The Bright Sessions
noise dept.
Keni
Mike Driver
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
No title available
if i look back, i am lost
art blog(derogatory)
YOU ARE THE REASON
Cosmic Funnies
Origami Around
Product Placement
One Nice Bug Per Day
Fieri Frames
Love Begins
ojovivo
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
Cookie Run:Kingdom Official!
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Israel
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Australia
seen from Germany
seen from Philippines
seen from Iraq
seen from Italy
seen from Spain
seen from Türkiye
seen from Australia
@eerieenthusiast
frothing at the mouth because my friend suggested a drunk shakespeare play where every single actor is drunk except for horatio and he has to try to keep the play on track while still having his own part to play
everyone shut up, i need to be alone with this person
I wonder at what age I’ll stop falling in love with celebrities and characters and actually connect with someone real. Anyways, I need to fuck John Logan from off campus in a pretty serious way.
luka the second he hears about the adrienette breakup
maribug they could never make me hate you
think this has to be one of my favourite headlines of anything ever
The best thing about that article is that there gets to be a point where you’re like surely. Surely we can’t get sexier and less-martyr-y than this. And that point is about a 3rd of the way through the piece.
Adding one of my faves not included in the article:
Nicolas Régnier (1591–1667) Saint Sebastian tended by Saint Irène, c.1625,
just saw a pigeon doing the puffed up courtship dance thing to another pigeon, and as he was strutting around he suddenly stopped for a split second to do a very brief preen-peck at his own side, then returned to the strutting around. and i surprised myself by instantly losing respect for the male pigeon in that moment, like come on man i appreciate you had an itch or whatever but how is she supposed to feel special when you're getting distracted by bullshit like that? which on reflection i don't endorse, i mean those are pretty harsh dating norms i'm imposing on these pigeons, from a total outsider perspective, for no reason. probably not all girl pigeons are as uptight about that sort of thing as i would apparently be if i was a girl pigeon, maybe she even found it endearing who knows, i don't know her. it's none of my business really. sorry pigeons.
chaeyoung — 'glow me' jacket shooting behind
chat how do i make logan this mad??
someone turn this into a fic asap!!!!
somethings coming soon ladies…
(source)
I NEED HER
⭑.ᐟ look after you
john logan x reader
summary: girl's night takes a turn after you drink too many vodka crans, and logan takes care of you. fluff, hurt/comfort. requested!
warning: mentions of vomiting/feeling sick.
When you and Logan first started dating, a couple agreements had to be done.
First, you need to tone down the fluff around people. PDA is fine to a limit, and you don’t feel like submitting your friends to very public kisses and more — you have Allie and Dean for that already.
Secondly, you refuse to be one of those couples who can’t do anything without each other. You need time to yourselves, to actually spend time with your friends instead of just orbiting each other all night. Sometimes you two wanna be hip to hip at a hangout, fine, but most times you two go your own way, chat with different people or have your own fun at completely different places, just to reunite by the end of the night and piece together all the talks and gossip you’ve managed to gather, your own little debrief after a party.
Tonight, however, the debrief is compromised after one or three too many vodka cranberries.
“Allieeeeee,” you shout over the booming sound of Malone’s pop girlies playlist, an upbeat song blasting over your heads. You grab your friend by her shoulders, urging Allie to join you, “Dance with me!”
You’re both a little more than tipsy, dancing as Hannah watches from the nearest table, sober and mesmerized by your current lack of self preservation. With your arms going up and your heads banging left and right to the loud beat, it doesn’t take long for the obvious thing to happen, and your eyes widen once you feel a lump in your throat threatening to come out. You quickly disentangle yourself from Allie, running past the bathroom line and pushing people away, a litany of ugly names as you spill your guts into the bowl.
“Oh, babe,” you hear Hannah’s voice behind you, her hand on your shoulders as she kneels to check on you, “You feeling better?”
“Nuh-uh,” you say, your mouth watering as you gag. You feel her fingers quickly wrapping around your hair, pulling it back at the same time as you lurch forward again.
“Okay, you’re good,” Hannah says once you’re done, grabbing a bunch of toilet paper and dabbing it across your mouth and chin, “Time to go, yeah?”
You sniffle, nodding as you murmur your apologies to the girls waiting in line behind you.
Hannah squeezes your shoulder and leads you out the bathroom, making a pitstop to pick up Allie under the watchful eyes of Jules (huh, having them be everywhere really comes handy, you think), then going your way to the car.
“Thank you,” you mutter as she helps you buckle your seatbelt, “You didn’t have to.”
“Of course,” Hannah says, smiling fondly at you, “I’m the designated driver. It’s my duty to take care of my drunken friends.”
“Hey, I’m not drunk,” Allie says, sprawled in the backseat.
“Sure. We’ll discuss that at home, ‘mkay?” Hannah turns the ignition on, face turning to you just slightly as she drives, “You’re sleeping at ours tonight?”
You shake your head, but she intervenes, “I’m not leaving you alone at your dorm after you puked your insides out at the bathroom.”
“Ew,” you hear Allie say, giggling a little though you immediately regret it. Every sudden movement makes you feel ill again. You close your eyes and throw your head back into the headrest,
“No, no— Could you please drop me off at the boys’?”
“Are you sure? Cause I don’t mind watching you,” Hannah says, peeking at the backseat, “Allie’s half asleep already. She’s an easy drunk once she gets sleepy.”
“Not drunk,” Allie intervenes again, muttering her words from tiredness.
“I know,” you answer, “It’s just that—”
You turn your head to the window, a little embarrassed to say it to her face. You love Hannah, and you know she loves you right back, never measuring any efforts to take care of her loved ones and always going beyond her arms’ length to reach out to you, Allie or any of her close friends. But god, you feel awful, and you wanna see Logan. Not because he’ll miraculously heal you, or take care of you better than your Hannah could, but because you miss him. You wanna lay next to him and have your little debrief session with him, even though you can’t fathom speaking more than a few words without feeling sick.
You just wanna be with him right now.
“Just wanna see Logan,” you say, “That’s all.”
You don’t see the way Hannah’s face softens, but she doesn’t ask any more questions, immediately taking a left turn and driving to the boys’ place. She bites back a tease, feeling bad to see your face still squeamish, hands hovering over your stomach as it burns. You could use some comfort, she thinks, and who better than your boyfriend to take care of it— to look after you?
