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joelsgoldrush · 3 months ago

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“give me the first taste” | 10k

logan howlett x f!reader

part 2 of “GUILTY PLEASURE”

"Your hungry flirt borders intrusion / And I'm building memories on things we have not said / Full is not heavy as empty, not nearly, my love / Give me the first taste / Let it begin, heaven cannot wait forever / Darling, just start start the chase, I'll let you win." The First Taste by Fiona Apple

SUMMARY: From the moment you first laid eyes on Logan, you knew he was a tough nut to crack. But if there’s one thing you love, it’s a challenge. As your relationship grows, you’re determined to show him that, in this universe, he can also be loved.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. angst. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. age-gap (reader is 25). once again wade saves the day. domestic!logan. soft dom!logan. logan calls reader “kid”. they watch (500) days of summer. oral sex (f and m receiving). fingering. thigh riding. thumb sucking. throat fucking. multiple orgasms. unprotected p in v. creampie (i would say i’m sorry but i’d be lying)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: jeez. hi guys!!! hope you’re doing alright. this is the 2nd part to “guilty pleasure.” writing for these two has been a total rollercoaster, but god was it worth it. as i always tell you, english isn’t my first language, so if you come across any mistake and you feel like letting me know, there’s no problem. thank you so much for all the support you’ve been giving my posts. i’m happy strangers out there take the time to read my silly stories :)

A girl and a mutant walk into an apartment…

Actually, you’re still trying to come up with the rest of the joke. But one thing’s true: Logan’s about to set foot in your place.

You curse under your breath, putting both your hands to work as you struggle to open the door. “Fucking swollen wood. I hate humidity,” you mutter, glancing back at Logan, who frowns as you keep trying different maneuvers to get the door to function properly.

It’s a shitty situation overall. And having that gorgeous man practically glued to your back isn’t helping in any way. You can tell he wants to give you a hand, but you’re not having it—women in STEM or something of the sort.

“May I—” he starts, though you cut him off before he can finish.

“I’ve got this. Just need to—” you say, ramming your shoulder into the door with enough force to make it finally give away. Almost stumbling over the carpet but managing to catch yourself, you sigh in relief. Meanwhile, Logan stands still, scrutinizing you until you gesture for him to enter. “Welcome to the smallest apartment in New York City. It's nothing fancy, but it’s got everything you need for a comfortable stay on a budget. Make yourself at home!”

Logan narrows his eyes, the tiniest smirk playing on his lips before stepping inside. Each of his movements seems to be premeditated as he tosses his jacket onto the couch, surveying the room. A portrait of when you were a kid, probably six or seven years old, catches his attention. He tilts his head, picking up the picture to examine it more closely, and then flashes you a lopsided grin. “How cute.”

“Well, I’ve changed a lot,” you take the picture from his hands, returning it to the shelf where he had gotten it from.

“Well,” he echoes, mocking your tone, “your beauty certainly hasn’t.”

His eyes bore into you as you meet his gaze. What amazes you most is that he’s being completely honest. In a heartbeat, you look away, wondering what’s gotten into you. Usually, you’re not this awkward—you’ve learned how to take compliments over the years, knowing how to smile just right, to flutter your eyelashes. To blush and giggle in command. Those were the tools that helped you to survive countless first dates—your dearest aces up your sleeve.

There’s no use denying that they remained just that: first, failed dates. You hope you never have to go back to dating apps after this.

“Are you hungry? ‘Cause I’m starving,” you say, trying to walk away from him, although he’s faster, catching your hand in his.

“Hey,” he urges you to make eye contact with him, his voice perplexingly soft. “Is everything okay?”

You nod so vigorously that you nearly strain your neck. “I’m fine, I swear. I just never get past this point.”

Inching closer, he presses his lips together for a split second, his brows furrowing in confusion. “You lost me there.”

“Guys who come into my apartment don’t tend to call back,” you admit, a flush creeping up your face, cheeks getting hotter. “I happen to believe it’s a curse, though I’ve kissed, like, a hundred toads so far and it still won’t break.”

“So y’think you’re gonna scare me off,” he raises an eyebrow, grinning. His rough fingers become gentle as they tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s sweet. Should be the other way around.”

Wow. You two are a match made in heaven.

As you detach yourself from his embrace and head to the kitchen, you decide to look for something edible in the fridge, finding different trays of food from days ago, none of which look appetizing or suitable for feeding the Tin Woodman standing behind you.

All of a sudden, the unmistakable metallic sound of Logan’s claws unsheathing rings in your ears, forcing you to spin around. The image that unfolds before you is peculiar, to say the least: he’s cornering your cat against the door.

Why is he about to fight a cat?

“Please don’t kill him?” you take a step in his direction and scoop the little ball of white fur into your arms. Logan stares at both of you, eyes squinted and brows knitted. “I’m sure he’s the cutest feline you’ve ever seen. Have mercy on him.”

“I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“Earnest wasn’t aware of your existence either,” you reply, scratching along the animal’s back. He purrs beside your neck, his yellowish eyes never leaving Logan’s. “Earnest, this is Logan. He has claws just like you.”

“Don’t you dare compare me to that,” Logan warns you, retracting his claws with a sigh. You can’t help but wonder if he ever feels tranquil, at peace. “Y’know, you’ve doomed him to bad fortune with that name. Is he at least toilet trained?”

“Are you hating on The Importance of Being Earnest?” you ask, expecting a retort, though apparently the play’s title doesn’t ring a bell for him. “Oscar Wilde?”

“Who do you think you’re talkin’ to, kid?”

Now’s your time to roll your eyes, setting the cat down and letting it run away. He likes to hide in the bathroom—don’t ask why, because not even you know the answer to that. You flick your gaze up back to Logan, placing your hands on your hips. “See, you gave him trust issues.”

“He’ll survive. Don’t they have seven lives?”

This is the perfect conversation to have with someone who just ate you out thirty minutes ago: how many lives do cats have. Jesus.

At some point, Logan flops onto the couch, stretching out. You shudder as you hear him crack his neck, the popping sound getting on your nerves. He pats the empty side of the sofa, spreading his thighs until he’s almost taking up all the space. “Come here.”

Putting aside all your thoughts, you accept the invitation. You sit down, motionless, and his arm grazes the cushion behind your head, pulling you closer to him. You rest your cheek on his chest, letting out a deep sigh, one that you’ve been holding in since you got to the apartment. Is it possible that he knows you craved this? This proximity, this kind of affection. To be held—it’s been your only wish for months. He drums his fingers on your shoulder blades, then starts rubbing your back ever so lightly.

Far from dozing off, you feel alive.

It’s hard not to lose track of time and space when you find yourself immersed in the warmth he offers, and that’s when you realize how deeply you’re falling for this man. “Logan?” the mere thought of asking him what’s been on your mind terrifies you. The last thing you want is to ruin things—or whatever it is that you have. He hums, a low, heavy sound in his throat, indicating you to continue. “I have a question.”

“Ask away.”

You lift your face from his chest and look him in the eye. The city’s still alive outside, with music and chatter sneaking in through the window. Everything seems to be perfect, and you wish you could stay like this—just staring at him as if he were a painting in a museum, and you the critic who can’t stop writing articles about its beauty.

Okay, that was… weirdly specific.

Logan tries to hide his smile as you peck his lips repeatedly. For a moment, you almost forget what you were going to ask him in the first place. But then he’s ready to listen, and you a wave of nausea washes over you.

“I know that we came here to… engage in adult practices.”

“Fucking, you mean.”

“I didn’t want to be that straightforward, but yeah,” you say, shaking your head as to rearrange your thoughts. “Would you mind if we stayed like this?” to emphasize your point, you kick your shoes off and put your legs on top of his lap. He observes the whole sequence without daring to utter a word. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to try that too. I truly do. But… right now, all I want is to cuddle,” he’s still silent, making you even more nervous. “I’m sorry. Is that okay with you?”

His whole body engulfs yours, your cheek coming to rest once again in its original position. You can feel the rhythmic beating of his heart, each breath he takes, the air he exhales dampening your nape. Logan peppers your neck with chaste kisses before pressing his lips to your temple. His voice comes out strained, partially muffled by your hair. “Who do you take me for, huh?” he’s right there, beside your ear, fucking everywhere. There isn’t a single centimeter of your exposed skin that he isn’t touching, marking as his. You don’t give him an answer, in part because you’re unsure of what to say. He takes your silence as a cue to keep talking. “Let me take you to bed.”

“I can walk on my own.”

“I know,” he mutters, standing up with you in his arms, one arm beneath your knees and the other one under your shoulders. Logan’s not used to being this cautious, this patient with someone he’s known for less than two weeks. You see it in his eyes when he lets his guard down—something that has cracked, a shell that’s been broken.

As he places you gently on top of the covers, he lingers for a moment, crouching beside the bed and searching for your lowered gaze. His fingers are warm as he tilts your chin up. “I didn’t come here just to have sex with you. That was a possibility, of course—but it’s not the main reason why I’m here,” he rasps, words accompanied by the light brush of his lips against yours for a quick, brief kiss. “I care about you. A lot. I’m fine with whatever we do as long as I get to be close to you,” he grabs your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He then goes back to his usual bossy self, his demeanor changing. “And I don’t want to hear you apologizing for not wanting to have sex ever again. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now you’re making jokes?”

“I can’t have serious conversations,” you confess, observing the look of pure confusion on his face. “It’s true. I once spoke at a funeral and they cut me off forty seconds into my speech.”

Logan laughs at your sudden confession, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Rising to his feet, he begins to unbutton his flannel, pausing after the first few buttons are undone, waiting for your approval. “Do you want me to stay tonight?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is what I want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

His words don’t hide any real threat—that you know.

You stifle your laughter, shedding your clothes. Instead of going to the bathroom to change, you toss your work clothes carelessly to the floor, opting for an old pair of pajamas that are the complete opposite of sexy. They surely have seen better days.

Logan’s eyes trail over you, taking his time to analyze the faded lettering on your wrinkled shirt. “Keep calm and eat pizza?” he reads aloud.

“Hey. I bought it when I was seventeen.”

“You could use a new wardrobe.”

“Well, what about you?” you tease, toying with his belt. “You’re gonna sleep like this in my bed?”

“Can’t wait for me to get my shirt off, huh?” he grins, that all-too-familiar smile on his lips.

You play along, folding your arms over your chest. “You think so highly of yourself.”

Without breaking eye contact, Logan unbuckles his jeans, letting them pool around his ankles. He then shrugs off his flannel, leaving him in just his briefs and vest. You scan his body, and the room suddenly feels a hundred degrees hotter, the air between you thickening. Logan notices your reaction, chuckling. “Don’t get too excited. This is all you’re getting today.”

“I think I’ve already heard that before.”

“Kid.”

You raise your hands in surrender, showing him your palms and mouthing ’sorry’. Approaching your bed, you pull back the covers and slip into it. When you see Logan still standing there, you frown. “Where are your manners? Come here. I’m very impatient.”

He grumbles something under his breath, but he doesn’t make you wait long. He proceeds to get under the sheets beside you, occupying that side of the bed that’s always been empty. As you both settle in, facing each other, you can’t help but giggle, your contagious laugh getting to him. “What now?”

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper, tracing the bridge of his nose with your index finger, a featherlight touch that has him closing his eyes. In the soft glow of the night, with the city’s distant sounds filtering in, he looks breathtaking. “I mean it.”

“Do you have an off switch?”

“I’m… not sure. Let’s find out tomorrow.”

“You need to sleep,” he pulls you onto his chest with firm but gentle hands. He intertwines his legs with yours, holding you close.

“Wait. I have a game to play.”

“It’s late.”

“Please?”

He sighs. “Okay.”

“We have to make confessions until we fall asleep.”

“You just want to talk—that doesn’t even qualify as a game.”

“It does in this universe,” you reply, feeling his chest rumble with a chuckle as you settle more comfortably against him. “I’ll start: remember the first night you came to the bar?” he hums in acknowledgment. “It wasn’t Burger Night. We don’t serve food. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

He kisses the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. “I knew. You don’t have a kitchen down there, baby,” he falls silent, taking his time to come up with a confession of his own. “I have a fear of flying.”

“Really? You, of all people?”

“I wasn’t expecting to be judged.”

“Oh, don’t be such a crybaby,” you tease, burying your face further into the crook of his shoulder, inhaling his scent. He shivers slightly where your nose touches his skin. “I like you. It’s kind of scary, and I’m sure saying something like this probably goes against the rules of dating 101, but I do. I feel safe with you, like—like this is where I’m supposed to be.”

Almost as if the pieces of the puzzle finally fit together, you think to yourself, though the words stay unspoken.

You’ve come to learn that Logan’s not a man of many words—he’s more of the “show, don’t tell” kind of guy. So when he makes you lift your face, you’re not surprised by the way he kisses you: hungrily. Passionately, like a starved man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. A soft whimper gets lost somewhere in your throat as his tongue makes its way into your mouth, languidly stroking yours.

“We didn’t brush our teeth,” you whisper against his lips, laughing when he groans in exasperation.

“You love having the final say, don’t you?”

“I’m being serious, Logan. Cavities are a real issue for me.”

“You can always get new teeth.”

“But my morning breath—”

“It’ll stink anyway, and so will mine,” he responds, taking a deep breath and clearing his throat once he settles into his ideal sleep position. “Good night.”

“Night,” you murmur, nuzzling your cheek against his neck. Despite your efforts to ignore it, being cradled like this feels incredible. You can’t believe you went twenty-five years without it.

Just as you’re about to drift off, curiosity strikes. “Can you get tattoos?”

“Bub, I was actually falling asleep.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry,” you mumble, feeling a bit sheepish.

More silence.

“Logan?”

“Hmm?”

“What was the Great Depression like?”

“Fuck me,” he mutters, his voice gruff as he shifts lightly. “It was fine. Now go to sleep.”

And you do, but not for long. An abrupt coldness wakes you up, eyes wide open, feeling disoriented. It’s still pitch black outside, far quieter than when you first fell asleep. The clock on your nightstand reads it’s 3:17 am, though it feels like you’ve only been in bed for five minutes.

Then you see him—he’s twitching in his sleep on the far side of the bed, his painful grunts reaching your ears. Most of what he says is unintelligible, but there’s one word he keeps repeating over and over again without fail: “No.”

You don’t usually have nightmares. What’s the best way to wake someone from one? You’re still thinking when he starts mumbling again, his voice thick with distress, and now he’s throwing his arms in the air as if he were fighting off something—or someone—in his dreams.

Pressing your hands to his cheeks, you attempt to hold his face steady. He clenches his fists, his breath quickening the more he battles whatever’s haunting him. “Logan,” you whisper at first, subtly shaking his shoulders, but his eyebrows stay furrowed, deep in his nightmare. This time, you tighten your grip, fully sitting on top of him. “Logan. Logan! Wake up!”

Without warning, you’re on your back, pinned against the mattress. Logan’s straddling your hips, caging you in with his body, the weight of his adamantium skeleton pressing down. Your hands are trapped beneath his, and you watch as he clenches his jaw, teeth bared in a way that looks painful. His eyes are so dark and wild you barely recognize him, prominent veins throbbing in his neck with each labored breath he takes.

“Logan,” your own voice sounds unnatural, forced, as you do your best to bring him back to reality. “It’s me. You’re alright.”

That seems to get through him. Logan stares at you in disbelief, his eyes softening as they take in your terrified expression. He abruptly pulls away, retreating to the nearest wall. He’s gasping for air, slamming his eyes shut, his legs trembling. The only sound you can hear is his rapid breathing. You get up from the bed, taking a step in his direction, but you don’t manage to go any further since he stops you with a shout.

“Stay right there!” he’s growling, pointing his finger at you. “I’m serious. Don’t come any closer.”

“Logan…”

“Please, no!” his voice increases in pitch, not being able to meet your eyes. “Please. Just stay there.”

You comply, not wanting to upset him any further. Sitting back on your knees, you try to appear calm. A man so strong, capable of things you can’t even understand. A weapon turned against himself now stands before you, pushing you away as if his presence were poisonous. He slumps to the floor, the fabric of his vest soaked with sweat.

Once he’s fully conscious, you cautiously crawl toward him, watching his every move. On a random day, this might have been funny for both of you, but right now, there’s no room for laughter. Logan shakes his head, his shoulders tensing when you reach out to hug him, wrapping your arms around his broad frame. It takes him a couple of minutes, but eventually, his body sags against yours. For a while, neither of you speaks. You just thread your fingers through his hair, hoping the closeness will help soothe him. “Feeling better?” you whisper in the shell of his ear, and he pulls back to look you in the eye. You caress his cheek, his stubble rough against your skin. “Welcome back.”

“I’m sorry,” it’s the first thing he says, covering your hand with his. One by one, he kisses your knuckles, still shaking his head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You had a nightmare—it’s not like you could control it.”

“But I could’ve hurt you,” he says, lowering his gaze to your wrists, where his fingerprints have left their mark. “God. I’m so sorry. I have to go.”

“Wait!” you grab his arm, your mouth setting in a hard line, stopping him from leaving. “Don’t run away from me, not now. Don’t push me away, Logan.”

“I could’ve done something much worse.”

“But you didn’t. It was a nightmare, baby. You didn’t know,” you kiss his forehead, hoping to talk some sense into him. “Please, stay. Let’s try to get some more sleep.”

“What if—”

You hold his face close to yours, your noses brushing. “You won’t hurt me.”

This time, he lets you keep him close, the roles now reversed. You can see him fighting his exhaustion, not wanting to fall asleep. But the more you play with his hair, the harder it is for him to stay awake.

“I’m alright,” he says, seemingly reading your mind. It’s hard to tell whether he’s reassuring you or himself.

“I know,” you knead his shoulder, aiming to ease the tension knotted there. “You better sleep, or I might start rambling again.”

A faint, tired hum escapes him, at long last allowing his eyes to close. “I like hearing you talk,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your collarbone, drifting off soon after that.

