#but you can find other snippets under:

[livesincerely]

!! if it’s not too late for possessive!jack i absolutely love the two abo fics you wrote they’re some of my favs of yours. maybe something set in that universe?

I’m cheating a little because I already have my next a/b/o fic partially written, (and by partially I mean I’m 10k in with no end in sight 🙃) but I hope you enjoy this snippet regardless!

Distinctly rated E, so the rest is under the cut 😉

A few more steps and a brief fumble for the doorknob. Davey hits the mattress with a soft fwump, staring up at him with half lidded eyes, his mouth red and kiss-swollen. Jack crawls on top of him, pressing him down with his bodyweight as he drags his lips over Davey’s cheeks and chin, then dipping lower to nip a fresh mark into his neck.

Davey bares his throat to the attention, moaning, “Jack,” in a rough, needy voice that goes straight to Jack’s dick.

“Clothes,” Jack rumbles against his skin. “Need you naked.”

“You first,” Davey counters, already reaching for the front of Jack’s shirt, clever fingers making quick work of the last few buttons.

Jack shakes himself free of his button up, then grabs a fistful of the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath and pulls it up over his head. Davey’s hands are everywhere immediately, sliding over his shoulders and down his back, then over his hips and along his chest. Jack kisses him to within an inch of his life, needing him, needing to taste him, devour him, and Davey’s scent burns hotter and hotter, coiling thick and heavy in the air.

Jack pushes up onto his knees, yanking at his fly until he can scramble out of his slacks, tossing them away without a care. Then he grabs Davey by the hips and drags him down the bed, right where he wants him, and starts fighting with his belt buckle.

“Jesus, Jack,” Davey says, watching with flushed cheeks as Jack peels his khakis down his thighs then wrestles his sweater over his head, ruffled and rumpled and his. “You… fuck.”

“Smell so fuckin’ good,” Jack pants, lying back down between the open vee of Davey’s legs. “Can’t hardly think through wantin’ you.”

“Come here,” Davey demands, tugging him up. “Come—“

Jack goes willingly, slotting their mouths back together, guiding Davey’s legs back around his waist. Davey groans into his mouth when their cocks align just right, and his heels dig into Jack’s ass, urging him closer, their hips rocking together deliciously.

“Can I…?” Jack starts, desire burning at the base of his spine.

“Yes,” Davey says before he can finish, his chest heaving. “Touch me. Please, touch me.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before Jack leans down and seals his lips over one of his nipples, swirling his tongue until it pebbles up in his mouth. Davey arches up off the bed in response, a soft little whimper falling from his lips as his fingers dig into Jack’s shoulders.

He coaxes another one of those delicious noises out of him, then another, and another, then switches to the other side, teasing and tweaking until Davey’s breaths have gone ragged. Then he asks, “So, how’d you feel about maybe sittin’ on my face?”

Davey’s voice catches in his throat. “Y-yeah?”

“God, yes,” Jack says, reaching down to palm at Davey’s ass, gripping just hard enough that his cheeks spread slightly, the honey-sweet of his arousal saturating the space between them. “Sweetheart, you smell like absolute heaven. I’m fuckin’ dyin’ to get a taste of ya.”

Davey pushes himself up on his knees, biting his lip as he shuffles around. Jack turns over onto his back and as he settles in, he’s quickly convinced that this is the greatest idea he’s ever fucking had: Davey straddles his head, bracing himself against the wall above the bed, and the sight and smell of him is everything. His ass is magnificent in and of itself, but that combined with his hard, leaking cock, his hole furled tight and thighs shiny with slick… It's a testament to what’s left of his patience that he doesn’t just drag him down and ravage him.

Instead he does his best to give him a second to get comfortable, guides his hips slowly into position, then leans up to swipe his tongue right over where he’s wettest. The taste of him is better than he could’ve ever dreamed, just pure essence of Davey and heat and mate and mine, mine, mine, and Jack can’t help the low, guttural sound that tears out of him, deep and possessive.

“Fuck,” Davey swears, a choked off little moan.

Jack teases around Davey’s hole, carefully at first, then more confidently as Davey’s hips start working in tight little circles, his thighs twitching and quivering on either side of his head. He presses back against Jack’s tongue, unintentionally rocking against Jack’s face, and he’s making the sweetest little sounds as Jack works him open, growing slicker and slicker with each flick and thrust.

Jack gets a hand under around one of his thighs, holding him in place, then presses deep inside, sucking gently at his rim. Davey’s hips jerk in his grasp, but Jack just grips him tighter, fucking him open with his tongue.

“Jack,” Davey groans, and there’s a dull thud⁠—his head falling forward to rest against the wall⁠—and the thought that Jack’s eating him out so well that he can’t hold himself up any more is just fuel to the fire. “Oh, god.”

He wants to make his back arch, his toes curl. Wants to make him pant and sigh and scream.

One last sweep of his tongue, then Jack’s pulling away. Davey makes a noise that’s approaching a whine, grinding down as he chases after the lost sensation; Jack reaches up and slips two fingers inside him instead.

“That good for you, sweetheart?” Jack murmurs, biting a hickey into his inner thigh then soothing the sting away with his tongue, fingers working in slow, steady movements.

“More,” Davey pants, strung out and breathless, heat rolling off him in waves. “More.”

Jack’s more than happy to oblige, angling his wrist until he can press in nice and deep, sneaking a few more greedy tastes of Davey’s slick as he works him open. He curls his fingers up, searching, and when Davey’s thighs clench down around him, sudden and squeezing, he knows he’s hit his mark.

“Jack, I’m⁠—”

“Let go for me, Dave,” Jack says, twisting his hand just so, and there’s an infinite moment where everything goes tight, Davey’s body locking up as he hangs on the precipice, then he falls over the edge with a broken cry.

Jack feels his release more than he gets to see it⁠—every shaky inhale, every trembling muscle, every flex and grind, the wet, hot drag of skin and slick, tongue and teeth⁠—but Jesus, they really are gonna kill each other because that was damn near the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him and they’re just getting started.

He rubs his hands over Davey’s thighs, giving them both a minute to catch their breath, then gives him a little pat.

“Lift up?” he asks, and Davey gives a weak grunt but raises his hips enough that Jack can wriggle out from underneath him. “How’re you doin’, sweetheart?”

“Oh, no complaints here,” Davey manages after a moment, brushing his hair out of his face, his glasses sitting askew on the bridge of his nose. Jack’s heart swells at the sight of him. “This is already the best heat I’ve ever had, so I’m feeling pretty fond of you at the moment.”

“Right back at’cha,” Jack murmurs, leaning in to tuck his nose back behind Davey’s ear, getting another whiff of that glorious honeyed-citrus scent, then pressing a kiss to the skin there. “And good, ‘cause we’re just gettin’ started.”

Davey licks his lips, his eyes dark beneath the canopy of his lashes. “How do you want me?”

“Christ, how don’t I want ya?” Jack says, considering every inch of him with hungry eyes. But he manages to get ahold of himself, instead offering, “However’s best for you, Dave.”

Davey tilts his head. “I seem to recall something about ‘fucking me into the carpet’,” he drawls, and Jack’s dick twitches against his thigh, painfully hard. “That offer still on the table?”

Jack swallows. “An’ I remember someone insistin’ on a bed,” he rasps in response. “Seems a shame ta let it go ta waste, especially after we went ta all that trouble.”

“Into the mattress, then,” Davey proposes, and there’s another flash of pink as he runs his tongue over his teeth—the tease of it is flint and tinder beneath Jack’s ribs. “If that’s alright with you, love.”

It’s a miracle he remembers the condom tucked in his wallet, that he manages to find it and roll it on, that he has the strength to do anything except surrender to the heat building inside him. It’s tingling behind his teeth, stitched into his veins, echoing inside his mind:

Davey. Mine.

“An’…” Instinct is clawing at the inside of his chest, thrashing wildly, begging him to reach out and claim the precious offering in front of him, but he has to ask one more time. “An’, you’re sure?”

Davey’s eyes sweep over him, and Jack can almost feel the weight of his gaze, the heat of it, prickling at his skin. He pushes himself up on his hands and lets his legs fall open, revealing slick-soaked thighs, a glossy, pink hole, and a cock that’s already growing hard in anticipation of round two.

“Jack?” he murmurs.

“Yeah?” It comes out rougher than he means it to, his tongue heavy behind his teeth.

“Come here.”

Jack is not equipped to argue with that voice. Not now, possibly not ever.

[miedei]

nonexistent rizz

the team is shocked to see that… early seasons!spencer pulls?? and he has pulled???? (aka, the team discovers that early seasons!spence has a girlfriend)

a/n: first cm fic!!! super indulgent, deffo way longer than it had to be but I don’t care, I love love love the dynamic of the s1/s2 team and I NEEDED to write it (look at '#mystery girl!au' on my blog to see more musings about them <3)

cw: alcohol consumption, reader referred to as a woman, reader is around spencer’s age in s1/s2 (23-24), completely inaccurate early 2000s technology i think, cuties being cute, not edited in any way

wc: 2k

part two | part three | mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

“‘O Keefe’s! My wonderful, wonderful sweethearts, we are going out!” The moment the team steps out of the elevator, Penelope is bombarding them, hands moving wildly as words seem to tumble out of her mouth. “And yes, Hotch, I am sure we have no cases lined up yet, and yes, I’m sure JJ can corroborate that the moment she gets to her office and no, you may not stay behind, tonight is compulsory. That stands for you too, Gideon!”

Hotch hasn’t even opened his mouth, shaking his head in defeat as he takes in Garcia’s determined face. Under the watchful eyes of the team, his shoulders slump, a tired hand scrubbing down his face. “Fine. We all have to finish our reports, but if we’re all done in half an hour, we can go. Gideon?” He turns his face, hoping for Gideon to find a way to bunk off, but there’s a glint of amusement in the older man’s eye. “Sounds like there’s no getting out of it.” With that, he walks off, to his office. 

Penelope whoops excitedly, “Okay! That means we’re all going! That’s the first time since Gideon came back,” but her face sets slightly when she meets Spencer’s eye. “No. No, Baby Genius, you will not do this to me,”

“Garcia, I have pl-” “No! You are coming out with us, and we’re going to have a great time, and whatever Russian indie film you were going to watch will still be there for you tomorrow. Okay? No more complaining, baby, you know I won’t listen.” With a pat on his shoulder, she flounces off. Defeated, he doesn’t move from the elevator area, shrugging helplessly when Elle, JJ and Morgan brush past him to the bullpen. 

With a sigh, he takes out his phone, pressing his newly-programmed speed dial and bringing the phone to his ear. From Derek’s vantage point in the bullpen, he can see Spencer, pacing back and forth in front of the elevator doors, and he can see the moment whoever is on the other side picks up. The younger man’s face lights up, like when he’s on the receiving end of a rare Hotch smile out in the field, but more spirited, buoyant. Only snippets of the conversation float in through the slightly-ajar glass doors, but they’re enough to give him pause, and still his fingers above his keyboard.

“...Garcia’s got this plan for us all, and…”

“Yes, I know, I do like going out with them, but that’s not what I wanted to do…”

“...I took the metro tonight, so I think I’ll just… Really? You want to?”

At that point, Spencer turns, his voice muffling, and keeping Derek from his vested interest in his conversation. But what little he heard is more than enough to pique his interest. He flicks a pencil onto Elle’s desk. “Greenaway. You know if pretty boy’s mom is in town or something?” Elle looks up from her monitor, head tilting, “Not that I know of. Besides, doesn’t she not like flying? I don’t think he’d have her come here. Why do you ask?”

Derek doesn’t reply, simply gesturing to the glass doors, where Spencer is walking inside, his mouth twitching to conceal his smile. His steps are measured, like he’s trying to feign calm. He settles at his desk, hunching his back in a way that can’t be comfortable, typing rapidly as his knee jiggles up and down. Elle turns back to Derek, eyes wide with wonder. 

“That is not how you look getting off the phone with your mother.”

The incident is quickly forgotten, however, when the BAU team are crammed into a booth in the back of the low-lit bar. Penelope has roped Hotch into helping her bring drinks back from the bar, and the rest are speaking a little too loudly, arms flinging and bumping into the empty glasses littering the table. 

All except for Gideon, who, despite having had three glasses of whiskey, is still just as calm and observant as he is fully sober. It is this that causes him to zero in on Spencer, sitting across from him, sandwiched between Morgan and the newly-returned Garcia. 

There’s a pink flush across his high cheekbones, and he’s incredibly giggly, all things that are completely expected for him, a few drinks in. However, what the experienced profiler picks up on, are his darting eyes. Spencer can often be found staring into the middle distance, or, since Gideon taught him the importance of building rapport with victims and officers alike, trained steadily on the space between someone’s eyebrows, but this time it’s different.

His eyes flick to whoever’s talking, feigning interest, but every few seconds, it turns back down to his lap, where something is clutched in the hand he keeps under the table. If it were Hotch, Gideon would know with absolute certainty that he was watching his phone, waiting for a text from Haley.

But this is Spencer. The youngest person he knows. The youngest person he knows whose technological knowledge is somehow worse than Gideon’s own. What on earth would have Spencer acting- 

Oh. Gideon nearly gasps at Spencer’s movements. On his fifteenth peek down at his lap, Spencer stiffens, then draws his hand up from his lap to get closer to his face. It is his phone, and Spencer Reid has somehow learned to text as quickly as Morgan does. His thumbs fly over the buttons on his phone, and he can’t hold back the smile that spreads on his face.

Gideon’s eyes furrow, and he can’t hold back from nudging Hotch’s shoulder, pointing in Spencer’s direction. Hotch pulls himself away from his conversation with JJ, and Gideon can see his expression morph from mild interest, to confusion, to complete bewilderment. After a beat, his face turns to meet Gideon’s and his normally stoic demeanor is shaken, eyes wide. 

Spencer, however, doesn’t even notice his mentors’ faces, still tapping away at his phone and craning his neck to look around the bar. 

It’s a while later, when JJ has pulled the team (minus Hotch and Gideon) onto the dance floor, a few drinks past tipsy at this point. She’s laughing out loud, holding Elle’s hand and twirling her under her arm. Penelope and Derek are mock-waltzing, bursting into laughter every few steps, and Spencer… 

JJ pauses for a moment, before Elle pulls her into moving again. Her head whips around, trying to find Spencer, before giving up. He must be back at the table with Hotch and Gideon, he was never very comfortable dancing anyway. 

The four on the dance floor quickly devolve into a mess, swapping partners until they’re all dizzy and laughing. JJ and Penelope are shimmying back and forth together, when Penelope gasps a little, tapping JJ’s arm without ceasing her movements. “Jayj! Look, see that girl at the bar?” She gestures subtly at a younger woman, probably in her early twenties, wearing a purple wrap top that has JJ sighing wistfully. 

“Pen, I think I’ve seen my soulmate. Would it be weird for me to crawl over there and beg her for her shirt?” Penelope giggles, gripping JJ’s forearms so they can sway to the music dramatically. “Just a little, my sweet. How about we go ask her where it’s from, though? I think that would be a little more…” She goes uncharacteristically silent, and it has JJ twisting to see what shut her up. However, Penelope tightens her grip on her arms, keeping her from moving. 

“JJ. My love, my heart. You’ll always be honest with me, won’t you?” Now she’s worried. JJ nods quickly, deciding to just focus on Penelope. “Yeah, Garcia, of course. What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m seeing things, and you are one of the most qualified people in the world to tell me if I’m going crazy. I’m going to turn us around, and you’re going to look at the woman in that gorgeous top, and you are going to either scream, or send me off to Hotch for a psychological evaluation.” Her tone is serious, hushed, and JJ nods solemnly. 

The intricate plan is conducted, and JJ is now facing the bar, her eyes searching for the girl, when she stiffens, sucking in a breath. “Yes! I’m not crazy, you see it right? What is going on!” Penelope smacks her arm repeatedly, but JJ can’t tear her eyes away from it. It being something she couldn’t possibly have prepared herself for, not in her wildest imaginations.

The girl is sitting on a barstool, sipping at a cocktail, and chatting to… Spencer. Spencer, the BAU’s Spencer, child-prodigy-lovable-dork-awkward-mess Spencer Reid, is stood in between her legs, smiling down at Mystery Girl without a hint of fear. It’s devastatingly sweet, his eyes soft in a way she’s never seen before, as he nods along with whatever she’s saying. Penelope jolts her out of her trance with a tap to the arm, JJ whispering, “He’s so… carefree.” 

That’s the only way to describe it. He’s looking down at her, eyes locked onto hers, and he’s still. His hands aren’t tapping, his leg isn’t shaking. He’s just looking at her. 

JJ can feel Morgan and Elle huddle near her, questioning Penelope about what they’re looking at, before shutting up as they see it. She hears them take twin gasps, and huddle even closer. They stand in silence, surely a hindrance to the people dancing, but they can’t tear themselves away. 

It’s only when Spencer shatters their worlds once more that they finally find themselves able to move. Four pairs of eyes follow him, as he leans even further towards Mystery Girl, and they all bulge at once when he raises a hand, carding his fingers through her hair. Penelope whispers, “oh my god”, Elle grips JJ’s arm in a vice grip, and Derek makes an unseemly noise, before gripping their arms, tugging them back to the booth. 

They collapse in the seats, faces pale as they look at each other, next to a very confused Gideon and Hotch. 

“What? What is it?” Hotch questions them, brow furrowed deeply. None of them speak, however. Only Elle lifts a weak hand to point. She directs their attention to the sight at the bar, and they all turn back to it, gasping once again. They’re… “kissing,” Derek breathes, shocked. Hotch and Gideon stiffen, but still crane their heads until their eyes fall on what has rendered their highly trained team speechless. And their reactions are just as silent.

Mystery Girl has stood up, her arms around Spencer’s neck, and he’s leaned down to meet her lips, hands braced on her hips. It’s honestly not that scandalous, a lazy, casual kiss that they part from with twin smiles, but the FBI agents can’t handle it. They don’t say a word, straining their ears to hear whatever she is saying as he holds her hand (Penelope lets out a squeak at that), and walks with her towards the door, not even noticing that his coworkers have returned to the booth. Her voice is low, but Hotch manages to pick up a few of the words. 

“...go home and watch that movie I was telling you about? Metropolis, I think you’ll really…” And they’re off. Spencer Reid has left a bar, holding hands with a girl (that he’s apparently spoken to multiple times? Who refers to a place as home for both of them?), acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

The group sits in silence, unable to muster a comment, when Penelope’s phone buzzes. She checks it, and silently turns the screen over so they can all read it. 

BOY GENIUS: Hey Garcia. I wasn’t feeling well so I decided to go home. See you Monday :-)

“What?”

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[prlssprfctn]

The first time, Tim notices someone observing them from afar, it is when they are all settled for a brief dinner together. It is the middle of the week, and Bruce gathered all of them together to... relax. Which is strange but not unwelcome. Everyone is so involved in chattering and bantering that they don't notice a lingering gaze through the window; they don't, but Tim does.

It takes him a few seconds to figure out that it is Jason.

He is not sure if Bruce reached for him to invite, and Jason just declined, or there was no offer to begin with, but Tim knows for sure Jason lurkes behind windows for a few minutes before disappearing in the night.

And the funniest thing? Tim understands him.

He thinks he is not Jason's replacement — never truly was, despite what the other thought — but in a way, they did swap their places. Because in the past, it was Tim, who hid on the rooftops, staring at Bruce and his family, listening to the snippets of their conversations. And now it is Jason.

It is still different, of course. Tim had a choice, and it was his... enthusiastic project, if anything — Jason doesn't really. But if anyone understands the feeling of standing far away from everyone, it is still Tim.

That's why the next time in happens, Tim reaches out.

It is after the particularly easy mission, when Tim spots the red motion on the rooftop. He slips away from Nightwing and Robin, who debate about something with Batman through the comms, and finds himself standing behind Red Hood.

The way Red Hood taps his fingertips on the balustrade makes Tim remember that he is not included in their comms anymore. He wonders how lonely it is, to hear the voices of his brothers, but never being able to grasp the whole conversation they have.

'Hood,' he calls for him.

To Jason's credit, he doesn't scramble in panic, even if it seems that he is surprised by his appearance.

'Red,' he mutters back, instantly defensive. 'What, came to mock me?'

Tim rolls his eyes; he wishes things would be easier with Jason, but they are not, and he can't really blame him for that.

'Had I ever mocked you?' He copies his stance, arms folding in the chest. When Jason tilts his head, almost asking, "Really now?" Tim rolls his eyes again. 'Okay, I did a few times. But it mostly were jokes about your death.'

Jason chuckles.

'Good one, punk. It changes everything.'

'You like jokes about your death,' Tim protests. 'And I know you allow Arsenal to joke about it, so it is not entirely closed topic.'

'I don't remember allowing you to joke about it, though.'

...

This conversation is so fucking stupid. Tim didn't even came here for this, but-

But fine. He still can win.

'So, you only allow it to your friends. Fine. Let's be friends,' Jason chokes on his own exhausted sigh. 'Do you need some friendship questionnaires to fill to be my friend? I can arrange that.'

Jason kindly flips him off under his breath before disappearing in the night, leaving him alone with whining Nightwing and irritated Bruce in his ear.

The next time he stalks down Jason, who in turn is stalking Damian and Bruce, he shoves in his hand twenty three papers filled with bunch of friendship questions — half stripped from internet, half made by Tim that involve the specifics of their jobs.

He doesn't expect anything to come after it, but in two weeks after Jason returns to the city after his mission with Outlaws, Tim finds these papers filled with surprisingly neat, calligraphic answers.

And he gets the printed copy of the same questions, with one page of an additional one, written in the same handwriting, and with a little sticky note atop of it.

