#if you guys want to know the full problem there is one thing in my sink that was put there to wash dust off it (and then got dirty since it

[siri-ike]

(This got a little long)

Danny quieted down when he realized he wasn't in any danger. He stumbled out of bed, his legs were numb and wobbly, and everything looked out of focus. He grabbed onto the window sill to stay standing, but he just couldn't.

Suddenly, someone wearing white burst into the room. He couldn't tell who it was, or even if he knew them. It didn't help that he couldn't seem to keep his head still. The figure rushed toward him, and he flinched.

"It's ok, you're in the hospital. My name is Katie, I'm a nurse here. I can help." The woman had a Midwestern accent. She slowly stroked his sholder and held his cheek until he caught his breath and stopped shaking.

He sniffled as his vision slowly faded into focus. Katie was holding his head still. It really helped. He let his shoulders relax. "There was- th was a woman, she, she threw me into the water. And, and, and-"

"Vivid dreams are normal. But you're safe now. How about we get you back in bed? You can tell me everything you saw while we wait for Doctor Benton to get here." Katie helped him up and onto the bed. She held out his arm and reached for a butterfly needle hanging from an IV bag.

"What's that?" He asked diffencively, pulling his hand away.

"It's just some IV fluids. Saline, B vitamins, electrolytes, a little glucose." She listed reassuringly, but Danny didn't give her his arm. She smiled and put the needle down. "It can wait. Do you still want to tell me about your dream?"

He looked at her full of questions, but he did want to tell someone about what he saw. The problem is; how much does she know? He probably can't tell her about being Robin or the League of Assassins. Whether he's here as Jason Todd Wayne or Jon Doe. To them, he should have no reason to know about that. "How, long- ha-has it been." He stuttered. He never had a stutter before. Could it have been caused by the explosion?... wait. There was an explosion. How is he in one piece? He looked at his arms and lifted up his pant legs. Everything was still intact. Aside from some fading lichtenberg scars on his hands, he was fine.

"Six months." She took his hands in hers. "The scars will heal in due time. But until then, you'll certainly have the coolest thing to show off at school." She grinned like they were planning a prank together or something. "Now, how about telling me about your nightmare?"

Jason picked at the inner corners of his eyes and wiped the clumps on his soft pajama shirt. "I was -, arguing with my dad. About - something. He sent me to my room. But I didn't listen. And this guy, I never learned his name, he hit me. Over and over. Then I was alone, and I died... after that, this woman, she's always flirting with my dad, took me to her home, and threw me in the water." He wanted to say more. But how? Even if he told these things to a therapist, they would be obligated by law to report to the police.

"Sweety. Do you want to see your dad? Your family's been over a lot. I'm sure they'll drop everything when we call them."

"Drop everything," ha. Bruce probably "dropped" the joker after what he did. But it would be nice to see him. Even if the last time they spoke wasn't on the best of terms. "Thanks."

"Ahem," a woman in a labcoat cleared her throat in the doorway. She probably didn't wanna startle them.

"Doctor Benton. Danny, she's just going to give you a checkup. I can go call your parents, so they'll be here when you're done."

Danny? Why would she call him Danny? And parents? Plural? Has Jason been confused for someone else? Come on, this isn't like mixing up newborn babies. He's 15. Plus, he had to have been flown in from Ethiopia. And how would Bruce not have noticed? Is some other boy living at the manor pretending to be him?

Katie affectionately touched Dr. Bentons upper arm. "Speech, reflexes, and attention, normal. Temperature, low. Breathing patern, stable. His IV and catheter fell out again." She was testing him? The whole time? He couldn't even be mad. That was pretty impressive.

"Now then, Danny. I have a few simple tests here. Most people in your position need to relearn some skills, and these will help us figure out which ones." Dr Benton pulled out a table and placed a note card and several colored pens on it. "I would like you to draw a clock that reads ten thirty, a green square with an orange letter G in it, and write your name."

OK, so a memory test and a dexterity test in one. Danny picked up the red pen. With a shaky hand, he drew a circular clock, one hand down, one up, and to the left. He picked up the orange pen and wrote the letter G, then drew a green square around it and filled it in. He hastily wrote his signature and handed the card over.

Sure, the lines were unsteady, and he didn't put any numbers on the clock, but he's still going to get a good grade in waking up from a coma. "What's next?" He eyed the folder Dr Benton held.

She placed a sheet of paper with a few simple math problems and shapes with the names of colors written under them.

The tests must have lasted at least 20 to 30 minutes. By the end, his handwriting didn't look half bad anymore.

There was a bit of ruckus in the hallway that seemed to put Dr Benton in a bit of a rush. Who could blame her? There was a guy yelling and clearly getting closer. Working in a hospital probably means dealing with a lot of people like that. Danny was just going to ignore it and hoped they weren't headed to a nearby room. But then.

"DANNO!"

The guy came into his room. He was huge, loud, and worst of all. He was holding Jason in a bear hug. Two women walked in behind him. One of them was all too eager to leave lipstic marks all over his face, but the younger one, the red head, stood back and scolded the large man for making such a ruckus in a hospital.

Who are these people? How are they not noticing that the person they are talking to is someone else? Does Jason have a doppelganger? Or better yet, a clone. He's overdue to be cloned. Hmm. But then, wouldn't it be the other way around?

"Dad! Would you put Danny down. He could have had serious mental regression or new sensitivities. You didn't even ask him how he's doing. Or if he remembers who you are." The girl was right. All of this was a lot so soon.

"Nonsense, Jazzy pants." The guy ruffled Jasons hair. "You remember who we are, right?"

They're probably civilians. If Jason was switched with someone, chances are these people are obvious to it. "You're... my family." Keep it vague. Don't wanna make too many assumptions.

Something about his dismissal made Jason feel uneasy. It was so fast. He expected to stay another night, or at least have more tests run. They just handed him his hoodie and practically dragged him out the door. He was already in a car less than an hour after waking up. The receptionist seemed so relieved. Most of the staff seemed relieved.

Is he actually ok to go?! Does anyone care?

The car was weird, too. It was full of add-ons like the batmobile, but nowhere near as sleek and clean. At least the driving was eaqualy reckless. Although they weren't chasing anyone.

"Danny... Danny." The girl spoke to him.

Oh, right, he's Danny. "Yes?" He rubbed his eyes to sell it. Gotta keep those expectations low.

"Are you alright? How are you feeling?"

"Uhm, I guess I'm kinda hungry. And stiff."

"I mean, emotionally, how are you feeling?"

Emotionally? He literally just woke up. He's supposed to have feelings this early. Let a guy shake off the rigormortis, whatever your name is. "I... don't know." Maybe he can use this to his advantage. "Did anything happen while I was asleep?"

There was a record scratch, somehow, and everything went silent.

"Honey," the woman in the front seat spoke up. "Maybe it would be best to have this conversation when we get home." She had a slight Midwestern accent. Just like Katie. Are they in the Midwest?

"Why? Did you get divorced or something? I'm not dead."

And there was the awkward silence again.

Crap, bad joke, bad joke. That was a full-on Jason response. Danny might have a completely different sense of humor.

This time, the silence lasted until they got home. He awkwardly shoved his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and felt a folded up piece of paper inside.

They still didn't say anything when they got home. He didn't get punished for joking about death, at least. That was a nice touch. But it was weird that they all went in different directions. The two adults ran straight to the basement, yelling something about "overheating" and "GHOSTS!". And the red head went for the stairs before Jason stopped her.

"Could you help me? Dr. Benton said I shouldn't cook anything unsupervised."

She looked surprised at the request. It's not like he wants to have someone cook for him. It was literally doctors' orders.

"I'm not supposed to be around sharp knives of fire." He justified.

"Oh, I read about that. Some people can be self-destructive after waking up from a long coma. Often, they are trying to test if they're still dreaming." She sounded too excited about his potentially dangerous mental state.

While... crap, gotta find out their names. She cut up some vegetables and left him to assemble a sandwich. That sure was quick. Usually, he would have had to sit through endless conversation just to eat something. This gave him time to snoop.

The sandwich was amazing. It was like eating something for the first time in months. When he was done, he remembered the note. He pulled it out of his pocket, and, ok, Jason swears he is a good reader. Why are only some of the letters making words?

He powered through and eventually managed to decipher the letter.

Dear Mr. Fenton

It is important that you continue your brain exercises. You may also experience some decline in fine motor skills. Below is a list of activities that can speed up recovery.

Reading, puzzles, writing, drawing.

-Nurse Katie

She must have slipped it in before she left. Would it still be developmentally appropriate to have a crush on his nurse? She seemed to be in her late 20s to early 30s... "we could make it work." Jason nodded delusionaly.

*bdrrrrr*

The doorbell cought Jason off guard. He answered it and saw two teenagers, the same age as him. One male, African American, red barrette, yellow t-shirt. Height 5"4, teal eyes. The other female, Caucasian, black clothes, black hair. Height 5"6', violet eyes. Their facial expressions suggested they were friends, but of course, Jason didn't know them.

"Danny!" They cheered in unison.

"We came as soon as we heard."

"Are you ok?"

"Sam was so worried about you." The boy mocked, only to get jabbed in the abdomen.

"I'm fine." This "danny" sure has a lot of people to keep track of. Why couldn't Jason have been switched with some loner?

They both stared at him for a moment. "Can we come in?"

Jason looked back inside. Put on a show for five people, or for two people? "Uhm, let's go somewhere else." He practically shoved himself outside.

They looked at each other, and it was clear they were avoiding saying something.

Jason couldn't risk choosing where to go, so he let them pick. He wasn't really sure what he expected, what with the lack of third places in American cities now a days. But a science museum? He would have preferred a library, but he could still read here.

"What should we look at first?"

"Your choice. This place has gotten three new exhibits. There's a brain maze-"

"A human skeleton-"

"And they added a thing that you can stand on, and it zaps you."

They looked at each other in silence.

"We can ignore that one." They seemed to agree.

"Why? I wanna get zapped. Which way?" Jason grabbed a map at the front desk while the girl paid for 3 passes. "The brain is closer. Let's start there." He looked back at the others. "Bet I could get through faster than you." He grinned and dashed through the hall.

Jason stopped in front of the big plastic brain. He expected the others to run after him, but they were far behind. He had to take his shoes off in order to enter the structure. It's kind of like those indoor playgrounds. Except way bigger.

Despite all the big talk, Jason ended up wandering into every dead end in order to find all the fun facts. Each one came with a small stamp on the arm, and if you find all of them, you get a sticker.

On the way out, Jason spotted the two teens he came here with. They didn't even go inside. He can't beat them if they don't even play. The brain has no pain receptors!" He shouted to them as an employee put a sticker on his hoodie. It was a brain wearing pants with the words "Smarty Pants" written under it.

"I know you didn't go in, but I'm still counting this victory. I win." Jason showed off his sticker with that sassy little smile. You know the one.

Their supportive smiles looked fake. Jason could tell they were hiding something. He didn't even need to look for micro-expressions. These people were terrible liars. Finally, he snapped. "What's wrong? You two have been acting like you covered up a murder or something."

Mini Prompt: Death Runs in the Family

Danny and Jason are twins separated at birth. When they were born Danny was very sick and it didn’t look good for him from the start. As a final act of love or malice Sheila abandoned Danny at the hospital–making sure that there is nothing connecting him to her–leaving him to whatever fate desired for the small boy.

On the other hand she took Jason with her who then ended up being raised by Willis and Catherine. With them being completely unaware that Jason has a twin brother.

Jason’s life continues on as normal with him eventually being found, adopted, and becoming Robin. He dies at 15 in Ethiopia with his bio-mom never knowing about his brother. He comes back

Meanwhile Danny gets better and is later on adopted by the Fenton’s. Living in a crazy ghost-invested town. His parents build the portal in the basement, and at 15 dies with a press of a button. He comes back.

What no one knows though is that both meet their fate at the same time. A portal opening and a bomb going off. The two become twins in life and in death.

[florihaei]

𝜗𝜚 only when it hurts .ᐟ 𐙚˙⋆.˚

͏꒰ lee donghyuck! x fem!reader ✿

─── you’ve always came back to him, he never ask you to stay. but tonight feels heavier than usually, it’s just something about tonight that feels different, like one of you might finally break .ᐟ

⟡ 𓂃 - suggestive content!, toxic (not extremely), possessive, smoking, alcohol, heartbreak themes, full fic!, names : baby, sweetheart, pretty girl. regrets,

౨ৎ … WC - 1.2k ! ( FLORIHAEI’S VALUT )

⟡ 秋のメモ… ︵ ︵ ིྀ - hi hi guys!!, gonna start posting a lot more!! this was supposed to be based of + 82 preesin but it’s not 😭!!, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!, please enjoy!

©florihaei 2025 ꒰ do not rewrite, copy, repost, or translate any of my works without permission ۟ ׅ ͡ ୨ৎ

the first thing you see is smoke.

leaning against a blacked out car, there he was, one hand holding a cigarette, his other hand buried in his jacket pocket. it was always the same cigarette between his lips, always the same look in his eyes like he’s already bored of everything.

expect you..

he doesn’t even flinch when you walk up.

“late” haechan says, exhaling slowly. “i was about to leave.”

“you weren’t” you replied, your arms crossed tight against your chest.

his smirk appears like it’s always been there. “you know me too well”

and that’s the problem, you do.

you know the way his jaw tightens when he’s jealous. how he talks with his hands when he’s trying not to say something he means. how he never asks you to stay the night, but still watches you sleep until the morning.

and he knows things about you too, maybe too much.

he tosses the cigarette, stepping on it with his boot. “that dress..” he murmurs. “you wore it to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

you scoffed. “you give yourself too much credit.”

