#it would mean moving to Virginia but what the fuck ever

[yourheartinyourmouth]

husbeast accidentally locked me out after i took a shower and i had a mini meltdown oooooooh boy

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 04. FELLED BY YOU

a/n: i've served three chapters of angst and teasing and almosts that never came to fruition. but today is the day! today logan howlett gets fucked. i mean...does the fucking. you know what i mean. there's gonna be some hints of pain, but really he's starting to focus more on getting it right this time around. so be prepared for the filth to come.

summary: the importance of you slammed into him during your two weeks spent apart. yet when he's forced to confront the truth, he finds himself stuck between having you or hurting you.

word count: 9.7k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, wade continues to be the worlds worst wingman, yearning, angst, fluff, flirting heavily, nasty sex, p in v sex, logan gets flashed in a good way, oral (f receiving), reverence and romance, logan is an idiot until he's not, exhibitionsim (kinda if you squint really hard), pain play cause he's a whore, he lifts you cause he's strong like that.

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Time didn't exist in a linear line for him. Never a single point that drew his life from one spot to another. His constant loss of memories and different universes left him numb to the concept as a whole. He found it better to ignore the thought—move past the tragedies that came next quicker than what already happened.

What was time to an immortal man who'd lived through too much already?

What did he have left to lose?

He never found himself counting the minutes, hours, and days before you. To him, they were a jumble of things that only shifted to become one solid fact. A year he'd never get back. Moments he might one day lose. Faces he would one day come to outlive—to see grow old and pass. People he'd never meet again.

He didn't bother with it.

Until he spent a night wrapped around you and fell asleep with no nightmares. He woke up long before you ever would—dawn barely cracking across the night's darkened armor. The clock on your nightstand read five a.m., but his body shouted something different. He wasn't fatigued like every other morning coupled with endless nights of no sleep, dreading the next time he had no choice but to close his eyes.

Logan almost wished he crawled back into the bed in order to watch you be roused from sleep with the beep of your alarm. He should have. At least then he'd be counted as a smart man for not sneaking out and heading home. Even thinking of what came to your mind when you woke up sent pain down his chest.

"Punch buggy!" A gloved fist slammed into his shoulder with enough weight behind it to cause the car to jerk left.

"Fuck!" he growled, slamming his foot on the brake and whipping around to embed his claws in Wade's leg. "Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up!"

"Rules of the highway Log–"

Red splattered against his makeshift yellow suit as he dug his other set of claws into Wade's chest with a roar. In his peripheral vision he caught sight of a small red car whizzing by. The driver laying on the horn with an anger Logan felt at the base of his stomach. Wade pointed to it with a smile in a meager attempt to lighten the mood.

He wouldn't say he was on edge. That would be a pathetic attempt at lying.

He passed edge one week and six days ago. Twenty-four hours after leaving your apartment Logan met the edge of his anger, and flew right off without bothering to keep himself in check. Two weeks without your presence. The sound of your voice, the warmth of your scent. Two weeks of a fucking mission Wade convinced him to go on; with the claim that they'd be back before Friday.

Which wound up extending to yet another five days of being stuck in the back fucking woods of Virginia—stuffed into an already small truck. The rhythmic clunk of the shovels in the bed slamming against the side already had him gritting his teeth. An hour of driving with Wade's game of spotting cars caused him to almost crack his molars.

Logan wasn't a patient man.

He swung first and asked questions later. That was his way of living. Two weeks of counting the seconds as they passed by like molasses only seemed to reaffirm that fact. He knew irony lingered in the truth; an immortal man who held less than an ounce of patience in his body.

There had to be a joke in there somewhere that Wade would no doubt yank out before the end of this trip.

Retracting his claws, he settled back in his seat to glare at the deserted long road ahead of them that seemed to lead nowhere. The car became a prison he couldn't escape an hour ago. And the appeal of trying to kill the man beside him only grew the longer he sat there. Logan already felt like a piece of shit for leaving with no explanation. He didn't need Wade's blood to make it worse.

With a huff he slammed open the car door and got out. The air was hot, stale, and left him choking in the leather suit that already clung to his skin. He tugged at the collar, sucking in air to get his heart to stop racing.

It proved to be difficult when your face distraught with tears began to morph, take shape into the you he couldn't save.

"Something tells me this has nothing to do with not getting to visit pound town before we left." When he was met with a wall of silence, Wade's head fell back with a groan. "Please hold while we deal with another existential crisis guys. He'll get there eventually."

Logan's fingers curled into fists. Wade—relentless as he was—refused to be pushed away this time. He leaned against the car, twirling his baby knife as Logan tried to hold back every ounce of fucking anger that needed an outlet. None of it was pointed at the Merc with a Mouth. Not even the nonsensical comments could penetrate Logan's otherwise silent exterior.

No, Logan knew exactly where the anger was directed. He knew that all of this rage stemmed from his own self loathing. For doing to you what he knew would hurt the most. For doing...exactly what the other you did.

Leaving wouldn't give him the opportunity to run from his pain. Fuck he figured that out a long time ago, but that never stopped him from trying.

He was an old dog with one singular trick. Hurting the ones he loved.

"Just call sweet angel up, say that you're with your old pal Wade, and explain in extreme detail how you'd love to bend her over every surface in that apartment you stare longingly at like you're waiting for her to return from war."

Telling him to shut the fuck up would only incur more bullshit to leave his mouth. Logan chose the easier route and stared into space; focused on the way his heart began to slow the more he thought about that night. How you slept against him without fear. Your hands pressed to his chest, face tucked into his shoulder. Somehow in the span of a few hours you were able to make him feel normal again.

"How much longer do I have to deal with your fuckin' bullshit?"

"One day give or take who drives."

"You're not driving."

Wade shrugged. "Your mistake." With a swift turn, he leapt into the bed of the truck and grabbed the two shovels. "Now give me a smile with those Tony award winning teeth of yours cause we've got work to do."

The endless nothingness of fields and flat ground would eventually drive him insane. One more day didn't sound awful if he knew that you were waiting for him at the end of all this. But that remained the problem he couldn't solve—the nightmare that followed him in his waking world. What if you weren't there? What if that was his final chance and you made the choice for him?

He sighed, squinting his eyes against the sun. "Alright. Give me the damn shovel."

The constant tapping of your boss's pen was going to drive you insane. Although if someone were to ask you, this wasn't the first time in the past two weeks that you were holding onto your temper by the skin of your teeth. In fact, you couldn't recall a time where your body and mind had been this on edge. As if you were a rubber band pulled tight, ready to snap at a moment's notice.

"Three days off?" Her voice remained monotone—grating against your already racing mind.

"Yes," you replied.

The request would go through without issue; you'd been here before, asking the same routine questions. Only this time you felt the unease from that morning begin to work its way through your body. Doubt lay heavy on your heart the more you ran each minute in your mind. Combing over where you might have gone wrong—what would have made him want to leave.

Waking up without Logan wasn't what set you on a path to self-destruction. At first, you were logical enough to assume that he was a busy man; being a superhero and all. He must have a good reason as to why he slipped out of your bed before the sun could fully rise, leaving behind nothing but flowers that now sat dead in a vase, and a brand new door.

Two weeks without a single word—without an explanation or a reason—began to grate on your mind. Pulling at each worry with an intensity that left you winded. Until you were forced to confront the idea that this whole thing...what you and Logan intended to start...wasn't what he had in mind to begin with.

"I'll grant you the days." The slow build of relief flooded your nerves that were already shot to shit. "Just next time you decide to sneak a guest in, please make sure he signs for a visitor's pass."

A familiar wave of discomfort spilled in your chest. Getting caught wasn't on your schedule of things to happen when it came to your job. Then again, having Logan in your life wasn't a part of your plan either. Yet somehow that happened as naturally as taking a deep breath of fresh air.

He didn't step into your life with a stoic aura of peace.

Logan crashed into it head first without a choice.

You remained a gravitational pull, an orbit he couldn't escape from, and without warning he'd been pulled to you. Where he'd exist until it was time for him to be set free.

What remained of your fear—the one thing that kept you from falling wholeheartedly—was that one day Logan might come to the decision all on his own. Without bothering to tell you, or let you in on the secret. That after all that happened...he might want to be set free. If he didn't already.

The walk back to your apartment dragged longer than it should. Your steps were slower, mind entirely distracted from the task at hand, and body aching from lack of sleep. Two weeks without Logan left you questioning why you bothered to pursue him at all. Why had you given him so much freedom to roam in and out of your life? Especially when you'd never done that with any other person before.

You knew the answer.

Logan offered you a chance to live in a way you never thought of before. Fear of the unknown kept you complacent; stuck in your ways. In such a short time he managed to slowly peel away what still remained. The anxiety that lingered in your heart at the thought of being loved—of falling in love.

He shattered your walls without even trying.

Accepting that is what left you struggling to breathe after drowning in what he gave. You were supposed to be the one to lead him out of the dark waters, back to a shore of safety, yet somehow he pulled you right in with him.

That is what kept you right on the edge of whatever this could possibly become.

You wanted to ask him why he left. Dig into his thoughts and pull free your answers. He might give you a fight—knowing what Wade told you about him having a tough exterior—but this wasn't nothing to you. All you wanted was to know that he held the same belief. That this meant something.

Calling his phone never worked—going directly to a voicemail box he never set up. Texting him wasn't an option, and you couldn't exactly write him a handwritten letter to send off without an address of where to go. Which left you here. Stuck in the radio silence and waiting for a response to crack through all the static.

Digging for your keys at the bottom of your work bag nearly caused you to miss the woman standing by your door. Her hair was tied into a messy updo, showcasing the familiar white streaks you'd seen before. Something akin to joy flushed through your body as Vanessa pushed away from the wall—two coffees held in her hands and a paper bag that smelled eerily like bagels tucked into her arm.

"I wonder when I'd see you again," you said, catching her smile as you slid the key into your new lock with ease.

"Blame Wade. He's been keeping me hostage for weeks."

You snorted, tossing your bag and coat on the table. The flowers—now dried and falling to pieces—still remained the centerpiece of your apartment. Petals were scattered along the wood, some now on the floor. But you couldn't find it in yourself to throw them out. You still held out hope that they might bring him back to you, even if he didn't want to return.

"I don't need to know the gory details," you sighed, accepting the tepid coffee and cold bagel. "How long did you wait?"

"Thirty minutes." She fell to your couch with a groan, kicking off her heeled boots. "I figured you were well into the first stage of wallowing and might need someone to drag you out of it."

"I'm not–"

Her eyes fell to the bouquet, lips pursed as if fighting a smile. "And those are from who again?"

"Just because I kept them doesn't mean I'm wallowing." You collapsed beside her, exhaustion withering your body quicker than the sun did with those flowers. "I just haven't cleaned yet."

"Right."

Vanessa had been your friend since Wade moved in across the street and accidentally almost killed you in the middle of the street. She wound up apologizing for him with two bottles of wine and hours of conversation. Even in the midst of their breakup, she still solidified herself in your life with nights of movies and days out in the city. You never thought you'd get a friend out of living here, but somehow life without Ness in it felt bleak.

Which gave her the ability to read you like an open book. She'd seen what you looked like after a breakup—she’d endured countless talking stages with you—and was able to pick out the signs of what your pain looked like.

"He's coming back, you know."

Your heart fluttered at the mere mention of his existence; you silently cursed yourself for it. "Did Wade tell you that?"

She nodded, taking a sip of the shitty cold coffee with a grimace. "I love the man, but he has the worst timing."

"Timing?" You sat up, alert for the first time since waking up alone. "What are you talking about?"

"I figured you didn't know," she sighed. "Logan didn't leave because he wanted to. Trust me I'm pretty sure if given the choice he'd lock both of you in here until we had to call the police." She didn't give you room to interject—even as you started to speak. "He's an X-Man babe. And well Wade—dipshit that he is—decided to drag him on a mission at the worst fucking second."

The words hung in the air for longer than either of you wanted, but your mind was racing a mile a minute. Mission. A fucking mission. How could you have been so quick to jump to conclusions?

You knew who Logan was the second you met. Understood the importance he held. Yet you never pieced together that two weeks of no contact might have meant something entirely different than a breakup.

"He's..."

"On a mission," she replied—lazily biting into her bagel.

"With Wade?"

She spoke around a mouthful of cream cheese. "If he could die, he'd be a goner."

Already the picture was starting to form. Logan stuck for two weeks with a shitty phone that didn't work, constantly bugged by a man who had a mouth that shit talked faster than he could think. He left to try and be the man he wanted people to see him as. The man that still held a legacy in this universe.

You simply forgot to contend with the fact that you weren't just opening your life up to James Howlett...you were making space for the Wolverine too.

"A year's worth of panic just crossed your face. Wanna talk about it?"

What was there left to say? That you'd been an idiot for believing Logan would leave you high and dry? For letting your doubts get the better of you yet again? Or should you explain that for two weeks you felt an emptiness that scared the absolute shit out of you? As if he ripped a hole in your chest with his claws and had no intention of patching it back up.

"Wade told you this himself?"

She stood, heading straight for the vintage cabinet in your living room that held whatever liquor you kept in stock. "More or less. It was hard to hear him over all the screaming in the background."

Somehow her words didn't phase you—even as she continued to speak about the possibility of what they were up to. You caught the words shovel and stole a truck but nothing beyond that. You took the glass of wine without question—mind focused entirely on the man who managed to turn your word on its head in such a short time.

"When do they get back?"

Her lips curved into a smile that told you one thing: I got you right where I want you.

It took no time at all for you to be thinking of the next time you saw him and hiding it from her felt like trying to build a wall with space on the sides. Enough room for her to sneak into your mind and tug out the truth.

"Tomorrow." She took a sip, settled back down beside you, and reached for the remote. "Wade's throwing a party. Your attendance is mandatory."

A second barely passed before your response was spilling free. Excitement now replacing the doubt that willed itself to stay.

"I'll be there."

"Who had money on the great honey badger expedition?" Wade called out to the rather full living room.

You sat curled on the couch beside Vanessa—a red solo cup filled with shitty beer perched on your knee, condensation spilling across your hand. Dopinder was halfway into a story about his first solo job, Colossus was crammed into a small seat, and Logan sat at the table—his eyes a searing burn against the side of your face.

"Shit," Vaness sighed, digging into her front pocket—a twenty slapped into Wade's hand with a kiss.

You gasped. "Traitor."

"I really thought we were gonna win."

"Who did you bet against?" Your eyes caught sight of the cash getting slipped in Althea's hand—her smile cocky enough to give Wade a run for his money. "Of course."

"If it makes you feel better, Wade is done trying to play matchmaker between you two."

You wondered if you said the word bullshit loud enough it would penetrate through Wade's wall of not listening. The temptation was there. Though you decided to remain silent...for Logan's sake.

Since they returned, he barely said more than a few words to you. Them being hello and I tried to call. You both knew the second part was purely fictional, but figured it was easier to remain silent about it. Arguing wasn't something you were keen on doing—given that he had more than enough time to offer an explanation.

Yet he chose to put distance between the two of you. Sitting in sullen silence, a glass of whiskey nursed slowly and eyes latched onto the way you laughed.

He wanted to speak to you. Tell you how often he thought of you—how many times he made a note of something interesting or funny to regale you with once he returned. But the knowledge that you might very well hate him for leaving silently and without a promise of return, put everything to the back of his mind.

Reconciling with you was the first thing he planned to do.

Yet like he did in his own universe, he chose to keep you at arms length. Away from the insanity of his volatile emotions and dangerous demeanor. You were too good; too breakable.

"Fox and friends!" Wade's voice dragged his attention away from you. Even mere feet away Logan felt you right down to his fucking bones. "I have a special surprise for you heathens. Yeah that's right I'm looking at you Sugar Bear."

A hand gripped Logan's shirt, dragging him up from the chair as he struggled not to slam his fist into Wade's throat. "We're gonna play a little game I like to call Forty Five Minutes In The Closet. I'll pick two people and they'll have to hide the two hundred and seventh bone in the human body."

"It's called seven minutes in heaven. Dumbass," Al muttered.

"No. No, that's something else."

Logan felt the hair rise on the back of his neck at the sight of your smile. How you lit up at Wade's humor. You wore a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, yet he couldn't place a time where you looked more beautiful. If it weren't for the grip Wade had on his shoulder, he'd be asking you to meet him in the hallway—an apology already set on the tip of his tongue.

"Anyways!" Wade shook him violently—knowing that if Logan met his irritation with violence he'd have another problem to worry about. "I nominate this broad shouldered—thick muscled—thunder cunt from down under cunt to be our first contestant."

His eyes flicked to the side, lips curving into a smirk that could only be categorized as diabolical. "Drink some water girls cause things are about to get good."

Vanessa smiled, yanking your arm into the air without warning. "I nominate her to go with him."

"That's right you do baby!" Wade shouted.

"No," Logan growled, yanking his arm away from Wade.

Only to catch how your face fell. You tried to mask it with a laugh, but he could see the damage was done. All the doubts that you fought against began to slowly rise to the surface; each moment spent with him now a time you wanted to get back. But like a trooper, you stood with a glare in Vanessa's direction, and walked towards the hall closet barely big enough for two coats and a broom.

"Go go," Wade shoved him (violently) in your direction, and held the door for Logan to squeeze in beside you. "Now some ground rules. The walls are paper thin so if you end up dancing the Devil's Tango, we'll be making popcorn to go along with the show. Oh and any procreations that come out of this automatically get named Wade."

"You're disgusting," Logan snarled.

"Wade I don't think–"

You heard a loud have fun from everyone outside before the door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed the both of you whole. Yet you felt how close he stood even with your eyes still trained on the door. Heat radiated off his body in waves, soaking into yours with ease. His breath came in quick but released slowly as if he was trying his best to keep his temper steady.

At this point blaming him for losing it wasn't an option. Not when you never expected the night to wind up like this.

You sucked in a deep breath, hands shaking when your heart began to race. You tried to appease every improper thought that entered your mind, but failed spectacularly as they kept on coming. Another sharp inhale echoed mere inches away—his body tensing as your scent deepened. Calling to him like a siren song he needed to answer.

"Stop that," he ground out, fingers curling into fists to keep himself apart from you.

Your eyes met his searing gaze even in the pitch black. "I'm not doing anything."

"You're not. But your body is." He huffed, feeling his willpower begin to splinter when your heart jumped. "How long do we have to...ya know..."

It took you a minute to realize that Logan was suddenly bashful. The urge to reach for a flashlight to see the red that most likely tinted the top of his ears reared its head. You would have done it if it weren't for the way his entire body flinched. His back now pushed against the wall furthest from you.

"Seven minutes," you murmured. "Are you okay?"

"'M fine."

You'd never seen him this on edge before. So close to snapping.

