#T-X Program

[arttsuka]

Don't mind the colors too much, I can change them a bit. What I wanna hear is about the overall quality

[powerfulscribbles]

Colored and updated version of this piece

[freaquin]

tapetum lucidum

[baffledapple]

once again i am being subjected to "educational courses on generative AI" (lengthy advertisements that the higher ups want us to watch so they can say that we are trained in AI)

[hiddeninthe-veil]

.

[luxurychristmaspudding]

summary: after a night out dancing and a lift home turns into something more, you learn something about your dad's buddy. joel miller fucks.

pairing: young!joel miller x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. it's smut, y'all. everything you've come to expect. respectable age gap (10 years ish), tiny bit of spanking, one (1) gentle pussy slap, lil bit of daddy kink, joel miller eats it from the back (oral (f&m)), edging, unprotected piv (do better), creampie, feelings, joel miller's whore mouth.

reader has hair and wears dresses, no other descriptions or name.

wc: 7.2k

an: for @schnarfer. my favourite hot priest, i worship in your church <3

Joel went out looking for trouble that night.

Hair curling at the nape of his neck, a beer sweltering in his hand as beads of sweat carved their way down the strong line of his back. T-shirt sticking to his skin, tension wound tight in his shoulders, thick in every muscle, every strand of sinew after work. 

Revelling in the feeling of how the weight of the day lifted the more he drank, the more he relaxed, feeling his smile get wider the more he loosened up in the crowded bar. Freshly thirty five, another year in hand. Tommy buying the shots, introducing him to every new face that walked into the steaming, heavy swell of wood and linoleum, every stranger who leant against the tacky bar, every pretty girl who flicked their hair and batted their eyelashes. 

He’s laughing - held flung back, chest heaving - harder than he has in a long time. Dancing in a way so unlike how he dances with Sarah in the kitchen, welcoming the heavy, slow grind of hips against his own, breathless against a sweet smelling neck. It’s hot and it’s loud on this Friday night in Austin, and he loves it.

Not quite basking in the attention of being the birthday boy, but shouldering the stream of conversation that Tommy directs his way nonetheless. Cheeks flushed pink as he’s hauled up on to the bar top, clumsy, unsure where to look as the bartender encourages him to stand in full view of the crowd. The whole bar, oscillating with colour and light and sound, roaring into a raucous chorus of happy birthday, beckoned by the chime of the bell by the till.

The spectacle of it all makes him look to the ceiling before dropping his chin to his chest, makes him laugh again, watching these people, many strangers, cheer and sing for him. 

He holds his beer to his chest through the first part of the song, cheeks tight with a smile. His eyes swivel to the corner of the dancefloor on the downturn of Joel… catching the flicker and flare of a pair he recognises, scanning your face on the refrain - happy birthday - heart dropping confusingly low in his chest, the world taking a sticky beat as his blood halts and begins to rush again - to you.

He’s not seen you here before. Much more used to seeing you coming and going from your father’s house - bright smile, wicked eyes. Moved back home after spending some time out west when you’d finished your Masters program, always happy to chat for a little longer if you were where he was. Interesting and interested - he’s been regaled by tales of you from your father - the man who’s been overseeing safety on Joel’s latest job site - and listened to more directly from you, lip caught between his teeth as he bit back amusement at the things you didn’t want your dad to know.

Your father is a good man. Kind, supportive. So proud of you in the way he talks that Joel’s taking blueprints for raising Sarah. And you - you. Joel tries to think of you in ways he thinks of other colleagues or acquaintances. Smart, creative, perceptive. Patient, generous with your time and energy when entertaining neighbours at cookouts. Any other thoughts creep in in the dead of night, and he’s quick to try and forget them by morning.

But this - you here, now - is entirely different. It could be the buzz of the tequila in his system, could be the hot blood in his veins, could be the giddy little flash of that smile you shoot him as you clap and whoop with the rest of the crowd, but his feet are itching to find you once he half hops, half clambers down off the bar, accepting claps on the back and other sentiments as he searches for you again.

But you’re gone.

Disappeared, into thin air. Like he imagined you in the first place.

He cranes his neck a little, twisting his head from side to side as if trying to loosen another tight muscle, trying to tamp down the damp disappointment he feels. 

Trying to remember how he tries to forget.

‘Happy birthday, cowboy,’ the words are breathless, squeezed through a smile.

The grin that creeps across his face is slow and wide, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he turns to face you.

‘Evenin’, darlin’,’ is his reply. Deep, coy, any idea of hiding his thoughts gone, buried. It’s his birthday, and you’re here. You and your sparkling eyes.

‘You gonna let me buy you a drink, or have you got a queue of ladies lining up to do that already?’

He laughs, and you feel the sound glimmer down your body, lighting every synapse, every receptor. You track his gaze as it drifts down your body and back up, spine straightening at his appraisal. 

Delicious thighs beneath the hem of your skirt, soft swell of your breasts above your neckline. 

‘Your daddy know you’re here?’ He asks, delighting in the way you scoff. 

‘My daddy knows I’m out tonight,’ you say, licking your teeth, eyes dropping to his mouth, ‘And he don’t care much about it. I’m a big girl, Joel. I can handle myself.’

They’re big words for someone around ten years his junior, but he doesn’t doubt it. He’s heard your bartending stories, about your debates with fratboys. Something about your confidence, your self-assuredness licks a tongue of flame up his back. He bites his cheek.

‘Best buy me that drink, then.’

He went looking for trouble that night. 

And Jesus, he found it. 

Found it on the dancefloor, your soft body grinding against his. The heat and the sweat, how you moved your hips with his, how you’d giggled when he’d turned you around, pulling you flush against him. Your hands grasping for him, clutching at his thigh as you pressed firmly against the bulge growing at your backside, head tipped back, bliss etched across your face as you felt each other.

Found it in his truck when he dragged you outside under the pretence of giving you a lift home, found it when he rucked your skirt up on the backseat, when he pulled the top of your dress down. Inches of skin he had banished fantasies about to the back of his mind, revealed to him in the dim light of the parking lot. The sweat gleaming on your sternum, shining on your clavicles, your neck. He wishes, now, that he had taken more time to tell you how beautiful you looked, how smart you are, how funny, that first time, but the two of you had been too caught up in seeing, feeling, as much as possible. 

His knees had protested as he crammed himself onto the floor, wanting to be between those thighs, wanting to taste you. Pressing, gliding his fingers against your pussy over your underwear, watching you keen and beg, hands twisting tight in the material of your dress, then his shirt collar, then his hair. 

And that first swipe of his tongue when he’d pulled your underwear to the side, that first, most base knowledge of you. The sweet and sour, your smell, the way you became pliant, willing to have your thighs pushed up towards your chest. Quickly obsessed with the way you looked down at him, jaw slack, pupils blown, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Quickly obsessed with the way your pussy looked, puffy, needy, the way it leaked and clenched before him as he leant back to spit on it, how your head hit the headrest with a soft thump.

Too obsessed, everything about that night feeling too good as he lowered you down onto him, as he sunk his teeth into your shoulder to stop himself from coming too early, watching you bounce on his cock, listening to the way you moaned and panted and whimpered his name. The wet sounds of you fucking, the way he held you still, big hands on your waist as he bucked up into you. The way your noises, your breathing stuttered as he thrusted harder, as he dropped you lower. The fogged windows, low bass from the bar, how you clenched and fluttered around him as he wrung two orgasms from your pretty body before spilling himself inside you.

He’s been finding trouble ever since.

Finding reasons to help you grab drinks, bring out nibbles at your dad’s Halloween party. Finding excuses to have you backed up against the tool bench in the garage instead, his hips between yours, soft lips against chapped or your hand tight against your mouth to make sure nobody would find you. Heading back out into the garden with his cock still swollen, tucked into his black slacks, feeling your slick around its base still, your fake blood smeared on his dog collar, watching as you pressed your thighs together in your seat, knowing you could still feel him trickling out of you. He could hear your teasing through the glint in your eye - some priest you are, father.

Driving you home from the bar after a night of dancing around each other, after glances were snuck whenever they could be - over his brother’s shoulder, between your friends’ laughter. The crackle of electricity in the truck cab as the warm air threaded itself between you, your sparkling eyes, devious little laugh. 

Walking you to your door, keeping you safe, don't wanna disappoint your old man. 

Jamming his foot between the wood and the frame to come in when you told him he wasn’t home. 

The mornings when Sarah’s waking up, still sugar-high after a sleepover, in a house the other side of town. The mornings he’s awake first, drinking coffee at his kitchen table when you hop down the stairs in his t-shirt from the night before, sleep-stained and perfect. The mornings that start with you in his lap, with kisses pressed to temples, lips, necks, his wide palms snaking under the material, fiending warm skin, finding it, cradling it. The firm weight of your breasts in his palms, the pebbling of your nipples beneath his thumbs. The soft rock of your hips against his hardening length, his fingers reaching to pull your panties to the side, finding you soaked like that first night. How you whine and huff against his shoulder as he sinks one, two, three digits into you, as he twists them, pumps them, as he uses his thumb to toy with your clit. The wet patch you leave, darkening the grey tenting below you, the outline of him something you want to press your face against, nuzzle, mouth at until he’s begging this time. 

Mornings when he takes you apart deftly, until you hover above him, pulling his hard, leaking cock over the top of his sweatpants, savouring that delicious stretch around him, the way he thickens out at the base, the way the wiry hair there catches on your clit. When you can enjoy the way he holds you there afterwards, talking about your days ahead, nibbling at your ear as his cum slips from you along with his softening cock. 

All these moments, and they’re never enough.

Because despite how often they happen, how often he might be able to hold you, kiss you - you make Joel Miller feel like a fucking teenager. 

It’s been years since he’s woken up to the cooling evidence of a wet dream in his boxers. He’s having them nightly now in his thirties; sick and tired of waking up wet and aching and sticky, sick and tired of wishing it was you, not his hand, helping to solve the problem.

He wants you here so much more often than he does. The tip of his tongue on the evenings you call, sunlight fading through the window, orange on his sheets. He wonders, as you talk, what it would look like painted onto your skin. 

He wants Sarah to actually know how he feels about the woman who babysits her every so often, wants Tommy to understand the reason why he turns up smiling to the site every day. And he wants your father to know his daughter has found someone who’ll treat her right, who’ll hold her hand through the bad days and give her all he can to make her smile.

The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders whether you have, too. 

Whether you’d confess to your father the crush you have on the contractor, ask if he could put in a good word for you. There isn’t much between you - it would only take some careful wording, an evening where he can present the flowers he’s been dying to give you at your door.

He’s sure your father wouldn’t mind.

But this secret, the sneaking around - he can’t deny the thrill of it. Stolen touches, kisses, whispers in the moonlight. Quiet jokes between the two of you, the looks exchanged around others, the show of you putting your hand on his shoulder - can I get you anything else, Mr Miller?

You’ve only come close to being found out once. Just the once. By Tommy - who else could it have been? 

Tommy, who couldn't hide his delight when he found the underwear you’d left behind in Joel's truck one morning, wheezing with laughter as Joel stuffed your soft, cotton panties into his back pocket. His cheeks aflame, he swore under his breath that he’d kill his little brother if he ever flicked a woman’s underwear at him like that again instead of doing the right thing - kicking them under the seat and pretending he hadn’t seen anything. 

Between gasping breaths, Tommy had managed to make a good point. At least it wasn't Sarah who’d found them.

You gonna tell me who the lucky lady is, big brother?

He didn’t. Not yet.

It’s been so unbearably hot all day.

Too hot to work in the open air, and though Joel’s not grateful for the heat, he is grateful for the chance to stay at home. A chance to catch up on chores while Sarah basks in the AC at school, a chance to work his way through bills and invoices, fighting to keep his head clear of any thought of you and what you might be up to in weather like this.

He keeps his eyes carefully trained on numbers, figures, dates, unaware of the clock, unaware of the calls he’s missing. Only catches himself daydreaming when the lines start to blur.

He makes it to just past lunchtime when he hears a car pull up in the driveway. He knows the rattle of that engine, the heave of noise it makes as it turns off.

He stands from the table, blood racing in his chest.

‘God- motherfuckin’ shit,'

Joel lets the front door hang open behind him, folding his arms across his heart as you try and jam your wing mirror back in place.

‘You kiss your grandma with that mouth?’

You grin, flipping him off as you slam the door closed. The mirror sticks.

‘Yeah. Suck your dick with it, too,’

His lips quirk, watching as you stand with your hip against the front of your car, a box in one hand, the other shielding your eyes from the sun. Staring at each other, a little game you play. You watch his smirk grow, feeling the trickle of sweat down your spine.

‘There a reason why you’re here?’

You roll your eyes, like it should be obvious. And it is obvious, but -

‘Freezer’s fucked,’ you huff, and Joel raises an eyebrow. ‘Can I put them in yours?’

You hold the box up to him.

‘Popsicles?’ Joel frowns. You roll your eyes at him.

‘Please, Joel. They’re literally the only thing keeping me sane,’

He scratches at his jaw, pretending to contemplate.

‘I dunno, darlin’,’ he says, ‘The only thing? Surely that AC of yours is doin’ a fine job,'

You scoff at him, folding your own arms. 

‘That old piece a’ shit ain’t doin’ nothin’ and you know it,’

He chuckles, letting his arms drift to his sides.

‘Guess I can take care of ‘em for ya. Anythin’ else?’

You bite your lip, eyes glinting in the sun.

‘Can I come in?’ you ask. A slow, smug smile grows across Joel’s lips.

‘'N do what, exactly?’

You pout at him, fluttering your eyelashes. His cock twitches.

‘Just wanna swim in the pool. Promise I won’t do nothin’ else, Mr Miller,’

‘Nothin’ else, baby?’ He says, lowly.

You shake your head, eyes wide. Picture of false innocence.

‘Nothin’ else,'

If there are two things Joel has come to know about you in the last year, it’s that you’re a great fuck, and a bad liar.

He steps back into the open door behind him, grinning as you skip past him into the hallway. He watches, snicking the catch and lock as you make your way into the kitchen, swinging open the refrigerator door, finding a spot for your iced treats. He follows, leaning against the doorframe, watching as you stand in the cold air flowing from the appliance for a moment, your eyes closed.

He’s looking at your legs when you turn to speak to him, snapping to meet your gaze as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. That ship sailed long ago. You grin at him.

‘Whatcha been doin’?’

He exhales, stepping closer.

‘Workin’,’

You hum, meeting him beside the kitchen table, surveying the stacks of paper.

‘Not too hard?’

‘Hard to, when I'm thinkin’ ‘bout you,’

You grin, twisting to look at him.

‘You sweet on me, Miller?’

He shrugs.

‘Bout time you noticed,’

His hands find your waist as yours make their way up his chest, his shoulders, winding around his neck.

‘I had my suspicions,’ you whisper, before pressing your lips to his. He smiles into it, parting his lips to invite you in, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

‘Missed you,’ you breathe, and he hums in response.

‘Missed you too, baby,’

You’re salty sweet; warm scent of your skin, your sun lotion, your perfume, your sweat. When he’s satisfied, done licking lazily into your mouth, exploring the taste of your lips, he moves to your neck. Laving kisses there, biting, sucking, nibbling as you sigh against him. He bites harder, earning a particularly needy whimper, hands moving to knead the flesh of your ass through your dress.

‘Joel,’ you murmur, ‘You’ll leave a mark,’

He hums, trailing kisses up your neck to the space behind your ear, along your jaw, before finally meeting your lips again.

‘Don’t care.’

He’s grasping your hips to turn you so you’re pressed against the table, your back to his firm chest. You can’t help the gasp, the giggle that floats from you as he tugs you closer, as you feel the heft of him pressed into the small of your back. You shift your hips, brushing against him, slow and purposeful.

Joel groans - a long, drawn out, hungry sound. He pulls your hips tighter to him, moving against you just the same before his hands slide up to your breasts, holding the weight of each in his palms, squeezing and rolling a nipple between his thumb and finger. You tip your head back against his shoulder, and he hums approvingly as you begin to grind against him in earnest. He pauses only for a moment to pull your straps from your shoulders and work your dress down to expose your tits, and then he’s on you again. Teasing and stroking and pinching, your hand gripping his forearms as you huff and whimper, caged between him and the table. You moan his name, bleeding every once of want you feel into it, hoping he can hear just by the sound of your voice how wet you are for him.  

‘Dreamt about ya last night,’ he rasps in your ear, and you flash him a dazzling, breathless smile.

‘Oh yeah? ‘N what’d ya dream about, cowboy?’

You whine as he crowds you, leaning down to suck another bruise into the junction between your neck and shoulders, whiskers bristling against your skin, hands hot and heavy everywhere they can find purchase.

‘Much rather show you,’ he rumbles.

You nip your bottom lip between your teeth, shooting him a wicked look over your shoulder. His eyes crinkle, and as he spins you to face him again, he moves to pinch your jaw, just rough enough to curb your inevitable wise ass response. He watches as your eyes glaze a little, soft slump of your shoulders as he gives your head a little shake. His cock is achingly hard.

‘Upstairs. Now,’

As soon as he backs away from you, you’re sprinting towards the stairs with a shriek. Joel is close behind, and you can feel the heat of him, enough to set your heart galloping in your chest. Something primal urging space between you, something base wishing there was none.

You clatter through his bedroom door, whirling to face him - bare chest heaving, lips curled. He pauses in the doorway - so tall and broad, so imposing - shoulders straining against his t-shirt, curls frayed from your hands. He steps in, swings the door shut behind him, and then he’s closing the space easily - one, two, three - gathering you in his arms until you’re on tiptoes, pawing at the flesh of your ass through your sundress. Obsessed with it. You on him, him on you.

He needs this like air.

His breath is hot against your lips, mouth needy and wet as you open yourself to him. He licks into your mouth, kissing you like it’s something you need to take from him, like there’s something you need to understand through the action alone. He fiddles with the flimsy material of your half-removed sundress, pulling at it a little.

‘Take this off,’ he growls, nipping at your lips. 

You step back from him as you push it past your hips, the fabric pooling to the floor in seconds, leaving you in your panties. He bites his lip, murmuring a fuck before stripping himself of his t-shirt. Glorious tan chest, slightly lighter than his strong arms, shoulders seeming even broader, smattering of hair that leads down past his navel, his smooth belly, the constellations of freckles that join beneath your fingertips.

You busy your fingers with his belt as he cups your face once more, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your cheekbones. You’re giggling, trying to see what you’re doing through the blur of his face and hands, but then his palms are moving lower, groping at your breasts again, swiping his thumbs against your taught nipples, groaning against your mouth as you dip your hand past his unfastened belt and fly, into his boxers to cup his silken skin.