“baby” he stepped closer, his coicr mixed with smoke and honey. “you walk around looking like that and expect me to just stand here still like im not looking at the most gorgeous girl?”

the way he makes your heart beat even faster, he’s always been good with his mouth, and not just when he’s talking..

he brushes your hair behind your shoulder, fingers grazing your skin. “why do you this?” you whisper.

he tilts his head. “do what?”

“call me.. bring me over here, kiss me like you mean it..”

he doesn’t answer right away. just lets the silence stretch out until it hurts.

“because when i don’t” he finally says, his voice low. “everything feels fake”

you hate how much that sinks into your chest.

“don’t say shit like that..” you mumble, stepping back.

he catches your wrist, not hard. just enough. “say what?, the truth?”

“no” you breath, “the kind of truth that always makes me stay.”

there’s a pause, then haechan speaks quietly.

“your the only thing that feels real”

you’re throat tightens. it’s so unfair, how he knows what to say eveytime, how he always says it too late.

you shake your head. “haechan no.. you don’t get to do this again, you don’t get to pull me in and push me away, it’s every time..”

he takes a step closer, so close your breath catches. “then stop showing up every time i call”

you flinch. “that’s low.”

“so is pretending you don’t want me.”

you shove him, palms flat on his chest. “i want a lot of things haechan, that doesn’t mean i should have them”

his hands catch your waist instantly, like they belonged there. “but you do have me” he whispers. “every time”

and maybe that’s the worst part, because he’s right.

every time he calls you, you go. every time he touches you. you melt. every time he kisses you, you forgot the way your heart bruises the morning after.

and still .. you lean in.

the kiss is slow at first, just lips grazing, a breath shared, the tension of two people who’ve done this many times. then it depends, his mouth opens against yours and your fingers tangle in his jacket.

his hands slide beneath your dress, teasing the edge of your thigh. “this okay?” he murmurs.

you nod, already breathless. “yeah..”

“say it.”

“it’s okay baby.”

he hums , satisfied, and his lips trail down to your jaw. “knew you’d come back to me, you always do pretty.”

you tilt your head, giving him access, even tho it stings. “maybe i’m just stupid”

“then we’re both fucked up” he says against your skin. “because i keep loosing sleep over a girl who swears she doesn’t care”

you freeze, well that was new.

“what?”

he pulls back slightly, eyes locking with yours. “you heard me””

“you never said that before.”

he shrugs like it’s noting, like he didn’t just crack something wide open. “didn’t mean i didn’t feel like sweetheart”

the silence between you buzzes louder than ever before.

and then, barely above a whisper. “god haechan.. you confuse me so much.”

“you break my heart” you whisper.

he swallows hard. “then why are we still doing this?”

you want to say, because it’s easier than being alone. because every time you leave you feel like your missing a piece of yourself. because he’s the only one who touches you like your something, even when you’re running away.

but you don’t say any of that.

you just say. “i don’t know”

he kisses you again, harder this time. like a goodbye, but not really. his hands grip tighter, his breath shudders against your neck. you want to tell him not to. you want to scream and cry and melt into his skin at once.

when he finally pulls back you feel cold.

he leans his forehead against yours. “we’re so fucking bad for each other.”

“yeah”

“but i still want you baby, every single time.”

you close your eyes. “me too”

and that’s the truth, but truth doesn’t always fix everything.

yoy pull back. “i should go.”

his finger don’t drip from your wrist.

you glance down at them. “don’t make me stay.”

he doesn’t.

he lets you go, slowly like it hurts him. like it hurts you.

you walk away. you don’t look back, you never do.

but your phone will buzz at 2am again the next week

and you’ll still answer.

[fuck-customers]

this is a HUGE fuck management

So i actually like a couple of managers at my job at burgers and fries.

But upper management is full of garbage people.

Like they are horrible and ableist and just actual idiots.

But the most recent incident is one of the managers i like has a few health issues and i get along with her cause i also have a few health issues and we can understand each other in that regard and i atleast get treated fairly when i am struggling a bit on the job cause she gets it.

But the incident happens cause one of the higher ups in the franchise sometimes visits the store and even helps out..

But this bitch of a man (who is getting up there in years) starts bitching at this manager about a little device she keeps out and out of the way that is there to monitor stuff for her health, no one ever cares that its out and we all know she needs it so its not even a problem! But this guy starts telling her to put it away and that she doesnt need it at all and its like, buddy she needs to be able to look at this device at any given moment and also keep it from being damaged or lost and then when she actually looked at the thing and needed to go take care of something health related this man continues to bitch at her and tells her to get back out on the floor when she is trying to take care of herself and just needs a moment to make sure she's okay and safe..

Like shes a manager who has been on this job for years upon years and often stays when someone calls off even when shes been there for hours already, making herself feel miserable and this management guy has the audacity to be an ass to her and on top of that, the store manager also treats her like shit! And doesnt believe that being disabled is actually a real thing and that pain from chronic issues is real either?

Like im bottom of the barrel employee and thats how they treat those above me??

My issues are invisible and even though i bring in doctors notes proving my issues they dont think its real or matters?

And im always doing the most at my job literally all the time, hurting and over straining myself cause literally no one else does anything lol, so because im always running all over the place doing stuff they probably think im lying lol.

But they dont see me limping home, or crying in the shower or gasping cause sometimes little movements cause a spike of pain so bad i want to actually scream, or the sleeping all day just to mitigate feeling some of the pain im in.

I wish all ableists a very get disabled and reflect on your actions maybe before you judge someone because we can all become disabled at any point.

I will not be taking any comments on how if im disabled or if my manager is disabled "why are you working" like do you know how hard it is to get on disability and then how limiting and ableist disability is?? On top of being poor and in pain all the time? Some of us dont have the luxury of not working, not in this economy and with the current government.

So be nice to your coworkers if they are struggling like me maybe.

Posted by admin Rodney

[2222bad]

LEADING LADY

[michael wants you to be in his upcoming short film] | 1.2k words

WARNINGS: fem!reader , show bizz baby! , john landis ooc (?)

[1983]

“what do you mean you’re not doing the film?” john asks michael, his hip cocked over to one side in climbing distress.

with a sigh, michael states his case once more: “i told you, john, if she can’t be my lead, i’m not doing it. and you can go ahead and tell george that i said it, too.”

john squints through his glasses, fogged from the sudden sweat he’s producing all over his body. with a measured breath, he presses his hands together and moves them slowly up to his mouth.

“i thought you understood this, michael. it’s not personal that your girlfriend doesn’t star in the shoot. okay? we have tons of girls—hundreds—that have come in to audition. by equity standard they need to be seen. will you see them, or do i have to go tell them we’ve wasted their time?”

michael looks down at the book of headshots, his fingers peruse the several pages, eyeing over the pictures. black and white prints of stunning smolders, shining smiles.

“i already know who i’m looking for, john.”

“you already know who you’re looking for—look, i didn’t fly all the way here to make a home video,” john steams, “if that’s what you want, you can kiss the whole thing goodbye. it won’t do well, michael.”

a flicker dove into michael’s eye like a flash of fire.

“you wanna bet?” he teases, folding his arms in his jacket.

john’s face falls, his whole body coming forward in surrender to his dejection. his hands find michael’s shoulders and he sighs into the feeling.

“will you at least see them?” john begs, his eyes full of exhaustion. “if you don’t find a girl by the end of today, we can talk.”

“mhm,” michael answers blankly and drags his loafers behind the audition table. once in his seat again, john peers behind him. he’s put his sunglasses back on.

—

“that’s your one hundred and thirty-fifth no…do we even try for thirty-sixth?” john asks with the weight of a thousand men as he flops the last headshot down on the table.

“i’m sorry, none of them are what i want,” michael says, shaking his head.

red-faced and sweaty, george reaches across the table in agitation. “michael. we’ve got girls like ola ray coming in here who are perfect for this role and you’re turning them down. what’s the problem, huh? i’m sorry, but your girl won’t fit. she doesn’t work.”

“how would you know?” michael flops his hands down in his lap with an airy chuckle. “you haven’t even met her.”

the table suppresses its groans. chairs creak and papers shuffle under the sound of clearing throats.

“we are running out of time, john,” mumbles george.

“alright,” john grumbles, nose bridge pinched between his director’s fingers, “tell her to come tomorrow. we’ll do the screen test.”

the littered cups of coffee rattle and shake as john scrunches his chair from the table and walks into the hall with his hand on the back of his neck. michael feels none of the animosity. in fact, he continues to smile.

—

“c’mere! i’ll introduce you,” michael says as he wraps his arms around your shoulders excitedly. the minute you stepped inside the warehouse, michael skipped over to your side. it was a tall place, huge and full of mock set pieces. where you’d be needed was in front of the camera where the wall had been replaced with fake brick.

“how should i act? gosh, im so nervous.” you grab a hold of michael’s prototype jacket, his feet going miles faster than you could in your heels.

“you’re wonderful just as you are. just be yourself,” he assures you, pressing his lips to your cheek unabashedly.

before you stood his crew looking pensive and eyeing various parts of the set up. it was a small team, but definitely mighty. you’d lost count of how many times you’d seen an american werewolf in london and hoped it wasn’t obvious in the way your teeth shone with egregious enthusiasm.

with an arm around you, michael gestured excitedly to each of the guys. “this is rick baker; our makeup artist, george folsey jr.; he’ll be helping with producing, that’s michael peters; we’re choreographing together, and, of course, this is john landis.”

“it’s lovely to finally meet you,” you smile shyly, “thank you very much for this opportunity.”

john gives a tight-lipped smile, but doesn’t say a word. you glance at michael who beams a grin worth the entirety of the sun and he takes your hand to show you around.

—

“this is just a test,” john reminds you carefully as rick sprays aqua net over your hair. stood in front of the brick wall, you try to blink the hot lights from your view.

of course. you knew that. but something about the way he said it felt weird in your body.

you give a look of understanding and a small nod that john could catch from the monitor. of course. just a test.

you were fabulous on screen. you took every point of direction from john with grace and an undeniably natural way about you that felt so refreshing and new. when michael joined you, there was no mistake how great you paired together on screen. michael was at ease, improvising and enjoying himself immensely. it was rare john had to make any adjustment at all.

behind the camera, george and john watch you two move through the watered down zombie portion.

“what’d he say she’s been in?” george asks in a low voice.

“not much…a few guest roles, mostly magazine shoots,” john says.

george pauses, now looking over at john who was notably invested in the monitor’s gaze.

“he’s gonna fight this until the end,” george huffs and lights a cigarette.

“yeah,” john shrugs, “he’s young.”

but he couldn’t deny how michael’s eyes lit up when he looked at you. the way he wrapped his arms around you, the way he got you to smile. he shone. held so much virility and love inside. just what the video needed.

he ran his fingers along his beard.

“alright! that’s good, michael! take five!”

—

the second the premiere finally aired on mtv, your phone rang off the hook like a bat out of hell.

your agent, your friends, your family. all of them sat on their couches, bunched up with celebration and popcorn, their hands flying to the phone once vincent’s wicked laugh erupted over michael’s haunting citrine eyes.

“i’m here in the office right now!” your agent laughs, “i can’t believe it! you won’t believe who’s calling for you. can you make it in tomorrow?”

“yeah,” you do your best to curb your smile, “yeah, i can be there first thing.”

“you’d better! the world wants you! congratulations.”

“baby! it’s playin’ again!” michael hollers from the couch. “come on! you’re gonna miss it!”

“oh—hey, i’ve gotta go! i’ll see you tomorrow! thank you, thank you, thank you!”

as you make it back to the couch, the roar of crickets and frogs fill your ears, the car rolls down the darkened street, you get that same starry feeling you did when you really filmed it all over again.

“did you talk to john?” you ask sweetly as the car fizzles out of gas. wrapped in michael’s arms, you steal a few pieces of popcorn from his open palm.

“yeah,” he smirks at the scene. “he says it’s great.”

“and what’d you say?” your gaze moves up to his face, smiling big.

“i said, 'i told you so.'”

AAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAHHAHUHUHUHUHHHHhhhhhh

—

@writtenbychris

[faceofpoe]

alright @kaphkas validated my thought here so fuck it let's do this.

Because this season did not "waste" time on this. This season that shoehorned Luthen & Kleya plots into Mon's wedding and political parties plots did not spend (3? 4?) scenes on Wilmon and Saw for no reason whatsoever.

thought being: "Luthen sent Wilmon to Saw to fuck him up a little more because Cassian wasn't fucked up enough."

We have Wilmon already set up as this echo of Cassian's experiences, Empire killed their fathers, attacked the garrison (to wildly different effect, granted). We have Cassian who slipped through all of the hunters for Bix and got his people safely away before coming to Luthen with the "Kill me or take me in" offer.

Now. Luthen did not know at this time what Cassian had done, with Bix & Brasso, etc. But I feel very good in saying he saw Kleya in this moment based on episode 10 and the "move" scene and the music repeating across those two moments. We the audience do not know what "take me in" means to Luthen until s2e10 and we get snapshots of this build to what he and Kleya will become and how she has to accept everything she's leaving behind in order to embrace The Cause. "Life shows you what you stand to lose."

Cassian was never able to do this. He's maybe got it balanced enough to not be a problem for Luthen when we kick off season 2 - but he picks family over the job when he takes the stolen TIE to Mina-Rau.

So then after Mina-Rau and Brasso's death, Luthen finds himself with another angry young man who he has personally witnessed eager for violent revenge. And where do we meet Wilmon? He's nervous, on short-term loan to Saw, and proceeds to have the shit scared out of him before this wild-ass speech/initiation moment kind of whatever the fuck. I'm still not sure what to make of the "who taught you this?" thing (skeptical this is ferrix scrapyard knowhow) but Wilmon is *clearly* off doing his own things per his skillset for Luthen and has been isolated from Bix and Cassian.

And he returns to Luthen and Luthen *puts him on Ghorman* which is the job that presumably cost him Vel and starts the unraveling that will cost him Cassian. He's effectively cut Wilmon off from his people, he's got him willing to go stoke this fire for The Cause.

