#step three is crucial here

[ye-olde-trojan-horse]

ate. left no crumbs. went back to sleep.

[wonysugar]

babydaddy jang wonyoung

now where do i even start with this…?? so much to unpack here

tags: lactation kink, breeding kink(?), g!p wonyoung, reader is a few months pregnant, the baby isn’t born yet this is simply wony shenanigans before that human being is fully formed!

wedding was lovely, cake was delectable, WIFE WAS PRETTY?? you were thriving

and luckily for you, on the honeymoon she just went batshit crazy on you, no really, she did! first 5 minutes upon walking into the hotel room and she was already deep inside you, fucking you ass up as she moaned out your name with pride,,, also making you uncover your mouth to hear every single one of your sounds coming out of your mouth, in unison with hers, lowkey wanting to show off to everyone in the other rooms that she was making you feel soooo good? she’s fucking her wife better than they ever would theirs, cause she’s… she’s rather competitive, you see! yes it made you rather shy, but it never hurt to step out of your comfort zone every once in a while!!

hence why, being married to wonyoung for over two years now, you’ve allowed yourself to be more open to things and experiment a lot more with her, you did things you wouldn’t necessarily do with her when you guys were dating,, for example, cockwarming! aheheh naturally

like… walking in on her doing her cute girly makeup in your guys’ room and then randomly asking her if you can sit on her cock later?? oh she gets hard on the spot i fear… and you obviously notice it and giggle to yourself; it’s poking right out of her skirt, how could you not notice it?

obviously, intrigued by the ideas you get and willing to do anything to please you, she always accepts. so, obviously, the cockwarming wasn’t an exception.

watching a horror movie on the couch and casually sitting on her hard cock, nonchalantly focused on the tv as if you weren’t literally SITTING ON HER? anywho, you were doing okay, just having a fun time and enjoying the film! she, on the other hand, was fighting only god knows what as she desperately tried not to grab you by the sides and just mindlessly pound into you. the way your walls clenched onto her whenever she moved around a tiny bit?? she was LOSING ITTT i tell you,,, so when a random jumpscare startled the both of you and caused you to jump, it was really hard to keep it in. ESPECIALLY with all of the thoughts she was getting of filling you up right then and there,,, not caring about the consequences,,

so she didn’t!! lol

if you asked her about it now, she’d cover her burning face and call it embarrassing, but yes; feeling you move around on her dick at that moment made her feel so good that she just couldn’t hold it in, she shot her load inside you.

it’s important to note that she was NOT wearing a condom! i mean, why would she?? you thought she was gonna be able to keep it together, you’re just watching a movie, after all! so why would she wear a condom for this?? you laughed it off and properly fucked her as an apology that day afterwards lol everything was fine and dandy

until the answer to that question came back up to you about three weeks later!!

womp womp guess tf what bitch!! you’re pregnant with jang wonyoung’s baby

“…what?” she stared at you blankly, still trying to process the crucial piece of information you just dropped on her on a random tuesday morning.

you sighed, trying to hide your nervousness, “that’s what the test says—“

“baby what do you mean you’re pregnant???”

now what?? no genuinely.. wonyoung’s panicking, you’re panicking, what the fuck were you supposed to do? were you guys even ready to have a child?? you had to worry about that just cause of a silly idea you had originally, you didn’t think it would end up this bad????

but turns out that it actually WASN’T as bad! considering you guys had enough money, a house in a safe environment, it was gonna work out. plus, it’s not like your sex life deteriorated. quite the opposite in fact, considering she… for some reason… found you so much sexier a few months into your pregnancy?

oh don’t get her wrong she’s always found you hot as all hell all throughout your relationship, but pregnant??? that turned on a switch she didn’t even know existed. watching you take off your tanktop before getting into bed led her to secretly thinking about all sorts of things, things you’d do to her, things she’d to you. lots of things!

until it wasn’t so secret anymore.

“my love, what do you think breast milk tastes like?”

you almost choke on your glass of water, furrowing your eyebrows at her, “…what??? i— i don’t know?” you laughed, before joking, “if you’re really that curious, you could always try and see for yourself, wonyoung.”

she didn’t take that as a joke, and you knew that.

the way her cock went rigid to the mere thought told you everything you needed to know.

so! being the amazing wife that you are, you let her try it. you let her suck on your tits during sex until milk leaked from her mouth. it was a cute request, so how could you say no to that? especially with how excited she seemed.

giving you hickeys everywhere around your neck and collarbone, eventually going down to your chest which has been restricted territory for a while, until now, of course. her tongue impatiently roaming around your tits, you could feel her slightly poking at your leg. it was adorable.

she got so into it, she’d nod eagerly whenever you said something similar to “does my pretty princess want mommy’s milk? hm?” looking up at you with desperate eyes as she whined against your soft skin.

and so she’d pull away from your chest minutes later, your milk coating her lips and slightly leaking from her mouth; what a sight. it got you so inexplicably turned on that you couldn’t keep waiting, you just had to ride her.

“c-come on baby, put another baby inside me, yeah?” was what’d you say as she moaned and grunted your name! :]

[d1stalker]

Undercover Flames II [Logan Howlett]

Summary: You may have been rescued, but the enemy is still out there, and it’s going to take way more than just a direct assault to get them to talk. Your plan, however, does nothing to calm Logan’s nerves.

PART TWO OF TWO (part one here)

Warnings: canon-level violence, brief argument

WC: 7.2K - MASTERLIST

----

You wake up to the warmth of Logan’s body pressed against yours, the rise and fall of his chest soothing in its steady rhythm. The light is soft, filtering through the curtains and for a moment, you allow yourself to stay still, savouring the peace of this rare, tranquil morning. Logan’s arm is draped protectively over your waist, his hand resting against your stomach, fingers splayed out as if to keep you anchored to him.

As you turn in his embrace, Logan stirs, his hold on you tightening instinctively before he lets out a soft, sleepy grunt.

“Morning,” he mumbles, his voice still heavy with sleep.

“Morning,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips as you watch him slowly blink his eyes open. His gaze is soft, warm in a way that’s reserved only for these quiet moments between you.

It has been just over four months since you were rescued from the clutches of the anti-mutant organization, and in that time, you’ve made remarkable strides in your recovery. The nightmares that once haunted you relentlessly have become few and far between, no longer a nagging constant at the back of your mind. Your body, once battered and bruised, has healed with time and care. After three weeks of rest, you cautiously returned to training—starting slow, attentive to not reopen old wounds or strain muscles that were still mending. You’ve not only regained your strength but it almost appears like you’ve surpassed it, driven by a fierce determination to never feel that powerless again.

Last month marked a significant milestone: your first assignment back. The instructions were straightforward—an investigation into a drug dealer whose clients had been mysteriously dying within days of their transactions. It wasn’t the most complex of tasks, but it was a crucial step in regaining your confidence in the field. Logan, of course, wasn’t thrilled about you heading out so soon. You could see the worry in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched when the assignment was discussed. However, true to his word, he stepped back, allowing you the space to do what you needed to do. He trusted you to handle it, even if every protective instinct in him was screaming to stay close.

But his companionship was never lost on you. His actions speak volumes—over the years of knowing each other, he’s learned to read you in ways that no one else can, picking up on the smallest details that others might overlook. And now that you’re lovers, he finally allows himself to show you just how much he’s always noticed, how deeply he’s cared all along.

He’s always a step ahead of you, anticipating your needs before you even realize them yourself. Whether it’s tossing you a water bottle after a grueling training session, offering you his jacket when he notices the temperature drop, or silently placing a hand on your back to steady you when you’re about to lose your balance—Logan is there, solid and dependable.

His support is in the small, almost indiscernible touches. You’ve noticed that he’ll lightly brush his fingers against your hand when he senses you’re anxious, he’ll place a hand on your shoulder when you’re deep in thought, the warmth of his touch a silent reminder that you’re not alone. And when you’re seated beside each other, his thigh will always be connected with yours. 

Seeing this side of Logan, the side that he rarely shows to anyone, has deepened your love for him to a level you never thought possible. You’ve always cared for him—admired his strength, his loyalty, and his unyielding determination—but now, as he allows himself to be vulnerable with you, to let down the walls he’s built up over so many years, you find yourself falling for him all over again, deeper and deeper. 

You’ve never felt so seen, so understood, it’s as if Logan has tuned into every part of who you are, cherishing even the smallest details. Knowing that he trusts you enough to show this side of himself, to let you in past his barriers fills you with a gratitude that words can hardly express. You feel honoured, and so incredibly lucky to be the one who gets to see the real him—the one who’s gentle, thoughtful, and so much more than the tough exterior he shows the world.

Logan’s hand slides up your side, breaking you from your haze, his thumb brushing over your ribs with tenderness 

“How’re you feeling?” 

“Amazing,” you say, and it’s the truth. Everything Logan has done for you, both before and after the incident, has helped you become stronger—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally as well. “Thanks to you.”

He grunts, a sound that would seem dismissive to anyone else, but you’ve learned to hear the subtleties in it—the satisfaction, the pride that he tries to keep hidden. He pulls you closer, his lips brushing the side of your forehead in a gesture that’s more comforting than words could ever be. “Just doing my job,” he huffs.

“Sure,” you tease, your fingers tracing the strong lines of his jaw, feeling the familiar roughness of his stubble beneath your touch. “But not everyone’s job description includes being my personal heater.”

Logan chuckles, his tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” you say, your smile widening as you lean in, your lips pressing against his in a soft, lingering kiss. 

When you pull back, Logan’s eyes are filled with that familiar mix of longing and reluctance, the same look he’s given you every morning since the rescue. It’s a look that makes your chest ache because you know what it means. He wants to protect you, to keep you safe from the world outside this room, but he knows he can’t always do that. Even though he’s managed to back off and let you do your own thing, you know deep down that he would rather stick by your side every second of the day. He’s holding onto you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, like the world outside is too dangerous to face without you by his side.

You’re about to say something to ease the tension you can see building in his expression when the X-Men communicator on the nightstand beeps, breaking the peaceful silence.

Logan’s expression darkens instantly, the moment of calm shattered as reality crashes back in. He reaches over, grabbing the device with a resigned sigh. The message on the screen is brief, something you’ve seen hundreds of times, but still manages to make all the muscles in your body seize—a meeting in the war room in an hour.

“Duty calls,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he replies, his tone gruff as he sets the communicator down with more force than necessary. “Always does.”

There’s a heavy pause between you, both of you acutely aware of what’s coming, what you’ll have to face. You know its time to focus back on you and Logan’s original mission—the anti-mutant group. The thought of it sends a shiver down your spine, but before you can dwell on it too long, Logan turns to you, his hand reaching out to gingerly cup your face, his thumb running over your cheek.

“I just wish… we could hang up the suits, ya know?” he says, “Be selfish for once. Just you and me, somewhere far away from all this crap.”

His words break through the tough shell he usually hides behind. You catch the look in his eyes—the yearning for a life without the constant fights, without the endless dangers. It’s a life you’ve both fantasized about in fleeting moments, but one that always seems just out of reach.

“Logan,” you whisper, bringing one of your hands to rest atop of his—the one on your cheek. “That’s not who you are. You joined the our team because you wanted to help people, to make a difference. That’s who you are—a protector. You’d never be happy just sitting on the sidelines, not when you know there’s still work to be done.”

He released a long breath, his gaze moving to where your hands are connected. “Yeah, I know, darlin’. But sometimes… I just wish we could be together without threats hanging over our heads. Without havin’ to fight every damn day.”

It breaks your heart to know that the life he wants—the peace he craves—is something you can’t give him, not yet.

You move closer, placing a soothing kiss on the tip of his nose, a gesture that’s meant to comfort both of you. “I wish that too,” you admit. “More than anything.”

He looks at you for a long moment, searching your eyes for something—reassurance, hope, maybe just the strength to keep going. Finally, he nods, the tension in his jaw easing slightly as he leans into your touch, his forehead resting against yours.

“I know I’ve said this before but… I just can’t go through that again,” he says, voice husky and intimate, referring to the time when you were taken and tortured. The memory of those days still haunts him, a shadow that lingers even in the light of your recovery.

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore ,” you promise, “We’ll win this time.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t push back. Instead, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if he can shield you from all the dangers that lie ahead. And for this moment, you let him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him as you cling to the warmth and safety of his embrace.

–

The war room feels like it's vibrating with the unspoken tautness that hangs in the air, the usual hum of quiet conversations replaced by an almost suffocating silence. The X-Men gather around the large, circular table, all eyes drawn to the holographic map that flickers to life at the center, casting a bluish glow over the faces of the team. 

Scott stands at the head of the table. His visor hides the full intensity of his gaze, but the way his jaw is set, and the tension in his posture reveals enough. There’s no need for words to convey the stakes—everyone knows that what they do next could be the turning point in their ongoing battle against the anti-mutant organization that has been a thorn in their side for far too long.

“We’ve finally got an update on the organization’s movements,” he announces, “It’s taken longer than we’d hoped, and we’ve lost precious time because they’ve gone to ground. Their losses during our rescue mission were significant, but that only means they’re going to be even more cautious from here on out.”

As he speaks, the holographic map shifts, transforming into a detailed 3D model of a remote, mountainous region far from any major city. The terrain is rugged, the kind of place where someone could easily disappear if they didn’t want to be found. The map zooms in, highlighting the location where the organization has apparently relocated—another isolated, heavily fortified compound, this time nestled within the mountains. 

Jean, standing just to the right of Scott, steps forward to add her insights. 

“They’ve moved their operations here,” she says, “From what we’ve gathered, this new location is far more secure. They’ve enhanced their security protocols significantly. They’re not going to let another attack happen easily, especially after the damage we inflicted last time.”

The hologram continues to shift, revealing more details about the new facility: the reinforced walls, the watchtowers equipped with advanced surveillance, the array of weaponry designed to repel even the most determined assault. It’s clear that the organization has learned from their mistakes—they’ve gone underground, and they’ve fortified their defenses to the point where any attempt to breach them would require more than just brute force. 

The room remains silent. Your team has faced insurmountable odds before, but this is different. This is a challenge that requires more than just strength; it demands strategy, cunning, and the kind of precision that doesn’t leave room for error.

Scott lets the silence linger for a moment, before continuing. “We’re dealing with a highly secure facility,” his voice cuts through the quiet. “And they know we’re coming. We need to be smart about our next move. No plan isn’t an option; it’s suicide.”

Flickering of the 3D model casts an eerie glow in the room as his words hang in the air. Jean, who has been studying the map intently, speaks up again. “We need to take down the leaders without giving them a chance to regroup or escape. If we can isolate them from their security forces and cut off their communication, we’ll have them cornered.”

Hank nods in agreement. “Their reliance on advanced technology is both their strength and their weakness.”

“We could use the terrain to our advantage, I could create natural disaster—an avalanche, perhaps—that forces them to redirect their resources,” Ororo suggests from her place, “While they’re dealing with that, a small, covert team could infiltrate the compound and take whoever’s directing by surprise.”

Scott considers this, his mind running through the logistics. “It’s risky, but it could work. We’ll need to divide our forces. Here’s the plan: Ororo, just like last time, you’ll create the distraction—a controlled avalanche to draw their attention and forces away from the main compound. Hank, you’ll work on disabling their communications and security systems. ”

He pauses. “And knowing you, you’ll be able to breach their data system and gather all their information, right?” 

Hank smirks, “you didn’t even need to ask.”

Scott turns his gaze to you next, “You, Jean, and Logan will then enter with the primary objective of finding the leaders.”

As he speaks, a thought strikes you—something that could turn the tide even more decisively in your favor. You step forward. 

“Instead of all three of us focusing on infiltration, I think we should split our efforts. Jean and Logan can act as a distraction on the interior—draw attention away from the main targets—while I go in as a spy. I can locate the leaders, snuff them out, and corner them before they even realize what’s happening.”

Scott tilts his head slightly, considering your suggestion. The rest of the team turns to you, their expressions ranging from curiosity to concern. But it’s Logan’s gaze that whips toward you with immediate sharpness, his protective instincts on high alert.

“You’re suggesting we divide our forces even more?” Scott asks cautiously, like he needs you to confirm what you had just said. “Jean and Logan as a diversion, while you go in alone?”

You nod, meeting his gaze with confidence. “Exactly. With Jean’s telepathy and Logan’s… well, Logan’s everything, they can create enough chaos on the interior to keep the guards and security forces occupied,” you state, “Meanwhile, I’ll move undetected through the compound. I can locate the leaders’ exact position and contain them before they have a chance to escape or call for help.”

“It makes sense,” Hank pipes up, “If Logan and Jean draw the attention of the security forces, you can slip through the cracks while they’re preoccupied, get to the leaders, and cut the head off the snake.”

Before anyone else can chime in, Logan steps forward, his features furrowed. “No,” he says flatly, his voice like a growl. “I don’t like the idea of you going in alone—it’s too risky. We can’t have a repeat of what happened last time.”

You meet his eyes, understanding his concern, but you remain resolute. “I know it’s risky, but it’s the best way to ensure we get the leaders without triggering a full-scale assault.”

“Best way? Or the most dangerous way?” he shoots back, and you can feel his frustration growing. “You’re talking about going in there alone, with no backup. If something goes wrong, we might not get to you in time.”

“That’s why we have the distraction,” you counter, “You and Jean will keep the guards occupied, and I’ll move quickly. It’s our best shot.”

He bites down hard, the muscles in his neck straining as he struggles to keep his temper under control. “Damn it, this isn’t about taking shots, it’s about keeping you safe!” His voice rises slightly, “You don’t need to do this alone. We can find another way.”

“I’m not doing it alone,” you reassure, “I’ll have the team behind me, just like always. You know as well as I do that if we all go in together, it’ll be a bloodbath. This is the only way to avoid that.”

“And what happens if you get caught? What happens if they see through the distraction? You think I can just stand back and watch while you put yourself in the line of fire? If you get taken again…” he can barely finish his sentence as all of his fears seem to flash before his eyes. 

“Logan, you’re not hearing me,” you insist, stepping closer to him. “This isn’t about me wanting to take unnecessary risks. It’s about making sure the mission succeeds. If we don’t do this right, it’s not just me—it’s all of us, all mutants, at risk.”

The room is silent, the rest of the team watching the exchange with bated breath, knowing it’s not their place to step in. They look on with concern, eyes flicking between you and Logan.

Logan shakes his head. “I can’t lose you again, darlin’. I just… I need you to be safe.”

“I know, Logan,” you respond. “But this isn’t just about you or me. It’s about stopping these people once and for all. I need to do this. We need to do this.”

His gaze drops to the floor for a moment, as if searching for the words he wants to say. When he looks back up at you, you can see the conflict in his eyes, begging you to take it back. 

“Just promise me… promise me you’ll be careful. No heroics, no unnecessary risks. You find them, and you tell us. Immediately.”

“I promise,” you say, your voice sincere. “I’ll be careful. I’ll find them, and then we’ll take them down.”

Logan holds your gaze for a long moment, the tension between you slowly easing but not entirely dissipating. Finally, he nods, though his face remains tight with worry. “Alright. But I’m not letting you out of my sight once we’re in. As soon as you notify, I’ll be right there.”

Scott clears his throat, bringing the conversation back to the task at hand. “Then it’s settled,” he says, his voice a little gruffer than usual, as if he, too, felt the weight of the argument.

The team begins to disperse to finalize preparations, but Logan lingers, pulling you aside for a moment of privacy. His hand finds yours. 

“I know you can handle this, but you gotta understand—I can’t lose you again, darlin’. So, whatever happens in there, you keep your head down and remember we’ve got your back.”