Perhaps it was the way he reacted whilst in your vicinity, or the fact that this was the most he'd said to you in twenty four hours. But the doubt you harbored for two weeks slowly began to shift into a wave of anger. One that demanded at least one final answer as to what you were doing here. What this meant to him.

You wouldn't continue pining after a man who couldn't give it to you straight; not after you gave him so much.

"At least now I can ask you what's going on."

He stiffened, his head snapping up to see your face begin to shift—your tone sharper than before. "What?"

"You heard me Howlett." His lips twitched at the sound of his last name. You fought the urge to land a punch to his jaw he'd barely. "Two weeks of no contact. You gave me nothing. And I was fine with it because I knew you were with Wade, but this? Avoiding me so you don't have to give me a reason as to why?"

"Honey–"

Your eyes narrowed, shutting him up quicker than he expected. "I'm not done talking." Another deep breath set off the last of your rant. "If you don't want to continue whatever this is then that's fine. I've moved on from guys like you before. I can do it again. But now you don't even want to be near me. I don't know what I did to make you–"

The step he took came unexpectedly. As did the next and the next until you were pinned to the wall behind you—his hands on either side of your head. Whatever fight you had left in your system fizzled out when his head dipped and lips slid down the side of your neck. Kissing gently at the vein he longed to sink his teeth into.

"Logan," you gasped, tilting your entire body his way. The reaction was involuntary. As if he possessed you in ways you never expected.

The smile he pressed to your cheek told you he liked it.

"That's what you think huh bub? That I don't wanna be near you?"

"Y-Yes..."

He chuckled. "I just spent two fuckin' weeks in a car with that walking mouth. You think I went of my own free will?" The breath that ghosted along your cheek caused your whole body to shiver. "'M stayin' away honey cause if I get too close I'm gonna do things to you that you aren't ready for."

A fire began to unfurl in the base of your stomach, rapidly coursing through your body without a single warning. He let it happen. He held you there, lips so close you could taste his whiskey on the tip of your tongue, and waited for you to speak. Waited for you to make your final choice about him.

"And if I am?" Your fingers curled into his shirt, chin lifting in a show of defiance. "Ready?"

He groaned at the sight of your fire coming back, his forehead falling to press against yours. "Don't say shit you don't mean."

"I do mean it."

Logan felt his entire body crumple as the familiar sound of his claws echoed in the small space—dust from the now split wall dropping onto your clothes. He could hear Wade's shout of disdain through the already thin walls. But his sole focus was on the way your breath quickened, how your fingers dug beneath his flannel and onto his thin beater.

"What do you want from me honey? Say it. I'll fuckin’ do anything."

The echo of your breathy whine fucked him up for good; ruined any chance of sanity for the rest of the night. If the closet wasn't so damn small he'd grind you along his thigh to watch your mouth go slack. He'd drop to his knees to taste you and drag you over the edge again and again without any intention of stopping.

"I want an apology," you replied, shaking him loose from the haze of lust he found himself stuck in.

His lips curled into a smile. "That right?"

You nodded, fighting against everything in you that screamed to keep this going. To let him kiss you senseless and fuck you against the wall. You didn't care that you were still in Wade's apartment, you didn't care that you were probably down to four minutes and a handful of seconds.

This felt pivotal to the shaky ground you both balanced on. And you were desperate to see what became of the mess that would no doubt come crashing down around you.

"You left." The words were a high gasp as his hand splayed against your stomach. "I-I missed you."

A rumble echoed from the bottom of his chest. "Yeah bub? Ya missed me?"

The words were on the back of your tongue, an explanation on just how much you ached for him. How nights without hearing his voice left you battling demons you usually kept at bay. But his hand was rucking up the bottom of your shirt and the heat of his calloused palm was against bare skin. Dipping lower as your mouth dropped open.

"You got no idea," he growled, lips so close to yours it caused your heart to scream. "How much I fuckin' thought of you. Of this." Fingers slipped beneath the top of your jeans and your head fell back against the wall. "Thought about how sweet you'd taste for me."

"L-Logan–"

He smiled. "Let me give you a proper fuckin' apology."

Echoes of laughter filtered through the already thin door as someone (most likely Wade) told yet another joke. At any other time you would dig up the last strand of your common sense and put an end to Logan's movements. Any other time you'd have enough coherency to understand that if you got caught neither of you would live this down.

Any other time that would have been the first thing on your mind.

But Logan's fingers brushed the edge of your navy blue laced underwear, effectively killing every thought in your head before it could fully form. Your hips canted up into his touch, fingers burying in his hair to tug his face closer. He felt too far even as he pressed you against the cold wall—his body emanating enough heat to have you gasping for air.

"I can smell it," he rasped. "Drivin' me insane honey."

A moan climbed up your throat, but he silenced you easily. His lips found yours in the darkness and you felt your heart cry at knowing he was back. That he wanted you.

You clung to him, tongue meeting his in a messy reunion. All teeth and quick stunted breaths and spit you felt cling to your joined lips. You swallowed his groan with a soft whine of your own. His hand dipped one inch further, fingers prodding against your patch of hair, and you felt your stomach clench.

"Oh–" Your gasp was sharp, loud enough for Logan to cringe as it echoed in the small space.

That didn't stop his fingers from sliding through your slick with a stunted moan. His lips a hot press against your cheek—body caging you into the drywall.

"Gotta be quiet," he whispered.

"S-Sorry–" You dug your teeth into your lip hard enough to taste copper. All in the hopes that it would silence every sound that was desperate to be set free. With the curl of his fingers he struck against your clit in rough strokes, dooming you to the shame that would no doubt come once the both of you stepped out of this closet. "Ah!"

His lips slammed against yours, tongue plunging into your already gaping mouth. He tasted like whiskey. Like everything you longed for in the past two weeks.

Your heart clenched in your chest as he upped the pace of his fingers—the wet echo of your slick now bouncing off the walls. A tremble began to form in your legs and you tugged on his hair to signal what was about to come. But Logan remained one step ahead of you.

He smiled, ignoring the aching throb of his cock as he coaxed you towards a quick and blinding release. One he would replay in his mind for the rest of the night. He knew Wade probably stood outside the door with his ear pressed to the wood, but found he didn't mind. Because you were in his arms, with your lips against his in a dazed kiss, and he had never felt such bliss before.

"C'mon honey. Lemme see you."

"'M almost there," you breathed, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted.

He wanted to eat you alive.

"I know you are. Can feel you leakin' on my hand." His teeth scraped against the shell of your ear, hips grinding along your thigh for some relief. "Let go so I can fuckin' taste you."

A blinding heat began to build faster than you had time to latch onto it; his fingers now tapping roughly against your pulsing clit. You reached for it, let that feeling begin to consume you. Only for something heavy to slam against the closet door—startling the both of you.

Logan ripped his hand away, his body stumbling to the opposite wall. He looked flushed. As if you were the one about to rip a mind numbing orgasm out of his body. Not the other way around.

You coughed, fixing your shirt and jeans as the door swung open. Wade's cocky smile told you everything you needed to know. Being subtle and playing this off was no longer an option, because he knew what you were up to. He could read it on your face.

"What ya thinkin' about?"

"Wilson–" Logan growled, moving to stand in front of you—his claws itching to slide free and dig into Wade's super-healing flesh.

"Wasn't talking to you peanut." He peeked over Logan's shoulder, his smile big and bright and glaringly obvious. "Don't tell me. You two were also debating the logistics of bringing back Robert Downey Jr. to the MCU."

"Shut your goddamn–"

"Because I think it's a money grab. I mean come on Iron Man? Again?"

Logan began to reach for his neck, but your hands pressing to his waist forced him to freeze. You pressed a kiss to his shoulder with a laugh as you squeezed past the both of them. He felt his heart twist in his chest tight enough to send pain down his spine.

Wade still smiled like an all knowing asshole, but the sight of you joining Vanessa on the couch with a sheepish smile eased the nerves that still jumped under his skin.

"Not another word," he spit, shoving a finger into Wade's chest to force him back a few feet.

The man merely smiled—eyes flicking down to the glaringly obvious bulge in Logan's jeans. "Don't tell me. Whiskey dick again? I've told you it's common–"

His claws came free with a roar. Wade's familiar shriek now echoing through the apartment as he sprinted towards your spot on the couch. In the hopes that you might be able to tame the animal intent on ripping him to shreds.

He could count on one hand how often silence echoed throughout the apartment at night. Each time being when Wade disappeared to Vanessa's place with the intent of returning well past the afternoon. Trash still lingered here and there after the small party, but he ignored it in favor of pouring another glass of whiskey.

Falling to the couch with a groan, he felt the weariness of two weeks with Wade on the road resurface in his body. Eventually he'd will himself to sleep. Still plagued by nightmare after nightmare. Except his mind was stuck on the thought of the closet. How you arched into his body with a whine, how wet you were for him in such a short span of time.

There was something addicting about seeing you confront him with your anger. All the fire you kept locked away suddenly became the sole focus of your energy and Logan found he couldn't get enough.

An hour after you were walked home by Vanessa (Wade in tow behind her), he still could smell you on his fingers. The way your scent clung to his shirt when you were up against him. How you moaned for him. So pretty and willing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sported a hardon for longer than an hour; yet in your presence they always seemed to fucking happen.

The whiskey kept his mind settled on the present moment. On Althea's snores in the background and the city noise that spilled in through the open window. If he was lucky, he'd get twenty minutes in a hot shower with his hand wrapped around his throbbing cock.

That alone kept him from passing out on the shitty couch—his mind hazy and drunk on lust.

A beep from his now charged phone drew his attention to your window across the street. The light was on. So he knew you were awake. But the sight of you walking out into your living room—a black robe wrapped around your body—had him sitting up straight. He reached for the device, flipping it open to see your name flash across the small screen.

Logan couldn't even remember pressing answer. All he knew was that your voice filled his ear seconds later.

"Hi," you said, tone breathy and high. Flashes of you from earlier began to enter his mind.

"Thought you went to sleep honey."

You smiled, pushing the window open—your phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder. "I tried."

"Nightmares?"

"No," you sighed. "Something else."

The feeling from earlier began to lick at his veins again, smoldering beneath the surface of his skin. "Yeah?" You nodded. "What is it?"

The sharp inhale of breath gave him a clear and straight answer. One that had him spreading his legs a bit wider on the couch—eyes fixed on the way you fidgeted with your hands. He wasn't able to get you off earlier; just barely on the precipice of an orgasm before you were rudely interrupted. And though you wouldn't say it out loud, he knew you still felt the remnant of an ongoing fire.

"Wade was kind of an asshole earlier about it," you mumbled.

Logan had never seen you this shy before. He wanted to sear the sight into his mind.

He chuckled, low and raspy; you felt it in your stomach. "He's usually that way."

"He got in the middle of us," you sighed.

"He did." Logan leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, and watched as you stepped a bit closer to the window. "What about it honey?"

"Well–" Your fingers toyed with the tie of your robe, eyes glued to the way he got to his feet and moved towards the glass. "My door is unlocked."

The robe dropped to the ground with a soft flutter and Logan's mouth went dry. You stood bare before him, the phone clutched in your hand—determination on your face. He felt every part of his body scream at the sight of your skin—your breasts and cunt—presented to him this way. You were a marble statue straight out of a museum and he wasn't worthy of even getting a mere glimpse.

Your heart hammered in your chest at the sight of his claws coming free—a growl ripping through the phone line. He looked starving. Practically feral at the sight of you like this. You'd never wanted a man to devour you this way before; as if you were the meal to be served up on a silver platter.

Cold air seeped in through your open window, tightening your nipples, and Logan clutched the side of his window frame hard enough for the wood to crack. Your scent lingered in his nose—driving him past the brink of sanity.

"Don't fuckin' move," he snarled, slamming the phone shut in his large palm and heading straight for his door.

Counting the seconds, you remained stuck on the sight of his now empty apartment. People milled along the street down below—the late night goers that headed towards the subway entrance. You only hoped that no one bothered to look up. Or else they'd see you naked and standing before an open window.

Five minutes barely passed before your door was being shoved open, his boots a loud echo in the stark silence of your apartment. You turned—gasping at the sight of him disheveled and panting. His claws slid back as he shut the door with a soft thud that felt like a gun going off. Whatever words you wanted to say—explanations you longed to give for your behavior—died the second he walked towards you. Intent painted blatantly on his face.

Meeting him halfway, you collided against his body with a breathless kiss. Your fingers clung to his back as his hands gripped your bare thighs and hoisted you up. He stumbled forward, slamming you softly against the nearest wall, and took your mouth with a possession you'd never experienced before.

Logan kissed you with a heady fervor that left you dizzy. After so long, the aching need for you began to ebb into a madness that swallowed him whole.

One that demanded to be felt in its entirety.

"I'm sorry," he gasped against your lips, tongue licking along your teeth. "For leaving."

"Logan–"

He shook his head, gripping the back of your neck to draw you in for another kiss. "'M never leaving you again honey. Got that?"

With a nod, you pulled him back—tasting the remnants of whiskey and a cigar he must have smoked after you left. He growled into you, hips chasing your dripping cunt as it slid along the crotch of his jeans. Soaking him before he could even get a chance to taste.

There was no denying what this would lead towards. What those days of conversations and quick glances would amount to when the tension finally broke. Logan expected to be left with the fragments of a broken relationship that never was. You were adamant on making it become more.

"I want–" You pulled away with a sharp gasp, his lips slotting against your neck—working down the skin with gentle bites. "Want you inside me."

His forehead pressed to your shoulder, a groan ripping from his chest. "Fuck."

Your lips connected to his neck when he began to walk, teeth sinking into the veins that ran down into his shirt. Logan had to struggle to keep his feet straight—his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass. He couldn't figure out how he managed to have such a stroke of luck. What occurred for him to have you in his arms, naked and wanton and grinding against his leaking cock that smeared inside his jeans.

A soft moan was pressed to his ear when he dragged your hips along his. The final steps into your bedroom now turning into a race to get you spread beneath him. To finally have you in ways that left him worried for his own psyche.

"Driving me fuckin' insane honey," he bit out against your ear, dropping you onto the soft mattress.

You smiled—eyes dark and shining with a cloud of lust. "So are you." Your fingers tugged at the bottom of his shirt. "I've been wanting you to touch me for weeks."

He wasn't going to fucking last.

Yanking off his shirt, he let both of them fall to your floor—giving you free reign to drink in the sight of him above you. The soft touch of your fingers trailed down his arms, tracing the veins in fascination. Your lips parted, chest rising and falling with each quick breath, and Logan felt the strings holding his self control in place snap.

He dipped down, sucking your peaked nipple into his mouth with a groan.

"F-Fuck," you sighed, nails digging into his shoulders so hard he felt his skin rip before it healed over. His cock jumped with the pain—hands fisting your soft comforter to keep himself stable.

"Do that again."

He caught a glimpse of your fucked out smile before your fingers were digging into his back, scratching lines across his skin. A loud moan slipped past his lips as he worked his way down your body. Lips trailing along your stomach—teeth sinking into your hips so hard it would hurt tomorrow. And you scratched line after line into his skin.

Adamant on leaving a mark that might stay till the morning.

"I didn't get to taste you," he murmured, hands moving to spread your soft and supple thighs.

"The closet was too small—oh–"

His nose pressed to your mound, inhaling the scent that drove him feral for weeks on end. Logan was fully aware how animalistic he turned the second his eyes landed on your glistening cunt. He wouldn't be surprised if drool began to slip from his mouth at such a pretty sight.

"Fuckin' gorgeous."

Hazel eyes darkened at the sight of you clenching around nothing—your hand delving into his already mussed hair. No response existed when he looked at you like this. When his thumbs spread you obscenely with a hoarse groan.

"Logan," you mewled.

Trying to form a coherent word flew out of your mind, his touch all you could focus on. A sharp cry fell past your lips when his mouth sealed over your cunt. Tongue flicking your clit and thumb sliding between your dripping folds.

Your legs were hitched to his shoulders, body bent upwards as he ate you like his last meal. His eyes fluttered shut with a moan and he sucked at your clit, rolling it along the tip of his tongue. Sounds you'd never heard before ripped from your chest, your fingers scrambling to grab onto his arms. To find an anchor in the dizzying pleasure he dragged you towards.

The simmering heat from hours before rose up in your body quicker than you expected. Reminding you that he'd already brought you to the edge once.

This time wouldn't take long at all.

He groaned, two fingers prodding at your entrance, and buried his tongue between your folds. The wet sound of his mouth sent a flare of need through your chest—drawing your lungs tight and near the precipice of pain. Breath became nonexistent as he lapped at you—his fingers sinking right down to the knuckle. You clawed at his skin, mouth open and chest heaving.

"Fuck–" Rough pads curled along your walls, striking against a spot you'd never reached on your own. It tore a cry from you, your legs now a trembling mess over his shoulders.

But he kept going. Ate you without stopping. As if breathing was secondary to the taste of you spread on his tongue.

"I-I'm gonna—fuck Logan!"

A growl was mumbled into your cunt, eyes now sharp and focused on your face as it screwed up in pleasure. The echo of your slick filled your ears, his fingers pumping into you and mouth drinking down everything you gave him. It all became too much. Until something bright and searing began to unfold in your body.

His teeth scraped your clit with another rumbled sound, and whatever remained to hold you together snapped. A sob of his name was yanked from your throat, fingers gripping at his hair to keep him still as you grinded against his tongue. And he collapsed onto the mattress, hips pushing into the bed while you used him.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes when the final dregs of your release began to seep from your body. Even while his tongue continued to lap at you—roughly moaning at the taste of you leaking into his eager mouth.

"Wait," you sucked in a breath, hand pressed to his head to keep him at bay when pain sparked through your body. "T-Too much."

His lips curled into a smile, canines on display and mouth shiny with your slick. "'M gonna do that again." Your eyes widened in protest, only for him to get to his feet. "But first honey. I'm gonna fuck you."

The flame sparked to life again, slowly simmering at the base of your stomach. You met him halfway, crawling to your knees to reach for his belt buckle. Lips sliding against his in a messy kiss as he shared your taste, licked it into your mouth with a sigh. It wasn't until your hand dipped into his jeans that he stopped you—his eyebrows pulled together and lips swollen.

"Hold on."

"What's wrong?" you murmured, kissing his chest and biting at the muscle.

"Not—ha—" His hand gripped your ass at the feeling of you tugging at his jeans; your fingers slipping down to cup him gently. "Not gonna last very long if you do that bub."

You grinned. "It's only fair. After you got to taste me...James."

"Shit." A hand on your throat dragged you back to his lips, to the hot slide of his tongue along yours. "Later. I'll let ya do whatever the fuck you want with me later."

Oh how you liked the sound of that. Images of getting him beneath you, of his head tipped back in pleasure, filled your mind. They begged you to make it reality.

Logan however had other plans.

"But I want to suck you off," you pouted.

