#looking forward to writing the 'main part' of this

[reiding-writing]

i love ur writing sooo much, kicking my feet giggling as i reread your entire cold!reader masterlist

i think it'd be interesting to see some sexual tension between them 👁️👁️

THE CONVERSATION. — SPENCER REID!

after the hotel incident, you and spencer avoid the inevitable conversation until you can't anymore.

spencer reid x cold!reader | 2.4k | ?? | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — not really sexual tension, but definitely tension

The flight back to Quantico is suffocating.

Spencer sits across the aisle, book in hand, but you know he’s not really reading. His eyes flick over the words too slowly, the way they do when he’s using them as a shield rather than taking them in.

You don’t blame him. You’re doing the same thing—staring at the report in your lap, eyes skimming over the same paragraph for the fourth time, pretending you don’t notice the weight of his silence.

He’s quieter than usual. That alone is enough to unnerve you.

You should say something. A joke, maybe. Something dry and dismissive to shove things back into place, back into before. But your body betrays you, tense and unwilling to bridge the gap.

So you sit in it. The not-quite silence, the too-loud hum of the jet’s engines, the unspoken weight pressing into the space between you.

But things have changed.

It’s in the way he looks at you—just a second too long, like he’s cataloging every flicker of your expression, waiting for a signal he’s not sure will come.

It’s in the way you look at him, catching yourself watching the way his hands move when he flips through case files, when he tugs at his tie absentmindedly.

You hate it. The awareness, the sharp pull in your chest when he leans forward to adjust his bag and his knee barely brushes yours. The warmth that lingers too long. The way your own body responds before your mind can shut it down.

He doesn’t push. Of course he doesn’t.

Spencer is patient, careful in the way only he can be. He’s waiting—for you to say something, anything, to acknowledge what happened in that hotel room. But you don’t. You can’t. Because if you start, you don’t know where it ends.

And then there’s the team.

Emily teases, because of course she does. Some offhand remark about how you and Reid have been acting weird ever since the case wrapped up. JJ gives you quiet, knowing glances that make your stomach twist.

And Morgan—well. Morgan just smirks and says, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there’s something you two aren’t telling me,”

You brush it off. Pretend you don’t see the way Spencer stiffens beside you, or the way your face feels unnaturally warm.

It’s fine.

Everything is fine.

Except it isn’t, and you both know it.

There’s an awareness between you now. A charged undercurrent in every glance, every movement, every second you spend in the same room.

It starts small. The way you feel his presence before you even see him. The way his gaze lingers when he thinks you won’t notice. The way your body tenses when he gets too close—not in fear, but in anticipation, in something unspoken and unbearable.

So you do what you do best: you bury it.

Your tone stays sharp, clipped, practiced in its indifference. You keep the distance, keep the edge, because that’s easier than acknowledging the way his fingers linger when he passes you a case file. The way they brush against yours, fleeting but deliberate, like he’s testing the boundaries of whatever this thing is.

You pretend it doesn’t affect you.

But it does. It does.

He doesn’t push. Spencer never pushes. But you know he’s waiting.

Waiting for the moment you slip up. Waiting for you to let the mask crack, even just a little. Waiting for you to admit what he already knows—that you feel it, too.

And the worst part?

You almost want to.

The tension is worse when it’s just the two of you.

It sneaks in during the in-between moments—when the rest of the team is occupied, when there’s no buffer, no reason to pretend the air between you isn’t thick with something unspoken.

In the conference room, you hand him a report, your fingers brushing his for the briefest second. He inhales sharply, a quiet thing, barely audible over the rustle of paper, but you hear it. Like it’s the first breath he’s taken all day.

You ignore the way your own breath catches.

In the break room, you’re pouring sugar into your takeout coffee when he walks in. You don’t look at him, don’t acknowledge the way his presence shifts the entire atmosphere of the room. But you feel him. Standing just close enough to press at the edges of your space, just far enough to keep it appropriate.

When he speaks, his voice is softer. Careful. “You should try decaf in the afternoons. Too much caffeine can increase cortisol levels, and you already don’t sleep enough,”

You roll your eyes, sip your coffee anyway. “Noted.”

It’s clipped, controlled. Everything about you is controlled.

But the silences are getting longer.

The pauses between words stretch too thin, stretched tight like a wire pulled to its limit. Every unspoken thought, every question neither of you dares to voice, hangs between you.

One day, something’s going to snap.

—

A week passes, and the tension becomes unbearable.

It’s everywhere. In the hallway, when you walk past each other just a little too close. In the team meetings, when your eyes meet across the table and neither of you look away. In the casual brushes of hands—when your fingers touch for a fraction of a second, a spark you both feel but don’t acknowledge. Every accidental touch lingers too long, and every word is too charged with meaning, too heavy with what’s unspoken.

You hate it. You hate how easily you fall into this strange, uncharted territory with him, how you can't seem to escape the gravity of what happened. And yet, every time you think you’ll address it, every time the words almost slip out, something pulls you back into the silence.

It’s late, way past normal office hours. The rest of the team has long gone home, but you’re still here, hunched over case files with Spencer.

There’s a strange, muted quiet to the space between you, and for once, it’s not just the weight of all the cases you’ve been working on. It’s the weight of this—the silence that surrounds you both, thick enough to choke.

Spencer doesn’t say anything for a long while. You’re both too immersed in the reports, in pretending to focus on the paperwork instead of whatever's hanging between you. But then he puts the file down, leans back in his chair, and the words come, simple and deliberate.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?”

It’s quiet. Too quiet. And the air in the room shifts. You freeze for a moment, caught off guard. Your mind instantly races to shut it all down, to run from the conversation you’ve been avoiding for days.

You open your mouth, prepared to deflect, to push it all back into the vault of things you don’t talk about. But then you meet his gaze.

His eyes are earnest, softer than you’ve ever seen them. There’s hope in them, and maybe something else—something fragile, something vulnerable. He’s not pushing you, not demanding anything. Just waiting.

And suddenly, you realise that you don’t want to run anymore.

You feel it in your chest, that sharp pang of wanting to bridge the gap between you, to close the distance that’s grown between you both over the past week. Maybe you don’t have the right words. Maybe you never will. But for once, you’re not afraid to try.

You swallow hard and finally speak, your voice quieter than usual, rough with the weight of everything unspoken.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Let’s talk.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s thick with everything you’ve been holding back. And then—something shifts. The air between you crackles. You both lean in slightly, but neither of you makes a move. Not yet.

And then, without another word, Spencer stands, stepping toward you with that same quiet intensity. It’s a move you didn’t expect, and for a moment, you freeze. But then he’s closer, his breath warm against your skin, and you realize that he’s waiting for you.

Your heart races, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let him close the distance, and this time, there’s no hesitation.

The kiss is slow. Tentative at first, like both of you are afraid to shatter the fragile moment. But it deepens quickly, and it’s everything—everything you’ve been feeling without knowing how to express it. His lips are gentle but insistent, a soft pressure against yours that makes your pulse spike.

You kiss him like it’s the only thing that matters, because in this moment, it is.

The kiss lingers in the air, charged and unresolved, as you both pull back just enough to catch your breath. You’re still close, too close, your faces a breath away from each other, and the space between you hums with something different. Something new.

You break the silence first, your voice tinged with that familiar edge of sarcasm that you use to shield yourself. “That’s not exactly us talking.”

Spencer freezes for a moment, his expression shifting from confusion to a slight grimace. He knows you’re not exactly serious about it, that the tone you’ve carried throughout the whole exchange has been more about self-preservation than actual disappointment.

But the weight of it still settles on his shoulders, and he winces at the mild reprimand, even though he understands it’s more a defence mechanism than anything else.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters quickly, the apology falling out of him without hesitation. His eyes are a little wider than usual, like he’s bracing for something more, but he also knows it’s not really warranted. You’re not angry with him. You never were.

But the words are enough to make you exhale sharply, and you roll your eyes as you shift back slightly, breaking the proximity just enough for your mind to catch up with everything that’s just happened.

You study him for a moment, watching how his hands twitch slightly at his sides like he’s trying to keep himself together. His eyes are wide, darting between yours, looking for some kind of confirmation.

“I like kissing you… sorry—” he blurts, his voice cracking slightly as the words tumble out in a rush, and then he keeps talking, his words pouring out like he’s finally letting go of the tight grip he’s been holding on everything.

“I’ve wanted to for so long, but I was scared that you wouldn’t be into it. I mean, I’ve seen how you act with me, and I get it, I do, I just—” He stumbles over his own thoughts. “I didn’t want to ruin things between us. You’re—well, you’re you, and I’m me, and I didn’t know if you’d even want that, you know?”

You blink at him, trying to process the flood of words, and for a moment, it’s overwhelming. He’s still standing too close, so you take a step back, crossing your arms defensively as you try to steady yourself.

“Spencer,” you start, your voice gentle but firm, “you need to breathe.”

His eyes flicker at your words, and you see the immediate tension in his face relax a fraction, but only a fraction.

“Listen,” you continue, your voice steady now as you push past the weight of the awkwardness. “I’m not exactly a romantic person, okay?” You can feel the vulnerability creeping in, but you don’t let it overwhelm you.

“I don’t—” You sigh frustratedly. “I don’t know how to do this, or what I’m supposed to say, but… I don’t want you to think I’m rejecting you. I just— I need to know where we’re going with this. And I need to know what you want.”

Spencer opens his mouth to say something but falters, clearly still unsure of how to navigate this strange, new territory with you. You take a deep breath, feeling the space between you growing thicker with every second.

“I need you to be straightforward, Spencer,” you say, softer now. “Just— tell me what you want from this,”

For a moment, Spencer just stands there, eyes fixed on you, as though trying to read between the lines of what you’ve said. And then, finally, his shoulders relax as he nods.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” he says quietly, his voice earnest, “but I do want this. And I want you to know that, even if I’m nervous and all over the place, I’m not trying to make things difficult. I just want to— be with you. If that’s something you’re open to.”