You look up at him, seeing the layers of emotion in his eyes—fear, anger, love, and a deep, almost desperate need to protect you. It both breaks your heart and strengthens your resolve. “I know, Logan,” you reply, squeezing his hand in return. “I’m not planning on being a hero. I just want to—need to—do my part to end this.”

He releases a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he nods slowly, reluctantly. “Alright. Let’s get this done.”

—-

Nestled deep within the uneven mountain range, strategically positioned on a plateau that overlooks the surrounding valleys, is the organizations base.  The avalanche Ororo summoned looms threateningly, large bursts of snow and ice whipping through the valley, creating the perfect cover for your operation. Wind whistles through the land, followed by the rumble of mountains that shakes the very ground beneath your feet. 

The distraction is in full effect.

Before you left the Blackbird, Logan pulled you aside. He didn’t waste time with words, instead leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss that was both loving and fierce. It was a reminder of everything he felt, everything he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for in the heat of the moment.

And when he pulled back, his gaze swapping over you, like he was seeking to memorize every detail.  

“Remember, I’ll be right with you as soon as you say the words”

Now, you’re crouched near a narrow ledge beside a small door, eyes scanning the base of the mountain where the compound’s defenses are now focused on the disaster outside. Logan and Jean are already inside, their presence wreaking havoc within, diverting the guards’ attention away from you. Every so often, you could hear distant sounds of conflict—the telltale shink of Logan’s claws, and the panicked shouts of guards trying to coordinate their defenses as he ripped through them.

You slip inside, lowering the trap door behind you as the sound of the storm fades into the distance. The passage is dark and cramped, the air thick with the scent of earth and stone. Each movement you make is deliberate and careful to avoid making noise. You’re able to find a somewhat agreeable position on your hands and knees, beginning the descent through the passage as it slopes downward, leading you deeper into the mountain and closer to your target.

After what feels like an eternity, the route widens, and you find yourself at the entrance to a narrow corridor. Pausing, you listen intently for any signs of movement, but all you hear is the mechanics behind the facility’s generators, muffled by the layers of rock and metal that surround you. The halls are freakishly quiet, the guards either drawn away by the avalanche or dispatched to Logan and Jean. Your breathing stays steady, your senses heightened as you navigate the twists and turns of the labyrinthine interior.

You’re close now, so close you can you can hear the muffled voices of the leaders on the other side, in the room where they’re all holed up, their tones laced with fear and frustration. Your heart pounds in your chest as you approach the final corner, every nerve ending on edge as you prepare to make your move.

But as you round the corner, you freeze in your place—there’s a guard standing just outside the door to the leaders’ room. He hasn’t seen you yet, but it’s only a matter of seconds before he does. His hand is already reaching for the radio on his belt, about to call in an alert.

You have no time to think, only to act. With a burst of speed, you lunge forward, slamming your hand over his mouth just as he begins to open it to shout. His eyes widen in shock, and he immediately starts to struggle, his body twisting as he tries to break free from your grip. 

​​Unfortunatley, you knew from the moment you saw the him that using your powers wasn’t an option. The hallway is dark and narrow, the only illumination coming from faint emergency lights far down the corridor. If you were to use your cosmic abilities, the glow alone would give you away, casting unnatural light in a place that should be cloaked in shadows. Who know’s what threats that would attract?

Every instinct in you screams to unleash your energy, to end the fight quickly and decisively, but the risk is too great. One wrong move, one flash of light or sound that doesn’t belong, and the entire mission could be compromised. The element of surprise is your greatest advantage right now, and you can’t afford to lose it.

That’s why you have to do this the hard way—silently, and with nothing but your own strength and wits. It’s a gamble, but it’s the only way to ensure you reach the leaders undetected, without alerting every remaining guard in the compound to your presence.

The guard’s elbow connects with your ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs, but you don’t let go. You tighten your grip, your other hand grabbing his wrist to prevent him from drawing his weapon. He thrashes violently, his strength surprising as he drives his knee into your stomach, nearly doubling you over with the force of the blow.

Pain radiates through your abdomen, but you grit your teeth and hold on, knowing that if he gets free, it would all be over. You push back with all your strength, slamming him into the wall with a sickening thud. His head snaps back, dazed, but he’s not down yet.

He recovers quickly, his free hand darting toward your face in a desperate attempt to claw at your eyes. You twist your head just in time, feeling his nails graze your cheek as you shift your weight, using the momentum to drive your knee into his thigh. Letting out a muffled grunt against your hand, he swivels his body again, this time managing to get one arm free. Before you can react, his fist slams into your side. You stagger, your grip slipping for just a fraction of a second—long enough for him to start reaching for the radio again.

Panic surges through you as you realize he’s about to call for help. Desperation drives you and with a burst of adrenaline, you bring your elbow up, smashing it into the side of his head. The blow is hard enough to daze him, and you use the opening to drive him back against the wall again, harder this time.

He slumps slightly, but you know you can’t let up. You release your grip on his wrist and, with a quick movement, drive your hand into the pressure point just below his ear. His eyes widen in shock, his body going rigid for a brief moment before his legs give out beneath him. You catch him as he falls, easing him to the ground as quietly as you can.

Your heart is pounding, your breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps as you crouch beside the unconscious guard. The silence of the hallway is deafening in the aftermath of the struggle, your pulse thundering in your ears. You take a moment to steady yourself, forcing your breathing to slow as you check the hallway for any sign of other guards. It’s still clear—for now.

You glance down at the guard, making sure he’s truly out cold before dragging him into a shadowed corner, out of sight from anyone who might happen to pass by. You press a hand to your side, wincing as you feel the dull ache where he landed that brutal punch. But there’s no time to dwell on the pain—you’re too close to your target to stop now.

With the guard taken care of, you turn your attention back to the room, adjusting your stance and running through the plan in your mind. There’s no mask, no barrier to hide your identity. The men in that room will know who you are—or at least, they’ll think they do. At the gala, you were Mrs. Daniels, the woman they believed was just another wealthy socialite. But tonight, they’ll learn the truth.

“I’m at the target,” you whisper into the comms, keeping your voice low. “Moving in now.”

With one final glance down the corridor to ensure there is no one else following your tracks, you slither through the door, moving like a shadow into the room. The old men are gathered around a large table, their expressions ranging from fear to fury as they argue in low, heated tones. Papers and maps are strewn across the table, evidence of their frantic attempts to come up with a plan as the everything falls apart around them.

They don’t notice you at first, too absorbed in their dispute to realize they’re no longer alone. You take advantage of their distraction, positioning yourself in the shadows near the door. 

“What do you mean we’ve lost contact with the guard tower?” one of them hisses, his face pale and sweat-slicked. “This place is supposed to be impenetrable!���

“We should never have moved to this location,” another snaps, his hands trembling as he clutches the edge of the table. “We’re sitting ducks here!”

You let them bicker for a moment longer, taking in the layout of the room and assessing the situation. The leaders are cornered, with no visible exits other than the door you came through. 

They’ve completely exposed themselves to you, and they don’t even realize it yet.

Finally you step forward, your presence announced by the soft rustle of your clothing as you emerge from the shadows, and the effect is immediate—every head snaps in your direction, eyes widening in shock as they take in the sight of you standing there.

The man who was speaking freezes mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as he takes a closer look at you. Recognition dawns on his face, followed quickly by fear. “You… You’re the woman from the gala,” he stammers, his voice shaking. “Mrs. Daniels?”

You give him a cold, measured look, the corner of your mouth twitching into a faint smile. “Not exactly,” you answer, “But I’m glad you remember me.”

Without warning, you raise your hands, cosmic energy flaring to life around your fingers, shimmering with an ethereal glow. You begin shape the energy into chains, each one snaking through the air and wrapping around the men, binding them to their seats. They struggle, but the chains are unbreakable, pinning them in place with a force that leaves no room for escape. It’s almost satisfying, seeing these men in chains, so helpless—reminds you of when you were in the exact same position, in the dark, cold, cell of the island. 

One of the men lets out a strangled cry, his eyes wide with terror. “Please! Don’t hurt us! We—we can negotiate!”

You step closer, your eyes cold as you survey the scene. “Negotiate? You think you have anything to bargain with?” you demand, knowing they won’t be able to answer. “You’ve done enough damage. Now it’s time to face the consequences.”

Just as you finish speaking, the door bursts open, and Logan strides in, Hank, who had managed to enter the compound after downloading all the data, following close behind. Logan’s eyes immediately zero in on the men and his expression shifts from that of concern to a furious glare. 

“You’re lucky it was her who got here first,” the mutant seethes, “She spared you.”

The men cower in their seats, trembling visibly under the weight of Logan’s unrelenting gaze as he stalks toward them with a predatory grace. His presence fills the room, seeping into every corner, suffocating any hope they had of escape. With each step he takes, slow and deliberate, the air thickens, his movements calculated to instill fear in their very bones. His claws, unsheathed and glinting ominously in the dim light, are slick with fresh blood, and as he takes in the sight before him, his eyes narrow with cold, lethal intent, the silence punctuated only by the sound of their labored breaths, ragged with terror.

“If it were up to me, you’d be begging for mercy right about now.”

Hank, who had been watching from behind with a calculating expression, steps in. He places a hand on Logan’s shoulder, “Logan, we need them to talk.”

Logan doesn’t move at first, his eyes locked onto the quivering man in front of him. Ultimately, he narrows his eyes, pulling his claws back ever so slightly, though his posture remains alert and intense. 

“They better start talking, then.”

Contrasting Logan’s blatant display of fury, Hank steps forward collectedly. His voice is even, almost clinical, as he addresses the leaders. “We have all the information we need—every file, every document. Your entire operation is in our hands. You have two choices: confess everything in a public conference, or we leak it all. The world will know what you’ve done, and you’ll be hunted down by more than just us.”

The man you recognize as the stocky one from the gala, perhaps emboldened by Hank’s more measured approach, tries to regain some semblance of control. He splutters, “You can’t do this… We’ll—”

But before he can finish, Logan is on him in a flash, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him forward until they’re nose to nose. The corners of your mouth flip upwards while the man lets out a strangled gasp, his eyes wide with terror.

“You don’t get to tell us what we can or can’t do. You’ve already lost, old man. Now it’s just a matter of how much pain you’re going to be in when this is over.”

Instantly, the stocky man loses all bravado, his face draining of colour is response to Logan’s aggression. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, but no sound comes out. He’s utterly terrified, and rightfully so. The other groupies, seeing their comrade’s terror, exchange nervous glances. They’ve been completely outmaneuvered, and now they’re at the mercy of those they’ve wronged.

“They’ll confess,” you decide for them, stepping forward, gaining control over the situation. You deactivate the cosmic chains binding the men, though the energy still crackles ominously around your hands, a reminder of the power you wield. “Because they know what’s waiting for them if they don’t.”

Logan gives you a nod, his gaze softening slightly as he looks at you. There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the strength you’ve shown. “Good work, darlin’,” he muses.

You return his words with a small smile, feeling a wave of relief wash over you now that the worst is over. 

“Let’s get them out of here.”

You, Logan, and Hank quickly work together to secure the leaders, ensuring they’re ready for transport back to the Blackbird. They’re too shaken to resist, their egos completely shattered. The sounds of battle outside have quieted—the rest of the team has done their job well.

Once inside the jet, Logan pulls you into a close embrace, his arms wrapping around your waist as he tucks his head into the crook of your neck. The warmth of his body against yours should be comforting, but as he tightens his hold, a sharp pain flares up in your side where the guard had landed a solid kick earlier.

You can’t help the wince that escapes you, the pain lingering and making it hard to fully relax in his hold. Logan immediately pulls back, concern flashing in his eyes as they search yours. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low but edged with worry. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head slightly, “I’m fine,” you say, but the way Logan’s eyes narrow tells you he’s not buying it.

He doesn’t say anything else, just waits, his gaze steady and insistent. Finally, you sigh, knowing there’s no point in hiding it from him. “I ran into a guard right outside the room,” you admit, glancing down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “He was about to call for backup, and I had to take him out quietly. It got… a little rough.”

His expression darkens, his jaw clenching as he processes what you said. “I should track that bastard down and make him regret ever laying a hand on you.”

Despite the seriousness of his tone, there’s a warmth in his words that makes your heart swell. You reach out, placing a hand on his chest. “I handled it, Logan. It was just a fight, and I won.”

He grunts, though the anger in his eyes doesn’t entirely fade. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy making him pay for it.”

You give him a small, reassuring smile. “Well, you can save that energy for when we get these guys to talk.”

Logan nods, his expression becoming serious once more as he looks toward the secured leaders, who are being watched by the rest of the team. “They’ll talk,” he says, his voice carrying a promise of retribution.

“And if they don’t… well, we’ll make sure they wish they had.”

—-

Turns out, getting people to admit their crimes when threatened with their lives is easier than you thought. The men, who at one point, seemed so arrogant and untouchable, crumbled like a house of cards under the pressure. Faced with the undeniable evidence the X-Men had gathered and the very real threat of exposure, they agreed to hold a public conference, where they would confess to everything. 

The world watched in shock as these well-known figureheads divulged their involvement in anti-mutant activities, including kidnapping, torture, and illegal experimentation. The fallout was immediate and severe—governments and law enforcement agencies across the globe moved swiftly to dismantle the remnants of their organization or any ties they had to its leaders, and within days, the men found themselves behind bars, stripped of their power and influence.

For the first time in months, you feel a sense of peace settling into your bones. The constant weight of fear, the dread that had plagued you since your capture, begins to lift. You’re finally able to breathe again, knowing that the people who hurt you, who threatened everything you cared about, are rotting in a cell, where they belong.

—

It’s late evening at the X-Mansion, and you find yourself in the kitchen, the comforting whir of the refrigerator and the soft clinking of dishes the only sounds breaking the quiet. Logan is there too, leaning next to you against the counter with a beer in hand. He’s out of his combat gear now, dressed in his usual casual attire—a worn flannel shirt and jeans, still stunning in the rugged simplicity of his appearance. 

“You know,” you say, glancing at him with a playful smile as you pour yourself a glass of water, “I never took you for the beer-in-the-kitchen type. Always thought you’d be more of a ‘brooding with whiskey in the dark’ kind of guy.”

He smirks, taking a long sip from his bottle before responding. “Depends on the night,” he replies with a wink. “Sometimes I like to mix things up, keep you on your toes.”

You roll your eyes, setting your glass down on the counter as you lean in a little closer. “Is that so? Well, I’ve got to admit, seeing you all domestic in here is kind of nice. Who knew the Wolverine had a soft spot for late-night kitchen hangouts?”

Logan chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes your heart skip a beat. “What can I say, sweetheart? Can’t have you thinking I’m all claws and no charm.”

“Oh, so you’re charming now?” you tease, reaching out to poke him playfully in the chest. “I must’ve missed that memo.”

Settings his beer down, Logan captures your hand in his and pulls you closer, his voice dropping to that thick, throaty tone that shoots right down to your core. “You know better than anyone that I’ve got plenty of charm. You just keep pretending not to notice.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as close the distance, resting your head against his chest. “Maybe I like keeping you on your toes too.”

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, and for a moment, everything feels perfect—just the two of you, in the quiet of the kitchen, with nothing hanging over your heads. No missions, no threats, just peace.

Just like he had wished for. 

“You know,” Logan starts after a long stretch of comfortable silence, “you’re a lot tougher than you give yourself credit for.”

You tilt your head back to look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Says the guy who can heal from pretty much anything.”

He gives you a small, affectionate smile, his thumbs rubbing comforting circles along your waist. “I’m serious. What you went through… what we just did… not everyone could come out of that as strong as you have.”

“It helps to have someone like you around,” you admit softly. “I don’t think I could’ve done it without you.”

A tender look crosses his face, and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You did more than just survive, darlin’. You fought back, and you won. Don’t ever forget that.”

The moment is interrupted when the kitchen door swings open, and Ororo walks in, pausing mid-step when she sees the two of you wrapped up in each other. Her eyebrows shoot up, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Ororo teases, her tone light and playful. “Logan, I never expected you to be such a romantic. You’ve been holding out on us.”

Logan doesn’t miss a beat, his response immediate and full of that rough-edged warmth that you’ve come to love so much. 

“Only for her.”

Ororo’s smile widens, and she gives you a wink before heading to the fridge, grabbing an apple and turning back to the door. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it, then. Just remember to keep it PG in the kitchen.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound bright and unburdened as you bury your face in Logan’s chest, feeling the deep rumble of his own laughter vibrating against you. The sound is rich, a low and genuine noise that fills the space between you with fondness and affection.

“PG, huh?” you murmur into his shirt, your voice laced with amusement. “Guess that means we’re in trouble.”

“Don’t worry, darlin’. I’m always on my best behavior,” he smirks

“That’s a lie, and we both know it.”

He chuckles, his hand coming up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Maybe. But I can be when it counts.”

You shake your head, grinning as you playfully swat his chest. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Logan captures your hand again, his grip warm and firm, his gaze softening as he looks at you. “You’ve already seen it,” he says huskily, “But if you need more convincing…”

You laugh, reaching your free hand to the back of his head, pulling him down into a passionate kiss, his mouth warm against yours, the taste of beer clouding your senses. 

“You’re a good man, Logan,” you get out in between kisses, “And I’m glad you’re mine.”

Logan’s eyes gleam, and he pulls you impossibly closer, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. “I’m glad you’re mine too, darlin’.”

Later, when he finishes his beer and sets the empty bottle on the counter, he turns back to you, his expression content. “Ready to call it a night?”

You nod, feeling the pleasant weight of exhaustion beginning to settle in. “Yeah, I think so. But only if you promise to keep up this charming act tomorrow.”

Logan grins, taking your hand as you both head toward the door. 

“Just for you, darlin’. Just for you.”

-------

A/N: thank you everyone for all the reblogs, comments, and notes i've received on this blog these last few days, i can't believe it's growing to fast!

[loving-barnes]

LOGAN HOWLETT - VERSION OF YOU

A/N: Inspired by the Deadpool and Wolverine trailer. Inaccurate things when it comes to timelines and shit. Beware, it was not edited properly. Sorry.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant female reader

Warning: angsty?, attempt at being funny?

My stories are written for mature audiences - 18+!

Words: 2500+

Important note: Hugh Jackman!Wolverine (which means he's tall as fuck!)

FULL MASTERLIST | LOGAN HOWLETT MASTERLIST

LOGAN HOWLETT - VERSION OF YOU

“Do you think this is gonna work?” 

“Agent Smith said it would.” 

“It’s fucking weird, you know?” 

“A lot of fucked up things happened before. This is nothing compared to what I have to deal with now. So, ladies first.”

Wade pointed at the weird-looking orange door. He didn’t want to walk through them first. That fucker shoved Y/N right into the portal before he took a step forward. Coward. 

They appeared in front of a dive bar, during a bright sunny day. Y/N looked at Wade, well, more like at his masked face. “Wasn’t this place supposed to be fucked up?” she asked. “It’s too nice outside.”

“It will become in a matter of hours. Now, here’s the plan,” he said. “We’ll go in. I’ll talk first. If I won’t move with that stubborn mountain of a man, it’s your turn. Do whatever it takes to bring him with us - smile at him, have sex with him, for all I care. And, who knows, maybe we will know whether Agent Smith was right.” 

“I call bullshit,” said Y/N, cracking her knuckles. “I don’t know him. I think it’s a fairy tale he made up so I would work with you,” she said, fixing her tactical suit. “Can’t believe I’m doing this shit with you, Wade.”

He chuckled. “Come on, you love spending time with me, kicking ass, making men suffer.” 

“I will make you suffer.”

Together, they approached the entrance door of the dive bar. Wade was the first one to walk in. During the day, there weren’t many people around. Some people gave them brief attention but quickly went back to their beers. Y/N glared at Wade. 

