#my first time writing Fiona | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelsgoldrush · 6 months ago

Text

“give me the first taste” | 10k

logan howlett x f!reader

part 2 of “GUILTY PLEASURE”

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

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

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

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

A girl and a mutant walk into an apartment…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow. You two are a match made in heaven.

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

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

Why is he about to fight a cat?

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

“I didn’t know you had a cat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far from dozing off, you feel alive.

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

“Ask away.”

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

Okay, that was… weirdly specific.

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

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

“Fucking, you mean.”

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

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

“I can walk on my own.”

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

“Now you’re making jokes?”

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

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

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is what I want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

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

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

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

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

“You could use a new wardrobe.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Kid.”

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

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

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

“Do you have an off switch?”

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

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

“Wait. I have a game to play.”

“It’s late.”

“Please?”

He sighs. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

“Really? You, of all people?”

“I wasn’t expecting to be judged.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can always get new teeth.”

“But my morning breath—”

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

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

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

“Bub, I was actually falling asleep.”

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

More silence.

“Logan?”

“Hmm?”

“What was the Great Depression like?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Logan…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could’ve done something much worse.”

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

“What if—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The most surreal Sunday night of your whole life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t.”

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

“I said I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wade, that’s not even possible.”

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

“How did you pass History in high school?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Over a month.”

“Oh. That’s bad, like, really bad.”

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

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

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

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

“Hey, homey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”

“Oh, no.”

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

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

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

Oh, Logan. Sweet, lying Logan.

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

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

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

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

Oh. You have classes. Had—past tense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey.

You again.

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

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

Okay.

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

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

Sure.

What’s that?

Why not?

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

We— we’ll figure it out.

We’ll figure it out.

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

My name’s Tom.

Nice to meet you. I’m Autumn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Logan, they weren’t even official.”

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

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

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

Lord have mercy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are the most exasperating person I know.”

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

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

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

“Drop it, kid.”

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

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine with me.”

“And you’ll be mad at me. A lot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll definitely get back to that joke later.

“Will you—can you—”

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

God, you love it when he’s mean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bub.”

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

“Negative, Sergeant.”

“You don’t have any?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Inside.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Logan?”

“Tell me, bub.”

“Knock, knock.”

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

“Ice cream.”

“Ice cream who?”

“Ice cream for you all night long.”

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

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

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

4K notes · View notes

lemonsdietcoke · 2 months ago

Text

“Carrion” - Player 230

Dark!Thanos/Choi Su-bong x Fem!Reader

Warnings: This fic contains themes of drug abuse, toxic relationships, emotional and physical abuse, violence, NON CON sexual content, trauma, and self-destruction. It’s a dark, heavy read with little to no comfort. Please proceed with caution.

Summary: “My feel for you, boy, is decaying in front of me Like the carrion of a murdered prey” You thought you could save him. But Su-bong was never looking to be saved — he was always chasing something…darker. based on Carrion-Fiona apple

MINORS DNI!

Series Masterlist

A/n: so I spent all night writing this and let me just say this is a wild ride. I don’t know what came over me lol but grab your tissue and a snack and lmk if y’all fw it. Also this is set before the games.

…..

You thought you could handle it.

That’s what you told yourself in the beginning.

When you met Su-bong, he was magnetic. The kind of person who could walk into a room and command everyone’s attention without even trying. He was funny, reckless, charming in that careless way that makes people think he doesn’t care what anyone thinks — but secretly, you know he cares more than anyone.

You met him through Ji-hye, a mutual friend. You two were out drinking at a shitty bar in Itaewon, the kind with sticky floors and flickering neon signs, when she waved him over to your table.

“Su-bong! Over here!”

He turned, cigarette dangling from his lips, and when his eyes landed on you, you swore you stopped breathing.

He made you feel special.

That was the thing about him. From the moment he sat down, all his attention was on you.

You didn’t even notice the red flags at first — the way his hands shook slightly when he lit another cigarette, the faint twitch in his jaw when he reached for his drink. You were too busy drowning in his attention, his laughter, the way he leaned in close when he talked, like he couldn’t bear to be too far away from you.

He made you feel seen.

Later that night, when Ji-hye pulled you aside and whispered, “He’s trouble, you know,” you just laughed it off.

“I can handle trouble,” you said.

And at the time, you believed it.

The first few weeks were a whirlwind.

Late-night phone calls, long walks through the city, kisses stolen under flickering streetlights. He was softer back then. He’d show up at your door with a crooked smile and a bottle of soju, leaning against the doorframe like he belonged there.

He told you stories about his childhood, about how he hated his hometown, how he moved to Seoul to start over.

“I want more than that small-town life,” he’d say. “I want everything.”

You loved that about him.

His ambition. His hunger.

It wasn’t until later that you realized he wasn’t just hungry for success.

You thought he only did it on weekends.

That’s what you told yourself at first. It’s just recreational. Everyone does it once in a while, right? It’s not a big deal.

But when you took a closer look, you started noticing things.

The way he always had an excuse to disappear.

The way his hands shook in the mornings.

The way his pupils stayed blown wide, even in the middle of the day.

It wasn’t just weekends.

It wasn’t just recreational.

The first time you confronted him about it, he laughed.

“What? This?” he said, pulling out a small bag of powder from his jacket pocket. “It’s nothing.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, unsure whether you were angry or scared or both. “You said you were going to stop.”

He shrugged, already pulling out a cigarette. “I will. It’s just… it helps me focus.”

You hated how calm he sounded. How casual.

But you let it go.

Because you wanted to believe him.

Because you loved him.

That’s how it started.

With small compromises.

You told yourself it wasn’t that bad.

You told yourself you could manage it.

You told yourself he would change.

But he didn’t.

The cracks started to show slowly, like hairline fractures in glass. You didn’t notice them right away. Or maybe you did, but you ignored them. You told yourself it was fine, because you wanted it to be fine.

You wanted him to be the man he was when you first met.

The man who made you laugh until your ribs ached.

The man who kissed you like he couldn’t get enough.

The man who whispered, “You’re the only one who really understands me.”

You didn’t want to see the other side of him.

The side that disappeared for days at a time.

The side that came back high, twitchy, eyes glassy and distant.

The side that couldn’t stop.

You loved him.

But it wasn’t enough.

The first time he really scared you was on a rainy night in November.

He showed up at your apartment soaked to the bone, trembling, eyes wild.

“Let me in,” he said, voice low and frantic. “Please.”

You didn’t hesitate. You unlocked the door, pulling him inside, wrapping a towel around his shoulders as he slumped onto your couch. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

You knelt in front of him, brushing his wet hair out of his face. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer.

He just reached for you, pulling you into his lap, burying his face in your neck.

“I just need you,” he whispered. “I just need this.”

And you let him.

Because you loved him.

Because you thought you could save him.

But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

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

The door slams open at 2:48 AM.

You know the time because you’ve been staring at the clock for the past four hours, watching the minutes crawl by, waiting for him to come home.

The waiting is always the worst part. The silence. The dread. The way your stomach twists tighter with each passing hour, until it feels like you’re going to snap in half from the tension.

He’s late.

Later than usual.

And when the door finally swings open, you know something’s wrong.

He stumbles inside, slamming the door shut behind him with more force than necessary. His hand lingers on the handle for a moment, like he needs the support to stay upright.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

His head is down, his shoulders tense. His breathing is ragged, too loud in the quiet apartment.

You stay where you are, curled up on the couch, watching him with a knot of unease tightening in your chest. You’re already bracing yourself.

This isn’t Su-bong coming home drunk from a night out.

This is worse.

He takes a few unsteady steps forward, his movements jerky and disjointed, before slumping against the wall. His head tilts back, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

You can see the tremor in his hands.

The sweat clinging to his neck.

The way his pupils are blown wide.

“Su-bong?”

Your voice is soft, careful. Testing the waters.

He doesn’t answer.

He just tilts his head to the side, blinking slowly, like he’s trying to focus on you but can’t quite manage it. His lips twitch into a lazy, lopsided grin.

“Hey, baby.”

And that’s when you know for sure.

He’s high.

Not just drunk.

High as hell on something stronger.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

The question comes out sharper than you intended. You hate the way your voice shakes, the way your hands clench into fists at your sides.

He doesn’t answer.

He just pushes off the wall, staggering toward you with that same careless grin.

“Miss me?”

You want to slap him.

You want to scream.

Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep yourself together.

“What the fuck are you on?”

He laughs.

Soft. Slurred. Distant.

“What’s it matter?”

“It matters.” Your voice is rising now, cracking under the weight of your frustration. “Look at yourself. You can barely stand.”

He shrugs, grabbing the back of the couch for support. His fingers twitch against the fabric.

“I’m fine. We’re fine…”

“You’re not fine.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with tension. He just stares at you, that stupid grin still plastered on his face.

And then, slowly, he starts to sway.

His knees buckle.

“Su-bong—”

Before you can reach him, he collapses onto the floor.

For a long moment, you just stand there, staring down at him.

He’s out cold. His head is tilted to the side, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His hair falls into his eyes, damp with sweat.

You should help him.

You should shake him awake, drag him to bed, clean him up.

But you don’t move.

Because you’re tired.

So fucking tired.

Instead, you start searching.

You move on instinct, heading straight for his jacket. Your hands are shaking, your chest tight, but you can’t stop.

You dig through the pockets, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, a lighter, loose change. And then —

A bag of powder.

Fuck.

Your stomach twists, but you keep going. You can’t stop now.

You move to his bag next, unzipping it with trembling fingers. More powder. Pills, tucked into a side pocket. A tiny syringe, wrapped in tissue.

It’s worse than you thought.

So much worse.

You finally check the place you know he most definitely has drugs. That damn cross necklace. He wears it everywhere, everyday, all the time. Even when he’s sleeping. Even when your fucking.

The only exception being when he showers.

Your heart began to beat out of your chest as if you had just completely a six mile run. Staring at his passed out form on the cheap carpet of your shared apartment.

What if he woke up and caught you.

You tip toed up to him, the floors betraying you as it creaked with every step.

You took a deep breath unintentionally holding your breath as your shaky hands toyed with his chunky necklace struggling to open it.

He didn’t move though.

In fact the only thing moving on him was his chest falling up and down as he fell deeper into sleep.

But you continue to toy with the necklace until it eventually popped open unevenly, causing colorful pills to fly every which way, and click across the floor.

Fuck.

Why does everything have to be so loud right now?!

You got on your hands a knees scooping up the candy colored pills and probably some dirt with them. Before quickly dropping them into your pocket as Su-Bong lied still on the floor.

Your chest heaves as you gather everything up, cradling it in your hands like you’re carrying a corpse.

You don’t think.

You just move.

The bathroom light flickers on.

The toilet lid creaks as you lift it.

And one by one, you throw everything in.

The powder.

The pills.

The syringe.

Every. fucking. thing.

The water ripples, murky and disgusting, but you don’t hesitate. You flush it all away.

Like it never existed.

When it’s done, you stand there for a long time, staring down at the empty toilet bowl.

Your reflection stares back at you from the water.

Red-rimmed eyes.

Trembling hands.

A stranger.

You press your palms to the sink, breathing hard. Your chest feels tight, your throat raw.

What are you even doing?

But you know the answer.

You’re trying to save him.

Even though he doesn’t want to be saved.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You hear him before you see him.

The sharp bang of a drawer slamming shut.

Then another.

And another.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The noise is jarring — too loud in the early morning quiet, rattling through the apartment like gunshots.

For a moment, you just lie there in bed, heart pounding, staring up at the ceiling. The air feels too thick. Your throat is tight. You already know what he’s doing.

He’s looking for them.

Fuck.

You sit up slowly, moving on instinct. Your bare feet hit the floor, and the cold bites at your skin. You don’t bother with a sweater. You barely notice the chill.

All you can hear is the sound of drawers being ripped open, items clattering to the floor, Su-bong’s frustrated muttering.

You step into the hallway, moving toward the living room like you’re walking into a minefield. Every step feels heavier than the last, each breath dragging in your lungs.

The apartment is a fucking mess. Drawers pulled out their hinges. Glass shattered on the floor. your shared belongings scattered across the floor such as, mail, silver wear, books, wires and more. He even emptied his fucking ashtray on the carpet staining it with dark powdery ashes creating a fucking smudge. Who the fuck hides drugs in an ashtray?!

When you see him, your stomach drops.

He’s on his knees in front of the dresser, tearing through the drawers like a man possessed. His hair is sticking up in every direction, sweat clinging to his neck and temples. His shoulders are tense, his hands trembling as he yanks out clothes, papers, random shit — anything that might be hiding what he’s looking for.

You watch in silence for a long moment, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

This is worse than you expected.

He’s worse than you expected.

“Su-bong?”

Your voice comes out softer than you intended — a whisper, almost cautious.

He doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t stop.

He just slams another drawer shut, cursing under his breath.

“Where the fuck are they?” he mutters. His voice is low, rough — shaking with barely-contained rage. “Where the fuck are they?”

Your stomach twists.

You take a shaky breath.

“What are you looking for?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

This time, he freezes.

Just for a second.

Then, slowly, he turns to look at you.

His eyes are dark, bloodshot. His pupils are blown wide, so black they almost swallow the brown. His lips are cracked, the corners pulled down in a sneer.

And in that moment, you feel it —

The fear.

The dread.

You’ve never seen him like this before.

“You know what,” he says, voice low and venomous. “Where the fuck are they?”

Your mind races.

Your palms start to sweat.

Think. Think. Think.

You can feel the anger radiating off of him — simmering just under the surface, threatening to boil over. And you know what happens when he reaches his limit.

You’ve seen it before.

The broken bottles.

The slammed doors.

The bruises on his knuckles after a night out, when he came back bloodied and laughing, saying, ‘You should see the other guy.’

You swallow hard. Your throat feels raw.

