#find a place to make a stand and take it easy

[reidrum]

plush, interrupted | s.r.

A/N: everyone say thank you margot for providing me with the doctor!reader idea to get me out of my writer’s block (this felt very rusty to write still so pls take with a grain of salt)

summary: in which dr. reid attempts to find the perfect birthday gift for you

cw: doctor!reader, fluff, mild suggestive content if you squint but not really honestly

wc: 1.9k

It’s a balancing act to juggle the gift bag, bouquet of flowers, and the box of your favorite donuts as he bends precariously to press the doorbell. The real act is controlling the beads of sweat forming on his brow bone—he’s real nervous about tonight going well, hinging on proving the voices in his head wrong that you won’t hate your gift.

The door swings open, he smells you before he sees you, wafts of gourmand calming his nerves immediately. “Hi baby, happy birthday.”

You melt visibly, “Spence, what is all of this?”

“For you, obviously.” he steps in, handing you the box of donuts and flowers so he can remove his shoes, “I got your favorites.”

After placing his shoes on the rack he meets your face again to see you mid bite, already devouring a chocolate sprinkled donut. An easy grin splits his face wide open in pure adoration for how content you look with a stray sprinkle on your lip.

“Sorry, I’ve been craving these for literally ever. The hospital admin said it was too far to get it catered for the break room, and ugh I’m sure you could hear my heart shattering.” you pout.

Spencer reaches a thumb to your face and swipes the stray sprinkle, letting it land between your lips as you gently part around it. “Good thing I can be your donut dealer then.”

You giggle, “Donut dealer! And how would I pay you adequately for your services?”

“I can think of a few ways.” he curls a hand around your waist, sinking and imprinting down to tug you closer to him.

“Sounds like a threat,” you breathlessly laugh.

His head dips down to press a kiss behind your ear, a spot he’s discovered to be a tender one, where he relishes in the shivers and preening he can induce from a simple touch. “It’s more of a promise.”

He hasn’t dropped the L-word yet, surprisingly, since you make it so easy to want to say it every waking moment he spends with you. It’s only been a few months since you started dating and Spencer really believes he would have said it on the second date if he had no filter. 

You walk towards the kitchen in search of a vase for the beautiful flowers he’d brought, “I’m really happy you’re here, I was so sure a serial killer would have whisked you away this week and I was fully prepared to spend the day all by my lonesome.”

Spencer follows you, “Couldn’t have that now, could we? I think I’m more surprised you got the week off.”

“It was all Arlene,” you chuckle, “she insisted I switch shifts with her to quote ‘Spend my birthday doing hot illegal things with my hot federal boyfriend.’ end quote.”

“Hot illegal things?” Spencer grins, leaning against the kitchen island with a brow raised. “Like what?”

Your eyes flit to the abandoned gift bag from your colleague in the corner. “You can’t laugh.”

The amusement overfills his eyes, “I won’t, I promise.”

You continue trimming the flower stems in a poor attempt to avoid confrontation with him. “She got me a slave Leia costume.”

A loud laugh rumbles from his chest, “Like from the movie?”

“Yes, like from Return of the Jedi. Don’t laugh.” you fail to hide your smile as you point your scissors threateningly at him.

Spencer rounds the kitchen island to stand next to you, hands coming to your shoulders to smooth down the figure of your body. He chuckles, “I’m more of a Star Trek person personally, but I’m sure we can make it work.” he leans down to press another kiss to the base of your neck, reaching for your hands holding the scissors, “Will you let me do this? Don’t want you doing anything today.”

“It’s okay Spence, I’m almost done.” you say softly, plucking a petal off.

His hands encompass yours, “I bought them for you so you could enjoy how almost as pretty as you they are, let me do it.”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” you bat your lashes.

“Always.”

You resign with flutters in your stomach, “Fine, does this mean I can look at what’s inside that bag you brought?”

He freezes, ironically, because being around you makes him feel like he’s braving the surface of the sun. The glow, the light, the warmth of it all encompassing his entire being, all just by you existing. Entirely the point in why he freezes, because you questioning about the contents of the bag means he has to come to terms that this is the pivotal moment in which you decide if this is all worth it.

Okay, he’s being very dramatic.

Truth be told, he had thought long and hard about what to get you. This wasn’t a simple holiday like an anniversary or Christmas, this was your birthday. A day where you deserved to feel special. You deserve to feel special everyday of your life, and Spencer makes sure of it as best as he can to make you feel that way. But finding the perfect gift for someone who deserved the world was a feat in itself.

Spencer isn’t exactly private about you to the rest of the team, but he definitely likes to keep you close to his heart. They knew about you for sure, after the first week of meeting you Spencer couldn’t hide his sudden change in mood and optimism for life. You were new, exciting, lovely to have around, and god forbid he wants to hold you secret for his eyes only.

He figured he had to outsource somewhere to get some help, and it was slightly helpful he recalls.

A few days ago…

Derek saunters into the bullpen and grins, “Pretty boy, I hear it’s Dr. Pretty Girl’s birthday soon.”

Spencer looks at him puzzled, “How do you know that?”

“Little birdie told me.” 

Garcia, he deduces. Morgan continues, “You decide what to get her?”

“Not yet—well, I have something in mind. I'm just not sure if she’ll like it.”

JJ chimes in, “Ooh, is it heart shaped jewelry? Girls hate that.”

“I got my last girl a heart pendant necklace, said she loved it.” Morgan counters.

“And that’s why she was your last,” Emily snickers, earning a playful shove from him. “How long have you guys been dating now? Few months now, right?”

“2 months, 14 days, 21 hours.”

She rolls her eyes, trust Spencer to have the answer down to the minute. “Ah, so you can’t get her anything too big.”

Spencer furrows his brows, “Why not?”

Emily and JJ share a look, “If you get something too big then you set her expectations too high, if you get something too small then you make her think she’s not important to you.”

“But she is really important to me.”

Morgan reaches over from his perched position on Spencer’s desk to ruffle his hair and chuckle, “So then think, lover boy.”

He’d scour store after store for weeks looking for something that he thinks you’d like. He passed on necklaces and rings knowing you weren’t allowed to wear it during your shifts. You had enough stationary to last you the rest of your life, enough candles to light every inch of your apartment.

Then, as he’s scrolling on his phone through the New York Times Games—he’d got the notification you completed the crossword and went to go complete it himself.

A very, very, targeted ad that is so on point it might as well have a big red dot smack in the middle, pops up before he can click start puzzle.

It’s so silly, ridiculous, there’s no way you would think it’s a good gift. You had class, elegance. But it seems just whimsical enough to where you might actually like it.

You say his name softly again, waving a hand in front of his face to gain his attention. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he snips the last flower stem and finally arranges the bouquet in the vase, “You can open it, but if you hate it please don’t tell me. Or tell me because I kept the receipt in case you didn’t, and then I can return it and find a better gift for you. Or if you do like it that’s great, but I’m really nervous you won’t and I’m actually making myself more nervous because I think you’re going to pretend to like it so my feelings don’t get hurt. You don’t have to spare my feelings, I promise, I can take it. And—“

“Spencer,” you say sternly.

The death grip on the emotional support flower stems tightens, “Yeah?”

“I’m going to love it regardless, because it came from you. You didn’t even have to get me anything, I told you.”

“If I could give you everything, I would. I’m still figuring out how to bring the moon down for you.” he says with pure intent.

You peck his cheek, “How romantic.”

You place the bag on the island and start delicately pulling out the paper stuffing, revealing an oblong shaped item wrapped in tissue paper. You unwrap it completely and audibly giggle through bubbling happy tears as you stare down at the contents.

In the middle of the tissue paper lies a plushie, complete with the vessels and chambers to make an anatomical heart, adorned with two little beady eyes, sets of arms and legs, and a smile almost as endearing as Spencer’s.

“Oh my god. I love him, are you joking?” you squeal.

Spencer’s heart loosens its chain, “Really?”

“Yes!” you pick up the plush and hold it close to your chest, relieved and overwhelmed to find his cologne sprayed on it flooding your senses. “Oh my god, he’s so freakin’ cute I can’t.”

“JJ was so sure you’d think it was stupid.” he mumbles.

“Are you kidding me? This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

He can’t hide his surprise, “The best gift?”

“Yes, the best gift ever.” you hug the plush tighter, “I’ve never gotten something like this before and I can’t believe it’s taken this long for it to happen. He’s going straight to my desk, I hope you know that.”

The relief is visible on his face, complimented by the rosy blush of his cheeks at how enamored you look by your new friend. His hands circle your waist, “I’m glad you like it, pretty girl. Happy birthday.”

You turn to kiss him soundly on the lips, “Thank you, I really really love this, like, so much. More than the donuts.”

“I think that’s the best compliment you could’ve ever given me.” he mutters into your neck.

“This is my son now. His name is Artie.”, you proudly say, “Expect many pictures of us on the job and our day to day lives.”

He furrows his brows in amusement, “Artie…like arteries?”

“Maybe.” you say under your breath.

He opens his mouth to say it, the L-word, like it’s second nature and absolutely needed with how you’ve endeared him yet again by simply existing and being you. He wants to say it so bad, but he knows the moment in which he professes his love for you needs to be a special one. You deserve that much at least, not because you giving an anatomical heart plushie a cute name has made him realize why love incites wars and acts of passion and grandeur for a very good reason.

Spencer will however, remember this moment as the one where he realizes he is irrevocably, indisputably, entirely captivated and deeply, deeply, in love with you.

[vampscatorccio]

Queen Of Hearts.

N. Scatorccio x Fem!reader

summary: after an argument you had with natalie before draw for the hunt, you pull the queen card.

warnings: angst angst ANGST, slight gore, mentions of cannibalism, natalie feels guilty as per usual, established relationship, use of y/n (IM SORRY), reader took mari’s place in the draw

now playing ♫: twilight - boa

lowercase intended / it’s been a while since i’ve written anything 🥲 i’m very rusty / not proofread, it’s also a lil short because i rushed 💔

“i’m not doing this again, natalie.” you say, voice shaky as you stare at the floor of your shared hut. “you think i want to do this? we don’t have a choice.” she responds as she paces. she’s pinching the bridge of her nose, like she’s annoyed. you scoff, standing up to face her. “bullshit.” nat pauses, moves her hand to look at you. her eyebrows furrow. “that’s bullshit and you know it, natalie.” you’re angry. not just at her, but at everything. “we could’ve left them. i begged you to leave with me. and you wouldn’t do it.” there’s tears welling up in your eyes. you can’t do this again. not after last time.

“it’s not that easy, y/n.” is all she says, crossing her arms. “i stayed for you, natalie. we could’ve survived without them, i know we could.” there’s tears in your eyes. your hands reach out to grab hers, and you’re looking into her eyes like you’re pleading with her. you feel the same way you did the night you were trying to leave. the night they tried to kill natalie. the night they killed javi.

you feel small, like a child searching for comfort. “i didn’t fucking ask you to do that!” she snaps, pulling her hands out of your grasp. you flinch at her raised voice, blinking tears away. natalie’s face softens as she reaches out for you again. “i’m sorry i didn’t-” you back away. “forget it.” you walk out of the hut without another word. and over to the circle of girls waiting.

“finally decided to join us?” shauna teases, a smug smile resting on her lips as natalie makes her way out, standing next to lottie across from you. your eyes are locked on the snow covered ground below you. you’re barely listening as van goes over the ‘rules’ of the draw, and you’re barely paying attention until it’s taissa’s turn, meaning you’re next. right before misty can get to you, shauna pushes her way in. you look up, confused. before you can say anything, taissa beats you to it. “shauna, there’s no need to take any extra risk. you can go back to your spot.” “how did you get into AP stats? it doesn’t change the odds. besides, i trust whatever it wills.” you suck in a breath, closing your eyes to try and ease your nerves. you’d never drawn it before, you’re sure it won’t be you this time either.

“misty, keep going.” shauna says, misty looks at you briefly before putting the cards in front of her. the brunette pulls her card, smirking before she shows everyone. 2 of clubs. you swallow nervously, and reach your hand out to draw your card.

you hesitate, slowly turning it over. your heart drops. you finally look up at natalie. she’s stone faced, until she sees the look in your eyes. her face drops as you flip the card over to show it. “tough break y/n.” shauna breaks the silence, stepping to stand in front of you. “take off your cape.” you stare at her coldly for a moment, glancing over her shoulder to natalie once more before untying your cape. the whole group is silent as she puts the necklace around your neck, making sure it’s clasped clasped. “run.” shauna whispers into your ear, moving back out of your way.

you don’t need to be told twice. your boots crunch against the snow as you run as fast as you can through the woods. you can hear them counting. you stop behind a tree to catch your breath, and decide to strip some of your clothing so they can’t find you as easily. you start with your coat and boots, and once you hear the howling, the screaming, you make a break for it again. the snow is numbingly cold against your feet, which isn’t so bad since you can’t feel it after a moment. you look behind you to check, no one. before you can turn your head back, you run into something. someone.

hands pull you behind a tree, and before you can scream one is placed over your mouth. “don’t, it’s just me.” you hear natalie’s voice, and calm down for just a second. she moves her hand away and looks around to make sure you’re still alone. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry. i should’ve left with you. it shouldn’t be you. fuck, i’m so-” “don’t, please. i don’t want my last memory with you to be you apologizing, it’s okay.” you tear up again as you try to console her. you try giving her a soft smile as you tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. she shakes her head, fighting tears herself. “no, no it’s not okay.” she starts. “we can still leave. you can come with me to call for help, i can get you out of here.” natalie’s hands find your cheeks, thumbs stroking the cold skin. “no,” you shake your head. “no, i’ll slow you down, nat. or worse, they’ll track us down and kill both of us. you have to go without me. please.” the screaming gets closer. natalie checks your surroundings again, cursing under her breath when she sees one of the girls in the distance.