But then WHAT HAPPENS? Wilmon goes to get Cassian because I guess he's The Guy when it comes to assassinations for The Cause and the whole massacre unfolds and Wilmon does -

Exactly what Cassian did on Rix Road. Refuses to leave his person behind, wades back into danger, risk his life and puts Dreena first.

And at the end of 9 when Cassian asks what Luthen wants about Mon, all Kleya says is "He wants Wilmon with a doctor." Which is kind of nice, as priorities go, but examining from the full context of his relationship with Kleya, his fracture with Cassian -

Wilmon's run out his usefulness to him, hasn't he? He had him, for a while, but he couldn't stamp out the love, which we already knew in the closeness he still obviously shares with Bix and Cassian even with the distance and the secrecy where they kind of butt heads at the start of 7.

There are of course other factors here where we meet them in arc 4. Wilmon's recovery is obviously complicated, combat is probably not ideal moving forward. Did Wilmon *try* to go back, with or without Dreena? I wouldn't rule it out - at some point, he had to get that radio in any case.

But no one can be another Kleya. They're too mutually consumed and entangled and twisted for that. Their whole love-hate-revenge spiral really just can never absorb anyone else, can it? Everyone else eventually lets them down.

But Wilmon... he's the only one who I think just genuinely at the end of the show loved Luthen. There's a reason he gets the emotional "I have bad news" moment with Cassian *separate* from the "Does it matter what he did to us along the way?" scene with Vel.

And maybe the difference is that after everything with Cassian, Luthen was just kind enough to concede defeat and let him go, rather than run him down to the breaking point.

So Wilmon’s entire experience with Saw from being press ganged into working for him to getting radicalized by a speech to embrace the extremism of being a rebel and huff rhydonium gas to seal the deal was never referenced again like it was just a weird summer job he doesn’t talk about.

[butlervibesonly]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐝 | PART ONE | Hank Thompson | Austin Butler

Summary: You found yourself in absolutely shitty position. Dumped, broke and... homeless? You decide to waste that last cents on wine to maybe drown in it. Until Hank notices you. And he doesn't hesitate but help you.

Pairing: Hank Thompson x female reader

Warnings: cursing, alcohol, toxic ex relationship, mentions of ex boyfriend

Proofreader: my darling @eternal-love 💗💗

Note: HEY GUYS! First, I am incredibly sorry for being so inactive, I had to get offline for some personal reasons. Okay and now - let's say I know that the movie didn't come out yet and we don't know how Hank might be like, and this story is totally out for the canon! I just wanted to write this so badly after getting the idea, so it's bit made up! Enjoy!

How in the world could you end up like this? In the bar, sipping the wine, big bag full of your clothes beside you while thinking about everything that happened. You just got dumped today. Kicked out of the apartment you lived in with your, now, ex boyfriend Mark.

When you first met Mark, he was… different. Or at least you thought he was. He had that easy smile, always knew the right thing to say, made you feel like you were the only girl in the world. That’s probably what makes it hurt more — he knew how to be good. He just chose not to be.

The first few months were great, not going to lie. He’d bring you coffee without asking, remember the tiniest details about your day, hold your hand like he meant it. But then, somewhere along the way, everything changed. Or maybe he just stopped pretending.

You two started fighting. A lot. Over stupid things, big things, everything. He’d snap at you, talk down to you, twist your words until you couldn’t even remember what you were arguing about in the first place. You always felt like you were walking on eggshells — trying to keep the peace, trying not to set him off. He made you feel small. Like you were always the problem.

And still, you stayed. For a year. You kept hoping the version of him you fell for would come back. Spoiler: he didn’t. He got colder, meaner, and you got tired. And then you found out he was cheating. With Sandra. Of course. She was his assistant in his office.

So yeah, Mark wasn’t the guy you thought he was. He was the storm you kept hoping would clear, but all he ever did was leave you soaking and broken.

You sit there, swirling the last half-glass of wine like it holds the answers to your life. Of course the fuck it doesn’t. It just tastes like regret and too many nights wasted on someone who didn’t deserve you. The bar’s mostly empty, low lights humming softly, a few regulars hunched over their drinks like they’re trying to disappear.

You’re sort of trying to disappear too. Or at least not think about the fact that you’ve got nowhere to go tonight. No plan. No backup. Just a phone full of ignored texts from people you don’t want to explain things to and a heart that feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry.

That’s when you feel someone watching you — not in a creepy way, but like they see something you’re not even sure you’re showing. You glance up and meet eyes with the bartender. Big guy, with shoulders that say he used to be someone important and eyes that say he’s seen more than he wants to. Hank, as you hear his colleague calling out his name. You’ve heard other people say it, too, something about him used to be on TV, maybe baseball or something?

Before Hank can even answer his colleagues question, he walks from behind the bar, approaching you. “You good?” he asks, voice rough like gravel but not unkind. You open your mouth to lie, but it gets stuck in your throat. So you just shrug.

“You look like you’ve been through some shit. You hungry?”

“I didn’t order food.”

“I didn’t say it’d cost you.”

You stare at him a second. Something about his voice, the no-bullshit tone, makes you soften just a little. You nod. “Yeah. I guess I could eat.” He gives a half-smile, more with his eyes than his mouth, and disappears into the back. You exhale, like maybe just for a second, the world isn't closing in on you.

He comes back ten minutes later with a plate that smells like real food, grilled cheese, thick fries, the kind of thing that feels like a hug when you haven’t had one in a while. He sets it down in front of you without a word and sits beside you.

You stare at the plate for a second before picking up a fry. It’s hot. Salty. Perfect. You didn’t realize how hungry you were until now. “Looks like you haven’t eaten all day,” Hank says, looking at you while taking a sip from his Corona bottle. His tone’s easy, like he’s not pushing.

You swallow and nod, unsure if you’re supposed to say more. You don't owe this man your life story. But something about the way he’s sitting there makes it feel like maybe it’s okay if you say just a little. Especially after he noticed that you’re definitely not okay.

“Got dumped,” you mutter. “Well… cheated on. Then dumped.” Hank nods slowly. Doesn’t flinch. “That’ll do it.” You sigh, nodding, knowing how naive it sounds. “Yeah, and now I’ve got nowhere to sleep. So… that’s fun.”

He looks at you. Really looks. His eyes aren’t pitying, just steady. “That guy throw you out?”

“Basically, yes.” you confirm. “We got into a fight and then he couldn’t stand me. Neither could I.” Hank leans against the seat, crossing his arms. “You got any friends you can call? Family?” You shake your head, taking another fry. “Not tonight. Not like this.”

Hank doesn’t answer right away. Just lets the silence settle between you like dust. Then, quietly, he says, “Look, it’s getting late. The bar is closing soon. My apartment’s just down the street. You can crash on the couch tonight, then we can figure everything else out in the morning, okay?”

Your eyes widen by the fact that gut you just met offers you this. “Oh, that’s really nice, but I don’t want to bother or anything.” you sigh, feeling guilt spreading in your mind. He’s a bit surprised by your reaction. Most people he knows would jump at the opportunity to save money.

“Not a bother. It beats some crappy hotel room — I’d be doing you a favor, believe me.” His eyes meet yours, trying to gauge what you’re thinking. He’s not typically the charitable type, but there’s something about your situation that’s sparked something in him.

You think about it… He seems to be nice and kind. But you barely know him, tho. But thinking about crappy hotel room and loss of money… “You would do that for me…?”

“No strings,” he adds. “Just don’t like the idea of you sleeping outside when I’ve got an empty couch and leftover blankets.” Your throat tightens a little, and for a second you forget how to breathe. You nod, barely. “Thanks,” you say.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Hank mutters, turning back to the register. He smiles, glad that you accepted his offer. He pays for you, for the food and for the wine you had. “Thank you,” you said again. “No problem. But consider it an IOU. You owe me lunch tomorrow.”

He says it almost playfully, but there’s an underlying seriousness. He’s not the kind of guy who normally offers up his couch to a total stranger, but there’s something about you that has him feeling chivalrous.

The bar smells like old beer and lemon cleaner when the lights finally go out. You help him stack a couple chairs, more out of instinct than energy, your body already aching from everything it’s carried today. He tosses you a jacket, his, probably, too big, but warm, and gestures toward the back exit.

“I live just up the block,” he says. “We’ll cut through the alley.” You nod, your breath puffing little clouds in the cold night air. The streets are quiet. Just the hum of a vending machine, a flickering streetlamp, the distant sound of some guy yelling at a cab that’s already gone. The world is still moving, somehow, even when yours has slowed to a crawl.

His apartment is up two flights of creaky stairs over a convenience store. The hallway smells like old wood and old halls, the walls scraped and half broken. He unlocks the door and steps aside, like he’s afraid his apartment will spook you.

“Definitely not like Plaza, but it’s clean. Better than some crappy motel.” he says, flipping on a light. He’s right. It’s small. Lived-in. A couch with one too many pillows, a bookshelf crammed with old paperbacks and dusty baseball trophies. A plant near the window that’s somehow still alive.

The furniture doesn’t match, definitely evidence of being thrifted. You don’t know what you expected. Something messier, maybe. Something sadder. But this feels… fine enough.

He points to the couch. “You can crash there. Bathroom’s down the hall. If you’re hungry later, there’s stuff in the fridge. Beer, leftover lasagna, possibly a yogurt, but I don’t promise it’s not expired or something.” You chuckle and then smile — really smile — for the first time in days. “Thanks, Hank.” He just shrugs, walks toward the kitchen. “You want tea? Or whiskey? Or both?”

“Whiskey,” you say, without missing a beat. He chuckles, pulls two glasses off the shelf, and hands you one. You sip. It burns, but in the right way. For a while, you both stay in a quiet that feels like permission. No pressure to talk. Just two people, tired in different ways, sharing a small space in the middle of the mess.

You lean back on the couch, let your eyes close for a second. “So you don’t have family or friends around?” Opening your eyes again, you look at him. You shake your head. “No… My family is from Massachusetts, Boston specifically. I came here to New York to chase my dreams but… damn I got into this situation.”

Hank leans forward, sitting in armchair by the couch. He looks interested and gives you free speech. “I got together with Mark, my ex boyfriend, the one who dumped me today. He was everything I ever wanted, what I needed. My big dream was and is to open a flower shop, and I worked so hard to earn money for buying a building where I could make this all happen… And now? He took my money and kicked me out. Just because he got mad at me that I found out he was cheating on me.”

Hank’s eyes widen. You stare straight ahead, at some fixed point on the wall. You don’t want to see Hank’s face right now. You’re scared of what might be there, judgment, pity, or worse, disbelief. But all you hear is the soft thunk of his glass landing on the coffee table.

“Jesus,” he mutters. Not loud. Not shocked. Just tired, like someone who’s seen this kind of cruelty before and never got used to it. “He stole from you?” You nod. “Every cent I’d saved. Said it was ‘ours,’ and that I was crazy for wanting it back. Then he said if I pushed it, he’d make sure I never saw a dollar of it again.”

You wait for him to react. You expect questions, anger, maybe some righteous indignation on your behalf. But what you get is something quieter.“People like that don’t build anything,” Hank says. “They just take. And take. Until there’s nothing left.”

You finally look at him. His face is calm, but there's a steel edge in his voice now. “You worked for that dream,” he adds. “That money, that shop? That wasn’t him. That was you. Don’t let his theft make you forget that.”

You exhale, shakier than you mean to. “I don’t know how to start over, Hank. I feel like I’m back at zero.” He leans back, studies you. “Then zero’s where we start.” You blink. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he begins slowly, “if you still want that flower shop, we’ll figure it out. I’ll help you. Loan, investment, whatever you want to call it.”

You shake your head immediately. He is a stranger who you just met and started to trust him with letting you sleep in his apartment. “Hank, no, I can’t let you—”

“Sure you can. You’re just scared. Doesn’t mean you’re not allowed.”

You go quiet. The idea feels too big, too unreal. But somehow, sitting on this worn-out couch in a stranger’s apartment with whiskey in your hand and last night’s mascara under your eyes… it feels so… odd.

“Hank, no. You can’t just throw money at me. I’m not some charity case. I didn’t tell you that story so you’d feel bad. I just needed to say it out loud.” you reply, feeling guilt in your heart. Hanks shakes his head, setting the whiskey glass in the table again. “I know you’re not charity case. I’m not telling ya you are. But you have dream. And you worked for it and are left with nothing to make it happen.”

You feel blood boiling in your cheeks and you know he’s right. “What if I take it and fail? Then what? I’ll owe you and have nothing to show for it.” you say, voice shaky. You can’t take his money. You can’t just borrow money from someone you met just tonight. “Why are you even doing this? You barely know me.”

“You’re right—I don’t know you. But I know what it’s like to lose everything you worked for. And I know what it’s like when no one helps.” Hanks says and makes you feel… soft all of sudden. He really looks like he wants to help you. To make your dream happen… Should you take it? Should you just trust some man who decided to take you to his apartment just to survive a night?

You take a deep breath, thinking about his words all over again and again. Then you straighten your position. “Okay. But if I say yes, you have to let me pay you back. Every cent.” Hank’s face lightens up in the way you haven’t seen yet. He looks almost happy that you agreed.

“Then it’s a deal.” he smiles, leaning back in the armchair. You look at him for a while, seeing the seriousness in his gaze. Then, you look back at the glass of whiskey, only last drops left. You lean your head back, the burning liquid falling down tour throat. Maybe things aren’t that bad as you thought.

“Mind if I take a shower here?” you ask, feeling like the grossest person on earth. Hank nods and go somewhere before coming back. The moment, Hank points down the hall and says, “Bathroom’s on the right,” you nod and make your way there. You’re already halfway there, clutching a borrowed towel and a baggy old t-shirt he handed you without a word.