You continue to hug him, feeling the weight of his body gradually relax against yours as his breathing evens out. The room is quiet, but your mind is far from it: a tornado of emotions swirls within you—concern, relief, love, and something else you can’t quite decipher. It isn’t until sleep finally claims you too that your brain stops going a hundred kilometers an hour.

The most surreal Sunday night of your whole life.

“So… when will you let me see Lolo again?”

Wade’s question makes you stop mid-pour, flicking your eyes between the drink and him. A few seats away, you hand a glass to Adam. Returning to where Wade’s currently sitting, you dry your hands on your apron. “Why are you even here?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, and he gives half a shrug. “Last time I checked, I wasn’t holding him against his will.”

“He’s been crashing at your place almost every night. You have your own methods, woman,” he raises one finger, then quickly adds another, pointing at your shirt. “Two methods, in fact.”

At that, you laugh mirthlessly, shaking your head with a grin. “I’m surprised anyone would willingly date you.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he retorts, taking a tentative sip of his beer and leaning back in his chair.

You glance at him while you wipe down the bar, looking for something to occupy your hands. “He’s not my boyfriend—yet.”

Wade mimics a punch in his chest, just where his heart’s supposed to be, though you’re starting to question whether he has one. His lips form a small, exaggerated pout. “That must hurt, doll. You got yourself into a situationship with a goddamn fossil. Good luck getting out of that.”

“It’s not that bad,” you say, rolling your eyes. “We’re cool this way. There’s absolutely no need for a title.”

“Okay, let’s rehearse that one more time because you look like you’re about to cry,” he lifts an eyebrow, drawing nearer. “You want the title, right?”

“I don’t.”

He props his chin on his hand, laughing at you. “Yes, you do. You can’t fool me.”

“I said I don’t.”

“I said I don’t,” he mocks you, kicking his legs and puckering his lips.

You can’t help but throw the towel down on the counter with irritation, giving in. “Okay! Of course, I want the fucking title.”

“There she is!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in a triumphant gesture. “Glad we’re speaking the truth now,” he tilts his head to the side, noticing your sudden silence. “Hey, drop the long face. I’m sure he’s been thinking about it. In order to understand Logan, I usually compare him to elders over ninety.”

“Why would you do that?” you ask, your tone a mix of mild annoyance and curiosity.

“Just think about it! Senior citizens didn’t date for too long in the past. They’d go straight from strangers to lovers. Take my grandparents, for example: in the span of one year, they met at a party, then got married, and had five kids. Do you really want to have a litter of Logan’s grumpy, hairy puppies?”

“Wade, that’s not even possible.”

“The point is,” he continues, finishing his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Logan’s rusty in this area, alright? I’d bet a thousand dollars he probably dated Cleopatra.”

“How did you pass History in high school?”

“I never graduated, but keep that between us,” he lifts his shoulders, shrugging. He spins the empty bottle, contemplating his next words. “You should tell him how you feel and what you want. That’s what works best for Vanessa and me. It’s easier that way—you can’t expect him to just guess.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “I just wish he’d realize it on his own.”

“Well, sometimes you need to give the other person a bit of guidance. I’m just laying out the basics of a relationship here. Did your parents hate each other or something?”

The irony of it all. “They got divorced when I was little.”

“Oh, god,” Wade sighs, rubbing his temples before glancing at you. “Let me get this straight: Mommy and Daddy weren’t exactly the poster children for love. And you also happen to be a bartender. Anything else, honey? Please tell me you’re at least getting laid, because otherwise, I’m going to feel tremendously sorry for you and your mental health.”

Just then, you hear your name being called. Smiling at Wade, you mumble: “Saved by the bell.” Once you’re back from taking some orders, Wade jumps to his feet, coming around the counter to hug you.

“Dude, what’s the matter with you?” you ask, loosely returning the hug.

“You’re a fucking survivor,” he whispers in your ear, genuinely sounding concerned. “I don’t know how you do it—you seem so put together. I would’ve lost it by now. A life without sex sounds awful.”

“Jesus, Wade! Get off!” you stretch your arm to punch him in the back, earning a groan from him. “Back to your seat, gentleman. I certainly don’t need your pity.”

“I’m a certified sexologist. Your secret’s safe with me,” he declares with a smirk, gesturing to his empty beer. “But first, I’m gonna need more of this tasty apple juice.”

“I hope you’ve got some cash on you,” you say, getting him another beer. “Why do I get the feeling Logan would kill us if he knew we’re talking about this?”

“Isn’t that what makes it even better?”

Swaying on your feet, you scrunch your nose, momentarily lost in thought. “He won’t let me touch him. I don’t know if it’s me that does something wrong. We do have our… moments, but he takes care of himself. And usually in the bathroom.”

Wade goes white in front of you. “How long has this been going on?”

“Over a month.”

“Oh. That’s bad, like, really bad.”

“Thanks! I’ll be sleeping on the highway tonight. You can always join me.”

“Doll, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed, alright?” he waves his hand dismissively, then sets his palms flat on the counter. “I know I’m starting to sound like a broken record, but talking to him is your best bet. This isn’t something you can just brush under the carpet. You’re like a goddamn radio—put it to good use.”

Just as you’re about to reply, you spot Logan entering the bar. You raise a hand in greeting, waving at him. He meets your gaze and smiles briefly, and so your eyes drift to Wade’s, shooting him a warning look. “If you keep this to yourself, I won’t charge you for today,” you mutter through gritted teeth, to which he answers by pretending to zip his mouth closed.

Logan takes a seat next to him, ignoring his presence. Instead, he focuses entirely on you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hey, homey.”

“Hiya, Wade,” Wade greets himself with a mock cheer, patting his own back, which makes you laugh. He turns to Logan and his whole face lights up. “I’m afraid to tell you I can’t sleep when you’re not around.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “Get your shit together.”

“You’re the worst roommate ever! Can’t believe you got yourself a girl and completely forgot about your bro,” Wade murmurs under his breath, just as his phone rings. “Thank God. I’ve got to go. My love nugget’s calling,” he announces, heading for the door. Before leaving, Wade blows the two of you a kiss. “I hate you both, but I also love you. Peace out, my friends!”

Logan and you exchange glances. “He’s a funny guy, isn’t he?”

“You could say that,” he replies, leaning in to kiss you on the lips. Logan intends to deepen the kiss, but you pull away after a couple of seconds. He frowns, clearly confused. “That’s how you greet me?”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a giggle. “My tip jar is practically empty, and I hate to say it, but it’s your fault.”

“Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”

“Oh, no.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m not,” he plants a quick kiss on your cheek, making you smile. “You have classes tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, at 9 am,” you almost grunt, not feeling too enthusiastic about it. “I’m gonna need your help. I can’t sleep through my alarm, okay? The professor said tomorrow’s class is an important one. Midterms are right around the corner, and I can’t take the liberty of failing them.”

“That won’t happen,” he assures you, and you believe him. “I can be of help, don’t worry. You won’t oversleep.”

Oh, Logan. Sweet, lying Logan.

Turns out you ended up oversleeping. Twenty-five years on this earth, and you still haven’t learned not to trust a man, even if his puppy-dog eyes silently beg you to do otherwise. The thing is—you love them. You love men. And you’re especially fond of the one currently sleeping in your bed.

The first rays of sunshine hit your face, waking you up. You attempt to raise a hand to shield your eyes, but moving any limbs feels like a Herculean task. A warm body is pressed against your back, one veiny arm draped over your stomach. Logan remains fast asleep behind you, his steady breathing succeeding in making you feel at ease. You reach back, running your fingers through his messy hair, and he grumbles in his sleep, instinctively pulling you closer.

What a nice, domestic morning. Yep, you’re getting used to this. And nope, you don’t regret it, not even in the slightest bit.

Though there must be a mistake, because you’re preeeeetty sure you had something important to do.

Oh. You have classes. Had—past tense.

You reach for your nightstand, blindly groping for your phone. The charger is lying on the floor, the plastic of it all damaged. Perhaps Earnest had chewed on it while you were sleeping? You gently pry Logan’s arm off you, sitting up, and your bleary eyes land on something barely peeking out from under the bed.

It’s your fucking phone. The screen is completely shattered, with three distinct holes in the middle of it. Three holes, how strange! You can’t help but wonder who might have left them. Clutching your pillow, you whack Logan in the face with it. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!”

He groans, trying to take the pillow away from you. “What the fuck is wrong with you, kid?”

“I wish I had a UNO reverse card because I should be the one asking you that!” you jab your finger into his chest, showing him the ruined phone. “You broke my fucking phone!”

“What?” he asks, voice laden with sleep, still disoriented. He holds the phone, carefully scrutinizing it. “I think I don’t know how to hit the snooze button.”

“No shit, Sherlock. I believe you’ve made that very clear,” you huff, tossing the phone aside as you flop back onto the mattress. The clock on your nightstand says 11:05 am, and you cover your face with your hands, taking a deep breath. “Next time, when it goes off, just wake me up and I’ll do it.”

Logan settles beside you, resting his head on his forearm as he watches you. “I’m sorry, bub. I’ll get you a new one.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur, sighing. This is your free ticket to be a menace. “I should’ve known dinosaurs and phones would never get along. My bad, pal.”

You don’t even get to see his reaction because he starts tickling you, the room filling with your laughter. Squealing, you try to wriggle away, but his fingers dig into your ribs, expertly finding your most ticklish spots. Your giggles escalate into breathless laughter, your eyes squeezed shut as you desperately attempt to push him away. He’s relentless, chuckling when his own laughter bubbles up.

“L-logan, stop!” you gasp between fits of laughter, aiming to grasp his hands.

“We dinosaurs love tickling people. Sorry, sweetheart,” he manhandles you until you’re perched on his lap, fisting the fabric of your (his) shirt. Leaning forward, he captures your mouth in a heated kiss. “I’m sorry about the phone,” he slurs the words against your cheek, his lips trailing down to your neck. You tell him that it’s okay, trying to find a comfortable position on top of him, and that’s when his thigh presses against your core, your eyes widening at the unexpected sensation. Logan’s no fool, noticing the way your breath hitches. “What’s wrong, baby? You woke up needy?”

“No, I just—” you trail off as he does it again, his strong thigh coming in contact with your clothed cunt. You search for leverage by placing your hands on his shoulders, glancing at him. “Logan.”

“I’m all ears,” he rests his back against the headboard, the tent in his boxers impossible to ignore. “You want to get off on my thigh,” he states with certainty. It’s not a question—it’s a full-on statement. He knows what you want, what you crave. “Come on then. Grind against it.”

You do as he says, not caring to think twice. You start moving, rubbing your wet pussy against his muscular thigh. The friction sends jolts of pleasure through you, and soon, you’re whimpering his name, your hands trailing down his abs. Why hadn’t you tried this before? It feels fucking amazing.

From his position, Logan stares at you, his lips slightly parted, eyes clouded with lust. Your arousal drenches your panties, soaking through them, the fabric clinging to his coarse leg hair. He glances down at the mess you’re making, his grin widening as he takes in the sight. “Goddamn, woman. I’m gonna make you clean it off, I swear to God.”

“Need your help,” you whisper, lowering your head, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. The coil tightening inside you is almost unbearable. A kiss is what you lean in for, desperate for more, though Logan appears to have other plans. He fists your hair, pulling at your nape and yanking your head back. The roughness of the movement pulls a moan from your lips, your mouth parched like a desert.

“Eyes up here, okay? You look at me when I make you come,” his raspy voice makes you feel tingly, each word sending shivers down your spine. His hands fiercely grab the flesh of your hips, guiding you, helping you grind harder against his thigh. You think you’re on the verge of drooling when you catch the way his abdomen flexes, working to push you toward that long-awaited release. “That’s it, there you go,” he rasps, relishing the sounds he’s eliciting from you, each of your gasps feeding his desire.

Time slows as the warmth in your belly finally erupts, your eyes fighting to stay open through the aftershocks of your orgasm. No actual words leave your mouth, just a string of whines and moans, some carrying Logan’s name. He swallows every single sound you make, everything you give him, grunting as your legs tremble and shake atop him.

He lets you collapse onto your back, your breathing gradually evening out. “I think I saw fireworks behind my lids,” you confess, your mouth dry, expecting Logan to flop onto the mattress beside you. But he doesn’t. Through your blurry vision, you contemplate as he positions himself between your parted legs, getting dangerously close to your cunt. “Logan, what are you— Oh, fuck,” you moan mid-sentence when you feel him pulling your panties aside to lick a slow strip through your folds, collecting your arousal. He points his tongue, dipping it into your entrance, and you wince, squirming. “Santa Claus, is that you?”

Logan grins against you, closing his mouth around clit for a moment. He then shifts until he’s eye-to-eye with you, two of his fingers sliding into you in one smooth motion. “Give me another one,” he murmurs, his other hand slipping under your shirt to play with your nipples, pinching them.

You never imagined two fingers could bring such intense pleasure. You just lie there, taking it like a good girl, as Logan sometimes call you. “Please, I need you,” you cry out, your fingernails scraping against his torso.

“I know, darlin’. I’m right here,” he rasps against your temple, moving his fingers in and out of you with more enthusiasm. But what he doesn’t understand is that you need all of him. Your hands itch to touch him, to feel the weight of his cock. The corners of his mouth turn up as he watches you struggle to find words. “Wish you could see yourself like this. Such a pretty girl, so gorgeous like this,” his fingers keep grazing that bundle of joy deep inside you, and he goes in for a kiss, the sour taste of your slick invading your taste buds. “Tightest pussy I’ve ever had. Need to stretch you real good before fucking you with my cock.”

Bingo! That last sentence does it for you, and you come for the second time in the morning, your cunt clenching and spasming around his fingers. You hide your face in his neck, mouthing at his Adam’s apple. He hasn’t trimmed his beard in days, and it shows because you can now feel a burning sensation on the soft skin of your inner thighs.

“You’re allowed to break all my phones from now on,” you suggest, only to hear Logan’s laughter in your ear. He snakes a hand through your hair, shoving it back away from your face. You feel him kiss your sweaty forehead, and as you press yourself closer to his body, something hard nudges your hipbone.

Absentmindedly, you trace the waistband of his boxers with your index finger, your eyes snapping to his face. Logan freezes on the spot, and it’s almost as if he’s stopped breathing. Without a word, he rises from the bed, his movements sudden and almost mechanical. You watch him, puzzled, as he heads toward the bathroom, the intimacy of just moments ago being abruptly replaced by a dreadful silence.

“Logan, is everything okay? Do you need something?” you ask and he pauses at the bathroom door, his back to you. For a brief second, you think he might actually open up, but when he turns around, his expression is neutral, masking whatever thoughts are running through his mind. At last, he flashes you a quick smile.

“I’m fine,” he says, his tone gentle but distant. “Just gonna take a shower. Then we can have breakfast together, right?”

You nod, his words easing the growing sense of frustration gnawing at you. He disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of running water soon follows. You sink back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling. You take your pillow and bury your face in it, letting out a muffled groan. There’s something he isn't telling you, something hidden deep beneath his usual gruff exterior. Although you try to piece together the fragments of his behavior, they don’t quite fit.

The minutes drag on, and the sound of the shower becomes a distant, constant background noise. You close your eyes, visualizing your happy place, but your thoughts keep spiraling. All you can do is wait—wait for him to come back and act as if nothing had happened.

Logan’s right there, just a few feet away—yet in moments like these, he feels miles apart. It’s one of those days in which, no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to bridge that distance.

It had all started with you asking Logan “Have you ever watched (500) Days of Summer?”

Of course, he had refused to watch the movie at first, and of course, you had threatened him with phoning Wade to let him know that Logan wanted to have a sleepover. That had done the trick.

You had asked for a day off at the bar, and surprisingly, your boss hadn’t objected. That turn of events led to this moment: sprawled out on the couch with Logan, the two of you watching the final minutes of your favorite film. Logan takes a long drag of his cigar, eyes trained intently on the screen. He’s only wearing sweatpants, which had caused your attention to drift from the plot a few times. The fact that you managed to sit through the entire movie without needing to pause it makes you feel particularly invincible.

Hey.

You again.

Yeah. I, uh, was just wondering if maybe after this, if, um, you— you want to get some coffee or something.

Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sort of supposed to meet someone after this.

Okay.

“That poor fella,” Logan murmurs, taking a slow sip of his beer. You look up at him from where your head rests on his lap, a contented smile playing on your lips. His fingers absently stroke your hair.

“Just wait,” you say, pointing to the screen of your laptop.

Sure.

What’s that?

Why not?

Okay. Well, then I’ll just, uh— I’ll wait for you.

We— we’ll figure it out.

We’ll figure it out.

“They’ll figure it out!” you exclaim, but Logan quickly shushes you, his attention unwavering.

My name’s Tom.

Nice to meet you. I’m Autumn.

When the movie comes to an end, you’re met with Joseph Gordon-Levitt breaking the fourth wall, staring straight at the audience as if he knows he’s about to get himself into a mess with another girl named after a season. You sit up, your eyes eagerly searching for Logan’s. “So? Did you like it? I’ve watched it seven times now. Can’t understand how it gets better each time.”

Logan closes his mouth around his cigar, inhaling deeply before answering. “Yeah, it was pretty good,” he says, his hand finding your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Summer’s a bitch, though.”

“I respectfully disagree,” you tell him, grabbing his beer and giving it a try, only to grimace at the taste. Shuddering, you set it back down. “Why don’t you like her character?”

“Well, for starters, she did Tom dirty. Played with him like he was a damn rag doll.”

You raise an eyebrow, hugging a cushion closer to your chest as you lean back into the couch. “He knew from the beginning she didn’t want to be his girlfriend. Summer was clear—Tom just though he was smart enough to change her mind.”

“They acted like boyfriend and girlfriend the whole movie,” he scorns, placing his cigar down into the ashtray with a bit more force than necessary.

Is your first argument going to be over a movie? Exciting.

“Logan, they weren’t even official.”

“But she made it seem like they were,” he insists, the frustration in his voice growing.

“They were in a situationship—the perfect example, really. That’s not the same as being a couple.”