“i can’t leave you here. i can’t let them kill you.” her voice breaks, head falling onto your shoulder. you wrap your arms around her tightly, kissing her head softly before pulling her back. you look into her eyes one more time, and your hands reach to rest on the sides of her face. “you can’t save me. but you can save them, you can save yourself.” your thumbs wipe her tears away, and you give her a small smile before you pull her in for one last kiss. she immediately returns it, hands clutching onto the fabric of your nightgown. “i love you.” she whispers against your lips. “i know you do.” you nod, wiping away more tears. “i love you, natalie. now go, please.” you let go, but she leans in to hug you one more time before she runs off. you try to silence the broken cry that escapes your throat as reality sets in. you can’t stay here, you have to run.

you take off again, fading through trees. your luck runs short when you trip over a root, cutting your foot and falling foward. “shit!” you hiss. you slowly get up, whimpering when you put your weight on that foot. you start trying to run, but that thought it stopped when you’re pushed to the ground. “what the fuck!” you groan, assuming it’s shauna behind you. making your way onto your back, you huff out a laugh when you’re met with who’s now standing in front of you, knife in hand. “mellisa? seriously?” you scoff, going to get up but she kicks your chest, knocking you back down. you try to back away, but she straddles your hips to keep you still. “what the fuck-” she cuts you off by pressing the blade of her knife against your throat. your eyes widen, and you look up at her. “melissa you don’t have to do this.” “yes i do!” she presses the blade harder. “if i don’t kill you, she’ll kill me.” she’s struggling, her hand is shaking and she looks like she’s trying not to cry.

taking the opportunity to catch her off guard, you throw a hard punch. your fist connects with her jaw, knocking her off of you with a loud thud. you swiftly make it on to your feet, the adrenaline coursing through you masks over the pain that should be shooting through you each time your foot hits the ground, but you can’t feel it. your luck runs out when you feel a hand on your shoulder, twisting you back and before you can say anything, a sharp pain pierces through your midsection. your breath leaves you all in one gasp as you look up at the blonde. mellisa is teary eyed, like she feels guilty. “i’m sorry.” she whispers as she follows your body down to the ground. “but i’m so hungry.” she pulls the knife out, and you can faintly hear something that sounds like a sob before footsteps. your breath is shaky, and from what little vision you have right now, you’re watching her walk away.

when melissa returns, she’s with a proud shauna. of course, that moment is always short lived. this time, she’s really not happy as she stares at a puddle of blood, with no body. “well, where the fuck is she?”

AHHHH i’ve never written angst before and i kinda left this open for a part two if anyone wants it, i hope you like it 💋

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Summary: Love was never easy then came Bob. You never believed in "right person, right time" or soulmates but maybe that's what this is what's going on.

No major warnings, very soft, meet cute, stranger to lovers, mention of self-doubt

This came to me completely randomly I hope you enjoy :)

Masterlists

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Growing up, you were always told love wasn't something easy. You had to work for love. Love was a difficult and scary thing to find--but if you found the right person, it was worth the fight.

You never found the right person.

Every guy made you nervous--not in a sweet, butterflies-in-your-stomach nervous. More like Shit, don't say the wrong thing. Don’t make a fool of yourself or you’re going to embarrass you forever and he’ll be disgusted, kind of nervous. After a while you just started to believe no guy would actually want to fight to be in a relationship with you.

You never found the right guy.

Not until Bob.

You met Bob by accident. A complete freak accident--the two of you grabbing the same cup of coffee at the exact same time.

“Oh shit, sorry!” you both blurted over each other, hands still touching.

“I-um-you had a caramel latte too?” the stranger asked. You nodded, too scared of hearing your voice stutter in response. He gave a soft, boyish smile and chuckled. “That’s my favorite… Did--I mean was there any difference in your order?” He started inspecting the checkboxes on the cup, hoping for some guidance, since the employees were clearly slammed that morning.

It took you a minute to realize he’d asked you a question — you were too caught in the daze his blue eyes put you in.

“Oh! I, um… I asked for extra caramel,” you said, shrugging slightly. “Sometimes they do it, sometimes they don’t.”

Before he could respond, another caramel latte was placed on the counter. You both glanced around — no one else was waiting. You picked it up and handed it to him. “I think this one’s yours. It isn’t marked with any special add-ons.”

He smiled and swapped drinks with you, then frowned, “Wait… does your drink have the extra caramel you asked for? I didn't see anything marked on that cup” he nodded towards the cup in your hand.

When you checked it you just sighed and shook your head with a small shrug, his frown deepened.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you explained, you were already halfway through brushing it off again when he paused.

You watched as his eyes lit up like some thought just hit him.

“Actually…” he glanced toward the counter, then back to you, hesitant but suddenly determined, “do you want me to ask them to remake it?”

You blinked. “What?”

“The drink. With the extra caramel.” He pointed at your cup, then toward the chaotic barista station. “It’s not what you ordered. I can ask.”

You almost laughed — not at him, but at the sheer earnestness of it.

“No, really. It’s fine. I’m used to them getting it wrong.”

“Still,” he said, standing a little straighter, “you should get what you ask for.”

His brows furrowed like the thought genuinely bothered him. You watched as his hands flexed like he was getting ready to go to war over the state of your coffee.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, softening.

He shrugged, still watching you. “Oh I would never do it for myself. I’d just… take the wrong one and drink it.”

You tilted your head. “But for me…?”

He smiled, a little sheepish now and shrugged. “You just, I don't know you looked disappointed.”

You blinked again, caught off guard by how easily he’d noticed.

Most people didn’t. Most people didn’t care to.

You looked down at your cup. Then up at him.

“It’s okay,” you said. “This is enough.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. But next time? We’re going to make sure your coffee is right.”

You startled at the phrase — next time — but he said it like it was natural, not a reach, not presumptuous.

And somehow, you found yourself hoping for it too.

He seemed surprised by what he actually said, he cleared his throat before looking around trying to calm his racing heart. “It's um-like slammed…I don't know if you were going to drink here but we–we could share that table…if you want? Only if you're comfortable with it obviously! I mean you don't even know me, like we're total strangers I-shit I'm rambling aren't I?” He sighs, blushing bright red before he looks back over to you and sees you smiling softly at him. “I don't mind sharing a table, better than sitting in the heat.”

His shoulders relax and smiles back at you, “Lead the way.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡

The table was tucked into the far corner of the café, pressed up against a window that fogged slightly from the contrast of cool air conditioning inside and the heavy humidity just beyond the glass. It wasn’t much–wobbly and barely big enough for the two of you–but it felt oddly… intimate.

You sat first, cradling your cup in your hands, pretending not to notice how Bob hesitated before pulling out the chair across from you, like he was double-checking you hadn’t changed your mind. “This okay?” he asked again, quieter this time.

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s perfect.” He let out a small breath of relief and sat down, setting his drink on the table carefully like it might shatter if he wasn’t gentle. For a moment, the silence was comfortable. The sounds of the café filled the gaps: espresso machines hissing, mugs clinking, laughter from a group near the door. You watched as Bob adjusted the sleeve on his cup, fingers long and a little fidgety.

“I’m Bob, by the way,” he offered, finally looking back up at you. “Just realized I never introduced myself.”

You smiled, giving your name in return, and he repeated it softly like he was testing the feel of it on his tongue. You liked how it sounded when he said it. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t shrink it down like most people did.

“So…” he started, thumb brushing the edge of his cup, “was this part of your morning routine too? Or are you more of a… ‘I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t get caffeine immediately’ kind of person?”

You laughed, shoulders relaxing further. “Definitely the second one today. The heat already tried to kill me on the way here.”

“I get that,” he grinned. “My shirt stuck to my back before I even left my building. Pretty sure that’s illegal.”

You giggled, sipping your not-quite-right coffee despite everything. “Honestly? That’s probably the most relatable thing I’ve heard all week.”

The conversation slipped into something easy after that–back and forth volleys of sarcasm and small confessions. He told you about how he’d gotten yelled at by a pigeon once for dropping a bagel near the subway entrance. You admitted you once accidentally held a stranger’s hand in a crowd for a good twenty seconds before realizing it wasn’t your friend.

Bob had this way of laughing that made your stomach flutter–not loud or boisterous, but quiet and genuine. Like it was a privilege to witness. Like the sound was just for you. You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until the baristas started calling out the lunch orders and the café grew louder again.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and winced. “I… should probably head out.”

You nodded, trying to keep the disappointment off your face. He stood, then paused. His fingers tapped against the back of his chair like he was debating something.

“I, uh… would you want to do this again?” he asked, voice softer now, eyes hopeful. “Not like anything weird ‘meet me at 8 a.m. sharp’ type thing or anything–just… sometime? Coffee. Or lunch. Or anything really.”

You smiled before you could even think about it. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

His smile bloomed–big, warm, and boyish–and you realized how rare it felt to see someone light up at the idea of seeing you again. He scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. Great. Um… I’ll give you my number?”

You traded phones, thumbs brushing briefly as he handed his over. A small jolt ran through you at the contact. You typed it in carefully, double-checking everything like it was something sacred. When you handed it back, he looked at your screen for a second, then up at you. “I’ll text you later?”

You nodded. “Looking forward to it.”

And you meant it.

As he turned to go, he paused and glanced back at you one last time, flashing a shy grin. “Next time, we will get that extra caramel. I promise.”

You watched him walk away, heart thudding a little faster than it should’ve. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel scary.

It just felt… right. Like maybe, finally, love didn’t have to be something you survived. Maybe it could be something that found you. By complete accident.

At a café.

With the wrong drink… but the right guy.

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[omnom-obeyme]

You are the first person I've seen do nsfw requests for the demons and can i just say awoof awoof bark bark ESPECIALLY tickled that you have stories where the reader tops, it is so hard to find dom!reader!!! May I humbly request mc subtly teasing the demons in public? Like maybe rubbing their leg under the table or whispering naughty things into their ear during class?

It is a STRUGGLE to find good dom!reader fics or even fics where the MC isn't implicitly submissive 😭😭 It genuinely annoys me so bad, and it's part of the reason I wanted to start writing again. I hope you like it! And please keep sending requests in :) it makes me happy to get them <3

Oh, You Little--

Pairings: OM demons x reader (separate)

Warnings: suggestive content, 18+, nothing particularly explicit, reader wears a skirt in Lucifer's section, feminization in Levi's section, everything is obviously happening in public

Lucifer's having a pretty chill day, honestly. For once, his workload is manageable, his brothers haven't caused any chaos, and there's no life-threatening catastrophe on the horizon. Unfortunately for him, you're an absolute chaos agent.

You finally got a RAD skirt to replace those itchy pants you've been wearing since you arrived in the Devildom. It ends just below mid-thigh on you. It's cute! You feel really cute. And it seems a certain demon thinks you look cute, too.

How can you really be expected to not tease him at this point? Lucifer's eyes were already lingering on your thighs at breakfast this morning, and you weren't even doing anything.

Now, you're on your way to one of your Devildom history classes. You just so happen to share the class with Lucifer, and he usually walks with you to class. Today, you drop the books you're carrying out in front of you, so you can walk ahead of him and bend down in the crowded hallway.

Lucifer's breathing hard when you stand back up and rejoin him at his side, your breezy "sorry about that, I've been oddly clumsy today" doing nothing to steady him. His gloved hands are clenched into fists, and there's a pink flush crawling up his pale face.

"How unfortunate. Perhaps you need to rest for the rest of the day. Shall I escort you to my office?"

Is Mammon still breathing? Someone should check on him. He's been gripping at his pants and staring hard at the wood of his desk for the past half an hour.

You and him sit in the very back of your potions class, and the room is so big that the teacher can't really see that far back into it. You take advantage of that fact all the time. Today, you've got your chin propped up on Mammon's shoulder.

It was innocent at first, as most things are with you, but you just can't resist. Teasing Mammon is too easy, honestly.

It slowly devolves from slightly suggestive comments such as "You've got such pretty hands, Mamms. Quick fingers, too," to "Baby, your mouth is so cute. You'll let me fuck myself with it later, right?"

Mammon's basically frozen in place, and his face is hot. He's genuinely sweating. He's also painfully hard in his pants, but he can't even do anything about it at this point.

"T-Treasure, you gotta stop...please, I can't take anymore."

Levi's probably going to die. In a dress, no less. You finally convince him to go to a convention in a painstakingly accurate Ruri Hana cosplay, and this is how you treat him?!

You've been going around and introducing him to people as your girlfriend and making comments about what a pretty girl he is. He's trying his hardest not to melt into the floor or run away and dive into the sea, but it's getting harder and harder as the day goes on.

When a demon approaches him and cheerfully compliments his cosplay, he already wants to hide behind you. So when you chime in with a "Right? Isn't he just the prettiest girl ever?" and squeeze his cheeks, well...

The squeak he lets out is completely undignified, and he hides his face against your shoulder. He clings onto you tightly. The heat from his cheeks bleeds through your clothes.

He whines when you coo at him. "Y-you're evil," he complains against your shoulder. And, honestly, you'd feel bad if his hips weren't pressing into your ass.

"Aww, honey...you need to go home, hmm? I'll take you home, baby girl."