You don’t look back, because your throat feels tight again, over something as simple as clean clothes and hot water. Something you shouldn’t have had to earn with pain. The shower creaks when you turn the knob, and it takes a second for the water to warm. But when it does, it’s heaven. For the first time today, the tension in your shoulders loosens. You lean into the tile wall, eyes closed, letting the water run over you like it’s washing the day off. Like it might erase Mark’s voice, his lies, his hands. Like maybe it can soak into your bones and remind you that you're still yours. You stay under longer than you mean to.

Out in the living room, Hank’s still on the couch, staring at the TV without really watching. Some old baseball game plays on mute, one of the ones from his heyday, maybe, though he doesn’t tell anyone which years were his. Not anymore. He hears the water shut off and glances toward the hallway.

He barely knows you. And yet, something about you pulls at him in a way he can’t name. Maybe it’s the passion in your voice when you talk about that flower shop. Maybe it’s the way he found you sitting in the bar, looking like you didn’t want to be seen needing help, but you still accepted it. That kind of vulnerability doesn’t come easy.

Hank’s been around people long enough to know the difference between a mess and a survivor. You’re not some wounded thing waiting to be rescued. You’re fire under ashes. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, offering you help, space, money. It’s not like him. But it doesn’t feel like a mistake either.

The bathroom door opens, steam curling into the hallway, and you step out, hair wet in messy bun, face clean, dressed in the oversized shirt that falls nearly to your knees. Hank stares at you, watching the way your hips swing under the baggy t-shirt as you walk. You catch him watching and pause.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. He shrugs and looks away, smirking a little. “Just making sure you didn’t drown.” You laugh quietly, but it’s a real laugh that surprises both of you. You approach the couch, looking at him. “Thanks again,” you say, sitting carefully on the edge of the couch. “For the shower. The couch. All of it.”

He gives a small nod. “Don’t mention it.” You glance around the room. It’s late, and you’re still in a stranger’s home, technically. But weirdly, for the first time in days, maybe weeks… you feel safe. “You ever think about what your life would’ve looked like if one thing had gone different?” you ask quietly.

Hank doesn’t answer right away. He watches the screen a moment longer before saying, “Yeah. Every fucking day.” And the silence that follows isn’t heavy — it’s shared. You sigh deeply, sinking into the couch. Maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe, just maybe, this might be something… new. New beginning.

[toomanythoughts2]

Drag Murderface

I love Dragface! I have envisioned Murderface as being one of those guys that will dress up as a woman in a comical manner like how you see it done on Halloween or for skits. Something to get a laugh. My Dethmoms fic has a small side story of Stella reminiscing on Murderface dressing up as a fancy lady with a group of his friends for Halloween and having a blast. I like to imagine he still does that now, usually to get the guys to laugh, which they do.

HOWEVER!

The thing is that Murderface thinks that everyone experiences the same level of gender euphoria as him when he dresses up or acts like a woman. Even if it’s just heightening his voice or putting a dish towel on his head or giving himself a new name, there’s this little bit inside of him that just loves it. He loves putting on the act, he loves making his friends laugh, he loves getting creative with it, he enjoys being someone else for a little while. The problem is that Murderface doesn’t realize what’s happening to him internally and thinks it’s normal to feel a little sad when the bit is over or when he has to get undressed. Like, he enjoys the performance of it but there’s a part of him that wishes he had other opportunities to dress up other than to get a laugh.

(It’s that feeling of “wanting to do something because you want to do vs. only doing it at the right time for the right reaction of others”. It’s the “doing something because it makes you feel good vs. only doing it because you know it makes others feel good”. It’s the “When does the bit stop becoming a bit?”)

Now, he doesn’t do it in public because he’s got a reputation. But Murderface loses a bet and has to attend this year’s Halloween party as one of his woman personas/skit bits. But it can’t be crappy dishtowels or vacuums on heads (iykyk), there needs to be actual effort and there’s no backing out.

So, he does. Murderface goes all out, gets a nice dress, raids some makeup from a store, gets costume jewelry. He decides that if he has to do something bad, he’ll do it well (“Dethmas” – Christmas Special). And this is where Murderface is ultimately coming up with an actual drag persona but he doesn’t realize that is what he’s doing. To him, he’s just doing prep work for one long bit. Creating his persona is coming easily to him, the name, the attitude, the snark, the reputation of his persona, the talents, the interests, the sense of humor. By the time he goes to the party, he’s fully transformed.

To me, Murderface is Divine! He is Babs Johnson from Pink Flamingo. He is the queen of filth and depravity and disgust and is not afraid to show it, exploit it, and be it. You know of Divine in the “Pink Flamingo” cover art? That’s him to me. Like, that is his persona, Babs Johnson, filthiest person alive. However, his drag persona name may be something related to his Planet Piss project. Like, Miss Piss or something. Idk, I’m not that creative.

Anyway, he goes to the party, paparazzi is there, he’s like, “Well, it’s now or never.” So, he goes out full swing. Bolstering confidence and all but secretly nervous. However, his persona gives him the confidence to keep going. The guys are eating it up, but they do admit that he’s doing a good job of the act. And the paparazzi are eating it up too. But they’re asking really inappropriate questions and getting touchy and making odd assumptions about him. Then finally he explodes and tells them that she isn’t taking any more questions or hands, that if they don’t start respecting her, she’ll have them all killed and then do horrific things to them afterwards. She ends it with telling them to ||kill themselves||. But he never breaks character. The rest of the night goes fantastic. The party is in full swing, Murderface is going around talking and messing with people and everyone seems to be enjoying it, listening to her every word. He spends the whole night as Miss Piss and loving every second of it. He feels like himself or herself. It’s easy to let this persona work for him, answering questions, making jokes, connecting with people. At one point, he’s even drunk singing but he doesn’t care because right now, it’s not Murderface singing, it’s Miss Piss singing. He feels a type of confidence that he almost never feels as just Murderface in Dethklok. This is something completely different from that, something that is his.

And for a single night, Murderface isn’t Dethkloks bass player, she’s Miss Piss, filthiest woman alive. She doesn’t have childhood trauma like him, she doesn’t take crap from others, she’s confident, she’s bold, she’s beautiful, she’s popular, she’s everything he’s ever wanted to be. It’s a type of Cinderella moment where Murderface can enjoy himself for just one night as someone else, then go home.

That night when he does go home, he takes off his drag but it sent him spiraling because the gender euphoria that he had from it was leaving so rapidly that it sent him careening. It was an oppressive force of realization that he had too much fun doing something that “isn’t right for a man”. Then comes in the shame and deep sadness that he did enjoy it more than he believes he should have and being afraid of facing the truth of what that means for him. So, in a drunken ramble, he gets most of his things off, either ripped or torn off in a hurry, and throws them away before falling into bed. The next morning, sober, he thinks that what happened was fake or not as what he remembered, but when he finds the heel he was wearing the night before he realizes, “Oh shit, that actually happened.” And then, “I don’t want to think about this right now.”

Online, folks are eating up the scraps from the paparazzi and any leaked footage from inside the party of Miss Piss. They LOVE her. She becomes an instant hot topic all over social media and their forums. They can’t stop quoting her. They’re going through discourse about if Miss Piss is legitimate drag or not. Other are trying to replicate Miss Piss’s outfit. Some are saying she’s iconic, some say she’s stale. No matter what the range is, they are talking about Miss Piss.

Charles and Knubbler realize that this may be a really good chance to actually release some stuff for Planet Piss. Knubbler tells Murderface that this is what Planet Piss needed, a persona, just like David Bowie with Ziggy Stardust. Knubbler wants to use Miss Piss to garner potential listeners and buyers and use her as a type of “Muse” for the album. All of this makes Murderface super defensive, especially with what happened the night before when he took everything off. But he can’t refuse that his popularity has gone up since her appearance and it wouldn’t hurt to use it to get people to buy his album. Even the guys encourage him to do it because since her appearance last night, their own engagement online and in sales have gone up.

So, he agrees to use her as a persona for the album, which means that she would and could appear throughout the duration of the album’s creation whether it be recording, using her personality and background for songs, to meet with fans, for any kind of art work. And through this, every time that Murderface gets in drag, he feels good, like this is something he wants to do. He finds a way to stay in drag longer, not wanting it to end. But every time he gets out of it; he spirals because he feels internalized guilt and shame for enjoying it in a way that he feels like he shouldn’t. Like the bit has gone on for too long, that the horse is dead but it keeps spitting out money. Like he shouldn’t be feeling so good for so long doing something that is “just a joke” or “just for appearances/money”.

Murderface begins to spend more time alone. He can’t help but experiment with Miss Piss, work on her background and character. Work on her outfits and hair styles, trying on new make up and putting together appearance outfits. There is a longing there for wanting to do this without the stipulation of Planet Piss, of wanting to do this with the only reason being that it makes him feel good.

If we add in a pinch of Dickface, I would say that Dick is already in love with Murderface from the get-go. He had already fallen head over heels for him but to be able to see him as her, to see the confidence and happiness radiate off of him is like standing in direct sunlight. He sees the person that Murderface is and wants to become all while yearning to be the person he trusts enough to come to with his worries. He wants to be able to confide in Murderface that he loves him for all of him. It doesn’t help that Dick is a string bean and he has a thing for heavier, hot-headed people.

Well, everything finally comes ahead when Murderface refuses to make an appearance as Miss Piss as the constant going back and forth and his unsolved emotional turmoil finally make him breakdown. Dick is trying to console him but Murderface is having none of it. He has a lot of internal shame he hasn’t gone through. Then there would be a moment where after their fight, Murderface comes clean and explains how being Miss Piss makes him feel, like how Dr. Twinkletits helped him do during their Rock Talks. It’s obviously very choppy and filled with self-degradation and he doesn’t know how or what to call his feelings but Dick understands enough to console him.

It gets wishy washy from here but basically, Murderface learns that not everyone feels what he feels when he puts on drag, that it’s not a bad thing to enjoy it the way he does, that he is allowed to do drag because he wants to/makes him feel good, and it may be one of his many strengths that they were just now understanding. It can divide from here into Trans!Murderface or GenderFluid!Murderface. It doesn’t just have to be drag, OR it could be a combo of both Trans/Fluid and Drag. Basically, the end is that Murderface fully embraces his drag/gender identity and goes on to finally record and release Planet Piss as his persona on the album.

[megumi-fm]

.

[cubot]

It's already 10 PM. I think I'll stop chores after doing them for about five or six hours. My sink (mostly) and oven look nice and the area around both is clean. Picked up some floor trash and put it in trash bags, so they're still on the floor, but now more things are ready to be taken out. Did not do that final load of laundry. Gonna make mac and cheese (the first cooking outside of the microwave and making a singular salad that I've done in a LONG time, I'm talking MONTHS) and eat it out of the pot and then rinse that pot and put it right back in my bathtub that apparently doesn't have a good seal because it's slowly been draining itself.

Why not put it in the sink now that the sink is (mostly) clean? Because it's just going to make the problem happen again. :)

[thateclecticbitch]

Request to move into basement failed. Sad.

[rafeysbunny]

‧₊˚ ⋅ i'll show you, rafe cameron

stepbro!rafe x fem!reader

masterlist

synopsis. in which your stepbrother kindly offers to show you porn for the first time.

warnings. stepbro!rafe, innocent!reader (but she's not an airhead), virgin!reader, smut, fingering, rafe putting in just the tip, oral sex (fem receiving), rafe licks his own creampie.

word count. 4k.

author's note. idea by @matts1andonly. english isn't my first language so there might be spelling mistakes, don't hold it against me. enjoy!

it's past midnight when you finally slide out of your bedroom without making a sound. you have been waiting patiently for your mom and ward to go to bed so you can do this without risking getting caught. wheezie is already asleep too, sarah is out with john b somewhere, and rafe left the house earlier, not telling anyone where to, so you know he's going to arrive late, as always.

it's the perfect moment.

rafe's room is down the hallway, so you make your way there quietly not to wake anyone, your barefoot feet making soft footstep sounds when you walk. once there, you open the door as carefully as you possibly can, knowing it creaks every time it gets open. this time, thanks to god, it does not.

you manage to sneak into the dormitory unnoticed, then shut the door behind you. the place is dark, only a faint glimmer of moonlight coming in through his curtains, but you want to lay low, so you don't turn on the lights. by all means, the dim lighting is enough for you to spot what you're looking for.

rafe's mac, laying there on his desk.

what's the point behind all of this? you might be wondering. well, let me answer you real quick. turns out, this handsome, muscled college guy has invited you on a date. problem is, you have never been on a date. you haven't even hold hands with a guy romantically before, much less kissed or fucked one. you simply refuse to come off as a prude, which honestly you are, but that dream of a man doesn't need to know that.

and that's why you have decided that it is a good idea to break into your stepbrother's bedroom and borrow his laptop, since yours broke last week, to watch porn in it for the first time.

well, now that you hear it out loud, it probably sounded better in your head. anyways...

you stroll towards the desk with languid steps and sit down on rafe's chair, small hands reaching hesitantly to open the laptop. you turn it on and the screen light illuminates your pretty face right away. you swear your fingers are shaking a little bit as you open up the browser and type 'porn videos' on the search bar.

somehow, you feel like you are doing something wrong, and you can't seem to shake the guilt away. either way, you don't back out. you click the enter button and, after just a few seconds, a million search results pop up. honestly, you don't know where to start, so you click on the first one, which redirects you to a website called pornhub.

the home page is full of videos, the first thing to catch your attention being the obscene thumbnails of each one of them. your cheeks flush a deep shade of red. you read some of the titles as you bite your lip nervously, realising most of them contain the word 'stepsister' in them, and you wonder if that is the only content posted on this page.

how innocent of you not to know that the website is making recommendations based on your stepbro's most searched tag.

before things escalate further, you spot rafe's airpods max sitting there on the desk and decide to grab them, connecting them to the laptop and putting them on —this way you can make sure no one overhears anything. after that, you spend a few more minutes scrolling through the page, during which you discover that there's a ton of categories to choose from.

how are you supposed to know which one to pick?

you are so invested in your little research, headphones canceling the noise, that you don't hear neither rafe opening the front door nor him walking up the stairs and, surely, don't notice him standing behind you until he speaks. and it's too late by then.