So she drives in silence, moving extra carefully at every turn so you won’t feel carsick, paying attention even if you keep your eyes closed, wandering in and out of that unconscious state only car drives can lure you in, only hearing Hannah’s fingers tapping on the wheel up until she parks right outside the boys’ garage. You barely hear when she opens her car door and jump out, her muffled voice outside the car,
“Hey, did I wake you? No, everything’s fine— Well, actually, could you please get Logan?” You can only assume she’s talking to someone on the phone, since you don’t hear any answers. She goes on, “Hm, she’s not feeling good. She’s fine now, just— Yes, back at Malone’s. Yeah, we’ll stay the night, thanks.”
You don’t see the commotion of Garrett opening the door to help Hannah get Allie out the car, or Logan quickly going down the porch stairs and showing up on the passenger side and opening the door carefully in case you were resting your head on the window. You only stir awake after you feel his hand resting on your cheek,
“Hey,” he whispers, hunching down to follow your confused face, “You okay?”
“Logan,” you try to say through your dry throat, “Hey.”
“Hi, honey,” he chuckles, “How are you feeling?”
“Thirsty,” you say in your ragged voice, “And tired. So tired.”
“I’ll get you some water once we’re inside, yeah?” His hand finds your upper back, pulling you forward so he can wrap his arms around your waist, “Need help?”
You shake your head, but Logan has to catch you as soon as you try stepping out of the car, your knees buckling in the process. “You’re good, baby. You know what? C’mere.”
Logan drops to catch your legs on his arms, suddenly raising you up from the floor and biting back a laugh as you yelp, your arms quickly wrapping around his neck.
“Sorry—” He says, “Should’ve warned first. You good?”
You nod, dropping your head on his shoulder and feeling the way his body trembles with a chuckle, shutting the car door as he turns to walk back inside.
Logan carries you upstairs to his room, sitting you down on the corner of his bed and grabbing you a glass of water. You watch as he rummages through his drawers, picking up some clean clothes. He turns back to you, hands on the hems of your top, “Gonna take it off now, yeah? Wanna take a shower?”
You wish you could say no, because you’re so goddamn tired and his bed looks really, really comfy in comparison to the leather seats from Garrett’s car, but you can’t ignore the memory of having your arms thrown over the toilet on Malone’s and the bitter taste of bile in your mouth.
“Would you help me?” you murmur, embarrassment taking over for a second. Logan grins at you, fondness all over his face. Of course, he wants to say, always. He nods instead, not bringing too much attention to the way you avert your eyes from his.
You both tiptoe to the bathroom not to wake anyone, and Logan twists the faucet, letting the bathtub fill with warm water as he helps undressing you. You sit in the tub, legs bent up and your forehead resting on your kneecap as he gently scrubs your back and shoulders, then your arms and neck. You take the brush from his hands to wash your legs and stomach, and he uses his hands to cup some water and take the foam off of you, a quick kiss pressed on your naked shoulder once he’s done with it. He wraps you in a towel and hands you a toothbrush you keep in his closet,
“Do it gently,” he says as you brush your teeth, “Don’t make yourself gag or it’ll hurt your stomach again.”
You move slowly, balance still a bit off. He helps you dress up in one of his old hockey shirts when you walk back to his room, then tucks you under the covers, turning the lights off and laying down next to you.
“Better?” He whispers, his minty breath tickling your face, making your lips quirk up into a tiny smile.
“Hm, much better,” you whisper back, your fingers moving to touch his face, thumb going left and right over his cheekbone, “I ruined our debrief session.”
Logan lets out an unexpected chuckle, “We can do it over breakfast in the morning.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s not like I have much to tell you about our boring night in.”
“You always find something to tell me,” you say, jabbing his upper arm, “You overanalyse the shit out of everything the boys say.”
“They’re interesting,” Logan says, a quiet laugh as he shrugs, “Have you ever talked to Tuck? You never know what he’s gonna say next. Amazing things happening in that brain, I’ll tell you that.” You chuckle, your eyes fluttering closed as your face nuzzles onto his pillow. You wrap your arm around his torso, pulling him a bit closer, “Thank you.” For taking care of me, you leave unsaid, for looking after me, for cleaning me up, for everything, really.
Logan presses his nose on the curve of your neck, the smell of his soapwash mixed up with your shampoo so comforting as he rests his head right next to yours, “Anytime, baby.”
notes: thank you for reading! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
john logan masterlist
maybe i'm just overly horny
Zendaya | The Odyssey | New York Premiere ♡
𝓢peaking 𝔀ith 𝔂our 𝓶outh 𝓯ull
꒰ঌ࿐𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓕em! 𝓡eader x 𝓙ohn 𝓛ogan
꒰ঌ࿐𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓫 Logan catches you watching his biceps during his late night workout
꒰ঌ࿐𝓼𝓶𝓾𝓽 ✓
꒰ঌ࿐𝔀𝓬 1,4k
The first thing Logan said when he caught you staring was not even a word.
It was a laugh.
Low. Breathless. Almost mean.
He was on the floor by the foot of the bed, shirt off, sweat running down the centre of his chest, fists planted against the hardwood because apparently regular push-ups were too gentle for whatever stupid hockey-boy conditioning routine he’d decided to put himself through at eleven at night.
Knuckle push-ups.
Because of course.
Because John Logan couldn’t just be hot in a normal, manageable way. No, he had to drop low with his back flexing, shoulders wide, forearms corded, biceps tightening every time he lowered himself until his nose nearly brushed the floor. He had to breathe through it, slow and controlled, jaw set like it didn’t cost him anything.
And you, idiot that you were, had forgotten to pretend you were reading.
Your book was open in your lap. Upside down because nuance and subtlety were flung out the window around the time when his shirt also was tugged off.
Logan noticed on rep thirty-two.
His eyes flicked up first, then his mouth curved, “really?”
You blinked, “what?”
He pushed up again, arms locking, knuckles white against the floor, “book’s upside down.”
You looked down, “shit.”
He laughed, dropped once more, then held himself there, body hovering inches above the floor, biceps full and tense and completely unfair, “You staring at me?”
“No.”
He pushed back up, his breath barely affected- only slightly deeper, more controlled in sharp puffs. His smirk when he returned to his starting position could only be described as horribly cocky, “liar.”
“I was thinking.”
“About my arms?”
You shut the book.
Logan’s grin got worse.
That was twenty minutes ago.
Now your back was on the mattress, your thighs over his shoulders, and Logan’s arms were locked around your legs like he was proving a point with his entire body, “You wanted to stare?” he murmured against your inner thigh, “Stare.”
You could not. That was the problem. Your head was tipped back, one hand twisted in the sheets, the other locked in his hair while his mouth moved over you like he had all night and no intention of letting you survive it. His biceps pressed hard against the backs of your thighs, flexing every time you squirmed, every time his grip tightened to drag you back down to him.
“Logan,” you breathed.
He hummed. The vibration hit your clit and made your hips jerk.