You and Satan have been holed up in the library for ages as you prep for an upcoming exam. You need a break, and you're certain the blonde sitting at your side does, too.

You shift in your seat a little and set your book down. You hum and lean forward, pretending to be engrossed in the text.

Satan immediately tenses when your hand brushes his thigh, and he glances over at you out of the corner of his eye. When he sees that you're not even looking at him, he releases a sigh and pats your hand.

It's not until you start rubbing up and down and begin full-on massaging his thigh that he starts squirming. He presses his legs together and drops his head down to look at his lap. His arms tuck in tight to his sides, and he tries not to moan out loud when your hand ventures just a little too far up.

"MC, this is a library. Be decent."

You just grin and bring your hand up to tease the button of his pants. You're fine with playing the long game when it's so beautiful to watch Satan break.

You and Asmo are in the middle of the dancefloor at The Fall, and the two of you are captivating everyone there. You can't resist the urge to slide your hands over his body and grab at his waist.

Asmo does not give a FUCK about being in public at all. He's completely shameless. Honestly, you groping him while the bass from the music thumps in the background and demons watch on turns him on even more.

He leans into your touch, arches his back, and lets out a breathy whine when your hands squeeze his waist.

He'll beg for you in public. He doesn't care if people see him all glossy-eyed and pink-cheeked, desperate for you on the dancefloor.

You don't really get the chance to keep it up for too long before Asmo's leading you to a secluded corner.

"MC~ You're such a meanie! Pretty please, keep touching me?"

Beel's so happy when you agree to get dinner with him. Just you and him: no brothers, no responsibilities, no homework. He's munching away on his third loaf of bread when he feels your foot tap his under the table.

Of course, he brushes it off as an accident and continues perusing the menu. He's going to order everything anyway

The waiter comes back over to take your orders. You order your own food and hand the waiter your menu. When it's Beel's turn to order, though, you let your foot travel up the inside of his calf. It's a ghost of a touch, but it's enough to have Beel blushing and stumbling over his words.

When the waiter leaves, he gives you a look that's akin to a kicked puppy. He's not mad, he's just embarrassed. It's adorable.

Obviously, you have to do it again. And again. Each time, you get bolder and your foot travels higher until it's trailing along the inside of his thigh. He looks like he's about to chew through his own lip if it keeps going at this rate.

"MC, I'm still hungry...but I don't know if I want to eat more food or go home with you more..."

It's not uncommon for Belphie to fall asleep while cuddled up to you. In fact, it's more strange to see you alone in the RAD cafeteria than it is to see him draped over you and snoring away.

When he comes over to you today, you pull him into your lap instead of letting him sit down at your side.

He immediately blushes but lets out an annoyed huff. Of course he's pretending that his heart didn't just do a little flip in his chest. His head nestles against your shoulder, and his arms wrap around your middle in a secure hold.

Nothing about his usual plans change until he feels one of your hands slip under his shirt to rub his back while the other rests on his upper thigh. His breath stutters against your neck, and you smile triumphantly.

Usually, he'd be snoring away by now, but your touch sent jolts along his nerves that he can't ignore. It's really not fair. Pillows aren't supposed to tease :( Still, he doesn't really care about being in public as long as it's you who's holding him.

"H-hey! Watch your hands...I'm trying to sleep here..."

Never once has he regretted bringing you to the Devildom, but tonight is the closest he's come. You're mean. Evil, honestly. Cruel, even.

He's had you on his arm all night, the crown jewel of the exchange program. In between exchanges with nobles and regular citizens of the Devildom alike, you've been tormenting him.

"Did you get new pants, Dia?" you'd whisper after urging him to lean down. "Your butt looks amazing tonight."

No one questions the reasons why the prince is whinier than usual or why he's sulking. He's always had a problem with shirking his duties, but all he wants to do right now is take you away and drop to his knees in front of you. He has an image to uphold, MC! Why are you being so mean :(((

Another noble approaches the two of you just as your hand makes a swift retreat from his ass. Your face is as pleasant as usual, nothing amiss about your demeanor while Diavolo is flustered and bashful.

Once the party's over and the two of you are alone, he's folding his big form down and pressing his face against your thighs.

"Please have mercy on me, MC."

Barbatos doesn't flinch when you saunter up to him and wrap an arm around his waist. He doesn't react when your hand slides under the jacket of his uniform, either. You don't even feel his breath hitch.

Of course, you have to up your game a little. You don't leave Barbatos's side at all. Your hands are always on him, whether they're holding his waist, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulders, patting his back, or sliding down to subtly and greedily grab his hips when he bends to pour tea.

He won't react or say anything to you at the party. As the night goes on, though, he has a perpetual flush on his cheeks, and his tummy keeps clenching every time your fingers rub circles into his hip.

Diavolo notices Barbatos's pink cheeks and assumes his butler is sick. Barbatos gets relieved for the night, and you make up a quick excuse to follow after him.

Once you're both tucked away in his room, Barbatos hugs you from behind and lets out a shuddery breath against your neck.

"Please, MC. Don't be cruel. Finish what you started."

Mephistopheles would never say it out loud, but he loves that you've been helping with the newspaper more. He likes being able to bounce ideas off of you, and he finds your formerly irritating presence soothing.

Until you get it in that mind of yours to mess with him, that is. He's not embarrassed to be with you, but he's a prideful demon. He doesn't really enjoy PDA.

During a meeting, he asks you to read something over for him. You smirk to yourself and lean down over his shoulder to read the document in front of him. His shoulders go stiff, and he shivers as your breath hits his shoulder.

You take your sweet time reading. You're rather enjoying the closeness and the way his cologne smells.

"Hm, yeah, it looks good," you murmur in his ear. His fingers clench around his thighs in a near bruising grip, and he has to bite back a shameless moan.

"Thank you for reading that for me, MC. I'm so very appreciative. That's all for this meeting. Thank you all for coming," he says tightly. He's on his feet and leading you out of the clubroom before you can say a word.

do not use my headers or repost my work without my permission. art and characters belong to the obey me franchise and are not my original works.

[raghaziel]

Stephen Glass x BratStudent Summary : It was only supposed to be extra homework until he find until he found out you cheated. Warning : Blackmail, abusive relationships, detachment, psychological pressure. Serie : part 1 Ragh's note : The rest will probably be published in an hour because I'm really looking forward to hearing your feedback on the spicy scene!

You'd gotten away with it. Or so you thought. You sent in the essay at 4:53pm on Saturday, just before the deadline. You barely read it. You barely cared. You didn't even know what the conclusion was about. A convoluted metaphor about eternal damnation and moral weakness. But the font sounded right, and Marcus - the love-starved sophomore who'd practically begged for a favor - had insisted it was “deeply convincing.” Judging by her almost sickly need to get your attention or even the way her gaze traveled up your shirt to try and catch a glimpse of a piece of your ample bosom tugging at the fabric.

Whatever that meant. You didn't question it. Not when the last game of the season was starting in less than an hour. Not while the sky was orange and gold over the stadium, and the stands were already buzzing with excitement and sweaty cologne. Not while your friends were tugging at your sleeve with laughter, drawing scratches on your cheek, passing each other stoned soda bottles and whispering about what they'd do after the win. It was easy to pretend, for a moment, that Stephen Glass didn't exist. But then...you saw him.

At the edge of the field, near the bottom of the bleachers, standing apart from the group of teachers as if sculpted in shadow. Stephen Glass. Dark wool coat. Gray scarf. Black gloves. Totally out of place and yet more authoritative than any of the men in blazers and team caps yelling at his side. He wasn't watching the game. He was watching you. When your gaze met his, your stomach tightened.

He didn't wave. Didn't frown. Didn't look away. He just smiled. A cold, dark, surgical smile. Not pleasant. It was the kind of expression someone would wear just before telling you they'd already buried the body. You turned your head away abruptly, your cheeks flushed. Someone nudged your shoulder playfully, offering you another sip of alcoholic soda, and you pretended to laugh. But your heart wasn't in it. Not while you could still feel his gaze.

You tried not to look at him again. You failed. Again and again, your eyes landed on him, as if your neck were being pulled by a thread. And then - for the seventh time, maybe the eighth - you saw him. He raised a hand. One hand. Then held out a gloved finger. He folded it towards himself. One time. Come. The gesture was subtle. Not enough to draw the crowd's attention, but precise enough for you to know that he was speaking only to you. Your throat tightened. Your friends were still shouting, still laughing, still oblivious - until you stopped answering.

“What's wrong?” someone asked.

You didn't answer. You simply stood still, wiping imaginary lint from your skirt. Then someone else followed your gaze. “Oh my God,” one of the girls murmured, laughing. "Isn't that our dear, cold, sexy professor? Damn his look makes me want to take off my panties."

You said nothing. And then - because pretending not to see it would have been worse - you climbed down. Every metal step of the bleachers groaned beneath your feet, every second stretched and grew long and exposed. Your friends fell silent. You felt their eyes following you, confusion rising like steam. But you didn't turn. He didn't move. He just stood there, waiting, like the executioner under the gallows. The closer you got, the quieter the stadium became - until it was just the two of you, locked in that intimate, unbearable silence. And when you stopped in front of him, trying not to look too nervous, trying not to smell his cologne again...

He sketched a wider smile.

His expression remained still. Didn't soften. But his gaze darkened, as if daring you to disobey him in public. To test his patience. You swallowed hard. And then you climbed down. Slowly, slowly. Each metal step sounded in your ears like a countdown. Your friends shouted at you, but the sound was distant. Muffled. Like screams in the water. You feel your friends' eyes following your silhouette, completely dazed, not knowing what you were doing.

As your feet touched the grass, the sound of the match faded behind you. All that remained was Stephen. Standing in front of you, hands in his coat pockets, face calm, but something was wrong in the air. Heavy. He nodded toward the concrete tunnel just below the bleachers. Where no one else was. Where teachers sometimes walked during rain breaks. Where the noise faded and the shadows pressed in.

You followed. Why did you follow? The tunnel engulfed you both. Concrete walls, leaky pipes, a faint smell of mildew and cigarette smoke. Your boots sounded too loud. You felt small. Young. Trapped. Yet his gaze didn't linger on the pleat of your skirt, which showed a hint of your thigh.

He stopped. Turned around slowly. And said, very softly:

“You didn't write that paper.”

Your stomach knotted. “I...”

“Don't insult me.” His voice cracked like a whip. “Don't pretend.”

He took a step forward. Just one. Enough for you to smell that same woody cologne, faint but maddening. His gaze never left yours, not for a second.

"You plagiarized. Not a source, no - you're not that blatant. You manipulated someone. A nice stupid boy, I guess. You've got the guts for it."

You flinched. But you didn't deny it. He shook his head once, slowly. Almost pityingly. "I expected a mediocre essay, Y/N. I didn't expect contempt."

Silence. You didn't know what to say. You didn't know what he wanted. But then... He stepped forward again. You recoiled instinctively. Your spine hit the damp concrete wall behind you, and he didn't stop until there was barely a space between you. The tunnel narrowed. The cold air was electric. Stephen's voice dropped, but not in volume - in tone. In intensity.

“Was the game really worth it?” he asked. “Was it worth risking everything, just to be adored for a few more hours?”

You didn't answer. You couldn't. He reached out - and for a second, you thought he was going to touch you. But instead, he pulled the scarf from your neck, slowly, deliberately, as if to test how far you'd let him go before reacting. The scarf slid slowly from your neck to caress your collarbone and run down your breasts.

“I told you to be a good girl,” he said in a smoky voice. “And you disobeyed me.”

You hated the way your pulse betrayed you. The way the heat rose between your ribs. How your eyes stayed riveted to hers when you should have fled.

“I wasn't flunking you because you're stupid,” he murmured. “I was flunking you because you think you're smart.”

And then... he leaned in. Without touching you. Not yet. His breath touched your ear as he said:

"But you're stupid enough to provoke the only person who cares about your father's money."

The back of your hand brushes your cheek, his large hand with long, slender fingers. Pianist's. His index finger lingers lightly on your lower lip before he rests his forearm on the wall above your head.

"Open your mouth," he repeats, his voice a low, authoritative command. "Let me see that clever tongue of yours. The one you use to wrap boys around your finger... among other things."

[am1va]

: sukuna x reader ❤️‍🔥

After transferring to Jujutsu High after a horrible life in a traditional school that everyone else seemed to thrive in, a girl finds herself in the midst of battling, curses, cursed energy, heavy lore and chaos and the deaths of many awaiting in the future. Though, has no idea was Gojo has gotten her into. Will she regret coming here even after fighting for her life back in her previous school? Or will it be bittersweet on both the people of Tokyo and Shibuya?

details:

- enemies to lovers (because that’s part of the plot)

- this takes place around the same time in the beginning of JJK where Yuji is the vessel of Sukuna.

- there is a lot of plot

If someone asked me what kind of sorcerer I was..I wouldn’t necessarily have an answer. Looking back into the past—when I first joined Jujutsu High, standing outside Principal Yaga’s office, I remember overhearing Sensei Gojo (who was trying to be subtle about it by the way) talking about my so-called “out-of-this-world” cursed energy, and how it was nothing they’ve seen before. How I might need extra extra support around Campus, walking to my new dorm right next to the rest of the first years, having occasional emotional check-ins, different kinds of cursed energy training, and way more. Furthermore, even went as far as to assign me a person to supervise me all day long on weekdays, so on weekends I get to roam around and do what I want with anyone I know, for example, Yuji or Megumi or the squad of second years. Though it wasn’t that easy. I would still have my supervisor check in on me every few hours as if I were a fragile thing that were bound to break if not checked in every single day and that it was supposed to keep me emotionally stable.