“I don’t know,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “Maybe you left it at the club. Or with Ji-hye. You’ve been out all night—”

“Bullshit.”

He stands up slowly, wiping his hands on his jeans as he takes a step toward you.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Your back hits the wall.

Fuck.

“I’m not lying.” Your voice cracks, and you hate yourself for it. “I don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

He doesn’t believe you.

You can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, itching to grab something — to throw something.

You think about the last time you saw him like this.

The broken lamp. The smashed picture frame. The bruise on your wrist that took a week to fade.

“I’m serious, Su-bong.” Your voice is shaky now, pleading. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He tears through the dresser again, frantic.

Each drawer pulled out with a sharp crack, each item tossed aside without care.

Your heart pounds.

Your breath comes faster.

And then, the drawer slams shut.

He turns to you again, and you can see it — the realization sinking in.

You.

It had to be you.

It was the only logical answer. Though he was thinking far from logically right now.

“You fucking took them.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a statement.

A terrifying sentence.

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

But the way you flinch — the way your body stiffens, your lips press together — it’s enough.

He explodes.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He grabs the nearest object — a book, heavy and solid — and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall with a loud thud, just inches from your head.

You gasp, pressing yourself tighter against the wall.

“You hid them?” His voice is rising now, loud and furious, filling the apartment, making the walls shake. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You need help!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them. “You’re killing yourself, Su-bong! I’m trying to help you!”

He laughs.

A sharp, bitter sound.

“Help me? You think this is helping me?”

“Yes! Because I love you, and I can’t fucking watch you do this to yourself anymore!”

“Where are they?” He spits out through his teeth anger radiating off of him as he stared at you through narrowed fiery eyes. His hand slightly raised. Almost like threat. “Where the fuck are they?!”

That was all he had to say? Really?

You’re crying now — sobbing, desperate, the words tumbling out like a flood. “I threw it all out. I flushed everything. I couldn’t—”

He grabs another object — a picture frame — and throws it, shattering it against the floor.

You cover your face with your hands, trying to hold yourself together, but the tears won’t stop.

“I’m trying to save you,” you whisper through sobs. “Why won’t you let me save you?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because you both know the truth.