His gaze dips to the floor, brows knitted in a deep frown. “I think you’re relying on the technicality that they never used those titles. I mean, they did everything together. Isn’t that what normal couples do?”

Lord have mercy.

“Logan, who am I to you?” you inquire, crossing your arms over your chest.

He hesitates, narrowing his eyes, the question clearly catching him off guard. “You are—what? I don’t understand. Is this some kind of mind game you’re playing?”

“It’s actually very simple: if someone were to ask you about me, what would you say? Am I a friend? A bartender?” you inch forward, holding your breath, your tone faltering slightly. Meanwhile, Logan’s hands tighten into fists at his sides. “A fling? Your girlfriend? You complain so much about Summer, yet you can’t even name what we have.”

The living room falls into a heavy silence. Logan blinks slowly, his forehead creasing as he processes your words. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because these are the kinds of conversations we need to have. I understand you don’t want to have them, but I do.”

“Fine. Then tell me what it is that you want,” he asks, his mouth snapping shut when he sees you snorting in response.

“I don’t— I don’t know! To know how you feel, if possible?” you stand up from the couch, taking the cushion with you. You grind your jaw, gnawing on your bottom lip. “Why is it that every time I try to touch you, you push me away?”

He scrunches up his face, mirroring your movements and rising from his seat. “Bub, can we please talk about this tomorrow—”

“No! You don’t get to make all the choices, that’s not fair. Deciphering you isn’t easy, Logan. I’m not asking you to tell me everything you’ve been through. I just wish I could know how you feel about me. I can’t stand in front of you and pretend I don’t mind where this is going, because I’m more than sure I’m falling in love with you. “

“You can’t. You shouldn’t,” he says, his expression hardening. He turns his back to you, running his hands over his face in frustration before heading to the kitchen.

“Well, what were you expecting?” you follow him into the kitchen, finding Earnest on top of the fridge, beholding the scene with a curious gaze. “You basically moved in here, gave me a free trial of what life with you might be like, and now you have the audacity to appear surprised when I tell you I’ve caught feelings?” salty tears start rolling down your cheeks, and you spread your arms wide in exasperation. “Oh, but you’re right. How could I’ve been this stupid, to fall for the damned Wolverine!” you laugh bitterly, expecting him to break eye contact, but he doesn’t. “You think you’re so bad, so broken. Guess what: you’re not, because I love you, and I couldn’t care less about your past. You may think you’re unlovable, but you’re not, you hear me?”

For a heartbeat, the world seems to pause. And so he says:

“You are the most exasperating person I know.”

“Wow. Thank you so much!” you retort, your voice dripping with sarcasm. You run a hand through your hair, infuriated. “That makes me feel better!”

“Let me do the talking now,” he says, taking long strides toward you, and the proximity makes you lower your head. “You’re not getting the final say today. Just because I’m not over-sharing my feelings all the time doesn’t mean I don’t have them! In fact, I do. I may not express them openly, but they exist. And I wish you could see inside my head! You’d be delighted at how much time I spend thinking about you,” you cackle at his words, rolling your eyes. His fingers grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “There hasn’t been a single moment since the day we met that I have stopped wanting you. Your voice is like a goddamn radio that, no matter what I do, I can’t turn off. It’s like I’m infected by you, and I hate it!” his eyes burn with a mix of anger and affectionpur, his pursed lips softening as he continues. “No good ever comes from caring this much about someone. So excuse me for being scared of ruining the only good thing that’s happened to me in years!”

You hit him with the cushion—not with enough force to make him hurt, but enough to make a point.

“Drop it, kid.”

“I’m—” you hit him again, “not—” and again, “stupid. I know what I’m getting myself into,” as you attempt to raise the cushion once more, Logan takes it from your hands, throwing it on the counter. Your shoulders sag, trying to find the strength to keep going. “And I know for a fact,” you add, glancing at his conflicted eyes, “that the easiest thing for me would be to walk away from you, but I can’t. It’s too fucking late.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do! These are my feelings, okay? Mine, not yours. You don’t have the right to decide who I love and who I don’t.”

Logan’s eyes squint, scanning your face. “You’re… obnoxious.”

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

“And I—I love you,” he confesses, his nostrils flaring with emotion. Opening your mouth to say something, you close it moments later, your gaze locked on his. “You could take what you said, pretend as if I didn’t exist, and I wouldn’t say a thing, y’understand? I would move cities if you asked me, because I love you that fucking much, and I want you to be happy.”

You reach for his hand, briefly intertwining your fingers with his. Looking at him through your eyelashes, you rub your fingers over his stubble. “And what if my happiness comes from being with you?”

Logan lets out a harsh breath, his arm curling around your waist, pressing his chest to yours. “I can’t promise I’ll be the perfect boyfriend. I’ll probably makeplenty of mistakes.”

“Fine with me.”

“And you’ll be mad at me. A lot.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure it’s mutual.”

Both of you laugh then, and you’re taken aback when he brushes his nose against your cheek, silently seeking permission to kiss you. His lips move hungrily against yours, trailing his hands down your spine, pulling you closer. He breaks the kiss and laughs at your eagerness when you chase after his mouth. You end up perched on his lap as he settles into one of your kitchen chairs. Logan stares into your eyes, his gaze drifting lower. “I won’t push you away this time. Not anymore.”

That’s your cue to finally do what you’ve been yearning for weeks. You fall to your knees in front of him, shaky fingers that graze the hairs on his happy trail. The bulge in his sweatpants is close to your face, and your mouth waters at the thought of having him between your lips. “Can I?” you ask, your voice a touch higher.

He draws a long breath, tilting his head slightly. “You may, baby.”

You pull at his sweatpants and boxers, sliding them down his legs just enough to free his hard cock. As you take a look at it, you find yourself at a loss for words, the sight overwhelming. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the first taste of his precum as you envelop his head between your lips, that musky scent of his hitting you.

A whimper escapes you, and Logan hisses when you run your tongue along the slit, his hands gripping the back of your neck tightly. “Fuck, darlin’. Thought about your mouth so many times, but never imagined it’d feel this good,” he cants his hips up, causing your movements to stutter. “You can take a bit more, can’t you?” his question ends with a guttural grunt, his fingers tightening on your hair. “Gotta show me how much you want this.”

Logan takes all that you give him. You lower your head further, taking in another inch of him. Sex’s supposed to feel good, but this? It feels even greater. And he’s not even inside you yet, you hear a voice murmur in your head. The hand on your nape encourages you to move faster, and you sneak a hand between your bodies, grasping him by the base. You swallow around him, eyes fluttering open when he tugs sharply at your hair..

“Thaaaat’s it, honey. Just like that, want you to choke on it,” he grumbles, running his mouth just the way you like. The tip of his cock nudges the back of your throat and tears fill your eyes. You pull away to catch your breath, still stroking him as you regain composure. Logan’s gaze is intense, and he stares into your soul, his chest heaving. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Dick got your tongue?”

You’ll definitely get back to that joke later.

“Will you—can you—”

“Come on, beautiful. I don’t have all day.”

God, you love it when he’s mean.

“Fuck my throat,” you plead, your voice barely above a whisper.

A smile dangles on the corner of his lips. “We both know you can be nicer.”

The fucker makes your pulse race. “Can you fuck my throat?” you ask again, more insistently. “Please.”

He guides himself into your mouth, smirking as he watches how your eyes roll back in pleasure. “How polite of you to say please. Some good manners you’ve got.”

You whimper around him, your body responding to the rhythm he sets, fully immersed in the intensity of the moment. And for a while, you drift away, losing your sanity with each thrust of his hips, every tug at your hair. It’s almost impossible not to compare him to your past hookups. You try to recall at least a single instance when another man made you feel this way, but no memory surfaces.

Time seems to stretch and warp. You don’t really know when it happens—he pulls you off his cock, cradling your face, examining you. “You fucking love that, don’t you?” he asks with that sweet, syrupy voice, brushing away your tears. There’s no room left for embarrassment, so you nod, closing your mouth around his thumb. Defeated, Logan shakes his head, pressing his finger against your tongue. “I was planning on coming on your mouth, but I think I’ve got a better idea.”

In the blink of an eye, you’re in your bedroom. Not even a metaphor—he picks you up and basically runs to your room, closing the door behind him. You prop yourself on your forearms, trying to process what’s about to happen. Logan, already naked, climbs onto the bed after you, He kisses you slowly, tracing the curves of your body. “You still want this?”

“I do. I’m just… nervous, that’s all,” you admit, flashing him a quick smile. “It’s been two years of celibacy for me. Will it fit?” you ask, glancing down at his cock, and Logan stares at you in confusion. “Also, how many girlfriends have you had? Just curious.”

“I don’t think this is the time for that conversation.”

“You’re right,” you agree, lying back on the mattress, bracing yourself for what’s to come. “Were they pretty?”

“Bub.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up,” he replies with a smirk. “Focus on me, okay?”

Despite your tries to crack jokes at the worst possible moment, things escalate pretty quickly. Logan’s got three fingers inside you, pumping them in and out. He’s already made you come once with his mouth—to get you more relaxed, he had said. Wanting sounds slip past your lips as he doesn’t miss the chance to hit that spot that makes you squeeze your legs together. The tip of his nose drags long lines up and down the skin of your neck, mouthing at your jaw.

“I’m ready,” you mumble after some minutes, reaching for his cock and stroking him. “Let’s break the bed.”

“You’re lucky you’re this cute,” he says, catching your lips in a kiss. “Condom?”

“Negative, Sergeant.”

“You don’t have any?”

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “I don’t want you to use one.”

The way his gaze darkens doesn’t go unnoticed by you. His hand guides your face toward his cock. “Get me wet,” he commands, and you oblige, sucking him into your mouth. You hum around him, unable to contain yourself, and you hear Logan chuckling above you. “Can’t believe this is what it takes for you to shut up. Gotta keep your mouth full all the time.”

Once he’s satisfied with the way you’ve slicked him, he positions himself over you, caging you between his arms. Logan pins you down with his body, his hot breath mingling with yours. When you stare into his eyes, all you see is pure love, and your heart swells with affection. “Will you fuck the bad jokes out of me?”

Logan laughs, rubbing his length along your folds, grazing your clit for a fleeting second. “I sure as hell will,” he assures you, lining himself up with your wet entrance. He looks into your eyes for approval. “Ready?”

“I was born rea— Fuck!” you nearly scream as his head breaches you, your eyes squeezing shut. Turns out his fingers weren’t enough. “Fucking mutant dick.”

“You’ll love it, believe me,” he husks next to your ear. His arms shake where they rest on each side of your head, seemingly as affected as you are. Logan pulls out, and then fucks into you with a little more force. “How are you still so tight? You’re killin’ me here.”

“I’ve got no idea, but you feel—amazing,” you gasp, latching onto his back, holding him close to you. His thrusts gain strength, and suddenly he’s bottoming inside you. “Oh, god. I can feel you in my stomach.”

“I know, baby, I know. Can feel it too,” he curls one of his hands around your throat, keeping you in place. From his position, he can watch the way your face contorts in pleasure. Lowering his head to envelop one of your nipples between his lips, he sucks hard. “You were desperate enough to get on your knees in the damn kitchen. You’ll be good now too, am I right?”

“Yes. Yes. I can be good,” you pant, eyes wide and pleading. “Anything you want. Just don’t stop.”

“I’m not stoppin’, princess. Don’t worry,” his mouth curves into a wicked grin as he drives into you again, this time even deeper. His hand on your throat tightens slightly, just enough to make you feel the pressure, grounding you in the moment. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs against your chest, his voice laden with need.

Each thrust has you gasping, your body arching off the bed to meet his. Logan’s grip on your neck loosens as his hand slides down to grasp your hip. He squeezes your tender flesh, pulling you harder against him, as if he can’t get close enough. The bed creaks under the intensity, but you barely notice, too far lost in the rhythm of his movements.

“You’re perfect, all I’ve ever wanted,” he slips his free hand between your bodies to find your clit, and the moment his fingers make contact with it, you can’t help but whine. “So fuckin’ perfect,” you hear him repeat, more to himself than to you, his voice stranded as he tries to hold himself back, letting you chase your own release first.

The pressure inside you builds up, tightening with every skilled flick of his fingers. You’re sure you must look like a mess, sweaty and sticky, though the way he looks at you makes you forget everything else. “Logan, I’m—” you croak, the wind being knocked out of your lungs with each relentless thrust. “I think I’m gonna come.”

He picks up speed, snapping his hips faster. “I’ve got you, let go for me. I’ll take care of you, baby, I swear,” his pace becomes erratic, digging his fingers into the softness of your thighs as the headboard keeps slamming against the wall. Your body obeys him, a shuddering release tearing through you, moaning Logan’s name and gripping him like a vice. “That’s it, fuck, that’s it,” he doesn’t stop, driving you through your orgasm. His eyes snap to your face, contemplating how wrecked you look. “Tell me where—please, sweetheart.”

“Inside.”

“What?”

“I said inside. Come inside me, Logan.”

He’s not strong enough to deny you such a thing. Logan buries himself to the hilt, groaning your name as his cock twitches and paints your walls with his thick seed. Beside your head, his claws unsheate, tearing into the pillow. He ruts against you, his body trembling and writhing against yours, already apologizing for the pillow incident while pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “Sorry, I’m sorry. That hasn’t happened in a while.”

When Logan collapses beside you, he pulls you into his arms, kissing you eagerly. You return the kiss, wincing as you feel a bit of his cum slip out of you, rolling down your thighs. He stares at your glistening cunt without an ounce of remorse, and you close your legs. “That’s private.”

“It wasn’t very private a minute ago.”

“Logan?”

“Tell me, bub.”

“Knock, knock.”

He must truly love you, because he plays along: “Who’s there?”

“Ice cream.”

“Ice cream who?”

“Ice cream for you all night long.”

“Guess I didn’t succeed in fuckin’ the bad jokes out of you,” he teases softly, letting his head fall back on the bed. “But it’s fine. I’ll just have to keep tryin’.”

This is the story of how you end up dating a man who’s two hundred years old. But it’s also the story of how that same man learns to let his guard down and open his heart. So, remember this, kids: the sky’s the limit, especially when it comes to love—and yes, even when it involves dating mutants.

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

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queenie-ofthe-void · 1 month ago

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Steddie soulmate drabble (shared pain) || 3.9k words || rating: E || tags: homophobic slurs, period-typical homophobia, physical and emotional distress, panic attacks, Canon-divergent soulmate AU, Eddie Munson Whump, Steve Harrington Whump, one brief sex scene (so so brief) between Steve and the girl he brought to the basketball game in S4

Eddie experienced his first soul pain at twelve years old. Younger than most, but not worryingly so. The concern was the intensity of the pain. His momma held him tight, shushed him as he cried about how he feels all alone, doing her best to reassure him that loneliness wasn’t his and that she would never hit him. She held the frozen bag of peas to the blossom of red on his soft, round cheek and rocked him until he fell asleep in her arms.

The pains continued, giving him headaches on and off for years. He always wondered what his Half was going through for Eddie to have this much soul pain before puberty, but he grew used to it, stashing tiny vials of aspirin in his backpack or jacket pocket. The intensity was never as bad as the first time, eventually decreasing to a dull ache when they cropped up. His momma told him stories about people who could temper their pain to spare their other half, a difficult feat for even adult souls who’d spent years bound together. It was more likely the pain for his other half was dulling over time. He hoped it was true, but couldn’t push away the uneasiness he felt lying in bed each night and knowing the feeling wasn’t his.

Eddie was fourteen the first time he felt his own pain connect to his Half. Daddy called him a fag and locked him in his room for the weekend with nothing but the snacks and water bottle in his backpack. Unlike a sharp slap or the break of a bone, the pain of hunger was slow to build. Eddie still felt the tell-tale pop in the back of his mind as his stomach cramped. Unexpectedly, he also felt something almost akin to surprise riding the coattails of the pain. When the surprise faded into a distant comfort, he couldn’t object. Eddie knew this wasn’t normal, and decided from then on out to keep his soul pains a secret.

After his momma died, and his daddy grew drunk and violent, Eddie couldn’t stop his pain from connecting like he knew his Half could. Even after he’d moved in with Wayne, everything from the smallest shove to hushed slurs passed through the invisible bond, and even though pain connections can’t be controlled, most people only sent their most intense pains. It felt like he sent everything. Any little thing that set him off, the signature crack followed by soft comfort settled in his mind.

The only consolation was that he felt less and less of his Half’s pain. Eddie wished that’d meant his Half was happy, with no pain to speak of. Between the dullness of the sensations when he happened to notice, and the immediate comforting response he received at his own suffering, he doubted that was it.

At sixteen Eddie had started looking into what it meant to experience some sort of response after connections, but couldn’t find anything in the low budget collection of soulmate information at Hawkins’ Public Library. Most likely on the banned book list, he figures, since that’s something kids are supposed to learn at home.

Eddie couldn’t help wondering if the stories about Empaths were real. Rare, with absolutely nothing to do with pairings, it’s rumored Empaths experience the emotions of anyone physically close to them, but more importantly, are able to control the intensity of their own emotions and pain as how it’s experienced through their bond. Eddie’s couldn’t find anything about actually sending feelings through the bond as some kind of response. But like with his Daddy, he knows what happens after asking too many questions, so he keeps it to himself.

Eddie’s almost eighteen when there’s an intense, piercing crack behind his eyes. He’d been on his way back from the picnic table out behind school when the sudden pain had him curled up on the forest floor completely out of breath. It took him a few moments to get his bearings back, but he managed to walk to the van and get home.

Wayne made him soup that night, let him put whatever he wanted on TV as long as he held the bag of peas over his bruised eye. At least it was light in color, barely noticeable, and would most likely fade by morning. However it was only a few hours later when shot off like a bullet from the couch, falling to the carpet on his hands and knees. He could hear Wayne saying something to him, could feel the gentle circling of his uncle’s hand on his back. None of it mattered.