His hand slid up, palm flattening low on your stomach, “stay.”
“Can’t.”
“Mhm,” another slow lick, “you can.”
Your thighs shook around his head.
He loved it. You could tell he loved it by the way he smiled against you, by the way his fingers dug into your skin, by the way he kept making these low, pleased sounds that blurred into you more than words, “Mmm. There?” he asked, mouth still wet against you.
You nodded too fast.
His hand smacked lightly against your hip, “words.”
“Yes.”
He kissed your clit, soft enough to be cruel, “yes, what?”
You tried to glare down at him, but his mouth opened over you again before you could form anything coherent, tongue dragging slow and flat, and the glare dissolved somewhere pathetic, “yes, there.”
His eyes flicked up, “Good girl.”
Your whole body clenched.
He felt it, “yeah?” his voice was rough now, a little wrecked around the edges, "you like that?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed against you.
You nearly came from that alone.
“Mean,” he murmured, “for someone who was looking at my arms like she wanted to bite me.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” He shifted one arm higher, bicep bunching beside your thigh as he pressed you open with his shoulder, “you were sitting there all quiet, squeezing your legs together.”
Your face went hot, “logan.”
“What?” He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, “you think I don’t notice?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair, “please.”
That did something to him.
His mouth stopped teasing. The next lick was firmer, slower, right where you needed him, and your breath broke into a soft, useless sound.
“There she is,” he said.
“Lo.”
“Mhm?”
“More.”
He groaned like the word hurt him. Then his arm shifted from your thigh, hand dragging down, two fingers pressing against you, slicking through the mess his mouth had made. He circled once, twice, watching your face the entire time.
“You’re soaked.”
You whimpered. His fingers pressed in slow, your back arched.
“Fuck.”
He smiled, but it was not smug anymore. It was hungry. Blown out. Like he had started this to tease you and ended up ruining himself with it too.
“That’s it,” he murmured, “take ’em.”
Your hand flew from his hair to his bicep, nails digging into the hard muscle there as his fingers curled inside you, “oh-”
He made another sound, almost a growl, and buried his mouth against you again.
It was filthy.
Wet.
Loud.
His tongue worked your clit while his fingers fucked into you, steady and deep, and you clung to his arm like it was the only thing keeping you anchored. The muscle flexed under your hand with every movement, hot and solid and so absurdly strong that your brain, already useless, managed only one thought.
Bite.
You did, mouth against the thick curve of his bicep, teeth sinking in lightly because you could not help yourself.
Logan froze.
For half a second, everything stopped. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.
His mouth was wet. Chin shiny. Eyes dark enough to be dangerous, “did you just bite me?”
You released him slowly, “maybe.”
He stared. Then he laughed, low and disbelieving, and the sound made your stomach drop, “you’re fucking unbelievable.”
“You said I wanted to.”
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
Something snapped in his face.
Pure, awful heat.
His fingers curled harder inside you, and your mouth fell open, “you wanna bite?” he said, voice low, “fine. Bite.”
“Logan-”
He pushed his arm closer to your mouth and lowered his head again, “go on.”
Your thighs trembled around his shoulders.
His mouth touched you, “bite me while I make you come.”
The sound that left you was embarrassing. He hummed like he liked it and went back down, you bit him again when he did, harder this time.
His groan vibrated straight through your clit.
“Oh my God.”
“Mm?” he hummed, still working you open on his fingers, “that good?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, yes, f- Logan.”
Your hand locked around his arm, mouth pressed to his skin, teeth scraping every time his fingers hit that place inside you that made the room tilt. He kept his pace brutal and perfect, tongue circling, sucking, flicking, then flattening again when your hips started to buck.
You were babbling now.
Not words, not properly.
Just little sounds and broken pieces.
“Lo- yes- there, there, please-”
He pulled his mouth away for one breath, “for me?”
You nodded frantically.
His fingers stopped.
You nearly sobbed.
“Say it.”
Your eyes opened, wet and furious, “for you.”
His face softened for one second.
Just one.
Then his mouth was back on you, and he curled his fingers again, and you were gone.
Your orgasm hit hard, messy, thighs clamping around his head, teeth pressing into his bicep as you came with a muffled cry against his skin. Logan held you through it, arm flexed under your mouth, fingers still moving in slow, dragging strokes while his tongue worked you until you were shaking too hard to keep biting.
“Lo,” you gasped,” too much.”
He stopped instantly. Pulled back.
Pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then another, softer, right beside the first.
Your chest heaved. He crawled up your body like he had all the time in the world, mouth wet, hair wrecked from your fingers, a faint red mark blooming on his bicep where your teeth had been.
You stared at it.
He caught you, “seriously?” he said, breathless.
You reached for his arm again.
He caught your wrist and pinned it gently to the pillow beside your head, “no.”
You blinked up at him, “no?”
“You’re cut off.”
“But-”
“You bit me while I was eating you out.”
“You told me to.”
“I know,” His mouth brushed yours, and you tasted yourself on him, “that’s why I’m hard enough to die.”
Your gaze dropped.
He laughed into your mouth, “yeah,” he muttered, “now you notice.”
You lifted your hips against him, and his laugh broke into a groan.
“Baby.”
“Mhm?”“Don’t start unless you want me to finish.”
You smiled, still dazed, still clinging to his wrist. Then you turned your face and kissed the inside of his bicep.
Logan closed his eyes, “fuck me,” he breathed.
You grinned against his skin, “thought you’d never ask.”
WHY YESSSS I LOVE TO MHNCH
how did i JUST find this oml
I NEED HIM SO SO BAD. HE'S A NEED.
summer fruit
pairing ! john logan x fem!reader
summary ! one august day you notice a man in a mechanic's workshop. from then on, an insatiable desire takes over.
warnings ! mdni/18+ - minors DO NOT interact, highly suggestive/bordering explicit content, no use of y/n, reader is a totally deranged freak, both are possessive, smoking and alcohol consumption, potentially self-indulgent, read at your own risk
authors note ! inspired by my friend's desire to lick the sweat off of him. not sure if this is anyone's cup of tea, but i guess it's mine *wink*
wc ! 6.9k (not a joke)
Late august spreads through you like an infection. The hot rays of the sun beating down on your head, fuzzing the lines of your vision, seeping into every pore until dampness formed in the creases of your clothes. It was a sticky, sweaty, messy kind of heat – a constant distraction as you tried to keep cool and clean.
‘They’re washed,’ Allie said as she handed you a ripe plum. The fruit was heavy in your hand, silky and delicate against your clammy palm. You held onto the fruit, arm swinging as you followed Allie down the sidewalk.
‘What did you do exactly?’ you asked her as she bit into her plum.