“Our guy is right there,” he said, pointing to the bar. 

And there he was - their target - the man they had to collect to save the universe. Was it the universe or the multiverse? Whatever it was, he was crucial for this mission. 

Y/N eyed his back - the dark jacket he wore and how bent he was over the bar. The sadness radiated from him. Something was happening inside her. As if she experienced a magnetic pull towards him.

Y/N showed Wade forward to start. She was curious to see the man’s reaction. She sat at a nearby table ready to watch the scene unfold. Of course, Wade used a beautiful opening line that would normally get his assed whipped. 

“Hi, peanut.”

Y/N bit her lower lip to stop herself from laughing. This was Wade, typical Wade Wilson. Fucking Deadpool and her best friend. How the fuck did they manage to become friends? She knew him for a long time, fought alongside him and tolerated that dipshit. 

“Look, lady, I’m not interested,” the man said gruffly. His voice was deep, husky and kind of sexy. It made Y/N tilt her head. Interesting. 

It was painful to watch the interaction. Wade tried to get him off the chair, away from the bar before he could explain anything. Such a rookie mistake. It was time to intervene before Wade overstepped and jeopardised this whole mission. 

She got off the chair and walked to the tall, well-built man. With a smile, she tapped on his shoulder. He instantly turned, his weird metal claws already out of his hands, ready to fight. When their eyes met, she showed him her bright smile and teeth. “Hi, peanut.” 

His face changed from pissed to shocked in less than a second. For a second it lost its colour. The man’s mouth opened wide. “Y/N?” he said her name gently, too gently for her liking. “Holy shit.” 

“Ha, Agent Smith was right,” Wade laughed, pointing a finger at her face. It got him three claws into his stomach. It made him grunt and fell to his knees. “Ouch. That fucking hurt.” 

“You know me?” Y/N asked, not believing the whole story she was told back in the TVA. 

That question took him aback. “What kind of dumb question is that, baby? Of course, I know ya,” and his hands reached for her face, holding her cheeks. To Y/N’s surprise, she let him. “How is this possible? How are you alive?” 

It was Y/N’s time for her eyes to widen in complete shock. “Woah,” she stepped back. 

“It’s me,” he said, frowning. “It’s Logan.” 

Wade decided to step in, waving a hand at them. “I don’t want to interrupt this romantic reunion, but we need to talk to you, big guy. It’s important.” 

“You came here with the weírd-looking sex toy?” Logan’s eyes were back on Y/N. “What the fuck is this? The the fuck is going on?”

That made her laugh. “Ha, Wade, even he thinks you look like a sex toy. With Cable, we are now three who think the same thing.” 

“Fuck you, Y/N,” he spat back. 

The man, Logan, pushed away from her, glaring. His claws were in the air, ready to strike if necessary. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Deadpool and this is my annoying friend Y/N,” Wade introduced them. 

“You are an ass,” Y/N glared at Wade.

“Impossible,” Logan shook his head, bumping into a wooden stool. “You are dead,” he pointed a finger directly at Y/N’s face. “You cannot be here. You died in my fucking arms! Who the fuck are you?” he raised his voice at her. 

“I’m Y/N,” she said. 

“Don’t bullshit me!” 

There was a sound of a loading gun. All three lazily turned their gaze to the bartender who was pointing a shotgun at them. None of them was intimidated by that. “Get the fuck out of my bar! Now! Or I will shoot you all.” 

“I think this is our cue,” Wade whispered. 

Logan grabbed Wade by the red top of his suit, pushing him out of the bar like he was a ragdoll. Y/N immediately followed them out, ready to step in if necessary. She wasn’t worried about Wade. He was immortal. His body parts would grow back. She was more ready to step in intellectually. That was something Wade didn’t know how to do. 

“Everyone calm down,” she said. 

“No!” they both yelled at her, already fighting like children.

Y/N looked at herself, reading this story and made a sour face. “Men,” she sighed and turned her gaze to the two men who were about to tear each other apart. A purple-looking mist appeared in her hands and she pushed the men away from each other. 

“That’s enough, gentlemen,” she said. 

There was blood coming out of Wade’s abdomen - the marks from the claws. She had to shake her head. Wade had his gun out, pointing it directly at Logan. “Will you fucking listen, you oaf?” 

Logan’s eyes moved from him back to Y/N. She saw how his stance relaxed. It was painful to look at her, see someone he lost. His claws retraced back into his hands. His fists clenched tightly, knuckles becoming white. “How come you are alive?” he asked. 

Y/N sighed. “Because I’m not her… me… uh,” she shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

“Fucking talk, woman,” he raised his voice. 

She raised her hand to calm him. “I can explain. But I need you to come with us, Logan.”

His eyes closed. When Y/N said her name, more emotions ran across his face. “How can I trust you? I can’t seem to trust my own mind.” 

Wade was ready to say something stupid, but Y/N quickly shut him up by throwing him away with her power. “Believe me, it doesn’t make any sense to me, too. I can give you an explanation if you will help us.” 

“Help with what?” he raised a brow. 

Y/N made a face, changed it to a frown. ”To save the multiverse?” she said it like a question, hesitant whether he’d believe her. “Before you say anything, I know it sounds fucking crazy. Trust me, I still have a hard time wrapping my mind around it.” 

Wade came running back. “That was rude, you know?” 

“Shut up,” she glared at him. “We need his help, so let me handle it. Just for once, Wade, I need you to zip it, okay?” 

He leaned closer to Logan. “She’s hormonal,” he whispered to him. 

This time, Y/N decided to ignore his comment. “Please,” she turned her gaze to Logan. “Will you come with us? Help us save our world, all of the worlds?” 

He scoffed. “I’m no hero, kid.” 

Y/N turned her head to Wade, then back to Logan. “None of us are heroes here,” she said. “Maybe that’s why we are meant to save everyone’s asses,” she shrugged. 

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. “How come you are not a hero? You are the sweetest thing in this world. You are the definition of heroism and kindness,” he said. 

She made a face. “Come with us and we’ll talk about it all.” 

And he did. 

. . . 

Logan and Y/N sat behind an old-fashioned plastic table. He still wore his clothes while Y/N changed from her tactical suit to jeans and a simple shirt. The silence between them was awkward. The tension could be cut with a knife. His eyes scanned her from head to anywhere they were able to reach. 

There was a stack of documents and papers by her side. She grabbed them to show them to prove she was not lying. 

The door opened and Wade stepped in, out of his red suit. Logan gasped, horrified when he saw the man’s face. “What the fuck? Holy shit, that is fucking horrible. As if you were ran down by a Zamboni,” he yelled. 

“It’s disgusting, right?” Y/N nodded. But a second later a grin was on her face. 

“Ha, ha,” Wade pretended to laugh. “Can’t believe you two are laughing at a poor disabled man who happened to have his face fucked to safe his shitty life.” 

“That was your decision,” Y/N reminded him. 

Logan pretended to hurl. Y/N chuckled. “It’s hard to look at him.” 

Y/N smiled at her friend. “Could you leave us alone?” she asked. “I need to talk to him alone and, well, it takes time to get used to your face.” 

Wade pointed a finger at her. “One day, I will cut your tongue out,” he threatened. He was already on his way out. “Oh,” he threw her a little device. “If you want to show him something spicy,” he winked at her. 

Once the door shut behind him, Y/N exhaled the breath she was holding. “Now that he’s out of the picture,” she waved with a hand.

“Just start singing,” said Logan, annoyed. 

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N, but I am not your Y/N. I’m from a different timeline,” she started. 

“How are you, not my Y/N? You sound the same, you look the same. You have the same mutation,” he said. “And a different timeline? What kind of bullshit is that?” 

She shrugged. “Hey, I found out about all of this today, okay?” she then glared at him. “I, myself, have trouble taking it in. It’s crazy, it’s fucked up on so many levels. It’s not easy for me too, you know?” 

Logan huffed. “Continue.”

“This is going to sound crazy, so prepare yourself.” She took a deep breath. “I was told, and showed, that somehow, we are meant to be together in almost every timeline.”

“What?” 

Y/N made a face. “It sounds like a fucking fairytale.” Her hands grabbed the first folder, looking at its name. When she opened it, there was a photo of both of them. They looked the same. Y/N pushed her chair closer to him and showed Logan the details in the document. “In this timeline, we are both normal people. We live together in the Canadian mountains.” 

Logan took the folder and read the document. His eyes went over the photo. He shook his head. “Holy shit,” was the only thing he said. 

Y/N reached for another folder. When she opened it, she chuckled. “Here, you are a notorious mob boss,” she showed him. In the picture, he had an eyepatch over his left eye. “We live in Madripoor. People know you there as Patch.” 

“What about my version in your world?” he asked.

She sighed. “There is none. I said we are meant to be together in almost every universe. In mine, you don’t exist.” She turned to the documents and took out the one from her timeline.

Logan snatched it from her, reading through the words. “You are a mercenary?” he asked. 

“Uh, yeah,” she nodded. “Wade and I have a business together. He’s the only family I have. Well, Wade and his fianceé Vanessa. In the past, the Avengers approached with the offer to be in their team. I declined. That’s not who I am.” 

“Is there a world, uh, timeline where you don’t exist?” he asked.

“They told me there used to be one, but that timeline was destroyed a long time ago,” she explained. “Don’t ask me how that happened, because I don’t have an answer for that. You should ask Agent Smith that.” 

“Why do you keep calling him that?” 

“He looks like a character from a movie,” she explained. Her hand reached for another folder. When she opened it, she laughed. “In this world, you and are enemies that secretly love each other.” 

Logan’s brow raised. He read the details of their relationship. “You are on Magneto’s side?” he gasped. “I mean, she is… This is so confusing.” 

“Uh,” she hesitated for a moment. “When did you lose me? Or the version of me. You know what I mean.” 

“Haven’t you read that?” he asked. 

“Nope,” she shook he head. “I’ve got through a couple of those folders. I was only told that we were going to your timeline and that I was dead. Plus to get you out of there and convince you to help us.” 

Logan nodded. “You died…” It was hard to talk about it. “It happened a few years ago during a war that the mutants were in,” he said. “You died in my arms,” he cleared his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered. 

“I live with that pain every day,” he continued. “And now, it is fucking harder than ever before, because here you are, sitting in front of me, but you are not… her.” 

At that point, she realised how difficult this experience was for him. Logan seemed like a tough guy. The pain that reflected in his eyes, how he avoided meeting her eyes more and more. 

“Everyone I knew is dead,” said Logan after a pause. “No one lives in my world that I care about.” 

Y/N bit her lower lip. “Logan,” she said his name softly. “We pulled you out of your timeline because it will be destroyed soon.” 

His eyes widened. “Wait, what? What’s going to happen to me?” 

“The TVA will present you with options. But if we save the multiverse, we will be rewarded. Or that’s what they told me,” she said. 

“It doesn’t matter. No one in my world is alive.” He stood up from the chair. “Let’s do this shit. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.” 

Y/N put a small smile on her face. She wanted to show him more, tell him what they told her, what she thought of it. “Yeah, let’s do this.” 

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

My dear lgbt+ kids,

I feel like advice on loneliness comes in only three flavors:

"It's all mindset, learn to embrace being alone and you'll never feel lonely!"

"Your head is lying to you, you have friends and they love you!"

"Here's a list of places you can go to hang out with people and make new friends!"

Those are usually well-meant and I'm sure there are situations where they do help someone feel better - but they're definitely not universally applicable.

The first one is even plain wrong: connection is a basic human need. You can't just "change your mindset" and turn that off, the same way you can't turn off your need for food or air or mental stimulation. Humans are group animals. We absolutely need social interactions to stay healthy and sane. It is true that some people do not need a large number of friends and are happiest with just one or two close friends, and it is also true that some people prefer to fulfill their social needs in other ways than what's traditionally defined as friendship - but that's not something you can (or should) try to train yourself to do, that's just natural differences and preferences!

The only thing you could "train" yourself to do would be to learn to ignore your social needs and bury them deep down under layers of denial... and you don't need me to explain to you why that's a very unhealthy idea. It's sad enough that so many people have to do that to not lose their minds in loneliness, we certainly don't need to celebrate an unhealthy coping skill as a "superior mindset".

The other two at least get a bit closer to the truth: the solution for your unmet need is not to kill the need, but to fulfill it... but that's easier said than done, isn't it?

After all, "Don't worry, your friends love you!" doesn't help if you have no friends. Loneliness is not always "all in your head": Maybe you moved to a new place and don't know anyone there. Or you cut off contact with all your friends after a big fight. Or you grew up neurodivergent (or got mentally ill at a young age) and had no chance to learn how to make friends at the age most kids do, and by now you have been friendless for so long you don't even know where to start.

Same with "just go to a bar and talk to some new people" or "Take a pottery class and you'll meet some interesting people there" - that's not factually wrong, but also not helpful if the reason you feel lonely is that you struggle to make friends (or even struggle to just talk to people). Which can also be part of neurodivergence or mental illness, or just be a part of your personality (shyness), or be a result of isolating circumstances (like having spent a lot of time in a closed environment, for example a long hospital stay, and now feeling unsure how to connect with people outside of that environment). 

And those are just a few of the many, many possible explanations why someone may be lonely that require a more individualized approach - which is why we can’t solve loneliness with any one-size-fits-all solution.

That may be a somewhat disappointing-sounding conclusion in a letter on loneliness, so let me also tell you: hope and support are always within reach, even if it might take some time and patience to find them. The key is to remember that your feelings are valid and that you're not alone in your struggle.

First, recognize that admitting that you feel lonely, and wanting to take action based on that feeling, is a sign of strength, not weakness. You’re pretty insightful for recognizing your loneliness and super brave for wanting to reach out!

Secondly, be kind to yourself and allow yourself to take small steps. Small, actually manageable steps are crucial in any healing journey! If it’s not an option to just go to the bar or that pottery class, then it’s okay to start somewhere else. Maybe a therapist, a support group, or even online communities can be valuable “training sessions” for social connections. Even reaching out to one single person can make a significant difference over time. Your journey to finding companionship and connection might be different from someone else’s, but that doesn't make it any less valid (or achievable!).

Lastly, do consider embracing new activities that you may enjoy - but not just for the sake of meeting others. It’s important to nurture your own happiness and well-being when you’re feeling lonely. Those can be activities you can try out alone and even at home, for now! Anything that enriches your life is good. Long down the road, maybe it will lead to opportunities to connect with others, but even if it doesn’t: it’s important to incorporate new experiences into your life.

While there isn't a universal solution to loneliness, I truly believe there is a path forward for everyone. It's all about finding what works for you.

With all my love,

Your Tumblr Dad

[meazalykov]

the critic

lena oberdorf x commentator!reader

summary: when lena gets tagged in a video clip, she approaches you

before the cameras, before the viral clips, before the edits, before your voice became synonymous with women’s soccer commentary, there was your games itself.

you used to play, back in the day. soccer was your life—practices in the morning, matches on weekends, hours spent refining your craft, the feel of the ball at your feet something almost sacred. 

you had dreams, big ones, of playing at the highest level, maybe even for the national team. but that all came crashing down when a spinal injury took you out of the game. 

one bad fall, a rough tackle by three players at once in a crucial match, and suddenly, everything you had worked for was gone. 

the doctors said you were lucky to be walking and running again, but for a long time, it didn’t feel like luck. 

it felt like a curse, like soccer was ripped away from you when you were just starting to get your footing in the world of professional sports. 

lyon was close to signing you from your childhood club. however, that changed. the deal had to fail and so did your dream.

so you had to shift gears. you couldn’t play anymore, but you could talk about the game, share your insights, your passion, your love for it with the world. 

and, as it turned out, people loved listening to you. your analysis was sharp, your delivery honest, your humor was sweet, and soon enough, you became a well-known voice in women’s soccer commentary. 

you poured everything you couldn’t put on the pitch into your work, and it paid off.

now, here you are—2023, world cup, germany vs colombia. the stadium is electric, fans buzzing with anticipation. 

it’s your job to capture all of it, to bring the game to life for those watching at home. 

alongside you in the commentator’s booth is tyrell, your close friend and co-host for one of the biggest sports streaming sites in the world. 

you adjust your headset, eyes scanning the field as the camera pans over the players. 

"alright, tyrell, we’ve got quite the matchup today," you say, your voice carrying across the broadcast. 

"germany is looking to bounce back after their last game, and colombia has been on fire in their latest matches with caicedo. it’s anyone’s game today."

"no doubt," tyrell agrees. 

“but you know i’ve got my eye on germany’s midfield. lena oberdorf, she’s got a lot of weight on her shoulders in this one. one of the best defensive midfielders in the world is on the pitch tonight." he finishes. 

you nod, your gaze locking onto oberdorf as she moves across the pitch. 

she’s been a standout for years—strong, composed, a true force in the midfield. 

you’ve always admired the way she plays, the way she commands respect on the field as she will roughly stop any opponent attack. 

but today, something feels off. you’ve been watching her closely during the first half, and you can’t help but feel like she’s holding back.

"honestly," you start, pausing to gather your thoughts, "i expected more from oberdorf during that first half."

there’s a brief silence as tyrell turns to look at you, his eyebrows raised in surprise. 

it’s not often that you call out a player like that, especially someone as highly regarded as oberdorf. 

"really?" he asks, curious. "what do you think’s going on with her?"

you lean forward slightly, watching as the replay of germany’s midfield play rolls across your monitor. 

"she’s not playing with her usual aggression. oberdorf is known for her ability to dominate the midfield, to break up play and transition quickly. but today, she’s been hesitant. this can’t continue if they don’t want someone like caicedo to get in their box. oberdorf needs to press harder, get more involved in the attack. if she steps it up in the second half, she can make the difference that germany needs."

your words hang in the air for a moment before tyrell responds, and the conversation shifts back to the overall match. 

but you can’t shake the feeling that your comment will stir something up. 

sure enough, by the time the game is over—colombia managing to scrape by with a fantastic win—your phone is buzzing nonstop. 

social media is ablaze with the clip of you critiquing oberdorf, the internet having latched onto the rare moment where you offered up something negative about a player you so clearly admired.

fans of both you and lena are eating it up, dissecting your analysis, making memes, and some even suggesting you had ulterior motives. 

it doesn’t help that you’ve been vocal in the past about your respect for oberdorf’s game. 

and maybe, if you’re being totally honest, there’s more to it than just respect. 

you’ve followed her career closely, always a little more interested in her games than others. not that you’d ever admit to having a bit of a crush on her—not publicly, anyway.

across the city, at the team hotel, lena oberdorf is stretched out on her bed, headphones in, trying to decompress after the match. 

her body is exhausted, germany didn’t get the result they needed. her phone buzzes with notifications, but she ignores it for now, lost in her thoughts.

that is, until laura freigang walks in, a mischievous grin on her face and her phone in hand. 

"lena," she says, her voice sings, "it looks like someone’s got their eye on you."

lena sits up, raising an eyebrow. "what are you talking about?"

laura tosses her phone onto the bed, and lena catches it, her eyes narrowing as she watches the video that’s already queued up. 

it’s you, sitting in the commentator’s booth, talking about her. her. 

"honestly, i expected more from oberdorf during that first half."

lena blinks, her mind processing the words. she’s used to hearing praise, especially from someone like you, who’s usually more positive in your analysis. 

but this? it feels different. not harsh, but… honest. like you know she could do better, and that, in a weird way, feels almost flattering.

"see?" laura says, flopping onto the bed next to her. 