Your turn, Timbo.

Tim smirks.

Oh, he will so drag Jason back in the family, somehow.

[paxtito]

and they were roommates

pairings: tara x reader (g!p)

word count: 2717

warnings: smut 18+, masturbating, oral (r receiving), p in v, swearing

summary: tara is out running errands, she’d be gone for hours- or so you thought

a/n: i’m working on multiple request atm— wenclair x reader one and the radiohead song (i’m just listening and reading the song to get an idea atm) also thank you to the anon for requesting this and their kind words!

The dorm is quiet, unusually so, and it’s kind of nice. Tara had mentioned heading out for the day—something about running errands and meeting up with Sam—and while you’re used to the hum of her presence, the silence isn’t unwelcome.

You glance around the shared space. It’s small but cozy, a mix of her personality and yours crammed into every corner. Her side of the room is meticulously organized—her books stacked neatly, her bed made with precision. In contrast, your side looks… well, lived-in. A pile of clothes rests precariously on your desk chair, and your bed is a haphazard mess of blankets and pillows.

You plop onto your bed, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly through social media. Without Tara around, you’re left to your own devices—literally. You snort at a meme, sending it to her out of habit.

“That’s stupid,” she’d probably reply, but there’d be a hint of fondness in it.

After a while, you glance at the clock. Noon. The day stretches ahead, and you find yourself feeling restless. You could clean up your side of the room, but… nah. Instead, you wander over to Tara’s desk.

Her books catch your eye first—old classics mixed with crime thrillers and a few surprisingly heartfelt poetry collections. You pick one up, flipping through the pages idly. A note scribbled in the margin catches your attention, her handwriting sharp and deliberate: “This makes no sense. Why didn’t he just leave?”

You chuckle softly. Even in her annotations, Tara’s blunt honesty shines through.

Your gaze drifts to her bulletin board. It’s a mix of pinned photos, ticket stubs, and little reminders. One of the pictures is of the two of you, taken on move-in day. You’re grinning like an idiot, throwing up a peace sign, while she’s glaring at the camera, her arms crossed—but there’s a subtle upturn to her lips that gives her away.

You flop onto your bed, the old springs creaking under your weight. The small TV in the corner flickers to life as you jab at the remote, the sound of canned laughter filling the room. It's some trashy reality show, but it's mindless and distracting—just what you need right now.

As you settle in, your gaze drifts around the room. Tara's side is always so pristine, everything in its place. It's annoying how tidy she is. You, on the other hand... well, your side looks like a bomb went off in a thrift store.

You reach for the bag of chips on your nightstand, tearing it open with a loud rip. The salty scent mingles with the faint smell of Tara's lavender body spray, creating a strange but not unpleasant odor.

You munch away, eyes glued to the screen, as snippets of conversation from the show drift through your thoughts.

"I think I'm going to kill her," one of the contestants is saying, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

You snort. Yeah, right. They're all too busy primping and preening to actually do anything. Unlike the Ghostface killers, they've got no balls.

You check the time again, just to be sure. Tara won't be back for at least a couple of hours. With the coast clear, a mischievous grin spreads across your face. Time to take advantage of the privacy.

You reach over to your bedside table, fishing around in the drawer until your fingers close around the cool, smooth bottle of lotion. You pop the cap open with practiced ease, squirting a generous amount into your palm. The slick, slightly cold sensation sends a shiver down your spine as you rub your hands together, warming the lotion.

With your other hand, you unlock your phone and pull up your favorite porn site. Your fingers fly over the screen as you type in your search, already feeling the familiar stirrings of arousal. A few taps later, and a video starts playing, the sounds of moaning and grunting filling the now-silent room.

You settle back against your pillow, one hand already slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. Your cock is already half-hard, twitching in anticipation. You wrap your fingers around it, giving it a slow stroke as you watch the scene unfold on your screen.

You stroke your cock slowly, teasingly, savoring the building pleasure. Your other hand roams over your chest, pinching and tweaking a nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt. The dual sensations send sparks of electricity shooting through your body, making your hips buck up into your touch.

On screen, the actress lets out a particularly loud moan, and you match it with a groan of your own. Fuck, that's hot.

Just as you're getting into a rhythm, the door to your dorm swings open without warning. You freeze, your hand still wrapped around your throbbing cock, as Tara steps inside.

"Shit!" she exclaims, her eyes widening as she takes in the scene before her. You're sprawled on your bed, pants pulled down, phone in hand, and a sticky puddle of lube on your stomach.

Mortification floods through you, and you frantically try to cover yourself, grabbing a pillow and pressing it over your lap. Your face burns with embarrassment, and you can't meet Tara's gaze.

"I-I thought you said you'd be gone for hours!" you stammer, trying to come up with some excuse. But there's no hiding what you were doing.

Tara stands in the doorway, frozen in shock. Her eyes dart between your flushed face and the pillow. After a moment, she seems to shake herself out of her stupor.

Tara's eyes flick down to the pillow, then back up to your face. Her expression is unreadable, but there's a glint in her eye that makes your stomach flutter with nerves and excitement.

She steps further into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The sound seems to echo in the tense silence.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," she says, her voice low and teasing. She saunters over to your bed, the mattress dipping under her weight as she sits on the edge.

Your breath hitches as she reaches out, her fingers brushing against the pillow in your lap. Slowly, she pulls it away, revealing your straining erection. You whimper at the sudden exposure, the cool air hitting your overheated skin.

Tara's gaze rakes over your cock, and you feel yourself grow even harder under her scrutiny. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and your hips twitch involuntarily.

"Looks like you were in the middle of something," she purrs, her hand resting lightly on your thigh. Her touch is electric, sending shivers racing up your spine.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd be back so soon," you manage to say, your voice coming out breathier than you intended.

Tara leans in closer, her breath ghosting over your ear. "Don't apologize," she whispers, her lips brushing against your skin. "I think I can help with that."

And then, before you can process what's happening, she's sliding down your body, her hands pushing your legs apart. You gasp as her mouth hovers over your cock, her hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin.

"Fuck, Tara," you groan, your fingers tangling in her hair as she takes you into her mouth. The wet heat of her tongue is almost too much to bear, and you buck your hips, desperate for more.

Tara hums around you, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through your body. She bobs her head, taking you deeper each time, her hand wrapping around the base of your cock.

Your head falls back against the pillows as Tara works her magic. Her mouth is a wonder, hot and wet and so damn perfect. You can feel every ridge and valley of her tongue as it glides along your shaft, tracing the veins and swirling around the head.

"Fuck, your mouth feels so good," you groan, your hips rocking up to meet her movements. Your fingers tighten in her hair, gently guiding her pace.

Tara hums in response, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. She takes you deeper, her nose brushing against your pubic bone as she swallows around you.

The sight of her, head bobbing in your lap, lips stretched obscenely around your cock, is almost too much to handle. You feel yourself getting close, your balls tightening and your stomach muscles clenching.

"Tara, I'm gonna..." you warn, your voice strained and breathless.

But she doesn't pull away. Instead, she doubles down, her head moving faster, her hand pumping in tandem. She looks up at you through her lashes, her eyes dark with lust and something else, something intense and hungry.

It's too much. With a guttural groan, you explode in her mouth, your cock pulsing as you spill your seed down her throat. She swallows it all, not spilling a single drop, and continues to suck and lick until you're spent.

Finally, she releases you with a lewd pop, sitting back on her heels and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looks immensely pleased with herself, a satisfied smirk on her kiss-swollen lips.

You collapse back onto the bed, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Your whole body feels like jelly, boneless and sated.

"Holy shit," you breathe, running a hand through your sweat-dampened hair. "That was... wow."

Tara giggles, the sound low and sultry. She crawls up your body, straddling your hips and leaning down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

You roll over, pinning Tara beneath you on the bed. She looks up at you, her eyes dark and hooded with desire. You capture her lips in another heated kiss, your tongue delving into her mouth to taste yourself on her tongue.

Your hands roam her body, slipping beneath the hem of her shirt to caress the smooth skin of her stomach. She arches into your touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Breaking the kiss, you sit up and pull her shirt over her head, tossing it carelessly aside. Your eyes drink in the sight of her, clad only in a lacy bra. You lean down, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the swell of her cleavage.

Tara's fingers thread through your hair, tugging gently as she holds you to her. "More," she breathes, her voice husky with need.

You oblige, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra. It falls away, freeing her breasts to your hungry gaze. You take a moment to admire them, full and perfect, before lowering your head to take one pebbled nipple into your mouth.

Tara gasps, her back arching off the bed. You lavish attention on her breast, sucking and nibbling until she's writhing beneath you. Your hand slides down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her jeans.

"These need to go," you murmur against her skin, hooking your fingers in the denim and pulling it down her legs. She lifts her hips to help, kicking the jeans off and leaving her in just a pair of matching lace panties.

You sit back on your heels, taking in the sight of her laid out before you, flushed and wanting. Your cock twitches, already hardening again. You reach down to push your own pants fully off, kicking them away.

Tara's eyes widen as she takes in your naked form, her gaze zeroing in on your erection. "Fuck, you're so hot," she breathes, her hand reaching out to wrap around you.

You grind your cock against her, feeling the heat of her through the thin lace. Tara gasps, her hips lifting to meet yours, seeking more friction. The rough drag of your hard length against her clothed clit sends sparks of pleasure shooting through you both.

"Please," she whimpers, her fingers digging into your shoulders. "I need you inside me."

You don't make her wait any longer. Hooking your fingers in her panties, you yank them down her legs, tossing them aside carelessly. Tara spreads her legs wider, inviting you in.

You position yourself at her entrance, the head of your cock nudging against her slick folds. Tara's breath hitches, her eyes fluttering closed as you press forward.

You sink into her inch by delicious inch, groaning at the tight, wet heat enveloping you. Tara is so fucking perfect, her walls gripping you like a vice. You bottom out, your hips flush against hers, buried to the hilt inside her.

"Fuck, you feel so good," you pant, fighting the urge to just start pounding into her. Instead, you hold still, letting her adjust to the stretch.

Tara rolls her hips, urging you on. "Move," she demands, her nails raking down your back.

You don't need to be told twice. You start to thrust, setting a steady rhythm that has you both gasping and moaning. The room fills with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and the creaking of the bed.

Tara wraps her legs around your waist, using the leverage to meet your thrusts. Her tits bounce with every snap of your hips, and you lean down to capture a nipple in your mouth, sucking hard.

"Yes, just like that," Tara hisses, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Don't stop."

You have no intention of stopping. You fuck her hard and fast, chasing your pleasure and hers. The coil of heat in your belly winds tighter and tighter, signaling your impending release.

You can feel your orgasm building, your balls tightening and your thrusts becoming erratic. But you force yourself to slow down, to focus on Tara's pleasure instead of your own.

Tara's nails dig into your shoulders, her teeth sinking into your neck as she holds on for dear life. Her walls flutter around you, tightening and releasing in a rhythm that tells you she's close.

You redouble your efforts, angling your hips to hit that spot inside her that makes her see stars. Tara keens, her body tensing beneath you.

You reach between your bodies, finding her clit with your fingers. Tara bucks against your hand, her hips moving in frantic circles as you rub tight circles over the sensitive nub. You can feel her getting closer, her inner walls starting to flutter around your cock.

"Come on, baby," you urge, your voice low and rough. "Come for me."

Tara's body goes rigid, her back arching off the bed as her orgasm crashes over her. She cries out, her pussy clamping down on you like a vice as she comes undone.

The feeling of her coming around your cock is too much. With a guttural groan, you pull out, your hand flying over your shaft as you stroke yourself to completion. Your cum spurts out, painting Tara's stomach in thick, white ropes.

You collapse beside her, both of you panting and sweaty. Tara turns her head to look at you, a lazy, satisfied smile on her face.

"That was intense," she murmurs, reaching out to brush a sweat-dampened lock of hair from your forehead.

You grab some tissues from the box on your nightstand, quickly wiping the cum from Tara's stomach. She sighs contentedly as you clean her, her body still tingling from the aftershocks of her orgasm.

As you toss the used tissues aside, you can't help but let your gaze wander over her naked form. Tara is a vision, her skin flushed and glowing, her hair splayed out on the pillow like a halo. She looks thoroughly debauched, and the sight sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through you.

But then reality starts to set in. You just had sex with your roommate. Your best friend. What does this mean for your relationship? Will things be awkward now?

Tara seems to sense your thoughts. She sits up, pulling the sheet around her naked body. "Hey," she says softly, reaching out to cup your cheek. "We okay?"

You nod, not quite trusting yourself to speak. Tara smiles, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

"Good," she murmurs against your mouth. "Because I want to do that again. Soon."

With that, she hops off the bed, completely unselfconscious in her nudity. She pads over to her closet, rummaging around for something to wear.

You watch her, your mind still reeling. What have you gotten yourself into?

—

request: where reader and Tara are roommates and reader thinks Tara is out so reader starts to masturbate but Tara comes home early and walks in on reader so she gives a helping hand (a blow job) then they do it yk?

[pucksandpower]

Good Girl

Max Verstappen x Wolff!Reader

Summary: Max wants to take care of you in every way possible, so you let him (much to your father’s displeasure)

Warnings: 18+ content

The muffled sound of raised voices catches Max’s attention as he walks past the back of the Mercedes motorhome. He slows his pace, straining to make out the words.

One of the voices unmistakably belongs to the Austrian team principal but the other is higher-pitched … feminine. Max’s curiosity is piqued as a snippet of the argument reaches his ears.

“But I hate it, Papa! I’m miserable!”

He knows that voice, even though it is now fraught with anguish. Max stops in his tracks, hesitating. He knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but his concern for you overrides his better judgment.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Liebchen,” Toto Wolff’s gruff tones reach Max’s ears. “This is for your own good. You need to finish your degree and make something of yourself.”

“I don’t want to make something of myself!” You cry out, your words laced with despair. “I just want to be happy!”

Max’s heart clenches at the pain in your voice. He’s never seen you anything less than perfectly composed, always carrying yourself with the poise expected of a team principal’s daughter. To hear you so distraught tugs at something deep inside him.

“Don’t be absurd,” Toto scoffs. “Happiness doesn’t come from idleness. It comes from hard work and achievement.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just marry rich then!” You retort, defiance tingeing your tone.

A surprised laugh bursts from Toto. “Is that what you think? That some wealthy man will sweep you off your feet and give you everything your heart desires?”

“Why not?” You sound small and vulnerable now. “At least then I wouldn’t be so miserable all the time.”

“I didn’t raise you to be some man’s ornament,” Toto snaps, his voice taking on a hard edge. “You’re my daughter — strong, intelligent, and capable. Finish your studies and make your own success. That’s an order.”

There’s a bitter silence, and Max can picture the imperious set of Toto’s jaw, the fire in his eyes when he’s crossed. He feels for you, truly, but he also knows how stubborn and uncompromising your father can be.

You sniffle, and Max’s heart twists imagining your lovely face crumpled with tears. “I … I can’t, Papa. I just can’t do it anymore.”

“Enough of this nonsense!” Toto’s voice is like a clap of thunder, making Max flinch. “I’ll hear no more. Get it together, Y/N. That’s final.”

There’s a flurry of footsteps, and Max instinctively steps back into the shadows as Toto storms out from behind the motorhome, his expression thunderous. He brushes past without sparing Max a glance.

Only you remain, your soft cries tearing at Max’s soul. Before he can overthink it, he rounds the corner towards you.

You’re a vision even with your eyes reddened and cheeks stained with tears. Max has admired you from afar for years, secretly yearning for more than your warm smiles and friendly small talk. Seeing you so undone breaks his heart.

“Y/N?” He murmurs, reaching out to gently touch your shoulder. You jump, gasping at his sudden presence. “I … I couldn’t help overhearing.”

Heat floods your cheeks as you hurriedly wipe at your face. “M-Max? I … you shouldn’t have ...”

“Hey, it’s alright.” His thumb strokes your shoulder in a soothing gesture. “I’ve been there too — feeling crushed under the weight of expectations. It’s okay not to be okay sometimes.”

You shake your head, a watery laugh escaping you. “You don’t understand. My father, he’s … it’s complicated.”

“So uncomplicate it for me,” Max says simply, holding your gaze. “Let me take you to dinner tonight. Get your mind off everything for a little while.”

Your eyes widen, and you nibble at your full lower lip — a gesture Max finds utterly captivating. “Oh, I … I couldn’t. Papa would be furious if he found out.”

“He doesn’t have to know.” The words slip out before Max can reconsider their forwardness. Heat prickles at the back of his neck, but he refuses to look away. “Just take a night for yourself, Y/N. You deserve it.”

You worry at your lip, internal conflict playing out on your expressive features. Max can practically see the warring thoughts flitting through your mind.

“Please,” he murmurs, reaching out to tuck an errant curl behind your ear. Your breath catches at the gentle contact. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Something sparks in your eyes — acceptance, resignation … or perhaps a hint of excitement? Max couldn’t say. But when you nod, his heart stutters in his chest.

“Okay,” you whisper, sending Max’s pulse racing. “I’d like that.”

A slow smile curves his lips. “Perfect. I’ll pick you up outside your hotel at 8 tonight.” He takes a chance, reaching up to trace the line of your jaw with his knuckles. “Wear something pretty for me?”

The corner of your mouth ticks up in a small grin, and Max feels like he could float away at the sight. “It’s a date.”

With a dimpled wink and a last caress of your silken cheek, Max turns and saunters away, already counting down the hours until he can sweep you off your feet — however briefly. He only hopes one night in his company provides a respite from the burdens weighing you down.

You watch Max stride away, a curious fluttering taking wing in your stomach. Despite the turmoil still lingering from your fight with your father, you can’t deny the thrill that courses through you at Max’s tender attention.

There was a heat in his eyes that had your breath catching — a scorching intensity you’ve never noticed from him before. Like he was seeing all of you, the pain and insecurities you typically hide from the world, and accepting it all without judgment.

His gentle touches had set your skin tingling, leaving you flushed and flustered in a way you’re unaccustomed to. You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you the way Max did — like the weight of all his focus was centered on you alone, searing into your very soul.

Despite the circumstances, you find yourself unexpectedly … excited for tonight. To temporarily shed the burdens your father is so intent on piling onto your shoulders. To let someone else take the lead for once, absolving you of responsibility and expectations.

To let Max take care of you.

The thought sends a delicious shiver down your spine. Allowing yourself a moment of selfishness, of disregarding your father’s disapproval, you relish the delicious sense of anticipation unfurling within you.

For once, you think as you head inside to prepare yourself for your clandestine date, you’re going to indulge your own desires — if only for a few hours. Your father may call it idleness, but you call it sanity.

And if Max’s heated gaze is any indication, he seems more than happy to oblige you.

***

Precisely at 8 PM, Max idles his sleek Valkyrie hypercar outside your hotel’s entrance, eagerly scanning the revolving doors. He doesn’t have to wait long before you emerge, and the sight of you has his breath catching in his throat.

You’ve opted for a slim-fitting cocktail dress in a deep burgundy hue that clings to your curves in all the right places. The plunging neckline and thigh-grazing hemline leave just enough to Max’s imagination, stoking a slow burn of desire low in his belly. Your hair tumbles in artful waves over one shoulder, and you’ve accentuated your lips with a sultry red stain that makes Max’s mouth go dry.

He barely registers popping the passenger door and rounding the car until he’s standing before you, drinking in every delicious detail from your smoky eye makeup to the skyscraper heels lending those gorgeous legs an endless line.

“Y/N,” he rasps out, voice thick with undisguised appreciation. “You look … incredible.”

A becoming flush steals across your cheeks at the naked admiration in his tone. Ducking your head shyly, you murmur, “Thank you, Max. I wasn’t sure if this was too much or ...”

“Not at all,” he cuts you off firmly, unable to tear his hungry stare away from you. “You’re stunning. Absolutely stunning.”

Offering his arm, he escorts you to the car and helps you inside before joining you in the driver’s seat. As he pulls away, he has to force himself to keep his eyes trained on the road rather than drifting hungrily over every dip and swell of your body.

Max selects one of the finest restaurants in the city — an intimate establishment where the lighting is dim and romantic. The maitre d’ leads you to a secluded table in the back, discreetly ensuring your privacy.

Once seated across from you, Max can’t resist reaching across the table to take your hand, marveling at how tiny and delicate your fingers feel engulfed in his calloused grip. It’s a heady sensation, being so close and allowed to touch.

One he wants more of.

You go to take a leather-bound menu with a shy smile, but Max simply slides it aside and shakes his head.

“Don’t strain yourself tonight, schatje,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Let me take care of everything.”

Surprise flits across your lovely features, but then understanding and gratitude replace it as you nod mutely. He can sense the relief in you at being temporarily absolved of responsibility, even over something as simple as choosing your meal.

A subtle tilt of his head summons the waiter, and Max orders a selection of the finest dishes and robust wine for you to share — decadent fare perfectly suited to indulging your every whim this evening.

As the waiter departs, Max leans back and simply drinks you in, admiring the elegant line of your neck and curve of your jaw. You seem to bask under his appreciative scrutiny, almost … preening for him. It’s utterly intoxicating.

“How are you feeling, Y/N?” He asks lowly, searching your face. “After everything with your father earlier ...”

Your eyes shutter briefly at the mention of Toto, but you regain your equilibrium swiftly and offer Max a patently forced smile. “I’m alright. Just … trying not to think about it too hard tonight.”

“Good.” He strokes his thumb over your knuckles soothingly. “Because tonight is about forgetting all your cares and letting someone else handle everything for once.”

The promise in his words has your pulse fluttering wildly in your veins. You know you shouldn’t indulge this … whatever this is … with Max. That it could court disastrous consequences. But there’s something about him — about the way he looks at you, touches you, and speaks to you — that just saps your will to resist.