Eddie was filled with adrenaline. He’d never had a panic attack before, but his heart pounded as his breaths came in short spurts, the pungent fear squeezing his stomach. His hands vibrated and he clutched the carpet in a white knuckle grip to stave the phantom sensation. After what felt like hours, entirely wrung-out, Wayne let him have two shots of whiskey before climbing into bed.

It was quiet for another year. Unless, of course, he counted his own soul pains that crossed over, which he tried not to. Eddie’s emotions felt more in control of him than the other way around. Pressed into lockers, a scuffle at the picnic table with Hagan, being roughly kissed and then immediately knocked to the ground by Hargrove. It all connected. He tried to temper it, to be strong like his Half, but he always failed. Eddie was a coward, too scared to handle his pain alone. Like clockwork, the warm reassurance of love was quick to follow.

It was November 1984 the first time Eddie thought he was going to die. The panic set in, but unlike a year ago, it didn’t go away. He paced the living room, violently wiping tears from his face because even though the pain wasn’t his, the distress was so palpable he broke into cold sweats. Eddie did everything he could to think of to stave off the adrenaline– jumping jacks, whipping his hands around like a mad-man, screaming his voice hoarse.

Uncle Wayne suggested exercise, reminding him most athletes’ Half’s were people with an abnormal intensity of emotions and chronic pain, since it helps them process the constant stream of excess energy. So for the first time in Eddie Munson’s life, he went for a run.

They started out at a jog, but it wasn’t enough. It felt worse than curling into himself on the ground like a pillbug. The only relief he felt was at a dead sprint, able to focus on the burn of his underutilized muscles. They ran until the adrenaline trickled from his system, and as always, was followed with love and comfort.

Halfway through their third lap around the park, an intense dread hit Eddie so abruptly he fell to his knees and vomited. They’d just made it back inside when Eddie’s vision went white. He came to only a few moments later, as Wayne hauled him across the kitchen and dropped him onto his bed. He held his mouth closed tighter than a vise, keeping every sob and groan deep inside himself to stop it from exploding out of him. Worried he wouldn’t be able to stop sobbing once he started. Wayne watched in horror as purple bloomed across Eddie’s face in real time, like a dye spreading under the skin. He placed a cold, wet cloth over his nephew’s eyes.

Early into the morning, once the crying stopped, the migraine leveled out, he followed his uncle out onto the front porch to share a joint. The swelling in both eyes went away after two days, and he went back to school as usual.

He noticed Harrington looked pretty fucked up, definitely worse than Hargrove. A panicked, fleeting part of Eddie’s brain worried Hargrove could be his Half, but he knew better. There’s always at least some amount of chemistry and attraction between soulmates, and all he needed was the one, ill-fated kiss to remind him his Half was still out there. Kudos to The King’s Half, however. If The Hair himself wasn’t at the hospital, then his Half surely would be. With a face like that, he can only imagine the pain Harrington’s soulmate had to manage during that fight.

It’s the fourth of July, and it’d been almost eight months since the last time he experienced this level of pain. Not his own, of course. No it never seemed to be his own when he’s left gasping for air, nails clenched into Wayne’s hand in the back of an ambulance they can’t afford.

He felt the bruises explode across his face, on his sides, behind his eyes. A sharp stab of pain in his neck lit up every nerve in his body. The howl ripped from him was grotesque, animalistic. His back arched up from the bed, thrashing his limbs into the metal bars of the stretcher until the medics did their best to restrain him. A pinch on the back of his hand. The world started to slow until he was wrapped in heavy darkness.

Four days later there were still yellow, mottled stains on the sides of his ribcage and dark bags under his eyes. A routine of Tylenol during the day and painkillers from his own stash at night helped. Every night, Eddie layed in bed and silently cried. Their pain mixed now and the thought haunted him as much as it comforted. He only wished he could help his Half the same way they always soothed him.

The guilt of his failure to help ate away at him, so it connects. Of course Eddie couldn’t control his emotions enough to spare the person who’s actually hurting, injured with no pain meds to help them, if Eddie had to guess. To top it all off, the cherry on the shit cake was that there's still the warm comfort at the back of his mind. His Half was living in excruciating pain, yet used what little energy they had left to help him with his.

Eventually, Eddie had asked Wayne about different types of connections between Halfs. Not surprisingly he knew a bit more about it than the library, and didn’t hit him for it like his Daddy.

“Each Half is meant to balance out the whole. Most people live somewhere near the middle, mild pain and mild emotional distress.” Eddie nodded, rapt with attention as Wayne continued. “But there’s always gonna be people at the fringes, the extremes. Like how I told ya about athletes usually being paired to trauma survivors. Why d’ya think you’re always so damn depressed after your incidents?” When Eddie had mentioned the soothing presence, Wayne had replied, “yep, sounds like an Empath,” like it was nothing to be ashamed of.

“Wait,” Eddie interrupted, “so the only reason I’m so emotional is because my half is an Empath? Or is it because they get hurt all the time. And if I'm so emotional, does that mean they're athletic?” Questions flooded his mind before Wayne cut him off.

“Could be because you were so young for your first connection. Could be because the severity of their pain made you feel it more. Or, maybe you were born that way, made that way for each other– destiny and all that.”

The pain lessened. The comfort remained. And Eddie felt the whisper of love each morning he woke up and every night before he fell asleep.

~~~ ~~~

Hands underneath Brenda’s shirt, her tongue moving across his bottom lip, anticipation glistens across Steve’s open chest as he grinds down into her. She moans into the kiss and runs her finger tips over his shoulders, grazing her nails down his back. Goosebumps erupt over his skin. He’s panting into her open mouth when his thrusts turn erratic, desperate and rushed. Her legs wrap around him, she crosses her ankles to pull him in closer and a moan crawls from the depths of his chest. His abs clench, hurtling towards his climax when he’s interrupted by the signature pop of a soul pain behind his eyes.

A cold sweat travels down his spine, adrenaline punching him in the gut. Horror claws Steve’s throat, he can’t seem to catch his breath as he hurriedly pulls out of her and falls to the floor. She’s saying something he can’t make out through the screaming urge to leave, run, hide. With enough faculties to grab his clothes on the way out, he dashes into the night where the chilled March air cools his sweat soaked skin. Distress clouds his mind on the drive home, so he pushes comfort, pleading with them to relax, breathe. The pain fades, but only slightly.

The next day, Steve parks outside of a boat house. He doesn’t know Eddie Munson well, outside of the table top tirades and the glowing accolades from Dustin, Lucas, and Mike. They’ve never been friendly, even sometimes slightly antagonistic when Munson’s not satisfied with ranting about the government and decides he needs an actual face to point the finger at. No one better than The King, apparently.

Steve played the role of snotty royalty to appease his shitty friends, but Eddie’s rants were contagious and always left Steve buzzing and manic. Of course Steve had thought about it before. Let himself wonder if his Half was some nice, pretty suburban girl, or if his Half was actually a crazed super senior he had absolutely nothing in common with. It was easier to consider the residual energy just a side effect of being an Empath, and not because he could actually feel Eddie’s emotions in his own subconscious.

Robin told him about a Zine where she’d read it was possible for Empaths to absorb emotions from people in the same physical space as him, but they would have to be very close by and the emotions much stronger than normal. Which, in Steve’s mind, explained Munson to a tee. The guy always made sure to wander across the jock’s table, where his emotions were highest, typically with annoyance and disdain. Did Eddie’s eyes linger a bit longer on Steve than Tommy or the other athletes? Maybe. Maybe not. Steve did his best not to think about it too much.

Right now, with the tip of a broken bottle grazing his neck, he’s failing miserably at not thinking about it. Panic seeps out of every pore in his body. Adrenaline chokes him like it had the night before, but this time it’s from both himself and his Half. It’s too much. Steve can’t focus, can’t hear anything Dustin’s saying. There’s a sharp poke, then a trail of wet on his neck, and Eddie gasps. His grip loosened just enough for Steve to tilt his head away, readjusting his hold on Eddie’s sleeve, where his fingers accidentally brush against cold, pale skin.

The panic gives way to euphoria. Steve breaks out into a fit of giggles, and morphs into hysterical laughter. He sounds completely unhinged, now doubled-over and furiously wiping his misted eyes with his free hand. Because his other hand has clamped itself around Eddie’s small wrist. The fizzing sensation like tiny bubbles flows from where they’re joined. The tingles climb his arm, root into his chest, and sprout in the back of his mind.

Steve’s overcome with the hiccups. Robin’s rubbing small circles into his back and he works towards matching his breaths to her counts. It’s enough to pull his focus back to reality.

He is Steve Harrington. He’s in Reefer Rick’s boat house with Robin, Dustin, and Max. The Upside-Down is probably back. Something wet drips down his neck. The dock is rough beneath his knees, even through the denim. His back aches where it hit the wall. And Eddie Munson is his Half.

Eddie is crying. Steve registers the shock, the guilt, the despair at the back of his mind. Eddie’s guilt– iit’s always guilt. It dulls his own joy, but just a little.

Tentatively, Steve pushes comfort. To his delight, Eddie gasps again. His big, dark eyes lock onto his, and Steve can’t help but smile. He knows now isn’t the time to talk, that there’s so much more happening to Eddie than just finding his soulmate in a rundown boathouse on the edge of town. But they’ve come so far, been through so much that Steve decides they can spare a moment, just for them.

He cups the back of his hand behind Eddie’s neck before releasing his wrist, unwilling to lose contact, and guides his Half into his lap. The guilt spikes. Steve knows Eddie doesn’t want to be here, with him, on some level. But Eddie crawls between his legs, pushes his face into Steve’s neck and inhales. The crush of Steve’s grip calms him, and panic eventually subsides. It’s quiet. Steve looks to find Robin corralling the kids towards the door. She throws him a thumbs up as she closes it behind her.

He pushes to her too, and he feels her relax in return.

Eddie mumbles something, but it’s muffled into his neck. Steve leans back as he scruffs his Half’s hair, pulling him away just far enough to make eye contact. The poor boy still hasn’t stopped crying. Steve’s still pushing, pushing love into him.

“I’m sorry. Steve, I’m so sorry,” Eddie sobs. Steve watches as Eddie rubs his dripping nose on the sleeve of his leather jacket, the snot smearing with the drag instead of absorbing into it. Steve uses his own free arm to wipe Eddie’s nose for him which earns him a pinched expression and a small, awkward chuckle. “That was disgusting.”

Steve smiles. “I’ve seen worse.”

Eddie’s eyes dart away, and guilt spikes again. Steve gently swipes his thumb under his eyes to catch the stray tears. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in there.” He taps on the back of Eddie’s head.

“You– you’ve been through so much. Like, so much awful shit, Steve, and I don’t even know. I just–” Eddie pauses, scrubs his hands over his face until Steve pulls one away, slowly guides it toward the side of his own neck–skin to skin– places the tip of Eddie’s thumb in the cradle of his jaw. Momentarily entranced, Steve squeezes the back of Eddie’s neck again to regain his focus.

“You just, what, Eddie? You’re going to be ok, just tell me.” He pushes. Eddie shudders, the effect intensified with proximity.

“See! That, exactly that. You always comfort me when I need it. When my dad kicked me out, anytime Wayne and I argued, every time I got shoved into someone’s locker. You were always there, just wrapping me up in love. Which is such fucking shit.” Eddie’s cold huff of laughter is wet and self-deprecating and Steve hates it. Doesn’t have to feel it in the back of his skull to know Eddie’s full of misery. “All I could ever give you back was shit. Just anger, frustration, depression and fucking teenage angst. I tried so hard to hold it back, like I knew you could. I tried so fucking hard, Steve, to send you anything good, like you always did for me. And all you got was my bullshit.”

Steve’s own eyes water as Eddie dissolves back into a fit of sobs. He tucks his Half’s head back into his neck as he rocks them back and forth. Struggling with his own thoughts, Steve chooses each word slowly and carefully. “Eddie, I felt everything. Your happy moments might not have been as strong as your bad, but they were still there. Like how I know Hellfire plays Friday nights, and I always thought I felt great on Friday nights because I finally got a break from the kids. Or how my best games were always after you’d do your little cafeteria table speeches, because it filled me with so much energy I would practically vibrate. Every single day, I’d feel little pops of bubbles that could only be you. You were always the best part of my bad days, Eddie.”

He feels raw, laid bare and exhausted as Eddie looks up to stare at him, lips parted in disbelief. “You knew? You knew it was me the whole time?” His voice croaks, and Steve makes a mental note to get him some water when they leave.

Smiling, he grazes Eddie’s sweat and snot and tear-soaked bangs off his forehead. “I had a hunch. I just–”

“Just what?” The swell of heat behind Steve’s eyes pinpoints Eddie’s anger, rejection, and more guilt. Always guilt. “You were just hoping you could go as long as possible without mentioning it. Hoping maybe you were wrong, and your soulmate wasn’t the satan-worshiping, drug dealing Freak of Hawkins?”

With one hand still woven into the hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck, Steve uses his other hand to cover Eddie’s mouth, and he’s thrilled to discover his hands almost completely wrap around his head. He pushes hard again. Eddie squints, glaring at him over the ridge of Steve’s pinky finger, but Steve still feels him relax, so he counts it as a win.

“I didn’t want to drag you into my bullshit.” The pinprick sensation of curiosity heightens and he answers before Eddie can even ask. “You know exactly what bullshit. That’s why I’m the one who should be sorry. Fuck I can’t– I can’t imagine how all of that must’ve been for you. How painful it was, especially when you didn’t know what was happening, or why. You were forced to bear through all of my shit and just hope it would end.”

Eddie gently pried Steve’s hand from his mouth and eyed him warily before using Steve’s own sleeve to wipe at the boy’s tears. “Steve, what happened to you?”

Steve sniffles before he places a feather-light kiss to Eddie’s brow, reveling in a champagne pops of love and awe. “I’m sorry, baby, but probably the same thing that’s happening to you right now.”

A heavy silence settles between them. Steve feels a separate, more distant curl of anxiety in the back of his mind and knows they’re running out of time. Robin can only keep the kids distracted for so long. Steve pushes more comfort at her, receiving her expected impatience in return.

“Come on,” Steve says, rising to his feet and he reaches down to help Eddie up as well. “You can tell us what happened, and we’ll fill you in on the rest.” He takes Eddie’s hand as they walk towards the boathouse door. No use in forcing him to sleep here when Steve’s house is always empty.

“What about us?” Eddie’s voice is timid, but still hopeful.

(Continue for one-sentence hurt/no comfort)

Steve smiles, squeezing his Half’s hand before softly kissing his knuckles, cool metal rings grazing his chin. “After this is over, we’ll have all the time in the world.”

~~~

The pain is Eddie’s, sharp and piercing in places that bleed the most. It’s agony and it’s death, but he only feels a surge of love as he falls to darkness.

#not only can they feel each others' pain but they actually get each others injuries #couldn't help it with that last sentence and i'm not sorry about it #also i'm pretty proud that i kept it down to one sentence. i could've wrung that scene dry with how much angst I could suck out of it #i'm sick (again! wtf i feel like i was just sick)#steddie soulmate au #steddie fic #soulmate au #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fic #steve's an empath #queeniewritesstories

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boldlyvoid · 1 year ago

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3am

[REQUEST] could you maybe do something like Spencer x famous!reader (I would say maybe actress) where just as Spencer was getting off of work she was away shooting and comes home at like 3 in the morning all stressed and things and spencer calms her down and it's just really cute and fluffy. @thenerdthatwrites

A/N: i added some fluffy smut cause why not?

warnings: they're madly in love and very handsy, needy smut, no condoms (creampies) lots of fluff

word count: 1970

When Spencer finally rounds the corner to his street, he can see someone parked out front of his apartment. When he gets a little closer, he sees his girlfriend unloading a few bags from the trunk and he sprints. He drops his own bag once he’s near her and calls out her name, “What are you doing home?”

“Spence,” she rushes to embrace him. She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent that she’s missed so much these last few weeks. “They sent me home, the writer's strike is still going strong and we don’t have anything to film without new pages.”

He was so happy to get to hold her again, it's been a few months since he last saw her in person and his heart ached for her. This was the best surprise after a hard case, “I missed you.”

“I missed you,” she coos. “Why are you only getting home now? It’s like 3 in the morning?”

“Our case finished and we don’t really have a good budget this year so if we don’t need to stay in hotels we won’t,” he explains as he pulls back, but his hands stay on her hips, he has to touch her to make up for all the time they spent apart. He’s such a lover of physical touch, he won’t let her go for the rest of the night if he doesn’t have to.

“Ma’am,” the drive cuts into their reunion. “Everything is unpacked, are you okay if I leave?”

“Oh, yeah, thank you so much again for the ride home,” she says while digging into her pocket for a tip. She hands the man twenty dollars and he takes it with a smile.

“Have a good night,” he offers.

“You too!”

And then it’s just them, all their bags and the cool night breeze to keep them company. “Do you want help bringing this all up?”

She nods, “Please, I thought I was going to have to do it alone.”

The two of them carry all her bags up 2 flights of stairs to their second-floor apartment, they place them by the door before they lock it right back up. Spencer reaches for her hand and she takes it gladly, he leads her down the hall to their bedroom that’s felt way too much like just his these last few months. They keep the lights off, she pushes his suit jacket off his shoulders and he lets it drop to the floor. She unbuttons each and every button of his dress shirt and frees his chest so she can run her fingers over his warm skin and then he takes her hands in his again. He twirls her around and presses a kiss to her shoulder as he unzips her dress.

His kisses moved along her shoulder and up to her neck, and then right under her ear, “Why’d you fly back looking so pretty?”

“The paparazzi knew I was coming back,” she can’t help but laugh. She turns around in his grip to look at him again, “Come on pretty boy, get out of your clothes, I wanna cuddle until the sun comes up.”

“Just cuddle?” He teases, pushing her dress straps off her shoulders and watching it drop to her hips.

She smirks, “Maybe more…”

“Okay,” he doesn’t mind either way. Just getting to hold her is going to be everything to him after 3 months of being away from each other.

