a flight. I don’t care what time it is. I don’t care if I’m spending too much or going against whatever plan I had. There’s a flight back to LA in a few hours. I hit pay before I can even think it through.

The confirmation email comes through, and for a second, I just stare at it.

I don’t know what I’m doing. But I know I’m getting on that plane.

I drop the phone on the bed and grab my suitcase. I shove it open, throwing clothes inside as quickly as I can. The whole time, my mind is running, replaying the argument last night, the way she looked at me when she walked into the villa.

I should’ve stopped her then. I should’ve told her everything.

But I didn’t. I stood there like an idiot, watching her walk away without saying a word, because I didn’t know how to fix it.

And now I’m here, alone, trying to salvage something that might already be too late.

I don’t even hear the knock at the door at first. When it comes again, louder this time, I snap out of it, looking up to see Chris and Nick standing in the doorway. They both look at me, but neither of them says anything right away.

Nick’s gaze flicks over the room, then lands on me. “What’s going on?” His tone is casual, like we’re just having a regular conversation, but there’s an undertone of something, curiosity, maybe concern.

I don’t say anything at all, just continue to grab my things from around the room.

“Matt?” Chris asks quietly, a little softer this time. “What are you doing?”

I look up at them, my hands tightening around the pile of clothes.. “I’m figuring this out. I need to get back. She’s gone. I’m going after her.”

Nick’s eyebrows raise, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face. “You’re going back to LA?” He looks over at Chris, then back to me, waiting for me to explain.

“Yeah” I say, standing up abruptly, the words coming out more forcefully than I intended. “Now if you could leave me alone it would be great, I don’t have time to waste.”

Chris leans against the door frame, his arms crossed, studying me. “You think going back’s gonna fix this? You don’t even know what’s going on yet.”

I shake my head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Chris I need to talk to her. She’s not just walking out without a reason.”

There’s a long pause as Nick and Chris exchange glances, neither of them offering advice. They’re just watching me, letting me have my moment to process.

Finally, Nick speaks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Maybe she just needs some space.”

I shake my head again, not wanting to hear that. “I can’t leave it like this. I have to fix it. I need to make it right.”

Nick nods slightly, more to himself than to me. “Alright, man. But you’re not gonna find answers just by showing up.”

I don’t say anything, just grab my bag, walking past them. It’s like I’ve already made up my mind, and nothing they say is going to change it.

But as I head to the door, Chris says something that stops me in my tracks. “Matt, if she wanted space, she’d have said it. You can’t force something that isn’t there.”

I turn around, but I don��t say anything. Instead, I walk out, determined to figure it out on my own.

I make my way through the airport, each step heavier than the last. My mind is running through all the ways I can explain to her what happened, what really happened.

Will she believe me?

The thought nags at me. I keep playing out the conversation in my head, trying to find the right words, the right tone, hoping that somehow I can fix this before it’s too late.

I walk through security, trying to focus, but all I can think about is her. I want to call her, to hear her voice, but I know I can’t. I don’t know what I would say. I’ve never felt so lost. The sound of the announcements ring through the terminal, reminding me that I can’t stay in my head forever. The plane is waiting. I need to move forward, even if my heart is pulling me in the opposite direction.

I wish she was here with me.

I board the plane and take to my seat, staring out the window as the plane begins its ascent. I can see it so clearly in my mind how I pictured this trip to end, that when we would come home, we’d be stronger than ever. She’d be my girlfriend, and we’d be able to tell everyone. I imagined her moving from the podcast room into my room, laughing together, sharing everything that’s been building between us. But that isn’t what’s happening. She’s gone, and all I have left are the pieces of something I’m scared I’ve already broken.

I lean my head against the window, my eyes closing briefly as the plane climbs into the sky. Anxiety on ten. I never imagined it would come to this.

The flight feels longer than it should, even though I know it’s just a couple of hours. I can’t stop thinking about the things I should’ve said or done differently, the moments where I could’ve stopped everything from spiraling. Why didn’t I just tell her the truth sooner? I berate myself silently. I should have seen it coming, should’ve known that one moment of weakness, of not being clear, would turn everything upside down.