Perhaps it’s the bone-deep weariness you’ve been carrying from your ongoing battles with your father. Or the guilty craving you haven’t allowed yourself to admit to — the need to simply surrender control for once and let someone else bear the burdens weighing you down.

Whatever it is, you find it impossible not to fall headlong into the solace Max is offering so freely.

The waiter reappears with a bottle of bold Cabernet, carefully filling your glass before departing again. Max lifts his in a silent toast, and you mimic the gesture, reveling in the rich notes that flood your senses.

From there, the evening slips into a blissful cocoon of easy conversation and succulent food that Max deftly applies himself to serving you bite by bite. Each time his long fingers brush your lips as you accept a morsel, a frisson of electricity zips through you.

He pays immaculate attention to your smallest reactions, quickly discerning your preferences even before you voice them. It’s uncanny — and utterly disarming — how seamlessly Max seems to anticipate your every need without fuss or demand.

You can’t recall the last time you felt so … cherished. So indulged and seen. Like Max’s entire world revolves around you and you alone in these stolen moments.

It’s heady and intoxicating, this total surrender of control. And as the hours wind down over lingering sips of wine and heated looks, you find yourself all but drunk on the experience … on Max.

Eventually, once the dining room has emptied and the candles burned low, Max summons the waiter to settle the check with an imperious wave of his hand. He declines your attempts to assist, fixing you with a look that brooks no argument.

“Tonight is my treat,” he says simply, dropping a small fortune onto the tray with a casual air. “I’m not done taking care of you yet, schatje.”

A delicious shiver races down your spine at his words, your thoughts growing hazy and unfocused under the scorching weight of his stare. You can only nod numbly, incapable of voicing even token protest.

Pushing back from the table, Max rounds it in two long strides and pulls you to your feet, linking hands with yours. He holds your gaze as he brushes a kiss across your knuckles, letting his lips linger in a way that has heat pooling low in your belly.

“Back to my hotel?” He husks, voice gone rough in a way that steals your breath. “Or shall I take you home, printsesse?”

For a long, dizzying moment, the two of you simply stare into each other’s eyes, the intimate moment stretched taut like a tightrope. Then, as if in a trance, you find yourself shaking your head slowly.

“Your hotel,” you whisper before you can reconsider. It’s utterly mad, this reckless pull you’re surrendering to. But God help you, you can’t bring yourself to care.

A slow, heated smile curves Max’s lips as he nods sharply. Without a word, he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow and escorts you from the restaurant.

You move almost in a fugue state, allowing Max to lead you with a surety you envy as he bundles you into his gleaming sports car once more. The ride to his hotel passes in a blur, punctuated only by the possessive weight of Max’s palm on your thigh and the fevered glances he keeps sending you from the driver’s seat.

By the time the valet has whisked his car away, all you can clearly process is the burn of Max’s fingers tangled with yours and the thrumming weight of his presence at your side. Everything else — anxiety, obligation, expectation — fades into insignificance under his piercing gaze.

He tugs you into the shadows of the hotel atrium and crowds you against a corner, his free hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw reverently. You go pliant against the hard plane of his chest, tilting your head back to maintain the searing lock of your gazes.

“Still with me, Y/N?” Max rumbles, the rough velvet of his voice sending sparks of need ricocheting through you.

You nod slowly, unconsciously wetting your lips — an action which has Max’s eyes riveting on your mouth hungrily. “Yes, Max. I’m here.”

His thumb brushes over the fullness of your lower lip with maddening tenderness. “Good girl.”

Those two words should not affect you the way they do — like a punch to the gut, stealing your breath while simultaneously stoking a raging inferno within. You can’t even begin to process the riot of sensations they provoke.

You simply let yourself be swept away in the wake of Max’s intensity, melting into the solid shelter of his embrace as he claims your mouth in a devouring kiss.

Max’s kiss quickly grows fevered and consuming, his tongue delving hungrily to explore the honeyed depths of your mouth. You melt against him, fingers clutching at the hard planes of his back as you surrender to the dizzying haze of desire he’s stoked within you.

He walks you backwards without breaking the molten seal of your lips, until your back meets the wall with a muffled thump. Emboldened by your soft whimper, Max pins you there with the solid weight of his body, hips tilting into yours as his hands roam feverishly over your curves.

You’re drowning, overwhelmed by the potent storm of Max’s passion. It sweeps away every stray thought, every lingering worry about duty and obligation, leaving you delirious and pliant in his arms. All that exists is the scorching brand of his mouth, the iron strength of his embrace, and the maddening friction of him pressing you into the unforgiving wall.

It’s everything and nothing like you imagined. More intense, more explosive, more overwhelming in its ability to strip away every pretense and doubt until there’s nothing left but raw need.

Max finally releases your lips with a ragged groan, pressing his brow to yours as you both gulp down air in harsh pants. His palms smooth over your hips, up your sides, cupping the underside of your breasts through the thin material of your dress.

“God, printsesse,” he rasps, voice wrecked in a way that has you clenching with fresh desire. “You’re so fucking perfect, do you know that?”

You can only whimper, thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind as he ducks to mouth wet, open kisses along the column of your throat. Every brush of his lips is like a brand, searing into your very core.

“And tonight ...” Another nip at your racing pulse has you arching shamelessly into him. “Tonight you’re mine. All mine.”

His hands slide beneath the hem of your skirt, bunching it around your waist as his fingers trace the lace edges of your stockings. You keen softly at the electric jolt of sensation, nails scoring down his shoulders and back.

“Max ...”

“Shhh, schatje ...” His tongue laves at the hollow of your throat, lips trailing a heated path up the line of your jaw until he’s devouring you again. The demanding sweep of his tongue robs you of breath, of thought, of everything but the exquisite present of his touch. “Just let go. No thinking. I’ll take care of everything.”

His words are like a mantra, a siren’s call urging you to surrender utterly to the exhilarating oblivion he offers. To shed every burden and float away on the current of his undivided devotion.

So you do. With a broken whimper, you sag in his arms, giving yourself over completely to Max’s intoxicating command. The doors of your suite can’t come soon enough.

Max can barely keep his hands off you during the agonizing elevator ride up to his penthouse. As soon as the doors close, cutting you off from prying eyes, he has you pinned against the mirrored wall, hands roaming feverishly over your body.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasps against the slick column of your throat. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this. Of having you.”

You whimper shamelessly as his teeth graze the thundering pulse under your jaw, hips rocking helplessly against his muscled thigh that’s wedged between your legs. The delicious friction has sparks of pleasure-pain arcing through your nerves in dizzying waves.

With deft motions borne of practiced skill, Max strips you of your dress, leaving you clad in only a scrap of wine-colored lace before lifting you easily. You lock your legs around his narrow hips as he mouths hungry kisses along the swell of your chest, callused palms kneading the generous curve of your backside.

The elevator judders to a halt and the doors slide open, but neither of you pay it any mind. Max simply shifts you higher in his arms and carries you down the hallway, your shared gasps and muffled groans echoing off the plush carpets and paneled walls.

Finally, he’s nudging open the door to his suite with his shoulder, barely waiting for it to click shut again before slamming you against the nearest surface. You scarcely register that it’s a sturdy oak desk before Max is divesting you of the remaining flimsy barriers between your bodies with sharp tugs and deft fingers.

He stands you before him, towering and scorching with building intensity as his gaze tracks from your flushed face down to where your thighs are already starting to grow slick in anticipation. A punched-out groan tears from his chest.

“Fuck, printsesse,” he growls, palming the rigid length straining against his slacks as he drinks in the sight of you laid bare before him. “So fucking gorgeous. Made for me.”

With a sharp nip of his teeth against the swell of your breast, he urges you back until you’re bent over the desk’s edge. Cool wood presses against the heated flesh of your belly and breasts, making you gasp.

“Max ...” you keen, reaching for him with shaking hands.

But he bats them away with a low rumble, pinning your wrists against the desks’ burnished surface. His lips scald a path down your spine as he looms over you from behind, thick cockhead prodding teasingly at your entrance.

“So responsive, schatje" he praises in a gravelly rasp, free hand gliding down to pluck at your engorged nipples. “Always so ready for me, aren’t you?”

You can only whine wordlessly, squirming against the delicious torture of his touch as he takes his time mapping every dip and swell of your body. Marking you as his own by searing himself into your senses through each languid caress.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of exquisite torment, Max sheaths himself in one powerful thrust that punches the air from your lungs. He stills for a long moment, buried to the hilt, broad chest plastered to your back as you both shudder and gasp for air.

“Max … oh fuck, Max please ...”

With an animalistic growl, he complies — withdrawing nearly all the way before snapping his hips in a punishing grind that has your nails scoring the desk’s glossy veneer and guttural cries tearing from your throat.

From there, it’s a haze of sweat-slicked skin and desperate keens, of Max taking you apart with lavish, calculating precision. He’s utterly relentless, wringing every ounce of pleasure from your joined bodies until you’re hovering in a blissful state of oblivion.

It’s everything and yet not enough all at once. You’re ruined for anyone else, forever branded by his ferocious intensity. You’re addicted to the escape he offers from your doubts and burdens.

And as Max’s harsh grunts and increasingly erratic thrusts signal his impending release, you welcome the sweeping wave of darkness that accompanies your own shattering climax.

You’re his now. Utterly and completely. And you’ve never felt so free.

Later, with the tangled sheets pooled around your waists, Max gathers you close and strokes idle patterns over your flushed, sweat-slicked skin. Sated and boneless in the aftermath of his lovemaking, you curl into the strong circle of his embrace with a contented sigh.

Idly, Max’s fingers trail through your tousled locks, nails scraping lightly over your scalp in a way that tingles with delicious sensation. You make a soft sound of pleasure, earning a rumbling chuckle from deep in his chest as he presses a kiss to your brow.

“Feel better, printsesse?” He murmurs, voice a low rasp that strokes over you like velvet.

You manage a lazy nod, humming into the heated dip of his throat as you nuzzle closer. “Much better. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, schatje. Truly.”

You lapse into a comfortable silence, savoring the steady thud of his heartbeat under your ear and the soothing drag of his fingertips over your skin. For the first time in ages, your thoughts are utterly quiet, every worry burned away by the man beside you.

It’s like floating in a warm sea, cradled and buoyed by Max’s strength and devotion. Every breath comes easier, your soul unburdened and free in a way you can’t recall experiencing before. You want to bottle this precious feeling forever.

Eventually, Max breaks the tranquil quiet with a murmured, “Tell me why you hate university so much.”

You tense reflexively at the simple question before letting out a shuddering breath, curling closer to Max’s solid frame.

“It’s just … not me. Not who I am,” you mumble, struggling to articulate the turbulent storm of emotions your father’s demands have been stirring within you. “I’m expected to act and think a certain way, to follow rules and meet standards that I can’t bring myself to embrace. It’s suffocating.”

You pause, sifting through your scattered thoughts for the right words. “I’ve never known anything but expectation and obligation, Max. It’s like … being slowly crushed under this ever-increasing weight of being someone I’m not while being denied any chance at discovering my true self.”

Max’s arms tighten around you protectively, his lips brushing over the crown of your head. “So stop,” he says, the simplicity of his words at odds with the complex web of anxiety and disappointment your life has become.

You shake your head wearily. “I can’t. You know my father — he’ll cut me off without a second thought if I so much as breathe about dropping out again.”

Despite the hefty inheritance awaiting you, Toto has always been resolute that his children earn their share through grueling hard work and achievement. To do anything but, even for a moment, is a grievous failure in his eyes.

“No,” Max’s tone brooks no argument, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “Don’t you see? You don’t have to live like that anymore.”

One corded arm slips beneath your waist, rolling you until Max is looming over you, his chiseled features grave and intense. “You have me now,” he states with quiet certainty, words ringing with the weight of a solemn vow. “I’ll take care of you, schatje — no matter what. Even if your father cuts you off.”

The conviction in his voice steals your breath, your heart clenching almost painfully at the naked promise in his eyes. “Max ...” you start to protest weakly, but he quiets you with a brush of his fingertips over your lips.

“Hear me out,” he says, tone gentle but uncompromising. “What if … what if you just dropped out? Quit this half-life that’s slowly killing your spirit and let me take care of you?”

He leans in until his brow is resting against yours, eyes searching the depths of your own. “I know this is new between us. But I’ve wanted you for so long, printsesse. And I know — down to my very soul — that we’re meant for each other.”

A tremulous exhale escapes you, your chest tightening as Max’s words wrap around your heart in a heated embrace. It’s insane, surely — to take such a risk based on attraction and a single incredible night in his arms. But the vision he paints of safety and freedom sings an inescapable siren song you can’t resist.

“I … I don’t know what to say,” you whisper, suddenly afraid to break the delicate spell woven around you both.

“Say yes.” He kisses you reverently, until your lashes flutter shut at the tender onslaught. “Say yes, and let me take care of you, printsesse. The way you deserve to be cherished.”

God help you, but you can feel your resistance crumbling in the face of Max’s single-minded intensity and undeniable allure. He’s everything you’ve been missing — freedom, passion, and hope for something more than the crushing prison of expectation.

So with one last, shaky exhalation, you give in.

“Okay,” you breathe, the dam finally bursting as tears of bewildered relief prick your eyes. “Yes, Max. Yes.”

He claims your lips in a searing, triumphant kiss that leaves you lightheaded and clinging to him. When you part, his smile is brighter than a thousand suns.

“Tomorrow morning,” he vows fiercely against your swollen mouth. “First thing — you’re calling your university and withdrawing. No arguments.”

Your chest clenches sharply at the directive, fear and anxiety lancing through you at the enormity of what you’ve just agreed to. The crushing weight of your father’s disapproval already feels like a lead shroud.

But Max is there, holding you close and peppering your face with soothing kisses. “Shhh, schatje,” he croons, stroking your hair. “Don’t overthink it. This is what you want, isn’t it? To finally be happy and free?”

You manage a jerky nod, melting into the safety of his solid strength. “Y-yes. But ...”

“No buts,” he reproves gently, capturing your gaze again. “It’s you and me now, Y/N. I’ll handle everything else, I swear it. All you need to focus on is finding what makes you happy again. The rest is my problem. Understand?”

You suck in a shaky breath and let it out slowly, wrestling your scattered thoughts into a semblance of order. What Max offers — this safe harbor from all the pressures slowly drowning you from without and within — is everything you’ve been desperate for. Your own private rebellion against the rigid expectations suffocating you at every turn.

If nothing else, you owe it to yourself to take this lifeline.

With a tremulous smile, you curl into Max and nod against his chest. “Okay. I understand.”

“Good girl,” he praises, satisfaction and triumph ringing in his tone as he cradles you tenderly. “Everything’s going to be alright now, printsesse. You’ll see. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

His fingers stroke through your tresses again, the repetitive sweep quickly lulling you into a deep, dreamless sleep. The first of what you hope will be many where you don’t fret and stew over responsibilities and failures.

The last coherent thought that drifts through your mind as you let Max’s strong heartbeat under your ear lull you under is one of bone-deep contentment and relief.

You’re finally, blissfully free.

***

The first faint rays of dawn filter through the gauzy curtains, rousing you from the most restful sleep you’ve had in longer than you can remember. For a blissful moment, you simply bask in the cocoon of warmth and safety enveloping you — the solid weight of Max’s arm draped possessively over your waist, the clean, musky scent of him surrounding you.

Then the gravity of your decision the previous night comes crashing back in a dizzying wave. Your breath hitches in your chest as apprehension and anxiety spark to life once more.

Sensing the shift in your mood, Max stirs behind you with a quiet rumble, nosing aside the tumbled locks at your nape to press a hushed kiss there.

“Morning, printsesse,” he murmurs, voice still roughened from sleep in a way that has something inside you clenching with need. “Sleep well?”

You can only nod, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in your throat as you twist in the circle of his arms to face him. His brow furrows at the clear trepidation playing over your features.

“Hey now,” he soothes, brushing the pad of his thumb over your cheekbone. “None of that, schatje. You know what you need to do.”

Your teeth snag your lower lip in a nervous gesture as you give another jerky nod. Yes, you know. You agreed to call your university this morning and make your break official by withdrawing.

It should be a relief — knowing you’re finally free of all those crushing expectations and obligations. And yet ...

Max must read the swirling doubts and fears etched into the tense lines of your body. Because he simply gathers you closer, cradling the back of your head against his broad chest as his free hand strokes over your hip in a soothing caress.

“I know it’s scary, letting go of everything you’ve been groomed for,” he murmurs, the steady thump of his heart under your ear already working its magic in calming your turbulent emotions. “But this is what you want, isn’t it? To be happy?”

Another nod, this one more decisive. Because despite the trepidation gnawing at your resolve, you know deep down that it will be worth escaping the slow atrophy of your spirit.

“Then trust me. Let me take care of you, just like I promised.”

He tilts your chin up until your gazes lock, his eyes burning with so much intensity and conviction that your breath catches.

“Make the call,” he urges in a low rumble, searing you to your core. “Be brave and take the first step towards your freedom. Towards us.”

Us.

The word reverberates through your veins with dizzying potency, stoking the blossoming embers of hope and longing that have been kindled to life under Max’s tender, all-consuming attentions. He’s right — you do want this. Want him and the scorching promise of something more that he offers.

So with a shuddering exhale, you reach for your phone with trembling fingers and scroll through your contacts. It’s only when you tap the university’s number that the vise around your chest constricts.

You’re really doing this. Cutting ties with everything that’s suppressed your true self for so long.

Before you can lose your nerve, you hit call.

Max soothes you through every stumbling assurance and confirmation that yes, you’re formally withdrawing from your degree program, effective immediately. When the call ends, he cradles your face in his large, calloused palms and simply holds your gaze as you struggle to get your breathing under control.

Then, slowly, a smile blooms over his striking features.

“Well done, printsesse,” he praises, the rough timbre of his tone reverberating through your very bones. “So brave for me.”

And then his mouth is on yours, claiming you in a drugging kiss that swiftly banishes any lingering doubts or regrets thrumming through you. His taste, his scent, his unbridled passion — all of it combines into an intoxicating force that strips everything else away until only sensation remains.

He murmurs silken endearments to you as the desperate, frantic press of his lips gentles into something softer and infinitely more tender. Until finally, he’s simply cradling you close, peppering whisper-light caresses over your brow, your lashes, the flushed apples of your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, gleaming with pride as he drinks in your dazed, thoroughly kissed expression. The profoundly peaceful one you haven’t witnessed on your own features in ages. “My brave, beautiful girl.”

And in that suspended moment, everything else — your father’s disappointment, your uncertain future, and the world at large — fades into irrelevance compared to the serenity of being in Max’s arms. Of having his full attention and accepting the release he offers so freely.

A few hours later, Max is escorting you through the familiar paddock with a possessive hand cupping your lower back. There’s a bounce to your strides that hasn’t existed for longer than you can recall, a giddy sense of lightness like all the burdens you’ve been carrying were finally, blissfully lifted away.

You’re practically glowing, the radiant joy suffusing your every pore in a stark transformation from the tense young woman who fought so hard to hide her unhappiness under a brittle veneer.

So caught up are you in the heady exhilaration of your new lease on life that you very nearly don’t register the familiar, thunderous bellow ringing out over the motorhomes.

“Y/N Wolff! Just what in the hell is going on here?”

The blood drains from your face as your father’s irate voice cleaves through the peaceful moment. Beside you, Max stiffens, his palm searing a brand against the small of your back as he half-turns to face the oncoming storm that is Toto Wolff.

Your father is stalking towards you both with the implacable force of an enraged bull, features contorted into a mask of fury that would cow most grown men into instant submission. But not Max. If anything, his shoulders go back as he shifts incrementally in front of you in a subtle, shielding motion.

“Papa, please let me explain-”

“Explain?” Toto roars as he draws up mere feet away, face mottled and spit flying as his blistering glare swings between you and Max. “Explain why I received an email this morning informing me that my own daughter has willfully withdrawn from the university without so much as consulting me!”

You flinch bodily as if struck, guilt and dread roiling sickeningly in the pit of your stomach. No matter how much he’s stifled you or how right this decision feels, your father’s disapproval is every bit as crippling as you’d feared.

“But Papa ...”

“I have half a mind to cut you off without a cent to your name for this unseemly lack of respect!” Toto’s massive hands are clenched into meaty fists at his sides as he fights visibly to regain control over his temper. “You spoiled, selfish girl. All that I’ve sacrificed to give you every opportunity is being thrown back in my face!”

Beside you, Max has gone rigid with rage at the verbal assault being levied upon you. The set of his jaw and rapid flaring of his nostrils are the only outward signs of the barely leashed fury trembling through his frame.

“Toto,” he bites out in a tone of forced calm that still somehow comes laced with subtle menace. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit? Y/N is an adult making her own choices ...”

“Enough!” Toto cuts him off with a contemptuous slash of his hand, bristling with scorn as he glares daggers at the younger man. “I should have known you’d have something to do with this blatant disregard for responsibility. Just like a driver to think only with what’s between his legs rather than his brain!”

A shocked hush falls over the paddock as mechanics and crew alike abruptly still at the team principal’s uncharacteristic loss of composure. Never before have they witnessed Toto’s infamous ire directed towards his own daughter and her … well, whatever Max is to you now.

But Max remains supremely unbowed before the fury radiating from the much larger man. If anything, Toto’s words seem to enflame his quiet indignation into something hotter. His hands clench into white-knuckled fists as he takes a bristling half-step forward, fully inserting himself between you and your irate father.

“No, Toto,” he growls, the timbre of his normally lilting accent gone dark and thrumming with promise. “That’s quite enough. You’ll not speak to Y/N like that again — not while I’m here.”