"she noticed you. she expects more from you, lena."

lena rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the faint smile tugging at her lips. 

it’s no secret, at least among her teammates, that she’s always found you attractive. she’s mentioned it once or twice—half-joking, half-serious—how she watches your broadcasts not just for the analysis but because, well, you’re easy on the eyes. 

but she never thought it would go beyond that. you were based in new york city, worlds away from her, and probably didn’t even know she existed outside of your job.

but now? maybe things have changed.

"i don’t want to get your hopes up because it could’ve been a simple analysis but maybe this is your shot," laura adds, nudging lena with her elbow. 

"go for it. what’s the worst that could happen?"

lena hesitates, the idea forming in her mind. it’s bold, sure, but she’s never been one to shy away from taking risks. "yeah… maybe i will."

later that night, you’re sitting in the hotel bar, winding down after a long day of commentary in australia. 

the buzz from the viral clip still lingers in the back of your mind, and you’re half-expecting to get some flak for it. but instead, it seems like people are more entertained by the whole thing than anything else. 

you take a sip of your drink, eyes scanning the room, when you hear a voice behind you.

"hey y/n-- I'm sorry, uh I hope i’m not interrupting."

you turn, and your breath catches in your throat for just a second. it’s lena oberdorf, standing right in front of you, looking a little nervous but still carrying that air of confidence she always has on the pitch.

how did she find you? maybe the german national team stayed nearby? i mean, you were told this was a popular bar in sydney.

however, why would lena go to a bar if she has to prepare for the important match against south korea?

"not at all," you manage, trying to keep your cool despite the sudden rush of nerves.

"what’s up?"

"i, uh, saw the clip," she says, rubbing the back of her neck. "the one where you talked about me."

you chuckle softly, feeling a slight flush in your cheeks. "yeah… i didn’t mean to come off too harsh. just being honest, you know?"

you didn’t know how to react, so you smile. no player has confronted you about your comments before. this is a first.

"no, i get it," she smiles, her eyes locking onto yours. 

"honesty’s good. i just… wanted to ask if you’d like to grab dinner sometime. maybe when you’re in germany next? i’d love to take you out." lena speaks in perfect english. 

you blink, surprised by the offer. of all the things you expected tonight, this wasn’t one of them. but looking at her now, her smile genuine and her eyes soft with hope, you can’t help but smile back.

"yeah," you say, heart racing just a little. "i’d like that."

you were a little older than her, older by two years, but she carried herself in a way that pulled you to her.

the world feels a little smaller, the distance between you and lena shrinking with a single conversation. 

you think that maybe you should critic her more often, kidding— of course.

my masterlist is here if you want to read more fics <3

[starleska]

i think ‘Big’ Jack Horner is Disney, and here’s why

many of us have had the pleasure of seeing the incredible Puss in Boots: The Last Wish by now, and were blown away by its clever writing, enchanting animation and emotional character arcs. yet there is one character who booted the trend of having a reason for his behaviour, and outright refused to experience any growth whatsoever.

let’s talk about ‘Big’ Jack Horner, and why i think he’s supposed to represent Disney:

‘Big’ Jack Horner isn’t just an antagonist in The Last Wish - he’s a villain. a self-obsessed, exploitative, murderous, petty, cruel bastard of a man whose awful behaviour isn’t just motivated by personal slights or childhood trauma: he sincerely enjoys hurting other people. whether it’s cheating his goons (’The Serpent Sisters’) out of a fair payment for their services or being excited about shooting a puppy in the face, there’s no denying that Jack delights in causing others pain and suffering. but what does he have to do with Disney?

let’s answer that question with another question: do you think that Jack, when placed next to the other antagonists - Goldi, The Three Bears, even Death - sticks out like a sore, plum-coloured thumb?

of course he does! but why? well, let’s look at Jack on a surface level. Jack is a monolith of a human being. not only is he physically huge and intimidating, he is the inheritor of an enormous pastry fortune and operates in the manner of a mob boss, with countless resources and a whole variety of powerful magical items at his disposal. indeed, Jack employs a crack team of bakers/assassins called ‘The Baker’s Dozen’ to carry out many of his tasks. although Jack does harm others himself, it is because of these resources - including the people who work for him - that he is able to bypass many of the obstacles faced by our protagonists in an honest and character-developing way (e.g., the Pocket Full O’Posies in The Dark Forest). Jack doesn’t need to have a character arc the way the other characters do, because he is so wealthy and owns so much.

but Jack’s reason for owning so much and being obsessed with magic and magical items isn’t through intellectual curiosity, or a traumatic backstory where he needed to learn how to wield magic. do you know what Jack’s covert motivation for owning all of the magic in the world is?

it’s money.

when we get the flashback of Jack’s childhood, dancing for the entertainment of an audience using his nursery rhyme, we see him becoming jealous of Pinocchio - and we see Gepetto in the back, absolutely raking in the cash. if we consider this flashback as that crucial moment within which Jack decided to become what he is today - and the presence of our off-brand Jiminy Cricket inclines us to think so - then we can understand that Jack decided that from that moment forward, he would own all of the magic. 

let’s go back to The Baker’s Dozen for a moment. this team of highly-competent, multidisciplinary artisans do everything for Jack, whether it’s baking the pies which make him rich, or laying down their lives at his service. we aren’t given an in-universe reason for why they do this. yes, Jack is feared, but he is still the subject of mockery due to his humble beginnings as a nursery rhyme character. it certainly isn’t due to being treated or paid well. however, if we view the Baker’s Dozen as a metaphor for overworked, exploited artists whose views are routinely dismissed by the money-hungry, powerful corporation who owns their craft...things start to add up, don’t they? considering historic allegations of worker abuse at the hands of Disney, having Jack Horner literally step on their spines and encourage them to flex takes on a whole different meaning. 

it doesn’t end there. do you recognise the items that Jack pulls out of his Mary Poppins bag when his Baker’s Dozen are being destroyed by the Pocket Full O’Posies - the items that he calls ‘the big guns’? it’s the broomstick from Fantasia, the spinning wheel from Sleeping Beauty, the size snacks from Alice in Wonderland, and a knock-off Jiminy Cricket from Pinocchio - all references to some of Disney’s earliest and most famous films.

still don’t believe me? well, let’s recap more of the items Jack has in his repertoire:

a hook-hand (referencing Captain Hook in Peter Pan)

a trident (referencing King Triton in The Little Mermaid)

poison apple bombs (referencing The Evil Queen in Snow White)

a glass slipper (again referencing Cinderella)

remember what happens when the knock-off Jiminy Cricket (interesting that there are so many Pinocchio references specifically, huh?) is horrified that Jack is losing so many men? Jack says he isn’t worried about losing the manpower, because he has a bottomless bag full of magical weapons. Jack literally gets his power off of the backs of his workers. sounds a lot like a big company justifying worker layoffs and exploitation because they have so many properties and are too big to fail, doesn’t it? 

hell, Jack doesn’t even know what half of these items do! when he’s using the unicorn horns as ammo, he is surprised that they cause people to explode in a shower of confetti. viewing Jack through this lens, it’s difficult not to think about enormous corporations gobbling up properties and churning out content with little to no regard for their artists (looking back at The Baker’s Dozen - some of whom do perish in the fight with the unicorn horns) or what the properties are about. we haven’t even touched on Jack coveting the Wishing Star, a recurring motif in countless Disney movies as representing magic, dreams, and boundless creativity. 

now, i hear you saying, ‘but Star! why would DreamWorks bother writing their bad guy as a metaphor for Disney?’ believe it or not, this isn’t the first time that DreamWorks have done this. in case you didn’t know, Lord Farquaad is a caricature of Michael Eisner, former chairman and CEO of The Walt Disney Company. the production of Shrek was actually quite troubled; animators who were perceived as having failed on other projects were ‘Shreked’, or sent to work on Shrek, instead of working on other (presumed to be more lucrative) films. of course, DreamWorks was co-founded by previous Disney CEO Jeffrey Katzenberg, hence the animosity towards Disney and its works evident in the Shrek franchise. this is what formed the story of Shrek: an ugly, crude outsider character taking on the clean-cut moralising of a dictator hell-bent on a so-called ‘perfect’ world, all created against the creative backdrop of a painful separation from Disney and a great deal of pent-up rage. 

the irreverent, crass and sometimes adult humour of Shrek was a middle finger to Disney’s high-censorship control on animation. this is why Lord Farquaad (which you may have noticed sounds a bit like ‘Fuckwad’) is so obsessed with Duloc being ‘perfect’, and why he couldn’t stand the freedom of the fairy tale creatures who are the heroes of the first Shrek movie.

in fact, this kind of meta-commentary permeates the Shrek franchise: 

The Fairy Godmother from Shrek 2, despite being a fairy tale creature herself, is highly prejudiced against characters who break out of their perceived social norms: i.e., Shrek marrying Princess Fiona and getting his Happily Ever After. she is an expansion of the control left over by Lord Farquaad, and rich because of her monopolisation of fairy tale creatures and their stories. 

Prince Charming in Shrek the Third fails miserably to capitalise on these themes, but we’ll get back to him! 

Rumpelstiltskin from Shrek Forever After tackles the gluttony of franchise reboots, and how soulless and rooted in corporate greed attempts to reboot often are. whilst not necessarily Disney-specific, Shrek Forever After follows the box office bomb that was Shrek the Third: a movie which noticeably fails to write a compelling narrative approaching any of the themes of the previous two films. the writers learned from their mistakes and wrote a movie which satirised their own selling-out of the franchise, becoming hollow and unnecessary and ‘perfect’ - the very thing they were making fun of in the earlier Shrek films.

there is one more area i’d like to touch on: Jack Horner’s source material. we know that Little Jack Horner is quite obscure: an 18th-century English nursery rhyme involving a boy who pulls a plum out of a pie with his thumb, and congratulates himself for his fortitude. but did you know that from its earliest conception, Little Jack Horner was associated with foolishness and dishonesty?

it’s true: the simple yet inexplicable nature of the poem was lambasted for being infantile, and quickly became the subject of revision, moralisation, and even political satire. it is no mistake that to ‘be under one’s thumb’ (as many of the characters in The Last Wish are to Jack, both literally and figuratively) means to be under one’s decisive control. the choice of Jack Horner for the villain of The Last Wish is a clever one, because we could easily have ended up with a sympathetic Jack, whose ostracisation as ‘not even a fairy tale’ may have led to a justifiable motive, even for his specific brand of cruelty. but instead, the writers of The Last Wish have gone one step further; they’ve transformed a source affiliated with idiocy and deception into a metaphor for a global multimedia conglomerate...all while portraying him as simultaneously terrifying, powerful, and ridiculous. 

it has been over a decade since Shrek Forever After was released, and Disney has changed dramatically in that time. a global giant, Disney now owns more enormous money-making properties than ever thought possible, and consistently capitalises on nostalgia for its early properties to make more money and accumulate power. since breaking out of its exclusive licensing agreement with Disney in 2016, DreamWorks has had no official connection to Disney, making the ground for mockery and satirisation of the company which spawned the studio all the more fertile. ‘Big’ Jack Horner is not just a glamorous return to form for the dreadful, unapologetically evil villain which Disney has eschewed in modern times - he’s a hulking, egocentric monster whose avarice rivals that only of the corporation he’s inspired by. 

and those are my thoughts on ‘Big’ Jack Horner! of course this is by no means the definitive interpretation - we should all just have fun with the movie and come up with whatever theories we like 🥰💖 i’d love to hear your thoughts on him and The Last Wish in general - he’s definitely one of my favourite bad guys to be released in the past few years!

thanks so much for reading, and have yourselves a wonderful day 🥰

[babygirlboeser]

So It Goes…

pairing: matt rempe x f! reader

wc: 4.1k

genres: mainly smut, kinda fluffy leading up to the filth and soft aftercare

summary: matt played so well tonight, and he deserves to be celebrated. you were eager to show him just how proud of him you were.

note: this takes place on may 24th 2024, after round 3 game 2

warnings: pure filth, unprotected p in v, oral (both m and f receiving), fingering, cursing, shitty writing and probably typos

a/n: i haven’t really written anything longer than blurbs in a few years so this is very rusty as it’s my first full length fic in ages i’m sorry

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

It was too risky. This was the playoffs, every second counts, and they couldn’t run the chance of taking any unnecessary penalties. Okay, yes, he’s a very physical player and surely your boyfriend deserves a fair amount of the penalties he’s dealt, but at times it really was complete utter bullshit. You swore sometimes he was penalized for just existing too close to another player. The officials hate him, so in crucial moments like these, it was too risky to play him. With one goal from each team in the first, followed by two scoreless periods, game two of the Eastern Conference Final was heading into overtime. 

It was rare for Matt to get a shift in the third period, let alone in overtime. Which is why your heart practically burst when you saw your boy step onto the ice tonight, in not two, not three, but all four periods. You were surprised, but so excited for him. You can’t imagine how buzzed he must be feeling right now. 

He loved it, the energy, the roar of the crowd chanting his name. It was like a drug to him. Whether it be massive hits, starting a line brawl, or just playing an energetic shift, he lived to put on a show. Matt had become something of a fan favorite since his debut, and the crowd went wild when they realized he was getting a shift in overtime. All eyes were on your boyfriend as he skated across the ice, the chants of his name fueling him. He was the hottest thing in New York these days, the center of attention that nobody could take their eyes off of. It was like nobody else mattered when Rempe was on the ice. You’ll admit, it did make you a little insecure. There were thousands of pretty girls here that wanted him, staring at him, yelling his name. But in that sea of other girls, the only one he cared about was you. You were his good luck charm. He played better when you were there, and he always made sure he knew where you were sitting so he could look for you in the stands. He always gave it his all, but a quick glance to you in the crowd was sure to give him that extra boost of motivation to play even better. He appreciates the fans so much, but what he loved the most was knowing that his girl was there. Cheering him on, supporting him every step of the way. You attended every game you possibly could. His average time on ice wasn’t high, and he always felt bad when you would show up to games where his TOI was especially low, profusely apologizing for wasting your time. You reminded him you didn’t care if he played sixty minutes or two, you were there to support him no matter what. 

With every minute that passed you wondered more and more if you would be seeing a second overtime, until suddenly the entire arena erupted in cheers as Goodrow netted the game winner, fourteen minutes into overtime. The section where you sat with the other WAGs was especially loud, all of you thrilled for the guys. After the recent 3-0 loss, you were all undoubtedly very happy with the outcome of tonight's game, the series now tied 1-1. 

As the crowd dissipated you made your way down to the parking lot. You and Matt usually drove separately as he needed to be there earlier, so you would head home and wait for him. You say goodbye to a few of the other ladies as you get in your car, then shoot off a quick text to Matt before you start your drive home. 

hey baby i’m just heading out now, you played amazing i’m so so proud of you and can’t wait to see u. so happy you got some OT!!!! if ur going out with the guys have fun and be safe and i’ll see you at home later, i love you so much <3 

You and Matt’s apartment wasn’t far from Madison Square Garden, but the New York traffic combined with your eagerness to get home were making this drive feel endless. You figured he might go out to celebrate with some of the guys for a while, but you still wanted to get home and wait for him, impatient and eager to wrap him in your arms, smothering him with kisses and praise of how well he performed tonight. You hoped he was as proud of himself as you were of him. With nine hits, a TOI of 10:06, which may not sound like much, but was significantly higher than usual, and surprisingly no penalties, this was one of his best games yet. You yourself were still buzzing with excitement from the game, you can’t imagine how he must feel. 

Home now, you made your way to the couch, settling down with a book to pass some time. You were startled upon hearing Matt’s key in the door merely minutes after you had walked in. You didn’t expect him home this early, but you were glad he was. As Matt makes his way inside, you try to restrain yourself from jumping up and throwing yourself at him like a total crazy person. You didn’t try very hard. 

“Hi” You say through a giggle, a big smile plastered across your face as you practically leap towards him. 

As you reach him, you essentially climb him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he swiftly scoops you up by your thighs, holding you close against his body. As you wrap your legs tightly around his waist, he puts one hand under your ass for support, and the other rubs up and down your back. 

“I thought you would be going out with the guys?” You question, while you begin running your hands through his hair. 

“Tired. Just wanted to come home to you. Crazy game.” His response slightly muffled as he nuzzles his face against you, pressing kisses to your neck. 

“Yeah it was.” You say. Hand still tangled in his hair, you pull his face from your neck and pull him to your lips for a quick, sloppy kiss.

  “I’m so proud of you.” You whisper. 

“Shut up.” He murmurs playfully, avoiding your eyes.

He blushes at the praise and quickly buries his face in your neck again, not wanting you to see him rosy-cheeked. The tough guy act wasn’t working, it rarely did with you. He was a big sweetheart and you both knew it, whether he would ever admit it or not. Sure he was tough as nails on the ice, but off? Total teddy bear, especially for you. You saw through him so easily, and he wasn’t sure if he loved or hated how easily you could turn him into a blushing, giggling mess. A blushing mess who was truly loving the way you were talking about him right now, so happy that you liked his game tonight. His team, the fans, his family, and his girl; he just wanted to make them proud. And that he did. He always did. 

Despite playing shy, you could tell he was loving the way you spoke so highly of him, and you were loving it too. You were so in love with this beautiful boy. How could you not literally worship him? You gently tug at his hair once more, making his eyes meet yours, wanting to see him as you were seriously loving how cute he looked like this, all smiley and pink in the face. 

“Baby! You played so well. I’m really proud of you. And you got a shift in overtime! That’s amazing! This was a huge game for you, aren’t you proud of yourself?” You ask. 

“Okay, okay, it was pretty great.” He says excitedly and his smile grows as the blush begins to fade. You can tell he’s still feeling the exhilaration of the game.

‘Yeah it was!” You agree. 

“And no bullshit penalties!” He exclaims.

“I know, I can’t believe it either!” You both laugh and he smirks. God, that smirk does unspeakable things to you. 

Sliding a hand to the back of your neck, Matt softly pulls you closer until your faces are just a hair apart, practically touching. 

“I love you so much.” He whispers. 

“I love you too, baby.” You respond and he pulls you in for a deep kiss. 

It was moments like these where all jealousy went out the window and you truly couldn’t care less about those other girls. Some of them would recognize you in the stands and shoot dirty looks your way, but you just laughed. You were the one wrapped around him right now, and you were the one that he loved. When everyone wanted him, he only wanted you. You felt so unbelievably lucky, yet truly confused as to how you managed to pull this man. This perfect, amazing man, who played his best tonight, and looked really fucking hot while doing it. Although, you thought he looked good doing anything. He looked good right now. Pressed up against you, that pretty smile, those big brown eyes. Not to mention, the occasional squeeze he was giving your ass was not helping your sanity. You hoped he wasn’t too tired from the game, because fuck, you were getting so turned on. 

Of course he’s happy about his TOI, and that he got to play in overtime, but most of all he’s so glad that you’re proud of him. There’s nothing he loves more than seeing you smile, and the fact that he’s the reason for it is absolutely melting him. He’s buzzing. He just played a really great game, and gets to come home to his beautiful, smiley, giggly girlfriend showering him with praise. Who is also, not to mention, dangerously close to his boner right now. He’s on cloud nine. 

You tighten your legs around him and he grunts at the friction. 

“You okay?” You say while loosening your legs slightly, not realizing what had just happened and thinking you might have hurt him. 

“I- um- yeah” He stutters. You notice his face redden again and suddenly become aware of the hardening member pressing against you. 

“Bed. Now.” You demand through a big smile, and you too are blushing now. 