You chew on his words for a moment, and the weight of them hits you all at once. He’s not asking for anything more than what you’re willing to give, and he’s not rushing you, either. The idea of having someone like Spencer—someone who isn’t expecting perfection from you, who’s patient enough to understand your walls—feels almost… safe.

You take a deep breath.

“I’m not good at this. But I don’t want to screw it up either.” You step forward a little, trying to meet him halfway. “I can’t promise all the right words or the grand romantic gestures, but if you’re okay with that…” You pause, meeting his gaze squarely. “I’m willing to try.”

Spencer exhales slowly, his eyes lighting up just slightly, the weight of relief crossing his face. He doesn’t move closer, but the air between you feels a little less tight, a little less heavy.

“That’s good enough for me,”

The words settle between you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no tension—just the quiet understanding of what comes next.

[33max]

What is Max Fest?

Max Fest is a fest dedicated to all things Max! Whether your work focuses solely on Max, or on a pairing including Max, Max Fest is a chance for Max lovers to create and consume all the Max content.

Previous years: Max Fest 2023 | Max Fest 2024

What could I do for Max Fest?

It's completely up to you. Max Fest is available to everyone - writers, artists, creatives, bakers etc.

You could: write a fic, create some art, make a playlist, make a gifset, make a video, knit something... and much, much more.

What pairings are allowed?

Any Max pairings are allowed, with the exception of reader insert. Just make sure you tag your work accordingly.

Is PWP or [insert genre here] allowed?

Yes, all genres are allowed and encouraged. Again, just tag accordingly.

What are the requirements?

• Your creation must be Max centric, either as the focus or as part of the main pairing.

• Your creation should be a minimum of 1000 words, or a time equivalent if you are creating something other than fic.

When is the deadline?

Saturday 31st May, 6pm GMT/7pm CET. This is the weekend of the Spanish Grand Prix.

Do I need to sign up?

No, it's a no pressure fest. Simply upload to the collection before the deadline if you want to participate.

Where is the AO3 collection?

Here!

What should I do if I'm not posting to AO3?

If you can post your work to AO3, please do! However if AO3 doesn't accept your art format then please use the tag #maxfest2025 on tumblr.

Is there a discord server I could join?

There is not a server for Max Fest, but you can join the Golden Boots Boy Server if you want to find like minded creatives also taking part!

If you have any further questions about the event, or if you need some encouragement, feel free to drop me a message. I am really looking forward to feasting on all of the Max content!

[deliciousangelfestival]

Nothing Has Changed - 17

Summary: Returning home for peace, you're faced with your tormentor, Bucky Barnes, who is now involved in your family's business.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Warning: Dark, Mystery, Betrayal.

Nothing Has Changed - Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 💖💖💖

Knowing Ransom was heading straight into your personal hell made your stomach twist with unease. Something felt wrong—deeply, irreversibly wrong. And you didn’t want any part of it.

After the consultations with Tim, you rushed back to see your father, your mind racing.

Steve immediately noticed your tense expression when you returned. His brows furrowed. “Bad news?”

You exhaled sharply. “I have two jobs for you.” Your voice was firm, brooking no argument. “First, I need you to stay with my dad while I’m gone. And second, a lawyer will be coming to meet you both.”

Steve’s expression flickered with suspicion. “Wait. A lawyer?” He straightened in his chair. “No. I’ll go with you.”

“No.”

“Please.” His voice was almost desperate. “After everything you’ve done for me, at least let me do something to help you.”

“If you want to help me, then do this.” Your eyes locked onto his. “Stay here.”

Steve looked like he wanted to argue, but you continued, your voice low and sharp. “Two doctors. Two. Misdiagnosed both of you. If I hadn’t caught it in time, we’d be burying my father this year.” Your jaw clenched. “I will drag Tony to the deepest circle of hell for what he did. He treated my father like a disposable test subject, throwing whatever drugs he wanted at him.”

A sickening thought hit you—if you had been too late, would you be attending Tom’s funeral instead?

You turned back to Steve, voice cold. “And as for your doctor? He’s lucky we caught it early. If we hadn’t, I would’ve made sure no hospital on this earth would take him.”

Steve swallowed hard. He had never heard you talk like that before. A chill ran down his spine.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

You both entered Tom’s room. He lay on the hospital bed, his face no longer as pale as before. There was a visible difference now that he had stopped taking Tony’s damn medicine. He looked calmer. Healthier.

Seeing him like this made it easier to leave. At least here, he was safe.

You stepped closer to his bedside. “Dad, I’ll be gone for a little while.”

Tom’s tired eyes met yours. “Where are you going?”

“I need to go back home for a bit—to get your things.” You kept your tone light, masking the true reason for your trip. “You’ll be having surgery soon, and Allan said the recovery will take a while.”

For the first time in years, you realized you were saying goodbye like you actually wanted permission to leave.

Tom studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “Let me pray for you.”

“Pray?”

You hesitated.

As a mortician, your father had spent years witnessing grief, loss, and regret. Every day, he worked with the dead—people who could no longer ask for second chances. And before every funeral, he always whispered a quiet prayer for the departed, hoping their souls would find peace. He prayed for the families they left behind, too.

And, though he had never told you, he prayed for you. Every single day.

His biggest regret was never saying goodbye properly before you left all those years ago. Now, with his weakened body, this was all he could do for you.

Tom lifted his hands, looking between you and Steve, waiting.

You could refuse. Or you could take his hands.

You stepped forward, slipping your fingers into his. Steve did the same.

Tom closed his eyes and took a deep breath before speaking.

“God,” Tom began, his voice thick with emotion. “I am grateful for the time I have now, for the second chance to be with my daughter. For the truth that has been revealed.”

His grip on your hands tightened slightly.

“Bless her with strength and wisdom if she ever faces hardship.”

Your throat tightened.

“And help this young man recover. Amen”

Steve inhaled sharply. His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing.

Your chest burned. You almost cried right then and there.

“What hardship?” you scoffed, clearing your throat, trying to compose yourself. “I’m just grabbing your stuff. I’ll be back.”

Tom opened his eyes, watching you carefully.

“I know.”

As you stepped out of your father’s hospital room, the sterile scent of antiseptic clung to your senses, mixing with the tension coiling in your chest. Steve followed, his footsteps quiet but steady beside you. The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit, eerily silent except for the occasional murmur of nurses in the distance. You glanced at him, your voice low but firm.

"There will be two lawyers coming to meet you."

From your pocket, you pulled out two sleek business cards, their embossed letters gleaming under the fluorescent light. You handed them to Steve. He took them with a furrowed brow, flipping them between his fingers. He had no idea who they were—yet. But soon, he would learn.

Harlan’s advice echoed in your mind: Make connections. Befriend everyone. You never knew what life would throw at you. Back when you were just a junior analyst, Harlan had dragged you and Ransom to every business seminar, every high-profile networking event. At first, you didn’t understand why. But then, you saw it—those rooms weren’t filled with people. They were filled with predators. Deals were silent battles, conversations were well-crafted traps, and everyone was there to hunt for their next big opportunity.

You had no family legacy, no name that carried weight. But you had something better—you worked in finance. You knew where the money flowed. And with Harlan’s bank behind you, you had leverage.

Still, blending in hadn’t been easy. The CEOs, the vice presidents—they wouldn’t even look at a junior like you. Ransom, of course, fit right in. He had the name, the presence, the confidence of someone born into privilege. But you? You had to adapt.

So you did.

Instead of chasing after the top dogs, you turned to the ones no one paid attention to—the young lawyers, accountants, auditors. You collected business cards like weapons, knowing that, one day, they would prove useful. Business was just another game of survival, after all.

And now, standing in this dim hospital corridor, those connections were finally paying off.

"I’m going to sue the hell out of the doctors who misdiagnosed my father and you."

Steve blinked, taken aback by the fury in your tone. You could feel your pulse hammering against your skin, the sheer injustice of it all threatening to consume you. If you hadn’t caught it in time, if your father had kept taking those damn pills… You swallowed hard. You wouldn’t think about that.

"But I need you to keep pretending to be sick," you continued.

Steve's brows knitted together in confusion. "Why? I can start making new art next month."

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Do it if you want, but keep it quiet. And whatever you do—don’t tell the gallery owner about your condition."

His expression darkened. "Why are you making this so secretive?"

Because you weren’t sure yet. Because there was something off about all of this—the timing, the misdiagnoses, the way the pieces were falling into place just a little too neatly. A cold shiver crawled up your spine.

"If I get proof, I’ll tell you," you admitted. "But for now, I need you to trust me."

Steve studied you for a long moment, his blue eyes searching yours. Then, he sighed, slipping the business cards into his pocket.

"Promise me you’ll come back."

You hesitated. Lying to him felt wrong, but you couldn’t make a promise you weren’t sure you could keep.

"I’ll try," you said softly.

It wasn’t a promise. But it was the truth.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

Sliding into the sleek interior of your sports car, you gripped the wheel, the leather cool against your palms. With a sharp turn, you accelerated onto the open road, the city skyline shrinking in your rearview mirror. The tires cut through the damp asphalt, the rhythmic sound of the engine steadying the unease coiling in your gut.

As the miles stretched ahead, the landscape darkened. The air grew heavier, the bright city glow fading into an eerie emptiness. The further you drove, the more suffocating it felt. That damn small town was waiting for you.

By morning, you were back.

The sun cast long shadows over the town as you stepped into the hotel lobby, the scent of polished wood and freshly brewed coffee thick in the air. You spotted them immediately—Ransom, dressed in his usual effortless elegance, and several employees from the bank, their crisp suits making them stand out in the rustic setting.

And there was Bucky.

He stood in the middle of it all, giving the bank representatives a tour of the property, his voice smooth and commanding. He fit here too well—too at ease, too comfortable.