You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

~~~~~

The apartment is dead silent.

It’s been like that all day.

You’ve been cleaning for hours, but the mess never seems to get any smaller. There’s glass on the floor, torn-up drawers, clothes and papers scattered everywhere. His cigarette ashes that stained the carpet, a dark smudge you can’t scrub out no matter how hard you try.

And Su-bong hasn’t said a word.

He’s been on the couch since morning.

Since you screamed at him. Since he threw things at you.

He hasn’t moved.

He hasn’t looked at you.

The sunlight has shifted across the room, cutting through the blinds in harsh slants. Afternoon light. Late afternoon. Time has passed in that slow, suffocating way it does after a fight — heavy, dragging, relentless.

And all you can feel is the weight of his silence.

You sweep broken glass into the dustpan, your hands shaking, your breath shallow.

You can feel the tension hanging in the air — sharp, brittle, ready to shatter.

Your stomach twists painfully.

You want him to say something.

But at the same time, you’re terrified he will.

Because when Su-bong speaks, it’s never gentle anymore.

You dump the dustpan into the trash, brushing your hands on your jeans. Your palms are sweaty. Your chest feels tight.

He’s still sitting there, legs spread wide, one arm draped over the backrest, his cigarette burning down to ash.

He hasn’t moved.

Hasn’t looked at you once.

Fuck.

You glance toward the shattered picture frame on the floor.

He threw that at you this morning.

You think about the sound of it hitting the wall, the way it shattered into pieces. The way he looked at you — cold, furious, distant.

Your throat tightens.

Your hands start to tremble again.

Why are you still here?

You pick up the broom again, brushing up some paper that was planted on the floor.

Your mind is racing, filled with what-ifs and regrets.

What if he explodes again?

What if you say the wrong thing?

What if this is the time he doesn’t stop?

You swallow hard, trying to push the thoughts away.

But they stay.

Lurking. Whispering.

“I flushed everything.”

You can still hear yourself saying it — the way your voice cracked, the way his face twisted with rage.

He hasn’t forgiven you for that.

You don’t think he ever will.

You set the broom aside, pressing your palms to your thighs to steady your shaking hands.

You have to say something.

The silence is suffocating.

And you can’t take it anymore.

But your chest aches with dread. Your stomach is in knots. You feel like you’re walking into a trap.

You wipe your hands on your jeans again, more out of habit than anything. Your fingers are clammy, trembling.

Finally, you take a shaky breath and step toward the couch.

“Su-bong?”

Your voice comes out softer than you intended.

Tentative.

Small.

He doesn’t respond.

He just takes a slow drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling into the air between you, twisting and fading before it reaches the ceiling.

Your pulse kicks up, your nerves buzzing like static.

You wipe your hands on your jeans again, fidgeting.

He’s ignoring you.

You take another step closer, your knees unsteady. The sunlight cuts across his face, making the dark circles under his eyes look deeper.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

But you see the way his jaw tightens.

The way his fingers twitch, clenched around the cigarette.

He’s listening.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep going. Your voice shakes.

“I just…” You trail off, unsure what to say.

Unsure if it even matters.

The words feel too heavy, too fragile.

Like they’ll shatter in the air.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

Finally, he moves.

He leans forward slowly, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray with a soft hiss.

And then, he looks up.

His eyes lock on yours.

Dark. Bloodshot.

And completely unreadable.

“You didn’t know what else to do?” he echoes, voice low, rough.

You flinch at the sound of it.

The tone.

The quiet anger simmering underneath.

“You didn’t have to do shit.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

Your hands won’t stop trembling.

“I was scared,” you say softly, desperate now. “I was scared for you.”

His lips twitch into something bitter.

“Scared for me?” He laughs, but it’s not a kind sound. It’s sharp. Cold. Empty.

“Mmm.” He nods sarcastic as if you were telling some kind of joke.

You step closer, kneeling beside him now.

Your heart is pounding.

Your head feels light, like you’re on the edge of something dangerous.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Nothing.

“I love you,” you say again, voice cracking.

Because you need him to hear it.

Because you need it to be true.

Finally, he looks at you.

And there’s nothing soft in his gaze.

Just anger. Disgust. Exhaustion.

“Then why the fuck are you still here?”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You feel it — the sting of them, the weight of them, pressing down on your chest.

You want to say something.

You want to scream, to cry, to tell him that you’re here because you love him, because you want to save him, because you can’t imagine your life without him.

But before you can speak, he grabs your wrist.

His grip is too tight. Too rough.

As he’s pulling you into his lap, his hands already moving to your hips, digging in hard enough to bruise.

“You said you love me.”

His voice is low, soft, dangerous.

“Show me.”

His hands don’t feel the way they used to.

There’s no softness in them anymore.

No warmth.

Just frustration. Impatience. Roughness.

You lie there, your body pinned beneath his weight, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands trembling against his shoulders.

You wanted this to be different.

You wanted this to be soft.

Forgiving.

But it’s not.

His lips press against your neck, messy and forceful. His teeth graze your skin, biting down hard enough to sting. You flinch, but he doesn’t stop.

His hands move to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He’s yanking your clothes off, rough and unrelenting.

There’s no tenderness in the way he touches you.

It’s not a kiss.

It’s not love.

It’s control.

You try to touch him.

Your hands tremble as you reach for his face, hoping to ground him — to bring him back.

But he grabs your wrist, pinning it down.

“Don’t.”

His voice is low, rough, filled with something you can’t quite place. Anger. Frustration. Exhaustion.

“Just let me.”

Your chest tightens.

Your stomach twists painfully.

You don’t want this.

Not like this.

“Su-bong—”

He cuts you off with a sharp tug of your jeans, dragging them down your legs, his hands trembling slightly.

He’s impatient. Frustrated.

“I said, don’t.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You close your eyes for a moment, tears burning behind your eyelids.

This isn’t right.

This isn’t what you wanted.

“Wait.”

The word slips out softly, almost a whisper.

Tentative. Hesitant.

He doesn’t stop.

His hands are still moving — grabbing at your thighs, pulling you closer, positioning you the way he wants.

You press your hands against his chest, trying to push him back.

“Wait.”

Still, nothing.

You swallow hard, your voice shaking now.

“Su-bong, stop.”

He freezes.

For a moment, you think he’s going to listen.

You think he’s going to stop.

But when he looks at you, his gaze is dark, bloodshot, distant.

“I need this,” he mutters. “Just… shut up and let me.”

And then he moves again.

You go still beneath him.

Frozen. Paralyzed.

Your heart is pounding, loud and insistent, telling you to get up, to run, to scream.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Because you love him.

Because you keep telling yourself it’s just a moment.

Because you’re still trying to make excuses.

His frustration only grows.

His touch gets rougher, more impatient.

He grabs your thighs, spreading them apart with more force than necessary.

His hands are shaking slightly, but he doesn’t slow down.

He doesn’t stop.

You try to speak again, but he cuts you off with a sharp kiss — more teeth than lips, more bite than kiss.

“Just stop talking,” he says, his voice low and strained. “Please.”

The desperation in his voice makes your chest ache.

But this isn’t desperation for you.

It’s desperation for something else.

Something he could find in a bag or a bottle.

And he’s using you to chase it.

It hurts.

Every touch is too rough.

Every kiss is too hard.

His grip is too tight.

You close your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks.

You tell yourself it’s almost over.

Just a moment.

He’s just angry.

He’s just high.

But deep down, you know that’s not true.

When it’s over, he pulls away without a word.

He doesn’t look at you.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

He just rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling too, your body aching, your skin burning, your heart hollowed out.

And when you finally get up, your legs are shaky, your hands trembling, your mind screaming at you to leave.

But you don’t.

You walk to the bathroom instead.

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

The water is scalding.

It hits your skin like needles, burning, stinging.

But you don’t turn it down.

You want it to hurt.

You stand under the spray, scrubbing your skin until it’s raw, until it stings, until you feel like you’ve peeled away every trace of him.

But you can still feel his hands on you.

You can still feel the bruises forming under your fingertips.

The water doesn’t wash it away.

Nothing does.

You press your hands against the tile, your chest heaving with quiet sobs.

Why are you still here?

The question echoes in your mind, over and over.

But you don’t have an answer.

You tell yourself you love him.

You tell yourself he didn’t mean it.

But deep down, you know the truth.

He won’t stop.

He won’t change.

And still —

You stay.

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

When you step out of the shower, your skin is red and raw, aching with every step.

You wrap a towel around yourself, but it doesn’t cover the bruises.

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror —

Wide eyes. Red-rimmed. Lips trembling.

A distant stranger.

You take a shaky breath, running your fingers through your damp hair.

And then, you step back into the bedroom.

Su-bong is sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

When he hears you, his head snaps up.

For a moment, you think you see concern in his eyes.

His gaze flickers to the bruises on your thighs, to the dark mark on your neck where he bit you.

“You’re hurt.”

The words are soft.

Almost tender.

He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll run.

And you flinch.

His hand, halfway to your arm, pauses in midair.

For a moment, neither of you move. The space between you feels too wide, too tense, too fragile — like a thread pulled tight, ready to snap.

“Come here.”

His voice is soft now.

Quiet. Careful.

Like he’s trying to make up for what he did without actually saying the words.

You stay where you are.

You want to run.

You want to scream.

You want to shove him away.

But you don’t.

Because you’re tired.

So fucking tired.

And you just want it to stop.

“I’m sorry.”

The words are soft.

Almost fragile.

He steps closer, and this time, you don’t flinch.

You don’t move.

You’re too tired.

His fingers brush against the bruises on your arm.

Light. Careful.

Like he’s trying to be gentle now.

Like he’s trying to erase the marks he left behind.

But they won’t fade.

And you both know it.

“I just… I need you.”

The words slip out of him quietly, almost a whisper. His lips brush against your shoulder, pressing soft kisses over the bruises he left.

“I need you to stay.”

You close your eyes.

Tears slip down your cheeks.

You crawl into bed with him, your body aching, your mind screaming at you to leave — but your heart refusing to listen.

His arms wrap around you, warm and heavy, pulling you against his chest.

And you cry quietly into his shirt, trying not to let him hear.

But he does.

He always does.

And still —

You stay.

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

It starts small.

It always does.

A comment.

A glance.

A flicker of something in his eyes — that dark, volatile thing lurking just beneath the surface.

You’ve been walking on eggshells for days.

Ever since the fight.

Ever since the picture frame shattered against the wall.

Ever since you flushed his drugs.

Ever since you cried in his arms after he didn’t stop.

Things have been too quiet.

Too tense.

And deep down, you know it’s coming.

He’s been distant.

Quiet, brooding, his mood shifting like storm clouds rolling in.

You should leave.

You know you should.

But instead, you stay.

You cook him dinner.

You clean the apartment.

You try to make things normal.

But there’s nothing normal about this.

It’s late when he comes home.

Way too late.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, your fingers wrapped around a cup of cold tea, staring at the door like it’s about to explode off its hinges.

When you hear the click of the lock turning, your heart jumps into your throat.

The door swings open, and there he is.

Su-bong.

His hair is a mess.

His eyes are bloodshot.

There’s a bruise on his knuckles, dark and fresh.

And when his gaze lands on you, everything inside you tightens.

This is it.

The storm has finally arrived.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, cutting through the silence.

He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him with more force than necessary.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

He just stands there, swaying slightly, his hands twitching at his sides.

And then —

He laughs.

Low. Bitter.

The sound sends a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your grip tightens on the mug, your knuckles turning white.

“You don’t need to explain yourself?”

Your voice shakes.

You hate it.

You hate the way he makes you feel small, like you’re the one who’s wrong.

Like you’re the one who needs to apologize.

“You’ve been gone all day,” you say, standing up slowly, your legs unsteady.

“All day, Su-bong. And now you’re just going to walk in here like nothing happened?”

He shrugs.

Shrugs.

Like he doesn’t care.

Like you don’t matter.

“I made dinner.”

The words sound pathetic as they leave your mouth.

You hate yourself for saying them.

For wanting to fix this.

But he doesn’t even look at you.

He just walks past you, heading toward the bedroom.

“I’m not hungry.”

Something snaps inside you.

The fragile thread holding you together finally breaks.

“No.”

Your voice is sharp.

Louder than it’s been in weeks.

He stops in his tracks.

Slowly, he turns to look at you.

And you can feel it —

The shift.

The crackle of tension in the air.

The storm about to break.

“What did you say?”

His voice is low. Dangerous.

But you’re not backing down. Not this time.

“I said no.”

Your heart is pounding.

You’re scared.

You should be.

But you’ve been scared for so long —

and you’re so fucking tired of it.

“You don’t get to do this anymore.”

The words tumble out, fast and desperate.

“You don’t get to disappear for days and come back like nothing happened. You don’t get to treat me like shit. You don’t get to use me, hurt me, and act like it’s my fault.”

His jaw clenches.

You see the flicker of anger in his eyes.

But you keep going.

“I’ve been here for you through everything. I’ve cleaned up your messes. I’ve lied for you. I’ve loved you, even when you made it impossible.”

Your voice cracks.

Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t stop.

“And I can’t do it anymore, Su-bong.”

Silence.

For a long moment, neither of you move.

The air feels too heavy.

The tension is thick, suffocating.

And then —

He laughs.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

The words hit you hard.

He throws them like a punch —

bitter, angry, exhausted.

“You want me to change? You want me to be something I’m not?”

His voice rises.

“You want me to stop? for you? You want me to be better?”

He steps closer, his hands shaking.

“I’m not better.

“I’m not fucking better.”

Your chest tightens.

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and burning.

“I just want you to try.”

The words come out soft, broken.

“I love you, Su-bong.”

He freezes.

For a split second, something flickers in his eyes —

something raw.

And then —

“That’s your fucking problem.”

The slap comes out of nowhere.

Hard. Fast.

It knocks you to the floor.

For a moment, you don’t move.

Your cheek stings.

Your ears ring.

Your whole body feels like it’s been shattered.

And when you finally look up, he’s staring down at you.

His chest heaves.

His hands shake.

And for a split second —

He looks scared.

“You’re right.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m not better.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

And this time —

You believe him.

You push yourself up slowly, your whole body trembling.

“I loved you.”

Your voice is soft.

Broken.

“But you killed it.”

He doesn’t stop you as you walk toward the door.

But his voice follows you.

Soft. Bitter. Full of regret.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You pause.

And for a moment —

You almost turn around.

But you don’t.

You keep walking.

And as you step outside, tears streaming down your face, your heart breaking into pieces —

You know you’ll never be free.

Because he’ll always haunt you.

Like carrion.

Rotting.

Decaying.

877 notes · View notes

felassan · 3 months ago

Text

David Gaider on Alistair, under a cut for length:

"Ah, Alistair. Depending on who you ask, he's the adorable woobie with the biggest heart or the irritating, over-used man-child. Yes, he is indeed all of those things. Good characters have flaws to go with their virtues. Ugly spots. That is literally their humanity. He was a bit of a bear to write, at the outset. James (Ohlen, the first creative director on DAO) had this idea he needed to be a grizzled Warden veteran - older, distrusting. Everyone hated him instantly. I call this the Carth Onasi Problem, and suggested to James that maybe I try something else. My observation says that the characters who are generally liked the most are the supportive ones. Enthusiastic. Funny? Sometimes, sure, but that's *not* required. I need to digress. See, at the time James had this (regrettable) period where he believed everything could be derived from a formula. He even sold this idea to the founders, Ray and Greg. Google 'BioWare formula'. Anyway, how this relates is because James thought the DAO cast needed a Minsc: a comedy character who would become super popular and, ideally, the icon of DA. "Isn't that Alistair?" you ask. "Arguable," I say, "but no." James had me to up a huge list of 'comedic archetypes' and I wrote some possible dialogue for each one. Then he had the team vote. The winning archetype? The Buffoon - like Homer Simpson or Peter Griffin. James was pleased. I was not. "The problem," I said, "is I don't find the Buffoon funny." 😅"