"the fuck are you doing, sweetheart?" he blurts, complete and utterly shocked to see his naive stepsister fuckin' watching pornhub.

well shit, maybe you aren't as innocent as he thought you were.

you jolt instantly, jumping out of your seat as you feel all the colour draining from your cheeks. no way rafe just caught you in the act. this can't be real. despite how bad you want to run away, you are left with no other choice but to turn around and face him, wishing the earth would swallow you up.

"i– this is not what it looks like, i swear i can explain," you stutter nervously, taking of the airpods with trembling hands. from here on, the anxious rambling begins, "i wasn't doing anything... this guy– well, i... i uhm– i got a date, 'kay? with this guy from class and– listen, i know this is silly, but..."

"jesus christ, baby, slow down, 'kay?" he stops you, his heart nearly melting from how cute you look, so shy and flustered. he almost feels bad for interrupting whatever the hell you were doing here.

the colour has returned to your cheeks, and you are all flushed now, from head to toe. your face feels like it's on fire; you have never been this embarrassed before.

"could you please start over?" he asks, hoping to hear a coherent explanation to why you are in his room, in the middle of the night, and watching porn on his laptop.

you take a deep breath, fidgeting with the hem of your top. you are so deeply ashamed that you don't seem to remember that you are wearing nothing but a flimsy white singlet and a tiny pair of matching panties. rafe's very aware of that fact, though, hungry eyes trailing all over your beautiful body.

"i've got a date with a guy from class," you start explaining, white teeth nibling occasionally on your plump bottom lip, "but i've never dated anyone, ya' know? i've no experience, and i don't want him to think i'm pathetic if we..."

"fuck?" he finishes your sentence, a roguish grin spreading across his handsome face.

if possible, your blush deepens even more at the vulgarity while you mutter a quiet 'yeah' in response.

honestly, he is a bit jealous of that guy. not only you are willing to let him fuck you, but you are also trying to learn how to do it properly so he has a good time doing it. yeez, what a shame for him he is going to kill him as soon as he finds out who he is; there's no chance rafe's letting you near any other man but him.

"i thought, uhm, maybe watching that would help..." you add coyly, his silence making you more nervous.

it is cute how you try to avoid saying words like 'fuck' or 'porn', like it is a crime to pronounce them or something.

"you know what? let's watch it together," he proposes.

there's a mischievous glint in his eyes that doesn't go unnoticed. you swear your cheeks might just explode at any second, and you can't help the pathetic stutter that comes out when you talk. "uhm, i don't think that'd be appropriate," you refuse, shaking your head.

"why not? you want help, and i can help you here, sweetheart," he answers, his voice surprisingly soft and gentle —unlike rafe, "that's what big brothers are for, aren't they?"

he takes a few steps in his direction until he is standing right beside you. then, he grabs the laptop in his large hands as he flashes you a wicked smirk, his curtain bangs falling messily on his forehead. you gulp, having him so close makes you feel a certain way; you cannot deny that.

"you, uhm, being my stepbrother is exactly why not," you stammer as you tilt your head back to look at him, his height towering over you.

"bullshit," he retorts, huffing. "you trust me?"

your first mistake is, probably, trusting rafe cameron. "yeah, i do, but..."

"that's why 'm perfect for the job, baby," he interrupts you. his words are clearly intended to manipulate you, but you are way too innocent to notice it, "i'm probably the guy you feel most comfortable with, aren't i? i can give ya' all the advice you need."

to be fair, he isn't wrong about that. you don't have any male friends, and you are honestly too embarrassed to ask your girlfriends for help on this department, not wanting them to think less of you. plus, rafe is a guy; he knows better what guys like, right?

"wouldn't it be kinda... weird ?" you ask, clearly hesistant.

"weird?" he repeats. "no, 'course not."

only a few more sweet, reassuring words is all it takes for him to gently coax you into watching his favourite pornos with him. his cock starts to harden in his pants just at the thought of having you like that. when you finally accept, he swears he's on cloud nine.

god, he's been wanting you for months now; he can't believe this is happening.

"c'mere, baby," he eagerly instructs you, getting on his bed.

he sits with his back resting on the headboard and pats the spot between his legs to invite you to sit there. he places the laptop next to him, the pornhub website still open on it. you move slowly towards him, cheeks slightly flushed from the embarrassment as you settle on the mattress in between his parted thighs, your back pressed to his hard chest.

he wraps one strong arm securely around your waist, his hand coming to rest gently on your tummy. with his other hand, he reaches for the laptop sitting beside him, carefully bringing it closer so the two of you can see the screen properly.

your heart is beating so fast in your chest that he can probably hear it, too. the way he is touching you is not making it easier for you to stay calm, either, his fingers tenderly tracing patterns on your belly over the thin fabric of your shirt while he scrolls through the page.

he seems to sense your discomfort and chuckles low in his throat, his warm breath tickling your ear. "relax, sis," he whispers teasingly, his voice laced with amusement. "i'm not gonna make you watch anything that'll traumatize you."

"it's just– this is a bad idea," you babble, fidgeting nervously when he finally clicks on a video and a pretty young woman appears on screen.

the actress is beautiful; she has a gorgeous body and face. her lips are full and pink, and she has these big, expressive eyes that appear to gleam. and you don't realize it, but she looks exactly like you.

the scene starts playing; in it, the girl is watching some movie with a guy that, apparently, is her roommate —at least that's what the title says.

"shhh..." he hushes you softly, his voice barely audible over the sounds emanating from his laptop's speakers. "just watch. don't overthink it."

"okay," you answer between gritted teeth.

your pretty eyes are fixed on the laptop while you try not to cringe at how bad the script and acting are, which is nearly impossible, to be honest. despite that, you keep watching in silence as the video plays, growing more flustered as the clock ticks.

you didn't know mouths could be used for that... interesting.

as opposed to you, rafe's pretty chill behind you, like he's unbothered by this whole situation —he's actually hard as fuck inside his pants, the thing is you haven't noticed. you wonder how he can act so unfazed, since you keep pushing your thighs together to try and soothe the throbbing sensation building in between them while you take in the lewd actions occurring on screen.

you weren't expecting your body to have this reaction, and now you don't know what to do to make it stop.

rafe soon becomes aware of the way you keep letting out soft sighs and squirming in his arms, plush ass rubbing against his cock every time you do it. it's a miracle he is still holding back, though he doesn't know how much time he will be able to.

he's not even paying attention to the video anymore, his entire focus put on you. he finally ventures to lean in, his hot breath grazing the shell of your ear as he whispers, "you know, i could do that to you..." his hand slowly slides to your plush thigh and he gives it a gentle squeeze.

his movements are measured and controlled not to scare you, but your breath hitches in your chest at his actions either way, body tensing up in his grasp. your brain is telling you to push him away, but the insistent throb in your sex doesn't like that idea, not one bit.

"you– you could?" you utter quietly, not taking your eyes away from the laptop.

rafe notices the uncertainty in your voice, but the way you haven't pushed him away yet emboldens him to continue, his large hand gradually sliding north.

"yeah, baby," he murmurs huskily against your ear, fingertips brushing along your inner thigh. "i could put my fingers inside you, just like he's doing to her..."

his words make you blush heavily as a little gasp is released from your pouty lips. "would it feel good?" you ask naively.

your eyes are transfixed in the sight of the guy on the screen pushing his fingers inside the girl's pussy. god, she seems like she's enjoying it so much... and you desperately want to feel like that too. you can't even bring yourself to care that it's your stepbrother offering to show you.

rafe's fingers creep higher and higher until they're barely brushing against your cotton panties. "yeah," he growls huskily against your ear, "it'd feel real good, sweetheart. i promise..."

you shudder, a sweet little mewl escaping your throat involuntarily. you can't help but blush at your own reaction, slightly embarrassed by it. you tear your eyes away from the screen, head falling back against his chest as you look up at him.

"it's throbbing, rafe..." you whine, self-control slipping from your hands. "can you make it better?"

rafe's fingers finally make contact with your wet underwear, pressing against your clit through the fabric. he rubs gentle circles around your sensitive nub, his other hand curling around your supple thigh to spread your legs wider.

"oh, baby, you're soaked through your panties..." he pants out.

your body literally melts into his touch like butter, perfectly shaped brows knitting together in a frown of pleasure. the girl in the video moans, and you do too, both sounds echoing in the silence of his room.

taking your moan as an invitation, rafe carefully hooks his fingers in the gusset of your panties to push them aside, exposing your sopping cunt to the cool air of his bedroom. then, he traces your wet slit slowly, leisurely, as if savoring the velvety feel of your skin.

"such a pretty little pussy..." he praises, eyes hungrily taking in the pink expanse of flesh.

you squirm and let out a soft whimper, biting your lip right after to avoid keep making noises; the last thing you want is to wake up your parents or wheezie. rafe notices your struggle and swiftly reaches up to cover your mouth with his free hand, muffling your sweet moans.

he gathers some of the wetness dripping out of your cunt before trailing his fingers all the way up to your clit, rubbing it gently. your eyes roll back, hips bucking up against his hand instinctively. the way your swollen bud throbs beneath his fingertips is going to make you mad. he begins to touch your clit in fast, tight circles, his other hand still holding your mouth shut to keep you quiet.

he leans in to whisper against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine, "if you make a sound, i'll stop, got it?"

you nod obediently in response, making your best effort to comply; you don't want him to stop doing this, never. as a reward, rafe slides a thick finger down your slit and presses it against your clenched entry, steadily applying pressure until your tight muscles finally give in and allow his digit ingress.

"so fuckin' tight," he groans under his breath at the feeling of your narrow pussy engulfing his finger.

withdrawing his finger almost all the way out, he teases your entrance with the tip, making you tremble with anticipation before pushing it back in to the knuckle, his palm cupping your mound as he starts to thrust in a smooth, lazy rhythm. you swallow a whiny cry while your eyelids flutter shut, pretty face scrunched in a blissful expression.

rafe works his finger in and out of your slick pussy slowly, marveling at how your velvety walls flutter around the digit. he curls it inward, searching for that special spot that's guaranteed to drive you wild.

after a few experimental pokes, rafe's fingertip finally brushes over your g-spot, eliciting a muffled moan from under his palm. he smiles wickedly against your skin, and you shudder in his grasp, pleasure waves running through your body.

"that's it, sweetheart... feel good?" he croons softly, fingering you nice and deep.

you can't bring yourself to reply, the sensation of his large digit fucking your pussy, added to the constant rubbing of his palm against your puffy clit has your mind feeling all fuzzy. your body language is the only answer he needs, though.

rafe leans in to tenderly nip at your neck, his hot mouth latching onto your slender throat as he keeps pumping his finger steadily in and out of your dripping cunt. he knows you're close when he feels your inner muscles starting to clench erratically around his digit.

"rafe," you moan onto his palm as you feel this new, strange sensation building in your tummy, pussy tingling so nicely.

heaven help him. hearing you, his stepsister, moan his name like that makes rafe's hard dick throb almost painfully against his zipper.

and then it happens. the coil in your belly suddenly snaps and you have to bite onto your lip harshly to keep yourself from screaming as you cum for the very first time, on your stepbrother's hand. rafe continues to pump his finger in and out of your spasming cunt as you ride out your climax, wanting to prolong your pleasure.

when you finally come down from your high, you're all shaky and flustered in his arms, panting heavily to try and catch your breath. he has a satisfied smirk on his lips while he slowly withdraws his slick digit from your quivering hole to bring it up to his mouth and lick it clean, savoring your taste.

"did so well for me, baby," he coos as he uncovers your mouth, gently turning your head to the side to press a kiss to your swollen, red lips.

you return it sloppily, eyes fluttering shut in the process, and you sigh contently against his mouth. he can't help but rock his hips against your ass, rubbing his hard on against you.

"did i make you feel good?" he asks between little kisses, his breathing growing uneven. you nod in response. "yeah? then it's just fair you make me feel good too, sweetheart... wanna do that f'me?"

"yes," you whisper against his lips without even thinking, feeling him smirk into the kiss.

"such a good girl," he praises.

at some point, the porn video playing on his laptop ended, so he simply closes it up and tosses it away, the device landing somewhere on his king size bed. then, he turns you both around, until you are laying on the mattress and he is on top of you.

he is quick to undo his pants and yank them down, just enough to free his raging hard on, which bounces against his abs. let me tell you this, he's big, the tip pink and fat, already leaking precum.

suddenly, realization hits you. this is your stepbrother for god's sake, are you really gonna let him fuck you?

he notices how your body tenses up, one hand reaching to stroke your plush thigh reassuringly while the other wraps around his shaft, giving it a slow pump.

"hey, baby, relax..." he whispers gently, "i'll put just the tip in, yeah? there's nothing wrong with that."

you hesitate. his strong arms slide beneath your legs to tug you closer. then his cock brushes your pussy and you whimper. how are you supposed to say 'no' ?

it's just the tip.

"mhmm, 'kay" you end up agreeing with a little nod.

rafe flashes you a lopsided smirk, his hand gripping his cock again while the free one yanks your panties aside once more. keeping eye contact, he slowly glides the fat head of his dick up and down your drenched slit, coating it thoroughly in your arousal. you shudder as his tip eventually meets your puffy clit, the gentle rubbing sending shivers down your spine.