On the other hand, it showed they cared about me. I mean, I might have traumatised them a lot with my struggles and my life back then before I fully transferred here. To Gojo, it was obvious the moment he visited me in my school (after telling me he does that for all his students who he believes are different and have potential) that I wasn’t like anyone else in my class. I obviously had been through it.

Sitting calmly on the concrete steps, while watching Maki and Panda have their daily brawl, I've come to the realisation that..things maybe do get better. As time passes of course. Having this small but extremely valuable moment of emotional stability is huge for someone like me. I think that's what keeps me going in life, the stillness of simple moments where nothing matters but the present. Not stressing about any systems or teachers or homework like it was at my previous school. I will forever be grateful for the peacefulness of moments like these, in places that aren’t heavily structured, like traditional schools. I’m simply grateful, but I know for sure that I still have a ton of healing and potentional to be covered, according to Gojo and Nanami.

That was all 1 month ago. And by that time, I’ve covered almost a quarter of my training that was set by both Principal Yaga and Nanami. From letting out any emotion I felt to anyone within a radius of 10 metres, to learning how to ground myself in moments of intensity’s.

The courtyard is clear today, not like yesterday’s heavy rain. As usual, it’s basically a necessity for me to sit on the edge of the stone steps as it keeps me grounded, watching Yuji chase Panda with something that looks awfully familiar to…. Gojo’s socks? Nobara is yelling at them—the usual. Yuji’s one of the most unique people I’ve got to know throughout my time here. He matches my inner weird girl just perfectly, like 2 peas in a pod. He’s someone that always makes my day drastically better and emotionally. I knew the moment I saw him on the first day, he was simply different from the other students and I couldn’t ask for a better friend. On another hand, we’re only really the more energetic ones at times, not like Maki who’s currently leaning against a post of the field, eyeing the duo, or like Megumi who quietly sits a few feet across from me on the steps. This time a month ago, I would’ve felt out of place—but I’ve heavily built a barrier about not letting those feelings consume me. A flash of energy lights inside me, but it doesn’t project. Counting that as progress, If I manage to regulate and remember, I’ll write that in my healing journal later. “Your zoning out again.” Megumi speaks up, getting up and dropping beside me lazily. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna do something reckless.” I snicker, looking at him with a small but my usual full-of-life smile. It’s clear to anyone that talks to me, knows I appreciate them with only a quick expression. This is the kind of thing that keeps me going in life. It’s obvious in the way my eyes scrunch up. I’ve been told at times I’m the “happiest and brightest” person they’ve met, but I know they’re probably only talking about small moments like us interacting, not my whole lifetime. Definitely not the past or what my future could be. I glance at Inumaki, who’s sitting cross legged a few steps down from me at the bottom, leaning his back against the concrete side.

“Salmon” He says. That makes me unexpectedly give him an itty bitty smile. These people never fail to make me feel…grateful for them. Grateful to be alive to experience times like this.

I cringe at the reminder. I don’t want to notice these things, but when Megumi pushes his hair back mid-training and the sun hits him just right— yeah, I can never ignore it. I think what’s scary is how good looking the boys here are. I’d never admit it but my brain involuntarily keeps track of it without my permission and it’s the most awkward thing it can do in a place of seriousness and strength. I tell people I don’t get crushes easily. But it gets to a point you know? Harder to believe when I have to sit across from Inumaki and Megumi. I think my cursed energy most definitely would embarrassingly spike, ending up with the entire lunch table knowing what I felt. It wouldn’t be a simple wave, no. But very intense and strong. And if that happened….I wouldn’t know what to do with myself anymore. Sometimes I curse myself for being like this. Feeling every emotion possible no matter how embarrassing it could be. But then I remember, according to Gojo: “You could probably beat the King Of Curses because of the way you are, you know.” Plot twist: I didn’t know what he was talking about. In a different perspective, the reminder would be helpful to talk about with my supervisor, who’s always consistent on timing and should be here any moment. These past few days have been painful. Holding back heavy emotions like that on the lunch table lately, take a toll on me and I really don’t think I could hold them in any longer when it comes to lunch today. Meaning only one thing— I’m going to have to tell him about my feelings. I don’t even have time to process before—

The unmistakable tap of Nanamis shoes to my far right. Waiting until he’s close, I turn my head in his direction, having to tilt it to his dominating height. Undeniably, everyone in Jujutsu High already knows my schedule like clockwork. The worst part is, he doesn’t even make it subtle in the slightest everytime he comes to collect me for my Daily Check In, which is basically a daily routine to check how I’m doing emotionally day to day. To keep me stable. It was weird at first, being “that” student, one with a specially tailored schedule and emotional support supervisor that walks me around as if I’m a child. Everyone used to stare the first few times Nanami came to get me mid-lunch or mid-training. Yet, now they don’t pay attention to it, making me less insecure about it overtime. I’ve learnt that weird is not bad, not here atleast. It was only requested by my Dad who deeply cared about his daughter and her wellbeing before I got to fully transfer here. With that said, it’s safe to say all the adults in Jujutsu High know about my depressing life when I first came here..like every single bit of it. I cringe at the thought at times. The weird part is that I don’t even have to ask if they know, it’s obvious by how much support I’m given. The first thing I notice is that he’s carrying my healing journal, tucked right in his hand. We take turns on who takes my journal, depending on what I tell him towards the end of each check in session. He uses it for daily logs and information I write in there about how I’m doing throughout the past few days. On another hand, I’m the one who writes every daily summary, what I did that day, what conversations I had with my friends, little funny things I noticed that day when everyone else didn’t, my achievements, failures, improvements. Overall, everything in my curious monologue. No matter how pointless it might be, Nanami had insisted I write down everything that comes to mind.

"Let's walk." He says, tilting his head down to me, voice firm but calm. Basically, it's like another way of saying "Let's do the usual."

I don't argue. I slowly rise to my feet and climb the first few steps until I'm at the top, looking behind me once more, everyone says goodbye. I wave back and give a small smile. "Yuji! She's going!" Nobara and Maki yell in sync to a flailing Yuji still chasing Panda. "Dang..I was hoping to decorate your journal!" Panda pauses as he turns his attention towards me. With that, I look from Nanami's hand holding it, then back to him. "I might get it back tomorrow." I shrug helplessly. But the tiny trickle of cursed energy of content bubbles within my stomach, I think that's his way of showing he cares. Just before turning my head back to start my walk with Nanami, I catch Inumaki watching me. Only a flicker of something in his eyes, concern? Interest? I don't have the chance to think much about it before I fully turn my gaze to my supervisor. Within a few seconds, we're already a few feet away from everyone in the courtyard before he says “What were you guys doing?” He asks, the usual.

“Panda and Yuji were training. I was only watching.” I say simply as we continue our walk across the stone path. “How were you feeling as off then? And today of course.” He questions, this time pulling out my healing journal and flicking through it slowly. “I’ve been feeling normal. Nothing crazy.” I tell him, I again cringe at the thought of having to tell him about my..feelings at the lunch table lately. I don’t want to say he’s noticed me looking to the side for a second. I couldn’t have been that obvious, right?

“So there’s nothing you wanna tell me besides that?”

I stay silent for what feels like forever—

“Take your time.” He says gently but professionally. Eventually, we make it to the other side of the school, pausing in front of a pack of trees swaying melodically.

I hesitate, now debating whether or not I should say it, knowing full well there would be consequences if I don’t anyway.

Everyone would think I have a crush on all the guys

It’ll be oh so embarrassing.

I’d never come out of my dorm again.

Unprovoked, my cursed energy crackles light a firework, letting out a few sparks within me at the thought of..him. King Of Curses. I learnt about the cursed thing in one of Gojo’s lectures about high-level threats. Fuck. Ever since that day, my cursed energy reacts to it. I hate myself for this. I’ve always had a type for…bad guys.

Another thing on the list to talk to with Nanami. 100%.

“I—“ Hesitating once more, I’ve noticed the more energy I put into something I’m already afraid to do beforehand, it just makes it worse. Looking straight ahead once more at the towering trees—the leaves as dark as night— “Would you prefer to talk inside instead?” I nod a bit too quickly, once again low-key cringing at myself for that. Hopefully he didn’t see.

……

The both of us make our way to our usual spot, the Schools private library wing. Although every day I use different areas like the Zen Garden: a quiet, tatami-matted room with wall length windows and floor cushions. The perfect room for what my brain craves, sunlight. Warm, comforting sunlight coming in through the sliding shoji doors. 3-4 indoor plants fitted into a glass case, too. The empty but private library wing: a corner of the school's library that’s pretty much out of use. I don’t need to worry about anyone being in there as Nanami always makes sure beforehand. Sitting comfortably on opposite sofas, he sets down my journal on a low table, legs slightly spread and his suit looking perfect as per usual. Way too quiet areas like these can make me feel two ways— nervous or confident. And right now, based on what I pretty much need to tell him, I'm nervous. As hell.

I’m staring down in my lap, trying. He’s probably noticed. Hell, how hasn’t he by this point? Trying to come up with the words. Words words words—

“How about you tell me what you did today?” He interrupts my trillion voices without even hearing them. How did..?

At this point, I feel like I’m wasting time. Precious time. I need to tell him this session because if I don’t, then I’ll have to go inside lunch and suffer once more and I can’t hold that many strong feelings in this time. Do I tell him what I did today? Or should I just tell him about my feelings first? Pffft. As I’ll just spit it out. Why am I so indecisive with the order things go— I’m gonna tell him one way or another so why am I worrying—

Is it more difficult for me to say it because he’s a man? Or would I be more confident if it were a women? Wait, why am I even thinking of that right—

“I need to say something.” I blurt out awkwardly. I think that gives him a heads up, especially after being silent for so long. He continues staring at me, before nodding. That makes me more confident, more welcome. Thank you, God.

“S-so, at lunch every day..” I pause, building it up makes me feel more at ease. Another nod. “I..felt like I needed to tell you..I don’t really wanna sit with everyone from now on.” Okay that’s progress.

“I— especially with the boys..” I tremble. “Like..Megumi, Yuji and..Inumaki.” I say, shyly. I can’t do this.

“Why is that?” He questions. Now here comes my least favourite part..

“I..I don’t know—“ I’m fidgeting now. “I…I..” I don’t know how to say it. I didn’t even plan on what kind of wording I would even use for a situation like this. “I feel…kind of..shy. Around them, I mean.” I confess, and would you look at that, I can already feel the heat rush up my chest. I don’t think I can look at Nanami anymore. I mean pretty much the whole time I haven’t. I look down at my lap once more. “That’s not unusual.” I blink. “You're only 15, at an age where you're still actively growing. Emotion and attraction-wise.” He opens up my journal. I exhale, relieved.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, especially in new environments.” He stares at a page of my journal for a moment before tilting his head back up and facing me. “Anything else you wanna talk about?” That was it. I couldn’t be more relaxed. My trust in this man is high, I didn’t have a reason to be scared if he was so grounded. Suddenly I feel the atmosphere change, I’m freer and calmer. Lesson learnt.

Suddenly as soon as he asks that though, my mind instantly flickers towards my second embarrassing thought I don’t wanna admit to him after that. Not now, not yet.

Ryomen Sukuna.

King of Curses. Residing in Yuji like an ancient fossil. The most powerful. The one to never be let out for any sort of reason, unless humanity wants to die. Spiteful, selfish, and a violent little thing. Only being contained because Yuji hasn’t eaten all 20 fingers, and the fact that he can maintain control over him. It’s eerie to think about, considering I hang out around him every single day. My thighs involuntarily clench at the pack of emotions and what I should actually be feeling instead.

Nope, not gonna tell him.

“I would prefer sitting with Nobara and Maki, is all.” I slowly tell him, looking forward for once. Once again, he gives me a reassuring nod.

..

I didn’t admit it earlier, but a small flicker of cursed energy drummed inside me at the thought of Sukuna. It faded as quickly as it came, though. If I’m not mistaken, something..just something, In the air changed. Everything else in the present moment is drowned out as I hyperfixate on solving this..mystery. Both interested, but a strange, intuitive need to figure it out. Not only that but I could feel something shift inside my chest as well as if It was life itself, turning mine into a completely different direction.

“Let’s talk about your progress this week.”

Whatever it was, it’s gone. I don’t have a trace anyway.

I force a nod— and just like that, the lesson continues.

-

Within the belly of Yuji’s vessel, something pulsed.

Sukuna’s eyes snapped open from their slumber at the sudden shift. Scanning, he realised it wasn’t a threat, necessarily. Not yet. A wave of emotion. Raw, and intense emotion. The silence was deafening, until a wicked snarl spread across the curse’s face. As if he was unsure what to make of this unfamiliar emotion he has just experienced for the first time.

“Well now…what the hell was that?”

[razupaltuffsstuff]

To get back to the fanfic recs (I’m working on a longer post, or maybe two, about recs for the fandom classics, but this will need a little bit more time), I have some recommendations or longer fics that are relatively new, so I hope they are also new for some of you.

As you will see with most of my recs, I prefer human AU’s, so these all fall into this category.

You're the Bad Guys (Rated E, 91643 words) by @alphacentaurinebula

I really love this fic. It is a lovely story with a really great characterization of the two ineffables but what it sets the story apart is the setting and that you can feel all the research the author put into it. It takes place, true to the Cold War setting of the book, in Berlin in the early Eighties and it is a really good depiction of this time and place. I was alive back then, and living in East Germany and I really loved to see our two in the role of spies and to navigate this complicated setting. This is a lovely spy story, with all the love, the misunderstanding and shenanigans we expect from a GO story, enriched with a good history lesson.