Once all their clothes are gone, she searches his drawer for a big t-shirt and slips it on and the two of them crash into their big bed together. He just holds her, she snuggles into his chest and lets out the deepest sigh in the world. She’s missed this so much. Being close to him, knowing he’s safe, the way he rubs her skin and kisses her head… but she also misses the sound of his voice in person.

“What was the case about?”

“Another freak with mommy issues killing women who look like her,” he says as if it’s nothing new. He’s so over it. “I don’t really want to talk about it… what episode did you get to before they sent you home?”

“Episode 9,” she doesn’t sound happy about it. “They have to find a way to add a time jump now because Sandy’s pregnant and whenever we come back she’s going to be either heavily pregnant or away with the baby so they’ll have to write that in or write her out. And like, I love the writers, I really support them with all this, I just don’t know if the show will survive it after this season.”

“That’s okay, you can audition for more stuff, you’re amazing, someone will hire you,” Spencer encourages, his hand gently caressing her arm in a soothing motion. He kisses the top of her head, “I know it’ll all work out.”

“I love you, you know that?”

He nods, “I love you, too.” He cups her face gently and draws his fingers down her cheek so he can take her chin in his hands and redirect her to look at him.

She takes it one step further and sits in his lap, she holds his face right back. The streetlights shining through the window are enough to ignite the room in a soft amber glow, he looks so pretty like this. And he’s thinking the same about her. He brushes his thumb over her bottom lip, adoring that pout that made her famous in the first place, “you’ve been home how long and you still haven’t kissed me yet?”

She giggles again, “you wanna kiss me until the sun comes up?”

He nods while leaning in, and their lips collide, finally. He’s really home now. He’s so tender and soft with her, she runs her fingers through his hair and heats up the kiss with the tug of his luscious locks. His free hand wraps around her waist and slips under her t-shirt so he can feel even more of her.

She pulls back just enough to break the kiss and reach for the hem of said shirt, she tosses it back off, “I don’t know why I even put this on,” she admits with a smile. “You still up for more?”

He nods, “Always.”

He carefully rolls them over so she’s laying against the pillows, her legs part so he has a place to rest between them and she cups his face once again, “god, I missed you…”

“Maybe I’ll come out to California with you next time?” He offers, lightly tracing his finger down her arm, he stares at her like she’s the only woman in the whole world. “I hate being away from you that long.”

He finally leans in again, kissing her cheek and down her neck, he presses himself against her, and their hot skin finally meets.

“My apartment isn’t big enough for your book-buying habit,” she teases him, arching her neck so he has more space to kiss. She closes her eyes because it feels so good, her hands travel over his shoulders and to his back, her legs wrap around his hips, trapping him there.

He laughs against her skin, “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll have much time to read if we’re together all the time again.”

“Maybe I can convince them to hire you as my love interest, then we can do this literally all the time,” she can’t stop making little jokes when in reality, she’s not kidding. She wants to do this all the time.

Truth be told, he wouldn’t mind that either, “too bad I can’t act…” his kisses go even further south and a hand comes up to palm her breast, “plus,” he looks up at her through his lashes, “I rather not show the world how much I love you, that’s just for you.”

“Show me,” she whispers, enticing him to stop teasing and take this all the way.

He sits up, kneeling between her legs which she now has bent, feet firmly planted on the mattress. She lifts her hips so he can peel her out of her underwear, he gets them off and tosses them to the floor quickly. His hand cups right under her left knee, he rubs his cheek against her thigh and then replaces the friction with kisses that lead all the way down to where her underwear once lay. She reaches out for his hair again, she pulls him forward and away from what he really wants to do, “We have all day tomorrow to fool around, I need you inside me like yesterday, babe.”

“Okay,” he laughs, making sure to kiss her lower belly just once before he gets back onto his knees and pushes his boxers down.

He’s quick to hover over her again, she reaches down between them and helps him angle himself at her entrance. Their lips collide again as he starts to slip inside, whatever he thought about really being home when they first kissed is a lie. This is home. This is where he should always be. And she’d have to agree. She holds him close, gripping his back as the kiss deepens and his hips start to thrust.

It's exhilarating to be back in his arms, to have him inside of her, for the pleasure she’s feeling in the middle of the night to come from him and not something she plugs into the wall… she savours every kiss, every time their skin touches, each thrust and pulse and moan and feeling she feels when they’re together. She loves him more than anything on this earth and he loves her just the same, if not more. She’s his everything.

When things start to get more intense, the kiss breaks so he can rest his forehead against hers and reach between them to thumb at her clit, bringing her just as close as he is. “This what you wanted?” He teases, seeing just how flustered she is with each heavy breath.

“Yeah,” is all she can muster. “Missed this.”

“Mmm, me too,” he mumbles, he kisses her cheek over to her ear and then buries his face in her neck so he can fuck her harder. His free hand slips underneath her, gripping the small of her back, making her arch just a bit so he can hit that wonderful spot that makes her scream.

“Spence, Spence, please, oh my god, Spence,” she whines, right there on the edge, just waiting for him to fill her up.

“Cum with me, sweetheart,” he gives in to her please and with that permission, she lets go.

He physically feels her body tense and then release, her cunt flutters around him, sucking him in deeper as her body falls deeper into the mattress. With just a few more thrusts, Spencer is rutting into her with his face buried into her neck. He finishes with a whine, breathing heavily he pumps her full of cum and stills, dropping his whole body weight onto her.

She wraps herself around him again, running her fingers through his hair and down his back in a soothing, calming motion. “My god, I love you.”

He just laughs, fucked out and feeling high on her. “I love you more.”

“Mmm, nope, I love you most,” she teases, kissing his temple she hugs him tighter as if they could possibly get any closer.

“Okay,” he lets her win.

He’s tired now, his eyes are heavy and she’s so comfortable like this. He just snuggles in and she lets him, they can deal with everything later. For now, they’re content like this. Happily together again, madly in love, with all the time in the world to just be.

General Taglist

@ncsls0515 @stevesmunsons @reidsbookclub @sweetyyhippyy @manuosorioh @mrs-dr-reid @k-k0129 @squishyturtle @katsukis1wife @babybisexual @marsmunson86

#Spencer reid #Spencer reid smut #Spencer reid fanfiction #Spencer reid fanfic #Spencer reid imagine #Spencer reid x reader #Spencer reid x y/n #Spencer reid x you #Spencer reid self insert #Spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine

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bitter69uk · 1 month ago

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Hagsploitation truly is the horror sub-genre that keeps on giving. Sparked by the unexpected success of 1962’s What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? in the 1960s and 70s, maturing female stars of golden age Hollywood extended their careers by swallowing their pride, embracing their inner scream queen and plunging into exploitation shockers: think of Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Tallulah Bankhead, Olivia de Havilland, Agnes Moorehead and Shelley Winters starring in the likes of Strait-Jacket, Hush … Hush … Sweet Charlotte, Berserk, Lady in a Cage, Die Die My Darling, Dear Dead Delilah and especially the “question movies” Whoever Slew Auntie Roo?, What’s the Matter with Helen? and What Ever Happened to Aunt Alice? Roaring back from career doldrums (I last remember her playing Miley Cyrus’ mother), 61-year-old Demi Moore finds herself in a similar position in director Coralie Fargeat’s grisly and stylish satire The Substance. In a gutsy, exposed (in every sense) performance, Moore plays Elisabeth Sparkle, a middle-aged television celebrity abruptly fired by ageist and sexist network executive Dennis Quaid (really chomping the scenery). Despondent, Elisabeth takes desperate measures to rejuvenate her “best self” with a mysterious unregulated black market scientific procedure called The Substance … and things swiftly unravel. Characterized by stunning art direction and a visceral sound design that emphasizes every repulsive squelching noise, The Substance ratchets up maximum dread and offers a goldmine of knowing movie references: Basket Case. Carrie. Death Becomes Her. Every single David Cronenberg “body horror” flick but particularly The Fly. Thematically, it reminded me of two specific b-movies from the late 1950s: The Wasp Woman and The Leech Woman, in which the anti-heroine experiments with science (or voodoo) to restore youth and beauty with monstrous consequences (and – it must be noted - these films make their point with a fraction of The Substance’s budget and two hour-and 40-minute running time). The Substance is bound to be divisive. There was multiple “walk outs” when I saw it. And has Fargeat lost control of the material by the ultra-gory splatter fest finale? However you cut it, it’s a wild ride and destined for cult status.

#the substance #coralie fargeat #demi moore #horror movies #hagsploitation #hagsploitation movie #lobotomy room #shock value #thriller #black comedy #satire #horror #gruesome #grisly #gory #body horror #cult cinema #cult movies #cult film

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musette22 · 16 days ago

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Evanstan AU with handsome small town guy Chris and pretty city boy Sebastian #3672:

One October night, local biker Chris Evans picks up Sebastian, New York-based actor on the cusp of a breakthrough, from the side of the road somewhere in rural Massachusetts.

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Sebastian is on his way back to New York after shooting scenes for a low-budget movie in a small New England town. He's exhausted thanks to a 5am call time, and frustrated because he's supposed to be past starring in this type of ridiculous Hallmark movie by now, and to make matters worse, he dropped his phone earlier and now the GPS doesn't work, which means he's trying to make his way back to the motorway with the outdated map he found in the glove compartment of his rental car (trying being the operative word here). And then, just when he thinks things have hit rock bottom, the car suddenly sputters to a halt, and Sebastian realizes with a sinking feeling that he forgot to fill up on gas before leaving New York.

Fuck his life, honestly.

He just about manages to steer the car into the gutter before it gives up the ghost completely. Sebastian gets out of the car in a huff, yelling into the void for few satisfying seconds and then giving one of the car's tires a vicious kick for good measure.

He's so caught up in his rage that he doesn't even really register the motorcycle coming towards him until it stops next to his car. And oh great, as if this day wasn't terrible enough, now he's is going to get murdered by a Hell's Angel by the side of the road in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. But then the guy takes off his helmet, and - oh, hello. Sebastian thinks he actually wouldn't mind being murdered by this guy so much. He's a little rugged, sure, but in a handsome way, bearded, wearing leather boots as well as two different types of flannel underneath his motojacket.

"You okay there?" the guy asks, giving Sebastian an amused look.

Sebastian cringes, realizes how he must look to this guy, in his suit jacket and fancy shoes and gold jewellery, throwing a tantrum by the side of the road. But he's got bigger things to worry about right now than looking like an idiot, so he runs a hand through his disheveled hair and answers truthfully. "Not really," he admits. "Ran out of gas and I've got no idea where I am, to be honest."

The guy smirks, giving Sebastian a slow once-over. "I thought you looked a little lost," he says, but before Sebastian can put his hackles up, the guy holds out his hand and says, "I'm Chris. Where were you headed to?"

"Sebastian." He shakes Chris's hand, which is big and dry and a little cold, from driving without gloves on. "Well, I was hoping to get back to New York sometime tonight, but..."

Chris clicks his tongue in sympathy. "Tough luck. If you want, I can give you a ride to the nearest town? You could stay the night at the inn and call the AAA tomorrow? Unless you'd rather call them now. They'd have to come all the way from Boston, though, so it could take a couple of hours."

Sebastian sighs, because yeah no, the idea of sitting here in the dark for hours by himself doesn't exactly sound appealing. As if in agreement, Sebastian's stomach chooses that moment to remind him that the last time he had something to eat was around 10am that morning, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet road. Sebastian shoots Chris a sheepish look.

"There's also a pretty good burger place on the way," Chris says, looking even amused now, before he gives Sebastian's clothes another calculating look and adds, "That is, if you don't mind greasy burgers."

Sebastian can't help but bristle, just a little. "The greasier the better," he says defiantly, before realizing that kind of sounded like an innuendo, considering this guy looks like a bike mechanic. It seems Chris picked up on that too, because he smirks again. Then he holds out his helmet to Sebastian. "Hop on," he says.

"What about you?"

"I'll drive slow," Chris shrugs. "It's only a couple of minutes."

So Sebastian puts on the helmet and swings his leg over the bike, settling in behind Chris.

"Hold on tight."

Sebastian wraps his arms tightly around Chris's surprisingly slim waist, pressing himself up against his back. As they set off, Sebastian has the sudden thought that this day might be looking up after all.

They pull up outside a pub-style bar a little while later. Chris shuts off the bike and Sebastian climbs off, taking off the helmet. "Thanks," he says, handing it to Chris. "I appreciate it. So um, if you could give me the name of that inn, I can just go on on foot once I'm done here and ask for directions or something. Unless it's too far to walk?"

"I could also just give you a lift there," Chris says, tilting his head slightly. "I'm kinda hungry myself, actually. I could eat a burger. If you don't mind the company, that is."

Sebastian really, really doesn't mind the company. He smiles. "'Course," he says, starting to walk in the direction of the entrance. "My treat, seeing as you kind of saving my ass right now." When he shoots a look over his shoulder, he could swear Chris had just been looking at said ass, possibly assessing whether or not it's worth saving. Sebastian hopes the answer is yes.

As promised, the burgers are pretty greasy but also very good. They talk while they eat, Sebastian relating what led him to be stranded in the middle of bumfuck nowhere Massachusetts. Chris smirks, but otherwise doesn't make any snide remarks about Sebastian being an actor, so Sebastian likewise doesn't make fun of Chris when he tells him he's owns a one-man woodworking business. Despite their very different lifestyles and occupations, it turns out they've got quit a lot in common. And unless Sebastian is very delusional, they've also got a ton of chemistry. Chris keeps looking at Sebastian's mouth when he's talking, and Sebastian can't stop himself from letting his gaze linger on Chris's shoulders and forearms. There's a spark there, no doubt about it.

By the time they've finished their burgers and drinks, Sebastian is really hoping he might just be able to stay the night at Chris's place, instead of at some inn.

Once Sebastian has paid, they make their way outside again, walking over to Chris's parked bike. Chris gets on but doesn't take the bike off the stand yet. He rubs the back of his neck, giving Sebastian a look from under his lashes. "So. Where to?"

Sebastian arches an eyebrow. "Thought you were gonna give me a lift to that inn you mentioned." He lets Chris sweat for a moment, before he smirks and adds, "Unless you've got somewhere better in mind."

The corner of Chris's mouth curves upwards. "I might know a place," he says, not breaking eye contact.

They look at each other for a moment, something sizzling in the air between them.

"Lead the way."

****

Chris knows he shouldn't have brought this beautiful stranger home.

He knows he's a hopeless romantic who falls too fast, especially for people like Sebastian, who are gorgeous and interesting and driven and intelligent. He knows that inviting someone like that into his home would make him immediately imagine a future with them that he could never have. He knows that, and at the same time, he also knows he wouldn't have wanted to miss last night for the world.

Sebastian is better than anything Chris could ever have dreamed up, and Chris is so happy that chance (fate?) brought Sebastian into his path. So grateful that he got to spend one perfect night with him.

But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like a sonofabitch when he's driving Sebastian back to his car the next day, knowing that in just a few minutes time, he's going to have to say goodbye, and he'll most likely never see him again. Except maybe on the silver screen.

Chris pulls up next to Sebastian's abandoned car, shuts off the engine, and takes off his helmet. Behind him, Sebastian does the same, handing Chris the spare helmet to put in the saddlebags. Chris gets off and turns around. Sebastian's hair is tousled, the golden morning sun catching on it, making it glow. He's wearing an old wax coat over his suit blazer, lent to him by Chris, because the morning air is pretty chilly, and Chris has already learned that Sebastian gets cold easily.

When Sebastian starts to take off the coat, Chris waves a hand and says, "Keep it. It's an old one anyway, and you might be here for a while, depending on when the AAA gets here."

Frowning, Sebastian puts his hands in his pockets. The sun frames him from behind, making it seem like he's got a halo, and secretly, Chris thinks Sebastian is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Thank you," Sebastian says quietly.

And Chris could be wrong, but he thinks that maybe, just maybe, Sebastian might be feeling a little of what Chris is feeling, too.

"Don't mention it," Chris says, leaning against his bike, thankful for his sunglasses not just because of the sun, but also because they help hide the way he's feeling right now. Which is, frankly, far more devastated than he should be, over someone he just met yesterday.

"I could -" Sebastian starts, before he stops himself, biting his lip.

"Yeah?"

Sebastian takes a breath, looking at the ground. "Well, I was just thinking, I could maybe return it to you sometime. The coat, I mean. You're not that far from New York, really, and, y'know, I'm kinda sad I didn't get a chance to see your workshop, and like, the town." He looks up, giving Chris a careful look from under his lashes.

A warm feeling spreads through Chris's chest, more effective in driving away the cold and sadness than the sun could ever hope to be. He smiles at Sebastian. "Or I could drive up to New York sometime and collect it," he says, ignoring the fact that he just basically said he didn't need the coat back anyway. "Been meaning to visit again for a while anyway, I kinda miss the excitement. And like you said, it's not that far from here, if you think about it."

They smile helplessly at each other for a few moments, something passing between them that doesn't need to be articulated to be real.

"Let me give you my number," Sebastian says, seeming to glow with more than just the morning sunlight now, and if Chris saves the number in his phone with a little heart next to Sebastian's name, that's nobody's business but his.

#do you guys perhaps see what I am saying #AAAHHH #I am sorry for bombarding you guys with evanstan fic all of a sudden #I am just #HAVING SO MANY FEELINGS ABOUT THEM RIGHT NOW #anyway have this I guess #also shout-out to tej for lending me her brilliant brain 🙌🏻#sebastian stan #chris evans #evanstan #rpf #my writing #my fic #minnie talks

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lowkeyrobin · 7 months ago

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hiiii can you maybe do a 5 + 1 tommyinnit x reader where its like 5 times they act like couple and one time they make it official and get together?

(also can i be 🦢?)

yes oh my GAWDDD YESSS ; and yeah of course! welcome to the hotel 🦢 anon! enjoy your stay! ; thanks for requesting and I hope you enjoy! ; this isn't that great tbh but I'm proud (this took way too long to do)

TOMMYINNIT ; five, cinco, funf, cincq, 'elima

summary ; five scenarios that lead up to you and Tommy becoming a thing

warnings ; language

disclaimers ; yes I know it said 5+1, I did the five thing because I wanted it to be a repeating number lol. they all say five in different languages, english, spanish, german, french and hawaiian for anyone who didn't get it

word count ; 2k

masterlist

Five.