With you still tangled around him, he carries you to the bedroom and sits on the bed, you straddling his lap. Matt runs his hands under your shirt and up your back, showing love to every inch of your skin. He begins to toy with the fabric of your shirt and looks to you for permission, to which you quickly nod. He swiftly pulls your shirt over your head, taking in how fucking gorgeous you look sat on top of him in only a bra. You then help him remove his shirt, tossing them both to the side. You pull him in for a heated kiss, hands now rifling through each other's hair as your tongues explored the others mouth. With less clothes between you now, you’re melting at the feel of his warm skin against yours. Not breaking the kiss, you allow your hands to start wandering. Matt gasps and bucks his hips as you palm him through his clothes. 

“Take them off.” You command as you remove yourself from your spot on his lap. He complies, tugging the rest of his clothes off, tossing them to the floor where they joined your recently discarded shirts. 

Normally, Matt would go down on you first. He puts your needs above his, always wanting to make you cum at least once before he even thinks about cumming himself. Tonight however, you insisted on doing all the work, knowing he was tired from the game. You were totally fine with treating him and doing the work, in fact you wanted to. He deserves to be celebrated, and you always loved making him feel good. He lays down, hesitantly, as he feels bad not treating you first. You flash him a smile to assure him that it’s okay, and you take him in one hand, starting him out with a few slow strokes as you lower your head and begin slowly flicking your tongue over his tip. He was pulsating, precum already leaking from him, so desperate to feel your lips wrapped around him. He gently pushes your hair out of your face and gathers it behind your head, loosely gripping it like a makeshift ponytail. Without warning, you take all of him in your mouth and start moving up and down on his cock. Matt lets out a loud moan, his head already spinning from how good it felt. You keep going, your pace rapidly increasing, as Matt tried to stifle his moans, which became more and more challenging as he neared climax. 

“Fuck, baby.” He groaned lowly as you continue to fuck him with your mouth. 

“Feels so good. Don’t stop.” He whined desperately. 

His breathing suddenly hitched, confirming that he was close. You begin to hum against him, knowing the vibrations of your moans would drive him over the edge. The sudden change in technique had him gasping and fighting the urge to buck his hips up into your face. His grip on your hair tightened so much his hand shook. The pressure on your scalp and his breathy moans and whines were turning you on so much. He moaned again and you fought the desire to dive a hand into your panties. He sounded so pretty, and the way his cock throbbed and twitched in your mouth made you so needy to feel him inside of you. 

Matt whined your name and his waist moved fastly up and down as the band in his stomach was about to snap. With one last bob of your head, he lets out a loud groan as he releases, filing your throat with cum. You hold him deep in your throat, and moan loudly against the base of his cock, the vibrations making him cum even harder. You detach your mouth from him and gently stroke his length a few more times as he comes down from his high. He lifts his head to see you looking at him with watery doe eyes as you lick your lips, cleaning up any drops that may have spilled from your mouth. He watches as you swallow everything he just gave you, and lets out a drawn out “Fuuuck” before throwing his head back to the pillow again, still needing to recover from the pleasure. You smiled at him, smug that you did a good job. 

Giving him a moment to catch his breath, you kiss up his abs and chest until you reach his face. He pulls you in for a kiss, and with ease he flips you both over, him now hovering over you, all while not breaking the kiss. He pecks your lips once more, and starts kissing his way down your body until he settles between your legs. You blushed knowing you were already so wet for him. A smile pulls at his lips as he unbuttons your jeans and pulls them and your panties down your legs, throwing them somewhere across the room, leaving you in nothing but a bra. He kisses your thighs and presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles on it. You tangle a hand in his hair, and that smile suddenly fades as he is interrupted by you pulling his head away. 

“You don’t have to. I can do all the work tonight. Wanna make you feel good.” You tell him. 

“Baby, this does make me feel good.” He reminds you. It was true. As much as you adored having his face between your legs, he might actually love it even more. 

Lowering his head again, he teasingly runs his tongue up and down your folds a few times before slowly pushing his tongue into you. You gasp at the pleasure and your thighs tense. As Matt’s pace increases, he snakes his arms under your thighs to hold you in place. You always tried your best not to squirm, but with this pretty boy between your legs making you feel this indescribably good, how could you not? It was a challenge to stay still, a challenge that you almost always failed. The way his hair slightly tickled against your stomach and thighs, the way he knew just how to perfectly curl his fingers and swirl his tongue inside of you, the way one touch could turn you into a whining, overstimulated mess. He knew exactly how to make you fall apart. Mumbled strings of curses and moans fell from your lips as Matt fucked his tongue into you. He adored how pretty you sounded for him. He loves that he’s the only one who gets to hear you like this. One arm still hooked around your leg, he frees the other hand and inserts a finger into you, pushing in and out a few times before adding another finger. You were a squirming moaning mess now, his long fingers buried deep inside of you making you feel like your whole body was on fire. 

“That feel good?” He says looking up at you, fingers still pumping into you. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him, those big brown doe eyes staring up at you lovingly, his lips swollen and wet. God, he looks so pretty like this. You can’t quite form words properly thanks to just how good he’s making you feel, so you just nod rapidly and lay back down for him. He lowers his head back down and starts sucking on your clit. It was too much. Your loud moans echoed through the apartment and you swore you were seeing stars. You were close, and with the way your legs began to shake, he knew it too. He drives his fingers into you even faster and the knot finally snaps. You reached your high, moaning uncontrollably and cumming all over his fingers. Just like how you had moaned around his cock, Matt moans against your pussy, knowing it makes you cum even harder. Pulling his mouth from your now swollen clit, he looks up at you smiling, still slowly pumping his fingers into you as you come down from your high. Pulling out of you, he licked up your folds one more time, which he always said was to clean up some of the mess you’d just made, but the truth is he just couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted. He pressed a gentle kiss to your pussy, then to each of your thighs, which were still slightly shaking. He sat up on his knees and stared at you for a moment, admiring how fucking gorgeous you looked like this. Breathing heavy, legs shaking, all for him. 

“You okay, pretty girl?” He asked. 

You gave a weak smile and slowly managed to pull yourself up to sit on your knees, now facing each other, though you were still feeling slightly too overstimulated to form words just yet. You reach out and grab his wrist, pulling his hand to your lips. You press a gentle kiss to his hand before taking his fingers in your mouth, sucking your own slick off of them. You look up at him with doe eyes as you pull his fingers from your mouth, him looking speechless with his jaw slightly dropped, staring at you in awe. You knew that would drive him crazy, and those suspicions were quickly confirmed as you glanced down and caught a glimpse of his growing erection. Still gripping his wrist in one hand, you run your other hand through his messy hair and pull him towards you for a kiss. It’s sloppy, fast paced, and desperate, both knowing you still needed more of each other. You eventually break the heated kiss, and pull just slightly away so your faces are mere inches apart, both still breathing heavy, and both with devilish smirks on your face. 

“Lay down.” you whisper and he blushes. He was usually the more dominant one, but wow, did he ever love seeing you take control like this. He complies, laying down for you, his hands softly resting on your thighs as you straddle him, just enough that his tip pushes into you. The suspense and lack of contact is killing him, but he knows you may need a moment to adjust. He wants everything to feel good for both of you and would never start moving if you weren’t ready for him yet. Breathy moans escape both of you as you slowly sink down on his cock, him stretching you out so good. Every time your hips connect you swear you were made just for him, and he was made for you. Your bodies melted together so perfectly, like pieces falling right into place. You reach behind yourself to unclasp your bra, and Matt’s eyes widen at the sight. You toss the garment aside and push your hands down on his chest and start moving up and down on him, slowly at first, but pace gradually increasing. 

“That feel good?” You ask him. 

“Fuck.” He moans out breathily, “Feels so fucking good.” You shyly giggle and smile in response. There was nothing you loved more than making your boy feel nice. 

“Let me hear you.” 

You suddenly pick up the pace and he moaned, not holding back on the volume this time. God, his moans alone could make you finish. It was always difficult not to completely lose your mind the second he started making those pretty noises. You slide your hands from his chest and grip onto his shoulders to try and keep yourself somewhat grounded. You could feel yourself getting close already and dug your fingers even tighter into his shoulders. He may have fingernail imprints after this, but it’s nothing he’s not used to. You often left him marked up, hickeys, fingernail marks, scratches down his back. As one hand still rests on your thigh, the other slides up to play with your tits. You continue riding him at a fast pace and neither of you are even trying to contain your moans anymore. He adores you. He adores having you on top of him. Between the sight of your tits bouncing, your pretty face all fucked out, and being able to hear and watch the moans falling from your lips, he swears he died and went to heaven. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He could never get enough of the sight of you on top of him, but now his eyes are fighting the urge to roll back from the pleasure. His grip on your boob loosens and his hands make their way to your hips. He twitches and you can tell that he’s close, and thankfully so, because you weren’t going to last much longer either. The forming knot in your stomach is tightening quickly and as soon as Matt grips your hips and starts thrusting up into you, you can’t hold it in anymore. Loud moans from both of you fill the room as you reach your highs together, cumming on his cock and feeling his release inside of you. You still your hips and lean down to kiss him, moaning against each other, riding out your highs with him still deep inside of you. You eventually break the kiss and slowly climb off of Matt’s lap, crashing down beside him. 

“You did so good, baby.” He says and you both smile at each other, cheeks flushed, both of you still trying to catch your breath. 

“You did so good.” You said, reminding him again just how proud you are. 

“Let’s go get cleaned up, pretty girl.” He mumbles while slowly getting up. 

He hesitates for just a moment to admire the sight of his cum dripping out of you, before gently scooping you up in his arms and carrying you to the bathroom. He runs a warm shower for you both, his skin feeling so nice on yours as you help clean each other up.

 Afterwards, you collapse in bed together, quickly finding your place on his chest, snuggling up into him. He wraps his big arms around you, pulling you tightly against him. You lazily lift your head and press little kisses to his jaw, and he softly plays with your hair. You loved being so close to one another, feeling so warm and safe. Your heart felt full, wrapped up in one another, whispering sweet praises in each other's ear. He was all yours, and you were all his. So caught up in this moment, so desperately in love with each other. 

[dear-ao3]

god tier pasta and broccoli

greetings friends romans and fellow countrymen today i have succeeded at life in ways previously thought impossible by mankind. how did i do that? well i figured out how to make the cavatelli and broccoli that the little italian deli in my hometown makes

as some of you may know i am in fact from new jersey and like any self respecting new jersey town we have several italian delis, one of which makes the literal best cavaelli and broccoli and i have been wanting this for perhaps months but keep forgetting to get it when i am home and well desperate times call for desperate measures and today i cracked the code.

so heres what you do:

take a saucepan. cover the entire bottom with olive oil. then add a little bit more. add some chili oil (as much as your heart desires) and slightly more red pepper flakes than you think necessary, a bunch of black pepper and some italian seasoning and dried basil if you have it. turn the saucepan on medium ish until the oil starts to heat. reduce it down very low. to this add as much fresh garlic as you want. vary how its chopped. dice some, smash some, leave some whole if you want. throw all of this in the oil.

take some broccoli. i had the equivalent of about one head. cut it up, leave the pieces slightly bigger than you usually would. add this to the oil. mix it around a little until its coated well enough. add some more oil to make sure its all covered. add more chili oil and everything else too if youve underestimated how much broccoli you have. put a lid on and cook this on THE LOWEST HEAT POSSIBLE, stirring every now and then, until the broccoli is just done. do NOT OVER COOK IT. there is nothing worse than over cooked broccoli in this world.

boil some pasta and slightly over cook it (crucial step). technically yeah youre supposed to use cavatelli, use whatever you want. i had radiatore. as long as its a Medium Shape.

drain pasta. dump in the broccoli, spatula out the sauce pan to make sure that everything is out of it. mix it until the pasta is coated in all the oil yumminess. to this add around three big handfuls of parmesan cheese, if not more. mix until the cheese is melted. take a bite and die because it tastes so good. resurrect yourself and continue eating.

bone apple tit!

[queenshelby]

Massage Therapy (Part One of Two)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Smut

It had been three years since you owned a day spa and, being one of the best in Dublin, you were almost always booked out.

You provided facials, therapeutic massages as well as relaxation techniques, including massages with hot oil ‒‒the last service being the most popular among professionals seeking to unwind. T

he elegant interior of your establishment, with its dim, warm lights, hushed tones, and earthy aromas, lulled the senses the moment clients stepped into the door. 

By word of mouth, you had acquired a loyal clientele, including many businessmen and important figures and, apparently, among them now was the famous actor, Cillian Murphy who had been referred to you by one of his friends.

He was a slim and handsome man, in his late forties, and you were quite excited to be massaging him when he walked in.

You first handed him a form to fill out with details such as his name, age, contact information, and medical history, as usual. While he completed the paperwork, you studied him from the corner of your eye. He moved with quiet grace, his hair glinting under the soft lights, his lips curling up in a ghost of a smile when he saw your spa.

When he finished filling out the form, he handed it over to you and followed you down a hallway lined with a series of private rooms. 

"Mr Murphy, this way please," you said, as you opened the door to the dimly lit massage room, in the middle of which stood a massage table, covered in fresh sheets. 

"Thank you," Cillian said, his voice low and measured, as he stepped inside, eyes trailing over the candles casting dancing shadows on the walls.

"You are welcome," you responded, as you walked over to the corner of the room to retrieve a bottle of warm oil for the session. "Now, when you are ready Mr Murphy, please get undressed. You can place your belongings into the locker over here while I leave the room to give you some privacy. Once you have undressed, please lay face down on the table, covering yourself with the sheet provided, alright?" I continued, nodding towards the locker, gesturing to ensure his comfort and to establish professionalism for the session.

"Sure," he replied, eyes meeting mine briefly, as you turned to exit the room.

As you waited outside the door, you took a few moments to compose yourself, to leave any personal thoughts behind and focus solely on the calming atmosphere of the room and your craft - it was crucial to provide Cillian with the best service possible, regardless of who he was. Although, truth be told, you were a little overexcited to be massaging  such a famous and handsome individual, but you quickly brushed those thoughts away.

Entering the room once more, you found Cillian lying face down on the massage table as instructed, dressed in just his briefs, with the thin sheet that was provided carefully draped over his lower body. 

"Are there any areas  you would like me to focus on, Mr Murphy?" you asked softly, while pouring the warm oil onto your cupped hands, rubbing them together briskly to infuse the oil with your warmth.

"No, just anything is fine," he replied  gruffly, as you began your work on him, starting up at his neck, and working your way down to his upper back. His tension had been obvious, but you could already feel it beginning to melt away from his body as you placed your hands on him. You worked the warm oil into his tired muscles, easing the knots and tension from his shoulders and neck.

As you were massaging his back, you couldn't help but notice the freckles on his pale skin. There were thousands of them  , tiny brown speckles scattered haphazardly across his shoulder blades and back. They were one of the many things about Cillian Murphy that made him an interesting subject to look at, but it was your duty to keep your mind on the job at hand, which was to make sure that he relaxed and felt zero tension. You were a professional, after all.

As you moved down from his shoulders and neck to his lower back, the atmosphere in the room shifted.

Your hand came to rest on his hips, and you could feel him tense slightly beneath your touch. You continued to apply pressure, massaging with long, deep strokes, focusing on the area where his tension remained.

Eventually, you adjusted the sheet slightly, revealing just enough of his thighs and hips to continue your work, while still maintaining his modesty. The tension in his body had lessened, but it was still present, especially in his hamstrings.

You started massaging his right leg first , focusing on the muscles that you knew would be the tightest, and working slowly to coax them to relax. As you worked your way down, you reminded yourself not to let your mind wander, and to focus on what you were doing. But it wasn't easy, for every touch, every stroke, sent a little thrill running through you. He was a handsome man, with a lean, toned body and a distinctive brooding charm that seemed almost palpable.

His legs were covered in some fine hairs. They were muscular, even despite his otherwise slim built and you and you  couldn't help but notice the veins that ran along the sides of his legs, pulsing with life as you rubbed them with your expert touch.

"Is the pressure okay?" you whispered, your fingers tracing the muscle contours of his lower legs with a gentle pressure, coaxing the tension out of them. 

"It's perfect," he murmur-replied, his voice gravelly with a hint of recognition in his tone. You shuttered at the sound of it, feeling a strange mix of pride and nervousness, knowing that he was enjoying it.

You continued your work on his legs, adjusting the sheet again before moving higher, to his upper thighs, just below his buttocks. 

Cillian's body tensed again, but the tension was not present in his muscles. This was different, there was something new, something that you hadn't felt before. 

"How's the pressure now?" you asked again, moving to his inner thigh now. 

He paused for a moment, considering your words.

"It's good," he finally said, his voice strained with a new type of tension that hadn't been there before as, unbeknownst to you, he slowly became aroused. 

Oblivious to this, you kept  on with your massage, your hands working their magic. As you glanced at your client's lower body, you saw the way his muscles were starting to flex slightly, but you did not think anything about it and moved towards the other leg, relishing in the smoothness of his skin under your touch.

You started with his lower thigh again and then moved to his upper thigh, slowly working your way inwards again.

You could feel the built-up tension in his muscles there, and you devoted your full attention to alleviating it. As you massaged the spot that was especially tight, Cillian let out a soft moan that registered on your radar, but you brought your focus back to the task at hand.

After some time, you felt that you had done sufficient work on the back and legs from this angle and you knew it was time for him to turn around.  "Alright Mr. Murphy, I am going to need you roll over onto your back so that I may continue to work on your chest and arms," you instructed him softly, while still maintaining your professional demeanor, even if your heart fluttered at a faster rate.

"Uhm, I," he began , hesitating before continuing. "I can't. I need to...," he stammered, causing you to offer him some assistance.

"Would you like me to help you to turn around?" you offered in a soft tone.

"No, I mean, I can do that myself, but I shouldn't because I'm a bit uncomfortable right now," Cillian admitted, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

A feeling of realization dawned on you, and your cheeks flushed in return. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself of your profession and that this kind of situation could arise every now and then. With that, you reassured him.

"Don't worry, that's perfectly normal and I will ensure that sheet provided will cover your modesty," you reassured Cillian with a soft and gentle voice, making sure not to make this moment any awkward or uncomfortable than it already was.

Cillian took a deep breath, and then slowly began to turn onto his back, revealing his lean but toned body. You took a moment to admire the sight while reminding yourself to stay focused on the task at hand.

"I am sorry. This hasn't happened to me before," Cillian murmured. You could see the embarrassment color his cheeks, but there was also an honesty in his voice and eyes that resonated with you.

"It happens, Mr Murphy," you replied with a gentle smile, trying to put him at ease. "It's actually not that uncommon," you reassured him as you covered his eyes with cloth, waiting for him to catch his breath, to compose himself. "Now just relax," you then continued before looking at the obvious. 

His erection was evident beneath the sheet, but you said nothing, choosing instead to continue working as you normally would.

Without saying anything else, you focused on his arms, kneading the muscles to ease the knots and tension before moving on to his chest.

Running your hands through his chest hair,  you could feel each rib, each muscle expanding and contracting under your touch as he breathed in and out and, even though you spent almost twenty more minutes on his upper body only, his erection did not abate.

Knowing that you had caused this made you feel slightly guilty, but also somewhat empowered and, with that, curiosity got the better of you and you decided to return to his legs again.

This time, you focused your attention on the front of his thighs, and you could feel the tension there as well. You did your best to ignore the growing bulge beneath the sheet, and concentrated instead on providing a soothing and relaxing massage experience for Cillian.

You worked your way up his legs with long, sweeping strokes, and felt the muscle gradually start to relax under your trained hands. You could sense that Cillian was feeling more at ease as well, and he let out a deep sigh as he seemed to drift away into a state of pure relaxation until your hand drifted to his upper inner thigh again.

His erection twitched  upon contact, but, determined to remain professional and to finish the massage, you continued with your relaxed, rhythmic massaging motion, allowing the gentle movement to work on his tightened muscles.