Then, his gaze landed on you.

His face lit up, and before you could react, he was beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders in a casual side hug.

You shivered.

It wasn’t from the cold. It wasn’t from surprise. It was something else—something instinctive. You wanted to pull away, to put distance between you and him, but you forced yourself to stay still. Show nothing.

"How’s your dad?" His voice was warm, almost too warm.

You swallowed down your discomfort. "He’s getting surgery."

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, feigning shock. "I’ll visit him soon."

"You should visit Steve too," you said, testing him.

"Steve?" His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. "What happened to him?"

"He got into an accident. Hurt his hand."

Bucky let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, boy. He should’ve listened to me. I told him he wouldn’t fit in the big city."

Your fingers curled into a fist behind your back.

Not a single trace of sympathy. Just that smug, knowing tone like he had been right all along.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to exhale slowly. "Why did you choose to work with this bank?" You kept your voice even, neutral.

Bucky met your gaze, and for a second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Then, he smirked. "Simple," he said smoothly. "Because it’s linked to you."

The way he said it—like there was something deeper beneath the surface—made your stomach tighten.

Silence stretched between you.

You needed to get out of this conversation.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Ransom looking in your direction. He had already noticed you, his expression unreadable but sharp. Without hesitation, you stepped away from Bucky, breaking the tension as you walked toward Ransom.

Bucky didn’t stop you.

As you reached Ransom, he gave you a slow, knowing smirk. "Didn’t think I’d see you back here so soon."

"Neither did I," you muttered.

Now, it was just the two of you walking together. And for the first time since you arrived, you could finally breathe.

Ransom walked beside you, his hands in his pockets, his usual air of arrogance softened by curiosity. “Do you think it’s worth investing here?” he asked.

You didn’t hesitate. “My advice? Don’t even waste your breath.”

His brows lifted in amusement. “Woah.” He let out a low chuckle. “I knew you hated your hometown, but this place actually has potential. There’s a lot of undeveloped land. And near the hospital, they’re planning to build a retirement home. Give it a few years—this town could be the getaway spot for people escaping city life.”

He was joking, clearly expecting you to roll your eyes or throw a sarcastic jab back at him. But when he noticed how still you had gone, how you weren’t meeting his gaze like usual, the humor drained from his face.

“Ransom.”

His expression turned serious. “Yeah?”

You exhaled slowly, keeping your voice low. “Don’t trust James Barnes.”

Ransom frowned, but before he could question you, you stole a quick glance over your shoulder.

Just as you suspected.

Bucky was still standing where you had left him, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored slacks, his expression unreadable. But he wasn’t talking to anyone. He wasn’t moving.

He was watching you.

Your stomach twisted. There was something about the way he lingered, something unsettling in his quiet observation. It wasn’t just idle curiosity. It was like he was studying you, waiting.

A slow smirk ghosted over his lips when he caught you looking.

You turned back to Ransom, your voice firmer now. “I mean it.”

Ransom’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering between you and Bucky in the distance.

Something was off.

And you weren’t going to ignore it.

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[panlight]

One thing that I STILL can’t understand is why do the Cullen kids still go to school?

They know everything and if somebody asks they just can say that they’re homeschooled or something.

I’d be fed up with school over the time.

This is another one of those "author choices." By that I mean this is something the author wanted (for the Cullen kids to be in high school), but from the POV of the characters, it really makes no sense.

(I also think the name "Renesmee" is an author choice. I will never believe that it feels in-character for Bella to have come up with. Edward Jacob/Edward Junior, on the other hand, is VERY Bella IMO. Also moving to Forks at all is an author choice. Even for purely selfish reasons of secrecy and safety, it makes no sense for the Cullens to move back to the ONE AREA where there are people who know what they are. Absolute clown shoes. But Author Choice because story needed to happen).

Author choices aren't necessarily bad. When you're writing a story you have to make choices. Part of the job. Where you run into trouble is when it seems to go against what the characters would choose themselves.

SM had this dream about a beautiful vampire boy and a 'normal' human girl in a meadow and then she had to work backwards about how they met. And she picked 'high school' and then she had to justify it with the pretty clunky 'helps us blend in' stuff when it's clear that they make absolutely zero effort to actually blend in and are getting nothing fulfilling out of this experience. They could say they are homeschooled. They could just chill at the house and not be in public at all. They could say they are in and/or actually go to college, which at least offers the chance to tailor your experience more: American high school over and over again is going to cover most of the same stuff. In college you can pick different majors, different electives. More variety, more choice. But Edward has to be in high school to meet Bella in bio class. Author choice.

It feels like "I want them in high school" and then tried to force it, which is very different from saying, "okay I have this group of vampires with physical ages ranging from 17 to 26, how do I think they would live?" and looking at it from the characters' POV, from which high school is just obviously the worst, most nonsensical option.

I think the other part is the Bella-centricity of it all. They have to be in school because Bella is in school. Would not be surprised at all if SM decides that going forward they don't repeat high school anymore because now Edward and Bella are Adults and Married so it would be weird; but oh hey, aren't Rosalie/Emmett and Alice/Jasper also married adults and they still had to do it? Sure but they aren't the main character.

[raine-dance]

Tbh Red vs Blue didn't really intend to lean too far into the dissociative lens with Leonard Church as far as I can tell. He's an AI that's a reconstruction of a real person, through the use of brain-mapping technology. Church, the AI, became a system through... conventional traumatic means, and that's almost where they leave it in terms of direct reference to the disorder. But it's still interesting to look at things within that lens, and while I do eventually intend to collect my thoughts into a video essay, I think I'd like to share one train of thought here because I think it's legitimately interesting.

Everyone knows about the cliché of the murderous alter. Red vs Blue's most notable example is Sigma. Now I know that on this sentence alone, many would criticise me calling Church the best DID representation I've seen in media, especially given that they also misnomer the disorder as MPD, but I think Sigma is the most interesting example of the trope, because he actually has something to say about the treatment of those with dissociative disorders.

For one, I think that character context is important. Church (as in Alpha) was created to be a murder machine - the Director would force Church to split and extract the new split into its own AI unit, given to Freelancers with the express purpose of making them more effective soldiers. Almost everyone in the series is a killer, although some are more effective than others, and nowhere is this description more applicable than Project Freelancer.

With that in mind, the Freelancers were given seminars on the workings of AI - in the series, an AI fragment might try to "metastabilise," or reconnect with other fragments of the same AI, to achieve a sense of wholeness. If I recall, AI were supposed to remain inactive for these seminars, but Agent Maine was fond of Sigma due to Sigma's ability to act as a mouthpiece for him after an injury, and Sigma was made aware of the concept of "metastability." As such, he decided that he wanted to achieve metastability, and this decision kicks off the vast majority of RvB's plot.

There are many things getting in the way of Sigma's plan, however, and first and foremost is the fact that all of the other AI fragments have been allotted to other Freelancer agents. While there may have been a conflict of interest for Maine, Sigma had a clear goal in mind, and was ultimately conditioned to achieve it - the AI units were made to kill, and this is a large part of why he proceeds with his plan.

So, why am I mentioning this? I'm not just here to defend this writing decision, I said this plotline had something to say about the treatment of systems, and it does, either intentionally, or, more likely, not - first, it deals with how the world surrounding systems form how they react to the issues the world involves them in, something that is true of not only us, but of everyone. Second, it challenges the idea that final fusion is the healthiest and only acceptable treatment for systems.

The only reason Sigma strives for something analogous to final fusion is because he was told by someone who should be an expert that this is the only way forward for him. The only way to achieve, in direct quote, "humanity," a goal he had already been striving for. And the tragic thing is that he believed that this was the case when the viewer looking at the show through a dissociative lens already knows it isn't, both in real life, and in the series.

Church, as in the Alpha AI, and later Epsilon, is one of the most human characters in the show. He's a lot of things - a bit arrogant, very brash, and often pissed off, but he cares about his friends, and does everything in his power to help them succeed, even sacrificing himself as Epsilon for them. He was human once, and as an AI, is a reconstruction of that former humanity, and he still manages to retain it. As Epsilon, he achieves functional multiplicity until the plot forces him to go through final fusion to save his friends, and the act, in the timeline of Seasons 15-18, at least, literally kills him.

The treatment of systems matters so much to me. And despite starting out as a crass comedy show about the shittiest soldiers in the galaxy, with the relevant seasons having released 13 years ago, the series still manages to treat us with more respect and challenge more issues relating to how society treats us than most, if not all media that deems us interesting enough to be plot-relevant does now. I have a lot of thoughts about it all, and whenever I feel like it, I'll probably write more about it. Thanks for reading, if you did make it this far, I'm just rambling and all, but if this matters even half as much to someone else as it does to me, that makes me happy.

[too-antigonish]

The Great S7 Rewrite: Plan B

 @oeuvrinarydurian just posted a snippet that she wrote for the Great S7 Rewrite over here and it gave me the push I needed to give everyone an update on this project.

Both men thinking *I can ignore you way harder than you can ignore me...*

For those of you who don't know, the Great S7 Rewrite started in July 2024 with this post and eventually became a group writing project.

In December, after six months of valiant effort (and a *lot* of writing), it was decided that we needed to rethink our approach because...

Although everyone was excited to work together and we managed to arrive at a somewhat unified vision for our version of S7, we seriously underestimated some of the challenges we would face. 

We had three different writers (@oeuvrinarydurian, @fanficrocks, and @astridcontramundum) with three very different writing styles. 

We were trying to create a fairly massive single work but could only communicate remotely, had wildly opposing schedules, etc. 

In the end, trying to make decisions, trying to make everything mesh—especially as the work got bigger—became more and more daunting. It was hard to let go, but we finally decided that while we couldn't go forward as we were, we weren't willing to ditch everyone's blood, sweat, and tears—so of course we came up with another plan.