"I'm gonna cry, this show sucks," you speak, throwing your head back on the back of the couch.

"What is with this CGI..." The blonde mutters. "What's the budget on this show?"

You shrug. "Let me enjoy my show, Tommy"

"Wait, that Jeffery guy got out?"

"Yeah," you frown, watching as Athena runs across the screen and outside to look for the monster who was supposed to be on trial.

He pulls you into a hug as you both watch the show, being the first episode of season four. The city is collapsing, and a fangroup of a dangerous predator were sending glares to the victims.

You knew it was just a show. You couldn't help but feel bad because people did treat victims like that in real life, plus this show just made you emotional as all hell.

The blonde pulls you a little closer, having seen your eyes well up with tears.

"He's right there!"

"Athena run!"

"Oh fuck!"

"This show stresses me out too much, Y/n/n"

"How do you think I feel?"

Cinco.

"Liking sherbert ice cream is such a red flag"

"What? Says you! Strawberry just isn't that good"

You playfully scoff, holding your strawberry waffle cone in your hand as Tommy passes up a ten pound bill up to the lady in the food truck. He holds his plastic bowl of sherbert ice cream in his other hand, a spoon tied between his index and middle fingers, holding on for dear life so as not to be dropped onto the concrete below.

"Why do I ever take you to do fun things?"

"You love me," He grins, stuffing the change in his pocket before walking away with you. "I just hold a special place in your heart."

"Sure you do, pal," you reply with a smile, taking a bite out of your ice cream. "Where do you wanna sit? I can't eat and walk, not a multi-tasker."

He scans the area, landing his eyes on a bench across the little road. Thank God these fairgrounds had benches, unlike the ones near Tubbo. Eugh.

He leads you toward the bench, taking a bite from his multicolored sweet with the white plastic spoon. You sit down with him, enjoying the scenery of a million fair rides and colorful lights against the dark night sky. Screams of terror and amusement fill your ears as you watch one of the mini coasters go down the large drop again.

You feel a shiver run down your spine, the chilly wind freezing you up for a moment. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to eat ice cream with no sun around to keep you warm. The blonde notices, though, and nearly makes a joke to rip on you for not bringing a jacket. But, he doesn't.

He slips off his plaid jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. He took into consideration that you would've just gone back and forth if he tried handing it to you.

You look at him, an eyebrow raised in clear confusion.

"I saw you shivering." He chuckles, taking another bite out of his sorbet. "Just take it, I'm sweating in it anyways"

You quietly nod and lean into the jacket more, considering you didn't have free hands to put it on at the moment. You could feel his body heat from the jacket rub off on you, warming you up as it was a heater.

"You wanna go on the ferris wheel after this?" He asks, looking up at the big, circular wheel a couple hundred yards away. Lights glimmer and flicker across the sides, shining all colors of the rainbow. "The line doesn't look too bad at the moment"

You shrug, "Yeah, sure. I'll slip the guy a five to hold us at the top to scare you." You joke with a snicker.

"Y/n!"

Funf.

"I'm not jealous. Why would I be jealous?" You deadpan to your blonde friend, arms crossed.

"Cause I'm going on a date" He answers, again.

"With someone who's an asshole," you clarify once again, "Dude, I'm serious. There's a million other people you could go out with. Just skip them before they actually hurt you"

"Physically or mentally?"

"Tommy! I'm serious"

He sighs, pulling at the tie around his neck. He sighs, nearly a groan. "Why did I agree to take them somewhere fancy?"

You roll your eyes and quickly rush to his aid, turning him to face you. You loop your fingers around the tie and begin properly tying it around his collared shirt for him. He quickly feels his face heat up, making sure to keep his chin up, eyes still down to watch you work. He notices you bite at the inside of your cheek a bit, showing that you were in deep concentration.

He didn't know whether or not you actually knew how to tie a tie, or if you did it to make him shut the hell up, but he appreciated it either way.

"There," you speak, pulling your hands away from his neck after adjusting the tie a bit so it wasn't asymmetrical. "Tie is tied, Simons"

He turns to the mirror, looking at himself again. He smiles lightly, his eyes softening as he looks back at you.

"Thanks"

"Go have fun on that date of yours"

"I'll try"

Cinq.

"Just hold my hand, you'll be okay"

"What are you talking about? I'm gonna die!"

"You'll live"

"Nuh uh!"

You sigh, dragging Tommy to the slingshot. You walk behind Tubbo and Freddie, who are a few feet ahead, as they hadn't heard any of Tommy's whining. Who knew the poor boy was so scared of heights.

"Please, I don't wanna get on it!"

"I need a partner, Simons"

He groans, catching up to your speed, your hand still wrapped around his wrist. You catch up to your friends, now walking through the empty line area.

"See? No one's here because they know they're gonna die!"

"No one's here because it's lunch time, Tommy"

"Damnit"

The overhead straps click as they lock around your bodies. Tommy's already white-knuckling the handles, clear desperation and fear in his eyes. You reach your left hand out to him, looking at him the best you can past the safety harness, which is practically against your face.

He quickly grabs onto your hand, squeezing it tightly.

"You'll be fine, it's fun!"

"I'm scared!"

Freddie and Tubbo laugh, reassuring the blonde that he'll live. Something in you is still a little surprised that Tubbo was actually excited about this.

The automated "keep your hands and feet inside the ride" speech plays while the platform sinks into the ground a bit, preparing to fling you into space. The blonde leans his head back, mentally preparing himself to scream his voice away. A split second after it ended, you were shot in the air, screams filling your ears, including your own.

"Y/n/n! Help! I hate this!" The blonde screams, squeezing onto your hand even tighter.

"Look at the view!" You yell back with a smile, taking in the view of the whole park from that height. You couldn't wait to see Tommy's face on the gopro footage later, his face was probably as red as cherries. "You're okay! Just don't throw up!"

"No, no, I don't wanna go down!" His voice echoes through the air, then his screams again as the ride plummets down.

Tubbo and Freddie laugh and scream, having the time of their life, which you share with them as the blonde in between you all is freaking out. However, on the next fling up, he seems calmer and now trusts that he's safe. His grip on your hand loosens a bit, and you smile as you can hear his screams of terror turn into screams of a happy thrill.

"Okay, this is cool!" He yells over the machine and screams of other passengers.

"You think so?" Tubbo yells, "Look, there's the others!" He points out in the distance, apparently seeing the group of your other friends across the park.

"Where are you even pointing?" Freddie questions, the end of his sentence turning into a yell as you plummet down again.

"Grow up, Freddie, you're fine!" Tommy yells jokingly, trying to keep air in his lungs.

"Shut up!"

'Elima.

"What the hell is this?" You ask, furrowing your eyebrows.

"Lunch!" Tommy answers, looking back down at the whole picnic setup in his backyard. "You said you were hungry"

"I meant like, we could go get food." You clarify, "I was just gonna come pick you up, and we could go somewhere."

He shrugs, "It's food" He smiles and jumps onto the blanket, waiting for you.

You lightly smile at his dorky grin and sit down with him, throwing some Jolly Ranchers at him, which you had stuffed in your pockets.

You eat in peace, sitting in his backyard underneath a tree. You end up full while he's still munching on some fruit and decide to make a little flower crown out of the yellow flowers that were scattered around the yard. You get to work on tying them together, wanting to give it to Tommy and take a picture. You wanted to post said picture on Twitter and caption it "2020 vibes" but we'll see how far that got.

He watches you as you work, having seen you walk about the yard and gather a large bouquet of the little yellow weeds. He spits out another cherry pit onto the grass behind him, munching on the rest of the juicy fruit.

"What're you doing?" He asks

"Flower crown. I'm gonna put it on you. The 2020 era is revisiting," You answer, weaving another flower into the rope. "It's gonna be amazing, I'm gonna trend on Twitter after this"

"Oh God, no."

"Last time I asked what something was, it was lunch in your backyard, but I don't think this is the same" You speak, an eyebrow slightly raised as you look at the drenched Tommy on your doorstep.

He holds a bouquet of flowers, which are being watered by the rain dripping from his flattened hair. He's completely soaked by the thunderstorm outside, making you wonder if he really walked all the way to your house in the middle of a storm. You internally pray that he took a bus.

"Yeah, uh, it's not" He nervously smiles. "I wanted to ask you out on a date, maybe"

You blink, still a little confused and now bewildered. You look down the street, seeing Molly, your mutual friend, sitting in her car, watching.

"Is this a prank or?.." You ask, glancing back to the car, letting Tommy know that you're aware that Molly drove him here.

"No, no, no! I- This is genuine. Seriously. It's fine if not, I just, like, have had a crush on you for a while, and it's making me all confused, and I just want it to go away." The blonde answers, watching you take the flowers from his hands.

"Well, what if I don't want it to go away?" You softly ask, looking back up at him.

His desperate look for rejection had turned to one of happiness, near disbelief even.

"What?"

"You heard me"

He glances at your lips for a moment before quickly kissing you, hands on your cheeks, before scurrying away. He sprints back towards the car, where you can see Molly cheering through the front windshield.

Tommy looks back, face red as ever, "Meet me at the pier tomorrow at three!"

You smile and shout back. "Okay!"

You lean against the door, watching him jump into the passengers seat and happily smile with Molly. You're unable to figure out what they're talking about, but you use your context clues to figure it was probably you.

Tommy realizes you're watching him, eyes slightly widened, lips shut like you could hear him. You wave goodbye and retrieve to the warmth of your home inside.

"I'm going on a date with Y/n!"

#lowkeyrobin #mcyt x reader #mcyt preferences #mcyt oneshot #gender neutral reader #gn reader #they/them reader #tommyinnit x reader #tommyinnit #tommyinnit preferences #tommyinnit oneshot #🦢 anon

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foxufortunes · 3 months ago

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Some random tips and trivia for anyone wanting to take a slightly more realistic look at exy and sport in their fanfics:

Long jogs are not good for sports like exy. The best you can say is they're good cardio, but most exercise they should be doing anyway is good cardio. To oversimplify: long term energy and fast action energy have different power supplies and training one doesn't really help the other. There's a reason sprinters and marathon runners are not the same people. Exy is a sport of fast bursts and in some cases long jogs can actually be detrimental to your ability to play these sports.

Dear lord, warm up and cool down. I know most of us just assume this is in there and glossed over, but if you're going into details, warm up and cool down and wear warm jackets after. Especially cool down. I know Kevin and Neil have already fucked their bodies but don't make it worse. Also, rest days. You body needs time to recover. Kevin and Jean will be lucky if they recover enough not to have any career after college given how much Tetsuji has fucked the Ravens with his training. Thea is probably in agony the entire time and she doesn't have long left playing.

Goalie's lead the defence line. If you want to throw around a defence captain type plot, it's your goalies, it's always goalies. Because they have the best view of the entire court. You dealer should control the entire team's plays, as the person who should be going from defence to offence and back (assuming they work similarly to other sports with a similar position) but the defence is always run by the goalie, and your goalies are usually really fucking loud about it.

Your division/class is actually nothing to do with your team's skill, but your school's sports program and budget. The Foxes are not a Class I team, Palmetto is a D1 school. To get this status, your school has to have a certain level of sports program, featuring a certain number of sports, sports for women, upcoming/rarer sports and certain required sports. While EAU blatantly ignores all of this as presented in canon (they seem to be D3 status, maybe D2 at best) who got their status through bribery and corruption and their coach, Palmetto, as presented in canon, clearly meets D1 school status. Your school's division also affects what kinds of scholarships they offer. Typically, only D1 schools offer full ride sports scholarships. It's most likely Palmetto was looking to fund an exy team and Wymack went to them because they're a D1 school, or they approached Wymack, unlike the Ravens who clearly don't understand how this works.

On the topic of Wymack: the ERC couldn't have had anything to do with Andrew's miracle in October. We'll get to this but the ERC is just not that powerful, and, see above point, they have nothing to do with Palmetto's status. Now, Nora actually gives us a far more likely and better reason in the EC, that she then overcomplicated in canon trying to make the ERC more powerful for no reason, especially given Kevin wasn't even with the Foxes at the time. In the scene where we see Wymack recruiting the cousins, Andrew brings up the idea that Wymack's initial four year will be on it's last year that year and he needs results or the school will decline renewing his contract and rebuild the exy program from scratch under a new coach. This is far more likely a reason for him to need Andrew's miracle. It's his final year of his contract, the school wants results, and if they drop out now with so few games won, he's done for. And given how many NCAA rules he and Abby help the Foxes break, it won't be long before the rest of the Foxes lose their scholarships too.

Four years might seem like an odd amount of time for an initial contract, and it sorta is, but one thing mentioned in TSC that's never brought up in the original trilogy is redshirting. Basically, for all you have a five year contract, you can only play four seasons. One season, you get to practice, but not play games, this is called red shirting, and in my experience and what I've heard from others, it's typically the freshman, for obvious reason, but this does bring up issues for Wymack's team design, and means Neil will have to take a year off eventually. And don't even think about how this affects the Ravens.

Speaking of Ravens, this is honestly one of the most basic NCAA rules: you cannot play professionally and play NCAA. Kevin and Riko literally cannot be playing for professional teams and be playing for the Ravens, the NCAA would boot them instantly. And, up until very recently, you also cannot be paid for your photoshoots, or using your likeness or sponsorships. To play NCAA, during the period AFTG is set, you cannot make any money as a player. Now, there's an argument that Tetsuji could probably make that Kevin and Riko didn't make money as players, but as celebrities in their own rights, but that's a very grey area. But, no, they weren't getting paid for photoshoots or interviews or sponsorships or anything like that. The only exceptions are tournament winnings, and there is a very strict cap on that, and stipends which there was a lot of debate over whether that counted as payment or not. They cannot be paid for anything related to exy because the second the NCAA makes an exception for exy, every other sport wants it too, and I'm sure some of them are mafia backed too. Mafia bribery doesn't fix everything, and if your trying to write your mafia as not a bunch of idiots, they'll know where to stop.

And then the ERC. They're just not that powerful, y'all. I get that Nora wanted to make them seem powerful, but given how Riko does most of the shit not Tetsuji, even that's pointless. So, for a start, the ERC needs specific scope. It's cool to call it the Exy Rules and Regulations Committee, but for what? Sports tend to have an overall ruling body, but they don't actually control everything. They control things like national tournaments and teams. Then you have the country's body, that controls things like the leagues, and they often have different rules that take time to catch up to each other. Different leagues within the same country can have slightly different rules. And often the NCAA also has its own rules. (To use volleyball, because that does have wildly different rules, in the NCAA liberos can serve in certain conditions, and that's about the only place in the world this rule exists). Basically, they only have control if you're competing in their tournament or affiliated. For the ERC to have such control over the Foxes, they're likely an NCAA committee, this means the ERC only has power over rule and regulations of Class I exy (oh yes, each division has their own committee), meaning they control things like gear regulations, rules on bench size, foul rules ect. Not which class the Foxes are in, not if Andrew's allowed to play with them, nothing like that. It's strictly the rules of the game. And they are the bottom of the power chart. Above them you have things like the division committee, the student athlete's committee and so many others. The ERC actually has very little power because the NCAA is a massive, slow moving, complicated bureaucracy. Even if they could drop the Foxes a division or get rid of Andrew, it would take years.

#all for the game #the foxhole court #aftg

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strange-august · 2 years ago

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Tag Yourself as Aesthetics I resonate with

Changelingcore: Broken insect wings, wildflower meadows, catching tadpoles, lingering mist after it rains, wet shoes from the damp grass, the feeling of moss under your hands, collection of strange trinkets and objects, taking your stuffed animals on adventures, doodling on your clothes, busy hands, wading knee deep into a lake, screaming into the air to ease frustration, organizing and reorganizing your treasures, bird calls, animal howls, digging in the mud, chewing on your lip until it bleeds, bruises and scrapes, the urge to live in the woods and never return to regular society, knotted hair, forest shrines, putting flower blossoms in your hair, flooded swampy areas, jumping from short cliffs

Suburban Gothic: Hot muggy air sticking to your skin, the buzz of florescent lights, flickering street lights, budget popsicles, late night drug store visits, muffled arguments, an old clock ticking, guady wallpaper, gossamer curtains, dusty cotton sheets, faded quilts, dog barkings, milkshakes in an empty diner, broken windows and graffiti, abandoned train tracks, 24/7 laundromats, rusty swingsets, shadowy silhouettes, semi-abandoned malls, sounds of far off traffic and train horns, driving around at night while soft music plays on the radio, tv static, junk yards and pick-n-pulls, holding hands with a stranger, urban legends, varsity jackets, broken glass on the road, crumbling buildings, local television channels

Cuddle Party: Excited giggles and hushed whispers, condensation on drinkware, running through an empty field hollering and whooping in the dead of night, sitting on the porch in rocking chairs, drunken "I love you"s, old cartoons, classic disney movies, five dollar pizza and breadsticks, singing out loud in the car, finding new places to explore, county fairs and arcade visits, eating fair food and screaming your lungs out on rides, trying to earn as many tickets at the arcade and still winning cheap prizes, being the last one to fall asleep, casually sleeping all together in the same bed, holding hands in crowds, if one of us isn't having a good time none of us are, wondering how long these days will last

Cryptid Academia: Listening to video essays while sketching cryptids, exploring abandoned buildings (legally and illegally), pocket knives, blackout curtains, newspaper clippings, viewing the night sky through a telescope, visiting natural history or science museums, old typewriters, info dumping conspiracy theories on friends, making plans to investigate that never come to fruition, tearing yet another hole into your clothes climbing over fences, shoddily patched up clothes, keychains and aluminum pins, novelty socks, analog watches, Buzzfeed Unsolved, cryptid podcasts, sprint training so you can outrun whatever is chasing you, rubiks cubes, sore fingers from mending, thrift shopping, essays only about cryptids

Desertwave: Billowing winds, sandstorms, wind chimes and suncatchers, succulents in handmade clay pots, aloe vera plants on the kitchen windowsill, the distant howl of a coyote, faded winnebagos, the soft hiss of patio misters, campsites and trailer parks, large rock formations covered in graffiti, picking up trash, the crackle of a bonfire, cacti and joshua trees in the backyard, never getting the sand completely out of your shoes, dusty clothes, laying in a hammock watching the stars, water balloon fights, hot springs, mexican ice cream bars, rocky desert mountains, plots of sand and plants that stretch on as far as the eye can see

#tag yourself #types of people #aesthetic #changelingcore #suburban gothic #desertwave #cuddle party #cryptid academia #mine #augies-posts

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potatowilde · 6 months ago

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JAKE LOCKLEY/MOON KNIGHT COSPLAY RESOURCE:

🌙Ya know, I never thought to do this but I think it would be a wonderful tool for Cosplayers out there! I'm a Jake Lockley Cosplayer, and have done a wealth of research about his wardrobe from the series. I know as much about is as a fan could possibly know. I'll add to this thread fun trivia as I go I think… If you had any inkling of a desire to cosplay Jake here's some of my finds!! READ MORE UNDER THE CUT!