‘Well, I didn’t do anything,’ she insisted, mouth full of yellow flesh, ‘but the tail light’s totally shattered, and my tire needed replacing. Some other mechanical work, I don’t know,’ she swallowed, and went in for another sticky bite.
‘And it’s ready to go again, just like that?’
‘I got the special friends-and-family treatment. Dean begged for it to be done on my behalf. I guess it helps to have friends in high places’
‘I thought you were dating him?’ you waited at the crosslight, looking across at the mechanic garage, its red door gaping open like the jaws of a shark.
‘No silly – right, you haven’t met everyone yet. Dean’s housemate, he’s the friend,’ she scurried into the open garage, spotting her red convertible with a pair of legs stuck out from the underside. ‘Logan! Is she fixed yet? I need to pick up Hannah from across town in, like, 10 minutes!’
Your hand tensed around the red fruit still in your hand, unpierced by your dry, chapped lips. From under the car, Logan slid out with a wrench in hand.
John Logan.
You knew three things about him for sure. He was on the hockey team for the university. He was friends with Garret Graham, and evidently, Allie’s boyfriend, Dean. And, he had patches of black grease all over him.
Allie was chattering about her car, munching on the last of her plum, while Logan tried to get a word in edgewise. You leaned against the pedestrian traffic light, as it flipped from red to green. Logan was up from the floor, pointing Allie to the back of her car. He was wearing a white tank top, the hems of which were covered in inky black stains. He tucked the wrench into his toolbelt, lopsided on his waist, and as he combed a hand through his hair, you saw the damp parts of the shirt sticking to his skin. The plum hung heavy in your hand as your raised it to your lips, breathing in the scent of the reddish-purple skin.
You could smell the faint floral notes, the cold of the supermarket air conditioning, the pesticide spray mostly washed away with tap water. Logan was stretching his arms over his shoulders, the tank lifted up from its place under the toolbelt. He opened the trunk, he tightened the bolts of the tire. He swiped his hand through his hair again. Grease was smudged on his forehead. You bit into the plum.
It was a hard, large bite, you almost choked as you closed your lips around it. You started to chew, slowly, pulling the broken fruit away from your face. Horror struck for a moment — the flesh in this one was red.
Blood plum. It was a fitting name, it really did look like a bloody, gory mess in there. The bite marks give the fruit a violent edge, the flesh inside like a fresh cut from a butcher’s shop. The juice was dripping down your arm, veins of red tickling your skin, staining your chin and shirt. The hot, midday sun dried the trails of juice, gluing them onto you in a sticky spill. You indulged the plum again, digging your nose into it this time.
Logan sauntered over to the front door of the car, opened it, and Allie slid into the driver’s seat. She adjusted her rearview mirror, and Logan smiled while he patted the hood firmly, waving her goodbye. She carefully pulled out of the garage, and U-turned to my side of the street.
‘What the fuck happened to you?’ she asked, pulling her sunglasses lower down her nose to look at your red-painted face.
‘Blood plum,’ you grinned, red bits probably stuck between your teeth.
‘I’ve got wet wipes in the glove compartment,’ she sighed pushing open the passenger door. You polished off the last of the fruit that was clinging to the pit, and then tossed it onto the curb and plopped down into the seat. You checked yourself out in the rearview; you looked like your had been punched in the face by a Mac lipstick. You wiped your face on the inside collar of your shirt.
‘I’ll just change at home. This shirt is soaked through anyway.’ ————————————————————————
Malone’s was as busy as usual. University crowd, sticky tables, the cold, blue lights burning into your eyes when you looked at them too long. It was the place to be on a Friday night a few weeks before the semester rolled in; Hannah and Allie had taken off their shifts for the evening to celebrate the start of a new year. Celebrate, that is, with a large portion of hockey players getting shitfaced on 80% sugar syrup cocktails.
You had met the girls right at the end of the last year, and had spent the summer getting to know them, and consequentially, their hockey-jock boyfriends. Though you were intimidated by their eager online fanbase, and their seemingly perpetual hungover state, the guys were really sweet on Hannah and Allie. You were suddenly getting waves in the gym, and dropping in to the rink to pick up the girls for an evening. You were also spending every other night in Malone’s, drinking a wiper-fluid coloured cocktail.
It was already late when the others arrived. When Beau, Tucker, and Logan walked through the door, the whole room felt like a symphony of bro-ey cheers. This was the first time everyone was back, and free, from their summer trips and jobs. This was the first time that you were actually meeting the other players.
‘Come meet everyone,’ Hannah pulled you over, and introduced you to the others.
Beau was friendly, and spent rest of the evening trying to plan a proper start-of-school house party with Dean. Tucker was gentle, charming, and showed you a lot of pictures of his trips to Italy over the summer.
And then there was Logan. Polite, attentive, grease-free Logan.
‘I’m sorry that you’ve been dealing with them all summer,’ he said, eyeing Dean and Garrett as they poured shots for the table.
‘I was thinking about a restraining order, but I’m pawning off of Dean’s gym membership, so,’ you chuckled, downing the shot in one, slick gulp. It flamed inside your throat, you bit your lip.
‘Oh, I see, so you’re a parasite,’ he joked, taking his own shot with no recoil.
‘It’s his payment for making me drink that blue drink,’
‘That’s actually a Hannah special. You should start getting her to pay for your music streaming.’ You gave a sarcastic ‘ahhhhhh, right’ back at him, and he winked when you thanked him for the advice.
Allie stumbled over, tipsy-bordering-on-drunk, and slammed her arms down on the table. As you leaned forward to grab her hands, your skin dragged on the sticky surface.
‘Don’t let him charm you too much,’ she sloshed a drink into her mouth, swallowing loudly. ‘He’s a menace under that smirk.’
Logan smiled, and made some offside remark about drunk-driving to Allie. But that was all in the background, because as he leaned forward to talk, soft-spoken as he was, his chest leaned closer to your shoulder. You froze, arms glued to the table space between the emptied glasses. You could smell his cologne, some woody thing, and a smoky note on his jacket; and the faintest, lightest touch of gasoline. The scent was forcing its way into you, curling its tendrils into you nose, past your lips, you could feel it tickling the hairs on your forehead. You felt sick, you felt your thighs sticking to the cheap pleather on the stool, you felt heat rising up your neck and pulled your hair to the side. You felt the trickle of the red plum juice down your chin, down your arms, your stomach and your legs. Your felt feverish and sweaty, you felt a pooling sensation between your legs—
‘I’ll be right back,’ you shot up, ripping your legs off of the seat, and heading to the bathroom.