""But you're a professional." "Sure, I *can* write him... but comedy isn't science. I need to find him funny. If I write him, the only comedy I'll mine is where he makes fun of himself." James took that on board and then passed the character onto someone else. The result? Oghren. I rest my case. So back to the supportive character: that was my thought for a new Alistair. It was a special case, after all - the DAO PC was thrust into a terrible situation. They needed someone who had their back. A bud. A *likeable* bud. I was watching Buffy at the time, and my thoughts drifted towards Xander. Now, I know Joss Whedon is persona non grata these days, but this was 2006, OK? I was watching Buffy and thought, "man, Xander is such a wasted character" and considered how to fix him. Then I realized this might work for Alistair. Plus, I wanted to see if I could replicate the Whedon vocal patter. That was the new Alistair: a more useful and likeable yet equally dorky version of Xander. We had very strict rules in DA about language: no modern speech styles, colloquialisms, any words that came into use in our world after 1900 got severe side eye... but Alistair? Alistair got a blanket pass. Was it great that the lead writer's leading man got to break the rules? I guess not, but it's my opinion that you can break those kinds of rules - selectively, in small doses. Too much and you break the illusion. And it worked. Alistair was an instant hit. Not just with the team, but with the fans."

"Confession time? Yes, I knew Goldanna wasn't meant to be Alistair's mother. But neither was Fiona, originally. I think fans caught wind of some revisionism at work, and OK it's true. I had a more Arthurian idea for his birth but I stopped liking it... yet not soon enough to go back and make edits. Should I have just left it be, left Goldanna as his mother? Maybe. It was one of those writer things I just couldn't let go of and I probably could have used someone to sit me down and go "Gaider, please. Just stop." I still like Fiona, and where I took it. But I probably shouldn't have gone there. Casting Alistair was SUCH a chore. He required a weird mix of devilish charm, but with enough sincerity and adorkableness it didn't come off as smarmy. Every audition went full smarm... until Steve Valentine up and appeared out of nowhere. In the midst of a batch of audition files, there he was. We brought Steve in "just to try out", and he pulled it off. Even the "frog time" line, which (seriously) nobody else could. And when he got to the romantic lines, Steve's voice turned into pure butter without, again, sliding into "oh, he's slightly creepy". Both Caroline and I were sold. And he was so gloriously easy to write. It's a well I'd probably return to... a bit too often, maybe? Maric, then Anders in Awakening, and then Alistair kept popping up in future games and the comics because, yes, he was pretty much the breakout comedy character of DA. Which still makes me happy. 😁 CORRECTION: Goldanna was someone Alistair thought was his *sister*, and her mother his mother. Look, it was almost twenty years ago, OK? 😅 --- I actually had a whole scene written in DAI where Fiona tells him, but the requirements were so specific for them both to be in Skyhold and it seemed like it'd be relevant only to a small small sub-section of fans (and confusing to everyone else) so it was dropped. Rightfully so, I guess."

[source thread]

User: "The Buffy vibes were strong in DAO and I was very happy with that at the time. What I loved about DAO was the mix of dark themes entwined with bits of levity. That's how I like my angst. Dark, broody with a side of ha-has and y'all delivered in DAO for sure." David Gaider: "That's a me thing. I like going dark - really dark - and then pairing it with light, comedic moments. It provides peaks and valleys in the tone, and prevents either from becoming overwhelming. Hey if it worked for Shakespeare (alas, poor Yorrick), it can work for DA, right? 😉" [source]

#dragon age #bioware #alistair theirin #fav warden #video games #long post #longpost

407 notes · View notes

goldenbueckers · 2 months ago

Text

✮ just what you needed ; pb5

➭ summary: your winter break had a handful of friend drama that you were sure was just caused by your overthinking, but nonetheless, paige knows exactly what you need to be cheered up

➭ word count: 1.6k

➭ warnings: shitty friends, overthinking

➭ author's notes: i did not mean to fall of the face of the earth for the week but never fear i am here. this wasn't the protective paige thing i was going to write but shit happened i ended up projecting so here this is. it might be shitty, i'm not to sure, i wrote most of it in the middle of the night and i did not proofread so.

Being an introvert, making friends has always been hard for you. Which is why you were always content with the few friends you did have, having them was enough for you, you never needed anything more than them.

Your friends proved to be a distraction from the fact that you had a hard time making friends in the first place, they made you seem like you were the most outgoing, extroverted person they had ever met, and they made you feel somewhat normal about it, specifically

You had met Fiona earlier in the semester, she was a transfer student from Ohio who simply just wanted to be closer to home. The two of you had gotten along really well, bonding over similar interests and the random things you two had always seemed to find yourselves talking about.

But recently, with being away from most of your friends due to winter break, your overthinking capabilities seemed to work overtime, reading into every single thing they did or didn’t do. You had always told yourself that that had been one of your biggest flaws and that that was the thing you needed to work on.

You pushed the thoughts out of your head, snapping back to the present where you were sitting in your dorm room reading a book. It was the first week back in Connecticut since break had ended, and you were settling in as well as you could have with how much your mind was reeling.

Before you could send yourself down another spiral of self-deprecating thoughts, a knock on the door pulled your attention, slipping your bookmark into your book and placing it on your desk, making your way over to the door.

You opened the door, you couldn’t have been more thankful to see who was standing on the other side of it. Paige was there, grocery bag and duffle bag in hand, and a wide smile on her lips, “Hey ma, how’s my favorite girl doing?”

You mustered up a small smile, leaning your head against the edge of the door as you stepped aside to let her in, “Could be worse, could be better.”

She was quick to step past you, throwing her duffle bag on the ground and setting the grocery bag on your bed. When she turned to face you again, her face instantly softened, you looked exhausted. “C’mere,” her voice murmured, opening her arms for you and watching you with a sharp gaze.

You couldn’t help how fast it took you to walk into her arms, wrapping your arms around her torso, grip tight. You buried your head into her chest, trying to stop the emotions that rushed through you from coming out. The tears that threatened to spill over were kept in my how tight you squeezed your eyes shut, determined not to let Paige find out what had happened, at least not yet.

“Missed you.” Her voice was gentle as she spoke, something you were positive only you were accustomed to.

“Missed you more.”

You felt the vibrations of her light chuckle against your head, subconsciously tightening your arms around her in response. She pulled away anyway, moving to cup your face with her hands, leaning her forehead against yours.

And for a few minutes, the two of you just stood like that. Paige takes in every detail of your face; your freckles, the slight bags under your eyes accompanied by the growing dark circles, the dimmed spark in your eyes, the lines on your forehead, the soft pink tint to your cheeks.

“So, what’s going on?”

Your eyes widened almost comically, only pulling away slightly to look her in the face, “What? Nothing wrong, what do you mean?”

You knew she saw right through your defensive demeanor, moving her hands down to yours, encircling your wrists, and rubbing small circles on the insides of them. She raised an eyebrow, her lips slightly downturned at your deflection, “I know you well enough to know that something is bothering you, y/n/n.”

The groan you let out echoed through your dorm, “I hate how well you know me.”

Paige smirked as she watched you bite your lip somewhat anxiously, intertwining her fingers with yours and bringing the other hand up to tilt your chin to look at her, “And I love how well I know you.” She cocked her head to the side slightly, looking you up and down before speaking again, “C’mon, spill it, ma.”

Once again, hesitancy cluttered your mind, stopping you from speaking. Maybe you should keep your thoughts to yourself, you have always been one to overshare and that includes your overthinking abilities. This could all just be a simple misunderstanding and you could be reading too much into it and-

“Baby, talk to me. Please.” Paige’s slight pleading voice broke your trance, and you stared at her, looking into her eyes that shone with worry and protectiveness.

“It’s just friend drama… I guess.” You muttered, trying to take the simple route out of this conversation. But you should’ve known better when your girlfriend’s hand dropped to your waist to pull you closer.

Her frown grew at the short phrase, trying to get more out of you, “You sure that’s it?”

You sighed, fully prepared to know that this was going to be a much longer conversation than you had hoped for. You rested your forehead against her chest, closing your eyes as her hand came up to tangle in your head, scratching at your scalp as you spoke, “Technically I wasn’t lying, it is friend drama.”

“Must be more serious friend drama than what I’m used to hearing about, I take it?” Her chin rested on your head, continuing her previous actions.

“Involves me.”

She hummed quietly, “I assumed that, ma. What happened?”

“Remember Fiona, the transfer student?”

You felt her nod, taking the motion as the cue to continue, “I introduced her to my friends and we were all having a good time and hanging out and whatnot. But recently, I just- I think she’s been ignoring me. I’m probably reading too much into this, it’s stupid. Forget I said anything.”

Thoughts of being a burden enveloped you, trying to back out of the conversation again. You always read to much into things, that’s what your parents had told you. Read too much into people’s actions and what they said, could never just settle on a simple meaning.

“Don’t- don’t do that. Talk to me. I’m not going to judge you, I’m here for you, even if that means fighting your little realities you got going on up there.”

Her words earned a chuckle out of you, you could feel the tension in your shoulders ease and your mind became a little less overwhelmed. When you looked back up at her, she gave you a smile, signaling for you to go on.

As you talked you could feel her grip on your hair tighten slightly when you would mention something particularly frustrating about the situation, or something that had upset you. You could feel the small circles Paige drew on your lower back with her thumb from when she had casually slipped her hand under your shirt to rest it there.

She listened intently to everything you said, keeping her fingers moving through your hair with the occasional head scratch. She didn’t speak, not until she was sure you were done talking and had exhausted yourself from the small rant you had gone on.

You blinked slowly once you finished, letting out a small breath of relief, your brain felt less crowded and cluttered now, and all you could think about was cuddling up with Paige and letting her take care of you.

With what little energy you had left, you looked up at her, catching her gaze immediately. You could see the way her face softened once her eyes locked on yours, giving you a soft smile, “How about we order some food and watch a movie?”

She always knew exactly what you needed, so you nodded, allowing her to lead you back to your bed as she handed you the grocery bag she had placed there earlier. When you opened the bag, you couldn’t help but grin at all of your favorite candy and your favorite drink she had in there. Looking over at her, you watched as she placed an order for what you could only assume was your guilty pleasure restaurant, her brow furrowed in concentration.

You leaned over, kissing her cheek before settling into her side, navigating your tv to the streaming platform that had your favorite movie, missing the way her lips replicated your smile as she glanced at you.

*✩‧₊˚

The food was taking longer than you would like it to and you were all for letting it show, a pout on your face as you watched your favorite movie. And Paige, of course, was finding this amusing as always, laughing every time she would look over at you.

“Baby stop pouting, it’ll be here soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

She rolled her eyes at your level of impatience, drawing you closer into her, arm wrapping around your waist to do so. She placed a kiss on the top of your head, she murmured, “You doing okay?”

“Better than before.” You replied, and it was the truth. While you weren’t completely back to your usual sarcastic self you were close to getting there and it was because of her and how she always seemed to know what you needed to feel better.

꒰ PB5 TAGLIST ꒱

@jnkbueckers

PB5 MASTERLIST ; MASTERLIST

TAGLIST ; NAVIGATION

#｡˚ ᥫ᭡ ꒰ goldenbueckers ; writing ! ꒱#｡˚ ᥫ᭡ ꒰ paige bueckers ! ꒱#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #pb5 #uconn #uconn wbb

234 notes · View notes

arc-misadventures · 15 days ago

Text

The 'Maid'

Bulphrik: Thank you, Sir. Arc, and Mr. Ren. I greatly appreciate the help you did to reclaim my lost property.

Jaune: Think nothing of it!

Ren: We're just doing out job, Sir.

Bulphrik: Well... if you'll now excuse me I will prepared your entry permits, and your... rewards...

Jaune: Please take your time, My Lord.

Bulphrik: While I away I will have a maid bring you something to drink.

Ren: Much apricated your, Grace.

Jaune: ...

Ren: ...

Jaune: Noble twat...

Ren: Bloated boar...

Jaune: Haa... I doubt we'll see ten gold coins from that greedy bastard.

Ren: We'll be lucky to see ten silver coins...

Jaune: Haaa... If it wasn't for the fact we need these city passes to get into the city I wouldn't be dealing with this bullshit.

Ren: Why can't more nobles be like you?

Jaune: Like...?

Ren: A horn dog!

Jaune: ...

Ren: Honestly I want to say nice... But, that was the first thought that came to mind...

Jaune: I would have preferred playboy, but horn dog?! There's a difference between the two! I've met some true horn dogs, and well...

Ren: Well?

Jaune: Well, I've killed them.

Ren: Oh... There's that much of a difference...

Jaune: Trust me, you don't wanna know.

Ren: Okay.

Jaune: Haa... Let's just wait here, that fat pig should be back soon with are entry permits, then we can get the hall out of here.

Ren: Alright...

(Click)

: Hello! My name is, Fiona! I'm a maid working for, Lord Piggy... I mean, Lord Bulphrik! I'm here to bring you your drinks!

Ren: Oh thanks!

Jaune: ...

Ren: So, how long do you think it will take for your Lord Piggy take to write our entry passes?

Fiona: He's counting his money trying to give you an 'appropriate amount.'

Ren: As little as possible?

Fiona: Less than that.

Ren: Cheap bastard... No matter, we came here for the entry passes we're fine when it comes to coin.

Fiona: Well, if there is anything I could give you, just say the word!

Jaune: Anything?

Fiona: Anything at all!

Ren: Jaune, no!

Jaune: What?

Ren: You just saw the maid, and you're already wanting to bed the maid?!

Fiona: What?!

Jaune: Wrong!

Fiona: Awww...

Jaune: I want to smash the slime girl!

Fiona: Oh~?

Ren: Why?!

Jaune: Sleeping with a slime girl is an experience all onto of it's self! A man who has bedded a slime dame would never pass over the slightest opportunity to do it again! You would know this if you weren't as sexually repressed as eunuch monk!

Ren: I'm not that bad!

Jaune: Ren, you've been hit with a succubus's pheromones, and you fell asleep!

Ren: ...

Ren: I get the coins... you can have the slime girl...

Jaune: Yeah! Ahem...

Jaune: Tell me my fair lady~! Would you grace me, a humble, Paladin of the Summer Maid a moment of your time?

Fiona: The Summer Maiden~? You, Sir Knight, may have me as long as you want~!

Jaune: Wonderful~!

Ren: ...

Ren: I'm not that sexually repressed... am I...?

#rwby #jaune arc #lie ren #fiona thyme #jaune x fiona #fiona x jaune #rwby sheperdsknight

194 notes · View notes

threeacttragedy · 4 months ago

Text

Entry 5 – The One About the Distorted Phone Screen that Sent Half the Fandom into the Ocean

I had no intention of writing about last week’s phone screen debacle, mainly because I found it obnoxious and a smidge infuriating. Not because I believed Jake to be on the phone screen but because people were SO QUICK TO BELIEVE it was Jake on the phone screen.

Honestly, I didn’t even need to see the “cleaned up” version of the picture because I would have sworn then – and would still swear now – it was Luke on the screen. White guy, dark hair, left hand touching his face (or, as it’s been suggested, removing sunglasses), signaling to me that the person in the photograph was left hand dominant. Add that in with all the information Luke and Nicola have laid out before us over the past three months (and, honestly, probably even before that) and there is no other answer: it’s Luke. The end, right? Nope, not even close. Like I mentioned in yesterday’s blog, we’re not allowed to have nice things.

The image comes from a video of Golda giving Nicola her WOTY award. People started taking screen grabs and dropping it into apps that claimed to clean up blurry images.

*Fun fact – I did this once to the picture of Nicola on the boat in Malta. I used three separate apps, in fact, and each time I got this frightening image of Nicola back. Do you remember the scene in Shrek where he picked up a frog and blew it into a balloon for Fiona? The frog’s eyes protruded out and his face was all puckered. That’s what I got back from these apps – a bulging-eyed monstrosity that looked nothing like Nicola. It was froggin’ weird (my Colin-Dad joke of the day), especially since, in the original image, you couldn’t even see her eyes as she appeared to be looking down at her phone.

Okay, back to what I was blabbing about…