"rafe," you whimper.

rafe's eyelids droop, a low hum of pleasure escaping his throat as he continues to slowly drag the reddened head up and down your chubby pussy lips with squelching sounds. his breathing grows heavier the longer he teasingly rolls it against your slick folds, reveling in your breathy whimpers. he feels like he's about to burst already, pre-cum steadily leaking from the tip and onto your flesh.

he can't fucking take this anymore.

with a slow, gentle thrust, he sinks his cock into your warm, slippery pussy, just the head breaching your entrance before he pauses, savoring the initial penetration. his eyes lock onto yours, his pupils blown wide with lust.

"jesus, fuck." he grunts.

your cunt starts fluttering around him. he has barely slided the first two inches in, as he promised, but he's so thick that even that feels like a tight fit. you let out a moan, which mingles with a strained groan from rafe as your velvety walls clench tightly around his swollen cockhead.

"gonna– might just nut already, shit" rafe mutters through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to just drive forward and hilt himself deep. "so goddamn tight."

your hips buck unconsciously against his, making him slip in just a tad further —which nearly makes him lose all his self-control. somehow, he manages to keep his shit together, hips rocking slowly to thrust in and out of you while his veiny hand strokes the rest of his shaft.

you're totally enthralled by the sight, liquid heat pooling in your belly while you watch him use your body for his pleasure. he looks so good, you can't believe he's real. your chest fills with pride at the knowledge that you're making this greek god feel good.

this is the fastest rafe has ever cum, the movement of his hips becoming jerky and sloppy after a few minutes as he spills his sperm inside you. he's panting heavily, sweat beading on his brow while his fist squeezes the base of his cock tightly.

you're left wanting more when he slowly pulls out, pussy stretched out and leaking white spurts of cum. he gazes down at you with a smirk, lightly tapping the head of his dick against your swollen clit, which has you writhing beneath him.

"so fuckin' gorgeous stuffed full of my cum," he whispers, his cock smearing the sticky substance all over your slit. you mewl in response. "hmm, 'm sorry for making such a mess on your pretty pussy, sweetheart, lemme clean it up, yeah?"

you blush in response when he leans forward, throwing your creamy thighs over his broad shoulders, to put his mouth onto your sex. you almost cry at the heavenly feeling, his playful tongue delving between your folds to lap up his own release. he cleans you up thoroughly, only to mess you up again right after, his spit soaking your cunt as he makes you cum again.

after tonight, you are cancelling that date, that's for sure.

[dukeofankh]

If your vision for the deradicalization of right-wing men begins and ends with "other men telling them that that's gross and to stop it" then I'm sorry, you do not understand how masculinity works.

"Men who hold patriarchal status" and "men who are feminists" are two groups who overlap less than you want them to. I'm sorry. That's not solely because men are so happy with patriarchal status that they don't want to risk it by policing misogyny/queerphobia/racism, It's because being misogynistic, queerphobic, and racist, end expressing other forms of toxic masculinity(and often abusively so) are part of how people establish and maintain patriarchal status. The men who have the ability to stop this via nothing but peer pressure are the very people who are doing it. That's by design. And engaging in feminist intervention is, in and of itself, usually the abrupt end of that status and its associated power to persuade misogynistic men.

Like, I have worked in blue collar jobs as a notably queer person. It was pretty much a constant deluge of verbal abuse. In my experience, most blue collar work environments are exploitative, abusive, and bigoted, and very gleefully so. On the occasions I have spoken up about someone saying something that was super fucking out of line (asking me which of the girls walking by was hottest. We were installing a portable classroom at a middle school), believe it or not, they completely failed to be shamed! Because nobody else on the crew gave a fuck. *I* was the weird one. They ghosted me. A full blown company ghosted me. I suddenly didn't have a job anymore because they just straightforwardly stopped telling me where the next job site was.

Like, this doesn't mean that it's your job to do it, but this vision you have of these big groups of men where everyone is on the fence and there is precisely one shit stirrer who can be shut down by a brave feminist man who can single handedly set the example for all these other guys...you are high. You are describing an "everybody clapped" level absurd scenario. Most of these truly virulent misogynistic guys either have zero friends, because, you know, our society is atomized to fuck, or they are in a group where the feminist guy is actually the weirdo who can be shut down and ostracized much, much easier than the misogynists, because there is no such thing as a man misogynists respect who stands up for women.

You might be saying "well, we're talking about longstanding personal relationships, actually. Like, they need to have to want to spend time with you and then, as a side effect, you can mind control them out of being a threat to us."

Problem with that being:

1: Many feminist men also have no friends, see the atomized society above.

2: Feminist men already stopped hanging out with men who make rape jokes because why the fuck would we want to spend time with them.

3: That isn't just because we respect women so hard. We are in many cases talking about men who are also deeply queerphobic, heirarchical, violent and abusive to other men. What initially drew me to feminism and women was a lack of heirarchical squabbling and constant bullying, and the ability to be openly queer. A lot of men who came to feminism did so because they knew that the patriarchy was not a place they would find success or acceptance. These are not the men who are gonna be able to change right wing minds.

4. Men do not view themselves as a monolith. There is no universal brotherhood of men. The actual meaning of the term "Fragile masculinity" is that men are constantly expected to prove that they are deserving of the status of being a member of their own gender. There are large swathes of men--including most of the men who you'd look to as examples of good, feminist men who you want to undertake this project--who are considered failed men, sissies, f****ts, soyboys, ect. They are. Not. Going. To. Convince. These. Men. Of. Jack. Shit. Much less successfully *shame* them. Jesus.

I know all of this sucks. I know it would be cool to be able to just point at a group and have them be responsible for the work. But nah. It's gonna have to be a societal project, one that will probably outlast all of us. Sorry. The thing you want these men to do is, absolutely, the morally correct thing to do. But presuming that it would be effective is, and once again I am so sorry about this, just ignorance of how these social groups function.

[zhelin-thames]

A Ghostly Text Mishap

Danny flopped onto his bed, phone in hand, glaring at the screen. Another long day of dealing with Vlad's manipulative nonsense had left him frustrated beyond belief. He opened his messages, found the contact labeled Trucker, and began furiously typing.

Danny: You will NOT believe what Plasmius did this time. The absolute NERVE of this guy. You’d think being half-dead would make someone LESS petty, but nooo, this man’s ego is bigger than the Ghost Zone.

Danny: He tried to "buy" my parents' company AGAIN. He offered to “help” with ghost containment tech but really just wants to snoop around for weaknesses in the portal.

Danny: AND he had the audacity to call me “Little Badger” like it’s a term of endearment. I swear, if I hear that ONE MORE TIME, I might go full ghost and dropkick him into the Fenton Thermos.

Satisfied with his venting, Danny tossed his phone onto the bed and buried his face in his pillow. Unbeknownst to him, he had made one critical mistake.

Jason Todd, aka Red Hood, was sitting in his safe house, polishing his guns when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

Unknown Number: You will NOT believe what Plasmius did this time…

Jason raised an eyebrow. “What the hell is this?” he muttered, scrolling through the tirade. By the time he got to “Little Badger”, he was smirking.

He typed back:

Jason: Kid, I think you’ve got the wrong number. Unless this “Plasmius” guy is a Gotham villain I’ve somehow missed.

Danny’s phone buzzed, and he rolled over to check it. His heart dropped when he saw the reply.

Danny: Oh no. This isn’t Trucker, is it?

Jason: Nope. But you’ve got my attention. Who’s Plasmius, and why does he sound like the type of guy I’d shoot on principle?

Danny hesitated, then decided to just roll with it.

Danny: Short version: he’s a half-ghost fruitloop billionaire who’s obsessed with ruining my life, becoming my creepy stepdad, and taking over the world. Think Lex Luthor but undead and ickier.

Jason burst out laughing, earning a curious glance from Roy Harper, who had just walked in.

“Who’s got you laughing like that?” Roy asked, setting down a bag of takeout.

“Some kid who texted me by mistake,” Jason replied, showing him the messages.

Roy skimmed them and snickered. “Plasmius? Sounds like a knockoff vampire villain.”

Jason’s fingers flew over the keyboard.

Jason: Okay, kid, you’ve officially got my interest. I don’t know who you are, but if this Plasmius guy’s half as bad as you say, I’ve got some creative ways to deal with him. You in Gotham?

Danny stared at the message, blinking. Who even was this guy? But... he did sound like he knew how to handle problems.

Danny: Uh, no. I’m from Amity Park. It’s kind of a supernatural hotspot, so I’ve got it covered. But thanks for the offer, I guess?

Jason smirked.

Jason: Supernatural hotspot? Kid, you’re talking to someone who’s been resurrected. Ghosts don’t scare me.

Danny froze. Resurrected? Oh no. This guy might actually know about the supernatural.

Danny: ...Wait, who ARE you?

Jason: Name’s Jason. Most people call me Red Hood. Ever heard of me?

Danny blinked, then groaned. “Of course. I text a vigilante. Just my luck.”

Danny: ...Yeah, I’ve heard of you. So, uh, thanks for not tracking this number and showing up at my house or something.

Jason: Yet.

Danny felt a shiver run down his spine.

Danny: That’s not funny, dude.

Jason: Relax, Little Badger. Your secret’s safe with me. For now. But hey, if you ever need help dealing with your undead billionaire problem, hit me up.

Danny sighed, shaking his head.

Danny: Sure. Thanks, I guess?

Jason leaned back, grinning as he saved the number under Ghost Kid.

“Roy, I think I just found the weirdest contact in my phone.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Roy replied, tossing Jason a burger.

“Not bad. Just… different.” Jason chuckled. “Plasmius, huh? Sounds like fun.”

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

“vickie!” eddie practically screams from his kitchen, rage coursing through him as he stares down at the tabloids spread out in front of him on the counter. “get in here! now!”

eddie’s had an issue with his rage lately. well. he’s had an issue with a lot of things, since he got famous, really. but that’s not his problem right now.

his problem is he’s looking down at image after image of himself on the covers of people and us weekly and entertainment tonight being dragged out of last night’s night club by his own security team with blood pouring from his nose. he looks angry. he looks crazed.

just then, a stranger walks into his kitchen.

“who the fuck are you?” he blurts out at the man, who’s wearing a dark green sweater vest over a white t-shirt and tortoise-shell glasses.

“i’m steve,” the weirdo stalker says, smiling brightly. he has surprisingly swoopy hair for an insane fan. “i’m your new assistant.”

“where’s vickie?” eddie asks, rubbing at the sore spot on his nose. thank god it’s not broken.

“you fired her,” steve tells him. “two days ago.”

“i fire her all the time.”

“ok, well… i guess this time it stuck,” steve shrugs. “chrissy hired me.”

“fucking chrissy,” eddie says under his breath, rolling his eyes. he pulls out his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and speed dials chrissy. “chris, what the fuck?” he doesn’t even give her the chance to say hello.

“good morning, eddie. i’m doing really well, how are you?”

“not fucking well, that’s how i am!” eddie practically yells into the receiver. “what the fuck? did you see the pictures? and who the fuck is this guy in my house?”

“yes, eddie, i saw the pictures.” eddie can hear the eye roll in her voice. “we’re handling it. nancy’s already on it with the team. what was the other thing?”

eddie knows she’s fucking with him and that pisses him off even more. “who is this freak in my house wearing a goddamn sweater vest?!” he feels like a blood vessel in his eye is about to pop.

“hey,” steve protests softly from across the kitchen where he’s started to pull shit out of eddie’s fridge. he didn’t even know there was anything in that fridge.

“that’s not a very nice way to talk about your new assistant,” chrissy’s voice comes loud and clear through the phone.

“christina fucking cunningham, you know i have final say on all hiring decisions when it comes to my assistants.” he rubs at his sore nose again.

“you had final say on all hiring decisions until you fired vickie for the thirteenth time and she refused to come back, even with a three hundred percent raise. we’re going in a different direction now.” chrissy sounds entirely too pleased with herself.

“well, i fucking hate him,” eddie grumbles and watches steve to make sure he’s heard him. steve doesn’t even react, just continues doing whatever the fuck he’s doing with the frying pan he’d found in the cabinet.

“you don’t even know him, eddie. give him a chance. anyway, i have to go, i have brunch plans with my very beautiful, very intelligent, perfect fiancée,” chrissy tells him, gloating, before hanging up on him.

eddie wants desperately to throw his phone across the kitchen, but if he breaks this one that would be his fourth phone in three weeks and he couldn’t bear to have to ask this steve person to go buy him a new one. he settles for squeezing it in his hand until it creaks while taking several deep breaths through his nose.

“what are you doing?” he grits out.

“are you always this rude?” steve asks, ignoring his question.

“to weirdo freak strangers showing up in my house unannounced? yes.”

“it’s not unannounced, chrissy wrote it on your calendar.” steve gestures toward the paper calendar hanging on the side of the fridge where chrissy writes his major life events and which eddie mostly just ignores before sliding a plate full of food toward eddie.

“what is this?” eddie sneers.

“it’s an omelette with cheese and mushrooms,” steve replies, smiling. he’s always fucking smiling.

“i’m allergic to… omelettes,” eddie says, just to be a dick.

“no you’re not. you’re allergic to blueberries and dust.” steve doesn’t stop smiling pleasantly.

“did you get access to my medical records? that’s a violation of my… whatever rights.” eddie waves a hand through the air.

“no, i didn’t go look at your medical records, jesus. i’m not a stalker. chrissy told me when she hired me.”

“whatever. i still fucking hate you.”

“okay,” steve shrugs again. “eat your breakfast.”

eddie has every intention of leaving the kitchen, full plate of food and all, but. he is hungry.

so he eats.

and he’s pissed that it’s actually good.

~*~

eddie spends the rest of the day being a general nuisance to steve any time he tries to do his job. when steve answers the phone before handing it to eddie, eddie “accidentally” hangs up on whoever it is on the hand off & makes sure to blame his new assistant when the person finally calls back. when steve has to drive him to his meeting with nancy and the pr team, eddie tries to give him the wrong directions, but steve’s too smart for that. when steve has to do the grocery shopping, he makes steve go to the erewhon all the way across town during rush hour because the one down the street “just doesn’t have the same vibe, steve.”

and all the while, steve just does his job, still smiling, not getting angry at all even though it’s beyond obvious eddie’s being a little shit to him.

which honestly just pisses eddie off more than anything else today.