Author summary: Berlin, 1981. MI6 Agent Aziraphale has never been good at one night stands, but why not give ‘em another go in the middle of a mission in Cold War Germany? What could possibly go wrong?

Agent Crowley goes along with the KGB as far as he can. But how far might he be willing to go for a certain British secret agent with blond curls and a penchant for waistcoats?

Heaven's Calling (Rated E, 87350 words) by @sixbynine-da I followed along with this in parts really heartbreaking story and it really staid with me. It is sweat and kind but has a really heavy topic (please be aware of the emotional/psychological abuse tag). But from my point of view the story was never to heavy, but it was earnest in regards do the topic. I was particularly impressed with the ending, or to be more precise the last couple of chapters. But to say why would spoil this, so I hope this will find some more readers.

Author summary: Aziraphale Whitegate is a cellist, the pride and joy of the wealthy and well known, God-fearing, Whitegate family. He is front and centre of their church community, representing everything the family stands for. Talent, dedication, class, subservience and above all else the image of perfection Gabriel has carefully crafted for them.

Crowley hates him the second he meets him. From the tip of his polished shoes to his perfectly buttoned shirt Aziraphale represents the worst of society as far as the guitarist is concerned. Now he’s expected to play alongside him and make nice, even though Aziraphale isn’t exactly making it easy.

But people’s lives are a lot more complicated under the surface.

Punks without pants (Rated E, WIP) by @playdohangel

And one WIP to add to my recs, which is currently waiting for an update, just to give the author some love (but absolutely no pressure) because I really enjoyed reading along and especially learn about the English punk scene of the past. There is so much research and love in the scene involved in this fic and I also appreciate the literature recs in the notes.

Author summary: This is an AU based in London around the end of 1978 to 1979 known as ‘the winter of discontent’. Strikes, protests and political upheaval were the norm. Crowley, a self confessed rich spoiled little shit, is more discontented than anyone. Running away from his life of privilege he lands in a squat with Hastur a dodgy student who makes "art" from found metal. Has Crowley told anyone where he came from? Has he fuck. He's spiked his hair, torn his jeans and signed up for the dole, he listens to punk and is pretending he's as ordinary as everyone else....

Az an avid follower of the Northern Soul music scene is having a pretty shitty time of it. His dads been laid off and he's had to come down to London and work for his uncle who owns the punk venue Dingwalls. He spends his nights breaking up fights and serving pints to groups of pretentious "punks" who have more hair gel than manners...

[hedwigoprah]

I'm sweating. Let's try this on for size.

Heads I win Tails you lose

Veryl didn't bother trying to stifle the noise she made as she left the flat. In fact she may have subconsciously closed the door a little harder so they would know she was gone. They could get up and move freely in their own home, no need to make things awkward in the stark light of day. It was one less evening she had to worry about where to go when the Tavern closed up. The girl had been nice enough, if a little talkative. A new face at the bar. Veryl had done more than enough to distract her and still ended up feigning sleep to avoid pillow talk. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't wandering the street until sunup or sleeping in the backroom of the bar when Bax was feeling nice. He wouldn't be happy to see her. Her tab was still open and he refused to let her get anything else until she paid it off. Work was just slow. Her skills in spirit negotiation didn't hold much weight outside of Nevarra. When she'd arrived in Minrathous, she was quick to find out that without the accreditation of magic or the Mortalitasi, people often wrote her off as grifter and kook. She resorted to beating people at chess in various bars in and kept her other, more indiscriminate skills to herself. The last thing she needed was being pegged for murder because someone refused to pay.

Yesterday's batch hadn't been lucrative, payday wasn't for a few more days and not many people were keen to lose what little they had trying to prove they were better than her to their buddies. She was only able to get in a few games, but not enough to foot the bill. It had been easy enough to convince a few unfamiliar faces to buy her a drink and some food when the hour got late. Plenty of people were eager to part with their money when a couple girls locked lips, and her bedfellow had been game. Thus, the night had been settled. It was really annoying to know that Detre would have approved of her resourcefulness, as though the asshat hadn't put her in this situation in the first place.

Heads I win Tails you lose

Speaking of asshat. Those stupid words, cleverly laced with speed and spoken low from a tricksters tongue, still did flips in her brain. It irritated and grated on her nerves the way he had raised a single dark eyebrow, just begging her to resist the bait. He'd sat down at the table as she was resetting. Confidence emanated out like an announcement of his existence. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end and her heart hollow out.

"Black or white?" She had folded her arms on her side of the table, casual, purposeful. "Perhaps, something a little more gray?" He responded. He didn't lay back in the chair the way the more cocky contenders did. Didn't throw his legs open as a display of supposed virility. He just sat, back straight, arms on their rests, and a stupid slow smile. Veryl gave a small smirk and gestured to the board, "If you don't mind, I prefer black." She spun the board on the table and made her move before the pieces settled. It was almost cute, the way he tried to unnerve her. He would take his time some making his move in some turns, almost always taking her by surprise. He didn't try to distract her with conversation or even a poorly constructed compliment. It did start to mildly irritate when he started talking to other patrons who passed by, or stopped to talk to him. Obviously, he was a known entity. That didn't bode well. The less people knew of her existence, the better. She didn't need the attention of a popular figure bringing light to the dark corner she'd made for herself. When she moved into the end game, he caught her dead to rights with only a few moves left. Almost a formality. Her queen was vulnerable because of some distraction with his rook. "You're very hard to read, you know?" Was the single sentence he'd given to her. She felt the venom in her blood but held her strike. "Am I?" Coy and sweet. "You seem bored." An observation. "I am bored." She verified. A breathy laugh, a clicking with his tongue, "No, to the untrained eye, you could be."

"And I suppose you posses, what? A trained eye?" "I've seen a thing or two." "Oh, do enlighten."

"Why would I? You're more than aware of your own control." That had her flicking her eyes from the board where she was responding to his trouncing, to the dark depths of eyes that, indeed, saw too well. She knew there would be no surprise on her face, relaxed as it was, but it didn't matter. She hadn't made eye contact with him thus far, and he knew he had her interest now. Of course he didn't hold it over her, instead choosing to look at the board rather than hold her gaze. "Seems you've won this round." He declared, tipping his queen to the side with a single finger. That rang hollow when Veryl knew there were several moves he could have made to regain the upper hand. He also seemed to have gained exactly what he wanted from this interaction, if the arrogant tapping of his king piece was anything to go by. He fiddled it while he considered her in silence. She folded her fingers together. Leaning herself onto the table, she gave him the attention he so desperately sought, "What do you want?" Another breathy laugh and a wide grin as the manipulator caught the agitator. He shifted, digging his hand into his pocket and coming away with a gold coin that he spun on the chessboard between them. "How about another game?" He offered, the sound of the spinning piece deafening even in the rumble of the tavern. Veryl considered him, his distinct features, careful grooming, particular fashion. A part of her, a small inkling, begged for something of interest. A bigger, more even-keeled part, told her to keep her head down and her inclinations under wraps. "How about, heads I win and tails you lose?" It was lame and he knew it. They both knew it. Disappointment flooded Veryl, sending her back into her chair and crossing her arms. She frowned, deeply, at him. Still, he had the confidence to laugh. It wasn't boisterous, or loud enough to call attention to their stand-off. Just enough for him to communicate that he knew he would need to come at this from a different angle, but that she was, indeed, interested. "Fair enough." He tucked the coin back into his pocket, and rose. Before leaving the table, he righted his queen, and leaned forward just enough for her to hear him whisper, "I know when I'm beaten." Those words had stuck. The smile had stuck. The stupid arrogant aura had stuck. And Veryl was stuck trying to find a way to smother the interest he'd left her with.

There's a lot more I could write, but hoooooo boy.

@officialnostradamus, @soeasilyswayed, @notyourmamasdeerbat, @trashwithvariety, @aldisobey (this is apparently what I have going on, which wasn't a plan, it just, is?)

I suddenly have a burning desire to put Veryl in a pre-veilguard situationship with this man based on this screenshot alone.

[weepylucifer]

i think it's wild that people are saying book tedesco is "a non-entity" or barely a presence in the plot. sure, in the movie he's a lot more overt and loud, and sadly book tedesco doesn't serve even a little. but so far he seems to be in the book about as much as in the movie if not more; it's not like the movie added scenes. and personally i can't stop looking at book tedesco he's like a particularly grisly car accident to me

[demarogue]

Gettin' Through the Holidays Mental Health Tricks

If y'all are anything like me, this time of year is triggering AF. Here are some small, very easy grounding exercises that I was taught by my therapist, basically in order of how much I like them for this rage-inducing season. You make like them in a different order, depending on your rage-to-despair ratio.

Push a wall: literally go up to a wall and try to push it over. Really try. I promise you won't push it over, but give it your best shot. Try to hold it as long as you can, and then take a breather and assess whether you need to repeat. Why it works: This is a quick, physical expulsion of the fight-or-flight feeling. It's a bit like punching a wall, but without the potential to hurt yourself/look scary/damage things. You can even do it in front of people and say you're stretching, they'll never know (unless the wall actually falls down, but this will not happen, I assure you).

Shake like a dog: Animals shake to release stress, and you are also an animal. Setting aside time to just shake it out, as vigorously as you can, arms and legs, face, stick your tongue out, pretend you're shaking like a wet dog. You can dance instead, if that feels better, and you can do this to music, but basically the more unhinged you can be, the better. If you are in a place you can scream, scream too! Why it works: like the above, this is a release of pent-up stress and anxiety. Especially if your rage-to-woe ratio is high, some kind of physical exertion is often the best way to burn through the cortisol and adrenaline you're building up.

Bilateral Tapping: Cross your arms over your chest so that your fingertips are at your shoulders, and slowly tap, one hand at a time, back and forth, for about a minute. Breathe slowly. Why it works: This is weird as hell, but because this engages both sides of your brain, it helps override the activity of the amygdala, which is the part of your brain that Makes The Fear. If you're being literally triggered in a situation, i.e. you're having a trauma response, or reliving some family trauma, this is a good one.

Box Breathing: From a comfortable position (can really be seated, laying down or standing), inhale slowly for a count of 4, hold for a count of 4, exhale for a count of 4, hold for a count of 4, then repeat. You can do it for shorter counts or longer counts, but if you vary the counts make sure the exhale is longer than the inhale. You can close your eyes or leave them open. Why it works: This exercise helps you move from a sympathetic (activated) nervous system response to a parasympathetic (balanced) response. I do this one every day, and it's a good gateway to meditation. Especially helpful in anxious or tense situations, but I find if I'm very triggered I need one of the other ones first, or it can make anxiety worse. Breathwork is amazing but not usually as a first exercise if you're very activated, or have been activated a long time.

Ice: Lots of ways to do this one – hands in cold water for 30 seconds, ice pack on the back of your neck, dip your entire face into a bowl of ice water (this one's the most effective). Why it works: I kinda think this is hilarious, but this activates your mammalian dive reflex. It immediately slows your heart-rate, so if you are feeling your blood pressure and heart rate rising, this one is very good. The only reason this one's at the bottom of my list is because I hate being cold.

I wish you all a very get-through-the-holidays-without-hurting-yourself. Take time alone if you need it.

[kaitoru]

you left his place at dawn after a one night stand and he didn't take it so lightly.

rough sex. ass spanking. agressive toji. forced begging. mlist

“got some fuckin’ nerve showin’ up.” he says, shutting the door with a heavy thud. “thought you’d keep hidin like a scared little girl.” you toss your jacket on his couch, trying to play it cool, though your heart’s in your throat. “didn’t wanna miss the tantrum.” you say, smirking, crossing your arms.

“what’s this about, toji? mad i didn’t leave my number on your fridge?” he steps closer, towering over you, his size making the room feel smaller. “tantrum?” he repeats. “you think you can fuck me, leave me high and dry, and act like it’s nothin? loudmouth brat, thinkin’ you run shit?”

“it was one night,” you say, rolling your eyes. “you’re acting like i broke your heart, we both knew it was a hookup, or did you think i was gonna be your girlfriend?” he laughs, dark and mocking, stepping closer, his breath hot on your face. “girlfriend? nah, i don’t do that shit, but you don’t get to use me for a quick fuck and ghost me.” his hand brushes your arm, not grabbing but close enough to make you tense.

“so what, you want an apology? or you just miss me that bad?” you tease, stepping closer, testing him, your voice all challenge. “miss you? nah, im gonna teach you a lesson,” he saysm “bedroom. now.”

toji’s got you stripped down, your clothes a pile on the floor, and you’re ass up, face down on the mattress, pillows muffling your gasps as he kneels behind you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.

his cock pressing against your entrance. “think you can do that to me, huh?” toji growls, one hand sliding up your back, pressing you deeper into the pillows. “play me like some fuckin’ game? thought you could just walk away?” he smacks your ass, sharp and stinging, and you yelp, the sound muffled, your pussy clenching around nothing.

you gasp, voice shaky, hands clutching the sheets as the sting fades into heat. “it was—just—fun—shit!” another smack, harder, and you moan, loud and needy, your body betraying you as you push back against him. “fun?” He laughs, his hand kneading the reddened skin, soothing only to spank again, the crack echoing. “this fun enough for you, huh? bet you’re regrettin’ that ghostin’ shit now.” he leans over, his breath hot on your neck, his cock brushing your folds, teasing, making you whimper.

he dragged his cock along your slit slowlt the head catching your clit. “wasn’t—tryin to—play you—god!” “bullshit.” he snaps, smacking your ass again, the sting making you cry out, your hips bucking involuntarily. “you wanted to mess with me.” his hand slides to your hair, tugging hard, pulling your head back just enough to make you gasp.