He felt his cock leak down your hand, the pearly precum now spread along your thumb that rubbed at his vein. Weeks of starving for you left him an impatient man. Yet something told him you saw it clearly in the way his whole body tensed. His fingers digging sharply into any part of you he could reach.

Reaching for your leg he hooked it around his waist and knelt on the bed—his jeans and boots in a heap on the floor. Your lips never strayed far from his, fingers dancing along his bare back—feeling the muscles shift beneath hot skin. He wanted to lay you out beneath him, but the need for more began to eat at both your hearts.

This wasn't a quick and fast fuck. He wouldn't leave in the morning with no notice. No, Logan knew that when it came time for the sun to rise in the sky, he'd be back between your thighs with a sated smile on his face.

"Gimme a second honey," he panted, gently removing your hand from his cock. "Don't want to fuck this up."

You laughed, nuzzling his cheek as he dragged his head through your folds. "You won't baby."

The word slipped off your tongue with ease, but he felt like a shot had just gone through his chest. Somewhere between the two weeks spent apart and getting you like this—wrapped around him entirely at peace—Logan made a choice. He understood what this meant. He knew that you weren't temporary.

Perhaps it was stupid of him to dive in so quickly. Perhaps you’d regret this choice in a month or two. But he was tired of hiding from a past version of himself that continued to haunt his waking life.

He wasn't going to be the man who ran.

He would forever remain the man who stayed.

Your face contorted the second he began to slip into your dripping cunt—fingers sharply digging into his shoulders as he stretched you slowly. Teeth sunk into your bottom lip before your head fell back—a guttural moan pulling from your throat at the feel of him.

"Big," you rasped, hips canting down to help him.

White flashed behind his eyes when you clenched, a broken grunt pressed to your chest. "You can take it for me."

"I–" Another short thrust had him slipping into you with a sigh of your name. "O-Oh fuck."

He felt his claws bite at the skin of his knuckles, his teeth now a sharp prick at the top of your breast, as you settled into his lap. Sitting on his cock with a garbled shout of his name. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face back to his, and Logan could feel the pull of his orgasm draw tight in his body at the sight of you entirely fucked out.

"You with me?"

Lips curled into a soft smile, your eyes fluttering open. "Feels like you're in my chest," you mumbled.

Pride bloomed in his stomach, mixing with the heat that ate him alive. "Yeah?"

No answer was given because you'd decided it was time to move with a shift of your hips. He let you take the lead, giving what you could take and pulling back when your face screwed up in pain. He wasn't a small man—that he understood plainly. But the sight of you grinding along his lap, fucking yourself on his cock, had him nearly begging for more.

You gripped his shoulders, clambered to your knees, and sunk down on him again in one swift plunge. Logan choked on his spit the second you started to ride him in earnest. Sinking down on him in short repeated thrusts, you found his lips in a kiss that melted away into a mess of teeth.

"So fuckin' perfect." He gripped at your hips, pulling you down on his red and aching cock. "Takin' me like you were made for it honey."

A whimper met his ears at the slight shift in angle—the head of his cock now pounding against the spongy part of your walls. He grinned at the sound, helping you move just a bit quicker in order to chase the high that built rapidly in your body.

"You were made to fuckin' take it huh?"

You nodded, eyes bleary with tears. "Uh huh," you sighed.

"Made to fuck my cock," he growled. "To cum on it."

"L-Logan–" you whined, thighs shaking with the effort of riding him. He noticed seconds before you did.

"I know baby," he cooed, pushing you back onto the bed and sinking into you with a sharp thrust that sent his name careening from your mouth. "'S too much for you."

Hooking your legs over his shoulders, he claimed your lips in a final kiss before setting a pace that had you clawing at his shoulders. It was almost punishing how good he fucked you. His hips pounded into yours, the repetitive slap of skin against skin now louder than your combined moans.

You felt the string begin to draw tight again, pulling at each muscle and tendon in your body. The walls of your cunt clamped down tight, drawing him in as your hands braced against his chest—your eyes rolling back at the feel of his body dragging against yours.

"There we go," he grunted, fingers sliding through your slickened mess to rub at your clit in small rough circles. "C'mon bub. Fuckin' cum on it yeah?"

"Ah!" Fighting for breath, you felt your entire body break as bliss flooded your system.

The scream of his name pierced his eardrums and Logan swore he felt his soul snap in half at the sight of you so lost in your pleasure. Chasing his own high, he bracketed his arms against your head, his claws now scratching at the wood of your headboard as he fucked into your pulsing cunt. The feel of your hand on his back, your lips against his jaw, sent him flying off behind you.

A rough snarl tore from his mouth as he came, burying himself deep enough to send pain down your thighs. The warmth of him spurting into you sent another flare of heat down your spine, sating whatever unconscious need you harbored to have him this way.

His head dropped to your chest, claws embedded in your now ruined pillow, as his cock began to soften. Your bodies reaching a level of comfort that hadn't been there before.

You ran a hand through his hair, toying with the locks as your eyes fell shut and legs moved to wrap around his hips. It shocked you how much you longed to remain like this. Pressed against his naked body with sleep lingering on the edges of your mind. You nearly asked if he felt the same, but the contented sigh that brushed against your breast gave you the answer you wanted.

"We're doing that again," he mumbled, kissing at your still hard nipple.

"Soon hopefully," you smiled.

"Mm." His cock stirred to life slowly, sending a wave of surprise down your spine. "Careful what you wish for bub."

"At least let me get some water," you mumbled, drawing his face back to yours—thumb running along his cheek. "Then you can–"

Your eyes flew open at the sound of something blasting from across the street. Logan turned with an irritated grunt as a song began to filter through your open living room window. One that you recognized instantly as WHAM!. Careless Whisper if you were shooting for accuracy.

Logan groaned, dropped his face to the crook of your neck. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill him."

A shout bounced off the buildings, Wade's voice suddenly louder than the song. "That's what I'm talking about honey badger! Al give me back my fucking twenty!"

You laughed, trying to listen to what else he said, even as Logan began to kiss a trail down your shoulder. His mind focused on far more important things than his fucking roommate. The song continued to play, Wade singing along horribly, and you suddenly felt your future encompass you with a warm smile.

A life of joy, of passion, of family.

Sinking into his touch with a sigh, you let the worry fall from you in layers. The promise of this, no longer a fantasy.

note: they finally fucked y'all! if you finished all of this then i love you. drink some water per wade's words from earlier.

[myloveforhergoeson]

hold on.... just thought of an online songs au where daisy put in the link to a performance by brand new day instead.... out of the three which would daisy be most enamored by and what would her dynamic with each of them be?

oh... oh wow.... my friend i love you and your big beautiful mind... this is such a cool little concept. a foray into original fiction LMAO

first, to share something slightly on topic, roxy exists in the os universe lmao. she's with james because i made her and i said so!!!!!! in this world, the thing with bnd still happened, so they're not together anymore, she moves schools and she's focusing on her own thing :)

so au of an au, daisy accidentally finds a brand new day video. right off the bat i think the music is entirely too much for her unfortunately; even though kendall sings pop punk music too, she's kind of micro-dosing with his acoustic versions. it's going to take some time for her to be like "oh wow, okay this is cool" because like all the music she listens to comes from her grandparents and church...

if she were to find herself interacting with roxy, mag, and dani i think her dynamic with each of them would be pretty different!

roxy and daisy would be friends, i like to think, but the two of them don't really have much in common. they both like to read, so that's a nice start. roxy doodles in her notebook sometimes and daisy loves to draw. but other than that... rox is super into pop culture and the latest happening and daisy lives in a completely different world. so i think their dynamic would mirror the one she and kendall will have in online songs when they first start seriously talking; just kind of showing her the ropes of tech and pop culture and whatnot. i don't think either of them would be romantically attracted to the other, but i do think secretly they'd each think the other was so cool and sweet and nice in their own special ways. daisy has traits roxy wishes she did and vice versa!

mag and daisy... look. i'm a sucker for good girl x bad boy. gotta be one of my fav tropes. but... bnd's music is still too much for dais right off the bat so i think that mag wouldn't really fuck with her after he learned that lol. his one goal in life is breaking the music industry and he's not really wasting time interacting with or talking to people that don't really slot into the future he's set up for himself. but i mean he wouldn't be dick to her or anything. i can see him like joking around with her about her lack of pop culture knowledge and telling her the crazy celebrity conspiracies he def believes in. maybe if they were older and mag mellowed out a bit more, he could find himself attracted to her if they had more in common. i don't see a world where daisy ever really finds herself attracted to him though.

dani and daisy is interesting to me... she'd probably find herself enamored with them more than the other two. there's still the music barrier i fear, but, dani comes from a pretty traditional and religious family like daisy does. i think that despite their religious upbringings being different, they could relate to each other on that front! i do think she'd find the drums more interesting to play than guitar just because it's so much more animated - so if she found a really good clip of dani drumming i could see her watching that a lot like she watched kendall's video :) i also imagine that of the three, dani is most chill. they're slightly more introverted than mag and roxy are so their energy level would also be way better for daisy to handle!! i think given time they could find themselves in a little something-something :p dani is pretty fond of nature too, just like daisy is too. they can have some sweet hikes all around minnesota and virginia

idk what do yall think? maybe i just don't like mag so much i'm not able to see his similarities to kendall lol. because, i mean, daisy is going to learn that kendall has a mean streak eventually so... hm. interesting!! tysm for this cross-over question i just ADORE IT <3

[ca-suffit]

Virginia's black anon has to be anon because we all know the only accounts who associate with her already and it's only 3 at most 😂 I guess nobody can make fake accounts when it's supposed to be for a black fan they don't hate.

There have been some racists comments floating around, but I never saw that from your blog.

Get your reading glasses then girl.

Your opinions have been a reflection of Louis as a character and not about Jacob as a black man.

This is where this nonny comment reads white as hell because what the fuck does this even mean? These are not separate things, baby. Louis is still a black man too! That's your whole fucking problem.

You can defend Jacob all day and say you love black people all day and still say the most antiblack shit ever in the next breath. You've been being told this and instead of listening, you and others keep targeting black fans as some kind of ignorant, illiterate mob out to get you. Idek why you started doing this but THAT is the antiblack part. It's not all just about claiming you "accept" this or that. You also have to actually DO THAT PART. Now it's clear why you think black fans gently teasing Jacob's hair is the real racism while you call Louis, Claudia, and Armand liars and manipulators solely to protect the character of Lestat (the REAL victim to you) and don't see a problem with it. This is why the white fandom mindset is dumb and dangerous af because it leads to stripping race from everything and defaulting to whiteness. This is why your insistence on "the books!!!" is bullshit and nobody cares, because the books are about white people and you're acting like that's still what this is when it's not! And when anyone says otherwise you make a big dramatic show of how you're being unfairly attacked.

IWTV fandom needs a scapegoat and that will be me so here’s my controversial takes..

And here's Neil's stupid ass once again missing the point of anything and still going on about fictional shit instead of reflecting on her antiblackness as well (why does everyone talk like a cartoon villain too lol). You love being the victim and changing topics instead of directly addressing anything. You all are the ones always saying you're such big critical thinkers, yet someone comes and spells it out real slow for you over and over and you still miss the point. This is why nobody is afraid of you or even takes you seriously, you're so fucking constantly stupid.

-way WAYYYY before the show I had a theory for the book that Louis killed Paul but now I’m afraid to talk about it even though it would make so much sense to him refusing to be labeled as a “killer”

Why are you so afraid to talk about it? Afraid the big, mean black fans might call you racist? If you have things to say, why don't you say them? Stop being such a baby about it. It's always the loudest mouths who want to say "I'm so scared u guys" over things that anyone else could just talk about. You're afraid to be called a racist because you only think about yourself and have nothing to really say after all.

You're the only ones who constantly move goalposts when it comes to talking about Louis. You make up this intentionally manipulative shit to say it's others (really just black fans tbh) who strip away Louis as a full character by not wanting him labeled as a liar or "bad person" but then you go around slinging this horseshit. If you think he killed Paul then write your big essay why. Why are you holding back now because they're black, you giant ass coward? Say it if you're gonna say it. This half assed ready-to-go-victim shit is ugly. I thought you were a tough book reader who could handle big topics. Pick a side already, asshole.

[2uuno]

Skaia, VA: On Aradia

ao3 link

You moved to Skaia, Virginia, the week after Aradia Megido died.

She was fifteen- your age- and survived by her mother and sister. They lived in the East Side Apartments and she loved archeology and history. She wanted to be a museum curator when she grew up.

Everyone is talking about it- she wasn’t well known before her death, but a child murder tends to become a pretty big deal in a small town.

She was found face down in Deuce Ampora’s swimming pool, stabbed with a box cutter twenty six times, her hair loose and flowing around her, her body limp and bloated. The cops have no leads, no suspicions, no ideas. All they know is she is dead, and someone else was responsible.

Your father doesn't want you to know about it. He didn't like you getting involved in this sort of thing, but your older sister Jane is a huge fan of detective stories and murder investigations and true crime and all that, so she keeps you updated on her findings through the town grapevine or whatever.

So, yeah. You know a little bit of what was happening.

Enough that when you wake up to find Aradia floating above you, you don’t stop to think about nightmares or bad dreams or even really entertain any possibility other than this being a ghost of a murdered child.

You yelp, lurching out of bed, scrambling on your hands and knees across the floor, where you put your back to the closet door, your chest heaving, your sock clad feet scrambling for purchase against the hardwood floor.

She just watches you.

She looks very much like a classic Japanese ghost girl, with long, long, dark hair that drips onto your pillow, and a black dress (which you’d discover later was actually a sweater and skirt) and solid white eyes. She’s floating at an angle, like she’s kneeling midair and leaning forward, her head turned to look at you.

Abruptly, she turns, twisting in the air, and stretches out a sneaker, slowly, unnaturally, she puts it down on the ground, then the other one. And then she starts… walking is the wrong word. She’s putting one foot in front of the other, but her body isn’t really moving with them. She sort of looks like a mime or a water aerobics dancer, her body behind her legs, her legs behind her feet. It would look kind of goofy if you weren’t so damn afraid.

But eventually, she’s in front of you, and she lowers herself to a crouch, and leans in. Her face is dead and loose, not an ounce of emotion in it.

“You can see me.” She says, and it's not a question. Her voice is odd, layers of voices talking over each other, some screaming, some sobbing, some laughing. A chorus of emotions. “You can hear me.”

“What… what the fuck?” You whisper, your heart well in your throat at this point. “How… you’re Aradia, right?”

“I am.”

“You’re dead.”

“I am.”

“How are you here?”

“Have you ever seen a person die?” She asks, instead.

“What?”

“Have you ever seen-” She leans in, her sour breath washing over you. “- a person die?”

“No? I mean, yeah, I saw my Nana pass, but-”

“That’s why you can see me. That’s why you have to solve my murder.”

“Why can’t you just… tell me who did it?”

“This town is a strange one,” She says. “The dead are more powerful here, the living are odder. No one here knows the depth of it, no one here recognizes the layers, the valleys and mountains of the oddity. No one grasps the peak of the tragedy.”

“What?”

“What’s your name?”

“John,” You gasp, watching her raise one hand to trace the air next to your face, like she’s stroking it. “John Egbert.”

“Hello John Egbert,” She says, then leans in even closer, and hisses. “Find my killer.”

The next day you visit her grave. The funeral had apparently been the morning before, which has eerie implications that aren’t lost on you. As you stand there with your bike, waiting for something to happen, it finally occurs to you that this is kind of weird of you.

Following the instructions of what was almost definitely a bad dream, you had to be losing your mind.

You turn to leave.

There’s a girl behind you.

For a second, you scream and jolt, tripping backwards over your bike and almost falling backwards before one arm snaps out and catches your collar. You freeze.

The girl looks around your age, but maybe a bit taller than you, with brown skin and long hair that looks bleach fried to hell and back, a pair of wire frame glasses sliding down her long, thin nose. She’s grinning at you, revealing yellow teeth that are just a little crooked. She’s wearing a pair of baggy blue jeans, a flannel, and a massive denim jacket, despite the relative warmth.

You don’t notice any of those at first. What you notice first is the brutal burn scar that covers half her face, and the way her left sleeve is tied right in the middle of where her upper arm should be.

“Whoa,” She says, loudly. “Are you, like, good?”

“You-” You gasp, taking a deep breath. “God, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” She says, clearly not sorry. She releases your collar. “Whatcha doin’ here, new kid?”

“How do you know I’m new?”

“This town is tiny, I know everyone,” She rolls her eyes. No, just one… is the other fake or something? “So?”

“I… I had a dream last night that the dead girl was talking to me, telling me to solve her murder. So I… never mind, this is dumb.”

“Yeah, kinda,” She tilts her head. “But why stop?”

“What?”

“It’s May, new kid,” She says, spreading her arms. “School’s out, what else do you have to do?”

“My name’s John,” You mutter. “And… I don’t know, watch Nic Cage movies all summer?”

“Sounds lame.”

“It’s not.”

She quirks her singular eyebrow at you, tilting her head. “Okay… hey, what if I help you?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m curious. How good of a detective are you, new kid?”

“John.”

“Whatever,” She shrugs. “Well?”

“I mean… not great, but if I can talk to ghosts…”

“That’s the spirit,” She slings an arm over your shoulder. “Come on, June.”

“Oh now you’re just fucking with me.”

She laughs, a loud, abrupt sound. “Come on, come on, where do you live?”

You end up taking her to your house, settling her down on your bed and pulling out an ancient cork board, stealing some red yarn from your dad’s stash of sewing and knitting supplies, and getting some post-it notes.

“Okay, we need a list of suspects,” You say, before pausing and huffing. “I don’t… I don’t know anyone here.”

“I can handle that part,” She shrugs. “Give it here.”

You oblige, watching over her shoulder as she jots down ten names. Her handwriting sucks, but you can make out the names alright.

“Hey, so…” You frown. “Who are these?”

“Classmates of ours,” She shrugs. “Ones with motives, and cause or whatever.”

“Wait, these are all kids?”

“Well, I figure the cops are gonna look into the adults,” She says, tilting her head. “So we check out the kids.”

“...Okay, that makes sense… I guess.”

“Come on, Johnny, trust me on this one.”

You nod, finally. “Alright, I do. I trust you.”

She grins, wide.

You pin the suspects up in the center of the board, stepping back. “Okay. We can investigate two every day, I guess, interrogate them sort of, try to get a vibe of their feel.”

“A vibe of their feel?”

“What?”

“You sound ridiculous, that’s not how police talk.”

“I’m not talking like a police officer, I’m talking like a teenager.”

She rolls her eye again. In this light, illuminated by your bedside lamp, she’s kind of pretty, in a weird way. She’s fiddling with her collar, buttoning and unbuttoning it, eye fixed on the board with a strange intensity.

“Okay,” She says, finally. “I think Eridan is the first suspect. It was his pool, anyway.”