In the stalls, the porcelain toilet seat iced you off, like a cold shower after tanning on the beach. You pulled down your underwear, pleading to the empty stalls, alcohol firing again in your throat. A patch of blood stained the middle of your underwear. Fucking fantastic. You sent Hannah a text, asking to borrow a tampon, and sat waiting while drops of blood fell out of you. You stared at the stain, you could smell the plum. You tasted the sweetness of it, and then it was all bitter in your mouth. It was all salty, and then burning, like a shot of tequila. You felt a fever rising to your head, and the phantom smell of gasoline and WD-40. You palms were sweaty, arms sticky, your hair was tangling in your fingers. Hannah burst into the bathroom and passed you the tampon over the stall door.
‘Everything ok?’ she slurred.
You popped the cotton in, and shook out your hair. ‘Yeah, it’s just so hot in there.’
————————————————————————
You came out of the bathroom and were pulled by two flailing arms (Allie’s) onto the dancefloor. The music blared, the lights glittered above your head, and you tried to ease into the groove of Hannah and Allie’s drunken sways. You were too sober for this…
‘I need another drink,’ you stumbled out of their grip and towards to bar. You could see your small, distorted figure reflected in the bottles behind it. ‘One wiper fluid please.’
The bartender laughed, knowing all too well Hannah’s recipe for poison. You took the drink, a melted blue-raspberry, onto the dancefloor. As the girls cheered you back on, you began to loosely swing your hips, turning your head back and forth as you lip synced to the Top 40 hits.
And as you politely held the glass up to take a sip, you saw Logan watching out of the corner of your eye. You looked right back, over the rim of the lipstick-printed glass. Am I bleeding out? But, as you tentatively opened your lip to the bright blue liquid, he raised one of his his dark brows.
You gulped down the whole drink in one go, let out a long exhale, and he nodded before getting distracted by Beau and Dean’s stupor.
‘What the hell is in that stuff, Hannah?’ you wiped your lip on your sleeve, feeling the sugary, synthetic liquid spill down into your stomach.
‘Just a whole lotta fuuunnnnnnn~’ she giggled, pulling you into the center of the floor.
You danced for what felt like hours, every minute the lights got fuzzier and suddenly you knew all the lyrics to every song that played. You twisted yourself and shoved up between bodies as you jumped, feeling the sloshing of the alcohol in your gut, and the stickiness of the floor clinging to your shoes like gum. And when the sweat on your skin was mixed with every soul pressed up against you, it was like bloody plum juice had rained down from the industrial ceiling.
Dean and Garrett had their hands all over Allie and Hannah, and it was entertaining for a moment. A live show, but these were your friends and as the wiper fluid settled into your bloodstream, you tripped off of the dance floor. ‘Imgonnagetsoemfreshair…’ you called back to the stamping floor.
The door swung open as you plunged into it, and the fresh, summer night air made your skin prickle with goosebumps. You breathed it in, hauling yourself upright, focusing on the streetlamp. It was so refreshing, the whispering of the trees, the quiet buzz of the lamp…
The smell of tobacco poking into your nostrils. You snapped out of it and looked to the corner of the building, where Logan was standing. Smoking a cigarette.
‘You know that shit is so bad for you,’ you called, hugging your exposed arms around your chest.
‘Yeah they suck,’ he smiled, blowing out a puff of silvery fumes, ‘you want one?’
You traipsed over to his extended arm, pulling one of the white sticks out of the box. You leaned into his hand as he lit it, dangling from your lips.
The tobacco was dusty blowing into your lungs. Its bitter taste sharp against the sour, blue leftovers on your tongue. You held it for a moment, and watched Logan take another drag. Hissing his teeth as the smoke blew out, you wondered how they were still so white. The bitter taste started to melt into your mouth like a soft candy, you almost forgot to exhale. It just tasted…so good. Like a plum.
‘Didn’t know you smoked,’ he lilted, as you slowly released the fumes from your nose. You wanted to keep it all in your mouth, you didn’t want anything to escape by talking. But you did, you were being normal.
‘Only socially, or when I can blackmail an athlete into giving me freebies,’ you leaned against the wall, the lamplight beating down like an August sun.
‘Good luck finding one of them. I hear all these hockey guys are real well-behaved.’
You chuckled, digging your fingernails into your bicep at the obnoxious innuendo. Was it the alcohol, or did he do it on purpose? You felt the bricks on your back scratch and you hoped it would make you bleed.
‘Why haven’t we met before?’ he asked, crushing the cigarette bud under his boot.
‘I only met the girls in May,’ you said, dragging another long breath, ‘and I was working most days at the fancy breakfast place downtown.’
‘The one southside?’
‘The one and only.’
‘Damn, that place is fancy. It’s right next to–’
‘Yeah, your mechanic shop,’ you cut off, trying to lick the smoke from your lips.
Wait. FUCK.
A moment of silence passed as you choked on the smoke infecting your lungs. Tears pricked in your eyes. Was the wiper fluid coming back up?
‘Actually, it’s my Dad’s place,’ he answered.
You cleared your throat, dropping the bud to the ground. Logan pressed it down with his boot before you could. You stood straighter on the brick wall, scratching your back with the roughness.
‘Must be tough, working there and practicing,’ you said, feeling the air get colder as he stepped in front of you.
‘It is, but I’m a great multitasker,’ he pulled his hands out of the pockets of his Carhartt jacket.
You felt your stomach lurch. You held down the cocktail, slamming it into place with a grip on your abdomen. You felt dampness between your legs. You had to change the tampon again. The air was freezing suddenly and your arms could not cover enough of your skin.
He leaned over you, blocking the lamplight partially, looking down at your white knuckles. ‘How did you know I work at the mechanic?’ he whispered.
‘I was with Allie today,’ your shoulders tensed, and relaxed as you backed into the wall.
‘You should have come in with her.’ You realised, suddenly, a warmth spreading over your body. And the smell, was it from him, or somewhere else, of gasoline burning, and cigarette smoke, and oil, and wood like cedar, and sweat and—
He had put the jacket over you, pulling the front to cover your goosebumped chest.
‘Why were you watching me in there?’ You nodded to the neon Malone’s sign, swinging in the breeze.
He was silent, now clearing his throat, and biting his lower lip. ‘You were getting drunk. Everyone was drunk. And I’m going to practice tomorrow morning, but there are a lot of people in that bar. And the guys are great, but not all the guys in there–’ he tilted his head to the sign ‘–are so great.’
‘I don’t need you to watch out for me,’ you bit back. The gang stumbled out of Malone’s, laughing and galavanting as Logan stood back from you. They were coming over.
‘I know. But I think you like it.’