The gutted wreckage of ourselves after the initial S7 Rewrite efforts...

As part of the original project, we had divided S7 in three main components with an author assigned to each:

The Towpath Murders which also serve to highlight the conflict between Morse and Thursday (@oeuvrinarydurian)

The Violetta, Ludo, and Morse storyline (aka Violudo) with it's operatic excesses (@astridcontramundum)

The Episodic Murders, meaning the case-of-the-week murders associated with each episode (@fanficrocks)

Plan B—for want of something better to call it—is to now publish each author's work as a separate piece of fiction. This gets us around our coordination problems. The works will, however, all be published as part of the same series. They will also, to at least some degree, be built around the shared reworking of S7 that the group originally developed. 

So, long story short, look for the series to be published on AO3 at some point in the future. Links will of course be posted here as well.

[kikuism]

i finished five broken blades

[penultimate-step]

I think from that oshi no ko post from a couple days back some people are getting the impression that I dislike Aqua/Ruby as a ship, so I should clarify I actually am a fan of it. I just don't want it to happen in the actual manga and am sure the story isn't going that route. I can see a strong story with that ship, and I appreciate fanfic authors who go for it! But that strong story is very clearly not Oshi no Ko, lol. The way the story has been written is just very much not setting it up at all. How they interact in the actual story is at odds with the main themes of the manga.

I can see it working all the way through to the end of the LoveNow arc, but you'd have to rewrite a big chunk of Tokyo Blade, and then literally everything from Miyazaki Return onward would need to be thrown out. I think the ship is cool, and if it were actually the focus, I would love to read a story like that. But as it stands, I would be angry if the ship was endgame, because it would mean the author was just completely contrasting everything that was set up, and the story would be worse for it. If I had to make a prediction I think Aqua will likely end up with Kana, if he ends up in any romance at all. (That's kind of a shame to me, just because I find Kana the least interesting main character of Onk, but it is what it is.)

[lord-squiggletits]

The funny thing about my love-hate relationship with Barber is that conceptually, I do understand and agree with the concepts he established/strengthened about IDW Optimus, and I do think that if you want to write a good IDW Optimus you should read some of his stuff and ponder the themes that are trying to be conveyed therein.

It's just that holy shit the actual stories that IDW OP is in, like the plotlines and the reasons things happens and the style they're written in. Dark and depressing but not in a fun way, more focused on plot than character development, fast-paced and has a lot of things happen without much breathing or contemplation room, incredibly horrible plot holes and forcing certain things to happen for the sake of the plot. Like good god in THEORY his stories contain everything I wanted out of phase 2, it's just that the way it was EXECUTED fills me with so much disappointment and anger.

[skeleton-in-a-hoodie]

Sometimes when I'm bored or need cheering up, I just think about DDMG but Hamato Yoshi is also there. Like Splinter is doing his thing, and then there's Yoshi, who remembers everything Splinter's forgotten, giving running commentary on everything that's happening. No one can see Yoshi, Splinter included, so it's kinda like Yoshi is haunting everyone but no one knows he's there.

I think it's safe to say that some of Splinter's choices would have Yoshi screaming his head off like "What are you thinking!? No! Stop doing that! Spit that out! Spit that out our mouth right now! Oh my... it is a good thing we do not have a stomach anymore." or "There is something deeply wrong with you, and I am not convinced it started after I died."

Still absolutely loves Mikey. Like that's his sweet baby boy he can't actually interact with but will commit crimes if anyone hurts.

Also doesn't trust the forest deer. It creeps him out.

[luna-azzurra]

How to Write a Death Scene

So, you want to write a death scene that hits your readers hard, right? Something that sticks with them, makes them feel something real?

First, give the death meaning. You can’t just toss in a death for the shock factor and call it a day. Even if it’s sudden or unexpected, the death has to matter to the story. Think about how it changes things for the characters who survive. Does it mess with their relationships? Their goals? Make sure this moment sends ripples through the rest of your plot. It’s gotta affect everything that happens after, like an emotional earthquake.

Then, think about timing. You don’t want to drop a death scene at the wrong moment and ruin the vibe. If it’s part of a big heroic moment or a heartbreaking loss in the middle of the story, it should feel earned. The timing of the death decides how your readers will react, whether they feel relief, gut-wrenching sorrow, or are totally blindsided. The right moment makes all the difference.

Next up, focus on the characters’ emotions. Here’s the thing, it's not always the actual death that makes a reader cry, it's how everyone feels about it. How do the characters react? Is the person dying scared, or are they at peace? Are the people around them in shock, angry, or just completely destroyed? You need to dive deep into these emotions, because that’s where your reader connects.

Make sure to use sensory details to pull readers into the scene. What does it feel like? The sound of their breathing, the stillness when they’re gone, the way everything feels heavy and wrong. Little details make the death feel real and personal, like the reader is right there with the characters, feeling the weight of the moment.

If your character has the chance, give them some final words or actions. What they say or do in those last seconds can really hit hard. Maybe they share a piece of advice, ask for forgiveness, or try to comfort the people around them. Even a simple gesture, a smile, a touch, a last look can leave a lasting impression. This is your last chance to show who this character was, so make it count.

Finally, don’t just stop when the character dies. The aftermath is just as important. How do the survivors deal with it? Does your main character fall apart, or do they find a new sense of purpose? Are there regrets? Peace? Whatever happens next should be shaped by the death, like a shadow that never quite goes away. Let your characters carry that weight as they move forward.

[aparticularbandit]

SO.

This is your head's up that - unless it is relevant to current Agatha All Along etc. - if you send me a prompt, I will probably be saving it for December.

I apologize ahead of time for the wait! But I'm trying to get all of these set and ready so, like I said above, I won't end up. rushing everything.

And also the addendum that if there are no prompts then I'm just gonna do whatever, which is fun for me, but I'd like these to be things y'all want.

SO LET ME KNOW IF YOU HAVE PROMPTS AND ETC.

So.

Last December, I tried to post fic daily - whether that was a one-shot or a chapter of something longer - because I understand that December can be a really rough time of year for people (including me), and I wanted to try and help ease that a little.

...given that most of those were written either the day/night before or day of, I'd like to get an earlier start this year.

SO.

I'm taking prompts! Now throughout December! For any of the fandoms I'm blatantly in and writing (Marvel (both MCU and comics (one I'm better at but. I can research)), Danganronpa (new this year!), Kathryn Hahn etc. (Mrs. Fletcher and Glass Onion (yes, I will take fam requests)), Jane the Virgin (Roisa primarily but I can be persuaded to write other ships), Who Framed Roger Rabbit (with the addendum that my Jess is...complicated)) AND OTHER FANDOMS - last year I wrote Everlark! and got into Marvel comics to write Viv Vision! among! other things!

So like - prompt away! Feel free to send in random stuff, because the worst I can do is say no, and that's basically the same as not asking me in the first place.

That said!

Please do not ask me to write Game of Thrones. I know nothing other than the first book, the first two episodes, and what I've seen on my dash. It would be wildly out of character.

Please also no Hazbin Hotel because that is a minefield of triggers waiting to happen.

Also I do not write smut or graphic sexual content. Those are the big nos.

BEYOND THAT. ASK AWAY. AND WE'LL SEE.

[leia-writes]

not sure if you’ve wrote this before but Frontmanxfem reader maybe she’s like nervous for him to go down on her and he reassures her🥹

Movement

hwang in-ho | front man x reader

ao3 link

masterlist

song inspiration: movement by hozier

note: thanks for your request!! I'm so happy to finally be writing again. more to come with season 2 out!

warnings: SMUT 18+ ONLY

word count: 2,998

posted on: 1/4/2025

“Fuck!” you exclaimed under your breath, elevator doors closing in front of you. You pressed the button to your floor and impatiently waited for the elevator to take you to your residence. As soon as the doors opened, you ripped your mask off and stormed down the hallway.

You passed the main living room, furnished with two leather chairs facing a large screen and a table with a half drunk glass of whiskey on it. Another mask like yours laid neatly on the table next to the glass. You hurled yours across the room in a fit of rage.

Storming into the nearby kitchen, you saw In-ho pouring a glass of your favorite wine.

“I hope that’s for me,” you sighed as you approached In-ho.

He gave you a sympathetic look and handed you the glass. “I heard what happened.”

You finished the glass off in a few seconds, slamming it down on the counter. In-ho approached your hunched over figure but you stood straight again, pointing at him.

“I could kill them all. Every last one of them,” you seethed. 

He knew exactly who you were talking about, and gave you a soft, pitying look. “I know, I know you could. You’d be really good at it too.” He caressed your cheek as he praised you, a playful smirk flashing across his face for a moment.

You huffed, rolling your eyes but softening at his affection. “I’m fucking serious. I’m done with these pretentious assholes.”

Before you joined In-ho in your shared residence that evening, you’d spent your entire day with the VIPs. Handling impossible requests and battling egos was the most insufferable part of your job. You’d run around so much that day trying to appease every demand that you could’ve probably traversed every inch of the island in the same amount of time. 

In-ho spent the day in Seoul, working with the recruiter to find the next batch of players, and was therefore spared from dealing with the VIPs. Your muscles ached with fatigue and jealousy.

In-ho embraced you, stroking your hair. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make sure you don’t see them for a while, alright?” You sighed heavily in response, resting your head on his shoulder and wrapping your arms around his warm torso.

He smiled as you melted into his touch. “My poor darling. Let me make you feel better.”

He swiftly picked you up and carried you to one of the leather chairs in the main room, setting you down gently in front of him. Before you could register what was happening, his lips were on yours, distracting you from the tension that wracked your body and mind.

In-ho leaned over you, pressing your back to the chair. You gently pulled away. “In-ho, I-”

He gently pressed a finger over your mouth, caressing your cheek. “Shh, just let me take care of you now, alright?” 