“i didn’t—fuck—do anything wrong!” he chuckles, low and dangerous, his free hand slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit, circling slowly. “still talkin’ tough? cute,” he says, his voice smug as you moan, loud and broken, your hips grinding against his fingers.

“you’re soakin’ my hand, say you’re sorry, or i'll keep you like this all fuckin’ night.” you bite your lip, fighting the urge to give in, but his fingers are relentless, rubbing tight circles that make your thighs shake. you whimper tears pricking your eyes, not from pain but from the overwhelming need. “fine—sorry—i’m sorry, okay?”

“that’s better.” he says, his voice dripping with satisfaction, but he doesn’t stop, his fingers sliding lower, two pushing inside you, stretching you, curling to hit that spot that makes you scream. “good girl, but you’re not gettin’ off that easy.” he pulls his fingers out, slick with you, and smacks your ass again, then grips his cock, guiding it to your entrance. “please,” you moan, desperate now, pushing back, needing him inside. “toji, just—fucking do it.”

“needy now, huh?” he thrusts in his cock stretching you so wide it burns, and you cry out, muffled by the pillows, your body adjusting to his size. “fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hips as he bottoms out, holding still. “this what you wanted that night? to take me like this?”

“y-yes—fuck.” you gasp, your walls clenching around him, the fullness overwhelming. “toji, move—please.” he laughs, low and dark, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, the force rocking you forward, your moan loud and raw.

you pushed back, meeting his thrusts, your orgasm building fast, another smack to your ass, and you yelp, the sting mixing with the pleasure, driving you closer. “say it again.” he demands, tugging your hair, pulling your head back, his thrusts relentless. “say you’re sorry for fuckin’ with me.”

“im—sorry!” you cry, tears spilling now, the intensity too much, your pussy pulsing around him. “fuck, toji, im sorry—please!”

“good girl,” he growls, his cock slamming deeper. “don’t ever pull that shit again.”

[joelsgoldrush]

“never is a promise” | 12.4k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ mentions of drinking. angst. some fluff. old man!logan x caregiver!reader. implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties). miscommunication. slow burn. pining. reader is shorter than logan and has long hair. charles in his cupid era. petnames. minor injuries. wound tending. mentions of blood. virgin!reader. dirty talk. cum shots. fingering. handjobs. oral sex (m receiving). loving sex. sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?). unprotected p in v.

A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)

No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him. 

“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”

“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”

“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces. 

“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet.” He hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.

His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”

Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.

That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”

Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.

He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”

You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."

Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” He reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them.” He relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."

“Damn.” You blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.

He leans back with a satisfied grin. “That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy.”

“Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though.” You stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”

“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he says, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize.

Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices it, but says nothing in return.

It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.

Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.

What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere.

In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—

Alright. You don’t need this either.

Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life.

But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.

“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.

You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.

When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”

“Don’t say that.” You squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different.” You place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”

He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”

“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” You rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.

After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support.

You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”

If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”

“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”

His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”

“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe.” You glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” His voice falters, overcome by his own emotions. 

That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.

“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”

These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.

“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I.” You stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”

Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.

You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry.

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat. Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread.

Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.

“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”

You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.

Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.

“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?”

“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”

The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.

“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”

Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you?  “I just—I want to be of help.”

“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.

When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.

Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.

It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers.

As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.

And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.

He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.

It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.

Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.

You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.

Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.

To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.

The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present.

Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.

It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips.

Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.

During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.

One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby.” He pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”

His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order.

While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest.

Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.

An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation.

Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”

“How about with a kiss, huh?” He inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot.

As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”

“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”

The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine.

Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.

There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.

“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.

Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”

“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”

“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”

The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.

“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”

He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.

You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.

The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—

Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs.

The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos. 

You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was The Wolverine.

The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.

“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.

You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.

Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.

He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow.

Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.

“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.

Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself.

The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.

Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”

“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.

Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. Warmth crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.

“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”

Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?” 

Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”

“Ninety-somethin’.”

You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”

“Then I suppose there is somethin’ you can help me with.”

And so began a new chapter in your life.

The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence.

Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.

“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.

“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”

Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.

Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your humid breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night.

The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.

There goes another piece of you.

You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.

He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto.

On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite.

But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.

Logan hasn’t come back home yet.

It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.

You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.

After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides.

All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?

Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.

He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower.

Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”

“They were followin’ me. Had been doin’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.

“Did you kill them?” you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.

Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”

You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.

“I thought—I was so scared, and I—” your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—”

He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”

“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.” 

“I don’t—”

”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”

He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks.

Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.

“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time. 

“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.

Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—”

You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”

“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.

“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface.

Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”

You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind.

Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.

That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”

If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds. 

He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored.

You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.

“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes. 

Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”

You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you struggle to put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.

Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.

You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.

You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented.

Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.

Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.

Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.

“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”

You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.

“Was it a nightmare?” you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.

Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.” 

“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early.” You stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” You prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.

He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”

So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.

Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.

You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” You decide to ask him, straightening your back.

“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”

“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.

“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.

“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”

His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” You pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected.

Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know.

“When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”

Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.

“You never had a boyfriend?” He gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.

A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.

“How could they not want you?”

“They didn’t think like you do.”

“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”

Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. “I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”

There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”

You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Come sit with me, doll.”

Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him.

Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.

His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.

“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.

This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.

“I asked you something.” His teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.

“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.

“Why?”

Goddamn.

“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down.” You obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side.

He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”

You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—

With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips.

“So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” He edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”

It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”

“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt.

Logan’s on the verge of drooling all over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”

“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”

“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”

The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”

You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm.

The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.

Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”

A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples.

“It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.

“Just nice?” One of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” You can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this.

Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”

He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”

It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.

“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?” 

“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God.” He slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”

“In a minute.” He begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.

Tears threaten to swell in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”

“I can tell.” He curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax.

Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily.

You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.

“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”

Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.

“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”

Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest.

He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.

“Like what?” 

“Like you want to see right through me.” He adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t. 

Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.

You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.

He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers. 

You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.

“Good.” He looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.

This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog.

Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.

Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation. 

“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs. 

As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him.

“That lie’s older than me.” He slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. Gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”

Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.

By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise, and you hate how determined he is. 

“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off. 

“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”

“How did you get this one?” You trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.

He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” He laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?” It’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.

His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him.

You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.

You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” Your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.

Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”

So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you.

Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization. “He looks happier, doesn’t he?” he asks says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you. 

“Logan, you mean?”

“Yes, my dear.”

You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“

“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are. 

A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.

One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.

“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”

There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”

Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.

A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”

Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school.

You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to. 

“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”

Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.

Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home.

He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.

“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.

“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”

Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.

You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”

Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head.

Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.

So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.

“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”

Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”

“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?

Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.

It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.

Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”

“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent.

You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.

When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up.

But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.

You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever.

He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.

And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.

This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps.

You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.

After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

The shit I’d for you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

Not now.

The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts.

It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.

But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.

Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?

Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.

Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.

“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.

As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.

“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”

Red. You’re seeing red.

“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”

“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—”

Before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.

There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake.

His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.

“What where you doing with my phone?” It’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm.

Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you somethin’. Why did you answer?”

“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.

“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”

The nerve of this man.

“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?”

You search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”

“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan.” You throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“And you are testing mine.” You rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”

Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”

“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”

“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”

Oh.

You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.

Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?

“Then why do you keep running?” You edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”

His arms surround your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.

You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place.

Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.

This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.

“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”

You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”

“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” You retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”

His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best.” He presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”

Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually.

The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.

He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip. 

“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”

“I’m all ears.”

Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to.” You cup his cheek, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”

If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room.

Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you.” He trails his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”

Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.

He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”

At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you.

You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.

For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open. 

Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughin’?”

“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”

As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts.

He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length. 

Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.

“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”

His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.

With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?

When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge.

“That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”

Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.

Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound.

You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while. 

Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.

“So this is what it feels like.” His voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, baby. Just thinkin’ aloud.”

You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.

This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.

And God, is he feeling it.

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

[kkusuka]

more roommate simon!

i love the idea that simon thinks he's super open and available with his emotions and reader thinking he's really cold and disinterested. is he ooc? yeah. do i care? no. if you want cannon ghost, play the game!

simon riley doesn't know when you became so important to him.

the only reason he even put out the ad for a roommate was because his landlord though he'd moved out while he was away and he'd rather have some bird in his place than deal with that again.

you were just so easy; showing up to the coffee shop (where you requested to have your first meeting just in case he was some crazy murderer) face flushed, strands of hair all over the place, and sweater a mess; rushing to explain how you got sprayed by a sprinkler on your walk over then chased by a dog. and just as you repeat sorry for the 30th time simon thinks he's in love. you're officially his roommate 30 minutes later.

but it's so out of character for him. he hasn't been around anything other than hard ass military men since he was a teenager. fuck, he's killed hundreds of men in his line of work, tortured thousands more. (he doesn't like to think that that's why he's so drawn to you. that you're so different from who he has to be, someone he's been for so long, that being around you lets him breathe. that he feels like he can actually sit and enjoy his moments away from the field in your tiny manchester apartment.)

he thinks it actually started with the decorations.

the small trinkets you let around the common spaces when he was away. it starts with your room obviously; fairy lights above your bed that spills light into the hallway when he comes home in the early morning hours, paintings on the wall that eventually flow over into the living room, the small plants in your window sill that you ask him to water one day after you leave for work.

then the dinner table suddenly has checkerboard placemats and a vase of flowers that change with the season. and his run-down couch has decorative pillows and a throw blanket (both words he learned from you when he questions what the fuck is on his couch). then the bathroom in the hallway gets a new soap stand, and a mat is placed at your front door, next to the shoe organizer and coat rack.

so he starts buying things too; the penguin plushie in the supermarket window, the vase that matches the curtains in the living room, and a small skull magnet to rest on the face of your fridge.

and before simon knows it his dreary, cold apartment actually looks lived in. and instead of coming home to a dark hallway and an empty fridge, your flower lamp is on, some random show from the 90s is playing, and there's food on the table.

he gets to know you more than he thought he would; he knows what foods you don't like, the books you're reading and the ones you refuse to read again, and even that dick from work he promises to take care of if he bothers you again (it's evident that you think it's a joke and not something that he would genuinely do but simon doesn't think he's ever been more serious).

but he never lets you know too much about him, you don't need to know about it and the less you find out the better.

then came dinners, actual dinner not just him showing up while you already had food ready. you would ask if he wanted whatever you had made ( 'i'm already making food and i normally don't eat is all anyway, so i might as well share' ). so suddenly he was spending his nights at your table with a homecooked meal and simon doesn't think he could ever let this go.

then he gets sent away again, for way longer this time. he makes sure to update his paperwork, changes his emergency contact, your name swirled onto the spouse line. you were probably as close as he'll ever get to one and if you're there they'll tell you if anything happens to him faster. he doesn't want to think of how nice your first name looks with his last name. and you'll probably never even know, simon's never gotten that injured before and he doesn't plan on it now.

months in the heat of the middle east return him to hard shell of a man he was. coming home caked in dirt, blood speckled on his clothes; he doesn't want you to see him like this, he doesn't want you to know this version of him. and for the first time he regrets letting you come into his life.

you are home when he gets back, 2:30 in the morning and every light is off, he opens your door to make sure. you're asleep, not shocking, cuddled into the giant octopus you won at an arcade. he tries not to move, he just wants to look at you for a little bit.

he wakes up the next morning to breakfast and a new pair of combat boots. he's only home for a week this time, not that he's ever home for longer than a month, and he tries to soak up all of your time. you complain about your car, he's on it. the heater started being testy, that's fine he'll take care of it. he's going grocery shopping with you, he watching that weird hospital show, and he enjoys his time in domestic bliss before getting thrown back into some random country.

somehow that all led him here. laying in a hospital bed with two bullets lodged in his shoulder with you sitting in some shitty chair pulled as close to the bed as you could.

"so uh, i'm mrs. riley now?"

"yeah, ya are. 'av been for a while."

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Unhinged Feral Boyfriends

The whole Batfam is under the assumption that Damian is the feral child. The assassin, the wild one, the demon brat that bites and stabs. Jason usually takes the second place, what with guns, heads in the duffelbag, and being a crime lord.

But Tim? Come on, even Duke is more feral than him. Tim is a nerd, and he keeps to his own devices most of the time, and, sure, sometimes he is plenty unhinged. But he's okay. Seventh place on the unofficial List of Feral Bats.

He's got a boyfriend lately, have you heard? Tim hadn't brought him to the manor for dinner yet, but each and every Bat and Bird have already seen the guy - in person or through the surveillance cameras or background checks, doesn't matter. Either way, Daniel Fenton is quite literally a ray of sunshine.

They look very cute together.

That is, until one day, they witness Danny and Tim rip Joker's ribcage out of his chest.

Nothing could have prepared them for it. It was just another patrol, just another night of fighting crime, nothing out of the ordinary. Sure, Joker was on the loose, but so far, no one has tracked the Clown down or seen any of his goons.

But then, Red Robin's tracker went offline. The Bats started searching for him immediately - his last recorded location, his trackers, his route, everything. But when they managed to find him...

Well.

They didn't only find him in that warehouse.