‘How’d that dream go again?’

Joel smiles against your mouth, giving a harsh twist to each peaked bud before beginning to push his jeans further down.

‘Kneel,’ he commands.

You drop to your knees in one swift motion, biting your lip at him as he whips his belt from its loops and throws it to the corner of the room. Your eager fingers curl under the waistband of his jeans, inching them and his underwear down. 

‘Don’t know how you’re wearing jeans in this weather -’

‘Cos I knew you’d be here some point to take ‘em off me,’

You smirk, blinking up at him through your eyelashes.

‘Who, me? I don’t know what kind of girl you take me for, daddy, but…’ You’re chewing your cheek to try and temper your look of amusement, but Joel gives in immediately. Goofy smile, all teeth, eyes crinkling at the edges. He cups your jaw as you wrap your hand around his base, pulling him out of his underwear, soft black material barely holding him in. 

His body moves with the first pump of your tight fist, the swirl of your thumb when you reach the head, spreading the pearl of precum beading there as he hisses. Thick and pulsing in your hand, velvety smooth, you trace its lines, veins with a delicate finger, press a kiss to his tip. Joel’s nostrils flare.

‘So pretty,’ you murmur, and that smirk tugs at his lips again.

‘I say you could touch it?’

You roll your eyes, quirking your head at him.

‘Didn’t think you had to,’ you shrug, ‘Kinda comes with the territory of tellin’ me to get on my knees -’

He scoffs.

‘Alright, smart ass,’ tangling his fingers in your hair, ‘Make me proud.’

You smile broadly, before inching closer, moving your mouth with your hand to chase down his length. You always know how to shut him up, and right now, the sight, the sound, the feel of you taking him all on the first try makes him fucking dizzy.

Hot and wet, the ridges of the roof of your mouth like satin around his cock, jumping as it hits the back of your throat and further, twitching again as you hum around him, opening your eyes - doe-like, watering already, the pinch in your brows telling him what you need to hear.

‘Good girl,’ he groans, ‘Good fucking girl,’

It’s the encouragement you need, moaning again as you pull back to the tip, taking him back in again as you bring one hand up to scratch at his thigh, the other moving from his length to his balls, cupping them softly, squeezing, rolling, and he’s on fucking fire. If there was ever a chance he was going to hell before, he’s sure the way you make him feel will send him there regardless.

You’re taking it slow, steady, making him feel every inch of your mouth as you moan and breathe, so intense that he can feel his tip heating - a kind of overstimulation - as he lets little moans slip more freely from his lips. Sighs and mutterings, breathless praise, wrecked groans as you start to move faster, jaw falling open. A steady stream of salt on your tongue, the taste making you keen for him, press your nose to the skin above his cock, making you forget anything outside the taste of him in your mouth. The hand on his thigh moving to work his length as you pay special attention to his head, your hips bucking unconsciously. His stomach jumps, lungs heaving as he massages your crown, as you kitten lick and swirl your tongue down the vein on the underside, rewarded with a sharp, wanton gasp as you pull back to slap him against your tongue. 

You watch as his pink tip flushes a darker shade, as it dribbles even more, feeling him jerk in your hand. Spellbound, slack-jawed at the way you take him, at the way you want him, like the taste and the pressure is never enough. How you always need more, more, more, and he’s getting closer, closer, closer -

He pulls you off with a deep, guttural groan - missing your mouth the minute it’s gone, resisting the temptation to shove himself back past your lips and come down your throat. 

You gaze up at him, pouting, straining against the hand in your hair. 

‘What? Didn’t I make you proud, cowboy?’

He tightens his grip, tips your head further to meet his gaze.

‘Bed,’ he commands, relinquishing his hold, ridding himself of his remaining clothes as you do yours, clambering up onto his bed, settling yourself on your knees again, wiggling side to side, your wide eyes rapt, wired. Chin wet, chest heaving, fingers twitching in your lap, he makes his decision almost instantly. Steps forwards, fingers brushing against the inside of your knee. Your legs part automatically, and he follows the contour of soft skin in the inside of your thighs right to the very top, no grace in the way he swipes his fingers through your folds, collecting the wetness there. And there’s so much of it, so much you feel proud of the way his eyes darken when he feels it.

‘What’s this, baby?’ He coos, repeating the motion as you whimper, as your shoulders hunch and your chin tips down. He lifts it with a finger and thumb, before cupping your face. You nuzzle into the touch, eyes hungry. ‘Oh, pretty girl,’ he murmurs, smiling again, ‘This happen while you were down on your knees sucking daddy’s cock?’

You snort softly, forehead knocking against his as he crowds closer.

‘Fucker-’ you start, but it’s cut off by your gasp as he easily slips in two thick fingers. He tuts.

‘Try again,’

‘Yes,’ you whisper, ‘Fuck yes, it did,’

He kisses your nose, pumping the digits slowly.

‘Gonna have to do something about that then, aren’t we?’

‘Please,’ you breathe, and he removes his fingers, slipping them into his mouth with another groan, tasting you - fuck. 

‘Hands and knees, baby,’ he says roughly, and you obey.

He pushes you forward so your chest is pressed into the sheets, nipples catching on the fabric, sweat soaking, cooling against the bed. Your breath catches in your throat - good girl, like this - and he’s pulling your hips up towards him, gripping the flesh at the backs of your thighs to spread you. Your knees slide, pliant with the need that scorches through you, and you press your cheek into the duvet, trying to angle your head so you can watch him watching you. 

And fuck, is he watching you. Eyes blown, lips bitten, a depraved intensity settling in the way his jaw flexes. You bunch your hands into fists on the cotton, shuddering as his palms run over your curves - hips, waist, hips, ass, thighs - before they stop, parting you for him again. You can’t help the way you present yourself to him, the way your hips tilt when air meets your bare cunt.

‘Atta girl,’ he mumbles, ‘Look at all that. You makin’ a mess f’me, baby? This pretty little pussy achin’ for what I wanna give her?’

You muffle your response, so fucking desperate, against his sheets, clutching the material tighter. He swipes both his thumbs through your folds, tracing the seam of your cunt, spreading the slick there to shine against your skin, teasing one digit at the entrance of your hole, the other inching its way - agonisingly - towards your clit. You throb, and he watches a bead of slick dribble down your folds, grinding himself against the bed as his cock jumps.

‘Is she, baby?’

You gasp, turning your head to him again. His eyes meet yours, dark, burning.

‘Yes,’ you half-moan, half-sob.

He hums in response, before turning back to your spread cunt. The thumb making its way towards your clit disappears, and you scrunch your brows together in disapproval, mouth working around a strangled please- before the sensation is replaced by his warm breath, then his firm tongue as he licks you from your clit to your hole. 

The cry that forces its way past your lips is strangled, choked, stuck in your throat as you clench around nothing at the contact.

‘Oh, fuck -’

And he chuckles against you, at the way your legs almost give out, wrapping his strong arms around your thighs in an effort to hold you upright. You squeeze your eyes closed as he licks further - Joel, fuck - seeking your clit again, pulling it between his lips, dragging his face against you, like he needs it, like he can’t be apart from you.

He sucks a little harsher, and at the very same time, you feel the tip of his nose edge against your cunt. You moan, a fractured sound, and he pulls you towards him again, pressing the curve of it further inside, moving his tongue in circles. You’re seeing fucking stars.

Breath shuddering out of you in high pitched gasps, toes curling against the pressure that builds so quickly already in your gut, unable to move, to find any relief as he mouths at you - ravenous, cramming his face, his fucking nose, as far into you as he can, slurping and sucking, letting his teeth graze you gently when you try to protest - too much, close Joel, ‘m close, fuck -

He pulls back just as suddenly as he came near, swatting your ass quickly, once, twice, before leaning back in. You barely have time to register the sting, how it flares goosebumps up your back, what it means, drunk on the feel of his mouth on you. He begins the same onslaught, sucking, licking, groaning at your taste before the knot tightens again.

‘Yes, please, Joel, please -’

But he’s gone again, that same firm hand landing on your backside as he pushes himself up, loosening his arms from their vice grip on your thighs. 

‘Not yet,’ he rasps, ‘Not yet, gonna come on my cock, yeah? Get it nice and wet, show me how much you like it?’

You rock your forehead against his mattress, waves of pleasure rolling through you, cunt fluttering, still so exposed to him. You take too long to answer, moaning loudly as he taps his palm against your soaked folds. You jolt, hips moving instinctively, finding nothing. You shudder a breath.

‘Yes, wanna come on your cock, I need it daddy. Need you inside me, need you to fuck me, need to come, Joel, please -’

He pulls you by the hips to the edge of the bed again, one palm kneading the flesh there, the other sliding three fingers through your arousal, bringing the wetness to his cock, slicking himself up. You raise yourself up on your elbows, looking back at him, and Joel's heart almost gives out. That perfect little pout, the sweat dripping down your forehead, the bead of it that travels down the valley of your spine, shining against your skin. Every inch of you so perfect, glossy in the heat, his. The patch he loves so much at the bottom of your back, just before the swell of your ass, even better, impossibly, from this angle. 

He holds you still with the grip on your hip as he nudges the tip of his cock against your entrance, and your breath stills in your lungs. That first press, the pressure, the beginning of the stretch, the way you contract around the promise of it, waiting, waiting -

Waiting.

Joel smiles, though you can’t see it. His body pulled taught, barely resisting the urge to push himself further into you. 

‘Go on, pretty girl,’ he says, ‘Wanna see you fuck yourself on it. Show me how bad you need it,’

You hear his breath catch the moment you begin to slide down, and then the room is silent, save for the buzzing of his fans and the sticky sound of you pulling him inside. When you reach his base, nestling against the hair there, you both let out an honest, drawn out groan of relief. You’re so full of him, the stretch welcome, pressing against a sweet spot deep inside you, just enough to leave you breathless. You can feel him pulse in time with your heartbeat, feel yourself grow wetter, begin to drip down your thighs as you breathe heavily, as his grip grows firmer, as his fingers slide to the crease between your thighs and your stomach.

‘Move, baby,’ he pleads, sounding just as wrecked as you feel.

So you do. Slow, methodical, so you can feel all of him. Every inch, every vein that makes you clench around him, that makes him groan low in his throat. You know he wants it faster, that this time he wants more, but you’re too busy indulging yourself, focused on the drag of him against your walls, showing him how he takes care of you, making sure he watches how he fills you, how well you take him. 

When the pressure begins to grow, when he coos at you a little more, you move with more force, fucking yourself back, your noises coming louder, higher pitched, while his grow lower, as he babbles to you more and more. 

‘Fuck, look at you, baby. Look at you. Take me so good, take me so deep. Perfect pussy, made f’me, ain’t she? So pretty baby, so pretty the way you stretch, feel so good, so good, darlin’, fuck -’

He’s almost too caught up in the way your ass recoils against his thighs, the way your pussy moulds itself to him, that he misses the tell tale signs of you about to come. The way you gasp, the way you tighten and throb, the way you fist the sheets around you, the way your body begins to lock up -

‘No. Not yet,’ he grits out, pulling his hips back, pulse pounding in his ears as he watches your body try to chase his before he grips you again, turning you onto your back.

You’re sobbing around your plea - please Joel, been so good, just wanna come around you, please baby - but he’s steadfast.

He wants to see your face when you let go. Wants to watch your eyes roll, wants to watch you arch, wants to see the way your stomach lurches -

You scrabble for him, slurring your words, so fucked out - please Joel please, please baby, god, I just need - as he arranges your legs so your knees are bent, so your pretty little pussy is exposed completely to him - need you, please fuck me - before he swipes his thumb against your clit again, just to hear your broken whine, the hiccuped sigh, the way your body twitches, so close.

He pauses, holds your thighs wide open before him, towering above you. You reach to skate a hand up his tan belly, fingers scraping through the hair there, the muscled lines leading down to his cock, enjoying the thrum of his heart beating through his skin before he knocks it aside, pursing his lips and spitting straight onto where you are connected.

It turns you half-feral, rearing up towards him as he speaks.

‘There we go, baby. This what we need,’

The first thrust in takes your breath away. 

And he doesn’t give you any chance to get it back.

He sets a punishing pace, feeding you his cock with dogged precision, consumed by how you look spread beneath him, with how puffy and slick and shiny your pussy is, how it splits around him. 

Thick heft of him sawing in and out, the way you clutch at him, sucking him back in, tighter and tighter each time, like your body is already missing him. So wet slick is smeared around your thighs, soaking Joel’s lap, leaking down into the cleft of your ass. He kisses you, slow and deep, gasping and panting against your lips. Guttural moans from him, needy little whimpers from you, the sloppy sound of pleasure. 

He breaks away from you when the kisses are splintered by gasps of air, fixing his mouth to your neck, inhaling deeply there, pressing his lips to your shoulder, lower, the top of your breast, your sternum, before closing them around your nipple. You keen as he scrapes his teeth over the sensitive bud, hands flying from his flexing forearms to his hair, scratching his scalp, moaning his name, chanting it - Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel.

He sucks harder, tongue working around the flesh before he does the same to your other breast, fingers slipping down over the damp skin of your belly towards your sex, seeking that last nudge you need to send you flying over the edge.

Tighter, wetter, arching to meet his mouth as you gasp and plead - gonna come Joel, gonna come, please can I come, please, please -

You barely register his nod against your chest, barely hear him gasp ‘Give it to me baby, good girl, that’s it,’ before the flood overwhelms you, clawing through your body, ripping through you like flame. Your body tenses, jerks, hips stuttering against him, pussy throbbing as you cry out, pleasure flushing through you all the way to the top of your head. Aftershocks flare like fireworks behind your eyelids, hips moving frantically with his to chase the very end of your orgasm.

Joel watches, chest hot, stomach tightening with that tell tale taughtness - oh, shit baby, yeah, s'that good? - before his own eyes squeeze shut, his body faltering, pushing all the way up against your cervix as he pulses inside you, filling you with warmth, spilling himself until it begins to leak between your thighs.

He gives a couple of softer thrusts before he groans again, hearing you whimper, ears ringing, pulling out just to watch himself drip out of you. The sight makes him greedy, makes him press it back into you even as you hiss in protest, too sensitive. He looks up just as you crack an eye open, an arm swinging across your forehead.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ you mumble, a smile growing before he breathes a shy laugh at the ceiling. He loves the sound of your giggle as you watch him.

He crawls back up your body, ignoring how the heat begins to creep back in, become formidable again. He presses kisses to your collarbones, your neck, your cheeks, and you thread your spare hand back through his hair, enjoying the way it looks, mussed by you.

His sweaty forehead presses against your sternum, laving affectionate, wet kisses there as you come down from your highs, panting in the warm air of the room. 

You continue to card your fingers through his damp curls, staring up at the ceiling fan as it whirs and spins above you. Your eyes flutter closed, content.

‘You’ll have to get Sarah from school soon,’

He grunts in acknowledgement, nuzzling into your ribcage, licking at the salty skin before nipping it between his teeth. You giggle, body lurching away slightly before it’s fixed in place by his wide palms at your hips. ‘And I have to be home before four,’

He groans, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast.

‘Come over for dinner,’ he murmurs, ‘Tell your dad we're hangin’ out, gettin’ to know each other. I’ll grill some stuff. You bring some more of those popsicles,’ 

You snort at him, huffing something about how nothing will get grilled if you’re watchin’ me suck on a popsicle, even as your chest and cheeks heat, before he slumps on top of you, plush lips crushing against yours in a searing kiss, tongue licking into your mouth, setting you ablaze again beneath him. You moan as he moves to your neck, sucking and biting and bruising.

‘Come,’ he groans into your skin, ‘Promise you’ll come. I'll make it worth your while,’

You offer him a breathy laugh, a sure at the double entendre with sparkling eyes. Your back arches, hands gripping his biceps as he languidly moves lower, taking your nipple in his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the raw bud, grazing it with his teeth before sucking gently.

‘Joel -’ you gasp, clenching your thighs together as you wriggle beneath him, meeting his warm brown eyes as he looks up at you through his eyelashes. ‘We need to -’

He cuts you off with a sharp nip at the puckered flesh. He turns his head to the side, checks the watch he’s still wearing, and fixes you with a dark, hungry look.

‘Reckon there’s time to go again.’

[dark-l-angel]

Omg love you know what I have been thinking of? You know that trend on TikTok of filling a t-shirt with painted missed on some type of symbol ?

A while ago I saw a girl putting her paint kisses on a Batman symbol shape, and I just thought of dick grayson’s reaction.

I’m not one for cheesy things, but I just imagine doing that shirt for him (with a nightwing symbol ofc) and I just know he would be over the moon 😭

A/N : the Batboys getting gifted a shirt with a symbol kissed all over by you? Awww 💕🥰

Batfam x Reader - making them a kiss-painted shirts

You didn’t mean to start a war. Really.

It began as a silly idea, something you saw on TikTok: paint your lips, kiss a symbol onto a shirt, and gift it to someone you love.

So naturally… you made five.

Five shirts. Five symbols. Five completely different reactions.

Dick Grayson :

You saved his for last. Blue paint, the Nightwing symbol sketched lovingly across the chest. Every inch of it smudged with perfect, pouty kisses.

You don’t even get a full sentence out before he scoops you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

"You kissed the bird?"

"I kissed it a lot."

"You kissed the bird."

He’s spinning you in the kitchen, laughing like a man who just got proposed to.

"I’m never washing this shirt. I’m wearing it to bed. I'm wearing it to my funeral. Babe, you just made me a relic."

He takes a photo of it next to his abs. Posts it. Captions it: "She kissed me. On the bird. I win."

Jason Todd

You’re not sure how he’ll react, so you play it cool. His shirt is black, the bat symbol in red, your kisses in blood-red paint like lipstick stains on a crime scene.

He stares.

Long.

Silent.

Then:

"You do realize I’m gonna wreck this shirt jerking off to the idea of you doing it, right?"

You smack his arm. He grins like the menace he is and tosses it over his shoulder.

"Make me one with your real lipstick next time. And wear nothing but heels and a red lingerie while doing it."

Tim Drake

You hand him his shirt during one of his 3 a.m. caffeine binges, expecting a distracted glance.

Nope.

His tired eyes snap wide the second he registers the symbol… covered in crimson lip prints.

"Wait. Wait. You did this? With your mouth?"

He holds it like it’s a sacred text.

"This is… statistically speaking, the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. Do you have any idea what this’ll do to my oxytocin levels?".

You shrug. He immediately pulls you into his lap, shirt in one hand, your waist in the other.

"New rule. You don’t do arts and crafts for anyone but me."