People started adjusting the lighting on the screen grab of Nicola’s phone to extreme levels. And, there were even rumors flying around that people had superimposed Jake’s face on to the image and sent it out into the black abyss that is social media. I think I saw six different versions of the image within the first four hours of it dropping on X.

But, guess what, each time, I still saw Luke. Well, I take that back. One time, I swear I saw Johnny Bailey, which, if that had been true, I would have given Nicola a huge round of applause for being so hilariously catty about it all.

My advice, if you want to see the picture, pull it yourself. Go to YouTube, take a screen grab of it, and figure it out on your own. Do not put it through an app and don’t play with the lighting so much that it distorts the image. You may have noticed that I did not repost any of those images here. That was intentional. Form your own opinion about it.

Now that we have that out of the way – the part about me believing it was Luke on the phone screen and me suggesting you form your own opinion about it – I’ll move on to why I decided to write about this topic today.

It was because Luke did something yesterday that piqued my interest.

It wasn’t anything necessarily out of the ordinary. But, it also kind of was.

Simone Ashley posted to her grid yesterday a series of photographs. There’s nothing special here; she’s a beautiful woman putting her lovely image out into this world. It was the last picture in this slide deck that left me intrigued, though. It’s a picture of Simone – but, at the bottom left of the image, is a damn phone screen. Initially, I was a little confused by the image on the phone screen because it appeared to be Simone’s hands but also not Simone’s hands. What it was, is that the angle of the phone made the angle in which the image was depicted slightly different. Why not crop that phone out of it? Or, use a different image? Okay, whatever. I’m not sure I would have thought much of it – except Luke liked the post.

Why would this activate my little grey cells? Because it’s the first post of Simone’s in over a year that he has liked without Nicola also liking it. All throughout 2024, Luke has only liked the posts also liked by Nicola. Now, Nicola could very easily come back and like this post today or tomorrow or a week from now. She does like Simone’s posts frequently and, by Simone’s own words, Nicola and Simone are close. But, remember what I mentioned the other day. It’s the little changes that make people start giving the side eye. When taken collectively, Simone’s post, Luke’s like on the post, and the recent phone screen debacle seem, well, fucking connected in a damn funny way.

Kinda? Maybe?

I swear, I’m becoming one of those people who now plays Six Degrees to Lukola. What have I become?!

But, hey, let’s keep playing this game because, you have to admit, it IS kind of fun to speculate.

On November 10, Netflix UK dropped a post to its grid captioned “ME AND WHO???? [red heart]” The first slide in the deck is of Colin and Penelope’s wedding kiss – the one where Luke had his eyes open – and there is a red heart drawn between their chests (awe, their hearts). The remaining seven slides also include kissing couples but the red heart is drawn around their heads. The Luke and Nicola (like how I used Luke and Nicola, not Colin and Penelope this time?) picture stands out in this deck. It’s the first slide and the red heart is different than the others. And, what about that caption: “ME AND WHO????” Well, it's definitely NOT Nicola and Jake.

Is it a bit too far down the Delulu Rabbit Hole to believe Netflix would be in on a dig about “Who’s on Nicola’s phone screen?”

Perhaps.

But, remember this is also the same parent company that dropped “Nicola and Luke’s Cutest Moments” on August 28 (via Bridgerton Netflix IG), right smack dab in the middle of the Jake Festival Pap Disaster. Do you remember that? The fandom was bouncing all over the place. New festival pictures of Nicola and Jake had dropped the day before. Shondaland had also dropped a “Friends to Lovers” story that seemed oddly like Luke and Nicola. Melissa Dezarate dropped old Luke and Nicola pictures on her IG stories. Then, on August 28, Bridgerton Netflix dropped its “Cutest Moments,” and Melissa Dezarate shared more Luke and Nicola pictures on her IG stories. The “Cutest Moments,” pretty much entirely on its own (the rest was just extra frosting), turned our day right side up again. I salute you, Netflix.

Are we burrowing deeper into the Rabbit Hole? Meh. Let’s keep going.

Also on November 10, we had Dougie posting a mirror / elevator selfie to his grid with the caption, “I know it’s out of focus don’t tell me that.” Maybe he means something, maybe he doesn’t. Any ways, Jake liked this post. Now, I will admit, in the beginning of this Jake Side Story Extravaganza, I wasn’t keen on Dougie. He seemed aggressive on X – especially after those New York pap pictures dropped – but then I realized that his annoyance might be due to the narratives being spread about Jake, i.e., that he was being “hard launched” with Nicola. Recall that within a few hours of the Jake London Pap Disaster, Dougie posted to his stories an image of Jake looking at his phone with the “Mike/Sully Face Swap” meme superimposed over Jake’s face. If you research what this meme means, you’ll find that it is similar to a face-palm reaction or used for “overly ironic situations that leave you confused and perplexed.” Kind of funny, right? You’re welcome to take Dougie however you please, but over the past few weeks, I’ve become rather fond of him. He seems like a mischievous bloke, which is right up my alley.

I always have this feeling that the USS Lukola is surrounded by people who, after the ship hits a rogue wave, help to steer it back on course. The “people” come in the form of Nicola and Luke; cast, crew and friends; interviewers with their old edited-out snippets; and Netflix & Co. I’m sure I’m failing to name someone.

I shall wrap this post up with a quote from Jonathan Van Ness – who, by the way, is one of the most entertainingly funny and intelligent humans to watch. Earlier this week, JVN posted to his IG stories and Tiktok about “bobs.” With JVN, I never really know if he is being serious with what he puts out there or if we’re expected to read between the lines. Regardless, his comment was impactful to me:

“All this shit is just someone on Tiktok decided this was going to be the new name and tried to make that a trend. And that’s cool and that’s great and I love that. I just don’t want y’all getting confused. You know what I’m saying? This is just another variation of a bob.”

Take that as you please.

#lukola #nicola coughlan #luke newton #my opinion #my thoughts #speculation only

242 notes · View notes

pureastrologywisdom · 4 months ago

Text

𝔄𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔬 𝔬𝔟𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰

If you have any placements in virgo, WRITE THINGS DOWN. You are influenced by mercury as Virgo's planetary ruler, however you are also an earth sign. You cannot handle that fast paced energy of Mercury as well as gemini. You need to lament on things decisions/ideas a little longer. You prefer to take your time. instead of having those thoughts bouncing around your head, calm yourself by getting them on paper. You also naturally have an ability for writing.

Having your moon in the 11th house is such an underrated placement. The 11th house is one of the houses that is about people as a collective. Having your moon here you have a really easy time connecting with people, people will regard you as genuine and comforting. Along with this the 11th house is also the house of gains. This shows that often people will their moon here find gains through their emotions, whether that be success, recognition for their work, or becoming known for this. I have seen this in a lot of creative peoples charts, or people who have been known for their emotional displays in some form. For example, Billie Ellish, Oprah Winfrey, Elizabeth Taylor, Martin Luther King, Fiona Apple, Ryan Gosling. There is a skill here of really being able to connect with a mass of people or the collective.

Neptune in the 3rd house is a placement that I don't hear spoken about too often. But it's one of my favourites. These people Can be soft spoken and have a beautiful voice, spoken and sometimes signing also. Along with this they are incredibly enchanting hone they speak, there is something captivating about how they communicate. People will hang on their every word. Neptune is the higher octave of Venus which gives these people a way with their words, very creative. These people are often signers or poets or simply incredibly good at inciting emotions when they speak. There is almost something magical, as if they are casting a spell in a way. Its vulnerable, seductive and dreamy energy.

An aspect I like to see in a birth chart is a Quincunx. Whilst this might seem like a funny thing to say, considering that this aspect can be a difficult energy to harmonise, I actually enjoy the juxtaposition it brings to a person. It gives someone a quality that, at first glance or even when getting to know them, is quite unexpected. A little surprise. Something that takes people back, some nuance. I makes someone interesting and sometimes even misunderstood. As mentioned it can even be hard for these people themselves to undertones these opposite sides/needs within themselves.

Thank you for reading all,

Pureastrowisdom x

P.S.

Chart reading not available, I have around 5 spaces left for this month

Dm me if you are interested in...

Big three reading - £6

~ a good intro to astrology and exploring your chart

Self connection reading - £20

~ a deeper understanding of your chart. I use your chart as medium for you to have a deeper connection with yourself, focusing on self love, self worth and self appreciation

#astrology #astrology blog #astro notes #astro observations #astroblr #astro community #natal chart #astro tumblr #selfloveastrology #astrology signs #astrology readings #natal astrology #astrologer #astronotes #astro placements #astro blog #astro posts #astro thoughts

250 notes · View notes

livelaughloveluffy · 4 months ago

Text

yearning - monkey d. luffy

a/n: currently in the mood to yearn tonight... its probably the fiona apple playing in the background as inspo to write.. anywho!! i wanted to start a new series about reader's pov of falling for the boys because i seriously just need to gush about how much i love and adore and want these men 😭😭😭 so i hope you guys enjoy this!!

nothing but fluff here 💗

---------------------------------------------------------------------

it was absolutely impossible to not be drawn to the captain of the straw hat pirates. luffy simply radiated joy and kindness, and while he can be extremely straight-forward, trusting to a fault, and at times naive, his pure love and affection for those around him is so plainly addicting to be around.

since the very first time your eyes were graced with the sight of the raven-haired boy's wide smile, your heart couldn't help but just melt and the overwhelming feeling of willing to do anything to never see it leave his face utterly consumed you.

•♡•

when the captain had asked you to join his on his journey to become the king of the pirates, you were initially shocked. what had he seen in you to view you as valuable enough to need in his crew?

it was not unknown that luffy could have some questionable taste at time, not hesitating to invite animals, zombies, or other strange creature to join the straw hats with the same wide smile he had shown you.. that's just who he was.

but nothing quelled those doubts as instantly as his wholehearted smile when he called your name.

•♡•

it was just after breakfast, a bright and sunny day on the thousand sunny, you stood outside the kitchen leaning against the wall overlooking the deck. luffy, usopp, and chopper had run out of the kitchen just 10 minutes prior, clearly in a hurry to go back to whatever fun shenanigans they had planned for the day full of travel on the open ocean.

the three laughing and chasing each other in circles on the small deck. the captain throwing his head back laughing, watching as his body began to lean with him as well, making him fall to the floor. and now his laugh can finally reach your ears, as the raven-haired boy's now trapped in a laughing fit, finding his fall absolutely hilarious.

you didn't notice the smile grow on your face, but the blonde-haired chef who had just stepped out for his post-breakfast cigarette did.

"he's definitely something special... don't you think?" sanji gently murmured, with a sly smile itching at the edge of his lips.

the blush on your cheeks didn't go unnoticed by the chef when you looked at him with wide eyes, before responding with a meek nod and a small whispered "yeah... he really is.."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

tags ♡: @dindjarins1ut ; want to join the taglist? click here!!

a/n: i was listening to "i want you to love me" on repeat in case you were wondering 😭😭 and you most definitely can tell 💀

a/n: enjoyed this fic? here's my masterlist!!

#one piece #one piece fic #one piece fanfic #one piece fluff #one piece x reader #one piece monkey d luffy #monkey d luffy #one piece luffy #op luffy #monkey d. luffy #straw hat luffy #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy x reader #luffy x you #luffy fluff #fluff fic #via's fics

195 notes · View notes

fuckshitslover · 2 years ago

Text

CARL GALLAGHER HCs

SFW AND NSFW

SWF HEADCANNONS

I can only write Carl x reader as a childhood friends to lovers trope

That’s just how my brain works lmao

You and Carl grew up together

You probably got together somewhere after he got out of his white boy carl phase

It would have been awkward at first since you had grown up together

But eventually it was as natural as breathing

You would be allowed at the Gallagher house whenever

Fiona would not give a shit nor bat her eye

She would probably be happy

Carl would probs be clingy asf

But you don’t have a problem with it

Dates consist of a private booth at the alibi or laying under the L like lip and Karen

You would save up for a small house and turn it into your home

NSFW HEADCANNONS

god he’s so good

I feel like he’d be the type of guy to eat you out until you cum and then fuck you so you feel better

His dick>>>>>>

He seems verbal

Like not in particularly moaning but just that he won’t stop fucking talking

People have walked in on you having sex and could just hear him telling you random things about other times you had sex

I feel like he’s longer than thicker

#Carl Gallagher x reader #Carl Gallagher #shameless #Carl Gallagher hcs #Carl x you #shameless x reader

3K notes · View notes

0-n-1-x · 7 months ago

Note

Hellooo! Could you write something about carl gallagher dating a girl who has a protective older brother like mickey milkovich ??? Thanks ✨

Carl Gallagher x Protective Older Brother!Reader

link to my masterlist <33

The first time Carl meets your older brother, the tension is palpable. Your brother, much like Mickey, is rough around the edges, fiercely protective, and not easily impressed. He sizes Carl up immediately, making it clear that he’ll be watching every move Carl makes.

Your brother makes it his mission to keep a close eye on Carl, showing up unexpectedly or making pointed comments about how Carl should treat you. He’s always hovering in the background, ready to step in if he feels Carl is out of line. Which you appreciate, and you know its out of love, but its annoying most of the time

Carl understands where your brother is coming from and, instead of being intimidated, he sees it as a challenge. He goes out of his way to show that he’s serious about you, whether it’s through his actions or how he treats you when your brother is around. Over time, he starts to earn your brother’s respect. He's definitely like that with Debbie's flings and sometimes Fiona, so he understands the protectiveness (even if he does NOT have the same effect on their partners)

With your brother constantly watching, you and Carl find yourselves sneaking around to get some alone time. The secrecy adds an extra layer of excitement to your relationship. Whether it’s a (not-so-quick) kiss behind closed doors or a whispered conversation in the shadows, every stolen moment feels charged with adrenaline.

Carl often sneaks over to your place late at night, long after your brother has gone to bed. You both get a thrill out of the risk, knowing that getting caught could lead to a serious confrontation. These late-night visits are filled with quiet laughter, soft whispers, and the intimacy of being together when no one else is around.

But best believe he's jumping the fence when your brother comes chasing with a bat

You and Carl become experts at crafting believable alibis. If your brother asks where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing, you’re always ready with a story that keeps suspicion at bay. Carl is unsurprisingly good at coming up with quick excuses

To avoid raising suspicion, you and Carl would probably develop a system for texting each other in code. Simple phrases or emojis take on new meanings, allowing you to communicate plans without giving anything away if your brother happens to glance at your phone. It’s a fun, secret language that only the two of you understand. Though Carl forgets every other time and you have to rework the whole system

#carl gallagher x you #carl gallagher x plus size!reader #carl gallagher x y/n #carl gallagher x reader #shameless x reader #shameless fanfiction #carl gallagher x female reader #carl gallagher

327 notes · View notes

kadwrites · 2 years ago

Text

office scandal | T.S

previous part | next part

or check out the series masterlist

summary ; polly takes you with her to run an errand.

warnings ; arranged marriage trope, bad writing?!! , typos maybe (english isn't my first language)

a/n ; i almost lost my mind writing this. hopefully the accents are better and polly is well portrayed? lmk what you think <3

you're still on your bed, your friends are on it too this time. madeline and fiona , are on either side of you, kneeling on your mattress.

"what do ya mean y're gettin' married ?" madeline looks at you with a crooked smile, she thinks you're messing with her.

fiona is just staring at you with her head tilted

"i mean i am to be wed, betrothed, spoken for,"

"okay stop." fiona puts a hand up , "when did ya decide to do that? i thought ya were waitin' to get swept off yer feet"

you sigh, leaning back and letting the back of your head hit the bed frame "it just ... 'appened..."

madeline and fiona look at eachother before looking at you

"what are ya not tellin' us?"

"yeah , what are ya hidin' ?"

you look at them both, you contemplate telling them. you haven't really spoken about this whole ordeal to anyone , not really. and its been a week and a half already