As the plane touches down, my heart pounds in my chest. I glance at the time on my phone.

7:13 pm.

I stand, waiting for the rush of people to clear, trying to gather myself.

This is it. No turning back now.

My hands shake as I grab my bags from the overhead locker and disembark the plane. I glance around the crowded terminal, but everything feels distant like the world is being sped up and I’m stuck in slow motion.

I rush to the long term parking lot, dragging my case behind me. Every part of me wants to move faster, to get home as quickly as possible, hoping the car will move as fast as my mind.

What if she’s not at the house? What if I’ve ruined everything and there’s no chance to fix it?

The road home feels longer than it should. I know I’m speeding, but I can’t help it, I need to get there, I need to figure this out. Every turn, every stoplight feels like it’s taking me further away from her, and it’s tearing me up inside. My thoughts spin around in circles, and I try to calm myself, but nothing seems to make sense anymore. I don’t know how I’m going to fix this, but I’m determined to try.

As I pull up to the house, I glance at the car clock.

8:10 pm.

I park the car in the garage, barely taking the time to shut it off before I'm out of the driver's seat. My heart is pounding in my chest as I rush toward the door, hoping for some sign that she’s still here. The silence of the house feels oppressive as I make my way up the stairs, suitcase in hand, throwing it into my room without even glancing at it.

But as I throw my case in my room, I notice something bright on my bed. My yellow Ralph Lauren jumper, the one I let Y/n keep, laying on my bed. That wasn’t there before we left.

That means she is here. She has to be.

A wave of relief floods me, followed quickly by a surge of urgency. This is my opportunity to explain, make things right. I don’t care about anything else, nothing else matters right now.

Without wasting another second, I bolt toward her room, going up the stairs two at a time, my pulse quickening with each step. I knock lightly on the wall outside her door, my voice hoarse as I call her name. “Y/n?”

Silence. No response.

A pit forms in my stomach. But I step inside and calling her name again. “Y/n? Are you here?”

The room is empty. The bed is untouched, the desk clean, no clothes hung up, no scattered belongings on her desk, nothing that says someone lives here. My heart sinks further, a sickening feeling spreading through me as I take in the bare walls.

She was here. And now she’s gone.

My chest tightens with panic, and I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but it won’t go away. Where did she go? I feel like I’m drowning in the unanswered questions.

I turn on my heel and run back down the stairs, my mind a mess of frustration and fear. She’s not here. Not anymore. And it’s all my fault.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, hands shaking as I unlock it. My fingers hover over the screen for a second, unsure of what to say, but I can't let this go. I need to know where she is, need to make sure she’s okay.

I type the message quickly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“Where are you? Please just talk to me. I need to fix this. Please.”

I hit send without thinking, staring at the screen, waiting for a response that doesn't come. Seconds feel like hours, my heart pounding with every passing moment. I stare at the empty screen, praying she’ll reply, praying she'll tell me where she went. But I know deep down that even if she does answer, it won’t be enough to fix what I’ve done.

To think at one point I was arguing for her to live somewhere else, and now that’s what I got.

I fumble at my phone, my hands shaking as I scroll through my contacts. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. I hit Nick’s name first, bringing the phone to my ear as I pace the room.

It rings. Once. Twice. Then again.

"Pick up man." I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair.

Finally, I hear the click. "Matt?" Nick’s voice is groggy, like I probably just woke him up from a nap.

"Nick, have you heard from Y/n at all? Since I left?" My voice comes out rushed, borderline panicked.

There’s a pause, then some rustling like he’s sitting up.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep myself together. "She’s gone, Nick. She packed her shit and left the house. I just got back, and her room is empty. I don’t know where she went, and she’s not answering me."

"Shit" he breathes out, sounding more awake now. "Hold on..Chris!" I hear movement on his end, followed by muffled voices.