Damian Wayne

You had to custom-print a tiny “R” logo for his, but it’s the only one with perfectly centered, crimson kisses all around it.

When you give it to him, he squints. Tilts his head.

"Did you damage your lips during this process?"

"No?"

"Hmm. Then I suppose I have no objection."

He immediately puts it on.

And doesn’t take it off.

For like, two days.

You catch him in the mirror, touching one of the kiss marks with the barest hint of a smirk.

"You have excellent aim, Beloved."

Bruce Wayne

Now this one? You expected confusion. Embarrassment. A gruff "thank you."

What you didn’t expect was the silence.

He stares at the bat symbol covered in red lips. Your lips.

He touches one with his gloved fingers like it's sacred.

"…You kissed every inch of it."

"Yeah."

"On purpose."

"Yeah, Bruce, that was kind of the point."

He sets the shirt down. Walks to you. Cups your face like you’re the only thing in the world not made of shadows.

"Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

Needless to say… he doesn’t wear it in public.

But he keeps it in the Batcave.

Right next to his suit.

Framed.

The conclusion my lovely lil kitten is:

no. You didn’t mean to start a war.

But now they’re all in quiet competition, seeing who gets the most kisses next time. Jason’s trying to make you paint his helmet. Tim’s trying to code a program that lets him detect how many lip marks are truly present. Dick’s commissioning a second shirt. Damian’s been spotted sketching his own designs for "future projects with your mouth" and Bruce? Bruce just added a lock to the Batcave display case.

You win, baby.

You always do.

[moonstruckme]

hello! im not sure if you've done this before and if you have, i hope its ok to ask for more hehe but can i request rockstar poly marauders w a shy!reader and gets easily flustered when they show affection? thank u sm i really love all your poly marauders drabbles!!

Thank you for requesting angel <33

rockstar!marauders x shy!reader ♡ 1k words

The sound tech at this venue is nice. You liked her first for her pink hair and then for the easy way she motioned you over to help do the boys’ sound checks. You don’t think she needed the help; she only saw you standing off by herself and did a kind thing to make you feel less awkward. 

Now the boys are off in their dressing room, and you’re trailing contentedly behind her while she shows you how she sets up for shows. 

The bustle and ruckus of crews setting up before shows isn’t new to you. You’ve been with the boys since the beginning of their tour, but usually you stay out of the way, blending into walls or taking refuge in your boyfriends’ dressing room while they’re busy. You’ve never really gotten to know the actions the bustle and ruckus constitute. 

“Usually I help with lighting once I’m done with my own stuff,” the sound tech tells you. “It’s all programmed ahead of time, so really I’m just on standby in case something happens. Do the boys have a favorite color if I have to pick something?” 

You gnaw your lip, contemplative. “Sirius would probably like yellow, if you get the chance.” 

Her eyebrows shoot up. You know it’s not in the usual color palette of the boys’ shows. “Really?” 

“No.” You suck in a breath as a pair of arms wraps around your middle, releasing it when you realize it’s Sirius. “Not really. Minx, you know I hate yellow.” He smushes his face into your cheek. “Joke’s on you though, I look good in every color.” 

“Yellow certainly least,” James teases. He steps into your field of vision wearing his concert outfit. Jeans and a tight t-shirt just short enough to tease a sliver of abdomen. Of all the fans who will get to see him looking so handsome tonight, you’re glad you’re one of them. 

“Anyway,” he says, grinning, “we have a very important question for you both. No pressure.” 

“Well, some pressure,” Sirius says. 

You look at your sound tech friend. Like most crew, she’s largely unaffected by the rockstars currently sharing in casual repartee in front of her. Her eyes don’t appear to dip to James’ stomach or trace the myriad of tattoos you know are showing through Sirius’ sheer top. If anything, she looks only faintly amused by the way the band’s lead singer is mushing tiny, soft kisses into the skin by your ear. Your cheeks warm. 

“What’s the question?” you ask, dreading the reply. 

Sirius turns you in his arms, taking you by the shoulders and levelling you with a very serious look. “What is the hottest instrument for someone to play?” 

Your sound tech friend barks a laugh. “Bass,” she says. “No question.” 

James’ eyebrows fly up, his expression one of utter disbelief, but Sirius only says swiftly, “Wrong. You know what it is, don’t you, gorgeous?” 

Your shoulders gravitate upwards at the moniker. “You can’t ask me to pick between you.” 

“Don’t think of it as picking between us,” he says. “Just, which is the hottest? Objectively.” 

“I can’t be objective,” you plead. 

“Does anyone know what time it is? I can’t seem to find a clock in this whole place.” You turn your head as Remus emerges from their dressing room, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Oh.” He blinks when he sees you, waving to dispel the smog. “Sorry, dovey. Where’ve you been?” 

“I’ve been here,” you say, voice softening. Sirius makes a quiet sound and hugs you again. 

“You’re cute,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. Your face flames. 

“It’s quarter ‘til,” the sound tech offers helpfully. 

Remus turns to her with a smile he’ll never understand the power of. “Thank you.” 

“We’re conducting a poll on which instrument is the hottest,” James informs him. He jerks his thumb toward the sound tech. “She says bass.” 

Remus’ grin turns smug. “Quite right. What’s your pick, dove?” 

You’re mute and melting, hot enough by now that you wish you could evaporate into steam and float away through the vents. 

“She won’t say,” Sirius sighs dramatically, breath warm against your cheek. 

“Oh.” Remus seems to wisen to your plight. “It’s not really playing fair, is it? She can hardly be objective.” 

“Right,” you agree quickly. 

“But angel,” says James, bewildered, “guitar is classic.” 

“I’ll tell you what’s not fair,” Sirius argues. “For anyone to say anything other than the front man! We’re chosen for our hotness!” 

“Well, that’s not strictly true, is it?” 

“Yeah?” Sirius has that shit-eating grin, like he’s winding James up in anticipation of hauling him into a broom closet. You’re only glad it’s not directed at you. “You got something to say, Potter?”

“Sorry,” Remus apologizes to your sound tech friend on their behalf, touching a hand to Sirius’ back to guide you both towards the dressing room. James follows. 

“You’re good,” she laughs. “Nice to meet you, y/n.” 

“You too,” you say, cringing at the unintentional softness of your own voice. 

“Who was that?” Sirius asks as James closes the door to their dressing room behind you. “Have you made a new friend?” 

You groan, flopping down onto the posh-looking, uncomfortable couch and covering your face with your hands. “I was trying to.” 

“It looked like it was going well,” James says. “Maybe you can hang out with her again while we’re onstage.” 

“I can’t now,” you mumble between your palms. 

“Why not?” 

“Because,” says Remus, as he sits beside your head and begins smoothing your baby hairs with his fingers, “we’ve embarrassed her.” You let your hands slip down enough to see him, and he smiles at you. “I don’t think she’ll hold it against you, dovey. She seemed nice.” 

“You would think so.” Sirius plucks the cigarette from between Remus’ fingers, taking a drag before it can burn out. “She picked your instrument.” 

Remus shrugs, smug again. “That helps.” 

Sirius squints at him spitefully. He sits next to your knees where they’re flung over the arm of the couch. “Don’t let us spoil your new friend for you,” he says, sincerely. “She loves you already, I can tell. You’re perfect.” 

“You’re biased,” you counter, face heating again. 

Sirius grins like he can tell and reaches down to tug you upwards. He grasps you with a roughness for which he has no follow through, kissing you sweetly with his fingers bunched in your jacket.

“Wrong,” he says, lips moving against yours. “I know how to be objective.”

[transcakeoutintherain]

Ok I haven’t seen this post before, which makes it neat that I’ve made a poster very adjacent to this one!! The desire to put a beautiful font with words emphasized in color over this pic HEHE

[shellshocklove]

snapshot | old man!logan

pairing/AU: old man!logan howlett x female!reader

summary: short on money for rent, your joke about starting an only fans account, to earn some extra cash, goes over logan's head. but when an accident with charles puts your life in danger, logan takes you up on your offer.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! friends with benefits vibes who are also idiots in love, implied age gap, swearing, mentions and drinking of alcohol, use of pet names, logan's a bit of a grumpy dick, sex work, logan can't use a phone, logan can carry reader but he's also extremely strong, smut, praise kink, a little size kink (basically logan has a big dick), dom!logan, logan's got a dirty mouth, a little dacryphilia, sloppy blow job, facial, cum play, no use of y/n

a/n: a little disclaimer. i actually have no idea how OF work i only read the wikipedia page, so i've taken some liberties with it to fit it with the plot lol. the idea for the reader as charles' caretaker is inspired by @joelsgoldrush's fic never is a promise <- incredible fic that everyone should read! and also a big thank you to @guiltyasdave for all the encouragement on this fic!! <333 happy reading! <3

main masterlist / ao3

The coffee tasted sour on his tongue as he waited, engine running on empty, but the whiskey kept his throat warm. Behind the apartment complex the sun crawled up the horizon and split the the dark asphalt in pieces with streaks of blinding sunlight. The street lights shut off just as you walked out, the rickety door slamming shut behind you.

Watching you round the front of the limousine Logan pulled his seat forward, his rough hand grabbing the wheel as his left foot tapped impatiently on the footrest. A tickle in his throat had him greet you with a cough, and he brought his fist to his mouth.

"Morning to you too," you said, voice laced with sarcasm.

"Don't fuckin' slam the door like that– I've told you a thousand times," Logan grunted back and put the car in drive.

This was routine at this point. He picked you up in the morning after driving all night, and dropped you off again in the evening before he started his shift. Employing you took a large wad of cash out of his pocket, but at least he didn't have to worry about Charles being taken care of. You weren't a registered nurse or anything, not someone who'd had all the right references and education, but you needed money and didn't ask questions, and that had been perfect for Logan. He'd hired you about a year ago, and everything after had been routine.

When you didn't say anything back, only shifted your weight in the seat and leaned your head against the window, it pulled at something inside Logan. He couldn't deny you were a beautiful woman. He liked the way your nose curved, how soft your skin felt against his cheek every time you'd given him a reluctant hug, and he liked the way you smelled. It was primal, and in another life Logan would've had you in his bed already, but in this life, Logan was done with beautiful women.

Still early enough for the roads to be empty, Logan pushed the speed limit as he waited for you to speak – to finally say something trivial like you did every morning – some song you'd just discovered, or the plot twist in the reality program you watched every night, or how they were out of your favorite yogurt at the grocery store. He'd reply with a grunt, or with nothing at all, just letting you talk.

Out of the corner of his eye, Logan noticed how you picked at the skin around your nails, and when the sharp metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils, he heaved a heavy sigh.

"What's wrong with you?" he grumbled. A lilt of annoyance coated the words, and Logan hated how your silence had affected him. His harsh tone didn't seem to bother you, and the realization cut like a knife; biting down, Logan's jaw clenched.

"It's nothing."

Logan had to hold back the scoff he wanted to let out, "Clearly it's somethin', kid."

Finally, a reaction out of you. Pushing yourself to sit up straight, you let out a sigh as you turned your head to look at him. "My landlord raised my rent again… I'm thinking about how I'm gonna pay rent this month. I'm gonna be a few hundred bucks short," you told him.

Oh.

Gripping the wheel a little tighter, Logan couldn't help himself from asking, "You tellin' me you're quittin'?"

He couldn't blame you, he thought he paid you a fair wage, but it seemed that everything had gotten more and more expensive lately. The rides had been few and far between and the tank of gas didn't take him as far anymore. The weekends kept him afloat, along with bachelor and bachelorette parties, prom nights, and knuckleheaded business men too fancy to drive a regular cab to the airport. Had it not been for Charles' medication he'd give you a raise. Logan wasn't stupid, he knew he couldn't do this without you.

"No," you shook your head, "I wouldn't do that to Charles."

But you'd do it to me, Logan thought and let the words unsaid hang in the air between you as he pulled onto the dirt road leading to the smelting plant.

"I'll figure something out," you said, before a smirk teased over your face, that smile breaking forth the old you hidden behind this morning's melancholia. "Maybe I should start an Only Fans or something," you laughed.

"What's that?" Logan grunted, too focused on keeping his foot soft on the brake and avoiding the potholes to hear your joking lilt.

"Only Fans?" you questioned, one eyebrow raised in surprise before your eyes softened at the corners. "It's a social media platform for porn," you explained, "It's subscription based so you make an account and people pay a monthly subscription to see your content."

Porn?

Slowing down to a stop outside the gate, Logan put the limousine in park, the engine still humming.

"And how's that gonna help you pay rent?" Logan wondered, turning slightly in his seat to finally get a good look at you.

You were quiet for a second, eyes searching his face before the sound of a distant train had you looking away, almost bashful. "It's ridiculous," you muttered, "I don't have anyone to do it with anyway."

Before Logan could cough up an answer your hand found the passenger door, and a gust of sharp desert air seeped in. "I'll figure out the rent somehow… Sleep well, Logan," you told him, a wistful smile coating your features, before you climbed out the limousine and opened the gate. His eyes stayed glued to you as he drove past you, flicking to watch you close the gate after him in the rearview mirror. When you headed for the tank without your usual wave, a frown pulled at his face.

Stepping out of the limousine, Logan watched you leave, watched the way your hips swayed with new interest. Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, he found his flask – desperate to quench this fresh thirst with the last sip of burning alcohol, smoothing his dry throat. 

The cold coffee left a brown splatter as he discarded it; the coffee seeped into the sand. Inside the steeled walls he now called 'home' reeked of dust, like stepping into an antique shop, and Logan couldn't hold back his cough. Walking deeper into the plant with heavy steps, the old trinkets and equipment told a story of time passed.

So much time had passed.

Hanging his suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs Logan started working the small buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before tossing it gently over the ironing board. Food would have to wait, he already knew the fridge wasn't stocked. Instead, he found the bottle of whiskey he'd left on the table, grabbing it by the neck before he took a large swig.

The whiskey helped, at least that's what he told himself, but his senses never dulled enough and the weight never got any easier. Sitting down heavy on the bed, Logan drank long and hard, but he couldn't keep his thoughts from trailing to you and what you’d muttered. I don't have anyone to do it with anyway.

What was it you'd called it? Just Fans? No, that wasn't right… Only Fans.

Logan remembered the first tape he ever saw; it had been the 70s, a summer in California, at some party he'd been forced to by a beautiful woman. The tape had been projected onto a wall in the living room, like background noise no one paid attention to. It had been lewd and obnoxious, but no one had seemed to mind, high as kites and drunk as skunks. Soon, Logan hadn't minded either, whisking away the woman to make his own private porn in one of the bedrooms.

Behind the woven fabric of his slacks, his cock twitched at the thought, but it wasn't the porn playing at the party, or the memory of the woman he'd fucked that filled his mind, it was you. 

It was innocent at first; the way your front teeth nibbled on your bottom lip as you pondered your next move in a game of chess opposite Charles, how your eyes sparkled under the low streetlights as he drove you home at the end of the day, and how your perfume had filled the limousine and clung to his skin that one time you'd left your jacket in the passenger seat. His hand came down to rub over the growing bulge in his pants, soothing the growing ache with a hard press, pulling a rumbling moan from his chest. 

Soon the innocent memories of you turned to filth. Logan's mind filled with images of you underneath him, his cock buried balls deep in your wet cunt as you withered for him. Then, as quickly as the first image had come, another took its place: of you on your knees with your mouth stuffed with his cock, gagging around him and swallowing him down like a good girl.

With each rubbing press to his cock, Logan couldn't shake the rolling images of you. It was wrong, never had he thought about you like that, never had he wanted to think of you like that, but once he'd started, he couldn't stop.

Working his fingers, it was almost instinctual as they moved to undo the button of his pants. His hand dug into his front, large hand palming himself with hard presses, as his cock hardened. Trailing his fingers upwards, stopping right above the elastic band of his underwear, his hand so close to wrapping around himself, a hint of shame pulled him out of the gutter.

He shouldn’t think about you like that.

Pulling away, like he'd burnt his hand, Logan let out a deep grumbling sigh. Leaning back on both hands, he let his head fall back as he squeezed his eyes shut. In his pants his cock throbbed with need. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman, so long since he'd felt the velvet walls of a tight cunt wrapped around him, too long since he'd felt like he wasn't a monster, if only for a few blissful seconds.

Bringing the neck of the whiskey bottle to his mouth, Logan drowned his need in  temporary numbness, focusing instead on how the warmth filled his chest and dulled every ache. Falling back with a heavy bounce, he nursed the bottle in the crook of his thick arm, letting his eyes fall shut.

Logan couldn't remember the last time he wasn't tired, couldn't remember when his body didn't ache with every move. His veins bled through with rust and alcohol, and he hoped the latter made the corrosion run smoother.

His eyes fluttered shut, and the same flashing images filled the darkness. Years of fighting, years of killing, all the people he'd lost. It was the same show every night, and every night it tore a piece of him away, of his joy.

The bottom of the whiskey bottle clanked sharply as it hit the floor and a cough got stuck in his throat. It ripped and jerked in his chest, and he keeled over himself, fighting against it. When his head hit the pillow again, his eyes didn't fall shut, they trailed the walls, found the holes of blinding daylight seeping in through the holes in the corrugated metal sheets, and his thoughts found you again.

Curiosity got the best of him, and a hand dug into the back pocket of his pants for his phone. The small icons and text blended together as the screen lit up his face. When Logan held the phone a little further away the screen only got blurrier. With an exasperated sigh, he sat up, his body protesting as he grabbed his suit jacket off the dining chair, digging into the inner pocket for his new glasses.

Slumping down in the chair, his glasses resting at the tip of his nose, he tapped at his phone. He rarely used the thing outside of work, but suddenly he tapped at something that made it speak to him.

"I'm sorry I didn't quite get that," his phone said.

"Hello?" Logan spoke back.

Again his phone lit up and the voice answered. "Hello, what can I help you with?"

"What is Only Fans?"

……..

Fitting a brittle leaf between your thumb and pointer finger, you studied Charles' plants. The table always looked a mess after he'd tended to them, dirt spilled onto the table and tools thrown haphazardly about. Cupping your hand, you brushed the dirt into your hand, and discarded it into a pot you thought needed it.

Flicking your wrist, you looked at the time again. It was getting late. Usually by this time, Logan would have you halfway home already. Resorting to cleaning up the tools, you decided to give him half an hour before you'd start looking for him. He never slept in, although you could clearly see he needed it. 

Logan wasn't a man to show weakness, not to anybody, rather, he showed his teeth, barking and fighting against you or anyone who dared speak to him. It had intimidated you at first, and you'd held your tongue, afraid he'd bite your head off, but in time you'd come to realize that his gruff demeanor was just that, a façade. 