————————————————————————
Alcohol always woke you up absurdly early. The sun was supposed to be rising by now, 5am, but it seemed dark outside. Then you heard the thunder, and saw the rain trickle, drizzle, drop, then pour.
Your bedsheets were strewn to the side, a strand of hair stuck to your lips. Your hand rested beside your head, your ring and middle finger crusted in dried blood. It was dark under your nails, a massacred french manicure. You watched the rain, turning your head to the side. Your room had no A/C, only a fan in the corner that was working overtime. Your sheets were cool and damp beneath you, and your nose was close enough to your hand to smell the sour, bloody stench. You brought them closer, right up under your nose, to the cupid’s bow of your upper lip.
I think you like it.
The stormed raged on. The fan whirred. Your stomach grumbled and your eyes were wide awake. You stared in the dark at the posters of popstars and football players, of fashion magazines and postcards. You could see his face everywhere, distorted. That’s not him, but you wished it was, staring back. You could still taste the tobacco behind your teeth. It was so hot in your room. Fuck this.
You jumped out of bed, and felt like you left a trail of bloody footsteps no matter have sneakily you tiptoed. And opening the back door, you threw yourself out into the rain.
It shattered down like broken glass, piercing your feverish skin with its antidotal cold. The contrast woke you up in a flash, lighting flickered above. Your pajamas – underwear, really – soaked onto your body, a sopping second skin as you dragged your dirtied hands through your hair. You hadn’t even put on shoes, just stood there with your toes gripping into the lawn, mud pulling you into the earth.
You knelt there, knees sinking below the grass, and craned your neck back to storm. Were you asking for forgiveness, or just wanted to feel the water run down your face? Your hands dug into the lawn, ripping up the grasses, blood replaced with soil under your nails. You spread the mud on your thighs, eyes closed, trying to think of anything, anything, but Logan’s stupid fucking grin.
I think you like it, the rain spat back at you. You opened your mouth and the water tasted like red fruits. I hate that I do.
It was still so impossibly hot, humid, and swampy in the morning rain – today was going to be boiling. These summer storms were intense, but short lived. They came back and forth in waves all evening, polishing off the sidewalk from the sweat of the people. You crawled back into the house, not waking your housemates, and stepped into the shower. The window was open, the humidity had gotten inside. You put it on hot anyway.
————————————————————————
‘They said they’ve already got meats from the deli, so just bring dessert,’ Allie instructed over the phone. You were going to the hockey house for a barbecue later. In this heat.
‘Should we make a pie then?’ Hannah spoke into my hand, holding up the speaker.
‘It’s like a billion degrees, you wanna bake in this weather?’ Allie called over.
‘Fine. Ice cream it is then. See ya,’ Hannah picked up a shopping basket and linked her arm with yours.
‘Bye Allie,’ you clicked the phone off, pointing towards the frozen section. You passed by the produce, choosing a few punnets of fruit. Plums were half off. So were cherries.
‘Do you know who’s gonna be there?’ you piped up, watching as Hannah scanned the freezer.
‘Same people as last week, plus a few of the puck bunnies, Jules, Kendall…’ she picked out a large tub of vanilla and a box popsicles. ‘Why? Anyone you don’t like?’
‘No, no, everyone’s great,’ Better than great, actually. ‘Just curious.’ You still had his jacket in your room, draped over your pillow. It had been a week, and you still had it. You walked with Hannah to the checkout, spotting the packs behind the cashier. ‘One of these, please,’ you pointed to a red and white box.
‘Woah, what, you smoke?’ Hannah said, packing the groceries into a paper bag.
‘Ohhhh, no, they’re for my, uh, housemate. She’s got terrible habits. I owe her though.’
————————————————————————
The drinks table was already trashed with liquor bottles, but you poured yourself plain cola. you had painted you nails red that afternoon, and they camouflaged the Red Solo you were holding. You tapped them against the plastic to the rhythm on the music blasting out of the house.
It was already 7pm, but the sun was still high, and the backyard felt like a sauna when you stood near the grill. Tucker was meticulously turning the red meats, and shouted at Dean when he tossed on a dozen more behind his back. You dropped down onto a picnic blanket, with a blonde, new face.
‘Don’t think we’ve met yet,’ they held out their pale hand, ‘I’m Jules. Logan’s sibling.’
You nearly sprayed the soda out of your nose. You felt the bubbles rise up, and snorted them back down to your gullet. ‘Oh right, yeah, Hannah told me about you!’ Overly cheerful. Get a grip. You held the cup tighter, denting the side with your thumb.
‘Yeah, she mentioned. You’re the one working at the fancy new place, right?’
‘That’s me,’
‘Logan said you’ve been to our Dad’s place,’ Jules offered you come cherries from one of the punnets you bought.
‘I mean, I’ve seen it. I didn’t know you guys worked there,’ you popped a cherry into your mouth, tugging the steam and tossing it into the grass.
‘Oh, I don’t work there. I hate getting all that grease in my hair,’ they laughed, spitting out a cherry pit. ‘Logan doesn’t seem to mind, though.’
Don’t remind me. You followed Jules’ gaze to the other side of the yard, where Logan was fumbling with the charcoal under the grill. The waves of heat rolled over his face, shimmering as he focused on the black exhaust. Tucker kept berating him for being in the way, and all he answered with was a steady ‘mhm.’
You sucked the pit between your teeth, unable to pull off all of the red flesh. You spit it into your fingers, and tossed it behind you into the bushes. Your fingers were red, soaked in cherry juice. You went for another one, and bit it in half, watching the redness spread on your fingertips.
‘Has he always done that? Worked and played for Briar?’ you asked, stuffing the rest of the fruit in you mouth.
‘Yeah, well, Dad doesn’t let him off the hook. I try to get him to quit so he can actually have time to relax,’ Jules sat back, and you both stared at Logan fiddle with the grill some more. ‘He barely gets in enough time to take care of himself, like, the guy constantly has this gasoline scent going on, and he took up smoking which I hate.’
‘Yeah,’ you gluttoned another few cherries, your hands reddening. You could still taste the metallic blood under your nails, the chips of nail polish between sweetness. ‘He should probably quit.’ You sucked on the tips of your fingers, lapping at the juice drenching them. Logan stood up, nudging Tucker to the side, letting him take a rest to eat with the others.
‘Well, you try telling him that. He won’t listen to anybody. He’s the worst,’ Jules laughed, and then said they were going to look for some more napkins inside.
You got up and walked over to the grill, cherry juice still stained all over you hand and lips. Logan was standing away from the heat, forehead glistening under the cutoff of his red bandana. You felt faint when the smoky air replaced your oxygen, and took of last swig of the cola before dropping the cup on the table. Liquid courage.