Your fingers continued to glide lovingly, assertively, and with focus on the inner thighs, assessing their tension while taking the occasional, surreptitious glance at the sheet covering his lower torso. Underneath it, Cillian's erection still throbbed steadily and, after having now seen this man mostly naked and aroused, you wondered what it would be like to touch him intimately.

You had never before entertained such a fascination with a client, and tried to push the thought aside, but as your fingers moved up his thighs once more, tracing the firm muscles and lingering on the most sensitive areas, you knew you couldn't deny it any longer.

He was straining, almost painfully  against the fabric beneath the sheet and you found it difficult to keep your focus on massaging his inner thighs. You glanced up at him, noticing his lips tightly closed as he focused on keeping himself together.

This moment hung heavy in the air, the tension building between you, almost palpable. It was obvious that he was holding back, and you wondered if you should continue the massage or stop.

But as you looked back at him, you saw his teeth clenching slightly, and he didn't seem to be making any moves to change position.

A sudden realization came over you - this was your chance to act on the desire that had been building inside of you since the moment he walked in, so you asked  him softly, "Mr. Murphy, would you like me to take care of that for you?" and glanced down to his lower body, pointing at the evidence of his arousal pushing against the sheet.

"I can relieve that tension for you too, if you  would like," you suggested, your voice barely above a whisper, though every word was clear and steady. He opened his mouth, about to protest.

"Uhm, I am married, I shouldn't be..." he murmured awkwardly, but then hesitated. You knew this could be your only chance with him, so you pounced.

"That's alright, I do not usually offer this kind of service," you told him. "But, it's just a massage and I can use my hands to alleviate your tension down there, without anyone else having to know about it."

"Uhm, okay," Cillian finally agreed, his voice barely above a whisper, as a shiver of anticipation ran down your spine.

"Perfect, so I will remove the sheet now and continue with your massage," you stated calmly, doing just that as you were met with the unobstructed view of his throbbing erection.

As expected, Cillian reflexively pulled at the sheet to cover himself, but you gently held it in place while explaining, "Mr. Murphy, please trust me when I say that this will help relieve even more tension in your body."

With a slight nod, he released the sheet and closed his eyes, leaving you free to continue.

Leaning forward, you placed your hands on the insides of his thighs and slowly spread them apart. The oil from the massage made them slick and easy to move, and you took full advantage as you began to knead and massage the muscles there.

As you worked, your fingers grazed the base of his shaft, causing him to inhale sharply. You glanced up at him, but continued your ministrations, moving your hands higher up his thighs and closer to his erection while taking in the sight. 

His manhood  was visible now, pulsating and rock hard, with a thick vein running down its length. Your mouth watered as you felt the steely heat radiating from his body, desires swirling and building within you.

"Ah, fuck!" Cillian groaned as you caressed the sensitive underside of his length.

"Shh, it's alright. Just relax," you whispered softly, running one of your oiled up hands over his pubic  area, gently working your way around his shaft. Your heart was pounding in your chest, but you managed to keep your cool. You couldn't believe that you were doing this. You were masturbating Cillian Murphy, a famous actor, during a massage session. It was something that you had never done before, and it was thrilling in a way that you couldn't quite put into words.

With a flick of your wrist and a bit more pressure, you began stroking his shaft with slow, steady movements, making sure that each stroke was deliberate yet soft, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through his form.

"Is the pressure okay for you?" you asked softly, continuing your hand movements up and down his shaft, giving him a surge of pleasure with each stroke.

"Uhhmm, yes..." Cillian muttered breathlessly, unable to form complete sentences from the sensations coursing through his body.

You smiled at his response, feeling encouraged as you continued your hand movements, using the oil to smooth the way, making certain to caress each sensitive inch of him.

You could feel the tension rising in your own body as well, desire pooling between your thighs as you admired Cillian's form beneath your touch. It had been a long time since you had felt such attraction towards someone, and the excitement was overwhelming.

The moan that escaped from Cillian's mouth at your every touch was guttural, and you knew then that he was enjoying the sensation. With one more deep breath, you let your hands glide fully over his straining cock, beginning to massage it slowly with a deliberate pace that caused an air of urgency to grow more prevalent within the room.

You glanced at Cillian and saw him biting his lip, as though trying to contain the moan that threatened to escape him.

"Just relax," you whispered softly, allowing your hand to slide down his penis to cup his balls gently while the other hand worked its way up from the base, tracing each vein that ran along its shaft. 

"Fuck," he groaned, as you continued your steady rhythm, applying the right amount of pressure to cause waves of pleasure to course through his body.

You felt him grow even more rigid in your hands and, with a quick glance, you saw that his eyes were still tightly shut. You knew he was on the brink and, instead of holding back, you decided to bring him over the edge.

"You're so close," you murmured, your breath hot against his ear as moisture pooled between your thighs. "Let it all out." 

You increased the pace of your hands and, with your thumb, massaged the sensitive spot right below the head of his cock. His back arched off the table and a strangled noise left his lips.

You moved your hand faster, dripping oil everywhere, as he gripped the table for dear life. His thighs clenched tightly, and you could physically feel every muscle in his body tensing as his orgasm raced through him. A low, guttural cry echoed through the room, and his seed erupted from his cock, covering your hand and the sheet below.

Watching his cum  spurt from his cock was oddly mesmerizing, and you couldn't help but stare as each spasm took hold of him.

Cillian came hard and fast, his muscles tense and body aching uncontrollably. The sheer amount of pleasure coursing through him was mind-numbing, intensified by your attentive ministrations.

His breathing was labored, his chest rising and falling rapidly as your hands slowed down to a gentler stroke.

You marveled at what had just transpired. This famous actor had climaxed all over your hands, and you couldn't help but feel a bit thrilled by the experience.

"Jesus Christ." Cillian mumbled under his breath, clearly in shock of what he had just experienced.

He opened his eyes, his vision a bit hazy as he took in your form - you, his massage therapist, whose hands had just brought him to an unparalleled climax.

Cillian laid there, half-stunned and entirely spent, taking a moment to regain his bearings as you slowly pulled your hands away from his softening shaft.

You could feel the blood pulsing in your own ears as you took in the sight of him - the glistening mess that remained on his chest, the redness from exertion staining his cheeks, and the way his eyes seemed to have lost all thoughtful intensity.

It was a vulnerable, intimate look that he gave you before speaking up softly. "I am sorry for the mess," he stammered , unable to meet your gaze directly, his cheeks reddening once more.

You couldn't help but let out a small chuckle, "There's no need to apologize, Mr. Murphy, it is completely natural and to be expected after what we just did," your voice still gentle and soothing. "If you could just lay there for a few more minutes, please, so that I can clean you up and give you a moment to compose yourself before we conclude the session," you offered, with sincerity dripping from your voice.

You took a damp washcloth and gently began to clean Cillian's stomach and chest, taking extra care around his still sensitive area. He groaned softly as your warm hand touched him, but didn't stop you. Once he was clean, you threw the cloth into a hamper.

"Now I will leave you to get dressed and you can meet me at the front desk," you said softly, looking at the gorgeous, satiated man lying before you.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice laced with gratitude as well as a hint of regret. "That was..." he faltered, searching for the right word. "Really nice ."

You smiled at his honesty. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, Mr. Murphy." You were satisfied to see him more relaxed and satisfied than he was when he arrived.

You exited the massage room, giving him privacy to get dressed. Your heartbeat was still racing as you replayed the events in your mind. It was an unusual occurrence, but something about Cillian Murphy drew you in, and you couldn't help but feel a connection with him.

At the reception desk, you took a deep breath to calm yourself down.

Your hands were still shaking from the adrenaline rush of what had just occurred. The thought of being so close to a famous actor, and satisfying him in this way, was a thrill unlike anything you had ever experienced before. You gathered your thoughts and prepared to greet Cillian as he walked out of the massage room, but the encounter was not what you expected.

As Cillian entered the reception area, his expression was unreadable. You greeted him with a small smile, but his gaze remained distant, as if he was replaying the events in his mind.

"Did you find the massage enjoyable, Mr. Murphy?" you asked, keeping your tone professional and even.

"It was...yes...it was quite unique," he finally said, meeting your gaze with a look that you couldn't quite decipher.

"I'm glad to have been of service, Mr. Murphy," you replied, aware that the tension between you was palpable.

Cillian remained silent for a moment, as if trying to gather his thoughts.

"I should pay for the massage now," he finally said, reaching for his wallet. "But I have to ask, what are the additional charges for the extra services you provided?" he inquired, his expression a mix of curiosity and uncertainty as he blushed heavily.

"No additional charges. Like I said, I do not usually provide this kind of service as this is a reputable business," you answered, with a carefully nonchalant smile, avoiding any appearance of awkwardness. "Your payment for the massage covers the entire session, regardless of how things progressed, although I was wondering whether I would see you again for another session,"  you added, measuring the mood, hopeful that there might be a possibility of future encounters.

Cillian looked at you, his eyes searching yours for a sign of genuine interest, before finally replying, "I, uhm, yeah. I guess I would like that."

"Great, because there is another type of massage that I would love to try on you. It will make you feel even more relaxed," you said, trying to gauge his interest.

"What kind of massage?" he asked with a curious expression.

The anticipation was playing its role, and you took a deep breath, "Well, it's called a prostate massage," you admitted softly, continuing to maintain eye contact as you gauged his reaction.  

"Okay. That's new, but how about next week? Same time?" Cillian said, as he raised his eyebrows at your proposition. He had heard of this kind of massage before but had never tried it.

You completed his checkout and handed him his receipt. Your hands brushed as the paper was transferred and, suddenly, that bit of contact felt incredibly intimate and intense.

"Excellent, I'll see you next week," you said, the excitement clear in your voice.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter @smailaway @sophiaaguirred @blondie-22

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Jealous!Toto Wolff with wife reader. He trust her. He just doesn't trust people who were flirting with her and getting her uncomfortable. With their son, Jack, both of them team up to protect her and become her knight in shining armor. Thanks!! :))

Hii I hope you enjoy this request :)

Race day buzzed with a palpable tension around the paddock, especially in the Mercedes garage. Despite it being the Red Bull Ring, it was a crucial race for Toto. The fact that you had volunteered to show the celebrity guests around the garage only added to the strain.

Envy gnawed at Toto, a rare emotion for the composed team principal. He knew you were just being your warm, welcoming self, but it didn’t ease the discomfort seeing how close one of the guests, a towering basketball player, was standing next to you. The flirtatious jokes flew over your head, but they didn't escape Toto’s notice. The closeness, the laughter – it was too much. And it seemed he wasn't the only one feeling the sting of jealousy.

"Dad, when will Mom finish with the guests? I want to show her something," your son Jack asked, his eyes mirroring Toto's unease.

Toto bent down, placing a reassuring hand on Jack's shoulder. "She’ll be done soon, buddy. Why don’t we go get a drink and then come back?" He tried to keep his voice calm, but his heart pounded with a mix of protectiveness and irritation.

Jack pouted slightly but nodded, trusting his dad’s words. As they walked toward the hospitality area, Toto couldn't help but glance back at you. The basketball player leaned in closer, his laughter annoyingly loud. You, engrossed in showcasing the car, seemed oblivious to the man's intentions. Toto's protective instincts were at an all-time high.

Jack tugged on his hand, snapping him back to reality. "Dad, do you think Mom likes that guy?"

Toto chuckled, though it sounded strained. "No, Jack. Mom’s just being nice. She’s always kind to everyone, remember?"

Jack nodded, his young face still clouded with worry. "But he’s not nice. He keeps trying to make Mom laugh. I don’t like it."

Toto ruffled Jack’s hair, his smile softening. "Neither do I, kiddo. Neither do I."

Back at the garage, you were wrapping up the tour, finally noticing the basketball player’s increasingly bold attempts to monopolize your attention. You smiled politely, trying to steer the conversation back to the car and the race, but he was persistent.

Just then, you felt a familiar presence behind you. Turning, you saw Toto and Jack approaching, both wearing matching expressions of determination. Relief washed over you.

"Excuse me," you said to the guest, stepping away to greet your husband and son. "How are my two favorite guys doing?"

Jack ran to you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Mom, I want to show you something! Can you come now?"

Toto smiled, though his eyes still held a flicker of irritation. "Yes, love. We need you back. There are some… adjustments we need to discuss."

Sensing the underlying tension in Toto's voice, you placed a gentle hand on his arm, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "Of course. Let’s go."

As you walked away with your family, the basketball player called out to you, but Toto shot him a look that silenced any further attempts. With his attention fully on you and Jack, Toto felt a surge of triumph.

In the relative quiet of a private area, you knelt down to Jack’s level. "What did you want to show me, sweetheart?"

Jack grinned, pulling out a small, hand-drawn picture from his pocket. It was a simple but charming drawing of the three of you, with a race car in the background. "I made this for you, Mom. It’s us winning the race!"

You smiled, your heart melting at the sight. "It’s perfect, Jack. Thank you so much."

Toto looked at the drawing, his heart softening as well. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "We’ve got the best team here, don’t we?"

You leaned into him, feeling the love and support from your family. "We sure do."

[freak-accident419]

Good Looking Boy

Billy (Burn 2019) x GN!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Summary: You and Billy make your endeavor to escape. Then you’re faced with Melinda. But what will even happen after all of this insanity?

Word Count: 3.0k

Content: gender neutral reader, fluff, guns, attempted suicide(?), smoking, mentions of death

(A/n: thank you for all the support, thank you all so much for reading!!)

-

“You got it yet?” Billy asks.

“Yeah, yeah, hold on, almost there,” you reply hastily.

After a while, you two decided to find different ways to escape. After your conversations and laughter would die down, you’d realize the dire situation you two were in, getting back on track as you figured Melinda could come in any second now and cause more destruction.

You two came up with the idea of releasing your leg first, which was duct taped to the chair leg, because it was probably the easiest restraint to get out of. Your position was complicated because you were laying on the floor on your side, still stuck to the chair. You shimmied your leg, gradually removing its attachment from your pants, rolling the duct tape into a thin ring that you can slide out from the chair leg.

That was the plan, at least. You weren’t successful yet.

Until you began to see the tape begin to roll in on itself, becoming thinner and more flexible around your leg, unsticking from your pants. “Oh shit!” You gasp in awe, continuing to jerk your leg. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“What? Is it working?” Billy asked, trying to look behind him, but only able to see the back legs of your chair.

“Almost, it—” Your eyes widen as you keeping moving your leg, then tried to scoop the ring of duct tape out of the chair leg, stretching it until…

“Fuck! Yes!” You exclaim in delight, slightly panting from how much energy it took. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“You got it out?” He inquired urgently.

Your one leg was entirely free. Sure, it was a small victory, but it was a crucial step in getting out of here alive. “Yeah,” you replied, smiling. “Yeah, I-I did, now what?”

”Okay! Good! Alright. Good job, Y/n,” he says supportively. “Umm… Shit, now what?” He mumbled to himself in frustration.

Your other leg was still duct taped to the chair, but it was against the floor due to your position. There seemed to be no way to do the same thing you had previously done to get your first leg out.

“Um… Fuck…” you muttered.

“Maybe… Maybe we could try to break out of the zip ties. If a lot of force is used, you could potentially break it,” he suggested.

“Wouldn’t that really, like, damage our wrists or something?” You asked anxiously.

“At this point, it doesn’t fucking matter, yeah? As long as we get out of this goddamn chair,” he replied. “We should push our hands out in the opposite direction, one forceful movement by one. At the same time. And just keep repeating it until it hopefully breaks, or something.”

“Okay… Alright…” You agree.

“At the count of three…” he began, “One, two, three—”

You two jolted your wrists in the direction opposite from each other. Nothing happened. At least, not yet.

“Okay,” you breathe. “One, two, three—”

You do the same, quick motion again, using as much force as you could. Nothing yet, but you could almost feel that it was close to breaking.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself. “Alright. One, two, three.”

Another powerful yank, but still nothing.

“Okay, okay, we can do this,” you breathe. “We can do this. One, two, three—”

A snapping noise sounds as the white zip ties break, letting your wrists separate from Billy’s as you two gasp happily in relief.

“Yes! Fuck!”

The entire time, you and Billy were continuing to break out of each restraint. Billy let his single leg loose, and you two attempted to drag yourselves closer to the desk. Finally, you stretched your leg and used your shoe to drag the scissors off the desk, pushing it on the floor to your hands. It was finally in range and you grabbed it, first cutting the tape that withheld your upper arms and torsos, giving you enough reach to cut the other zip tie.

After a few quick moments, once you two felt free of all the restraints, you immediately scampered out from the chair on the floor in opposite directions, picking yourself up until you stood, completely and wholeheartedly free.

You two immediately turned around, looking down at the two chairs on the floor, then finally looking up at each other.

Billy was very attractive.

He was practically the epitome of handsome. Like, he wasn’t the most attractive guy in the entire history of them, but he was strikingly cute. The first thing you noticed was the burn on the side of his face, in which you then remembered he told you that it was Melinda’s doing. He wore a fleece jean jacket and light blue skinny jeans, and a small gold earring. And while you were falling for him as you had conversed, you felt like you were falling even deeper as you saw his soft brown eyes.

There was a bit of silence between you two as you just looked at each other. You had been stuck together for almost an hour, but you had already gained a mutual admiration for each other.

Billy didn’t expect you to be this attractive. Actually, he didn’t really expect anything, and neither did you. But he truly and indefinitely believed that you were beautiful. Probably the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.

He broke the silence by clearing his throat, walking over to you. He wasn’t very tall, but that sort of just added to his charm. He took out his hand. “Thought we should’ve had a proper introduction. I’m Billy.” You could feel his mannerisms be a bit rushed because you were still in the same building of a psychopath.

“I’m Y/n,” you shake his hand quickly.

“Nice shirt.”

“Nice jacket.”

Billy turns around, then looks at the lockers with intrigue. He slowly makes his way towards it, looking at each of the small vaults. As you watched this, your eyes trailed downward, seeing a long, dark green bag on the floor by the wall. Your attention was pulled away from it, however, as he brought his hand inside of one locker, seemingly grabbing something from inside it.

You felt your heart race as you saw the revolver in his hands. It was like he was able to sense your fear, because he tucked it into his pants immediately and walked towards you unthreateningly. “Hey. Don’t worry about it. I’m not gonna hurt you,” he claims. You nodded softly. You trusted him. Even though you only knew each other for such a short period of time, you two had told each other so much about yourselves. It was a weird shared trauma bond, that made you wish you met on different circumstances.

“How are your wrists?” He asks gently.

You present them to him. “They’re okay,” you answered. He took your hands into his, observing the faint bruise along the wrist that you broke out the zip tie with. His fingertips were soft on your skin, the brief contact making your face heat up, almost. You then move your hands under his to see the small indents on his wrists caused by the zip ties, rubbing over it softly with your thumb. You two look up at each other and chuckle softly, looking back down and coyly smiling to yourselves.

“We should—we should go,” you say after a while.

“Right. Yeah,” Billy says, letting go of each other’s hands then cautiously looking at the desolate, white door that would lead into the store. Before you could take another step towards it, it slowly opened by itself.

And Melinda her-fucking-self was behind it.

She had a look of shock on her face, as she didn’t expect to come back to her captives being free. Immediately, Billy took out his gun, pointing it at her, making her involuntary raise her hands up in surrender, placing his other arm in front of you, letting you stay behind him.

There was fear in Melinda’s watery eyes. She let out small sniffles as she looked at the barrel of the gun, then at you and Billy.

“I-I didn’t mean for all of this to happen,” she stammered, voice cracking and tears gradually falling down. “You… You can take the money and go, it’s-it’s all there.”