Charles on the other hand, senile and more and more forgetful, was the opposite of his son. On good days he beat you at chess while he told you stories about 'the good ol' days'. His imagination was vast, telling stories about the X-Men like he knew them, like he'd been a part of them, and especially by nightfall his stories would become even wilder. He'd tell you about his 'abilities', how he could read minds. He'd tell stories about Logan too, tragic ones, that if it hadn't been for the stack of comics you'd found, you would've almost said they were true.

Finding the chair by Charles' bed, you watched him deep in sleep. A heaviness could be felt in your chest as you thought about how his good and lucid days had seemed to get fewer and fewer lately. You found yourself having the same conversations with him, and once again today, he didn't want to get out of bed, telling you his head hurt. 

You wished you knew more of his condition, but Logan wouldn't tell you anything other than that Charles suffered from seizures, and if he didn't get his medication the consequences would be great. The way Logan had said it to you, his voice sharp and strict, it sounded serious, and in the year you'd taken care of Charles, you'd been diligent with his medication. Not once had you experienced a seizure with him.

Reaching over him, your palm found Charles' cheek. Stroking your hand lightly over his face, you felt the prickling stubble against your skin. His comment earlier about his head, had you worried. Logan usually supplied you with Charles' medication – from where you didn't know – there hadn't been any doctor's visits or health checks from what you could recall.

Maybe Logan didn't have insurance? It was your only explanation, a reason for why he'd found a more creative way of caring for his father. 

In a way you respected it, hacked an unknowing crack in Logan’s harsh façade– he cared. Only respect didn’t keep you from wanting Logan to tell you more, to open up, but wringing out more than a grunt from him was difficult. Instead, you made sure to let him know when you were running low on the pills and injections, and usually by the next day he'd hand over a new bottle. 

Stroking over Charles’ cheek, another chill of nervousness ran up your back where a worry tugged at your neck. 

Yesterday, after a week had passed since you'd asked Logan for more medication. He’d told you not to worry, that he’d have the pills soon, but running so low you'd had to resort to rationing Charles' doses.

Pulling back your hand, your eyes found your watch again, but before you could register the time, Charles stirred beside you. Then, an excruciating blinding pain permeated through your body. It rang in your ears and had your body shaking in agony, but at the same time you couldn't move. You wanted to scream, let out the pain that froze you to the chair, but no noise came out. When your vision started to go foggy, you thought that this must be what dying was like, but never would you have thought dying would feel this painful.

Through the ringing in your ears, a heavy creak of the tank door could be heard– or was it a trick your brain played on you in your last moments? Like the broad figure moving closer, slowly, too slowly, like it walked through water. You couldn't see who it was, but you didn't have too. Surely, your brain showing you Logan in your last moments, must've been a trick. The figure hovered over Charles, maybe it feasted on him first, reaped his soul as an appetizer before it would have you.

And just as quickly as the pain had taken you, the pain stopped.

Heaving for breath, your body fell forward, it was like the air couldn't fill your lungs quick enough. Two large palms cupped your cheek, tilting your head to Logan's frowning face. If you didn't know better you thought he looked scared.

"You okay?" he barked, your head rolling in his hands, "Hey! Bub, look at me."

You found the strength to nod your head, but Logan seemed far from convinced. He swiped his thumb over your cupid's bow, a flash of red coating his thumb and his face turned to stone, his frown so deep it looked chiseled.

Then he moved with an uncharacteristic haste, hiking you up in his arms and carrying you out of the tank. Closing your eyes, you tried to put your brain back together the way it used to be, but everything felt scrambled. When your back hit the soft mattress of a bed, you finally opened them.

Over you, Logan's large form hovered. He said something to you, but you only registered his mouth moving, your eyes glued to his pink soft lips, and your vision cleared completely.

"Drink this," he ordered, shoving a glass of water in your hands, and just like that your hearing had snapped back. "'m gonna go check on Charles– don't fucking move."

With no energy left in your body, you wouldn't dream of it. Logan watched you take a careful sip, the water lukewarm, before he left you in what you finally realized was his bed. The first sip nourished your dry throat, like you’d walked for miles in the desert without tasting as much as a drop. Surging forward, you chugged the rest of the water before you fell back against his pillow, clutching the glass in the crook of your elbow.

The smell of him on his sheets overwhelmed your weakened mind; a deep heady smell with a warmth to it, woven through with the heaviness of man. It soothed your mushy muscles, helping release the tension in your body.

The time passed differently now, fast and slow at the same time, and after an eternity and a second Logan was back. The weight of him where he sat down at the edge of the bed, had your whole body tipping towards him. His large palm found your cheek again, the rough pads of his fingers soothing over the skin.

"You doin' okay?" he asked, his deep voice filtering through a hint of worry.

"W-what happened to him– to m-me?" you managed to croak out.

Logan's heavy hand didn't move away when the furrow between his eyebrows deepened, the one that seemed to be a permanent feature on his face.

"He had a seizure," he told you, like it was obvious, taking the glass of water from your hands,

He must've caught the way your face turned, the confusion that flitted across it, one that spelled 'seizures don't affect other people'.

"Listen," he started, drawing back his hand, "There’s no other way of explainin' it to you other than tellin' you that all those stories he's told you about him– about me… they're all true."

The frown that deepened over your face at his words, must've challenged the permanent one over Logan's face. "W-what? The stories about the X-Men?"

"Yes, the X-Men– Is he talkin' a hole through your head about anything else?"

"No, but… there aren't any more mutants."

"Not new ones,” he sighed, “But we're old, sweetheart– the last there is." His voice went quieter and quieter as he spoke, a hint of sadness eating the words, before his palm found your cheek again. "You see… Charles he's a very powerful mutant, and years ago he started a school for mutants–"

"–I know all of that already Logan– he told me," you cut him off, "I never believed him, I thought he was just confused– the stories they–"

"–I know, bub," this time he cut you off, but he let the next words linger on his tongue. Drawing back his hand, his eyes found the wall behind the bed. "I never meant for you to get hurt– it's my fault. If he gets his medication he's fine, but… you ain't the only one who's a few hundred dollars short– it's been a slow month."

Before you had a chance to reply, Logan rose on his feet. "The seizures messes with your brain, so get some rest. I'm gonna get his medication, and I'll wake ya in the mornin'." Logan didn't wait for you to protest before he grabbed the car keys off the table, and left you alone in his bed. 

Outside the moon climbed the sky, and the new darkness, along with your scrambled brain, had your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier.

……..

"Wake up, sweetheart."

Logan's gruff voice pulled you from a dreamless sleep; a sleep like you'd just closed your eyes. Blinking, your heavy eyelids pulled shut just as quickly as you'd opened them, leaving you with a snapshot of Logan's body hovering over you. You hummed, sleep coating your brain, while your body felt like you'd put it through the wringer at the gym.

"It's mornin'."

You tried again, blinking your eyes open with more success. Logan's black suit jacket was nowhere to be seen, instead he adorned a white tank top. Letting your gaze roll over him, you noticed the scars etched into his skin, so many scattered up and down his strong arms, and suddenly the memories of last night filtered back into your brain.

"Logan," you whispered so low even you weren't sure you’d heard it.

"I'm takin' you home, alright? I'll watch him today," he told you.

When Logan told you something, he meant it. Leaving you in his bed, it was like a replay of last night as he grabbed the car keys and black suit jacket off the table. 

Slowly, you sat up and leaned on your elbows, letting the world spin for a minute. Your clothes from yesterday clung to your skin, and you felt both cold and sweaty as you got out of bed.

With each step you took every muscle ached, but somehow you managed to walk out the door. The burning light of the morning sun blinded you, and with one hand raised you shielded your eyes from the harshness while you walked closer to the humming impatient motor of Logan's limousine. Just as you'd sunk into the leather seat and managed to shut the door behind you, Logan stepped on the gas, and the smelting plant vanished in the rearview window. 

When you'd finally left the dirt road behind and hit the highway, you cracked the window ever so slightly – the morning air blowing away the last of your tiredness. The closer you got to the city, the more your stomach growled. You hadn't had a thing to eat since lunch yesterday, the aftermath of Charles’ seizure knocking you out before dinner– you needed something to eat.

"Can we stop here?" you asked and pointed at a sign advertising a diner off the next exit.

"I'm drivin' you home," Logan replied, his eyes glued to the road.

"Logan, please, I'm starving," you begged with a pout.

A beat passed, his fingers tapping over the wheel as he weighed his options, then his eyes found yours where they lingered. Staring back, you didn't know what to do. Logan wasn't a man that said yes, he liked things done his way. You bit down on your bottom lip, showing off your front teeth like a silent 'please' written over your face, and Logan huffed.

The loud buzz of conversation hit you first when you stepped into the packed diner, Logan in tow. Waiters ran back and forth between the booths lining the windows, taking breakfast orders and pouring coffee, and at the sound of the bell as the door swung shut behind you, one of them looked up at you.

"Seat yourselves," she said with a smile as golden as the syrup poured over hotcakes, "I'll be with you in a jiffy."

Walking deeper into the diner, you found an empty booth in a quiet corner. Logan seemed pleased, never too keen on people, and after what you'd come to know after last night, you could understand his hesitation.

Logan. The Wolverine.

You remembered the comics from when you were a kid, remembered this one kid in your class in elementary school that had been obsessed with them, reading every issue and Wolverine had been his favorite. He was a scientist now, last you heard, and here you sat opposite the comic character himself.

"Mornin', what can I get you guys?" the waitress asked, pulling up to your table.

"Um," you grabbed at the laminated menu in front of you, your eyes scanning over the breakfast items. Everything looked good, your stomach growling loud as you took in the pictures, but then again you didn't think you'd ever been this hungry before.

"Just coffee f'me, ma'am," Logan grunted.

"Could I get a stack of the blueberry pancakes… and a coffee for me too, please?" you ordered, watching the waitress with the name tag 'Stacy' write down your order.

"That'll be all for you guys this morning?" she smiled.

"Yes, thank you," you returned her smile.

"Alright, I'll be back in a second with your coffees."

While you waited for your pancakes, Logan wasn't much company. He sipped his coffee, black and piping hot, as he leaned against the corner of the booth, legs spread wide, watching the people coming and going. In the silence between you, you decided to study him while you sipped your own coffee. He must've felt your gaze over him, from the way he clenched his jaw, but he never turned his head to look at you, instead he let you look.

When your pancakes finally arrived, you dug in immediately. Fresh, hot and deliciously pillow-y and soft, it was the best thing you'd had in a while. The blueberries weren't too sweet, cutting through the sweetness of the pancakes with a tangy taste, while the bitter taste of your coffee woke you up and filled you with new energy.

"So," Logan suddenly spoke up, almost making the piece of pancake you were chewing on go down the wrong pipe. "How you feelin'?"

"Like I'm having the worst hangover in human history," you joked, "But better now after some food and caffeine."

Logan only hummed, turning his head back to people watching as you ate your pancakes. His silence had a frown work over your features when you placed your knife and fork down to sip on your coffee. He'd been so quiet all morning, which in truth wasn't new, but there was something about him now, something about the way his scowl dug a little deeper into his skin that had you asking:

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothin'," he answered, curt and to the point.

"Clearly it's something," you pried with a tilt of your head.

Another beat passed, before he leaned forward, a cough getting stuck in his throat. It sounded worse than it was, he'd told you once. So, you sipped your coffee, your eyes flitting away like you needed to give him privacy.

"I've been thinkin' about your proposal," he finally said, and you felt your eyebrows pull together in a frown.

"Wait?" your eyes found his, "What proposal?"

"About that subscription thing– the porn," he waved his hand, and leaned back again.

"Only Fans?" you asked, keeping your voice low, "It was just a joke, Logan."

"Well, maybe it's an idea for the both of us. I need money for Charles' medication, and you need money for rent– it'll just be us earnin' a little extra on the side, a win-win situation."

Letting his words sink in, you mulled over his idea in your brain. It wasn't like you weren't attracted to Logan, in truth, you'd wanted him to fuck you for a while now, but it had only been a fantasy, one to conjure forth late at night when you slipped your hand into your panties. To have it become a reality, served up by Logan himself on a silver platter, you'd never imagined.

How could you say no?

"Okay," you said, your voice breathy as what you'd just agreed to settled in your stomach. Having a little more cash in your account every month wouldn't hurt, and getting dick regularly sounded just as nice, it had been too long. "I'm in."

Logan only replied with a curt nod accompanied by an approving grunt, "Now eat your pancakes so we can get goin'."

………

"Cold feet?"

With the limousine parked outside your apartment building, a week's worth of anticipation came to a head. You and Logan hadn't really talked much in the days passed since the diner; Logan's main interest more in you feeling better after experiencing Charles' powers for the first time. He'd let you have a few days off, to heal up, to which you'd taken the opportunity to do some research and set up an Only Fans profile. Currently it was blank, but tonight that would change.

"No," you shook your head, telling true. "You?" you asked, turning in your seat to face Logan.

Logan eyes darted across your face. He never looked at you like that, and for a moment the oddity of the situation, of what you were about to do, settled in your stomach.

"No," Logan finally decided, and reached for the door handle, “Let’s get it over with before it gets too late.”

At his movement, you reached forward and grabbed his forearm, "Wait!"

With a grunt, Logan turned. "What?" he asked, his eyes settling on you with an eyebrow raised.

"I-I have an idea," you told him, and you didn't know why you stumbled over your words. With your hand still wrapped around his arm, his eyes fell to your touch, lingering before they found yours again.

"I was thinking–" you started, retracing your hand, "Well actually… I just restarted taking birth control and I wanted to settle into it before we have sex, so I thought maybe– if you want to of course," you rambled.

"Spit it out, bub, I ain't got all night," Logan cut you off.

"I thought maybe I could suck you off– here in the limo," you 'spat' out your suggestion, your front teeth immediately coming down to bully your bottom lip.

"You want to suck my cock… here?" he repeated. Leaning back in his seat, you didn't know if he spread his legs on purpose, or if he unconsciously drew your eyes to the bulge hidden behind his slacks.

"Yeah, I mean…" you shrugged, "I thought it could be hot? Like something that people would want to see?"

"Right," Logan hummed, reminded of the invisible audience, and reached for the key in the ignition.

Leaving your apartment building in the rearview mirror, Logan searched for a more secluded place to park. The windows in the back of the limousine were tinted, impossible to look into, but you didn't want to take the risk of getting caught. After finding an empty parking lot, backing up and occupying a more private space in the back corner, Logan guided you around the limousine with a hand resting gently over the small of your back. Climbing into the back with you, his broad form filled the space.

Inside, he'd turned on the lights, the colors slowly fading in and out and casting soft shadows across his features. The leather creaked as he sat down, his spread legs already inviting you to slot between. A fleeting feeling of nervousness tickled in your tummy, the reality of what you were about to do washing over you like a wave on a stormy ocean.

Logan watched you from his seat, a picture of sin in his suit, as he slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and fished out his glasses. His jacket fit snugly over his wide shoulders and he'd undone the top buttons where you could glimpse curling chest hair. The way he looked at you through the glasses, eyes dark and curious, had a warmth of arousal starting to pool in the core of yourself.

Clearing your throat, you spoke up, "I was thinking I could set my phone up here–" you pointed to the space between the leather seats and the window. "And then you could use your phone and film me?"

After a little bit of fiddling to get your phone to stay upright, you turned to Logan, your phone capturing your slow walk towards him. He sat with his legs spread wide, his large palms resting on either side of his thighs. When you reached for the hem of your shirt, his finger twitched, digging into the leather, and a toothy smile spread over your features.

Tossing your shirt you sunk to your knees and slotted between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, you held his gaze as you sat pretty for him, fanning out the skirt you'd worn specifically for today. He reached for his phone and pressed record when you curled your hands behind your back to undo the clasp of your bra, capturing your bare chest.

The air nipped at your exposed skin, making goosebumps ripple over your skin. Looking up at Logan, his eyes burned against your skin where he took in your breasts, his eyes glided over your bare skin for the first time and soothed out the bubbling nerves that had been brewing. When your eyes caught on the tent growing in his pants, you had to restrain yourself from surging forward, your mouth already watering at the thought of tasting him for the first time – of your wet dreams becoming a reality.

"S'pretty," he murmured, voice deep and guttural, soaked in arousal.

He cupped your cheek gently, the rough pad of his thumb skating over your skin bringing with it a calming safety. Your eyelashes fluttered as you tilted your head into his hand, desperate to feel more of the weathered skin of his hand against your body.

"Y'sure you want this, sweetheart?" he asked.

Opening your eyes, you held his gaze. "Yes, please," you nodded in his large palm, "It's the only thing I've thought about all day." And it was the truth.

"Shit, baby," he groaned in response, dragging his hand down your neck to rest heavy over the top of your breasts. "S'that so?"

Gathering your hands in your lap, you nodded slowly, your teeth caught on your bottom lip as his hand brushed over your right breast. "Thought of how you'd taste," you confessed, the phone in his hand forgotten as you focused entirely on Logan.

"Yeah?" he prompted. One knuckle brushed over your hardened nipples, pulling a quiet whimper from you– pleased he leaned back, "Take off my belt, then."

Bouncing on your knees, you leaned forward on his command, and pulled the leather belt from its loops. You did it slowly, tilting your head upwards to catch his eyes through the glasses. He helped you with the zipper, making you watch as he dragged it down.

With your eyes fixed on his hand you noticed three barely healed scars between every knuckle, and you remembered who Logan really was. The Wolverine. He caught you looking, and his hand tightened into a fist, tightening it for a beat before he relaxed it over his thigh. Leaning forward, you placed a soft kiss over his knuckles, and his hand dug into his thigh.

"Sweetheart," he breathed out, his voice strained.

In the depths of your chest you felt a pinch, a tiny stab in your heart that felt too real, too personal for what you were about to do. Willing it away, you leaned back on your ankles instead, your hands dipping into the waistband of his pants to pull down his slacks. Lifting his hips to help you ease them down, a quiet grunt escaped him, a deep sound that traveled down your spine and pooled in your core.

Behind the soft cotton of his underwear the firm hard line of his cock strained against the fabric. The sight of him, large and heavy, and hidden, had your eyes widening with lust, and a slickness soiling the gusset of your panties.

"You want my cock, don't you sweetheart?" he coaxed, his free hand finding your jaw where he cupped it, squeezing your cheeks together.

"Y-yes," you breathed out, your smile straining against his grip before you dropped your mouth open, showing him your tongue.

"There you go, baby– good girl," he praised, pressing his thumb down on your tongue and rubbing the saliva around. A soft moan caught in your throat at the praise, and behind the camera Logan's eyes darkened at his new discovery.