HAT - The most important piece. From my research it appears to be a Göttmann brand "Jackson Linen Driving Cap" Charcoal (https://www.goettmann.de/en/ ) You can cross reference with the metallic pin on the lefthand side of his cap.

The main site will offer vendors in various areas so check it out! Shop I used: https://scotlandhouseltd.com/collections/mens-summer-hats-caps/products/jackson-linen-flatcap-desert-color

GLOVES - The second big one. So these are not driving gloves, I learned, but interestingly enough shooting gloves. Note the armored knuckles, and the character's role in the show as a gunman. Now, I couldn't find the exact match but an awesome alternative is to purchase motorcycle riding gloves. I found a cheap pair on Amazon, because the next step after the gloves are obtained is to paint them. A talented artist on the MK Costuming team was the brilliant hand painter behind Taweret's ornamental pieces, Layla's armor, and these moon crescents. To paint the moons I simply masked the shapes with painter's tape and used silver acrylic from my local art supply store. It will take several coats.

Here's the glove alternative via Amazon "Harssiney Leather Motorcycle Gloves for Men,Touchscreen Riding Driving Biker Glove with Hard Knuckle Protection,Motorcycle Accessories for Man" :

JACKET - The third most important piece because it is also the most difficult to achieve. This was a custom made raw denim jacket by the MK team, with a 3D printed collar featuring a very unique design. Should you have the funds to pattern this and make to screen accuracy I'd love to see what you came up with! I took the budget friendly route, as it was more suitable for my purposes! For folks who end up making the jacket - Note that the lining is perhaps the same base material as the collar. It's a lighter color on the inside.

In interviews, MK costume designer Meghan Kasperlik has shared that the material is a raw denim, so it's helpful to start there as a base. For my purposes I found a raw denim jacket that was close ish to achieve the shape I wanted via Banana Republic Denim Jacket Dark Rinse. I opted out of the collar just due to budget and time restraints but I hope you can find creative solutions for it!

FINAL DETAILS AKA THE SHOES, THE TIE, THE SOCKS, THE PANTS, AND SHIRT - These will all be personal preference. I think they're readily available just about anywhere. I made a small Amazon stop for the Tie, Socks, and Shirt. AMAZON - Tie AMAZON - White Dress Shirt AMAZON - Rebok Classic Grey Socks JCPENNY - Dockers Gorden Mens Cap-Toe Oxford Shoes Black Already owned - Black slacks FINAL RESULT! Happy Cosplaying!!

#moon knight #marc spector #jake lockley #steven grant #moon knight mcu #marvel cosplay #Jake Lockley cosplay #Moon knight cosplay #moon knight fanart #mcu cosplay

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stobinesque · 1 year ago

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@steddie-week day 3: first kiss | 2.1k words | G or T

Steve and Robin were about halfway through a rewatch of Clue when the phone rang, and Steve was across the living room before it was halfway through its second ring. “What’s wrong?” He asked without preamble. His heart was already racing; too anxious to consider the possibility that it could be someone calling for his parents—or even that it might be a non-emergency call. It was past ten already, and most of The Party should have at least been pretending to sleep by then.

“Steve?” The voice on the other end of the line was a bit distant—drowned out by the staticky sound of rain hitting pavement.

“Eddie? Are you alright? Where are you? Did something happen?”

Eddies’ van was out of commission, so he’d been relying on rides from Steve and the rest of the Corroded Coffin crew to get him to and from places for the past few weeks. If he was out somewhere and in trouble, he was stranded there.

“Yeah—I-I mean, no. Nothing—nothing happened. Just—could you come get me?”

“Yeah, of course. Where are you?”

“I’m out at The Hideout.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there in ten—maybe fifteen minutes.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I said I’d be there in ten, Eddie.”

“Okay.”

Steve hung up the receiver and turned to make for the foyer to find Robin standing behind him—jacket on, back slung over one shoulder, and a pair of his shoes in one hand. “Picking Eddie up?”

“Yeah.” Steve took the shoes from her hands gratefully, and started pulling them on.

“Can you drop me off on the way without slowing yourself down?”

“Yeah, I budgeted Robin home-delivery time just in case.”

“Well, hop to it then, dingus.”

~*~*~*~

When Steve pulled up in front of The Hideout after dropping off a surprisingly acquiescent Robin (Eddie needs you more than I do right now, dingus), it was to find Eddie sitting atop one of the wheel stops of The Hideout’s small lot, looking like a drowned rat.

Eddie was up and yanking open the door to the beamer before Steve could so much as put it in park, and Steve pulled out of the lot as soon as Eddie had his seat belt buckled across him.

“You okay, mann?”

Eddie shrugged.

“What happened?”

“Don’t really wanna talk about it right now.”

Steve nodded. “Okay.”

“Sorry to interrupt movie night with the missus.”

Steve laughed. “She already forgives you. Provided that you were actually having a crisis and not just faking one as a ploy to get me alone with you.”

That startled a laugh out of Eddie in turn, and he turned in his seat to shoot Steve a mischievous grin. “Now, does that sound like something I would do, sweetheart?”

“According to Robin? Yes.”

“Ah, I see who the brains of the operation is, then.”

“Was that in question?”

“Well—whether or not there was a brain behind you and Robin’s whole deal was a little up in the air.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

Silence fell between the two of them, and twenty seconds in Eddie started rooting around in Steve’s glove compartment.

“Dude. What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for a tape in here that doesn’t suck, man!”

“What are you talking about? We have, like, half the same taste in music!”

“Yeah, but the only thing you keep in your car are mixtapes! And I’m sorry, Steve, but some of the things the kids have made you are—objectively speaking—extremely cursed.”

“You could put in the one Robin made.”

“It’s hilarious that you think there’s only one Robin mixtape in here. But also: I’m not in the mood for Cyndi Lauper.”

“Cyndi Lauper’s not in the mood for you,” Steve snarked under his breath—more because he knew that’s what Robin would say if she was in the car with them than for any other reason. Raising his voice so that Eddie knew it was meant to be heard, he added, “I think there might be one from Jon in there?”

Eddie wrinkled his nose. “Eugh. No thanks. My night’ been shit enough.” He kept rooting around for another minute or two, until— “Aha!” he emerged triumphant, an sparsely labeled tape held aloft in one hand. It looked like one that Steve had made for himself years ago—long before he’d gone knocking on the supernatural’s door. If he was guessing right, it was a mix of Queen, Bowie, and Fleetwood Mac. “How have I never found this one before?” Eddie asked.

“Because in spite of your loud protestations to the contrary, you usually just let whatever music is playing in the car happen to you.”

Eddie gave a considering hum as he stuffed his find into the tape deck. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

The two of them fell silent again as “The Chain” poured from the speakers, and the rest of the ride passed without conversation, the only sounds between them besides the music was the steady beat of rain against the windshield, and Eddie’s fingers drumming along to the beat of the song.

~*~*~*~

Steve killed the engine as he pulled up in front of the Munsons’ trailer.

“Thanks for the ride,” Eddie said, pulling a strand of hair out to cover his mouth as he did so.

“Yeah—any time, dude.”

Eddie made to get out of the car, but froze in place as he leaned half-in, and half-out. “Could you—wanna come in?” There was a put-upon air of casualness to his tone in a way that made Steve suspect that he was being asked to stay the night. He wasn’t sure why Eddie felt so shy about the request, though—it wasn’t like this would be the first time.

“Oh. Yeah, man. Of course.” All he ever wanted was to be helpful. So Steve took his keys from the ignition, and trailed after Eddie as he led them both inside.

Eddie started peeling out of his soaked clothes before the front door had finished closing behind them, and made a beeline for his bedroom so he could pull on a pair of boxers and a bleach-stained t-shirt, before flopping down onto his bed. Steve followed after him, toeing his shoes off inside the door, and crawling into bed beside Eddie once he was finished changing.

"Wanna talk about it now?" he asked, as Eddie tucked himself up against his side.

Eddie shrugged. He took one of Steve's hands into both of his own and started idly playing with his fingers. "Bad date."

"Oh yeah? People aren't going mad over a metalhead who was only recently cleared of all murder charges?"

Eddie shoved at him. "Low blow, Harrington."

Steve stole his hand back to hold both of them up in surrender. "Sorry, man."

Eddie yanked Steve's hand back and held it covetously in both of his own, and Steve reached down with his own free one to tangle it into Eddie's wild mane of curls, which were still damp from the rain. "Whatever, dude. It wasn't that. He just…he was just kind of an asshole.” Eddie shrugged again, sounding a little resigned. “The regular kind."

Steve was silent, but ruffled his hand through Eddie's hair in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

"I just…I don't know. I don't know why I even bother trying to go out on dates at this point.”

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, it's like…I don't know. Just feels like I'm chasing after something I'm never gonna find."

"I get that," Steve said, tone soft and understanding.

"Really? Figured you'd have people falling all over you."

Steve snorted. "I don't think I've gone on a date since I went to the championship game with Heidi back in March."

Eddie jerked a little in Steve’s grip. "Why not?" He sounded…genuinely very confused.

Steve shrugged. "I don't know, I just…haven’t really felt like it. Honestly, I’d already felt like I was circling the drain back at that point.”

“...Huh.”

They both went quiet, Steve still running one hand through Eddie’s hair, and Eddie still tangled his fingers through those of Steve’s other hand.

“So, how do you…?” Steve trailed off with a frown, unsure of how or whether he should finish his question.

“How do I…?”

“How do you, y’know, find guys? To go out with? Who you aren’t scared of knocking your lights out, that is.”

Eddie shifted in Steve’s arms to get a better look at him. “Wait, wait. Have you not been on a date with another guy yet, Harrington?”

“No…?”

“Then how did you—?”

“How did I, what?” Steve felt a little on edge; a little on the defensive. Like there was some unseen standard he wasn’t living up to.

“How’d you figure out you were into them, then?” Eddie sounded a little bewildered. A lot incredulous. “Figured you were the victim of a drunken make-out discovery or something.”

Steve laughed, because that did sound like him, but— “Nope. Never been kissed.” He tilted his head toward Eddie with a little smirk. “By a guy, that is.”

Eddie propped himself up on one arm and stared at Steve like he was a puzzle to be solved, and there was a glint in his eye that made the hair along the back of Steve’s neck stand on end. “D’you wanna be?”

Steve’s heart skipped a bit, and his hand stilled in Eddie’s hair. “Uh…what do you mean?”

“Do you wanna be kissed? By a guy?”

Steve laughed, feeling awkward. “Are you offering?”

Eddie shrugged, just a touch too casual. “Sure, why not?”

“I don’t know. Wouldn't it be weird?”

“Doesn’t have to be weird if you don’t make it weird, man.”

Steve turned that over. It’s not like he and Eddie didn’t already spend most of the time they spent alone together tangled up in one another. There was a quasi-romantic edge to their friendship that Steve wasn’t really used to—well. Except for with Robin. But that was different, for obvious reasons. And, granted, the dynamic between him and Tommy had been…intense, but it still hadn’t felt like this.

Regardless—kissing Eddie wouldn’t change anything about their friendship if they didn’t want it to. “I guess you’re right.”

Eddie half-turned in Steve’s arms. “Yeah?”

Steve repositioned himself so that they were facing each other, hitching one shoulder up in a nonchalant little shrug. “Sure, why not?” he parroted back.

Eddie smiled, and it made his whole face go soft and gentle in a way that had Steve’s stomach twisting up in knots. Oh, he’s beautiful.

Eddie reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind Steve’s ear, and then let his hand drift along the line of Steve’s jaw until he was gently gripping his chin between two fingers. Steve’s lips parted in anticipation, and the two of them breathed into the silent space they’d created between them. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, and his arms breaking out in goosebumps.

It didn’t make any sense though. It wasn’t like it was his real first kiss. And he’d known he was attracted to men for ages, even if he’d never acted on it. It wasn’t even exactly news to him that he found Eddie attractive. But…none of their interactions had been this charged before.

Eddie closed the space between them, and pressed a gentle, but firm kiss to Steve’s lips, grinding the trajectory of Steve’s thoughts to a halt. It was a simple kiss. And it could have remained like that—soft, sweet, and almost chaste—except that Steve couldn’t hold back a sharp gasp in response, as his breath hitched in his throat.

He should pull back. He knew he should pull back—but he’d always been greedy, and Eddie was making no move to put any distance between the two of them either. So Steve surged forward, capturing Eddie’s lips into a more passionate kiss, and savoring the small whine it elicited. Eddie gave as good as he got, winding an arm around Steve’s waist, and slotting a thigh between both of Steve’s legs with a force that startled a little “Mmpf!” from him.

All in all, the kiss probably lasted little more than a few moments. But for all Steve knew, whole civilizations could have risen and fallen in that soft, gray space of time he and Eddie had their lips pressed together.

He wasn’t sure who finally broke away, but once they did, both of their breaths came short and heavy.

“That was…really good?” Steve said, a high-pitched note of giddiness and wonder in his tone.

Eddie smiled with cheshire-style grin, eyelids heavy and low. “Yeah? Wanna make it even better?”

Steve smiled right back. “I think I might.”

#stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #steddie #steddie week #steddieweek2023 #steddie fic #once again just past the cut off in my timezone #also once again did not think I was gonna do anything for this day but then had an idea pop into my head at like...7pm #this one is mostly dialogue folks!#open ended as to whether or not this is capital r Romantic or just moves into a fun and genuinely platonic/qp fwb situation #as someone who falls in love/lust with friends super easily either works for me #i wanted to explore the quasi-romantic/sexual friendship that often exists within queer friendships #read writes

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lavenderbexlatte · 1 year ago

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day 20: only one bed

kard 1.5k words female reader insert Reader x Matthew Kim (BM) NSFW

🖤 warnings: inappropriate coworker relationships, yes i turned one of the all-time best tropes into a prompt be mad about it🖤

🎂 happy matthew day~

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

This all sounded way less ridiculous on paper.

Or, like, in an email.

When they were planning the room arrangements for this company trip, you'd thought it was no big deal to volunteer be placed in a mixed-gender room. There just wasn't the budget to put everyone separately, and not enough pre-planned pairs to make it work without mixing different branches together. It seemed like a simple courtesy to say that you'd be okay with someone from a different branch, and a different gender, if it came to all that.

But once you saw the final lineup, you knew you'd be in for it.

Not that you got a bad roommate, or anything. You've actually met him a few times before, and he's a cool guy. Very gentle, polite.

He's just also extremely hot.

You've never really registered exactly how hot, before. Over the three or four other conferences like this one, you've always been glued to your work bestie. But she transferred departments, and now here you are.

Here, at the open bar that the company set up in the hotel lounge, watching him chat with a group of people.

His suit jacket is long gone, his shirt unbuttoned by a few more inches than it was when he arrived this afternoon, showing a deep v of tanned, firm chest. His bleaches hair is starting to come out of its neatly-gelled part, strands falling into his face elegantly.

One of the women from the newest branch is wearing a little sash...it's her birthday, you assume, squinting over the rim of your glass at her. And it looks like he's in the process of buying her a drink for it.

If it was anyone else, you'd figure that they were trying to make a move, but Matthew Kim is just that nice. A little bit of a player, if memory serves, with the smooth talking and earnest extroversion, but a very sweet guy overall.

You lose track of your very hot roommate after a while.

Your boss finds you, and makes you participate in a very long toast to the success of the conference, and after that, Matthew is long gone.

It's not that birthday girl, because she's still here with her coworkers, but you assume (based on nothing, admittedly, nothing but looks) that maybe he's hunting somewhere else. He seems like he's the party type, anyway. Maybe he's going somewhere else for a second round. Who knows.

Conferences are supposed to be "fun," but you all do still have meetings in the morning. You've had about all the fun you're going to have, tonight.

You bid your coworkers a good night, and you retreat to your room.

You just want to get through this trip without anything embarrassing happening.

So, of course, you run into your very hot roommate at the elevator.

He's standing there, waiting, button already pressed, when you walk up, and he looks nothing but happy to see you.

"Oh, hey," he grins. "Goin' up?"

"I'm done for the night," you agree.

"Feel that. I wanna take a shower and crash."

You'd neglected to process, until this moment, that the two of you are sharing a shower, too.

"Yeah, I'm exhausted," you find yourself saying, anyway.

The elevator arrives with a ding, and the two of you are quiet on the ride up. Both playing with your phones, and while your calm is completely forced, his seems natural.

You go to the room in companionable silence.

But once the door is unlocked, and the two of you go in, there is one glaring problem.

"That don't look like two doubles," Matthew says.

He's right. The room that you'd been promised, a double room with two beds, instead has one luxurious queen. Your privacy and his, assured by the HR people arranging this trip, are all but gone.

The only thing your traitorous brain can think, though, is that this situation isn't half bad.

"I'll call the front desk and see wassup," Matthew says, going for the room phone.