They found Joker, choking on the ground and clawing at his own neck, like trying to force some air inside his lungs. Over him, Danny was squatting on the ground, his eyes thoughtful and not worried in the slightest, tapping on his chin. And, just a step behind him, Red Robin is holding a fucking ribcage in his hands, studying it with calm curiosity.

"Should we put it back now?" Tim asks, relaxed and easy, like they are speaking about whether they should or should not get another box of cereal in a store.

Danny shrugs, "I mean, if you want to. It's not like he's gonna die in the next ten or so minutes, you've got time."

And then, as Batman makes the slightest of noises, Danny's head snaps to him, and the boy smiles, cheerful and bright. Like the ray of sunshine he is.

"Hi, Bats!" Then he blinks and looks down to Joker, who is already frothing at the mouth, "Oh, don't worry about him, he won't die. Red's just putting a tracker in his manibrium."

"I figured it'd be easier to find him next time if he can't get the tracker out," Tim nods, unbothered, as he is tinkering with the ribcage in his hands before passing it back to Danny, "Okay, done. Put it back."

Danny takes the ribcage and presses it to Joker's chest. And, before they know it, the bones sink inside the man, like a hand in a bowl of sand.

Danny wipes his hands on his jeans and stands. Tim smiles at the Bats, none of whom know what to say and where to start.

The next day, Joker is back at Arkham with a tracker in his sternum, Danny is invited to dinner in the manor, and Tim takes the first place of the Feral List, with a note 'never leave unattended when Danny is nearby'.

[willyoubemycherryy]

“Who’s your new friend?” (Salesman x reader)

Summary: Your dad’s dark stranger is the one for you. Too bad about his cruel streak….

Contains: sit down chicas this is a LONG one, plot but gratuitous p+rn, dads!friend au, rough sex, edging, pussy spanking, he’s mean :( , choking, drugging, everything IS consensual bc I’m tired of everyone writing him as a domestic terrorlzing rapist, he’s still psychotic and unhinged tho, just not psychosexual because psychotic traits don’t always translate to sexual violence, your dad is sweet but trusting and naive, squirting, pussyspanking unprotected sex (don’t be a dummy, wrap your gummy) begging, degradation, praise, cursing, reader is a bit of a bitch, light dom/sub dynamics, his cock is stuuuupid fat bc I said so and have eyeballs, ur 22 in this period and he’ll spit in your mouth in the next installment of this series :)

A/N: Yeah, he got me y’all😔 Gong Yoo sexy, fine, tall, handsome ass got me😞I’ve been tripping out for 17 days straight over this man sooo…

┆ ° ♡ • ➵ _ _

_ ➵ ✩ ◛ ° . +

You knew your dad often had strange friends but this one takes the cake.

Raising a skeptical eyebrow at the tall man your father was currently introducing you to. Standing over 6 feet in a pitch black suit he was extremely easy on the eyes with full lips, perfectly styled hair, relaxed posture and not a wrinkle in sight paired with the darkest almond eyes you’d ever seen. You rove your eyes over him once more before looking back up to find him staring back at you…

Yes, he was perfectly lovely but was it too soon to assume something about him was..off?

You feel your face warm at how strong his gaze is but you stare back defiantly, mentally cursing your too trusting dad.

“…and since we chat almost everyday during our commute to work- would you guess that we’re both in sales and marketing?- I thought it’d be great to invite him over and talk more in a more comfortable setting!” Your dad says excitedly, smiling as he tells you all about his new friend. The man smiles alongside him, cheeks faintly dimpling and despite your distrust, you can’t take your eyes off of him as you feel your heart beat harder in its cage.

“I was going to call to tell you I was bringing company but you know I forget to use that thing.” ‘That thing’ being a modern phone to a man who was awful with tech. You scoff but nod to let him know you don’t mind (completely) and because you already know how your father is and he continues,

“Oh right! Speaking of forgetting, I don’t remember if I ever mentioned my daughter even though I know I probably did-“, you listen to your dad introduce you and the man smiles even wider as he steps forward, offering his hand to yours in a shake.

“How pleasant to meet you.” Holy shit. His voice is a lot deeper than you expected and you absentmindedly place your hand into his waiting one. The way it completely encases your hand due to its sheer size makes your heart stop before it melts down to a warm pool in your lower stomach, settling in your core like hot tea as you breathe out a shaky exhale. His hand is also rougher than you thought it’d be for a simple businessman as it squeezes yours and a quick flash image of that same hand around your throat has you snatching your hand back as you shoot him a tight smile.

“Right. Back at ya. Um, how old are you again?”

“Ah. Isn’t that improper to ask new people?”

“I’m just curious to how you maintain a career as developed as my dads because you seem so young.”

Oh. You’re quick witted; that makes things a potential hassle for him.

“Well, I’m much older than you. I’m certainly older than your father.”

“Ha! Are you also the Emperor of China-”, You’re cut off as your dad says your name in the way he does when you’re being rude but you ignore it, glaring at the man.

“Be polite! He’s older so you should speak respectfully”, you barely hide the roll of your eyes but your fathers new friend catches it and you swear you hear a huff of amusement from him, the low sound makes you shiver as you turn on your heel to go back upstairs, your dads scolding calling after you.

“Aish! Spoiled! Brat! You were so much cuter when you were younger!”

“Whatever!”

“Bellybutton lint!”

“Old man!”

“Oh yeah?! You won’t be 22 forever!”

The only response he gets back is the sound of your bedroom door slamming while you’re all too aware of the eyes on your back when you’d left. Your dad sighs as he runs a hand down his face. The salesman simply stands quietly, grinning as always as he observes your little spat. Something about it caught his attention though.

“She’s young.” And your father agrees, insisting that’s part of the reason for your behavior, you apparently were “much nicer” and he nods in understanding.

“College age is tricky. I met her mom around her age and things are so much more different than they were back in our day so I try not to be too hard on her but sometimes she’s so-!” He tilts his head as he waits for your dad to find the word.

“Difficult!”

Ah. How cute. A little attitude problem.

That honestly doesn’t surprise him because most pretty little things almost always had one- you were no exception. Though, you yourself were a pleasant surprise. He’d maintained a friendly relationship with your father on a mere whim, finding him to be…nice unlike most he considered nuisances, so when the man invited him over one day he accepted and as he trailed through the door behind him, taking in the warm tones of your house when he spotted you. Standing near the island by the kitchen in shorts so tiny the wide waistband made them look like a mini skirt, the words ‘PINK’ on the back and a snug white tee shirt, the blue of your bra peeking through, you walk towards them smelling of fabric softener and cold vanilla. Your hair was down as you stared at him like you were both scared and wanting with big eyes full of suspicion. The gloss of your lips shining back at him as your lips curl during your inspection of him, lightly arched brow raising as you gave him a thorough once over, eyes flicking back up to his when you were done. You were absolutely delicious to look at. Short, smart mouthed, pretty and prissy.

He didn’t mind the rude way you spoke to him- no- because your eyes tell. You were weary but interested; cynical in all the ways your father wasn’t but that was perfectly fine.

His smile slowly shifted into a smirk as he followed your father to the living room, humming whenever he would speak, but his thoughts were preoccupied.

Thinking of smooth legs on a cute face he’d love to see wet with tears as he spanked your smart ass raw.

•

•

•

When you went upstairs the first thing you did was grab your headphones and tune out.

What the fuck was your dad thinking??

You huff as you flop on your bed, scrolling through your favorite apps while you tried to slow your thoughts.

Everything is fine.

Your dad always has the most unconventional friends and acquaintances so this was probably just that and you were freaking out more than usual because he was unfathomably attractive. That’s it. You just needed to get a grip. But fuck would you love to ride him through the weekend if only he didn’t have such a concerning aura…and wasn’t pals with your dad of-course.

About 2 hours later when you go downstairs to get food and bring it back to your room-answering curtly when your dad asks if you want to join him and the hot stare of the suited man you’re trying to pretend isn’t there.

“Hard no. Do I look like a nurse? You two senior citizens can play amongst yourselves.”

You sigh when you get back up to your room, FaceTiming your friends as you eat, talking about whatever and whoever before you remember you need to organize some of your class notes and say goodbye before you hang up.

It takes less time than you thought it would so when you’re done, you go about your night routine. Teeth, skincare, oversized cotton shirt, lights off as you put on a movie you’ve seen a million times. It’s harder for you to fall asleep when you can still hear his deep voice through the walls talking and laughing with your dad, shaking your core as you toss and turn- physically fighting the feeling- until you fall asleep.

X

Another few hours later, you wake with a start. Something’s not right.

You can still hear the tv downstairs but no voices. The hairs on the back of your neck stand and as you turn your head towards your door- pulling the covers off your legs, the sight of a tall dark figure rips a blood curdling scream from your throat. In that same second the figure steps closer, the light from your tv illuminates him and your heart races as you stare back wide eyed at your dads suited stranger friend. You’re still gasping and reeling as he sits down on your soft bedding, watching with rapt eyes at you trying to calm down from the near heart-attack he almost gave you.

“W-what..what the fuck?!” He smiles as you get up to yell in his face, gesturing wildly.

“Why the hell are you in my-“, you cut yourself off as another realization dawns on you completely and he can’t help the compulsion he feels towards you.

“How long have you been in my room- wait where’s my dad?!” If you knew who he was and what he did for a living, you’d be much more agreeable…or maybe not and that’s what fascinated him about you. You were so unusual. Wanting to steer clear of him instead of on, even though he’d piqued your curiosity, you didn’t blindly follow like every other nuisance did; instead he was the inconvenience and the way you let him know via sharp words and distrusting looks was something he hadn’t gotten in a while. The way you brushed him and your hard working dad off with no more than a pretty glare while probably never having actually worked for anything in your life made him itch to correct you. Make you say sorry- break you back into the sweet girl he knew you could be.

“I swear to god- WHERE IS MY DAD-!“, before you can raise your voice anymore, turning to go find him yourself, he’s pulling you back by your wrist, covering your mouth with his other hand as he hooks his chin over your shoulder cooing at you to calm down - listen to him a bit.

“Shh. Your father is alright, had too much to drink so he’s passed out downstairs but safe nonetheless.” You feel your body relax against your will at his words but you still bite his palm for scaring the hell out of you. The pain that blooms up his wrist from his hand makes him hiss against your ear and you wish it didn’t sound so good before it trails off into a light chuckle.

“I’m going to move my hand. You won’t scream. Understand?” You roll your eyes but nod anyway and a few seconds later his hand is lowered but he keeps you sitting up against him.

“Look- if you’re some kind of extortionist or blackmailer, my dad only works for clean honest compan-“,

“I’m none of those things.” Huh. You’re even more confused but the silence that follows he doesn’t break instead he waits for you, enjoying your discomfort as you shift against him.

“Then what the fuck do you want? Nothing better to do in your ancient age on a Tuesday night besides creep around?” Your mouth would be the death of you and this might very well be the moment as you mouth off to a complete stranger who could be (and actually is) very dangerous but bravado was all you had. You’d seen and heard more than enough to know that an older man in a suit visiting a young girl he didn’t know in the dead of night never ended well.

“I want to chat for a bit.” You tilt your head a bit in confusion but he takes your silence as the go ahead, making your heart pound when he shuffles even closer causing you to feel his firm pecs through his expensive smelling dress shirt; the heady combination makes your pulse race as you fight yourself on whatever it is exactly that you’re feeling but shouldn’t be.

“When your father mentioned you, you sounded like such a nice girl…”, the low way he speaks resembles a purr, words vibrating his chest, thick arms holding you tight to him as his warm breaths coast across your chest and neck.

“Imagine my surprise when I meet you and you’re nothing more than an ungrateful little princess with a pretty face but very nasty attitude.” You feel your face warm in shame at the blatant way he calls you out, immediately defensive as you shoot back,

“What’s it to you? If you want to see some obedient thing then get a boarder collie-!” Enough of that. His hand claps down over your throat, squeezing not enough to hurt but enough to make you shut up as your heart rate spikes, nerves going haywire at the sudden cut of oxygen. You get dizzy quick. Blood rushing through your ears like a current of cotton, hand flying up on instinct to pull at his muscled forearm but it doesn’t budge and you whine- biting your lip as your heart beats liquid fire through your body. You were so fucked up, clamping your thighs shut as if that will stop you from getting wet but it’s hard to pay attention to that with a tight hand around your neck and mean lips against your ear.

“Didn’t your father tell you to respect your elders?” He tuts out and you nod desperately, willing to swallow your snideness if it meant getting air. He loosens his grip enough for you and you gasp so hard you nearly choke, the sound turning him on more than it should; he grabs your chin so you face him with teary eyes and he nearly groans at how weak you look. The sedatives he slipped in your dad’s drink would last for a while so for now it was just you and him.

“Answer me.”

“You first-“, you’re quick to shut your mouth as a smirk grows on his face. A fast learner.

“Smart. But”, he pauses to put you on edge before continuing, “because I quite enjoy your father and his company, I don’t like the thought of him being troubled by anything.” His words are sweet but they also fill you with dread because you know how much you intentionally butt heads with your father. Mouthing off at him just to amuse yourself sometimes. You never meant to stress him but messing with him a little was how you showed your affection.

“That includes you as well.” He rasps against your neck, nipping the sensitive skin there with more teeth than tongue and you choke on a moan, breathing hard.

“Okay. Got it. I need to be nicer-”,

“No, you need a firm hand.” Oh fuck. You bite your lip at that, watching through bleary eyes as he rubs his other hand down your chest, brushing your hard nipples through your shirt as he feels up your soft curves. The hand around your throat tightens when he feels you might move but when you don’t he doesn’t loosen it- instead he rewards you with wet, scalding kisses behind that spot under your ear, suckling down until he reaches your collarbones. Your eyes water from all the sensations as you try to rationalize what’s going on before you lose yourself to how good you feel.