You wondered what was wrong with her. What exactly drove her to do all this stuff. How she never called the cops on Billy and instead tie him up. How she tied you up because you witnessed it.

“This didn’t have to be complicated, Melinda,” Billy says sternly, a look of hatred and disgust towards her.

“I-I know,” she whispered.

“And… and you brought them into this for no reason too! They were fucking innocent, and you just had to bring them into this! I mean, I get that you would tie me up, I robbed you, but Y/n? Innocent.” He asserted. “You made me kill somebody, Melinda. I am not a killer, but you… you made me kill Sheila. You fucking made me kill somebody.”

“No, I- I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please. You can just go. I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry. The money is on the floor. Behind the counter. Just leave me alone, please,” she pleaded, continuing to cry. She then looked at you. “I’m sorry-I’m sorry I tied you up too, I was scared that you’d get the police.”

You sighed heavily and looked at Billy, relying on him for direction. But she continued on, making you look back at her again.

“I—I’m going to burn this whole place down.” She claimed. “I’ve covered the entire store in gasoline, just leave while you still can, p-please.”

“Why the fuck should I believe anything you say?” There was hostility in his voice. “Walk.” He ordered, waving the gun around, gesturing for her to walk back into the store.

Billy walks towards her as she goes backwards, with you following him. The neon blue lights of the store caressed your skin as you passed the door, completely leaving the employees only back room and being met with short aisles, composed of shelves filled with candy and chips.

“The money, it’s back there,” she pointed as you were now all in the center of the store. He looked at her with suspicion, slowly making his way to the front counter. You followed behind him, leaving Melinda with her hands up as Billy seemed to have found it, grabbing a black backpack and swinging it over his shoulders. Then, you two turned around to see Melinda, except…

She looked at you two with bloodshot, sad eyes, and an ignited lighter in her right hand. Shit. You looked down, and it appears she wasn’t lying, because gasoline coated the bottom of your shoes. “Okay, good, you can… you can have the money, just… just leave me now, please,” she begged.

“Wait. Let’s just… We can get you help, okay?” You offered, feeling a bit of sympathy for her. You knew she wasn’t exactly right in the head.

“Y/n, no,” Billy warned, looking at you sternly. “I honestly love how you continue to prove to me how much of a good heart you have, but Melinda? She is fucking crazy.”

“That’s why we should, I don’t know, get the cops, get her to a hospital—“

“Y/n. You don’t know what she’s done. Plus, we cannot get the cops involved. What are we gonna tell them, huh? What, are we gonna mention the fact that I was trying to rob the place? That it was my gun that fucking killed Sheila?” He stammered, which ultimately saddened you. “This woman is beyond redemption, okay?”

“So what? What, are we just going to watch her set herself on fire? Yeah? You’re really going to be okay with that?”

“Y/n, please. I don’t want to argue with you. It’s us or her. Do you see the goddamn lighter in her hand? She’s going to drop it any second and she is not going to wait for us, so we have to go. Okay?” He urged, grabbing onto your shoulder and leading you two to the backdoor, still pointing his gun at Sheila.

“Billy, wait,” you plead. “What if she’s just bluffing?”

“And risk catching on fucking fire, huh? We have no fucking time, let’s go!” He exclaimed, leading you out to the backdoor, your eyes meeting with Melinda before you were abruptly shoved outside.

It was freezing. Every exhale you took was visible in the cold air.

Billy closed the back door, moving the dumpster to block the exit. You two stood outside, a few feet away from the building, waiting for it to be set in flames. But it wasn’t. So either Melinda was truthfully bluffing or changed her mind. But you felt grateful, because you would’ve felt guilty if she hadn’t.

You took out a pack of cigarettes from your pocket, grabbing one from it, placing it between your lips and taking out a lighter from your other pocket. As you first exhale, you watch the back of the building. Nothing going on at all.

You weren’t sure what would happen after this. If Melinda would go to the police. If Billy would get caught and/or pay back his debt with the bikers. And what would you do?

You turn your head to look at Billy.

“May I…?” He trailed off, gesturing to the cigarette in between your fingers.

You chuckle under your breath then handed him it, watching him place it in his mouth and taking a drag. It was kind of silent. And it was still cold.

“Are you gonna go pay off your debt now?” You ask him softly.

You watched the smoke escape his lips as he nods. “Yeah. Then I’ll just… get the hell out of this fucking place…”

There was another moment of silence. An uncomfortable, uncertain silence.

“Will I… Will I ever see you again?” You ask hesitantly as he hands you back your cigarette.

He gives a low chuckle, offering you a gentle smile. “You’d really want to see me again?”

You hummed softly. “I feel like it’d be nice…” You say quietly. “Maybe when I’ll be getting gas again, you’re there to rob the store.”

He scoffed. “Y/n—“

“I’m messing with you,” you let out a small laugh. He smiles at you. You felt comfortable now. And you shouldn’t have been, because it was fucking freezing, but as cliché as it was, he was warming your heart.

He looked into your eyes deeply, which drove you to observe his soft face. You couldn’t exactly describe what his facial expression was or meant at this moment—until he expressed it with his words:

“Come with me, Y/n. Please.”

It was urgency. It was a look of urgency and desperation.

“I’ll pay off the biker assholes and then—then I’ll pick you up and we can leave together. Come on. How does that sound?”

“Billy, I—“ You were shocked. You didn’t want to throw your whole life out in this way. You were very fond of Billy, you could swear it, but this was too much. “I can’t, I… It’s just too… too crazy.”

“I-I understand. Completely. But fuck, I… I don’t want to lose you…”

You bit the inside of your cheek. You felt bad. You didn’t want to lose him either. Goddamnit, why did he have to be a damn fugitive?

“Somebody’s gonna have to work cashier number five for Macy’s, Billy,” you joke softly. You put out the cigarette on the snow and grabbed his hand. It was comfortable in yours, fingers fidgeting with each other, rubbing the skin tenderly. You rubbed your thumb over the gold ring that embraced his index finger, in which the metal was warm against your skin. “If we were in… another circumstance, maybe I would. But… I can’t just throw my life away like this. While you’d be starting anew, I’d be discarding everything I’ve ever known. I can’t sacrifice that for you.”

He nodded, staring at his hand in yours. He wouldn’t have thought you would have agreed anyway. He just had so much hope. Like his goddamn Marlboro, he wanted more of you. “Right… Okay, I understand,” he reckons dejectedly.

“I’m sorry,” you say warmly as you watch his thumb move across the back of your hand. You look back up at him.

“It’s okay,” he replies gently. “I hope I’ll see you again, Y/n.”

“Me too,” you add.

“Goodbye, Y/n. Thanks for… for getting us out of that shit hole. And… being a good person.”

Now it was your turn to scoff. “Give yourself some credit, dude. We escaped together. It was a team effort. And also… I think you’re genuinely a good person too. You were just… faced with unlucky predicaments.”

He grins appreciatively, letting out a small chuckle. He looked down at your hands that were in his, then back at you. “Bye, Y/n.”

“Bye, Billy,” you felt the warmth of his hands leave yours, making his way back to the front of the gas station to get to his car, leaving you there to stand alone in the cold…

*** A Few Weeks Later ***

If you had to do a rundown of everything that had happened ever since, then it would be simple—you got away with all of it. Melinda must have had permanently discarded all of the camera footage before police could get it. But as seen in the news, she was arrested for accessory to murder, then hospitalized from signs of mental illness. It seemed that she didn’t reveal much and ended up lying, because you never saw Billy’s face or information on any wanted posters.

Now you were at your job, working as a cashier, handing a woman her receipt after she paid for her items. She then left with her bags after chirping an expression of gratitude. Your head remains downward, sort of dispirited and not in the mood today. “Welcome, did you find everything alright?” You enunciate in monotone, yet with a slight endeavored cheerful tone, as you saw the figure of the new customer in your peripheral vision. You grabbed the single item that the customer placed on the counter and scanned it sluggishly.

However, you finally paid attention to your surroundings and realized what the purchase was: a Kentucky Wildcats cap. You let a sharp inhale, as the sports team only reminded you of…

You look up to see the customer standing in front of you. Your eyes widen as your breathing stopped.

You really couldn’t believe your eyes.

There was a smirk on his face as you felt a blissful smile begin to tug on your lips.

“‘Go Wildcats,’ am I right?” Billy recites.

[timdoubleyou]

i found jay’s black jacket (an ID guide)

This black jacket is worn by Jay about 9 times throughout Marble Hornets, including his final appearance. And after some weeks of on-and-off research, I think I know the exact make and model.

This post will detail exactly how I found it, and serve as a guide for anyone that wants to find the jacket, whether that's for cosplay purposes, or if you're just keen on collecting items related to MH.

Main post under the cut

Intro

The first step to identifying the jacket was to gather as many references as possible.

I went back to the web series and took screenshots from any entries the jacket makes an appearance. (shoutout to mg549′s very comprehensive MH wardrobe guide, without it this would’ve been much more of a pain)

Jay's jacket is, for the most part, very plain. It's a solid color, full-zip jacket, without any particularly eye-catching logos or other details. I had to look for moments where even the slightest distinction appeared clear on camera, at least as distinct as it can be. Even if it was just close-ups to get the shape of a zipper, or how many buttons are on a sleeve, it was the best I got. While I did manage to find a decent amount of these, there was just one crucial detail that would've made finding it near-impossible; the brand is never shown. Thankfully, I had another resource.

In 2018 Troy Sold a Lot of Stuff

In early 2018, Troy officially announced that MH would be continued in a comic series. To fund the first issue, he held a number of auctions for production items used during the web series on Ebay.

These included items such as Jay’s camera, Brian’s hoodie, A Masky mask, and Jay’s black jacket.

Lo and behold, the jacket listing includes a picture with the brand in clear view. It's from Gap.

Ebay does not archive sold listings older than 90 days. However, Worthpoint, a website for valuing and pricing collectibles, does. Using Worthpoint I was able to find all of these items, (and a lot more, which can be found in this doc I submitted to Archive Hornets)

Identification

With the picture from the listing and the series screencaps, I had a complete ID list.

(Top image is from the Ebay listing, with the contrast adjusted a little for easier viewing. The bottom two images are from Entry #79)

The Gap logo (This specific logo dates the jacket being made anywhere between 1986 and 2009, when it first appears).

Front Zipper (Note the shape)

The two front pockets

The two buttons and pointed cuffs on each sleeve (Second one is a little hard to see but it's jusstt peeping out at the side)

The blue piping in the inner lining

The zipper in the right side inner lining

The gray mesh inner lining

With these in mind, I could now go to the next and longest step-

Finding the Jacket

I combed three resell sites; Ebay, Depop, and Poshmark. My main goal wasn't to actually purchase the jacket, (although, I would like to at some point) but to find a jacket listing that had every identifier, and have a more definite baseline for finding others. I needed to be sure what I had was enough to properly ID the jacket. The references I had stitched together were decent enough, but I wanted to see if there was something better out there.

After tons of page scrolling and tab-switching and comparing and contrasting, I finally got lucky.

(first two images are from crashthecloset's listing on poshmark, last six are from shannfo-76 on ebay)

I haven't bought one myself as of posting, but I feel pretty confident this is it. The jackets were already sold, but every marker seemed to be accounted for. It also revealed new ones, like the reflective pattern and pockets on the inner lining, (zipper on the right side pocket, button on the left pocket) and the materials tag.

With that, here's some final notes that may be helpful if you try looking for the jacket yourself:

Online sellers often describe it as a light jacket, a windbreaker, a 2-in-1, or 3-in-1.

"Gap Mens Black Jacket" is the search phrase I used the most since it yielded a (very) broad result pool.

Most of the jackets I found came from Poshmark or Ebay.

The exact size of Jay’s jacket is unclear. My best guesses are either a US Men’s S or M, since Jay was pretty skinny and of average height. I’ve only been able to find maybe 2 jackets that are a size M, one of which is the first pic in the photoset above.

Gap has sold other black jackets that look remarkably similar to Jay’s, and they do pop up on resell sites. One of these was so similar, the only discernible difference was the style of the logo. I highly recommend making sure it matches the exact one Jay had before purchasing. (It's also more than fine to ask/msg me if you have any doubts!) As long as you know what to look for, you shouldn’t have a problem finding at least one.

One detail that confounded me was this sleeve poking out of Jay's jacket. At first I thought he was wearing a long sleeve underneath, making this shot a continuity error since he appeared to Only be wearing the green short sleeve under the jacket.

@hivemite pointed out that this might be a two-in-one jacket, which has multiple layers for different types of weather. While I have not been able to see the sleeve outside of two shots in entry #79 and #80, one listing I found did describe it as a 3-in-1.

that's about it! hope this helps :)

[fillinforlater]

Ive’s Liz has a surprising lack of m reader nsfw content/smut on here,, would you consider writing something about her? -💙M

Perfection, We Find

Male Reader x Kim Jiwon

Length: 2257 words

Tags: first time, loving sex, body issues, healthy relationship (yes, those exist in my smuts), clit play, fingering, focus on female orgasm, lovey dovey language, slow penetration, making out, girlfriend!Liz

TW: none (yeah, okay, it's a smut, duuuuh)

Inspiration: Liz pretty, thank you @dive-mdcw for reminding me

Credit: @capslocked for proof-reading. Thank you!

(A/N: Something more lovey-dovey for the softies among us >.<)

“Only if you take responsibility.”

This response, a faint whisper from her lips right onto yours, is more than odd. You are used to Liz saying things randomly, out of pocket, a bit weird, but this one actually frightens you a little. It’s the answer to a question you have only asked three times throughout the entirety of your relationship. 

“Can we have sex?”

You wanted to be careful to word it properly, but the heat of the moment got to you. Your hands were around her waist, nose deep in her alluring scent, the envy of all roses in the world, while she put her full, red lips on your cheek. It was great, but what really pushed you over the edge was one of her hands tugging at your hair and her breath turning to a tiny moan. 

Now she is barely touching you; the only thing you can feel are her eyes piercing you, turning you to a glass panel or at least trying to. She is serious, more serious than the other two times when she rejected your advances and the two of you ended up only kissing and cuddling. 

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, voice very low, almost drowned out by the TV in the background.

“I just want my boyfriend to know that I trust him, but I also want to make sure,” Liz answers, then puts her mouth on your jaw, kissing all the way to right below your lips which form a smile.

“Of course I’ll make sure that it doesn’t slip off.”

Suddenly, Liz takes a long step back. Her eyes show confusion, annoyance that she was not able to look right through you. Her arms fold right underneath her heaving, full chest. You can see her desire, her passion for you, for this moment and what is to come, but it’s overshadowed by what seems like a crucial misunderstanding.

“By ‘it’ you mean a condom?” Liz asks, her voice a bit snippy. “I’m not going to lose my virginity to some piece of rubber. I want your real… thing.”

Swallowing this is hard. God, you would lie if you said you didn’t want to have raw, passionate sex with your girlfriend, but it’s just too dangerous. You’re too young to be parents, too financially unstable, too scared of all the responsibilities that come with it. For Liz to have such a reckless request, you struggle to agree to it.

Yet you still nod, you still say ‘okay’ and throw all caution into the wind. It makes Liz smile and blush.

“Stay here, I’ll call you,” she says and disappears into her bedroom. She leaves you hard, incredibly horny, longing for release to forget everything for a moment. Your girlfriend has some weird views. She is not religious, so her outright rejection to the most logical, basic protection cannot be explained by this. 

As you are stuck in trying to find the reason for Liz’s behavior, you hear all kinds of sounds coming out of her room. Closets opening and closing, clothing flying through the air, groans, an electric razor, more groans, then a sudden hiss—there is more, but you have no clue what they might be about. 

“I’m ready~”

Liz has never sounded so lewd. You’ve never opened a door faster. 

Liz has never looked so lewd. She stands before you, nothing but red lingerie on her fully shaven body. A hand twirling her wavy hair, a tongue peeking through her bright crimson lips, a tiny wink—she is taking all the steps to look absolutely irresistible. Suddenly, she turns around, slightly bends over and slowly spreads her smooth ass cheeks. The thin piece of red cotton disappears in between them and you groan like a mindless gooner.

Liz then spins back around, still leaning forward, showing her cleavage and then showing off more by grabbing both her breasts and pressing them together. They look huge, like soft pillows to squeeze forever. That’s when you notice something. It’s all off, a masquerade, a play if you want to go that far. There are tiny scars on Liz’s body, from shaving to quickly. There are rose petals, the biggest cliches ever, spread on her bed. There is padding in her bra to make her perfect, already big boobs seem huge. 

Liz is playing a character.

“Liz,” you sigh and wrap your arms around her. “Stop it. This isn’t like these videos, the books, the movies.”

“No,” she quietly interjects. “This is our first time—I couldn’t live with this not being special, not being perfect—”

“That’s not what this is about,” you coo and press her head onto your chest. “This is about us loving each other and showing it. You look insanely hot right now, but you’d also look hot without padding in your bra or—”

“You saw that!?” 

Liz tries to free herself out of your embrace, her face hidden behind flustered hands, but you don’t let her go, instead trying to find her gaze through slightly parted, trembling fingers. Her eyes show uncertainty, embarrassment, the hint of tears you cannot allow to run down her gorgeous face. 

“I love you, Liz. Don’t think you are not enough or that this has to be flawless. Let’s just enjoy this, okay?”

“O-okay.”

It’s as if she added ‘kiss me and quickly forget this’ afterwards by lunging her mouth onto yours and dominating the kiss with such intensity, you actually forget what might have become a speech about self-worth and porn and—what? The train of your thought has been derailed by Liz’s tongue exploring your mouth fast, lovingly and it all comes crashing down onto her mattress. 

“C-can you touch me?” Liz asks shyly, fixated on you. You join her blush.

“S-sure, just tell me how you like it.”

Liz’s fingers wrap around your wrist and she quickly pulls you in between her legs, the sensitive spot covered by red lace. This coverage is rendered useless as she shoves your hand right on her lips, both thick and a hint of wetness on them. Not enough, but you’re here to change this. 

“Right there,” she moans when you find the tiny nub, stiff in arousal, its sensitivity ever increasing every time you brush it. Soft curses leave Liz’s lips, the back of her head sinks deeper into the sheets, her hold on your wrist grows tighter—

This is equally thrilling to you. She trusts you, wants your hands all over her body, shame not holding her back anymore. It’s strange, but you grow more certain in her love—more than any crush that got you two together—the wetter her panties get. Crimson lingerie turns to the color of wine, and Liz is drunk on your hand, pressing it down a bit harder.

Liz groans your name, her free hand reaching for your body, tugging at your shirt. You get closer to her face, place sudden, tender kisses on her cheeks without ever closing your eyes. The sight of your girl squirming and grinding in desperate need of your hands' attention is driving you mad. Your own desire is barely containable, you only hold back by, paradoxically, increasing Liz’s stimulation and thereby your own. 

“Ouh,” Liz groans, her grip leaving your wrist, “It feels so~ good, I can’t.” 

Her voice fades into a whisper, then a moan. Actually, all there is is moans; you have involuntarily joined your girlfriend to create a symphony that has to lead to her orgasm. Wet nectar gently brushes along your fingers as Liz grinds herself to a longer and longer climax on your palm. Soon, your hand will smell of her and you won’t have it any other way. 

“I love you, I love you,” you hum as you nibble on her adorable earlobe. Liz’s breath is heavy.

“I—I, me too. I l-love you too.”

“You’re perfect.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Oh, am I?” you say teasingly and without warning slip two of your fingers into Liz. She arches her back and digs the nails of her fingers into your biceps. “Well, if you think so.”

“Wait.” She stops you from getting up from the bed. “We still didn’t do the thing.”