Toto blinks, seeming caught off guard by Max’s outright challenge … before a bark of disbelieving laughter rips from his chest.

When he speaks again, his words are bitten off and cruel. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose,” he sneers in your direction, mouth curled in an ugly sneer. “You’ve become the useless little trophy that I always dreaded having for a daughter. Just another parasite leeching off a wealthy man’s success while contributing nothing of value herself.”

Your breath leaves you in a painful wheeze, like you’ve been gut-punched. Tears of shame and wounded pride prick hotly at the corners of your eyes. Is that really how your own father sees you?

That’s the final straw for Max. With a vicious snarl, he very nearly lunges for Toto — only stopped by your panicked grasp around his rigid forearm and a breathless cry for him to stay back.

“Max! Please!”

The naked anguish bleeding into your voice seems to penetrate his haze of seething fury. He pauses, still trembling with scarcely restrained wrath, but nods once in silent agreement to your desperate plea. Behind his unflinching glower, you can glimpse the simmering promise that your father will face severe retribution in his own due time.

But for now, he forces himself to remain impassive and immovable by your side. No longer antagonizing but issuing a clear warning all the same.

The elder Wolff eyes Max with open disgust before shaking his head violently and spitting onto the concrete floor. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Verstappen. Just you wait. And you!” He wheels on you with fresh outrage blazing in his gaze. “Don’t think for a second I won’t make you regret this ridiculous, childish display! You’re cut off, Y/N. Not a single cent until you return to your senses!”

His final scathing words slice into you like a blade, reopening all the wounds of disappointment and failure that have long festered under his stringent demands. You curl in on yourself with a soft, pained noise, unable to even raise your head properly.

Until Max is there.

Cocooning you protectively in the scorching circle of his arms, he gathers you to his chest and simply … holds you. One hand cradles the back of your skull while the other strokes over your back, soothing and petting until some of the rigid tension seeps from your frame.

“It’s alright, schatje,” he murmurs against your hairline, voice rough yet infinitely tender in a way that has tears stinging hotly against your lashes. “There’s no need for this. I’ve got you, printsesse. You’ll never want for anything, not while I’m here.”

His fierce promise rings with so much conviction, so much quiet authority that it bypasses all your ingrained doubts and hesitancies straight to the hollow pit of worthlessness that’s been carved out within you over the years. Soothing that profound ache and filling it with the warmth of Max’s oath.

Because somewhere in the eye of this turbulent storm, you’ve found your shelter.

“I won’t let him hurt you anymore,” Max continues in that same low, reassuring tone. One hand cradles your nape while the other settles against the small of your back, grounding you against the solidness of his strength. “Never again, I swear it.”

So you let yourself unravel against him, forehead pressed to the steady thrum of his pulse as years’ worth of tears flow unchecked down your cheeks. For the first time, you don’t feel shame or weakness in surrendering so utterly to another’s care and protection.

He murmurs wordless endearments and soothes your disheveled tresses as the storm breaks around you both. Making promises as uncompromising and eternal as the rising of the sun itself.

“Everything will be alright now, printsesse. You’ll see. I’ll sort it all, whatever it takes. This is our new start together. And I’ll never let you go.”

***

For the remainder of the weekend, you’re practically glued to Max’s side in the Red Bull garage. A permanent fixture nestled against his solid bulk, soaking up the quiet strength and support he provides like a soothing balm over the raw, aching wounds left by your father’s scathing vitriol.

With Max, none of the biting insecurities and self-doubts that have plagued you for so long can gain purchase. He simply won’t allow it — not with the way he gathers you up in his embrace at every opportunity, lips constantly seeking out your brow, your temple, the sensitive skin of your ear as he murmurs reassurances too low for anyone else’s ears.

And when it comes time for the lights to go out, Max doesn’t so much as compete as utterly dominate, blowing the rest of the field into the weeds. You watch with breathless awe from your spot in the garage as he carves through the field lap after punishing lap, pulling out a lead that turns him into a missile disappearing over the horizon in a blur of ear-splitting power.

By the final lap, Max is so far ahead that he simply has to bring his car home for a staggering 42 second victory. You’re one of the first to greet him after he clambers from the cockpit, all but throwing yourself into his sweat-slicked embrace with a joyful exclamation the second his boots hit the ground.

The cameras inevitably flock, capturing the moment Max lifts you clean off your feet in a bone-crushing hug as his team erupts into jubilant celebration around you both. But Max’s eyes only have focus for you, darkened and blazing with the same all-consuming intensity that’s been ignited behind his ribs since the first moment you let yourself surrender to him wholly.

Later, once the press obligations and podium formalities are complete, Max bundles you away with brisk efficiency — not even needing to explain where you’re headed. You simply follow his lead, gripping his hand tightly as he shepherds you to a private airstrip where his jet awaits.

Your heart skips erratically as you settle into the plush leather seats and Max seals you both inside the luxurious cabin, shutting out the rest of the clamoring world until it’s only the two of you in your own private oasis. Even after everything that’s happened between you in such a short span, you can’t quite shake the giddy disbelief that any of this is truly real.

But then Max is there, sinking onto the seat beside you and gathering you into his side like you’re made to nestle against him for the rest of time. His calloused palm curves over the nape of your neck, thumb stroking over the flutter of your pulse as he presses his brow to your temple and simply … breathes you in.

“That’s it, printsesse,” he murmurs, so low you feel the rumbling timbre in your bones more than hear it. “Just you and me now.”

The jet engines whine to life, as Max tips your chin up to capture your gaze. You go utterly breathless under the weight of his scorching stare, the fevered grey of his irises swirling with so much naked promise that your pulse kicks up several perilous notches.

“Where are we going?” You somehow find the means to whisper, unconsciously licking your lips in a gesture that has Max’s eyes riveting there hungrily.

Rather than answering right away, he nuzzles his mouth over the delicate line of your jaw until his lips are brushing the shell of your ear. “Home,” he rumbles, sending delicious shivers cascading through you. “We’re going home to Monaco, schatje. Where you and I can start our new life together.”

Your breath hitches audibly at the raw yearning, the adamant possession threaded through his words. The implication that you — his everything now, just like he is yours — will be shacking up in his private sanctuary away from prying eyes and unending scrutiny.

Just the thought alone has a molten thrill of anticipation blooming low in your belly. To be utterly alone with Max, isolated from the outside world and every toxicity that’s weighed down your every step until now. To finally spread your wings and breathe the first tendrils of long-denied freedom as his partner, unburdened of expectation or judgment for once.

Is there anything you crave more than that?

As if privy to your innermost thoughts, Max shifts until he can cup your face in his palms. The kiss he brushes over your lips is searing yet paradoxically soft around the edges — like he’s sealing an unspoken promise to cherish you wholly. To be your shield from a world too cruel and demanding when left to its own devices.

“Our new beginning,” he murmurs against your mouth, words scalding with the same intensity as his embrace. “I can’t wait to show you our home, printsesse. To have you all to myself for once.”

The plane surges into its takeoff run, leaving the ground behind as Max’s grip tightens incrementally, hands smoothing over the sloped curves of your neck and shoulders. There’s a sense of possession layered into his touch, a heady feeling that twines through your body until everything is gilded in need.

Languidly, he works his way across the cradle of your throat, painting the fragile hollows with the blistering heat of his lips and tongue. You shudder against him, nerves set alight and already keening for more of his undivided worship.

“I have the most gorgeous penthouse overlooking the marina,” he continues on a low purr, lips shaping endearments against your feverish skin. “Sweeping terraces with hot tubs and daybeds where you can lounge and not have a single care, schatje.”

Your lashes flutter closed in a dazed sweep, head tipping back against the plush headrest to allow Max easier access as he lavishes attention along the fragile dips of your collarbones. You can’t process anything beyond the raging heat blazing to life under his coaxing touch, exquisitely overwhelmed in the most delicious way.

“Mmm, and of course it’ll need some changes, no doubt,” Max rumbles, nosing aside the loose fall of your hair to trail open-mouthed kisses along the fragile column of your neck. “New furniture maybe. Whatever strikes your fancy to make it our space.”

He captures your wandering gaze with his own heated one then, a brow cocked in silent invitation. Somehow you gather enough mental function to nod breathlessly, surrendering control over yet another crucial element of your new life to Max’s steady and capable hands.

“Perfect. I’ll have the best interior designers come around to work their magic. That way you won’t have to strain yourself with all those pesky decisions.”

Relief crests through you in an almost dizzying wave at Max’s implicit assurance that he’ll handle everything, as always. That your only role in this brave new world you’ve embraced will be resting peacefully in the shelter of his care and devotion.

As if in reward, Max finally claims your lips in a kiss that scatters what few coherent thoughts still clung to your lust-drunk brain. His hands roam freely, mapping every sloping curve and silken plane as he lays you back against the buttery leather seats to hover over you.

“Don’t worry about a single thing from now on, printsesse,” he vows in a husky rasp, trailing smoldering kisses along the delicate skin over your thundering pulse. “Just let me take the reins and show you a life without all the endless strain and misery you’ve endured.”

His fingers drift up to wind through your tumbled hair, nails scratching lightly over your scalp as your eyes drift shut in blissful surrender. You’re floating, suspended in a state of hazy, unfocused euphoria with only Max’s low timbre washing over you.

“I’ll make sure you never want for anything again. That pretty head of yours won’t have to trouble itself over choices or tedious trivialities any longer.” A searing kiss is pressed to each of your fluttering eyelids, like he’s sealing each promise behind the delicate barrier of bone and flesh.

“No decisions, no worries,” he murmurs, nibbling a path down the delicate arch of your cheekbone. “Just bliss and contentment and pleasure as far as the eye can see. You’ll exist only for my warmth and protection from now on. To be cherished every second of every day for the rest of our lives.”

More kisses, like balms of heated adoration poured over your sensitized skin. You keen softly on each breath, body arching helplessly into his skilled caresses as he worships you with his hands and mouth.

“That’s it, printsesse,” he croons, slowly stripping you down to chase the slope and hollow of your form with his lips. Every fevered, burning press sears his devotion into your flesh, your consciousness spiraling inward until only Max’s raspy declarations anchor you in blissful desire.

“Let it all go. Forget everything but this — us, our love, our new start. Nothing but sweet oblivion from now until eternity.”

You shudder, boneless and needy in his cradling embrace even as serenity steals over your limbs. Max’s heated weight on top of you is an anchor keeping you grounded in a sea of molten liquid pleasure, his impossible heat seeming to bleed into your very bones with each passing moment.

“That’s my beautiful girl,” he praises in a voice like rumbling thunder, lips shaping words of adoration against the swell of your navel as your eyelids sag heavily. “So perfect and made for me alone. To take such good care of you from this day until my last, printsesse. To give you the world and then some.”

Unconsciousness beckons, cradling you in its downy soft embrace until only the sound of Max’s worshipful murmurs penetrates the enveloping cocoon of warmth and safety surrounding you. It’s the sweetest surrender imaginable, floating away on a sea of rippling, indulgent bliss with your beloved at the helm to guide you home.

The last threads of awareness slip from your grasp as Max shifts and settles behind you, pillowing you against his chest. With a contented sigh, you burrow deeper into the furnace of his solid strength and let the rhythmic thud of his pulse lull you under. His fingers stroke idle patterns through your hair, the rhythmic sweeps like a metronome steadying your descent into deepest slumber.

“Sleep now, printsesse,” he commands in that same soft, indulgent tone that wraps around your soul. “We’re headed for our paradise.”

His deep rumble quickly lulls you under again, cradled in the safety of his arms. The last coherent thought spinning lazily through the cozy haze enveloping you is one of profound gratitude and trust.

You know, deep in your bones, that Max will make good on his promise to cherish you without reservation. To shield you from expectations and disappointment alike.

So you let his softly murmured endearments and the steady cadence of his heartbeat under your cheek sing you into blissful, worry-free dreams of the life he’s vowed to craft for you both.

It’s everything you’ve ever yearned for yet been too afraid to reach out and claim.

Until Now.

Until Max.

***

The early morning sun filters through the curtains as Max stirs awake. His eyes flutter open and immediately drift to you, lying peacefully beside him. A soft smile plays across his lips as he takes in your features — the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair fans out across the pillow. In this moment, you look so beautifully unburdened, free from the worries that so often trouble your mind.

Max reaches out, tenderly brushing a few stray strands from your forehead. You don’t stir, lost in the depths of a dreamless slumber. Good, he thinks. You need this rest, this escape from the harsh realities that have been weighing you down.

His thumb traces along your cheekbone as his mind wanders back to the distressing news a few days prior — your father revoking your paddock access in a bitter act of retaliation. Max’s jaw tightens at the memory of the anguish clouding your eyes when you relayed the email to him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Max had said simply, pulling you into his embrace. “You’re with me now.”

And just like that, the tension seeped from your shoulders as you allowed yourself to melt against him, letting his presence anchor you. Max knew then what he had to do — create an oasis for you where none of your troubles could penetrate.

Leaning closer, he presses a feather-light kiss to your temple. “Wake up, schatje,” he murmurs. “It’s a new day.”

You stir slightly, eyelashes fluttering as consciousness slowly trickles in. Max watches, transfixed, as awareness blooms across your features. For a suspended beat, there is only serene blankness, a clean slate unmarred by the demons that so often still haunt you.

Then your gaze finds his, and the corners of your mouth tug upwards in a soft, wondering smile. “Max ...”

“Morning, printsesse.” He brushes his knuckles along your jaw. “How are you feeling?”

You blink slowly, as if trying to grasp at fleeting tendrils of thought. But there is nothing there to catch, only a tranquil emptiness. “Good,” you murmur at last. “Really good.”

Relief washes over Max at the simplicity and peacefulness in your tone. He leans in, capturing your lips in a lingering kiss. You melt into him, pliant and trusting, and he commits every little thing to memory — the warmth of your skin, the faint taste of sweetness on your tongue, and the way your fingers tangle in his sleep-mussed hair.

When you finally part, you are both slightly breathless. Max rests his forehead against yours, searching your eyes. They are clear, untroubled pools reflecting back at him.

“That’s it,” he praises softly. “No worries, no stress. Just … here. Present with me.”

You nod, something vulnerable yet beautiful flickering across your features. Max recognizes it as the look you get when you fully surrender yourself to him, allowing him to take the lead, to care for you in the way you so desperately need.

Brushing his thumb across your lower lip, he holds your gaze. “What would you like for breakfast, hmm? Anything you want, it’s yours.”

You nibble on your lip for a moment before shaking your head. “Don’t know. You choose.”

His heart clenches at the utter trust in your words. Nodding, he leans down to graze another deep kiss across your mouth before slipping from the sheets. As he pads across the plush hotel carpet to call room service, he can feel the weight of your eyes tracking his every movement.

Once the order is placed, Max returns to the bed, stretching out beside you as he pulls you against his chest. You burrow closer with a contented sigh, looping an arm around his waist.

“What do you want to do until breakfast arrives?” He asks, carding his fingers through your tousled hair.

You shrug one shoulder, nuzzling your cheek against the bare skin of his torso. “Don’t care,” you mumble drowsily. “Just … this.”

A profound sort of tenderness blooms in Max’s chest. He knows you would be amenable to anything, so long as it allowed you to exist in this carefree, thoughtless state a while longer.

“Alright, then just this,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to your crown.

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence, lazily trading soft caresses and occasional whispered endearments. Max finds himself lulled by the steady thump of your heartbeat against his ribs, the gentle ebb and flow of your breathing.

He has no notion of how much time slips by before there is a crisp rap at the door, jolting you both from the tranquil bubble. Your eyes widen slightly, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt.

“Shh, it’s alright.” Max smooths his palm along the line of your spine. “Just breakfast, nothing to worry about.”

You seem to remember then, the tension melting from your frame as you peer up at him with trusting eyes. He brushes his thumb across the delicate arch of your cheekbone before carefully extricating himself from your embrace to answer the door.

While the server situates the laden cart inside, Max rejoins you on the bed, rearranging the plump pillows behind you so you can sit upright. You immediately slot yourself between his outstretched legs, reclining against his chest. His arms wind around your middle as you both survey the impressive spread laid out before you.

“What looks good?” He prompts, resting his chin atop your head.

You chew your lip for a moment. “I don’t know … everything?”

He chuckles, splaying one hand across your stomach. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want you to go hungry, now would I? How about we start with this-” He leans over, snagging a ripe strawberry from the platter and holding it to your lips. You part them obediently, eyes sliding shut as you savor the sweet burst of flavor.

Max nuzzles into the crook of your neck, letting his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Good girl,” he praises in a low rumble.

You shiver against him, tilting your head in a silent plea for more. He happily obliges, feeding you bite after bite until the platter is decimated. His free hand roams lazily, mapping every dip and swell of your form through the thin cotton of your oversized sleep shirt. All the while, his mouth works along the exposed column of your throat, peppering fervent, open-mouthed kisses against your flushed skin.

At some point, the scattered remains of your indulgent breakfast lay forgotten on the cart as Max rolls you beneath him, drinking in your breathy whimpers and sighs. He takes his time thoroughly ravishing you until you are both sated and deliciously disheveled.

Eventually, you find yourselves curled together amid the tangled nests of sheets, trading languid kisses and basking in the afterglow. Max strokes his fingers through your hair as your head lolls against his shoulder, expression blissfully serene. Your lashes are dark smudges against your flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted on shallow breaths.

“There she is,” he murmurs, drinking in your debauched beauty. “My sweet girl, all relaxed and happy ...”

Ducking his head, Max nuzzles his nose along your hairline, inhaling your comforting scent. “No thoughts, no cares,” he rumbles against your temple. “Just you and me in this perfect little world.”

You make a soft, wordless sound of agreement, snuggling closer in his embrace. He smiles, gathering you even tighter against his chest, relishing the sensation of your heartbeats falling into sync.

All too soon, however, the tranquil interlude must come to an end. Max glances at the clock, silently calculating how much time remains before he needs to head to the paddock. He heaves a reluctant sigh, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Come on, schatje,” he murmurs. “Time to get ready.”

You blink up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, still blissfully adrift in your peaceful daze. Warmth blooms in Max’s chest at your guileless expression. He would move mountains to keep you looking this way forever — soft and sated, basking in the afterglow with your head deliciously empty.

“Don’t worry,” he vows, thumbing away the crease furrowing your brow. “I’ll take care of you. You just let your thoughts stay nice and quiet, hmm?”

The worry lines ease from your features as you nod with implicit trust, allowing Max to guide you from the rumpled sheets. He quickly sets about straightening your mussed appearance, dressing you with unhurried tenderness. All the while, you remain pliant and completely biddable in his hands, seemingly unconcerned with anything beyond the present moment.

Once you’re both fresh and presentable, Max slips an arm around your waist, tucking you against his side. You go willingly, temple resting in the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

“My good girl,” he praises, mouth brushing your hairline. “Let’s go, keep drifting for me.”

You make a soft, affirmative noise, slipping your hand into his as you allow him to lead the way from the sanctuary of your hotel suite. Max is acutely aware of your body listing bonelessly against his own, of the feather-light brush of your lashes against his jaw every few steps.

He knows others might gawk, might question the almost trancelike state you’ve allowed yourself to sink into. But he couldn’t care less about their muttered judgments. His only priority is ensuring you remain in this safe, blissful headspace for as long as possible.

When you finally reach the paddock, Max ushers you towards a secluded alcove in weRed Bull hospitality. He settles you on a plush loveseat, ensuring you’re situated comfortably. Crouching before you, he smooths his palms along the tops of your thighs, holding your drowsy gaze.

“Wait here for me,” he says, keeping his tone low and soothing. “I’ll come get you before FP3, yeah? Just … stay relaxed. Let your mind stay beautifully empty.”

You blink at him, lips curving in an utterly trusting smile. “Okay, Max.”

His chest constricts powerfully at your dreamy, unguarded expression. Rising on his knees, he cups your face in his hands, claiming your mouth in a gentle kiss. You open for him without hesitation, kissing him back with languid strokes of your tongue.

When you finally part, you are both left slightly breathless. Max strokes his thumbs along the swollen curves of your lower lip as you gaze at him from beneath heavy lids, looking thoroughly ravished and compliant.

“I love you,” he whispers fiercely. “I love seeing you like this — free and happy without all those nasty thoughts plaguing you. It’s just us in our own world. Nothing else matters here, printsesse.”

You keen softly in response, nosing deeper into his touch like a touch-starved kitten. He chuckles indulgently, dropping another lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promises. “Stay pretty and sweet for me.”

With one final caress along your jaw, Max tears himself away, walking towards the Red Bull garage with purposeful strides. He can feel the weight of your eyes tracking him until he rounds the corner, can picture the blissful emptiness clouding your features.

The thought bolsters him, lending an extra swagger to his step as he readies himself for the day ahead. For once, he finds himself relishing the familiar paddock chaos, eager to simply immerse himself in the visceral thrill of the sport he loves.

He knows his favorite reward will be waiting when the practice session concludes — your warm, pliant form and those trusting doe eyes filled with nothing but adoration.

***

The next morning, Max wakes with a familiar sense of tranquil purpose. Shifting onto his side, he brushes the tousled hair back from your forehead, drinking in the sight of you sleeping so peacefully beside him. A contented smile curves his lips as he watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, reveling in how relaxed and unburdened you appear.

He knows today will be demanding — race day always is. But that makes moments like these where he can simply bask in your presence all the more precious. With gentle reverence, Max trails his fingertips along the delicate line of your jaw, tracing the bow of your slightly parted lips.

“Time to wake up, schatje,” he murmurs. “Big day ahead.”