Wrapping both your hands around his wrist, you held his hand in place as you closed your lips around him. Slowly, you moved your head, up and down, up and down, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked on his thumb like you would his cock. Logan's eyes were intense behind his glasses, his jaw clenching tight while he stared into your own.

"Such a filthy little thing f'me– so desperate for my cock down your throat you'll suck anything, ain't that right?"

A choked moan escaped you; they way he talked to you adding fuel to the fire in your core. Between the seam of your cunt you ached, wet arousal dripping into your soiled panties. He must've watched the way you melted for him, your brain turning to mush in front of him, because when he pulled his hand away, he laughed. A deep guttural thing from the depth of his chest.

"C'mon little angel," he tapped at your cheek, "Let's put you out of your misery."

Clouded in arousal, your brain stalled at the nickname, and you felt a new gush of arousal spill between the seam of your cunt. Logan's nostrils flared and a wild darkness settled over his face.

Shifting on your knees, you leaned forward to palm him through his underwear. Making sure to flick your eyes up at him (and the camera), you dragged your finger up and down gently, seductively, before you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his clothed length. Above you, Logan sucked in a breath, his free hand coming down to pet your head and press your face firmly against his bulge.

You couldn't help but breathe him in. Breathe in the heady deep scent of man, cheap whiskey and cigars – the unique scent of Logan. When you let out the softest little sigh, you felt him twitch against you, and quickly his hand on your head traveled down to the back of your neck where he pulled you back with a harsh yank.

You yelped.

"No more teasin'–" he reprimanded and let go of you, "Be a good little angel and make me come."

Logan leaned back into the leather, his body relaxed and inviting with one hand still occupied with filming you. Watching the deep furrow forming between his brows, and the way his eyes burned your face through his glasses, you could tell he wanted to take control, make you do what he wanted.

With a curling smile, knowing full and well you had the upper hand with one of his hands occupied, you slipped your eager hands into the elastic waistband of his underwear and tugged.

A wild and wiry patch of graying hair met you first, and you felt a flock of eagerness flutter in your stomach. Tugging the fabric down slowly, you made a show of revealing just an inch at a time. When you finally reached the end of him, you felt the wet head of him graze your cheek, leaving a streak of precum, as it sprung free.

His hard cock bopped heavily in front your face, and you felt your eyes widen at his size. He was big. The hefty length of him cushioned against his balls hanging heavy over the band of his underwear. Reaching a shaky hand forward you took him in your hand for the first time and familiarized yourself with the thick weight of him. With your other hand you traced the thick veins that lined the girth of him, memorizing every ridge and freckle before coming up to thumb at the fat tip where a pearl of wetness beaded.

A mix of awe and uncertainty pooled in your chest. How in the hell were you gonna fit all of him down your throat?

"'s okay, angel," he cooed, his heavy hand back to stroke over your head. His touch soothed you, a rhythmic warmth that shed all your insecurities.

With a content sigh you leaned forward and parted your lips to press a soft kiss to the leaking tip, pulling a "There you go, good girl, open your mouth f'me," from Logan. Urged on by his praise, you got a little braver. Flattening your tongue against him you started with a few gentle, teasing licks to the tip, your tongue dipping into the slit to taste him in earnest.

Above you, a groan rumbled in Logan's chest, a sound that had you eagerly taking more of him in your mouth. Suckling carefully on the fat tip, you let your tongue tease the underside of him, humming in content when you felt him harden even more in your hands.

Letting the excess spit run down the length of him, it pooled over your hands where they struggled to wrap around the thick girth. Slick sounds came from your hands when you started to move them over the soft skin, coating him fully in your saliva with every tug.

"Shit, bub, y'look so fuckin' good around my cock," Logan's voice vibrated from his chest, "But y'can take it deeper, can't you? Take that big cock down your throat?"

Well, you would certainly try.

Your knees dug into the carpeted floor of the limousine, pressing a deep pattern into your skin. Popping off his cock, you sat up a little more and shifted your weight. Looking up at him through your lashes, you were reminded of the camera pointed at you. Looking straight down the barrel of his phone you sunk down further on his cock.

Dropping your jaw, you felt your lips stretch as his hefty cock filled your throat. All too quickly the head of him kissed the back of your throat and you had to fight your gag reflex. Pulling off with a gasp, your eyes widened as you looked up at him.

"It's so big," you told him, both of your slicked hands jerking him in a slow rhythm.

"I know, angel," he cooed, his thumb running over your cheek. Leaning forward again, you placed a soft kiss to the fat head, and he hissed, "Too big f'you?"

"No," you shook your head, smearing the head from one corner of your mouth to the other, spreading the precum leaking onto your lips, and humming at the taste of him. "It's perfect– taste so perfect," you said through a pillowy kiss to the head.

With a buck of his hips, he pushed back into your eager mouth, slipping the fat head through your swollen lips and into your flexed throat, "That's it– right where it belongs, huh?"

Fitting him as deep as you could down your throat you felt dizzy with desire, an almost overwhelming feeling; the smell of him so close, how he filled your mouth and made your jaw ache. When your nose pressed into the grayed patch of wiry hair at the base of his cock, you spluttered with need, spit soaking the length of him as you came off him with a cough.

In an instance, Logan was on you, his free hand petting your cheek as he searched your eyes, "You okay?" I wouldn't be until after, when you edited the video that you'd realize he'd dropped the phone, focusing only on you in that moment.

"Yes," you replied, looking into his eyes with a toothy smile, "I want more– I want your cum."

"Fuck," he hissed, letting go of your cheek and leaning back into the leather seat, pointing his phone at you, "Go on."

Fitting him back down your throat again, you got lost in it as you found a rhythm. With a hand stationed at the base, you bobbed your head, letting your tongue dance over the length. More saliva dripped down and pooled over your hand, slicking up his pubes. It was messy, and hot, sticky and wet. Above you, Logan muttered praises between grunts and moans, encouraging you to take him deeper and deeper.

Feeling your throat loosen with every bob of your head, you pushed down and swallowed around him. Your eyelashes fluttered as you gagged and coughed, tears starting to prickle from your eyes, but you were determined to please him– to make him feel good.

When his hand came down to wrap around your throat, his thumb skating over your neck to feel himself, your eyes rolled back in your head in pleasure – the sight of you making Logan let out a deep growl. He kept the hand clasped around your throat as he started to buck his hips, feeding you his cock in small lazy thrusts.

"Right there, angel, so fuckin' good f'me… my good girl– choke on it," he mumbled.

You hummed around him at the praise, the vibrations pulling another deep moan from him. Fucking your face, bubbling spit trickled out the corner of your lips, soaking him and the coarse hair on his balls where they slapped heavy against your chin. Slipping a hand between your thighs, you couldn't help but touch yourself through your underwear – the white cotton translucent and drenched with your arousal.

Chasing his high, Logan's thrusts started to come quicker. More and more saliva overflowed, dripping down your bare chest and slicking you up in depravity. The grip Logan had around his phone was lazy, but he made sure to capture the way the shifting colors of the low limousine light gleamed over your slicked up chest.

"Such a good fuckin' throat–" he growled, squeezing around your throat as he pushed himself as deep as he could. Your nose brushed the wiry patch of his pubic hair, and you felt yourself start to gag around him as your lungs squeezed and throat tightened. He kept you down as you spluttered and swallowed around the length of him, and when the edges of the world started to blur he pulled you off with a jerk.

Gasping for air and filling your lungs with lost breaths, the hand Logan had wrapped around your neck was now pushing your own hand away to wrap around himself. The tears on your cheek mixed with the strings of saliva on your chin, as you looked up at him through fluttering lashes. Watching him stroke his cock, your eyes widened with interest as you shifted on your knees to sit up straighter.

His hard cock pulsated and throbbed with need as he stroked. Up and down you watched his hand; watched how beads of precum drooled over his fingers, mixing with your saliva before it dripped down onto your chest. A primal feeling came over you – an urge so strong to taste him come undone and claim you as his.

"Please," you begged, the fat head ghosting against your lips with every jerk, "come for me, please– wanna taste you so badly."

Logan's grunts and growls grew deeper and wilder as he stroked himself faster. "Look at me, angel," he ordered, and when your eyes locked with his, combined with a final hard stroke, he aimed the wet tip towards your face and came hard.

The first pump of his sticky warm seed, made you flinch before a smile widened and you leaned closer. Dropping your mouth open, he came all over your face, coating your cheeks, your nose, and forehead. Thumbing at the tip, he aimed at your waiting mouth to squeeze out the last few drops, and he finally let you taste him.

Wrapping your lips around the head, you suckled around him through content hums. You were covered in his cum, claimed, feeling the sticky seed drip down the bridge of your nose. You loved the way he tasted, salty and bitter, like Logan.

When the feeling of your tongue dancing over his sensitive head became too much, he pulled away with a hiss. His phone was still aimed at your face, and a little more clear-headed he filmed the aftermath of his orgasm closer.

"Even prettier with my cum on your face, angel," he said, letting his finger drag over your skin to collect his cum.

Pretty.

"Thank you," you whispered, your throat hoarse as he fed you his cum.

You hummed around his finger as he cleaned you up, making sure not a single drop would go to waste, and when he was pleased with his work after you'd shown him your empty tongue, he cupped your cheek.

"Good little angel," he told you with a pad, and pressed the stop button on his phone.

Back at your apartment the buzz of the excitement of the night lingered as you replayed the scene on your computer. You thought about Logan, about where he was and who might sit in the seat where you'd sucked him off only hours earlier. You thought about how filthy his mouth had been, and how much it had turned you on. And lastly, you thought about how you couldn't wait to see him again, and for him to finally fuck you.

Editing the video together, the last thing you did before you fell asleep was upload. Logan had taken a photo of your hand over his clothed cock before he'd left you, a picture that was now set as your profile picture. All tuckered out, you closed your computer and fell back against your pillows, dreaming of the smell of leather and cheap whiskey.

James & Angel ✨👼 📍 Texas subscribers: 15,478

1 post: "cute girl gives older limousine driver a sloppy blowjob"

..................

hopefully this was okay? i have concepts of a part 2 lol so please don't ask for it. instead, a comment telling me your favorite part is always welcome, and/or tell me what you'd comment under james' & angel's first video! my ask box is always open to chat <3 and thank you for reading!!

© shellshocklove, 2024 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[heliosunny]

Hihi....I'm really in love with your Yandere Phainon fanfics, so I wanted more....I don't really care whatever it is as long as it's in high school au🙏🙏

CTRL U

Yandere!Phainon x Reader

The school tech lab was always quiet during lunch break. While others filled the courtyard and cafeteria with chatter and energy, you found solace in the rhythmic clack of your keyboard and the soft humming of a monitor. You had taken over the corner desk near the window, your own little bubble away from the chaotic social jungle of high school.

Your fingers flew over the keys, eyes darting across lines of code. The pixelated spaceship on your screen moved up, paused, then exploded with a dramatic “BOOM!” animation. You smiled a little, it was just a simple 2D space shooter, but you were proud of it. Debugging the collision algorithm had taken two days.

Outside the lab, you heard distant voices echoing down the hall.

“Dude, Phainon! You coming to the court or what?” “Later, maybe! I need to drop by the lab first.”

Phainon. Popular, charming, and surrounded by friends like gravity pulling planets. You’d only ever interacted with him during that one disastrous group project in sophomore year. You didn’t speak much. He did all the talking.

The door creaked open. Your screen still glowed with the tiny spaceship hovering in space.

“Yo, is someone in?”

You whipped your head up and saw him. He had one headphone in, his school tie loosened, hair a little messy.

He looked around, then spotted you.

“Hey, didn’t think anyone would be in here.”

“...Hi.”

He tilted his head toward your screen. “Wait, is that a game?”

You quickly moved the mouse to close the window, but not fast enough.

“Whoa, don’t shut it down!”

“It’s still buggy.” you mumbled, minimizing the program and locking your screen.

He leaned in, eyes lighting up.

“Wait, you made that? That’s sick.” He turned to look at you. “You’re seriously talented.”

You avoided his gaze, focusing instead on unplugging your USB drive.

“It’s just a hobby…”

Phainon chuckled. “‘Just a hobby’? You’ve got a whole game running. That’s way cooler than anything I’ve done today.”

This wasn’t how your quiet lunch break was supposed to go.

You stood up quickly, slinging your backpack over your shoulder, trying to gather your things.

“I need to go.”

“Oh. Wait, did I say something wrong?”

“No!” you said too fast, stepping back toward the door. “I just... have other stuff.”

He watched you retreat, a confused expression softening his features. Then he smiled again, tilting his head slightly.

“Hey, what’s your game called?” he called out as you reached the door.

“…It doesn’t have a name yet.”

He grinned.

“Let me know when it does.”

You tried to return to normal after that day in the lab.

No more coding during lunch breaks.

No more late stays in the tech room.

But Phainon didn’t understand and keep showing up everywhere you go.

“Hey! Game Dev!” he called out from across the school courtyard one afternoon, jogging to catch up with you.

You pretended not to hear him and quickened your pace.

He caught up anyway, effortlessly matching your stride. “You never told me more about the game.”

“I’m busy.”

“That’s cool. I can wait.”

You stopped in front of your classroom. “Don’t you have a fan club or a game to get back to?”

Phainon just gave you that stupid, easy grin. “Maybe. But I kinda want to see what happens next in your game.”

You didn’t respond. Just walked in, ignoring the snickers from a nearby group of girls.

It wasn’t just one or two people talking. You’d heard whispers in the hallways.

“Why’s he talking to them?” “They probably faked the whole ‘coding’ thing just to get attention.” “Didn’t they get rejected by Phainon or something?” “Creepy how they’re always alone, right?”

At first, it didn’t bother you. You were used to being left out.

But that changed when you stayed late one afternoon to grab your notebook and accidentally overheard something.

“Okay, but what if we just hire some expert to.. idk, download a virus on their computer or something?” “Ooh, or leak their browsing history or whatever. Even if it’s fake, no one’ll care.” “Right? Who’s gonna believe someone like that anyway?”

You backed away slowly.

You’d had enough.

That night, you didn’t sleep. Instead, you slipped on your headphones, pulled up a few proxies, and found the backdoor in their school Wi-Fi habits.

In two hours, you’d broken into their cloud storage and group chat backups. In four, you’d carefully rearranged screenshots, spliced audio files, and created just enough drama to make it seem like they were all talking behind each other’s backs.

You didn’t even upload them yourself. Just scheduled a timed drop via a burner account.

By Monday, the group was in ruins.

And you, finally, had silence.

Until Phainon found you again. This time, at the bike racks after school.

“Hey.”

You glanced up. “What.”

He held up a hand in surrender. “Not here to bug you about the game.”

You turned away. “Then leave.”

He didn’t.

“They deserved it, huh?”

He took a step closer. “You’re good. Real good. That’s not amateur stuff.”

You looked at him sharply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You didn’t deserve what they were doing. But...” He hesitated. “Just... don’t lose yourself in it, alright?”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

“Next time someone comes after you… maybe let me know first.”

He turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, not looking back.

You never felt safe after the drop. Sure, no one came at you again, not publicly. But silence didn’t mean safety. Silence could be a trap.

And Phainon, despite everything, made you uneasy.

Why? Why was he so calm? Why did he know what you’d done?

That night, your fingers hovered over the keys. Your curiosity itched too loud to ignore.

You slipped past a few weak firewalls and into his cloud activity.

“...wait.”

The path you followed suddenly folded in on itself.

And you’d taken it.

You burned the scripts, cleaned the logs, wiped the trace tools—anything that might be tied to you. Anything he could use against you.

And when it was over, you sat in the dark for a long time. Cold sweat down your back.

The next day, he said nothing.

You watched him across the quad, laughing with his friends, sleeves rolled up, the same lopsided smile like he hadn’t laid a trap for you.

Maybe you were overthinking it.

So you did something stupid.

You pulled an old CD-R out of your drawer, labeled it in your tight, scratchy handwriting: [ TEST BUILD v2.6 — SPACEWAR ]

And the next morning, you caught him by the lockers.

“…Here,” you muttered, holding it out. “The game. Just a standalone version. I just thought you might want to test it.”

“You’re giving me the first build?”

“It’s just a test. You don’t—”

“I’m gonna play it tonight” he said. “I’m finishing it. No way I’m sleeping until I beat it.”

“It’s literally half-coded and full of bugs.”

“So am I,” he smirked. “Perfect match.”

You didn’t expect him to go that far.

Next morning, he walked into class with dark shadows under his eyes, hair messier than usual, hoodie half-zipped over his uniform.

“Hey,” he grinned. “I beat it. Twice.”

“Wait... You stayed up?”

“You said test it. I tested the hell out of it.” He nudged your arm. “Seriously, it’s awesome.”

You stared at him. Then laughed. You couldn’t help it. “You idiot. You could’ve just given me a bug report.”

“Nah. That’d be boring.”

You shook your head and turned away to hide your smile.

Later that night, at home, you sat down at your desk. Curiosity beat out caution.

You slid the same disc into your computer. It whirred softly.

[ SPACEWAR ] — Test Build v2.6

You clicked Start Game.

The opening sequence played—then flickered.

The background glitched. The pixels warped, briefly forming words in a distorted typeface:

"Hello, Player One."

Then the game resumed normally.

You yanked the disc out. Looked at the underside.

A low beep from your laptop made you jump.

You flipped the screen—the camera light was on.

For half a second. Then it shut off.

You stared at the reflection of yourself in the screen. And realized:

He gave you his disk.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The glowing reflection of “Hello, Player One” burned behind your eyelids every time you blinked. You’d covered the webcam, shut the laptop, and unplugged everything. But it wasn’t just paranoia this time—Phainon had done something, and you needed to find out why.

So the next morning, you waited outside the gym, watching him laugh with his usual crowd. He noticed you immediately, his smile slipped, and he walked over.

“You okay?”

“We need to talk. Alone.”

Phainon blinked. But he nodded.

You sat in the empty room, across from him at a table where morning light filtered through the blinds.

He leaned forward slightly. “So...?”

You looked him dead in the eye. “Why did you do it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

You pulled the disc from your bag and placed it on the table. “Why?”

Phainon leaned back, quiet for a moment. Then:

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

You frowned. “What?”

“Two years ago. National Coding Competition. You made that AI that learned player patterns in real time. I was in the same bracket—you crushed everyone.”

“You were there?”

He nodded. “You were the best person in the room. I admired you. Then you disappeared. I always wondered why.” He paused. “When I saw you here, I thought—maybe I could get to know you.”

“So you thought breaking into my computer was your idea of caring?”