“Matt? Everything okay?” Chris asks, his voice calm, like he can sense the tension in the air.

“No” I say, my voice low. “She’s gone, Chris. I came back, and her room’s empty. I don’t know where she's gone, but I need to find her.”

There’s a long pause, and then Chris sighs. “Shit, man. I’m sorry. Look, I don’t know where she went. But if she’s not there, she’s gotta be somewhere.”

“Did she say anything to you guys after I left?” I press, feeling the frustration rise again.

“No, nothing” Chris replies. “But.. I don’t know, man. You need to give her space. If she wants to talk to you, she’ll reach out. I know you’re hurting right now, but you’ve gotta be patient. Let her breathe.”

I feel my chest tighten as his words hit me. Patience. That’s the last thing I feel like I have right now. “I know. I just.. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Well” Chris says, “Don’t do anything crazy. Just.. wait. And don’t go looking for her. If she wants to talk, she will. And when she’s ready, you’ll have your chance to explain.”

I don’t say anything for a few moments, just letting his words settle in. I want to argue, I want to keep searching for answers, but I know he’s right. I can’t force her to be here. I can’t force her to talk to me.

“Alright, Chris” I say finally, my voice quieter now. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, man. Just don’t do anything you’ll regret.” Chris adds before hanging up.

I put my phone down, staring at the empty house around me. It feels like a weight has been added to my chest, and I’m not sure how to get rid of it. I glance up at her room again, the emptiness now chipping away at me in a way I can’t shake.

All I can do now is wait. But for how long?

I walk into my room, my eyes scanning the familiar space that suddenly feels so empty. I walk to my bed, where the yellow Ralph Lauren jumper lies, neatly folded. I pick it up, and for a moment, the world outside disappears. The fabric feels soft in my hands, and I bury my face in it, inhaling deeply. Her scent still lingers, familiar, comforting.

It’s all I have left of her now. The jumper, the scent, the memories. I can almost hear her voice, feel her presence here in this room, how the last time we were both in here together, she was calling me out for my behaviour toward her. I should’ve owned up to my feelings then and there.

I clutch the jumper tighter, my fingers pressing into the fabric like it could somehow bring her back to me. She’s gone. I have no idea where she is, or if she’s even thinking about me, but the scent on this jumper, it's the only real thing left.

The next few days blur together, a haze of frustration and yearning. I stay in bed, barely leaving my room, staring at the walls that used to feel like home. There's times I take out my phone and go through the photos I took of her when we went for a walk together on the beach. How perfect everything was. How perfect she is. But now, everything is off. I should’ve known better. I should’ve done more.

The sound of the front door opening brings me back to reality. Chris and Nick are home from Hawaii. Nate’s staying for one more day before heading back to Boston, but it’s still not the same without her here.

I stand by the door of my room, waiting for them to come up the stairs. When I see them walk in, I can feel the awkwardness in the air. Nick’s got that look in his eyes, like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know how. Chris’s eyes find mine almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for me to say something.

“How’s it going, man?” Nick asks, stepping forward to give me a quick pat on the shoulder.

I nod, not really knowing how to answer. “I’m fine.”

Chris looks at me for a second, studying me carefully. "You good, man?"

“I’ll be fine” I mutter, still not wanting to admit how much it hurts to be here without her.

Nick and Chris exchange a glance before Chris says, “Nate’s staying one more night, alright? He can sleep in Y/n’s room, since.. you know, she’s not here.”

The words practically slap me across the face. Y/n’s room. I freeze for a second, the idea of anyone else being in her space immediately riles me up. I can’t help the surge of anger that bubbles up.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I snap, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.

Chris frowns, clearly caught off guard by my reaction. “What? It’s just one night, man. We can figure it out tomorrow. Nate’s cool with it.”

“No” I say, my voice rising. “It’s her room. She’s not here yeah, but that doesn’t mean anyone else can just stay in it like it’s no big deal.”