You stir with a soft, wordless hum, lashes fluttering. Max feels his breath catch as your eyes open, glassy and unfocused for a few beats before finding his own. Just like that, the furrow between your brows smooths out, leaving your expression blissfully untroubled.

“There you are,” he croons, heart clenching at the naked trust shining back at him. Cupping your cheek, he leans in to brush a soft, lingering kiss across your pliant mouth.

When he pulls back, you’re already chasing his lips with a small, plaintive noise. Max chuckles fondly, combing his fingers through your tousled hair.

“Needy girl,” he teases, though his voice is laced with undisguised affection. “I suppose I’d better take care of that before we have to leave, hmm?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond — not that he expects any coherent reply in your current state. No, better to let your thoughts remain deliciously empty as he claims your mouth again in a series of heated kisses.

Max loses himself in the familiar glide of lips and tongue, the quiet whimpers that spill from your throat every time he nips at that sensitive spot just below your ear. He maps every inch of your sleep-warm skin with devoted hands until you are both flushed and panting softly.

Eventually, however, the persistent ticking of the bedside clock drags him back to awareness of the rapidly dwindling time. With a regretful groan, Max tears his mouth from the juncture of your neck, nosing his way along your jaw until he can capture your lips in one final kiss.

“We should get going,” he murmurs against the swollen curve of your lower lip. Though his tone is tinged with reluctance, there’s an unmistakable rasp of command underlying the words.

You blink up at him, pupils blown wide and dark, but give a trusting nod. Max feels his chest constrict powerfully at the easy acquiescence. Brushing his thumb in a tender caress across your cheekbone, he slants his mouth over yours once more, coaxing you through several more drugging kisses until your lips are kiss-bitten and slick.

“Good girl,” he praises roughly when you finally part, both breathing heavily. “You’re going to keep feeling this relaxed all day, aren’t you? No nasty thoughts creeping in, just … blissful quiet waiting for me.”

Something like reverence flashes across your features as you nod jerkily, unconsciously worrying your already abused lip between your teeth. Max groans low in his throat, capturing your face between his palms and slanting his mouth over yours in a filthy kiss, all heat and slick friction and desperation.

When he finally manages to tear himself away, you’re rumpled and utterly debauched beneath him, chest heaving. He has to actively resist the urge to simply drag you back under his body, to lose himself in ravishing you until you’re both sated and boneless.

“Gonna make me late for my own race at this rate,” he chides gruffly, though his heated gaze roams indulgently over your prone form.

Levering himself off the bed with obvious reluctance, Max quickly sets about readying the both of you for the day, tugging you along in his wake with firm yet gentle hands. You follow easily, movements loose and languid and so very pliant under his ministrations.

By the time he’s dressed you and seen to your grooming, your features have settled into that slack, dreamy expression he loves so much — eyes glassy and lips slightly parted, not a single worry line creasing your forehead. Perfection.

“There’s my sweet girl,” he rumbles in approval, reeling you into his arms.

You go willingly, slumping bonelessly against his chest with a soft, incoherent murmur. He smiles, nosing into the tousled hair at your crown and inhaling your familiar scent. For a long moment, he simply revels in the sensation of your body melting trustingly into his own, of the steady throb of your pulse against his ribs.

All too soon, however, the hands of the clock continue their march forward. With a rueful sigh, Max presses one last lingering kiss to your hair before reluctantly disentangling himself.

“Come along then, printsesse,” he murmurs, catching your hand and giving a gentle tug. “Time to go.”

You make a soft, wordless noise of agreement, falling into step beside him without a shred of hesitation. Every few paces, you angle yourself closer until your shoulder brushes his bicep, seemingly seeking his solid warmth.

Max feels an indulgent smile tugging at his lips as he slips a possessive arm around your waist, anchoring you against his side. You immediately slot against him, temple resting in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He can sense the dreamy, unfocused quality of your gaze as it skims over your surroundings, can practically hear the blissful white noise filling your head.

As you exit the hotel and navigate through the throngs of people clustered outside, Max holds you even tighter, letting the murmurs and clicks of camera shutters wash over him in a dull roar. He’s hyperaware of every point where your body molds to his, of the trusting way you tuck yourself into his shelter without so much as a backwards glance.

By the time the two of you reach the circuit, your cheeks are flushed and there’s a becoming sort of dazed softness to your features. Max has to resist the urge to simply tuck you away in some quiet corner, to keep you insulated in this perfect bubble for as long as humanly possible.

But race days are nothing if not a whirlwind of demands and tight schedules. So instead, he ushers you along the serpentine corridors with a sturdy arm locked around your waist, relishing the way you move beside him in that lovely, blissed-out trance.

When you finally reach the motorhome, he deposits you on the leather couch with gentle reverence, taking a moment to situate you with utmost care. You gaze up at him, eyes glassy but utterly trusting as he smooths back the hair from your forehead.

“Wait here for me, hmm?” He murmurs, cupping the line of your jaw. “I’ll be back before you know it. Just keep that pretty head deliciously empty and let me take care of everything else.”

The corner of your mouth curves in a soft, wondering smile before you give a tiny nod of agreement. Unable to resist, Max leans in to capture that gentle upturn between his lips, kissing you deeply until you’re pliant and breathless and unfurling like a flower against his chest.

He has to tear himself away before his precarious restraint snaps. “Good girl,” he praises roughly, drinking in the sight of your dreamy, intoxicated expression before forcing himself to turn away, walking toward the garage with purposeful strides.

The familiar race-day chaos swirls around him in a torrent of noise and movement, but Max easily blocks the distractions from his mind, focusing intently on his preparations. There is something grounding about the rituals, the procedural drive to ready his car and equipment. By the time he emerges onto the grid, he is centered and assured, every ounce of his concentration honed on the inevitable green light.

The race itself is, as always, a heated blur of adrenaline and split-second reflexes. Every nerve ending thrums with that singular focus until he’s drunk on the scream of the engine and the smear of color whipping past his visor.

When he finally returns to parc fermé, it takes Max a disorienting moment to recognize the distant clamor bleeding in from beyond the paddock. Handing his helmet off to a mechanic, he makes his way towards the steadily amplifying sound, chest still heaving from the lingering effects of the endorphin high.

Rounding the corner towards the pits, he’s abruptly met by a scene of utter chaos. People — crews and spectators alike — seem to be converging in a jumbled knot near the Red Bull garage, a strange sort of bristling tension in the air. Max falters for a moment, brow furrowing in bewilderment, when a familiar figure finally emerges in his line of sight.

You.

Your expression is one of naked distress, red splotches staining those beloved cheeks as you seem to shrink in on yourself. Though he can’t make out the words, it’s clear you’re pleading with the imposing figure looming over you.

Your father.

Something protective and ferocious ignites in Max’s chest at the realization. Surging forward, he shoves his way through the ranks of onlookers until he’s at your side, reaching out to splay a steadying hand at the small of your back. You automatically angle into his touch, small tremors wracking your frame. Up close, he can make out the tear tracks streaking your flushed face, the way your lips are bitten and swollen from worrying them raw between your teeth.

“What the hell is going on here?” He demands, shooting a scathing look at your father.

Before Toto can answer, another man steps forward, one Max recognizes as a FIA official. “Perhaps we should take this discussion somewhere more private,” he suggests in clipped tones, eyes darting around at the milling crowd.

A muscle ticks in Toto’s jaw, but he gives a curt nod of assent. Without a word, he turns on his heel and stalks away, clearly expecting the rest of them to follow. Max feels your fingers fisting in the back of his sweat-damp suit, clutching him like a lifeline.

Squeezing the nape of your neck in a silent gesture of comfort, he tucks you against his side before falling into step behind the two older men. It galls him to follow their lead instead of simply spiriting you away, but something in your father’s demeanor warns against open defiance. Better to hear them out.

You’re shown to a secluded room just off the main garage bay, fluorescent lights buzzing harshly overhead. The moment the door closes behind the four of you with a hollow thud, Toto whirls with an expression carved from thunderclouds.

“Get your filthy hands off my daughter,” he bites out, eyes flashing dangerously in Max’s direction.

White-hot fury races up Max’s spine, setting every nerve alight. His grip tightens fractionally where his palm is splayed against the dip of your lower back.

“Like hell,” he growls, edging closer until your slight frame is fully bracketed against his own. “She’s trembling because of you.”

“Oh, of course, I’m sure this has nothing to do with her being half out of her mind with Lord knows what substances,” Toto sneers. “A fine state to be wandering around the paddock in, isn’t it?”

Max feels you flinch violently against him at the blistering accusation, a wounded sound catching in the back of your throat. Something bright and violent surges in his chest at your obvious distress.

“How dare you,” he grits through clenched teeth, voice low and dangerous as he pulls you flush against his body. “She was perfectly content until you came along and started spouting such vile nonsense. She hasn’t touched anything, you miserable bastard.”

The insult hangs in the airless space as Toto’s complexion darkens several shades. He opens his mouth — no doubt to unleash a scathing volley — when the FIA official hastily interjects.

“Enough,” he cuts in sharply. “This behavior is unacceptable. If there has been some egregious violation, I must ask you both to lay out the facts as you know them so we might get to the bottom of this affair.”

Max’s nostrils flare sharply as he draws a steadying breath. He needs to keep a level head if only for your sake, to prevent this from spiraling any further out of control. Dipping his chin, he angles his mouth against the crown of your bowed head.

“Breathe, schatje,” he murmurs, one hand stroking soothingly up and down the quivering line of your spine as he holds your father’s shrewd gaze.

“There’s been no violation apart from Toto coming at his daughter completely unprovoked,” he asserts, voice steady and clipped. “Her current state is simply the result of being relaxed and free of negative thoughts, something I’d think any parent would want for their child.”

Toto scoffs indelicately, folding his arms across his chest. “Is that what you call completely zoned out and unresponsive? Don’t be absurd. I know perfectly well what that vacant look signifies — early morning drinking or worse. Trying to numb whatever guilt she’s wallowing in after throwing away her entire future like a petulant child.”

Max feels you stiffen, your nails digging half-moons into his bicep. Before he can retort, however, the official clears his throat once more.

“Ms. Wolff,” he addresses you directly. “I’m going to need you to confirm the situation from your own perspective. What is the cause of the … condition your father is alluding to?”

For a tense moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing filling the suffocating silence. Then, warm and tremulous, comes your voice muffled against Max’s collarbone.

“I … haven’t had anything. Really,” you insist shakily. “Max was just … helping me relax. Taking care of me like he always does.”

Toto makes a disgusted, disbelieving sound in the back of his throat, mouth already twisting in preparation to unleash another attack. But Max simply holds up a preemptive hand, wholly engrossed in studying the lines of strain bracketing your expression. His thumb grazes the flushed, tear-stained hollow of your cheek as he murmurs a gentle plea, voice dropping into that soft, honeyed register reserved solely for your ears.

“Tell me what you need, printsesse. How can I help chase those nasty thoughts away again?”

You blink up at him, pupils blown wide and irises over-bright, clearly struggling to hold his gaze. Max feels his heart clench at the naked torment written across your features as you falter, gnawing anxiously at that already mangled lower lip.

“I … can’t,” you whisper tremulously, a broken quality entering your tone. “It’s too loud. I can’t keep them quiet when he’s like this ...”

The vulnerable little admission lands like a physical blow, momentarily stealing Max’s breath. Gathering you closer, he brushes his mouth along the worry line creasing your forehead.

“I know, schatje, I know,” he soothes, cradling the back of your skull. “But you’re doing so well. So good for me, my sweet girl.”

Slanting his head, Max claims your lips in a slow kiss, trying to lose himself in the familiar glide of skin and breath. When he finally breaks away, you’re already chasing after him, eyes glazed and lips prettily swollen. He feels some of the knots in his gut begin to uncoil as he traces the delicate sweep of your cheekbone.

“Better?” He prods gently.

You make a soft, affirmative sound, nuzzling further into his palm. Max’s lips quirk despite the tension still coiled in his shoulders, relief trickling through him warm and heady.

“Let’s get out of here, hmm?” He suggests, punctuating the question with another lingering press of his mouth against your brow. “Back to the motorhome, just the two of us. You can fully relax again, keep your thoughts quiet and happy.”

Slowly, giving you ample time to pull away, he begins walking you backwards towards the exit, keeping his motions unhurried and soothing so as not to trigger another spiral.

“No,” Toto barks in a tone like shattered granite. “She is not going anywhere with you, Verstappen. If she is seriously this mentally addled, then she requires proper treatment, not … whatever sick fantasies you’ve allowed to fester in that depraved mind of yours.”

Max feels you shake like a leaf caught in a violent gale against him at your father’s harsh words. Clenching his jaw, he pivots to put himself bodily between you and that callous glare.

“You’re the one who’s sick if you think for a second I’d ever let anything hurt her,” he bites out in a tone laced with venom. “All I’ve done is try to give her the peace and respite she so desperately needs. If that’s a crime, then throw me in a fucking prison.”

Toto sneers, eyes glinting with undisguised contempt. “Don’t play the martyr with me. We both know exactly what kind of sordid games you’ve been playing while her mind is so clearly compromised.”

Max feels his face flush in outrage, desire to throttle your father warring with the need to keep you sheltered away from any further vitriol. He opens his mouth, another blistering retort balanced on the tip of his tongue, when a warm weight presses against his back.

Looking over his shoulder, he finds you peering up at him beseechingly, tears clinging to those thick lashes. Max’s expression immediately crumples into something infinitely softer, gentler around the edges.

“Please … I j-just want to go,” you stammer in a tiny voice, fingers bunching in his race suit. “No more yelling. I can’t … I c-can’t ...”

Your breath hitches in a wounded sound as your eyes skitter away from his, clouding over once more with panic and distress. It’s like a physical blow to Max’s ribs, stealing what little oxygen remains in the claustrophobic space.

Spinning on his heel, he crowds you backward until your trembling frame is braced against the wall. With an approximation of tenderness he hoped you’d find grounding, Max frames your face between his palms as he ducks his head, searching out your skittish gaze.

“Shh, hey … look at me, printsesse,” he croons, ducking to burrow his nose against your hairline. “Just focus on me, alright? That’s my good girl.”

He can feel the fine tremors wracking you even as he gentles your head into the crook of his neck, splaying one broad palm over the rapid flutter of your pulse. Max shushes you through another hiccuping sob, rocking your pliant weight against his as he whispers nonsensical endearments into your hair.

“You’re okay, it’s okay,” he soothes without ceasing the soothing motions. “I’ve got you. Deep breaths for me, there we go ...”

Gradually, he feels some of the tension ebb from your rigid muscles until you sag fully into his embrace, boneless and pliant once more. Risking a glance over his shoulder, Max finds Toto watching you with an inscrutable expression, frustration and something else he can’t quite name churning in those flinty eyes.

Uncaring of his scrutiny, Max returns his attention to mapping the curves of your face with reverent fingers, gentling you back into that headspace of tranquil bliss.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmurs against the seam of your lips. “Let everything else just … drift away. We’re going back to our sanctuary, yeah? Nice and peaceful, with all those thoughts gone quiet where they belong.”

He can see the worry lines slowly beginning to smooth from your brow, tension bleeding from your frame as his words seep in like a balm. Smiling softly, Max dips his head to capture your mouth in a series of deep, lingering kisses, savoring the addictive little sounds you make against his questing tongue.

“Mr. Verstappen,” a gruff voice cuts in, effectively shattering the lush, private bubble.

Tearing his lips from yours with obvious reluctance, Max twists to slant a scathing glare at the FIA official. He keeps one arm locked securely around your waist, refusing to relinquish an inch of the soothing skin-to-skin contact despite the interruption.

The official holds up a placating hand. “I’m going to have to ask you both to exit the premises for the time being. At least until whatever … this situation is has been resolved to a reasonable degree.”

Max opens his mouth to protest, but you choose that moment to whine softly, nosing against his jaw in search of his lips once more. A hot lance of protectiveness surges through his core. Swallowing back the words on the tip of his tongue, he gives a terse nod.

“We’re leaving. Don’t try to touch her again.”

He punctuates the thinly veiled warning by curling possessively around your smaller frame, tucking you against his side as he propels you towards the door with urgency. You keep up easily enough, still deliciously pliant and soothed by his touch if the lingering glazed look in your eyes is anything to go bye.

As the heavy door clicks shut behind you, Max doesn’t spare a backwards glance. His sole focus is getting you back to the sanctity of his private quarters, away from the scrutiny and toxicity currently swirling in the paddock. One hand splays protectively over the dip of your waist as you move, the other coming up to shelter the back of your head.

“Nearly there, schatje,” he murmurs into your hairline as he blankets you in the solid warmth of his body. “Just a bit further and we’ll be all alone, just how you like it.”

You hum in what he chooses to interpret as agreement, pushing up onto your toes to nose along the sharp line of his jaw. Max groans low in his throat, slowing his strides so he can tug you abruptly into his chest. Your mouth falls open on a soft gasp, which he eagerly swallows with a filthy slide of his tongue.

When he finally wrenches himself away, you’re panting and glassy-eyed, lips bitten and swollen to a lush pout. Tutting under his breath, Max traces the abused swell with the pad of his thumb, pupils darkening to fathomless black pools as he drinks in your wanton appearance.

“Need to stop doing that, sweet thing,” he chides in a low rasp. “Don’t want to tempt me into having my way you right here in the corridor, now do we?”

Twin spots of color immediately bloom in your cheeks as you emit a strangled little sound, thighs clenching convulsively for a dizzying heartbeat. He chuckles, low and wicked, before slanting his mouth over that sinful jut of your lower lip, sucking the swollen flesh between his teeth.

“Soon,” he vows roughly, nipping at the tender skin. “We’ll be alone and I can take care of that delicious ache properly. Would you like that, printsesse? To let me coax all those nasty thoughts back into pretty oblivion?”

You make a small, wanting sound against the sweep of his tongue, fingers clenching convulsively in the fabric of his race suit. Max hums in wordless approval, momentarily losing himself in reacquainting his senses with every lush corner of your mouth.

It isn’t until Max feels the hard planes of his driver’s room door against his back that he bothers dragging himself from the sensual haze. Panting harshly, he brushes a strand of sweat-dampened hair from your flushed brow, unable to resist dipping in for one more searing, open-mouthed kiss.

“Inside,” he growls when you part with a trembling inhale. “Now.”

You nod jerkily, eyes glassy and unfocused even as you chase his lips with a tiny, needy noise. Max gentles you backwards over the threshold with firm, steadying hands until you’re situated within the blessedly muffled quiet of his temporary sanctuary.

Distantly, he registers the faint sounds of celebration filtering up from the track, but they seem muffled and inconsequential compared to the rapid beat of your pulse beneath his palms.

Trailing one hand up the slender column of your throat, Max tilts your chin until your gaze meets his own. “You’re alright now, sweet girl,” he soothes, tracing the line of your lower lip. “Just us, safe and sound away from all the noise.”

You make a soft sound of agreement, instinctively pressing closer until your bodies are flush, every pliant curve molded to his hard planes. Max groans at the exquisite friction, hands spanning your waist to tug you even tighter against his burgeoning arousal.

“That’s it, stay right here with me,” he rumbles against the swell of your parted lips. “Let everything else drift away until there’s nothing left but my voice in that pretty head.”

Slanting his mouth over yours, Max proceeds to chase every lingering thread of tension from your frame with deep, indulgent sweeps of his tongue. He maps every intimate detail until you’re pliant and breathy in his arms once more, limp and trusting as a ragdoll.

“Good girl,” he praises roughly when you finally part, resting his brow against yours. “You’re doing so well, staying nice and floaty for me even after … everything.”

You blink up at him, that soft, dreamy haze already stealing back over your features. Max’s chest constricts powerfully at the naked adoration shining back at him, the implicit trust written in every fluid line of your body.

“Max ...” you breathe, the single syllable somehow encompassing a wealth of devotion and longing.

He hushes you gently with another toe-curling kiss, reveling in the way your mouth instantly softens and opens for the insistent sweep of his tongue. When he finally pulls back, the rigid lines of strain have melted from your expression, leaving only that beloved, blissful tranquility in their wake.

“There you are,” Max rumbles in approval, thumbing away the dampness still clinging to those long lashes. “My sweet, gorgeous girl. Nothing but beauty and peace between those lovely ears.”

You make a small, incoherent sound of agreement, already drifting back into that lush, thoughtless headspace under his ministrations. Unable to resist, Max ducks his head to mouth along the line of your throat, laving hot, openmouthed kisses over the wildly fluttering pulse point.

“I’ve got you, schatje,” he mutters between kitten licks and nips. “Not going to let a single ugly thought spoil this lovely blank canvas. You’re perfect like this, all soft and sweet with nothing rattling around in that pretty head but oblivion.”

His words seem to spur a full-body tremor that ricochets through your slender frame. You whimper brokenly against the crown of his hair, hips stuttering forward in mute pleading as your nails score desperate half-moons against the taut cords of his biceps.

“Please,” you whisper in a wrecked tone that goes straight to Max’s groin. “Need you ...”

“Soon, printsesse,” he promises in a low rasp. Though it takes every ounce of his negligible restraint, he continues blazing a scorching path down the exposed column of your neck and across the elegant jut of your collarbones instead of hauling you against him. “Let me take care of you properly first, yeah? Want you floaty and boneless for me.”

You make a whimpery sound of agreement, one hand uncurling to fist in the damp hair at his nape. Max hisses at the sharp sting, retaliating by capturing the pulse fluttering in the hollow of your throat between his teeth. He nips at the tender flesh until your breath is coming in shallow, hitching gasps, every muscle turned liquid and quivering in his arms.

“Good,” he croons in approval once you’re thoroughly debauched, sparing a moment to take in your wrecked appearance with heated appreciation. “My perfect girl, so prettily unraveled for me already.”