He flinched slightly, guilt flickering behind his eyes.

“You invaded my privacy. You used something I made against me.” Your voice shook. “Don’t twist this into something noble.”

He sighed. “I just wanted to understand you. You’re brilliant, but you shut everyone out. I thought maybe if I got closer—”

“—by spying on me?”

There was a long silence.

“Didn’t you do the same? To those girls?”

You were speechless.

“I’m not saying they didn’t deserve it. But you didn’t talk to anyone. You handled it alone.”

That stung.

Your hands clenched under the table. “So now you’re saying we’re the same?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m saying we both did things we regret. Doesn’t mean I’m proud of it.” He looked at you. “I’m sorry. For crossing the line.”

“Stay out of my stuff.”

And you walked out.

The rest of the day, you ignored him. He didn’t try to talk to you. Not even once.

But the silence wasn't peace. It was pressure, thick and heavy. You couldn’t focus.

By lunch, you'd pulled up three transfer applications on your phone, but none of them felt like the right move. Running didn’t solve the problem, it just meant you’d keep running.

So instead, you started thinking differently.

If Phainon wanted to get close to you? Fine.

You’d make him hate it.

You listed ridiculous stuff maybe you could use against him:

Step 1: Code like a cryptid. Talk only in binary. Step 2: Constantly mention obscure operating systems and laugh when he doesn’t get it. Step 3: Bring spreadsheets of cat behavior patterns and pretend they’re “emotional simulations.” Step 4: Add him to a fake group project and send 3am emails titled “urgent patch notes.”

Your plan was almost working.

The constant 3 a.m. “patch note” emails. The random references to deprecated programming languages.

It should’ve been enough.

But he always came back.

You were exhausted.

So you went back to Plan Move Away. You re-opened the school transfer forms, actually filled out your personal statement, and left the tab open just in case.

And then, out of nowhere, Kaito happened.

You met him during a school lab module. He wore round glasses, always had cat-hair on his hoodie, and genuinely laughed at your dry jokes. Even better? He knew how to debug. You both ended up fixing an old RPGMaker horror build for fun and spent lunch breaks balancing variables and laughing over cursed enemy sprites.

He wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t hack your life. He was just... easy.

Which was why Phainon noticed right away.

He cornered you by the vending machines after school.

“So... That new guy.”

“His name is Kaito.”

“Cool... But I thought we were working on your game.”

You crossed your arms. “We were. Then you installed spyware on my hard drive.”

“I apologized for that.”

You didn’t budge.

“So you replaced me?”

“I didn’t replace anyone. Kaito’s just someone I can work with without needing to run background checks.”

He scowled. “So you don’t trust me.”

“Can you blame me?”

Phainon looked at you, searching for something. Then he took a step closer.

“Okay. Fine. Maybe I messed up. Maybe I made it weird. But I thought we were building something—together. I didn’t realize you’d hand the controller to some new guy and bench me.”

“Everyone deserves to code.”

That struck a nerve.

“Right.” His voice dropped. “But not everyone gets you.”

This was personal.

Which made it more complicated when, the next day, you came home, turned on your PC and noticed a new folder on your desktop.

“GAME_PATCHED_FINAL_no_KAITO”

And a note:

“If you're gonna replace me, you better fix the recursion loop. Or let me help.”

You stared at the screen, heat crawling up your neck.

You didn’t know if you were furious or impressed.

You had your code. You had your own project. You had Kaito now.

You went on without him.

You stripped your old game build clean, rewrote the framework, even changed the name. Burned all the folders that had anything labeled “v2.6” or “player_one.” You started fresh.

And Phainon? He kept his distance. At least physically.

Then came the mailbox.

It was a regular Thursday when you got home. You were stepping out of your shoes when your mom called from the kitchen:

“There’s something in the mailbox for you.”

You blinked. “Mail? As in—physical?”

“Yeah. Like the old days.” She chuckled. “Looks like a CD.”

You grabbed it, peeling back the envelope carefully.

Plain. No return address. Just one thing written in black marker on the CD’s surface:

“BOOT ME :)”

You rolled your eyes. “Really?”

Of course it was from him. The handwriting was unmistakably chaotic.

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t going to test this thing on your personal machine. Not after last time.

So you waited.

The next day during free lab hour, you sat down at one of the school’s clunky public PCs. You slipped on the headphones just in case it played audio.

The CD slid in.

[ Loading... Welcome Back, Player One ]

A single line of code glowing on a black screen:

function whyYouLeft { return “?”; }

Then the screen glitched again—and a video window opened.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just a shaky webcam video of Phainon in his messy room, sitting on the floor cross-legged.

“Okay. So, if you’re watching this… then I guess I broke like, ten privacy boundaries again. But I swear—this time, no access to your camera. Just... this.”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“I don’t know why you pulled away. But I want to understand.” He looked at the disc. “I know I messed up. And maybe that scares you. Maybe you think people only get close to you because of your talent. Maybe you hate how I made it all messy.”

He looked up at the camera, eyes sincere.

“But it wasn’t about your code. Or the game. I wanted to know you. The person behind all that.”

He paused, then added quietly: “I miss being your Player Two.”

The screen turned black again.

You stared at the screen. The headphones still buzzed faintly in your ears with the silence that followed.

You didn’t eject the CD.

You just… sat there.

----

The hallway echoed with the soft shuffle of bags and the clatter of desks being dragged back into place. Students were peeling off one by one, some still laughing, some too tired to care. The bell had rung fifteen minutes ago, school was out, but you stayed.

Until it was just two people left in the room: You and Phainon.

He was halfway through zipping up his bag when he noticed you approaching.

He blinked, clearly surprised. “…Hey.”

“I watched the CD.”

Phainon straightened, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

“It was unnecessary.” you said dryly. Then paused. “But… I get it.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to defend himself, maybe to apologize again, but you raised a hand before he could.

“I’m not starting over with you. I’m continuing, with conditions.”

“You can join the project again,” you said firmly, “if you promise to stop doing stuff behind my back. Everything stays aboveboard.”

You added “Also, if we’re working together, you have to be civil with Kaito.”

“Kaito?” he repeated.

You nodded. “He’s part of this now. Whether you like it or not. I’m not removing him just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

“You want me to team up with someone who’s clearly trying to be me?”

“He’s not trying to be you.”

Phainon didn’t say anything for a moment. His fingers curled slightly around the strap of his bag.

“So that’s the deal?” he asked quietly. “Let you keep your new friend, and I get supervised access to your game like it’s a daycare pass?”

You shrugged. “If it bothers you that much, you don’t have to join.”

There was a tense silence between you.

“Fine,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “If that’s what it takes.”

You both left the room.

But the minute he walked into the golden hour light outside the school building, Phainon’s smile twisted into something else.

He had no intention of sharing.

Kaito was an obstacle. And Phainon knew exactly how to handle obstacles.

He didn’t need to hack anyone this time. Not when he had reputation.

He was a magnet in the school ecosystem - student rep, the guy everyone knew, the guy everyone liked. Popularity was a language, and Phainon was fluent.

He spoke to people in Kaito’s other classes. Casually dropped things like:

“You know that Kaito guy? Little… intense, right?”

Or:

“Hey, just a heads-up. He’s been engaging with some guys out of school these days. Kinda weird, don’t you think?”

Rumors ran faster than servers during a DDOS attack.

You didn’t notice it right away.

But the others started acting cold toward him. Like he was radioactive.

“Hey… did I do something? People’ve been acting weird.”

You frowned. “Weird how?”

Kaito hesitated. “I dunno. Just… off. Like they know something I don’t.”

Phainon acted perfectly normal the next day.

He brought snacks. He complimented your new UI layout. He laughed at your deadpan jokes.

Phainon never played fair.

It started with a casual invite. One that looked harmless on the surface.

Phainon leaned over your desk during your group’s usual project hour. “Hey,” he said. “There’s a match this weekend—finals. I’m playing.” Then he added, “You and Kaito should come. Y’know. Team bonding. Off-screen chemistry.”

Kaito, surprisingly, looked excited. “I’ve never been to one of your matches. Might be fun.”

For once, Phainon was asking.

So you said yes.

But plans changed.

Your part-time shift at the local computer shop ran long, someone brought in a corrupted hard drive and left in tears, and by the time you were done running diagnostics and fixing their system, the sun had already dipped behind the horizon.

You texted Kai.

[Sorry. Can’t make it. Tell me how it goes later.]

No reply.

You didn’t hear from him until the next morning.

Your phone buzzed with a single message:

From unknown number: “Your friend’s at City Medical. You should come.”

You nearly dropped your phone.

Kaito lay in the bed, right arm in a sling, a thin cut on his brow, bruises trailing the side of his cheek. His glasses sat on the tray next to him, bent out of shape. He was asleep when you walked in.

Phainon was sitting beside the bed.

He glanced up when you entered.

“Hey.” He stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. “Didn’t expect you so early.”

“What happened?”

“It was an accident. During the second half, he tripped—took a bad fall.”

You stared at him. “He doesn’t even run. Why was he even on the field?”

“He got a little too excited. Honestly, I tried to wave him back.” He looked at the bed again. “Poor guy. Probably got caught up in the moment.”

But… the whispers had already started at school. You heard them in the hallways, snippets like:

“I heard that nerd wasn’t watching the game rules.” “Why was he even on the field?” “Guess he wanted attention.”

It was already being spun. And no one could prove it otherwise.

You sat quietly in the chair by Kaito’s side once Phainon left. Your eyes didn’t leave the steady rise and fall of his chest.

With Kaito out of the picture, it was just you and Phainon again. He was standing behind your chair, one hand resting on the backrest while he leaned over to comment on your code.

He would speak low near your ear like the two of you shared something secret. Sometimes his hand would linger on your shoulder, a little longer than it should.

And you just kept coding.

You didn’t want to say it out loud, but ever since the hospital visit, your guard hadn’t dropped once.

Every time Phainon brought snacks, or coffee, or even just his charming laugh, there was something clawing at the back of your head.

The others in school weren’t subtle either. You noticed the sideways glances. The hushed tones in the hallway. Students whispering by the lockers, pretending not to look your way.

Some even snickered outright when you walked into the lab with Phainon beside you, your laptops under your arms like a pair of matching uniforms.

“Guess if you can’t compete, just date the star instead.”

Phainon noticed. Of course he did.

He smirked as he leaned in and whispered: “Let them talk. We’re the ones doing something real.”

You didn’t reply. You just sat down and turned on your machine.

And when you got focused, really focused, you forgot everything else. You skipped lunch. You skipped breaks.

That’s when Phainon would step in again.

You hadn’t even noticed him peel open a rice ball wrapper until he tapped your chin gently with it.

“Eat.” he said simply.

“What?”

“You haven’t touched a single thing since third period. Just chew.”

He held it closer to your lips—half a challenge, half a joke.

You frowned slightly, but opened your mouth. He fed it to you.

---

"Why are they always together now? It’s getting annoying."

"Seriously. Ever since that freak started hanging out with Phainon, he’s been acting weird. Ignoring us."

"They practically live in the lab. It’s pathetic. Clingy."

"Didn’t Kai or whatever his name is end up in the hospital too? You think it’s a coincidence?"

"Well… maybe we should remind them where their place is."

Your bag was heavy on your shoulder. You were heading to the lab as usual, maybe Phainon would be there already, or maybe not. You didn’t text him today.

You were halfway down the stairs when it happened.

A slight nudge.

There was a moment—a single heartbeat—when your brain recognized the danger.

Then everything went black.

[Hospital Room – Present]

You woke to pain pressing behind your eyes and an icy pressure on your wrist.

“Hey.. hey. You’re awake?”

You blinked through the blurriness. Phainon’s face came into view, shadowed by worry and sleeplessness.

“Don’t move too fast. You hit your head—really hard.”

Your throat felt dry. You tried to speak but failed. He immediately reached for the straw in a plastic cup and held it to your lips.

You let the water coat your throat. Your mom entered then, her voice choked with relief as she kissed your forehead and muttered prayers under her breath. Behind her, your sibling waved awkwardly with puffy eyes.

Your body still ached. But in your stillness, your mind drifted.

[Seven Years Ago]

You stood outside the regional coding challenge arena, holding your little cardboard certificate for First Prize in your hand. The others from your school were celebrating inside, but you stepped out for air.

That’s when you heard it.

Sniffling. The sound of someone trying really hard not to cry.

You followed the noise and found him, curled behind the bushes next to the school’s HVAC system, arms wrapped around his knees. He was kicking at a tangle of wires and muttering under his breath.

His screen had crashed halfway through the demo. His mom, who was in the audience, had made that face. Not angry—disappointed.

“Leave me alone” he snapped when he noticed you.

You stood there silently and pulled out a juice box from your bag. Pushed it toward him.

He glared at it, then you. “I lost.”

You shrugged. “Your code was complex, though. That’s impressive for our age.”

He finally took the juice box. Sipped it quietly.

You sat beside him, ignoring the grass stains and bugs. “I could help. If you want. You’ll get better.”

He stared at you, like trying to see through your intentions.

“…Why?”

“Because you were good. And no one helped me when I started either. So I guess I just want to promise it won’t always suck.”

You smiled. “Wanna be friends?”

He nodded.

You forgot that moment. Years passed. But Phainon never did.

Because in that moment, you were the first person who saw value in him.

And he kept that memory like a loaded save file.

Waiting to be opened again.

[Hospital Room – Present]

You stirred awake.

Night had fallen.

Phainon hadn’t left. His hand was still holding yours, as if letting go would make you disappear.

You stared at the ceiling. “Did you know?”

He looked up.

“About the stairwell?” you clarified.

His jaw tensed. “…Yes.”

You didn’t respond.

He continued: “I told them to back off. I thought that was enough.”

You turned to face him.

“I was too late. And I’m sorry.”

You didn’t want his apology.

You wanted to go back and undo all of it. All the memories with him.

[One Month Later]

It was as if you had never existed.

Even your home, he passed by once, late at night, still in his hoodie and uniform, was locked up, the windows sealed, the gate chained. A "FOR RENT" sign swayed faintly in the wind.

You had moved.

Without goodbye.

“…Didn’t they get, like, pushed or something?”

“Maybe their parents freaked out.”

“Phainon’s been acting insane ever since. You think he—”

The boy they were whispering about passed them without a glance.

He just sat in the old lab sometimes—your chair cold and silent across from him—staring at the unfinished game you both used to work on. His fingers would hover over the keyboard, only to fall away.

He didn’t talk to Kaito anymore. He didn’t talk to anyone, really.

One week later, Phainon stared at the wall of post-its he'd started building.

A map of digital footprints.

The last IP address you logged in with.

An email you once mentioned.

A string of code only you would write—he knew because he still had a CD of your logic framework.

An old blog post under a different name, dated three years ago.

He had learned from you. Studied you. Watched you work, memorized the way you built firewalls, nested loops, hid access points like digital breadcrumbs only someone obsessed would find.

And he was obsessed.

At school, Phainon finally started speaking again.

To the computer science teacher.

To the club advisor.

To anyone who might know where the school sent your records. What your “transfer” details included.

But they all said the same thing.

"We don’t know." "It was a private transfer." "We were told not to disclose further."

He sat by his screen again. The glow cast his face in cold blues.

On it was a pixelated image—the game you had coded.

Only this time, it had been modified.

There was a new character. One that looked an awful lot like you. Standing at the end of a path surrounded by glitchy trees.

He pressed enter.

And the character vanished.

Phainon leaned back in his chair.

Where did you go? He didn’t get an answer.

Not yet.

But he would.

----

The screen glowed in the pitch-black room.

Phainon hadn’t slept. Not properly.

There it was.

Phainon’s lips parted. His eyes lit up like a mad scientist finding the last missing variable.

“…Got you.”

----

You sat in the back of the new lab, a new place, everything is new to you, headphones in, hoodie up. You'd been making slow friends here.

Safe. Or so you thought.

Until you saw a notification blink on your laptop.

“System Resource Conflict – Unknown Peripheral Access Attempted.”

You immediately yanked the USB port out.

"Dammit."

----

[Night – Back in Your Apartment]

You watched the camera LED on your laptop blink once, then stop.

You covered it. Disconnected from all networks.

And still, you found phantom code—commands embedded in weird spots.

He was inside.

“What do you want, Phainon?”

The screen lit up again.

Just a simple text file opened itself.

I want what’s mine.

[Elsewhere – Phainon’s POV]

He sat in a cheap hotel near your neighborhood, his laptop surrounded by energy drink cans and open notebooks filled with your old quotes, half-written function names, sketches of you in the margins.

This wasn’t about revenge.

This was about fixing the error that happened the day you left.

[The Next Day – At Your School]

You felt someone watching.

Students still walked the hall like normal. But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And when you reached your locker, you found a CD. Labeled in black marker:

“Final Build – OUR Game.”

You dropped it immediately. You didn’t pick it up.

But someone else did. Your cousin.

“…Hey, isn’t this yours?”

“No. Leave it.”

That night, when you checked online, your cousin’s PC pinged offline.

“Ugh.. I warned him already.”

Then his phone. Then his socials.

Gone.

You wanted to end this. So you did what you must.

“Don’t worry. I’m here now.”

“We’re going to finish what we started.”

“Together.”

The lights in your room dimmed.

You agreed to meet him.

“Let’s end this.”

Rooftop. 5:00 PM.

You knew this was dangerous.

But you were exhausted.

Of hiding. Of losing friends.

You needed closure—even if it meant facing him again.

----

Phainon stood at the edge of the roof, back to you.

He hadn’t changed much.

You approached slowly.

Phainon turned.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, stepping forward. “I just… wanted to be with you. Always.”

“You hacked my laptop.”

“You left first.”

“You stalked me. Threatened people. My cousin.”

“He shouldn’t have touched our game.”

“It wasn’t ‘our’ anything!” you snapped. “It stopped being ours the moment you tried to control me.”

“...I see”

That was it. You said what you had to say. You turned toward the door.

You should’ve kept your guard up.

CRACK

Blinding white. Then black.

-----

You stirred.

Phainon sat nearby, typing.

“Hey,” he said softly, as if he hadn’t just abducted you. “You were out for a while. I was worried.”

“Let me go.”

He tilted his head. “But I just got you back.”

“You can’t keep me here.”

“I can. And I will. We have work to finish.”

“…You're insane.”

“No,” he said with unnerving calm. “I'm in love.”

He stood, walking toward you, crouching beside your chair.

“Look, I added your old AI logic into the game. It talks like you now.”

You stared at him in horror.

“Phainon… you can't replace me with code.”

He smiled.

“Then stay.”

Then, like he was explaining code to a beginner:

“If I lose you again… I’ll transfer you.”