You sighed as he dipped his head down to kiss your neck, your skin becoming flushed and warm. He brought a hand down your side, gently starting to coax your shirt upwards. 

You knew exactly what he was after - you’d done this for him more times than you could count. The job you two held was a difficult one, and you had no problem being an outlet of stress relief for each other. 

He brought his hands to your pants, carefully undoing the buttons and lowering the zipper, before slowly dipping his hand into your underwear. He released himself from your neck and looked at you, gauging your reactions.

You leaned forward and kissed him hard as his hand dipped into your warm core, soaking his fingers as he explored you. He groaned at the warm wetness on his fingers. You sighed, desperate for more, but a confused feeling of embarrassment was starting to cloud your lustful thoughts.

He brought his hand from your core to his mouth, obscenely tasting your juices on his fingers. He groaned, a sound that would’ve normally made you feral but instead made you feel vulnerable. You felt your breath catch in your throat, unsure of how to react.

He roughly grasped the waist of your pants and began pulling them down before you grabbed his hand to stop them. He immediately looked at you with concern.

Your face flushed red with embarrassment. “I… I’m, uh…”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, no, not that, I just… I…” You internally slapped yourself for sounding so stupid.

He playfully smirked at you. “You know I’ve seen it, right? There’s no need to be so bashful.”

You scoffed. Of course you’d known that. You’d had sex with him many times before, that was nothing new. But having his fingers on you, and the thought of having his face down there, made you more self-conscious than you knew how to deal with. In the past, you’d redirect his attention elsewhere quickly to avoid dealing with the imaginary shame you might feel.

And that’s exactly what you planned to do now.

“I know… I’m just too tense right now. I’m sorry.” You started pulling your pants back up, looking down in guilt.

He quickly tilted your face towards him, giving you a concerned look and caressing your face. “It’s alright, darling. You don’t have to be sorry.” He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Do you want to take a hot bath?”