"i um" your eyes drop to your hands "my parents chose 'im for me"

"yer parents?" fiona asks with a raised brow "and how exactly did they convince ya to do that?"

"its a long story" you wave a dismissive hand

"so ya know who he is?" madeline copies fiona, tilting her head too "do we know 'im as well?"

"i think everyone in birmingham knows 'im" you mutter under your breath

"who the fuck are ya marryin'?the king of england?"

you just stare at them, you lick your lips "ya got to keep yer knickers intact."

they both nod,

"its thomas shelby"

"what?" fiona's face drops , her voice does too.

madeline just snorts a laugh and then then goes quiet and just looks at you, "y're jokin' right?"

you take a deep breath "no , i am not jokin' "

"what do ya mean y're marryin' thomas shelby?" madeline gets closer to you "how?"

"i don't know..." just look back at them, your voice soft too.

"do ya want this?" madeline asks again

"it's complicated really..."

"no its not, ya either do or ya don't" fiona's hands grab yours "do ya not want this?"

you lick your lips, you take a moment to think , howare you going to even phrase this "i do,"

"ya do know who he is right?" madeline stares at you with a confused look "he isn't just any man"

"i know who he is..." you sigh

"then how are ya willing to marry 'im?" fiona never spoke so seriously before

"i 'ave my reasons"

"i hope that they're good enough for ya to put yourself through this" madeline chimes in again

you just close your eyes and let yourself plop back against the mattress, fiona and madeline share another look.

" 'ave you seen 'im?" madeline laid next to you

"yeah" you say with a chuckle , your mind flashing images of him on the sofa.

"is he really a dish?"

madeline smacks fiona on her arm and fiona rubs it with a frown "what! ya were thinkin' that too!"

you roll your eyes, but a small smile plays at your lips "he isn't bad lookin' i suppose."

madeline looks at you with a raised brow

"fine, he's a dish, happy?" you mumble , as if it pained you to admit it

"at least one of us will be fuckin' someone attractive"

"i thought ya liked callum" madeline frowns

"i love ya madeline i do, but callum isn't exactly a sight for the sore eyes"

"when's the weddin'?"

you look at madeline "i dont know , we 'ave yet to speak about that"

"i bet it's gonna be grand , ey?" fiona wiggles her brows

"well if i'm marryin' one of the wealthiest man in birmingham i might as well make at an occasion"

"wait , did you 'ave an engagement party already?" madeline asks, with a gasp and a hand on her chest

"if i did, ya would've been there."

"he has a son , ya know" fiona's voice goes back to its soft tone

you hum and nod "he told me about 'im"

"he did?" madeline asks with a smile

"what did he say?"

"that he wants a wife that can take care of 'im,"

"won't be long till you start poppin' out babies too" fiona mumbles

"whats that supposed to mean?" you ask with a chuckle

"with a husband this good lookin'? i give ya three months, and ya'll have a little one in that belly"

"don't speak that into existence!"

"i mean..." madeline says with a smirk "look at celest, she got pregnant with sarah , what? 4 or 5 months after she got married?"

"please don't open this topic of conversation" you beg as you rub your hand over your face "im stressed as it is."

all the of you turn to look at the door when you hear is open and celest's head peaks in "polly gray is here"

madeline and fiona turn to look at eachother then at you

"why?"

"i don't know but she's waitin' for ya" celest shrugs

"i'll be right there" you get off the bed and open the doors to your closet, looking for something to wear

"polly gray ? she's the shelbys aunt isnt she?"

"what does she want with ya?"

you change your clothes in a hurry, mind racing with possibilities "im not sure" you just mumble as you put on your blouse.

they watch you as you fix your hair and then go downstairs.

"mrs gray" you say with a polite smile as you walk into the living room "to what do i owe the pleasure"

she looks at you with a look thats eerily similar to her nephew's,and you try to not turn and walk back up the stairs

"we 'ave some business to attend to"

"we do?" your brows furrow "at this time?" it was 6 in the evening after all.

"yes"

"okay." you try not to snap your own neck at that response.

you get into her car as she drives, you two sitting in awkward silence "where are we goin' ?"

she glances at you before glancing back at the road and you just don't ask again but then you see your destination, shelby company limited and you think you might just not get out of that car but you do. your heels click against the floor when you walk through the dark halls.

there aren't many people there considering the work day has already ended, but you see a woman. she's young, around your age maybe. and she greets polly, completely ignoring you but you chalk it up to maybe the fact that it's polly gray is standing next to you.

"good evenin' , mrs gray" her voice is almost sickly sweet

"do you know who this is?" she asks her, nodding at you.

she looks you up and down and then shakes her head "nah, i can't say i do."

"she's tommy shelby's fiancé."

"i didn't know he was engaged" her lashes flutter and her lips twitch as she tries to maintain her smile.

"ya do now , don't ya?" polly stares that woman down "an' i hope it doesn't escape yer mind"

you just watch as the color drains out of her face as she excuses herself and scurries back to her work.

"what the fuck was that about?" it escapes your mouth before you even think, polly turns to you "that poor girl"

"in a place like this , ya either put yer fucking foot down and let everyone know what yer place is before they decide for themselves." her voice is stern, its firm and it makes you stand straighter "an' that poor girl wants to fuck yer fiancée"

"what?" your voice is squeaky, its high pitched. "how could you possibly know that?"

"anyone with eyes can fuckin' see that."

"i.." your words die when you look at her and you realize, she's helping you. "why are ya doin' this for me?"

"i know ya might not had the control that ya wanted over who yer husband is" her tone doesn't change when she speaks "so i'll give ya one piece of advice, ya can't marry tommy if ya don't 'ave a backbone. it'll be easier for ya to kill yerself than to live with 'im."

you know polly, but not well. she and your father knew eachother as children , your father is part gypsy himself. you remember meeting her a handful of times as a child but you were always too scared to talk to her for very long.

ironically, your mother didn't like the lifestyle her nephews led, she didn't want her children to be involved in it so you didn't get to see polly much throughout your life.

but you do remember one thing vividly and its her telling you to bite your brother back whenever he bothered you "or ya'll just show 'im that he can treat ya like that for the rest of yer life, ya dont want that now do ya?" . and you did do just that when abraham tugged on your braids a mere 10 minutes later, and polly winked at you , as she sipped her tea and you just stood there smiling proudly even though your mother was yelling at you for making your brother cry.

when you hear another pair of steps walking towards you, you both turn to see tommy. he's in his usual getup sans the jacket, a cigarette hanging from his lip and his glasses are on , his hands in his pocket.

"are ya done terrorizin' my secretary?"

polly just looks at him and walks past him "i'll leave ya two to it then."

and you were left there with him, blinking at that interaction.

"terrorizin' ? thats a bit of an exaggeration"

@tardisloverz , @optimisticsandwichgladiator

#tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfiction #tommy shelby fanfiction #thomas shelby fanfiction #kadwrites

2K notes · View notes

fairysongs · 7 months ago

Text

౨ৎ pretty scary﹕spencer reid .ᐟ

summary: you're having an awful day and your boyfriend is kind of the best person ever.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

includes: reader struggles with bpd, reader has slight mommy issues, reader is referred to with she/her pronouns, depictions of overstimulation (NOT the sexy kind), reader has slight mood swings, established relationship, silly fluff, spencer reid is the perfect boyfriend, hurt/comfort KINDA? (reader is upset, spencer soothes her), lowercase writing sorry it's a habit/my preference, Fiona Apple Mention <3

word count: 3.1k

a/n: omg.. hiiii! this is my first silly post on this silly blog and its a very self-indulgent one as someone who has bpd and is told OFTEN how irritable i can get -_- .. im so nervous.com right now bcos ive never posted my writing on here but also excited..? yes yes.. on a huge spencer reid kick so if u liked this and have any requests they are open!! likes/reblogs/any feedback much appreciated :3!

today was just not your day.

the morning started out fine. it was actually kind of perfect. you spent the night at your boyfriend’s place, waking up just in time to see him getting ready for work. there was a smile that crept over your lips as you watched him adjust the tie hanging around his neck. you propped yourself up against the pillows as he caught your eyes in the mirror adjacent to the bed. your heart swelled at the sight of a small blush spreading across his cheeks.

“why are you staring at me like that, weirdo?” there was a little morning gravel in his voice but his tone was lighthearted enough to make you giggle. you fell back against the pillows, tucking one under your arm as you kept your gaze on him.

“what? i’m not allowed to stare at my boyfriend anymore?” you replied, a yawn falling off your lips. he playfully rolled his eyes in response, walking over to your side of his bed. he sat at the edge, one of his hands brushing some of your hair from your face.

“actually, no. they just passed that law last night while you were sleeping through coraline again.” you bit your lip, vaguely remembering begging spencer to put that movie on only to fall asleep on his shoulder twenty minutes in. you can only assume at some point he carried you from the sofa to his bed. you blushed at the thought, as if he hadn’t done it at least twenty times by now. clearly you weren’t used to the ‘princess treatment’ he liked giving you.

“oh, my fault then. please don’t arrest me, mr. fbi agent.”

“it’s dr. fbi agent, actually.”

“right…” you giggled again, beaming as he smiled down at you. “do you know if you have a case?”

“paperwork day.” his fingers started tracing small shapes against the skin of your arm. “of course if that changes, i’ll let you know. but hopefully it won’t. you can come over again tonight if you want. maybe we’ll finally finish coraline.” his voice was soft, ringing harmonies in your ear as you let your eyes flutter shut in the comfort. “need me to take you to work today?”

you hummed, reaching out to your phone sitting on his bedside table. you quickly rechecked your schedule and shook your head. “no, it’s okay. i go in a little later. it’s close enough to walk.” you tilted your head as you felt him tangle his hand in your hair again. spencer scratched delicately at your scalp.

“okay, my love. i washed the clothes you left here the other day. they should be in the second drawer of my dresser.” you nodded in response as he leaned in to press his lips to your forehead. you caught his jaw in your hands and pulled him downwards, giving him a proper kiss on his lips. he laughed quietly as you both pulled away. “have a good day, angel.”

“you too, baby.”

well to put it simply you did not have a good day. you got ready for your job at a local cafe and made it to work fine. it was when you got there that it started going downhill. you genuinely loved being a barista. you definitely had the personality for it. friendly, outgoing, kind and patient. it’s actually how you met spencer in the first place. but sometimes it was hard. especially with certain needy customers. most of your regulars were chill. you were actually friends with many of them, always asking about the new things in their lives whenever they’d come in. of course, though, there were always a few bad apples.

like this one particular older man. he came in every now and then and ordered the same thing every single time. black decaf coffee with a blueberry scone. he was always in a rather grumpy mood, not even your tender words could help that. so this morning when you gave him a black regular coffee by an honest mistake he made sure to let you know just how stupid and idiotic you were. you stood there at the counter, expression apologetic as he continued to berate you. eventually your boss told you to go in the back for a bit while she took care of things.

you practically ran to the bathroom, locking yourself in the tiny space as you tried to control your breathing. you could already feel the hot tears spilling down your cheeks. you absolutely despised how sensitive you could get. through shaky breaths, you pulled your phone from your back pocket, unlocking it with a small sob. you had a few texts and one missed call from your mother. one of the texts was from spencer, letting you know it was just gonna be a paperwork day and inquiring what you wanted to order for dinner tonight. the other texts were from your mother, reminding you about a family party that was coming up soon. there was another text after her missed call.

- Guess you’re too busy to talk. Just let me know if you can make it.

you closed your eyes, feeling the passive aggressive tone through the message. the best way you could describe your relationship with your mother was that she was both your best friend and your worst critic. she tried to support everything you aspired to do, but also hated the way you did them. it was... complicated but her text was enough to leave you in a sour mood for the remainder of the day.

you felt like you couldn’t catch up. you couldn’t get over that bump setting you back from having a good shift. your head felt like it was elsewhere and no longer attached to your body, your movements becoming monotonous and your words dull. to make things worse, your eighteen year old coworker was coming in for their shift an hour before you were leaving.

and you loved them, you really really did. often times you would joke about them being your work child, taking them under your wing. but they talked. a lot. most days you could keep up no problem but with the way your mind was on a downward spiral today, all you could feel was immense overstimulation as they yapped in your ear about the latest tv show they were binge watching. soon it was all too much for you to handle and you end up snapping at the poor kid.

“dude i’m sorry but i don’t really care. can we just be quiet for, like, five minutes?” you interrupted them mid-sentence, tired eyes looking over with a slight glare. you immediately softened, eyes wide with guilt as they looked towards you like a kicked puppy. you tried your best to stammer out an apology but was met with silent treatment until you clocked out.

they would soon accept your apology in the next coming days and you’d go back to normal because that’s how you guys were, but the guilt would eat at you for quite a bit. when you were a kid, your parents often praised you on how self-sufficient and respectful you were. in your adolescent years, with the help of an untreated personality disorder and your regular teen hormones raging inside your cage of a body, your behaviour would suddenly change. you found yourself more irritable. more prone to overstimulation. you internalized a lot of what you were going through because every time you tried to bring up your feelings, your mother would shut you down and it’d turn into a fight.

you expressed yourself through slammed doors and screaming matches. you bottled things up until they overflowed. it was how you handled the thunderstorms behind your skull. you would eventually get better in time, finally attending therapy and finding solace in little things like journaling. and when you started dating spencer, he helped a lot too. your brain could sometimes make a lot of irrational judgements and spencer would help you see reasoning instead. he was also insanely patient with you. especially in the first two months of you guys dating where you broke up with him upwards of five times. each time because you didn’t believe you deserved him. (you still don’t believe it, but at least now you’ve stopped trying to fight the good coming into your life.)

you would never forget the first time spencer met your parents. the night was going well up until dinner time when your dad decided to pull out your old high school yearbook. at first it was just classic embarrassment as spencer looked at your school photos. but then your mother, after one too many glasses of wine, brought up your old struggles with anger.

“be careful getting on her bad side, spencer!” she had said, waving a finger in the air. “she’s got a scary temper for sure! remember when we had to replace her bathroom mirror because she threw her hairbrush at it?" she spoke like she was a comedian telling her greatest joke in the world as she turned towards your father. "i can’t even remember what made her so upset! but i remember how expensive that fix was…”

“oh i’m sure i’ve dealt with far worse at my job, ma’am. i think i can handle her just fine.” he was quick to reply and the hand pressing on your bouncing knee beneath the table calmed any nerves of him looking at you differently. later that night he’d hold you as you sobbed in his arms, retelling different memories of your past. he made you a promise that he’d never see you as a bad person as long as you promised him you’d talk to him whenever you started to feel like one.

you were finally walking home after this exhausting day and it wasn’t until you were changed into your comfy clothes and curled in bed that you realized you hadn't texted spencer back at all. with your knees pulled to your chest and a low hum of a fiona apple album playing from your record player you reached across your bed for your phone. you had four texts from him and one missed call.

- Hi angel. Haven’t heard from you all day, just checking in. - Hi, you should be clocked out by now. Just wanted to know if you still wanted to come over? We can order from your favorite italian place. - One missed call from spencer ♡. - Are you having a bad day, my love? Or did I do something wrong? - I’m gonna come over. See you soon, angel.

your brows furrowed together at the last text, sent just about ten minutes ago. you could feel your eyes well with frustrated tears. you felt like shit for unintentionally ignoring him. you couldn’t even think of what to say to him, but you had to think fast because soon you heard a gentle knock at your bedroom door. with a sniffle, you stood to your feet and slowly opened it.