With exquisite care, he traces the bow of your lips with the calloused pad of his thumb until they part on a shuddery indrawn breath.

“Stay just like this,” he rumbles in that same dark timbre. “Let your mind drift. Never been more beautiful than when your thoughts are gone all hazy like this.”

You blink up at him, plush lower lip caught between your teeth in that completely docile way. Max rewards your compliance by angling your head to the side, nosing at your neck as he breathes deep of your tantalizing scent.

His hands skate down in blazing trails until they settle with light possessiveness at your waist, bracketing you fully against the solid wall of his chest. You keen softly at the contact, arching on pure instinct as you go pliant in his embrace.

“That’s it,” Max praises, hot and heated against the sensitive hollow below your ear. “Just let it all drift away while I make you feel good.”

Dipping his chin, he seals his mouth over yours in a series of drugging kisses, spine going liquid at your breathy whimpers. He loses track of everything — time, the muted noises of celebration filtering in from outside, even his own name — as his entire universe narrows to the slick glide of your tongue, the warmth of your body twining insistently around his own.

When he finally drags himself back from the precipice of mindless want, you’re boneless in his arms, flushed and trembling and so exquisitely unraveled. Max rakes his teeth over his lower lip as he takes in the picture you make — hair hopelessly tousled, lips swollen to an obscene pout, eyes glassy and dazed as they struggle to focus on his face.

“Look at you,” he husks in mingled awe and possessive pride. “Gone all sweet and floaty again, hmm? Not a single thought left in this little head of yours.”

As if in confirmation, you slur out a low, affirmative hum, butting your flushed cheek against his sternum in search of more contact. The sight sends a hot pulse of want ricocheting through Max’s veins. He barely tamps down a groan as he crushes you closer, driving your pliant body into the solid surface at your back.

“Beautiful, inside and out,” he rasps against the slick curve of your throat. “Every inch of you is perfect like this, schatje, and I’m the luckiest bastard alive to be the one allowed to see you come so utterly undone.”

***

Three Months Later

Toto rounds the corner onto one of Monaco’s picture-perfect side streets, the warm afternoon sunlight filtering through the canopy of leafy trees lining the cobblestones. His strides are clipped and purposeful as he navigates the throngs of lingering brunchers and slack jawed tourists.

He’s due for a terse meeting with several FIA officials in half an hour’s time to hash out the latest regulatory adjustments for next season. Not exactly how he’d envisioned spending his free weekend in the principality, but such was the relentless reality of his position.

As he approaches a charming little bistro tucked into a sunlit alcove, something within the open-air seating area snags his peripheral attention. Toto’s steps falter as a very familiar figure swims into focus — a beautiful young woman with features he knows better than his own.

You.

His stomach churns violently as he instinctively follows your line of sight to the man tucked intimately against your side. Max freaking Verstappen, of course, lounging there like he hasn’t a care in the world with one arm slung proprietarily across the back of your chair.

Toto feels his jaw clench harder with every passing second as he reluctantly catalogs the scene playing out not twenty paces away. You’re turned towards the Red Bull driver in clear invitation, chin tilted up and lips slightly parted in apparent submission as he lifts a forkful of food to your waiting mouth.

Despite the simmer of nausea roiling in his gut, Toto can’t seem to tear his gaze away, some morbid fascination taking hold. He watches, bile burning at the back of his throat, as Verstappen tips the bite between your lips with a gentleness that borders on reverence. A blissful sort of smile curves your mouth as you chew, eyes drifting to shut in an expression of utter serenity.

When you finally swallow, Verstappen leans in to chase the lingering crumbs from your lips with a series of indulgent, smoldering kisses. You allow it with blasé ease, cheeks flushing prettily as he nuzzles deeper into the cradle of your throat.

“Sickening,” Toto mutters through gritted teeth, only to have the words choked off as your breathy giggle floats across the open space between you.

He’s frozen in place, jaw clamped shut and eyes blazing, as Verstappen captures your face in one broad palm with a wicked curl to his lips. Leaning in until your noses brush, he appears to rumble something too faint to carry over the ambient chatter.

Your responding smile is incandescent enough to momentarily steal Toto’s breath. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen such pure joy light up those beloved features — not since those early summer afternoons when you were barely tall enough to see over the mechanics’ workbenches, giggling as he spun you in looping circles around the garage.

The imagery dissipates like smoke in a strong wind as Verstappen slants his mouth over yours, mercilessly chasing every last vestige of warmth and innocence until you’re left utterly ravaged. You drink him in with all the unrestrained fervor of the desperately parched, breaths coming in harsh little pants between every slick glide of lips and tongue.

Toto can only look on in mute revulsion as the Red Bull bastard sets about methodically staking his claim. One broad palm spans the curve of your jaw to better angle your head while the other strokes in bold caresses down the line of your arm and hip, searing brand of possession seared across every inch of skin. You arch into the contact, boneless and malleable beneath his sure ministrations.

When Verstappen finally releases you, your lips are bright and bitten, pupils blown wide into unfocused pools. Max clucks his tongue in wordless approval, thumbing away the dampness clinging to your lower lashes before dipping in for one more lingering peck.

A strangled noise startles from Toto’s throat despite his best efforts. Instantly, those predator’s eyes swing towards him, glittering with something perilously close to challenge.

Your gaze follows a moment later, drifting over Toto’s rigid stance in lazy, disinterested consideration. He expects a flicker of chagrin, even fleeting shame to ripple across your expression at being caught so indecently compromised. Instead, your lips curve into that same serene, soppy beam as you burrow deeper into Verstappen’s side.

The world seems to tilt sickeningly sideways as Toto watches his own flesh and blood regard him like a stranger, a foreign entity to be blithely disregarded. Verstappen, for his part, tilts his head in an almost confrontational motion as his fingers begin carding through your hair with a revolting air of indulgent possession.

Toto wants to scream, to rage and howl until someone — anyone — understands the utter travesty of what he’s just witnessed. But something has knotted itself viciously around his vocal cords so that all he can seem to produce is a low, garbled rasp.

So he turns on his heel instead, gritting his teeth against the swell of fury threatening to choke him from the inside out as he stalks away. Every step rebounds through his hollow ribcage with echoing finality, punctuated by the sickly sweet chime of your laughter ringing in his wake.

He can’t even recognize his daughter anymore. And, much to his disgust, you seem to prefer it that way.

[motherofpirates]

Steve and Robin told Eddie all about finding out that Starcourt was a front for a Russian station that was trying to reopen the Upside Down, which led to Steve and Robin being tortured and drugged, then rescued by Dustin and Erica.

They paused as Betty returned with their order. It turned out the usual for Steve was fries and a coke and an extravaganza of a chocolate milkshake for Robin with chocolate fudge running down the inside of the glass and a mound of whipped cream on top, which she dipped one of Steve’s fried into.

“…anyway, to lay low and wait for the others we snook into the movie theatre which was showing Back to the Future. It was A. Lot. For our mangled brains to take in and we’re still not too hot on what was actually happening, so you can see why the dingus is confused. It all culminated in us puking our guts up in the Starcourt bathroom before I bared my soul to Stevie about liking girls and we bonded over my realisation that Tammy Thompson sounds like a muppet when she sings.”

“She has awful taste in women, I mean, Tammy Thompson! You could do so much better.” Steve pointed a fry at Robin which she snatched from his hand to dunk in her shake. “And that was before we got chased by a huge monster made up of mangled people whilst Dustin sang that Never Ending Story song with Suzie, who I wasn’t one hundred percent sure existed up until that point.”

Eddie’s mouth hung open, “That is the most insane shit I’ve ever heard, if I hadn’t been to the Upside Down and seen some of that shit too, I would never in a million years believe any of what you just told me was true. And do you know what the most unbelievable part of that story is, Buckley, it’s the fact you had a crush on someone so terminally uncool as Tammy Thompson.”

“Can it, Munson, you can’t talk.” She narrowed her eyes at him knowingly before kicking him under the table.

Eddie pursed his lips together and focused on the remainder of his burger. Steve looked between the two of them wondering what they were going on about.

“Something either of you would like to share with the class?” He asked, Eddie shook his head his mouthful of burger, whilst Robin slurped the last of her shake ignoring the question. “Oooookay then.” Steve shrugged as he took a swig of his Coke.

____________________________________

If you liked this come find me over on AO3. This is a snippet of a fic of mine called I Want You to Want Me. Here is the link https://archiveofourown.org/works/64633807/chapters/166024711

[tibby-art]

i am straight up on my hands and knees BEGGING for more hitman au

crazy that you mention that actually because i did write another snippet a little while ago.. here’s a doodle i did to accompany it + the writing under the cut

=+=

Grian gazed out the window of the bus, soaking in the quiet evening of the city. It had been some time since he was out in public like this, since he had felt like a normal citizen going about her daily buisness. It was nice to be outside the NHO headquarters for once, free to do what she pleased. Well, sort of.

Grian wasn’t exactly free. He was allowed some free time out when there was no training, lab visits, or missions. However, she was only allowed outside the NHO with a bodyguard. Someone who could both protect him from the overstimulation of the outside world, as well as protect others from her… if he were to ever lose control of his powers, or something.

Yes, riding the bus with a former-criminal-turned-professional-hitman certainly made the whole experience feel less normal for Grian.

“It’s nice to take public transportation once in a while,” Scar mused, stretching his arms over his head. “Us vexes don’t get to do that much anymore, when we can just fly around wherever we need to go.”

“That must be so much better, though,” Grian pointed out. “You can fly wherever you want, and you don’t even have to pay the bus fare.”

“Let me tell you, Grian, flying can be so tiring,” Scar huffed. “Sometimes I’m so tired by the time we show up to a hit, we need to take a breather on the roof for a few minutes. The NHO should just let us have a car for the long missions, for goodness’ sake!”

Grian did a quick check of his surroundings. The bus was pretty empty this time of day, but she got no sense that any of the passengers were paying attention to Scar so casually talking about being a hitman. A brief tap into watcher vision didn’t show any movement from the passengers behind her, either.

“Cub’s in much better shape than me,” Scar rambled on. “Did you know that man was a professional basketball player once? Or was it golf…? Actually, I think it was both.”

The NHO didn’t deem it too urgent to send both their prized hitmen on Grian-watching duty, so Cub had stayed behind at the headquarters. Last time Grian had seen Cub, he was showing off a ring of keys to Scar, saying how he was going to get a lot of ‘research’ done that night.

“What are those keys for?” Grian asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Cub shrugged. “That’s part of the fun”.

“So… those aren’t your keys?”

Cub and Scar just grinned at her.

“….This is our stop,” Grian said.

The pair exited the bus. The Hermit City library stood before them.

“Library, huh?” Scar asked. “Do you have some overdue books from before you became a watcher or something?”

“Not so loud,” Grian scolded, glancing around a mostly empty city street. “But, no. Speaking of… that, I wanted to see if there were any books I could find on the subject.”

Scar raised an eyebrow. “Do you think a public library would have better information than what we have at the NHO?”

Grian shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

The library was pretty empty at this time of day. In fact, they probably closed in an hour or so. Grian had deliberately chosen a time of day where less people would be around, so that the trip was less overwhelming on his new senses. Scar had complained that he wasn’t a morning person, so they settled on the evening instead. Grian secretly was also glad she could sleep in a little.

“Geez, when’s the last time I’ve been in one of these?” Scar muttered, glancing at the countless shelves of books as they walked past.

“What, are you allergic to reading?” Grian teased.

“Well, I am dyslexic, so… sort of?”

Grian realized that for a trip to the library to do some research, she probably should have gotten Cub to come. The man literally has two science degrees, after all.

The two made their way to the front desk, where the librarian on duty appeared to be preoccupied… knitting a hand puppet of some kind?

“Well howdy there!” The librarian looked up from his work cheerfully. He had long, brown hair that was dyed neon green at the tips, matching perfectly with her pointed green glasses. “What can I help y’all with?”

“Uh, yes, um.” Grian tapped his fingers on the desk. “We were wondering if you had any books on Watchers, and where they might be?”

“Watchers, huh…” The librarian furrowed their brow. “Now that’s an obscure topic.” He swiveled his chair towards his computer to investigate further. Grian began to grow anxious with how obvious he felt they were being.

“I know, right?” Scar sighed, leaning on the desk casually. “It’s for some lame group project that’s like, a fourth of our final grade in the class.”

“Yikes! That sounds rough,” The librarian remarked as she typed on the computer. Grian tapped into his sixth sense and didn’t pick up on any feelings of suspicion from the librarian. Maybe bringing Scar was a good idea.

“Okay, well, most of these books that are coming up seem to be more on the… fantasy side,” The librarian explained after a moment of scrolling. “I know those guys are mythological beings, but you said you’re doing a research project, so I’m guessing you want something more factual…”

“Yeah, anything with information about where they came from, what they do, stuff like that.” Grian nodded. “Y’know, like if they were real.”

“Oh! Here’s something promising.” The librarian turned the monitor so that Grian and Scar could see. “This book right here seems to be a study of the tales of Watchers throughout history. Although… it looks like our only copy is checked out at the moment.”

“Really?” Grian asked. “By who?”

The librarian blinked. “Hm… y’know, I’m actually not sure if I’m supposed to like, give that information to people? Like, legally?”

“There’s another person in our group project, so we just want to know if they beat us to checking out this book,” Scar lied. “Communication in group projects, am I right?”

“Pff, yeah, that makes sense,” The librarian turned the computer back to face him. “It looks like this book is currently being borrowed by a Martyn. With a y! How fancy.”

“Ah, Martyn with a y, of course!” Scar exclaimed. “Well, now we know that Martyn has the book, right Grian?”

“Yup,” Grian agreed, mind racing.

“Hey, actually…” The librarian scrolled down on the computer some more. “You guys sure got the right person for this project. It looks like this Martyn fella has been checking this book out for a few months now?”

Grian’s eyes widened.

“Ohh, that Martyn,” Scar laughed. “Always getting the head start on things! Uh, did we need anything else, Grian?”

“Um…” Grian needed to think fast. Whoever this Martyn person was, he’s been checking the same book on Watchers out for months. Surely he has to know something about them. Grian had to speak to him. But how on earth were they going to find this person?

Grian focused on the back of the librarian’s computer monitor. For a brief moment, in her mind’s eye, he could see the content of computer screen, from the librarian’s eyes. There on the screen was a full name: Martyn Littlewood.

“Nope, that’s all,” Grian replied, blinking rapidly as he returned to his own vision.

“Great. Well, you two have a good one!” The librarian said cheerfully, and returned to their knitting.

Grian and Scar briskly made their way outside.

“Wow. So who’s this Martyn guy? I didn’t think anyone else cared about Watchers that much,” Scar began, turning to Grian. “Oh uh, Grian, you’ve got something there…” Scar pointed to his own nose, looking worried all of a sudden.

“Huh?” Grian wiped his nose on his sleeve instinctively, expecting snot. However, when he glanced at his arm he saw red.

“Ah.” At least her sweater was already red.

“What did you do in there?” Scar asked, his green eyes intense with a mix of curiosity and concern.

“I was able to get a better look at that computer, and see the guy’s last name,” Grian explained. “Martyn Littlewood. Whoever he is, he might have a ton of information about Watchers. I’ve got to find him and have a word with him.”

“Grian, you’re amazing!” Scar exclaimed, impressed. “Well, finding someone in this city should be easy enough for a Watcher.”

“Shush,” Grian glanced around the empty bus stop. “Or we could try, y’know, looking the name up online first…” Grian quickly pulled out her phone. “Ah. Found him.”

“What? You’re kidding.”

“Oh my god, Scar.”

“What?”

“Scar.” Grian held the phone out. “Martyn Littlewood is…”

“A youtuber?” Scar’s jaw dropped as he scrolled through the list of videos. “And he makes videos talking about-“

“Watchers.”

Scar stared at Grian, dumbfounded.

“Scar, I think we just found the world’s biggest, and perhaps only, Watcher fanatic,” Grian stated in disbelief. “And he lives right here in Hermit City.”

[im-so-normal-iswear]

I got new request for you! Hopfully this one wasn't as crazy as my last one. How does the triple S hedgehog boys react to their lover sleep talks?

Can be first time and how they deal with it over time.

Triple s x reader

Sonic:

Sonic was completely off gaurd the furst time it happened. He was over at your house crashing on your couch for the night. You fell asleep first, as soon as you sat down on the couch you fell asleep, he decided to stay up for a little longer. He flipped through channels on your tv.

He hears mumbles from you and assumed you were trying to tell him something, so he leaned in, only to realize you were dead asleep.

"Wait, are you…talking in your sleep?" he whispers, more to himself, as he raised an eyebrow.

Your mumbles were completely incoherent at first. But after a but sonic slowly started to peice together strings of barely coherent sentences. He tries not to laugh too loudly when you suddenly mutter something about "being too flammable" and "the fridge being haunted." It’s too ridiculous to ignore, and Sonic, being the teasing type, pulls out his phone and records a snippet to show you later.

Your words are incoherent at first, a mix of jumbled sentences and half-formed thoughts.

As time goes on, Sonic starts noticing that your sleep-talking isn’t just random, it sometimes reflects your dreams. If you’ve had a particularly eventful day, your mutterings often reference things you both did together. He thinks it’s adorable how you unconsciously process your adventures, sometimes even calling out his name in your sleep.

One night, you mumble, "Sonic…don’t eat all the popcorn…" while snuggling closer to him. He smirks and responds,"Don’t worry, I saved you some!" even though you’re not awake to hear it.

Over time, Sonic develops a habit of engaging with your sleep talk. If you mumble questions, he answers them. "Where’s the Chaos Emerald?" you mumble once, and he dramatically responds, "Safe in my hands, as always!" He jokes that he’s the best at keeping you entertained even when you’re unconscious.

At some point, he even gets used to your nighttime chatter, finding it comforting in a strange way. It keeps him grounded.

Shadow:

Shadow doesn’t notice the first time it happens. He’s too used to quiet solitude and doesn’t expect you to disrupt the silence of his home while you sleep. The first instance occurs during a rare moment when you’re resting beside him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, polishing a gun, when he hears a faint, barely audible murmur.

"Shadow…"

His ears perk up, and he freezes mid-polish. He turns to look at you, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What are you saying?" he mutters under his breath.

You respond with something nonsensical about "flying cats" and “Chaos Controling to the grocery store.” Shadow stares at you in utter disbelief. He’s not sure if he should be amused, annoyed, or concerned. "What on earth goes on in that head of yours?" he mutters, shaking his head.

As time passes, Shadow becomes more observant. He starts piecing together patterns in your sleep talk, often correlating them with your moods or daily activities. On nights when you’re stressed, your mutterings turn into fragmented worries about mundane things. On happier days, your sleep talk is lighthearted, sometimes even funny.

He won’t admit it, but he finds it endearing. Hearing you speak his name in your sleep makes him feel... important to you. He’s always struggled with feeling connected to others, but knowing that you’re dreaming about him, even subconsciously, touches him.

However, Shadow is the practical type. If your sleep talk disrupts his rest, he’ll wake you up without hesitation. "You were muttering again," he says bluntly when you groggily open your eyes. Over time, he does grow more patient.

When you have nightmares, though, Shadow is swift to act. The moment he senses distress in your voice, he shakes your shoulder. "Wake up," he says firmly. "You were having a bad dream." He doesn’t say it, but he’ll stay up with you as long as it takes to calm you down.

Eventually, he adjusts to your sleep talking, seeing it as just another "quirk". He tunes it out mostly, but its a reminder your still there with him.

Silver:

Silver discovers your sleep-talking habit on accident. The two of you are camping under the stars, resting after a long day of exploring. You’ve drifted off before him, and he’s lying awake, staring up at the constellations when he hears it, a soft, barely-there mumble.

Curious, Silver sits up and leans closer to you. "What did you say?" he whispers, thinking you might be awake. But your breathing is slow and steady, and your eyes remain closed.

"...Time travel is weird," you murmur, followed by something about pancakes.

Silver quickly covers his mouth to stifle a laugh. He’s always known you were a bit weird at times, but hearing your ramdom mutters and thoughts while you’re asleep is a whole new level of hilarious to him. He spends the rest of the night listening to your random murmers and mutters.

Over time, Silver starts looking forward to your sleep-talking episodes. He’s endlessly curious and often wonders what your dreams are like. Sometimes, your mutterings are so bizarre that he can’t help but write them down, thinking they’d make great conversation starters later.

"You said something about ‘psychic pancakes’ last night," he tells you one morning, grinning. "Do you even remember dreaming about that?"

Silver never grows tired of your sleep talk. To him, it’s just another way you let him into your world, even unconsciously. He treasures every word, no matter how silly or nonsensical.

[nereidprinc3ss]

andromeda | (dybmn? bonus)

a bonus vignette from spencer's POV. we find out how he really feels about reader. takes place the day before the argument at the bar.

note: this is not part six! takes place between parts four and five.

series masterlist

18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, semi-graphic descriptions of sexual fantasies, some angst, you're not actually present, mention of alcohol, very vague discussions of murdery stuff bc he's supposed to be working, sassy spencer makes an appearance a/n: for all my angels who said they wanted a snippet of spencer's POV! i'm sorry if i'm overdoing it with this story or clogging the spencer tags, i'm just having a lot of fun! i hope you enjoy or that this may be clears some things up for you, pls lmk your thoughts:) ily!!!

Spencer is incessantly drumming the particle board table underneath his fingers.

The polymer veneer is one of his least favorite textures—he hates the grain of it and if he were to accidentally scratch the table with his nails he knows it would make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

But of all the things he’s worried about, that ranks very low on the list. 