“Yes."

~~~

After taking your relaxing hot bath and washing the day’s stress away, you climbed into your shared bed with In-ho. You already felt a million times better. In-ho was immersed in a book he was reading, but wrapped his arm around you when you climbed into bed next to him.

“Are you feeling better?”

You gave him a happy, dazed smile. “Very much so.”

He smiled and placed a kiss on your forehead, diverting his attention back to his book. You grabbed the one you were currently reading and began to do the same next to him.

After a short while of getting comfortable in bed, your thoughts began to wander as you read. You thought about In-ho touching you before, how good it felt and sounded to you. The overwhelming embarrassment and anxiety you felt at the time was now closer to a distant memory. You felt much more comfortable in your body, more intrigued than embarrassed about the thought of In-ho’s mouth on you. 

You felt the familiar flush in your skin again and set your book down. Warmth was spreading throughout your body but you weren’t sure how to express what you wanted, so you snuggled up to In-ho, resting your arm on his chest.

He glanced at you as he read. “Getting tired?”

“No, you’re just so warm.” A believable lie.

He smiled and continued to read, oblivious to the dirty thoughts starting to cloud your mind. You wanted him bad. How was he not able to read your mind and know exactly what you wanted at that moment? You glanced at him quickly and started playing with the hem of his shirt, hoping he’d get some sort of hint from your mixed signals.

In-ho eyed your hands on his shirt and set his book down. “What are you thinking about, darling?” He had a naughty glint in his eye, suspecting he knew what you might be after.

At the first glance from him, your newfound confidence faltered. “Nothing. Just laying here with you.” You feigned innocence - but he knew better.

He turned his body towards you, your hand unintentionally slipping underneath his shirt. “Nothing at all?”

“Nope. Nothing.” You began to gently caress his warm skin, avoiding eye contact.

He gently sighed at your touch. “Hm. You don’t want anything?”

You gave him a pleading look but couldn’t bring yourself to say anything except for a quiet hum.

He leaned forward to kiss you, gently, before slightly pulling back, testing how much you wanted. You quickly leaned forward to return his kiss, deeper and more needy, twisting the hem of his shirt in your hands.

He sighed and pushed you on your back, slightly hovering over you as he deepened the kiss even further. After a few moments, he pulled back, observing your beautifully flushed face.

“Do you want me to make you feel better? Like before?”

Your breath hitched again, and all you could muster was a small nod, silently begging for his lips to be on yours again.

He crashed his lips into yours, kissing you more fervently now, and positioned himself completely above you. Your fingers found their way into his hair, gently tugging, eliciting delicious, soft moans from his throat. It drove you insane.

You wanted so badly for him to feel good, for him to enjoy every second with you, it was hard to understand how he’d want to solely focus on you and your pleasure. You know he’d do anything for you… but your own self-doubt clouded your mind in these moments.

As if he knew what you were thinking, In-ho pulled away and looked at you with a fierce intention. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to taste you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “But… you have before.”

“Not like this. Not like I’ve wanted to. Not like you deserve.” 

He gently rubbed your cheek, hoping you could feel the sincerity in his words. It felt like your heart was in your throat, you could barely express how he made you feel in that moment. Your eyebrows furrowed and you leaned towards him for a harsh, needy kiss before guiding his hand to your underwear.

Without any pants on, he swiftly pulled your underwear down, leaning back in front of your raised knees as he pulled the blanket off. He placed his hands on your legs to spread them, but the sudden exposure made you feel vulnerable and hesitant for a moment, and you froze.

You let out a pitiful moan, your body conflicted on what to do. In-ho gently caressed your legs and leaned forward, giving you a sweet kiss. 

“Let me make you feel better.” He echoed from before.

You silently nodded and spread your legs, and In-ho quickly settled his head in between them. He gently kissed around your inner thigh, taking his time on each side, intentionally avoiding your wet, aching core. Although you couldn’t ignore the involuntary waves of self-consciousness, you focused on the anticipation rising throughout your body, your need for his mouth to be on you.

In-ho’s mouth hovered over your core, the sensation of his hot breath on you driving you crazy. You squirmed beneath him as he placed a firm arm over your stomach.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he instructed. He paused for a moment, as if waiting for your permission. 

The moment you looked down at him, he placed his mouth on you, his tongue flat on your core, gently sucking. 

The sudden wave of pleasure immediately wracked your body. You threw your head back with a surprised moan, your hands instantly grabbing at the sheets. 

In-ho groaned loudly in satisfaction, as if he’d been hungry for you his whole life and just now, finally, got a taste. You felt his groan through your sensitive clit, making your hips twitch under his movements. He continued to work his tongue over your clit and your aching entrance, tasting every inch of you, relishing in your gasps and moans.

You felt possessed, unable to control your sounds and movements as he all but consumed you. His hands grasped at your sides, your thighs, anything he could get his hands on. You felt yourself relax into this position and spread your legs further, wanting more and more of him.

He kept his mouth on you as he splayed his hands on the back of your thighs, pressing them down, following your lead and spreading you out even further for him. You looked down again at him ravenously devouring you, the sight of it almost undoing you.

You cried out in pleasure, starting to twitch and grind beneath him, feeling like your release could come at any moment now. You’d never felt like it had been this easy before. In-ho briefly stopped to look at you, a slight, satisfied grin on his face.

“You’re doing so well. Do you feel good, darling?”

You let out a soft cry. “Yes.” You gave him a needy, pleading look. 

“Are you gonna cum for me?”

The thought of it made you clench, you could barely make out words. “Mhm.”

His head was spinning with those obscene sounds you were making. “Good. I want you to cum on my face, okay?”

You cried out in pleasure and frustration, and pushed his head back on you, gripping his hair for dear life. He groaned at your unrelenting neediness, just egging you on even further to the edge.

You felt your body chasing release, pressing In-ho’s face to your aching cunt, grinding beneath him, using him solely for your pleasure. His incessant moans seemed to vibrate throughout your entire being, setting your skin on fire, bringing tears to your eyes.

With a few more swipes of his tongue, you came absolutely undone beneath him.

You felt a white hot wave of pleasure explode from your core, your muscles involuntarily shaking, and you cried out in pleasure and pure emotional release. Tears flowed down your face as you allowed the pleasure to take over, allowed yourself to feel good. In-ho diligently kept his mouth on you as you rode out your orgasm.

As you slowly came to consciousness, In-ho leaned back and watched you, all of you. You wiped the tears from your eyes and watched him in a daze. He was completely enamored by you, his hands wandering from your thighs to your core, spreading his fingers over your sensitive clit and your aching entrance.

You suddenly felt… empty. Quietly whimpering, you grabbed his wrist, keeping his fingers on you, silently begging for more. He gave you a bewildered look.

“Did that feel good?”

You nodded, unable to speak. You pressed his fingers further towards your entrance.

His eyes darkened. “Hm. Do you want more, darling?”

You nodded again. Even though you felt spent from your orgasm, you couldn’t deny the aching need to feel him inside you.

“So needy, hm? You can’t get enough, is that right? Need something to fill you up too?”

You looked away and groaned, a mixture of embarrassment and desire swirling in your mind. 

“Please,” you whispered.

In-ho slowly moved to hover over you, gently turning your head towards him.

“Tell me what you want.”

You whimpered, kissing him and reaching for the prominent bulge in his underwear. You could feel his cock straining against the fabric. In-ho groaned above you, his cock painfully aching to feel you.

He let out a harsh breath through his teeth. “Fuck… do you feel what you’ve done to me?”

You continued to massage him, feel him twitch under your fingers, his moans becoming more reckless every second. You felt all your senses go on edge again, responding to every single sound he made. He quickly swatted your hand away and pulled his underwear down.

“If you keep doing that I won’t last much longer,” he breathed out, his voice hoarse and primal. He quickly lined his cock with your entrance and thrusted into you, your hips meeting his thrust and your warmth enveloping him completely.

He stopped for a second, too overwhelmed to move. You were so deliciously warm, your flesh so sensitive from before. The feeling of his cock stretching you made a wave of pleasure sink into your body and you couldn’t help but let out a feral moan.

In-ho leaned himself further over you, pressing your legs up, and began to pound into you relentlessly. You grabbed at his arms and shoulders, any part of him you could hold onto as he fucked you through the bed. He was relentless in his movements, completely focused on the pleasure building between the two of you.

He roughly grabbed your jaw. “Fuck… I could’ve come undone just watching you before.”

You cried out beneath him, clenching on his cock as he fucked you with a determined pace.

He continued. “That pretty fucking pussy, clenching and gushing just for me… you loved it, didn’t you?”

You moaned and nodded.

“That’s right,” he huffed. “My pretty fucking girl loves to cum on my face, doesn’t she?”

His words send shockwaves throughout your body, and you could only cry out and continue nodding.

He pressed his forehead to yours, his pace quickening. You could tell he was close.

“Fuck. And you’re gonna cum on my cock now, aren’t you?”

You squeezed your eyes. “Yes, fuck, yes I’m going to right now I-”

You felt the familiar wave of pleasure crash over your entire body again, your walls clenching on In-ho’s cock as he stuttered in his pace. You cried out, feeling In-ho release himself inside of you with a loud, guttural groan. He thrusted into you slowly, chasing any remnants of pleasure for both of you as you both calmed down. You held each other close, heavy breaths slowing into satisfied sighs. 

In-ho laid down next to you and pulled you to him, kissing the side of your face and brushing his fingers through your hair. Your entire body felt exhausted, but not like before. 

In-ho leaned in to whisper in your ear. “Are you alright now?”

You sleepily nodded. “Yes. Very much so.”

He smiled, satisfied, and rested his head near yours. As he stroked your head, he whispered.

“You know I would do anything for you, right?”

You gave him a concerned look. “Of course.”

He looked at you fiercely. “So don’t be afraid to ask for what you want.”

You sighed, almost pouting. After a few moments, you nodded. “Okay.”

He smiled, pulling you close and the blanket over you two, both of you quickly falling into a satisfied slumber.

[gghostwriter]

Can i have a fluffy spencer x reader piece. Just something cozy where they are all at rossis maybe after a case for some team bonding and chill time. And like he is offering everyone wine and reader goes along like "i can't" bcs she pregnant? Fluff fluff super fluff pls

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader Trope: Established Relationship; Fluff! Just fluff! wc: 0.6k A/N: Reader is not part of the BAU, hope that's alright. I had fun writing this, hope you enjoy! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated 💗 Main masterlist

Special Diet. // Spencer Reid

Your fiancee and his team had been out on the field for three consecutive cases all over the country. Just through Spencer’s nightly ritual calls alone, you could tell how tired and stressed he was and by extension the other members. Which was why, during their second night back in home ground, you volunteered to cook them a small feast—as long as Rossi hosted it in his place, which he readily agreed to as he was never one to say ‘no’ when a culinary chef such as yourself volunteers to cook up a meal.

“So what did our local chef cook up for the night?” Morgan asked as the team sat around the laid out table by the backyard.

You smiled, placing the finishing touches on the table. “I wanted to give the Italian cuisine a break so I present to you, French delicacies. For the starters, we have here salade lyonnaise with slices of baguette—” gesturing to the mid-size plate to their upper left. “—our mains, steak frites, and yes, I remembered to make yours rare, Morgan—” a few chuckles escaped from the team members as the called out profiler sheepishly placed his hand down “—and profiteroles for dessert.”

Rossi then started going around the table with his choice of wine to match the lavish dinner you’ve prepared.

“If you weren’t engaged to Reid, I’d marry you,” Penelope gushed as she took a bite of her meal.

Emily chuckled. “Get in line, Penelope. I get to marry her first if she changes her mind.”

“You never fail to impress me, Bambina. Now can I interest you for a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon?” Rossi asked as he reached your seat between Spencer and Emily.

“Actually, no thank you,” your answer eliciting an echo of utensils being dropped on the table. “I’m trying to cut back.”

JJ leaned forward. “Our very own wine connoisseur is saying no to Rossi’s aged wine?”

“I’m trying this special diet,” you shrugged, subtly studying if any of the best profilers the FBI has to offer understood the real reason why. Based on Hotch’s small smile behind his glass wine, the unit chief had caught on quite quickly.

“You don’t need to diet. You’re petite and fit, right kid?” Morgan clarified.

The corners of Spencer’s lips pulled slightly up as he squeezed your hand in his. “Actually, she does need to stick to the diet.”

Penelope gasped, clearly appalled at the stance your fiancee had taken. “Take that back! No way you said that, Reid!”

You giggled at the affronted reactions of the team—minus Hotch and Rossi as the two older profilers clinked their glasses together at the side. “It’s fine, Penny. It’s the truth anyway.”