Nick raises an eyebrow, clearly confused by my outburst, but Chris steps forward, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “Matt, it’s just one night, okay? Y/n’s not here. What’s the big deal?”

“I don’t care” I snap, my fists clenching. “It’s not just ‘one night.’ It’s her room. What if she comes back? What if she wants to come back and that’s where she wants to sleep? You don’t just.. you don’t just put someone else in her space without asking.”

Chris watches me for a second, and I can tell he’s trying to process what I’m saying, his eyes softening a little. “Matt, we all miss her too, but this.. It’s just for one night. She’s not here.”

I shake my head, pacing away from them. “I just..It’s just not right, okay? I don’t want it to feel like we’ve moved on. I want it to feel like she is just.. Gone out for a little while, like she’ll be back soon.”

Chris and Nick don’t say anything for a moment, and I can feel the weight of their silence pressing in. Finally, Chris steps up, his voice low. “I get it, Matt. But you need to let us help. She’s not coming back right now, and we need to do what we can to keep things going until we figure out what’s next.”

The anger burns out as quickly as it came, leaving me standing there, feeling stupid. I exhale sharply, running a hand down my face. “Fine. Whatever. Nate can stay in her room” I mutter, my voice quieter now. It’s not like she’s coming back anytime soon.

Chris and Nick exchange another glance, but they don’t say anything. I can tell they’re trying to tread carefully, probably realizing I’m still on edge.

I clear my throat, trying to push past the tension. “Have you guys heard from her at all?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound casual, like I’m not desperate for any kind of update.

Nick nods, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, I’m meeting her tomorrow for a catch up.”

The words hit me harder than I expect. My stomach tightens. Nick’s meeting her. That means she’s still talking to them, just not me.

I nod slowly, not trusting myself to say anything. “Oh. That’s good.”

I try to keep my expression neutral as I ask, “Do you know where she’s staying?”

Nick shakes his head. “No. We’re just meeting for brunch.”

I nod slowly, not trusting myself to say anything. “Oh. That’s good.”

Chris stretches his arms over his head, yawning. “I got a meeting for work on Tuesday, so I’ll probably see her then.”

I just nod again and mutter, “Cool” before turning into my room.

I toss my phone onto the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed, running a hand down my face. My eyes drift to the yellow Ralph Lauren jumper still lying next to me, the only trace of her left in this house. I pick it up, bringing it closer.

I exhale sharply and lean forward, elbows resting on my knees.

How am I ever going to get her to speak to me again?

a/n : crashout matt is here.. i am also v busy over the course of the next week (and slightly stressed out) so pls be patient with me while uploading parts <3

taglist : @mattybearnard @sturn-33 @ncm9696 @yourfavsturniologirl @crazy4jewel @sodakid1234 @stupendoustreewinner @lovealwayssturniolos @matthewsturniolosss @m4ttsmunch @loveexxx @ilusa @starkeyszn @wonnieeluvvr @dylnblue @valxrieq @maggot3647 @cigarettecemetary @ribread03 @chrisstvrns @bandasaruswrx @noplaceissafeanymore @amexiass @witchofthehour @mattssgf @jetaimevous @v33angel @ivysturnss @urmom69lol @ashlishes @watercolorskyy @sturnioloshottiekay @amelia-sturniolo3 @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @pvssychicken @alizestvrnss @chrisstxrnsaxe @sophand4n4 @vickytaa @marrykisskilled @bxtchboy69 @yourfavsturniologirl @julisturn @sydneyylainn @sophia-77n @trevorsgodmother @sturnslutz @yourmother29 @girl24cherry @astronea @pinkdyit

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cvnntagious · 7 months ago

Text

𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞

☆ fuckboy!matt sturniolo blurb for anon...

Not that you cared, but Matt had been M.I.A for over a week now. He hadn't been in class, hadn't texted you, and you hadn't seen him in his usual hangout spots around campus. Not that you'd bothered to check.

Well, okay, you shouldn't have checked — But you did. Not because you cared. I mean, he didn't care, so why would you? You'd been looking for him because, for some reason, your professor had decided to hand over his work to you. It didn't seem like he knew where Matt had gone either.