He’s got a lot of mental tabs open all the time—and the tabs, he can deal with. It’s when he starts trying to operate with multiple windows that he begins to struggle. His brain, while it is a very fine tuned sort of computer, only has one monitor. Unfortunately, no human (except for the ones who’ve had their brain hemispheres surgically split) is immune to the inevitable pitfalls of multitasking. By dividing his mental energy between you and his job, he’s really fucking up his job. But he also thinks he really fucked up with you on that phone call the other night and for being as logical as he is he can’t seem to make that feel unimportant—even though he’s disgusted with himself for it because there are literally people dying. 

Someone knocks on the open conference room door—he looks up, skimming his lips over his fist. 

“What’s up?” he says too quickly upon seeing Emily’s mildly concerned face peering in on him. 

Her mouth bridges into a sort of nonchalant frown and her brows kick up. 

“Just… checking in. Haven’t heard from you all morning.”

“Yeah, the, uh—the geo-profile. I’m still… I’m still working it out.”

It’s not like he’s ever been phenomenal with his syntax in a social sense, but Spencer is certainly aware he’s doing even worse than usual right now. 

“Okay. Uh… is there anything in particular stumping you, or…?”

“Nope. Just not enough information. But I’m—I’m going to keep trying.”

“Alright. Got your phone handy?”

It’s an odd question—of course he has his phone handy. He’s been doing this job longer than Emily has. How else would he communicate with the rest of the team? He bristles. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Emily shakes her head. She’s always been particularly good at reading his moods.

“You’re not under attack, Reid. I was just asking.”

Just as he’s about to say, why would you assume I’m not prepared for my job, he manages to swerve away and stifle the words with his fist. Instead he looks back down at his copy of the map and nods. In reality, he truly isn’t prepared for his job today. The reason he has his phone so close, fully charged and at top volume is because he’s worried he’ll miss a call from you. 

Emily says something else, and he hums in response, and then she’s gone. 

He shouldn’t be reading into your reticence this much. It’s not like you just sit by the phone all day, eagerly awaiting a call or text from him (like he does you). You have a life. You’re busy. And even if you are intentionally dodging his texts, he can’t entirely fault you for it. Spencer knows he’s clingy. He knows he’s overbearing. It’s part of why he panicked the other night and told you the whole humiliating story about Elle. Because he can’t ever just be cool and he felt the need to explain himself. 

But the problem was, and is, that he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without saying those three words that fucked him over all those years ago.

So he’d danced around them. Applied them to someone else to try and avoid outright professing his all-consuming love for you over the phone. However you feel, Spencer has to assume he feels more. Spencer always has to assume he feels more because he usually does and it’s gotten him into trouble before. And now he’s pretty sure he was exactly right, as often is the case, because you didn’t tell him he was mistaken and you’d clammed up and you haven’t talked to him since and he’s not supposed to be reading into it this much. 

Three victims killed and dumped within a 6 mile radius of the first victim plus one victim killed and dumped 23.8 miles away. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Fuck this guy. 

Spencer decides the problem is that he needs more caffeine. 

Or possibly, if he were a different kind of man—copious amounts of alcohol. 

So he stows his phone in a pocket and asks the first person he sees where the coffee machine is. 

“Looks like you found it earlier,” the woman says, glancing pointedly down at his mostly empty mug. A playful smirk tugs at pinkish-brownish lips. She’s pretty, he realizes distantly. But he registers it the same way he’d take note of the model of a car, or the species of a bird, or the kind of shoes someone is wearing. It doesn’t actually interest him. It’s just part of processing his environment. “I can show you to it?”

He doesn’t have the heart or energy to explain that someone else brought him his cup earlier and he’s not flirting with her. 

“If you could just point me in the right direction…?”

She laughs, short and dry, before she’s pointing down a hall. 

“Kitchenette down there and to the left.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, already walking away without sparing her a second glance. 

She’s the kind of woman he would have paid a lot more attention to before you came along. Not that he’d ever sleep with someone on the job (not since he was 25, anyway), but if he’d met her under any other circumstances he probably would have cared more about the way her pupils dilated and her eyes had widened slightly and she’d adjusted her posture and all the other small things people do when they’re attracted to someone else. 30 year old Spencer might have slept with her. 27 year old Spencer definitely would have slept with her. Current Spencer obsessively pines for a woman who is already his girlfriend and whom he has yet to sleep with at all far too much to think about other women like that. 

But god, does he think about you like that. 

His feet carry him down the dim, carpeted hallway but really it took barely a nudge and he’s thinking about you like that. At work. As he’s pouring himself coffee. 

Spencer is confident in the fact that if anyone were to look at him right now, they’d never guess he’s running clips of you in his mind like a dirty supercut. Because he’s just pouring coffee. That’s one good thing about having all those tabs open all the time. He can toggle between them quickly. He has enough going on in the background that people look at him and all they can tell is that he’s thinking hard about lots of things. Some of them just happen to be the way you look when you’re naked on his bed, skin shining and glazed eyes sleepy, parted lips higher in color than usual and catching your breath. Some of them happen to be your hair brushing his stomach before he gathers it back for you. Some of them happen to be the way your thighs feel on either side of his face, or how you stretch around his fingers, or how you might feel when you stretch around his—

He hisses as hot coffee overflows from the mug and burns his hand. 

Maybe he’s not as calm and collected as he thought. 

But on top of all the other things he’s dealing with, having been so close to actually sleeping with you the other night is really fucking with his head. Even if he tells himself he wouldn't have done it, he knows himself better than that. He's too familiar with the effect you have on his judgement.

“Found it okay?” 

Spencer looks down, surprised to see the woman from earlier sitting at her desk and watching him as he quickly passes by on his way back to the conference room. Her legs are crossed. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a flouncy sort of blouse which seems impractical for working in an FBI field office. Maybe she notices his eye catching on her figure and misguidedly swivels her chair to give him a better look. But all he’s noticing is that it doesn’t look like yours. Now he’s picturing the curve of your hip dripping in silk after that first night at Rossi’s. How your waist and your stomach feel when he slides his hands over you. This woman—she might as well not even be here for all he’s actually seeing her. 

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

Then he’s gone. Very briefly he acknowledges that he should feel sorry for so obviously brushing her off, but he doesn’t care even close to enough. He sets the coffee down on the table and rounds to the board where one of several maps is taped. On autopilot he draws lines between dump sites because one of the background tabs had deduced, while he was busy watching you like porn, that the distance between dump sites form the beginnings of the constellation Orion with some mathematical precision that’s too exacting to be coincidental. Orion’s Belt plus the most recent victim. Betelgeuse. 

There are ten formally named stars that make up Orion. He marks all of them, but circles the transposed coordinates of Bellatrix, Saiph, Rigel and Meissa as the next most likely dump sites. Most probably it will be Orion’s head. They’re all in wooded areas. He calls Garcia. Garcia will call Emily, wherever she is. If the unsub sticks to pattern, which they always do, they have until midnight. It’s trite, really. Predictable, like people always are. Far too quickly he drinks half the cup of scalding coffee and retraces his steps through the office to find the bathroom. 

It’s empty. The fluorescent lights hum. Spencer washes his hands with cold water and presses still wet fingers to his eyes. You’re waiting for him behind the black of his lids.

At first you would whine, and he would kiss you and you’d moan into his mouth and say his name when he opened you up as far as you would go. The air would be thick and warm with sex and vanilla perfume. Afterwards he’d take care of you and buy new sheets for his bed in your favorite color even if they didn’t match the walls and there would be nothing you’d want for that he couldn’t give to you ever again. 

But. 

That’s all contingent. 

No matter how often he fantasizes about it, no matter in how much detail, and regardless of how often those details change wildly, one thing always stays the same. 

The shape of your lips, swollen from kissing, bending around five or six vowels and only two consonants (it seems odd that there are only two consonants in I love you), sometimes before you start, sometimes in the middle or right at the peak—but always there, always moving in slow motion—and always silent.

In real life, they’d be aloud. It’s why his fantasies aren’t good enough. It’s why he can’t stop fantasizing about it. That’s the only part that really matters to him. The rest varies. 

Not because having sex with you doesn’t matter—it matters so much he almost shatters his molars whenever he starts picturing it around other people. But because Spencer can’t have sex with you until you love him. 

And he worries that you can’t love him until you have sex with him. 

The last time he thought that about a person, it didn’t turn out well.

Maybe there is some magic number. Some amount of times you need to have sex with someone before they’ll love you back. 

If there is, he knows for a fact it’s more than 32.

And he also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he cannot have loveless sex with you thirty three times while he waits to find out. 

Not again. 

But he's going to hold out as long as he possibly can until you say it because he so badly wants you to love him back. He'll let the weight of every ignored text, every reminder that you don't feel that way about him, hang from his shoulders until he collapses. And then he'll probably try to get back up.

Recycled paper towels scratch against his skin. He dries his face and hands and throws them crumpled into the trash can. 

Outside the restroom, he pulls out his phone. For safety reasons and paranoia disguised as professionalism, you’re not his lock screen. It’s a photo of the Andromeda Galaxy. Whatever distance lies between you and Spencer, it could always be greater. No matter where you are in the world, you will always be the same 2.537 million light years away from Andromeda that he is. 

It makes Orion feel much closer. You, too. 

He sends you a text—the third message in a row. 

The distance between blue bubbles feels like light years. 

I’ll be home tomorrow. I miss you. 

[world-of-aus]

This One's For You

Pairing: hockey player!bucky x NHL Photographer! Reader

Warning: Bucky barnes being a heartthrob

Authors Note: another snippet of Bucky and hotshot 🤭

The arena is a buzz of excitement; gold and black line one side, red and blue line the other, the two colors meeting and molding in the middle of each side. You’re at ice-level behind the protective barrier of Plexi-glass as you wait like the many fans for the game to start. Your equipment sits on your chair – a lone stool that has unfortunately seen better days. As you go to get your camera set up you feel your phone vibrate in the confines of your jean pocket.

Plucking your phone from your jeans you see an unread message from Natasha waiting to be opened. A picture of your jacketed back stares back at you, the message below reading,

‘You’d look so much better with your jacket off, a certain right defenseman would agree with me.’

‘It’s cold!’ you shoot back.

‘I left the apartment with you this morning, you have a long sleeve under, black one, remember?”

You curse your roommate under your breath, another message popping up below that one.

‘Take it Off or I’ll personally go take it off!’

‘Shouldn’t you be taking pre-game photos?’

A moment later a photo of Bucky walking in through the backstage of the arena is taking up your screen, he’s wearing a tailored suit, his hair lazily slicked back as he winks at the camera, his all too pink lips curled in a wicked smile. Your heart skips a beat in your chest, your teeth capturing the smile that threatens to break through.

‘Now take it off.’

‘So bossy’ you mutter under your breath as you take off your jacket, your jersey that she gifted you for your birthday now on full display.

‘Happy now?’

Her text takes a while to come in and only then do you realize why when her text comes in with Bucky’s contact attached. A picture of you adorning his jersey pops up a message appearing shortly after.

‘See now that looks so much better! Woops wrong chat..’

You whip your head around trying but failing miserably to find the blonde in question. Your phone vibrates in your hand.

‘Looking Good Hot Shot! Drinks on me after the win..”

‘At least take her to dinner first Barnes.. 😉’

Your cheeks are warm despite the cool air of the arena nipping at your skin as you read the messages transpiring between the two.

‘He didn’t mean it like that Tasha! Besides he’d need to secure a win against the Rangers first.’ is your odd lame of an attempt to dust away any feelings between the two of you your friend is trying to make appear out of thin air.

‘The win was in the bag the second you stepped foot into the arena Hot shot, you wearing my name was just an added bonus, oh I totally meant it like that but can the drinks be on you instead?’ 😉'

‘With all those puck bunnies sporting your last name throwing themselves at you I doubt you’ll remember, but given the chance you remember drinks can be on me.’

“Stop sabotaging yourself.” You jump slightly, hand on your racing chest as you look over your shoulder finding Natasha, her gear tossed over her shoulder, lanyard laid against her chest. She gives you a pointed stare, “you and Barnes have been doing this same old dance for some time now and it’s getting tiring y/n.” She shakes her head at you, “Not like that, this whole will they won’t they, we’re rooting for the two of you y/n. He’s not Brock,” she murmurs her hand reaching out for yours. “He’s reaching, barring his hand to you – you just need to meet him halfway and trust that he’ll catch you, we all know he will, we’re all just waiting for you – he’s waiting for you.”

You suck in a breath at her words, she knew where your uncertainty came from when allowing yourself to feel anything for the bruin's player, “but what if he doesn’t, you saw how -” you shake your head not willing yourself to go back there.

Both your phones vibrate in your hands but you only see yours,

‘Not letting you back out now hotshot because the only bunny I’ll be chasing is you tonight, hopefully the drinks taste as sweet as you.’

Natasha’s grin is evident as she closes in on you one arm going around you as she hooks he chin on your shoulder. “You see!” she points at the screen you still look at. “You’re not wrong about all the puck bunnies sporting his name wanting an inkling of his time, but he only has eyes for you, let him know you see him right back y/n.”

She’s grinning squeezing your arm as she reads your reply,

‘Hope you run just as good as you skate Barnes.’

Natasha throws her head back on a laugh as you pocket your phone reaching for your camera as you get into position the announcements popping up on the screen. “This game just got so much better!”

Red and blue lights flood the arena, the sea of Rangers fans standing tall, getting loud as their teams players flash across the screen. The players glide onto the ice from their opening, circling the arena as they hype their crowd. You’re quick to take notice of a few of the players lingering on your side egging the opposing teams' fans on. It’s short-lived as the screen changes, shades of black and gold flashing, the Bruins players coming onto the screen. The crowd behind you roars in excitement Natasha joining in as you lift your lens, they come in fast and hot as they circle the arena in the same manner. You’re quick to get shots in rapid succession, focusing in on a few personal shots at the player’s that are closest to you.

You spot Sam, the camera finding him easily as he does what he does best. He always gets a kick out of warming up the crowd, getting them riled up for the game. It puts him in the headspace he needs to ensure his team a win. Your camera spots Steve next, he’s gliding closer to where you and Natasha are, a grin pulls at your lips, heartwarming for your friend who gets herself closer to the glass. You capture the moment he comes to a stop in front of the Plexi-glass his gloved hand pressing against where her’s already rests waiting. You lean back a bit to get both of them in the shot you know Natasha would be requesting that photo by the end of the night.

“Kick some ass out there Rogers, give me something to celebrate tonight.”

The dirty blonde taps the glass throwing a wink her way, “Good luck out there Stevie!” you call out, as he turns to skate to where Sam is. A tap on the glass has you turning your head in the other direction, the crowd seemingly getting louder as Bucky approaches you from the opposite side of the glass. You bring your camera up to capture him, a breathtaking smile cutting his lips as he stares at you through the lens of your camera. You notice he doesn’t get as close as Steve does, but he only has eyes for you as he glides across, “this one's for you hotshot!”

“Good luck out there B!” You hide your smile behind the lens of your camera capturing the grin that splits his lips before he’s turning to the call of his name.

The referee's whistle kicks off the game, and its as good of a game as Natasha said it would be.

You don’t set your camera down for a single second of the game as you focus on the players on the ice and capturing ‘the shot’. You’ve managed to dodge a few pucks and players that have flown your way into the glass. It’s fast paced, brutal even as both teams fight to secure that win.

It’s down to the wire now, the crowd is tense as they watch their teams leave it all on the ice. Your cameras resting against your chest, Natasha gripping your hand in hers as your eyes follow the players. “C’mon c’mon, bring it home!” she pleads. You catch the moment Steve begins his move for the winning shot, your camera coming up to follow the game behind the lens of your camera. Bucky and Sam stay in Steve’s line of sight as he passes the puck to Sam, Sam then glides forward Bucky just a few feet off to his side to get the puck from the left defenseman. Capturing the moment Sam makes the pass, you hold your breath as Bucky swings, the buzzer sounds a split second after, the roar of the crowd loud behind you as Natasha jumps into your side her own yells of victory loud in your ear.

“He did it! Y/n he fucking did it!!” She screams shaking you.

You can’t find your voice as your camera shutters away, but the way your heart races, the smile parting your lips gives way to the emotion filling your chest.

“C’mon let’s go!” Natasha urges pulling you along to get the two of you out onto the ice.

You thought the excitement was palpable behind the glass, but it’s electric out on the ice with the celebrating team. You’re capturing as many images of the teams victory as you can before Natasha spots the guys urging you on. You let her go capturing the moment Steve gets her in his arms, the kiss the two share between them. You find Wilson next he’s all smiles at you and your camera as he glides towards you. You lower the lens momentarily to let him pull you in for a bone crushing hug, “you guys did it, I’m so proud of you Sammy!”

His lips press to your head, “it was all for you hotshot, I’ve got to say when your boys determined, he’s determined,” he grins as he pulls away to look down at you.

“It wasn’t just for me, it was for the fans, for the team.” You lamely argue.

His grin only grows, “yeah? Tell him that then.” And then he’s gliding off to the side towards where Natasha and Steve wait. Bucky stands feet away from you grin on his lips, his hair a sweaty mess, your camera comes up. Each shutter brings him closer to you till you have no other choice but to lower the device and take all of him in. He’s barely got his arms open enough before you’re eating up at the last foot between the two of you your arms going around him.

“You did it B, you won!”

His arms wrap tighter around you, his nose buried in your hair, “I told you hotshot, this one was for you and I meant it.”

You lean back taking in the right defenseman, there’s that smile, the one you always find directed at you. “You did, didn’t you,” you breathe unable to look away. “Guess the drinks really are on me tonight.”

He chuckles grin splitting his lips further, “don’t think that’ll be the only thing on you tonight,” he murmurs pulling you closer, his head lowering to yours, he stops just before his lips brush yours. “you gonna let me catch you hotshot?”

“Yeah B. I think I am.”

[froggibus]

— Another Sleepless Night - Logan Howlett

Pairing: Logan Howlett x reader

Genre: fluff, comfort

Word Count: 845

Summary: you spend a sleepless night in bed with Logan

CW: insomnia, mentions of night terrors, general sleep problems, logan calls you 'sweetheart', no use of y/n, gn reader

this has been sitting half-finished in my drafts since before i started school >.< i haven't done marvel in a while but the new captain america movie has me feeling the vibes ^.^ also i decided to change up the post format a bit to make it prettier

It’s late—almost two in the morning, to be exact—when you find yourself padding down the halls of the X-Mansion. The cold of the wooden floors soaks through your socks, sending a shiver down your spine, but you don’t dare stop your journey. 

Your hand falls on the brass knob of Logan’s door and you gently tug it open. Shuffling inside of his room, you try to keep as quiet as possible, squinting into the dim moonlight barely illuminating it. 

Logan doesn’t even stir at your presence, his keen senses as used to your scent as he is to his own. It’s comforting, really. Non-threatening. 

You sit on the side of his bed, tentatively pulling the blankets aside and slipping under the sheets next to him. Heat radiates from his body, warming the whole bed around you. The cold that had previously seeped into your skin dissipates, your taut muscles relaxing. 

You roll to your side and gently rest your head on his shoulder, and it’s only then that Logan’s eyes snap open. Claws come out—only for a second—and then he’s blinking at you a few times, eyes adjusting to the dark until he can see just as well as the day time. 

“Sorry,” you whisper sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Logan hardly reacts to your presence. It’s too common these days that one of you ends up in the other’s bed, slipping through the night to find a snippet of comfort only to be gone when morning comes. 

His voice is gravelly in a way that sends heat to the pit of your stomach. “Didn’t wake me. Could hear your heart beatin’ all the way down the hall, sweetheart.”

You nod slowly and rake your eyes over him, taking in every minuscule detail you can catch in the moonlight. His clothes—or sweatpants, given he’s not wearing a shirt—are hardly wrinkled, his hair nearly pristine. You frown. He looks as awake as you feel. 

He wraps a strong arm around you, rolling onto his side and taking you with him, your chest pressed hard against his back. The weight of his muscles around you only helps soothe the ache in your chest, the shadows that chased you all the way here starting to slip away. 

His head falls easily into the crook of your neck. “You doing okay?”

“Bad dreams.” You wet your lips, your mouth still dry from the hoarse cries you’d woken yourself up with. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He’s used to this by now. Though all mutants have something haunting them, you two in particular seemed to always share the weight of night terrors—something that had formed your closeness early on. He tightens his grip around you. 

You let your eyes flutter close but as your lids fall, a shadow casts over the wall. You snap them open but the figure disappears just as quickly as it came. Still, your heart hammers against your ribcage, rattling your bones. 

There’s nothing here, you remind yourself. Logan would hear if anybody even tried to enter the room, probably smell them before they got more than one step on the grounds. It's a fact you’ve always found comforting. 

“Your heart is racing,” he mumbles, hand skimming the hem of your shirt. Calloused fingers slip underneath, grazing your skin as they travel up and rest on the soft skin above your heart. 

“I’m…tired,” you admit, shifting beneath the heavy weight of his hands. 

You blink again, another shadow flickering on the wall in front of you. You swallow hard, squeezing your eyes shut as if it will make them all go away. The bad dreams, the bad thoughts, come all too often these days—you can’t remember a single time in the past few days you’d slept more than a few hours. 

He rubs gentle circles on your chest, his way of trying to soothe your heart rate back to double digits. “Tired.” He repeats. 

“Exhausted. I haven’t been sleeping, not for a lack of trying.” Again, your eyes flutter shut. “Just want peace.”

Logan hums in disappointment. He can’t remember a time he’s seen you this exhausted. Despite the fatigue weighing heavily over you, it’s been at least a few days since you sought him out—he’d just assumed you were sleeping fine on your own again. He pulls you closer.