Emily sent a dirty look to Spencer before asking on. “What else does this special diet entail?”

“Unpasteurized dairy, cold cuts, liver, game meat, and raw sushi to name a few,” Spencer listed out loud and with each, the smile on his face grew bigger and bigger.

“Wait, isn’t that—” JJ mumbled before promptly standing up from her seat and rushing to give you a hug.

Morgan tilted his head to the side. “What? What did I miss?”

Spencer chuckled before revealing the most obvious clue. “She has to follow the strict diet for 36 more weeks.”

There was a beat of silence before shouts and squeals emitted from all ends of the table.

“You’re pregnant?” Penelope gasped.

Emily added on. “With boy genius?”

You both nodded, bringing out a printed sonogram safely tucked in Spencer’s jacket that was draped around your shoulders. It had been a surprise when you went in for your yearly check-up but it was the type of news that Spencer quickly became happy with. His own family was expanding and he couldn’t have chosen a better partner than you.

“We present to you, baby Reid!”

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[isaadore]

BOUND BY TWO HEARTBEATS LUKE HUGHES

pairing dad!luke hughes x mom!reader

SUMMARY an unexpected pregnancy challenges your relationship with luke, forcing you both to rethink your future together. however, despite the uncertainty, luke stays by your side, and the pregnancy brings you two closer than ever. word count 3.6k

warnings fluff with slight angst, use of y/n, fem!reader, mentions of birth, unplanned pregnancy, mild arguments

note first ever luke fic! hope u guys enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it 🤞 also, i apologize for the cheesy hockey references 😕 i just thought luke would be the type to make those

MAIN MASTERLIST LH43 MASTERLIST

THE PREGNANCY TEST felt heavy in your hand as you sat on the edge of the couch, staring blankly at the coffee table. Two pink lines. The confirmation was there, undeniable, and yet you felt stuck in a haze of disbelief.

Luke would be home soon. The thought made your stomach twist. What would he say? Would he be excited? Scared? You didn’t know how to prepare for a conversation that could go in so many different directions.

The sound of the front door unlocking made your heart jump. Luke stepped inside, his hockey bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly dishevelled from his post-practice shower. He didn’t notice you right away, too busy slipping off his sneakers.

“Hey,” he greeted casually, dropping his gear by the door. His voice softened when he looked up and saw you sitting there, still as a statue. “Everything okay?”

You swallowed, gripping the test tighter in your hand. “We need to talk.”

Luke frowned, the playful ease on his face fading instantly. He dropped his keys on the counter and made his way over, sitting down next to you. “What’s going on?”

You held out the test without a word, unable to meet his gaze. The silence that followed was unbearable. Finally, you risked a glance at him.

Luke stared at the test, his expression unreadable. His jaw tensed, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re… pregnant?”

“Yeah.” Your voice cracked on the single word.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Okay. Okay,” he said, as if trying to convince himself.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” you blurted, your chest tightening. “I just—I needed to tell you. I know it’s a lot, and I know it wasn’t part of the plan, but—”

“Of course it wasn’t part of the plan,” Luke interrupted, his voice low and firm. He turned to you; his brows knit together. “We’re not ready for this, Y/N. I’m not ready for this.”

The words stung, even though you’d braced yourself for them. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, trying to hold yourself together. “Do you think I am? I didn’t exactly ask for this either, Luke.”

He sighed, running his hands over his face. “I just—I don’t know what to do. This changes everything.”

“I know it does,” you said quietly. “But it’s happening whether we’re ready or not.”

Luke stood, pacing the length of the living room. His movements were restless like he was trying to escape his own thoughts. “I mean, what are people gonna say? My career’s just getting started, and now—”

“And now what?” you snapped, unable to hold back anymore. “Now you’re stuck with me and a kid? Is that what you’re worried about?”

He stopped in his tracks, his face falling. “That’s not what I meant,” he said softly, guilt clouding his eyes.

“Then what did you mean?” you demanded, your voice trembling. “Because I’m scared too, Luke. I’m terrified. But I can’t do this alone, and I don’t know what you’re thinking right now.”

Luke’s shoulders slumped, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he sank back onto the couch, his head in his hands. “I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I can be the kind of dad a kid deserves. I don’t even know if I’m ready to try.”

Your anger softened at his vulnerability, and you reached out, hesitating before placing a hand on his back. “I don’t have all the answers either,” you said gently. “But I know we’ll figure it out. Together.”

He lifted his head, looking at you, his eyes glassy. “You really think we can do this?”

“I don’t think it’ll be easy,” you admitted. “But I know I want to try. And I know I need you with me.”

Luke reached for your hand, gripping it tightly. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick. “I’m sorry I freaked out. I just… I love you, and I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t,” you said, squeezing his hand. “We won’t.”

For the first time that evening, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “We’ll figure this out.”

THREE WEEKS LATER

It had been weeks since you told Luke you were pregnant, and while things between you had softened, an unspoken tension still lingered. You were both trying, Luke especially. He had been sticking around more, helping out with things he never used to notice, like stocking the pantry with your favourite snacks or making sure the coffee pot was always ready in the morning. But sometimes, you’d catch him staring off into space, lost in thought and his jaw tight.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The two of you sat on the couch, a documentary playing on the TV that neither of you was really watching. Your legs were tucked under a blanket while Luke sat at the other end, absently fiddling with the strings of his hoodie.

“Luke,” you said softly, pulling his attention away from the screen.

He looked over at you, his blue eyes clouded with worry. “Yeah?”

“How are you feeling about… everything?”

He hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line before he sighed. “Honestly? Still kind of overwhelmed,” he admitted. “Every day, it sinks in more, but I don’t know if I’m doing enough. Or if I can even do enough.”

“Luke, you’re here,” you said gently. “That’s more than enough for me right now.”

“Yeah, but just being here doesn’t mean I’ve got it all figured out,” he countered, frustration creeping into his voice. “What happens when the baby actually gets here? What if I mess it all up?”

“You won’t,” you said firmly, shifting closer to him. “And you don’t need to have all the answers right now.”

He rubbed a hand over his face and leaned back against the couch. “I just want to be good at this,” he murmured. “For you. For the baby.”

Your heart ached at his honesty. Reaching out, you placed your hand over his. “You already are,” you said. “The fact that you care this much, that you’re thinking about it every second, it shows how much this means to you. And that’s what matters.”

Luke turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers with yours. He didn’t say anything right away, but his grip tightened as if holding on to you grounded him.

“I looked up some stuff earlier,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Stuff?”

“Yeah… about pregnancy. What you’re going through, what I should be doing to help. I even looked up prenatal vitamins to make sure you’re taking the right ones.” He let out a nervous laugh. “I guess I just needed to feel like I was doing something, you know?”

Your chest tightened, warmth spreading through you at his confession. “Luke,” you said softly, leaning your head on his shoulder. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” he teased lightly. “I’m still figuring this out.”

“We both are,” you reminded him.

He rested his cheek against the top of your head, the tension in his body easing for the first time that night. “Do you think we’ll be good at this? At being parents?”

“I think we’ll be better than we give ourselves credit for,” you said.

A comfortable silence settled between you. For a moment, the weight of everything seemed lighter.

���You know,” he said, a mix of nerves and excitement in his voice, “I was thinking… maybe we could tell my parents soon if you’re ready. They’d probably want to know.”

Your breath hitched. It was a big step, one that made the pregnancy feel even more real. His expression was hopeful yet hesitant. You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “I think I’m ready.”

Luke smiled for the first time in days, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “We’ve got this,” he whispered.

SEVERAL DAYS LATER

You sat in the passenger seat of Luke’s car, watching the scenery blur as you made your way to his parents’ house. The test, the doctor’s appointment, and the initial shock were behind you, but this, telling Luke’s parents, felt like a challenge on its own.

Luke’s grip on the steering wheel was tight. His jaw was set, and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He glanced at you and forced a small smile. “Yeah. Just thinking about how to say it.”

You reached over and placed your hand on his thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. “They’re going to be happy, Luke. It’s Ellen and Jim. They love us.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But it’s still a lot. What if they think we’re too young or that it’ll mess up my career?”

“Your mom will probably cry, your dad will give some practical advice, and then we’ll all hug. It’ll be fine.”

Luke nodded but didn’t seem convinced.

When you arrived at the Hughes’ home, the familiar smells of freshly baked cookies and the sound of hockey commentary from the living room made you feel more at ease. Ellen greeted you both with a warm hug, calming your nerves a little.

“You’re just in time! I made peanut butter cookies,” she said, ushering you into the kitchen.

“It was Luke’s favourite,” Jim teased from the dining table, where he was tasting one of the freshly baked cookies.

“Still is,” Luke said with a weak laugh, earning a curious look from his dad.

The four of you settled into the living room. Ellen and Jim began small talk with the both of you, but the weight of the real reason for your visit sat on your shoulders.

Ellen caught on first. “Is everything okay?” she asked, tilting her head. “You both seem… nervous.”

Luke’s hand found yours, his fingers lacing tightly with yours. He cleared his throat and glanced at you for reassurance.

“Yeah, uh, everything’s fine,” he said. “Actually, it’s more than fine. We just—we have some news.”

Jim folded his arms and leaned forward slightly. “What kind of news?”

Luke looked at you again, and you gave him a small nod. He took a deep breath.

“We’re… we’re having a baby,” he said, the words tumbling out quickly.

For a moment, the room was silent. Ellen’s mouth opened slightly, her eyes darting between the two of you. Jim’s brow furrowed as he processed the news.

“You’re pregnant?” Ellen finally asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and excitement.

You nodded. “Yes.”

And then, as predicted, Ellen burst into tears. “Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hands. “That’s amazing news!”

Jim leaned back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Well, that’s a big step. Congratulations, you two.”

Ellen jumped up, pulling both you and Luke into a tight hug. “I can’t believe it! A baby! I’m going to be a grandma!”

Luke exhaled, his tension visibly easing. “You’re not mad?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Mad?” Ellen pulled back, hands on his cheeks. “Luke, this is wonderful. It’ll be a lot of work, but you two are going to be amazing parents. And we’ll help every step of the way.”

“Absolutely,” Jim added, standing to join the group hug. “You’re not alone in this. Family is everything.”

Luke looked at you, his blue eyes shining with relief. “Told you,” you whispered, and he chuckled softly.

The rest of the evening was filled with talks about baby names, parenting advice, and promises of Ellen knitting baby hats. The weight on Luke’s shoulders seemed to lift with his parents’ excitement.

Later that night, as you drove home, Luke reached over and took your hand. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For reminding me this is going to be okay,” he said. “And for being the best girlfriend I could ask for.”

You squeezed his hand, a smile tugging at your lips. “We’ve got this,” you said, echoing his words from a few days ago.

He smiled at that.

DURING THE SECOND TRIMESTER

You hadn’t even opened your eyes yet, but you could already feel Luke moving around the room. The faint clatter of plates and the smell of something burning told you exactly what was going on.

With a sleepy laugh, you called out, “Luke, are you trying to set the kitchen on fire?”

There was a beat of silence before his voice responded, a little defensive. “It’s not burning; it’s just… toasty.”

You rolled out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen, finding him standing at the stove in sweatpants and an old Michigan hoodie, waving a spatula at the smoking pan. He glanced at you sheepishly.

“Breakfast in bed,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess: eggs and toast?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, grinning despite himself. “Figured it was safe enough.”

You walked over and slipped your arms around his waist, resting your head against his back. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

He turned the stove off and faced you, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I wanted to. You’re growing a whole human; the least I can do is make you breakfast.”

You laughed, lightly swatting him on the chest. “Maybe stick to smoothies next time.”

Luke’s attentiveness did not stop there.

At night, he would lie next to you, his hand on your stomach, waiting for a kick. The first time he felt one, his eyes lit up like he’d just scored in overtime.

“That’s insane,” he whispered, staring at your belly like it held the secrets of the universe. “They’re really in there.”

“Where else would they be?” you teased, but your heart swelled at the wonder in his voice.

Then there were the books.

Stacks of them appeared on the coffee table, everything from practical guides to detailed pregnancy manuals. You often found him flipping through them late at night, squinting at diagrams and detailed instructions.