You didn't really understand what this had to do with you. The professor had just told you to give it to Matt whenever you got the chance. What, did he think you and Matt were something? Because you're not. That's not what Matt wanted, and neither did you.

But as your grades began to slip, it was clear Matt was on your mind. For no reason, really. Like, you didn't like him or anything. Seriously, you didn't like him. Usually, with the help of Matt, you would've been able to de-stress by now. Even touching yourself was no good. His help had been keeping you steady for the semester, and without it, you were nothing academically. At least that's what you told yourself.

Today 10:22 PM : ' Hey sorry. Been a minute. '

That's what you saw pop up on your phone as you tried to focus on studying for the upcoming quiz. You knew who it was before you even read the contact at the top of the notification — that unreadable way of texting, topped with an annoying amount of periods, just like always. He said it'd been a minute, but it had only seemed like seconds since you last talked at that moment. You were already annoyed.

Texting back seemed like no use, brushing it off with a sigh that exuded not only irritation, but a hint of relief as well. At least now you knew he hadn't gotten himself into some shit. Not that getting into shit was much like him, it was more his brother's thing. But still, he tended to stick his nose where it didn't belong when it came to any problems Chris got into.

Today 10:25 PM : ' Come slide. Dorm's P17. '

You tried to ignore it, but the numbers caught your attention. Could he really want you this bad? Usually he'd come to your dorm, or on some rare occasions you'd meet him at Chris' frat. Never once had he bothered to give you his dorm number. This felt new, possibly refreshing. He'd always told you where he stayed wasn't necessary information— basically the nice way of saying he didn't take you seriously, nor trust you enough.

Though tempting, your better judgement told you not to give in so easily. As you held down the power button and slid the icon to power off before flipping your phone face down, you felt a certain sense of empowerment, proud of yourself for deciding it wasn't worth it. So why did you find yourself waiting for him to answer the door, fidgeting nervously as you looked at the short brown carpet of the dormitory hallway?

"Didn't even get a warning," You heard his voice as the door opened in front of you, causing you to look up at him.

With an embarrassed chuckle, you lifted your hand to show him the black screen of your phone. "It died," You lied, eyelashes fluttering as your eyes met his blue ones.

You watched his small smile as his tongue ran over his white teeth to hide it, invisalign making them chunky and, in some strange way, admirable. Then, he stepped aside, giving you room to walk into his doorway. "S'late, I know, but I just- like I said, its been a while," Matt began explaining as you walked into his dorm, leaning on the doorframe as his head followed you.

You turned to look at him after having taken in his dorm, rather unimpressed by the lack of personality. "Yeah, about that, actually— Where y'been?" You asked curiously, as he shut and locked the door behind him.

Matt only shrugged, suppressing a smirk as he took a step forward to let his hands travel down your waist. "Lot'a stuff," He replied simply, head cocking slightly to one side. Of course he wasn't going to tell you - he never told you anything. "S'a lot to handle, y'know," He then added, eyes darkening as they held contact with yours.

Your brows furrowed at his words, a bit confused. If he didn't want to tell you why he was gone straight up, you'd prefer if he didn't start hinting at stuff. "What is?" You breathed out, hands moving to rest on his forearms as you unknowingly caught his bait.

"Not being able to see you every day; To touch you every day." He said that as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, his head dipping to place open mouthed kisses on the sensitive skin of your neck. "To call you mine," He then whispered. You knew it were dumb to think he meant that, but for some reason, those four words made you want to give yourself to him completely.

Matt smiled for the first time since you'd walked in when you pulled back to admire his face, letting out a small hum when you leaned back into him to press your lips against his. Just like that, he walked you backwards towards his bed, hands slipping under your shirt to caress the soft skin of your stomach. The coldness of his silver rings caused you to hiss into the kiss, too distracted by the sensation to notice him turning you so that he was now with his back to his bed.