‘Hey,’ he said, standing upright and sparkling those pearly whites at you ‘Am I getting my jacket back anytime soon or should I go with Allie on her next mall trip?’
‘You want a jacket? In this weather? You must be out of your mind.’
‘Says the one shivering outside in 75º weather,’ he turned some of the meats over. His fingers were marked with black soot, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows were darkened at the fold. You stood right next to him, watching the fats bubble up and leak out of the raw sides of the burgers.
‘It wasn’t because of the weather,’ you muttered, loud enough for only him to hear, and shyly smirk at. He kept working, and eyed the bloody red stains on your fingers.
‘What happened there?’ he asked, holding your hand up to inspect the mess. You forgot to breathe, watching as his blackened fingers grip around your wrist, leaving a smudge below the red.
‘Cherries. Nasty things,’
‘A lot like plums, huh?’ he nodded, placing your hand back down.
Wait.
‘Allie brought us some the other day. She said you really seemed to like the ones they’re selling right now at the store.’ And there was the bittersweet relief. ‘I tried one this morning, and it stained my clothes pretty bad. I looked like a damn vampire or something when I was done.’
You literally had to suck in your breath. It’s the smoke. Trying not to think too long about Logan eating one of those bloody plums proved to be more suffocating than the barbecue fumes that plagued your lungs. Your mind was betraying you, and you could see it in real time. The faintest line of pinkish red running down his neck, beneath his shirt. You recognised it, beneath the sweaty sheen, the perfumey skin of the plum. Your shot your eyes down, focusing on his hands – fuck, no – on the meats which were melting in their own fatty releases.
‘Any requests?’ he interrupted your perversions, gesturing to the charred selection.
‘Cheeseburger, please,’ you pointed to one of the patties, as he flipped it over, concealing dripping oils. They dropped into the ashy coals below, evaporating into savoury, smoky air. You inhaled deeply, wondering how much of his sweat had fallen onto the grill.
————————————————————————
Finally – finally – the sun had set and the yard was cooling into a mellow, blue night. You had posted up on the back porch, avoiding Logan by keeping exactly across the yard from him at all times. It was a perfect vantage point, you could circle him like a hawk. At some point, he had left to change his shirt, and you nearly would have made it inside and up to his room if Hannah hadn’t called you to help bring out the ice cream. It was probably for the better. Maybe.
So at the end of the night, the sweat cooled under your arms and below your knees, as you unwrapped one of the popsicles and leaned against the painted white beam of the porch’s awning. You could smell the old wood of it, splintering your nose, when Logan walked back out, wearing a shirt with a small white paint stain on the lower hem. You put the end of the rocket pop in your mouth, it was so cold you thought your spit would freeze around it. You picked at the paint job behind you, and shoved the chips into your pocket.
Hannah and Allie had glided over, chatting shit about some of the guys on the other teams. Dean and Garrett were there, maybe, you didn't really know, you were so focused watching every step Logan took as he closed up the grill, took shots with Tucker and Beau, and sunk his teeth into the last of the meats on the table. The popsicle sat heavy on your tongue, your saliva mixing with the melting juice and sliding down onto the stick. Is this how guys feel watching porn?
It was all a decompressing dream as the air cooled down, breathable again, fresh again, except for the wafts of tobacco smoke that drifted over from Logan’s cigarette. And then there was a girl.
You were so busy sucking off that damn rocket pop you barely even noticed her walk over. She was cute. She was…plain. She seemed nice, as she smiled and began chatting with Logan, tilting her head. Her sweater was red, vintage, she had really cool silver nail polish – okay, NOT so cool as they started tracing up his forearm as she chatted. And the smug bastard was politely smiling, sticking that stupid cigarette in his mouth. She seemed real nice, she seemed real friendly. For a moment his eyes landed on you, gripping the beam of the awning and tearing up his fresh paint job.
You bit into the popsicle, and crunched, hard, on the icy rock in your mouth. You didn't care about the pain it caused in your teeth, the frosty shock shooting into your nerves. You swallowed, took another bite. The girl giggled and squeezed his bicep. You bit down to the popsicle stick, and spat it out when the wood had snapped.
For a while, you sat there, seething. Talking to your friends, compensating by cackling at all the jokes, even the bad ones. Picking the nail polish off your fingers, sucking on the remaining fruit taste on the inside of your cheek. The party was quieting down, and you hadn't realised your little circle of friends on the balcony were all that was left, until that girl waved goodbye and passed through screen door. And then, Logan followed after.
‘I’m gonna call it a night. Gotta practice early tomorrow,’ he looked at you, and you sneered back. His expression darkened, and he hesitated. Garrett and Hannah were sitting on the porch swing, Dean and Allie were fighting over the AUX. Logan just went inside, and you left before midnight.
————————————————————————
The next morning, you woke up in cold sweat. You punched the pillows, kicking your feet at the blankets crumpled at the edge of the bedframe, and then your alarm went off. As the adrenaline piped down, you eyed the jacket tossed onto your floor; you picked it up with a dainty finger, still faintly red from the cherries, and just stuffed your face into the collar. Fuck it.
It smelled so good. It smelled like…everything. Like dirty laundry and crumpled cigarette buds and motor oil and bloodied knuckles and sweat running down his back, and it was so disgusting that you wanted to shove the whole thing into your mouth and rip it apart with your molars.
So you got dressed, and you went to the rink.
The walk there was pleasantly cool. The fluorescents inside the rink reflected the blue bleachers, giving everything an icy glow. It was a bit like Malone’s, with no music, just the click-clack sound of the puck on the ice. You zipped the jacket up to shield yourself from the cold, and rested your fists in the pockets. The unopened pack of supermarket cigarettes were in the left side.
You watched him from the entrance, the backlight of the hallway hiding your silhouette from him. He was fast, round and round the edge of the rink, crossing onto the center blue lines to make a shot. He had his helmet on, even though he was alone, like he was expecting the lights to crash down on him. He slowed down when he heard your footsteps on the stairs, the metal giving you away as your shoes stomped.
He skated towards the opening in the boards, stopping to take his helmet off. He tossed his head back as he pulled the bulky armour off, throwing his hair back and out of his face. And you had to hold yourself up through the pockets of his jacket because he was so…sweaty.
His hair, normally brushed out and messily framing his face was completely soaked. Like, just-got-out-of-a-pool soaked. And it curled on the ends in response to the glittery white sheen coating his neck and face. The longest strads were sticking to the sides of his face, and as you got closer, your eyes followed a drop run down from his forehead to his chin. And again from the tip of his nose. And down his neck, crawling below his jersey, and you couldn’t tell if it was phantom sensation between your thighs or real. It could’ve been blood, and you wouldn’t have cared.