you met spencer’s eyes, they were desperately searching your face. trying to figure you out, trying to see what was troubling your mind. you hated it sometimes when he profiled you, but most times you were grateful he could just know when you weren’t doing okay. saved you the shame of having to actually vocalize your feelings. you stepped back as he entered your room.

“your roommate let me in. she said you went straight to your room after work and have been listening to nothing but when the pawn… by fiona apple.” he was still in his work clothes, the same ones you watched him get dressed in just that morning. felt like an eternity ago at this point. before you could even let your face fall to the ground, his hands were holding your jaw, tilting it upwards and keeping it in place. he always held you like you were made of glass. “bad day?”

“you could say that.” you words were short and you didn’t mean for them to be. you were just so exhausted. “sorry i forgot to text you back. it’s just been…” you let your words fall off, waving your hands in the air with an annoyed huff. you pulled away from his touch, slumping back into your mattress. he just watched as you ran your fingers through your hair, eyes shut tight as if you were trying to talk yourself down. he bit his lip, taking a cautious step forward.

“you look like you’re trying to compute a million things at once right now inside that little head.” he shrugged off the sweater draping over his work shirt, tugged off his tie and kicked his shoes off besides your bed. you laughed sarcastically at his words but bit your tongue from replying with a snarky comment. “did you know that one of the brain’s primary functions is to collect and process sensory information? it’s kind of like there’s a little guy in there, sitting at his desk and filing through every bit of information that gets thrown at you throughout the day.” your eyes were still shut but you felt a dip in your bed as his voice grew closer to you.

“when there’s too much sensory input, it can make the brain think there’s danger, sending off signals to the body to escape. that’s when your fight-flight-freeze response gets triggered. aka that little guy’s desk is suddenly on fire and every file has been thrown all over the place and the little guy, well, the little guy is running around screaming for help.” you feel two arms wrap around your waist and maneuver your body until you felt your head resting against the warmness of his chest. soon enough you also felt slender digits running through the locks of your hair.

“you seem to resort to a fight response i’ve noticed. your body feels like you can overpower the danger your brain thinks you’re in. resulting in intense feelings of anger. which can lead to irritability.” you feel him tracing shapes, the same ones he made on your arms earlier that morning, deep into the small of your back. he always did the same movement pattern and you always wondered if that was intentional or just a coincidence. “do you wanna talk about what’s going on in here?” he poked an index finger to the side of your temple. you shook your head. “okay. we don’t have to. but i will ask about it later, is that okay?” you nodded this time.

you didn’t realize it when it was happening, but the combination of spencer pulling you into his arms and his soft voice spewing factual information at you was enough to make your head feel almost empty. your body was melted against his, curled up in his touch. you let out a shaky breath, slowly raising your head, resting your chin on his chest as your eyes opened. “how did you do that?” you whispered, soft hues scanning his face as he just smiled down at you.

“a magician never reveals his secrets, my love.” you rolled your eyes, laughing quietly as his hand lightly brushed your cheek. he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. your lips twitched in thought, a tiny frown suddenly taking over your features. spencer tilted his head. “what is it, baby?”

your eyes fell to focus on his chest, your finger tracing over the fabric of his work shirt. “do you think i’m scary? like… when i get upset?”

“scary?” he repeated, voice in small disbelief that you’d even feel the need to ask. “no, i don’t think you’re scary. i think you’re beautiful. and i think your mind can be pretty mean to you sometimes. but that’s not your fault. hey, look at me please.” you let him guide your head back up, eyes meeting each other again. he smiled at you and it made you feel warm. “why do you think you’re scary?”

your shoulder shrugged with an exasperated sigh. “because it’s what i’ve been told my whole life. when i get too overwhelmed and i just feel nothing but anger i… i feel like i can get mean and i hate feeling that way. like, i always get too snappy and i always say something that’s gonna hurt someone i care about and i…” your breathing hitches. your lashes quickly blink, trying to fight any tears from spilling yet again. “i’m so scared i’m gonna get that way with you and you’re gonna leave me.”

he was shaking his head, thumb swiping underneath your eyes at the few tears that betrayed you and fell down your cheeks. he sighed out your name. “i don’t think you understand just how much i love you. if you think i’d leave you at something so silly like that. you know, i started reading up on borderline personality disorder after that night i met your parents. i wanted to understand it more. i wanted to understand you.” he continued wiping away your tears as they kept falling.

“i can’t even imagine what you go through inside your own head every single day, but i can acknowledge how hard you’re trying to cope with it. i see it all the time. i see it in the kindness you like to spread to strangers. i see it in the way you push yourself to learn new things and the way you stopped beating yourself up if it doesn’t turn out perfect. i see it in the way you love me, and more importantly in the way you’ve allowed yourself to let me love you back. you’re such a beautiful person, my love. it’s okay to have bad days and it’s okay to let yourself be a little mean sometimes.” he laughed quietly, noticing the way your lips were fighting a smile. he leaned in and pressed a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth. “as long as you just communicate with me when you’re feeling bad. that’s all i ask.”

you sat there for a moment, admiring the way his big brown eyes stared at you. your eyes fell for a moment before picking back up with furrowed brows. “i snapped at my coworker today.”

“the teenager?” you nodded. “ah,” spencer’s hand resumed circling around your back as he hummed. “they’ll forgive you, i’m sure of it.” there was a pause and then a small hum coming from his throat. “are you hungry? hm? let’s order some food.”

he ordered you your favorite pasta dish from your favorite italian restaurant and you fell asleep in his arms in the middle of coraline again. he couldn’t help but admire you resting so peacefully in his arms and continued tracing the words ‘i love you’ over and over again into your back for the rest of the night.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #౨ৎ ﹕mazzy’s fics ( s.r x reader. ) .ᐟ #first time i posted this it didnt show in the tags ...#who wants me gone ALREADY.

280 notes · View notes

marvelous-slut · 1 year ago

Text

Call Back Pt. 2 - Chibs Telford x Reader

It took me forever to write this shit cause my new job has me in a thousand different directions. But here she is. Part two!

“Hey baby.” Gemma says as you walk through the door. You smell the hints of bacon, French toast and of course cigarettes through out the house. “You hungry?” She asks, you kick off your shoes and plop down into the chair at the dining room table.

“I would offer help but looks like you’re done. Smells great.” You say, Gemma smiles and sits down the plate of eggs. You grab your cup, filling it with orange juice. Trying to make yourself comfortable in the chair, your legs still aching from last night.

“Don’t worry, you can help when I clean this shit up.” You both chuckle, before long Jax makes his way to the table. He sits down only for a moment to grab some French toast and devours it. He pours himself some milk and drinks it in one setting.

“Someone’s in a rush.” Gemma says, putting eggs onto her plate. Jax looks up, shaking his head. Something has happened with the club, you can tell. You can always tell.

“Fuckin’ short on guys again today. First it’s Bobby saying he’s got shit with the baby mom, then Chibs saying he can’t be there today for the gun meet. Something about he has to stay close incase the wife calls.” You drop your fork, picking it up quickly in an attempt to make the shock your feel less noticeable.

“Fiona?! What is that bitch coming back here for? Hasn’t she fucked his life up enough? Bitch should have decided on that when he was in the hospital.” Gemma asks. Hospital? How did you miss it? You question yourself. You visited him frequently after that bomb went off and you didn’t see his wife? You feel froze in place. How stupid? How stupid could you have been to believe anything that bastard said to you?

“Yep. Apparently it’s about their kid, or working out things. I don’t know I got mixed up on what he told me. I’m just pissed cause we’re two guys short now. Even Tig is more reliable right now and that’s saying a lot.” Jax gives Gemma a kiss on the head and gives you a hug before he heads to the door. Clay had already headed out early in the morning to finish up some things at the club house. You feel your hand around the knife that laid on the table, tapping it up and down. Gemma notices and decides it’s her business too of what’s going on.

“What’s with the knife?” She asks. You pause for a moment, thinking of how to get the frustration out without telling her too much.

“Well, just a hypothetical question, if you’d been seeing a man and found out he was playing you like a fucking fiddle the whole time you’d been fucking him, what would you do?” You ask, holding the knife in place now but not letting up on your grip. She lowers your hand down.

“Well baby, I’d be holding a knife just like that. What’s going on?” You sigh, tossing the knife down. Instantly you know, Gemma knows too.

“It’s nothing, just a th-“ Before you can finish your sentence she blurts out.

“Fuck me! This is about Chibs!” She blurts out. “What the hell, how long has it been going on?” You feel your heart pounding in your chest.

“Look, that’s not important. I’m just pissed, he told me he was done with his wife and now this?” You put your hands into your head, forcing back tears. “How could I be so fucking dumb?” You mutter out, Gemma runs her hand up and down your back.

“Listen, look at me.” She says, you look up to make eye contact with her. “Fuck him. I love Chibs. I do, but that’s a sleaze move and he knows it. The best thing I can tell you, act like you’re unbothered. You go to the club house tonight when everyone’s there, you ignore him.” You sigh, throwing your head back.

“Gem. I don’t even wan-“ She cuts you off before you can finish.

“I don’t give a damn, you’re not gonna lay at your house and sulk over this. You’re gonna get your shit together, put on a good outfit and show his ass you’re not bothered.” You look at her and know she means business. “And I won’t tell Clay if you’re worried about it. I’d like to kick Chibs ass myself right now but I still don’t want the bastard to get killed.” You nod in agreement.

“Now, eat, get your ass home and get the crying out of your system and then get ready. Make sure you wear something that shows the girls too.”

________

As horrible as you felt, you managed to drag yourself to the mirror and look at yourself. Not bad for someone who’d been sobbing for a large part of the day. Once you got to the club house, you saw Jax. He looked much more relaxed than this morning. You turn your head and meet eyes with Chibs, he doesn’t even look upset. You feel the anger flowing through your body. Feeling your fist clinch. You remember what Gemma said - unbothered. You look away and keep heading to the bar. Chibs eyes still watching you as you go. A moment passes as you decide on what to drink. Water is probably the best choice, but the booze would surely help how you feel.

“You look sad.” The young familiar face says as he sits next to you. You turn to him, examining him closer up than you had before. Juice was his name.

“I won’t lie, I am.” He smiles softly, pushing a beer toward you. “But this alcohol is gonna help me not remember that. I hope.” You say, taking a drink of the beer.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, you smile at him shaking your head.

“It’s better I don’t. What’s up with you? Most of you stay 100 feet away from me at all times.” Juice smiles, looking over to see Clay with Gemma. Since Clay had made the comment a few weeks ago to Juice about how the two of you should ‘get to know each other better’ he couldn’t stop thinking about you. Clay admired Juice, he’d always wanted a son. Jax was close enough to it, but he also knew Jax would never feel that way about him.

“Look, I think you’re a pretty girl. I don’t like seeing pretty girls sad.” You hadn’t interacted with Juice much, most time when you were at the club house he wasn’t or he was passed out inside a crow eater.

“Thanks Juice. You’re sweet. I should have known, you’re the least scary looking one here.” He giggles and rolls his eyes.

“What? The tattoos on the side of my head & the mohawk doesn’t scare you?”

You let out a chuckle, it felt good to laugh and enjoy yourself. You run your hand over the side of his head where his tattoos lay.

“No way. They’re real? I always thought it had to be temporaries you kept putting on.” You joke, he laughs softly. Before you can say anything else, you see Chibs standing behind Juice.

“Juicy boy, can I have a minute?” He asks motioning to you. Juice nods his head, silently upset that Chibs interfered with the interaction.

“I’ll see you later?” He asks, you smile and nod your head. Even blowing him a kiss as he walks away. Chibs motions for you to follow him outside. Once the two of you are outside, he’s pacing back and forth.

“What? I don’t give you attention for five minutes and you’re out with the young Buck aye? Makes a lot of sense. You just want a man to keep you occupied.” You laugh, shaking your head. You should walk away, but you don’t.

“You know what? Fuck you! Fuck. You. You’re the one who lied about your wife, you lied about what you wanted with me and your wife. You don’t get the right to drag me out of a party and try to make me feel bad.” You blurt out, surprising yourself that there aren’t tears running down your face. “Maybe next time you’re trying to play both sides with women, you shouldn’t tell the fucking girls step brother about your issues.” Your back is against the wall as he stands over top of you. His hands against the concrete wall.

“It’s complicated-“ He begins to speak, at this point you didn’t need to hear it, you didn’t even want to hear it. He instantly regrets the comments he made, but it was too late to take it back.

“No. No, Chibs it isn’t. You lied. If you wanted your wife back, all you had to do was tell me that. I’m a big girl and can handle the hurt.” You gently shove him away as he tried to get closer to you. “I’ll make it less complicated for you. I’m done with you, I’m done with this. Enjoy getting your family back. You deserve it. I hope your sorry ass goes back to Ireland and you live happily ever after.” You brush past him and head to your car. Despite the pain that ached in your chest you were proud of yourself. Realizing it was time to stop beating a dead horse. Chibs sighs deeply, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Before he lights it, he hears a familiar voice behind him.

“Something you need to tell me Chibby?” He feels his body go cold, turning around to meet the face of both Clay & Jax.

“Aye. Fuck me.” He says, throwing his hands up in the air.

#sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy x reader #chibs telford #chibs telford x reader #chibs x you #chibs telford imagine #chibs x reader #chibs imagine #soa chibs #chibs

448 notes · View notes

osamucide · 21 days ago

Text

⊹ THE FIRST TASTE

LET IT BEGIN, HEAVEN CANNOT WAIT FOREVER . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: ~3.6k

cw: NSFW CONTENT—MDNI (I BLOCK AGELESS+BLANK BLOGS), ada+masc!reader, reader has a tongue piercing, pet names (pretty boy and cutie for u), romantic and sexual tension, established flirtationship->new relationship?, a lil alcohol, making out, oral fixation/finger sucking, oral sex (Dazai receiving), cum eating (Dazai lol), patheticzai makes a spectacle of your shyness even though he can't just ask for what he wants good thing u have telepathy with him /j

reid: trade w my sweet friend @rossithepixie / @selfindulgentpixies who masterminded some beautiful osareid art for me <3 (if u havent seen it yet dw i will be reblogging it a million more times but also check out rossi's work neow cause he's super talented). thank you for trusting me with this rossi—it was such a blast to do a little lovesick dazai desperately chasing ur cute lil self into a corner (i listened to fiona apple's song with the same title a lot while i wrote this—is it obvious? lol). i hope u enjoy so much <3

It’s a cute little habit of yours. Unconscious, he knows, but that makes it no less cute. No less dangerous.

Everyone notices you do it—Atsushi pointed out the jewelry poking from your mouth with awe when he first caught you fidgeting with it (“People can have piercings there? That’s so cool”)—but Osamu highly doubts anyone finds it nearly as charming, as endearing as he himself does. After all, he’s the one consistently wheeling over next to you on his chair to fold his arms under his chin on your desk and admire you unashamedly while you tie a loose end around a sentence in whatever report you’re writing before even thinking about turning your attention to him.

So diligent.

That’s another cute thing about you. You've been a star worker, really, since you started. In the months since you got hired, your reports have been nothing but thorough and on time; even your first steps into fieldwork as a detective have been spotless, practiced, as if you already know this work like the back of your hand. You’re personable yet serious, easygoing and dedicated all at the same time, continually proving your worth as a voice of reason and contribution around the meeting table as well as a supportive, kind, all-around more than pleasant coworker on and off of crime scenes. Not to mention, your ability’s nothing to scoff at.

You’re a true asset to the Armed Detective Agency.

Which is why Kunikida’s glaring Osamu down again, threatening him silently with an HR department that unfortunately doesn’t exist—because, yes, you are for all intents and purposes perfect for this workplace and the blond man will simply not have you driven off by his partner’s insufferable tendencies.