He puts the call on speaker.

"I'm so sorry, but we're fully booked. Unless you're able to switch with other members of your booking party, there's really nothing we can offer aside from compensation after the stay..."

The concierge sounds properly apologetic in corporate, and you can't blame them for this. It is what it is.

"That's gonna be more trouble, isn't it?" Matthew asks you.

"Yeah."

"Then we'll jus' figure it out," he decides.

Figure it out.

Okay.

Figuring it out turns out to mean Matthew taking a shower, and then you taking a shower, and then both of you standing on your respective sides of the bed. The energy is indescribable.

"You sure this is okay?" he asks.

You wonder what kind of face you're making, that makes him think he has to ask that.

"As long as you're okay, too," you say.

"Can I just..."

You nod, and he peels back the duvet and makes himself comfortable. There's something kind of intimate about joining him under the covers right away, so as casually as you can, you lay on top, instead.

He doesn't comment on it. Gracefully, he just rolls over to one side and gets back on his phone until you get comfortable.

And after you've wriggled yourself into a comfy spot, he asks you, "Did you have a good time?"

"Tonight?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, it was nice," you say. "Did you do birthday shots with what's-her-name from Chula Vista branch?"

Matthew laughs. "Just like...one."

You're not jealous, you're really not, but there's a very particular feeling under your skin that you can't shake.

"Nice."

"You coulda joined it."

You shrug. "Don't know her. It'd be weird."

"Nah."

You venture out on a limb. "I'm assuming there's no partner in the mix who's gonna get mad about you, like, buying birthday shots? And sleeping here?"

"No girlfriend," he affirms.

"A hunk like you?"

He laughs again.

The two of you aren't looking at each other, which is good, because you're audaciously embarrassed that that horrible sentence came out of your mouth. Either sentence, honestly. What business of yours is it, if he has a partner?

"Not much time," he says.

"Could have tried to bag that birthday girl," you joke.

"I think she's married," he muses. "Wouldn't be cool."

"Yeah, true."

Matthew turns to peer over his shoulder at you. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm not married," you say.

"I figured. But like...nobody back home?"

You've still been staring at your phone, until now. You glance at him.

"No."

You guys have eaten meals together maybe three times. You've gotten drunk together at least that many times. Your total time in his company is definitely less than one calendar day.

You've shared a bed, now, for about four minutes.

So the path from that to tugging Matthew on top of you and kissing him senseless is a little foggy.

He lets you, though. He laughs, a little, and he rolls easily into you, pulling the covers with him. They form a frustrating little barrier between the two of you, but that doesn't matter yet. You've got your arms around his neck, his hand planted in the mattress beside your shoulder, holding himself up as he curls around you and meets you inch for inch.

"S'goin' on?" he asks, sly.

Honesty is the best policy, you decide. "Anyone ever tell you you're super hot?"

"Maybe once or twice."

His words are cocky, but his smile is small and pleased, the genuine and slightly bashful expression of a guy who isn't used to being complimented like that.

"You should hear it more often, holy shit," you say.

He laughs again, louder.

"Would it be out of pocket to say that I'm curious what's under those lil pajamas?" he asks you.

You'd packed some demure and cozy sleepwear for this trip, normal t-shirt and long pajama pants. It seemed practical at the time, but now all you can think about is the sheer number of square inches of skin that are being cut off from touching Matthew, in his muscle tee and basketball shorts.

"You can be curious," you say. "Just depends if you're gonna do something about it."

"Ooh. You're kinda fun."

"I try."

You go for the hem of your own shirt, before he can. But he catches your wrist gently.

"Can I?"

"Of course. But you gotta make it fair," you tell him.

He strips off his own shirt before going for yours, and you're so transfixed by the sudden sight of his shredded torso - abs, pecs, lats, other things that you don't know the name of, scattered tattoos in thick ink - that you barely blink as he gets the garment off and flings it away to the room at large.

Your bottoms, and his, are lost just as quickly.

"I bet," Matthew says suddenly, halfway down your torso to do a little exploring below the waist. "Yo, I bet that the hotel staff did this on purpose."

"Did what?"

He smacks the mattress with one hand. "The bed."

You snort. "We were set up. Damn."

"Worked out kinda good for us, though."

"I'd say so."

Matthew continues his descent, telling you very seriously, "I hope these walls are kinda soundproof."

Oh, jeez. He's implying- "Why?"

"Cuz I think my boss is in the next room, and I really don't wanna have to explain this tomorrow."

#kinktober 2023 #kpop kinktober #kard fanfic #kard smut #kard bm fanfic #kard bm smut #matthew kim fanfic #matthew kim smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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oohnotvery · 8 months ago

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Edges of the Night (Chapter 1) *new fic*

Like all my other works, this is also posted on AO3 (I'm the_eternal_optimist).

Scully’s moving on autopilot tonight. Pack up briefcase. Slip into jacket. Turn off lights. Lock office door. Move through silent halls. Wave goodbye to the security guard manning the entrance. Walk one hundred steps to the car. Unlock door. Shuffle inside. Seatbelt. Engine on. Lights.

It’s been a while since she’s felt this tired after work. With her days normally so quiet and undemanding, she usually leaves the office looking forward to the night to come—dinner with Alan, or maybe her downstairs neighbor Andrea. A glass of wine. Sometimes a movie, maybe the next JAMA article. In bed by nine, or if Alan is staying over, ten. Ten-thirty if things get rowdy. Usually, she plans this all out in the car ride home. It’s not a long drive to her apartment from work, but lately she’s been taking the scenic route home, the one that goes by the ocean. She likes to roll down the windows and drink in the salty sea air. It frizzes her hair but does wonders for her mood. For the first few months she lived here, it seemed the ocean was the only thing that soothed her fury, her hurt, her brokenness.

Tonight, though, she decides on the shortest, quickest route home. All she can think about is whether she’s going to eat or take a bath first. It’s been ages since she’s had a day full of meetings and she’s forgotten how draining it can be listening to someone droning on and on and on and on about budgets. She can’t remember if Alan said he was staying over tonight. Although she enjoys his company, she desperately needs some alone time. There’s a headache building from hours spent staring at spreadsheets, and wouldn’t it be nice to be snuggled under the sheets by eight o’clock?

But then again, maybe he’s already there and maybe he’s made dinner. Last week, he made something particularly delicious in the crockpot. In this aspect, he’s more than proven his worth. On second thought, it might be quite nice if there’s a pot roast waiting when she breezes in through the door. Although it’s just February, spring has arrived early on the California coast and the weather might even be warm enough to eat outside on the balcony.

She stops at a red light and glances at her reflection in the rearview mirror. A street lamp illuminates her long red hair and bright blue eyes and she carefully traces a thumb along her lower lip, removing a smudge of lipstick. If Alan indeed is at her place, she should probably consider powdering her nose before she goes inside. Of course, he’s seen her in various stages of composed and not-so-composed, but it’s a nice gesture to make an effort.

The light shifts to green and she turns left onto her road. This part of the street curves up a slight hill enveloped by thick eucalyptus trees, their shaky branches interrupted by the occasional palm and sweet-smelling jacaranda. She hasn’t lived here long enough to see the jacarandas in full bloom, but childhood recollections of their lavender blossoms fill out her memories of San Diego summers. She’s glad to have something beautiful to look forward to this year.

Her car climbs the steep hill, its headlights illuminating the dark road. Her apartment is just a mile from the crest of the hill, and as she approaches it, she glances in her rearview one more time to study her appearance. Satisfied, her eyes flit back to the road, just in time to see a car whip out from a side street several feet in front of her, traveling the opposite direction. Before she can react, it pulls into her lane, coming towards her at full speed, its headlights glaring brightly in her windshield. Shouting in surprise, she yanks at the steering wheel and pulls her car across the road, missing a direct collision by mere inches. She slams on the brakes and her car hits the guardrail with a smash, but it’s not hard enough to deploy the airbags. Her mind, all-too-familiar with trauma, reacts instantly, quickly starting to piece together what just happened. Car accident. No injuries. Drunk driver? College student? Those dumbass frat boys who live in the apartment above hers?

But then she hears it, a sound she hasn’t heard in months. Gunshots. With a shriek, she dives across the front of the car just as a bullet hits her back window, cracking the glass.

Another bullet zings into her rear bumper and she covers her head protectively. In an instant, her thoughts turn from frat boys to murderers. This was no accident. This was intentional. Unarmed—because she has no need to carry a weapon these days—she knows she needs to get out of here fast. She’s about to force the car into reverse when she hears another sound: the scream and squeal of a violent crash, metal grinding against metal. She grits her teeth and braces for impact, but seconds go by and she doesn’t feel anything. Her car doesn’t move. And then everything around her falls eerily quiet.

She counts slowly to ten, then glances up and tries to peer through the back window, but with the shattered glass, she can’t make sense of anything behind her. Very slowly, she cracks her door open and peers outside. Ten feet away, the other car has slammed into the guardrail too, but the driver’s side of the vehicle looks completely crushed. Her pursuer must have hit the railing at a ferocious rate of speed.

She stares at the wreckage for just a moment, trying to memorize details of the other car—beige Ford Taurus, nondescript—when its passenger door opens. She gasps—someone survived.

A man sticks his head out of the door and begins to violently throw up onto the pavement. She knows she needs to move, needs to get away from this person who is likely armed, needs to get to safety and call 911. But there is something unnervingly familiar about this man, with his long legs and lean torso and dark hair. He coughs and spits and gags and retches for another half a minute, and even from this distance, she sees the sheen of blood matted in his hair. Her doctor’s eyes make the quick calculation—head injury. Likely concussion. Possibly from hitting head on dashboard.

She’s about to withdraw into her vehicle and make her getaway when the man lifts his head. His eyes climb to meet hers across the distance and her heart stutters to a stop.

Mulder.

It’s Mulder.

After all this time, impossibly, unbelievably, incredibly, it’s Mulder.

All rational thought, all anger, all hurt, all pain escapes her brain. She clicks off her seatbelt and climbs out of her car to run to him. Her heels clack loudly on the pavement as she approaches the vehicle. He’s staggering unsteadily to his feet and without a second thought, she jumps to catch him, avoiding the pile of sickness at their feet. They haven’t touched in nine months, and yet he sags into her with the relief and trust that only years of familiarity can bring. She briefly notes that his hands are zip-tied together. Bracing one hand on his chest and another on his shoulder, she supports him, then leans down into the car to glance at the driver. The sight is grisly—a smashed, bloody head against the driver’s window; his crushed body against the door. Most certainly dead. She wrinkles her nose and draws her eyes up to Mulder’s face. He stares down at her hazily.

“You okay?” he manages to ask, his eyebrows bent in pain.

She nods shakily. “I’m okay. Let’s get you to the car.”

She helps him into the passenger seat and leans over him to buckle him in, ignoring the way her stomach clenches as her torso presses briefly against his own. Before she clambers back into her side, she quickly assesses the damage to her car. All she notes is a dented-up fender and a cracked windshield; she considers herself very lucky.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” she announces quietly as she shifts the car into reverse.

Mulder shakes his head just like she knew he would. “We need to drive, Scully.”

Scully.

She swallows past a wave of emotions. No one has called her that in months.

“No,” she says firmly, maneuvering her car around the other vehicle. “You need immediate medical attention.”

He leans over and with bound hands, grips her wrist, clamping on so tightly that she yelps. She glances over at him and immediately recognizes the emotion flitting across his eyes—fear. Crippling, devastating fear.

“Please,” he begs. “Just drive.”

And then his hands release hers to fumble clumsily around in his pants pocket. After a moment, he pushes something into her palm. She slows the car to a crawl and glances down at her hand. In it, there’s a piece of paper and a key. She unfurls the paper and sees the scrawl of an address.

An address in Montrose, Colorado. Montrose, Colorado? She’s never even heard of that place.

“You want me to drive here?” she asks in disbelief.

He nods, then winces. He lifts his hands to touch his forehead and seems surprised when his fingertips come away bloody.

“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs under her breath, and reaches over to wipe a trickle of blood off his eyebrow. He meets her eyes and she regards him tightly, then drops the paper and key into a cupholder.

For five minutes, she doesn’t ask questions, she just drives. She drives past her apartment and notes offhandedly that Alan’s dark green truck is in the lot. A wash of worry and guilt flushes over her and she shoves the feelings away. She won’t be coming home tonight; that much is clear.

Beside her, Mulder has started falling in and out of consciousness. She pulls her bottom lip through her teeth anxiously and considers her options. She hasn’t made up her mind yet if she’s going to drive him to Colorado. She’s exhausted from a long day, wound tight from the accident, emotionally shaken from their encounter, and Mulder himself is in no physical condition to endure a long drive.

But whatever happens next, triage comes first. She needs to find a place where she can properly assess his injuries. His eyes have closed but she senses him breathing. Every few minutes, she places her palm to his forehead and cheek to assure herself that he is still alive. From her angle, she doesn’t see any more obvious injuries other than his bleeding head, but she needs to stop as soon as she can.

Despite her worries, her exhaustion, and her emotions, she feels herself starting to sink into a calm, collected mental space—FBI mode. She is reminded that she once used to be a field agent—and a pretty damn good one at that. In this headspace, she drives to a familiar spot, a park that overlooks the ocean. There’s a deserted campground at its edge and a playground that’s usually full of children. At this time of night, however, the parking lot is deserted. Under the cover of a leafy tree, she throws the car into park.

Mulder’s eyes crack open.

“We have to keep moving,” he mumbles.

She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the car door, throwing him a warning look. “We’re not going anywhere until I’ve looked at your head.”

A very slight smile ticks up on his lips, but he makes no reply.

In her trunk, she pulls out the sturdy black bag that she hasn’t had a chance to use since moving to San Diego. When she slides back into the car, she flips on the overhead lights and starts pulling tools out of her kit—gauze, ointment, sterilizing pads, alcohol. Mulder grumbles something about the light being too bright and she shushes him.

“Come here,” she mutters, tapping at his bound wrists. He holds them up to her and with a pair of surgical scissors, she cuts the plastic of the zip ties. They fall away and Mulder rotates his hands gratefully. Red, raw marks stain his wrists and she frowns. Whoever tied him up was intent on inflicting pain.

She dabs some antibiotic cream onto his wrists and then motions for him to lower his head. Scooting up in her seat, she carefully begins to move her hands through his thick hair, which is matted with blood.

“Oh, Mulder,” she murmurs when she finds the source of the injury. “I really need to wash this.”

He glances up at her. They are close, her hands buried in his hair, her body leaning over the console. Their noses are just inches apart and for a second, she can’t breathe. The last time they touched was so uncharacteristically violent that it has played in her mind on repeat for months. For weeks after she moved to San Diego, any time she closed her eyes, she saw the scene in her head—his hands shoving her away, her palm smacking at his arms. To touch him now with the careful gentleness that used to embody their relationship feels abnormal, bizarre.

“We have to keep driving,” he reminds her.

“Are you going to tell me why?” she asks, and he nods, then winces. “That hurts?”

He mutters a yes.

“What else hurts?”

He closes his eyes. “My head is throbbing. It feels like I’m going to redecorate the inside of your car at any moment.”

“Concussion,” she says as she reaches into her bag to pull out more supplies. It is difficult in these circumstances to properly clean the blood out of his hair and expose the wound. There is a nasty red gash at his hairline. “This really needs stitches,” she laments, praying she has some butterfly tape with her.

She does, and after cleaning, sterilizing, and protecting the wound as best she can, she seals it with tape, wondering if she should just try to stitch him up here in the car. But his breathing is labored and his eyes have shut tight, and she doesn’t know if he could withstand the pain right now. She touches his shoulder gently. His eyes blink open.

She doesn’t want to drive across the country in the middle of the night, especially with an injured, semi-conscious Mulder. She desperately wants to admit him to a nearby hospital, but she remembers the way he looked when he begged her to drive. Afraid. Something is very, very wrong. Why and how and under what circumstances he ended up here in San Diego—outside her apartment, in a potential assassin’s car—is beyond her.

“Please,” he asks, breaking her thoughts. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t think it was important.”

She shuts her eyes briefly, contemplating his insane request. There is so much tugging her back to reality—Alan, her job, her tiredness, Mulder’s injuries. All of those things are screaming at her to stay here, just stay here.

But Mulder is sitting here in the flesh, after all this time. This is the first request he has made of her in nine months. This is their first communication after a rift that she assumed couldn’t be repaired in a hundred lifetimes. And despite the way they left things, it is impossible to ignore the way a familiar sort of comfort washes over her in his presence. His scent alone seems to bring her heart rate back to normal. The feeling of his skin under her fingertips grounds her to the moment. The warmth of his grey-green eyes soothes the pain in her chest. An otherworldly sort of communication is taking place between their bodies. If he is asking this of her, under these circumstances, she knows it is serious. They have lost a lot in these nine months of separation, but one thing remains. One thing will always remain.

“I’ll drive,” she finally concedes, “because I trust you.” Palpable relief and something else, something stronger, wash over his face. To her astonishment, he grabs her hands in his and brings them to his mouth, pressing his lips to her knuckles. Her heart starts to pound even as her brain demands she ignore the way his touch provokes her to sentimentality, nostalgia, tenderness.

“Thank you,” he breathes, catching her eye meaningfully. His fingertips slide across her hand and when they catch on the sparkly ring on her left hand, he freezes in shock. Her cheeks blaze hotly, similarly astonished by his discovery. He was never supposed to know about her personal life. She tugs her hands away and he stares at her like a kicked puppy.

Don’t look at me like that. You forced me out, she thinks angrily. The memory of their last encounter slices through her brain, instantly souring her tender thoughts.

He drops her gaze and falls back against his seat, his eyes closing once more.

“I’ll wake you every hour,” she promises after a moment, her hands tingling with a long-forgotten ache. In the Before Times, she would have reached out and brushed his cheek or maybe patted his thigh, reassuring him of her presence, her trustworthiness, her care. But instead, she just flips off the overhead lights, buckles her seat belt, and pulls out onto the darkened road.

And then she drives.

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