He leaned on the boards for support and tossed him helmet onto the player’s bench. ‘Hey–’
‘I came to return your jacket,’ you cut him off, and pulled out the packet of cigarettes, ‘and to give you these.’
‘I’m actually going to quit,’ he chuckled, watching closely as you inched to the place in front of him. You kept the board firmly in front of you, holding you back from the waist down.
‘Then this can be your celebratory last hurrah,’ you shook the box stuffing it back into the pocket.
‘Well, thank you very much,’ he said.
‘So what did it for you in the end? Jules finally slapped some sense into you?’
He grinned, settling into place on the board edge, craning his face over it. ‘Actually, a pretty girl told me they are apparently bad for you. And I wanted to ask her out so I thought she might give me a chance if I stopped.’ The sweat kept raining down from his face, like red juice, staining the ice.
Oh, fuck this guy. Fuck him. Fucks sake.
You scoffed, suddenly constrained by the zipper you did up moments ago. ‘Yeah, she was real cute in that bright-red sweater. Saw her from a mile away. LOVED the white mini shorts, she could even consider bikini bottoms next time. And those nails–’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong person in mind. My girl is wearing an old, worn down Carhartt jacket. And her nails are chipped and red,’ he pulled off his gloves. His knuckles were bruised and swollen. They looked like cherries. Your mouth flooded with the sweet taste of them.
‘So possessive already, and you haven’t even asked her out? I think she’ll run for the hills before you can lay your mitts on her.’
You felt something slide into your pockets, before you could look you were tugged right up to the board, knocking the wind straight out of your lungs. You tasted the tobacco smoke exiting your system. His hands rested on your waist, and your face was dangerously close to his. High-definition, his face was glowing under the fluorescent lights, exposing too much of him to your preying eyes. You clenched your teeth, you could smell the grease and the gasoline.
‘She’s just as bad as me. She stalks me outside of my workshop, and taunts me by eating plums,’ he said, his voice huskier in a whisper.
‘She sounds like a real piece of work,’ you were literally breathing each other’s air, all the stale tobacco and heat of it, ‘you should be careful. She might bite.’
‘I think I want her to,’ he leaned in fingers wrapping around the small of your back, his sweat starting to drip onto you.
‘I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Especially not girls in short-shorts,’ you demanded, a half inch away from his lips.
‘Then too bad you aren’t looking when I’m staring at you over her shoulder.’
You kissed him like you were starving. You were, actually. For his lips that tasted like cherry pie and barbecue smoke, for the string of spit that tied you both together when you pulled away to breath unnecessary clean air. For salt, for sweet, for something cold and hot at the same time, that would burn the roof of your mouth because you were too impatient.
You nipped at his jaw, and ran your tongue up the side of his face.
He sighed, and you pulled back to look into his eyes.
‘Do it again.’
You went up his neck, like a dog lapping at its water bowl. You tasted the plum juice that had leaked from his mouth, and it was sweeter than any sugar could be. The sounds he made were ridiculous, he was huffing in air like it was his last cigarette. His skin was hot, but his hair was cool as your fingers tangled into the wet strands at the back of his drenched neck. You kissed and kissed, and bit, and apologized, and bit him again. You breathed in the same smell as the jacket, more pungent by a tenfold. You could smell the arousal dripping off of him, and you thanked him for letting you in so close with another long drag o from the tip of your tongue.
His hand moved up from your waist and knotted into your hair. He pulled gently, then harder to unstick your from his neck, so your head was tilted up at him. The cool air ruminating off the ice slapped you in the face and neck, exposed as he held tightly to your hair in his fist.
‘Take my keys and get in the car. We are doing this at home,’ he pressed another kiss to your lips, then nudged you towards his stuff on the bench. He started unlacing his skates before he even stepped off of the ice.
The ride home was agonising, he hadn’t even bothered to use the locker room showers or change out of his uniform. Your nails dug into your legs, you unzipped the jacket because everywhere was so damn hot again, inside and out. You felt sticky between your fingers and toes.
Every door, from the car to his bedroom, was swung open and slammed shut like he didn’t care if he broke them. He could fix it all later. You were right back to it as you dug your nails into the back of his head, fighting to pull your top over your head as he slowly unlaced his trousers.
His room smelled like paint, and damp wood. You spotted darker stains in the corners of the ceiling, saw an uneaten plum sitting on his desk, and felt the softness of his sheets as your knees settled on either side of his lap. You felt one of his bruised, calloused hand pull your chin to focus into a kiss. ‘Eyes here,’ he looked at, perhaps right through you, as he tucked an unruly strand of hair behind your ear.
You didn’t know whose sweat was whose anymore, everything was collapsing and colliding together your head felt dizzy. You watched him closely, the purple-blue bruises from getting hit during games littered over his torso. Your small, cherry-sized love bites looked like nothing in comparison. You dug your nails into his back when he started to kiss your neck, moving up along your jaw. Every inch of your body, and his, tensed and untensed over and over.
When you were kissing his lips again, eyes scrunched shut from the severity of pleasure below, you thought you might have to just collapse over his shoulder and let him do the rest of the work. But the spinning in your head stopped when you tasted the bloody red plum juice spilling into your mouth.
No, wait. Actual blood.
You pulled back, still easily grinding on top of him, when you saw the red hot mess gushing down from his nose. It was like a storm, colliding with sweat and spit as it slipped down his chin, his chest, and lower. His white teeth were painted with it, in sticky patches it clung onto the rough stubble of his jaw.
You dove back in, lapping at the blood and sweat, tasting only the sweetness of the summer fruits that had ruined your hands. You peeked at the blood sticking to your fingers as you held his face, and gluttoned on his cupid’s bow while he kept pace. You stayed at it till the end, biting and drooling on the gory disaster, his blood your new lipstick as you groaned his name into his mouth when you were at the peak of the cliff.
Both your faces were fucked up in the comedown, sucker punched with desire. The daylight was spilling onto your bodies when the air came back into your lungs, the taste of metal and bittersweet satisfaction coating your tongue. You felt water trickling down your body, like the rain, soiling your bare skin. He sat up, eventually, dried blood crusting under his nose, which he wiped on his rough hands. You both needed a shower.
He poured you a glass of water, waited for you to finish it, and then drank some himself. You talked lazily for a while, your head resting on his arm, not bothering with the clothes on the floor because his room didn’t have any A/C, either. He reached over to the desk, pulling the plum off and holding it to his still-injured nose.
‘Still hungry?’ He joked, offering the ripe, purple-skinned fruit to you.
You didn’t need to answer, you just bit into the soft flesh. Straight out of his hand.
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hot AND talented