As he sat down on his bed, he pulled you down to straddle him, hands holding your waist. You looked down at his glossy blue eyes as your hands reached up to knock his hat off of his head, fingers threading through his brunette curls. "What d'you want, Matt?" You finally asked, one hand coming down to allow your finger to caress the underside of his chin as he looked up at you.

His hands traveled up your figure, lifting your shirt as he did so. He allowed his hands to rest on your boobs, kneeding them as he chuckled ever so quietly. "To not have to do the work this time," He answered in a teasing tone, eyes flickering down to look at where his hands worked.

Though reluctant, you lifted yourself off of his lap to hoover over it. Using one hand to stabilize yourself on his shoulder, your free hand made its way down to his belt buckle as he watched your every move intently, "Don't look so happy," You mused when your eyes had glanced up to see the excitement in his.

"You know I love this shit," He quipped as you pulled his belt through the loops, lifting himself just enough for you to pull his pants down to his thighs. You only had so long to admire all you could see through his boxers before you felt Matt tugging on your pants, pleading without words for you to take them off.

Again, you lifted yourself off of him, this time allowing him to unbutton your pants and shimmy them down your legs until they were discarded somewhere beside his bed. As he fiddled with your pants, your hand began palming him through his boxers, length already riled up from not being touched much longer than he was used to. He groaned as his eyes remained locked on yours, a wet patch turning a spot of his boxers a darker shade of gray.

After a bit of teasing, you decided it was time to finally get your eyes on the prize—his prize. Pulling it out of his boxers, you ran your hand along his shaft to feel it rock hard already. "So big," You muttered, eyes glued to it.

Matt couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips at your words, expression smug as it could be. "This's new news?" He asked playfully, a stark contrast to his usual cold behaviors. It was like he really came out of his shell when he was aroused, and you were ready to put him right back in it.

With a squeeze of his dick that caused him to grunt, you pulled your panties to the side and lined him up with your entrance. Matt looked enthralled as he watched you do your work like this were routine, hands leaving your hips to rest behind him, leaning back to tilt his head back when you sunk down onto him without warning.

His hair was messy, and he could feel he was ready to sweat with your gummy walls around him. Lips pursing together, he hummed as you began to slowly grind into him, letting you do the work, just like he said he wanted.

It wasn't long before you began bouncing on him, hands on his shoulders for stability as you let out choked moans, as if his cock were suffocating you. The quick pace had your thighs burning, struggling to keep up with it, and yet, Matt simply watched in enjoyment. It wasn't often he allowed himself to freely make noise, but you could tell he was really enjoying this, with the way he had let out more groans and pants than usual.

Seemingly out of nowhere, his hands dartted out to grip the flesh of your hips as you continued your motions. You could've swore you heard a whimper when his head dropped forward to lean on the front of your shoulder. "Fu–ck this," He drawled out to you, hips begining to meet yours as he chase his high.

This simple, not so innocent gesture only served to fuel you, completely forgetting about the burning sensation. Your bounces got bigger, lifting yourself all the way to his tip before dropping back onto him with shreik-like moans. Matt was loving this, pants and groans now following each motion on his painfully ready cock.

"K- keep goin' f'me, baby, m'gettin close," He rasped, forcing himself to lift his head from your shoulder so he could look in your eyes while he came.

You nodded, bouncing mixing with grinding as you tried to tell him you were close too. It was too late. You let out a loud moan as you snapped on top of him, Matt following suit at the feeling of your sticky liquid releasing all over his dick. Your movements slowed to ride out your guys' orgasms before eventually coming to a halt, both of you panting with each other.

"Le's, uh— We'll do that more often, yeah?"

○

"come on over, baby, can you slide for me? yeah / you know how i love it when you ride on me." -chase atlantic

w/c : 1.8k a/n : if you've sent in any anons, i promise i'm getting to them. it's taking me a while cs i take forever to write and now i'm super busy so please bare w me, these anons have been building up for months now...

-love, your grandma cvnty ☆!

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