“What?”

“If your body dies… I can keep you. Upload your consciousness into the framework. You’re brilliant, after all. Your patterns, your memory depth... already trained into the AI from our game.” He reached up and gently touched your temple. “You won’t even notice the difference.”

You went completely still.

He was serious. Fully convinced. He would do it.

“…Phainon” you said quietly, doing everything you could to keep your voice steady. “That’s… sweet. But I’m not ready for that.”

“I just think,” you continued, “maybe I can help improve the code more if I’m still—” you laughed nervously—“you know, in this form.”

Then… he sighed. “You’re so logical,” he murmured. “So calm.... That’s why I love you.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“I knew you’d understand eventually.”

[checkeredflagggs]

A Perfect Storm

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

summary: meet dr. alice “barbie” sargaent, professional storm chaser

a/n: so twisters 2024 changed my life (glen powell in wet white T-shirt changed my life) so…here’s this. Also I got conflicting info about instagram so for here - no one but those that follow you can see a private accounts comments (even on a public post). Also plz suspend your disbelief - idk anything about storm chasing or tornadoes

Part 2

drbarbie

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, and 2,345,239 others

drbarbie: tbt to the very first storm I ‘chased’ and the lifelong obsession that it sparked within me!

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user1: you were so young!

teammember1: nice to know you’ve been crazy for years! 😂❤️

drbarbie: Passionate! The term is passionate 🩵

teammember2: no I think crazy is better

user2: ok but what are Logan Sargeant and Oscar Piastri doing in the likes…

user3: right?

user4: maybe they watch the Storm Wrangler YouTube channel?

user3: that would be the crossover of the century!

teammate3: awwww baby Dr. Barbie…

drbarbie: I think I made my dad drive around for hours trying to find where the rain was actually coming down

user4: ok that’s adorable

user5: newbie here 👋🏻 why the nickname Barbie?

drbarbie: I’m a 5’11” blonde woman with blue eyes who was in like every conceivable sport and after school program. Some butt starting calling me Barbie as a joke and now people forget my real name 😅

user6: wait your name isn’t actually Barbie? What’s real? What’s fake? Who knows? 🤣

drbarbie: yeah you can blame my twin for that…

loganpriv: you begged for weeks to get a cool nickname and were delighted! To tell people to call you Barbie.

alicepriv: shush 🤐

oscarpriv: oh really?

alicepriv: I said shut up?

user7: you have a twin?!

drbarbie: yup! I’m older then him by about 5 minutes - and I’ve never let him forget it 😂

loganpriv: and another lie! What’s up with that?

alicepriv: I’m gonna tell mom you’re bullying me!

loganpriv: do it! And I’ll tell her you’re lying to the internet

logansargeant

liked by alicepriv, oscarpiastri, and 1,023,677 others

logansargeant: traveling means time to catch up with TheStormWranglers

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user8: you’re a buckaroo too?! Love this!

oscarpiastri: watching the back episodes or the live stream?

logansargeant: back episodes first of course!

user9: ok but they’re both buckaroos too

user10: am i dumb? Buckaroos?

user11: kinda a you had to be there moment - during one of their first live streams teammate2 called everyone on the team buckaroos to get them moving and the fans just? kinda adopted the term for ourselves

user10: ohhhh ok. That makes sense and it’s so cute! Proud to be a buckaroo!

user12: this is gonna be your week Logan!

user13: yeah! Austin has always been really good to you! 🩵

alicepriv: so I’m gonna hold your hand when I say this…

loganpriv: what does that mean?

oscarpriv: Alice…

drbarbie

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, and 3,677,345 others

drbarbie: isn’t she a beaut! One of the biggest this year and I’m very happy to say Dolly (and us!) survived it!!! The opportunity to quite literally drive into the storm started as a fever dream from a few of the team members but we proved that it could be done. And this now allows us to gather even more important data — and as we always say, you can never have too much data!

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user14: Watching that almost gave me a heart attack oh my god

user15: i know! And they didn’t even give us any warning that it was something they could do!!!😡😢

drbarbie: We apologize! The team had been so excited and focused on getting Dolly ready for this that we forgot other people don’t live in our brains

user14: what even prompted this?

drbarbie: we were hitting bumps in the research process and as we were brainstorming ideas on how to fix it someone said that the easiest way was to…just go into the tornado. We said “bet” then figured out a way to allow us to do that safely!

teammember1: so I’m switching vehicles. I’m staying with the weather van from now on

drbarbie: oh it wasn’t that bad!

teammember1: I have about 200 new strands of grey hairs and a sore throat from all the screaming

drbarbie: like I said! Not that bad

user16: oh so you’re crazy crazy

drbarbie: we’re doing important research!

user17: what even was the point of all this?

drbarbie: my team and I are researching for a way that would allow us to stop a tornado in its tracks. We’re at the point where we can almost completely accurately predict when and where a tornado will hit — which is hugely important! Cause that allows us to save lives. But my team wants to take it a step further — to stop the storms when they do hit! To help protect people’s livelihoods

user17: holy shit! That’s huge!

user18: I didn’t even realize that is something that could be possible!

drbarbie: we believe strongly that it’s something that can be done. And we’re trying everything that we can to make it happen!

loganpriv: what the hell is this?!?

alicepriv: i told you you wouldn’t like it

oscarpriv: yes but there’s a huge difference between not liking it and it being completely INSANE

alicepriv: the theory was sound

loganpriv: this time - that’s not good enough

INCOMING CALL

ACCEPT OR DECLINE

ACCEPT

TRANSCRIPT

What the hell Alice? Driving into a tornado?

Oh don’t even Logan! Not when the two of you drive those super speed death traps!

That’s not even remotely the same and you know it!

…I know. Ok I know…

Alice…

Don’t. I know I should have told you before but…

Barbs?

I know you don’t like this answer but the theory was sound. We reached out and talked to like 10 different universities on the best way to modify the car and took all the extra precautions we could. The science-

doesn’t lie…

Haha

…you’re ok?

I think my heart is still racing but yes. And it’s almost done!

What is?

Project Aeolus!

Really?

TRANSCRIPT CONTINUES

logansargeant

liked by alicepriv, alexalbon, oscarpiastri, and 627,933 others

logansargeant: ahhhh Austin, my home away from home. It’s always good to come back to you — and the people that live there 🩵

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user19: IS THAT A GIRL LOGAN HUNTER SARGEANT?

user20: are we soft launching now?

alexalbon: Did you get a puppy?

logansargeant: no 🤣 just pet sitting for the day! This is rascal!

alexalbon: i think it might be criminal if you don’t let me meet rascal!

logansargeant: I’ll ask! But it will probably have to be after COTA!

alexalbon: worth the wait!

user21: rascal? Like drbarbie’s newest puppy?

user22: no but that dog looks just like her new dog and we know that Logan is a buckaroo!

user21: I've connected the two dots

user23: You didn't connect shit

user22: I've connected them

user24: are my 2 fandoms colliding?

alicepriv: rascal!

loganpriv: i see how it is. I come back home and you just want me to watch the little nightmare

alicepriv: rascal is perfectly well behaved! You’re just a bad example

oscarpriv: I’m agreeing with her. We’ve had no problems with him until you came along…

loganpriv: lies and slander. Objection

alicepriv: law and order again logie?

williamsracing

liked by drbarbie, logansargeant, alexalbon, and 4,034,838 others

williamsracing: all smiles here at COTA as we welcome a special guest! Spending the weekend with us is Dr. Barbie, a meteorologist who specializes in tornadoes with a popular YouTube channel The Storm Wranglers!

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user25: DR BARBIE IN THE HOUSE!

user26: this is everything I didn’t know I needed holy crap

drbarbie: it’s always a pleasure to visit COTA! And it’s even better to visit one of my favorite teams!

williamsracing: so glad to have you here!

user27: ok but do you see the look on Logan’s face?

user28: yeah mans in love

user29: or…and hear me out…he could just be happy to meet her? We know he’s a fan of her channel

user28: no one is ever THAT happy to just “meet” a YouTuber, no matter how famous

logansargeant: Glad you could make time in your schedule to visit!

drbarbie: “But it's the Grand Prix!”

logansargeant: “Is it? Who's playing?”

drbarbie: “No one's playing. It's the Grand Prix. I never miss the Grand Prix.”

user28:…ok maybe you guys connected the dots

alexalbon: it was nice to meet you! Didn’t think I’d ever meet someone who had a more dangerous job then race driving though

drbarbie: same! It was such a pleasure — and don’t even. I’ll take my job over yours any day

alexalbon: really? You’d rather drive after and into tornados then drive in circles?

drbarbie: stupid circles! And yes. Yes I would

alexalbon: they’re not stupid!

user29: ok but they’re funny af

drbarbie

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and 2,654,887 others

tagged: williamsracing, logansargeant, alexalbon

yourusername: trading in Dolly this weekend for some faster cars! Zoom zoom 🏎️💨

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user30: COTA! I’m at COTA! 🤞🤞 I might get to meet her and get her signature!

user31: oh my god! That would be the coolest thing ever

user32: you’re at a Grand Prix and meeting some stupid blonde is better?

user31: watch yourself! Dr Barbie is about 1000x better then you are you damn mouth breather

user30: mouth breather? 😂😂

user33: cool you’re at COTA but sargeant? You couldn’t pick literally any other driver to support?

drbarbie: and that’s you blocked. I don’t support hate on my page and I definitely don’t support hate against Logan

user31: you said it so well! Supportive queen!

loganpriv: cool your jets Alice. It’s fine

alicepriv: I don’t support hate but I do support bullying your unsupportive twin. Take that attitude and shove it

oscarpriv: sometimes I forget you’re twins and then I see you interact…

alicepriv: you watch yourself too. I’m soon to be in head smacking range…and I’m tall enough to get you

oscarpriv: yes ma'am

loganpriv: whipped

alicepriv: 🤨

loganpriv: 🤷🏼‍♂️

alicepriv: 🖕🏻

user34: ok but why Dolly?

drbarbie: why after the fabulous Dolly Parton of course

user35: you named your truck after Dolly Parton?

drbarbie: she’s had a lot of work done but she’s still the best

user35: 😂😂 icon behavior

logansargeant

liked by alexalbon, drbarbie, alicepriv, and 1,208,943 others

tagged: drbarbie, williamsracing

logansargeant: THANK YOU AUSTIN!! P3 baby! AND SPECIEAL THANKS TO MY YOUNGER TWIN SISTER ALICE drbarbie!!!

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user36: SISTER?

drbarbie: yes! He’s my YOUNGER twin brother!

logansargeant: the hell I am!

drbarbie: I HAVE PICTURE OF THE BIRTH CERTIFICATES YOU WET NOODLE

logansargeant: fake!

user36: ok that’s definitely a sibling relationship 😂

drbarbie: HE DID IT! P3!! CONGRATS LOGIE!

teammate1: woohoo! Go baby sargeant!

teammate2: congrats baby sargeant!

teammate3: could you feel us cheering for you baby sargeant?

teammate4: couldn’t be prouder baby sargeant!

logansargeant: not you guys too…

oscarpiastri: congrats man! A well deserved podium!

logansargeant: thanks brother!

user37: brother?!? dots are connecting again!

user38: oh give it up

alexalbon: great race today dude! Congrats!

logansargeant: thank you! You’ll be next!

williamsracing: Congrats Logan!

user39: he saw us shipping him with his sister and said hell no 😂😂

user40: right? Most definitely had to set the record straight!

danielricciardo: good job man!

charles_leclerc: great to share the podium with you!

maxverstappen1: good race!

oscarpiastri

liked by logansargeant, alicepriv, landonorris, and 2,567,432 others

tagged: mclaren, landonorris

oscarpiastri: not the race we wanted today but we’ll come back stronger next week. Congrats on p4 landonorris and congrats to logansargeant on your first podium!

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user41: don’t worry about it Oscar! You’ll get it next week!

landonorris: thanks man! next week will be our week for sure!! papaya rules!

oscarpiastri: for sure! Papaya rules!

user42: it might not have been your week but that overtake lap 12 was INSANE

user43: right? Pretty sure I woke my dog up screaming

alicepriv: it was a good race babe. Glad to have been there to see it 🧡🧡

oscarpriv: you know I always love it when you can come to a race

alicepriv: and you know I always love watching you working for your dream

oscarpriv: 🧡

loganpriv: cheesy

alicepriv: 🖕🏻

alicepriv: anyway…

alicepriv: maybe I can get you to come to my job next? 😆😘

oscarpriv: your job at the universities? Yes. Your job in the field? No way in hell

logansargeant: great race brother! Taking notes on that overtake man

oscarpiastri: thanks Logan!

oscarpiastri

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tagged: drbarbie

oscarpiastri: you are the best thing that’s ever been mine

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Part 2

[lemonlover1110]

𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧

Sylus

Part 1

Pairing: Sylus x f!Reader

Summary: Sylus has the whole girl dad thing down to a t, though you'd disagree.

Warnings: Fluff

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

Becoming a father again is certainly a tumultuous situation. Sylus isn’t the same man that he once was. His knees hurt from doing the simplest tasks, and he doesn’t have the same energy he did when he had his son. Nonetheless, he was ecstatic. 

Sylus wasn’t sure what he would do, especially not with a girl. But once he held the little bean in his arms, it’s as if it was programmed into his brain. The task was simpler than he could’ve imagined.

Spoil her rotten.

“Papa!” His little girl yells, making sure her daddy follows along. Diana is a headstrong little girl who loves her daddy more than anything– That is because Sylus spoils her rotten. Anything she wants, she gets. Both from her father, and older brother. “Koen!”

“We’re following, sweetie.” Sylus responds, though that isn’t a good enough answer for her. The three-year-old wants both her father and brother to walk alongside her, not behind her.

“What do you want to show us?” Koen asks, wondering if he’s wasting time by going with her. He’s supposed to meet up with some friends in an hour or so and he’s still wearing pajamas. 

“Yes, what are you up to?” Sylus’ eyebrows perk up. Amusement flows through him, but he won’t laugh just yet. He knows that the little girl is up to something, Sylus can feel the mischief cloud that surrounds her. 

There’s silence. Sylus has taught his little girl one thing: don’t confess to your crimes. Ever. She knows that much. But there’s something that Sylus forgot to teach her in Crime 101.

“Why are we going to dad’s room?” Koen furrows his eyebrows, preparing himself for the worst. The boy is right, Sylus failed to notice that they’re going to his room.

There’s no answer again, and this time it worries Sylus. Just what exactly did Diana do? He’s about to ask her what she did, though he knows it’s to no avail. She knows better than anyone to not confess her crimes.

It’s a good thing that he doesn’t have to wait too long to find out, because once the door to his room opens, he sees the catastrophe that Diana has caused in the room. The cool air suddenly gets hot, and Sylus begins to get heart palpitations. 

“Oh! This is going to be good!” Koen exclaims, seeing the mess that’s in the room. The teenager bursts into laughter while Sylus begins to sweat.

Sylus isn’t scared of anything– Well, he is scared of one thing and that’s his wife. The wife that warned him about letting Diana get away with everything. You told him he should start disciplining his little girl more often. The man didn’t listen, and now it bites him in the ass.

“Mama’s makeup!” She points out, and Sylus tries to process the mess that she’s made. All of your precious makeup is scattered over the room. Splatters of foundation on the bed sheets, the lipstick spilled over Sylus’ precious rug, crumbled eyeshadow on the nightstand. Sylus will die tonight and resurrect three days later.

It’s not that he can’t afford it, it’s about the principle.

“Koen, get the materials. We have a cleanup.” Sylus says, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt since he has to clean up a dead body. In this case, your makeup unless he wants to become the dead body.

“You don’t like it?” She asks with tearful eyes, making Sylus clicks his tongue. It seems that it’s time to teach her the second lesson in Crime 101: Never mess with mommy’s things.

He guesses this is his punishment for spoiling her a little too much. And as he stares at the mess while the teenager gets everything needed for a clean up, Sylus can only think of one thing… He’d absolutely do it again.

[fic-girlie]

A post-cannes one where actress!reader got mad at the fact Pedro return to his old ways (that damn pink floyd shirt) LOL ❤️❤️

After the spotlight

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x actress!reader Summary: You survived Cannes elegance, only for Pedro to come home—in that hideous Pink Floyd tee. You're horrified. He's smug. And somehow, it's perfect. Warnings: established relationship, domesticity, soft banter

You hear the door of the hotel room open just as you finish folding a silky black dress and tucking it delicately into the garment bag, smoothing the fabric with the reverence it deserves. There’s still a faint, unspoken magic clinging to the threads—a whisper of Cannes, of champagne flutes tilted toward flashing cameras, of sea air thick with salt and expectation, of voices echoing through marble hotel lobbies. The dress smells faintly like roses and soft perfume, like the evening air clinging to skin kissed by spotlight and stardust.

The suite is still humming with residual glamour. Your suitcase lies half-unpacked by the foot of the bed, shoes scattered with reckless abandon, a copy of the festival program lying open to your joint interview photo, where Pedro's hand rests delicately at your waist. The two of you had been an image of elegance—him in a sleek black suit that made even veteran critics swoon, you in that plunging neckline that became the talk of at least three film blogs.

So when he walks into the bedroom, you look up with the dreamy anticipation of seeing that same man again. The man who strolled beside you through luxury hotel corridors like he belonged to another time, someone out of an old movie. A man sculpted in smoky lapels and quiet confidence.

Instead, your entire expression freezes.

You nearly drop the garment bag, one arm still hooked through the hanger as your mouth parts in wordless offense.

There he is. Pedro Pascal. National treasure. Cinematic heartthrob. Internationally fawned-over style god.

Wearing the most tragic ensemble known to domestic life.

That damn Pink Floyd t-shirt—a washed-out, baggy relic with cracked lettering and a mysterious stain near the hem and a little rip. Paired with sweatpants. Not even trendy joggers. These are classic, end-of-laundry-cycle sweatpants. Slightly sagging at the knees. Possibly older than some of the press interns who followed him around Cannes.

He glances up from the two takeout bags in his hands, blinking behind his glasses like a man freshly escaped from the press gauntlet and blissfully unaware of the crime he’s just committed.

“What?” he asks, one brow quirking up.

You lower the dress slowly, staring at him as if he just trampled through a museum barefoot. “Seriously?”

He looks down at himself, then back up at you. “What about it?”

You wave a hand at the entire outfit. "You—you just spent days looking like the male lead in a Dior editorial and now you're back to... that?"

Pedro kicks the door shut behind him with the side of his foot and walks over, still entirely too nonchalant. “I missed my pants with the hole in the crotch. This is the elevated version.”