Even Kunikida’s wrath, however, is scarcely known to deter Osamu Dazai, and that is why, when he notices you doing it again—toying with the metal bar through your tongue in an absentminded display of your oh-so-coveted concentration on and application to your task, he scoots himself right over, rowing on his heels, brushing admonishing stares like he might dust off his shoulder and settling next to you, chin in his palm, feet knocking into yours beneath your desk.

As expected, you don’t turn to him immediately. All the better. Gives him a few seconds more to admire you, your parted lips, the glint of the metal and your pretty teeth against the natural light streaming into the office on this lovely day, made all the lovelier by the vision of your adorable expression.

But when you do, it’s melt-worthy.

“Hi, Osamu,” you mumble, turning your eyes to him and tucking your tongue back in to offer him that sweet but aware, workplace-appropriate smile that makes him grin even further. You’d have to be naive not to know he wants to strip you of that professionalism, but you make sure to give him time of day in only the most graceful way when you’re both at the office; for as charming as he is, and for as much as you must shyly admit you find him endearing just the same, you don’t turn a blind eye to his cunning nature.

And like so many things, it’s a bit of a game that he enjoys—seeing what he can do to crack that competence of yours.

But today he’s restless, so he punches low from the jump.

“Hi, pretty boy,” he purrs, gaze searing into you. Signature.

And just like he hopes, your brow raises and you look away, pursing your lips to mask your reaction to his antics. He usually toys with you a little longer before he brandishes the pet name he knows all too well gets your cheeks glowing pink in an instant—and that’s exactly what they do. Your coyness can’t hide that.

“Eager today, are we?” you fill the silence with the lighthearted accusation, busying yourself on your keyboard so as to fight off the squirming you’re sensing will be futile to escape this afternoon.

“Yup.” When he pops the p, he nudges your ankle with his own.

But in your busying, the tip of your tongue flicks out again, and Osamu’s seemingly-aimless display of fluster-inducing attention surges toward its goal, which he’s been contemplating for a few days now, actually: getting you out of this stuffy office (or the all-too public nearby bar you’ve started frequenting with him after hours, strictly as friends it seems—if friends tangle their fingers together after a few cocktails and then don’t make mention of it the next day, anyway) and into his dorm, which he actually tidied up because he calculated with most near-certainty there couldn’t possibly exist a world in which you’d turn down such an invitation. So he hopes, anyway. For as player as he acts, the way you make him feel sows seeds of doubt in him and his usual methods of seduction. You know full well how sincerely captivated he is by you… right? You must. You have to.

“You know,” he continues, “I was wondering…”

Mincing his words is never part of his plans. Unless, of course, it’ll draw a desired outcome closer than being direct will. But now, Osamu finds himself almost hesitating, with no prior inclination to do so; he’s wondering, not thinking, like he seems to do so much when you’re near him, and he doesn't know if you fully realize it, but you might have more control over… whatever this is between you than he does.

You tilt your head, still turned to your screen, as if it begins to occur to you.

“...Drinks at my place?” he spits out—pointedly dropping the “double suicide?” intonation so it’s clear he’s serious—before he can give any more indication that he’s slipping.

When you look to him again, Osamu’s filled the space of his doubt with that low-lidded grin once more.

“Tonight?”

“Tonight? Oh—” You clear your throat in a way that sounds oddly affirmative, as if you’re trying to keep it from bubbling out too soon. You’re so assured in everything else you do around here, so Osamu, ever the contrarian, regains his balance on the premise of your shyness. When you go to confirm, you’ve all but lost your teasing lilt. The flush on your face doesn’t miss him. “Yeah, that’d be nice, Osamu.”

Nice. If he didn’t have an image to upkeep, he’d leap up and fistpump the air like a cartoon character. Perhaps, if he were more in tune with his hand-to-god emotions, he’d crumble to the floor in a ball wondering what the hell he’s getting himself into.

He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t clean his dorm, much less invite romantic prospects over to it. You’re new territory in the way he feels freshly determined not to mess up, so he keeps himself composed behind that smile. “When are you out of here?”

“I can be out of here whenever you’re out of here,” you mumble, your lips pressed into a smirk you won’t let unfurl fully. He wishes you would. He’ll get you to. If he had it his way, he’d whisk you out of here now, clock be damned, and pop open that red dessert wine he picked up specifically for the event in which you would land on his uncomfortable little couch with your tongue lingering in, hopefully, closer proximity to his own. He’s seen you tipsy; you don’t suppress that air of sheepish enthrallment so much when you are, and he’s impatient for it. He needs more of you.

But it’s three in the afternoon, and Kunikida’s abruptly dragging Osamu by the collar of his shirt like a puppy on a leash to roll him back over to his own damn desk, muttering something about how if he had any decency he’d leave you the hell alone and if he wasn’t going to contribute anything of worth to the Agency’s productivity yield, the least he could do was not disturb those who are.

This makes you chuckle fully as you shake your head. Osamu eats it up—and he doesn’t hide it, eyeing you with something most akin to yearning in his gaze. You have such an effortless knack for putting hearts in his eyes in a way he’s not used to.

The rest of his shift dawdles by; as a way to pass the time, Osamu volunteers himself to run out and pick up the Thai takeout for those who will be clocking out later than he hopes he will. Kunikida so graciously (read: reluctantly and irritatedly) let him order on his card, so he claimed it as repayment; really, he needed to get out of his desk chair.

He feels insane watching you play with that piercing of yours, his stack of unfinished reports (or, pre-construction paper planes) serving as no distraction.

He delivers your spring rolls to you with a wink. He eats his pad thai and fools around on his desktop. He watches the sun streak down the window.

He actually considers getting some work done. It’s nearly torture.

He gets up to leave the second the clock strikes eight. If he was bad at focusing on work before, you’ve ruined him.

The implication’s all too clear when you’re stepping into the evening air behind him. You don’t mind—it’s evident in your reserved but knowing smile, the one he so terribly wants to unravel.

His place is threadbare, but cozy. You curl yourself up on one of the two couch cushions while Osamu sets two empty glasses and a bottle on the low table before you—he’s eager, too, for the wine; he’s aching to dispel both your timidity and his anxiety that it feeds. Maybe it’s just that he can’t seem to handle himself positively spiraling over you while you remain enchantingly reticent, quiet in the desire he knows flows between you both. Usually, he’s the one with all the self-control. Tonight he’s counting on you missing the tremble in his fingers as he pours.

“Kunikida’s such a hardass, isn’t he?” he muses while he tucks a glass into your hand and draws himself up onto the couch, facing you, leaving a respectful but still considerably involved distance between you. Your knee almost touches his. “Berating me for something as little as asking such a cutie to come over for drinks. It’d be more criminal not to, I think.”

You chuckle at his dramatics, taking a sip. It’s sweet, red. You remind him, “We are coworkers, Osamu.”

He cocks his head, drinking deeper than you do, with a thoughtful look on his gorgeous face. He hums and reminds you, “We’re not just coworkers.”

Your chuckle becomes a giggle—one less dubious than the short, amused headshakes you save for the office—and with your next question, he knows he’s pulling you in. You’ve been dancing around each other long enough; he’s warm, trying not to overflow when you speak—you finally sound ready to acknowledge what’s been turning him into a mess for you when you hum and press skittishly. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging.

“What else are we then, hm?”

Your bashfulness reads so seamlessly as effortless wooing—he wonders if you’re so purely humble, or actually a mastermind of coquetry. The way you keep yourself veiled, thinly enough to keep him pining for more of you but staunchly too so that he constantly doubts whether the cat or the mouse has the upper hand, turns him to mush—absolute pathetic mush—and he answers a question with a question. You’ve got him going against all sorts of personal philosophy.

“What else do you wanna be?”

The answer gets lost between shifting hands, closing space, conversation and jokes that relax further and further as you both stabilize into one another over the following hour or so. A couple more glasses of wine are poured, drank, tasted—at some point in the blackening night you end up astride his lap in the dim lamplight with your glass in triumphant hand, tucking his hair behind his ear while he cups your face, simpers out another remark that makes you blush and wave him away; Osamu looks at you with something you can only construe through your buzz as pure want. Coming down from laughter that screws your eyes shut—he’s never short on humor, which is one of the things you think you love—love? about him, you say it aloud, tell him you do in fact love that about him and if he was all pure want a moment before, now he’s pure shock.

But he plays it off in his way; you watch the intricate way he takes no more than a half-second to collect himself, just tipsy enough to get snagged on the words love that about you that the half-second seems a feature-length film to you—one you would watch over, over, over again.

Osamu slides four fingers on one side of your jaw, thumb on the other—holding your chin gently but firmly in place so he can bore like fire into you.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, half sincere, half flirtatious. Your gaze scatters momentarily beneath his; you take a second, copy his recovery.

You hesitate before you say, “I think I have some idea,” fully sincere, fully flirtatious. When you pinch your bottom lip between your teeth—not an unconscious habit but an intentional move in this game—he thinks this is what middle school boys must feel like the first time they get close to their crush. It sickens him so sweetly, like he’s swallowed a lump of sugar. He wants more.

Your breath coils around his between your noses, between your mouths. The wine in your glass sloshes and settles.

“Can I tell you what drives me crazy?” he breathes.

You nod like you’ve been waiting lifetimes to know.

He answers not with words but a touch to your lip—a stroke back and forth that leaves you parting for him. He leaves feather-light fingerprints on the sharp of your front teeth, pushing, slowly, forward until the hot muscle in your mouth cradles his thumb and he’s touching that devil-sent piercing of yours, the ball all at once cool and warm as it twirls to evade him.

“This,” he whispers, chasing the metal back and forth. “This drives me crazy.”

You don’t respond with anything but suction, a soft bob of your head like you understand, and a hmm.

Osamu thinks he might implode beneath you.

His attention has hardly ever felt so streamlined as when you search his face, circle his thumb, wet it for him to retract and drag down your chin while you draw your brow together like you miss it—his eyes are all yours, wide and waiting and holding the answers to all the questions drifting around, surrounding both of you.

The kiss is searing as he pulls you into him—or, hardly has to, rather, as your eyes flutter shut and you lean to meet him, five of your fingers matching his grip but on his shoulder while you suffocate that mingled breath so it becomes mingled spit, mingled tongues. He worms himself past your lips, into you—he almost moans when the tip of his own tongue brushes across the jewelry sitting on the pad of your tongue like a pearl in an oyster. He’s finally cracking you open. It makes him smile wickedly into you.

Your arms locking around his neck leave him rolling into you hotly, asking for you with anything but words which escape him again now—so uncharacteristic, but he’s lucky you’re both too entangled to notice, for words aren’t necessary right now; he’s ushering your wine glass out of your hand, setting his, too, onto the table so you can wind your fingers in his hair and tug, prompting the sweetest gasps that you echo back into him while he guides your hips across him. The fervor either of you holds is indistinguishable from the other; you grind, he grips you, the harder he grips you the harder you grind and vice versa until he’s biting down the column of your neck toward absolution.

He mutters your name through an umph; you pick his lips back up the second he goes for air, and he goes for your tongue. When you pull back to observe him, mirroring you in kiss-puffiness and staccato breath, he’s wild between your eyes and your lips.

“That’s all for you,” he tells you when he grabs your wrist and guides you to palm his cock before you hit him with another question for the ages—one that will not receive a verbal answer but a noise from his throat he swears he’s never heard himself make before.

“Wanna feel it?”

God, has he ever wanted anything more in his life? The erection he’s built up just from kissing you, moving you against him, is all the evidence either of you need.

Regardless, Osamu’s nodding fervently, chocolate locks swaying.

So, you take your turn kissing down him until you’re pooled at his feet, between his knees, with devoted fingers undoing the button on his pants; the task at hand, so sweetly and circularly, has your tongue poking out in concentration as you work his waistband down. Osamu twitches at the sight—he doesn’t mean to mutter you’re so fucking adorable but he does, he does. It’s your turn to grin wickedly as you take his cock out, your turn to tease with your thumb on his drooling tip, your turn to explore with your mouth.

You’ve had the reins all this time, really—from the first day you sat at your desk, making that attentive face. He must be the luckiest sucker in the world to have ended up here, with your shining eyes watching him fall apart as your honeyed lips guide him toward sweet devastation.

The first stripe you lick up his underside sends Osamu’s head flying back, jaw falling slack on the end of a breathy “fuck!”

And he feels every stride of your tongue piercing when you wrap your lips around his tip and swirl.

The sounds you draw from Osamu’s open mouth are like song; diligent in this task as you are every other one, it’s hardly a minute before he’s tangling his fingers in your hair, crooning your name between broken praises that come naturally as you hold him, lick him, look up at him with eyes that he thinks could turn him to stone—if only you had been evil, that is, but realistically, you can’t be anything other than an angel.

“Pretty boy, you—”

At that name, you groan. Take him further.

And through how good it feels, he laughs.

“Oh, you like that? Huh?” He could pull you off him if he wanted a response, but you’re too heavenly to interrupt—anyway, he already knows how you feel about pretty boy.

You hum around him—another sensation that sends him reeling with oh, god on his lips.

“That’s it… Feels s’good on me. Unh—yeah, like that…”

Indirectivity and grandeur has always been something Osamu considers himself a professional in—everything you do throws him for a loop and the way you bob up and down does him no favors. He whines in the way he does when he’s already going to finish all too quickly, but the fact that it’s you bringing him to his end—his cute coworker he’s been pining after since your first day on the job, the one that’s inspired such foreign feelings of wonder in his long-gone-cold heart—has him unreservedly bucking his hips into your mouth as you rake your nails down his thighs, ardent in this undertaking, bobbing frantically like all you’ve ever wanted was to have him noisy and messy underneath you like this.

“‘m gonna—oh, fuck!”

But he doesn’t have to tell you; you feel him, spasming on your tongue against the otherworldly friction your jewelry provides—his true downfall, that thing, and the image of you formed around it—you pursue his climax like a predator pursuing prey, pulling away to give him that false sense of security as you rise to your feet, pounce back over him and kiss him so intensely while you handle him, jerk him to orgasm between your bodies; Osamu’s hoarse, aching as he humps the hole you make with your fist and chants yes, yes, yes, please! into your mouth, tasting metal, never wanting it to leave.

He settles into soft panting as you draw your fingers up; he’s beginning to speak— “You’re so—” but you’re cutting him off so he can suck your fingers, taste himself and the way you’ve shattered him so beautifully. And he does, he laps like a man possessed, obsessed with the flavor of himself if only it’s leaving your skin, before you let him continue. “You’re incredible. You and that piercing.”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s true. He’s convinced you’re a dream in every sense of the word—how did he get so lucky, no—how did the earth get so lucky to have you dropped upon it, right here in Yokohama, doing such scandalous things with that godly mouth of yours?

“I try,” you quip with a half-shrug, smiling softly, kissing him just so.

“Do you, now?” Osamu Dazai, who so often loses those good things before he can really grasp them, takes note of another new sensation—unwavering resolve, in the amorous sense—and concludes that if he can help it, this dream will not slip away so quickly. He can’t possibly send you back up to heaven.

He grabs your hips, pulls you onto him.

Everything you are—all hard working, handsome face, sweet disposition, and tongue ring—he’s wanted it for so long; it would be nonsensical, a tragedy, to let the same evening air you stumbled in on steal you away again.

This is a dilemma he doesn’t have a solution to; not immediately.

But he speaks anyway, smirking and toying with the button on your pants, overwhelming your frame to put your back to the cushions—turn you into a mess for him.

“Your turn, pretty boy.”

#dazai smut #bsd smut #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs smut #with love—reid #reid try to write smut without referencing religion challenge (impossible) (failed) (not clickbait)

145 notes · View notes