“Eridan Ampora?” You ask, squinting at the scrawl. “That’s good. We’ve got a hint at least. Do you… know him well?”

“You can say that.”

“Okay, good.”

You sit on the bed next to her, stiffly and uncomfortably, kind of embarrassed to be this close at all. She clearly notices, and snorts, rolling her eye again.

“John!” Your father calls up the stairs, just in the nick of time. “Lunch is ready!”

You sigh, standing up, brushing imaginary dust from your pants, trying to think of how to politely ask her to leave. “Uh, so…”

“Yes, I can stay for lunch,” She smiles. “Thank you.”

“Uh, no-”

“You wouldn’t kick a lady out without knowing if she’s going to have a nice warm meal waiting at home, would you?”

You pause, then slowly shake your head.

“Good, then I’m staying.”

You sigh, nodding to the door. She brushes carelessly past you, trotting down the stairs happily. Your father raises an eyebrow as you come trailing down the stairs behind her. You sigh and shrug. He doesn’t seem all that upset or bothered, just turns to her, smiling.

“Hello, welcome to our home,” He stretches out a hand. “I'm Jeff Egbert.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr Egbert!” She smiles. “I'm Vriska Serket!”

You jolt a bit, realizing you didn’t know her name before this. Nice move, genius.

Jane comes in from the garden where she’s been working on getting a new hobby, and the four of you sit down around the table to dig into your father’s macaroni casserole.

Vriska sticks out like a sore thumb.

It’s incredibly hard to miss her, hard to look anywhere without your gaze sliding back to her. Neither of you say anything for the whole meal, either, it’s just your father and sister chatting away about whatever while you stare at the plate in front of you. It’s not like it was properly awkward or anything it was just… weird having her there. Uncomfortable, even.

Or maybe it was awkward actually.

Who knows.

[scarlet--wiccan]

What would be your ideal dynamic for wanda and vision in a current comic? I like both characters and I appreciate their relationship in the past but I don’t like the thought of them being together again (not just because of Jericho but because of all the baggage). I wish they could be good friends. They have a history but it’s not who they are

Well, I definitely don't want them to get back together as a couple. There are many reasons, but in terms of Wanda's characterization, I think that it would undermine her growth and maturity.

Wanda's publication history is pretty clearly divided into two periods-- before Disassembled/House of M, and after. Her character, post-HoM, has been defined by regret and trauma in way that she never really had been before, with her primary motive becoming redemption. The traumatic events and the layers of sexism, ableism, etc. in her writing had been adding up for years before Disassembled, but that event took things to an unprecedented level of cruelty, in both the treatment of the character, and in the message it sent about... basically everything Wanda represents.

In my mind, the only way to move forward from that is to textually acknowledge and interrogate all of the ways in which that storyline was messed up. That still hasn't happened, at least not in a way that is fully satisfying to me, but writers have certainly tried. I think, for Wanda, the most important thing is to let her acknowledge the injustices that she was subjected to, and show that she has chosen to seek healing and restitution.

In other words, she needs to have a marked shift in growth and maturity. She cannot ever be the same person she was in the 70s, 80s, or even the 90s. To be clear, Wanda's redeemed herself several times over, but I believe that the weight of her experiences and the strength gained from her survival need to remain at the core of her characterization, especially for all of her recent magical prowess and personal victories over her past abusers-- namely Chthon-- to feel earned.

Obviously, it should be possible for a character to reunite with an old lover and lose all of their personal growth, but this is Marvel Comics. Characters cycle back to older character treatments, older relationships, even older personalities all the time. I mean, a huge part of the early Krakoa era was about gently resetting characters to their most evergreen iterations. That's fine, it's part of the medium, but I think Wanda needs to stay out of that cycle, and I just don't have faith that the writers and editors will be able to put her and the Vision together without giving into nostalgia, to say nothing of the M C U synergy.

I have loads of other objections, but here are the main two--

1) Wanda and Vision have a ton of recent baggage, from just the last decade. Vision was cruel to her in AvX; he went through something very heavy and traumatic with Virginia, which was also kind of messed up for Wanda; and— this is the big one— they were mutually raped in Secret Empire. The text does not properly acknowledge that fact, but that's because Secret Empire was a really fucked up book in the first place.

2) I think the fact that Wanda and Jericho's relationship never got any serious page time or development after Uncanny Avengers is a crying shame, and I think that it is in part due to racism. Breaking them up before they get their time to shine would be a huge disappointment, and I feel like doing it so unceremoniously just to pander to Wanda//Vision fans, let's be honest, would feel kinda antiblack. To me! I'm just saying!

Anyways, here's Vision, Wanda, and Jericho (& Clint!) having a lunch together in Avengers: No Road Home. They're pals, Wanda and Vision are friendly exes who care about each other a lot, but they're just very different people from who they were back when they were together. That is exactly how I want their dynamic to be written in the upcoming Avengers.

[henrysglock]

A mind-fuck that always gets me:

So...supposedly the Creels got a small fortune from Virginia's deceased Great Uncle. That's her grandfather's brother.

Virginia was born in 1923, so that would put her parents as having been born around 1895. That means her grandparents would have been born around 1867.

That money, that small fortune...Where did it come from, exactly? More importantly...how does it still exist?

Lets look at what was happening in the US between 1867 and 1959:

Reconstruction Era: Post Civil-War rebuilding.

The Guilded Age: Rise of Monopolies

The Progressive Era: Fall of Monopolies

World War I

The Post-War Recession

The Spanish Flu

The Roaring '20s Economic Boom

The Great Depression

The Recession of 1937

World War II

The Recession of 1949

So...how does the family still have a small fortune after all that?

If the money came from the southern pre-civil war economy, a good portion of it likely would have been lost during that time. (See: Antebellum south -> Reconstruction, as in Gone With The Wind)

If it came from participation in monopolies via the industrial era of the 1840's, it would have been finite as of the busting era and would not grow further. Thus, it would likely be eaten into by WWI, the recession that followed, and the Spanish flu.

If it survived that and boomed again in the 20's, it would have been walloped by the run on the banks when the stock market crashed in 1929, unless they were already part of the super-elite who managed to maintain their money by fighting the social reform put in place to assist the poor. Even so, the money would likely have been eaten into in a major way, unless they were already a dynastic family.

And then there's WWII and the recessions that bookend it.

So...how did they manage to hold onto all that money?

Who exactly is Virginia Creel? She's 100% old money...but old money only survived in a handful of families. So...who the fuck are Virginia's relatives?

And on top of this, her Great Uncle died in 1959? That would put him between 85-95 years old depending on exactly when he was born. The man survived all that? Reconstruction era, two World Wars, a pandemic? He lived to be that old?

It's not impossible by any stretch, especially if they are a dynastic family who could afford the best of the best re: doctors...

That's if she's even American at all, she very well could be Russian or German, especially since Brenner is a German name...

Either way: WHO THE FUCK ARE THEY? HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

Unless, of course...there was never a Great Uncle at all.

Which is more plausible:

The money survived this long and ended up being given directly to Virginia by her 90-some year old Great Uncle. The Creels just happened to move into a house right up the street from HNL by chance. Virginia also just happened to find a Brenner, an expert, by chance.

or

The money came from the lab the same way the Byers' money did for Cali. Both families move into houses substantially nicer than their old ones, both looking for a fresh start away from the shadows of the past, both families end up once again placed close to lab facilities run by a Brenner for easy retrieval and access. Virginia and a Brenner having been in cahoots since before the Creels ever showed up in Hawkins...Virginia knowing Henry has abilities...Virginia know a) that she "needed" an expert, b) where to find one, and c) just happened to find Brenner...(read: either Brenner had his fingers in that and moved them all like chess pieces without them being fully aware, or Virginia knew him from before Hawkins)

Every day I sit here wracking my brains trying to figure out what the fuck is going on in the house of commons re: the Creels.

[thegreatobsesso]

Find the word tag (note, worth, feign, wing, imaginary)

Thank you for the tag, @jamieanovels!!!

note

Simon POV

This morning, there was a simple note on the table where the coffee maker should be: Machine broken. :(

He stared at it as if it’d crack under his disapproval and admit it was joking. Well, at least that explained why none of his friends were here, and this time the explanation for it was simple.

Even Dig had started avoiding him lately. Whenever Simon was near, he started repeating the chorus of some irritating pop song in his head so Simon couldn’t hear what he was thinking.

Yes, things were about to change, but just like that? Like a light switch? It didn’t seem fair and in uncaffeinated moments like this he started feeling sorry for himself.

worth

Simon/Callie POV 🤗

Simon was her, watching the whole thing from some point above, a silent drifting between the floor and ceiling like a movie inside a dream where she almost did it again.

Not meaning to - she wasn’t sure if he’d been trying to kill her but she definitely wasn’t trying to kill him. She was just, doing. She didn’t mean to.

She never meant to. It ought to be engraved on her tombstone. Here lies Callie Ray: She didn’t mean to.

The next morning, she dragged herself out of the dilapidated old house, blinking into the sun, with all her belongings smashed into a single suitcase. She couldn’t hang around anymore, not after that. She’d have to start again somewhere else.

That was alright - rebooting, again and again. She had yet to build anything worth holding onto.

She didn’t even cry.

feign

Simon POV

“Not guilty,” she said.

Not his imagination. Shocked gasps and gauche, intrusive popping of cameras; Virginia’s pained whimper next to him. His heart stopped.

“No, no. Wait.” Callie’s voice cut through the clamor. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry, I meant the other one.”

Virginia squeezed his hand. Riley sat stone-still as ever, her gaze fixed on Callie. The judge banged his gavel and called for order, for Callie to take the proceedings seriously, and to restate her plea for the record while she looked around the room, feigning alarm through thinly veiled delight.

“Guilty, I swear,” she declared, her voice as loud and clear as it’d ever been. “You have to forgive me, your honor, it’s been a tiring couple days. But I totally did it, hundred percent, guilty of murder in the first degree.”

wing x2

Callie POV

Now she had her bearings. It would be down the hall, up three flights of stairs, left, past the common room, up and right to get to her old room in the graduate wing. The opposite direction down the hall, around the courtyard, up a small flight of stairs and down another to the entrance hall. She knew how to get to the classrooms from here, the underclassmen wings she grew up in, the dining hall, the rooftop courtyards.

None of this mattered, so why was she reciting it like the rosary? She was as much a prisoner here as she’d been in prison itself. She couldn’t wander through the corridors, curl up on a common room couch, linger in front of the fires in the entrance hall and practice spells while she watched people pass by.

There used to be a portrait of Dorian Page at the base of the stairs that led to the headmaster’s quarters, surrounded by smaller portraits of former headmasters. Now Dorian was a small portrait too, and Bennett’s picture loomed over her instead.

Acid churned in her stomach.

imaginary

Callie POV

Maybe she wasn’t special. Maybe she never would be, and chasing it would be her downfall, just like dad always said. We mustn’t seek our own glory.

Maybe the thing to do was move back to her hometown, find a guy to marry, pop out a couple kids and stock shelves at the supermarket. Wear cardigans. Mom jeans. Watch the kids throw toys all over the floor and run circles around the house screaming at the top of their lungs while her husband watched game shows in his fucking recliner. He was an accountant or a mechanic or some other kind of skim-milk sad-sack and he was nothing whatsoever like Peter.

Like getting T-boned by a semi: one moment she was gripping the orblex, stewing over the laziness of her imaginary faceless future husband and the next-

Bullshit. What the fuck? She shook her head. Crazy-dust must’ve settled while she was lost in her thoughts.

Double down. Focus.

What do you want, Callie Ray, you fucking wreck?

Tagging @dontjudgemeimawriter, @chauceryfairytales, @drippingmoon, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams​ and @pertinax--loculos​ with the new words break, fix, hold, piece and together :)

[voicesfromthepicket]

Kendall, Literature & Creative Writing PhD Student, UC Santa Cruz

I joined the Department of Literature 8 years ago, one of two applicants accepted into the second ever cohort of the Creative/Critical Concentration. I received a GSI appointment in Creative Writing my second quarter here, and have continued to contribute a significant number of courses as the Instructor of Record in my primary field. Even back in 2015, I discovered what my newer colleagues know all too well: Santa Cruz is ensnared in a housing crisis and escalating costs of living. I moved seven times in three years (including tenuous Craigslist sublets & crashing on friends’ couches during summer months) before being fortunate enough to find a tenable living situation. Relative housing security has come with its own costs, however, including structural issues with plumbing, roofing, and appliances; significant rat infestations; a revolving door of five other housemates; and safety concerns related to vandalism and trespassing.

The irony of preparing lesson plans on Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own”—in which Woolf predicates intellectual productivity on adequate material conditions—while I struggled to make a home here is not lost on me.

Over the years, I have also had to supplement my UC income with a number of side hustles ranging from retail to catering, housekeeping to intensive high school summer programs.

I share all this not because my experience is the exception, but because it is the norm for graduate students who want to exist, let alone thrive, in Santa Cruz. Consequently, many of my cohort members chose alternative paths.

At least three of my peers quit or transferred within our first year. After two years, I was the only local member of my cohort. And more than any personal financial stability, I mourned this loss of community, a vital creative force.

So I pull hard on this slack, trying to produce for my students what Santa Cruz has failed to produce for me. The space of the classroom is a community—a microcosm of society—what bell hooks would call a “contact zone.”

When I ask my creative writing students to share and respond to one another’s work, I am really asking them to be good neighbors.

When I invite my students to revel in the excess of poetic language, I am really inviting them to honor difference & multiplicity.

When I require my students to revise their submissions, I am really requiring them to re-envision, to imagine, to, as Ezra Pound has said, “make new.”

I want the role of higher public education to be practicing the conditions of change that will bolster more compassionate citizens, more critical thinkers, and more daring makers against a pretty fucked up world.

And I believe striking graduate student workers and researchers want the same. I believe this so strongly that it was worth being effectively fired for 3 quarters as a result of participating in the wildcat strike, and I believe this so strongly that I strike again, out of love. It is because I love teaching and writing at this university that I demand the UC do better. I would not be doing my job if I didn’t strike—if I did not hold the UC accountable to the same values to which I hold my students.

Don’t get me wrong—I strike because I do want the UC to straight up give me more money. I am exhausted by having to choose between repairing my car or paying my medical bills. I am angry with a system that tells me with every trip to the food pantry when I’m broke at the end of a month that I don’t matter, that Literature doesn’t matter.

But I also strike for my students, my kindred meaning-makers.

I strike for my faculty mentors, whose seminars & research have radicalized me.

I strike for my friends at other, increasingly corporatized universities.

I strike for my parents, who know nothing about poetry, but who have nonetheless instilled in me that anything worth having is worth taking risks for.

And, as grandiose at it might sound, I strike for the future of quality higher education.

I hope you will, too.

[thomasxking]

It was nice to just sit back and share all the latest gossip in his life with Alexander – at least provide him with some degree of entertainment from his own issues with both Patrick and Steven. Of course, Alex would have to drop the occasional input regarding who he was doing or how he was doing them – the biggest surprise for him was probably the fact that he had slept with Nathan at the cabanas that one time. “I mean, we were pretty fucking spent and he did a very good job at pleasing me so… why not? He’s quite good too. Not just physically but he has that sort of personality that doesn’t make me want to vomit five seconds after he opens his mouth.” Not to mention that he really knew how to fuck him and definitely knew how to take it like a champ and still say he wanted more once all was said and done. And when it came to Renan? “I mean – if you walked in the office that night, you’d be a spectator. Wouldn’t be that different from me jerking him off in front of the whole club and give him head to finish him off.” Again – Thomas was completely and utterly unapologetic about the things he did. Life was too short to have any modicum of regrets and he would better live it up rather than sulk down on his corner. “Both of them have something that attracts me. The looks, the personality… you can’t blame me for being greedy and wanting them both at the same time. Shit – that would probably be the hottest threesome in the history of threesomes.”

At the mention of doing something similar to his issue with Patrick and Steven, all Thomas could do was laugh. “Honestly, if you going gladiator fight and winner keeps you? I’m betting all my money on Patrick. Have you seen him? Bitch will snap the Blackwell in half like a damn twig seconds after the match starts.” No offense to Steven, he was probably a very strong man if he could toss Alex around like a rag doll – but one of them was a personal trainer whose life had all been about gyms since he was still a teenager. Steven had no damn chance. “And Mike…?” Thomas paused for a moment, understanding where his brother was coming from. The last time someone came around asking too many questions, they ended up feeding Patrick’s pigs back in Virginia. “He satisfied all of his curiosity. Annoying at first? Oh, absolutely… but he did agree to a strip poker game with me, which means that he might not be as stuck-up as you believe he is. I mean, he’s agreed to a strip poker game with me. That alone should be enough to let us know that he might know how to have fun. And I don’t know… there’s just something about him that works. That brooding, mysterious vibe of his. Such a turn-on.” There was a pause as Thomas simply moved from his place on the couch to just lay by Alex’s side, placing his head on his brother’s lap – wanting nothing more than to feel him close. Not only because he also needed it but he wanted for Alex to know that no matter what… he would be there for him. “Look at us. You have two guys that will fight to the death for you and you can’t seem to pick one… and I’m the broken little fucker than can’t seem to keep anyone he cares about close.” Alex being the exception of course. “Everyone I ever liked or befriended just ended up leaving.” Like Noah, for instance. “You let them in and they won’t leave. I let them in… and they can’t run to the hills fast enough. Things were so much easier when we weren’t owners of this business. We did whatever the fuck we wanted – and we didn’t have to worry one second about our emotional status or relationships.”

“Misery loves company,” he chuckled, though knew that no matter the situations that Thomas had gotten himself in they’d never come close to the mess that Alex was swimming in. It sucked, but perhaps his brother had at least something to tide him over, give him a good laugh so that he’d stop moping around about his piss poor situation. He watched as his brother plopped right down ready to spill whatever fun stories he had, thankful that he could be there for him like this, though as the luau was mentioned he could only groan. The luau was when his entire world imploded, of course he remembered the event, more importantly he remembered his brother messaging him that Steven was back. To hear that Thomas’s night went a lot smoother though, Nathan being someone that Alexander couldn’t quite put a name to a face with, but he had to at least be decent if his brother let him fuck him. That wasn’t the most surprising of news though, it’s what followed, that he actually allowed himself to sleep with the other - he didn’t just leave like usual. Alexander’s eyes widened, mouth actually fell open, “did he slip something into your drink?” He teased, though he liked that his brother could find a man around the island to get comfortable like that with. He needed happiness just as much as Alex did, and that display showed that he was at least open to more intimate moments.