“You can rest, sweetheart. I’ll take care of ya.”

You open your mouth to protest, to thank him, to say anything—but the words never find their way out. You shift back into him, flushing your body against his.

You lay there for a while in comfortable silence. Eventually, the warmth of his body and the comfort of his arms lull you into an uneasy sleep. 

Logan holds you even long after your breathing evens out and your taut muscles relax. He doesn’t let himself rest until the sun kisses the horizon and turns the whole sky pink, the comfort of daytime finally rolling in.

Finally, he lets his weight settle into his mattress. His lips find the top of your shoulder and kiss it softly. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

thanks so much for reading ^.^

masterlist | marvel masterlist

[gffa]

Lore question here 👋 you're so much more knowledgeable than me:

What are the limitations to force bonds? Like can a non force sensitive and a jedi have one if they're close friends? And can one be formed under false pretenses (and without suspicion once formed), such as palpy shenanigans?

*rubs hands eagerly* Force bonds are one of my favorite things to talk about! There's not actually a lot of hard lore about them--what there is I've collected in this post and a few more snippets in my #force bond tag--but the thing about them is that from what I can tell they're very much about how familiar you are with a person. It's not something you can fully form in an afternoon or ever really break, because it's about how much you're familiar with that person. It seems to be more that, the more you know the person, the stronger your bond is with them. If you sat down in one afternoon and spent all that time connecting your minds or simply talking and getting to know that person, then you could establish the beginning of a bond, but I do think it really takes time. And I'm not sure how able you are to break it--Vader recognized Obi-Wan on the Death Star, Dooku was able to use his connect to Yoda in TCW, Anakin felt it the very second Obi-Wan connected to the Force again and Obi-Wan felt him in return, etc.

Once you're connected to someone, unless they actively hide themselves or protect themselves, you always have that bond tying you together. I tend to agree with Dave Filoni about it, when he says (talking about the Rebels episode where they find Luminara): “The material of [Luminara’s] body is the essence that Kanan is somehow sensing through the Force. But he knows there’s something off about it. But since he didn’t really know Luminara, he doesn’t really know. That’s one of the interesting things about death and then the dark side and all these different ways you can use the Force. The sensing of people is one of the biggest dilemmas, I think, in all of Star Wars, because people want to use it like a metal detector. I am very, very certain that it really just relates to how much you know somebody and intention of threat. You take those two things and combine them. So of course when Obi-Wan arrives in the Death Star, Anakin knows about it. Obi-Wan’s intentions are fairly clear, what he wants to do. He even, I think to some degree, knows he’s going to face Vader. And they knew each other so well, they were so close. It’s like a battering ram. “ --Dave Filoni So, can a Force-sensitive person have a bond with a non-Force-sensitive person? Nothing in canon directly says either way, but I firmly believe that Jedi do have Force bonds with their non-Force-sensitive friends, that Obi-Wan would have a connection with Satine, that Anakin had one with Padme, that Yoda had one with Tarfful, etc. And that I do believe, yes, you they can form one with someone under deceptive circumstances, which I very much do think Palpatine and Anakin had a Force bond! What that specifically means is detail that's kind of up to you, because Force-sensitives tend to all be empaths to varying degrees, but we do have some outright telepaths and it does seem like you can push your way into someone's mind through force, like Maul did with Jesse or like Obi-Wan, Mace, and Anakin tried to do with Cad Bane. That's not really a bond (though, I think it could help establish one because it's still becoming more familiar with the person's thoughts and feelings), but it's all in the same area of what bonds are and how they work. Can you form a bond under deception and keep it that way? There's definitely room for other mileages, but I would say that Palpatine and Anakin are the perfect example of how it's possible. I think it would be extra difficult for a non-Force-sensitive to even feel anything forming in the first place unless the other one wanted them to feel it or pushed extra hard into their mind, otherwise they may not even be aware that the Jedi/Sith has a bond with them. But two Force-sensitive people in a bond where one is lying about who they are to the other? It would be difficult and extremely time-consuming and probably couldn't be one where the deceived would be diving deep into the other's mind on a regular basis, but I say it's doable if you're committed. Otherwise, bonds are all about how well you know someone and how deep you're letting them into your mind/heart and how much you're spiritually familiar with them. Limitations are pretty much a) how strong you are in the Force and b) how far you're willing to go with a person in memory/thought/emotion-sharing.

[f0point5]

Max Verstappen x bestfriend!reader Masterlist

She’s still bejewelled - Y/N finds out F1 wag pages are once again speculating she is dating her best friend, Max Verstappen

It’s (not) a cruel summer - Y/N and Max enjoy the summer break

August slipped away - Y/N does a Q&A to catch up with her followers after summer break

Burning red- Lando puts his foot in it

Holy ground - Fans discuss their excitement to see Y/N and Max interact at Zandvoort

I’m the one who understands you - A window into Max and Y/N’s home life

It turned into something bigger - Y/N’s comments about her childhood friend, Mick Schumacher, lead to a social media firestorm

They’d say I’d hustled, put in the work - A look at Y/N’s podcast, Dirty Air(time)

Shake it off - Determined to forget her worries, Y/N goes out parting with Max and Lando

They say home is where the heart is - Fans discuss how Y/N and Max love being roommates

(We’re) in the club doing I don’t know what - Fans look back on Max and Y/N’s Club Rat Renaissance

Pauses, then says, (he’s) my best friend - Y/N spends the day in Amsterdam while Max does press at Zandvoort

How evergreen, our group of friends - Snippets of Y/N and Max’s other friends on the grid and beyond

We’re faster and never scared - It’s a dramatic Friday in the Zandvoort paddock

I watch Superman fly away - The drama continues as Y/N and Mick have a run in in the paddock

Long live all the magic he made - Y/N supports Max as he equals the record for most consecutive wins

Remember the footsteps - A look at Y/N and Mick’s lifelong friendship

He has his father’s eyes…his father’s ambition - A look at Y/N’s relationship with Jos

I love your handshake, meeting my father - Fans discuss Jos’s perspective on Y/N, and her relationship with Max

And maybe it was egos swinging - Everyone speculates about the cause and consequences of Y/N and Mick’s falling out

I fell from the pedestal - Y/N becomes the subject of internet trolling after her fall out with Mick becomes public

Don’t know how long it’s gonna take to feel okay - Unable to deal with the stress and trolling, Y/N goes home to Switzerland, cutting off Max

My reputation’s never been worse so - Y/N’s absence sparks concerns amongst those closest to her

If someone comes at us, this time I’m ready - Y/N’s friends publicly support her as the hate continues

You don’t want to know me, I will just let you down

My words shoot to kill when I’m mad - Mick and Y/N finally talk

Something in your eyes says we can beat this - Max has a tough start to an important weekend, but his luck is about to change

(We) saw something the can’t take away - Y/N is there as Max wins at Monza and breaks another record

This is life before you know who you’re gonna be - Netizens discuss Max and Y/N’s enemy era

20 questions, we tell the truth - Y/N catches up with her followers after a hectic couple of weeks, and meets a man in Monaco

On a Wednesday, in a café - Y/N’s podcast with Daniel leads to some interesting revelations

Do you really want to know where I was? - Y/N and Max spend a day at the factory as rumours begin to swirl

I make it look oh so easy - Y/N and Max choose different confidants as they both attempt to avoid the elephant in the room

You’ll find me on my tallest tiptoes - It gets harder for Y/N to keep her secret

Slow motion, double vision in rose blush - Y/N gets back in the saddle while Max watches from the sidelines in more ways than one

Carnations you had thought were roses - Two of Y/N’s secrets are revealed

Didn’t it all seem new and exciting - Max leaves Y/N behind in Monaco as she reflects on her date

Loose lips sink ships all the damn time - Y/N heads to Switzerland for a special appointment as her relationship with Max is put under a microscope

I don’t wanna miss you like this - Y/N and Max deal with the distance between them differently

Your finger on my hairpin trigger - Tensions run high as Max has a bad day on track and Y/N gets defensive

Takes one to know one - Y/N’s much needed talk with Elliot is interrupted by an explosive qualifying in Singapore

I want to tell you not to get lost in these petty things - Max’s streak comes to an end and he and Y/N look ahead to Suzuka

Forever going with the flow, but you’re friction - Max asking Y/N to fly out early to Japan leads to tension and Y/N turns to Daniel for advice

I drive down different roads - Fans, and Y/N, speculate about her budding relationship

(They) knew what it was, he is in love - Netizens set out to prove that Max is in love with Y/N

(We) counted days, I counted miles, to see you there - Y/N arrives in Japan and is reunited with Max

Balancing on breaking branches - Max receives an unexpected delivery as Y/N answers questions from the media and her mother

It’s you and me, there’s nothing like this - As Max gets back to business as usual in Suzuka, wag social media does it’s thing

My (baby flies) like a jet stream - Max has a good day on track and Y/N’s Vogue article goes live

I can read you like a magazine - The internet reacts to mentions of Max in Y/N’s Vogue article

He’s passing by, rare as a glimmer of a comet in the sky - Red Bull securing the WCC is overshadowed by the revelation that Max hates podcasts

The lingering question(s) kept me up - Y/N does an Instagram Q&A

I just may like some explanations - Y/N answers more questions

How you held me in your arms that September night, the first time you ever saw me cry - Set in 2017, we learn what led to Y/N’s dad being dropped as Max’s sponsor, early in their friendship

People started talking, putting us through our paces - When Y/N is spotted out with Elliot, Instagram, Max, and Lando react

I don’t wanna touch you - Y/N finds herself short of breath on her padel date. Later, she appears on Max’s stream

(I) will never make my parents’ mistakes - Y/N’s dad hears about her dating life, and her mother weighs in

Drinking on a (yacht) with you all over me - Y/N and Max kick of his birthday celebrations with a day on the water, while Elliot changes his tune

I’d pick you up and we’d go back in time - Y/N and Max bring in his birthday somewhere special

We’re gonna be timeless - It’s Max’s birthday, but Y/N isn’t the only one planning surprises

Take the moment and taste it - Max enjoys a birthday boat day with family and friends, and Vic makes an accidental discovery

There’s glitter on the floor after the party - It’s the morning after night before. Max and Vic discuss Y/N’s letter

Movin’ on was always easy for me to do - Y/N and Elliot meet up to talk and Y/N’s friend weighs in. Y/N’s tweets irritate Max

Your eyes look like (being at) home - Y/N goes riding, Lando proposes plans, and Max has plans of his own

No I didn’t hear the news, ‘cause we were somewhere else - Max and Y/N arrive in Doha, but rumours about Max’s Monaco exploits follow them

You heard the rumours from (your friends) - Max attends Media Day while Y/N hangs out with an old friend

‘Cause they don’t know about the night in the hotel - Max’s GQ interview exposes an interesting part of Max and Y/N’s past

I was dancing around, dancing around it - Y/N and Clara celebrate Max’s on track triumphs

(You) stand up, champion tonight - Max becomes a three time world champion

This life is sweeter than fiction - Max wins in Qatar in a physically gruelling race

Life makes love look hard - Back in Monaco, Y/N is seen out with Elliot, and he makes a bold suggestion

Can we always be this close? - Y/N and Max have a chill day at home and while Twitter notice Max made an admission in an interview, Y/N makes an admission to Victoria

Inescapable, I’m not even gonna try - Y/N and Max spend a day at the factory, where both realise they may have something to work on

You go talk to your friends, talk to my friends, talk to me - Y/N’s podcast with Oscar comes out, on the same day she finally films one with Max. Meanwhile, Max uses the sim in an unconventional way

Yes, I remember what you said last night - Y/N’s plans for COTA baffle Christian, and Y/N learns an unexpected fact about the past

Take out, then take me home - Y/N prepares for Austin, and an interview with Max comes out

Love’s a game, wanna play? - Y/N tries her hand at padel after watching Max compete, and Max steams with Redline

Rosé flowing with your chosen family - Clara and Y/N spend the day together, and Clara becomes determined to finish what she started in 2017

(We are) a flight risk, with a fear of falling - Y/N and Max head to the US

Ain’t it funny, rumours fly - Y/N heads to a Ferrari gala as rumours swirl about Max’s next career move amid reports of infighting at Red Bull

As if I don’t already see (it) - The circus settles in to Texas and Y/N’s dad weighs in on Elliot

Can you see right through me? - Y/N and Elliot make a king and awkward paddock debut

I’ve been sleeping so long in a twenty year dark night - Y/N sheds light on her dating history while she and Elliot struggle to adjust to life in the paddock

It’s morning now, it’s brighter now - Y/N reaches out to an old friend for support. Meanwhile, Daniel tries to support Max

The moment I could see it - Max takes another win in Austin while Elliot reaches his breaking point

You’ll find the real thing instead - Y/N and Elliot have an honest conversation

In the name of being honest - Bonus part where Y/N answers Instagram questions after the Austin GP

I’m asking you why - More of Y/N’s post Austin Q&A

You’ve got a girl at home and everybody knows that - Y/N and Max are suspects in the wildest paddock rumour yet as they wrap up their trip to Austin

You learn my secrets and you figure out why I’m guarded - Y/N gets brutally honest with Mick as Max plays goalkeeper twice

You saw the truth in me - Max cuts it close before media day as reports surface of security threats in Mexico

They tell you that you’re lucky, but you’re so confused - Max attends a gruelling media day as Y/N deals with the heat of Mexico

Laughing with (your head in my) lap, like you were my closest friend - Everyone has a tough quali day

This is the golden age - Maxico delivers another win, and Y/N celebrates with tequila

(You would never) me darling, but who could stay? - Y/N and Max arrive in Brazil for a short break before the race

No one has to know what we do - Max and Y/N fall off the map and enjoy some private time

I can’t say anything to your face - Max and Y/N continue to leave each other flustered and Max starts press for the Brazilian GP

The way you move is like a full on rainstorm - Max takes pole in difficult conditions and Y/N gets near her breaking point

We were cards sharks, playing games - Max wins the sprint and Y/N wins games of her own

🚨I’ve had to add a second masterlist for all posts after this point. That can be found here 🚨

[mintedwitcher]

in honour of the transfer mention in canon (which I will be choosing to believe is still Buck's plan until s9 starts and ruins all my fun once again), let's have a slice of my 'buck leaves the 118 fic', shall we? we are finally at his first day.

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.“Heard you prefer to go by ‘Buck’, right?” Captain Deluca asks. Buck nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “There were, uh, three Evans in my class at the academy, so uh, ‘Buck’ kinda stuck, I guess.”

“And when did you get out of the academy? Last week?” One guy across the loft asks, a tone in his voice that immediately reminds Buck of Eddie. He bristles, but Deluca beats him to the punch.

“Roy!” he barks. “Don’t get bitter now just ‘cause we got someone prettier on the team.”

Laughs rise up from the rest of the team. The guy – Roy – raises his hands in surrender.

“Alright,” Deluca says, clapping Buck on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Go put your stuff away, then come back and meet your squad.”

“Yes sir,” Buck says.

“And don’t call me ‘sir’, jeez, I ain’t that old,” Deluca groans, but he’s smiling. Buck grins, quick and nervous, and nods. Deluca gives him a bit of a shove, and Buck heads down to the locker room.

One of the lockers is decorated with streamers, and a handwritten sign that declares ‘For the new guy!’ in a curlicue font. Buck smiles, but he still stands cautiously back as he opens it up. Thankfully, nothing pops out at him. He peeks inside to find it empty, and sighs in relief. He’d already put his uniform on at home before coming in, so he shoves his bag into the locker, and takes a minute to breathe.

This is good, he tells himself. This is a good thing.

He closes the locker, smiling again at the streamers. When he turns around, Roy is in the doorway. Buck’s guard goes up immediately. Roy sighs, and steps forward, extending a hand.

“Sorry, man,” he says. He sounds genuine. “We don’t know each other well enough to joke like that yet. I’m Roy.”

“Thanks,” Buck says. He takes the hand extended and shakes it. “Buck. Are you, uh, on the same shift?”

“Yeah,” Roy says. “Cap actually picked you as my partner. Sorry I made a bad first impression.”

“No, it’s uh, it’s okay,” Buck says. Their hands drop. “I should tell you about how I acted when I met my new partner, at my old house. I was a bit of a dick.”

“You?” Roy snorts. “Can’t picture it, Buck. Anyway, come on up, say hi to the rest of the guys. I promise, we’re not all assholes. Just Cap, sometimes.”

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tag list: (since we're so close to this fic getting posted, I won't be adding any more people to the tag list, but all of my posted snippets so far can be found under the tag 'buck leaves the 118 fic' on my blog, and of course, I'll post the AO3 link once it goes live. thank you to everyone who has kept up with this fic so far, yall are so wonderful, I love this community so much ❤️)

@littlepaws9 @loulou-land @dashing-disaster @kinardstits @tyrusshipper12

@samjohnssonvt @magdalyna @sweaters-and-silly @safelycapricious @onceuponatmi

@hubcaphalo @letsdosciencetoit @ladyeyrewrites @cm1031sr @sunsetandevningstar

@marsflower @buckitweride @joyfullyhauntedmiracle @sahtinekryze @agentpeggycartering

@gayjaytodd @darkjediqueen @avnasace @lostintheuniverseslies @breadread101

@whentheresidentsareevil @athenap47 @cheesycottagecheese @youreademonroyce @eliotwaughdeservesbetter

@dearqueend @paperyowl @todd-harper @spence922 @chococara25

[felassan]

Lucanis and Crows snippets, under a cut due to spoilers.

How would Viago and Teia react to a Crow Rook being romantically involved with Lucanis? "Teia is going to plan the wedding, and insist that Viago give Rook away at the ceremony. Viago will sigh dramatically, lecture Rook about it, and then spend a week picking out the right gloves to wear." [source]

If Illario wasn't locked away, how would he react? "Under any circumstances, Illario would be upset since it's a whole lot of attention that's STILL not on him. He would definitely get drunk at the reception and tell the same two most embarrassing stories about Lucanis over and over until Viago knocked him out and put him upstairs." [source]

With Rook romancing Lucanis, is it possible that Spite could become affection or benevolence? "Spite's basic aspect is defiance. He can be more or less difficult depending on influence (rebellion vs. vindictiveness, etc), but at his core he's always going to be a spirit of "NOPE"" [source]

Lucanis' mother was the heir apparent to House Dellamorte [source]

Does Spite have any kind of feeling about Rook? "Spite is fond of Rook in his own Spite-like way. He and Lucanis agree on the point of trusting Rook over and above other people or themselves. He does go to Rook for help with Lucanis, after all." [source]

For the Lion King reference in Murder of Crows, Mary Kirby went to the cinematic animators and described it as Illario's "Scar at Pride Rock" scene [source]

User: "I cut Lucanis' hair and shaved his beard and I almost feel like I should apologise to him" / Mary Kirby: "Now he can't tell himself from Illario, and you've given them both a complex." [source]

Teia and Viago were half-written by Mary Kirby and half-written by Luke Kristjanson [source]

Lucanis likes his coffee black [source]

Would he judge your coffee order? "As long as it's not boiled, or instant coffee, or whatever that stuff from a can is, he's fine with it. Or at least, he will only judge you silently for it." [source]

What kind of treats does Lucanis like? "Sweet, because it goes better with his coffee. Savory, if somehow he is NOT drinking coffee at that moment." [source]

Lucanis grew his beard and long hair while in the Ossuary. "He hasn't exactly had a haircut in a while." [source, two].

Would Lucanis make Powerpoint presentations about jobs or to talk? "No, he doesn't want to talk to anyone, let alone explain things and present them. That's 300% an Illario thing. That man has a powerpoint to introduce his powerpoint about why you should listen to his powerpoint." [source]

"Lucanis would never be on social media. He'd be on YouTube watching videos of people restoring rusty cutlery with no dialogue until four in the morning." [source] Could he tell when content is manufactured? "Yes. And he gets upset and finds Bellara or Neve (whichever is unluckier) to rant about it." [source]

Lucanis' favorite stove burner? Right front [source]

"Spite doesn't have any concept of physical appearances. It looks the way Lucanis sees himself. Lucanis is never relaxed, even in casual wear." [source]

Along with Lucanis Mary Kirby also wrote Spite [source]

Mary Kirby wrote Illario, Luke Kristjanson wrote the Crow faction quests [source]

Lucanis' perfect date night? "I'm gonna be honest: There is a non-zero chance it would involve assassinating somebody and getting coffee, and I'm not entirely certain which would come first." [source]

Lucanis "has so much [trauma] to sort through, and he could really use some help. Like, a Marie Kondo level of help with that." [source]

What sparks joy for Lucanis? "Coffee, paella, wyverns, knives, REDACTED, book club, REDACTED, revenge..." [source]

Lucanis is older than Illario by a few months [source]

How did Spite feel watching Lucanis fumble after the near-kiss moment with Rook? "Confused. Spite, like most demons, doesn't really get emotions outside its domain. Not doing something that someone clearly wants you to do should make you happy! I mean, honestly, what's better than that, except maybe revenge?" [source]

Did Spite interact much with Manfred? "We wrote a bunch of interactions between them, though I have no idea how many made it in." [source]

Update:

What are the names of Lucanis' parents? / "I didn't give them names, and in the event that Lucanis comes back in a later game, I don't want to hand out info that might just get contradicted by his next writer. (If I don't answer a lore question for him, this is probably why. I don't want to write checks someone else has to cash.)" [source]

What is Mary's take on Spite's possible involvement or lack thereof in Rook and Lucanis' relationship? / "Honestly, I don't know, and that's a question his next writer might explore? Where do your pent-up feelings of frustration go when you're happy? What does an emotion like defiance even understand about love? (I think that's fun to think about, but your mileage may vary.)" [source]