“here’s some aspirin,” steve says, placing two white pills on the coffee table in front of eddie, along with a mason jar of water. eddie, lounging on his big squishy couch, pulls the ice pack away from his nose, which has started throbbing again. “you didn’t have any glasses.” steve shrugs when he sees eddie’s arched eyebrow looking skeptically at the jar of water. “if you don’t need anything else, i’ll take off for the day.”

it’s past 8pm already, long after steve should have left for the day except that eddie had made him stay to organize his extensive tshirt collection by color, shade, and design before he could even think about going home. it was an emergency, after all.

“i’ll have to check the t-shirt closet first,” eddie replies, before swallowing the aspirin dry. steve shrugs again and rolls his eyes. eddie would say something about his blatant rudeness, but he’s too exhausted.

eddie pulls himself off the couch and makes his way down the hallway to his “t-shirt room.” it’s so stupid, but he has all this space and he’d started collecting the tshirts so long ago. they’re not worth anything, they’re just his wardrobe but… they remind him of wayne and the thrifting they used to do every saturday morning.

the organization eddie had been having steve do was entirely arbitrary. it’s not like eddie plans his outfits. he mostly just pulls whatever out of wherever, unless it’s an event and then he pays someone to do the deciding and dressing for him anyway.

but. steve’s organized the t-shirts by genre and subgenre and then by band alphabetically and finally color. more than eddie had even asked him to do.

eddie had come in here fully prepared to rip steve a new one, but even he can be shocked into appreciation.

steve notices eddie’s silence and grins.

“can i tell you something?” steve says pleasantly and then continues without even letting eddie respond to the question. “i know i look like a nice polite guy next door that moms totally love—it’s the sweater vests, i think.” steve plucks at his top. “and that’s true. i am a nice polite guy and moms do love me. i’m awesome.” his grin widens. “but i got kicked out of my parents house when i was 18 and i lived in my car for a while. i’ve been on my own for seven years. i made a life in LA out of nothing. so you can throw your little temper tantrums and tell me how much you hate me. you can make me go to the erewhon all the way across town and you can make me look incompetent to my colleagues. but i need this job. i’ve worked hard for this job. this job pays more than any other job i’ve ever had combined. and you’re hardly the biggest asshole i’ve ever met. so you can continue trying to make my life miserable—hell, i’ll even give you my dad’s number, you guys can swap ideas!” steve laughs at his own joke before turning serious for the first time all day. “but i’m not vickie. you won’t make me cry. you can’t fire me. i’m not going anywhere.” he claps his hands together. “anyway, i’m gonna take off, since i have plans with my actual friends. but hey, i’ll see you tomorrow, huh?” and he smiles again, giving eddie a small waggle of his fingers, before heading out through the door.

eddie’s still just standing there in the middle of his tshirt room when he hears the front door slam shut.

part two

[selfcarecap]

✧ Manipulative best friend!Logan with a corruption kink

warnings: smut 18+, this is not a dark fic, Logan isn’t truly manipulative but we have a very naive/innocent/inexperienced reader; first time masturbation, JOI, handjob, fingering (in front of a mirror), first kiss, pet names (bub, baby, my girl, good girl), Logan doesn’t always fully ask for consent but if he did reader would want it, so those are the type of vibes, Logan takes advantage of the situation but reader is into him too, it’s implied that reader is a mutant too but powers are not specified, mentions of alcohol, reader wears Logan’s (big) shirt, Logan is a bit gross 

This kind of got out of hand lmaoo it was just supposed to just be a short concept but I ended up writing 5.5k words lolll. It’s not a fully fleshed out fic (it’s in full sentences etc but still just kind of loosely written scenes) but I thought I’d still share <33 (gorgeous divider by @anitalenia <3)

Logan knows he wants you from the moment he meets you. He knows he needs you the second you come to the mansion and join the school. But you’re so shy and nervous that he doesn’t want to overwhelm you, so he tells himself he’ll wait for a bit and let you get used to your new life here first. 

What he isn’t expecting is that you become really good friends in the meantime. Yes, he still wants to fuck you but he also genuinely enjoys your company and cares about you. Logan has a big, fat crush on you and there’s not really anything he won’t do in order to be closer to you.

But the problem is that you’re so innocent and he can’t tell if it’s an act, if you just don’t like talking about sex in front of other people, or if you’re really like this. 

He hears you talking to Storm and Jean one night and Storm is trying to convince you to get a vibrator and you’re asking “what would I need that for? I don’t… y’know”. Storm says “you don’t what? Masturbate?”.

Logan knows exactly what shy expression you’re making even though he can’t see you, and you’re all like “oh my god, don’t say it that loud”. And he knows your pretty face must be getting all hot with embarrassment and the thought alone turns Logan on to no end. It’s quiet for a bit and Logan gathers that Jean reads your mind, and she confirms to Storm that you’re not lying.  

Logan can only hear the conversation because he’s in the kitchen and you’re all in the room next to it, but some students come in so he can’t keep eavesdropping, as much as he wants to. And he knows there’s no way you’re continuing the conversation if he’s in the room, so he has to give up for the night. He tries to ask Storm the next day about what you said and she just calls him a pervert and says to ask you himself if he wants to know so badly. 

But that’s kind of the thing. He’s become your best friend over the last few months, but there are still some things you’d never tell him just because he’s a guy, even if you don’t see him as more than a friend. Yet.

And Logan only gets more desperate when you’re drunk one evening after a girl’s night and you’re knocking at his door. It’s really late but Logan lets you in of course. You’re crying a bit and he makes you sit in his bed and takes off your shoes and slides off your jacket while you hiccup something unintelligible. 

He sits down with you and you can barely focus on what you’re saying, and then you get up mumbling about your uncomfortable tights and your skirt and suddenly you’re in front of him in just a top and panties. Logan has to gulp down a moan as he stares at the flesh of your thighs and the rolls on your belly and all he can think about is devouring you whole – until he hears you mention the conversation with Storm and Jean from the other day, “wait, what was that?”

You pout, “Well I was talking to them and turns out apparently I’m the only woman in the world that doesn’t masturbate and– and Jean went home to Scott, and Storm went home with someone she met at the bar and I’ve never even done anything with a guy, not even with myself. I just feel left behind.”

And Logan tells you something about how you’re just a late bloomer and there’s still time, because that’s what he thinks you want to hear, but you tell him it’s condescending. You don’t want to be a late bloomer, you just want to have sex. And oh– Logan can help you with that.

He has to do his absolute best to keep calm and not mount you immediately, but you’re drunk so that’s what’s stopping him. He might manipulate you a little to get what he wants but he’s not that bad. He asks “you don’t like touching yourself?” And you just shrug and say “dunno”. 

“You never feel an ache between your legs?” Logan asks, keeping so calm it’s painful. And he can practically feel the heat melting off your face at the question as your eyes dart around the room, “I don’t know, sometimes”.

 “And you don’t touch yourself?”

You shrug again, looking everywhere but at Logan, “I never really know what people mean when they say that. I, like, touch myself and it feels nice but that’s it.” 

Logan smiles, “how long do you touch yourself for?” 

“I don’t know, a few seconds.”

And he chuckles and says “it’s normal that you don’t get anywhere in a few seconds, bub.” 

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” you manage to meet his eyes briefly but look away again as you sit on your hands shyly.

“You ever watched porn?” Logan asks and your eyes go wide as if he’s just committed the worst sin known to womankind in front of you and you hug your legs and say “noo, I would never. I’m not, like, a pervert.”

Logan laughs, “Porn isn’t just for perverts. There’s more to it than choking and bondage, there’s tame stuff.” You just say “well I’ve never watched any.” 

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” 

He can tell you’re getting a bit ashamed and while he would love to train that shame out of you when it comes to sex, now isn’t the time when you’re drunk in his bed at 2AM. 

“You wanna go to sleep?” He asks, failing to resist giving a small squeeze to your knee. Your eyes fly to his hand there, gaze lingering on his fingers even as he pulls them away. You nod after a few moments, and Logan reaches out to wipe away the remnants of your tears and says “you wanna sleep in my bed? We could cuddle”. 

You grin like a child who’s just tried ice cream for the first time at his suggestion and he gives you a bigger shirt of his so you don’t have to sleep in that small, tight top you’re wearing. You pull off your top without warning and then he’s looking at you in just your underwear and he feels like he’s died and ascended to heaven even though he’s probably more likely to go to hell with the thoughts he’s having about you right now. 

You cast a shy glance over your shoulder as you undo your bra and Logan wills himself to shut his eyes, putting his hand over them because he knows otherwise he’d look.

He only wants to fuck you more when he sees you in his shirt though, and he’ll definitely have to go to the bathroom to jerk off once you’ve fallen asleep. Except that you snuggle against his side so cutely, head resting on his shoulder with a leg thrown over his. 

You’re fast asleep before he can even say good night and when he moves to get up you move closer, and now he’s got your plush tits pressed up against his side and your arm over his waist. A tent has formed in his pants and he feels pathetic that he’s measuring the distance between your elbow and his crotch, silently willing you to move just a few inches. 

He’s so horny that he’d feel no moral qualms at jerking off right next to you. He’d cum so quickly with you pressed to his side, but he wouldn’t know how to explain it if you woke up. He doesn’t want to scare you away. So he pulls away to get up, and you wake up and whine when he stands up, telling you he just has to pee to which you grumble, and you grab his pillow to cuddle with instead. 

He jerks off shamelessly, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. His spit slicked-palm is starting to get loud as he strokes his cock to thoughts of you, but he doesn’t care if you hear. You probably wouldn’t know what he’s doing anyway with how innocent you are. 

He doesn’t even have to fantasise about any sexual scenario with you. Thinking about the pretty smile you have whenever you look at him is enough to have his fists drenched in his cum as he jerks himself off with both hands to stroke his entire length. 

He can’t hold back the small moan that spills over his lips when he cums, torn between hoping you heard and hoping you didn’t. Logan washes his hands and rejoins you in bed. 

He takes a moment before he slips under the covers, taking in the sight of you in his bed, imagining you’re his and that it’s the norm for you to sleep together rather than an exception. You stir as the mattress dips with his weight, swapping the pillow of his that was clutched between your arms for his bicep that you hold onto instead. You’re way too gone to have heard any of what he just did, and for a moment he feels dirty for thinking about you the way that he does. 

It doesn’t last long, of course, as he dreams of you most nights. He can’t feel bad about it though – he’ll take any dream over one of his nightmares (that he hasn’t had since he met you). And if he’s honest it turns him on how innocent and unsuspecting you are of what goes on in his head when he thinks of you. 

-

You wake up still wrapped around his body the next morning. You have a headache and Logan brings you something to soothe it, offering to massage your stiff neck too. You sigh in bliss as soon as Logan’s hands are on you, and he reminds himself that you must be touch-starved. You’ve never touched yourself, let alone felt the touch of another person that went beyond platonic or familial affection. 

He revels in the sounds he pulls from you with ease with the most basic massaging technique there is. He never wants to leave. He started off hovering over the back of your thighs, but he’s been making his way forwards and now his crotch is nestled right against the soft swell of your ass. You either don’t notice that he’s slowly moved or you don’t realise what exactly is pressing into your backside. 

It’s obvious that you’re enjoying his hands on the back of your neck and the top of your shoulders; he doubts there’s anything that could distract you from it. Except if he got hard maybe, but he’s got more self control since he jerked off in the bathroom again after waking up with morning wood and with you by his side, just before he brought you some painkillers. 

“You’re so good with your hands, Logan,” you tell him, voice all raspy, and he smirks at the innuendo you don’t realise you’re making. 

“It’s what my girl deserves,” he says, pulling a smile and a hum from your lips. 

“I’m your girl?” you ask shyly, eyes still closed as his knuckles drag over your skin. 

“O’course you are, bub.” He’s not sure in what way you interpret the pet name but he can tell you like it, hearing how your heartbeat speeds up just that little bit. You like being his, and he likes that. 

-

It’s during a particularly horny evening that Logan comes to your room. He’s jerked off twice today to pictures of you — pictures he’s snuck over the time he’s known you, you smiling as you laugh at a tv show, stretching on the sofa not realising that he’s got his phone out, or that one photo of you smiling all shyly on the day you first met him and he showed you around the mansion. Jean asked to take a picture to commemorate the day you joined them, and he remembers the way he slid his arm around the back of your waist and you placed your hand shyly on his back, smiling all adorably. 

He’s got a picture of you in a bikini from that one time you two went swimming but he keeps that for special occasions. Today was one of those special occasions, and he came all over his phone screen, cursing when he had to clean it afterwards; he even had to get the phone case off and all. 

But you still won’t leave his head for even just a second, so he decides it’s time for the next step. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you with anything, but he also just really wants you. Can’t help it. He’s a selfish man but any man would be if he knew you the way Logan did. He knocks at your door. “Yeah?” you call out. 

You grin when he steps in and closes the door behind himself. You stretch out your arms for a hug to greet him, even though you only saw him a few hours ago. He joins you where you’re sitting on your bed with your laptop. Logan turns the screen towards him, hoping to find something naughty but he should have known better. It’s just some video essay on a topic he’s never even heard of. He shuts the laptop. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” you tell him, genuinely focussed, “If I’m your girl then what are you to me? My boy sounds weird, and my man.. I don’t know.”

He almost forgot that he called you his girl to your face, and he smirks when he imagines you thinking about it these past few days. He lies down on his side, invading your space, almost touching you with how close he is next to you.

 “I can be anything you like, bub.” 

You shrug shyly, “Maybe you’re just my Logan.” 