“Jack seems to be on your side for once and not so much mine,” that fucker, Alexander would have to have a talk to him about where his allegiance rested. He was all for him giving Thomas news and information, but he would expect the same in return. “I heard rumors about it, you were quite the talk at Rum Runners the other night,” not that Alexander was part of any of those conversations, but it was hard not to hear drunken rants and rumors being tossed around so casually. At the mention of bringing the man to their office upstairs of the club all Alex could do was again laugh, “you’re lucky I didn’t show up that night.” Could you imagine what would have came of Alexander walking in on the scene of a drunk Renan getting fucked by his brother? He shook his head, though at the mention of both the boys invited to the bedroom. “We talking threesome, or fight to the death and winner takes all sort of thing, gladiator style?” Hm, perhaps that’s what he should do for Patrick and Steven, some big gladiator event where they fight to the death and then he doesn’t have to choose for himself. He’d let the fates, gods, whoever the fuck decide. “You’re giving me ideas, brother, not good ones, but ideas nonetheless…”. He teased, his smile widening as he could feel himself drawing from the horrible foul mood he’d been in.

When the FBI agent was brought up, out of the three men that were talked about, he of course was the only one that Alexander actually could put a name to a face. “That fucking prude?” He burst out laughing, now this would be good, “you make sure to get that damn stick out of his ass when you get him on the ropes, how he can walk around with it planted there all day is beyond me but fuck, bet you can mine diamonds up there he’s clenched so fucking hard.” He couldn’t stop laughing now, Mike being the one that really sent his mood upwards. “There’s no doubt he’s got to look good out of all those clothes, the fucker needs to loosen up,” though when he mentioned the questions about how business was ran Alex simply shook his head, “he’s going to ask one too many questions, dig just a bit too deep, and it’s not going to be good for the man. He best know when to quit,” which at least it sounded like he had been distracted well enough by his brother to stop with the questions for now. “Fuck, definitely did the trick, thanks for that, I needed a good laugh.”

[perfectprettypisces]

In Between a Rock and a Rooster • B.R.B • Part 1 

Pairing: Rooster x Fem!Mitchell!OC

Synopsis: Ever since Charlotte’s father, Maverick, pulled Bradley’s papers to the naval academy and set him back four years, Charlotte’s been caught between the two most important men in her life. And when they all suddenly find themselves back in Miramar, a lot has changed, but the one thing that hasn’t: Rooster’s resentment towards Maverick. With all three of them being together for the first time in years, who knows what will happen?

Warnings: angst, swearing, completely made up my own timeline (like fr pretty sure none of it is accurate in terms of real life but oh well)

WC: 3.6k

Series Masterlist • Top Gun Masterlist

Next Part

“Bradley? I’m home!” Charlotte calls out, walking into the door of their Virginia home. It was Saturday and both of them were off of work, Rooster electing to stay back and prepare lunch for the two of them while she ran errands.

“In here!” he calls from the direction of the kitchen.

She tosses her keys in the dish by the door and moves to make her way to the kitchen when a buzz from her phone halts her. She fishes for her phone in her purse, finally getting a hold of it and tapping the screen to see one notification. A text from her father.

Dad: They’ve called me back to TOPGUN.

She tosses her purse on the couch and continues further into the house. She’s still staring down at the text when she enters the kitchen. 

Why?

She fires off her response before pocketing her phone, attempting to shake the ominous text from her dad. “Did you check the mail? It was supposed to come today,” she asks.

Her question is answered when she finds Rooster hunched over the bar with a stack of mail next to him and a letter clutched in his hands.

“How do you feel about taking a trip to San Diego?” he says, a playful glint in his eyes.

Charlotte freezes, hoping Rooster doesn’t notice when her eyes widen slightly. The torn envelope next to him looks official, and with a closer look she can see the words Navy Department printed on the top left corner. 

This has to be a coincidence. “Why?” she chances, hoping he won’t say what he thinks he’ll say.

“They want me back at TOPGUN,” he says, confusion mixed with a twinge of pride evident on his face. It takes everything in her to not let her breath hitch at his admission. There’s no way this was a coincidence.

“Wow,” she says, blowing out a puff of air from her lips. Her shock is genuine but Bradley thinks it’s just because of the unexpected news. “What for?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs.

Another buzz from her phone snaps her out of her dazed state. She takes it out of the pocket of her jeans, hoping her dad can offer her more context.

Dad: I don’t know.

Fuck.

“You want me to come with you?” she clarifies, finding it odd that he’d invite her to come. This was essentially a deployment and she’d never gone with him on any of his past ones. Did he know Maverick was going to be there and wanted her to run interference? By his calm and borderline excited attitude, she doubts it.

“Yeah, why not? It’s perfect,” he states. He turns on the barstool, beckoning her over to stand between his legs. He squeezes her hips, her heart nearly melting at the dopey grin he has painted across his lips.

“I have a job, y’know,” she says, rubbing her hands over his shoulders. It’s a lame excuse and she knows it. Her job wasn’t her dream job by any means, but that didn’t mean she could just up and leave for however long Rooster’s deployment would last.

“A job that you’re miserable at. Baby, you’ve been wanting to take a sabbatical for a while, no better time than the present,” he reasons. “And what better place to take it than the place we fell in love not once, but twice?”

Charlotte could swoon at his words, momentarily forgetting about the elephant in the room named Maverick.

Despite growing up together in Miramar, they were years out of contact when Bradley was called to TOPGUN for the first time. Bradley had been stationed in Virginia while Charlotte remained in California. She’d finished her own schooling and was working under a man named Jimmy as a bartender. Bradley will never forget walking into a random bar he was meeting the other pilots at, only to be met with his first love.

“Y’know, I’m starting to think you want me to be a housewife, Bradshaw,” Charlotte smirks, wrapping her arms around his neck and pecking him on the lips. “Always trying to get me away from my job to go gallivanting with you.”

“As much as I think you’d be the sexiest housewife there ever was, the only thing I want you to be is happy,” Rooster says sincerely, running his thumb back and forth on the exposed skin from where her shirt was riding up.

“I am happy.”

“Are you?” he asks, not out of spite but genuine curiosity.

Charlotte’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, unsure of where the sudden shift in the conversation had come from. “Where’s this coming from?” she asks worriedly.

“Baby, I’m not blind. Your job, being away from home and living in Virginia; it’s weighing on you and I can’t help but think it’s my fault,” he says. “I just don’t want you to have any regrets.”

She’d be lying if what he said wasn’t partially true. Her job at a law firm near base was anything but great. The hours were shitty, the people were catty and rude and the higher-ups were constantly on her ass. Rooster knew all about her lousy job and had been urging Charlotte to quit but it paid well enough to where she was able to suck it up and go with it. Means to an end, she would always say.

“You are home to me, Bradley, and I chose to be here,” Charlotte insists, resting her hands on either side of his neck. “I don’t regret my decision and I sure as hell don’t regret the last three years. If I didn’t want to be here with you, I wouldn’t have said yes.”

Rooster brings his right hand up to stroke along her ring finger, the diamond ring he placed there a month ago cool to the touch.

“But if you want me to, I’d love to come with you,” she beams. “A trip back to California might do me some good. See some old friends, spend a little time at the beach.”

“I do and it will,’ he confirms. “Plus, I wouldn’t be opposed to reintroducing you to everyone as Mrs. Bradshaw,” he says, bringing her in for a kiss.

“Mmm, not quite yet, Mr. Bradshaw,” she teases. “We still got a wedding to plan.”

“Minor details,” Rooster scoffs, kissing her again before letting her go.

It’s like her blissful little bubble popped as soon as she was away from Rooster’s touch, suddenly remembering that her father would also be returning back to North Island with him. She debates telling him but decides against it, not wanting to ruin the little moment they just had.

“Any idea who else is going back with you?” she asks, trying to appear nonchalant as she opens the fridge.

“No idea,” he says. “Guess we’ll find out all the details when we get there.”

“Guess so,” she agrees, the one detail she knows that he doesn’t burning a hole in her brain.

The next couple of days pass in a whirlwind. Rooster needed to report to North Island as soon as possible and Charlotte needed to request for an immediate sabbatical. Her managers gave her hell for it, like they did for everything else she did, but begrudgingly accepted her request anyway. Before the two of them knew it, they were packed and on the next flight to San Diego. Charlotte was simultaneously nervous and excited. The only new information she was able to get out of her dad was that Admiral Kazansky was the one who requested for him to be brought back and he was teaching a group of pilots. She figured Ice hadn’t told Maverick that Rooster would be returning to North Island with him or that he was one of the pilots he was training. It made her feel less guilty for keeping it from both of them knowing Ice was in the same boat as her.

Any nervousness she was feeling temporarily dissipated the second her and Rooster landed. Driving from the airport to base housing in his Bronco, which he had been keeping safehoused in Miramar for the past couple of years, was by far the happiest Charlotte’s felt in a while. The wind loosened strands of hair from her ponytail, but she was too distracted by the smell of salt in the air to care. Rooster would occasionally look over at her with love in his eyes, happy to see the love of his life so content.

They settled in pretty quickly, not really bothering to unpack anything before hopping in the shower together to wash off the plane smell. Rooster was getting ready to go to The Hard Deck where the rest of the returning pilots were and Charlotte was making a mental list of groceries they would need to survive the next couple of weeks.

“You sure you don’t want me to wait for you? Pretty sure Phoenix is here and I think she’d rather see you than me,” he jokes. He was already dressed and ready to go, an open Hawaiian shirt and jeans donning his frame.

“For the third time, I’m positive. Go see everyone. I’m just gonna unpack a little and then I’ll drive over to the bar later.” Rooster had gotten a rental car delivered to the house for her to use, wanting her to have the freedom to come and go as she pleases rather than waiting for him all day. 

“Alright,” he agrees reluctantly. “Don’t be too long. Can’t wait to show you off.”

She promises she won’t and rolls her eyes when he doesn’t budge. “Go,” she laughs, placing his aviators on his face. He only leaves after a few kisses and an I love you.

It’s only about 45 minutes before Charlotte’s phone buzzes with a text.

Bradley: I was right.

About?

Bradley: Phoenix nailed me in the stomach with a pool cue for not bringing you with me.

Tell her I’m leaving soon.

And to aim a little lower next time.

Bradley: Will do, drive safe <3 

Bradley: You know that spot’s only reserved for you ;) 

Charlotte guffaws, rolling her eyes once again at a flirty remark of his. She goes to close the message thread when another one comes through, this time from someone else.

Dad: So, I don’t get a warning from you or Ice?

She figures he must’ve found out that Rooster was in Miramar. Probably from another admiral or Ice himself. She grabs the keys to the rental car that were left on the kitchen counter, holding them in one hand while she types with the other.

Wasn’t my place to tell.

Don’t worry, you’re not the only one.

Dad: I’m assuming he doesn’t know either.

Nope.

I didn’t know whether or not it would be a good thing if he did.

I can tell him tonight if you want me to.

Charlotte wasn’t really prepared to have that conversation with Rooster just yet. She knew he would find out tomorrow when they had their first meeting, but at least then she wouldn’t have to tell him directly. She’s just locking the front door when he responds.

Dad: No, he looks like he’s having a good time. Don’t want to ruin it.

Dad: Promise you won’t tell him until I’ve had the chance to talk to him?

She rereads his first message a couple of times to check if she was reading it right. How has Maverick seen Rooster? How has Rooster not seen Maverick? Has Maverick seen Penny yet?

You’re at The Hard Deck? You do know that’s Penny’s bar, right?

And I promise.

Dad: Yes, I was made aware. Charlotte snorts. She didn’t know whether that was a good thing either.

Dad: How’d you know where I was?

I’m meeting him there now.

Dad: You’re here? His last message goes unanswered as she drives over to The Hard Deck, unsure of what exactly she was walking into.

Rooster’s Bronco is the first thing Charlotte sees when she arrives at The Hard Deck and upon taking a closer look, she sees Maverick’s bike parked a little ways away. The noise of patrons is traveling out of the building indicating a busy night. The door to the bar is wide open, showing her just how crowded it really was. The sound of a bell fills the air and the crowd suddenly starts chanting the word overboard. Charlotte peaks her head over the crowd just enough to see three men in khaki uniforms hauling her father out of the bar. She bites back a laugh knowing that what she just saw was 100% Penny’s doing.

Instead of walking through the main entrance, Charlotte decides to walk around to the back where she hopes to intercept her father before he leaves. She just makes it in time to see him get tossed to the sand by the three pilots, all of whom she recognizes.

“Thanks for the beers! Come back anytime,” the blonde pilot, Hangman, calls out as he mock-salutes him.

Still the same old Hangman, she thinks.

Charlotte watches as he gets up to leave but freezes at the sound of the beginning notes of “Great Balls of Fire”. Rooster was definitely the one playing. She’d heard it enough times over the past three years to know it was his go-to song (for obvious reasons).

She lets him go for a few moments before deciding to put him out of his misery. “Those pilots that threw you out?” Her voice startles Maverick, the mournful look on his face shifting into a fond one at the sight of her. “Definitely going to regret that tomorrow morning.”

Maverick wastes no time in walking over to her, Charlotte meeting him in the middle for a bone-crushing hug.

“How you been, kiddo?” he says as he pulls away. “It’s good to hear your voice not through a phone.”

“It’s good to see you too, dad.” She goes to say more when she’s interrupted as the crowd erupts in a loud cheer, her fiancé in the center of it all dancing like a lunatic. She doesn’t even realize she was staring until her dad nudges her.

“Go,” he insists. “We’ll catch up later.”

Charlotte hesitates, hating to leave him by himself but the look on his face says he understands. She leaves her father with a kiss to his cheek and a promise to talk soon (in person, not through a screen). She has one foot in the door when her father’s voice stops her.

“He looks just like him.”

She doesn’t need him to say it for her to know who he’s talking about. Her memory of Goose was extremely hazy but one thing she knew for sure was that Rooster was practically his twin.

“He really does,” she says, flashing her dad a warm smile. “Goodnight, dad.”

Navigating through the crowd wasn’t as difficult as she thought it would be, only having to say excuse me a couple of times. She spots Rooster and Phoenix at the pool table by the window with more uniformed pilots, including the three who threw Maverick out, surrounding them.

This must be some hell of an assignment, she thinks.

“Oh no, not you too.” Charlotte’s head whips towards the bar where Penny is looking at her with a smirk. “I just threw the other one out.”

“I saw,” she says, walking over to the counter she’s standing behind. “Figured you had something to do with it.”

Charlotte had always loved Penny despite her tumultuous, on-again-off-again relationship with Maverick. She was the one practically pushing her out the door three years ago with the comment: “There’s always something about first loves”.

Penny reaches over the bar to hug Charlotte, squeezing her extra tight before pulling away. She rests her hands on the younger girl’s shoulders, taking her in. “You look good, sweetie. Guess Virginia life is treating you well.”

“You could say that,” she considers. “Can’t say I haven’t missed this place like crazy though.”

“Well since you’re here, I could always use some help at the bar. Like old times, right?” Penny proposes.

The idea of working at the bar again sounded oddly nice in Charlotte’s mind. “Actually, yeah. I might take you up on that,” she nods, a small smile pulling at her lips. “Might be a good distraction while Bradley’s working.”

“Oh, that’s right. I did see him walk in here earlier while I was talking to your father. Pete didn’t seem too keen on seeing him, though.”

Charlotte sighs. “It’s a long story.” Too long.

“Boyfriend vs. dad? Trust me, hon, I get it.”

“Fiancé.”

“What?”

She lifts her left hand, flashing the engagement ring at her. “Fiancé.”

Penny’s jaw drops, grasping her hand to examine the ring. “Well, would you look at that? Navy does pay,” she says, impressed.

Charlotte hears Rooster call out to her, turning her head to see him waving her over to the pool table. She holds up one finger, silently asking for a moment. “I guess I should thank you for giving me the push.”

“Oh, please. Your heart was already in the right place.” Penny makes a shooing motion with her hand, waving her in the direction of Rooster. “Now, go be with your man. And if you’re ever feeling lonely while you’re here, just give me a call. You, me and Amelia can have a girls day.”

“You sure you won’t be too busy with Maverick?” she teases, earning her a smack of a dish towel from Penny. “In all seriousness, I’d really like that, Penny, thank you.”

The older woman squeezes her hand. “I’m really happy for you, sweetie.”

“Well, you know what they say, there’s always something about first loves.” Charlotte winks at Penny as she walks away, casting one more look back to see her blushing.

“Well, if it isn’t Rooster’s hen,” Hangman declares as she sidles up next to Rooster, grasping his face in her hand to give him a kiss. “Still as beautiful as ever, Charlotte.”

“Baby, you remember Hangman,” Rooster says flatly, shooting a glare in his direction. He wraps a possessive arm around her waist, bringing her back to perch herself on his thigh.

“Of course she does, Bradshaw. I’m hard to forget,” he says with a flirty smile. Charlotte was all too familiar with Hangman’s tactics from her days as a bartender. Hangman’s flirting started off simply because he thought Charlotte was hot but when he saw how irked Rooster would get because of it, his flirting increased tenfold. She would never return his advances, all too caught up in Rooster to even spare a second glance at his counterpart.

“Hangman,” she addresses him with a nod. “Wish I could say it was nice to see you, but I don’t really like to lie.”

Her comment earns a chorus of chuckles from the pilots around them, Rooster kissing the back of Charlotte’s shoulder in adoration.

“God, I missed you,” Phoenix says, slinging an arm around her. “It’s about time you showed up, any longer and Rooster would’ve sent out a search team.” 

Rooster pushes Phoenix’s arm off in annoyance. “I have a right to be worried, y’know.”

“‘Course you do, baby,” Charlotte says, holding the side of his face as she pats his cheek. “Just saw some old friends and got to talking, no reason to be worried.” She technically wasn’t lying. Penny was an old friend and she did end up talking to her. Her dad was her friend too.

“And you could always give me a private show later,” she winks, causing Phoenix to scrunch her face in disgust. 

Rooster doesn’t seem to notice anything sketchy with her excuse, only smirking at her comment before continuing to introduce her to the rest of the pilots. Normally, she would feel intimidated being the only civilian in a group of Navy personnel but most of them she remembers, if not very vaguely, from her time as a bartender. The only one she doesn’t recognize is “Bob” (which she finds out is his callsign and not his actual name) and learns that he graduated from TOPGUN the year after she and Rooster left for Virginia. Charlotte’s having a conversation with him when she hears Phoenix gasp, drawing the attention of the other pilots.

“What the hell, Rooster?” Phoenix exclaims, knocking Rooster’s leg with a pool cue.

“Ow, what’re you hittin’ me for?”

“We’ve been here almost two hours and you failed to mention you’re engaged,” she huffs, gesturing towards the ring on Charlotte’s finger.

Chaos ensues as everyone calls out their congratulations, Fanboy insisting that everyone do shots to celebrate. Hangman just rolls his eyes but downs his shot anyway. Phoenix and Halo gush over the ring, even Bob pops his head over their shoulders to sneak a peek. 

“Damn, Bradshaw,” Phoenix says, admiring the ring much like Penny did earlier. “Didn’t know you had style.”