“What thing? Having sex?”

“Yes.”

“Oh Liz.” You laugh and sit down next to her, juice stained fingers rubbing her flawless thighs. “You have a very narrow view of sex. Wasn’t this very intense?”

“Yeah, but—”

“But,” you parrot her and peck her lips for a mere second. “You still want me inside of you. You want to be full. Only then you might accept your perfection.”

Liz plays with the hem of her panties, trying really hard to ignore your lips that are right there, a breath away from hers. She can try all she wants, her eyes betray her and in an irrationally quick sequence of events, clothes fly off. Your pants and underwear find solace in between rose petals, while Liz’s drenched panties still dangle around her right ankle. 

“What about the rest?” Liz asks just as you're about to get in position.

“W-well you’re still wearing your bra as well!” you fight back, louder than you wanted to. That’s a sore spot, but instead of sticking her fingers into it, Liz leans towards you and kisses your neck.

“I love you.”

Her voice is so smooth, so beautiful, so loving. No other woman could ever compare to her in any aspects, but you know that is just you. However, when it comes to her voice, you truly believe it is the greatest thing ever heard. God and Mother Nature must have teamed up and through some incredible way of forgiveness, you’re the one hearing it say

I love you.

“You’re also perfect,” she adds. “Even without a six pack.”

“I—I… thank you, Liz.”

“Now take me~”

You roll a condom on your throbbing erection and watch as Liz sinks into the sheets delicately, like a rose petal falling onto the surface of a lake, dazzling in the scorching summer sun. A thumb to spread her labia, then you start to push into her with care and love and even more care when she winces. 

“It’s alright,” you tell her. “Am I too fast?”

“T-too big, maybe.”

“Y-you’re just saying that.”

“I-I’m not.” Her stare speaks volumes, her knuckles turning white as she grabs the sheets as well. “Be gentle, please.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.”

Glide out of her walls. You thought you were careful, but the actual depth of your penetration was deeper than you wanted. Liz isn’t the only one who can still learn a lot when it comes to sex. Most importantly, you have to make her relax, take things easy and not painfully cramp around you.

Kisses on her calves, kisses on her thighs, kisses right under her navel—your fingers try similar soothing motions across her entire body. Liz’s skin becomes your shrine to praise her body, her entire being. Carefully you paint circles that make her moan, blow kisses that evoke laughter and lastly, you grab her covered breasts and she gasps.

No tension, just love and arousal. The young woman relaxes and feels you entering once more. This time you look at her closely, study her reaction. The way her jaw drops, loosely hanging as she breathes; then suddenly a nod. You push further, reach deep into her. She bites her lips.

“I love you,” Liz hums.

“I love you too.”

“I think you can move now.”

Your hips react in an instant. They have developed a mind of their own and were patiently waiting for her to say it. You hold them back through bloody tears, but fighting the pleasure coming from Liz’s hot and pulsating walls is a mission impossible. Grit your teeth when suddenly she seizes control of your hands. Fingers entangled as if they were in a prayer she pulls them above her head and your lips instinctually fall on hers.

At the same time you lose. The war against your hips was short, they are already mindlessly rutting back and forth dragging you out of her tight cavern and back in. Liz moans into the kiss, her eyes tightly shut. Curses upon you for opening your eyes at this moment, but she looks absolutely gorgeous. Every wrinkle on her forehead, every hair sticking to her skin, every shudder from her arms—

I’m sorry, I need to fill you.

You thrust faster, deep into Liz’s pussy, her juice your lubricant. Naturally you go faster the more comes out, so you begin to rub her clit, an age-old trick (and by ‘age-old’ you mean ten minutes ago) that works wonders on her. Liz’s moans turn to screams, her voluptuous thighs begin to tremble and the rest of her body is just a beautiful puddle of sweat.

“I-I, it feels so go—”

“Me too, Liz, I might just—”

“Don’t hold back! We’re s-safe, just…”

With all your trust in the condom, you wipe out your brain and blow the load of your life into it. The stimulation becomes too much to bear, your pistoning stops, What does not stop however is the way you rub Liz clit. Faster and faster, until she gushes and cums around your still inserted cock. Her voice is almost hoarse from her loud moans. 

In a final surge of strength you push yourself up just to fall next to Liz. Both of you are out of breath, all senses overstimulated to the point only happiness matters. Happiness and—

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[ahaura]

Title & subtitle:

[Nov. 21] The Harvard Law Review Refused to Run This Piece About Genocide in Gaza: The piece was nearing publication when the journal decided against publishing it. You can read the article here.

Article text:

On Saturday, the board of the Harvard Law Review voted not to publish “The Ongoing Nakba: Towards a Legal Framework for Palestine,” a piece by Rabea Eghbariah, a human rights attorney completing his doctoral studies at Harvard Law School. The vote followed what an editor at the law reviewdescribed in an e-mail to Eghbariah as “an unprecedented decision” by the leadership of the Harvard Law Review to prevent the piece’s publication.

Eghbariah told The Nation that the piece, which was intended for the HLR Blog, had been solicited by two of the journal’s online editors. It would have been the first piece written by a Palestinian scholar for the law review. The piece went through several rounds of edits, but before it was set to be published, the president stepped in. “The discussion did not involve any substantive or technical aspects of your piece,” online editor Tascha Shahriari-Parsa, wrote Eghbariah in an e-mail shared with The Nation. “Rather, the discussion revolved around concerns about editors who might oppose or be offended by the piece, as well as concerns that the piece might provoke a reaction from members of the public who might in turn harass, dox, or otherwise attempt to intimidate our editors, staff, and HLR leadership.”

On Saturday, following several days of debate and a nearly six-hour meeting, the Harvard Law Review’s full editorial body came together to vote on whether to publish the article. Sixty-three percent voted against publication. In an e-mail to Egbariah, HLR President Apsara Iyer wrote, “While this decision may reflect several factors specific to individual editors, it was not brd on your identity or viewpoint.”

In a statement that was shared with The Nation, a group of 25 HLR editors expressed their concerns about the decision. “At a time when the Law Review was facing a public intimidation and harassment campaign, the journal’s leadership intervened to stop publication,” they wrote. “The body of editors—none of whom are Palestinian—voted to sustain that decision. We are unaware of any other solicited piece that has been revoked by the Law Review in this way. “

When asked for comment, the leadership of the Harvard Law Review referred The Nation to a message posted on the journal’s website. “Like every academic journal, the Harvard Law Review has rigorous editorial processes governing how it solicits, evaluates, and determines when and whether to publish a piece…” the note began. ”Last week, the full body met and deliberated over whether to publish a particular Blog piece that had been solicited by two editors. A substantial majority voted not to proceed with publication.”

Today, The Nation is sharing the piece that the Harvard Law Review refused to run.

enocide is a crime. It is a legal framework. It is unfolding in Gaza. And yet, the inertia of legal academia, especially in the United States, has been chilling. Clearly, it is much easier to dissect the case law rather than navigate the reality of death. It is much easier to consider genocide in the past tense rather than contend with it in the present. Legal scholars tend to sharpen their pens after the smell of death has dissipated and moral clarity is no longer urgent.

Some may claim that the invocation of genocide, especially in Gaza, is fraught. But does one have to wait for a genocide to be successfully completed to name it? This logic contributes to the politics of denial. When it comes to Gaza, there is a sense of moral hypocrisy that undergirds Western epistemological approaches, one which mutes the ability to name the violence inflicted upon Palestinians. But naming injustice is crucial to claiming justice. If the international community takes its crimes seriously, then the discussion about the unfolding genocide in Gaza is not a matter of mere semantics.

The UN Genocide Convention defines the crime of genocide as certain acts “committed with the intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such.” These acts include “killing members of a protected group” or “causing serious bodily or mental harm” or “deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part.”

Numerous statements made by top Israeli politicians affirm their intentions. There is a forming consensus among leading scholars in the field of genocide studies that “these statements could easily be construed as indicating a genocidal intent,” as Omer Bartov, an authority in the field, writes. More importantly, genocide is the material reality of Palestinians in Gaza: an entrapped, displaced, starved, water-deprived population of 2.3 million facing massive bombardments and a carnage in one of the most densely populated areas in the world. Over 11,000 people have already been killed. That is one person out of every 200 people in Gaza. Tens of thousands are injured, and over 45% of homes in Gaza have been destroyed. The United Nations Secretary General said that Gaza is becoming a “graveyard for children,” but a cessation of the carnage—a ceasefire—remains elusive. Israel continues to blatantly violate international law: dropping white phosphorus from the sky, dispersing death in all directions, shedding blood, shelling neighborhoods, striking schools, hospitals, and universities, bombing churches and mosques, wiping out families, and ethnically cleansing an entire region in both callous and systemic manner. What do you call this?

The Center for Constitutional Rights issued a thorough, 44-page, factual and legal analysis, asserting that “there is a plausible and credible case that Israel is committing genocide against the Palestinian population in Gaza.” Raz Segal, a historian of the Holocaust and genocide studies, calls the situation in Gaza “a textbook case of Genocide unfolding in front of our eyes.” The inaugural chief prosecutor of the International Criminal Court, Luis Moreno Ocampo, notes that “Just the blockade of Gaza—just that—could be genocide under Article 2(c) of the Genocide Convention, meaning they are creating conditions to destroy a group.” A group of over 800 academics and practitioners, including leading scholars in the fields of international law and genocide studies, warn of “a serious risk of genocide being committed in the Gaza Strip.” A group of seven UN Special Rapporteurs has alerted to the “risk of genocide against the Palestinian people” and reiterated that they “remain convinced that the Palestinian people are at grave risk of genocide.” Thirty-six UN experts now call the situation in Gaza “a genocide in the making.” How many other authorities should I cite? How many hyperlinks are enough?

And yet, leading law schools and legal scholars in the United States still fashion their silence as impartiality and their denial as nuance. Is genocide really the crime of all crimes if it is committed by Western allies against non-Western people?

This is the most important question that Palestine continues to pose to the international legal order. Palestine brings to legal analysis an unmasking force: It unveils and reminds us of the ongoing colonial condition that underpins Western legal institutions. In Palestine, there are two categories: mournable civilians and savage human-animals. Palestine helps us rediscover that these categories remain racialized along colonial lines in the 21st century: the first is reserved for Israelis, the latter for Palestinians. As Isaac Herzog, Israel’s supposed liberal President, asserts: “It’s an entire nation out there that is responsible. This rhetoric about civilians not aware, not involved, it’s absolutely not true.”

Palestinians simply cannot be innocent. They are innately guilty; potential “terrorists” to be “neutralized” or, at best, “human shields” obliterated as “collateral damage”. There is no number of Palestinian bodies that can move Western governments and institutions to “unequivocally condemn” Israel, let alone act in the present tense. When contrasted with Jewish-Israeli life—the ultimate victims of European genocidal ideologies—Palestinians stand no chance at humanization. Palestinians are rendered the contemporary “savages” of the international legal order, and Palestine becomes the frontier where the West redraws its discourse of civility and strips its domination in the most material way. Palestine is where genocide can be performed as a fight of “the civilized world” against the “enemies of civilization itself.” Indeed, a fight between the “children of light” versus the “children of darkness.”

The genocidal war waged against the people of Gaza since Hamas’s excruciating October 7th attacks against Israelis—attacks which amount to war crimes—has been the deadliest manifestation of Israeli colonial policies against Palestinians in decades. Some have long ago analyzed Israeli policies in Palestine through the lens of genocide. While the term genocide may have its own limitations to describe the Palestinian past, the Palestinian present was clearly preceded by a “politicide”: the extermination of the Palestinian body politic in Palestine, namely, the systematic eradication of the Palestinian ability to maintain an organized political community as a group.

This process of erasure has spanned over a hundred years through a combination of massacres, ethnic cleansing, dispossession, and the fragmentation of the remaining Palestinians into distinctive legal tiers with diverging material interests. Despite the partial success of this politicide—and the continued prevention of a political body that represents all Palestinians—the Palestinian political identity has endured. Across the besieged Gaza Strip, the occupied West Bank, Jerusalem, Israel’s 1948 territories, refugee camps, and diasporic communities, Palestinian nationalism lives.

What do we call this condition? How do we name this collective existence under a system of forced fragmentation and cruel domination? The human rights community has largely adopted a combination of occupation and apartheid to understand the situation in Palestine. Apartheid is a crime. It is a legal framework. It is committed in Palestine. And even though there is a consensus among the human rights community that Israel is perpetrating apartheid, the refusal of Western governments to come to terms with this material reality of Palestinians is revealing.

Once again, Palestine brings a special uncovering force to the discourse. It reveals how otherwise credible institutions, such as Amnesty International or Human Rights Watch, are no longer to be trusted. It shows how facts become disputable in a Trumpist fashion by liberals such as President Biden. Palestine allows us to see the line that bifurcates the binaries (e.g. trusted/untrusted) as much as it underscores the collapse of dichotomies (e.g. democrat/republican or fact/claim). It is in this liminal space that Palestine exists and continues to defy the distinction itself. It is the exception that reveals the rule and the subtext that is, in fact, the text: Palestine is the most vivid manifestation of the colonial condition upheld in the 21st century.

hat do you call this ongoing colonial condition? Just as the Holocaust introduced the term “Genocide” into the global and legal consciousness, the South African experience brought “Apartheid” into the global and legal lexicon. It is due to the work and sacrifice of far too many lives that genocide and apartheid have globalized, transcending these historical calamities. These terms became legal frameworks, crimes enshrined in international law, with the hope that their recognition will prevent their repetition. But in the process of abstraction, globalization, and readaptation, something was lost. Is it the affinity between the particular experience and the universalized abstraction of the crime that makes Palestine resistant to existing definitions?

Scholars have increasingly turned to settler-colonialism as the lens through which we assess Palestine. Settler-colonialism is a structure of erasure where the settler displaces and replaces the native. And while settler-colonialism, genocide, and apartheid are clearly not mutually exclusive, their ability to capture the material reality of Palestinians remains elusive. South Africa is a particular case of settler-colonialism. So are Israel, the United States, Australia, Canada, Algeria, and more. The framework of settler colonialism is both useful and insufficient. It does not provide meaningful ways to understand the nuance between these different historical processes and does not necessitate a particular outcome. Some settler colonial cases have been incredibly normalized at the expense of a completed genocide. Others have led to radically different end solutions. Palestine both fulfills and defies the settler-colonial condition.

We must consider Palestine through the iterations of Palestinians. If the Holocaust is the paradigmatic case for the crime of genocide and South Africa for that of apartheid, then the crime against the Palestinian people must be called the Nakba.

The term Nakba, meaning “Catastrophe,” is often used to refer to the making of the State of Israel in Palestine, a process that entailed the ethnic cleansing of over 750,000 Palestinians from their homes and destroying 531 Palestinian villages between 1947 to 1949. But the Nakba has never ceased; it is a structure not an event. Put shortly, the Nakba is ongoing.

In its most abstract form, the Nakba is a structure that serves to erase the group dynamic: the attempt to incapacitate the Palestinians from exercising their political will as a group. It is the continuous collusion of states and systems to exclude the Palestinians from materializing their right to self-determination. In its most material form, the Nakba is each Palestinian killed or injured, each Palestinian imprisoned or otherwise subjugated, and each Palestinian dispossessed or exiled.

The Nakba is both the material reality and the epistemic framework to understand the crimes committed against the Palestinian people. And these crimes—encapsulated in the framework of Nakba—are the result of the political ideology of Zionism, an ideology that originated in late nineteenth century Europe in response to the notions of nationalism, colonialism, and antisemitism.

As Edward Said reminds us, Zionism must be assessed from the standpoint of its victims, not its beneficiaries. Zionism can be simultaneously understood as a national movement for some Jews and a colonial project for Palestinians. The making of Israel in Palestine took the form of consolidating Jewish national life at the expense of shattering a Palestinian one. For those displaced, misplaced, bombed, and dispossessed, Zionism is never a story of Jewish emancipation; it is a story of Palestinian subjugation.

What is distinctive about the Nakba is that it has extended through the turn of the 21st century and evolved into a sophisticated system of domination that has fragmented and reorganized Palestinians into different legal categories, with each category subject to a distinctive type of violence. Fragmentation thus became the legal technology underlying the ongoing Nakba. The Nakba has encompassed both apartheid and genocidal violence in a way that makes it fulfill these legal definitions at various points in time while still evading their particular historical frames.

Palestinians have named and theorized the Nakba even in the face of persecution, erasure, and denial. This work has to continue in the legal domain. Gaza has reminded us that the Nakba is now. There are recurringthreats by Israeli politicians and other public figures to commit the crime of the Nakba, again. If Israeli politicians are admitting the Nakba in order to perpetuate it, the time has come for the world to also reckon with the Palestinian experience. The Nakba must globalize for it to end.

We must imagine that one day there will be a recognized crime of committing a Nakba, and a disapprobation of Zionism as an ideology brd on racial elimination. The road to get there remains long and challenging, but we do not have the privilege to relinquish any legal tools available to name the crimes against the Palestinian people in the present and attempt to stop them. The denial of the genocide in Gaza is rooted in the denial of the Nakba. And both must end, now.

[alexlwrites]

You ask and you shall receive!

Here's part 2 of "Yoongi never had a crush until you" from my notes app. I'm always open to more requests <3

(Check out part one here)

(Buy me a coffee on ko-fi!)

....

Tonight was the night. Yoongi could feel it, from the tip of his long luscious hair to his weirdly long toe. There was something in the air - whispers of certainty and peace that could either be a sign that Jungkook had left the premises or that tonight was the night that Yoongi was finally going to gather all the courage within his tired body and ask you out!

Furthermore! - he shook his fist in front of his mirror, eyes slightly crazed with a decidive stance - you'd say yes!

From there, everything would fall into place, stars aligning and errors corrected. His shoes would fit better, the wifi faster, the coffee tastier. Everything improved by your presence in his life.

He just couldn't stand all this nervous, jittery energy anymore! It was all so unlike his cool, calm, collected persona and he didn't know how to deal with his sudden difficulties to form full coherent sentences when you showed up. He had to put a stop to it and act on his new and, to be honest, slightly concerning feelings.

You see, he was a man with a written plan! In the depths of his pockets, under seven layers of coffee shop receipts from 5 months ago and guitar picks he thought he had lost, there was a small piece of paper with his plan detailed step by step: first he would calm the fuck down (crucial). Then, check for sweaty hands, unknown food stains on his outfit and bad breath (Just in case!!!!). Then, present his five slide power point showcasing his feelings and finally - finally! - ask you out.

In case you'd say no, he had an extra slide with more appealing arguments (i'm rich, it said). Otherwise, he'd move to south america and live his life as Carlos, the potato farmer.

Of course, as Yoongi's life was never as simple as a power point presentation, all his plans were forgotten when you showed up in his studio dressed up in a way he'd never seen, skin tight dress clinging to your body in the way he wanted to, rendering him speechless and brain dead.

"Yoongi! Sorry for the late hour, I just had to drop these documents before I left and I rushed here because I have plans for the evening..."

Ask her out, his heart said, beating so loud he was surprised you didn't hear it. Ask her out, make her yours, rip this sinful devil sent dress into pieces. Fuck the power point, fuck your canva vision board, ask her out, ask her out, ask her out, ask her...

"Out" he spluttered at last and he swore his heart shattered at the hurt in your eyes.

"Oh, im sorry" you said, dropping the stack of papers on his coffee table, lips pouting and eyes saddened in a way that made yoongi want to choke on his own fucking wrist "I'll leave you be, mr. Min"

"No-nO! I DIDN'T MEAN..." but it was too late and youd already left.

BUGGER.

BUGGER IT ALL TO HELL!

(Part three)