The hand caressing over your body doesn’t stop, threatening to burn you alive with the heat it ignites in you. To make matters worse, you can’t even breathe deeply enough to calm down with the hold he has on your neck and you’re reminded of how pathetically wet you are whenever you move your legs as you’re completely naked underneath your shirt. So much is happening but it’s not enough. Fleetingly scarce touches is all you’re being given but you need more. You shouldn’t want this, want him- or anything having to do with him- but you do and that thought scares you more than any potential repercussions.

He watches you with an unreadable expression as you shift constantly, sliding a hand under your shirt to cup your tits, flicking and twisting the stiff nubs cruelly between his fingers. Laving his tongue over each bruise he’s left on your neck before choking you harder, making the veins on the back of his hand show and your mouth drops open, hoarse broken moans falling as your hips twitch upwards. This was how he liked you. Melting into him so obediently…

“You’re going to be a good girl now?” He asks like it’s a question but the even in hazy state you’re falling into, you know it’s an order. He loosens his grip again so you can answer, voice hoarse,

“..y-yeah.” The softened tone you use when you respond makes him hard beyond belief and he bites your shoulder with a satisfied groan and you swear your cunt has a pulse. The familiar burning ache is so blinding that you listen immediately when he tells you-

“Open your legs.”

He almost didn’t hear your sharp intake of breath. He barely noticed the way your hips snapped up to hump his hand… he was preoccupied with just how wet you were. Your arousal coats his fingers as he slides them between your sopping lips making you keen through shuddering breaths as you try to control yourself. A few hard circles to your clit shatters that control as you cry out, needy sobs falling from your gloss smeared lips while you beg prettily for him.

“Please! I-! I’ll-anything! Just-!” His hand collar tightens again as he slides two fingers knuckle deep in your spasming hole, immediately curling them towards him, grinding them against that spongy bundle of nerves inside you and the fire that’s been steadily burning inside you almost makes you black out from how quick it threatens to consume you. You’ve never felt more out of your mind, your cunt so soaking wet it’s audible. White-searing pleasure shoots electricity through every nerve and you’re screaming. Between the fuzz in your head from oxygen loss or the brutal way he’s fucking you with his fingers- the one thing you do know is that if you cum now, you’ll faint.

“Waittt- mm-! S-stopp!!” It’s the struggle of a lifetime to get the words out but you do and when you do, surprisingly- he listens. Taking his fingers out as the strings of your slick drip from them and you cry at the loss, the ache still there but you could at least breathe. You feel a nip at your ear and you only then notice the way you’ve rested your weight completely against him.

“Hmm? What’s wrong?” His voice is thick with arousal from how wonderfully you responded to him. So wet he could taste it in the air as you trembled and cried against him. The water in your eyes spilling down over as they rolled back into your skull. Your face was the perfect erotic expression of tormented bliss as he made you earn air and fight off an orgasm so strong it would’ve put you in a vegetative state.

The sound of your weak sniffles make his cock ache as he lays back on your bed, maneuvering your hips over his as he opens his pants, taking his length out he moans at the pressure relief. Swiping his fat head through your messy folds but not inside.

“Well? I need you to answer me. Or do I need to get it out of you myself?” You shake your head, lifting your arms when he moves your shirt up off you and now you’re completely naked while he’s still clothed. As much as his stare intimidated you, his attentions felt even better, moaning at the dirty kisses his cock gave your hole.

“Was gonna cum…but you didn’t say I could yet”, you reach up to use his arm as leverage while you wiggle your hips and your submission drives him mad with how much he wants to ruin you.

“Aw. That’s cute…but if you came before I let you, what then? Are you smart enough to tell me?” He asks sweetly but the condescending undertone makes you feel dumb as heat blooms in your chest and you will away the fuzz that’s making it hard to think so you can give him a proper answer. One that would please him. The fact that you even wanted to please him was something you’d have to get back to.

“I’d be in trouble?” You say it like a question and less of an answer and he finds your uncertainty so cute as he laughs indulgently at you.

“Close. It’s because you’re my good girl. And my girl only does as she’s told, yeah?” The same trickling tingle at the base of your skull is back again as you mindlessly repeat after him.

“Yeah.” He hums, lining himself up with your drooling pussy, sliding in with one thrust. Gritting his teeth with a heavy groan while you choke on a sob.

“Fuckin’ tight-!” Deep grunting in your ear overwhelming you in the best way and you lose it from how full you are. You could’ve guessed by his height and frame that he’d be packing but it felt fatter than you would have ever been able to accurately guess, pressing effortlessly against every spot that made you see stars.

You were everlastingly grateful your dad was knocked out because the sounds coming from you and your room were beyond incriminating. Even though he wasn’t moving, every-time you did, you could feel the deliciously heavy pressure against your slick walls. Shivers wracking up your body as wheezing fucked out moans left your mouth and you grind down in messy circles until the hand on your throat stops you.

“Look at you. Desperate n’ wet begging to cum. You’d do anything I tell you, huh? Just like a dog.”

A disgustingly pathetic warble is his reply but he wants more from you, choking you hard as he pinches your sensitive nipples.

“Uhhn! Yes!” The sheer desperation in your shaky voice gives him a sick head-rush.

“Open your legs for me.”

You obey before he even finishes his sentence. Thighs falling apart, cooled air over your center makes you moan wetly as you wait patiently. So patiently that the first heavy slap against your pussy winds you by the time the pain registers. As soon as the sting settles, warmth pools in its place, sensitivity heightened as you wail. The stricken sound makes his cock throb inside you.

“Wha-!”, another slap cracks down on your swollen lips, hitting your clit spot on and again and you try in vain to wriggle away.

“You still need to prove to me that you’re sorry for your behavior earlier.” He says, voice casual but no less mocking and you cry. Tears running down your cheeks as your body struggles to adjust and obey. Before you can shout out however many strings of apologies it’ll take for him to let you cum, he strikes your center again, hissing in pleasure at your screams. He feels it. That somehow you’re even wetter, dripping down his balls and smearing your slick all over the front of his slacks. He has half a mind to make you clean it up when he’s done with with you as he spanks your cunt again, biting your ear hard until it reddens.

“If you cum before I tell you, I promise I’ll make this the longest night of your life”, he groans darkly in your ear. You’re blessed that you can still hear him through the bass of your heart’s beat and the loud, wet connect every time his hand comes down. You were so close. The sharp sting and the pained pleasure of swelling warmth his heavy hand left behind was too much and your poor clit couldn’t take much more. Gasping through your tears, you scramble to find the right words.

“‘Lease- please! Ah-m’sorry!” Your raspy voice breaks halfway through when lifts you only to slam you back down on his fat length, flicking your sensitive nub when he meanly asks you,

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Try again, little girl.” You night just be in for a long night after all.

You could barely breathe from how hard he was choking you, swollen pussy enflamed from countless spanks, and your center was stuffed to the brim as he was so big that he didn’t even have to try to hit your spots. You scratch and wrestle with his hand until he loosens it, gasping and whining, you pray you don’t come from the instant relief it gives you. The rush settling over you like a fuzzy blanket. He shifts below you and you hurry to get the words out before he makes you come without his say-so.

“I’m- I’m sorry! So sorry! Please Sir, can I-!”

Sir. You called him sir.

It’s less of you apologizing but more of you submitting to him, acknowledging him by title that he held superiority over you that pleases him enough to let you cum. Cutting off your sweet begging with more mean, heavy slaps to your wet pussy, basking in your delighted wails as he fucks up into you.

His hand tightens around your throat and this time, you welcome the suffocating pleasure. Scratchy cries escape when they can but you’re so far on the road to ecstasy that you don’t even care how you look or sound, chest heaving as your eyes water. Your cunt feels like it’s on fire but you beg him in every way you can to keep going even though you can’t take it and he does, groaning against your ear as he rubs messily at your throbbing clit.

“So good, baby- you can cum. Make your little mess before I make you beg some more-”, he does not have to tell you twice as everything you’ve been holding, releases and you do make a mess.

Mouth dropped open as you sob and for the next couple minutes hot unending pleasure is all you know as the stinging slaps get faster, ending with harsh circles on your bud after each one and your hole gets even tighter before you go limp- liquid jetting out of you. He fucks you through it with a tight grip on your windpipe, using you like a snug fleshlight until he’s coming harder than he has in a while at the state he’s put you in. He waits until he catches his breath to slide out of you- who’s deadweight as he lifts you off him.

Rolling off the bed, the silence makes him look over at you only to see that you’re out cold. His eyebrows raise as he huffs out an amused laugh, fixing his pants before brushing his hand over your pretty face. He might have overdone it he thinks as he sees your face return to it’s normal, less flushed hue. Leaning down, on impulse he presses a kiss to your cheek, his gentlest touch of the night before getting up and covering your worn naked body with one of the many blankets on your bed.

“You’re a treat in more ways than you know.”

As he stands, before he opens your door to leave, he pulls a card out of his pocket and leaves it on your nightstand then heads back downstairs to get his shoes and jacket. Turning off the tv where your dad sleeps easily and quietly slipping out the door, smiling the entire way. Now he has even more fun.

You.

•

•

•

When you wake up the next morning, you turn with a pleasant ache and stinging between your legs as you stretch, sighing with a blissful smile until you remember why you ache and who caused it.

Pushing yourself up, you stop when you see a card on your stand, rolling to the edge of your bed, you swipe it off and raise it to your face. It’s a picture of lollipop, a simple circle on a stick but the words below it make your chest warm and you don’t even bother pretending to yourself that you aren’t interested in seeing him again.

“Next time I’ll make you even sweeter.”

In part 2…

Or 3…

[halfgirl-halfdolll]

You always try so hard to hide when something's bothering you. You're so careful not to let your phone unlocked and out in the open, you try not to let your eyes unfocus as you think about whatever's bothering you; you work so hard to keep being productive despite your sorrows.

But they know you better than yourself, doll.

They see how your shoulders tense up whenever you leave Price's office and how you're always so wary of your surroundings, looking this and that way, waiting behind walls to avoid certain people. You can't hide your fears from them. Not from them. Not from the ones who were placed in this godforsaken world to protect you no matter what.

Figuring things out is easy. There's a reason they're a special task force. Swooping your phone from you is as easy as stealing candy from a little kid, and so is unlocking your phone (you need to be more careful about your passwords, love. Really? Your childhood's dog birthday? That's like basic information for them).

And when you come back to the room, flustered, fretting over your phone, it's there: on Price's desk, as if it was untouched. They hide the anger caused by their discoveries behind clenched jaws and hardened eyes and wait until you leave to begin discussing their plan of action (it's cute how you still look at each one of them to make sure they didn't see a thing).

Love, why didn't you tell them? Why did they have to search through your messages to find the reason behind your sadness? Don't you trust them? They're your guard dogs, doll, why don't you just order them to maul and gnaw and rip to shreds whenever you need?

It took them breaking into your phone to find out about the Sergeant who's been messaging you. They could read the suspicion behind your words as you accused him of pranking you after he asked you out.

Pranking you? Pranking?

They read the following messages, where he admitted to his lies – it was a bet, he said. Some friends had bet a good amount of money that he wouldn't be courageous enough to ask you out and then stand you up. He then had the gall to thank you for believing his words and going to the date. For dressing up "weirdly" and being delusional enough to think someone like him would be interested in you.

"just an advice: putting lipstick on a pig doesn't work lmao thanks for guaranteeing me the money tho" he had said.

Seeing red wasn't enough to describe how they felt.

Soap could barely stay still. He leaned his weight on one foot and then the other, itching to run as fast as he could until he found the bastards that dared to insult his bonnie. He needed to feel their bones giving out as he punched them into a bloody pulp. He needed to scream, to let you know that you were too good for all of those scumbags, that he and his mates were the only ones who could appreciate you, touch you with the reverence and devotion that you deserved.

Gaz felt like he failed you. The sourness of his anger mingled with the bitterness of his sorrow. He swore he could taste his emotions on his tongue. He always makes sure to tell how beautiful he thinks you are, how lovely your uniqueness is to him – his little porcelain doll he wished he could place on a shelf. To think some random man managed to hurt you and disrespect you under his watch... it was unbelievable. He would spend a lifetime spoiling you until you forgot about it. After he sunk his teeth into those men throats and ripped them apart, of course.

Ghost was the other side of Soap's coin. But while the Scotsman wanted to seek and destroy as quickly as they do in action, Ghost wanted cruelty. He wanted to take it slow, deliberate. One fingernail for every tear they made you shed. One bone snapped in half for every second you suffered due to their disrespect. If it depended on him, they would only live up until the clouds that covered your sun cleared up. There would be no surrendering, no mercy. You deserve thorough revenge, lovie. And only the muzzle that Price puts on his rabid snout can hold Ghost back.

Price wondered why you didn't tell them about this... incident. Why? Are you trying to defend those poor excuses for men despite how terribly they disrespected you? No, that can't be it. You're their angel, but he knows you aren't some punching bag. Are you afraid they'd agree with those bastards? At that, Price has to laugh. You're so smart, love, but so so blind. You still can't see how they could sell their soul to you, if you became a devil. You still can't see how they'd kneel down on nails and pray to you if you became a saint. After Price pulls a few strings and manages to get that scum dishonorably discharged, he and his muppets would have to work really hard on making sure you know you're the only thing that matters.