“Yeah, what Navy are you workin’ for to afford a ring like that ‘cause it sure as hell ain’t the same one I’m in,” Payback jokes, slapping Rooster on the shoulder.

Rooster smiles and squeezes Charlotte on the hip. He doesn’t bother telling them the story behind it, they wouldn’t understand.

“Only the best for my girl,” he says, smiling up at her.

Phoenix and Halo coo at the couple as Hangman sticks his finger in his mouth like heʻs gagging, the rest of the guys making whipping noises with their mouths. Suddenly, the unknown reason why they were there was all but forgotten, the nostalgia of being together again pushing it out of their minds. And with Rooster’s arms wrapped around her, Charlotte’s the most at home she’s felt in years.

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

De(railed) +18

Summary: The canon episode "Derailed" reimagined where Reader is sent on the solo interview and Spencer, recklessly, decides to save her. Plus, the aftermath.

CW: mommy kink sub! Spencer x dom! female (she/her) reader, cum play, penetrative sex, light degradation, praise kink, light choking (mentioned), edging, calling him a slut (please let me know if I missed anything)

Word Count: 6 K (this is the longest thing I've ever written!)

Author's Note: Special thank you to @shemarmooresfedora for reading this for me because I was very nervous about the smut portion. And a very special thank you to @notanotherreidgirl for inspiring this idea! this was my ask so yeah, this is a little out there for me so be kind (*dips into the shadows*). Also I either really hate or really love this title :)

Taglist: You can join the taglist here!

De(railed)

Sitting on the train, headed towards Virginia for the custodial interview, you tried to remind yourself what Spencer said to you the previous night when you dropped him off at his apartment. You had his hands in yours and you could feel him shake with nerves when he spoke.

He told you that he believes in you. Even when you think that Hotch and Gideon are sending you out to the solo interview too early, Spencer believes in you. If only you’d believe a little bit in yourself, then maybe you’d be able to figure out a way off this train, but an armed man and innocent passengers proves that a little challenging.

The man passes the train up and down and you tell yourself to relax. In hindsight, it seems like a horrible series of events that lead to the man shooting the train attendant. You’ve done your best to keep him calm until the police can see him off the train. Looking outside, you see SWAT, local PD, and FBI lined up 50 yards from the train.

Continuing to wave his gun around the train, the unsub rants about wanting to talk to a higher authority. To yourself, to wish that Spencer was here with you. He’d have figured out exactly what was wrong with the man by now. For less than professional reasons, you’re forever grateful that he’s not here- that he’s safe on the other side of the train.

“He’s out of his mind,” the man holding a bottle of whiskey says, “You gotta do something, lady,” he says, taking a swig of his drink. Your eyes dart to him and back up the doctor, the unsub’s psychologist, looking for a way out.

You breathe deeply, hoping that the BAU would come up with a plan. Knowing FBI protocol, you expect them to try to initiate a line of communication. Glancing over at the unsub, you think that he’ll want to talk to someone who looks like they are powerful. That would be either Hotch or Gideon. Selfishly, you’re grateful that Spencer still looks like an underpaid TA with a toy gun attached at his hip.

“No! Please, don’t hurt me!” the young woman screams, trying to release herself from the man, Ted’s, grip. He releases her, throwing her to the ground when his phone rings.

Gideon.

On the phone with Gideon, the man demands for something to be removed. You can’t hear what he’s saying to the unsub, but you place the little faith you have left into hoping your team can save you.

***

His vest is much too big for him.

That’s all you can think of when you realize Spencer is the “technician” that they’re sending in. His tie and shirt stick awkwardly and there is a gap in his shoulders around the vest. The straps are pulled so tight that they nearly fold over. His hands aren’t shaking when he carries the small black box, but his eyes look terrified.

You want to reach out to him, maybe hold his hand or brush the strands of hair that have fallen into his face, but you can’t. You have to sit there and pretend that this is the first time you’ve met him. It’s excruciatingly sick and mildly amusing in an equally twisted way. The first time you’ve come to terms with loving Spencer, you both can very well die.

“I’m here for the chip,” Spencer says, holding his hands up, “the higher authorities sent me,” he claims, feeding into the unsubs delusion. You shield your glance, unable to trust yourself from launching yourself in between Spencer and the man with the gun.

“That’s far enough and drop your weapons,” Ted says, holding the crying woman by her neck, “and take that vest off. I want to see you,”

“I don’t have any weapons. They don’t authorize them for-”

“I said take it off!” the man shouts, throwing the woman to the ground.

Spencer complies, taking off the much too big vest and tossing it to the ground. He holds his hands up, playing the part of the unsuspecting underling well. He reaches out to Ted, showing him the tools that he’ll use to take out the “chip”. You wonder how Spencer will pull it off, but you know he will in the end.

Spencer digs into the man’s skin with the scalpel. You can’t catch the sleight of hand, but you know that’s what he used.

“I have to leave, the higher authorities need the chip-”

“Turn it on,” Ted orders, “Turn it on!” he screams, his voice booming in the small train.

Spencer’s eyes dart to yours thinking of ways that he can get out of here. He looks almost sorry, and you feel a wave of intense regret. The thousands of times you could have said those little words seem so simple now.

“I can’t turn it on,” Spencer says, “I can’t turn it on,” You hate how scared he sounds, and you hate even more how you have to pretend that you don’t know him.

“Why!” the unsub yells, thrashing the gun around, “You’re one of them!”

Thinking quickly when you see him point the gun at Spencer’s face, you jump to your feet. You push Spencer out of the way, terrified that he’ll do something rash. You can’t lose Spencer, not when you’ve hadn’t had the chance to have him yet.

“It needs to be implanted to be activated,” you say, “I know this stuff Ted, I’m a Fed. Only me. Everyone else,Ted is just innocent. Just let them go, Ted,” you plead, “Just let them go,”

“No!” he yells, shooting up into the ceiling of the train, “no!”

The windows are closed, but you suspect that Hotch and Gideon have the train surrounded by now. Spencer moves closer to you, staring at the man as he scratches his upper arm. He drops his hand towards yours and squeezes, like he’s saying sorry and saying goodbye all in one touch. You don’t realize this before it’s too late.

“Doctor Brier,” Spencer says, standing up with his hands near his head, “you’re right, there’s more-”

“Just make it stop!” the desperate man pleas, “Make it stop!”

“I know what it’s like, Ted. The voices, they’ve been talking to you since you were a kid. They don’t stop. I know what it’s like Ted,” Spencer says, inching closer and closer to him, “Leo? Why don’t you let him think for himself?” Spencer says, trying to use the man’s delusion against him.

“Don’t! Stop, you’re trying to trick me!” the man begs, whipping the gun around too close to Spencer’s face, “stop!”

You always listen to Spencer. Whatever he talks about, you listen. From Russian cinema to Star Trek to the Birch and Swinnerton-Dyer conjecture, you listen to him. It’s not that hard and it’s easy to get lost in his eyes or the way his hands move when he talks. But the seconds leading up to when the gunshot goes off, you’re not listening.

Because without Spencer, there isn’t much worth listening to.

***

Your eyes are squeezed shut so when a large hand hovers over your shoulder you jump at the touch. It takes you all of ten seconds to realize it’s Spencer. You look him over, searching for signs of mortal wounds that will rip him from your clutches, but there isn’t any.

“You’re okay,” you say, wanting nothing more but to kiss him or yell at him, or maybe a mix of the two, “you’re okay,” you repeat, not fully believing it the first time.

“We’re okay,” Spencer says, hugging you tight as you collapse into his arms, not caring if the rest of the team watches.

“I haven’t been fair to you, Spence,” you say, breaking from the hug to caress his face. You stop, holding his face in your hands, soaking him in, “you’re not someone who gets strung along, baby. I fucking love you and you-you mean so much to me. And I hate-I hate that it took you almost dying for me to realize that,” you cry, unable to care anymore.

“You love me?” Spencer whispers, unable, himself to care that they have an audience, “You love me back, but I’m, I-I,”

“Spencer,” you tell him, pausing to kiss him fully, “I,” you plant another kiss, on his right cheek, “love,” left cheek, “you,” forehead.

“You do, don’t you?” he says, looking at you with a proud smirk, “I guess that’s good because, I love you, Y/N. I don’t go risk my life just for everyone,”

“Watch yourself, baby,” you remind him, channeling the surge of pure life that runs through your veins, “you’re in for it later, my darling,” you tell him, whispering into his ear so only he can hear.

***

You didn’t even give him time to breathe before you pushed him up against the wall. Spencer’s hands still held yours, you don’t think that he dropped them since you two safely exited the train. He whimpers through the kiss, his breathy moan only serving to spur you on. His hands broke from yours, clinging to your waist. Spencer tries to peel your clothes from your skin, but he's much too distracted by your lips that travel across his cheekbones and down to his neck. He’s breathless and panting, but you don’t let up. If he’s breathing, he’s alive and that’s all that matters now.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” Spencer pleads, the desperation in his voice causing you to pause from your attack on his neck, “I-I, Y/N,” he stutters, feeling empty without your kisses.

“I’m not mad, sweet boy. I’m not mad at you,” you say, laying on a sweet voice as your fingers skim through Spencer’s hair. He’s shaking slightly and closes his eyes, looking like he’s grateful to be alive.

“You’re not, but I wasn’t good,” he whispers, “I wasn’t good for you, Mommy,”

You do everything in your power to keep your composure, but after a day like today, you’re ready to melt into him. He might be the one begging at your feet soon, but there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s you who's wrapped around his finger. He looks up at you, with his back leaning against the wall; his face flushed pink and marks littering his neck.

“You scared me, Spence. I thought- I just let me take care of you,” you request, dropping your hands from his hair and grabbing onto his hand as you lead him to your bedroom. You’ve made it a habit to go to your place after cases; Spencer claims that the sunlight that dips into your bedroom in the morning is more pleasant than his view of the street, but you know he just prefers your bed and the attention he gets at your place.

“Please, Y/N,” he begs, following you into the bedroom. He’s at your heels and burrowed deeply in your heart, exactly where you want him.

You drop his hands, guiding him so his knees hit the edge of your plush bed. He kicks off his shoes and starts to undo his tie and shirt, but you stop him before he gets the chance.

“Let me do that for you, baby. I’m taking care of you tonight,” you say, feeling your heart swell as he looks up at you adoringly, “Mommy’s got you, my brave boy,” you tell him, your fingers grazing over his cheekbones, his nose and eyes. His eyes close as you continue to draw shapeless shapes over his skin.

“Thank you,” he mutters, saying it like a pray as he relaxes for the first time today, “thank you, Mommy,”

You smile at the name, enjoying how pliant he is as you unbutton his shirt and loosen his tie. His flushed cheeks lead down his equally flushed chest. You place both your legs over his body, hovering over him as you straddle him. The proximity eggs him on and the minimal friction near his pants causes him to buck up words. Mercilessly, you chuckle at his attempt to get off. You want nothing more than to put him out of his misery, but watching him squirm for the tiniest bit of affection— your affection makes you nearly as desperate as Spencer.

“Patience, sweetheart,” you tell him, harshly pulling off his shirt as you nibble on his ear. He whimpers out in desire, already unable to form coherent thoughts even though you’ve so much as kissed him.

You stop touching him, sinking down to your knees before him. Spencer looks down at you, his pupils blown and his hair messy from being pushed up against the wall. His breathing is erratic and unmeasured, but he’s heart is still beating. You smile, unafraid and not caring that it breaks character as you give his thigh a squeeze. You bring his hands to his buttons, motioning for him to unbutton his pants for you.

“I can’t do all the work now, can I, baby?” You question rhetorically, quite self satisfied that he nods eagerly. He quickly undoes his pants, kicking the heavy corduroy trousers near your bathroom door. If the moment wasn’t so tense and erratic, you probably would have teased him for his excitement.

“I want to touch you, please? Mommy” Spencer starts, his hands holding your face as you kneel. He holds your face so delicately and gently, it’s a contrast to the sinful way he’s squirming above you.

“Not yet,” you tsk, slipping your finger under the waistband of his boxers. The bulge in his underwear looks very uncomfortable, but Spencer clearly tries his best to behave under your strong stare. You peel back the underwear and let it drop to Spencer’s feet. His cock, now exposed, is painfully hard. He concentrates on his breathing and trying to remain composed as your fingers travel up his leg and towards his groin.

“There’s my pretty boy,” you coo, grabbing Spencer’s jaw and making him look down at you. He lets pitiful whine at your words, “Come on, make my fingers nice and wet,” you order, sticking out two fingers that he sucks enthusiastically.

“What a good little slut I have, you’re sucking Mommy’s fingers just as if it’s my strap, aren’t you sweet boy,” you say, gently resting your other palm loosely around his neck. You don’t apply any pressure, but let it serve as a reminder of what could happen.

Happily, Spencer sucks your fingers, moaning around them and bucking his hips up in frustration. Marred by impatience, you remove your fingers from his mouth and kneel back down on the floor. Loosely, you grip his cock with your wet fingers. Spencer whines at the friction that’s nothing close to enough.

“Tell me how that feels,” you demand, “Tell Mommy how I makes you feel,”

“I-I feel,” Spencer starts, concentrating intently, but unable to truly articulate the passion you ignite in him, “Mommy, you make me feel so good,” Spencer says, finally finding the words, even though they barely scratch the surface.

“That’s all I want, baby. You deserve to feel good. So let me take care of you, my love,” you tell him, watching as he simpers at your words.

For a second there you let yourself think that maybe it’s calling him my love that prompted his reaction, not the promise of his cock in your mouth. You know after tonight there’s no tip toeing around it anymore: you’re unequivocally in love with him and you’re a little disappointed that it took the pair of you nearly dying to figure it out finally.

Looking back up at him, you abandon your plans for a moment. You kiss him hard. Normally, you’d hate the way your teeth clash against someone else’s and how the kiss isn’t really a kiss. It’s hard to pace yourself when he’s whimpering below you as you grind down hard on his crotch. The fabric of your pants provides much needed friction, causing Spencer to cry out in a twisted mix of pleasure and pain. He paws at your work short, silently begging for you to shed your layers as well.

“Good boys wait,” you tell him, kissing his forehead and sinking back down for the last time. You’ll never be done teasing him, but for now you intend to put his needs first.

“Such a pretty cock that only I get to see,” you coo, running a finger up his length, relishing in how he shudders at your touch. You’ve touched him so many times, yet he reacts each time as if it’s the first. He’s leaking precum as his breathing becomes more and more strained. This is far from your first time with Spencer and you’re well aware of the signs of his release.

Smiling up at him, you lazily wrap your hand around him, giving him the smallest bit of friction and attention that he needs to come. You drop him once he’s close to the edge, his pleading, begging eyes turning glazed over when he realizes you’re taking off your shirt. By the way he’s looking at you, you’d think you’d be wearing your best lingerie. Quickly, you’ve learned that with Spencer you could be wearing your ratty college tee shirts and he’d still look at you like you were dripping in gold.

“Mommy,” he pleads, “I’m a good boy,” he says, no trying to convince himself to hold back from his release, “please Mommy. I’m gonna-“ Spencer says, the flush on his face deepening as he throws his head back in ecstasy. However, he summons enough energy and will to reach out and palm your boobs. You don’t hide your moans as he rolls a nipple in between his thumb and pointer finger. It only encourages him, but nowhere can you find in yourself to care.

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” Spencer whimpers, unable to hold himself up anymore and collapsing on the bed. His chest heaves up and down as he tries to collect himself. He comes all over your chest, staining your lavender bralette and looking very proud of himself. Spencer learned quickly as well that coming before you’ve even touched him earns him quite the praise.

“Such a good boy,” you praise, choosing to ignore him coming without permission, “such a messy boy though,” you chastise, squeezing his thigh and crawling your fingers up his chest.

“Mommy, please, I want to make you feel good too. I love you,” Spencer begs, his eyes droopy with exhaustion from the long day and glazed over with his orgasm. His words slur together as if he's drunk off something potent. His eyes meet yours, but flit down quickly. He scans your soiled chest, licking his lips unconsciously as his eyes rank over your breasts covered in the lavender lacy and stained with his cum.

“Do you know what good boys do?” You ask, expecting Spencer to answer the question without hesitation.

“They clean up their mess, Mommy,” he says. In a moment of bravery, he grabs your hand, guiding you to lay down on the bed. He twists his hands around your back, unlatching your bra from your body and tosses it on the ground.

Above you, Spencer lowers his face so his chin barely grazes your chest. His tongue darts out onto your skin, licking up the messy cum that fell on your chest. You place your hands in his hair, gripping firmly. It’s not hard enough to cause any pain, but it’s tight enough to remind him to stay put. Spencer hums contently, lapping up your chest, but keeping his eyes trained on yours. You pull him up by his hair, pieces fall over his blissed out eyes. He smiles up at you, his chin glistening with cum, but looking pleased with himself.

“That’s a good boy,” you praise, pulling him up to kiss him deeply. His tongue swirls around in yours and his large hands cup your face. You can feel him moving in your lap, more and more desperate for attention and friction as you continue to hold him off, “I love you, baby,” you say, hoping that he’ll hear enough times for it to stick and for him to start living his life like he wants to stay alive.

“Just for you, Mommy,” Spencer mumbles, already sucking and marking the valley between your breasts, “Can you? Please?” Spencer asks, still embarrassed, after all these months to put to words his desires.

“What, baby? You need to use your words,” you tell him, scooting up in the bed and smirking to yourself as Spencer practically chases you up the headboard, “You need to tell him what you want me to do, baby,” you say, talking slowly as you rub circles into his skin. He’s still hot to the touch and flushed all over.

“I want to make you feel good,” Spencer begs, licking his fiery red lips that are swollen and bitten from your earlier treatment, “I want you to feel good,” he says, attempting to buck his hips against your legs.

“Are you sure about that, Spence?” you ask, teasing him with your wandering hands. One stays latching in his hair, exposing his criminally bare neck and the other sneaks down to his cock, but hardly satisfies his burning need, “Because it seems like you’re an insolent little slut who only cares if he gets off. Do I need to remind you that I have needs as well,” you chide, increasing your grip on his hair as your lips nip the sensitive skin of his neck. He shudders in response, unable to fully articulate a sentence.

“But you’re lucky, you’re beautiful, Dr. Reid,” you say, dropping his hair and letting his head fall onto your chest. Knowing your expectations, Spencer doesn’t hesitate to kiss and nip along your skin. You feel your panties dampen at the sight of him: his hair wild and messy, his neck marked with evidence of your mouth, and his chest is bright red, somehow still flustered and embarrassed by your affections. You find it bizarre that he still doesn’t fully believe just how head over heels you are for him. He’s too good and pure for this world, and you’ll happily spend the rest of your life reminding him just how deserving of goodness and pureness he is.

“I love you,” Spencer whimpers against your skin, his breath is hot as he pants, “but please fuck me,” he begs, flipping around on his back so you can be on top.