One evening, you caught him staring at a page about swaddling techniques. His brow furrowed, lips moving slightly as if rehearsing the steps.

“You know,” you said, sitting down beside him, “babies don’t come with instruction manuals.”

“Yeah, but they should,” he muttered, holding up the book. “I mean, look at this! Who knew folding a blanket could be this complicated?”

You laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You’re going to be a great dad, Luke. Blanket folding skills or not.”

And then there was decorating the nursery.

Luke spent most of his free time preparing the nursery. He assembled the crib (after three tries), organized baby clothes by size, and insisted on painting the walls himself.

“You don’t have to do all of this,” you told him one afternoon as he measured for curtains.

“I want to,” he replied without missing a beat. “I want everything to be perfect for them.”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder at you. “And for you.”

But it wasn’t just the big gestures. It was the small ones that meant the most.

It was the way he kept a stash of salt-and-vinegar chips in the pantry because they were your latest craving.

It was the way he always adjusted the pillows behind your back whenever you sat down, muttering about “keeping you comfortable.”

It was the way he sent texts during away games, even if he only had a few minutes between practices and games.

How are you feeling today?

Are you drinking enough water?

One night, as you lay in bed, Luke traced patterns on your stomach, his voice quiet.

“I still don’t know if I’m ready,” he admitted. “But I want to be. And I want to make sure you never feel like you’re doing this alone.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “You already make me feel that way, Luke.”

He exhaled slowly, tension leaving his body. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ll keep trying, every day.”

A COUPLE MONTHS LATER

You lay on the couch, scrolling through your phone and trying to ignore the dull, persistent pain in your back. Luke was a few feet away, aimlessly passing a foam puck between his hands, clearly restless. He hadn’t stopped fidgeting for days now, and you couldn’t blame him; your due date had come and gone, and you were both on edge.

“I think this kid’s taking after you already,” you teased, glancing up at him. “Always late to the party.”

Luke smirked, tossing the puck onto the coffee table. “Or they’re just waiting for the perfect time, like a game-winning goal.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could reply, a sharp, unfamiliar pain ripped through your stomach, stealing your breath. You instinctively pressed a hand to your belly, eyes wide.

“Y/N?” Luke asked, his voice laced with concern as he immediately sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but then you felt it: the unmistakable sensation of your water breaking. “Luke,” you said, your voice shaking slightly, “my water just broke.”

For a second, Luke froze, staring at you like you’d just announced the world was ending. Then he shot to his feet, panic written all over his face. “Wait—what? Like, right now? Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, unless I suddenly forgot how to hold my bladder,” you said dryly, but the wave of another contraction cut off your sarcasm.

Luke bolted into action, scrambling around the room like a tornado. “Okay, okay, uh, the hospital bag! Where’s the bag? And your shoes! Do you have shoes? Oh my god, should we call an ambulance? No, wait, we can drive—we can drive. Right?”

“Luke,” you said through gritted teeth, gripping the arm of the couch. “The bag is by the door, my shoes are on my feet, and yes, we can drive. Just breathe.”

He stopped mid-spin, exhaling sharply, trying to calm himself down. “Right. Breathe. I can do that. I’m breathing.”

“Good,” you said, trying not to laugh despite the pain. “Now grab the keys, and let’s go before this baby decides to make their debut on the living room floor.”

The car ride to the hospital was a blur of speeding, frequent checks to make sure you were okay, and Luke muttering to himself under his breath. “This is fine. We’ve got this. Totally fine.”

“Luke,” you said through another contraction, your voice tight, “you’re doing great, but maybe slow down just a little. I’d rather not get a speeding ticket.”

“Right, right, sorry,” he said, easing up on the gas pedal but still darting worried glances your way.

By the time you were settled into a delivery room, Luke had transformed into a nervous ball of energy. He was constantly by your side, holding your hand so tightly it almost hurt, peppering you with questions.

“Do you need water? Or ice? Or a back rub? Oh my god, am I supposed to be doing something? Should I call someone?”

You squeezed his hand, managing a small smile between contractions. “You’re doing fine, Luke. Just stay here with me, okay?”

His eyes softened, and he nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”

Hours passed in a haze of pain, encouragement, and Luke’s endless stream of reassurances. “You’re so strong, Y/N. You’re amazing. You’re doing so well. I love you so much.”

And when the time finally came to push, his face was a mix of awe and sheer terror as he stood by your side, holding your hand as if his life depended on it.

“You’ve got this,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re incredible, Y/N. I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s a boy!” one of the nurses announced, and Luke’s hand dropped from yours as he turned to look.

The doctor carefully placed the baby on your chest, and Luke froze, staring down at the tiny, wriggling bundle in awe.

“Is that…” His voice cracked. “That’s our son.”

You nodded, tears streaming down your face as you looked down at your baby boy. “Yeah. That’s him.”

Luke’s hands shook as he reached out, gently brushing a finger against the baby’s cheek. The baby’s cries quieted slightly, and Luke let out a shaky laugh.

“Hi, buddy,” he whispered, his voice filled with wonder. “I’m your dad. And you… you’re perfect.”

Later, in the quiet hospital room, Luke sat beside you, cradling your son in his arms. The baby had fallen asleep, his tiny fist wrapped around Luke’s finger.

“He’s so small,” Luke murmured, his eyes never leaving the baby’s face. “How is he so small?”

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “They don’t come out NHL-sized, you know.”

He chuckled softly, the sound filled with awe. “I can’t believe we made him. That he’s ours.”

You reached out, gently stroking the baby’s head. “What should we name him?”

Luke hesitated for a moment, then looked at you, his eyes shining. “How about Caden?” he suggested quietly. “You always liked that name.”

“Caden Hughes,” you said, testing it out. “I love it.”

As the three of you lay in the hospital room, Luke sat beside you, cradling the baby in his arms with a look of pure adoration.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving Caden’s face, “I didn’t think it was possible, but I think I just fell in love with you all over again.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “Me too.”

And in that moment, everything felt exactly as it should be.

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ MAIN MASTERLIST ✷ LH43 MASTERLIST

[wannab-urs]

Title: Handlebars

Pairing: Logan Howlett x f!reader

Summary: Logan teaches you to ride a motorcycle.

Warnings: smut, public/semi-public sex, overstimulation, i know nothing about motorcycles, Logan picks up the reader but he’s a mutant and is superhumanly strong so like… he could pick you up babe, pet names (baby), somewhat dom!Logan but that’s not explicit he’s just bossy, no use of y/n. WC: 1.2k

A/N: This is based on a dream I had because, yes, the brainrot is that bad. Thanks to @pr0ximamidnight for the encouragement to write it and the advice along the way.. And thanks to @just-here-for-the-moment for the beta <3. This is my first ever Logan fic and my first ever non-pedro boy fic as well, so forgive me if it’s OOC or weird.

Logan Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

Logan is teaching you to ride a motorcycle. You’ve always been fascinated by them, but the sight of him straddling one really sealed the deal. He looks gorgeous, powerful thighs astride the gently roaring machine. He leans back, gesturing for you to climb on in front of him. 

You throw your leg over carefully and settle onto the bike. His thighs bracket yours and his chest is pressed snugly against your back. It’s already getting dark out, and you’d be worried about driving at night if it wasn’t for the reassuring weight of him behind you. He slides his hands down from your shoulders to your hands and gently places them on the handle bars. 

“I’ll take care of shifting the gears this time, you just focus on the throttle.” You’re not sure you can focus on anything with him this close, but you nod anyway. 

He kicks up the kickstand and starts walking the bike backward onto the road. You hold on for dear life. He shifts the gears as he helps you turn the throttle. You’re nervous as hell, but he keeps a steady grip on your hands. You start to settle into the feeling of driving and your mind drifts. You think about his body pressed against yours, about the steady vibration of the motor between your legs, and you start squirming. 

It’s dark out and you can barely see a thing outside of the range of the headlight. But you feel everything, almost as if your senses are heightened. You grind against his erection, inadvertently pressing your clit harder against the seat and you whimper. 

“Pull over,” he growls in your ear. 

You nod, his nose brushing your neck, and slow down. You guide the bike into a seemingly abandoned parking lot. Logan turns the bike off and drops the kickstand. He pulls you tight against his body. 

“Are you gonna let me fuck you right here? Out in the open?”

“Please,” you whine. 

“Lean forward,” he commands, his voice so low you barely hear him. 

You lean forward, lifting your hips. You hear him unsheathe a claw and you tense slightly. He carefully slices a hole in your leggings and panties, exposing you to the night air. 

“I liked these, Logan.”

“I’ll buy you more.” That’s all the warning you get before he sheathes his claw and buries two fingers inside you. 

You cry out, gripping the handlebars hard. He steadies you with a gentle grip on your waist while he fucks his fingers in and out of you, You’re soaking wet and already desperate, grinding down on his fingers. His hand on your waist slips down and finds your bundle of nerves. Your left hand drops from the handlebars to grip his wrist as his fingers circle your clit. Your fingernails dig in hard enough to leave marks on anyone but him and your cunt pulses around his thick digits. He hits the spongy part deep inside you, making you shake and whine as you come on his fingers. 

While you catch your breath, Logan unzips his jeans. He grips your waist in his huge hands and lifts you with his superhuman strength, easily spearing you on his cock. Even with the preparation, he stretches you almost painfully. Your hands search for something, anything, to hold on to and land on the handlebars again. After giving you a moment to adjust, he starts bouncing you on his cock. You moan loudly and his grip on you tightens. 

“Feel good, baby? Filthy thing, riding me out in the open like this.”

You aren’t capable of speaking, not with his cock hitting you so deep inside. You’re not really riding him so much as he’s using you like a fleshlight. Your eyes roll back into your head as you come on his cock. He doesn’t stop bouncing you until your cunt stops clenching around him. His hand presses firmly in the middle of your back, pushing you forward until your head is past the handlebars. 

“Give me one more,” he orders. “Not done with you yet.”

You’re powerless to deny him, and really you’d give him anything he asked for. He wraps one arm around your waist and brings the other hand to your clit again. He pounds up into you, setting a brutal rhythm and hitting a spot that makes your vision white out. You cling to the handlebars for stability, crying out as his tip hits your cervix. You tense up in his arms, whole body going taut with ecstasy.  

“That’s it baby, come for me,” he growls. 

The rolling waves of pleasure feel endless, still speared on Logan’s cock as he fucks into your clenching pussy. His grip on you tightens impossibly, bruisingly as he floods your cunt with his cum. You cry out, writhing in his arms. When you finally come down, Logan’s strong arms pull you back against his chest. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder.

“Are you okay, baby?” Logan’s voice is tinged with worry. 

You nod weakly and mumble a yes into the chilled air. 

“Did I hurt you?”

“Mm mm,” you slowly shake your head from side to side. He didn’t hurt you, you’re just completely overwhelmed. 

He gently lifts you off his slowly softening cock, keeping an arm around you as he tucks himself away. He holds you tight against him until you eventually come back down to earth. You press a chaste kiss to his neck and nuzzle against him a bit before sitting up. You grip the handlebars again and wince as your oversensitive clit presses into the seat. 

“You sure you’re alright?” Logan asks, lifting the kickstand and starting the bike up. 

You whimper as the vibrations of the motor course through your body but bite your lip and nod.

“Hang on tight, baby. I’ll get us home.” You can almost hear Logan’s smirk.

Again nestled between Logan’s thick thighs and pressed firmly against his broad chest, but now with your bare cunt pressed into the seat of the bike, the ride home is absolute, exquisite torture. You can feel his cum leaking out of you, making a mess of what remains of your leggings and the seat beneath you. You’re shaking by the time you make it back to your apartment. 

Logan parks the bike and shuts it off. He climbs off and helps you to your feet. You stumble a little but manage to stay upright with his help, giggling to yourself at your jello legs. You unlock the door of your apartment and you’ve barely stepped inside before Logan sweeps you off your feet. 

“I can walk, Logan. Seriously, I’m fine.”

He huffs and carries you to the bedroom. “I know, but I want to take care of you.”

He lays you gently on the bed, unlaces and removes your boots, and strips off your ruined leggings. Left only in a t-shirt, you watch him methodically remove his clothing and admire his thickly muscled torso. The smattering of hair on his broad chest glinting silver in the moonlight – he’s so perfectly gorgeous you can hardly stand it. 

He crawls into bed beside you and pulls you against his chest. He grabs your thigh and pulls it across his body so that you’re nearly laying on top of him. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and you fall asleep in his arms, wondering if he’ll make you clean the bike seat tomorrow.

part two