You stare at him like he’s speaking another language. "You do realize people are still posting slideshows of your outfits. Right now. On Twitter. Somewhere in the world, there is a woman photoshopping herself into that shot of you in that sleeveless look."

He sets the food on the dresser and begins pulling out the cartons, utterly unmoved. "She has good taste. That outfit was solid."

You drop your arms with a sigh that carries the weight of your theatrical training. “You were art, Pedro. You were the embodiment of mid-century modern masculinity. You made people clutch their pearls. Do you understand what you’ve done to fashion Tumblr?"

He opens a carton and pokes around with his chopsticks. “Mm. And now I’m back in my natural state. Homeostasis, hermosa.”

You groan, dragging your hand over your face dramatically as you flop onto the bed. “I cannot believe I have to look at that shirt again. It should’ve been sacrificed to the Cannes gods. Burned on a pyre with your old slippers."

Pedro climbs up beside you, slumping against the pillows with a grin that dares you to keep fighting. “You love this shirt. It’s sentimental."

“It’s offensive.”

He hands you a carton of noodles and a pair of chopsticks, peering at you from over the rims of his glasses. “It was the first shirt I wore around you when we weren’t filming. Remember that? You teased me about it then, too.”

You try not to smile, your mouth twitching against your will. “Because it was hideous then, too. And somehow it survived three moves and two stylists."

He gasps in mock betrayal. "You talked to my stylists about my shirt?"

You grin fully now. "Once. I might’ve asked if they could accidentally donate it."

Pedro clutches his heart. “You wound me."

You take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m just saying, you could at least let the glow linger. Give the world a few more days of post-Cannes splendour before you return to your grungy band-shirt roots."

He reaches out and flicks a loose strand of hair away from your cheek. “But you get the real me. Isn’t that better than all the polished stuff?"

You glance over, your eyes softening despite yourself. "I mean... yes."

He smirks triumphantly.

You jab your chopsticks in his direction. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like that shirt."

Pedro chuckles, shifting closer until your thighs are pressed together. The brush of familiar, worn cotton against your skin is equal parts infuriating and intimate.

He speaks softly, like confessing a secret into the quiet between bites. “Y'know, I missed this. The silence. The way you roll your eyes at me. The fact that I can just be... me. No flashes. No posture. Just this. You and me and bad television and questionable takeout."

You sigh, a long exhale that deflates your irritation entirely. “That’s not fair. You’re making me emotionally vulnerable while dressed like a freshman college roommate."

Pedro leans in and presses a kiss to your temple. “Balance, baby.”

You snort. “This is not balance. This is aesthetic whiplash."

He grins as he slurps a noodle. "Then you better hold on. I'm about to dig out the hoodie with the bleach stain."

You moan into your food. “I swear to God, Pedro, if you do, I’ll submit your Met Gala look to GQ with a side-by-side comparison."

He just laughs, that deep, honeyed laugh that echoes through your bones and settles behind your ribs like home.

He sets his carton aside and stretches out beside you, propping himself up on one elbow as his gaze softens. “Tell me the truth,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb along your jaw. “You wouldn’t actually want me to be that guy all the time, would you? The red-carpet version. Suited up at breakfast. Slicked back at brunch.”

You glance over, unable to help the smile that curls at the corner of your mouth. “No. I just want occasional reminders of that man. Maybe once a week. Like a visitation. Just so I know I didn’t dream it.”

Pedro chuckles. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep looking at me like that, even when I’m in this hideous shirt.”

You nudge your leg against his. “You’re lucky I love you enough to see through it.”

He kisses you then—slow, familiar, a little smug. You kiss him back with a sigh and a soft tug at the hem of the infamous t-shirt.

“Tomorrow,” you murmur against his mouth, “you’re wearing real pants.”

“We’ll negotiate,” he replies.

And despite the offense to your fashion sensibilities, you let him pull you down into the nest of blankets and bad clothing choices, because this—this mismatched, low-stakes, noodle-scented reality—is the best kind of coming home.

Because beneath the cracked letters and the questionable elastic waistband is your favourite version of him: soft, unguarded, warm.

And secretly? You kind of love the shirt too.

[rafey-baby]

hidden 2

outlaw!rafe x pogue!reader

c/w: hostage/stockholm syndrome situation, rafe getting injured & reluctantly letting her clean him up, slightly suggestive, 18+ mdni!

wc: 2k

hope u enjoy xx

series masterlist

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

It’s past midnight and Rafe is driving over the speed-limit— he said something about handling business and then more or less shoved her into the passenger seat of his truck before she even had the chance to open her mouth.  

The island sky is as dusky as the bottom of the ocean while he races through the soundless highway that reminds her of the yellow brick road; never-ending and with no certainty of what’s looming at the finish line. 

She’s sits silently, because even if she was curious as to where exactly they were headed to, she’s well aware that he wouldn’t tell her if she asked— which is why she merely lets her heavy lids flutter shut to the lullaby of the wind picking up outside the vehicle, so exhausted she falls asleep within minutes. Therefore, she’s not sure how much time has passed before she’s jostled awake to the sound of him turning off the engine in an empty parking lot. 

“Don’t even think about openin’ the door, alright?” a heavy warning lingers in his tone while he tucks his gun into the waistband of his pants and grabs a thick wad of cash from the glove compartment.  

She hums her acknowledgment, watching his actions with wandering eyes filled with questions. However, he merely offers her a brief glance before he’s throwing open the door and disappearing into the eerily serene night— leaving her alone in the dimly lit space with her nervous inhales the only thing keeping her company.  

The moment he’s gone, she tries to peer through the window, squinting in order to see where he’s run off to. However, the faint glow of the street lamps provides little to no help, which makes her tap her nails against the center console; impatiently waiting for him to return. Then, she attempts to press her ear to the window, but unfortunately no sounds other than the leaves in the trees surrounding the area reach her eardrums.  

She sighs. What if something happens? 

Realistically, she knows he doesn’t need her to worry about him but she can’t help it; no matter how terrible of a person he is, she doesn’t want anything bad to happen to him. Because at the end of the day, she’s not a carefully programmed robot entirely void of human emotions, is she?

The mellow memory of him reluctantly attempting to soothe her after her outburst the other day still lingers at the forefront of her mind— turning her initial thoughts about him into something softer. After all, she was certain he was going to kill her when she threatened him with his gun. However, he seemed almost entertained by her stupid bravery, opting to mock her instead of showing a single ounce of actual fear.

And she doesn’t know why, but there’s this peculiar flutter in her stomach whenever her brain decides to mull over the moment of him wrapping his big arms around her shaky form in an almost gentle manner. She wants to forget about it, wants to push it aside and simply despise him for forcing her to help him, but she can’t— can’t help the fact that even if she’s utterly terrified of him, there’s something almost fascinating about the way he’s such a polar opposite to her.

Not only is he a Kook but he’s also violent and hostile, whereas she doesn’t even have the heart to kill a bug. His demeanor is aggressive and she thought that was all there was but then he goes on and practically hugs her when she’s a trembling mess with salty tears streaking her cheeks. And she’s not entirely sure what she’s supposed to think of that.  

In fact, all of it confuses her to no end— disarranging her cerebrum and making foreign emotions bubble in her chest like molten lava. Or maybe she’s just touch-deprived; starving for whatever attention Rafe is suddenly offering her so generously. 

However, she doesn’t necessarily want to think about any of it right now, opting to stare out into the gloom of the night, forcing her mind somewhere else entirely when all at once, the driver’s side door slams open and her head snaps towards it; eyes startled and heart jumping in her chest at the sudden intrusion.  

“Calm down, s’just me,” Rafe mutters, sounding out of breath, his exhales harsh and chest rising and falling like a madman while he leans against the leather seat— eyes soon flitting over her tense form.

“You seriously didn’t move?” he huffs out, brows raised. “When’d you learn to listen? Should give you a treat for bein’ such a good little puppy, huh?” he lets out a chuckle with a shake of his head while she comes to the conclusion that she’s definitely craving a very specific type of attention when her thighs involuntarily press together in response to his twisted notion of praise.   

“You— uh…you okay?” she cautiously asks; an attempt to focus on something other than the warmth scattering along the apples of her cheeks.   

“M’fine,” he mumbles before starting the engine and speeding back out onto the road still sound asleep— the pitch-black sky beginning to fade into a navy blue with the dim glimmer of the street lamps illuminating their journey.    

However, when she gets a better look at him, she notices a few cuts and bruises adorning his tired face. There’s a particularly deep scrape on his cheekbone; crimson transferring to the back of his hand when he mindlessly swipes over it. “Rafe you’re bleeding. What happened?” she exclaims, uneasiness coating her voice.

“Don’t worry, okay? Jus’ had some, uh…disagreements, you should honestly see the other guy,” a lazy smirk paints over his face when he lets out a dry chuckle.  

“Do you want me to clean them up for you? Those could get infected or something.”

“S’just a few scratches, you’re actin’ as if m’bleedin’ out,” he rolls his eyes, turning exasperated.  

“M’being serious, you can’t exactly go to the doctor if those actually end up getting infected, can you?” she argues with a pout.    

“Shit, are all pogues this fuckin’ stubborn or jus’ you? Told you, s’fine,” he snaps in disdain, knuckles turning white from gripping the steering wheel.  

“It’s not fine, though. Can you jus’…can you just let me help? It’ll take like ten minutes and then you don’t have to worry about it anymore,” she rakes a hand through her hair in frustration because in her opinion, Rafe is the one being stubborn right now.   

“M’not worryin’ about it!” his gravelly voice suddenly thunders from his chest, making her flinch.  

“…well— I am,” her tone is quiet now, slightly regretting bringing up the topic in the first place.    

At that, he lets out an irritated sigh before he’s abruptly pulling over to a parking lot next to some gas station.

She turns to look at him with a surprised expression.   

“Don’t have all day, get the fuckin’ first aid kit from the glove box then,” he grumbles out a harsh demand.   

“O— okay,” her face begins to light up in victory as she scurries to open the compartment in front of her, rummaging through and trying to not pay attention to the plastic baggies filled with white powder or the wads of cash her hand comes in contact with. 

At last, her tentative fingertips find the small red bag she was looking for. However, when she turns to face him again, he’s not initiating any sort of movement, simply spreading his legs out in front of him in his slouched position and staring down at her expectantly.  

She hesitates. “You’re not gonna…move?”  

“If you wanna play nurse so fuckin’ bad then you have no problem sittin’ on my lap, right? Not gonna reach all the way from there, are ya?” his voice is mocking and she can practically feel the warmth crawling up her face.  

“Oh, right. Um— yeah. I’ll just…” she blinks and then she’s clumsily climbing over the console and awkwardly lowering down to his lap while he merely looks at her with a bored expression; annoyance swimming in the lagoons of his eyes as he glares at her, clearly bothered by the fact that he has to waste his precious time on something as trivial as this.

It makes her huff before she’s timidly opening the first aid kit and trying to settle down onto his lap. However, with his long legs sprawled out in the legroom, he’s not exactly making it easy for her— being petty and difficult on purpose while she takes out a clean cotton pad and dampens it with some antiseptic spray. 

“Can you just…” she trails off before gingerly taking ahold of his jaw and tilting his face in an attempt to examine the injuries.  

And to her surprise, he lets her freely maneuver his head as she pleases and despite the sting, he doesn’t even flinch when she dabs over a smaller cut on his jaw— merely lets his gaze flicker over her features, making her grow nervous under his curious eyes while she tries to concentrate on the vermilion spots on his face and not the way he’s soundlessly observing her. Or the fact that she’s currently closer to him than she’s ever been before— can feel the even breaths from his nose tickling the skin of her lower face when she leans down for a better angle.  

“So…you’re a drug dealer?” she decides to try her luck, not being able to sweep the cocaine in the glove compartment under the rug so carelessly.   

“What did I say about questions, puppy?” he scolds her instead of answering.   

“Right— sorry,” her eyes drop. At least she tried.  

And she doesn’t say anything more, instead focuses all her attention on gently cleansing the scrapes while she tries to not pay any mind to the fact that as an afterthought, this position is incredibly improper, and she’s not entirely sure why she agreed to it so easily. Upon careful consideration, she thinks she’s entirely too aware of his sturdy muscles underneath her and it’s turning her respiration more and more labored by each wipe over his skin.  

“Thinkin’ about goin’ to Guadeloupe next week,” he utters out after several moments of silence.  

“You are?”   

“Mhm, m’family has a house there,” his voice is calm, almost relaxed.  

Her brows crease in a question. “But how’re you—”

“I have a private jet,” he states as if it should be obvious. He is a proud Kook, after all.

“Right, of course you do,” she shakes her head when the corners of his mouth tug up. “How long are you gonna stay there?” she then asks while lifting her hand to swipe the saturated cotton over the deeper wound on his cheekbone.   

He shrugs. “Don’t know, ’til I figure somethin’ else out.”

She hums and then shuffles around on his lap some more, trying to wriggle upwards in an attempt to not fall. However, as she’s shifting into a more comfortable position, he suddenly lets out a low grunt from the back of his throat.  

“Shit, puppy. You, uh, you really gotta move around so much?” he murmurs, promptly resting his hands on her hips, halting her movements altogether.   

“S— sorry,” her eyes round out when she realizes there’s a slight bulge in his pants. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re tryna get me hard on purpose, hm?” a breathy chuckle escapes his lips, amusement glittering in blue gemstones while he inspects her flushed face with intrigue.   

“Oh, no— m’not…was jus’— trying not to fall,” her words are rushed, thoroughly embarrassed as she blinks repeatedly.  

“Just, uh…stay still, yeah? Need me to steady you?” he rasps out before strong arms are holding her upright with a firm grip on her waist.   

“Thanks,” her voice is a muted whisper while she tries not to seem so affected— getting a new cotton pad and beginning to scrub off some of the dried scarlet from under his bottom lip, not daring to shift an inch after that.

[barcapix]

IM ACTUALLY BEGGING EVE LANDO WITH NERDY READER PLEASE!!!

✮ Mr. Lover - Lando Norris

lando norris x ‘nerd’!fem!reader

sy: even though it’s a usual habit for you, and lando knows it, he always finds a way to pester you about how your spending too much time away from him. even if it’s being at a library.

a/n: small drabble to fill my formula one drought on my blog…but im cooking up a confident lando x untouchable reader fic and a charles x british reader fic, what do we think? (they will be pretty lengthy)

warnings: nah.

masterlist

bookworm girlfriend & insecure boyfriend.

a common routine of yours lately—hiding your persona from the media with stacks of books, each one detailed amongst your bipolar interests.

they ranged from political discourses, theatrical drama pieces, thriller suspenses and even the sickly sweet romance novels that reminded you of your relationship.

speaking of which, you were certain that he was already on his way to said library, a couple steps away from where you were hibernating. he’d done it everyday this week, and today was going to be no exception.

“i thought i’d find you here,” a forstakenly familiar voice cut through the programmed reading circuits in your brain. “the third day in a row.”

predictably, it was lando.

standing there with his arms folded along his chest, his thin, pale blue tee doing nothing to shield the contracting muscles in his biceps.

you looked up, lifting your glasses up an inch. “you’re saying it like it’s a bad thing. someone’s gotta stay busy.”

“it is a bad thing,” he counters, carelessly gliding the stack-of-six books across the polished wooden table, sending them toppling over.

without a second thought, he flung himself onto an opposing chair, shuffling to bring himself closer to you. after all this, you just stare at him with bewilderment.

“are you done with your tantrum now?” you ask, merely giving him a raised brow. “because if you are, i’d happily go back to reading thanks.”

you hear him scoff when your eyes travel back to the page infront of you, his own knee already bumping yours in a need for attention. nonetheless, you continue to scan the words with pure concentration, only briefly acknowledging your boyfriend throwing silent pouts and exaggerating tuts when he wasn’t the focial point of your spotlight.

lando caves in—enough is enough. your slow reaction time fails you this time, when lando swats your hands away from the rims of the hardcover book, pushing it aside with an aggressive type of force.

it ends up adding to the horrendous massacre of books he started minutes before.

“lan,” you groan, tugging the material of your hoodie over your wrists. “couldn’t you just wait another hour? is an hour really that unbearable?”

“well think about it. what could we do numerous times within an hour?” he grins to himself like a spoiled child, “and there’s your answer.”

typical. inevitable. you roll your eyes at his remarks, the obscenity of his insecurity, that so cleverly made him look like a fool.

“maybe another day babe,” you reply dryly, not even remotely interested in engaging into his profound tactics to get you where he wanted. “but i was invested by the novel i had, so if you wanna go back home ill meet you t—”

as you attempt to reach across the table, lando interjects you by locking his hands over yours mid-motion, pinning your hands in place.

“last time i checked, its not a sin for a man to wanna spend time with his girlfriend,” he cockily disputes, devilishly smirking.

you blink slowly, a brief pause in the unruly air that filled the finite space between you. your lips slim into a thin line and protest, “maybe it’s not a sin but it is an inconvenience.”

“c’mon don’t be so stubborn love,” the tone in his voice laced with sarcastic disbelief. “after all of the time you could of spent with me today, you chose to spend time in a library.”

you grit your teeth, trying to pry your hands from his hold. you’d grown accustomed to this—the push and pull battles between your determination and his relentlessness.

you were polar opposites, who somehow found love in one another. ultimately, at the end of the day, you admired how fervently he craved your affection, even if it cost the desire of your daily hobbies.

“all i’m saying is i’ve missed you today. i saw you four hours ago; that’s four hours too many.” lando admits, softer this time.

instead of releasing your hands, he holds them firmly by intertwining his fingers with yours. the brunette leans on closer, his addictive peppermint scent wavering up your nose.

“you really can’t survive that long, can you?” you inquire. “what are you gonna do when your in melbourne?”

he shakes his head defiantly. “take you with me.”

the look on your face says it all—the characteristic scrunch of your brows, the distinctive yet subtle jutter of your bottom lip.

you glance around at the broad shelves that lined the outskirts of your corner, back at your boyfriend, before relenting with a sigh. “we can leave under one condition: you promise me you won’t disrupt me here tomorrow.”

“i promise. i pinky promise.”

“alright then, lead the way home.” you eventually let him win, as he ghosts his lips over the shell of your ear, as he carves out a path from your jaw to your lips with kisses—his way of being thankful.

the stubble on his chin makes you squirm, finally cracking up a smile after such a gruelling debate. sure, he was probably the most annoying and insufferable man when he wants to get his own way, but he was your insufferable man.

“though i have to say, these glasses of yours make me fold,” he heartily chuckles, bringing them up from the bridge of your nose. “if this happens again, i beg you—don’t wear them because i might just lose.”