“Don’t worry, sweet boy, Mommy will take care of you,” you remind him, balancing yourself so you can hover over him, “Now, I’d normally want you to be quiet, but I want to hear everything. So use that pretty mouth of yours and tell me how you feel, sweetie,” you instruct, maneuvering yourself so you’re lined up with him.

“Give me a second, please,” Spencer asks, pushing himself up so his back rests against the headboard, “You make me crazy, I just need a moment to think,” he says, quietly, staring off nothing in the bedroom. You take the opportunity to grab his hand, that’s gripping onto your floral patterned sheets, and kiss his scars on his knuckles. Some are new and fresh, while others are old, from longer ago than working at the BAU. You kiss them over, as if your lips are able to help the evidence of his physical pain.

“You make me crazy too, Spencer,” You say, growing more and more unhinged as he moves underneath you, “I love you so much, darling,” you tell him, kissing his eyes, lips, nose, anything you can reach.

Slowly, so slowly, you sink down onto Spencer. You watch his microexpressions, but you know how he’ll react. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if he’s willing himself to hold off. He breathes in and out, teetering on the edge. You wait for his nod, for his sign of approval that you can move. He whines and peeks open his eyes. Spencer’s hands dig into your waist, his strong, large hands searching for any skin to grab onto.

“Please move, Mommy,” Spencer begs, burying his head into the crook of your neck as he starts to plead with you to have mercy on him, “I need it, Mommy,” he moans.

“Don’t be greedy, darling. You’ll take what I give you, but don’t you want to make me feel good too, baby,” you ask, guiding his nimble fingers to your slick core. His thumb and pointer finger begin to rub quick circles around your clit. You bite your lip, trying to keep your composure as you feel the pressure build. Between the heightened tensions of work and Spencer's hot breath against your neck, you know that you’ll come soon. Spencer’s breathy moans get more and more desperate.

“Are you already going to come again, love?” You ask, increasing your pace. His other hand grips your thigh, drawing shapes into your soft skin. Following suit, you match his sweet movements on his cheek. His breath is his shaky as you stroke his cheek lovingly, “Make me come first and then, maybe if you’re good, I’ll let you come inside me,” you promise, already knowing that you’ll let him come inside you.

“Watch you disappear inside me, baby. Watch your pretty cock slip inside my pussy. It’s just like you were made for me, darling,” you cry, your voice getting slightly breathy yourself. You watch yourself as his cock goes in and out, red with overstimulation. Spencer’s eyes, littered with small tears, looks transfixed.

“Fuck,” Spencer says, “I’m so close, Mommy. I-I, you make me feel so good. You’re so beautiful, I-I-”

“So needy, you’re so fucking needy,” you say to him. You can tell he’s growing more and more impatient by the moment. His hands lurch towards your chest, pawing at your boobs. Spencer’s sloppy movements bring you closer and closer to the edge.

“So good, so good,” he repeats, his sweaty forehead rests on your collarbone. You pull him up again his hair, relishing in the pitiful moan that he lets out. It’s raw and pure sin, it should make you want to fuck him more, but it only makes you want to love him more.

You’re drunk on him. Drunk on his moans and whimpers of pleasure. You’re drunk on the way his skin sticks to yours and how his hands roam around your body, always finding a spot on your torso and legs that makes you approach the edge closer and closer. You wonder, for a second, if you’re being too hard on him. If you should just whisper that little sentence and let Spencer feel the wave of pleasure.

“I need it, Mommy,” Spencer pants, kissing lined up your chest and collarbone. His face is pressed up against your face and moves up and down as you continue your pace, “I-I, Mommy, I want you to-”

“What do you want, baby? Hmm? Tell Mommy?” You ask, your voice sounding sickly sweet. The noise of moans fills the room, Spencer’s moan akin to whimpers and whines and your’s more like praises and words of approval, “you’ve been such a good boy, baby I’ll give you want whatever you want, my love”

“Please, please let me make you come, Mommy. I need you to come, Mommy. I need it,” Spencer whines, looking up into your eyes and latching onto them in the darkness.

It’s sinful how the filthy words contrast with his sweet, shy tones. He looks so innocent, but enthralling with his face between your hands, but his own hands rubbing small circles on your clit. His moans grow more high pitched. You kiss by his ear, ready to whisper the words of approval that you’ve neared your release.

“Oh god, Spencer. God. You have no idea what you do to me. My sweet boy,” you murmur, pressing Spencer’s face further into your chest. You can feel him heave and his breathing grow more and more unsteady, but he still has enough sense to continue rubbing your clit.

You kiss him, wanting to feel him everywhere when you come undone. Kissing him is desperate and full of gasps of air. His skin is so soft as you slide across his mouth, up his cheeks, and over his jaw. His helpless moans spur you on, giving you the strength and energy to thrust down on him another time before you feel yourself come undone.

“It’s your turn, baby. Come on, sweetheart. Come inside me and maybe I’ll have to call you daddy? Hmm?” you chant, halting your movements to torture him a little longer.

“Please, Y/N. Please let me fill you up,” Spencer begs, his voice hoarse and scratchy from being so vocal, “I’m yours. I love you so much,” he calls out, wrapping his arms around you so your chests are pressed up together. He holds you sweetly and you kiss his shoulders and his neck, choosing to leave a large red welt as a reminder for him.

“You like that? Hmm you like if I call you Daddy and let you fill me up? Come on, Spencer. You can come. Don’t you want to be a good boy for Mommy?,” you say, giving him the permission that he’s been desiring all night.

He tightens his grip on your upper half as he meets his release. Spencer’s strangled moans turn into sweet whimpers as he looks down into your laps. Quietly, you ride him through the rest of his orgasm, letting him come down from his high peppered with light pecks along his freckled shoulders and sharp jawline. Spencer smiles into the kisses, his eyes are shut and his cheeks are dusted with a light pink flush. For the first time today, he looks relaxed and safe.

“Thank you, Mommy,” Spencer says quietly, mirroring your motions and kissing your shoulders and neck as you slow your pace, “Can we stay like this. Just for a moment,” Spencer asks, burning for the feeling of being inside you for even a couple more minutes.

“Of course, baby,” you tell him, squeezing him into a tight hug, “you did so wonderful for me. Such a good boy. I love my sweet boy,” you tell him, brushing the stray hairs from his face. His neck is marked by your mouth and his eyes are glazed with sleep and desire.

“I love you,” Spencer says again, his forehead falling against yours and his breath hitching as you move slightly with him inside you, “and I’m sorry. I’m sorry about today,”

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart and then we’ll talk about it,” you suggest, taking the opportunity to kiss his lips as you pull yourself away from his lap.

Spencer doesn’t say much in response, but nods silently. He groans slightly as you separate your bodies and he tries to chase your lips with his as you climb out of the bed and into your bathroom.

“Please come back,” Spencer says, sounding like he wasn’t sure if you’d keep your promise.

“I’m right here, Spence,” you reassure him, returning from the bathroom dressed in an old tee shirt and carrying a warm, damp washcloth and a pair of clean underwear for Spencer.

“Can you please hold me? Please, Y/N. I need you,” Spencer says, reaching out to you in the dark. That’s one request you know you’d never deny.

“Of course, Spence. Just let me clean you up and I’ll hold you,” you tell him, gently dragging the warm towel over his skin. He’s quiet as you clean him up, but his soulful eyes look lost and sheepish, making him look smaller and more vulnerable than he actually is. You drop the towel to the floor, not caring that the water isn’t good for the floor.

You lay back down on the bed and Spencer, like a magnet to another magnet, crawls in close. He’s still undressed, except for the underwear that you gave him. His eyes are droopy and his breathing is still shaky, but steadies out as your hands draw circles on his back. You pull the covers up to his chin, making sure he’s covered before you start what you know all too well is a difficult conversation.

“Spencer,” you croak, “Why did you do that? Why do you think that’s okay?” you ask, still trying to make sense of why Spencer would risk his life like that so recklessly. You hold him tighter, squeezing his arm as he breathes out, ready to tell you what he’s never told anyone before.

“Bec-, because- I don’t matter,” he says, the words choking out between cries of years and years of pain, “because it doesn’t matter to anyone if I don’t come home. I don’t have anyone to come home to,”

“You’ve always had me,” you say quietly, “I’m your person to come home with, Spence,” you tell him, hoping with all the faith in your body that he’ll believe you. You hold his hand, weaving your fingers in his. Looking at your hands intertwined together, you’d think that your hand was made for it. It’s a little cliche, but Spencer is the kind of man that makes all those cliches seem like wonderful possibilities.

“I-I, I never had someone before,” Spencer says, “I mean, I had my mom, but it’s gotten harder. But then, then, I met you. And I never thought you’d like me like that, Y/N. I never thought you could love me,”

“Spencer,” you say, twisting around so you can hold his face in your hands, “Spencer, I love you. You are so much more than your job. You’re worthy of being loved, Goose. And I’d spend the rest of my life making you realize this”

“You want to spend the rest of your life- the rest of your life with me?” Spencer asks, sounding like he can’t believe the words that you say.

“Spence, I’ve loved you since I’ve known you,” you say, dragging your hands through his curly hair that’s matted against his forehead, “You would have realized that if you weren’t too carried away with making me your future history,”

“I think I have a habit of doing that,” Spencer confesses, kissing your forehead sweetly, “You’re- I’m sorry that I worried you like that, but for so long, for so long this is all I’ve had. And before that it was school. I throw myself into academia or work because it’s all I had,”

“Had,” you repeat, “as in the past tense. You’ve had some much more than too, Spence. We all love you. Elle and Derek. JJ and Hotch. Penny and Gideon. We all love you, but I love you the most,”

“Good,” Spencer replies, turning his head down to kiss you, “because I love you the most,”

His lips glide across yours, moving slowly at first and faster as he grows more urgent. There’s no sense in rushing through. You could kiss him lazily in your bed all night and continue until it gives way to morning. There’s no time limit, no buzzer that’s going to go off and force Spencer to whole himself back up into his past. He smiles through the kiss, knowing well that there’s more to come tomorrow, or maybe even tonight. His lips were warm and soft, maybe still a little tender from before, but still eager to feel your lips against his. Breathing together, savoring that you both are breathing, you smile yourself, fully ready for whatever comes next.

***

Taglist (not my usual taglist because I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable bc this is smut. You can join the taglist here!)

@shemarmooresfedora @just-another-persona123 @folkreid @idonotexiste @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @fandomfriend33 @spencersrose @strawberryspence

[megiesposts]

Two Worlds

Kol Mikaelson x Reader

Notes: this is based where when elena and Jeremy stake Kol in aunt Jenna’s kitchen in front of Klaus, he never gets taken back from the other side. Reader is living in 2021 and finds out she can see the spirits, she just so happens to run into a Vampire who takes an interest in her after doing nothing but sitting in the Other Side alone for eleven years. NOT PROOF READ!!

Tw: spirits communicating, vampires, British accent, implied age gap i mean come on hes 1000+ years old, mentions of blood, threats, mentions of violence, inappropriate language

After eighteen years of life, your connection with your grandmother was stronger than ever. Along with your connection to what you had just found out were supernatural spirits was even stronger.

Years after years you would say hi and have conversations with all these people in public, only to have others avoid you and look at you strangely. Now you knew why. Because only you could see them. You always welcomed everyone, and because they were just trying to find someone-anyone- to talk to, you were just as good as any.

So it would be a surprise to you when you find this guy, wondering around the streets of Virginia, looking lost, you smiled at him and nodded. He looked around your age, seeming a little over six feet tall, brown hair slightly swooped up and back, and deep brown eyes.

The moment you smiled at him, his confused and almost sad face, sprouted into a smile. He turned his entire body over to you, moving very quickly towards you until he stopped right in front of you.

“You can see me?” You’d hand points towards his face, a smile of disbelief and hope across his face. He just slightly towered over you, yet everything clicked quite quickly. He was dead. He was supernatural and dead. You nodded, allowing him to have the little freak out of his.

One thing you recognized, was a heavy British accent. It was thick and laced with joy as he moved around, waving his hands in others faces and laughing happily.

His outburst made you wonder one this specifically, how long had he been dead?

It intrigued you, but you had school to get too. So without much hesitation you started walking away, with him quickly noticing, he appeared in front of you within a blink of your eye. Your breath hitched slightly and it forced you to stop in your tracks.

“Darling, please don’t leave.” You slightly nodded, glancing behind you for the bus.

“We can talk later. I have school.”

He almost scoffed.

“And I haven’t spoken to anyone in eleven years. You can see me. I want a conversation darling. Or better yet, a friend.”

You signed but continued walking at the sudden sound of the bus approaching. You could feel him trying to grab you. Quickly turning to face him, you looked around as if talking to yourself.

“Just come to school with me. I’ll take you home and we can talk later but I have a test that I can’t miss.”

Without waiting for an answer, you were walking towards the sound of the bus, quickly making it towards your favorite seat. Yet, you got your answer when he took the seat next to you.

He turned to you, an almost menacing smile on his face.

“Very well darling. Let’s get started. I’m Kol Mikaelson. What’s your name.” A sigh left your lips. Out of all the dead people you had spoken to, this was the only one who was even attempting to stick around. And with the feeling in your gut, you just knew he would succeed. You were about to answer him when is hit you.

Mikaelson.

A real Mikaelson.

Holy fucking shit. It was like a real original. Like an over one thousand year old vampire that could and would kill you for looking at him wrong.

He could tell by the look on your face.

“Well darling it appears you’ve heard of me. Wonderful. Can you tell me, where exactly we’re going, as I know we are no longer in Mystic Falls.”

Another sigh left your lips.

This guy was going to kill you at some point, wasn’t he.

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

This is the first chapter of my Kol fanfic lmao I’m excited

It’s about 615 words, i may make the next part longer

I’m likely going to change the title

[raineydays411]

My Father's daughter pt1

Summary: After the disastrous gala, you get an unexpected visit from your “mother”and her family. 

A/n: Hello so I feel like the mom character should have a name, so from here on out, your mother's name is Christine. Also i hope y’all like this one cause i feel like it’s going kinda slow.

Growing up was rough. 

Because your mother decided that you and Tony weren’t worth the effort, you had to mature pretty quickly. You’re father had fallen into this deep depression, where he can barely take care of himself. You had to make sure that your father woke up on time for meetings, made sure he ate, drank water, and inevitably had to make sure that he didn’t choke on his own vomit when he got shitfaced. 

Needless to say, you were very mature for nine years old.

But then, a light in the form of Virginia Potts came into your lives. She saw the way you had taken on the role of Tonys caregiver, and was heartbroken. At first she thought it was just pure negligence from Tonys end, but as she spent more time with the both of you, she realized that Tony loved you more than anything in this world. So she stuck around. 

At first you were weary of her. Not really trusting towards older woman, or motherly figures as you were scorned once. But she never gave up. Not on you or your father. No, she stayed even when you would run away on under her watch. She stayed even when you would try and steal your fathers cars for a quick joy ride through Manhattan. And she stayed when you broke down after your mother had people come pick up all her belongings from the Tower, not bothering to come herself and say goodbye. 

She didn’t leave. She held you as you screamed and sobbed as the men packed away everything she owned. She held you even when you squirmed and scratched at her arms to get away. And she held you as you gave up and silently cried then eventually fell asleep, tightly clutching her midsection. 

That's when you started to come around. You stopped running away whenever your father would leave you with her, wouldn’t talk back when she asked you to pick up a mess, and you even helped her out when some creep intern decided to put the moves on her during a company meeting. 

It wasn’t until your father went missing when you truly saw her as someone you could trust. It was the worst three months of your life.  Another parent gone suddenly from your life. You were relocated to mansion in Malibu, a big empty place where the halls echoed as you walked through them. ANd you had thought that Pepper was going to stay back in New York, she wasn’t your assistant after all. You were shocked to see her at the airport, suitcase in tow with a determined look.

Seeing the look of surprise on your face she stated,

“ I’m not going to let you do this alone.” ,then grabbed your hand to lead you through terminal.

You were grateful that she only acknowledged your tears when you were in the privacy of the private jet. She rubbed your back as you let the tears run down your face. The whole three months that you were in her care, your perspective changed.

She asked about your day, made sure you ate, tucked you in and held you whenever you had nightmares. With in that three month period, Pepper showed you what it was like to have a mother again. And she never let you down. 

Then your dad came home, and your family was complete. You were ecstatic when they started dating and even more so when your father announced that they were going to get engaged.

And even though it took years, you finally trusted Pepper enough to see her as your mother. You were happy. 

Which is why you were extra pissed when you came home from your mother-daughter day and saw your biological mother with Bruce Wayne in the common room. They were sitting on the couch and were getting glared at by the Avengers that were home from missions,(Natasha, Steve, and Sam). 

“Dad, what’s going on?” You ask, looking past the hopeful and curious gazes from the couch. 

“Kid, I think you better sit down.” Tony said through slightly clenched teeth. His face was grim, as he looked past you and made eye contact with Pepper. They had a silent conversation with their eyes, and she nodded. She squeezed your shoulders and took your bags, then with a quick glare she had the rest of the room cleared except for the four of you. 

You took a seat across from your mother, Christine and Bruce. She sent a smile your way and was met with a blank look, “ Dad, what’s going on?”

He sighs and makes his way over to were you were seated, “I don’t know, Christine, maybe you should explain.” 

His tone indicated that he knew why she was here, but wanted her to sound stupid. Pepper came over and sat on the t other side of you. 

Christine glanced at the Pepper and cleared her throat, “Perhaps should be kept between family?”

You scoffed, “ Considering that Pep has been around longer than you ever have been, you have no right to decide who’s family to me and whos not.” 

You see Pepper sit up straighter with pride and mother slump. 

You sigh, “ What are you doing here?” 

She looks at Bruce, who you honestly forgot was still there, “ Y/n...I want you to come home with us.” 

A silence filled the room. You felt Pepper tense up at the words and saw your dads and clench into a fist. 

You however just stared in utter disbelief. 

“What.” 

“I know it's far fetched.” Your mother starts, ignoring your scoff, “ But i really do think it would benefit you to come to Gotham with us, and get to know your siblings!” 

You were seething. 

“My siblings? You mean the family that you left us for.”

“Y/n that’s not-”

“No, You think that you can just waltz into my home, after nine years of absolutely no contact, no birthday cards, not even a text to let me know that you were alive, and expect me to what? Just welcome you into open arms? Leave MY family and go live with you?? Really?”  You say with a scoff.

“Y/n there is a ot of factors you are not considering” Bruce chimes in for the first time.

You turn your glare onto him, “ And what you’re just okay with the fact that your wife has a whole other child who she just fucking abandoned?

“Language.” Your father mutters causing you to roll your eyes. 

“Well, I can’t say this didn’t come as a shock.” Bruce states, “ But, I also know that I love my wife, and that I would welcome you to our home.”