He’s surprised at how much that turns him on. You being his, that’s one thing. But him being yours? Those two things go hand-in-hand, of course, but he thought you were still a long way off from liking him as much as he likes you. 

It encourages him to ask you what he’s been thinking about for days. He says it casually. “So, had any success touching yourself?” He uses that tame expression so that you’re less embarrassed.

Still, your eyes widen slightly and you immediately start playing with the hem of your oversized t-shirt. “What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean,” he smirks, “Don’t gotta be embarrassed around me. We’ve been over this.” Although, for a second he wonders if you even remember the conversation. You were drunk after all, and he considers feeling bad, but then you smile. 

“I know, but… I haven’t tried it since. I’ve thought about it but I still don’t know what to do.” He’s got you right where he wants. 

“Y’know, I don’t mind showing you. You deserve to feel good.” 

You look away, “What would you even show me? And how? Guys are different down there.” Oh, you’re so innocent. He’s having so much fun. 

“I could touch you.” He watches you experience a multitude of emotions as you think about it. Shame, intrigue, resolve. 

“Wouldn’t that be weird for you?” 

“Not at all, don’t worry about me.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure, bub.” 

You look around you, putting your laptop and your phone on your nightstand, “What do I do?” you ask, playing with the blanket. 

“I’ll just touch you a bit, okay? Just get you used to the feeling,” he tells you, both of you sitting up and he pulls your legs around his waist, gently touching all over your inner thighs, squeezing the flesh.

You’re already arching your back, scooting closer to him, and he lifts your shirt up over your hip and sees the wet spot on your panties. He’s not sure if you notice how hard he is under his sweatpants but no one could blame him for that. You’re getting so worked up and he hasn’t even touched you anywhere near your pussy, you’re breathing so heavily and your heart is beating so fast.

“Y’want a kiss, bub?” Logan asks you all sweetly, and you lean in as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your lips on his are messy but eager, and Logan loves that he can feel that it’s your first kiss. You don’t know what you’re doing but you need it – need him. 

But he has to stop at some point because it’s getting harder to not fuck you, so he gently pulls away, and you grin shyly when the kiss is over. Logan leans in one more time for a quick kiss. He pushes you backwards a bit and looks between your spread thighs. You’re so wet. You’re squirming under his gaze.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, tugging at the waistband of your panties and your breathing gets shaky when his finger grazes your belly. You bite your lip and nod.

“Good girl,” he says, pulling your underwear down your thighs with one hand, eyes glued to your pussy. You’re so wet and sticky already, and your pussy looks even better than anything he’s imagined – and he’s imagined it a lot.

He wants nothing more than to fuck you, or eat you out at least, but he’s supposed to be showing you how to masturbate, so he lies down next to you.

“So, if you were alone, you might touch yourself like this.” He takes his hand between your thighs, softly touching your clit. You’re leaning into him, head against his shoulder as you watch his big hand between your thighs. It looks so right there. You look to your side and gaze up at Logan, and you can’t help but just kiss him again.

And while you’re kissing, Logan puts his palm on your pussy and starts rubbing you a bit rougher, and you become too distracted to keep kissing him.

“You like when I play with your clit?” he teases you and you nod, hiding your face in his neck. Logan moves down to fuck one of his fingers into you, then two, and you’re whimpering against his warm skin. With his palm still rubbing against your clit, you have your first ever orgasm with Logan and you hold onto him as the pleasure flows through your body.

He keeps going until you put your hand around his wrist to stop him and you shyly smile up at him. “Was that good, bub?” 

You answer with a weak “yeah”, your voice hoarse but you’re smiling and your skin is glowing. Logan pulls his hand away and shows you how your arousal sticks to his fingers, and your eyes search his because you’re not sure if this is a good or bad thing.

Your mouth opens when Logan takes his fingers into his mouth and sucks your taste off them. “Taste so fucking good, baby. You wanna taste yourself?” And he waits patiently until you’ve made your mind up but you nod and let him put one of his fingers into your warm, wet mouth. You suck on it for much longer than necessary and Logan tries to save the image in his brain for later.

He holds you for a bit as you comprehend that you’ve just had an orgasm for the first time in your life. You shyly thank him before he leaves and he makes you promise that you’ll try it again by yourself soon. That was the whole point of this, after all – nothing to do with Logan or anything.

-

Logan thought he’d be satisfied for a bit, but all it’s done is make him even needier for you. You’re so oblivious to all his flirting, and he’s sure you genuinely thought he just wanted to show you how to masturbate the other day. 

Of course, he could just ask you out, but it’s more fun this way. He likes watching you figure stuff out. He wonders how long it’ll take you to realise that he actually likes you, that teaching you how to jerk off maybe wasn’t only in your best interest but in his too.

He’s a bit pathetic when it comes to you at this point, though. As much as he’s teasing you, it’s also teasing him. It’s a bit of a low point, but he pretends to be in a bad mood to get your attention.

You come to his room in the late afternoon when you haven’t seen him all day, and you’re so kind and so caring and immediately worried when you see him sprawled in bed in his pyjamas that consist of grey sweatpants and a white shirt.

“You okay? What happened?” you close the door and sit on his bed immediately.

Logan fake sighs, suppressing a smile as he pouts exaggeratedly. “Nothing, bub. Don’t you worry about me.” He squeezes your knee to reassure you, and he watches you perk up at his touch.

“You know you can always talk to me,” you smile kindly, and he wants to kiss you so badly. He doesn’t usually talk about emotions and feelings all that much, but you’re always trying to get him to open up because it’s good for him, so he knows he’s got you with this.

“I’m just feeling a bit down today. That’s all. Don’t wanna bother you with my problems.”

“You’re not bothering me. I’m always here for you.”

He watches you gnawing on your lip as you think about what to say next, and Logan waits curiously. “Have you uh, jerked off today? I think an orgasm would cheer anyone up, if it feels as good as you made me feel the other day.”

And Logan’s all like “I’ve tried but it’s been so long since a woman touched me, and my own hand just isn’t doing it for me anymore.”

He gets hard immediately when you perk up, smiling with your sweet expression and saying, “I could help you! I hate seeing you so sad”.

And Logan pretends, saying “no, bub, I’d never ask that of you,” but you sit up on your knees and say “I really wouldn’t mind! And I owe you for last time anyway.”

“If you’re really sure?” 

You nod sweetly and brush your hair out of your face and ask, “where do you want me?”

And even just you asking that is something that will stay in his mind for a long time. He feels like you’d do anything he asked of you right now and it’s already driving him crazy. He says “just next to me here, bub. Yeah there is fine”. 

You lean in to kiss him and he only pulls away out of surprise, and you’re blinking back at him with wide eyes, apologising, “It’s just cause you kissed me last time, I thought— I thought it’s part of–”

“Yeah, baby, it is. Just didn’t know if you wanted to kiss me again.”

You give him a cheeky smile and nod, “of course I wanna kiss you. You’re my best friend. I’d do anything for you”. 

Logan grins and bites his lip and says “me too, bub”, and leans in and kisses you again, basically attacking you with his mouth. He can tell it’s getting a little much for you with the way he’s eating you alive so he stops himself and asks “was that too much?” 

You shake your head, “just don’t know how to kiss like that yet.” And he likes that. Yet. Maybe he can sneak in some kissing lessons at some point, just to show you how it’s done of course, no other reason. 

You look down at his lap then and it’s obvious how hard he is. “Y’wanna you touch it like this first?” he asks you, grabbing himself over his sweatpants, the outline becoming clearer.

And you nod so eagerly, but get a bit shy when you’re touching his cock, one of your knees pulled up to your chest as you palm him over his sweatpants. “It’s so big,” you marvel, oblivious to how much this is affecting Logan.

“You wanna see?”

You tell him yes and he pulls the waistband down, and you lean closer when he wraps a hand around his cock, stroking himself just a few times to relieve the pressure. 

You bring a finger to his mouth like he did for you the other day, and he chuckles, “that won’t be enough, bub”. Your cheeks burn when you say “oh”.

“Here,” he moves your hand so your open palm is facing him and he spits into it.

“Now do this,” Logan tells you, taking your hand and wrapping it around his cock, guiding you up and down with your spit-slicked palm. You watch in awe as you jerk him off, his hand never leaving the back of yours.

He could cum immediately like this, but he tries to savour the feeling a bit longer.

“Does it feel good?” you ask him.

“Yeah, doing so well, bub. Think you can do it by yourself?”

You shake your head with a smile. Yes, you could do it by yourself, but you like the feeling of him guiding you, setting the pace and intensity. He grins and continues, squeezing your hand tighter so that your grip on his cock tightens too.

Logan lets you jerk him off a bit longer before he gives in. He’s proud of you for not pulling away in surprise when he cums, coating your hand and his in his cum as ropes of white shoot over your skin and onto his shirt. He lets go of your hand to pull off his shirt and watches you examine your hand full of Logan’s cum.

“Can I taste it?” you ask in a quiet voice, and Logan just about gets hard again.

“Yeah,” he tells you, but pushes his own fingers into your mouth. Your lips wrap around his two fingers and suck the cum off, and Logan can’t help but push them further into your mouth, making you giggle. You pull his hand away after a bit, only to lick your own fingers. He uses the clean part of his shirt to dry your hand off after, and you lie down to cuddle him.

“Do you feel better?”

Logan chuckles, “Yeah, bub, I feel better. Thanks.”

“Good,” you grin, proud of yourself. Logan’s proud of you too.

-

It’s still the same day when you come to his room the next time. You left after a bit to go to sleep, but now there are knocks on Logan’s door that he recognises as yours before you say anything.

You enter his room in your pyjamas – a big shirt – and some fluffy socks, a plushie under your arm. You look so oh so innocent that he almost feels bad for corrupting you. You come in, close the door, and sit on his bed again, legs dangling off the side of it. He could really get used to you being in here.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks, but you ignore him, hugging your plushie for comfort.

 “I… can you maybe…” you let out a sigh, “I tried to masturbate but I can’t do it by myself. Can you show me again?” 

Maybe you’re not so innocent anymore. He chuckles and tells you of course, and he’s starting to wonder if you’ve caught on to the game that he’s playing, and if you’ve joined him, but he’d still bet money that you really are this naive. Logan pulls his full length mirror in front of his bed, not too close, but close enough that you can see yourself in it. 

He moves to lift your shirt to get your panties off, and his heart skips a beat as he’s greeted by the sight of your bare pussy, already glistening.

“It was easier to come with them already off,” you say, and he reaaally has to restrain himself so he doesn't bend you over and take you right here.

You drop your stuffed toy to the side of Logan’s bed as he sits you in front of the mirror, getting behind you, putting his legs either side of you.

“God, you’re so pretty.” He can’t stop himself from saying it as he makes you look at yourself in the mirror, legs spread.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Logan,” you say, shying away from looking in the mirror.

“You can do it, bub. I got you, okay?”

You’ve turned around to look at him better, and he chuckles when he gets it.

“Is this what you need?” he asks as he leans in to kiss you, and you moan yes into his mouth. He loves you so fucking much.

His dick is already so hard and he’s not sure if you can feel it pressing into your ass, but either way you’re not complaining. He takes your chin to make you face yourself in the mirror, and he can’t get enough of seeing you two in it together – the way he’s sitting behind you like this, imagining other positions you two could be in.

“Here,” he pushes his finger into your mouth, even though you’re already wet enough, watching you suck on it eagerly. His finger stays in your mouth much longer than necessary.

He starts gently rubbing your clit in circles, and you squirm in his arms that are around you, one on your waist, the other between your legs.

“I did that too, but it feels better when you do it,” you mumble after a while, clearly enjoying it but unsure what you were doing wrong when you did it yourself.

“Try it.” Logan takes your hand, and makes you do it yourself. You’re squirming with him watching you like this, but it is useful to sit in front of the mirror, copying how he played with your pussy just moments ago.

Logan’s not blind to how wet you are, at having him watching and guiding you, and he can’t help it as he reaches into his boxers to jerk off. He doesn’t get his cock out but he’s not hiding it. You can see the movement of his arm in the mirror and you might even be able to feel it at your back, as Logan’s fist grazes your shirt every now and then as he strokes himself.

But you’re so focussed on looking between your own legs that Logan is genuinely not sure if you’ve noticed him jerking off, and the sounds of your wet pussy are louder than his hand on his cock.

“I… I can’t,” you whine after a bit, taking your hand away from your pussy, but Logan is close, and he wants you to cum too.

He keeps jerking off, and he sees you noticing it, sitting up a bit taller but you don’t seem to mind. You’re smiling, biting your lip.

“Yeah, you can, baby. Here, we’ll do it together.” He keeps a hand on his cock, reaching around you to put your hand back between your legs, and then he pushes two of his fingers into your pussy, fucking you with them.

“You close, bub? I’m close,” he says, and the idea of cumming together with Logan makes your pussy squeeze around his fingers, so you do your best to recreate the pattern on your clit that Logan showed you, rubbing it in circles until you get the right angle.

“Good girl, that’s it. So tight around my fingers. Come on now.” Logan’s so close he has no idea how he’s still holding off, sloppily jerking his cock with one hand and fucking your pussy with his fingers on the other hand.

You lean your head back, landing on Logan’s shoulder, as your orgasm pulses through you. Logan can feel your pussy spasming around him, and he lets go too, cumming over his hand and his boxers.

You’re both out of breath for a while after, barely moving.

“Y’did it, bub,” he kisses the top of your head, and you smile at him through the mirror, turning to press a messy kiss to the side of his face. He won’t take that though, so he grabs your face, smearing some of his cum on your cheek, and pulls you to face him for a proper kiss. You smile against his mouth as you make out.

You sleep in his room again that night, but he can’t say it feels like you know that he likes you yet. He’ll have fun watching you figure it out soon.

-

✧ reblog and let me know your thoughts for Logan to appear in your dreams tonight <3

[joelsgoldrush]

“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!!! :)