Your throat was hurting with the amount if times you’ve scoffed, “ And I appreciate that, really, but I would never leave my family. Especially not for her.”

Christine's eyes start to tear up, “ Y/n please, a girl needs her mother.”

Those words triggered the anger inside you. Your blood boiled and you can tell that she knew she messed up. 

“Oh? Is that right? What about when I was six and I waited for you to come and take me to that mother's day dance, only you never showed up and I went with my nanny. Or when I was eight and you promised that you would take me to get my ears pierced but then you got a phone call and left so dad took me?” 

You saw the tears run down her face as Bruce looked like he was thinking about something.

“Oh and what about when I was nine. I was nine and you promised to take me to the park. You remember that? Cause I do.” 

Tony tenses next to you, knowing what you were about to say.

“Y/n I can never apologize enough but-” You cut her off

“I was NINE and your promised to take me to the park” You continue, “ But you left. And this time you didn’t come back.” You finish and lean forward, “ Tell me, why the HELL would you think that I would want to come live with you and your fucking family?”

The room was once again engulfed in a tense silence. The only sounds were the sniffling of your mother. 

“You’re my baby girl...my petal. I love you and always have...” She starts, “ My biggest regret is leaving you that day and you have to know that Y/n.”

You feel tears start to rise, a knot in your throat. 

Peppers hand squeezes yours and you calm down and say

“Then you’re gonna have to learn to live with it.” 

Then you stand up and walk right out of the room. Leaving the adults and marching straight to the training rooms to let out some steam. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in the common room, a tense silence weighed on the adults. It seemed like no one knew exactly what to say, or they didn’t want to speak up.

Only when Tony cleared his throat did Christine speak up again.

“I didn’t come to cause any trouble.” she said quietly.

“What did you think would happen?”Tony says crossing his arms, “Surely you didn’t expect her to leave with you?”

“No Tony I didn’t. I just thought she would’ve considered it. I am still her mother.”

Pepper snorted, causing the attention to turn to her.

Christine's eyes narrowed, “ And who exactly are you to my daughter?”

Tony tensed, knowing not to mess with Pepper especially when it came to you. He sat back and waited for mamma bear to come out.

Pepper sent a glare her way, “ Me? I’m just the woman who has been raising her for the past nine years.”

Before Christine can get another word on Pepper continued on,

“ I don’t know who you think you are, but you have put Y/n and Tony through a lot of turmoil throughout the years. And now you think you can come in here and demand forgiveness from them?? That’s not happening.”

Bruce started to speak up, “I understand the pain you're family must have gone through, and I am sorry about my...unknowing participation, but Christine is willing to work on her relationship with her daughter.”

Now Tony started speaking, “why? Why now? Y/n is practically an adult, she doesn’t need you anymore. Not like she did before.”

“I’m her mother.” Christine said stubbornly, “ She’ll always need her mother.”

“And she has one. Just not you.” Pepper said standing from her spot, “ I think it’s time for you two to leave. I have to go comfort MY daughter.”

And with that Pepper made her way to the door where you disappeared, knowing exactly where you are. But before she left, she turned and said

“It was lovely to meet you Mrs. Wayne”

and left, leaving Tony to show them to the elevator.

[ghostofasoldier]

1: 

His breath was hot on my neck.

His lips dangerously close to my ear. 

“Are you sure you want to start this? Because if we start I’m not going to want to  stop.” 

Lust dripped from his voice, thick with tension and desire. I’d never thought he would speak to me like this. Never, after all of our sessions together. All the long nights speaking with him, learning from him, did I think I would find myself here. Here with his body pressed against mine, his chest rising and falling against my back with desperate need. 

“Yes.” 

It was the only word I could mutter, the only breathless statement I could make. How else could I respond to this man? I couldn’t form the words to tell him what I really wanted him to do. 

Fuck me. 

Was what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t and he knew it. A dark, breathy chuckle brushed past his lips. Lightly he brought his hands to the front of my blouse, his hands slowly unbuttoning the white buttons. I can feel his smirk as he does this, he was going to be slow about this. 

Deliberate. 

Once he had the buttons undone, his fingertips lightly guided their way along my breasts. I touched them so lightly that I felt like I could’ve imagined his fingers. 

“I can only do this if you promise me something…”

He rasps as his fingers continue along my chest. 

“... If you promise me that you’re mine. Mine and no one else's.” 

It was a simple enough request. The way he’d made me feel was unlike anything else. He was older than me, more experienced than I could ever be. I was sure he was. I honestly didn’t feel like anyone else in this entire world could make me feel the way he did. No one else could make me this desperate for more. 

“Are you going to say it Princess? Or do I need to leave?”

The thought of him leaving me here, like this full of need, panties wet before he’d even started doing anything officially, made me sick. 

“No…”

I whimpered. His fingers slipping into my bra, his fingers toying with my hardened nipple.

“... I’m yours James. Only yours and no one else’s.” 

I awoke with a gasp. My breathing ragged, my heart pumping. My eyes dashed around my office wildly as if someone had seen the dream I was having. I could feel the blush moving to my cheeks, but there wasn’t anyone else in the office. No one peered through the glass walls or the door that led to my office. Instead I was alone and the lights were off. The rows of desks and office chairs that were all empty. I’ve been a personal secretary for the Virginia Press ever since I moved to D.C. at the age of nineteen. But in all my years I had never fallen asleep at my desk this late into the night. Nor had I ever had a dream quite like that in my workplace. 

I could still feel the touch of this mystery man on my skin. A strange familiar fire that I hadn’t known for years. Who was James? I thought to myself. Even in my dream I didn’t see his face, only felt him. 

Like a ghost without a face. 

I let my mind think about it for a moment before I realize why that name sounds familiar. James Buchannan Barnes. The winter soldier. Captain America’s best friend. I feel dread when I think of this man. Only because I knew all about who he’d been… what he’d done… what my father made him do. 

Alexander Pierce wasn’t an easy father to have. He expected more from me, more than journalism and a love for writing. He’d been distant and absent at times in my life. Throwing money at the problem (me) instead of just loving me. He’d been so many awful things, but I had no idea he’d been working for Hydra… 

It was only fitting that I was the one to break the news in our publication. An issue that was an instant best seller. I mean who wouldn’t want to read the tales of woe from the daughter of a man with so much power? Who’d missed the signs that her father was a monster? I wrote it from an honest place and detailed everything he did to Captain America, Nick Fury, and the others who were involved. 

After the issue was published I was visited by Nick Fury. He handed over hundreds of boxes full of Hydra intel. He didn’t care if I exposed it all, he just wanted me to know who my father really was and to see if I could help with the open investigation of what happened during Project Insight. I had nothing to offer him, but he did warn me of one thing; the Winter Soldier could come looking for me. He didn’t elaborate why or how he’d come to this conclusion, but he warned me. 

“I’ve known you since you were born, Emilia. I worry about you and I worry about you more now that the entire world knows the truth about who your father is. I’ve wired money to your trust in my name. It’s really your father’s but I wanted to make sure you got it. That you were taken care of, it’s not your fault that he was a monster.”

He’d said this in a hushed tone, his body aching from the wounds he’d just received from the attack last week. 

“... I doubt that Bucky Barnes would hurt you, but the Winter Soldier, he might have a vendetta against the last living member of the Pierce family.” 

It was a warning at the time, but after the dream I had, my mind seemed to have another idea of Mr. Barnes. I mentally scoffed at this idea as I peered down at my watch and saw the numbers 3:00 flashing back at me. Deciding that I needed to go home and sleep in my bed like a proper human. I got up from my desk, threw my phone in my purse and grabbed my car keys. I left the office and fled to the nearest elevator I could find. I hit the ground floor button and waited, my body on autopilot the whole time. 

This was the same routine that I’d been going through for the last six years. A 24 year old woman walking alone at night is normally a scary thing, but I was too tired to notice. Nothing had happened in the years that I’ve been here, why would something happen tonight? The elevator door dings open when I reach the ground level. 

My healed covered feet clicked with each step I took from the elevator to the dark pavement of the parking garage. There were dozens of cars down here so I must not have been the only person who stayed late in the building, maybe just the only one on my floor. I walk further into the parking garage, my eyes looking for my silver Honda Accord, but I don’t make it far before something causes me to pause. Something strange tugs at me and makes my stomach turn.  Everything was silent until the faintest sound of metal lightly scraping against metal echoed through the parking garage. The sound alone makes chills go up my spine, goosebumps appearing on my arms. 

I glance over my shoulder and feel my discomfort reach a whole new high. In the dim lighting of the parking garage is a silhouette, a silhouette of a man.

His eyes find me through the dim light, a pair of blue orbs haunt me the moment our eyes meet. His hair hangs in his face, his gaunt cheekbones sharp as he clenches his jaw. He’d come for me just like Nick Fury had predicted. 

I know I should run or at least try to, but I don’t. I knew I wouldn’t get far. He smirks as if he can read my mind. He watches me closely as he puts his index finger to his lips, a gesture that tells me screaming might be a bad idea. I watch him as he walks towards me, the dim light catching the metal of his left arm. He walks swiftly, calmly, and silently. 

He’s much taller than I’d realized he was going to be, my neck craning up to look at him once he’s reached me. 

“W-What do you want?”

I whisper for only him to hear. The smirk he’d been wearing seems to grow at the sound of my voice, as if he’s pleased to hear the fear it holds.  He grabs me, his firm grip breaks me out of my haze. His eyes hold a sadness I’ve never seen before, but there is a cruelty to his smile as he mutters one word.

“Revenge”  

[aliwritesfic]

The Wedding Date (F!Reader x Frankie Morales) (part 8)

Summary: After walking in on your boyfriend boning the neighbour, you suddenly find yourself single and without a plus one to four weddings over the summer. Wanting to avoid looks of pity and the 'still single?' comments, your best friend Olivia Miller suggests you take a friend of her brothers; Frankie Morales.

Warnings (for the series as a whole): infidelity and consequences of that, drinking, drug use, swearing, eventual smut, 10 year age gap

A/N: after this series i plan on posting a companion/sequel that will follow benny and an OFC, if anyone would be interested in that? lmk babes xxx

Rating: 18+

W/C: 1.8k

Previous Next

“I think I made a mistake.”

Frankie sat at Santi’s kitchen table, nursing an untouched plate of pancakes and a coffee.

“Whadduya mean?” Benny asked through a mouth of food.

“Last night, I kissed her and she rejected me.” Frankie sighed. “I misread everything last night and I blew my chance with this beam of pure sunshine before I even had it.”

Will shook his head, “I don’t think you misread things. What did she say?”

“That I was too drunk and she didn’t want to kiss me when I was drunk.” Frankie pushed his hat over his eyes in humiliation, all the feelings of embarrassment that had been dulled by alcohol last night were hitting him all at once.

“Well you did get through over half that case of beer,” Benny said reasonably. “She made the right call not kissing you back.”

Vanessa nodded her agreement. “She said she didn’t want to kiss when you were drunk, she probably didn’t want to feel like she was . . . um . . . taking advantage of you. A lot of women have had experiences where they were in a similar situation where they were taken advantage of. Maybe she’s trying to spare you from the same experience.”

Frankie hadn’t considered that. He hadn’t ever lived those experiences. Still, there was that nagging feeling of doubt that continued to plague the back of his mind. Old insecurities taking hold, stretching their roots inside him.

His bravery had been fueled by alcohol and they way you looked under the dancing light of the water. The way everything had seemed so clear to him for the first time in months as you spoke about wanting to be understood. The way when you have saved him from Penelope, Benny’s text suddenly made so much fucking sense. He was happy when he was with you.

“You’re still going to Vermont with her?” Will asked.

“Virginia,” Frankie corrected, “and as long as she’s not creeped out and wants a restraining order against me.”

“She’s not creeped out,” Benny said.

“You don’t know that,” Frankie said.

“Um, actually, I do. She sent Olivia a text this morning.”

Frankie leaned forward, “what did she say?”

“Can’t tell you.” Benny shook his head, shovelling in more pancakes. “But she’s not mad, or creeped out, or any other bad emotion you can think of.”

“You can’t tell me?”

“Sorry man, they’d both kill me if I did. I don’t think I was even supposed to see her text, but I needed to use Liv’s phone to call Mom.”

Will nodded. “I once saw them fight a guy who had a swastika tattoo at a bar once. The guy did not come out on top. If either catches wind that their ‘private conversations’ aren’t so private after all, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Frankie couldn’t imagine you fighting anyone, but he was impressed to hear that you had beat up a neo-nazi.

He left around lunchtime, his stomach full to bursting and his head clear. It was as he was pulling out of Santi’s driveway that his phone buzzed the first time. He ignored it, figuring it was you and that you wouldn’t expect an answer right away.

The second time it buzzed, he was halfway down the street. The third, he was five minutes away from home, and the fourth he was pulling into his own driveway, a knot of dread growing in his stomach.

Ariel: So were you ever planning on telling me about this new thing you’ve got going on? Didn’t know our marriage meant so little that you would move on so quickly. Or maybe she’s just another of your quick fucks?

Ariel: I have a right to know who the fuck you’re letting around my daughter. I don’t want the dirty skanks you hang out with anywhere near Laila.

Ariel: Are you gonna answer me?

Ariel: Francisco, answer me.

Frankie sighed and pressed his forehead against his steering wheel. His headache was coming back already. God, he didn’t need this today.

Frankie: Working. I’ll talk to you about it later.

As he walked inside and hung his keys up, Ariel began to ring. He considered, briefly, letting it go to voicemail. But that would cause more trouble, and the sooner he got this over with the sooner he could sleep.

“What the fuck, Francisco,” Ariel hissed as he pressed the receiver to his ear. “I had to find out about your little girlfriend from fucking Penelope?”

“Sorry,” Frankie muttered, “I didn’t say anything because nothing is official yet.” Nothing is real yet, more like.

“Oh, so it’s just a fuck then?”

“No.” His voice was firm. He hadn’t even done more than kissed you and you were already more to him than ‘just a fuck’. This was the main reason Frankie hadn’t dated seriously after his divorce; Ariel would give him hell for it. It didn’t matter that she was the one who wanted the divorce, it didn’t matter that she was the one who left him. Her jealous streak seemed to be only exemplified after their break up.

He only half listened to her as she continued to whisper-yell down the phone from half a world away, his mind on his bed and you. After he had taken his chance last night, you had held his hand while you answered all his questions about marine life, then you had dropped him off at Santi’s, making him promise to call or text you. He hadn’t done either yet, his embarrassment preventing him from even looking at your name in his contacts.

“Ariel,” he interrupted her rant, “I have to go. I’ll talk to you when you’re not calling the woman I’m dating a dirty skank or a bitch or whatever else you’re thinking. Tell Laila I love her.”

He hung up before she could react and set his phone to Do Not Disturb. He would deal with her later, after he had slept. He was asleep before he could take his jeans off.

~

It was early that morning, while you were still in bed that you messaged Olivia. Unknown to you, this same message would be (accidently) read by Benny.

You: Girl i got it baaaad. I wanna lick Frankies whole chest. All of it. I dont care if he hasnt showered and is sweaty and gross, the grosser the better. It literally took him kissing me last night (!!!) to realise how fucking horny i am for this man!! I WAMNA RIDE HIS FUCKING FACE!! HELP WHST DO I DO!!!

You had even dreamt of Frankie, of him very naked and of you extremely naked. You hadn’t been this horny for someone since you were a teenager.

You had spent most of the day on Facetime with Olivia, trying to figure out if Frankie really was attracted to you or if it had just been the booze talking. A large part of you worried it was just the booze, that the attraction was one sided.

Once Olivia hung up later that afternoon, you continued your stream of consciousness to Mr Baldwin, who you pretended was listening while he happily ate strawberry from your hand.

“He hasn’t said a word today,” you said, “he must be avoiding me, right? Should I text him? See what’s up? If he’s still flying with me to Virginia?”

In true tortoise fashion, Mr Baldwin didn’t answer.

“I bet you’d be a really wise old man if you were a human,” you muttered. “You’d probably tell me that he’s hungover and to wait and if he hasn’t contacted me by the end of SVU to text him. You’re so wise, Mr Baldwin.”

So you had your plan. You’d wait for him, but you weren’t so prideful as to let it go all night without at least trying to talk to him. And if he didn’t want to talk to you after you messaged him then fine, you’d deal with the hurt feelings with a bottle of wine and a tub of ice cream, tell yourself you didn’t care anyway.

Of course, you didn’t realise how much you really did care until your phone was buzzing on your kitchen countertop and your fingers were thick with breadcrumbs. You swore, scrubbing your hands furiously under the tap and wiping them on your shirt so they were try enough to be recognised by the touchscreen.

“Hey!” you said, relief flooding through your veins.

“Hey, Sunshine,” Frankie’s voice was thick, croaky, and sexy. “Sorry I didn’t call earlier, my half hour nap turned into a six hour coma.”

You didn’t bother to keep the grin off your face at the new nickname, putting your phone on loudspeaker so you could move around. “It’s okay, I didn’t think you would’ve gotten much sleep.”

“Look, about last night . . .” he trailed off slightly. You could imagine him fiddling with his cap as he spoke, figuring out how to let you down gently, tell you that it was just the alcohol fuelling his actions. “Are you mad at me?”

Your jaw dropped. “No, no, no not at all! Why? Are you mad at me?”

“God no! I’ve just been worried that maybe I crossed a boundary last night and if I did I really did not mean to, and I want to-”

“Frankie,” you cut him off gently, recognising that he might begin to ramble if you didn’t. “You don’t have to worry.”

“I don’t?”

“No,” you bit your lip, “I wanted to kiss you last night.” There was silence for a few moments, so you ploughed on. If things between you were going to go down the drain after last night, you didn’t want to leave a word unsaid. “I understand it might’ve been just a booze induced thing for you, but if I’m being completely honest I felt something. I still feel something and if you were to do it again I wouldn’t pull away this time.”

You heard Frankie take a deep breath. “Okay, Sunshine, I’m going to kiss you again.”

Your stomach fluttered. “You are?”

“Yes, but I’m not gonna tell you when.”

“Why not?” you whined. You wanted to kiss him as soon as you saw him.

“Gotta keep you on your toes somehow,” Frankie said. You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. You rolled your eyes, knowing that if he were there you would’ve jumped the counter to kiss him. To do more with him.

You talked for a lot longer, any awkwardness was quickly dissolved and was replaced with a new level of flirtyness that you hadn’t breached before.. It felt normal, chatting with him about inane things that didn’t matter.

When you finally hung up, you hadn’t watched a second of SVU and a weight was finally off your shoulders. Frankie didn’t hate you, it wasn’t some drunken mistake, and even though a small part of you was still crippled with anxiety and insecurity, Frankie wanted to kiss you as much as you wanted to kiss him. You could only hope that meeting your family on Wednesday wouldn’t change that.

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